THE INTERVENTION OF PETER
No one knows just what statement it was of Harrison Randolph's that Bob Lee doubted. The annals of these two Virginia families have not told us that. But these are the facts:—
It was a the home of the Fairfaxes that a few of the sons of the Old Dominion were giving a dinner,—not to celebrate anything in particular, but the joyousness of their own souls,—and a brave dinner it was. The courses had come and gone, and over their cigars they had waxed more than merry. In those days men drank deep, and these men were young, full of the warm blood of the South and the joy of living. What wonder then that the liquor that had been mellowing in the Fairfax cellars since the boyhood of their revolutionary ancestor should have its effect upon the
It is true that it was only a slight thing which Bob Lee affected to disbelieve, and that his tone was jocosely bantering rather than impertinent. But sometimes Virginia heads are not less hot than Virginia hearts. The two young men belonged to families that had intermarried. They rode together. They hunted together, and were friends as far as two men could be who had read the message of love in the dark eyes of the same woman. So perhaps there was some thought of the long-contested hand of Miss Sallie Ford in Harrison Randolph's mind when he chose to believe that his honour had been assaled.
His dignity was admirable. There was no scene to speak of. It was all very genteel.
"Mr. Lee," he said, "had chosen to doubt his word, which to a gentleman was the final insult. But he felt sure that Mr. Lee would not refuse to accord him a gentleman's satisfaction." And the other's face had waxed warm and red and his voice cold as he replied: "I shall be most happy to give you the satisfaction you demand."
Here friends interposed and attempted to pacify the two. But without avail. The wine of the Fairfaxes has a valiant quality in it, and these two who had drunken of it could not be peacefully reconciled.
Each of the young gentlemen nodded to a friend and rose to depart. The joyous dinner-party bade fair to end with much more serious business.
"You shall hear from me very shortly," said Randolph, as he strode to the door.
"I await your pleasure with impatience, sir, and give you such reply as even you cannot disdain."
It was all rather high-flown, but youth is dramatic and plays to the gallery of its own eyes and ears. But to one pair of ears there was no ring of anything but tragedy in the grandiloquent sentences. Peter, he personal attendant of Harrison Randolph, stood at the door as his master passed out, and went on before him to hold his stirrup. The young master and his friend and cousin, Dale, started off briskly and in silence, while Pete, with wide eyes and disturbed face, followed on behind. Just as they were turning into the avenue of elms that led to their own house, Randolph wheeled his horse and came riding back to his servant.
"Pete," said he, sternly, "what do you know?"
"Nuffin', Mas' Ha'ison, nuffin' 't all. I do' known nuffin'."
"I don't believe you." The young master's eyes were shining through the dusk. "You're always slipping around spying on me."
"Now dah you goes, Mas' Randloph. I ain't done a t'ing, and you got to 'mence pickin' on me —"
"I just want you to remember that my business is mine."
"Well, I knows dat."
"And if you do know anything, it will be well for you to begin forgetting it right now." They were at the door now and in the act of dismounting. "Take Bess around and see her attended to. Leave Dale's horse here, and—I won't want you anymore to-night."
"Now how does you an' Mas' Dale 'spect dat you gwine to wai on yo'se'ves to-night?"
"I shall not want you again to-night, I tell you."
Pete turned away with an injured expression on his dark face. "Bess," he said to the spirited black mare as he led her toward the stables, "you jes' bettah t'ank yo' Makah dat you ain't no human-bein', 'ca'se human-bein's is cur'ous articles. Now you's a hoss, ain't you? An' dey say you ain't got no soul, but you got sense, Bess, you got sense. You got blood an' fiah an' breedin' in you too, ain't you? Co'se you has. But you knows how to answah de rein. You 's a high steppah, too: but you don' go to work an' try to brek yo' naik de fus' chanst you git. Bess, I 'spect you 'ca'se you got jedgment, an' you don' have to have a black man runnin' 'roun aftah you all de time plannin' his haid off jes' to keep you out o' trouble. Some folks dat 's human-bein's does. Yet a' still, Bess, you ain't nuffin' but a dumb beas', so dey says. Now what I gwine to do? Co'se dey wants to fight. But whah an' when an' how I gwine to stop hit? Do' want me to wait on him to-night, huh! No, dey want to mek dey plans an' do' want me 'roun' to hyeah, dat 's what 's de mattah. Well, I lay I'll hyeah somep'n' anyhow."
Peter hurried through his work and took himself up to the big house and straight to his master's room. He heard voices within, but though he took many liberties with his owner, eavesdropping was not one of them. It proved too dangerous. So, though "he kinder lingered on the mat, some doubtful of the sekle," it was not for long, and he unceremoniously pushed the door open and walked in. With a great show of haste, he made for his master's wardrobe and began busily searching among the articles therein. Harrison Randolph and his cousin were in the room, and their conversation, which had been animated, suddenly ceased when Peter entered.
"I thought I told you I did n't want you any more to-night."
"I 's a-lookin' fu' dem striped pants o' yo'n. I want to tek 'em out an' bresh 'em: dey 's p'intly a livin' sight."
"You get out o' here."
"But, Mas' Ha'ison, now— now— look— a— hyeah—"
"Get out, I tell you—"
Pete shuffled from the room, mumbling as he went: "Dah now, dah now! driv' out lak a dog! How's I gwine to fin' out anyt'ing dis away? I do 'pear lak Mas' Ha'ison do try to gi'e me all de trouble he know how. Now he plannin' an' projickin' wif dat cousin Dale, an' one jes' ez scattah-brained ez de othah. Well, I 'low I got to beat dey time somehow er ruther."
He was still lingering hopeless and worried when he saw young Dale Randolph come out, mount his horse and ride away. After a while his young master also came out and walked up and down in the soft evening air. The rest of the family were seated about on the broad piazza.
"I wonder what is the matter with Harrison to-night," said the young man's father, "he seems so preoccupied."
"Thinking of Sallie Ford, I recokon," some one replied; and the remark passed with a laugh. Pete was near enough to catch this, but he did not stop to set them right in their conjectures. He slipped into the house as noiselessly as possible.
It was less than two hours after this when Dale Randolph retuned and went immediately to his cousin's room, where Harrison followed him.
"Well?" said the latter, as soon as the door closed behind them.
"It's all arranged, and he's anxious to hurry it through for fear some one may interfere. Pistols, and to-morrow morning at daybreak."
"And the place?"
"The little stretch of woods that borders Ford's Creek. I say, Harrison, it is n't too late to stop this thing yet. It's a share for you two fellows to fight. You're both too decent to be killed for a while yet."
"He insulted me."
"Without intention, every one believes."
"Then let him apologise."
"As well ask the devil to take Communion."
"We'll fight then."
"All right. If you must fight, you must. But you'd better get to bed; for you'll need a strong arm and a steady hand to-morrow."
If a momentary paleness struck into the young fellow's face, it was for a moment only, and he set his teeth hard before he spoke.
"I am going to write a couple of letters," he said, "then I shall lie down for an hour or so. Shall we go down and drink a steadier?"
"One won't hurt, of course."
"And, by the way, Dale, if I— if it happens to be me to-morrow, you take Pete— he's a good fellow."
The cousins clasped hands in silence and passed out. As the door closed behind them, a dusty form rolled out from under the bed, and the disreputable, eavesdropping, backsliding Pete stood up and rubbed a sleeve across his eyes.
"It ain't me dat's gwine to be give to nobody else. I hates to do it, but dey ain't no othah way. Mas' Ha'ison cain't be spaihed." He glided out mysteriously, some plan of salvation working in his black head.
Just before daybreak next morning, three stealthy figures crept out and made their way toward Ford's Creek. One skulked behind the other two, dogging their steps and taking advantage of the darkness to keep very near to them. At the grim trysting-place they halted and were soon joined by other stealthy figures, and together they sat down to wait for the daylight. The seconds conferred for a few minutes. The ground was paced off, and a few low-pitched orders prepared the young men for business.
"I will count three, gentlemen," said Lieutenant Curtis. "At three, you are to fire."
At last daylight came, gray and timid at first, and then red and bold as the sun came clearly up. The pistols were examined and the men placed face to face.
"Are you ready, gentlemen?"
But evidently Harrison Randolph was not. He was paying no attention to the seconds. His eyes were fixed on an object behind his opponent's back. His attitude relaxed and his mouth began twitching. Then he burst into a peal of laughter.
"Pete," he roared, "drop that and come out from there!" and away he went into another convulsion of mirth. The others turned just in time to see Pete cease his frantic grimaces of secrecy at his master, and sheepishly lower an ancient fowling-piece which he had had levelled at Bob Lee.
"What were you going to do with that gun levelled at me?" asked Lee, his own face twitching.
"I was gwine to fiah jes' befo' dey said free. I wa'n't gwine to kill you, Mas' Bob. I was on'y gwine to lame you."
Another peal of laughter from the whole crowd followed this condescending statement.
"You unconscionable scoundrel, you! If I was your master, I'd give you a hundred lashes."
"Pete," said his master, "don't you know that it is dishonourable to shoot a man from behind? You see have n't in you the making of a gentleman."
"I do' know nuffin' 'bout mekin' a gent'man, but I does know how to save one dat's already made."
The prime object of the meeting had been entirely forgotten. They gathered around Pete and examined the weapon.
"Gentlemen," said Randolph, "we have been saved by a miracle. This old gun, as well as I can remember and count, has been loaded for the past twenty-five years, and if Pete had tried to fire it, it would have tor up all of this part of the county." Then the eyes of the two combatants met. There was something irresistibly funny in the whole situation, and they found themselves roaring again. Then, with one impulse, they should hands without a word.
And Pete led the way home, the willing butt of a volume of good-natured abuse.