“Nelson, what is the quarrel between my father and Mr. Vanrevel?”
He had lifted the tray, but set it down precipitately, bending upon her a surprised and sobered countenance.
“Missy,” he said, gravely, “Dey big trouble ‘twix’ dem two.”
“I know,” she returned quietly. “What is it?”
“Wha’ fo’ you ax me, Missy?”
“Because you’re the only one I can ask. I don’t know anyone here well enough, except you.”
Nelson’s lips puckered solemnly. “Mist’ Vanrevel vote Whig; but he ag’in Texas.”
“Well, what if he is?”
“Yo’ pa mighty strong fo’ Texas.”
“No’m, dat ain’t hardly de beginnin’. Mist’ lanrevel he a Ab’litionist.”
“Well? Won’t you tell me?”
“Honey, folks roun’ heah mos’ on ’em like Mist’ Vanrevel so well dey ain’t hole it up ag’in’ him — but, Missy, ef dey one thing topper God’s worl’ yo’ pa do desp’itly and contestably despise, hate, cuss, an’ outrageously ‘bominate wuss’n’ a yaller August spiduh it are a Ab’litionist! He want stomple ’em eve’y las’ one under he boot-heel, ‘cep’n dat one Mist’ Crailey Gray. Dey’s a considabul sprinklin’ er dem Ab’litionists ‘bout de kentry, honey; dey’s mo’ dat don’ know w’ich dey is; an’ dey’s mo’ still dat don’ keer. Soze dat why dey go git up a quo’l twix’ yo’ pa an’ dat man; an’ ‘range to have ’er on a platfawm, de yeah ‘fo’ de las’ campaign; an’, suh, dey call de quo’l a de-bate; an’ all de folks come in f’um de kentry, an’ all de folks in town come, too. De whole possetucky on ’em sit an’ listen.
“Fus’ yo’ pa talk; den Mist’ Vanrevel, bofe on ’em mighty cole an’ civilized. Den yo’ pa git wo’m up, Missy, like he do, ‘case he so useter have his own way; ‘tain’t his fault, he jass cain’t help hollerin’ an’ cussin’ if anybody ‘pose him; but Mist’ Vanrevel he jass as suvvige, but he stay cole, w’ich make yo’ pa all de hotter. He holler mighty strong, Missy, an’ some de back ranks ‘gun snickerin’ at him. Uhuh! He fa’r jump, he did; an’ den bimeby Mist’ Vanrevel he say dat no man oughter be given de pilverige to sell another, ner to wollop him wid a blacksnake, whether he ‘buse dat pilverige er not. ‘My honabul ‘ponent,’ s’s he, ‘Mist’ Carewe, rep’sent in hisseif de ‘ristocratic slave-ownin’ class er de Souf, do’ he live in de Nawf an’ ‘ploy free labor; yit it sca’sely to be b’lieve dat any er you would willin’ly trus’ him wid de powah er life an’ death ovah yo’ own chillun, w’ich is virchously what de slave-ownah p’sess.’
“Missy, you jass oughter see yo’ pa den! He blue in de face an’ dance de quadrille on de boa’ds. He leave his cha’h, git up, an’ run ‘cross to de odder side de platfawm, an’ shake be fis’ ovah dat man’s head, an’ screech out how it all lies dat de slaves evah ‘ceive sich a treatments. ‘Dat all lies, you pu’juh!’ he holler. ‘All lies, you misabul thief,’ he holler. ‘All lies, an’ you know it, you low-bawn slandah’ an’ scoun’le!’
“An’ wid dat Mist’ Vanrevel, be laff in yo’ pa face, an’ tuhn to de crowd, he did, an’ say: ‘You reckon dat if dish yuh man a slave-ownah, an’ a slave had anguhed him as I have anguhed him tonight, does any er you b’lieve dat dat slave wouldn’ be tied up an’ whipped tell de blood run, an’ den sole down de rivuh to-morrer?’
“Well, suh, ‘co’se mos’ on ’em b’lieve same as yo’ pa; but dat sutney fotch ’em, an’ win de de-bate, ‘case dey jass natchully lay back an’ roah, dey did, Missy; dey laff an’ stomp an’ holler tell you could a hearn ’em a mild away. An’ honey, yo’ pa’d a millyum times druther Mist’ Vanrevel’d a kilt him dan tuhn de laff on him. He’d shoot a man, honey, ef he jass s’picion him to grin out de cornder his eye at him; an’ to stan’ up dah wid de whole county fa’r roahin’ at him — it’s de God’s mussy be did’n have no ahms wid him, dat night! Ole Mist’ Chen’eth done brung him home, an’ yo’ pa reach out an’ kick me squah’ out’n’ de liberry winder soon’s he ketch sight er me!” The old man’s gravity gave way to his enjoyment of the recollection, and he threw back his head to laugh. “He sho’ did, honey! Uhuh! Ho, ho, ho! He sho’ did, honey, he sho’ did!”
Nevertheless, as he lifted the tray again and crossed the room to go, his solemnity returned. “Missy,” he said earnestly, “ef dat young gelmun fall in love wid you, w’ich I knows he will ef he ketch sight er you, lemme say dis, an’ please fo’ to ba’h in mine: better have nuttin’ do wid him fo’ he own sake; an’ ‘bove all, keep him fur sway f’um dese p’emises. Don’ let him come in a mild er dis house.”
“Nelson, was that all the quarrel between them?”
“Blessed Mussy! ain’ dat ‘nough? Ef dey’s any mo’ I ain’ hearn what dat part were,” he answered quickly, but with a dogged tightening of the lips which convinced Miss Betty that he knew very well.
“Nelson, what was the rest of it?”
“Please, Missy, I got pack yo’ pa trunk; an’ it time, long ago, fer me to be at my wu’k.” He was half out of the door.
“What was the rest of it?” she repeated quietly.
“Now, honey,” he returned with a deprecatory shake of his head, “I got my own wu’k ‘tend to; an’ I ain’t nevah ax nobody what ’twas, an’ I ain’t goin’ ax ’em. An’ lemme jass beg you f oiler de ole man’s advice: you do de same, ‘case nobody ain’t goin’ tell you. All I know is dat it come later and were somep’n ‘bout dat riprarin Crailey Gray. Yo’ pa he sent a channelge to Mist’ Vanrevel, an’ Mist’ Vanrevel ‘fuse to fight him ‘cause he say he don’ b’lieve shootin’ yo’ pa goin’ do yo’ pa any good, an’ he still got hope mekkin’ good citizen outer him. Dat brung de laff on yo’ pa ag’in; an’ he ‘clare to God ef he ketch Vanrevel on any groun’ er hisn he shoot him like a mad dog. ‘Pon my livin’ soul he mean dem wuds, Missy! Dey had hard ‘nough time las’ night keepin’ him fum teahin’ dat man to pieces at de fiah. You mus’ keep dat young gelmun ‘way fum heah!”
“He came home with me last night, Nelson; I told father so.”
“Yes’m. Yo’ pa tole me you say dat, but he reckon you done it to mek him madder, ‘cause you mad, too. He say he done see dat Crailey Gray comin’ ‘long de hedge wid you.”
“He was mistaken, it was Mr. Vanrevel.”
Nelson rolled his eyes fervently to heaven. “Den dat young man run pintedly on he death! Ef you want keep us all dis side er de Jawdan Rivuh, don’ let him set foot in dis neighbo’hood when yo’ pa come back! An’, honey—” his voice sank to a penetrating whisper—”’fo’ I do a lick er wu’k I goin’ out in de stable an’ git down on my knees an’ retu’n thanksgiving to de good God ‘case he hole Carewe Street in de dahkness las’ night!”
This was the speech he chose for his exit, but, after closing the door behind him, he opened it again, and said, cheerfully:
“Soon’s I git de trunk fix f’ yo’ pa, I bring ‘roun’ dat bay colt wid de side saddle. You better set ‘bout gittin’ on yo’ ridin’-habit, Missy. De roads is mighty good dis sunshiny wedduh.”
“Nelson?”
“Do you think such an attack as father had this morning — is — dangerous?”
He had hoped for another chance to laugh violently before he left her, and this completely fitted his desire. “Ho, ho, he!” he shouted. “No’m, no, no, honey! He jass git so mad it mek him sick. You couldn’ kill dat man wid a broad-ax, Missy!”
And he went down the hail leaving the reverberations of his hilarity behind him. The purpose of his visit had been effected, for, when Miss Betty appeared upon the horse-block in her green habit and gauntlets, she was smiling; so that only a woman — or a wise old man — could have guessed that she had wept bitterly that morning.
She cantered out to the flat, open country to the east, where she found soft dirt-roads that were good for the bay colt’s feet, and she reached a cross-road several miles from town before she was overcome by the conviction that she was a wicked
and ungrateful girl. She could not place the exact spot of her guilt, but she knew it was there, somewhere, since she felt herself a guilty thing.
For the picture which Nelson had drawn rose before her: the one man standing alone in his rage on the platform, overwhelmed by his calm young adversary, beaten and made the butt of laughter for a thousand. Her father had been in the wrong in that quarrel, and somehow she was sure, too, he must have been wrong in the “personal” one, as well: the mysterious difficulty over Fanchon’s Mr. Gray, who had looked so ashamed last night. What feud could they make over him, of all people in the world? He looked strong enough to take care of his own quarrels, even if he was so rigorously bound by Fanchon’s apron-string when it came to a word with another girl!
But the conclusion that her father had been in error did not lessen the pathetic appeal of the solitary figure facing the ridicule of the crowd. She felt that he always honestly believed himself in the right; she knew that he was vain; that he had an almost monstrous conception of his dignity; and, realizing the bitterness of that public humiliation which he had undergone, she understood the wrath, the unspeakable pain and sense of outrage, which must have possessed him.
And now she was letting him go forth upon a journey — his way beset with the chances of illness and accident — whence he might never return; she was letting him go without seeing him again; letting him go with no word of farewell from his daughter. In brief: she was a wicked girl. She turned the colt’s head abruptly to the west and touched his flanks with her whip.
So it fell out that as the packet foamed its passage backward from Carewe’s wharf into the current, the owner of the boat, standing upon the hurricane deck, heard a cry from the shore, and turned to behold his daughter dash down to the very end of the wharf on the well-lathered colt. Miss Betty’s hair was blown about her face; her cheeks were rosy, her eager eyes sparkling from more than the hard riding.
“Papa!” she cried, “I’m sorry!”
She leaned forward out of the saddle, extending her arms to him appealingly in a charming gesture, and, absolutely ignoring the idlers on the wharf and the passengers on the steamer, was singly intent upon the tall figure on the hurricane-deck. “Papa — good-by. Please forgive me!”
“By the Almighty, but that’s a fine woman!” said the captain of the boat to a passenger from Rouen. “Is she his daughter?”
“Please forgive me!” the clear voice came again, with its quaver of entreaty, across the widening water; and then, as Mr. Carewe made no sign, by word or movement, of hearing her, and stood without the slightest alteration of his attitude, she cried to him once more:
“Good-by!”
The paddle-wheels reversed; the boat swung down the river, Mr. Carewe still standing immovable on the hurricane-deck, while, to the gaze of those on the steamer, the figure on the bay colt at the end of the wharf began to grow smaller and smaller. She was waving her handkerchief in farewell, and they could see the little white speck in the distance, dimmer and dimmer, yet fluttering still as they passed out of sight round the bend nearly three-quarters of a mile below.
CHAPTER IX. The Rule of the Regent
BETTY NEVER FORGOT her first sight of the old friend of her family. Returning with a sad heart, she was walking the colt slowly through the carriage-gates, when an extravagantly stout lady, in green muslin illustrated with huge red flowers, came out upon the porch and waved a fat arm to the girl. The visitor wore a dark-green turban and a Cashmere shawl, while the expanse of her skirts was nothing short of magnificent: some cathedral-dome seemed to have been misplaced and the lady dropped into it. Her outstretched hand terrified Betty: how was she to approach near enough to take it?
Mrs. Tanberry was about sixty, looked forty, and at first you might have guessed she weighed nearly three hundred, but the lightness of her smile and the actual buoyancy which she somehow imparted to her whole dominion lessened that by at least a hundred-weight. She ballooned out to the horse-block with a billowy rush somewhere between bounding and soaring; and Miss Betty slid down from the colt, who shied violently, to find herself enveloped, in spite of the dome, in a vast surf of green and red muslin.
“My charming girl!” exclaimed the lady vehemently, in a voice of such husky richness, of such merriment and unction of delight, that it fell upon Miss Betty’s ear with more of the quality of sheer gayety than any she had ever heard. “Beautiful child! What a beautiful child you are!”
She kissed the girl resoundingly on both cheeks; stepped back from her and laughed, and clapped her fat hands, which were covered with flashing rings. “Oh, but you are a true blue Beauty! You’re a Princess! I am Mrs. Tanberry, Jane Tanberry, young Janie Tanberry. I haven’t seen you since you were a baby and your pretty mother was a girl like us!”
“You are so kind to come,” said Betty hesitatingly. “I shall try to be very obedient.”
“Obedient!” Mrs. Tanberry uttered the word with a shriek. “You’ll be nothing of the kind. I am the light-mindedest woman in the universe, and anyone who obeyed me would be embroiled in everlasting trouble every second in the day. You’ll find that I am the one that needs looking after, my charmer!”
She tapped Miss Betty’s cheek with her jeweled fingers as the two mounted the veranda steps. “It will be worry enough for you to obey yourself; a body sees that at the first blush. You have conscience in your forehead and rebellion in your chin. Ha, ha, ha!” Here Mrs. Tanberry sat upon, and obliterated, a large chair, Miss Carewe taking a stool at her knee.
“People of our age oughtn’t to be bothered with obeying; there’ll be time enough for that when we get old and can’t enjoy anything. Ha, ha!”
Mrs. Tanberry punctuated her observations with short volleys of husky laughter, so abrupt in both discharge and cessation that, until Miss Betty became accustomed to the habit, she was apt to start slightly at each salvo. “I had a husband — once,” the lady resumed, “but only once, my friend! He had ideas like your father’s — your father is such an imbecile! — and he thought that wives, sisters, daughters, and such like ought to be obedient: that is, the rest of the world was wrong unless it was right; and right was just his own little, teeny-squeeny prejudices and emotions dressed up for a crazy masquerade as Facts. Poor man! He only lasted about a year!” And Mrs. Tanberry laughed heartily.
“They’ve been at me time and again to take another.” She lowered her voice and leaned toward Betty confidentially. “Not I! I’d be willing to engage myself to Crailey Gray (though Crailey hasn’t got round to me yet) for I don’t mind just being engaged, my dear; but they’ll have to invent something better than a man before I marry any one of ’em again! But I love ’em, I do, the Charming Billies! And you’ll see how they follow me!” She patted the girl’s shoulder, her small eyes beaming quizzically. “We’ll have the gayest house in Rouen, ladybird! The young men all go to the Bareauds’, but they’ll come here now, and we’ll have the Bareauds along with ’em. I’ve been away a long time, just finished unpacking yesterday night when your father came in after the fire — Whoo! what a state he was in with that devilish temper of his! Didn’t I snap him up when he asked me to come and stay with you? Ha, ha! I’d have come, even if you hadn’t been beautiful; but I was wild to be your playmate, for I’d heard nothing but ‘Miss Betty Carewe, Miss Betty Carewe’ from everybody I saw, since the minute my stage came in. You set ’em all mad at your ball, and I knew we’d make a glorious house-full, you and I! Some of the vagabonds will turn up this very evening, you’ll see if they don’t. Ha, ha! The way they follow me!”
Mrs. Tanberry was irresistible: she filled the whole place otherwise than by the mere material voluminousness of her; bubbling over with froth of nonsense which flew through the house, driven by her energy, like sea-foam on a spring gale; and the day, so discordantly begun for Miss Betty, grew musical with her own laughter, answering the husky staccato of the vivacious newcomer. Nelson waited upon them at table, radiant, his smile like the keyboard of an ebony piano, and his
disappearances into the kitchen were accomplished by means of a surreptitious double-shuffle, and followed by the cachinnating echoes of the vain Mamie’s reception of the visitor’s sallies, which Nelson hastily retailed in passing.
Nor was Mrs. Tanberry’s prediction allowed to go unfulfilled regarding the advent of those persons whom she had designated as vagabonds. It may have been out of deference to Mr. Carewe’s sense of decorum (or from a cautious regard of what he was liable to do when he considered that sense outraged) that the gallants of Rouen had placed themselves under the severe restraint of allowing three days to elapse after their introduction to Miss Carewe before they “paid their respects at the house;” but, be that as it may, the dictator was now safely under way down the Rouen River, and Mrs. Tanberry reigned in his stead. Thus, at about eight o’clock that evening, the two ladies sat in the library engaged in conversation — though, for the sake of accuracy, it should be said that Mrs. Tanberry was engaged in conversation, Miss Betty in giving ear — when their attention was arrested by sounds of a somewhat musical nature from the lawn, which sounds were immediately identified as emanating from a flute and violin.
Mrs. Tanberry bounded across the room like a public building caught by a cyclone, and, dashing at the candles, “Blow ’em out, blow ’em out!” she exclaimed, suiting the action to the word in a fluster of excitement.
“Why?” asked Miss Carewe, startled, as she rose to her feet. The candles were out before the question.
“‘Why!” repeated the merry, husky voice in the darkness. “My goodness, child precious, those vagabonds are here! To think of your never having been serenaded before!”
She drew the girl to the window and pointed to a group of dim figures near the iliac bushes. “The dear, delightful vagabonds!” she chuckled. “I knew they’d come! It’s the beautiful Tappingham Marsh with his fiddle, and young Jeff Bareaud with his flute, and ‘Gene Madrillon and little Frank Chenowith and thin Will Cummings to sing. Hark to the rascals!”
Collected Works of Booth Tarkington Page 52