The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill
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Whipple literally staggered. But Stephen caught a glimpse of the Colonel's hand slipping from his chin cover his mouth.
“Good God, sir!” cried the Judge, and he sat down heavily. “You say that you are an Abolitionist?”
“No, sir, I do not say that. But it does not need an Abolitionist to condemn what I saw this morning.”
“Are you a slave-owner, sir?” said Mr. Whipple.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then get your coat and hat and leave my office, Mr. Brice.”
Stephen's coat was on his arm. He slipped it on, and turned to go. He was, if the truth were told, more amused than angry. It was Colonel Carvel's voice that stopped him.
“Hold on, Judge,” he drawled, “I reckon you haven't got all the packing out of that case.”
Mr. Whipple locked at him in a sort of stupefaction. Then he glanced at Stephen.
“Come back here, sir,” he cried. “I'll give you hearing. No man shall say that I am not just.”
Stephen looked gratefully at the Colonel.
“I did not expect one, sir,” he said..
“And you don't deserve one, sir,” cried the Judge.
“I think I do,” replied Stephen, quietly.
The Judge suppressed something.
“What did you do with this person?” he demanded
“I took her to Miss Crane's boarding-house,” said Stephen.
It was the Colonel's turn to explode. The guffaw which came from hire drowned every other sound.
“Good God!” said the Judge, helplessly. Again he looked at the Colonel, and this time something very like mirth shivered his lean frame. “And what do you intend to do with her?” he asked in strange tones.
“To give her freedom, sir, as soon as I can find somebody to go on her bond.”
Again silence. Mr. Whipple rubbed his nose with more than customary violence, and looked very hard at Mr. Carvel, whose face was inscrutable. It was a solemn moment.
“Mr. Brice,” said the Judge, at length, “take off your coat, sir I will go her bond.”
It was Stephen's turn to be taken aback. He stood regarding the Judge curiously, wondering what manner of man he was. He did not know that this question had puzzled many before him.
“Thank you, sir,” he said.
His hand was on the knob of the door, when Mr. Whipple called him back abruptly. His voice had lost some of its gruffness.
“What were your father's ideas about slavery, Mr. Brice?”
The young man thought a moment, as if seeking to be exact.
“I suppose he would have put slavery among the necessary evils, sir,” he said, at length. “But he never could bear to have the liberator mentioned in his presence. He was not at all in sympathy with Phillips, or Parker, or Summer. And such was the general feeling among his friends.”
“Then,” said the Judge, “contrary to popular opinion in the West and South, Boston is not all Abolition.”
Stephen smiled.
“The conservative classes are not at all Abolitionists, sir.”
“The conservative classes!” growled the Judge, “the conservative classes! I am tired of hearing about the conservative classes. Why not come out with it, sir, and say the moneyed classes, who would rather see souls held in bondage than risk their worldly goods in an attempt to liberate them?”
Stephen flushed. It was not at all clear to him then how he was to get along with Judge Whipple. But he kept his temper.
“I am sure that you do them an injustice, sir,” he said, with more feeling them he had yet shown. “I am not speaking of the rich alone, and I think that if you knew Boston you would not say that the conservative class there is wholly composed of wealthy people. Many of may father's friends were by no means wealthy. And I know that if he had been poor he would have held the same views.”
Stephen did not mark the quick look of approval which Colonel Carvel gave him. Judge Whipple merely rubbed his nose.
“Well, sir,” he said, “what were his views, then?”
“My father regarded slaves as property, sir. And conservative people” (Stephen stuck to the word) “respect property the world over. My father's argument was this: If men are deprived by violence of one kind of property which they hold under the law, all other kinds of property will be endangered. The result will be anarchy. Furthermore, he recognized that the economic conditions in the South make slavery necessary to prosperity. And he regarded the covenant made between the states of the two sections as sacred.”
There was a brief silence, during which the uncompromising expression of the Judge did not change.
“And do you, sir?” he demanded.
“I am not sure, sir, after what I saw yesterday. I—I must have time to see more of it.”
“Good Lord,” said Colonel Carvel, “if the conservative people of the North act this way when they see a slave sale, what will the Abolitionists do? Whipple,” he added slowly, but with conviction, “this means war.”
Then the Colonel got to his feet, and bowed to Stephen with ceremony.
“Whatever you believe, sir,” he said, “permit me to shake your hand. You are a brave man, sir. And although my own belief is that the black race is held in subjection by a divine decree, I can admire what you have done, Mr. Brice. It was a noble act, sir—a right noble act. And I have more respect for the people of Boston, now, sir, than I ever had before, sir.”
Having delivered himself of this somewhat dubious compliment (which he meant well), the Colonel departed.
Judge Whipple said nothing.
CHAPTER VII. CALLERS
If the Brices had created an excitement upon their arrival, it was as nothing to the mad delirium which raged at Miss Crane's boarding-house. during the second afternoon of their stay. Twenty times was Miss Crane on the point of requesting Mrs. Brice to leave, and twenty times, by the advice of Mrs. Abner Deed, she desisted. The culmination came when the news leaked out that Mr. Stephen Brice had bought the young woman in order to give her freedom. Like those who have done noble acts since the world began, Stephen that night was both a hero and a fool. The cream from which heroes is made is very apt to turn.
“Phew!” cried Stephen, when they had reached their room after tea, “wasn't that meal a fearful experience? Let's find a hovel, mother, and go and live in it. We can't stand it here any longer.”
“Not if you persist in your career of reforming an Institution, my son,” answered the widow, smiling.
“It was beastly hard luck,” said he, “that I should have been shouldered with that experience the first day. But I have tried to think it over calmly since, and I can see nothing else to have done.” He paused in his pacing up and down, a smile struggling with his serious look. “It was quite a hot-headed business for one of the staid Brices, wasn't it?”
“The family has never been called impetuous,” replied his mother. “It must be the Western air.”
He began his pacing again. His mother had not said one word about the money. Neither had he. Once more he stopped before her.
“We