As he talked the Major sat trembling in his chair, his stern face flushing from red to purple, and the heavy veins upon his forehead standing out like cords. “Vote for Douglas, sir!” he cried at last. “Vote for the biggest traitor that has gone scot free since Arnold! Why, I'd sooner go over to the arch-fiend himself and vote for Seward.”
“I'm not sure that you won't go farther and fare worse,” replied the Governor, gravely. “You know me for a loyal Whig, sir, but I tell you frankly, that I believe Douglas to be the man to save the South. Cast him off, and you cast off your remaining hope.”
“Tush, tush!” retorted the Major, hotly. “I tell you I wouldn't vote to have Douglas President of Perdition, sir. Don't talk to me about your loyalty, Peyton Ambler, you're mad—you're all mad! I honestly believe that I am the only sane man in the state.”
The Governor had risen from his chair and was walking nervously about the room. His eyes were dim, and his face was pallid with emotion.
“My God, sir, don't you see where you are drifting?” he cried, stretching out an appealing hand to the angry old gentleman in the easy chair.
“Drifting! Pooh, pooh!” protested the Major, “at least I am not drifting into a nest of traitors, sir.”
And with his wrath hot within he rose to take his leave, very red and stormy, but retaining the presence of mind to assure Mrs. Ambler that the glimpse of her fireside would send him rejoicing upon his way.
Such burning topics went like strong wine to his head, and like strong wine left a craving which always carried him back to them in the end. He would quarrel with the Governor, and make his peace, and at the next meeting quarrel, without peace-making, again.
“Don't, oh, please don't talk horrid politics, papa,” Betty would implore, when she saw the nose of his dapple mare turn into the drive between the silver poplars.
“I'll not, daughter, I give you my word I'll not,” the Governor would answer, and for a time the conversation would jog easily along the well worn roads of county changes and by the green graves of many a long dead jovial neighbour. While the red logs spluttered on the hearth, they would sip their glasses of Madeira and amicably weigh the dust of “my friend Dick Wythe—a fine fellow, in spite of his little weakness.”