University of Virginia Library

29. CHAPTER XXIX.

There is a propensity in the human being
when overtaken by trouble to want to
know the worst.

If it were not for the mystery and the
decisiveness of the act of death, the man
who is sweeping down rapids towards a
cataract would undoubtedly long to reach
the plunge. It may even be that to those
who have gone over Niagara the moment of
catastrophe has been a moment of relief.

Like most worried people, Peyton Beaumont
proceeded to seek out the culmination
of his worries; he stumbled on from his trying
talk with Nellie about Kate to a still
more trying talk with Kate about herself;
he did it against his intention and desire,
but he could not help doing it. It so tormented
him to suspect that his pet daughter
was sorrowing, that he could not rest until
he had laid his finger on the pulse of her
sorrow and made certain of its feverish
throbbing.

First he watched her; he noted the unwonted
paleness and the sad though sweet
seriousness of her face; he observed that,
no matter how cheeringly he might prattle
to her, he could not make her gay. The
smiles that came on her lips, and the sparkles
that rose from the lucid depths of her eyes,
were transitory. Her demeanor was similar
to an overshadowed day, during which the
sun steals forth again and again, but only
by moments.

“My child, I can't bear this,” he at last
broke out; “you are unwell or unhappy,
and you don't say why. You make me
anxious and — and miserable.”

Kate glanced at him with a surprised and
frightened expression. Her feelings were
of such a delicate nature, that to have them
handled by a man, even by a father whom
she loved and who worshipped her, was terrible.
The Creator has seldom fashioned a
being mere sensitive, more maidenly modest,
than was this girl. Excepting with
those eyes of a scared fawn, she made no
reply.

“What is it, my darling?” insisted Beaumont,
taking her hands and drawing her

against his shoulder. “Is it something unbearable?”

His manner was as tender as if he were a
mother instead of a father. In view of the
seeming paradox contained in the fact, we
cannot too strenuously repeat that this warlike
old chieftain, scarred with duels and
stained with the heart's blood of more than
one of his fellow-men, was a singularly affectionate
parent. His children were a part
of himself; indeed, he held them as the
finest and most precious part; he would
have risked fortune and life to right the
wrong of any one of them. His parental
feeling was all the stronger because of the
spirit of family which possessed him, as it
possessed all his race. His progeny were
Beaumonts; he was the sheik, the patriarch
of the Beaumont tribe; he was responsible
for the welfare of every member of it. This
family instinct, one of the most natural and
beneficent of emotions, the germ from which
human society first took its development,
was a passion with him. A noble passion,
we must pause to declare; noble, not only
on account of its manly, unselfish direction
and beautiful results, but also on account of
its fervor; for, as we have already said, and
as far wiser men have said before us, the
grandeur of a sentiment is measured not
more by its purpose than by its force.

“Is it more than a Beaumont can endure?”
he repeated gently, though with an
appeal to the family pride.

“No, it is not more,” answered Kate,
quivering with her struggle to bear, as an
overladen man quivers under his load.

The father was not satisfied, for he did
not want his daughter to suffer at all, and
she had tacitly confessed to suffering. His
strongest impulse, however, was to justify
himself.

“I did not seek this new quarrel,” he said.
“I can declare truly, that Judge McAlister
forced it upon me. I could live with the
man decently, if he would let me.”

“O father, I have nothing to say about
those matters. Why do you explain them
to me?”

“Because I don't want you to blame me.
I can't bear it. I say I could live with
these people. As for the young man, — I
mean Mr. Frank McAlister, — I respect
him and like him.”

Kate, in spite of her virginal modesty,
gave him a glance of gratitude which stung
him. He started, and then resigned himself;
the girl did love that man; well, he
must bear it.

“The deuce knows how it has all come
about,” he mumbled. “One thing has happened
after another. We are all in a muddle
of quarrelling. I wish we were out of
it.”

She made no answer, but he knew by the
way she leaned against him that she echoed
his wish with many times his earnestness.

“I must speak out,” he declared. “It is
my duty as a father. I know that this
young man likes you and wishes to marry
you. If your happiness is concerned, I
must know that. Then I will see what I
can do.”

Kate could endure no longer; she was
fairly driven into a burst of tears and sobbing;
she clutched her father and buried
her face in his neck, all the while kissing
him. It was the same as to say, “I am very
miserable, but do not be unhappy about it
and do not be vexed with me.”

“O my poor child!” he repeated several
times, patting her shoulder in a helpless
way, the most discomforted of comforters.

At last she recovered her self-possession
a little, gradually lifting her head until her
lips touched his ear.

“Papa, I will tell you everything,” she
whispered. “I did love him, and O, I do!
If you had let him propose to me, I should
have taken him. But now it is different.
Since I have seen how it must always be
between our families, I have decided that I
never will marry him, not even if you consent.
I will not risk being put in hostility
to my own family. And now let me go,
quick. Let me run.”

The instant he loosened his embrace she
rustled out of the room and away to her
own chamber, shutting the door upon herself
with a noise of hurry which he could
plainly hear.

Peyton Beaumont remained alone in a
state of profound depression. After a while
he exploded in a torrent of profane invective
against Judge McAlister, making him alone
responsible for breaking the peace between
the two houses by his attempt to sneak into
Congress, — the sly, perfidious, rascally old
fox, the humbugging possum, the greedy
raccoon! Finally, making a strong effort
at self-control, an effort to crush his proudest
aspirations, he exclaimed, “Hang the
House of Representatives! I won't run for
a seat. Let him have it. For once.”

But the Honorable Beaumont had other
business in the world besides that of being
a vehicle for domestic and sentimental emotions.
When he came to suggest to his sons
and to his political confederates that he
thought of throwing up his candidature, he
found that they did not look upon him
merely in the light of his duty as a father,
but expected of him knightly service as a
champion of State Rights and Southern
principles.

“Going to drop us, Beaumont!” exclaimed
seedy old General Johnson, his eloquent jaw
falling so that he looked like the mummy of
an idiot. “Why, good God, Beaumont, if
our Alexander is to turn his back in the

very moment of crossing the Granicus, what
is to become of us?”

“General, I object to that expression,
`turning the back,' ” responded the Honorable,
his eyebrows ruffling until they made
one think of two “fretful porcupines.” “I
must be allowed to say that I do not consider
it a phrase which can be properly
applied to any act of mine. General, I dislike
the phrase.”

“Metaphor, my dear Beaumont,” bowed
the General, restraining himself (pugnacious
old tiger) for political reasons. “No
offence intended, I do assure you. Mere
poetical metaphor. Moreover, I withdraw
it. Let us say prosaically and plainly, resigning
your candidature. And now, the
matter being thus posed, will you allow me
to argue upon it?”

“Certainly, General, I shall be most
happy to consider every suggestion you may
have to offer.”

“By G—d, I believe I 'd fight him, if he
did n't,” thought Johnson. Then, speaking
with unusual sententiousness by reason of
the pressure of the crisis, he proceeded as
follows: “Changing leaders in the moment
of the shock of battle is equivalent to defeat.
If we attempt to run any other candidate
than yourself, particularly at this vital
moment, we shall be beaten. A traitor to
South Carolina will misrepresent South Carolina
in the Federal Congress from this
heretofore most truly and nobly represented
district. The Southern phalanx will be
broken in its very centre; and into the gap
will rush the centralizing legions of the
North. The sublime flag which our great
Calhoun unfolded will be borne to the
ground. It will be defeat all along the line.
States Rights will be trampled under foot.
Southern principles will be scattered forever.
Beaumont, my dear and revered
Beaumont, you are standing on a tripod of
the most fearful responsibility. Upon you
rests the prediction of our future. Your
action will be its prophecy and its creation.”

In his “flight of eloquence” the minute
old General trembled like a humming-bird.

“Pardon the emotion of a veteran who
sees his flag in danger,” he resumed, mastering
his alcoholized nerves. “Excuse the
earnestness of a legionary who has grown
gray in the service of his State, and who
now sees the fair fame and even the sovereign
existence of that State imperilled.
Hear me in patience and with solemn consideration,
while I implore you not to leave
our noble cause to its own unassisted
strength in this hour of supreme trial. By
those who conquered at Fort Moultrie, and
by those who fell at Eutaw Springs and —
ahem — at various other places, and by
those who dropped from bloody saddles
beside Marion and Sumter, I conjure you to
hold fast the banner of South Carolina and
lead her as heretofore onward to victory.
Duncan McAlister to represent this district
at Washington? What a downfall for us
all! Duncan McAlister to stand in your
place? What a downfall for you! Ah,
my dear Beaumont, consider, before it is
quite too late; con—sid—er!”

We must observe that Beaumont's speechifying
was very unlike the Johnsonian; it
was mere talk, plain and straightforward
talk, somewhat disconnected and jerky, but
earnest and often forcible; it consisted in
saying outright what he thought and especially
what he felt. But although he thus
differed from the General in style, and although
he knew in his secret mind that the
eloquence of the latter was mainly flummery,
he on the present occasion could not help
being moved by it. Those magic names,
Hartland District, South Carolina, Fort
Moultrie, Eutaw Springs, etc., always
stirred him, no matter by whom pronounced
or in what connection. He was a true son
of the sacred soil of his State, and his veins
thrilled at an allusion to his world-famous
parentage. When “the old man eloquent”
left the house, he shook hands with him
cordially and thanked him for his friendly
remonstrances.

“General, I will consider the matter further,”
he said. “If private affairs to which
I cannot allude will permit, I will go on
with my candidature. I will decide within
two days, and let you know my decision at
once. Meantime, not a word, I beg of
you.”

“Beaumont, I am the grave,” solemnly
responded the General, rising on the toes
of his shabby boots; “I am a sarcophagus
sealed in the centre of a pyramid. This
secret is cemented in my breast; all I ask
is, may it rot there; may it rot unexhumed
and unsuspected. By those who fell at
Fort Moultrie and Eutaw Springs,” he was
indistinctly heard to perorate as he descended
the steps.

When Beaumont discussed his proposed
demission with his sons, he encountered
further earnest, though respectful opposition.

“It seems to me, sir, that our family honor
is concerned in this matter,” observed
Vincent, more of a Beaumont even than a
South-Carolinian.

“Our family honor!” repeated the father,
reddening at the suggestion that he could
be indifferent to that lofty consideration.

“I beg your pardon, sir, if I am offensive.
It is out of respect for you and regard for
your reputation that I speak so plainly.
Here is the way in which I look at the affair.
You have said, Follow me; all our
friends have rallied to your call; now you
propose to turn back.”

“Vincent, this is monstrous severe,” said
Beaumont, half scowling and half cringing.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but I can't see
it differently. If Poindexter, for instance,
had offered himself as candidate, and had
gone on at it until within ten days or so of
the election, and then withdrawn without
assigning cause, what should we have said
of him? I won't suggest the answer.”

Beaumont quailed before his son; but the
next instant he thought of his suffering
daughter; so he turned for help to the fat,
lazy, indifferent Poinsett.

“Why not assign cause?” suggested this
young gentleman.

“It is unassignable,” and Beaumont shook
his head.

Poinsett knew or guessed somewhat of
the affair between Kate and Frank, and was
not entirely devoid of sympathy with it,
being slothfully good-hearted, like many fat
people.

“Could you not say that you prefer peace
with a neighbor above a seat in Congress?”
he asked. “Men have done that sort of
thing, and still been widely respected on
earth, and found favor at last with St.
Peter.”

“I beg pardon; it is too late,” broke in
Vincent. “It should have been thought of
before, or never. We can't afford to buy
the friendship of the McAlisters at such a
price as must be paid now. Why, this very
motive for resigning the candidature is condemnatory.
Are we afraid of those people?
Do we want to get a favor out of them?
Suppose, after all, we should not get it!
What would be said of our purpose? What
would be said of our disappointment?”

In compactness and in power of rapid allusion,
it seems to me that the young man's
speech was somewhat Demosthenian, and
gave promise that he might grow into that
creature so much admired by the Southerners,
an able orator. It was evident, moreover,
that he guessed at the gentle motive
which influenced his father, and that he did
not sympathize with it. There was a hard
and pitiless substratum to Vincent's character:
a substratum which frequently came to
view in the form of irony or a sneering
smile; not unlike volcanic trap or granite
breaking through the softer materials of
earth's surface.

Meantime Tom Beaumont, not very quick-witted,
and understanding the discussion
only in part, prowled about the group of
talkers with a sort of showing of the teeth,
like a bull-dog who awaits a signal to fight.

“On reflection, I take courage to bow to
Vincent's opinion,” said Poinsett, waving
away the smoke of his cigar as if it were so
much demoralizing sentiment. “On reflection,
I beg leave to concede that a withdrawal
just now would be an error. I beg
leave to add that it would be more than an
error of conduct; it would be, if I may use
the expression, an error of character; it
would mark a man's reputation and future.”

Beaumont was driven to the wall, and
knew not how to defend himself. He could
not say to his sons, your sister loves Frank
McAlister. The declaration was too tender
and too awful for Kate's father to utter even
to Kate's brothers.

“Poinsett, you are harder than Vincent,”
he muttered, more in sorrow than in anger.

“I beg pardon, I was philosophizing,” said
Poinsett. “I have a habit of considering a
thing from a general point of view. It is a
result, I perhaps mistakenly suppose, of my
Germanic education. It leads, I believe, to
truth. I meant no offence, my very dear
father. If I have annoyed you, please lay
it to a system of thought, and not to my intention.”

“All the same, none of you agree with
me,” grumbled Beaumont, feeling himself
quite alone among men, and consequently
much depressed. Notwithstanding his passionate
nature, and, indeed, precisely because
of it, he lived and moved by the
breath of human beings, and especially by
that of his own kin.

A weak man, the cold-blooded may say;
but they would not be more than half right.
Just because he was sympathetic, he easily
got people to rally round him, and made a
pretty good local leader for a party, and
had the name of being a man of action, and
was one. Moreover, it was only among
those who had a strong hold upon his affections
that he showed himself gentle and
pliable. The generality of men chiefly
knew him as headstrong and pugnacious;
the Yankee Congressmen at Washington
considered him one of the frightfullest of
Southern bugbears; and against him the
“Tribune” felt bound to hurl some of its
weightiest Free-Soil thunder. Really, it is
amazing how little a great man may be in
his own house. One dares to wonder sometimes
whether George Washington was august
in the eyes of Mrs. George Washington.

Well, within twenty-four hours, revolving
in the same time with the earth, Peyton
Beaumont swung completely round on his
axis. As he had decided for the sake of
Kate to give up his candidature, so he decided
for the sake of his sons, his honor, his
party, and his State, to stick to it. He had
let go, as it were, to get a better hold. He
resolved now that he would fight his very
best; that he would beat and smash the
chief of the McAlisters utterly; that he
would bring down his confidence and pride
forever. When General Johnson called
again on his political flag-bearer, he found
him breathing forth brandy and battle.

“I was all wrong, my old friend,” confessed

Beaumont. “I had a strange moment
of weakness, and I came near committing
an error. An error of character,” he
repeated, quoting from Poinsett, whose subtle
distinction he had much admired. “I
came near forfeiting my own respect, and I
fear yours and all men's. Bless my soul
and body, what a muddle it would have
been! Well, henceforth, the motto is, Forward.”

“Forward to victory, my dear young
friend,” cackled the General, who, being
twenty years the senior of the two, and yet
not feeling himself to be very old, naturally
looked upon Beaumont as a man in the
springtime of life.

Such was the issue at the Beaumont place
of the struggle between “common doins”
and “chicken fixins,” or, in other words, between
the masculine and feminine views of
life.

Meantime the same contest was being
carried on in the abode of the rival family.
Mrs. McAlister and Mary had discovered
that Jenny Devine could not fill the aching
void in Frank's heart, and had sorrowfully
permitted that young lady to return to her
own home. Then they had hoped that his
job in mining analysis would divert him,
that he would plunge into those mysteries
of metallurgy and chemistry which they
could not see the sense of, and pasture his
hungry soul on a knowledge which to them
was but dry husks. But this hope was a
poor consolation to them; for what woman
can approve of a life without love?

Furthermore, Frank returned from Saxonburg
in a moody state; working assiduously,
indeed, over his blow-pipe, crucibles,
and other infernal machines; but abstracted,
and, as his two adorers thought, more
gloomy than ever. This last supposition,
by the way, was a mistaken one, for the
youngster had been much cheered by his
meeting with Kate. But as jolly, sympathizing
Jenny Devine was no longer at
hand to make him laugh over whist and
keep him prattling about the subject nearest
his heart, he did appear unusually sombre.

Thus the McAlister ladies concluded that
nothing would fill his needs but Kate Beaumont,
and that without her he must perish
from off the face of the earth, or lead only
a blighted existence. Of course they were
frantic to get hold of the damsel and thrust
her into his bosom. But how to do it?
Such getting hold was impossible as long as
the family quarrel lasted; and the quarrel
would endure while the Judge tried to oust
Beaumont from Congress. To bring about
their sweet purpose, they must controvert
the awful will of their lord and master, and
trip up his revered political heels. But
this sacrilege was horrible to think of, and,
what was worse, hard to execute.

“Oppose your father!” said Mrs. McAlister
with a spiritual shudder.

“Not precisely that,” replied Mary, courageous
with the courage of an only daughter.
“But you might represent the whole
case to him. Perhaps he does not really
understand about Frank. After all, Frank
is his son.”

“O, if it was only a family matter, I
should deem it my duty not to quail,” observed
the wife. “But there are the Judge's
political plans to be considered,” she added
with profound respect. “There is this
great contest, — the interests of the country.”

“It seems to me that the country might
get along without us. The country is always
in a crisis. It is ridiculous. I almost
hate it.”

“Mary, you must n't say such things.
Your father would be shocked at you.”

“But perhaps he has only looked at the
political side of this matter. Why would
n't it be well to show him both sides?
Why is n't it your duty?” added Mary,
using a word which was very potent with
her mother.

And so at last Mrs. McAlister saw her
duty, and, seeing it, went with a trembling
heart and did it.

To her exposition of Frank's awful state,
and of the only device which could pluck
him out of it, the Judge listened with his
usual bland patience, looking down upon
her with the sagacious, benevolent air of an
elephant.

“My dear, I am glad you have spoken to
me of this matter,” he said, precisely as if
he had known nothing about it. “Frank's
happiness and Frank's prospects,” he added,
thinking of the Kershaw estate, “certainly
deserve my earnest consideration.”

Then he meditated quite at his leisure,
while his wife quivered with anxiety. He
had already satisfied himself that he could
not carry the election; he had carefully
counted noses on both sides, and come to
that disagreeable conclusion. Such being
the case, he had coolly and intelligently
said to himself, “Can I not sell out my supposed
chances to advantage? Beaumont
would pay handsomely to have me quit the
course; suppose I strike a bargain with
him and get something for nothing. I can
trust him; he is a straightforward honest
brute; much as I dislike him, I can trust
him.”

Finally, that very morning in fact, he had
decided that he would be contented, at
least for the present, with a certain vacant
judgeship of the United States District
Court, looking forward, of course, to quitting
it whenever there should be a good
chance to strike for something higher.
This honor he believed the other party

would puissantly recommend him for, on
condition of his relinquishing his congressional
candidature. As for his bargain with
that Northern wirepuller, Mr. — Mr. — the
Judge really could not remember his name
at the moment, — and as for the money of
the Democratic National Committee, which
had been received and spent, he did not
care for such trifles a whiffet. The five
thousand dollars had strengthened him in
the district; it was seed sown for a future
harvest; very good.

The only thing which troubled him was
the difficulty of proposing his dicker to
Beaumont, without sacrificing his personal
dignity. Here, now, was an opportunity;
here were the women and the young people
ready to aid him; here were the domestic
lares and the god of love at his service. He
smiled very kindly upon his wife as he pronounced
his decision.

“My dear, I will surprise you,” he said.
“In consideration of what you tell me, I
am willing to give up my candidature and
take the risk of its doing the good you
hope.”

Mrs. McAlister advanced to her husband,
placed her thin arms about his ponderous
shoulders, and gave him an embrace of honester
gratitude than he deserved.

“Thank you, my dear,” observed the
Judge, always a model gentleman, always
sensible to a politeness. “We understand
one another,” he added, as if in irony, but
really quite serious. “And now please
send Frank to me. Or Bruce. No, let it
be Frank. I presume he is most likely to
have influence with Beaumont. I will despatch
him over there with my message.”

An hour later Frank was on his way to
the Beaumont house, bearing a letter which
Peyton Beaumont was to read, reseal, and
return by his hand, the said letter containing
of course the Judge's offer, couched in
the language of pure patriotism.

A little later still, after Frank had got
beyond recall, Mrs. McAlister reappeared
before her husband with an anxious face,
asking, “My dear, do you think it is safe
for him? He is going among our bitter
enemies. How could I let him!”