Book: The Crisis, Complete

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The next morning, in Virginia's sunny front room tears and laughter
mingled. There was a present for Eugenie and Anne and Emily and Puss and
Maude, and a hear kiss from the Colonel for each. And more tears and
laughter and sighs as Mammy Easter and Rosetta unpacked the English
trunks, and with trembling hands and rolling eyes laid each Parisian gown
upon the bed.

But the Fair, the Fair!

At the thought of that glorious year my pen fails me. Why mention the
dread possibility of the negro-worshiper Lincoln being elected the very
next month? Why listen, to the rumblings in the South? Pompeii had
chariot-races to the mutterings of Vesuvius. St. Louis was in gala garb
to greet a Prince.

That was the year that Miss Virginia Carvel was given charge of the booth
in Dr. Posthelwaite's church,--the booth next one of the great arches
through which prancing horses and lowing cattle came.

Now who do you think stopped at the booth for a chat with Miss Jinny? Who
made her blush as pink as her Paris gown? Who slipped into her hand the
contribution for the church, and refused to take the cream candy she
laughingly offered him as an equivalent?

None other than Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of Saxony, Duke of
Cornwall and Rothesay, Earl of Chester and Carrick, Baron Renfrew, and
Lord of the Isles. Out of compliment to the Republic which he visited, he
bore the simple title of Lord Renfrew.

Bitter tears of envy, so it was said, were shed in the other booths.
Belle Cluyme made a remark which is best suppressed. Eliphalet Hopper, in
Mr. Davitt's booths, stared until his eyes watered. A great throng peered
into the covered way, kept clear for his Royal Highness and suite, and
for the prominent gentlemen who accompanied them. And when the Prince was
seen to turn to His Grace, the Duke of Newcastle, and the subscription
was forthcoming, a great cheer shook the building, while Virginia and the
young ladies with her bowed and blushed and smiled. Colonel Carvel, who
was a Director, laid his hand paternally on the blue coat of the young
Prince. Reversing all precedent, he presented his Royal Highness to his
daughter and to the other young ladies. It was done with the easy grace
of a Southern gentleman. Whereupon Lord Renfrew bowed and smiled too, and
stroked his mustache, which was a habit he had, and so fell naturally
into the ways of Democracy.

Miss Puss Russell, who has another name, and whose hair is now white,
will tell you how Virginia carried off the occasion with credit to her
country.

It is safe to say that the Prince forgot "Silver Heels" and "Royal Oak,"
although they had been trotted past the Pagoda only that morning for his
delectation. He had forgotten his Honor the Mayor, who had held fast to
the young man's arm as the four coal-black horses had pranced through the
crowds all the way from Barnum's Hotel to the Fair Grounds. His Royal
Highness forgot himself still further, and had at length withdrawn his
hands from the pockets of his ample pantaloons and thrust his thumbs into
his yellow waistcoat. And who shall blame him if Miss Virginia's replies
to his sallies enchained him?

Not the least impressive of those who stood by, smiling, was the figure
of the tall Colonel, his hat off for once, and pride written on his face.
Oh, that his dear wife might have lived to see this!

What was said in that historic interview with a future Sovereign of
England, far from his royal palaces, on Democratic sawdust, with an
American Beauty across a board counter, was immediately recorded by the
Colonel, together with an exact description of his Royal Highness's blue
coat, and light, flowing pantaloons, and yellow waist-coat, and colored
kids; even the Prince's habit of stroking his mustache did not escape the
watchful eye. It is said that his Grace of Newcastle smiled twice at Miss
Virginia's retorts, and Lord Lyons, the British Minister, has more than
two to his credit. But suddenly a strange thing happened. Miss Virginia
in the very midst of a sentence paused, and then stopped. Her eyes had
strayed from the Royal Countenance, and were fixed upon a point in the
row of heads outside the promenade. Her sentence was completed--with
some confusion. Perhaps it is no wonder that my Lord Renfrew, whose
intuitions are quick, remarked that he had already remained too long,
thus depriving the booth of the custom it otherwise should have had. This
was a graceful speech, and a kingly. Followed by his retinue and the
prominent citizens, he moved on. And it was remarked by keen observers
that his Honor the Mayor had taken hold once more of the Prince's elbow,
who divided his talk with Colonel Carver.

Dear Colonel Carvel! What a true American of the old type you were. You,
nor the Mayor, nor the rest of the grave and elderly gentlemen were not
blinded by the light of a royal Presence. You saw in him only an amiable
and lovable young man, who was to succeed the most virtuous and lovable
of sovereigns, Victoria. You, Colonel Carvel, were not one to cringe to
royalty. Out of respect for the just and lenient Sovereign, his mother,
you did honor to the Prince. But you did not remind him, as you might
have, that your ancestors fought for the King at Marston Moor, and that
your grandfather was once an intimate of Charles James Fox. But what
shall we say of Mr. Cluyme, and of a few others whose wealth alone
enabled them to be Directors of the Fair? Miss Isabel Cluyme was duly
presented, in proper form, to his Royal Highness. Her father owned a
"peerage," and had been abroad likewise. He made no such bull as the
Colonel. And while the celebrated conversation of which we have spoken
was in progress, Mr. Cluyme stood back and blushed for his countryman,
and smiled apologetically at the few gentlemen of the royal suite who
glanced his way.

His Royal Highness then proceeded to luncheon, which is described by a
most amiable Canadian correspondent who sent to his newspaper an account
of it that I cannot forbear to copy. You may believe what he says, or
not, just as you choose: "So interested was his Royal Highness in the
proceedings that he stayed in the ring three and a half hours witnessing
these trotting matches. He was invited to take lunch in a little wooden
shanty prepared for the Directors, to which he accordingly repaired, but
whether he got anything to eat or not, I cannot tell. After much trouble
he forced his way to the table, which he found surrounded by a lot of
ravenous animals. And upon some half dozen huge dishes were piled slices
of beef, mutton, and buffalo tongue; beside them were great jugs of lager
beer, rolls of bread, and plates of a sort of cabbage cut into thin
shreds, raw, and mixed with vinegar. There were neither salt spoons nor
mustard spoons, the knives the gentlemen were eating with serving in
their stead; and, by the aid of nature's forks, the slices of beef and
mutton were transferred to the plates of those who desired to eat. While
your correspondent stood looking at the spectacle, the Duke of Newcastle
came in, and he sat looking too. He was evidently trying to look
democratic, but could not manage it. By his side stood a man urging him
to try the lager beer, and cabbage also, I suppose. Henceforth, let the
New York Aldermen who gave to the Turkish Ambassador ham sandwiches and
bad sherry rest in peace."

Even that great man whose memory we love and revere, Charles Dickens, was
not overkind to us, and saw our faults rather than our virtues. We were a
nation of grasshoppers, and spat tobacco from early morning until late at
night. This some of us undoubtedly did, to our shame be it said. And when
Mr. Dickens went down the Ohio, early in the '40's, he complained of the
men and women he met; who, bent with care, bolted through silent meals,
and retired within their cabins. Mr. Dickens saw our ancestors bowed in a
task that had been too great for other blood,--the task of bringing into
civilization in the compass of a century a wilderness three thousand
miles it breadth. And when his Royal Highness came to St. Louis and
beheld one hundred thousand people at the Fair, we are sure that he knew
how recently the ground he stood upon had been conquered from the forest.

A strange thing had happened, indeed. For, while the Prince lingered in
front of the booth of Dr. Posthelwaite's church and chatted with
Virginia, a crowd had gathered without. They stood peering over the
barricade into the covered way, proud of the self-possession of their
young countrywoman. And here, by a twist of fate, Mr. Stephen Brice found
himself perched on a barrel beside his friend Richter. It was Richter who
discovered her first.

"Himmel! It is Miss Carvel herself, Stephen," he cried, impatient at the
impassive face of his companion. "Look, Stephen, look there."

"Yes," said Stephen, "I see."

"Ach!" exclaimed the disgusted German, "will nothing move you? I have
seen German princesses that are peasant women beside her. How she carries
it off! See, the Prince is laughing!"

Stephen saw, and horror held him in a tremor. His one thought was of
escape. What if she should raise her eyes, and amid those vulgar stares
discern his own? And yet that was within him which told him that she
would look up. It was only a question of moments, and then,--and then she
would in truth despise him! Wedged tightly between the people, to move
was to be betrayed. He groaned.

Suddenly he rallied, ashamed of his own false shame. This was because of
one whom he had known for the short, space of a day--whom he was to
remember for a lifetime. The man he worshipped, and she detested. Abraham
Lincoln would not have blushed between honest clerks and farmers Why
should Stephen Brice? And what, after all, was this girl to him? He could
not tell. Almost the first day he had come to St. Louis the wires of
their lives had crossed, and since then had crossed many times again,
always with a spark. By the might of generations she was one thing, and
he another. They were separated by a vast and ever-widening breach only
to be closed by the blood and bodies of a million of their countrymen.
And yet he dreamed of her.

Gradually, charmed like the simple people about him, Stephen became lost
in the fascination of the scene. Suddenly confronted at a booth in a
public fair with the heir to the English throne, who but one of her own
kind might have carried it off so well, have been so complete a mistress
of herself? Since, save for a heightened color, Virginia gave no sign of
excitement. Undismayed, forgetful of the admiring crowd, unconscious of
their stares until--until the very strength of his gaze had compelled her
own. Such had been the prophecy within him. Nor did he wonder because, in
that multitude of faces, her eyes had flown so straightly homeward to
his.

With a rough effort that made an angry stir, Stephen flung the people
aside and escaped, the astonished Richter following in his wake. Nor
could the honest German dissuade him from going back to the office for
the rest of the day, or discover what had happened.

But all through the afternoon that scene was painted on the pages of
Stephen's books. The crude booth in the darkened way. The free pose of
the girl standing in front of her companions, a blue wisp of autumn
sunlight falling at her feet. The young Prince laughing at her sallies,
and the elderly gentleman smiling with benevolence upon the pair.




CHAPTER XII

INTO WHICH A POTENTATE COMES

Virginia danced with the Prince, "by Special Appointment," at the ball
that evening. So did her aunt, Mrs. Addison Colfax. So likewise was Miss
Belle Cluyme among those honored and approved. But Virginia wore the most
beautiful of her Paris gowns, and seemed a princess to one watching from
the gallery. Stephen was sure that his Royal Highness made that
particular dance longer than the others. It was decidedly longer than the
one he had with Miss Cluyme, although that young lady had declared she
was in heaven.

Alas, that princes cannot abide with us forever! His Royal Highness bade
farewell to St. Louis, and presently that same 'City of Alton' which bore
him northward came back again in like royal state, and this time it was
in honor of a Democrat potentate. He is an old friend now, Senator and
Judge and Presidential Candidate,--Stephen Arnold Douglas,--father of the
doctrine of Local Sovereignty, which he has come to preach. So goes the
world. We are no sooner rid of one hero than we are ready for another.

Blow, you bandsmen on the hurricane deck, let the shores echo with your
national airs! Let the gay bunting wave in the river breeze! Uniforms
flash upon the guards, for no campaign is complete without the military.
Here are brave companies of the Douglas Guards, the Hickory Sprouts, and
the Little Giants to do honor to the person of their hero. Cannon are
booming as he steps into his open carriage that evening on the levee,
where the piles of river freight are covered with people. Transparencies
are dodging in the darkness. A fresh band strikes up "Hail Columbia," and
the four horses prance away, followed closely by the "Independent Broom
Rangers." "The shouts for Douglas," remarked a keen observer who was
present, "must have penetrated Abraham's bosom at Springfield."

Mr. Jacob Cluyme, who had been a Bell and Everett man until that day, was
not the only person of prominence converted. After the speech he assured
the Judge that he was now undergoing the greatest pleasure of his life in
meeting the popular orator, the true representative man of the Great
West, the matured statesman, and the able advocate of national
principles. And although Mr. Douglas looked as if he had heard something
of the kind before, he pressed Mr. Cluyme's hand warmly.

So was the author of Popular Sovereignty, "the great Bulwark of American
Independence," escorted to the Court House steps, past houses of his
stanch supporters; which were illuminated in his honor. Stephen, wedged.
among the people, remarked that the Judge had lost none of his
self-confidence since that day at Freeport. Who, seeing the Democratic
candidate smiling and bowing to the audience that blocked the wide
square, would guess that the Question troubled him at all, or that he
missed the votes of the solid South? How gravely the Judge listened to
the eulogy of the prominent citizen, who reminded him that his work was
not yet finished, and that he still was harnessed to the cause of the
people! And how happy was the choice of that word harnessed!

The Judge had heard (so he said) with deep emotion the remarks of the
chairman. Then followed one of those masterful speeches which wove a
spell about those who listened,--which, like the most popular of novels,
moved to laughter and to tears, to anger and to pity. Mr. Brice and Mr
Richter were not the only Black Republicans who were depressed that
night. And they trudged homeward with the wild enthusiasm still ringing
in their ears, heavy with the thought that the long, hot campaign of
their own Wide-Awakes might be in vain.

They had a grim reproof from Judge Whipple in the morning.

"So you too, gentlemen, took opium last night," was all he said.

The dreaded possibility of Mr. Lincoln's election did not interfere with
the gayeties. The week after the Fair Mr. Clarence Colfax gave a great
dance at Bellegarde, in honor of his cousin, Virginia, to which Mr.
Stephen Brice was not invited. A majority of Company A was there.
Virginia would have liked to have had them in uniform.

It was at this time that Anne Brinsmade took the notion of having a ball
in costume. Virginia, on hearing the news, rode over from Bellegarde, and
flinging her reins to Nicodemus ran up to Anne's little dressing-room.

"Whom have you invited, Anne?" she demanded.

Anne ran over the long list of their acquaintance, but there was one name
she omitted.

"Are you sure that that is all?" asked Virginia, searchingly, when she
had finished.

Anne looked mystified.

"I have invited Stephen Brice, Jinny," she said. But!--"

"But!" cried Virginia. "I knew it. Am I to be confronted with that Yankee
everywhere I go? It is always 'Stephen Brice', and he is ushered in with
a but."

Anne was quite overcome by this outburst. She had dignity, however, and
plenty of it. And she was a loyal friend.

"You have no right to criticise my guests, Virginia."

Virginia, seated on the arm of a chair, tapped her foot on the floor.

"Why couldn't things remain as they were?" she said. "We were so happy
before these Yankees came. And they are not content in trying to deprive
us of our rights. They must spoil our pleasure, too."

"Stephen Brice is a gentleman," answered Anne. "He spoils no one's
pleasure, and goes no place that he is not asked."

"He has not behaved according to my idea of a gentleman, the few times
that I have been unfortunate enough to encounter him," Virginia retorted.

"You are the only one who says so, then." Here the feminine got the
better of Anne's prudence, and she added. "I saw you waltz with him once,
Jinny Carvel, and I am sure you never enjoyed a dance as much in your
life."

Virginia blushed purple.

"Anne Brinsmade!" she cried. "You may have your ball, and your Yankees,
all of them you want. But I shan't come. How I wish I had never seen that
horrid Stephen Brice! Then you would never have insulted me."

Virginia rose and snatched her riding-whip. This was too much for Anne.
She threw her arms around her friend without more ado.

"Don't quarrel with me, Jinny," she said tearfully. "I couldn't bear it.
He--Mr. Brice is not coming, I am sure."

Virginia disengaged herself.

"He is not coming?"

"No," said Anne. "You asked me if he was invited. And I was going on to
tell you that he could not come."

She stopped, and stared at Virginia in bewilderment. That young lady,
instead of beaming, had turned her back. She stood flicking her whip at
the window, gazing out over the trees, down the slope to the river. Miss
Russell might have interpreted these things. Simple Anne!

"Why isn't he coming?" said Virginia, at last.

"Because he is to be one of the speakers at a big meeting that night.
Have you seen him since you got home, Jinny? He is thinner than he was.
We are much worried about him, because he has worked so hard this
summer."

"A Black Republican meeting!" exclaimed Virginia, scornfully ignoring the
rest of what was said. "Then I'll come, Anne dear," she cried, tripping
the length of the room. "I'll come as Titania. Who will you be?"

She cantered off down the drive and out of the gate, leaving a very
puzzled young woman watching her from the window. But when Virginia
reached the forest at the bend of the road, she pulled her horse down to
a walk.

She bethought herself of the gown which her Uncle Daniel had sent her
from Calvert House, and of the pearls. And she determined to go as her
great-grandmother, Dorothy Carvel.

Shades of romance! How many readers will smile before the rest of this
true incident is told?

What had happened was this. Miss Anne Brinsmade had driven to town in her
mother's Jenny Lind a day or two before, and had stopped (as she often
did) to pay a call on Mrs. Brice. This lady, as may be guessed, was not
given to discussion of her husband's ancestors, nor of her own. But on
the walls of the little dining-room hung a Copley and two Stuarts. One of
the Stuarts was a full length of an officer in the buff and blue of the
Continental Army. And it was this picture which caught Anne's eye that
day.

"How like Stephen!" she exclaimed. And added. "Only the face is much
older. Who is it, Mrs. Brice?"

"Colonel Wilton Brice, Stephen's grandfather. There is a marked look
about all the Brices. He was only twenty years of age when the Revolution
began. That picture was painted much later in life, after Stuart came
back to America, when the Colonel was nearly forty. He had kept his
uniform, and his wife persuaded him to be painted in it."

"If Stephen would only come as Colonel Wilton Brice!" she cried. "Do you
think he would, Mrs. Brice?"

Mrs. Brice laughed, and shook her head.

"I am afraid not, Anne," she said. "I have a part of the uniform
upstairs, but I could never induce him even to try it on."

As she drove from shop to shop that day, Anne reflected that it certainly
would not be like Stephen to wear his grandfather's uniform to a ball.
But she meant to ask him, at any rate. And she had driven home
immediately to write her invitations. It was with keen disappointment
that she read his note of regret.

However, on the very day of the ball, Anne chanced to be in town again,
and caught sight of Stephen pushing his way among the people on Fourth
Street. She waved her hand to him, and called to Nicodemus to pull up at
the sidewalk.

"We are all so sorry that you are not coming," said she, impulsively. And
there she stopped short. For Anne was a sincere person, and remembered
Virginia. "That is, I am so sorry," she added, a little hastily.
"Stephen, I saw the portrait of your grandfather, and I wanted you to
come in his costume."

Stephen, smiling down on her, said nothing. And poor Anne, in her fear
that he had perceived the shade in her meaning, made another unfortunate
remark.

"If you were not a--a Republican--" she said.

"A Black Republican," he answered, and laughed at her discomfiture. "What
then?"

Anne was very red.

"I only meant that if you were not a Republican, there would be no
meeting to address that night."

"It does not make any difference to you what my politics are, does it?"
he asked, a little earnestly.

"Oh, Stephen!" she exclaimed, in gentle reproof.

"Some people have discarded me," he said, striving to smile.

She wondered whether he meant Virginia, and whether he cared. Still
further embarrassed, she said something which she regretted immediately.

"Couldn't you contrive to come?"

He considered.

"I will come, after the meeting, if it is not too late," he said at
length. "But you must not tell any one."

He lifted his hat, and hurried on, leaving Anne in a quandary. She wanted
him. But what was she to say to Virginia? Virginia was coming on the
condition that he was not to be there. And Anne was scrupulous.

Stephen, too, was almost instantly sorry that he had promised. The little
costumer's shop (the only one in the city at that time) had been
ransacked for the occasion, and nothing was left to fit him. But when he
reached home there was a strong smell of camphor in his mother's room.
Colonel Brice's cocked hat and sword and spurs lay on the bed, and
presently Hester brought in the blue coat and buff waistcoat from the
kitchen, where she had been pressing them. Stephen must needs yield to
his mother's persuasions and try them on--they were more than a passable
fit. But there were the breeches and cavalry boots to be thought of, and
the ruffled shirt and the powdered wig. So before tea he hurried down to
the costumer's again, not quite sure that he was not making a fool of
himself, and yet at last sufficiently entered into the spirit of the
thing. The coat was mended and freshened. And when after tea he dressed
in the character, his appearance was so striking that his mother could
not refrain from some little admiration. As for Hester, she was in
transports. Stephen was human, and young. But still the frivolity of it
all troubled him. He had inherited from Colonel Wilton Brice, the
Puritan, other things beside clothes. And he felt in his heart as he
walked soberly to the hall that this was no time for fancy dress balls.
All intention of going was banished by the time his turn had come to
speak.

But mark how certain matters are beyond us. Not caring to sit out the
meeting on the platform, he made his way down the side of the crowded
hall, and ran into (of all people) big Tom Catherwood. As the Southern
Rights politics of the Catherwood family were a matter of note in the
city, Stephen did not attempt to conceal his astonishment. Tom himself
was visibly embarrassed. He congratulated Stephen on his speech, and
volunteered the news that he had come in a spirit of fairness to hear
what the intelligent leaders of the Republican party, such as Judge
Whipple, had to say. After that he fidgeted. But the sight of him started
in Stephen a train of thought that closed his ears for once to the
Judge's words. He had had before a huge liking for Tom. Now he admired
him, for it was no light courage that took one of his position there. And
Stephen remembered that Tom was not risking merely the displeasure of his
family and his friends, but likewise something of greater value than,
either. From childhood Tom had been the devoted slave of Virginia Carvel,
with as little chance of marrying her as a man ever had. And now he was
endangering even that little alliance.

And so Stephen began to think of Virginia, and to wonder what she would
wear at Anne's party; and to speculate how she would have treated him if
had gone. To speak truth, this last matter had no little weight in his
decision to stay away. But we had best leave motives to those whose
business and equipment it is to weigh to a grain. Since that agonizing
moment when her eyes had met his own among the curiously vulgar at the
Fair, Stephen's fear of meeting Virginia had grown to the proportions of
a terror. And yet there she was in his mind, to take possession of it on
the slightest occasion.

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