University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

The visit of Delia to her uncle now drew to a close,
and she prepared for her return home. It was settled
that she should be accompanied by Douglas,
Arthur, and Virginia, who were to spend a few
weeks with her father.

On the road, Douglas felt more and more the duty
and the privilege of being the protector of his cousin,
and, by the time they reached the end of their journey,
he had discovered that the latter was as precious
as the former was sacred. Some such thought had
stolen into his mind while he was yet at home, but
that was not the place to mention the subject to her;
and he had determined to impose upon himself the
most scrupulous restraint, until he should have restored
her honorably to her father's arms.

Two days travel brought them to the residence of
Mr. Bernard Trevor, on the banks of the Roanoke.
They found him laid up with a fit of the gout, which,
while it confined him to the house, produced its
usual salutary effect on his general health. At the
sight of his daughter and her companions, his pain

was, for the moment, forgotten; and, flinging away
his flannels and crutches, he sprung to his feet and
caught her in his arms. At the same time, Arthur
and Virginia pressed forward for their welcome,
which they, in their turn, received.

Unfortunately, Mr. Trevor was not the only one
who forgot himself at the sight of Delia. Poor old
Carlo, starting from his slumbers on the hearthrug,
had recognized his young mistress, and was
manifesting his joy at her return with boisterous
fondness, when one of his feet saluted the inflamed
toe of his master. In an agony, which none but
they who have felt it can conceive, the old gentleman
sunk into his chair. Here he remained for
some minutes, unconscious of every thing but his
sufferings, while the soft hand of his daughter replaced
and soothed the tortured limb.

At length, recovering enough to look around, his
eye fell on Douglas, who stood aloof, waiting to be
introduced. Some little tag of military foppery,
which always clings to the undress of an officer,
satisfied Mr. Trevor who he was. Stretching out
his hand, he said: “Ah! Douglas, my dear boy!
How glad I am to see you! But I ought not to
have recognized you, you dog! standing back there
with your hat under your arm, as if waiting your
turn of presentation at a levee. Perhaps you don't
remember me. I certainly should not have known
you, but for the circumstances under which I see

you. But what of that? Was it not yesterday you
were sitting on my knee, and hanging about my
neck? Yes, it was yesterday; though we have both
dreamed a great deal since. But dreams must give
way to realities; so let us vote it yesterday, and meet
to-day as we parted last night.”

This singular accoste had the desired effect, and
Douglas felt, at once, as if he had been with his
uncle all his life.

“You forget, my dear sir,” said he, “that I was
intercepted by one whose privilege, I am sure, you
would not have me dispute, though he has abused
it so cruelly.”

“You mean the dog?” said Mr. Trevor. “Poor
old Carlo! Come to your master, my poor fellow!
No; your privilege shall never be invaded. We
are both past service now, and must learn to sympathize
with each other. If you cannot understand
the nature of a gouty toe, I hope I shall always have
heart enough to understand yours. Give me a rough
coat, or a black skin, for a true friend; one that will
not grudge any superior advantages that I may possess.
Tom,” added he, in a tone of marked gentleness,
the fire is low. No, not yourself, old man,”
he continued, as the negro whom he addressed
moved toward the door; “not you, my good old
friend. Just ring the bell, and let one of those lazy
dogs in the kitchen bring in some wood. But why
don't you speak to your master Douglas? I am sure

you remember what cronies you were, when you
were teaching him to ride.”

“I'm mighty proud to see you, sir,” said the old
man, taking the offered hand of Douglas, with an air
of affectionate humility. “But it was not my place,
sir,” added he, answering his master's words, “to
speak first. I made sure master Douglas would remember
me after a while.”[1]

“I do remember you, Tom,” said Douglas, cordially,
“and many a time, on parade, have I been
thankful to you for teaching me to hold my reins
and manage my horse.

“You will find it hard,” said Mr. Trevor, gravely,
“to convince Tom that you remember him, if you
call him by that name. Tom is Delia's daddy, and
Lucia's, and Arthur's, and Virginia's daddy, and so
will be to the day of his death. If ever he ceases

to be your daddy, too, Douglas, I shall move to
reconsider the vote that we just now passed unanimously.”

“It is a vice the northern air has blown upon
me,” said Douglas, blushing. “I felt the truth of
what you said just now, and am not more sure of
being affectionately remembered by any that I used
to know, than by my good old daddy.”

Mr. Trevor now requested Tom to see that the
horses of the travellers were properly attended to;
and the negro left the room.

“What a graceful and gentlemanly old man!”
said Douglas, looking after him.

“His manners,” said Mr. Trevor, “are exactly
suited to his situation. Their characteristic is proud
humility. The opposite is servile sulkiness, of
which, I suspect, Douglas, you have seen no little.”

“I have seen nothing else,” said Douglas,
“among the servants in the North. If the tempers
of our negroes were as ferocious, and their feelings
as hostile, we should have to cut their throats in self-defence
in six months.”

“I am glad,” said Mr. Trevor, “that you have
not learned to sacrifice your own experience to the
fanciful theories of the Amis de Noirs, at least on
this point. The time, I hope, will come when you
will see, if you do not already, the fallacy of all their
cant and sophistry on the subject of domestic slavery.
You will then bless God that your lot has been cast

where the freedom of all, who, in the economy of
Providence, are capable of freedom, is rendered
practicable by the particular form in which the subordination
of those who must be slaves is cast.”

“I am not sure,” said Douglas, “that I exactly
comprehend you.”

“Perhaps not,” replied the uncle. “And that
reminds me that I am trespassing on forbidden
ground. Just there, the differences of opinion between
your father and myself commence; and from
that point they diverge so much, that I do not feel at
liberty to speak to his son on certain topics.”

“But why not, my dear sir? You surely cannot
expect me to think with my father on all subjects;
and you would not have me do so, when you thought
him wrong. I do not profess to be deeply studied
in these matters; but, between your lights and his,
I might hope to find my way to the truth.”

“There are some subjects, Douglas,” replied Mr.
Trevor, with solemnity, “on which it is better to be
in error than to differ, totally and conscientiously,
from a father. Delia is but a girl; but should she
have come back to me changed in her sentiments
(opinions she cannot have) in regard to certain matters,
I should feel that I had been grievously wronged
by any one who had wrought the change. I know
your father has not done this; and I must do as I
would be done by, and as I am sure I have been
done by.”

“I cannot conceive,” said Douglas, “what sort
of subjects those can be, concerning which error in
opinion is better than truth, under any circumstances.”

“Those,” replied Mr. Trevor, “in which truth
would bring duty in conflict with duty.”

“Nay, then,” said Douglas, “there is no danger
of my conversion in such cases. I should take that as
an infallible proof that doctrines leading to such consequences
must be false.”

“Your proposed test of truth is so specious,” observed
Mr. Trevor, “that I will go so far as to say
one word to convince you of its fallacy. If ever I
take you in hand, my lad, my first lesson will be to
teach you to examine plausibilities closely, and to
distrust summary and simple arguments on topics
about which men differ.”

“Does any one, then, maintain,” asked Douglas,
“that two opinions which impose conflicting duties
can both be right?”

“I shall not answer that,” answered Mr. Trevor.
“You shall answer it yourself. You are a soldier of
the United States. Suppose an insurrection. What,
in that case, would be your duty?”

“To fight against the rebels,” replied Douglas,
promptly.

“And, thinking as you do, so it would be.
Now, suppose your father to be one of those same
rebels.”

“I see,” said Douglas, after a pause, in which he
colored to the tips of his ears; “I see that you are
right.”

“In what?” asked Mr. Trevor.

“In maintaining,” he replied, “that two opinions
which prescribe conflicting duties, may both be
right.”

“But I have not said so,” replied Mr. Trevor,
smiling.

“But you have proved it.”

“I am not quite sure of that. Here is another
summary and simple looking argument, on a difficult
question. My own rule is, `distrust and reexamine.”'

He stopped short, while Douglas looked at him
with a perplexed and wondering eye. He at length
went on: “I shall not break faith with your father
by teaching you to think. You have the propositions;
and you see there is fallacy somewhere. Analyse
the subject, and find your own result. But
come, my boy—this is poor entertainment for a hungry
traveller. Your aunt has some dinner for you
by this time, and here is Tom come to tell us so.
Come, give me your arm, and help me to the dining
room.”

“My dear father,” said Delia, “that is my office.”

“Both! both! my children!” exclaimed the old

man, throwing away his other crutch. “Why, now
I am better off than a man with sound limbs.”

In the dining-room, Mrs. Trevor awaited them.
A hasty greeting was all she had allowed herself on
the first arrival of the party; after which, she betook
herself to the duties of housewifery and hospitality.
They found her standing at the back of her chair; and
Douglas, as he entered, thought he had rarely seen a
more striking figure. She was matronly in her dress
and air; tall, majestic, and graceful in her person;
and with a countenance beaming with frankness,
animation, and intelligence. She had been a beautiful
woman, and, being much younger than her husband,
was still handsome. She extended her hand
to Douglas as he entered, and placing him near her,
so mingled the courtesy due to a stranger with the
cordiality of an old acquaintance, as to make him
feel all the comfort and ease of home, without ever
losing a sense of that bland influence, which, while
it secures decorum, imposes no constraint.

“Would you have known me?” asked the lady.

“I cannot say I could have identified you,” he
replied; “but I should have recognized you as one
I ought to know.”

“And your uncle?”

“Not by sight, certainly,” said Douglas. “I
remember him too distinctly for that. He is too
much altered. But I know him by his manners and
conversation. These I never could forget; and these

are the same, and peculiarly his own. I remember
how he used to exercise my mind, and make me talk;
and yet never let me talk without thinking.”

“And has he been at the old game already?”

“O yes! He has set me to revising and doubting
what have seemed to me to be self-evident truths,
and proposes to leave me to work out the problem
by myself. What conclusion I am to settle in, I cannot
guess; but, from present appearances, I shall not
be surprised if I go away convinced that I have
seven fingers on one hand, and but two on the other;
nine in all.”

“He has not touched on politics?”

“O no! That subject he has tabooed; and I am
truly sorry for it; for while I never desire to waver
in my allegiance to the United States, I am anxious
to understand what may become me as a Virginian.
If I may judge from what my father says, there
is no man from whom I could learn more on that
subject than my uncle.”

“His lesson would not be a short one,” replied
the lady. “His commandments on behalf of the
State are only second in authority with him to the
decalogue; and they do not lie in as small a compass.
But he fears he might teach you some things
your father would wish you to unlearn.”

“I am not so sure of that,” answered Douglas.
“I meant to say that there is no man whose judgment
my father holds in higher respect.”

“That is something new,” said Mrs. Trevor,
coloring, and with a countenance in which there
was some expression of wounded pride. I should
be glad to be convinced of that.”

“Why should you doubt it?” asked the young
man, with surprise.

“Because it has not always been so; and, as I
claim a woman's privilege to admire my husband
above all men, I have felt hurt at it. Your uncle
thinks so highly of his brother's wisdom and prudence,
that he has always borne to be thought the
reverse of him in these things, and quietly submitted
to be condemned as a heretic on account of opinions,
of the correctness of which he found it impossible to
doubt.”

“There may have been something of this,” said
Douglas, earnestly; “but I assure you it is not so
now. I do believe one motive with my father for
wishing me to make this visit, is his desire that
I should hear both sides; and have the benefit of
the sagacity and manly sense which he imputes to
my uncle.”

“He will have to tell him so plainly,” replied Mrs.
Trevor, “before he will open his mouth to you.
But I shall be less scrupulous; and I am in daily
expectation of a friend whose frankness will leave
you no cause to regret your uncle's reserve.”

“Who is that?” asked Douglas.

“I shall leave you to find out. You will see

many here who feel and think with your uncle, and
who come to him to compare thoughts and concert
measures. Among them is the man on whom the
destinies of his country depend.”

“The only man of whom I should predicate
that,” replied Douglas, with some quickness, “is
one who, I am very sure, never comes here.”

“There is a good and an evil principle,” said
Mrs. Trevor. “Events alike depend on both. You
speak of the one of these—I of the other.”

Douglas felt his cheek burn at this remark. His
aunt, observing it, added: “You see, you will run
the risk of adopting dangerous heresies if you encourage
us to be too unreserved. But your candor and
good sense may be trusted to lead you right, without
our guidance.”

Douglas felt the truth of the first part of this
speech. Whether any thing more than a complimentary
turn of expression was meant in the closing
words, he did not know. But if the lady intended
to express a hope that he might become a convert
to the disorganizing notions which he feared were
prevalent in her circle, he took the liberty to doubt
whether her anticipations would ever be realized.
He now changed the conversation, and determined
to take a second thought before he invited discussions
which might mislead him. He found he had
to do with active and vigorous minds, against which
he might, perhaps, vainly strive to defend himself,

even with truth on his side. He resolved, therefore,
to yield to the inclination which led him to pass
his time with his young friends, and chiefly with
Delia.