MR. HIRAM STILL TELLS HOW TO BRIDLE A SHY HORSE, AND CAPTAIN ALLEN LAYS DOWN HIS HOE

So Peace spread her white wings, extending her serenity and shedding her sweetness even in those regions where war had passed along.

Without wasting time or repining about the past, Dr. Cary and General Legaie and the other men began to pick up such of the tangled and broken threads of the old life as could be found, and to form with them the new. They mended the worn vehicles, patched up the old harness and gear, broke their war-horses to drive, and set in to live bravely and cheerfully, in as nearly the old manner as they could. They had, they believed, made the greatest fight on record. They had not only maintained, but had increased, the renown of their race for military achievement—the reputation which they most highly valued. They had been overwhelmed, not whipped; cast down, but not destroyed. They still had the old spirit, the unconquerable spirit of their race, and, above all, they had the South.

Dr. Cary determined to use every effort to restore at once the old state of affairs, and, to this end, to offer homes and employment to all his old servants.

Accordingly, he rode down to the county seat one day to have an interview with the officers there. He went alone, because he did not know precisely how he would be received, and, besides, there was by no means general approval of his course among his friends.

He found that the ranking officer, Captain Middleton, had been summoned that morning to the city by Colonel Krafton, the provost in command there. The next in command, however, Lieutenant Thurston, was very civil and obliging to the Doctor, and, on learning of his plans, took steps to further them.

The officer summoned all the negroes who were hanging around the village, to assemble on the court-green, told them of the Doctor’s offer, and, after a short talk to them, ordered all the Doctor’s old servants who were present, and had not secured employment elsewhere, to return home and go to work on the wages he had agreed the Doctor should pay. For, as he said to Middleton when he returned:

“By Gad! Larry, I was not sure whether I was talking to Don Quixote or old Dr. Filgrave—I know he is cousin to them both, for he told me so—he is a cousin to everybody in the United States. And, besides, I was so bored with those niggers hanging around, looking pitiful, and that tall, whispering fellow, Still, who tells about the way he had to act during the war to keep the people from knowing he was on our side, that I would have ordered every nigger in the country to go with the old gentleman if he had wanted them. By the way, he is the father of the girl they say is so devilishly pretty, and he asked after you most particularly. Ah! Larry, I am a diplomat. I have missed my calling.” And, as he looked at his tall, good-looking superior, the little Lieutenant’s eyes twinkled above the bowl of his pipe, which was much the shape of himself.

The engagement to furnish his negroes rations Dr. Cary was enabled to make, because on his arrival at the county seat he had fallen in with Hiram Still, who had offered to lend him a sum of money, which he said he happened to have by him. Hiram had been down to take the oath of allegiance, he told the Doctor.

“I been wonderin’ to myself what I was to do with that money—and what I turned all them Confed notes into gold and greenbacks for,” he said. “Fact is, I thought myself a plum fool for doin’ it; but I says, ‘Well, gold’s gold, whichever way it goes.’ So I either bought land or gold. But’t does look’s if Providence had somethin’ to do with it, sure ’nough. I ain’t got a bit o’ use for it—you can take it and pay me just when it’s convenient.”

Still had never been a favorite with Dr. Cary, though the latter confessed that he could cite on positive ground for his dislike. When he thought of his antipathy at all, he always traced it back to two things—one that Legaie always disliked Still, the other that when Still had his attack of inflammatory rheumatism at the outbreak of the war, the symptoms were such as to baffle the Doctor’s science. “That’s a pretty ground for a reasonable man to found an antipathy on,” reflected the Doctor.

As the Doctor and Hiram rode back together toward home, Still was so bitter in his denunciation of the Federals and of their action touching the negroes, that the Doctor actually felt it his duty to lecture him. They were all one country now, he said, and they should accept the result as determined. But Still said, “Never!” He had only taken the oath of allegiance, he declared, because he had heard he would be arrested unless he did. But he had taken it with a mental reservation. This shocked the Doctor so much that he rebuked him with sternness, on which Still explained that he did not mean exactly that, but that he had heard that if a man took an oath under threats he was absolved from it.

“There was some such legal quibble,” the Doctor admitted, with a sniff, but he was “very sure that no brave man would ever take an oath for such a reason, and no honest one would ever break one.” He rode off with his head very high.

When Still reached home that evening he was in uncommonly good spirits. He was pleasanter than usual to his daughter, who appeared the plainer because of the contrast that her shabby clothes presented to the showy suit which her brother wore. It was to his son, however, that Mr. Still showed his particular good-humor. Wash had just come home for a little visit from the city, where he had been ever since his return from the army, and where he was now studying medicine. He was a tall, slim fellow, very much like his father in appearance, though in place of the rather good-tempered expression which usually sat on the latter’s face, Wash’s look was usually sour and discontented.

“Ah, Wash, my son, I did a good stroke of business for you to-day,” said the father that evening at supper.

“What was it? Did you buy another farm? You’ll break, buying so much land,” replied his son, pleasantly.

Still put aside the ungraciousness of the reply. He was accustomed to his son’s slurs.

“Yes and no.” He winked at Virgy, to whom he had already confided something of his stroke of business. He glanced at the door to see that no one was listening, and dropped his voice to his confidential pitch. “I lent the Doctor a leetle money.” He nodded with satisfaction.

Wash became interested; but the next instant attempted to appear indifferent.

“How much? What security did he give?”

“More than he’ll be able to pay for some time, and the security’s all right. Aha! I thought that would wake you up. I’ll lend him some more one of these days and then we’ll get the pay—with interest.” He winked at his son knowingly. “When you’re tryin’ to ketch a shy horse, don’t show him the bridle; When you’ve got him, then—!” He made a gesture of slipping on a halter. This piece of philosophy appeared to satisfy the young man and to atone for the apparent unwisdom of his father’s action. He got into such a good-humor that he began to talk pleasantly with his sister and to ask her about the young men in the neighborhood.

It was striking to see how she changed at the notice her brother took of her. The listless look disappeared, and her eyes brightened and made her face appear really interesting.

Presently the young man said:

“How’s Lord Jacquelin?” At the unexpected question the blood mounted to the girl’s face, and after an appealing look she dropped her eyes quickly.

When the end of the month came, Dr. Cary summoned his hands and paid them their wages one by one, according to his contract with Thurston, checking each name, as he paid them, on a pay-roll he had prepared. Their reception of the payment varied with the spirit of the men; some being gay and facetious; others taking it with exaggerated gravity. It was the first time they had ever received stipulated wages for their services, and it was an event.

The Doctor was well satisfied with the result, and went in to make the same settlement with the house-servants. The first he met was Mammy Krenda, and he handed her the amount he had agreed on with Thurston as a woman’s wages. The old woman took it quietly. This was a relief. Mrs. Cary had been opposed to his paying her anything; she had felt sure that the mammy would feel offended. “Why, she is a member of the family,” she said. “We can’t pay her wages.” The Doctor, however, deemed himself bound by his engagement with Thurston. He had said he would pay all wages, and he would do so. So when the mammy took the money with her usual curtsey, in one way the Doctor’s spirits rose, though he was conscious of a little tug at his heart, as if the old ties had somehow been loosened. He rallied, however, at the reflection that he could satisfy his wife, at last, that he knew human nature more profoundly than she did—a doctrine he had secretly cherished, but had never been entirely successful in establishing.

In this satisfactory state of mind, not wishing to sever entirely the tie with the mammy, as the old woman still stood waiting, he, after a moment, said kindly and with great dignity:

“Those are your wages, mammy.”

“My what, sir?” The Doctor was conscious of a certain chilling of the atmosphere. He looked out of the window to avoid her gaze.

“Your wages—I—ah—have determined—I—think it better from this time to—ah—.” He had no idea it was so difficult. Why had he not got Mrs. Cary to attend to this—why had he, indeed, not taken her advice? Pshaw!— He had to face the facts; so he would do it. He summoned courage and turned and looked at the old woman. She was in the act of putting the money carefully on the corner of the table by her, and if the Doctor had difficulty in meeting her gaze, she had none in looking at him. Her eyes were fastened on him like two little shining beads. They stuck him like pins. The Doctor felt as he used to feel when a young man he went to pay his addresses to his wife—he was conscious that whenever he met Krenda she was inspecting him, searching his inmost soul—looking through and through him. He had to assert himself.

“You see, I promised the Federal officer at the court-house to pay everyone wages,” he began with an effort, looking at the old woman.

“How much does you pay Miss Bessie?”

“How much what?”

“Wages.” He had no idea one word could convey so much contempt.

“Why, nothing—of course—”

Old Krenda lifted her head.

“I’m gwine ’way.”

“What!”

“I’m feared you’ll charge me bode!” She had expanded. “I ken git a little house somewheres, I reckon—or I ken go to th’ city and nuss—chillun.”

“Mammy—you don’t understand—” The Doctor was never in such a dilemma. If his wife would only come in! What a fool he was, not to have known that his wife knew more about it than he did.

“Won’t you accept the money as a gift from me?” he said at last, desperately.

“Nor—I ain’ gwine tetch it!” The gesture was even more final than the tone. With a sniff, she turned and walked out, leaving the Doctor feeling like a school-boy.

He rose after a few minutes and went to his wife’s room to get her to make his peace. The door was shut, but he opened it. The scene within was one that remained with him through life. His wife was weeping, and the mammy and Blair were in each other’s arms. The only words he heard were from the mammy.

“Ef jest my ole marster could come back. He’d know I didn’ do it for no wages.”

“Oh! mammy, he knows it too!”

The Doctor was never conscious of being so much alone in his life, and it took some time to make his peace.

In the same way that the old planters and landowners set in to restore the old places, the younger men also went to work. Necessity is a good spur and pride is another.

Stamper, with Delia Dove “for overseer,” as he said, was already beginning to make an impression on his little place. As he had “kept her from having an overseer,” he said, the best thing he could do was to “let her be one.”

“Talk about th’ slaves bein’ free, Mr. Jack! they won’t all be free long’s Delia Dove’s got me on her place.” The little Sergeant’s chuckle showed how truly he enjoyed that servitude. “She owns me, but she treats me well,” he laughed.

The Stamper place, amid its locusts and apple-trees, with its hipped roof and dormer-windows, small as it was, was as old as Red Rock—at least as the new mansion, with its imposing porticoes and extended wings, built around the big fireplace of the old house—and little Andy, though being somewhat taciturn he never said anything about it, was as proud of this fact as he was of being himself rather than Hiram Still. He had got an old army wagon from somewhere and was now beginning his farming operations in earnest. It had had “U. S.” on it, but though Andy insisted that the letters stood for “US,” not for the United States, Delia Dove had declined to ride in the vehicle as long as it had such characters stamped on it. As Mrs. Stamper was obdurate, Andy finally was forced to save her sensibilities, which he did by substituting “D” for “U.” This, he said, would stand either for “Delia Stamper,” or “D—d States.”

Jacquelin Gray was almost the only one of the men who was not able to go to work. His wound showed a tendency to break out afresh.

Steve Allen intended to practise law as soon as matters settled themselves. As yet, however, he could not engage in any profession. He had not yet determined to take the oath of allegiance. Meantime, to the great happiness of his cousins, especially of Miss Thomasia, he deferred going to the county seat and, moved by the grassy appearance of the once beautifully cultivated fields of Red Rock, began farming. Perhaps, it was sheer pride and dislike of meeting Middleton at the court-house under circumstances so different from those under which they had met last; perhaps it was the pleasure of being near Birdwood that kept him. It was very pleasant when his day’s work was done, to don his old gray jacket, play gentleman once more, and ride across the river of an evening; lounge on the grass under the big trees at Birdwood, and tease Blair Cary about Jacquelin, until her eyes flashed, and she let out at him, as he used to say, “like a newly bridled filly.” So he hitched his war-horses, Hotspur and Kate, to ploughs and ploughed day by day, while he made his boy, Jerry, plough furrow for furrow near him, under promise of half of his share of their crop if he kept up, and of the worst “lambing” he had ever had in his life if he did not. Jerry was a long, slim, young negro, as black as tar. He was the grandson of old Peggy, Steve’s mammy, and had come from the far South. Where Steve had got him during the war no one knew except Steve and Jerry themselves. Steve said he found him hanging to a tree and cut him down because he wanted the rope; but that if he had known Jerry as well then as he did afterward, he would have left him hanging. At this explanation, Jerry always grinned, exhibiting two rows of white teeth which looked like corn from a full ear. Jerry was a drunkard, a liar, and a thief. But one thing was certain: he adored Steve, who in return for that virtue bore delinquencies which no one else in the world would have tolerated. Jerry had one other trait which recommended him to his master: he was as brave as a lion; he would not have been afraid of the devil himself unless he had taken on the shape of Mr. Stevenson Allen, of whom alone Jerry stood in wholesome awe.

Steve’s bucolic operations came somewhat suddenly to an end. One evening, after a hard day’s work, he met Wash Still dressed up and driving a new buggy, turning in at Dr. Cary’s gate. He was “going to consult Dr. Cary about a case,” he said. Next day, as Steve was working in the field, he saw Wash driving down the hill from the manager’s house with the same well-appointed rig. Steve stopped in the row and looked at him as he drove past. Just then Jerry came up. His eye followed his master’s, and his face took on an expression of scorn.

“Umph! things is tunned sort o’ upside down,” he grunted. “Overseer’s son drivin’ buggy, and gent’mens in de fiel’.” Steve smiled at Jerry’s use of the plural. The next moment Hiram Still rode down the hill, and turning his horse in Steve’s direction came across the field.

“He sutney don’ like you, Cun’l,” said Jerry, “an’ he don’ like the Cap’n neider;” by which last, he designated Jacquelin. Jerry always gave military titles to those he liked—the highest to Steve, of course. “He say it do him good to see you wuckin’ in the fiel’ like a nigger, and some day he hope to set in de gret-house and see you doin’ it.”

Still passed quite close to Captain Allen, and as he did so, reined in his horse, and sat looking down at Steve, as he came to the end of his row.

“We all have to come to it, at last, Captain,” he said.

Whether it was his words, and the look on his face, or whether Steve had intended anyhow to do what he did, he straightened up, and shot a glance at the Manager.

“You think so? Well, you are mistaken.” He raised his hoe and stuck it in the ground up to the eye.

“There,” he said to Still, in a tone of command, “take that home. That’s the last time I’ll ever touch a hoe as long as I live. I’ve brains enough to make my living by them, and if I haven’t, I mean to starve!” He walked past the overseer with his head so straight, that Still began to explain that he had meant no offence. But Steve took no further notice of him.

“Jerry, you can keep on; I’ll see that you get your part of the crop.”

“Nor—I ain’t gwine to hit anur lick, nurr—I’ll starve wid yer.” And Jerry lifted his hoe and drove it into the ground; looked at Still superciliously, and followed his master with as near an imitation of his manner and gait as he could achieve.

It was only when Steve was out of hearing, that Still’s look changed. He clenched his fist, and shook it after the young man.

“I’ll bring you to it yet,” he growled.

That evening Steve announced his intention of beginning immediately the practice of his profession.