CHAPTER VII. CALLERS
If the Brices had created an excitement upon their arrival, it was asnothing to the mad delirium which raged at Miss Crane's boarding-house.during the second afternoon of their stay. Twenty times was Miss Craneon the point of requesting Mrs. Brice to leave, and twenty times, by theadvice of Mrs. Abner Deed, she desisted. The culmination came when thenews leaked out that Mr. Stephen Brice had bought the young woman inorder to give her freedom. Like those who have done noble acts since theworld began, Stephen that night was both a hero and a fool. The creamfrom which heroes is made is very apt to turn.
"Phew!" cried Stephen, when they had reached their room after tea,"wasn't that meal a fearful experience? Let's find a hovel, mother, andgo and live in it. We can't stand it here any longer."
"Not if you persist in your career of reforming an Institution, my son,"answered the widow, smiling.
"It was beastly hard luck," said he, "that I should have been shoulderedwith that experience the first day. But I have tried to think it overcalmly since, and I can see nothing else to have done." He paused in hispacing up and down, a smile struggling with his serious look. "It wasquite a hot-headed business for one of the staid Brices, wasn't it?"
"The family has never been called impetuous," replied his mother. "Itmust be the Western air."
He began his pacing again. His mother had not said one word about themoney. Neither had he. Once more he stopped before her.
"We are at least a year nearer the poor-house," he said; "you haven'tscolded me for that. I should feel so much better if you would."
"Oh, Stephen, don't say that!" she exclaimed. "God has given me nogreater happiness in this life than the sight of the gratitude of thatpoor creature, Nancy. I shall never forget the old woman's joy at thesight of her daughter. It made a palace out of that dingy furnitureshop. Hand me my handkerchief, dear."
Stephen noticed with a pang that the lace of it was frayed and torn atthe corner.
There was a knock at the door.
"Come in," said Mrs. Brice, hastily putting the handkerchief down.
Hester stood on the threshold, and old Nancy beside her.
"Evenin', Mis' Brice. De good Lawd bless you, lady, an' Miste' Brice,"said the old negress.
"Well, Nancy?"
Nancy pressed into the room. "Mis' Brice!"
"Yes?"
"Ain' you gwineter' low Hester an' me to wuk fo' you?"
"Indeed I should be glad to, Nancy. But we are boarding."
"Yassm, yassm," said Nancy, and relapsed into awkward silence. Thenagain, "Mis' Brice!"
"Yes, Nancy?"
"Ef you 'lows us t' come heah an' straighten out you' close, an' mend'em--you dunno how happy you mek me an' Hester--des to do dat much, Mis'Brice."
The note of appeal was irresistible. Mrs. Brice rose and unlocked thetrunks.
"You may unpack them, Nancy," she said.
With what alacrity did the old woman take off her black bonnet andshawl! "Whaffor you stannin' dere, Hester?" she cried.
"Hester is tired," said Mrs. Brice, compassionately, and tears came toher eyes again at the thought of what they had both been through thatday.
"Tired!" said Nancy, holding up her hands. "No'm, she ain' tired. Shedes kinder stupefied by you' goodness, Mis' Brice."
A scene was saved by the appearance of Miss Crane's hired girl.
"Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme, in the parlor, mum," she said.
If Mr. Jacob Cluyme sniffed a little as he was ushered into Miss Crane'sbest parlor, it was perhaps because of she stuffy dampness of that room.Mr. Cluyme was one of those persons the effusiveness of whose greetingdoes not tally with the limpness of their grasp. He was attempting, whenStephen appeared, to get a little heat into his hands by rubbing them,as a man who kindles a stick of wood for a visitor. The gentleman hadred chop-whiskers,--to continue to put his worst side foremost, whichdemanded a ruddy face. He welcomed Stephen to St. Louis with neighborlyeffusion; while his wife, a round little woman, bubbled over to Mrs.Brice.
"My dear sir," said Mr. Cluyme, "I used often to go to Boston in theforties. In fact--ahem--I may claim to be a New Englander. Alas, no, Inever met your father. But when I heard of the sad circumstances of hisdeath, I felt as if I had lost a personal friend. His probity, sir, andhis religious principles were an honor to the Athens of America. I havelistened to my friend, Mr. Atterbury,--Mr. Samuel Atterbury,--eulogizehim by the hour."
Stephen was surprised.
"Why, yes," said he, "Mr. Atterbury was a friend."
"Of course," said Mr. Cluyme, "I knew it. Four years ago, the lastbusiness trip I made to Boston, I met Atterbury on the street. Absencemakes no difference to some men, sir, nor the West, for that matter.They never change. Atterbury nearly took me in his arms. 'My dearfellow,' he cried, 'how long are you to be in town?' I was going thenext day. 'Sorry I can't ask you to dinner,' says he, but step into theTremont House and have a bite.'--Wasn't that like Atterbury?"
Stephen thought it was. But Mr. Cluyme was evidently expecting noanswer.
"Well," said he, "what I was going to say was that we heard you were intown; 'Friends of Samuel Atterbury, my dear,' I said to my wife. We areneighbors, Mr. Brace. You must know the girls. You must come to supper.We live very plainly, sir, very simply. I am afraid that you will missthe luxury of the East, and some of the refinement, Stephen. I hope Imay call you so, my boy. We have a few cultured citizens, Stephen, butall are not so. I miss the atmosphere. I seemed to live again when Igot to Boston. But business, sir,--the making of money is a sordidoccupation. You will come to supper?"
"I scarcely think that my mother will go out," said Stephen.
"Oh, be friends! It will cheer her. Not a dinner-party, my boy, onlya plain, comfortable meal, with plenty to eat. Of course she will. Ofcourse she will. Not a Boston social function, you understand. Boston,Stephen, I have always looked upon as the centre of the universe. Ouruniverse, I mean. America for Americans is a motto of mine. Oh, no," headded quickly, "I don't mean a Know Nothing. Religious freedom, my boy,is part of our great Constitution. By the way, Stephen--Atterbury alwayshad such a respect for your father's opinions--"
"My father was not an Abolitionist, sir," said Stephen, smiling.
"Quite right, quite right," said Mr. Cluyme.
"But I am not sure, since I have come here, that I have not somesympathy and respect for the Abolitionists."
Mr. Cluyme gave a perceptible start. He glanced at the heavy hangings onthe windows and then out of the open door into the hall. For a space hiswife's chatter to Mrs. Brace, on Boston fashions, filled the room.
"My dear Stephen," said the gentleman, dropping his voice, "that is allvery well in Boston. But take a little advice from one who is old enoughto counsel you. You are young, and you must learn to temper yourself tothe tone of the place which you have made your home. St. Louis is fullof excellent people, but they are not precisely Abolitionists. We aregathering, it is true, a small party who are for gradual emancipation.But our New England population here is small yet compared to theSoutherners. And they are very violent, sir."
Stephen could not resist saying, "Judge Whipple does not seem to havetempered himself, sir."
"Silas Whipple is a fanatic, sir," cried Mr. Cluyme.
"His hand is against every man's. He denounces Douglas on the slightestexcuse, and would go to Washington when Congress opens to fight withStephens and Toombs and Davis. But what good does it do him? He mighthave been in the Senate, or on the Supreme Bench, had he not stirred upso much hatred. And yet I can't help liking Whipple. Do you know him?"
A resounding ring of the door-bell cut off Stephen's reply, and Mrs.Cluyme's small talk to Mrs. Brice. In the hall rumbled a familiar voice,and in stalked none other than Judge Whipple himself. Without noticingthe other occupants of the parlor he strode up to Mrs. Brice, looked ather for an instant from under the grizzled brows, and held out his largehand.
"Pray, ma'am," he said, "what have you done with your slave?"
Mrs. Cluyme emitted a muffled shriek, like that of a person frightenedin a dream. Her husband grasped the curved back of his chair. ButStephen smiled. And his mother smiled a little, too.
"Are you Mr. Whipple?" she asked.
"I am, madam," was the reply.
"My slave is upstairs, I believe, unpacking my trunks," said Mrs. Brice.
Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme exchanged a glance of consternation. Then Mrs.Cluyme sat down again, rather heavily, as though her legs had refused tohold her.
"Well, well, ma'am!" The Judge looked again at Mrs. Brice, and a gleamof mirth lighted the severity of his face. He was plainly pleased withher--this serene lady in black, whose voice had the sweet ring of womenwho are well born and whose manner was so self-contained. To speaktruth, the Judge was prepared to dislike her. He had never laid eyesupon her, and as he walked hither from his house he seemed to foreseea helpless little woman who, once he had called, would fling her Bostonpride to the winds and dump her woes upon him. He looked again, anddecidedly approved of Mrs. Brice, and was unaware that his glanceembarrassed her.
"Mr. Whipple," she said,--"do you know Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme?"
The Judge looked behind him abruptly, nodded ferociously at Mr. Cluyme,and took the hand that fluttered out to him from Mrs. Cluyme.
"Know the Judge!" exclaimed that lady, "I reckon we do. And my Belle isso fond of him. She thinks there is no one equal to Mr. Whipple. Judge,you must come round to a family supper. Belle will surpass herself."
"Umph!" said the Judge, "I think I like Edith best of your girls,ma'am."
"Edith is a good daughter, if I do say it myself," said Mrs. Cluyme. "Ihave tried to do right by my children." She was still greatly flustered,and curiosity about the matter of the slave burned upon her face.Neither the Judge nor Mrs. Brice were people one could catechise.Stephen, scanning the Judge, was wondering how far he regarded thematter as a joke.
"Well, madam," said Mr. Whipple, as he seated himself on the other endof the horsehair sofa, "I'll warrant when you left Boston that you didnot expect to own a slave the day after you arrived in St. Louis."
"But I do not own her," said Mrs. Brice. "It is my son who owns her."
This was too much for Mr. Cluyme.
"What!" he cried to Stephen. "You own a slave? You, a mere boy, havebought a negress?"
"And what is more, sir, I approve of it," the Judge put in, severely. "Iam going to take the young man into my office."
Mr. Cluyme gradually retired into the back of his chair, looking atMr. Whipple as though he expected him to touch a match to the windowcurtains. But Mr. Cluyme was elastic.
"Pardon me, Judge," said he, "but I trust that I may be allowed tocongratulate you upon the abandonment of principles which I haveconsidered a clog to your career. They did you honor, sir, but they wereQuixotic. I, sir, am for saving our glorious Union at any cost. And wehave no right to deprive our brethren of their property of their verymeans of livelihood."
The Judge grinned diabolically. Mrs. Cluyme was as yet too stunned tospeak. Only Stephen's mother sniffed gunpowder in the air.
"This, Mr. Cluyme," said the Judge, mildly, "is an age of shiftingwinds. It was not long ago," he added reflectively, "when you and I metin the Planters' House, and you declared that every drop of Northernblood spilled in Kansas was in a holy cause. Do you remember it, sir?"
Mr. Cluyme and Mr. Cluyme's wife alone knew whether he trembled.
"And I repeat that, sir," he cried, with far too much zeal. "I repeatit here and now. And yet I was for the Omnibus Bill, and I am with Mr.Douglas in his local sovereignty. I am willing to bury my abhorrence ofa relic of barbarism, for the sake of union and peace."
"Well, sir, I am not," retorted the Judge, like lightning. He rubbed thered spat on his nose, and pointed a bony finger at Mr. Cluyme. Many acriminal had grovelled before that finger. "I, too, am for the Union.And the Union will never be safe until the greatest crime of moderntimes is wiped out in blood. Mind what I say, Mr. Cluyme, in blood,sir," he thundered.
Poor Mrs. Cluyme gasped.
"But the slave, sir? Did I not understand you to approve of Mr. Brice'sownership?"
"As I never approved of any other. Good night, sir. Good night, madam."But to Mrs. Brice he crossed over and took her hand. It has been furtherclaimed that he bowed. This is not certain.
"Good night, madam," he said. "I shall call again to pay my respectswhen you are not occupied."
Volume 2.
The Crisis — Complete Page 7