The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill
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Stephen, don't say that!” she exclaimed. “God has given me no greater happiness in this life than the sight of the gratitude of that poor creature, Nancy. I shall never forget the old woman's joy at the sight of her daughter. It made a palace out of that dingy furniture shop. Hand me my handkerchief, dear.”
Stephen noticed with a pang that the lace of it was frayed and torn at the corner.
There was a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Mrs. Brice, hastily putting the handkerchief down.
Hester stood on the threshold, and old Nancy beside her.
“Evenin', Mis' Brice. De good Lawd bless you, lady, an' Miste' Brice,” said the old negress.
“Well, Nancy?”
Nancy pressed into the room. “Mis' Brice!”
“Yes?”
“Ain' you gwineter' low Hester an' me to wuk fo' you?”
“Indeed I should be glad to, Nancy. But we are boarding.”
“Yassm, yassm,” said Nancy, and relapsed into awkward silence. Then again, “Mis' Brice!”
“Yes, Nancy?”
“Ef you 'lows us t' come heah an' straighten out you' close, an' mend 'em—you dunno how happy you mek me an' Hester—des to do dat much, Mis' Brice.”
The note of appeal was irresistible. Mrs. Brice rose and unlocked the trunks.
“You may unpack them, Nancy,” she said.
With what alacrity did the old woman take off her black bonnet and shawl! “Whaffor you stannin' dere, Hester?” she cried.
“Hester is tired,” said Mrs. Brice, compassionately, and tears came to her eyes again at the thought of what they had both been through that day.
“Tired!” said Nancy, holding up her hands. “No'm, she ain' tired. She des kinder stupefied by you' goodness, Mis' Brice.”
A scene was saved by the appearance of Miss Crane's hired girl.
“Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme, in the parlor, mum,” she said.
If Mr. Jacob Cluyme sniffed a little as he was ushered into Miss Crane's best parlor, it was perhaps because of she stuffy dampness of that room. Mr. Cluyme was one of those persons the effusiveness of whose greeting does not tally with the limpness of their grasp. He was attempting, when Stephen appeared, to get a little heat into his hands by rubbing them, as a man who kindles a stick of wood for a visitor. The gentleman had red chop-whiskers—to continue to put his worst side foremost, which demanded a ruddy face. He welcomed Stephen to St. Louis with neighborly effusion; while his wife, a round little woman, bubbled over to Mrs. Brice.
“My dear sir,” said Mr. Cluyme, “I used often to go to Boston in the forties. In fact—ahem—I may claim to be a New Englander. Alas, no, I never met your father. But when I heard of the sad circumstances of his death, I felt as if I had lost a personal friend. His probity, sir, and his religious principles were an honor to the Athens of America. I have listened to my friend, Mr. Atterbury—Mr. Samuel Atterbury—eulogize him by the hour.”
Stephen was surprised.
“Why, yes,” said he, “Mr. Atterbury was a friend.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Cluyme, “I knew it. Four years ago, the last business trip I made to Boston, I met Atterbury on the street. Absence makes no difference to some men, sir, nor the West, for that matter. They never change. Atterbury nearly took me in his arms. 'My dear fellow,' he cried, 'how long are you to be in town?' I was going the next day. 'Sorry I can't ask you to dinner,' says he, but step into the Tremont House and have a bite.'—Wasn't that like Atterbury?”
Stephen thought it was. But Mr. Cluyme was evidently expecting no answer.
“Well,” said he, “what I was going to say was that we heard you were in town; 'Friends of Samuel Atterbury, my dear,' I said to my wife. We are neighbors, Mr. Brace. You must know the girls. You must come to supper. We live very plainly, sir, very simply. I am afraid that you will miss the luxury of the East, and some of the refinement, Stephen. I hope I may call you so, my boy. We have a few cultured citizens, Stephen, but all are not so. I miss the atmosphere. I seemed to live again when I got to Boston. But business, sir—the making of money is a sordid occupation. You will come to supper?”
“I scarcely think that my mother will go out,” said Stephen.
“Oh, be friends! It will cheer her. Not a dinner-party, my boy, only a plain, comfortable meal, with plenty to eat. Of course she will. Of course she will. Not a Boston social function, you understand. Boston, Stephen, I have always looked upon as the centre of the universe. Our universe, I mean. America for Americans is a motto of mine. Oh, no,” he added quickly, “I don't mean a Know Nothing. Religious freedom, my boy, is part of our great Constitution. By the way, Stephen—Atterbury always had such a respect for your father's opinions—”
“My father was not an Abolitionist, sir,” said Stephen, smiling.
“Quite right, quite right,” said Mr. Cluyme.
“But I am not sure, since I have come here, that I have not some sympathy and respect for the Abolitionists.”
Mr. Cluyme gave a perceptible start. He glanced at the heavy hangings on the windows and then out of the open door into the hall. For a space his wife's chatter to Mrs. Brace, on Boston fashions, filled the room.
“My dear Stephen,” said the gentleman, dropping his voice, “that is all very well in Boston. But take a little advice from one who is old enough to counsel you. You are young, and you must learn to temper yourself to the tone of the place which you have made your home. St. Louis is full of excellent people, but they are not precisely Abolitionists. We are gathering, it is true, a small party who are for gradual emancipation. But our New England population here is small yet compared to the Southerners. And they are very violent, sir.”
Stephen could not resist saying, “Judge Whipple does not seem to have tempered himself, sir.”
“Silas Whipple is a fanatic, sir,” cried Mr. Cluyme.
“His hand is against every man's. He denounces Douglas on the slightest excuse, and would go to Washington when Congress opens to fight with Stephens and Toombs and Davis. But what good does it do him? He might have been in the Senate, or on the Supreme Bench, had he not stirred up so much hatred. And yet I can't help liking Whipple. Do you know him?”
A resounding ring of the door-bell cut off Stephen's reply, and Mrs. Cluyme's small talk to Mrs. Brice. In the hall rumbled a familiar voice, and in stalked none other than Judge Whipple himself. Without noticing the other occupants of the parlor he strode up to Mrs. Brice, looked at her for an instant from under the grizzled brows, and held out his large hand.
“Pray, ma'am,” he said, “what have you done with your slave?”
Mrs. Cluyme emitted a muffled shriek, like that of a person frightened in a dream. Her husband grasped the curved back of his chair. But Stephen smiled. And his mother smiled a little, too.
“Are you Mr. Whipple?” she asked.
“I am, madam,” was the reply.
“My slave is upstairs, I believe, unpacking my trunks,” said Mrs. Brice.
Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme exchanged a glance of consternation. Then Mrs. Cluyme sat down again, rather heavily, as though her legs had refused to hold her.
“Well, well, ma'am!” The Judge looked again at Mrs. Brice, and a gleam of mirth lighted the severity of his face. He was plainly pleased with her—this serene lady in black, whose voice had the sweet ring of women who are well born and whose manner was so self-contained. To speak truth, the Judge was prepared to dislike her. He had never laid eyes upon her, and as he walked hither