Battle Ground

by Ellen Anderson Gholson Glasgow

  V

  THE SCHOOL FOR GENTLEMEN

  The Governor rode up too late to avert the punishment. Dan had taken hiswhipping and was sitting on a footstool in the library, facing the Majorand a couple of the Major's cronies. His face wore an expression in whichthere was more resentment than resignation; for, though he took blowsdoggedly, he bore the memory of them long after the smart had ceased--long,indeed, after light-handed justice, in the Major's person, had forgottenalike the sin and the expiation. For the Major's hand was not steady at therod, and he had often regretted a weakness of heart which interfered witha physical interpretation of the wisdom of Solomon. "If you get yourdeserts, you'd get fifty lashes," was his habitual reproof to his servants,though, as a matter of fact, he had never been known to order one. Hisanger was sometimes of the kind that appalls, but it usually vented itselfin a heightened redness of face or a single thundering oath; and a woman'ssob would melt his stoniest mood. It was only because his daughter had keptout of his sight that he had never forgiven her, people said; but therewas, perhaps, something characteristic in the proof that he was mostrelentless where he had most loved.

  As for Dan's chastisement, he had struck him twice across the shoulders,and when the boy had turned to him with the bitter smile which was JaneLightfoot's own, the Major had choked in his wrath, and, a moment later,flung the whip aside. "I'll be damned,--I beg your pardon, sir,--I'll beashamed of myself if I give you another lick," he said. "You are agentleman, and I shall trust you."

  He held out his hand, but he had not counted on the Montjoy blood. The boylooked at him and stubbornly shook his head. "I can't shake hands yetbecause I am hating you just now," he answered. "Will you wait awhile,sir?" and the Major choked again, half in awe, half in amusement.

  "You don't bear malice, I reckon?" he ventured cautiously.

  "I am not sure," replied the boy, "I rather think I do."

  Then he put on his coat, and they went out to meet Mr. Blake and Dr. Crump,two hale and jolly gentlemen who rode over every Thursday to spend thenight.

  As the visitors came panting up the steps, the Major stood in the doorwaywith outstretched hands.

  "You are late, gentlemen, you are late," was his weekly greeting, to whichthey as regularly responded, "We could never come too early for ourpleasure, my dear Major; but there are professional duties, you know,professional duties."

  After this interchange of courtesies, they would enter the house and settlethemselves, winter or summer, in their favourite chairs upon thehearth-rug, when it was the custom of Mrs. Lightfoot to send in afluttering maid to ask if Mrs. Blake had done her the honour to accompanyher husband. As Mrs. Blake was never known to leave her children and herpet poultry, this was merely a conventionalism by which the elder ladymeant to imply a standing welcome for the younger.

  On this evening, Mr. Blake--the rector of the largest church inLeicesterburg--straightened his fat legs and folded his hands as he did atthe ending of his sermons, and the others sat before him with the strainedand reverential faces which they put on like a veil in church and took offwhen the service was over. That it was not a prayer, but a pleasantry ofwhich he was about to deliver himself, they quite understood; but he had ahabit of speaking on week days in his Sunday tones, which gave, as it were,an official weight to his remarks. He was a fleshy wide-girthed gentleman,with a bald head, and a face as radiant as the full moon.

  "I was just asking the doctor when I was to have the honour of making thelittle widow Mrs. Crump?" he threw out at last, with a laugh that shook himfrom head to foot. "It is not good for man to live alone, eh, Major?"

  "That sentence is sufficient to prove the divine inspiration of theScriptures," returned the Major, warmly, while the doctor blushed andstammered, as he always did, at the rector's mild matrimonial jokes. Itwas twenty years since Mr. Blake began teasing Dr. Crump about hisbachelorship, and to them both the subject was as fresh as in itsbeginning.

  "I--I declare I haven't seen the lady for a week," protested the doctor,"and then she sent for me."

  "Sent for you?" roared Mr. Blake. "Ah, doctor, doctor!"

  "She sent for me because she had heart trouble," returned the doctor,indignantly. The lady's name was never mentioned between them.

  The rector laughed until the tears started.

  "Ah, you're a success with the ladies," he exclaimed, as he drew out aneatly ironed handkerchief and shook it free from its folds, "and nowonder--no wonder! We'll be having an epidemic of heart trouble next."Then, as he saw the doctor wince beneath his jest, his kindly heartreproached him, and he gravely turned to politics and the dignity ofnations.

  The two friends were faithful Democrats, though the rector always began hisvery forcible remarks with: "A minister knows nothing of politics, and I ambut a minister of the Gospel. If you care, however, for the opinion of anoutsider--"

  As for the Major, he had other leanings which were a source of unendinginterest to them all. "I am a Whig, not from principle, but from prejudice,sir," he declared. "The Whig is the gentleman's party. I never saw a Whigthat didn't wear broadcloth."

  "And some Democrats," politely protested the doctor, with a glance at hiscoat.

  The Major bowed.

  "And many Democrats, sir; but the Whig party, if I may say so, is thebroadcloth party--the cloth stamps it; and besides this, sir, I think its'parts are solid and will wear well.'"

  Now when the Major began to quote Mr. Addison, even the rector was silent,save for an occasional prompting, as, "I was reading the _Spectator_ untileleven last night, sir," or "I have been trying to recall the lines in _TheCampaign_ before. 'Twas then great Marlborough's mighty soul was proved."

  This was the best of the day to Dan, and, as he turned on his footstool, hedid not even glare at Champe, who, from the window seat, was regarding himwith the triumphant eye with which the young behold the downfall of abrother. For a moment he had forgotten the whipping, but Champe had not; hewas thinking of it in the window seat.

  But the Major was standing on the hearth-rug, and the boy's gaze went tohim. Tossing back his long white hair, and fixing his eagle glance on hisfriends, the old gentleman, with a free sweep of his arm, thundered hisfavourite lines:--

  "So, when an angel by divine command With rising tempests shakes a guilty land (Such as of late o'er pale Britannia passed), Calm and serene he drives the furious blast; And, pleased the Almighty's orders to perform, Rides in the whirlwind and directs the storm."

  He had got so far when the door opened and the Governor entered--a littlehurriedly, for he was thinking of his supper.

  "I am the bearer of an apology, my dear Major," he said, when he hadheartily shaken hands all round. "It seems that Betty--I assure you she isin great distress--set fire to your woodpile this afternoon, and that yourgrandson was punished for her mischief. My dear boy," he laid his hand onDan's shoulder and looked into his face with the winning smile which hadmade him the most popular man in his State, "my dear boy, you are young tobe such a gentleman."

  A hot flush overspread Dan's face; he forgot the smart and the woundedpride--he forgot even Champe staring from the window seat. The Governor'svoice was like salve to his hurt; the upright little man with the warmbrown eyes seemed to lift him at once to the plane of his own chivalry.

  "Oh, I couldn't tell on a girl, sir," he answered, and then his smotheredinjury burst forth; "but she ought to be ashamed of herself," he addedbluntly.

  "She is," said the Governor with a smile; then he turned to the others."Major, the boy is a Lightfoot!" he exclaimed.

  "Ah, so I said, so I said!" cried the Major, clapping his hand on Dan'shead in a racial benediction. "'I'd know you were a Lightfoot if I met youin the road' was what I said the first evening."

  "And a Virginian," added Mr. Blake, folding his hands on his stomach andsmiling upon the group. "My daughter in New York wrote to me last week foradvice about the education of her son. 'Shall I send him to the school oflearning at Cambridge, papa?' she asked; and I answ
ered, 'Send him there,if you will, but, when he has finished with his books, by all means let himcome to Virginia--the school for gentlemen.'"

  "The school for gentlemen!" cried the doctor, delightedly. "It is a proudertitle than the 'Mother of Presidents.'"

  "And as honourably earned," added the rector. "If you want polish, come toVirginia; if you want chivalry, come to Virginia. When I see these twothings combined, I say to myself, 'The blood of the Mother of Presidents ishere.'"

  "You are right, sir, you are right!" cried the Major, shaking back hishair, as he did when he was about to begin the lines from _The Campaign_."Nothing gives so fine a finish to a man as a few years spent with theinfluences that moulded Washington. Why, some foreigners are perfected bythem, sir. When I met General Lafayette in Richmond upon his second visit,I remember being agreeably impressed with his dignity and ease, which, Ihave no doubt, sir, he acquired by his association, in early years, withthe Virginia gentlemen."

  The Governor looked at them with a twinkle in his eye. He was aware of thehumorous traits of his friends, but, in the peculiar sweetness of histemper, he loved them not the less because he laughed at them--perhaps themore. In the rector's fat body and the Major's lean one, he knew that therebeat hearts as chivalrous as their words. He had seen the Major doff hishat to a beggar in the road, and the rector ride forty miles in a snowstormto read a prayer at the burial of a slave. So he said with a pleasantlaugh, "We are surely the best judges, my dear sirs," and then, as Mrs.Lightfoot rustled in, they rose and fell back until she had taken her seat,and found her knitting.

  "I am so sorry not to see Mrs. Blake," she said to the rector. "I have anew recipe for yellow pickle which I must write out and send to her." And,as the Governor rose to go, she stood up and begged him to stay to supper."Mr. Lightfoot, can't you persuade him to sit down with us?" she asked.

  "Where you have failed, Molly, it is useless for me to try," gallantlyresponded the Major, picking up her ball of yarn.

  "But I must bear your pardon to my little girl, I really must," insistedthe Governor. "By the way, Major," he added, turning at the door, "what doyou think of the scheme to let the Government buy the slaves and ship themback to Africa? I was talking to a Congressman about it last week."

  "Sell the servants to the Government!" cried the Major, hotly. "Nonsense!nonsense! Why, you are striking at the very foundation of our society!Without slavery, where is our aristocracy, sir?"

  "Oh, I beg your pardon," said the Governor lightly. "Well, we shall keepthem a while longer, I expect. Good night, madam, good night, gentlemen,"and he went out to where his horse was standing.

  The Major looked after him with a sigh. "When I hear a man talking aboutthe abolition of slavery," he remarked gloomily, "I always expect him towant to do away with marriage next--" he checked himself and coloured, asif an improper speech had slipped out in the presence of Mrs. Lightfoot.The old lady rose primly and, taking the rector's arm, led the way tosupper.

  Dan was not noticed at the table,--it was a part of his grandmother'ssocial training to ignore children before visitors,--but when he wentupstairs that night, the Major came to the boy's room and took him in hisarms.

  "I am proud of you, my child," he said. "You are my grandson, every inch ofyou, and you shall have the finest riding horse in the stables on yourbirthday."

  "I'd rather have Big Abel, if you please, sir," returned Dan. "I think BigAbel would like to belong to me, grandpa."

  "Bless my soul!" cried the Major. "Why, you shall have Big Abel and hiswhole family, if you like. I'll give you every darky on the place, if youwant them--and the horses to boot," for the old gentleman was as unwise inhis generosity as in his wrath.

  "Big Abel will do, thank you," responded the boy; "and I'd like to shakehands now, grandpa," he added gravely; but before the Major left that nighthe had won not only the child's hand, but his heart. It was the beginningof the great love between them.

  For from that day Dan was as the light of his grandfather's eyes. As theboy strode manfully across the farm, his head thrown back, his handsclasped behind him, the old man followed, in wondering pride, on hisfootsteps. To see him stand amid the swinging cradles in the wheat field,ordering the slaves and arguing with the overseer, was sufficient delightunto the Major's day. "Nonsense, Molly," he would reply half angrily to hiswife's remonstrances. "The child can't be spoiled. I tell you he's too finea boy. I couldn't spoil him if I tried," and once out of his grandmother'ssight, Dan's arrogance was laughed at, and his recklessness was worshipped."Ah, you will make a man, you will make a man!" the Major had exclaimedwhen he found him swearing at the overseer, "but you mustn't curse, youreally mustn't, you know. Why, your grandmother won't let me do it."

  "But I told him to leave that haystack for me to slide on," complained theboy, "and he said he wouldn't, and began to pull it down. I wish you'd sendhim away, grandpa."

  "Send Harris away!" whistled the Major. "Why, where could I get another,Dan? He has been with me for twenty years."

  "Hi, young Marster, who gwine min' de han's?" cried Big Abel, from behind.

  "Do you like him, Big Abel?" asked the child, for the opinion of Big Abelwas the only one for which he ever showed respect. "It's because he's notfree, grandpa," he had once explained at the Major's jealous questioning."I wouldn't hurt his feelings because he's not free, you know, and hecouldn't answer back," and the Major had said nothing more.

  Now "Do you like him, Big Abel?" he inquired; and to the negro's "He's doneuse me moughty well, suh," he said gravely, "Then he shall stay,grandpa--and I'm sorry I cursed you, Harris," he added before he left thefield. He would always own that he was wrong, if he could once be made tosee it, which rarely happened.

  "The boy's kind heart will save him, or he is lost," said the Governor,sadly, as Dan tore by on his little pony, his black hair blown from hisface, his gray eyes shining.

  "He has a kind heart, I know," returned Mrs. Ambler, gently; "the servantsand the animals adore him--but--but do you think it well for Betty to bethrown so much with him? He is very wild, and they deny him nothing. I wishshe went with Champe instead--but what do you think?"

  "I don't know, I don't know," answered the Governor, uneasily. "He told thedoctor to mind his own business, yesterday--and that is not unlike Betty,herself, I am sorry to say--but this morning I saw him give his month'spocket money to that poor free negro, Levi. I can't say, I really do notknow," his eyes followed Betty as she flew out to climb behind Dan on thepony's back. "I wish it were Champe, myself," he added doubtfully.

  For Betty--independent Betty--had become Dan's slave. Ever since theafternoon of the burning woodpile, she had bent her stubborn little kneesto him in hero-worship. She followed closer than a shadow on his footsteps;no tortures could wring his secrets from her lips. Once, when he hidhimself in the mountains for a day and night and played Indian, she keptsilence, though she knew his hiding-place, and a search party was out withlanterns until dawn.

  "I didn't tell," she said triumphantly, when he came down again.

  "No, you didn't tell," he frankly acknowledged.

  "So I can keep a secret," she declared at last.

  "Oh, yes, you can keep a secret--for a girl," he returned, and added, "Itell you what, I like you better than anybody about here, except grandpaand Big Abel."

  She shone upon him, her eyes narrowing; then her face darkened. "Not betterthan Big Abel?" she questioned plaintively.

  "Why, I have to like Big Abel best," he replied, "because he belongs to me,you know--you ought to love the thing that belongs to you."

  "But I might belong to you," suggested Betty. She smiled again, and,smiling or grave, she always looked as if she were standing in a patch ofsunshine, her hair made such a brightness about her.

  "Oh, you couldn't, you're white," said Dan; "and, besides, I reckon BigAbel and the pony are as much as I can manage. It's a dreadful weight,having people belong to you."

  Then he loaded his gun, and Betty ran away with her fingers in
her ears,because she couldn't bear to have things killed.

  A month later Dan and Champe settled down to study. The new tutor came--aserious young man from the North, who wore spectacles, and read the Bibleto the slaves on the half-holidays. He was kindly and conscientious, and,though the boys found him unduly weighed down by responsibility for thesouls of his fellows, they soon loved him in a light-hearted fashion. In asociety where even the rector harvested alike the true grain and the tares,and left the Almighty to do His own winnowing, Mr. Bennett's free-handedfight with the flesh and the devil was looked upon with smiling tolerance,as if he were charging a windmill with a wooden sword.

  On Saturdays he would ride over to Uplands, and discuss his schemes for theuplifting of the negroes with the Governor and Mrs. Ambler; and once heeven went so far as to knock at Rainy-day Jones's door and hand him apamphlet entitled "The Duties of the Slaveholder." Old Rainy-day, who wasthe biggest bully in the county, set the dogs on him, and lit his pipe withthe pamphlet; but the Major, when he heard the story, laughed, and calledthe young man "a second David."

  Mr. Bennett looked at him seriously through his glasses, and then his eyeswandered to the small slave, Mitty, whose chief end in life was the findingof Mrs. Lightfoot's spectacles. He was an earnest young man, but he couldnot keep his eyes away from Mitty when she was in the room; and at the oldlady's, "Mitty, my girl, find me my glasses," he felt like jumping from hisseat and calling upon her to halt. It seemed a survival of the dark agesthat one immortal soul should spend her life hunting for the spectacles ofanother. To Mr. Bennett, a soul was a soul in any colour; to the Major thesons of Ham were under a curse which the Lord would lighten in His own goodtime.

  But before many months, the young man had won the affection of the boys andthe respect of their grandfather, whose candid lack of logic wasoverpowered by the reasons which Mr. Bennett carried at every finger tip.He not only believed things, he knew why he believed them; and to theMajor, with whom feelings were convictions, this was more remarkable thanthe courage with which he had handed his tract to old Rainy-day Jones.

  As for Mr. Bennett, he found the Major a riddle that he could not read; butthe Governor's first smile had melted his reserve, and he declared Mrs.Ambler to be "a Madonna by Perugino."

  Mrs. Ambler had never heard of Perugino, and the word "Madonna" suggestedto her vague Romanist snares, but her heart went out to the stranger whenshe found that he was in mourning for his mother. She was not a cleverwoman in a worldly sense, yet her sympathy, from the hourly appeals to it,had grown as fine as intellect. She was hopelessly ignorant of ancienthistory and the Italian Renaissance; but she had a genius for theaffections, and where a greater mind would have blundered over a wound, hersoft hand went by intuition to the spot. It was very pleasant to sit in arosewood chair in her parlour, to hear her gray silk rustle as she crossedher feet, and to watch her long white fingers interlace.

  So she talked to the young man of his mother, and he showed her thedaguerrotype of the girl he loved; and at last she confided to him heranxieties for Betty's manners and the Governor's health, and her timidwonder that the Bible "countenanced" slavery. She was rare and elegant likea piece of fine point lace; her hands had known no harder work than thedelicate hemstitching, and her mind had never wandered over the nearerhills.

  As time went on, Betty was given over to the care of her governess, and shewas allowed to run wild no more in the meadows. Virginia, a pretty primlittle girl, already carried her prayer book in her hands when she drove tochurch, and wore Swiss muslin frocks in the evenings; but Betty when shewas made to hem tablecloths on sunny mornings, would weep until her needlerusted.

  On cloudy days she would sometimes have her ambitions to be ladylike, andonce, when she had gone to a party in town and seen Virginia dancing whileshe sat against the wall, she had come home to throw herself upon thefloor.

  "It's not that I care for boys, mamma," she wailed, "for I despise them;but they oughtn't to have let me sit against the wall. And none of themasked me to dance--not even Dan."

  "Why, you are nothing but a child, Betty," said Mrs. Ambler, in dismay."What on earth does it matter to you whether the boys notice you or not?"

  "It doesn't," sobbed Betty; "but you wouldn't like to sit against the wall,mamma."

  "You can make them suffer for it six years hence, daughter," suggested theGovernor, revengefully.

  "But suppose they don't have anything to do with me then," cried Betty, andwept afresh.

  In the end, it was Uncle Bill who brought her to her feet, and, in doingso, he proved himself to be the philosopher that he was.

  "I tell you what, Betty," he exclaimed, "if you get up and stop crying,I'll give you fifty cents. I reckon fifty cents will make up for any boy,eh?"

  Betty lay still and looked up from the floor.

  "I--I reckon a dol-lar m-i-g-h-t," she gasped, and caught a sob before itburst out.

  "Well, you get up and I'll give you a dollar. There ain't many boys wortha dollar, I can tell you."

  Betty got up and held out one hand as she wiped her eyes with the other.

  "I shall never speak to a boy again," she declared, as she took the money.

  That was when she was thirteen, and a year later Dan went away to college.