The Crisis (Historical Novel). Winston Churchill

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      Five simple, happy years—then war. A black war of conquest which, like many such, was to add to the nation's fame and greatness: Glory beckoned, honor called—or Comyn Carvel felt them. With nothing of the profession of arms save that born in the Carvels, he kissed Beatrice farewell and steamed down the Mississippi, a captain in Missouri regiment. The young wife was ailing. Anguish killed her. Had Comyn Carvel been selfish?

      Ned, as he shaved his master's face, read his thoughts by the strange sympathy of love. He had heard the last pitiful words of his mistress. Had listened, choking, to Dr. Posthlewaite as he read the sublime service of the burial of the dead. It was Ned who had met his master, the Colonel, at the levee, and had fallen sobbing at his feet.

      Long after he was shaved that morning, the Colonel sat rapt in his chair, while the faithful servant busied himself about the room, one eye on his master the while. But presently Mr. Carvel's revery is broken by the swift rustle of a dress, and a girlish figure flutters in and plants itself on the wide arm of his mahogany barber chair, Mammy Easter in the door behind her. And the Colonel, stretching forth his hands, strains her to him, and then holds her away that he may look and look again into her face.

      “Honey,” he said, “I was thinking of your mother.”

      Virginia raised her eyes to the painting on the wall over the marble mantel. The face under the heavy coils of brown hair was sweet and gentle, delicately feminine. It had an expression of sorrow that seemed a prophecy.

      The Colonel's hand strayed upward to Virginia's head.

      “You are not like her, honey,” he said: “You may see for yourself. You are more like your Aunt Bess, who lived in Baltimore, and she—”

      “I know,” said Virginia, “she was the image of the beauty, Dorothy Manners, who married my great-grandfather.”

      “Yes, Jinny,” replied the Colonel, smiling. “That is so. You are somewhat like your great-grandmother.”

      “Somewhat!” cried Virginia, putting her hand over his mouth, “I like that. You and Captain Lige are always afraid of turning my head. I need not be a beauty to resemble her. I know that I am like her. When you took me on to Calvert House to see Uncle Daniel that time, I remember the picture by, by—”

      “Sir Joshua Reynolds.”

      “Yes, Sir Joshua.”

      “You were only eleven,” says the Colonel.

      “She is not a difficult person to remember.”

      “No,” said Mr. Carvel, laughing, “especially if you have lived with her.”

      “Not that I wish to be that kind,” said Virginia, meditatively,—“to take London by storm, and keep a man dangling for years.”

      “But he got her in the end,” said the Colonel. “Where did you hear all this?” he asked.

      “Uncle Daniel told me. He has Richard Carvel's diary.”

      “And a very honorable record it is,” exclaimed the Colonel. “Jinny, we shall read it together when we go a-visiting to Culvert House. I remember the old gentleman as well as if I had seen him yesterday.”

      Virginia appeared thoughtful.

      “Pa,” she began, “Pa, did you ever see the pearls Dorothy Carvel wore on her wedding day? What makes you jump like that? Did you ever see them?”

      “Well, I reckon I did,” replied the Colonel, gazing at her steadfastly.

      “Pa, Uncle Daniel told me that I was to have that necklace when I was old enough.”

      “Law!” said the Colonel, fidgeting, “your Uncle Daniel was just fooling you.”

      “He's a bachelor,” said Virginia; “what use has he got for it?”

      “Why,” says the Colonel, “he's a young man yet, your uncle, only fifty-three. I've known older fools than he to go and do it. Eh, Ned?”

      “Yes, marsa. Yes, suh. I've seed 'em at seventy, an' shufflin' about peart as Marse Clarence's gamecocks. Why, dar was old Marse Ludlow—”

      “Now, Mister Johnson,” Virginia put in severely, “no more about old Ludlow.”

      Ned grinned from ear to ear, and in the ecstasy of his delight dropped the Colonel's clothes-brush. “Lan' sakes!” he cried, “ef she ain't recommembered.” Recovering his gravity and the brush simultaneously, he made Virginia a low bow. “Mornin', Miss Jinny. I sholy is gwinter s'lute you dis day. May de good Lawd make you happy, Miss Jinny, an' give you a good husban'—”

      “Thank you, Mister Johnson, thank you,” said Virginia, blushing.

      “How come she recommembered, Marse Comyn? Dat's de quality. Dat's why. Doan't you talk to Ned 'bout de quality, Marsa.”

      “And when did I ever talk to you about the quality, you scalawag?” asks the Colonel, laughing.

      “Th' ain't none 'cept de bes' quality keep they word dat-a-way,” said Ned, as he went off to tell Uncle Ben in the kitchen.

      Was there ever, in all this wide country, a good cook who was not a tyrant? Uncle Ben Carvel was a veritable emperor in his own domain; and the Colonel himself, had he desired to enter the kitchen, would have been obliged to come with humble and submissive spirit. As for Virginia, she had had since childhood more than one passage at arms with Uncle Ben. And the question of who had come off victorious had been the subject of many a debate below stairs.

      There were a few days in the year, however, when Uncle Ben permitted the sanctity of his territory to be violated. One was the seventh of December. On such a day it was his habit to retire to the broken chair beside the sink (the chair to which he had clung for five-and-twenty years). There he would sit, blinking, and carrying on the while an undercurrent of protests and rumblings, while Miss Virginia and other young ladies mixed and chopped and boiled and baked and gossiped. But woe to the unfortunate Rosetta if she overstepped the bounds of respect! Woe to Ned or Jackson or Tato, if they came an inch over the threshold from the hall beyond! Even Aunt Easter stepped gingerly, though she was wont to affirm, when assisting Miss Jinny in her toilet, an absolute contempt for Ben's commands.

      “So Ben ordered you out, Mammy?” Virginia would say mischievously.

      “Order me out! Hugh! think I'se skeered o' him, honey? Reckon I'd frail 'em good ef he cotched hole of me with his black hands. Jes' let him try to come upstairs once, honey, an' see what I say to 'm.”

      Nevertheless Ben had, on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, ordered Mammy Easter out, and she had gone. And now, as she was working the beat biscuits to be baked that evening, Uncle Ben's eye rested on her with suspicion.

      What mere man may write with any confidence of the delicacies which were prepared in Uncle's kitchen that morning? No need in those days of cooking schools. What Southern lady, to the manner born, is not a cook from the cradle? Even Ben noted with approval Miss Virginia's scorn for pecks and pints, and grunted with satisfaction over the accurate pinches of spices and flavors which she used. And he did Miss Eugenie the honor to eat one of her praleens.

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