“Those are old Southern mansions,” said Eugene, reverently.
The bay was still: there was a green stench of warm standing water.
“They’ve let the place run down,” said Malvin. “It’s no bigger now than it was before the Civil War.”
No, sir, and, by heaven, so long as one true Southern heart is left alive to remember Appomattox, Reconstruction, and the Black parliaments, we will defend with our dearest blood our menaced, but sacred, traditions.
“They need some Northern capital,” said Max Isaacs sagely. They all did.
An old woman, wearing a tiny bonnet, was led out on a high veranda from one of the houses, by an attentive negress. She seated herself in a porch rocker and stared blindly into the sun. Eugene looked at her sympathetically. She had probably not been informed by her loyal children of the unsuccessful termination of the war. United in their brave deception, they stinted themselves daily, reining in on their proud stomachs in order that she might have all the luxury to which she had been accustomed. What did she eat? The wing of a chicken, no doubt, and a glass of dry sherry. Meanwhile, all the valuable heirlooms had been pawned or sold. Fortunately, she was almost blind, and could not see the wastage of their fortune. It was very sad. But did she not sometimes think of that old time of the wine and the roses? When knighthood was in flower?
“Look at that old lady,” whispered Malvin Bowden.
“You can TELL she’s a lady,” said Max Isaacs. “I bet she’s never turned her hand over.”
“An old family,” said Eugene gently. “The Southern aristocracy.”
An old negro came by, fringed benevolently by white whiskers. A good old man—an ante-bellum darkey. Dear Lord, their number was few in these unhappy days.
Eugene thought of the beautiful institution of human slavery, which his slaveless maternal ancestry had fought so valiantly to preserve. Bress de Lawd, Marse! Ole Mose doan’wan’to be free niggah. How he goan’lib widout marse? He doan’wan’stahve wid free niggahs. Har, har, har!
