Part 13 (1/2)
”You're darling little dolls. No wonder your mother loves you.”
”Run back in the house now, honeys,” the mother said.
The children slowly obeyed, glancing back at the great man who had kissed them. They wondered why their daddy hadn't kissed them oftener.
”What do you think we ought to do, Colonel Lee?” the woman asked eagerly.
”I can tell you what I would do, Madame, in your place--”
”What?”
The husband and wife spoke the word in chorus.
”I'd go West and begin again.”
”But how'm I goin' to get away, sir?” the man asked blankly.
”Sell your things for the best price you can get and I'll loan you the balance of the money you'll need.”
”Will you, sir?” the woman gasped.
”I ain't got no security for ye, Colonel--” Doyle protested.
”You are my friend and neighbor, Mr. Doyle. You're in distress. You don't need security. I'll take your note, sir, without endors.e.m.e.nt.”
”Glory to G.o.d!” the mother cried with face uplifted in a prayer of thanksgiving.
Doyle couldn't speak for a moment. He looked out over the roadway and got control of his feelings before trying. There was a lump in his throat which made his speech thick when at last he managed to grasp Lee's hand.
”I dunno how to thank you, sir.”
”It will be all right, Mr. Doyle. Look after the sale of your things and I'll find out the best way for you to get there and let you know.”
He mounted his horse and rode away into the fading sunset as they watched him through dimmed eyes.
CHAPTER VIII
Lee had promised Edmund Ruffin his answer early in the week. Ruffin had just ridden up the hill and dismounted.
Mrs. Marshall, the Colonel's sister, on a visit from Baltimore, fled at his approach.
”Excuse me, Mary,” she cried to Mrs. Lee. ”I just can't stand these ranting fire-eating politicians. They make me ill. I'll go to my room.”
She hurried up the stairway and left the frail mistress of the house to meet her formidable guest.
Ruffin was the product of the fierce Abolition Crusade. Hot-tempered, impulsive, intemperate in his emotions and their expression, he was the perfect counterpart of the men who were working night and day in the North to create a condition of mob feeling out of which a civil conflict might grow. _Uncle Tom's Cabin_ had set him on fire with new hatreds.
His vocabulary of profanity had been enlarged by the addition of every name in the novel. He had been compelled to invent new expressions to fit these characters. He d.a.m.ned them individually and collectively. He cursed each trait of each character, good and bad. He cursed the good points with equal unction and equal emphasis. In fact the good traits in Mrs. Stowe's people seemed to carry him to greater heights of wrath and profanity than the bad ones. He dissected each part of each character's anatomy, d.a.m.ned each part, put the parts together and d.a.m.ned the collection. And then he d.a.m.ned the whole story, characters, plot and scenes to the lowest pit and cursed the devil for not building a lower one to which he might consign it. And in a final burst of pa.s.sion he always ended by d.a.m.ning himself for his utter inability to express _anything_ which he really felt.