Lewis Rand
By Mary Johnston

Chapter XIII: The Three-Notched Road

Lewis Rand and his wife dwelt that summer and autumn in the house on the Three-Notched Road, and were happy there. If the ghost of Gideon Rand walked, the place, renovated, clean, bright, and homely sweet, showed no consciousness of any influence of the dark. Passers-by on the dusty road looked curiously at the gay little yard and the feathery mimosa and the house behind the pines. “Lewis Rand lives there,” they said, and made their horses go more slowly.

The pines hid the porch where Jacqueline sat with her work, or, hands about her knees, dreamed the hours away. She was much alone, for after the first week Rand rode daily to his office in Charlottesville. There was no reconciliation with her people. All her things had been sent from Fontenoy. Linen that had been her mother’s lay with bags of lavender in an old carved chest from Santo Domingo, and pieces of slender, inlaid furniture stood here and there in the room they called the parlour. Her candlesticks were upon the mantel, and her harp made the room’s chief ornament. Her fortune, which was fair, had been formally made over to her and to Rand. She was glad it was no less; had it been vastly greater, she would only have thought, “This will aid him the more.” The little place was very clean, very sweet, ordered, quiet, and lovable. She was a trained housewife as well as the princess of his story, and she made the man she loved believe in Paradise. Each afternoon when he left the jargon and wrangling of the courtroom his mind turned at once to his home and its genius. All the way through the town, beckoning him past the Eagle and past every other house or office which had for him an open door, he saw Jacqueline waiting beneath the mimosa at the gate, clad in white, her dark hair piled high, about her throat a string of coral or of amber. Out on the road, beneath the forest trees, in the radiance of the evening, he rode with his head high and a smile within his eyes. All the scheming, all the labour and strife of the day, fell from him like rusty armour, and his spirit bathed itself in the thought of that meeting. She did not always await him at the gate; sometimes he found her half a mile from home, sitting in the sunset light upon a stone beside the road. Then he dismounted, kissed her, and they walked together back to their nest in the tree of life. Supper-time would follow, with the lighted candles and the fragrance from Hannah’s kitchen, and the little humorous talk with the old, fond, familiar servants, and the deeper words between husband and wife of things done or to be done; then quiet upon the porch, long silences, broken sentences of deep content, while the glow faded and the stars came out; then the candles again and his books and papers, while she read or sewed beside him. When his task was done she sang to him, and so drew on the hour when they put out the lights and entered the quiet, spotless chamber where the windows opened to the east.

Rand worked as he had not worked before. All the springs were running, all the bitter wells were sweet; to breathe was to draw in fulness of life, and all things were plastic to his touch. Love became genius, and dreaming accomplishment. In Albemarle, in Virginia, in the country at large, the time was one of excitement, fevered labour, and no mean reward. The election for President was drawing on. Undoubtedly the Republicans and Jefferson would sweep the country, but it behooved them to sweep it clean. The Federalist point of view was as simple. “Win! but we’ll not make broad the paths before you! Winning shall be difficult.” The parties worked like Trojans, and he who could speak spoke as often as any leader of heroic times.

At court house and at tavern banquets, at meetings here and meetings there, barbecues, dinners, races, militia musters, gatherings at crossroads and in the open fields, by daylight and by candlelight and by torchlight, Republican doctrine was expounded, and Federalist doctrine made answer. The clash of the brazen shields was loud. It was a forensic people and a plastic time. He who could best express his thought might well, if there were power in the thought, impress it so deeply that it would become the hall-mark of his age. His chance was good. Something more than fame of a day shone and beckoned before every more than able man. To stamp a movement of the human mind, to stamp an age, to give the design to one gold coin from the mint of Time,–what other prize worth striving for? The design?–one thought of moderate Liberty and the head of Washington, another thought of Liberty and the head of Jefferson, another of License and a head like Danton’s, another of Empire and a conqueror’s head.

In Albemarle, at all Republican gatherings the man most in demand was Lewis Rand; and the surrounding counties of Fluvanna, Amherst, Augusta, and Orange considered themselves happy if he could be drawn to this or that mass meeting. It was not easy to attract him. He never consciously said to himself, “Be chary of favours; they will be the more prized"; he said instead, “I’ll not waste an arrow where there’s no gold to hit." When he saw that it was worth his while to go, he went, and sent an arrow full into the gold. Amherst and Augusta, Fluvanna and Orange, broke into applause and prophecy, while upon each return home Republican Albemarle welcomed him with added rapture, and Federalist Albemarle hurled another phrase into its already comprehensive anathema. His reputation grew amain, both in his native section and in the state at large. Before the autumn his election to the House of Delegates, which in April seemed so great a thing, began to assume the appearance of a trifle in his fortunes. He would overtop that, and how highly no man was prepared to say. Through all the clashing of shields, through Republican attack and Federalist resistance, through the clamour over Hamilton’s death, the denunciation and upholding of Burr, the impeachment of Chase, the situation in Louisiana, the gravitation towards France, and the check of England, the consciousness of Pitt and the obsession of Napoleon,–through all the commotion and fanfaronade of that summer Rand kept a steady hand and eye, and sent his arrows into the gold. In the law, as in politics, he was successful. A comprehensive knowledge and an infinite painstaking, a grasp wide and firm, a somewhat sombre eloquence, a personal magnetism virile and compelling,–these and other attributes began to make his name resound. He won his cases, until presently to say of a man, “He has Lewis Rand,” was in effect to conclude the matter. He had no Federalist clients; that rift widened and deepened. Federalist Albemarle meant the Churchills and the Carys, their kinsmen, connections, and friends. The gulf seemed fixed.

Jacqueline, keeping at home in the house on the Three-Notched Road, saw very few from out her old life. Those who had been her girlhood friends kept aloof. If their defection pained her, she gave no sign–she had something of her father’s pride. Among the Republican gentry she was of course made much of, and she saw something of the plainer sort of her husband’s friends. Tom Mocket came occasionally on business with Rand, and once he brought Vinie with him. Jacqueline liked the sandy-haired and freckled scamp, and made friends with Vinie. In the first July days Adam Gaudylock often sat upon her porch, but now for weeks he had been wandering in the West. Once or twice Mr. Pincornet, straying that way, had delicately looked his pity for a lovely woman in a desert waste. Cousin Jane Selden remained her good neighbour and kind friend, and once Mr. Ned Hunter brought a message from Unity. Her old minister came to see her, and Dr. Gilmer, when illness called him in that direction, always drew rein at her gate. Ludwell Cary was out of the county, and Fairfax Cary never rode that way. Unity came whenever it was possible, and thrice, between July and October, Deb and Miranda and a horsehair trunk arrived for a blissful week. To Deb they were unshadowed days. The log house, the pine wood and singing stream, an owl that hooted each night, a row of tiger lilies and a thicket of blackberries, Jacqueline to tell her stories, Mammy Chloe and Hannah, the new brother who came home every evening riding a great bay horse and kissing Jacqueline beneath the mimosa tree, the brother who showed her twenty unguessed treasures and gave her the Arabian Nights,–Deb thought the week on the Three-Notched Road a piece out of the book, and wept when she must go back to Fontenoy.

But Colonel Churchill and Major Edward never came, never wrote, never sent messages to Jacqueline, never, she forced Unity to tell her, mentioned her name or would hear it mentioned at Fontenoy. Only Aunt Nancy, lying always in the chamber, her key-basket beside her on the white counterpane, talked of her when she chose. “But she talks as though you were dead,” acknowledged Unity; then, “Oh, Jacqueline, it must all come right some day! And as for him, he’s talked of more and more,–everywhere one goes, one hears his name! He’s head and front of his party here. Oh, what a party! Mrs. Adams writes that at Washington they eat soup with their fingers and still think Ça Ira the latest song! Cannot you convert him? They say the Mammoth’s jealous, and that your husband and Colonel Burr correspond in cipher. Is that so?”

“I don’t know,” said Jacqueline. “I shall not try to convert him. I would have a man loyal to his beliefs–so would you, Unity! Suppose yourself of another party–would you change Fairfax Cary? You would wish him to stay always the Federalist that he is! So with me. I love my great Republican.”

“I love you,” said Unity. “Kiss me. Now, when do you go to Richmond?”

“Next month. Oh, Unity, if Uncle Dick and Uncle Edward would but make friends before we go!”

Unity, stopping for an hour at Cousin Jane Selden’s, remarked to that lady, “Ah, she is happy! She does not know and she does not care what is said of Lewis Rand. They say dreadful things. The last Gazette–”

“She doesn’t hear a Federalist upon the subject,” replied Cousin Jane. “The last Gazette! Pooh! who believes what a Federalist paper says of a Republican, or a Republican paper says of a Federalist? Most men and all newspapers are liars.”

“It says that he is a Buonaparte ready to break the shell.”

“Buonaparte’s a great man, my dear.”

“And that the Mammoth’s alarmed–”

“Like the hen that hatched the eaglet–”

“And that Lewis Rand’s no more Republican at heart than he is Federalist. He’s just for Lewis Rand.”

“Hm-m-m!”

“And that his name’s known as far west as the Mississippi.”

“There’s no law against a man’s name spreading. It’s what every man strives for. One succeeds, and the birds that carried the news are indignant.”

“And that he’s an Atheist.”

“Lewis Rand’s no saint, child, but he’s no fool either. You’ll be telling me next that he mistreats his wife.”

“Ah, he does not do that!” exclaimed Unity. “She’s deep in love. He can’t be so very bad, can he, Cousin Jane?”

“He’s not a monster, child: he’s just a man.–And now, Unity, I am making damson preserves to-day.”

“I’ll go,” said Unity, rising. “But they believe these things at Fontenoy.”

“Do they believe them at Greenwood?”

“I don’t know. Ludwell Cary is still away–”

“When are you going to marry his brother?”

“Why, I don’t know that I am going to marry his brother at all," answered Unity, her foot upon the coach step. “Good-bye, Cousin Jane. I wish I could make pot-pourri like yours.”

“You must know what spices to use, and when to gather the roses,” said Cousin Jane. “Good-bye, child! You read too many romances, but you’re a loyal soul and one of your gowns is prettier than another. Don’t you believe all the world says of Lewis Rand. It’s mighty prone to make mistakes. The man’s just a sinner like the rest of us.”

At Fontenoy, that September afternoon, Fairfax Cary, riding over from Greenwood, found Miss Dandridge seated upon the steps which ran down to the garden from the glass doors of the library. Her chin was in her hands, and her black eyes were suspiciously bright. “You were crying," exclaimed the younger Cary. “Why?”

“I’ve been reading about the Capulets and the Montagues.”

“You are not one to cry for the dead,” said the young man. “Tell me truly.”

“No; I’m crying for the living. I’ve been talking to the Capulets. I’ve been giving Uncle Edward a piece of my mind.”

“Which he would not take?”

“Just so. Oh, it was a battle royal! But I lost–I always lose. He is sitting there in triumphant misery, reading Swift. I brought my defeat out here. Now and then I am glad I am a woman.”

“I’m glad all the time,” said Fairfax Cary. “Don’t dwell on lost battles. Unity, when are you going to let me fight all your battles?”

“I don’t know,” answered Miss Dandridge promptly. “I don’t even know that I would like to have all my battles fought for me. I’m not lazy, and I believe my ancestors fought their own. Besides–would you fight this one?”

There was a pause; then, “Do you love your cousin so?” asked the young man.

“Love Jacqueline? Jacqueline is like my sister. If she is not happy, then neither am I!”

“But she is happy. She loved Lewis Rand, and she married him.”

“Yes, yes. But a woman may marry her lover and yet be unhappy. If he takes her to a strange country, she may perish of homesickness.”

“Has he taken her to a strange country?”

“Yes,” cried Unity, with fire. “How can it but be a strange country?" Her eyes filled with tears. “Why, why did she not love your brother!”

“That,” said the younger Cary grimly, “is what I do not profess to understand. And I would fight for your cousin, but I will not fight for Lewis Rand. My brother’s enemies are mine.”

“You see. You wouldn’t fight this battle, after all.”

“Would Miss Dandridge wish me to?”

Unity regarded the sunset beyond the snowball bushes. “No,” she said at last, with a sigh and a shake of her head, “no, I wouldn’t. I had rather a man behaved like a man than like an angel.”

“You are the angel. At least your cousin will not live much longer in that log house, with the pines and the tobacco and the ghost of old Gideon. Lewis Rand has bought Roselands.”

“Roselands!”

“You knew it was for sale. Well, he’s bought it. I had the news from the agent. It’s to be put in order this winter, and in the spring Rand will come back from Richmond and take possession. It is strange to think of a Rand owning Roselands!”

“A Churchill will own it, too! It will have been bought with Churchill money. I am so glad! It can be made a lovely place. Jacqueline will have the garden and the old, long drawing-room! Deb and I can go there easily. It is all more fitting–I am glad!”

“It is too near Greenwood,” said the other gloomily. “I think that Ludwell will stay in Richmond.”

“I’m sorry,” said Unity softly and brightly. “I wish, I wish–but what’s the use in wishing? There! the sun has gone, and it is growing cold. I have sat here until I’m no longer angry with Uncle Edward. Poor man! to be reading Swift all this time!–I’ll walk with you to the front porch.”

“I thought,” ventured the young man, “I thought that perhaps you might ask me to stay to supper. It’s so lonely at Greenwood.”

“You stayed to supper last night,” said Miss Dandridge pensively, “and you were here to dinner the day before, and you rode over the preceding afternoon, and the morning before that you read me Vathek.–Oh, stay to supper by all means!”

Cary picked up her scarf and handed her down the steps to the path that was beginning to be strewn with autumn leaves. “Miss Dandridge–Unity–it has been fourteen mortal days since I last asked you to marry me! You said I might ask you once a month–”

“I didn’t,” said Unity serenely. “I said once a month was too often.”

“Aren’t you ever going to love me?”

“Why, some day, yes!” replied Miss Dandridge. “When you’ve swum the Hellespont like Leander, or picked a glove out of the lion’s den like the French knight, or battered down a haunted castle like Rinaldo, or taken the ring from a murderer’s hand like Onofrio, or set free the Magician’s daughter like Julio–perhaps–perhaps–”

“I must cast about to win my spurs!” said the younger Cary. “In the mean time I’ll ask you again, come fourteen days.”

Late September passed into October. The nuts ripened, the forests grew yellow and red, and the corn was stacked in the long, sere fields, above which, each morning, lay a white mist. Goldenrod and farewell-summer faded, but sumach and alder-berry still held the fence corners. The air was fragrant with wood smoke; all sound was softened, thin, and far away. A frost fell and the persimmons grew red gold. The song birds had gone south, but there were creatures enough left in the trees. Sometimes, through the thin forest, in the blue distance, deer were seen; bears began to approach the corn-cribs, and in the unbroken wilderness wolves were heard at night. Early and late the air struck cold, but each midday was a halcyon time. In the last of October, on a still and coloured morning, Rand and Jacqueline, having shaken hands with the overseer and the slaves they were leaving, caressed the dogs, and said good-bye to the cat, quitted the house on the Three-Notched Road. At the gate they turned, and, standing beneath the mimosa, looked back across the yard where the flowers had been touched by the frost, to the house and the sombre pines. They stood in silence. Jacqueline thought of the first evening beneath the mimosa, of the July dusk, and the cry of the whip-poor-will. Rand thought, suddenly and inconsequently, of his father and mother, standing here at the gate as he had often seen them stand. There was no mimosa then.–Jacqueline turned, caught his hand, and pressed it to her lips. He strained her in his arms and kissed her, and they entered the chaise which was to carry them to Richmond. Before them lay a hundred miles of sunny road, three days’ companionship in the blue, autumnal weather. A few moments, and the house, the pines, and the hurrying stream were lost to view. “A long good-bye!” said Rand. “In the spring we’ll enter Roselands!”

“You value it more than I,” answered Jacqueline. “I loved the house behind us. Loved! I am speaking as though it were a thing of the long past. Farewells are always sad.”

“I value it for you,” said Rand. “Have I not chafed, ever since July, to see you in so poor a place? Roselands is not ideal, but it is a fairer nest for my bird than that we’ve left!”

Jacqueline laughed. “’Roselands is not ideal!’ I think Roselands quite grand enough! Oh, Lewis, Lewis, how high you build! Take care of the upper winds!”

“I’ll build firmly,” he answered. “The winds may do their worst. Here is the old road to Greenwood. Now that the trees are bare, you can see the house.”

They drove all day by field and woodland. At noon they paused for luncheon beside a bubbling spring in a dell strewn with red leaves, then drove on through the haze of afternoon. There were few leaves left upon the boughs. In the fields that they passed the stacked corn had the seeming of silent encampments, deserted tents of a vanished army, russet and empty wigwams drawn against a deep blue sky. Now and then, in the darker woods, there was a scurry of partridges, the red gleam of a fox, or a vision of antlers, and once a wild turkey, bronze and stately, crossed the road before the chaise. When they passed a smithy or a mill, the clink of iron, the rush of water, came to them faintly in the smoky air. That night they slept at the house of a wealthy planter and good Republican, where, after supper, all sat around a great fire, the children on footstools between the elders, and stories were told of hunting, of Indian warfare, and of Tarleton’s raid. At ten they made a hall and danced for an hour to a negro’s fiddling, then a bowl of punch was brought and the bedroom candles lighted.

In the morning Rand and Jacqueline went on towards Richmond, and at sunset they found themselves before a country tavern, not over clean or comfortable, but famous for good company. The centre of a large neighbourhood, it had been that day the scene of some Republican anniversary, and a number of gentlemen, sober and otherwise, had remained for supper and a ride home through the frosty moonlight. Among them were several lawyers of note, and a writer and thinker whose opinion Rand valued. Besides all these there were at the inn a group of small farmers, a party of boatmen from the James, the local schoolmaster and the parson, a Scotch merchant or two, and the usual idle that a tavern draws. All were Republicans, and all knew their party’s men. Rand descended from the chaise amidst a buzz of recognition, and after supper came a demand that he should speak from the tavern porch to an increasing crowd. He did not refuse. To his iron frame the fatigue of the day was as naught, and there were men in the throng whom he was willing to move. It came to him suddenly, also, that Jacqueline had never heard him speak. Well, he would speak to her to-night.

His was an universal mind. On occasion he could stoop to praise one party and vituperate another, but that was his tongue serving his worldly interest. The man himself dealt with humanity, wherever found and in whatever time, however differentiated, however allied, with its ancestry of the brute and its destiny of the spirit; with the root of the tree and the far-off flower and every intermediate development of stem and leaf; with the soil that sustained the marvellous growth, and with the unknown Gardener who for an unfathomable purpose had set the inexplicable seed in an unthinkable universe. From the ephemera to the star he accepted and conjectured, and while he often thought ill of the living, he had never yet thought ill of life. He had long been allied with a thinker who, with a low estimate of at least so much of human nature as ran counter to his purposes, yet believed with devoutness in the perfectibility of his species, and had of the future a large, calm, and noble vision. If Lewis Rand had not Jefferson’s equanimity, his sane and wise belief in the satisfying power of common daylight, common pleasures, all the common relations of daily life; if some strangeness in his nature thrilled to the meteor’s flight, craved the exotic, responded to clashing and barbaric music, yet the two preached the same doctrine. He believed in the doctrine, though he also believed that great men are not mastered by doctrine. They made doctrine their servant, their useful slave of the lamp. He knew–none better–that the genie might turn and rend; that there was always one last, one fatal thing that must not be asked. But his mind was supple, and he thought that he could fence with the genie. Usually, when he spoke, he believed all that he said, believed it with all the strength of his reason, and yet–he saw the kingdoms of the world. To-night, in the autumn air, pure and cold beneath the autumn stars, with the feeling and the fragrance of the forest day about him, in sympathy with his audience, and conscious in every fibre of the presence of the woman whom he loved, he saw no other kingdom than that of high and tranquil thought.

Jacqueline, seated at her open window, listened for the first time to any public utterance of her husband’s. He was not a man who often spoke of the processes of his thought. Sometimes, in the house on the Three-Notched Road, he told her, briefly, his conclusions on such and such a matter, but he rarely described the road by which he travelled. She knew the conservative, the British, the Federal side of most questions. That was the cleared country, familiar, safe, and smiling; her husband’s side was the strange forest which she had entered and must travel through. She was yet afraid of the forest, of its lights and its shadows, the rough places and the smooth, the stir of its air and the possibility of wild beasts. To her it was night-time there, and where the ground seemed fair and the light to play, she thought of the marsh and the will-o’-the-wisp. She could not but be loyal to the old, trodden ways. She had married Lewis Rand, not his party or its principles. But to-night, as she listened, the light seemed to grow until it was dawn in the forest, and the air to blow so cold, strong, and pure that she thought of mountain peaks and of the ocean which she had never seen. She was no longer afraid of the country in which she found herself.

Rand, standing in the red torchlight above the attentive crowd, preached a high doctrine, preached it austerely, boldly, and well. He did not speak to-night of the hundred party words, the flaunting banners, systems, expedients, and policies fit for this turn of the spiral, born to be disavowed, discarded, and thrown down by a higher, freer whorl; but he gave his voice for the larger Republicanism, for the undying battle-cry, and the ever-streaming battle-flag. He had no less a text than the Liberty and Happiness of the human race, and he made no straying from the subject.

Freedom! Happiness! What is freedom? What is happiness? Freedom is the maximum of self-government finally becoming automatic, and the minimum of government from without finally reduced to the vanishing-point. Happiness is the ultimate bourne, the Olympian goal, the intense and burning star towards which we travel. Does not its light even now fall upon us? even now we are palely happy. And how shall we know the road? and what if, in the night-time, we turn irremediably aside? How are they to be attained, true Liberty and true Happiness? Learn! Light the lamp, and the shadows will flee.–Self-government. Teach thyself temperance, foresight, and wise memory of the past. Thou thyself, in thine own body, art a community. See, then, that thy communal life is clean, that thy will is in right operation, and thy minds divide thee not to disaster. Thy very ego, is it not but thy president, the voice of all thy members, representative of all that thy race has made thee to be, effect of ten million causes, and cause of effects thou canst not see? Let thy ego strengthen itself, deal justly, rule wisely, that thy state fall not behind in this world-progress and be lost out of time and out of mind, in a night without a dawn. There have been such things: over against immortal gain there lies immortal loss. Work, then, while it is day, for if thou work not, the night will make no tarrying. Know thyself, and, knowing, rule that strange world of thine. Were it not a doom, were it not a frightful doom, that it should come to rule thee? ... Government from without! Government of to-day, Government abroad as we see it in every journal, in every letter that we open–how heavy, how heavy is the ball and chain the nations wear! If we alone in this land go free, if for four golden years we have moved with lightness, look to it lest a gaoler come! Government! What is the ideal government? It is a man of business, worthy and esteemed, administering his client’s affairs with thoroughness, economy, and honour. It is a wise judge, holding the balances with a steadfast hand, sitting there clothed reverently, to judge uprightly and to do no more. It is a skilled council, a picked band, an honourable Legion, chosen of the multitude, to determine the line of march for an advancing civilization; to make such laws as are according to reason and necessity and to make none that are not, and to provide for the keeping of the law that is made. The careful man of affairs, the upright judge, the honest maker of honest laws must needs present an account for maintenance and for that expenditure which shall give offence neither to generosity nor to justice; and the account must be paid, yea, and ungrudgingly! Let us pay, then, each man according to his ability, the tax that is right and fitting; and let us, moreover, give due honour to the vanguard of the people. It is there that the great flag waves with all the blazonry of the race. But we want no substituted banner, no private ensign, no conqueror’s flapping eagles! Government! Honour the instrument by which we rule ourselves; but worship not a mechanical device, and call not a means an end! Admirable means, but oh, the sorry end! Therefore we’ll have no usurping Prætorian, no juggling sophist, no bailiff extravagant and unjust, no spendthrift squandering on idleness that which would pay just debts! A ruler! There’s no halo about a ruler’s head. The people–the people are the sacred thing, for they are the seed whence the future is to spring. He who betrays his trust, which is to guard the seed,–what is that man–Emperor or President, Louis or George, Pharaoh or Cæsar–but a traitor and a breaker of the Law? He may die by the axe, or he may die in a purple robe of a surfeit, but he dies! The people live on, and his memory pays. He has been a tyrant and a pygmy, and the ages hold him in contempt.... War! There are righteous wars, and righteous men die in them, but the righteous man does not love war. Conquest! Conquest of ignorance, superstition, and indolence, conquest of the waste and void, of the forces of earth, air, and water, and of the dying beast within us, but no other conquest! We attained Louisiana by fair trade, for the benefit of unborn generations. Standing armies! We want them not. Navies! The sea is the mother of life; why call her that of death? Her highways are for merchant ships, for argosies carrying corn and oil, bearing travellers and the written thought of man; for voyages of discovery and happy intercourse, and all rich exchange from strand to strand. Why stain the ocean red? Is it not fairer when ’tis blue? Guard coast-line and commerce, but we need no Armada for that. Make no quarrels and enter none; so we shall be the exemplar of the nations.... Free Trade. We are citizens and merchants of the world. No man or woman but lives by trade and barter. Long ago there was a marriage between the house of Give and the house of Take, and their child is Civilization. Sultan or Czar may say, “Buy here, sell there, and at this price. You are my slave. Obey!” But who, in this century and this land, shall say that to me–or to you? Are we free men? Then let us walk as such through the marts of the earth. “Trade where you will,” saith Nature. “It was so I brought the tree to the barren isle, and scattered the life of the seas.” Authority of law! Respect the law, and to that end let us have laws that are respectable. Laws are made to be kept, else we live in a house of chicane. But there is a danger that decrees may thicken until they form a dungeon grate for Freedom, until, like Gulliver, she is held down to earth by every several hair. Few laws and just, and those not lightly broken. The Contract between the States–let it be kept. It was pledged in good faith–the cup went around among equals. There is no more solemn covenant; we shall prosper but as we maintain it. Is it not for the welfare and the grandeur of the whole that each part should have its healthful life? The whole exists but by the glow within its parts. Shall we become dead members of a sickly soul? God forbid! but sister planets revolving in their orbits about one central Idea, which is Freedom by Coöperation. To each her own life, varied, rich, complete, and her communal life, large with service rendered and received! Each bound to other and to that central Thought by primal law, but each a sovereign orb, grave mistress of her own affairs! Slavery! Ay, I will give you that though you want it not! Slavery is abominable. There is a tree that grows in the tropics which they call the upas tree. All who lie in the shadow of its branches fall asleep, and die sleeping. To-day we lie under the upas tree–would that we were awake! I have heard that–in the tropics–the sons sometimes hew down that which the fathers have planted. I would that it were so in Virginia! Freedom of thought, of speech, and of pen. I will away with this cope of lead, this Ancient Authority, which is too often an Ancient Iniquity. Did it not have once a minority? was it not once a New Thought? Is not a man’s thought to-day as potent, holy, and near the right as was his great-grandfather’s thought which was born in a like manner, of the brain of a man, in a modern time? I will think freely and according to reason. When it seems wise to tell my mind I will speak; and with judgment I will write down my thought; and fear no man’s censure. Knowledge! I was a poor boy, and I strove for learning, strove hard, and found it worth the striving. I know the hunger, and I know the rage when one asks for knowledge and asks in vain. Is it not a shameful thing that happy men, lodged warm and clear in the Interpreter’s house, should hear the groping in the dark without, know that their fellows are searching, in pain and with shortness of breath, for the key which let the fortunate in, and make no stir to aid those luckless ones? Give of your abundance, or your abundance will decay in your hands and turn to that which shall cause you shuddering!

His words went on, magnetic as the man. He spoke for an hour, coming at the last to a consideration of those particular questions which hung in Virginian air. He dealt with these ably, and he subtly conciliated those of his audience who might differ with him. None could have called him flatterer, but when he ceased to speak his hearers, feeling for themselves a higher esteem, had for him a reflex glow. It was what he could always count upon, and it furthered his fortunes. Now they crowded about him, and it was late before, pleading the fatigue of his journey, he could escape from their friendly importunity. At last, it being towards midnight and the moon riding high, the neighbouring planters and their guests got to saddle and, after many and pressing offers of hospitality to Rand and his wife, galloped off to home and bed. The commonalty and the hangers-on faded too into the darkness, and the folk who were sleeping at the inn took their candles and said good-night. All was suddenly quiet,–a moonlit crossroads in Virginia, tranquil as the shaven fields and the endless columns of the pine.

Upstairs, in the low “best room,” Rand found his wife still seated by the open window, her folded arms upon the sill, her eyes raised to the stars that shone despite the moon. He crossed to her and closed the window. “The night is cold. Dearest, have you been sitting here all this time?”

She rose, turning upon him a radiant face. “All this time. I was not cold. I was warm. I am so happy that I’m frightened.”

“Did you like it?” he asked. “I hoped that you would. I thought of you–my star, my happiness!”

“I used to wonder,” she said; “when they would come home to Fontenoy and say, ’Lewis Rand spoke to-day,’ I used to wonder if I should ever hear you speak! And when they blamed you I said to my aching heart, ’They need not tell me! He’s not ambitious, self-seeking, a leveller, a demagogue and Jacobin!-he is the man I met beneath the apple tree!’ And I was right–I was right!”

“Am I that man?” he asked. “I will try to be, Jacqueline. Leveller, demagogue, and Jacobin I am not; but for the rest, who knows–who knows? Men are cloudy worlds–and I dream sometimes of a Pursuer.”

The next morning the skies had changed, and Rand and Jacqueline fared forward through a sodden, grey, and windy day. The rain had ceased to fall when at twilight they came into Richmond by the Broad Street Road. Lights gleamed from the wet houses; high overhead grey clouds were parting, and in the west was a line of red. The wind was high, and the sycamores with which the town abounded rocked their speckled arms. The river was swollen and rolled hoarsely over the rocks beneath the red west. Rand had taken a house on Shockoe Hill, not far from the Chief Justice’s, and to this he and Jacqueline came through the wet and windy freshness of the night. Smiling in the doorway were the servants–Joab and Mammy Chloe and Hannah–who had set out from Albemarle the day before their master and mistress. Rand and Jacqueline, leaving the mud-splashed chaise, were welcomed with loquacity and ushered into a cheerful room where there was a crackling fire and a loaded table.

“Mrs. Leigh’s compliments, Miss Jacqueline, an’ she done sont de rolls. Mrs. Fisher’s best wishes, an’ she moughty glad to hab a neighbour, an’ she done sont de broiled chicken. An’ Mr. Hay, he done sont de oysters wid he compliments–an’ de two bottles Madeira Mr. Ritchie sont–an’ Mr. Randolph lef’ de birds, an’ he gwine come roun’ fust thing in de mawnin’–”

“We shall have friends,” said Rand. “I am glad for you, sweetheart. But I wish that one Federalist had had the grace to remember that Jacqueline Churchill came to town to-day.”

“Ah, once I would have cared,” answered Jacqueline. “It does not matter now.”

“There’s a tear on your hand–”

Jacqueline laughed. “At least, it doesn’t matter much.–Is that all, Joab?”

“An’ Marse Ludwell Cary, he ride erroun in de rain an’ leave he compliments for Marse Lewis, an’ he say will Miss Jacqueline ’cept dese yer flowers–”

“One remembered,” said Rand, and watched his wife put the flowers in water.

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