“A charity ball; and at the Hermitage.”
A most comically pleased expression came into the earnest eyes of the master for an instant. Only an instant, and then a heavy frown contracted his forehead. A flash of scorn in the clear eye, and a curl of the proud, sensitive lip, told of the suppressed anger that had suddenly smitten him.
“The Hermitage,” said he, “is the home of my wife. She is its mistress, and to her is confided its honor and the honor of its master. To her belongs, and to her alone, the right to choose its guests, and to open its doors to her friends. I am surprised you should come to me with your request.”
Ah! she was forearmed; how fortunate. Beauty smiled triumphantly. “But your servant who opened the gate, told us that Mrs. Jackson was not at home.”
“Ah!” the frown instantly vanished, and the hand ever ready to strike for her he loved with such deathless devotion was again lifted to the broad old beaver.
“I think,” said he, “in that case I may answer for Mrs. Jackson, and pledge for her the hospitality of the Hermitage for—charity.”
Again he lifted his hat; across the fields the sound of a whistle had come to him, and a servant waited, with polite patience, near by with the horse that was to carry his master down to the river where the boats were waiting to be inspected—the new boats which, like everything pertaining to the master of the Hermitage, were to have a place in history.
“Ladies,” said he, “charity is not the only voice calling upon the Hermitage farmer. Our country,”—he waved his hand toward the river where the boats were being builded,—“or one who nobly represents her, is calling for those vessels now in the course of construction yonder.”
“Will there be war?”
How the clear eyes danced and shone beneath that question which over and over again he had put to his own heart,—“Will there be war?”