University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

Matters worked like a seesaw: one end
of the feud went down, only to see the other
go up; McAlister wanted peace just when
Beaumont had taken in fresh fuel for fight.

But with all his sense of the honorableness
of wrath, and of the duty of running at
his highest speed for Congress, Beaumont
could not forget that his wrath and his
running might trample on his youngest
daughter's chances of happiness. He strove
to escape from the piteous remembrance;
but he was like a man who scrambles on
the slippery footing of adverse dreams; he
leaped and leaped, and made no progress.
O these women, these children; how puissantly
we are bound to them; how inextricably
the varieties of humanity are entangled;
how well for the race that it is so!

This deep - chested, heavy - shouldered,
bushy-browed, lion-eyed, pugnacious gentleman
not only could not help thinking of his
daughter's troubled heart, but could not
help talking about it. One day, looking at
her as she walked with drooping head in
the garden, he turned with an excited start
to Mrs. Armitage, and demanded, “What
am I to do with that girl? She mopes
about here as if her own home were a place
of confinement, a prison, or a lunatic asylum,
or something of that sort. I shall have to
send her over to her grandfather's; that is,
till the election is over, and all these confounded
uproars.”

“Then I shall go too,” responded Nellie,
promptly and rather spunkily. She had
lately had more than one argument with
her father in favor of the McAlister match,
and she was somewhat irritated because of
his persistent opposition to the measure
which her heart had desired.

“You will!” exclaimed Beaumont with
a stare. He was no longer the hub of the
family then; his tribe was to gather around
Kate, instead of himself; the new generation
was decidedly mounting upon the
throne of the old. His face wore an expression
of annoyance, but even more of depression.

“Let us talk like men about it, papa,”
continued Nellie, in her heroic way. “Let
us call things by their true names, without
any fear of the subject or of each other.
Here, because Kate is not happy, you want
to send her away from her home, and away
from her father and brothers and sister.”

“For her own good,” broke in Beaumont,
eagerly. “Things are going disagreeably
here, and she can't want to see them. Besides,
Kershaw is her grandfather, and you
know how they pet each other. He can
cheer her. He is such a kind, good old
man! O, he is so damn good!” he added
with a groan of self-depreciation “I wish
I was half as good. I wish I could respect
myself as I do Kershaw.”

“Bring him over here,” advised Nellie.

“What?”

“Bring him over here, for a few days.
And when Major Lawson returns from his
visit to Charleston, bring him too. Then
Kate will have all her best friends around
her, — all but one.”

Beaumont did not notice the allusion to
Frank McAlister; he was taken up with

considering Nellie's plan, and with dreading
it. Kershaw, that great pacificator of quarrels,
he did not quite want him in the house
just now. From such a presence there
might emanate an influence which would
once more beguile him into the weakness
of resigning his candidature and washing
off his war-paint generally. But after due
argument and solicitation, after it had been
borne in upon him that the old Colonel, in
the temporary absence of Lawson, must be
leading a dreary life in his own house, he
withdrew an opposition for which he could
not allege his reasons and of which he was
secretly ashamed. Riding over to Kershaw's
place, he invited his father-in-law to
visit him for a fortnight, pressed the point
with his characteristic cordiality and hospitality,
and secured an acceptance. So the
next morning the Colonel alighted from his
carriage on the gravel-walk before the
Beaumont door.

“Is n't he beautiful, papa?” whispered
Kate, as she and her father hastened to
greet their venerable visitor.

“He is the white rose of South Carolinian
chivalry,” murmured Beaumont. “Not a
leaf fallen by reason of age, and not a stain
by reason of sin.”

The sympathetic and passionate nature
of this rough fighter enabled him to appreciate
and worship a character which was
beyond him.

In truth, the Colonel was beautiful, as
healthy and good old men can be beautiful.
He had fully recovered from his late severe
illness; to look at him, it seemed as if he
might live twenty years longer. His long
white hair, waving over his heavy, old-fashioned
coat-collar, was as yet abundant
and almost luxuriant. His massive aquiline
face, rendered only the more expressive by
deep wrinkles and large folds, was full of
dignity, intelligence, and sympathy. Eighty
or nearly eighty years of the life of this
world, so generally commonplace, so often
full of temptation, so often sorrowful or exasperating,
had not dimmed the sunshine of
that benignity which must have been the
core of his character. He looked as George
Washington might have looked, had he
reached the same age. He made one think
of what an angel might be, could an angel
become white haired and wrinkled. Very
tall, and as yet of goodly fulness he seemed
a colossal statue erected to physical beauty
and moral goodness, grown venerable.

Kate soon took possession of her pet, and
led him to his room. She wanted to have
him all to herself, and she wanted the luxury
of serving him with her own hands.
After prattling for some minutes, after seeing
anew that he was furnished with everything
which he could need, she left him to
wash off the dust of his drive and went be
low to wait for him, her eyes sparkling with
impatience. Presently she ran and called
up the stairway, “Grandpapa, are you never
going to come down?” As he did not answer,
probably not hearing her, she hurried
to his door, drummed on it with eager fingers,
and said in a tone of loving reproach,
“Why, how long you are!”

That was always the way with her when
Kershaw came over. She was as impatient
to get at him and as greedy of his company
as a hungry child is impatient and greedy
for its dinner. Moreover, she had absurd,
charming little terrors, if he was long at a
time out of her sight, lest he had hurt himself,
or perhaps died. When she was a
child and visited him for short terms at his
plantation, she used so say, night after
night, “Promise me, grandpapa, that you
won't die before morning.” The benignant
and affectionate old man, so like her lost
mother, and indeed so like herself, exercised
a sort of bewitchment over her, which was
all the more potent because it had begun
before the dawn of reason, because it had
begun as an instinct. It was in vain that
her other relatives sometimes jealously
chafed because of this fascination, and
sometimes good-humoredly laughed at her
for it. On this point she remained sweetly
childish, and could not be otherwise, nor
wish it.

The bewitchment was mutual, as such
affectionate magic often is. Despite his
rational, grave, and one might say rather
slow nature, the old man worshipped the
girl as the girl worshipped him. At this
moment, when he heard the well-known and
expected drumming on his door, his solemn
blue eyes and the massive folds of his face
lighted up with a deep, serene pleasure.

“Come in, my little girl,” his hollow and
tremulous voice called. “I am only brushing
my hair.”

“Let me brush it,” begged Kate; and
would do it, making him sit for the purpose.

“It needs cutting, does n't it?” asked
the Colonel, who was in the habit of seeking
her guidance, at least in little matters.

“Not yet,” said Kate. “It is too handsome
to cut.”

“Handsome?” asked Kershaw, thinking
of her chestnut curls.

“It is every bit as white as snow,” continued
the girl. “It makes me think of
Mont Blanc. What color was it once?”

“A little darker than yours, child, if I
remember right,” said the old man, after
pausing a moment to send his memory backward
many years. “There, you have taken
trouble enough with it. Now sit down
where I can look at you.”

“Wait a little,” begged Kate. She was
intent upon making the silver cataract fall

behind his ears and roll evenly over his
coat-collar. The work done, she drew a
childlike smile of satisfaction, and seating
herself in front of him, smiled in his face.
Her smile, could he have understood its under-sadness,
would have told him that she
loved him all the more because the outreachings
of affection towards another had
been rudely put aside.

“You don't look in good flesh,” said the
Colonel. His phrase was old-fashioned, but
it suited his venerable mien, and it was
made sweet by a tone of tender anxiety.

“I am a little thinner than usual,” replied
Kate. A spasm passed across her
mouth, but she quelled it by an heroic effort,
and presently the smile reappeared.

“If you are ill, you must tell me,” urged
Kershaw. “We must have advice.”

He knew nothing of her love-affair, and
suspected nothing; even the garrulous, sympathetic
Lawson had refrained from hinting
it to him.

“Grandpapa, you are always thinking
about other people,” observed the girl, willing
to change the subject of conversation.

“Of course,” he replied, simply. “My
own affairs are of so little interest.”

At this moment Kate's face turned as
pale as death. Glancing out of a window
near her, she had seen Frank McAlister
dismounting at the gate, and the idea at
once crossed her mind that his life was in
peril.

“What is the matter?” inquired Kershaw,
who noted her start and dimly perceived
her change of color.

“O, do go down there,” she begged,
springing to her feet and seizing his arm.
“Do go, before there is trouble.”

“What is it?” he repeated, slowly rising.

“I don't know,” stammered Kate. “What
can he be here for? It is Mr. Frank McAlister.”

“McAlister!” exclaimed Kershaw, in a
tone which showed that he realized the full
gravity of the situation. “The young man,
— the tall young man? I remember. The
one who saved your life. Of course I remember
him. But he should n't be here.
I will go down.”

“O, do, do,” implored the girl, almost
hurrying him, almost pushing him. “Don't
let any trouble happen.”

“No, no,” said Kershaw, as he stalked
out of the room, leaning forward in the
manner of old men when they are in haste.
“But what can he be here for? It is highly
imprudent.”

We shall best see the end of this adventure
by joining Frank McAlister. Dismounting
at the nigh post gate which whitely
glared in front of the house, be left his
horse in charge of one of half a dozen pick
aninnies who were kicking up the dust of
the road with their bare black feet, and
walked straight towards the veranda, where
stood Peyton Beaumont grimly staring at
him a statue of mistrust and amazement.
When he had got within a few yards of his
father's rival and enemy he halted, lifted
his hat entirely from his head, and bowed
without speaking. At the same moment
Tom Beaumont came out of the door behind
his father, and, seeing this most unexpected
and somewhat alarming visitor,
slipped a practised hand under the skirt of
his shooting-jacket, obviously feeling for the
handle of a pistol. Frank noted the threatening
gesture; but he did not change countenance,
nor move a muscle; he remained
with his eyes fixed on the face of Peyton.
The latter, after hesitating for a moment,
slightly waved his hand in salutation.

“Mr. Beaumont, I beg leave to deliver you
a friendly letter from my father,” said Frank.

“From your father, sir!” exclaimed Peyton.
He reflected for an instant, thought
of his political confederates, thought of the
feud, too, and added, “I do not feel at liberty
to receive it, sir.”

Tom Beaumont drew his derringer, supposing
that Frank would draw also, and determined
to be beforehand with him. But
just then Colonel Kershaw stepped slowly
into the veranda and laid his hand gently
on the elbow of the aristocratic young desperado.
Tom glanced sideways, recognized
the old man, and slowly returned the
weapon to his pocket, still however keeping
his hand on it, while he watched Frank
steadily.

“Am I intruding, Beaumont?” asked
Kershaw.

“Ah!” started Beaumont. “Why no,
certainly not. In my house you are in
your own. And by the way, Kershaw, by
the way — Mr. McAlister, have the kindness
to wait one instant. — Kershaw, I want
your advice. A letter from the Judge,” he
whispered, blowing out his cheeks with an
air of demanding amazement. “Shall I
open it? Would you? Would you, indeed?
Well, perhaps so; decidedly so.
Just to see what the scoundrel wants. Exactly.”

Turning to Frank, he said, with ceremonious
civility: “Mr. McAlister, by the advice
of Colonel Kershaw, I will now, with
your permission, receive the letter. If I
was discourteous to you personally in my
first refusal, I ask excuse.”

He read the Judge's communication with
mingled feelings. First came the expression
of that gentleman's desire to resign
his candidature to Congress for the sake of
the peace of Hartland and the unity of
South Carolina. Beaumont approved. He
approved promptly, fully, and energetically;

for once he was harmonious with Duncan
McAlister. But next came the hint that,
in return for this concession, a seat in
the United States District Court would be
acceptable. Beaumont hesitated; there
were good men of his own party to be
thought of; his brow darkened with an
ominous look of dissent. Then he went
through his rival's elegantly written, dignified,
and almost pathetic peroration. It
moved him; the expression of noble sentiments
always moved him; he was just to
that degree simple and sympathetic. Well,
what should he do? Obviously it was his
personal interest to close with the bargain,
and so get rid of his rival in the coming
election. But he was not an ordinary politician;
he was honest, high-minded, and unselfish,
at least so far as he knew how to be;
if he was ever moved by interest, it was unawares.
Thus he had no difficulty in putting
aside this egotistic consideration immediately.

On the other hand, here was a favor; the
Judge was going to give up his candidature
any way; and surely he deserved a favor
in return. The fact that he could say to
Beaumont, “You ought to have the seat in
Congress,” made Beaumont want to say,
“You ought to have the vacant judgeship.”
The heart of this impulsive, unreflecting,
headlong knight-errant began to warm towards
his rival and enemy. He had scarcely
read his letter through before he desired
to serve him. He became, as it were, his
partisan. To be sure, old bellicose feelings
boiled and bubbled somewhat in his heart;
but they were kept down in a measure by
thoughts of Kate and of Kershaw. On this
score the impulses of peace and war remained
in even balance.

“This is very important,” he observed,
turning to the old Colonel. “Kershaw, I
must have your advice. Mr. McAlister,
will you do me the kindness to walk into
my parlor. Tom, oblige me by seeing that
we are not interrupted.”

In the parlor he seated his guests, closed
the doors, and then approached Frank.

“Mr. McAlister,” he said, “Colonel Kershaw's
character —”

“It is sufficient,” bowed Frank. “I am
confident that my father would be willing
to intrust any secret to Colonel Kershaw.”

Then the letter was read aloud. A blush
inundated Frank's face when he heard Beaumont
ciarion forth his father's demand for a
quid pro quo, offering to dicker his chance
for Congress against a seat in the temple
of justice. For a minute or two he could
not look Kershaw or Kate's father in the
face. His shame was only in part removed
by Beaumont's calm consideration of the
bargain and charitable comment upon it.
Beaumont, it must be understood, was by
this time quite impulsively in favor of the
Judge, looking upon himself as the patron
of his rival, and desiring to do him a good
turn.

“Wishes to withdraw from politics, you
see,” he remarked blandly. “Well, it is
about time I should do the same. After
this campaign, Kershaw, — after this campaign,
you may rely on me. No more candidatures,
no more stumpings.”

If he meant to make a bridge of gold for
a retreating enemy, he certainly did his engineering
rather neatly. The truth is, that,
being now anxious to accept his rival's offer,
he was anxious to have Kershaw advise him
to accept it.

The good old man responded to the wish
from good motives of his own. He saw a
chance before him to turn the swords and
spears of the feud into the ploughshares and
pruning-hooks of amity.

“I approve of the proposition,” he said
slowly and after deliberate consideration.
“Judge McAlister is better fitted for the
position in question than any other man in
the upper country. He is our ablest lawyer
and our most judicial mind.”

“I have always admitted it,” Beaumont
declared, and with entire truth. “He deserves
the place.”

“In appointments to the judiciary there
should be no question of partisan politics,”
affirmed Kershaw.

“Certainly not,” assented Beaumont.
“By heavens! the President who should
consider politics, in making appointments
to the judiciary, ought to be impeached and
deposed.”

There was no questioning his honesty in
saying this. He looked like truth incarnate,
and none the less for his bellicose expression.

“What a gentleman he is at bottom,”
thought Frank, only too glad to judge kindly
of Kate's father.

“Why did n't we come to this before?”
continued Beaumont, delighted that he had
secured Kershaw's adherence, and quite resolved
now to back McAlister. “I shall
rejoice in recommending the Judge to a position
which he will fill so nobly. And so
will my friends, I am confident. By heavens!
if they don't I won't run for them; I 'll
throw up my candidature immediately; I
will, by heavens! Kershaw, I want you to
bear witness to that, and stand by me in it,”
he added, remembering that giving up candidatures
did not come easy to him.

“I think our friends will make no objections,”
said the Colonel, knowing that Beaumont's
will and his own would be law to the
conservative party in the district.

“I should say not,” answered Peyton,
swelling and ruffling at the idea of opposition.
By heavens! I should like to see the

man who would be fool enough and brute
enough to object to such an appointment,”
he went on, forgetting that he would himself
have opposed it but for circumstances.
“Well, it is understood. Mr. McAlister,
please do me the favor to say to your father
that I assent most cordially to his chivalrous
proposition. I make this declaration in the
presence of Colonel Kershaw. If I made
it alone, I would be bound by it. And now,
Mr. McAlister, a glass of wine together.”

He fairly beamed upon the young man.
The moment that he could be friends with
him at all, he was as much his friend as he
ever had been. He inclined towards him
with all the vivacious promptness of his
mercurial, yet energetic nature. He let
himself remember distinctly that this was
the man who had saved his daughter's life,
and with whom his daughter's chance of
happiness was perhaps intertwined. There
was no mistaking the kindliness, which
glowed in his martial black eyes and his
dark red visage. Frank was instantaneously
as happy as a king is vulgarly supposed to
be.

“I am more gratified than I can possibly
express,” he said, in a tone which told infinitely
more than the words.

After the sherry had been tasted, the
young man rose to take his leave, remarking,
“I must carry this good news to my
father.”

“Add that I cannot sufficiently thank
him for sending you on this mission,” said
Peyton, shaking hands.

“I entirely concur with Beaumont in sentiment,”
added Kershaw in his brief, weighty
way, few words always, but every one
doubly meant.

“I trust that this begins a lasting peace,”
ventured Frank.

Beaumont could not decide at once what
to answer; but the Colonel, pressing the
youngster's hand warmly, said, “I trust so.”

Frank glanced gratefully at his benign
face and glorious crown of white hair, admiring
him as noble young men do admire
noble old ones, and thinking him too good
for this world.

In the entry hall they encountered Nellie,
who, seeing these demonstrations of amity,
saluted Frank with a smile and a few words
of commonplace civility.

During this brief moment Peyton Beaumont
had one of those revulsions of feeling
or opinion to which he was subject. A
doubt, a scruple, troubled his sense of honor.
He had been accustomed to call Judge McAlister
an old fox, a carthaginian, a perfidious
rascal. Would a man whom he had
thus stigmatized, and as he believed properly
stigmatized, be the right man for the
district court bench? Would he render
just judgment, and honor the Beaumont
recommendation? “What do you think,
Kershaw?”

The Colonel had none of Peyton's hereditary
prejudice against the McAlisters. He
replied gently and gravely, “Have no fears,
Beaumont. Whatever McAlister may be
as a politician, in his official character he
is a gentleman. There is not a stain upon
his professional honor. You have done
well.”

“Kershaw, you relieve me inexpressible,”
murmured Peyton with a sigh of deep satisfaction.
Then, advancing quickly to Frank,
he took his hand and said, “I trust, with
you, that this begins a lasting peace.”

As the young man heard this phrase,
which filled him with inexpressible joy, he
heard also a rapid step in the veranda. He
did not turn, but the others did, and saw
Randolph Armitage advancing, his hand under
his coat as if seeking a pistol, and his
drunken, fierce eyes fixed on Frank McAlister.