Mr. Drew's going to the Court House to vote. Uncle Edward says it is the duty of every gentleman to vote against this d.a.m.ned upstart and the Democrat-Republican party. The d.a.m.ned upstart's other name is Lewis Rand. I'll ask Jacqueline to beg Mammy Chloe not to whip you. I like wet feet."

The parlour at Fontenoy was large and high and cool, hung with green paper, touched with the dull gold of old mirrors, of a carved console or two, of oval frames enclosing dim portraits. Long windows opened to the April breeze, and from above the high mantel a Churchill in lovelocks and plumed hat looked down upon Jacqueline seated at her harp. She was playing Water parted from the Sea, playing it dreamily, with an absent mind. Deb, hearing the music from the hall, came and stood beside her sister. They were orphans, dwelling with an uncle.

"Jacqueline," said the child, "do you believe in the Devil?"

Jacqueline played on, but turned a lovely face upon her sister. "I don't know, honey," she said. "I suppose we must, but I had rather not."

"Uncle Edward doesn't. He says 'What the Devil!' but he doesn't believe in the Devil. Then why do he and Uncle d.i.c.k call Mr. Lewis Rand the Devil?"

Jacqueline's hands left the strings. "They neither say nor mean that, Deb. Uncle d.i.c.k and Uncle Edward are Federalists. They do not like Republicans, nor Mr. Jefferson, nor Mr. Jefferson's friends. Mr. Lewis Rand is Mr. Jefferson's friend, and he is his party's candidate for the General a.s.sembly, and so they do not like him. But they do not call him such names as that."

"Mr. Ludwell Cary doesn't like him either," said Deb. "Why, Jacqueline?"

"Mr. Ludwell Cary is his political opponent."

"And Mr. Fairfax Cary called him a d.a.m.ned tobacco-roller's son."

Jacqueline reddened. "Mr. Fairfax Cary might be thankful to have so informed a mind and heart. It is well to blame a man for his birth!"

"Mr. Ludwell Cary said, 'A man's a man for a' that.' What does that mean, Jacqueline?"

"It means," said Jacqueline, "that--that man stamps the guinea, but G.o.d sees the gold."

"Won't you tell me a story?" demanded Deb. "Tell me about the time when you were a little girl and you used to stay at Cousin Jane Selden's. And about the poor boy who lived on the next place--and the apple tree and the little stream where you played, and the mockingbird he gave you. And how his father was a cruel man, and you cried because he had to work so hard all day in the hot fields. You haven't told me that story for a long time."

"I have forgotten it, Deb."

"Then tell me about summer before last, when you were at Cousin Jane Selden's again, and you were grown, and you saw the poor boy again--only he was a man--and his father was dead, and he talked to you in Cousin Jane Selden's flower garden. You never told me that story but once."

"I have forgotten that one too."

"Why does your breath come long like that, Jacqueline? I have gotten my feet wet. Will you tell Mammy Chloe not to whip Miranda? Here is Uncle Edward!"

Major Edward Churchill entered from the garden, for which he had an attachment almost comparable to his love for the old Fontenoy library and the Fontenoy stables. He was a gentleman of the old school, slight, withered, high-nosed and hawk-eyed, dressed with precision and carrying an empty sleeve. The arm he had lost at Yorktown; a temper too hot to hold he daily lost, but he had the art to keep his friends. There were duels to his account, as well as a reputation for great courage and coolness during the late war. Under the name of Horatius he contributed to The Virginia Federalist diatribes of a polished ferocity against the Democrat-Republicans and their chief, and he owned Mustapha, the n.o.blest race-horse of the day. He was a bachelor, a member of the Cincinnati, a Black c.o.c.kade, a friend of Alexander Hamilton, a scholar, and a sceptic; a proud, high, fiery man, who had watched at the death-bed of many things. He made his home with his brother, the master of Fontenoy; and his niece Jacqueline, the daughter of a younger, long dead brother, was to him youth, colour, music, and romance.

"The moss-rose is in bloom," he announced, standing in the parlour door.

"Come see it, Jacqueline."

They went out into the garden and stood before the moss-rose bush. "Oh, beautiful!" exclaimed Jacqueline, and touched the rose with her lips. It was sunny in the garden, and the box smelled strong and sweet. The Major plucked a sprig and studied it as though box were a rarity. "I have found," he said, "Ludwell Cary's visit highly agreeable. He has come home to Virginia as likely a man as one could find in a summer day. He adorns the state. I predict for him a long and successful career."

"Yes, indeed," a.s.sented Jacqueline. "I like him very much. How well he talks! And travel has not made him forget the old days here."

The Major plucked another sprig of box. "In the old days, my dear, your father and your Uncle d.i.c.k and I used to plan--well, well, castles in Spain! castles in Spain! But he's a handsome fellow!"

"He is indeed," said Jacqueline. "His eyes are especially fine. I like that clear grey--frank and kind."

"He has sense and principle--he has mind."

"That is evident," answered his niece. "He does everything admirably.

Last night after supper he read to Unity and me. He reads extremely well. The book was the Death of Wallenstein. He made me see that murder!

My heart stood still."

"He is to be admired for standing up to-day against that d.a.m.ned demagogue, Lewis Rand! No matter if he is defeated. Every gentleman applauds him. You women adore victory, but let me tell you, a vanquished Federalist is still the conqueror of any ranting Republican!"

"Did I tell you," asked Jacqueline, "that Mr. Pincornet holds the dancing cla.s.s at Fontenoy this week?"

"The dancing cla.s.s be d.a.m.ned! Ludwell Cary is a man and a gentleman, Jacqueline--"

"Yes," said Jacqueline.

The Major threw away his sprig of box. "The Sphinx was a woman, and every woman is an incarnate riddle! Why don't you care for him, Jacqueline?"

"I do care for him. I like him very much."

"Pshaw!" said the Major irritably. "Don't look at that rose any longer!

It's cankered! And it's time that d.i.c.k and I were off. We vote--" he put his shapely, nervous hand upon his niece's shoulder--"we vote, Jacqueline, for Ludwell Cary."

"Yes, uncle," said Jacqueline. "I know--I know."

Colonel d.i.c.k Churchill, large and beaming, and Major Edward Churchill, thin and saturnine, rode away, and from between the white pillars Deb and Jacqueline watched them go. Colonel d.i.c.k's wife was an invalid, and lay always in the cool and s.p.a.cious "chamber," between dimity bed curtains, with her key basket on the counterpane.

"Jacqueline," said Deb, "whom do you vote for?"

"Women do not vote, honey."

"But if you _did_ vote, Jacqueline?"

"Do you remember," asked Jacqueline, "how Lady Mary Wortley Montagu offended Mr. Alexander Pope?"

"Ah," said Deb. "I'm little, and I ask questions, but I'm not crooked!

Will Mr. Lewis Rand ever come to Fontenoy, Jacqueline?"

"You are going to wear your blue gown to the dancing cla.s.s," said Jacqueline. "Unity is going to wear her yellow jaconet, and I shall wear white. I will make you a wreath of syringa like stars. And you may wear your gloves."

"Oh-h!" breathed Deb. "And my cornelian ring--and the flowered scarf--and--and your fan, Jacqueline?"

"Yes," said Jacqueline. "I am tired this morning, Deb. The sunlight is so strong. I think I'll go darken my room, and lie down upon my bed."

"Does your head ache?"

"Yes, my head," said Jacqueline, and went into the house.

CHAPTER IV

THE TWO CANDIDATES