CHAPTER XXIX.
AUNT DILSEY TO THE RESCUE
"Send Miss Betsy to me at once," was Gilcrest's order to a negro girl who was sweeping the hall one cold, snowy morning in December, as he strode into the house, whip in hand, clad in overcoat and riding-boots. "Where's your mistress?"
"In the settin'-room, marstah."
"Then send Miss Betsy to me there. Put down that broom, and go at once—move quickly, nigger!" With a grim look he went into the sitting-room, where his wife was dawdling over her tambour frame; and Polly sped up the stairs. In the upper hall she encountered Aunt Dilsey.
"Whut's the mattah, gal?" asked the old negress. "You look lak a rabbit skeered outen a bresh heap."
"Marstah's stompin' an' ragin' 'roun lak a mad bull down thah," panted the girl. "He say teh fotch Miss Betsy to him to oncet in the settin'-room. She's gwine kotch it sho 'nough this time."
"'Deed she hain't, long's her brack mammy's heah teh p'otect her! Marse Hi's losin' his las' grain o' sense; but he bettah min' how he capers 'roun'. He's been pussecutin' thet bressed chile long 'nough—all kaze she's true teh her 'fections, an' woan give in when he say she shan't hev thet nice, rosy-cheek, perlite young gemmin she's begaged to. Ole Dilsey's done kep' still long 'nough; it's time fer her teh lay down de law a bit. I hain't feared o' Marse Hi, ef he does stomp an' rumpage. You heahs me, doan you?"
In this, as in all other large households throughout the Southern States, the "black mammy" was an indispensable part of the family. The real mother usually gave her children careful attention and superintended their training; but she took upon herself little of the drudgery and burden of their upbringing. A subordinate nurse was the children's guardian and companion when they went out for play or exercise, but the "black mammy" ruled over this negro and was the highest authority on all matters pertaining to the nursery. Even the real mother humored this foster mother in the management of the children; and when, as in the case of Mrs. Gilcrest, the mistress was frail of health and unassertive by nature, the black mammy's authority became almost paramount. And such was the nature of Dilsey's authority.
Silas Gilcrest, Hiram's father, had bought Dilsey from a Massachusetts slave-ship when she was a child of twelve years. She was just from Africa, and could not speak a word of English. Silas Gilcrest brought her at once into his own house, where she served first as nurse to the infant Hiram, and later as upper house servant. Her skin was black as ebony, but she was of superior intelligence and of stout and loyal heart. She nursed Hiram Gilcrest in his babyhood, was his caretaker and faithful attendant in boyhood, and his loyal adherent in early manhood. When he married, she went with him from Massachusetts to Virginia, and from there she and her husband and two children accompanied Hiram and his wife to Kentucky.
When Betsy, Hiram's first-born, was laid in old Dilsey's arms, she had just buried her own baby, and all the mother love of her passionate nature went out to this tiny scion of the house of Gilcrest. Thenceforward, the unreasoning, self-sacrificing devotion which in former days Dilsey had lavished upon Hiram was transferred to his daughter.
As time went on, and her cares and responsibilities multiplied with the advent of each new baby to her master and mistress, Mammy Dilsey, though still faithful and devoted, became more and more self-important and dictatorial. She felt herself superior in education and position to the other negroes, and almost, if not quite, as important a part of the household as the master himself. As for Mrs. Gilcrest, Dilsey's regard for her was compounded of admiration and pitying patronage. She loved and tended and ruled over all the children, but Betsy was her idol, for whom she would cheerfully have laid down her own life. Throughout Betsy's disagreement with her father, Dilsey had been her confidant and comforter; and her indignation against her master for the past few months had only thus far been restrained from actual outbreak by Betty's entreating her to be silent, lest by want of tactful patience she might still further provoke the irascible spirit of the master of Oaklands. On this particular morning, however, Aunt Dilsey's spirit was stirred within her, and she felt it high time to assert herself.
When Betsy reached the sitting-room she found her mother crying helplessly and her father fuming up and down the room.
"What do you mean by this, girl?" he asked, flourishing a folded paper in her face. "Did I not command you to have nothing more to do with that worthless fellow? And here you are actually writing to him, and bribing my servants to fetch his letters and to take him your answers! What do you mean?"
"I mean, sir," Betsy answered, facing him bravely, "that I'll not submit to your tyrannical treatment any longer—keeping me a prisoner in these grounds, and forbidding me to hold any communication with the man I love and honor and mean to marry. I have been for weeks under restraint; not even allowed to walk about the yard without a spying black slave at my heels. More than this, two weeks ago you intercepted a letter addressed to me, and you now hold in your hand—without any right whatever—a note of mine to Mr. Logan. What if I did 'stoop to bribe a servant' to carry a message to my lover? That is little in comparison with your keeping me in durance, and intercepting my letters. And you talk to me of 'stooping' and of dishonor!"
"Betsy! Betsy! my dear, my dear!" wailed her mother, "don't use such language. Oh, oh, you and your father are killing me!"
"Mother, mother, have you no feeling for your daughter, that you have said no word to help her in all these months? Are you so under the thrall of that tyrant that you meekly submit without a protest to such treatment of me? Yes," she said, turning to her father, who stood motionless, his eyes blazing, his face white with passion, "you are a tyrant, but I defy you. You shall not break my spirit. I mean to marry Abner Logan as soon as he says the word."
"Be silent, before I strike you!" cried her father, advancing toward her. "Go! Fling yourself into your lover's arms as soon as you please. I wash my hands of you, you willful, passionate hussy!"
"Stop! stop! this instant, Hiram Gilcrest," shrieked his wife, rising from her chair and stamping her foot. Then she rushed to him, caught his arm and actually shook him, crying: "You shall not heap such abuse on my child! I have been silent long enough."
If the portrait of old Silas Gilcrest, hanging above the mantel, had opened its mouth and spoken, father and daughter could not have been more astounded than at this outbreak. In the whole course of her married life this was the first time that Jane Gilcrest had ever asserted herself, or raised her voice against her lord and master. "Yes, you are a brute to use such language and to treat your daughter so! And now, I suppose you'll beat me, next; you look as though you'd like to fell us both to the earth with that whip—oh! oh! oh!" she shrieked, and fell back in a swoon.
Betsy, white, unnerved, and more frightened than she had ever been in her life, sprang to her mother's aid, who recovered from her faint only to go into violent hysterics. Gilcrest stood dazed and motionless, staring at his wife, with the riding-whip unconsciously clenched in his hand.
At this juncture the door was flung open by old Dilsey.At this juncture the door was flung open by old Dilsey.
At this juncture, the door was flung open by old Dilsey. She stood a second on the threshold, as though paralyzed at the tableau before her. Mrs. Gilcrest leaned back in her chair, moaning and trembling; Betsy crouched by her side, in reality trying to pacify her mother, though apparently seeking shelter from her father, who stood before them with the uplifted whip. Then, her black eyes blazing, the negress sprang forward with the swiftness and fierceness of a tiger; and charging upon her master with such force as almost to throw him down, she seized his arm and wrenched the whip from his grasp.
"I said you had done gone plum crazy," she cried, "but I nebbah thought I'd lib teh see the day you'd raise yo' arm ag'in yo' own wife an' chile. Don' you dar' tech 'em! I'll p'otect 'em wid my life's blood!"
"Shut up, you old harridan!" returned Gilcrest. "Nobody's going to strike your mistress, or her daughter either. Take your Miss Jane to her room, and attend to her."
"I doan lebe dis room tell I speaks my min' 'bout yo' ongodly carryin' on an' yo' shameful 'buse ob my sweet lamb, my own Miss Betsy."
"Shut up, I tell you!" again cried Gilcrest.
"I woan shet up. I will speak my min'!"
"I'll cowhide you, you black witch!" shouted her master, threateningly.
"Whip me? Ole Dilsey? 'Deed you woan! Ef you lays de weight ob a fingah on me, I'll t'ar you limb f'um limb!" She faced him, arms akimbo, eyes snapping, and defiance in every line of her tall figure and in every fold of her red turban. "Does you think I'se feared ob you? Me, whut nussed an' tended you when you wuz a pore, sickly baby, an' bossed you, an' spanked yo' back sides many a time when you wuz a streprous, mis-che-vous boy?"
"Leave the room this instant!" cried Gilcrest, white with anger.
"Nary step does I budge tell I frees my mind," answered Dilsey with determination. "Hain't you no bowels ob marcy fur yo' own flesh an' blood? Is you done persessed by de Debble, dat you treats dat pore lamb so, whut hain't done nuthin' but be true to her sweetheart? Yo' fust borned chile, too, yo' leetle gal whut you kissed an' cried obah fur joy when ole Dilsey fotch her to you; an' you tuck her in yo' arms, de tears runnin' down yo' cheeks an' yo' voice trem'lin' an' a-shakin', ez you thanked de good Lawd fur yo' purty black-eyed baby gal, an' fur bringin' yo' pore young wife safe frew her trial!"
"There, there, Dilsey," said Gilcrest, moved in spite of himself by her rough eloquence. "You have entirely misconceived the situation. I had no intention of striking either your mistress or Miss Betsy. Leave off your foolish raving, and help me get your Miss Jane to her bed. Don't you see she is not able to stand?" Then to his daughter he added, "If all this excitement and trouble make your mother really ill, it is your fault, you rebellious girl."
CHAPTER XXX.
YOUNG LOCHINVAR
"So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,"So light to the saddle before her he sprung;"'She is won! we are gone—over bank, bush and scaur;"They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth Young Lochinvar."
"So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,"So light to the saddle before her he sprung;"'She is won! we are gone—over bank, bush and scaur;"They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth Young Lochinvar."
"So light to the croup the fair lady he swung,"
So light to the saddle before her he sprung;"
'She is won! we are gone—over bank, bush and scaur;"
They'll have fleet steeds that follow,' quoth Young Lochinvar."
The next afternoon, Major Gilcrest, from the window of a back room, saw his daughter coming in alone through the shrubbery, and strongly suspected that she had been meeting Abner Logan again. Gilcrest, however, said nothing to her, and she went upstairs. She remained in her room, busy over some needlework, about an hour. Then, as it was getting too dark to sew, she put aside her work to go downstairs; but just then she heard the key turned in her door, and found it locked from the outside. She was a prisoner in her bedchamber.
She remained there for two days, without seeing any one but the negro girl Polly, who three times a day came to the room to replenish the fire and to bring her meals. From Polly, Betsy learned that Mrs. Gilcrest was ill and confined to her room, and that Major Gilcrest was preparing for a journey, and purposed taking his daughter with him. He sent by Polly a curt note which further enlightened Betty of his intentions. She was directed to pack her clothes and be in readiness to start with him for Massachusetts as soon as her mother's health would allow him to leave home. He also informed Betsy that he meant to leave her in Massachusetts at a boarding-school.
Instead of obeying her father's command, Betsy spent her solitary hours in trying to hit upon some mode of escape from her prison, or at least for some means of communicating with her lover.
On the third night of her imprisonment she retired early, feeling that she would need all her strength for the morrow's struggle; for she was fully resolved that no power on earth should be strong enough to compel her to leave home with her father. She was exhausted, and soon fell asleep. In the night she was awakened by some one shaking her and calling her name softly. She opened her eyes, and found Aunt Dilsey standing over her with a lighted candle in one hand.
"Sh—, sh—, honey, don't mek no noise!"
"How did you get here?" asked Betsy, sitting up in bed and now thoroughly roused.
"I stole de key f'um de nail in de hall, an' den slipped up de sta'rs. I allus walks jes lak a cat, you knows, so Marse Hi didn't heah me. But nebbah min' dat now. Git up quick, an' do whut I tells you. I'se gwineteh he'p you 'scape to Marse Abner, dis berry hour. He's waitin' fur you on his nag down to de bars at de eend ob de leetle woods pastur', an' he'll tek you straight to de preachah's house, an' you kin be married right off."
"But, mammy," began Betsy.
"Shet up, chile, an' do ez I says. It's yo' on'y chance; fur onct Marse Hi gits you 'way f'um heah, it'll be many a long day foh you sees yo' sweetheart ag'in. I tell you yo' pap's thet desprut dar's no tellin' whut he woan do teh keep you an' yo' sweetheart 'part. So doan let me heah no 'jections, but jes' listen to me. You'se to slip out frew de ole log-room heah—you carn't git out frew de hall; fur yo' pap'll heah you, shore, kaze his door's open, an' you knows he allus sleeps wid one eye an' bofe years open. But you go inteh de log-room, an' clamb out by de windah. See! Heah's a rope I done mek outen bedclothes. We'll tie it to de bed-post, an' it's plenty long 'nough to reach most to de groun' frew de windah, whut hain't more'n twelve or fou'teen foot f'um de groun'. 'Sides, dar's notches all down de wall outside whah de chinkin's done fell out. So you kin hold ontah de ropes, put yo' foots in de gaps, an' git down ez easy ez ef 'twuz on sta'r steps."
The chamber Betsy occupied was in the ell of the house, and communicated through a closet with the upper room of the old log house of two rooms which had been left standing when the new house was built. The lower apartment of this old structure was now used as a weaving-room.
"But why not go down through the window of the lower room?" asked Betsy.
"Kaze I carn't fin' de key to de door et de foot ob de sta'rway intah de loom-room. But you woan hab no trouble, noways, climbin' down dat wall. So hurry, an' while you dresses, I'll pack up some ob yo' clo's in a bundle. I'se done shet ole Jock an' Ponto up in de woodhouse to keep dem f'um barkin' an' rousin' yo' pap. Soon's you'se down safe, I'll go out an' lock yo' door ag'in, slip down de sta'rs, an' Marse, when he fin's you'se skipped, will think you'se 'scaped by yo'se'f. But, anyways, I doan much keer ef he does fin' dat ole Dilsey holped you; I hain't feared. He woan dar' tackle me."
"It seems hard," said Betty, "that I must steal out of my father's house in this way like a thief; but it's my only chance."
Aunt Dilsey's plan worked successfully. Betsy, by means of her bed-quilt rope and the chinks in the wall, had no difficulty in making her escape. Old Dilsey, as soon as her young mistress reached the ground, softly dropped the bundle after her, and then the girl sped across the snow through the side yard to the little woods, where at the bars her lover awaited her. She climbed up behind him on his brown mare, Bess, and in a short while reached Barton Stone's house.
Logan had already related the circumstances of the case to the minister, who said that the young couple were fully justified in the step they had taken; and so they were married. Stone and his wife urged them to remain the night with them, but Abner said that Mr. and Mrs. Rogers were expecting them. Accordingly they rode away, and reached the Rogers home about midnight. Late as it was, the entire family were up and fully prepared to receive them.
CHAPTER XXXI.
A NOVEL BRIDAL TOUR
The next morning the young couple, accompanied by Susan Rogers, with Rache in the capacity of serving-woman, set out on their bridal tour, a three-mile ride over the snow, to their future home. A stout sledge drawn by a yoke of oxen was the primitive equipage of the bridal party.
The wedding presents, though the gifts of but one family, were many and useful, if not beautiful and costly. A feather bed and a pair of fat pillows were Mrs. Rogers' most valuable gift. "No, Betsy," she said as she tied them up in an old quilt, "we hain't robbin' ourse'ves; we've got more beds an' pillahs then we hev people to sleep on 'em; besides, hain't we got plenty geese?"
"Nevah you mind, Betsy," chuckled Mason Rogers; "Cynthy Ann knows better'n you do whut she kin spar' tow'ds settin' you an' Ab up to housekeepin'. The real offus uv a bride is to be ornamental. So, all you got to do this mawnin' is to set up on thet ther sled, an' look purty."
A coarse but well-bleached tablecloth, a gourd of lard, a cheese, half a loaf of cake, a skillet and a coffee boiler completed Mrs. Rogers' list.
The gifts of her husband were no less generous: a side of meat, a supply of meal, potatoes, hominy, sugar, a jug of cider vinegar, and another of molasses, concerning which gifts he declared, in answer to Abner's protest: "Of course, you'n' Betty kin live on love; so I jes' put in them eatables fur Susan—pore gal, she ain't got no husban' yit to mek her fergit she's got a stommick. Besides, even you an' yer bride will find livin' on love a weak'nin' exper'ence artah the fust few days; an' this snow looks lak it hed come to stay all wintah. The roads 'tween heah an' Bourbonton won't be broke through 'nough fur you to haul a load o' things frum thar befoh March, mayby. Allus feed yer husban' good, Betty. With all the men whut evah I seen, the stommick 'pears to be the seat o' the affections; an' Abner hain't no exception. He kin mek an ash cake or a hunk o' middlin' disappear 'bout ez fast ez the nex' one; an' when it comes to tacklin' a stack o' flitters seasoned with maple merlasses, he kin beat all creation, unless 'tis Tommy an' Buddy, an' the amount o' vittels them two shavers kin manidge to stow 'way is 'nough to mek a pusson think ther laigs is holler. These two cheers," he continued as he tied them in place on the sledge, "air fur me an' Cynthy Ann to set on when we come ovah nex' Sunday to pay our bridal call an' to fotch Cissy an' Rache home. Abner hain't got but two cheers, Betty—one fur Susan, an' one fur you an' him; but me an' Cynthy Ann's done got pas' the time when one cheer kin 'commerdate us both comf'table. Whut you got thar?" he asked the negro Tom, as he came forward, while Rube lingered bashfully in the background.
"Me an' Rube wants tab gib somethin' ter spress our 'gratulatins ter Miss Betsy an' Marse Ab; so we presents dese ax-handles whut we'se made oursel's, an' dis bowl whut we'se hollered outen a ash-tree fur a nice bread-tray; an' we wishes you bofe much joy in de road you'se dis day sotten out on in double harnish." Grinning and bobbing, he presented the offerings, and then stepped back to make room for Uncle Tony. "Marse Ab, you'll 'cep' dis bunch o' brooms f'um ole Tony; kaze he wuz yer fus' 'quaintunce when you come ter dis kintry. Dese brooms will 'min' you ob yer ole home; kaze dey's tied wid de same twist an' loop jes' ez dey mek brooms wid in ole Virginny. An' I wishes you 'n' yer purty bride all de hap'ness an' prosp'ity whut kin come ter us pore morsels trablin' frew dis vale ob tears."
"Well, Ab," said Mason, gleefully, as Abner, after gratefully thanking the darkeys, proceeded to find a place for the things on the well-loaded sled, "you'd bettah walk straight now; a broom's a dangerous weepon in a woman's hands. You know the ole sayin' 'bout brooms, Betsy? 'In fair weathah use one eend; in foul weathah use t'other!'"
Susan's contributions were a pair of blankets and a supply of tow-linen sheeting and toweling, all of her own weaving. The twins, not to be outdone, begged Betsy to accept all their nine-patch pieces, "which only lack a few more squares," they said, "to mek a quilt big 'nough fur any bed."
"Tek 'em, Betty," laughingly urged Mrs. Rogers; "Lucindy an' Lucy air only too glad ter git 'em off ther hands; they know they'd hev ter finish thet quilt this wintah, ef them pieces stayed heah, an' they hate sewin' wussen a mad dog hates watah."
"We want you to have these, too," said Lucy, handing to Betsy a pair of plaster-of-paris angels. "Lucindy an' me bought 'em of the packman with our own money. They'll look mighty sweet settin' up on your mantel-tree. One of 'em's got its wing broke off, but thet won't show much when it's set facin' the room."
"Ha! ha! ha!" laughed Rogers. "The twins presents you with angels, an' Tommy an' Buddy contributes live stock." The two little boys advanced, Tommy with a curly black pup under his arm, Buddy with two half-grown kittens in his apron.
"Yes, yes, tek 'em," urged Mrs. Rogers; "you'll do me a favor to tek thet mis-che-vous pup, an' will save them kittens frum a grave in the hoss-pond; I've done said I'd drown the whole litter. Heah's a sack fur the kittens, an' you kin put the pup undah this heah kittle; 'twon't smothah undah thar; an' 'twon't mek no diffruns ef it does."
Every negro on the place, elated and excited by the romantic event of a runaway marriage, brought offerings. Rache gave gourds and a cymbling bowl; Eph, a string of red-pepper; the other little darkeys, gifts of maple sugar, walnuts and hickorynuts; while Aunt Dink presented a large blue-flowered platter which until now had been the chief ornament of the chest of drawers in her cabin, and was none the less precious to her because of the big crack through the middle and the nick out of one corner.
"The coach and four is now waiting with the bride's outfit already packed in the boot; so bride, bridesmaid and waiting-woman will please take their places," laughed Abner, happily, helping Betsy, Susan and Rache into the sledge. "You've loaded us so heavily with your generous gifts that I fear the bridal equipage will break down before reaching the end of the first stage, and bury bride, bridesmaid, waiting-woman and dowry in a snowbank."
At this moment, out came little Buddy again, carrying a tiny arm-chair which he had long since outgrown, and insisting that it should make part of the bridal outfit on the sledge.
"That's right, sonny," said Rogers, as he placed the chair. "They don't need it yit awhile, but 'tis likely it'll come in handy in a year or so. Hold on thar a minit," Rogers exclaimed, as Logan was hastily preparing to start off. Rushing into the house, he emerged in a few minutes, carrying a pine cradle with deep, sloping sides and broad, rough rockers. "Heah's a companion piece fur thet cheer. Hope you'll hev use fur it befoh we do ag'in," and nothing would do but that the cradle should be placed on the sled. "Ha! ha! ha!" Rogers laughed uproariously as he surveyed the outfit. "This turnout looks lak a emigrant wagon mekin' a journey frum Cumberlan' Gap to the settlements."
Good-by's were exchanged, and the train started. The bride with her two attendants sat bravely on the sledge surrounded by her household goods, while the groom stepped proudly on to guide his awkward team, his own faithful dog, Toby, following at his heels. His house was not on the main thoroughfare, and the shrubs and tangled vines, weighted down with snow, bent over the narrow, little-used roadway, making it in places almost impassable; but the cavalcade proceeded safely, if slowly, until about half the journey was accomplished. Then, as they were going down a steep hillside with a considerable slant to the left, the groom came back from his post at the head of the team, to the side of his bride. Susan was looking out across the landscape; Rache was engrossed with her efforts to keep the various small articles from falling off the sledge. The moment seemed propitious; he leaned over to give Betty a reassuring kiss and embrace. Just then the vehicle ran over a stump which was hidden, but not protected, by the snow, and it careened sharply to the left. Abner, on the right, instantly threw his weight to stay the tottering ark. This only added the proper impetus, with, as the result, a complete overturn.
Out tumbled bride, bridesmaid and servant in the snow.Out tumbled bride, bridesmaid and servant in the snow.
Out tumbled bride, bridesmaid and servant in the snow, with feather bed, chairs, table utensils, skillet, kettle, coffee boiler, buckets, brooms, provisions on top. The two kittens, escaping from their sack, and frightened out of at least four of their eighteen lives, scampered madly up the nearest tree, in which house of refuge they sat with arching backs and bristling tails, spitting and hissing. The pup, liberated from his kettle, and confident that Toby was somehow to blame for this melee, charged rashly at him. Toby, resenting this insinuation, met the curly pup with gaping jaws and bristling back. A terrific dog-fight ensued, in which the self-confident puppy was routed with great damage. During the excitement, it fortunately never occurred to the mild-eyed oxen to make a bolt with the sledge; on the contrary, they stood still in their tracks the whole time, gazing with placid indifference straight before them. No one was hurt, and the wintry woods rang with the merry laughter of the party as they righted the sledge, collected the scattered wedding outfit, and replaced it securely. The vanquished puppy was again confined in his iron dungeon. The kittens, after much coaxing, at last ventured upon a limb low enough for them to be reached by Abner's long arm; and the bridal car then proceeded, without further hurt or damage, to the future home.
Betsy, though the child of rich parents, was used to work and to household management; but here was housekeeping to be begun under an environment quite different from that to which she had been accustomed in her father's well-ordered house. It was a heavy draft upon the young bride's faith and love to gaze undaunted at the prospect before her; but she was of a brave and hopeful spirit, and soon her blithe laugh chimed in with that of Abner and Susan, as they talked over the ludicrous mishap on the wedding tour. Presently, however, as Abner looked around the uninviting interior of his future abode, and then glanced at his young bride, he was sobered.
"An empty hovel with unwhitewashed walls, stoneless hearth, and dirt-encrusted windows and floors, is certainly no fit welcome for you, my dearest," he said to her as they stood alone a moment, while Susan and Rache were taking a survey of the inner room. "Do you regret the step you have taken?"
"Regret? Not for one instant," she bravely answered. "'Better a dinner of herbs where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith'—and how dare you slander my new abode by calling it a hovel?" she added playfully. "Instead of belittling this commodious mansion, set to work at once, sir, and build us a fire."
In a short time Logan had collected fuel. His flint yielded the ready spark, and fagots and logs soon blazed cheerily in the wide fireplace in each room.
"That big kettle which pa insisted upon our bringing, does come in handy right at the start," exclaimed Susan. "We'll have it filled and hung on that crane, so that Rache can scrub the floors; and while the water is heating, let's get something to eat. I'm as hungry as any bear that ever prowled through these woods."
"I'll lay the hearthstones, whitewash the walls, and put up some shelves over in that corner to-morrow," said Abner.
"When that is done, the windows cleaned and curtained, and the things all arranged, it will be quite a cozy place," added Susan.
"Yes," assented Logan, "it will do, I suppose, until I can get to town to buy whatever we need."
"Oh, it's good as it is, and we will soon make it a very inviting home," interrupted Betty. "Don't worry because you haven't a stately mansion for your bride. It's bad enough to have a wife thrust upon you in this unceremonious style, without your impoverishing yourself to fit up a luxurious home for her all at once."
The work went merrily forward during the next two days, although the season was hardly propitious for housecleaning. Rache, who enjoyed it all as much as any one, declared with a grin, "It's de fust time I evah hearn uv folks doin' ther spring cleanin' when de snow am two foot deep, an' it am so sinful cold thet it mighty nigh freezes de nose offen yer face."
The floors, by dint of repeated scrubbings, were soon, as Rache declared, "clean 'nough ter eat on." The walls and rafters were whitened, and the windows curtained with snowy dimity. At the foot of the bed, in one room, stood a packing-case to serve as a wardrobe, a valance of calico tacked on its top, concealing the true nature of the contrivance. Another box, set on end and similarly attired, served as a dresser; still another as a washstand. This room was sitting-room, parlor, library, and Susan's sleeping apartment. The other room was dining-room and kitchen, where Rache was accommodated with a pallet upon the floor in front of the fire; while, for the present, the rude loft over the two rooms, reached by means of a ladder in the sitting-room, was the bedchamber for bride and groom.
Consternation reigned at Oaklands when Betsy's flight was discovered the morning after the elopement. Her father, after giving orders that everything on the place which could be considered her personal property should be packed and sent to her immediately, then assembled the entire household, struck Betsy's name from the family Bible, and commanded that no one in his presence should ever again mention her name, and that no one on the premises should ever dare to hold any communication with her. Later, that same day, he drove to Lexington, sought a lawyer, and made a will disinheriting her.
Upon the third morning after the marriage there came to the new home a sled driven by a negro man from Oaklands. On the sled was Marthy, a negro woman of thirty-five; also a huge packing-case containing Betsy's clothes, books and ornaments, some bed quilts which she had pieced herself, some bright-colored rugs she had woven, besides china and a set of silver spoons which had descended to her from her maternal grandmother. Behind the sled rode Sambo on Betsy's saddle-horse, driving a young cow which was also considered the girl's property. The two negroes, Marthy and Sambo, had belonged to Mrs. Gilcrest, to do with as she pleased, and she sent them as a gift to her daughter.
CHAPTER XXXII
EXIT JAMES ANSON DRANE
"Treason doth never prosper, ... for, should it prosper, none dare call it treason."
During the spring of 1806 the country became greatly agitated over rumors of secret expeditions and conspiracies of a most startling nature, in which many men of prominence were concerned. The old difficulty over the free navigation of the Mississippi River, and the schemes which grew out of this difficulty, although already settled in a large measure by the purchase of the Louisiana Territory, had been too much agitated in Kentucky not to leave much material for conspirators. Hence, Kentucky became the stage upon which were enacted many of the incidents of that dramatic episode of American history known as "Burr's Conspiracy."
Opinion was then, as it will ever be, somewhat divided as to the exact nature of the schemes which Aaron Burr was at that time maturing. According to his own statements and to the extracts from his journal of that period, his designs were not actually treasonable; but they were certainly dangerous to the future well-being of the States along the southern Mississippi.
In 1805 this brilliant, ambitious and fascinating man, whose term as Vice-President had just expired, and who had, by his ill-advised attack upon the administration and by his duel with Alexander Hamilton, forfeited much of his political prestige, as well as the sympathy of most of his adherents in the North, came to Kentucky. He spent some weeks at Frankfort in an apparently quiet manner, and next proceeded on a tour down the Mississippi, visiting all important points from St. Louis to New Orleans. The following year he again appeared in the West, this time paying several visits to Lexington and Louisville. His headquarters on both these Western tours was the romantic, ill-fated island home of Harman Blennerhassett, where he was met more than once by many prominent men of Kentucky and other Western States. Soon after these visits, rumors began to be circulated that boats were being built in Kentucky and Ohio; provisions and military accoutrements ordered, which, when furnished, were stored on Blennerhassett Island; and that some daring military expedition was planned in which many were to be engaged.
Presently the "Western World," a newspaper published at Frankfort, came out with a series of articles in which the old Spanish intrigues and these later projects of Aaron Burr were blended in a confused manner. Mingled with hints and vague innuendoes, some facts were stated and some names given that created no little sensation. Sebastian, a judge of the Supreme Court; Brown, United States Senator from Kentucky; Innes, a judge of the Federal Court; Wilkinson and Adair, generals in the regular army, and many other Kentuckians of more or less prominence, were implicated by these articles, which also plainly denounced Aaron Burr as a traitor and his scheme as a treasonable design against the United States Government. Truth and error in these articles were so mixed together that no one was able to separate the two, and people all over the country were bewildered and excited. Friends of those implicated resented the attacks, and demanded a retraction of the charges; but the paper sturdily adhered to its policy. Other papers began to take up the matter, until the public awoke to the fact that some dangerous movement was on foot; and the unsettled condition of the country, and the unsatisfactory relations between the United States and Spain, caused these rumors to arouse alarm.
In November, 1806, Joseph Hamilton Daviess, United States attorney for Kentucky, brought at Frankfort an indictment against Burr for high treason; and Wednesday, December 2, was set for trial. Burr succeeded in convincing Henry Clay and John Allen, another able lawyer of the Lexington bar, of his innocence, and secured them as counsel.
Shortly before this movement of Daviess, however, Graham, a detective in the United States employ (though not known to be such at the time), came to Kentucky; and, after spending some time in Fayette and Woodford Counties, came out to Cane Ridge. He represented himself as a land agent, and in this capacity called on Abner Logan one evening about sunset. He was invited to stay the night, and accepted. After supper, taking up a copy of the "Western World" which was lying on the table, he naturally turned the conversation upon the charges which the paper had been making. He said that, as a stranger in the State, he was of course ignorant in a great measure of the charges, whereupon Logan enlightened him as well as he could, discussing the matter with him at some length. The next morning Graham took his departure, and the Logans attached no importance to the visit.
James Anson Drane had by no means severed his friendly relations with Hiram Gilcrest. He was at this time employed by Gilcrest to settle some old and troublesome land claims, and this business called him to Oaklands on the Thursday before the day set for Burr's trial at Frankfort. While Drane and Gilcrest were in the latter's library, one of the little negroes about the place brought Drane a note which the little darkey said had been left at the kitchen door by a peddler. The two men were seated at a center table littered with papers and documents. As Drane read the note, Gilcrest noticed that he appeared greatly disturbed; his cheeks and lips turned ashy pale, and the hand holding the note shook with agitation. He quickly commanded himself, however, thrust the note into his pocket, and explained that he was called to Lexington at once on urgent business. Gilcrest, seeing that the business must be of a grave and peremptory nature, did not urge Drane to stay, but gave the order for the lawyer's horse to be brought immediately. Telling his host that he would call again in a few days, Drane gathered up his papers which were scattered about the table, and hurried into the hall for his hat and great coat. He tried to thrust the papers into his breast pocket, but there were too many for one pocket, and, in taking some of them out to put in a different receptacle, the little note which he had just received fluttered to the floor unperceived either by himself or his host.
Shortly afterwards, Polly, the housemaid, brought her master a crumpled slip of paper, explaining that she had found it on the hall floor, and thought it might perhaps be something important. Without glancing at the address, or thinking much about the matter, Gilcrest opened the paper and read the contents before he realized that it was the note which had been handed to Drane a few minutes before. It read thus: "A sincere and disinterested friend warns 'A. D.' that he is to be summoned as a witness in the trial of B—— at F——, and advises him to leave the country at once, taking with him or destroying all compromising papers which he may have in his possession."
After gazing at the note in amazement for a few moments, Gilcrest crossed over to the secretary in one corner of the room, and took from a locked receptacle the two papers which James Anson Drane, four years since, had exhibited to him in that room.
As Gilcrest now sat musing with the two documents in his hand, he recalled several points which, had he not been so completely under the influence of the wily lawyer, would have aroused grave suspicions. One was the exceeding reluctance Drane had shown in regard to leaving the two papers at Oaklands; another was the singular fascination which, of late, the old mahogany secretary had seemed to hold for the lawyer; and still another was this, that once when Drane and Gilcrest were in this room, the latter had been called out. Returning unexpectedly, a moment later, he found Drane with his hand on the knob of that little locked inner drawer, as if he were trying to pull it open. At the time, Drane had averted suspicion by saying that he was examining the peculiar mechanism of the old and valuable secretary, and admiring its beautiful carving and workmanship.
Major Gilcrest now also remembered that for several months prior to the showing of the two papers—in fact, ever since Logan's visit to Virginia—Drane had been dropping hints and insinuations against Abner. But Gilcrest recalled, too, that even earlier than this, Logan had once, in a conversation at Rogers' house, expressed the greatest admiration for Aaron Burr; also that he had been seen in what appeared to be close counsel with Wilkinson, Sebastian and Murray at the tavern on court day, and that he had visited Blennerhassett Island in company with Sebastian and Murray. So that for several years Gilcrest had entertained no doubt that his son-in-law was to some degree implicated in this treasonable movement. But now, having read that anonymous warning which Drane had dropped in the hall an hour since, Gilcrest was altogether puzzled. There could be no doubt that the initials "A. D." in the anonymous note stood, not for Abner Dudley, but for Anson Drane, who probably for greater security had dropped his first baptismal name in the correspondence with the intriguers. "Can it be," he thought, "that both men are implicated in this nefarious matter? For even if this letter from B. S. to A. D. was written to Anson Drane instead of Abner Dudley, this torn fragment, which is undoubtedly in Logan's handwriting, seems suspicious; but, perhaps, if I had the whole letter, the references in it would bear an entirely different construction to that which I have placed."
Early Friday morning Gilcrest called for his horse, and rode to Lexington. Arriving there, he went straight to Drane's office, but found it locked. He then made inquiry at the young man's tavern, where he was told that Drane had left town very hurriedly the evening before, and had not said when he would return.
That was the last time that James Anson Drane was seen in Kentucky. When the day set for Burr's trial in Frankfort arrived, Drane was sought in vain. Later, when Burr, Blennerhassett, and other conspirators, were arraigned at Natchez, and still later at Richmond, Drane was again in demand, but he had completely disappeared; and his exact connection with that famous episode of American history, the Aaron Burr conspiracy, was never known. About twelve years later, a man said to be very like him was reported as an influential and wealthy lawyer of St. Louis.
Upon the same Thursday that Drane received at Oaklands the anonymous warning, Abner Logan, while at work in a field near the road, received from a passing packman a note which, the bearer said, had been given him for Logan, by a man whose name the peddler had forgotten, but who, as the peddler said, "lived down that way," pointing vaguely down the road. The messenger was not Simon Smith, the packman who periodically visited the neighborhood to sell his wares to the housewives thereabout, but a stranger. The note which he gave Logan was worded exactly as the one Drane had received an hour earlier at Oaklands.
Abner's first feeling upon reading this missive was bewilderment as to the identity of the friend who had sent it; his second, indignation that any one should think him in any way implicated in the Burr affair. "'A sincere and disinterested friend,' indeed," he thought; "it's some ruse to get me into this queer business."
Before receiving the anonymous communication, Logan, being desirous of hearing Clay and Daviess speak, had partly promised Mason Rogers, who felt a lively interest in the trial, to go with him to Frankfort. Logan now fully determined to let nothing prevent his going; and, fearing to alarm his wife, he resolved to say nothing of the warning he had received.
Upon the following Tuesday evening Graham, the detective, came to Oaklands, and spent the night there. He was able to supply to Gilcrest at least one missing link of evidence—the fellow to the torn piece of letter to Charles M. Brady. This, with one or two other documents of a more or less compromising nature, Drane had overlooked in his haste to get out of the vicinity of Frankfort; and Graham, when he searched the apartment a few hours after Drane's escape, had found the papers in the escritoire.
Early Wednesday morning Logan, in company of Mason Rogers, Samuel Trabue and William Hinkson, set out on horseback for the State capital. On the way they were overtaken by the Gilcrest coach-and-four driven by Uncle Zeke. In the coach sat Hiram Gilcrest, a strange gentleman from Louisville, and the pretended land agent, Graham. As the vehicle passed the four equestrians, Gilcrest gave a distant salutation to Trabue and Hinkson, who were riding on the left, but did not turn his head to the right where rode his son-in-law and his former bosom friend, Mason Rogers.
The trial at Frankfort did not come off, because of Daviess' failure to secure the attendance of some important witnesses; but those people who were gathered at the court-house were by no means defrauded of entertainment; for they heard a brilliant debate between Henry Clay and Joseph Hamilton Daviess. The crowds that filled the floor, windows, galleries and platform of the big court-room remained for hours spellbound while these two renowned men, each stimulated by the other's thrilling oratory, and glowing with the ardent conviction of the justice of his cause, met in intellectual combat. Henry Clay was the leader of the popular political party in the State, and had the sympathy of the audience on his side. Daviess was a Federalist, and his prosecution was regarded by many of his hearers as simply a persecution of an unfortunate and innocent man who, from motives of political hatred only, was here arraigned as a traitor. Daviess, however, was made strong by his full conviction of Burr's guilt; moreover, this very infatuation of the audience, and the smiling security and self-assurance of the suspected traitor who sat before him, spurred Daviess to brilliant effort. But all was in vain, for the present at least; for, on account of the non-appearance of proper witnesses, the prosecution was dismissed—to the great rejoicing of the friends of Burr, who were at that time so under the spell of his fascinating personality that even had the court found a true bill against him, they would still have believed him innocent. To show their admiration and sympathy, these friends and admirers gave a grand public ball at Frankfort the next evening to celebrate "Aaron Burr's triumph over his enemies." This ball was followed by another equally brilliant given by the friends of Daviess, to show their admiration of him and their belief in the justice of his suit against Burr.
Logan and his three companions returned from Frankfort late Thursday afternoon. On Saturday, as Logan was leaving the house after an early breakfast, he was astonished to see Hiram Gilcrest on horseback at the front gate. Abner hastened down the walk to meet him; but, instead of accepting the invitation to alight and enter the house, Major Gilcrest with stern dignity replied that he preferred to remain where he was, having called that morning, not to pay a visit, but to atone for an injustice of which he had for a number of years been guilty.
Logan, thinking that the "injustice" had reference to Gilcrest's opposition to his daughter's marriage, replied that no explanation or apology was necessary, as the very fact that Major Gilcrest was there at Crestlands was apology enough. He again invited the Major to come in, urging the pleasure it would be to Betsy to welcome her father in her own house, and to have him see her little son William, now a fine little fellow two years old, and the tiny baby daughter. Hiram, however, again refused the invitation.
"Mr. Logan," he said, "I have for some years back been greatly in error with regard to you, as the result of the base representations and lying statements of James Anson Drane, in whose character I have been most woefully deceived." Handing Logan the anonymous note that Drane had dropped in the hall, the letter from "B. S." to "A. D.," and the two torn parts of the letter to Charles Brady, he then entered into a full explanation of all the circumstances which had influenced him to think Logan a political traitor.
When Gilcrest had finished his explanation, Logan replied that he was fully satisfied, and that he could not wonder that, under the circumstances, Major Gilcrest had been deceived. "But now," he went on, smiling cordially and extending his hand, "let us forget all hard feelings, and be to each other henceforth as father and son should be. Betty will be wild with happiness to welcome her father into her own home."
But the stubborn old fellow would neither grasp his son-in-law's hand nor accept the invitation to enter the house. "No, Mr. Logan," he said firmly, "I am an honorable and, I hope, a just man; and my sense of honor and of justice prompted me to apologize for an unjust suspicion of you; but, sir," and his deep-set eyes flashed as he spoke, "though you are exonerated from all blame in this political intrigue, you are still guilty of a far greater wrong—that of alienating the affections of my child, my only daughter, of basely abducting her from her father's house, and well-nigh breaking that father's heart. That wrong, sir, I can never forget, and for that, sir, I can never forgive you."
"But—but, Major Gilcrest, I beg of you," began Abner, earnestly; but Gilcrest would not listen, and, with a wave of his hand to command silence, he continued: "No explanation, no apology, no reparation, or prayer of either you or your wife, can atone. I shall never under any circumstances enter your door; but I will no longer forbid my wife to visit her daughter, nor object to you and your wife returning those visits. I bid you good morning, sir," and the proud and unyielding old man rode away.
Several years later, Logan, while on a trip to Louisville, again encountered Graham, and learned from him that the strange peddler who had delivered the anonymous note to him and the one to Drane was Graham himself in disguise. He had employed this ruse to ascertain which of the two young men was the guilty one. When, in the guise of a land agent, he had in 1806 visited that region, his suspicions had already been slightly aroused against Drane. He had therefore managed to be much in the company of the young lawyer, who, if he suspected that Graham was other than he claimed to be, had the art to hide his suspicions, and in pretended unconsciousness and innocence had also managed to instill into the stranger's mind much doubt of Logan. These doubts were in a measure allayed by Graham's visit to Logan; but, to be entirely sure as to which was his man, he had resorted to the device of sending the two warnings, intending that the one who took alarm should be arrested. Drane, however, had been too swift in his movements, and had thus escaped.