The Crisis — Complete

  CHAPTER XIII. AT MR. BRINSMADE'S GATE

  The eastern side of the Brinsmade house is almost wholly taken up by thebig drawing-room where Anne gave her fancy-dress ball. From the windowsmight be seen, through the trees in the grounds, the Father of Watersbelow. But the room is gloomy now, that once was gay, and a heavy coatof soot is spread on the porch at the back, where the apple blossomsstill fall thinly in the spring. The huge black town has coiled aboutthe place the garden still struggles on, but the giants of the forestare dying and dead. Bellefontaine Road itself, once the drive offashion, is no more. Trucks and cars crowd the streets which follow itsonce rural windings, and gone forever are those comely wooded hills andgreen pastures,--save in the memory of those who have been spared todream.

  Still the old house stands, begrimed but stately, rebuking the sordidlife around it. Still come into it the Brinsmades to marriage and todeath. Five and sixty years are gone since Mr. Calvin Brinsmade took hisbride there. They sat on the porch in the morning light, harking tothe whistle of the quail in the corn, and watching the frightened deerscamper across the open. Do you see the bride in her high-waisted gown,and Mr. Calvin in his stock and his blue tail-coat and brass buttons?

  Old people will tell you of the royal hospitality then, of the famousmen and women who promenaded under those chandeliers, and sat down tothe game-laden table. In 1835 General Atkinson and his officers thoughtnothing of the twenty miles from Jefferson Barracks below, nor ofdancing all night with the Louisville belles, who were Mrs. Brinsmade'sguests. Thither came Miss Todd of Kentucky, long before she thoughtof taking for a husband that rude man of the people, Abraham Lincoln.Foreigners of distinction fell in love with the place, with itsopen-hearted master and mistress, and wrote of it in their journals.Would that many of our countrymen, who think of the West as rough, mighthave known the quality of the Brinsmades and their neighbors!

  An era of charity, of golden simplicity, was passing on that Octobernight of Anne Brinsmade's ball. Those who made merry there were soonto be driven and scattered before the winds of war; to die at Wilson'sCreek, or Shiloh, or to be spared for heroes of the Wilderness. Somewere to eke out a life of widowhood in poverty. All were to livesoberly, chastened by what they had seen. A fear knocked at ColonelCarvel's heart as he stood watching the bright figures.

  "Brinsmade," he said, "do you remember this room in May, '46?"

  Mr. Brinsmade, startled, turned upon him quickly.

  "Why, Colonel, you have read my very thoughts," he said. "Some of thosewho were here then are--are still in Mexico."

  "And some who came home, Brinsmade, blamed God because they had notfallen," said the Colonel.

  "Hush, Comyn, His will be done," he answered; "He has left a daughter tocomfort you."

  Unconsciously their eyes sought Virginia. In her gown of faded primroseand blue with its quaint stays and short sleeves, she seemed to havecaught the very air of the decorous century to which it belonged. Shewas standing against one of the pilasters at the side of theroom, laughing demurely at the antics of Becky Sharp and Sir JohnFalstaff,--Miss Puss Russell and Mr. Jack Brinsmade, respectively.

  Mr. Tennyson's "Idylls" having appeared but the year before, Anne wasdressed as Elaine, a part which suited her very well. It was strangeindeed to see her waltzing with Daniel Boone (Mr. Clarence Colfax)in his Indian buckskins. Eugenie went as Marie Antoinette. Tall MaudeCatherwood was most imposing as Rebecca; and her brother George made atowering Friar Tuck, Even little fifteen-year-old Spencer Catherwood,the contradiction of the family, was there. He went as the lieutenantNapoleon, walking about with his hands behind his back and his browsthoughtfully contracted.

  The Indian summer night was mild. It was at tine very height of thefestivities that Dorothy Carvel and Mr. Daniel Boone were making theirway together to the porch when the giant gate-keeper of KenilworthCastle came stalking up the steps out of the darkness, brandishing hisclub in their faces. Dorothy screamed, and even the doughty Daniel gaveback a step.

  "Tom Catherwood! How dare you? You frightened me nearly to death."

  "I'm sorry, Jinny, indeed I am," said the giant, repentant, and holdingher hand in his.

  "Where have you been?" demanded Virginia, a little mollified. "Whatmakes you so late?"

  "I've been to a Lincoln meeting," said honest Tom; "where I heard a veryfine speech from a friend of yours."

  Virginia tossed her head.

  "You might have been better employed," said she, and added, withdignity, "I have no friends who speak at Black Republican meetings."

  "How about Judge Whipple?" said Tom.

  She stopped. "Did you mean the Judge?" she asked, over her shoulder.

  "No," said Tom, "I meant--"

  He got no further. Virginia slipped her arm through Clarence's, and theywent off together to the end of the veranda. Poor Tom! He passed on intothe gay drawing-room, but the zest had been taken out of his antics forthat night.

  "Whom did he mean, Jinny?" said Clarence, when they were on the seatunder the vines.

  "He meant that Yankee, Stephen Brice," answered Virginia, languidly. "Iam so tired of hearing about him."

  "So am I," said Clarence, with a fervor by no means false. "By George,I think he will make a Black Republican out of Tom, if he keeps on.Puss and Jack have been talking about him all summer, until I am outof patience. I reckon he has brains. But suppose he has addressed fiftyLincoln meetings, as they say, is that any reason for making muchof him? I should not have him at Bellegarde. I am surprised that Mr.Russell allows him in his house. I can see why Anne likes him."

  "Why?"

  "He is on the Brinsmade charity list."

  "He is not on their charity list, nor on any other," said Virginia,quickly. "Stephen Brice is the last person who would submit to charity."

  "And you are the last person who I supposed would stand up for him,"cried her cousin, surprised and nettled.

  There was an instant's silence.

  "I want to be fair, Max," she said quietly. "Pa offered them our GlencoeHouse last summer at a low price, and they insisted on paying whatMr. Edwards gave five years ago,--or nothing. You know that I detesta Yankee as much as you do," she continued, indignation growing in hervoice. "I did not come out here with you to be insulted."

  With her hand on the rail, she made as if to rise. Clarence was perforcemollified.

  "Don't go, Jinny," he said beseechingly. "I didn't mean to make youangry--"

  "I can't see why you should always be dragging in this Mr. Brice," shesaid, almost tearfully. (It will not do to pause now and inquire intoVirginia's logic.) "I came out to hear what you had to tell me."

  "Jinny, I have been made second lieutenant of Company A."

  "Oh, Max, I am so glad! I am so proud of you!"

  "I suppose that you have heard the result of the October elections,Jinny."

  "Pa said something about them to-night," she answered; "why?"

  "It looks now as if there were a chance of the Republicans winning," heanswered. But it was elation that caught his voice, not gloom.

  "You mean that this white trash Lincoln may be President?" sheexclaimed, seizing his arm.

  "Never!" he cried. "The South will not submit to that until every manwho can bear arms is shot down." He paused. The strains of a waltzmingled with talk and laughter floated out of the open window. His voicedropped to a low intensity. "We are getting ready in Company A," hesaid; "the traitors will be dropped. We are getting ready to fight forMissouri and for the South."

  The girl felt his excitement, his exaltation.

  "And if you were not, Max, I should disown you," she whispered.

  He leaned forward until his face was close to hers.

  "And now?" he said.

  "I am ready to work, to starve, to go to prison, to help--"

  He sank back heavily into the corner.

  "Is that all, Jinny?"

  "All?" she repeated. "Oh, if a woman could only do more!"

  "And is there nothing--for me?"


  Virginia straightened.

  "Are you doing this for a reward?" she demanded.

  "No," he answered passionately. "You know that I am not. Do you rememberwhen you told me that I was good for nothing, that I lacked purpose?"

  "Yes, Max."

  "I have thought it over since," he went on rapidly; "you were right. Icannot work--it is not in me. But I have always felt that I could make aname for myself--for you--in the army. I am sure that I could command aregiment. And now the time is coming."

  She did not answer him, but absently twisted the fringe of his buckskinsin her fingers.

  "Ever since I have known what love is I have loved you, Jinny. It was sowhen we climbed the cherry trees at Bellegarde. And you loved me then--Iknow you did. You loved me when I went East to school at the MilitaryInstitute. But it has not been the same of late," he faltered."Something has happened. I felt it first on that day you rode out toBellegarde when you said that my life was of no use. Jinny, I don't askmuch. I am content to prove myself. War is coming, and we shall haveto free ourselves from Yankee insolence. It is what we have both wishedfor. When I am a general, will you marry me?"

  For a wavering instant she might have thrown herself into hisoutstretched arms. Why not, and have done with sickening doubts? Perhapsher hesitation hung on the very boyishness of his proposal. Perhaps therevelation that she did not then fathom was that he had not developedsince those childish days. But even while she held back, came the beatof hoofs on the gravel below them, and one of the Bellegarde servantsrode into the light pouring through the open door. He called for hismaster.

  Clarence muttered his dismay as he followed his cousin to the steps.

  "What is it?" asked Virginia, alarmed.

  "Nothing; I forgot to sign the deed to the Elleardsville property,and Worington wants it to-night." Cutting short Sambo's explanations,Clarence vaulted on the horse. Virginia was at his stirrup. Leaning overin the saddle, he whispered: "I'll be back in a quarter of an hour Willyou wait?"

  "Yes," she said, so that he barely heard.

  "Here?"

  She nodded.

  He was away at a gallop, leaving Virginia standing bareheaded to thenight, alone. A spring of pity, of affection for Clarence suddenlywelled up within her. There came again something of her old admirationfor a boy, impetuous and lovable, who had tormented and defended herwith the same hand.

  Patriotism, stronger in Virginia than many of us now can conceive, wason Clarence's side. Ambition was strong in her likewise. Now was she allafire with the thought that she, a woman, might by a single wordgive the South a leader. That word would steady him, for there was noquestion of her influence. She trembled at the reckless lengths he mightgo in his dejection, and a memory returned to her of a day at Glencoe,before he had gone off to school, when she had refused to drive withhim. Colonel Carvel had been away from home. She had pretended not tocare. In spite of Ned's beseechings Clarence had ridden off on a wildthoroughbred colt and had left her to an afternoon of agony. Vividlyshe recalled his home-coming in the twilight, his coat torn and muddy, ableeding cut on his forehead, and the colt quivering tame.

  In those days she had thought of herself unreservedly as meant forhim. Dash and courage and generosity had been the beacon lights on herhorizon. But now? Were there not other qualities? Yes, and Clarenceshould have these, too. She would put them into him. She also had beenat fault, and perhaps it was because of her wavering loyalty to him thathe had not gained them.

  Her name spoken within the hall startled Virginia from her reverie, andshe began to walk rapidly down the winding drive. A fragment of the airto which they were dancing brought her to a stop. It was the Jenny Lindwaltz. And with it came clear and persistent the image she had sought toshut out and failed. As if to escape it now, she fairly ran all the wayto the light at the entrance and hid in the magnolias clustered besidethe gateway. It was her cousin's name she whispered over and over toherself as she waited, vibrant with a strange excitement. It was asthough the very elements might thwart her wail. Clarence would bedelayed, or they would miss her at the house, and search. It seemed aneternity before she heard the muffled thud of a horse cantering in theclay road.

  Virginia stood out in the light fairly between the gate posts. Too lateshe saw the horse rear as the rider flew back in his seat, for she hadseized the bridle. The beams from the lamp fell upon a Revolutionaryhorseman, with cooked hat and sword and high riding-boots. For her hisprofile was in silhouette, and the bold nose and chin belonged to butone man she knew. He was Stephen Brice. She gave a cry of astonishmentand dropped the rein in dismay. Hot shame was surging in her face. Herimpulse was to fly, nor could she tell what force that stayed her feet.

  As for Stephen, he stood high in his stirrups and stared down at thegirl. She was standing full in the light,--her lashes fallen, her facecrimson. But no sound of surprise escaped him because it was she, nordid he wonder at her gown of a gone-by century. Her words came first,and they were low. She did not address him by name.

  "I--I thought that you were my cousin," she said. "What must you thinkof me!"

  Stephen was calm.

  "I expected it," he answered.

  She gave a step backward, and raised her frightened eyes to his.

  "You expected it?" she faltered.

  "I can't say why," he said quickly, "but it seems to me as if this hadhappened before. I know that I am talking nonsense--"

  Virginia was trembling now. And her answer was not of her own choosing.

  "It has happened before," she cried. "But where? And when?"

  "It may have been in a dream," he answered her, "that I saw you as youstand there by my bridle. I even know the gown you wear."

  She put her hand to her forehead. Had it been a dream? And what mysterywas it that sent him here this night of all nights? She could not evenhave said that it was her own voice making reply.

  "And I--I have seen you, with the sword, and the powdered hair, and theblue coat and the buff waistcoat. It is a buff waistcoat like that mygreat-grandfather wears in his pictures."

  "It is a buff waistcoat," he said, all sense of strangeness gone.

  The roses she held dropped on the gravel, and she put out her handagainst his horse's flank. In an instant he had leaped from his saddle,and his arm was holding her. She did not resist, marvelling rather athis own steadiness, nor did she then resent a tenderness in his voice.

  "I hope you will forgive me--Virginia," he said. "I should not havementioned this. And yet I could not help it."

  She looked up at him rather wildly.

  "It was I who stopped you," she said; "I was waiting for--"

  "For whom?"

  The interruption brought remembrance.

  "For my cousin, Mr. Colfax," she answered, in another tone. And as shespoke she drew away from him, up the driveway. But she had scarcelytaken five steps whey she turned again, her face burning defiance. "Theytold me you were not coming," she said almost fiercely. "Why did youcome?"

  It was a mad joy that Stephen felt.

  "You did not wish me to come?" he demanded.

  "Oh, why do you ask that?" she cried. "You know I would not have beenhere had I thought you were coming. Anne promised me that you would notcome."

  What would she not have given for those words back again

  Stephen took astride toward her, and to the girl that stride betokened athousand things that went to the man's character. Within its compass thecomparison in her mind was all complete. He was master of himself whenhe spoke.

  "You dislike me, Miss Carvel," he said steadily. "I do not blame you.Nor do I flatter myself that it is only because you believe one thing,and I another. But I assure you that it is my misfortune rather than myfault that I have not pleased you,--that I have met you only to angeryou."

  He paused, for she did not seem to hear him. She was gazing at thedistant lights moving on the river. Had he come one step farther?--buthe did not. Presently she knew that he was speaking again, in the sam
emeasured tone.

  "Had Miss Brinsmade told me that my presence here would cause youannoyance, I should have stayed away. I hope that you will think nothingof the--the mistake at the gate. You may be sure that I shall notmention it. Good night, Miss Carvel."

  He lifted his hat, mounted his horse, and was gone. She had not evenknown that he could ride--that was strangely the first thought. Thesecond discovered herself intent upon the rhythm of his canter as itdied southward upon the road. There was shame in this, mingled with athankfulness that he would not meet Clarence. She hurried a few stepstoward the house, and stopped again. What should she say to Clarencenow? What could she say to him?

  But Clarence was not in her head. Ringing there was her talk withStephen Brice, as though it were still rapidly going on. His questionsand her replies--over and over again. Each trivial incident of anencounter real and yet unreal! His transformation in the uniform, whichhad seemed so natural. Though she strove to make it so, nothing of allthis was unbearable now, nor the remembrance of the firm torch of hisarm about her nor yet again his calling her by her name.

  Absently she took her way again up the drive, now pausing, now going on,forgetful. First it was alarm she felt when her cousin leaped down ather side,--then dread.

  "I thought I should never get back," he cried breathlessly, as he threwhis reins to Sambo. "I ought not to have asked you to wait outside. Didit seem long, Jinny?"

  She answered something, There was a seat near by under the trees. Tolead her to it he seized her hand, but it was limp and cold, and asudden fear came into his voice.

  "Jinny!"

  "Yes."

  She resisted, and he dropped her fingers. She remembered long how hestood in the scattered light from the bright windows, a tall, blackfigure of dismay. She felt the yearning in his eyes. But her ownresponse, warm half an hour since, was lifeless.

  "Jinny," he said, "what is the matter?"

  "Nothing, Max. Only I was very foolish to say I would wait for you."

  "Then--then you won't marry me?"

  "Oh, Max," she cried, "it is no time to talk of that now. I feelto-night as if something dreadful were to happen."

  "Do you mean war?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said. "Yes."

  "But war is what we want," he cried, "what we have prayed for, what wehave both been longing for to-night, Jinny. War alone will give us ourrights--"

  He stopped short. Virginia had bowed her head an her hands, and he sawher shoulders shaken by a sob. Clarence bent over her in bewildermentand anxiety.

  "You are not well, Jinny," he said.

  "I am not well," she answered. "Take me into the house."

  But when they went in at the door, he saw that her eyes were dry.

  Those were the days when a dozen young ladies were in the habit ofstaying all night after a dance in the country; of long whispered talks(nay, not always whispered) until early morning. And of late breakfasts.Miss Russell had not been the only one who remarked Virginia's longabsence with her cousin; but Puss found her friend in one of those moodswhich even she dared not disturb. Accordingly Miss Russell stayed allnight with Anne.

  And the two spent most of the dark hours remaining in unprofitablediscussion as to whether Virginia were at last engaged to her cousin,and in vain queried over another unsolved mystery. This mystery wastaken up at the breakfast table the next morning, when Miss Carvelsurprised Mrs. Brinsmade and the male household by appearing athalf-past seven.

  "Why, Jinny," cried Mr. Brinsmade, "what does this mean? I alwaysthought that young ladies did not get up after a ball until noon."

  Virginia smiled a little nervously.

  "I am going to ask you to take me to town when you go, Mr. Brinsmade."

  "Why, certainly, my dear," he said. "But I under stood that your auntwas to send for you this afternoon from Bellegarde."

  Virginia shook her head. "There is something I wish to do in town."

  "I'll drive her in, Pa," said Jack. "You're too old. Will you go withme, Jinny?"

  "Of course, Jack."

  "But you must eat some breakfast, Jinny," said Mrs Brinsmade, glancinganxiously at the girl.

  Mr. Brinsmade put down his newspaper.

  "Where was Stephen Brice last night, Jack?" he asked. "I understood Anneto say that he had spoke; of coming late."

  "Why, sir," said Jack, "that's what we can't make out. Tom Catherwood,who is always doing queer things, you know, went to a Black Republicanmeeting last night, and met Stephen there. They came out in Tom's buggyto the Russells', and Tom got into his clothes first and rode over.Stephen was to have followed on Puss Russell's horse. But he never gothere. At least I can find no one who saw him. Did you, Jinny?"

  But Virginia did not raise her eyes from her plate. A miraculousintervention came through Mrs. Brinsmade.

  "There might have been an accident, Jack," said that lady, with concern."Send Nicodemus over to Mrs. Russell's at once to inquire. You know thatMr. Brice is a Northerner, and may not be able to ride."

  Jack laughed.

  "He rides like a dragoon, mother," said he. "I don't know where hepicked it up."

  "The reason I mentioned him," said Mr. Brinsmade, lifting the blanketsheet and adjusting his spectacles, "was because his name caught my eyein this paper. His speech last night at the Library Hall is one of thefew sensible Republican speeches I have read. I think it very remarkablefor a man as young as he." Mr. Brinsmade began to read: "'While waitingfor the speaker of the evening, who was half an hour late, Mr. Tiefelrose in the audience and called loudly for Mr. Brice. Many citizens inthe hall were astonished at the cheering which followed the mentionof this name. Mr. Brice is a young lawyer with a quiet manner and adetermined face, who has sacrificed much to the Party's cause thissummer. He was introduced by Judge Whipple, in whose office he is.He had hardly begun to speak before he had the ear of everyone in thehouse. Mr. Brice's personality is prepossessing, his words are spokensharply, and he has a singular emphasis at times which seems to drivehis arguments into the minds of his hearers. We venture to say that ifparty orators here and elsewhere were as logical and temperate as Mr.Brice; if, like him, they appealed to reason rather than to passion,those bitter and lamentable differences which threaten our country'speace might be amicably adjusted.' Let me read what he said."

  But he was interrupted by the rising of Virginia. A high color was onthe girl's face as she said:

  "Please excuse me, Mrs. Brinsmade, I must go and get ready."

  "But you've eaten nothing, my dear."

  Virginia did not reply. She was already on the stairs.

  "You ought not have read that, Pa," Mr. Jack remonstrated; "you knowthat she detests Yankees."