It was better to leave things alone, he thought, and so sighed and said nothing.

That was an autumn of burning political conditions, and the excited slavery debates in the North were reechoing through the Virginia mountains. The Major, like the old war horse that he was, had already p.r.i.c.ked up his ears, and determined to lend his tongue or his sword, as his state might require.

That a fight could go on in the Union so long as Virginia or himself kept out of it, seemed to him a possibility little less than preposterous.

"Didn't we fight the Revolution, sir? and didn't we fight the War of 1812?

and didn't we fight the Mexican War to boot?" he would demand. "And, bless my soul, aren't we ready to fight all the Yankees in the universe, and to whip them clean out of the Union, too? Why, it wouldn't take us ten days to have them on their knees, sir."

The Governor did not laugh now; the times were too grave for that. His clear eyes had seen whither they were drifting, and he had thrown his influence against the tide, which, he knew, would but sweep over him in the end. "You are out of place in Virginia, Major," he said seriously.

"Virginia wants peace, and she wants the Union. Go south, my dear sir, go south."

During the spring before he had gone south himself to a convention at Montgomery, and he had spoken there against one of the greatest of the Southern orators. His state had upheld him, but the Major had not. He came home to find his old neighbour red with resentment, and refusing for the first few days to shake the hand of "a man who would tamper with the honour of Virginia." At the end of the week the Major's hand was held out, but his heart still bore his grievance, and he began quoting William L. Yancey, as he had once quoted Mr. Addison. In the little meetings at Uplands or at Cheric.o.ke, he would now declaim the words of the impa.s.sioned agitator as vigorously as in the old days he had recited those of the polished gentleman of letters. The rector and the doctor would sit silent and abashed, and only the Governor would break in now and then with: "You go too far, Major. There is a step from which there is no drawing back, and that step means ruin to your state, sir."

"Ruin, sir? Nonsense! nonsense! We made the Union, and we'll unmake it when we please. We didn't make slavery; but, if Virginia wants slaves, by G.o.d, sir, she shall have slaves!"

It was after such a discussion in the Governor's library that the old gentleman rose one evening to depart in his wrath. "The man who sits up in my presence and questions my right to own my slaves is a d.a.m.ned black abolitionist, sir," he thundered as he went, and by the time he reached his coach he was so blinded by his rage that Congo, the driver, was obliged to lift him bodily into his seat. "Dis yer ain' no way ter do, Ole Marster,"

said the negro, reproachfully. "How I gwine teck cyar you like Ole Miss done tole me, w'en you let yo' bile git ter yo' haid like dis? 'Tain' no way ter do, suh."

The Major was too full for silence; and, ignoring the Governor, who had hurried out to beseech him to return, he let his rage burst forth.

"I can't help it, Congo, I can't help it!" he said. "They want to take you from me, do you hear? and that black Republican party up north wants to take you, too. They say I've no right to you, Congo,--bless my soul, and you were born on my own land!"

"Go 'way, Ole Marster, who gwine min' w'at dey say?" returned Congo, soothingly. "You des better wrop dat ar neck'chif roun' yo' thoat er Ole Miss'll git atter you sho' es you live!"

The Major wiped his eyes on the end of the neckerchief as he tied it about his throat. "But, if they elect their President, he may send down an army to free you," he went on, with something like a sob of anger, "and I'd like to know what we'd do then, Congo."

"Lawd, Lawd, suh," said Congo, as he wrapped the robe about his master's knees. "Did you ever heah tell er sech doin's!" then, as he mounted the box, he leaned down and called out rea.s.suringly, "Don' you min', Ole Marster, we'll des loose de dawgs on 'em, dat's w'at we'll do," and they rolled off indignantly, leaving the Governor half angry and half apologetic upon his portico.

It was on the way home that evening that Congo spied in the sa.s.safras bushes beside the road a runaway slave of old Rainy-day Jones's, and descended, with a shout, to deliver his brother into bondage.

"Hi, Ole Marster, w'at I gwine tie him wid?" he demanded gleefully.

The Major looked out of the window, and his face went white.

"What's that on his cheek, Congo?" he asked in a whisper.

"Dat's des whar dey done hit 'im, Ole Marster. How I gwine tie 'im?"

But the Major had looked again, and the awful redness rose to his brow.

"Shut up, you fool!" he said with a roar, as he dived under his seat and brought out his brandy flask. "Give him a swallow of that--be quick, do you hear? Pour it into your cup, sir, and give him that corn pone in your pocket. I see it sticking out. There, now hoist him up beside you, and, if I meet that rascal Jones, I'll blow his d.a.m.n brains out!"

The Major doubtless would have fulfilled his oath as surely as his twelve peers would have shaken his hand afterwards; but, by the time they came up with Rainy-day a mile ahead, his wrath had settled and he had decided that "he didn't want such dirty blood upon his hands."

So he took a different course, and merely swore a little as he threw a roll of banknotes into the road. "Don't open your mouth to me, you h.e.l.l hound,"

he cried, "or I'll have you whipped clean out of this county, sir, and there's not a gentleman in Virginia that wouldn't lend a hand. Don't open your mouth to me, I tell you; here's the price of your property, and you can stoop in the dirt to pick it up. There's no man alive that shall question the divine right of slavery in my presence; but--but it is an inst.i.tution for gentlemen, and you, sir, are a d.a.m.ned scoundrel!"

With which the Major and old Rainy-day rode on in opposite ways.

BOOK SECOND

YOUNG BLOOD

I

THE MAJOR'S CHRISTMAS

On Christmas Eve the great logs blazed at Cheric.o.ke. From the open door the red light of the fire streamed through the falling snow upon the broad drive where the wheel ruts had frozen into ribbons of ice. The naked boughs of the old elms on the lawn tapped the peaked roof with twigs as cold and bright as steel, and the two high urns beside the steps had an iridescent fringe around their marble basins.

In the hall, beneath swinging sprays of mistletoe and holly, the Major and his hearty cronies were dipping apple toddy from the silver punch bowl half hidden in its wreath of evergreens. Behind them the panelled parlour was aglow with warmth, and on its shining wainscoting Great-aunt Emmeline, under her Christmas garland, held her red apple stiffly away from the skirt of her amber brocade.

The Major, who had just filled the rector's gla.s.s, let the ladle fall with a splash, and hurried to the open door.

"They're coming, Molly!" he called excitedly, "I hear their horses in the drive. No, bless my soul, it's wheels! The Governor's here, Molly! Fill their gla.s.ses at once--they'll be frozen through!"

Mrs. Lightfoot, who had been watching from the ivied panes of the parlour, rustled, with sharp exclamation, into the hall, and began hastily dipping from the silver punch bowl. "I really think, Mr. Lightfoot, that the house would be more comfortable if you'd be content to keep the front door closed," she found time to remark. "Do take your gla.s.s by the fire, Mr.

Blake; I declare, I positively feel the sleet in my face. Don't you think it would be just as hospitable, Mr. Lightfoot, to open to them when they knock?"

"What, keep the door shut on Christmas Eve, Molly!" exclaimed the Major from the front steps, where the snow was falling on his bare head. "Why, you're no better than a heathen. It's time you were learning your catechism over again. Ah, here they are, here they are! Come in, ladies, come in. The night is cold, but the welcome's warm.--Cupid, you fool, bring an umbrella, and don't stand grinning there.--Here, my dear Miss Lydia, take my arm, and never mind the weather; we've the best apple toddy in Virginia to warm you with, and the biggest log in the woods for you to look at. Ah, come in, come in," and he led Miss Lydia, in her white wool "fascinator," into the house where Mrs. Lightfoot stood waiting with open arms and the apple toddy. The Governor had insisted upon carrying his wife, lest she chill her feet, and Betty and Virginia, in their long cloaks, fluttered across the snow and up the steps. As they reached the hall, the Major caught them in his arms and soundly kissed them. "It isn't Christmas every day, you know,"

he lamented ruefully, "and even our friend Mr. Addison wasn't steeled against rosy cheeks, though he was but a poor creature who hadn't been to Virginia. But come to the fire, come to the fire. There's eggnog to your liking, Mr. Bill, and just a sip of this, Miss Lydia, to warm you up. You may defy the wind, ma'am, with a single sip of my apple toddy." He seized the poker and, while Congo brought the gla.s.ses, prodded the giant log until the flames leaped, roaring, up the chimney and the wainscoting glowed deep red.

"What, not a drop, Miss Lydia?" he cried, in aggrieved tones, when he turned his back upon the fire.

Miss Lydia shook her head, blushing as she untied her "fascinator." She was fond of apple toddy, but she regarded the taste as an indelicate one, and would as soon have admitted, before gentlemen, a liking for cabbage.

"Don't drink it, dear," she whispered to Betty, as the girl took her gla.s.s; "it will give you a vulgar colour."

Betty turned upon her the smile of beaming affection with which she always regarded her family. She was standing under the mistletoe in her light blue cloak and hood bordered with swan's-down, and her eyes shone like lamps in the bright pallor of her face.

"Why, it is delicious!" she said, with the pretty effusion the old man loved. "It is better than my eggnog, isn't it, papa?"

"If anything can be better than your eggnog, my dear," replied the Governor, courteously, "it is the Major's apple toddy." The Major bowed, and Betty gave a merry little nod. "If you hadn't put it so nicely, I should never have forgiven you," she laughed; "but he always puts it nicely, Major, doesn't he? I made him the other day a plum pudding of my very own,--I wouldn't even let Aunt Floretta seed the raisins,--and when it came on burnt, what do you think he said? Why, I asked him how he liked it, and he thought for a minute and replied, 'My dear, it's the very best burnt plum pudding I ever ate.' Now wasn't that dear of him?"

"Ah, but you should have heard how he put things when he was in politics,"

said the Major, refilling his gla.s.s. "On my word, he could make the truth sound sweeter than most men could make a lie."

"Come, come, Major," protested the Governor. "Julia, can't you induce our good friend to forbear?"

"He knows I like to hear it," said Mrs. Ambler, turning from a discussion of her Christmas dinner with Mrs. Lightfoot.

"Then you shall hear it, madam," declared the Major, "and I may as well say at once that if the Governor hasn't told you about the reply he made to Plaintain Dudley when he asked him for his political influence, you haven't the kind of husband, ma'am, that Molly Lightfoot has got. Keep a secret from Molly! Why, I'd as soon try to keep a keg full of brandy from following an auger."

"Auger, indeed!" exclaimed the little old lady, to whom the Major's facetiousness was the only serious thing about him. "Your secrets are like apples, sir, that hang to every pa.s.ser-by, until I store them away. Auger, indeed!"