Roads of Destiny
Emancipation of Billy 3,805
words The
Emancipation of Billy
In
the old, old, square-porticoed mansion, with the wry window-shutters and the
paint peeling off in discolored flakes lived one of the last of the war
governors.
The South has forgotten the enmity of the great conflict,
but it refuses to abandon its old traditions and idols. In
"Governor" Pemberton, as he was still fondly called, the
inhabitants of Elmville saw the relic of their state's ancient greatness and
glory. In his day he had been a man large in the eye of his country. His
state had pressed upon him every honor within its gift. And now when he was
old, and enjoying a richly merited repose outside the swift current of
public affairs, his townsmen loved to do him reverence for the sake of the
past
The
Governor's decaying "mansion" stood upon the main street of
Elmville within a few feet of its rickety paling-fence. Every morning
the Governor would descend the steps with extreme care and
deliberation - on account of his rheumatism - and then the click of his goldheaded cane would be heard as he slowly proceeded
up the rugged brick sidewalk. He was now nearly seventy-eight, but he had
grown old gracefully and beautifully. His rather long, smooth hair and
flowing, parted whiskers were snow-white. His full-skirted frock-coat was
always buttoned snugly about his tall, spare figure.
He
wore a high, well-kept silk hat - known as a "plug" in Elmville -
and nearly always gloves. His manners were punctilious, and somewhat
overcharged with courtesy.
The Governor's walks up Lee Avenue, the principal street, developed in their
course into a sort of memorial, triumphant procession. Everyone he met
saluted him with a profound respect. Many would remove their hats. Those who
were honored with his personal friendship would pause to shake hands, and
then you would see exemplified the genuine beau ideal Southern courtesy.
Upon
reaching the corner of the second square from the mansion, the Governor
would pause. Another street crossed the avenue there, and traffic, to the
extent of several farmers' wagons and a peddler's cart or two, would rage
about the junction. Then the falcon eye of General Deffenbaugh would
perceive the situation, and the General would hasten, with ponderous
solicitude, from his office in the First National Bank building to the
assistance of his old friend.
When
the two exchanged greetings the decay of modern manners would become
accusingly apparent. The General's bulky and commanding figure would bend
lissomely at a point where you would have regarded its ability to do so with
incredulity. The Governor's cherished rheumatism would be compelled, for the
moment, to give way before a genuflexion brought down from the days of the
cavaliers.
The Governor would take the General's arm and be piloted safely between the
haywagons and the sprinklingcart to the other side of the street.
Proceeding to the post-office in the care of his friend, the esteemed
statesman would there hold an informal levee among the citizens who were
come for their morning mail. Here, gathering two or three prominent in law,
politics, or family, the pageant would make a stately progress along the
Avenue, stopping at the Palace Hotel where, perhaps, would be found upon the
register the name of some guest deemed worthy of an introduction to the
state's venerable and illustrious
son. If any such were found, an hour or two would be spent in recalling the
faded glories of the Governor's long-vanished administration.
On
the return march the General would invariably suggest that, His Excellency
being no doubt fatigued, it would be wise to recuperate for a few minutes at
the Drug Emporium of Mr. Appleby R. Fentress (an elegant gentleman, Sir -
one of the Catham County Fentresses - so many of our best-blooded families
have had to go into trade, Sir, since the war).
Mr.
Appleby R. Fentress was a connoisseur in fatigue. Indeed, if he had not
been, his memory alone should have enabled him to prescribe, for the
majestic invasion of his pharmacy was a casual happening that had surprised
him almost daily for years. Mr. Fentress knew the formula of, and possessed
the skill to compound, a certain potion antagonistic to fatigue, the salient
ingredient of which he described (no doubt in pharmaceutical terms) as
"genuine old hand-made Clover Leaf '59, Private Stock."
Nor
did the ceremony of administering the potion ever vary. Mr. Fentress would
first compound two of the celebrated mixtures - one for the Governor, and
the other for the General to "sample." Then the Governor would
make this little speech in his high, piping, quavering voice:
"No,
Sir - not one drop until you have prepared one for yourself
and joined us, Mr. Fentress. Your father, Sir, was one of my most
valued supporters and friends during My Administration, and any mark of
esteem I can confer on his son is not only a pleasure but a duty, Sir."
Blushing
with delight at the royal condescension, the druggist would obey, and all
would drink to the General's toast: "The prosperity of our grand old
state, gentlemen - the memory of her
glorious past - the health of her Favorite
Son."
Some one of the Old Guard was always at hand to escort the Governor home.
Sometimes the General's business duties denied him the privilege, and then
Judge Broomfield or Colonel Titus, or one of the Ashford County Slaughters
would be on hand to perform the rite.
Such
were the observances attendant upon the Governor's morning stroll to the
post-office. How much more magnificent, impressive, and spectacular, then,
was the scene at public functions when the General would lead forth the
silver-haired relic of former greatness, like some rare and fragile waxwork
figure, and trumpet his pristine eminence to his fellow citizens!
General Deffenbaugh was the Voice of Elmville. Some said he was
Elmville. At any rate, he had no competitor as the Mouthpiece. He owned
enough stock in the Daily Banner to dictate its utterance, enough shares in
the First National Bank to be the referee of its loans, and a war record
that left him without a rival for first place at barbecues, school
commencements, and Decoration Days. Besides these acquirements he was
possessed with endowments. His personality was
inspiring and triumphant. Undisputed sway had molded him to the likeness of
a fatted Roman emperor. The tones of his voice were not otherwise than
clarion. To say that the General was public-spirited would fall short of
doing him justice. He had spirit enough for a dozen publics. And as a sure
foundation for it all, he had a heart that was big and stanch. Yes; General
Deffenbaugh was Elmville.
One
little incident that usually occurred during the Governor's morning walk has
had its chronicling delayed by more important matters. The procession was
accustomed to halt before a small brick office on the Avenue, fronted by a
short flight of steep wooden steps.
A
modest tin sign over the door bore the words: "Wm. B. Pemberton:
Attorney-at-Law. "
Looking
inside, the General would roar: "Hello, Billy, my boy." The less-distinguished members of the escort would
call: "Morning, Billy." The Governor would pipe:
"Good-morning, William."
Then a patient-looking little man with hair turning gray
along the temples would come down the steps and shake hands with each one of
the party. All Elmville shook hands when it met.
The formalities concluded, the little man would go back
to his table, heaped with law books and papers, while the procession would
proceed.
Billy
Pemberton was, as his sign declared, a lawyer, by profession.
By occupation and common consent he was the Son of his Father.
This was the shadow in which Billy lived, the pit out of which he had
unsuccessfully striven for years to climb and, he had come to believe, the
grave in which his ambitions were destined to be buried.
Filial respect and duty he paid beyond the habit of most sons, but he
aspired to be known and appraised by his own deeds and worth.
After
many years of tireless labor he had become known in certain quarters far
from Elmville as a master of the principles of the law.
Twice he had gone to Washington and argued cases before the highest
tribunal with such acute logic and learning that the silken gowns on the
bench had rustled from the force of it. His income from his practice had
grown until he was able to support his father, in the old family mansion
(which neither of them would have thought of abandoning, rickety as it was)
in the comfort and almost the luxury of
the old extravagant days. Yet, he remained to Elmville as only
"Billy" Pemberton, the son of our distinguished and honored
fellow-townsman, "ex-Governor Pemberton." Thus was he introduced
at public gatherings where he sometimes spoke,
haltingly and prosily, for his talents were too serious and deep for
extempore brilliancy; thus was he presented to strangers and to the lawyers
who made the circuit of the courts; and so the Daily Banner referred to him
in print.
To be "the son of" was his doom. Whatever he should accomplish
would have to be sacrificed upon the altar of this magnificent but fatal
parental precedence.
The peculiarity and the saddest thing about Billy's ambition was that the
only world he thirsted to conquer was Elmville. His nature was diffident and
unassuming. National or State honors might have oppressed him. But, above
all things, he hungered for the appreciation of the friends among whom he
had been born and raised. He would not have plucked one leaf from the
garlands that were so lavishly bestowed upon his father, he merely rebelled
against having his own wreaths woven from those dried and self-same
branches.. But Elmville "Bilked" and "conned" him to his
concealed but lasting chagrin, until at length he grew more reserved and
formal and studious than ever.
There
came a morning when Billy found among his mail a letter from a very high
source, tendering him the appointment to an important judicial position in
the new island possessions of our country.
The honor was a distinguished one, for the entire nation had discussed the
probable recipients of these positions, and had agreed that the situation
demanded only men of the highest character, ripe learning, and evenly
balanced mind.
Billy
could not subdue a certain exultation at this token of the success of his
long and arduous labors, but, at the same time, a whimsical smile lingered
around his mouth, for he foresaw in which Elmville would place the credit.
"We congratulate Governor Pemberton upon the mark of appreciation
conferred upon his son" -- "Elmville rejoices with our honored
citizen, Governor Pemberton, at his son's success" - "Put her
there Billy!" - "Judge Billy Pemberton, Sir; son of our State's
war hero and the people's pride!" - these
were the phrases, printed and oral, conjured up by Billy's prophetic
fancy. Grandson of his State, and stepchild of Elmville - thus had fate
fixed his kinship to the body politic.
Billy
lived with his father in the old mansion. The two and an elderly lady - a
distant relative - comprised the family. Perhaps, though, old Jeff, the
Governor's ancient colored body-servant, should be included. Without doubt,
he would have claimed the honor. There were other servants, but Thomas
Jefferson Pemberton, Sah, was a member of "de fambly."
Jeff
was the one Elmvillian who gave to Billy the gold of approval unmixed with
the alloy of paternalism. To him "Mars William" was the greatest
man in Talbot County. Beaten upon though he was by the shining light that
emanates from an ex-war governor, and loyal as he remained to the old
regime, his faith and admiration were Billy's.
As valet to a hero, and a member of the family, he may have had
superior opportunities for judging.
Jeff was the first one to whom Billy revealed the news.
When he reached home for supper Jeff took his "plug" hat and
smoothed it before hanging it upon the hall-rack.
"Dar
now!" said the old man: "I knowed it was er comin', I knowed it
was "gwine ter happen. Er judge, you says, Mars William? Dem Yankees
done made you er judge? It's high time, sah, dey was doin' someptin to make up for dey rescality endurin' de war. I
boun' dey holds a confab and says: 'Le's make Mars William Pemberton er
judge, and dat'll settle it.' Does you have to go away down to dem
Fillypines, Mars William, or kin you judge 'em from here?"
"I'd
have to live there most of the time of course," said Billy.
"I wonder what de Gubnor "wine say 'bout dat," speculated
Jeff. Billy wondered too.
After
supper, when the two sat in the library, according to their habit, the
Governor smoking his clay pipe and Billy his cigar, the son dutifully
confessed to having been tendered the appointment.
For a long time the Governor sat, smoking, without making any comment. Billy
reclined in his favorite rocker, waiting, perhaps still flushed with satisfaction over the tender that had come to him,
unsolicited, in his dingy little office, above the heads of the intriguing,
time-serving, clamorous multitude.
At
last the Governor spoke; and, though his words were seemingly
irrelevant, they were to the point. His voice had a note of martyrdom
running through its senile quaver.
"My rheumatism has been growing steadily worse these past
months, William."
"I
am sorry, Father," said Billy, gently.
"And
I am nearly seventy-eight. I am getting to be an old man. I can recall the
names of but two or three who were in public life during My Administration.
What did you say is the nature of this position that is offered you,
William?"
"A
Federal judgeship, Father. I believe it is considered to be a somewhat
flattering tender. It is outside of politics and wire-pulling, you
know."
"No
doubt, no doubt. Few of the Pembertons have engaged in professional life for
nearly a century. None of them have ever held Federal positions They have
been landowners, slave-owners, and planters on a large scale. One or two of
the Derwents - your mother's family - were in the law. Have you decided to
accept this appointment, William?"
"I am thinking it over," said Billy, slowly, regarding the ash of
his cigar.
"You have been a good son to me," continued the Governor, stirring
his pipe with the handle of a penholder.
"I've
been your son all my life," said Billy, darkly.
"I
am often gratified," piped the Governor, betraying a touch of
complacency, "by being congratulated upon having a son with such
sound and sterling qualities. Especially in this, our native town, is your
name linked with mine in the talk of our citizens."
"I never knew anyone to forget the vinculum," murmured Billy,
unintelligibly.
"Whatever
prestige," pursued the parent, "I may be possessed of,
by virtue of my name and services to the state, has been yours to
draw upon freely. I have not
hesitated to exert it in your behalf whenever
opportunity offered. And you have deserved it, William.
You've been the best of sons. And now this appointment comes to take
you away from me. I have but a few years left to live. I am almost dependent
upon others now, even in walking and dressing.
What
would I do without you, my son?" ..
The
Governor's pipe dropped to the floor. A tear trickled from his eye. His
voice had risen, and crumbled to a weakling falsetto, and ceased. He was an
old, old man about to be bereft of the son that cherished him.
Billy rose, and laid his hand upon the Governor's shoulder.
"Don't
worry, father," he said, cheerfully. "I'm not going to accept.
Elmville is good enough for me. I'll write to-night and decline
it."
At the next interchange of devoirs between the Governor and General
Deffenbaugh on Lee Avenue, His Excellency, with a comfortable air of
self-satisfaction, spoke of the appointment that had been tendered to Billy.
The
General whistled.
"That's
a plum for Billy," he shouted. "Who'd have thought that
Billy - but, confound it, it's been in him all the time. It's a boost
for Elmville. It'll send real estate up. It's an honor to our state. It's a
compliment to the South. We've all been blind about Billy. When does
he leave? We must have a reception. Great Gatlings! that job's eight
thousand a year! There's been a car-load of lead-pencils worn to stubs
figuring on those appointments. Think of it! Our little wood-sawing, mealymouthed
Billy! Angel unawares doesn't begin to express it. Elmville is disgraced
forever unless she lines up in a hurry for ratification and apology."
The
venerable Moloch smiled fatuously. He carried the fire with which to consume
all these tributes to Billy, the smoke of which would ascend as an incense
to himself.
"William,"
said the Governor, with modest pride, "has declined the appointment. He
refuses to leave me in my old age. He is a good son."
The
General swung around and laid a large forefinger upon the bosom of his
friend. Much of the General's success had been due to his dexterity in
establishing swift lines of communication between
cause and effect.
"Governor,"
he said, with a keen look in his big, oxlike eyes, "you've been
complaining to Billy about your rheumatism."
"My
dear General," replied the Governor, stiffly, "my son is
forty-two. He is quite capable of deciding such questions for himself. And
I, as his parent, feel it my duty to state that your remark about - er -
-rheumatism is a mighty poor shot from a very small bore, sir, aimed at a
purely personal and private affliction."
"If
you will allow me," retorted the General, "you've afflicted the
public with it for some time; and 'twas no small bore, at that."
This first tiff between the two old comrades might have grown into something
more serious but for the fortunate interruption caused by the ostentatious
approach of Colonel Titus and another one of the court retinue from the
right county, to whom the General confided the coddled statesman and went
his way.
After
Billy had so effectually entombed his ambitions, and taken the veil, so to
speak, in a sonnery, he was surprised to discover how much lighter of heart
and happier he felt. He realized what a long, restless struggle he had
maintained, and how much he had lost by failing to cull the simple but
wholesome pleasure by the way. His heart warmed now to Elmville and the
friends who had refused to set him upon a pedestal. It was better, he began
to think, to be "Billy" and his father's son, and to be hailed
familiarly by cheery neighbors and grown-up playmates, than to be "Your
Honor," and sit among strangers, hearing, maybe, through the arguments
of learned counsel, that old man's feeble voice crying: "What would I
do without you, my son?"
Billy
began to surprise his acquaintances by whistling as he walked up the street;
others he astounded by slapping them disrespectfully upon their backs and
raking up old anecdotes he had not had the time to recollect for years.
Though he hammered away at his law cases as thoroughly as ever, he found
more time for relaxation and the company of his friends. Some of the younger
set were actually after him to join the golf club. A striking proof of his
abandonment to obscurity was his adoption of a most undignified, rakish
little soft hat, reserving the "plug" for Sundays and state
occasions. Billy was beginning
to enjoy Elmville, though that irreverent burgh had neglected to crown him
with bay and myrtle.
All
the while uneventful peace pervaded Elmville. The Governor continued to make
his triumphal parades to the post-office with the General as chief Marshal,
for the slight squall that had rippled their friendship had, to all
indications, been forgotten by both.
But one day Elmville woke to sudden excitement. The news had come that a
touring presidential party would honor Elmville by a twenty-minute stop. The
Executive had promised a five-minute address from the balcony of the Palace
Hotel.
Elmville
arose as one man - that man being, of course, General Deffenbaugh- to
receive becomingly the chieftain of all the clans. The train with the tiny
Stars and Stripes fluttering from the engine pilot arrived. Elmville had
done her best. There were bands, flowers, carriages, uniforms, banners, and
committees without end. High school girls in white frocks impeded the steps
of the party with roses strewn nervously in bunches. The chieftain had seen
it all before -
scores of times. He could have pictured it exactly in advance, from the
Blue-and-Gray speech down to the smallest rosebud. Yet his
kindly smile of interest greeted Elmville's display as if it had been
the only and original. In
the upper rotunda of the Palace Hotel the town's most illustrious were
assembled for the honor of being presented to the distinguished guests
previous to the expected address. Outside, Elmville's inglorious but
patriotic masses filled the streets. Here, in the hotel General Deffenbaugh was holding in reserve
Elmville's
trump card. Elmville knew; for the trump was a fixed one, and its lead
consecrated by archaic custom.
At
the proper moment Governor Pemberton, beautifully venerable, magnificently
antique, tall, paramount, stepped forward upon the arm of the General.
Elmville watched and harked with bated breath. Never until now when
a Northern President of the United States should clasp hands with ex-war-Governor
Pemberton - would the breach be entirely closed - would the country be made
one and indivisible no North, not much South, very little East, and no
West to speak of. So Elmville excitedly scraped kalsomine from the walls of the Palace
Hotel with its Sunday best, and waited for the Voice to speak.
And
Billy! We had nearly forgotten Billy. He was cast for Son, and he waited
patiently for his cue. He carried his "plug" in his hand, and felt
serene. He admired his father's striking air and pose. After all, it was a
great deal to be son of a man who could so gallantly hold the position of a
cynosure for three generations.
General
Deffenbaugh cleared his throat. Elmville opened its mouth, and squirmed. The
chieftain with the kindly, fateful face was holding out his hand, smiling.
Ex-war-Governor Pemberton extended his own across the chasm. But what was
this the General was saying?
"Mr. President, allow me to present to you one who has
the honor to be the father of our foremost distinguished citizen, learned
and honored jurist, beloved townsman, and model Southern gentleman - the
Honorable William B. Pemberton." =====================================
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