Lewis Rand Part 42

"They are so considered, Mr. Ritchie," said Rand, with calmness. "Thanks for your courtesy, and good-morning!"

He bowed and made his way, not unaccosted, through the crowd to the Eagle porch. There was much excitement. The Governor was speaking from the head of the steps. Below him planters, merchants, lawyers, and politicians were now listening eagerly, now commenting sotto voce, while beyond them the nondescript population swayed and exclaimed. To one side were ma.s.sed the tall plumes of the Blues. Rand saw, near these, Fairfax Cary's handsome face, not pale as it had been between nine and ten o'clock, but alert, flushed, and--or so Rand interpreted its light and energy--triumphant. He went on into the house, ordered and drank a small quant.i.ty of brandy, and when he came back upon the porch was met by those near him with a cry of "Speech! Speech!" The Governor's periods were at an end, and John Randolph of Roanoke held the impromptu tribune.

Rand's eloquence, if not as impa.s.sioned and mordant, was as overwhelming, and his reasoning of a closer texture. Those around him loudly claimed him for the next to address the crowd, which now numbered a great part of the free men of Richmond. He shook off the detaining hands and, with a gesture of refusal to one and all, made his escape by a side step into the miscellany of the street, and finally out of the throng, and, by a detour, back to the deserted square where stood his office. He had lost sight of Mocket, but as he put his key into the door, the other came panting up, and the two entered the bare, suns.h.i.+ne-flooded room together. Rand locked the door and, without a look at his trembling subaltern, proceeded to take from his desk paper after paper, some in neatly tied packets, some in single sheets, until a crisp white heap lay on the wood beneath his hand. "Light a fire," he said over his shoulder. "There's absolutely nothing, is there, in that desk of yours?"

"Nothing. For the Lord's sake, Lewis, is this the end of everything?"

"Everything is a large word. It is the end of this." He pushed a table closer to the fireplace and transferred to it his armful of papers.

"Strike a light, will you? Here goes every line that can incriminate. If Burr did as he was told, and burned two letters of mine, there'll not be a word when I finish here." He tore a paper across and tossed it into the flame. "Tom, Tom, don't look so woe-begone! Life is long, and now and then a battle will be lost. A battle--a campaign, a war! But given the fighter, all wars will not be lost. Somewhere, there awaits Victory, hard-won, but laurel-crowned!" He tore and burned another paper. "This fat's in the fire, this chance has gone by, this road's barricaded, and we must across country to another! Well, I shall make it serve, the smooth, green, country road that jog-trots to market! What is man but a Mercenary, a Swiss, to die before whatever door will give him moderate pay? I would have had a kingdom an I could. I would have ruled, ay, by G.o.d, and ruled well! The great wheel will not have it so. Down, then, that action! and up this. The King is dead: long live the King!--alias the Law, Respectability, Virginia, and the Union!" He tossed in a double handful.

"All those!" said Tom dully. "I hate to see them burn."

"They might have burned this morning," answered the other. "I gave you orders to burn them if I fell, the moment you heard it."

"But you did not fall."

"No. He fired into the air." Rand tore the paper in his hand across and across. "He had me in his trap. That was why--that was why he spared to fire! Oh, I could take this check from the hand of Fortune, or the hand of Malice, or the hand of Treachery, or the hand of Policy, but, but"--he crushed the torn paper in his hands, then flung it from him with a violent and sinister gesture--"to take it from the hand of Ludwell Cary--that requires more than my philosophy is prepared to give!

Let him look to himself!" He thrust in another bundle, and held down with an ashen stick the ma.s.s of curling leaves.

CHAPTER XXV

OLD SAINT JOHN'S

The distance was so great from the more populous part of the town to Saint John's on Church Hill, and the road thereto so steep, in hot weather dusty, in wet deep in mud, that it had become the Richmond custom to wors.h.i.+p within the Capitol, in the Hall of the House of Delegates. But during this August of the year 1807 the habit was foregone. It was the month in which Aaron Burr, arrested in Alabama in January, brought to Richmond in the early spring, and, since the finding of a true bill, confined in the penitentiary without the town, was to be tried for his life on the charge of high treason. Early and late, during the week, every apartment of the Capitol was in requisition, and though the building itself was closed on Sunday, the Capitol Square remained, a place of rendezvous, noise, heat, confusion, and dispute. There was in the town a mult.i.tude of strangers, with a range from legal, political, military, and naval heights, through a rolling country of frontiersmen, to a level of Ohio boatmen, servants, and nondescript. Many were witnesses subpoenaed by the Government, others had been called by Burr, and yet others brought upon the scene by varied interests, or by the sheer, compelling curiosity which the trial evoked. One and all were loudly and fiercely partisan. The lesser sort and ruder fry congregated in numbers beneath the trees about the Capitol, and it was thought with propriety that during this month church-going ladies would prefer to attend Saint John's. Here, therefore, on a Sunday in mid-August, the Reverend John Buchanan preached to a large and noteworthy a.s.semblage.

The day was hot, but the chestnut trees and sycamores gave a grateful shade, and large white clouds in a brilliant blue threw now and then a transient screen between sun and earth. The broad and murmuring river and the far stretch of woodland upon the Chesterfield side gave, too, a sensation of s.p.a.ce and coolness. Faint airs carried the smell of midsummer flowers, and bees droned around the flat tombstones sunk in honeysuckle. The congregation gathered slowly, the masculine portion of it lingering, as was the custom, in the wide old churchyard until the second tinkling of the bell should call them indoors. They had thus the double advantage of talk and observation of the Progress of Women. These traversed the path to the church door like a drift of blossoms in the summer air, saluted on either hand by the lowest of bows, the most gallant lifting of bell-shaped hats. Whatever might be said of the men's dress, from the fair top-boot to the yards of lawn that swathed the throat, that of the weaker s.e.x, in the days of the Empire, was admirably fitted for August weather. Above pale, thin stuffs, girdled beneath the breast and falling straight and narrow to the instep, rose bare white neck and arms, while each charming face looked forth from an umbrageous bonnet of fine straw. Bonnet and large fan appeared the only ample articles of attire; even the gloves were but mitts. By ones and twos, or in larger knots, the wearers of this slender finery entered Saint John's with sedateness, took their seats in the dim old pews, and waited in the warm, fragrant, whisper-filled air for the ringing of the second bell and the entrance of the men. After church, custom would still reign, and all alike would linger, laugh, and talk beneath the trees, while the coaches drew up slowly and the grooms brought the saddle-horses from the rack, and those who meant to walk gathered courage for the dusty venture.

Jacqueline Rand and Unity Dandridge, the one in her customary white, the other in a blue that marvellously set off dark hair, dark eyes, and brilliant bloom, entered Saint John's together and pa.s.sed up the aisle to a seat halfway between door and pulpit. By some miscalculation of Unity's they were very early, a fact which presently brought a whispered e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n of annoyance from Miss Dandridge. "I love a flutter when I come in and the knowledge that I've turned every head--and here we've entered an empty church! Heigho! Nothing to do for half an hour."

"Read your prayer book," suggested Jacqueline. "Oh! does it open just there as easily as all that?"

"It always did open just there," answered Miss Dandridge. "It's something in the binding. Heigho! 'Love, honour, and obey.' Obey!"

"Your entrance," said her cousin, "was not entirely unseen, and here comes one whose head is certainly turned."

"Is it?" asked Unity, and hastily closed the prayer book as Fairfax Cary entered the pew behind them.

Jacqueline turned and greeted the young man with a smile. There was now between Greenwood and Roselands, between the house on Shockoe Hill and the quarters of the Carys at the Swan, a profound breach, an almost utter division. Lewis Rand and Ludwell Cary were private as well as political enemies, and all men knew as much. There had been no attempt on the part of either to conceal the fact of the duel in November. Their world of town and country surmised and conjectured, volubly or silently, according to company, drew its conclusions, and chose its colours. The conclusions were largely false, for it occurred to no one--at least outside of Fontenoy--to connect the quarrel and the duel with the President's proclamation and the Burr conspiracy. During the past winter Cary had been much in Albemarle, little in Richmond, and the encounters of the two had not been frequent. In the spring, however, matters had brought him to the city, and in the fever and excitement of the ensuing summer he and Rand were often thrown into company. When this was the case, they spoke with a bare and cold civility, and left each other's neighbourhood as soon as circ.u.mstances permitted. Cary came, of course, no more to the house on Shockoe Hill. Jacqueline, remaining in town through the summer because her husband remained, saw him now and again in some public place or gathering. He bowed low and she inclined her head, but they did not speak. Her heart was hot and pained. She had pleaded that afternoon in the cedar wood for his better understanding of Lewis, and to what purpose?--an open quarrel and a duel! She did not want to speak; she wanted to forget him.

But for Fairfax Cary, friend and shadow though he was of the elder brother, her feeling was different. He was a man to be liked for himself, and he loved and was to marry Unity. He adopted his brother's quarrel: he and Lewis barely spoke, and that despite the fact that Lewis had for him a strange half-grim, half-vexed admiration; he came no more than the elder Cary to the house on Shockoe; but when they met abroad, Jacqueline was sure of some greeting, half gay, half stiff, some talk of Fontenoy, some exchange of sentiment upon one topic dear to each, some chivalrous compliment to herself. He made a gallant and devoted lover, and Jacqueline could not but applaud Unity's choice and feel for him an almost unmixed kindness.

Because of the trial, which drew friends, kindred, and acquaintances to Richmond, the marriage, which was to have been celebrated in August, had been postponed to September. Unity came to town for a month and stayed with her cousin. Her lover would not enter Lewis Rand's house, nor did she ask him to do so. Her kindred in Richmond were numerous, and they might and did meet in a score of Federalist mansions, at various places of entertainment, and, as now, at church.

He answered Jacqueline's welcome and Miss Dandridge's bright blush and brief "How d'ye do?" with the not-too-profound bow, the subdued and deprecatory smile, and the comparative absence of compliment that church demanded, then, seating himself, leaned forward with his arm upon the back of their pew and entered into low-toned conversation.

"They were early."--"Yes: too early!"--"So much the better, for now they could see all the famous folk enter. Army, Navy, Law, and Letters are all coming to church. To-morrow is the indictment."

"Ah!" murmured Jacqueline; and Unity, "They say he held a levee at the Penitentiary yesterday. Personally, I prefer a surly traitor to one who is so affable, smiling, and witty."

"I also," agreed her lover. "But Colonel Burr is no Grand Seigneur of a traitor out of the dismal romances that you read! He meant no harm--not he! His ideas of _meum_ and _tuum_ may be vague, but when all's said, he's the most courteous gentleman and a boon companion! I think that we are well-nigh the only Federalists in town who have not forgotten that this man slew Hamilton, and who keep the fact in mind that, defend him as they please, his counsel cannot say, He loved his country and wished no other empire!' After the indictment to-morrow, Hay will speak and the Government begin to call its witnesses. Who is this coming in--the lady with Mrs. Carrington? Look! It's Burr's daughter--it's Mrs. Alston!"

"She's a brave woman," said Unity. "One can't but honour such spirit, courage, and loyalty. She's dressed as if it were a gala day!"

"If you'll let me pa.s.s," whispered Jacqueline, "I will speak to her. We met at the Amblers' the other night. There's an anxious heart behind that fine fire!"

She rose and, slipping past Unity, moved up the aisle to the Carrington pew. The two left behind looked after the gliding white figure in silence. Unity sighed. "To me Lewis Rand's like a giant, and she's like his captive. And yet--and yet there's much that's likeable in the giant, and I can perfectly well see how the captive might adore him!"

"I can't," retorted the other. "I'll grant his ability, but there's a little worm at the heart! Even his genius will one day turn against him; it is the tree too tall that falls the soonest. He's not coming here to-day?"

"No. He's out of town. All the Republican papers are wondering why the President did not include him among the counsel for the Government."

"I dare say," said the younger Cary grimly. "Well, that would have been an entertainment worth hearing, that speech for the prosecution!"

"Don't let's talk of him any more. I feel a traitor to Jacqueline when I do. How slow the people are in coming!"

"They may stay away as long as they please," murmured her lover. "I like a quiet time for wors.h.i.+p before all the fuss and flutter. You should always wear blue, Unity."

"You told me yesterday that I should always wear pink. At last, here enters a man!"

"It is Winfield Scott, just up from Williamsburgh. He doesn't like the law and will go into the army. Here are all the Randolphs and the beautiful Mrs. Peyton!"

Unity moved to let Jacqueline reenter the pew. The church was beginning to fill, and the whispering and noise of fluttering fans increased. All the windows were open to the breeze, and the soft scents and sounds and colours, the dimness within the church, and the August skies and waving trees without, combined to give a drowsy, mellow, and enchanted air to old Saint John's and to the gathering people.

"The choir have come into the gallery," said Fairfax Cary. "I hear the sc.r.a.pe of Fitzwhyllson's viol."

"The quiet is over and here comes the world," answered Jacqueline. "Who is that with Mr. Wickham--the tall, lean man?"

"It is the Governor of Tennessee and a fire-eater for Burr--Andrew Jackson by name. The third man is Luther Martin."

"He may be learned in the law," murmured Unity, "but I would like to know the University that taught him dress. See, Jacqueline, Charlotte Foushee has the newest bonnet yet!"

"That is Commodore Truxtun coming in with Edmund Randolph. He looks a seaman, every inch of him! Who is the young gentleman in blue?"

"Oh, that," replied Unity, "is Mr. Was.h.i.+ngton Irving of New York. He has just returned from the Grand Tour, and he writes most beautifully. He has sent me an acrostic for my keepsake that--that--"

"That I could not have written had I tried till doomsday," finished Fairfax Cary. "Do you like acrostics, Mrs. Rand?"

Jacqueline smiled. "No, nor keepsakes either. Unity and I both like strong prose and books with meanings. Her _facons de parler_ are many."

"Well, anyhow," said Miss Dandridge, "I like Mr. Was.h.i.+ngton Irving. He doesn't only write acrostics; he writes prose as well. Here is the Chief Justice."

"The second bell is ringing. We'll have all the churchyard now. Here comes the Tenth Legion--Hay, Wirt, and McRae! Mark Wirt bow to Martin!"

"Will General Wilkinson be here?"

"Speak of--one that's often named in church--and see the waving of his red c.o.c.kfeather! This is the General now. Ahem! he looks what he is."