The Crisis — Complete. Winston Churchill

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СКАЧАТЬ Samuel Atterbury—eulogize him by the hour.”

      Stephen was surprised.

      “Why, yes,” said he, “Mr. Atterbury was a friend.”

      “Of course,” said Mr. Cluyme, “I knew it. Four years ago, the last business trip I made to Boston, I met Atterbury on the street. Absence makes no difference to some men, sir, nor the West, for that matter. They never change. Atterbury nearly took me in his arms. 'My dear fellow,' he cried, 'how long are you to be in town?' I was going the next day. 'Sorry I can't ask you to dinner,' says he, but step into the Tremont House and have a bite.'—Wasn't that like Atterbury?”

      Stephen thought it was. But Mr. Cluyme was evidently expecting no answer.

      “Well,” said he, “what I was going to say was that we heard you were in town; 'Friends of Samuel Atterbury, my dear,' I said to my wife. We are neighbors, Mr. Brace. You must know the girls. You must come to supper. We live very plainly, sir, very simply. I am afraid that you will miss the luxury of the East, and some of the refinement, Stephen. I hope I may call you so, my boy. We have a few cultured citizens, Stephen, but all are not so. I miss the atmosphere. I seemed to live again when I got to Boston. But business, sir—the making of money is a sordid occupation. You will come to supper?”

      “I scarcely think that my mother will go out,” said Stephen.

      “Oh, be friends! It will cheer her. Not a dinner-party, my boy, only a plain, comfortable meal, with plenty to eat. Of course she will. Of course she will. Not a Boston social function, you understand. Boston, Stephen, I have always looked upon as the centre of the universe. Our universe, I mean. America for Americans is a motto of mine. Oh, no,” he added quickly, “I don't mean a Know Nothing. Religious freedom, my boy, is part of our great Constitution. By the way, Stephen—Atterbury always had such a respect for your father's opinions—”

      “My father was not an Abolitionist, sir,” said Stephen, smiling.

      “Quite right, quite right,” said Mr. Cluyme.

      “But I am not sure, since I have come here, that I have not some sympathy and respect for the Abolitionists.”

      Mr. Cluyme gave a perceptible start. He glanced at the heavy hangings on the windows and then out of the open door into the hall. For a space his wife's chatter to Mrs. Brace, on Boston fashions, filled the room.

      “My dear Stephen,” said the gentleman, dropping his voice, “that is all very well in Boston. But take a little advice from one who is old enough to counsel you. You are young, and you must learn to temper yourself to the tone of the place which you have made your home. St. Louis is full of excellent people, but they are not precisely Abolitionists. We are gathering, it is true, a small party who are for gradual emancipation. But our New England population here is small yet compared to the Southerners. And they are very violent, sir.”

      Stephen could not resist saying, “Judge Whipple does not seem to have tempered himself, sir.”

      “Silas Whipple is a fanatic, sir,” cried Mr. Cluyme.

      “His hand is against every man's. He denounces Douglas on the slightest excuse, and would go to Washington when Congress opens to fight with Stephens and Toombs and Davis. But what good does it do him? He might have been in the Senate, or on the Supreme Bench, had he not stirred up so much hatred. And yet I can't help liking Whipple. Do you know him?”

      A resounding ring of the door-bell cut off Stephen's reply, and Mrs. Cluyme's small talk to Mrs. Brice. In the hall rumbled a familiar voice, and in stalked none other than Judge Whipple himself. Without noticing the other occupants of the parlor he strode up to Mrs. Brice, looked at her for an instant from under the grizzled brows, and held out his large hand.

      “Pray, ma'am,” he said, “what have you done with your slave?”

      Mrs. Cluyme emitted a muffled shriek, like that of a person frightened in a dream. Her husband grasped the curved back of his chair. But Stephen smiled. And his mother smiled a little, too.

      “Are you Mr. Whipple?” she asked.

      “I am, madam,” was the reply.

      “My slave is upstairs, I believe, unpacking my trunks,” said Mrs. Brice.

      Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme exchanged a glance of consternation. Then Mrs. Cluyme sat down again, rather heavily, as though her legs had refused to hold her.

      “Well, well, ma'am!” The Judge looked again at Mrs. Brice, and a gleam of mirth lighted the severity of his face. He was plainly pleased with her—this serene lady in black, whose voice had the sweet ring of women who are well born and whose manner was so self-contained. To speak truth, the Judge was prepared to dislike her. He had never laid eyes upon her, and as he walked hither from his house he seemed to foresee a helpless little woman who, once he had called, would fling her Boston pride to the winds and dump her woes upon him. He looked again, and decidedly approved of Mrs. Brice, and was unaware that his glance embarrassed her.

      “Mr. Whipple,” she said—“do you know Mr. and Mrs. Cluyme?”

      The Judge looked behind him abruptly, nodded ferociously at Mr. Cluyme, and took the hand that fluttered out to him from Mrs. Cluyme.

      “Know the Judge!” exclaimed that lady, “I reckon we do. And my Belle is so fond of him. She thinks there is no one equal to Mr. Whipple. Judge, you must come round to a family supper. Belle will surpass herself.”

      “Umph!” said the Judge, “I think I like Edith best of your girls, ma'am.”

      “Edith is a good daughter, if I do say it myself,” said Mrs. Cluyme. “I have tried to do right by my children.” She was still greatly flustered, and curiosity about the matter of the slave burned upon her face. Neither the Judge nor Mrs. Brice were people one could catechise. Stephen, scanning the Judge, was wondering how far he regarded the matter as a joke.

      “Well, madam,” said Mr. Whipple, as he seated himself on the other end of the horsehair sofa, “I'll warrant when you left Boston that you did not expect to own a slave the day after you arrived in St. Louis.”

      “But I do not own her,” said Mrs. Brice. “It is my son who owns her.”

      This was too much for Mr. Cluyme.

      “What!” he cried to Stephen. “You own a slave? You, a mere boy, have bought a negress?”

      “And what is more, sir, I approve of it,” the Judge put in, severely. “I am going to take the young man into my office.”

      Mr. Cluyme gradually retired into the back of his chair, looking at Mr. Whipple as though he expected him to touch a match to the window curtains. But Mr. Cluyme was elastic.

      “Pardon me, Judge,” said he, “but I trust that I may be allowed to congratulate you upon the abandonment of principles which I have considered a clog to your career. They did you honor, sir, but they were Quixotic. I, sir, am for saving our glorious Union at any cost. And we have no right to deprive our brethren of their property of their very means of livelihood.”

      The Judge grinned diabolically. Mrs. Cluyme was as yet too stunned to speak. Only Stephen's mother sniffed gunpowder in the air.

      “This, СКАЧАТЬ