The Crisis (Historical Novel). Winston Churchill
was too much for Mr. Cluyme.
“What!” he cried to Stephen. “You own a slave? You, a mere boy, have bought a negress?”
“And what is more, sir, I approve of it,” the Judge put in, severely. “I am going to take the young man into my office.”
Mr. Cluyme gradually retired into the back of his chair, looking at Mr. Whipple as though he expected him to touch a match to the window curtains. But Mr. Cluyme was elastic.
“Pardon me, Judge,” said he, “but I trust that I may be allowed to congratulate you upon the abandonment of principles which I have considered a clog to your career. They did you honor, sir, but they were Quixotic. I, sir, am for saving our glorious Union at any cost. And we have no right to deprive our brethren of their property of their very means of livelihood.”
The Judge grinned diabolically. Mrs. Cluyme was as yet too stunned to speak. Only Stephen's mother sniffed gunpowder in the air.
“This, Mr. Cluyme,” said the Judge, mildly, “is an age of shifting winds. It was not long ago,” he added reflectively, “when you and I met in the Planters' House, and you declared that every drop of Northern blood 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 repeat it 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 of a relic of barbarism, for the sake of union and peace.”
“Well, sir, I am not,” retorted the Judge, like lightning. He rubbed the red spat on his nose, and pointed a bony finger at Mr. Cluyme. Many a criminal had grovelled before that finger. “I, too, am for the Union. And the Union will never be safe until the greatest crime of modern times 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's ownership?”
“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 further claimed that he bowed. This is not certain.
“Good night, madam,” he said. “I shall call again to pay my respects when you are not occupied.”
Volume 2.
CHAPTER VIII. BELLEGARDE
Miss Virginia Carvel came down the steps in her riding-habit. And Ned, who had been waiting in the street with the horses, obsequiously held his hand while his young mistress leaped into Vixen's saddle. Leaving the darkey to follow upon black Calhoun, she cantered off up the street, greatly to the admiration of the neighbor. They threw open their windows to wave at her, but Virginia pressed her lips and stared straight ahead. She was going out to see the Russell girls at their father's country place on Bellefontaine Road, especially to proclaim her detestation for a certain young Yankee upstart. She had unbosomed herself to Anne Brinsmade and timid Eugenie Renault the day before.
It was Indian summer, the gold and purple season of the year. Frost had come and gone. Wasps were buzzing confusedly about the eaves again, marvelling at the balmy air, and the two Misses Russell, Puss and Emily, were seated within the wide doorway at needlework when Virginia dismounted at the horseblock.
“Oh, Jinny, I'm so glad to see you,” said Miss Russell. “Here's Elise Saint Simon from New Orleans. You must stay all day and to-night.”
“I can't, Puss,” said Virginia, submitting impatiently to Miss Russell's warm embrace. She was disappointed at finding the stranger. “I only came—to say that I am going to have a birthday party in a few weeks. You must be sure to come, and bring your guest.”
Virginia took her bridle from Ned, and Miss Russell's hospitable face fell.
“You're not going?” she said.
“To Bellegarde for dinner,” answered Virginia.
“But it's only ten o'clock,” said Puss. “And, Jinny?”
“Yes.”
“There's a new young man in town, and they do say his appearance is very striking—not exactly handsome, you know, but strong-looking.”
“He's horrid!” said Virginia. “He's a Yankee.”
“How do you know?” demanded Puss and Emily in chorus.
“And he's no gentleman,” said Virginia.
“But how do you know, Jinny?”
“He's an upstart.”
“Oh. But he belongs to a very good Boston family, they say.”
“There are no good Boston families,” replied Virginia, with conviction, as she separated her reins. “He has proved that. Who ever heard of a good Yankee family?”
“What has he done to you, Virginia?” asked Puss, who had brains.
Virginia glanced at the guest. But her grievance was too hot within her for suppression.
“Do you remember Mr. Benbow's Hester, girls? The one I always said I wanted. She was sold at auction yesterday. Pa and I were passing the Court House, with Clarence, when she was put up for sale. We crossed the street to see what was going on, and there was your strong-looking Yankee standing at the edge of the crowd. I am quite sure that he saw me as plainly as I see you, Puss Russell.”
“How could he help it?” said Puss, slyly.
Virginia took no notice of the remark.
“He heard me ask Pa to buy her. He heard Clarence say that he would bid her in for me. I know he did. And yet he goes in and outbids Clarence, and buys her himself. Do you think any gentleman would do that, Puss Russell?”
“He bought her himself!” cried the astonished Miss Russell. “Why I thought that all Bostonians were Abolitionists.”
“Then he set her free,” said Miss Carvel, contemptuously, “Judge Whipple went on her bond to-day.”
“Oh, I'm just crazy to see him now,” said Miss Russell.
“Ask him to your party, Virginia,” she added mischievously.
“Do you think I would have him in my house?” cried Virginia.
Miss Russell was likewise courageous—“I don't see why not. You have Judge Whipple every Sunday dinner, and he's an Abolitionist.”
Virginia drew herself up.
“Judge Whipple has never insulted me,” she said, with dignity.
Puss gave way to laughter. Whereupon, despite her protests and prayers for forgiveness, Virginia took to her mare again and galloped off. They saw her turn northward on the Bellefontaine Road.
Presently the woodland hid from her sight the noble river shining far below, and Virginia pulled Vixen between the gateposts which marked the entrance to her aunt's place, Bellegarde. Half a mile through the cool forest, the black dirt of the driveway flying from Vixen's hoofs, and there was the Colfax house on the edge of the gentle slope; and beyond it the orchard, and the blue grapes withering on the vines,—and beyond that fields and fields of yellow stubble. The silver smoke of a steamboat hung in wisps above the water. A young negro was busily washing the broad veranda, but he stopped and straightened