Chapter XIV: Westover at Wanalah

But if Colonel Conway did not visit Westover during his brief stay at Wanalah, some others did. In the main they were elderly men of his own social class, whose purpose was sincere to express their pleasure in his escape from an embarrassing perplexity. But their very sincerity proved to be the undoing of their purpose. They hardly knew how to approach the subject of his trouble without offence and yet it seemed necessary to speak of it. It isn't easy to tell a man of high place in the world that you are pleased with his accidental escape from a term of penal servitude in the penitentiary. As a result of this embarrassment the congratulations of these gentlemen, which were meant to be cordial, seemed to Westover to be coldly commiserative instead. Meant to be comradely, they seemed to him condescending almost to the point of offensiveness. To make matters worse, Westover's visitors were as sorely embarrassed as he was, and by way of escape, every one of them, upon one pretext or another, declined his invitation to stay to dinner which, under ordinary circumstances, every one of them would have accepted quite as a matter of course. To him this suggested avoidance of intimacy.

Perhaps all this was emphasized to his mind by his experience with the earliest of his visitors on that day. This was William Wilberforce Webb, a young lawyer who as representative of the county in the House of Delegates--the legislature of Virginia--regarded himself as "a rising young statesman, in the direct line of promotion."

Mr. Webb was not a man in Westover's class, and in visiting Wanalah at all he was guilty of something approaching presumption, under the rules of the social régime of that time and country. Still, as the representative of the county in the legislature, he had a right perhaps to regard himself as privileged to that extent.

However that might be, Westover welcomed him cordially as the first of his neighbors to call. He extended the customary hospitalities of the house, which the other accepted. Then the two fell into conversation upon general topics, drifting into more personal themes by natural processes. Lacking the tact that comes of good breeding, the voluble and self appreciative lawyer presently sought to exalt his own condescension in promptly calling upon Westover.

"You see I have no hidebound prejudices, Westover, and in my position, as the representative of the people, the promptitude of my visit may encourage others to recognize you, in spite of what has happened."

Pale to the lips with passion, Westover rose as the man spoke, moved to the edge of the porch in which they had been sitting, and, calling to a negro boy, said:

"Bring this gentleman's horse to the door at once; do you hear? He has imperative business elsewhere than at Wanalah."

There was no mistaking the meaning of this, and Webb was quick to comprehend it. Rising angrily he asked:

"What do you mean, sir?"

"You heard my instruction to the boy," answered Westover in an even, unexcited voice. "You can infer my meaning from that. By the way, the boy has obeyed promptly and your horse is waiting for you."

The man was unaccustomed to such deliberation and self control in the speech of an angry person, but he sought to imitate it as he had sought before to copy the manners of those whose social position he envied. He suppressed the impulse of intemperate speech and, assuming the dignity that he thought belonged to him in right of his "position," said:

"You will hear from me, promptly, Mr. Westover."

"At your pleasure, sir," answered Westover. "I shall remain at Wanalah for four days, after to-day. After that I shall be absent for a time, but should your message to me be delayed so long, which I can hardly conceive to be possible, you can communicate with me later through my overseer, with whom I shall leave an address to be used only in emergencies. Should you leave any message with him he will have instructions to forward it to me by a special courier who will lose no time in its delivery."

This was a crowning affront to a man of Webb's extraction, and perhaps Westover meant it to be such. The overseer class in Virginia was the most inferior of all, and the very suggestion of one gentleman that he would communicate with another through his overseer would have implied insult. If Westover had been speaking to one whom he regarded as an equal he would have said:

"My address for a time will be uncertain, but my overseer will have it and I'll instruct him to keep my lawyer informed of it from time to time."

To make matters worse, it was the bitterest drop of gall in Webb's cup that he was himself descended from a race of overseers. His father, indeed, had never served in that capacity, for the reason that the grandfather had left him enough money to buy a little plantation of his own and struggle for recognition as a member of the planter class. But Webb had learned by experience that there was vitality in the Virginian dogma that "it takes three generations to make a gentleman."

The suggestion, therefore, that he might, if necessary, communicate with Westover through the Wanalah overseer, was peculiarly offensive to Webb. Whether Westover had intended it to be so or not, there is no means of finding out. He was angry enough to intend anything.

But this encounter spoiled Westover's capacity to enjoy the visits of his later coming friends. It set his sensitiveness on edge, as it were, and prompted his mind to misinterpretation, so that when he was left to dine alone at Wanalah that day the very spaciousness of the dining room seemed to mock his solitude, while the polished furniture that had witnessed so much of joyous festivity in that great banquet hall seemed to have put on mourning for its master.

About sunset, however, relief came to Westover's spirit in the person of Dr. Carley Farnsworth. His real name was Don Carlos Farnsworth, and he was a physician, but to Westover as to every other friend he had ever had, he was known as "Carley." Carley was in many ways peculiar. He was cynical at times and always disposed to take a whimsical view of things. His sense of humor was alert and keen, though he never in his life made a joke and very rarely laughed. His most whimsical interpretations of events and situations were delivered in solemn, philosophical fervor, and with a seriousness that well nigh undid the humor of them.

He arrived at Wanalah about sunset, and greeted his old friend cordially, and quite as if his visit had been an ordinary one with no "circumstances" of any kind behind it. Carley Farnsworth was a gentleman, that was all. He had tact and _nous_, and above all a sympathy so abounding that trespass upon another's sensibilities was impossible to him. Even in examining patients, it was said of him that he asked all his questions in a way that made them seem a matter of course.

After the first greetings were over he said:

"I've been rather impatiently waiting for your return to Wanalah, Boyd, because I've been wanting to floor you with half a dozen authorities that agree with me as to the construction of _ut_ with the subjunctive in that passage we came so near fighting about. I've devoted all my time lately to the task of accumulating ammunition and after supper I'm going to blow you clear out of the arena. But supper first, of course. I'm a hungry hygienist and I know the flavor of the Wanalah hams. By the way, you and I are alone; why shouldn't we be dissolute? If you'll tell your cook to serve us some roasted black-eyed peas, such as you and I ate here a year ago,--roasted in the pod you know, and served with the hot ashes on them,--I'll promise to be happy for a whole year to come. Of course there'll be broiled tomatoes as an adjunct to the cold ham, and paper thin wafer biscuit to keep our digestions in order, and after supper we'll discuss '_ut_ with the subjunctive' as far into the night as you please."

"Thank you," said Westover, smiling for the first time that day. "I'm ready for the contest, though really I don't think either of us is Latin scholar enough to be entitled to 'views' on the subject."

"There you annoyingly agree with the authorities," answered Dr. Farnsworth. "You see I wrote to Professor Anthon on the subject, submitting my contentions, and he replied most courteously, suggesting that if I would supplement my obviously rudimentary Latin studies with a more considerable reading of Latin texts,--he mentioned fifteen hundred or so that he thought I might profitably run through in my leisure moments,--I would gain some slight insight into the grammatical problem I had undertaken to settle out of my own inner consciousness and Bullion's Latin Grammar. The thing put me on my mettle, so I wrote to our own University professor, Dr. Gessner Harrison. What do you think? He replied: 'My dear Dr. Farnsworth: You're a sublimated idiot and a good many different kinds of a donkey.' Those weren't his exact words, you understand, but the paraphrase fairly interprets the spirit of his reply. However, we'll leave all that till after supper."

So he chattered on, after his habit, and he succeeded not only in preventing talk of depressing things, but in amusing his host so far as to awaken something like jollity in him.

But an occurrence during supper threatened to spoil all. A missive arrived from Webb, borne not by a friend commissioned to "act for him," but by a negro servant.

Westover tore the envelope open and read the few lines written upon the sheet within. They ran as follows:

"Mr. Webb intimated to Mr. Westover today that he would presently send him a hostile note. Upon reflection Mr. Webb has decided that he cannot afford to send anything of the kind. It seems to him and to such friends as he has had time to consult that recent events affecting Mr. Westover's status in society--events which need not be specified in detail--have rendered it unnecessary and unbecoming for any gentleman to pay attention to anything that Mr. Westover may say or do."

Having read the insolent message with no sign of anger that would have been observed by anybody, Westover turned to his dining-room servant and said, quite indifferently:

"Send the boy who brought that note to me. I wish to speak to him."

When the negro messenger entered, Westover asked:

"Do you belong to Mr. Webb?"

"No, sir. Laws a Massy, Mas' Boyd, he don't own no folks er nothin' else. He jes' hires me to fetch and carry for him sometimes."

"I thought so. How much did he pay you to bring this note to me?"

"Eighteen pence, sir."

"Well, now I want you to carry it back to him and I'll give you two and threepence for the service. I'll make it half a dollar, if you'll tell him just what I say."

In old Virginia "eighteen pence" meant a quarter of a dollar, and "two and threepence" meant thirty-seven and a half cents, the shilling then being sixteen and two-thirds cents, as the result of some ancient debasement of coin in England.

"Suttenly, sir. Ef what you wants me to say is so superfluous like as to make him mad, I reckon I kin run faster'n he kin."

"Very well then. I want you to hand him back his letter and say:

"'Mas' Boyd Westover says he hasn't time just now to ride seven miles to the Court House to pull your nose or slap your jaws, but he'll attend to the matter at the first convenient opportunity.' Can you say that?"

"No," interrupted Carley Farnsworth. "Why should you want him to? It wouldn't add a cubit to the stature of your dignity and it wouldn't be any worse affront to Webb than you can put upon him by sending his note back without a word. He would rejoice in a quarrel with you--a safe one at arm's length I mean. It would exalt him in the eyes of others, and as he's a member of the legislature sure of his reelection, you can't challenge him or he you. You may hold any view you please as to '_ut_' with the subjunctive, but on this matter you simply mustn't obey the impulses of temporary anger. Send the letter back without a word, and to-morrow you'll thank me for bringing philosophy and common sense to the restraint of an impulse that has its root in the dormant but still potential savagery of your nature."

Westover laughed at the solemn ponderousness of his friend's utterance, and the laughter was good for him.

"You're right, of course," he said. "Here, Sam, just take this letter back to Mr. Webb and tell him I sent no message of any kind. And here's your half dollar."

Then, as the negro left the room the young man said:

"After all, my time hasn't come yet, and meanwhile I must preserve my dignity. You see, Carley, I am still Westover of Wanalah, and I mean to prove it to all men by doing things. I don't know yet what things they are to be, but they must be worthy of the name I bear. I'm going off to rest and think for a while, and when I come back to Wanalah Jack Towns will tell me what tools I have to work with. Meanwhile brawling with an underbred fellow like Webb would be most unbecoming."

"I'm glad to see that you have lucid intervals, Boyd," answered his friend. "I reckon we won't bother with Latin Grammar to-night. Let's play backgammon instead. But in the meantime let me give you a professional opinion and some professional advice. You are neurasthenic and you've got to get over it. Your mountain trip will be good for you, but it would be better still if you could get up a fight of some sort. I'll try to stir up something of the kind for you, when you get back. Anyhow, you've got to _quit thinking about yourself_. Let me assure you that there are thousands of more interesting topics to think about. There's lettuce, for example, and there is music, to say nothing of onions and roe herrings and the Missouri Compromise, and the relations of agriculture to national wealth, and 'possum hunting, and black-eyed peas and the Dred Scott decision and the morality of flipping quarters at crack loo. Oh, here's the backgammon board. Let's get to work."