Part 9

He had to leave Corbin Hall at five o’clock in the morning, so Letty, secretly much disgusted with him on account of his callousness, had to say farewell the night before. The Colonel would be up the next morning, and Miss Jemima, to give him breakfast, but Letty gave no hint of any such intention. They had a very jolly evening in the library, the Colonel being in great feather and telling some of his best stories while he brewed the family punch bowl full of apple toddy. Miss Jemima, too, had been induced by the most outrageous flattery on Farebrother’s part to bring out her guitar, and to sing to them in a thin, sweet voice some desperately sentimental songs of forty years before--“Oh No, We Never Mention Her,” “When Stars are in the Quiet Skies,” and “Ben Bolt.” It was very simple and primitive. The two men of the world enjoyed it much more than many of the costliest evenings of their lives, and neither one could remember anything quite like it. The life at Corbin Hall was as simple and quaint as that of the poorest people in the world--and yet more refined, more gently bred, than almost any of the rich people in the world.

At eleven o’clock, Letty rose to go. Farebrother lighted her candle for her from those on the rickety hall table, and escorted her to the foot of the stairs. It really did cost him an effort then to play the cheerfully departing guest. There was no doubt that Letty had been vastly improved by her touch with the outside world. She had learned to dress herself, which she did not know before--and she had learned a charming modesty concerning herself--and she was quite unspoiled. She still thought Corbin Hall good enough for anybody in the world, and although she admired satin damask chairs and sofas and art drapery, she still cherished an affection for hair cloth and dimity curtains. This ineradicable simplicity of character was what charmed Farebrother most--she would always retain a delightful freshness, and she never could become wholly sophisticated.

“I can’t tell you how much I have enjoyed being here,” he said to her, with hearty sincerity, as he stood at the foot of the stairs, looking up at Letty. She held the candle a little above her head, and its yellow circle of flame fell on her pure, pale face--for this young lady who tried so hard to make fools of men, had the air, the face, and the soul of a vestal.

Letty nodded her head gravely.

“Of course you have enjoyed yourself. We are such an--ahem--agreeable family.”

“I should say so! And to get into a community where people won’t even talk about divorce--and where nobody chases the dollar very hard--and where the dear Colonel is considered a very practical man--pray excuse me, Miss Corbin, but I do think your grandfather the noblest old innocent!”

“I know it. Grandpapa _is_ innocent. So is Aunt Jemima. I am the only worldling in the family.”

“My dear young friend,--for you must allow me to address you as a father after that astounding statement,--you are not, and never can be worldly minded. You are a very clever girl--but it is the wisdom of the dove, not of the serpent.”

“Very graceful indeed. I thank you. You have a pretty wit when you choose to exercise it. Now, good-by. I hope so much I shall, some time or other, see--your sisters--again.”

“Oh, hang my sisters! Don’t you want to see me again?”

“Y-y-yes. A little. A very little.” But while saying this, her hand softly returned Farebrother’s clasp.

It was still dark next morning, when Letty slipped out of bed and ran to the window, pulling aside the dimity curtains--she had heard the old carriage rattling up to the door. The moon had gone down, but the stars still shone in the blue black sky. Presently Farebrother came out, accompanied by the Colonel. Letty could hear their voices, and saw Farebrother take off his hat as he shook the Colonel’s hand. Then he sprang into the carriage. Tom Battercake gave the restless horses a cut with a long sapling with all the twigs cut off, and in two minutes the rig had disappeared around the turn in the lane. Letty crept back to bed, feeling as if something pleasant had suddenly dropped out of her life. She determined to go to sleep again, and to sleep as late as she could. There was no object in going down to breakfast early--only Sir Archy would be there. Then she began to think about Farebrother--and her last conscious thought was: “A man so hard to get must be worth having.”

IX

Meanwhile, a period of convulsion was at hand for the happy family at Shrewsbury. As soon as it was decided that Miss Maywood was to return to England, a number of obstacles arose, as if by magic, to her departure--and they were all inspired by Mr. Romaine. As she was to cross alone he declared that she must do it only under the charge of a certain captain--and when inquiries were made at the steamship office in New York, it turned out that this particular captain had a leave of absence on account of ill health, and would not command his ship again until after Christmas. Mr. Romaine proposed to wait for this event, if it did not occur until midsummer. Then some acquaintances were discovered who intended sailing almost immediately, but Mr. Romaine suddenly grew very ailing, and could not part with Mr. Chessingham to take his sister-in-law to New York. Besides he found every imaginable fault with the proposed traveling companions, and the Chessinghams and Ethel felt that, after enjoying Mr. Romaine’s hospitality for so long, they ought to defer to him as regarded the impending departure. Therefore, although Miss Maywood had undoubtedly got her congé from Mr. Romaine, she was still under his roof well on in December, and it looked as if he would succeed in doing to her what Letty complained of in her own case--making a fool of her. Ethel was really very anxious to leave; but this reluctance to give her up on the part of her elderly and eccentric friend made her wonder sometimes whether, after all, Mr. Romaine would let her return to England without him. He openly declared that he was tired of Virginia and meant to take a house in London for the season; and he actually engaged, by correspondence, a charming house at Prince’s Gate, from the first of April. Ethel felt that it would be flying in the face of Providence to insist upon going, as long as there was a chance of her presiding over the house in Prince’s Gate. And the liberty and spending-money enjoyed by American women seemed daily more pleasing to her. Whatever could be said against Mr. Romaine, his worst enemy could not charge him with meanness. He gave with a princely generosity that made Ethel--who thought that nobody got more than three per cent. interest on money--think he was worth millions. Sir Archy had gone away from Corbin Hall a few days after Farebrother left, but was to return after Christmas; but Ethel put Sir Archy out of her mind altogether--she was eminently reasonable, and never counted upon the vaguely brilliant.

The beginning of more serious upheavals was the announcement, one day, from Bridge, Mr. Romaine’s own man, and Dodson, who was also Mr. Romaine’s man, but waited on Mr. Chessingham, that they desired to leave at the end of the month; and Carroll, the ladies’ maid, gave simultaneous warning.

“I ’ave been, sir, with Mr. Romaine for sixteen year, and I ’ave put hup with ’im, and I could put hup with ’im for sixteen year more; but this stoopid country and the willainous blacks is too much for me,” Bridge announced to Chessingham, with an injured air. Dodson followed suit, and Carroll tearfully explained that she ’ad been in mortial terror ever since she first knew the blacks, for fear they would kill and eat her.

Chessingham was secretly much delighted with this, and confided his feelings to his wife and Ethel.

“It will take the old curmudgeon back to London quicker than anything on earth that could have been devised,” he said. “He can’t get on without Bridge--nobody else, I’m told, ever stayed with him more than three months--and he’ll be forced to quit.”

In the library a characteristic interview was taking place between Bridge and his master. Bridge, feeling like a felon, announced his determination to leave.

“That’s quite satisfactory,” remarked Mr. Romaine, raising his black eyes from his book. “I have been thinking for some time that I needed a younger and more active man. I do not like men of any sort when they become antiquated.”

Bridge opened his mouth to speak, but dared not. He was at least twenty years younger than Mr. Romaine, and there he was reproached with his age!

However, some faint stirring of the heart toward the man he had served so long, and who had given him some kicks, but a good many ha’pence, too, made him say hesitatingly:

“Wot’s troublin’ me, sir, is how is you goin’ to be hattended to when you’re hill; and how is you to get shaved, sir?”

“As to my attendance when I am ill, that is a trifle; and shaving will be unnecessary, as I have intended for some time past to turn out a full beard,” promptly responded Mr. Romaine. “Now you may go. When you are ready to leave come to me and I will give you a check.”

The idea of Mr. Romaine in a full beard drove Bridge immediately into the pantry, where he confided the news to Dodson, and they both haw-hawed in company.

Nevertheless, the loss of his man, who knew some secrets about his health, was a very serious one to Mr. Romaine. Also, he had never shaved or dressed himself in his life, and to him immaculateness of attire was a necessity. He turned the ridiculous and embarrassing question over in his mind--how was he to get shaved?--until it nearly drove him to asking Bridge to reconsider his decision. But before doing that, he went over to Corbin Hall one day, where a new solution of the difficulty presented itself.

It was a bright, wintry day in December when he was ushered into the shabby library, where sat the Colonel. Now, although none of the family from Corbin Hall had darkened the doors of Shrewsbury for a month past, Mr. Romaine had calmly ignored this, and had treated the Colonel’s studied standoffishness with the most exasperating nonchalance. Colonel Corbin could not be actively rude to any one to have saved his own life, and the extent of his resentment was shown merely in not visiting Mr. Romaine, and receiving him with a stiffness that he found much more difficult to maintain than Mr. Romaine did to endure. The struggle between the Colonel’s natural and sonorous urbanity toward a guest and his grave displeasure with Mr. Romaine was desperate; and Mr. Romaine, seeing it with half an eye, enjoyed it hugely. The idea of taking Colonel Corbin seriously was excessively ludicrous to him; and the Colonel’s expectation of being taken seriously on all occasions he thought the most diverting thing in the world.

“How d’ye do, Corbin?” said Mr. Romaine, entering with a very jaunty air.

“Good-day, Mr. Romaine,” answered the Colonel, sternly--and then suddenly and unexpectedly falling into his habitual tone, he continued, grandiloquently:

“Has your horse been put up, and may we have the satisfaction of entertaining you at dinner?”

“Oh, Lord, no,” answered Mr. Romaine, smiling; “I merely came over to see how you and Miss Corbin were coming on--and to ask you a most absurd question.”

“My granddaughter is coming on very well. For myself, at my time of life--and yours, too, I may say--there is but one thing to do--which constitutes coming on well--and that is to prepare for the ferriage over the dark river.”

“I do not anticipate needing the services of the ferryman for a good while yet, and my heirs, I apprehend, will have a long wait for their inheritance,” snapped Mr. Romaine, who was always put in a bad humor by any allusion to his age. Colonel Corbin, though, could not stand Mr. Romaine’s hasty allusion to his heirs, and without saying a word, turned away, and with a portentous frown began to stare out of the window.

Mr. Romaine, after a moment or two, cooled down and proceeded to make amends in his own peculiar fashion for his remark.

“Excuse me, Corbin, but you are so devilish persistent on the subject of my age that I inadvertently used an illustration I should not have done had I reflected for one instant whom I was addressing. But I take it that no gentleman will hold another accountable for a few words said in heat and under provocation. Remember, ‘an affront handsomely acknowledged becomes an obligation.’”

“Your acknowledgment, sir, was not what I should call a handsome one.”

“Hang it, Corbin, we can’t quarrel. Here I am in trouble, and I have come to you, as to my friend of forty years, to help me out.”

It was always hard for the Colonel to maintain his anger, and Mr. Romaine, when he said this, put on one of his characteristic appealing looks, and spoke in his sweetest voice, and the Colonel could not help relaxing a little.

“I think you understand, Romaine, the attitude I feel compelled to assume toward you; but--but--if you are really in unpleasant circumstances--”

“Deuced unpleasant, I assure you. I’ve had a man for sixteen years--never knew him to make a mistake, to be off duty when required, or to have any serious fault--and now he swears he can’t stand Virginia any longer, and intends leaving me in the lurch. I can’t stand Virginia much longer myself, but I don’t want the villain to know that his loss is actually driving me back to England before my time. But the case is this--I can’t shave myself. Does that black fellow of yours, David, shave you?”

“I always shave myself--but David understands the art of shaving, and has practised it on guests upon various occasions, with much success.”

“I wish you would send him over to Shrewsbury to-morrow. If I can’t get a man by the time Bridge leaves--which will be next week--I might ride over here every day, and, with your permission, make use of David’s services until I can get a capable white man.”

To say “No” was generally impossible to the Colonel, so he weakly yielded. He would send David over on the next day.

Mr. Romaine did not ask to see Letty, and went off after a short visit, leaving the Colonel in a very bad humor indeed.

Nevertheless, next day Dad Davy appeared and was introduced into Mr. Romaine’s bed-room. Dad Davy was not only honored by being thought capable of shaving Mr. Romaine, but he had brought his implements with him in a rusty-looking rush basket.

“You may know that I am about to dismiss my man; and I desired to find out if I could get any sort of a barber, in case there might be delay in the arrival of a man from New York that my agent will send me,” said Mr. Romaine. He was sitting in a large chair, with a newspaper in his hand, and wore a flowered silk dressing-gown, and evidently had not been shaved.

“Lord, yes, sir; I kin shave er gent’mun,” answered Dad Davy, with visions of a silver quarter illuminating his imagination. “I done brung some new shavin’ things wid me, and ef you wuz to let me git de hot water, I kin trim yo’ face jes’ ez clean ez er b’iled onion.”

“Very well; you may try your hand,” said Mr. Romaine, picking up his paper. “There is the shaving-table.”

Dad Davy tiptoed over to the shaving-table, and examined suspiciously the silver toilet articles, the spirit-lamps, scented soaps, etc., etc. Mr. Romaine, absorbed in his paper, presently heard Dad Davy, in an apologetic tone, saying:

“Marse Richard, I k’yarn do nuttin’ wid dem gorgeousome things. I got some mighty good soap here, an’ a new shavin’-bresh; an’ ef you will jes’ lem me took yo’ razor--”

“All right,” answered Mr. Romaine, deep in his paper.

In a few minutes Dad Davy remarked, “I’se ready,” and Mr. Romaine, lying back in his chair, shut his eyes, while Dad Davy began the lathering process. When it was about half done Mr. Romaine began sniffing suspiciously, but he could not open his mouth. Dad Davy then began with the razor, and a smoother or more luxurious shave Mr. Romaine never had in his life. As soon as he could speak, he growled:

“What infernal soap is that you’ve got there?”

“Hi, Marse Richard,” answered Dad Davy, in a surprised voice. “I got de bes’ kin’ o’ soap fur shavin’. Dis heah is de bes’ sort o’ _sof’_ soap, made outen beef taller an’ ash lye--none o’ your consecrated lye, but de drippin’s f’um er reg’lar lye gum, full o’ hick’ry ashes--an’ I brung er go’d full.”

Dad Davy produced a large gourd full of a molasses-like substance, which he poked under Mr. Romaine’s high-bred nose.

“Good heavens!” yelled Mr. Romaine, jumping up and seizing a towel with much violence.

“Now, Marse Richard, what you gwine on dat way fur? Sof’ soap is de bes’ fur shavin’. Didn’t I gin you er easy shave?”

“Yes, you did--but this villainous stuff--where’s your shaving-brush?”

Dad Davy triumphantly produced a shaving-brush made mop-fashion by tying a mass of cotton threads to a short wooden handle.

“My ole ’oman made dis heah,” said Dad Davy, exhibiting this instrument with great pride. “She make ’em fur ole Marse--and dis heah is er bran new one--co’se I war n’ goin’ use no u’rr but a new one fur you, Marse Richard--”

Mr. Romaine looked in speechless disgust from Dad Davy to the rusty basket, the “go’d” of soap, and the mop for a shaving-brush. But without one word he sat down again, and Dad Davy finished the job in perfect style. Just as he had got through, a tap came at the door, and Bridge entered--and came very near dropping dead in his tracks at the paraphernalia of the new barber. Mr. Romaine was saying affably:

“A most satisfactory shave--the best I’ve had for years. I would prefer, however, my own things next time. Give me the bay rum.”

Dad Davy soused his client with bay rum, and then taking up the gourd, mop, etc., put them in the basket, and stood, expectant of his quarter.

“Here’s a dollar for you,” said Mr. Romaine; “and say to Colonel Corbin I am much obliged for your visit to-day--and if I had as good a barber as you I should not follow his plan of shaving himself.”

Dad Davy, although secretly astounded at the magnificence of the gift, disdained to show his delight before “po’ white trash,” as he regarded Bridge, and making a profound bow, took himself and his basket off.

Bridge, however, after the manner of his kind, seeing his master independent of him, began to reflect that he had a good place and high wages, and that if Mr. Romaine was a difficult master to serve, all masters had their faults; and he finally concluded to stay. He went to Mr. Romaine therefore a few days afterward, and with much shuffling, hemming, and hawing, declared his willingness to remain, provided Mr. Romaine went to England in April. At this Mr. Romaine expressed much surprise, and declared that his return to England was quite problematical and might never occur. Bridge, though, saw unmistakable signs that Mr. Romaine’s latest freak had outworn itself, and at last knuckled down completely--when he was restored to favor. Dodson then followed the prevailing wind and asked to be reinstated; and Carroll, the maid, being a diffident maiden of forty, declared she couldn’t think of traveling alone from Virginia to New York; and so, with the delays attending Miss Maywood’s departure, it looked as if the Shrewsbury party would depart intact as when it came.

But a disturbance greater than any that yet occurred was now impending, and was brought about by the innocent agency of Colonel Corbin.

One evening the Colonel had his two fine horses hitched up to a two-wheeled chaise which had been resurrected from the loft of the carriage-house during the emergencies of the war time, and started out for the river landing for a parcel he expected by the boat.

It was now past Christmas, and the “Christmas snow” had come, whitening the ground. The Colonel’s position in the chaise was one calculated to make a nervous person uneasy. The vehicle ran down on the horses’ withers in the most uncomfortable way, and if the traces broke--and they had several breaks in them, mended with twine--the Colonel would be under the horses’ hind feet before he knew it. But Colonel Corbin did not know what it was to be afraid of man or beast, and sat back composedly in the chaise, bracing his feet against the low dashboard, while the horses dashed along the slushy country road. The snow does not last in Eastern Virginia, and it only made the road wet and slippery to the most unsatisfactory degree. But over the fields and woods it lay soft and unsoiled. The afternoon was gray, and a biting east wind was blowing.

The Colonel got to the landing in ample time, but it would be dusk before the great river steamboat would arrive. Meanwhile, he went into the little waiting-room, with its red-hot stove, and conversed amicably with the wharfinger, a blacksmith, and two drummers, waiting to take the boat “up the bay.” It was almost dark when a long, shrill whistle resounded, and everybody jumped up, saying, “The boat!” A truck loaded with boxes and freight of all sorts, and the drummers’ trunks, and drawn by a patient mule, was started down the tramway on the wharf that extended nearly four hundred yards into the river. The Colonel, like most country gentlemen, liked to see what was to be seen, and walked out on the wharf to watch the exciting spectacle of the boat making her landing.

The sky had darkened still more, and it looked as if more snow were coming. The great, broad salt river, with its fierce tides and foaming like the ocean that it was so near, was quite black, except for the phosphorescent glare left in the steamer’s wake as she plowed her way along, looking like a gigantic illuminated lantern with lights blazing from one end of her to the other. At intervals her long, hoarse whistle screamed over the waters, and presently, with much noise and churning, she bumped against the wharf and was made fast. Her gang-plank was thrown out, and a few passengers in the humbler walks of life stepped off; but, in a moment, the captain himself appeared, escorting a woman in a long fur cloak. The light from a lantern on the wharf fell directly upon her, and as soon as the Colonel saw her, he understood why she should have the captain’s escort. She was about forty, apparently, and her abundant dark hair was slightly streaked with gray. But there was not a line or a wrinkle in her clear, pale face, and her eyes had the beauty of a girl of fifteen. There was something peculiarly elegant in her whole air--the long seal-skin mantle that enveloped her, the close black bonnet that she wore, her immaculate gloves and shoes--Colonel Corbin at once recognized in her a metropolitan.

She remained talking with the captain for a few moments, until he was obliged to leave. It took only a short while to discharge the small amount of freight, and in five minutes the boat had lurched off, and the noise of her churning wheels and the myriad lights from her saloons were melting in the blackness where the river and night sky blent together.

The stranger looked around her with calm self-possession, and seemed surprised at the loneliness of the landscape and the deserted look of things around the little waiting-room and freight-house at the end of the wharf. Colonel Corbin, imagining her the unexpectedly arrived guest of some one in the county, advanced with a profound bow, and taking off his hat in the cutting blast, said:

“Madam, permit me to say that you seem to be a stranger and to have no one to meet you. I am Colonel Corbin, and I should esteem it a privilege to be of assistance to you.”

“Thank you,” she answered, turning to him and speaking with a very French accent, “I did not expect any one to meet me, but I thought there would be a town--or a village at least, when I left the steamer. I am foreign to this country--I am French, but I am accustomed to traveling.”