As they neared the county seat they met a body of negroes marching. The officers yelled at them to get out of the way, and old Waverley pulled out to one side. “What are they?” asked Jacquelin.
“Dem’s Cun’l Leech’s soldiers,” said Waverley—“dem’s de mellish. When you meets dem you got to git out ’n de way, I tell you.”
The change in the aspect of the county in the few years of his absence impressed Jacquelin. It seemed to him greater even than that which had taken place during the war. The fields were more grown up; the houses more dilapidated. But as much as these warned him, Jacquelin was not prepared for the change which on his arrival at Dr. Cary’s he found had taken place.
His mother’s appearance struck a chill to his heart. His mother had become an old woman. She had kept everything from him that could disturb him. He was shocked at the change which illness had made in her, and all he could do was to try and conceal his anguish.
He sought Dr. Cary and had a long talk with him; but the Doctor could not hold out any hope. It was simply a general breakdown, he told him: the effect of years of anxiety. “You cannot transplant old trees,” he said, sadly. Jacquelin ground his teeth in speechless self-reproach.
“Ah! my dear Jacquelin, there are some things that even you could not have changed,” said the Doctor, with a deep sigh.
As Jacquelin looked at him the expression on the old physician’s face went to his heart.
“Yes, I know,” he said, softly. “Ah! well, we’ll pull through.”
“You young men, perhaps; not we old ones. We are too broken to weather the storm. Your father was the fortunate one.”