The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ you do them an injustice, sir,” he said, with more feeling them he had yet shown. “I am not speaking of the rich alone, and I think that if you knew Boston you would not say that the conservative class there is wholly composed of wealthy people. Many of may father's friends were by no means wealthy. And I know that if he had been poor he would have held the same views.”

      Stephen did not mark the quick look of approval which Colonel Carvel gave him. Judge Whipple merely rubbed his nose.

      “Well, sir,” he said, “what were his views, then?”

      “My father regarded slaves as property, sir. And conservative people” (Stephen stuck to the word) “respect property the world over. My father's argument was this: If men are deprived by violence of one kind of property which they hold under the law, all other kinds of property will be endangered. The result will be anarchy. Furthermore, he recognized that the economic conditions in the South make slavery necessary to prosperity. And he regarded the covenant made between the states of the two sections as sacred.”

      There was a brief silence, during which the uncompromising expression of the Judge did not change.

      “And do you, sir?” he demanded.

      “I am not sure, sir, after what I saw yesterday. I—I must have time to see more of it.”

      “Good Lord,” said Colonel Carvel, “if the conservative people of the North act this way when they see a slave sale, what will the Abolitionists do? Whipple,” he added slowly, but with conviction, “this means war.”

      Then the Colonel got to his feet, and bowed to Stephen with ceremony.

      “Whatever you believe, sir,” he said, “permit me to shake your hand. You are a brave man, sir. And although my own belief is that the black race is held in subjection by a divine decree, I can admire what you have done, Mr. Brice. It was a noble act, sir—a right noble act. And I have more respect for the people of Boston, now, sir, than I ever had before, sir.”

      Having delivered himself of this somewhat dubious compliment (which he meant well), the Colonel departed.

      Judge Whipple said nothing.

CHAPTER VII. CALLERS

       Table of Contents

      If the Brices had created an excitement upon their arrival, it was as nothing to the mad delirium which raged at Miss Crane's boarding-house. during the second afternoon of their stay. Twenty times was Miss Crane on the point of requesting Mrs. Brice to leave, and twenty times, by the advice of Mrs. Abner Deed, she desisted. The culmination came when the news leaked out that Mr. Stephen Brice had bought the young woman in order to give her freedom. Like those who have done noble acts since the world began, Stephen that night was both a hero and a fool. The cream from which heroes is made is very apt to turn.

      “Phew!” cried Stephen, when they had reached their room after tea, “wasn't that meal a fearful experience? Let's find a hovel, mother, and go and live in it. We can't stand it here any longer.”

      “Not if you persist in your career of reforming an Institution, my son,” answered the widow, smiling.

      “It was beastly hard luck,” said he, “that I should have been shouldered with that experience the first day. But I have tried to think it over calmly since, and I can see nothing else to have done.” He paused in his pacing up and down, a smile struggling with his serious look. “It was quite a hot-headed business for one of the staid Brices, wasn't it?”

      “The family has never been called impetuous,” replied his mother. “It must be the Western air.”

      He began his pacing again. His mother had not said one word about the money. Neither had he. Once more he stopped before her.

      “We are at least a year nearer the poor-house,” he said; “you haven't scolded me for that. I should feel so much better if you would.”

      “Oh, Stephen, don't say that!” she exclaimed. “God has given me no greater happiness in this life than the sight of the gratitude of that poor creature, Nancy. I shall never forget the old woman's joy at the sight of her daughter. It made a palace out of that dingy furniture shop. Hand me my handkerchief, dear.”

      Stephen noticed with a pang that the lace of it was frayed and torn at the corner.

      There was a knock at the door.

      “Come in,” said Mrs. Brice, hastily putting the handkerchief down.

      Hester stood on the threshold, and old Nancy beside her.

      “Evenin', Mis' Brice. De good Lawd bless you, lady, an' Miste' Brice,” said the old negress.

      “Well, Nancy?”

      Nancy pressed into the room. “Mis' Brice!”

      “Yes?”

      “Ain' you gwineter' low Hester an' me to wuk fo' you?”

      “Indeed I should be glad to, Nancy. But we are boarding.”

      “Yassm, yassm,” said Nancy, and relapsed into awkward silence. Then again, “Mis' Brice!”

      “Yes, Nancy?”

      “Ef you 'lows us t' come heah an' straighten out you' close, an' mend 'em—you dunno how happy you mek me an' Hester—des to do dat much, Mis' Brice.”

      The note of appeal was irresistible. Mrs. Brice rose and unlocked the trunks.

      “You may unpack them, Nancy,” she said.

      With what alacrity did the old woman take off her black bonnet and shawl! “Whaffor you stannin' dere, Hester?” she cried.

      “Hester is tired,” said Mrs. Brice, compassionately, and tears came to her eyes again at the thought of what they had both been through that day.

      “Tired!” said Nancy, holding up her hands. “No'm, she ain' tired. She des kinder stupefied by you' goodness, Mis' Brice.”

      A scene was saved by the appearance of Miss Crane's hired girl.

      “Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme, in the parlor, mum,” she said.

      If Mr. Jacob Cluyme sniffed a little as he was ushered into Miss Crane's best parlor, it was perhaps because of she stuffy dampness of that room. Mr. Cluyme was one of those persons the effusiveness of whose greeting does not tally with the limpness of their grasp. He was attempting, when Stephen appeared, to get a little heat into his hands by rubbing them, as a man who kindles a stick of wood for a visitor. The gentleman had red chop-whiskers—to continue to put his worst side foremost, which demanded a ruddy face. He welcomed Stephen to St. Louis with neighborly effusion; while his wife, a round little woman, bubbled over to Mrs. Brice.

      “My dear sir,” said Mr. Cluyme, “I used often to go to Boston in the forties. In fact—ahem—I may claim to be a New Englander. Alas, no, I never met your father. But when I heard of the sad circumstances of СКАЧАТЬ