University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.

“Why did n't you write that you had
reached Charleston?” demanded Mr. Beaumont,
when the first tornado of greeting
had blown over. “I have been very anxious
for the last few days,” added this affectionate
old gladiator.

“Write? Did write,” answered Tom.
“Sent off a three-decker of a letter. You 'll
get it in an hour or so. Came up in the
same train with us probably. The mail service
is n't worth a curse. But hain't you
got your papers? So you don't know anything
about the shipwreck? Shipwreck!
Yes. Do you think I 'd come home in
Charleston store-clothes if I had n't been
shipwrecked? Trunks and steamer gone
to the bottom of What's-his-name's locker.”

And then came the story, Mrs. Chester
and Tom telling it at once, the former in a
steady gush of keen treble, and the latter
in boisterous ejaculatory barytone. We will
pass over this two-horse narrative, and
come promptly to the amazement of Mr.
Peyton Beaumont when he learned that
there had been a McAlister on board the
Mersey, breaking bread daily with his sister
and his children.

“What the — Why the —” he commenced
and recommenced. Then, like a pistol-shot,
“How did he behave himself?”

His eyes began to flame and his phalanxes
of eyebrows to bring down their pikes, in
suspicion of some insult which he would be
called upon to avenge.

“Did n't know him at first,” explained
Tom. “Did n't find him out till — till I
got ashore. Played possum. Incognito.”

“Incognito!” trumpeted Mr. Beaumont.
“The scoundrel!”

“Incognito!” repeated Vincent and Poinsett,
exchanging a look which also said,
“The scoundrel!”

Kate flushed deeply; of course she remembered

the offer of marriage and the
salvation from death; but either she did
not think it wise at that moment to speak
in the young man's defence, or she could
not muster the courage.

“And he dared to make your acquaintance
under his incognito!” clarioned away
the senior Beaumont. “I never heard of
such infamous trickery, never! It 's the
most outrageous insult that ever our family
was subjected to. By heavens, I am stupefied.
I can't believe it. And yet it is
so like a McAlister. A mean, sneaking, underhanded
lot. Possums! Foxes! Ca-ts!”
This last word in a hiss and with a bristling
worthy of the most belligerent of old
Toms.

“I say,” began Tom. Then he turned to
the two women. “Now look here. You
two ought to tell how the thing went. It 'll
come best from a lady,” explained Tom,
who did not think that a male Beaumont
ought to be a peacemaker, not at least in a
matter of McAlisters.

“It certainly was very singular conduct,”
twittered Mrs. Chester. “I was excessively
indignant when I first discovered the mystery.
But —”

“But what?” broke in Beaumont senior.
“What the d— dickens are you driving at?”

Kate, who was sitting on a sofa beside
her father, slipped her hand around his
neck, pulled his red-granite cheek toward
her and kissed it. She remembered what a
pet she had been in her childhood, and she
had perceived within the last few minutes
that she was a pet still, and she felt now
that it was time to begin to use her power.
Beaumont fondled her with his mighty arm,
and uttered a chastened, not unmelodious
growl like that of a panther at the approach
of his favorite keeper.

“But the truth is,” continued Mrs. Chester,
“it is a very strange story, I am aware.
It seems incredible, in one of that family.
But I really believe the young man had
good motives.”

The truth further is, that Mrs. Chester
had had a few pleasant words of explanation
and of parting with “the young man”
in the hall of the Charleston Hotel. Tom
had not called on Frank McAlister; no,
Tom could not shoulder the responsibility
of such a move as that; he must leave the
whole matter to the elders of his tribe.
“Look here, now,” he had said to Major
Lawson, when the latter suggested the
visit; “I ain't ungrateful to the chap for
saving my sister's life; but then you know
the bloody old row; he 's a McAlister, you
see.” And then the Major had replied:
“My de-ar young fellow, you are, I have no
doubt, perfectly judicious; see your excel-lent
father first.”

But woman may do what man must not.
Mrs. Chester, bewildered by some blarney
of the Major's (who had told her that Frank
raved — “Yes, my dear madam, fairly
raved” — about her) seized an opportunity
to meet the handsome youngster in
one of the passages. There he explained
the motives of his incognito, expressed his
respect for the Beaumont name, and sagaciously
added some incense for herself. Of
course, too, he was wise enough not to say a
word about his offer to her niece. The result
of this conversation, and of some judicious
remarks from Kate on the way up to
Hartland, was that Mrs. Chester (very weak
on the subject of young men, remember) was
half inclined to forget the family feud and
quite willing to say a good word for Frank
McAlister.

“I at least acquit him of bad motives,”
she spunkily added, firing up under her
brother's glare of angry amazement.

“Just so,” put in Tom. “The chap did
play possum, but I don't believe he meant
any harm. Said he wanted to keep out of a
quarrel, and I feel bound to believe him.”

“Then he must be a coward,” scoffed
Beaumont senior.

“Scarcely,” said Tom. “Did n't show
that style. Tell him about it, aunt, or sis,
one of you.”

“Papa, he saved my life,” whispered Kate,
her voice failing at thought of that awful
moment. “I went ten feet under water.”

Her father caught her as if he himself
was rescuing her from death.

“You went — ten feet — under water!”
he gasped. And he looked for a moment
as if he could cry ten feet of water at the
thought of her danger and deliverance.

“And he saved her, after I 'd lost her,”
added Tom, walking up to Kate and kissing
her. “I tell you, I ain't a going to be very
hard on a fellow that did that. He went
clean under, slap into the middle of the
ocean, right off the stern of the wreck.”

“By heavens!” uttered Mr. Beaumont.
It was almost a groan; his solid old heart
was throbbing unusually; he felt as if he
were going to have a stroke of some sort.
Presently he looked up, his swarthy-red forehead
wrinkled all over with perplexity, and
gave Vincent a stare which said, “How
about that duel?”

The young man's habitual smile of self-sufficiency
and satire was gone. Respectably
affected for the moment, he earnestly
wished that the difficulty with Wallace had
not happened, and queried whether he were
not bound, as a gentleman, to fire in the air.

“But what is your opinion about this business,
Kate?” asked Poinsett. “You have
said nothing.”

The girl threw off her beautiful timidity,
and spoke out with beautiful firmness: —

“Of course, I am under the greatest obligations

to Mr. McAlister. And, even if I
were not, I should have nothing to say
against him. I don't know whether he did
right or not in concealing his name —”

“He did n't,” Mr. Beaumont could not
help muttering, while Vincent and Poinsett
shook their chivalrous heads.

“But that began with an accident,” continued
Kate. “The captain made a mistake:
he thought McAlister was McMaster;
and then he let it go so. He said that he
did it for the sake of peace; and I believe
him. He seemed to be a gentleman. I believe
every word he said.”

“So do I,” added Mrs. Chester, remembering
how tall he was, and what a fine
complexion he had.

“And I,” confirmed Tom, rather hesitatingly,
as if it were not quite the thing for a
Beaumont to say.

“We are in what vulgar people call a
fix,” laughed that easy old shoe of a Poinsett.
“My dear little Kate,” playing with
her chestnut ringlets, “if he had n't saved
you, we should have gone mad, every soul of
us. No further use for our sanity. But since
he has saved you, we are in sloughs of perplexity.
My respected father and my much-esteemed
brothers (descendants of the De
Beaumonts of Yvetot and other places), we
are threatened with the loss of our family
institution, our race palladium. The feud
with the McAlisters has been to us more
than our coat of arms. I may almost call it
the Beaumont established religion. It is
impossible to conceal the fact that it has received
a rude shock. Are we to drop away
from the creed of our forefathers? Are we
to have no faith? A merely human mind —
such as I grieve to say mine is — recoils at
the prospect.”

Vincent, somewhat recovered from his
first emotion, gazed through half-shut eyes
at the joker, and inclined once more to fight
his duel seriously. Beaumont senior got up,
strode like a lion about the room, glared
once or twice at Poinsett, and growled,
“This is jesting, sir, on a very serious matter.”

“I understand my brother,” struck in
Kate, with a clear, sweet, firm note, which
sounded like a challenge from a cherub's
clarion, if cherubs carry such an article.
“Why should n't the quarrel end?”

All the men stared. Even Poinsett had
not meant half so much. The words were
audacious beyond any remembered standard
of comparison. Words of such import had
perhaps never before been uttered in the
family.

Mr. Beaumont halted abruptly, and gave
the girl a look of astonishment and inquiry
which seemed to ask, “Have we a queen
over us?”

Poinsett made a gesture of taking off a
hat, and whispered smilingly, “Portia!”

Mrs. Chester rustled her skirts in perplexity,
and Tom's eyes asked counsel of his
father.

“My dear Kate, don't be flustered,” said
Poinsett, seeing that the child looked frightened
at the sensation she had created.
“What you have said was a perfectly natural
thing to say, and, from the usual human
point of view, a perfectly rational one.
At the same time I suspect that we Beaumonts,
not being of the ordinary human
mould, are not fitted to discuss such a proposition
without time for meditation. I apprehend
that we had better lay it aside until
our eyes have somewhat recovered from the
first dazzle. Suppose you proceed, some
one of you, or all three of you, with the
shipwreck.”

The counsel seemed to suit the feelings
of every one. Mr. Beaumont stopped his
walk, nestled down again by his daughter's
side, and listened quietly to the threefold
narrative. Not another word concerning
the feud was said during the interview.

But, two hours later, the story of the duel
got wind among the new-comers. Mrs.
Chester, seated in her room amid old dresses
which it was now necessary to make over,
listened to a stream of respectable gossip
from her ancient maid and foster-sister, Miriam,
a tall, dignified, and of course middle-aged
negress, leaner and graver than is
usual with her species.

“Laws, Miss Marian!” said Miriam,
using the girlish title which she had always
given to her born mistress. “Skacely a
thing to wear! And all them trunks full of
beautiful things gone to the bottom of the
sea! Well, honey, it 's a warnin' of the
Lord's not to set our hearts on the vanities
of this world. We oughter feel mighty
grateful to him when he takes the trouble
to warn us. The blessed Lord he 's been
powerful good to ye, Miss Marian. Must n't
forgit he 's saved yer life, honey. Gin ye
one more chance to set yer face straight for
his city. An' perhaps he had other plans,
too. Perhaps he saw ye was comin' to a
time when ye would n't be able to wear the
fine fixin's. We 'se no idea gin'lly, how
keerfully the Lord looks after us.”

“What do you mean, Miriam?” demanded
Mrs. Chester, pettishly. “Do you mean to
say I 'm getting old? I don't see it.”

“Laws, honey, you 's young enough.
Never see no lady hold out better 'n you do.
Must say it: that 's a fact. But I 'se talkin'
of somethin' more solemn than growin' old.
You may be called on fo' long, if the Lord
don't help in his mighty mercy, to put on
mournin'.”

“Who 's sick?” demanded Mrs. Chester,
more curious than anxious.

“It 's Mars Vincent is sick. He 's sick
with sin an' wrath an' anger. Perhaps he 's

sick unto death. They 's gwine to be another
duel, Miss Marian.”

Mrs. Chester loked up from her old
dresses; duels had always been very interesting
to her. She had been the cause of
two, and they were pleasant remembrances.
She liked to hear of such things and to
talk of them, as much as that non-combatant
hero-worshipper, Major Lawson.

“They 've been tryin' to keep it shet
from you an' Miss Katy,” continued Miriam.
“Mars Vincent tole Cato he 'd boot him, if
he let on. But I 'm gwine to tell of it, an'
I 'm gwine to bear my witness agin it. It 's
Satan's works, this yere duelling is, an'
I 'm gwine to say so. I don't care who
hears me. Mars Vincent may boot me if he
likes, I ain't afeard of bootin'.”

“Vincent sha' n't hurt you,” declared
Mrs. Chester, with that feeling of loyalty
towards an adherent which made a Southerner
of old days fight for his slave, and
makes a Southerner of these days fight for
his dog.

“That 's you, Miss Marian. I know'd
you 'd say jest that. But you need n't git
mad on my 'count. The Lord he 'll take
care of me. Bless your soul, he allays does.
But about this duelling. It 's Satan's works,
as I 'se sayin' ever sence the Lord had
mercy on me, though you don't think so.
You has white folkses notions, all for
fightin' an' shootin'. It 's Satan's works, an'
I 've prayed again it; prayed many a time
there might never be another duel in this
fam'ly; prayed for this poor bloodstained
fam'ly, all covered with blood an' wounds;
duels on duels an' allays duels, ever sence I
can 'member; never hear of no sech folks
for it. But 'pears like Satan 's got the upper
hands of my prayers, an' here 's Mars Vincent
led away by him, prehaps to his own
destruction.”

“But who is it with?” demanded Mrs.
Chester, vastly more interested in the news
than in the sermonizing which accompanied
it.

“With Wally McAlister, that other poo'
fightin' creetur, the Lord have mercy on his
soul!”

“McAlister!” exclaimed Mrs. Chester, in
sudden excitement, not at all pleasurable.

“Yes. Some mis'able chipper at the
Presbyterian fair, not enough for two goslins
to hiss about. Mars Vincent he kinder
sassed Wally, an' then Wally he kinder
sassed Mars Vincent, and now Bent Armitage
he 's been over with the challenge, an'
it 's to be some time this week. An' jes 's
likely 's not one o' them poo' silly creeturs 'll
be standin' befo' the bar of God befo'
'nother Sunday comes roun'. Won't be able
to call the Judge out there, if the judgment
don't suit him.”

Mrs. Chester had dropped her dresses.
She had forgotten her usual gossiping interest
in duels. She was leaning back in
her arm-chair, reflecting with a seriousness
which wrinkled her forehead more than she
would have liked, had she seen it.

“Miriam, we must try to stop this,” was
her conclusion.

“Why, bless your darlin' heart!” burst
out the negress. “Why, laws bless you,
honey! Has the blessed Lord touched
your sperit at last? Never heerd you say
that sort o' thing befo', never. Stop it?
Why, we 'll try, honey, hopin' the Lord 'll
help us. But how 's we gwine to work?
Who 's we to go at?”

“Go and call Miss Kate,” ordered Mrs.
Chester.

“Miss Katy? That poor, dear, little
thing? Gwine to tell her about it, an' she
jes come home this very day?”

“Go and call her,” repeated Mrs. Chester,
who cared little for any one's feelings,
so that she compassed her ends.

Kate came in, hair down and shoulders
bare, more charming than usual. Elderly
Miriam devoured her with her eyes, but
kept a discreet silence as to her loveliness,
remembering “Miss Marian's” jealous
spirit. The story of the duel was told.

“O dear!” was the brief utterance of
Kate's vast sorrow and despair, as she
seated herself on a stool and clutched her
hands over her knees.

“Laws bless you, chile!” was the answering
groan of Miriam. “I did n' want Miss
Marian to go for to tell you. The Lord
help this poo' fam'ly! Allays in trouble!”

“But do you think he 'll be shot?” asked
Kate.

“What, Mars Vincent? Dear me, chile,
he may be. He 's been shot twice.”

“But can't it be stopped?”

“That is what I called you in for,” said
Mrs. Chester. “I don't believe this quarrel
rests upon anything very important. I think
it ought to be stopped. I do, indeed, Beaumont
as I am, and Beaumont all over. But
who 's to stop it? What can you do?”

“Can't my grandfather do something?”
suggested the girl.

“The very man!” shouted and laughed
Miriam, jumping up from her squatting posture
on the floor and waving her arms as if
in benediction. “Jes the very man. Send
over for Colonel Kershaw. Laws me, when
I 'se in trouble, I goes first to the Lord, an'
he gen'rally sends me to Colonel Kershaw.
Why did n' I ever think of him befo'?
Specs I 'se gittin' old an' foolish.”

“Yes, your grandfather will come into
play very nicely,” said Mrs. Chester, who
did not fancy the old gentleman overmuch,
principally because she was somewhat afraid
of him.

“I 'll cut right out an' start off a nigger

after him,” volunteered Miriam. “You, Miss
Katy, you jes write him a little letter, askin'
him to come right away to see you, jes
saved from shipwreck, you know. Tell him
not to fail on no account; you wants to see
him powerful, this very day.”

In ten minutes a mounted negro was galloping
over the few miles of country which
separated the Beaumont from the Kershaw
plantation. Late in the afternoon the
Colonel arrived, bringing with him our
gracious friend, Major Lawson.

Colonel John Kershaw was one of those
noble souls who look all their nobility.
In his youth he had been a very handsome
man, and at eighty he was venerably beautiful.
His long aquiline face, strangely
wrinkled into deep furrows which were
almost folds, was a sublime composition of
dignity, serenity, and benevolence. You
would have been tempted to say that a
great sculptor could not have imagined anything
better suited to typify an intelligent,
good, and grand old age. Indeed, this head
had been wrought patiently with both great
strokes and tender touches by the mightiest
of all sculptors. Perhaps no man ever
looked upon it without feeling that it called
for entire confidence and respect. Its moral
grandeur of expression was heightened by
the crown of nearly snow-white, though still
abundant hair which rose from the deeply
channelled forehead, and swept down over
his massive neck. Even the stoop which
diminished the height of his tall figure
seemed to add to the spiritual impressiveness
of his appearance.

Colonel Kershaw's countenance perfectly
expressed his character. He was one of
those simple, pure, honorable, sensible country
gentlemen (of whom one meets more
perhaps in our Southern States than in
most other portions of this planet) who
strike one as having a reserve of moral and
intellectual power too great for their chances
of action, and who lead one to trust that
Washingtons will still be, forthcoming when
their country needs. For the readers of
this story it is perhaps a sufficient proof of
the weight and humanity of his influence,
that, since his daughter had married a
Beaumont, there had been only two duels
between that race and the McAlisters,
although there had been endless political
differences and other bickerings. In doing
this much towards quelling the family feud,
it was generally acknowledged that Colonel
Kershaw had done wonders.

“How do you do, Beaumont?” he said
in a deep, tremulous, mellow voice. “I
have come to stay a day or so with you, and
I knew you would be glad to see Lawson,
who had just arrived to cheer me up. So
Mrs. Chester, and Kate, and Tom have got
home? Where are the dear people?”

There was a little scream and rustle behind
him; it was the cry and the approach
of girlish love. The next moment Kate,
always a worshipper of her grandfather and
still fanatical in the old faith, was on his
shoulder and in his arms.

“Why, my dear little child!” said the
old man. “Why, my grand young lady!”
he added, setting her back to get a fair
view of her. “Ah, I never shall hold you
in my lap again,” he changed, one more of
the joys of life gone. “Shall I? shall I?”
he laughed when she told him that he would.

Next Major Lawson seized the girl, clinging
to and patting her hand and staring at
her face and smiling. “Beautiful creature!”
he murmured. “Beautiful creature!”
he whispered. “Beau-ti-ful creature!”
he sighed into silence. But he was
in earnest, not flattering purposely nor even
consciously; quite out of himself and quite
sincere. “How like your mother!” he
continued to flute. “Dear me, how like
your grandfather! Colonel, your image!
Your continuator. All your virtues and
more than your graces!”

Notwithstanding the differences of sex
and years, the resemblance between the
two faces was indeed remarkable. Looking
at the old man, you could see where the
girl got her almost sublime expression of
dignity, purity, and sweetness.

“O, go long, she 's all Kershaw,” soliloquized
black Miriam, her arms akimbo,
worshipping the pair. “An' her mother
was, too, poor thing! Though how she
could marry sech a tearer as Mars Peyt,
beats me. Wal, women is women, an'
they 's most all fools, specially when it
comes to marryin'. I s'pose it 's for some
wonderful good end, or the Lord he would n'
make 'em so.”

In short, the Colonel had an ovation from
the whole household, male and female, white,
black, and yellow. Beaumont senior was
almost petulant with jealousy, as he often
had been before on such occasions; for he,
too, domineering and passionate as he was,
desired to be worshipped, especially by his
youngest daughter.

Presently the visitors were led away by
grinning negroes to their rooms over the
columned veranda, which ran along the
whole front of the mansion. Half an hour
later, when the Colonel had washed off the
dust of travel and combed his noble mane of
silver, there was a little tap at his door and
a silvery call, “Grandpapa.”

The old man started with pleasure; he
had been wondering whether she would
come to him; he had thought of it several
times.

“Why, come in, my darling!” and opening
the door for her, he led her proudly to a
chair.

“Do you want anything?” she asked.
“I am housekeeper,” she added with a smile,
shaking a bunch of keys.

“And Mrs. Chester? I hope she is not
discontented.”

“Papa settled the thing himself. You
know papa. But I don't think aunt cares
for the trouble. So we are all pleased.
But O, I am so delighted to see you! And
you have n't changed; you are so like yourself.
Is n't it nice that grandpapas don't
grow? I am going to be silly with you; I
am going to behave very little. You make
me feel just like a child again. I want to
sit in your lap as I used to do. Just this
once, at any rate.”

She installed herself on her throne,
slipped a hand over his shoulder and smiled
in his face.

“Is n't it doleful for you to live all alone?
I wish our houses could be moved alongside
each other. I hate to think of you all
alone.”

“I have my land and my people to take
care of, dear. The time passes. Perhaps
I am all the more fond of my friends for being
a little lonely. Lawson was really very
kind to come and see me. I was quite
obliged to him.”

“Grandpapa, I am going to trouble you,”
was the girl's next speech. Her face suddenly
lost the petting, gleeful, childlike expression
which had shone from it hitherto.
It assumed womanliness; it ripened at once
into a grave maturity; it was dignified, anxious,
and yet remained beautiful; perhaps
it was even more lovely than before.

“It is too bad in me, but I must worry
you,” she went on. “There are very serious
matters passing here. There is to be a
duel, grandpapa.”

“A duel!” he repeated, his noble old physiognomy
becoming still nobler with regret.

“It is a quarrel between Vincent and
Wallace McAlister.”

“The old story,” murmured the Colonel,
shaking his head at bloody reminiscences.
“My child, tell me all you know about it.
We may be able to prevent it.”

“But first I must tell you something else,”
she said, blushing slightly. “There are
special reasons why a duel between the families
should not happen now. It would be, I
think, a great scandal.”

Then she hurried through the story of her
salvation from death by Frank McAlister.

“My dear, Lawson told me this,” said
the Colonel. “Yes, as you think, a duel
would be a scandal. It would be not only a
crime, but a shame. I will see your brother.
I will go at once.”

“O, thank you! You will succeed,”
cried Kate, her face flushing with hope.

“Let us hope so. But I may not. This
old, old quarrel!”