The All-True Travels And Adventures Of Lidie Newton Part 24

"You ain' got nothin' else beside dese thangs?"

"No."

"Well," said Helen, "I'm going to go over to The Poplars and talk to Mrs. Harris. I'm a pet of hers, and Maria and Dorothea have ever so many frocks that they didn't take with them to Saint Louis, and I know for sure they were planning to have ever so many more made when they got there. Dorothea is taller than you, Lorna."

"You ken try. Dey don' know what dey got in dat house, anyways. Dey don' open de cupboards from one yeah to de nex'. Ifn dey lose somethin', dey go get a new one, instead of jes' lookin' for de old."

"Lorna, that's such a slander!"

"It ain'! Dey servants talk! Dey servants is almost rich offa dem!"

"Well, then! That will give me something to do before Papa gets home!" And she marched out, full of purpose.

Lorna shook out my dress, and we both wrinkled our noses at the stink of mildew. I saw that the books were considerably damaged, too, with black spots on their covers and their pages all swollen. I touched them and gave out a sigh. Lorna said, "I seen dresses worse off den dis dat come back for yeahs' more good weahin'. I reckon Missy Helen gon' tek caeh of you. You her projec' now, so you get back into you bed and you'll see!" She gave one of her rare small smiles. The pistol had been with us the whole time, lying there at the bottom of my case. I could see Lorna not looking at it, and surely she could see me not looking at it. Now I bent down and closed the case, snapping the hasp with a sharp click. She said, "Dat case needs airin', too. It have quite a stink on its own." But she didn't reach for it, and presently she went out of the room, carrying the dress and the shoes. I got back into the bed. I was a bit tired, and anyway, until there was something decent for me to wear, I didn't have anywhere else to go.

I have to say that I was strangely calm, considering my situation. No doubt there was some lingering weakness owing to my collapse, a weakness of the soul as well as of the body. Perhaps that was the reason that I seemed to have changed utterly. Had I spent my girlhood exploring the forests and fields around Quincy? Had I swum the great river? Had I journeyed to Kansas, helped build a claim there, hunted prairie chickens and turkeys, ridden my horse all about? Had I walked up and down the streets of Lawrence, fled the Missouri Rose, gone about as a boy, and a restless one at that? Had I walked from Kansas City to Independence and from Independence to here? Had I endured the discomforts of bitter cold and blazing heat, high winds, pouring rain, jolting wagons, steamers run aground? Had I continued doing and doing and everlastingly doing? It seemed that I had, but now I couldn't understand it. Another person had done all of that. It exhausted and oppressed me just to ponder it. The only good thing I could think of was to give way entirely to the languor I felt. I was hardly enterprising enough to get to the windows of my room. Simply to lie upon the bed was preferable, not even thinking any thoughts or making any plans; plans implied future activity, which seemed impossible, not to mention unappealing. What a luxury it was, knowing that Helen and Lorna and the unknown Delia were seeing to everything and that all I needed to do was close my eyes!

I thought of Mrs. Bush, who had said more than once that southerners in general and Missourians in particular were simply shiftless and lazy. "Of course, that's the greatest evil of all," she would say. "It robs you of knowing the pleasure of activity. We who came up in a cold climate must work to live! I can't claim it as a virtue; if you sit still, you'll freeze to death. If you ask me, that's the Lord's greatest gift to every right-thinking person!" But she did claim it as a virtue, they all did, though indeed, it was hardly so simple as she thought. There was much to be said for activity, and all the active ones actively said it. But I saw now, or rather felt in my bones and sinews, that there was much to be said for ease, as well. Look at Helen! Whom did I know who was as appealing as Helen? She was artless and charming and generous and kind, as well as pretty and lively. Possibly she had never done a lick of work in her life, besides needlework, but then her needlework was exquisite. And the room I was in. I had never been in such a room, so well proportioned and fine, with these two windows. Windows were expensive, and you almost never saw two, especially two side by side, put there not because a room needed that much light or air but because the two looked pleasing. Someone, probably the papa, had said, not, "I need a window," but, "I want two windows, just here and here." Well, that was the essence of luxury, wasn't it? Wanting something that you didn't need, and then having it. I closed my eyes. It seemed that this was all the thinking I could manage for the morning.

In the afternoon, Helen, who was as good as her word, returned from The Poplars with two dresses that had been discarded by Dorothea the previous summer. One was a green lawn with a broad white collar, and the other was a light nankeen, almost buff-colored, with brown braid trim. They were very pretty, especially the nankeen, but both had to be let out in the waist and have their hems let down all the way and faced. "Isabelle can do that in no time," said Helen. "Old Mr. LaFrance had her sent down to New Orleans when she was ten, to be trained, and he sends her out to work now. She's a wonder. All the ladies and girls around fight to have Isabelle come and stay. You know, Lorna can't stand her. But I'll send Ike over on one of the mules to fetch her tonight, and she can walk over in the morning and get started. She's very quick! She earns Mr. LaFrance ever so much money. Papa always talks about it."

"Why can't Lorna stand her?"

"You'll have to ask her. Lorna is a deep one, I keep telling you. I go along for months, thinking Lorna is happy and content, and she never says a word, and then! Well, Papa said one more outburst and he wasn't going to be responsible for what would happen! So I beg Lorna to just let things go sometimes. I couldn't live without Lorna! When she went with Bella to Saint Louis, I was so envious! I had to pray every day to be a better person. Aren't these lovely dresses? I loved the nankeen last summer, but they have ever so much money at The Poplars, because Mrs. Harris's father had the sacking factory, and Mrs. Harris was his only child, she was Miss Darling-ton, and so when she married Mr. Harris, who has a very good farm there, they got it both coming and going, Papa says. So however much Dorothea or Maria likes a dress, well, they still only wear it half a dozen times, if that...."

And so on. Helen was in and out all afternoon, prattling about this and that. She had on a very pretty dress herself, pale-blue sprigged muslin, very light and summery, but neatly made. She had a fine waist, a slender wrist, and a lovely neck. It made me happy to look at her.

Just before dark, there was a to-do on the lawn outside my windows, which I surmised was Papa returning from his journey. I was apprehensive about Papa. Surely he would be more suspicious of a strange woman masquerading as a boy and less moved by my condition than his daughter had been. My room was dark-Lorna had not yet brought a candle-so I moved to the window and looked out. There were seven horses out there, and three Negro boys holding them while the men dismounted. There was talking and laughter and shouting, and then the door below opened and the men disappeared from my sight, coming up the stairs and going underneath the porch roof The three boys and two of the men, who must have been house slaves traveling with the party, led the horses off to the stables. Now I could hear the cheerful noises of the group rising up the stairwell. They tromped about in their boots, called to one another, laughed, smoked strong seegars. Helen's delighted voice wove itself among their deeper tones, and then everything grew m.u.f.fled as, I suppose, they went in to their supper. Sometime later, when it was entirely dark, Lorna hastened in with a tray and a candle, but she only put the things down, then scurried out. I was happy enough at that; Delia had certainly done herself proud, for I had a dish of chicken stew with three feathery dumplings and plenty of carrots and peas from the garden, as well as a dish of new blackberries and cream. Everything was hot and utterly savory, and I relished each bite.

Nevertheless, with each pa.s.sing moment, I grew more apprehensive. The big house rang with the sounds of men who, I suspected, had never restrained themselves. At any rate, I imagined five Roland Breretons below, fully armed, and their behavior circ.u.mscribed only by the slenderest thread of good manners. The west was full of men who flashed from raucous merriment to violent anger in a step, a moment, a breath. The signs of one- hilarity, loud talk, grins, knee and back slapping, jocular challenges-were always to be dreaded as signs of the other: anger, resentment, pugnacity. Should they pour up the stairs, knowing by instinct that an abolitionist, a Lawrenceite, a Bay Stater by marriage, was in the house, I thought, I could go out one of the windows and drop to the roof of the porch, and after that, well, there was no telling. I got out of bed and pulled my case closer to me and unclasped the hasps, so that my pistol was within easy reach. I got back under the coverlet.

On the other hand, I was Lyman Arquette no longer. I was a woman in a nightdress in a bed, more than defenseless, as entirely within a protected category as if I sat within a gla.s.s dome. Perhaps. It was a nice question- was an abolitionist lady still a lady? As far as I knew, this question remained untested, even in K.T.

It didn't take long for these musings to transform themselves into others. What if Samson and Chaney were down there? A pistol wasn't designed only for self-defense, wasn't designed primarily for self-defense, as everyone in K.T. knew but did not admit. A nightdress billowing about could easily hide a pistol. Men filing out of the dining room, seegars in hand, would hardly be bothered to glance up the staircase, which was half in darkness, anyway. I could scrutinize each one at my leisure as he crossed the hall (would they cross the hall?) from dining room to parlor. There was no knowing the layout, as I hadn't yet been in the lower story of the house. It gave me a hot chill to imagine such things, and once I had imagined them, I felt a breathless compulsion to act, and yet I did not move. I stayed still, quite rigid, in my bed, staring straight ahead out the window into the dark, with the candle flame curling about its wick at the edge of my gaze.

The noise from below continued, stamping and yelling sometimes, laughter other times, the clanking of crockery, steps from here to there. I would say now that it was the very mysteriousness of it all that kept me in my bed. The idea of Samson and Chaney carousing down below seemed to flash, in my mind, from reality to absurdity, back and forth. I hadn't the courage to find out, though. I made up my mind that there would be a more opportune moment. I made up my mind that it would be a poor return for Helen's hospitality to shoot her friends as they were getting up from their supper in her house. I made up my mind that revenge was more complicated than I had thought it would be, but then so was everything else one looks forward to with confidence. Lorna returned for my tray, saying only, "I sure 'nuf hope dat Ma.s.sa Richard gets rid of dese cronies of his 'fore too late, 'cause I is ready for mah own bed tonight."

I shook off my rigidity. "Thank you for staying up with me these last two nights."

"Well, it waren't gone to be Missy Helen. Dat's for sure. But you is all right now. You got you color back. I reckon it didn't hurt you so much."

"I suppose I'll know that later."

"Spose so." And she went out.

Some time after that, Helen ran in. She had an evening frock on, of pale-yellow silk, and her hair was elaborately done up in a braided weave. She was smiling but agitated. She exclaimed, "Oh, Louisa, Papa is terrifically eager to meet you, so he sent Ike off right away, and now Ike's back, and Mr. LaFrance has promised to send Isabelle over in the wagon first thing! Isn't that splendid? But the other news is so frightening, I hardly dare tell you about it, in your condition, but I am bursting! Papa says not to worry, they won't get near us, he will hold them off, but-" She began gasping, then sat down on the bed, folded her hands in her lap, closed her eyes, and composed herself. "Papa says Lane's army in Nebraska, the one he ran away from, was just a ruse, and now he has a whole other one, three or four hundred or more, and he's been seen in Olathe! Mr. Perkins, who's down below, knew a man whose cousin saw him himself! You can't mistake Jim Lane-oh, he is a cruel-looking man, and they say his eyes are dead black until he decides to kill someone, and then they get a strange red light in them! And a man saw him and identified him positively and overheard him say that he was going to move on Missouri now! Oh, my!" She put her hands to her throat. "And Papa and Mr. Harris, he's down below as well, both say that that's been the plan all along, that the abolitionist criminals have all along meant to run us off our farms and steal our factories and bring in a lot of Irishmen to work in them for no wages at all, and you know, they never take care of their workers, but when they can't work, no matter how old they are, they just throw them out on the street to fend for themselves, and Chicago is full of those people, and Saint Louis, too. Bella told me about it in a letter-such a tragedy! But at the same time, it's so dangerous! And they'll do anything to a woman, they have no respect for women, beatings and everything unspeakable, and their best men don't care a pin for it but just step over the bodies in the street and walk right past crying children as if they weren't Christians at all!"

I dared not laugh at this torrent. I said, "I haven't heard such things myself. I-"

"But Papa says that we have him, and Ike and Jess and Malachi, and Mr. Harris has twenty or thirty, both at the factory and on the farm, and of course there's Morgan at home, though he's only sixteen, and Stephen up at the college, and he would certainly come home, if danger threatened. Mr. Harris's brothers were in the Texas war and are very bold fellows-but oh, I don't know how I shall go to sleep! Just imagine, you are sleeping ever so peacefully, and you suddenly awaken in the middle of the night, to find an abolitionist in your room, staring down at you, some Old John Brown sort of person, who isn't even human, really, but a terrible demon-oh, and you know he's going to hack you to pieces right there!"

'John Brown didn't hack any women to death." But I said it sheepishly, the only way you would say something like that.

"And you know, they round up your people, and they make them go off, whether they want to or no, even the mammies and little ones, and they drive them north like cattle or sheep or something, and then, when they've got them so far from home that they can't ever return, no matter how much they want to, why, then they just let them go on their own. The skilled ones, like Mr. LaFrance's Isabelle, they might be all right, you know, but not everyone is skilled like that. Papa says it's even odds who takes care of whom. When the cholera came through here, my mama was out in the cabins washing and feeding and setting fires, and she wore herself out, so that Delia said to her that she wouldn't have been surprised if Mama'd ended up laying down her own life for her people, and that was why Delia would never leave her, no matter what. Even though they aren't all truly grateful like that, most are, and we're their family as much as anything else, and Jim Lane and John Brown and that awful Dr. Robinson just want to tear them away from us and drive them north into the snow! And you know they just can't tolerate the snow!" Here she burst into a fury of weeping.

I said, "I don't think you should be afraid of attack, Helen. I was just in Kansas City myself, and in Independence, too, and they weren't talking of that at all. They were talking of what a fool Jim Lane was and how he would never amount to anything." And, it is fair enough to add, I did believe this portion of what I was saying. 'And Robinson is in prison."

"But that was days ago!"

"Yes, but a four-hundred-man army of real soldiers doesn't just turn up."

"But I'm sure it's the federals, who've turned their coats and made up their minds to break the laws and comfort the traitors. It's been months since John Brown and his sons hacked those men to death, and the federals haven't stirred a stump out of their camps, because they don't want to, no matter what the President tells them to do. Papa says it's just a scandal and they should all be court-martialed, but the New Englanders have all the money in the world, and they make sure things go their way! Oh, my goodness, who will protect us!" But even as she said this, she was already sighing and growing calmer. Finally, she said, "Papa said I must go off to bed, but I don't know how I'm going to sleep now! May I ... May I ..."

"Yes, you may sleep in here. I feel fine, and the bed is sufficiently large for the two of us, I think."

She was much relieved. I refrained from mentioning that should she awaken in the middle of the night, she would find an abolitionist right here in the room with her!

When she had gone to her own chamber and come back in her nightdress and wrapper, with her hair falling down her back and her candle in her hand, I said, ever so idly, "So tell me about your papa's guests," and she named Mr. Harris and Mr. Perkins, and Mr. Smith and Mr. Chesbrough, but never Mr. Chaney or Mr. Samson. "They are all so old! Thirty-five, at least, and Mr. Chesbrough is fifty-six!" Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Truly I despair of ever finding a husband! Sometimes I almost wish for a war. Don't you think officers are very handsome-looking and serious? If they would all come and march around, and then declare a truce, it would certainly be splendid!"

CHAPTER 23.

I Improve My Acquaintance with Papa [image]Nankeens look best, washed in suds, with a teacup of ley added for each pailful. Iron on the wrong side. Soak new nankeens in ley, for one night, and it sets the color perfectly. -p. 288-89 EVERYTHING HELEN HAD PROMISED came quickly to pa.s.s. Isabelle arrived with the breakfast and inspected the two dresses while I was eating. As soon as Lorna took the tray away (the two women did avoid looking at one another), I stood up and was measured. Isabelle was not especially talkative, but she had a Louisiana lilt to her voice, "Lawsy, you be a big gal, missy. I don' know ifn we got enough goods in de skirt! Hmm. What we gone to face this with?" But then she set to work and made over the nankeen in no time. The green gown she elected to take home with her, as she had some stuff she could piece into it, and then, with a bit of trim ... Helen was right: the woman was a genius.

I brushed my hair and put on the nankeen, which was flattering enough, perhaps as flattering a dress as I had ever had, and indeed I had never had a dress from Saint Louis, the reputed origin of this one. I felt it drape attractively about my figure. Mrs. Harris had also supplied an old petticoat, which, though rather too short, did the trick well enough.

It was thus that I was enabled to descend the stairs at suppertime and meet Papa.

I can hardly remember what I expected, perhaps some elegant long-haired sort, or, alternatively, a Ruffian so bearded that only his eyes were visible-as Mrs. Bush had said, Missourians all seemed to like to cultivate an abundance of hair-but Papa, Mr. Richard Aloysius Day, was small, almost tiny, and entirely bald. The top of his head rose only to my shoulder, and every chair that he habitually sat in had a high, hard cushion, upon which he perched like a bird, the better to stare at you, also like a bird. But he did not have a birdlike voice, but rather a lovely baritone, entirely the voice of another man, and in the parlor sat a large piano. In the course of my stay at Day's End Plantation, Papa himself sat down at the piano perhaps three or four times and sang. As Lorna later said to me, "It do stand your hair on end to hear dat big voice comin' out of dat little head, but he sing like some angel, sure 'nuf."

On my first night, however, I was as yet unaware of Papa's talents, only taken aback by the figure he made in the dining room at supper, sitting up in his chair with his napkin tucked into his collar and his fork lifted to dart at his food. By contrast, Helen, who was very attentive to him, looked like another animal entirely, a sleek filly, perhaps, all limbs and grace. What sort of animal did I look like to them, with my wisps of hair and my big hands and my plain face? Nothing local, I am sure.

We ate rabbit that Malachi had shot, cooked with a considerable quant.i.ty of mustard. Papa's fork popped little bits between his lips quickly, quickly, quickly, and his lips snapped shut over them. He c.o.c.ked his shining head at me, ate a bit of bread, darted me a smile, let the wonderful baritone roll out. "Mrs. Bisket"-yes, I had taken Louisa's name-"my beloved daughter tells me that you are a wanderer in our country, without connections or resources."

"Yes, sir, she speaks truly."

"And yet you comport yourself in a ladylike manner and speak with educated tones. I am told you carry books in your case. I am a reading man. After we have supped, I will show you my library."

After a long moment of silence, I ventured, "I came west and discovered that conditions were not as they had been represented. I met with some misadventures."

"You and your husband came west with no company or connections? Very enterprising."

I pondered how much to divulge. The Ma.s.sachusetts Emigrant Aid Company was, perhaps, the most famous "company" in the west or anywhere else. And Helen had mentioned the books to him, though I didn't know whether she'd named them. Finally, I thought the safest thing was to concede his a.s.sumptions. I said, "Yes. We had no company or connections out here."

"I offer my condolences on his death, my dear. The death of my own wife has been a permanent grief to me, and I have told my three daughters that I will never marry again."

This seemed as good a time as any to subside into silence. Papa's manners and evident curiosity had a way of drawing me, so that it required positive resistance not to tell some story, either true or fabricated. But I was a little afraid that I would mix myself up if I spoke too voluminously, and there was this, as well-I didn't want Papa to get into the habit of expecting me to be forthcoming. For one thing, I was his guest, not his daughter, and for another, a trickle now could easily turn into a stream later, and then into a cataract. It was better that I should retain as much mystery as possible with Papa. My sisters would have a.s.serted that such a course would be easy for me, as they had considered me backward and unsociable all my life, but it was far more difficult not to lay myself out to be agreeable in this house of strangers than it had been at home. Papa's every bright glance seemed to call up some response, some bit of intelligence. I ate industriously, as if I were famished, and soon I was exceedingly full.

"And so your husband had connections in the west?"

"Not really, no."

More rabbit.

"But surely he knew someone?"

"No; I would have to say no."

A forkful of greens.

"He didn't come from a large family, then?"

"No, not especially."

A bite of bread.

"And yourself? You've left many behind?"

"I have sisters."

More rabbit.

"They're all older."

A sip of well water.

"Much older."

"Your own father and mother?"

Another sip of water, to cool the heat of the mustard.

"They pa.s.sed on."

As light and energetic as Papa was, I must say conversing with me was heavy work for him. Finally, Helen could stand it no longer, and she said, in an ever so low and respectful tone of voice, "Oh, Papa, I told you of Louisa's tragedy. She's disconsolate. We should ..."

Papa ceased asking questions for now, but little looks, like little sparks of light, continued to flash across the table. After supper, I begged to be excused and went up to my room. I wasn't tired at all, but I saw that I was going to have to make the most of my ill health, so as to keep to my room and avoid Papa as much as possible.

This did not prove to be easy, as Papa was quite as cordial as Helen by nature, and there was the added spur of my mysteriousness that encouraged him to search me out and attempt to draw me. The very next morning, though I wasn't expected to take breakfast downstairs (Helen did not, either), Lorna brought me a note along with my tray, inviting me to take a look at Papa's library. Helen's door was still closed, as by Thomas's watch it was not much after seven, so there would be no protection from that quarter. Papa's handwriting was tall and narrow, but full of whorls and flourishes. It surprised me-perhaps I had expected it to be made up of a sort of pecking.

Papa was standing in a small room off the parlor, as sprucely fitted up as if he had been standing there like a diminutive statue all night long, only awaiting my coming to bring him to life. "Ah, my dear-Louisa, is it? Louisa Bisket. Unusual name, indeed. Never heard it before in these parts. But I know you aren't from these parts by your own testimony, don't I?"

I smiled and wished him good morning. He bowed over my hand.

"There was a Bisket at college with me, a cla.s.s or two ahead. Tall fellow. Can't remember where his people were from, though."

I hazarded a question: where had Papa gone to college?

"That was a good time of life, wasn't it? College. Only spent a year there, in fact. Princeton College, it was. Not too many men from the west in those days at that college. They thought me an odd bird indeed!" He laughed. "Even though I had curls enough, and great mustaches, to boot!" He laughed again, and I laughed, too.

"However, the ministry was not the life for me. I was made to be a farmer, though a reading farmer. You'll see that I have a great many works on agriculture here in my library. I make it my practice to emulate the great Mr. Jefferson, who was a terrific improver and had sound ideas upon government and farming, and architecture, too! This house was designed according to Jeffersonian principles, though of course we have humbler materials to work with here in the west. Ah, well. The bank is an evil inst.i.tution, and the rush of our civilization into the arms of money, as it were, is a great corruption!

"These are my books!" He turned and swept his little arm in an arc toward the two walls of books. I would guess that they numbered five hundred or so, indeed a sizable library for a Missouri farmer, and possibly a matter, had she known it, of significant surprise to Mrs. Bush, who always held that Missourians read only a few words of the Bible and wrote only their first names.

I did as I was expected, which was to step over to the shelves and admire. I couldn't resist saying, "My husband was a great reader." There was plenty to admire-Mr. Shakespeare's entire works, and those of Mr. Milton, and Dr. Johnson, and Mr. Joseph Addison. The poems of Mr. Pope were bound in red calf and decorated in gold, and of course there were some volumes of Mr. Jefferson's writings, as well. There was a whole shelf of volumes in French, and ten or a dozen t.i.tles in what appeared to be German. As I perused them, Papa stood back, his hands clasped behind him and a great smile on his face. Ivanhoe, The Lady of the Lake, Rob Roy, Marmion, Quentin Durward. I touched one, and Papa said, "I am a lover of Scott. He knows what freedom means to a man!" I put my hand down at my side. Poe. I paused to look, and he said, "I knew the poor fellow, can you imagine? They drove him from pillar to post, but indeed, he wasn't himself sinless by any means." I looked in vain for Emerson, Hawthorne, Mr. Th.o.r.eau, Mrs. Stowe, the books Thomas could not be without, but in Papa's library, it was as if they had never lived. The novelists and poets here were all English ones, except for Madame Sand, who reposed, in French, right beside Monsieur Hugo. I murmured, "I am sorry I don't read French. But indeed, you have few American writers here!"

Papa flared up at once. "Who is there? Only those who spout treason and nonsense! Oh, my dear, you will be sorry you said such a thing, because you will find me unstoppable on the subject! Our nation is a rose-bud, blighted at its very opening by money and industry and all of what I call the iron ways! Boilers! Railroads! Steamboats! Armories! Coal dust, coal smoke, coal stink! We are being hammered w.i.l.l.y-nilly into iron bonds! Where are you from?" His eyebrows shot upward, and without resisting, but quick enough to lie, I said, "Palmyra."

"You are fortunate! Vow never to go to Chicago or Cincinnati or New York's inferno! Such places destroy your faith in the future!"

"I've never been to any of those cities. I've never been to a city."

"And you are better for it, young lady! Come with me!" Papa now grasped me by the elbow and hurried me out of the library, first into the hall and then out a door that turned out to open onto a rear veranda that was at ground level. The kitchen wing of the house enclosed us to the right. To the left, there was a prospect of two fields divided by a rail fence, one a pasture with cows and horses in it and the other a field of hemp, tall, leafy, and ready to be harvested. Several oaks dotted the pasture, and the animals grazed peacefully in their shade. To the right, partially hidden by the kitchen wing, was the stables and, behind them, a barn. Both were built of brick, like the house, but they were not whitewashed, as the house was. It was a pleasant prospect, and I was thinking I would like to get a better look at the horses sometime, when Papa seemed to leap into the air with excitement. He shouted, "Look at this-is this not the most divine vision you've ever seen?" He raised both arms, threw back his head, and spun around. "The fit and proper stewardship of the land! The useful verdure consecrated to our improvement by the Lord Himself on one side and the devoted beasts on the other, whose very contentment and low intelligence recommend them to our service! Who made that pasture? I did! Who built that fence? I did! Who planted that crop? I did, yes! But it wasn't I! All I did was enter into a great preexistent circle and divide the plants from the beasts by a little fence, so that the beasts wouldn't trample the tender shoots. Everything is perfection here! The rain falls from the sky, and beasts partake of the fruits of the soil and then themselves create the soil! There is a great flowering, beauty announcing itself, and then G.o.d's messengers, the bees, go among the blossoms! All is given to us for our education and enjoyment, our nourishment and our contemplation! We hold out our hands, and what we need is placed in them!"

Papa took a few deep breaths, then came right up to me and looked up into my face. His bald head shone brightly in the morning sunlight. "To look at this, you wouldn't know that we live in a fallen world, would you?" I didn't have to respond, but I did think that his experience must have been considerably different from mine, if he supposed that I ever forgot that we lived in a fallen world. "Money!" he shouted. "Money, gold, cash, dollars! How does it get in everywhere, I ask you? How can it be that money has come between the land and its workers? Between a man and his dependents?" (Here one of the slaves happened to lead two horses, a mare and her half-grown colt, out of the stable area and toward the pasture.) "How can it be, this crime and this tragedy, that a man should have to pay money to purchase a fellowman to work his fields? That is the tragedy of our inst.i.tution, not that we have these relationships of superiority and inferiority, as some wrongheaded northerners think, but that money has entered in and corrupted everything like a disease! You know why the slave is unhappy in his work? Not because he is a slave, but because he knows he represents a certain amount of money, a thousand dollars, say. He thinks that because he costs a thousand dollars, he is a thousand dollars, walking around. He feels himself rich! He's distracted from his G.o.d-given purpose on this earth, which is to serve, not the master and the mistress, but the beasts and the plants and the round of rain and drought and growth and harvest! The so-called master and mistress serve the selfsame thing! We are all servants! The land is the master!" I wondered what Thomas would say to this, whether he would maintain his composure.

The man leading the horses now opened the gate and led the pair through. Other horses in the field lifted their heads, and one of them whinnied. When the man had removed its halter, the colt frolicked away. A moment later, the mare trotted after him. One of the cows mooed. I said, "You have lovely horses here," but Papa could not be turned from his flow of eloquence.

"When you are in a city, young lady, the real master is hidden from you by paving stones and building blocks and iron rails, and you begin to think that the false master, money, is the real master. Did you know that when my father was a boy, before this present century, there was no objection to our inst.i.tution? Of course not! The true master wasn't hidden from our sight then! Men lived on farms or in villages, they saw the green world every day, the right way of things was apparent to them. But now this misapprehension has gained sway in the north, in the land of cities, and here we are, fallen low and falling lower fast, and, my dear, they are so hostile to the right way of things that they've resolved to destroy the last vestiges of it! That is money for you! There can't be just a little of money, but everything has to be money, money, money! Soon we'll be buying and selling our own children, and some will say the problem is that there are children and parents, not that money has come between them!"

I couldn't resist saying, "I've known one or two northerners," but Papa was now red in the face and red in the pate, and this last speech was accompanied by considerable agitation. Had he been a large or heavy man, I would have been in some uncertainty for him, but he worked off his excitement by hopping and jumping around on the gra.s.s below the veranda. Soon enough a smile returned to his countenance, and he said, "Well, my dear, if there are any volumes you care to peruse, make yourself free! Bella was something of a reader, but Minna and Helen don't open a book from one year to the next."

I thanked him and requested a book I had noticed, a novel called Pride and Prejudice, by Miss Austen, which Thomas had mentioned but I had never read.

"Ah!" said Papa with a delighted smile. "Miss Austen! Few people know Miss Austen these days, but she is quite a stylist for a woman, quite a splendid stylist!" He took me back inside and placed the first volume of the novel in my hand. He had hold of my elbow, and he didn't let go until he had said one more thing, which was, "Young lady, preserve yourself from money!"

I nodded, reflecting that, at the moment, I was almost entirely preserved from money and I hadn't before thought to be thankful for it.

It was lovely to have a book, such a treasure, all to myself, and I went out on the veranda, where I had seen some chairs. Morning shade still spread from this side of the house, which faced west. Soon I was deep into the story.

The weather was, of course, extremely hot, as this was Missouri and it was August. Perhaps, then, my la.s.situde in those days was heat-induced. Certainly, the custom of the house was for everyone, even the slaves, to retire in the middle of the day for a nap. Breakfast came early-at six. Supper came late-after eight. The two hours of napping in the afternoon produced in me a sense of helplessness; even after I had clothes to wear and could have departed, I looked to Helen to tell me what to do. Helen said, "Oh! Well, it's August! No one does much of anything in August. It's just so hot! I can't bear even to ride or to drive. The horses look so forlorn, all lathered up with the heat. It's better to leave the poor things alone!"

Papa did indeed have horses. One day, I explored the stables and saw that Papa was a real Missourian when it came to horseflesh, that is, an avid collector and a good judge. For the carriage, there was the matched pair of blacks, long-legged trotters with white stars and white hind fetlocks. For the farmwork there was a pair of heavy sorrel mares, in addition to four of their offspring, sorrel mules that Papa said were twice as tough as the mares and equally docile. Helen had a bay mare to ride and a gray pony to draw her in her cart, and Papa had several horses to choose from and to offer guests. All these were in addition to the breeding stock; along with music and literature, one of Papa's avocations was breeding racing horses. "Only in a small way," said Papa. "I can't claim to be able to afford the best stock, by any means. Racing is a rich man's sport. But we have some good Kentucky bloodlines here; yes, indeed." And I saw that he was one of those hors.e.m.e.n you frequently see, who pride themselves on their judgment rather than their pocketbook. In the early mornings before Helen came out of her room, I truly enjoyed strolling down to the stable area and watching the horses. And it wouldn't have been shameful, by any means, to see Jeremiah among these animals, switching his tail and making his way from clover patch to clover patch. The pony was Papa's only gray.

What to do for Thomas, what to do that he would not have disapproved of, how to honor him, even how to think of him, was a hot little nut of a question that I turned over and over, trying to crack, day after day. Often, of course, he was simply my husband, whom I missed as a wife must. There were countless things I wanted to say to him that could be said only to him, and not just observations or questions about great issues but, more often, little jokes or amusing sentences and, more often than that, smiles, glances. Had I realized when he was still alive how many times in a day Thomas and I would exchange a look, in the full confidence that each of us knew what the other was thinking? Could this have so quickly become a feature of our marriage without a real sense between us of loving friendship? And so, whatever our disagreements, there had been that, hadn't there? I entered these thoughts happily for a moment, even yearned for them, but they were their own punishment: the tie was broken and never to be renewed; my only ways of enjoying it were quiet reflection within myself or unsatisfactory communication to others of subtleties that they could neither understand nor appreciate. The very pleasures of such thoughts turned into an even larger loneliness than I had felt before I allowed myself to think them. But it was often the case that living with Papa and Lorna and Helen and Delia (a big woman but deceptively quick, who said little, and nothing to me-"She's very shy, especially of white folks," said Helen) and Malachi and Ike and all the others made me want to positively drag Thomas back from death and wring answers from him about who they were and what to think of them. Sometimes I felt myself in an argument with him, not because my views had changed but because this ease and these pleasures were so comfortable. Must I not be pleased by the graceful front of the house, which had surely been erected by slaves? Must my heart not lift at the sight of the horses-more and better horses than any Yankee would ever need or care to have? Must I not compliment Helen on the gowns that made her so pretty? Must I not eat with relish the game Malachi shot and Delia prepared? Must I not sink into the joys of a delightful novel during the day, when others were working? Must I not walk across the lawn, feeling its luxurious springiness in every step? Must I not smile in spite of myself when I opened my eyes every morning and saw the elegance of my chamber? Must I instead keep my eyes closed until I had marshaled my responses according to moral principle? Must I not look back upon our much humbler, our very unbeautiful, arrangements in K.T. with a sensation that was beginning to amount to revulsion? Thomas, perhaps, would not have felt this division at all. I yearned to ask him about it.

And how quickly did I need to flee?

For flight was certainly required. I knew and felt that I was in every way the wrong bird for this flock and that my every movement and remark revealed it. That Helen and Papa seemed to accept me was a testament more to their hospitality (or blindness) than anything else. Every morning, after I donned my gown and before I left my chamber, I made sure that my pistol and its ammunition were safe inside my case. Before my nap and at bedtime, I rea.s.sured myself that nothing had been touched or disturbed. These were not the actions of a proper guest.

Most important, I quizzed Thomas, how should I go on with pursuing his killers? How should I leave? What direction should I take? Where were money and transportation to come from? How should I disguise myself, now that Papa and all his connections knew of my existence, now that I was wearing costumes well known in the neighborhood, now that my men's clothes had been disposed of? What should I do after the deed was done, now that I was deep in enemy territory, settled territory, where the most desirable outcome, the deaths of Samson and Chaney, would certainly have ill consequences for me. In K.T., I had been planning revenge. In Missouri, I was most a.s.suredly planning a crime for which I would be captured and punished, possibly killed (on balance, the easier consequence to ponder). I quizzed Thomas, but I got nothing from him. On this subject, he turned away from me. I had always been more b.l.o.o.d.y-minded than he, less judicious, more hasty and hot. And yet how could I let it go, and creep back to Quincy? It didn't seem possible. It didn't feel possible. And it didn't seem just. To turn and walk away from his killing, in fact, seemed to both represent and partake of the very absence of justice that was K.T. from top (President Pierce) to bottom (the unknowns who died from time to time without anyones ever knowing who they were or how to get in touch with their loved ones). The hot days drifted by, and soon I had been with Helen and Papa for over a week.

It chanced, during this week, that Papa had few visitors and kept mostly to himself, though on most days he rode away to do business of some sort. His questioning of me and my refusal to answer became a more and more good-humored ritual (or, at any rate, good-humored on his side; on my side, fear gave my smiles and laughs a hollow quality). There were no parties and little news. Perhaps out of disinclination to alarm Helen, Papa said little more about Kansas than he had already. For several days after her alarm, Helen tried to take things in hand and make provision for a siege or something like it. She and Lorna and Delia bustled here and there, especially down in the cellar below the house and out in the root cellar cut into the hillside. They decided that there was an abundance of provisions for two or three months, anyway. But the sun shone and the heat held, and the danger seemed to recede as life kept on in its familiar way. To me, the idea of my friends back in K.T. attacking Day's End Plantation from either the road in front or the fields behind seemed ludicrous. Papa had all the discernible advantages.