The Crisis (Historical Novel). Winston Churchill
he did not deign to glance. The humiliation of it must have been great for Mr. Colfax. “Jinny wants her; sir,” he said, “and I have a right to buy her.”
“Jinny wants everything,” was the Colonel's reply. And in a single look of curiosity and amusement his own gray eyes met Stephen's. They seemed to regret that this young man, too, had not a guardian. Then uncle and nephew recrossed the street, and as they walked off the Colonel was seen to laugh. Virginia had her chin in the air, and Clarence's was in his collar.
The crowd, of course, indulged in roars of laughter, and even Stephen could not repress a smile, a smile not without bitterness. Then he wheeled to face Mr. Jerkins. Out of respect for the personages involved, the auctioneer had been considerately silent daring the event. It was Mr. Brice who was now the centre of observation.
Come, gentlemen, come, this here's a joke—eight twenty-five. She's worth two thousand. I've been in the business twenty yea's, and I neve' seen her equal. Give me a bid, Mr.—Mr.—you have the advantage of me, suh.”
“Eight hundred and thirty-five!” said Stephen.
“Now, Mr. Jerkins, now, suh! we've got twenty me' to sell.”
“Eight fifty!” said Mr. Jerkins.
“Eight sixty!” said Stephen, and they cheered him.
Mr. Jenkins took his cigar out of his teeth, and stared.
“Eight seventy-five!” said he.
“Eight eighty-five!” said Stephen.
There was a breathless pause.
“Nine hundred!” said the trader.
“Nine hundred and ten!” cried Stephen.
At that Mr. Jerkins whipped his hat from off his head, and made Stephen a derisive bow.
“She's youahs, suh,” he said. “These here are panic times. I've struck my limit. I can do bettah in Louisville fo' less. Congratulate you, suh—reckon you want her wuss'n I do.”
At which sally Stephen grew scarlet, and the crowd howled with joy.
“What!” yelled the auctioneer. “Why, gentlemen, this heah's a joke. Nine hundred and ten dollars, gents, nine hundred and ten. We've just begun, gents. Come, Mr. Jerkins, that's giving her away.”
The trader shook his head, and puffed at his cigar.
“Well,” cried the oily man, “this is a slaughter. Going at nine hundred an' ten—nine ten—going—going—” down came the hammer—“gone at nine hundred and ten to Mr.—Mr.—you have the advantage of me, suh.”
An attendant had seized the girl, who was on the verge of fainting, and was dragging her back. Stephen did not heed the auctioneer, but thrust forward regardless of stares.
“Handle her gently, you blackguard,” he cried.
The man took his hands off.
“Suttinly, sah,” he said.
Hester lifted her eyes, and they were filled with such gratitude and trust that suddenly he was overcome with embarrassment.
“Can you walk?” he demanded, somewhat harshly.
“Yes, massa.”
“Then get up,” he said, “and follow me.”
She rose obediently. Then a fat man came out of the Court House, with a quill in his hand, and a merry twinkle in his eye that Stephen resented.
“This way, please, sah,” and he led him to a desk, from the drawer of which he drew forth a blank deed.
“Name, please!”
“Stephen Atterbury Brice.”
“Residence, Mr. Brice!”
Stephen gave the number. But instead of writing it clown, the man merely stared at him, while the fat creases in his face deepened and deepened. Finally he put down his quill, and indulged in a gale of laughter, hugely to Mr. Brice's discomfiture.
“Shucks!” said the fat man, as soon as he could.
“What are you givin' us? That the's a Yankee boa'din' house.”
“And I suppose that that is part of your business, too,” said Stephen, acidly.
The fat man looked at him, pressed his lips, wrote down the number, shaken all the while with a disturbance which promised to lead to another explosion. Finally, after a deal of pantomime, and whispering and laughter with the notary behind the wire screen, the deed was made out, signed, attested, and delivered. Stephen counted out the money grimly, in gold and Boston drafts.
Out in the sunlight on Chestnut Street, with the girl by his side, it all seemed a nightmare. The son of Appleton Brice of Boston the owner of a beautiful quadroon girl! And he had bought hex with his last cent.
Miss Crane herself opened the door in answer to his ring. Her keen eyes instantly darted over his shoulder and dilated, But Stephen, summoning all his courage, pushed past her to the stairs, and beckoned Hester to follow.
“I have brought this—this person to see my mother,” he said
The spinster bowed from the back of her neck. She stood transfixed on a great rose in the hall carpet until she heard Mrs. Brice's door open and slam, and then she strode up the stairs and into the apartment of Mrs. Abner Reed. As she passed the first landing, the quadroon girl was waiting in the hall.
CHAPTER VI. SILAS WHIPPLE
The trouble with many narratives is that they tell too much. Stephen's interview with his mother was a quiet affair, and not historic. Miss Crane's boarding-house is not an interesting place, and the tempest in that teapot is better imagined than described. Out of consideration for Mr. Stephen Brice, we shall skip likewise a most affecting scene at Mr. Canter's second-hand furniture store.
That afternoon Stephen came again to the dirty flight of steps which led to Judge Whipple's office. He paused a moment to gather courage, and then, gripping the rail, he ascended. The ascent required courage now, certainly. He halted again before the door at the top. But even as he stood there came to him, in low, rich tones, the notes of a German song. He entered And Mr. Richter rose in shirt-sleeves from his desk to greet him, all smiling.
“Ach, my friend!” said he, “but you are late. The Judge has been awaiting you.”
“Has he?” inquired Stephen, with ill-concealed anxiety.
The big young German patted him on the shoulder.
Suddenly a voice roared from out the open transom of the private office, like a cyclone through a gap.
“Mr. Richter!”
“Sir!”
“Who is that?”
“Mr. Brice, sir.”
“Then why in thunder doesn't he come in?”
Mr. Richter opened the private door, and in Stephen walked. The door closed again, and there he was in the dragon's dens face to face with the dragon, who was staring him through and through. The first objects that caught Stephen's attention were the grizzly gray eye brows, which seemed as so much brush to mark the fire of the deep-set battery of the eyes. And that battery, when in action, must have been truly terrible.
The Judge was shaven, save for a shaggy fringe of gray beard around his chin, and the size of his nose was apparent even in the full face.
Stephen felt that no part of him escaped the search of Mr. Whipple's glance. But it was no code or course of conduct that kept him silent. Nor was it fear entirely.
“So you are