DR. CARY MEETS AN OLD COLLEGE MATE AND LEARNS THAT THE ATHENIANS ALSO PRACTISE HOSPITALITY

The Ku Klux raid, as it was called, created a great commotion, not only in our county but in other quarters as well. There had been in other sections growlings and threatenings, altercations, collisions, and outbreaks of more or less magnitude, but no outbreak so systematic, so extensive, and so threatening as this had hitherto occurred, and it caused a sensation. It was talked about as “a new rebellion,” calling for the suspension of the writs of privilege and the exercise of the strongest powers of the Government.

When therefore Leech and Still appeared at the national capital, as suitors appealing for aid to maintain the laws and even to secure their lives, they found open ears and ready sympathizers. They were met by Mr. Bolter, who mainly had taken the bonds of their new railway, which was not yet built, and who was known as a wealthy capitalist. Thus they appeared as men of substance and standing, well introduced, and as they spoke with doubtful endorsement of the Governor they were even regarded as more than commonly conservative, and their tale was given unbounded credit.

When they returned home it was with the conviction that their mission had been completely successful; they had not only secured the immediate object of their visit, and obtained the promise of the strongest backing that could be given against their enemies, but they had gained even a more important victory. They had instilled doubts as to both the sincerity and the wisdom of the Governor; had, as Still said, “loosed a lynch-pin for him,” and had established themselves as the true and proper persons to be consulted and supported. Thus they had secured, as they hoped, the future control of the State. They were in an ecstasy, and when a little later the new judge was appointed, and proved to be Hurlbut Bail, the man Bolter had recommended against one the Governor had backed, they felt themselves to be masters of the situation.

When the mission of Leech and Still became known in the old county it created grave concern. A meeting was held and Dr. Cary and General Legaie, with one or two others of the highest standing, were appointed a committee to go on and lay their side of the case before the authorities and see what they could do to counteract the effect of the work of Leech and his associates.

It was the first time Dr. Cary and General Legaie had been to the national capital or, indeed, out of the State, since the war, and they were astonished to see what progress had been made in that brief period.

They found themselves, on merely crossing a river, suddenly landed in a city as wholly different from anything they had seen since the war as if it had been a foreign capital. The handsome streets and busy thoroughfares filled with well-dressed throngs; gay with flashing equipages, and all the insignia of wealth, appeared all the more brilliant from the sudden contrast. As the party walked through the city they appeared to themselves to be almost the poorest persons they saw, at least among the whites. The city was full of negroes at this time. These seemed to represent mainly the two extremes of prosperity and poverty. The gentlemen could not walk on the street without being applied to by some old man or woman who was in want, and who, as long as the visitors had anything to give, needed only to ask to be assisted.

“We are like lost souls on the banks of the Styx,” said Dr. Cary. “I feel as much a stranger as if I were on another planet. And to think that our grandfathers helped to make this nation!”

“To think that we ever surrendered!” exclaimed General Legaie, with a flash in his eye.

They took lodgings at a little boarding-house, and called next day in a body on the Head of the Nation, but were unable to see him; then they waited on one after another of several high officers of the Government whom they believed to be dominant in the national councils. Some they failed to get access to; others heard them civilly, but with undisguised coldness. At one place they were treated rudely by a negro door-keeper, whose manner was so insolent that the General turned on him sharply with a word and a gesture that sent him bouncing inside the door. After this interview, as Dr. Cary was making his way back to his boarding-house, he met one of his old servants. The negro was undisguisedly glad to see him. He wrung his hand again and again.

“You’s de fust frien’, master, I’s seen since I been heah!” he said.

“You are the first friend, John, I have seen,” said the Doctor, smiling. He put his hand in his pocket and gave the old man a bank-note.

As the Doctor was engaged in this colloquy he was observed with kindly interest or amusement by many passers-by—among them, by an elderly and handsomely dressed couple, accompanied by a very pretty girl, who were strolling along, and loitered for a moment within earshot to observe the two strangers.

“What a picturesque figure!” said the lady as they passed on.

“Which one?”

“Well, both. I almost thought of them as one. I wish, Alice, you could have got a sketch of them as they stood.”

“He is a Southerner—from his voice,” said her husband, who was Judge Rockfield, one of the ablest and most noted men at that time in public life; one of the wisest in council, and who, though his conservatism in that period of fierce passion kept him from being as prominent as some who were more violent and more radical, yet was esteemed one of the ablest and soundest men in the country. He was a Senator from his State, and the owner of one of the leading and most powerful journals in the country.

Dr. Cary, having given the old negro his address, took a street-car to try to overhaul his friends. It was quite full, and the Doctor secured the last vacant seat. A few blocks farther on, several persons boarded the car, among them the elderly gentleman and his wife and daughter, already mentioned, and another lady. The Doctor rose instantly.

“Will you take my seat, madam?” he said to the nearest lady, with a bow. The other ladies were still left standing, though there were many men seated; but the next second a young fellow farther down the car rose, and gave up his seat. As he took his stand the Doctor caught his eye.

“‘The Athenians praise hospitality, the Lacedemonians practise it,’” he said in a distinct voice that went through the car, and with a bow to the young fellow which brought a blush of pride to his pleasant face.

The next moment the gentleman who had entered with his wife touched the Doctor on his arm.

“I beg your pardon: is your name Cary?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Can this be John Cary of Birdwood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t you remember Anson Rockfield?”

“Why, Rockfield, my old college-mate!” exclaimed the Doctor. The two men grasped each other’s hands with a warmth which drew to them the attention and interest of the whole car. “Rockfield, you see I am still quoting Plutarch,” said the Doctor.

“And still practising his principles,” said the Senator, smiling, as he presented him to his wife.

“My dear, this is the man to whom you are indebted for whatever is good in me. But for him I should have gone to the d—l years before you knew me.”

“He gives me far too much credit, madam, and himself far too little,” said the Doctor. “I am sure that ever to have been able to win the prizes he has won he must have been always worthy, as worthy as a man can be of a woman.” He bowed low to Mrs. Rockfield.

Senator Rockfield urged the Doctor to come at once to his house and be his guest while in the city, an invitation which his wife promptly seconded with much graciousness.

“Let us show you that some of the Athenians practise as well as praise hospitality,” she said, smiling.

Thanking them, the Doctor excused himself from accepting the invitation, but said that with Mrs. Rockfield’s permission he would call and pay his respects, and he did so that evening.

As a result of this meeting an audience was arranged for him and his friends next day with the President, who heard them with great civility, though he gave them no assurance that he would accept their views, and furnished no clew to lead them to think they had made any impression at all. They came away, therefore, somewhat downcast.

Before the Southerners left for home, Senator Rockfield called on Dr. Cary and, taking him aside, had a long talk with him, explaining somewhat the situation and the part he had felt himself compelled to take. He wound up, however, with an appeal that Dr. Cary would not permit political differences to divide them and would allow him to render him personally any assistance that his situation might call for.

“I am rich now, Cary,” he said; “while you have suffered reverses and may have found your means impaired and yourself at times even cramped. (The Doctor thought how little he knew of the real facts.) “It is the fortune of war, and I want you to allow me to help you. I suppose you must have lost a good deal?” he said, interrogatively.

A change passed over the old Doctor’s face. Reminiscence, pain, resolution were all at work, and the pleasant light which had been there did not return, but in its place was rather the shade of deepened fortitude.

“No,” he said, quietly. “‘War cannot plunder Virtue.’ I have learned that a quiet mind is richer than a crown.”

“Still, I know that the war must have injured you some,” urged the Senator. “We were chums in old times and I want it to be so now. I have never forgotten what you were to me, and what I told my wife of your influence on me was less than the fact. Why, Cary, I even learnt my politics from you,” he said, with a twinkle in his eye.

Dr. Cary thanked him, but was firm. He could think of nothing he could do for him.

“Except this: think of us as men. Come down and see for yourself.”

“Still practising Plutarch,” said the Senator. “Well, the time may come, even if it has not come yet, and I want you to promise me that when it does, you will call on me—either for yourself or any friend of yours. It will be a favor to me, Cary,” he added, with a new tone in his voice, seeing the look on the Doctor’s face. “Somehow, you have turned back the dial, and taken me back to the time when we were young and fresh, and full of high hopes and—yes—aspirations, and I had not found out how d—d mean and sordid the world is. It will be a favor to me.”

“All right, I will,” said the Doctor, “if my friends need it.” And the two friends shook hands.

So the Commission from the old county returned home.

Captain Allen of late spent more and more of his time at Dr. Cary’s. His attitude toward Blair was one of gallantry mingled with protection and homage; but that was his attitude toward every girl; so Blair was under no delusion about it, and between them was always waged a warfare that was half pleasantry. To Mammy Krenda, however, the young man’s relation to her mistress meant much more. No one ever looked at Blair that the old mammy did not instantly interpret it as a confession and a declaration, and having done this she instantly formed her judgment, and took her stand. She had divined the ambition of Dr. Still long before that aspiring young man dispatched to Miss Blair that tinted note which was the real if not the immediate cause of the Carys’ removal from Birdwood to the Bellows cottage. And during those preliminary visits which the young physician had made to the old one, the old woman had with her sharp eyes penetrated his assumed disguise and made him shiver. Dr. Still knew that though Dr. Cary was taking him at his word and believed he really came so often to talk of medicine and seek advice, yet the old mammy discerned his real object, and despised him.

In Captain Allen’s case it was different. Though the old woman and he were ostensibly always at war and never were together without his teasing her and her firing a shot in return at him, yet, at heart, she adored him. His distinguished appearance and his leading position, taken with his cordial and real friendliness toward herself, made him a favorite with her—and the speech he had made to Middleton on her account and his hostility to Leech made her his slave.

Her manner to him was always capricious and fault-finding, as became the jealous guardian of Miss Blair; but “old Argos,” as Captain Allen called her, was his warm ally and he knew it. She took too many occasions to promote his and Blair’s wishes, as she understood them, for him to doubt it, and, possibly, it was as much due to her misapprehension as to anything else, that Steve was drawn on to do what, but for Blair’s good sense, might have imperilled both his happiness and hers.

Since the stir created by the Ku Klux raid, Captain Allen had exercised more precaution than he was accustomed to do. All sorts of rumors were afloat as to what the Government had promised on the instigation of Leech and Still. Captain Allen’s name was mentioned in all of them. Steve, in consequence, had of late been at the court-house less continuously than usual. And from equally natural causes, he had been much more at Dr. Cary’s. To Mammy Krenda’s innuendoes, he laughingly replied that it was healthier near the mountains—to which the old woman retorted that she knew what mountains he was trying to climb.

One afternoon he rode up to Dr. Cary’s a little earlier than usual, and, finding the family absent, turned his horse out in the yard and lounged on the porch, awaiting their arrival. He had not been there long when Mammy Krenda appeared. Steve watched her for a moment with amusement. He knew she had come out to talk to him.

“What are you prowling about here for, you old Ku Klux witch, you?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eye.

Mammy Krenda gave a sniff.

“Ku Klux! Ku Klux!! If prowlin’ mecks Ku Klux, I wonder what you wuz doin’ last night? An’ what you doin’ now?”

“Jerry’s been around, the drunken rascal!” thought Steve to himself. He knew Jerry was courting a granddaughter of old Krenda’s.

“How’s Jerry coming on with his courting?” he asked, irrelevantly.

“N’em mind about Jerry,” said the old mammy. “Jerry know mo’ ’bout co’tin’ than some other folks.”

This was interesting, and Steve, seeing that she had something on her mind, gave her a lead. He learned that the old woman thought her “chile” was not well—that she was “pesterin’ herself mightily” about something, and, what was more astonishing, that Mammy Krenda held that he himself was in a measure responsible for it.

A little deft handling and a delicate cross-examination soon satisfied Steve that Jacquelin stood no chance. He hinted as to Middleton. Mammy Krenda threw up her head. “She ain’ gwine marry no Yankee come pokin’ in folks’ kitchen.”

That disposed of it so far as Middleton was concerned.

“How about McRaffle? He’s always hanging around?” laughed Steve.

Krenda gave a sniff and started on.

“Dat man what been in a coffin! Jes’ soon marry a lizard! You know she ain’ go’ marry dat man! She wouldn’ look at him!”

“Well, who is it?” demanded Steve.

The old woman turned and faced him; gave him a penetrating glance, and, with a toss of her turbaned-head, walked into the house.

Steve sat on the porch for some time in deep reflection, and then rising, walked across the grass, saddled his horse and rode quietly away. All the past came before him and all the present too. Could it be possible that he had been the cause of Middleton’s repulse and of Jacquelin’s failure? It had never occurred to him. Yet, this was undoubtedly the old mammy’s theory. She had as good as told him that he was the cause of Blair’s disquietude, and in the light of her revelation it all seemed reasonable enough. This was the secret of her attitude toward Jacquelin. If she cared for him, it was his duty to marry her. And where could he ever find her superior? Who was so good and fine? Such were his reflections.

So one evening when he was with Blair, he suddenly began to speak to her as he had never done before. Blair was not looking at him, and she answered lightly. But Steve did not respond so. He had grown serious. Blair looked at him quickly; her smile died out, and the color flushed her face. Could Steve be in earnest? She gazed at him curiously; but unhesitatingly; only a look almost of sorrow came into her eyes. Steve went on and said all he had planned. When he had finished, Blair suddenly sat down by him and put her hand over his. She was perfectly composed and her eyes looked frankly into his.

“No, Steve—you are mistaken,” she said, quietly. “You have misunderstood your feelings. You do not love me—at least, you are not in love with me. You love me I believe, devotedly, and I thank God for it every day of my life; as I love you as a sister—but you are not in love with me. You would help me, relieve me, spare me trouble and anxiety, save me from Captain—M—Middleton—and you see no reason why we should not marry. But there is one reason. You are not in love with me and I am not in love with you.” She was speaking so gravely and her eyes were looking into his so frankly and with such true friendliness that Steve, though feeling somewhat flat at his repulse, could not deny what she said.

“I know the difference,” she went on, quietly. She paused and reflected and, to Steve’s surprise, suddenly changed and choked up. “I have had men in love with me—and—” Her voice faltered. She looked down, put her hand to her eyes and with a cry of, “Oh! Steve!” buried her face against his shoulder; “I seem to curse everyone that loves me.”

In an instant Steve’s strong arm was around her and he was comforting her like an older brother. His sympathy opened the girl’s heart, and drew out the secret of her unhappiness as nothing else could have done. Blair had revealed her feelings to him as she had hardly before revealed them even to herself. It was the old story of misunderstanding, and high spirit; stung pride, hot words, and vain regret—regret not for herself; but only for others. Her unhappiness was that she had brought sorrow to others. It was because of her that Jacquelin had left home, and that his mother was dying of a broken heart. Steve tried to comfort her. She was all wrong, he assured her—she took a wholly erroneous view of the matter. But it was not a success. Jacquelin, she knew, had incurred Leech’s personal hatred on her account, and that was the primary cause of his exile. All the other trouble had flowed from it; his mother’s decline was owing to her repining for Jacquelin and her anxiety about Rupert, who, cut off from his mother’s care and influence, was beginning to show symptoms of wildness. All these Blair traced back to her folly.

Steve, having failed in his effort to comfort her by argument, took another method and boldly assailed her whole idea as unreasonable and morbid. He threatened to write to Jacquelin and fetch him home, and he would have Rupert back at once, and keep him straight too, and if Leech molested him, he would have him to settle with.

The effect of this was just what Steve had anticipated. Blair suddenly took the opposite tack; but in the battle that ensued she showed that she had recovered at least a part of her spirit.

Steve that evening sent Jacquelin a letter intended to meet him on the arrival of his vessel, telling him of his mother’s declining health and urging him to hasten home. He also wrote to the head of the school where Rupert was.