When
Major Pendleton Talbot, of Mobile, sir, and his daughter, Miss Lydia Talbot,
came to Washington to reside, they selected for a boarding place a house that
stood fifty yards back from one of the quietest avenues. It was an
old-fashioned brick building, with a portico upheld by tall white pillars. The
yard was shaded by stately locusts and elms, and a catalpa tree in season rained
its pink and white blossoms upon the grass. Rows of high box bushes lined the
fence and walks. It was the Southern style and aspect of the place that pleased
the eyes of the Talbots.
In
this pleasant private boarding house they engaged rooms, including a study for
Major Talbot, who was adding the finishing chapters to his book, Anecdotes and
Reminiscences of the Alabama Army, Bench, and Bar.
Major
Talbot was of the old, old South. The present day had little interest or
excellence in his eyes. His mind lived in that period before the Civil War when
the Talbots owned thousands of acres of fine cotton land and the slaves to till
them; when the family mansion was the scene of princely hospitality, and drew
its guests from the aristocracy of the South. Out of that period he had brought
all its old pride and scruples of honor, an antiquated and punctilious
politeness, and (you would think) its wardrobe.
Such
clothes were surely never made within fifty years. The Major was tall, but
whenever he made that wonderful, archaic genuflexion he called a bow, the
corners of his frock coat swept the floor. That garment was a surprise even to
Washington, which has long ago ceased to shy at the frocks and broad-brimmed
hats of Southern Congressmen. One of the boarders christened it a "Father
Hubbard," and it certainly was high in the waist and full in the skirt.
But
the Major, with all his queer clothes, his immense area of plaited, raveling
shirt bosom, and the little black string tie with the bow always slipping on one
side, both was smiled at and liked in Mrs. Vardeman's select boarding house.
Some of the young department clerks would often "string him," as they
called it, getting him started upon the subject dearest to him—the traditions
and history of his beloved Southland. During his talks he would quote freely
from the Anecdotes and Reminiscences. But they were very careful not to let him
see their designs, for in spite of his sixty-eight years he could make the
boldest of them uncomfortable under the steady regard of his piercing gray
eyes.
Miss
Lydia was a plump, little old maid of thirty-five, with smoothly drawn, tightly
twisted hair that made her look still older. Old-fashioned, too, she was; but
antebellum glory did not radiate from her as it did from the Major. She
possessed a thrifty common sense, and it was she who handled the finances of
the family, and met all comers when there were bills to pay. The Major regarded
board bills and wash bills as contemptible nuisances. They kept coming in so
persistently and so often. Why, the Major wanted to know, could they not be
filed and paid in a lump sum at some convenient period—say when the Anecdotes
and Reminiscences had been published and paid for? Miss Lydia would calmly go
on with her sewing and say, "We'll pay as we go as long as the money
lasts, and then perhaps they'll have to lump it."
Most
of Mrs. Vardeman's boarders were away during the day, being nearly all
department clerks and business men; but there was one of them who was about the
house a great deal from morning to night. This was a young man named Henry
Hopkins Hargraves—every one in the house addressed him by his full name—who was
engaged at one of the popular vaudeville theaters. Vaudeville has risen to such
a respectable plane in the last few years, and Mr. Hargraves was such a modest
and well-mannered person, that Mrs. Vardeman could find no objection to
enrolling him upon her list of boarders.
At
the theater Hargraves was known as an all-round dialect comedian, having a
large repertoire of German, Irish, Swede, and black-face specialties. But Mr.
Hargraves was ambitious, and often spoke of his great desire to succeed in
legitimate comedy.
This
young man appeared to conceive a strong fancy for Major Talbot. Whenever that
gentleman would begin his Southern reminiscences, or repeat some of the
liveliest of the anecdotes, Hargraves could always be found, the most attentive
among his listeners.
For
a time the Major showed an inclination to discourage the advances of the
"play actor," as he privately termed him; but soon the young man's
agreeable manner and indubitable appreciation of the old gentleman's stories
completely won him over.
It
was not long before the two were like old chums. The Major set apart each
afternoon to read to him the manuscript of his book. During the anecdotes
Hargraves never failed to laugh at exactly the right point. The Major was moved
to declare to Miss Lydia one day that young Hargraves possessed remarkable
perception and a gratifying respect for the old régime. And when it came to
talking of those old days—if Major Talbot liked to talk, Mr. Hargraves was
entranced to listen.
Like
almost all old people who talk of the past, the Major loved to linger over
details. In describing the splendid, almost royal, days of the old planters, he
would hesitate until he had recalled the name of the negro who held his horse,
or the exact date of certain minor happenings, or the number of bales of cotton
raised in such a year; but Hargraves never grew impatient or lost interest. On
the contrary, he would advance questions on a variety of subjects connected
with the life of that time, and he never failed to extract ready replies.
The
fox hunts, the 'possum suppers, the hoe-downs and jubilees in the negro
quarters, the banquets in the plantation-house hall, when invitations went for
fifty miles around; the occasional feuds with the neighboring gentry; the
Major's duel with Rathbone Culbertson about Kitty Chalmers, who afterward
married a Thwaite of South Carolina; and private yacht races for fabulous sums
on Mobile Bay; the quaint beliefs, improvident habits, and loyal virtues of the
old slaves—all these were subjects that held both the Major and Hargraves
absorbed for hours at a time.
Sometimes,
at night, when the young man would be coming upstairs to his room after his
turn at the theater was over, the Major would appear at the door of his study
and beckon archly to him. Going in, Hargraves would find a little table set
with a decanter, sugar bowl, fruit, and a big bunch of fresh green mint.
"It
occurred to me," the Major would begin—he was always
ceremonious—"that perhaps you might have found your duties at the—at your
place of occupation—sufficiently arduous to enable you, Mr. Hargraves, to
appreciate what the poet might well have had in his mind when he wrote, 'tired
Nature's sweet restorer'—one of our Southern juleps."
It
was a fascination to Hargraves to watch him make it. He took rank among artists
when he began, and he never varied the process. With what delicacy he bruised the
mint; with what exquisite nicety he estimated the ingredients; with what
solicitous care he capped the compound with the scarlet fruit glowing against
the dark green fringe! And then the hospitality and grace with which he offered
it, after the selected oat straws had been plunged into its tinkling depths!
After
about four months in Washington, Miss Lydia discovered one morning that they
were almost without money. The Anecdotes and Reminiscences was completed, but
publishers had not jumped at the collected gems of Alabama sense and wit. The
rental of a small house which they still owned in Mobile was two months in
arrears. Their board money for the month would be due in three days. Miss Lydia
called her father to a consultation.
"No
money?" said he with a surprised look. "It is quite annoying to be
called on so frequently for these petty sums, Really, I—"
The
Major searched his pockets. He found only a two-dollar bill, which he returned
to his vest pocket.
"I
must attend to this at once, Lydia," he said. "Kindly get me my
umbrella and I will go downtown immediately. The congressman from our district,
General Fulghum, assured me some days ago that he would use his influence to
get my book published at an early date. I will go to his hotel at once and see
what arrangement has been made."
With
a sad little smile Miss Lydia watched him button his "Father Hubbard"
and depart, pausing at the door, as he always did, to bow profoundly.
That
evening, at dark, he returned. It seemed that Congressman Fulghum had seen the
publisher who had the Major's manuscript for reading. That person had said that
if the anecdotes, etc., were carefully pruned down about one-half, in order to
eliminate the sectional and class prejudice with which the book was dyed from
end to end, he might consider its publication.
The
Major was in a white heat of anger, but regained his equanimity, according to
his code of manners, as soon as he was in Miss Lydia's presence.
"We
must have money," said Miss Lydia, with a little wrinkle above her nose.
"Give me the two dollars, and I will telegraph to Uncle Ralph for some
to-night."
The
Major drew a small envelope from his upper vest pocket and tossed it on the
table.
"Perhaps
it was injudicious," he said mildly, "but the sum was so merely nominal
that I bought tickets to the theater to-night. It's a new war drama, Lydia. I
thought you would be pleased to witness its first production in Washington. I
am told that the South has very fair treatment in the play. I confess I should
like to see the performance myself."
Miss
Lydia threw up her hands in silent despair.
Still,
as the tickets were bought, they might as well be used. So that evening, as
they sat in the theater listening to the lively overture, even Miss Lydia was
minded to relegate their troubles, for the hour, to second place. The Major, in
spotless linen, with his extraordinary coat showing only where it was closely
buttoned, and his white hair smoothly roached, looked really fine and
distinguished. The curtain went up on the first act of A Magnolia Flower,
revealing a typical Southern plantation scene. Major Talbot betrayed some
interest.
"Oh,
see!" exclaimed Miss Lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to her program.
The
Major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of characters that her
fingers indicated.
Col.
Webster Calhoun …. Mr. Hopkins Hargraves.
"It's
our Mr. Hargraves," said Miss Lydia. "It must be his first appearance
in what he calls 'the legitimate.' I'm so glad for him."
Not
until the second act did Col. Webster Calhoun appear upon the stage. When he
made his entry Major Talbot gave an audible sniff, glared at him, and seemed to
freeze solid. Miss Lydia uttered a little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her
program in her hand. For Colonel Calhoun was made up as nearly resembling Major
Talbot as one pea does another. The long, thin white hair, curly at the ends,
the aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, raveling shirt front, the
string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were almost exactly duplicated.
And then, to clinch the imitation, he wore the twin to the Major's supposed to
be unparalleled coat. High-collared, baggy, empire-waisted, ample-skirted,
hanging a foot lower in front than behind, the garment could have been designed
from no other pattern. From then on, the Major and Miss Lydia sat bewitched,
and saw the counterfeit presentment of a haughty Talbot "dragged," as
the Major afterward expressed it, "through the slanderous mire of a
corrupt stage."
Mr.
Hargraves had used his opportunities well. He had caught the Major's little
idiosyncrasies of speech, accent, and intonation and his pompous courtliness to
perfection—exaggerating all to the purpose of the stage. When he performed that
marvelous bow that the Major fondly imagined to be the pink of all salutations,
the audience sent forth a sudden round of hearty applause.
Miss
Lydia sat immovable, not daring to glance toward her father. Sometimes her hand
next to him would be laid against her cheek, as if to conceal the smile which,
in spite of her disapproval, she could not entirely suppress.
The
culmination of Hargraves audacious imitation took place in the third act. The
scene is where Colonel Calhoun entertains a few of the neighboring planters in
his "den."
Standing
at a table in the center of the stage, with his friends grouped about him, he
delivers that inimitable, rambling character monologue so famous in A Magnolia
Flower, at the same time that he deftly makes juleps for the party.
Major
Talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heard his best stories
retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced and expanded, and the dream of
the Anecdotes and Reminiscences served, exaggerated and garbled. His favorite
narrative—that of his duel with Rathbone Culbertson—was not omitted, and it was
delivered with more fire, egotism, and gusto than the Major himself put into
it.
The
monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty little lecture on the art
of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act. Here Major Talbot's delicate but
showy science was reproduced to a hair's breadth—from his dainty handling of
the fragrant weed—"the one-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure,
gentlemen, and you extract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this
heaven-bestowed plant"—to his solicitous selection of the oaten straws.
At
the close of the scene the audience raised a tumultuous roar of appreciation.
The portrayal of the type was so exact, so sure and thorough, that the leading
characters in the play were forgotten. After repeated calls, Hargraves came
before the curtain and bowed, his rather boyish face bright and flushed with
the knowledge of success.
At
last Miss Lydia turned and looked at the Major. His thin nostrils were working
like the gills of a fish. He laid both shaking hands upon the arms of his chair
to rise.
"We
will go, Lydia," he said chokingly. "This is an
abominable—desecration."
Before
he could rise, she pulled him back into his seat.
"We
will stay it out," she declared. "Do you want to advertise the copy
by exhibiting the original coat?" So they remained to the end.
Hargraves's
success must have kept him up late that night, for neither at the breakfast nor
at the dinner table did he appear.
About
three in the afternoon he tapped at the door of Major Talbot's study. The Major
opened it, and Hargraves walked in with his hands full of the morning
papers—too full of his triumph to notice anything unusual in the Major's
demeanor.
"I
put it all over 'em last night, Major," he began exultantly. "I had
my inning, and, I think, scored. Here's what The Post says:
"'His
conception and portrayal of the old-time Southern colonel, with his absurd
grandiloquence, his eccentric garb, his quaint idioms and phrases, his
motheaten pride of family, and his really kind heart, fastidious sense of
honor, and lovable simplicity, is the best delineation of a character role on
the boards to-day. The coat worn by Colonel Calhoun is itself nothing less than
an evolution of genius. Mr. Hargraves has captured his public.'
"How
does that sound, Major, for a first-nighter?"
"I
had the honor"—the Major's voice sounded ominously frigid—"of
witnessing your very remarkable performance, sir, last night."
Hargraves
looked disconcerted.
"You
were there? I didn't know you ever—I didn't know you cared for the theater. Oh,
I say, Major Talbot," he exclaimed frankly, "don't you be offended. I
admit I did get a lot of pointers from you that helped out wonderfully in the
part. But it's a type, you know—not individual. The way the audience caught on
shows that. Half the patrons of that theater are Southerners. They recognized
it."
"Mr.
Hargraves," said the Major, who had remained standing, "you have put
upon me an unpardonable insult. You have burlesqued my person, grossly betrayed
my confidence, and misused my hospitality. If I thought you possessed the
faintest conception of what is the sign manual of a gentleman, or what is due
one, I would call you out, sir, old as I am. I will ask you to leave the room,
sir."
The
actor appeared to be slightly bewildered, and seemed hardly to take in the full
meaning of the old gentleman's words.
"I
am truly sorry you took offense," he said regretfully. "Up here we
don't look at things just as you people do. I know men who would buy out half
the house to have their personality put on the stage so the public would
recognize it."
"They
are not from Alabama, sir," said the Major haughtily.
"Perhaps
not. I have a pretty good memory, Major; let me quote a few lines from your
book. In response to a toast at a banquet given in—Milledgeville, I believe—you
uttered, and intend to have printed, these words:
"'The
Northern man is utterly without sentiment or warmth except in so far as the
feelings may be turned to his own commercial profit. He will suffer without
resentment any imputation cast upon the honor of himself or his loved ones that
does not bear with it the consequence of pecuniary loss. In his charity, he
gives with a liberal hand; but it must be heralded with the trumpet and
chronicled in brass.'
"Do
you think that picture is fairer than the one you saw of Colonel
Calhoun
last night?"
"The
description," said the Major, frowning, "is—not without grounds.
Some
exag—latitude must be allowed in public speaking."
"And
in public acting," replied Hargraves.
"That
is not the point," persisted the Major, unrelenting. "It was a
personal caricature. I positively decline to overlook it, sir."
"Major
Talbot," said Hargraves, with a winning smile, "I wish you would
understand me. I want you to know that I never dreamed of insulting you. In my
profession, all life belongs to me. I take what I want, and what I can, and
return it over the footlights. Now, if you will, let's let it go at that. I
came in to see you about something else. We've been pretty good friends for
some months, and I'm going to take the risk of offending you again. I know you
are hard up for money—never mind how I found out, a boarding house is no place
to keep such matters secret—and I want you to let me help you out of the pinch.
I've been there often enough myself. I've been getting a fair salary all the
season, and I've saved some money. You're welcome to a couple hundred—or even
more—until you get——"
"Stop!"
commanded the Major, with his arm outstretched. "It seems that my book
didn't lie, after all. You think your money salve will heal all the hurts of
honor. Under no circumstances would I accept a loan from a casual acquaintance;
and as to you, sir, I would starve before I would consider your insulting offer
of a financial adjustment of the circumstances we have discussed. I beg to
repeat my request relative to your quitting the apartment."
Hargraves
took his departure without another word. He also left the house the same day,
moving, as Mrs. Vardeman explained at the supper table, nearer the vicinity of
the downtown theater, where A Magnolia Flower was booked for a week's run.
Critical
was the situation with Major Talbot and Miss Lydia. There was no one in
Washington to whom the Major's scruples allowed him to apply for a loan. Miss
Lydia wrote a letter to Uncle Ralph, but it was doubtful whether that
relative's constricted affairs would permit him to furnish help. The Major was
forced to make an apologetic address to Mrs. Vardeman regarding the delayed
payment for board, referring to "delinquent rentals" and
"delayed remittances" in a rather confused strain.
Deliverance
came from an entirely unexpected source.
Late
one afternoon the door maid came up and announced an old colored man who wanted
to see Major Talbot. The Major asked that he be sent up to his study. Soon an
old darkey appeared in the doorway, with his hat in hand, bowing, and scraping
with one clumsy foot. He was quite decently dressed in a baggy suit of black.
His big, coarse shoes shone with a metallic luster suggestive of stove polish.
His bushy wool was gray—almost white. After middle life, it is difficult to
estimate the age of a negro. This one might have seen as many years as had
Major Talbot.
"I
be bound you don't know me, Mars' Pendleton," were his first words.
The
Major rose and came forward at the old, familiar style of address. It was one
of the old plantation darkeys without a doubt; but they had been widely
scattered, and he could not recall the voice or face.
"I
don't believe I do," he said kindly—"unless you will assist my
memory."
"Don't
you 'member Cindy's Mose, Mars' Pendleton, what 'migrated 'mediately after de
war?"
"Wait
a moment," said the Major, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his
fingers. He loved to recall everything connected with those beloved days.
"Cindy's Mose," he reflected. "You worked among the
horses—breaking the colts. Yes, I remember now. After the surrender, you took
the name of—don't prompt me—Mitchell, and went to the West—to Nebraska."
"Yassir,
yassir,"—the old man's face stretched with a delighted grin—"dat's
him, dat's it. Newbraska. Dat's me—Mose Mitchell. Old Uncle Mose Mitchell, dey
calls me now. Old mars', your pa, gimme a pah of dem mule colts when I lef' fur
to staht me goin' with. You 'member dem colts, Mars' Pendleton?"
"I
don't seem to recall the colts," said the Major. "You know. I was
married the first year of the war and living at the old Follinsbee place. But
sit down, sit down, Uncle Mose. I'm glad to see you. I hope you have
prospered."
Uncle
Mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor beside it.
"Yessir;
of late I done mouty famous. When I first got to Newbraska, dey folks come all
roun' me to see dem mule colts. Dey ain't see no mules like dem in Newbraska. I
sold dem mules for three hundred dollars. Yessir—three hundred.
"Den
I open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and bought some lan'. Me and
my old 'oman done raised up seb'm chillun, and all doin' well 'cept two of 'em
what died. Fo' year ago a railroad come along and staht a town slam ag'inst my
lan', and, suh, Mars' Pendleton, Uncle Mose am worth leb'm thousand dollars in
money, property, and lan'."
"I'm
glad to hear it," said the Major heartily. "Glad to hear it."
"And
dat little baby of yo'n, Mars' Pendleton—one what you name Miss Lyddy—I be
bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody wouldn't know her."
The
Major stepped to the door and called: "Lydie, dear, will you come?"
Miss
Lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in from her room.
"Dar,
now! What'd I tell you? I knowed dat baby done be plum growed up. You don't
'member Uncle Mose, child?"
"This
is Aunt Cindy's Mose, Lydia," explained the Major. "He left
Sunnymead
for the West when you were two years old."
"Well,"
said Miss Lydia, "I can hardly be expected to remember you, Uncle Mose, at
that age. And, as you say, I'm 'plum growed up,' and was a blessed long time
ago. But I'm glad to see you, even if I can't remember you."
And
she was. And so was the Major. Something alive and tangible had come to link
them with the happy past. The three sat and talked over the olden times, the
Major and Uncle Mose correcting or prompting each other as they reviewed the
plantation scenes and days.
The
Major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home.
"Uncle
Mose am a delicate," he explained, "to de grand Baptis' convention in
dis city. I never preached none, but bein' a residin' elder in de church, and
able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent me along."
"And
how did you know we were in Washington?" inquired Miss Lydia.
"Dey's
a cullud man works in de hotel whar I stops, what comes from Mobile. He told me
he seen Mars' Pendleton comin' outen dish here house one mawnin'.
"What
I come fur," continued Uncle Mose, reaching into his pocket—"besides
de sight of home folks—was to pay Mars' Pendleton what I owes him.
"Yessir—three
hundred dollars." He handed the Major a roll of bills. "When I lef'
old mars' says: 'Take dem mule colts, Mose, and, if it be so you gits able, pay
fur 'em.' Yessir—dem was his words. De war had done lef' old mars' po' hisself.
Old mars' bein' long ago dead, de debt descends to Mars' Pendleton. Three hundred
dollars. Uncle Mose is plenty able to pay now. When dat railroad buy my lan' I
laid off to pay fur dem mules. Count de money, Mars' Pendleton. Dat's what I
sold dem mules fur. Yessir."
Tears
were in Major Talbot's eyes. He took Uncle Mose's hand and laid his other upon
his shoulder.
"Dear,
faithful, old servitor," he said in an unsteady voice, "I don't mind
saying to you that 'Mars' Pendleton spent his last dollar in the world a week
ago. We will accept this money, Uncle Mose, since, in a way, it is a sort of
payment, as well as a token of the loyalty and devotion of the old régime.
Lydia, my dear, take the money. You are better fitted than I to manage its
expenditure."
"Take
it, honey," said Uncle Mose. "Hit belongs to you. Hit's Talbot
money."
After
Uncle Mose had gone, Miss Lydia had a good cry—-for joy; and the Major turned
his face to a corner, and smoked his clay pipe volcanically.
The
succeeding days saw the Talbots restored to peace and ease. Miss Lydia's face
lost its worried look. The major appeared in a new frock coat, in which he
looked like a wax figure personifying the memory of his golden age. Another
publisher who read the manuscript of the Anecdotes and Reminiscences thought
that, with a little retouching and toning down of the high lights, he could
make a really bright and salable volume of it. Altogether, the situation was
comfortable, and not without the touch of hope that is often sweeter than
arrived blessings.
One
day, about a week after their piece of good luck, a maid brought a letter for
Miss Lydia to her room. The postmark showed that it was from New York. Not
knowing any one there, Miss Lydia, in a mild flutter of wonder, sat down by her
table and opened the letter with her scissors. This was what she read:
DEAR
MISS TALBOT:
I
thought you might be glad to learn of my good fortune. I have received and
accepted an offer of two hundred dollars per week by a New York stock company
to play Colonel Calhoun in A Magnolia Flower.
There
is something else I wanted you to know. I guess you'd better not tell Major
Talbot. I was anxious to make him some amends for the great help he was to me
in studying the part, and for the bad humor he was in about it. He refused to
let me, so I did it anyhow. I could easily spare the three hundred.
Sincerely
yours,
H.
HOPKINS HARGRAVES.
P.S.
How did I play Uncle Mose?
Major
Talbot, passing through the hall, saw Miss Lydia's door open and stopped.
"Any
mail for us this morning, Lydia, dear?" he asked.
Miss
Lydia slid the letter beneath a fold of her dress.
