Dorothy South
In accordance with his lifelong habit of mind, Arthur Brent in this emergency put aside all thoughts of self-interest, and looked about him to discover in what way he might render the highest service to his native land, of which he was capable. He was unanimously chosen by each of two companies of volunteers in his native county, to be their captain. In their rivalry with each other, they agreed to make him major in command of a battalion to be formed of those two companies and two others that were in process of organization.
He peremptorily declined. “I know nothing of the military art,” he wrote to the committee that had laid the proposal before him. “There are scores of men in the community better fit than I am for military command. Especially there is your fellow citizen, John Meaux, trained at West Point and eminently fit for a much higher command than any that you can offer him. Put him, I earnestly adjure you, into the line of promotion. Elect him to the highest military office within your gift, and let me serve as a private under him, in either of your companies, if no opportunity offers for me to render a larger service and a more valuable one than that. There is scarcely a man among you who couldn’t handle a military force more effectively than I could. Let your most capable men be your commanders, big and little. I believe firmly in the dictum ‘the tools to him who can use them.’ For myself I see a more fruitful opportunity of service than any that military command could bring to me. I have a certain skill which, I think, is going to be sorely needed in this war. It is my firm belief that the struggle upon which we are entering is destined to last through long years of suffering and sore want. We are mainly dependent upon importation not only for the most pressingly necessary of our medicines but for that absolute necessity of life, salt. If war shall shut us in, as it is extremely likely to do, we must find means which we do not now possess of producing these and other things for ourselves, including the materials for that prime requisite of war – gunpowder. It so happens that I have skill in such manufactures as these, and I purpose to turn it to account whenever the necessity shall come upon us. In the meantime, as a surgeon and, upon occasion, as a private soldier I may perhaps be able to do more for Virginia and for the South than I could ever hope to do by assuming those functions of military command for which I have neither natural fitness nor the fitness of training.”
All this was deemed very absurd at the time. The war, it was thought, could not last more than sixty days – an opinion which Mr. Secretary of State Seward, on the other side of the line, confidently shared, though his anticipations of the end of it were quite different from those entertained at the South. Why a young man of spirit, such as Arthur Brent was, should refuse to enter upon the brief but glorious struggle in the capacity of a major with the prospect of coming out of it a brigadier-general, his neighbors could not understand. Nor could any of them, with one exception, understand his anticipations of a long war, or his conviction that, end as it might, the war would make an early end of slavery, overturning the South’s industrial system and bringing sore poverty upon the people. The one exception was Robert Copeland, the thrifty young man who had lost caste by “making too many hogsheads of tobacco to the hand.” He shared Arthur’s views, and he acted upon them in ways that Arthur would have scorned to do. He sent all his negroes to Richmond to be sold by auction to the traders to the far South. He converted his plantation, with all its live stock and other appurtenances into money, and with the proceeds of these his sellings he hurried to New York and purchased diamonds. These he bestowed in a belt which he buckled about his person and wore throughout the war, upon the principle that whatever value there might or might not be in other things when the war should be over, diamonds always command their price throughout the civilized world. When after this was done he sought to enlist in one of the companies forming in his neighborhood, he was rejected by unanimous vote, because he had sold negroes, while the men of the company held rigidly to a social standard of conduct which he had flagrantly defied. He went to Richmond. He raised a company of ruffians, which included many “jailbirds” and the like. He made himself its captain, and went into the field as the leader of a “fighting battery.” He distinguished himself for daring, and came out of the war, four years later, a brigadier-general. As such he was excluded from the benefits of the early amnesty proclamation. But he cared little about that. He went to New York, sold his diamonds for fifty per cent more than their cost, and accepted high office in the army of the Khedive of Egypt. He thus continued active in that profession of arms in which he had found his best opportunity to exercise his peculiar gift of “getting out of men all there is in them” – which was the phrase chosen by himself to describe his own special capabilities.3
XXXIII
“AT PARIS IT WAS”
D URING all this year of wandering on the part of Dorothy Edmonia did her duty as a correspondent with conspicuous fidelity. To her letters far more than to Dorothy’s own, Arthur was indebted for exact information as to Dorothy’s doings and Dorothy’s surroundings and Dorothy’s self. For Dorothy’s reticence concerning herself grew upon her as the months went on. She wrote freely and with as much apparent candor and fulness as ever, but she managed never to reveal herself in the old familiar fashion. Not that there was anything of estrangement in her words or tone, for there was nothing of the kind. It was only that she manifested a certain shyness and reserve concerning her own thought and feeling when these became intimate, – a reserve like that which every woman instinctively practises concerning details of the toilet. A woman may frankly admit to a man that she finds comfort in the use of a little powder, but she does not want him to see the powder box and puff. She may mention her shoe-strings quite without hesitation, but if one of them comes unfastened, she will climb two flights of stairs rather than let him see her readjust it.
In somewhat that way Dorothy at this time wrote to Arthur. If she read a book or saw a picture that pleased her, she would write to him, telling him quite all her external thought concerning it; but if it inspired any emotion of a certain sort in her, she had nothing whatever to say concerning that. In one particular, too, she deliberately abstained from telling him even of her pursuits and ambitions. He was left to hear of that from Edmonia, who wrote:
“Apparently we are destined to remain here in Paris during the rest of our stay abroad. For Dorothy has a new craze which she will in no wise relinquish or abate. For that, you, sir, are responsible, for you planted the seed that are now producing this luxuriant growth of quite unfeminine character. You taught Dorothy the rudiments of chemistry and physics. You awakened in her a taste for such studies which has grown into an uncontrollable passion.
“She has become the special pupil of one of the greatest chemists in France, and she almost literally lives in his laboratory, at least during the daylight hours. She goes to operas about twice a week, and she takes violin lessons from a woman before breakfast; but during the rest of the time she does nothing but slop at a laboratory sink. Her master in this department is madly in love – not with her, though he calls her, in the only English phrase he speaks without accent, ‘the apple of his eye,’ – but with her enthusiasm in science. He describes it as a ‘grand passion’ and positively raves in ejaculatory French and badly broken English, over the extraordinary rapidity with which she learns, the astonishing grasp she has of principles, and the readiness with which she applies principles to practice. ‘Positively’ he exclaimed to me the other day, ‘she is no longer a student – she is a chemist, – almost a great chemist. If I had to select one to take absolute control of a laboratory for the nice production of the most difficult compounds, I would this day choose not any man in all France, but Mademoiselle by herself.’ Then he paid you a compliment. He added; ‘and she tells me she has studied under a master for only a few months! It is marvellous! It is incredible, except that we must believe Mademoiselle, who is the soul of honor and truth. Ah – that is what gives her her love of science – for science loves nothing but truth. But her first master must be a wonder, a born teacher, an enthusiast, a real master who inspires his pupil with a passion like his own.’
“I confirmed Dorothy’s statement that she had received only a few months’ tuition in a little plantation laboratory, but – at the risk of making you disagreeably conceited, I will tell you this – I fully confirmed the judgment he had formed of Dorothy’s master.
“ ‘Ah, you know him then?’ the enthusiastic Frenchman broke out; ‘and you will tell me his name, which Mademoiselle refused to speak in answer to my inquiry? And you will give me a letter which may excuse me for the deep presumption when I write to him? I must write to him. I must know a master who has no other such in all France. His name Mademoiselle Bannister, his name, I pray you.’
“Now comes the curious part of the story. I told Monsieur your name and address, and his eyes instantly lighted up. ‘Ah, that accounts for all!’ he exclaimed. ‘I know the Dr. Brent. He was my own pupil till I could teach him nothing that he did not know. Then he taught me all the original things he had learned for himself during his stay in my laboratory and before that. Then we ceased to be master and pupil. We were after that two masters working together and every day finding out much that the world can never be enough grateful for. He is truly a wonder, Mister the Doctor Brent! I no longer am surprised at Mademoiselle Sout’s accomplishments and her enthusiasm. But why did she not want to speak to me his name? Is it that she loves him and he loves her not – ah, no, that cannot be! He must love Mademoiselle Sout’ after he has taught her. Nothing else is possible. But is it then that he is dull to find out, and that he doubts the reaction of her love in return for his? Ah, no! He is too great a chemist for that. There must be some other explanation and I cannot find it out. But Mister the Doctor Brent is after all only an American. The Americans are what you call alert in everything but one. Mister the Doctor Brent would quickly discover the smallest error in a reaction and he would know the cause of it. But he did not note the affinity in Mademoiselle for himself. I am not a greater chemist than he is, and yet I see it instantly, when she does not want to speak to me his name! He is a man most fortunate, in that I am old and have Madame at home and three young sons in the École Polytechnique! Ah, how ardently I should have wooed Mademoiselle, the charming, if she had come to me as a pupil twenty five years ago!’
“Now, I’m not quite sure Arthur that your danger in that quarter is altogether past. Yes, I am. That was a sorry jest. But I sincerely hope that on our return you may be a trifle more alert than you have hitherto been in discovering ‘reactions.’ You don’t at all deserve that I should thus enlighten and counsel you. And it may very easily prove to be too late when we return. For, in spite of her absorption in chemistry, and the horribly stained condition of her fingers sometimes, I drag her to all sorts of entertainments, and at the Tuileries especially she is a favorite. The Empress is so gracious to ‘the charming American,’ as she calls her, that she even summons me to her side for the sake of Dorothy’s company. The entire ‘eligible list’ of the diplomatic corps has gone daft about her beauty, her naïveté and her wonderful accomplishments. The Duc de Morny has even ventured to call twice at our hotel, begging the privilege of ‘paying his respects to the charming young American.’ But the Duc de Morny is a beast – an accomplished, fascinating beast, if you please, but a beast, nevertheless, – and I have used my woman’s privilege of fibbing so far as to send him word, each time, that Mademoiselle was not at home.
“ ‘Why did the Duc de Morny want to call upon me?’ queried the simple, honest minded Dorothy, when she heard of the visits of this greatest potentate in France next to the Emperor. I could not explain, so I fibbed a bit further and told her it was only his extreme politeness and the French friendship for Americans.
“Young Jefferson Peyton, you know, has been following us from the beginning. Dorothy expresses surprise, now and then, that his route happens, so singularly to coincide with our own. I think he will explain all that to her presently. He has greatly improved by travel. He has learned that his name and family count for nothing outside Virginia, and that he is personally a man of far less consequence than he has been brought up to consider himself. Now that he has been cured of a conceit that was due rather to his provincial bringing up than to any innate tendency in that direction, now that he has seen enough of the world to acquire a new perspective in contemplating himself, he has become in truth a very pleasing young man. His father did well to act upon Aunt Polly’s advice and send him abroad for education and culture. He is going to propose to Dorothy at the very first opportunity. He has told me so himself, and as she has a distinct liking for the amiable and really very handsome young fellow, I cannot venture upon any confident prediction as to the consequences.”
That letter came as a Christmas gift to Arthur Brent. One week later, on the New Year’s day, came one from Dorothy which made amends by reason of its resumption of much of the old tone of candor and confidence which he had so sadly missed from her letters during many months past.
“I want to go home, Cousin Arthur,” she began. “I want to go home at once. I want my dear old mammy to put her arms around me as she used to do when I was a little child, and croon me to sleep, so that I may forget all that has happened to me. And, I want to talk with you again, Cousin Arthur, as freely as I used to do when you and I rode together through the woodlands or the corn at sunrise, when we didn’t mind a wetting from the dew, and when our horses and my dear dogs seemed to enjoy the glory of the morning as keenly as we did. It is in memory of those mornings that I send you back the soiled handkerchief you mailed to me. I want you, please, to give it to Ben, and tell him I make him a present of it, because it is no longer fit for you to use. You needn’t tell him anything more than that. He will understand. But I mustn’t leave you any longer to the mercy of such neglect on the part of servants to whom you are always so good. I must get home again before this terrible war breaks out. I have read all your letters about it a hundred times each, and I have tried to fit myself for my part in it. When you told me how great the need was likely to be for somebody qualified to make medicines, and salt, and saltpetre and soda and potash for gunpowder – no, you didn’t tell me of all that, you wrote to Edmonia about it, and that hurt my feelings because it seemed to put me out of your life and work – but when Edmonia told me what you had written about it, I set myself to work again at my chemistry, and I have worked so diligently at it that my master, Mons. X. declares that I am capable of taking complete charge of a laboratory and doing the most difficult and delicate of all the work needed. I believe I am. Anyhow, he has somehow found out, – though I certainly never told him of it – that you taught me at the beginning and he insists upon giving me a letter to you about my qualifications.
“You say you hope Virginia will not secede, and that perhaps, after all, there will be no war. But I see clearly that you have no great confidence in your own hopes. So I am in a great hurry to get home before trouble comes. After it comes it may be too late for me to get home at all.
“So I should just compel Edmonia to take the first ship for New York, if we had any money. But we haven’t any, because I have spent all my own and borrowed and spent all of hers. We must wait now until you and Archer Bannister can send us new letters of credit or whatever it is that you call the papers on which the banking people here are so ready to give us all the money we want. Now I must ’fess up about the expenses. They have not been incurred for new gowns or for any other feminine frivolities. I’ve spent all my own money and all of Edmonia’s for chemicals and chemical apparatus, which I foresee that you and I will need in order to make medicines and salt and soda and saltpetre for our soldiers and people. I’ve ordered all these things sent by a ship that is going to Nassau, in the Bahama Islands, and the captain of the ship promises me that whether there is a blockade or not, he will get them through to you somehow or other. By the way the foolish fellow, who is a French naval officer, detailed for the merchant service, wanted me to marry him – isn’t it absurd? – and I told him we’d keep that question open till the chemicals and apparatus should be safe in your hands, and till he could come to you in the uniform of a Virginia officer, and ask you as my guardian, for permission to pay his addresses. Was it wrong, Cousin Arthur, thus to play with a fellow who never really loved anybody, but who simply wanted Pocahontas plantation? You see I’ve become very bad, and very knowing, since I’ve been without control, as I told you I would. But, anyhow, that Frenchman will get the things to you in safety.
“But all this nonsense isn’t what I wanted to write to you. I want to go home and I will go home, even if I have to accept Jefferson Peyton’s offer to furnish the money necessary. We simply mustn’t be shut out of Virginia when the war comes, and nobody can tell when it will come now. But of course I shall not let Jeff furnish the money. That was only a strong way of putting it. For Jeff has insulted me, I think. I’m not quite certain, but I think that is what it amounts to. You will know, and I’m going to tell you all about it, just as I used to tell you all about everything, before – well before all this sort of thing. Jeff has been travelling about ever since we began our journey, and he has really been very nice to us, and very useful sometimes. But a few days ago he proposed marriage to me. I was disposed to be very kindly in my treatment of him, because I rather like the poor fellow. But when I told him I didn’t in the least think of marrying him or anybody else, he lost his temper, and had the assurance to say that the time would come when I would be very grateful to him for being willing to offer me such a road out of my difficulties. He didn’t explain, for I instantly rang for a servant to show him out of the hotel parlor, and myself retired by another door. But, I think I know what he meant, because I have found out all about myself and my mother, all the things that people have been so laboriously endeavoring to keep me from finding out. And among other things I have found out that I must marry Jeff Peyton or nobody. So I will marry nobody, so long as I live. I’ll be like Aunt Polly, just good and useful in the world.
“I’ll write you all about this by the next steamer, if I can make up my mind to do it – that is to say if I find that in spite of all, I may go on thinking of you as my best friend on earth, and telling you everything that troubles me just as I used to tell dear old mammy, when the bees stung me or the daisies wilted before I could make them into a pretty chain. I have a great longing to tell you things in the old, frank, unreserved way, and to feel the comfort of your strong support in doing what it is right for me to do. Somehow, all this distance has seemed to make it difficult to do that. But now that my fate in life is settled and my career fully marked out as a woman whose only ambition is to be as useful as possible, I may talk to you, mayn’t I, in the old, unreserved way, in full assurance that you won’t let me make any mistakes?
“That is what I want. So I have this moment decided that I will not wait for you to send me a new letter of credit, but will find somebody here to lend me enough money to go home on. In the meantime I’m going to begin being the old, frank, truthful Dorothy, by writing you, by the next steamer, all that I have learned about myself.”
XXXIV
DOROTHY’S DISCOVERY
D OROTHY’S next letter came at the beginning of the spring. There were mail steamers at that time only once a fortnight and the passage occupied a fortnight more – or perhaps a longer time as the sea and the west wind might determine.
“I hope this letter will reach you before I do, Cousin Arthur,” Dorothy began. “But I’m not quite sure of that, for we hope to sail by the Asia on her next trip and she is a much faster ship they say than the one that is to carry this. The money things arranged themselves easily and without effort. For when I asked Mr. Livingston, – Mildred’s husband, you know – to go with me to the bankers to see if they wouldn’t lend me a few hundred dollars, he laughed and said:
‘You needn’t bother, you little spendthrift. I provided for all that before we started. I knew you women would spend all your money, so I gave myself a heavy credit with my bankers here, and of course you can have all the money you want.’ I didn’t like it for him to think we’d spent our money foolishly, but I couldn’t explain, so I just thanked him and said, with all the dignity I could command: ‘I’ll give you a letter of credit on my guardian Dr. Brent.’ I suppose I got the terms wrong, for he laughed in his careless way – he always laughs at things as if nothing in the world mattered. He even laughed at his own seasickness on the ship. Anyhow, he told me I needn’t give him any kind of papers – that you would settle the bill when the time came, and that I could have all the money I needed. So at first we thought we should get off by the ship that is to carry this letter. But something got the matter with Mildred’s teeth, so we had to wait over for the Asia. Why do things get the matter with people’s teeth? Nothing ever got the matter with mine, and I never heard of anything getting the matter with yours or Edmonia’s. Mr. Livingston says that’s because we eat corn bread. How I wish I had some at this moment!
“But that isn’t what I want to write to you about. I have much more serious things to tell you – things that alter my whole life, and make it sadder than I ever expected it to be.
“I have seen my mother, and she has told me the whole terrible story. She wouldn’t have told me now or ever, but that she thought she was going to die under a surgical operation.
“You remember I wrote to you about Madame Le Sud, whom I met on shipboard and learned to love so much. I’m glad I learned to love her, because she is my mother. She calls herself Madame Le Sud, because that is only the French way of calling herself Mrs. South, you know.
“The way of it was this: When we parted at Liverpool I told her what our trip was to be. She was coming direct to Paris, and I made her promise to let me visit her here if she did not leave before our arrival, as she thought she probably would. When we got here I rather hoped to hear from her, for somehow, though I did not dream of the relationship between us, I had formed a very tender attachment to her, and I longed to see her again.
“As the weeks passed and I heard nothing, I made up my mind that she had gone back to New York before we reached Paris, and I was not undeceived until a few weeks ago, when she sent me a sad little note, telling me she was ill and asking me to call upon her in her apartments in the Rue Neuve des Petits Champs.
“I went at once and found her in very pitiful condition. Her apartments were mere garrets, ill furnished and utterly uncomfortable, and she herself was manifestly suffering. When I asked her why she had not sent for me before, she answered: ‘It was better not, child. You were in your proper place. You were happy. You were receiving social recognition of the highest kind and it was good for you because you are fit for it and deserve it. I have sent for you now only because I have something that I must give to you before I die. For I’m going to die almost immediately.’ She wouldn’t let me interrupt her. ‘I’m going to have a surgical operation tomorrow, and I do not expect to get over it.’
