Ellen Glasgow - The Voice of the People

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BY THE SAME AUTHOR

"THE DESCENDANT"

AND

"PHASES OF AN INFERIOR PLANET"

CROWNED MASTERPIECES OF MODERN FICTION

SPECIAL SUBSCRIPTION EDITION

The Voice of the People

BY

Ellen Glasgow

NEW YORK, DOUBLEDAY
PAGE & COMPANY, 1904

Copyright, 1900, by
ELLEN GLASGOW

Published September, 1902

TO REBE GORDON GLASGOW

THE VOICE OF THE PEOPLE

BOOK I

FAIR WEATHER AT KINGSBOROUGH

I

The last day of Circuit Court was over at Kingsborough.

The jury had vanished from the semicircle of straight-backed chairs in
the old court-house, the clerk had laid aside his pen along with his air
of listless attention, and the judge was making his way through the
straggling spectators to the sunken stone steps of the platform outside.
As the crowd in the doorway parted slightly, a breeze passed into the
room, scattering the odours of bad tobacco and farm-stained clothing.
The sound of a cow-bell came through one of the small windows, from the
green beyond, where a red-and-white cow was browsing among the
buttercups.

"A fine day, gentlemen," said the judge, bowing to right and left. "A
fine day."

He moved slowly, fanning himself absently with his white straw hat,
pausing from time to time to exchange a word of greeting--secure in the
affability of one who is not only a judge of man but a Bassett of
Virginia. From his classic head to his ill-fitting boots he upheld the
traditions of his office and his race.

On the stone platform, just beyond the entrance, he stopped to speak to
a lawyer from a neighbouring county. Then, as a clump of men scattered
at his approach, he waved them together with a bland, benedictory
gesture which descended alike upon the high and the low, upon the rector
of the old church up the street, in his rusty black, and upon the
red-haired, raw-boned farmer with his streaming brow.

"Glad to see you out, sir," he said to the one, and to the other, "How
are you, Burr? Time the crops were in the ground, isn't it?"

Burr mumbled a confused reply, wiping his neck laboriously on his red
cotton handkerchief.

"The corn's been planted goin' on six weeks," he said more distinctly,
ejecting his words between mouthfuls of tobacco juice as if they were
pebbles which obstructed his speech. "I al'ays stick to plantin' yo'
corn when the hickory leaf's as big as a squirrel's ear. If you don't,
the luck's agin you."

"An' whar thar's growin' corn thar's a sight o' hoein'," put in an
alert, nervous-looking countryman. "If I lay my hoe down for a spell,
the weeds git so big I can't find the crop."

Amos Burr nodded with slow emphasis: "I never see land take so natural
to weeds nohow as mine do," he said. "When you raise peanuts you're
raisin' trouble."

He was a lean, overworked man, with knotted hands the colour of the
soil he tilled and an inanely honest face, over which the freckles
showed like splashes of mud freshly dried. As he spoke he gave his blue
jean trousers an abrupt hitch at the belt.

"Dear me! Dear me!" returned the judge with absent-minded, habitual
friendliness, smiling his rich, beneficent smile. Then, as he caught
sight of a smaller red head beneath Burr's arm, he added: "You've a
right-hand man coming on, I see. What's your name, my boy?"

The boy squirmed on his bare, brown feet and wriggled his head from
beneath his father's arm. He did not answer, but he turned his bright
eyes on the judge and flushed through all the freckles of his ugly
little face.

"Nick--that is, Nicholas, sir," replied the elder Burr with an
apologetic cough, due to the insignificance of the subject. "Yes, sir,
he's leetle, but he's plum full of grit. He can beat any nigger I ever
seed at the plough. He'd outplough me if he war a head taller."

"That will mend," remarked the lawyer from the neighbouring county with
facetious intention. "A boy and a beanstalk will grow, you know. There's
no helping it."

"Oh, he'll be a man soon enough," added the judge, his gaze passing over
the large, red head to rest upon the small one, "and a farmer like his
father before him, I suppose."

He was turning away when the child's voice checked him, and he paused.

"I--I'd ruther be a judge," said the boy.

He was leaning against the faded bricks of the old court-house, one
sunburned hand playing nervously with the crumbling particles. His
honest little face was as red as his hair.

The judge started.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, and he looked at the child with his kindly eyes. The
boy was ugly, lean, and stunted in growth, browned by hot suns and
powdered by the dust of country roads, but his eyes caught the gaze of
the judge and held it.

Above his head, on the brick wall, a board was nailed, bearing in black
marking the name of the white-sand street which stretched like a
chalk-drawn line from the grass-grown battlefields to the pale old
buildings of King's College. The street had been called in honour of a
duke of Gloucester. It was now "Main" Street, and nothing more, though
it was still wide and white and placidly impressed by the slow passage
of Kingsborough feet. Beyond the court-house the breeze blew across the
green, which was ablaze with buttercups. Beneath the warm wind the
yellow heads assumed the effect of a brilliant tangle, spreading over
the unploughed common, running astray in the grass-lined ditch that
bordered the walk, hiding beneath dusty-leaved plants in unsuspected
hollows, and breaking out again under the horses' hoofs in the sandy
street.

"Ah!" exclaimed the judge, and a good-natured laugh ran round the group.

"Wall, I never!" ejaculated the elder Burr, but there was no surprise in
his tone; it expressed rather the helplessness of paternity.

The boy faced them, pressing more firmly against the bricks.

"There ain't nothin' in peanut-raisin'," he said. "It's jest farmin' fur
crows. I'd ruther be a judge."

The judge laughed and turned from him.

"Stick to the soil, my boy," he advised. "Stick to the soil. It is the
best thing to do. But if you choose the second best, and I can help you,
I will--I will, upon my word--Ah! General," to a jovial-faced,
wide-girthed gentleman in a brown linen coat, "I'm glad to see you in
town. Fine weather!"

He put on his hat, bowed again, and went on his way.

He passed slowly along in the spring sunshine, his feet crunching upon
the gravel, his straight shadow falling upon the white level between
coarse fringes of wire-grass. Far up the town, at the street's sudden
end, where it was lost in diverging roads, there was visible, as through
a film of bluish smoke, the verdigris-green foliage of King's College.
Nearer at hand the solemn cruciform of the old church was steeped in
shade, the high bell-tower dropping a veil of English ivy as it rose
against the sky. Through the rusty iron gate of the graveyard the marble
slabs glimmered beneath submerging grasses, long, pale, tremulous like
reeds.

The grass-grown walk beside the low brick wall of the churchyard led on
to the judge's own garden, a square enclosure, laid out in straight
vegetable rows, marked off by variegated borders of flowering
plants--heartsease, foxglove, and the red-lidded eyes of scarlet
poppies. Beyond the feathery green of the asparagus bed there was a bush
of flowering syringa, another at the beginning of the grass-trimmed
walk, and yet another brushing the large white pillars of the square
front porch--their slender sprays blown from sun to shade like
fluttering streamers of cream-coloured ribbons. On the other side there
were lilacs, stately and leafy and bare of bloom, save for a few
ashen-hued bunches lingering late amid the heavy foliage. At the foot of
the garden the wall was hidden in raspberry vines, weighty with ripening
fruit.

The judge closed the gate after him and ascended the steps. It was not
until he had crossed the wide hall and opened the door of his study that
he heard the patter of bare feet, and turned to find that the boy had
followed him.

For an instant he regarded the child blankly; then his hospitality
asserted itself, and he waved him courteously into the room.

"Walk in, walk in, and take a seat. I am at your service."

He crossed to one of the tall windows, unfastening the heavy inside
shutters, from which the white paint was fast peeling away. As they fell
back a breeze filled the room, and the ivory faces of microphylla roses
stared across the deep window-seat. The place was airy as a summer-house
and odorous with the essence of roses distilled in the sunshine beyond.
On the high plastered walls, above the book-shelves, rows of bygone
Bassetts looked down on their departed possessions--stately and severe
in the artificial severity of periwigs and starched ruffles. They looked
down with immobile eyes and the placid monotony of past fashions,
smiling always the same smile, staring always at the same spot of floor
or furniture.

Below them the room was still hallowed by their touch. They asserted
themselves in the quaint curves of the rosewood chairs, in the blue
patterns upon the willow bowls, and in the choice lavender of the old
Wedgwood. Their handiwork was visible in the laborious embroideries of
the fire-screen near the empty grate, and the spinet in one unlighted
corner still guarded their gay and amiable airs.

"Sit down," said the judge. "I am at your service."

He seated himself before his desk of hand-carved mahogany, pushing aside
the papers that littered its baize-covered lid. In the half-gloom of the
high-ceiled room his face assumed the look of a portrait in oils, and he
seemed to have descended from his allotted square upon the plastered
wall, to be but a boldly limned composite likeness of his race, awaiting
the last touches and the gilded frame.

"What can I do for you?" he asked again, his tone preserving its
unfailing courtesy. He had not made an uncivil remark since the close of
the war--a line of conduct resulting less from what he felt to be due to
others than from what he believed to be becoming in himself.

The boy shifted on his bare feet. In the old-timed setting of the
furniture he was an alien--an anachronism--the intrusion of the
hopelessly modern into the helplessly past. His hair made a rich spot in
the colourless atmosphere, and it seemed to focus the incoming light
from the unshuttered window, leaving the background in denser shadow.

The animation of his features jarred the serenity of the room. His
profile showed gnome-like against the nodding heads of the microphylla
roses.

"There ain't nothin' in peanut-raisin'," he said suddenly; "I--I'd
ruther be a judge."

"My dear boy!" exclaimed the judge, and finished helplessly, "my dear
boy--I--well--I--"

They were both silent. The regular droning of the old clock sounded
distinctly in the stillness. The perfume of roses, mingling with the
musty scent from the furniture, borrowed the quality of musk.

The child was breathing heavily. Suddenly he dug the dirty knuckles of
one fist into his eyes.

"Don't cry," began the judge. "Please don't. Perhaps you would like to
run out and play with my boy Tom?"

"I warn't cryin'," said the child. "It war a gnat."

His hand left his eyes and returned to his hat--a wide-brimmed harvest
hat, with a shoestring tied tightly round the crown.

When the judge spoke again it was with seriousness.

"Nicholas--your name is Nicholas, isn't it?"

"Yes, sir."

"How old are you?"

"Twelve, sir."

"Can you read?"

"Yes, sir."

"Write?"

"Y-e-s, sir."

"Spell?"

The child hesitated. "I--I can spell--some."

"Don't you know it is a serious thing to be a judge?"

"Yes, sir."

"You must be a lawyer first."

"Yes, sir."

"It is hard work."

"Yes, sir."

"And sometimes it's no better than farming for crows."

The boy shook his head. "It's cleaner work, sir."

The judge laughed.

"I'm afraid you are obstinate, Nicholas," he said, and added: "Now, what
do you want me to do for you? I can't make you a judge. It took me fifty
years to make myself one--a third-rate one at that--"

"I--I'd l-i-k-e to take a bo-b-o-o-k," stammered the boy.

"Dear me!" said the judge irritably, "dear me!"

He frowned, his gaze skimming his well-filled shelves. He regretted
suddenly that he had spoken to the child at the court-house. He would
never be guilty of such an indiscretion again. Of what could he have
been thinking? A book! Why didn't he ask for food--money--his best piece
of fluted Royal Worcester?

Then a loud, boyish laugh rang in from the garden, and his face softened
suddenly. In the sun-scorched, honest-eyed little figure before him he
saw his own boy--the single child of his young wife, who was lying
beneath a marble slab in the churchyard. Her face, mild and
Madonna-like, glimmered against the pallid rose leaves in the deep
window-seat.

He turned hastily away.

"Yes, yes," he answered, "I will lend you one. Read the titles
carefully. Don't let the books fall. Never lay them face downwards--and
don't turn down the leaves!"

The boy advanced timidly to the shelves between the southern windows. He
ran his hands slowly along the lettered backs, his lips moving as he
spelled out the names.

"The F-e-d-e-r-a-l-i-s-t," "B-l-a-c-k-s-t-o-n-e-'s
C-o-m-m-e-n-t-a-r-i-e-s," "R-e-v-i-s-e-d Sta-tu-tes of the U-ni-ted
Sta-tes."

The judge drew up to his desk and looked over his letters. Then he took
up his pen and wrote several replies in his fine, flowing handwriting.
He had forgotten the boy, when he felt a touch upon his arm.

"What is it?" he asked absently. "Ah, it is you? Yes, let me see. Why!
you've got Sir Henry Maine!"

The boy was holding the book in both hands. As the judge laughed he
flushed nervously and turned towards the door.

The judge leaned back in his chair, watching the small figure cross the
room and disappear into the hall. He saw the tracks of dust which the
boy's feet left upon the smooth, bare floor, but he was not thinking of
them. Then, as the child went out upon the porch, he started up.

"Nicholas!" he called, "don't turn down the leaves!"

II

A facetious stranger once remarked that Kingsborough dozed through the
present to dream of the past and found the future a nightmare. Had he
been other than a stranger, he would, perhaps, have added that
Kingsborough's proudest boast was that she had been and was not--a
distinction giving her preeminence over certain cities whose charters
were not received from royal grants--cities priding themselves not only
upon a multiplicity of streets, but upon the more plebeian fact that the
feet of their young men followed the offending thoroughfares to the
undignified music of the march of progress.

But, whatever might be said of places that shall be nameless, it was
otherwise with Kingsborough. Kingsborough was the same yesterday,
to-day, and forever. She who had feasted royal governors, staked and
lost upon Colonial races, and exploded like an ignited powder-horn in
the cause of American independence, was still superbly conscious of the
honours which had been hers. Her governors were no longer royal, nor did
she feast them; her races were run by fleet-footed coloured urchins on
the court-house green; her powder-magazine had evolved through
differentiation from a stable into a church; but Kingsborough clung to
her amiable habits. Travellers still arrived at the landing stage some
several miles distant and were driven over all but impassable roads to
the town. The eastern wall of the court-house still bore the sign
"England Street," though the street had vanished beneath encroaching
buttercups, and the implied loyalty had been found wanting. Kingsborough
juries still sat in their original semicircle, with their backs to the
judge and their faces, presumably, to the law; Kingsborough farmers
still marketed their small truck in the street called after the Duke of
Gloucester; and Kingsborough cows still roamed at will over the vaults
in the churchyard. In time trivial changes would come to pass. Tourists
would arrive with the railroad; the powder-magazine would turn from a
church into a museum; gardens would decay and ancient elms would fall,
but the farmers and the cows would not be missed from their accustomed
haunts. On the hospitable thresholds of "general" stores battle-scarred
veterans of the war between the States dealt in victorious reminiscences
of vanquishment. They had fought well, they had fallen silently, and
they had risen without bitterness. For the people of Kingsborough had
opened their doors to wounded foes while the battle raged through their
streets, succouring while they resisted. They lived easily and they died
hard, but when death came they met it, not in grim Puritanism, but with
a laugh upon the lips. They made a joy of life while it was possible,
and when that ceased to be, they did the next best thing and made a
friend of death. Long ago theirs had been the first part in Virginia,
and, as they still believed, theirs had been also the centre of all
things. Now the high places were laid low, and the greatness had passed
as a trumpet that is blown. Kingsborough persisted still, but it
persisted evasively, hovering, as it were, upon the outskirts of modern
advancement. And the outside world took note only when it made tours to
historic strongholds, or sent those of itself that were adjudged insane
to the hospitable shelter of the asylum upon the hill.

It was afternoon, and Kingsborough was asleep.

Along the verdurous, gray lanes the houses seemed abandoned, shuttered,
filled with shade. From the court-house green came the chime of
cow-bells rising and falling in slow waves of sound. A spotted calf
stood bleating in the crooked footpath, which traversed diagonally the
waste of buttercups like a white seam in a cloth of gold. Against the
arching sky rose the bell-tower of the grim old church, where the
sparrows twittered in the melancholy gables and the startled face of the
stationary clock stared blankly above the ivied walls. Farther away, at
the end of a wavering lane, slanted the shadow of the insane asylum.

Across the green the houses were set in surrounding gardens like cards
in bouquets of mixed blossoms. They were of frame for the most part,
with shingled roofs and small, square windows hidden beneath climbing
roses. On one of the long verandas a sleeping girl lay in a hammock, a
gray cat at her feet. No sound came from the house behind her, but a
breeze blew through the dim hall, fluttering the folds of her dress.
Beyond the adjoining garden a lady in mourning entered a gate where
honeysuckle grew, and above, on the low-dormered roof, a white pigeon
sat preening its feathers. Up the main street, where a few sunken bricks
of a vanished pavement were still visible, an old negro woman, sitting
on the stone before her cabin, lighted her replenished pipe with a
taper, and leaned back, smoking, in the doorway, her scarlet
handkerchief making a spot of colour on the dull background.

The sun was still high when the judge came out upon his porch, a smile
of indecision on his face and his hat in his hand. Pausing upon the
topmost step, he cast an uncertain glance sideways at the walk leading
past the church, and then looked straight ahead through the avenue of
maples, which began at the smaller green facing the ancient site of the
governor's palace and skirted the length of the larger one, which took
its name from the court-house. At last he descended the steps with his
leisurely tread, turning at the gate to throw a remonstrance to an old
negro whose black face was framed in the library window.

"Now, Caesar, didn't I--"

"Lord, Marse George, dis yer washed-out blue bowl, wid de little white
critters sprawlin' over it, done come ter pieces--"

"Now, Caesar, haven't I told you twenty times to let Delilah wash my
Wedgwood?"

"Fo' de Lord, Marse George, I ain't breck hit. I uz des' hol'n it in
bofe my han's same es I'se hol'n dis yer broom, w'en it come right ter
part. I declar 'twarn my fault, Marse George, 'twarn nobody's fault
'cep'n hit's own."

The judge closed the gate and waved the face from the window.

"Go about your business, Caesar," he said, "and keep your hands off my
china--"

Then his tone lost its asperity as he held out his hands to a pretty
girl who was coming across the green.

"So you are back from school, Miss Juliet," he said gallantly. "I was
telling your mother only yesterday that I didn't approve of sending our
fairest products away from Kingsborough. It wasn't done in my day. Then
the prettiest girls stayed at home and gave our young fellows a chance."

The girl shook her head until the blue ribbons on her straw hat
fluttered in the wind, and blushed until her soft eyes were like
forget-me-nots set in rose leaves. She possessed a serene, luminous
beauty, which became intensified beneath the gaze of the beholder.

"I have come back for good, now," she answered in a serious sweetness of
voice; "and I am out this afternoon looking up my Sunday-school class.
The children have scattered sadly. You will let me have Tom again, won't
you?"

"Have Tom! Why, you may have him every day and Sunday too--the lucky
scamp! Ah, I only wish I were a boy again, with a soul worth saving and
such a pair of eyes in search of it."

The girl dimpled into a smile and flushed to her low, white forehead, on
which the soft hair was smoothly parted before it broke into sunny curls
about the temples. She exhaled an atmosphere of gentleness mixed with a
saintly coquetry, which produced an impression at once human and divine,
such as one receives from the sight of a rose in a Bible or a curl in
the hair of a saint. The judge looked at her warmly, sighing half
happily, half regretfully.

"And to think that the young rogues don't realise their blessings," he
said. "There's not one of them that wouldn't rather be off fishing than
learn his catechism. Ah, in my day things were different--things were
different."

"Were you very pious, sir?" asked the girl with a flash of laughter.

The judge shook his stick playfully.

"I can't tell tales," he answered, "but in my day we should have taken
more than the catechism at your bidding, my dear. When your father was
courting your mother--and she was like you, though she hadn't your eyes,
or your face, for that matter--he went into her Bible class, though he
was at least five and twenty and the others were small boys under ten.
She was a sad flirt, and she led him a dance."

"He liked it," said the girl. "But, if you will give my message to Tom,
I won't come in. I am looking for Dudley Webb, and I see his mother at
her gate. Good-bye! Be sure and tell Tom to come Sunday."

She nodded brightly, lifted her muslin skirts, and recrossed the street.
The judge watched her until the flutter of her white dress vanished down
the lane of maples; then he turned to speak to the occupants of a
carriage that had drawn up to the sidewalk.

The vehicle was of an old-fashioned make, bare of varnish, with rickety,
mud-splashed wheels and rusty springs. It was drawn by an ill-matched
pair of horses and driven by a lame coloured boy, who carried a peeled
hickory branch for a whip.

"Ah, General Battle," said the judge to a stout gentleman with a red
face and an expansive shirt front from which the collar had wilted away;
"fine afternoon! Is that Eugenia?" to a little girl of seven or eight
years, with a puppy of the pointer breed in her arms, and "How are you,
Sampson?" to the coloured driver.

The three greeted him simultaneously, whereupon he leaned forward,
resting his hand upon the side of the carriage.

"The young folks are growing up," he said. "I have just seen Juliet
Burwell, and, on my life, she gets prettier every day. We shan't keep
her long."

"Keep her!" replied the general vigorously, wiping his large face with a
large pocket handkerchief. "Keep her! If I were thirty years younger,
you shouldn't keep her a day--not a day, sir."

The little girl looked up gravely from the corner of the seat, tossing
her short, dark plait from her shoulder. "What would you do with her,
papa?" she asked. "We've got no place to put her at home."

The general threw back his great head and laughed till his wide girth
shook like a bag of meal.

"Oh, you needn't worry, Eugie," he said. "I'm not the man I used to be.
She wouldn't look at me. Bless your heart, she wouldn't look at me if I
asked her--"

Eugenia clasped her puppy closer and turned her eyes upon her father's
jovial face.

"I don't see how she could help it if you stood in front of her," she
answered gravely, in a voice rich with the blending of negro
intonations.

The general shook again until the carriage creaked on its rusty
springs, and the coloured boy, Sampson, let the reins fall and joined in
the hilarity.

"She won't let me so much as look at a girl!" exclaimed the general
delightedly, stooping to recover the brown linen lap robe which had
slipped from his knees. "She's as jealous as if I were twenty and had a
score of sweethearts."

The little girl did not reply, but she flushed angrily. "Don't,
precious," she said to the puppy, who was licking her cheek with his
warm, red tongue.

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