This new revolution which had begun went on. The Klan increased in numbers and in power, — an imperium in imperio, — until its decrees were far more potent, and its power more dreaded, than that of the visible commonwealths which it either dominated or terrorized. This fact, together with the fear of the new laws which had been adopted by the National Government, the authority of which had not then been questioned, tended somewhat to repress actual violence. Having gained what was sought, — to wit, the control of their States, — the leaders now exercised their authority to prevent further raids; and the hostility against the colored man and his allies gradually died out as these suppressed classes ceased to be a political element which need be feared, in the struggle for domination. The national law, moreover, could not extend to the crimes perpetrated before its enactment. They were still only cognizable in the State tribunals, in which was not supposed that prosecution would ever be possible. So the organization was easily maintained, lying quiet and unnoticed, except when, upon occasions, it was deemed proper to manifest its power to restrain or punish some daring leader who refused to obey the logic of events, and give up the contest for the rule of the majority of voters in those States, instead of the majority of the White Leaguers therein.
The revolution had been inaugurated, and its feasibility demonstrated. Henceforth it was only a question of time as to its absolute and universal success. The rule of the majority had been overthrown, the power of the Government boldly defied, and its penalties for crime successfully evaded, that the enfranchisement of the colored man might be rendered a farce; and the obnoxious Amendments and Reconstruction legislation had been shown to be practically nullified. Read by the light of other days, the triumph of the ancient South was incredibly grand; in the then present there was little lacking to give it completeness; in the future — well, that could take care of itself.
CHAPTER XXXV
AN AWAKENING
Table of Contents
LILY, the one child of Comfort and Metta Servosse, had developed under the Southern sun, until, almost before her parents had noted the fact, she had the rounded form and softened outlines indicative of womanhood. The atmosphere in which she had lived had also developed her mind not less rapidly. From her infancy almost, owing to the peculiar circumstances which surrounded their life, she had been the constant companion and trusted confidant of her mother.
Shut out from all that may be termed "society" by the unfortunate relations which her husband and she herself sustained to those around them, regarded either as enemies, intruders, or inferiors, by those whose culture rendered their society desirable, Metta had not sought to remove this impression, but, acting upon her husband's advice, had calmly and proudly accepted the isolation thus imposed upon her, only compensating herself by a more intimate and constant association with her husband, sharing his thoughts, entering into his plans and purposes, and interesting herself in all that interested him. It resulted that she took the liveliest interest in all that concerned the present and future of that community in which they dwelt. Side by side with her husband she had dived into the history of the past, studied the development of the present, and earnestly endeavored to find some clew to the clouded and obscure future. In this absorbing question her heart had become weaned from many of those things which constitute so much of the ordinary life of woman; and, in the society of her husband and the care and education of her daughter, she had almost ceased to miss those social enjoyments to which she had been accustomed before their migration.
The exciting events which had occurred around them had drawn this little family into even closer relations with each other than this involuntary isolation would, of itself, have compelled. The difficulties and dangers attending the Fool's life and duties had woven themselves into the daily life of the wife and daughter until they became the one engrossing theme of their thought and the burden of their conversations. During his absence, anxiety for his safety, and, during his presence, thankfulness for his preservation, filled their hearts. Every act of violence perpetrated by the mysterious enemy which lay hidden all about them was one more evidence of the peril which surrounded him on whom all their hopes were centered. Every call of duty which took him from their sight was another trial of their faith in the great Deliverer. Every absence and every return increased the intensity of their anxiety, and fixed their minds more exclusively upon those events which were passing day by day about them. Each farewell came to have the solemnity of a death-bed, and each return, the solemn joy of an unexpected resurrection.
In this furnace-blast of excitement and apprehension the young girl's heart and mind had matured even more rapidly than her person. A prudence unknown to one of her years who had lived in quiet times and under other conditions of society, had come to be habitual with her. The constant apprehension of attack from the masked marauders had familiarized her with danger, and given her a coolness and decision of character which nothing else could have developed. She had seen the dread cavalcade pass in the dim moonlight, and had stood at her chamber-window, revolver in hand, prepared to take part in the expected defense of their home. She had learned to watch for danger, to see that all precautions were adopted against it, to be cautious what she said, and to whom she said it, to weigh with suspicious doubt the words and acts of all whom she met. Many a time, while yet a mere child, she had been called upon to be her mother's consoler in seasons of doubt and apprehended danger. A thousand times she had seen the dull gray look of agonized foreboding steal into the loved face, and had bravely undertaken the duty of lightening the mother's woe. All this had ripened her mind with wonderful rapidity.
As she had shared the anxieties and perils of her parents, she had participated also in their joys. She had early been trained to the saddle; and, from the very outset of their life in the new home, her pony had been the frequent companion of both Lollard and Jaca in many a long ride. As she grew older, the pony gave way to her own petted mare; and a more easy, graceful, and daring rider it was hard to find, even in that region of unrivaled horsemen and horsewomen. She had also been trained to the use of arms, and handled both rifle and revolver, not only without fear, but with readiness and precision.
In person she was by no means unattractive. She had the lithe, trim figure of her mother, and, united with it, that softness of outline, delicacy of color, and ease and grace of carriage which the free, untrammeled life, and soft, kindly climate of that region, give in such rich measure to those reared under their influences. Her eyes were of that deep blue which evinces fortitude and sincerity; while her luxuriant hair took the character of its hue from the light in which it was viewed, — "golden in the sunshine, in the shadow brown," and, touched by the moonbeam, a spray of tinted silver. It had been the joy and pride of the fond mother. Shears had never marred its glossy sheen; and it had rarely felt the restraint of twist or braid, but had hung naturally about the child's shoulders, until it fell, in a rippling cascade, to her waist. To these personal attributes Lily joined a sunniness of temper, a sparkle and vivacity of mind, inherited from faraway French ancestors, which seemed to have been brought out by the sunny brightness of the kindred clime in which she had been reared. These charms combined to render her an exceedingly piquant and charming maiden; so that, as she rode here and there with her parents, or scrambled about the shady bridle-paths of the adjacent country alone, her beauty came to be remarked. The young people of the vicinity began shyly to court her presence, and finally opened their social circles and their hearts to her, only regretting that her parent were not "our people," and kindly exercising more or less forgetfulness of her origin.
Among those who had seen and admired the bright presence which reigned supreme at Warrington was Melville Gurney, the son of General Marion Gurney of Pultowa County, adjoining that in which the Fool resided. Young Gurney was a splendid specimen of the stock of Southern gentlemen from which he sprung, being tall and commanding in person, of that easy grace which is rarely matched in other portions of t
he country, and admirably adapted to excel in field-sports, in all of which he was an acknowledged proficient. His early youth had covered the period of the war, in which his father had won no little renown, and before his sixteenth birthday he had run away from home, riding his own horse, to take part in the last campaign of Early in the Valley of the Shenandoah, where his father's command was engaged. After the last defeat he found his father lying wounded in a Federal hospital, and by unremitting exertion saved him from fatal prostration, and brought him home to slow but certain recovery. The daring youngster could not, after that, confine himself to the dull routine of the college; but in his father's library, and afterwards in his office, he had received a culture not less complete, although very different from what he would have gathered in the course of a collegiate career. This young man, bold, active, and endowed with a superabundant vitality, had met the little lady of Warrington at a festive gathering near his father's home a few months before the time to which our story has advanced, and, with the frank impetuosity characteristic of his nativity, had forthwith testified his admiration, and asked an invitation to Warrington.
That the young girl should be flattered by the attentions of so charming a cavalier, was but natural. It was the first time, however, that she had been asked to extend the hospitalities of her father's house to any of her associates, and at once the anomalous position in which they stood to those by whom they were surrounded forced itself upon her thought. Her face flushed for an instant, and then, looking up quietly into his, she said, —
"Are you in earnest, Mr. Gurney? Would you really like to visit Warrington?"
The inquiry brought the young man to a serious consideration of his own request. When he had first preferred it, he had thought only of the fair creature by his side: now, he thought of a thousand incidents which might flow from it. Bold almost to recklessness, he was sincere almost to bluntness also, even with himself: therefore, ready as he would have been with the words of a mere outward politeness, he honestly hesitated before answering the question. Instantly the quick perceptions and natural pride of the "carpet-bagger's" daughter were aroused; and she said somewhat haughtily, but with a studied courtesy of tone, —
"I see, Mr. Gurney, that your request was merely intended as an empty compliment, which it is not worth the trouble either to accept or decline. Excuse me," — and, having already removed her hand from his arm, she bowed lightly, and turned with a smile to begin a lively conversation with a friend who stood near.
The incident showed such coolness and self-control, as well as frank sincerity, that the admiration of Melville Gurney was increased rather than diminished thereby. He did not regard it as a rebuff, but as a self-respecting assertion that one who doubted as to the propriety of visiting her father's house had no right to prefer such a request to her. So he did not approach her again during the evening, but watched her attentively. And the next day, when he saw her pass his father's office, mounted upon Lollard (now full of years, but still a horse of magnificent action and unabated fire), her fair hair falling free over her dark habit until it almost touched the glossy coat of her steed, each fiber transformed by the sunlight into a gleaming thread of gold, he began to feel something of regret that he had not answered her question, and pressed for an answer to his request.
General Gurney was as active and prominent a political leader upon the other side as the Fool was upon his, and was looked upon as a partisan of similar intensity of conviction. Both were pronounced and positive men. They were well-matched opponents too, had more than once met upon the stump, and had served together in public bodies. There was that acquaintance between them which such association gives, without further personal relations, and perhaps something of that esteem which is sure to prevail between men often pitted against each other without decisive victory. The general was the representative of an old and honored family, and felt, with the utmost keenness, the degradation resulting from defeat, and the subsequent elevation of the colored man to a position of political co-ordination with the white race. He had married early; Melville was the oldest child, and on him the hopes, aspirations, and love of the father were centered in an unusual degree.
"What do you think of Colonel Servosse, Pa?" asked the son a few moments after Lily had passed.
"Think about him? That he is the worst Radical in the State. He has the most ineradicable hate of every thing Southern that I have ever known," answered the father.
"But aside from his politics, — as a man, Pa, what do you think of him?"
"Oh! as a man he is well enough; in fact, better than I could wish. Personally there seems to be no weak spot in his armor. They did try to make some attack upon his character; but no one really believed it, and I am of the notion that it did us more harm than good. I never did believe it, though I have sometimes hinted at it, just because I saw that I could get under his hide in no other way. He is the coolest and most collected man I have ever met in public life."
"Is he a gentleman?"
"Well — yes, in a Northern sense," answered the father. "I have no doubt that if he had staid at the North, and I had known him as a Northern man, I should have enjoyed him thoroughly. Everybody who is acquainted with him admits that he has fine social qualities. He is somewhat reserved to strangers. He is a man of decided ability and culture, and I count him one of the most dangerous Radicals in the State. But why do you ask?"
"Well, I thought I would like to know all sides of him," replied the son. "I had read so much of him, and had heard you speak of him so often in a semi-public manner, that I thought I would like to know your actual opinion in regard to him."
"That's right. You ought to learn every thing you can of a man of his mark. You will meet his influence in the State as long as you live. He has left an impress upon it that would remain, even if he should die to-morrow."
Soon afterwards Melville Gurney wrote a note to Lily Servosse, which contained only these words: —
"MISS LILY, — Will you allow me, after mature deliberation, to renew the request which I made to you?
"Respectfully,
"MELVILLE GURNEY."
Lily took this to her mother, and told her all that had occurred. For the first time the mother realized that her daughter was growing into womanhood. The blushes which accompanied her narrative told that her heart was awakened. It seemed but a little while since she was only a prattling child; but now, as the mother looked on her budding beauty, she could but admit, with a pang of sorrow, that the days of girlhood were over, that the summer of love had come, and that her pretty bird was but pluming her wings for the inevitable flight. Like a prudent mother, she determined to do nothing to hasten this result, and yet to so act as to keep her daughter's confidence as implicit and spontaneous as it had hitherto been. So she only kissed the girl's blushing cheek, asking lightly, —
"And would you like to have him come?"
"I don't know, mamma" answered Lily artlessly. "I would like to be more like — like our neighbors, and have more young companions."
"And so you shall, my daughter," answered the mother. So it resulted, that, a few weeks after, a party was given at Warrington, and Mr. Melville Gurney, with several others of Lily's friends in Pultowa, received an invitation to be present. Metta did not see fit to confide any thing of this to the Fool, who only knew that young Gurney came with others to a party given for his daughter's pleasure. It was the first time that wife or daughter had ever had a secret which the husband and father had not shared.
Mr. Denton, the district-attorney, whose letter to Comfort Servosse has already been given to the reader, had been elected a judge of the State courts, and had recently, before the period at which we have now arrived, been very active in his efforts to suppress the operation of the Klan, and punish those engaged in its raids. By so doing, he had incurred the hostility of the Klan at large, and especially of that portion with which the suspected parties had been actually connected. There had long been threats and denunciations afloat in
regard to him; but he was a brave man, who did not turn aside from the path of his duty for any obstacles, and who, while he did not despise the power of the organization which he had taken by the throat, was yet utterly oblivious to threats of personal violence. He would do his duty, though the heavens fell. This was a fact well known and recognized by all who knew him; and for this very reason, most probably, it was generally believed that he would be put out of the way by the Klan before the time for the trial of its members arrived.
It was under these circumstances that the Fool received a telegram from Judge Denton, requesting him to come to Verdenton on a certain day, and go with him to his home in an adjoining county. It was seven miles from Glenville, the nearest railroad-station, to the plantation of Judge Denton. To reach it, the chief river of that region had to be crossed on a long wooden bridge, four miles from the station. The Fool accepted this invitation, and with Metta drove into Verdenton on the day named.
The railroad which ran nearest to the home of Judge Denton connected at an acute angle with that on which he was to arrive at Verdenton. Between the two was the residence of Colonel Servosse, six miles from Verdenton, and sixteen from Glenville.
The train left Verdenton at eight and a half o'clock in the evening, and ran to the junction, where it awaited the coming of the northward-bound train on the other road; so that they would not arrive at Glenville until ten o'clock, and would reach the river-bridge about eleven, and the judge's mansion perhaps a half-hour later. By previous arrangement, his carriage would meet them at the station. Metta intended to remain until the train reached Verdenton, and bring home a friend who was expected to arrive upon it.
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