Читать книгу The Crisis (Historical Novel) - Winston Churchill - Страница 16

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The years have sped indeed since that gray December when Miss Virginia Carvel became eighteen. Old St. Louis has changed from a pleasant Southern town to a bustling city, and a high building stands on the site of that wide and hospitable home of Colonel Carvel. And the Colonel's thoughts that morning, as Ned shaved him, flew back through the years to a gently rolling Kentucky countryside, and a pillared white house among the oaks. He was riding again with Beatrice Colfax in the springtime. Again he stretched out his arm as if to seize her bridle-hand, and he felt the thoroughbred rear. Then the vision faded, and the memory of his dead wife became an angel's face, far—so far away.

He had brought her to St. Louis, and with his inheritance had founded his business, and built the great double house on the corner. The child came, and was named after the noble state which had given so many of her sons to the service of the Republic.

Five simple, happy years—then war. A black war of conquest which, like many such, was to add to the nation's fame and greatness: Glory beckoned, honor called—or Comyn Carvel felt them. With nothing of the profession of arms save that born in the Carvels, he kissed Beatrice farewell and steamed down the Mississippi, a captain in Missouri regiment. The young wife was ailing. Anguish killed her. Had Comyn Carvel been selfish?

Ned, as he shaved his master's face, read his thoughts by the strange sympathy of love. He had heard the last pitiful words of his mistress. Had listened, choking, to Dr. Posthlewaite as he read the sublime service of the burial of the dead. It was Ned who had met his master, the Colonel, at the levee, and had fallen sobbing at his feet.

Long after he was shaved that morning, the Colonel sat rapt in his chair, while the faithful servant busied himself about the room, one eye on his master the while. But presently Mr. Carvel's revery is broken by the swift rustle of a dress, and a girlish figure flutters in and plants itself on the wide arm of his mahogany barber chair, Mammy Easter in the door behind her. And the Colonel, stretching forth his hands, strains her to him, and then holds her away that he may look and look again into her face.

“Honey,” he said, “I was thinking of your mother.”

Virginia raised her eyes to the painting on the wall over the marble mantel. The face under the heavy coils of brown hair was sweet and gentle, delicately feminine. It had an expression of sorrow that seemed a prophecy.

The Colonel's hand strayed upward to Virginia's head.

“You are not like her, honey,” he said: “You may see for yourself. You are more like your Aunt Bess, who lived in Baltimore, and she—”

“I know,” said Virginia, “she was the image of the beauty, Dorothy Manners, who married my great-grandfather.”

“Yes, Jinny,” replied the Colonel, smiling. “That is so. You are somewhat like your great-grandmother.”

“Somewhat!” cried Virginia, putting her hand over his mouth, “I like that. You and Captain Lige are always afraid of turning my head. I need not be a beauty to resemble her. I know that I am like her. When you took me on to Calvert House to see Uncle Daniel that time, I remember the picture by, by—”

“Sir Joshua Reynolds.”

“Yes, Sir Joshua.”

“You were only eleven,” says the Colonel.

“She is not a difficult person to remember.”

“No,” said Mr. Carvel, laughing, “especially if you have lived with her.”

“Not that I wish to be that kind,” said Virginia, meditatively,—“to take London by storm, and keep a man dangling for years.”

“But he got her in the end,” said the Colonel. “Where did you hear all this?” he asked.

“Uncle Daniel told me. He has Richard Carvel's diary.”

“And a very honorable record it is,” exclaimed the Colonel. “Jinny, we shall read it together when we go a-visiting to Culvert House. I remember the old gentleman as well as if I had seen him yesterday.”

Virginia appeared thoughtful.

“Pa,” she began, “Pa, did you ever see the pearls Dorothy Carvel wore on her wedding day? What makes you jump like that? Did you ever see them?”

“Well, I reckon I did,” replied the Colonel, gazing at her steadfastly.

“Pa, Uncle Daniel told me that I was to have that necklace when I was old enough.”

“Law!” said the Colonel, fidgeting, “your Uncle Daniel was just fooling you.”

“He's a bachelor,” said Virginia; “what use has he got for it?”

“Why,” says the Colonel, “he's a young man yet, your uncle, only fifty-three. I've known older fools than he to go and do it. Eh, Ned?”

“Yes, marsa. Yes, suh. I've seed 'em at seventy, an' shufflin' about peart as Marse Clarence's gamecocks. Why, dar was old Marse Ludlow—”

“Now, Mister Johnson,” Virginia put in severely, “no more about old Ludlow.”

Ned grinned from ear to ear, and in the ecstasy of his delight dropped the Colonel's clothes-brush. “Lan' sakes!” he cried, “ef she ain't recommembered.” Recovering his gravity and the brush simultaneously, he made Virginia a low bow. “Mornin', Miss Jinny. I sholy is gwinter s'lute you dis day. May de good Lawd make you happy, Miss Jinny, an' give you a good husban'—”

“Thank you, Mister Johnson, thank you,” said Virginia, blushing.

“How come she recommembered, Marse Comyn? Dat's de quality. Dat's why. Doan't you talk to Ned 'bout de quality, Marsa.”

“And when did I ever talk to you about the quality, you scalawag?” asks the Colonel, laughing.

“Th' ain't none 'cept de bes' quality keep they word dat-a-way,” said Ned, as he went off to tell Uncle Ben in the kitchen.

Was there ever, in all this wide country, a good cook who was not a tyrant? Uncle Ben Carvel was a veritable emperor in his own domain; and the Colonel himself, had he desired to enter the kitchen, would have been obliged to come with humble and submissive spirit. As for Virginia, she had had since childhood more than one passage at arms with Uncle Ben. And the question of who had come off victorious had been the subject of many a debate below stairs.

There were a few days in the year, however, when Uncle Ben permitted the sanctity of his territory to be violated. One was the seventh of December. On such a day it was his habit to retire to the broken chair beside the sink (the chair to which he had clung for five-and-twenty years). There he would sit, blinking, and carrying on the while an undercurrent of protests and rumblings, while Miss Virginia and other young ladies mixed and chopped and boiled and baked and gossiped. But woe to the unfortunate Rosetta if she overstepped the bounds of respect! Woe to Ned or Jackson or Tato, if they came an inch over the threshold from the hall beyond! Even Aunt Easter stepped gingerly, though she was wont to affirm, when assisting Miss Jinny in her toilet, an absolute contempt for Ben's commands.

“So Ben ordered you out, Mammy?” Virginia would say mischievously.

“Order me out! Hugh! think I'se skeered o' him, honey? Reckon I'd frail 'em good ef he cotched hole of me with his black hands. Jes' let him try to come upstairs once, honey, an' see what I say to 'm.”

Nevertheless Ben had, on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, ordered Mammy Easter out, and she had gone. And now, as she was working the beat biscuits to be baked that evening, Uncle Ben's eye rested on her with suspicion.

What mere man may write with any confidence of the delicacies which were prepared in Uncle's kitchen that morning? No need in those days of cooking schools. What Southern lady, to the manner born, is not a cook from the cradle? Even Ben noted with approval Miss Virginia's scorn for pecks and pints, and grunted with satisfaction over the accurate pinches of spices and flavors which she used. And he did Miss Eugenie the honor to eat one of her praleens.

That night came Captain Lige Brent, the figure of an eager and determined man swinging up the street, and pulling out his watch under every lamp-post. And in his haste, in the darkness of a midblock, he ran into another solid body clad in high boots and an old army overcoat, beside a wood wagon.

“Howdy, Captain,” said he of the high boots.

“Well, I just thought as much,” was the energetic reply; “minute I seen the rig I knew Captain Grant was behind it.”

He held out a big hand, which Captain Grant clasped, just looking at his own with a smile. The stranger was Captain Elijah Brent of the 'Louisiana'.

“Now,” said Brent, “I'll just bet a full cargo that you're off to the Planters' House, and smoke an El Sol with the boys.”

Mr. Grant nodded. “You're keen, Captain,” said he.

“I've got something here that'll outlast an El Sol a whole day,” continued Captain Breast, tugging at his pocket and pulling out a six-inch cigar as black as the night. “Just you try that.”

The Captain instantly struck a match on his boot and was puffing in a silent enjoyment which delighted his friend.

“Reckon he don't bring out cigars when you make him a call,” said the steamboat captain, jerking his thumb up at the house. It was Mr. Jacob Cluyme's.

Captain Grant did not reply to that, nor did Captain Lige expect him to, as it was the custom of this strange and silent man to speak ill of no one. He turned rather to put the stakes back into his wagon.

“Where are you off to, Lige?” he asked.

“Lord bless my soul,” said Captain Lige, “to think that I could forget!” He tucked a bundle tighter under his arm. “Grant, did you ever see my little sweetheart, Jinny Carvel?” The Captain sighed. “She ain't little any more, and she eighteen to-day.”

Captain Grant clapped his hand to his forehead.

“Say, Lige,” said he, “that reminds me. A month or so ago I pulled a fellow out of Renault's area across from there. First I thought he was a thief. After he got away I saw the Colonel and his daughter in the window.”

Instantly Captain Lige became excited, and seized Captain Grant by the cape of his overcoat.

“Say, Grant, what kind of appearing fellow was he?”

“Short, thick-set, blocky face.”

“I reckon I know,” said Breast, bringing down his fist on the wagon board; “I've had my eye on him for some little time.”

He walked around the block twice after Captain Grant had driven down the muddy street, before he composed himself to enter the Carvel mansion. He paid no attention to the salutations of Jackson, the butler, who saw him coming and opened the door, but climbed the stairs to the sitting-room.

“Why, Captain Lige, you must have put wings on the Louisiana,” said Virginia, rising joyfully from the arm of her father's chair to meet him. “We had given you up.”

“What?” cried the Captain. “Give me up? Don't you know better than that? What, give me up when I never missed a birthday,—and this the best of all of 'em.

“If your pa had got sight of me shovin' in wood and cussin' the pilot for slowin' at the crossin's, he'd never let you ride in my boat again. Bill Jenks said: 'Are you plum crazy, Brent? Look at them cressets.' 'Five dollars' says I; 'wouldn't go in for five hundred. To-morrow's Jinny Carvel's birthday, and I've just got to be there.' I reckon the time's come when I've got to say Miss Jinny,” he added ruefully.

The Colonel rose, laughing, and hit the Captain on the back.

“Drat you, Lige, why don't you kiss the girl? Can't you see she's waiting?”

The honest Captain stole one glance at Virginia, and turned red copper color.

“Shucks, Colonel, I can't be kissing her always. What'll her husband say?”

For an instant Mr. Carvel's brow clouded.

“We'll not talk of husbands yet awhile, Lige.”

Virginia went up to Captain Lige, deftly twisted into shape his black tie, and kissed him on the check. How his face burned when she touched him.

“There!” said she, “and don't you ever dare to treat me as a young lady. Why, Pa, he's blushing like a girl. I know. He's ashamed to kiss me now. He's going to be married at last to that Creole girl in New Orleans.”

The Colonel slapped his knee, winked slyly at Lige, while Virginia began to sing:

“I built me a house on the mountain so high,

To gaze at my true love as she do go by.”

“There's only one I'd ever marry, Jinny,” protested the Captain, soberly, “and I'm a heap too old for her. But I've seen a youngster that might mate with her, Colonel,” he added mischievously. “If he just wasn't a Yankee. Jinny, what's the story I hear about Judge Whipple's young man buying Hester?”

Mr. Carvel looked uneasy. It was Virginia's turn to blush, and she grew red as a peony.

“He's a tall, hateful, Black Republican Yankee!” she said.

“Phee-ew!” whistled the Captain. “Any more epithets?”

“He's a nasty Abolitionist!”

“There you do him wrong, honey,” the Colonel put in.

“I hear he took Hester to Miss Crane's,” the Captain continued, filling the room with his hearty laughter. “That boy has sand enough, Jinny; I'd like to know him.”

“You'll have that priceless opportunity to-night,” retorted Miss Virginia, as she flung herself out of the room. “Pa has made me invite him to my party.”

“Here, Jinny! Hold on!” cried the Captain, running after her. “I've got something for you.”

She stopped on the stairs, hesitating. Whereupon the Captain hastily ripped open the bundle under his arm and produced a very handsome India shawl. With a cry of delight Virginia threw it over her shoulders and ran to the long glass between the high windows.

“Who spoils her, Lige?” asked the Colonel, fondly.

“Her father, I reckon,” was the prompt reply.

“Who spoils you, Jinny?”

“Captain Lige,” said she, turning to him. “If you had only kept the presents you have brought me from New Orleans, you might sell out your steamboat and be a rich man.”

“He is a rich man,” said the Colonel, promptly. “Did you ever miss bringing her a present, Lige?” he asked.

“When the Cora Anderson burnt,” answered the Captain.

“Why,” cried Virginia, “you brought me a piece of her wheel, with the char on it. You swam ashore with it.”

“So I did,” said Captain Brent. “I had forgotten that. It was when the French dress, with the furbelows, which Madame Pitou had gotten me from Paris for you, was lost.”

“And I think I liked the piece of wheel better,” says Virginia. “It was brought me by a brave man, the last to leave his boat.”

“And who should be the last to leave, but the captain? I saw the thing in the water; and I just thought we ought to have a relic.”

“Lige,” said the Colonel, putting up his feet, “do you remember the French toys you used to bring up here from New Orleans?”

“Colonel,” replied Brent, “do you recall the rough and uncouth young citizen who came over here from Cincinnati, as clerk on the Vicksburg?”

“I remember, sir, that he was so promising that they made him provisional captain the next trip, and he was not yet twenty-four years of age.”

“And do you remember buying the Vicksburg at the sheriff's sale for twenty thousand dollars, and handing her over to young Brent, and saying, 'There, my son, she's your boat, and you can pay for her when you like'?”

“Shucks, Brent!” said Mr. Carvel, sternly, “your memory's too good. But I proved myself a good business man, Jinny; he paid for her in a year.”

“You don't mean that you made him pay you for the boat?” cried Jinny. “Why, Pa, I didn't think you were that mean!”

The two men laughed heartily.

“I was a heap meaner,” said her father. “I made him pay interest.”

Virginia drew in her breath, and looked at the Colonel in amazement.

“He's the meanest man I know,” said Captain Lige. “He made me pay interest, and a mint julep.”

“Upon my word, Pa,” said Miss Virginia, soberly, “I shouldn't have believed it of you.”

Just then Jackson, in his white jacket; came to announce that supper was ready, and they met Ned at the dining-room door, fairly staggering under a load of roses.

“Marse Clarence done send 'em in, des picked out'n de hothouse dis afternoon, Miss Jinny. Jackson, fotch a bowl!”

“No,” said Virginia. She took the flowers from Ned, one by one, and to the wonderment of Captain Lige and her—father strewed them hither and thither upon the table until the white cloth was hid by the red flowers. The Colonel stroked his goatee and nudged Captain Lige.

“Look-a-there, now,” said he. “Any other woman would have spent two mortal hours stickin' 'em in china.”

Virginia, having critically surveyed her work, amid exclamations from Ned and Jackson, had gone around to her place. And there upon her plate lay a pearl necklace. For an instant she clapped her palms together, staring at it in bewilderment. And once more the little childish cry of delight, long sweet to the Colonel's ears, escaped her.

“Pa,” she said, “is it—?” And there she stopped, for fear that it might not be. But he nodded encouragingly.

“Dorothy Carvel's necklace! No, it can't be.”

“Yes, honey,” said the Colonel. “Your Uncle Daniel sent it, as he promised. And when you go upstairs, if Easter has done as I told her, you will see a primrose dress with blue coin-flowers on your bed. Daniel thought you might like that, too, for a keepsake. Dorothy Manners wore it in London, when she was a girl.”

And so Virginia ran and threw her arms about her father's neck, and kissed him again and again. And lest the Captain feel badly, she laid his India shawl beside her; and the necklace upon it.

What a joyful supper they had,—just the three of them! And as the fresh roses filled the room with fragrance, Virginia filled it with youth and spirits, and Mr. Carvel and the Captain with honest, manly merriment. And Jackson plied Captain Brent (who was a prime favorite in that house) with broiled chicken and hot beat biscuits and with waffles, until at length he lay back in his chair and heaved a sigh of content, lighting a cigar. And then Virginia, with a little curtsey to both of them, ran off to dress for the party.

“Well,” said Captain Brent, “I reckon there'll be gay goings-on here to-night. I wouldn't miss the sight of 'em, Colonel, for all the cargoes on the Mississippi. Ain't there anything I can do?”

“No, thank you, Lige,” Mr. Carvel answered. “Do you remember, one morning some five years ago, when I took in at the store a Yankee named Hopper? You didn't like him, I believe.”

Captain Brent jumped, and the ashes of his cigar fell on his coat. He had forgotten his conversation with Captain Grant.

“I reckon I do,” he said dryly.

For a moment he was on the point of telling the affair. Then he desisted. He could not be sure of Eliphalet from Grant's description. So he decided to await a better time. Captain Brent was one to make sure of his channel before going ahead.

“Well,” continued the Colonel, “I have been rather pushed the last week, and Hopper managed things for this dance. He got the music, and saw the confectioner. But he made such a close bargain with both of 'em that they came around to me afterward,” he added, laughing.

“Is he coming here to-night?” demanded the Captain, looking disgusted.

“Lige,” replied the Colonel, “you never do get over a prejudice. Yes, he's coming, just to oversee things. He seems to have mighty little pleasure, and he's got the best business head I ever did see. A Yankee,” said Mr. Carvel, meditatively, as he put on his hat, “a Yankee, when he will work, works like all possessed. Hood don't like him any more than you do, but he allows Hopper is a natural-born business man. Last month Samuels got tight, and Wright & Company were going to place the largest order in years. I called in Hood. 'Go yourself, Colonel,' says he. I I'm too old to solicit business, Hood,' said I. 'Then there's only one man to send,' says he, 'young Hopper. He'll get the order, or I'll give up this place I've had for twenty years.' Hopper 'callated' to get it, and another small one pitched in. And you'd die laughing, Lige, to hear how he did it.”

“Some slickness, I'll gamble,” grunted Captain Lige.

“Well, I reckon 'twas slick,” said the Colonel, thoughtfully. “You know old man Wright hates a solicitor like poison. He has his notions. And maybe you've noticed signs stuck up all over his store, 'No Solicitors nor Travelling Men Allowed Here'.”

The Captain nodded.

“But Hopper—Hopper walks in, sir, bold as you please, right past the signs till he comes to the old man's cage. 'I want to see Mr. Wright,' says he to the clerk. And the clerk begins to grin. 'Name, please,' says he. Mr. Hopper whips out his business card. 'What!' shouts old Wright, flying 'round in his chair, 'what the devil does this mean? Can't you read, sir?' 'callate to,' says Mr. Hopper. 'And you dare to come in here?

“'Business is business,' says Hopper. 'You “callate”!' bellowed the old man; 'I reckon you're a damned Yankee. I reckon I'll upset your “callations” for once. And if I catch you in here again, I'll wring your neck like a roostah's. Git!'”

“Who told you this?” asked Captain Brent.

“Wright himself,—afterward,” replied Mr. Carvel, laughing. “But listen, Lige. The old man lives at the Planters' House, you know. What does Mr. Hopper do but go 'round there that very night and give a nigger two bits to put him at the old man's table. When Wright comes and sees him, he nearly has one of his apoplectic fits. But in marches Hopper the next morning with twice the order. The good Lord knows how he did it.”

There was a silence. Then the door-bell rang.

“He's dangerous,” said the Captain, emphatically. “That's what I call him.”

“The Yankees are changing business in this town,” was the Colonel's answer. “We've got to keep the pace, Lige.”