Stoneman lifted his head in amazement at the burst of passionate intensity with which the Southerner poured out his protest.
“For a Russian to rule a Pole,” he went on, “a Turk to rule a Greek, or an Austrian to dominate an Italian is hard enough, but for a thick-lipped, flat-nosed, spindle-shanked negro, exuding his nauseating animal odour, to shout in derision over the hearths and homes of white men and women is an atrocity too monstrous for belief. Our people are yet dazed by its horror. My God! when they realize its meaning, whose arm will be strong enough to hold them?”
“I should think the South was sufficiently amused with resistance to authority,” interrupted Stoneman.
“Even so. Yet there is a moral force at the bottom of every living race of men. The sense of right, the feeling of racial destiny—these are unconquered and unconquerable forces. Every man in South Carolina to-day is glad that slavery is dead. The war was not too great a price for us to pay for the lifting of its curse. And now to ask a Southerner to be the slave of a slave——”
“And yet, Doctor,” said Stoneman coolly, “manhood suffrage is the one eternal thing fixed in the nature of Democracy. It is inevitable.”
“At the price of racial life? Never!” said the Southerner, with fiery emphasis. “This Republic is great, not by reason of the amount of dirt we possess, the size of our census roll, or our voting register—we are great because of the genius of the race of pioneer white freemen who settled this continent, dared the might of kings, and made a wilderness the home of Freedom. Our future depends on the purity of this racial stock. The grant of the ballot to these millions of semi-savages and the riot of debauchery which has followed are crimes against human progress.”
“Yet may we not train him?” asked Stoneman.
“To a point, yes, and then sink to his level if you walk as his equal in physical contact with him. His race is not an infant; it is a degenerate—older than yours in time. At last we are face to face with the man whom slavery concealed with its rags. Suffrage is but the new paper cloak with which the Demagogue has sought to hide the issue. Can we assimilate the negro? The very question is pollution. In Hayti no white man can own land. Black dukes and marquises drive over them and swear at them for getting under their wheels. Is civilization a patent cloak with which law-tinkers can wrap an animal and make him a king?”
“But the negro must be protected by the ballot,” protested the statesman. “The humblest man must have the opportunity to rise. The real issue is Democracy.”
“The issue, sir, is Civilization! Not whether a negro shall be protected, but whether Society is worth saving from barbarism.”
“The statesman can educate,” put in the Commoner.
The doctor cleared his throat with a quick little nervous cough he was in the habit of giving when deeply moved.
“Education, sir, is the development of that which is. Since the dawn of history the negro has owned the continent of Africa—rich beyond the dream of poet’s fancy, crunching acres of diamonds beneath his bare black feet. Yet he never picked one up from the dust until a white man showed to him its glittering light. His land swarmed with powerful and docile animals, yet he never dreamed a harness, cart, or sled. A hunter by necessity, he never made an axe, spear, or arrowhead worth preserving beyond the moment of its use. He lived as an ox, content to graze for an hour. In a land of stone and timber he never sawed a foot of lumber, carved a block, or built a house save of broken sticks and mud. With league on league of ocean strand and miles of inland seas, for four thousand years he watched their surface ripple under the wind, heard the thunder of the surf on his beach, the howl of the storm over his head, gazed on the dim blue horizon calling him to worlds that lie beyond, and yet he never dreamed a sail! He lived as his fathers lived—stole his food, worked his wife, sold his children, ate his brother, content to drink, sing, dance, and sport as the ape!
“And this creature, half child, half animal, the sport of impulse, whim, and conceit, ‘pleased with a rattle, tickled with a straw,’ a being who, left to his will, roams at night and sleeps in the day, whose speech knows no word of love, whose passions, once aroused, are as the fury of the tiger—they have set this thing to rule over the Southern people——”
The doctor sprang to his feet, his face livid, his eyes blazing with emotion. “Merciful God—it surpasses human belief!”
He sank exhausted in his chair, and, extending his hand in an eloquent gesture, continued:
“Surely, surely, sir, the people of the North are not mad? We can yet appeal to the conscience and the brain of our brethren of a common race?”
Stoneman was silent as if stunned. Deep down in his strange soul he was drunk with the joy of a triumphant vengeance he had carried locked in the depths of his being, yet the intensity of this man’s suffering for a people’s cause surprised and distressed him as all individual pain hurt him.
Dr. Cameron rose, stung by his silence and the consciousness of the hostility with which Stoneman had wrapped himself.
“Pardon my apparent rudeness, Doctor,” he said at length, extending his hand. “The violence of your feeling stunned me for the moment. I’m obliged to you for speaking. I like a plain-spoken man. I am sorry to learn of the stupidity of the former military commandant in this town——”
“My personal wrongs, sir,” the doctor broke in, “are nothing!”
“I am sorry, too, about these individual cases of suffering. They are the necessary incidents of a great upheaval. But may it not all come out right in the end? After the Dark Ages, day broke at last. We have the printing press, railroad, and telegraph—a revolution in human affairs. We may do in years what it took ages to do in the past. May not the black man speedily emerge? Who knows? An appeal to the North will be a waste of breath. This experiment is going to be made. It is written in the book of Fate. But I like you. Come to see me again.”
Dr. Cameron left with a heavy heart. He had grown a great hope in this long-wished-for appeal to Stoneman. It had come to his ears that the old man, who had dwelt as one dead in their village, was a power.
It was ten o’clock before the doctor walked slowly back to the hotel. As he passed the armoury of the black militia, they were still drilling under the command of Gus. The windows were open, through which came the steady tramp of heavy feet and the cry of “Hep! Hep! Hep!” from the Captain’s thick cracked lips. The full-dress officer’s uniform, with its gold epaulets, yellow stripes, and glistening sword, only accentuated the coarse bestiality of Gus. His huge jaws seemed to hide completely the gold braid on his collar.
The doctor watched, with a shudder, his black bloated face covered with perspiration and the huge hand gripping his sword.
They suddenly halted in double ranks and Gus yelled:
“Odah, arms!”
The butts of their rifles crashed to the floor with precision, and they were allowed to break ranks for a brief rest.
They sang “John Brown’s Body,” and as its echoes died away a big negro swung his rifle in a circle over his head, shouting:
“Here’s your regulator for white trash! En dey’s nine hundred ob ’em in dis county!”
“Yas, Lawd!” howled another.
“We got ’em down now en we keep ’em dar, chile!” bawled another.
The doctor passed on slowly to the hotel. The night was dark, the streets were without lights under their present rulers, and the stars were hidden with swift-flying clouds which threatened a storm. As he passed under the boughs of an oak in front of his house, a voice above him whispered:
“A message for you, sir.”
Had the wings of a spirit suddenly brushed his cheek, he would not have been more startled.
“Who are you?” he asked, with a slight tremor.
“A Night Hawk of the Invisible Empire, with a message from the Grand Dragon of the Realm,” was the low answer, as he thrust a note in the doctor’s hand. “I will wait for your answer.”
The doctor fumbled to his
office on the corner of the lawn, struck a match, and read:
“A great Scotch-Irish leader of the South from Memphis is here to-night and wishes to see you. If you will meet General Forrest, I will bring him to the hotel in fifteen minutes. Burn this. Ben.”
The doctor walked quickly back to the spot where he had heard the voice, and said:
“I’ll see him with pleasure.”
The invisible messenger wheeled his horse, and in a moment the echo of his muffled hoofs had died away in the distance.
* * *
CHAPTER XI
The Beat of a Sparrow’s Wing
Dr. Cameron’s appeal had left the old Commoner unshaken in his idea. There could be but one side to any question with such a man, and that was his side. He would stand by his own men, too. He believed in his own forces. The bayonet was essential to his revolutionary programme—hence the hand which held it could do no wrong. Wrongs were accidents which might occur under any system.
Yet in no way did he display the strange contradictions of his character so plainly as in his inability to hate the individual who stood for the idea he was fighting with maniac fury. He liked Dr. Cameron instantly, though he had come to do a crime that would send him into beggared exile.
Individual suffering he could not endure. In this the doctor’s appeal had startling results.
He sent for Mrs. Lenoir and Marion.
“I understand, Madam,” he said gravely, “that your house and farm are to be sold for taxes.”
“Yes, sir; we’ve given it up this time. Nothing can be done,” was the hopeless answer.
“Would you consider an offer of twenty dollars an acre?”
“Nobody would be fool enough to offer it. You can buy all the land in the county for a dollar an acre. It’s not worth anything.”
“I disagree with you,” said Stoneman cheerfully. “I am looking far ahead. I would like to make an experiment here with Pennsylvania methods on this land. I’ll give you ten thousand dollars cash for your five hundred acres if you will take it.”
“You don’t mean it?” Mrs. Lenoir gasped, choking back the tears.
“Certainly. You can at once return to your home. I’ll take another house, and invest your money for you in good Northern securities.”
The mother burst into sobs, unable to speak, while Marion threw her arms impulsively around the old man’s neck and kissed him.
His cold eyes were warmed with the first tear they had shed in years.
He moved the next day to the Ross estate, which he rented, had Sam brought back to the home of his childhood in charge of a good-natured white attendant, and installed in one of the little cottages on the lawn. He ordered Lynch to arrest the keeper of the poor, and hold him on a charge of assault with intent to kill, awaiting the action of the Grand Jury. The Lieutenant-Governor received this order with sullen anger—yet he saw to its execution. He was not quite ready for a break with the man who had made him.
Astonished at his new humour, Phil and Elsie hastened to confess to him their love affairs and ask his approval of their choice. His reply was cautious, yet he did not refuse his consent. He advised them to wait a few months, allow him time to know the young people, and get his bearings on the conditions of Southern society. His mood of tenderness was a startling revelation to them of the depth and intensity of his love.
When Mrs. Lenoir returned with Marion to her vine-clad home, she spent the first day of perfect joy since the death of her lover husband. The deed had not yet been made of the transfer of the farm, but it was only a question of legal formality. She was to receive the money in the form of interest-bearing securities and deliver the title on the following morning.
Arm in arm, mother and daughter visited again each hallowed spot, with the sweet sense of ownership. The place was in perfect order. Its flowers were in gorgeous bloom, its walks clean and neat, the fences painted, and the gates swung on new hinges.
They stood with their arms about one another, watching the sun sink behind the mountains, with tears of gratitude and hope stirring their souls.
Ben Cameron strode through the gate, and they hurried to meet him with cries of joy.
“Just dropped in a minute to see if you are snug for the night,” he said.
“Of course, snug and so happy we’ve been hugging one another for hours,” said the mother. “Oh, Ben, the clouds have lifted at last!”
“Has Aunt Cindy come yet?” he asked.
“No, but she’ll be here in the morning to get breakfast. We don’t want anything to eat,” she answered.
“Then I’ll come out when I’m through my business to-night, and sleep in the house to keep you company.”
“Nonsense,” said the mother, “we couldn’t think of putting you to the trouble. We’ve spent many a night here alone.”
“But not in the past two years,” he said with a frown.
“We’re not afraid,” Marion said with a smile. “Besides, we’d keep you awake all night with our laughter and foolishness, rummaging through the house.”
“You’d better let me,” Ben protested.
“No,” said the mother, “we’ll be happier to-night alone, with only God’s eye to see how perfectly silly we can be. Come and take supper with us to-morrow night. Bring Elsie and her guitar—I don’t like the banjo—and we’ll have a little love feast with music in the moonlight.”
“Yes, do that,” cried Marion. “I know we owe this good luck to her. I want to tell her how much I love her for it.”
“Well, if you insist on staying alone,” said Ben reluctantly, “I’ll bring Miss Elsie to-morrow, but I don’t like your being here without Aunt Cindy to-night.”
“Oh, we’re all right!” laughed Marion, “but what I want to know is what you are doing out so late every night since you’ve come home, and where you were gone for the past week?”
“Important business,” he answered soberly.
“Business—I expect!” she cried. “Look here, Ben Cameron, have you another girl somewhere you’re flirting with?”
“Yes,” he answered slowly, coming closer and his voice dropping to a whisper, “and her name is Death.”
“Why, Ben!” Marion gasped, placing her trembling hand unconsciously on his arm, a faint flush mantling her cheek and leaving it white.
“What do you mean?” asked the mother in low tones.
“Nothing that I can explain. I only wish to warn you both never to ask me such questions before any one.”
“Forgive me,” said Marion, with a tremor. “I didn’t think it serious.”
Ben pressed the little warm hand, watching her mouth quiver with a smile that was half a sigh, as he answered:
“You know I’d trust either of you with my life, but I can’t be too careful.”
“We’ll remember, Sir Knight,” said the mother. “Don’t forget, then, to-morrow—and spend the evening with us. I wish I had one of Marion’s new dresses done. Poor child, she has never had a decent dress in her life before. You know I never look at my pretty baby grown to such a beautiful womanhood without hearing Henry say over and over again—‘Beauty is a sign of the soul—the body is the soul!’”
“Well, I’ve my doubts about your improving her with a fine dress,” he replied thoughtfully. “I don’t believe that more beautifully dressed women ever walked the earth than our girls of the South who came out of the war clad in the pathos of poverty, smiling bravely through the shadows, bearing themselves as queens though they wore the dress of the shepherdess.”
“I’m almost tempted to kiss you for that, as you once took advantage of me!” said Marion, with enthusiasm.
The moon had risen and a whippoorwill was chanting his weird song on the lawn as Ben left them leaning on the gate.
* * *
It was past midnight before they finished the last touches in restoring their nest to its old homelike appearance and sat down happy and tired in the room in which Marion was born, brooding and dreaming and talking over th
e future.
The mother was hanging on the words of her daughter, all the baffled love of the dead poet husband, her griefs and poverty consumed in the glowing joy of new hopes. Her love for this child was now a triumphant passion, which had melted her own being into the object of worship, until the soul of the daughter was superimposed on the mother’s as the magnetized by the magnetizer.
“And you’ll never keep a secret from me, dear?” she asked Marion.
“Never.”
“You’ll tell me all your love affairs?” she asked softly, as she drew the shining blonde head down on her shoulder.
“Faithfully.”
“You know I’ve been afraid sometimes you were keeping something back from me, deep down in your heart—and I’m jealous. You didn’t refuse Henry Grier because you loved Ben Cameron—now, did you?”
The little head lay still before she answered:
MAE MARSH AS THE VICTIM OF RECONSTRUCTION.
“How many times must I tell you, Silly, that I’ve loved Ben since I can remember, that I will always love him, and when I meet my fate, at last, I shall boast to my children of my sweet girl romance with the Hero of Piedmont, and they shall laugh and cry with me over——”
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