Mrs. Welch had no time to spend in the sort of hospitality practised by her neighbors. The idea of going over to a neighbor’s to “spend the day,” as most of the invitations she received ran, or of having them come and “spend the day” with her as they did with others, was intolerable. It might have done, she held, for an archaic state of society, but it was just this terrible waste of time that made the people about her what she saw them: indolent, and shiftless and poor. She had “work to do,” and she “meant to do it.” So, having called formally at Dr. Cary’s, Miss Gray’s, and the other places, the ladies from which had called on her, she declined further invitations and began her “work.” She wrote to her Society back at home, that as she looked around her spirit groaned within her. The harvest was ripe—already too ripe, and the over-ripened wheat was falling, day by day, to the earth and being trampled in the ground. She wrote also her impressions of her new neighbors. She was charmed with Miss Thomasia and the General. The former reminded her of her grandmother, whom she remembered as a white-haired old lady knitting in her arm-chair, and the General was an old French fieldmarshal, of the time of Bayard or Sidney, who had strayed into this century, and who would not surprise her by appearing in armor with a sleeve around his helmet, “funny, dear, old fossil that he is.” She was pleased with Miss Cary and the Doctor, though the former appeared to have rather too antiquated views of life, and the Doctor was unpractical to the last degree. They were all densely prejudiced; but that she did not in the least mind; they were also universally shiftless, but she had hope. They must be enlightened and aided (Mrs. Welch was conscious of a feeling of virtuous charitableness when she penned this. It was going farther than she had ever deemed it possible she could go). When it came to the question of the poor blacks, the whites were all alike. They had not the least idea of their duty to them: even those she had mentioned as the most enlightened, regarded them yet as only so many chattels, as still slaves. Finally, she wrote, she could not but admit that nothing but kindness had been shown to themselves since their arrival. One could not but appreciate such cordiality, even if it were the result of mere impulse rather than of steady principle. But Mr. Still, the Union man of whom the Society knew, had intimated that it was only a concerted effort to blind them to the true state of affairs, and that if they exhibited any independence it would soon change. As to this she should be watchful. And she appealed for help.
Such was the substance of the first letter that Mrs. Welch wrote back to her old Reform and Help Society at home, which was regarded by some of her friends as a roseate-colored statement of the case. It was even intimated that it contained evidence that Mrs. Welch was already succumbing to the very influence she repudiated.
“But they all do it. I never knew anyone go down there who did not at once abandon all principles and fall a victim to the influences of those people,” declared Mrs. Bolter, who, now that Mrs. Welch had left, represented the earnest and most active wing of the society.
“May not that prove that perhaps there is something on their side that we do not understand?” hazarded one of the young ladies of the society, Mrs. Clough, who, as a daughter of Senator Rockfield, was privileged to express views.
“Not at all,” declared Mrs. Bolter. “I knew that Major Welch and Ruth were both hopelessly weak; but I confess I did think better things of Mrs. Welch.”
“Do you know, now that she has gone, I confess that I always did think Ruth Welch had more sense—more practical sense I mean, than her mother,” said Mrs. Clough.
“Of course, you do,” replied the older lady. Mrs. Clough colored.
“And my husband thinks so, too.”
“Oh! if your husband thinks so—of course!” Mrs. Bolter looked sympathetic and superior. “I supposed he thought so.” The younger lady colored deeply.
“And my sister thinks so,” she added, with dignity.