A Fool's Errand & Bricks without Straw

by Albion Winegar Tourgée

  As a relief from the absorbing thought which he had given to public matters, this duty was most delightful to Servosse, and it seemed as if the fruition of their early hope had been vouchsafed to himself and his wife, when he begun to realize that the relations and feelings of this period must necessarily soon take from him this crowning pleasure of his life. Metta, ever anxious for the interests of her daughter, began to urge the necessity of travel, and desired that the well-prepared mind should be finished and rounded by the experience of varied life. This question had already been one of anxious consideration, when one day Servosse was amazed at an occurrence which his wiser-hearted wife had foreseen.

  For over them both watched the tender and careful Metta, proud and happy in her fair daughter's present, and hopeful of her future, but, with strange inconsistency, exulting more in what her husband had been during his accès de la folie than in what he now was when following the paths of wisdom. But such is ever the contradictoriness of woman's nature.

  CHAPTER XLII

  A FRIENDLY MEDIATION

  Table of Contents

  IT will be remembered that John Burleson had not failed to acquaint Colonel Servosse with the device which Melville Gurney had adopted to favor the escape of Lily, after he had recognized her on the night of her perilous ride. Servosse had such confidence in the qualities of his favorite horse that he was not at first inclined to attribute so much importance to the act.

  "After Young Lollard had once passed him, there was little chance of Mr. Gurney's stopping her, even had he desired. There is not a horse in the State that can cover four miles in the time that colt makes light of," he said to Burleson.

  "That may be," responded that worthy, in his usual brusque and defiant manner, "though the mare Mel. Gurney rode that night was no slouch, either. But suppose he had used his pistol, which he handles with one hand as well as with the other. I don't believe Mel. Gurney could be induced, under any circumstances, to shoot at a lady; and no one could ever mistake Miss Lily for any thing else, in any sort of light. Her very seat on horseback shows that. But suppose he had, — suppose he had not been the gallant, chivalric Mel. Gurney that he is; what then?"

  "A man with a shot through his left arm, and a high-blooded horse to manage, is not very dangerous with a revolver to one who has Young Lollard under him, and an open road before him," replied the Fool, with an amused smile. "Really, Mr. Burleson, I am half inclined to think the favor was on the other side. In the first place, Mr. Gurney should be grateful that her shot struck his arm. Of course that was accident; but I would not like to trust to such accidents, with Lily pointing a revolver at me less than ten steps away. She has a wonderfully steady hand. Besides that, I am not sure that Mr. Gurney should not count among the mercies of that night the fact that his mare could not overtake Young Lollard. I am not at all sure that Lily, wrought up as she was to desperation, would not have proved the more dangerous adversary."

  "I see you are bound not to give my friend Gurney credit for any thing except a cunningly invented tale to cover his own discomfiture," said Burleson.

  "I confess," replied Servosse coolly, "that I can see little further merit in it. It seems to me that the young man did about all he could to prevent her escape, and, when this proved unavailing, invented the story about the rabbit, and the accidental shooting, to avoid ridicule for allowing a woman to pass his guard. I suppose he would rather have died than confess that fact. I believe I would have preferred almost any thing short of that, in his place. Of course, I mean no offense to you in speaking thus of your friend. At first I was so astounded at the fact that one whom I had accounted such a fine, manly fellow, who had been at my house, and for whose father I had such a sincere regard, should have been with that crowd, and upon that errand, that I could not think coolly in regard to it. Indeed, I was so grateful for my daughter's escape from deadly peril, to say nothing of our rescue from the horrible fate, I think I could have hugged with gratitude any of that crowd of cut-throats, simply because of their failure to do what they intended."

  "Including among them your humble servant, I suppose," said Burleson good-naturedly.

  "Of course," replied Servosse. "I had then no reason to except you from my general estimate. Indeed, from what I had previously known and heard of you, I was not at all surprised at finding you in such company."

  "You are like me in one thing, at least," said Burleson, flushing as he spoke. "Your speech is not hurt by a lack of frankness."

  "There is more than one point of resemblance between us, Mr. Burleson," said the Fool thoughtfully, and taking no note of his embarrassment. "I have thought of it several times since that night. Considering all the circumstances of your connection with the Klan and the raid (and the same is true of young Gurney), it seems to me that I should have done the same in your place; except, I am afraid I should not have had the courage to renounce my error, and especially not to protest so manfully as you did at Bentley's Cross, which Lily told me about."

  "Don't, if you please, Colonel!" said Burleson, as the blushes chased each other over his manly face. "I am thoroughly ashamed of having been betrayed by any sort of foolish fear of ridicule into any connection with the thing whatever. Do you know, I never once thought about the right or wrong of the matter, the view which instinctively presents itself to your mind. I only thought of the impolicy and danger of it — I mean danger to our people, to the South. I did not think particularly of myself; for I had made up my mind to take what came, with the rest. I wanted to see our party succeed, and gave no consideration to the rights of yours. Indeed, I never regarded you as having any rights, — any legal or moral right to political power, I mean. I considered the enfranchisement of the negro as an act of legal usurpation and moral turpitude, and considered all you carpet-baggers and scalawags as parties to the offense. I thought this outrage was enough to excuse any sort of irregular warfare short of the actual taking of life, which, in fact, was not at first dreamed of. To tell the truth, I thought it would be a good thing if about half the niggers in the country were taken out and whipped about once a fortnight; and I am not sure but it would be a good thing now.

  "The killing of old Jerry first woke me up. I was away at the time, and never knew a word of it. If I had been here it should not have been done, except over my dead body. I knew him from my boyhood; and if there ever was an honest, Christian nigger on earth, his name was Jerry Hunt. Gad! sir, it made my hair stand on end, when I heard of it! and, to save my soul, Colonel, I have not been able to get over the idea that I have his blood on my hands, yet. Damned if I don't feel just so!

  "They were hot for you after that, Colonel. Men are just like dogs, anyhow. Just let them get a taste of blood, and they are as savage as wolves. As soon as Jerry was killed, it seemed as if the whole Klan was wild for blood. Only a few opposed it, — just enough, and of the right sort. As it happened, too, most of these were young hot-heads, like Mel. Gurney and myself. The old men generally take the credit for all the conservatism in the world; but it's a mighty bad mistake. The old man's conservatism means only to keep out of danger, — keep his own skirts clear; but a young man backs just as hard as he pulls. If he opposes a thing in such a body, he fights it — tooth and toe-nail. If he is beaten, just as likely as not he goes with the crowd, shares the danger, and takes the blame. But when a man passes a certain age, he becomes smart of a sneak. These old fellows who were opposed to such things simply said they would have nothing to do with them, and kept aloof. That was the way with Melville Gurney's father, the General. He joined it before it got to doing more than just go about and scare the niggers, which he had no objection to being done, especially as he was a candidate for something about that time. When these worse things begun, he quietly let it alone; so much so, that his son never knew of his having been a member until that day at Glenville. I reckon if it had come to that, he would have stood up for you. I've heard him speak very highly of you. But he never had a chance. I suppose really I stood between you and
danger some three or four times when you knew nothing of it."

  "And no doubt saved me at Bentley's Cross, by your altercation with Jake Carver, which enabled my daughter to slip away unperceived," said Servosse warmly.

  "Well, perhaps that is so," said Burleson with surprise. "I had never thought of that; but I am not entitled to any credit for it, since it was unintentional. Melville Gurney's chivalry and presence of mind is what saved you — next, of course, to Miss Lily's heroism."

  "I can not see," said Servosse impatiently, "why you will give so much credit to Gurney. Your friendly partiality blinds you to the probable motive which animated him."

  "No," replied Burleson, "it is you that are blind, — blinder than a bat, as you will find out some day."

  "I have no disposition to do the young man any injustice," said Servosse.

  "Oh! I do not suppose so, — not at all," said Burleson; "but you don't know Melville Gurney as I do. He is as true as steel, and as straight as an arrow, both literally and figuratively. I only wonder that he came to be in the thing at all. I know the motive that influenced his action that night, from his own mouth; and Melville Gurney would not lie for a kingdom. See here, Colonel!" he added impetuously, "I am surprised that you can not see this thing in its true light. Suppose Melville Gurney had not wished your daughter's safety and success in her errand: what would he have done? Given notice to the camp of what had occurred on his post, wouldn't he?"

  "Yes, I suppose so," said Servosse.

  "And what would have been the result?"

  "I'm sure I don't know."

  "You don't? Do you know Jake Carver?"

  "Yes."

  "A bold and resolute man, relentless in his purpose, and ruthless in his antipathies."

  "I have heard so."

  "And that man was in command of a hundred well-mounted and reckless men."

  "Well?"

  "Well! My God, man! how long would it have taken him to decide to follow your daughter's track, and seize you and Judge Denton in the town, instead of at the bridge?"

  "Heavens!" cried Servosse, springing to his feet. "I had never thought of that."

  "I should think not," said Burleson in a tone of triumph. "But if Melville Gurney had not put him off the scent you would have thought of it! In less than fifteen minutes, — before you got Miss Lily back to the hotel, — you would have had Jake Carver and the rest on you, and you would have been roasted to a turn on Denton's Bridge. Miss Lily, too" —

  "My God!" said Servosse, "you are right! I had never thought of it in that way. I have done the young man injustice. I will write to him, and render our thanks."

  John Burleson was in high glee, thinking he had served his friend not only effectually but skillfully; for Servosse had no idea of the real motive which animated Melville Gurney in inventing the fiction which he had used to account for his wounded arm.

  At the earnest solicitation of Lily, all knowledge of the shooting had been confined to Judge Denton and her mother, so that Melville's excuse was still regarded by all others as the true explanation of his misfortune. It was well known that she had ridden to Glenville to warn her father of his danger, and there was an indefinite idea that she had had a wonderful escape from the Klan on the way; but even those who composed the party had no distinct idea of the manner of her escape. If it occurred to any one of them to suspect the fidelity of Melville Gurney, that suspicion was put at rest by the fact that he had ever since seemed utterly oblivious of her presence.

  So Servosse repeated to his daughter the story which Burleson had given, and at its conclusion said, "I think that we have done him injustice, and that I ought to write, and acknowledge his considerateness; don't you, my dear?"

  The blushes had deepened on her cheeks as he thus spoke, and she looked up shyly with a tender light in her eyes, at the question he asked. If he had looked at her, she would have opened her heart, and shown him a tender secret which lay hidden there even from the watchful eyes of her mother, who for a while after her adventure had half-suspected the truth, and had laid many innocent little plans to surprise her secret, but without success. The Man did not look up, however, so she only answered him demurely, —

  "As you choose, Papa. I am sure you know best."

  And so, he wrote his letter of acknowledgment, had the satisfaction of having done his duty, and thought no more of the matter.

  CHAPTER XLIII

  UNCONDITIONAL SURRENDER

  Table of Contents

  "I HAVE come, Colonel Servosse," said Melville Gurney, sitting in the other's office a few days after the events narrated in the preceding chapter, "to ask your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter."

  "What!" exclaimed Servosse, starting from his easy attitude, and gazing at the flushed and embarrassed young man, with a look of consternation which the latter mistook for anger.

  "I know, Colonel Servosse," he began in a stammering, apologetic voice —

  "Stop, stop!" said Servosse, springing to his feet, and beginning to pace up and down the room. "Do not say any thing now, if you please. I wish to think."

  The young man looked with amazement on the evident agitation of the man whose coolness and self-possession he had so often heard his father mention with admiration and surprise. He had expected to be embarrassed himself; and, during the half-hour's conversation which had preceded his avowal, he had fully realized his premonition. The reiterated thanks of the other for the service rendered himself and daughter had been received with confusing blushes; and his replies had been disjointed and irrelevant. As is always the case, his embarrassment kept adding to his confusion of ideas, until at length he had blurted out the words which had produced such a surprising effect on his auditor. For a time, the younger man was by far the more composed of the twain. The elder walked back and forth across the room until his face settled into those calm, rigid lines which betoken a fixed purpose. Then he sat down opposite the young man, and, looking at him quietly but not unkindly, said, —

  "Well?"

  "I have loved Miss Lily," said Melville, thus inquiringly addressed, "ever since I first saw her."

  "On the night of" — asked Servosse, with an expressive tone and gesture.

  "No," returned the other: "I had met her before, while she was visiting some friends in Pultowa. She was little more than a child then; but I was so impressed with her that I asked leave to visit her at home, and was shortly after invited to a party here."

  "Ah, I recollect!" interposed the listener.

  "Soon after that time occurred the incident of which we have been speaking. I should have spoken immediately after that; but I inferred, from her silence and your seeming coolness, that she had lost all regard, or, rather, entertained a positive dislike, for me. I was too proud to take any indirect method to satisfy myself upon this point. Your letter seemed to open the way for me, and I came as soon as thought would appear seemly."

  "And Lily, have you spoken to her?" asked Servosse, with some sternness.

  "I have not seen her since the day after her adventure, save at a distance, and have never spoken a word to her in regard to such a matter."

  "And your parents, young man, what do they say?" asked the Fool sharply.

  The brown-bearded face before him flushed hotly, and the young man drew himself up somewhat haughtily, as he replied, —

  "I am twenty-eight years old, have a fair estate in my own right, and chiefly of my own acquisition. I am not under the control of my parents."

  "I did not ask with regard to your estate, sir," said Servosse quietly: "I asked as to your parents' wishes."

  "I beg pardon," said the lover. "I should have answered before; but I hardly see why my happiness should be made to depend on my parents' wishes. If I were a minor, it would be natural."

  "Yet I suppose I may ask, whether the answer be material or immaterial to your proposal," said the Fool with the utmost composure.