________________________________________________
_ In that spring of 1860 the time was come for the South to make her final
stand. And as the noise of gathering conventions shook the ground,
Stephen Brice was not the only one who thought of the Question at
Freeport. The hour was now at hand for it to bear fruit.
Meanwhile, his hero, the hewer of rails and forger of homely speech,
Abraham Lincoln, had made a little tour eastward the year before, and had
startled Cooper Union with a new logic and a new eloquence. They were
the same logic and the same eloquence which had startled Stephen.
Even as he predicted who had given it birth, the Question destroyed the
great Democratic Party. Colonel Carvel travelled to the convention in
historic Charleston soberly and fearing God, as many another Southern
gentleman. In old Saint Michael's they knelt to pray for harmony, for
peace; for a front bold and undismayed toward those who wronged them.
All through the week chosen orators wrestled in vain. Judge Douglas,
you flattered yourself that you had evaded the Question. Do you see
the Southern delegates rising in their seats? Alabama leaves the hall,
followed by her sister stakes. The South has not forgotten your Freeport
Heresy. Once she loved you now she will have none of you.
Gloomily, indeed, did Colonel Carvel return home. He loved the Union and
the flag for which his grandfather Richard had fought so bravely. That
flag was his inheritance. So the Judge, laying his hand upon the knee of
his friend, reminded him gravely. But the Colonel shook his head. The
very calmness of their argument had been portentous.
"No, Whipple," said he. "You are a straightforward man. You can't
disguise it. You of the North are bent upon taking away from us the
rights we had when our fathers framed the Constitution. However the
nigger got to this country, sir, in your Bristol and Newport traders, as
well as in our Virginia and Maryland ships, he is here, and he was here
when the Constitution was written. He is happier in slavery than are
your factory hands in New England; and he is no more fit to exercise the
solemn rights of citizenship, I say, than the halfbreeds in the South
American states."
The Judge attempted to interrupt, but Mr. Carvel stopped him.
"Suppose you deprive me of my few slaves, you do not ruin me. Yet you
do me as great a wrong as you do my friend Samuels, of Louisiana, who
depends on the labor of five hundred. Shall I stand by selfishly and
see him ruined, and thousands of others like him?"
Profoundly depressed, Colonel Carvel did not attend the adjourned
Convention at Baltimore, which split once more on Mason and Dixon's line.
The Democrats of the young Northwest stood for Douglas and Johnson, and
the solid South, in another hall, nominated Breckenridge and Lane. This,
of course, became the Colonel's ticket.
What a Babel of voices was raised that summer! Each with its cure for
existing ills. Between the extremes of the Black Republican Negro
Worshippers and the Southern Rights party of Breckenridge, your
conservative had the choice of two candidates,--of Judge Douglas or
Senator Bell. A most respectable but practically extinct body of
gentlemen in ruffled shirts, the Old Line Whigs, had likewise met in
Baltimore. A new name being necessary, they called themselves
Constitutional Unionists Senator Bell was their candidate, and they
proposed to give the Nation soothing-syrup. So said Judge Whipple, with
a grunt of contempt, to Mr. Cluyme, who was then a prominent
Constitutional Unionist. Other and most estimable gentlemen were also
Constitutional Unionists, notably Mr. Calvin Brinsmade. Far be it from
any one to cast disrespect upon the reputable members of this party,
whose broad wings sheltered likewise so many weak brethren.
One Sunday evening in May, the Judge was taking tea with Mrs. Brice.
The occasion was memorable for more than one event--which was that he
addressed Stephen by his first name for the first time.
"You're an admirer of Abraham Lincoln," he had said.
Stephen, used to Mr. Whipple's ways, smiled quietly at his mother. He
had never dared mention to the Judge his suspicions concerning his
journey to Springfield and Freeport.
"Stephen," said the Judge (here the surprise came in), "Stephen, what do
you think of Mr. Lincoln's chances for the Republican nomination?"
"We hear of no name but Seward's, sir," said Stephen, When he had
recovered.
The Judge grunted.
"Do you think that Lincoln would make a good President?" he added.
"I have thought so, sir, ever since you were good enough to give me the
opportunity of knowing him."
It was a bold speech--the Judge drew his great eyebrows together, but he
spoke to Mrs. Brice.
"I'm not as strong as I was once, ma'am," said he. "And yet I am going
to that Chicago convention."
Mrs. Brice remonstrated mildly, to the effect that he had done his share
of political work. He scarcely waited for her to finish.
"I shall take a younger man with me, in case anything happens. In fact,
ma'am, I had thought of taking your son, if you can spare him."
And so it was that Stephen went to that most dramatic of political
gatherings,--in the historic Wigwam. It was so that his eyes were opened
to the view of the monster which maims the vitality of the Republic,--
the political machine. Mr. Seward had brought his machine from New
York,--a legion prepared to fill the Wigwam with their bodies, and
to drown with their cries all names save that of their master.
Stephen indeed had his eyes opened. Through the kindness of Judge
Whipple he heard many quiet talks between that gentleman and delegates
from other states--Pennsylvania and Illinois and Indiana and elsewhere.
He perceived that the Judge was no nonentity in this new party. Mr.
Whipple sat in his own room, and the delegates came and ranged themselves
along the bed. Late one night, when the delegates were gone, Stephen
ventured to speak what was in his mind.
"Mr. Lincoln did not strike me as the kind of man, sir; who would permit
a bargain."
"Mr. Lincoln's at home playing barn-ball," said the Judge, curtly. "He
doesn't expect the nomination."
"Then," said Stephen, rather hotly, "I think you are unfair to him."
You are expecting the Judge to thunder. Sometimes he liked this kind of
speech.
"Stephen, I hope that politics may be a little cleaner when you become a
delegate," he answered, with just the suspicion of a smile. "Supposing
you are convinced that Abraham Lincoln is the only man who can save the
Union, and supposing that the one way to get him nominated is to meet
Seward's gang with their own methods, what would you do, sir? I want
a practical proposition, sir," said Mr. Whipple, "one that we can use
to-night. It is now one 'clock."
As Stephen was silent, the Judge advised him to go to bed. And the next
morning, while Mr. Seward's henchmen, confident and uproarious, were
parading the streets of Chicago with their bands and their bunting, the
vast Wigwam was quietly filling up with bony Westerners whose ally was
none other than the state of Pennsylvania. These gentlemen possessed
wind which they had not wasted in processions. And the Lord delivered
Seward and all that was his into their hands.
How the light of Mr. Seward's hope went out after the first ballot, and
how some of the gentlemen attached to his person wept; and how the voices
shook the Wigwam, and the thunder of the guns rolled over the tossing
water of the lake, many now living remember. That day a name was
delivered to the world through the mouths political schemers which was
destined to enter history that of the saviour of the Nation.
Down in little Springfield, on a vacant lot near the station, a tall man
in his shirt sleeves was playing barn-ball with some boys. The game
finished, he had put on his black coat and was starting homeward under
the tree--when a fleet youngster darted after him with a telegram. The
tall man read it, and continued on his walk his head bent and his feet
taking long strides, Later in the day he was met by a friend.
"Abe," said the friend, "I'm almighty glad there somebody in this town's
got notorious at last."
In the early morning of their return from Chicago Judge Whipple and
Stephen were standing in the front of a ferry-boat crossing the
Mississippi. The sun was behind them. The Judge had taken off his hat,
and his gray hair was stirred by the river breeze. Illness had set a
yellow seal on the face, but the younger man remarked it not. For
Stephen, staring at the black blur of the city outline, was filled with a
strange exaltation which might have belonged to his Puritan forefathers.
Now at length was come his chance to be of use in life,--to dedicate the
labor of his hands and of his brains to Abraham Lincoln uncouth prophet
of the West. With all his might he would work to save the city for the
man who was the hope of the Union.
The bell rang. The great paddles scattered the brow waters with white
foam, and the Judge voiced his thoughts.
"Stephen," said he, "I guess we'll have to put on shoulders to the wheel
this summer. If Lincoln is not elected I have lived my sixty-five years
for nothing."
As he descended the plank, he laid a hand on Stephen's arm, and tottered.
The big Louisiana, Captain Brent's boat, just in from New Orleans, was
blowing off her steam as with slow steps they climbed the levee and the
steep pitch of the street beyond it. The clatter of hooves and the crack
of whips reached their ears, and, like many others before them and since,
they stepped into Carvel & Company's. On the inside of the glass
partition of the private office, a voice of great suavity was heard.
It was Eliphalet Hopper's.
"If you will give me the numbers of the bales, Captain Brent, I'll send
a dray down to your boat and get them."
It was a very decisive voice that answered.
"No, sir, I prefer to do business with my friend, Colonel Carvel. I
guess I can wait."
"I could sell the goods to Texas buyers who are here in the store right
now."
"Until I get instructions from one of the concern," vowed Captain Lige,
"I shall do as I always have done, sir. What is your position here, Mr.
Hopper?"
"I am manager, I callate."
The Captain's fist was heard to come down on the desk.
"You don't manage me," he said, "and I reckon you don't manage the
Colonel."
Mr. Hopper's face was not pleasant to see as he emerged. But at sight of
Judge Whipple on the steps his suavity returned.
"The Colonel will be in any minute, sir," said he.
But the Judge walked past him without reply, and into the office.
Captain Brent, seeing him; sprang to his feet.
"Well, well, Judge," said he, heartily, "you fellows have done it now,
sure. I'll say this for you, you've picked a smart man."
"Better vote for him, Lige," said the Judge, setting down.
The Captain smiled at Stephen.
"A man's got a lot of choice this year;" said he. "Two governments,
thirty-three governments, one government patched up for a year ox two."
"Or no government," finished the Judge. "Lige, you're not such a fool as
to vote against the Union?"
"Judge," said the Captain, instantly, "I'm not the only one in this town
who will have to decide whether my sympathies are wrong. My sympathies
are with the South."
"It's not a question of sympathy, Captain," answered the Judge, dryly.
"Abraham Lincoln himself was born in Kentucky."
They had not heard a step without.
"Gentlemen, mark my words. If Abraham Lincoln is elected, the South
leaves this Union."
The Judge started, and looked up. The speaker was Colonel Carvel
himself.
"Then, sir," Mr. Whipple cried hotly, "then you will be chastised and
brought back. For at last we have chosen a man who is strong enough,--
who does not fear your fire-eaters,--whose electors depend on Northern
votes alone."
Stephen rose apprehensively, So did Captain Lige The Colonel had taken a
step forward, and a fire was quick to kindle in his gray eyes. It was as
quick to die. Judge Whipple, deathly pale, staggered and fell into
Stephen' arms. But it was the Colonel who laid him on the horsehair
sofa.
"Silas!" he said, "Silas!"
Nor could the two who listened sound the depth of the pathos the Colonel
put into those two words.
But the Judge had not fainted. And the brusqueness in his weakened voice
was even more pathetic--
"Tut, tut," said he. "A little heat, and no breakfast."
The Colonel already had a bottle of the famous Bourbon day his hand, and
Captain Lige brought a glass of muddy iced water. Mr. Carvel made an
injudicious mixture of the two, and held it to the lips of his friend.
He was pushed away.
"Come, Silas," he said.
"No!" cried the Judge, and with this effort he slipped back again. Those
who stood there thought that the stamp of death was already on Judge
Whipple's face.
But the lips were firmly closed, bidding defiance, as ever, to the world.
The Colonel, stroking his goatee, regarded him curiously.
"Silas," he said slowly, "if you won't drink it for me, perhaps you will
drink it--for--Abraham--Lincoln."
The two who watched that scene have never forgotten it. Outside, in the
great cool store, the rattle of the trucks was heard, and Mr. Hopper
giving commands. Within was silence. The straight figure of the Colonel
towered above the sofa while he waited. A full minute passed. Once
Judge Whipple's bony hand opened and shut, and once his features worked.
Then, without warning, he sat up.
"Colonel," said he, "I reckon I wouldn't be much use to Abe if I took
that. But if you'll send Ephum after, cup of coffee--"
Mr. Carvel set the glass down. In two strides he had reached the door
and given the order. Then he came hack and seated himself on the sofa.
Stephen found his mother at breakfast. He had forgotten the convention
He told her what had happened at Mr. Carvel's store, and how the Colonel
had tried to persuade Judge Whipple to take the Glencoe house while he
was in Europe, and how the Judge had refused. Tears were in the widow's
eyes when Stephen finished.
"And he means to stay here in the heat and go through, the campaign?"
she asked.
"He says that he will not stir."
"It will kill him, Stephen," Mrs. Brice faltered.
"So the Colonel told him. And he said that he would die willingly--after
Abraham Lincoln was elected. He had nothing to live for but to fight for
that. He had never understood the world, and had quarrelled with at all
his life."
'He said that to Colonel Carvel?"
"Yes."
"Stephen!"
He didn't dare to look at his mother, nor she at him. And when he
reached the office, half an hour later, Mr. Whipple was seated in his
chair, defiant and unapproachable. Stephen sighed as he settled down to
his work. The thought of one who might have accomplished what her father
could not was in his head. She was at Monticello.
Some three weeks later Mr. Brinsmade's buggy drew up at Mrs. Brice's
door. The Brinsmade family had been for some time in the country. And
frequently, when that gentleman was detained in town by business, he
would stop at the little home for tea. The secret of the good man's
visit came out as he sat with them on the front steps afterward.
"I fear that it will be a hot summer, ma'am," he had said to Mrs. Brice.
"You should go to the country."
"The heat agrees with me remarkably, Mr. Brinsmade," said the lady,
smiling.
"I have heard that Colonel Carvel wishes to rent his house at Glencoe,"
Mr. Brinsmade continued, "The figure is not high." He mentioned it. And
it was, indeed nominal. "It struck me that a change of air would do you
good, Mrs. Brice, and Stephen. Knowing that you shared in our uneasiness
concerning Judge Whipple, I thought--"
He stopped, and looked at her. It was a hard task even for that best and
roost tactful of gentlemen, Mr. Brinsmade. He too had misjudged this
calm woman.
"I understand you, Mr. Brinsmade," she said. She saw, as did Stephen,
the kindness behind the offer--Colonel Carvel's kindness and his own.
The gentleman's benevolent face brightened:
"And, my dear Madam, do not let the thought of this little house trouble
you. It was never my expectation to have it occupied in the summer. If
we could induce the Judge to go to Glencoe with you for the summer; I am
sure it would be a relief for us all."
He did not press the matter; but begged Stephen to call on him in a day
or two, at the bank.
"What do you think, Stephen," asked his mother, when Mr. Brinsmade was
gone, Stephen did not reply at once. What, indeed, could he say? The
vision of that proud figure of Miss Virginia was before him, and he
revolted. What was kindness from Colonel Carvel and Mr. Brinsmade was
charity from her. He could not bear the thought of living in a house
haunted by her. And yet why should he let his pride and his feelings
stand in the way of the health--perhaps of the life--of Judge Whipple?
It was characteristic of his mothers strength of mind not to mention the
subject again that evening. Stephen did not sleep in the hot night. But
when he rose in the morning he had made up his mind. After breakfast he
went straight to the Colonel's store, and fortunately found. Mr. Carvel
at his desk, winding up his affairs.
The next morning, when the train for the East pulled out of Illinoistown,
Miss Jinny Carvel stood on the plat form tearfully waving good-by to a
knot of friends. She was leaving for Europe. Presently she went into
the sleeping-car to join the Colonel, who wore a gray liners duster.
For a long time she sat gazing at the young, corn waving on the prairie,
fingering the bunch of June roses on her lap. Clarence had picked them
only a few hours ago, in the dew at Bellegarde. She saw her cousin
standing disconsolate under the train sheds, just as she had left him.
She pictured him riding out the Bellefontaine Road that afternoon, alone.
Now that the ocean was to be between them, was it love that she felt for
Clarence at last? She glanced at her father. Once or twice she had
suspected him of wishing to separate them. Her Aunt Lillian, indeed, had
said as much, and Virginia had silenced her. But when she had asked the
Colonel to take Clarence to Europe, he had refused. And yet she knew
that he had begged Captain Lige to go.
Virginia had been at home but a week. She had seen the change in
Clarence and exulted. The very first day she had surprised him on the
porch at Bellegarde with "Hardee's tactics". From a boy Clarence had
suddenly become a man with a Purpose,--and that was the Purpose of the
South.
"They have dared to nominate that dirty Lincoln," he said.--"Do you think
that we will submit to nigger equality rule? Never! never!" he cried.
"If they elect him, I will stand and fight them until my legs are shot
from under me, and then I will shoot down the Yankees from the ground."
Virginia's heart had leaped within her at the words, and into her eyes
had flashed once more the look for which the boy had waited and hoped in
vain. He had the carriage of a soldier, the animation and endurance of
the thoroughbred when roused. He was of the stuff that made the
resistance of the South the marvel of the world. And well we know,
whatever the sound of it, that his speech was not heroics. Nor was it
love for his cousin that inspired it, save in this: he had apotheosized
Virginia. To him she was the inspired goddess of the South--his country.
His admiration and affection had of late been laid upon an altar. Her
ambition for him he felt was likewise the South's ambition for him.
His mother, Virginia's aunt, felt this too, and strove against it with
her feeble might. She never had had power over her son; nor over any
man, save the temporal power of beauty. And to her mortification she
found herself actually in fear of this girl who might have been her
daughter. So in Virginia's presence she became more trivial and petty
than ever. It was her one defence.
It had of course been a foregone conclusion that Clarence should join
Company A. Few young men of family did not. And now he ran to his room
to don for Virginia that glorious but useless full dress,--the high
bearskin rat, the red pigeon-tailed coat, the light blue trousers, and
the gorgeous, priceless shackle. Indeed, the boy looked stunning. He
held his big rifle like a veteran, and his face was set with a high
resolve there was no mistaking. The high color of her pride was on the
cheek of the girl as he brought his piece to the salute of her, his
mistress. And yet, when he was gone, and she sat alone amid the roses
awaiting him, came wilfully before her another face that was relentless
determination,--the face of Stephen Brice, as he had stood before her in
the summer house at Glencoe. Strive as she might against the thought,
deny it to herself and others, to Virginia Carvel his way become the face
of the North. Her patriotism and all that was in her of race rebelled.
To conquer that face she would have given her own soul, and Clarence's.
Angrily she had arisen and paced the garden walks, and cried out aloud
that it was not inflexible.
And now, by the car window, looking out over the endless roll of the
prairie, the memory of this was bitter within her.
Suddenly she turned to her father.
"Did you rent our house at Glencoe?" she asked.
"No, Jinny."
"I suppose Mr. Brice was too proud to accept it at your charitable rent,
even to save Mr, Whipple's life."
The Colonel turned to his daughter in mild surprise. She was leaning
back on the seat, her eyes half closed.
"Once you dislike a person, Jinny, you never get over it. I always had a
fancy for the young man, and now I have a better opinion of him than ever
before. It was I who insulted them by naming that rent."
"What did he do?" Virginia demanded.
"He came to my office yesterday morning. 'Colonel Carvel,' said he,
'I hear you wish to rent your house.' I said yes. 'You rented it once
before, sir,' said he. 'Yes,' said I. 'May I ask you what price you got
for it?' said he."
"And what did you say?" she asked, leaning forward.
"I told him," said the Colonel, smiling. "But I explained that I could
not expect to command that price now on short notice. He replied that
they would pay it, or not consider the place."
Virginia turned her head away and stared out over the fields.
"How could they afford it!" she murmured.
"Mr. Brinsmade tells me that young Brice won rather a remarkable case
last winter, and since then has had some practice. And that he writes
for the newspapers. I believe he declined some sort of an editorial
position, preferring to remain at the law."
"And so they are going into the house?" she asked presently.
"No," said the Colonel. "Whipple refused point-blank to go to the
country. He said that he would be shirking the only work of his life
likely to be worth anything. So the Brices remain in town."
Colonel Carvel sighed. But Virginia said nothing. _
Read next: BOOK II: Volume 4: Chapter X. Richter's Scar,
Read previous: BOOK II: Volume 4: Chapter VIII. The Colonel is Warned
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