which mystified me and sent a sudden thrill through me. What was he thinking? Surely he knew of my relation to Zoe. I caught out of his expression the prejudice of the time against the social equality that I was maintaining in standing by Zoe and having her with me. I had not shirked my heritage. Perhaps Douglas admired me too much to speak what was in his mind; or perhaps he was too much of the politician to trench upon ground so personal. At all events, we were silent for a moment. And then Douglas called to Lamborn. It was time to go. Lamborn rose to his feet, swaying a little as he did so, and came to where we sat. He looked me over in a scrutinizing way, then shot forth his hand for me to take it. It was an awkward act and out of place! Yet I felt compelled to give him my hand. And with good-bys they bestrode their horses and were gone. I began to have ominous reflections.
I went to the hut and asked Zoe what Lamborn had been saying to her. She laughed and seemed reluctant to tell me. I pressed her then; and she said that he had followed her through the house and tried to kiss her; that she had come around to the front door so as to be in sight of Douglas and me; then that Lamborn had taken the fiddle down and had begun to play it.
All the possibilities of Lamborn's attitude dawned on me instantly. How dearly might I pay in some way for my father's desire to be rich! If Douglas had taken his initial hurt in life from his uncle's failure to educate him, I had begun the weaving of my destiny with these threads which my father had bequeathed to me. What would my complications be if Zoe eloped with a wild fellow like Lamborn, bringing his personality into the texture of my affairs; the matter of this land, and Zoe's interest in it? I could sense ahead an unending difficulty, an ever deepening annoyance, or even tragedy. Had I gone too far in dividing the estate with Zoe? For the first time the presence of the negro in the state, the complications that it created, were forced upon me concretely and with impressive effect. My heart registered a vague apprehension. I warned Zoe against Lamborn, and decided that he should not come about me again.
The work on my house was now progressing rapidly. I wished to move into it on my birthday, June 18th. I watched its completion day by day, and in addition I had much to do around the farm. I had made a start with a few calves toward raising cattle. In every way I was forging ahead as fast as I could. But my greatest delight was the house. I wanted to make it as beautiful as possible, and I did not need to spare expense. I decided to go to St. Louis for curtains and chairs, for beds and lounges, chests and bureaus. When the last of May came I set out for the city.
CHAPTER XIV
This June weather in Illinois! Such glorious white clouds floating in the boundless hemisphere of fresh blue! The warmth and the vitality of the air! The glistening leaves of the forest trees! The deep green shading into purples and blues of the distant woodlands! The sweet winds, bending the prairie grasses for miles and miles! Glimpses of cool water in little ponds, in small lakes, in the brook! The whispering of rushes and the song of thrushes, so varied, so melodious! The call of the plowman far afield, urging the horses ahead in the great work of bringing forth the corn! The great moon at night, and the spectacle of the stars in the hush of my forest hut!
I was superbly well. And for diversion went farther into the woods to hear a fiddler and to have him teach me the art which fled my dull fingers and the unwieldy bow. And this fiddler! His curly hair, always wet from his lustrations for the evening meal; his cud of tobacco; his racy locutions; his happy and contented spirit; and his merry wife and the many children, wild like woodland creatures, with sparkling eyes and overflowing vitality! Many evenings I spent at this fiddler's hut. And such humbleness! Only the earth for a floor! Only one room where all his family ate and slept and lived!
In going to St. Louis I took the same stage that had brought me to Jacksonville. This time I rode on the City of Alton, a better boat than the one that had brought me from La Salle to Bath; but all the conditions were the same. There was the same roistering and sprawling crowd; the same loudness and profanity; the same abundance of whisky and its intemperate indulgence; the same barbaric hilarity of negroes, driven and cursed. And now many goatees, and much talk of politics, of Whigs and Democrats.
St. Louis was languid, weary and old. The buildings had an air of decay. The stream of life moved sluggishly, not swiftly as in New York or Buffalo, or even in the village of Chicago. There were luxury here and wealth. There were slaves and a slave market. I went to it, saw the business of selling these creatures, saw a woman of thirty, no darker than Zoe, sold to a man with a goatee, evidently from further south, who took her and led her away submissively. Whatever the institution might be of necessity and even of gentleness in good hands, here no less was the vile business of the sale. What would become of Zoe, was constantly in my thought. I turned away from the slave market to continue my shopping; but I could not drive Zoe from my thoughts.
Here was I in St. Louis and necessarily withdrawn from care of Zoe. I could not always watch over her. Even if I did, what was her life to be? How could she establish herself? With whom, and where? I was glad that I had not left her at the hut during my absence, that I had taken her to Sarah. Nothing could happen to her while she was with Sarah. Sarah had need of her too. Sarah's baby was soon to be born. Dorothy Clayton, Reverdy's sister, was coming to Jacksonville from Nashville to be a part of Reverdy's household for a time; and the house had to be set in order for her arrival. Turning Zoe over to Sarah was, therefore, a great help to her at this time.
I completed my purchases, arranged for their transportation and returned to Jacksonville. I arrived in the evening and went at once to Reverdy's. I had been gone a week. All were here to greet me. But Zoe was subdued in manner. Her smile was forced. She avoided me, going in and out of the room about the work of clearing the table. She did not pause to listen to the story of my trip. Was she perhaps ill? Reverdy and Sarah prevailed upon me to stay over night. And I did; but early the next morning all of us went to the country together; for Reverdy was now pushing the house to completion.
When we arrived at the hut, as Zoe remained silent and subdued, I began to question her. She protested at first that nothing was the matter; but I knew better, and I persisted in my attempts to draw her out. She began to cry at last. She came to me and rested her head on my shoulder. "Tell me now," I urged. And she relieved herself of the secret in broken words, in half-formed phrases.
She had gone walking one night with Lamborn. He had led her into the woods in search of a rabbit's nest he said was there. He had seized her, put his hand over her mouth, threatened her with harm, with being sold down South. He had overcome her. She had returned to Reverdy's afraid to tell him what had happened. She did not know what Lamborn would do to her if Reverdy went after him. She felt that she was in the wrong for having gone walking with Lamborn, and that she would be blamed by Sarah. Therefore she had not told her secret before. She was sure that neither Sarah nor Reverdy suspected it.
What was I to do? I could not conceive of a wrong like this going unpunished. But my brain refused to plan, to think out what was best to do. I did not know the community well enough, nor enough of the laws to make a decision by myself. I decided that I must consult with Reverdy. I hurried away from Zoe, telling her on no account to leave the hut; and went to find Reverdy. He was at work on my house, looked at me wonderingly as if to question what had brought me over so soon. I drew him aside and told him what I knew.
Reverdy's blue eyes grew terribly deep. They darkened like clouds in a rapidly gathering storm. They were full of comprehending compassion. They expressed alarm, but also an inexorable sense of futility, as if there was nothing to be done. He was silent. He had fought the Indians; he was used to the rough life of the West. He did not betray fear; rather he acted as if there was nothing to be done. When he began to speak that was the tenor of his words. He revealed to me possibilities that I had never dreamed of. I could see that I was caught in unforeseen circumstances. Some of the dangers involved in the situation he only hinted at. For example, the
