CHAPTER XII.
When two weeks had passed, Pembroke still had not gone to Isleham—but in that time much had happened. The congressional convention had been held, and the ball had been opened for him by Cave with great brilliancy and power—and after a hard fight of two days, Pembroke had got the nomination for Congress. It was of infinite satisfaction to him in many ways. First because of the honor, which he honestly coveted—and again because of the ready money his election would bring. Modest as a congressional salary would be, it was at least in cash—and that was what he most needed then. He did not have a walk over. The parties were about evenly divided, and it was known that the canvass would be close and exciting. Pembroke warmed to his work when he knew this. It was like Bob Henry’s trial—it took hold of his intellectual nature. He was called magnetic—and he had a nerve power, a certain originality about him that captivated his audiences.
There is nothing that a mixed crowd of whites and blacks at the South so much hates as a demagogue. Especially is this the case with the “poor whites” and the negroes. It was from them that Pembroke knew he must get the votes to elect. When he appeared on the hustings, he was the same easy, gentlemanly fellow as in a drawing-room. He slapped no man on the back, nor offered treats, nor was there any change in his manner. He was naturally affable, and he made it his object to win the good will of his hearers through their enlightenment, not their prejudices. The Bob Henry episode did him immense service. A great revolution had taken place in regard to Bob Henry. As, when he had been poor and in prison and friendless and suspected, everybody had been down on him, so now when he was free and cleared of suspicion, and had been an object of public attention, he became something of a hero. He worked like a beaver among his own people for “Marse French.” At “night meetings” and such, he was powerful—and in the pulpits of the colored people, the fiat went forth that it “warn’t wuff while fer cullud folks to pay de capilation tax fer to git young Mr. Hibbs, who warn’ no quality nohow” into Congress—for the redoubtable Hibbs was Pembroke’s opponent. This too, had its favorable action on his canvass. As for Petrarch, he claimed a direct commission from the Lord to send “Marse French ter Congriss. De Lord, de Great Physicianer, done spoken it ter me in de middle o’ de night like he did ter little Samson, sayin’ ‘Petrarch whar is you?’ He say ‘What fur I gin you good thinkin’ facticals, ’cep’ fur ter do my will? An’ it ain’t Gord’s will dat no red headed Hibbs be ’lected over ole Marse French Pembroke’s son, dat allus treated me wid de greatest circumlocution.” Petrarch’s oratory was not without its effect.
Pembroke’s natural gift of oratory had been revealed to him at the time of Bob Henry’s acquittal. He cultivated it earnestly, avoiding hyperbole and exaggeration. There is nothing a Virginian loves so well as a good talker. Within ten days of the opening of the campaign, Pembroke knew that he was going to win. Hibbs had a very bad war record. Pembroke had a very good one. The canvass therefore to him, was pleasant, exciting, and with but little risk.
But Olivia Berkeley’s place had not been usurped. He had not meant or desired to fall in love. As he had said truly to Cave, there were other things for him than marriage. But love had stolen a march upon him. When he found it out, he accepted the result with great good humor—and he had enough masculine self-love to have good hopes of winning her until—until Madame Koller had put her oar in. But even then, his case did not seem hopeless, after the first burst of rage and chagrin.
She would not surrender at once—that he felt sure, and he rather liked the prospect of a siege, thinking to conquer her proud spirit by a bold stroke at last. But Madame Koller had changed all this. He was determined to make Olivia Berkeley know how things stood between Madame Koller and himself—and the best way to do it was to tell her where his heart was really bestowed.
It was in the latter part of April before a day came that he could really call his own. He walked over from Malvern late in the afternoon, and found Olivia, as he thought he should, in the garden. The walks were trimmed up, and the flower-beds planted. Olivia, in a straw hat and wearing a great gardening apron full of pockets, gravely removed her gloves, her apron, and rolled them up before offering to shake hands with Pembroke.
“Allow me to congratulate our standard-bearer, and to apologize for my rustic occupations while receiving so distinguished a visitor.”
Pembroke looked rather solemn. He was not in a trifling mood that afternoon, and he thought Olivia deficient in perception not to see at once that he had come on a lover’s errand.
Is there anything more charming than an old-fashioned garden in the spring? The lilac bushes were hanging with purple blossoms, and great syringa trees were brave in their white glory. The guelder roses nodded on their tall stems, and a few late violets scented the air. It was a very quiet garden, and the shrubbery cut it off like a hermitage. Pembroke had selected his ground well.