The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill
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what shall we say of Stephen Brice? Let us confess at once that it is he who is the hero of this story, and not Eliphalet Hopper. It would be so easy to paint Stephen in shining colors, and to make him a first-class prig (the horror of all novelists), that we must begin with the drawbacks. First and worst, it must be confessed that Stephen had at that time what has been called “the Boston manner.” This was not Stephen's fault, but Boston's. Young Mr. Brice possessed that wonderful power of expressing distance in other terms besides ells and furlongs—and yet he was simple enough with it all.
Many a furtive stare he drew from the table that evening. There were one or two of discernment present, and they noted that his were the generous features of a marked man—if he chose to become marked. He inherited his mother's look; hers was the face of a strong woman, wide of sympathy, broad of experience, showing peace of mind amid troubles—the touch of femininity was there to soften it.
Her son had the air of the college-bred. In these surroundings he escaped arrogance by the wonderful kindliness of his eye, which lighted when his mother spoke to him. But he was not at home at Miss Crane's table, and he made no attempt to appear at his ease.
This was an unexpected pleasure for Mr. Eliphalet Hopper. Let it not be thought that he was the only one at that table to indulge in a little secret rejoicing. But it was a peculiar satisfaction to him to reflect that these people, who had held up their heads for so many generations, were humbled at last. To be humbled meant, in Mr. Hopper's philosophy, to lose one's money. It was thus he gauged the importance of his acquaintances; it was thus he hoped some day to be gauged. And he trusted and believed that the time would come when he could give his fillip to the upper rim of fortune's wheel, and send it spinning downward.
Mr. Hopper was drinking his tea and silently forming an estimate. He concluded that young Brice was not the type to acquire the money which his father had lost. And he reflected that Stephen must feel as strange in St. Louis as a cod might amongst the cat-fish in the Mississippi. So the assistant manager of Carvel & Company resolved to indulge in the pleasure of patronizing the Bostonian.
“Callatin' to go to work?” he asked him, as the boarders walked into the best room.
“Yes,” replied Stephen, taken aback. And it may be said here that, if Mr. Hopper underestimated him, certainly he underestimated Mr. Hopper.
“It ain't easy to get a job this Fall,” said Eliphalet, “St. Louis houses have felt the panic.”
“I am sorry to hear that.”
“What business was you callatin' to grapple with?”
“Law,” said Stephen.
“Gosh!” exclaimed Mr. Hopper, “I want to know.” In reality he was a bit chagrined, having pictured with some pleasure the Boston aristocrat going from store to store for a situation. “You didn't come here figurin' on makin' a pile, I guess.”
“A what?”
“A pile.”
Stephen looked down and over Mr. Hopper attentively. He took in the blocky shoulders and the square head, and he pictured the little eyes at a vanishing-point in lines of a bargain. Then humor blessed humor—came to his rescue. He had entered the race in the West, where all start equal. He had come here, like this man who was succeeding, to make his living. Would he succeed?
Mr. Hopper drew something out of his pocket, eyed Miss Crane, and bit off a corner.
“What office was you going into?” he asked genially. Mr. Brice decided to answer that.
“Judge Whipple's—unless he has changed his mind.” Eliphalet gave him a look more eloquent than words.
“Know the Judge?”
Silent laughter.
“If all the Fourth of Julys we've had was piled into one,” said Mr. Hopper, slowly and with conviction, “they wouldn't be a circumstance to Silas Whipple when he gets mad. My boss, Colonel Carvel, is the only man in town who'll stand up to him. I've seen 'em begin a quarrel in the store and carry it all the way up the street. I callate you won't stay with him a great while.”
CHAPTER IV. BLACK CATTLE
Later that evening Stephen Brice was sitting by the open windows in his mother's room, looking on the street-lights below.
“Well, my dear,” asked the lady, at length, “what do you think of it all?”
“They are kind people,” he said.
“Yes, they are kind,” she assented, with a sigh. “But they are not—they are not from among our friends, Stephen.”
“I thought that one of our reasons for coming West, mother,” answered Stephen.
His mother looked pained.
“Stephen, how can you! We came West in order that you might have more chance for the career to which you are entitled. Our friends in Boston were more than good.”
He left the window and came and stood behind her chair, his hands clasped playfully beneath her chin.
“Have you the exact date about you, mother?”
“What date, Stephen?”
“When I shall leave St. Louis for the United States Senate. And you must not forget that there is a youth limit in our Constitution for senators.”
Then the widow smiled—a little sadly, perhaps. But still a wonderfully sweet smile. And it made her strong face akin to all that was human and helpful.
“I believe that you have the subject of my first speech in that august assembly. And, by the way, what was it?”
“It was on 'The Status of the Emigrant,'” she responded instantly, thereby proving that she was his mother.
“And it touched the Rights of Privacy,” he added, laughing, “which do not seem to exist in St. Louis boarding-houses.”
“In the eyes of your misguided profession, statesmen and authors and emigrants and other public charges have no Rights of Privacy,” said she. “Mr. Longfellow told me once that they were to name a brand of flour for him, and that he had no redress.”
“Have you, too, been up before Miss Crane's Commission?” he asked, with amused interest.
His mother laughed.
“Yes,” she said quietly.
“They have some expert members,” he continued. “This Mrs. Abner Reed could be a shining light in any bar. I overheard a part of her cross-examination. She—she had evidently studied our case—”
“My dear,” answered Mrs. Brice, “I suppose they know all about us.” She was silent a moment, “I had so hoped that they wouldn't. They lead the same narrow life in this house that they did in their little New England towns. They—they pity us, Stephen.”
“Mother!”
“I did not expect to find so many New Englanders here—I wish that Mr. Whipple had directed us elsewhere-”
“He probably thought that we should feel at home among New Englanders. I hope the Southerners will be more considerate. I believe they will,” he added.
“They are very proud,” said his mother. “A wonderful people—born aristocrats. You don't remember those Randolphs with whom we travelled through England. They were with us at Hollingdean, Lord Northwell's place. You were too small at the time. There was a young girl, Eleanor Randolph, a beauty. I shall never forget the way she entered those English drawing-rooms. They visited us once in Beacon Street, afterwards. And I have heard that there are a great many good