WHEN two weeks had passed, Pembroke still had not gone to Isleham—but in that time much had happened. The congressional convention had been held, and the ball had been opened for him by Cave with great brilliancy and power—and after a hard fight of two days, Pembroke had got the nomination for Congress. It was of infinite satisfaction to him in many ways. First because of the honor, which he honestly coveted—and again because of the ready money his election would bring. Modest as a congressional salary would be, it was at least in cash—and that was what he most needed then. He did not have a walk over. The parties were about evenly divided, and it was known that the canvass would be close and exciting. Pembroke warmed to his work when he knew this. It was like Bob Henry’s trial—it took hold of his intellectual nature. He was called magnetic—and he had a nerve power, a certain originality about him that captivated his audiences.
There is nothing that a mixed crowd of whites and blacks at the South so much hates as a demagogue. Especially is this the case with the “poor whites” and the negroes. It was from them that Pembroke knew he must get the votes to elect. When he appeared on the hustings, he was the same easy, gentlemanly fellow as in a drawing-room. He slapped no man on the back, nor offered treats, nor was there any change in his manner. He was naturally affable, and he made it his object to win the good will of his hearers through their enlightenment, not their prejudices. The Bob Henry episode did him immense service. A great revolution had taken place in regard to Bob Henry. As, when he had been poor and in prison and friendless and suspected, everybody had been down on him, so now when he was free and cleared of suspicion, and had been an object of public attention, he became something of a hero. He worked like a beaver among his own people for “Marse French.” At “night meetings” and such, he was powerful—and in the pulpits of the colored people, the fiat went forth that it “warn’t wuff while fer cullud folks to pay de capilation tax fer to git young Mr. Hibbs, who warn’ no quality nohow” into Congress—for the redoubtable Hibbs was Pembroke’s opponent. This too, had its favorable action on his canvass. As for Petrarch, he claimed a direct commission from the Lord to send “Marse French ter Congriss. De Lord, de Great Physicianer, done spoken it ter me in de middle o’ de night like he did ter little Samson, sayin’ ‘Petrarch whar is you?’ He say ‘What fur I gin you good thinkin’ facticals, ’cep’ fur ter do my will? An’ it ain’t Gord’s will dat no red headed Hibbs be ’lected over ole Marse French Pembroke’s son, dat allus treated me wid de greatest circumlocution.” Petrarch’s oratory was not without its effect.
Pembroke’s natural gift of oratory had been revealed to him at the time of Bob Henry’s acquittal. He cultivated it earnestly, avoiding hyperbole and exaggeration. There is nothing a Virginian loves so well as a good talker. Within ten days of the opening of the campaign, Pembroke knew that he was going to win. Hibbs had a very bad war record. Pembroke had a very good one. The canvass therefore to him, was pleasant, exciting, and with but little risk.
But Olivia Berkeley’s place had not been usurped. He had not meant or desired to fall in love. As he had said truly to Cave, there were other things for him than marriage. But love had stolen a march upon him. When he found it out, he accepted the result with great good humor—and he had enough masculine self-love to have good hopes of winning her until—until Madame Koller had put her oar in. But even then, his case did not seem hopeless, after the first burst of rage and chagrin.
She would not surrender at once—that he felt sure, and he rather liked the prospect of a siege, thinking to conquer her proud spirit by a bold stroke at last. But Madame Koller had changed all this. He was determined to make Olivia Berkeley know how things stood between Madame Koller and himself—and the best way to do it was to tell her where his heart was really bestowed.
It was in the latter part of April before a day came that he could really call his own. He walked over from Malvern late in the afternoon, and found Olivia, as he thought he should, in the garden. The walks were trimmed up, and the flower-beds planted. Olivia, in a straw hat and wearing a great gardening apron full of pockets, gravely removed her gloves, her apron, and rolled them up before offering to shake hands with Pembroke.
“Allow me to congratulate our standard-bearer, and to apologize for my rustic occupations while receiving so distinguished a visitor.”
Pembroke looked rather solemn. He was not in a trifling mood that afternoon, and he thought Olivia deficient in perception not to see at once that he had come on a lover’s errand.
Is there anything more charming than an old-fashioned garden in the spring? The lilac bushes were hanging with purple blossoms, and great syringa trees were brave in their white glory. The guelder roses nodded on their tall stems, and a few late violets scented the air. It was a very quiet garden, and the shrubbery cut it off like a hermitage. Pembroke had selected his ground well.
Olivia soon saw that something was on his mind, but she did not suspect what it was. She had heard that Madame Koller was to leave the country, and she thought perhaps Pembroke needed consolation. Men often go to one woman to be consoled for the perfidy of another. Presently as they strolled along, she stooped down, and plucked some violets.
“I thought they were quite gone,” she said. “Here are four,” and as she held them out to Pembroke, he took her little hand, inclosing the violets in his own strong grasp.
There was the time, the place, the opportunity, and Olivia was more than half won. Yet, half an hour afterward, Pembroke came out of the garden, looking black as a thunder-cloud, and strode away down by the path through the fields—a rejected suitor. Olivia remained in the garden. The cool spring night came on apace. She could not have described her own emotions to have saved her life—or what exactly led up to that angry parting—for it will have been seen before this that Pembroke was subject to sudden gusts of temper. She had tried to put before him what she felt herself obliged in honor to say—that the Colonel’s modest fortune was very much exaggerated—and she had blundered wretchedly in so doing. Pembroke had rashly assumed that she meant his poverty stood in the way. Then he had as wretchedly blundered about Madame Koller, and a few cutting words on both sides had made it impossible for either to say more. Olivia, pale and red by turns, looked inexpressibly haughty when Madame Koller’s name was mentioned. Lovers’ quarrels are proverbially of easy arrangement—but the case is different when the woman is high strung and the man high tempered. Olivia received Pembroke’s confession with such cool questionings that his self-love was cruelly wounded. Pembroke took his dismissal so debonairly that Olivia was irresistibly impelled to make it stronger. The love scene, which really began very prettily, absolutely degenerated into a quarrel. Pembroke openly accused Olivia of being mercenary. Olivia retaliated by an exasperating remark, implying that perhaps Madame Koller’s fortune was not without its charm for him—to which Pembroke, being entirely innocent, responded with a rude violence that made Olivia more furiously angry than she ever expected to be in her life. Pembroke seeing this in her pale face and blazing eyes, stalked down the garden path, wroth with her and wroth with the whole world.
He, walking fast back through the woods, was filled with rage and remorse—chiefly with rage. She was a cold-blooded creature—how she did weigh that money question—but—ah, she had a spirit of her own—such a spirit as a man might well feel proud to conquer—and the touch of her warm, soft hand!
Olivia felt that gap, that chasm in existence, when a shadowy array of vague hopes and fears suddenly falls to the ground. Pembroke had been certainly too confident and much too overbearing—but—it was over. When this thought struck her, she was walking slowly down the broad box-bordered walk to the gate. The young April moon was just appearing in the evening sky. She stopped suddenly and stood still. The force of her own words to him smote her. He would certainly never come back. She turned and flew swiftly back to the upper part of the garden, and stood in the very spot by the lilac hedge, and went over it all in her mind. Yes. It was then over for good—and he probably would not marry for a long, long time. She remembered having heard Cave and her father speak of Pembroke’s half joking aversion to matrimony. It would be much better for him if he did not, as he had made up his mind to enter for a career. But strange to say this did not warm her heart, which felt as heavy as a stone.
Presently she went into the house, and was quite affectionate and gay with her father, playing the piano and reading to him.
“Fathers are the pleasantest relations in the world,” she said, as she kissed him good-night, earlier in the evening than usual. “No fallings out—no misunderstandings—perfect constancy. Papa, I wouldn’t give you up for any man in the world.”
“Wouldn’t you, my dear?” remarked that amiable old cynic incredulously.