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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..ab75da2 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #52148 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/52148) diff --git a/old/52148-0.txt b/old/52148-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index e7ef6c4..0000000 --- a/old/52148-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,10312 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Dorothy South, by George Cary Eggleston - -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/license - - -Title: Dorothy South - A Love Story of Virginia Just Before the War - -Author: George Cary Eggleston - -Illustrator: C. D. Williams - -Release Date: May 23, 2016 [EBook #52148] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK Dorothy SOUTH *** - - - - -Produced by David Edwards, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - [Illustration: DOROTHY - - SOUTH] - - [Illustration: - - “_SHALL WE HAVE ONE OF OUR OLD-TIME HORSEBACK - RIDES ‘SOON’ IN THE MORNING, DOROTHY?_” - - (_See page 440._)] - - [Illustration: _DOROTHY SOUTH_ - - A LOVE STORY _of_ VIRGINIA JUST BEFORE _the_ WAR - - _By_ GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON - - AUTHOR _of_ - - “A CAROLINA CAVALIER” “THE BALE MARKED CIRCLE X” “CAMP VENTURE” “THE - LAST OF THE FLATBOATS” - - ILLUSTRATED BY C. D. WILLIAMS - - New York: GROSSET & DUNLAP, Publishers] - - [Illustration: COPYRIGHT, 1902, BY LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY. - - ALL RIGHTS RESERVED] - - PUBLISHED MARCH, 1902 - - _12th THOUSAND, March 20_ - _17th THOUSAND, May 20_ - _22d THOUSAND, June 28_ - _27th THOUSAND, July 25_ - _32d THOUSAND, Aug. 20_ - _37th THOUSAND, Nov. 4_ - _40th THOUSAND, Nov. 8_ - _42d THOUSAND, May 4_ - - BERWICK AND SMITH - PRINTERS - NORWOOD, MASS. - - - - -_CONTENTS_ - -[Illustration] - - -CHAPTER PAGE - -I. TWO ENCOUNTERS 11 - -II. WYANOKE 25 - -III. DR. ARTHUR BRENT 36 - -IV. DR. BRENT IS PUZZLED 47 - -V. ARTHUR BRENT’S TEMPTATION 62 - -VI. NOW YOU MAY CALL ME DOROTHY 77 - -VII. SHRUB HILL CHURCH 91 - -VIII. A DINNER AT BRANTON 101 - -IX. DOROTHY’S CASE 117 - -X. DOROTHY VOLUNTEERS 135 - -XI. THE WOMAN’S AWAKENING 150 - -XII. MAMMY 156 - -XIII. THE “SONG BALLADS” OF DICK 166 - -XIV. DOROTHY’S AFFAIRS 175 - -XV. DOROTHY’S CHOICE 184 - -XVI. UNDER THE CODE 191 - -XVII. A REVELATION 199 - -XVIII. ALONE IN THE CARRIAGE 217 - -XIX. DOROTHY’S MASTER 222 - -XX. A SPECIAL DELIVERY LETTER 230 - -XXI. HOW A HIGH BRED DAMSEL CONFRONTED -FATE, AND DUTY 237 - -XXII. THE INSTITUTION OF THE DUELLO 253 - -XXIII. DOROTHY’S REBELLION 263 - -XXIV. TO GIVE DOROTHY A CHANCE 27O - -XXV. AUNT POLLY’S VIEW OF THE RISKS 286 - -XXVI. AUNT POLLY’S ADVICE 295 - -XXVII. DIANA’S EXALTATION 306 - -XXVIII. THE ADVANCING SHADOW 314 - -XXIX. THE CORRESPONDENCE OF DOROTHY 322 - -XXX. AT SEA 346 - -XXXI. THE VIEWS AND MOODS OF ARTHUR BRENT 363 - -XXXII. THE SHADOW FALLS 377 - -XXXIII. “AT PARIS IT WAS” 391 - -XXXIV. DOROTHY’S DISCOVERY 404 - -XXXV. THE BIRTH OF WAR 424 - -XXXVI. THE OLD DOROTHY AND THE NEW 429 - -XXXVII. AT WYANOKE 435 - -XXXVIII. SOON IN THE MORNING 441 - - - - -LIST _of_ ILLUSTRATIONS - -[Illustration] - - -“_Shall we have one of our old-time horseback -rides ‘soon’ in the morning, Dorothy?_” - -(_Frontispiece._) - -“_Who is your Miss Dorothy?_” - -(_Page 17._) - -“_I won’t call you a fool because the Bible says -I mustn’t._” - -(_Page 178._) - -_Dorothy South._ - -(_Page 304._) - -“_In that music my soul laid itself bare to yours -and prayed for your love._” - -(_Page 417._) - -_“Aunt Polly!” he said abruptly, “I want -your permission to marry Dorothy.”_ - -(_Page 452._) - -[Illustration: DOROTHY - -SOUTH] - - - - -DOROTHY SOUTH - -[Illustration] - - - - -I - -TWO ENCOUNTERS - - -_I_t was a perfect day of the kind that Mr. Lowell has celebrated in -song--“a day in June.” It was, moreover, a day glorified even beyond Mr. -Lowell’s imagining, by the incomparable climate of south side Virginia. - -A young man of perhaps seven and twenty, came walking with vigor down -the narrow roadway, swinging a stick which he had paused by the wayside -to cut. The road ran at this point through a luxuriantly growing -woodland, with borders of tangled undergrowth and flowers on either -side, and with an orchestra of bird performers all around. The road was -a public highway, though it would never have been taken for such in any -part of the world except in a south side county of Virginia in the late -fifties. It was a narrow track, bearing few traces of any heavier -traffic than that of the family carriages in which the gentle, high-born -dames and maidens of the time and country were accustomed to make their -social rounds. - -There was a gate across the carriage track--a gate constructed in -accordance with the requirement of the Virginia law that every gate set -up across a public highway should be “easily opened by a man on -horseback.” - -Near the gate the young man slackened his vigorous pace and sat down -upon a recently fallen tree. He remembered enough of his boyhood’s -experience in Virginia to choose a green log instead of a dry one for -his seat. He had had personal encounters with chigoes years ago, and -wanted no more of them. He sat down not because he was tired, for he was -not in the least so, but simply because, finding himself in the midst of -a refreshingly and inspiringly beautiful scene, he desired to enjoy it -for a space. Besides, he was in no hurry. Nobody was expecting him, and -he knew that dinner would not be served whither he was going until the -hour of four--and it was now only a little past nine. - -The young man was fair to look upon. A trifle above the medium height, -his person was symmetrical and his finely formed head was carried with -an ease and grace that suggested the reserve strength of a young bull. -His features were about equally marked by vigor and refinement. His was -the countenance of a man well bred, who, to his inheritance of good -breeding had added education and such culture as books, and earnest -thinking, and a favorable association with men of intellect are apt to -bring to one worthy to receive the gift. - -He seemed to know the spot wherein he lingered. Indeed he had asked no -questions as to his way when less than an hour ago he had alighted from -the pottering train at the village known as the Court House. He had said -to the old station agent, “I will send for my baggage later.” Then he -had set off at a brisk walk down one of the many roads that converged at -this centre of county life and affairs. The old station master, looking -after him, had muttered: “He seems to think he knows his way. Mebbe he -does, but anyhow he’s a stranger in these parts.” - -And indeed that would have been the instant conclusion of any one who -should have looked at him as he sat there by the roadside enjoying the -sweet freshness of the morning, and the exquisite abandon with which -exuberant nature seemed to mock at the little track made through the -tangled woodlands by intrusive man. The youth’s garb betrayed him -instantly. In a country where black broadcloth was then the universal -wear of gentlemen, our young gentleman was clad in loosely fitting but -perfectly shaped white flannels, the trousers slightly turned up to -avoid the soil of travel, the short sack coat thrown open, and the full -bosomed shirt front of bishop’s lawn or some other such sheer stuff, -being completely without a covering of vest. Obviously the young -pedestrian did not belong to that part of the world which he seemed to -be so greatly enjoying. - -That is what Dick thought, when Dick rode up to the gate. Dick was a -negro boy of fourteen summers or about that. His face was a bright, -intelligent one, and he looked a good deal of the coming athlete as he -sat barebacked upon the large roan that served him for steed. Dick wore -a shirt and trousers, and nothing else, except a dilapidated straw hat -which imperfectly covered his closely cropped wool. His feet were bare, -but the young man made mental note of the fact that they bore the -appearance of feet accustomed to be washed at least once in every twenty -four hours. - -“Does your mammy make you wash your feet every night, or do you do it of -your own accord?” The question was the young man’s rather informal -beginning of a conversation. - -“Mammy makes me,” answered the boy, with a look of resentment in his -face. “Mammy’s crazy about washin’. She makes me git inter a bar’l o’ -suds ev’ry night an’ scrub myself like I was a floor. That’s cause she’s -de head washerwoman at Wyanoke. She’s got washin’ on de brain.” - -“So you’re one of the Wyanoke people, are you? Whom do you belong to -now?” - -“I don’t jes’ rightly know, Mahstah”--Dick sounded his a’s like “aw” in -“claw.” “I don’t jes’ rightly know, Mahstah. Ole Mas’r he’s done daid, -an’ de folks sez a young Yankee mahstah is a comin’ to take position.” - -“To take possession, you mean, don’t you?” - -“I dunno. Somefin o’ dat sort.” - -“Why do you call him a Yankee master?” - -“O ’cause he libs at de Norf somewhar. I reckon mebbe he ain’t quite so -bad as dat. Dey say he was born in Ferginny, but I reckon he’s done lib -in de Norf among the Yankees so long dat he’s done forgit his manners -an’ his raisin.” - -“What’s your name?” asked the young man, seemingly interested in Dick. - -“My name’s Dick, Sah.” - -“Dicksah--or Dick?” - -“Jes’ Dick, so,” answered the boy. - -“Oh! Well, that’s a very good name. It’s short and easy to say.” - -“_Too_ easy!” said the boy. - -“‘Too easy?’ How do you mean?” queried the young man. - -“Oh, nuffin’, only it’s allus ‘Dick, do dis!’ ‘Dick do dat.’ ‘Dick go -dar,’ ’Dick come heah,’ an’ ‘Dick, Dick, Dick’ all de day long.” - -“Then they work you pretty hard do they? You don’t look emaciated.” - -“Maishy what, Mahstah?” - -“Oh, never mind that. It’s a Chinese word that I was just saying to -myself. Do they work you too hard? What do you do?” - -“Oh, I don’t do nuffin’ much. Only when I lays down in de sun an’ jes’ -begins to git quiet like, Miss Polly she calls me to pick some peas in -de gyahden, er Miss Dorothy she says, ‘Dick, come heah an’ help me range -dese flowers,’ or Mammy, she says, ‘Dick, you lazy bones, come heah an’ -put some wood under my wash biler.’” - -“But what is your regular work?” - -“Reg’lar wuk?” asked the boy, his eyes growing saucer-like in -astonishment, “I ain’t - -[Illustration: “_WHO IS YOUR MISS DOROTHY?_”] - -got no reg’lar wuk. I feeds de chickens, sometimes, and fin’s hens’ -nests an’ min’s chillun, an’ dribes de tukkeys into de tobacco lots to -eat de grasshoppers an’ I goes aftah de mail. Dat’s what I’se a doin’ -now. Leastways I’se a comin’ back wid de mail wot I done been an’ gone -after.” - -“Is that all?” - -“Dat’s nuff, ain’t it, Mahstah?” - -“I don’t know. I wonder what your new master will think when he comes.” - -“Golly, so do I. Anyhow, he’s a Yankee, an’ he won’t know how much wuk a -nigga ought to do. I’ll be his pussonal servant, I reckon. Leastways -dat’s what Miss Dorothy say she tink.” - -“Who is your Miss Dorothy?” the young man asked with badly simulated -indifference, for this was a member of the Wyanoke family of whom Dr. -Arthur Brent had never before heard. - -“Miss Dorothy? Why, she’s jes’ Miss Dorothy, so.” - -“But what’s her other name?” - -“I dunno. I reckon she ain’t got no other name. Leastways I dunno.” - -“Is Wyanoke a fine plantation?” - -“Fine, Mahstah? It’s de very finest dey is. It’s all out o-doors and I -reckon dey’s a thousand cullud people on it.” - -“Oh, hardly that,” answered the young man--“say eight or nine -hundred--or perhaps one hundred would be nearer the mark.” - -“No, _Sir_! De Brents is quality folks, Mahstah. Dey’s got more’n a -thousan’ niggas, an’ two or three thousan’ horses, an’ as fer cows an’ -hawgs you jes’ cawn’t count ’em! Dey eats dinner offen chaney plates -every day an’ de forks at Wyanoke is all gold.” - -“How many carriages do they keep, Dick?” - -“Sebenteen, besides de barouche an’ de carryall.” - -“Well, now you’d better be moving on. Your Miss Polly and your Miss -Dorothy may be waiting for their letters.” - -As the boy rode away, Dr. Arthur Brent resumed his brisk walk. He no -longer concerned himself with the landscape, or the woods, or the wild -flowers, or the beauty of the June morning, or anything else. He was -thinking, and not to much purpose. - -“Who the deuce,” he muttered, “can this Miss Dorothy be? Of course I -remember dear old Aunt Polly. She has always lived at Wyanoke. But who -is Dorothy? As my uncle wasn’t married of course he had no daughter. -And besides, if he had, she would be his heir, and I should never have -inherited the property at all. I wonder if I have inherited a family, -with the land? Psha! Dick invented Miss Dorothy, of course. Why didn’t I -think of that? I remember my last stay of a year at Wyanoke, and -everything about the place. There was no Dorothy there then, and pretty -certainly there is none now. Dick invented her, just as he invented the -gold forks, and the thousand negroes, and all those multitudinous -horses, carriages, cows and hogs. That black rascal has a creative -genius--a trifle ill regulated perhaps, but richly productive. It failed -him for the moment when I demanded a second name for Dorothy. But if I -had persisted in that line of inquiry he would pretty certainly have -endowed the girl with a string of surnames as completely fictitious as -the woman herself is. I’ll have some fun out of that boy. He has -distinct psychological possibilities.” - -Continuing his walk in leisurely fashion like one whose mind is busy -with reflection, Dr. Arthur Brent came at last to a great gate at the -side of the road--a gate supported by two large pillars of hewn stone, -and flanked by a smaller gate intended for the use of foot farers like -himself. - -“That’s the entrance gate to the plantation,” he reflected. “I had -thought it half a mile farther on. Memory has been playing me its usual -trick of exaggerating everything remembered from boyhood. I was only -fifteen or sixteen when I was last at Wyanoke, and the road seems -shorter now than it did then. But this is surely the gate.” - -Passing through the wicket, he presently found himself in a forest of -young hickory trees. He remembered these as having been scarcely higher -than the head of a man on horseback at the time of his last visit. They -had been planted by his uncle to beautify the front entrance to the -plantation, and, with careful foresting they had abundantly fulfilled -that purpose. Growing rather thickly, they had risen to a height of -nearly fifty feet, and their boles had swelled to a thickness of eight -or ten inches, while all undergrowth of every kind had been carefully -suppressed. The tract of land thus timbered by cultivation to replace -the original pine forest, embraced perhaps seventy-five or a hundred -acres, and the effect of it in a country where forest growths were -usually permitted to lead riotous lives of their own, was impressive. - -As the young man turned one of the curves of the winding carriage road, -four great hounds caught sight of him and instantly set upon him. At -that moment a young girl, perched upon a tall chestnut mare galloped -into view. Thrusting two fingers of her right hand into her mouth, she -whistled shrilly between them, thrice repeating the searching sound. -Instantly the huge hounds cowered and slunk away to the side of the -girl’s horse. Their evident purpose was to go to heel at once, but their -mistress had no mind for that. - -“Here!” she cried. “Sit up on your haunches and take your punishment.” - -The dogs obediently took the position of humble suppliants, and the girl -dealt to each, a sharp cut with the flexible whip she carried slung to -her pommel. “Now go to heel, you naughty fellows!” she commanded, and -with a stately inclination of her body she swept past the young man, not -deigning even to glance in his direction. - -“By Jove!” exclaimed Dr. Brent, “that was done as a young queen might -have managed it. She saved my life, punished her hounds to secure their -future obedience, and barely recognizing my existence--doing even that -for her own sake, not mine--galloped away as if this superb day belonged -to her! And she isn’t a day over fifteen either.” In that Dr. Brent was -mistaken. The girl had passed her sixteenth birthday, three months ago. -“I doubt if she is half as long as that graceful riding habit she is -wearing.” Then after a moment he said, still talking to himself, “I’ll -wager something handsome that that girl is as shy as a fawn. They always -are shy when they behave in that queenly, commanding way. The shyer they -are the more they affect a stately demeanor.” - -Dr. Arthur Brent was a man of a scientific habit of mind. To him -everything and everybody was apt to assume somewhat the character of a -“specimen.” He observed minutely and generalized boldly, even when his -“subject” happened to be a young woman or, as in this case, a slip of a -girl. All facts were interesting to him, whether facts of nature or -facts of human nature. He was just now as earnest in his speculations -concerning the girl he had so oddly encountered, as if she had been a -new chemical reaction. - -Seating himself by the roadside he tried to recall all the facts -concerning her that his hasty glance had enabled him to observe. - -“If I were an untrained observer,” he reflected, “I should argue from -her stately dignity and the reserve with which she treated me--she -being only an unsophisticated young girl who has not lived long enough -to ‘adopt’ a manner with malice aforethought--I should argue from her -manner that she is a girl highly bred, the daughter of some blue blooded -Virginia family, trained from infancy by grand dames, her aunts and that -sort of thing, in the fine art of ‘deportment.’ But as I am not an -untrained observer, I recall the fact that stage queens do that sort of -thing superbly, even when their mothers are washerwomen, and they -themselves prefer corned beef and cabbage to truffled game. Still as -there are no specimens of that kind down here in Virginia, I am forced -to the conclusion that this young Diana is simply the highly bred and -carefully dame-nurtured daughter of one of the great plantation owners -hereabouts, whose manner has acquired an extra stateliness from her -embarrassment and shyness. Girls of fifteen or sixteen don’t know -exactly where they stand. They are neither little girls nor young women. -They have outgrown the license of the one state without having as yet -acquired the liberty of action that belongs to the other.” Thus the -youth’s thoughts wandered on. “That girl is a rigid disciplinarian,” he -reflected. “How sternly she required those hounds to sit on their -haunches and take the punishment due to their sins! I’ll be bound she -has herself been set in a corner for many a childish naughtiness. Yet -she is not cruel. She struck each dog only a single blow--just -punishment enough to secure better manners in future. An ill tempered -woman would have lashed them more severely. And a woman less -self-controlled would have struck out with her whip without making the -dogs sit up and realize the enormity of their offence. A less well-bred -girl would have said something to me in apology for her hounds’ -misbehavior. This one was sufficiently sensible to see that unless I -were a fool--in which case I should have been unworthy of attention--her -disciplining of the dogs was apology enough without supplementary -speech. I must find out who she is and make her acquaintance.” - -Then a sudden thought struck him; “By Jove!” he exclaimed aloud, “I -wonder if her name is Dorothy!” - -Then the young man walked on. - - - - -II - -WYANOKE - - -_H_alf an hour later Arthur Brent entered the house grounds of -Wyanoke--the home of his ancestors for generations past and his own -birthplace. The grounds about the mansion were not very large--two acres -in extent perhaps--set with giant locust trees that had grown for a -century or more in their comfortable surrounding of closely clipped and -luxuriant green sward. Only three trees other than the stately locusts, -adorned the house grounds. One of these was a huge elm, four feet thick -in its stem, with great limbs, branching out in every direction and -covering, altogether, a space of nearly a quarter acre of ground, but so -high from the earth that the carpet of green sward grew in full -luxuriance to the very roots of the stupendous tree. How long that -aboriginal monarch had been luxuriating there, the memory of man could -make no report. The Wyanoke plantation book, with its curiously minute -record of everything that pertained to the family domain, set forth the -fact that the “new mansion house”--the one still in use,--was built in -the year 1711, and that its southeasterly corner stood “two hundred and -thirty nine feet due northwest of the Great Elm which adorns the lawn.” -A little later than the time of Arthur Brent’s return, that young man of -a scientific mental habit made a survey to determine whether or not the -Great Elm of 1859 was certainly the same that had been named “the Great -Elm” in 1711. Finding it so he reckoned that the tree must be many -hundreds--perhaps even a thousand years of age. For the elm is one of -the very slowest growing of trees, and Arthur Brent’s measurements -showed that the diameter of this one had increased not more than six -inches during the century and a half since it had been accepted as a -conspicuous landmark for descriptive use in the plantation book. - -The other trees that asked of the huge locusts a license to live upon -that lawn, were two quick-growing Asiatic mulberries, planted in -comparatively recent times to afford shade to the front porch. - -The house was built of wood, heavily framed, large roomed and gambrel -roofed. Near it stood the detached kitchen in the edge of the apple -orchard, and farther away the quarters of the house servants. - -As Arthur Brent strolled up the walk that led to the broad front doors -of the mansion his mind was filled with a sense of peace. That was the -dominant note of the house and all of its surroundings. The great, -self-confident locust trees that had stood still in their places while -generations of Brents had come and gone, seemed to counsel rest as the -true philosophy of life. The house itself seemed to invite repose. Even -the stately peacock that strolled in leisurely laziness beneath the -great elm seemed, in his very being, a protest against all haste, all -worry, all ambition of action and change. - -“I do not know,” thought the young man, as he contemplated the -immeasurably restful scene, “what the name Wyanoke signifies in the -Indian tongue from which it was borrowed. But surely it ought to mean -rest, contentment, calm.” - -That thought, and the inspiration of it, were destined to play their -part as determinative influences in the life of the young man whose mind -was thus impressed. There lay before him, though he was unconscious of -the fact, a life struggle between stern conviction and sweet -inclination, between duty and impulse, between intensity of mind and -lassitude of soul. There were other factors to complicate the problem, -but these were its chief terms, and it is the purpose of this chronicle -to show in what fashion the matter was wrought out. - -Advancing to the porch, Arthur rapped thrice with the stick that he -carried. That was because he had passed the major part of his life -elsewhere than in Virginia. If such had not been the case he would have -interpreted the meaning of the broad open doors aright, and would have -walked in without any knocking at all. - -As it was, Johnny, the “head dining room servant,” as he was called in -Virginia--the butler, as he would have been called elsewhere--heard the -unaccustomed sound of knocking, and went to the door to discover what it -might mean. To him Arthur handed a visiting card, and said simply: “Your -Miss Polly.” - -The comely and intelligent serving man was puzzled by the card. He had -not the slightest notion of its use or purpose. In his bewilderment he -decided that the only thing to be done with it was to take it to his -“Miss Polly,” which, of course, was precisely what Arthur Brent desired -him to do. There was probably not another visiting card in all that -country side--for the Virginians of that time used few formalities, and -very simple ones in their social intercourse. They went to visit their -friends, not to “call” upon them. Pasteboard politeness was a factor -wholly unknown in their lives. - -Miss Polly happened to be at that moment in the garden directing old -Michael,--the most obstinately obstructive and wilful of gardeners,--to -do something to the peas that he was resolutely determined not to do, -and to leave something undone to the tomatoes which he was bent upon -doing. On receipt of the card, she left Michael to his own devices, and -almost hurried to the house. “Almost hurried,” I say, for Miss Polly was -much too stately and dignified a person to quicken a footstep upon any -occasion. - -She was “Miss Polly” to the negro servants. To everybody else she was -“Cousin Polly,” or “Aunt Polly,” and she had been that from the period -described by the old law writers as “the time whereof the memory of man -runneth not to the contrary.” How old she was, nobody knew. She looked -elderly in a comfortable, vigorous way. Gray hair was at that time -mistakenly regarded as a reproach to women--a sign of advancing age -which must be concealed at all costs. Therefore Aunt Polly’s white locks -were kept closely shaven, and covered with a richly brown wig. For the -rest, she was a plump person of large proportions, though not in the -least corpulent. Her dignity was such as became her age and her -lineage--which latter was of the very best. She knew her own value, and -respected, without aggressively asserting it. She had never been -married--unquestionably for reasons of her own--but her single state had -brought with it no trace or tinge of bitterness, no suggestion of -discontent. She was, and had always been, a woman in perfect health of -mind and body, and the fact was apparent to all who came into her -comfortable presence. - -She had a small but sufficient income of her own, but, being an -“unattached female”--as the phrase went at a time when people were too -polite to name a woman an “old maid,”--she had lived since early -womanhood at Wyanoke; and since the late bachelor owner of the estate, -Arthur Brent’s uncle, had come into the inheritance, she had been -mistress of the mansion, ruling there with an iron rod of perfect -cleanliness and scrupulous neatness, according to housekeeping standards -from which she would abate no jot or tittle upon any conceivable -account. Fortunately for her servitors, there were about seven of them -to every one that was reasonably necessary. - -She was a woman of high intelligence and of a pronounced wit,--a wit -that sometimes took humorous liberties with the proprieties, to the -embarrassment of sensitive young people. She was well read and well -informed, but she never did believe that the world was round, her -argument being that if such were the case she would be standing on her -head half the time. She also refused to believe in railroads. She was -confident that “the Yankees” had built railroads through Virginia, with -a far seeing purpose of overrunning and conquering that state and -possessing themselves of its plantations. Finally, she regarded Virginia -as the only state or country in the world in which a person of taste and -discretion could consent to be born. Her attitude toward all dwellers -beyond the borders of Virginia, closely resembled that of the Greeks -toward those whom they self assertively classed as “the barbarians.” How -far she really cherished these views, or how far it was merely her humor -to assert them, nobody ever found out. To all this she added the -sweetest temper and the most unselfish devotion to those about her, -that it is possible to imagine. She was very distantly akin to Arthur, -if indeed she was akin to him at all. But in his childhood he had -learned to call her “Aunt Polly,” and during that year of his boyhood -which he had spent at Wyanoke, he had known her by no other title. So -when she came through the rear doors to meet him in the great hall which -ran through the house from front to rear, he advanced eagerly and -lovingly to greet her as “Aunt Polly.” - -The first welcome over, Aunt Polly became deeply concerned over the fact -that Arthur Brent had walked the five or six miles that lay between the -Court House and Wyanoke. - -“Why didn’t you get a horse, Arthur, or better still why didn’t you send -me word that you were coming? I would have sent the carriage for you.” - -“Which one, Aunt Polly?” - -“Why, there’s only one, of course.” - -“Why, I was credibly informed this morning that there were seventeen -carriages here besides the barouche and the carryall.” - -“Who could have told you such a thing as that? And then to think of -anybody accusing Wyanoke of a ‘carryall!’” - -“How do you mean, Aunt Polly?” - -“Why, no _gentleman_ keeps a carryall. I believe Moses the storekeeper -at the Court House has one, but then he has nine children and needs it. -Besides he doesn’t count.” - -“Why not, Aunt Polly? Isn’t he a man like the rest of us?” - -“A man? Yes, but like the rest of us--no. He isn’t a gentleman.” - -“Does he misbehave very grossly?” - -“Oh, no. He is an excellent man I believe, and his children are as -pretty as angels; but, Arthur, he _keeps a store_.” - -Aunt Polly laid a stress upon the final phrase as if that settled the -matter beyond even the possibility of further discussion. - -“Oh, that’s it, is it?” asked the young man with a smile. “In Virginia -no man keeps a carryall unless he is sufficiently depraved to keep a -store also. But I wonder why Dick told me we had a carryall at Wyanoke -besides the seventeen carriages.” - -“Oh, you saw Dick, then? Why didn’t you take his horse and make him get -you a saddle somewhere? By the way, Dick had an adventure this morning. -Out by the Garland gate he was waylaid by a man dressed all in white -‘jes’ like a ghos’,’ Dick says, with a sword and two pistols. The fellow -tried to take the mail bag away from him, but Dick, who is -quick-witted, struck him suddenly, made his horse jump the gate, and -galloped away.” - -“Aunt Polly,” said the young man with a quizzical look on his face, -“would you mind sending for Dick to come to me? I very much want to hear -his story at first hands, for now that I am to be master of Wyanoke, I -don’t intend to tolerate footpads and mail robbers in the neighborhood. -Please send for Dick. I want to talk with him.” - -Aunt Polly sent, but Dick was nowhere to be found for a time. When at -last he was discovered in a fodder loft, and dragged unwillingly into -his new master’s presence, the look of consternation on his face was so -pitiable that Arthur Brent decided not to torture him quite so severely -as he had intended. - -“Dick,” he said, “I want you to get me some cherries, will you?” - -“‘Cou’se I will, Mahstah,” answered the boy, eagerly and turning to -escape. - -“Wait a minute, Dick. I want you to bring me the cherries on a china -plate, and give me one of the gold forks to eat them with. Then go to -the carriage-house and have all seventeen of my carriages brought up -here for me to look at. Tell the hostlers to send me one or two hundred -of the horses, too. There! Go and do as I tell you.” - -“What on earth do you mean, Arthur?” asked Aunt Polly, who never had -quite understood the whimsical ways of the young man. “I tell you there -is only one carriage--” - -“Never mind, Aunt Polly. Dick understands me. He and I had an interview -out there by the Garland gate this morning. Mail robbers will not -trouble him again, I fancy, now that his ‘Yankee Master’ is ‘in -position,’ as he puts it. But please, Aunt Polly, send some one with a -wagon to the Court House after my trunks.” - - - - -III - -DR. ARTHUR BRENT - - -_A_rthur Brent had been born at Wyanoke, twenty seven years or so before -the time of our story. His father, one of a pair of brothers, was a man -imbued with the convictions of the Revolutionary period--the convictions -that prompted the Virginians of that time to regard slavery as an -inherited curse to be got rid of in the speediest possible way -compatible with the public welfare. There were still many such -Virginians at that time. They were men who knew the history of their -state and respected the teachings of the fathers. They remembered how -earnestly Thomas Jefferson had insisted upon writing into Virginia’s -deed of cession of the North West Territory, a clause forever -prohibiting slavery in all the fair “Ohio Country”--now constituting -Indiana, Illinois and the other great states of the Middle West. They -held in honor, as their fathers before them had done, the memory of -Chancellor George Wythe, who had well-nigh impoverished himself in -freeing the negroes he had inherited and giving them a little start in -the world. They were the men to whom Henry Clay made confident appeal in -that effort to secure the gradual extirpation of the system which was -the first and was repeated as very nearly the last of his labors of -statesmanship. - -These men had no sympathy or tolerance for “abolitionist” movements. -They desired and intended that slavery should cease, and many of them -impoverished themselves in their efforts to be personally rid of it. But -they resented as an impertinence every suggestion of interference with -it on the part of the national government, or on the part of the -dwellers in other states. - -For these men accepted, as fully as the men of Massachusetts once did, -the doctrine that every state was sovereign except in so far as it had -delegated certain functions of sovereignty to the general government. -They held it to be the absolute right of each state to regulate its -domestic affairs in its own way, and they were ready to resent and -resist all attempts at outside interference with their state’s -institutions, precisely as they would have resisted and resented the -interference of anybody with the ordering of their personal households. - -Arthur Brent’s father, Brandon Brent, was a man of this type. Upon -coming of age and soon afterwards marrying, he determined, as he -formulated his thought, to “set himself free.” When Arthur was born he -became more resolute than ever in this purpose, under the added stimulus -of affection for his child. “The system” he said to his wife, “is -hurtful to young white men, I do not intend that Arthur shall grow up in -the midst of it.” - -So he sold to his brother his half interest in the four or five thousand -acres which constituted Wyanoke plantation, and with the proceeds -removed those of the negroes who had fallen to his share to little farms -which he had bought for them in Indiana. - -This left him with a wife, a son, and a few hundred dollars with which -to begin life anew. He went West and engaged in the practice of the law. -He literally “grew up with the country.” He won sufficient distinction -to represent his district in Congress for several successive terms, and -to leave behind him when he died a sweetly savored name for all the -higher virtues of honorable manhood. - -He left to his son also, a fair patrimony, the fruit of his personal -labors in his profession, and of the growth of the western country in -which he lived. - -At the age of fifteen, the boy had been sent to pass a delightful year -at Wyanoke, while fitting himself for college under the care of the same -tutor who had personally trained the father, and whose influence had -been so good that the father invoked it for his son in his turn. The old -schoolmaster had long since given up his school, but when Brandon Brent -had written to him a letter, attributing to his influence and teaching -all that was best in his own life’s success, and begging him to crown -his useful life’s labors with a like service to this his boy, he had -given up his ease and undertaken the task. - -Arthur had finished his college course, and was just beginning, with -extraordinary enthusiasm, his study of medicine when his father died, -leaving him alone in the world; for the good mother had passed away -while the boy was yet a mere child. - -After his father’s death, Arthur found many business affairs to arrange. -Attention to these seriously distracted him, greatly to his annoyance, -for he had become an enthusiast for scientific acquirement, and grudged -every moment of time that affairs occupied to the neglect of his -studies. In this mood of irritation with business details, the young man -decided to convert the whole of his inheritance into cash and to invest -the proceeds in annuities. “I shall never marry,” he told himself. “I -shall devote my whole life to science. I shall need only a moderate -income to provide for my wants, but that income must come to me without -the distraction of mind incident to the earning of it. I must be -completely a free man--free to live my own life and pursue my own -purposes.” - -So he invested all that he had in American and English annuity -companies, and when that business was completed, he found himself secure -in an income, not by any means large but quite sufficient for all his -needs, and assured to him for all the years that he might live. “I shall -leave nothing behind me when I die,” he reflected, “but I shall have -nobody to provide for, and so this is altogether best.” - -Then he set himself to work in almost terrible earnest. He lived in the -laboratories, the hospitals, the clinics and the libraries. When his -degree as a physician was granted his knowledge of science, quite -outside the ordinary range of medical study was deemed extraordinary by -his professors. A place of honor in one of the great medical colleges -was offered to him, but he declined it, and went to Germany and France -instead. He had fairly well mastered the languages of those two -countries, and he was minded now to go thither for instruction, under -the great masters in biology and chemistry and physics. - -Two years later--and four years before the beginning of this story, -there came to Arthur Brent an opportunity of heroic service which he -promptly embraced. There broke out, in Norfolk, in his native state, in -the year 1855, such an epidemic of yellow fever as had rarely been known -anywhere before, and it found a population peculiarly susceptible to the -subtle poison of the scourge. - -Facing the fact that he was in no way immune, the young physician -abandoned the work he had returned from Paris to New York to do, and -went at once to the post of danger as a volunteer for medical service. -Those whose memories stretch back to that terrible year of 1855, -remember the terms in which Virginia and all the country echoed the -praises of Dr. Arthur Brent, the plaudits that everywhere greeted his -heroic devotion. The newspapers day by day were filled with despatches -telling with what tireless devotion this mere boy--he was scarcely more -than twenty three years of age--was toiling night and day at his self -appointed task, and how beneficent his work was proving to be. The same -newspapers told with scorching scorn of physicians and clergymen--a very -few of either profession, but still a few--who had quitted their posts -in panic fear and run away from the danger. Day by day the readers of -the newspapers eagerly scanned the despatches, anxious chiefly to learn -that the young hero had not fallen a victim to his own compassionate -enthusiasm for the relief of the stricken. - -Dr. Arthur Brent knew nothing of all this at the time. His days and -nights were too fully occupied with his perilous work for him even to -glance at a newspaper. He was himself stricken at last, but not until -the last, not until that grand old Virginian, Henry A. Wise had -converted his Accomac plantation into a relief camp and, arming his -negroes for its defence against a panic stricken public, had robbed the -scourge of its terrors by drawing from the city all those whose presence -there could afford opportunity for its spread. - -Dr. Arthur Brent was among the very last of those attacked by the -scourge, and it was to give that young hero a meagre chance for life -that Henry A. Wise went in person to Norfolk and brought the physician -away to his own plantation home, in armed and resolute defiance alike of -quarantine restrictions and of the protests of an angry and frightened -mob. - -Such in brief had been the life story of Arthur Brent. On his recovery -from a terribly severe attack of the fever, he had gone again to Europe, -not this time for scientific study, but for the purpose of restoring his -shattered constitution through rest upon a Swiss mountain side. After a -year of upbuilding idleness, he had returned to New York with his health -completely restored. - -There he had taken an inexpensive apartment, and resumed his work of -scientific investigation upon lines which he had thought out during his -long sojourn in Switzerland. - -Three years later there came to him news that his uncle at Wyanoke was -dead, and that the family estate had become his own as the only next of -kin. It pleased Arthur’s sense of humor to think of a failure of “kin” -in Virginia, where, as he well remembered, pretty nearly everybody he -had met in boyhood had been his cousin. - -But the news that he was sole heir to the family estate was not -altogether agreeable to the young man. “It will involve me in affairs -again,” he said to himself, “and that is what I meant should never -happen to me. There is a debt on the estate, of course. I never heard of -a Virginia estate without that adornment. Then there are the negroes, -whose welfare is in my charge. Heaven knows I do not want them or their -value. But obviously they and the debt saddle me with a duty which I -cannot escape. I suppose I must go to Wyanoke. It is very provoking, -just as I have made all my arrangements to study the problem of sewer -gas poisoning with a reasonable hope of solving it this summer!” - -He thought long and earnestly before deciding what course to pursue. On -the one hand he felt that his highest duty in life was to science as a -servant of humanity. He realized, as few men do, how great a beneficence -the discovery of a scientific fact may be to all mankind. “And there are -so few men,” he said to himself, “who are free as I am to pursue -investigations untrammeled by other things--the care of a family, the -ordering of a household, the education of children, the earning of a -living! If I could have this summer free, I believe I could find out how -to deal with sewer gas, and that would save thousands of lives and -immeasurable suffering! And there are my other investigations that are -not less pressing in their importance. Why should I have to give up my -work, for which I have the equipment of a thorough training, a -sufficient income, youth, high health, and last but not least, -enthusiasm?” - -He did not add, as a less modest man might, that he had earned a -reputation which commanded not only the attention but the willing -assistance of his scientific brethren in his work, that all laboratories -were open to him, that all men of science were ready to respond to his -requests for the assistance of their personal observation and -experience, that the columns of all scientific journals were freely his -to use in setting forth his conclusions and the facts upon which they -rested. - -“I wish I could put the whole thing into the hands of an agent, and bid -him sell out the estate, pay off the debts and send me the remainder of -the proceeds, with which to endow a chair of research in some scientific -school! But that would mean selling the negroes, and I’ll never do that. -I wish I could set them all free and rid myself of responsibility for -them. But I cannot do that unless I can get enough money out of the -estate to buy little farms for them as my father did with his negroes. I -mustn’t condemn them to starvation and call it freedom. I wish I knew -what the debt is, and how much the land will bring. Then I could plan -what to do. But as I do not know anything of the kind, I simply must go -to Wyanoke and study the problem as it is. It will take all summer and -perhaps longer. But there is nothing else for it.” - -That is how it came about that Dr. Arthur Brent sat in the great hallway -at Wyanoke, talking with Aunt Polly, when Dorothy South returned, -accompanied by her hounds. - - - - -IV - -DR. BRENT IS PUZZLED - - -_D_orothy came up to the front gate at a light gallop. Disdaining the -assistance of the horse block, she nimbly sprang from the saddle to the -ground and called to her mare “Stand, Chestnut!” - -Then she gathered up the excessively long riding skirt which the Amazons -of that time always wore on horseback, and walked up the pathway to the -door, leaving the horse to await the coming of a stable boy. Arthur -could not help observing and admiring the fact that she walked with -marked dignity and grace even in a riding skirt--a thing so exceedingly -difficult to do that not one woman in a score could accomplish it even -with conscious effort. Yet this mere girl did it, manifestly without -either effort or consciousness. As an accomplished anatomist Dr. Brent -knew why. “That girl has grown up,” he said to himself, “in as perfect a -freedom as those locust trees out there, enjoy. She is as straight as -the straightest of them, and she has perfect use of all her muscles. I -wonder who she is, and why she gives orders here at Wyanoke quite as if -she belonged to the place, or the place belonged to her.” - -This last thought was suggested by the fact that just before mounting -the two steps that led to the porch, Dorothy had whistled through her -fingers and said to the negro man who answered her call:--“Take the -hounds to the kennels, and fasten them in. Turn the setters out.” - -But the young man had little time for wondering. The girl came into the -hall, and, as Aunt Polly had gone to order a little “snack,” she -introduced herself. - -“You are Dr. Brent, I think? Yes? well, I’m Dorothy South. Let me bid -you welcome as the new master of Wyanoke.” - -With that she shook hands in a fashion that was quite child-like, and -tripped away up the stairs. - -Arthur Brent found himself greatly interested in the girl. She was -hardly a woman, and yet she was scarcely to be classed as a child. In -her manner as well as in her appearance she seemed a sort of compromise -between the two. She was certainly not pretty, yet Arthur’s quick -scrutiny informed him that in a year or two she was going to be -beautiful. It only needed a little further ripening of her womanhood to -work that change. But as one cannot very well fall in love with a woman -who is yet to be, Arthur Brent felt no suggestion of other sentiment -than one of pleased admiration for the girl, mingled with respect for -her queenly premature dignity. He observed, however, that her hair was -nut brown and of luxuriant growth, her complexion, fair and clear in -spite of a pronounced tan, and her eyes large, deep blue and finely -overarched by their dark brows. - -Before he had time to think further concerning her, Aunt Polly returned -and asked him to “snack.” - -“Dorothy will be down presently,” she said. “She’s quick at changing her -costume.” - -Arthur was about to ask, “Who is Dorothy? And how does she come to be -here?” but at that moment the girl herself came in, white gowned and as -fresh of face as a newly blown rose is at sunrise. - -“It’s too bad, Aunt Polly,” she said, “that you had to order the snack. -I ought to have got home in time to do my duty, and I would, only that -Trump behaved badly--Trump is one of my dogs, Doctor--and led the others -into mischief. He ran after a hare, and, of course, I had to stop and -discipline him. That made me late.” - -“You keep your dogs under good control Miss--by the way how am I to call -you?” - -“I don’t know just yet,” answered the girl with the frankness of a -little child. - -“How so?” asked Arthur, as he laid a dainty slice of cold ham on her -plate. - -“Why, don’t you see, I don’t know you yet. After we get acquainted I’ll -tell you how to call me. I think I am going to like you, and if I do, -you are to call me Dorothy. But of course I can’t tell yet. Maybe I -shall not like you at all, and then--well, we’ll wait and see.” - -“Very well,” answered the young master of the plantation, amused by the -girl’s extraordinary candor and simplicity. “I’ll call you Miss South -till you make up your mind about liking or detesting me.” - -“Oh, no, not that,” the girl quickly answered. “That would be _too_ -grown up. But you might say ‘Miss Dorothy,’ please, till I make up my -mind about you.” - -“Very well, Miss Dorothy. Allow me to express a sincere hope that after -you have come to know what sort of person I am, you’ll like me well -enough to bid me drop the handle to your name.” - -“But why should you care whether a girl like me likes you or not?” - -“Why, because I am very strongly disposed to like a girl like you.” - -“How can you feel that way, when you don’t know me the least little -bit?” - -“But I do know you a good deal more than ‘the least little bit,’” -answered the young man smiling. - -“How can that be? I don’t understand.” - -“Perhaps not, and yet it is simple enough. You see I have been training -my mind and my eyes and my ears and all the rest of me all my life, into -habits of quick and accurate observation, and so I see more at a glance -than I should otherwise see in an hour. For example, you’ll admit that I -have had no good chance to become acquainted with your hounds, yet I -know that one of them has lost a single joint from his tail, and another -had a bur inside one of his ears this morning, which you have since -removed.” - -The girl laid down her fork in something like consternation. - -“But I shan’t like you at all if you see things in that way. I’ll never -dare come into your presence.” - -“Oh, yes, you will. I do not observe for the purpose of criticising; -especially I never criticise a woman or a girl to her detriment.” - -“That is very gallant, at any rate,” answered the girl, accenting the -word “gallant” strongly on the second syllable, as all Virginians of -that time properly did, and as few other people ever do. “But tell me -what you started to say, please?” - -“What was it?” - -“Why, you said you knew me a good deal. I thought you were going to tell -me what you knew about me.” - -“Well, I’ll tell you part of what I know. I know that you have a low -pitched voice--a contralto it would be called in musical nomenclature. -It has no jar in it--it is rich and full and sweet, and while you always -speak softly, your voice is easily heard. I should say that you sing.” - -“No. I must not sing.” - -“Must not? How is that?” - -The girl seemed embarrassed--almost pained. The young man, seeing this, -apologized: - -“Pardon me! I did not mean to ask a personal question.” - -“Never mind!” said the girl. “You were not unkind. But I must not sing, -and I must never learn a note of music, and worst of all I must not go -to places where they play fine music. If I ever get to liking you very -well indeed, perhaps I’ll tell you why--at least all the why of it that -I know myself--for I know only a little about it. Now tell me what else -you know about me. You see you were wrong this time.” - -“Yes, in a way. Never mind that. I know that you are a rigid -disciplinarian. You keep your hounds under a sharp control.” - -“Oh, I _must_ do that. They would eat somebody up if I didn’t. Besides -it is good for them. You see dogs and women need strict control. A -mistress will do for dogs, but every woman needs a master.” - -The girl said this as simply and earnestly as she might have said that -all growing plants need water and sunshine. Arthur was astonished at the -utterance, delivered, as it was, in the manner of one who speaks the -veriest truism. - -“Now,” he responded, “I have encountered something in you that I not -only do not understand but cannot even guess at. Where did you learn -that cynical philosophy?” - -“Do you mean what I said about dogs?” - -“No. Though ‘cynic’ means a dog. I mean what you said about women. Where -did you get the notion that every woman needs a master?” - -“Why, anybody can see that,” answered the girl. “Every girl’s father or -brother is her master till she grows up and marries. Then her husband is -her master. Women are always very bad if they haven’t masters, and even -when they mean to be good, they make a sad mess of their lives if they -have nobody to control them.” - -If this slip of a girl had talked Greek or Sanscrit or the differential -calculus at him, Arthur could not have been more astounded than he was. -Surely a girl so young, so fresh, and so obviously wholesome of mind -could never have formulated such a philosophy of life for herself, even -had she been thrown all her days into the most complex of conditions and -surroundings, instead of leading the simplest of lives as this girl had -manifestly done, and seeing only other living like her own. But he -forbore to question her, lest he trespass again upon delicate ground, as -he had done with respect to music. He was quick to remember that he had -already asked her where she had learned her philosophy, and that she had -nimbly evaded the question--defending her philosophy as a thing obvious -to the mind, instead of answering the inquiry as to whence she had -drawn the teaching. - -Altogether, Arthur Brent’s mind was in a whirl as he left the luncheon -table. Simple as she seemed and transparent as her personality appeared -to him to be, the girl’s attitude of mind seemed inexplicable even to -his practised understanding. Her very presence in the house was a -puzzle, for Aunt Polly had offered no explanation of the fact that she -seemed to belong there, not as a guest but as a member of the household, -and even as one exercising authority there. For not only had the girl -apologized for leaving Aunt Polly to order the luncheon, but at table -and after the meal was finished, it was she, and not the elder woman who -gave directions to the servants, who seemed accustomed to think of her -as the source of authority, and finally, as she withdrew from the dining -room, she turned to Arthur and said: - -“Doctor, it is the custom at Wyanoke to dine at four o’clock. Shall I -have dinner served at that hour, or do you wish it changed?” - -The young man declared his wish that the traditions of the house should -be preserved, adding playfully--“I doubt if you could change the dinner -hour, Miss Dorothy, even if we all desired it so. I remember Aunt -Kizzey, the cook, and I for one should hesitate to oppose my will to -her conservatism.” - -“Oh, as to that,” answered the girl, “I never have any trouble managing -the servants. They know me too well for that.” - -“What could you do if you told Kizzey to serve dinner at three and she -refused?” asked the young man, really curious to hear the answer. - -“I would send for Aunt Kizzey to come to me. Then I would look at her. -After that she would do as I bade her.” - -“I verily believe she would,” said the young man to himself as he went -to the sideboard and filled one of the long stemmed pipes. “But I really -cannot understand why.” - -He had scarcely finished his pipe when Dorothy came into the hall -accompanied by a negro girl of about fourteen years, who bore a work -basket with her. Seating herself, Dorothy gave the girl some instruction -concerning the knitting she had been doing, and added: “You may sit in -the back porch to-day. It is warm.” - -“Is it too warm, Miss Dorothy, for you to make a little excursion with -me to the stables?” - -“Certainly not,” she quickly answered. “I’ll go at once.” - -“Thank you,” he said, “and we’ll stop in the orchard on our way back -and get some June apples. I remember where the trees are.” - -“You want me to show you the horses, I suppose,” she said as the two set -off side by side. - -“No; any of the negroes could do that. I want you to render me a more -skilled service.” - -“What is it?” - -“I want you, please, to pick out a horse for me to ride while I stay at -Wyanoke.” - -“While you stay at Wyanoke!” echoed the girl. “Why, that will be for all -the time, of course.” - -“I hardly think so,” answered the young man, with a touch of not -altogether pleased uncertainty in his tone. “You see I have important -work to do, which I cannot do anywhere but in a great city--or at any -rate,”--as the glamour of the easy, polished and altogether delightful -contentment of Virginia life came over him anew, and its attractiveness -sang like a siren in his ears,--“at any rate it cannot be so well done -anywhere else as in a large city. I have come down here to Virginia only -to see what duties I have to do here. If I find I can finish them in a -few months or a year, I shall go back to my more important work.” - -The girl was silent for a time, as if pondering his words. Finally she -said: - -“Is there anything more important than to look after your estate? You -see I don’t understand things very well.” - -“Perhaps it is best that you never shall,” he answered. “And to most men -the task of looking after an ancestral estate, and managing a plantation -with more than a hundred negroes--” - -“There are a hundred and eighty seven in all, if you count big and -little, old and young together,” broke in the girl. - -“Are there? How did you come to know the figures so precisely?” - -“Why, I keep the plantation book, you know.” - -“I didn’t know,” he answered. - -“Yes,” she said, “I’ve kept it ever since I came to Wyanoke three or -four years ago. You see your uncle didn’t like to bother with details, -and so I took this off his hands, when I was so young that I wrote a -great big, sprawling hand and spelled my words ever so queerly. But I -wanted to help Uncle Robert. You see I liked him. If you’d rather keep -the plantation book yourself, I’ll give it up to you when we go back to -the house.” - -“I would much rather have you keep it, at least until you make up your -mind whether you like me or not. Then, if you don’t like me I’ll take -the book.” - -“Very well,” she replied, treating his reference to her present -uncertainty of mind concerning himself quite as she might have treated -his reference to a weather contingency of the morrow or of the next -week. “I’ll go on with the book till then.” - -By this time the pair had reached the stables, and Miss Dorothy, in that -low, soft but penetrating voice which Arthur had observed and admired, -called to a negro man who was dozing within: - -“Ben, your master wants to see the best of the saddle horses. Bring them -out, do you hear?” - -The question “do you hear?” with which she ended her command was one in -universal use in Virginia. If an order were given to a negro without -that admonitory tag to it, it would fall idly upon heedless ears. But -the moment the negro heard that question he gathered his wits together -and obeyed the order. - -“What sort of a horse do you like, Doctor?” asked the girl as the -animals were led forth. “Can you ride?” - -“Why, of course,” he answered. “You know I spent a year in Virginia when -I was a boy.” - -“Oh, yes, of course--if you haven’t forgotten. Then you don’t mind if a -horse is spirited and a trifle hard to manage?” - -“No. On the contrary, Miss Dorothy, I should very much mind if my riding -horse were not spirited, and as for managing him, I’m going to get you -to teach me the art of command, as you practise it so well on your dogs, -your horse and the house servants.” - -“Very well,” answered the girl seeming not to heed the implied -compliment. “Put the horses back in their stalls, Ben, and go over to -Pocahontas right away, and tell the overseer there to send Gimlet over -to me. Do you hear? You see, Doctor,” she added, turning to him, “your -uncle’s gout prevented him from riding much during the last year or so -of his life, and so there are no saddle horses here fit for a strong man -like you. There’s one fine mare, four years old, but she’s hardly big -enough to carry your weight. You must weigh a hundred and sixty pounds, -don’t you?” - -“Yes, about that. But whose horse is Gimlet?” - -“He’s mine, and he’ll suit you I’m sure. He is five years old, nearly -seventeen hands high and as strong as a young ox.” - -“But are you going to sell him to me?” - -“Sell him? No, of course not. He is my pet. He has eaten out of my hand -ever since he was a colt, and I was the first person that ever sat on -his back. Besides, I wouldn’t _sell_ a horse to _you_. I’m going to lend -him to you till--till I make up my mind. Then, if I like you I’ll give -him to you. If I don’t like you I’ll send him back to Pocahontas. Hurry -up, Ben. Ride the gray mare and lead Gimlet back, do you hear?” - -“You are very kind to me, Miss Dorothy, and I--” - -“Oh, no. I’m only polite and neighborly. You see Wyanoke and Pocahontas -are adjoining plantations. There comes Jo with your trunks, so we shall -not have time for the June apples to-day--or may be we might stop long -enough to get just a few, couldn’t we?” - -With that she took the young man’s hand as a little girl of ten might -have done, and skipping by his side, led the way into the orchard. The -thought of the June apples seemed to have awakened the child side of her -nature, completely banishing the womanly dignity for the time being. - - - - -V - -ARTHUR BRENT’S TEMPTATION - - -_D_uring the next three or four days Arthur was too much engaged with -affairs and social duties to pursue his scientific study of the young -girl--half woman, half child--with anything like the eagerness he would -have shown had his leisure been that of the Virginians round about him. -He had much to do, to “find out where he stood,” as he put the matter. -He had with him for two days Col. Majors the lawyer, who had the -estate’s affairs in charge. That comfortable personage assured the young -man that the property was “in good shape” but that assurance did not -satisfy a man accustomed to inquire into minute details of fact and to -rest content only with exact answers to his inquiries. - -“I will arrange everything for you,” said the lawyer; “the will gives -you everything and it has already been probated. It makes you sole -executor with no bonds, as well as sole inheritor of the estate. There -is really nothing for you to do but hang up your hat. You take your late -uncle’s place, that is all.” - -“But there are debts,” suggested Arthur. - -“Oh, yes, but they are trifling and the estate is a very rich one. None -of your creditors will bother you.” - -“But I do not intend to remain in debt,” said the young man impatiently. -“Besides, I do not intend to remain a planter all my life. I have other -work to do in the world. This inheritance is a burden to me, and I mean -to be rid of it as soon as possible.” - -“Allow me to suggest,” said the lawyer in his self-possessed way, “that -the inheritance of Wyanoke is a sort of burden that most men at your -time of life would very cheerfully take upon their shoulders.” - -“Very probably,” answered Arthur. “But as I happen not to be ‘most men -at my time of life’ it distinctly oppresses me. It loads me with duties -that are not congenial to me. It requires my attention at a time when I -very greatly desire to give my attention to something which I regard as -of more importance than the growing of wheat and tobacco and corn.” - -“Every one to his taste,” answered the lawyer, “but I confess I do not -see what better a young man could do than sit down here at Wyanoke and, -without any but pleasurable activities, enjoy all that life has to give. -Your income will be large, and your credit quite beyond question. You -can buy whatever you want, and you need never bother yourself with a -business detail. No dun will ever beset your door. If any creditor of -yours should happen to want his money, as none will, you can borrow -enough to pay him without even going to Richmond to arrange the matter. -I will attend to all such things for you, as I did for your late uncle.” - -“Thank you very much,” Arthur answered in a tone which suggested that he -did not thank him at all. “But I always tie my own shoe strings. I do -not know whether I shall go on living here or not, whether I shall give -up my work and my ambitions and settle down into a life of inglorious -ease, or whether I shall be strong enough to put that temptation aside. -I confess it is a temptation. Accustomed as I am to intensity of -intellectual endeavor, I confess that the prospect of sitting down here -in lavish plenty, and living a life unburdened by care and unvexed by -any sense of exacting duty, has its allurements for me. I suppose, -indeed, that any well ordered mind would find abundant satisfaction in -such a life programme, and perhaps I shall presently find myself growing -content with it. But if I do, I shall not consent to live in debt.” - -“But everybody has his debts--everybody who has an estate. It is part of -the property, as it were. Of course it would be uncomfortable to owe -more than you could pay, but you are abundantly able to owe your debts, -so you need not let them trouble you. All told they do not amount to the -value of ten or a dozen field hands.” - -“But I shall never sell my negroes.” - -“Of course not. No gentleman in Virginia ever does that, unless a negro -turns criminal and must be sent south, or unless nominal sales are made -between the heirs of an estate, simply by way of distributing the -property. Far be it from me to suggest such a thing. I meant only to -show you how unnecessary it is for you to concern yourself about the -trifling obligations on your estate--how small a ratio they bear to the -value of the property.” - -“I quite understand,” answered Arthur. “But at the same time these debts -do trouble me and will go on troubling me till the last dollar of them -is discharged. This is simply because they interfere with the plans I -have formed--or at least am forming--for so ordering my affairs that I -may go back to my work. Pray do not let us discuss the matter further. I -will ask you, instead, to send me, at your earliest convenience, an -exact schedule of the creditors of this estate, together with the -amount--principal and interest--that is owing to each. I intend to make -it my first business to discharge all these obligations. Till that is -done, I am not my own master, and I have a decided prejudice in favor of -being able to order my own life in my own way.” - -Behind all this lay the fact that Arthur Brent was growing dissatisfied -with himself and suspicious of himself. The beauty and calm of Wyanoke, -the picturesque contentment of that refined Virginia life which was -impressed anew upon his mind every time a neighboring planter rode over -to take breakfast, dinner, or supper with him, or drove over in the -afternoon with his wife and daughters to welcome the new master of the -plantation--all this fascinated his mind and appealed strongly to the -partially developed æsthetic side of his nature, and at times the -strong, earnest manhood in him resented the fact almost with bitterness. - -There was never anywhere in America a country life like that of -Virginia in the period before the war. In that state, as nowhere else on -this continent, the refinement, the culture, the education and the -graceful social life of the time were found not in the towns, but in the -country. There were few cities in the state and they were small. They -existed chiefly for the purpose of transacting business for the more -highly placed and more highly cultivated planters. The people of the -cities, with exceptions that only emphasized the general truth, were -inferior to the dwellers on the plantations, in point of education, -culture and social position. It had always been so in Virginia. From the -days of William Byrd of Westover to those of Washington, and Jefferson -and Madison and John Marshall, and from their time to the middle of the -nineteenth century, it had been the choice of all cultivated Virginians -to live upon their plantations. Thence had always come the scholars, the -statesmen, the great lawyers and the masterful political writers who had -conferred untold lustre upon the state. - -Washington’s career as military chieftain and statesman, had been one -long sacrifice of his desire to lead the planter life at Mount Vernon. -Jefferson’s heart was at Monticello while he penned the Declaration of -Independence, and it was the proud boast of Madison that he like -Jefferson, quitted public office poorer than he was when he undertook -such service to his native land, and rejoiced in his return to the -planter life of his choice at Montpélièr. - -In brief, the entire history of the state and all its traditions, all -its institutions, all its habits of thought tended to commend the -country life to men of refined mind, and to make of the plantation -owners and their families a distinctly recognized aristocracy, not only -of social prestige but even more of education, refinement and -intellectual leadership. - -To Arthur Brent had come the opportunity to make himself at once and -without effort, a conspicuous member of this blue blooded caste. His -plantation had come to him, not by vulgar purchase, but by inheritance. -It had been the home of his ancestors, the possession and seat of his -family for more than two hundred years. And his family had been from the -first one of distinction and high influence. One of his great, great, -great grandfathers, had been a member of the Jamestown settlement and a -soldier under John Smith. His great, great grandfather had shared the -honor of royal proscription as an active participant in Bacon’s -rebellion. His great grandfather had been the companion of young George -Washington in his perilous expeditions to “the Ohio country,” and had -fallen by Washington’s side in Braddock’s blundering campaign. His -grandfather had been a drummer boy at Yorktown, had later become one of -the great jurists of the state and had been a distinguished soldier in -the war of 1812. His father, as we know, had strayed away to the west, -as so many Virginians of his time did, but he had won honors there which -made Virginia proud of him. And fortunately for Arthur Brent, that -father’s removal to the west was not made until this his son had been -born at the old family seat. - -“For,” explained Aunt Polly to the young man, in her own confident way, -“in spite of your travels, you are a native Virginian, Arthur, and when -you have dropped into the ways of the country, people will overlook the -fact that you have lived so much at the north, and even in Europe.” - -“But why, Aunt Polly,” asked Arthur, “should that fact be deemed -something to be ‘overlooked?’ Surely travel broadens one’s views and--” - -“Oh, yes, of course, in the case of people not born in Virginia. But a -Virginian doesn’t need it, and it upsets his ideas. You see when a -Virginian travels he forgets what is best. He actually grows like other -people. You yourself show the ill effects of it in a hundred ways. Of -course you haven’t quite lost your character as a Virginian, and you’ll -gradually come back to it here at Wyanoke; but ‘evil communications -corrupt good manners,’ and I can’t help seeing it in you--at least in -your speech. You don’t pronounce your words correctly. You say ‘cart’ -‘carpet’ and ‘garden’ instead of ‘cyart’ ‘cyarpet’ and ‘gyarden.’ And -you flatten your a’s dreadfully. You say ‘grass’ instead of ‘grawss’ and -‘basket’ instead of ‘bawsket’ and all that sort of thing. And you roll -your r’s dreadfully. It gives me a chill whenever I hear you say -‘master’ instead of ‘mahstah.’ But you’ll soon get over that, and in the -meantime, as you were born in Virginia and are the head of an old -Virginia family, the gentlemen and ladies who are coming every day to -welcome you, are very kind about it. They overlook it, as your -misfortune, rather than your fault.” - -“That is certainly very kind of them, Aunt Polly. I can’t imagine -anything more generous in the mind than that. But--well, never mind.” - -“What were you going to say, Arthur?” - -“Oh, nothing of any consequence. I was only thinking that perhaps my -Virginia neighbors do not lay so much stress upon these things as you -do.” - -“Of course not. That is one of the troubles of this time. Since we let -the Yankees build railroads through Virginia, everybody here wants to -travel. Why, half the gentlemen in this county have been to New York!” - -“How very shocking!” said Arthur, hiding his smile behind his hand. - -“That’s really what made the trouble for poor Dorothy,” mused Aunt -Polly. “If her father hadn’t gone gadding about--he even went to Europe -you know--Dorothy never would have been born.” - -“How fortunate that would have been! But tell me about it, Aunt Polly. -You see I don’t quite understand in what way it would have been better -for Dorothy not to have been born--unless we accept the pessimist -philosophy, and consider all human life a curse.” - -“Now you know, I don’t understand that sort of talk, Arthur,” answered -Aunt Polly. “I never studied philosophy or chemistry, and I’m glad of -it. But I know it would have been better for Dorothy if Dr. South had -stayed at home like a reasonable man, and married--but there, I mustn’t -talk of that. Dorothy is a dear girl, and I’m fitting her for her -position in life as well as I can. If I could stop her from thinking, -now, or--” - -“Pray don’t, Aunt Polly! Her thinking interests me more than anything I -ever studied,--except perhaps the strange and even inexplicable -therapeutic effect of champagne in yellow fever--” - -“There you go again, with your outlandish words, which you know I don’t -understand or want to understand, though sometimes I remember them.” - -“Tell me of an instance, Aunt Polly.” - -“Why, you said to me the other night that Dorothy was a ‘psychological -enigma’ to your mind, and that you very much wished you might know ‘the -conditions of heredity and environment’ that had produced ‘so strange a -phenomenon.’ There! I remember your words, though I haven’t the -slightest notion what they mean. I went upstairs and wrote them down. Of -course I couldn’t spell them except in my own way--and that would make -you laugh I reckon if you could see it, which you never shall--but I -haven’t a glimmering notion of what the words mean. Now I want to tell -you about Dorothy.” - -“Good! I am anxious to hear!” - -“Oh, I’m not going to tell you what you want to hear. That would be -gossip, and no Virginia woman ever gossips.” - -That was true. The Virginians of that time, men and women alike, locked -their lips and held their tongues in leash whenever the temptation came -to them to discuss the personal affairs of their neighbors. They were -bravely free and frank of speech when telling men to their faces what -opinions they might hold concerning them; but they did that only when -necessity, or honor, or the vindication of truth compelled. They never -made the character or conduct or affairs of each other a subject of -conversation. It was the very crux of honor to avoid that. - -“Then tell me what you are minded to reveal, Aunt Polly,” responded -Arthur. “I do not care to know anything else.” - -“Well, Dorothy is in a peculiar position--not by her own fault. She -_must_ marry into a good family, and it has fallen to me to prepare her -for her fate.” - -“Surely, Aunt Polly,” interjected the young man with a shocked and -distressed tone in his voice, “surely you are not teaching that child -to think of marriage--yet?” - -“No, no, no!” answered Aunt Polly. “I’m only trying to train her to -submissiveness of mind, so that when the time comes for her to make the -marriage that is already arranged for her, she will interpose no foolish -objections. It’s a hard task. The girl has a wilful way of thinking for -herself. I can’t cure her of it, do what I will.” - -“Why should you try?” asked Arthur, almost with excitement in his tone. -“Why should you try to spoil nature’s fine handiwork? That child’s -intellectual attitude is the very best I ever saw in one so young, so -simple and so childlike. For heaven’s sake, let her alone! Let her live -her own life and think in her own honest, candid and fearless way, and -she will develop into a womanhood as noble as any that the world has -seen since Eve persuaded Adam to eat of the tree of knowledge and quit -being a fool.” - -“Arthur, you shock me!” - -“I’m sorry, Aunt Polly, but I shall shock you far worse than that, if -you persist in your effort to warp and pervert that child’s nature to -fit it to some preconceived purpose of conventionality.” - -“I don’t know just what you mean, Arthur,” responded the old lady, “but -I know my duty, and I’m going to do it. The one thing necessary in -Dorothy’s case, is to stop her from thinking, and train her to settle -down, when the time comes, into the life of a Virginia matron. It is her -only salvation.” - -“Salvation from what?” asked Arthur, almost angrily. - -“I can’t tell you,” the old lady answered. “But the girl will never -settle into her proper place if she goes on thinking, as she does now. -So I’m going to stop it.” - -“And I,” the young man thought, though he did not say it, “am going to -teach her to think more than ever. I’ll educate that child so long as I -am condemned to lead this idle life. I’ll make it my business to see -that her mind shall not be put into a corset, that her extraordinary -truthfulness shall not be taught to tell lies by indirection, that she -shall not be restrained of her natural and healthful development. It -will be worth while to play the part of idle plantation owner for a year -or two, to accomplish a task like that. I can never learn to feel any -profound interest in the growing of tobacco, wheat and corn--but the -cultivation of that child into what she should be is a nobler work than -that of all the agriculturists of the south side put together. I’ll make -it my task while I am kept here away from my life’s chosen work.” - -That day Arthur Brent sent a letter to New York. In it he ordered his -library and the contents of his laboratory sent to him at Wyanoke. He -ordered also a good many books that were not already in his library. He -sent for a carpenter on that same day, and set him at work in a hurry, -constructing a building of his own designing upon a spot selected -especially with reference to drainage, light and other requirements of a -laboratory. He even sent to Richmond for a plumber to put in chemical -sinks, drain pipes and other laboratory fittings. - - - - -VI - -“NOW YOU MAY CALL ME DOROTHY” - - -_A_rthur Brent had now come to understand, in some degree at least, who -Dorothy South was. He remembered that the Pocahontas plantation which -immediately adjoined Wyanoke on the east, was the property of a Dr. -South, whom he had never seen. At the time of his own boyhood’s year at -Wyanoke he had understood, in a vague way that Dr. South was absent -somewhere on his travels. Somehow the people whom he had met at Wyanoke -and elsewhere, had seemed to be sorry for Dr. South but they never said -why. Apparently they held him in very high esteem, as Arthur remembered, -and seemed deeply to regret the necessity--whatever it was--which -detained him away, and to all intents and purposes made of Pocahontas a -closed house. For while the owner of that plantation insisted that the -doors of his mansion should always remain open to his friends, and that -dinner should be served there at the accustomed hour of four o’clock -every day during his absence, so that any friend who pleased might avail -himself of a hospitality which had never failed,--there was no white -person on the plantation except the overseer. Gentlemen passing that way -near the dinner hour used sometimes to stop and occupy places at the -table, an event which the negro major-domo always welcomed as a pleasing -interruption in the loneliness of the house. The hospitality of -Pocahontas had been notable for generations past, and the old servant -recalled a time when the laughter of young men and maidens had made the -great rooms of the mansion vocal with merriment. Arthur himself had once -taken dinner there with his uncle, and had been curiously impressed with -the rule of the master that dinner should be served, whether there were -anybody there to partake of it or not. He recalled all these things now, -and argued that Dr. South’s long absence could not have been caused by -anything that discredited him among the neighbors. For had not those -neighbors always regretted his absence, and expressed a wish for his -return? Arthur remembered in what terms of respect and even of -affection, everybody had spoken of the absent man. He remembered too -that about the time of his own departure from Wyanoke, there had been a -stir of pleased expectation, over the news that Dr. South was soon to -return and reopen the hospitable house. - -He discovered now that Dr. South had in fact returned at that time and -had resumed the old life at Pocahontas, dispensing a graceful -hospitality during the seven or eight years that had elapsed between his -return and his death. This latter event, Arthur had incidentally -learned, had occurred three years or so before his own accession to the -Wyanoke estate. Since that time Dorothy had lived with Aunt Polly, the -late master of Wyanoke having been her guardian. - -So much and no more, Arthur knew. It did not satisfy a curiosity which -he would not satisfy by asking questions. It did not tell him why Aunt -Polly spoke of the girl with pity, calling her “poor Dorothy.” It did -not explain to him why there should be a special effort made to secure -the girl’s marriage into a “good family.” What could be more probable -than that that would happen in due course without any managing whatever? -The girl was the daughter of as good a family as any in Virginia. She -was the sole heir of a fine estate. Finally, she promised to become a -particularly beautiful young woman, and one of unusual attractiveness -of mind. - -Yet everywhere Arthur heard her spoken of as “poor Dorothy,” and he -observed particularly that the universal kindness of the gentlewomen to -the child was always marked by a tone or manner suggestive of -compassion. The fact irritated the young man, as facts which he could -not explain were apt to do with one of his scientific mental habit. -There were other puzzling aspects of the matter, too. Why was the girl -forbidden to sing, to learn music, or even to enjoy it? Where had she -got her curious conceptions of life? And above all, what did Aunt Polly -mean by saying that this mere child’s future marriage had been “already -arranged?” - -“The whole thing is a riddle,” he said to himself. “I shall make no -effort to solve it, but I have a mind to interfere somewhat with the -execution of any plans that a stupid conventionality may have formed to -sacrifice this rarely gifted child to some Moloch of social propriety. -Of course I shall not try in any way to control her life or direct her -future. But at any rate I shall see to it that she shall be compelled to -nothing without her own consent. Meanwhile, as they won’t let her learn -music, I’ll teach her science. I see clearly that it will take me three -or four years to do what I have planned to do at Wyanoke--to pay off the -debts, and set the negroes up as small farmers on their own account in -the west. During that time I shall have ample opportunity to train the -child’s mind in a way worthy of it, and when I have done that I fancy -she will order her own life with very little regard to the plans of -those who are arranging to make of her a mere pawn upon the chess board. -Thank heaven, this thing gives me a new interest. It will prevent my -mind from vegetating and my character from becoming mildewed. It opens -to me a duty and an occupation--a duty untouched with selfish -indulgence, an occupation which I can pursue without a thought of any -other reward than the joy of worthy achievement.” - -“Miss Dorothy,” he said to the girl that evening, “I observe that you -are an early riser.” - -“Oh, yes,” she replied. “You see I must be up soon in the morning”--that -use of “soon” for “early” was invariable in Virginia--“to see that the -maids begin their work right. You see I carry the keys.” - -“Yes, I know, you are housekeeper, and a very conscientious one I think. -But I wonder if your duties in the early morning are too exacting to -permit you to ride with me before breakfast. You see I want to make a -tour of inspection over the plantation and I’d like to have you for my -guide. The days are so warm that I have a fancy to ride in the cool of -the morning. Would it please you to accompany me and tell me about -things?” - -“I’ll like that very much. I’m always down stairs by five o’clock, so if -you like we can ride at six any morning you please. That will give us -three hours before breakfast.” - -“Thank you very much,” Arthur replied. “If you please, then, we’ll ride -tomorrow morning.” - -When Arthur came down stairs the next morning he found the maids busily -polishing the snow-white floors with pine needles and great log and husk -rubbers, while their young mistress was giving her final instructions to -Johnny, the dining room servant. Hearing Arthur’s step on the stair she -commanded the negro to bring the coffee urn and in answer to the young -master’s cheery good morning, she handed him a cup of steaming coffee. - -“This is a very pleasant surprise,” he exclaimed. “I had not expected -coffee until breakfast time.” - -“Oh, you must never ride soon in the morning without taking coffee -first,” she replied. “That’s the way to keep well. We always have a big -kettle of coffee for the field hands before they go to work. Their -breakfast isn’t ready till ten o’clock, and the coffee keeps the chill -off.” - -“Why is their breakfast served so late?” - -“Oh, they like it that way. They don’t want anything but coffee soon in -the morning. They breakfast at ten, and then the time isn’t so long -before their noonday dinner.” - -“I should think that an excellent plan,” answered the doctor. “As a -hygienist I highly approve of it. After all it isn’t very different from -the custom of the French peasants. But come, Miss Dorothy, Ben has the -horses at the gate.” - -The girl, fresh-faced, lithe-limbed and joyous, hastily donned her long -riding skirt which made her look, Arthur thought, like a little child -masquerading in some grown woman’s garments, and nimbly tripped down the -walk to the gate way. There she quickly but searchingly looked the -horses over, felt of the girths, and, taking from her belt a fine white -cambric handkerchief, proceeded to rub it vigorously on the animals’ -rumps. Finding soil upon the dainty cambric, she held it up before -Ben’s face, and silently looked at him for the space of thirty seconds. -Then she tossed the handkerchief to him and commanded:--“Go to the house -and fetch me another handkerchief.” - -There was something almost tragic in the negro’s humiliation as he -walked away on his mission. Arthur had watched the little scene with -amused interest. When it was over the girl, without waiting for him to -offer her a hand as a step, seized the pommel and sprang into the -saddle. - -“Why did you do that, Miss Dorothy?” the young man asked as the horses, -feeling the thrill of morning in their veins, began their journey with a -waltz. - -“What? rub the horses?” - -“No. Why did you look at Ben in that way? And why did it seem such a -punishment to him?” - -“I wanted him to remember. He knows I never permit him to bring me a -horse that isn’t perfectly clean.” - -“And will he remember now?” - -“Certainly. You saw how severely he was punished this time. He doesn’t -want that kind of thing to happen again.” - -“But I don’t understand. You did nothing to him. You didn’t even scold -him.” - -“Of course I didn’t. Scolding is foolish. Only weak-minded people -scold.” - -“But I shouldn’t have thought Ben fine enough or sensitive enough to -feel the sort of punishment you gave him. Why should he mind it?” - -“Oh, everybody minds being looked at in that way--everybody who has been -doing wrong. You see one always knows when one has done wrong. Ben knew, -and when I looked at him he saw that I knew too. So it hurt him. You’ll -see now that he’ll never bring you or me a horse on which we can soil -our handkerchiefs.” - -“Where did you learn all that?” asked Arthur, full of curiosity and -interest. - -“I suppose my father taught me. He taught me everything I know. I -remember that whenever I was naughty, he would look at me over his -spectacles and make me ever so sorry. You see even if I knew I had done -wrong I didn’t think much about it, till father looked at me. After that -I would think about it all day and all night, and be, oh, so sorry! Then -I would try not to displease my father again.” - -“Your father must have been a very wise as well as a very good man!” - -“He was,” and two tears slipped from the girl’s eyes as she recalled the -father who had been everything to her from her very infancy. “That is -why I always try, now that he is gone, never to do anything that he -would have disliked. I always think ‘I won’t do that, for if I do father -will look at me.’ You see I must be a great deal more careful than other -girls.” - -“Why? I see no reason for that.” - -“That’s because you don’t know about--about things. I was born bad, and -if I’m not more careful than other girls have to be, I shall be very bad -when I grow up.” - -“Will you forgive me if I say I don’t believe that?” asked Arthur. - -“Oh, but it’s true,” answered the girl, looking him straight in the -face, with an expression of astonishment at his incredulity. - -Arthur saw fit to change the conversation. So he returned to Ben’s case. - -“Most women would have sent Ben to the overseer for punishment, wouldn’t -they?” - -“Some would, but I never find that necessary. Besides I hate _your_ -overseer.” - -“Why? What has he done to incur your displeasure, Miss Dorothy?” - -“Now you’re mocking me for minding things that are none of my business,” -said the girl with a touch of contrition in her voice. - -“Indeed I am not,” answered the young man with earnestness. “And you -have not been doing anything of the kind. I asked you to tell me about -things here at Wyanoke, because it is necessary that I should know them. -So when you tell me that you hate the overseer here, I want to know why. -It is very necessary for me to know what sort of man he is, so that I -may govern myself accordingly. I have great confidence in your judgment, -young as you are. I am very sure you would not hate the overseer without -good cause. So you will do me a favor if you’ll tell me why you hate -him.” - -“It is because he is cruel and a coward.” - -“How do you know that?” - -“I’ve seen it for myself. He strikes the field hands for nothing. He has -even cruelly whipped some of the women servants with the black snake -whip he carries. I told him only a little while ago that if I ever -caught him doing that again, I’d set my dogs on him. No Virginia -gentleman would permit such a thing. Uncle Robert--that’s the name I -always called your uncle by--would have shot the fellow for that, I -think.” - -“But why did Uncle Robert employ such a man for overseer?” - -“He never did. Uncle Robert never kept any overseer. He used to say that -the authority of the master of a plantation was too great to be -delegated to any person who didn’t care for the black people and didn’t -feel his responsibility.” - -“But how did the fellow come to be here then? Who employed him?” - -“Mr. Peyton did--Mr. Madison Peyton. When your uncle was ill, Mr. Peyton -looked after things for him, and he kept it up after Uncle Robert died. -He hired this overseer. He said he was too busy on his own plantation to -take care of things here in person.” - -“Uncle Robert was quite right,” said Arthur meditatively. “And now that -I am charged with the responsibility for these black people, I will not -delegate my power to any overseer, least of all to one whom you have -found out to be a cruel coward. Where do you suppose we could find him -now?” - -“Down in the tobacco new grounds,” the girl answered. “I was going there -to-day to set my dogs on him, but I remembered that you were master -now.” - -“What was the special occasion for your anger this time?” Arthur asked -in a certain quiet, seemingly half indifferent tone which Dorothy found -inscrutable. - -“He whipped poor old Michael, the gardener last night,” answered the -girl with a glint as of fire in her eyes. “He had no right to do that. -Michael isn’t a field hand, and he isn’t under the overseer’s control.” - -“Do you mean the shambling old man I saw in the garden yesterday? Surely -he didn’t whip that poor decrepit old man!” - -“Yes, he did. I told you he was a cruel coward.” - -“Let’s ride to the tobacco new grounds at once,” said Arthur quite as he -might have suggested the most indifferent thing. But Dorothy observed -that on the way to the new grounds Arthur Brent spoke no word. Twice she -addressed him, but he made no response. - -Arrived at the new grounds Arthur called the overseer to him and without -preface asked him: - -“Did you strike old Michael with your whip last night?” - -“Yes, and there wan’t a lick amiss unless I made a lick at him and -missed him.” - -The man laughed at his own clumsy witticism, but the humor of it seemed -not to impress the new master of the plantation. For reply he said: - -“Go to your house at once and pack up your belongings. Come to me after -I have had my breakfast, and we’ll have a settlement. You are to leave -my plantation to-day and never set foot upon it again. Come, Miss -Dorothy, let’s continue our ride!” - -With that the two wheeled about, the girl saying: - -“Let’s run our horses for a stretch.” Instantly she set off at breakneck -speed across the fields and over two stiff fences before regaining the -main plantation road. There she drew rein and turning full upon her -companion she said: - -“Now you may call me Dorothy.” - - - - -VII - -SHRUB HILL CHURCH - - -_T_he following day was Sunday, and to Arthur’s satisfaction it was one -of the two Sundays in the month, on which services were held at Shrub -Hill Church. For Arthur remembered the little old church there in the -woods, with the ancient cemetery, in which all the Brents who had lived -before him were buried, and in which rested also all the past -generations of all the other good families of the region round about. - -Shrub Hill Church represented one of the most attractive of Virginia -traditions. Early in his career as statesman, Thomas Jefferson had -rendered Virginia a most notable service. He had secured the complete -separation of church from state, the dissolution of that unholy alliance -between religion and government, with which despotism and class -privilege have always buttressed the fabric of oppression. But church -and family remained, and in the course of generations that relation had -assumed characteristics of a most wholesome, ameliorating and -liberalizing character. - -Thus at Shrub Hill all the people of character and repute in the region -round about, found themselves at home. They were in large degree -Baptists and Presbyterians in their personal church relations, but all -of them deemed themselves members of Shrub Hill--the Episcopal church -which had survived from that earlier time when to be a gentleman carried -with it the presumption of adherence to the established religion. All of -them attended service there. All contributed to the cost of keeping the -edifice and the graveyard grounds in repair. All of them shared in the -payment of the old rector’s salary and he in his turn preached -scrupulously innocuous sermons to them--sermons ten minutes in length -which might have been repeated with entire propriety and acceptance in -any Baptist or Presbyterian pulpit. - -When the Easter elections came, all the gentlemen of the neighborhood -felt themselves entitled to vote for the wardens and vestrymen already -in office, or for the acceptable person selected by common consent to -take the place of any warden or vestryman who might have been laid to -rest beneath the sod of the Shrub Hill churchyard during the year. And -the wardens and vestrymen were Baptists, Presbyterians, Episcopalians or -gentlemen professing no faith, quite indifferently. - -These people were hot debaters of politics and religion--especially -religion. When the question of immersion or pedo-baptism was up, each -was ready and eager to maintain the creed of his own church with all the -arguments that had been formulated for that purpose generations before -and worn smooth to the tongue by oft-repeated use. But this fervor made -no difference whatever in the loyalty of their allegiance to their old -family church at Shrub Hill. There they found common ground of tradition -and affection. There they were all alike in right of inheritance. There -all of them expected to be buried by the side of their forefathers. - -It has been said already that services were held at Shrub Hill on two -Sundays of the month. As the old rector lived within a few minutes’ walk -of the church, and had no other duty than its ministry, there might have -been services there every Sunday in the year, except that such a -practice would have interfered with the desire of those who constituted -its congregation to attend their own particular Baptist or Presbyterian -churches, which held services on the other Sundays. It was no part of -the spirit or mission of the family church thus to interfere with the -religious preferences of its members, and so, from time immemorial, -there had been services at Shrub Hill only upon two Sundays of the -month. - -Everybody attended those services--every gentleman and every gentlewoman -at least. That is to say, all went to the church and the women with a -few of the older men went in. The rest of the gentlemen gathered in -groups under the trees outside--for the church stood in the midst of an -unbroken woodland--and chatted in low tones while the service was in -progress. Thus they fulfilled their gentlemanly obligations of church -going, without the fatigue of personal participation in the services. - -The gentlemen rode to church on horseback. The ladies, old and young -alike, went thither in their family carriages. Many of these, especially -the younger ones, were accustomed to go everywhere else in the saddle, -but to church, propriety and tradition required them to go decorously in -the great lumbering vehicles of family state. - -The gentlemen arrived first and took their places at the church door to -greet the gentlewomen and give them a hand in alighting from the -high-hung carriages. - -As soon as the service was over the social clearing-house held its -session. It was not known by that name, but that in fact was what it -amounted to. Every young woman present invited every other young woman -present to go home with her to dinner and to stay for a few days or for -a week. There was a babel of insistent tongues out of which nothing less -sagacious than feminine intelligence could have extracted a resultant -understanding. But after a few minutes all was as orderly as the -domestic arrangements over which these young women were accustomed to -preside. Two or three of them had won all the others to their will, and -the company, including all there was of young and rich voiced femininity -in the region round about, was divided into squads and assigned to two -or three hospitable mansions, whither trunks would follow in the early -morning of the Monday. - -The young men accommodated themselves at once to these arrangements, -each accepting at least a dinner invitation to the house, to which the -young woman most attractive to himself had elected to go. As there was -no afternoon or evening service, the religious duties of the day were at -an end before one of the clock. - -Out under the trees before and during the service the men discussed -affairs of interest to themselves, and on this his first Sunday, Arthur -found that his own affairs constituted the subject of most general -interest. He was heartily welcomed as the new master of Wyanoke, the -welcome partaking somewhat of the nature of that given to one who -returns to right ways of living after erratic wanderings. There was a -kindly disposition to recognize Arthur’s birthright as a Virginian, -together with a generous readiness to forgive his youthful indiscretion -in living so much elsewhere. - -Only one man ventured to be censorious, and that was Madison Peyton, who -was accustomed to impress himself upon the community in ways which were -sometimes anything but agreeable, but to which everybody was accustomed -to submit in a nameless sort of fear of his sharp tongue--everybody, -that is to say, except Aunt Polly and John Meaux. - -Aunt Polly was not afraid of Madison Peyton for several reasons. The -first was that Aunt Polly was not accustomed to stand in awe of anybody. -The second was that her blood was quite the bluest in all that part of -the State and she had traditions behind her. Finally she was a shrewdly -penetrative person who had long ago discovered the nature of Madison -Peyton’s pretensions and subjected them to sarcastic analysis. As for -John Meaux, everybody knew him as by odds the most successful planter -and most capable man of business in the county. Madison Peyton could -teach him nothing, and he had a whiplash attachment to his tongue, the -sting of which Peyton did not care to invoke. - -For the rest, Madison Peyton was dominant. It was his habit to lecture -his neighbors upon their follies and short-comings and rather -arrogantly, though with a carefully simulated good nature, to dictate to -them what they should or should not do, assuming with good-natured -insolence an authority which in no way belonged to him. In this way, -during the late Robert Brent’s last illness, Peyton had installed as -overseer at Wyanoke, a man whom the planters generally refused to employ -because of his known cruelty, but whose capacity to make full crops was -well attested by experience. - -Arthur Brent had summarily dismissed this man as we know, and Peyton was -distinctly displeased with him for doing so. Taking the privilege of an -old friend of the young man’s uncle, Peyton called him by his first -name, without any prefix whatever. - -“Why in the world, Arthur,” he said by way of introducing the subject, -“why in the world have you sent Williams away?” - -Something in Peyton’s manner, something that was always in his manner, -had given Arthur a feeling of resentment when the man had called upon -him soon after his arrival. This direct interrogatory concerning a -matter exclusively his own, almost angered the young man, as the others -saw when, instead of answering it directly, he asked: - -“Are you specially interested in Williams’s welfare, Mr. Peyton?” - -Peyton was too self-satisfied to be sensitive, so he took the rebuff -with a laugh. - -“Oh, no,” he answered. “It is you that I’m troubled about. Knowing -nothing of planting you need a capable overseer more than anybody else -does, and here you’ve sent away the best one in the county without even -consulting anybody.” - -“I did not need to consult anybody,” answered Arthur, “in order to know -that I did not want that man on my plantation.” - -“Oh, of course! But you can’t get another overseer at this time of year, -you know.” - -“On the whole, I don’t think I want another at any time of year.” - -“You imagine perhaps that you know something about planting. I’ve known -other young men to make the same mistake.” - -“Perhaps I can learn,” answered Arthur in placid tones. “I have learned -some things quite as difficult in my life.” - -“But you don’t know anything about planting, and if you try it without -an overseer you’ll find your account at your commission merchant’s -distressingly short at the end of the year.” - -“I don’t know about that,” broke in John Meaux. “You predicted the same -thing in my case, you remember, Mr. Peyton, when I came back after -graduating at West Point, and yet I’ve managed to keep some hams in my -meat house for fifteen years now,--and I never had an overseer.” - -Ignoring Meaux’s interruption Peyton said to Arthur: - -“And you know you’ve got a law-suit on your hands.” - -“Have I? I didn’t know it.” - -“Why, of course, Williams will sue. You see he was engaged for the year, -and the contract lasts till January.” - -“Who made the contract?” asked Arthur. - -“Well, I did--acting for your uncle.” - -“Had you my uncle’s power of attorney to bind him to a year’s -arrangement?” - -“Of course not. He was ill and I merely did a neighbor’s part.” - -“Then suppose Williams should sue you instead of me? You see it is you -who are liable for non-fulfilment of that contract. You bargained with -this man to serve you for a year as overseer on my plantation, and I -have declined to accept the arrangement. If he has a right of action -against anybody, it is against you. However, I don’t think he will sue -you, for I have paid him his wages for the full year. Fortunately I -happened to have money enough in bank for that. There is the -voluntary--let’s go into church.” - -Arthur Brent entered the place of service, one or two of the gentlemen -following him. - -He had made an enemy of Madison Peyton--an enemy who would never admit -his enmity but would never lose an opportunity to indulge it. - - - - -VIII - -A DINNER AT BRANTON - - -_I_t fell to Arthur Brent’s share to dine on that Sunday at Branton, the -seat of the most princely hospitality in all that part of Virginia. The -matter was not at all one of his own arranging, although it was -altogether agreeable to him. The master of Branton--a young man scarcely -older than himself, who lived there with his only sister, Edmonia -Bannister, had been the first of all the neighbors to visit Arthur, -dining with him and passing the night at Wyanoke. He had been most -kindly and cordial in his welcome and Arthur had been strongly drawn to -him as a man of character, intelligence and very winning manners. No -sooner had Arthur dismounted at church on that first Sunday, than young -Archer Bannister had come to shake his hand and say--“I want to preëmpt -you, Doctor Brent. All your neighbors will clamor for your company for -the dinner and the night, but I have done my best to establish the -priority of my claim. Besides my good sister wants you--and as a -confidence between you and me, I will tell you that when my sister wants -anything she is extremely apt to get it. I’m something of a laggard at -dressing myself for church, but this morning she began upon me early, -sending three servants to help me put on my clothes, and laying her -particular commands upon me to be the first man to arrive at Shrub Hill, -lest some other get before me with an invitation to dinner. So you are -to be my guest, please, and I’ll send one of my people over to Wyanoke -for anything you want. By the way I’ve cleared out a wardrobe for you at -Branton, and a dressing case. You’ll need to send over a supply of -linen, coats, boots, underwear, and the like and leave it in your room -there, so that you shall be quite at home to come and go at your will, -with the certainty of always finding ready for you whatever you need in -the way of costume.” - -Arthur Brent’s one extravagance was in the matter of clothes. He always -dressed himself simply, but he was always dressed well, and especially -it was his pleasure to change his garments as often as the weather or -the circumstances might suggest the desirability of a change. -Accordingly he had brought fat trunks to Wyanoke, but by the time that -three others of his new neighbors had informed him, quite casually and -as a matter of course, that they had prepared rooms for him and expected -him to send to those rooms a supply of clothing sufficient for any need, -he was pleased to remember that he had left careful measurements with -his tailor, his shirt maker, his fabricator of footwear, and his “gents’ -furnisher” in New York. And he had also acquired a new and broader -conception than ever before, of the comprehensive heartiness of Virginia -hospitality. - -“You see,” said young Bannister, later in the day, “Branton is to be one -of your homes. As a young man you will be riding about a good deal, and -you mustn’t be compelled to ride all the way to Wyanoke every time you -want to change your coat or substitute low quarter shoes for your riding -boots. If you’ll ask little Miss Dorothy to show you my room at Wyanoke -you’ll find that I have everything there that any gentleman could -possibly need with which to dress himself properly for any occasion, -from a fish fry to a funeral, from a fox hunt to a wedding. You are to -do the same at Branton. You don’t do things in that way in a city, of -course, but here it is necessary, because of the distance between -plantations. A man doesn’t want all his belongings in one place when -that place may be ten or a dozen miles away when he wants them.” - -Arthur found Branton to be substantially a reproduction of Wyanoke, -except that the great gambrel-roofed house had many wings and -extensions, and several one storied, two roomed “offices” built about -the grounds for the accommodation of any overflow of guests that might -happen there. The house had been built about the time at which the -Wyanoke mansion had come into being. It was of wood, but by no means of -such structure as we now expect in a wooden house. The frame was made of -great hewn timbers of forest pine, twelve inches square as to floor -beams and rafter plates, and with ten inch timbers in lieu of studding. -The vast chimneys were supported, not upon arches nicely calculated to -sustain their superincumbent weight with a factor of safety, but upon a -solid mass of cellar masonry that would have sustained the biggest of -Egyptian monoliths. The builders of the old colonial time may not have -known the precise strength of materials or the niceties of calculation -by which the supporting capacity of an arch is determined, but they -knew--and they acted upon the knowledge--that twelve inch, heart pine -timbers set on end will sustain any weight that a dwelling is called -upon to bear, and that a chimney built upon a solid mass of masonry, -twenty feet in diameter, is not likely to fall down for lack of -underpinning. - -One full half of the ground floor of the great mansion constituted the -single drawing room, wainscoted to the ceiling and provided with three -huge fire places built for the burning of cord wood. The floors were as -white as snow, the wainscoting as black as night with age and jealous -polishing with beeswax. After the architectural manner of the country, -there was a broad porch in front and another in rear, each embowered in -honeysuckles and climbing rose bushes. A passageway, more than twenty -feet in width ran through the building, connecting the two porches and -constituting the most generally used sitting room of the house. It had -broad oaken doors reaching across its entire width. They stood always -open except during the very coldest days of the mild Virginia winter, -there being no thought of closing them even at night. For there were no -criminal classes in that social fabric, and if there had been, the -certainty that the master of the mansion slept upon its ground floor -and knew what to do with a shot gun, would have been a sufficient -deterrent to invasion of the premises. - -There were two large fire places in the hall for winter use. But the -glory of the place was the stairway, with its broad ashen steps and its -broader landings. Up and down it had passed generations of happy maidens -and matrons. Up and down it, prattling children had played and romped -and danced in happy innocence. Up and down it wedding guests and funeral -attendants had come and gone, carrying their burdens of flowers for the -bride and blossoms for the bier. Upon it had been whispered words of -love and tenderness that prepared the way for lives of happiness, and -sorrowful utterances that soothed and softened grief. Upon its steps -young men of chivalric soul had wooed maidens worthy of their devotion. -Upon its landings young maidens had softly spoken those words of consent -which ushered in lives of rejoicing. - -The furniture of the house was in keeping with its spaciousness and its -solidity. Huge sofas were everywhere, broad enough for beds and long -enough for giants to stretch their limbs upon. Commodious, -plantation-made chairs of oak invited every guest to repose in the -broad hallway. In the drawing room, and in the spacious dining hall the -sedate ticking of high standing clocks marked time only to suggest its -abundance in that land of leisure, and to invite its lavish use in -enjoyment. - -Now add to all this still life, the presence of charming people--men of -gracious mien and young women of immeasurable charm, young women whose -rich and softly modulated voices were exquisite music, and whose -presence was a benediction--and you may faintly understand the -surroundings in which Arthur Brent found himself on that deliciously -perfect Sunday afternoon in June, in the year of our Lord, 1859. - -Is it surprising that the glamour of it all took hold upon his soul and -tempted him to rest content with a life so picturesquely peaceful? Is it -surprising that his set purpose of speedily returning to his own life of -strenuous, scientific endeavor, somewhat weakened in presence of a -temptation so great? All this was his for the taking. All of it was open -to him to enjoy if he would. All of it lay before him as a gracious -inheritance. Why should he not accept it? Why should he return to the -struggle of science, the pent life of cities? Why should he prowl about -tenement houses in an endeavor to solve the problem of mephitic gases, -when all this free, balsamic air offered itself gratis to his -breathing? He had but one life to live, he reflected. Why should he not -live it here in sweet and wholesome ways? Why should he not make himself -a part of this exquisitely poised existence? - -All these vexed and vexing questions flitted through his brain even -before he had opportunity to meet his hostess in her own home, -surrounded by her bevy of variously attractive young women. - -Edmonia Bannister was everywhere recognized as the belle of the state in -which she lived. Suitors for her hand had come from afar and anear to -woo this maiden of infinite charm, and one by one they had gone away -sorrowing but with only the kindliest memory of the gentleness with -which she had withheld her consent to their wooings. - -She was scarcely beautiful. The word “comely” seemed a better one with -which to describe her appearance, but her comeliness was allied to a -charm at once indefinable and irresistible. John Meaux had said that “it -is a necessary part of every young man’s education to fall in love with -Edmonia Bannister at least once,” and had predicted that fate for Arthur -Brent. Whether the prediction was destined to be fulfilled or not, -Arthur could not decide on this his first day as a guest at Branton. He -was sure that he was not in love with the girl at the end of his visit, -but he drew that assurance chiefly from his conviction that it was -absurd to fall in love with any woman upon acquaintance so slight. While -holding firmly to that conviction he nevertheless felt strongly that the -girl had laid a spell upon him, under control of which he was well nigh -helpless. He was by no means the first young man to whom this experience -had come, and he was not likely to be the last. - -And yet the young woman was wholly free from intent thus to enslave -those who came into her life. Her artlessness was genuine, and her -seriousness profound. There was no faintest suggestion of frivolity or -coquetry in her manner. She was too self-respecting for that, and she -had too much of character. One of those who had “loved and lost” her, -had said that “the only art she used was the being of herself,” and all -the rest who had had like experience were of the same mind. So far -indeed was she from seeking to bring men to her feet that on more than -one occasion she had been quick to detect symptoms of coming love and -had frankly and solemnly said to prospective wooers for whom she felt a -particular kindness--“please don’t fall in love with me. I shall never -be able to reciprocate the sentiment, and it would distress me to reject -your suit.” It is not upon record, however, that any one of those who -were thus warned profited by the wise counsel. On the contrary, in many -instances, this mark of kindliness on her part had served only to -precipitate the catastrophe she sought to avert. - -Arthur Brent had a stronger shield. He saw clearly that for him to marry -this or any other of that fair land’s maidens would make an end of his -ambitions. - -“If I should fall in love down here in Virginia,” he reflected, “I -should never have strength of mind enough to shake off the glamour of -this life and go back to my work. The fascination of it all is already -strong upon me. I must not add another to the sources of danger. I must -be resolute and strong. That way alone safety lies for me. I will set to -work at once to carry out my mission here, and then go away. I shall -know this week how matters stand with the estate. I shall busy myself at -once with my fixed purpose. I shall find means of discharging all the -debts of the plantation. Then I shall sell the land and with the -proceeds take the negroes to the west and settle them there on little -farms of their own. Then I shall be free again to resume my proper work -in the world. Obviously I must not complicate matters by marrying here -or even falling in love. A man with such a duty laid upon him has no -right to indulge himself in soft luxury. I must be strong and resolute.” - -Nevertheless Arthur Brent felt an easily recognizable thrill of delight -when at dinner he found himself assigned to a seat on Edmonia -Bannister’s left hand. - -There were sixteen at dinner, and all were happy. Arthur alone was a -guest unused to occupy that place at Branton, and to him accordingly all -at table devoted special attention. Three at least of the younger men -present, had been suitors in their time for their hostess’s hand, for it -was a peculiarity of Edmonia’s rejections of her wooers, that they -usually soothed passion into affection and made of disappointed lovers -most loyal friends. Before the dinner came to an end, Arthur found -himself deliberately planning to seek this relation of close friendship -without the initiatory process of a love making. For he found his -hostess to be wise in counsel and sincere in mind, beyond her years. -“She is precisely the person to advise me in the delicate affairs that I -must manage,” he thought. “For in the present state of public -feeling”--it was the era of Kansas-Nebraska bills and violent -agitation--“it will require unusual tact and discretion to carry out my -plans without making of myself an object of hatred and loathing. This -young woman has tact in infinite measure; she has discretion also, and -an acquaintance with sentiment here, such as I cannot even hope to -acquire. Above all she has conscience, as I discover every time she has -occasion to express an opinion. I’ll make her my friend. I’ll consult -her with regard to my plans.” - -By way of preparation for this he said to Edmonia as they sat together -in the porch one evening: “I am coming often to Branton, because I want -you to learn to know me and like me. I have matters in hand concerning -which I very much want your counsel. Will you mind giving it to me if I -behave well, resist the strong temptation to pay court to you as a -lover, and teach you after a while to feel that I am a friend to whom -your kindliness will owe counsel?” - -“If you will put matters on that level, Cousin Arthur, and keep them -there I shall be glad to have it so. I don’t know that I can give you -advice of any account, but, at any rate, as I think your impulses will -be right and kindly, I can give you sympathy, and that is often a help. -I’ll give you my opinion also, whenever you want it--especially if I -think you are going wrong and need admonition. Then I’ll put on all the -airs of a Minerva and advise you oracularly. But remember that you must -win all this, by coming often to Branton and--and the rest of it.” - -“I’ll come often to Branton, be sure of that,” he answered. But he did -not feel himself quite strong enough of purpose, to promise that he -would not make love to the mistress of the mansion. - -At the dinner each gentleman had a joint or a pair of fowls before him -to carve, and every gentleman in that time and country was confidently -expected to know how to carve whatever dish there might be assigned to -him. Carving was deemed as much a necessary part of every gentleman’s -education as was the ability to ride and shoot and catch a mettlesome -fish. The barbarity of having the joints clumsily cut up by a butler at -a side table and served half cold in an undiscriminating way, had not -then come into being. Dining was a fine art in that time and country, a -social function, in which each carver had the joy of selecting tidbits -for those he served, and arranging them daintily and attractively upon -the plate brought to him for that purpose by a well trained servant. -Especially each took pleasure in remembering and ministering to the -particular fancies of all the rest in the act of helping. Refined people -had not yet borrowed from barbaric Russians the practice of having -themselves fed, like so many cattle, by servitors appointed to deal out -rations. - -There was no wine served with the meal. That came later in its proper -place. Each gentleman had been invited to partake of a “toddy”--a mild -admixture of whiskey, water, sugar and nutmeg--before sitting down to -the meal. After that there was no drink served until the meal was over. -When the cloth was removed after the dessert, there came upon the -polished board some dishes of walnuts of which all partook sparingly. -Then came the wine--old sherry or, if the house were a fortunate one, -rare old Madeira, served from richly carved decanters, in daintily -stemmed cut glasses. The wine was poured into all the glasses. Then the -host proposed “the ladies,” and all drank, standing. Then the host -gallantly held the broad dining room door open while the ladies, bowing -and smiling, graciously withdrew. After that politics and walnuts, -religion and raisins, sherry and society divided the attention of the -gentlemen with cigars that had been kept for a dozen years or more -drying in a garret. For the modern practice of soaking cigars in a -refrigerator and smoking them limp and green was an undreamed of insult -to the tongues and palates of men who knew all about tobacco and who -smoked for flavor, not for the satisfaction of a fierce and intemperate -craving for narcotic effect. - -After half an hour or so over the rich, nutty wine, the gentlemen joined -the gentlewomen in the drawing room, the hallway or the porches -according to the weather, and a day well spent ended with a light supper -at nine o’clock. Then there was an ordering of horses and a making of -adieux on the part of such of the gentlemen as were not going to remain -over night. - -“You will stay, Cousin Arthur,” Edmonia said. “You will stay, of course. -You and I have a compact to carry out. We are to learn to like each -other. It will be very easy, I think, but we must set to work at it -immediately. Will you ride with me in the morning--soon?” - -She called him “Cousin Arthur,” of course. Had not a distant relative of -his once married a still more distant kinswoman of her own? It would -have been deemed in Virginia a distinct discourtesy in her not to call -him “Cousin Arthur.” - - - - -IX - -DOROTHY’S CASE - - -_A_fter a few weeks of work Arthur Brent’s laboratory was ready for use, -with all its apparatus in place and all its reserve supply of chemicals -safely bestowed in a small, log built hut standing apart. - -His books too had been brought to the house and unpacked. He provided -shelf room for them in the various apartments, in the broad hallway, and -even upon the stairs. There were a multitude of volumes--largely the -accumulations of years of study and travel on his own and his father’s -part. The collection included all that was best in scientific -literature, and much that was best in history, in philosophy and in -_belles lettres_. To this latter department he had ordered large -additions made when sending for his books--this with an eye to Dorothy’s -education. - -There was already a library of some importance at Wyanoke, the result of -irregular buying during two hundred years past. Swift was there in time -stained vellum. The poets, from Dryden and Pope to the last quarter of -the eighteenth century were well represented, and there were original -editions of “Childe Harold,” and “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers” on -the shelves. Scott was present in leathern cuirass of binding--both in -his novels and in his poems. But there was not a line of Coleridge or -Wordsworth or Shelley or Rogers or Campbell or John Keats, not a -suggestion of Matthew Arnold. Tennyson, Browning and their fellows were -completely absent, though Bailey’s “Festus” was there to represent -modern poetry. - -The latest novels in the list, apart from Scott, were “Evelina,” “The -Children of The Abbey,” “Thaddeus of Warsaw,” “Scottish Chiefs” and some -others of their kind. But all the abominations of Smollett, all the -grossness of Fielding, all the ribaldry of Richardson, and all the -sentimental indecency of Laurence Sterne were present in full force--on -top shelves, out of consideration for maidenly modesty. - -In history there were Josephus and Rollin, and scarcely anything else. -Hume was excluded because of his scepticism, and Gibbon had been passed -over as a monster of unbelief. - -Arthur found that Dorothy had browsed somewhat in this old library, -particularly among the British Essayists and in some old volumes of -Dramas. Her purity had revolted at Fielding, Smollett and their kind, -and she had found the sentimentalities of Miss Burney insipid. But she -knew her “Don Quixote” almost by heart, and “Gil Blas” even more -minutely. She had read much of Montaigne and something of Rousseau in -the original also, and the Latin classics were her familiars. For her -father had taught her from infancy, French and Latin, not after the -manner of the schools, as grammatical gymnastics, but with an eye single -to the easy and intelligent reading of the rich literatures that those -languages offer to the initiated. The girl knew scarcely a single rule -of Latin grammar--in text book terms at least--but she read her Virgil -and Horace almost as easily as she did her Bible. - -It was with definite reference to the deficiencies of this and other old -plantation libraries, that Arthur Brent ordered books. He selected -Dorothy’s own sitting room--opening off her chamber--as the one in which -to bestow the treasures of modern literature--Tennyson, Dickens, -Thackeray, Bulwer, Coleridge, Keats, Rogers, Campbell, Shelley and their -later successors--Longfellow, Bryant, Willis, Halleck, and above all -Irving, Paulding and Hawthorne. - -In arranging these treasures in Dorothy’s outer room, Arthur resorted to -a little trick or two. He would pick up a volume with ostensible purpose -of placing it upon a shelf, but would turn to a favorite passage and -read a little aloud. Then, suddenly stopping, he would say:-- - -“But you’ll read all that for yourself,” and would add some bit of -comment or suggestion of a kind to awaken the girl’s attention and -attract her to the author in question. Before he had finished arranging -the books in that room Dorothy was almost madly eager to read all of -them. A new world was opening to her, a world of modern thought far more -congenial to her mind than the older literature which alone she had -known before. Here was a literature of which she had scarcely known even -the existence. It was a clean, wholesome, well-aired literature; a -literature founded upon modern ways of thinking; a literature that dealt -with modern life and character; a literature instinct with the thought -and sentiment of her own time. The girl was at once bewildered by the -extent of it and fascinated by its charm. Her sleep was cut short in her -eagerness to read it all. Its influence upon her mind and character -became at once and insistently manifest. - -“Here endeth the first lesson,” quoted Arthur Brent when he had thus -placed all that is best in modern literature temptingly at this eager -girl’s hand. “It will puzzle them to stop her from thinking now,” he -added, “or to confine her thinking within their strait-laced -conventions. Now for science.” - -The age of Darwin, Huxley and Herbert Spencer had not yet come, in 1859. -Haeckel was still unheard of, outside of Berlin and Jena. The science of -biology, in which all other science finds its fruition and justifies its -being, was then scarcely “a borning.” Otherwise, Arthur Brent would have -made of Dorothy’s amateurish acquaintance with botany the basis of a -systematic study, leading up to that conception which came later to -science, that all life is one, whether animal or vegetable; that species -are the results of differentiation by selection and development, and -that the scheme of nature is one uniform, consistent whole, composed of -closely related parts. But this thought had not yet come to science. -Darwin’s “Origin of Species” was not published until later in that year, -Wallace was off on his voyages and had not yet reached those all -embracing conclusions. Huxley was still only a young man of promise. -Virchow was bound in those trammels of tradition from which he was -destined never quite to disentangle himself, even with the stimulus of -Haeckel, his wonderful pupil. But the thought that has since made -science alive had been dreamed of even then. There were suggestions of -it in the manuscripts,--written backwards--of Leonardo da Vinci, and -Goethe had foreshadowed much of it. - -Nevertheless, it was not for such sake or with a purpose so broad that -Arthur Brent set out to interest Dorothy South in science. His only -purpose was to teach her to think, to implant in her mind that divine -thirst for sound knowledge which he clearly recognized as a specific -remedy for conventional narrowness of mind. - -The girl was quick to learn rudiments and general principles, and in -laboratory work she soon surpassed her master as a maker of experiments. -In such work her habits of exactitude stood her in good stead, and her -conscientiousness had its important part to play. - -But science did not become a very serious occupation with Dorothy. It -was rather play than study at first, and when she had acquired some -insight into it, so that its suggestions served to explain the phenomena -about her, she was fairly well content. She had no passion for original -research and of that Arthur was rather glad. “That sort of thing is -masculine,” he reflected, “and she is altogether a woman. I don’t want -her to grow into anything else.” - -But to her passion for literature there was no limit. “Literature -concerns itself with people,” she said to Arthur one day, “and I care -more for people than for gases and bases and reactions.” - -But literature, in its concern for people, records the story of human -life through all the centuries, and the development of human thought. It -includes history and speculative philosophy and Dorothy manifested -almost a passion for these. - -It was at this point that trouble first arose. So long as the girl was -supposed to be devouring novels and poetry, the community admired and -approved. But when it was noised abroad that she knew Gibbon as -familiarly as she did her catechism, that she had read Hume’s Essays and -Locke on the Understanding, together with the elder Mill, and Jeremy -Bentham and much else of like kind, the wonder was not unmixed with -doubt as to the fitness of such reading for a young girl. - -For a time even Aunt Polly shared this doubt but she was quickly cured -of it when Madison Peyton, with his customary impertinence protested. -Aunt Polly was not accustomed to agree in opinion with Madison Peyton, -and she resented the suggestion that the girl could come to any harm -while under her care. So she combated Peyton’s view after a destructive -fashion. When he spoke of this literature as unfit, Aunt Polly meekly -asked him, “Why?” and naturally he could not answer, having never read a -line of it in his life. He sought to evade the question but Aunt Polly -was relentless, greatly to the amusement of John Meaux and Col. Majors, -the lawyer of the old families. She insisted upon his telling her which -of the books were dangerous for Dorothy to read. “How else can I know -which to take away from her?” she asked. When at last he unwisely -ventured to mention Gibbon--having somehow got the impression, which was -common then, that the “Decline and Fall” was a sceptical work, Aunt -Polly--who had been sharing Dorothy’s reading of it,--plied him with -closer questions. - -“In what way is it harmful?” she asked, and then, quite innocently, -“what is it all about any how, Madison?” - -“Oh, well, we can’t go into that,” he said evasively. - -“But why not? That is precisely what we must go into if we are to direct -Dorothy’s reading properly. What is this book that you think she ought -not to read? What does it treat of? What is there in it that you object -to?” - -Thus baited on a subject that he knew nothing about, Peyton grew angry, -though he knew it would not do for him to manifest the fact. He -unwisely, but with an air of very superior wisdom, blurted out:-- - -“If you had read that book, Cousin Polly, you wouldn’t like to make it -the subject of conversation.” - -“So?” asked the old lady. “It is in consideration of my ignorance then -that you graciously pardon my discretion?” - -“It’s a very proper ignorance. I respect you for never having indulged -in such reading,” he answered. - -“Then you must respect me less,” calmly responded the old lady, “for I -have read the book and I’m reading it a second time. I don’t see that it -has hurt me, but I’ll bow to your superior wisdom if you’ll only tell -me what there is in the book that is likely to undermine my morals.” - -The laugh that followed from Col. Majors and John Meaux--for the idea -that anything, literary or otherwise, could undermine the vigorous -morals of this high bred dame was too ludicrous to be resisted--nettled -Peyton anew. Still further losing his temper he broke out: - -“How should I know what is in the book? I never read such stuff. But I -know it is unfit for a young girl, and in this case I have a right to -dictate. I tell you now, Cousin Polly, that I will not have Dorothy’s -mind perverted by such reading. My interest in this case is paramount -and I mean to assert it. I have been glad to have her with you for the -sake of the social and moral training I expected you to give her. But I -tell you now, that if you don’t stop all this kind of reading and all -this slopping in a laboratory, trying to learn atheistical science--for -all science is atheistical as you well know--” - -“Pardon me, Madison,” broke in the old lady, “I didn’t know that. Won’t -you explain it to me, please?”--this with the meekness of a reverent -disciple, a meekness which Peyton knew to be a mockery. - -“Oh, everybody knows that,” testily answered the man. “And it is -indecent as well. I hear that Arthur has been teaching Dorothy a lot -about anatomy and that sort of thing that no woman ought to know, and--” - -“Why shouldn’t a woman know that?” asked Aunt Polly, still delivering -her hot shot as if they had been balls of the zephyr she was knitting -into a nubia. “Does it do her any harm to know how--” - -“Oh, please don’t ask me to go into that, Cousin Polly,” the man -impatiently responded. “You see it isn’t a proper subject of -conversation.” - -“Oh, isn’t it? I didn’t know, you see. And as you will not enlighten me, -let us return to what you were about to say. I beg pardon for -interrupting.” - -“I don’t remember what I was going to say,” said Peyton, anxious to end -the discussion. “Besides it was of no consequence. Let’s talk of -something else.” - -“Not yet, please,” placidly answered the old lady. “I remember that you -were about to threaten me with something. Now I never was threatened in -my life, and I’m really anxious to know how it feels. So please go on -and threaten me, Madison.” - -“I never thought of threatening you, Cousin Polly, I assure you. You’re -mistaken in that, surely.” - -“Not at all. You said you had been pleased to have Dorothy under my -charge. I thank you for saying that. But you added that if I didn’t stop -her reading and her scientific studies you’d--you didn’t say just what -you’d do. That is because I interrupted. I beg pardon for doing so, but -now you must complete the sentence.” - -“Oh, I only meant that if the girl was to be miseducated at Wyanoke, I -should feel myself obliged to take her away to my own house and--” - -“You need not continue,” answered the old lady, rising in stately wrath. -“You have said quite enough. Now let me make my reply. It is simply that -if you ever attempt to put such an affront as that upon me, you’ll wish -you had never been born.” - -She instantly withdrew from the piazza of the house in which all were -guests, John Meaux gallantly accompanying her. She paid no more heed to -Peyton’s clamorous protestations of apology than to the buzzing of the -bees that were plundering the honeysuckles of their sweets. - -When she had gone Peyton began to realize the mistake he had made. In -that Col. Majors, who was left alone with him, greatly assisted him. In -the slow, deliberate way in which he always spoke, Col. Majors said: - -“You know, Peyton, that I do not often volunteer advice before I am -asked to give it, but in this case I am going to do so. It seems to me -that you have overlooked certain facts which present themselves to my -mind, as important, and of which I think the courts would take -cognizance.” - -“Oh, I only meant to give Cousin Polly a hint,” broke in Peyton. “Of -course I didn’t seriously mean that I would take the girl away from -her.” - -“It is well that you did not,” answered the lawyer, “for the sufficient -reason that you could not do that if you were determined upon it.” - -“Why, surely,” Peyton protested. “I have a right to look after the -girl’s welfare?” - -“Absolutely none whatever.” - -“Why, you forget the arrangement between me and Dr. South.” - -“Not at all. That arrangement was at best a contract without -consideration, and therefore nonenforcible. Even if it had been reduced -to writing and formally executed, it would be so much waste paper in -the eyes of a court. Dorothy is a ward in chancery. The court would -never permit the enforcement of a contract of that kind upon her, so -long as she is under age; and when she attains her majority she will be -absolutely free, if I know anything of the law, to repudiate an -arrangement disposing of her life, made by others without her consent.” - -“Do you mean that on a mere whim of her own, that girl can upset the -advantageous arrangements made for her by her father and undo the whole -thing?” - -“I mean precisely that. But pardon me, the time has not come to consider -that question. What I would impress upon your mind at present is that on -the whole you’d better make your peace with Miss Polly. She has the girl -in charge, and if you antagonize her, she may perhaps train Miss Dorothy -to repudiate the arrangement altogether. In that case you may not wish -that you had never been born, as Miss Polly put the matter, but you’ll -wish that you hadn’t offended the dear old lady.” - -“Then I must take the girl away from her at once,” exclaimed Peyton in -alarm. “I mustn’t leave her for another day under Cousin Polly’s -influence.” - -“But you cannot take her away, Peyton. That is what I am trying to -impress upon your mind.” - -“But why not? Surely I have a right--” - -“You have absolutely _no_ rights in the premises. The will of the late -Dr. South, made Robert Brent Dorothy’s guardian.” - -“But Robert Brent is dead,” broke in Peyton, impatiently, “and I am to -be the girl’s guardian after the next term of the court.” - -“Perhaps so,” answered the lawyer. “The court usually allows the ward to -choose her guardian in such a case, and if you strongly commend yourself -to her, she may choose you. But I may be allowed to suggest that that -will depend a good deal upon what advice Miss Polly may give her. She is -very fond of Miss Polly, and apt to be guided by her. However that again -is a matter that has no bearing upon the question in hand. Even were you -already appointed guardian of Miss Dorothy’s estate you could not take -the girl away from Miss Polly.” - -“Why not? Has a guardian no authority?” - -“Oh, yes--a very large authority. But it happens in this case that by -the terms of the late Dr. South’s will, Miss Polly is made sole and -absolute guardian of Miss Dorothy’s person until such time as she shall -come of age or previously marry with Miss Polly’s consent. Neither -Robert Brent, during his life, nor any person appointed to succeed him -as guardian of Miss Dorothy’s estate, had, or has, or can have the -smallest right to take her away from the guardian of her person. That -could be done only by going into court and showing that the guardian of -the person was of immoral life and unfit to have charge of a child. It -would be risky, to say the least of it, to suggest such a thing as that -in the case of Miss Polly, wouldn’t it? She has no very near relatives -but there isn’t a young or a middle-aged man in this county who -wouldn’t, in that case, adopt the relation of nearest male relation to -her and send inconvenient billets-doux to you by the hands of insistent -friends.” - -“Oh, that’s all nonsense,” answered Peyton. “Of course nobody would -think of such a thing as questioning Cousin Polly’s eminent fitness to -bring up a girl.” - -“And yet that is precisely what you did, by implication at least, a -little while ago. My advice to you is to repair your blunder at the -earliest possible moment.” - -Peyton clearly saw the necessity of doing so, especially now that he had -learned that Dorothy must in any case remain in Aunt Polly’s charge. It -would ruin all his plans to have Aunt Polly antagonize them even -passively. But how to atone for his error was a difficult problem. With -anybody else he would have tried his favorite tactics of “laughing the -thing off,” treating it as a jest and being more good naturedly insolent -than ever. But with Aunt Polly he could not do that. She was much too -shrewdly penetrative to be deceived by such measures and much too -sensitively self-respectful to tolerate familiarity as a substitute for -an apology. - -Moreover he knew that he needed something more than Aunt Polly’s -forgiveness. He wanted her coöperation. For the dread which had inspired -his blundering outbreak, was not mainly, if at all, a dread of English -literature as a perverting educational force. He knew next to nothing of -literature and he cared even less. Under ordinary circumstances he would -never have bothered himself over any question of Dorothy’s reading. But -Dorothy was doing her reading under the tutelage and with the sympathy -of Arthur Brent, and Madison Peyton foresaw that the close, daily -association of the girl--child as she was--with a man so gifted and so -pleasing was likely, after a year or two at least to grow into a warmer -attachment. And even if that should not happen, he felt that her -education under the influence of such a man might give her ideals and -standards which would not be satisfied by the life plans made for her -between himself and her father. - -It was not to remove her from Aunt Polly’s control, or even to save her -from too much serious reading--though he was suspicious of that--that he -cared. He wanted to keep her away from Arthur Brent’s influence, and it -was in a blundering attempt to bring that about that he had managed to -offend Aunt Polly, making a possible enemy of his most necessary ally. - -It was with a perturbed mind therefore that he rode away from the -hospitable house where the discussion had occurred, making some hastily -manufactured excuse to the hostess, for not remaining to dinner. - - - - -X - -DOROTHY VOLUNTEERS - - -_A_ll this while Arthur Brent was a very busy man. It was true, as -Madison Peyton had said, that he knew little of planting, but he had two -strong coadjutors in the cultivation of his crops. John Meaux--perhaps -in unconscious spite of Peyton--frequently rode over to Wyanoke and -visited all its fields in company with the young master of the -plantation. There was not much in common between Meaux and Arthur, not -much to breed a close intimacy. Meaux was an educated man, within the -rather narrow limits established by the curriculum at West Point--for -Robert E. Lee had not yet done his work of enlargement and betterment at -the military academy when Meaux was a cadet in that institution--but he -was not a man of much reading, and intellectually he was indolent. -Nevertheless he was a pleasant enough companion, his friendship for -Arthur was genuine, and he knew more about the arts of planting than -anybody else in that region. He freely gave Arthur the benefit of his -judgment and skill greatly to the advantage of the growing crops at -Wyanoke. - -Archer Bannister, too, was often Arthur’s guest. He came and went as he -pleased, sometimes remaining for three or four days at a time, sometimes -staying only long enough to advise Arthur to have a tobacco lot cut -before a rain should come to wash off the “molasses”--as the thick gum -on a ripening tobacco leaf was called. He was himself a skilful planter -and his almost daily counsel was of great value to Arthur’s -inexperience. - -But it was not of things agricultural only that these two were -accustomed to talk with each other. There had quickly grown up between -them an almost brotherly intimacy. They were men of congenial tastes and -close intellectual sympathies, and there was from the first a strong -liking on either side which was referable rather to similarity of -character than to anything merely intellectual. Both men cherished high -ideals of conduct, and both were loyal to those ideals. Both were -thoroughly educated, and both had been broadened by travel. Both -indulged in intellectual activities not always attractive even to men of -culture. Arthur loved science with the devotion of a disciple; Archer -rejoiced in a study of its conclusions and their consequences rather -than of its processes, its methods, its details. Above all, so far as -intellectual sympathies were concerned, both young men were almost -passionately devoted to literature. Between two such men, thrown -together in that atmosphere of leisure which was the crowning glory of -Virginia plantation life, it was inevitable that something more and -stronger than ordinary friendship should grow up. And between them stood -also Archer’s sister Edmonia--a woman whom both held in tender -affection, the one loving her as a sister, the other as--he scarcely -knew what. She shared the ideas, the impulses, the high principles of -both, and in her feminine way she shared also their intellectual tastes -and aspirations. - -Arthur had still another coadjutor in his management of affairs, in the -person of Dorothy. Throughout the summer and autumn the girl rode with -him every morning during the hours before breakfast, and, in her queer, -half childish, half womanly way, she instructed him mightily in many -things. Her habits of close observation had given her a large and -accurate knowledge of plantation affairs which was invaluable to him, -covering as it did many points of detail left unmentioned by Meaux and -Bannister. - -But his interest in the girl was chiefly psychological. The -contradiction he observed between her absolutely child-like simplicity -and the strangely sage and old way she had of thinking now and then, -interested him beyond measure. Her honesty was phenomenal--her -truthfulness astonishing. - -One morning as the two rode together through the corn they came upon a -watermelon three fourths grown. Instantly the girl slipped to the ground -with the request:-- - -“Lend me your knife, please.” - -He handed her the knife wondering what she would do with it. After an -effort to open it she handed it back, saying: “Won’t you please open it? -Knives are not fit for women’s use. Our thumb nails are not strong -enough to open them. But we use them, anyhow. That’s because women’s -masters are not severe enough with them.” - -Receiving the knife again, with a blade opened, the girl stooped and -quickly scratched Arthur’s initials “A. B.,” upon the melon. - -“I’ve observed you do that before, Dorothy,” said Arthur as the girl -again mounted Chestnut, without assistance. “Why do you do it?” - -“To keep the servants from stealing the melon,” she replied. “Everybody -does that. I wonder if it’s right.” - -“But how can that keep a negro from taking the melon some dark night -after it is ripe and secretly eating it?” - -“Oh, that’s because of their ignorance. They are very ignorant--much -more so than you think, Cousin Arthur. I may call you ‘Cousin Arthur,’ -may I not? You see I always called your uncle ‘Uncle Robert,’ and if -your uncle was my uncle, of course you and I are cousins. Besides I like -to call you ‘Cousin Arthur.’” - -“And I like to have you call me so. But tell me about the marking of the -watermelon.” - -“Oh, that’s simple enough. When you have marked your initials on a -melon, the negroes know you have seen it and so they are afraid to steal -it.” - -“But how should I know who took it?” - -“That’s their ignorance. They never think of that. Or rather I suppose -they think educated people know a great deal more than they do. I wonder -if it is right?” - -“If what is right, Dorothy?” - -“Why, to take advantage of their ignorance in that way. Have educated -people a right to do that with ignorant people? Is it fair?” - -“I see your point, Dorothy, and I’m not prepared to give you an answer, -at least in general terms. But, at any rate, it is right to use any -means we can to keep people from stealing.” - -“Oh, yes, I’ve thought of that. But is it stealing for the negroes to -take a watermelon which they have planted and cultivated? They do the -work on the plantation. Aren’t they entitled to all they want to eat?” - -“Within reasonable bounds, yes,” answered Arthur, meditatively. “They -are entitled to all the wholesome food they need, and to all the warm -clothing, and to comfortable, wholesome quarters to live in. But we -mustn’t leave the smoke house door unlocked. If we did that the -dishonest ones among them would take all the meat and sell it, and the -rest would starve. Besides, the white people are entitled to something. -They take care of the negroes in sickness and in childhood and in old -age. They must feed and clothe them and nurse them and have doctors for -them no matter what it may cost. It is true, the negroes do the work -that produces the food and clothing and all the rest of it, but their -masters contribute the intelligent management that is quite as -necessary as the work. Imagine this plantation, Dorothy, or your own -Pocahontas, left to the negroes. They could do as much work as they do -now, but do you suppose their crops would feed them till Christmas if -there were no white man to manage for them?” - -“Of course not. Indeed they never would make a crop. Still I don’t like -the system.” - -“Neither do I, Dorothy, but in the present state of the public mind -neither of us must say so.” - -“Why not, Cousin Arthur? Is there any harm in telling the truth?” - -“Sometimes I suppose it is better to keep silence,” answered Arthur, -hesitating. - -“For women, yes,” quickly responded the girl. “But men can fight. Why -shouldn’t they tell the truth?” - -“I don’t quite understand your distinction, Dorothy.” - -“I’m not sure,” she answered, “that I understand it myself. Oh, yes, I -do, now that I think of it. Women tell lies, of course, because they -can’t fight. Or, if they don’t quite tell lies they at least keep silent -whenever telling the truth would make trouble. That’s because they can’t -fight. Men can fight, and so there’s not the slightest excuse for them -if they tell lies or even if they keep silent.” - -“But, Dorothy, I don’t yet understand. Women can’t fight, of course, but -then they are never called upon to fight. Why--” - -“That’s just it, Cousin Arthur. If a woman speaks out, nobody can hold -her responsible. But anybody can hold her nearest male friend -responsible and he must fight to maintain what she has said, whether he -thinks she was right in saying it or not. The other day Jeff. -Peyton--Mr. Madison Peyton’s son, you know,--was over at Wyanoke, when -you had gone to Branton. So I had to entertain him.” Dorothy did not -know that the youth had been sent to Wyanoke by his father for the -express purpose of being entertained by herself. “I found him a pretty -stupid fellow, as I always do, but as he pretends to have been a student -at the University, I supposed he had read a great deal. So I talked to -him about Virgil but he knew so little that I asked him if he had read -‘The Vicar of Wakefield,’ and he told me a deliberate lie. He professed -a full acquaintance with that book, and presently I found out that he -had never read a line of it. I was so shocked that I forgot myself. I -asked him, ‘Why did you lie to me?’ It was dreadfully rude, of course, -but I could not help it. Now of course he couldn’t challenge _me_ for -that. But if he had been a man of spirit, he would have challenged -_you_, and you see how terribly wrong I should have been to involve you -in a quarrel of that kind. Of course if I had been a man, instead of a -woman--if I had been answerable for my words--I should have been -perfectly free to charge him with lying. But what possible right had I -to risk your life in a duel by saying things that I might as well have -left unsaid?” - -“But you said the other day,” responded Arthur, “that you did not -believe in duelling?” - -“Of course I don’t. It is a barbarous thing. But it is the custom of our -country and we can’t help it. I’ve noticed that if a man fights a duel -on proper provocation, everybody says he ought not to have done it. But -if he refuses to fight, everybody says he’s a coward. So, under certain -circumstances, a man in Virginia who respects himself is absolutely -compelled to fight. If Jefferson Peyton had asked you to meet him on -account of what I said to him, you couldn’t have refused, could you, -Cousin Arthur?” - -“I wouldn’t,” was all the answer the young man made; but he put a strong -stress upon the last word. - -“Oh, I know you wouldn’t,” answered the girl, treating his response as -quite a matter of course. “But you see now why a woman must keep silent -where a man should speak out. If a man tells the truth he can be called -to account for it; so if he is manly he will tell it and take the -consequences. But a woman has to remember that if she tells the truth, -and the truth happens to be ugly, some man must be shot at for her -words.” - -“Dorothy,” asked Arthur, with unusual seriousness, “are you afraid of -anything?” - -“Afraid? No. Of course not.” - -“If you were needed very badly for the sake of other people--even -negroes--if you could save their lives and ease their sufferings, you’d -want to do it, wouldn’t you?” - -“Why, of course, Cousin Arthur. I’ve read in Aunt Polly’s old -newspapers, how you went to Norfolk in the yellow fever time, and how -bravely you--never mind. I’ve read all about that, over and over again, -and it’s part of what makes me like you.” - -“But courage is not expected of women.” - -“Oh, yes, it is,” quickly responded the girl. “Not the courage of -fighting, of course--but that’s only because men won’t fight with women, -except in mean ways. Women are expected to show courage in other ways, -and they do it too. In the newspapers that tell about your heroism at -Norfolk, there is a story of how one of your nurses went always to the -most dangerous cases, and how, when she died, you officiated at her -funeral, instead of the clergyman who had got scared and run away like a -coward that did not trust his God. I remember what the newspaper says -that you said at the grave, Cousin Arthur. I’ve got it all by heart. You -said, at the end of your address:--‘We are accustomed to pay honor and -to set up monuments to men who have dared, where daring offered its rich -reward of fame and glory. Let us reverently bow our heads and abase our -feeble, selfish souls, in presence of the courage of this frail woman, -who, in her weakness, has achieved greater things in the sight of God -than any that the valor and strength of man have ever accomplished since -the foundations of the world were laid. Let us reverently and lovingly -make obeisance to the courage of a devoted woman--a courage that we men -can never hope to match.’ You see I remember all that you said then, -Cousin Arthur, and so you needn’t tell me now that you do not expect -courage at the hands of women.” - -Arthur made no immediate reply, and the two rode on in silence for a -time. After a while, as they neared the house gates, he spoke. - -“Dorothy,” he said, “I need your help very badly. You cannot render me -the help I want without very serious danger to yourself. So I don’t want -you to give me any answer to what I am about to say until tomorrow. I -want you to think the matter over very carefully first.” - -“Tell me what it is, Cousin Arthur.” - -“Why, I find that we are to have a very dangerous epidemic of typhoid -fever among the negroes here. When the first case occurred ten days ago -I hoped that might be all; but two days later I found two more cases; -day before yesterday there were five more. So it is obvious that we are -to have an epidemic. All the cases have appeared among the field hands -and their families out at the far quarters, and so I hope that the house -servants and the people around the stables will escape. But the outbreak -is really very serious and the disease is of the most virulent type. I -must literally fight it with fire. I have already set men at work -building new quarters down by the Silver Spring, a mile away from the -infected place, and as soon as I can I’m going to move all the people -and set fire to all the old quarters. I’ve bought an old circus tent in -Richmond, and I expect it by express today. As soon as it comes I’m -going to set it up on the Haw Branch hill, and put all the sick people -into it, so as to separate them from those that are well. As fast as -others show symptoms of the disease, I’ll remove them also to the -hospital tent, and for that purpose I have ordered forty cots and a lot -of new blankets and pillows.” - -Dorothy ejaculated her sorrow and sympathy with the poor blacks, and -quickly added the question: “What is it that I can do, Cousin Arthur? -Tell me; you know I will do it.” - -“But, Dorothy, dear, I don’t want you to make up your mind till you have -thought it all over.” - -“My mind is already made up. You want me to nurse these poor sick -people, and of course I’m going to do it. You are thinking that the -disease is contagious--” - -“No, it is only infectious,” he broke in with the instinct of scientific -exactitude strong upon him. - -“Well, anyhow, it’s catching, and you think I may catch it, and you -want me to think out whether I’m afraid of that or not. Very well. I’ve -already thought that out. _You_ are going to be with the sick people -night and day. Cousin Arthur, I am only a girl, but I’m no more a coward -than you are. Tell me what I’m to do. It doesn’t need any thinking out.” - -“But, Dorothy, listen to me. These are not your people. If this outbreak -had occurred at Pocahontas, the matter would have been different. You -might well think that you owed a duty to the people on your own -plantation, but you owe none to these people of mine.” - -“Oh, yes, I do. I live at Wyanoke. Besides they are human beings and -they are in need of help. I don’t know how I can help, but you are going -to tell me, and I’m going to do what you want. I will not waste a day in -thinking.” - -“But, my child, the danger in this case is really very great. Indeed it -is extremely probable that if you do what you propose to do, you will -have the fever, and as I have already said, it has assumed an unusually -virulent form.” - -“It can’t be more dangerous than the yellow fever was at Norfolk, and -you braved that in order to save the lives of people you had never heard -of--people to whom you owed nothing whatever. Cousin Arthur, do you -think me less brave than you are?” - -“No, dear, but--” - -“Very well. You shall tell me after breakfast precisely what I can do, -and then I’ll do it. Women are naturally bad, and so they mustn’t lose -any opportunity of doing good when they can.” - -At that moment they arrived at the house gates. Slipping from her -saddle, Dorothy turned her great, earnest eyes full upon her companion, -and said with tense lips: - -“Promise me one thing, Cousin Arthur! Promise me that if I die in this -work you won’t ask any clergyman to mutter worn-out words from a prayer -book over my grave, but will yourself say to my friends that I did not -shirk like a coward!” - -Instantly, and without waiting for the promise she had besought, the -girl turned, caught up her long riding skirt and fled like a deer to the -house. - - - - -XI - -THE WOMAN’S AWAKENING - - -_I_t was upon a momentary impulse that Arthur Brent had suggested to -Dorothy that she should help him in the battle with pestilence which lay -before him. As a physician he had been accustomed to practise his -profession not in the ordinary, perfunctory way, and not for gain, but -in the spirit of a crusader combating disease as the arch enemy of -humanity, and partly too for the joy of conquering so merciless a foe. -His first thought in this case therefore had been to call to his aid the -best assistance available. His chief difficulty, he clearly foresaw, -would be in getting his measures intelligently carried out. He must -secure the accurate, prompt and intelligent execution of his directions, -whether for the administration of medicines prescribed or for hygienic -measures ordered. The ignorance, the prejudice, and the inert -carelessness of the negroes, he felt, would be his mightiest and wiliest -foes in this, and there could be no abler adjutant for this purpose -than Dorothy, with her quick wit, her scrupulous conscientiousness and -her habit of compelling exact and instant obedience to all her commands. -So he had thought first of calling upon Dorothy for help. But when she -had so promptly responded, he began to feel that he had made a mistake. -The physician in him, and the crusader too, sanctioned and approved the -use of the best means available for the accomplishment of his high -purpose. But the man in him, the friend, the affectionate protector, -protested against such an exposure of the child to dreadful danger. - -When he reflected upon the matter and thought of the peril; when he -conjured up a picture of dear little Dorothy stricken and perhaps dead -in a service of humanity to which no duty called her, and to which she -had been induced only by her loyalty to him, he shrank back in horror -from the program he had laid out. - -Yet he knew that he could not easily undo what he had done. There was a -child side to Dorothy, and it was that which usually presented itself to -his mind when he thought of her. But there was a strong woman side to -her also, as he very well knew, and over that he had established no -influence or control. He had won the love of the child. He had not yet -won the love of the woman. He realized that it was the masterful, woman -side of her nature that he had called into activity in this matter. Now -that the heroism of the brave woman’s soul was enlisted, he knew that he -could not easily bid it turn back. - -Yet something might be done by adroit management, and he resolved upon -that. After breakfast he sent for Dorothy and said, lightly: - -“I’m glad I have taught you to handle drugs skilfully, Dorothy. I shall -need certain medicines frequently in this conflict. They are our -ammunition for the battle, and we must have them always ready. I’m going -to write some prescriptions for you to fill. I want you to spend today -and tomorrow in the laboratory preparing them. One of them will tax your -skill a good deal. It may take you several days to get it ready. It -involves some very careful chemical processes--for you must first -manufacture a part of your chemicals out of their raw materials. I’ll -write detailed instructions for that, but you may fail half a dozen -times before you succeed. You must be patient and you’ll get it right. -You always do in the end. Then there’s another thing I want you to do -for me. I’m going to burn all the clothing, bedding and so forth at the -quarters. I’ll make each of the well negroes put on the freshest -clothing he has before removing to the sanitary camp, and I’ll burn all -the rest. I sent Dick early this morning to the Court House, telling -Moses to send me all the blankets and all the cloth he has of every -kind, from calico and osnaburgs to heavy woollen goods, and I’ve written -to Richmond for more. We must clothe the negroes anew--men, women and -children. So I want you to get together all your seamstresses--every -woman on the plantation indeed who can sew even a little bit--and set -them all at work making clothes. I’ve cleared out the prize barn for the -purpose, and the men are now laying a rough floor in it and putting up -some tables on which you and Aunt Polly can ‘cut out’--that’s what you -call it, isn’t it?” - -“Cousin Arthur,” said the girl, looking at him with something of -reproach in her great, dark blue eyes, “I’ll do all this of course, and -everything else that you want done. But please, Cousin Arthur, don’t -tell lies to me, even indirectly. I couldn’t stand that from you.” - -“What do you mean, child?” - -“Oh, you have made up your mind to keep me busy with all these things so -that I shall not go into your hospital to serve as a nurse. I’ll do -these things for you, but I’ll do the nursing too. So please let us be -good friends and please don’t try to play tricks.” - -The young man was astonished and abashed. Under ordinary circumstances -he might truthfully have pleaded that the work he was thus laying out -for her was really and pressingly necessary. But Dorothy anticipated him -in that. - -“Don’t tell me that these things are necessary, Cousin Arthur. I know -that perfectly well. But you know that I am not necessary to -them--except so far as the prescriptions are concerned. Aunt Polly can -direct the clothes making better than I can, and her maid, Jane, is -almost as good. So after I compound the prescriptions I shall go to my -duty at the hospital. I don’t think I like you very well today, Cousin -Arthur, and I’ll not like you at all if you go on trying to make up -things to keep me busy, away from the sick people. If you do that again -I’ll stop calling you ‘Cousin Arthur’ and you’ll be just ‘Dr. Brent’ to -me.” - -“Please don’t do that, Dorothy,” he said very pleadingly. “I only -meant--” - -“Oh, I know what you meant,” she interrupted. “But you shouldn’t treat -me in that way. I won’t call you ‘Dr. Brent,’ unless you do that sort of -thing again, and if you let me do my duty without trying to play tricks, -I’ll go on liking you just as much as ever.” - -“Thank you, Dorothy,” he replied with fervor. “You must forgive me, -please. I didn’t want to expose you to this danger--that was all.” - -“Oh, I understand all that,” she quickly responded. “But it wasn’t -treating me quite fairly--and you know I hate unfairness. And--why -shouldn’t I be exposed to the danger if I can do any good? Even if the -worst should happen--even if I should take the fever and die, after -saving some of these poor creatures’ lives, could you or anybody have -made a better use of a girl like me than that?” - -Arthur looked at the child earnestly, but the child was no longer there. -The eyes that gazed into his were those of a woman! - - - - -XII - -MAMMY - - -_W_hen Arthur Brent reached the “quarters” that morning he found matters -in worse condition than he had feared. - -“The whole spot is pestilential,” he said. “How any sane man ever -selected it for quarters, I can’t imagine. Gilbert,” calling to the head -man who had come in from the field at his master’s summons, “I want you -to take all the people out of the crop at once, and send for all the -house servants too. Take them with you over to the Haw Branch hill and -put every one of them at work building some sort of huts. You must get -enough of them done before night, to hold the sick people, for I’m going -to clear out these quarters today. I must have enough huts for the sick -ones at once. Those who are well will have to sleep out of doors at the -Silver Spring tonight.” - -“But, Mahstah,” remonstrated Gilbert, “dey ain’t no clapboa’ds to roof -wif. Dey ain’t no nuffin--” - -“Use fence rails then and cover them with pine tops. I’ll ride over and -direct you presently. Send me eight or ten of the strongest young women -at once, and then get everybody to work on the shelters. Do you hear?” - -When the women came he instructed them how to carry the sick on -improvised litters, and half an hour later, with his own hand he set -fire to the little negro village. He had allowed nothing to be carried -away from it, and he left nothing to chance. One of the negroes came -back in frantic haste to save certain “best clothes” and a banjo that he -had laboriously made. Arthur ordered him instead to fill up the well -with rubbish, so that no one might drink of its waters again. - -As soon as the fire was completely in possession the young master rode -away to Haw Branch hill to look after the sick ones and direct the work -of building shelters for them. Dorothy was already there, tenderly -looking to the comfort of the invalids. The litter-bearers would have -set their burdens down anywhere and left them there but for Dorothy’s -quiet insistence that they should place them in such shade as she could -find, and gather an abundance of broomstraw grass for them to lie upon. -To Arthur she offered no explanation of her presence, nor was any -needed. Arthur understood, and all that he said was: - -“God bless you, Dorothy!” a sentiment to which one of the stricken ones -responded: - -“He’ll do dat for shuah, Mahstah, ef he knows he business.” - -“Dick has returned from the Court House,” said Dorothy reporting. “He -says the big tent is there and I’ve sent a man with a wagon to fetch it. -These shelters will do well enough for tonight, and we’ll get our -hospital tent up soon tomorrow morning.” - -“Very well,” responded Arthur. “Now, Dorothy, won’t you ride over to -Silver Spring and direct the men there how to lay out the new quarters? -I drew this little diagram as I rode over here. You see I want the -houses built well apart for the sake of plenty of air. I’m going to put -the quarters there ‘for all the time’ as you express it. That is to say -I’m going to build permanent quarters. I’ve already looked over the -ground carefully as to drainage and the like and roughly laid out the -plan of the village so that it shall be healthy. Please go over there -and show the men what I want, I’ll be over there in an hour and then -you can come back here. I must remain here till the doctors come.” - -“What doctors, Cousin Arthur?” - -“All the doctors within a dozen miles. I’ve sent for all of them.” - -“But what for? Surely you know more about fighting disease than our -old-fashioned country doctors do.” - -“Perhaps so. But there are several reasons for consulting them. First of -all they know this country and climate better than I do. Secondly, they -are older men, most of them, and have had experience. Thirdly, I don’t -want all the responsibility on my shoulders, in case anything goes -wrong, and above all I don’t want to offend public sentiment by assuming -too much. These gentlemen have all been very courteous to me, and it is -only proper for me to send for them in consultation. I shall get all the -good I can out of their advice, but of course I shall myself remain -physician in charge of all my cases.” - -The explanation was simple enough, and Dorothy accepted it. “But I don’t -like anybody to think that country doctors can teach you anything, -Cousin Arthur,” she said as she mounted. “And remember you are to come -over to Silver Spring as soon as you can. I must be back here in an hour -or so at most.” - -Just as she was about to ride away Dorothy was confronted with an old -negro woman--obviously very old indeed, but still in robust health, and -manifestly still very strong, if one might estimate her strength from -the huge burden she carried on her well poised head. - -“Why, Mammy, what are you doing here?” asked the girl in surprise. “You -don’t belong here, and you must go back to Pocahontas at once.” - -“What’s you a talkin’ ’bout, chile?” answered the old woman. “Mammy -don’t b’long heah, don’t she? Mammy b’longs jes whah somever her -precious chile needs her. So when de tidins done comes dat Mammy’s -little Dorothy’s gwine to ’spose herself in de fever camp jes to take -kyar of a lot o’ no ’count niggas what’s done gone an’ got dey selves -sick, why cou’se dey ain’t nuffin fer Mammy to do but pack up some -necessary ingridiments an come over and take kyar o’ her baby. So jes -you shet up yer sweet mouf, you precious chile, an’ leave ole Mammy -alone. I ain’t a gwine to take no nonsense from a chile what’s my own to -kyar fer.” - -“You dear old Mammy!” exclaimed the girl with tears in her voice. “But I -really don’t need you, and I will not have you exposed to the fever.” - -“What’s Mammy kyar fer de fever? Fever won’t nebber dar tetch Mammy. -Mammy ain’t nebber tuk no fevers an’ no nuffin else. Lightnin’ cawn’t -hu’t Mammy anymore’n it kin split a black gum tree. G’long ’bout yer -business, chile, an don’t you go fer to give no impidence to yer ole -Mammy. She’s come to take kyar o’ her chile an’ she’s a gwine to do it. -Do you heah?” - -Further argument and remonstrance served only to make plain the utter -futility of any and every endeavor to control the privileged and -devotedly loving old nurse. She had come to the camp to stay, and she -was going to stay in spite of all protest and all authority. - -“There’s nothing for it, Cousin Arthur,” said Dorothy, with the tears -slipping out from between her eyelids, “but to let dear old Mammy have -her way. You see she’s had charge of me ever since I was born, and I -suppose I belong to her. It was she who taught me how badly women need -somebody to control them and how bad they are if they haven’t a master. -She’ll stay here as long as I do, you may be sure of that, and she’ll -love me and scold me, and keep me in order generally, till this thing is -over, no matter what you or anybody else may say to the contrary. So -please, Cousin Arthur, make some of the men build a particularly -comfortable shelter for her and me. She wouldn’t care for herself, even -if she slept on the ground out of doors, but she’ll be a turbulent -disturber of the camp if you don’t treat me like a princess--though -personally I only want to serve and could make myself comfortable -anywhere.” - -“I’ll see that you have good quarters, Dorothy,” answered the young man -in a determined tone. “I’d do that anyhow. But what’s all that you’ve -got there in your big bundle, Mammy?” - -“Oh, nuffin but a few dispensable ingridiments, Mas’ Arthur. Jes’ a few -blankets an’ quilts an’ pillars an’ four cha’rs an’ a feather bed an’ a -coffee pot an’ some andirons an’ some light wood, an’ a lookin’ glass, -and a wash bowl and pitcher an’ jes a few other little inconveniences -fer my precious chile.” - -For answer Arthur turned to Randall, the head carpenter of the -plantation, and said: - -“Randall, there’s a lot of dressed lumber under the shed of the wheat -barn. I’ll have it brought over here at once. I want you to take all the -men you need--your Mas’ Archer Bannister is sending over four carpenters -to help and your Mas’ John Meaux is sending three--and if you don’t get -a comfortable little house for your Miss Dorothy built before the moon -rises, I shall want to know why. Get to work at once. Put the house on -this mound. Build a stick and mud chimney to it, so that there can be a -fire tonight. Three rooms with a kitchen at the back will be enough, but -mind you are to have it ready before the moon rises, do you hear?” - -“It’ll be ready Mahstah, er Randall won’t let nobody call him a -carpenter agin fer a mighty long time. Ef Miss Dorothy is a gwine to -nuss de folks while dey’s sick you kin jes bet yer sweet life de folks -what’s well an’ strong is a gwine to make her comfortable.” - -“Amen!” shouted three or four of the others in enthusiastic unison. -Dorothy was not there to hear. She had already ridden away on her -mission to direct matters at the Silver Spring. - -“It’s queer,” thought the young master of the plantation, “how devotedly -loyal all the negroes are to Dorothy. Nobody--not even Williams the -overseer,--was ever so exacting as she is in requiring the most rigid -performance of duty. Ever since she punished Ben for bringing her an -imperfectly groomed horse, that chronically lazy fellow has taken the -trouble every night to put her mare’s mane and tail into some sort of -equine crimping apparatus, so that they may flow gracefully in the -morning. And he does it for affection, too, for when she told him, one -night, that he needn’t do it, as we were late in returning from -Pocahontas, I remember the fervor with which he responded: ‘Oh, yes, -Miss Dorothy, I’ll do de mar’ up in watered silk style tonight cause -yar’s a gwine to Branton fer a dinin’ day tomorrer, an’ Ben ain’t a -gwine fer to let his little Missus ride in anything but de bes’ o’ -style.’ The fact is,” continued Arthur, reflecting, “these people -understand Dorothy. They know that she is always kindly, always -compassionate, always sympathetic in her dealings with them. But they -realize that she is also always just. She never grows angry. She never -scolds. She punishes a fault severely in her queer way, but after it is -punished she never refers to it again. She never ‘throws up things,’ to -them. In a word, Dorothy is just, and after all it is justice that -human beings most want, and it is the one thing of which they get least -in this world. What a girl Dorothy is, anyhow!” - - - - -XIII - -THE “SONG BALLADS” OF DICK - - -_I_t was “endurin of de feveh”--to use his own phrase by which he meant -during the fever--that Dick’s genius revealed itself. Dick had long ago -achieved the coveted dignity of being his master’s “pussonal servant.” -It was Dorothy who appointed him to that position and it was mainly -Dorothy who directed his service and saw to it that he did not neglect -it. - -For many of the services of a valet, Arthur had no use whatever. It was -his habit, as he had long ago said, to “tie his own shoe strings.” He -refused from the first very many of Dick’s proffered attentions. But he -liked to have his boots thoroughly polished and his clothing well -brushed. These things he allowed Dick to attend to. For the rest he made -small use of him except to send him on errands. - -The position suited Dick’s temperament and ambition thoroughly and he -had no mind to let the outbreak of fever on the plantation rob him of -it. When Arthur established himself at the quarantine camp, taking for -his own a particularly small brush shelter, he presently found Dick in -attendance, and seriously endeavoring to make himself useful. For the -first time Arthur felt that the boy’s services were really of value to -him. He was intelligent, quick-witted, and unusually accurate in the -execution of orders. He could deliver a message precisely as it was -given to him, and his “creative imagination” was kept well in hand when -reporting to his master and when delivering his messages to -others--particularly to those in attendance upon the sick. Arthur was -busy night and day. He saw every patient frequently, and often he felt -it necessary to remain all night by a bedside. In the early morning, -before it was time for the field hands to go to their work in the crops, -he inspected them at their new quarters, and each day, too, he rode over -all the fields in which crop work was going on. - -In all his goings Dick was beside him, except when sent elsewhere with -messages. In the camp he kept his master supplied with fuel and cooked -his simple meals for him, at whatever hours of the night or day the -master found time to give attention to his personal wants. - -In the meanwhile--after the worst of the epidemic was over--Dick made -himself useful as an entertainer of the camp. Dick had developed -capacities as a poet, and after the manner of Homer and other great -masters of the poetic art, it was his custom to chant his verses to -rudely fashioned melodies of his own manufacture. Unfortunately Dorothy, -who took down Dick’s “Song Ballads,” as he called them, and preserved -their text in enduring form, was wholly ignorant of music, as we know, -and so the melodies of Dick are lost to us, as the melodies of Homer -are. But in the one case as in the other, some at least of the poems -remain to us. - -Like all great poets, Dick was accustomed to find his inspiration in the -life about him. Thus the fever outbreak itself seems to have suggested -the following: - - Nigga got de fevah, - Nigga he most daid; - Long come de Mahstah, - Mahstah shake he haid. - - Mahstah he look sorry, - Nigga fit to cry; - Mahstah he say “Nebber min’, - Git well by am by.” - - Mahstah po’ de medicine, - Mix it in de cup, - Nigga mos’ a chokin’ - As he drinks it up. - - Nigga he git well agin - Den he steal de chicken, - Den de Mahstah kotches him - An’ den he gits a lickin’. - -The simplicity and directness of statement here employed fulfil the -first of the three requirements which John Milton declared to be -essential to poetry of a high order, which, he tells us must be “simple, -sensuous, passionate.” The necessary sensuousness is present also, in -the reference made to the repulsiveness of the medicine. But that -quality is better illustrated in another of Dick’s Song Ballads which -runs as follows: - - Possum up a ’simmon tree-- - Possum dunno nuffin, - He nebber know how sweet and good - A possum is wid stuffin. - - Possum up a ’simmon tree-- - A eatin’ of de blossom, - Up creeps de nigga an’ - It’s “good-by Mistah Possum.” - - Nigga at de table - A cuttin’ off a slice, - An’ sayin’ to de chillun-- - “Possum’s mighty nice.” - -Here the reader will observe the instinctive dramatic skill with which -the poet, having reached the climax of the situation, abruptly rings -down the curtain, as it were. There is no waste of words in unnecessary -explanations, no delaying of the action with needless comment. And at -the end of the second stanza we encounter a masterly touch. Instead of -telling us with prosaic literalness that the nigga succeeded in slaying -his game, the poet suggests the entire action with the figurative -phrase--“It’s ‘good-by, Mistah Possum.’” - -There is a fine poetic reserve too in the abrupt shifting of the scene -from tree to table, and the presentation of the denouement without other -preparation than such as the reader’s imagination may easily furnish for -itself. We are not told that the possum was dressed and cooked; even the -presence of stuffing as an adjunct to the savor of the dish is left to -be inferred from the purely casual suggestion made in the first stanza -of the fact that stuffing tends to enrich as well as to adorn the viand. - -These qualities and some others of a notable kind appear in the next -example we are permitted to give of this poet’s work. - - Ole crow flyin’ roun’ de fiel’, - A lookin’ fer de cawn; - Mahstah wid he shot gun - A settin’ in de bawn. - - Ole crow see a skeer crow - A standin’ in the cawn; - Nebber see de Mahstah - A settin’ in de bawn. - - Ole crow say:--“De skeer crow, - He ain’t got no gun,-- - Jes’ a lot o’ ole clo’es - A standin’ in de sun; - - Ole crow needn’t min’ him, - Ole crow git some cawn; - But he nebber see de Mahstah - A settin’ in de bawn. - - Ole crow wuk like nigga - A pullin’ up de cawn-- - Mahstah pull de trigga, - Ober in de bawn. - - Ole crow flop an’ flutter-- - He’s done got it, _sho’!_ - Skeer crow shakin’ in he sleeve - A laughin’ at de crow. - -There is a compactness of statement here--a resolute elimination of the -superfluous which might well commend the piece to those modern -theatrical managers who seem to regard dialogue as an impertinence in a -play. - -Sometimes the poet went even further and presented only the barest -suggestion of the thought in his mind, leaving the reader to supply the -rest. Such is the case in the poem next to be set down as an example, -illustrative of the poet’s method. It consists of but a single stanza: - - De day’s done gone, de wuk’s done done, - An’ Mahstah he smoke he pipe; - But nigga he ain’t done jes yit, - Cause--de watermillion’s ripe. - -Here we have in four brief lines an entirely adequate suggestion of the -predatory habits of “Nigga,” and of his attitude of mind toward -“watermillions.” With the bare statement of the fact that the fruit in -question has attained its succulent maturity, we are left to discover -for ourselves the causal relation between that fact and the intimated -purpose of “Nigga” to continue his activities during the hours of -darkness. The exceeding subtlety of all this cannot fail to awaken the -reader’s admiring sympathy. - -Perhaps the most elaborately wrought out of these song ballads is the -one which has been reserved for the last. Its text here follows: - - Possum’s good an’ hoe cake’s fine, - An’ so is mammy’s pies, - But bes’ of all good t’ings to eat - Is chickens, fryin’ size. - - How I lubs a moonlight night - When stars is in de skies! - But sich nights ain’t no good to git - De chickens, fryin’ size. - - De moonlight night is shiny bright, - Jes’ like a nigga’s eyes, - But dark nights is the bes’ to git - De chickens, fryin’ size. - - When Mahstah he is gone to sleep, - An’ black clouds hides de skies, - Oh, den’s de time to crawl an’ creep - Fer chickens, fryin’ size. - - Fer den prehaps you won’t git kotched - Nor hab to tell no lies, - An’ mebbe you’ll git safe away - Wid chickens, fryin’ size. - - But you mus’ look out sharp fer noise - An’ hush de chicken’s cries, - Fer mighty wakin’ is de squawks - Of chickens, fryin’ size. - -To gross minds this abrupt, admonitory ending of the poem will be -disappointing. It leaves the reader wishing for more--more chicken, if -not more poetry. And yet in this self-restrained ending of the piece the -poet is fully justified by the practice of other great masters of the -poetic art. Who that has read Coleridge’s superb fragment “Kubla Khan,” -does not long to know more of the “stately pleasure dome” and of those -“caverns measureless to man” through which “Alph the sacred river ran, -down to a sunless sea”? - -We present these illustrative examples of Dick’s verse in full -confidence that both his inspiration and his methods will make their own -appeal to discriminating minds. If there be objection made to the -somewhat irregular word forms employed by this poet, the ready answer is -that the same characteristic marks many of the writings of Robert Burns, -and that Homer himself employed a dialect. If it is suggested that -Dick’s verbs are sometimes out of agreement with their nominatives, it -is easy to imagine Dick contemptuously replying, “Who keers ’bout dat?” - - - - -XIV - -DOROTHY’S AFFAIRS - - -_A_ good many things happened “endurin’ of the feveh”--if Dick’s -expressive and by no means inapt phrase may again be employed. - -First of all the outbreak gave Madison Peyton what he deemed his -opportunity. It seemed to him to furnish occasion for that -reconciliation with Aunt Polly which he saw to be necessary to his -plans, and, still more important, it seemed to afford an opportunity for -him to withdraw Dorothy from the influence of Dr. Arthur Brent. - -Accordingly, as soon as news came to him of the epidemic, and of Arthur -Brent’s heroic measures in meeting it, he hurried over to Wyanoke, full -of confident plans. - -“This is dreadful news, Cousin Polly,” he said, as soon as he had -bustled into the house. - -“What news, Madison?” answered the old lady. “What have you come to tell -me?” - -“Oh I mean this dreadful fever outbreak--it is terrible--” - -“I don’t know,” answered Aunt Polly, reflectively. “We have had only ten -or a dozen cases so far, and you had three or four times that many at -your quarters last year.” - -“Oh, yes, but of course this is very much worse. You see Arthur has had -to burn down all the quarters, and destroy all the clothing. He’s a -scientific physician, you know, and--” - -“But all science is atheistic, Madison. You told me so yourself over at -Osmore, and so of course you don’t pay any attention to Arthur’s -scientific freaks.” - -“Now you know I didn’t mean that, Cousin Polly,” answered Peyton, -apologetically. “Of course Arthur knows all about fevers. You know how -he distinguished himself at Norfolk.” - -“Yes, I know, but what has that to do with this case?” - -“Why, if this fever is so bad that a scientific physician like Arthur -finds it necessary to burn all his negro quarters and build new ones, it -must be very much worse than anything ever known in this county before. -Nobody here ever thought of such extreme measures.” - -“No, I suppose not,” answered Aunt Polly. “At any rate you didn’t do -anything of the kind when an epidemic broke out in your quarters last -year. But you had fourteen deaths and thus far we have had only one, and -Arthur tells me he hopes to have no more. Perhaps if you had been a -scientific physician, you too would have burned your quarters and moved -your hands to healthier ones.” - -This was a home shot, as Aunt Polly very well knew. For the physicians -who had attended Peyton’s people, had earnestly recommended the -destruction of his negro quarters and the removal of his people to a -more healthful locality, and he had stoutly refused to incur the -expense. He had ever since excused himself by jeering at the doctors and -pointing, in justification of his neglect of their advice to the fact -that in due time the epidemic on his plantation had subsided. He -therefore felt the sting of Aunt Polly’s reference to his experience, -and she emphasized it by adding: - -“If you had done as Arthur has, perhaps you wouldn’t have so many deaths -to answer for when Judgment Day comes!” - -“Oh, that’s all nonsense, Cousin Polly,” he quickly responded. “And -besides we’re wasting time. Of course you and Dorothy can’t remain here, -exposed to this dreadful danger. So I’ve ordered my driver to bring the -carriage over here for you this afternoon. You two must be our guests at -least as long as the fever lasts at Wyanoke.” - -Aunt Polly looked long and intently at Peyton. Then she slowly said: - -“The Bible forbids it, Madison, though I never could see why.” - -“Forbids what, Cousin Polly?” - -“Why, it says we mustn’t call anybody a fool even when he is so, and I -never could understand why.” - -“But I don’t understand you, Cousin Polly--” - -“Of course you don’t. I didn’t imagine that you would. But that’s -because you don’t want to.” - -“But I protest, Cousin Polly, that I’ve come over only because I’m -deeply anxious about your health and Dorothy’s. You simply mustn’t -remain here.” - -“Madison Peyton,” answered the old lady, rising in her stately majesty -of indignation, “I won’t call you a fool because the Bible says I -mustn’t. But it is plain that you think me one. You know very well that -you’re not in the least concerned about my health. You know there hasn’t -been a single case of fever in this house - -[Illustration: “_I WON’T CALL YOU A FOOL BECAUSE THE BIBLE SAYS I -MUSTN’T._”] - -or within a mile of it. You know you never thought of removing your own -family from your house when the fever was raging in your negro quarters. -You know that I know what you want. You want to get Dorothy under your -own control, by taking her to your house. Very well, I tell you you -cannot do that. It would endanger the health of your own family, for -Dorothy has been in our fever camp for two days and nights now, as head -nurse and Arthur’s executive officer. Why do you come here trying to -deceive me as if I were that kind of person that the Bible doesn’t allow -me to call you? Isn’t it hard enough for me to do my duty in Dorothy’s -case without that? Do you imagine I find it a pleasant thing to carry -out my orders and train that splendid girl to be the obedient wife of -such a booby as your son is? You are making a mistake. You tried once to -intimidate me. You know precisely how far you succeeded. You are trying -now to deceive me. You may guess for yourself what measure of success -you are achieving. There are spirits in the sideboard, if you want -something to drink after ---- well, after your ride. I must ask you to -excuse me now, as I have to go to the prize barn to superintend the work -of the sewing women.” - -With that the irate old lady courtesied low, in mock respect, and took -her departure, escorted by her maid. - -Madison Peyton was angry, of course. That, indeed is a feeble and -utterly inadequate term with which to describe his state of mind. He -felt himself insulted beyond endurance--and that, probably, was what -Aunt Polly intended that he should feel. But he was baffled in his -purpose also, and he knew not how to endure that. He was not a coward. -Had Aunt Polly been a man he would instantly have called her to account -for her words. Had she been a young woman, he would have challenged her -brother or other nearest male relative. As it was he had only the poor -privilege of meditating such vengeance as he might wreak in sly and -indirect ways. He was moved to many things, as he madly galloped away, -but one after another each suggested scheme of vengeance was abandoned -as manifestly foolish, and with the abandonment of each his chagrin grew -greater and his anger increased. When he met his carriage on its way to -Wyanoke in obedience to the orders he had given in the morning, he -became positively frantic with rage, so that the driver and the black -boy who rode behind the vehicle grew ashen with terror as the carriage -was turned about in its course, and took up its homeward way. - -A few weeks later the court met, and a message was sent to Aunt Polly -directing her to bring Dorothy before the judge for the purpose of -having her choose a guardian. When Dorothy was notified of this she sent -Dick with a note to Col. Majors, the lawyer. It was not such a note as a -young woman more accustomed than she to the forms of life and law would -have written. It ran as follows: - - “DEAR COL. MAJORS:--Please tell the judge I can’t come. Poor Sally - is very, very ill and I mustn’t leave her for a moment. The others - need me too, and I’ve got a lot of work to do putting up - prescriptions--for I’m the druggist, you know. So tell the judge he - must wait till he comes to this county next time. Give my love to - Mrs. Majors and dear Patty. - -“Sincerely yours, - -“DOROTHY SOUTH.” - - -On receipt of this rather astonishing missive, Colonel Majors smiled and -in his deliberate way ordered his horse to be brought to him after -dinner. Riding over to Wyanoke he “interviewed” Dorothy at the fever -camp. - -He explained to the wilful young lady the mandatory character of a court -order, particularly in the case of a ward in chancery. - -“But why can’t you do the business for me?” she asked. “I tell you Sally -is too ill for me to leave her.” - -“But you must, my dear. In any ordinary matter I, as your counsel, could -act for you, but in this case the court must have you present in person, -because you are to make choice of a guardian and the court must be -satisfied that you have made the choice for yourself and that nobody -else has made it for you. So you simply must go. If you don’t the court -will send the sheriff for you, and then it will punish Miss Polly -dreadfully for not bringing you.” - -This last appeal conquered Dorothy’s resistance. If only herself had -been concerned she would still have insisted upon having her own way. -But the suggestion that such a course might bring dire and dreadful “law -things,” as she phrased it, upon Aunt Polly appalled her, and she -consented. - -“How long shall I have to leave poor Sally?” she asked. - -“Only an hour or two. You and Miss Polly can leave here in your carriage -about ten o’clock and as soon as you get to the Court House I’ll ask -the judge to suspend other business and bring your matter on. He will -ask you whom you choose for your guardian, and you will answer ‘Madison -Peyton.’ Then the judge will ask you if you have made your choice -without compulsion or influence on the part of anybody else, and you -will answer ‘yes.’ Then he will politely bid you good morning, and you -can drive back to Wyanoke at once.” - -“Is that exactly how the thing is done?” she asked, with a peculiar look -upon her face. - -“Exactly. You see it will give you no trouble.” - -“Oh, no! I don’t mind anything except leaving Sally. Tell the judge I’ll -come.” - -Col. Majors smiled at this message, but made no answer, except to say: - -“I’ll be there of course, and you can sit by me and speak to me if you -wish to ask any question.” - -The lawyer made his adieux and rode away. Dorothy, with a peculiar smile -upon her lips returned to her patients. - - - - -XV - -DOROTHY’S CHOICE - - -_T_he judge himself was not so stately or so imposing of presence as was -Aunt Polly, when she and Dorothy entered the court, escorted by Col. -Majors. Dorothy was entirely self possessed, as it was her custom to be -under all circumstances. “When people feel embarrassed,” she once said, -“it must be because they know something about themselves that they are -afraid other people will find out.” As Dorothy knew nothing of that kind -about herself, she had no foolish trepidation, even in the solemn -presence of a court. - -The judge ordered her case called, and speaking very gently explained to -her what was wanted. - -“You are a young girl under the age at which the law supposes you to be -capable of managing your own affairs. The law makes it the duty of this -Court to guard you and your estate against every danger. By his will -your father wisely placed your person in charge of an eminently fit and -proper lady, whose character and virtues this Court and the entire -community in which we live, hold in the highest esteem and honour.” At -this point the judge profoundly bowed to Aunt Polly, and she -acknowledged the courtesy with stately grace. The judge then continued: - -“By his will your father also placed the estate which he left to you, in -charge of the late Mr. Robert Brent, a gentleman in every possible way -worthy of the trust. Thus far, therefore, this Court has had no occasion -to take action of any kind in your behalf or for your protection. -Unhappily, however, your guardian, the late Robert Brent, has passed -away, and it becomes now the duty of this Court to appoint some fit -person in his stead as guardian of your estate. The Court has full -authority in the matter. It may appoint whomsoever it chooses for this -position of high responsibility. But it is the immemorial custom of the -Court in cases where the ward in chancery has passed his or her -sixteenth year--an age which you have attained--to permit the ward to -make choice of a guardian for himself or herself, as the case may be. If -the ward is badly advised, and selects a person whom the Court deems for -any reason unfit, the Court declines to make the appointment asked, and -itself selects some other. But if the person selected by the ward is -deemed fit, the Court is pleased to confirm the choice. It is now my -duty to ask you, Miss Dorothy, what person you prefer to have for -guardian of your estate.” - -“May I really choose for myself?” asked the girl in a clear and -perfectly calm voice, to the astonishment of everybody. - -“Certainly, Miss Dorothy. Whom do you choose?” - -“Did my father say in his will that I must choose some particular -person?” she continued, interrogating the Court as placidly as she might -have put questions to Aunt Polly. - -“No, my dear young lady. Your father’s will lays no injunction whatever -upon you respecting this matter.” - -“Then, if you please, I choose Dr. Arthur Brent for my guardian. May we -go now?” - -No attention was given to the naive question with which the girl asked -permission to withdraw. Her choice of guardian was a complete surprise. -There was astonishment on every face except that of the judge, who -officially preserved an expression of perfect self-possession. Even Aunt -Polly was astounded, and she showed it. It had been understood by -everybody that Madison Peyton was to succeed to Dorothy’s guardianship, -and the submission of the choice to her had been regarded as a matter of -mere form. Even to Aunt Polly the girl had given no slightest intimation -of her purpose to defeat the prearranged program, and so Aunt Polly -shared the general surprise. But Aunt Polly was distinctly pleased with -the substitution as soon at least as she had given it a moment’s -thought. She had come to like Arthur Brent even more in his robust -manhood than she had done during his boyish sojourn at Wyanoke. She had -learned also to respect his judgment, and she saw clearly, now that it -was suggested, that he was obviously the best person possible to assume -the office of guardian. She was pleased, too, with Madison Peyton’s -discomfiture. “He needed to have his comb cut,” she reflected in homely -metaphor. “It may teach him better manners.” - -As for Peyton, who was present in Court, having come for the purpose of -accepting the guardianship, his rage exceeded even his astonishment. He -had in his youth gone through what was then the easy process of securing -admission to the bar, and so, although he had never pretended to -practise law, he was entitled to address the Court as an attorney. He -had never done so before, but on this occasion he rose, almost choking -for utterance and plunged at once into a passionate protest, in which -the judge, who was calm, presently checked him, saying: - -“Your utterance seems to the Court to be uncalled for, while its manner -is distinctly such as the Court must disapprove. The person named by the -ward as her choice for the guardianship, bears a high reputation for -integrity, intelligence and character. Unless it can be shown to the -Court that this reputation is undeserved, the ward’s choice will be -confirmed. At present the Court is aware of nothing whatever in Dr. -Brent’s character, circumstances or position that can cast doubt upon -his fitness. If you have any information that should change the Court’s -estimate of his character you will be heard.” - -“He is unfit in every way,” responded the almost raving man. “He has -deliberately undermined my fatherly influence over the girl. He has -taken a mean advantage of me. He has overpersuaded the girl to set aside -an arrangement made for her good and--” - -“Oh, no, Mr. Peyton,” broke in Dorothy, utterly heedless of court -formalities, “he has done nothing of the kind. He knows nothing about -this. I don’t think he will even like it.” - -“Pardon me, Miss Dorothy,” interrupted the judge. “Please address the -Court--me--and not Mr. Peyton. Tell me, have you made your choice of -your own free will?” - -“Why, certainly, Judge, else I wouldn’t have made it.” - -“Has anybody said anything to you on the subject?” - -“No, sir. Nobody has ever mentioned the matter to me except Col. Majors, -and he told me I was to choose Mr. Peyton, but you told me I could -choose for myself, you know. I suppose Col. Majors didn’t know you’d let -me do that.” - -A little laugh went up in the bar, and even the judge smiled. Presently -he said: - -“The Court knows of no reason why it should not confirm the choice made -by the ward. Accordingly it is ordered that Dr. Arthur Brent of Wyanoke -be appointed guardian of the property and estate of Dorothy South, with -full authority, subject only to such instructions as this Court may from -time to time see fit to give for his guidance. Mr. Clerk, make the -proper record, and call the next case. This proceeding is at an end. -You are at liberty now to withdraw, Miss Dorothy, you and Miss Polly.” - -Aunt Polly rose and bowed her acknowledgments in silence. Dorothy bowed -with equal grace, but added: “Thank you, Judge. I am anxious to get back -to my sick people. So I will bid you good morning. You have been -extremely nice to me.” - -With that she bowed again and swept out of the court room, quite -unconscious of the fact that even by her courteous adieu she had -offended against all the traditions of etiquette in a court of Justice. -The judge bowed and smiled, and every lawyer at the bar instinctively -arose, turned his face respectfully toward the withdrawing pair, and -remained standing till they had passed through the outer door, Col. -Majors escorting them. - - - - -XVI - -UNDER THE CODE - - -_I_t was Madison Peyton’s habit to have his own way, and he greatly -prided himself upon getting it, in other people’s affairs as well as in -those that concerned himself. He loved to dominate others, to trample -upon their wills and to impose his own upon them. In a large degree he -accomplished this, so that he regarded himself and was regarded by -others as a man of far more than ordinary influence. He was so, in a -certain way, but it was not a way that tended to make men like him. On -the contrary, the aggressive self assertion by which he secured -influence, secured for him also the very general dislike of his -neighbors, especially of those who most submissively bowed to his will. -They hated him because they felt themselves obliged to submit their -wills to his. - -There was, therefore, a very general chuckle of pleasure among the crowd -gathered at the Court House--a crowd which included nearly every -able-bodied white man in the county--as the news of his discomfiture and -of his outbreak of anger over it, was discussed. There were few who -would have cared to twit him with it, and if he had himself maintained a -discreet and dignified silence concerning the matter, he would have -heard little or nothing about it. But he knew that everybody was in fact -talking of it, out of his hearing. He interpreted aright the all -pervading atmosphere of amused interest, and the fact that every group -of men he approached became silent and seemed embarrassed when he joined -it. After his aggressive manner, therefore, he refused to remain silent. -He thrust the subject upon others’ attention at every turn. He -protested, he declaimed, at times he very nearly raved over what he -called the outrage. He even went further in some cases and demanded -sympathy and acquiescence in his complainings. For the most part he got -something quite different. His neighbors were men not accustomed to -fear, and while they were politely disposed to refrain from voluntary -expressions of opinion on this matter, at least in his presence, they -were ready enough with answers unwelcome to him when he demanded their -opinions. - -“Isn’t it an outrage,” he asked of John Meaux, “that Arthur Brent has -undermined me in this way?” - -“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Meaux with a drawl which always affected -his speech when he was most earnest, “I cannot see it in that light. -Dorothy declares that he knew nothing of her intentions, and we all know -that Dorothy South never tells anything but the truth. Besides, I don’t -see why he isn’t entitled to serve as her guardian if she wants him to -do so. He is a man of character and brains, and I happen to know that he -has a good head for business.” - -“Yes,” snarled Peyton, “I know you’ve been cultivating him--” - -“I’ll trouble you to leave me out of your remarks, Mr. Peyton,” -interrupted Meaux. “If you don’t you may have a quarrel on your hands.” - -“Oh, you know me, Meaux; you know I didn’t mean any harm so far as you -are concerned. You know my way--” - -“Yes, I know your way, and I don’t like it. In fact I won’t tolerate -it.” - -“Oh, come now, come now, John, don’t fly off the handle like that. You -see I’m not angry with you, but how you can like this interloper--” - -“His family is as old in Virginia as your own is,” answered Meaux, “and -he is the master of the very oldest plantation in this county. Besides -he was born in Virginia and--but never mind that. I’m not counsel for -his defence. I only interrupted to tell you that I am accustomed to -choose my own friends, and that I fully intend to adhere to that -custom.” - -In another group Peyton used even less temperate terms than “interloper” -in characterizing Arthur, and added: - -“He didn’t even dare come to court and brazen out his treachery. He left -the job, like a sneak, to the little girl whose mind he has poisoned.” - -Archer Bannister was standing near, and heard the offensive words. He -interrupted: - -“Mr. Peyton, I earnestly advise you to retract what you have just said, -and to put your retraction into writing, giving it to me to deliver to -my friend Dr. Brent; who is absent today, as you very well know, simply -because he has imperative duties of humanity elsewhere. I assure you -that I shall report your offensive utterance to him, and it will be well -for you if your retraction and apology can be delivered to him at the -same time. Arthur Brent is rapidly falling into Virginia ways--adopting -the customs of the country, he calls it--and there is one of those -customs which might subject you to a deal of inconvenience, should he -see fit to adopt it.” - -“What have you to do with my affairs?” asked Peyton in a tone of -offence. - -“Nothing whatever--_at present_,” answered the young man, turning upon -his heel. - -But the warning sobered Peyton’s anger. It had not before occurred to -him that Arthur might have become so far indoctrinated with Virginia -ways of thinking as to call him to account for his words, in the hostile -fashion usual at that time. Indeed, relying upon the fixed habit of -Virginians never to gossip, he had not expected that Arthur would ever -hear of his offensive accusations. Bannister’s notification that he -would exercise the privilege accorded by custom to the personal friend -of a man maligned when not present to defend himself, suggested grave -possibilities. He knew that custom fully warranted Bannister in doing -what he had threatened to do, and he had not the smallest doubt that the -young man would do it. - -It was in a mood of depression, therefore, that Peyton ordered his horse -and rode homeward. His plantation lay within two or three miles of the -Court House, but by the time that he had arrived there he had thought -out a plan of procedure. He knew that Bannister would remain at the -village inn over night, having jury service to perform the next morning. -There was time, therefore, in which to reach him with a placative -message, and Peyton set himself at once to work upon the preparation of -such a message. - -“I hope you will forgive me,” he wrote, “for the rudeness with which I -spoke to you today. I was extremely angry at the time, and I had reasons -for being so, of which you know nothing, and of which I must not tell -you anything. Perhaps in my extreme irritation, I used expressions with -regard to Dr. Brent, which I should not have used had I been calmer. For -my discourtesy to you personally, I offer very sincere apologies, which -I am sure your generous mind will accept as an atonement. For the rest I -must trust your good feeling not to repeat the words I used in a moment -of extreme excitement.” - -Archer Bannister wrote in reply: - -“The apology you have made to me was quite unnecessary. I had not -demanded it. As for the rest, I shall do my duty as a friend unless you -make apology where it is due, namely to Dr. Arthur Brent whom you have -falsely accused, and to whom you have applied epithets of a very -offensive character. If you choose to make me the bearer of your apology -to him, I will gladly act for you. I prefer peace to war, at all times.” - -This curt note gave Peyton a very bad quarter hour. He was not a coward; -or, to put the matter more accurately, he was not that kind of a coward -that cannot face physical danger. But he was a man of middle age or a -trifle more. He was the father of a family and an elder in the -Presbyterian church. Conscience did not largely influence him in any -case, but he was keenly sensitive to public opinion. He knew that should -he fight a duel, all the terrors of religious condemnation would fall -upon him. Worse still, he would be laughed at for having so entangled -himself in a matter his real relation to which he was not free to -explain. Madison Peyton dreaded and feared nothing in the world so much -as being laughed at. Added to this, he knew that the entire community -would hold him to be altogether in the wrong. Arthur Brent’s reputation -achieved by his heroic devotion under fearful danger at Norfolk, had -been recalled and emphasized by his conduct in the present fever -outbreak on his own plantation. It was everywhere the subject of -admiring comment, and Peyton very well knew that nobody in that -community would for a moment believe that Arthur Brent was guilty of any -meanness or cowardly treachery. His own accusations, unless supported by -some sort of proof, would certainly recoil upon himself with crushing -force. He could in no way explain the anger that had betrayed him into -the error of making such accusations. He could not make it appear to -anybody that he had been wronged by the fact that Dorothy South had -chosen another than himself for her guardian. His anger, upon such an -occasion, would be regarded as simply ridiculous, and should he permit -the matter to come to a crisis he must at once become the butt of -contemptuous jesting. - -There was but one course open to him, as he clearly saw. He wrote again -to Archer Bannister, withdrawing his offensive words respecting Arthur, -apologizing for them on the ground of momentary excitement, asking -Archer to convey this his apology to Dr. Brent, and authorizing the -latter to make any other use of the letter which he might deem proper. - -This apology satisfied all the requirements of “the code.” - - - - -XVII - -A REVELATION - - -_I_t was Dorothy who gave Arthur the first news of his appointment as -her guardian. On her return from court to the fever camp she went first -to see Sally and the two or three others whose condition was -particularly serious. Then she went to Arthur, and told him what had -happened. - -“The judge was very nice to me, Cousin Arthur, and told me I might -choose anybody I pleased for my guardian, and of course I chose you.” - -“You did?” asked the young man in a by no means pleased astonishment. -“Why on earth did you do that, Dorothy?” - -“Why, because I wanted you to be my guardian, of course. Don’t you want -to be my guardian, Cousin Arthur?” - -“I hardly know, child. It involves a great responsibility and a great -deal of hard work.” - -“Won’t you take the responsibility and undertake the work for my sake, -Cousin Arthur?” - -“Certainly I will, my child. I wasn’t thinking of that exactly--but of -some other things. But tell me, how did you come to do this? Who -suggested it to you?” - -“Why, nobody. That’s what I told the judge, and when Mr. Peyton got -angry and said you had persuaded me to do it, I told him he was wrong. -Then the judge stopped him from speaking and asked me about the matter -and I told him. Then he said very nice things about you, and said you -were to be my guardian, and then he told me I might go home and I -thanked him and said good day, and Col. Majors escorted us to the -carriage. I wonder why Mr. Peyton was so angry about it. He seems to -have been very anxious to be my guardian. I wonder why?” - -“I wonder, too,” said Arthur, to whom of course the secret of Peyton’s -concern with Dorothy’s affairs was a mystery. He had not been present on -the occasion when Peyton entered his protest against the girl’s reading, -nor had any one told him of the occurrence. Neither had he heard of -Peyton’s visit to Aunt Polly on the occasion of the outbreak of fever. -He therefore knew of no reason for Peyton’s desire to intermeddle in -Dorothy’s affairs, beyond his well known disposition to do the like with -everybody’s concerns. But Arthur had grown used to the thought of -mystery in everything that related to Dorothy. - -Presently the girl said, “I’m going to write a note to Mr. Peyton, now, -and send it over by Dick.” - -“What for, Dorothy?” - -“Oh, I want to tell him how wrong and wicked he is when he says you -persuaded me to do this.” - -“Did he say that?” - -“Yes, I told you so before, but you weren’t paying attention. Perhaps -you were thinking about the poor sick people, so I’ll forgive you and -you needn’t apologize. I must run away now and write my note.” - -“Please don’t, Dorothy.” - -“But why not?” - -“He will say I persuaded you to do that, too. It would embarrass me very -seriously if you should send him any note now.” - -Dorothy was quick to see this aspect of the matter, though without -suggestion it would never have occurred to her extraordinarily simple -and candid mind. - -It was not long after Dorothy left him when Edmonia Bannister made her -daily visit to the fever camp, accompanied by her maid and bearing -delicacies for the sick. After her visit to Dorothy’s quarters Arthur -engaged her in conversation. He told her of what had happened, and -expressed his repugnance to the task thus laid upon him. - -“I cannot sympathize with you in the least,” said the young woman. “I am -glad it has happened--glad on more accounts than one.” - -“Yes, I suppose you are,” he answered, meditatively, “but that’s because -you do not understand. I wish I could have a good, long talk with you, -Edmonia, about this thing--and some other things.” - -He added the last clause after a pause, and in a tone which suggested -that perhaps the “other things” were weightier in his mind than this -one. - -“Why can’t you?” the girl asked. - -“Why, I can’t leave my sick people long enough for a visit to Branton. -It will be many weeks yet before I shall feel free to leave this -plantation.” - -The girl thought a moment, and then said, with unusual deliberation: - -“I can spare an hour now; surely you might give a like time. Why can’t -we sit in Dorothy’s little porch and have our talk now? Dorothy has -gone to the big tent, and is busy with the sick, and if you should be -needed you will be here to respond to any call. I see how worried you -are, and perhaps I may be able to help you with advice--or at the least -with sympathy.” - -Arthur gladly assented and the two repaired to the little shaded -verandah which Dick had built out of brushwood and boughs across the -front of Dorothy’s temporary dwelling. - -“This thing troubles me greatly, Edmonia,” Arthur began, “and it -depresses me as pretty nearly everything else does nowadays. It -completely upsets my plans and defeats all my ambitions. It adds another -to the ties of obligation that compel me to remain here and neglect my -work.” - -“Is it not possible, Arthur”--their friendship had passed the -“cousining” stage and they used each other’s names now without -prefix--“Is it not possible, Arthur, for you to find work enough here to -occupy your life and employ your abilities worthily? There is no doubt -that you have already saved many lives by the skill and energy with -which you have met this fever outbreak, and your work will bear still -better fruit. You have taught all of us how to save lives in such a -case, how to deal with the epidemics that are common enough on -plantations. You may be sure that nobody in this region will ever again -let a dozen or twenty negroes perish in unwholesome quarters after they -have seen how easily and surely you have met and conquered the fever. -Dorothy tells me you have had only two deaths out of forty-two cases, -and that no new cases are appearing. Surely your conscience should -acquit you of neglecting your work, or burying your talents.” - -“Oh, if there were such work for me to do all the time,” the young man -answered, “I should feel easy on that score. But this is an -extraordinary occasion. It will pass in a few weeks, and then--” - -“Well, and then--what?” - -“Why, then a life of idleness and ease, with no duties save such as any -man of ordinary intelligence could do as well as I, or better--a life -delightful enough in its graceful repose, but one which must condemn me -to rust in all my faculties, to stand still or retrograde, to leave -undone all that I have spent my youth and early manhood in fitting -myself to do. Please understand me, Edmonia. I love Virginia, its -people, and all its traditions of honor and manliness. But I am not fit -for the life I must lead here. All the education, all the experience I -have had have tended to unfit me for it in precisely that degree in -which they have helped to equip me for something quite different. Then -again the work I had marked out for myself in the world needs me far -more than you can easily understand. There are not many men so -circumstanced that they could do it in my stead. Other men as well or -better equipped with scientific acquirements, and all that, are not free -as I am--or was before this inheritance in Virginia came to blight my -life. They have their livings to make and must work only in fields that -promise a harvest of gain. I was free to go anywhere where I might be -needed, and to minister to humanity in ways that make no money return. -My annuities secured me quite all the money I needed for my support so -that I need never take thought for the morrow. I have never yet received -a fee for my ministry--for I regard my work as a ministry, for which I -am set apart. Other men have families too, and owe a first duty to them, -while I--well, I decided at the outset that I would never marry.” - -Arthur did not end that sentence as he would have ended it a year or -even half a year before. He was growing doubtful of himself. Presently -he continued: - -“I am free to work for humanity. My time is my own. I can spend it -freely in making experiments and investigations that can hardly fail to -benefit mankind. Few men who are equipped for such studies can spare -time for them from the breadwinning. Then again when great epidemics -occur anywhere, and multitudes need me, I am free to go and serve them. -I have no family, no wife, no children, nobody dependent upon me, in -short no obligations of any kind to restrain me from such service. Such -at least was my situation before my Uncle Robert died. His death imposed -upon me the duty of caring for all these black people. My first thought -was of how I might most quickly free myself of this restraining -obligation. Had the estate consisted only of houses and lands and other -inanimate property I should have made short work of the business. I -should have sold the whole of it for whatever men might be willing to -give me for it; I should have devoted the proceeds to some humane -purpose, and then, being free again I should have returned to my work. -Unfortunately, however, in succeeding to my uncle’s estate I succeeded -also to his obligations. I planned to fulfil them once for all by -selling the plantation and using the proceeds in carrying the negroes to -the west and establishing them upon farms of their own. I still cherish -that purpose, but I am delayed in carrying it out by the fact that other -obligations must first be discharged. There are debts--the hereditary -curse of us Virginians--and I find that the value of the plantation, -without the negroes, would not suffice to discharge them and leave -enough to give the negroes the little farms that I must provide for them -if I take the responsibility of setting them free. Still I see ways in -which I think I can overcome that difficulty within two or three years, -by selling crops that Virginians never think of selling and devoting -their proceeds to the discharge of debts. But now comes this new and -burdensome duty of caring for Dorothy’s estate. She is now sixteen years -of age, so that this new burden must rest upon my shoulders for five -full years to come.” - -“I quite understand,” Edmonia slowly replied, “and in great part I -sympathize with you. But not altogether. For one thing I do not share -your belief in freedom for the negroes. I am sure they are unfit for it, -and it would be scarcely less than cruelty to take them out of the -happy life to which they were born, exile them to a strange land, and -condemn them to a lifelong struggle with conditions to which they are -wholly unused, with poverty for their certain lot and starvation perhaps -for their fate. They are happy now. Why should you condemn them to -unhappy lives? They are secure now in the fact that, sick or well, in -age and decrepitude as well as in lusty health, they will be abundantly -fed and clothed and well housed. Why should you condemn them to an -incalculably harder lot?” - -“So far as the negroes are concerned, you may be right. Yet I cannot -help thinking that if I make them the owners of fertile little farms in -that rapidly growing western country, without a dollar of debt, they -will find it easy enough to put food into their mouths and clothes on -their backs and keep a comfortable roof over their heads. However that -is a large question and perhaps a difficult one. If it could have been -kept out of politics Virginia at least would long ago have found means -to free herself of the incubus. But it is not of the negroes chiefly -that I am thinking. I am trying to set Arthur Brent free while taking -care not to do them any unavoidable harm in the process. I want to -return to my work, and I am sufficiently an egotist to believe that my -freedom to do that is of some importance to the world.” - -“Doubtless it is,” answered the young woman, hesitatingly, “but there -are other ways of looking at it, Arthur. I have read somewhere that the -secret of happiness is to reconcile oneself with one’s environment.” - -“Yes, I know. That is an abominable thought, a paralyzing philosophy. In -another form the privileged classes have written it into catechisms, -teaching their less fortunate fellow beings that it is their duty to ‘be -content in that state of existence to which it hath pleased God’ to call -them. As a buttress to caste and class privilege and despotism of every -kind, that doctrine is admirable, but otherwise it is the most damnable -teaching imaginable. It is not the duty of men to rest content with -things as they are. It is their duty to be always discontented, always -striving to make conditions better. ‘Divine discontent’ is the very -mainspring of human progress. The contented peoples are the backward -peoples. The Italian lazzaroni are the most contented people in the -world, and the most worthless, the most hopeless. No, no, no! No man who -has brains should ever reconcile himself to his environment. He should -continually struggle to get out of it and into a better. We have liberty -simply because our oppressed ancestors refused to do as the prayer book -told them they must. Men would never have learned to build houses or -cook their food if they had been content to live in caves or bush -shelters and eat the raw flesh of beasts. We owe every desirable thing -we have--intellectual, moral and physical--to the fact that men are by -nature discontented. Contentment is a blight.” - -Edmonia thought for a while before answering. Then she said: - -“I suppose you are right, Arthur. I never thought of the matter in that -way. I have always been taught that discontent was wicked--a rebellion -against the decrees of Providence.” - -“You remember the old story of the miller who left to Providence the -things he ought to have done for himself, and how he was reminded at -last that ‘ungreased wheels will not go?’” - -“Oh, yes.” - -“Well, in my view the most imperative decree of Providence is that we -shall use the faculties it has bestowed upon us in an earnest and -ceaseless endeavor to better conditions, for ourselves and for others.” - -“But may it not sometimes be well to accept conditions as a guide--to -let them determine in what direction we shall struggle?” - -“Certainly, and that is precisely my case. When I consider the peculiar -conditions that specially fit me to do my proper work in the world it is -my duty, without doubt, to fight against every opposing influence. I -feel that I must get rid of the conditions that are now restraining me, -in order that I may fulfil the destiny marked out for me by those higher -conditions.” - -“Perhaps. But who knows? It may be that some higher work awaits you, -here, some nobler use of your faculties, to which the apparently adverse -conditions that now surround you, are leading, guiding, compelling you. -It may be that in the end your unwilling detention here will open to you -some opportunity of service to humanity, of which you do not now dream.” - -“Of course that is possible,” Arthur answered doubtfully, “but I see no -such prospect. I see only danger in my present situation, danger of -falling into the lassitude and inertia of contentment. I saw that -danger from the first, especially when I first knew you. I felt myself -in very serious danger of falling in love with you like the rest. In -that case I might possibly have won you, as none of the rest had done. -Then I should joyfully, and almost without a thought of other things, -have settled into the contented life of a well to do planter, leaving -all my duties undone.” - -Edmonia flushed crimson as he so calmly said all this, but he, looking -off into the nothingness of space, failed to see it, and a few seconds -later she had recovered her self-control. Presently he added, still -unheeding the possible effect of his words: - -“You saved me from that danger. You put me under bonds not to fall in -love with you, and you have helped me to keep the pact. That danger is -past, but I begin to fear another, and my only safety would be to go -back to my work if that were possible.” - -For a long time Edmonia did not speak. Perhaps she did not trust herself -to do so. Finally, in a low, soft voice, she asked: - -“Would you mind telling me what it is you fear? We are sworn friends and -comrades, you know.” - -“It is Dorothy,” he answered. “From the first I have been fond of the -child, but now, to my consternation, I find myself thinking of her no -longer as a child. The woman in her is dawning rapidly, especially since -she has been called upon to do a woman’s part in this crisis. She still -retains her childlike simplicity of mind, her extraordinary candor, her -trusting truthfulness. She will always retain those qualities. They lie -at the roots of her character. But she has become a woman, nevertheless, -a woman at sixteen. You must have observed that.” - -“I have,” the young woman answered in a voice that she seemed to be -managing with difficulty. “And with her womanhood her beauty has come -also. You must have seen how beautiful she has become.” - -“Oh, yes,” he answered; “no one possessed of a pair of eyes could fail -to observe that. Now that we are talking so frankly and in the sympathy -of close friendship, let me tell you all that I fear. I foresee that if -I remain here, as apparently I must, I shall presently learn to love -Dorothy madly. If that were all I might brave it. But in an intercourse -so close and continual as ours must be, there is danger that her -devoted, childlike affection for me, may presently ripen into something -more serious. In that case I could not stifle her love as I might my -own. I could not sacrifice her to my work as I am ready to sacrifice -myself. I almost wish you had let me fall in love with you as the others -did.” - -Again Edmonia paused long before answering. When she spoke at last, it -was to say: - -“It is too late now, Arthur.” - -“Oh, I know that. The status of things between you and me is too firmly -fixed now--” - -“I did not mean that,” she answered, “though that is a matter of course. -I was thinking of the other case.” - -“What?” - -“Why, Dorothy. It is too late to prevent her from loving you. She has -fully learned that lesson already though she does not know the fact. And -it is too late for you also, though you, too, do not know it--or did not -till I told you.” - -It was now Arthur’s turn to pause and think before replying. Presently, -in a voice that was unsteady in spite of himself, he asked: - -“Why do you think these dreadful things, Edmonia?” - -“I do not think them. I know. A woman’s instinct is never at fault in -such a case--at least when she feels a deep affection for both the -parties concerned. And there is nothing dreadful about it. On the -contrary it offers the happiest possible solution of Dorothy’s -misfortune, and it assures you of something far better worth your while -to live for than the objects you have heretofore contemplated. I must go -now. Of course you will say nothing of this to Dorothy for the present. -That must wait for a year or two. In the meantime in all you do toward -directing Dorothy’s education, you must remember that you are educating -your future wife. Help me into my carriage, please. I will not wait for -my maid. Dick can bring her over later, can’t he?” - -“But tell me, please,” Arthur eagerly asked as the young woman seated -herself alone in the carriage, “what is this ‘misfortune’ of Dorothy’s, -this mystery that is so closely kept from me, while it darkly intervenes -in everything done or suggested with regard to her.” - -“I cannot--not now at least.” Then after a moment’s meditation she -added: - -“And yet you are entitled to know it--now. You are her guardian in a -double sense. Whenever you can find time to come over to Branton, I’ll -tell you. Good-bye!” - -As the carriage was starting Edmonia caught sight of Dick and called him -to her. - -“Have you any kittens at Wyanoke, Dick?” she asked. - -“Yes, Miss Mony, lots uv ’em.” - -“Will you pick out a nice soft one, Dick, and bring it to me at Branton? -Every old maid keeps a cat, you know, Dick, and so I want one.” - -All that was chivalric in Dick’s soul responded. - -“I’ll put a Voodoo[A] on anybody I ever heahs a callin’ you a ole maid, -Miss Mony, but I’ll git you de cat.” - -As she sank back among the cushions the girl relaxed the rein she had so -tightly held upon herself, and the tears slipped softly and silently -from her eyes. For the first time in her life this brave woman was sorry -for herself. - - - - -XVIII - -ALONE IN THE CARRIAGE - - -_A_fter the blind and blundering fashion of a man, Arthur Brent was -utterly unconscious of the blow he had dealt to this woman who had given -him the only love of her life. For other men she had felt friendship, -and to a few she had willingly given that affection which serves as a -practical substitute for love in nine marriages out of ten, and which -women themselves so often mistake for love. But to this woman love in -its divinest form had come, the love that endureth all things and -surpasseth all things, the love that knows no ceasing while life lasts, -the love that makes itself a willing sacrifice. Until that day she had -not herself known the state of her own soul. She had not understood how -completely this man had become master of her life, how utterly she had -given herself to him. And in the very moment that revealed the truth to -her the man she loved had, with unmeant cruelty, opened her eyes also to -that other truth that her love for him was futile and must ever remain -hopeless. - -She bade her driver go slowly, that she might think the matter out -alone, and she thought it out. She was too proud a woman to pity herself -for long. She knew and felt that Arthur had never dreamed of the change -which had so unconsciously come upon her. She knew that had he so much -as entertained a hope of her love a little while ago, he would have bent -all the energies of his soul to the winning of her. She knew in brief -that this man to whom she had unconsciously given the one love of her -life, would have loved her in like manner, if she had permitted that. -She knew too that it was now too late. - -As the carriage slowly toiled along the sandy road, she meditated, -sometimes even uttering her thought in low tones. - -“There is no fault in him,” she reflected. “It is not that he is blind, -but that I have hoodwinked him. In deceiving myself, I have deceived -him.” - -Then came the pleasanter thought: - -“At any rate in ruining my own life, I have not ruined his, but -glorified it. Had he loved and married me he would have been happy, but -it would have been in a commonplace way. His ambitions would have died -slowly but surely. That discontent, which he has taught me to understand -as the mainspring of all that is highest and noblest in human endeavor, -would have given place to a blighting contentment in such a life as that -which he and I would have led together. It will be quite different when -he marries Dorothy. She too has the ‘divine discontent’ that does -things. She will be a help immeasurably more meet for him than I could -ever have hoped to be. She will share his enthusiasms, and strengthen -them. And it is his enthusiasm that makes him worthy of a woman’s love. -It is that which takes him out of the commonplace. It is that which sets -him apart from other men. It is that which makes him Arthur Brent.” - -Then her thought reverted for a moment to her own pitiful case. - -“What am I to do?” she asked herself. “What use can I make of my life -that shall make it worthy of him? First of all I must be strong. He must -never so much as suspect the truth, and of course nobody else must be -permitted even to guess it. I must be a help to him, and not a -hindrance. He must feel that my friendship, on which he places so high -an estimate, is a friendship to be trusted and leant upon. I must more -and more make myself his counsellor, a stimulating helpful influence in -his life. His purposes are mainly right, and I must encourage him to -seek their fulfilment. Such a man as he should not be wasted upon a -woman like me, or led by such into a life of inglorious ease and inert -content. After all perhaps I may help him as his friend, where, as his -wife, my influence over his life and character would have been -paralyzing. If I can help, him, my life will not be lost or ruined. It -need not even be unhappy. If my love for him is such as he deserves, it -will meet disappointment bravely. It will discipline itself to service. -It will scorn the selfishness of idle bemoaning. The sacrifice that is -burnt upon the altar is not in vain if the odors of it placate the gods. -Better helpful sacrifice than idle lamentation.” - -Then after a little her mind busied itself with thoughts less subjective -and more practical. - -“How shall I best help?” she asked herself. “First of all I must utterly -crush selfishness in my heart. I must be a cheerful, gladsome influence -and not a depressing one. From this hour there are no more tears for me, -but only gladdening laughter. I must help toward that end which I see to -be inevitable. I must do all that is possible to make it altogether -good. I must help to prepare Dorothy to be the wife he needs. She has -not been educated for so glorious a future. She has been carefully -trained, on the contrary, for a humdrum life for which nature never -intended her, the life of submissive wifehood to a man she could never -love, a man whom she could not even respect when once her eyes were -opened to better things in manhood. I must have her much with me. I must -undo what has been done amiss in her education. I must help to fit her -for a high ministry to the unselfish ambitions of the one man who is -worthy of such a ministry. I must see to it that she is taught the very -things that she has been jealously forbidden to learn. I must introduce -her to that larger life from which she has been so watchfully secluded. -So shall I make of my own life a thing worth while. So shall my love -find a mission worthy of its object. So shall it be glorified.” - - - - -XIX - -DOROTHY’S MASTER - - -_W_hen Edmonia drove away, leaving Arthur alone, he bade Dick bring his -horse, and, mounting, he set off at a gallop toward the most distant -part of the plantation. He was dazed by the revelation that Edmonia’s -words had made to him as to the state of his own mind, and almost -frightened by what she had declared with respect to Dorothy’s feeling. -He wanted to be alone in order that he might think the matter out. - -It seemed to him absurd that he should really be in love with the mere -child whom he had never thought of as other than that. And yet--yes, he -must admit that of late he had half unconsciously come to think of the -womanhood of her oftener than of the childhood. He saw clearly, when he -thought of it, that his fear that he might come to love the girl had -been born of a subconsciousness that he had come to love her already. - -It was a strange condition of mind in which he found himself. His -strongest impulse was to run away and thus save the girl from himself -and his love. But would that save her? She was not the kind of woman--he -caught himself thinking of her now as a woman and not as a child--she -was not the kind of woman to love lightly or to lay a love aside as one -might do with a misfit garment. What if it should be true, as Edmonia -had declared, that Dorothy had already given him her heart? What would -happen to her in that case, should he go away and leave her? “But, -psha!” he thought; “that cannot be true. The child does not know what -love is. And yet, and yet. Why did she choose me to be her guardian, and -why, when I expressed regret that she had done so, did she look at me -so, out of those great, solemn, sad eyes of hers, and ask me, with so -much intensity if I did not _want_ to be her guardian? Was it not that -she instinctively, and in obedience to her love, longed to place her -life in my keeping? After all she is not a child. It is only habit that -makes me think of her in that way--habit and her strangely childlike -confidence in me. But is that confidence childlike, after all? Do not -women feel in that way toward the men they love? Dorothy is fully grown -and sixteen years of age. Many a woman is married at sixteen.” - -Of his own condition of mind Arthur had now no doubt. The thought had -come to him that should he go away she would forget him, and he had -angrily rejected it as a lie. He knew she would never forget. The -further thought had come to him that in such case she would marry some -other man, and it stung him like a whip lash to think of that. In brief -he knew now, though until a few hours ago he had not so much as -suspected it, that he loved Dorothy as he had never dreamed of loving -any woman while he lived. He remembered how thoughts of her had colored -all his thinking for a month agone and had shaped every plan he had -formed. - -But what was he now to do? “My life--the life I have marked out for -myself,” he reflected, “would not be a suitable one for her.” He had not -fully formulated the thought before he knew it to be a falsehood. “She -would be supremely happy in such a life. It would give zest and interest -to her being. She would rejoice in its sacrifices and share mightily in -its toil and its triumphs. She cares nothing for the life of humdrum -ease and luxury that has been marked out for her to live. She would -care intensely for a life of high endeavor. And yet I must save her from -the sacrifice if I can. I must save her from myself and from my love if -it be not indeed too late.” - -His horse had long ago slowed down to a walk, and was pursuing a course -of its own selection. It brought him now to the hickory plantation near -the outer gate of the Wyanoke property. Awakening to consciousness of -his whereabouts, Arthur drew rein. - -“It was here that I first met Dorothy”--he liked now the sound of her -name in his ears--“on that glorious June morning when the hickory leaves -that now strew the ground were in the full vigor of their first -maturity. How confidently she whistled to her hounds, and how promptly -they obeyed her call! What a queen she seemed as she disciplined them, -and with what stately grace she passed me by without recognition save -that implied in a sweeping inclination of her person! That was a bare -five months ago! It seems five years, or fifty! How much I have lived -since then! And how large a part of my living Dorothy has been!” - -Presently he turned and set off at a gallop on his return to the fever -camp, his mien that of a strong man who has made up his mind. His plan -of action was formed, and he was hastening to carry it out. - -It was growing dark when he arrived at the camp, and Dorothy met him -with her report as to the condition of the sick. She took his hand as he -dismounted, and held it between her own, as was her custom, quite -unconscious of the nature of her own impulses. - -“I’m very tired, Cousin Arthur,” she said after her report was made. -“The journey to Court and all the rest of it have wearied me; and I sat -up with Sally last night. You’re glad she’s better, aren’t you?” - -“I certainly am,” he replied. “I feared yesterday for her life, but your -nursing has saved her, just as it has saved so many others. Sally has -passed the crisis now, and has nothing to do but obey you and get well.” - -He said this in a tone of perplexity and sadness, which Dorothy’s ears -were quick to catch. - -“You’re tired too, Cousin Arthur?” she half said, half asked. - -“Oh, no. I’m never tired. I--” - -“Then you are troubled. You are unhappy, and you must never be that. You -never deserve it. Tell me what it is! I won’t have you troubled or -unhappy.” - -“I’m troubled about you, Dorothy. You’ve been over-straining your -strength. There are dark shadows under your eyes, and your cheeks are -wan and pale. You must rest and make up your lost sleep. Here, Dick! Go -over to the great house and bring Chestnut for your Miss Dorothy, do you -hear?” - -“No, no, no!” Dorothy answered quickly. “Don’t go, Dick. I do not want -the mare. No, Cousin Arthur, I’m not going to quit my post. I only want -to sleep now for an hour or two,--just to rest a little. The sick people -can’t spare me now.” - -“But they must, Dorothy. I will not have you make yourself ill. You must -go back to the great house tonight and get a good night’s rest. I’ll -look after your sick people.” - -Dorothy loosened her hold of his hand, and retreated a step, looking -reproachfully at him as she said: - -“Don’t you want me here, Cousin Arthur? Don’t you care?” - -“I do care, Dorothy, dear! I care a great deal more than I can ever tell -you. That is why I want you to go home for a rest tonight. I am -seriously anxious about you. Let me explain to you. When one is well and -strong and gets plenty of sleep, there is not much danger of infection. -But when one is worn out with anxiety and loss of sleep as you are, the -danger is very great. You are not afraid of taking the fever. I don’t -believe you are afraid of anything, and I am proud of you for that. But -I am afraid for you. Think how terrible it would be for me, Dorothy, if -you should come down with this malady. Will you not go home for my sake, -and for my sake get a good night’s sleep, so that you may come back -fresh and well and cheery in the morning? You do not know, you can’t -imagine how much I depend upon you for my own strength and courage. -Several things trouble me just now, and I have a real need to see you -bright and well and strong in the morning. Won’t you try to be so for my -sake, Dorothy? Won’t you do as I bid you, just once?” - -“Just once?” she responded, with a rising inflection. “Just _always_, -you ought to say. As long as I live I’ll do whatever you tell me to -do--at least when you tell me the truth as you are doing now. You see I -always know when you are telling the truth. With other people it is -different. Sometimes I can’t tell how much or how little they mean. But -I know you so well! And besides you’re always clumsy at fibbing, even -when you do it for a good purpose. That’s why I like you so much--or,” -pausing,--“that’s one of the reasons. Has Dick gone for Chestnut?” - -“Yes, Dick always obeys me.” - -“Oh, but that’s quite different. You are Dick’s master you know--” Then -she hesitated again, presently adding, “of course you are my master -too--only in a different way. Oh, I see now; you’re my guardian. Of -course I must obey my guardian, and I’ll show him a bright, fresh face -in the morning. Here comes Dick with Chestnut. Good night--Master!” - -From that hour Dorothy thought of Arthur always by that title of -“master,” though in the presence of others she never so addressed him. - -Arthur watched her ride away in the light of the rising November moon, -Dick following closely as her groom. And as he saw her turn at the -entrance to the woodlands to wave him a final adieu, he said out loud: - -“I fear it is indeed too late!” - - - - -XX - -A SPECIAL DELIVERY LETTER - - -_W_hen Dorothy had disappeared, Arthur became conscious of a great -loneliness, which he found it difficult to shake off. Presently he -remembered that he had a letter to write, a letter which he had decided -upon out there under the hickory trees. He had writing materials and a -table in his own small quarters, but somehow he felt himself impelled to -write this letter upon Dorothy’s own little lap desk and in Dorothy’s -own little camp cottage. - -“Positively, I am growing sentimental!” he said to himself as he walked -toward Dorothy’s house. “I didn’t suspect such a possibility in myself. -After all a man knows less about himself than about anybody else. I can -detect tuberculosis in another, at a glance. I doubt if I should -recognize it in myself. I can discover cardiac trouble by a mere look at -the eyes of the man afflicted with it. I know instantly when I look at a -man, what his temperament is, what tendencies he has, what -probabilities, and even what possibilities inhere in his nature. But -what do I know about Arthur Brent? I suppose that any of my comrades at -Bellevue could have told me years ago the things I am just now finding -out concerning myself. If any of them had predicted my present condition -of mind a year ago, I should have laughed in derision of the stupid -misconception of me. I thought I knew myself. What an idiot any man is -to think that!” - -Touching a match to the little camphene lamp on Dorothy’s table, he -opened her desk and wrote. - -“MY DEAR EDMONIA: - - “When you left me this afternoon, it was with a promise that on my - next visit to Branton you would tell me of the things that limit - Dorothy’s life. It was my purpose then to make an early opportunity - for the hearing. I have changed my mind. I do not want to hear now, - because when this knowledge comes to me, I must act upon it, in one - way or another, and I must act promptly. Should it come to me now, - I should not be free to act. I simply cannot, because I must not, - leave my work here till it is done. I do not refer now to those - plans of which we spoke today, but simply to the fever. I must not - quit my post till that is at an end. I am a soldier in the midst of - a campaign. I cannot quit my colors till the enemy is completely - put to rout. This enemy--the fever--is an obstinate one, slow to - give way. It will be many weeks, possibly several months, before I - can entirely conquer it. Until then I must remain at my post, no - matter what happens. Until then, therefore, I do not want to know - anything that might place upon me the duty of withdrawing from - present surroundings. I shall ride over to Branton now and then, as - matters here grow better, and I hope, too, that you will continue - your compassionate visits to our fever camp. But please, my dear - Edmonia, do not tell me anything of this matter, until the last - negro in the camp is well and I am free to take the next train for - New York, and perhaps the next ship for Havre. - - “You will understand me, I am sure. I do not want to play a - halting, hesitating part in a matter of such consequence. I do not - wish to be compelled to sit still when the time comes for me to - act. So I must wait till I am free again from this present and most - imperative service, before I permit myself to hear that which may - make it my duty to go at once into exile. - - “In the meantime I shall guard my conduct against every act, and - lock my lips against every utterance that might do harm. - - “I have formulated a plan of action, and of that I will tell you at - the first opportunity, because I want your counsel respecting it. - As soon as I am free, I shall act upon it, if you do not think it - too late. - - “I cannot tell you, my dear Edmonia, how great a comfort it is to - me in my perplexity, that I have your sympathy and may rely upon - your counsel in my time of need. I have just now begun to realize - how little I know of myself, and your wise words, spoken today, - have shown me clearly how very much you know of me. To you, - therefore, I shall look, in this perplexity, for that guidance for - which I have always, hitherto, relied,--in mistaken and conceited - self-confidence,--upon my own judgment. Could there be anything - more precious than such friendship and ready sympathy as that which - you give to me? Whatever else may happen, now or hereafter, I shall - always feel that in enriching my life with so loyal, so unselfish a - friendship as that which you have given to me, my Virginian - episode has been happy in its fruit. - - “Poor Dorothy is almost broken down with work and loss of sleep. - You will be glad to know that I have sent her to the house for a - night of undisturbed rest. I had to use all my influence with her - to make her go. And at the last she went, I think, merely because - she felt that her going would relieve me of worry and apprehension. - She is a real heroine, but she has so much of the martyr’s spirit - in her that she needs restraint and control.” - -Dick returned to the camp before this letter was finished, and his -master delivered it into his hands with an injunction to carry it to -Branton in the early morning of the next day. He knew the habit of young -women in Virginia, which was to receive and answer all letters carried -by the hands of special messengers, before the nine o’clock breakfast -hour. And there were far more of such letters interchanged than of those -that came and went by the post. For the post, in those years, was not -equipped with free delivery devices. Most of the plantations were nearer -to each other than to the nearest postoffice, and there were young -negroes in plenty to carry the multitudinous missives with which the -highly cultured young women of the time and country maintained what was -in effect a continuous conversation with each other. They wrote to each -other upon every conceivable occasion, and often upon no occasion at -all, but merely because the morning was fine and each wanted to call the -other’s attention to the fact. If one read a novel that pleased her, she -would send it with a note,--usually covering two sheets and heavily -crossed,--to some friend whom she desired to share her enjoyment of it. -Or if she had found a poem to her liking in Blackwood, or some other of -the English magazines, for American periodicals circulated scarcely at -all in Virginia in those days--except the Southern Literary Messenger, -for which everybody subscribed as a matter of patriotic duty--she would -rise “soon” in the morning, make half a dozen manuscript copies of it, -and send them by the hands of little darkeys to her half dozen bosom -friends, accompanying each with an astonishingly long “note.” I speak -with authority here. I have seen Virginia girls in the act of doing this -sort of thing, and I have read many hundreds of their literary -criticisms. What a pity it is that they are lost to us! For some of them -were mightily shrewd both in condemnation and in ecstatic approval, and -all of them had the charm of perfect and fearless honesty in utterance, -and all of them were founded upon an actual and attentive reading of the -works criticised, as printed criticism usually is not. - - - - -XXI - -HOW A HIGH BRED DAMSEL CONFRONTED FATE AND DUTY - - -Quite unconsciously Arthur Brent had prepared a very bad morning hour -for the best friend he had ever known. His letter was full of dagger -thrusts for the loving girl’s soul. Every line of it revealed his state -of mind, and that state of mind was a very painful thing for the -sensitive woman, who loved him so, to contemplate. The very intimacy of -it was a painful reminder; the affection it revealed so frankly stung -her to the quick. The missive told her, as no words so intended could -have done, how far removed this man’s attitude toward her was from that -of the lover. Had his words been angry they might not have indicated any -impossibility of love--they might indeed have meant love itself in such -a case,--love vexed or baffled, but still love. Had they been cold and -indifferent, they might have been interpreted merely as the language of -reserve, or as a studied concealment of passion. But their very warmth -and candor of friendship would have set the seal of impossibility upon -her hope that he might ever come to love her, if she had cherished any -such hope, as she did not. - -The letter told her by its tone more convincingly than any other form of -words could have done, that this man held her in close affection as a -friend, and that no thought of a dearer relationship than that could at -any time come to him. - -Edmonia Bannister was a strong woman, highly bred and much too proud to -give way to the weakness of self-pity. She made no moan over her lost -love as she laid it away to rest forever in the sepulchre of her heart. -Nor did she in her soul repine or complain of fate. - -“It is best for him as it is,” she told herself, as she had told herself -before during that long, solitary drive in the carriage; “and I must -rejoice in it, and not mourn.” - -The sting of it did not lie in disappointment. She met that with calm -mind as the soldier faces danger without flinching when it comes to him -hand in hand with duty. The agony that tortured her was of very -different origin. All her pride of person, all her pride of race and -family, even her self-respect itself, was sorely stricken by the -discovery that she had given her love unasked. - -This truth she had not so much as suspected until that conversation in -Dorothy’s little porch on the day before had revealed it to her. Then -the revelation had so stunned her that she did not realize its full -significance. And besides, her mind at that time was fully occupied with -efforts so to bear herself as to conceal what she regarded as her shame. -Now that she had passed a sleepless night in company with this hideous -truth, and now that it came to her anew with its repulsive nakedness -revealed in the gray of the morning, she appreciated and exaggerated its -deformity, and the realization was more than she could bear. - -She had been bred in that false school of ethics which holds a woman -bound to remain a stock, a stone, a glacier of insensibility to love -until the man shall graciously give her permission to love, by declaring -his own love for her. She believed that false teaching implicitly. She -was as deeply humiliated, as mercilessly self-reproachful now as if she -had committed an immodesty. She told herself that her conduct in -permitting herself, however unconsciously, to love this man who had -never asked for her love, had “unsexed” her--a term not understanded of -men, but one to which women attach a world of hideous meaning. - -“I am not well this morning,” she said to her maid as she passed up the -stairs in retreat. “No, you need not attend me,” she added quickly upon -seeing the devoted serving woman’s purpose; “stay here instead and make -my apologies to my brother when he comes out of his room, for leaving -him to breakfast alone.” - -“Why, Miss Mony, is you done forgot? Mas’ Archer he ain’t here. You know -he done stayed at de tavern at de Co’t House las’ night, an’ a mighty -poor white folksey breakfas’ he’ll git too.” - -“Oh, yes, I had forgotten. So much the better. But don’t accompany me. I -want to be alone.” - -The maid stared at her in blank amazement. When she had entered her -chamber and carefully shut the door, the woman exclaimed: - -“Well, I ’clar to gracious! I ain’t never seed nuffin like dat wid Miss -Mony before!” - -Then with that blind faith which her class at that time cherished in the -virtues of morning coffee as a panacea, Dinah turned into the dining -room, and with a look of withering scorn at the head dining room -servant, demanded: - -“Is you a idiot, Polydore? Couldn’t you see dat Miss Mony is seriously -decomposed dis mawnin’? What you means by bein’ so stupid? What fer -didn’t you give her a cup o’ coffee? An’ why don’t you stir yourself now -an’ bring me de coffee urn, an’ de cream jug? Don’t stan’ dar starin’, -nigga! Do you heah?” - -Having “hopes” in the direction of this comely maid, Polydore was duly -abashed by her rebuke while full of admiration for the queenly way in -which she had administered it. He brought the urn and its adjuncts and -admiringly contemplated the grace with which Dinah prepared a cup for -her mistress. - -“I ’clar, Dinah, you’se mos’ as fine as white ladies dey selves!” he -ventured to say in softly placative tones. But Dinah had no notion of -relaxing her dignity, so instead of acknowledging the compliment she -rebuffed it, saying: - -“Why don’t Mas’ Archer sen’ you to the cawnfiel’, anyhow? Dat’s all -you’se fit for. Don’ you see I’se a waitin’ fer you to bring me a tray -an’ a napkin, an’ a chaney plate with a slice o’ ham on it?” - -Equipped at last, the maid, disregarding her mistress’s injunction, -marched up the stairs and entered Edmonia’s room. The young woman gently -thanked her, and then, after a moment’s thought, said: - -“Dinah, I wish you would get some jellies and nice things ready this -morning and take them over to your Miss Dorothy for her sick people. You -can use the carriage, but go as soon as you can get away; and give my -love to your Miss Dorothy, and tell her I am not feeling well this -morning. But tell her, Dinah, that I’ll drive over this afternoon about -two o’clock and she must be ready to go with me for a drive. Poor child, -she needs some relaxation!” - -Having thus secured immunity from Dinah’s kindly but at present -unwelcome attentions, Edmonia Bannister proceeded, as she phrased it in -her mind, to “take herself seriously in hand.” - -After long thought she formulated a program for herself. - -“My pride ought to have saved me from this humiliation,” she thought. -“Having failed me in that, it must at least save me from the -consequences of my misconduct. I’ll wear a cheerful face, whatever I may -feel. I’ll cultivate whatever there is of jollity in me, and still -better, whatever I possess of dignity. I’ll be social. I’ll entertain -continually, as brother always wants me to do. I’ll have some of my girl -friends with me every day and every night. I’ll busy myself with every -duty I can find to do, and especially I shall devote myself to dear -Dorothy. By the way, Arthur will expect a reply to his letter. I’ll -begin my duty-doing with that.” - -And so she wrote: - - “You are by all odds the most ridiculous fellow, my dear Arthur, - that I have yet encountered--the most preposterous, wrong headed, - cantankerous (I hope that word is good English--and anyhow it is - good Virginian, because it tells the truth) sort of human animal I - ever yet knew. Do you challenge proof of my accusations? Think a - bit and you’ll have it in abundance. Let me help you think by - recounting your absurdities. - - “You were a young man, practically alone in the world, with no - fortune except an annuity, which must cease at your death. You had - no associates except scientific persons who never think of anything - but trilobites and hydrocyanic acid and symptoms and all that sort - of thing. Suddenly, and by reason of no virtuous activity of your - own, you found yourself the owner of one of the finest estates in - Virginia, and the head of one of its oldest and most honored - houses. In brief you came into an inheritance for which any - reasonable young man of your size and age would have been glad to - mortgage his hopes of salvation and cut off the entail of all his - desires. There, that’s badly quoted, I suppose, but it is from - Shakespeare, I think, and I mean something by it--a thing not - always true of a young woman’s phrases when she tries her hand at - learned utterance. - - “Never mind that. This favored child of Fortune, Arthur Brent, M. - D., Ph. D., etc., bitterly complains of Fate for having poured such - plenty into his lap, rescuing him from a life of toil and trouble - and tuberculosis--for I’m perfectly satisfied you would have - contracted that malady, whatever it is, if Fate hadn’t saved you - from it by compelling you to come down here to Virginia. - - “Don’t criticise if I get my tenses mixed up a little, so long as - my moods are right. Very well, to drop what my governess used to - call ‘the historical present,’ this absurd and preposterous young - man straightway ‘kicked against the pricks’--that’s not slang but a - Biblical quotation, as you would very well know if you read your - Bible half as diligently as you study your books on therapeutics. - Better than that, it is truth that I’m telling you. You actually - wanted to get rid of your heritage, to throw away just about the - finest chance a young man ever had to make himself happy and - comfortable and contented. You might even have indulged yourself in - the pastime of making love to me, and getting your suit so sweetly - rejected that you would ever afterwards have thought of the episode - as an important part of your education. But you threw away even - that opportunity. - - “Now comes to you the greatest good fortune of all, and it - positively frightens you so badly that you are planning to run away - from it--if you can. - - “Badinage aside, Arthur,--or should that word be ‘bandinage?’ You - see I don’t know, and my dictionary is in another room, and anyhow - the phrase sounds literary. Now to go on. Really, Arthur, you are a - ridiculous person. You have had months of daily, hourly, intimate - association with Dorothy. With your habits of observation, and - still more your splendid gifts in that way, you cannot have failed - to discover her superiority to young women generally. If you have - failed, if you have been so blind as not to see, let me point out - the fact to you. Did you ever know a better mind than hers? Was - there ever a whiter soul? Has she not such a capacity of devotion - and loyalty and love as you never saw in any other woman? Isn’t her - courage admirable? Is not her truthfulness something that a man may - trust his honor and his life to, knowing absolutely that his faith - must always be secure? - - “Fie upon you, Arthur. Why do you not see how lavishly Providence - has dealt with you? - - “But that is only one side of the matter, and by no means the - better side of it. On that side lies happiness for you, and you - have a strange dislike of happiness for yourself. You distrust it. - You fear it. You put it aside as something unworthy of you, - something that must impair your character and interrupt your work. - Oh, foolish man! Has not your science taught you that it is the men - of rich, full lives who do the greatest things in this world, and - not the starvelings? Do you imagine for a moment that any monkish - ascetic could have written Shakespeare’s plays or Beethoven’s music - or fought Washington’s campaigns or rendered to the world the - service that Thomas Jefferson gave? - - “But there, I am wandering from my point again. Don’t you see that - it is your duty to train Dorothy, to give to her mind a larger and - better outlook than the narrow horizon of our Virginian life - permits? - - “Anyhow, you shall see it, and you shall see it now. For in spite - of your unwillingness to hear, and in spite of your injunction that - I shall not tell you now, I am going to tell you some things that - you must know. Listen then. - - “Certain circumstances which I may not tell you either now or - hereafter, render Dorothy’s case a peculiar one. She was only a - dozen years old, or so, when her father died, and he never dreamed - of her moral and intellectual possibilities. He was oppressed with - a great fear for her. He foresaw for her dangers so grave and so - great that he ceaselessly planned to save her from them. To that - end he decreed that she should learn nothing of music, or art or - any other thing which he believed would prove a temptation to her. - His one supreme desire was to save her from erratic ways of living, - and so to hedge her life about that she should in due course marry - into a good Virginia family and pass all her days in a round of - commonplace duties and commonplace enjoyments. He had no conception - of her character, her genius or her capacities for enjoyment or - suffering. He fondly believed that she would be happy in the life - he planned for her as the wife of young Jefferson Peyton, to whom, - in a way, he betrothed her in her early childhood, when Jeff - himself was a well ordered little lad, quite different from the - arrogant, silly young donkey he has grown up to be, with dangerous - inclinations toward dissoluteness and depravity. - - “Dr. South and Mr. Madison Peyton planned this marriage, as - something that was to be fulfilled in that future for which Dr. - South was morbidly anxious to provide. Like many other people, Dr. - South mistook himself for Divine Providence, and sought to order a - life whose conditions he could not foresee. He wanted to save his - daughter from a fate which he, perhaps, had reason to fear for her. - On the other side of the arrangement Madison Peyton wanted his - eldest son to become master of Pocahontas plantation, so that his - own possessions might pass to his other sons and daughters. So - these two bargained that Dorothy should become Jefferson Peyton’s - wife when both should be grown up. Dr. South did not foresee what - sort of man the boy was destined to become. Still less did he dream - what a woman Dorothy would be. His only concern was that his - daughter should marry into a family as good as his own. - - “Now that Peyton sees what his son’s tendencies are he is more - determined than ever to have that mistaken old bargain carried out. - He is willing to sacrifice Dorothy in the hope of saving his son - from the evil courses to which he is so strongly inclined. - - “Are you going to let this horrible thing happen, Arthur Brent? You - love Dorothy and she loves you. She does not yet suspect either - fact, but you are fully aware of both. You alone can save her from - a fate more unhappy than any that her father, in his foolishness, - feared for her, and in doing so you can at the same time fulfil her - father’s dearest wish, which was that she should marry into a - Virginia family of high repute. Your family ranks as well in this - commonwealth as any other--better than most. You are the head of - it. You can save Dorothy from a life utterly unworthy of her, a - life in which she must be supremely unhappy. You can give to her - mind that opportunity of continuous growth which it needs. You can - offer to her the means of culture and happiness, and of worthy - intellectual exercise, which so rare and exceptional a nature must - have for its full development. - - “Are you going to do this, Arthur Brent, or are you not? Are you - going to do the high duty that lies before you, or are you going to - put it aside for some imagined duty which would be of less - consequence even if it were real? Is it not better worth your while - to save Dorothy than to save any number of life’s failures who - dwell in New York’s tenements? Are not Dorothy South’s mind and - soul and superb capacities of greater consequence than the lives of - thousands of those whose squalor and unwholesome surroundings are - after all the fruit of their own hereditary indolence and - stupidity? Is not one such life as hers of greater worth in the - world, than thousands or even millions of those for whose - amelioration you had planned to moil and toil? You know, Arthur, - that I have little sympathy with the thought that those who fail in - life should be coddled into a comfort that they have not earned. I - do not believe that you can rescue dulness of mind from the - consequences of its own inertia. Nine tenths of the poverty that - suffers is the direct consequence of laziness and drink. The other - tenth is sufficiently cared for. I am a heretic on this subject, I - suppose. I do not think that such a man as you are should devote - his life to an attempt to uplift those who have sunk into squalor - through lack of fitness for anything better. Your abilities may be - much better employed in helping worthier lives. I never did see why - we should send missionaries to the inferior races, when all our - efforts might be so much more profitably employed for the - betterment of worthier people. Why didn’t we let the red Indians - perish as they deserve to do, and spend the money we have - fruitlessly thrown away upon them, in providing better educational - opportunities for a higher race? - - “The moral of all this is that you have found your true mission in - the rescue of Dorothy South from a fate she does not deserve. I’m - going to help you in doing that, but I will not tell you my plans - till you get through with your fever crusade and have time to - listen attentively to my superior wisdom. - - “In the meantime you are to humble yourself by reflecting upon your - great need of such counsel as mine and your great good fortune in - having a supply of it at hand. - - “I hope your patients continue to do credit to your medical skill - and to Dorothy’s excellent nursing. I have sent Dinah over this - morning with some delicacies for the convalescent among them, and - in the afternoon I shall go over to the camp myself and steal - Dorothy from them and you, long enough to give her a good long - drive. - -“Always sincerely your Friend, - - “EDMONIA BANNISTER.” - - - - - -XXII - -THE INSTITUTION OF THE DUELLO - - -_W_hen Arthur Brent had read Edmonia’s letter, he mounted Gimlet and -rode away with no purpose except to think. The letter had revealed some -things to him of which he had not before had even a suspicion. He -understood now why Madison Peyton had been so anxious to become -Dorothy’s guardian and so angry over his disappointment in that matter. -For on the preceding evening Archer Bannister had ridden over from the -Court House to tell him of Peyton’s offensive words and to deliver the -letter of apology into his hands. - -“I don’t see how you can challenge him after that” said Archer, with -some uncertainty in his tone. - -“Why should I wish to do so?” Arthur asked in surprise. “I have -something very much more important to think about just now than Madison -Peyton’s opinion of me. You yourself tell me that when he was saying -all these things about me, he only got himself laughed at for his -pains. Nobody thought the worse of me for anything that he said, and -certainly nobody would think the better of me for challenging him to a -duel and perhaps shooting him or getting shot. Of course I could not -challenge him now, as he has made a written withdrawal of his words and -given me an apology which I am at liberty to tack up on the court house -door if I choose, as I certainly do not. But I should not have -challenged him in any case.” - -“I suppose you are right,” answered Archer; “indeed I know you are. But -it requires a good deal of moral courage--more than I suspect myself of -possessing--to fly in the face of Virginia opinion in that way.” - -“But what is Virginia opinion on the subject of duelling, Archer? I -confess I can’t find out.” - -“How do you mean?” asked the other. - -“Why, it seems to me that opinion here on that subject is exceedingly -inconsistent and contradictory. Dorothy once said, when she was a -child,”--there was a world of significance in the past tense of that -phrase--“that if a man in Virginia fights a duel for good cause, -everybody condemns him for being so wicked and breaking the laws in -that fashion; but if he doesn’t fight when good occasion arises, -everybody calls him a coward and blames him more than in the other case. -So I do not know what Virginia opinion is. And even the laws do not -enlighten me. Many years ago the Legislature adopted a statute making -duelling a crime, but I have never heard of anybody being punished for -that crime. On the contrary the statute seems to have been carefully -framed to prevent the punishment of anybody for duelling. It makes a -principal in the crime of everybody who in any capacity participates in -a duel, whether as fighter or second, or surgeon or mere looker on. In -other words it makes a principal of every possible witness, and then -excuses all of them from testifying to the fact of a duel on the ground -that to testify to that fact would incriminate themselves. I saw a very -interesting farce of that sort played in a Richmond court a month or so -ago. Are you interested to hear about it?” - -“Yes, tell me!” - -“Well, Mr. P.”--Arthur named a man who has since become a famous -judge--“had had something to do with a duel. As I understand it he was -neither principal nor second, but at any rate he saw the duel fought. -The principals, or one of them, had been brought before the judge for -trial, and Mr. P. was called as a witness. When a question was put to -him by the judge himself, Mr. P. replied: ‘I am not a lawyer. I ask the -privilege of consulting counsel before answering that question.’ To this -the judge responded: ‘To save time Mr. P., I will myself be your -counsel. As such I advise you to decline to answer the question. Now, as -the judge of this court, and not in my capacity as your counsel, I again -put the question to you and require you, under penalty of the law to -answer it.’ Mr. P. answered: ‘Under advice of counsel, your Honor, I -decline to answer the question.’ The judge responded: ‘Mr. Sheriff, take -Mr. P. into custody. I commit him for contempt of court.’ Then resuming -his attitude as counsel, the judge said: ‘Mr. P., as your counsel I -advise you to ask for a writ of Habeas Corpus.’ - -“‘I ask for a writ of Habeas Corpus, your Honor,’ answered P. - -“‘The court is required to grant the writ,’ said the judge solemnly, -‘and it is granted. Prepare it for signature, Mr. Clerk, and serve it on -the sheriff.’ - -“The clerical work occupied but a brief time. When it was done the -sheriff addressing the court said: ‘May it please your Honor, in -obedience to the writ of Habeas Corpus this day served upon me, I -produce here the body of R. A. P., and I pray my discharge from further -obligation in the premises.’ - -“Then the judge addressed the prisoner, saying: ‘Mr. P. you are -arraigned before this court, charged with contempt and disobedience of -the court’s commands. What have you to say in answer to the charge?’ -Then instantly he added: ‘In my capacity as your counsel, Mr. P., I -advise you to plead that the charge of contempt which is brought against -you, rests solely upon your refusal to answer a question the answer to -which might tend to subject you to a criminal accusation.’ - -“‘I do so make my answer, your Honor,’ said Mr. P. - -“‘The law in this case,’ said the judge, ‘is perfectly clear. No citizen -can be compelled to testify against himself. Mr. P., you are discharged -under the writ. There being no other testimony to the fact that the -prisoners at the bar have committed the crime charged against them, the -court orders their discharge. Mr. Clerk, call the next case on the -calendar.’[B] Now wasn’t all that a roaring farce, with the judge -duplicating parts after the ‘Protean’ manner of the low comedians?” - -“It certainly was,” answered young Bannister. “But what are we to do?” - -“Why, make up your minds--or our minds I should say, for I am a -Virginian now with the best of you--whether we will or will not permit -duelling, and make and enforce the laws accordingly. If duelling is -right let us recognize it and put an end to our hypocritical paltering -with it. I’m not sure that in the present condition of society and -opinion that would not be the best course to pursue. But if we are not -ready for that, if we are to go on legislating against the practice, for -heaven’s sake let us make laws that can be enforced, and let us enforce -them. The little incident I have related is significant in its way, but -it doesn’t suggest the half or the quarter or the one-hundredth part of -the absurdity of our dealing with this question.” - -“Tell me about the rest of it,” responded Archer, “and then I shall have -some questions to ask you.” - -“Well, as to the rest of it, you have only to look at the facts. Years -ago the Virginia Legislature went through the solemn process of -enacting that no person should be eligible to a seat in either house of -our law making body, who had been in any way concerned in a duel, either -as principal or second, since a date fixed by the statute. If that meant -anything it meant that in the opinion of the Legislature of Virginia no -duellist ought to be permitted to become a lawgiver. It was a statute -prescribing for those who have committed the crime of duelling precisely -the same penalty of disfranchisement that the law applies to those who -have committed other felonies. But there was this difference. The laws -forbidding other felonies, left open an opportunity to prove them and to -convict men of committing them, while the law against duelling carefully -made it impossible to convict anybody of its violation. To cover that -point, the Legislature enacted that every man elected to either house of -that body, should solemnly make oath that he had not been in any wise -engaged in duelling since the date named in the statute. Again the -lawgivers were not in earnest, for every year since that time men who -have been concerned in duelling within the prohibited period have been -elected to the Legislature; and every year the Legislature’s first act -has been to bring forward the date of the prohibition and admit to -seats in the law making body all the men elected to it who have -deliberately defied and broken the law. It deals in no such fashion with -men disfranchised for the commission of any other crime. Is not all this -in effect an annual declaration by the Legislature that its laws in -condemnation of duelling do not mean what they say? Is it not a case in -which a law is enacted to satisfy one phase of public sentiment and -deliberately nullified by legislative act in obedience to public -sentiment of an opposite character?” - -“It certainly seems so. And yet I do not see what is to be done. You -said just now that perhaps it would be best to legalize duelling. Would -not that be legalizing crime?” - -“Not at all. Duelling is simply private, personal war. It is a crime -only by circumstance and statute. Under certain conditions such war is -as legitimate as any other, and the right to wage it rests upon -precisely the same ethical grounds as those upon which we justify -public, national war. In a state of society in which the law does not -afford protection to the individual and redress of wrongs inflicted upon -him, I conceive that he has an indisputable right to wage war in his own -defence, just as a nation has. But we live in a state of society quite -different from that. If Madison Peyton or any other man had inflicted -hurt of any kind upon me, I could go into court with the certainty of -securing redress. I have no right, therefore, to make personal war upon -him by way of securing the redress which the courts stand ready to give -me peaceably. So I say we should forbid duelling by laws that can be -enforced, and public sentiment should imperatively require their -enforcement. Till we are ready to do that, we should legalize duelling -and quit pretending.” - -“After all, now that I think of it,” said young Bannister, “most of the -duels of late years in Virginia have had their origin in cowardice, pure -and simple. They have been born of some mere personal affront, and the -principals on either side have fought not to redress wrongs but merely -because they were afraid of being called cowards. You at least can never -be under any necessity of proving that you are not a coward. The people -of Virginia have not forgotten your work at Norfolk. But I’m glad Peyton -apologized. For even an open quarrel between you and him, and especially -one concerning Dorothy, would have been peculiarly embarrassing and it -would have given rise to scandal of an unusual sort.” - -“But why, Archer? Why should a quarrel between him and me be more -productive of scandal than one between any other pair of men? I do not -understand.” - -“And I cannot explain,” answered the other. “I can only tell you the -fact. I must go now. I have a long ride to a bad bed at the Court House, -with tedious jury duty to do tomorrow. So, good night.” - - - - -XXIII - -DOROTHY’S REBELLION - - -_T_he conversation reported in the last preceding chapter of this -record, occurred on the evening before Edmonia Bannister’s letter was -written. The letter, therefore, when Arthur received it at noon of the -next day, supplemented and in some measure explained what Archer had -said with respect to the peculiar inconvenience of a quarrel between Dr. -Brent and Madison Peyton. - -Yet it left him in greater bewilderment than ever concerning Dorothy’s -case. That is why he mounted Gimlet and rode away to think. - -He understood now why Madison Peyton so eagerly desired to become -Dorothy’s guardian. That would have been merely to take charge of his -own son’s future estate. But why should any such fate have been decreed -for Dorothy under a pretence of concern for her welfare? What but -wretchedness and cruel wrong could result from a marriage so ill -assorted? Why should a girl of Dorothy’s superior kind have been -expected to marry a young man for whom she could never feel anything but -contempt? Why should her rare and glorious womanhood have been bartered -away for any sort of gain? Why had her father sought to dispose of her -as he might of a favorite riding horse or a cherished picture? - -All these questions crowded upon Arthur’s mind, and he could find no -answer to any of them. They made him the angrier on that account, and -presently he muttered: - -“At any rate this hideous wrong shall not be consummated. Whether I -succeed in setting myself free, or fail in that purpose, I will prevent -this thing. Whether I marry Dorothy myself or not, she shall never be -married by any species of moral compulsion to this unworthy young -puppy.” - -Perhaps Doctor Brent’s disposition to call young Peyton by offensive -names, was a symptom of his own condition of mind. But just at this -point in his meditations a thought occurred which almost staggered him. - -“What if Dr. South has left somewhere a written injunction to Dorothy to -carry out his purpose? Would she not play the part of martyr to duty? -Would she not, in misdirected loyalty, obey her dead father’s command, -at whatever cost to herself?” - -Arthur knew with how much of positive worship Dorothy regarded the -memory of her father. He remembered how loyally she had accepted that -father’s commands forbidding her to learn music or even to listen to it -in any worthy form. He remembered with what unquestioning faith the girl -had accepted his strange dictum about every woman’s need of a master, -and how blindly she believed his teaching that every woman must be bad -if she is left free. Would she not crown her loyalty to that dead -father’s memory by making this final self-sacrifice, when she should -learn of his command, as of course she must? In view of the extreme care -and minute attention to detail with which Dr. South had arranged to hold -his daughter’s fate in mortmain, there could be little doubt that he had -somehow planned to have her informed of this his supreme desire, at some -time selected by himself. - -At this moment Arthur met the Branton carriage, bearing Edmonia and -Dorothy. - -“You are playing truant, Arthur,” called Edmonia. “You must go back to -your sick people at once, for I’ve kidnapped your head nurse and I don’t -mean to return her to you till six. She is to dine with me at Branton. -So ride back to your duty at once, before Dick shall be seized with an -inspiration to give somebody a dose of strychnine as a substitute for -sweet spirits of nitre.” - -“Oh, no, Edmonia,” broke in Dorothy, “we must drive back to the camp at -once. Cousin Arthur needs his ride. You don’t know. I tell you he’s -breaking down. Yes you are, Cousin Arthur, so you needn’t shake your -head. That isn’t quite truthful in you. You work night and day, and -lately you’ve had a dreadfully worn and tired look in your eyes. I’ve -noticed it and all last night, when you had sent me away to sleep, I lay -awake thinking about it.” - -Edmonia smiled at this. Perhaps she recognized it as a symptom--in -Dorothy. She only said in reply: - -“Don’t worry about Arthur. I am worried only about you, and I’m going to -take you to Branton. Am I not, Arthur?” - -“I sincerely hope so,” he replied. “And there is not the slightest -reason why you shouldn’t keep her for the night if you will. She is -really not needed at the hospital till tomorrow. I’m honest and truthful -when I say that, Dorothy. Dick and I can take care of everything till -tomorrow, and I’ll see to it that Dick’s inspirations are restricted to -poetry. So take her, Edmonia, and keep her till tomorrow. And don’t let -her talk too much.” - -“Oh, I’m going to take her. She is impolite enough not to want to go but -she is much too young to have a will of her own--yet. As for Dick, he’s -already in the throes. He is constructing a new ‘song ballad’ on the -sorrowful fate of the turkey. It begins: - - ‘Tukkey in de bacca lot, - A pickin’ off de hoppa’s,’ - -but it goes no further as yet because Dick can’t find any rhyme for -‘hopper’ except ‘copper’ and ‘proper’ and ‘stopper,’ which I suggested, -and they don’t serve his turn. He came to me to ask if ‘gobblers’ would -not do, but I discouraged that extreme of poetic license.” - -“Edmonia,” said Dorothy as soon as the carriage had renewed its journey, -“did you really think it impolite in me not to want to go with you?” - -“No, you silly girl.” - -“I’m glad of that. You see I think there is nothing so unkind as -impoliteness. But really I think it is wrong for me to go. Why didn’t -you take Cousin Arthur instead? You don’t know how badly he needs -rest.” - -Edmonia made no direct reply to this. Instead, she said presently: - -“Arthur is one of the best men I know. Don’t you think so, Dorothy?” - -“Oh, he’s altogether the best. I can’t think of anybody to compare him -with--not even Washington. He’s a hero you know. I often read over again -all the newspapers that told about what he did in Norfolk, and of course -he’s just like that now. He never thinks of himself, but always of -others. There never was any man like him in all the world. That’s why I -can’t bear to think of going to Branton and leaving him alone when if I -were at my post, he might get some of the sleep that he needs so much. -Edmonia, I’m not going to Branton! Positively I can’t and I won’t. So if -you don’t tell the driver to turn back, I’ll open the carriage door and -jump out and walk back.” - -Curiously enough Edmonia made no further resistance. Perhaps she had -already accomplished the object she had had in view. At any rate she -bade the driver turn about, and upon her arrival at the camp she offered -Arthur no further explanation than he might infer from her telling him: - -“I’ve brought back the kidnapped nurse. I couldn’t win her away from -you even for a few hours. See that you reward her devotion with all -possible good treatment.” - -“You are too funny for anything, Edmonia,” said Dorothy as she stepped -from the carriage. “As if Cousin Arthur could treat me in any but the -best of ways!” - -“Oh, I’m not so sure on that point. He’ll bear watching anyhow. He’s -‘essenteric’ as Dick said the other day in a brave but hopeless struggle -with the word ‘eccentric.’ But I must go now or I shall be late for -dinner, and I’m expecting some friends who care more than Dorothy does -for my hospitality.” - -“Oh, please, Edmonia--” - -“Don’t mind me, child. I was only jesting. You are altogether good and -sweet and _lovable_.” - -She looked at Arthur significantly as she emphasized that last word. - -The young man thereupon took Dorothy’s hands in his, looked her in the -eyes, and said: - -“Edmonia is right, dear. You are altogether good and sweet and lovable. -But you ought to have taken some rest and recreation.” - -“How could I, when I knew you needed me?” - - - - -XXIV - -TO GIVE DOROTHY A CHANCE - - -_I_t was nearly the Christmas time when Arthur finally broke up the -fever camp. He decided that the outbreak was at an end and the need of a -hospital service no longer pressing. The half dozen patients who -remained at the camp were now so far advanced on the road to recovery -that he felt it safe to remove them to the new quarters at the Silver -Spring. - -He had sent Dorothy home a week before, saying: - -“Now, Dorothy, dear, we have conquered the enemy--you and I--and a -glorious conquest it has been. We have had forty-seven cases of the -disease, some of them very severe, and there have been only two deaths. -Even they were scarcely attributable to the fever, as both the victims -were old and decrepit, having little vitality with which to resist the -malady. It is a record that ought to teach the doctors and planters of -Virginia something as to the way in which to deal with such outbreaks. I -shall prepare a little account of it for their benefit and publish it in -a medical journal. But I never can tell you how greatly I thank you for -your help.” - -“Please don’t talk in that way,” Dorothy hastily rejoined. “Other people -may thank me for things whenever they please, but you never must.” - -“But why not, Dorothy?” - -“Why, because--well, because you are the Master. I won’t have you -thanking me just like other people. It humiliates me. It is like telling -me you didn’t expect me to do my duty. No, that isn’t just what I mean. -It is like telling me that you think of Dorothy just as you do of other -people, or something of that kind. I can’t make out just what I mean, -but I will not let you thank me.” - -“I think I understand,” he answered. “But at any rate you’ll permit me -to tell you, that in my honest judgment as a physician, there would have -been many more deaths than there have been, if I had not had you to help -me. Your own tireless nursing, and the extraordinary way in which you -have made all the negro nurses carry out my orders to the letter, have -saved many lives without any possibility of doubt.” - -“Then I have really helped?” - -“Yes, Dorothy. I cannot make you know how much you have helped--how -great an assistance, how great a comfort you have been to me in all this -trying time.” - -“I am very glad--very glad.” - -That was all the answer she could make for tears. It was quite enough. - -“Now I’m going to send you home, Dorothy, to get some badly needed rest -and sleep, and to bring the color back to your cheeks. I am going home -myself too. I need only ride over here twice a day to see that the -getting well goes on satisfactorily, and in a week’s time I shall break -up the camp entirely, and send the convalescents to their quarters. It -will be safe to do so then. In the meantime I want you to think of -Christmas. We must make it a red letter day at Wyanoke, to celebrate our -victory. We’ll have a ‘dining day,’ as a dinner party is queerly called -here in Virginia, with a dance in the evening. I’ll have some musicians -up from Richmond. You are to send out the invitations at once, please, -and we’ll make this the very gladdest of Christmases.” - -“May I take my Mammy home with me?” the girl broke in. “She has been so -good to me, you know.” - -“Yes, Dorothy, and I wish you would keep her there ‘for all the time,’ -as you sometimes say. There’s a comfortable house by the garden you -know, and we’ll give her that for her home as long as she lives. You -shall pick out one or two of the nicest of the negro girls to wait on -her and keep house for her, and make her old age comfortable.” - -Dorothy ejaculated a little laugh. - -“Mammy would drive them all out of the house in ten seconds,” she said, -“and call them ‘dishfaced devils’ and more different kinds of other ugly -names than you ever heard of. Old as she is, she’s very strong, and -she’ll never let anybody wait on her. She calls the present generation -of servants ‘a lot o’ no ’count niggas, dat ain’t fit fer nothin’ but to -be plaguesome.’ But you are very good to let me give her the house. -Thank you, Cousin Arthur.” - -“Oh, Dorothy,” answered Arthur, “I thought you always ‘played fair’ as -the children say.” - -“Why, what have I done?” the girl asked almost with distress in her -tone. - -“Why, you thanked me, after forbidding me to thank you for an -immeasurably greater service.” - -“Oh, but that’s different,” she replied. “You are the Master. I am only -a woman.” - -“Dorothy,” said Arthur seriously, “don’t you know I think there is -nothing in the world better or nobler than a woman?” - -“That’s because you are a man and don’t know,” she answered out of a -wisdom so superior that it would not argue the point. - -During the next week Arthur found time in which to prepare and send off -for publication a helpful article on “The Plantation Treatment of -Typhoid Epidemics.” He also found time in which to ride over to Branton -and hold a prolonged conference with Edmonia Bannister. Before a hickory -wood fire in the great drawing room they went over all considerations -bearing upon Arthur’s affairs and plans and possibilities. - -“This is the visitation you long ago threatened me with,” said Edmonia. -“You said you would come when the stress of the fever should be over, -and you told me you had some plan in your mind. Tell me what it was.” - -“Oh, your past tense is correct there; that was before you wrote to me -about Dorothy. Your letter put an end to that scheme at once.” - -“Did it? I’m very glad.” - -“But why? You don’t know what it was that I had in mind.” - -“Perhaps not. Perhaps I have a shrewd idea as to the general features of -your plan. At any rate I’m perfectly sure that it was unworthy of you.” - -“Why do you think that, Edmonia? Surely I have not--” - -“Oh, yes you have--if you mean that you haven’t deserved to be thought -ill of. You have wanted to run away from your duty and your happiness, -and it was that sort of thing you had in mind. Otherwise you wouldn’t -have needed to plan at all. Besides, you said you didn’t want to have -this conversation with me, or to hear about Dorothy till you should be -‘free to act.’ You meant by that ‘free to run away.’ That is why I wrote -you about Dorothy.” - -“Listen, Edmonia!” said the young man pleadingly. “Don’t think of me as -a coward or a shirk! Don’t imagine that I have been altogether selfish -even in my thoughts! I did plan to run away, as you call it. But it was -not to escape duty--for I didn’t know, then, that I had a duty to do. Or -rather I thought that my duty called upon me to ‘run away.’ Will you -let me tell you just what I felt and thought, and what the plan was that -I had in mind?” - -“Surely, Arthur. I did not really think you selfish, and certainly I did -not think you cowardly. If I had, I should have taken pains to save -Dorothy from you. But tell me the whole story.” - -“I will. When we began our conversation in Dorothy’s little porch, I was -just beginning to be afraid that I might learn to love her. She had so -suddenly matured, somehow. Her womanhood seemed to have come upon her as -the sunrise does in the tropics without any premonitory twilight. It was -the coming of serious duty upon her, I suppose that wrought the change. -At any rate, with the outbreak of the fever, she seemed to take on a new -character. Without losing her childlike trustfulness and simplicity, she -suddenly became a woman, strong to do and to endure. And her beauty came -too, so that I caught myself thinking of her when I ought to have been -thinking of something else.” - -“Oh, yes,” Edmonia broke in. “I know all that and sympathize with it. -You remember I found it all out before you did.” - -“Yes, I was coming to that. Perhaps I wandered from my story a bit--” - -“You did, of course. But under the circumstances I forgive you. Go on.” - -“Well, when you told me it was too late for me to save myself from -loving Dorothy, I knew you were right, though I had not suspected it -before. I hoped, however, that it might not be too late to save Dorothy -from myself. I did not want to lure her to a life that was sure to bring -much of trial and hard work and sympathetic suffering to her.” - -“But why not? Isn’t such a life, with the man she loves, very greatly -the happiest one she could lead? Have you studied her character to so -little purpose as to imagine--” - -“No, no, no!” he broke in. “I saw all that when I thought the matter -out, after you left the camp that day. But at first I didn’t see it, and -I didn’t want Dorothy sacrificed--especially to me.” - -“No woman is sacrificed when she is permitted to share the work, the -purposes, the aspirations of the man she loves. How men do misjudge -women and misunderstand them! It is not ease, or wealth, or luxury that -makes a woman happy--for many a woman is wretched with all these--it is -love, and love never does its work so perfectly in a woman’s soul as -when it demands sacrifice at her hands.” - -Edmonia said this oracularly, as she sat staring into the fire. Arthur -wondered where she had learned this truth, seeing that love had never -come to her either to offer its rewards or to demand sacrifice at her -hands. She caught his look and was instantly on her guard lest his -shrewd gift of observation should penetrate her secret. - -“You wonder how I know all this, Arthur,” she quickly added. “I see the -question in your face. For answer I need only remind you that I am a -woman, and a woman’s intuitions sometimes serve her as well as -experience might. Go on, and tell me what it was you planned before I -wrote you concerning Dorothy’s case. What was the particular excuse you -invented at that time for running away?” - -“It is of no consequence now, but I don’t mind telling you. I conceived -the notion of freeing myself from the obligations that tie me here in -Virginia by giving Wyanoke and all that pertains to it to Dorothy.” - -“I almost wish you had proposed that to Dorothy. I should have been an -interested witness of the scorn and anger which she would have visited -upon your poor foolish head. It would have taken you five years to undo -that mistake. But those five years would have been years of suffering to -Dorothy; so on the whole I’m glad you didn’t make the suggestion. What -spasm of returning reason restrained you from that crowning folly?” - -“Your letter, of course. When you told me that those who had assumed the -rôle of Special Providence to Dorothy had planned to marry her to that -young Jackanapes--” - -“Don’t call him contemptuous names, Arthur. He doesn’t need them as a -label, and it only ruffles your temper. Go on with what you were -saying.” - -“Well, of course, you see how the case stood. Even if I had not cared -for Dorothy in any but a friendly way, I should have felt it to be the -very highest duty of my life to save her from this hideous thing. I -decided instantly that whatever else might happen I would save Dorothy -from this fate. So I have worked out a new plan, and I want you to help -me carry it out.” - -“Go on. You know you may count upon me.” - -“Well, I want you to take Dorothy away from here. I want you to show her -a larger world than she has ever dreamed of. I want you to take her to -Washington, Baltimore and New York and introduce her to the best society -there is there. Then I want you to take her to Europe for a year. She -must see pictures and sculpture, and the noblest examples of -architecture there are in the world. That side of her nature which has -been so wickedly cramped and crippled and dwarfed, must be cultivated -and developed. She must hear the greatest music there is, and see the -greatest plays and the greatest players. Fortunately she is fluent in -her French and she readily understands Italian. Her capacity for -enjoyment is matchless. It is that of a full-souled woman who has been -starved on this side of her nature. You once bade me remember that in -anything I did toward educating her I was educating my future wife. I -don’t know whether it will prove to be so or not. But in any case this -thing must be done. She must know all these higher joys of life while -yet she is young enough to enjoy them to the full, and she must have the -education they will bring to her. She will be seventeen in March--only -three months hence. She is at the age of greatest susceptibility to -impressions.” - -“Your thought mightily pleases me, Arthur,” said Edmonia. “But I warn -you there is serious danger in it.” - -“Danger for Dorothy?” - -“No. But danger for you.” - -“That need not matter. You mean that--” - -“I mean just that. In all this Dorothy will rapidly change--at least in -her points of view. Her conceptions of life will undergo something like -a revolution. At the end of it all she may not care for any such life as -you can offer her, especially as she will meet many brilliant men under -circumstances calculated to make the most of their attractions. She may -transfer her love for you, which is at present a thing quite -unconsciously felt, to some one who shall ask for it. For I suppose you -will say nothing to her now that might make her conscious of her state -of mind and put her under bonds to you?” - -“Quite certainly, no! My tongue shall be dumb and even my actions and -looks shall be kept in leash till she is gone. Can’t you understand, -Edmonia--” - -“I understand better than you think, and I honor you for your courage -and your unselfishness. You want this thing done in order that Dorothy -may have the fullest possible chance in life and in love--in order that -if there be in this world a higher happiness for her than any that you -can offer, she may have it?” - -“That is precisely my thought, Edmonia. You have expressed it far better -than I could have done. I don’t want to take an unfair advantage of -Dorothy, as I suppose I easily might. I don’t want her to accept my love -and agree to share my life, in ignorance of what better men and better -things there may be for her elsewhere. If I am ever to make her my own, -it must be after she knows enough to choose intelligently. Should she -choose some other life than that which I can offer, some other love than -mine, she must never know the blight that her choice cannot fail to -inflict upon me. As for myself, I have my crucibles and my work, and I -should be better content, knowing that she was happy in some life of her -own choosing, than knowing that I had made her mine by taking unfair -advantage of her inexperience.” - -“Arthur Brent,” said Edmonia, rising, not to dismiss him, but for the -sake of giving emphasis to her utterance, “you are--well, let me say it -all in a single phrase--you are _worthy of Dorothy South_. You are such -a man as women of the higher sort dream of, but rarely meet. It is not -quite convenient for me to undertake this mission for you just now, but -convenience must courtesy to my will. I’ll arrange the matter with -Dorothy at once and we’ll be off in a fortnight or less. Fortunately no -dressmaking need detain us, for we must have our first important gowns -made in Richmond and Baltimore, a larger supply in New York, and then -Paris will take care of its own. I’ll have some trouble with Aunt Polly, -of course; she regards travel very much as she does manslaughter, but -you may safely leave her to me.” - -“But, Edmonia, you said this thing would subject you to some -inconvenience?” - -“So it will. But that’s a trifle. I had half promised to spend July at -the White Sulphur, but that can wait for another July. Now you are to -tell me goodby a few minutes hence and ride away. For I must write a -note to Dorothy--no, on second thoughts I’ll drive over and see her and -Aunt Polly, and you are to remain here and dine with brother. Dorothy -and I are going to talk about clothes, and we shan’t want any men folk -around. I’ll dine at Wyanoke, and by tomorrow we’ll have half a dozen -seamstresses at work making things enough to last us to Baltimore.” - -“But tell me, Edmonia,” said Arthur, beginning to think of practical -things, “can you and Dorothy travel alone?” - -“We could, if it were necessary. You know I’ve been abroad twice and I -know ‘the tricks and the manners’ of Europe. But it will not be -necessary. I enjoy the advantage of having been educated at Le Febvre’s -School, in Richmond. That sort of thing has its compensations. Among -them is the fact that it is apt to locate one’s friendships variously as -to place. I have a schoolmate in New York--a schoolmate of five or six -years ago, and a very dear friend--Mildred Livingston. She is married -and rich and restless. She likes nothing so much as travel and I happen -to know that she is just now planning a trip to Europe. I’ll write to -her today and we’ll go together. As her husband, Nicholas Van Rensselaer -Livingston, hasn’t anything else to do he’ll go along just to look after -the baggage and swear in English, which they don’t understand, at the -Continental porters and their kind. He’s really very good at that sort -of thing.” - -“It is well for a man to be good at something.” - -“Yes, isn’t it? I’ve often said so to Mildred. Besides he worships the -ground--or the carpets, rather,--that she walks on. For he never lets -her put her foot on the ground if he can help it. He’s a dear fellow--in -his way--and Mildred is really fond of him--especially when he’s looking -after the tickets and the baggage. Now you must let me run away. You are -to stay here and dine with brother, you know.” - - - - -XXV - -AUNT POLLY’S VIEW OF THE RISKS - - -_O_ddly enough Edmonia had very little of the difficulty she had -anticipated in securing Aunt Polly’s consent to the proposed trip. -Perhaps the old lady’s opinions with respect to the detrimental effects -of travel were held like her views on railroads and the rotundity of the -earth, humorously rather than with seriousness. Perhaps she appreciated, -better than she would admit, the advantages Dorothy was likely to reap -from an introduction to a larger world. Perhaps she did not like the -task set her of cramping Dorothy’s mind and soul to the mould of a -marriage with young Jeff Peyton. Certain it is that she did not look -forward to that fruition of her labors as Dorothy’s personal guardian -with anything like pleasure. While she felt herself bound to carry out -her instructions, she felt no alarm at the prospect of having their -purpose defeated in the end by an enlargement of horizon which would -prompt Dorothy to rebellion. Perhaps all these things, and perhaps -something else. Perhaps Aunt Polly suspected the truth, and rejoiced in -it. Who shall say? Who shall set a limit to the penetration of so shrewd -a woman, after she has lived for more than half a century with her eyes -wide open and her mind always quick in sympathy with those whom she -loves? - -Whatever the reason of her complaisance may have been, she yielded -quickly to Edmonia’s persuasions, offering only her general deprecation -of travel as an objection and quickly brushing even that aside. - -“I can’t understand,” she said, “why people who are permitted to live -and die in Virginia should want to go gadding about in less desirable -places. But we’ve let the Yankees build railroads down here, and we must -take the consequences. Everybody wants to travel nowadays and Dorothy is -like all the rest, I suppose. Anyhow, you’ll be with her, Edmonia, and -so she can’t come to any great harm, unless it’s true that the world is -round. If that’s so, of course your ship will fall off when you get over -on the other side of it.” - -“But Europe isn’t on the other side of it Aunt Polly, and besides I’ve -been there twice already you know, and I didn’t fall off the earth -either time.” - -“No, you were lucky, and maybe you’ll be lucky this time. Anyhow you -have all made up your minds and I’ll interpose no objections.” - -It was by no means so easy to win Dorothy’s consent to the proposed -journey. - -“I ought not to run away from my duty,” she said, in objection to a -proposal which opened otherwise delightful prospects to her mind. - -“But it’s your duty to go, child,” Edmonia answered. “You need the trip -and all the education it will give you. What is there for you to do -here, anyhow?” - -“Why, Cousin Arthur might need me! You know he never tells lies, and he -says I have really helped him to save people’s lives in this fever -time.” - -“But that is all over now and it won’t occur again. Arthur has taken -care of that by burning the old quarters and building new ones in a -wholesome place. By the way, Dorothy, you’ll be glad to know that his -example is already having its influence. Brother has decided to build -new quarters for our servants at a spot which Arthur has selected as the -best one for the purpose on the plantation. Anyhow there’ll be no -further fever outbreaks at Wyanoke or at Pocahontas, now that Arthur is -master there also.” - -“But he might need me in other ways,” answered the persistently -reluctant Dorothy. “And besides he is teaching me chemistry and other -scientific things that will make me useful in life. No, I can’t go away -now.” - -“But, you absurd child,” answered Edmonia, “there will be plenty of time -to learn all that when you come back. You are ridiculously young yet. -You won’t be seventeen till March, and you know a great deal more about -science than Arthur did at your age. Besides this is his plan for you, -not mine. He wants you to learn the things this trip will teach you, a -great deal more than he wants you to learn chemistry and that sort of -thing. He knows what you need in the way of education, and it is at his -suggestion that I’m going to take you North and to Europe. He -appreciates your abilities as you never will, and it is his earnest wish -that you shall make this trip as a part of your education.” - -“Very well,” answered Dorothy. “I’ll ask him if he wants me to go, and -if he says yes, I’ll go. Of course it will be delightful to see great -cities and the ocean and Pompeii and pictures and all the rest of it. -But a woman mustn’t think of enjoyment alone. That’s the way women -become bad. My father often told me so, and I don’t want to be bad.” - -“You never will, Dorothy, dear. You couldn’t become bad if you wanted -to. And as for Arthur, I assure you it was he who planned this journey -for you and asked me to take you on it. Don’t you think he knows what is -best for you?” - -“Why, of course, he does! I never questioned that. But maybe he isn’t -just thinking of what is best for me. Maybe he is only thinking of what -would give me pleasure. Anyhow I’ll ask him and make sure. He won’t -deceive me. And he couldn’t if he tried. I always know when he’s making -believe and when I get angry with him for pretending he always quits it -and tells me the truth.” - -“Then you’ll go if Arthur tells you he really wants you to go, and -really thinks it best for you to go?” - -“Of course, I will! I’ll do anything and everything he wants me to do, -now and always. He’s the best man in the world, and the greatest, -Edmonia. Don’t you believe that? If you don’t I shall quit loving you.” - -“Oh, you may safely go on loving me then,” answered Edmonia bowing her -head very low to inspect something minute in the fancy work she had in -her lap, and in that way hiding her flushed face for the moment. “I -think all the good things about Arthur that you do, Dorothy. As I know -what his answer to your questions will be, we’ll order the seamstresses -to begin work tomorrow morning. I’ll have everything made at Branton, so -you are to come over there soon in the morning.” - -The catechising of Arthur yielded the results that Edmonia had -anticipated. - -“Yes, Dorothy,” he said, “I am really very anxious that you shall make -this trip. It will give you more of enjoyment than you can possibly -anticipate, but it will do something much better than that. It will -repair certain defects in your education, which have been stupidly -provided for by people who did not appreciate your wonderful gifts and -your remarkable character. For Dorothy, dear, though you do not know it, -you are a person of really exceptional gifts both of mind and -character--gifts that ought to be cultivated, but which have been -suppressed instead. You do not know it, and perhaps you won’t quite -believe it, but you have capacities such as no other woman in this -community can even pretend to possess. You are very greatly the -superior of any woman you ever saw.” - -“Oh, not of Edmonia!” the girl quickly replied. - -“Yes--even of Edmonia,” he answered. - -The girl’s face was hotly flushed. She did not know why, but such -praise, so sincerely given, and coming from the man whom she regarded as -“the best man in the world, and the greatest,” was gladsome to her soul. -Her native modesty forbade her to believe it, quite, “but,” she argued -with herself, “of course he knows better than I do, better than anybody -else ever can. And, of course, I must do all I can to improve myself in -order that I may satisfy his expectations of me. I’ll ask him all about -that before I leave.” - -And she did. - -“Cousin Arthur,” she said one evening as they two sat with Aunt Polly -before a crackling fire in “the chamber”--let the author suspend that -sentence in mid air while he explains. - -The chamber, in an old plantation house, was that room on the ground -floor in which the master of the plantation, whether married or -unmarried, slept. It was the family room always. Into it came those -guests whose intimacy was sufficient to warrant intrusion upon the -penetralia. The others were entertained in the drawing room. The word -chamber was pronounced “chawmber,” just as the word “aunt” was properly -pronounced “awnt.” The chamber had a bed in it and a bureau. In a closet -big enough for a modern bedroom there was a dressing case with its fit -appurtenances. In the chamber there was a lounge that tempted to -afternoon siestas, and there were great oaken arm chairs whose skilful -fashioning for comfort rendered cushions an impertinence. In the chamber -was always the broadest and most cavernous of fire places and the most -satisfactory of fires when the weather was such as to render artificial -heating desirable. In the chamber was usually a carpet softly cushioned -beneath, itself and its cushions being subject to a daily flagellation -out-of-doors in the “soon” hours of morning in order that they might be -relaid before the breakfast-time. All other rooms in the house were apt -to be carpetless, their immaculate white ash floors undergoing a daily -polishing with pine needles and rubbing brushes. The chamber alone was -carpeted in most houses. Why this distinction the author does not -undertake to say. He merely records a fact which was well-nigh universal -in the great plantation houses. - -So much for the chamber. Let us return to the sentence it interrupted. - -“Cousin Arthur,” Dorothy said, “I wish you would mark out a course of -study for me to pursue during this journey, so that I may get out of it -all the good I can.” - -Arthur picked up a dry sponge and dropped it into a basin of water. - -“Look, Dorothy,” he said. “That is the only course I shall mark out for -you.” - -“It is very dull of me, I suppose,” said the girl, “but I really don’t -understand.” - -“Why, I didn’t tell the sponge what to absorb, and yet as you see it has -drunk up all the water it can hold. It is just so with you and your -journey. You need no instruction as to what you shall learn by travel or -by mingling in the social life of great cities. You are like that -sponge. You will absorb all that you need of instruction, when once you -are cast into the water of life. You have very superior gifts of -observation. There is no fear that you will fail to get all that is best -out of travel and society. It is only the stupid people who need be told -what they should see and what they should think about it, and the stupid -people would much better stay at home.” - - - - -XXVI - -AUNT POLLY’S ADVICE - - -_I_f Aunt Polly had entertained any real desire to forbid the expedition -planned for Dorothy, the prompt interference of Madison Peyton in that -behalf would have dissipated it. - -No sooner had Peyton learned of the contemplated journey than he bustled -over to Wyanoke to see Aunt Polly regarding it. - -It is not a comfortable thing to visit a man with whom one has recently -quarrelled and to whom one has had to send a letter of apology. Even -Peyton, thick-skinned and self-assured as he was, would probably have -hesitated to make himself a guest at Wyanoke at this time but for the -happy chance that Arthur was absent in Richmond for a few days. - -Seizing upon the opportunity thus afforded, Peyton promptly visited Aunt -Polly to enter a very earnest and insistent protest. He was genuinely -alarmed. He realized Dorothy’s moral and intellectual superiority to his -son. He was shrewd enough to foresee that travel and a year’s -association with men and women of attractive culture and refined -intellectual lives would, of necessity, increase this disparity and -perhaps--nay, almost certainly--make Jefferson Peyton seem a distinctly -unworthy and inferior person in Dorothy’s eyes. He realized that the -arrangement made some years before between himself and Dr. South, was -not binding upon Dorothy, except in so far as it might appeal to her -conscience and to her loyalty to her father’s memory when the time -should be ripe to reveal it to her. For as yet she knew nothing of the -matter. - -She had liked young Peyton when he and she were children together. His -abounding good nature had made him an agreeable playmate. But as they -had grown up, the sympathy between them had steadily decreased. The good -nature which had made him agreeable as a playmate, had become a distinct -weakness of character as he had matured. He lacked fixity of purpose, -industry and even conscience--while Dorothy, born with these attributes, -had strengthened them by every act and thought of her life. - -The young man had courage enough to speak the truth fearlessly on all -occasions that strongly called for truth and courage, but Dorothy had -discovered that in minor matters he was untruthful. To her integrity of -mind it was shocking that a young man should make false pretences, as he -had done when they had talked of literature and the like. She could not -understand a false pretence, and she had no toleration for the weakness -that indulges in it. - -Moreover in intellectual matters, Dorothy had completely outgrown her -former playmate. The bright boy, whom Dorothy’s father had chosen as one -destined to be a fit life companion for her, had remained a bright boy. -And that which astonishes us as brilliancy in a child ceases to impress -us as the child grows into manhood, if the promise of it is not -fulfilled by growth. A bright boy, ten or twelve years old, is a very -pleasant person to contemplate; but a youth who remains nothing more -than a bright boy as he grows into manhood, is distinctly disappointing -and depressing. - -It is to be said to the credit of Madison Peyton that he had done all -that he could--or rather all that he knew how--to promote the -intellectual development of this his first born son. He had lavished -money upon tutors for him, when he ought instead to have sent him to -some school whose all dominating democracy would have compelled the boy -to work for his standing and to realize the value of personal endeavor. -In brief Madison Peyton had made that mistake which the much richer men -of our day so often make. He had tried to provide for his son a royal -road to learning, only to find that the pleasures of the roadside had -won the wayfarer away from the objects of his journey. - -Madison Peyton now realized all this. He understood how little profit -his son had got out of the very expensive education provided for him, -how completely he had failed to acquire intellectual tastes, and in a -dimly subconscious way, he understood how ill equipped the young man was -to win the love of such a girl as Dorothy, or to make her happy as his -wife. And he realized also that if travel and culture and a larger -thinking should weaken in Dorothy’s mind--as it easily might--that sense -of obligation to fulfil her father’s desires, on which mainly he had -relied for the carrying out of the program of marriage between these -two, with Pocahontas plantation as an incidental advantage, the youth -must win Dorothy by a worthiness of her love, or lose her for lack of -it. - -The worthiness in his son was obviously wanting. There remained only -Dorothy’s overweening loyalty to her father’s memory and will as a -reliance for the accomplishment of Madison Peyton’s desires. It was to -prevent the weakening of that loyalty that he appealed to Aunt Polly to -forbid the travel plan. - -Aunt Polly from the first refused. “Dorothy is a wonderful girl,” she -said, “and she has wonderful gifts. I shall certainly not stand in the -way of their development.” - -“But let me remind you, Cousin Polly,” answered Peyton, “that Dorothy’s -life is marked out for her. Don’t you think it would be a distinct -injustice to her to unfit her as this trip cannot fail to do, for the -life that she must lead? Will not that tend to render her unhappy?” - -“Happiness is not a matter of circumstance, Madison. It is a matter of -character. But that isn’t what I meant to say. You want me to keep -Dorothy here in order that she may not grow, or develop, or whatever -else you choose to call it. You want to keep her as ignorant as you can, -simply because you know she is already the superior of the young man -whom you and Dr. South, in your ignorant assumption of the attributes of -Divine Providence, have selected to be her husband. You are afraid that -she will outgrow him. Isn’t that what you mean, Madison?” - -“Well, yes, in a way. You put it very baldly, but----” - -“But that’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s what you’re afraid of?” - -“Well, the fact is I don’t believe in educating girls above their -station in life.” - -“How can anything be above Dorothy’s station, Madison? She is the -daughter and sole heir of one of the oldest and best families in -Virginia. I have never heard of anything higher than that.” - -“Oh, certainly. But that isn’t what I mean. You see Dorothy has been -permitted to read a lot of books that young women don’t usually read, -and study a lot of subjects that young women don’t usually study. She -has got her head full of notions, and this trip will make the matter -worse. I think women should look up to their husbands and not down upon -them, and how can Dorothy----” - -“How would it do, Madison, for the young men to make an effort on their -own account, to improve their minds and build up their characters so -that their wives might look up to them without an effort? There are some -men to whom the most highly cultivated women can look up in real -respect, and it is quite natural that the best of the young women should -choose these for their husbands. Many young men refuse to make -themselves worthy in that way, or fail in such efforts as they may make -to accomplish it. If I understand you properly, you would forbid the -girls to cultivate what is best in them lest they grow superior to their -coming husbands.” - -“That’s it, Cousin Polly. The happy women are those who feel the -superiority of their husbands and find pleasure in bowing to it.” - -“I thought that was your idea. It is simply abominable. It makes no more -of a woman than of a heifer or a filly. It regards her as nothing more -or better than a convenience. I’ll have nothing to do with such a -doctrine. Dorothy South is a girl of unusual character, and unusual -mind, so far as I can judge. She has naturally done all she could to -cultivate what is best in herself, and, so far as I can control the -matter she shall go on doing so, as every woman and every man ought to -do. When she has made the best she can of herself, she may perhaps meet -some man worthy of her, some man fit to be her companion in life. If she -does, she’ll probably marry him. If she meets none such she can remain -single. That isn’t at all the worst thing that can happen to a woman. It -is a hideous thing to marry a girl to her inferior. You have yourself -suggested that such a marriage can only mean wretchedness to both. And -your plan of avoiding such marriages is to keep the girls inferior by -denying them the privilege of self-cultivation. I tell you it is an -abominable plan. It’s Turkish, and the only right way to carry it out is -to shut women up in harems and forbid them to learn how to read. For if -a woman or a man of brains learns that much, the rest cannot be -prevented. So you may make up your mind that Dorothy is going to make -this trip. I’ve already consented to it, and the more I think about it, -the more I am in favor of it. My only fear is that she may fall off the -earth when she gets to the other side, and I reckon that will not -happen, for both Arthur and Edmonia assure me they didn’t fall off when -they were over there.” - -Peyton saw the necessity of making some stronger appeal to Aunt Polly, -than any he had yet put forward. So he addressed himself to her -conscience and her exalted sense of honor. - -“Doubtless you are right, Cousin Polly,” he said placatively, “at least -as to the general principle. But, as you clearly understand, this is a -peculiar case. You see Dorothy _must_ marry Jefferson in any event. -Don’t you think it would be very unfair and even cruel to her, to let -her unfit herself for happiness in the only marriage she is permitted to -make? Will it not be cruel to let her get her head full of notions, and -perhaps even accept some man’s attentions, and then find yourself in -honor bound to show her the letter you hold from Dr. South, instructing -her to carry out his will? You know she will obey her dead father and -marry Jefferson. Isn’t it clearly your duty to shield and guard her -against influences that cannot fail to unfit her for happiness in the -marriage she must make?” - -“I am sole judge of that matter, Madison. I am the guardian of Dorothy’s -person during her nonage--four years longer. By the terms of Dr. South’s -will she must not marry until she is twenty-one, except with my consent. -With my consent she may marry at any time. As to the letter you speak -of, you have never had the privilege of reading it, and I do not intend -to show it to you. It is less peremptory, perhaps than you think. It -does not command Dorothy to marry your son. It only recommends such a -marriage to her as a safe and prudent one, securing to her the -advantages of marriage into as good a family as her own. But there are -other families than yours as good as her own, and I may see fit not to -show Dorothy her father’s letter at all. I am not bound to let her read -it, by any clause in his will, or by any promise to him, or even by any -injunction from him. I am left sole judge as to that. If I had not been -so left free to use my own discretion I should never have accepted the -responsibility of the girl’s guardianship.” - -“You astonish me!” exclaimed Peyton. “I had supposed this matter settled -beyond recall. I had trusted Dr. South’s honor----” - -“Stop, Madison!” interposed Aunt Polly. “If you say one word in question -of Dr. South’s honor and integrity, I will burn that letter now, and -never, so long as I live mention its existence.” - -“Oh, I didn’t mean--” - -“It seems to me you say a good many things you do not mean today, -Madison. As for me, I am saying only what I mean, and perhaps not quite -all of that. Let me end the whole matter by telling you this: I am going -to let Dorothy make this trip. I am going to give her every chance I can -to cultivate herself into a perfect womanhood--many chances that I -longed for - -[Illustration: _DOROTHY SOUTH._] - -in my own girlhood, but could not command. I may or may not some day -show her Dr. South’s letter. That shall be as my judgment dictates. I -shall not consent now or hereafter, while my authority or influence -lasts, to Dorothy’s marriage to anybody except some man of her own -choosing, who shall seem to me fit to make her happy. If you want -Jefferson to marry her, I notify you now that he must fairly win her. -And my advice to you is very earnest that he set to work at once to -render himself worthy of her; to repair his character; to cultivate -himself, if he can, up to her moral and intellectual level; to make of -himself a man to whom she can look up, as you say, and not down. There, -that is all I have to say.” - -Madison Peyton saw this to be good advice, and he decided to act upon -it. But, as so often happens with good advice, he “took it wrong end -first,” in the phrase of that time and country. He decided that his son -should also go north and to Europe, following the party to which Dorothy -belonged as closely as possible, seeing as much as he could of her, and -paying court to her upon every opportunity. - - - - -XXVII - -DIANA’S EXALTATION - - -_I_t was the middle of January, 1860, when Dorothy bade Arthur good-by -and went away upon her mission of enjoyment and education. - -It is not easy for us now to picture to ourselves what travel in this -country was in that year which seems to the older ones among us so -recent. In 1860 there was not such a thing as a sleeping car in all the -world. The nearest approach to that necessity of modern life which then -existed, was a car with high backed seats, which was used on a few of -the longer lines of railroad. For another thing there were no such -things in existence as through trains. Every railroad in the country was -an independent line, whose trains ran only between its own termini. The -traveller must “change cars” at every terminus, and usually the process -involved a delay of several hours and a long omnibus ride--perhaps at -midnight--through the streets of some city which had thriftily provided -that its several railroads should place their stations as far apart as -possible in order that their passengers might “leave money in the town.” -The passenger from a south side county of Virginia intending to go to -New York, for example, must take a train to Richmond; thence after -crossing the town in an omnibus and waiting for an hour or two, take -another train to Acquia Creek, near Fredericksburg; there transfer to a -steamboat for Washington; there cross town in an omnibus, and, after -another long wait, take a train for the Relay House; there wait four -hours and then change cars for Baltimore, nine miles away; then take -another omnibus ride to another station; thence a train to Havre de -Grace, where he must cross a river on a ferry boat; thence by another -train to Philadelphia, where, after still another omnibus transfer and -another delay, one had a choice of routes to New York, the preferred one -being by way of Camden and Amboy, and thence up the bay twenty miles or -so, to the battery in New York. There was no such thing as a dining car, -a buffet car or a drawing room car in all the land. There were none but -hand brakes on the trains, and the cars were held together by loose -coupling links. The rails were not fastened together at their badly -laminated ends, and it was the fashion to call trains that reached a -maximum speed of twenty miles an hour, “lightning expresses,” and to -stop them at every little wayside station. The engines were fed upon -wood, and it was a common thing for trains to stop their intolerable -jolting for full twenty minutes to take fresh supplies of wood and -water. - -There was immeasurably more of weariness then, in a journey from -Richmond or Cincinnati or Buffalo to New York, than would be tolerated -now in a trip across the continent. As a consequence few people -travelled except for short distances and a journey which we now think -nothing of making comfortably in a single night, was then a matter of -grave consequence, to be undertaken only after much deliberation and -with much of preparation. New York seemed more distant to the dweller in -the West or South than Hong Kong and Yokohama do in our time, and the -number of people who had journeyed beyond the borders of our own country -was so small that those who had done so were regarded as persons of -interestingly adventurous experience. - -Quite necessarily all parts of the country were markedly provincial in -speech, manner, habits and even in dress. New England had a nasal -dialect of its own, so firmly rooted in use that it has required two or -three generations of exacting Yankee school marms to eradicate it from -the speech even of the educated class. New York state had another, and -the Southerner was known everywhere by a speech which “bewrayed” him. - -And as it was with speech, so also was it with manners, customs, ideas. -Prejudice was everywhere rampant, opinion intolerant, and usage -merciless in its narrow illiberality. Only in what was then the -West--the region between the Alleghenies and the Mississippi--was there -anything of cosmopolitan liberality and tolerance. They were found in -that region because the population of the West had been drawn from all -parts of the country. Attrition of mind with mind, and the mingling of -men of various origin had there in a large degree worn off the angles of -provincial prejudice and bred a liberality of mind elsewhere uncommon in -our country. - -Edmonia and Dorothy were to make their formidable journey to New York in -easy stages. They remained for several days with friends in Richmond, -while completing those preliminary preparations which were necessary -before setting out for the national capital. They were to stay in -Washington for a fortnight, in Baltimore for three weeks, in -Philadelphia for a week or two, and in New York for nearly two months -before sailing for Europe in May. - -The time was a very troubled one, on the subject of slavery. Not only -was it true that if the owner of a slave took the negro with him into -any one of the free states he by that act legally set him free, but it -was also true that the most devoted and loyal servant thus taken from -the South into a Northern state was subjected to every form of -persuasive solicitation to claim and assert his freedom. It was -nevertheless the custom of Southern men, and still more of Southern -women, to take with them on their travels one or more of their personal -servants, trusting to their loyalty alone for continued allegiance. For -the attitude of such personal servants in Virginia at that time was -rather that of proud and voluntary allegiance to loved masters and -mistresses who belonged to them as a cherished possession, than that of -men and women held in unwilling bondage. - -Accordingly it was arranged that Edmonia’s maid, Dinah--or Diana as she -had come to call herself since hearing her mistress read a “history -pome” aloud--should accompany the two young women as their joint -servitor. - -As soon as this arrangement was announced at Branton, Diana began what -Polydore called “a puttin’ on of airs.” In plainer phrase she began to -snub Polydore mercilessly, whereas she had recently been so gracious in -her demeanor towards him as to give him what he called “extinct -discouragement.” - -After it was settled that she was to accompany “Miss Mony an’ Miss -Dorothy” to “de Norf” and to “Yurrop”--as she wrote to all her friends -who were fortunate enough to know how to “read writin’,” there was, as -Polydore declared, “no livin’ in de house wid her.” She sailed about the -place like a frigate, delivering her shots to the right and left--most -of them aimed at Polydore, with casual and contemptuous attention, now -and then, to the other house servants. - -“I ’clar’ to gracious,” said Elsie, one of the housemaids, “ef Diana -ain’t a puttin’ on of jes’ as many airs as ef she’d been all over -a’ready, an’ she ain’t never been out of dis county yit.” - -“Wonder ef she’ll look at folks when she gits back,” said Fred, the -cadet of the dining room, who was being trained under Polydore’s -tutelage to keep his nails clean and to offer dishes to guests at their -left hands. - -“Don’ you be in too big a hurry to fin’ out dat, you nigga,” rejoined -Polydore, the loyalty of whose love for Diana would brook no criticism -of her on the part of an underling. “You’se got enough to attend to in -gittin’ yer manners into shape. Diana’s a superior pusson, an’ you ain’t -got no ’casion to criticise her. You jes’ take what yer gits an’ be -thankful like Lazarus wuz when de rich man dropped water outer his hand -on his tongue.” - -Polydore’s biblical erudition seems to have been a trifle at fault at -this point. But at any rate his simile had its intended effect upon the -young darkey, who, slipping a surreptitious beaten biscuit into his -pocket, retreated to the distant kitchen to devour it. - -At that moment Diana entered the dining room with the air of a Duchess, -and, with unwonted sweetness, said: - -“Please, Polydore, bring me de tea things. De ladies is faint.” - -Polydore, anxious that Diana’s gentle mood should endure, made all haste -to bring what she desired. He made too much haste, unluckily, for in his -hurry he managed to spill a little hot water from a pitcher he was -carrying on a tray, and some drops of it fell upon the sleeve of Diana’s -daintily laundered cambric gown. - -The stately bronze colored namesake of the ancient goddess rose in -offended dignity, and looked long at the offender before addressing him. -Then she witheringly put the question: - -“Whar’s your manners dis mawnin’, Polydore? Jes’ spose I was Miss Mony -now; would you go sloppin’ things over her dat way?” - -Even a worm will turn, we are told, and Polydore was prouder than a -worm. For once he lost his self-control so far as to say in reply: - -“But you _ain’t_ Miss Mony, dough you seems to think you is. I’se tired -o’ yer highty tighty airs. Git de tea things for yerse’f!” With that -Polydore left the dining room, and Diana, curiously enough, made no -reference to the incident when next she encountered him, but was all -smiles and sweetness instead. - - - - -XXVIII - -THE ADVANCING SHADOW - - -_N_o sooner were Dorothy and Edmonia gone than Arthur turned again to -affairs. It was a troubled uneasy time in Virginia, a time of sore -apprehension and dread. The “irrepressible conflict” over slavery had -that year taken on new and more threatening features than ever before. - -There was now a strong political party at the North the one important -article of whose creed was hostility to the further extension of slavery -into the territories. It was a strictly sectional party in its -composition, having no existence anywhere at the South. It was -influential in Congress, and in 1856 it had strongly supported a -candidate of its own for president. By the beginning of 1860 its -strength had been greatly increased and circumstances rendered probable -its success in electing a president that year, for the hopeless division -of the Democratic party, which occurred later in the year, was already -clearly foreshadowed, an event which in fact resulted in the nomination -of three rival candidates against Mr. Lincoln and made his election -certain in spite of a heavy popular majority against him. - -Had this been all, Virginia would not have been greatly disturbed by the -political situation and prospect. But during the preceding autumn the -Virginians had been filled with apprehension for the safety of their -homes and families by John Brown’s attempt, at Harper’s Ferry, to create -a negro insurrection, the one catastrophe always most dreaded by them. -That raid, quickly suppressed as it was, wrought a revolution in -Virginian feeling and sentiment. The Virginians argued from it, and from -the approval given to it in some parts of the North, that Northern -sentiment was rapidly ripening into readiness for any measures, however -violent they might be, for the extinction of slavery and the destruction -of the autonomy of the Southern States. - -They found it difficult under the circumstances to believe the -Republican party’s disclaimer of all purpose or power to interfere with -the institution in the states. They were convinced that only opportunity -was now wanting to make the Southern States the victims of an -aggressive war, with a servile insurrection as a horrible feature of it. -They cherished a warm loyalty to that Union which Virginia had done so -much to create, but they began seriously to fear the time when there -would be no peace or safety for their state or even for their wives and -children within the Union. They were filled with resentment, too, of -what they regarded as a wanton and unlawful purpose to interfere with -their private concerns, and to force the country into disunion and civil -war. - -There were hot heads among them, of course, who were ready to welcome -such results; but these were very few. The great body of Virginia’s -people loved the Union, and even to the end--a year later--their -strongest efforts were put forth to persuade both sides to policies of -peace. - -But in the meantime a marked change came over the Virginian mind with -respect to slavery. Many who had always regarded the institution as an -inherited evil to be got rid of as soon as that might be safely -accomplished, modified or reversed their view when called upon to stand -always upon the defensive against what they deemed an unjust judgment of -themselves. - -Arthur Brent did not share this change of view, but he shared in the -feelings of resentment which had given it birth. In common with other -Virginians he felt that this was a matter belonging exclusively to the -individual states, and still more strongly he felt that the existing -political situation and the methods of it gravely menaced the Union in -ways which were exceedingly difficult for Southern men who loved the -Union to meet. He saw with regret the great change that was coming over -public and private sentiment in Virginia--sentiment which had been so -strongly favorable to the peaceable extinction of slavery, that John -Letcher--a lifelong advocate of emancipation as Virginia’s true -policy--had been elected Governor the year before upon that as the only -issue of a state campaign. - -But Arthur was still bent upon carrying out his purpose of emancipating -himself and, incidentally his slaves. And the threatening aspect of -political affairs strengthened his determination at any rate to rid both -his own estate and Dorothy’s of debt. - -“When that is done, we shall be safe, no matter what happens,” he told -himself. - -To that end he had already done much. In spite of his preöccupation with -the fever epidemic he had found time during the autumn to institute -many economies in the management of both plantations. He had shipped and -sold the large surplus crops of apples and sweet potatoes--a thing -wholly unprecedented in that part of Virginia, where no products of the -soil except tobacco and wheat were ever turned to money account. He was -laughed at for what his neighbors characterized as “Yankee farming,” but -both his conscience and his bank account were comforted by the results. -In the same way, having a large surplus of corn that year, he had -fattened nearly double the usual number of hogs, and was now preparing -to sell so much of the bacon as he did not need for plantation uses. In -these and other ways he managed to diminish the Wyanoke debt by more -than a third and that of Pocahontas by nearly one-half, during his first -year as a planter. - -“If they don’t quit laughing at me,” he said to Archer Bannister one -day, “I’ll sell milk and butter and even eggs next summer. I may -conclude to do that anyhow. Those are undignified crops, perhaps, but -I’m not sure that they could not be made more profitable than wheat and -tobacco.” - -“Be careful, Arthur,” answered his friend. “It isn’t safe to make -planting too profitable. It is apt to lead to unkindly remark.” - -“How so? Isn’t planting a business, like any other?” - -“A business, yes, but not like any other. It has a certain dignity to -maintain. But I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking of Robert -Copeland.” - -“I wish you’d tell me about him, Archer. What has he done? I observe -that everybody seems to shun him--or at least nobody seems quite willing -to recognize him as a man in our class, though they tell me his family -is fairly good, and personally he seems agreeable. Nobody says anything -to his discredit, and yet I observe a general shoulder shrugging -whenever his name is mentioned.” - -“He makes too many hogsheads of tobacco to the hand,” answered Archer -smiling but speaking with emphasis and slowly. - -“Is he cruel to his negroes?” - -“Yes, and no. He is always good natured with them and kindly in his -fashion, but he works them much too hard. He doesn’t drive them -particularly. Indeed I never heard of his striking one of them. But he -has invented a system of money rewards and the like, by which he keeps -them perpetually racing with each other in their work. They badly -overtax themselves, and the community regards the matter with marked -disfavor. In the matter of family he isn’t in our class at all, but his -father was much respected. He was even a magistrate for some years -before his death. But the son has shut himself out of all social -position by over working his negroes, and the fact that he does it in -ways that are ingenious and not brutal doesn’t alter the fact, at least -not greatly. Of course, if he did it in brutal ways he would be driven -out of the county. As it is he is only shut out of society. I was -jesting when I warned you of danger of that sort. But if you are not -careful in your application of ‘practical’ methods down here, you’ll get -a reputation for money loving, and that wouldn’t be pleasant.” - -Arthur stoutly maintained his right and his duty to market all that the -two plantations produced beyond their own needs, especially so long as -there were debts upon them. Till these should be discharged, he -contended, he had no moral right to let products go to waste which could -be turned into money. Archer admitted the justice of his view, but -laughingly added: - -“It isn’t our way, down here, and we are so conservative that it is -never quite prudent to transgress our traditions. At the same time I -wish we could all rid our estates from debt before the great trouble -comes. For it is surely coming and God only knows what the upshot of it -all will be. Don’t quote me as saying that, please. It isn’t fashionable -with us to be pessimistic, or to doubt either the righteousness or the -ultimate triumph of our cause. But nobody can really foresee the outcome -of our present troubles, and whatever it may be, the men who are out of -debt when it comes--if there are any--will be better equipped to meet -fate with a calm mind than the rest of us.” - - - - -XXIX - -THE CORRESPONDENCE OF DOROTHY - - -_F_rom the very beginning of her travels Dorothy revealed herself to -Arthur in rapidly succeeding letters which were--at the first, at -least--as frank as had been her talks with him during their long morning -rides together. If in the end her utterance became more guarded, with a -touch of reserve in it, and with a growing tendency to write rather of -other things than of her own emotions, Arthur saw in the fact only an -evidence of that increasing maturity of womanhood which he had intended -her to gain. For Arthur Brent studied Dorothy’s letters as -scrutinizingly as if they had been lessons in biology. Or, more -accurately speaking, he studied Dorothy herself in her letters, in that -way. - -From Richmond she wrote half rejoicings, half lamentations over the long -separation she must endure from him and from all else that had hitherto -constituted her life. Arthur observed that while she mentioned as a -troublesome thing the necessity of having still another gown made -before leaving for the North, she told him nothing whatever about the -gown itself. - -“Gowns,” he reflected, “are merely necessary adjuncts of life to -Dorothy--as yet. She’ll think of them differently after a while.” - -From Washington she wrote delightedly of things seen, for although the -glory of the national capital had not come upon it in 1860, there was -even then abundant interest there for a country damsel. - -From Baltimore she wrote: - -“I’ve been wicked, and I like it. Edmonia took me to Kunkel and Moxley’s -Front Street Theatre last night to hear an opera, and I haven’t yet -wakened from the delicious dream. I think I never shall. I think I never -want to. Yet I am very sorry that I went, for I shall want to go again -and again and again, and you know that I mustn’t listen to such music as -that. It will make me bad, and really and truly I’d rather die than be -bad. I don’t understand it at all. Why is it wrong for me to hear great -music when it isn’t wrong for Edmonia? And Edmonia has heard the -greatest music there is, in New York and Paris and Vienna and Naples, -and it hasn’t hurt her in the least. I wish you would tell me why I am -so different, won’t you, Cousin Arthur?” - -From New York she wrote of music again and many times, for she had -accepted Arthur’s assurance that there was no harm but only good for her -in listening to music; and in obedience to his injunction she went twice -each week to the opera, where Edmonia’s friends, whose guest she was, -had a box of their own. Presently came from her a pleading letter, -asking if she might not herself learn to play a little upon the violin, -and availing herself of Arthur’s more than ready permission, she toiled -ceaselessly at the instrument until after a month or so Edmonia reported -that the girl’s music master was raving about the extraordinary gifts -she was manifesting. - -“I am a trifle worried about it, Arthur,” Edmonia added. “Perhaps her -father was right to forbid all this. Music is not merely a delight to -her--it is a passion, an intoxication, almost a madness. She is very -fond of dancing too, but I think dancing is to her little more than a -physical participation in the music. - -“And she mightily enjoys society. Still more does society enjoy her. Her -simplicity, her directness and her perfect truthfulness, are qualities -not very common, you know, in society, in New York or anywhere else. -People are delighted with her, and, without knowing it, she is the -reigning attraction in every drawing room. Ah me! She will have to know -it presently, for I foresee that ‘the young Virginia belle’ as they all -call her, will have many suitors for her hand before we sail--two weeks -hence. - -“She astonishes society in many ways. She is so perfectly well always, -for one thing. She is never tired and never has a headache. Most -astonishing of all, to the weary butterflies of fashion, she gets up -early in the morning and takes long rides on horseback before breakfast. - -“In certain companies--the sedater sort--she is reckoned a brilliant -conversationalist. That is because she reads and thinks, as not many -girls of her age ever do. In more frivolous society she talks very -little and is perhaps a rather difficult person for the average young -man to talk to. That also is because she reads and thinks. - -“On the whole, Arthur, Dorothy is developing altogether to my -satisfaction, but I am troubled about the music. Dr. South had a reason, -of which you know nothing, for fearing music in her case, as a dangerous -intoxication. Perhaps we ought not to disobey his instructions on the -subject. Won’t you think the matter over, Arthur, and advise me?” - -To this request Arthur’s reply came promptly. It was an oracular -deliverance, such as he was accustomed to give only when absolutely sure -of his judgment. - -“Have no fear as to the music,” he wrote. “It is not an intoxication to -Dorothy, as your report shows that indulgence in it is not followed by -reaction and lassitude. That is the sure test of intoxication. For the -rest Dorothy has a right to cultivate and make the most of the divine -gifts she possesses. Every human being has that right, and it is a cruel -wrong to forbid its exercise in any case. I am delighted to see from -your letters and hers that she has not permitted her interest in music -to impair her interest in other things. She tells me she has been -reading a book on ‘The Origin of Species’ by Charles Darwin. I have -heard of it but haven’t seen it yet, as it was published in England only -a few months ago and had not been reprinted here when I last wrote to -New York for some books. So please ask Dorothy to send me her copy as -soon as she has finished it, and tell her please not to rub out the -marginal notes she tells me she has been making in it. They will be -helpfully suggestive to me in my reading, and, as expressions of her -uninfluenced opinion, I shall value them even more than the text of the -book itself. She tells me she thinks the book will work a revolution in -science, giving us a new foundation to build upon. I sincerely hope so. -We have long been in need of new foundations. But, pardon me, you are -not interested in scientific studies and I will write to Dorothy herself -about all that.” - -At this point in her reading Edmonia laid the letter in her lap and left -it there for a considerable time before taking it up again. She was -thinking, a trifle sadly, perhaps, but not gloomily or with pain. - -“He is right,” she reflected. “I sympathize with him in his high -purposes and I share the general admiration of his character and genius. -But I do not share his real enthusiasms as Dorothy does. I have none of -that love for scientific truth for its own sake, which is an essential -part of his being. I have none of his self-sacrificing earnestness, none -of that divine discontent which is the mainspring of all his acts and -all his thinking. It is greatly better as Fate has ordered it. I am no -fit life partner for him. Had he married me I should have made him happy -in a way, perhaps, but it would have been at cost of his deterioration. -It is better as it is--immeasurably better,--and I must school myself -to think of it in that way. If I am worthy even of the friendship that -he so generously gives me, I shall learn to rejoice that he gives the -love to Dorothy instead, and not to me. I must learn to think of his -good and the fit working out of his life as the worthiest thing I can -strive for. And I _am_ learning this lesson. It is a little hard at -first, but I shall master it.” - -A few days later Dorothy, in one of her unconsciously self-revealing -letters, wrote: - -“I am sending you the Darwin book, with all my crude little notes in the -margins. I have sealed it up quite securely and paid full letter postage -on it, because it would be unjust to the government to send a book with -writing in it, at book postage rates. Besides, I don’t want anybody but -you to read the notes. Edmonia asked me to let her see the book before -sending it, but I told her I couldn’t because I should die of shame if -anybody should read my presumptuous comments on so great a book. For it -is great, really and truly great. It is the greatest explanation of -nature that anybody ever yet offered. At least that is the way it -impresses me. Edmonia asked me why I was so chary of letting her see -notes that I was entirely willing for you to see, and at first I -couldn’t explain it even to myself, for, of course, I love Edmonia -better than anybody else in the world, and I have no secrets from her. I -told her I would have to think the matter over before I could explain -it, and she said: ‘Think it out, child, and when you find out the -explanation you may tell me about it or not, just as you please.’ She -kindly laughed it off, but it troubled me a good deal. I couldn’t -understand why it was that I couldn’t bear to let her see the notes, -while I rather _wanted_ you to read them. I found it all out at last, -and explained it to her, and she seemed satisfied. It’s because you know -so much. You are my Master, and you always know how to allow for your -pupil’s wrong thinking even while you set me right. Besides, somehow I -am never ashamed of my ignorance when only you know of it. Edmonia said -that was quite natural, and that I was entirely right not to show the -scribbled book to her. So I don’t think I hurt her feelings, do you? - -“Now, I want to tell you about another thought of mine which may puzzle -you--or it may make you laugh as it does other people. There’s a woman -here--a very bright woman but not, to my taste, a lovely one--who is -very learned in a superficial way. She knows everything that is current -in science, art, literature, and fashion, though she seems to me -deficient in thoroughness. She ‘has the patter of it all at her tongue’s -end,’ as they say here, but I don’t think she knows much behind the -patter. A wise editor whom I met at dinner a few days ago, described her -as ‘a person who holds herself qualified to discuss and decide anything -in heaven or earth from the standpoint of the cyclopædia and her own -inner consciousness.’ She writes for one of the newspapers, though I -didn’t know it when she talked with me about Darwin. I told her I -thought of Darwin’s book as a great poem. You would have understood me, -if I had said that to you, wouldn’t you? You know I always think of the -grass, and the trees and the flowers, and the birds and the butterflies, -and all the rest, as nature’s poems, and this book seems to me a great -epic which dominates and includes, and interprets them all, just as -Homer and Milton and Virgil and Tasso and especially Shakespeare, -dominate all the little twitterings of all the other poets. Anyhow it -seems to me that a book which tells us how all things came about, is a -poem and a very great one. I said so to this woman, and next day I saw -it all printed in the newspaper for which she writes. I shouldn’t have -minded that as she didn’t tell my name, but I thought she seemed to -laugh and jeer at my thought. She said something witty about trying to -turn Darwin into dactyls and substitute dithyrambics for dogmatics in -the writings of Sir Isaac Newton. Somehow it all sounded bright and -witty as one read it in the newspaper. But is that the way in which a -serious thought ought to be treated? Do the newspapers, when they thus -flippantly deal with serious things, really minister to human -advancement? Do they not rather retard it by making jests of things that -are not jests? I have come to know a good many newspaper writers since I -have been here, and I am convinced that they have no real seriousness in -their work, no controlling conscience. ‘The newspaper’ said one of the -greatest of them to me not long ago, ‘is a mirror of today. It doesn’t -bother itself much with tomorrow or yesterday.’ I asked him why it -should not reflect today accurately, instead of distorting if with -smartness. ‘Oh,’ he answered, ‘we can’t stop to consider such things. We -must do that which will please and attract the reader, regardless of -everything else. Dulness is the only thing we must avoid as we shun the -pestilence, and erudition and profundity are always dull.’ - -“‘But doesn’t the newspaper assume to teach men and women?’ I asked. -‘And is it not in conscience bound to teach them the truth and not -falsehood?’ - -“‘Oh, yes, that’s the theory,’ he answered. ‘But how can we live up to -it? Take this matter of Darwinism, for example. We can’t afford to -employ great scientific men to discuss it seriously in our columns. And -if we did, only a few would read what they wrote about it. We have -bright fellows on our editorial staffs who know how to make it -interesting by playing with it, and for our purpose that is much better -than any amount of learning.’ - -“I have been thinking this thing over and I have stopped the reading of -newspapers. For I find that they deal in the same way with everything -else--except politics, perhaps, and, of course, I know nothing of -politics. I read a criticism of a concert the other day in which a -singer was--well, never mind the details. The man that wrote that -criticism didn’t hear the concert at all, as he confessed to me. He was -attending another theatre at the time. Yet he assumed to criticise a -singer to her detriment, utterly ignoring the fact that she has her -living to make by singing and that his criticism might seriously affect -her prospects. He laughed the matter off, and when I seemed disturbed -about it he said: ‘For your sake, Miss South, I’ll make amends. She -sings again tomorrow, and while I shall not be able to hear her, I’ll -give her such a laudation as shall warm the cockles of her heart and -make her manager mightily glad. You’ll forgive me, then, for censuring -her yesterday, I’m sure.’ I’m afraid I misbehaved myself then. I told -him I shouldn’t read his article, that I hated lies and shams and false -pretences, and that I didn’t consider his articles worth reading because -they had no truth or honesty behind them. It was dreadfully rude, I -know, and yet I’m not sorry for it. For it seemed to make an impression -on him. He told me that he only needed some such influence as mine to -give him a conscience in his work, and he actually asked me to marry -him! Think of the absurdity of it! I told him I wasn’t thinking of -marrying anybody--that I was barely seventeen, that--oh, well, I -dismissed the poor fellow as gently as I could.” - -But while the proposal of marriage by the newspaper man, and several -other such solicitations which followed it, struck Dorothy at first as -absurdities, they wrought a marked change in her mental attitude. Two at -least of these proposals were inspired by higher considerations than -those of the plantation which Dorothy represented, and were pressed with -fervor and tenderness by men quite worthy to aspire to Dorothy’s hand. -These were men of substance and character, in whose minds the -fascination which the Virginia girl unwittingly exercised over everybody -with whom she came into contact--men and women alike--had quickly -ripened into a strong and enduring passion. Dorothy suffered much in -rejecting such suits as theirs, but she learned something of herself in -the process. She for the first time realized that she was a woman and -that she had actually entered upon that career of womanhood which had -before seemed so far away in the future that thoughts of it had never -before caused her to blush and tremble as they did now. - -These things set her thinking, and in her thinking she half realized her -own state of mind. She began dimly to understand the change that had -come over her attitude and feeling towards Arthur Brent. She would not -let herself believe that she loved him as a woman loves but one man -while she lives; but she admitted to herself that she might come to -love him in that way if he should ever ask her to do so with the -tenderness and manifest sincerity which these others had shown. But of -that she permitted herself to entertain no hope and even no thought. His -letters to her, indeed, seemed to put that possibility out of the -question. For at this time Arthur held himself under severe restraint. -He was determined that he should not in any remotest way take advantage -of his position with respect to Dorothy, or use his influence over her -as a means of winning her. He knew now his own condition of mind and -soul in all its fulness. He was conscious now that the light of his life -lay in the hope of some day winning Dorothy’s love and making her all -and altogether his own. But he was more than ever determined, as he -formulated the thought in his own mind, to give Dorothy a chance, to -take no advantage of her, to leave her free to make choice for herself. -It was his fixed determination, should she come back heart whole from -this journey, to woo her with all the fervor of his soul; but the more -determined he became in this resolution, the more resolutely did he -guard his written words against the possibility that they might reveal -aught of this to her. “If she ever comes to love me as my wife,” he -resolved, “it shall be only after she has had full opportunity to make -another choice.” - -Accordingly his letters to her continued to concern themselves with -intellectual and other external things. He wrote her half a ream of -comment upon Darwin’s book, taking up for discussion every marginal note -she had made concerning it. But that part of his letter was as coldly -intellectual as any of their horseback conversations had been. In all -the intimate parts of that and his other letters, he wrote only as one -might to a sympathetic friend, as he might have written to Edmonia, for -example. He even took half unconscious pains to emphasize the fatherly -character of his relations with her, lest they assume some other aspect -to her apprehension. - -On her side Dorothy began now to write outside of herself, as it were. -She described to him all her new gowns and bonnets, laughing at the -confusion of mind in which a study of such details must involve him. In -her childlike loyalty she told him of the wooings that so distressed -her, but she did so quite as she might have written to him of the loves -of Juliet and Ophelia and the Lady of Lyons. For the rest she wrote -objectively now, in the main, and speculatively concerning certain of -those social problems in which she knew him to be profoundly interested, -and which she was somewhat studying now, because of the interest they -had for him. - -The word “slumming” had not been invented at that time by the insolence -that does the thing it means. But Dorothy, chiefly under the guidance of -her friends among the newspaper men, went to see how the abjectly poor -of a great city lived, and she wrote long letters of comment to Arthur -in which she told him how great and distressing the revelation was, and -how she honored his desire to do something for the amelioration of these -people’s lives. “Your aspiration is indeed a noble one,” she wrote in -one of her letters; “the life you proposed to yourself, and from which -you were diverted by your inheritance of a plantation, is the very -greatest, the very noblest that any man could lead. I once thought you -were doing even better in the care you are taking of the negroes at -Wyanoke and Pocahontas, and in your efforts ultimately to set them free. -But that was when I did not know. I know now, in part at least, and I -understand your feeling in the matter as I never could have done had I -not seen for myself. - -“People here sometimes say things to me that hurt. But I am ready with -my answer now. One woman--very intellectual, but a cat--asked me -yesterday how I could bear to hold negroes in slavery, and to buy fine -gowns with the proceeds of their toil. I told her frankly that I didn’t -like it, but that I couldn’t help it, and in reply to her singularly -ignorant inquiries as to why I didn’t end the wrong or at least my -participation in it, I explained some difficulties to her that she had -never taken the trouble to ask about. I told her how hard you were -working to discharge the debts of your estate in order that you might -send your negroes to the west to be free, and that you might yourself -return to New York to do what you could for the immeasurably worse -slaves here. She caught at my phrase and challenged it. I told her what -I meant, and as it happened to be in a company of highly intellectual -people, I suppose I ought not to have talked so much, but somehow they -seemed to want to hear. I said: - -“‘In Virginia I always visit every sick person on the plantation every -day. We send for a doctor in every case, and we women sit up night after -night to nurse every one that needs it. We provide proper food for the -sick and the convalescent from our own tables. We take care of the old -and decrepit, and of all the children. From birth to death they know -that they will be abundantly provided for. What poor family around the -Five Points has any such assurance? Who provides doctors and medicine -and dainties for them when they are ill? Who cares for their children? -Who assures them, in childhood and in old age, of as abundant a supply -of food and clothing, and as good a roof, as we give to the negroes? I -go every morning, as I just now said, to see every sick or afflicted -negro on my own plantation and on that of my guardian. How often have -you gone to the region of the Five Points to minister to those who are -ill and suffering and perhaps starving there?’ - -“‘Oh, that is all cared for by the charitable organizations’ she said, -‘and by the city missionaries.’ - -“‘Is it?’ I answered. ‘I do not find it so. I have emptied my purse a -dozen times in an effort to get a doctor for a very ill person here, and -to buy the medicines he prescribed, and to provide food for starving -ones. And then, next day I have found that the sick have died because -the well did not know how to cook the food I had provided, or how to -follow the doctor’s directions in the giving of medicine. I tell you -these poor people are immeasurably worse off than any negro slave at the -South is, or ever was. So far as I can learn there is no working -population in the world that gets half so much of comfort and care and -reward of every sort for its labor, as the negroes of Virginia get.’ - -“Then the woman broke out. She said: ‘You are dressed in a superb -satin’--it was at a social function--‘and every dollar of its cost was -earned by a negro slave on your plantation.’ I answered, ‘You are -equally well dressed. Will you tell me who earned the money that paid -for your satin gown?’ Then, Cousin Arthur, I lost my temper and my -manners. I told her that while we in Virginia profited by the labor of -our negroes, we gave them, as the reward of their labor, every desire of -their hearts and, besides that, an assurance of support in absolute -comfort for their old age, and for their children; while the laboring -class in New York, from whose labor she profited, and whose toil -purchased her gown, had nobody to care for them in infancy or old age, -in poverty and illness and suffering. ‘It is all wrong on both sides,’ I -said. ‘The toilers ought to have the full fruits of their toil in both -cases. The luxury of the rich is a robbery of the poor always and -everywhere. There ought not to be any such thing anywhere. The woman who -made your underclothing was robbed when you bought it at the price you -did. You wronged and defrauded the silk spinners and weavers and the -sewing women when you bought your gown. Worse than that; you have among -you men who have accumulated great fortunes in manufactures and -commerce. How did they do it? Was it not in commerce by paying the -producers for their products less than they were worth? Was it not in -manufactures by paying men and women and children less than they have -earned? Was not the great Astor estate based upon a shrewd robbery of -the Indian trappers and hunters? And has it not been swelled to its -present proportions by the growth of a city to whose growth the Astors -have never contributed a single dollar? Isn’t the whole thing a wrong -and a robbery? Isn’t the “Song of the Shirt” a reflection of truth? -Isn’t there slavery in New York as actually as in Virginia, and isn’t it -infinitely more cruel?’ - -“Then the woman shifted her ground. ‘But at least our laborers are -free,’ she said. ‘Are they?’ I answered. ‘Are they free to determine for -whom they will work or at what wages? Cannot their masters, who are -their employers, discharge them at will, when they get old or feeble or -otherwise incompetent, and leave them to starve? No master of a Virginia -plantation can do that. His neighbors would actually lynch him should he -turn a decrepit old negro out to die or even should he deny to him the -abundant food and clothing and housing that he gives to the able-bodied -negroes who make crops. And,’ I added, for I was excited, ‘this cruelty -is not confined to what are ordinarily called the laboring classes. I -know a man of unusual intellectual capacity, who has worked for years to -build up the fortunes of his employers. He has had what is regarded as a -very high salary. But being a man of generous mind he has spent his -money freely in educating the ten or a dozen sons and daughters of his -less fortunate brother. He is growing old now. He has earned for his -master, a thousand dollars for every dollar of salary that he ever -received just as all his fellow workers in the business have done. But -he is growing old now, and under the strain of night and day work, he -has acquired the habit of drinking too much. He hasn’t a thousand -dollars in the world as his reward for helping to make this other man, -his master, absurdly, iniquitously rich. Yet in his age and infirmity, -the other man, luxuriating in his palatial summer home which is only one -of the many palaces that other men’s toil late into the night has -provided for him, decides that the old servitor is no longer worth his -salary, and decrees his discharge. Is there anything so cruel as that in -negro slavery? Is that man half so well off as my negro mammy, who has a -house of her own and all the food and clothes she wants at the age of -eighty, and who could have the service of a dozen negro attendants for -the mere asking?’ - -“Now, Cousin Arthur, please don’t misunderstand me. Even what I have -seen at the Five Points doesn’t tempt me to believe in slavery. I want -of all things to see that exterminated. But, really and truly, I find an -immeasurably worse slavery here in New York than I ever saw in Virginia, -and I want to see it all abolished together, not merely the best and -kindliest and most humane part of it. I want to see the time when every -human being who works shall enjoy the full results of his work; when no -man shall be any other man’s master; when no man shall grow rich by -pocketing the proceeds of any other man’s genius or industry. I said all -this to that woman, and she replied: ‘You are obviously a pestilent -socialist. You are as bad as Fourier and Albert Brisbane and Horace -Greeley.’ That was very rude of her, seeing that Mr. Greeley was -present, but I’ve noticed that the people who most highly pride -themselves on good manners are often rude and inconsiderate of others to -a degree that would not be tolerated in Virginia society--except perhaps -from Mr. Madison Peyton. By the way, Mr. Jefferson Peyton was present, -and to my regret he said some things in defence of slavery which I could -not at all approve. Mr. Greeley interrupted him to say something like -this: - -“‘The dear young lady is quite right. We have a horrible slavery right -here in New York, and we ought to make war on that as earnestly as we do -on African slavery at the South. I’m trying to do it in the -Try-bune’--that’s the way he pronounces the name of his paper--‘and I’m -going to keep on trying.’ - -“That encouraged me, for I find myself more and more disposed to respect -Mr. Greeley as I come to know him better. I don’t always agree with him. -I sometimes think he is onesided in his views, and of course he is -enormously self-conceited. But he is, at any rate, an honest man, and a -brave and sincere one. He isn’t afraid to say what he thinks, any more -than you are, and I like him for that. Another great editor whom I have -met frequently, seems to me equally courageous, but far less -conscientious. He is inclined to take what he calls ‘the newspaper view’ -of things,--by which he means the view that appeals to the multitude for -the moment, without much regard for any fixed principle. Socially he is -a much more agreeable man than Mr. Greeley, but I don’t think him so -trustworthy. Mr. Greeley impresses me as a man who may be enormously -wrong-headed, under the influence of his prejudiced misconceptions, but -who, wrong-headed or right-headed, will never consciously wrong others. -If he had been born the master of a Virginia plantation he would have -dealt with his negroes in the same spirit in which he has insisted upon -giving to his fellow workers on the Tribune a share in the profits of -their joint work. Mr. Greeley is odd, but I like him better than any -editor I have met.” - -So the girl went on, writing objectively and instinctively avoiding the -subjective. But she did not always write so seriously. She had “caught -the patter” of society and she often filled pages with a sparkling, -piquant flippancy, which had for Arthur a meaning all its own. - - - - -XXX - -AT SEA - - -_T_he voyage to Europe in 1860 was a much more serious undertaking than -the like voyage is in our later time. It occupied a fortnight or three -weeks, for one thing, where now a week is ample time for the passage. -The steamers were small and uncomfortable--the very largest of them -being only half the size of the very smallest now regarded as fit for -passenger service. There was no promenade deck or hurricane deck then, -above the main deck, which was open to the sky throughout its length and -breadth, except for the interruption of one small deck house, covering -the companion way, a ventilator pipe here and there, and perhaps a -chicken coop to furnish emaciated and sea sick fowls for the table -d’hôte. There was no ice machine on board, and no distilling apparatus -for the production of fresh water. As a consequence, after two days out, -the warm water which passengers must drink began to taste of the ancient -wood of the water tanks; at the end of a week it became sickeningly -foul; and before the end of the voyage it became so utterly undrinkable -that the most aggressive teetotaler among the passengers was compelled -to order wine for his dinner and to abstain from coffee at breakfast. - -The passenger who did not grow seasick in those days was a rare -exception to an otherwise universal rule, while, in our time, when the -promenade deck is forty or fifty feet above the waves, and the -passengers are abundantly supplied both with palatable food and with -wholesome water, only those suffer with _mal de mer_ who are bilious -when they go on board, or who are beset by a senseless apprehension of -the sea. - -The passenger lists were small, too, even allowing for the diminutive -size of the ships. One person crossed the ocean then where perhaps a -hundred cross in our time. - -There were perhaps twenty passengers in the cabin of the ship in which -Dorothy sailed. By the second day out only two of the ship’s company -appeared at meals or at all regularly took the air on deck. Dorothy was -one of these two. The other she herself introduced, as it were, to -Arthur, in a long, diary-like letter which she wrote on shipboard and -mailed at Liverpool. - -“I’m sitting on a great coil of rope, just behind the deck house,” she -wrote, “where I am sheltered from the wind and where I can breathe my -whole body full of the delicious sea air. The air is flavored with great -quantities of the finest sunshine imaginable. Every now and then I lay -my paper down, and a very nice old sailor comes and puts two big iron -belaying pins on it, to keep it from blowing overboard while I go -skipping like a ten-year-old girl up and down the broad, clean deck, and -enjoying the mere being alive, just as I do on horseback in Virginia -when the sun is rising on a perfect morning. - -“I ought to be down stairs--no, I mustn’t say ‘down stairs,’ when I’m at -sea, I must say ‘below.’ Well, I ought to be below ministering to -Edmonia and her friend Mrs. Livingston,--or Mildred, as she insists on -my calling her--both of whom are frightfully sick; but really and truly, -Edmonia won’t let me. She fairly drove me out, half an hour ago. When I -didn’t want to go she threatened to throw her shoes at my head, saying -‘You dear little idiot, go on deck and keep your sea-well on, if you -can.’ And when I protested that she seemed very ill and that I hadn’t -the heart to go on the beautiful deck and be happy in the delicious air -and sunshine while she was suffering so, she said: ‘Oh, I’m always so -for the first three or four days, and I’m best let alone. My temper is -frightful when I’m seasick. That’s why I took separate staterooms for -you and me. I don’t want you to find out what a horribly ill-tempered, -ill-mannered woman I am when I’m seasick. How can I help it? I’ve got a -mustard plaster on my back and two on my chest, and I’ve drunk half a -bottle of that detestable stuff, champagne, and I’m really fighting mad. -Go away, child, and let me fight it out with myself and the -stewardesses. They don’t mind it, the dear good creatures. They’re used -to it. I threw a coffee cup full of coffee all over one of them this -morning because she presumed to insist upon my swallowing the horrible -stuff, and she actually laughed, Dorothy. I couldn’t get up a quarrel -with her no matter what I did, and so I tried my hand on the ship’s -doctor. I don’t like him anyhow. He’s just the kind that would make love -to me if he dared, and I don’t like men that do that.’ Then Edmonia -added: ‘He wouldn’t quarrel at all. When I told him he was trying to -poison me with bicarbonate of soda in my drinking water, he seriously -assured me that bicarbonate of soda isn’t poisonous in the least -degree, that it corrects acidity, and all that sort of thing. I gave him -up as hopeless,--but remind me, Dorothy, that when we go ashore I must -put half a dozen sovereigns into his hand--carefully wrapped up in -paper, so that he shan’t even guess what they are--as his well earned -fee for enduring my bad temper. But now, Dorothy, you see clearly that -this ship doesn’t provide any proper person for me to quarrel with, and -so I must fall back upon you, if you persist in staying here and -arrogantly insulting me with your sublime superiority to seasickness. So -get out of my room and stay out till I come on deck with my mind -restored to a normal condition.’ I really think she meant it, and so I’m -obeying her. And I should be very happy with the air and the sunshine -and my dear old sailorman who tells me sailor stories and sings to me -the very quaintest old sailor songs imaginable, if I could be sure that -I’m doing right in being happy while Edmonia is so very miserable. - -“As for Mildred--Mrs. Livingston--she lies white-faced and helpless in -her bunk--there, I got the sailor term right that time at the first -effort--while her husband simply sleeps and moans on the sofa. The -doctor says they are ‘progressing very satisfactorily’ and so I am -taking his advice and letting them alone. But why anybody should be -seasick, _how_ anybody _can_ be sick at sea, I simply cannot understand. -The ship’s doctor tried to explain it to me this morning, but he forgot -his explanation. He--well, never mind. He ought to have a wife with a -plantation or something of that sort, so that his abilities might have -an opportunity. I don’t think much of his abilities, and I don’t like -him half as well as I do my old sailor. He is going to tell me--the old -sailor, I mean and not the doctor--all about his life history tonight. -We are to have a moon, you know, and, as he’s on the ‘port watch,’ -whatever that may mean, he’s going to come on deck and tell me all about -himself. I’ll tell you about it in tomorrow’s instalment of this -rambling letter.” - -On the following day, or perhaps a day later even than that, Dorothy -wrote: - -“This is another day. I don’t just know what day. You know they keep -changing the clock at sea, and I’ve got mixed up. Edmonia still throws -shoes and medicine bottles and coffee cups at me whenever I thrust my -head inside the portière of her stateroom, and Mildred, though she has -sufficiently recovered to come on deck, lies helpless in a deck chair -which my sailor has ‘made fast’--you see I’m getting to be an expert in -nautical terms--to a mast or a spar or something, and when I speak to -her, says, ‘Go away, child, and be happy in the midst of human misery, -if you can. Let me alone.’ When I ask her concerning her husband she -answers: ‘I suppose he’s comfortable in his misery. At any rate, he has -two bottles of champagne by his side, and he is swearing most hopefully. -I always know he is getting over it when he begins to swear in real -earnest, and with a certain discretion in the choice of his oaths. Now, -run away, you ridiculously well girl or I’ll begin to borrow from Rex’s -vituperative vocabulary.’ Rex is her husband you know. - -“The sailor’s story didn’t amount to anything, so I’ll not bother you -with a repetition of it.” - -[As a strictly confidential communication, not to be mentioned to -anybody, the author so far intrudes upon attention at this point, as to -report that the sailorman, at the end of his picturesque and imaginative -narrative, professed a self-sacrificing willingness to abandon the -delights of a sea-faring existence, and to content himself thereafter -with the homelier and less romantic duties of master of Pocahontas -plantation. Dorothy, in continuing her letter, was quite naturally -reticent upon this point. But she went on liking that old sailorman, in -whose devotion to her comfort on deck nothing seemed to make the -slightest difference. Perhaps this chronic mariner already had ‘a wife -in every port’ and was only ‘keeping his hand in’ at courtship. At any -rate after duly disciplining him, Dorothy went on liking him and -accepting his manifold, sailorly attentions. Ah, these women! How very -human they are in face of all their airs and pretensions!] - -It was a day later that Dorothy wrote: - -“There is a very extraordinary lady on board, and I have become -acquainted with her, in a way. I didn’t see her at all during the first -day out. As she tells me she is never seasick, I suppose she kept her -cabin for some other reason. At any rate the first time I met her was on -the morning of that second day out, when I was skipping about the deck -and making believe that I was little Dorothy again--little ten-year-old -Dorothy, who didn’t care if people were seeing her when she skipped. The -captain saw me first. He’s a dear old fellow with a big beard and nine -children and a nice little baby at home. And, think of it, the people -that hire him to run their ship won’t let him bring his wife on board -or any of his children on any account! That isn’t quite correct either, -for two voyages ago it was the twenty-first anniversary of his marriage, -and when he asked permission to bring his wife and baby with him on his -trip to New York and back, just to celebrate, you see, the company gave -permission without any hesitation. But when he came on board, he found -another captain in command for that one trip, and himself only a -passenger. That’s because the company don’t want a captain’s attention -distracted, and I suppose a new baby whom he had never seen before would -have distracted him a great deal. Anyhow that’s the way it was and the -only reason the captain told me about it was that I asked him why he -didn’t have his wife and children on board with him always. But I set -out to tell you about the lady. After the captain had ‘captured’ me, as -he put it, and had taken me up on the bridge, and had shown me how to -take an observation and how to steer--he let me steer all by myself for -more than a mile and I didn’t run the ship into anything, perhaps -because there wasn’t anything within five hundred miles to run into--I -went down on deck again, hoping that maybe Diana had got well enough to -come out, but she hadn’t. She isn’t violently ill, but she’s the most -entirely, hopelessly, seasick person I’ve seen yet. She--well, never -mind. She’ll get well again, and in the meanwhile I must tell you about -the lady. She spoke to me kindly and said: - -“‘As you and I seem to be the only well passengers on board, I think I’m -entitled to a sea acquaintance with you, Miss Dorothy. You know sea -acquaintances carry no obligations with them beyond the voyage, and so -no matter how chummy we may become out here on the ocean you needn’t -even bow to me if we meet again on shore.’ She seemed so altogether nice -that I told her I wouldn’t have a mere sea acquaintance with her, but -would get acquainted with her ‘for truly,’ as the children say. She -seemed glad when I said that, and we talked for two hours or more, after -which we went to luncheon and sat side by side--as everybody else is -seasick we had the table all to ourselves and didn’t need to mind whose -chairs we sat in. - -“Well, she is a strangely fascinating person, and the more I know of her -the more she fascinates me. Sometimes she seems as young as I myself am; -sometimes she seems very old. She is tall and what I call willowy. That -is to say she bends as easily in any direction as a willow wand could, -and with as much of grace. Indeed grace is her dominant characteristic, -as I discovered when she danced a Spanish fandango to my playing--just -all to ourselves you know, behind the deck house. She knows everybody -worth knowing, too--all the editors and artists and actors and singers -and pianists and people in society that I have met, and a great many -others that I haven’t met at all. And she really does know them, too, -for one day in her cabin I saw a great album of hers, and when she saw I -was interested in it she bade me take it on deck, saying that perhaps it -might amuse me during the hour she must give to sleep. And when I read -it, I found it full of charming things in prose and verse, all addressed -to her, and all signed by great people, or nearly all. She told me -afterwards that she valued the other things most--the things signed by -people whose names meant nothing to me. ‘For those,’ she said, ‘are my -real friends. The rest--well, no matter. They are professionals, and -they do such things well.’ I don’t just know what she meant by that, but -I have a suspicion that she loves truth better than anything else, and -that she doesn’t think distinguished people always tell the truth when -they write in albums. At any rate when I asked her if I might write and -sign a little sentiment in her album, she said, with more of emotion -than the occasion seemed to call for: ‘Not in that book, my child! Not -as a tag to all those people. If you will write me three or four lines -of your own on a simple sheet of paper and sign it, I’ll have it -sumptuously bound when I get to Paris, in a book all to itself, and -nobody else shall ever write a line to go with it while I live.’ - -“Wasn’t it curious? And especially when you reflect how many -distinguished people she knows! But she brought me a sheet of very fine -paper that afternoon, and said: ‘I don’t want you to write now. I don’t -want you to write till our voyage is nearly over. Then I want you to -write the truth as to your feeling for me. No matter what it is, I want -it to be the truth, so that I may keep it always.’ I took the sheet and -wrote on it, ‘I wish you were my mother.’ That was the truth. I do wish -every hour that this woman were my mother. But she refused to read what -I had written, saying: ‘I will keep it, child, unread until the end of -the voyage. Then I’ll give it back to you if you wish, and you shall -write again whatever you are prompted to write, be it this or something -quite different.’ - -“Curiously enough, her name is in effect the same as my own, translated -into French. She is Madame Le Sud. That means Mrs. South, of course, and -when I called her attention to the fact, she said: ‘perhaps that may -suggest an additional bond of affection between us.’” - -Several days passed before Dorothy resumed her writing. - -“I haven’t added a line to my letter for two or three days past. That’s -because I have been so busy learning to know and love Madame Le Sud. She -is the very sweetest and most charming woman I ever saw in my life. She -is a trifle less than forty--just old enough I tell her, to be my mother -if it had happened in that way. Then she asked me about my real mother -and I couldn’t tell her anything. I couldn’t even tell when she died, or -what her name had been or anything about her. Isn’t it a strange thing, -Cousin Arthur, that nobody has ever told me anything about my mother? It -makes me ashamed when I think of it, and still more ashamed when I -remember that I never asked anything about her, except once. That time I -asked my father some question and he answered only by quickly rising and -going out to mount his horse and ride away all alone. That is the way he -always did when things distressed him, and as I didn’t want to distress -him I never asked him anything more about my mother. But why haven’t I -been told about her? Was she bad? And is that why everybody has been so -anxious about me, fearing that I might be bad? Even if that were so they -ought to have told me about my mother, especially after I began to grow -up and know how to stand things bravely. May be when I was too little to -understand it was better to keep silent. But when I grew older there was -no excuse for not telling me the truth. I don’t think there ever is any -excuse for that. The truth is the only thing in the world that a sane -person ought to love. I’m only seventeen years old, but I’m old enough -to have found out that much, and I don’t think I shall ever quite -forgive those who have shut out from me the truth about my mother. You, -Cousin Arthur, haven’t had any hand in that. I never asked you, but I -know. If you had known about my mother you’d have told me. You could not -have helped it. The only limitation to your ability that I ever -discovered is your utter inability to tell lies. If you tried to do that -you’d make such a wretched failure of the attempt that the truth would -come out in spite of you. So, of course, you are as ignorant as I am -about my mother. - -“But I wanted to tell you about Madame Le Sud. To me she is the most -beautiful woman in the world, and yet most people would call her -hideously ugly. Indeed, I’ve heard people on the ship call her that way, -for they’re beginning at last to come out on deck and try to get well. -She has a terribly disfiguring scar. It begins in her hair and extends -down over her left eye which it has put out, and down her cheek by the -side of her nose, almost, but not quite to her upper lip. The scar is -very ugly, of course, but the woman is altogether beautiful. She -impresses me as wonderfully fine and fragile--delicate in the same way -that a piece of old Sèvres china is. She plays the violin divinely. She -wouldn’t play for me at first, and she has since confessed that she -feared to make me afraid to play for her. ‘For I am a professional -musician,’ she said, ‘or rather I was, till I got this disfiguring scar. -After that how could I present myself to an audience?’ Then she told me -how she got the scar. She was celebrating something or other with a -company of friends. They drank champagne too freely, and one of them, -taking from Madame Le Sud’s mantelpiece a perfume bottle, playfully -emptied its contents on her head. It was a perfume bottle, but it held -nitric acid which somebody had been using medicinally. In an instant -the mischief was done and Madame Le Sud’s career as a famous musician -was ended forever. - -“When she got well she was very poor, having spent all her money during -her illness. A manager came to her and wanted her to go on as ‘the -veiled violinist,’ he pretending that she was some woman of -distinguished family and high social position whose love of music -tempted her to exercise her skill upon the stage, but whose social -position forbade her to show her face or reveal her name. He offered her -large sums if she would do this, but she refused to make herself a party -to such a deception. She secured employment, as she puts it, in a much -humbler capacity which enables her to turn her artistic taste to account -in earning a living, and it is in connection with this employment that -she is now on her way to Paris. She did not tell me what her employment -is, and of course I did not ask her. But now that I have learned -something of her misfortunes, and have seen how bravely she bears them, -I love her better than ever. - -“Diana has come upon deck at last, ‘dressed and in her right mind.’ She -is very proud of having been ‘seasick jes’ like white folks.’ She so far -asserts her authority as to order Edmonia--who is quite herself -again--and me to array ourselves in some special gowns of her personal -selection for the captain’s dinner today. It is to be a notable affair -and Madame Le Sud is to play a violin solo. They asked me to play also, -but I refused, till Madame Le Sud asked me to give ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ -with her to play second violin. Think of it! This wonderful musical -artist volunteering to ‘play second fiddle’ to a novice like me! But she -insists upon liking my rendering of the dear old melody and she has -taken the trouble to compose a special second part, which, she -generously says, ‘will bring out the beauty’ of my performance. - -“We expect to make land during tonight, and by day after tomorrow, I’ll -mail this letter at Liverpool.” - - - - -XXXI - -THE VIEWS AND MOODS OF ARTHUR BRENT - - -_W_hen Dorothy had gone Arthur Brent felt a double necessity for -diligence in the ordering of plantation affairs. He realized for the -first time what he had done in thus sending Dorothy away. For the first -time he began to understand his own condition of mind and the extent to -which this woman had become a necessity to his life. Quite naturally, -too, her absence and the loss of his daily association with her served -to depress him, as nothing else had ever done before. The sensation of -needing some one was wholly novel to him, and by no means agreeable. -“What if I should never have her with me again--never as _my_ Dorothy?” -he reflected. “That may very easily happen. In fact I sent her away in -order that it might happen, if it would. Her affection for me is still -quite that of a child for one much older than herself. Edmonia does not -so regard it, but perhaps she is wrong. Perhaps her conviction that -Dorothy the woman loves me even more than Dorothy the child ever did, -and that her love will survive acquaintance with other and more -attractive men, and other and more attractive ways of life, is born only -of her eager desire to have that come about. A year’s absence will not -make Dorothy forget me or even love me less than she does now. But how -much does she love me now, in very truth? May it not happen that when -she returns a year hence she will have given her woman’s heart to some -other, bringing back to me only the old, child love unchanged? I must be -prepared for that at all events. I must school myself to think of it as -a probability without the distress of mind it gives me now. And I must -be ready, when it happens, to go away from here at once and take up -again my life of strenuous endeavor and absorbing study. I mustn’t let -this thing ruin me as it might some weakling in character.” - -In order that he might be ready thus to leave Virginia when the time -should come, rejoicing instead of grieving over Dorothy’s good fortune -in finding some fitter life than his to share, Arthur knew that he must -this year discharge the last dollar of debt that rested upon the Wyanoke -estate. He must be a free man on Dorothy’s return--free to reënter the -world of scientific work, free to make and keep himself master of his -own mind, as he had always been until this strange thing had come over -his life. - -He thus set himself two tasks, one of which he might perhaps fulfil by -hard work and discreet management. The other promised to be greatly more -difficult. He made a very bad beginning at it by sitting up late at -night to read and ponder Dorothy’s letters, to question them as to the -future, to study every indication of character or impulse, or temporary -mood of mind they might give. - -With the debt-paying problem he got on much better. He had now a whole -year’s accumulated income from his annuity, and he devoted all of it at -once to the lightening of this burden. He studied markets as if they had -been problems in physics, and guided himself in his planting by the -results of these studies. He had sold apples and bacon and sweet -potatoes the year before, as we know, with results that encouraged him -to go further in the direction of “Yankee farming.” This year he planted -large areas in watermelons and other large areas in other edible things -that the people of the cities want, but which no south side Virginia -planter had ever thought of growing for sale. - -He was laughed at while doing all this, and envied when the results of -it appeared. - -He deliberately implicated Dorothy in these his misdeeds, also, doing on -her plantation precisely as he did on his own, so that when late in the -autumn he gave account of his stewardship he was able to inform the -court, to its astonishment and to that of the entire community, that he -had discharged every dollar of debt that had rested upon his ward’s -estate. The judge applauded such management of a trust estate, and -Arthur Brent’s neighbors wondered. Some of them saw in his success -ground of approval of “Yankee farming”; all of them conceived a new -respect for the ability of a man who had thus, in so brief a time, freed -two old estates from the hereditary debts that had been accumulating for -slow generations. - -Arthur had been additionally spurred and stimulated to the -accomplishment of this end, by the forebodings of evil in connection -with national politics which had gravely haunted him throughout the -year. - -In May the Republican party had nominated Mr. Lincoln, and about the -same time the Democrats made his election a practical certainty. There -was clearly a heavy majority of the people opposed to his election, but -the division of that opposition into three hostile camps with three -rival candidates, rendered Republican success a foregone conclusion. By -some at least of the politicians the division was deliberately intended -to produce that result, while the great mass of the people opposed to -Mr. Lincoln and seriously fearing the consequences of his election, -deeply deplored the condition thus brought about. - -The Republican party at that time existed only at the North. For the -first time in history the election threatened the country with the -choice of a president by an exclusively sectional vote, and in -opposition to the will of the majority of the people. On the popular -vote, in fact, Mr. Lincoln was in a minority of nearly a million, and -every electoral vote cast for him came from the northern states. In most -of the southern states indeed there was no canvass made for him, no -electoral nominations presented in his behalf. - -Added to this was the fact that the one point on which his party was -agreed, the one bond of opinion that held it together for political -action, the one impulse held in common by all its adherents, was -hostility to slavery, which the men of the South construed to mean -hostility--intense and implacable--to the states in which that -institution existed and even to the people of those states. - -The “platform” on which Mr. Lincoln was nominated, did indeed protest, -as he had himself done in many public utterances, that this was a -misinterpretation of attitude and purpose; that the party disclaimed all -intent to interfere with slavery in the slave states; that it held -firmly to the right of each state to regulate that matter for itself, -and repudiated the assumption of any power on the part of the Federal -government to control the action of the several states or in any wise to -legislate for them on this subject. - -But these pledges were taken at the South to mean no more than a desire -to secure united action in an election. The party proclaimed its -purpose, while letting slavery alone in the states, to forbid its -extension to the new territories. This alone was deemed a program of -injustice by that very active group of Southern men who, repudiating the -teachings of Jefferson, and Wythe and Henry Clay, had come to believe in -African slavery as a thing right in itself, a necessity of the South, a -labor system to be upheld and defended and extended, upon its own -merits. These men contended that the new territories were the common and -equal possession of all the people; that any attempt by Federal -authority to deny to the states thereafter to be formed out of those -territories, the right to determine for themselves whether they would -permit or forbid slavery, was a wrong to the South which had contributed -of its blood and treasure even more largely than the North had done to -their acquisition. They further contended that any such legislation -would of necessity involve an assumption of Federal authority to control -states in advance of their formation,--an assumption which might easily -be construed to authorize a like Federal control of states already -existing, including those that had helped to create the Union. - -All this Arthur Brent contemplated with foreboding from the first. He -anticipated Mr. Lincoln’s election from the beginning of the absurd -campaign. And while he could not at all agree with those who were -prepared to see in that event an occasion for secession and revolution, -he foreboded those calamities as results likely in fact to follow. And -even should a kindly fate avert them for a time, he saw clearly that the -alignment of parties in the nation upon sectional issues must be -productive of new and undreamed of irritations, full of threatening to -the peace of the Republic. - -No more than any of his neighbors could he forecast the events of the -next few years. “But,” he wrote to Dorothy in the autumn “I see that the -election of Mr. Lincoln is now a certainty; I foresee that it will lead -to a determined movement in the South in favor of secession and the -dissolution of the Federal Union. It ought to be possible, if that must -come, to arrange it on a basis of peaceable agreement to disagree--the -Southern States assuming all responsibility for slavery till they can -rid themselves of it with safety to society, and the Northern people -washing their hands once for all of an iniquity from which they have -derived the major part of the profit. This they did, particularly during -those years after 1808, in which the African slave trade was prohibited -by law, but was carried on by New England ship masters and New England -merchants with so great a profit that Justice Joseph Story of the United -States supreme court, though himself a New Englander, was denounced by -the New England press and even threatened with a violent ejection from -the bench, because he sought to prevent and punish it, in obedience to -the national statute. - -“But I am wandering from my theme,” he continued. “I wanted to say that -while I think there is no real occasion for a disruption of the Union, I -gravely fear that it is coming. And while I think it should be possible -to accomplish it peaceably I do not believe it will be done in that way. -There are too many hot heads on both sides, for that. There is too much -gunpowder lying around, and there will be too many sparks flying about. -Listen, Dorothy! I foresee that Mr. Lincoln will be elected in November. -I anticipate an almost immediate attempt on the part of the cotton -states to dissolve the Union by secession. I shall do everything I can -to help other sober minded Virginians to keep Virginia out of this -movement, and if Virginia can be kept out of it, the other border states -will accept her action as controlling, and they too will stay out of the -revolutionary enterprise. In that case the states farther South will be -amenable to reason, and if there is reason and discretion exercised at -Washington and in the North, some means may possibly be found for -adjusting the matter--Virginia and Kentucky perhaps acting successfully -as mediators. But I tell you frankly, I do not expect success in the -program to which I intend to devote all my labors and all I have of -influence. I look to see Virginia drawn into the conflict. I look for -war on a scale far more stupendous than any this country has ever seen. - -“I can no more foresee what the result of such a war will be than you -can--so far at least as military operations are concerned. But some of -the results I think I do see very clearly. Virginia will be the -battle-ground, and Virginia will be desolated as few lands have ever -been in the history of the world. Another thing, Dorothy. If this war -comes, as I fear it will, it will make an end of African slavery in this -country. For if we of the South are beaten in the conflict of arms, the -complete extinction of slavery will be decreed as a part of the penalty -of war and the price of peace. If we are successful, we shall have set -up a Canada at our very doors. The Ohio and the Potomac will become a -border beyond which every escaping negro will be absolutely free, and -across which every conceivable influence will be brought to bear upon -the negroes to induce them to run away. Under such conditions the -institution must become an intolerable as well as an unprofitable -annoyance, and it will speedily disappear. - -“Now I come to what I set out to say. Before election day this present -fall I shall have paid off every dollar of the debts that rest upon -Pocahontas and Wyanoke. You and I will be free, at least, from that -source of embarrassment, and whatever the military or political, or -legal or social results of the war may be, you and I will be owners of -land that is subject to no claim of any kind against us. I have -grievously compromised your dignity as well as my own in my efforts to -bring this about, but you are not held responsible for my ‘Yankee -doings,’ at Pocahontas, and as for me, I am not thin-skinned in such -matters. I’d far rather be laughed at for paying debts in undignified -ways than be dunned for debts that I cannot pay.” - -This letter reached Dorothy in Paris, on her return through Switzerland, -from an Italian journey, undertaken in the early summer before the -danger of Roman fever should be threatening. Had such a letter come to -her a few months earlier, her response to it would have been an utterly -submissive assent to all that her guardian had done, with perhaps a -wondering question or two as to why he should feel it necessary to ask -her consent to anything he might be minded to do, or even to tell her -what he had done. But Dorothy had grown steadily more reserved in her -writing to him, as experience had slowly but surely awakened womanly -consciousness in her soul. She was still as loyally devoted as ever to -Arthur, but she shrank now as she had not been used to do, from too -candid an expression of her devotion. The child had completely given -place to the woman in her nature and the woman was far less ready than -the child had been to reveal her feelings. A succession of suitors for -her hand had taught Dorothy to think of herself as a woman bound to -maintain a certain reserve in her intercourse with men. They had -awakened in her a consciousness of the fact, of which she had scarcely -even thought in the old, childish days, that Arthur Brent was a young -man and Dorothy South a young woman, and that it would ill become -Dorothy South to reveal herself too frankly to this young man. She did -not quite know what there was in her mind to reveal or to withhold from -revelation, but she instinctively felt the necessity strong upon her to -guard herself against her own impulsive truthfulness. She had no more -notion that she had dared give her woman’s love to Arthur unasked, than -she had that he--who had never asked for it--desired her love. He -remained to her in fact the enormously superior being that she had -always held him to be, but she found herself blushing sometimes when -she remembered the utter abandon with which she had been accustomed to -lay bare her innermost thoughts and sentiments, her very soul, indeed, -to his scrutiny. - -She knew of no reason why she should now alter her attitude or her -demeanor towards him, and she resolutely determined that she would not -in the least change either, yet the letter she wrote to him on this -occasion was altogether unlike that which she would have written a few -months earlier upon a like occasion. She expressed her approval of all -that he had done with respect to her estate, where in like case a few -months earlier she would have asked him wonderingly what she had to do -with things planned and accomplished by him. She expressed acquiescence -as one might who has the right to approve or to criticise, where before -she would have concerned herself only with rejoicings that her guardian -had got things as he wanted them, in accordance with his unquestioned -and unquestionable right to have everything as he wanted it to be in a -world quite unworthy of him. - -In brief, Dorothy’s letter depressed Arthur Brent almost unendurably. -Because he missed something from it that long use had taught him to -expect in all her utterances to him, he read into it much of coldness, -alienation, indifference, which it did not contain. He sat up all night, -torturing himself with doubts for which a frequent reperusal of the -letter furnished him no shadow of justification; and when the gray -morning came he ordered his horse, meaning to ride purposely nowhither. -But when the horse was brought, a new and overpowering sense of -Dorothy’s absence and perhaps her alienation, came over him. He -remembered vividly every detail of that first morning’s ride he had had -with her, and instinctively he copied her proceeding on that occasion. -Drawing forth his handkerchief he rubbed the animal’s flanks and rumps -with it to its soiling. - -“I’ll not ride this morning, Ben,” he said. “I’ll go back to the house -and write a letter to your Mis’ Dorothy and I’ll enclose that -handkerchief for her inspection.” - - - - -XXXII - -THE SHADOW FALLS - - -_W_ith the autumn came that shadow over the land which Arthur Brent had -so greatly dreaded. Mr. Lincoln’s election was quickly succeeded by the -secession of South Carolina. One after another the far Southern States -followed, and presently the seceding states allied themselves in a new -confederacy. - -The whole country was in a ferment. The founders of the Union had made -no provision whatever for such a state of things as this, and even the -wisest men were at a loss to say what ought to be done or what could be -done. There seemed to be nowhere any power or authority adequate to deal -with the situation in one way or in another. All was chaos in the -coolest minds while the hotheads on either side were daily making -matters worse by their intemperate utterances and by the unyielding -arrogance of their attitude. - -In the meantime the administration at Washington seemed intent only upon -preventing the outbreak of open war until its term should end on the -fourth of March, 1861, while those into whose hands the government must -pass on that date had not only no authority to act but no privilege even -of advising. - -It seemed fortunate at the time, that Virginia refused to join in the -secession movement. Her refusal and her commanding influence over the -other border states seemed for a time to provide an opportunity for wise -counsels to assert themselves. There were radical secessionists in -Virginia and uncompromising opponents of secession on any terms. But the -attitude of the great majority of Virginians, as was shown in the -election of a constitutional convention on the fourth of February, was -one of earnestness for peace and reconciliation and the preservation of -the Federal Union. - -The Virginians believed firmly in the constitutional right of any state -to withdraw from the Union, but the majority among them saw in Mr. -Lincoln’s election no proper occasion for the exercise of that right. -They regarded the course of the cotton states in withdrawing from the -Union as one strictly within their right, but as utterly unwise and -unnecessary. On the other hand they firmly denied the right of the -national government to coerce the seceding states or in any manner to -make war upon them. - -Arthur Brent was an uncompromising believer in the right of a state to -secede, and equally an uncompromising opponent of secession as a policy. -That part of Virginia in which he lived was divided in opinion and -sentiment, with a distinct preponderance of opinion in behalf of -secession. But when the call came for the election of a constitutional -convention to decide upon Virginia’s course the secessionists of his -district were represented by two rival candidates, both fiercely -favoring secession. The only discoverable difference in their views was -that one of them wanted the convention to adopt the ordinance of -secession “before breakfast on the day of its first assembling,” while -the other contended that it would be more consonant with the dignity of -the state to have muffins and coffee first. - -Neither of these candidates was a person of conspicuous influence in the -community. Neither was a man of large ability or ripe experience or -commanding social position--the last counting for much in Virginia in -those days when there was no such thing as a ballot in that state, and -when every man must go to the polls and openly proclaim his vote. - -Under these circumstances a number of the conservative men of the -district got together and decided to make Arthur Brent a candidate. It -was certain that the secession vote would be in the majority in the -district, but if it were divided between the two rival candidates, as it -was certain to be, these gentlemen were not without hope that their -candidate might secure a plurality and be elected. - -Arthur strenuously objected to the program so far at least as it -concerned his own candidacy. He had a pronounced distaste for politics -and public life, and he stoutly argued that some one who had lived all -his life in that community would be better able than he to win all there -was of conservatism to his support. He entreated these his friends to -adopt that course. It was significant of the high place he had won in -the estimation of the community’s best, that they refused to listen to -his protest, and, by a proclamation over their own signatures, announced -him as their candidate and urged all men who sincerely desired wise and -prudent counsels to prevail in a matter which involved Virginia’s entire -future, to support him at the polls. - -Thus compelled against his will to be a candidate, Arthur entered at -once upon a canvass of ceaseless activity. He did not mean to be -defeated. He spoke every day and many times every day, and better still -he talked constantly to the groups of men who surrounded him, setting -forth his views persuasively and so convincingly that when the polls -closed on that fateful fourth of February, it was found that Arthur -Brent had been elected by a plurality which amounted almost to a -majority, to represent his district in that constitutional convention -which must decide Virginia’s commanding course, and in large degree, -perhaps, determine the final issue of war or peace. - -When the convention met nine days later it was found that an -overwhelming majority of the members held views identical, or nearly so, -with those of Arthur Brent. There were a very few uncompromising -secessionists in the body, and also a few unconditional Union men, who -declared their hostility to secession upon any terms, at any time, under -any circumstances. Among these unconditional Union men, curiously enough -were two who afterwards became notable fighters for the Southern -cause--namely Jubal A. Early and William C. Wickham. - -But the overwhelming majority opposed secession as a mistaken policy, -uncalled for by anything in the then existing circumstances, and certain -to precipitate a devastating war; while at the same time maintaining the -constitutional right of each state to secede, and holding themselves -ready to vote for Virginia’s secession, should the circumstances so -change as to render that course in their judgment obligatory upon the -state under the law of honor. - -That change occurred in the end, as we shall presently see. But, in the -meantime, these representatives of the Virginia people wrought with all -their might for the maintenance of peace and the preservation of the -Union. They counselled concession and sweet reasonableness, on both -sides. They urged upon both the commanding necessity of endeavoring, in -a spirit of mutual forbearance, to find some basis of adjustment by -which that Union which Virginia had done so much to bring about, and -under which the history of the Republic had been a matter of universal -pride both North and South, might be preserved and established anew upon -secure foundations. More important than all this was the fact that these -representative men of Virginia denied to the seceding cotton states the -encouragement of Virginia’s sanction for their movement, the absolutely -indispensable moral and material support of the mother state. - -For a time there was an encouraging prospect of the success of these -Virginian efforts. Nobody, North or South, believed that the cotton -states would long stand alone in their determination, if Virginia and -the other border states that looked to her for guidance--Kentucky, North -Carolina, Arkansas, Tennessee, and Maryland--should continue to hold -aloof. - -In the meantime Mr. Lincoln, after his inauguration, had a somewhat -similar problem to deal with at the North. There was a party there -clamorous for instant war with a declared purpose of abolishing slavery. -The advocates of that policy pressed it upon the new president as -urgently as the extreme secessionists at the South pressed secession -upon Virginia. Mr. Lincoln saw clearly, as these his advisers did not, -that their policy was utterly impracticable. From the very beginning he -insisted upon confining his administration’s efforts rigidly to the task -of preserving the Union with the traditional rights of all the states -unimpaired. He saw clearly that there were men by hundreds of thousands -at the North, who would heart and soul support the administration’s -efforts to preserve the Union, even by war if that should be necessary, -but who would antagonize by every means in their power a war for the -extirpation of slavery at cost of Federal usurpation of control over any -state in its domestic affairs. - -Accordingly, Mr. Lincoln held to his purpose. He would make no attempt -to interfere with slavery where it constitutionally existed, and he -would make no direct effort to compel seceding states to return to the -Union; but he would use whatever force he might find necessary to -repossess the forts, arsenals, post-offices and custom houses which the -seceding states had seized upon within their borders, and he would -endeavor to enforce the Federal laws there. - -But in order to accomplish this, military forces were necessary, and the -government at Washington did not possess them. There was only the -regular army, and it consisted of a mere handful of men, scattered from -Eastport, Maine, to San Diego, California, from St. Augustine, Florida -to Puget’s Sound, and charged with the task--for which its numbers were -utterly inadequate--of keeping the Indians in order and proper -subjection. It is doubtful that Mr. Lincoln could have concentrated a -single full regiment of regulars at any point, even at risk of -withdrawing from the Indian country the men absolutely necessary to -prevent massacre there. He therefore called for volunteers with whom to -conduct such military operations as he deemed necessary. He apportioned -the call among the several states that had not yet seceded. He called -upon Virginia for her quota. - -That was the breaking point. Virginia had to choose. She must either -furnish a large force of volunteers with which the Federal government -might in effect coerce the seceding states into submission, or she must -herself secede and cast in her lot with the cotton states. To the -Virginian mind there was only one course possible. The Virginians -believed firmly and without doubt or question in the right of any state -to withdraw from the Union at will. They looked with unimagined horror -upon every proposal that the Federal power should coerce a seceding -state into submission. They regarded that as an iniquity, a crime, a -proceeding unspeakably wrongful and subversive of liberty. They could -have nothing to do with such an attempt without dishonor of the basest -kind. Accordingly, almost before the ink was dry upon the call upon -Virginia for volunteers with which to make war upon the seceding -Southern States, the Virginia, pro-Union convention, adopted an -ordinance of secession, and the Civil War was on. - -The men who had, so long and so earnestly, and in face of such -contumely, labored to keep Virginia in the Union and to use all that -state’s commanding influence in behalf of peace, felt themselves obliged -to yield to the inevitable, and to consent to a sectional war for which -they saw no necessity and recognized no occasion. They had wasted their -time in a futile endeavor to bring about a reconciliation where the -conflict had been all the while hopelessly “irrepressible.” There was -nothing for it now but war, and Virginia, deeply deprecating war, set -herself at work in earnest to prepare for the conflict. - -In accordance with his lifelong habit of mind, Arthur Brent in this -emergency put aside all thoughts of self-interest, and looked about him -to discover in what way he might render the highest service to his -native land, of which he was capable. He was unanimously chosen by each -of two companies of volunteers in his native county, to be their -captain. In their rivalry with each other, they agreed to make him major -in command of a battalion to be formed of those two companies and two -others that were in process of organization. - -He peremptorily declined. “I know nothing of the military art,” he wrote -to the committee that had laid the proposal before him. “There are -scores of men in the community better fit than I am for military -command. Especially there is your fellow citizen, John Meaux, trained at -West Point and eminently fit for a much higher command than any that you -can offer him. Put him, I earnestly adjure you, into the line of -promotion. Elect him to the highest military office within your gift, -and let me serve as a private under him, in either of your companies, if -no opportunity offers for me to render a larger service and a more -valuable one than that. There is scarcely a man among you who couldn’t -handle a military force more effectively than I could. Let your most -capable men be your commanders, big and little. I believe firmly in the -dictum ‘the tools to him who can use them.’ For myself I see a more -fruitful opportunity of service than any that military command could -bring to me. I have a certain skill which, I think, is going to be -sorely needed in this war. It is my firm belief that the struggle upon -which we are entering is destined to last through long years of -suffering and sore want. We are mainly dependent upon importation not -only for the most pressingly necessary of our medicines but for that -absolute necessity of life, salt. If war shall shut us in, as it is -extremely likely to do, we must find means which we do not now possess -of producing these and other things for ourselves, including the -materials for that prime requisite of war--gunpowder. It so happens that -I have skill in such manufactures as these, and I purpose to turn it to -account whenever the necessity shall come upon us. In the meantime, as a -surgeon and, upon occasion, as a private soldier I may perhaps be able -to do more for Virginia and for the South than I could ever hope to do -by assuming those functions of military command for which I have neither -natural fitness nor the fitness of training.” - -All this was deemed very absurd at the time. The war, it was thought, -could not last more than sixty days--an opinion which Mr. Secretary of -State Seward, on the other side of the line, confidently shared, though -his anticipations of the end of it were quite different from those -entertained at the South. Why a young man of spirit, such as Arthur -Brent was, should refuse to enter upon the brief but glorious struggle -in the capacity of a major with the prospect of coming out of it a -brigadier-general, his neighbors could not understand. Nor could any of -them, with one exception, understand his anticipations of a long war, or -his conviction that, end as it might, the war would make an early end of -slavery, overturning the South’s industrial system and bringing sore -poverty upon the people. The one exception was Robert Copeland, the -thrifty young man who had lost caste by “making too many hogsheads of -tobacco to the hand.” He shared Arthur’s views, and he acted upon them -in ways that Arthur would have scorned to do. He sent all his negroes to -Richmond to be sold by auction to the traders to the far South. He -converted his plantation, with all its live stock and other -appurtenances into money, and with the proceeds of these his sellings he -hurried to New York and purchased diamonds. These he bestowed in a belt -which he buckled about his person and wore throughout the war, upon the -principle that whatever value there might or might not be in other -things when the war should be over, diamonds always command their price -throughout the civilized world. When after this was done he sought to -enlist in one of the companies forming in his neighborhood, he was -rejected by unanimous vote, because he had sold negroes, while the men -of the company held rigidly to a social standard of conduct which he had -flagrantly defied. He went to Richmond. He raised a company of ruffians, -which included many “jailbirds” and the like. He made himself its -captain, and went into the field as the leader of a “fighting battery.” -He distinguished himself for daring, and came out of the war, four years -later, a brigadier-general. As such he was excluded from the benefits of -the early amnesty proclamation. But he cared little about that. He went -to New York, sold his diamonds for fifty per cent more than their cost, -and accepted high office in the army of the Khedive of Egypt. He thus -continued active in that profession of arms in which he had found his -best opportunity to exercise his peculiar gift of “getting out of men -all there is in them”--which was the phrase chosen by himself to -describe his own special capabilities.[C] - - - - -XXXIII - -“AT PARIS IT WAS” - - -_D_uring all this year of wandering on the part of Dorothy Edmonia did -her duty as a correspondent with conspicuous fidelity. To her letters -far more than to Dorothy’s own, Arthur was indebted for exact -information as to Dorothy’s doings and Dorothy’s surroundings and -Dorothy’s self. For Dorothy’s reticence concerning herself grew upon her -as the months went on. She wrote freely and with as much apparent candor -and fulness as ever, but she managed never to reveal herself in the old -familiar fashion. Not that there was anything of estrangement in her -words or tone, for there was nothing of the kind. It was only that she -manifested a certain shyness and reserve concerning her own thought and -feeling when these became intimate,--a reserve like that which every -woman instinctively practises concerning details of the toilet. A woman -may frankly admit to a man that she finds comfort in the use of a -little powder, but she does not want him to see the powder box and puff. -She may mention her shoe-strings quite without hesitation, but if one of -them comes unfastened, she will climb two flights of stairs rather than -let him see her readjust it. - -In somewhat that way Dorothy at this time wrote to Arthur. If she read a -book or saw a picture that pleased her, she would write to him, telling -him quite all her external thought concerning it; but if it inspired any -emotion of a certain sort in her, she had nothing whatever to say -concerning that. In one particular, too, she deliberately abstained from -telling him even of her pursuits and ambitions. He was left to hear of -that from Edmonia, who wrote: - -“Apparently we are destined to remain here in Paris during the rest of -our stay abroad. For Dorothy has a new craze which she will in no wise -relinquish or abate. For that, you, sir, are responsible, for you -planted the seed that are now producing this luxuriant growth of quite -unfeminine character. You taught Dorothy the rudiments of chemistry and -physics. You awakened in her a taste for such studies which has grown -into an uncontrollable passion. - -“She has become the special pupil of one of the greatest chemists in -France, and she almost literally lives in his laboratory, at least -during the daylight hours. She goes to operas about twice a week, and -she takes violin lessons from a woman before breakfast; but during the -rest of the time she does nothing but slop at a laboratory sink. Her -master in this department is madly in love--not with her, though he -calls her, in the only English phrase he speaks without accent, ‘the -apple of his eye,’--but with her enthusiasm in science. He describes it -as a ‘grand passion’ and positively raves in ejaculatory French and -badly broken English, over the extraordinary rapidity with which she -learns, the astonishing grasp she has of principles, and the readiness -with which she applies principles to practice. ‘Positively’ he exclaimed -to me the other day, ‘she is no longer a student--she is a -chemist,--almost a great chemist. If I had to select one to take -absolute control of a laboratory for the nice production of the most -difficult compounds, I would this day choose not any man in all France, -but Mademoiselle by herself.’ Then he paid you a compliment. He added; -‘and she tells me she has studied under a master for only a few months! -It is marvellous! It is incredible, except that we must believe -Mademoiselle, who is the soul of honor and truth. Ah--that is what -gives her her love of science--for science loves nothing but truth. But -her first master must be a wonder, a born teacher, an enthusiast, a real -master who inspires his pupil with a passion like his own.’ - -“I confirmed Dorothy’s statement that she had received only a few -months’ tuition in a little plantation laboratory, but--at the risk of -making you disagreeably conceited, I will tell you this--I fully -confirmed the judgment he had formed of Dorothy’s master. - -“‘Ah, you know him then?’ the enthusiastic Frenchman broke out; ‘and you -will tell me his name, which Mademoiselle refused to speak in answer to -my inquiry? And you will give me a letter which may excuse me for the -deep presumption when I write to him? I _must_ write to him. I must know -a master who has no other such in all France. His name Mademoiselle -Bannister, his name, I pray you.’ - -“Now comes the curious part of the story. I told Monsieur your name and -address, and his eyes instantly lighted up. ‘Ah, that accounts for all!’ -he exclaimed. ‘I know the Dr. Brent. He was my own pupil till I could -teach him nothing that he did not know. Then he taught me all the -original things he had learned for himself during his stay in my -laboratory and before that. Then we ceased to be master and pupil. We -were after that two masters working together and every day finding out -much that the world can never be enough grateful for. He is truly a -wonder, Mister the Doctor Brent! I no longer am surprised at -Mademoiselle Sout’s accomplishments and her enthusiasm. But why did she -not want to speak to me his name? Is it that she loves him and he loves -her not--ah, no, that cannot be! He _must_ love Mademoiselle Sout’ after -he has taught her. Nothing else is possible. But is it then that he is -dull to find out, and that he doubts the reaction of her love in return -for his? Ah, no! He is too great a chemist for that. There must be some -other explanation and I cannot find it out. But Mister the Doctor Brent -is after all only an American. The Americans are what you call alert in -everything but one. Mister the Doctor Brent would quickly discover the -smallest error in a reaction and he would know the cause of it. But he -did not note the affinity in Mademoiselle for himself. I am not a -greater chemist than he is, and yet I see it instantly, when she does -not want to speak to me his name! He is a man most fortunate, in that I -am old and have Madame at home and three young sons in the École -Polytechnique! Ah, how ardently I should have wooed Mademoiselle, the -charming, if she had come to me as a pupil twenty five years ago!’ - -“Now, I’m not quite sure Arthur that your danger in that quarter is -altogether past. Yes, I am. That was a sorry jest. But I sincerely hope -that on our return you may be a trifle more alert than you have hitherto -been in discovering ‘reactions.’ You don’t at all deserve that I should -thus enlighten and counsel you. And it may very easily prove to be too -late when we return. For, in spite of her absorption in chemistry, and -the horribly stained condition of her fingers sometimes, I drag her to -all sorts of entertainments, and at the Tuileries especially she is a -favorite. The Empress is so gracious to ‘the charming American,’ as she -calls her, that she even summons me to her side for the sake of -Dorothy’s company. The entire ‘eligible list’ of the diplomatic corps -has gone daft about her beauty, her naïveté and her wonderful -accomplishments. The Duc de Morny has even ventured to call twice at our -hotel, begging the privilege of ‘paying his respects to the charming -young American.’ But the Duc de Morny is a beast--an accomplished, -fascinating beast, if you please, but a beast, nevertheless,--and I have -used my woman’s privilege of fibbing so far as to send him word, each -time, that Mademoiselle was not at home. - -“‘Why did the Duc de Morny want to call upon me?’ queried the simple, -honest minded Dorothy, when she heard of the visits of this greatest -potentate in France next to the Emperor. I could not explain, so I -fibbed a bit further and told her it was only his extreme politeness and -the French friendship for Americans. - -“Young Jefferson Peyton, you know, has been following us from the -beginning. Dorothy expresses surprise, now and then, that his route -happens, so singularly to coincide with our own. I think he will explain -all that to her presently. He has greatly improved by travel. He has -learned that his name and family count for nothing outside Virginia, and -that he is personally a man of far less consequence than he has been -brought up to consider himself. Now that he has been cured of a conceit -that was due rather to his provincial bringing up than to any innate -tendency in that direction, now that he has seen enough of the world to -acquire a new perspective in contemplating himself, he has become in -truth a very pleasing young man. His father did well to act upon Aunt -Polly’s advice and send him abroad for education and culture. He is -going to propose to Dorothy at the very first opportunity. He has told -me so himself, and as she has a distinct liking for the amiable and -really very handsome young fellow, I cannot venture upon any confident -prediction as to the consequences.” - -That letter came as a Christmas gift to Arthur Brent. One week later, on -the New Year’s day, came one from Dorothy which made amends by reason of -its resumption of much of the old tone of candor and confidence which he -had so sadly missed from her letters during many months past. - -“I want to go home, Cousin Arthur,” she began. “I want to go home at -once. I want my dear old mammy to put her arms around me as she used to -do when I was a little child, and croon me to sleep, so that I may -forget all that has happened to me. And, I want to talk with you again, -Cousin Arthur, as freely as I used to do when you and I rode together -through the woodlands or the corn at sunrise, when we didn’t mind a -wetting from the dew, and when our horses and my dear dogs seemed to -enjoy the glory of the morning as keenly as we did. It is in memory of -those mornings that I send you back the soiled handkerchief you mailed -to me. I want you, please, to give it to Ben, and tell him I make him a -present of it, because it is no longer fit for you to use. You needn’t -tell him anything more than that. He will understand. But I mustn’t -leave you any longer to the mercy of such neglect on the part of -servants to whom you are always so good. I must get home again before -this terrible war breaks out. I have read all your letters about it a -hundred times each, and I have tried to fit myself for my part in it. -When you told me how great the need was likely to be for somebody -qualified to make medicines, and salt, and saltpetre and soda and potash -for gunpowder--no, you didn’t tell me of all that, you wrote to Edmonia -about it, and that hurt my feelings because it seemed to put me out of -your life and work--but when Edmonia told me what you had written about -it, I set myself to work again at my chemistry, and I have worked so -diligently at it that my master, Mons. X. declares that I am capable of -taking complete charge of a laboratory and doing the most difficult and -delicate of all the work needed. I believe I am. Anyhow, he has somehow -found out,--though I certainly never told him of it--that you taught me -at the beginning and he insists upon giving me a letter to you about my -qualifications. - -“You say you hope Virginia will not secede, and that perhaps, after all, -there will be no war. But I see clearly that you have no great -confidence in your own hopes. So I am in a great hurry to get home -before trouble comes. After it comes it may be too late for me to get -home at all. - -“So I should just compel Edmonia to take the first ship for New York, if -we had any money. But we haven’t any, because I have spent all my own -and borrowed and spent all of hers. We must wait now until you and -Archer Bannister can send us new letters of credit or whatever it is -that you call the papers on which the banking people here are so ready -to give us all the money we want. Now I must ’fess up about the -expenses. They have not been incurred for new gowns or for any other -feminine frivolities. I’ve spent all my own money and all of Edmonia’s -for chemicals and chemical apparatus, which I foresee that you and I -will need in order to make medicines and salt and soda and saltpetre for -our soldiers and people. I’ve ordered all these things sent by a ship -that is going to Nassau, in the Bahama Islands, and the captain of the -ship promises me that whether there is a blockade or not, he will get -them through to you somehow or other. By the way the foolish fellow, who -is a French naval officer, detailed for the merchant service, wanted me -to marry him--isn’t it absurd?--and I told him we’d keep that question -open till the chemicals and apparatus should be safe in your hands, and -till he could come to you in the uniform of a Virginia officer, and ask -you as my guardian, for permission to pay his addresses. Was it wrong, -Cousin Arthur, thus to play with a fellow who never really loved -anybody, but who simply wanted Pocahontas plantation? You see I’ve -become very bad, and very knowing, since I’ve been without control, as I -told you I would. But, anyhow, that Frenchman will get the things to you -in safety. - -“But all this nonsense isn’t what I wanted to write to you. I want to go -home and I will go home, even if I have to accept Jefferson Peyton’s -offer to furnish the money necessary. We simply mustn’t be shut out of -Virginia when the war comes, and nobody can tell when it will come now. -But of course I shall not let Jeff furnish the money. That was only a -strong way of putting it. For Jeff has insulted me, I think. I’m not -quite certain, but I think that is what it amounts to. You will know, -and I’m going to tell you all about it, just as I used to tell you all -about everything, before--well before all this sort of thing. Jeff has -been travelling about ever since we began our journey, and he has really -been very nice to us, and very useful sometimes. But a few days ago he -proposed marriage to me. I was disposed to be very kindly in my -treatment of him, because I rather like the poor fellow. But when I told -him I didn’t in the least think of marrying him or anybody else, he lost -his temper, and had the assurance to say that the time would come when I -would be very grateful to him for being willing to offer me _such a road -out of my difficulties_. He didn’t explain, for I instantly rang for a -servant to show him out of the hotel parlor, and myself retired by -another door. But, I think I know what he meant, because I have found -out all about myself and my mother, all the things that people have been -so laboriously endeavoring to keep me from finding out. And among other -things I have found out that I must marry Jeff Peyton or nobody. So I -will marry nobody, so long as I live. I’ll be like Aunt Polly, just good -and useful in the world. - -“I’ll write you all about this by the next steamer, if I can make up my -mind to do it--that is to say if I find that in spite of all, I may go -on thinking of you as my best friend on earth, and telling you -everything that troubles me just as I used to tell dear old mammy, when -the bees stung me or the daisies wilted before I could make them into a -pretty chain. I have a great longing to tell you things in the old, -frank, unreserved way, and to feel the comfort of your strong support in -doing what it is right for me to do. Somehow, all this distance has -seemed to make it difficult to do that. But now that my fate in life is -settled and my career fully marked out as a woman whose only ambition is -to be as useful as possible, I may talk to you, mayn’t I, in the old, -unreserved way, in full assurance that you won’t let me make any -mistakes? - -“That is what I want. So I have this moment decided that I will not wait -for you to send me a new letter of credit, but will find somebody here -to lend me enough money to go home on. In the meantime I’m going to -begin being the old, frank, truthful Dorothy, by writing you, by the -next steamer, all that I have learned about myself.” - - - - -XXXIV - -DOROTHY’S DISCOVERY - - -_D_orothy’s next letter came at the beginning of the spring. There were -mail steamers at that time only once a fortnight and the passage -occupied a fortnight more--or perhaps a longer time as the sea and the -west wind might determine. - -“I hope this letter will reach you before I do, Cousin Arthur,” Dorothy -began. “But I’m not quite sure of that, for we hope to sail by the Asia -on her next trip and she is a much faster ship they say than the one -that is to carry this. The money things arranged themselves easily and -without effort. For when I asked Mr. Livingston,--Mildred’s husband, you -know--to go with me to the bankers to see if they wouldn’t lend me a few -hundred dollars, he laughed and said: - -‘You needn’t bother, you little spendthrift. I provided for all that -before we started. I knew you women would spend all your money, so I -gave myself a heavy credit with my bankers here, and of course you can -have all the money you want.’ I didn’t like it for him to think we’d -spent our money foolishly, but I couldn’t explain, so I just thanked him -and said, with all the dignity I could command: ‘I’ll give you a letter -of credit on my guardian Dr. Brent.’ I suppose I got the terms wrong, -for he laughed in his careless way--he always laughs at things as if -nothing in the world mattered. He even laughed at his own seasickness on -the ship. Anyhow, he told me I needn’t give him any kind of papers--that -you would settle the bill when the time came, and that I could have all -the money I needed. So at first we thought we should get off by the ship -that is to carry this letter. But something got the matter with -Mildred’s teeth, so we had to wait over for the Asia. Why do things get -the matter with people’s teeth? Nothing ever got the matter with mine, -and I never heard of anything getting the matter with yours or -Edmonia’s. Mr. Livingston says that’s because we eat corn bread. How I -wish I had some at this moment! - -“But that isn’t what I want to write to you about. I have much more -serious things to tell you--things that alter my whole life, and make it -sadder than I ever expected it to be. - -“I have seen my mother, and she has told me the whole terrible story. -She wouldn’t have told me now or ever, but that she thought she was -going to die under a surgical operation. - -“You remember I wrote to you about Madame Le Sud, whom I met on -shipboard and learned to love so much. I’m glad I learned to love her, -because she is my mother. She calls herself Madame Le Sud, because that -is only the French way of calling herself Mrs. South, you know. - -“The way of it was this: When we parted at Liverpool I told her what our -trip was to be. She was coming direct to Paris, and I made her promise -to let me visit her here if she did not leave before our arrival, as she -thought she probably would. When we got here I rather hoped to hear from -her, for somehow, though I did not dream of the relationship between us, -I had formed a very tender attachment to her, and I longed to see her -again. - -“As the weeks passed and I heard nothing, I made up my mind that she had -gone back to New York before we reached Paris, and I was not undeceived -until a few weeks ago, when she sent me a sad little note, telling me -she was ill and asking me to call upon her in her apartments in the Rue -Neuve des Petits Champs. - -“I went at once and found her in very pitiful condition. Her apartments -were mere garrets, ill furnished and utterly uncomfortable, and she -herself was manifestly suffering. When I asked her why she had not sent -for me before, she answered: ‘It was better not, child. You were in your -proper place. You were happy. You were receiving social recognition of -the highest kind and it was good for you because you are fit for it and -deserve it. I have sent for you now only because I have something that I -must give to you before I die. For I’m going to die almost immediately.’ -She wouldn’t let me interrupt her. ‘I’m going to have a surgical -operation tomorrow, and I do not expect to get over it.’ - -“I found out presently that she was going to a charity hospital for her -treatment, and that it was because she is so poor; for by reason of her -sickness, she has lost her employment, which was that of a dresser for -an opera company. Think of it, Cousin Arthur! My mother,--though I -didn’t know then that she was my mother--a dresser to those opera -people! I’m glad she didn’t tell me she was my mother until after I had -told her she should not go to a charity hospital, to be operated on -before a class of gaping students and treated very much as if she were a -subject in a dissecting room. I took all that in my own hands. I went -down to the concierge and secured a comfortable apartment for my mother -on the entresol, with a nice French maid to look after her. Then I sent -for the best surgeon I could hear of to treat her, and he promised me to -get her quite well again in a few weeks, which he has done. It was after -I had moved her down to the new apartments and sent the maid out for a -little dinner--for my mother hadn’t anything to eat or any money--it was -after all that that she told me her story. - -“First she gave me a magnificent ring, a beautiful fire opal set round -with diamonds. Think of it! She with that in her possession and -belonging to her, which would have sold for enough to keep her in luxury -for months, yet shivering there without a fire and without food, and -waiting for the morrow, to go to a charity hospital like a pauper, while -I have the best rooms in the best hotel in Paris! And she my mother, all -the while! - -“When she put the ring on my finger, saying, ‘It fits you as it once -fitted me--but you are worthy of it as I never was,’ I cried a little -and begged her to tell me what it all meant. Then she broke down and, -clasping me in her arms, told me that she was my own mother. I won’t -tell you all the details of our weeping time, for they are too sacred -even for you to hear. Let me simply copy here, as accurately as I can, -my mother’s account of herself. - -“‘I was born,’ she said, ‘the daughter of a Virginian of good family--as -good as any. My father lived as many Virginians do, far beyond his -means. Perhaps he did wrong things--I do not know, and after all it is -no matter. At any rate when he died people seemed to care very little -for us--my mother and me--when everything we had was sold and we went -out into the world to hunt for bread. I was seventeen then, I had what -they call a genius for music. We went to New York and lived wretchedly -there for a time. But I earned something with my violin and my ’cello, -and now and then by singing, for I had a voice that was deemed good. We -lived in that wretched, ill-mannered, loose-moraled, dissolute and -financially reckless set which calls itself Bohemia, and excuses itself -from all social and moral obligation on the ground that its members are -persons of genius, though in fact most of them are anything else. My -mother never liked these people. She simply tolerated them, and she did -that only because she had no choice. She did her best to shield me -against harm to my soul in contact with them, but she could not prevent -the contact itself. Our bread and butter and the roof over our heads -depended upon that. Finally there came into our set a manager who was -looking out for opportunities. He heard me play, and he heard me sing. -He proposed that I should go to Europe for instruction at his expense, -and that he should bring me out as a genius in the autumn. I went, and I -received some brief instruction of great value to me--not that it made -me a better musician but that it taught me how to captivate an audience -with such gifts as I had. Well the manager brought me out, and I -succeeded even beyond his expectations. I don’t think it was my musical -ability altogether, though that was thought to be remarkable, I believe. -I was beautiful then, as you are now, Dorothy; I had all the charm of a -willowy grace, which, added to my beauty, made men and women go mad over -me. I made money in abundance for my manager, and that was all that he -cared for. I made money for myself too, and my mother and I were eagerly -sought after by the leaders of fashion. We ceased to know the old -Bohemia and came to be members of a new and perhaps not a better -set--except in its conformity to those rules of life which are supposed -to hedge respectability about, without really improving its morals. For -I tell you child I saw more of real wickedness in my contact with those -who call themselves the socially elect than I ever dreamed of among my -old-time Bohemian associates. The only advantage these dissolutes had -over the others was, that having bank accounts they drew checks for -their debts where the others shirked and shuffled to escape from theirs. - -“‘I was glad, therefore, when your father came into my life. He was a -man of a higher type than any that I had known since early childhood--a -man of integrity, of honor, of high purposes. His courtesy was -exquisite, and it was sincere. It is often said of a man that he would -not tell a lie to save his life. Your father went further than that, my -child. He would not tell a lie even to please a woman, and with such a -man as he was, pleasing a woman was a stronger temptation than saving -his life. He was in New York taking a supplementary medical course--what -they now call a post graduate course,--in order, as he said, that he -might the better fulfil his life-saving mission as a physician. He fell -madly in love with me, and I--God help me! I loved him as well as one of -my shallow nature and irregular bringing up could love any man. After a -little I married him. I went with him for a brief trip abroad, and after -that I went to be mistress of Pocahontas. I looked forward longingly to -the beautiful life of refinement there, as he so often pictured it to -me. I was tired of the whirl and excitement. I was weary of the -footlights and of having to take my applause and my approval over the -heads of the orchestra. I thought I should be perfectly happy, playing -grand lady in an old, historic Virginia house. I was only nineteen years -old then,--I am well under forty still--and for a time I did enjoy the -new life amazingly. But after a little it wearied me. It seemed to me -too narrow, too conventional, too uninteresting. When I had company and -poured my whole soul into a violin obligato,--rendering the great music -in a way which had often brought down the house and called for repeated -encores while delighted audiences threatened to bury me under -flowers--when I did that sort of thing at Pocahontas, the guests would -say coldly how well I played and all the other parrot like things that -people say when they mean to be polite but have no real appreciation of -music. Little by little I grew utterly weary of the life. The very -things in it that had at first delighted and rested me, became like -thorns in my flesh. As the rescued children of Israel longed for the -flesh pots of Egypt, so at last I came to long again for the delights of -the old life on the stage, with its excitements, its ever changing -pleasures, its triumphs and even its failures and disappointments. Yet -it was not so much a longing for that old life which oppressed me, as an -intolerable impatience to get out of the new one from which I had -expected so much of happiness. It seemed to me a tread-mill life of -self-indulgence. I was surrounded by every luxury that a well-ordered -woman could desire. But I was not a well-ordered woman, and the very -luxury of my surroundings, the very exemption they gave me from all -care, all responsibility, all endeavor, seemed to drive me almost insane -with impatience. I had nothing to do. I was surrounded by skilled -servants who provokingly anticipated every wish I could form. If I -wanted even to rinse my fingers after eating a peach, I was not -permitted to do it in any ordinary way. There was always a maid standing -ready with a bowl and napkin for my use. My bed was prepared for me -before I went to it, and the maid waited to put out the candle after I -had gone to rest. Your father worshipped me, and surrounded me with -attentions on his own part and on that of others, which were intolerable -in the perfection of their service. I knew that I was not worthy of his -worship and I often told him so, to no effect. He only worshipped me the -more. The only time I ever saw him angry was once soon after you were -born. I loved you as I had never dreamed of loving anybody or anything -before in my life--even better ten thousand times than I had ever loved -music itself. I wanted to do something for you with my own hands. I -wanted to feel that I was your mother and you altogether my own child. - -“‘So, just as old mammy was preparing to give you your bath, I pretended -to be faint and sent her below stairs to bring me a cup of coffee. When -she had gone I seized you and in ecstatic triumph, set to work to make -your little baby toilet with my own hands. Just as I began, your father -came stalking up the stairs and entered the nursery. For mammy had told -him I was faint, and he had hurried to my relief. When he found me -bathing you he rang violently for all the servants within call and as -they came one after another upon the scene he challenged each to know -why their mistress was thus left to do servile offices for herself. But -for my pleading I think he would have taken the whole company of them -out to the barn and chastised them with his own hand, though I had never -known him to strike a servant. - -“‘I know now that I ought to have explained the matter to him. I ought -to have told him how the mother love in me longed to do something for -you. I know he would have understood even in his rage over what he -regarded as neglect of me, and he would have sympathized with my -feeling. But I was enraged at the baffling of my purpose, and I hastily -put on a riding habit, mounted my horse, which, your father, seeing my -purpose, promptly ordered brought to the block, and rode away, -unattended except by a negro groom. For when your father offered his -escort I declined it, begging him to let me ride alone. - -“‘It was not long after that that I sat hour after hour by your cradle, -composing a lullaby which should be altogether your own, and as worthy -of you as I could make it. When the words and the music were complete -and satisfying to my soul, I began singing the little song to you, and -your father, whose love of music was intense, seemed entranced with it. -He would beg me often to sing it, and to play the violin accompaniment I -had composed to go with it. I would never do so except over your cradle. -Understand me, child, if you can understand one of so wayward a temper -as mine. I had put all my soul into that lullaby. Every word in it, -every note of the music, was an expression of my mother love--the best -there was in me. I was jealous of it for you. I would not allow even -your father to hear a note of that outpouring of my love for my child, -except as a listener while I sang and played for you alone. So your -cradle with you in it must always be brought before I would let your -father hear. - -“‘One day, when you were six or eight months old, we had a houseful of -guests, as we often did at Pocahontas. They stayed over night of course, -and in the evening when I asked their indulgence while I should go and -sing you to sleep, your father madly pleaded that I should sing and play -the lullaby in the drawing room in order that the guests might hear what -he assured them was his supreme favorite among all musical compositions. -I suppose I was in a more than usually complaisant mood. At any rate, I -allowed myself to - -[Illustration: “_IN THAT MUSIC MY SOUL LAID ITSELF BARE TO YOURS AND -PRAYED FOR YOUR LOVE_.”] - -be persuaded against my will, and mammy brought you in, in your cradle. -I remember that you had a little pink sack over your night gown--a thing -I had surreptitiously knitted for you without anybody’s knowledge, and -without even the touch of a servant’s hand. - -“‘You were crowing with glee at the lights and the great, flaring fire. -Everybody in the room wanted to caress you, but I peremptorily ordered -them off, and took you for a time into my own arms. At last, when the -lights were turned down at my command, and the firelight hidden behind a -screen, I took the violin--a rare old instrument for which your father -had paid a king’s ransom--and began to play. After the prelude had been -twice played, I began to sing. Never in my life had I been so -overwhelmingly conscious of you--so completely unconscious of everybody -else in the world. I played and sang only to my child. All other human -beings were nonexistent. I played with a perfection of which I had never -for a moment thought myself capable. I sang with a tenderness which I -could never have commanded had I been conscious for the time of any -other existence than your own. In that music my soul laid itself bare to -yours and prayed for your love. I told you in every tone all that a -mother love means--all that an intensely emotional woman is capable of -feeling; I gave free rein to all there was in me of passion, and made -all of it your own. I was in an ecstasy. I was entranced. My soul was -transfigured and all was wrought into the music. - -“‘In the midst of it all someone whispered a cold blooded, heartlessly -appreciative comment upon my playing, or the music, or my voice, or the -execution, or something else--it matters not what. It was the sort of -thing that people say for politeness’ sake when some screeching girl -sings “Hear Me, Norma.” It wakened me instantly from my trance. It -brought me back to myself. It revealed to me how completely I had been -wasting the sacred things of my soul upon a company of Philistines. It -filled me with a wrath that considered not consequences. I ceased to -play. I seized the precious violin by its neck--worn smooth by the touch -of artist hands--and dashed it to pieces over the piano. Then I snatched -my baby from the cradle and retreated to your nursery, where I double -locked the door, and refused to admit anybody but mammy, whose affection -for you I felt, had been wounded as sorely as my own. I sent your father -word that I would pass the night in the nursery, and at daylight I left -home forever, taking you and mammy with me in the carriage. - -“‘I had taken pains to learn that your father had been summoned that -night, on an emergency call, to the bedside of a patient, ten miles -away. This gave me my opportunity. With you in my arms and mammy by my -side, I drove to Richmond, and sending the carriage back, I drew what -money there was to my credit in the bank, and took the steamer sailing -that day for New York. All this was seventeen years ago, remember, when -there were no railroads of importance, and no quicker way of going from -Richmond to New York than by the infrequently sailing steamers. It was -in the early forties. - -“‘Your father had loaded my dressing case with splendid jewels, in the -selection of which his taste was unusually good. I left them all behind, -all but this ring, which he had given me when you were born and asked me -to regard as his thank offering for you. I have kept it all these years. -I have suffered and starved many times rather than profane it by -pawning, though often my need has been so sore that I have had to put -even my clothes in pledge for the money with which to buy a dinner of -bread and red herrings. - -“‘I had money enough at first, for your father’s generosity had made my -bank deposit large. But I had to spend the money in keeping myself -hidden away with you, and I could not earn more by my music, as that -would make me easily found. It was then that I translated my name. Mammy -remained with me, caring for nothing in the world but you. - -“‘It was several years before your father found me out. I was shocked -and distressed at the way in which sorrow had written its signature upon -his face. I loved him then far better than I had ever done before. For -the first time I fully understood how greatly good and noble he was. But -I would not, I could not, go back with him to the home I had disgraced. -I could have borne all the scorn and contempt with which his friends -would have looked upon me. I could have faced all that defiantly and -with an erect head, giving scorn for scorn and contempt for contempt, -where I knew that my censors were such only because in their -commonplaceness they could not understand a nature like mine or even -believe in its impulses. But I could not bear to go back to Pocahontas -and witness the pity with which everybody there would look upon him. - -“‘I resisted all his entreaties for my return, but for your sake I tore -my heart out by consenting to give you up to him. You were rapidly -growing in intelligence and I perfectly knew that such bringing up as I -could give you would ruin your life in one way or another. Never mind -the painful memory of all that. I consented at last to let your father -take you back to Pocahontas and bring you up in a way suited to your -birth and condition. Mammy went with you of course. Your father begged -for the privilege of providing for my support in comfort while I should -live, but I refused. I begged him to go into the courts and free himself -from me. He could have got his divorce in Virginia upon the ground of my -desertion. I shall never forget his answer. ‘When I married you, -Dorothy’--for your name, my child, is the same as my own--‘When I -married you, Dorothy, it was not during good behavior but forever. You -are my wife, and you will be always the one woman I love, the one woman -whose name I will protect at all hazards and all costs. No complaint of -you has ever passed my lips. I have suffered no human being to say aught -to your hurt in my presence or within my knowledge. Nor shall I to the -end. You are my wife. I love you. That is all of it.’ - -“‘He went away sorrowful, leaving me broken hearted. I could appear in -public now and I returned to my profession. The beauty which had been so -great an aid to me before, was impaired, and the old vivacity was gone. -But I could play still and sing, and with my violin and my voice I -easily earned enough for all my wants, until I got the scar. After that -I sank into a wretched poverty, and was glad at last to secure -employment as a stage dresser. My illness here has lost me that--.’ - -“I cannot tell you any more, Cousin Arthur. It pains me too much. But I -am going to take my mother with me to America and provide for her in -some way that she will permit. She has recovered from the surgery now, -and I have simply taken possession of her. She refuses to go to -Pocahontas, or in any other way to take her position as my father’s -widow. But if this war comes, as you fear it will, she has decided to go -into service as a field nurse, and you must arrange that for her. - -“I understand now why my father forbade me to learn music, and why he -taught me that a woman must have a master. I can even guess what -Jefferson Peyton meant when I rejected his suit. My father, I suppose, -planned to provide a master for me; but I decline to serve the one he -selected. I am a woman and a proud one. I will never consent to be -disposed of in marriage by the orders of other people as princesses and -other chattel women are. But, oh, you cannot know how sorrowful my soul -is, and how I long to be at home again! I hope the war will come. That -is wicked in me, I suppose, but I cannot help it. I must have occupation -or I shall go mad. I shall set to work at once, on my return, fitting up -our laboratory, and there I’ll find work enough to fill all my hours, -and it will be useful, humane, patriotic work, such as it is worth a -woman’s while to do.” - - - - -XXXV - -THE BIRTH OF WAR - - -_I_t was the seventeenth of April, 1861. It was the fateful day on which -the greatest, the most terrible, the most disastrous of modern wars was -born. - -On that day the long struggle of devoted patriots to keep Virginia in -the Union and to throw all her influence into the scale of peace, had -ended in failure. - -A few days before, Fort Sumter had been bombarded and had fallen. Still -the Virginia convention had resisted all attempts to drag or force the -Mother State into secession. Then had come Mr. Lincoln’s call upon -Virginia for her quota of troops with which to make war upon the -seceding sister states of the South and the alternative of secession or -dishonor presented itself to this body of Union men. They decided at -once, and on that seventeenth day of April they made a great war -possible and indeed inevitable, by adopting an ordinance of secession -and casting Virginia’s fate, Virginia’s strength, and Virginia’s -matchless influence, into the scale of disunion and war. - -Richmond was in delirium--a delirium which moved men to ecstatic joy or -profound grief, or deeply rooted apprehension, according to their -several temperaments. The thoughtless went parading excitedly up and -down the streets singing songs, and making a gala time of it, wearing -cockades by day and carrying torches by night, precisely as if some long -hoped for and supremely desired good fortune had come upon the land of -their birth. The more thoughtful looked on and kept silent. But mostly -the spirit manifested was one of grim determination to meet fate--be it -good or bad--with stout hearts and calmly resolute minds. - -In that purpose all men were as one now. The vituperation with which the -people’s representatives in the convention had been daily assailed for -their hesitation to secede, was absolutely hushed. The sentiment of -affection for the Union which had been growing for seventy years and -more, gave way instantly to a determination to win a new independence or -sacrifice all in the attempt. - -Jubal A. Early, who had from the beginning opposed secession with all -his might, reckoning it not only insensate folly but a political crime -as well, voted against it to the last, and then, instantly sent to Gov. -Letcher a tender of his services in the war, in whatever capacity his -state might see fit to employ him. In the same way William C. Wickham, -an equally determined opponent of secession, quitted his seat in the -convention only to make hurried preparation for his part as a military -leader on the Southern side. - -No longer did men discuss the merits and demerits of one policy or -another; there could be but one policy now, one course of action, one -sentiment of devotion to Virginia, and an undying determination to -maintain her honor at all hazards and at all costs. - -The state of mind that was universal among Virginians at that time, has -never been quite understood in other parts of the Union. These men’s -traditions extended back to a time before ever the Union was thought of, -before ever Virginia had invited her sister states to unite with her, in -a convention at Annapolis, called for the purpose of forming that “more -perfect Union,” from which, in 1861, Virginia decided to withdraw. -Devotion to the Union had been, through long succeeding decades, as -earnest and as passionate in Virginia as the like devotion had been in -any other part of the country. Through three great wars the Virginians -had faltered not nor failed when called upon to contribute of their -substance or their manhood to the national defence. - -The Virginians loved the Union of which their state had been so largely -the instigator, and they were self-sacrificingly loyal to it. But they -held their allegiance to it to be solely the result of their state’s -allegiance, and when their state withdrew from it, they held themselves -absolved from all their obligations respecting it. Their very loyalty to -it had been a prompting of their state, and when their state elected to -transfer its allegiance to another Confederacy, they regarded themselves -as bound by every obligation of law, of honor, of tradition, of history -and of manhood itself, to obey the mandate. - -Return we now to Richmond, on that fateful seventeenth day of April, -1861. There had been extreme secessionists, and moderate ones, -uncompromising Union men, and Union men under conditions of -qualification. There were none such when that day was ended. Waitman T. -Willey and a few others from the Panhandle region, who had served in the -convention, departed quickly for their homes, to take part with the -North in the impending struggle, in obedience to their convictions of -right. The rest accepted the issue as determinative of Virginia’s -course, and ordered their own courses accordingly. They were, before all -and above all Virginians, and Virginia had decided to cast in her lot -with the seceding Southern States. There was an end of controversy. -There was an end of all division of sentiment. The supreme moment had -come, and all men stood shoulder to shoulder to meet the consequences. - - - - -XXXVI - -THE OLD DOROTHY AND THE NEW - - -_J_ust as Arthur Brent was quitting his seat in the convention on that -day so pregnant of historic happenings, a page put a note into his -hands. It was from Edmonia, and it read: - -“We have just arrived and are at the Exchange Hotel and Ballard House. -We are all perfectly well, though positively dazed by what you statesmen -in the convention have done today. I can hardly think of the thing -seriously--of Virginia withdrawing from the Union which her legislature -first proposed to the other states, which her statesmen--Washington, -Jefferson, Marshall, Madison, Mason, and the rest so largely contributed -to form, and over which her Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, -Harrison and Tyler have presided in war and peace. And yet nothing could -be more serious. It seems to me a bad dream from which we shall -presently wake to find ourselves rejoicing in its untruth. - -“You will come to the hotel to a six o’clock dinner, of course. I want -to show you what a woman Dorothy has grown to be. Poor dear girl! She -has been greatly disturbed by the hearing of her mother’s story, and she -is a trifle morbid over it. However, you’ll see her for yourself this -evening. We were charmingly considerate, I think in not telegraphing to -announce our coming. We shall expect you to thank us properly for thus -refraining from disturbing you. Come to the hotel the moment your public -duties will let you.” - -Arthur hastily left the convention hall and hurried across Capitol -Square and on to the big, duplex hostelry. He entered on the Exchange -Hotel side and learned by inquiry at the office that Edmonia’s rooms -were in the Ballard House on the other side of the street. It had begun -to rain and he had neither umbrella nor overcoat, having forgotten and -left both in the cloak room of the convention. So he mounted the -stairway, and set out to cross by the covered crystal bridge that -spanned the street connecting the two great caravansaries. The bridge -was full of people, gathered there to look at the pageant in the streets -below, where companies of volunteer cavalry from every quarter of -eastern Virginia were marching past, on their way to the -newly-established camp of instruction on the Ashland race track. For -Governor Letcher had so far anticipated the inevitable result of the -long debate as to establish two instruction camps and to accept the -tenders of service which were daily sent to him by the volunteer -companies in every county. - -As Arthur was making his way through the throng of sight-seers on the -glass bridge some movement in the crowd brought him into contact with a -gentlewoman, to whom he hastily turned with apologetic intent. - -It was Dorothy! Not the Dorothy who had bidden him good-by a year ago, -but a new, a statelier Dorothy, a Dorothy with the stamp of travel and -society upon her, a Dorothy who had learned ease and self-possession and -dignity by habit in the grandest drawing rooms in all the world. Yet the -old Dorothy was there too--the Dorothy of straight-looking eyes and -perfect truthfulness, and for the moment the new Dorothy forgot herself, -giving place to the old. - -“Oh, Master!” she cried, impulsively seizing both his hands, and, -completely forgetful of the crowd about her, letting the glad tears slip -out between her eyelashes. “I was not looking at the soldiers; I was -looking for you, and wondering when you would come. Oh, I am so happy, -and so glad!” - -An instant later the new Dorothy reasserted herself, and Arthur did not -at all like the change. The girl became so far self-conscious as to grow -dignified, and in very shame over her impulsive outbreak, she -exaggerated her dignity and her propriety of demeanor into something -like coldness and stately hauteur. - -“How you have grown!” Arthur exclaimed when he had led her to one of the -parlors almost deserted now for the sight-seeing vantage ground of the -bridge. - -“No,” she answered as she might have done in a New York or a Paris -drawing room, addressing some casual acquaintance. “I have not grown a -particle. I was quite grown up before I left Virginia. It is a Paris -gown, perhaps. The Parisian dressmakers know all the art of bringing out -a woman’s ‘points,’ and they hold my height and my slenderness to be my -best claims upon attention.” - -Arthur felt as if she had struck him. He was about to remonstrate, when -Edmonia broke in upon the conversation with her greeting. But Dorothy -had seen his face and read all that it expressed. The old Dorothy was -tempted to ask his forgiveness; the new Dorothy dismissed the thought -as quite impossible. She had already sufficiently “compromised” herself -by her impulsiveness, and to make amends she put stays upon her dignity -and throughout the evening they showed no sign of bending. - -Arthur was tortured by all this. Edmonia was delighted over it. So -differently do a man and a woman sometimes interpret another woman’s -attitude and conduct. - -Arthur was compelled to leave them at nine to meet Governor Letcher, who -had summoned him for consultation with respect to the organization of a -surgical staff, of which he purposed to make Arthur Brent one of the -chiefs. Before leaving he asked as to Edmonia’s and Dorothy’s home-going -plans. Learning that they intended to go by the eight o’clock train the -next morning, he said: - -“Very well, I’ll send Dick up by the midnight train to have the Wyanoke -carriage at the station to meet you.” - -“Is Dick with you?” Dorothy asked with more of enthusiasm than she had -shown since her outbreak on the bridge. “How I do want to see Dick! -Can’t you send him here before train time, please?” - -Already grieved and resentful, Arthur was stung by the manner of this -request. For the moment he was disposed to interpret it as an intended -affront. He quickly dismissed that thought and answered with a laugh: - -“Yes, Dorothy, he shall come to you at once. Perhaps he has a ‘song -ballad’ ready for your greeting. At any rate he at least will pleasantly -remind you of the old life.” - -“I wonder why he put it in that way--why he said ‘he _at least_,’” said -Dorothy when Arthur had gone and the two women were left alone. - -“I think I know,” Edmonia answered. But she did not offer the -explanation. Neither did Dorothy ask for it. - - - - -XXXVII - -AT WYANOKE - - -_I_t was three days later before Arthur Brent was able to leave the -duties that detained him in Richmond. When at last he found himself -free, one of the infrequent trains of that time had just gone, and there -would be no other for many hours to come. His impatience to be at -Wyanoke was uncontrollable. For three days he had brooded over Dorothy’s -manner to him at the hotel, and wondered, with much longing, whether she -might not meet him differently at home. He recalled the frankly -impulsive eagerness with which she had greeted him in the first moment -of their meeting, and he argued with himself that her later reserve -might have been simply a reaction from that first outburst of joy, a -maidenly impulse to atone to her pride for the lapse into old, childlike -manners. This explanation seemed a very probable one, and yet--he -reflected that there were no strangers standing by when she had relapsed -into a reserve that bordered upon hauteur--nobody before whom she need -have hesitated to be cordial. He had asked her about her mother, -thinking thus to awaken some warmth of feeling in her and reëstablish a -footing of sympathy. But her reply had been a business-like statement -that Madame Le Sud would remain in New York for a few days, to secure -the clothing she would need for her field ministrations to the wounded, -after which she would take some very quiet lodging in Richmond until -duty should call her. - -Altogether Arthur Brent’s impatience to know the worst or -best--whichever it might be--grew greater with every hour, and when he -learned that he must idly wait for several hours for the next train, he -mounted Gimlet and set out upon the long horseback journey, for which -Gimlet, weary of the stable, manifested an eagerness quite equal to his -own. - -When the young man dismounted at Wyanoke, Dorothy was the first to meet -him, and there was something in her greeting that puzzled him even more -than her manner on the former occasion had done. For Dorothy too had -been thinking of the hotel episode, and repenting herself of her -coldness on that occasion. She understood it even less than Arthur did. -She had not intended to be reserved with him, and several times during -that evening she had made an earnest effort to be natural and cordial -instead, but always without success, for some reason that she could not -understand. So she had carefully planned to greet him on his -home-coming, with all the old affection and without reserve. To that end -she had framed in her own mind the things she would say to him and the -manner of their saying. Now that he had come, she said the things she -had planned to say, but she could not adopt the manner she had intended. - -The result was something that would have been ludicrous had it been less -painful to both the parties concerned. It left Arthur worse puzzled than -ever and obviously pained. It sent Dorothy to her chamber for that “good -cry,” which feminine human nature holds to be a panacea. - -At dinner Dorothy “rattled” rather than conversed, as young women are -apt to do when they are embarrassed and are determined not to show their -embarrassment. She seemed bent upon alternately amusing and astonishing -Aunt Polly, with her grotesquely distorted descriptions of things seen -and people encountered during her travels. Arthur took only so much -part in the conversation as a man thinking deeply, but disposed to be -polite, might. - -When the cloth was removed he lighted a cigar and went to the stables -and barns, avowedly to inquire about matters on the plantation. - -When he returned, full of a carefully formed purpose to “have it out” -with Dorothy, he found guests in the house who had driven to Wyanoke for -supper and a late moonlight drive homeward. From that moment until the -time of the guests’ departure, he was eagerly beset with questions -concerning the political situation and the prospects of war. - -“The war is already on,” he answered, “and we are not half prepared for -it. Fortunately the North is in no better case, and still more -fortunately, we are to have with us the ablest soldier in America.” - -“Who? Beauregard?” - -“No, Robert E. Lee, to whom the Federal administration a little while -ago offered the command of all the United States armies. He has resigned -and is now in Richmond to organize our forces.” - -Arthur talked much, too, of the seriousness of the war, of the certainty -in his mind, that it would last for years, taxing the resources of the -South to the point of exhaustion. For this some of his guests called him -a pessimist, and applauded the prediction of young Jeff Peyton, that -“within twenty days we shall have twenty thousand men on the Potomac, -and after perhaps one battle of some consequence we shall dictate terms -of peace in Washington.” He added: “You must make haste to get into the -service, Doctor, if you expect to see the fun.” - -“I do not expect to see the fun,” Arthur answered quietly. “I do not see -the humorous side of slaughter. But in my judgment you, sir, will have -ample time in which to wear out many uniforms as gorgeous as the one you -now have on, before peace is concluded at Washington or anywhere else. -An army of twenty thousand men will be looked upon as a mere detachment -before this struggle is over. We shall hear the tramp of armies -numbering hundreds of thousands, and their tramping will desolate -Virginia fields that are now as fair as any on earth. We shall see -historic mansions vanish in smoke, and thousands of happy homes made -prey by the demon War. War was never yet a pastime for any but the most -brutish men. It is altogether horrible; it is utterly hellish, if the -ladies will pardon the term, and only fools can welcome it as a holiday -pursuit. Unhappily there are many such on both sides of the Potomac.” - -As he paused there was a complete hush among the company for thirty -seconds or so. Then Dorothy advanced to Arthur, took his hand, and said: - -“Thank you, Master!” - -Arthur answered only by a look. But it was a look that told her all that -she wanted to know. - -When the guests were gone, Dorothy prepared for a hasty retreat to her -room, but Arthur called to her as she reached the landing of the stairs, -and asked: - -“Shall we have one of our old time horseback rides ‘soon’ in the -morning, Dorothy?” - -“Yes. It delights me to hear our Virginia phrase ‘soon in the morning.’ -Thank you, I’ll be ready. Good night.” - - - - -XXXVIII - -SOON IN THE MORNING - - -_I_t was Dick who brought the horses on that next morning--Dick grown -into a tall and comely fellow, and no longer dressed in the careless -fashion of a year ago. For had not Dick spent two months in Richmond as -his master’s body servant? And had he not there developed his native -dandy instincts? And had not the sight of the well-nigh universal -uniforms of that time bred in him a great longing to wear some sort of -“soldier clothes”? - -His master had indulged the fancy. He meant to keep Dick as his body -servant throughout the coming war, and, at any rate while he sat as a -member of that august body the constitutional convention, he wanted his -“boy” to present the appearance of a gentleman’s servitor. So, when he -took Dick to a tailor to be dressed in suitable fashion, he readily -acquiesced in the young negro’s preference for a suit of velveteen and -corduroys with brass buttons shining all over it like the stars in Ursa -Major. The tailor, recognizing the shapeliness of the young negro’s -person as something that afforded him an opportunity to display his -skill in the matter of “fit” had brought all his art to bear upon the -task of perfecting Dick’s livery. - -Dick in his turn had employed strategy in securing an opportunity to -show himself in his new glory to his “Mis’ Dorothy.” Ben, the hostler -who usually brought the horses had recently “got religion”--a bilious -process which at that time was apt to render a negro specially -indifferent to the obligations of morality with respect to “chickens -fryin’ size,” and gloomily unfit for the performance of his ordinary -duties. Dick had labored over night with “Bro’ Ben,” persuading him that -he was really ill, and inducing him to swallow two blue mass pills--the -which Dick had adroitly filched from the medicine chest in the -laboratory. And as Dick, since his service “endurin’ of de feveh,” had -enjoyed the reputation of knowing “‘mos as much as a sho’ ’nuff doctah,” -Ben readily acquiesced in Dick’s suggestion that he, Ben, should lie -abed in the morning, Dick kindly volunteering to feed and curry his -mules for him and “bring de hosses.” - -Dick’s strategy accomplished its purpose, and so it was Dick, -resplendent in a livery that might have done credit to a field marshal -on dress parade, who presented himself at the gate that morning in -charge of his master’s and Dorothy’s mounts. - -Arthur looked at him and asked: - -“Why are you in full-dress uniform today, General Dick?” - -“It’s my respec’ful compliments to Mis’ Dorothy, sah,” answered the boy. - -“Thank you, Dick!” said the girl. “I appreciate the attention. But where -is Ben?” - -“Bro’ Ben he dun got religion, Mis’ Dorothy, an’ he dun taken two blue -pills las’ night, an’--” - -“Give him a dose of Epsom salts at once, Dick,” broke in Arthur, “or -he’ll be salivated. And don’t give him oxalic acid by mistake. I’ll -trouble you to keep your fingers out of the medicine chest hereafter. -Come, Dorothy!” - -But as Dorothy was about to put her foot into Arthur’s hand and spring -from it into the saddle, Dick drew forth a white handkerchief, heavily -perfumed with a cooking extract of lemon, and offered it to Dorothy, -saying: - -“You haint rubbed de hosses, Mis’ Dorothy, to see ef dey’s clean ’nuff -fer dis suspicious occasion.” - -Dick probably meant “auspicious,” but he was accustomed, both in prose -and in verse, to require complaisant submission to his will on the part -of the English language. - -“Did you clean them, Dick?” asked Dorothy with a little laugh. - -“I’se proud to say I did,” answered the boy. - -“Then there is no need for me to rub them,” she replied. “You always do -your work well. Your master tells me so. And now I want you to take this -handkerchief of mine, and keep it for your own. I bought it in Paris, -Dick. You can carry it in your breast pocket, with a corner of the lace -protruding--sticking out, you know. And if you will come to me when we -get back from our ride, I’ll give you a bottle of something better than -a cooking extract to perfume it with.” - -With that the girl handed him a dainty, lace-edged mouchoir, for which -she had paid half a hundred francs in Paris, and which she had carried -at the Tuileries. - -“It is just in celebration of my home-coming,” she said to Arthur in -explanation, “and because we are going to have one of our old ‘soon in -the morning’ rides together.” - -As she mounted, Dorothy turned to Dick and commanded: - -“Turn the hounds loose, Dick, and put them on our track.” Then to -Arthur: - -“It is a glorious morning, and I want the dogs to enjoy it.” - -The horses were full of the enthusiasm of the morning. They broke at -once into a gallop, which neither of the riders was disposed to -restrain. Five minutes later the hounds, bellowing as they followed the -trail, overtook the riders. Dorothy brought her mare upon her haunches, -and greeted the dogs as they leaped to caress her hands. Then she -cracked her whip and blew her whistle, and sent the excited animals to -heel, with moans and complainings on their part that they were thus -banished from the immediate presence of their beloved mistress. - -“Your dogs still love and obey you, Dorothy,” said Arthur as they -resumed their ride more soberly than before. - -“Yes,” she answered. “They are better in that respect than women are.” - -Arthur thought he understood. At any rate he accepted the remark as one -implying an apology, and he saw no occasion for apology. - -“Never mind that,” he said. “A woman is entitled to her perfect freedom. -Every human being born into this world has an absolute right to do -precisely as he pleases, so long as in doing as he pleases he does not -trespass upon or abridge the equal right of any other human being to do -as he pleases. It is this equality of right that furnishes the -foundation of all moral codes which are worthy of respect. And this -equality of right belongs to women as fully as to men.” - -“In a way, yes,” answered Dorothy. “Yet in another way, no. I control my -hounds, chiefly for their own good. My right to control them rests upon -my superior knowledge of what their conduct ought to be. It is the same -way with women. They do not know as much as men do, concerning what -their conduct ought to be. Take my dear mother’s case for example. If -she had frankly told my father that she could not be happy in the life -into which he had brought her, that in fact it tortured her, he would -have taken her away out of it. Her mistake was in taking the matter into -her own hands. She needed a master. She ought to have made my father -her master. She ought to have told him what she suffered, and why she -suffered. She ought to have trusted him to find the remedy. Instead of -that--well, you know the story. My father loved my mother with all his -soul. She loved him in return. He could have been her master, if he had -so willed. For when any woman loves any man that man has only to assume -that he is her master in order to be so, and in order to make her -supremely happy in his being so. If my father had understood that, there -would have been no stain upon me now.” - -“What on earth do you mean, Dorothy?” asked Arthur, intensely, as the -girl broke into tears. “There is no stain upon you. I will horsewhip -anybody that shall so much as suggest such a thing.” - -“Yes, I know. You are good and true always. But think of it, Cousin -Arthur. My mother is in hiding in Richmond, because of her shame. And my -father has posthumously insulted her--pure, clean woman that she is--and -insulted me, too, in my helplessness. Let me tell you all about it, -please. Oh, Cousin Arthur, you do not know how I have longed for an -opportunity to tell you! You alone of all people in this world are -broad enough to sympathize with me in my wretchedness. You alone are -true to Truth and Justice and Right. Let me tell you!” - -“Tell me, Dorothy,” he answered tenderly. “I beg of you tell me -absolutely all that is in your mind. Tell me as freely as you told me -once why you marked a watermelon with my initials. But please, Dorothy, -do not tell me anything at all, unless you can put aside the strange -reserve that you have lately set up as a barrier between us, and talk to -me in the old, free, unconstrained way. It was in hope of that that I -asked you to take this ride.” - -She replied, “I beg your pardon for that. I could not help the -constraint, and it pained me as greatly as it distressed you. We are -free now, on our horses. We can talk without restraint, and when we have -talked the matter out, perhaps you will understand. Listen, then!” - -She waited a full minute, the horses walking meanwhile, before she -resumed. Finally Arthur said: “I am listening, Dorothy.” - -Then she answered. - -“My mother was never a bad woman, Arthur Brent. I want you to understand -that clearly before we go on. She abandoned my father because she could -not endure the life he provided for her. But she was always a pure -woman, in spite of all her surroundings and conditions. She offered -freedom to my father, but she asked no freedom for herself. She made no -complaint of him, and his memory is still to her the dearest thing on -earth. It is convention alone that censures her; convention alone that -forbids her to come to Pocahontas; convention alone that refuses to me -permission to love her openly as my mother and to honor her as such. If -I had my way, I should bring her to Pocahontas, and set up housekeeping -there; and I should send out a proclamation to everybody, saying in -effect: ‘My mother, Mrs. South, is with me. You who shall come promptly -to pay your respects to her, I will count my friends. All the rest shall -be my enemies.’ But that may not be. My mother forbids, and I bow to my -mother’s command. Then comes my father’s command, and to that I will -never bow.” - -“What is it, Dorothy?” - -“Aunt Polly has shown me his letter. He tells me that because of my -mother’s misbehavior, he has great fear on my account. He explains that -he forbids me to learn music because he thought it was music that led -my mother into wrong ways. He tells me that in order to preserve my -‘respectability’ he has arranged that I shall marry into a Virginia -family as good as my own, and as if to make the matter of my -inconsequence as detestably humiliating as possible he tells me as I -learned before and wrote to you from Paris, that he has betrothed me to -Jeff Peyton. If there had been any chance that I would submit to be thus -disposed of like a hogshead of tobacco or a carload of wheat, Jeff -Peyton’s conduct would have destroyed it. The last time I met him in -Europe you remember, he threatened me with this command of my father, -and I instantly ordered him out of my presence. He had the impudence to -come to Wyanoke last night--knowing that I was there, and that I was -acting as hostess. It was nearly as bad as if I had been entertaining at -Pocahontas. He made it worse by asking me if I had read my father’s -letter, and if I did not now realize the necessity of marrying him in -order that I might ally myself with a good Virginia family. He had just -finished that insolence when you made your little speech, not only -calling him a fool by plain implication, but proving him to be one. -That’s why I thanked you, as I did.” - -“Yes, I quite understood that,” answered Arthur. “Let us run our horses -for a bit. I have a fancy to do that.” - -Dorothy understood. She joined him in a quarter mile stretch, and then -he suddenly reined in his horse and faced her. - -“It was right here, Dorothy, after a run like that,” he said, “that you -told me I might call you Dorothy. Now I ask you to let me call you -Wife.” - -The girl hesitated. Presently she said: - -“I have made up my mind to be perfectly true with you. I don’t know -whether I had thought of this or not, at any rate I have tried not to -think of it.” - -“But now that I have forced the thought upon you, Dorothy? Is it yes, or -no?” - -Again the girl paused in thought before answering. Her dogs, seeing that -she was paying no attention to them, broke away in pursuit of a hare. -She suddenly recovered her self-possession. She whistled through her -fingers to recall the hounds, and when they returned, crouching to -receive the punishment they knew they deserved, she bade them go to -heel, adding: “You’re naughty fellows, but you haven’t been kept under -control, and so I forgive you.” Then, turning to Arthur she said, - -“Yes, Master.” - - * * * * * - -On their return to the house Arthur was mindful of his duty to Aunt -Polly, guardian of the person of Dorothy South, and, as such endowed -with authority to approve or forbid any marriage to which that eighteen -year old young person might be inclined, before attaining her twenty -first year. - -“Aunt Polly!” he said abruptly, “I want your permission to marry -Dorothy.” - -“Why of course, Arthur,” she replied. “That is what I have intended all -the time.” - - * * * * * - -It was four years later, in June, 1865. Arthur and Dorothy--with an -abiding consciousness of duty faithfully done--stood together in the -porch at Wyanoke. The war was over. Virginia was ruined beyond recovery. -All of evil that Arthur had foreseen, had been accomplished. “But the -good has also come,” said Dorothy as they talked. “Slavery is at an end. -You, Arthur, are free. You may again address yourself to your work in -the world without the embarrassment of other duty. Shall we go back to -New York?” - -[Illustration: _“AUNT POLLY!” HE SAID ABRUPTLY, “I WANT YOUR PERMISSION -TO MARRY DOROTHY.”_] - -“No, Dorothy. My work in life lies in the cradle in the chamber there, -where our two children sleep.” - -“Thank you!” said Dorothy, and silence fell for a time. - -Presently Dorothy added: - -“And my mother’s work is done. It consoles me for all, when I remember -that she lies where she fell, a martyr. The stone under which she sleeps -is a rude one, but soldier hands have lovingly carved upon it the words: - - ‘MADAME LE SUD - THE ANGEL OF THE BATTLEFIELD.’” - -Then Dorothy whistled, and Dick came in response. - -“Bring the horses at six o’clock tomorrow, Dick, your master and I are -going to ride soon in the morning.” - - THE END - - * * * * * - -THE GROSSET & DUNLAP ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS OF FAMOUS BOOKS - - -The following books are large 12mo volumes 5¾ × 8¼ inches in size, are -printed on laid paper of the highest grade, and bound in cloth, with -elaborate decorative covers. They are in every respect beautiful books. - -UNCLE TOM’S CABIN--By Harriet Beecher Stowe. - -A new edition, printed from entirely new plates, on fine laid paper of -extra quality, with half-tone illustrations by Louis Betts. - -PILGRIM’S PROGRESS--By John Bunyan. - -A new edition of Bunyan’s immortal allegory, printed from new plates on -fine laid paper, with illustrations by H. M. 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He has ideas about the disposition of the seven -millions which are not those of the uncle when he tried to supply an -alternative in case the nephew failed him. His adventures in pursuit of -poverty are decidedly of an unusual kind, and his disappointments are -funny in quite a new way. The situation is developed with an immense -amount of humor. - -OTHER BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR: - -GRAUSTARK, The Story of a Love behind a Throne. - -CASTLE CRANEYCROW. THE SHERRODS. - -_Handsome cloth bound volumes, 75 cents each._ - -At all Booksellers, or sent postpaid on receipt of price by the -Publishers. - -GROSSET & DUNLAP :: NEW YORK - - * * * * * - -_No Field Collection is Complete Without this Book_ - -A LITTLE BOOK _of_ TRIBUNE VERSE - -_By_ EUGENE FIELD - -Compiled and edited by JOSEPH G. BROWN, formerly city editor of the -_Denver Tribune_, and an intimate friend and associate of the poet -during the several years in which he was on the staff of that paper. - -This volume resurrects a literary treasure which has been buried for -many years in the forgotten files of a newspaper, and it is, as nearly -as it has been possible to make, an absolutely complete collection of -the hitherto unpublished poems of the gifted author. - -These poems are the early product of Field’s genius. They breathe the -spirit of Western life of twenty years ago. 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There are no -dragging intervals in this volume: from the moment of their landing on -the island until the rescuing crew find them there, there is not a dull -moment for the young people--nor for the reader either.”--_New York -Times._ - -THE KING OF DIAMONDS - -“Verily, Mr. Tracy is a prince of story-tellers. His charm is a little -hard to describe, but it is as definite as that of a rainbow. The reader -is carried along by the robust imagination of the author.”--_San -Francisco Examiner._ - -GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS -52 Duane Street : : : New York - - * * * * * - -_NEW EDITIONS IN UNIFORM BINDING_ - -WORKS OF - -F. MARION CRAWFORD - -12mo, Cloth, each 75 cents, postpaid - -VIA CRUCIS: A Romance of the Second Crusade. Illustrated by Louis Loeb. - -Mr. Crawford has manifestly brought his best qualities as a student of -history, and his finest resources as a master of an original and -picturesque style, to bear upon this story. - -MR. ISAACS: A Tale of Modern India. - -Under an unpretentious title we have here one of the most brilliant -novels that has been given to the world. - -THE HEART OF ROME. - -The legend of a buried treasure under the walls of the palace of Conti, -known to but few, provides the framework for many exciting incidents. - -SARACINESCA - -A graphic picture of Roman society in the last days of the Pope’s -temporal power. - -SANT’ ILARIO; A Sequel to Saracinesca. - -A singularly powerful and beautiful story, fulfilling every requirement -of artistic fiction. - -IN THE PALACE OF THE KING: A Love Story of Old Madrid. Illustrated. - -The imaginative richness, the marvellous ingenuity of plot, and the -charm of romantic environment, rank this novel among the great -creations. - -GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS -52 Duane Street : : : : NEW YORK - - * * * * * - -HERETOFORE PUBLISHED AT $1.50 - -NOVELS BY JACK LONDON - -12MO., CLOTH, 75 CENTS EACH, POSTPAID - -THE CALL OF THE WILD - -With Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and Charles Livingston Bull -Decorated by Charles Edward Hopper - -“A tale that is literature ... the unity of its plan and the firmness of -its execution are equally remarkable ... a story that grips the reader -deeply. It is art, it is literature.... It stands apart, far apart with -so much skill, so much reasonableness, so much convincing logic.”--_N. -Y. Mail and Express._ - -“A big story in sober English, and with thorough art in the construction -... a wonderfully perfect bit of work. The dog adventures are as -exciting as any man’s exploits could be, and Mr. London’s workmanship is -wholly satisfying.”--_The New York Sun._ - -“The story is one that will stir the blood of every lover of a life in -its closest relation to nature. Whoever loves the open or adventure for -its own sake will find ‘The Call of the Wild’ a most fascinating -book.”--_The Brooklyn Eagle._ - -THE SEA WOLF - -Illustrated by W. J. Aylward - -“This story surely has the pure Stevenson ring, the adventurous glamour, -the vertebrate stoicism. ’Tis surely the story of the making of a man, -the sculptor being Captain Larsen, and the clay, the ease-loving, -well-to-do, half-drowned man, to all appearances his helpless -prey.”--_Critic._ - -GROSSET & DUNLAP, PUBLISHERS -52 Duane Street : : : :NEW YORK - -FOOTNOTES: - - [A] The negroes always properly called this word “Voodoo.” Among - theatrical folk it has been strangely and senselessly corrupted into - “Hoodoo.” The negroes believed in the Voodoo as firmly as the player - people do.--AUTHOR. - - [B] The court incident here related is a fact. The author of this book - was present in court when it occurred.--AUTHOR. - - [C] This story of Robert Copeland is historical fact, except - for such disguises of name, etc. as are necessary under the - circumstances.--AUTHOR. - - - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Dorothy South, by George Cary Eggleston - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK Dorothy SOUTH *** - -***** This file should be named 52148-0.txt or 52148-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/1/4/52148/ - -Produced by David Edwards, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -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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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/license - - -Title: Dorothy South - A Love Story of Virginia Just Before the War - -Author: George Cary Eggleston - -Illustrator: C. D. Williams - -Release Date: May 23, 2016 [EBook #52148] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK Dorothy SOUTH *** - - - - -Produced by David Edwards, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - - - - - -</pre> - -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" width="335" height="500" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/title.png" width="200" height="180" alt="DOROTHY -SOUTH" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_001" id="page_001"></a>{1}</span> </p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_002" id="page_002"></a>{2}</span> </p> - -<div class="figcenter"><a name="front" id="front"></a> -<img src="images/frontis.jpg" width="338" height="500" alt="SHALL WE HAVE ONE OF OUR OLD-TIME HORSEBACK -RIDES ‘SOON’ IN THE MORNING, DOROTHY?” -(See page 440.)" title="" /> -<br /> -<p class="caption"><span class="captv">“S</span>HALL WE HAVE ONE OF OUR OLD-TIME HORSEBACK -RIDES ‘SOON’ IN THE MORNING, DOROTHY?” -</p> -<p class="rt">(<a href="#page_440">See page 440.</a>)</p> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_003" id="page_003"></a>{3}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<a href="images/titlepage_lg.png"> -<img src="images/titlepage.png" width="284" height="500" alt="Dorothy South -A Love Story of Virginia Just Before the War -By GEORGE CARY EGGLESTON -Author of -“A Carolina Cavalier” “The Bale Marked Circle X” “Camp Venture” “The -Last of the Flatboats” -ILLUSTRATED BY C. D. WILLIAMS -New York: Grosset & Dunlap, Publishers" title="" /></a> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_004" id="page_004"></a>{4}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/copyright.jpg" width="250" height="300" alt="COPYRIGHT, 1902, By LOTHROP PUBLISHING COMPANY. -ALL RIGHTS RESERVED" title="" /> -</div> - -<div class="poetry"><div class="poem"> -<b>PUBLISHED MARCH, 1902<br /> -<br /> -<i>12th THOUSAND, March 20</i><br /> -<i>17th THOUSAND, May 20</i><br /> -<i>22d THOUSAND, June 28</i><br /> -<i>27th THOUSAND, July 25</i><br /> -<i>32d THOUSAND, Aug. 20</i><br /> -<i>37th THOUSAND, Nov. 4</i><br /> -<i>40th THOUSAND, Nov. 8</i><br /> -<i>42d THOUSAND, May 4</i></b> -</div></div> - -<p> </p> - -<hr class="dkr" /> -<p class="cb"><span class="smcap">Berwick and Smith<br /> -Printers<br /> -Norwood, Mass.</span><br /> -</p> -<hr class="dkr" /> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_005" id="page_005"></a>{5}</span></p> - -<h2 class="head"><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a><i>CONTENTS</i></h2> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/divider.png" width="500" height="65" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="2" cellspacing="0" summary=""> - -<tr><td><small>CHAPTER</small></td><td> </td> -<td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#I">I.</a></td><td class="hang"> TWO ENCOUNTERS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_011">11</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#II">II.</a></td><td class="hang"> WYANOKE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_025">25</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#III">III.</a></td><td class="hang"> DR. ARTHUR BRENT</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_036">36</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#IV">IV.</a></td><td class="hang"> DR. BRENT IS PUZZLED</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_047">47</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#V">V.</a></td><td class="hang"> ARTHUR BRENT’S TEMPTATION</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_062">62</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#VI">VI.</a></td><td class="hang"> NOW YOU MAY CALL ME DOROTHY</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_077">77</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#VII">VII.</a></td><td class="hang"> SHRUB HILL CHURCH</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_091">91</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#VIII">VIII.</a></td><td class="hang"> A DINNER AT BRANTON</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_101">101</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#IX">IX.</a></td><td class="hang"> DOROTHY’S CASE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_117">117</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#X">X.</a></td><td class="hang"> DOROTHY VOLUNTEERS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_135">135</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XI">XI.</a></td><td class="hang"> THE WOMAN’S AWAKENING</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_150">150</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XII">XII.</a></td><td class="hang"> MAMMY</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_156">156</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XIII">XIII.</a></td><td class="hang"> THE “SONG BALLADS” OF DICK</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_166">166</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XIV">XIV.</a></td><td class="hang"> DOROTHY’S AFFAIRS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_175">175</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XV">XV.</a></td><td class="hang"> DOROTHY’S CHOICE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_184">184</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XVI">XVI.</a></td><td class="hang"> UNDER THE CODE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_191">191</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XVII">XVII.</a></td><td class="hang"> A REVELATION</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_199">199</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XVIII">XVIII.</a></td><td class="hang"> ALONE IN THE CARRIAGE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_217">217</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XIX">XIX.</a></td><td class="hang"> DOROTHY’S MASTER</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_222">222</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XX">XX.</a></td><td class="hang"> A SPECIAL DELIVERY LETTER</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_230">230</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXI">XXI.</a></td><td class="hang"> HOW A HIGH BRED DAMSEL CONFRONTED<br /> -FATE, AND DUTY</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_237">237</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXII">XXII.</a></td><td class="hang"> THE INSTITUTION OF THE DUELLO</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_253">253</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXIII">XXIII.</a></td><td class="hang"> DOROTHY’S REBELLION</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_263">263</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXIV">XXIV.</a></td><td class="hang"> TO GIVE DOROTHY A CHANCE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_270">270</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXV">XXV.</a></td><td class="hang"> AUNT POLLY’S VIEW OF THE RISKS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_286">286</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXVI">XXVI.</a></td><td class="hang"> AUNT POLLY’S ADVICE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_295">295</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXVII">XXVII.</a></td><td class="hang"> DIANA’S EXALTATION<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_006" id="page_006"></a>{6}</span></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_306">306</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXVIII">XXVIII.</a></td><td class="hang"> THE ADVANCING SHADOW</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_314">314</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXIX">XXIX.</a></td><td class="hang"> THE CORRESPONDENCE OF DOROTHY</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_322">322</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXX">XXX.</a></td><td class="hang"> AT SEA</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_346">346</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXXI">XXXI.</a></td><td class="hang"> THE VIEWS AND MOODS OF ARTHUR BRENT</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_363">363</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXXII">XXXII.</a></td><td class="hang"> THE SHADOW FALLS</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_377">377</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXXIII">XXXIII.</a></td><td class="hang"> “AT PARIS IT WAS”</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_391">391</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXXIV">XXXIV.</a></td><td class="hang"> DOROTHY’S DISCOVERY</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_404">404</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXXV">XXXV.</a></td><td class="hang"> THE BIRTH OF WAR</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_424">424</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXXVI">XXXVI.</a></td><td class="hang"> THE OLD DOROTHY AND THE NEW</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_429">429</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXXVII">XXXVII.</a></td><td class="hang"> AT WYANOKE</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_435">435</a></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top"><a href="#XXXVIII">XXXVIII.</a> </td><td class="hang"> SOON IN THE MORNING</td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_441">441</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_007" id="page_007"></a>{7}</span></p> - -<h2 class="head"><a name="LIST_of_ILLUSTRATIONS" id="LIST_of_ILLUSTRATIONS"></a>LIST <i>of</i> ILLUSTRATIONS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="4" cellspacing="0" summary="" -style="margin:auto auto;max-width:60%;text-align:center;"> - -<tr><td>“<i>Shall we have one of our old-time horseback -rides ‘soon’ in the morning, Dorothy?</i>”</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c">(<i><a href="#front">Frontispiece.</a></i>)</td></tr> - -<tr><td>“<i>Who is your Miss Dorothy?</i>”</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c">(<i><a href="#page_017">Page 17.</a></i>)</td></tr> - -<tr><td>“<i>I won’t call you a fool because the Bible says -I mustn’t.</i>”</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c">(<i><a href="#page_178">Page 178.</a></i>)</td></tr> - -<tr><td><i>Dorothy South.</i>)</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c">(<i><a href="#page_304">Page 304.</a></i>)</td></tr> - -<tr><td>“<i>In that music my soul laid itself bare to yours -and prayed for your love.</i>”</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c">(<i><a href="#page_417">Page 417.</a></i>)</td></tr> - -<tr><td><i>“Aunt Polly!” he said abruptly, “I want -your permission to marry Dorothy.”</i>)</td></tr> - -<tr><td class="c">(<i><a href="#page_452">Page 452.</a></i>)</td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_008" id="page_008"></a>{8}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_009" id="page_009"></a>{9}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/title.png" width="200" height="180" alt="DOROTHY -SOUTH" title="" /> -</div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_010" id="page_010"></a>{10}</span></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_011" id="page_011"></a>{11}</span></p> - -<h1><span class="smcap">Dorothy South</span></h1> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/divider.png" width="500" height="65" alt="" title="" /> -</div> - -<h2><a name="I" id="I"></a>I<br /> -<small>TWO ENCOUNTERS</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was a perfect day of the kind that Mr. Lowell has celebrated in -song—“a day in June.” It was, moreover, a day glorified even beyond Mr. -Lowell’s imagining, by the incomparable climate of south side Virginia.</p> - -<p>A young man of perhaps seven and twenty, came walking with vigor down -the narrow roadway, swinging a stick which he had paused by the wayside -to cut. The road ran at this point through a luxuriantly growing -woodland, with borders of tangled undergrowth and flowers on either -side, and with an orchestra of bird performers all around. The road was -a public highway, though it would never have been taken for such in any -part of the world except in a south side county of Virginia in the late -fifties. It was a narrow track, bearing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_012" id="page_012"></a>{12}</span> few traces of any heavier -traffic than that of the family carriages in which the gentle, high-born -dames and maidens of the time and country were accustomed to make their -social rounds.</p> - -<p>There was a gate across the carriage track—a gate constructed in -accordance with the requirement of the Virginia law that every gate set -up across a public highway should be “easily opened by a man on -horseback.”</p> - -<p>Near the gate the young man slackened his vigorous pace and sat down -upon a recently fallen tree. He remembered enough of his boyhood’s -experience in Virginia to choose a green log instead of a dry one for -his seat. He had had personal encounters with chigoes years ago, and -wanted no more of them. He sat down not because he was tired, for he was -not in the least so, but simply because, finding himself in the midst of -a refreshingly and inspiringly beautiful scene, he desired to enjoy it -for a space. Besides, he was in no hurry. Nobody was expecting him, and -he knew that dinner would not be served whither he was going until the -hour of four—and it was now only a little past nine.</p> - -<p>The young man was fair to look upon. A trifle above the medium height, -his person was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_013" id="page_013"></a>{13}</span> symmetrical and his finely formed head was carried with -an ease and grace that suggested the reserve strength of a young bull. -His features were about equally marked by vigor and refinement. His was -the countenance of a man well bred, who, to his inheritance of good -breeding had added education and such culture as books, and earnest -thinking, and a favorable association with men of intellect are apt to -bring to one worthy to receive the gift.</p> - -<p>He seemed to know the spot wherein he lingered. Indeed he had asked no -questions as to his way when less than an hour ago he had alighted from -the pottering train at the village known as the Court House. He had said -to the old station agent, “I will send for my baggage later.” Then he -had set off at a brisk walk down one of the many roads that converged at -this centre of county life and affairs. The old station master, looking -after him, had muttered: “He seems to think he knows his way. Mebbe he -does, but anyhow he’s a stranger in these parts.”</p> - -<p>And indeed that would have been the instant conclusion of any one who -should have looked at him as he sat there by the roadside enjoying the -sweet freshness of the morning, and the exquisite abandon with which -exuberant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_014" id="page_014"></a>{14}</span> nature seemed to mock at the little track made through the -tangled woodlands by intrusive man. The youth’s garb betrayed him -instantly. In a country where black broadcloth was then the universal -wear of gentlemen, our young gentleman was clad in loosely fitting but -perfectly shaped white flannels, the trousers slightly turned up to -avoid the soil of travel, the short sack coat thrown open, and the full -bosomed shirt front of bishop’s lawn or some other such sheer stuff, -being completely without a covering of vest. Obviously the young -pedestrian did not belong to that part of the world which he seemed to -be so greatly enjoying.</p> - -<p>That is what Dick thought, when Dick rode up to the gate. Dick was a -negro boy of fourteen summers or about that. His face was a bright, -intelligent one, and he looked a good deal of the coming athlete as he -sat barebacked upon the large roan that served him for steed. Dick wore -a shirt and trousers, and nothing else, except a dilapidated straw hat -which imperfectly covered his closely cropped wool. His feet were bare, -but the young man made mental note of the fact that they bore the -appearance of feet accustomed to be washed at least once in every twenty -four hours.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_015" id="page_015"></a>{15}</span></p> - -<p>“Does your mammy make you wash your feet every night, or do you do it of -your own accord?” The question was the young man’s rather informal -beginning of a conversation.</p> - -<p>“Mammy makes me,” answered the boy, with a look of resentment in his -face. “Mammy’s crazy about washin’. She makes me git inter a bar’l o’ -suds ev’ry night an’ scrub myself like I was a floor. That’s cause she’s -de head washerwoman at Wyanoke. She’s got washin’ on de brain.”</p> - -<p>“So you’re one of the Wyanoke people, are you? Whom do you belong to -now?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t jes’ rightly know, Mahstah”—Dick sounded his a’s like “aw” in -“claw.” “I don’t jes’ rightly know, Mahstah. Ole Mas’r he’s done daid, -an’ de folks sez a young Yankee mahstah is a comin’ to take position.”</p> - -<p>“To take possession, you mean, don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“I dunno. Somefin o’ dat sort.”</p> - -<p>“Why do you call him a Yankee master?”</p> - -<p>“O ’cause he libs at de Norf somewhar. I reckon mebbe he ain’t quite so -bad as dat. Dey say he was born in Ferginny, but I reckon he’s done lib -in de Norf among the Yankees so long dat he’s done forgit his manners -an’ his raisin.”</p> - -<p>“What’s your name?” asked the young man, seemingly interested in Dick.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_016" id="page_016"></a>{16}</span></p> - -<p>“My name’s Dick, Sah.”</p> - -<p>“Dicksah—or Dick?”</p> - -<p>“Jes’ Dick, so,” answered the boy.</p> - -<p>“Oh! Well, that’s a very good name. It’s short and easy to say.”</p> - -<p>“<i>Too</i> easy!” said the boy.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Too easy?’ How do you mean?” queried the young man.</p> - -<p>“Oh, nuffin’, only it’s allus ‘Dick, do dis!’ ‘Dick do dat.’ ‘Dick go -dar,’ ’Dick come heah,’ an’ ‘Dick, Dick, Dick’ all de day long.”</p> - -<p>“Then they work you pretty hard do they? You don’t look emaciated.”</p> - -<p>“Maishy what, Mahstah?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, never mind that. It’s a Chinese word that I was just saying to -myself. Do they work you too hard? What do you do?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t do nuffin’ much. Only when I lays down in de sun an’ jes’ -begins to git quiet like, Miss Polly she calls me to pick some peas in -de gyahden, er Miss Dorothy she says, ‘Dick, come heah an’ help me range -dese flowers,’ or Mammy, she says, ‘Dick, you lazy bones, come heah an’ -put some wood under my wash biler.’ ”</p> - -<p>“But what is your regular work?”</p> - -<p>“Reg’lar wuk?” asked the boy, his eyes growing saucer-like in -astonishment, “I ain’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_017" id="page_017"></a>{17}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/p016.jpg" width="500" height="338" alt="“WHO IS YOUR MISS DOROTHY?”" title="" /> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="captv">“W</span>HO IS YOUR MISS DOROTHY?”</span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">got no reg’lar wuk. I feeds de chickens, sometimes, and fin’s hens’ -nests an’ min’s chillun, an’ dribes de tukkeys into de tobacco lots to -eat de grasshoppers an’ I goes aftah de mail. Dat’s what I’se a doin’ -now. Leastways I’se a comin’ back wid de mail wot I done been an’ gone -after.”</p> - -<p>“Is that all?”</p> - -<p>“Dat’s nuff, ain’t it, Mahstah?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know. I wonder what your new master will think when he comes.”</p> - -<p>“Golly, so do I. Anyhow, he’s a Yankee, an’ he won’t know how much wuk a -nigga ought to do. I’ll be his pussonal servant, I reckon. Leastways -dat’s what Miss Dorothy say she tink.”</p> - -<p>“Who is your Miss Dorothy?” the young man asked with badly simulated -indifference, for this was a member of the Wyanoke family of whom Dr. -Arthur Brent had never before heard.</p> - -<p>“Miss Dorothy? Why, she’s jes’ Miss Dorothy, so.”</p> - -<p>“But what’s her other name?”</p> - -<p>“I dunno. I reckon she ain’t got no other name. Leastways I dunno.”</p> - -<p>“Is Wyanoke a fine plantation?”</p> - -<p>“Fine, Mahstah? It’s de very finest dey is.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_018" id="page_018"></a>{18}</span> It’s all out o-doors and I -reckon dey’s a thousand cullud people on it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, hardly that,” answered the young man—“say eight or nine -hundred—or perhaps one hundred would be nearer the mark.”</p> - -<p>“No, <i>Sir</i>! De Brents is quality folks, Mahstah. Dey’s got more’n a -thousan’ niggas, an’ two or three thousan’ horses, an’ as fer cows an’ -hawgs you jes’ cawn’t count ’em! Dey eats dinner offen chaney plates -every day an’ de forks at Wyanoke is all gold.”</p> - -<p>“How many carriages do they keep, Dick?”</p> - -<p>“Sebenteen, besides de barouche an’ de carryall.”</p> - -<p>“Well, now you’d better be moving on. Your Miss Polly and your Miss -Dorothy may be waiting for their letters.”</p> - -<p>As the boy rode away, Dr. Arthur Brent resumed his brisk walk. He no -longer concerned himself with the landscape, or the woods, or the wild -flowers, or the beauty of the June morning, or anything else. He was -thinking, and not to much purpose.</p> - -<p>“Who the deuce,” he muttered, “can this Miss Dorothy be? Of course I -remember dear old Aunt Polly. She has always lived at Wyanoke. But who -is Dorothy? As my uncle wasn’t married of course he had no daughter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_019" id="page_019"></a>{19}</span> -And besides, if he had, she would be his heir, and I should never have -inherited the property at all. I wonder if I have inherited a family, -with the land? Psha! Dick invented Miss Dorothy, of course. Why didn’t I -think of that? I remember my last stay of a year at Wyanoke, and -everything about the place. There was no Dorothy there then, and pretty -certainly there is none now. Dick invented her, just as he invented the -gold forks, and the thousand negroes, and all those multitudinous -horses, carriages, cows and hogs. That black rascal has a creative -genius—a trifle ill regulated perhaps, but richly productive. It failed -him for the moment when I demanded a second name for Dorothy. But if I -had persisted in that line of inquiry he would pretty certainly have -endowed the girl with a string of surnames as completely fictitious as -the woman herself is. I’ll have some fun out of that boy. He has -distinct psychological possibilities.”</p> - -<p>Continuing his walk in leisurely fashion like one whose mind is busy -with reflection, Dr. Arthur Brent came at last to a great gate at the -side of the road—a gate supported by two large pillars of hewn stone, -and flanked by a smaller gate intended for the use of foot farers like -himself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_020" id="page_020"></a>{20}</span></p> - -<p>“That’s the entrance gate to the plantation,” he reflected. “I had -thought it half a mile farther on. Memory has been playing me its usual -trick of exaggerating everything remembered from boyhood. I was only -fifteen or sixteen when I was last at Wyanoke, and the road seems -shorter now than it did then. But this is surely the gate.”</p> - -<p>Passing through the wicket, he presently found himself in a forest of -young hickory trees. He remembered these as having been scarcely higher -than the head of a man on horseback at the time of his last visit. They -had been planted by his uncle to beautify the front entrance to the -plantation, and, with careful foresting they had abundantly fulfilled -that purpose. Growing rather thickly, they had risen to a height of -nearly fifty feet, and their boles had swelled to a thickness of eight -or ten inches, while all undergrowth of every kind had been carefully -suppressed. The tract of land thus timbered by cultivation to replace -the original pine forest, embraced perhaps seventy-five or a hundred -acres, and the effect of it in a country where forest growths were -usually permitted to lead riotous lives of their own, was impressive.</p> - -<p>As the young man turned one of the curves<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_021" id="page_021"></a>{21}</span> of the winding carriage road, -four great hounds caught sight of him and instantly set upon him. At -that moment a young girl, perched upon a tall chestnut mare galloped -into view. Thrusting two fingers of her right hand into her mouth, she -whistled shrilly between them, thrice repeating the searching sound. -Instantly the huge hounds cowered and slunk away to the side of the -girl’s horse. Their evident purpose was to go to heel at once, but their -mistress had no mind for that.</p> - -<p>“Here!” she cried. “Sit up on your haunches and take your punishment.”</p> - -<p>The dogs obediently took the position of humble suppliants, and the girl -dealt to each, a sharp cut with the flexible whip she carried slung to -her pommel. “Now go to heel, you naughty fellows!” she commanded, and -with a stately inclination of her body she swept past the young man, not -deigning even to glance in his direction.</p> - -<p>“By Jove!” exclaimed Dr. Brent, “that was done as a young queen might -have managed it. She saved my life, punished her hounds to secure their -future obedience, and barely recognizing my existence—doing even that -for her own sake, not mine—galloped away as if this superb day belonged -to her!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_022" id="page_022"></a>{22}</span> And she isn’t a day over fifteen either.” In that Dr. Brent was -mistaken. The girl had passed her sixteenth birthday, three months ago. -“I doubt if she is half as long as that graceful riding habit she is -wearing.” Then after a moment he said, still talking to himself, “I’ll -wager something handsome that that girl is as shy as a fawn. They always -are shy when they behave in that queenly, commanding way. The shyer they -are the more they affect a stately demeanor.”</p> - -<p>Dr. Arthur Brent was a man of a scientific habit of mind. To him -everything and everybody was apt to assume somewhat the character of a -“specimen.” He observed minutely and generalized boldly, even when his -“subject” happened to be a young woman or, as in this case, a slip of a -girl. All facts were interesting to him, whether facts of nature or -facts of human nature. He was just now as earnest in his speculations -concerning the girl he had so oddly encountered, as if she had been a -new chemical reaction.</p> - -<p>Seating himself by the roadside he tried to recall all the facts -concerning her that his hasty glance had enabled him to observe.</p> - -<p>“If I were an untrained observer,” he reflected, “I should argue from -her stately dignity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_023" id="page_023"></a>{23}</span> and the reserve with which she treated me—she -being only an unsophisticated young girl who has not lived long enough -to ‘adopt’ a manner with malice aforethought—I should argue from her -manner that she is a girl highly bred, the daughter of some blue blooded -Virginia family, trained from infancy by grand dames, her aunts and that -sort of thing, in the fine art of ‘deportment.’ But as I am not an -untrained observer, I recall the fact that stage queens do that sort of -thing superbly, even when their mothers are washerwomen, and they -themselves prefer corned beef and cabbage to truffled game. Still as -there are no specimens of that kind down here in Virginia, I am forced -to the conclusion that this young Diana is simply the highly bred and -carefully dame-nurtured daughter of one of the great plantation owners -hereabouts, whose manner has acquired an extra stateliness from her -embarrassment and shyness. Girls of fifteen or sixteen don’t know -exactly where they stand. They are neither little girls nor young women. -They have outgrown the license of the one state without having as yet -acquired the liberty of action that belongs to the other.” Thus the -youth’s thoughts wandered on. “That girl is a rigid disciplinarian,” he -reflected. “How<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_024" id="page_024"></a>{24}</span> sternly she required those hounds to sit on their -haunches and take the punishment due to their sins! I’ll be bound she -has herself been set in a corner for many a childish naughtiness. Yet -she is not cruel. She struck each dog only a single blow—just -punishment enough to secure better manners in future. An ill tempered -woman would have lashed them more severely. And a woman less -self-controlled would have struck out with her whip without making the -dogs sit up and realize the enormity of their offence. A less well-bred -girl would have said something to me in apology for her hounds’ -misbehavior. This one was sufficiently sensible to see that unless I -were a fool—in which case I should have been unworthy of attention—her -disciplining of the dogs was apology enough without supplementary -speech. I must find out who she is and make her acquaintance.”</p> - -<p>Then a sudden thought struck him; “By Jove!” he exclaimed aloud, “I -wonder if her name is Dorothy!”</p> - -<p>Then the young man walked on.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_025" id="page_025"></a>{25}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="II" id="II"></a>II<br /> -<small>WYANOKE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">H</span><b>ALF</b> an hour later Arthur Brent entered the house grounds of -Wyanoke—the home of his ancestors for generations past and his own -birthplace. The grounds about the mansion were not very large—two acres -in extent perhaps—set with giant locust trees that had grown for a -century or more in their comfortable surrounding of closely clipped and -luxuriant green sward. Only three trees other than the stately locusts, -adorned the house grounds. One of these was a huge elm, four feet thick -in its stem, with great limbs, branching out in every direction and -covering, altogether, a space of nearly a quarter acre of ground, but so -high from the earth that the carpet of green sward grew in full -luxuriance to the very roots of the stupendous tree. How long that -aboriginal monarch had been luxuriating there, the memory of man could -make no report. The Wyanoke plantation book, with its curiously minute -record of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_026" id="page_026"></a>{26}</span> everything that pertained to the family domain, set forth the -fact that the “new mansion house”—the one still in use,—was built in -the year 1711, and that its southeasterly corner stood “two hundred and -thirty nine feet due northwest of the Great Elm which adorns the lawn.” -A little later than the time of Arthur Brent’s return, that young man of -a scientific mental habit made a survey to determine whether or not the -Great Elm of 1859 was certainly the same that had been named “the Great -Elm” in 1711. Finding it so he reckoned that the tree must be many -hundreds—perhaps even a thousand years of age. For the elm is one of -the very slowest growing of trees, and Arthur Brent’s measurements -showed that the diameter of this one had increased not more than six -inches during the century and a half since it had been accepted as a -conspicuous landmark for descriptive use in the plantation book.</p> - -<p>The other trees that asked of the huge locusts a license to live upon -that lawn, were two quick-growing Asiatic mulberries, planted in -comparatively recent times to afford shade to the front porch.</p> - -<p>The house was built of wood, heavily framed, large roomed and gambrel -roofed. Near it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_027" id="page_027"></a>{27}</span> stood the detached kitchen in the edge of the apple -orchard, and farther away the quarters of the house servants.</p> - -<p>As Arthur Brent strolled up the walk that led to the broad front doors -of the mansion his mind was filled with a sense of peace. That was the -dominant note of the house and all of its surroundings. The great, -self-confident locust trees that had stood still in their places while -generations of Brents had come and gone, seemed to counsel rest as the -true philosophy of life. The house itself seemed to invite repose. Even -the stately peacock that strolled in leisurely laziness beneath the -great elm seemed, in his very being, a protest against all haste, all -worry, all ambition of action and change.</p> - -<p>“I do not know,” thought the young man, as he contemplated the -immeasurably restful scene, “what the name Wyanoke signifies in the -Indian tongue from which it was borrowed. But surely it ought to mean -rest, contentment, calm.”</p> - -<p>That thought, and the inspiration of it, were destined to play their -part as determinative influences in the life of the young man whose mind -was thus impressed. There lay before him, though he was unconscious of -the fact, a life struggle between stern conviction and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_028" id="page_028"></a>{28}</span> sweet -inclination, between duty and impulse, between intensity of mind and -lassitude of soul. There were other factors to complicate the problem, -but these were its chief terms, and it is the purpose of this chronicle -to show in what fashion the matter was wrought out.</p> - -<p>Advancing to the porch, Arthur rapped thrice with the stick that he -carried. That was because he had passed the major part of his life -elsewhere than in Virginia. If such had not been the case he would have -interpreted the meaning of the broad open doors aright, and would have -walked in without any knocking at all.</p> - -<p>As it was, Johnny, the “head dining room servant,” as he was called in -Virginia—the butler, as he would have been called elsewhere—heard the -unaccustomed sound of knocking, and went to the door to discover what it -might mean. To him Arthur handed a visiting card, and said simply: “Your -Miss Polly.”</p> - -<p>The comely and intelligent serving man was puzzled by the card. He had -not the slightest notion of its use or purpose. In his bewilderment he -decided that the only thing to be done with it was to take it to his -“Miss Polly,” which, of course, was precisely what Arthur Brent desired -him to do. There was probably<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_029" id="page_029"></a>{29}</span> not another visiting card in all that -country side—for the Virginians of that time used few formalities, and -very simple ones in their social intercourse. They went to visit their -friends, not to “call” upon them. Pasteboard politeness was a factor -wholly unknown in their lives.</p> - -<p>Miss Polly happened to be at that moment in the garden directing old -Michael,—the most obstinately obstructive and wilful of gardeners,—to -do something to the peas that he was resolutely determined not to do, -and to leave something undone to the tomatoes which he was bent upon -doing. On receipt of the card, she left Michael to his own devices, and -almost hurried to the house. “Almost hurried,” I say, for Miss Polly was -much too stately and dignified a person to quicken a footstep upon any -occasion.</p> - -<p>She was “Miss Polly” to the negro servants. To everybody else she was -“Cousin Polly,” or “Aunt Polly,” and she had been that from the period -described by the old law writers as “the time whereof the memory of man -runneth not to the contrary.” How old she was, nobody knew. She looked -elderly in a comfortable, vigorous way. Gray hair was at that time -mistakenly regarded as a reproach to women—a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_030" id="page_030"></a>{30}</span> sign of advancing age -which must be concealed at all costs. Therefore Aunt Polly’s white locks -were kept closely shaven, and covered with a richly brown wig. For the -rest, she was a plump person of large proportions, though not in the -least corpulent. Her dignity was such as became her age and her -lineage—which latter was of the very best. She knew her own value, and -respected, without aggressively asserting it. She had never been -married—unquestionably for reasons of her own—but her single state had -brought with it no trace or tinge of bitterness, no suggestion of -discontent. She was, and had always been, a woman in perfect health of -mind and body, and the fact was apparent to all who came into her -comfortable presence.</p> - -<p>She had a small but sufficient income of her own, but, being an -“unattached female”—as the phrase went at a time when people were too -polite to name a woman an “old maid,”—she had lived since early -womanhood at Wyanoke; and since the late bachelor owner of the estate, -Arthur Brent’s uncle, had come into the inheritance, she had been -mistress of the mansion, ruling there with an iron rod of perfect -cleanliness and scrupulous neatness, according to housekeeping standards -from which she would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_031" id="page_031"></a>{31}</span> abate no jot or tittle upon any conceivable -account. Fortunately for her servitors, there were about seven of them -to every one that was reasonably necessary.</p> - -<p>She was a woman of high intelligence and of a pronounced wit,—a wit -that sometimes took humorous liberties with the proprieties, to the -embarrassment of sensitive young people. She was well read and well -informed, but she never did believe that the world was round, her -argument being that if such were the case she would be standing on her -head half the time. She also refused to believe in railroads. She was -confident that “the Yankees” had built railroads through Virginia, with -a far seeing purpose of overrunning and conquering that state and -possessing themselves of its plantations. Finally, she regarded Virginia -as the only state or country in the world in which a person of taste and -discretion could consent to be born. Her attitude toward all dwellers -beyond the borders of Virginia, closely resembled that of the Greeks -toward those whom they self assertively classed as “the barbarians.” How -far she really cherished these views, or how far it was merely her humor -to assert them, nobody ever found out. To all this she added the -sweetest temper and the most unselfish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_032" id="page_032"></a>{32}</span> devotion to those about her, -that it is possible to imagine. She was very distantly akin to Arthur, -if indeed she was akin to him at all. But in his childhood he had -learned to call her “Aunt Polly,” and during that year of his boyhood -which he had spent at Wyanoke, he had known her by no other title. So -when she came through the rear doors to meet him in the great hall which -ran through the house from front to rear, he advanced eagerly and -lovingly to greet her as “Aunt Polly.”</p> - -<p>The first welcome over, Aunt Polly became deeply concerned over the fact -that Arthur Brent had walked the five or six miles that lay between the -Court House and Wyanoke.</p> - -<p>“Why didn’t you get a horse, Arthur, or better still why didn’t you send -me word that you were coming? I would have sent the carriage for you.”</p> - -<p>“Which one, Aunt Polly?”</p> - -<p>“Why, there’s only one, of course.”</p> - -<p>“Why, I was credibly informed this morning that there were seventeen -carriages here besides the barouche and the carryall.”</p> - -<p>“Who could have told you such a thing as that? And then to think of -anybody accusing Wyanoke of a ‘carryall!’ ”</p> - -<p>“How do you mean, Aunt Polly?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_033" id="page_033"></a>{33}</span></p> - -<p>“Why, no <i>gentleman</i> keeps a carryall. I believe Moses the storekeeper -at the Court House has one, but then he has nine children and needs it. -Besides he doesn’t count.”</p> - -<p>“Why not, Aunt Polly? Isn’t he a man like the rest of us?”</p> - -<p>“A man? Yes, but like the rest of us—no. He isn’t a gentleman.”</p> - -<p>“Does he misbehave very grossly?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. He is an excellent man I believe, and his children are as -pretty as angels; but, Arthur, he <i>keeps a store</i>.”</p> - -<p>Aunt Polly laid a stress upon the final phrase as if that settled the -matter beyond even the possibility of further discussion.</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s it, is it?” asked the young man with a smile. “In Virginia -no man keeps a carryall unless he is sufficiently depraved to keep a -store also. But I wonder why Dick told me we had a carryall at Wyanoke -besides the seventeen carriages.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you saw Dick, then? Why didn’t you take his horse and make him get -you a saddle somewhere? By the way, Dick had an adventure this morning. -Out by the Garland gate he was waylaid by a man dressed all in white -‘jes’ like a ghos’,’ Dick says, with a sword and two pistols. The fellow -tried to take the mail<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_034" id="page_034"></a>{34}</span> bag away from him, but Dick, who is -quick-witted, struck him suddenly, made his horse jump the gate, and -galloped away.”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Polly,” said the young man with a quizzical look on his face, -“would you mind sending for Dick to come to me? I very much want to hear -his story at first hands, for now that I am to be master of Wyanoke, I -don’t intend to tolerate footpads and mail robbers in the neighborhood. -Please send for Dick. I want to talk with him.”</p> - -<p>Aunt Polly sent, but Dick was nowhere to be found for a time. When at -last he was discovered in a fodder loft, and dragged unwillingly into -his new master’s presence, the look of consternation on his face was so -pitiable that Arthur Brent decided not to torture him quite so severely -as he had intended.</p> - -<p>“Dick,” he said, “I want you to get me some cherries, will you?”</p> - -<p>“ ‘Cou’se I will, Mahstah,” answered the boy, eagerly and turning to -escape.</p> - -<p>“Wait a minute, Dick. I want you to bring me the cherries on a china -plate, and give me one of the gold forks to eat them with. Then go to -the carriage-house and have all seventeen of my carriages brought up -here for me to look at. Tell the hostlers to send me one or two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_035" id="page_035"></a>{35}</span> hundred -of the horses, too. There! Go and do as I tell you.”</p> - -<p>“What on earth do you mean, Arthur?” asked Aunt Polly, who never had -quite understood the whimsical ways of the young man. “I tell you there -is only one carriage—”</p> - -<p>“Never mind, Aunt Polly. Dick understands me. He and I had an interview -out there by the Garland gate this morning. Mail robbers will not -trouble him again, I fancy, now that his ‘Yankee Master’ is ‘in -position,’ as he puts it. But please, Aunt Polly, send some one with a -wagon to the Court House after my trunks.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_036" id="page_036"></a>{36}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="III" id="III"></a>III<br /> -<small>DR. ARTHUR BRENT</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><b>RTHUR BRENT</b> had been born at Wyanoke, twenty seven years or so before -the time of our story. His father, one of a pair of brothers, was a man -imbued with the convictions of the Revolutionary period—the convictions -that prompted the Virginians of that time to regard slavery as an -inherited curse to be got rid of in the speediest possible way -compatible with the public welfare. There were still many such -Virginians at that time. They were men who knew the history of their -state and respected the teachings of the fathers. They remembered how -earnestly Thomas Jefferson had insisted upon writing into Virginia’s -deed of cession of the North West Territory, a clause forever -prohibiting slavery in all the fair “Ohio Country”—now constituting -Indiana, Illinois and the other great states of the Middle West. They -held in honor, as their fathers before them had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_037" id="page_037"></a>{37}</span> done, the memory of -Chancellor George Wythe, who had well-nigh impoverished himself in -freeing the negroes he had inherited and giving them a little start in -the world. They were the men to whom Henry Clay made confident appeal in -that effort to secure the gradual extirpation of the system which was -the first and was repeated as very nearly the last of his labors of -statesmanship.</p> - -<p>These men had no sympathy or tolerance for “abolitionist” movements. -They desired and intended that slavery should cease, and many of them -impoverished themselves in their efforts to be personally rid of it. But -they resented as an impertinence every suggestion of interference with -it on the part of the national government, or on the part of the -dwellers in other states.</p> - -<p>For these men accepted, as fully as the men of Massachusetts once did, -the doctrine that every state was sovereign except in so far as it had -delegated certain functions of sovereignty to the general government. -They held it to be the absolute right of each state to regulate its -domestic affairs in its own way, and they were ready to resent and -resist all attempts at outside interference with their state’s -institutions, precisely as they would have resisted and resented<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_038" id="page_038"></a>{38}</span> the -interference of anybody with the ordering of their personal households.</p> - -<p>Arthur Brent’s father, Brandon Brent, was a man of this type. Upon -coming of age and soon afterwards marrying, he determined, as he -formulated his thought, to “set himself free.” When Arthur was born he -became more resolute than ever in this purpose, under the added stimulus -of affection for his child. “The system” he said to his wife, “is -hurtful to young white men, I do not intend that Arthur shall grow up in -the midst of it.”</p> - -<p>So he sold to his brother his half interest in the four or five thousand -acres which constituted Wyanoke plantation, and with the proceeds -removed those of the negroes who had fallen to his share to little farms -which he had bought for them in Indiana.</p> - -<p>This left him with a wife, a son, and a few hundred dollars with which -to begin life anew. He went West and engaged in the practice of the law. -He literally “grew up with the country.” He won sufficient distinction -to represent his district in Congress for several successive terms, and -to leave behind him when he died a sweetly savored name for all the -higher virtues of honorable manhood.</p> - -<p>He left to his son also, a fair patrimony, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_039" id="page_039"></a>{39}</span> fruit of his personal -labors in his profession, and of the growth of the western country in -which he lived.</p> - -<p>At the age of fifteen, the boy had been sent to pass a delightful year -at Wyanoke, while fitting himself for college under the care of the same -tutor who had personally trained the father, and whose influence had -been so good that the father invoked it for his son in his turn. The old -schoolmaster had long since given up his school, but when Brandon Brent -had written to him a letter, attributing to his influence and teaching -all that was best in his own life’s success, and begging him to crown -his useful life’s labors with a like service to this his boy, he had -given up his ease and undertaken the task.</p> - -<p>Arthur had finished his college course, and was just beginning, with -extraordinary enthusiasm, his study of medicine when his father died, -leaving him alone in the world; for the good mother had passed away -while the boy was yet a mere child.</p> - -<p>After his father’s death, Arthur found many business affairs to arrange. -Attention to these seriously distracted him, greatly to his annoyance, -for he had become an enthusiast for scientific acquirement, and grudged -every moment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_040" id="page_040"></a>{40}</span> of time that affairs occupied to the neglect of his -studies. In this mood of irritation with business details, the young man -decided to convert the whole of his inheritance into cash and to invest -the proceeds in annuities. “I shall never marry,” he told himself. “I -shall devote my whole life to science. I shall need only a moderate -income to provide for my wants, but that income must come to me without -the distraction of mind incident to the earning of it. I must be -completely a free man—free to live my own life and pursue my own -purposes.”</p> - -<p>So he invested all that he had in American and English annuity -companies, and when that business was completed, he found himself secure -in an income, not by any means large but quite sufficient for all his -needs, and assured to him for all the years that he might live. “I shall -leave nothing behind me when I die,” he reflected, “but I shall have -nobody to provide for, and so this is altogether best.”</p> - -<p>Then he set himself to work in almost terrible earnest. He lived in the -laboratories, the hospitals, the clinics and the libraries. When his -degree as a physician was granted his knowledge of science, quite -outside the ordinary range of medical study was deemed extraordinary by -his professors. A place of honor in one of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_041" id="page_041"></a>{41}</span> the great medical colleges -was offered to him, but he declined it, and went to Germany and France -instead. He had fairly well mastered the languages of those two -countries, and he was minded now to go thither for instruction, under -the great masters in biology and chemistry and physics.</p> - -<p>Two years later—and four years before the beginning of this story, -there came to Arthur Brent an opportunity of heroic service which he -promptly embraced. There broke out, in Norfolk, in his native state, in -the year 1855, such an epidemic of yellow fever as had rarely been known -anywhere before, and it found a population peculiarly susceptible to the -subtle poison of the scourge.</p> - -<p>Facing the fact that he was in no way immune, the young physician -abandoned the work he had returned from Paris to New York to do, and -went at once to the post of danger as a volunteer for medical service. -Those whose memories stretch back to that terrible year of 1855, -remember the terms in which Virginia and all the country echoed the -praises of Dr. Arthur Brent, the plaudits that everywhere greeted his -heroic devotion. The newspapers day by day were filled with despatches -telling with what tireless devotion this mere boy—he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_042" id="page_042"></a>{42}</span> was scarcely more -than twenty three years of age—was toiling night and day at his self -appointed task, and how beneficent his work was proving to be. The same -newspapers told with scorching scorn of physicians and clergymen—a very -few of either profession, but still a few—who had quitted their posts -in panic fear and run away from the danger. Day by day the readers of -the newspapers eagerly scanned the despatches, anxious chiefly to learn -that the young hero had not fallen a victim to his own compassionate -enthusiasm for the relief of the stricken.</p> - -<p>Dr. Arthur Brent knew nothing of all this at the time. His days and -nights were too fully occupied with his perilous work for him even to -glance at a newspaper. He was himself stricken at last, but not until -the last, not until that grand old Virginian, Henry A. Wise had -converted his Accomac plantation into a relief camp and, arming his -negroes for its defence against a panic stricken public, had robbed the -scourge of its terrors by drawing from the city all those whose presence -there could afford opportunity for its spread.</p> - -<p>Dr. Arthur Brent was among the very last of those attacked by the -scourge, and it was to give that young hero a meagre chance for life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_043" id="page_043"></a>{43}</span> -that Henry A. Wise went in person to Norfolk and brought the physician -away to his own plantation home, in armed and resolute defiance alike of -quarantine restrictions and of the protests of an angry and frightened -mob.</p> - -<p>Such in brief had been the life story of Arthur Brent. On his recovery -from a terribly severe attack of the fever, he had gone again to Europe, -not this time for scientific study, but for the purpose of restoring his -shattered constitution through rest upon a Swiss mountain side. After a -year of upbuilding idleness, he had returned to New York with his health -completely restored.</p> - -<p>There he had taken an inexpensive apartment, and resumed his work of -scientific investigation upon lines which he had thought out during his -long sojourn in Switzerland.</p> - -<p>Three years later there came to him news that his uncle at Wyanoke was -dead, and that the family estate had become his own as the only next of -kin. It pleased Arthur’s sense of humor to think of a failure of “kin” -in Virginia, where, as he well remembered, pretty nearly everybody he -had met in boyhood had been his cousin.</p> - -<p>But the news that he was sole heir to the family estate was not -altogether agreeable to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_044" id="page_044"></a>{44}</span> the young man. “It will involve me in affairs -again,” he said to himself, “and that is what I meant should never -happen to me. There is a debt on the estate, of course. I never heard of -a Virginia estate without that adornment. Then there are the negroes, -whose welfare is in my charge. Heaven knows I do not want them or their -value. But obviously they and the debt saddle me with a duty which I -cannot escape. I suppose I must go to Wyanoke. It is very provoking, -just as I have made all my arrangements to study the problem of sewer -gas poisoning with a reasonable hope of solving it this summer!”</p> - -<p>He thought long and earnestly before deciding what course to pursue. On -the one hand he felt that his highest duty in life was to science as a -servant of humanity. He realized, as few men do, how great a beneficence -the discovery of a scientific fact may be to all mankind. “And there are -so few men,” he said to himself, “who are free as I am to pursue -investigations untrammeled by other things—the care of a family, the -ordering of a household, the education of children, the earning of a -living! If I could have this summer free, I believe I could find out how -to deal with sewer gas, and that would save thousands of lives and -immeasurable<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_045" id="page_045"></a>{45}</span> suffering! And there are my other investigations that are -not less pressing in their importance. Why should I have to give up my -work, for which I have the equipment of a thorough training, a -sufficient income, youth, high health, and last but not least, -enthusiasm?”</p> - -<p>He did not add, as a less modest man might, that he had earned a -reputation which commanded not only the attention but the willing -assistance of his scientific brethren in his work, that all laboratories -were open to him, that all men of science were ready to respond to his -requests for the assistance of their personal observation and -experience, that the columns of all scientific journals were freely his -to use in setting forth his conclusions and the facts upon which they -rested.</p> - -<p>“I wish I could put the whole thing into the hands of an agent, and bid -him sell out the estate, pay off the debts and send me the remainder of -the proceeds, with which to endow a chair of research in some scientific -school! But that would mean selling the negroes, and I’ll never do that. -I wish I could set them all free and rid myself of responsibility for -them. But I cannot do that unless I can get enough money out of the -estate to buy little farms for them as my father did with his negroes. I -mustn’t<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_046" id="page_046"></a>{46}</span> condemn them to starvation and call it freedom. I wish I knew -what the debt is, and how much the land will bring. Then I could plan -what to do. But as I do not know anything of the kind, I simply must go -to Wyanoke and study the problem as it is. It will take all summer and -perhaps longer. But there is nothing else for it.”</p> - -<p>That is how it came about that Dr. Arthur Brent sat in the great hallway -at Wyanoke, talking with Aunt Polly, when Dorothy South returned, -accompanied by her hounds.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_047" id="page_047"></a>{47}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="IV" id="IV"></a>IV<br /> -<small>DR. BRENT IS PUZZLED</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span><b>OROTHY</b> came up to the front gate at a light gallop. Disdaining the -assistance of the horse block, she nimbly sprang from the saddle to the -ground and called to her mare “Stand, Chestnut!”</p> - -<p>Then she gathered up the excessively long riding skirt which the Amazons -of that time always wore on horseback, and walked up the pathway to the -door, leaving the horse to await the coming of a stable boy. Arthur -could not help observing and admiring the fact that she walked with -marked dignity and grace even in a riding skirt—a thing so exceedingly -difficult to do that not one woman in a score could accomplish it even -with conscious effort. Yet this mere girl did it, manifestly without -either effort or consciousness. As an accomplished anatomist Dr. Brent -knew why. “That girl has grown up,” he said to himself, “in as perfect a -freedom as those locust trees out there, enjoy. She is as straight as -the straightest of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_048" id="page_048"></a>{48}</span> them, and she has perfect use of all her muscles. I -wonder who she is, and why she gives orders here at Wyanoke quite as if -she belonged to the place, or the place belonged to her.”</p> - -<p>This last thought was suggested by the fact that just before mounting -the two steps that led to the porch, Dorothy had whistled through her -fingers and said to the negro man who answered her call:—“Take the -hounds to the kennels, and fasten them in. Turn the setters out.”</p> - -<p>But the young man had little time for wondering. The girl came into the -hall, and, as Aunt Polly had gone to order a little “snack,” she -introduced herself.</p> - -<p>“You are Dr. Brent, I think? Yes? well, I’m Dorothy South. Let me bid -you welcome as the new master of Wyanoke.”</p> - -<p>With that she shook hands in a fashion that was quite child-like, and -tripped away up the stairs.</p> - -<p>Arthur Brent found himself greatly interested in the girl. She was -hardly a woman, and yet she was scarcely to be classed as a child. In -her manner as well as in her appearance she seemed a sort of compromise -between the two. She was certainly not pretty, yet Arthur’s quick -scrutiny informed him that in a year or two<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_049" id="page_049"></a>{49}</span> she was going to be -beautiful. It only needed a little further ripening of her womanhood to -work that change. But as one cannot very well fall in love with a woman -who is yet to be, Arthur Brent felt no suggestion of other sentiment -than one of pleased admiration for the girl, mingled with respect for -her queenly premature dignity. He observed, however, that her hair was -nut brown and of luxuriant growth, her complexion, fair and clear in -spite of a pronounced tan, and her eyes large, deep blue and finely -overarched by their dark brows.</p> - -<p>Before he had time to think further concerning her, Aunt Polly returned -and asked him to “snack.”</p> - -<p>“Dorothy will be down presently,” she said. “She’s quick at changing her -costume.”</p> - -<p>Arthur was about to ask, “Who is Dorothy? And how does she come to be -here?” but at that moment the girl herself came in, white gowned and as -fresh of face as a newly blown rose is at sunrise.</p> - -<p>“It’s too bad, Aunt Polly,” she said, “that you had to order the snack. -I ought to have got home in time to do my duty, and I would, only that -Trump behaved badly—Trump is one of my dogs, Doctor—and led the others -into mischief. He ran after a hare, and, of course,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_050" id="page_050"></a>{50}</span> I had to stop and -discipline him. That made me late.”</p> - -<p>“You keep your dogs under good control Miss—by the way how am I to call -you?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know just yet,” answered the girl with the frankness of a -little child.</p> - -<p>“How so?” asked Arthur, as he laid a dainty slice of cold ham on her -plate.</p> - -<p>“Why, don’t you see, I don’t know you yet. After we get acquainted I’ll -tell you how to call me. I think I am going to like you, and if I do, -you are to call me Dorothy. But of course I can’t tell yet. Maybe I -shall not like you at all, and then—well, we’ll wait and see.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” answered the young master of the plantation, amused by the -girl’s extraordinary candor and simplicity. “I’ll call you Miss South -till you make up your mind about liking or detesting me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, not that,” the girl quickly answered. “That would be <i>too</i> -grown up. But you might say ‘Miss Dorothy,’ please, till I make up my -mind about you.”</p> - -<p>“Very well, Miss Dorothy. Allow me to express a sincere hope that after -you have come to know what sort of person I am, you’ll like me well -enough to bid me drop the handle to your name.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_051" id="page_051"></a>{51}</span></p> - -<p>“But why should you care whether a girl like me likes you or not?”</p> - -<p>“Why, because I am very strongly disposed to like a girl like you.”</p> - -<p>“How can you feel that way, when you don’t know me the least little -bit?”</p> - -<p>“But I do know you a good deal more than ‘the least little bit,’ ” -answered the young man smiling.</p> - -<p>“How can that be? I don’t understand.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not, and yet it is simple enough. You see I have been training -my mind and my eyes and my ears and all the rest of me all my life, into -habits of quick and accurate observation, and so I see more at a glance -than I should otherwise see in an hour. For example, you’ll admit that I -have had no good chance to become acquainted with your hounds, yet I -know that one of them has lost a single joint from his tail, and another -had a bur inside one of his ears this morning, which you have since -removed.”</p> - -<p>The girl laid down her fork in something like consternation.</p> - -<p>“But I shan’t like you at all if you see things in that way. I’ll never -dare come into your presence.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, you will. I do not observe for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_052" id="page_052"></a>{52}</span> the purpose of criticising; -especially I never criticise a woman or a girl to her detriment.”</p> - -<p>“That is very gallant, at any rate,” answered the girl, accenting the -word “gallant” strongly on the second syllable, as all Virginians of -that time properly did, and as few other people ever do. “But tell me -what you started to say, please?”</p> - -<p>“What was it?”</p> - -<p>“Why, you said you knew me a good deal. I thought you were going to tell -me what you knew about me.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I’ll tell you part of what I know. I know that you have a low -pitched voice—a contralto it would be called in musical nomenclature. -It has no jar in it—it is rich and full and sweet, and while you always -speak softly, your voice is easily heard. I should say that you sing.”</p> - -<p>“No. I must not sing.”</p> - -<p>“Must not? How is that?”</p> - -<p>The girl seemed embarrassed—almost pained. The young man, seeing this, -apologized:</p> - -<p>“Pardon me! I did not mean to ask a personal question.”</p> - -<p>“Never mind!” said the girl. “You were not unkind. But I must not sing, -and I must never learn a note of music, and worst of all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_053" id="page_053"></a>{53}</span> I must not go -to places where they play fine music. If I ever get to liking you very -well indeed, perhaps I’ll tell you why—at least all the why of it that -I know myself—for I know only a little about it. Now tell me what else -you know about me. You see you were wrong this time.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, in a way. Never mind that. I know that you are a rigid -disciplinarian. You keep your hounds under a sharp control.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I <i>must</i> do that. They would eat somebody up if I didn’t. Besides -it is good for them. You see dogs and women need strict control. A -mistress will do for dogs, but every woman needs a master.”</p> - -<p>The girl said this as simply and earnestly as she might have said that -all growing plants need water and sunshine. Arthur was astonished at the -utterance, delivered, as it was, in the manner of one who speaks the -veriest truism.</p> - -<p>“Now,” he responded, “I have encountered something in you that I not -only do not understand but cannot even guess at. Where did you learn -that cynical philosophy?”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean what I said about dogs?”</p> - -<p>“No. Though ‘cynic’ means a dog. I mean what you said about women. Where -did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_054" id="page_054"></a>{54}</span> you get the notion that every woman needs a master?”</p> - -<p>“Why, anybody can see that,” answered the girl. “Every girl’s father or -brother is her master till she grows up and marries. Then her husband is -her master. Women are always very bad if they haven’t masters, and even -when they mean to be good, they make a sad mess of their lives if they -have nobody to control them.”</p> - -<p>If this slip of a girl had talked Greek or Sanscrit or the differential -calculus at him, Arthur could not have been more astounded than he was. -Surely a girl so young, so fresh, and so obviously wholesome of mind -could never have formulated such a philosophy of life for herself, even -had she been thrown all her days into the most complex of conditions and -surroundings, instead of leading the simplest of lives as this girl had -manifestly done, and seeing only other living like her own. But he -forbore to question her, lest he trespass again upon delicate ground, as -he had done with respect to music. He was quick to remember that he had -already asked her where she had learned her philosophy, and that she had -nimbly evaded the question—defending her philosophy as a thing obvious -to the mind, instead of answering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_055" id="page_055"></a>{55}</span> the inquiry as to whence she had -drawn the teaching.</p> - -<p>Altogether, Arthur Brent’s mind was in a whirl as he left the luncheon -table. Simple as she seemed and transparent as her personality appeared -to him to be, the girl’s attitude of mind seemed inexplicable even to -his practised understanding. Her very presence in the house was a -puzzle, for Aunt Polly had offered no explanation of the fact that she -seemed to belong there, not as a guest but as a member of the household, -and even as one exercising authority there. For not only had the girl -apologized for leaving Aunt Polly to order the luncheon, but at table -and after the meal was finished, it was she, and not the elder woman who -gave directions to the servants, who seemed accustomed to think of her -as the source of authority, and finally, as she withdrew from the dining -room, she turned to Arthur and said:</p> - -<p>“Doctor, it is the custom at Wyanoke to dine at four o’clock. Shall I -have dinner served at that hour, or do you wish it changed?”</p> - -<p>The young man declared his wish that the traditions of the house should -be preserved, adding playfully—“I doubt if you could change the dinner -hour, Miss Dorothy, even if we all desired it so. I remember Aunt -Kizzey, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_056" id="page_056"></a>{56}</span> cook, and I for one should hesitate to oppose my will to -her conservatism.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, as to that,” answered the girl, “I never have any trouble managing -the servants. They know me too well for that.”</p> - -<p>“What could you do if you told Kizzey to serve dinner at three and she -refused?” asked the young man, really curious to hear the answer.</p> - -<p>“I would send for Aunt Kizzey to come to me. Then I would look at her. -After that she would do as I bade her.”</p> - -<p>“I verily believe she would,” said the young man to himself as he went -to the sideboard and filled one of the long stemmed pipes. “But I really -cannot understand why.”</p> - -<p>He had scarcely finished his pipe when Dorothy came into the hall -accompanied by a negro girl of about fourteen years, who bore a work -basket with her. Seating herself, Dorothy gave the girl some instruction -concerning the knitting she had been doing, and added: “You may sit in -the back porch to-day. It is warm.”</p> - -<p>“Is it too warm, Miss Dorothy, for you to make a little excursion with -me to the stables?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly not,” she quickly answered. “I’ll go at once.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you,” he said, “and we’ll stop in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_057" id="page_057"></a>{57}</span> the orchard on our way back -and get some June apples. I remember where the trees are.”</p> - -<p>“You want me to show you the horses, I suppose,” she said as the two set -off side by side.</p> - -<p>“No; any of the negroes could do that. I want you to render me a more -skilled service.”</p> - -<p>“What is it?”</p> - -<p>“I want you, please, to pick out a horse for me to ride while I stay at -Wyanoke.”</p> - -<p>“While you stay at Wyanoke!” echoed the girl. “Why, that will be for all -the time, of course.”</p> - -<p>“I hardly think so,” answered the young man, with a touch of not -altogether pleased uncertainty in his tone. “You see I have important -work to do, which I cannot do anywhere but in a great city—or at any -rate,”—as the glamour of the easy, polished and altogether delightful -contentment of Virginia life came over him anew, and its attractiveness -sang like a siren in his ears,—“at any rate it cannot be so well done -anywhere else as in a large city. I have come down here to Virginia only -to see what duties I have to do here. If I find I can finish them in a -few months or a year, I shall go back to my more important work.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_058" id="page_058"></a>{58}</span></p> - -<p>The girl was silent for a time, as if pondering his words. Finally she -said:</p> - -<p>“Is there anything more important than to look after your estate? You -see I don’t understand things very well.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps it is best that you never shall,” he answered. “And to most men -the task of looking after an ancestral estate, and managing a plantation -with more than a hundred negroes—”</p> - -<p>“There are a hundred and eighty seven in all, if you count big and -little, old and young together,” broke in the girl.</p> - -<p>“Are there? How did you come to know the figures so precisely?”</p> - -<p>“Why, I keep the plantation book, you know.”</p> - -<p>“I didn’t know,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she said, “I’ve kept it ever since I came to Wyanoke three or -four years ago. You see your uncle didn’t like to bother with details, -and so I took this off his hands, when I was so young that I wrote a -great big, sprawling hand and spelled my words ever so queerly. But I -wanted to help Uncle Robert. You see I liked him. If you’d rather keep -the plantation book yourself, I’ll give it up to you when we go back to -the house.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_059" id="page_059"></a>{59}</span></p> - -<p>“I would much rather have you keep it, at least until you make up your -mind whether you like me or not. Then, if you don’t like me I’ll take -the book.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” she replied, treating his reference to her present -uncertainty of mind concerning himself quite as she might have treated -his reference to a weather contingency of the morrow or of the next -week. “I’ll go on with the book till then.”</p> - -<p>By this time the pair had reached the stables, and Miss Dorothy, in that -low, soft but penetrating voice which Arthur had observed and admired, -called to a negro man who was dozing within:</p> - -<p>“Ben, your master wants to see the best of the saddle horses. Bring them -out, do you hear?”</p> - -<p>The question “do you hear?” with which she ended her command was one in -universal use in Virginia. If an order were given to a negro without -that admonitory tag to it, it would fall idly upon heedless ears. But -the moment the negro heard that question he gathered his wits together -and obeyed the order.</p> - -<p>“What sort of a horse do you like, Doctor?” asked the girl as the -animals were led forth. “Can you ride?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_060" id="page_060"></a>{60}</span></p> - -<p>“Why, of course,” he answered. “You know I spent a year in Virginia when -I was a boy.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, of course—if you haven’t forgotten. Then you don’t mind if a -horse is spirited and a trifle hard to manage?”</p> - -<p>“No. On the contrary, Miss Dorothy, I should very much mind if my riding -horse were not spirited, and as for managing him, I’m going to get you -to teach me the art of command, as you practise it so well on your dogs, -your horse and the house servants.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” answered the girl seeming not to heed the implied -compliment. “Put the horses back in their stalls, Ben, and go over to -Pocahontas right away, and tell the overseer there to send Gimlet over -to me. Do you hear? You see, Doctor,” she added, turning to him, “your -uncle’s gout prevented him from riding much during the last year or so -of his life, and so there are no saddle horses here fit for a strong man -like you. There’s one fine mare, four years old, but she’s hardly big -enough to carry your weight. You must weigh a hundred and sixty pounds, -don’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, about that. But whose horse is Gimlet?”</p> - -<p>“He’s mine, and he’ll suit you I’m sure. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_061" id="page_061"></a>{61}</span> is five years old, nearly -seventeen hands high and as strong as a young ox.”</p> - -<p>“But are you going to sell him to me?”</p> - -<p>“Sell him? No, of course not. He is my pet. He has eaten out of my hand -ever since he was a colt, and I was the first person that ever sat on -his back. Besides, I wouldn’t <i>sell</i> a horse to <i>you</i>. I’m going to lend -him to you till—till I make up my mind. Then, if I like you I’ll give -him to you. If I don’t like you I’ll send him back to Pocahontas. Hurry -up, Ben. Ride the gray mare and lead Gimlet back, do you hear?”</p> - -<p>“You are very kind to me, Miss Dorothy, and I—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. I’m only polite and neighborly. You see Wyanoke and Pocahontas -are adjoining plantations. There comes Jo with your trunks, so we shall -not have time for the June apples to-day—or may be we might stop long -enough to get just a few, couldn’t we?”</p> - -<p>With that she took the young man’s hand as a little girl of ten might -have done, and skipping by his side, led the way into the orchard. The -thought of the June apples seemed to have awakened the child side of her -nature, completely banishing the womanly dignity for the time being.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_062" id="page_062"></a>{62}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="V" id="V"></a>V<br /> -<small>ARTHUR BRENT’S TEMPTATION</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span><b>URING</b> the next three or four days Arthur was too much engaged with -affairs and social duties to pursue his scientific study of the young -girl—half woman, half child—with anything like the eagerness he would -have shown had his leisure been that of the Virginians round about him. -He had much to do, to “find out where he stood,” as he put the matter. -He had with him for two days Col. Majors the lawyer, who had the -estate’s affairs in charge. That comfortable personage assured the young -man that the property was “in good shape” but that assurance did not -satisfy a man accustomed to inquire into minute details of fact and to -rest content only with exact answers to his inquiries.</p> - -<p>“I will arrange everything for you,” said the lawyer; “the will gives -you everything and it has already been probated. It makes you sole -executor with no bonds, as well as sole<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_063" id="page_063"></a>{63}</span> inheritor of the estate. There -is really nothing for you to do but hang up your hat. You take your late -uncle’s place, that is all.”</p> - -<p>“But there are debts,” suggested Arthur.</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, but they are trifling and the estate is a very rich one. None -of your creditors will bother you.”</p> - -<p>“But I do not intend to remain in debt,” said the young man impatiently. -“Besides, I do not intend to remain a planter all my life. I have other -work to do in the world. This inheritance is a burden to me, and I mean -to be rid of it as soon as possible.”</p> - -<p>“Allow me to suggest,” said the lawyer in his self-possessed way, “that -the inheritance of Wyanoke is a sort of burden that most men at your -time of life would very cheerfully take upon their shoulders.”</p> - -<p>“Very probably,” answered Arthur. “But as I happen not to be ‘most men -at my time of life’ it distinctly oppresses me. It loads me with duties -that are not congenial to me. It requires my attention at a time when I -very greatly desire to give my attention to something which I regard as -of more importance than the growing of wheat and tobacco and corn.”</p> - -<p>“Every one to his taste,” answered the lawyer,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_064" id="page_064"></a>{64}</span> “but I confess I do not -see what better a young man could do than sit down here at Wyanoke and, -without any but pleasurable activities, enjoy all that life has to give. -Your income will be large, and your credit quite beyond question. You -can buy whatever you want, and you need never bother yourself with a -business detail. No dun will ever beset your door. If any creditor of -yours should happen to want his money, as none will, you can borrow -enough to pay him without even going to Richmond to arrange the matter. -I will attend to all such things for you, as I did for your late uncle.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much,” Arthur answered in a tone which suggested that he -did not thank him at all. “But I always tie my own shoe strings. I do -not know whether I shall go on living here or not, whether I shall give -up my work and my ambitions and settle down into a life of inglorious -ease, or whether I shall be strong enough to put that temptation aside. -I confess it is a temptation. Accustomed as I am to intensity of -intellectual endeavor, I confess that the prospect of sitting down here -in lavish plenty, and living a life unburdened by care and unvexed by -any sense of exacting duty, has its allurements for me. I suppose,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_065" id="page_065"></a>{65}</span> -indeed, that any well ordered mind would find abundant satisfaction in -such a life programme, and perhaps I shall presently find myself growing -content with it. But if I do, I shall not consent to live in debt.”</p> - -<p>“But everybody has his debts—everybody who has an estate. It is part of -the property, as it were. Of course it would be uncomfortable to owe -more than you could pay, but you are abundantly able to owe your debts, -so you need not let them trouble you. All told they do not amount to the -value of ten or a dozen field hands.”</p> - -<p>“But I shall never sell my negroes.”</p> - -<p>“Of course not. No gentleman in Virginia ever does that, unless a negro -turns criminal and must be sent south, or unless nominal sales are made -between the heirs of an estate, simply by way of distributing the -property. Far be it from me to suggest such a thing. I meant only to -show you how unnecessary it is for you to concern yourself about the -trifling obligations on your estate—how small a ratio they bear to the -value of the property.”</p> - -<p>“I quite understand,” answered Arthur. “But at the same time these debts -do trouble me and will go on troubling me till the last dollar of them -is discharged. This is simply<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_066" id="page_066"></a>{66}</span> because they interfere with the plans I -have formed—or at least am forming—for so ordering my affairs that I -may go back to my work. Pray do not let us discuss the matter further. I -will ask you, instead, to send me, at your earliest convenience, an -exact schedule of the creditors of this estate, together with the -amount—principal and interest—that is owing to each. I intend to make -it my first business to discharge all these obligations. Till that is -done, I am not my own master, and I have a decided prejudice in favor of -being able to order my own life in my own way.”</p> - -<p>Behind all this lay the fact that Arthur Brent was growing dissatisfied -with himself and suspicious of himself. The beauty and calm of Wyanoke, -the picturesque contentment of that refined Virginia life which was -impressed anew upon his mind every time a neighboring planter rode over -to take breakfast, dinner, or supper with him, or drove over in the -afternoon with his wife and daughters to welcome the new master of the -plantation—all this fascinated his mind and appealed strongly to the -partially developed æsthetic side of his nature, and at times the -strong, earnest manhood in him resented the fact almost with bitterness.</p> - -<p>There was never anywhere in America a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_067" id="page_067"></a>{67}</span> country life like that of -Virginia in the period before the war. In that state, as nowhere else on -this continent, the refinement, the culture, the education and the -graceful social life of the time were found not in the towns, but in the -country. There were few cities in the state and they were small. They -existed chiefly for the purpose of transacting business for the more -highly placed and more highly cultivated planters. The people of the -cities, with exceptions that only emphasized the general truth, were -inferior to the dwellers on the plantations, in point of education, -culture and social position. It had always been so in Virginia. From the -days of William Byrd of Westover to those of Washington, and Jefferson -and Madison and John Marshall, and from their time to the middle of the -nineteenth century, it had been the choice of all cultivated Virginians -to live upon their plantations. Thence had always come the scholars, the -statesmen, the great lawyers and the masterful political writers who had -conferred untold lustre upon the state.</p> - -<p>Washington’s career as military chieftain and statesman, had been one -long sacrifice of his desire to lead the planter life at Mount Vernon. -Jefferson’s heart was at Monticello while he penned the Declaration of -Independence, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_068" id="page_068"></a>{68}</span> it was the proud boast of Madison that he like -Jefferson, quitted public office poorer than he was when he undertook -such service to his native land, and rejoiced in his return to the -planter life of his choice at Montpélièr.</p> - -<p>In brief, the entire history of the state and all its traditions, all -its institutions, all its habits of thought tended to commend the -country life to men of refined mind, and to make of the plantation -owners and their families a distinctly recognized aristocracy, not only -of social prestige but even more of education, refinement and -intellectual leadership.</p> - -<p>To Arthur Brent had come the opportunity to make himself at once and -without effort, a conspicuous member of this blue blooded caste. His -plantation had come to him, not by vulgar purchase, but by inheritance. -It had been the home of his ancestors, the possession and seat of his -family for more than two hundred years. And his family had been from the -first one of distinction and high influence. One of his great, great, -great grandfathers, had been a member of the Jamestown settlement and a -soldier under John Smith. His great, great grandfather had shared the -honor of royal proscription as an active participant in Bacon’s -rebellion. His great grandfather had been the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_069" id="page_069"></a>{69}</span> companion of young George -Washington in his perilous expeditions to “the Ohio country,” and had -fallen by Washington’s side in Braddock’s blundering campaign. His -grandfather had been a drummer boy at Yorktown, had later become one of -the great jurists of the state and had been a distinguished soldier in -the war of 1812. His father, as we know, had strayed away to the west, -as so many Virginians of his time did, but he had won honors there which -made Virginia proud of him. And fortunately for Arthur Brent, that -father’s removal to the west was not made until this his son had been -born at the old family seat.</p> - -<p>“For,” explained Aunt Polly to the young man, in her own confident way, -“in spite of your travels, you are a native Virginian, Arthur, and when -you have dropped into the ways of the country, people will overlook the -fact that you have lived so much at the north, and even in Europe.”</p> - -<p>“But why, Aunt Polly,” asked Arthur, “should that fact be deemed -something to be ‘overlooked?’ Surely travel broadens one’s views and—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, of course, in the case of people not born in Virginia. But a -Virginian doesn’t need<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_070" id="page_070"></a>{70}</span> it, and it upsets his ideas. You see when a -Virginian travels he forgets what is best. He actually grows like other -people. You yourself show the ill effects of it in a hundred ways. Of -course you haven’t quite lost your character as a Virginian, and you’ll -gradually come back to it here at Wyanoke; but ‘evil communications -corrupt good manners,’ and I can’t help seeing it in you—at least in -your speech. You don’t pronounce your words correctly. You say ‘cart’ -‘carpet’ and ‘garden’ instead of ‘cyart’ ‘cyarpet’ and ‘gyarden.’ And -you flatten your a’s dreadfully. You say ‘grass’ instead of ‘grawss’ and -‘basket’ instead of ‘bawsket’ and all that sort of thing. And you roll -your r’s dreadfully. It gives me a chill whenever I hear you say -‘master’ instead of ‘mahstah.’ But you’ll soon get over that, and in the -meantime, as you were born in Virginia and are the head of an old -Virginia family, the gentlemen and ladies who are coming every day to -welcome you, are very kind about it. They overlook it, as your -misfortune, rather than your fault.”</p> - -<p>“That is certainly very kind of them, Aunt Polly. I can’t imagine -anything more generous in the mind than that. But—well, never mind.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_071" id="page_071"></a>{71}</span></p> - -<p>“What were you going to say, Arthur?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nothing of any consequence. I was only thinking that perhaps my -Virginia neighbors do not lay so much stress upon these things as you -do.”</p> - -<p>“Of course not. That is one of the troubles of this time. Since we let -the Yankees build railroads through Virginia, everybody here wants to -travel. Why, half the gentlemen in this county have been to New York!”</p> - -<p>“How very shocking!” said Arthur, hiding his smile behind his hand.</p> - -<p>“That’s really what made the trouble for poor Dorothy,” mused Aunt -Polly. “If her father hadn’t gone gadding about—he even went to Europe -you know—Dorothy never would have been born.”</p> - -<p>“How fortunate that would have been! But tell me about it, Aunt Polly. -You see I don’t quite understand in what way it would have been better -for Dorothy not to have been born—unless we accept the pessimist -philosophy, and consider all human life a curse.”</p> - -<p>“Now you know, I don’t understand that sort of talk, Arthur,” answered -Aunt Polly. “I never studied philosophy or chemistry, and I’m glad of -it. But I know it would have been better for Dorothy if Dr. South had -stayed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_072" id="page_072"></a>{72}</span> at home like a reasonable man, and married—but there, I mustn’t -talk of that. Dorothy is a dear girl, and I’m fitting her for her -position in life as well as I can. If I could stop her from thinking, -now, or—”</p> - -<p>“Pray don’t, Aunt Polly! Her thinking interests me more than anything I -ever studied,—except perhaps the strange and even inexplicable -therapeutic effect of champagne in yellow fever—”</p> - -<p>“There you go again, with your outlandish words, which you know I don’t -understand or want to understand, though sometimes I remember them.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me of an instance, Aunt Polly.”</p> - -<p>“Why, you said to me the other night that Dorothy was a ‘psychological -enigma’ to your mind, and that you very much wished you might know ‘the -conditions of heredity and environment’ that had produced ‘so strange a -phenomenon.’ There! I remember your words, though I haven’t the -slightest notion what they mean. I went upstairs and wrote them down. Of -course I couldn’t spell them except in my own way—and that would make -you laugh I reckon if you could see it, which you never shall—but I -haven’t a glimmering notion of what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_073" id="page_073"></a>{73}</span> the words mean. Now I want to tell -you about Dorothy.”</p> - -<p>“Good! I am anxious to hear!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m not going to tell you what you want to hear. That would be -gossip, and no Virginia woman ever gossips.”</p> - -<p>That was true. The Virginians of that time, men and women alike, locked -their lips and held their tongues in leash whenever the temptation came -to them to discuss the personal affairs of their neighbors. They were -bravely free and frank of speech when telling men to their faces what -opinions they might hold concerning them; but they did that only when -necessity, or honor, or the vindication of truth compelled. They never -made the character or conduct or affairs of each other a subject of -conversation. It was the very crux of honor to avoid that.</p> - -<p>“Then tell me what you are minded to reveal, Aunt Polly,” responded -Arthur. “I do not care to know anything else.”</p> - -<p>“Well, Dorothy is in a peculiar position—not by her own fault. She -<i>must</i> marry into a good family, and it has fallen to me to prepare her -for her fate.”</p> - -<p>“Surely, Aunt Polly,” interjected the young man with a shocked and -distressed tone in his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_074" id="page_074"></a>{74}</span> voice, “surely you are not teaching that child -to think of marriage—yet?”</p> - -<p>“No, no, no!” answered Aunt Polly. “I’m only trying to train her to -submissiveness of mind, so that when the time comes for her to make the -marriage that is already arranged for her, she will interpose no foolish -objections. It’s a hard task. The girl has a wilful way of thinking for -herself. I can’t cure her of it, do what I will.”</p> - -<p>“Why should you try?” asked Arthur, almost with excitement in his tone. -“Why should you try to spoil nature’s fine handiwork? That child’s -intellectual attitude is the very best I ever saw in one so young, so -simple and so childlike. For heaven’s sake, let her alone! Let her live -her own life and think in her own honest, candid and fearless way, and -she will develop into a womanhood as noble as any that the world has -seen since Eve persuaded Adam to eat of the tree of knowledge and quit -being a fool.”</p> - -<p>“Arthur, you shock me!”</p> - -<p>“I’m sorry, Aunt Polly, but I shall shock you far worse than that, if -you persist in your effort to warp and pervert that child’s nature to -fit it to some preconceived purpose of conventionality.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_075" id="page_075"></a>{75}</span></p> - -<p>“I don’t know just what you mean, Arthur,” responded the old lady, “but -I know my duty, and I’m going to do it. The one thing necessary in -Dorothy’s case, is to stop her from thinking, and train her to settle -down, when the time comes, into the life of a Virginia matron. It is her -only salvation.”</p> - -<p>“Salvation from what?” asked Arthur, almost angrily.</p> - -<p>“I can’t tell you,” the old lady answered. “But the girl will never -settle into her proper place if she goes on thinking, as she does now. -So I’m going to stop it.”</p> - -<p>“And I,” the young man thought, though he did not say it, “am going to -teach her to think more than ever. I’ll educate that child so long as I -am condemned to lead this idle life. I’ll make it my business to see -that her mind shall not be put into a corset, that her extraordinary -truthfulness shall not be taught to tell lies by indirection, that she -shall not be restrained of her natural and healthful development. It -will be worth while to play the part of idle plantation owner for a year -or two, to accomplish a task like that. I can never learn to feel any -profound interest in the growing of tobacco, wheat and corn—but the -cultivation of that child into what she should be is a nobler work<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_076" id="page_076"></a>{76}</span> than -that of all the agriculturists of the south side put together. I’ll make -it my task while I am kept here away from my life’s chosen work.”</p> - -<p>That day Arthur Brent sent a letter to New York. In it he ordered his -library and the contents of his laboratory sent to him at Wyanoke. He -ordered also a good many books that were not already in his library. He -sent for a carpenter on that same day, and set him at work in a hurry, -constructing a building of his own designing upon a spot selected -especially with reference to drainage, light and other requirements of a -laboratory. He even sent to Richmond for a plumber to put in chemical -sinks, drain pipes and other laboratory fittings.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_077" id="page_077"></a>{77}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="VI" id="VI"></a>VI<br /> -<small>“NOW YOU MAY CALL ME DOROTHY”</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><b>RTHUR BRENT</b> had now come to understand, in some degree at least, who -Dorothy South was. He remembered that the Pocahontas plantation which -immediately adjoined Wyanoke on the east, was the property of a Dr. -South, whom he had never seen. At the time of his own boyhood’s year at -Wyanoke he had understood, in a vague way that Dr. South was absent -somewhere on his travels. Somehow the people whom he had met at Wyanoke -and elsewhere, had seemed to be sorry for Dr. South but they never said -why. Apparently they held him in very high esteem, as Arthur remembered, -and seemed deeply to regret the necessity—whatever it was—which -detained him away, and to all intents and purposes made of Pocahontas a -closed house. For while the owner of that plantation insisted that the -doors of his mansion should always remain open to his friends, and that -dinner should be served<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_078" id="page_078"></a>{78}</span> there at the accustomed hour of four o’clock -every day during his absence, so that any friend who pleased might avail -himself of a hospitality which had never failed,—there was no white -person on the plantation except the overseer. Gentlemen passing that way -near the dinner hour used sometimes to stop and occupy places at the -table, an event which the negro major-domo always welcomed as a pleasing -interruption in the loneliness of the house. The hospitality of -Pocahontas had been notable for generations past, and the old servant -recalled a time when the laughter of young men and maidens had made the -great rooms of the mansion vocal with merriment. Arthur himself had once -taken dinner there with his uncle, and had been curiously impressed with -the rule of the master that dinner should be served, whether there were -anybody there to partake of it or not. He recalled all these things now, -and argued that Dr. South’s long absence could not have been caused by -anything that discredited him among the neighbors. For had not those -neighbors always regretted his absence, and expressed a wish for his -return? Arthur remembered in what terms of respect and even of -affection, everybody had spoken of the absent man. He remembered too -that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_079" id="page_079"></a>{79}</span> about the time of his own departure from Wyanoke, there had been a -stir of pleased expectation, over the news that Dr. South was soon to -return and reopen the hospitable house.</p> - -<p>He discovered now that Dr. South had in fact returned at that time and -had resumed the old life at Pocahontas, dispensing a graceful -hospitality during the seven or eight years that had elapsed between his -return and his death. This latter event, Arthur had incidentally -learned, had occurred three years or so before his own accession to the -Wyanoke estate. Since that time Dorothy had lived with Aunt Polly, the -late master of Wyanoke having been her guardian.</p> - -<p>So much and no more, Arthur knew. It did not satisfy a curiosity which -he would not satisfy by asking questions. It did not tell him why Aunt -Polly spoke of the girl with pity, calling her “poor Dorothy.” It did -not explain to him why there should be a special effort made to secure -the girl’s marriage into a “good family.” What could be more probable -than that that would happen in due course without any managing whatever? -The girl was the daughter of as good a family as any in Virginia. She -was the sole heir of a fine estate. Finally, she promised to become a -particularly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_080" id="page_080"></a>{80}</span> beautiful young woman, and one of unusual attractiveness -of mind.</p> - -<p>Yet everywhere Arthur heard her spoken of as “poor Dorothy,” and he -observed particularly that the universal kindness of the gentlewomen to -the child was always marked by a tone or manner suggestive of -compassion. The fact irritated the young man, as facts which he could -not explain were apt to do with one of his scientific mental habit. -There were other puzzling aspects of the matter, too. Why was the girl -forbidden to sing, to learn music, or even to enjoy it? Where had she -got her curious conceptions of life? And above all, what did Aunt Polly -mean by saying that this mere child’s future marriage had been “already -arranged?”</p> - -<p>“The whole thing is a riddle,” he said to himself. “I shall make no -effort to solve it, but I have a mind to interfere somewhat with the -execution of any plans that a stupid conventionality may have formed to -sacrifice this rarely gifted child to some Moloch of social propriety. -Of course I shall not try in any way to control her life or direct her -future. But at any rate I shall see to it that she shall be compelled to -nothing without her own consent. Meanwhile, as they won’t let her learn -music,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_081" id="page_081"></a>{81}</span> I’ll teach her science. I see clearly that it will take me three -or four years to do what I have planned to do at Wyanoke—to pay off the -debts, and set the negroes up as small farmers on their own account in -the west. During that time I shall have ample opportunity to train the -child’s mind in a way worthy of it, and when I have done that I fancy -she will order her own life with very little regard to the plans of -those who are arranging to make of her a mere pawn upon the chess board. -Thank heaven, this thing gives me a new interest. It will prevent my -mind from vegetating and my character from becoming mildewed. It opens -to me a duty and an occupation—a duty untouched with selfish -indulgence, an occupation which I can pursue without a thought of any -other reward than the joy of worthy achievement.”</p> - -<p>“Miss Dorothy,” he said to the girl that evening, “I observe that you -are an early riser.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” she replied. “You see I must be up soon in the morning”—that -use of “soon” for “early” was invariable in Virginia—“to see that the -maids begin their work right. You see I carry the keys.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know, you are housekeeper, and a very conscientious one I think. -But I wonder<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_082" id="page_082"></a>{82}</span> if your duties in the early morning are too exacting to -permit you to ride with me before breakfast. You see I want to make a -tour of inspection over the plantation and I’d like to have you for my -guide. The days are so warm that I have a fancy to ride in the cool of -the morning. Would it please you to accompany me and tell me about -things?”</p> - -<p>“I’ll like that very much. I’m always down stairs by five o’clock, so if -you like we can ride at six any morning you please. That will give us -three hours before breakfast.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you very much,” Arthur replied. “If you please, then, we’ll ride -tomorrow morning.”</p> - -<p>When Arthur came down stairs the next morning he found the maids busily -polishing the snow-white floors with pine needles and great log and husk -rubbers, while their young mistress was giving her final instructions to -Johnny, the dining room servant. Hearing Arthur’s step on the stair she -commanded the negro to bring the coffee urn and in answer to the young -master’s cheery good morning, she handed him a cup of steaming coffee.</p> - -<p>“This is a very pleasant surprise,” he exclaimed. “I had not expected -coffee until breakfast time.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_083" id="page_083"></a>{83}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, you must never ride soon in the morning without taking coffee -first,” she replied. “That’s the way to keep well. We always have a big -kettle of coffee for the field hands before they go to work. Their -breakfast isn’t ready till ten o’clock, and the coffee keeps the chill -off.”</p> - -<p>“Why is their breakfast served so late?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, they like it that way. They don’t want anything but coffee soon in -the morning. They breakfast at ten, and then the time isn’t so long -before their noonday dinner.”</p> - -<p>“I should think that an excellent plan,” answered the doctor. “As a -hygienist I highly approve of it. After all it isn’t very different from -the custom of the French peasants. But come, Miss Dorothy, Ben has the -horses at the gate.”</p> - -<p>The girl, fresh-faced, lithe-limbed and joyous, hastily donned her long -riding skirt which made her look, Arthur thought, like a little child -masquerading in some grown woman’s garments, and nimbly tripped down the -walk to the gate way. There she quickly but searchingly looked the -horses over, felt of the girths, and, taking from her belt a fine white -cambric handkerchief, proceeded to rub it vigorously on the animals’ -rumps. Finding soil upon the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_084" id="page_084"></a>{84}</span> dainty cambric, she held it up before -Ben’s face, and silently looked at him for the space of thirty seconds. -Then she tossed the handkerchief to him and commanded:—“Go to the house -and fetch me another handkerchief.”</p> - -<p>There was something almost tragic in the negro’s humiliation as he -walked away on his mission. Arthur had watched the little scene with -amused interest. When it was over the girl, without waiting for him to -offer her a hand as a step, seized the pommel and sprang into the -saddle.</p> - -<p>“Why did you do that, Miss Dorothy?” the young man asked as the horses, -feeling the thrill of morning in their veins, began their journey with a -waltz.</p> - -<p>“What? rub the horses?”</p> - -<p>“No. Why did you look at Ben in that way? And why did it seem such a -punishment to him?”</p> - -<p>“I wanted him to remember. He knows I never permit him to bring me a -horse that isn’t perfectly clean.”</p> - -<p>“And will he remember now?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly. You saw how severely he was punished this time. He doesn’t -want that kind of thing to happen again.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_085" id="page_085"></a>{85}</span></p> - -<p>“But I don’t understand. You did nothing to him. You didn’t even scold -him.”</p> - -<p>“Of course I didn’t. Scolding is foolish. Only weak-minded people -scold.”</p> - -<p>“But I shouldn’t have thought Ben fine enough or sensitive enough to -feel the sort of punishment you gave him. Why should he mind it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, everybody minds being looked at in that way—everybody who has been -doing wrong. You see one always knows when one has done wrong. Ben knew, -and when I looked at him he saw that I knew too. So it hurt him. You’ll -see now that he’ll never bring you or me a horse on which we can soil -our handkerchiefs.”</p> - -<p>“Where did you learn all that?” asked Arthur, full of curiosity and -interest.</p> - -<p>“I suppose my father taught me. He taught me everything I know. I -remember that whenever I was naughty, he would look at me over his -spectacles and make me ever so sorry. You see even if I knew I had done -wrong I didn’t think much about it, till father looked at me. After that -I would think about it all day and all night, and be, oh, so sorry! Then -I would try not to displease my father again.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_086" id="page_086"></a>{86}</span></p> - -<p>“Your father must have been a very wise as well as a very good man!”</p> - -<p>“He was,” and two tears slipped from the girl’s eyes as she recalled the -father who had been everything to her from her very infancy. “That is -why I always try, now that he is gone, never to do anything that he -would have disliked. I always think ‘I won’t do that, for if I do father -will look at me.’ You see I must be a great deal more careful than other -girls.”</p> - -<p>“Why? I see no reason for that.”</p> - -<p>“That’s because you don’t know about—about things. I was born bad, and -if I’m not more careful than other girls have to be, I shall be very bad -when I grow up.”</p> - -<p>“Will you forgive me if I say I don’t believe that?” asked Arthur.</p> - -<p>“Oh, but it’s true,” answered the girl, looking him straight in the -face, with an expression of astonishment at his incredulity.</p> - -<p>Arthur saw fit to change the conversation. So he returned to Ben’s case.</p> - -<p>“Most women would have sent Ben to the overseer for punishment, wouldn’t -they?”</p> - -<p>“Some would, but I never find that necessary. Besides I hate <i>your</i> -overseer.”</p> - -<p>“Why? What has he done to incur your displeasure, Miss Dorothy?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_087" id="page_087"></a>{87}</span></p> - -<p>“Now you’re mocking me for minding things that are none of my business,” -said the girl with a touch of contrition in her voice.</p> - -<p>“Indeed I am not,” answered the young man with earnestness. “And you -have not been doing anything of the kind. I asked you to tell me about -things here at Wyanoke, because it is necessary that I should know them. -So when you tell me that you hate the overseer here, I want to know why. -It is very necessary for me to know what sort of man he is, so that I -may govern myself accordingly. I have great confidence in your judgment, -young as you are. I am very sure you would not hate the overseer without -good cause. So you will do me a favor if you’ll tell me why you hate -him.”</p> - -<p>“It is because he is cruel and a coward.”</p> - -<p>“How do you know that?”</p> - -<p>“I’ve seen it for myself. He strikes the field hands for nothing. He has -even cruelly whipped some of the women servants with the black snake -whip he carries. I told him only a little while ago that if I ever -caught him doing that again, I’d set my dogs on him. No Virginia -gentleman would permit such a thing. Uncle Robert—that’s the name I -always called your uncle by—would have shot the fellow for that, I -think.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_088" id="page_088"></a>{88}</span></p> - -<p>“But why did Uncle Robert employ such a man for overseer?”</p> - -<p>“He never did. Uncle Robert never kept any overseer. He used to say that -the authority of the master of a plantation was too great to be -delegated to any person who didn’t care for the black people and didn’t -feel his responsibility.”</p> - -<p>“But how did the fellow come to be here then? Who employed him?”</p> - -<p>“Mr. Peyton did—Mr. Madison Peyton. When your uncle was ill, Mr. Peyton -looked after things for him, and he kept it up after Uncle Robert died. -He hired this overseer. He said he was too busy on his own plantation to -take care of things here in person.”</p> - -<p>“Uncle Robert was quite right,” said Arthur meditatively. “And now that -I am charged with the responsibility for these black people, I will not -delegate my power to any overseer, least of all to one whom you have -found out to be a cruel coward. Where do you suppose we could find him -now?”</p> - -<p>“Down in the tobacco new grounds,” the girl answered. “I was going there -to-day to set my dogs on him, but I remembered that you were master -now.”</p> - -<p>“What was the special occasion for your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_089" id="page_089"></a>{89}</span> anger this time?” Arthur asked -in a certain quiet, seemingly half indifferent tone which Dorothy found -inscrutable.</p> - -<p>“He whipped poor old Michael, the gardener last night,” answered the -girl with a glint as of fire in her eyes. “He had no right to do that. -Michael isn’t a field hand, and he isn’t under the overseer’s control.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean the shambling old man I saw in the garden yesterday? Surely -he didn’t whip that poor decrepit old man!”</p> - -<p>“Yes, he did. I told you he was a cruel coward.”</p> - -<p>“Let’s ride to the tobacco new grounds at once,” said Arthur quite as he -might have suggested the most indifferent thing. But Dorothy observed -that on the way to the new grounds Arthur Brent spoke no word. Twice she -addressed him, but he made no response.</p> - -<p>Arrived at the new grounds Arthur called the overseer to him and without -preface asked him:</p> - -<p>“Did you strike old Michael with your whip last night?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and there wan’t a lick amiss unless I made a lick at him and -missed him.”</p> - -<p>The man laughed at his own clumsy witticism, but the humor of it seemed -not to impress<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_090" id="page_090"></a>{90}</span> the new master of the plantation. For reply he said:</p> - -<p>“Go to your house at once and pack up your belongings. Come to me after -I have had my breakfast, and we’ll have a settlement. You are to leave -my plantation to-day and never set foot upon it again. Come, Miss -Dorothy, let’s continue our ride!”</p> - -<p>With that the two wheeled about, the girl saying:</p> - -<p>“Let’s run our horses for a stretch.” Instantly she set off at breakneck -speed across the fields and over two stiff fences before regaining the -main plantation road. There she drew rein and turning full upon her -companion she said:</p> - -<p>“Now you may call me Dorothy.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_091" id="page_091"></a>{91}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="VII" id="VII"></a>VII<br /> -<small>SHRUB HILL CHURCH</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><b>HE</b> following day was Sunday, and to Arthur’s satisfaction it was one -of the two Sundays in the month, on which services were held at Shrub -Hill Church. For Arthur remembered the little old church there in the -woods, with the ancient cemetery, in which all the Brents who had lived -before him were buried, and in which rested also all the past -generations of all the other good families of the region round about.</p> - -<p>Shrub Hill Church represented one of the most attractive of Virginia -traditions. Early in his career as statesman, Thomas Jefferson had -rendered Virginia a most notable service. He had secured the complete -separation of church from state, the dissolution of that unholy alliance -between religion and government, with which despotism and class -privilege have always buttressed the fabric of oppression. But church -and family remained, and in the course of generations that relation had -assumed characteristics<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_092" id="page_092"></a>{92}</span> of a most wholesome, ameliorating and -liberalizing character.</p> - -<p>Thus at Shrub Hill all the people of character and repute in the region -round about, found themselves at home. They were in large degree -Baptists and Presbyterians in their personal church relations, but all -of them deemed themselves members of Shrub Hill—the Episcopal church -which had survived from that earlier time when to be a gentleman carried -with it the presumption of adherence to the established religion. All of -them attended service there. All contributed to the cost of keeping the -edifice and the graveyard grounds in repair. All of them shared in the -payment of the old rector’s salary and he in his turn preached -scrupulously innocuous sermons to them—sermons ten minutes in length -which might have been repeated with entire propriety and acceptance in -any Baptist or Presbyterian pulpit.</p> - -<p>When the Easter elections came, all the gentlemen of the neighborhood -felt themselves entitled to vote for the wardens and vestrymen already -in office, or for the acceptable person selected by common consent to -take the place of any warden or vestryman who might have been laid to -rest beneath the sod of the Shrub<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_093" id="page_093"></a>{93}</span> Hill churchyard during the year. And -the wardens and vestrymen were Baptists, Presbyterians, Episcopalians or -gentlemen professing no faith, quite indifferently.</p> - -<p>These people were hot debaters of politics and religion—especially -religion. When the question of immersion or pedo-baptism was up, each -was ready and eager to maintain the creed of his own church with all the -arguments that had been formulated for that purpose generations before -and worn smooth to the tongue by oft-repeated use. But this fervor made -no difference whatever in the loyalty of their allegiance to their old -family church at Shrub Hill. There they found common ground of tradition -and affection. There they were all alike in right of inheritance. There -all of them expected to be buried by the side of their forefathers.</p> - -<p>It has been said already that services were held at Shrub Hill on two -Sundays of the month. As the old rector lived within a few minutes’ walk -of the church, and had no other duty than its ministry, there might have -been services there every Sunday in the year, except that such a -practice would have interfered with the desire of those who constituted -its congregation to attend their own particular Baptist or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_094" id="page_094"></a>{94}</span> Presbyterian -churches, which held services on the other Sundays. It was no part of -the spirit or mission of the family church thus to interfere with the -religious preferences of its members, and so, from time immemorial, -there had been services at Shrub Hill only upon two Sundays of the -month.</p> - -<p>Everybody attended those services—every gentleman and every gentlewoman -at least. That is to say, all went to the church and the women with a -few of the older men went in. The rest of the gentlemen gathered in -groups under the trees outside—for the church stood in the midst of an -unbroken woodland—and chatted in low tones while the service was in -progress. Thus they fulfilled their gentlemanly obligations of church -going, without the fatigue of personal participation in the services.</p> - -<p>The gentlemen rode to church on horseback. The ladies, old and young -alike, went thither in their family carriages. Many of these, especially -the younger ones, were accustomed to go everywhere else in the saddle, -but to church, propriety and tradition required them to go decorously in -the great lumbering vehicles of family state.</p> - -<p>The gentlemen arrived first and took their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_095" id="page_095"></a>{95}</span> places at the church door to -greet the gentlewomen and give them a hand in alighting from the -high-hung carriages.</p> - -<p>As soon as the service was over the social clearing-house held its -session. It was not known by that name, but that in fact was what it -amounted to. Every young woman present invited every other young woman -present to go home with her to dinner and to stay for a few days or for -a week. There was a babel of insistent tongues out of which nothing less -sagacious than feminine intelligence could have extracted a resultant -understanding. But after a few minutes all was as orderly as the -domestic arrangements over which these young women were accustomed to -preside. Two or three of them had won all the others to their will, and -the company, including all there was of young and rich voiced femininity -in the region round about, was divided into squads and assigned to two -or three hospitable mansions, whither trunks would follow in the early -morning of the Monday.</p> - -<p>The young men accommodated themselves at once to these arrangements, -each accepting at least a dinner invitation to the house, to which the -young woman most attractive to himself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_096" id="page_096"></a>{96}</span> had elected to go. As there was -no afternoon or evening service, the religious duties of the day were at -an end before one of the clock.</p> - -<p>Out under the trees before and during the service the men discussed -affairs of interest to themselves, and on this his first Sunday, Arthur -found that his own affairs constituted the subject of most general -interest. He was heartily welcomed as the new master of Wyanoke, the -welcome partaking somewhat of the nature of that given to one who -returns to right ways of living after erratic wanderings. There was a -kindly disposition to recognize Arthur’s birthright as a Virginian, -together with a generous readiness to forgive his youthful indiscretion -in living so much elsewhere.</p> - -<p>Only one man ventured to be censorious, and that was Madison Peyton, who -was accustomed to impress himself upon the community in ways which were -sometimes anything but agreeable, but to which everybody was accustomed -to submit in a nameless sort of fear of his sharp tongue—everybody, -that is to say, except Aunt Polly and John Meaux.</p> - -<p>Aunt Polly was not afraid of Madison Peyton for several reasons. The -first was that Aunt Polly was not accustomed to stand in awe of anybody. -The second was that her blood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_097" id="page_097"></a>{97}</span> was quite the bluest in all that part of -the State and she had traditions behind her. Finally she was a shrewdly -penetrative person who had long ago discovered the nature of Madison -Peyton’s pretensions and subjected them to sarcastic analysis. As for -John Meaux, everybody knew him as by odds the most successful planter -and most capable man of business in the county. Madison Peyton could -teach him nothing, and he had a whiplash attachment to his tongue, the -sting of which Peyton did not care to invoke.</p> - -<p>For the rest, Madison Peyton was dominant. It was his habit to lecture -his neighbors upon their follies and short-comings and rather -arrogantly, though with a carefully simulated good nature, to dictate to -them what they should or should not do, assuming with good-natured -insolence an authority which in no way belonged to him. In this way, -during the late Robert Brent’s last illness, Peyton had installed as -overseer at Wyanoke, a man whom the planters generally refused to employ -because of his known cruelty, but whose capacity to make full crops was -well attested by experience.</p> - -<p>Arthur Brent had summarily dismissed this man as we know, and Peyton was -distinctly displeased with him for doing so. Taking the privilege of an -old friend of the young man’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_098" id="page_098"></a>{98}</span> uncle, Peyton called him by his first -name, without any prefix whatever.</p> - -<p>“Why in the world, Arthur,” he said by way of introducing the subject, -“why in the world have you sent Williams away?”</p> - -<p>Something in Peyton’s manner, something that was always in his manner, -had given Arthur a feeling of resentment when the man had called upon -him soon after his arrival. This direct interrogatory concerning a -matter exclusively his own, almost angered the young man, as the others -saw when, instead of answering it directly, he asked:</p> - -<p>“Are you specially interested in Williams’s welfare, Mr. Peyton?”</p> - -<p>Peyton was too self-satisfied to be sensitive, so he took the rebuff -with a laugh.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no,” he answered. “It is you that I’m troubled about. Knowing -nothing of planting you need a capable overseer more than anybody else -does, and here you’ve sent away the best one in the county without even -consulting anybody.”</p> - -<p>“I did not need to consult anybody,” answered Arthur, “in order to know -that I did not want that man on my plantation.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, of course! But you can’t get another overseer at this time of year, -you know.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_099" id="page_099"></a>{99}</span></p> - -<p>“On the whole, I don’t think I want another at any time of year.”</p> - -<p>“You imagine perhaps that you know something about planting. I’ve known -other young men to make the same mistake.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps I can learn,” answered Arthur in placid tones. “I have learned -some things quite as difficult in my life.”</p> - -<p>“But you don’t know anything about planting, and if you try it without -an overseer you’ll find your account at your commission merchant’s -distressingly short at the end of the year.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know about that,” broke in John Meaux. “You predicted the same -thing in my case, you remember, Mr. Peyton, when I came back after -graduating at West Point, and yet I’ve managed to keep some hams in my -meat house for fifteen years now,—and I never had an overseer.”</p> - -<p>Ignoring Meaux’s interruption Peyton said to Arthur:</p> - -<p>“And you know you’ve got a law-suit on your hands.”</p> - -<p>“Have I? I didn’t know it.”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course, Williams will sue. You see he was engaged for the year, -and the contract lasts till January.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100"></a>{100}</span></p> - -<p>“Who made the contract?” asked Arthur.</p> - -<p>“Well, I did—acting for your uncle.”</p> - -<p>“Had you my uncle’s power of attorney to bind him to a year’s -arrangement?”</p> - -<p>“Of course not. He was ill and I merely did a neighbor’s part.”</p> - -<p>“Then suppose Williams should sue you instead of me? You see it is you -who are liable for non-fulfilment of that contract. You bargained with -this man to serve you for a year as overseer on my plantation, and I -have declined to accept the arrangement. If he has a right of action -against anybody, it is against you. However, I don’t think he will sue -you, for I have paid him his wages for the full year. Fortunately I -happened to have money enough in bank for that. There is the -voluntary—let’s go into church.”</p> - -<p>Arthur Brent entered the place of service, one or two of the gentlemen -following him.</p> - -<p>He had made an enemy of Madison Peyton—an enemy who would never admit -his enmity but would never lose an opportunity to indulge it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101"></a>{101}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="VIII" id="VIII"></a>VIII<br /> -<small>A DINNER AT BRANTON</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> fell to Arthur Brent’s share to dine on that Sunday at Branton, the -seat of the most princely hospitality in all that part of Virginia. The -matter was not at all one of his own arranging, although it was -altogether agreeable to him. The master of Branton—a young man scarcely -older than himself, who lived there with his only sister, Edmonia -Bannister, had been the first of all the neighbors to visit Arthur, -dining with him and passing the night at Wyanoke. He had been most -kindly and cordial in his welcome and Arthur had been strongly drawn to -him as a man of character, intelligence and very winning manners. No -sooner had Arthur dismounted at church on that first Sunday, than young -Archer Bannister had come to shake his hand and say—“I want to preëmpt -you, Doctor Brent. All your neighbors will clamor for your company for -the dinner and the night, but I have done my best to establish the -priority of my claim.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102"></a>{102}</span> Besides my good sister wants you—and as a -confidence between you and me, I will tell you that when my sister wants -anything she is extremely apt to get it. I’m something of a laggard at -dressing myself for church, but this morning she began upon me early, -sending three servants to help me put on my clothes, and laying her -particular commands upon me to be the first man to arrive at Shrub Hill, -lest some other get before me with an invitation to dinner. So you are -to be my guest, please, and I’ll send one of my people over to Wyanoke -for anything you want. By the way I’ve cleared out a wardrobe for you at -Branton, and a dressing case. You’ll need to send over a supply of -linen, coats, boots, underwear, and the like and leave it in your room -there, so that you shall be quite at home to come and go at your will, -with the certainty of always finding ready for you whatever you need in -the way of costume.”</p> - -<p>Arthur Brent’s one extravagance was in the matter of clothes. He always -dressed himself simply, but he was always dressed well, and especially -it was his pleasure to change his garments as often as the weather or -the circumstances might suggest the desirability of a change. -Accordingly he had brought fat trunks to Wyanoke, but by the time that -three<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103"></a>{103}</span> others of his new neighbors had informed him, quite casually and -as a matter of course, that they had prepared rooms for him and expected -him to send to those rooms a supply of clothing sufficient for any need, -he was pleased to remember that he had left careful measurements with -his tailor, his shirt maker, his fabricator of footwear, and his “gents’ -furnisher” in New York. And he had also acquired a new and broader -conception than ever before, of the comprehensive heartiness of Virginia -hospitality.</p> - -<p>“You see,” said young Bannister, later in the day, “Branton is to be one -of your homes. As a young man you will be riding about a good deal, and -you mustn’t be compelled to ride all the way to Wyanoke every time you -want to change your coat or substitute low quarter shoes for your riding -boots. If you’ll ask little Miss Dorothy to show you my room at Wyanoke -you’ll find that I have everything there that any gentleman could -possibly need with which to dress himself properly for any occasion, -from a fish fry to a funeral, from a fox hunt to a wedding. You are to -do the same at Branton. You don’t do things in that way in a city, of -course, but here it is necessary, because of the distance between -plantations. A<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104"></a>{104}</span> man doesn’t want all his belongings in one place when -that place may be ten or a dozen miles away when he wants them.”</p> - -<p>Arthur found Branton to be substantially a reproduction of Wyanoke, -except that the great gambrel-roofed house had many wings and -extensions, and several one storied, two roomed “offices” built about -the grounds for the accommodation of any overflow of guests that might -happen there. The house had been built about the time at which the -Wyanoke mansion had come into being. It was of wood, but by no means of -such structure as we now expect in a wooden house. The frame was made of -great hewn timbers of forest pine, twelve inches square as to floor -beams and rafter plates, and with ten inch timbers in lieu of studding. -The vast chimneys were supported, not upon arches nicely calculated to -sustain their superincumbent weight with a factor of safety, but upon a -solid mass of cellar masonry that would have sustained the biggest of -Egyptian monoliths. The builders of the old colonial time may not have -known the precise strength of materials or the niceties of calculation -by which the supporting capacity of an arch is determined, but they -knew—and they acted upon the knowledge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105"></a>{105}</span>—that twelve inch, heart pine -timbers set on end will sustain any weight that a dwelling is called -upon to bear, and that a chimney built upon a solid mass of masonry, -twenty feet in diameter, is not likely to fall down for lack of -underpinning.</p> - -<p>One full half of the ground floor of the great mansion constituted the -single drawing room, wainscoted to the ceiling and provided with three -huge fire places built for the burning of cord wood. The floors were as -white as snow, the wainscoting as black as night with age and jealous -polishing with beeswax. After the architectural manner of the country, -there was a broad porch in front and another in rear, each embowered in -honeysuckles and climbing rose bushes. A passageway, more than twenty -feet in width ran through the building, connecting the two porches and -constituting the most generally used sitting room of the house. It had -broad oaken doors reaching across its entire width. They stood always -open except during the very coldest days of the mild Virginia winter, -there being no thought of closing them even at night. For there were no -criminal classes in that social fabric, and if there had been, the -certainty that the master of the mansion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106"></a>{106}</span> slept upon its ground floor -and knew what to do with a shot gun, would have been a sufficient -deterrent to invasion of the premises.</p> - -<p>There were two large fire places in the hall for winter use. But the -glory of the place was the stairway, with its broad ashen steps and its -broader landings. Up and down it had passed generations of happy maidens -and matrons. Up and down it, prattling children had played and romped -and danced in happy innocence. Up and down it wedding guests and funeral -attendants had come and gone, carrying their burdens of flowers for the -bride and blossoms for the bier. Upon it had been whispered words of -love and tenderness that prepared the way for lives of happiness, and -sorrowful utterances that soothed and softened grief. Upon its steps -young men of chivalric soul had wooed maidens worthy of their devotion. -Upon its landings young maidens had softly spoken those words of consent -which ushered in lives of rejoicing.</p> - -<p>The furniture of the house was in keeping with its spaciousness and its -solidity. Huge sofas were everywhere, broad enough for beds and long -enough for giants to stretch their limbs upon. Commodious, -plantation-made chairs of oak invited every guest to repose in the -broad<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107"></a>{107}</span> hallway. In the drawing room, and in the spacious dining hall the -sedate ticking of high standing clocks marked time only to suggest its -abundance in that land of leisure, and to invite its lavish use in -enjoyment.</p> - -<p>Now add to all this still life, the presence of charming people—men of -gracious mien and young women of immeasurable charm, young women whose -rich and softly modulated voices were exquisite music, and whose -presence was a benediction—and you may faintly understand the -surroundings in which Arthur Brent found himself on that deliciously -perfect Sunday afternoon in June, in the year of our Lord, 1859.</p> - -<p>Is it surprising that the glamour of it all took hold upon his soul and -tempted him to rest content with a life so picturesquely peaceful? Is it -surprising that his set purpose of speedily returning to his own life of -strenuous, scientific endeavor, somewhat weakened in presence of a -temptation so great? All this was his for the taking. All of it was open -to him to enjoy if he would. All of it lay before him as a gracious -inheritance. Why should he not accept it? Why should he return to the -struggle of science, the pent life of cities? Why should he prowl about -tenement houses in an endeavor to solve the problem of mephitic gases, -when all this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108"></a>{108}</span> free, balsamic air offered itself gratis to his -breathing? He had but one life to live, he reflected. Why should he not -live it here in sweet and wholesome ways? Why should he not make himself -a part of this exquisitely poised existence?</p> - -<p>All these vexed and vexing questions flitted through his brain even -before he had opportunity to meet his hostess in her own home, -surrounded by her bevy of variously attractive young women.</p> - -<p>Edmonia Bannister was everywhere recognized as the belle of the state in -which she lived. Suitors for her hand had come from afar and anear to -woo this maiden of infinite charm, and one by one they had gone away -sorrowing but with only the kindliest memory of the gentleness with -which she had withheld her consent to their wooings.</p> - -<p>She was scarcely beautiful. The word “comely” seemed a better one with -which to describe her appearance, but her comeliness was allied to a -charm at once indefinable and irresistible. John Meaux had said that “it -is a necessary part of every young man’s education to fall in love with -Edmonia Bannister at least once,” and had predicted that fate for Arthur -Brent. Whether the prediction was destined<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109"></a>{109}</span> to be fulfilled or not, -Arthur could not decide on this his first day as a guest at Branton. He -was sure that he was not in love with the girl at the end of his visit, -but he drew that assurance chiefly from his conviction that it was -absurd to fall in love with any woman upon acquaintance so slight. While -holding firmly to that conviction he nevertheless felt strongly that the -girl had laid a spell upon him, under control of which he was well nigh -helpless. He was by no means the first young man to whom this experience -had come, and he was not likely to be the last.</p> - -<p>And yet the young woman was wholly free from intent thus to enslave -those who came into her life. Her artlessness was genuine, and her -seriousness profound. There was no faintest suggestion of frivolity or -coquetry in her manner. She was too self-respecting for that, and she -had too much of character. One of those who had “loved and lost” her, -had said that “the only art she used was the being of herself,” and all -the rest who had had like experience were of the same mind. So far -indeed was she from seeking to bring men to her feet that on more than -one occasion she had been quick to detect symptoms of coming love and -had frankly and solemnly said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110"></a>{110}</span> to prospective wooers for whom she felt a -particular kindness—“please don’t fall in love with me. I shall never -be able to reciprocate the sentiment, and it would distress me to reject -your suit.” It is not upon record, however, that any one of those who -were thus warned profited by the wise counsel. On the contrary, in many -instances, this mark of kindliness on her part had served only to -precipitate the catastrophe she sought to avert.</p> - -<p>Arthur Brent had a stronger shield. He saw clearly that for him to marry -this or any other of that fair land’s maidens would make an end of his -ambitions.</p> - -<p>“If I should fall in love down here in Virginia,” he reflected, “I -should never have strength of mind enough to shake off the glamour of -this life and go back to my work. The fascination of it all is already -strong upon me. I must not add another to the sources of danger. I must -be resolute and strong. That way alone safety lies for me. I will set to -work at once to carry out my mission here, and then go away. I shall -know this week how matters stand with the estate. I shall busy myself at -once with my fixed purpose. I shall find means of discharging all the -debts of the plantation. Then I shall sell the land<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111"></a>{111}</span> and with the -proceeds take the negroes to the west and settle them there on little -farms of their own. Then I shall be free again to resume my proper work -in the world. Obviously I must not complicate matters by marrying here -or even falling in love. A man with such a duty laid upon him has no -right to indulge himself in soft luxury. I must be strong and resolute.”</p> - -<p>Nevertheless Arthur Brent felt an easily recognizable thrill of delight -when at dinner he found himself assigned to a seat on Edmonia -Bannister’s left hand.</p> - -<p>There were sixteen at dinner, and all were happy. Arthur alone was a -guest unused to occupy that place at Branton, and to him accordingly all -at table devoted special attention. Three at least of the younger men -present, had been suitors in their time for their hostess’s hand, for it -was a peculiarity of Edmonia’s rejections of her wooers, that they -usually soothed passion into affection and made of disappointed lovers -most loyal friends. Before the dinner came to an end, Arthur found -himself deliberately planning to seek this relation of close friendship -without the initiatory process of a love making. For he found his -hostess to be wise in counsel and sincere in mind, beyond<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112"></a>{112}</span> her years. -“She is precisely the person to advise me in the delicate affairs that I -must manage,” he thought. “For in the present state of public -feeling”—it was the era of Kansas-Nebraska bills and violent -agitation—“it will require unusual tact and discretion to carry out my -plans without making of myself an object of hatred and loathing. This -young woman has tact in infinite measure; she has discretion also, and -an acquaintance with sentiment here, such as I cannot even hope to -acquire. Above all she has conscience, as I discover every time she has -occasion to express an opinion. I’ll make her my friend. I’ll consult -her with regard to my plans.”</p> - -<p>By way of preparation for this he said to Edmonia as they sat together -in the porch one evening: “I am coming often to Branton, because I want -you to learn to know me and like me. I have matters in hand concerning -which I very much want your counsel. Will you mind giving it to me if I -behave well, resist the strong temptation to pay court to you as a -lover, and teach you after a while to feel that I am a friend to whom -your kindliness will owe counsel?”</p> - -<p>“If you will put matters on that level, Cousin Arthur, and keep them -there I shall be glad to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113"></a>{113}</span> have it so. I don’t know that I can give you -advice of any account, but, at any rate, as I think your impulses will -be right and kindly, I can give you sympathy, and that is often a help. -I’ll give you my opinion also, whenever you want it—especially if I -think you are going wrong and need admonition. Then I’ll put on all the -airs of a Minerva and advise you oracularly. But remember that you must -win all this, by coming often to Branton and—and the rest of it.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll come often to Branton, be sure of that,” he answered. But he did -not feel himself quite strong enough of purpose, to promise that he -would not make love to the mistress of the mansion.</p> - -<p>At the dinner each gentleman had a joint or a pair of fowls before him -to carve, and every gentleman in that time and country was confidently -expected to know how to carve whatever dish there might be assigned to -him. Carving was deemed as much a necessary part of every gentleman’s -education as was the ability to ride and shoot and catch a mettlesome -fish. The barbarity of having the joints clumsily cut up by a butler at -a side table and served half cold in an undiscriminating way, had not -then come into being. Dining was a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114"></a>{114}</span> fine art in that time and country, a -social function, in which each carver had the joy of selecting tidbits -for those he served, and arranging them daintily and attractively upon -the plate brought to him for that purpose by a well trained servant. -Especially each took pleasure in remembering and ministering to the -particular fancies of all the rest in the act of helping. Refined people -had not yet borrowed from barbaric Russians the practice of having -themselves fed, like so many cattle, by servitors appointed to deal out -rations.</p> - -<p>There was no wine served with the meal. That came later in its proper -place. Each gentleman had been invited to partake of a “toddy”—a mild -admixture of whiskey, water, sugar and nutmeg—before sitting down to -the meal. After that there was no drink served until the meal was over. -When the cloth was removed after the dessert, there came upon the -polished board some dishes of walnuts of which all partook sparingly. -Then came the wine—old sherry or, if the house were a fortunate one, -rare old Madeira, served from richly carved decanters, in daintily -stemmed cut glasses. The wine was poured into all the glasses. Then the -host proposed “the ladies,” and all drank, standing. Then the host -gallantly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115"></a>{115}</span> held the broad dining room door open while the ladies, bowing -and smiling, graciously withdrew. After that politics and walnuts, -religion and raisins, sherry and society divided the attention of the -gentlemen with cigars that had been kept for a dozen years or more -drying in a garret. For the modern practice of soaking cigars in a -refrigerator and smoking them limp and green was an undreamed of insult -to the tongues and palates of men who knew all about tobacco and who -smoked for flavor, not for the satisfaction of a fierce and intemperate -craving for narcotic effect.</p> - -<p>After half an hour or so over the rich, nutty wine, the gentlemen joined -the gentlewomen in the drawing room, the hallway or the porches -according to the weather, and a day well spent ended with a light supper -at nine o’clock. Then there was an ordering of horses and a making of -adieux on the part of such of the gentlemen as were not going to remain -over night.</p> - -<p>“You will stay, Cousin Arthur,” Edmonia said. “You will stay, of course. -You and I have a compact to carry out. We are to learn to like each -other. It will be very easy, I think, but we must set to work at it -immediately.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116"></a>{116}</span> Will you ride with me in the morning—soon?”</p> - -<p>She called him “Cousin Arthur,” of course. Had not a distant relative of -his once married a still more distant kinswoman of her own? It would -have been deemed in Virginia a distinct discourtesy in her not to call -him “Cousin Arthur.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117"></a>{117}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="IX" id="IX"></a>IX<br /> -<small>DOROTHY’S CASE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><b>FTER</b> a few weeks of work Arthur Brent’s laboratory was ready for use, -with all its apparatus in place and all its reserve supply of chemicals -safely bestowed in a small, log built hut standing apart.</p> - -<p>His books too had been brought to the house and unpacked. He provided -shelf room for them in the various apartments, in the broad hallway, and -even upon the stairs. There were a multitude of volumes—largely the -accumulations of years of study and travel on his own and his father’s -part. The collection included all that was best in scientific -literature, and much that was best in history, in philosophy and in -<i>belles lettres</i>. To this latter department he had ordered large -additions made when sending for his books—this with an eye to Dorothy’s -education.</p> - -<p>There was already a library of some importance at Wyanoke, the result of -irregular buying during two hundred years past. Swift was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118"></a>{118}</span> there in time -stained vellum. The poets, from Dryden and Pope to the last quarter of -the eighteenth century were well represented, and there were original -editions of “Childe Harold,” and “English Bards and Scotch Reviewers” on -the shelves. Scott was present in leathern cuirass of binding—both in -his novels and in his poems. But there was not a line of Coleridge or -Wordsworth or Shelley or Rogers or Campbell or John Keats, not a -suggestion of Matthew Arnold. Tennyson, Browning and their fellows were -completely absent, though Bailey’s “Festus” was there to represent -modern poetry.</p> - -<p>The latest novels in the list, apart from Scott, were “Evelina,” “The -Children of The Abbey,” “Thaddeus of Warsaw,” “Scottish Chiefs” and some -others of their kind. But all the abominations of Smollett, all the -grossness of Fielding, all the ribaldry of Richardson, and all the -sentimental indecency of Laurence Sterne were present in full force—on -top shelves, out of consideration for maidenly modesty.</p> - -<p>In history there were Josephus and Rollin, and scarcely anything else. -Hume was excluded because of his scepticism, and Gibbon had been passed -over as a monster of unbelief.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119"></a>{119}</span></p> - -<p>Arthur found that Dorothy had browsed somewhat in this old library, -particularly among the British Essayists and in some old volumes of -Dramas. Her purity had revolted at Fielding, Smollett and their kind, -and she had found the sentimentalities of Miss Burney insipid. But she -knew her “Don Quixote” almost by heart, and “Gil Blas” even more -minutely. She had read much of Montaigne and something of Rousseau in -the original also, and the Latin classics were her familiars. For her -father had taught her from infancy, French and Latin, not after the -manner of the schools, as grammatical gymnastics, but with an eye single -to the easy and intelligent reading of the rich literatures that those -languages offer to the initiated. The girl knew scarcely a single rule -of Latin grammar—in text book terms at least—but she read her Virgil -and Horace almost as easily as she did her Bible.</p> - -<p>It was with definite reference to the deficiencies of this and other old -plantation libraries, that Arthur Brent ordered books. He selected -Dorothy’s own sitting room—opening off her chamber—as the one in which -to bestow the treasures of modern literature—Tennyson, Dickens, -Thackeray, Bulwer, Coleridge, Keats, Rogers, Campbell, Shelley and their -later successors<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120"></a>{120}</span>—Longfellow, Bryant, Willis, Halleck, and above all -Irving, Paulding and Hawthorne.</p> - -<p>In arranging these treasures in Dorothy’s outer room, Arthur resorted to -a little trick or two. He would pick up a volume with ostensible purpose -of placing it upon a shelf, but would turn to a favorite passage and -read a little aloud. Then, suddenly stopping, he would say:—</p> - -<p>“But you’ll read all that for yourself,” and would add some bit of -comment or suggestion of a kind to awaken the girl’s attention and -attract her to the author in question. Before he had finished arranging -the books in that room Dorothy was almost madly eager to read all of -them. A new world was opening to her, a world of modern thought far more -congenial to her mind than the older literature which alone she had -known before. Here was a literature of which she had scarcely known even -the existence. It was a clean, wholesome, well-aired literature; a -literature founded upon modern ways of thinking; a literature that dealt -with modern life and character; a literature instinct with the thought -and sentiment of her own time. The girl was at once bewildered by the -extent of it and fascinated by its charm. Her sleep was cut short in her -eagerness to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121"></a>{121}</span> read it all. Its influence upon her mind and character -became at once and insistently manifest.</p> - -<p>“Here endeth the first lesson,” quoted Arthur Brent when he had thus -placed all that is best in modern literature temptingly at this eager -girl’s hand. “It will puzzle them to stop her from thinking now,” he -added, “or to confine her thinking within their strait-laced -conventions. Now for science.”</p> - -<p>The age of Darwin, Huxley and Herbert Spencer had not yet come, in 1859. -Haeckel was still unheard of, outside of Berlin and Jena. The science of -biology, in which all other science finds its fruition and justifies its -being, was then scarcely “a borning.” Otherwise, Arthur Brent would have -made of Dorothy’s amateurish acquaintance with botany the basis of a -systematic study, leading up to that conception which came later to -science, that all life is one, whether animal or vegetable; that species -are the results of differentiation by selection and development, and -that the scheme of nature is one uniform, consistent whole, composed of -closely related parts. But this thought had not yet come to science. -Darwin’s “Origin of Species” was not published until later in that year, -Wallace was off on his voyages and had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122"></a>{122}</span> not yet reached those all -embracing conclusions. Huxley was still only a young man of promise. -Virchow was bound in those trammels of tradition from which he was -destined never quite to disentangle himself, even with the stimulus of -Haeckel, his wonderful pupil. But the thought that has since made -science alive had been dreamed of even then. There were suggestions of -it in the manuscripts,—written backwards—of Leonardo da Vinci, and -Goethe had foreshadowed much of it.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, it was not for such sake or with a purpose so broad that -Arthur Brent set out to interest Dorothy South in science. His only -purpose was to teach her to think, to implant in her mind that divine -thirst for sound knowledge which he clearly recognized as a specific -remedy for conventional narrowness of mind.</p> - -<p>The girl was quick to learn rudiments and general principles, and in -laboratory work she soon surpassed her master as a maker of experiments. -In such work her habits of exactitude stood her in good stead, and her -conscientiousness had its important part to play.</p> - -<p>But science did not become a very serious occupation with Dorothy. It -was rather play than study at first, and when she had acquired<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123"></a>{123}</span> some -insight into it, so that its suggestions served to explain the phenomena -about her, she was fairly well content. She had no passion for original -research and of that Arthur was rather glad. “That sort of thing is -masculine,” he reflected, “and she is altogether a woman. I don’t want -her to grow into anything else.”</p> - -<p>But to her passion for literature there was no limit. “Literature -concerns itself with people,” she said to Arthur one day, “and I care -more for people than for gases and bases and reactions.”</p> - -<p>But literature, in its concern for people, records the story of human -life through all the centuries, and the development of human thought. It -includes history and speculative philosophy and Dorothy manifested -almost a passion for these.</p> - -<p>It was at this point that trouble first arose. So long as the girl was -supposed to be devouring novels and poetry, the community admired and -approved. But when it was noised abroad that she knew Gibbon as -familiarly as she did her catechism, that she had read Hume’s Essays and -Locke on the Understanding, together with the elder Mill, and Jeremy -Bentham and much else of like kind, the wonder was not unmixed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124"></a>{124}</span> with -doubt as to the fitness of such reading for a young girl.</p> - -<p>For a time even Aunt Polly shared this doubt but she was quickly cured -of it when Madison Peyton, with his customary impertinence protested. -Aunt Polly was not accustomed to agree in opinion with Madison Peyton, -and she resented the suggestion that the girl could come to any harm -while under her care. So she combated Peyton’s view after a destructive -fashion. When he spoke of this literature as unfit, Aunt Polly meekly -asked him, “Why?” and naturally he could not answer, having never read a -line of it in his life. He sought to evade the question but Aunt Polly -was relentless, greatly to the amusement of John Meaux and Col. Majors, -the lawyer of the old families. She insisted upon his telling her which -of the books were dangerous for Dorothy to read. “How else can I know -which to take away from her?” she asked. When at last he unwisely -ventured to mention Gibbon—having somehow got the impression, which was -common then, that the “Decline and Fall” was a sceptical work, Aunt -Polly—who had been sharing Dorothy’s reading of it,—plied him with -closer questions.</p> - -<p>“In what way is it harmful?” she asked,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125"></a>{125}</span> and then, quite innocently, -“what is it all about any how, Madison?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, well, we can’t go into that,” he said evasively.</p> - -<p>“But why not? That is precisely what we must go into if we are to direct -Dorothy’s reading properly. What is this book that you think she ought -not to read? What does it treat of? What is there in it that you object -to?”</p> - -<p>Thus baited on a subject that he knew nothing about, Peyton grew angry, -though he knew it would not do for him to manifest the fact. He -unwisely, but with an air of very superior wisdom, blurted out:—</p> - -<p>“If you had read that book, Cousin Polly, you wouldn’t like to make it -the subject of conversation.”</p> - -<p>“So?” asked the old lady. “It is in consideration of my ignorance then -that you graciously pardon my discretion?”</p> - -<p>“It’s a very proper ignorance. I respect you for never having indulged -in such reading,” he answered.</p> - -<p>“Then you must respect me less,” calmly responded the old lady, “for I -have read the book and I’m reading it a second time. I don’t see that it -has hurt me, but I’ll bow to your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126"></a>{126}</span> superior wisdom if you’ll only tell -me what there is in the book that is likely to undermine my morals.”</p> - -<p>The laugh that followed from Col. Majors and John Meaux—for the idea -that anything, literary or otherwise, could undermine the vigorous -morals of this high bred dame was too ludicrous to be resisted—nettled -Peyton anew. Still further losing his temper he broke out:</p> - -<p>“How should I know what is in the book? I never read such stuff. But I -know it is unfit for a young girl, and in this case I have a right to -dictate. I tell you now, Cousin Polly, that I will not have Dorothy’s -mind perverted by such reading. My interest in this case is paramount -and I mean to assert it. I have been glad to have her with you for the -sake of the social and moral training I expected you to give her. But I -tell you now, that if you don’t stop all this kind of reading and all -this slopping in a laboratory, trying to learn atheistical science—for -all science is atheistical as you well know—”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me, Madison,” broke in the old lady, “I didn’t know that. Won’t -you explain it to me, please?”—this with the meekness of a reverent -disciple, a meekness which Peyton knew to be a mockery.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127"></a>{127}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, everybody knows that,” testily answered the man. “And it is -indecent as well. I hear that Arthur has been teaching Dorothy a lot -about anatomy and that sort of thing that no woman ought to know, and—”</p> - -<p>“Why shouldn’t a woman know that?” asked Aunt Polly, still delivering -her hot shot as if they had been balls of the zephyr she was knitting -into a nubia. “Does it do her any harm to know how—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, please don’t ask me to go into that, Cousin Polly,” the man -impatiently responded. “You see it isn’t a proper subject of -conversation.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, isn’t it? I didn’t know, you see. And as you will not enlighten me, -let us return to what you were about to say. I beg pardon for -interrupting.”</p> - -<p>“I don’t remember what I was going to say,” said Peyton, anxious to end -the discussion. “Besides it was of no consequence. Let’s talk of -something else.”</p> - -<p>“Not yet, please,” placidly answered the old lady. “I remember that you -were about to threaten me with something. Now I never was threatened in -my life, and I’m really anxious to know how it feels. So please go on -and threaten me, Madison.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128"></a>{128}</span></p> - -<p>“I never thought of threatening you, Cousin Polly, I assure you. You’re -mistaken in that, surely.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. You said you had been pleased to have Dorothy under my -charge. I thank you for saying that. But you added that if I didn’t stop -her reading and her scientific studies you’d—you didn’t say just what -you’d do. That is because I interrupted. I beg pardon for doing so, but -now you must complete the sentence.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I only meant that if the girl was to be miseducated at Wyanoke, I -should feel myself obliged to take her away to my own house and—”</p> - -<p>“You need not continue,” answered the old lady, rising in stately wrath. -“You have said quite enough. Now let me make my reply. It is simply that -if you ever attempt to put such an affront as that upon me, you’ll wish -you had never been born.”</p> - -<p>She instantly withdrew from the piazza of the house in which all were -guests, John Meaux gallantly accompanying her. She paid no more heed to -Peyton’s clamorous protestations of apology than to the buzzing of the -bees that were plundering the honeysuckles of their sweets.</p> - -<p>When she had gone Peyton began to realize<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129"></a>{129}</span> the mistake he had made. In -that Col. Majors, who was left alone with him, greatly assisted him. In -the slow, deliberate way in which he always spoke, Col. Majors said:</p> - -<p>“You know, Peyton, that I do not often volunteer advice before I am -asked to give it, but in this case I am going to do so. It seems to me -that you have overlooked certain facts which present themselves to my -mind, as important, and of which I think the courts would take -cognizance.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I only meant to give Cousin Polly a hint,” broke in Peyton. “Of -course I didn’t seriously mean that I would take the girl away from -her.”</p> - -<p>“It is well that you did not,” answered the lawyer, “for the sufficient -reason that you could not do that if you were determined upon it.”</p> - -<p>“Why, surely,” Peyton protested. “I have a right to look after the -girl’s welfare?”</p> - -<p>“Absolutely none whatever.”</p> - -<p>“Why, you forget the arrangement between me and Dr. South.”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. That arrangement was at best a contract without -consideration, and therefore nonenforcible. Even if it had been reduced -to writing and formally executed, it would be so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130"></a>{130}</span> much waste paper in -the eyes of a court. Dorothy is a ward in chancery. The court would -never permit the enforcement of a contract of that kind upon her, so -long as she is under age; and when she attains her majority she will be -absolutely free, if I know anything of the law, to repudiate an -arrangement disposing of her life, made by others without her consent.”</p> - -<p>“Do you mean that on a mere whim of her own, that girl can upset the -advantageous arrangements made for her by her father and undo the whole -thing?”</p> - -<p>“I mean precisely that. But pardon me, the time has not come to consider -that question. What I would impress upon your mind at present is that on -the whole you’d better make your peace with Miss Polly. She has the girl -in charge, and if you antagonize her, she may perhaps train Miss Dorothy -to repudiate the arrangement altogether. In that case you may not wish -that you had never been born, as Miss Polly put the matter, but you’ll -wish that you hadn’t offended the dear old lady.”</p> - -<p>“Then I must take the girl away from her at once,” exclaimed Peyton in -alarm. “I mustn’t leave her for another day under Cousin Polly’s -influence.”</p> - -<p>“But you cannot take her away, Peyton.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131"></a>{131}</span> That is what I am trying to -impress upon your mind.”</p> - -<p>“But why not? Surely I have a right—”</p> - -<p>“You have absolutely <i>no</i> rights in the premises. The will of the late -Dr. South, made Robert Brent Dorothy’s guardian.”</p> - -<p>“But Robert Brent is dead,” broke in Peyton, impatiently, “and I am to -be the girl’s guardian after the next term of the court.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps so,” answered the lawyer. “The court usually allows the ward to -choose her guardian in such a case, and if you strongly commend yourself -to her, she may choose you. But I may be allowed to suggest that that -will depend a good deal upon what advice Miss Polly may give her. She is -very fond of Miss Polly, and apt to be guided by her. However that again -is a matter that has no bearing upon the question in hand. Even were you -already appointed guardian of Miss Dorothy’s estate you could not take -the girl away from Miss Polly.”</p> - -<p>“Why not? Has a guardian no authority?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes—a very large authority. But it happens in this case that by -the terms of the late Dr. South’s will, Miss Polly is made sole and -absolute guardian of Miss Dorothy’s person<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132"></a>{132}</span> until such time as she shall -come of age or previously marry with Miss Polly’s consent. Neither -Robert Brent, during his life, nor any person appointed to succeed him -as guardian of Miss Dorothy’s estate, had, or has, or can have the -smallest right to take her away from the guardian of her person. That -could be done only by going into court and showing that the guardian of -the person was of immoral life and unfit to have charge of a child. It -would be risky, to say the least of it, to suggest such a thing as that -in the case of Miss Polly, wouldn’t it? She has no very near relatives -but there isn’t a young or a middle-aged man in this county who -wouldn’t, in that case, adopt the relation of nearest male relation to -her and send inconvenient billets-doux to you by the hands of insistent -friends.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s all nonsense,” answered Peyton. “Of course nobody would -think of such a thing as questioning Cousin Polly’s eminent fitness to -bring up a girl.”</p> - -<p>“And yet that is precisely what you did, by implication at least, a -little while ago. My advice to you is to repair your blunder at the -earliest possible moment.”</p> - -<p>Peyton clearly saw the necessity of doing so, especially now that he had -learned that Dorothy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133"></a>{133}</span> must in any case remain in Aunt Polly’s charge. It -would ruin all his plans to have Aunt Polly antagonize them even -passively. But how to atone for his error was a difficult problem. With -anybody else he would have tried his favorite tactics of “laughing the -thing off,” treating it as a jest and being more good naturedly insolent -than ever. But with Aunt Polly he could not do that. She was much too -shrewdly penetrative to be deceived by such measures and much too -sensitively self-respectful to tolerate familiarity as a substitute for -an apology.</p> - -<p>Moreover he knew that he needed something more than Aunt Polly’s -forgiveness. He wanted her coöperation. For the dread which had inspired -his blundering outbreak, was not mainly, if at all, a dread of English -literature as a perverting educational force. He knew next to nothing of -literature and he cared even less. Under ordinary circumstances he would -never have bothered himself over any question of Dorothy’s reading. But -Dorothy was doing her reading under the tutelage and with the sympathy -of Arthur Brent, and Madison Peyton foresaw that the close, daily -association of the girl—child as she was—with a man so gifted and so -pleasing was likely, after a year<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134"></a>{134}</span> or two at least to grow into a warmer -attachment. And even if that should not happen, he felt that her -education under the influence of such a man might give her ideals and -standards which would not be satisfied by the life plans made for her -between himself and her father.</p> - -<p>It was not to remove her from Aunt Polly’s control, or even to save her -from too much serious reading—though he was suspicious of that—that he -cared. He wanted to keep her away from Arthur Brent’s influence, and it -was in a blundering attempt to bring that about that he had managed to -offend Aunt Polly, making a possible enemy of his most necessary ally.</p> - -<p>It was with a perturbed mind therefore that he rode away from the -hospitable house where the discussion had occurred, making some hastily -manufactured excuse to the hostess, for not remaining to dinner.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135"></a>{135}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="X" id="X"></a>X<br /> -<small>DOROTHY VOLUNTEERS</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><b>LL</b> this while Arthur Brent was a very busy man. It was true, as -Madison Peyton had said, that he knew little of planting, but he had two -strong coadjutors in the cultivation of his crops. John Meaux—perhaps -in unconscious spite of Peyton—frequently rode over to Wyanoke and -visited all its fields in company with the young master of the -plantation. There was not much in common between Meaux and Arthur, not -much to breed a close intimacy. Meaux was an educated man, within the -rather narrow limits established by the curriculum at West Point—for -Robert E. Lee had not yet done his work of enlargement and betterment at -the military academy when Meaux was a cadet in that institution—but he -was not a man of much reading, and intellectually he was indolent. -Nevertheless he was a pleasant enough companion, his friendship for -Arthur was genuine, and he knew more about the arts of planting than -anybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136"></a>{136}</span> else in that region. He freely gave Arthur the benefit of his -judgment and skill greatly to the advantage of the growing crops at -Wyanoke.</p> - -<p>Archer Bannister, too, was often Arthur’s guest. He came and went as he -pleased, sometimes remaining for three or four days at a time, sometimes -staying only long enough to advise Arthur to have a tobacco lot cut -before a rain should come to wash off the “molasses”—as the thick gum -on a ripening tobacco leaf was called. He was himself a skilful planter -and his almost daily counsel was of great value to Arthur’s -inexperience.</p> - -<p>But it was not of things agricultural only that these two were -accustomed to talk with each other. There had quickly grown up between -them an almost brotherly intimacy. They were men of congenial tastes and -close intellectual sympathies, and there was from the first a strong -liking on either side which was referable rather to similarity of -character than to anything merely intellectual. Both men cherished high -ideals of conduct, and both were loyal to those ideals. Both were -thoroughly educated, and both had been broadened by travel. Both -indulged in intellectual activities not always attractive even to men of -culture.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137"></a>{137}</span> Arthur loved science with the devotion of a disciple; Archer -rejoiced in a study of its conclusions and their consequences rather -than of its processes, its methods, its details. Above all, so far as -intellectual sympathies were concerned, both young men were almost -passionately devoted to literature. Between two such men, thrown -together in that atmosphere of leisure which was the crowning glory of -Virginia plantation life, it was inevitable that something more and -stronger than ordinary friendship should grow up. And between them stood -also Archer’s sister Edmonia—a woman whom both held in tender -affection, the one loving her as a sister, the other as—he scarcely -knew what. She shared the ideas, the impulses, the high principles of -both, and in her feminine way she shared also their intellectual tastes -and aspirations.</p> - -<p>Arthur had still another coadjutor in his management of affairs, in the -person of Dorothy. Throughout the summer and autumn the girl rode with -him every morning during the hours before breakfast, and, in her queer, -half childish, half womanly way, she instructed him mightily in many -things. Her habits of close observation had given her a large and -accurate knowledge of plantation affairs which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138"></a>{138}</span> was invaluable to him, -covering as it did many points of detail left unmentioned by Meaux and -Bannister.</p> - -<p>But his interest in the girl was chiefly psychological. The -contradiction he observed between her absolutely child-like simplicity -and the strangely sage and old way she had of thinking now and then, -interested him beyond measure. Her honesty was phenomenal—her -truthfulness astonishing.</p> - -<p>One morning as the two rode together through the corn they came upon a -watermelon three fourths grown. Instantly the girl slipped to the ground -with the request:—</p> - -<p>“Lend me your knife, please.”</p> - -<p>He handed her the knife wondering what she would do with it. After an -effort to open it she handed it back, saying: “Won’t you please open it? -Knives are not fit for women’s use. Our thumb nails are not strong -enough to open them. But we use them, anyhow. That’s because women’s -masters are not severe enough with them.”</p> - -<p>Receiving the knife again, with a blade opened, the girl stooped and -quickly scratched Arthur’s initials “A. B.,” upon the melon.</p> - -<p>“I’ve observed you do that before, Dorothy,” said Arthur as the girl -again mounted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139"></a>{139}</span> Chestnut, without assistance. “Why do you do it?”</p> - -<p>“To keep the servants from stealing the melon,” she replied. “Everybody -does that. I wonder if it’s right.”</p> - -<p>“But how can that keep a negro from taking the melon some dark night -after it is ripe and secretly eating it?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s because of their ignorance. They are very ignorant—much -more so than you think, Cousin Arthur. I may call you ‘Cousin Arthur,’ -may I not? You see I always called your uncle ‘Uncle Robert,’ and if -your uncle was my uncle, of course you and I are cousins. Besides I like -to call you ‘Cousin Arthur.’ ”</p> - -<p>“And I like to have you call me so. But tell me about the marking of the -watermelon.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s simple enough. When you have marked your initials on a -melon, the negroes know you have seen it and so they are afraid to steal -it.”</p> - -<p>“But how should I know who took it?”</p> - -<p>“That’s their ignorance. They never think of that. Or rather I suppose -they think educated people know a great deal more than they do. I wonder -if it is right?”</p> - -<p>“If what is right, Dorothy?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140"></a>{140}</span></p> - -<p>“Why, to take advantage of their ignorance in that way. Have educated -people a right to do that with ignorant people? Is it fair?”</p> - -<p>“I see your point, Dorothy, and I’m not prepared to give you an answer, -at least in general terms. But, at any rate, it is right to use any -means we can to keep people from stealing.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I’ve thought of that. But is it stealing for the negroes to -take a watermelon which they have planted and cultivated? They do the -work on the plantation. Aren’t they entitled to all they want to eat?”</p> - -<p>“Within reasonable bounds, yes,” answered Arthur, meditatively. “They -are entitled to all the wholesome food they need, and to all the warm -clothing, and to comfortable, wholesome quarters to live in. But we -mustn’t leave the smoke house door unlocked. If we did that the -dishonest ones among them would take all the meat and sell it, and the -rest would starve. Besides, the white people are entitled to something. -They take care of the negroes in sickness and in childhood and in old -age. They must feed and clothe them and nurse them and have doctors for -them no matter what it may cost. It is true, the negroes do the work -that produces the food and clothing and all the rest of it, but their -masters contribute the intelligent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141"></a>{141}</span> management that is quite as -necessary as the work. Imagine this plantation, Dorothy, or your own -Pocahontas, left to the negroes. They could do as much work as they do -now, but do you suppose their crops would feed them till Christmas if -there were no white man to manage for them?”</p> - -<p>“Of course not. Indeed they never would make a crop. Still I don’t like -the system.”</p> - -<p>“Neither do I, Dorothy, but in the present state of the public mind -neither of us must say so.”</p> - -<p>“Why not, Cousin Arthur? Is there any harm in telling the truth?”</p> - -<p>“Sometimes I suppose it is better to keep silence,” answered Arthur, -hesitating.</p> - -<p>“For women, yes,” quickly responded the girl. “But men can fight. Why -shouldn’t they tell the truth?”</p> - -<p>“I don’t quite understand your distinction, Dorothy.”</p> - -<p>“I’m not sure,” she answered, “that I understand it myself. Oh, yes, I -do, now that I think of it. Women tell lies, of course, because they -can’t fight. Or, if they don’t quite tell lies they at least keep silent -whenever telling the truth would make trouble. That’s because they can’t -fight. Men can fight, and so there’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142"></a>{142}</span> not the slightest excuse for them -if they tell lies or even if they keep silent.”</p> - -<p>“But, Dorothy, I don’t yet understand. Women can’t fight, of course, but -then they are never called upon to fight. Why—”</p> - -<p>“That’s just it, Cousin Arthur. If a woman speaks out, nobody can hold -her responsible. But anybody can hold her nearest male friend -responsible and he must fight to maintain what she has said, whether he -thinks she was right in saying it or not. The other day Jeff. -Peyton—Mr. Madison Peyton’s son, you know,—was over at Wyanoke, when -you had gone to Branton. So I had to entertain him.” Dorothy did not -know that the youth had been sent to Wyanoke by his father for the -express purpose of being entertained by herself. “I found him a pretty -stupid fellow, as I always do, but as he pretends to have been a student -at the University, I supposed he had read a great deal. So I talked to -him about Virgil but he knew so little that I asked him if he had read -‘The Vicar of Wakefield,’ and he told me a deliberate lie. He professed -a full acquaintance with that book, and presently I found out that he -had never read a line of it. I was so shocked that I forgot myself. I -asked him, ‘Why did<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143"></a>{143}</span> you lie to me?’ It was dreadfully rude, of course, -but I could not help it. Now of course he couldn’t challenge <i>me</i> for -that. But if he had been a man of spirit, he would have challenged -<i>you</i>, and you see how terribly wrong I should have been to involve you -in a quarrel of that kind. Of course if I had been a man, instead of a -woman—if I had been answerable for my words—I should have been -perfectly free to charge him with lying. But what possible right had I -to risk your life in a duel by saying things that I might as well have -left unsaid?”</p> - -<p>“But you said the other day,” responded Arthur, “that you did not -believe in duelling?”</p> - -<p>“Of course I don’t. It is a barbarous thing. But it is the custom of our -country and we can’t help it. I’ve noticed that if a man fights a duel -on proper provocation, everybody says he ought not to have done it. But -if he refuses to fight, everybody says he’s a coward. So, under certain -circumstances, a man in Virginia who respects himself is absolutely -compelled to fight. If Jefferson Peyton had asked you to meet him on -account of what I said to him, you couldn’t have refused, could you, -Cousin Arthur?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144"></a>{144}</span></p> - -<p>“I wouldn’t,” was all the answer the young man made; but he put a strong -stress upon the last word.</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know you wouldn’t,” answered the girl, treating his response as -quite a matter of course. “But you see now why a woman must keep silent -where a man should speak out. If a man tells the truth he can be called -to account for it; so if he is manly he will tell it and take the -consequences. But a woman has to remember that if she tells the truth, -and the truth happens to be ugly, some man must be shot at for her -words.”</p> - -<p>“Dorothy,” asked Arthur, with unusual seriousness, “are you afraid of -anything?”</p> - -<p>“Afraid? No. Of course not.”</p> - -<p>“If you were needed very badly for the sake of other people—even -negroes—if you could save their lives and ease their sufferings, you’d -want to do it, wouldn’t you?”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course, Cousin Arthur. I’ve read in Aunt Polly’s old -newspapers, how you went to Norfolk in the yellow fever time, and how -bravely you—never mind. I’ve read all about that, over and over again, -and it’s part of what makes me like you.”</p> - -<p>“But courage is not expected of women.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, it is,” quickly responded the girl.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145"></a>{145}</span> “Not the courage of -fighting, of course—but that’s only because men won’t fight with women, -except in mean ways. Women are expected to show courage in other ways, -and they do it too. In the newspapers that tell about your heroism at -Norfolk, there is a story of how one of your nurses went always to the -most dangerous cases, and how, when she died, you officiated at her -funeral, instead of the clergyman who had got scared and run away like a -coward that did not trust his God. I remember what the newspaper says -that you said at the grave, Cousin Arthur. I’ve got it all by heart. You -said, at the end of your address:—‘We are accustomed to pay honor and -to set up monuments to men who have dared, where daring offered its rich -reward of fame and glory. Let us reverently bow our heads and abase our -feeble, selfish souls, in presence of the courage of this frail woman, -who, in her weakness, has achieved greater things in the sight of God -than any that the valor and strength of man have ever accomplished since -the foundations of the world were laid. Let us reverently and lovingly -make obeisance to the courage of a devoted woman—a courage that we men -can never hope to match.’ You see I remember all that you said then, -Cousin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146"></a>{146}</span> Arthur, and so you needn’t tell me now that you do not expect -courage at the hands of women.”</p> - -<p>Arthur made no immediate reply, and the two rode on in silence for a -time. After a while, as they neared the house gates, he spoke.</p> - -<p>“Dorothy,” he said, “I need your help very badly. You cannot render me -the help I want without very serious danger to yourself. So I don’t want -you to give me any answer to what I am about to say until tomorrow. I -want you to think the matter over very carefully first.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me what it is, Cousin Arthur.”</p> - -<p>“Why, I find that we are to have a very dangerous epidemic of typhoid -fever among the negroes here. When the first case occurred ten days ago -I hoped that might be all; but two days later I found two more cases; -day before yesterday there were five more. So it is obvious that we are -to have an epidemic. All the cases have appeared among the field hands -and their families out at the far quarters, and so I hope that the house -servants and the people around the stables will escape. But the outbreak -is really very serious and the disease is of the most virulent type. I -must literally fight it with fire. I have already set men at work -building<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147"></a>{147}</span> new quarters down by the Silver Spring, a mile away from the -infected place, and as soon as I can I’m going to move all the people -and set fire to all the old quarters. I’ve bought an old circus tent in -Richmond, and I expect it by express today. As soon as it comes I’m -going to set it up on the Haw Branch hill, and put all the sick people -into it, so as to separate them from those that are well. As fast as -others show symptoms of the disease, I’ll remove them also to the -hospital tent, and for that purpose I have ordered forty cots and a lot -of new blankets and pillows.”</p> - -<p>Dorothy ejaculated her sorrow and sympathy with the poor blacks, and -quickly added the question: “What is it that I can do, Cousin Arthur? -Tell me; you know I will do it.”</p> - -<p>“But, Dorothy, dear, I don’t want you to make up your mind till you have -thought it all over.”</p> - -<p>“My mind is already made up. You want me to nurse these poor sick -people, and of course I’m going to do it. You are thinking that the -disease is contagious—”</p> - -<p>“No, it is only infectious,” he broke in with the instinct of scientific -exactitude strong upon him.</p> - -<p>“Well, anyhow, it’s catching, and you think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148"></a>{148}</span> I may catch it, and you -want me to think out whether I’m afraid of that or not. Very well. I’ve -already thought that out. <i>You</i> are going to be with the sick people -night and day. Cousin Arthur, I am only a girl, but I’m no more a coward -than you are. Tell me what I’m to do. It doesn’t need any thinking out.”</p> - -<p>“But, Dorothy, listen to me. These are not your people. If this outbreak -had occurred at Pocahontas, the matter would have been different. You -might well think that you owed a duty to the people on your own -plantation, but you owe none to these people of mine.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I do. I live at Wyanoke. Besides they are human beings and -they are in need of help. I don’t know how I can help, but you are going -to tell me, and I’m going to do what you want. I will not waste a day in -thinking.”</p> - -<p>“But, my child, the danger in this case is really very great. Indeed it -is extremely probable that if you do what you propose to do, you will -have the fever, and as I have already said, it has assumed an unusually -virulent form.”</p> - -<p>“It can’t be more dangerous than the yellow fever was at Norfolk, and -you braved that in order to save the lives of people you had never heard -of—people to whom you owed nothing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149"></a>{149}</span> whatever. Cousin Arthur, do you -think me less brave than you are?”</p> - -<p>“No, dear, but—”</p> - -<p>“Very well. You shall tell me after breakfast precisely what I can do, -and then I’ll do it. Women are naturally bad, and so they mustn’t lose -any opportunity of doing good when they can.”</p> - -<p>At that moment they arrived at the house gates. Slipping from her -saddle, Dorothy turned her great, earnest eyes full upon her companion, -and said with tense lips:</p> - -<p>“Promise me one thing, Cousin Arthur! Promise me that if I die in this -work you won’t ask any clergyman to mutter worn-out words from a prayer -book over my grave, but will yourself say to my friends that I did not -shirk like a coward!”</p> - -<p>Instantly, and without waiting for the promise she had besought, the -girl turned, caught up her long riding skirt and fled like a deer to the -house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150"></a>{150}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XI" id="XI"></a>XI<br /> -<small>THE WOMAN’S AWAKENING</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was upon a momentary impulse that Arthur Brent had suggested to -Dorothy that she should help him in the battle with pestilence which lay -before him. As a physician he had been accustomed to practise his -profession not in the ordinary, perfunctory way, and not for gain, but -in the spirit of a crusader combating disease as the arch enemy of -humanity, and partly too for the joy of conquering so merciless a foe. -His first thought in this case therefore had been to call to his aid the -best assistance available. His chief difficulty, he clearly foresaw, -would be in getting his measures intelligently carried out. He must -secure the accurate, prompt and intelligent execution of his directions, -whether for the administration of medicines prescribed or for hygienic -measures ordered. The ignorance, the prejudice, and the inert -carelessness of the negroes, he felt, would be his mightiest and wiliest -foes in this, and there could be no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151"></a>{151}</span> abler adjutant for this purpose -than Dorothy, with her quick wit, her scrupulous conscientiousness and -her habit of compelling exact and instant obedience to all her commands. -So he had thought first of calling upon Dorothy for help. But when she -had so promptly responded, he began to feel that he had made a mistake. -The physician in him, and the crusader too, sanctioned and approved the -use of the best means available for the accomplishment of his high -purpose. But the man in him, the friend, the affectionate protector, -protested against such an exposure of the child to dreadful danger.</p> - -<p>When he reflected upon the matter and thought of the peril; when he -conjured up a picture of dear little Dorothy stricken and perhaps dead -in a service of humanity to which no duty called her, and to which she -had been induced only by her loyalty to him, he shrank back in horror -from the program he had laid out.</p> - -<p>Yet he knew that he could not easily undo what he had done. There was a -child side to Dorothy, and it was that which usually presented itself to -his mind when he thought of her. But there was a strong woman side to -her also, as he very well knew, and over that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152"></a>{152}</span> he had established no -influence or control. He had won the love of the child. He had not yet -won the love of the woman. He realized that it was the masterful, woman -side of her nature that he had called into activity in this matter. Now -that the heroism of the brave woman’s soul was enlisted, he knew that he -could not easily bid it turn back.</p> - -<p>Yet something might be done by adroit management, and he resolved upon -that. After breakfast he sent for Dorothy and said, lightly:</p> - -<p>“I’m glad I have taught you to handle drugs skilfully, Dorothy. I shall -need certain medicines frequently in this conflict. They are our -ammunition for the battle, and we must have them always ready. I’m going -to write some prescriptions for you to fill. I want you to spend today -and tomorrow in the laboratory preparing them. One of them will tax your -skill a good deal. It may take you several days to get it ready. It -involves some very careful chemical processes—for you must first -manufacture a part of your chemicals out of their raw materials. I’ll -write detailed instructions for that, but you may fail half a dozen -times before you succeed. You must be patient and you’ll get it right. -You always do in the end. Then there’s another thing I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153"></a>{153}</span> want you to do -for me. I’m going to burn all the clothing, bedding and so forth at the -quarters. I’ll make each of the well negroes put on the freshest -clothing he has before removing to the sanitary camp, and I’ll burn all -the rest. I sent Dick early this morning to the Court House, telling -Moses to send me all the blankets and all the cloth he has of every -kind, from calico and osnaburgs to heavy woollen goods, and I’ve written -to Richmond for more. We must clothe the negroes anew—men, women and -children. So I want you to get together all your seamstresses—every -woman on the plantation indeed who can sew even a little bit—and set -them all at work making clothes. I’ve cleared out the prize barn for the -purpose, and the men are now laying a rough floor in it and putting up -some tables on which you and Aunt Polly can ‘cut out’—that’s what you -call it, isn’t it?”</p> - -<p>“Cousin Arthur,” said the girl, looking at him with something of -reproach in her great, dark blue eyes, “I’ll do all this of course, and -everything else that you want done. But please, Cousin Arthur, don’t -tell lies to me, even indirectly. I couldn’t stand that from you.”</p> - -<p>“What do you mean, child?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154"></a>{154}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh, you have made up your mind to keep me busy with all these things so -that I shall not go into your hospital to serve as a nurse. I’ll do -these things for you, but I’ll do the nursing too. So please let us be -good friends and please don’t try to play tricks.”</p> - -<p>The young man was astonished and abashed. Under ordinary circumstances -he might truthfully have pleaded that the work he was thus laying out -for her was really and pressingly necessary. But Dorothy anticipated him -in that.</p> - -<p>“Don’t tell me that these things are necessary, Cousin Arthur. I know -that perfectly well. But you know that I am not necessary to -them—except so far as the prescriptions are concerned. Aunt Polly can -direct the clothes making better than I can, and her maid, Jane, is -almost as good. So after I compound the prescriptions I shall go to my -duty at the hospital. I don’t think I like you very well today, Cousin -Arthur, and I’ll not like you at all if you go on trying to make up -things to keep me busy, away from the sick people. If you do that again -I’ll stop calling you ‘Cousin Arthur’ and you’ll be just ‘Dr. Brent’ to -me.”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t do that, Dorothy,” he said very pleadingly. “I only -meant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155"></a>{155}</span>—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know what you meant,” she interrupted. “But you shouldn’t treat -me in that way. I won’t call you ‘Dr. Brent,’ unless you do that sort of -thing again, and if you let me do my duty without trying to play tricks, -I’ll go on liking you just as much as ever.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Dorothy,” he replied with fervor. “You must forgive me, -please. I didn’t want to expose you to this danger—that was all.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I understand all that,” she quickly responded. “But it wasn’t -treating me quite fairly—and you know I hate unfairness. And—why -shouldn’t I be exposed to the danger if I can do any good? Even if the -worst should happen—even if I should take the fever and die, after -saving some of these poor creatures’ lives, could you or anybody have -made a better use of a girl like me than that?”</p> - -<p>Arthur looked at the child earnestly, but the child was no longer there. -The eyes that gazed into his were those of a woman!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156"></a>{156}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XII" id="XII"></a>XII<br /> -<small>MAMMY</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><b>HEN</b> Arthur Brent reached the “quarters” that morning he found matters -in worse condition than he had feared.</p> - -<p>“The whole spot is pestilential,” he said. “How any sane man ever -selected it for quarters, I can’t imagine. Gilbert,” calling to the head -man who had come in from the field at his master’s summons, “I want you -to take all the people out of the crop at once, and send for all the -house servants too. Take them with you over to the Haw Branch hill and -put every one of them at work building some sort of huts. You must get -enough of them done before night, to hold the sick people, for I’m going -to clear out these quarters today. I must have enough huts for the sick -ones at once. Those who are well will have to sleep out of doors at the -Silver Spring tonight.”</p> - -<p>“But, Mahstah,” remonstrated Gilbert, “dey<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157"></a>{157}</span> ain’t no clapboa’ds to roof -wif. Dey ain’t no nuffin—”</p> - -<p>“Use fence rails then and cover them with pine tops. I’ll ride over and -direct you presently. Send me eight or ten of the strongest young women -at once, and then get everybody to work on the shelters. Do you hear?”</p> - -<p>When the women came he instructed them how to carry the sick on -improvised litters, and half an hour later, with his own hand he set -fire to the little negro village. He had allowed nothing to be carried -away from it, and he left nothing to chance. One of the negroes came -back in frantic haste to save certain “best clothes” and a banjo that he -had laboriously made. Arthur ordered him instead to fill up the well -with rubbish, so that no one might drink of its waters again.</p> - -<p>As soon as the fire was completely in possession the young master rode -away to Haw Branch hill to look after the sick ones and direct the work -of building shelters for them. Dorothy was already there, tenderly -looking to the comfort of the invalids. The litter-bearers would have -set their burdens down anywhere and left them there but for Dorothy’s -quiet insistence that they should place them in such shade as she could -find, and gather an abundance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158"></a>{158}</span> of broomstraw grass for them to lie upon. -To Arthur she offered no explanation of her presence, nor was any -needed. Arthur understood, and all that he said was:</p> - -<p>“God bless you, Dorothy!” a sentiment to which one of the stricken ones -responded:</p> - -<p>“He’ll do dat for shuah, Mahstah, ef he knows he business.”</p> - -<p>“Dick has returned from the Court House,” said Dorothy reporting. “He -says the big tent is there and I’ve sent a man with a wagon to fetch it. -These shelters will do well enough for tonight, and we’ll get our -hospital tent up soon tomorrow morning.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” responded Arthur. “Now, Dorothy, won’t you ride over to -Silver Spring and direct the men there how to lay out the new quarters? -I drew this little diagram as I rode over here. You see I want the -houses built well apart for the sake of plenty of air. I’m going to put -the quarters there ‘for all the time’ as you express it. That is to say -I’m going to build permanent quarters. I’ve already looked over the -ground carefully as to drainage and the like and roughly laid out the -plan of the village so that it shall be healthy. Please go over there -and show the men what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159"></a>{159}</span> I want, I’ll be over there in an hour and then -you can come back here. I must remain here till the doctors come.”</p> - -<p>“What doctors, Cousin Arthur?”</p> - -<p>“All the doctors within a dozen miles. I’ve sent for all of them.”</p> - -<p>“But what for? Surely you know more about fighting disease than our -old-fashioned country doctors do.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps so. But there are several reasons for consulting them. First of -all they know this country and climate better than I do. Secondly, they -are older men, most of them, and have had experience. Thirdly, I don’t -want all the responsibility on my shoulders, in case anything goes -wrong, and above all I don’t want to offend public sentiment by assuming -too much. These gentlemen have all been very courteous to me, and it is -only proper for me to send for them in consultation. I shall get all the -good I can out of their advice, but of course I shall myself remain -physician in charge of all my cases.”</p> - -<p>The explanation was simple enough, and Dorothy accepted it. “But I don’t -like anybody to think that country doctors can teach you anything, -Cousin Arthur,” she said as she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160"></a>{160}</span> mounted. “And remember you are to come -over to Silver Spring as soon as you can. I must be back here in an hour -or so at most.”</p> - -<p>Just as she was about to ride away Dorothy was confronted with an old -negro woman—obviously very old indeed, but still in robust health, and -manifestly still very strong, if one might estimate her strength from -the huge burden she carried on her well poised head.</p> - -<p>“Why, Mammy, what are you doing here?” asked the girl in surprise. “You -don’t belong here, and you must go back to Pocahontas at once.”</p> - -<p>“What’s you a talkin’ ’bout, chile?” answered the old woman. “Mammy -don’t b’long heah, don’t she? Mammy b’longs jes whah somever her -precious chile needs her. So when de tidins done comes dat Mammy’s -little Dorothy’s gwine to ’spose herself in de fever camp jes to take -kyar of a lot o’ no ’count niggas what’s done gone an’ got dey selves -sick, why cou’se dey ain’t nuffin fer Mammy to do but pack up some -necessary ingridiments an come over and take kyar o’ her baby. So jes -you shet up yer sweet mouf, you precious chile, an’ leave ole Mammy -alone. I ain’t a gwine to take no nonsense from a chile what’s my own to -kyar fer.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161"></a>{161}</span></p> - -<p>“You dear old Mammy!” exclaimed the girl with tears in her voice. “But I -really don’t need you, and I will not have you exposed to the fever.”</p> - -<p>“What’s Mammy kyar fer de fever? Fever won’t nebber dar tetch Mammy. -Mammy ain’t nebber tuk no fevers an’ no nuffin else. Lightnin’ cawn’t -hu’t Mammy anymore’n it kin split a black gum tree. G’long ’bout yer -business, chile, an don’t you go fer to give no impidence to yer ole -Mammy. She’s come to take kyar o’ her chile an’ she’s a gwine to do it. -Do you heah?”</p> - -<p>Further argument and remonstrance served only to make plain the utter -futility of any and every endeavor to control the privileged and -devotedly loving old nurse. She had come to the camp to stay, and she -was going to stay in spite of all protest and all authority.</p> - -<p>“There’s nothing for it, Cousin Arthur,” said Dorothy, with the tears -slipping out from between her eyelids, “but to let dear old Mammy have -her way. You see she’s had charge of me ever since I was born, and I -suppose I belong to her. It was she who taught me how badly women need -somebody to control them and how bad they are if they haven’t a master. -She’ll stay here as long as I do, you may be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162"></a>{162}</span> sure of that, and she’ll -love me and scold me, and keep me in order generally, till this thing is -over, no matter what you or anybody else may say to the contrary. So -please, Cousin Arthur, make some of the men build a particularly -comfortable shelter for her and me. She wouldn’t care for herself, even -if she slept on the ground out of doors, but she’ll be a turbulent -disturber of the camp if you don’t treat me like a princess—though -personally I only want to serve and could make myself comfortable -anywhere.”</p> - -<p>“I’ll see that you have good quarters, Dorothy,” answered the young man -in a determined tone. “I’d do that anyhow. But what’s all that you’ve -got there in your big bundle, Mammy?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, nuffin but a few dispensable ingridiments, Mas’ Arthur. Jes’ a few -blankets an’ quilts an’ pillars an’ four cha’rs an’ a feather bed an’ a -coffee pot an’ some andirons an’ some light wood, an’ a lookin’ glass, -and a wash bowl and pitcher an’ jes a few other little inconveniences -fer my precious chile.”</p> - -<p>For answer Arthur turned to Randall, the head carpenter of the -plantation, and said:</p> - -<p>“Randall, there’s a lot of dressed lumber<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163"></a>{163}</span> under the shed of the wheat -barn. I’ll have it brought over here at once. I want you to take all the -men you need—your Mas’ Archer Bannister is sending over four carpenters -to help and your Mas’ John Meaux is sending three—and if you don’t get -a comfortable little house for your Miss Dorothy built before the moon -rises, I shall want to know why. Get to work at once. Put the house on -this mound. Build a stick and mud chimney to it, so that there can be a -fire tonight. Three rooms with a kitchen at the back will be enough, but -mind you are to have it ready before the moon rises, do you hear?”</p> - -<p>“It’ll be ready Mahstah, er Randall won’t let nobody call him a -carpenter agin fer a mighty long time. Ef Miss Dorothy is a gwine to -nuss de folks while dey’s sick you kin jes bet yer sweet life de folks -what’s well an’ strong is a gwine to make her comfortable.”</p> - -<p>“Amen!” shouted three or four of the others in enthusiastic unison. -Dorothy was not there to hear. She had already ridden away on her -mission to direct matters at the Silver Spring.</p> - -<p>“It’s queer,” thought the young master of the plantation, “how devotedly -loyal all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164"></a>{164}</span> negroes are to Dorothy. Nobody—not even Williams the -overseer,—was ever so exacting as she is in requiring the most rigid -performance of duty. Ever since she punished Ben for bringing her an -imperfectly groomed horse, that chronically lazy fellow has taken the -trouble every night to put her mare’s mane and tail into some sort of -equine crimping apparatus, so that they may flow gracefully in the -morning. And he does it for affection, too, for when she told him, one -night, that he needn’t do it, as we were late in returning from -Pocahontas, I remember the fervor with which he responded: ‘Oh, yes, -Miss Dorothy, I’ll do de mar’ up in watered silk style tonight cause -yar’s a gwine to Branton fer a dinin’ day tomorrer, an’ Ben ain’t a -gwine fer to let his little Missus ride in anything but de bes’ o’ -style.’ The fact is,” continued Arthur, reflecting, “these people -understand Dorothy. They know that she is always kindly, always -compassionate, always sympathetic in her dealings with them. But they -realize that she is also always just. She never grows angry. She never -scolds. She punishes a fault severely in her queer way, but after it is -punished she never refers to it again. She never ‘throws up things,’ to -them. In a word, Dorothy is just,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165"></a>{165}</span> and after all it is justice that -human beings most want, and it is the one thing of which they get least -in this world. What a girl Dorothy is, anyhow!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166"></a>{166}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIII" id="XIII"></a>XIII<br /> -<small>THE “SONG BALLADS” OF DICK</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was “endurin of de feveh”—to use his own phrase by which he meant -during the fever—that Dick’s genius revealed itself. Dick had long ago -achieved the coveted dignity of being his master’s “pussonal servant.” -It was Dorothy who appointed him to that position and it was mainly -Dorothy who directed his service and saw to it that he did not neglect -it.</p> - -<p>For many of the services of a valet, Arthur had no use whatever. It was -his habit, as he had long ago said, to “tie his own shoe strings.” He -refused from the first very many of Dick’s proffered attentions. But he -liked to have his boots thoroughly polished and his clothing well -brushed. These things he allowed Dick to attend to. For the rest he made -small use of him except to send him on errands.</p> - -<p>The position suited Dick’s temperament and ambition thoroughly and he -had no mind to let the outbreak of fever on the plantation rob him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167"></a>{167}</span> of -it. When Arthur established himself at the quarantine camp, taking for -his own a particularly small brush shelter, he presently found Dick in -attendance, and seriously endeavoring to make himself useful. For the -first time Arthur felt that the boy’s services were really of value to -him. He was intelligent, quick-witted, and unusually accurate in the -execution of orders. He could deliver a message precisely as it was -given to him, and his “creative imagination” was kept well in hand when -reporting to his master and when delivering his messages to -others—particularly to those in attendance upon the sick. Arthur was -busy night and day. He saw every patient frequently, and often he felt -it necessary to remain all night by a bedside. In the early morning, -before it was time for the field hands to go to their work in the crops, -he inspected them at their new quarters, and each day, too, he rode over -all the fields in which crop work was going on.</p> - -<p>In all his goings Dick was beside him, except when sent elsewhere with -messages. In the camp he kept his master supplied with fuel and cooked -his simple meals for him, at whatever hours of the night or day the -master found time to give attention to his personal wants.</p> - -<p>In the meanwhile—after the worst of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168"></a>{168}</span> epidemic was over—Dick made -himself useful as an entertainer of the camp. Dick had developed -capacities as a poet, and after the manner of Homer and other great -masters of the poetic art, it was his custom to chant his verses to -rudely fashioned melodies of his own manufacture. Unfortunately Dorothy, -who took down Dick’s “Song Ballads,” as he called them, and preserved -their text in enduring form, was wholly ignorant of music, as we know, -and so the melodies of Dick are lost to us, as the melodies of Homer -are. But in the one case as in the other, some at least of the poems -remain to us.</p> - -<p>Like all great poets, Dick was accustomed to find his inspiration in the -life about him. Thus the fever outbreak itself seems to have suggested -the following:</p> - -<div class="poetry"><br /><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Nigga got de fevah,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nigga he most daid;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Long come de Mahstah,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Mahstah shake he haid.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mahstah he look sorry,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nigga fit to cry;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mahstah he say “Nebber min’,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Git well by am by.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Mahstah po’ de medicine,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Mix it in de cup,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nigga mos’ a chokin’<br /></span> -<span class="i2">As he drinks it up.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169"></a>{169}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Nigga he git well agin<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Den he steal de chicken,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Den de Mahstah kotches him<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An’ den he gits a lickin’.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>The simplicity and directness of statement here employed fulfil the -first of the three requirements which John Milton declared to be -essential to poetry of a high order, which, he tells us must be “simple, -sensuous, passionate.” The necessary sensuousness is present also, in -the reference made to the repulsiveness of the medicine. But that -quality is better illustrated in another of Dick’s Song Ballads which -runs as follows:</p> - -<div class="poetry"><br /><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Possum up a ’simmon tree—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Possum dunno nuffin,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">He nebber know how sweet and good<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A possum is wid stuffin.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Possum up a ’simmon tree—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A eatin’ of de blossom,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Up creeps de nigga an’<br /></span> -<span class="i2">It’s “good-by Mistah Possum.”<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Nigga at de table<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A cuttin’ off a slice,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ sayin’ to de chillun—<br /></span> -<span class="i2">“Possum’s mighty nice.”<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Here the reader will observe the instinctive dramatic skill with which -the poet, having<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170"></a>{170}</span> reached the climax of the situation, abruptly rings -down the curtain, as it were. There is no waste of words in unnecessary -explanations, no delaying of the action with needless comment. And at -the end of the second stanza we encounter a masterly touch. Instead of -telling us with prosaic literalness that the nigga succeeded in slaying -his game, the poet suggests the entire action with the figurative -phrase—“It’s ‘good-by, Mistah Possum.’ ”</p> - -<p>There is a fine poetic reserve too in the abrupt shifting of the scene -from tree to table, and the presentation of the denouement without other -preparation than such as the reader’s imagination may easily furnish for -itself. We are not told that the possum was dressed and cooked; even the -presence of stuffing as an adjunct to the savor of the dish is left to -be inferred from the purely casual suggestion made in the first stanza -of the fact that stuffing tends to enrich as well as to adorn the viand.</p> - -<p>These qualities and some others of a notable kind appear in the next -example we are permitted to give of this poet’s work.</p> - -<div class="poetry"><br /><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ole crow flyin’ roun’ de fiel’,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A lookin’ fer de cawn;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mahstah wid he shot gun<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A settin’ in de bawn.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171"></a>{171}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ole crow see a skeer crow<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A standin’ in the cawn;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Nebber see de Mahstah<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A settin’ in de bawn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ole crow say:—“De skeer crow,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">He ain’t got no gun,—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Jes’ a lot o’ ole clo’es<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A standin’ in de sun;<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ole crow needn’t min’ him,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ole crow git some cawn;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But he nebber see de Mahstah<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A settin’ in de bawn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ole crow wuk like nigga<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A pullin’ up de cawn—<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Mahstah pull de trigga,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Ober in de bawn.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Ole crow flop an’ flutter—<br /></span> -<span class="i1">He’s done got it, <i>sho’!</i><br /></span> -<span class="i0">Skeer crow shakin’ in he sleeve<br /></span> -<span class="i2">A laughin’ at de crow.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>There is a compactness of statement here—a resolute elimination of the -superfluous which might well commend the piece to those modern -theatrical managers who seem to regard dialogue as an impertinence in a -play.</p> - -<p>Sometimes the poet went even further and presented only the barest -suggestion of the thought in his mind, leaving the reader to supply the -rest. Such is the case in the poem next to be set down as an example, -illustrative of the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172"></a>{172}</span> poet’s method. It consists of but a single stanza:</p> - -<div class="poetry"><br /><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">De day’s done gone, de wuk’s done done,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An’ Mahstah he smoke he pipe;<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But nigga he ain’t done jes yit,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Cause—de watermillion’s ripe.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Here we have in four brief lines an entirely adequate suggestion of the -predatory habits of “Nigga,” and of his attitude of mind toward -“watermillions.” With the bare statement of the fact that the fruit in -question has attained its succulent maturity, we are left to discover -for ourselves the causal relation between that fact and the intimated -purpose of “Nigga” to continue his activities during the hours of -darkness. The exceeding subtlety of all this cannot fail to awaken the -reader’s admiring sympathy.</p> - -<p>Perhaps the most elaborately wrought out of these song ballads is the -one which has been reserved for the last. Its text here follows:</p> - -<div class="poetry"><br /><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Possum’s good an’ hoe cake’s fine,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An’ so is mammy’s pies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But bes’ of all good t’ings to eat<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Is chickens, fryin’ size.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">How I lubs a moonlight night<br /></span> -<span class="i2">When stars is in de skies!<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But sich nights ain’t no good to git<br /></span> -<span class="i2">De chickens, fryin’ size.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173"></a>{173}</span><br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">De moonlight night is shiny bright,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Jes’ like a nigga’s eyes,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">But dark nights is the bes’ to git<br /></span> -<span class="i2">De chickens, fryin’ size.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">When Mahstah he is gone to sleep,<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An’ black clouds hides de skies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Oh, den’s de time to crawl an’ creep<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Fer chickens, fryin’ size.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Fer den prehaps you won’t git kotched<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Nor hab to tell no lies,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">An’ mebbe you’ll git safe away<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Wid chickens, fryin’ size.<br /></span> -</div><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">But you mus’ look out sharp fer noise<br /></span> -<span class="i2">An’ hush de chicken’s cries,<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Fer mighty wakin’ is de squawks<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Of chickens, fryin’ size.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>To gross minds this abrupt, admonitory ending of the poem will be -disappointing. It leaves the reader wishing for more—more chicken, if -not more poetry. And yet in this self-restrained ending of the piece the -poet is fully justified by the practice of other great masters of the -poetic art. Who that has read Coleridge’s superb fragment “Kubla Khan,” -does not long to know more of the “stately pleasure dome” and of those -“caverns measureless to man” through which “Alph the sacred river ran, -down to a sunless sea”?</p> - -<p>We present these illustrative examples of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174"></a>{174}</span> Dick’s verse in full -confidence that both his inspiration and his methods will make their own -appeal to discriminating minds. If there be objection made to the -somewhat irregular word forms employed by this poet, the ready answer is -that the same characteristic marks many of the writings of Robert Burns, -and that Homer himself employed a dialect. If it is suggested that -Dick’s verbs are sometimes out of agreement with their nominatives, it -is easy to imagine Dick contemptuously replying, “Who keers ’bout dat?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175"></a>{175}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIV" id="XIV"></a>XIV<br /> -<small>DOROTHY’S AFFAIRS</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span> <b>GOOD</b> many things happened “endurin’ of the feveh”—if Dick’s -expressive and by no means inapt phrase may again be employed.</p> - -<p>First of all the outbreak gave Madison Peyton what he deemed his -opportunity. It seemed to him to furnish occasion for that -reconciliation with Aunt Polly which he saw to be necessary to his -plans, and, still more important, it seemed to afford an opportunity for -him to withdraw Dorothy from the influence of Dr. Arthur Brent.</p> - -<p>Accordingly, as soon as news came to him of the epidemic, and of Arthur -Brent’s heroic measures in meeting it, he hurried over to Wyanoke, full -of confident plans.</p> - -<p>“This is dreadful news, Cousin Polly,” he said, as soon as he had -bustled into the house.</p> - -<p>“What news, Madison?” answered the old lady. “What have you come to tell -me?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176"></a>{176}</span></p> - -<p>“Oh I mean this dreadful fever outbreak—it is terrible—”</p> - -<p>“I don’t know,” answered Aunt Polly, reflectively. “We have had only ten -or a dozen cases so far, and you had three or four times that many at -your quarters last year.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, but of course this is very much worse. You see Arthur has had -to burn down all the quarters, and destroy all the clothing. He’s a -scientific physician, you know, and—”</p> - -<p>“But all science is atheistic, Madison. You told me so yourself over at -Osmore, and so of course you don’t pay any attention to Arthur’s -scientific freaks.”</p> - -<p>“Now you know I didn’t mean that, Cousin Polly,” answered Peyton, -apologetically. “Of course Arthur knows all about fevers. You know how -he distinguished himself at Norfolk.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know, but what has that to do with this case?”</p> - -<p>“Why, if this fever is so bad that a scientific physician like Arthur -finds it necessary to burn all his negro quarters and build new ones, it -must be very much worse than anything ever known in this county before. -Nobody here ever thought of such extreme measures.”</p> - -<p>“No, I suppose not,” answered Aunt Polly.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177"></a>{177}</span> “At any rate you didn’t do -anything of the kind when an epidemic broke out in your quarters last -year. But you had fourteen deaths and thus far we have had only one, and -Arthur tells me he hopes to have no more. Perhaps if you had been a -scientific physician, you too would have burned your quarters and moved -your hands to healthier ones.”</p> - -<p>This was a home shot, as Aunt Polly very well knew. For the physicians -who had attended Peyton’s people, had earnestly recommended the -destruction of his negro quarters and the removal of his people to a -more healthful locality, and he had stoutly refused to incur the -expense. He had ever since excused himself by jeering at the doctors and -pointing, in justification of his neglect of their advice to the fact -that in due time the epidemic on his plantation had subsided. He -therefore felt the sting of Aunt Polly’s reference to his experience, -and she emphasized it by adding:</p> - -<p>“If you had done as Arthur has, perhaps you wouldn’t have so many deaths -to answer for when Judgment Day comes!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, that’s all nonsense, Cousin Polly,” he quickly responded. “And -besides we’re wasting time. Of course you and Dorothy can’t remain here, -exposed to this dreadful danger.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178"></a>{178}</span> So I’ve ordered my driver to bring the -carriage over here for you this afternoon. You two must be our guests at -least as long as the fever lasts at Wyanoke.”</p> - -<p>Aunt Polly looked long and intently at Peyton. Then she slowly said:</p> - -<p>“The Bible forbids it, Madison, though I never could see why.”</p> - -<p>“Forbids what, Cousin Polly?”</p> - -<p>“Why, it says we mustn’t call anybody a fool even when he is so, and I -never could understand why.”</p> - -<p>“But I don’t understand you, Cousin Polly—”</p> - -<p>“Of course you don’t. I didn’t imagine that you would. But that’s -because you don’t want to.”</p> - -<p>“But I protest, Cousin Polly, that I’ve come over only because I’m -deeply anxious about your health and Dorothy’s. You simply mustn’t -remain here.”</p> - -<p>“Madison Peyton,” answered the old lady, rising in her stately majesty -of indignation, “I won’t call you a fool because the Bible says I -mustn’t. But it is plain that you think me one. You know very well that -you’re not in the least concerned about my health. You know there hasn’t -been a single case of fever in this house<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179"></a>{179}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/p178.jpg" width="342" height="500" alt="“I WON’T CALL YOU A FOOL BECAUSE THE BIBLE SAYS I -MUSTN’T.”" title="" /> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="captv">“I </span>WON’T CALL YOU A FOOL BECAUSE THE BIBLE SAYS I -MUSTN’T.”</span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">or within a mile of it. You know you never thought of removing your own -family from your house when the fever was raging in your negro quarters. -You know that I know what you want. You want to get Dorothy under your -own control, by taking her to your house. Very well, I tell you you -cannot do that. It would endanger the health of your own family, for -Dorothy has been in our fever camp for two days and nights now, as head -nurse and Arthur’s executive officer. Why do you come here trying to -deceive me as if I were that kind of person that the Bible doesn’t allow -me to call you? Isn’t it hard enough for me to do my duty in Dorothy’s -case without that? Do you imagine I find it a pleasant thing to carry -out my orders and train that splendid girl to be the obedient wife of -such a booby as your son is? You are making a mistake. You tried once to -intimidate me. You know precisely how far you succeeded. You are trying -now to deceive me. You may guess for yourself what measure of success -you are achieving. There are spirits in the sideboard, if you want -something to drink after —— well, after your ride. I must ask you to -excuse me now, as I have to go to the prize barn to superintend the work -of the sewing women.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180"></a>{180}</span></p> - -<p>With that the irate old lady courtesied low, in mock respect, and took -her departure, escorted by her maid.</p> - -<p>Madison Peyton was angry, of course. That, indeed is a feeble and -utterly inadequate term with which to describe his state of mind. He -felt himself insulted beyond endurance—and that, probably, was what -Aunt Polly intended that he should feel. But he was baffled in his -purpose also, and he knew not how to endure that. He was not a coward. -Had Aunt Polly been a man he would instantly have called her to account -for her words. Had she been a young woman, he would have challenged her -brother or other nearest male relative. As it was he had only the poor -privilege of meditating such vengeance as he might wreak in sly and -indirect ways. He was moved to many things, as he madly galloped away, -but one after another each suggested scheme of vengeance was abandoned -as manifestly foolish, and with the abandonment of each his chagrin grew -greater and his anger increased. When he met his carriage on its way to -Wyanoke in obedience to the orders he had given in the morning, he -became positively frantic with rage, so that the driver and the black -boy who rode behind the vehicle grew ashen with terror as the carriage<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181"></a>{181}</span> -was turned about in its course, and took up its homeward way.</p> - -<p>A few weeks later the court met, and a message was sent to Aunt Polly -directing her to bring Dorothy before the judge for the purpose of -having her choose a guardian. When Dorothy was notified of this she sent -Dick with a note to Col. Majors, the lawyer. It was not such a note as a -young woman more accustomed than she to the forms of life and law would -have written. It ran as follows:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“<span class="smcap">Dear Col. Majors</span>:—Please tell the judge I can’t come. Poor Sally -is very, very ill and I mustn’t leave her for a moment. The others -need me too, and I’ve got a lot of work to do putting up -prescriptions—for I’m the druggist, you know. So tell the judge he -must wait till he comes to this county next time. Give my love to -Mrs. Majors and dear Patty.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Sincerely yours,<br /> -“<span class="smcap">Dorothy South.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>On receipt of this rather astonishing missive, Colonel Majors smiled and -in his deliberate way ordered his horse to be brought to him after -dinner. Riding over to Wyanoke he “interviewed” Dorothy at the fever -camp.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182"></a>{182}</span></p> - -<p>He explained to the wilful young lady the mandatory character of a court -order, particularly in the case of a ward in chancery.</p> - -<p>“But why can’t you do the business for me?” she asked. “I tell you Sally -is too ill for me to leave her.”</p> - -<p>“But you must, my dear. In any ordinary matter I, as your counsel, could -act for you, but in this case the court must have you present in person, -because you are to make choice of a guardian and the court must be -satisfied that you have made the choice for yourself and that nobody -else has made it for you. So you simply must go. If you don’t the court -will send the sheriff for you, and then it will punish Miss Polly -dreadfully for not bringing you.”</p> - -<p>This last appeal conquered Dorothy’s resistance. If only herself had -been concerned she would still have insisted upon having her own way. -But the suggestion that such a course might bring dire and dreadful “law -things,” as she phrased it, upon Aunt Polly appalled her, and she -consented.</p> - -<p>“How long shall I have to leave poor Sally?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Only an hour or two. You and Miss Polly can leave here in your carriage -about ten<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183"></a>{183}</span> o’clock and as soon as you get to the Court House I’ll ask -the judge to suspend other business and bring your matter on. He will -ask you whom you choose for your guardian, and you will answer ‘Madison -Peyton.’ Then the judge will ask you if you have made your choice -without compulsion or influence on the part of anybody else, and you -will answer ‘yes.’ Then he will politely bid you good morning, and you -can drive back to Wyanoke at once.”</p> - -<p>“Is that exactly how the thing is done?” she asked, with a peculiar look -upon her face.</p> - -<p>“Exactly. You see it will give you no trouble.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no! I don’t mind anything except leaving Sally. Tell the judge I’ll -come.”</p> - -<p>Col. Majors smiled at this message, but made no answer, except to say:</p> - -<p>“I’ll be there of course, and you can sit by me and speak to me if you -wish to ask any question.”</p> - -<p>The lawyer made his adieux and rode away. Dorothy, with a peculiar smile -upon her lips returned to her patients.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184"></a>{184}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XV" id="XV"></a>XV<br /> -<small>DOROTHY’S CHOICE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><b>HE</b> judge himself was not so stately or so imposing of presence as was -Aunt Polly, when she and Dorothy entered the court, escorted by Col. -Majors. Dorothy was entirely self possessed, as it was her custom to be -under all circumstances. “When people feel embarrassed,” she once said, -“it must be because they know something about themselves that they are -afraid other people will find out.” As Dorothy knew nothing of that kind -about herself, she had no foolish trepidation, even in the solemn -presence of a court.</p> - -<p>The judge ordered her case called, and speaking very gently explained to -her what was wanted.</p> - -<p>“You are a young girl under the age at which the law supposes you to be -capable of managing your own affairs. The law makes it the duty of this -Court to guard you and your estate against every danger. By his will -your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185"></a>{185}</span> father wisely placed your person in charge of an eminently fit and -proper lady, whose character and virtues this Court and the entire -community in which we live, hold in the highest esteem and honour.” At -this point the judge profoundly bowed to Aunt Polly, and she -acknowledged the courtesy with stately grace. The judge then continued:</p> - -<p>“By his will your father also placed the estate which he left to you, in -charge of the late Mr. Robert Brent, a gentleman in every possible way -worthy of the trust. Thus far, therefore, this Court has had no occasion -to take action of any kind in your behalf or for your protection. -Unhappily, however, your guardian, the late Robert Brent, has passed -away, and it becomes now the duty of this Court to appoint some fit -person in his stead as guardian of your estate. The Court has full -authority in the matter. It may appoint whomsoever it chooses for this -position of high responsibility. But it is the immemorial custom of the -Court in cases where the ward in chancery has passed his or her -sixteenth year—an age which you have attained—to permit the ward to -make choice of a guardian for himself or herself, as the case may be. If -the ward is badly advised, and selects a person whom the Court deems for -any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186"></a>{186}</span> reason unfit, the Court declines to make the appointment asked, and -itself selects some other. But if the person selected by the ward is -deemed fit, the Court is pleased to confirm the choice. It is now my -duty to ask you, Miss Dorothy, what person you prefer to have for -guardian of your estate.”</p> - -<p>“May I really choose for myself?” asked the girl in a clear and -perfectly calm voice, to the astonishment of everybody.</p> - -<p>“Certainly, Miss Dorothy. Whom do you choose?”</p> - -<p>“Did my father say in his will that I must choose some particular -person?” she continued, interrogating the Court as placidly as she might -have put questions to Aunt Polly.</p> - -<p>“No, my dear young lady. Your father’s will lays no injunction whatever -upon you respecting this matter.”</p> - -<p>“Then, if you please, I choose Dr. Arthur Brent for my guardian. May we -go now?”</p> - -<p>No attention was given to the naive question with which the girl asked -permission to withdraw. Her choice of guardian was a complete surprise. -There was astonishment on every face except that of the judge, who -officially preserved an expression of perfect self-possession. Even Aunt -Polly was astounded,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187"></a>{187}</span> and she showed it. It had been understood by -everybody that Madison Peyton was to succeed to Dorothy’s guardianship, -and the submission of the choice to her had been regarded as a matter of -mere form. Even to Aunt Polly the girl had given no slightest intimation -of her purpose to defeat the prearranged program, and so Aunt Polly -shared the general surprise. But Aunt Polly was distinctly pleased with -the substitution as soon at least as she had given it a moment’s -thought. She had come to like Arthur Brent even more in his robust -manhood than she had done during his boyish sojourn at Wyanoke. She had -learned also to respect his judgment, and she saw clearly, now that it -was suggested, that he was obviously the best person possible to assume -the office of guardian. She was pleased, too, with Madison Peyton’s -discomfiture. “He needed to have his comb cut,” she reflected in homely -metaphor. “It may teach him better manners.”</p> - -<p>As for Peyton, who was present in Court, having come for the purpose of -accepting the guardianship, his rage exceeded even his astonishment. He -had in his youth gone through what was then the easy process of securing -admission to the bar, and so, although he had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188"></a>{188}</span> never pretended to -practise law, he was entitled to address the Court as an attorney. He -had never done so before, but on this occasion he rose, almost choking -for utterance and plunged at once into a passionate protest, in which -the judge, who was calm, presently checked him, saying:</p> - -<p>“Your utterance seems to the Court to be uncalled for, while its manner -is distinctly such as the Court must disapprove. The person named by the -ward as her choice for the guardianship, bears a high reputation for -integrity, intelligence and character. Unless it can be shown to the -Court that this reputation is undeserved, the ward’s choice will be -confirmed. At present the Court is aware of nothing whatever in Dr. -Brent’s character, circumstances or position that can cast doubt upon -his fitness. If you have any information that should change the Court’s -estimate of his character you will be heard.”</p> - -<p>“He is unfit in every way,” responded the almost raving man. “He has -deliberately undermined my fatherly influence over the girl. He has -taken a mean advantage of me. He has overpersuaded the girl to set aside -an arrangement made for her good and—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, Mr. Peyton,” broke in Dorothy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189"></a>{189}</span> utterly heedless of court -formalities, “he has done nothing of the kind. He knows nothing about -this. I don’t think he will even like it.”</p> - -<p>“Pardon me, Miss Dorothy,” interrupted the judge. “Please address the -Court—me—and not Mr. Peyton. Tell me, have you made your choice of -your own free will?”</p> - -<p>“Why, certainly, Judge, else I wouldn’t have made it.”</p> - -<p>“Has anybody said anything to you on the subject?”</p> - -<p>“No, sir. Nobody has ever mentioned the matter to me except Col. Majors, -and he told me I was to choose Mr. Peyton, but you told me I could -choose for myself, you know. I suppose Col. Majors didn’t know you’d let -me do that.”</p> - -<p>A little laugh went up in the bar, and even the judge smiled. Presently -he said:</p> - -<p>“The Court knows of no reason why it should not confirm the choice made -by the ward. Accordingly it is ordered that Dr. Arthur Brent of Wyanoke -be appointed guardian of the property and estate of Dorothy South, with -full authority, subject only to such instructions as this Court may from -time to time see fit to give for his guidance. Mr. Clerk, make the -proper record, and call the next case. This<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190"></a>{190}</span> proceeding is at an end. -You are at liberty now to withdraw, Miss Dorothy, you and Miss Polly.”</p> - -<p>Aunt Polly rose and bowed her acknowledgments in silence. Dorothy bowed -with equal grace, but added: “Thank you, Judge. I am anxious to get back -to my sick people. So I will bid you good morning. You have been -extremely nice to me.”</p> - -<p>With that she bowed again and swept out of the court room, quite -unconscious of the fact that even by her courteous adieu she had -offended against all the traditions of etiquette in a court of Justice. -The judge bowed and smiled, and every lawyer at the bar instinctively -arose, turned his face respectfully toward the withdrawing pair, and -remained standing till they had passed through the outer door, Col. -Majors escorting them.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191"></a>{191}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XVI" id="XVI"></a>XVI<br /> -<small>UNDER THE CODE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was Madison Peyton’s habit to have his own way, and he greatly -prided himself upon getting it, in other people’s affairs as well as in -those that concerned himself. He loved to dominate others, to trample -upon their wills and to impose his own upon them. In a large degree he -accomplished this, so that he regarded himself and was regarded by -others as a man of far more than ordinary influence. He was so, in a -certain way, but it was not a way that tended to make men like him. On -the contrary, the aggressive self assertion by which he secured -influence, secured for him also the very general dislike of his -neighbors, especially of those who most submissively bowed to his will. -They hated him because they felt themselves obliged to submit their -wills to his.</p> - -<p>There was, therefore, a very general chuckle of pleasure among the crowd -gathered at the Court House—a crowd which included nearly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192"></a>{192}</span> every -able-bodied white man in the county—as the news of his discomfiture and -of his outbreak of anger over it, was discussed. There were few who -would have cared to twit him with it, and if he had himself maintained a -discreet and dignified silence concerning the matter, he would have -heard little or nothing about it. But he knew that everybody was in fact -talking of it, out of his hearing. He interpreted aright the all -pervading atmosphere of amused interest, and the fact that every group -of men he approached became silent and seemed embarrassed when he joined -it. After his aggressive manner, therefore, he refused to remain silent. -He thrust the subject upon others’ attention at every turn. He -protested, he declaimed, at times he very nearly raved over what he -called the outrage. He even went further in some cases and demanded -sympathy and acquiescence in his complainings. For the most part he got -something quite different. His neighbors were men not accustomed to -fear, and while they were politely disposed to refrain from voluntary -expressions of opinion on this matter, at least in his presence, they -were ready enough with answers unwelcome to him when he demanded their -opinions.</p> - -<p>“Isn’t it an outrage,” he asked of John<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193"></a>{193}</span> Meaux, “that Arthur Brent has -undermined me in this way?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I don’t know,” answered Meaux with a drawl which always affected -his speech when he was most earnest, “I cannot see it in that light. -Dorothy declares that he knew nothing of her intentions, and we all know -that Dorothy South never tells anything but the truth. Besides, I don’t -see why he isn’t entitled to serve as her guardian if she wants him to -do so. He is a man of character and brains, and I happen to know that he -has a good head for business.”</p> - -<p>“Yes,” snarled Peyton, “I know you’ve been cultivating him—”</p> - -<p>“I’ll trouble you to leave me out of your remarks, Mr. Peyton,” -interrupted Meaux. “If you don’t you may have a quarrel on your hands.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you know me, Meaux; you know I didn’t mean any harm so far as you -are concerned. You know my way—”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know your way, and I don’t like it. In fact I won’t tolerate -it.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, come now, come now, John, don’t fly off the handle like that. You -see I’m not angry with you, but how you can like this interloper—”</p> - -<p>“His family is as old in Virginia as your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194"></a>{194}</span> own is,” answered Meaux, “and -he is the master of the very oldest plantation in this county. Besides -he was born in Virginia and—but never mind that. I’m not counsel for -his defence. I only interrupted to tell you that I am accustomed to -choose my own friends, and that I fully intend to adhere to that -custom.”</p> - -<p>In another group Peyton used even less temperate terms than “interloper” -in characterizing Arthur, and added:</p> - -<p>“He didn’t even dare come to court and brazen out his treachery. He left -the job, like a sneak, to the little girl whose mind he has poisoned.”</p> - -<p>Archer Bannister was standing near, and heard the offensive words. He -interrupted:</p> - -<p>“Mr. Peyton, I earnestly advise you to retract what you have just said, -and to put your retraction into writing, giving it to me to deliver to -my friend Dr. Brent; who is absent today, as you very well know, simply -because he has imperative duties of humanity elsewhere. I assure you -that I shall report your offensive utterance to him, and it will be well -for you if your retraction and apology can be delivered to him at the -same time. Arthur Brent is rapidly falling into Virginia ways—adopting -the customs of the country, he calls it—and there<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195"></a>{195}</span> is one of those -customs which might subject you to a deal of inconvenience, should he -see fit to adopt it.”</p> - -<p>“What have you to do with my affairs?” asked Peyton in a tone of -offence.</p> - -<p>“Nothing whatever—<i>at present</i>,” answered the young man, turning upon -his heel.</p> - -<p>But the warning sobered Peyton’s anger. It had not before occurred to -him that Arthur might have become so far indoctrinated with Virginia -ways of thinking as to call him to account for his words, in the hostile -fashion usual at that time. Indeed, relying upon the fixed habit of -Virginians never to gossip, he had not expected that Arthur would ever -hear of his offensive accusations. Bannister’s notification that he -would exercise the privilege accorded by custom to the personal friend -of a man maligned when not present to defend himself, suggested grave -possibilities. He knew that custom fully warranted Bannister in doing -what he had threatened to do, and he had not the smallest doubt that the -young man would do it.</p> - -<p>It was in a mood of depression, therefore, that Peyton ordered his horse -and rode homeward. His plantation lay within two or three miles of the -Court House, but by the time that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196"></a>{196}</span> he had arrived there he had thought -out a plan of procedure. He knew that Bannister would remain at the -village inn over night, having jury service to perform the next morning. -There was time, therefore, in which to reach him with a placative -message, and Peyton set himself at once to work upon the preparation of -such a message.</p> - -<p>“I hope you will forgive me,” he wrote, “for the rudeness with which I -spoke to you today. I was extremely angry at the time, and I had reasons -for being so, of which you know nothing, and of which I must not tell -you anything. Perhaps in my extreme irritation, I used expressions with -regard to Dr. Brent, which I should not have used had I been calmer. For -my discourtesy to you personally, I offer very sincere apologies, which -I am sure your generous mind will accept as an atonement. For the rest I -must trust your good feeling not to repeat the words I used in a moment -of extreme excitement.”</p> - -<p>Archer Bannister wrote in reply:</p> - -<p>“The apology you have made to me was quite unnecessary. I had not -demanded it. As for the rest, I shall do my duty as a friend unless you -make apology where it is due, namely to Dr. Arthur Brent whom you have -falsely accused,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197"></a>{197}</span> and to whom you have applied epithets of a very -offensive character. If you choose to make me the bearer of your apology -to him, I will gladly act for you. I prefer peace to war, at all times.”</p> - -<p>This curt note gave Peyton a very bad quarter hour. He was not a coward; -or, to put the matter more accurately, he was not that kind of a coward -that cannot face physical danger. But he was a man of middle age or a -trifle more. He was the father of a family and an elder in the -Presbyterian church. Conscience did not largely influence him in any -case, but he was keenly sensitive to public opinion. He knew that should -he fight a duel, all the terrors of religious condemnation would fall -upon him. Worse still, he would be laughed at for having so entangled -himself in a matter his real relation to which he was not free to -explain. Madison Peyton dreaded and feared nothing in the world so much -as being laughed at. Added to this, he knew that the entire community -would hold him to be altogether in the wrong. Arthur Brent’s reputation -achieved by his heroic devotion under fearful danger at Norfolk, had -been recalled and emphasized by his conduct in the present fever -outbreak on his own plantation. It was everywhere the subject of -admiring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198"></a>{198}</span> comment, and Peyton very well knew that nobody in that -community would for a moment believe that Arthur Brent was guilty of any -meanness or cowardly treachery. His own accusations, unless supported by -some sort of proof, would certainly recoil upon himself with crushing -force. He could in no way explain the anger that had betrayed him into -the error of making such accusations. He could not make it appear to -anybody that he had been wronged by the fact that Dorothy South had -chosen another than himself for her guardian. His anger, upon such an -occasion, would be regarded as simply ridiculous, and should he permit -the matter to come to a crisis he must at once become the butt of -contemptuous jesting.</p> - -<p>There was but one course open to him, as he clearly saw. He wrote again -to Archer Bannister, withdrawing his offensive words respecting Arthur, -apologizing for them on the ground of momentary excitement, asking -Archer to convey this his apology to Dr. Brent, and authorizing the -latter to make any other use of the letter which he might deem proper.</p> - -<p>This apology satisfied all the requirements of “the code.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199"></a>{199}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XVII" id="XVII"></a>XVII<br /> -<small>A REVELATION</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was Dorothy who gave Arthur the first news of his appointment as -her guardian. On her return from court to the fever camp she went first -to see Sally and the two or three others whose condition was -particularly serious. Then she went to Arthur, and told him what had -happened.</p> - -<p>“The judge was very nice to me, Cousin Arthur, and told me I might -choose anybody I pleased for my guardian, and of course I chose you.”</p> - -<p>“You did?” asked the young man in a by no means pleased astonishment. -“Why on earth did you do that, Dorothy?”</p> - -<p>“Why, because I wanted you to be my guardian, of course. Don’t you want -to be my guardian, Cousin Arthur?”</p> - -<p>“I hardly know, child. It involves a great responsibility and a great -deal of hard work.”</p> - -<p>“Won’t you take the responsibility and undertake<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200"></a>{200}</span> the work for my sake, -Cousin Arthur?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly I will, my child. I wasn’t thinking of that exactly—but of -some other things. But tell me, how did you come to do this? Who -suggested it to you?”</p> - -<p>“Why, nobody. That’s what I told the judge, and when Mr. Peyton got -angry and said you had persuaded me to do it, I told him he was wrong. -Then the judge stopped him from speaking and asked me about the matter -and I told him. Then he said very nice things about you, and said you -were to be my guardian, and then he told me I might go home and I -thanked him and said good day, and Col. Majors escorted us to the -carriage. I wonder why Mr. Peyton was so angry about it. He seems to -have been very anxious to be my guardian. I wonder why?”</p> - -<p>“I wonder, too,” said Arthur, to whom of course the secret of Peyton’s -concern with Dorothy’s affairs was a mystery. He had not been present on -the occasion when Peyton entered his protest against the girl’s reading, -nor had any one told him of the occurrence. Neither had he heard of -Peyton’s visit to Aunt Polly on the occasion of the outbreak of fever. -He therefore knew of no reason for Peyton’s desire<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201"></a>{201}</span> to intermeddle in -Dorothy’s affairs, beyond his well known disposition to do the like with -everybody’s concerns. But Arthur had grown used to the thought of -mystery in everything that related to Dorothy.</p> - -<p>Presently the girl said, “I’m going to write a note to Mr. Peyton, now, -and send it over by Dick.”</p> - -<p>“What for, Dorothy?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I want to tell him how wrong and wicked he is when he says you -persuaded me to do this.”</p> - -<p>“Did he say that?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I told you so before, but you weren’t paying attention. Perhaps -you were thinking about the poor sick people, so I’ll forgive you and -you needn’t apologize. I must run away now and write my note.”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t, Dorothy.”</p> - -<p>“But why not?”</p> - -<p>“He will say I persuaded you to do that, too. It would embarrass me very -seriously if you should send him any note now.”</p> - -<p>Dorothy was quick to see this aspect of the matter, though without -suggestion it would never have occurred to her extraordinarily simple -and candid mind.</p> - -<p>It was not long after Dorothy left him when<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202"></a>{202}</span> Edmonia Bannister made her -daily visit to the fever camp, accompanied by her maid and bearing -delicacies for the sick. After her visit to Dorothy’s quarters Arthur -engaged her in conversation. He told her of what had happened, and -expressed his repugnance to the task thus laid upon him.</p> - -<p>“I cannot sympathize with you in the least,” said the young woman. “I am -glad it has happened—glad on more accounts than one.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I suppose you are,” he answered, meditatively, “but that’s because -you do not understand. I wish I could have a good, long talk with you, -Edmonia, about this thing—and some other things.”</p> - -<p>He added the last clause after a pause, and in a tone which suggested -that perhaps the “other things” were weightier in his mind than this -one.</p> - -<p>“Why can’t you?” the girl asked.</p> - -<p>“Why, I can’t leave my sick people long enough for a visit to Branton. -It will be many weeks yet before I shall feel free to leave this -plantation.”</p> - -<p>The girl thought a moment, and then said, with unusual deliberation:</p> - -<p>“I can spare an hour now; surely you might give a like time. Why can’t -we sit in Dorothy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203"></a>{203}</span>’s little porch and have our talk now? Dorothy has -gone to the big tent, and is busy with the sick, and if you should be -needed you will be here to respond to any call. I see how worried you -are, and perhaps I may be able to help you with advice—or at the least -with sympathy.”</p> - -<p>Arthur gladly assented and the two repaired to the little shaded -verandah which Dick had built out of brushwood and boughs across the -front of Dorothy’s temporary dwelling.</p> - -<p>“This thing troubles me greatly, Edmonia,” Arthur began, “and it -depresses me as pretty nearly everything else does nowadays. It -completely upsets my plans and defeats all my ambitions. It adds another -to the ties of obligation that compel me to remain here and neglect my -work.”</p> - -<p>“Is it not possible, Arthur”—their friendship had passed the -“cousining” stage and they used each other’s names now without -prefix—“Is it not possible, Arthur, for you to find work enough here to -occupy your life and employ your abilities worthily? There is no doubt -that you have already saved many lives by the skill and energy with -which you have met this fever outbreak, and your work will bear still -better fruit. You have taught all of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204"></a>{204}</span> us how to save lives in such a -case, how to deal with the epidemics that are common enough on -plantations. You may be sure that nobody in this region will ever again -let a dozen or twenty negroes perish in unwholesome quarters after they -have seen how easily and surely you have met and conquered the fever. -Dorothy tells me you have had only two deaths out of forty-two cases, -and that no new cases are appearing. Surely your conscience should -acquit you of neglecting your work, or burying your talents.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, if there were such work for me to do all the time,” the young man -answered, “I should feel easy on that score. But this is an -extraordinary occasion. It will pass in a few weeks, and then—”</p> - -<p>“Well, and then—what?”</p> - -<p>“Why, then a life of idleness and ease, with no duties save such as any -man of ordinary intelligence could do as well as I, or better—a life -delightful enough in its graceful repose, but one which must condemn me -to rust in all my faculties, to stand still or retrograde, to leave -undone all that I have spent my youth and early manhood in fitting -myself to do. Please understand me, Edmonia. I love Virginia, its -people, and all its traditions of honor and manliness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205"></a>{205}</span> But I am not fit -for the life I must lead here. All the education, all the experience I -have had have tended to unfit me for it in precisely that degree in -which they have helped to equip me for something quite different. Then -again the work I had marked out for myself in the world needs me far -more than you can easily understand. There are not many men so -circumstanced that they could do it in my stead. Other men as well or -better equipped with scientific acquirements, and all that, are not free -as I am—or was before this inheritance in Virginia came to blight my -life. They have their livings to make and must work only in fields that -promise a harvest of gain. I was free to go anywhere where I might be -needed, and to minister to humanity in ways that make no money return. -My annuities secured me quite all the money I needed for my support so -that I need never take thought for the morrow. I have never yet received -a fee for my ministry—for I regard my work as a ministry, for which I -am set apart. Other men have families too, and owe a first duty to them, -while I—well, I decided at the outset that I would never marry.”</p> - -<p>Arthur did not end that sentence as he would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206"></a>{206}</span> have ended it a year or -even half a year before. He was growing doubtful of himself. Presently -he continued:</p> - -<p>“I am free to work for humanity. My time is my own. I can spend it -freely in making experiments and investigations that can hardly fail to -benefit mankind. Few men who are equipped for such studies can spare -time for them from the breadwinning. Then again when great epidemics -occur anywhere, and multitudes need me, I am free to go and serve them. -I have no family, no wife, no children, nobody dependent upon me, in -short no obligations of any kind to restrain me from such service. Such -at least was my situation before my Uncle Robert died. His death imposed -upon me the duty of caring for all these black people. My first thought -was of how I might most quickly free myself of this restraining -obligation. Had the estate consisted only of houses and lands and other -inanimate property I should have made short work of the business. I -should have sold the whole of it for whatever men might be willing to -give me for it; I should have devoted the proceeds to some humane -purpose, and then, being free again I should have returned to my work. -Unfortunately, however, in succeeding<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207"></a>{207}</span> to my uncle’s estate I succeeded -also to his obligations. I planned to fulfil them once for all by -selling the plantation and using the proceeds in carrying the negroes to -the west and establishing them upon farms of their own. I still cherish -that purpose, but I am delayed in carrying it out by the fact that other -obligations must first be discharged. There are debts—the hereditary -curse of us Virginians—and I find that the value of the plantation, -without the negroes, would not suffice to discharge them and leave -enough to give the negroes the little farms that I must provide for them -if I take the responsibility of setting them free. Still I see ways in -which I think I can overcome that difficulty within two or three years, -by selling crops that Virginians never think of selling and devoting -their proceeds to the discharge of debts. But now comes this new and -burdensome duty of caring for Dorothy’s estate. She is now sixteen years -of age, so that this new burden must rest upon my shoulders for five -full years to come.”</p> - -<p>“I quite understand,” Edmonia slowly replied, “and in great part I -sympathize with you. But not altogether. For one thing I do not share -your belief in freedom for the negroes. I am sure they are unfit for it, -and it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208"></a>{208}</span> would be scarcely less than cruelty to take them out of the -happy life to which they were born, exile them to a strange land, and -condemn them to a lifelong struggle with conditions to which they are -wholly unused, with poverty for their certain lot and starvation perhaps -for their fate. They are happy now. Why should you condemn them to -unhappy lives? They are secure now in the fact that, sick or well, in -age and decrepitude as well as in lusty health, they will be abundantly -fed and clothed and well housed. Why should you condemn them to an -incalculably harder lot?”</p> - -<p>“So far as the negroes are concerned, you may be right. Yet I cannot -help thinking that if I make them the owners of fertile little farms in -that rapidly growing western country, without a dollar of debt, they -will find it easy enough to put food into their mouths and clothes on -their backs and keep a comfortable roof over their heads. However that -is a large question and perhaps a difficult one. If it could have been -kept out of politics Virginia at least would long ago have found means -to free herself of the incubus. But it is not of the negroes chiefly -that I am thinking. I am trying to set Arthur Brent free while taking -care not to do them any unavoidable harm in the process.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209"></a>{209}</span> I want to -return to my work, and I am sufficiently an egotist to believe that my -freedom to do that is of some importance to the world.”</p> - -<p>“Doubtless it is,” answered the young woman, hesitatingly, “but there -are other ways of looking at it, Arthur. I have read somewhere that the -secret of happiness is to reconcile oneself with one’s environment.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. That is an abominable thought, a paralyzing philosophy. In -another form the privileged classes have written it into catechisms, -teaching their less fortunate fellow beings that it is their duty to ‘be -content in that state of existence to which it hath pleased God’ to call -them. As a buttress to caste and class privilege and despotism of every -kind, that doctrine is admirable, but otherwise it is the most damnable -teaching imaginable. It is not the duty of men to rest content with -things as they are. It is their duty to be always discontented, always -striving to make conditions better. ‘Divine discontent’ is the very -mainspring of human progress. The contented peoples are the backward -peoples. The Italian lazzaroni are the most contented people in the -world, and the most worthless, the most hopeless. No, no, no! No man who -has brains<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210"></a>{210}</span> should ever reconcile himself to his environment. He should -continually struggle to get out of it and into a better. We have liberty -simply because our oppressed ancestors refused to do as the prayer book -told them they must. Men would never have learned to build houses or -cook their food if they had been content to live in caves or bush -shelters and eat the raw flesh of beasts. We owe every desirable thing -we have—intellectual, moral and physical—to the fact that men are by -nature discontented. Contentment is a blight.”</p> - -<p>Edmonia thought for a while before answering. Then she said:</p> - -<p>“I suppose you are right, Arthur. I never thought of the matter in that -way. I have always been taught that discontent was wicked—a rebellion -against the decrees of Providence.”</p> - -<p>“You remember the old story of the miller who left to Providence the -things he ought to have done for himself, and how he was reminded at -last that ‘ungreased wheels will not go?’ ”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes.”</p> - -<p>“Well, in my view the most imperative decree of Providence is that we -shall use the faculties it has bestowed upon us in an earnest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211"></a>{211}</span> and -ceaseless endeavor to better conditions, for ourselves and for others.”</p> - -<p>“But may it not sometimes be well to accept conditions as a guide—to -let them determine in what direction we shall struggle?”</p> - -<p>“Certainly, and that is precisely my case. When I consider the peculiar -conditions that specially fit me to do my proper work in the world it is -my duty, without doubt, to fight against every opposing influence. I -feel that I must get rid of the conditions that are now restraining me, -in order that I may fulfil the destiny marked out for me by those higher -conditions.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps. But who knows? It may be that some higher work awaits you, -here, some nobler use of your faculties, to which the apparently adverse -conditions that now surround you, are leading, guiding, compelling you. -It may be that in the end your unwilling detention here will open to you -some opportunity of service to humanity, of which you do not now dream.”</p> - -<p>“Of course that is possible,” Arthur answered doubtfully, “but I see no -such prospect. I see only danger in my present situation, danger of -falling into the lassitude and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212"></a>{212}</span> inertia of contentment. I saw that -danger from the first, especially when I first knew you. I felt myself -in very serious danger of falling in love with you like the rest. In -that case I might possibly have won you, as none of the rest had done. -Then I should joyfully, and almost without a thought of other things, -have settled into the contented life of a well to do planter, leaving -all my duties undone.”</p> - -<p>Edmonia flushed crimson as he so calmly said all this, but he, looking -off into the nothingness of space, failed to see it, and a few seconds -later she had recovered her self-control. Presently he added, still -unheeding the possible effect of his words:</p> - -<p>“You saved me from that danger. You put me under bonds not to fall in -love with you, and you have helped me to keep the pact. That danger is -past, but I begin to fear another, and my only safety would be to go -back to my work if that were possible.”</p> - -<p>For a long time Edmonia did not speak. Perhaps she did not trust herself -to do so. Finally, in a low, soft voice, she asked:</p> - -<p>“Would you mind telling me what it is you fear? We are sworn friends and -comrades, you know.”</p> - -<p>“It is Dorothy,” he answered. “From the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213"></a>{213}</span> first I have been fond of the -child, but now, to my consternation, I find myself thinking of her no -longer as a child. The woman in her is dawning rapidly, especially since -she has been called upon to do a woman’s part in this crisis. She still -retains her childlike simplicity of mind, her extraordinary candor, her -trusting truthfulness. She will always retain those qualities. They lie -at the roots of her character. But she has become a woman, nevertheless, -a woman at sixteen. You must have observed that.”</p> - -<p>“I have,” the young woman answered in a voice that she seemed to be -managing with difficulty. “And with her womanhood her beauty has come -also. You must have seen how beautiful she has become.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” he answered; “no one possessed of a pair of eyes could fail -to observe that. Now that we are talking so frankly and in the sympathy -of close friendship, let me tell you all that I fear. I foresee that if -I remain here, as apparently I must, I shall presently learn to love -Dorothy madly. If that were all I might brave it. But in an intercourse -so close and continual as ours must be, there is danger that her -devoted, childlike affection for me, may presently ripen into something -more serious.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214"></a>{214}</span> In that case I could not stifle her love as I might my -own. I could not sacrifice her to my work as I am ready to sacrifice -myself. I almost wish you had let me fall in love with you as the others -did.”</p> - -<p>Again Edmonia paused long before answering. When she spoke at last, it -was to say:</p> - -<p>“It is too late now, Arthur.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I know that. The status of things between you and me is too firmly -fixed now—”</p> - -<p>“I did not mean that,” she answered, “though that is a matter of course. -I was thinking of the other case.”</p> - -<p>“What?”</p> - -<p>“Why, Dorothy. It is too late to prevent her from loving you. She has -fully learned that lesson already though she does not know the fact. And -it is too late for you also, though you, too, do not know it—or did not -till I told you.”</p> - -<p>It was now Arthur’s turn to pause and think before replying. Presently, -in a voice that was unsteady in spite of himself, he asked:</p> - -<p>“Why do you think these dreadful things, Edmonia?”</p> - -<p>“I do not think them. I know. A woman’s instinct is never at fault in -such a case—at least when she feels a deep affection for both the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215"></a>{215}</span> -parties concerned. And there is nothing dreadful about it. On the -contrary it offers the happiest possible solution of Dorothy’s -misfortune, and it assures you of something far better worth your while -to live for than the objects you have heretofore contemplated. I must go -now. Of course you will say nothing of this to Dorothy for the present. -That must wait for a year or two. In the meantime in all you do toward -directing Dorothy’s education, you must remember that you are educating -your future wife. Help me into my carriage, please. I will not wait for -my maid. Dick can bring her over later, can’t he?”</p> - -<p>“But tell me, please,” Arthur eagerly asked as the young woman seated -herself alone in the carriage, “what is this ‘misfortune’ of Dorothy’s, -this mystery that is so closely kept from me, while it darkly intervenes -in everything done or suggested with regard to her.”</p> - -<p>“I cannot—not now at least.” Then after a moment’s meditation she -added:</p> - -<p>“And yet you are entitled to know it—now. You are her guardian in a -double sense. Whenever you can find time to come over to Branton, I’ll -tell you. Good-bye!”</p> - -<p>As the carriage was starting Edmonia caught sight of Dick and called him -to her.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216"></a>{216}</span></p> - -<p>“Have you any kittens at Wyanoke, Dick?” she asked.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Miss Mony, lots uv ’em.”</p> - -<p>“Will you pick out a nice soft one, Dick, and bring it to me at Branton? -Every old maid keeps a cat, you know, Dick, and so I want one.”</p> - -<p>All that was chivalric in Dick’s soul responded.</p> - -<p>“I’ll put a Voodoo<a name="FNanchor_A_1" id="FNanchor_A_1"></a><a href="#Footnote_A_1" class="fnanchor">[A]</a> on anybody I ever heahs a callin’ you a ole maid, -Miss Mony, but I’ll git you de cat.”</p> - -<p>As she sank back among the cushions the girl relaxed the rein she had so -tightly held upon herself, and the tears slipped softly and silently -from her eyes. For the first time in her life this brave woman was sorry -for herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217"></a>{217}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XVIII" id="XVIII"></a>XVIII<br /> -<small>ALONE IN THE CARRIAGE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">A</span><b>FTER</b> the blind and blundering fashion of a man, Arthur Brent was -utterly unconscious of the blow he had dealt to this woman who had given -him the only love of her life. For other men she had felt friendship, -and to a few she had willingly given that affection which serves as a -practical substitute for love in nine marriages out of ten, and which -women themselves so often mistake for love. But to this woman love in -its divinest form had come, the love that endureth all things and -surpasseth all things, the love that knows no ceasing while life lasts, -the love that makes itself a willing sacrifice. Until that day she had -not herself known the state of her own soul. She had not understood how -completely this man had become master of her life, how utterly she had -given herself to him. And in the very moment that revealed the truth to -her the man she loved had, with unmeant cruelty, opened her eyes also to -that other truth<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218"></a>{218}</span> that her love for him was futile and must ever remain -hopeless.</p> - -<p>She bade her driver go slowly, that she might think the matter out -alone, and she thought it out. She was too proud a woman to pity herself -for long. She knew and felt that Arthur had never dreamed of the change -which had so unconsciously come upon her. She knew that had he so much -as entertained a hope of her love a little while ago, he would have bent -all the energies of his soul to the winning of her. She knew in brief -that this man to whom she had unconsciously given the one love of her -life, would have loved her in like manner, if she had permitted that. -She knew too that it was now too late.</p> - -<p>As the carriage slowly toiled along the sandy road, she meditated, -sometimes even uttering her thought in low tones.</p> - -<p>“There is no fault in him,” she reflected. “It is not that he is blind, -but that I have hoodwinked him. In deceiving myself, I have deceived -him.”</p> - -<p>Then came the pleasanter thought:</p> - -<p>“At any rate in ruining my own life, I have not ruined his, but -glorified it. Had he loved and married me he would have been happy, but -it would have been in a commonplace way. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219"></a>{219}</span> ambitions would have died -slowly but surely. That discontent, which he has taught me to understand -as the mainspring of all that is highest and noblest in human endeavor, -would have given place to a blighting contentment in such a life as that -which he and I would have led together. It will be quite different when -he marries Dorothy. She too has the ‘divine discontent’ that does -things. She will be a help immeasurably more meet for him than I could -ever have hoped to be. She will share his enthusiasms, and strengthen -them. And it is his enthusiasm that makes him worthy of a woman’s love. -It is that which takes him out of the commonplace. It is that which sets -him apart from other men. It is that which makes him Arthur Brent.”</p> - -<p>Then her thought reverted for a moment to her own pitiful case.</p> - -<p>“What am I to do?” she asked herself. “What use can I make of my life -that shall make it worthy of him? First of all I must be strong. He must -never so much as suspect the truth, and of course nobody else must be -permitted even to guess it. I must be a help to him, and not a -hindrance. He must feel that my friendship, on which he places so high -an estimate, is a friendship to be trusted and leant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220"></a>{220}</span> upon. I must more -and more make myself his counsellor, a stimulating helpful influence in -his life. His purposes are mainly right, and I must encourage him to -seek their fulfilment. Such a man as he should not be wasted upon a -woman like me, or led by such into a life of inglorious ease and inert -content. After all perhaps I may help him as his friend, where, as his -wife, my influence over his life and character would have been -paralyzing. If I can help, him, my life will not be lost or ruined. It -need not even be unhappy. If my love for him is such as he deserves, it -will meet disappointment bravely. It will discipline itself to service. -It will scorn the selfishness of idle bemoaning. The sacrifice that is -burnt upon the altar is not in vain if the odors of it placate the gods. -Better helpful sacrifice than idle lamentation.”</p> - -<p>Then after a little her mind busied itself with thoughts less subjective -and more practical.</p> - -<p>“How shall I best help?” she asked herself. “First of all I must utterly -crush selfishness in my heart. I must be a cheerful, gladsome influence -and not a depressing one. From this hour there are no more tears for me, -but only gladdening laughter. I must help toward that end which I see to -be inevitable. I must do all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221"></a>{221}</span> that is possible to make it altogether -good. I must help to prepare Dorothy to be the wife he needs. She has -not been educated for so glorious a future. She has been carefully -trained, on the contrary, for a humdrum life for which nature never -intended her, the life of submissive wifehood to a man she could never -love, a man whom she could not even respect when once her eyes were -opened to better things in manhood. I must have her much with me. I must -undo what has been done amiss in her education. I must help to fit her -for a high ministry to the unselfish ambitions of the one man who is -worthy of such a ministry. I must see to it that she is taught the very -things that she has been jealously forbidden to learn. I must introduce -her to that larger life from which she has been so watchfully secluded. -So shall I make of my own life a thing worth while. So shall my love -find a mission worthy of its object. So shall it be glorified.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222"></a>{222}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XIX" id="XIX"></a>XIX<br /> -<small>DOROTHY’S MASTER</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><b>HEN</b> Edmonia drove away, leaving Arthur alone, he bade Dick bring his -horse, and, mounting, he set off at a gallop toward the most distant -part of the plantation. He was dazed by the revelation that Edmonia’s -words had made to him as to the state of his own mind, and almost -frightened by what she had declared with respect to Dorothy’s feeling. -He wanted to be alone in order that he might think the matter out.</p> - -<p>It seemed to him absurd that he should really be in love with the mere -child whom he had never thought of as other than that. And yet—yes, he -must admit that of late he had half unconsciously come to think of the -womanhood of her oftener than of the childhood. He saw clearly, when he -thought of it, that his fear that he might come to love the girl had -been born of a subconsciousness that he had come to love her already.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223"></a>{223}</span></p> - -<p>It was a strange condition of mind in which he found himself. His -strongest impulse was to run away and thus save the girl from himself -and his love. But would that save her? She was not the kind of woman—he -caught himself thinking of her now as a woman and not as a child—she -was not the kind of woman to love lightly or to lay a love aside as one -might do with a misfit garment. What if it should be true, as Edmonia -had declared, that Dorothy had already given him her heart? What would -happen to her in that case, should he go away and leave her? “But, -psha!” he thought; “that cannot be true. The child does not know what -love is. And yet, and yet. Why did she choose me to be her guardian, and -why, when I expressed regret that she had done so, did she look at me -so, out of those great, solemn, sad eyes of hers, and ask me, with so -much intensity if I did not <i>want</i> to be her guardian? Was it not that -she instinctively, and in obedience to her love, longed to place her -life in my keeping? After all she is not a child. It is only habit that -makes me think of her in that way—habit and her strangely childlike -confidence in me. But is that confidence childlike, after all? Do not -women feel in that way toward the men they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224"></a>{224}</span> love? Dorothy is fully grown -and sixteen years of age. Many a woman is married at sixteen.”</p> - -<p>Of his own condition of mind Arthur had now no doubt. The thought had -come to him that should he go away she would forget him, and he had -angrily rejected it as a lie. He knew she would never forget. The -further thought had come to him that in such case she would marry some -other man, and it stung him like a whip lash to think of that. In brief -he knew now, though until a few hours ago he had not so much as -suspected it, that he loved Dorothy as he had never dreamed of loving -any woman while he lived. He remembered how thoughts of her had colored -all his thinking for a month agone and had shaped every plan he had -formed.</p> - -<p>But what was he now to do? “My life—the life I have marked out for -myself,” he reflected, “would not be a suitable one for her.” He had not -fully formulated the thought before he knew it to be a falsehood. “She -would be supremely happy in such a life. It would give zest and interest -to her being. She would rejoice in its sacrifices and share mightily in -its toil and its triumphs. She cares nothing for the life of humdrum -ease and luxury that has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225"></a>{225}</span> been marked out for her to live. She would -care intensely for a life of high endeavor. And yet I must save her from -the sacrifice if I can. I must save her from myself and from my love if -it be not indeed too late.”</p> - -<p>His horse had long ago slowed down to a walk, and was pursuing a course -of its own selection. It brought him now to the hickory plantation near -the outer gate of the Wyanoke property. Awakening to consciousness of -his whereabouts, Arthur drew rein.</p> - -<p>“It was here that I first met Dorothy”—he liked now the sound of her -name in his ears—“on that glorious June morning when the hickory leaves -that now strew the ground were in the full vigor of their first -maturity. How confidently she whistled to her hounds, and how promptly -they obeyed her call! What a queen she seemed as she disciplined them, -and with what stately grace she passed me by without recognition save -that implied in a sweeping inclination of her person! That was a bare -five months ago! It seems five years, or fifty! How much I have lived -since then! And how large a part of my living Dorothy has been!”</p> - -<p>Presently he turned and set off at a gallop on his return to the fever -camp, his mien that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226"></a>{226}</span> of a strong man who has made up his mind. His plan -of action was formed, and he was hastening to carry it out.</p> - -<p>It was growing dark when he arrived at the camp, and Dorothy met him -with her report as to the condition of the sick. She took his hand as he -dismounted, and held it between her own, as was her custom, quite -unconscious of the nature of her own impulses.</p> - -<p>“I’m very tired, Cousin Arthur,” she said after her report was made. -“The journey to Court and all the rest of it have wearied me; and I sat -up with Sally last night. You’re glad she’s better, aren’t you?”</p> - -<p>“I certainly am,” he replied. “I feared yesterday for her life, but your -nursing has saved her, just as it has saved so many others. Sally has -passed the crisis now, and has nothing to do but obey you and get well.”</p> - -<p>He said this in a tone of perplexity and sadness, which Dorothy’s ears -were quick to catch.</p> - -<p>“You’re tired too, Cousin Arthur?” she half said, half asked.</p> - -<p>“Oh, no. I’m never tired. I—”</p> - -<p>“Then you are troubled. You are unhappy, and you must never be that. You -never deserve it. Tell me what it is! I won’t have you troubled or -unhappy.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227"></a>{227}</span></p> - -<p>“I’m troubled about you, Dorothy. You’ve been over-straining your -strength. There are dark shadows under your eyes, and your cheeks are -wan and pale. You must rest and make up your lost sleep. Here, Dick! Go -over to the great house and bring Chestnut for your Miss Dorothy, do you -hear?”</p> - -<p>“No, no, no!” Dorothy answered quickly. “Don’t go, Dick. I do not want -the mare. No, Cousin Arthur, I’m not going to quit my post. I only want -to sleep now for an hour or two,—just to rest a little. The sick people -can’t spare me now.”</p> - -<p>“But they must, Dorothy. I will not have you make yourself ill. You must -go back to the great house tonight and get a good night’s rest. I’ll -look after your sick people.”</p> - -<p>Dorothy loosened her hold of his hand, and retreated a step, looking -reproachfully at him as she said:</p> - -<p>“Don’t you want me here, Cousin Arthur? Don’t you care?”</p> - -<p>“I do care, Dorothy, dear! I care a great deal more than I can ever tell -you. That is why I want you to go home for a rest tonight. I am -seriously anxious about you. Let me explain to you. When one is well and -strong and gets plenty of sleep, there is not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228"></a>{228}</span> much danger of infection. -But when one is worn out with anxiety and loss of sleep as you are, the -danger is very great. You are not afraid of taking the fever. I don’t -believe you are afraid of anything, and I am proud of you for that. But -I am afraid for you. Think how terrible it would be for me, Dorothy, if -you should come down with this malady. Will you not go home for my sake, -and for my sake get a good night’s sleep, so that you may come back -fresh and well and cheery in the morning? You do not know, you can’t -imagine how much I depend upon you for my own strength and courage. -Several things trouble me just now, and I have a real need to see you -bright and well and strong in the morning. Won’t you try to be so for my -sake, Dorothy? Won’t you do as I bid you, just once?”</p> - -<p>“Just once?” she responded, with a rising inflection. “Just <i>always</i>, -you ought to say. As long as I live I’ll do whatever you tell me to -do—at least when you tell me the truth as you are doing now. You see I -always know when you are telling the truth. With other people it is -different. Sometimes I can’t tell how much or how little they mean. But -I know you so well! And besides you’re always clumsy at fibbing, even -when you do it for a good purpose.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229"></a>{229}</span> That’s why I like you so much—or,” -pausing,—“that’s one of the reasons. Has Dick gone for Chestnut?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Dick always obeys me.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but that’s quite different. You are Dick’s master you know—” Then -she hesitated again, presently adding, “of course you are my master -too—only in a different way. Oh, I see now; you’re my guardian. Of -course I must obey my guardian, and I’ll show him a bright, fresh face -in the morning. Here comes Dick with Chestnut. Good night—Master!”</p> - -<p>From that hour Dorothy thought of Arthur always by that title of -“master,” though in the presence of others she never so addressed him.</p> - -<p>Arthur watched her ride away in the light of the rising November moon, -Dick following closely as her groom. And as he saw her turn at the -entrance to the woodlands to wave him a final adieu, he said out loud:</p> - -<p>“I fear it is indeed too late!”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230"></a>{230}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XX" id="XX"></a>XX<br /> -<small>A SPECIAL DELIVERY LETTER</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><b>HEN</b> Dorothy had disappeared, Arthur became conscious of a great -loneliness, which he found it difficult to shake off. Presently he -remembered that he had a letter to write, a letter which he had decided -upon out there under the hickory trees. He had writing materials and a -table in his own small quarters, but somehow he felt himself impelled to -write this letter upon Dorothy’s own little lap desk and in Dorothy’s -own little camp cottage.</p> - -<p>“Positively, I am growing sentimental!” he said to himself as he walked -toward Dorothy’s house. “I didn’t suspect such a possibility in myself. -After all a man knows less about himself than about anybody else. I can -detect tuberculosis in another, at a glance. I doubt if I should -recognize it in myself. I can discover cardiac trouble by a mere look at -the eyes of the man afflicted with it. I know instantly when I look at a -man, what his temperament<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231"></a>{231}</span> is, what tendencies he has, what -probabilities, and even what possibilities inhere in his nature. But -what do I know about Arthur Brent? I suppose that any of my comrades at -Bellevue could have told me years ago the things I am just now finding -out concerning myself. If any of them had predicted my present condition -of mind a year ago, I should have laughed in derision of the stupid -misconception of me. I thought I knew myself. What an idiot any man is -to think that!”</p> - -<p>Touching a match to the little camphene lamp on Dorothy’s table, he -opened her desk and wrote.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p class="nind"> -“<span class="smcap">My Dear Edmonia</span>:<br /> -</p> - -<p>“When you left me this afternoon, it was with a promise that on my -next visit to Branton you would tell me of the things that limit -Dorothy’s life. It was my purpose then to make an early opportunity -for the hearing. I have changed my mind. I do not want to hear now, -because when this knowledge comes to me, I must act upon it, in one -way or another, and I must act promptly. Should it come to me now, -I should not be free to act. I simply cannot, because I must not, -leave my work here till it is done. I do not refer now to those -plans of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232"></a>{232}</span> which we spoke today, but simply to the fever. I must not -quit my post till that is at an end. I am a soldier in the midst of -a campaign. I cannot quit my colors till the enemy is completely -put to rout. This enemy—the fever—is an obstinate one, slow to -give way. It will be many weeks, possibly several months, before I -can entirely conquer it. Until then I must remain at my post, no -matter what happens. Until then, therefore, I do not want to know -anything that might place upon me the duty of withdrawing from -present surroundings. I shall ride over to Branton now and then, as -matters here grow better, and I hope, too, that you will continue -your compassionate visits to our fever camp. But please, my dear -Edmonia, do not tell me anything of this matter, until the last -negro in the camp is well and I am free to take the next train for -New York, and perhaps the next ship for Havre.</p> - -<p>“You will understand me, I am sure. I do not want to play a -halting, hesitating part in a matter of such consequence. I do not -wish to be compelled to sit still when the time comes for me to -act. So I must wait till I am free again from this present and most -imperative service, before I permit myself to hear that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233"></a>{233}</span> which may -make it my duty to go at once into exile.</p> - -<p>“In the meantime I shall guard my conduct against every act, and -lock my lips against every utterance that might do harm.</p> - -<p>“I have formulated a plan of action, and of that I will tell you at -the first opportunity, because I want your counsel respecting it. -As soon as I am free, I shall act upon it, if you do not think it -too late.</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell you, my dear Edmonia, how great a comfort it is to -me in my perplexity, that I have your sympathy and may rely upon -your counsel in my time of need. I have just now begun to realize -how little I know of myself, and your wise words, spoken today, -have shown me clearly how very much you know of me. To you, -therefore, I shall look, in this perplexity, for that guidance for -which I have always, hitherto, relied,—in mistaken and conceited -self-confidence,—upon my own judgment. Could there be anything -more precious than such friendship and ready sympathy as that which -you give to me? Whatever else may happen, now or hereafter, I shall -always feel that in enriching my life with so loyal, so unselfish a -friendship as that which you have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234"></a>{234}</span> given to me, my Virginian -episode has been happy in its fruit.</p> - -<p>“Poor Dorothy is almost broken down with work and loss of sleep. -You will be glad to know that I have sent her to the house for a -night of undisturbed rest. I had to use all my influence with her -to make her go. And at the last she went, I think, merely because -she felt that her going would relieve me of worry and apprehension. -She is a real heroine, but she has so much of the martyr’s spirit -in her that she needs restraint and control.”</p></div> - -<p>Dick returned to the camp before this letter was finished, and his -master delivered it into his hands with an injunction to carry it to -Branton in the early morning of the next day. He knew the habit of young -women in Virginia, which was to receive and answer all letters carried -by the hands of special messengers, before the nine o’clock breakfast -hour. And there were far more of such letters interchanged than of those -that came and went by the post. For the post, in those years, was not -equipped with free delivery devices. Most of the plantations were nearer -to each other than to the nearest postoffice, and there were young -negroes in plenty to carry the multitudinous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235"></a>{235}</span> missives with which the -highly cultured young women of the time and country maintained what was -in effect a continuous conversation with each other. They wrote to each -other upon every conceivable occasion, and often upon no occasion at -all, but merely because the morning was fine and each wanted to call the -other’s attention to the fact. If one read a novel that pleased her, she -would send it with a note,—usually covering two sheets and heavily -crossed,—to some friend whom she desired to share her enjoyment of it. -Or if she had found a poem to her liking in Blackwood, or some other of -the English magazines, for American periodicals circulated scarcely at -all in Virginia in those days—except the Southern Literary Messenger, -for which everybody subscribed as a matter of patriotic duty—she would -rise “soon” in the morning, make half a dozen manuscript copies of it, -and send them by the hands of little darkeys to her half dozen bosom -friends, accompanying each with an astonishingly long “note.” I speak -with authority here. I have seen Virginia girls in the act of doing this -sort of thing, and I have read many hundreds of their literary -criticisms. What a pity it is that they are lost to us! For some of them -were mightily shrewd both in condemnation<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236"></a>{236}</span> and in ecstatic approval, and -all of them had the charm of perfect and fearless honesty in utterance, -and all of them were founded upon an actual and attentive reading of the -works criticised, as printed criticism usually is not.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237"></a>{237}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXI" id="XXI"></a>XXI<br /> -<small>HOW A HIGH BRED DAMSEL CONFRONTED FATE AND DUTY</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">Q</span><b>UITE</b> unconsciously Arthur Brent had prepared a very bad morning hour -for the best friend he had ever known. His letter was full of dagger -thrusts for the loving girl’s soul. Every line of it revealed his state -of mind, and that state of mind was a very painful thing for the -sensitive woman, who loved him so, to contemplate. The very intimacy of -it was a painful reminder; the affection it revealed so frankly stung -her to the quick. The missive told her, as no words so intended could -have done, how far removed this man’s attitude toward her was from that -of the lover. Had his words been angry they might not have indicated any -impossibility of love—they might indeed have meant love itself in such -a case,—love vexed or baffled, but still love. Had they been cold and -indifferent, they might have been interpreted merely as the language of -reserve, or as a studied concealment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238"></a>{238}</span> of passion. But their very warmth -and candor of friendship would have set the seal of impossibility upon -her hope that he might ever come to love her, if she had cherished any -such hope, as she did not.</p> - -<p>The letter told her by its tone more convincingly than any other form of -words could have done, that this man held her in close affection as a -friend, and that no thought of a dearer relationship than that could at -any time come to him.</p> - -<p>Edmonia Bannister was a strong woman, highly bred and much too proud to -give way to the weakness of self-pity. She made no moan over her lost -love as she laid it away to rest forever in the sepulchre of her heart. -Nor did she in her soul repine or complain of fate.</p> - -<p>“It is best for him as it is,” she told herself, as she had told herself -before during that long, solitary drive in the carriage; “and I must -rejoice in it, and not mourn.”</p> - -<p>The sting of it did not lie in disappointment. She met that with calm -mind as the soldier faces danger without flinching when it comes to him -hand in hand with duty. The agony that tortured her was of very -different origin. All her pride of person, all her pride of race and -family, even her self-respect itself, was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239"></a>{239}</span> sorely stricken by the -discovery that she had given her love unasked.</p> - -<p>This truth she had not so much as suspected until that conversation in -Dorothy’s little porch on the day before had revealed it to her. Then -the revelation had so stunned her that she did not realize its full -significance. And besides, her mind at that time was fully occupied with -efforts so to bear herself as to conceal what she regarded as her shame. -Now that she had passed a sleepless night in company with this hideous -truth, and now that it came to her anew with its repulsive nakedness -revealed in the gray of the morning, she appreciated and exaggerated its -deformity, and the realization was more than she could bear.</p> - -<p>She had been bred in that false school of ethics which holds a woman -bound to remain a stock, a stone, a glacier of insensibility to love -until the man shall graciously give her permission to love, by declaring -his own love for her. She believed that false teaching implicitly. She -was as deeply humiliated, as mercilessly self-reproachful now as if she -had committed an immodesty. She told herself that her conduct in -permitting herself, however unconsciously, to love this man who had -never asked for her love, had “unsexed” her—a term not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240"></a>{240}</span> understanded of -men, but one to which women attach a world of hideous meaning.</p> - -<p>“I am not well this morning,” she said to her maid as she passed up the -stairs in retreat. “No, you need not attend me,” she added quickly upon -seeing the devoted serving woman’s purpose; “stay here instead and make -my apologies to my brother when he comes out of his room, for leaving -him to breakfast alone.”</p> - -<p>“Why, Miss Mony, is you done forgot? Mas’ Archer he ain’t here. You know -he done stayed at de tavern at de Co’t House las’ night, an’ a mighty -poor white folksey breakfas’ he’ll git too.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes, I had forgotten. So much the better. But don’t accompany me. I -want to be alone.”</p> - -<p>The maid stared at her in blank amazement. When she had entered her -chamber and carefully shut the door, the woman exclaimed:</p> - -<p>“Well, I ’clar to gracious! I ain’t never seed nuffin like dat wid Miss -Mony before!”</p> - -<p>Then with that blind faith which her class at that time cherished in the -virtues of morning coffee as a panacea, Dinah turned into the dining -room, and with a look of withering<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241"></a>{241}</span> scorn at the head dining room -servant, demanded:</p> - -<p>“Is you a idiot, Polydore? Couldn’t you see dat Miss Mony is seriously -decomposed dis mawnin’? What you means by bein’ so stupid? What fer -didn’t you give her a cup o’ coffee? An’ why don’t you stir yourself now -an’ bring me de coffee urn, an’ de cream jug? Don’t stan’ dar starin’, -nigga! Do you heah?”</p> - -<p>Having “hopes” in the direction of this comely maid, Polydore was duly -abashed by her rebuke while full of admiration for the queenly way in -which she had administered it. He brought the urn and its adjuncts and -admiringly contemplated the grace with which Dinah prepared a cup for -her mistress.</p> - -<p>“I ’clar, Dinah, you’se mos’ as fine as white ladies dey selves!” he -ventured to say in softly placative tones. But Dinah had no notion of -relaxing her dignity, so instead of acknowledging the compliment she -rebuffed it, saying:</p> - -<p>“Why don’t Mas’ Archer sen’ you to the cawnfiel’, anyhow? Dat’s all -you’se fit for. Don’ you see I’se a waitin’ fer you to bring me a tray -an’ a napkin, an’ a chaney plate with a slice o’ ham on it?”</p> - -<p>Equipped at last, the maid, disregarding her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242"></a>{242}</span> mistress’s injunction, -marched up the stairs and entered Edmonia’s room. The young woman gently -thanked her, and then, after a moment’s thought, said:</p> - -<p>“Dinah, I wish you would get some jellies and nice things ready this -morning and take them over to your Miss Dorothy for her sick people. You -can use the carriage, but go as soon as you can get away; and give my -love to your Miss Dorothy, and tell her I am not feeling well this -morning. But tell her, Dinah, that I’ll drive over this afternoon about -two o’clock and she must be ready to go with me for a drive. Poor child, -she needs some relaxation!”</p> - -<p>Having thus secured immunity from Dinah’s kindly but at present -unwelcome attentions, Edmonia Bannister proceeded, as she phrased it in -her mind, to “take herself seriously in hand.”</p> - -<p>After long thought she formulated a program for herself.</p> - -<p>“My pride ought to have saved me from this humiliation,” she thought. -“Having failed me in that, it must at least save me from the -consequences of my misconduct. I’ll wear a cheerful face, whatever I may -feel. I’ll cultivate whatever there is of jollity in me, and still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243"></a>{243}</span> -better, whatever I possess of dignity. I’ll be social. I’ll entertain -continually, as brother always wants me to do. I’ll have some of my girl -friends with me every day and every night. I’ll busy myself with every -duty I can find to do, and especially I shall devote myself to dear -Dorothy. By the way, Arthur will expect a reply to his letter. I’ll -begin my duty-doing with that.”</p> - -<p>And so she wrote:</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>“You are by all odds the most ridiculous fellow, my dear Arthur, -that I have yet encountered—the most preposterous, wrong headed, -cantankerous (I hope that word is good English—and anyhow it is -good Virginian, because it tells the truth) sort of human animal I -ever yet knew. Do you challenge proof of my accusations? Think a -bit and you’ll have it in abundance. Let me help you think by -recounting your absurdities.</p> - -<p>“You were a young man, practically alone in the world, with no -fortune except an annuity, which must cease at your death. You had -no associates except scientific persons who never think of anything -but trilobites and hydrocyanic acid and symptoms and all that sort -of thing. Suddenly, and by reason of no virtuous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244"></a>{244}</span> activity of your -own, you found yourself the owner of one of the finest estates in -Virginia, and the head of one of its oldest and most honored -houses. In brief you came into an inheritance for which any -reasonable young man of your size and age would have been glad to -mortgage his hopes of salvation and cut off the entail of all his -desires. There, that’s badly quoted, I suppose, but it is from -Shakespeare, I think, and I mean something by it—a thing not -always true of a young woman’s phrases when she tries her hand at -learned utterance.</p> - -<p>“Never mind that. This favored child of Fortune, Arthur Brent, M. -D., Ph. D., etc., bitterly complains of Fate for having poured such -plenty into his lap, rescuing him from a life of toil and trouble -and tuberculosis—for I’m perfectly satisfied you would have -contracted that malady, whatever it is, if Fate hadn’t saved you -from it by compelling you to come down here to Virginia.</p> - -<p>“Don’t criticise if I get my tenses mixed up a little, so long as -my moods are right. Very well, to drop what my governess used to -call ‘the historical present,’ this absurd and preposterous young -man straightway ‘kicked against the pricks’—that’s not slang but a -Biblical quotation, as you would very well<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245"></a>{245}</span> know if you read your -Bible half as diligently as you study your books on therapeutics. -Better than that, it is truth that I’m telling you. You actually -wanted to get rid of your heritage, to throw away just about the -finest chance a young man ever had to make himself happy and -comfortable and contented. You might even have indulged yourself in -the pastime of making love to me, and getting your suit so sweetly -rejected that you would ever afterwards have thought of the episode -as an important part of your education. But you threw away even -that opportunity.</p> - -<p>“Now comes to you the greatest good fortune of all, and it -positively frightens you so badly that you are planning to run away -from it—if you can.</p> - -<p>“Badinage aside, Arthur,—or should that word be ‘bandinage?’ You -see I don’t know, and my dictionary is in another room, and anyhow -the phrase sounds literary. Now to go on. Really, Arthur, you are a -ridiculous person. You have had months of daily, hourly, intimate -association with Dorothy. With your habits of observation, and -still more your splendid gifts in that way, you cannot have failed -to discover her superiority to young women generally. If you have -failed, if you have been so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246"></a>{246}</span> blind as not to see, let me point out -the fact to you. Did you ever know a better mind than hers? Was -there ever a whiter soul? Has she not such a capacity of devotion -and loyalty and love as you never saw in any other woman? Isn’t her -courage admirable? Is not her truthfulness something that a man may -trust his honor and his life to, knowing absolutely that his faith -must always be secure?</p> - -<p>“Fie upon you, Arthur. Why do you not see how lavishly Providence -has dealt with you?</p> - -<p>“But that is only one side of the matter, and by no means the -better side of it. On that side lies happiness for you, and you -have a strange dislike of happiness for yourself. You distrust it. -You fear it. You put it aside as something unworthy of you, -something that must impair your character and interrupt your work. -Oh, foolish man! Has not your science taught you that it is the men -of rich, full lives who do the greatest things in this world, and -not the starvelings? Do you imagine for a moment that any monkish -ascetic could have written Shakespeare’s plays or Beethoven’s music -or fought Washington’s campaigns or rendered to the world the -service that Thomas Jefferson gave?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247"></a>{247}</span></p> - -<p>“But there, I am wandering from my point again. Don’t you see that -it is your duty to train Dorothy, to give to her mind a larger and -better outlook than the narrow horizon of our Virginian life -permits?</p> - -<p>“Anyhow, you shall see it, and you shall see it now. For in spite -of your unwillingness to hear, and in spite of your injunction that -I shall not tell you now, I am going to tell you some things that -you must know. Listen then.</p> - -<p>“Certain circumstances which I may not tell you either now or -hereafter, render Dorothy’s case a peculiar one. She was only a -dozen years old, or so, when her father died, and he never dreamed -of her moral and intellectual possibilities. He was oppressed with -a great fear for her. He foresaw for her dangers so grave and so -great that he ceaselessly planned to save her from them. To that -end he decreed that she should learn nothing of music, or art or -any other thing which he believed would prove a temptation to her. -His one supreme desire was to save her from erratic ways of living, -and so to hedge her life about that she should in due course marry -into a good Virginia family and pass all her days in a round of -commonplace duties and commonplace enjoyments. He had no conception -of her character,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248"></a>{248}</span> her genius or her capacities for enjoyment or -suffering. He fondly believed that she would be happy in the life -he planned for her as the wife of young Jefferson Peyton, to whom, -in a way, he betrothed her in her early childhood, when Jeff -himself was a well ordered little lad, quite different from the -arrogant, silly young donkey he has grown up to be, with dangerous -inclinations toward dissoluteness and depravity.</p> - -<p>“Dr. South and Mr. Madison Peyton planned this marriage, as -something that was to be fulfilled in that future for which Dr. -South was morbidly anxious to provide. Like many other people, Dr. -South mistook himself for Divine Providence, and sought to order a -life whose conditions he could not foresee. He wanted to save his -daughter from a fate which he, perhaps, had reason to fear for her. -On the other side of the arrangement Madison Peyton wanted his -eldest son to become master of Pocahontas plantation, so that his -own possessions might pass to his other sons and daughters. So -these two bargained that Dorothy should become Jefferson Peyton’s -wife when both should be grown up. Dr. South did not foresee what -sort of man the boy was destined to become. Still less did he dream -what a woman<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249"></a>{249}</span> Dorothy would be. His only concern was that his -daughter should marry into a family as good as his own.</p> - -<p>“Now that Peyton sees what his son’s tendencies are he is more -determined than ever to have that mistaken old bargain carried out. -He is willing to sacrifice Dorothy in the hope of saving his son -from the evil courses to which he is so strongly inclined.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to let this horrible thing happen, Arthur Brent? You -love Dorothy and she loves you. She does not yet suspect either -fact, but you are fully aware of both. You alone can save her from -a fate more unhappy than any that her father, in his foolishness, -feared for her, and in doing so you can at the same time fulfil her -father’s dearest wish, which was that she should marry into a -Virginia family of high repute. Your family ranks as well in this -commonwealth as any other—better than most. You are the head of -it. You can save Dorothy from a life utterly unworthy of her, a -life in which she must be supremely unhappy. You can give to her -mind that opportunity of continuous growth which it needs. You can -offer to her the means of culture and happiness, and of worthy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250"></a>{250}</span> -intellectual exercise, which so rare and exceptional a nature must -have for its full development.</p> - -<p>“Are you going to do this, Arthur Brent, or are you not? Are you -going to do the high duty that lies before you, or are you going to -put it aside for some imagined duty which would be of less -consequence even if it were real? Is it not better worth your while -to save Dorothy than to save any number of life’s failures who -dwell in New York’s tenements? Are not Dorothy South’s mind and -soul and superb capacities of greater consequence than the lives of -thousands of those whose squalor and unwholesome surroundings are -after all the fruit of their own hereditary indolence and -stupidity? Is not one such life as hers of greater worth in the -world, than thousands or even millions of those for whose -amelioration you had planned to moil and toil? You know, Arthur, -that I have little sympathy with the thought that those who fail in -life should be coddled into a comfort that they have not earned. I -do not believe that you can rescue dulness of mind from the -consequences of its own inertia. Nine tenths of the poverty that -suffers is the direct consequence of laziness and drink. The other -tenth is sufficiently cared for.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251"></a>{251}</span> I am a heretic on this subject, I -suppose. I do not think that such a man as you are should devote -his life to an attempt to uplift those who have sunk into squalor -through lack of fitness for anything better. Your abilities may be -much better employed in helping worthier lives. I never did see why -we should send missionaries to the inferior races, when all our -efforts might be so much more profitably employed for the -betterment of worthier people. Why didn’t we let the red Indians -perish as they deserve to do, and spend the money we have -fruitlessly thrown away upon them, in providing better educational -opportunities for a higher race?</p> - -<p>“The moral of all this is that you have found your true mission in -the rescue of Dorothy South from a fate she does not deserve. I’m -going to help you in doing that, but I will not tell you my plans -till you get through with your fever crusade and have time to -listen attentively to my superior wisdom.</p> - -<p>“In the meantime you are to humble yourself by reflecting upon your -great need of such counsel as mine and your great good fortune in -having a supply of it at hand.</p> - -<p>“I hope your patients continue to do credit to your medical skill -and to Dorothy’s excellent<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252"></a>{252}</span> nursing. I have sent Dinah over this -morning with some delicacies for the convalescent among them, and -in the afternoon I shall go over to the camp myself and steal -Dorothy from them and you, long enough to give her a good long -drive.</p> - -<p class="r"> -“Always sincerely your Friend,<br /> -“<span class="smcap">Edmonia Bannister.</span>”<br /> -</p></div> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253"></a>{253}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXII" id="XXII"></a>XXII<br /> -<small>THE INSTITUTION OF THE DUELLO</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><b>HEN</b> Arthur Brent had read Edmonia’s letter, he mounted Gimlet and -rode away with no purpose except to think. The letter had revealed some -things to him of which he had not before had even a suspicion. He -understood now why Madison Peyton had been so anxious to become -Dorothy’s guardian and so angry over his disappointment in that matter. -For on the preceding evening Archer Bannister had ridden over from the -Court House to tell him of Peyton’s offensive words and to deliver the -letter of apology into his hands.</p> - -<p>“I don’t see how you can challenge him after that” said Archer, with -some uncertainty in his tone.</p> - -<p>“Why should I wish to do so?” Arthur asked in surprise. “I have -something very much more important to think about just now than Madison -Peyton’s opinion of me. You yourself tell me that when he was saying -all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254"></a>{254}</span> these things about me, he only got himself laughed at for his -pains. Nobody thought the worse of me for anything that he said, and -certainly nobody would think the better of me for challenging him to a -duel and perhaps shooting him or getting shot. Of course I could not -challenge him now, as he has made a written withdrawal of his words and -given me an apology which I am at liberty to tack up on the court house -door if I choose, as I certainly do not. But I should not have -challenged him in any case.”</p> - -<p>“I suppose you are right,” answered Archer; “indeed I know you are. But -it requires a good deal of moral courage—more than I suspect myself of -possessing—to fly in the face of Virginia opinion in that way.”</p> - -<p>“But what is Virginia opinion on the subject of duelling, Archer? I -confess I can’t find out.”</p> - -<p>“How do you mean?” asked the other.</p> - -<p>“Why, it seems to me that opinion here on that subject is exceedingly -inconsistent and contradictory. Dorothy once said, when she was a -child,”—there was a world of significance in the past tense of that -phrase—“that if a man in Virginia fights a duel for good cause, -everybody condemns him for being so wicked and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255"></a>{255}</span> breaking the laws in -that fashion; but if he doesn’t fight when good occasion arises, -everybody calls him a coward and blames him more than in the other case. -So I do not know what Virginia opinion is. And even the laws do not -enlighten me. Many years ago the Legislature adopted a statute making -duelling a crime, but I have never heard of anybody being punished for -that crime. On the contrary the statute seems to have been carefully -framed to prevent the punishment of anybody for duelling. It makes a -principal in the crime of everybody who in any capacity participates in -a duel, whether as fighter or second, or surgeon or mere looker on. In -other words it makes a principal of every possible witness, and then -excuses all of them from testifying to the fact of a duel on the ground -that to testify to that fact would incriminate themselves. I saw a very -interesting farce of that sort played in a Richmond court a month or so -ago. Are you interested to hear about it?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, tell me!”</p> - -<p>“Well, Mr. P.”—Arthur named a man who has since become a famous -judge—“had had something to do with a duel. As I understand it he was -neither principal nor second, but at any rate he saw the duel fought. -The principals,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256"></a>{256}</span> or one of them, had been brought before the judge for -trial, and Mr. P. was called as a witness. When a question was put to -him by the judge himself, Mr. P. replied: ‘I am not a lawyer. I ask the -privilege of consulting counsel before answering that question.’ To this -the judge responded: ‘To save time Mr. P., I will myself be your -counsel. As such I advise you to decline to answer the question. Now, as -the judge of this court, and not in my capacity as your counsel, I again -put the question to you and require you, under penalty of the law to -answer it.’ Mr. P. answered: ‘Under advice of counsel, your Honor, I -decline to answer the question.’ The judge responded: ‘Mr. Sheriff, take -Mr. P. into custody. I commit him for contempt of court.’ Then resuming -his attitude as counsel, the judge said: ‘Mr. P., as your counsel I -advise you to ask for a writ of Habeas Corpus.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘I ask for a writ of Habeas Corpus, your Honor,’ answered P.</p> - -<p>“ ‘The court is required to grant the writ,’ said the judge solemnly, -‘and it is granted. Prepare it for signature, Mr. Clerk, and serve it on -the sheriff.’</p> - -<p>“The clerical work occupied but a brief time. When it was done the -sheriff addressing the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257"></a>{257}</span> court said: ‘May it please your Honor, in -obedience to the writ of Habeas Corpus this day served upon me, I -produce here the body of R. A. P., and I pray my discharge from further -obligation in the premises.’</p> - -<p>“Then the judge addressed the prisoner, saying: ‘Mr. P. you are -arraigned before this court, charged with contempt and disobedience of -the court’s commands. What have you to say in answer to the charge?’ -Then instantly he added: ‘In my capacity as your counsel, Mr. P., I -advise you to plead that the charge of contempt which is brought against -you, rests solely upon your refusal to answer a question the answer to -which might tend to subject you to a criminal accusation.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘I do so make my answer, your Honor,’ said Mr. P.</p> - -<p>“ ‘The law in this case,’ said the judge, ‘is perfectly clear. No citizen -can be compelled to testify against himself. Mr. P., you are discharged -under the writ. There being no other testimony to the fact that the -prisoners at the bar have committed the crime charged against them, the -court orders their discharge. Mr. Clerk, call the next case on the -calendar.’<a name="FNanchor_B_2" id="FNanchor_B_2"></a><a href="#Footnote_B_2" class="fnanchor">[B]</a> Now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258"></a>{258}</span> wasn’t all that a roaring farce, with the judge -duplicating parts after the ‘Protean’ manner of the low comedians?”</p> - -<p>“It certainly was,” answered young Bannister. “But what are we to do?”</p> - -<p>“Why, make up your minds—or our minds I should say, for I am a -Virginian now with the best of you—whether we will or will not permit -duelling, and make and enforce the laws accordingly. If duelling is -right let us recognize it and put an end to our hypocritical paltering -with it. I’m not sure that in the present condition of society and -opinion that would not be the best course to pursue. But if we are not -ready for that, if we are to go on legislating against the practice, for -heaven’s sake let us make laws that can be enforced, and let us enforce -them. The little incident I have related is significant in its way, but -it doesn’t suggest the half or the quarter or the one-hundredth part of -the absurdity of our dealing with this question.”</p> - -<p>“Tell me about the rest of it,” responded Archer, “and then I shall have -some questions to ask you.”</p> - -<p>“Well, as to the rest of it, you have only to look at the facts. Years -ago the Virginia Legislature went through the solemn process<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259"></a>{259}</span> of -enacting that no person should be eligible to a seat in either house of -our law making body, who had been in any way concerned in a duel, either -as principal or second, since a date fixed by the statute. If that meant -anything it meant that in the opinion of the Legislature of Virginia no -duellist ought to be permitted to become a lawgiver. It was a statute -prescribing for those who have committed the crime of duelling precisely -the same penalty of disfranchisement that the law applies to those who -have committed other felonies. But there was this difference. The laws -forbidding other felonies, left open an opportunity to prove them and to -convict men of committing them, while the law against duelling carefully -made it impossible to convict anybody of its violation. To cover that -point, the Legislature enacted that every man elected to either house of -that body, should solemnly make oath that he had not been in any wise -engaged in duelling since the date named in the statute. Again the -lawgivers were not in earnest, for every year since that time men who -have been concerned in duelling within the prohibited period have been -elected to the Legislature; and every year the Legislature’s first act -has been to bring forward the date of the prohibition and admit to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260"></a>{260}</span> -seats in the law making body all the men elected to it who have -deliberately defied and broken the law. It deals in no such fashion with -men disfranchised for the commission of any other crime. Is not all this -in effect an annual declaration by the Legislature that its laws in -condemnation of duelling do not mean what they say? Is it not a case in -which a law is enacted to satisfy one phase of public sentiment and -deliberately nullified by legislative act in obedience to public -sentiment of an opposite character?”</p> - -<p>“It certainly seems so. And yet I do not see what is to be done. You -said just now that perhaps it would be best to legalize duelling. Would -not that be legalizing crime?”</p> - -<p>“Not at all. Duelling is simply private, personal war. It is a crime -only by circumstance and statute. Under certain conditions such war is -as legitimate as any other, and the right to wage it rests upon -precisely the same ethical grounds as those upon which we justify -public, national war. In a state of society in which the law does not -afford protection to the individual and redress of wrongs inflicted upon -him, I conceive that he has an indisputable right to wage war in his own -defence, just as a nation has. But we live in a state of society<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261"></a>{261}</span> quite -different from that. If Madison Peyton or any other man had inflicted -hurt of any kind upon me, I could go into court with the certainty of -securing redress. I have no right, therefore, to make personal war upon -him by way of securing the redress which the courts stand ready to give -me peaceably. So I say we should forbid duelling by laws that can be -enforced, and public sentiment should imperatively require their -enforcement. Till we are ready to do that, we should legalize duelling -and quit pretending.”</p> - -<p>“After all, now that I think of it,” said young Bannister, “most of the -duels of late years in Virginia have had their origin in cowardice, pure -and simple. They have been born of some mere personal affront, and the -principals on either side have fought not to redress wrongs but merely -because they were afraid of being called cowards. You at least can never -be under any necessity of proving that you are not a coward. The people -of Virginia have not forgotten your work at Norfolk. But I’m glad Peyton -apologized. For even an open quarrel between you and him, and especially -one concerning Dorothy, would have been peculiarly embarrassing and it -would have given rise to scandal of an unusual sort.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262"></a>{262}</span></p> - -<p>“But why, Archer? Why should a quarrel between him and me be more -productive of scandal than one between any other pair of men? I do not -understand.”</p> - -<p>“And I cannot explain,” answered the other. “I can only tell you the -fact. I must go now. I have a long ride to a bad bed at the Court House, -with tedious jury duty to do tomorrow. So, good night.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263"></a>{263}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXIII" id="XXIII"></a>XXIII<br /> -<small>DOROTHY’S REBELLION</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><b>HE</b> conversation reported in the last preceding chapter of this -record, occurred on the evening before Edmonia Bannister’s letter was -written. The letter, therefore, when Arthur received it at noon of the -next day, supplemented and in some measure explained what Archer had -said with respect to the peculiar inconvenience of a quarrel between Dr. -Brent and Madison Peyton.</p> - -<p>Yet it left him in greater bewilderment than ever concerning Dorothy’s -case. That is why he mounted Gimlet and rode away to think.</p> - -<p>He understood now why Madison Peyton so eagerly desired to become -Dorothy’s guardian. That would have been merely to take charge of his -own son’s future estate. But why should any such fate have been decreed -for Dorothy under a pretence of concern for her welfare? What but -wretchedness and cruel wrong could result from a marriage so ill -assorted?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264"></a>{264}</span> Why should a girl of Dorothy’s superior kind have been -expected to marry a young man for whom she could never feel anything but -contempt? Why should her rare and glorious womanhood have been bartered -away for any sort of gain? Why had her father sought to dispose of her -as he might of a favorite riding horse or a cherished picture?</p> - -<p>All these questions crowded upon Arthur’s mind, and he could find no -answer to any of them. They made him the angrier on that account, and -presently he muttered:</p> - -<p>“At any rate this hideous wrong shall not be consummated. Whether I -succeed in setting myself free, or fail in that purpose, I will prevent -this thing. Whether I marry Dorothy myself or not, she shall never be -married by any species of moral compulsion to this unworthy young -puppy.”</p> - -<p>Perhaps Doctor Brent’s disposition to call young Peyton by offensive -names, was a symptom of his own condition of mind. But just at this -point in his meditations a thought occurred which almost staggered him.</p> - -<p>“What if Dr. South has left somewhere a written injunction to Dorothy to -carry out his purpose? Would she not play the part of martyr to duty? -Would she not, in misdirected<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265"></a>{265}</span> loyalty, obey her dead father’s command, -at whatever cost to herself?”</p> - -<p>Arthur knew with how much of positive worship Dorothy regarded the -memory of her father. He remembered how loyally she had accepted that -father’s commands forbidding her to learn music or even to listen to it -in any worthy form. He remembered with what unquestioning faith the girl -had accepted his strange dictum about every woman’s need of a master, -and how blindly she believed his teaching that every woman must be bad -if she is left free. Would she not crown her loyalty to that dead -father’s memory by making this final self-sacrifice, when she should -learn of his command, as of course she must? In view of the extreme care -and minute attention to detail with which Dr. South had arranged to hold -his daughter’s fate in mortmain, there could be little doubt that he had -somehow planned to have her informed of this his supreme desire, at some -time selected by himself.</p> - -<p>At this moment Arthur met the Branton carriage, bearing Edmonia and -Dorothy.</p> - -<p>“You are playing truant, Arthur,” called Edmonia. “You must go back to -your sick people at once, for I’ve kidnapped your head nurse and I don’t -mean to return her to you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266"></a>{266}</span> till six. She is to dine with me at Branton. -So ride back to your duty at once, before Dick shall be seized with an -inspiration to give somebody a dose of strychnine as a substitute for -sweet spirits of nitre.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, no, Edmonia,” broke in Dorothy, “we must drive back to the camp at -once. Cousin Arthur needs his ride. You don’t know. I tell you he’s -breaking down. Yes you are, Cousin Arthur, so you needn’t shake your -head. That isn’t quite truthful in you. You work night and day, and -lately you’ve had a dreadfully worn and tired look in your eyes. I’ve -noticed it and all last night, when you had sent me away to sleep, I lay -awake thinking about it.”</p> - -<p>Edmonia smiled at this. Perhaps she recognized it as a symptom—in -Dorothy. She only said in reply:</p> - -<p>“Don’t worry about Arthur. I am worried only about you, and I’m going to -take you to Branton. Am I not, Arthur?”</p> - -<p>“I sincerely hope so,” he replied. “And there is not the slightest -reason why you shouldn’t keep her for the night if you will. She is -really not needed at the hospital till tomorrow. I’m honest and truthful -when I say that, Dorothy. Dick and I can take care of everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267"></a>{267}</span> till -tomorrow, and I’ll see to it that Dick’s inspirations are restricted to -poetry. So take her, Edmonia, and keep her till tomorrow. And don’t let -her talk too much.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m going to take her. She is impolite enough not to want to go but -she is much too young to have a will of her own—yet. As for Dick, he’s -already in the throes. He is constructing a new ‘song ballad’ on the -sorrowful fate of the turkey. It begins:</p> - -<div class="poetry"><br /><div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">‘Tukkey in de bacca lot,<br /></span> -<span class="i1">A pickin’ off de hoppa’s,’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">but it goes no further as yet because Dick can’t find any rhyme for -‘hopper’ except ‘copper’ and ‘proper’ and ‘stopper,’ which I suggested, -and they don’t serve his turn. He came to me to ask if ‘gobblers’ would -not do, but I discouraged that extreme of poetic license.”</p> - -<p>“Edmonia,” said Dorothy as soon as the carriage had renewed its journey, -“did you really think it impolite in me not to want to go with you?”</p> - -<p>“No, you silly girl.”</p> - -<p>“I’m glad of that. You see I think there is nothing so unkind as -impoliteness. But really I think it is wrong for me to go. Why didn’t -you take Cousin Arthur instead? You don’t know how badly he needs -rest.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268"></a>{268}</span></p> - -<p>Edmonia made no direct reply to this. Instead, she said presently:</p> - -<p>“Arthur is one of the best men I know. Don’t you think so, Dorothy?”</p> - -<p>“Oh, he’s altogether the best. I can’t think of anybody to compare him -with—not even Washington. He’s a hero you know. I often read over again -all the newspapers that told about what he did in Norfolk, and of course -he’s just like that now. He never thinks of himself, but always of -others. There never was any man like him in all the world. That’s why I -can’t bear to think of going to Branton and leaving him alone when if I -were at my post, he might get some of the sleep that he needs so much. -Edmonia, I’m not going to Branton! Positively I can’t and I won’t. So if -you don’t tell the driver to turn back, I’ll open the carriage door and -jump out and walk back.”</p> - -<p>Curiously enough Edmonia made no further resistance. Perhaps she had -already accomplished the object she had had in view. At any rate she -bade the driver turn about, and upon her arrival at the camp she offered -Arthur no further explanation than he might infer from her telling him:</p> - -<p>“I’ve brought back the kidnapped nurse. I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269"></a>{269}</span> couldn’t win her away from -you even for a few hours. See that you reward her devotion with all -possible good treatment.”</p> - -<p>“You are too funny for anything, Edmonia,” said Dorothy as she stepped -from the carriage. “As if Cousin Arthur could treat me in any but the -best of ways!”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I’m not so sure on that point. He’ll bear watching anyhow. He’s -‘essenteric’ as Dick said the other day in a brave but hopeless struggle -with the word ‘eccentric.’ But I must go now or I shall be late for -dinner, and I’m expecting some friends who care more than Dorothy does -for my hospitality.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, please, Edmonia—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t mind me, child. I was only jesting. You are altogether good and -sweet and <i>lovable</i>.”</p> - -<p>She looked at Arthur significantly as she emphasized that last word.</p> - -<p>The young man thereupon took Dorothy’s hands in his, looked her in the -eyes, and said:</p> - -<p>“Edmonia is right, dear. You are altogether good and sweet and lovable. -But you ought to have taken some rest and recreation.”</p> - -<p>“How could I, when I knew you needed me?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270"></a>{270}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXIV" id="XXIV"></a>XXIV<br /> -<small>TO GIVE DOROTHY A CHANCE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was nearly the Christmas time when Arthur finally broke up the -fever camp. He decided that the outbreak was at an end and the need of a -hospital service no longer pressing. The half dozen patients who -remained at the camp were now so far advanced on the road to recovery -that he felt it safe to remove them to the new quarters at the Silver -Spring.</p> - -<p>He had sent Dorothy home a week before, saying:</p> - -<p>“Now, Dorothy, dear, we have conquered the enemy—you and I—and a -glorious conquest it has been. We have had forty-seven cases of the -disease, some of them very severe, and there have been only two deaths. -Even they were scarcely attributable to the fever, as both the victims -were old and decrepit, having little vitality with which to resist the -malady. It is a record that ought to teach the doctors<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271"></a>{271}</span> and planters of -Virginia something as to the way in which to deal with such outbreaks. I -shall prepare a little account of it for their benefit and publish it in -a medical journal. But I never can tell you how greatly I thank you for -your help.”</p> - -<p>“Please don’t talk in that way,” Dorothy hastily rejoined. “Other people -may thank me for things whenever they please, but you never must.”</p> - -<p>“But why not, Dorothy?”</p> - -<p>“Why, because—well, because you are the Master. I won’t have you -thanking me just like other people. It humiliates me. It is like telling -me you didn’t expect me to do my duty. No, that isn’t just what I mean. -It is like telling me that you think of Dorothy just as you do of other -people, or something of that kind. I can’t make out just what I mean, -but I will not let you thank me.”</p> - -<p>“I think I understand,” he answered. “But at any rate you’ll permit me -to tell you, that in my honest judgment as a physician, there would have -been many more deaths than there have been, if I had not had you to help -me. Your own tireless nursing, and the extraordinary way in which you -have made all the negro nurses carry out my orders to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272"></a>{272}</span> letter, have -saved many lives without any possibility of doubt.”</p> - -<p>“Then I have really helped?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Dorothy. I cannot make you know how much you have helped—how -great an assistance, how great a comfort you have been to me in all this -trying time.”</p> - -<p>“I am very glad—very glad.”</p> - -<p>That was all the answer she could make for tears. It was quite enough.</p> - -<p>“Now I’m going to send you home, Dorothy, to get some badly needed rest -and sleep, and to bring the color back to your cheeks. I am going home -myself too. I need only ride over here twice a day to see that the -getting well goes on satisfactorily, and in a week’s time I shall break -up the camp entirely, and send the convalescents to their quarters. It -will be safe to do so then. In the meantime I want you to think of -Christmas. We must make it a red letter day at Wyanoke, to celebrate our -victory. We’ll have a ‘dining day,’ as a dinner party is queerly called -here in Virginia, with a dance in the evening. I’ll have some musicians -up from Richmond. You are to send out the invitations at once, please, -and we’ll make this the very gladdest of Christmases.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273"></a>{273}</span></p> - -<p>“May I take my Mammy home with me?” the girl broke in. “She has been so -good to me, you know.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, Dorothy, and I wish you would keep her there ‘for all the time,’ -as you sometimes say. There’s a comfortable house by the garden you -know, and we’ll give her that for her home as long as she lives. You -shall pick out one or two of the nicest of the negro girls to wait on -her and keep house for her, and make her old age comfortable.”</p> - -<p>Dorothy ejaculated a little laugh.</p> - -<p>“Mammy would drive them all out of the house in ten seconds,” she said, -“and call them ‘dishfaced devils’ and more different kinds of other ugly -names than you ever heard of. Old as she is, she’s very strong, and -she’ll never let anybody wait on her. She calls the present generation -of servants ‘a lot o’ no ’count niggas, dat ain’t fit fer nothin’ but to -be plaguesome.’ But you are very good to let me give her the house. -Thank you, Cousin Arthur.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, Dorothy,” answered Arthur, “I thought you always ‘played fair’ as -the children say.”</p> - -<p>“Why, what have I done?” the girl asked almost with distress in her -tone.</p> - -<p>“Why, you thanked me, after forbidding me<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274"></a>{274}</span> to thank you for an -immeasurably greater service.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, but that’s different,” she replied. “You are the Master. I am only -a woman.”</p> - -<p>“Dorothy,” said Arthur seriously, “don’t you know I think there is -nothing in the world better or nobler than a woman?”</p> - -<p>“That’s because you are a man and don’t know,” she answered out of a -wisdom so superior that it would not argue the point.</p> - -<p>During the next week Arthur found time in which to prepare and send off -for publication a helpful article on “The Plantation Treatment of -Typhoid Epidemics.” He also found time in which to ride over to Branton -and hold a prolonged conference with Edmonia Bannister. Before a hickory -wood fire in the great drawing room they went over all considerations -bearing upon Arthur’s affairs and plans and possibilities.</p> - -<p>“This is the visitation you long ago threatened me with,” said Edmonia. -“You said you would come when the stress of the fever should be over, -and you told me you had some plan in your mind. Tell me what it was.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, your past tense is correct there; that was before you wrote to me -about Dorothy. Your letter put an end to that scheme at once.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275"></a>{275}</span></p> - -<p>“Did it? I’m very glad.”</p> - -<p>“But why? You don’t know what it was that I had in mind.”</p> - -<p>“Perhaps not. Perhaps I have a shrewd idea as to the general features of -your plan. At any rate I’m perfectly sure that it was unworthy of you.”</p> - -<p>“Why do you think that, Edmonia? Surely I have not—”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes you have—if you mean that you haven’t deserved to be thought -ill of. You have wanted to run away from your duty and your happiness, -and it was that sort of thing you had in mind. Otherwise you wouldn’t -have needed to plan at all. Besides, you said you didn’t want to have -this conversation with me, or to hear about Dorothy till you should be -‘free to act.’ You meant by that ‘free to run away.’ That is why I wrote -you about Dorothy.”</p> - -<p>“Listen, Edmonia!” said the young man pleadingly. “Don’t think of me as -a coward or a shirk! Don’t imagine that I have been altogether selfish -even in my thoughts! I did plan to run away, as you call it. But it was -not to escape duty—for I didn’t know, then, that I had a duty to do. Or -rather I thought that my duty called upon me to ‘run away.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276"></a>{276}</span> Will you -let me tell you just what I felt and thought, and what the plan was that -I had in mind?”</p> - -<p>“Surely, Arthur. I did not really think you selfish, and certainly I did -not think you cowardly. If I had, I should have taken pains to save -Dorothy from you. But tell me the whole story.”</p> - -<p>“I will. When we began our conversation in Dorothy’s little porch, I was -just beginning to be afraid that I might learn to love her. She had so -suddenly matured, somehow. Her womanhood seemed to have come upon her as -the sunrise does in the tropics without any premonitory twilight. It was -the coming of serious duty upon her, I suppose that wrought the change. -At any rate, with the outbreak of the fever, she seemed to take on a new -character. Without losing her childlike trustfulness and simplicity, she -suddenly became a woman, strong to do and to endure. And her beauty came -too, so that I caught myself thinking of her when I ought to have been -thinking of something else.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, yes,” Edmonia broke in. “I know all that and sympathize with it. -You remember I found it all out before you did.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277"></a>{277}</span></p> - -<p>“Yes, I was coming to that. Perhaps I wandered from my story a bit—”</p> - -<p>“You did, of course. But under the circumstances I forgive you. Go on.”</p> - -<p>“Well, when you told me it was too late for me to save myself from -loving Dorothy, I knew you were right, though I had not suspected it -before. I hoped, however, that it might not be too late to save Dorothy -from myself. I did not want to lure her to a life that was sure to bring -much of trial and hard work and sympathetic suffering to her.”</p> - -<p>“But why not? Isn’t such a life, with the man she loves, very greatly -the happiest one she could lead? Have you studied her character to so -little purpose as to imagine—”</p> - -<p>“No, no, no!” he broke in. “I saw all that when I thought the matter -out, after you left the camp that day. But at first I didn’t see it, and -I didn’t want Dorothy sacrificed—especially to me.”</p> - -<p>“No woman is sacrificed when she is permitted to share the work, the -purposes, the aspirations of the man she loves. How men do misjudge -women and misunderstand them! It is not ease, or wealth, or luxury that -makes a woman happy—for many a woman is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278"></a>{278}</span> wretched with all these—it is -love, and love never does its work so perfectly in a woman’s soul as -when it demands sacrifice at her hands.”</p> - -<p>Edmonia said this oracularly, as she sat staring into the fire. Arthur -wondered where she had learned this truth, seeing that love had never -come to her either to offer its rewards or to demand sacrifice at her -hands. She caught his look and was instantly on her guard lest his -shrewd gift of observation should penetrate her secret.</p> - -<p>“You wonder how I know all this, Arthur,” she quickly added. “I see the -question in your face. For answer I need only remind you that I am a -woman, and a woman’s intuitions sometimes serve her as well as -experience might. Go on, and tell me what it was you planned before I -wrote you concerning Dorothy’s case. What was the particular excuse you -invented at that time for running away?”</p> - -<p>“It is of no consequence now, but I don’t mind telling you. I conceived -the notion of freeing myself from the obligations that tie me here in -Virginia by giving Wyanoke and all that pertains to it to Dorothy.”</p> - -<p>“I almost wish you had proposed that to Dorothy. I should have been an -interested witness of the scorn and anger which she would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279"></a>{279}</span> have visited -upon your poor foolish head. It would have taken you five years to undo -that mistake. But those five years would have been years of suffering to -Dorothy; so on the whole I’m glad you didn’t make the suggestion. What -spasm of returning reason restrained you from that crowning folly?”</p> - -<p>“Your letter, of course. When you told me that those who had assumed the -rôle of Special Providence to Dorothy had planned to marry her to that -young Jackanapes—”</p> - -<p>“Don’t call him contemptuous names, Arthur. He doesn’t need them as a -label, and it only ruffles your temper. Go on with what you were -saying.”</p> - -<p>“Well, of course, you see how the case stood. Even if I had not cared -for Dorothy in any but a friendly way, I should have felt it to be the -very highest duty of my life to save her from this hideous thing. I -decided instantly that whatever else might happen I would save Dorothy -from this fate. So I have worked out a new plan, and I want you to help -me carry it out.”</p> - -<p>“Go on. You know you may count upon me.”</p> - -<p>“Well, I want you to take Dorothy away from here. I want you to show her -a larger<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280"></a>{280}</span> world than she has ever dreamed of. I want you to take her to -Washington, Baltimore and New York and introduce her to the best society -there is there. Then I want you to take her to Europe for a year. She -must see pictures and sculpture, and the noblest examples of -architecture there are in the world. That side of her nature which has -been so wickedly cramped and crippled and dwarfed, must be cultivated -and developed. She must hear the greatest music there is, and see the -greatest plays and the greatest players. Fortunately she is fluent in -her French and she readily understands Italian. Her capacity for -enjoyment is matchless. It is that of a full-souled woman who has been -starved on this side of her nature. You once bade me remember that in -anything I did toward educating her I was educating my future wife. I -don’t know whether it will prove to be so or not. But in any case this -thing must be done. She must know all these higher joys of life while -yet she is young enough to enjoy them to the full, and she must have the -education they will bring to her. She will be seventeen in March—only -three months hence. She is at the age of greatest susceptibility to -impressions.”</p> - -<p>“Your thought mightily pleases me, Arthur,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281"></a>{281}</span>” said Edmonia. “But I warn -you there is serious danger in it.”</p> - -<p>“Danger for Dorothy?”</p> - -<p>“No. But danger for you.”</p> - -<p>“That need not matter. You mean that—”</p> - -<p>“I mean just that. In all this Dorothy will rapidly change—at least in -her points of view. Her conceptions of life will undergo something like -a revolution. At the end of it all she may not care for any such life as -you can offer her, especially as she will meet many brilliant men under -circumstances calculated to make the most of their attractions. She may -transfer her love for you, which is at present a thing quite -unconsciously felt, to some one who shall ask for it. For I suppose you -will say nothing to her now that might make her conscious of her state -of mind and put her under bonds to you?”</p> - -<p>“Quite certainly, no! My tongue shall be dumb and even my actions and -looks shall be kept in leash till she is gone. Can’t you understand, -Edmonia—”</p> - -<p>“I understand better than you think, and I honor you for your courage -and your unselfishness. You want this thing done in order that Dorothy -may have the fullest possible chance in life and in love—in order that -if there be in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282"></a>{282}</span> this world a higher happiness for her than any that you -can offer, she may have it?”</p> - -<p>“That is precisely my thought, Edmonia. You have expressed it far better -than I could have done. I don’t want to take an unfair advantage of -Dorothy, as I suppose I easily might. I don’t want her to accept my love -and agree to share my life, in ignorance of what better men and better -things there may be for her elsewhere. If I am ever to make her my own, -it must be after she knows enough to choose intelligently. Should she -choose some other life than that which I can offer, some other love than -mine, she must never know the blight that her choice cannot fail to -inflict upon me. As for myself, I have my crucibles and my work, and I -should be better content, knowing that she was happy in some life of her -own choosing, than knowing that I had made her mine by taking unfair -advantage of her inexperience.”</p> - -<p>“Arthur Brent,” said Edmonia, rising, not to dismiss him, but for the -sake of giving emphasis to her utterance, “you are—well, let me say it -all in a single phrase—you are <i>worthy of Dorothy South</i>. You are such -a man as women of the higher sort dream of, but rarely meet. It is not -quite convenient for me to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283"></a>{283}</span> undertake this mission for you just now, but -convenience must courtesy to my will. I’ll arrange the matter with -Dorothy at once and we’ll be off in a fortnight or less. Fortunately no -dressmaking need detain us, for we must have our first important gowns -made in Richmond and Baltimore, a larger supply in New York, and then -Paris will take care of its own. I’ll have some trouble with Aunt Polly, -of course; she regards travel very much as she does manslaughter, but -you may safely leave her to me.”</p> - -<p>“But, Edmonia, you said this thing would subject you to some -inconvenience?”</p> - -<p>“So it will. But that’s a trifle. I had half promised to spend July at -the White Sulphur, but that can wait for another July. Now you are to -tell me goodby a few minutes hence and ride away. For I must write a -note to Dorothy—no, on second thoughts I’ll drive over and see her and -Aunt Polly, and you are to remain here and dine with brother. Dorothy -and I are going to talk about clothes, and we shan’t want any men folk -around. I’ll dine at Wyanoke, and by tomorrow we’ll have half a dozen -seamstresses at work making things enough to last us to Baltimore.”</p> - -<p>“But tell me, Edmonia,” said Arthur, beginning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284"></a>{284}</span> to think of practical -things, “can you and Dorothy travel alone?”</p> - -<p>“We could, if it were necessary. You know I’ve been abroad twice and I -know ‘the tricks and the manners’ of Europe. But it will not be -necessary. I enjoy the advantage of having been educated at Le Febvre’s -School, in Richmond. That sort of thing has its compensations. Among -them is the fact that it is apt to locate one’s friendships variously as -to place. I have a schoolmate in New York—a schoolmate of five or six -years ago, and a very dear friend—Mildred Livingston. She is married -and rich and restless. She likes nothing so much as travel and I happen -to know that she is just now planning a trip to Europe. I’ll write to -her today and we’ll go together. As her husband, Nicholas Van Rensselaer -Livingston, hasn’t anything else to do he’ll go along just to look after -the baggage and swear in English, which they don’t understand, at the -Continental porters and their kind. He’s really very good at that sort -of thing.”</p> - -<p>“It is well for a man to be good at something.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, isn’t it? I’ve often said so to Mildred. Besides he worships the -ground—or the carpets, rather,—that she walks on. For he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285"></a>{285}</span> never lets -her put her foot on the ground if he can help it. He’s a dear fellow—in -his way—and Mildred is really fond of him—especially when he’s looking -after the tickets and the baggage. Now you must let me run away. You are -to stay here and dine with brother, you know.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286"></a>{286}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXV" id="XXV"></a>XXV<br /> -<small>AUNT POLLY’S VIEW OF THE RISKS</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">O</span><b>DDLY</b> enough Edmonia had very little of the difficulty she had -anticipated in securing Aunt Polly’s consent to the proposed trip. -Perhaps the old lady’s opinions with respect to the detrimental effects -of travel were held like her views on railroads and the rotundity of the -earth, humorously rather than with seriousness. Perhaps she appreciated, -better than she would admit, the advantages Dorothy was likely to reap -from an introduction to a larger world. Perhaps she did not like the -task set her of cramping Dorothy’s mind and soul to the mould of a -marriage with young Jeff Peyton. Certain it is that she did not look -forward to that fruition of her labors as Dorothy’s personal guardian -with anything like pleasure. While she felt herself bound to carry out -her instructions, she felt no alarm at the prospect of having their -purpose defeated in the end by an enlargement<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287"></a>{287}</span> of horizon which would -prompt Dorothy to rebellion. Perhaps all these things, and perhaps -something else. Perhaps Aunt Polly suspected the truth, and rejoiced in -it. Who shall say? Who shall set a limit to the penetration of so shrewd -a woman, after she has lived for more than half a century with her eyes -wide open and her mind always quick in sympathy with those whom she -loves?</p> - -<p>Whatever the reason of her complaisance may have been, she yielded -quickly to Edmonia’s persuasions, offering only her general deprecation -of travel as an objection and quickly brushing even that aside.</p> - -<p>“I can’t understand,” she said, “why people who are permitted to live -and die in Virginia should want to go gadding about in less desirable -places. But we’ve let the Yankees build railroads down here, and we must -take the consequences. Everybody wants to travel nowadays and Dorothy is -like all the rest, I suppose. Anyhow, you’ll be with her, Edmonia, and -so she can’t come to any great harm, unless it’s true that the world is -round. If that’s so, of course your ship will fall off when you get over -on the other side of it.”</p> - -<p>“But Europe isn’t on the other side of it Aunt Polly, and besides I’ve -been there twice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288"></a>{288}</span> already you know, and I didn’t fall off the earth -either time.”</p> - -<p>“No, you were lucky, and maybe you’ll be lucky this time. Anyhow you -have all made up your minds and I’ll interpose no objections.”</p> - -<p>It was by no means so easy to win Dorothy’s consent to the proposed -journey.</p> - -<p>“I ought not to run away from my duty,” she said, in objection to a -proposal which opened otherwise delightful prospects to her mind.</p> - -<p>“But it’s your duty to go, child,” Edmonia answered. “You need the trip -and all the education it will give you. What is there for you to do -here, anyhow?”</p> - -<p>“Why, Cousin Arthur might need me! You know he never tells lies, and he -says I have really helped him to save people’s lives in this fever -time.”</p> - -<p>“But that is all over now and it won’t occur again. Arthur has taken -care of that by burning the old quarters and building new ones in a -wholesome place. By the way, Dorothy, you’ll be glad to know that his -example is already having its influence. Brother has decided to build -new quarters for our servants at a spot which Arthur has selected as the -best one for the purpose on the plantation. Anyhow<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289"></a>{289}</span> there’ll be no -further fever outbreaks at Wyanoke or at Pocahontas, now that Arthur is -master there also.”</p> - -<p>“But he might need me in other ways,” answered the persistently -reluctant Dorothy. “And besides he is teaching me chemistry and other -scientific things that will make me useful in life. No, I can’t go away -now.”</p> - -<p>“But, you absurd child,” answered Edmonia, “there will be plenty of time -to learn all that when you come back. You are ridiculously young yet. -You won’t be seventeen till March, and you know a great deal more about -science than Arthur did at your age. Besides this is his plan for you, -not mine. He wants you to learn the things this trip will teach you, a -great deal more than he wants you to learn chemistry and that sort of -thing. He knows what you need in the way of education, and it is at his -suggestion that I’m going to take you North and to Europe. He -appreciates your abilities as you never will, and it is his earnest wish -that you shall make this trip as a part of your education.”</p> - -<p>“Very well,” answered Dorothy. “I’ll ask him if he wants me to go, and -if he says yes, I’ll go. Of course it will be delightful to see great -cities and the ocean and Pompeii and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290"></a>{290}</span> pictures and all the rest of it. -But a woman mustn’t think of enjoyment alone. That’s the way women -become bad. My father often told me so, and I don’t want to be bad.”</p> - -<p>“You never will, Dorothy, dear. You couldn’t become bad if you wanted -to. And as for Arthur, I assure you it was he who planned this journey -for you and asked me to take you on it. Don’t you think he knows what is -best for you?”</p> - -<p>“Why, of course, he does! I never questioned that. But maybe he isn’t -just thinking of what is best for me. Maybe he is only thinking of what -would give me pleasure. Anyhow I’ll ask him and make sure. He won’t -deceive me. And he couldn’t if he tried. I always know when he’s making -believe and when I get angry with him for pretending he always quits it -and tells me the truth.”</p> - -<p>“Then you’ll go if Arthur tells you he really wants you to go, and -really thinks it best for you to go?”</p> - -<p>“Of course, I will! I’ll do anything and everything he wants me to do, -now and always. He’s the best man in the world, and the greatest, -Edmonia. Don’t you believe that? If you don’t I shall quit loving you.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, you may safely go on loving me then,”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291"></a>{291}</span> answered Edmonia bowing her -head very low to inspect something minute in the fancy work she had in -her lap, and in that way hiding her flushed face for the moment. “I -think all the good things about Arthur that you do, Dorothy. As I know -what his answer to your questions will be, we’ll order the seamstresses -to begin work tomorrow morning. I’ll have everything made at Branton, so -you are to come over there soon in the morning.”</p> - -<p>The catechising of Arthur yielded the results that Edmonia had -anticipated.</p> - -<p>“Yes, Dorothy,” he said, “I am really very anxious that you shall make -this trip. It will give you more of enjoyment than you can possibly -anticipate, but it will do something much better than that. It will -repair certain defects in your education, which have been stupidly -provided for by people who did not appreciate your wonderful gifts and -your remarkable character. For Dorothy, dear, though you do not know it, -you are a person of really exceptional gifts both of mind and -character—gifts that ought to be cultivated, but which have been -suppressed instead. You do not know it, and perhaps you won’t quite -believe it, but you have capacities such as no other woman in this -community can even pretend to possess. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292"></a>{292}</span> are very greatly the -superior of any woman you ever saw.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, not of Edmonia!” the girl quickly replied.</p> - -<p>“Yes—even of Edmonia,” he answered.</p> - -<p>The girl’s face was hotly flushed. She did not know why, but such -praise, so sincerely given, and coming from the man whom she regarded as -“the best man in the world, and the greatest,” was gladsome to her soul. -Her native modesty forbade her to believe it, quite, “but,” she argued -with herself, “of course he knows better than I do, better than anybody -else ever can. And, of course, I must do all I can to improve myself in -order that I may satisfy his expectations of me. I’ll ask him all about -that before I leave.”</p> - -<p>And she did.</p> - -<p>“Cousin Arthur,” she said one evening as they two sat with Aunt Polly -before a crackling fire in “the chamber”—let the author suspend that -sentence in mid air while he explains.</p> - -<p>The chamber, in an old plantation house, was that room on the ground -floor in which the master of the plantation, whether married or -unmarried, slept. It was the family room always. Into it came those -guests whose intimacy was sufficient to warrant intrusion upon<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293"></a>{293}</span> the -penetralia. The others were entertained in the drawing room. The word -chamber was pronounced “chawmber,” just as the word “aunt” was properly -pronounced “awnt.” The chamber had a bed in it and a bureau. In a closet -big enough for a modern bedroom there was a dressing case with its fit -appurtenances. In the chamber there was a lounge that tempted to -afternoon siestas, and there were great oaken arm chairs whose skilful -fashioning for comfort rendered cushions an impertinence. In the chamber -was always the broadest and most cavernous of fire places and the most -satisfactory of fires when the weather was such as to render artificial -heating desirable. In the chamber was usually a carpet softly cushioned -beneath, itself and its cushions being subject to a daily flagellation -out-of-doors in the “soon” hours of morning in order that they might be -relaid before the breakfast-time. All other rooms in the house were apt -to be carpetless, their immaculate white ash floors undergoing a daily -polishing with pine needles and rubbing brushes. The chamber alone was -carpeted in most houses. Why this distinction the author does not -undertake to say. He merely records a fact which was well-nigh universal -in the great plantation houses.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294"></a>{294}</span></p> - -<p>So much for the chamber. Let us return to the sentence it interrupted.</p> - -<p>“Cousin Arthur,” Dorothy said, “I wish you would mark out a course of -study for me to pursue during this journey, so that I may get out of it -all the good I can.”</p> - -<p>Arthur picked up a dry sponge and dropped it into a basin of water.</p> - -<p>“Look, Dorothy,” he said. “That is the only course I shall mark out for -you.”</p> - -<p>“It is very dull of me, I suppose,” said the girl, “but I really don’t -understand.”</p> - -<p>“Why, I didn’t tell the sponge what to absorb, and yet as you see it has -drunk up all the water it can hold. It is just so with you and your -journey. You need no instruction as to what you shall learn by travel or -by mingling in the social life of great cities. You are like that -sponge. You will absorb all that you need of instruction, when once you -are cast into the water of life. You have very superior gifts of -observation. There is no fear that you will fail to get all that is best -out of travel and society. It is only the stupid people who need be told -what they should see and what they should think about it, and the stupid -people would much better stay at home.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295"></a>{295}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXVI" id="XXVI"></a>XXVI<br /> -<small>AUNT POLLY’S ADVICE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>F</b> Aunt Polly had entertained any real desire to forbid the expedition -planned for Dorothy, the prompt interference of Madison Peyton in that -behalf would have dissipated it.</p> - -<p>No sooner had Peyton learned of the contemplated journey than he bustled -over to Wyanoke to see Aunt Polly regarding it.</p> - -<p>It is not a comfortable thing to visit a man with whom one has recently -quarrelled and to whom one has had to send a letter of apology. Even -Peyton, thick-skinned and self-assured as he was, would probably have -hesitated to make himself a guest at Wyanoke at this time but for the -happy chance that Arthur was absent in Richmond for a few days.</p> - -<p>Seizing upon the opportunity thus afforded, Peyton promptly visited Aunt -Polly to enter a very earnest and insistent protest. He was genuinely -alarmed. He realized Dorothy’s moral and intellectual superiority to his -son.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296"></a>{296}</span> He was shrewd enough to foresee that travel and a year’s -association with men and women of attractive culture and refined -intellectual lives would, of necessity, increase this disparity and -perhaps—nay, almost certainly—make Jefferson Peyton seem a distinctly -unworthy and inferior person in Dorothy’s eyes. He realized that the -arrangement made some years before between himself and Dr. South, was -not binding upon Dorothy, except in so far as it might appeal to her -conscience and to her loyalty to her father’s memory when the time -should be ripe to reveal it to her. For as yet she knew nothing of the -matter.</p> - -<p>She had liked young Peyton when he and she were children together. His -abounding good nature had made him an agreeable playmate. But as they -had grown up, the sympathy between them had steadily decreased. The good -nature which had made him agreeable as a playmate, had become a distinct -weakness of character as he had matured. He lacked fixity of purpose, -industry and even conscience—while Dorothy, born with these attributes, -had strengthened them by every act and thought of her life.</p> - -<p>The young man had courage enough to speak the truth fearlessly on all -occasions that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297"></a>{297}</span> strongly called for truth and courage, but Dorothy had -discovered that in minor matters he was untruthful. To her integrity of -mind it was shocking that a young man should make false pretences, as he -had done when they had talked of literature and the like. She could not -understand a false pretence, and she had no toleration for the weakness -that indulges in it.</p> - -<p>Moreover in intellectual matters, Dorothy had completely outgrown her -former playmate. The bright boy, whom Dorothy’s father had chosen as one -destined to be a fit life companion for her, had remained a bright boy. -And that which astonishes us as brilliancy in a child ceases to impress -us as the child grows into manhood, if the promise of it is not -fulfilled by growth. A bright boy, ten or twelve years old, is a very -pleasant person to contemplate; but a youth who remains nothing more -than a bright boy as he grows into manhood, is distinctly disappointing -and depressing.</p> - -<p>It is to be said to the credit of Madison Peyton that he had done all -that he could—or rather all that he knew how—to promote the -intellectual development of this his first born son. He had lavished -money upon tutors for him, when he ought instead to have sent him to -some school whose all dominating democracy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298"></a>{298}</span> would have compelled the boy -to work for his standing and to realize the value of personal endeavor. -In brief Madison Peyton had made that mistake which the much richer men -of our day so often make. He had tried to provide for his son a royal -road to learning, only to find that the pleasures of the roadside had -won the wayfarer away from the objects of his journey.</p> - -<p>Madison Peyton now realized all this. He understood how little profit -his son had got out of the very expensive education provided for him, -how completely he had failed to acquire intellectual tastes, and in a -dimly subconscious way, he understood how ill equipped the young man was -to win the love of such a girl as Dorothy, or to make her happy as his -wife. And he realized also that if travel and culture and a larger -thinking should weaken in Dorothy’s mind—as it easily might—that sense -of obligation to fulfil her father’s desires, on which mainly he had -relied for the carrying out of the program of marriage between these -two, with Pocahontas plantation as an incidental advantage, the youth -must win Dorothy by a worthiness of her love, or lose her for lack of -it.</p> - -<p>The worthiness in his son was obviously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299"></a>{299}</span> wanting. There remained only -Dorothy’s overweening loyalty to her father’s memory and will as a -reliance for the accomplishment of Madison Peyton’s desires. It was to -prevent the weakening of that loyalty that he appealed to Aunt Polly to -forbid the travel plan.</p> - -<p>Aunt Polly from the first refused. “Dorothy is a wonderful girl,” she -said, “and she has wonderful gifts. I shall certainly not stand in the -way of their development.”</p> - -<p>“But let me remind you, Cousin Polly,” answered Peyton, “that Dorothy’s -life is marked out for her. Don’t you think it would be a distinct -injustice to her to unfit her as this trip cannot fail to do, for the -life that she must lead? Will not that tend to render her unhappy?”</p> - -<p>“Happiness is not a matter of circumstance, Madison. It is a matter of -character. But that isn’t what I meant to say. You want me to keep -Dorothy here in order that she may not grow, or develop, or whatever -else you choose to call it. You want to keep her as ignorant as you can, -simply because you know she is already the superior of the young man -whom you and Dr. South, in your ignorant assumption of the attributes of -Divine Providence, have selected to be her husband. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300"></a>{300}</span> are afraid that -she will outgrow him. Isn’t that what you mean, Madison?”</p> - -<p>“Well, yes, in a way. You put it very baldly, but——”</p> - -<p>“But that’s the truth, isn’t it? That’s what you’re afraid of?”</p> - -<p>“Well, the fact is I don’t believe in educating girls above their -station in life.”</p> - -<p>“How can anything be above Dorothy’s station, Madison? She is the -daughter and sole heir of one of the oldest and best families in -Virginia. I have never heard of anything higher than that.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, certainly. But that isn’t what I mean. You see Dorothy has been -permitted to read a lot of books that young women don’t usually read, -and study a lot of subjects that young women don’t usually study. She -has got her head full of notions, and this trip will make the matter -worse. I think women should look up to their husbands and not down upon -them, and how can Dorothy——”</p> - -<p>“How would it do, Madison, for the young men to make an effort on their -own account, to improve their minds and build up their characters so -that their wives might look up to them without an effort? There are some -men to whom the most highly cultivated women can<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301"></a>{301}</span> look up in real -respect, and it is quite natural that the best of the young women should -choose these for their husbands. Many young men refuse to make -themselves worthy in that way, or fail in such efforts as they may make -to accomplish it. If I understand you properly, you would forbid the -girls to cultivate what is best in them lest they grow superior to their -coming husbands.”</p> - -<p>“That’s it, Cousin Polly. The happy women are those who feel the -superiority of their husbands and find pleasure in bowing to it.”</p> - -<p>“I thought that was your idea. It is simply abominable. It makes no more -of a woman than of a heifer or a filly. It regards her as nothing more -or better than a convenience. I’ll have nothing to do with such a -doctrine. Dorothy South is a girl of unusual character, and unusual -mind, so far as I can judge. She has naturally done all she could to -cultivate what is best in herself, and, so far as I can control the -matter she shall go on doing so, as every woman and every man ought to -do. When she has made the best she can of herself, she may perhaps meet -some man worthy of her, some man fit to be her companion in life. If she -does, she’ll probably marry him. If she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302"></a>{302}</span> meets none such she can remain -single. That isn’t at all the worst thing that can happen to a woman. It -is a hideous thing to marry a girl to her inferior. You have yourself -suggested that such a marriage can only mean wretchedness to both. And -your plan of avoiding such marriages is to keep the girls inferior by -denying them the privilege of self-cultivation. I tell you it is an -abominable plan. It’s Turkish, and the only right way to carry it out is -to shut women up in harems and forbid them to learn how to read. For if -a woman or a man of brains learns that much, the rest cannot be -prevented. So you may make up your mind that Dorothy is going to make -this trip. I’ve already consented to it, and the more I think about it, -the more I am in favor of it. My only fear is that she may fall off the -earth when she gets to the other side, and I reckon that will not -happen, for both Arthur and Edmonia assure me they didn’t fall off when -they were over there.”</p> - -<p>Peyton saw the necessity of making some stronger appeal to Aunt Polly, -than any he had yet put forward. So he addressed himself to her -conscience and her exalted sense of honor.</p> - -<p>“Doubtless you are right, Cousin Polly,” he said placatively, “at least -as to the general<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303"></a>{303}</span> principle. But, as you clearly understand, this is a -peculiar case. You see Dorothy <i>must</i> marry Jefferson in any event. -Don’t you think it would be very unfair and even cruel to her, to let -her unfit herself for happiness in the only marriage she is permitted to -make? Will it not be cruel to let her get her head full of notions, and -perhaps even accept some man’s attentions, and then find yourself in -honor bound to show her the letter you hold from Dr. South, instructing -her to carry out his will? You know she will obey her dead father and -marry Jefferson. Isn’t it clearly your duty to shield and guard her -against influences that cannot fail to unfit her for happiness in the -marriage she must make?”</p> - -<p>“I am sole judge of that matter, Madison. I am the guardian of Dorothy’s -person during her nonage—four years longer. By the terms of Dr. South’s -will she must not marry until she is twenty-one, except with my consent. -With my consent she may marry at any time. As to the letter you speak -of, you have never had the privilege of reading it, and I do not intend -to show it to you. It is less peremptory, perhaps than you think. It -does not command Dorothy to marry your son. It only recommends such a -marriage to her as a safe and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304"></a>{304}</span> prudent one, securing to her the -advantages of marriage into as good a family as her own. But there are -other families than yours as good as her own, and I may see fit not to -show Dorothy her father’s letter at all. I am not bound to let her read -it, by any clause in his will, or by any promise to him, or even by any -injunction from him. I am left sole judge as to that. If I had not been -so left free to use my own discretion I should never have accepted the -responsibility of the girl’s guardianship.”</p> - -<p>“You astonish me!” exclaimed Peyton. “I had supposed this matter settled -beyond recall. I had trusted Dr. South’s honor——”</p> - -<p>“Stop, Madison!” interposed Aunt Polly. “If you say one word in question -of Dr. South’s honor and integrity, I will burn that letter now, and -never, so long as I live mention its existence.”</p> - -<p>“Oh, I didn’t mean—”</p> - -<p>“It seems to me you say a good many things you do not mean today, -Madison. As for me, I am saying only what I mean, and perhaps not quite -all of that. Let me end the whole matter by telling you this: I am going -to let Dorothy make this trip. I am going to give her every chance I can -to cultivate herself into a perfect womanhood—many chances that I -longed for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305"></a>{305}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/p304.jpg" width="199" height="500" alt="DOROTHY SOUTH." title="" /> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="captv">D</span>OROTHY<br /> SOUTH.</span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">in my own girlhood, but could not command. I may or may not some day -show her Dr. South’s letter. That shall be as my judgment dictates. I -shall not consent now or hereafter, while my authority or influence -lasts, to Dorothy’s marriage to anybody except some man of her own -choosing, who shall seem to me fit to make her happy. If you want -Jefferson to marry her, I notify you now that he must fairly win her. -And my advice to you is very earnest that he set to work at once to -render himself worthy of her; to repair his character; to cultivate -himself, if he can, up to her moral and intellectual level; to make of -himself a man to whom she can look up, as you say, and not down. There, -that is all I have to say.”</p> - -<p>Madison Peyton saw this to be good advice, and he decided to act upon -it. But, as so often happens with good advice, he “took it wrong end -first,” in the phrase of that time and country. He decided that his son -should also go north and to Europe, following the party to which Dorothy -belonged as closely as possible, seeing as much as he could of her, and -paying court to her upon every opportunity.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306"></a>{306}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXVII" id="XXVII"></a>XXVII<br /> -<small>DIANA’S EXALTATION</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was the middle of January, 1860, when Dorothy bade Arthur good-by -and went away upon her mission of enjoyment and education.</p> - -<p>It is not easy for us now to picture to ourselves what travel in this -country was in that year which seems to the older ones among us so -recent. In 1860 there was not such a thing as a sleeping car in all the -world. The nearest approach to that necessity of modern life which then -existed, was a car with high backed seats, which was used on a few of -the longer lines of railroad. For another thing there were no such -things in existence as through trains. Every railroad in the country was -an independent line, whose trains ran only between its own termini. The -traveller must “change cars” at every terminus, and usually the process -involved a delay of several hours and a long omnibus ride—perhaps at -midnight—through the streets of some city which had thriftily provided<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307"></a>{307}</span> -that its several railroads should place their stations as far apart as -possible in order that their passengers might “leave money in the town.” -The passenger from a south side county of Virginia intending to go to -New York, for example, must take a train to Richmond; thence after -crossing the town in an omnibus and waiting for an hour or two, take -another train to Acquia Creek, near Fredericksburg; there transfer to a -steamboat for Washington; there cross town in an omnibus, and, after -another long wait, take a train for the Relay House; there wait four -hours and then change cars for Baltimore, nine miles away; then take -another omnibus ride to another station; thence a train to Havre de -Grace, where he must cross a river on a ferry boat; thence by another -train to Philadelphia, where, after still another omnibus transfer and -another delay, one had a choice of routes to New York, the preferred one -being by way of Camden and Amboy, and thence up the bay twenty miles or -so, to the battery in New York. There was no such thing as a dining car, -a buffet car or a drawing room car in all the land. There were none but -hand brakes on the trains, and the cars were held together by loose -coupling links. The rails were not fastened together at their<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308"></a>{308}</span> badly -laminated ends, and it was the fashion to call trains that reached a -maximum speed of twenty miles an hour, “lightning expresses,” and to -stop them at every little wayside station. The engines were fed upon -wood, and it was a common thing for trains to stop their intolerable -jolting for full twenty minutes to take fresh supplies of wood and -water.</p> - -<p>There was immeasurably more of weariness then, in a journey from -Richmond or Cincinnati or Buffalo to New York, than would be tolerated -now in a trip across the continent. As a consequence few people -travelled except for short distances and a journey which we now think -nothing of making comfortably in a single night, was then a matter of -grave consequence, to be undertaken only after much deliberation and -with much of preparation. New York seemed more distant to the dweller in -the West or South than Hong Kong and Yokohama do in our time, and the -number of people who had journeyed beyond the borders of our own country -was so small that those who had done so were regarded as persons of -interestingly adventurous experience.</p> - -<p>Quite necessarily all parts of the country were markedly provincial in -speech, manner, habits and even in dress. New England had a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309"></a>{309}</span> nasal -dialect of its own, so firmly rooted in use that it has required two or -three generations of exacting Yankee school marms to eradicate it from -the speech even of the educated class. New York state had another, and -the Southerner was known everywhere by a speech which “bewrayed” him.</p> - -<p>And as it was with speech, so also was it with manners, customs, ideas. -Prejudice was everywhere rampant, opinion intolerant, and usage -merciless in its narrow illiberality. Only in what was then the -West—the region between the Alleghenies and the Mississippi—was there -anything of cosmopolitan liberality and tolerance. They were found in -that region because the population of the West had been drawn from all -parts of the country. Attrition of mind with mind, and the mingling of -men of various origin had there in a large degree worn off the angles of -provincial prejudice and bred a liberality of mind elsewhere uncommon in -our country.</p> - -<p>Edmonia and Dorothy were to make their formidable journey to New York in -easy stages. They remained for several days with friends in Richmond, -while completing those preliminary preparations which were necessary -before setting out for the national capital.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310"></a>{310}</span> They were to stay in -Washington for a fortnight, in Baltimore for three weeks, in -Philadelphia for a week or two, and in New York for nearly two months -before sailing for Europe in May.</p> - -<p>The time was a very troubled one, on the subject of slavery. Not only -was it true that if the owner of a slave took the negro with him into -any one of the free states he by that act legally set him free, but it -was also true that the most devoted and loyal servant thus taken from -the South into a Northern state was subjected to every form of -persuasive solicitation to claim and assert his freedom. It was -nevertheless the custom of Southern men, and still more of Southern -women, to take with them on their travels one or more of their personal -servants, trusting to their loyalty alone for continued allegiance. For -the attitude of such personal servants in Virginia at that time was -rather that of proud and voluntary allegiance to loved masters and -mistresses who belonged to them as a cherished possession, than that of -men and women held in unwilling bondage.</p> - -<p>Accordingly it was arranged that Edmonia’s maid, Dinah—or Diana as she -had come to call herself since hearing her mistress read a “history<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311"></a>{311}</span> -pome” aloud—should accompany the two young women as their joint -servitor.</p> - -<p>As soon as this arrangement was announced at Branton, Diana began what -Polydore called “a puttin’ on of airs.” In plainer phrase she began to -snub Polydore mercilessly, whereas she had recently been so gracious in -her demeanor towards him as to give him what he called “extinct -discouragement.”</p> - -<p>After it was settled that she was to accompany “Miss Mony an’ Miss -Dorothy” to “de Norf” and to “Yurrop”—as she wrote to all her friends -who were fortunate enough to know how to “read writin’,” there was, as -Polydore declared, “no livin’ in de house wid her.” She sailed about the -place like a frigate, delivering her shots to the right and left—most -of them aimed at Polydore, with casual and contemptuous attention, now -and then, to the other house servants.</p> - -<p>“I ’clar’ to gracious,” said Elsie, one of the housemaids, “ef Diana -ain’t a puttin’ on of jes’ as many airs as ef she’d been all over -a’ready, an’ she ain’t never been out of dis county yit.”</p> - -<p>“Wonder ef she’ll look at folks when she gits back,” said Fred, the -cadet of the dining<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312"></a>{312}</span> room, who was being trained under Polydore’s -tutelage to keep his nails clean and to offer dishes to guests at their -left hands.</p> - -<p>“Don’ you be in too big a hurry to fin’ out dat, you nigga,” rejoined -Polydore, the loyalty of whose love for Diana would brook no criticism -of her on the part of an underling. “You’se got enough to attend to in -gittin’ yer manners into shape. Diana’s a superior pusson, an’ you ain’t -got no ’casion to criticise her. You jes’ take what yer gits an’ be -thankful like Lazarus wuz when de rich man dropped water outer his hand -on his tongue.”</p> - -<p>Polydore’s biblical erudition seems to have been a trifle at fault at -this point. But at any rate his simile had its intended effect upon the -young darkey, who, slipping a surreptitious beaten biscuit into his -pocket, retreated to the distant kitchen to devour it.</p> - -<p>At that moment Diana entered the dining room with the air of a Duchess, -and, with unwonted sweetness, said:</p> - -<p>“Please, Polydore, bring me de tea things. De ladies is faint.”</p> - -<p>Polydore, anxious that Diana’s gentle mood should endure, made all haste -to bring what she desired. He made too much haste, unluckily, for in his -hurry he managed to spill<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313"></a>{313}</span> a little hot water from a pitcher he was -carrying on a tray, and some drops of it fell upon the sleeve of Diana’s -daintily laundered cambric gown.</p> - -<p>The stately bronze colored namesake of the ancient goddess rose in -offended dignity, and looked long at the offender before addressing him. -Then she witheringly put the question:</p> - -<p>“Whar’s your manners dis mawnin’, Polydore? Jes’ spose I was Miss Mony -now; would you go sloppin’ things over her dat way?”</p> - -<p>Even a worm will turn, we are told, and Polydore was prouder than a -worm. For once he lost his self-control so far as to say in reply:</p> - -<p>“But you <i>ain’t</i> Miss Mony, dough you seems to think you is. I’se tired -o’ yer highty tighty airs. Git de tea things for yerse’f!” With that -Polydore left the dining room, and Diana, curiously enough, made no -reference to the incident when next she encountered him, but was all -smiles and sweetness instead.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314"></a>{314}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXVIII" id="XXVIII"></a>XXVIII<br /> -<small>THE ADVANCING SHADOW</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">N</span><b>O</b> sooner were Dorothy and Edmonia gone than Arthur turned again to -affairs. It was a troubled uneasy time in Virginia, a time of sore -apprehension and dread. The “irrepressible conflict” over slavery had -that year taken on new and more threatening features than ever before.</p> - -<p>There was now a strong political party at the North the one important -article of whose creed was hostility to the further extension of slavery -into the territories. It was a strictly sectional party in its -composition, having no existence anywhere at the South. It was -influential in Congress, and in 1856 it had strongly supported a -candidate of its own for president. By the beginning of 1860 its -strength had been greatly increased and circumstances rendered probable -its success in electing a president that year, for the hopeless division -of the Democratic party, which occurred later in the year, was already -clearly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315"></a>{315}</span> foreshadowed, an event which in fact resulted in the nomination -of three rival candidates against Mr. Lincoln and made his election -certain in spite of a heavy popular majority against him.</p> - -<p>Had this been all, Virginia would not have been greatly disturbed by the -political situation and prospect. But during the preceding autumn the -Virginians had been filled with apprehension for the safety of their -homes and families by John Brown’s attempt, at Harper’s Ferry, to create -a negro insurrection, the one catastrophe always most dreaded by them. -That raid, quickly suppressed as it was, wrought a revolution in -Virginian feeling and sentiment. The Virginians argued from it, and from -the approval given to it in some parts of the North, that Northern -sentiment was rapidly ripening into readiness for any measures, however -violent they might be, for the extinction of slavery and the destruction -of the autonomy of the Southern States.</p> - -<p>They found it difficult under the circumstances to believe the -Republican party’s disclaimer of all purpose or power to interfere with -the institution in the states. They were convinced that only opportunity -was now wanting to make the Southern States the victims<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316"></a>{316}</span> of an -aggressive war, with a servile insurrection as a horrible feature of it. -They cherished a warm loyalty to that Union which Virginia had done so -much to create, but they began seriously to fear the time when there -would be no peace or safety for their state or even for their wives and -children within the Union. They were filled with resentment, too, of -what they regarded as a wanton and unlawful purpose to interfere with -their private concerns, and to force the country into disunion and civil -war.</p> - -<p>There were hot heads among them, of course, who were ready to welcome -such results; but these were very few. The great body of Virginia’s -people loved the Union, and even to the end—a year later—their -strongest efforts were put forth to persuade both sides to policies of -peace.</p> - -<p>But in the meantime a marked change came over the Virginian mind with -respect to slavery. Many who had always regarded the institution as an -inherited evil to be got rid of as soon as that might be safely -accomplished, modified or reversed their view when called upon to stand -always upon the defensive against what they deemed an unjust judgment of -themselves.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317"></a>{317}</span></p> - -<p>Arthur Brent did not share this change of view, but he shared in the -feelings of resentment which had given it birth. In common with other -Virginians he felt that this was a matter belonging exclusively to the -individual states, and still more strongly he felt that the existing -political situation and the methods of it gravely menaced the Union in -ways which were exceedingly difficult for Southern men who loved the -Union to meet. He saw with regret the great change that was coming over -public and private sentiment in Virginia—sentiment which had been so -strongly favorable to the peaceable extinction of slavery, that John -Letcher—a lifelong advocate of emancipation as Virginia’s true -policy—had been elected Governor the year before upon that as the only -issue of a state campaign.</p> - -<p>But Arthur was still bent upon carrying out his purpose of emancipating -himself and, incidentally his slaves. And the threatening aspect of -political affairs strengthened his determination at any rate to rid both -his own estate and Dorothy’s of debt.</p> - -<p>“When that is done, we shall be safe, no matter what happens,” he told -himself.</p> - -<p>To that end he had already done much. In spite of his preöccupation with -the fever epidemic<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318"></a>{318}</span> he had found time during the autumn to institute -many economies in the management of both plantations. He had shipped and -sold the large surplus crops of apples and sweet potatoes—a thing -wholly unprecedented in that part of Virginia, where no products of the -soil except tobacco and wheat were ever turned to money account. He was -laughed at for what his neighbors characterized as “Yankee farming,” but -both his conscience and his bank account were comforted by the results. -In the same way, having a large surplus of corn that year, he had -fattened nearly double the usual number of hogs, and was now preparing -to sell so much of the bacon as he did not need for plantation uses. In -these and other ways he managed to diminish the Wyanoke debt by more -than a third and that of Pocahontas by nearly one-half, during his first -year as a planter.</p> - -<p>“If they don’t quit laughing at me,” he said to Archer Bannister one -day, “I’ll sell milk and butter and even eggs next summer. I may -conclude to do that anyhow. Those are undignified crops, perhaps, but -I’m not sure that they could not be made more profitable than wheat and -tobacco.”</p> - -<p>“Be careful, Arthur,” answered his friend.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319"></a>{319}</span> “It isn’t safe to make -planting too profitable. It is apt to lead to unkindly remark.”</p> - -<p>“How so? Isn’t planting a business, like any other?”</p> - -<p>“A business, yes, but not like any other. It has a certain dignity to -maintain. But I wasn’t thinking of that. I was thinking of Robert -Copeland.”</p> - -<p>“I wish you’d tell me about him, Archer. What has he done? I observe -that everybody seems to shun him—or at least nobody seems quite willing -to recognize him as a man in our class, though they tell me his family -is fairly good, and personally he seems agreeable. Nobody says anything -to his discredit, and yet I observe a general shoulder shrugging -whenever his name is mentioned.”</p> - -<p>“He makes too many hogsheads of tobacco to the hand,” answered Archer -smiling but speaking with emphasis and slowly.</p> - -<p>“Is he cruel to his negroes?”</p> - -<p>“Yes, and no. He is always good natured with them and kindly in his -fashion, but he works them much too hard. He doesn’t drive them -particularly. Indeed I never heard of his striking one of them. But he -has invented a system of money rewards and the like, by which he keeps -them perpetually racing with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320"></a>{320}</span> each other in their work. They badly -overtax themselves, and the community regards the matter with marked -disfavor. In the matter of family he isn’t in our class at all, but his -father was much respected. He was even a magistrate for some years -before his death. But the son has shut himself out of all social -position by over working his negroes, and the fact that he does it in -ways that are ingenious and not brutal doesn’t alter the fact, at least -not greatly. Of course, if he did it in brutal ways he would be driven -out of the county. As it is he is only shut out of society. I was -jesting when I warned you of danger of that sort. But if you are not -careful in your application of ‘practical’ methods down here, you’ll get -a reputation for money loving, and that wouldn’t be pleasant.”</p> - -<p>Arthur stoutly maintained his right and his duty to market all that the -two plantations produced beyond their own needs, especially so long as -there were debts upon them. Till these should be discharged, he -contended, he had no moral right to let products go to waste which could -be turned into money. Archer admitted the justice of his view, but -laughingly added:</p> - -<p>“It isn’t our way, down here, and we are so conservative that it is -never quite prudent to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321"></a>{321}</span> transgress our traditions. At the same time I -wish we could all rid our estates from debt before the great trouble -comes. For it is surely coming and God only knows what the upshot of it -all will be. Don’t quote me as saying that, please. It isn’t fashionable -with us to be pessimistic, or to doubt either the righteousness or the -ultimate triumph of our cause. But nobody can really foresee the outcome -of our present troubles, and whatever it may be, the men who are out of -debt when it comes—if there are any—will be better equipped to meet -fate with a calm mind than the rest of us.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322"></a>{322}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXIX" id="XXIX"></a>XXIX<br /> -<small>THE CORRESPONDENCE OF DOROTHY</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">F</span><b>ROM</b> the very beginning of her travels Dorothy revealed herself to -Arthur in rapidly succeeding letters which were—at the first, at -least—as frank as had been her talks with him during their long morning -rides together. If in the end her utterance became more guarded, with a -touch of reserve in it, and with a growing tendency to write rather of -other things than of her own emotions, Arthur saw in the fact only an -evidence of that increasing maturity of womanhood which he had intended -her to gain. For Arthur Brent studied Dorothy’s letters as -scrutinizingly as if they had been lessons in biology. Or, more -accurately speaking, he studied Dorothy herself in her letters, in that -way.</p> - -<p>From Richmond she wrote half rejoicings, half lamentations over the long -separation she must endure from him and from all else that had hitherto -constituted her life. Arthur observed that while she mentioned as a -troublesome<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323"></a>{323}</span> thing the necessity of having still another gown made -before leaving for the North, she told him nothing whatever about the -gown itself.</p> - -<p>“Gowns,” he reflected, “are merely necessary adjuncts of life to -Dorothy—as yet. She’ll think of them differently after a while.”</p> - -<p>From Washington she wrote delightedly of things seen, for although the -glory of the national capital had not come upon it in 1860, there was -even then abundant interest there for a country damsel.</p> - -<p>From Baltimore she wrote:</p> - -<p>“I’ve been wicked, and I like it. Edmonia took me to Kunkel and Moxley’s -Front Street Theatre last night to hear an opera, and I haven’t yet -wakened from the delicious dream. I think I never shall. I think I never -want to. Yet I am very sorry that I went, for I shall want to go again -and again and again, and you know that I mustn’t listen to such music as -that. It will make me bad, and really and truly I’d rather die than be -bad. I don’t understand it at all. Why is it wrong for me to hear great -music when it isn’t wrong for Edmonia? And Edmonia has heard the -greatest music there is, in New York and Paris and Vienna and Naples, -and it hasn’t hurt her in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324"></a>{324}</span> the least. I wish you would tell me why I am -so different, won’t you, Cousin Arthur?”</p> - -<p>From New York she wrote of music again and many times, for she had -accepted Arthur’s assurance that there was no harm but only good for her -in listening to music; and in obedience to his injunction she went twice -each week to the opera, where Edmonia’s friends, whose guest she was, -had a box of their own. Presently came from her a pleading letter, -asking if she might not herself learn to play a little upon the violin, -and availing herself of Arthur’s more than ready permission, she toiled -ceaselessly at the instrument until after a month or so Edmonia reported -that the girl’s music master was raving about the extraordinary gifts -she was manifesting.</p> - -<p>“I am a trifle worried about it, Arthur,” Edmonia added. “Perhaps her -father was right to forbid all this. Music is not merely a delight to -her—it is a passion, an intoxication, almost a madness. She is very -fond of dancing too, but I think dancing is to her little more than a -physical participation in the music.</p> - -<p>“And she mightily enjoys society. Still more does society enjoy her. Her -simplicity, her directness and her perfect truthfulness, are qualities -not very common, you know, in society,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325"></a>{325}</span> in New York or anywhere else. -People are delighted with her, and, without knowing it, she is the -reigning attraction in every drawing room. Ah me! She will have to know -it presently, for I foresee that ‘the young Virginia belle’ as they all -call her, will have many suitors for her hand before we sail—two weeks -hence.</p> - -<p>“She astonishes society in many ways. She is so perfectly well always, -for one thing. She is never tired and never has a headache. Most -astonishing of all, to the weary butterflies of fashion, she gets up -early in the morning and takes long rides on horseback before breakfast.</p> - -<p>“In certain companies—the sedater sort—she is reckoned a brilliant -conversationalist. That is because she reads and thinks, as not many -girls of her age ever do. In more frivolous society she talks very -little and is perhaps a rather difficult person for the average young -man to talk to. That also is because she reads and thinks.</p> - -<p>“On the whole, Arthur, Dorothy is developing altogether to my -satisfaction, but I am troubled about the music. Dr. South had a reason, -of which you know nothing, for fearing music in her case, as a dangerous -intoxication. Perhaps we ought not to disobey his instructions<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326"></a>{326}</span> on the -subject. Won’t you think the matter over, Arthur, and advise me?”</p> - -<p>To this request Arthur’s reply came promptly. It was an oracular -deliverance, such as he was accustomed to give only when absolutely sure -of his judgment.</p> - -<p>“Have no fear as to the music,” he wrote. “It is not an intoxication to -Dorothy, as your report shows that indulgence in it is not followed by -reaction and lassitude. That is the sure test of intoxication. For the -rest Dorothy has a right to cultivate and make the most of the divine -gifts she possesses. Every human being has that right, and it is a cruel -wrong to forbid its exercise in any case. I am delighted to see from -your letters and hers that she has not permitted her interest in music -to impair her interest in other things. She tells me she has been -reading a book on ‘The Origin of Species’ by Charles Darwin. I have -heard of it but haven’t seen it yet, as it was published in England only -a few months ago and had not been reprinted here when I last wrote to -New York for some books. So please ask Dorothy to send me her copy as -soon as she has finished it, and tell her please not to rub out the -marginal notes she tells me she has been making in it. They will be -helpfully suggestive to me in my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327"></a>{327}</span> reading, and, as expressions of her -uninfluenced opinion, I shall value them even more than the text of the -book itself. She tells me she thinks the book will work a revolution in -science, giving us a new foundation to build upon. I sincerely hope so. -We have long been in need of new foundations. But, pardon me, you are -not interested in scientific studies and I will write to Dorothy herself -about all that.”</p> - -<p>At this point in her reading Edmonia laid the letter in her lap and left -it there for a considerable time before taking it up again. She was -thinking, a trifle sadly, perhaps, but not gloomily or with pain.</p> - -<p>“He is right,” she reflected. “I sympathize with him in his high -purposes and I share the general admiration of his character and genius. -But I do not share his real enthusiasms as Dorothy does. I have none of -that love for scientific truth for its own sake, which is an essential -part of his being. I have none of his self-sacrificing earnestness, none -of that divine discontent which is the mainspring of all his acts and -all his thinking. It is greatly better as Fate has ordered it. I am no -fit life partner for him. Had he married me I should have made him happy -in a way, perhaps, but it would have been at cost of his deterioration. -It is better<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328"></a>{328}</span> as it is—immeasurably better,—and I must school myself -to think of it in that way. If I am worthy even of the friendship that -he so generously gives me, I shall learn to rejoice that he gives the -love to Dorothy instead, and not to me. I must learn to think of his -good and the fit working out of his life as the worthiest thing I can -strive for. And I <i>am</i> learning this lesson. It is a little hard at -first, but I shall master it.”</p> - -<p>A few days later Dorothy, in one of her unconsciously self-revealing -letters, wrote:</p> - -<p>“I am sending you the Darwin book, with all my crude little notes in the -margins. I have sealed it up quite securely and paid full letter postage -on it, because it would be unjust to the government to send a book with -writing in it, at book postage rates. Besides, I don’t want anybody but -you to read the notes. Edmonia asked me to let her see the book before -sending it, but I told her I couldn’t because I should die of shame if -anybody should read my presumptuous comments on so great a book. For it -is great, really and truly great. It is the greatest explanation of -nature that anybody ever yet offered. At least that is the way it -impresses me. Edmonia asked me why I was so chary of letting her see -notes that I was entirely willing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329"></a>{329}</span> for you to see, and at first I -couldn’t explain it even to myself, for, of course, I love Edmonia -better than anybody else in the world, and I have no secrets from her. I -told her I would have to think the matter over before I could explain -it, and she said: ‘Think it out, child, and when you find out the -explanation you may tell me about it or not, just as you please.’ She -kindly laughed it off, but it troubled me a good deal. I couldn’t -understand why it was that I couldn’t bear to let her see the notes, -while I rather <i>wanted</i> you to read them. I found it all out at last, -and explained it to her, and she seemed satisfied. It’s because you know -so much. You are my Master, and you always know how to allow for your -pupil’s wrong thinking even while you set me right. Besides, somehow I -am never ashamed of my ignorance when only you know of it. Edmonia said -that was quite natural, and that I was entirely right not to show the -scribbled book to her. So I don’t think I hurt her feelings, do you?</p> - -<p>“Now, I want to tell you about another thought of mine which may puzzle -you—or it may make you laugh as it does other people. There’s a woman -here—a very bright woman but not, to my taste, a lovely one—who is -very learned in a superficial way. She knows everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330"></a>{330}</span> that is current -in science, art, literature, and fashion, though she seems to me -deficient in thoroughness. She ‘has the patter of it all at her tongue’s -end,’ as they say here, but I don’t think she knows much behind the -patter. A wise editor whom I met at dinner a few days ago, described her -as ‘a person who holds herself qualified to discuss and decide anything -in heaven or earth from the standpoint of the cyclopædia and her own -inner consciousness.’ She writes for one of the newspapers, though I -didn’t know it when she talked with me about Darwin. I told her I -thought of Darwin’s book as a great poem. You would have understood me, -if I had said that to you, wouldn’t you? You know I always think of the -grass, and the trees and the flowers, and the birds and the butterflies, -and all the rest, as nature’s poems, and this book seems to me a great -epic which dominates and includes, and interprets them all, just as -Homer and Milton and Virgil and Tasso and especially Shakespeare, -dominate all the little twitterings of all the other poets. Anyhow it -seems to me that a book which tells us how all things came about, is a -poem and a very great one. I said so to this woman, and next day I saw -it all printed in the newspaper<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331"></a>{331}</span> for which she writes. I shouldn’t have -minded that as she didn’t tell my name, but I thought she seemed to -laugh and jeer at my thought. She said something witty about trying to -turn Darwin into dactyls and substitute dithyrambics for dogmatics in -the writings of Sir Isaac Newton. Somehow it all sounded bright and -witty as one read it in the newspaper. But is that the way in which a -serious thought ought to be treated? Do the newspapers, when they thus -flippantly deal with serious things, really minister to human -advancement? Do they not rather retard it by making jests of things that -are not jests? I have come to know a good many newspaper writers since I -have been here, and I am convinced that they have no real seriousness in -their work, no controlling conscience. ‘The newspaper’ said one of the -greatest of them to me not long ago, ‘is a mirror of today. It doesn’t -bother itself much with tomorrow or yesterday.’ I asked him why it -should not reflect today accurately, instead of distorting if with -smartness. ‘Oh,’ he answered, ‘we can’t stop to consider such things. We -must do that which will please and attract the reader, regardless of -everything else. Dulness is the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332"></a>{332}</span> only thing we must avoid as we shun the -pestilence, and erudition and profundity are always dull.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘But doesn’t the newspaper assume to teach men and women?’ I asked. -‘And is it not in conscience bound to teach them the truth and not -falsehood?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Oh, yes, that’s the theory,’ he answered. ‘But how can we live up to -it? Take this matter of Darwinism, for example. We can’t afford to -employ great scientific men to discuss it seriously in our columns. And -if we did, only a few would read what they wrote about it. We have -bright fellows on our editorial staffs who know how to make it -interesting by playing with it, and for our purpose that is much better -than any amount of learning.’</p> - -<p>“I have been thinking this thing over and I have stopped the reading of -newspapers. For I find that they deal in the same way with everything -else—except politics, perhaps, and, of course, I know nothing of -politics. I read a criticism of a concert the other day in which a -singer was—well, never mind the details. The man that wrote that -criticism didn’t hear the concert at all, as he confessed to me. He was -attending another theatre at the time. Yet he assumed to criticise a -singer to her detriment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333"></a>{333}</span> utterly ignoring the fact that she has her -living to make by singing and that his criticism might seriously affect -her prospects. He laughed the matter off, and when I seemed disturbed -about it he said: ‘For your sake, Miss South, I’ll make amends. She -sings again tomorrow, and while I shall not be able to hear her, I’ll -give her such a laudation as shall warm the cockles of her heart and -make her manager mightily glad. You’ll forgive me, then, for censuring -her yesterday, I’m sure.’ I’m afraid I misbehaved myself then. I told -him I shouldn’t read his article, that I hated lies and shams and false -pretences, and that I didn’t consider his articles worth reading because -they had no truth or honesty behind them. It was dreadfully rude, I -know, and yet I’m not sorry for it. For it seemed to make an impression -on him. He told me that he only needed some such influence as mine to -give him a conscience in his work, and he actually asked me to marry -him! Think of the absurdity of it! I told him I wasn’t thinking of -marrying anybody—that I was barely seventeen, that—oh, well, I -dismissed the poor fellow as gently as I could.”</p> - -<p>But while the proposal of marriage by the newspaper man, and several -other such solicitations which followed it, struck Dorothy at first<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334"></a>{334}</span> as -absurdities, they wrought a marked change in her mental attitude. Two at -least of these proposals were inspired by higher considerations than -those of the plantation which Dorothy represented, and were pressed with -fervor and tenderness by men quite worthy to aspire to Dorothy’s hand. -These were men of substance and character, in whose minds the -fascination which the Virginia girl unwittingly exercised over everybody -with whom she came into contact—men and women alike—had quickly -ripened into a strong and enduring passion. Dorothy suffered much in -rejecting such suits as theirs, but she learned something of herself in -the process. She for the first time realized that she was a woman and -that she had actually entered upon that career of womanhood which had -before seemed so far away in the future that thoughts of it had never -before caused her to blush and tremble as they did now.</p> - -<p>These things set her thinking, and in her thinking she half realized her -own state of mind. She began dimly to understand the change that had -come over her attitude and feeling towards Arthur Brent. She would not -let herself believe that she loved him as a woman loves but one man -while she lives; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335"></a>{335}</span> she admitted to herself that she might come to -love him in that way if he should ever ask her to do so with the -tenderness and manifest sincerity which these others had shown. But of -that she permitted herself to entertain no hope and even no thought. His -letters to her, indeed, seemed to put that possibility out of the -question. For at this time Arthur held himself under severe restraint. -He was determined that he should not in any remotest way take advantage -of his position with respect to Dorothy, or use his influence over her -as a means of winning her. He knew now his own condition of mind and -soul in all its fulness. He was conscious now that the light of his life -lay in the hope of some day winning Dorothy’s love and making her all -and altogether his own. But he was more than ever determined, as he -formulated the thought in his own mind, to give Dorothy a chance, to -take no advantage of her, to leave her free to make choice for herself. -It was his fixed determination, should she come back heart whole from -this journey, to woo her with all the fervor of his soul; but the more -determined he became in this resolution, the more resolutely did he -guard his written words against the possibility that they might reveal -aught of this to her. “If she ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336"></a>{336}</span> comes to love me as my wife,” he -resolved, “it shall be only after she has had full opportunity to make -another choice.”</p> - -<p>Accordingly his letters to her continued to concern themselves with -intellectual and other external things. He wrote her half a ream of -comment upon Darwin’s book, taking up for discussion every marginal note -she had made concerning it. But that part of his letter was as coldly -intellectual as any of their horseback conversations had been. In all -the intimate parts of that and his other letters, he wrote only as one -might to a sympathetic friend, as he might have written to Edmonia, for -example. He even took half unconscious pains to emphasize the fatherly -character of his relations with her, lest they assume some other aspect -to her apprehension.</p> - -<p>On her side Dorothy began now to write outside of herself, as it were. -She described to him all her new gowns and bonnets, laughing at the -confusion of mind in which a study of such details must involve him. In -her childlike loyalty she told him of the wooings that so distressed -her, but she did so quite as she might have written to him of the loves -of Juliet and Ophelia and the Lady of Lyons. For the rest she wrote -objectively now, in the main,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337"></a>{337}</span> and speculatively concerning certain of -those social problems in which she knew him to be profoundly interested, -and which she was somewhat studying now, because of the interest they -had for him.</p> - -<p>The word “slumming” had not been invented at that time by the insolence -that does the thing it means. But Dorothy, chiefly under the guidance of -her friends among the newspaper men, went to see how the abjectly poor -of a great city lived, and she wrote long letters of comment to Arthur -in which she told him how great and distressing the revelation was, and -how she honored his desire to do something for the amelioration of these -people’s lives. “Your aspiration is indeed a noble one,” she wrote in -one of her letters; “the life you proposed to yourself, and from which -you were diverted by your inheritance of a plantation, is the very -greatest, the very noblest that any man could lead. I once thought you -were doing even better in the care you are taking of the negroes at -Wyanoke and Pocahontas, and in your efforts ultimately to set them free. -But that was when I did not know. I know now, in part at least, and I -understand your feeling in the matter as I never could have done had I -not seen for myself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338"></a>{338}</span></p> - -<p>“People here sometimes say things to me that hurt. But I am ready with -my answer now. One woman—very intellectual, but a cat—asked me -yesterday how I could bear to hold negroes in slavery, and to buy fine -gowns with the proceeds of their toil. I told her frankly that I didn’t -like it, but that I couldn’t help it, and in reply to her singularly -ignorant inquiries as to why I didn’t end the wrong or at least my -participation in it, I explained some difficulties to her that she had -never taken the trouble to ask about. I told her how hard you were -working to discharge the debts of your estate in order that you might -send your negroes to the west to be free, and that you might yourself -return to New York to do what you could for the immeasurably worse -slaves here. She caught at my phrase and challenged it. I told her what -I meant, and as it happened to be in a company of highly intellectual -people, I suppose I ought not to have talked so much, but somehow they -seemed to want to hear. I said:</p> - -<p>“ ‘In Virginia I always visit every sick person on the plantation every -day. We send for a doctor in every case, and we women sit up night after -night to nurse every one that needs it. We provide proper food for the -sick and the convalescent from our own tables. We<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339"></a>{339}</span> take care of the old -and decrepit, and of all the children. From birth to death they know -that they will be abundantly provided for. What poor family around the -Five Points has any such assurance? Who provides doctors and medicine -and dainties for them when they are ill? Who cares for their children? -Who assures them, in childhood and in old age, of as abundant a supply -of food and clothing, and as good a roof, as we give to the negroes? I -go every morning, as I just now said, to see every sick or afflicted -negro on my own plantation and on that of my guardian. How often have -you gone to the region of the Five Points to minister to those who are -ill and suffering and perhaps starving there?’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Oh, that is all cared for by the charitable organizations’ she said, -‘and by the city missionaries.’</p> - -<p>“ ‘Is it?’ I answered. ‘I do not find it so. I have emptied my purse a -dozen times in an effort to get a doctor for a very ill person here, and -to buy the medicines he prescribed, and to provide food for starving -ones. And then, next day I have found that the sick have died because -the well did not know how to cook the food I had provided, or how to -follow the doctor’s directions in the giving of medicine.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340"></a>{340}</span> I tell you -these poor people are immeasurably worse off than any negro slave at the -South is, or ever was. So far as I can learn there is no working -population in the world that gets half so much of comfort and care and -reward of every sort for its labor, as the negroes of Virginia get.’</p> - -<p>“Then the woman broke out. She said: ‘You are dressed in a superb -satin’—it was at a social function—‘and every dollar of its cost was -earned by a negro slave on your plantation.’ I answered, ‘You are -equally well dressed. Will you tell me who earned the money that paid -for your satin gown?’ Then, Cousin Arthur, I lost my temper and my -manners. I told her that while we in Virginia profited by the labor of -our negroes, we gave them, as the reward of their labor, every desire of -their hearts and, besides that, an assurance of support in absolute -comfort for their old age, and for their children; while the laboring -class in New York, from whose labor she profited, and whose toil -purchased her gown, had nobody to care for them in infancy or old age, -in poverty and illness and suffering. ‘It is all wrong on both sides,’ I -said. ‘The toilers ought to have the full fruits of their toil in both -cases. The luxury of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341"></a>{341}</span> the rich is a robbery of the poor always and -everywhere. There ought not to be any such thing anywhere. The woman who -made your underclothing was robbed when you bought it at the price you -did. You wronged and defrauded the silk spinners and weavers and the -sewing women when you bought your gown. Worse than that; you have among -you men who have accumulated great fortunes in manufactures and -commerce. How did they do it? Was it not in commerce by paying the -producers for their products less than they were worth? Was it not in -manufactures by paying men and women and children less than they have -earned? Was not the great Astor estate based upon a shrewd robbery of -the Indian trappers and hunters? And has it not been swelled to its -present proportions by the growth of a city to whose growth the Astors -have never contributed a single dollar? Isn’t the whole thing a wrong -and a robbery? Isn’t the “Song of the Shirt” a reflection of truth? -Isn’t there slavery in New York as actually as in Virginia, and isn’t it -infinitely more cruel?’</p> - -<p>“Then the woman shifted her ground. ‘But at least our laborers are -free,’ she said. ‘Are they?’ I answered. ‘Are they free to determine for -whom they will work or at what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342"></a>{342}</span> wages? Cannot their masters, who are -their employers, discharge them at will, when they get old or feeble or -otherwise incompetent, and leave them to starve? No master of a Virginia -plantation can do that. His neighbors would actually lynch him should he -turn a decrepit old negro out to die or even should he deny to him the -abundant food and clothing and housing that he gives to the able-bodied -negroes who make crops. And,’ I added, for I was excited, ‘this cruelty -is not confined to what are ordinarily called the laboring classes. I -know a man of unusual intellectual capacity, who has worked for years to -build up the fortunes of his employers. He has had what is regarded as a -very high salary. But being a man of generous mind he has spent his -money freely in educating the ten or a dozen sons and daughters of his -less fortunate brother. He is growing old now. He has earned for his -master, a thousand dollars for every dollar of salary that he ever -received just as all his fellow workers in the business have done. But -he is growing old now, and under the strain of night and day work, he -has acquired the habit of drinking too much. He hasn’t a thousand -dollars in the world as his reward for helping to make this other man, -his master, absurdly, iniquitously<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343"></a>{343}</span> rich. Yet in his age and infirmity, -the other man, luxuriating in his palatial summer home which is only one -of the many palaces that other men’s toil late into the night has -provided for him, decides that the old servitor is no longer worth his -salary, and decrees his discharge. Is there anything so cruel as that in -negro slavery? Is that man half so well off as my negro mammy, who has a -house of her own and all the food and clothes she wants at the age of -eighty, and who could have the service of a dozen negro attendants for -the mere asking?’</p> - -<p>“Now, Cousin Arthur, please don’t misunderstand me. Even what I have -seen at the Five Points doesn’t tempt me to believe in slavery. I want -of all things to see that exterminated. But, really and truly, I find an -immeasurably worse slavery here in New York than I ever saw in Virginia, -and I want to see it all abolished together, not merely the best and -kindliest and most humane part of it. I want to see the time when every -human being who works shall enjoy the full results of his work; when no -man shall be any other man’s master; when no man shall grow rich by -pocketing the proceeds of any other man’s genius or industry. I said all -this to that woman, and she replied: ‘You are obviously a pestilent -socialist. You<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344"></a>{344}</span> are as bad as Fourier and Albert Brisbane and Horace -Greeley.’ That was very rude of her, seeing that Mr. Greeley was -present, but I’ve noticed that the people who most highly pride -themselves on good manners are often rude and inconsiderate of others to -a degree that would not be tolerated in Virginia society—except perhaps -from Mr. Madison Peyton. By the way, Mr. Jefferson Peyton was present, -and to my regret he said some things in defence of slavery which I could -not at all approve. Mr. Greeley interrupted him to say something like -this:</p> - -<p>“ ‘The dear young lady is quite right. We have a horrible slavery right -here in New York, and we ought to make war on that as earnestly as we do -on African slavery at the South. I’m trying to do it in the -Try-bune’—that’s the way he pronounces the name of his paper—‘and I’m -going to keep on trying.’</p> - -<p>“That encouraged me, for I find myself more and more disposed to respect -Mr. Greeley as I come to know him better. I don’t always agree with him. -I sometimes think he is onesided in his views, and of course he is -enormously self-conceited. But he is, at any rate, an honest man, and a -brave and sincere one. He isn’t afraid to say what he thinks, any more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345"></a>{345}</span> -than you are, and I like him for that. Another great editor whom I have -met frequently, seems to me equally courageous, but far less -conscientious. He is inclined to take what he calls ‘the newspaper view’ -of things,—by which he means the view that appeals to the multitude for -the moment, without much regard for any fixed principle. Socially he is -a much more agreeable man than Mr. Greeley, but I don’t think him so -trustworthy. Mr. Greeley impresses me as a man who may be enormously -wrong-headed, under the influence of his prejudiced misconceptions, but -who, wrong-headed or right-headed, will never consciously wrong others. -If he had been born the master of a Virginia plantation he would have -dealt with his negroes in the same spirit in which he has insisted upon -giving to his fellow workers on the Tribune a share in the profits of -their joint work. Mr. Greeley is odd, but I like him better than any -editor I have met.”</p> - -<p>So the girl went on, writing objectively and instinctively avoiding the -subjective. But she did not always write so seriously. She had “caught -the patter” of society and she often filled pages with a sparkling, -piquant flippancy, which had for Arthur a meaning all its own.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346"></a>{346}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXX" id="XXX"></a>XXX<br /> -<small>AT SEA</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">T</span><b>HE</b> voyage to Europe in 1860 was a much more serious undertaking than -the like voyage is in our later time. It occupied a fortnight or three -weeks, for one thing, where now a week is ample time for the passage. -The steamers were small and uncomfortable—the very largest of them -being only half the size of the very smallest now regarded as fit for -passenger service. There was no promenade deck or hurricane deck then, -above the main deck, which was open to the sky throughout its length and -breadth, except for the interruption of one small deck house, covering -the companion way, a ventilator pipe here and there, and perhaps a -chicken coop to furnish emaciated and sea sick fowls for the table -d’hôte. There was no ice machine on board, and no distilling apparatus -for the production of fresh water. As a consequence, after two days out, -the warm water which passengers must drink began to taste of the ancient -wood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347"></a>{347}</span> of the water tanks; at the end of a week it became sickeningly -foul; and before the end of the voyage it became so utterly undrinkable -that the most aggressive teetotaler among the passengers was compelled -to order wine for his dinner and to abstain from coffee at breakfast.</p> - -<p>The passenger who did not grow seasick in those days was a rare -exception to an otherwise universal rule, while, in our time, when the -promenade deck is forty or fifty feet above the waves, and the -passengers are abundantly supplied both with palatable food and with -wholesome water, only those suffer with <i>mal de mer</i> who are bilious -when they go on board, or who are beset by a senseless apprehension of -the sea.</p> - -<p>The passenger lists were small, too, even allowing for the diminutive -size of the ships. One person crossed the ocean then where perhaps a -hundred cross in our time.</p> - -<p>There were perhaps twenty passengers in the cabin of the ship in which -Dorothy sailed. By the second day out only two of the ship’s company -appeared at meals or at all regularly took the air on deck. Dorothy was -one of these two. The other she herself introduced, as it were, to -Arthur, in a long, diary-like letter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348"></a>{348}</span> which she wrote on shipboard and -mailed at Liverpool.</p> - -<p>“I’m sitting on a great coil of rope, just behind the deck house,” she -wrote, “where I am sheltered from the wind and where I can breathe my -whole body full of the delicious sea air. The air is flavored with great -quantities of the finest sunshine imaginable. Every now and then I lay -my paper down, and a very nice old sailor comes and puts two big iron -belaying pins on it, to keep it from blowing overboard while I go -skipping like a ten-year-old girl up and down the broad, clean deck, and -enjoying the mere being alive, just as I do on horseback in Virginia -when the sun is rising on a perfect morning.</p> - -<p>“I ought to be down stairs—no, I mustn’t say ‘down stairs,’ when I’m at -sea, I must say ‘below.’ Well, I ought to be below ministering to -Edmonia and her friend Mrs. Livingston,—or Mildred, as she insists on -my calling her—both of whom are frightfully sick; but really and truly, -Edmonia won’t let me. She fairly drove me out, half an hour ago. When I -didn’t want to go she threatened to throw her shoes at my head, saying -‘You dear little idiot, go on deck and keep your sea-well on, if you -can.’ And when I protested that she seemed very ill<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349"></a>{349}</span> and that I hadn’t -the heart to go on the beautiful deck and be happy in the delicious air -and sunshine while she was suffering so, she said: ‘Oh, I’m always so -for the first three or four days, and I’m best let alone. My temper is -frightful when I’m seasick. That’s why I took separate staterooms for -you and me. I don’t want you to find out what a horribly ill-tempered, -ill-mannered woman I am when I’m seasick. How can I help it? I’ve got a -mustard plaster on my back and two on my chest, and I’ve drunk half a -bottle of that detestable stuff, champagne, and I’m really fighting mad. -Go away, child, and let me fight it out with myself and the -stewardesses. They don’t mind it, the dear good creatures. They’re used -to it. I threw a coffee cup full of coffee all over one of them this -morning because she presumed to insist upon my swallowing the horrible -stuff, and she actually laughed, Dorothy. I couldn’t get up a quarrel -with her no matter what I did, and so I tried my hand on the ship’s -doctor. I don’t like him anyhow. He’s just the kind that would make love -to me if he dared, and I don’t like men that do that.’ Then Edmonia -added: ‘He wouldn’t quarrel at all. When I told him he was trying to -poison me with bicarbonate of soda in my drinking water, he seriously -assured<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350"></a>{350}</span> me that bicarbonate of soda isn’t poisonous in the least -degree, that it corrects acidity, and all that sort of thing. I gave him -up as hopeless,—but remind me, Dorothy, that when we go ashore I must -put half a dozen sovereigns into his hand—carefully wrapped up in -paper, so that he shan’t even guess what they are—as his well earned -fee for enduring my bad temper. But now, Dorothy, you see clearly that -this ship doesn’t provide any proper person for me to quarrel with, and -so I must fall back upon you, if you persist in staying here and -arrogantly insulting me with your sublime superiority to seasickness. So -get out of my room and stay out till I come on deck with my mind -restored to a normal condition.’ I really think she meant it, and so I’m -obeying her. And I should be very happy with the air and the sunshine -and my dear old sailorman who tells me sailor stories and sings to me -the very quaintest old sailor songs imaginable, if I could be sure that -I’m doing right in being happy while Edmonia is so very miserable.</p> - -<p>“As for Mildred—Mrs. Livingston—she lies white-faced and helpless in -her bunk—there, I got the sailor term right that time at the first -effort—while her husband simply sleeps and moans on the sofa. The -doctor says they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351"></a>{351}</span> are ‘progressing very satisfactorily’ and so I am -taking his advice and letting them alone. But why anybody should be -seasick, <i>how</i> anybody <i>can</i> be sick at sea, I simply cannot understand. -The ship’s doctor tried to explain it to me this morning, but he forgot -his explanation. He—well, never mind. He ought to have a wife with a -plantation or something of that sort, so that his abilities might have -an opportunity. I don’t think much of his abilities, and I don’t like -him half as well as I do my old sailor. He is going to tell me—the old -sailor, I mean and not the doctor—all about his life history tonight. -We are to have a moon, you know, and, as he’s on the ‘port watch,’ -whatever that may mean, he’s going to come on deck and tell me all about -himself. I’ll tell you about it in tomorrow’s instalment of this -rambling letter.”</p> - -<p>On the following day, or perhaps a day later even than that, Dorothy -wrote:</p> - -<p>“This is another day. I don’t just know what day. You know they keep -changing the clock at sea, and I’ve got mixed up. Edmonia still throws -shoes and medicine bottles and coffee cups at me whenever I thrust my -head inside the portière of her stateroom, and Mildred, though she has -sufficiently recovered to come on deck, lies helpless in a deck chair -which my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352"></a>{352}</span> sailor has ‘made fast’—you see I’m getting to be an expert in -nautical terms—to a mast or a spar or something, and when I speak to -her, says, ‘Go away, child, and be happy in the midst of human misery, -if you can. Let me alone.’ When I ask her concerning her husband she -answers: ‘I suppose he’s comfortable in his misery. At any rate, he has -two bottles of champagne by his side, and he is swearing most hopefully. -I always know he is getting over it when he begins to swear in real -earnest, and with a certain discretion in the choice of his oaths. Now, -run away, you ridiculously well girl or I’ll begin to borrow from Rex’s -vituperative vocabulary.’ Rex is her husband you know.</p> - -<p>“The sailor’s story didn’t amount to anything, so I’ll not bother you -with a repetition of it.”</p> - -<p>[As a strictly confidential communication, not to be mentioned to -anybody, the author so far intrudes upon attention at this point, as to -report that the sailorman, at the end of his picturesque and imaginative -narrative, professed a self-sacrificing willingness to abandon the -delights of a sea-faring existence, and to content himself thereafter -with the homelier and less romantic duties of master of Pocahontas -plantation.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353"></a>{353}</span> Dorothy, in continuing her letter, was quite naturally -reticent upon this point. But she went on liking that old sailorman, in -whose devotion to her comfort on deck nothing seemed to make the -slightest difference. Perhaps this chronic mariner already had ‘a wife -in every port’ and was only ‘keeping his hand in’ at courtship. At any -rate after duly disciplining him, Dorothy went on liking him and -accepting his manifold, sailorly attentions. Ah, these women! How very -human they are in face of all their airs and pretensions!]</p> - -<p>It was a day later that Dorothy wrote:</p> - -<p>“There is a very extraordinary lady on board, and I have become -acquainted with her, in a way. I didn’t see her at all during the first -day out. As she tells me she is never seasick, I suppose she kept her -cabin for some other reason. At any rate the first time I met her was on -the morning of that second day out, when I was skipping about the deck -and making believe that I was little Dorothy again—little ten-year-old -Dorothy, who didn’t care if people were seeing her when she skipped. The -captain saw me first. He’s a dear old fellow with a big beard and nine -children and a nice little baby at home. And, think of it, the people -that hire him to run their ship won’t let<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354"></a>{354}</span> him bring his wife on board -or any of his children on any account! That isn’t quite correct either, -for two voyages ago it was the twenty-first anniversary of his marriage, -and when he asked permission to bring his wife and baby with him on his -trip to New York and back, just to celebrate, you see, the company gave -permission without any hesitation. But when he came on board, he found -another captain in command for that one trip, and himself only a -passenger. That’s because the company don’t want a captain’s attention -distracted, and I suppose a new baby whom he had never seen before would -have distracted him a great deal. Anyhow that’s the way it was and the -only reason the captain told me about it was that I asked him why he -didn’t have his wife and children on board with him always. But I set -out to tell you about the lady. After the captain had ‘captured’ me, as -he put it, and had taken me up on the bridge, and had shown me how to -take an observation and how to steer—he let me steer all by myself for -more than a mile and I didn’t run the ship into anything, perhaps -because there wasn’t anything within five hundred miles to run into—I -went down on deck again, hoping that maybe Diana had got well enough to -come out, but she hadn’t.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355"></a>{355}</span> She isn’t violently ill, but she’s the most -entirely, hopelessly, seasick person I’ve seen yet. She—well, never -mind. She’ll get well again, and in the meanwhile I must tell you about -the lady. She spoke to me kindly and said:</p> - -<p>“ ‘As you and I seem to be the only well passengers on board, I think I’m -entitled to a sea acquaintance with you, Miss Dorothy. You know sea -acquaintances carry no obligations with them beyond the voyage, and so -no matter how chummy we may become out here on the ocean you needn’t -even bow to me if we meet again on shore.’ She seemed so altogether nice -that I told her I wouldn’t have a mere sea acquaintance with her, but -would get acquainted with her ‘for truly,’ as the children say. She -seemed glad when I said that, and we talked for two hours or more, after -which we went to luncheon and sat side by side—as everybody else is -seasick we had the table all to ourselves and didn’t need to mind whose -chairs we sat in.</p> - -<p>“Well, she is a strangely fascinating person, and the more I know of her -the more she fascinates me. Sometimes she seems as young as I myself am; -sometimes she seems very old. She is tall and what I call willowy. That -is to say she bends as easily in any direction as a willow wand could, -and with as much of grace.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356"></a>{356}</span> Indeed grace is her dominant characteristic, -as I discovered when she danced a Spanish fandango to my playing—just -all to ourselves you know, behind the deck house. She knows everybody -worth knowing, too—all the editors and artists and actors and singers -and pianists and people in society that I have met, and a great many -others that I haven’t met at all. And she really does know them, too, -for one day in her cabin I saw a great album of hers, and when she saw I -was interested in it she bade me take it on deck, saying that perhaps it -might amuse me during the hour she must give to sleep. And when I read -it, I found it full of charming things in prose and verse, all addressed -to her, and all signed by great people, or nearly all. She told me -afterwards that she valued the other things most—the things signed by -people whose names meant nothing to me. ‘For those,’ she said, ‘are my -real friends. The rest—well, no matter. They are professionals, and -they do such things well.’ I don’t just know what she meant by that, but -I have a suspicion that she loves truth better than anything else, and -that she doesn’t think distinguished people always tell the truth when -they write in albums. At any rate when I asked her if I might write and -sign a little sentiment<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357"></a>{357}</span> in her album, she said, with more of emotion -than the occasion seemed to call for: ‘Not in that book, my child! Not -as a tag to all those people. If you will write me three or four lines -of your own on a simple sheet of paper and sign it, I’ll have it -sumptuously bound when I get to Paris, in a book all to itself, and -nobody else shall ever write a line to go with it while I live.’</p> - -<p>“Wasn’t it curious? And especially when you reflect how many -distinguished people she knows! But she brought me a sheet of very fine -paper that afternoon, and said: ‘I don’t want you to write now. I don’t -want you to write till our voyage is nearly over. Then I want you to -write the truth as to your feeling for me. No matter what it is, I want -it to be the truth, so that I may keep it always.’ I took the sheet and -wrote on it, ‘I wish you were my mother.’ That was the truth. I do wish -every hour that this woman were my mother. But she refused to read what -I had written, saying: ‘I will keep it, child, unread until the end of -the voyage. Then I’ll give it back to you if you wish, and you shall -write again whatever you are prompted to write, be it this or something -quite different.’</p> - -<p>“Curiously enough, her name is in effect the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358"></a>{358}</span> same as my own, translated -into French. She is Madame Le Sud. That means Mrs. South, of course, and -when I called her attention to the fact, she said: ‘perhaps that may -suggest an additional bond of affection between us.’ ”</p> - -<p>Several days passed before Dorothy resumed her writing.</p> - -<p>“I haven’t added a line to my letter for two or three days past. That’s -because I have been so busy learning to know and love Madame Le Sud. She -is the very sweetest and most charming woman I ever saw in my life. She -is a trifle less than forty—just old enough I tell her, to be my mother -if it had happened in that way. Then she asked me about my real mother -and I couldn’t tell her anything. I couldn’t even tell when she died, or -what her name had been or anything about her. Isn’t it a strange thing, -Cousin Arthur, that nobody has ever told me anything about my mother? It -makes me ashamed when I think of it, and still more ashamed when I -remember that I never asked anything about her, except once. That time I -asked my father some question and he answered only by quickly rising and -going out to mount his horse and ride away all alone. That is the way he -always did when things distressed him, and as I didn’t want to distress -him I never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359"></a>{359}</span> asked him anything more about my mother. But why haven’t I -been told about her? Was she bad? And is that why everybody has been so -anxious about me, fearing that I might be bad? Even if that were so they -ought to have told me about my mother, especially after I began to grow -up and know how to stand things bravely. May be when I was too little to -understand it was better to keep silent. But when I grew older there was -no excuse for not telling me the truth. I don’t think there ever is any -excuse for that. The truth is the only thing in the world that a sane -person ought to love. I’m only seventeen years old, but I’m old enough -to have found out that much, and I don’t think I shall ever quite -forgive those who have shut out from me the truth about my mother. You, -Cousin Arthur, haven’t had any hand in that. I never asked you, but I -know. If you had known about my mother you’d have told me. You could not -have helped it. The only limitation to your ability that I ever -discovered is your utter inability to tell lies. If you tried to do that -you’d make such a wretched failure of the attempt that the truth would -come out in spite of you. So, of course, you are as ignorant as I am -about my mother.</p> - -<p>“But I wanted to tell you about Madame Le<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360"></a>{360}</span> Sud. To me she is the most -beautiful woman in the world, and yet most people would call her -hideously ugly. Indeed, I’ve heard people on the ship call her that way, -for they’re beginning at last to come out on deck and try to get well. -She has a terribly disfiguring scar. It begins in her hair and extends -down over her left eye which it has put out, and down her cheek by the -side of her nose, almost, but not quite to her upper lip. The scar is -very ugly, of course, but the woman is altogether beautiful. She -impresses me as wonderfully fine and fragile—delicate in the same way -that a piece of old Sèvres china is. She plays the violin divinely. She -wouldn’t play for me at first, and she has since confessed that she -feared to make me afraid to play for her. ‘For I am a professional -musician,’ she said, ‘or rather I was, till I got this disfiguring scar. -After that how could I present myself to an audience?’ Then she told me -how she got the scar. She was celebrating something or other with a -company of friends. They drank champagne too freely, and one of them, -taking from Madame Le Sud’s mantelpiece a perfume bottle, playfully -emptied its contents on her head. It was a perfume bottle, but it held -nitric acid which somebody had been using medicinally. In an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361"></a>{361}</span> instant -the mischief was done and Madame Le Sud’s career as a famous musician -was ended forever.</p> - -<p>“When she got well she was very poor, having spent all her money during -her illness. A manager came to her and wanted her to go on as ‘the -veiled violinist,’ he pretending that she was some woman of -distinguished family and high social position whose love of music -tempted her to exercise her skill upon the stage, but whose social -position forbade her to show her face or reveal her name. He offered her -large sums if she would do this, but she refused to make herself a party -to such a deception. She secured employment, as she puts it, in a much -humbler capacity which enables her to turn her artistic taste to account -in earning a living, and it is in connection with this employment that -she is now on her way to Paris. She did not tell me what her employment -is, and of course I did not ask her. But now that I have learned -something of her misfortunes, and have seen how bravely she bears them, -I love her better than ever.</p> - -<p>“Diana has come upon deck at last, ‘dressed and in her right mind.’ She -is very proud of having been ‘seasick jes’ like white folks.’ She so far -asserts her authority as to order Edmonia<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362"></a>{362}</span>—who is quite herself -again—and me to array ourselves in some special gowns of her personal -selection for the captain’s dinner today. It is to be a notable affair -and Madame Le Sud is to play a violin solo. They asked me to play also, -but I refused, till Madame Le Sud asked me to give ‘Home, Sweet Home,’ -with her to play second violin. Think of it! This wonderful musical -artist volunteering to ‘play second fiddle’ to a novice like me! But she -insists upon liking my rendering of the dear old melody and she has -taken the trouble to compose a special second part, which, she -generously says, ‘will bring out the beauty’ of my performance.</p> - -<p>“We expect to make land during tonight, and by day after tomorrow, I’ll -mail this letter at Liverpool.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363"></a>{363}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXXI" id="XXXI"></a>XXXI<br /> -<small>THE VIEWS AND MOODS OF ARTHUR BRENT</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><b>HEN</b> Dorothy had gone Arthur Brent felt a double necessity for -diligence in the ordering of plantation affairs. He realized for the -first time what he had done in thus sending Dorothy away. For the first -time he began to understand his own condition of mind and the extent to -which this woman had become a necessity to his life. Quite naturally, -too, her absence and the loss of his daily association with her served -to depress him, as nothing else had ever done before. The sensation of -needing some one was wholly novel to him, and by no means agreeable. -“What if I should never have her with me again—never as <i>my</i> Dorothy?” -he reflected. “That may very easily happen. In fact I sent her away in -order that it might happen, if it would. Her affection for me is still -quite that of a child for one much older than herself. Edmonia does not -so regard it, but perhaps she is wrong. Perhaps her conviction that -Dorothy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364"></a>{364}</span> the woman loves me even more than Dorothy the child ever did, -and that her love will survive acquaintance with other and more -attractive men, and other and more attractive ways of life, is born only -of her eager desire to have that come about. A year’s absence will not -make Dorothy forget me or even love me less than she does now. But how -much does she love me now, in very truth? May it not happen that when -she returns a year hence she will have given her woman’s heart to some -other, bringing back to me only the old, child love unchanged? I must be -prepared for that at all events. I must school myself to think of it as -a probability without the distress of mind it gives me now. And I must -be ready, when it happens, to go away from here at once and take up -again my life of strenuous endeavor and absorbing study. I mustn’t let -this thing ruin me as it might some weakling in character.”</p> - -<p>In order that he might be ready thus to leave Virginia when the time -should come, rejoicing instead of grieving over Dorothy’s good fortune -in finding some fitter life than his to share, Arthur knew that he must -this year discharge the last dollar of debt that rested upon the Wyanoke -estate. He must be a free<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365"></a>{365}</span> man on Dorothy’s return—free to reënter the -world of scientific work, free to make and keep himself master of his -own mind, as he had always been until this strange thing had come over -his life.</p> - -<p>He thus set himself two tasks, one of which he might perhaps fulfil by -hard work and discreet management. The other promised to be greatly more -difficult. He made a very bad beginning at it by sitting up late at -night to read and ponder Dorothy’s letters, to question them as to the -future, to study every indication of character or impulse, or temporary -mood of mind they might give.</p> - -<p>With the debt-paying problem he got on much better. He had now a whole -year’s accumulated income from his annuity, and he devoted all of it at -once to the lightening of this burden. He studied markets as if they had -been problems in physics, and guided himself in his planting by the -results of these studies. He had sold apples and bacon and sweet -potatoes the year before, as we know, with results that encouraged him -to go further in the direction of “Yankee farming.” This year he planted -large areas in watermelons and other large areas in other edible things -that the people of the cities want, but which no south side Virginia<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366"></a>{366}</span> -planter had ever thought of growing for sale.</p> - -<p>He was laughed at while doing all this, and envied when the results of -it appeared.</p> - -<p>He deliberately implicated Dorothy in these his misdeeds, also, doing on -her plantation precisely as he did on his own, so that when late in the -autumn he gave account of his stewardship he was able to inform the -court, to its astonishment and to that of the entire community, that he -had discharged every dollar of debt that had rested upon his ward’s -estate. The judge applauded such management of a trust estate, and -Arthur Brent’s neighbors wondered. Some of them saw in his success -ground of approval of “Yankee farming”; all of them conceived a new -respect for the ability of a man who had thus, in so brief a time, freed -two old estates from the hereditary debts that had been accumulating for -slow generations.</p> - -<p>Arthur had been additionally spurred and stimulated to the -accomplishment of this end, by the forebodings of evil in connection -with national politics which had gravely haunted him throughout the -year.</p> - -<p>In May the Republican party had nominated Mr. Lincoln, and about the -same time the Democrats made his election a practical certainty.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367"></a>{367}</span> There -was clearly a heavy majority of the people opposed to his election, but -the division of that opposition into three hostile camps with three -rival candidates, rendered Republican success a foregone conclusion. By -some at least of the politicians the division was deliberately intended -to produce that result, while the great mass of the people opposed to -Mr. Lincoln and seriously fearing the consequences of his election, -deeply deplored the condition thus brought about.</p> - -<p>The Republican party at that time existed only at the North. For the -first time in history the election threatened the country with the -choice of a president by an exclusively sectional vote, and in -opposition to the will of the majority of the people. On the popular -vote, in fact, Mr. Lincoln was in a minority of nearly a million, and -every electoral vote cast for him came from the northern states. In most -of the southern states indeed there was no canvass made for him, no -electoral nominations presented in his behalf.</p> - -<p>Added to this was the fact that the one point on which his party was -agreed, the one bond of opinion that held it together for political -action, the one impulse held in common by all its adherents, was -hostility to slavery, which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368"></a>{368}</span> the men of the South construed to mean -hostility—intense and implacable—to the states in which that -institution existed and even to the people of those states.</p> - -<p>The “platform” on which Mr. Lincoln was nominated, did indeed protest, -as he had himself done in many public utterances, that this was a -misinterpretation of attitude and purpose; that the party disclaimed all -intent to interfere with slavery in the slave states; that it held -firmly to the right of each state to regulate that matter for itself, -and repudiated the assumption of any power on the part of the Federal -government to control the action of the several states or in any wise to -legislate for them on this subject.</p> - -<p>But these pledges were taken at the South to mean no more than a desire -to secure united action in an election. The party proclaimed its -purpose, while letting slavery alone in the states, to forbid its -extension to the new territories. This alone was deemed a program of -injustice by that very active group of Southern men who, repudiating the -teachings of Jefferson, and Wythe and Henry Clay, had come to believe in -African slavery as a thing right in itself, a necessity of the South, a -labor system to be upheld and defended and extended, upon its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369"></a>{369}</span> own -merits. These men contended that the new territories were the common and -equal possession of all the people; that any attempt by Federal -authority to deny to the states thereafter to be formed out of those -territories, the right to determine for themselves whether they would -permit or forbid slavery, was a wrong to the South which had contributed -of its blood and treasure even more largely than the North had done to -their acquisition. They further contended that any such legislation -would of necessity involve an assumption of Federal authority to control -states in advance of their formation,—an assumption which might easily -be construed to authorize a like Federal control of states already -existing, including those that had helped to create the Union.</p> - -<p>All this Arthur Brent contemplated with foreboding from the first. He -anticipated Mr. Lincoln’s election from the beginning of the absurd -campaign. And while he could not at all agree with those who were -prepared to see in that event an occasion for secession and revolution, -he foreboded those calamities as results likely in fact to follow. And -even should a kindly fate avert them for a time, he saw clearly that the -alignment of parties in the nation upon sectional issues must be -productive of new and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370"></a>{370}</span> undreamed of irritations, full of threatening to -the peace of the Republic.</p> - -<p>No more than any of his neighbors could he forecast the events of the -next few years. “But,” he wrote to Dorothy in the autumn “I see that the -election of Mr. Lincoln is now a certainty; I foresee that it will lead -to a determined movement in the South in favor of secession and the -dissolution of the Federal Union. It ought to be possible, if that must -come, to arrange it on a basis of peaceable agreement to disagree—the -Southern States assuming all responsibility for slavery till they can -rid themselves of it with safety to society, and the Northern people -washing their hands once for all of an iniquity from which they have -derived the major part of the profit. This they did, particularly during -those years after 1808, in which the African slave trade was prohibited -by law, but was carried on by New England ship masters and New England -merchants with so great a profit that Justice Joseph Story of the United -States supreme court, though himself a New Englander, was denounced by -the New England press and even threatened with a violent ejection from -the bench, because he sought to prevent and punish it, in obedience to -the national statute.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371"></a>{371}</span></p> - -<p>“But I am wandering from my theme,” he continued. “I wanted to say that -while I think there is no real occasion for a disruption of the Union, I -gravely fear that it is coming. And while I think it should be possible -to accomplish it peaceably I do not believe it will be done in that way. -There are too many hot heads on both sides, for that. There is too much -gunpowder lying around, and there will be too many sparks flying about. -Listen, Dorothy! I foresee that Mr. Lincoln will be elected in November. -I anticipate an almost immediate attempt on the part of the cotton -states to dissolve the Union by secession. I shall do everything I can -to help other sober minded Virginians to keep Virginia out of this -movement, and if Virginia can be kept out of it, the other border states -will accept her action as controlling, and they too will stay out of the -revolutionary enterprise. In that case the states farther South will be -amenable to reason, and if there is reason and discretion exercised at -Washington and in the North, some means may possibly be found for -adjusting the matter—Virginia and Kentucky perhaps acting successfully -as mediators. But I tell you frankly, I do not expect success in the -program to which I intend to devote all my labors and all I have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372"></a>{372}</span> of -influence. I look to see Virginia drawn into the conflict. I look for -war on a scale far more stupendous than any this country has ever seen.</p> - -<p>“I can no more foresee what the result of such a war will be than you -can—so far at least as military operations are concerned. But some of -the results I think I do see very clearly. Virginia will be the -battle-ground, and Virginia will be desolated as few lands have ever -been in the history of the world. Another thing, Dorothy. If this war -comes, as I fear it will, it will make an end of African slavery in this -country. For if we of the South are beaten in the conflict of arms, the -complete extinction of slavery will be decreed as a part of the penalty -of war and the price of peace. If we are successful, we shall have set -up a Canada at our very doors. The Ohio and the Potomac will become a -border beyond which every escaping negro will be absolutely free, and -across which every conceivable influence will be brought to bear upon -the negroes to induce them to run away. Under such conditions the -institution must become an intolerable as well as an unprofitable -annoyance, and it will speedily disappear.</p> - -<p>“Now I come to what I set out to say. Before election day this present -fall I shall have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373"></a>{373}</span> paid off every dollar of the debts that rest upon -Pocahontas and Wyanoke. You and I will be free, at least, from that -source of embarrassment, and whatever the military or political, or -legal or social results of the war may be, you and I will be owners of -land that is subject to no claim of any kind against us. I have -grievously compromised your dignity as well as my own in my efforts to -bring this about, but you are not held responsible for my ‘Yankee -doings,’ at Pocahontas, and as for me, I am not thin-skinned in such -matters. I’d far rather be laughed at for paying debts in undignified -ways than be dunned for debts that I cannot pay.”</p> - -<p>This letter reached Dorothy in Paris, on her return through Switzerland, -from an Italian journey, undertaken in the early summer before the -danger of Roman fever should be threatening. Had such a letter come to -her a few months earlier, her response to it would have been an utterly -submissive assent to all that her guardian had done, with perhaps a -wondering question or two as to why he should feel it necessary to ask -her consent to anything he might be minded to do, or even to tell her -what he had done. But Dorothy had grown steadily more reserved in her -writing to him,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374"></a>{374}</span> as experience had slowly but surely awakened womanly -consciousness in her soul. She was still as loyally devoted as ever to -Arthur, but she shrank now as she had not been used to do, from too -candid an expression of her devotion. The child had completely given -place to the woman in her nature and the woman was far less ready than -the child had been to reveal her feelings. A succession of suitors for -her hand had taught Dorothy to think of herself as a woman bound to -maintain a certain reserve in her intercourse with men. They had -awakened in her a consciousness of the fact, of which she had scarcely -even thought in the old, childish days, that Arthur Brent was a young -man and Dorothy South a young woman, and that it would ill become -Dorothy South to reveal herself too frankly to this young man. She did -not quite know what there was in her mind to reveal or to withhold from -revelation, but she instinctively felt the necessity strong upon her to -guard herself against her own impulsive truthfulness. She had no more -notion that she had dared give her woman’s love to Arthur unasked, than -she had that he—who had never asked for it—desired her love. He -remained to her in fact the enormously superior being that she had -always held him to be, but she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375"></a>{375}</span> found herself blushing sometimes when -she remembered the utter abandon with which she had been accustomed to -lay bare her innermost thoughts and sentiments, her very soul, indeed, -to his scrutiny.</p> - -<p>She knew of no reason why she should now alter her attitude or her -demeanor towards him, and she resolutely determined that she would not -in the least change either, yet the letter she wrote to him on this -occasion was altogether unlike that which she would have written a few -months earlier upon a like occasion. She expressed her approval of all -that he had done with respect to her estate, where in like case a few -months earlier she would have asked him wonderingly what she had to do -with things planned and accomplished by him. She expressed acquiescence -as one might who has the right to approve or to criticise, where before -she would have concerned herself only with rejoicings that her guardian -had got things as he wanted them, in accordance with his unquestioned -and unquestionable right to have everything as he wanted it to be in a -world quite unworthy of him.</p> - -<p>In brief, Dorothy’s letter depressed Arthur Brent almost unendurably. -Because he missed something from it that long use had taught him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376"></a>{376}</span> to -expect in all her utterances to him, he read into it much of coldness, -alienation, indifference, which it did not contain. He sat up all night, -torturing himself with doubts for which a frequent reperusal of the -letter furnished him no shadow of justification; and when the gray -morning came he ordered his horse, meaning to ride purposely nowhither. -But when the horse was brought, a new and overpowering sense of -Dorothy’s absence and perhaps her alienation, came over him. He -remembered vividly every detail of that first morning’s ride he had had -with her, and instinctively he copied her proceeding on that occasion. -Drawing forth his handkerchief he rubbed the animal’s flanks and rumps -with it to its soiling.</p> - -<p>“I’ll not ride this morning, Ben,” he said. “I’ll go back to the house -and write a letter to your Mis’ Dorothy and I’ll enclose that -handkerchief for her inspection.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377"></a>{377}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXXII" id="XXXII"></a>XXXII<br /> -<small>THE SHADOW FALLS</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">W</span><b>ITH</b> the autumn came that shadow over the land which Arthur Brent had -so greatly dreaded. Mr. Lincoln’s election was quickly succeeded by the -secession of South Carolina. One after another the far Southern States -followed, and presently the seceding states allied themselves in a new -confederacy.</p> - -<p>The whole country was in a ferment. The founders of the Union had made -no provision whatever for such a state of things as this, and even the -wisest men were at a loss to say what ought to be done or what could be -done. There seemed to be nowhere any power or authority adequate to deal -with the situation in one way or in another. All was chaos in the -coolest minds while the hotheads on either side were daily making -matters worse by their intemperate utterances and by the unyielding -arrogance of their attitude.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378"></a>{378}</span></p> - -<p>In the meantime the administration at Washington seemed intent only upon -preventing the outbreak of open war until its term should end on the -fourth of March, 1861, while those into whose hands the government must -pass on that date had not only no authority to act but no privilege even -of advising.</p> - -<p>It seemed fortunate at the time, that Virginia refused to join in the -secession movement. Her refusal and her commanding influence over the -other border states seemed for a time to provide an opportunity for wise -counsels to assert themselves. There were radical secessionists in -Virginia and uncompromising opponents of secession on any terms. But the -attitude of the great majority of Virginians, as was shown in the -election of a constitutional convention on the fourth of February, was -one of earnestness for peace and reconciliation and the preservation of -the Federal Union.</p> - -<p>The Virginians believed firmly in the constitutional right of any state -to withdraw from the Union, but the majority among them saw in Mr. -Lincoln’s election no proper occasion for the exercise of that right. -They regarded the course of the cotton states in withdrawing from the -Union as one strictly within their right, but as utterly unwise and -unnecessary. On the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379"></a>{379}</span> other hand they firmly denied the right of the -national government to coerce the seceding states or in any manner to -make war upon them.</p> - -<p>Arthur Brent was an uncompromising believer in the right of a state to -secede, and equally an uncompromising opponent of secession as a policy. -That part of Virginia in which he lived was divided in opinion and -sentiment, with a distinct preponderance of opinion in behalf of -secession. But when the call came for the election of a constitutional -convention to decide upon Virginia’s course the secessionists of his -district were represented by two rival candidates, both fiercely -favoring secession. The only discoverable difference in their views was -that one of them wanted the convention to adopt the ordinance of -secession “before breakfast on the day of its first assembling,” while -the other contended that it would be more consonant with the dignity of -the state to have muffins and coffee first.</p> - -<p>Neither of these candidates was a person of conspicuous influence in the -community. Neither was a man of large ability or ripe experience or -commanding social position—the last counting for much in Virginia in -those days when there was no such thing as a ballot<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380"></a>{380}</span> in that state, and -when every man must go to the polls and openly proclaim his vote.</p> - -<p>Under these circumstances a number of the conservative men of the -district got together and decided to make Arthur Brent a candidate. It -was certain that the secession vote would be in the majority in the -district, but if it were divided between the two rival candidates, as it -was certain to be, these gentlemen were not without hope that their -candidate might secure a plurality and be elected.</p> - -<p>Arthur strenuously objected to the program so far at least as it -concerned his own candidacy. He had a pronounced distaste for politics -and public life, and he stoutly argued that some one who had lived all -his life in that community would be better able than he to win all there -was of conservatism to his support. He entreated these his friends to -adopt that course. It was significant of the high place he had won in -the estimation of the community’s best, that they refused to listen to -his protest, and, by a proclamation over their own signatures, announced -him as their candidate and urged all men who sincerely desired wise and -prudent counsels to prevail in a matter which involved Virginia’s entire -future, to support him at the polls.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381"></a>{381}</span></p> - -<p>Thus compelled against his will to be a candidate, Arthur entered at -once upon a canvass of ceaseless activity. He did not mean to be -defeated. He spoke every day and many times every day, and better still -he talked constantly to the groups of men who surrounded him, setting -forth his views persuasively and so convincingly that when the polls -closed on that fateful fourth of February, it was found that Arthur -Brent had been elected by a plurality which amounted almost to a -majority, to represent his district in that constitutional convention -which must decide Virginia’s commanding course, and in large degree, -perhaps, determine the final issue of war or peace.</p> - -<p>When the convention met nine days later it was found that an -overwhelming majority of the members held views identical, or nearly so, -with those of Arthur Brent. There were a very few uncompromising -secessionists in the body, and also a few unconditional Union men, who -declared their hostility to secession upon any terms, at any time, under -any circumstances. Among these unconditional Union men, curiously enough -were two who afterwards became notable fighters for the Southern -cause—namely Jubal A. Early and William C. Wickham.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382"></a>{382}</span></p> - -<p>But the overwhelming majority opposed secession as a mistaken policy, -uncalled for by anything in the then existing circumstances, and certain -to precipitate a devastating war; while at the same time maintaining the -constitutional right of each state to secede, and holding themselves -ready to vote for Virginia’s secession, should the circumstances so -change as to render that course in their judgment obligatory upon the -state under the law of honor.</p> - -<p>That change occurred in the end, as we shall presently see. But, in the -meantime, these representatives of the Virginia people wrought with all -their might for the maintenance of peace and the preservation of the -Union. They counselled concession and sweet reasonableness, on both -sides. They urged upon both the commanding necessity of endeavoring, in -a spirit of mutual forbearance, to find some basis of adjustment by -which that Union which Virginia had done so much to bring about, and -under which the history of the Republic had been a matter of universal -pride both North and South, might be preserved and established anew upon -secure foundations. More important than all this was the fact that these -representative men of Virginia denied to the seceding cotton states the -encouragement of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383"></a>{383}</span> Virginia’s sanction for their movement, the absolutely -indispensable moral and material support of the mother state.</p> - -<p>For a time there was an encouraging prospect of the success of these -Virginian efforts. Nobody, North or South, believed that the cotton -states would long stand alone in their determination, if Virginia and -the other border states that looked to her for guidance—Kentucky, North -Carolina, Arkansas, Tennessee, and Maryland—should continue to hold -aloof.</p> - -<p>In the meantime Mr. Lincoln, after his inauguration, had a somewhat -similar problem to deal with at the North. There was a party there -clamorous for instant war with a declared purpose of abolishing slavery. -The advocates of that policy pressed it upon the new president as -urgently as the extreme secessionists at the South pressed secession -upon Virginia. Mr. Lincoln saw clearly, as these his advisers did not, -that their policy was utterly impracticable. From the very beginning he -insisted upon confining his administration’s efforts rigidly to the task -of preserving the Union with the traditional rights of all the states -unimpaired. He saw clearly that there were men by hundreds of thousands -at the North, who would heart and soul support<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384"></a>{384}</span> the administration’s -efforts to preserve the Union, even by war if that should be necessary, -but who would antagonize by every means in their power a war for the -extirpation of slavery at cost of Federal usurpation of control over any -state in its domestic affairs.</p> - -<p>Accordingly, Mr. Lincoln held to his purpose. He would make no attempt -to interfere with slavery where it constitutionally existed, and he -would make no direct effort to compel seceding states to return to the -Union; but he would use whatever force he might find necessary to -repossess the forts, arsenals, post-offices and custom houses which the -seceding states had seized upon within their borders, and he would -endeavor to enforce the Federal laws there.</p> - -<p>But in order to accomplish this, military forces were necessary, and the -government at Washington did not possess them. There was only the -regular army, and it consisted of a mere handful of men, scattered from -Eastport, Maine, to San Diego, California, from St. Augustine, Florida -to Puget’s Sound, and charged with the task—for which its numbers were -utterly inadequate—of keeping the Indians in order and proper -subjection. It is doubtful that Mr. Lincoln could have concentrated a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385"></a>{385}</span> -single full regiment of regulars at any point, even at risk of -withdrawing from the Indian country the men absolutely necessary to -prevent massacre there. He therefore called for volunteers with whom to -conduct such military operations as he deemed necessary. He apportioned -the call among the several states that had not yet seceded. He called -upon Virginia for her quota.</p> - -<p>That was the breaking point. Virginia had to choose. She must either -furnish a large force of volunteers with which the Federal government -might in effect coerce the seceding states into submission, or she must -herself secede and cast in her lot with the cotton states. To the -Virginian mind there was only one course possible. The Virginians -believed firmly and without doubt or question in the right of any state -to withdraw from the Union at will. They looked with unimagined horror -upon every proposal that the Federal power should coerce a seceding -state into submission. They regarded that as an iniquity, a crime, a -proceeding unspeakably wrongful and subversive of liberty. They could -have nothing to do with such an attempt without dishonor of the basest -kind. Accordingly, almost before the ink was dry upon the call upon -Virginia<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386"></a>{386}</span> for volunteers with which to make war upon the seceding -Southern States, the Virginia, pro-Union convention, adopted an -ordinance of secession, and the Civil War was on.</p> - -<p>The men who had, so long and so earnestly, and in face of such -contumely, labored to keep Virginia in the Union and to use all that -state’s commanding influence in behalf of peace, felt themselves obliged -to yield to the inevitable, and to consent to a sectional war for which -they saw no necessity and recognized no occasion. They had wasted their -time in a futile endeavor to bring about a reconciliation where the -conflict had been all the while hopelessly “irrepressible.” There was -nothing for it now but war, and Virginia, deeply deprecating war, set -herself at work in earnest to prepare for the conflict.</p> - -<p>In accordance with his lifelong habit of mind, Arthur Brent in this -emergency put aside all thoughts of self-interest, and looked about him -to discover in what way he might render the highest service to his -native land, of which he was capable. He was unanimously chosen by each -of two companies of volunteers in his native county, to be their -captain. In their rivalry with each other, they agreed to make him major -in command of a battalion to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387"></a>{387}</span> be formed of those two companies and two -others that were in process of organization.</p> - -<p>He peremptorily declined. “I know nothing of the military art,” he wrote -to the committee that had laid the proposal before him. “There are -scores of men in the community better fit than I am for military -command. Especially there is your fellow citizen, John Meaux, trained at -West Point and eminently fit for a much higher command than any that you -can offer him. Put him, I earnestly adjure you, into the line of -promotion. Elect him to the highest military office within your gift, -and let me serve as a private under him, in either of your companies, if -no opportunity offers for me to render a larger service and a more -valuable one than that. There is scarcely a man among you who couldn’t -handle a military force more effectively than I could. Let your most -capable men be your commanders, big and little. I believe firmly in the -dictum ‘the tools to him who can use them.’ For myself I see a more -fruitful opportunity of service than any that military command could -bring to me. I have a certain skill which, I think, is going to be -sorely needed in this war. It is my firm belief that the struggle upon -which we are entering is destined to last through long years<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388"></a>{388}</span> of -suffering and sore want. We are mainly dependent upon importation not -only for the most pressingly necessary of our medicines but for that -absolute necessity of life, salt. If war shall shut us in, as it is -extremely likely to do, we must find means which we do not now possess -of producing these and other things for ourselves, including the -materials for that prime requisite of war—gunpowder. It so happens that -I have skill in such manufactures as these, and I purpose to turn it to -account whenever the necessity shall come upon us. In the meantime, as a -surgeon and, upon occasion, as a private soldier I may perhaps be able -to do more for Virginia and for the South than I could ever hope to do -by assuming those functions of military command for which I have neither -natural fitness nor the fitness of training.”</p> - -<p>All this was deemed very absurd at the time. The war, it was thought, -could not last more than sixty days—an opinion which Mr. Secretary of -State Seward, on the other side of the line, confidently shared, though -his anticipations of the end of it were quite different from those -entertained at the South. Why a young man of spirit, such as Arthur -Brent was, should refuse to enter upon the brief but glorious<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389"></a>{389}</span> struggle -in the capacity of a major with the prospect of coming out of it a -brigadier-general, his neighbors could not understand. Nor could any of -them, with one exception, understand his anticipations of a long war, or -his conviction that, end as it might, the war would make an early end of -slavery, overturning the South’s industrial system and bringing sore -poverty upon the people. The one exception was Robert Copeland, the -thrifty young man who had lost caste by “making too many hogsheads of -tobacco to the hand.” He shared Arthur’s views, and he acted upon them -in ways that Arthur would have scorned to do. He sent all his negroes to -Richmond to be sold by auction to the traders to the far South. He -converted his plantation, with all its live stock and other -appurtenances into money, and with the proceeds of these his sellings he -hurried to New York and purchased diamonds. These he bestowed in a belt -which he buckled about his person and wore throughout the war, upon the -principle that whatever value there might or might not be in other -things when the war should be over, diamonds always command their price -throughout the civilized world. When after this was done he sought to -enlist in one of the companies forming in his neighborhood,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390"></a>{390}</span> he was -rejected by unanimous vote, because he had sold negroes, while the men -of the company held rigidly to a social standard of conduct which he had -flagrantly defied. He went to Richmond. He raised a company of ruffians, -which included many “jailbirds” and the like. He made himself its -captain, and went into the field as the leader of a “fighting battery.” -He distinguished himself for daring, and came out of the war, four years -later, a brigadier-general. As such he was excluded from the benefits of -the early amnesty proclamation. But he cared little about that. He went -to New York, sold his diamonds for fifty per cent more than their cost, -and accepted high office in the army of the Khedive of Egypt. He thus -continued active in that profession of arms in which he had found his -best opportunity to exercise his peculiar gift of “getting out of men -all there is in them”—which was the phrase chosen by himself to -describe his own special capabilities.<a name="FNanchor_C_3" id="FNanchor_C_3"></a><a href="#Footnote_C_3" class="fnanchor">[C]</a></p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391"></a>{391}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXXIII" id="XXXIII"></a>XXXIII<br /> -<small>“AT PARIS IT WAS”</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span><b>URING</b> all this year of wandering on the part of Dorothy Edmonia did -her duty as a correspondent with conspicuous fidelity. To her letters -far more than to Dorothy’s own, Arthur was indebted for exact -information as to Dorothy’s doings and Dorothy’s surroundings and -Dorothy’s self. For Dorothy’s reticence concerning herself grew upon her -as the months went on. She wrote freely and with as much apparent candor -and fulness as ever, but she managed never to reveal herself in the old -familiar fashion. Not that there was anything of estrangement in her -words or tone, for there was nothing of the kind. It was only that she -manifested a certain shyness and reserve concerning her own thought and -feeling when these became intimate,—a reserve like that which every -woman instinctively practises concerning details of the toilet. A woman -may frankly admit to a man that she finds comfort in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392"></a>{392}</span> use of a -little powder, but she does not want him to see the powder box and puff. -She may mention her shoe-strings quite without hesitation, but if one of -them comes unfastened, she will climb two flights of stairs rather than -let him see her readjust it.</p> - -<p>In somewhat that way Dorothy at this time wrote to Arthur. If she read a -book or saw a picture that pleased her, she would write to him, telling -him quite all her external thought concerning it; but if it inspired any -emotion of a certain sort in her, she had nothing whatever to say -concerning that. In one particular, too, she deliberately abstained from -telling him even of her pursuits and ambitions. He was left to hear of -that from Edmonia, who wrote:</p> - -<p>“Apparently we are destined to remain here in Paris during the rest of -our stay abroad. For Dorothy has a new craze which she will in no wise -relinquish or abate. For that, you, sir, are responsible, for you -planted the seed that are now producing this luxuriant growth of quite -unfeminine character. You taught Dorothy the rudiments of chemistry and -physics. You awakened in her a taste for such studies which has grown -into an uncontrollable passion.</p> - -<p>“She has become the special pupil of one of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393"></a>{393}</span> the greatest chemists in -France, and she almost literally lives in his laboratory, at least -during the daylight hours. She goes to operas about twice a week, and -she takes violin lessons from a woman before breakfast; but during the -rest of the time she does nothing but slop at a laboratory sink. Her -master in this department is madly in love—not with her, though he -calls her, in the only English phrase he speaks without accent, ‘the -apple of his eye,’—but with her enthusiasm in science. He describes it -as a ‘grand passion’ and positively raves in ejaculatory French and -badly broken English, over the extraordinary rapidity with which she -learns, the astonishing grasp she has of principles, and the readiness -with which she applies principles to practice. ‘Positively’ he exclaimed -to me the other day, ‘she is no longer a student—she is a -chemist,—almost a great chemist. If I had to select one to take -absolute control of a laboratory for the nice production of the most -difficult compounds, I would this day choose not any man in all France, -but Mademoiselle by herself.’ Then he paid you a compliment. He added; -‘and she tells me she has studied under a master for only a few months! -It is marvellous! It is incredible, except that we must believe -Mademoiselle, who<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394"></a>{394}</span> is the soul of honor and truth. Ah—that is what -gives her her love of science—for science loves nothing but truth. But -her first master must be a wonder, a born teacher, an enthusiast, a real -master who inspires his pupil with a passion like his own.’</p> - -<p>“I confirmed Dorothy’s statement that she had received only a few -months’ tuition in a little plantation laboratory, but—at the risk of -making you disagreeably conceited, I will tell you this—I fully -confirmed the judgment he had formed of Dorothy’s master.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Ah, you know him then?’ the enthusiastic Frenchman broke out; ‘and you -will tell me his name, which Mademoiselle refused to speak in answer to -my inquiry? And you will give me a letter which may excuse me for the -deep presumption when I write to him? I <i>must</i> write to him. I must know -a master who has no other such in all France. His name Mademoiselle -Bannister, his name, I pray you.’</p> - -<p>“Now comes the curious part of the story. I told Monsieur your name and -address, and his eyes instantly lighted up. ‘Ah, that accounts for all!’ -he exclaimed. ‘I know the Dr. Brent. He was my own pupil till I could -teach him nothing that he did not know. Then he taught me all the -original things he had learned for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395"></a>{395}</span> himself during his stay in my -laboratory and before that. Then we ceased to be master and pupil. We -were after that two masters working together and every day finding out -much that the world can never be enough grateful for. He is truly a -wonder, Mister the Doctor Brent! I no longer am surprised at -Mademoiselle Sout’s accomplishments and her enthusiasm. But why did she -not want to speak to me his name? Is it that she loves him and he loves -her not—ah, no, that cannot be! He <i>must</i> love Mademoiselle Sout’ after -he has taught her. Nothing else is possible. But is it then that he is -dull to find out, and that he doubts the reaction of her love in return -for his? Ah, no! He is too great a chemist for that. There must be some -other explanation and I cannot find it out. But Mister the Doctor Brent -is after all only an American. The Americans are what you call alert in -everything but one. Mister the Doctor Brent would quickly discover the -smallest error in a reaction and he would know the cause of it. But he -did not note the affinity in Mademoiselle for himself. I am not a -greater chemist than he is, and yet I see it instantly, when she does -not want to speak to me his name! He is a man most fortunate, in that I -am old and have Madame<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396"></a>{396}</span> at home and three young sons in the École -Polytechnique! Ah, how ardently I should have wooed Mademoiselle, the -charming, if she had come to me as a pupil twenty five years ago!’</p> - -<p>“Now, I’m not quite sure Arthur that your danger in that quarter is -altogether past. Yes, I am. That was a sorry jest. But I sincerely hope -that on our return you may be a trifle more alert than you have hitherto -been in discovering ‘reactions.’ You don’t at all deserve that I should -thus enlighten and counsel you. And it may very easily prove to be too -late when we return. For, in spite of her absorption in chemistry, and -the horribly stained condition of her fingers sometimes, I drag her to -all sorts of entertainments, and at the Tuileries especially she is a -favorite. The Empress is so gracious to ‘the charming American,’ as she -calls her, that she even summons me to her side for the sake of -Dorothy’s company. The entire ‘eligible list’ of the diplomatic corps -has gone daft about her beauty, her naïveté and her wonderful -accomplishments. The Duc de Morny has even ventured to call twice at our -hotel, begging the privilege of ‘paying his respects to the charming -young American.’ But the Duc de Morny is a beast—an accomplished,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_397" id="page_397"></a>{397}</span> -fascinating beast, if you please, but a beast, nevertheless,—and I have -used my woman’s privilege of fibbing so far as to send him word, each -time, that Mademoiselle was not at home.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Why did the Duc de Morny want to call upon me?’ queried the simple, -honest minded Dorothy, when she heard of the visits of this greatest -potentate in France next to the Emperor. I could not explain, so I -fibbed a bit further and told her it was only his extreme politeness and -the French friendship for Americans.</p> - -<p>“Young Jefferson Peyton, you know, has been following us from the -beginning. Dorothy expresses surprise, now and then, that his route -happens, so singularly to coincide with our own. I think he will explain -all that to her presently. He has greatly improved by travel. He has -learned that his name and family count for nothing outside Virginia, and -that he is personally a man of far less consequence than he has been -brought up to consider himself. Now that he has been cured of a conceit -that was due rather to his provincial bringing up than to any innate -tendency in that direction, now that he has seen enough of the world to -acquire a new perspective in contemplating himself, he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_398" id="page_398"></a>{398}</span> has become in -truth a very pleasing young man. His father did well to act upon Aunt -Polly’s advice and send him abroad for education and culture. He is -going to propose to Dorothy at the very first opportunity. He has told -me so himself, and as she has a distinct liking for the amiable and -really very handsome young fellow, I cannot venture upon any confident -prediction as to the consequences.”</p> - -<p>That letter came as a Christmas gift to Arthur Brent. One week later, on -the New Year’s day, came one from Dorothy which made amends by reason of -its resumption of much of the old tone of candor and confidence which he -had so sadly missed from her letters during many months past.</p> - -<p>“I want to go home, Cousin Arthur,” she began. “I want to go home at -once. I want my dear old mammy to put her arms around me as she used to -do when I was a little child, and croon me to sleep, so that I may -forget all that has happened to me. And, I want to talk with you again, -Cousin Arthur, as freely as I used to do when you and I rode together -through the woodlands or the corn at sunrise, when we didn’t mind a -wetting from the dew, and when our horses and my dear dogs seemed to -enjoy the glory of the morning as keenly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_399" id="page_399"></a>{399}</span> as we did. It is in memory of -those mornings that I send you back the soiled handkerchief you mailed -to me. I want you, please, to give it to Ben, and tell him I make him a -present of it, because it is no longer fit for you to use. You needn’t -tell him anything more than that. He will understand. But I mustn’t -leave you any longer to the mercy of such neglect on the part of -servants to whom you are always so good. I must get home again before -this terrible war breaks out. I have read all your letters about it a -hundred times each, and I have tried to fit myself for my part in it. -When you told me how great the need was likely to be for somebody -qualified to make medicines, and salt, and saltpetre and soda and potash -for gunpowder—no, you didn’t tell me of all that, you wrote to Edmonia -about it, and that hurt my feelings because it seemed to put me out of -your life and work—but when Edmonia told me what you had written about -it, I set myself to work again at my chemistry, and I have worked so -diligently at it that my master, Mons. X. declares that I am capable of -taking complete charge of a laboratory and doing the most difficult and -delicate of all the work needed. I believe I am. Anyhow, he has somehow -found out,—though I certainly never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_400" id="page_400"></a>{400}</span> told him of it—that you taught me -at the beginning and he insists upon giving me a letter to you about my -qualifications.</p> - -<p>“You say you hope Virginia will not secede, and that perhaps, after all, -there will be no war. But I see clearly that you have no great -confidence in your own hopes. So I am in a great hurry to get home -before trouble comes. After it comes it may be too late for me to get -home at all.</p> - -<p>“So I should just compel Edmonia to take the first ship for New York, if -we had any money. But we haven’t any, because I have spent all my own -and borrowed and spent all of hers. We must wait now until you and -Archer Bannister can send us new letters of credit or whatever it is -that you call the papers on which the banking people here are so ready -to give us all the money we want. Now I must ’fess up about the -expenses. They have not been incurred for new gowns or for any other -feminine frivolities. I’ve spent all my own money and all of Edmonia’s -for chemicals and chemical apparatus, which I foresee that you and I -will need in order to make medicines and salt and soda and saltpetre for -our soldiers and people. I’ve ordered all these things sent by a ship -that is going to Nassau, in the Bahama<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_401" id="page_401"></a>{401}</span> Islands, and the captain of the -ship promises me that whether there is a blockade or not, he will get -them through to you somehow or other. By the way the foolish fellow, who -is a French naval officer, detailed for the merchant service, wanted me -to marry him—isn’t it absurd?—and I told him we’d keep that question -open till the chemicals and apparatus should be safe in your hands, and -till he could come to you in the uniform of a Virginia officer, and ask -you as my guardian, for permission to pay his addresses. Was it wrong, -Cousin Arthur, thus to play with a fellow who never really loved -anybody, but who simply wanted Pocahontas plantation? You see I’ve -become very bad, and very knowing, since I’ve been without control, as I -told you I would. But, anyhow, that Frenchman will get the things to you -in safety.</p> - -<p>“But all this nonsense isn’t what I wanted to write to you. I want to go -home and I will go home, even if I have to accept Jefferson Peyton’s -offer to furnish the money necessary. We simply mustn’t be shut out of -Virginia when the war comes, and nobody can tell when it will come now. -But of course I shall not let Jeff furnish the money. That was only a -strong way of putting it. For Jeff has insulted me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_402" id="page_402"></a>{402}</span> I think. I’m not -quite certain, but I think that is what it amounts to. You will know, -and I’m going to tell you all about it, just as I used to tell you all -about everything, before—well before all this sort of thing. Jeff has -been travelling about ever since we began our journey, and he has really -been very nice to us, and very useful sometimes. But a few days ago he -proposed marriage to me. I was disposed to be very kindly in my -treatment of him, because I rather like the poor fellow. But when I told -him I didn’t in the least think of marrying him or anybody else, he lost -his temper, and had the assurance to say that the time would come when I -would be very grateful to him for being willing to offer me <i>such a road -out of my difficulties</i>. He didn’t explain, for I instantly rang for a -servant to show him out of the hotel parlor, and myself retired by -another door. But, I think I know what he meant, because I have found -out all about myself and my mother, all the things that people have been -so laboriously endeavoring to keep me from finding out. And among other -things I have found out that I must marry Jeff Peyton or nobody. So I -will marry nobody, so long as I live. I’ll be like Aunt Polly, just good -and useful in the world.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_403" id="page_403"></a>{403}</span></p> - -<p>“I’ll write you all about this by the next steamer, if I can make up my -mind to do it—that is to say if I find that in spite of all, I may go -on thinking of you as my best friend on earth, and telling you -everything that troubles me just as I used to tell dear old mammy, when -the bees stung me or the daisies wilted before I could make them into a -pretty chain. I have a great longing to tell you things in the old, -frank, unreserved way, and to feel the comfort of your strong support in -doing what it is right for me to do. Somehow, all this distance has -seemed to make it difficult to do that. But now that my fate in life is -settled and my career fully marked out as a woman whose only ambition is -to be as useful as possible, I may talk to you, mayn’t I, in the old, -unreserved way, in full assurance that you won’t let me make any -mistakes?</p> - -<p>“That is what I want. So I have this moment decided that I will not wait -for you to send me a new letter of credit, but will find somebody here -to lend me enough money to go home on. In the meantime I’m going to -begin being the old, frank, truthful Dorothy, by writing you, by the -next steamer, all that I have learned about myself.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_404" id="page_404"></a>{404}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXXIV" id="XXXIV"></a>XXXIV<br /> -<small>DOROTHY’S DISCOVERY</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">D</span><b>OROTHY’S</b> next letter came at the beginning of the spring. There were -mail steamers at that time only once a fortnight and the passage -occupied a fortnight more—or perhaps a longer time as the sea and the -west wind might determine.</p> - -<p>“I hope this letter will reach you before I do, Cousin Arthur,” Dorothy -began. “But I’m not quite sure of that, for we hope to sail by the Asia -on her next trip and she is a much faster ship they say than the one -that is to carry this. The money things arranged themselves easily and -without effort. For when I asked Mr. Livingston,—Mildred’s husband, you -know—to go with me to the bankers to see if they wouldn’t lend me a few -hundred dollars, he laughed and said:</p> - -<p>‘You needn’t bother, you little spendthrift. I provided for all that -before we started. I knew you women would spend all your money, so I -gave myself a heavy credit with my bankers<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_405" id="page_405"></a>{405}</span> here, and of course you can -have all the money you want.’ I didn’t like it for him to think we’d -spent our money foolishly, but I couldn’t explain, so I just thanked him -and said, with all the dignity I could command: ‘I’ll give you a letter -of credit on my guardian Dr. Brent.’ I suppose I got the terms wrong, -for he laughed in his careless way—he always laughs at things as if -nothing in the world mattered. He even laughed at his own seasickness on -the ship. Anyhow, he told me I needn’t give him any kind of papers—that -you would settle the bill when the time came, and that I could have all -the money I needed. So at first we thought we should get off by the ship -that is to carry this letter. But something got the matter with -Mildred’s teeth, so we had to wait over for the Asia. Why do things get -the matter with people’s teeth? Nothing ever got the matter with mine, -and I never heard of anything getting the matter with yours or -Edmonia’s. Mr. Livingston says that’s because we eat corn bread. How I -wish I had some at this moment!</p> - -<p>“But that isn’t what I want to write to you about. I have much more -serious things to tell you—things that alter my whole life, and make it -sadder than I ever expected it to be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_406" id="page_406"></a>{406}</span></p> - -<p>“I have seen my mother, and she has told me the whole terrible story. -She wouldn’t have told me now or ever, but that she thought she was -going to die under a surgical operation.</p> - -<p>“You remember I wrote to you about Madame Le Sud, whom I met on -shipboard and learned to love so much. I’m glad I learned to love her, -because she is my mother. She calls herself Madame Le Sud, because that -is only the French way of calling herself Mrs. South, you know.</p> - -<p>“The way of it was this: When we parted at Liverpool I told her what our -trip was to be. She was coming direct to Paris, and I made her promise -to let me visit her here if she did not leave before our arrival, as she -thought she probably would. When we got here I rather hoped to hear from -her, for somehow, though I did not dream of the relationship between us, -I had formed a very tender attachment to her, and I longed to see her -again.</p> - -<p>“As the weeks passed and I heard nothing, I made up my mind that she had -gone back to New York before we reached Paris, and I was not undeceived -until a few weeks ago, when she sent me a sad little note, telling me -she was ill and asking me to call upon her in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_407" id="page_407"></a>{407}</span> her apartments in the Rue -Neuve des Petits Champs.</p> - -<p>“I went at once and found her in very pitiful condition. Her apartments -were mere garrets, ill furnished and utterly uncomfortable, and she -herself was manifestly suffering. When I asked her why she had not sent -for me before, she answered: ‘It was better not, child. You were in your -proper place. You were happy. You were receiving social recognition of -the highest kind and it was good for you because you are fit for it and -deserve it. I have sent for you now only because I have something that I -must give to you before I die. For I’m going to die almost immediately.’ -She wouldn’t let me interrupt her. ‘I’m going to have a surgical -operation tomorrow, and I do not expect to get over it.’</p> - -<p>“I found out presently that she was going to a charity hospital for her -treatment, and that it was because she is so poor; for by reason of her -sickness, she has lost her employment, which was that of a dresser for -an opera company. Think of it, Cousin Arthur! My mother,—though I -didn’t know then that she was my mother—a dresser to those opera -people! I’m glad she didn’t tell me she was my mother until after I had -told her she should not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_408" id="page_408"></a>{408}</span> go to a charity hospital, to be operated on -before a class of gaping students and treated very much as if she were a -subject in a dissecting room. I took all that in my own hands. I went -down to the concierge and secured a comfortable apartment for my mother -on the entresol, with a nice French maid to look after her. Then I sent -for the best surgeon I could hear of to treat her, and he promised me to -get her quite well again in a few weeks, which he has done. It was after -I had moved her down to the new apartments and sent the maid out for a -little dinner—for my mother hadn’t anything to eat or any money—it was -after all that that she told me her story.</p> - -<p>“First she gave me a magnificent ring, a beautiful fire opal set round -with diamonds. Think of it! She with that in her possession and -belonging to her, which would have sold for enough to keep her in luxury -for months, yet shivering there without a fire and without food, and -waiting for the morrow, to go to a charity hospital like a pauper, while -I have the best rooms in the best hotel in Paris! And she my mother, all -the while!</p> - -<p>“When she put the ring on my finger, saying, ‘It fits you as it once -fitted me—but you are worthy of it as I never was,’ I cried a little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_409" id="page_409"></a>{409}</span> -and begged her to tell me what it all meant. Then she broke down and, -clasping me in her arms, told me that she was my own mother. I won’t -tell you all the details of our weeping time, for they are too sacred -even for you to hear. Let me simply copy here, as accurately as I can, -my mother’s account of herself.</p> - -<p>“ ‘I was born,’ she said, ‘the daughter of a Virginian of good family—as -good as any. My father lived as many Virginians do, far beyond his -means. Perhaps he did wrong things—I do not know, and after all it is -no matter. At any rate when he died people seemed to care very little -for us—my mother and me—when everything we had was sold and we went -out into the world to hunt for bread. I was seventeen then, I had what -they call a genius for music. We went to New York and lived wretchedly -there for a time. But I earned something with my violin and my ’cello, -and now and then by singing, for I had a voice that was deemed good. We -lived in that wretched, ill-mannered, loose-moraled, dissolute and -financially reckless set which calls itself Bohemia, and excuses itself -from all social and moral obligation on the ground that its members are -persons of genius, though in fact most of them are anything else. My -mother never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_410" id="page_410"></a>{410}</span> liked these people. She simply tolerated them, and she did -that only because she had no choice. She did her best to shield me -against harm to my soul in contact with them, but she could not prevent -the contact itself. Our bread and butter and the roof over our heads -depended upon that. Finally there came into our set a manager who was -looking out for opportunities. He heard me play, and he heard me sing. -He proposed that I should go to Europe for instruction at his expense, -and that he should bring me out as a genius in the autumn. I went, and I -received some brief instruction of great value to me—not that it made -me a better musician but that it taught me how to captivate an audience -with such gifts as I had. Well the manager brought me out, and I -succeeded even beyond his expectations. I don’t think it was my musical -ability altogether, though that was thought to be remarkable, I believe. -I was beautiful then, as you are now, Dorothy; I had all the charm of a -willowy grace, which, added to my beauty, made men and women go mad over -me. I made money in abundance for my manager, and that was all that he -cared for. I made money for myself too, and my mother and I were eagerly -sought after by the leaders of fashion. We ceased to know the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_411" id="page_411"></a>{411}</span> old -Bohemia and came to be members of a new and perhaps not a better -set—except in its conformity to those rules of life which are supposed -to hedge respectability about, without really improving its morals. For -I tell you child I saw more of real wickedness in my contact with those -who call themselves the socially elect than I ever dreamed of among my -old-time Bohemian associates. The only advantage these dissolutes had -over the others was, that having bank accounts they drew checks for -their debts where the others shirked and shuffled to escape from theirs.</p> - -<p>“ ‘I was glad, therefore, when your father came into my life. He was a -man of a higher type than any that I had known since early childhood—a -man of integrity, of honor, of high purposes. His courtesy was -exquisite, and it was sincere. It is often said of a man that he would -not tell a lie to save his life. Your father went further than that, my -child. He would not tell a lie even to please a woman, and with such a -man as he was, pleasing a woman was a stronger temptation than saving -his life. He was in New York taking a supplementary medical course—what -they now call a post graduate course,—in order, as he said, that he -might the better fulfil his life-saving<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_412" id="page_412"></a>{412}</span> mission as a physician. He fell -madly in love with me, and I—God help me! I loved him as well as one of -my shallow nature and irregular bringing up could love any man. After a -little I married him. I went with him for a brief trip abroad, and after -that I went to be mistress of Pocahontas. I looked forward longingly to -the beautiful life of refinement there, as he so often pictured it to -me. I was tired of the whirl and excitement. I was weary of the -footlights and of having to take my applause and my approval over the -heads of the orchestra. I thought I should be perfectly happy, playing -grand lady in an old, historic Virginia house. I was only nineteen years -old then,—I am well under forty still—and for a time I did enjoy the -new life amazingly. But after a little it wearied me. It seemed to me -too narrow, too conventional, too uninteresting. When I had company and -poured my whole soul into a violin obligato,—rendering the great music -in a way which had often brought down the house and called for repeated -encores while delighted audiences threatened to bury me under -flowers—when I did that sort of thing at Pocahontas, the guests would -say coldly how well I played and all the other parrot like things that -people say when they mean to be polite but have no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_413" id="page_413"></a>{413}</span> real appreciation of -music. Little by little I grew utterly weary of the life. The very -things in it that had at first delighted and rested me, became like -thorns in my flesh. As the rescued children of Israel longed for the -flesh pots of Egypt, so at last I came to long again for the delights of -the old life on the stage, with its excitements, its ever changing -pleasures, its triumphs and even its failures and disappointments. Yet -it was not so much a longing for that old life which oppressed me, as an -intolerable impatience to get out of the new one from which I had -expected so much of happiness. It seemed to me a tread-mill life of -self-indulgence. I was surrounded by every luxury that a well-ordered -woman could desire. But I was not a well-ordered woman, and the very -luxury of my surroundings, the very exemption they gave me from all -care, all responsibility, all endeavor, seemed to drive me almost insane -with impatience. I had nothing to do. I was surrounded by skilled -servants who provokingly anticipated every wish I could form. If I -wanted even to rinse my fingers after eating a peach, I was not -permitted to do it in any ordinary way. There was always a maid standing -ready with a bowl and napkin for my use. My bed was prepared for me -before I went to it,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_414" id="page_414"></a>{414}</span> and the maid waited to put out the candle after I -had gone to rest. Your father worshipped me, and surrounded me with -attentions on his own part and on that of others, which were intolerable -in the perfection of their service. I knew that I was not worthy of his -worship and I often told him so, to no effect. He only worshipped me the -more. The only time I ever saw him angry was once soon after you were -born. I loved you as I had never dreamed of loving anybody or anything -before in my life—even better ten thousand times than I had ever loved -music itself. I wanted to do something for you with my own hands. I -wanted to feel that I was your mother and you altogether my own child.</p> - -<p>“ ‘So, just as old mammy was preparing to give you your bath, I pretended -to be faint and sent her below stairs to bring me a cup of coffee. When -she had gone I seized you and in ecstatic triumph, set to work to make -your little baby toilet with my own hands. Just as I began, your father -came stalking up the stairs and entered the nursery. For mammy had told -him I was faint, and he had hurried to my relief. When he found me -bathing you he rang violently for all the servants within call and as -they came one after another upon the scene he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_415" id="page_415"></a>{415}</span> challenged each to know -why their mistress was thus left to do servile offices for herself. But -for my pleading I think he would have taken the whole company of them -out to the barn and chastised them with his own hand, though I had never -known him to strike a servant.</p> - -<p>“ ‘I know now that I ought to have explained the matter to him. I ought -to have told him how the mother love in me longed to do something for -you. I know he would have understood even in his rage over what he -regarded as neglect of me, and he would have sympathized with my -feeling. But I was enraged at the baffling of my purpose, and I hastily -put on a riding habit, mounted my horse, which, your father, seeing my -purpose, promptly ordered brought to the block, and rode away, -unattended except by a negro groom. For when your father offered his -escort I declined it, begging him to let me ride alone.</p> - -<p>“ ‘It was not long after that that I sat hour after hour by your cradle, -composing a lullaby which should be altogether your own, and as worthy -of you as I could make it. When the words and the music were complete -and satisfying to my soul, I began singing the little song to you, and -your father, whose love of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_416" id="page_416"></a>{416}</span> music was intense, seemed entranced with it. -He would beg me often to sing it, and to play the violin accompaniment I -had composed to go with it. I would never do so except over your cradle. -Understand me, child, if you can understand one of so wayward a temper -as mine. I had put all my soul into that lullaby. Every word in it, -every note of the music, was an expression of my mother love—the best -there was in me. I was jealous of it for you. I would not allow even -your father to hear a note of that outpouring of my love for my child, -except as a listener while I sang and played for you alone. So your -cradle with you in it must always be brought before I would let your -father hear.</p> - -<p>“ ‘One day, when you were six or eight months old, we had a houseful of -guests, as we often did at Pocahontas. They stayed over night of course, -and in the evening when I asked their indulgence while I should go and -sing you to sleep, your father madly pleaded that I should sing and play -the lullaby in the drawing room in order that the guests might hear what -he assured them was his supreme favorite among all musical compositions. -I suppose I was in a more than usually complaisant mood. At any rate, I -allowed myself to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_417" id="page_417"></a>{417}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/p416.jpg" width="330" height="500" alt="“IN THAT MUSIC MY SOUL LAID ITSELF BARE TO YOURS AND -PRAYED FOR YOUR LOVE.”" title="" /> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="captv">“I</span>N THAT MUSIC MY SOUL LAID ITSELF BARE TO YOURS AND -PRAYED FOR YOUR LOVE.”</span> -</div> - -<p class="nind">be persuaded against my will, and mammy brought you in, in your cradle. -I remember that you had a little pink sack over your night gown—a thing -I had surreptitiously knitted for you without anybody’s knowledge, and -without even the touch of a servant’s hand.</p> - -<p>“ ‘You were crowing with glee at the lights and the great, flaring fire. -Everybody in the room wanted to caress you, but I peremptorily ordered -them off, and took you for a time into my own arms. At last, when the -lights were turned down at my command, and the firelight hidden behind a -screen, I took the violin—a rare old instrument for which your father -had paid a king’s ransom—and began to play. After the prelude had been -twice played, I began to sing. Never in my life had I been so -overwhelmingly conscious of you—so completely unconscious of everybody -else in the world. I played and sang only to my child. All other human -beings were nonexistent. I played with a perfection of which I had never -for a moment thought myself capable. I sang with a tenderness which I -could never have commanded had I been conscious for the time of any -other existence than your own. In that music my soul laid itself bare to -yours and prayed for your love. I told you in every tone all that a -mother<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_418" id="page_418"></a>{418}</span> love means—all that an intensely emotional woman is capable of -feeling; I gave free rein to all there was in me of passion, and made -all of it your own. I was in an ecstasy. I was entranced. My soul was -transfigured and all was wrought into the music.</p> - -<p>“ ‘In the midst of it all someone whispered a cold blooded, heartlessly -appreciative comment upon my playing, or the music, or my voice, or the -execution, or something else—it matters not what. It was the sort of -thing that people say for politeness’ sake when some screeching girl -sings “Hear Me, Norma.” It wakened me instantly from my trance. It -brought me back to myself. It revealed to me how completely I had been -wasting the sacred things of my soul upon a company of Philistines. It -filled me with a wrath that considered not consequences. I ceased to -play. I seized the precious violin by its neck—worn smooth by the touch -of artist hands—and dashed it to pieces over the piano. Then I snatched -my baby from the cradle and retreated to your nursery, where I double -locked the door, and refused to admit anybody but mammy, whose affection -for you I felt, had been wounded as sorely as my own. I sent your father -word that I would pass the night in the nursery, and at daylight I left -home<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_419" id="page_419"></a>{419}</span> forever, taking you and mammy with me in the carriage.</p> - -<p>“ ‘I had taken pains to learn that your father had been summoned that -night, on an emergency call, to the bedside of a patient, ten miles -away. This gave me my opportunity. With you in my arms and mammy by my -side, I drove to Richmond, and sending the carriage back, I drew what -money there was to my credit in the bank, and took the steamer sailing -that day for New York. All this was seventeen years ago, remember, when -there were no railroads of importance, and no quicker way of going from -Richmond to New York than by the infrequently sailing steamers. It was -in the early forties.</p> - -<p>“ ‘Your father had loaded my dressing case with splendid jewels, in the -selection of which his taste was unusually good. I left them all behind, -all but this ring, which he had given me when you were born and asked me -to regard as his thank offering for you. I have kept it all these years. -I have suffered and starved many times rather than profane it by -pawning, though often my need has been so sore that I have had to put -even my clothes in pledge for the money with which to buy a dinner of -bread and red herrings.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_420" id="page_420"></a>{420}</span></p> - -<p>“ ‘I had money enough at first, for your father’s generosity had made my -bank deposit large. But I had to spend the money in keeping myself -hidden away with you, and I could not earn more by my music, as that -would make me easily found. It was then that I translated my name. Mammy -remained with me, caring for nothing in the world but you.</p> - -<p>“ ‘It was several years before your father found me out. I was shocked -and distressed at the way in which sorrow had written its signature upon -his face. I loved him then far better than I had ever done before. For -the first time I fully understood how greatly good and noble he was. But -I would not, I could not, go back with him to the home I had disgraced. -I could have borne all the scorn and contempt with which his friends -would have looked upon me. I could have faced all that defiantly and -with an erect head, giving scorn for scorn and contempt for contempt, -where I knew that my censors were such only because in their -commonplaceness they could not understand a nature like mine or even -believe in its impulses. But I could not bear to go back to Pocahontas -and witness the pity with which everybody there would look upon him.</p> - -<p>“ ‘I resisted all his entreaties for my return,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_421" id="page_421"></a>{421}</span> but for your sake I tore -my heart out by consenting to give you up to him. You were rapidly -growing in intelligence and I perfectly knew that such bringing up as I -could give you would ruin your life in one way or another. Never mind -the painful memory of all that. I consented at last to let your father -take you back to Pocahontas and bring you up in a way suited to your -birth and condition. Mammy went with you of course. Your father begged -for the privilege of providing for my support in comfort while I should -live, but I refused. I begged him to go into the courts and free himself -from me. He could have got his divorce in Virginia upon the ground of my -desertion. I shall never forget his answer. ‘When I married you, -Dorothy’—for your name, my child, is the same as my own—‘When I -married you, Dorothy, it was not during good behavior but forever. You -are my wife, and you will be always the one woman I love, the one woman -whose name I will protect at all hazards and all costs. No complaint of -you has ever passed my lips. I have suffered no human being to say aught -to your hurt in my presence or within my knowledge. Nor shall I to the -end. You are my wife. I love you. That is all of it.’<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_422" id="page_422"></a>{422}</span></p> - -<p>“ ‘He went away sorrowful, leaving me broken hearted. I could appear in -public now and I returned to my profession. The beauty which had been so -great an aid to me before, was impaired, and the old vivacity was gone. -But I could play still and sing, and with my violin and my voice I -easily earned enough for all my wants, until I got the scar. After that -I sank into a wretched poverty, and was glad at last to secure -employment as a stage dresser. My illness here has lost me that—.’</p> - -<p>“I cannot tell you any more, Cousin Arthur. It pains me too much. But I -am going to take my mother with me to America and provide for her in -some way that she will permit. She has recovered from the surgery now, -and I have simply taken possession of her. She refuses to go to -Pocahontas, or in any other way to take her position as my father’s -widow. But if this war comes, as you fear it will, she has decided to go -into service as a field nurse, and you must arrange that for her.</p> - -<p>“I understand now why my father forbade me to learn music, and why he -taught me that a woman must have a master. I can even guess what -Jefferson Peyton meant when I rejected his suit. My father, I suppose, -planned to provide a master for me; but I decline to serve<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_423" id="page_423"></a>{423}</span> the one he -selected. I am a woman and a proud one. I will never consent to be -disposed of in marriage by the orders of other people as princesses and -other chattel women are. But, oh, you cannot know how sorrowful my soul -is, and how I long to be at home again! I hope the war will come. That -is wicked in me, I suppose, but I cannot help it. I must have occupation -or I shall go mad. I shall set to work at once, on my return, fitting up -our laboratory, and there I’ll find work enough to fill all my hours, -and it will be useful, humane, patriotic work, such as it is worth a -woman’s while to do.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_424" id="page_424"></a>{424}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXXV" id="XXXV"></a>XXXV<br /> -<small>THE BIRTH OF WAR</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was the seventeenth of April, 1861. It was the fateful day on which -the greatest, the most terrible, the most disastrous of modern wars was -born.</p> - -<p>On that day the long struggle of devoted patriots to keep Virginia in -the Union and to throw all her influence into the scale of peace, had -ended in failure.</p> - -<p>A few days before, Fort Sumter had been bombarded and had fallen. Still -the Virginia convention had resisted all attempts to drag or force the -Mother State into secession. Then had come Mr. Lincoln’s call upon -Virginia for her quota of troops with which to make war upon the -seceding sister states of the South and the alternative of secession or -dishonor presented itself to this body of Union men. They decided at -once, and on that seventeenth day of April they made a great war -possible and indeed inevitable, by adopting an ordinance of secession -and casting Virginia’s fate, Virginia’s<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_425" id="page_425"></a>{425}</span> strength, and Virginia’s -matchless influence, into the scale of disunion and war.</p> - -<p>Richmond was in delirium—a delirium which moved men to ecstatic joy or -profound grief, or deeply rooted apprehension, according to their -several temperaments. The thoughtless went parading excitedly up and -down the streets singing songs, and making a gala time of it, wearing -cockades by day and carrying torches by night, precisely as if some long -hoped for and supremely desired good fortune had come upon the land of -their birth. The more thoughtful looked on and kept silent. But mostly -the spirit manifested was one of grim determination to meet fate—be it -good or bad—with stout hearts and calmly resolute minds.</p> - -<p>In that purpose all men were as one now. The vituperation with which the -people’s representatives in the convention had been daily assailed for -their hesitation to secede, was absolutely hushed. The sentiment of -affection for the Union which had been growing for seventy years and -more, gave way instantly to a determination to win a new independence or -sacrifice all in the attempt.</p> - -<p>Jubal A. Early, who had from the beginning opposed secession with all -his might, reckoning<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_426" id="page_426"></a>{426}</span> it not only insensate folly but a political crime -as well, voted against it to the last, and then, instantly sent to Gov. -Letcher a tender of his services in the war, in whatever capacity his -state might see fit to employ him. In the same way William C. Wickham, -an equally determined opponent of secession, quitted his seat in the -convention only to make hurried preparation for his part as a military -leader on the Southern side.</p> - -<p>No longer did men discuss the merits and demerits of one policy or -another; there could be but one policy now, one course of action, one -sentiment of devotion to Virginia, and an undying determination to -maintain her honor at all hazards and at all costs.</p> - -<p>The state of mind that was universal among Virginians at that time, has -never been quite understood in other parts of the Union. These men’s -traditions extended back to a time before ever the Union was thought of, -before ever Virginia had invited her sister states to unite with her, in -a convention at Annapolis, called for the purpose of forming that “more -perfect Union,” from which, in 1861, Virginia decided to withdraw. -Devotion to the Union had been, through long succeeding decades, as -earnest and as passionate in Virginia as the like devotion<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_427" id="page_427"></a>{427}</span> had been in -any other part of the country. Through three great wars the Virginians -had faltered not nor failed when called upon to contribute of their -substance or their manhood to the national defence.</p> - -<p>The Virginians loved the Union of which their state had been so largely -the instigator, and they were self-sacrificingly loyal to it. But they -held their allegiance to it to be solely the result of their state’s -allegiance, and when their state withdrew from it, they held themselves -absolved from all their obligations respecting it. Their very loyalty to -it had been a prompting of their state, and when their state elected to -transfer its allegiance to another Confederacy, they regarded themselves -as bound by every obligation of law, of honor, of tradition, of history -and of manhood itself, to obey the mandate.</p> - -<p>Return we now to Richmond, on that fateful seventeenth day of April, -1861. There had been extreme secessionists, and moderate ones, -uncompromising Union men, and Union men under conditions of -qualification. There were none such when that day was ended. Waitman T. -Willey and a few others from the Panhandle region, who had served in the -convention, departed quickly for their homes, to take part<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_428" id="page_428"></a>{428}</span> with the -North in the impending struggle, in obedience to their convictions of -right. The rest accepted the issue as determinative of Virginia’s -course, and ordered their own courses accordingly. They were, before all -and above all Virginians, and Virginia had decided to cast in her lot -with the seceding Southern States. There was an end of controversy. -There was an end of all division of sentiment. The supreme moment had -come, and all men stood shoulder to shoulder to meet the consequences.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_429" id="page_429"></a>{429}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXXVI" id="XXXVI"></a>XXXVI<br /> -<small>THE OLD DOROTHY AND THE NEW</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">J</span><b>UST</b> as Arthur Brent was quitting his seat in the convention on that -day so pregnant of historic happenings, a page put a note into his -hands. It was from Edmonia, and it read:</p> - -<p>“We have just arrived and are at the Exchange Hotel and Ballard House. -We are all perfectly well, though positively dazed by what you statesmen -in the convention have done today. I can hardly think of the thing -seriously—of Virginia withdrawing from the Union which her legislature -first proposed to the other states, which her statesmen—Washington, -Jefferson, Marshall, Madison, Mason, and the rest so largely contributed -to form, and over which her Washington, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, -Harrison and Tyler have presided in war and peace. And yet nothing could -be more serious. It seems to me a bad dream from which we shall -presently wake to find ourselves rejoicing in its untruth.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_430" id="page_430"></a>{430}</span></p> - -<p>“You will come to the hotel to a six o’clock dinner, of course. I want -to show you what a woman Dorothy has grown to be. Poor dear girl! She -has been greatly disturbed by the hearing of her mother’s story, and she -is a trifle morbid over it. However, you’ll see her for yourself this -evening. We were charmingly considerate, I think in not telegraphing to -announce our coming. We shall expect you to thank us properly for thus -refraining from disturbing you. Come to the hotel the moment your public -duties will let you.”</p> - -<p>Arthur hastily left the convention hall and hurried across Capitol -Square and on to the big, duplex hostelry. He entered on the Exchange -Hotel side and learned by inquiry at the office that Edmonia’s rooms -were in the Ballard House on the other side of the street. It had begun -to rain and he had neither umbrella nor overcoat, having forgotten and -left both in the cloak room of the convention. So he mounted the -stairway, and set out to cross by the covered crystal bridge that -spanned the street connecting the two great caravansaries. The bridge -was full of people, gathered there to look at the pageant in the streets -below, where companies of volunteer cavalry from every quarter of -eastern Virginia were marching<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_431" id="page_431"></a>{431}</span> past, on their way to the -newly-established camp of instruction on the Ashland race track. For -Governor Letcher had so far anticipated the inevitable result of the -long debate as to establish two instruction camps and to accept the -tenders of service which were daily sent to him by the volunteer -companies in every county.</p> - -<p>As Arthur was making his way through the throng of sight-seers on the -glass bridge some movement in the crowd brought him into contact with a -gentlewoman, to whom he hastily turned with apologetic intent.</p> - -<p>It was Dorothy! Not the Dorothy who had bidden him good-by a year ago, -but a new, a statelier Dorothy, a Dorothy with the stamp of travel and -society upon her, a Dorothy who had learned ease and self-possession and -dignity by habit in the grandest drawing rooms in all the world. Yet the -old Dorothy was there too—the Dorothy of straight-looking eyes and -perfect truthfulness, and for the moment the new Dorothy forgot herself, -giving place to the old.</p> - -<p>“Oh, Master!” she cried, impulsively seizing both his hands, and, -completely forgetful of the crowd about her, letting the glad tears slip -out between her eyelashes. “I was not looking at the soldiers; I was -looking for you,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_432" id="page_432"></a>{432}</span> and wondering when you would come. Oh, I am so happy, -and so glad!”</p> - -<p>An instant later the new Dorothy reasserted herself, and Arthur did not -at all like the change. The girl became so far self-conscious as to grow -dignified, and in very shame over her impulsive outbreak, she -exaggerated her dignity and her propriety of demeanor into something -like coldness and stately hauteur.</p> - -<p>“How you have grown!” Arthur exclaimed when he had led her to one of the -parlors almost deserted now for the sight-seeing vantage ground of the -bridge.</p> - -<p>“No,” she answered as she might have done in a New York or a Paris -drawing room, addressing some casual acquaintance. “I have not grown a -particle. I was quite grown up before I left Virginia. It is a Paris -gown, perhaps. The Parisian dressmakers know all the art of bringing out -a woman’s ‘points,’ and they hold my height and my slenderness to be my -best claims upon attention.”</p> - -<p>Arthur felt as if she had struck him. He was about to remonstrate, when -Edmonia broke in upon the conversation with her greeting. But Dorothy -had seen his face and read all that it expressed. The old Dorothy was -tempted to ask his forgiveness; the new Dorothy dismissed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_433" id="page_433"></a>{433}</span> the thought -as quite impossible. She had already sufficiently “compromised” herself -by her impulsiveness, and to make amends she put stays upon her dignity -and throughout the evening they showed no sign of bending.</p> - -<p>Arthur was tortured by all this. Edmonia was delighted over it. So -differently do a man and a woman sometimes interpret another woman’s -attitude and conduct.</p> - -<p>Arthur was compelled to leave them at nine to meet Governor Letcher, who -had summoned him for consultation with respect to the organization of a -surgical staff, of which he purposed to make Arthur Brent one of the -chiefs. Before leaving he asked as to Edmonia’s and Dorothy’s home-going -plans. Learning that they intended to go by the eight o’clock train the -next morning, he said:</p> - -<p>“Very well, I’ll send Dick up by the midnight train to have the Wyanoke -carriage at the station to meet you.”</p> - -<p>“Is Dick with you?” Dorothy asked with more of enthusiasm than she had -shown since her outbreak on the bridge. “How I do want to see Dick! -Can’t you send him here before train time, please?”</p> - -<p>Already grieved and resentful, Arthur was stung by the manner of this -request. For the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_434" id="page_434"></a>{434}</span> moment he was disposed to interpret it as an intended -affront. He quickly dismissed that thought and answered with a laugh:</p> - -<p>“Yes, Dorothy, he shall come to you at once. Perhaps he has a ‘song -ballad’ ready for your greeting. At any rate he at least will pleasantly -remind you of the old life.”</p> - -<p>“I wonder why he put it in that way—why he said ‘he <i>at least</i>,’ ” said -Dorothy when Arthur had gone and the two women were left alone.</p> - -<p>“I think I know,” Edmonia answered. But she did not offer the -explanation. Neither did Dorothy ask for it.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_435" id="page_435"></a>{435}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXXVII" id="XXXVII"></a>XXXVII<br /> -<small>AT WYANOKE</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was three days later before Arthur Brent was able to leave the -duties that detained him in Richmond. When at last he found himself -free, one of the infrequent trains of that time had just gone, and there -would be no other for many hours to come. His impatience to be at -Wyanoke was uncontrollable. For three days he had brooded over Dorothy’s -manner to him at the hotel, and wondered, with much longing, whether she -might not meet him differently at home. He recalled the frankly -impulsive eagerness with which she had greeted him in the first moment -of their meeting, and he argued with himself that her later reserve -might have been simply a reaction from that first outburst of joy, a -maidenly impulse to atone to her pride for the lapse into old, childlike -manners. This explanation seemed a very probable one, and yet—he -reflected that there were no strangers standing by when she had relapsed -into a reserve that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_436" id="page_436"></a>{436}</span> bordered upon hauteur—nobody before whom she need -have hesitated to be cordial. He had asked her about her mother, -thinking thus to awaken some warmth of feeling in her and reëstablish a -footing of sympathy. But her reply had been a business-like statement -that Madame Le Sud would remain in New York for a few days, to secure -the clothing she would need for her field ministrations to the wounded, -after which she would take some very quiet lodging in Richmond until -duty should call her.</p> - -<p>Altogether Arthur Brent’s impatience to know the worst or -best—whichever it might be—grew greater with every hour, and when he -learned that he must idly wait for several hours for the next train, he -mounted Gimlet and set out upon the long horseback journey, for which -Gimlet, weary of the stable, manifested an eagerness quite equal to his -own.</p> - -<p>When the young man dismounted at Wyanoke, Dorothy was the first to meet -him, and there was something in her greeting that puzzled him even more -than her manner on the former occasion had done. For Dorothy too had -been thinking of the hotel episode, and repenting herself of her -coldness on that occasion. She understood it even less than Arthur did.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_437" id="page_437"></a>{437}</span> -She had not intended to be reserved with him, and several times during -that evening she had made an earnest effort to be natural and cordial -instead, but always without success, for some reason that she could not -understand. So she had carefully planned to greet him on his -home-coming, with all the old affection and without reserve. To that end -she had framed in her own mind the things she would say to him and the -manner of their saying. Now that he had come, she said the things she -had planned to say, but she could not adopt the manner she had intended.</p> - -<p>The result was something that would have been ludicrous had it been less -painful to both the parties concerned. It left Arthur worse puzzled than -ever and obviously pained. It sent Dorothy to her chamber for that “good -cry,” which feminine human nature holds to be a panacea.</p> - -<p>At dinner Dorothy “rattled” rather than conversed, as young women are -apt to do when they are embarrassed and are determined not to show their -embarrassment. She seemed bent upon alternately amusing and astonishing -Aunt Polly, with her grotesquely distorted descriptions of things seen -and people encountered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_438" id="page_438"></a>{438}</span> during her travels. Arthur took only so much -part in the conversation as a man thinking deeply, but disposed to be -polite, might.</p> - -<p>When the cloth was removed he lighted a cigar and went to the stables -and barns, avowedly to inquire about matters on the plantation.</p> - -<p>When he returned, full of a carefully formed purpose to “have it out” -with Dorothy, he found guests in the house who had driven to Wyanoke for -supper and a late moonlight drive homeward. From that moment until the -time of the guests’ departure, he was eagerly beset with questions -concerning the political situation and the prospects of war.</p> - -<p>“The war is already on,” he answered, “and we are not half prepared for -it. Fortunately the North is in no better case, and still more -fortunately, we are to have with us the ablest soldier in America.”</p> - -<p>“Who? Beauregard?”</p> - -<p>“No, Robert E. Lee, to whom the Federal administration a little while -ago offered the command of all the United States armies. He has resigned -and is now in Richmond to organize our forces.”</p> - -<p>Arthur talked much, too, of the seriousness of the war, of the certainty -in his mind, that it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_439" id="page_439"></a>{439}</span> would last for years, taxing the resources of the -South to the point of exhaustion. For this some of his guests called him -a pessimist, and applauded the prediction of young Jeff Peyton, that -“within twenty days we shall have twenty thousand men on the Potomac, -and after perhaps one battle of some consequence we shall dictate terms -of peace in Washington.” He added: “You must make haste to get into the -service, Doctor, if you expect to see the fun.”</p> - -<p>“I do not expect to see the fun,” Arthur answered quietly. “I do not see -the humorous side of slaughter. But in my judgment you, sir, will have -ample time in which to wear out many uniforms as gorgeous as the one you -now have on, before peace is concluded at Washington or anywhere else. -An army of twenty thousand men will be looked upon as a mere detachment -before this struggle is over. We shall hear the tramp of armies -numbering hundreds of thousands, and their tramping will desolate -Virginia fields that are now as fair as any on earth. We shall see -historic mansions vanish in smoke, and thousands of happy homes made -prey by the demon War. War was never yet a pastime for any but the most -brutish men. It is altogether horrible; it is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_440" id="page_440"></a>{440}</span> utterly hellish, if the -ladies will pardon the term, and only fools can welcome it as a holiday -pursuit. Unhappily there are many such on both sides of the Potomac.”</p> - -<p>As he paused there was a complete hush among the company for thirty -seconds or so. Then Dorothy advanced to Arthur, took his hand, and said:</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Master!”</p> - -<p>Arthur answered only by a look. But it was a look that told her all that -she wanted to know.</p> - -<p>When the guests were gone, Dorothy prepared for a hasty retreat to her -room, but Arthur called to her as she reached the landing of the stairs, -and asked:</p> - -<p>“Shall we have one of our old time horseback rides ‘soon’ in the -morning, Dorothy?”</p> - -<p>“Yes. It delights me to hear our Virginia phrase ‘soon in the morning.’ -Thank you, I’ll be ready. Good night.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_441" id="page_441"></a>{441}</span></p> - -<h2><a name="XXXVIII" id="XXXVIII"></a>XXXVIII<br /> -<small>SOON IN THE MORNING</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="letra">I</span><b>T</b> was Dick who brought the horses on that next morning—Dick grown -into a tall and comely fellow, and no longer dressed in the careless -fashion of a year ago. For had not Dick spent two months in Richmond as -his master’s body servant? And had he not there developed his native -dandy instincts? And had not the sight of the well-nigh universal -uniforms of that time bred in him a great longing to wear some sort of -“soldier clothes”?</p> - -<p>His master had indulged the fancy. He meant to keep Dick as his body -servant throughout the coming war, and, at any rate while he sat as a -member of that august body the constitutional convention, he wanted his -“boy” to present the appearance of a gentleman’s servitor. So, when he -took Dick to a tailor to be dressed in suitable fashion, he readily -acquiesced in the young negro’s preference for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_442" id="page_442"></a>{442}</span> suit of velveteen and -corduroys with brass buttons shining all over it like the stars in Ursa -Major. The tailor, recognizing the shapeliness of the young negro’s -person as something that afforded him an opportunity to display his -skill in the matter of “fit” had brought all his art to bear upon the -task of perfecting Dick’s livery.</p> - -<p>Dick in his turn had employed strategy in securing an opportunity to -show himself in his new glory to his “Mis’ Dorothy.” Ben, the hostler -who usually brought the horses had recently “got religion”—a bilious -process which at that time was apt to render a negro specially -indifferent to the obligations of morality with respect to “chickens -fryin’ size,” and gloomily unfit for the performance of his ordinary -duties. Dick had labored over night with “Bro’ Ben,” persuading him that -he was really ill, and inducing him to swallow two blue mass pills—the -which Dick had adroitly filched from the medicine chest in the -laboratory. And as Dick, since his service “endurin’ of de feveh,” had -enjoyed the reputation of knowing “ ‘mos as much as a sho’ ’nuff doctah,” -Ben readily acquiesced in Dick’s suggestion that he, Ben, should lie -abed in the morning, Dick kindly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_443" id="page_443"></a>{443}</span> volunteering to feed and curry his -mules for him and “bring de hosses.”</p> - -<p>Dick’s strategy accomplished its purpose, and so it was Dick, -resplendent in a livery that might have done credit to a field marshal -on dress parade, who presented himself at the gate that morning in -charge of his master’s and Dorothy’s mounts.</p> - -<p>Arthur looked at him and asked:</p> - -<p>“Why are you in full-dress uniform today, General Dick?”</p> - -<p>“It’s my respec’ful compliments to Mis’ Dorothy, sah,” answered the boy.</p> - -<p>“Thank you, Dick!” said the girl. “I appreciate the attention. But where -is Ben?”</p> - -<p>“Bro’ Ben he dun got religion, Mis’ Dorothy, an’ he dun taken two blue -pills las’ night, an’—”</p> - -<p>“Give him a dose of Epsom salts at once, Dick,” broke in Arthur, “or -he’ll be salivated. And don’t give him oxalic acid by mistake. I’ll -trouble you to keep your fingers out of the medicine chest hereafter. -Come, Dorothy!”</p> - -<p>But as Dorothy was about to put her foot into Arthur’s hand and spring -from it into the saddle, Dick drew forth a white handkerchief, heavily -perfumed with a cooking extract of lemon, and offered it to Dorothy, -saying:<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_444" id="page_444"></a>{444}</span></p> - -<p>“You haint rubbed de hosses, Mis’ Dorothy, to see ef dey’s clean ’nuff -fer dis suspicious occasion.”</p> - -<p>Dick probably meant “auspicious,” but he was accustomed, both in prose -and in verse, to require complaisant submission to his will on the part -of the English language.</p> - -<p>“Did you clean them, Dick?” asked Dorothy with a little laugh.</p> - -<p>“I’se proud to say I did,” answered the boy.</p> - -<p>“Then there is no need for me to rub them,” she replied. “You always do -your work well. Your master tells me so. And now I want you to take this -handkerchief of mine, and keep it for your own. I bought it in Paris, -Dick. You can carry it in your breast pocket, with a corner of the lace -protruding—sticking out, you know. And if you will come to me when we -get back from our ride, I’ll give you a bottle of something better than -a cooking extract to perfume it with.”</p> - -<p>With that the girl handed him a dainty, lace-edged mouchoir, for which -she had paid half a hundred francs in Paris, and which she had carried -at the Tuileries.</p> - -<p>“It is just in celebration of my home-coming,” she said to Arthur in -explanation, “and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_445" id="page_445"></a>{445}</span> because we are going to have one of our old ‘soon in -the morning’ rides together.”</p> - -<p>As she mounted, Dorothy turned to Dick and commanded:</p> - -<p>“Turn the hounds loose, Dick, and put them on our track.” Then to -Arthur:</p> - -<p>“It is a glorious morning, and I want the dogs to enjoy it.”</p> - -<p>The horses were full of the enthusiasm of the morning. They broke at -once into a gallop, which neither of the riders was disposed to -restrain. Five minutes later the hounds, bellowing as they followed the -trail, overtook the riders. Dorothy brought her mare upon her haunches, -and greeted the dogs as they leaped to caress her hands. Then she -cracked her whip and blew her whistle, and sent the excited animals to -heel, with moans and complainings on their part that they were thus -banished from the immediate presence of their beloved mistress.</p> - -<p>“Your dogs still love and obey you, Dorothy,” said Arthur as they -resumed their ride more soberly than before.</p> - -<p>“Yes,” she answered. “They are better in that respect than women are.”</p> - -<p>Arthur thought he understood. At any rate<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_446" id="page_446"></a>{446}</span> he accepted the remark as one -implying an apology, and he saw no occasion for apology.</p> - -<p>“Never mind that,” he said. “A woman is entitled to her perfect freedom. -Every human being born into this world has an absolute right to do -precisely as he pleases, so long as in doing as he pleases he does not -trespass upon or abridge the equal right of any other human being to do -as he pleases. It is this equality of right that furnishes the -foundation of all moral codes which are worthy of respect. And this -equality of right belongs to women as fully as to men.”</p> - -<p>“In a way, yes,” answered Dorothy. “Yet in another way, no. I control my -hounds, chiefly for their own good. My right to control them rests upon -my superior knowledge of what their conduct ought to be. It is the same -way with women. They do not know as much as men do, concerning what -their conduct ought to be. Take my dear mother’s case for example. If -she had frankly told my father that she could not be happy in the life -into which he had brought her, that in fact it tortured her, he would -have taken her away out of it. Her mistake was in taking the matter into -her own hands. She needed a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_447" id="page_447"></a>{447}</span> master. She ought to have made my father -her master. She ought to have told him what she suffered, and why she -suffered. She ought to have trusted him to find the remedy. Instead of -that—well, you know the story. My father loved my mother with all his -soul. She loved him in return. He could have been her master, if he had -so willed. For when any woman loves any man that man has only to assume -that he is her master in order to be so, and in order to make her -supremely happy in his being so. If my father had understood that, there -would have been no stain upon me now.”</p> - -<p>“What on earth do you mean, Dorothy?” asked Arthur, intensely, as the -girl broke into tears. “There is no stain upon you. I will horsewhip -anybody that shall so much as suggest such a thing.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I know. You are good and true always. But think of it, Cousin -Arthur. My mother is in hiding in Richmond, because of her shame. And my -father has posthumously insulted her—pure, clean woman that she is—and -insulted me, too, in my helplessness. Let me tell you all about it, -please. Oh, Cousin Arthur, you do not know how I have longed for an -opportunity to tell you! You alone of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_448" id="page_448"></a>{448}</span> all people in this world are -broad enough to sympathize with me in my wretchedness. You alone are -true to Truth and Justice and Right. Let me tell you!”</p> - -<p>“Tell me, Dorothy,” he answered tenderly. “I beg of you tell me -absolutely all that is in your mind. Tell me as freely as you told me -once why you marked a watermelon with my initials. But please, Dorothy, -do not tell me anything at all, unless you can put aside the strange -reserve that you have lately set up as a barrier between us, and talk to -me in the old, free, unconstrained way. It was in hope of that that I -asked you to take this ride.”</p> - -<p>She replied, “I beg your pardon for that. I could not help the -constraint, and it pained me as greatly as it distressed you. We are -free now, on our horses. We can talk without restraint, and when we have -talked the matter out, perhaps you will understand. Listen, then!”</p> - -<p>She waited a full minute, the horses walking meanwhile, before she -resumed. Finally Arthur said: “I am listening, Dorothy.”</p> - -<p>Then she answered.</p> - -<p>“My mother was never a bad woman, Arthur Brent. I want you to understand -that clearly before we go on. She abandoned my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_449" id="page_449"></a>{449}</span> father because she could -not endure the life he provided for her. But she was always a pure -woman, in spite of all her surroundings and conditions. She offered -freedom to my father, but she asked no freedom for herself. She made no -complaint of him, and his memory is still to her the dearest thing on -earth. It is convention alone that censures her; convention alone that -forbids her to come to Pocahontas; convention alone that refuses to me -permission to love her openly as my mother and to honor her as such. If -I had my way, I should bring her to Pocahontas, and set up housekeeping -there; and I should send out a proclamation to everybody, saying in -effect: ‘My mother, Mrs. South, is with me. You who shall come promptly -to pay your respects to her, I will count my friends. All the rest shall -be my enemies.’ But that may not be. My mother forbids, and I bow to my -mother’s command. Then comes my father’s command, and to that I will -never bow.”</p> - -<p>“What is it, Dorothy?”</p> - -<p>“Aunt Polly has shown me his letter. He tells me that because of my -mother’s misbehavior, he has great fear on my account. He explains that -he forbids me to learn music because he thought it was music that led -my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_450" id="page_450"></a>{450}</span> mother into wrong ways. He tells me that in order to preserve my -‘respectability’ he has arranged that I shall marry into a Virginia -family as good as my own, and as if to make the matter of my -inconsequence as detestably humiliating as possible he tells me as I -learned before and wrote to you from Paris, that he has betrothed me to -Jeff Peyton. If there had been any chance that I would submit to be thus -disposed of like a hogshead of tobacco or a carload of wheat, Jeff -Peyton’s conduct would have destroyed it. The last time I met him in -Europe you remember, he threatened me with this command of my father, -and I instantly ordered him out of my presence. He had the impudence to -come to Wyanoke last night—knowing that I was there, and that I was -acting as hostess. It was nearly as bad as if I had been entertaining at -Pocahontas. He made it worse by asking me if I had read my father’s -letter, and if I did not now realize the necessity of marrying him in -order that I might ally myself with a good Virginia family. He had just -finished that insolence when you made your little speech, not only -calling him a fool by plain implication, but proving him to be one. -That’s why I thanked you, as I did.”</p> - -<p>“Yes, I quite understood that,” answered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_451" id="page_451"></a>{451}</span> Arthur. “Let us run our horses -for a bit. I have a fancy to do that.”</p> - -<p>Dorothy understood. She joined him in a quarter mile stretch, and then -he suddenly reined in his horse and faced her.</p> - -<p>“It was right here, Dorothy, after a run like that,” he said, “that you -told me I might call you Dorothy. Now I ask you to let me call you -Wife.”</p> - -<p>The girl hesitated. Presently she said:</p> - -<p>“I have made up my mind to be perfectly true with you. I don’t know -whether I had thought of this or not, at any rate I have tried not to -think of it.”</p> - -<p>“But now that I have forced the thought upon you, Dorothy? Is it yes, or -no?”</p> - -<p>Again the girl paused in thought before answering. Her dogs, seeing that -she was paying no attention to them, broke away in pursuit of a hare. -She suddenly recovered her self-possession. She whistled through her -fingers to recall the hounds, and when they returned, crouching to -receive the punishment they knew they deserved, she bade them go to -heel, adding: “You’re naughty fellows, but you haven’t been kept under -control, and so I forgive you.” Then, turning to Arthur she said,</p> - -<p>“Yes, Master.”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_452" id="page_452"></a>{452}</span></p> - -<p class="c">* * * * * * * * </p> - -<p>On their return to the house Arthur was mindful of his duty to Aunt -Polly, guardian of the person of Dorothy South, and, as such endowed -with authority to approve or forbid any marriage to which that eighteen -year old young person might be inclined, before attaining her twenty -first year.</p> - -<p>“Aunt Polly!” he said abruptly, “I want your permission to marry -Dorothy.”</p> - -<p>“Why of course, Arthur,” she replied. “That is what I have intended all -the time.”</p> - -<p class="c">* * * * * * * * </p> - -<p>It was four years later, in June, 1865. Arthur and Dorothy—with an -abiding consciousness of duty faithfully done—stood together in the -porch at Wyanoke. The war was over. Virginia was ruined beyond recovery. -All of evil that Arthur had foreseen, had been accomplished. “But the -good has also come,” said Dorothy as they talked. “Slavery is at an end. -You, Arthur, are free. You may again address yourself to your work in -the world without the embarrassment of other duty. Shall we go back to -New York?”<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_453" id="page_453"></a>{453}</span></p> - -<div class="figcenter"> -<img src="images/p452.jpg" width="500" height="322" alt="“AUNT POLLY!” HE SAID ABRUPTLY, “I WANT YOUR PERMISSION -TO MARRY DOROTHY.”" title="" /> -<br /> -<span class="caption"><span class="captv">“A</span>UNT POLLY!” HE SAID ABRUPTLY, “I WANT YOUR PERMISSION -TO MARRY DOROTHY.”</span> -</div> - -<p>“No, Dorothy. My work in life lies in the cradle in the chamber there, -where our two children sleep.”</p> - -<p>“Thank you!” said Dorothy, and silence fell for a time.</p> - -<p>Presently Dorothy added:</p> - -<p>“And my mother’s work is done. It consoles me for all, when I remember -that she lies where she fell, a martyr. The stone under which she sleeps -is a rude one, but soldier hands have lovingly carved upon it the words:</p> - -<p class="c"> -<br /> -‘MADAME LE SUD<br /> -<span class="smcap">The Angel of the Battlefield</span>.’ ”<br /> -</p> - -<p>Then Dorothy whistled, and Dick came in response.</p> - -<p>“Bring the horses at six o’clock tomorrow, Dick, your master and I are -going to ride soon in the morning.”</p> -<p> </p> -<p class="c"> -THE END<br /> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<p class="cbig">THE GROSSET & DUNLAP<br /> -ILLUSTRATED EDITIONS<br /> -OF FAMOUS BOOKS</p> - -<hr /> - -<p>The following books are large 12mo volumes 5¾ × 8¼ inches in size, are -printed on laid paper of the highest grade, and bound in cloth, with -elaborate decorative covers. 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Mail and Express.</i></p> - -<p>“A big story in sober English, and with thorough art in the construction -... a wonderfully perfect bit of work. The dog adventures are as -exciting as any man’s exploits could be, and Mr. London’s workmanship is -wholly satisfying.”—<i>The New York Sun.</i></p> - -<p>“The story is one that will stir the blood of every lover of a life in -its closest relation to nature. Whoever loves the open or adventure for -its own sake will find ‘The Call of the Wild’ a most fascinating -book.”—<i>The Brooklyn Eagle.</i></p> - -<hr class="reghr" /> - -<p class="cb">THE SEA WOLF</p> - -<p class="c">Illustrated by W. J. Aylward</p> - -<p>“This story surely has the pure Stevenson ring, the adventurous glamour, -the vertebrate stoicism. ’Tis surely the story of the making of a man, -the sculptor being Captain Larsen, and the clay, the ease-loving, -well-to-do, half-drowned man, to all appearances his helpless -prey.”—<i>Critic.</i></p> - -<hr /> -<p class="cbig"> -GROSSET & DUNLAP, <span class="smcap">Publishers</span><br /> -52 Duane Street : : : :NEW YORK<br /> -</p> - -<hr /> - -<div class="footnotes"><p class="cb">FOOTNOTES:</p> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_A_1" id="Footnote_A_1"></a><a href="#FNanchor_A_1"><span class="label">[A]</span></a> The negroes always properly called this word “Voodoo.” -Among theatrical folk it has been strangely and senselessly corrupted -into “Hoodoo.” The negroes believed in the Voodoo as firmly as the -player people do.—<span class="smcap">Author</span>.</p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_B_2" id="Footnote_B_2"></a><a href="#FNanchor_B_2"><span class="label">[B]</span></a> The court incident here related is a fact. The author of -this book was present in court when it occurred.—<span class="smcap">Author.</span></p></div> - -<div class="footnote"><p><a name="Footnote_C_3" id="Footnote_C_3"></a><a href="#FNanchor_C_3"><span class="label">[C]</span></a> This story of Robert Copeland is historical fact, except -for such disguises of name, etc. as are necessary under the -circumstances.—<span class="smcap">Author</span>.</p></div> - -</div> - -<hr class="full" /> - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of Project Gutenberg's Dorothy South, by George Cary Eggleston - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK Dorothy SOUTH *** - -***** This file should be named 52148-h.htm or 52148-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/5/2/1/4/52148/ - -Produced by David Edwards, Chuck Greif and the Online -Distributed Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This -file was produced from images generously made available -by The Internet Archive) - - -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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