CHAPTER XXV
CONCLUSION
In the after days, it was as Bradford Waters had said, and Robert Van Doren experienced no further trouble at the hands of the mob. Indeed, no man was willing to be known as having been a member of the party. When it was talked about in public, men turned their faces away and did not meet each others' eyes. In so small a town, it was inevitable that many of the participants in such an affair should be known, but no name was ever mentioned, and the matter was not pressed. However, there was something suspicious about the manner in which some men avoided Bradford Waters, and kept silent when others spoke his son's name.
In the close counsels which took place between the two families, formerly so far apart, Robert had suggested that perhaps it would be better for him to go away from Dorbury to some place where he was not known; but both Waters and his father strenuously objected to that.
"No," said the latter, "there are times when concessions must be made to the prejudices of people. There are other times when it is no less than righteous to ride them down."
"Your father is right. Had I lived in the South with my early training and bent of thought, I should have had no better sense than to stand up for my principles just as he did. I should have resented any Southerner's question of my right to do so. The trouble with us all is that we will not allow others the right which we demand for ourselves."
"I think the trouble with us all is that we talk a great deal about free thought and free speech, meaning that others shall have both as long as they think and speak as we do. No, Rob, you stay right here. Dorbury's got to accept you just as you are."
And Robert stayed. There were those who looked askance at him, and those who could not be reconciled to him, but no one troubled him. As the war drew to a close, and the continued victories of the Union filled the people with enthusiasm, they even began to grow friendly towards him, but he was slow to receive their advances. He was much with Mary and the stream of their love that had been so turbulent, now flowed smoothly and sweetly. Together, they tried to cheer Nannie. "Cheer" is hardly the word either, for she had never lost a certain lightness of spirit that would not let her be entirely cast down. But they tried to bring back the old gayety of her manner that had been her chief charm. She was now back and forth between the Waters' and her own home, and was full of the sweetness of good words and good works on every hand. She was called "Little Miss Nannie," and men had already begun to pay to her that delicate deference which is given to a woman who will never marry. She was always, and would always be "Miss Nannie."
"I wish, Nannie," Mary said to her one day, "that I could give you a part of my happiness." Nannie laughed.
"You poor child," she said, "don't you know that I am very happy. I am happier than any one could ever imagine. I have a lover who will always be young and a love that cannot grow cold. Don't worry about me, I am blest beyond most women."
So they let her go her way and their hearts ceased to ache for her as they saw how cheerful she grew with the joy of doing good. So Nannie began, and so she went on through the years until the end, like a fair flower dying away in its own perfume. There was no selfishness in her subdued sweetness, for when the soldiers came back no one was dearer to them than their dead captain's sweetheart. The horror of the war has been written of, the broken homes and the broken hearts, but many a life was made sweeter for the fiery trial through which it passed. Stephen Van Doren was stern and implacable until the end. Robert was with him when the news of the surrender came. A shiver passed over his body as if he himself. were the Confederacy which was dying. Then he took his son's hand, and said with a smile, "Well, a principle has been tested and failed. We must submit to the inevitable. From now on it is the Union," and he opened his window to hear the bells and whistles that proclaimed the people's rejoicings.
The war was ended, but there were gaping wounds to bind up and deep sores that needed careful nursing. The country had been drenched with fraternal blood and the stench of it was an ill savor in the nostrils of both North and South. Grant was a hero, but men were asking, "What is McClellan?" The homecoming soldiers, worn and weary with the long campaign, were being dropped along the wayside from every train. Some homes were hung with evergreens for gladness and others were draped with cypress for those who would never come back. Dorbury had its share of joy and grief. There were returns and there were messages from those who would not return; from lovers, husbands, fathers and brothers. But above the note of sadness was one of joy, for joy is more persistent than grief, if shorter lived.
A little after Appomattox, Robert and Mary were married and went to live in a little home of their own where the two fathers were destined to come many an evening thereafter to fight over the war, talk politics and wrangle as heartily as ever.
Down in Virginia wounded and broken and sore, her heart bleeding for her lost cause and her lost sons; her fields devastated, and her resources depleted, a solemn tone characterized the thanksgiving for the war's end. Walter Stewart thanked God for the triumph of the Union, but wept for the grief of his state. Just about the time that Robert and Mary were united, he and Dolly were married in the little vine-covered church by the rector who had looked askance at him a few years before.
And they were happy with the happiness of youth. Nelson Etheridge had come back safe. Dr. Daniel, now with a major's stripes, walked much in the garden with Emily, from whom, before going away, he had gained a certain promise.
Stewart had indeed come to his own again, and he would have been a delight to his father's eyes could the old colonel have seen him riding about the plantation among the negroes who remained, and directing the repair of the damages which the war had made. He would never go back to Dorbury now, but his memory oft reverted to the old scenes and old acquaintances. His description of Nigger Ed had so pleased Dolly that it resulted in the receipt of the following letter by that gentleman one day in Dorbury:
"My Dear Ed:—You will remember me as one of the boys who used to run around the streets after you years ago, and later as one of the First, when you were in command. If you will come down here where there are lots of your people, I'll give you a position on my plantation where you won't be teased. Let me know if you will come. It will be much better than going about ringing an old bell."Walter Stewart."
With this letter the negro marched into the office of one of Dorbary's young lawyers one day. The lawyer had been with the First.
"I want you to read dis an' answeh it, mistah—'scuse me—lootenant."
The young fellow took it and his face flushed as he read it.
"Uh huh," said Ed, "now you answer it, please suh."
"All right," the young fellow scribbled for a moment, and then turned saying, "I think you'd better make it a telegram, Ed."
"Wha' fu'?"
"Shorter, more expressive."
"Les' hyeah it."
The young man picked up the slip of paper and read slowly and carefully, "Mr. Walter Stewart, Stewart House, Rockford Co., Virginia. You be damned."
Ed started as if he had been shot, and then said hastily, "Oh, no, lootenant. I reckon I won't send dat. A telegram's too 'spressive."
"How dare he send for you?" the young man broke in. "You belong to Dorbury. You're a part of it."
"Yes, co'se I is, but I wants to be 'spressive and curtchus too. Jes' you write an' tell him some'p'n 'bout me wanting to 'tain my 'ficial position."
This advice was taken and the result was that Walter threw the household into convulsions over an epistle couched in the most elegant language which informed Mr. Stewart that while he appreciated the very kind offer, the writer—Ed couldn't write a line—preferred to retain his official position, in view of the fact that the emoluments thereof had been materially increased.
And it was true. There were men who had seen that black man on bloody fields, which were thick with the wounded and dying, and these could not speak of him without tears in their eyes. There were women who begged him to come in and talk to them about their sons who had been left on some Southern field, wives who wanted to hear over again the last words of their loved ones. And so they gave him a place for life and everything he wanted, and from being despised he was much petted and spoiled, for they were all fanatics.
THE END