University of Virginia Library

19. CHAPTER XIX.

Words are a feeble, undisciplined rabble,
able to perform little true and efficient
service. Even the imagination is an uncertain
general who gets no full obedience
out of wretched soldiers, and sees not
how to marshal them so that they may
do their best duty. It seems, at times,
as if there were nothing real and potent
about the human being, except the passion
which he can feel and which he cannot
describe.

Here is a man full of love, — full of the
noblest and far the strongest of all passions,
and this passion so intensified by anxiety
and disappointment that it is near akin to
frenzy, — riding furiously homeward to encounter
his father with a face of white anger,
and to ask hoarsely, Is it true that you
have made me wretched for life? So far
as feeling is concerned, the figure is one of
high tragedy. The youth is mad enough to
break his neck without recking, mad enough
to commit a crime without being half conscious
of it. He is so possessed by one imperious
desire, that he cannot take rational
account of the desires of others. Flying
over the slopes between the Beaumont house
and his home, he is impatience and haste
personified. He comes in upon his father
with the air of an avenger of blood. Well,
have we described him in such a way that
he can be seen and comprehended? Probably
not.

“Is it true, sir, that you are running for
Congress?” were his first words.

The Judge dropped back in his large
office-chair, and stared over his spectacles
at this questioning, this almost menacing
apparition. It was the first time in his life
that he had been frightened by one of his
own children. For a moment he was too
much discomposed to speak. It was really
a strange thing to see this large, sagacious,
cunning face, usually so calm and confident
and full of speculation, reduced to such a
state of paralysis.

“Is it true, sir?” repeated the young
man, resting his tremulous hands on the
back of a chair, and sending his bold blue
eyes into his father's sly gray ones.

“Why, good heavens! Frank,” stammered
the Judge, “what is all this?”

Frank said nothing, but his face repeated
his question; it demanded a plain answer.

“Why, the fact is, Frank,” confessed the
Judge, with a smile of almost humble deprecation,
“that I have been badgered, yes, I
may say fairly badgered, into trying my
luck again.”

Uttering a groan, or rather a smothered
howl of anger and pain, the young man sat
down hastily, his head swimming.

“But, good heavens! Frank, is there anything
so extraordinary in it?” asked the
father.

“Mr. Beaumont charged you with it,”
said Frank, dropping his face into his hands.
“I did n't believe it.”

“Charged me with it!” repeated the
Judge. “Is it a crime, then?” he demanded,
feeling somehow that it was one,
yet trying to be indignant.

“It reopens the old account of blood,”
the youth muttered without looking up.

“Not at all. I don't see it,” declared the
Judge, glad to find a point on which he
could argue, and grasping at it.

“It breaks my heart,” were the next
words, uttered in a whisper.

All notion of an argument dropped out
of the Judge's head. A world suddenly
opened before him in which no ratiocination
was possible. He became aware of the
presence of emotions which were as mighty
as afreets, and would not listen to logic.
He was like a man who has denied the existence
of devils, and all at once perceives
that they are entering into him and taking
possession. He was so startlingly and
powerfully shaken by feelings without and
feelings within, that for the first time in
many years his healthy blood withdrew
from his face. His cheeks (usually of a red-oak
complexion) flecked with ash color, he
sat in silence, watching his silent son.

For some seconds Frank did not look up;
and if he had raised his eyes, he would not
have seen his father; he was gazing at
Kate Beaumont and bidding her farewell.

“That is all,” he broke out at last, rising
like a denunciatory spectre, and speaking
with startling loudness and abruptness, so
little was his voice under command. “I
have nothing more to say, sir.”

“See here, Frank,” called the Judge, as
the young man strode to the door.

“I beg your pardon,” muttered Frank,
just turning his discomposed face over his
shoulder. “I can't speak of it now.”

He was gone. The Judge looked at the
closed door for a minute as if expecting to
see it reopen and his son reappear. Slowly
his eyes dropped, his ponderous chin sank

upon his deep chest, and he slipped into
perplexities of thought. For a long time he
emitted no sound, except a regular and forcible
expulsion of breath through his hairy
nostrils, which was a habit of his when
engaged in earnest meditation. At last he
said in a loud whisper, “Good heavens!
He really likes her. Loves her.”

Then he tried to remember his way back
thirty-five years and pick up something
which would enable him to understand
clearly what it was to be in love. In the
midst of this journey he found himself on a
platform before a crowd of his fellow-citizens,
explaining to them his very eminent
fitness for a seat in Congress. Next, after
another plunge toward the lang-syne of
affection, he became aware of the offensive
propinquity of Peyton Beaumont, and gave
him just for once a plain piece of his McAlister
mind, calling him an unreasonable
old savage, a selfish, greedy brute, etc.

“Ah!” gasped the Judge, angrily, recurring
to his loud whisper. “Must I quit
running for Congress because he demands
it? What business has he to domineer
over me in this fashion? By the heavens
above me, I will run and I 'll beat him. I 'll
be master for once; I 'll bring him down;
I 'll smash him. Then we 'll see whether he
won't beckon my son back. I 'll make him
glad to accept my son. I 'll make him jump
to get him.”

Of course he was greatly pleased with
this idea. It laid hands on the goal of the
Capitol, and humiliated the life-long enemy,
and secured the Kershaw estate, and made
Frank happy. Perhaps no man, however
judicial-minded by nature or habit, is
entirely lucid on the subject of his ruling
passion. The Judge felt almost sure of
winning his seat in the next Congress, and
quite sure that that success would make all
other successes easy. After some further
loud breathing, he resumed his whispering

“I can help Frank. I can do better for
him than he can do for himself. If I give
up, and he gets the girl by that means, he
will be a slave to the Beaumonts for life.
But let me once lay her father on his back,
and he can make his own terms. Beaumont
will be glad to come to terms with a
family that can beat him. Beaumont will
jump at the marriage. The girl will jump
at it. Frank will have reason to thank
me.”

Then came more expulsions of breath,
and then calmness in that mighty breast.
The Judge was tranquil; he had reasoned
the matter clean out; he had reached a
decision.

Somewhat of these meditations he revealed
to Frank at their next interview,
taking care, of course, to deal in delicate
hints, so as not to hurt the boy's feelings.

“I have no right to stand in your way,
sir,” was the cold, hopeless reply.

“Why no, of course not,” was the feeling
of Judge McAlister, although he failed to
say it. It did not seem to him, now that he
had had time to reflect upon the matter,
that any human being, not even his favorite
son, had a right to stand in his way, especially
when that way led to the House of
Representatives. At the same time he
repeated to himself, that neither would he
stand in the boy's road, but, on the contrary,
would help him mightily.

“It will be all right, Frank,” he declared
blandly and cheerfully, meanwhile looking
at the ceiling so as not to see the youngster's
gloomy face. “You will find that
your father is right.”

Thus it was that the Judge's candidature
went on, and that as a consequence the old
feud blazed out volcanically. Any one who
could have studied the two families at this
time, would have judged that they hated
each other all the more because they had
stricken hands for a few weeks. The Beaumonts
raved against McAlister duplicity,
and the McAlisters against Beaumont imperiousness
and insolence. The Hon. Peyton
breathed nothing but brandy and gun-powder
from ten minutes after he woke up
to two hours or so after he went to sleep.
His boys, even to the fat and philosophic
Poinsett, oiled their duelling-pistols, wore
revolvers under their shooting-jackets,
refreshed their memories as to the code of
honor, and held themselves ready to fight
at a whistle. The McAlisters, a less aggressive
and fiery people, but abundantly capable
of the “defensive with offensive returns,”
made similar preparations. The women of
the two houses were blandly but firmly
warned by their men that they must not
call on each other. There were no advocates
of peace, at least none in a state to
intervene. The good gray head of Kershaw
was tossing on a sick-pillow; and the pure,
sweet face of Kate was always hovering
near it, her soul so absorbed by his peril,
that she scarcely heard of other troubles.
Nellie Armitage, bewildered by the sudden
reflux of the traditional hate, and believing
with her father, that Judge McAlister had
shown himself the most punic of men, had
not a word to say for her sister or her sister's
lover. In the rival house the women
were silent, obedient to their male folk, as
was their custom. Frank, not at liberty to
speak against his father, not at liberty to
plead the cause of a heart which nobody
seemed to care for, was voiceless, helpless,
and miserable. He wore no revolvers; he
wanted to be shot at sight.

The village of Hartland was charmed
with this fresh eruption of its venerated
volcano. Men, and women, and boys were

in as delightful an excitement over it as
ever were so many physicists over a convulsion
of nature. There was no end to the
discussions, and the predictions, and the
bettings. But we cannot listen to all these
crowding talkers; we must select some little
knot which shall sufficiently chorus to us
public opinion; and perhaps we cannot do
better than incline our ears to our old-time
acquaintance, Wilkins and Duffy. Every
evening, after trading hours were over,
these two friendly rivals in merchandise had
a “caucus,” sometimes in the “store” of one
and sometimes in that of the other, and discussed
the Beaumont-McAlister imbroglio
with the aid of other village notables.
These little reunions were very interesting
to Wilkins, and at the same time very provoking.
His ancient crony was much in
liquor at this period of Hartland's history.
The excitement which filled the district
had been too much for Duffy. Duffy had
taken to drink to quiet his nervousness, and
his head as we remember, being uncommonly
weak, the remedy had increased the
disease. He rushed into the imprudence
of three “horns” a day, and consequently
he was more or less flighty from morning to
night.

“I tell you, Wilkins, it 's all right,” he
affirmed in the course of one of these parliaments.
“All come out right in the end.
Make up an' marry yet. Bet you a hat
they will. Bet you a hat, Wilkins. Any
kind of a hat. Black hat or white. Broad
brim or narrow brim. Bell crown or stove-pipe.
Bet you a hat, Wilkins.”

“Now don't be a blasted fool!” implored
Wilkins, for perhaps the tenth time that
evening. “I don't want to win your hat.
I don't want your bet. Just shut up about
your hat and listen to reason.”

They were in the little room in rear of
Duffy's “store”; the room where he kept his
double-barrelled shot-gun and revolver; the
room where he slept. It was nearly midnight;
buying and selling were long since
over; several of the village gossips had
been in for an hour; there had been much
talking and some drinking. General Johnson,
a little, thin, pale-faced, gray-headed
man, attired in a black dress-coat, black
satin vest, and black trousers frayed around
the heels, stood with his back to the Franklin
stove, his hands behind him, his coat-tails
parted, apparently under the impression
that he was warming himself, although
there was no fire and the weather was stifling.
Colonel Jacocks, a plethoric young
lawyer with a good-natured flabby face, and
a moist, laughing eye, sat on Duffy's bed,
his fat thighs spreading wide, and his fat
hands in his pockets. Major Jobson (the
partner of Jacocks), a slender, very dark
and sallow young man, with piercing black
eyes and an eager, martial expression,
marched up and down the room like a sentinel,
striking the floor with a thick black
cane, the handle of which was evidently
loaded. Duffy, very soggy with his last little
drink, was astride of a chair, holding on
by the back and staring argumentatively at
Wilkins. Wilkins, his leathery and humorous
face much more in earnest than usual,
was gesturing at Duffy.

All these men, excepting the prudent and
strong-headed Wilkins, were solemnly and
genteelly the worse for liquor. Jacocks,
notwithstanding that he sat there so quietly,
was to that exent elevated that he had
insisted on saying grace over the last
“drinks around,” taking off his broad-brimmed
hat, and raising his fat hand for
the purpose. General Johnson had been so
far from seeing any impropriety in the act,
that he had reverently bowed his head and
dropped a tear upon the floor, muttering
something about “pious parents.” But drunk
as the gentlemen were, they could remember
that they were gentlemen, and keep up a
fair imitation of sobriety. Even the jolly
Jacocks, although he had fallen from his
religious exaltation into a spirit of gayety,
was only blandly merry.

“Go on, Duffy,” he said, winking at the
fierce Jobson. “No man who can sit astride
of a rocking-chair can be beaten in an argument.
Hold fast by your opinion. Only
don't bet hats; bet drinks for the crowd.
The crowd will stand by you.”

“I will,” responded Duffy, with obvious
thickness of speech, — speech as broad as
it was long. “I 'll bet drinks for the crowd,
an' I 'll bet hats for the crowd. I say those
two families 'll make it up yet; shake han's
all roun' an' make 't up; make 't up an'
marry. Bet you those two families 'll make 't
up. Bet you they will. Bet you drinks for
the crowd. Bet you hats for the crowd. Bet
you they 'll make 't up. Bet you they will.”

“O just hear him now!” exclaimed Wilkins,
driven to desperation by such persistent
unreason. Then walking up to General
Johnson, he whispered confidentially,
“That 's the way he always is, if he takes
anything. Only had one horn since supper,
and here he is drunker than you or I would
be on a quart. And those two fellows are
putting him up to make a fool of himself.
I don't call it the square thing.”

“Allow me, Mr. Duffy,” interposed the
General, thus incited to remonstrate. “And
you, my dear Colonel Jacocks, excuse me
for disagreeing. Knowing as I do the characters
of these two families, and having
been intimately familiar with them from my
youth up, I venture to say that I unhappily
see no reason to believe that there can be
any lasting amity between them, especially
in view of the political differences which

have lately arisen, or rather which have always
smouldered beneath their intercourse.
My impression is, and I cannot tell you how
much I regret to insist upon it, that the
Beaumonts and McAlisters, incited by a
family history without parallel in the history
of the world, are destined to remain enemies
for many years to come, until circumstances,
more potent than have yet been developed,
shall arise to soothe the passions which boil
betwixt them, and lead them irresistibly
into one common bond of friendship cemented
by interest and new methods of
thought and feeling.”

General Johnson had a disputed reputation
as an orator. He could talk in a diffuse,
inconclusive, incomprehensible manner
for hours together. His admirers, among
whom was young Jobson, gave him credit
for “flights of eloquence”; these flights
being the passages in which he took leave
of intelligibility altogether. On the present
occasion, as the reader must have observed,
he came very near a flight. Jobson
looked at him with ebony eyes of intense
admiration, glanced about the company to
call attention, and tapped his cane smartly
on the floor. But Duffy was neither entranced,
nor convinced, nor even interested.
He had simply his own ideas about the subject
in hand, and he was bent solely on
uttering them.

“That 's so,” he declared, just as if the
General had agreed with him. “Always
told you fellahs they 'd come together.
Told you two so months ago. Told you
they 'd marry an' put an end to the fight.
You know it, Bill Wilkins. Told you so on
board the Mersey. That 's what I said. I
said they 'd marry an' put an end to the
fight. Don't ye mind how I said so?”

“O — blast it!” groaned Wilkins.

“Well, blast it, if you want to. But don't
ye 'member it? Don't ye 'member I said
so?”

“Yes, I know you said so. But they
have n't done it. That 's the point. They
have n't done it.”

“But they 're goin' to,” persisted the infatuated
Duffy. “Bet you hats for the
crowd. Bet you they 'll make it up an'
marry. That 's what I bet on. Bet you
they will.”

“O thunder!” responded Wilkins, driven
to wrath. “Well, you may lose your hats,
if you will. Yes, I 'll bet five hats with
you. Time, one year from to-night.”

“And drinks for the crowd,” amended
Jacocks.

“Yes, drinks for the crowd,” agreed Wilkins.

“And now, Duffy, tell us about Hutch
Holland's store,” grinned Jacocks.

“Took up posish at the corner,” commenced
Duffy, with a muddy idea that
there was humor in the repetition of the
old story, although unaware that the joke
pointed at himself.

“O, stop,” implored Wilkins. “If you go
over that confounded bosh again, I 'll quit.”

“But seriously, gentlemen,” interrupted
Major Jobson, perceiving that his favorite
orator and great man, General Johnson, did
not enjoy this trifling, — “seriously, gentlemen,
I believe that this feud between the
Beaumonts and McAlisters is fuller of
earthquake throes than in the times of old.
I believe that we shall shortly behold tragedies
which will make even sturdy old Hartland
recoil with horror. I believe that
before the election is over blood will flow in
torrents.”

“O, not torrents,” objected Jacocks, who
accused his partner of a tendency to Irish
oratory, and habitually laughed at him about
it. “Say drops.”

“Well, drops then,” responded Jobson,
with a fierce roll of his great blazing black
eyes. “But drops from the heart, gentlemen.
Drops of life-blood.”

“Meetings are sure,” declared General
Johnson, thinking how easily he had got
into a number of meetings during his life,
and feeling not unwilling to assist at some
more.

“O, hang it! I hope not,” groaned the
humane and pacific Wilkins. It must be
understood, by the way, that had not General
Johnson been a rather seedy old grandee,
not given to paying his bills, and much
addicted to accepting treats, Wilkins would
not have been so free and easy with him.
To a Peyton Beaumont or a Donald McAlister
this modest and sensible storekeeper
would have been far more reverent.

“Your feelings, sir, on this subject honor
you, and honor our whole species,” melodiously
began the frayed and threadbare
General. “But, sir, you will pardon me,
I hope, for suggesting — ”

He was interrupted by the sound of unsteady
steps in the darkness of the long
outer room. Southerners, when not overexcited
by liquor or anger, are fastidious
about giving offence; they are more prudent
than non-duelling peoples, as to letting
their opinions reach the wrong ears.
The General stopped talking, assumed a
diplomatically bland expression of countenance,
and waited for the unknown to show
himself. His caution was well timed, for
the visitor was Tom Beaumont.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the
youngster, courteously, although he was
clearly in liquor. “Thought I should find
somebody hanging up here. We wo-n't go
ho-me till morn-ing.”

“Duffy is in for a night of it,” whispered
Major Jobson to Wilkins. “I shall vamos.”

“I must see Duffy out,” the faithful Wilkins

muttered in reply. “If I don't keep
watch over him, he 'll say some blasted stupid
thing, and then Beaumont 'll mount
him.”

Meantime Tom advanced to a couple of
whiskey-bottles which stood on the stove,
found a gill or so of liquor in the bottom of
one of them, poured it out, and drank it
pure. He was as confident and superior as
if he belonged to a higher scale in creation
than these other men. He even seemed to
patronize General Johnson, reverend with
eloquence and honors, and seedy with noble
poverty. Moreover, the respect which he
demanded was accorded to him. There
was a silence about him as of courtiers. To
Wilkins and all the others he represented a
great name, the name of a long-descended
and predominant family, the name of the
Beaumonts. They were not humiliated,
but they were deferential; he was not insolent,
but he was confident. There was a
sort of calm sublimity in the young toper,
notwithstanding his thick utterance and
ridiculous reeling.

“We wo-n't go ho-me till morn-ing,”
sang Tom. “Who says he will? Duffy,
more whiskey. I treat. Here 's the cash.
Roll in the whiskey. None of that, Wilkins,”
plunging at the door to prevent the
exit of the person addressed. “Over my
body, Wilkins.”

“Somebody in the store,” returned Wilkins,
determined to make his escape, if it
could be done peaceably.

“Bring him in,” laughed Tom, and flung
the door wide open.

To the horror of Wilkins the light from
the back room disclosed the lofty figure of
Frank McAlister, who had entered for the
purpose of buying some small matter, and
without a suspicion that he should stumble
upon a Beaumont.

“Ah!” shouted crazy Tom. “There 's
the tall fellow. I 'll take him down a story.
I 'll razee him.”

Whiskey, the family feud, the pugnacious
instinct of his race, made him forget that
he owed this man lifelong gratitude. He
had not an idea in his buzzing head but the
sole stupid idea of rushing to the combat.

“For God's sake, get out of this,” whispered
Wilkins, springing forward and pushing
Frank toward the door. “He 's as
crazy as a loon. Get out of this, if you
don't want mischief.”

Our gentle giant certainly did not want
mischief with one of Kate's brothers; but
in his surprise and indignation he stood his
ground, softly putting Wilkins aside.

The next instant the long room rang with
the report of Tom's pistol, whether fired by
accident or intention no one could afterwards
tell, not even the lunatic young roister
himself.