After breakfast Robert walked out with Billy to see the negroes at work cutting tobacco, an interesting operation always, and especially so when one sees it for the first time.
"Gilbert," said Billy to his "head man," "did you find any ripe enough to cut in the lot there by the prize barn?"
"No sah; dat's de greenest lot of tobawkah on de plantation, for all 'twas plaunted fust. I dunno what to make uv it."
"Why, Billy, I thought Cousin Edwin owned the 'prize' barn!" said Robert.
"So he does—his."
"Are there two of them then?"
"Two of them? What do you mean? Every plantation has its prize barn, of course."
"Indeed! Who gives the prizes?"
"Ha! ha! Bob, that's good; only you'd better askmealways when you want to know about things here, else you'll get yourself laughed at. A prize barn is simply the barn in which we prize tobacco."
"And what is 'prizing' tobacco?"
"Possibly 'prize' a'n't good English, Bob, but it's the standard Ethiopian for pressing, and everybody here uses it. We press the tobacco in hogsheads, you know, and we call it prizing. It never struck me as a peculiarly Southern use of the word, but perhaps it is for all that. You're as sharp set as a circular saw after dialect, a'n't you?"
"I really do not know precisely how sharp set a circular saw is, but I am greatly interested in your peculiar uses of English, certainly."
Upon returning to the house Billy said:
"Bob I must let you take care of yourself for two or three hours now, as I have some papers to draw up and they won't wait. Next week is court week, and I've got a great deal to do between now and then. But you're at home you know, old fellow."
So saying Mr. Billy went to his office, which was situated in the yard, while Robert strolled into the house. Looking into the dining-room he saw there Cousin Sudie. Possibly the young gentleman was looking for her. I am sure I do not know. But whether he had expected to find her there or not, he certainly felt some little surprise as he looked at her.
"Why, Cousin Sudie, is it possible that you are washing the dishes?"
"O certainly! and the plates and cups too. In fact, I wash up all the things once a day."
"Pray tell me, cousin, precisely what you understand by 'dishes,' if I'm not intruding," said Robert.
"O not at all! come in and sit down. You'll find it pleasanter there by the window. 'Dishes?' Why, that is a dish, and that and that," pointing to them.
"I see. The word 'dishes' is not a generic term in Virginia, but applies only to platters and vegetable dishes. What do you call them in the aggregate, Cousin Sudie? I mean plates, platters, cups, saucers, and everything."
"Why 'things,' I suppose. We speak of 'breakfast things,' 'tea things,' 'dinner things.' But why were you astonished to see me washing them, Cousin Robert?"
"Perhaps I ought to have known better, but the fact is I had an impression that Southern ladies were wholly exempt from all work except, perhaps, a little embroidery or some such thing."
"O my! I wish you could see me during circuit court week, when Uncle Carter and Cousin Billy bring the judge and the lawyers home with them at all sorts of odd hours; and they always bring the hungriest ones there are too. I fall at once into a chronic state of washing up things, and don't recover until court is over."
"But really, cousin—pardon me if I am inquisitive, for I am greatly interested in this life here in Virginia, it is so new to me—how is it thatyoumust wash up things at all?"
"Why, I carry the keys, you know. I'm housekeeper."
"Well, but you have servants enough, certainly, and to spare."
"O yes! but every lady washes up the things at least once a day. It would never do to trust it altogether to the servants, you know."
"None of them are sufficiently careful and trustworthy, do you mean?"
"Well, not exactly that; but it's our way here, and if a lady were to neglect it people would think her a poor housekeeper."
"Are there any other duties devolving upon Virginian housekeepers besides 'washing up things?' You see I am trying to learn all I can of a life which is as charmingly strange to me as that of Turkey or China would be if I were to go to either country."
"Any other duties? Indeed there are, and you shall learn what they are, if you won't find it stupid to go my rounds with me. I'm going now."
"I should find dullness itself interesting with you as my fellow observer of it."
"Right gallantly said, kind sir," said Miss Sudie, with an exaggerated curtsy. "But if you're going to make pretty speeches I'll get impudent directly. I'm dreadfully given to it anyhow, and I've a notion to say one impudent thing right now."
"Pray do. I pardon you in advance."
"Well, then, what makes you say 'Virginian housekeepers?'"
"What else should I say?"
"Why, Virginia housekeepers, of course, like anybody else."
"But 'Virginia' is not an adjective, cousin. You would not say 'England housekeepers' or 'France housekeepers,' would you?" asked Robert.
"No, but I would say 'New York housekeepers,' 'Massachusetts housekeepers,' or 'New Jersey housekeepers,' and so I say 'Virginia housekeepers,' too. I reckon you would find it a little troublesome to carry out your rule, wouldn't you, Cousin Robert?"
"I am fairly beaten, I own; and in consideration of my frank acknowledgment of defeat, perhaps you will permitmeto be a trifle impudent."
"After that gallant speech you made just now, I can hardly believe such a thing possible. But let me hear you try, please."
"O it's very possible, I assure you!" said Robert. "See if it is not. What I want to ask is, why you Virginians so often use the word 'reckon' in the sense of 'think' or 'presume,' as you did a moment since?"
"Because it's right," said Sudie.
"No, cousin, it is not good English," replied Robert.
"Perhaps not, but it'sgood Virginian, and that's better for my purposes. Besides, it must be good English. St. Paul used it twice."
"Did he? I was not aware that the Apostle to the Gentiles spoke English at all."
"Come, Cousin Robert, I must give out dinner now. Do you want to carry my key-basket?"
My friend who writes novels tells me that there is no other kind of exercise which so perfectly rests an over-tasked brain as riding on horseback does. His theory is that when the mind is overworked it will not quit working at command, but goes on with the labor after the tools have been laid aside. If the worker goes to bed, either he finds it impossible to go to sleep or sleeping he dreams, his mind thus working harder in sleep than if he were awake. Walking, this novelist friend says, affords no relief. On the contrary, one thinks better when walking than at any other time. But on horseback he finds it impossible to confine his thoughts to any subject for two minutes together. He may begin as many trains of thought as he chooses, but he never gets past their beginning. The motion of the animal jolts it all up into a jumble, and rest is the inevitable result. The man's animal spirits rise, in sympathy, perhaps, with those of his horse, and as the animal in him begins to assert itself his intellect yields to its master and suffers itself to become quiescent.
Now it is possible that Mr. Robert Pagebrook had found out this fact about horseback exercise, and determined to profit by it to the extent of securing all the intellectual rest he could during his stay at Shirley. At any rate, his early morning ride with "Cousin Sudie" was repeated, not once, but every day when decided rain did not interfere. He became greatly interested, too, in the Virginian system of housekeeping, and made daily study of it in company with Miss Sudie, whose key-basket he carried as she went her rounds from dining-room to smoke-house, from smoke-house to store-room, from store-room to garden, and from garden to the shady gable of the house, where Miss Sudie "set" the churn every morning, a process which consisted of scalding it out, putting in the cream, and wrapping wet cloths all over the head of it and far up the dasher handle, as a precaution against the possible results of carelessness on the part of the half dozen little darkeys whose daily duty it was to "chun." Mr. Robert soon became well versed in all the mysteries of "giving out" dinner and other things pertaining to the office of housekeeper—an office in which every Virginian woman takes pride, and one in the duties of which every well-bred Virginian girl is thoroughly skilled. (Corollary—good dinners and general comfort.)
Old "Aunty" cooks are always extremely slow of motion, and so the young ladies who carry the keys have a good deal of necessary leisure during their morning rounds. Miss Sudie had a pretty little habit, as a good many other young women there have, of carrying a book in her key-basket, so that she might read while aunt Kizzey (I really do not know of what proper noun this very common one is an abbreviation) made up her tray. Picking up a volume he found there one morning, Robert continued a desultory conversation by saying:
"You don't read Montaigne, do you, Cousin Sudie?"
"O yes! I read everything—or anything, rather. I never saw a book I couldn't get something out of, except Longfellow."
"Except Longfellow!" exclaimed Robert in surprise. "Is it possible you don't enjoy Longfellow? Why, that is heresy of the rankest kind!"
"I know it is, but I'm a heretic in a good many things. I hate Longfellow's hexameters; I don't like Tennyson; and I can't understand Browning any better than he understands himself. I know I ought to like them all, as you all up North do, but I don't."
Mr. Robert was shocked. Here was a young girl, fresh and healthy, who could read prosy old Montaigne's chatter with interest; who knew Pope by heart, and Dryden almost as well; who read the prose and poetry of the eighteenth century constantly, as he knew; and who, on a former occasion, had pleaded guilty to a liking for sonnets, but who could find nothing to like in Tennyson, Longfellow, or Browning. Somehow the discovery was not an agreeable one to him though he could hardly say why, and so he chose not to pursue the subject further just then. He said instead:
"That is the queerest Virginianism I've heard yet—'you all.'"
"It's a very convenient one, you'll admit, and a Virginian don't care to go far out of his way in such things."
"You will think me critical this morning, Cousin Sudie, but I often wonder at the carelessness, not of Virginians only, but of everybody else, in the use of contractions. 'Don't,' for instance, is well enough as a contraction for 'do not, but nearly everybody uses it, as you did just now, for 'does not.'"
"Do don't lecture me, Cousin Robert. I'm a heretic, I tell you, in grammar."
"'Do don't' is the richest provincialism I have heard yet, Cousin Sudie. I really must make a note of that."
"Cousin Robert, do you read Montaigne?"
"Sometimes. Why?"
"Do you remember what he says about custom and grammar?"
"No. What is it?"
"He says it, remember, and not I. He says 'they that fight custom with grammar are fools.' What a rude old fellow he was, wasn't he?"
Mr. Pagebrook suddenly remembered that he was to dine that day at his cousin Edwin's house, and that it was time for him to go, as he intended to walk, Graybeard having fallen lame during that morning's gallop with Miss Sudie.
Mr. Robert left the house on his way to The Oaks in an excellent humor with himself and with everybody else. His cousin Billy and his uncle Col. Barksdale were both absent, in attendance upon a court in another county, and so Mr. Robert had recently been left almost alone with Miss Sudie, and now that they had become the very best of friends our young man enjoyed this state of affairs right heartily. In truth Miss Sudie was a young lady very much to Mr. Robert's taste, in saying which I pay that young gentleman as handsome a compliment as any well regulated man could wish.
Mr. Robert walked briskly out of the front gate and down the road, enjoying the bright sun and the rich coloring of the October woodlands, and making merry in his heart by running over in his memory the chats he had been having of late with the little woman who carried the keys at Shirley. If he had been forced to tell precisely what had been said in those conversations, it must be confessed that a stranger would have found very little of interest in the repetition, but somehow the recollection brought a frequent smile to our young friend's face and put an additional springiness into his step. His intercourse with this cousin by brevet may not have been especially brilliant or of a nature calculated to be particularly interesting to other people, but to him it had been extremely agreeable, without doubt.
"Mornin' Mas' Robert," said Phil, as Robert passed the place at which the old negro was working. "How is ye dis mornin'?"
"Good morning, Phil. I am very well, I thank you. How are you, Phil?"
"Poorly, thank God. Ha! ha! ha! Dat's de way Bro' Joe and all de folks always says it. Dey never will own up to bein' rale well. But I tell ye now Mas' Robert, Phil's a well niggeralways. I keeps up my eend de row all de time. I kin knock de spots out de work all day, daunce jigs till two o'clock, an' go 'possum huntin' till mornin' comes. Is ye ever been 'possum huntin', Mas' Robert?"
"No; I believe I never hunted opossums, but I should greatly like to try it, Phil."
"Would ye? Gim me yer han' Mas' Robert. You jes set de time now, and if Phil don't show you de sights o' 'possum huntin' you ken call me a po' white folkses nigger. Dat's a fac'."
Robert promised to make the necessary appointment in due time, and was just starting off again on his tramp, when Phil asked:
"Whare ye boun' dis mornin', Mas' Robert?"
"I'm going over to dine at The Oaks, Phil."
"Yer jest out de house in time. Dar comes Mas' Charles Harrison."
"I do not understand you, Phil. Why do you say I am out of the house just in time?"
"Mas' Robert, is you got two good eyes? Mas' Charles is a doctor you know, but dey a'n't nobody sick at Shirley. May be he's afraid Miss Sudie's gwine to get sick. Hi! git up Roley! dis a'n't plowin' mauster's field: g'long I tell ye!"
As Phil turned away Dr. Harrison rode up.
"Good morning, Mr. Pagebrook. On your way to The Oaks?"
"I was, but if you are going to Shirley I will walk back with you!"
"O no! no! I am only going to stop there a moment. I am on my way to see some patients at Exenholm, and as I had to go past Shirley I brought the mail, that's all. I'll not be there ten minutes, and I know they're expecting you at The Oaks. I brought Ewing along with me from the Court House. Foggy had been too much for him again."
"Why the boy promised me he would not gamble again."
"Oh! it's hardly gambling. Only a little game of loo. Every gentleman plays a little. I take a hand myself, now and then; but Foggy is a pretty old bird, you know, and he's too much for your cousin. Ewing oughtn't to play withhim, of course, and that's why I brought him away with me. By the way, we're going to get a fox up in a day or two and show you some sport. The tobacco's all cut now, and the dogs are in capital order—as thin as a lath. You must be with us, of course. We'll get up one in pine quarter, and he's sure to run towards the river; so you can come in as the hounds pass Shirley."
"I should like to see a fox hunt, certainly, but I have no proper horse," said Robert.
"Why, where's Graybeard? Billy told me he had turned him over to you to use and abuse."
"So he did, and he is riding his bay at present. But Graybeard is quite lame just now."
"Ride the bay then. Billy will be back from court to-night, won't he?"
"Yes; but he will want to join in the chase, I suppose."
"I reckon he will, but he can ride something else. He don't often care to take the tail, and he can see as much as he likes on one of his 'conestogas.' I'll tell you what you can do. Winger's got a splendid colt, pretty well broken, and you can get him for a dollar or two if you a'n't afraid to ride him. You must manage it somehow, so as to be 'in at the death!' I want you to see some riding."
Mr. Robert promised to see what he could do. He greatly wanted to ride after the hounds for once at least, though it must be confessed he would have been better pleased had the hounds to be ridden after belonged to somebody else besides the gentleman familiarly known as "Foggy," a personage for whom Mr. Robert had certainly not conceived a very great liking. That the reader may know whether his prejudice was a well-founded one or not it will be necessary for me to go back a little and gather up some of the loose threads of my story, while our young man is on his way to The Oaks. I have been so deeply interested in the ripening acquaintanceship between Mr. Rob and Miss Sudie that I have neglected to introduce some other personages, less agreeable perhaps, but not less important to the proper understanding of this history. Leaving young Pagebrook on the road, therefore, let me tell the reader, in a new chapter, something about the people he had met outside the hospitable Shirley mansion.
Dr. Charles Harrison was a young man of twenty-five or six, a distant relative of the Barksdales—so distant indeed that he would never have known himself as a relative at all, if he and they had not been Virginians. He was a young man of good parts, fond of field sports, reasonably well behaved in all external matters, but without any very fixed moral principles. He was a gentleman, in the strict Virginian sense of the term. That is to say he was of a good family, was well educated, and had never done anything to disgrace himself; wherefore he was received in all gentlemen's houses as an equal. He drank a little too freely on occasion, and played bluff and loo a trifle too often, the elderly people thought; but these things, it was commonly supposed, were only youthful follies. He would grow out of them—marry and settle down after awhile. He was on the whole a very agreeable person to be with, and very much of a gentleman in his manner.
"Foggy" Raves was an anomaly. His precise position in the social scale was a very difficult thing to discover, and is still more difficult to define. His father had been an overseer, and so "Foggy" was certainly not a "gentleman." Other men of parentage similar to his knew their places, and when business made it necessary for them to visit the house of a gentleman they expected to be received in the porch if the weather were tolerable, and in the dining-room if it were not. They never dreamed of being taken into the parlor, introduced to the family, or invited to dinner. All these things were well recognized customs; the line of demarkation between "gentlemen" and "common people" was very sharply drawn indeed. The two classes lived on excellent terms with each other, but they never mixed. The gentleman was always courteous to the common people out of respect for himself; while the common people were very deferential to every gentleman as a matter of duty. Now this man Raves was not a "gentleman." That much was clear. And yet, for some inscrutable reason, his position among the people who knew him was not exactly that of a common man. He was never invited into gentlemen's houses precisely as a gentleman would have been, it is true; and yet into gentlemen's houses he very often went, and that upon invitation too. When young men happened to be keeping bachelors' establishments, either temporarily or permanently, "Foggy" was sure to be invited pretty frequently to see them. As long as there were no ladies at home "Foggy" knew himself welcome, and he had played whist and loo and bluff in many genteel parlors, into which he never thought of going when there were ladies on the plantation. He kept a fine pack of hounds too, and was clearly at the head of the "fox-hunting interest" of the county; and this was an anomaly also, as fox-hunting is an eminently aristocratic sport, in which gentlemen engage only in company with gentlemen—except in "Foggy's" case.
Precisely what "Foggy's" business was it is difficult to say. He was constable, for one thing, andex-officiocounty jailor. One half the jail building was fitted up as his residence, and there he lived, a bachelor some fifty years old. He hired out horses and buggies in a small way now and then, but his earnings were principally made at "bluff" and "loo." Once or twice Colonel Barksdale and some other gentlemen had tried to oust "Foggy" from the jail, believing that his establishment there was ruining a good many of the young men, as it certainly was. Failing in this they had him indicted for gambling in a public place, but the prosecution failed, the court holding that the jailor's private rooms in the jail could not be called a public place, though all rooms in a hotel had been held public within the meaning of the statute.
This man's Christian name was not "Foggy," of course, though hardly anybody knew what it really was. He had won his sobriquet in early life by paying the professional gambler, Daniel K. Foggy, to teach him "how to beat roulette," and then winning his money back by putting his purchased knowledge to the proof at Daniel's own roulette table. Everybody agreed that "Foggy" was a good fellow. He would go far out of his way to oblige anybody, and, as was pretty generally agreed, had a good many of the instincts of a gentleman. He was not a professional gambler at all. He never kept a faro bank. He played cards merely for amusement, he said, and there was a popular tendency to believe his statement. The betting was simply to "make it interesting," and sometimes the play did grow very "interesting" indeed—interesting to the extent of several hundred dollars frequently.
Now only about a week before the morning on which Mr. Robert met Dr. Harrison, he had gone to the Court House for the purpose of calling upon the doctor. While there young Harrison had proposed that they go up to Foggy's, explaining that Foggy was "quite a character, whom you ought to know; not a gentleman, of course, but a good fellow as ever lived."
Upon going to Foggy's, Robert had found his cousin Ewing Pagebrook there playing cards. The boy—for he was not yet of age—was flushed and excited, and Robert saw at a glance that he had been losing heavily. On Robert's entrance he threw down his cards and declared himself tired of play.
"I'll arrange that, Foggy," said the boy, with a nod.
"O any time will do!" replied the other. "How d'ye do, Charley? Come in."
Dr. Charley introduced Robert, and the latter, barely recognizing Foggy's greeting, turned to Ewing and asked:
"What have you been doing, Ewing? Not gambling, I hope."
"O no! certainly not," said Foggy; "only a little game of draw-poker, ten cents ante."
"Well, but how much have you lost, Ewing?" asked Robert. "How much more than you can pay in cash, I mean? I see you haven't settled the score."
Ewing was inclined to resent his cousin's questioning, but his rather weak head was by no means a match for his cousin's strong one. This great hulking Robert Pagebrook was "big all over," Billy Barksdale had said. His will was law to most men when he chose to assert it strongly. He now took his cousin in hand, and made him confess to a debt of fifty dollars to the gambler. Then turning to Foggy he said:
"Mr. Raves, you have won all of this young man's money and fifty dollars more, it appears. Now, as I understand the matter, this fifty dollars is 'a debt of honor,' in gambling parlance, and so it must be paid. But you must acknowledge that you are more than a match for a mere boy, and you ought to 'give him odds.' I believe that is the correct phrase, is it not?"
"Yes, that's right; but how can you give odds in draw-poker?"
"I am going to show you, though I am certainly not acquainted with the mysteries of that game. You and he think he owes you fifty dollars. Now my opinion is that he owes you nothing, while you owe him the precise amount of cash you have won from him; and I propose to effect a compromise. The law of Virginia is pretty stringent, I believe, on the subject of gambling with people under age, and if I were disposed I could give you some trouble on that score. But I propose instead to pay you ten dollars—just enough to make a receipt worth while—and to take your receipt in full for the amount due. I shall then take my cousin home, and he can pay me at his leisure. Is that satisfactory, sir?"
Mr. Robert was in a towering rage, though his manner was as quiet as it is possible to conceive, and his voice was as soft and smooth as a woman's. Had Foggy been disposed to presume upon his antagonist's apparent calmness and to play the bully, he would unquestionably have got himself into trouble of a physical sort there and then. To speak plainly, Robert Pagebrook was quite prepared to punish the gambler with his fists, and would undoubtedly have made short work of it had Foggy provoked him with a word. But Foggy never quarreled. He knew his business too well for that. He never gave himself airs with gentlemen. He knew his place too well. He never got himself involved in any kind of disturbance which would attract attention to himself. He knew the consequences too well. He was always quiet, always deferential, always satisfied; and so, while he had no reason to anticipate the thrashing which Robert Pagebrook was aching to give him, he nevertheless was as complacent as possible in his reply to that gentleman.
"Why certainly, Mr. Pagebrook. I never meant to take the money at all. I only wanted to frighten our young friend here, and teach him a lesson. He thinks he can play cards when he can't, and I wanted to 'break him of sucking eggs,' that's all. I meant to let him think he had to pay me so as to scare him, for I feel an interest in Ewing. 'Pon my word I do. Now let me tell you, Ewing, we'll call this square, and you mustn't play no more. You play honest now, but if you keep on you'll cheat a little after awhile, and when a man cheats at cards, Ewing, he'll steal. Mind, I speak from experience, for I've seen a good deal of this thing. Come, Charley, you and Mr. Pagebrook, let's take something. I've got some splendid Shield's whisky."
Mr. Pagebrook summoned sufficient courtesy to decline the alcoholic hospitality without rudeness, and, with his cousin, took his leave.
Ewing entreated Robert to keep the secret he had thus stumbled upon, and Robert promised to do so upon the express condition that Ewing would wholly refrain from playing cards for money in future. This the youth promised to do, and our friend Robert congratulated himself upon his success in saving his well-meaning but rather weak-headed cousin from certain ruin.
In view of the circumstances detailed in the preceding chapter, it was quite natural that Robert Pagebrook should feel some annoyance when he learned from young Harrison that his cousin had again fallen into the hands of Foggy Raves. And he did feel annoyance, and a good deal of it, as he resumed his walk toward The Oaks. Aside from his interest in his cousin, Robert disliked to be beaten at anything, and to find that the gambler had fairly beaten him in his fight for the salvation of Ewing was anything but agreeable to him. Then again his cousin had shown himself miserably weak of moral purpose, and weaknesses were always unpleasant things for Robert Pagebrook to contemplate. He had no sympathy with irresolution of any sort, and no patience with unstable moral knees. He was half angry and wholly grieved, therefore, when he heard of Ewing's violation of his promise. His first impulse was to go before the next grand jury and secure Foggy's indictment for gambling with a minor, but a maturer reflection convinced him that while this would be an agreeable thing to do under the circumstances, it would be an unwise one as well. To expose Ewing was to ruin him hopelessly, Robert felt, knowing as he did that reformation in the face of public disgrace requires a good deal more of moral stamina than Ewing Pagebrook ever had. Precisely what to do Robert did not know. He would talk with Cousin Sudie about the matter, and see what she thought was best. Her judgment, he had discovered, was particularly good, and it might help him to a determination.
This thinking of Cousin Sudie brought back to his mind Phil's hint as to the purpose of Dr. Harrison's visit, and his face burned as the conviction came to him that this man might be Cousin Sudie's accepted or acceptable lover. He knew well enough that Harrison called frequently at Shirley; but surely Cousin Sudie would have mentioned the man often in conversation if he had been largely in her mind. Would she though? This was a second thought. Was not her silence, on the contrary, rather an indication that she did think of the man? If she recognized him as a lover, would she not certainly avoid all unnecessary mention of his name? Was not Phil likely to be pretty well informed in the case? All these things ran rapidly through his perturbed mind. But why should he worry himself over a matter that in no way concerned him?Hewas not interested in Cousin Sudie except as a friend. Of course not. Was not his heart still sore from its suffering at the hands of Miss Nellie Currier? No; upon the whole he was forced to confess that it was not. In truth he had not thought of that young lady for at least a fortnight; and now that he did think of her he could not possibly understand how or why he had ever cared for her at all. But he was not in love with Cousin Sudie. Of that he was certain. And yet he could not avoid a feeling of very decided annoyance at the thought suggested by Phil's remark. He knew young Harrison very slightly, but he was accustomed to take men's measures pretty promptly, and he was not at all satisfied with this one as a suitor for Cousin Sudie. He knew that Foggy was the young physician's pretty constant associate. He knew that Harrison drank at times to excess, and he felt that he was not over scrupulous upon nice points of morality. In short, our young man was in a fair way to work himself into a very pretty indignation when he met Maj. Pagebrook's overseer, Winger. A negotiation immediately ensued, ending in an agreement that Robert should ride the black colt so long as Graybeard's lameness should continue, paying Winger a moderate hire for the animal.
The bargain concluded, Winger dismounted and Robert took his place on the colt's back, borrowing Winger's saddle until his return to Shirley in the evening.
Horseback exercise is a curious thing, certainly, in some of its effects. When Robert was afoot that morning several things had combined, as we have seen, to make him gloomy, despondent, and generally out of sorts. Ewing's backsliding had annoyed him, and the possibility or probability of Phil's accuracy of information and judgment in the matter of Cousin Sudie and Dr. Harrison had depressed him sorely. When he found himself on the back of this magnificent colt, whose delight it was to carry a strong, fearless rider, he fell immediately into hearty sympathy with the high spirits and bounding pulses of the animal. He struck out into a gallop, and in an instant felt himself in a far brighter world than that which he had been traversing ten minutes since. His spirits rose. His hopefulness returned. The world became better and the future more promising. Mr. Robert Pagebrook felt the unreasonable but thoroughly delightful exhilaration to which Billy Barksdale referred when he said, "Bob is the happiest fellow in the world; he gets glad sometimes just because he is alive." That was precisely the state of affairs. Mr. Robert on this high-mettled horse was superlatively alive, and was glad because of it. There is more of joy than many people know in the mere act of living; but it is only they who have clear consciences, springy muscles, and perfect health of both mind and body who fully share this joy. Robert Pagebrook had all of these, and was astride a perfect horse to boot; and that, as all horsemen know, is an important element in the matter.
He galloped on toward The Oaks, leaving his troubles just where he mounted his horse. He forgot Ewing's apostasy; he forgot Dr. Harrison, but he remembered Cousin Sudie, and that right pleasantly too. Naturally enough, being on horseback, he projected himself into the future, which is always a bright world when one is galloping toward it. He would heartily enjoy the coming fox-chase—particularly on such an animal as that now under him. Then his thoughts pushed themselves still further forward, and he dreamed dreams. His full professorship would pay him a salary sufficient to justify him in setting up a little establishment of his own, and he should then know what it was to have a home in which there should be love and purity and peace and domestic comfort. The woman who was to form the center of all this bliss was vaguely undefined as to identity and other details. She existed only in outline, in the picture, but that outline strikingly resembled the young woman who carried the key-basket at Shirley—an accidental resemblance, of course, for Mr. Robert Pagebrook was positive that he was not in love with Cousin Sudie.
How largely Mr. Robert's high spirits were the result of rapid riding on a good horse, and how far other causes aided in producing them, I am wholly unprepared to say. Whatever their cause was they were not destined to last long after he dismounted at The Oaks. Indeed his day at that country seat was not at all an agreeable one. His cousin Sarah Ann was a rather depressing person to be with at any time, and there were circumstances which made her especially so on this particular occasion. Cousin Sarah Ann had a chronic habit of being ostentatiously sorry for herself, which was very disagreeable to a healthy young man like Robert. She nursed and cherished her griefs as if they had been her children, and like children they grew under the process. She had several times told Robert how lonely she was since the death of her mother, three years before, and with tears in her eyes she had complained that there was nobody to love her now that poor mother was gone—a statement which right-thinking and logical Robert felt himself almost guilty in hearing from a woman with a husband and a house full of children. She complained a good deal of her poverty, too, a complaining which shocked this truthful young man, knowing, as he did, that his cousin Edwin was one of the wealthiest men in the country round about, with a good plantation at home, a very large and profitable one in Mississippi, twenty or thirty business buildings, well leased, in Richmond, a surplus of money in bank, and no debts whatever, which last circumstance served to make him almost a curiosity in a state in which it was hardly respectable to owe no money. She complained, too, that her boys were dull and her girls not pretty, both of which complaints were very well founded indeed. When Robert on his first visit said something in praise of her comfortable and really pretty house, she replied:
"Oh! I can't pretend to live in an aristocratic house like your Aunt Mary's. I didn't inherit a 'family mansion' you know, and so we had to build this house. It hasn't a bit of wainscoting, you see, and no old pictures. I reckon I a'n't as good as you Pagebrooks, and somehow my husband a'n't as aristocratic as the rest of you. I reckon he's only a half-blood Pagebrook, and that's why he condescended to marry poor me."
This was Cousin Sarah Ann's favorite way of speaking of herself, and she said "poor me" with a degree of pathos in her tone which always brought tears to her eyes.
On the present occasion, as I have said, there were circumstances which enabled this estimable lady to make herself unusually disagreeable. She had a fresh affliction, and so she reveled in an ecstasy of woe. It was her ambition in life to be exceptionally miserable, and accordingly she welcomed sorrow with a keenness of relish which few people can possibly know. She wouldn't be happy in heaven, Billy Barksdale said, unless she could convince people there that she was snubbed by the saints and put upon by the angels.
When Robert arrived at The Oaks that morning Major Pagebrook met him at the gate, according to custom, but without his customary cheerfulness of countenance. He offered no explanation, however, and Robert asked no questions. The two went into the parlor, Robert catching sight of Ewing in the orchard back of the house, but having no opportunity to speak to the young man.
Robert had not been in the parlor many minutes before Major Pagebrook went out and Cousin Sarah Ann entered and greeted him with her handkerchief to her eyes. She made one or two ostentatious efforts to control herself, and then ostentatiously burst into tears.
"Oh! Cousin Robert, I didn't mean to betray myself this way. But I'm so miserable. Ewing has been led away again by that man, Foggy Raves."
"I am heartily sorry to know it, Cousin Sarah Ann," replied Robert. "Did he lose much?"
"O Ewing never gambles! I don't mean that. Thank heaven my boy never plays cards, except with small stakes for amusement. But he went over to the Court House last night to stay with Charley Harrison, and they went up to Foggy's and they drank a little too much. And now Cousin Edwin (Mrs. Pagebrook always called her husband Cousin Edwin) is terribly angry about it and has scolded the poor boy cruelly, cruelly. He even threatened to cut him off with nothing at all in his will, and leave the poor boy to starve. Men are so hard-hearted! The idea that I should live to hear my boy talked to in that way, and by his own father too, almost kills me. Poor me! there's nobody to love me now."
"Tell me, Cousin Sarah Ann," said Robert, "for I am deeply concerned in Ewing's behalf, and I mean to reform him if I can—does he often get drunk?"
"Get drunk! My boy never gets drunk! You talk just like Cousin Edwin. He only drinks a little, as all young gentlemen do, and if he drinks too much now and then I'm sure it isn't so very dreadful as you all make it out. I don't see why the poor boy must be kept down all the time and scolded and scolded and talked about, just because he does like other people; and that's what distresses me. Cousin Edwin scolds Ewing, and then scolds me for taking the poor boy's part, and it's more than I can bear. And now you talk about 'reforming' him!"
Robert explained that he had misunderstood the cause of Cousin Sarah Ann's grief, but he thought it would be something worse than useless to tell her that she was ruining the boy, as he saw clearly enough that she was. He turned the conversation, therefore, and Cousin Sarah Ann speedily dried her eyes.
"You're riding Mr. Winger's horse, I see. What's become of Graybeard?" she asked, after a little time.
"He is a little lame just now. Nothing serious, but I thought I would hire Winger's colt until he gets well."
"Ah! I understand. The rides soon in the morning must not be given up on any terms. But you'd better look out, Cousin Robert. I'm sorry for you if you lose your heart there."
"Why, Cousin Sarah Ann, what do you mean? I really am not sure that I understand you."
"Oh! I say nothing; but those rides every morning and all that housekeeping that I've heard about, are dangerous things, cousin. I was a belle once myself."
It was one of Cousin Sarah Ann's favorite theories that she knew all about bellehood, having been a belle herself—though nobody else ever knew anything about that particular part of her career.
"Well, Cousin Sarah Ann, I do not think I have lost my heart, as you phrase it; but pray tell me why you should be sorry for me if I had?"
Mr. Robert was at first about to declare positively that he had not fallen in love with Cousin Sudie, but just at that moment it occurred to him that he might possibly be mistaken about the matter, and being thoroughly truthful he chose the less positive form of denial, supplementing it, as we have seen, with a question.
"Well, for several reasons," replied Cousin Sarah Ann: "they do say that Charley Harrison is before you there, and anyhow, it would never do. Sudie hasn't got much, you know. Her father didn't leave her anything but a few hundred dollars, and that's all spent long ago, on her clothes and schooling."
Mr. Robert Pagebrook certainly did not wish ill to Cousin Sudie, and yet he was heartily though illogically glad when he learned that that young lady was poor. The feeling surprised him, but he had no time in which to analyze it just then.
"Why, Cousin Sarah Ann, you certainly do not think me so mercenary as your remark would seem to indicate?"
"Oh! it's well enough to talk about not being mercenary, but I can tell you that some money on one side or the other is very convenient. I know by experience what it is to be poor. I might have married rich if I'd wanted to, but I had lofty notions like you."
The reader will please remember that I am no more responsible for Mrs. Pagebrook's syntax than for her sins.
"But, Cousin Sarah Ann," said Robert, "you would not wish one to marry a young woman's money or lands, would you?"
"That's only your romantic way of putting it. I don't see why you can't love a rich girl as well as a poor one, for my part. If you had plenty of money yourself it wouldn't matter; but as it is you ought to marry so as to hang up your hat."
"I confess I do not exactly understand your figure of speech, Cousin Sarah Ann! What do you mean by hanging up my hat?"
"Didn't you ever hear that before? It's a common saying here, when a man marries a girl with a good plantation and a 'dead daddy,' so there can't be any doubt about the land being her's—they say he's got nothing to do but walk in and hang up his hat."
This explanation was lucid enough without doubt, but it, and indeed the entire conversation, was extremely disagreeable to Robert, who was sufficiently old-fashioned to think that marriage was a holy thing, and he, being a man of good taste, disliked to hear holy things lightly spoken of. He was relieved, therefore, by Maj. Pagebrook's entrance, and not long afterwards he was invited to go up to the blue-room, the way to which he knew perfectly well, to rest awhile before dinner.
In the blue-room he found Ewing, with a headache, lying on a lounge. The youth had purposely gone thither, probably, in order that his meeting with Robert might be a private one, for meet him he must, as he very well knew, at dinner if not before.
Robert sat down by him and held his head as tenderly as a woman could have done, and speaking gently said:
"I am very sorry to find you suffering, Ewing. You must ride with me after dinner, and the air will relieve your head, I hope."
The boy actually burst into tears, and presently, recovering from the paroxysm, said:
"I didn't expect that, Cousin Robert. Those are the first kind words I've heard to-day. Mother has called me hard names all the morning."
"Yourmother!" exclaimed Robert, thrown off his guard by surprise, for he would never have thought of questioning the boy on such a subject.
"O yes! she always does. If she'd ever give me any credit when I do try to do right, I reckon I would try harder. But she calls me a drunkard and gambler whenever there is the least excuse for it; and if I don't do anything wrong she says I am pokey and a'n't got any spirit. She told me this morning she didn't mean to leave me anything in her will, because I'd squander it. You know all pa's property is in her name now. I got mad at last and told her I knew she couldn't keep me from getting my share, because nearly half of everything here belonged to Grandfather Taylor and is willed to us children when we come of age. She didn't know I knew that, and when I told her——"
"Come, Ewing, don't talk about that. You have no right to tell me such things. Bathe your head now, and hold it up as a man should. You are responsible to yourself for yourself, and it is your duty to make a man of yourself—such a man as you need not be ashamed of. If you think you do not receive the recognition you ought for your efforts to do well, you should remember that things are not perfectly adjusted in this world, so far at least as we can understand them. The reward of manliness is the manliness itself; and it is well worth living for too, even though nobody recognizes its existence but yourself. Of that, however, there need be no fear. People will know you, sooner or later, precisely as you are."
Robert had other encouraging things to say to the youth, and finally said:
"Now, Ewing, I shall ask you to make no promises which you may not be strong enough to keep; but if you will promise me to make an earnest effort to let whisky and cards alone, and to make a man of yourself, refusing to be led by other people, I will talk with your father and get him to agree never to mention the past again, but to aid you with every encouragement in his power for the future."
"Why, Cousin Robert, pa never says anything to me. When ma scolds he just goes out of the house, and he don't come in again till he's obliged to. It a'n't pa at all, it's ma, and it a'n't any use to talk to her. I'll be of age pretty soon, and then I mean to take my share of grandpa's estate, and put it into money and go clear away from here."
Robert saw that it would be idle to remonstrate with the young man at present, and equally idle to interfere with the domestic governmental system practiced by Cousin Sarah Ann. He devoted himself, therefore, to the task of getting Ewing to bathe his head; and after a little time the two went down to dinner, Ewing thinking Robert the only real friend he could claim.
His head aching worse after dinner than before, he declined Robert's invitation to go to Shirley, and our friend rode back alone.
Mr. Robert was heartily glad to get away from the uncomfortable presence of Cousin Sarah Ann, and yet it can not be said that our young gentleman was buoyant of spirit as he rode from The Oaks to Shirley. Ewing's case had depressed him, and Cousin Sarah Ann had depressed him still further. His confidence in woman nature was shaken. His ideas on the subject of women had been for the most part evolved—wrought out,a priori, from his mother as a premise. He had known all the time that not every woman was his mother's equal, if indeed any woman was; he had observed that sometimes vanity and weakness and in one case, as we know, faithlessness entered into the composition of women, but he had never conceived of such a compound of "envy, hatred and malice, and all uncharitableness" as his cousin Sarah Ann certainly was; and as he applied the quotation mentally he was constrained also to utter the petition which accompanies it in the litany—"Good Lord deliver us!" This woman was a mystery to him. She not only shocked but she puzzled him. How anybody could consent to be just such a person as she was was wholly incomprehensible. Her departures from the right line of true womanhood were so entirely purposeless that he could trace them to no logical starting-point. He could conceive of no possible training or experience which ought to result in such a character as hers.