University of Virginia Library

37. CHAPTER XXXVII.

What was to be the ultimatum of destiny
to Kate Beaumont as a young lady?

Quite as much interested in this question
as Nellie Armitage was Major John Lawson.
From the time that the girl had returned
from Europe, a wonder in his eyes of beauty,
and grace, and graciousness, he had fairly
worshipped her. The grandfather had
broken out in him, as it sometimes will
break out in old bachelors.

He never saw Kate and never thought of
her, but he wanted to pat her hand, to
praise her to her face, to minister unto her
happiness, to be the good fairy of her future.
He had a daguerreotype of her which
he kept constantly with him and looked at
twenty times a day, if not fifty. He used
to say to himself, and sometimes to his confidential
friends, “If I were young enough
and rich enough and good enough, I would
offer myself to her. Not that I should hope
to be accepted, — certainly not, in no case.
But I should consider it an honor to be refused
by her. I should feel it a great privilege
to be allowed to lay my heart unnoticed
at her feet. I should feel that I had
not lived in vain.”

In truth, this elderly, simple-hearted,
sweet-hearted gentleman had been for
months little less than foolish over the
child. And of late, now that she was the
only representative of his deceased friend,
the noble, the venerable, the revered Kershaw,
he adored her as if she were more
than human. Impulsively and fervently he
transferred to her the allegiance which he
had for years paid to the sublime old Colonel.
How should he not love her when
they mourned together? He gave her his
sympathy because of her great bereavement,
and demanded hers because of his own
great sorrow. His head bowed, holding her
hand tenderly (but not making eyes, nor
grimacing, nor saying fine things), he softly
bewailed the death of her grandfather and
his friend, so sincerely bewailing it that
more than once he wept. Vain and yet

unselfish, whimsical and yet earnest, he was
on the surface something of a bore, but at
bottom a heart of gold. If, considering his
tediousness, he was not worth the digging,
he was at least worth having when he gave
forth his treasures of affection freely.

It must be understood that, at Kate's request,
he had taken charge of the Kershaw
place until some one who could work it
might be put in permanent tenantry, and
that consequently he was able to ride over
to the Beaumont house every day to visit
his favorite. Of course, he saw that his
other pet, Frank, never came there, and
that the Rev. Arthur Gilyard came there
very often. Was this young minister going
to spoil the romance of “Romeo and Juliet
in South Carolina”? Was he going to prevent
an alliance between the Beaumonts
and McAlisters, and thus make himself the
instrument of prolonging the feud? Major
Lawson, though reverent of clergymen in
general, and heretofore an admirer of Gilyard
himself, began to have doubts of his
piety. When he was not talking with him
(in which case he of course grinned and
complimented in his usual fashion) he
watched him with a suspicious air, and, in
fact, rather glared at him, as if he would
have liked to send him on missionary work
to the Cannibal Islands and get him eaten
out of the way. With respect to Kate,
much as he loved her, he almost felt that it
would be better for her to take poison over
Frank's dead body, than to become the
happy wife of any other gentleman.

“What is Mrs. Armitage about?” he demanded,
talking to himself, as was his frequent
custom. “Has she — a woman — a
woman too who has suffered — no true womanly
sentiment with regard to this matter?
Bless me, I had supposed that Woman had,
of all the human race, the truest eye for
what is beautiful in life! And this — this
marriage — this instead of the other — would
be so unbeautiful, so unartistic! I had supposed
that women were our superiors in a
perception of the gracious fitness of things.
They surely are so in the affairs of ordinary
existence. They decorate our houses. To
them we owe carpets, curtains, tassels, laces,
parterres of flowers. Without them our
dwellings would be bare walls, mere shelters,
dens. But for their æsthetic guidance we
should spend our money entirely on the useful,
the ponderous, the unamiable. We should
have aqueducts and no sofas, fortifications and
no upholstery. And when it comes to making
our lives beautiful with poetry, with the romance
of artistically arranged events, with
the facts which naturally arise from true sentiment,
is woman — woman — to fail us?”

The Major was thinking his best; he felt
that he ought to take notes of himself; he
resolved to put these ideas into his next
essay (for private readings); perhaps, if it
were possible, into a poem. He grew oratorical;
he started backwards and started
forwards; he ran from basso up to soprano,
and down again; he broke a wineglass and
did not know it.

Presently, however, he recollected the
urgency of the case, and resolved to have a
talk with Mrs. Armitage as to her sister.
He was a little afraid of Nellie; there was
about her a manly frankness which was
rendered more potent by a womanly impulsiveness;
and this mingling of weight and
rapidity gave her a momentum which he
did not love to encounter. Nevertheless,
alarmed for his romance, and anxious for
the happiness of his two pets, he sought her
out and unfolded to her his mind.

“I am quite of your opinion,” replied
Nellie, when she had discerned, through
many smiling and flattering circumlocutions,
the fact that the Major did not like the Gilyard
courtship.

Lawson was stunned as usual by her directness,
but delighted with her assent.

“My dear lady, — gracious lady, as Dante
says, — you fill me with joy,” he exclaimed,
seizing her hand and patting it in his caressing
way. “I have not had such a
moment of gratification for months.”

“But what can be done?” asked Mrs.
Armitage. “Kate is her own mistress.”

“Go to Mr. Gilyard,” replied Lawson,
firmly; meaning, however, that Nellie
should go, not he himself. “Hint to him,
if necessary say to him plainly, that he is
standing in the way of much good. Don't
you see, my dear Mrs. Armitage? If he
marries Kate, she can't marry Frank McAlister.
Then what means have we left for
ending this horrible feud? Pardon me, —
I really beg your pardon, Mrs. Armitage, —
I am speaking severely of your family fasti,
of your hereditary palladium. But I remember
my old, noble, reverend friend Kershaw,
and I venture to utter my mind boldly.
I know that it was his earnest desire for
many years that this quarrel should terminate.
Have I offended you?”

“Never mind, Major,” replied Nellie,
quietly waving her hand as if to brush away
his apologies. “I am altogether of your
opinion in this whole matter. We have had
enough of quarrels. I have seen enough of
them.”

“You delight me beyond expression, —
beyond the power of a Cicero to express,”
chanted Lawson, his eyes twinkling with an
unusual twinkle, as if there were tears of
joy in them. “And now, gracious lady —”

“I will make one more effort for peace,”
interrupted Nellie. “I will — But never
mind what; you shall know in a day or two.”

Quite tremulous with his gladness, the
Major thanked her copiously, squeezed her

hand again and again, and at last fairly
kissed it by force, subsequently waving affectionate
and cheering farewells to her
while he got out of the house, mounted his
steed, and ambled out of sight.

The characteristic step which Nellie Armitage
decided upon was to go straight to
Arthur Gilyard with her story and her demands.

“I want a great thing of you,” said this
sympathetic woman, knowing full well the
pain that she gave, and watching it with
the emotion of an angel overseeing the necessary
chastening of a saint; “I want you
to make peace between us and the McAlisters,
so that my unhappy sister may meet the
man who loves her, and whom I believe she
loves. I ask this of you for her sake, and
for the sake of the father and brothers
whom I want to keep in life, and in the
name of all my relatives who have fallen
in this long quarrel.”

Kate's lover, thus summoned to give her
up to a preferred lover, half started to rise
from the chair in which he was sitting, and
then dropped his head upon his bosom as if
he had been shot. His habitually pale
cheeks turned quite white; he was so
dizzy that he could not see the woman who
was torturing him; the words that he
heard during the next minute were merely
as a drumming in his cars.

But, fortunately for his honor as a man,
he was of the same heroic mould with the
person who demanded of him this tremendous
sacrifice, and who had had the greatness
to believe that he could be great enough
for it. As he came back to his full consciousness,
he passed rapidly in review the
procession of horrors which had marked the
history of the feud, and resolved that he
would do what lay in him to close such a
source of bloodshed, no matter what suffering
the labor might bring him.

“Is it too much to ask?” murmured Nellie,
her heart almost failing her at the sight
of his quivering face.

“No duty is too much to ask,” were his
first words, — words spoken on the rack.
After a moment more of struggling for
breath and purpose, he added, as if by way
of exhortation to himself, “A Christian
must not hesitate before duty.”

She remained silent; she was revering
him. But surely it was also a grand thing
in her that she could be noble enough, in
that eager and anxious moment, to perceive
his nobility.

“How can I best serve your purpose?”
he presently inquired.

“May I beg you to join with me in urging
a reconciliation upon my father?” she answered.

“I will do so, with all my heart,” said this
man whose heart was bleeding.

“He will return this evening,” added
Nellie. “Will you see him with me to-morrow?”

“I can talk with him best alone,” he replied.
“Will you allow it?”

Then, perceiving assent in her eyes, he
hastily rose, bowed, and got himself away,
conscious that he was tottering.

“It is worse than I looked for,” said Nellie,
as she gazed after him with admiration
and pity. “He is to lose her in showing
himself worthy of her.”

In the little space which we can allot to
Arthur Gilyard, we must strive to do him
justice. It was characteristic of him that
from the moment when he resolved to tear
out his heart for the good of others, he never
faltered in his purpose. What struggle remained
to this clear-headed and heroic sufferer
was simply a struggle for resignation.
He would do his duty; oh yes, that would
be done; that of course. The hardness of
the thing was to do it in a spirit which
should be held acceptable in that unseen
world which he tried to think of as the only
real world. O, how unreal it seemed to him
as he rode homeward! Earth, this earth
of emotions, this passionate, mortal life, they
were very near and terribly puissant. He
was like Christian, set upon going through
the valley of shadows, but seeing Apollyon
“straddled quite across the way,” dreadful
to look upon and threatening woful wounds.

It was not until he had locked himself
into his accustomed place of devotion that
he could get one glimpse of that sphere
which Kate Beaumont did not yet inhabit,
and where her influence must not reign.
But here, on the threshold of a sanctuary,
we stop.

When, during the next day, he presented
himself before Peyton Beaumont, he was so
pinched and pale that his host asked him
if he had been sick.

“I have been favored with my usual
health,” he replied calmly. “Perhaps the
consciousness of a great and difficult duty
has weighed upon me more than it would
have weighed upon a stronger and better
man.”

Beaumont could hardly fail to understand
that this word “duty” referred to himself;
that towards him was coming some plea,
some remonstrance, or perhaps some reproof.
High as was his temper, and savage in certain
points as had been his life, he had an
imaginative reverence for religion, and a
well-bred respect for clergymen. His wide-open
black eyes stared into the firm blue
ones of Gilyard with mere grave surprise
and expectation, not showing a sparkle of
annoyance.

“I beg beforehand that you will hear me
patiently until I have discharged my conscience,”
continued the minister.

“Mr. Gilyard, speak boldly,” said Peyton.
“I give you my thanks already, if
what you have to say concerns my conduct.”

“It does in part,” went on Gilyard. “I
have come solely to beg you to stop the
account of blood between your family and
the McAlisters. Heretofore more than
once, if I remember, I have ventured to
speak to you of this matter; but not plainly
enough, and not urgently enough. I did
not do my full duty. I was weakly and
wickedly vague. I did not clearly set before
you your responsibility, and — I must say
the word — your guilt.”

“Guilt!” exclaimed Beaumont, his astonishment
very great, and his eyes showing
it.

“In the presence of God I repeat the
word,” insisted Gilyard. “It condemns me
as well as you. I should have uttered it
years ago.”

After a moment's reflection, after drawing
a long breath of surprise, Beaumont
said, “We are not the only guilty ones.”

“It is too true. The McAlisters also
come under condemnation.”

“They do,” declared Peyton, his excitement
reviving. “I made peace with them
once. And they broke it: they broke it.”

“Offer it again,” exhorted the minister.
“Urge it.”

“See here,” said Beaumont, after further
thought. “I can tell you something — a
secret, please to observe — which will give
you pleasure. I have been engaged lately
in preparing a way to peace. Kershaw
asked it of me. I pledged him my word
on his death-bed, and I have not forgotten
it. In a day or two — in a few days at
least — I hope to hear from Judge McAlister,
hope to receive a friendly message
from him. In that case I will give him my
hand for life, if he will take it and do what
he should to keep it. I will, so help me —
It is not easy work, this. But it shall be
done; it shall, I promise you. Will that
content you?”

“I am merely a messenger from One
who is infinitely greater than I, Mr. Beaumont,”
returned Gilyard. “I can only say
that personally I thank you for this assurance.”

“And I thank you, sir, for coming to
me,” said Peyton. “I do in all sincerity.
But bless me! you are very pale. Won't
you have a glass of wine?”

Mr. Gilyard had understood that peace
between the Beaumonts and McAlisters
meant the cession by him of Kate Beaumont
to Frank McAlister. On obtaining
the promise of this peace, the assurance of
this cession, he had nearly fainted.

It was some minutes before he could
muster fortitude to seek out Mrs. Armitage
and say to her, “We have reason to be
grateful. Your father, I believe, and hope,
will end the feud, if it is humanly possible.”

“It will take us a lifetime to thank you
for this,” replied Nellie, ready to kneel at
the feet of this martyr, who had, as it were,
lighted his own pyre of torture.

“I should have done my little long ago,”
he said.

Then, suddenly remembering that in such
a case he might not have loved only to
lose, he added in his heart, “My sin has
found me out.” If he had thought of confessing
his hopeless affection, if he had had
an impulse to utter a complaint and a cry
for sympathy, his mouth was sealed now.
Bearing a burden of self-condemnation
which only a saintly nature could heap
upon itself, suffering as we solemnly believe
only the perfectly conscientious and the
high-minded can suffer, this noble though
limited spirit went out speechlessly from
the household which he had blessed, bearing
his cross alone.

That very day Judge McAlister received
his appointment as Judge of the United
States District Court of South Carolina. This
was Beaumont's doing; it was to bring this
about that he had spent weeks in Washington;
it was to this that he had alluded when
he told Gilyard that he had prepared a way
for peace. He had fought hard for it, combating
the partisan prejudices which ruled
at the national capital, and beating down
the pretensions of claimants of his own following.
Of course he knew that he was
not under any practical obligations to McAlister,
inasmuch as his own election would
have been a certainty, even had not his
rival withdrawn from the canvass. But
his word had been passed; and that word
it had been the pride of his life to keep
sacred; and in this matter it must be kept
all the more sacred because given to an
enemy.

The favor was received in a spirit not
unworthy of that in which it had been
conferred. Judge McAlister was not often
troubled by magnanimous impulses; but
now the best blood in his mainly selfish
heart boiled to the surface.

“This is Beaumont's work,” he said,
handing the commission to Frank, who
happened to be with him at the time. “By
heavens, he is a gentleman!”

The young man's face flushed crimson;
he saw all the possible consequences of
this fine deed; he trusted that there was
set for him love and happiness. It was
impossible for the moment that he could
do more than merely endure his heartbeats.
He was either far above or far
below the faculty of speech.

“I could not have demanded it,” continued
the father. “That miserable rencontre

had put my claims in chancery.
He is certainly a gentleman.”

“What will you do, sir?” the son could
at last inquire.

“What do you mean?” stared the
Judge.

“If you accept the commission, you will
owe an expression of —”

“Gratitude,” admitted the Judge, with a
grand bow. “Unquestionably. I shall owe
it, and I will pay it. The gift, to be sure, is
not overwhelming,” he added, his conceit, or,
as he conceived it to be, his dignity, beginning
to come uppermost. “I suppose I had
claims to the position which no man could
gainsay. I may say that I had rights. This
thing, at the least, was due me. But I
consider the good-will,” he went on, with
an air of magnanimity. “A bit of good-will
from an old enemy is doubly an obligation.
Certainly I shall thank Beaumont.
I could not do otherwise so long as my
name is McAlister.”

Heavens, what a pride he had in being
himself, and how loftily he bugled the
word “McAlister!” He was grandiose over
his gratitude; he would so return thanks
for the favor received as to overpay it;
he would make Beaumont glory in having
served him.

“I will go in person,” added this Artaxerxes
of a country gentleman and local
politician.

“I beg pardon,” observed Frank. “We
must take precautions against another misunderstanding.
You are not perhaps aware
that there is a second drunken Armitage
on hand.”

It must be understood that, although
Bentley had already left Hartland, Frank
had not heard of it.

“Indeed?” demanded the Judge, not
minded to get himself shot unnecessarily,
at his time of life.

Then the young man told the elder how
Bent had challenged him, and was supposed
to be lying in wait to take a shot at sight.

The father gave the son a queer look.
He was saying to himself, “In my day,
when a fellow proposed to ambush us, we
used to look him up and root him out.”
But he could not make this speech to his
son, and especially not under the present
circumstances; for the Armitages were kin
to the Beaumonts, and with these last it
was not well to open a fresh account of
blood, at least not immediately.

“That is bad,” he observed, arching his
eyebrows thoughtfully. “I hope you are
— taking precautions.”

“I am not ashamed to say that I am
keeping out of the lunatic's way. Of course,
if he attacks me. I shall defend myself.”

“Unquestionably you would be justified
in so doing,” declared the man of law. “In
deed, it would be your duty, to yourself and
society. But I am sorry to hear this. It
complicates matters; it is dreadfully inconvenient.”

After a moment of worried meditation he
added, “I am greatly tempted to put this
rascal under bonds to keep the peace.”

“It would excite discussion, sir,” observed
Frank, who knew that certain families
were too lofty and honorable to appeal
to the law for protection against their foes.

“It would,” admitted the Judge of the
United States District Court, remembering
that he was a high-toned gentleman first,
and an expounder of the statutes afterwards.
“I must confess that I hardly know what to
do in the premises. On the whole, I must,
I think, write to Beaumont, asking his permission
to call upon him with one or two of
my family.”

“With our revolvers in our pockets, sir?”
smiled Frank.

“I see no impropriety in that, under the
circumstances,” answered the Judge. “Of
course we shall have the gentility and the
sense to keep them out of sight, except in
the last extremity.”

“On the whole I can suggest nothing better,”
assented the young man, knowing that
his father would do nothing better, though
it should be suggested by an angel.

Anything for a chance to bring the two
families together in peace; anything to obtain
one more look at Kate Beaumont; anything
for love!