The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill
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her own way. And say,” he added, with laughter, “how you did fix that there stuckup Colfax boy! He'll never forgive you no more than she. But,” said Mr. Hopper, meditatively, “it was a durned-fool trick.”
I think Stephen's critics will admit that he had a good right to be angry, and that they will admire him just a little bit because he kept his temper. But Mr. Hopper evidently thought he had gone too far.
“She ain't got no use for me, neither,” he said.
“She shows poor judgment,” answered Stephen.
“She's not long sighted, that's sure,” replied Eliphalet, with emphasis.
At dinner Stephen was tried still further. And it was then he made the determination to write for the newspapers in order to pay the rent on Mr. Brinsmade's house. Miss Carvel's coming-out party was the chief topic.
“They do say the Colonel is to spend a sight of money on that ball,” said Mrs. Abner Reed. “I guess it won't bankrupt him.” And she looked hard at Mr. Hopper.
“I callate he ain't pushed for money,” that gentleman vouchsafed.
“He's a good man, and done well by you, Mr. Hopper.”
“So—so,” answered Eliphalet. “But I will say that I done something for the Colonel. I've saved him a hundred times my pay since I showed old Hood the leaks. And I got a thousand dollar order from Wright & Company this week for him.”
“I dare say you'd keep a tight hand enough on expenses,” said Miss Crane, half in sarcasm, half in approval.
“If Colonel Carvel was doin' business in New England,” said Eliphalet, “he'd been bankrupt long ago.”
“That young Clarence Colfax,” Mrs. Abner Reed broke in, “he'll get a right smart mint o' money when he marries Virginia. They do say her mother left her independent. How now, Mr. Hopper?”
Eliphalet looked mysterious and knowing. He did not reply.
“And young Colfax ain't precisely a pauper,” said Miss Crane.
“I'll risk a good deal that she don't marry Colfax,” said Mr. Hopper.
“What on earth do you mean?” cried Mrs. Abner. “It ain't broke off?”
“No,” he answered, “it ain't broke off. But I callate she won't have him when the time comes. She's got too much sense.”
Heavy at heart, Stephen climbed the stairs, thanking heaven that he had not been drawn into the controversy. A partial comprehension of Mr. Hopper was dawning upon him. He suspected that gentleman of an aggressive determination to achieve wealth, and the power which comes with it, for the purpose of using that power upon those beneath him. Nay, when he thought over his conversation, he suspected him of more—of the intention to marry Virginia Carvel.
It will be seen whether Stephen was right or wrong.
He took a walk that afternoon, as far out as a place called Lindell's Grove, which afterward became historic. And when he returned to the house, his mother handed him a little white envelope.
“It came while you were out,” she said.
He turned it over, and stared at his name written across the front in a feminine hand In those days young ladies did not write in the bold and masculine manner now deemed proper. Stephen stared at the note, manlike, and pondered.
“Who brought it, mother?”
“Why don't you open it, and see?” asked his mother with a smile.
He took the suggestion. What a funny formal little note we should think it now! It was not funny to Stephen—then. He read it, and he read it again, and finally he walked over to the window, still holding it in his hand.
Some mothers would have shown their curiosity. Mrs. Brice did not, wherein she proved herself their superiors in the knowledge of mankind.
Stephen stood for a long while looking out into the gathering dusk. Then he went over to the fireplace and began tearing the note into little bits. Only once did he pause, to look again at his name on the envelope.
“It is an invitation to Miss Carvel's party,” he said.
By Thursday of that week the Brices, with thanksgiving in their hearts, had taken possession of Mr. Brinsmade's little house.
CHAPTER XII. “MISS JINNY”
The years have sped indeed since that gray December when Miss Virginia Carvel became eighteen. Old St. Louis has changed from a pleasant Southern town to a bustling city, and a high building stands on the site of that wide and hospitable home of Colonel Carvel. And the Colonel's thoughts that morning, as Ned shaved him, flew back through the years to a gently rolling Kentucky countryside, and a pillared white house among the oaks. He was riding again with Beatrice Colfax in the springtime. Again he stretched out his arm as if to seize her bridle-hand, and he felt the thoroughbred rear. Then the vision faded, and the memory of his dead wife became an angel's face, far—so far away.
He had brought her to St. Louis, and with his inheritance had founded his business, and built the great double house on the corner. The child came, and was named after the noble state which had given so many of her sons to the service of the Republic.
Five simple, happy years—then war. A black war of conquest which, like many such, was to add to the nation's fame and greatness: Glory beckoned, honor called—or Comyn Carvel felt them. With nothing of the profession of arms save that born in the Carvels, he kissed Beatrice farewell and steamed down the Mississippi, a captain in Missouri regiment. The young wife was ailing. Anguish killed her. Had Comyn Carvel been selfish?
Ned, as he shaved his master's face, read his thoughts by the strange sympathy of love. He had heard the last pitiful words of his mistress. Had listened, choking, to Dr. Posthlewaite as he read the sublime service of the burial of the dead. It was Ned who had met his master, the Colonel, at the levee, and had fallen sobbing at his feet.
Long after he was shaved that morning, the Colonel sat rapt in his chair, while the faithful servant busied himself about the room, one eye on his master the while. But presently Mr. Carvel's revery is broken by the swift rustle of a dress, and a girlish figure flutters in and plants itself on the wide arm of his mahogany barber chair, Mammy Easter in the door behind her. And the Colonel, stretching forth his hands, strains her to him, and then holds her away that he may look and look again into her face.
“Honey,” he said, “I was thinking of your mother.”
Virginia raised her eyes to the painting on the wall over the marble mantel. The face under the heavy coils of brown hair was sweet and gentle, delicately feminine. It had an expression of sorrow that seemed a prophecy.
The Colonel's hand strayed upward to Virginia's head.
“You are not like her, honey,” he said: “You may see for yourself. You are more like your Aunt Bess, who lived in Baltimore, and she—”
“I know,” said Virginia, “she was the image of the beauty, Dorothy Manners, who married my great-grandfather.”
“Yes, Jinny,” replied the Colonel, smiling. “That is so. You are somewhat like your great-grandmother.”
“Somewhat!” cried Virginia, putting her hand over his mouth, “I like that. You and Captain Lige are always afraid of turning my head. I need not be a beauty to resemble her. I know that I am like her. When you took me on to Calvert House to see Uncle Daniel that time, I remember the picture by, by—”
“Sir Joshua Reynolds.”
“Yes, Sir Joshua.”
“You