Ludwig Thoma - "Moral"

Anthony Trollope - "He Knew He Was Right"

George MacDonald - "Heather and Snow"

Azel Ames - "The Mayflower and Her Log, v5"

New Philadelphia Book Publisher Highlights Local Talent
Book and Publishing News from Publishers Newswire(tm)

Looking for Child to be on Cover of a New Book, 'The Model Child'
PHILADELPHIA, Pa. -- The Philadelphia literary world will celebrate the launch of two new players today, April 10th: Kay Square Press, a new publishing company focused on Philadelphia-area artists, their stories, and their art; and Kay Square's first release, 'With the Rich and Mighty: Emlen Etting of Philadelphia' (ISBN: 978-0-9815129-0-7), a critical biography by Kenneth C. Kaleta.

FlatSigned Press Alleges Don Imus Remarks Damage Legacy of President Gerald R. Ford
NEW YORK, N.Y. -- Nathan Yungerberg, an accomplished model scout and professional child photographer is launching a nation-wide casting call to find the cover model for his highly anticipated book release, 'The Model Child: A Parents Guide to the Child Modeling Industry' (ISBN: 978-0-9817018-0-6).

Books: The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come

J >> John Fox, Jr. >> The Little Shepherd of Kingdom Come






CHAPTER 17. CHADWICK BUFORD, GENTLEMAN

And so, returned to the Bluegrass, the midsummer of that year, Chadwick Buford
gentleman. A youth of eighteen, with the self-possession of a man, and a pair
of level, clear eyes, that looked the world in the face as proudly as ever but
with no defiance and no secret sense of shame It was a curious story that Chad
brought back and told to the Major, on the porch under the honeysuckle vines,
but it seemed to surprise the Major very little: how old Nathan had sent for
him to come to his death-bed and had told Chad that he was no foundling; that
one of his farms belonged to the boy; that he had lied to the Major about
Chad's mother, who was a lawful wife, in order to keep the land for himself;
how old Nathan had offered to give back the farm, or pay him the price of it
in livestock, and how, at old Joel's advice he had taken the stock and turned
the stock into money. How, after he had found his mother's grave, his first
act had been to take up the rough bee-gum coffin that held her remains, and
carry it down the river, and bury her where she had the right to lie, side by
side with her grandfather and his--the old gentleman who slept in wig and
peruke on the hill-side--that her good name and memory should never again
suffer insult from any living tongue. It was then that Major took Chad by the
shoulders roughly, and, with tears in his eyes, swore that he would have no
more nonsense from the boy; that Chad was flesh of his flesh and bone of his
bone; that he would adopt him and make him live where he belonged, and break
his damned pride. And it was then that Chad told him how gladly he would come,
now that he could bring him an untarnished name. And the two walked together
down to the old family graveyard, where the Major said that the two in the
mountains should be brought some day and where the two brothers who had parted
nearly fourscore years ago could, side by side, await Judgment Day.

When they went back into the house the Major went to the sideboard.

"Have a drink, Chad?"

Chad laughed: "Do you think it will stunt my growth?"

"Stand up here, and let's see," said the Major.

The two stood up, back to back, in front of a long mirror, and Chad's shaggy
hair rose at least an inch above the Major's thin locks of gray. The Major
turned and looked at him from head to foot with affectionate pride.

"Six feet in your socks, to the inch, without that hair. I reckon it won't
stunt you--not now."

"All right," laughed Chad, "then I'll take that drink." And together they
drank.

Thus, Chadwick Buford, gentleman, after the lapse of three-quarters of a
century, came back to his own: and what that own, at that day and in that
land, was!

It was the rose of Virginia, springing, in full bloom, from new and richer
soil--a rose of a deeper scarlet and a stronger stem: and the big village
where the old University reared its noble front was the very heart of that
rose. There were the proudest families, the stateliest homes, the broadest
culture, the most gracious hospitality, the gentlest courtesies, the finest
chivalry, that the State has ever known. There lived the political idols;
there, under the low sky, rose the memorial shaft to Clay. There had lived
beaux and belles, memories of whom hang still about the town, people it with
phantom shapes, and give an individual or a family here and there a subtle
distinction to-day. There the grasp of Calvinism was most lax. There were the
dance, the ready sideboard, the card table, the love of the horse and the dog,
and but little passion for the game-cock. There were as manly virtues, as
manly vices, as the world has ever known. And there, love was as far from lust
as heaven from hell.

It was on the threshold of this life that Chad stood. Kentucky had given birth
to the man who was to uphold the Union--birth to the man who would seek to
shatter it. Fate had given Chad the early life of one, and like blood with the
other; and, curiously enough, in his own short life, he already epitomized the
social development of the nation, from its birth in a log cabin to its swift
maturity behind the columns of a Greek portico. Against the uncounted
generations of gentlepeople that ran behind him to sunny England, how little
could the short sleep of three in the hills count! It may take three
generations to make a gentleman, but one is enough, if the blood be there, the
heart be right, and the brain and hand come early under discipline.

It was to General Dean that the Major told Chad's story first. The two old
friends silently grasped hands, and the cloud between them passed like mist.

"Bring him over to dinner on Saturday, Cal--you and Miss Lucy, won't you? Some
people are coming out from town." In making amends, there was no half-way with
General Dean.

"I will," said the Major, "gladly."

The cool of the coming autumn was already in the air that Saturday when Miss
Lucy and the Major and Chad, in the old carriage, with old Tom as driver and
the pickaninny behind, started for General Dean's. The Major was beautiful to
behold, in his flowered waistcoat, his ruffled shirt, white trousers strapped
beneath his highly polished, high-heeled boots, high hat and frock coat, with
only the lowest button fastened, in order to give a glimpse of that wonderful
waistcoat, just as that, too, was unbuttoned at the top that the ruffles might
peep out upon the world. Chad's raiment, too, was a Solomon's--for him. He had
protested, but in vain; and he, too, wore white trousers with straps,
high-heeled boots, and a wine-colored waistcoat and slouch hat, and a brave,
though very conscious, figure he made, with his tall body, well-poised head,
strong shoulders and thick hair. It was a rare thing for Miss Lucy to do, but
the old gentlewoman could not resist the Major, and she, too, rode in state
with them, smiling indulgently at the Major's quips, and now, kindly, on Chad.
A drowsy peace lay over the magnificent woodlands, unravaged then except for
firewood; the seared pastures, just beginning to show green again for the
second spring; the flashing creek, the seas of still hemp and yellow corn, and
Chad saw a wistful shadow cross Miss Lucy's pale face, and a darker one
anxiously sweep over the Major's jesting lips.

Guests were arriving, when they entered the yard gate, and guests were coming
behind them. General and Mrs. Dean were receiving them on the porch, and Harry
and Dan were helping the ladies out of their carriages, while, leaning against
one of the columns, in pure white, was the graceful figure of Margaret. That
there could ever have been any feeling in any member of the family other than
simple, gracious kindliness toward him, Chad could neither see nor feel. At
once every trace of embarrassment in him was gone, and he could but wonder at
the swift justice done him in a way that was so simple and effective. Even
with Margaret there was no trace of consciousness. The past was wiped clean of
all save courtesy and kindness. There were the Hunts--Nellie, and the
Lieutenant of the Lexington Rifles, Richard Hunt, a dauntless-looking dare-devil, with the ready tongue of
a coffee-house wit and the grace of a
cavalier. There was Elizabeth Morgan, to whom Harry's grave eyes were always
wandering, and Miss Jennie Overstreet, who was romantic and openly now wrote
poems for the Observer, and who looked at Chad with no attempt to conceal her
admiration of his appearance and her wonder as to who he was. And there were
the neighbors roundabout--the Talbotts, Quisenberrys, Clays, Prestons,
Morgans--surely no less than forty strong, and all for dinner. It was no
little trial for Chad in that crowd of fine ladies, judges, soldiers, lawyers,
statesmen--but he stood it well. While his self-consciousness made him
awkward, he had pronounced dignity of bearing; his diffidence emphasized his
modesty, and he had the good sense to stand and keep still. Soon they were at
table--and what a table and what a dinner that was! The dining-room was the
biggest and sunniest room in the house; its walls covered with hunting prints,
pictures of game and stag heads. The table ran the length of it. The snowy
tablecloth hung almost to the floor. At the head sat Mrs. Dean, with a great
tureen of calf's head soup in front of her. Before the General was the saddle
of venison that was to follow, drenched in a bottle of ancient Madeira, and
flanked by flakes of red-currant jelly. Before the Major rested broiled wild
ducks, on which he could show his carving skill--on game as well as men. A
great turkey supplanted the venison, and last to come, and before Richard
Hunt, Lieutenant of the Rifles, was a Kentucky ham. That ham! Mellow, aged,
boiled in champagne, baked brown, spiced deeply, rosy pink within, and of a
flavor and fragrance to shatter the fast of a Pope; and without, a brown-edged
white layer, so firm that the lieutenant's deft carving knife, passing
through, gave no hint to the eye that it was delicious fat. There had been
merry jest and laughter and banter and gallant compliment before, but it was
Richard Hunt's turn now, and story after story he told, as the rose-flakes
dropped under his knife in such thin slices that their edges coiled. It was
full half an hour before the carver and story-teller were done. After that ham
the tablecloth was lifted, and the dessert spread on another lying beneath;
then that, too, was raised, and the nuts and wines were placed on a third--red
damask this time.

Then came the toasts: to the gracious hostess from Major Buford; to Miss Lucy
from General Dean; from valiant Richard Hunt to blushing Margaret, and then
the ladies were gone, and the talk was politics--the election of Lincoln,
slavery, disunion.

"If Lincoln is elected, no power but God's can avert war," said Richard Hunt,
gravely.

Dan's eyes flashed. "Will you take me?"

The lieutenant lifted his glass. "Gladly, my boy."

"Kentucky's convictions are with the Union; her kinship and sympathies with
the South," said a deep-voiced lawyer. "She must remain neutral."

"Straddling the fence," said the Major, sarcastically.

"No; to avert the war, if possible, or to act the peacemaker when the tragedy
is over."

"Well, I can see Kentuckians keeping out of a fight," laughed the General, and
he looked around. Three out of five of the men present had been in the Mexican
war. The General had been wounded at Cerro Gordo, and the Major had brought
his dead home in leaden coffins.

"The fanatics of Boston, the hot-heads of South Carolina--they are making the
mischief."

"And New England began with slavery," said the lawyer again.

"And naturally, with that conscience that is a national calamity, was the
first to give it up," said Richard Hunt, "when the market price of slaves fell
to sixpence a pound in the open Boston markets." There was an incredulous
murmur.

"Oh, yes," said Hunt, easily, "I can show you advertisements in Boston papers
of slaves for sale at sixpence a pound."

Perhaps it never occurred to a soul present that the word "slave" was never
heard in that region except in some such way. With Southerners, the negroes
were "our servants" or "our people"--never slaves. Two lads at that table were
growing white--Chad and Harry--and Chad's lips opened first.

"I don't think slavery has much to do with the question, really," he said,
"not even with Mr. Lincoln." The silent surprise that followed the boy's
embarrassed statement ended in a gasp of astonishment when Harry leaned across
the table and said, hotly:

"Slavery has EVERYTHING to do with the question."

The Major looked bewildered; the General frowned, and the keen-eyed lawyer
spoke again:

"The struggle was written in the Constitution. The framers evaded it. Logic
leads one way as well as another and no man can logically blame another for
the way he goes."

"No more politics now, gentlemen," said the General quickly. "We will join the
ladies. Harry," he added, with some sternness, "lead the way!"

As the three boys rose, Chad lifted his glass. His face was pale and his lips
trembled.

"May I propose a toast, General Dean?"

"Why, certainly," said the General, kindly.

"I want to drink to one man but for whom I might be in a log cabin now, and
might have died there for all I know--my friend and, thank God! my
kinsman--Major Buford."

It was irregular and hardly in good taste, but the boy had waited till the
ladies were gone, and it touched the Major that he should want to make such a
public acknowledgment that there should be no false colors in the flag he
meant henceforth to bear.

The startled guests drank blindly to the confused Major, though they knew not
why, but as the lads disappeared the lawyer asked:

"Who is that boy, Major?"

Outside, the same question had been asked among the ladies and the same story
told. The three girls remembered him vaguely, they said, and when Chad
reappeared, in the eyes of the poetess at least, the halo of romance floated
above his head.

She was waiting for Chad when he came out on the porch, and she shook her
curls and flashed her eyes in a way that almost alarmed him. Old Mammy dropped
him a curtsey, for she had had her orders, and, behind her, Snowball, now a
tall, fine-looking coal-black youth, grinned a welcome. The three girls were
walking under the trees, with their arms mysteriously twined about one
anther's waists, and the poetess walked down toward them with the three lads,
Richard Hunt following. Chad could not know how it happened, but, a moment
later, Dan was walking away with Nellie Hunt one way; Harry with Elizabeth
Morgan the other; the Lieutenant had Margaret alone, and Miss Overstreet was
leading him away, raving meanwhile about the beauty of field and sky. As they
went toward the gate he could not help flashing one look toward the pair under
the fir tree. An amused smile was playing under the Lieutenant's beautiful
mustache, his eyes were dancing with mischief, and Margaret was blushing with
anything else than displeasure.

"Oho!" he said, as Chad and his companion passed on. "Sits the wind in that
corner? Bless me, if looks could kill, I'd have a happy death here at your
feet, Mistress Margaret. SEE the young man! It's the second time he has almost
slain me."

Chad could scarcely hear Miss Jennie's happy chatter, scarcely saw the shaking
curls, the eyes all but in a frenzy of rolling. His eyes were in the back of
his head, and his backward-listening ears heard only Margaret's laugh behind
him.

"Oh, I do love the autumn"--it was at the foot of those steps, thought Chad,
that he first saw Margaret springing to the back of her pony and dashing off
under the fir trees--" and it's coming. There's one scarlet leaf
already"--Chad could see the rock fence where he had sat that spring day--
"it's curious and mournful that you can see in any season a sign of the next
to come." And there was the creek where he found Dan fishing, and there the
road led to the ford where Margaret had spurned his offer of a slimy
fish--ugh! "I do love the autumn. It makes me feel like the young woman who
told Emerson that she had such mammoth thoughts she couldn't give them
utterance--why, wake up, Mr. Buford, wake up!" Chad came to with a start.

"Do you know you aren't very polite, Mr. Buford?" Mr. Buford! That did sound
funny.

"But I know what the matter is," she went on. "I saw you look"--she nodded her
head backward. "Can you keep a secret?" Chad nodded; he had not yet opened his
lips.

"Thae's going to be a match back there. He's only a few years older. The
French say that a woman should be half a man's age plus seven years. That
would make her only a few years too young, and she can wait." Chad was scarlet
under the girl's mischievous torture, but a cry from the house saved him. Dan
was calling them back.

"Mr. Hunt has to go back early to drill the Rifles. Can you keep another
secret?" Again Chad nodded gravely. "Well, he is going to drive me back. I'll
tell him what a dangerous rival he has." Chad was dumb; there was much yet for
him to learn before he could parry with a tongue like hers.

"He's very good-looking," said Miss Jennie, when she joined the girls, "but
oh, so stupid."

Margaret turned quickly and unsuspiciously. "Stupid! Why, he's the first man
in his class."

"Oh," said Miss Jennie, with a demure smile, "perhaps I couldn't draw him
out," and Margaret flushed to have caught the deftly tossed bait so readily.

A moment later the Lieutenant was gathering up the reins, with Miss Jennie by
his side. He gave a bow to Margaret, and Miss Jennie nodded to Chad.

"Come see me when you come to town, Mr. Buford," she called, as though to an
old friend, and still Chad was dumb, though he lifted his hat gravely.

At no time was Chad alone with Margaret, and he was not sorry--her manner so
puzzled him. The three lads and three girls walked together through Mrs.
Dean's garden with its grass walks and flower beds and vegetable patches
surrounded with rose bushes. At the lower edge they could see the barn with
sheep in the yard around it, and there were the very stiles where Harry and
Margaret had sat in state when Dan and Chad were charging in the tournament.
The thing might never have happened for any sign from Harry or Dan or
Margaret, and Chad began to wonder if his past or his present were a dream.

How fine this courtesy was Chad could not realize. Neither could he know that
the favor Margaret had shown him when he was little more than outcast he must
now, as an equal, win for himself. Miss Jennie had called him "Mr. Buford." He
wondered what Margaret would call him when he came to say good-by. She called
him nothing. She only smiled at him.

"You must come to see us soon again," she said, graciously, and so said all
the Deans.

The Major was quiet going home, and Miss Lucy drowsed. All evening the Major
was quiet.

"If a fight does come," he said, when they were going to bed, "I reckon I'm
not too old to take a hand."

"And I reckon I'm not too young," said Chad.



CHAPTER 18. THE SPIRIT OF '76 AND THE SHADOW OF '61

One night, in the following April, there was a great dance in Lexington. Next
day the news of Sumter came. Chad pleaded to be let off from the dance, but
the Major would not hear of it. It was a fancy-dress ball, and the Major had a
pet purpose of his own that he wanted gratified and Chad had promised to aid
him. That fancy was that Chad should go in regimentals, as the stern, old
soldier on the wall, of whom the Major swore the boy was the "spit and image."
The Major himself helped Chad dress in wig, peruke, stock, breeches, boots,
spurs, cocked hat, sword and all. And then he led the boy down into the
parlor, where Miss Lucy was waiting for them, and stood him up on one side of
the portrait. To please the old fellow, Chad laughingly struck the attitude of
the pictured soldier, and the Major cried:

"What'd I tell you, Lucy!" Then he advanced and made a low bow.

"General Buford," he said, "General Washington's compliments, and will General
Buford plant the flag on that hill where the left wing of the British is
entrenched?"

"Hush, Cal," said Miss Lucy, laughing.

"General Buford's compliments to General Washington. General Buford will plant
that flag on ANY hill that ANY enemy holds against it."

The lad's face paled as the words, by some curious impulse, sprang to his
lips, but the unsuspecting Major saw no lurking significance in his manner,
nor in what he said, and then there was a rumble of carriage wheels at the
door.

The winter had sped swiftly. Chad had done his work in college only fairly
well, for Margaret had been a disturbing factor. The girl was an impenetrable
mystery to him, for the past between them was not only wiped clean--it seemed
quite gone. Once only had he dared to open his lips about the old days, and
the girl's flushed silence made a like mistake forever impossible. He came and
went at the Deans' as he pleased. Always they were kind, courteous,
hospitable--no more, no less, unvaryingly. During the Christmas holidays he
and Margaret had had a foolish quarrel, and it was then that Chad took his
little fling at his little world--a fling that was foolish, but harmful,
chiefly in that it took his time and his mind and his energy from his work. He
not only neglected his studies, but he fell in with the wild young bucks of
the town, learned to play cards, took more wine than was good for him
sometimes, was on the verge of several duels, and night after night raced home
in his buggy against the coming dawn. Though Miss Lucy looked worried, the
indulgent old Major made no protest. Indeed he was rather pleased. Chad was
sowing his wild oats--it was in the blood, and the mood would pass. It did
pass, naturally enough, on the very day that the breach between him and
Margaret was partly healed; and the heart of Caleb Hazel, whom Chad, for
months, had not dared to face, was made glad when the boy came back to him
remorseful and repentant--the old Chad once more.

They were late in getting to the dance. Every window in the old Hunt home was
brilliant with light. Chinese lanterns swung in the big yard. The scent of
early spring flowers smote the fresh night air. Music and the murmur of nimble
feet and happy laughter swept out the wide-open doors past which white figures
flitted swiftly. Scarcely anybody knew Chad in his regimentals, and the Major,
with the delight of a boy, led him around, gravely presenting him as General
Buford here and there. Indeed, the lad made a noble figure with his superb
height and bearing, and he wore sword and spurs as though born to them.
Margaret was dancing with Richard Hunt when she saw his eyes searching for her
through the room, and she gave him a radiant smile that almost stunned him.
She had been haughty and distant when he went to her to plead forgiveness: she
had been too hard. and Margaret, too, was repentant.

"Why, who's that?" asked Richard Hunt. "Oh, yes," he added, getting his answer
from Margaret's face. "Bless me, but he's fine--the very spirit of '76. I must
have him in the Rifles."

"Will you make him a lieutenant?" asked Margaret.

"Why, yes, I will," said Mr. Hunt, decisively. "I'll resign myself in his
favor, if it pleases you."

"Oh, no, no--no one could fill your place."

"Well, he can, I fear--and here he comes to do it. I'll have to retreat some
time, and I suppose I'd as well begin now." And the gallant gentleman bowed to
Chad.

"Will you pardon me, Miss Margaret? My mother is calling me."

"You must have keen ears," said Margaret; "your mother is upstairs."

"Yes; but she wants me. Everybody wants me, but--" he bowed again with an
imperturbable smile and went his way.

Margaret looked demurely into Chad's eager eyes.

"And how is the spirit of '76?"

"The spirit of '76 is unchanged."

"Oh, yes, he is; I scarcely knew him."

"But he's unchanged; he never will change."

Margaret dropped her eyes and Chad looked around.

"I wish we could get out of here."

"We can," said Margaret, demurely.

"We will!" said Chad, and he made for a door, outside which lanterns were
swinging in the wind. Margaret caught up some flimsy garment and wound it
about her pretty round throat--they call it a "fascinator" in the South.

Chad looked down at her.

"I wish you could see yourself; I wish I could tell you how you look."

"I have," said Margaret, "every time I passed a mirror. And other people have
told me. Mr. Hunt did. He didn't seem to have much trouble."

"I wish I had his tongue."

"If you had, and nothing else, you wouldn't have me"--Chad started as the
little witch paused a second, drawling--"leaving my friends and this jolly
dance to go out into a freezing yard and talk to an aged Colonial who doesn't
appreciate his modern blessings. The next thing you'll be wanting, I
suppose--will be--"

"You, Margaret; you--YOU!"

It had come at last and Margaret hardly knew the choked voice that interrupted
her. She had turned her back to him to sit down. She paused a moment,
standing. Her eyes closed; a slight tremor ran through her, and she sank with
her face in her hands. Chad stood silent, trembling. Voices murmured about
them, but like the music in the house, they seemed strangely far away. The
stirring of the wind made the sudden damp on his forehead icy-cold. Margaret's
hands slowly left her face, which had changed as by a miracle. Every trace of
coquetry was gone. It was the face of a woman who knew her own heart, and had
the sweet frankness to speak it, that was lifted now to Chad.

"I'm so glad you are what you are, Chad; but had you been otherwise--that
would have made no difference to me. You believe that, don't you, Chad? They
might not have let me marry you, but I should have cared, just the same. They
may not now, but that, too, will make no difference." She turned her eyes from
his for an instant, as though she were looking far backward. "Ever since that
day," she said, slowly, "when I heard you say, 'Tell the little gurl I didn't
mean nothin' callin' her a little gal'"--there was a low, delicious gurgle in
the throat as she tried to imitate his odd speech, and then her eyes suddenly
filled with tears, but she brushed them away, smiling brightly. "Ever since
then, Chad--" she stopped--a shadow fell across the door of the little summer
house.