The Lead of Honour
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Title: The Lead of Honour
Creator: Norval Richardson
Illustrator: Frank T. Merrill
Release date: July 22, 2014 [eBook #46381]
Language: English
Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/46381
Credits: Produced by Al Haines
*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LEAD OF HONOUR ***
Produced by Al Haines.
[Illustration: Sargent Everett.
From a painting by Frank T. Merrill]
THE LEAD
OF HONOUR
BY
NORVAL RICHARDSON
WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOUR BY
FRANK T. MERRILL
GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK
_Copyright, 1910_
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)
_Entered at Stationers' Hall, London_
_All rights reserved_
First Impression, July, 1910
Second Impression, August, 1910
Third Impression, September, 1910
Fourth Impression, October, 1910
TO
THE ONE WHO IS THE INSPIRATION OF ALL
THAT IS BEST IN THESE PAGES
L. R.
*CONTENTS*
BOOK I--THE SCHOOLMASTER
CHAPTER
I. Youth and Ambition
II. The Captain's Advice
III. Juleps and Politics
IV. A Gentleman of the Old School
V. The House of the Spaniards
BOOK II--THE LAWYER
I. Pictures in the Fire
II. The Opened Wound
III. A Demand of Honour
IV. His First Case
V. Magnetism
VI. To Be Hanged by the Neck until Dead
VII. One Means of Escape
VIII. The Captain's Joke
IX. A Promise for the Future
BOOK III--THE LOVER
I. After Seven Years
II. The Voice of the Past
III. Mammy Dicey's Story
IV. Slaves for Stakes
V. Candlelight
VI. His Wedding Present
VII. The Hour of the Wedding
VIII. Orange Blossoms and Prison Bars
IX. The Honourable Sargent Everett
X. The Lead of Honour
XI. A Road to Happiness
XII. The Music of His Voice
XIII. The Garden of Shadows
*BOOK I*
*THE SCHOOLMASTER*
*THE LEAD OF HONOUR*
*CHAPTER I*
*YOUTH AND AMBITION*
Beyond the gleam of the torch basket at the masthead, the bosom of the
great Father of Waters widened into a sea, infinite in its solitude,
desolately vast in the impending gloom of the purple night. An orange
coloured moon hovered on the dark strip of the horizon; the hot breeze
of a Southern August was stirring fitfully.
He was standing alone on the upper deck of the boat, looking straight
before him with that intensity of gaze and purpose in his deep hazel
eyes that our grandfathers tell us about--a wonderful expression in
which the energy of his thoughts seemed to throw out a flamelike glow
holding the observer spellbound and charmed into forgetfulness. He was
young then, little over twenty, and his thin, slight figure, erect and
full of simple dignity, was clothed in plain garments of black, relieved
at the wrist bands with fine white linen and at the collar by a high
stock whose pointed ends extended up beyond his chin. His face,
delicately moulded and oval to perfection, had written upon it, in the
freshness of its youth, all the hopes and desires and ambitions that
remained with him to the end--for it seems that he never lost his
youthful appreciation of life, nor knew what it meant to sink under
disappointments. In his hand he carried a small cane which he used to
aid him in walking and in standing firmly; for one leg was shrunken into
a slight deformity.
On the intense, lonely stillness of the night the throbbing puffs of the
engines seemed the voice of the great river--relentless, solemn,
insistent. The tinkling of the pilot's bell sounded intermittently from
the engine-room; and monotonously reiterated, came the weird call of the
leadsman as he sounded the depths of the uncertain channel.
"M-a-r-k eight! M-a-r-k eight! Quarter less eight!"
Sargent Everett turned away from the deepening gloom of the river,
restless and impatient, now that his destination was so near. Three
days, if all went well, would see him in the town he had chosen for the
commencement of his career.
The leadsman's call broke more harshly on the night. "Mark four! Mark
four! Quarter--less--"
Suddenly the pulsing of the engines stopped and the boat drifted into
the enveloping shadows of the shore. The branches of a tree swept the
upper deck, leaving sprays of moss tangled in the railing. A bell
crashed out a signal of alarm and the boat came to a full stop.
"Tie up and get out there and sound that channel, Jiggetts," came a
sonorous voice from the lower deck. "I'm not a-countin' on goin'
a-ground here to-night. God knows what this old river's been up to since
we passed up, two months ago."
Directly following the words, a huge line of rope went coiling through
the air to the shore. Two negroes sprang after it, hastily wrapping it
around a mammoth cottonwood tree that towered out of the darkness. A
skiff shot out from the boat; two men at the oars, and one standing well
forward recording the depth as they moved carefully along.
In a few minutes the boat became enveloped once more in the stillness of
the night; the flare from the torch baskets at the masthead gleamed upon
a shore of endless willows, a distant line of cypresses, a land where
seemingly no explorer had yet penetrated. The call of the leadsman grew
fainter and fainter, dying away at last to an echo.
"Mighty sorry to tie up." The Captain's voice broke the stillness as he
approached the young traveller, "but I reckon it's better than runnin'
on one of them bars and restin' there till another boat comes along and
pulls us off. I reckon you'd rather run the chance, hey, just so's you
could get to the end of your travellin'. I know how you feel. You're
just itching to get there this minute and get to work--ain't it the
truth?"
The Captain, a rugged pioneer, known from one end of the river to the
other, shoved his hands deep into his pockets and peered into the
darkness.
"Yes, I want to get there, Captain. I'm impatient and restless and all
that,--and yet," he hesitated, following the glance of the man beside
him. "I believe I've fallen under the spell of this old river. At
first it made me think of the ocean in its breadth and loneliness, but I
see now that it is not the same at all. This wilderness of lowlands that
we have been passing through for the last week makes it seem even more
desolate and forsaken. Yet--in its very solitude one feels a certain
nearness to God," he ended reflectively.
The old Captain's eyes shifted from the black shore, deepening, as his
gaze lingered on the broad expanse of water, into an expression much
like that of a dog that gazes into the eyes of the master it worships.
"We-ell, I reckon I'm sorter fond of it, too. When a feller's lived with
a thing fifty years he's mighty likely to have some sorter feelin' for
it." His eyes twinkled as he continued, "Y' know, sir, that old river
always puts me in mind of a woman; it's changing its mind all the time,
it's cantankerous--you can't any more count on it than a bad penny, and
when it takes a notion to change its channel, it just goes ahead and
does it and don't say a thing. Why, sir, haven't I see it cut off ten
miles in one place by goin' straight through when it used to make a
bend! I like it, though, just because it's notionate and don't bother
about anybody. D' you ever hear the old sayin' that when the good Lord
made it, He washed His hands in it and told it to go where it damn
pleased? Well, sir," the old fellow threw back his head and let out a
gust of laughter, "it's been doin' that pretty nigh ever since!"
He turned around as he ended so that he looked into the young man's
face, and in the moments of silence that followed, the mass of wrinkles
about his eyes moved into an expression of half mirth, half sadness. He
had liked the youngster, as he called him, since the moment he had come
aboard at St. Louis and taken passage for the South. Something in
Sargent Everett's peculiarly winning manner, in his fresh good humour
and manliness, or perhaps a sympathy for his deformity, had awakened an
interest in the old boatman. What it was he did not stop to consider,
but he liked the boy, and now that his long journey was nearing its end,
he felt a pang of regret that was new to him. Looking into the bright,
hopeful face before him, he thought that, after all, youth was the only
period of life worth living.
"An' so you're another one of them fellers who're comin' down here to
make their fortunes," he finally said, as if more in comment than in
question.
The young fellow's face brightened responsively.
"I hope it will be my fortune--but at present it is more a living I am
seeking."
The Captain put out both hands, taking firm hold of the young fellow's
arms and looking squarely into his face.
"Then why in the devil did you come down here?" he said sharply. "It's
no place for the likes of you! You're not the sort of youngster for this
kind of rough life. Why didn't you go to a big town, son? This
country's for pioneers."
The young fellow drew himself away, a look of pain flashing across his
face.
"I'm not delicate," he said quickly. "I'm very strong. I was the best
swimmer at college. You think because my leg is bad that I can't do
what other men have done! Give me time and I'll show you!"
"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, lad," the old fellow answered
slowly, relighting the pipe which he held always in his mouth. "I know
darned well you've got grit enough to pull you through, but why, of all
places in this country, you should have chosen Natchez--kinder puzzles
me. Haven't you ever heerd about what they call
'Natchez-under-the-Hill?' Why, sir, it's the toughest hole on the
river!"
"It was the offer I had that brought me, Captain. New England is crowded
with school-teachers; there was nothing for me to do, and I had to work.
My father was a sea captain, as I told you, and in the year 1812 he lost
everything. Since then we have been very poor. I had to do
something--and I had this offer down here."
The Captain drew at his pipe reflectively, letting the words of the
young man die away on the stillness of the night.
"So you're goin' to be a school-teacher!" The words came so frankly
full of disappointment that the young fellow laughed outright.
"Not always, I hope," he answered, still smiling. "As soon as I finish
studying for the examinations, I hope to be admitted to the bar. Then I
can practise law."
The Captain gave an expressive grunt.
"That's worse yet--a lawyer--begad! Why, boy, what chance'll you have
in this hotbed of pioneers and adventurers that's been flockin' down
here for the last fifteen years? Why, sir, with shin-plaster currency
and rich cotton plantations and more slaves than they know what to do
with, and gambling and drinking all the time--what can a youngster like
you expect to do!" The old fellow's head wagged doubtfully. "I'd a heap
rather see you go all the way down to New 'leans with me and take a
vessel back to where you come from than stop off in this here country,"
he added with another expressive grunt and a deep dig into his pockets.
"You think, then," the young fellow smiled with a courage that felt no
dampening from the advice given. "You think I'm not fit to make my way
in the community you describe?"
"Yes, sir, that's exactly what I'm a-thinkin'. You've been brought up
different from these folks and you haven't the first inkling of the life
down here. It'll go powerful hard on you and I don't see where the
good'll come in."
"Still you are bound to admit that it is a good place for a lawyer," the
youth answered, unabashed.
"Ye-es, I grant you that. Natchez is only about fifty miles from
Jackson, and I suppose your head's already set on the Capitol. 'Tain't
what you're goin' to make out of it that's a-worryin' me--it's what in
the devil's going to become of you, with that set of reckless
spendthrifts. Ho, there, Jiggetts!" He sprang forward and peered down
at the returning skiff. "How 'bout the channel?"
"All right, sir. We can make it safe. Same as when we came up," a
voice answered out of the darkness.
"How 'bout wood--got enough?" the Captain called down to the engineer
who stood on the lower deck.
"Plenty to get us to ole man Vick's plantation, and I'm a-countin' on
bein' thar to-morrow mornin'."
"Good! Let's pull out and get ahead agin."
A little later the boat was pushing towards the middle stream, the shore
dwindling on each side to a thin, black ribbon. The moon had risen well
into the sky and was shedding its cold light over the glassy surface of
the river; the deep puffs of the engines sent columns of black smoke far
up into the clear heavens.
"Come over here, youngster," called the Captain from the forward deck,
where he had settled himself into a chair, his feet elevated on the
railing to the level of his head, the glow from his pipe gleaming full
into his face. "Come over here and sit down. You ain't sleepy, yet, I
reckon--are you?"
From where they sat the forward part of the lower deck was in full view.
Two torch baskets, filled with blazing pine, brilliantly illuminated
that part of the boat. On both sides were piles of meal and corn, sacks
of salt meat and barrels of flour, and two bales of cotton on their way
to New Orleans, and thence to Boston by sea--the first bales of that
season.
In the centre, where the light fell strongest, was a group of negroes;
some lying full length in the deep sleep of exhaustion, others gathered
in small circles from which came the sound of rattling dice. The
twanging of a banjo and the sound of many shuffling feet floated out
softly on the silent river.
When the young man had taken his seat beside the Captain, the old fellow
laid his hand on his shoulder, almost affectionately.
"If you're bent and determined on gettin' off at Natchez," he began
between short puffs at his pipe, "I've a mind to give you some advice.
Want to hear it?"
"Of course I do, Captain," he answered quickly. "But I don't want you to
think I shall not succeed there. When a fellow is willing to work, and
overflowing with energy and ambition, success is bound to come. I know
it will come to me--I'm going to it. And if the fight is to be a
difficult one, as you say," he added after a moment's hesitation,
"perhaps it will make me all the stronger for the struggle. You are not
going to discourage me, Captain, no matter how wild or savage you paint
this country. I am going to stop here."
The Captain's heavy hand fell on the young man's knee with a hearty
slap, and for a moment he looked into the brave face before him
yearningly.
"You've got the right spirit, lad. I'm mighty glad to see it, too. But
y' see I'm a powerful lot of years older than you--how many d' I tell
you t'other day?"
"Forty-three."
"We-ell, you see, forty-three years of experience is worth something,
I'd let you know. I've seen this country almost from the beginning of
the white settlements. I used to come down here on flat boats with my
pa, way back in the days of the Revolution, and when we reached New
'leans, we'd go all the way back to Vincennes in wagons. Ugh! those
were days for you! And nights, too, with panthers howling round our
prairie schooners, and Indians tryin' to slip up and scalp you 'most any
time. Natchez belonged to the Spaniards then--you'll see old Gayosa's
government house still standin' there. But now, since Mississippi's
been let in as a State, it seems to me like 'most everybody's been
tryin' to get down here. If many more of you Yankees come on down,
we'll soon be a populated country."
"Then you like Yankees--you do not think that will make me
unpopular--down here?" the young fellow interrupted.
"Shucks! It ain't where a man comes from." The old fellow uncrossed
his legs and crossed them again. "It's the man himself. That's fust
what I was about to tell you. If a man's a good feller, then folks'll
treat him like one; but if he comes down here with a lot of bottled-up
notions from that there cold country of yours, they'll not have much use
for him. And that's where you've got to be precious careful. I tell
you right now, if you make a hit at the start, it won't take you long to
win out. Go in for a good time, show 'em you're a good feller, and take
my word for it, they'll think you're a heap smarter than if you spend
your time tryin' to ram your book knowledge down their throats."
The young fellow remained silent, reflecting over the Captain's advice.
Through its crudities, he was beginning to see and appreciate the
viewpoint of one whom experience had made a reader of human nature.
"At first, go easy, and take things as they come; don't air your own
opinions every chance you get; don't strut around like some young
lawyers I see, with a long face, and a head full of--what d' you call
that feller that wrote the big book?"
"Blackstone?"
"Yes, sir, that's the one. Don't always be talkin' about him and
lookin' as independent as a wood-sawyer's clerk. You know exactly what
I mean." The Captain tilted his chair to a more dangerous angle.
"If you'll make yourself one of 'em, you'll come out all right--I'll bet
my bottom dollar on that! For you've got a way with you, as the sayin'
goes, and that's the principal thing a feller needs in this world."
"The only trouble is," the young man answered, smiling broadly, "that I
have got some old-fashioned principles, as you call them, and
convictions, too."
"Damn your convictions." The Captain's chair came to the floor with a
crash. "That's what ruins more men than anything else--convictions! I
say if you've got 'em, keep 'em to yourself--don't let 'em out!
Remember, you're goin' to a country where everything is wide open and
you've got to be one of the boys--or you might just as well turn your
head back to where you come from."
The young fellow laughed heartily. Edging his chair closer to the
Captain, he watched the play of his features in the glow from his pipe.
The thousand wrinkles about his eyes changed eloquently with the
intenseness of his words. "Evidently you have decided that I am
terribly solemn, Captain. But you are wrong," he said, still laughing
easily. "I enjoy life, and a good time as much as anybody--perhaps more
than most! Only I haven't taken that enjoyment in gambling and
drinking, which you seem to think so necessary."
For answer, the old man's head shook doubtfully.
"Then you'd better give up being a lawyer down here," his grey eyes
danced merrily. "Unless," his hands came together with a loud clap,
"unless--you'd like to give 'em the idea you're a sport, and at the same
time not be one. Gee whilligens!" he cried, laughing until the tears
rolled down his furrowed cheeks. "That would be a fine set out. Listen,
youngster, I'm going to tell you how to do it, and if you don't get 'em
coming your way right from the jump, my name's not Benjamin Mentdrop.
Now, first of all, when you land at Natchez, ride right up the hill to
the Mansion House. You'll see a lot of fellers loafing 'round there to
find who come on the boat--what you are and what's your business--you
know the kind I mean; the sort whose business is finding out other
people's. Then, there's always a lot of the bloods of the town there,
too. Well, don't let 'em know you've even seen 'em. Just walk in and
sign your name with a flourish, so," his hand swept the air, with a
rather dangerous gesture for a pen. "Just as soon as you're through,
you'll see 'em go up and read your name, and when they all are eyeing
you, just walk over to the bar--so." Here the Captain got up and
swaggered across the deck with a bravado that bespoke personal
experience. "And order--plenty loud enough for the crowd to hear what
you're sayin'--a bottle o' champagne and a box o' cigars sent up to your
room. I tell you, sir," taking his seat again, "that'll make your
reputation without any waiting."
The young fellow joined in the infectious laughter of the Captain. It
was too natural a performance not to show that the old fellow was
describing his own methods.
"I'm afraid that reputation would be one I'd never outlive," he said,
when they had become serious again. "What do you suppose would become of
my position as tutor in the family I'm going to?"
"Position-your-grandaddy! The thing is to make a hit; you don't have to
live up to it," the Captain promptly rejoined. "All you want is to have
the crowd see you know a thing or two and they'll take you up before you
know it. And if you're going to be a lawyer, you want these fellows'
cases, and I tell you right now, you've got to play 'em a bit. When you
get as old as I am you'll see then how this whole blamed thing they call
life is nothin' more'n less than a steady game of bluff--right straight
through!"
The boat was swinging into a broad bend of the river when he finished,
and through the clarity of the night, a long line of hills was coming
into view on the eastern horizon. The long journey through banks of
endless flat country was left behind and the sloping hills rose as if to
extend a welcome to the voyagers.
"That's old Vick's plantation across the point," the Captain said,
rising and stretching his arms above his head. "Looks like we're near
there, don't it; but it'll be mornin' before we land." Looking at his
large watch, its open face characteristic of its owner, he gave an
exclamation of surprise and turning away hurried down the ladder to the
lower deck.
"Don't forget what I've been telling you!" he called back as he
disappeared. "I wa'n't born yesterday, nor the day before neither."
The young fellow walked forward when he was alone, and stood where he
could see beneath him the prow of the boat pushing its way into the
impenetrable blue of the broad stream. He had felt the influence of the
river that night more than at any time during his voyage. Its
immensity, its awfulness, gripped him with a new understanding of
eternity. The endless legends it embodied rose before him; gorgeous
pageants passed in review; into his vision came the long procession of
pioneers who had set sail upon these waters; De Soto first, who slept
now within its enveloping solitude, afterwards Joliet and Marquette, La
Salle with his cross of conquest and his flag of France, the Spaniards
from the Mexican Gulf clashing with the English out of the North, and
always, coming first upon the river and still present in their silent,
stealthy canoes, the real owners of its breadth and length--the Red Men.
All these he saw pushing their way along and seeking their fortune, even
as he was doing now.
His face was turned towards the south, the place to which his destiny
was calling him; in it lay the mystery of his future. Far behind him
was the land of his birth, which held the compelling force that was
driving him on and on to that future, as relentlessly as the silent
river was sweeping to the sea.
In an incident of his childhood lay this force which had made the
severing of home ties less bitter and the setting out towards an unknown
country the first step in the realization of years of determination. So
filled with suffering was this incident that, after twelve years, it
lived in his thoughts' with insistent detail.
It had happened in an apple orchard in Maine. There had been a day of
great festivity, gay in the gathering of apples, and in the knowledge
that a ship had been sighted in which the sea captain, his father, was
returning from a six months' voyage. He saw himself as a little limping
boy who had just come home from the town school, flushed with pride at
the success of his first speech; then he saw himself late in the day,
when the ship had anchored and the friends had gathered in a circle over
the completed work, repeating the speech to the enthusiastic crowd.
How well he remembered the encouraging faces, the baskets of red apples
all about, the pungent smell of the fruit, the twisted branches of the
trees back of them, and beyond, far down the sloping hill, the great
Atlantic on which the ship had come to anchor! His first speech! Even
the words stuck in his memory! Then, while the great joy he had felt in
their applause was flushing his face and making him tingle with the
first stirrings of awakened talent, he had been lifted into the arms of
the sea captain who had stolen up behind the tree and heard him. In
that moment came the blow which was yet to mar or make him. The proud
father, holding him up before the crowd, had cried out with a great roar
of laughter:
"He's a pretty bright little rascal, isn't he? We'll have to send him
to college one of these days and make a big speaker out of him--even if
he is a cripple."
"Even if he is a cripple!" The words rang out as sharply now as they
had twelve years before. He heard them so distinctly that the
inflection of the big man's voice, thoughtless and unmeaning as it had
been, made him throb with the first opening of the wound. Cripple!
Cripple! The words were as the whistling of knotted thongs. Never
before that day had he heard them applied to him. Now they were to be
with him always; he was powerless to forget them. They had pushed him
on and on from that time forward, in a mad desire to embrace all the
learning within his power so as to show the world some day that it was
not a curse of God's, to be less perfect than other men.
*CHAPTER II*
*THE CAPTAIN'S ADVICE*
One day later the young pioneer who had come South to make his fortune
looked eagerly out upon a distant view of sloping hills. The end of his
long journey had come. The little town, nestling at the top of the
bluffs, in a setting of thick foliage, brought to him a thrill of
expectancy. Everything lay before him there, his beginning on the long
journey of his life work, his success or failure, his happiness or his
sorrow.
It was still very early in the morning and in the mistiness of the
scene, in the shadowy beauty of the daybreak, his imagination carried
him far into a future of his own creating. The lazy curling smoke of
early morning fires rising from the town became symbolic to him, the
soft beauty of an aged oak grove, festooned in grey moss and reflected
in the gloomy surface of the water by the pale rose background of
dawning day meant to him that disappointments and vain strivings were to
pass from him forever now. He was very young and full of expectancy and
hope, and as he threw back his head and breathed deeply, the colour
rushed into his face, and his shoulders squared themselves
unconsciously.
The summons to breakfast called him away for a few minutes, but he was
soon back again, watching each detail of the scene as it unfolded before
him, impatiently restless at the slow movement of the boat.
Finally the boat rounded a point and made directly across the broad
sweeping bend of the river toward the opposite shore where a settlement
of houses at the foot of the bluff had suddenly come into view.
"Well, here we are." He felt the grasp of the captain's hand upon his
arm. "How d' you like the looks of your new home? You wait till you
get on top of the hill, though. Natchez under the hill and on top is a
mighty different place. I'm going to liven 'em up a bit this morning
and let 'em know we're coming. If these folks didn't see a boat every
now and then, they'd think they were dead, sure." He smiled good
humouredly as a shrill whistle floated across the water from the town.
"Bless me, if they ain't got that saw mill to working--the first one
between here and New 'leans, I reckon. Just wait a minute, though, and
I'll give 'em an answer. I told the fireman to stuff the engine plumb
full of pitch pine--'that'll give us a powerful lot of black smoke--and
when I turn loose oh the whistle, watch out!"
The boat drifted a little below the landing, then turning slowly, pushed
its way steadily against the current. In the meantime the Captain had
taken his position well forward where he could view the lower deck and
direct the landing of the boat. "Hi there--you," followed by a
collection of magnificent oaths as he found a negro going contrary to
his directions. "Get out there to that capstan--man the bars--now--all
together--easy," ending with more eloquent oaths as the heavy coils of
rope were thrown to the shore, and the stage planks shoved into place.
The young traveller stood staring down into the throng of upturned
faces, realizing that out of all the number there was not one he had
seen before or from whom he could claim a welcome. There were bronzed
faced woodsmen, there were the old residents, paler by contrast, and as
enthusiastic in their welcome of a boat that brought them newspapers and
tidings of the world, as children expecting a new toy; there were the
black shining faces of the negroes who lounged on the cotton bales
lining the banks; there were Indians in their bright blankets and
feathers; here and there were dark skinned Spaniards; indeed it would
have been difficult to find a nationality that was not represented in
Natchez in those days.
Back of this oddly assorted throng extended high piles of cotton bales
waiting to be transported to New Orleans, and beyond these a few houses
and stores, after which the hill rose abruptly with a winding road
climbing to the summit. At the top, wide spreading trees cut off any
view of the upper town.
"Good luck to you, my boy," the old Captain said, slipping his arm
through the young fellow's as they passed down the stage plank. "I'm
counting on hearing big things of you one of these days, and I hate to
be disappointed. Don't you forget my advice, and remember--if you're
ever in a tight fix or mixed up in some sorter trouble, you know where
to come."
"Thank you, Captain," the young fellow answered, his hand tightening in
its hold upon the big rough one. To find such honest hearty friendship
beaming upon him from the old weather worn face made him regret more
keenly their parting. "But if I take your advice I'm afraid I'll need
your help sooner than you think."
The Captain gave way to one of his sudden bursts of noisy laughter.
"Never you mind that--lad," he said with a chuckle. "What I told you
was downright common horse sense. I'll see you some of these days
again, and I've a sneaking notion it won't be so far off." He turned
away hurriedly and had soon disappeared in the crowd of negroes that
were unloading the boat.
The young fellow stepped ashore and was taken possession of by a negro
with a beaming face, who shouldered his trunk and carpet bag without any
consultation whatever, and led the way toward a nameless vehicle
standing in the road. It was at least some satisfaction to find one who
had anticipated his wishes, and the newcomer took his seat in the hack
with a sigh of relief and some doubts of a successful ascent of the
steep hill which loomed before him.
"Whar to, Boss?" came from the eminently competent guide when he had
mounted the box. Evidently he was porter, coachman and owner of the
vehicle.
"To the Mansion House."
"I knowed it," with a shake of his head and a display of fine white
teeth. "All de sho' 'nough white folks goes dah. It's de place ob de
town." Then with a dashing sweep of the whip, he set off up the hill at
a rattling pace. Half way up they came to a sudden stop and the driver
turned round again. "Boss," he began in an evident desire to be
friendly. "is Gin'r'l Jackson still President ob de United States?" His
doubts settled on this question, the precarious speed was resumed, the
top of the hill reached and the journey ended before a long two story
building, proudly bearing a large sign on which was painted in red and
yellow letters, "The Mansion House."
Two negro porters rushed forward from the main door that opened directly
on the pavement, one grabbing the carpet bag from the vehicle, the other
lifting the little hair trunk with an ease that showed the lightness of
its contents.
The young fellow stopped a moment as he stepped to the pavement and
glanced at his surroundings. The pavement before the tavern was of
brick, wide and shaded by overarching elms that cast a thick shade,
making the place into a sort of veranda for the hostelry. Tables and
chairs were placed here, and several groups of men had gathered on the
pavement to procure the papers that had just been brought up from the
boat. Near the main door four men were seated about a table, one
reading aloud from a paper, interrupted at almost every other word by
the vehement and noisy comments of his listeners, while an agile waiter
was supplying the party continually with trays of drinks.
As the young fellow slowly made his way toward the door of the hostelry
the man who was reading stopped suddenly, laid down his paper, and
frankly stared at him. The others followed the glance of the first so
that he was forced to undergo the scrutiny of the entire crowd as he
entered the tavern.
He instinctively knew that he was being criticized and commented upon,
and stopping a moment inside the door, he heard one of them
say--"Another Yankee schoolteacher--I'll wager! If we don't look out
we'll have nothing but Yankee professors and school marms down here
presently." Then followed a burst of laughter and an order for another
round of juleps.
The young fellow flushed hotly. The tone of the man's voice, the
implied insult, the utter contempt these men felt for his position, made
him tingle with a violent anger; then, with the quick subduing of his
resentment came the thought of the old captain's advice. A moment more
and he had made a decision that in calm self-possession would have been
utterly at variance with his judgment. Following the captain's
suggestion he walked with considerable dignity across the room, wrote
his name across the ledger with a flourish, ordered the best room the
tavern afforded, then asked to be directed to the bar where he gave
orders for a box of cigars and a bottle of champagne to be sent to his
room.
The first effect of his action was in the attention of the negro who had
driven him up from the boat and was now filling the part of waiter; the
fellow fairly danced before him in his endeavours to anticipate his
wishes. He flung open the door of the bedroom with a superb flourish as
if he were admitting some royal personage, bowing obsequiously as the
young man passed in. When two cigars had been added to a dollar tip,
the negro nearly lost his balance in getting back down stairs to impart
his information to the others. Passing through the barroom one of the
men at the table outside called to him.
"Who's the limping Yankee, Jonas?"
"Mr. Sargent Everett, Boss, an' a sho' 'nough gentleman too, sir."
"Schoolteacher, Jonas?"
"Lawdy, no-o, Boss, not him. He's a gentleman of means--he is. Ordered
a bottle of champagne and a box of cigars soon's he done got in de
house."
The questioner whistled.
"Well--that sounds pretty good for a Yankee. Let's ask him down, boys,
what do you say? Maybe he can give us some news from Washington."
"By all means; let's have him down and find out what he is," the others
assented.
In a few minutes the young traveller was greeted by his black friend
with the information that Lawyer Lemuel Jervais presented his
compliments and would be pleased to have Mr. Sargent Everett join him
and his friends in a round of juleps.
At first his eyes widened in surprise, then he flushed with the memory
of his recent anger, finally ending by throwing himself back in his
chair and laughing till the tears rolled down his cheeks.
Meanwhile Jonas' eyes were moving with beaming admiration from the face
of the stranger to the bottle of champagne and back again.
"Boss," he said finally, seeing that the newcomer showed no signs of
seriousness. "Boss, don't you want me to open the wine for you?"
"No," the young man answered, rising. "I'll let you open it for me
later. Present my compliments to the gentlemen and tell them I'll be
with them in a few minutes."
As he stood before the mirror of his bureau and adjusted a fresh stock,
he smiled at the wavering reflection before him.
"Sargent Everett," he said, half aloud. "You've made a first
impression--and--I'm very much of the opinion--that it may prove an
uncomfortably lasting one."
*CHAPTER III*
*JULEPS AND POLITICS*
"Yes, gentlemen, it is true--the President removed seven hundred office
holders and appointed in their places men of his own political beliefs."
"Well, Jefferson did the same--why not Jackson?"
"Yes, but what is his reason?"
"He claims the affairs of a republic will be best administered when the
officers hold the same political sentiments as their President."
"That may be, but if we invest such power in our President we might as
well not have fought for our liberties at all. Our fathers set us free
and now, by Gad, this man wants to make us all slaves again."
"That'll do, Jervais, we've heard enough of your theories for awhile.
Let this gentleman continue. What is this news about the Bank of the
United States, Mr. Everett?"
Everett was sitting at the table with his newly made friends--old
friends now, since two hours had already passed in answering their
insatiable store of questions. They were thirsty for news, these men
who were eight weeks' travel from the seat of government in a place
where incidents happening two months before, were read about and
discussed as if just taking place. It was easy enough for Everett to
interest them, for one who had just visited Washington and listened to
the debates of the eloquent Colonel Hayne with Daniel Webster, the
rising young orator from Massachusetts, was to them a man to be
respected and listened to. The National Intelligencer lay on the table
before them, neglected and unread, even though it had come on that day's
boat, for these events of their own country, narrated by a young man
whose flushed face and glowing eyes spoke so eloquently a deep interest
and grasp of his subject, had an added significance to the group of men
about him. His statements were interrupted by exclamations, more often
oaths, and once in a heated argument that took place between two of the
listeners as to the claims of the Whigs and the Democrats, the whole
crowd was compelled to separate the combatants and enforce silence.
Everett studied the faces of his companions as they leaned on the table
and listened to him. He found in them something he had never seen in
the friends of his youth, in the constrained countenances of the more
civilized New Englanders. Here were quick candour and unconsidered
opinions, condemnation and praise in the same breath, sudden resentment
of some statement as if it were a personal insult to differ from
another's opinion, and in all of them a certain artlessness, the fresh
vigour and enthusiasm of a community that was still young and still
recklessly successful. In these men the young stranger found a
fascination that charmed him, he felt his repressed sympathy surge
within him and rush out to meet the cordiality of these new friends. He
could call them his friends already, he felt sure, for in their attitude
of attention and interest he intuitively felt that they liked him. He
saw it in the whimsical smile of the lanky Tennessean who with his
chimney pot hat set at a rakish angle and his linsey waistcoat
unbuttoned under the stress of the moment, watched him with eyes that
were keenly kind; it was in the sparkling eyes of the dark little
Creole, who met each description of Washington with praises of New
Orleans and La Belle Teche. He saw it in the intense interest of two
members of the Legislature, and in the land agent, and even in the
critical smile of handsome debonnaire Lemuel Jervais, the Beau of the
town, the wealthiest of all the young "bloods," the most promising
lawyer admitted to the bar that year--although in his nonchalant
indifference Everett saw a certain envy that was flattering.
"About the United States Bank charter," Everett continued, in answer to
the last question, "they say Mr. Jackson claims it is unconstitutional
and inexpedient. He recommends that the old charter be allowed to
expire by its own limitation."
"And when will that be?"
"In '36. It is whispered that he hopes to distribute the surplus which
has accumulated among State banks."
"He can't do it, I'm sure. There is no warrant of law for such an act."
"Did you ever know Andrew Jackson to wait for anything when his mind was
made up!"
"You didn't finish about the revenues at Charleston--were they
collected?"
"Yes, and the President wouldn't hear to the debate of Hayne and
Webster. He took matters into his own hands and issued a proclamation
denying the right of any state to nullify the laws of Congress."
"There they go again, making us into a worse monarchy than we've just
thrown off. In ten years we won't have any rights. I suppose if Andrew
Jackson took a notion, he'd abolish slavery. But if he does, do you
know what we'll do down here?" Jervais' voice thundered out irritably,
and he struck the table with his fist. "We'll secede."
For a second the questions stopped, and in the silence Everett saw that
a subject had been mentioned that threw a sullen anger over the entire
group.
"So Charleston had to back down, did she!" drawled Mr. Suggs.
"I don't know whether you'd call it backing down or not, but when Scott
reached there with his troops and a man-of-war, the nullifying party had
disappeared."
"Hmp!" grunted the Tennessean, "I reckon I'll have to go up to the
Hermitage and see Andy, he's getting to be such a big bug now-a-days."
"He won't know you any longer, Suggs--better not go. And the Indians,
Mr. Everett, how about them?"
Everett went into a long discussion of the formation of the Indian
Territory which was being urged by Andrew Jackson as a solution of the
Indian problem.
All the while Jervais was sitting with his chair tilted back against the
wall, listening with supercilious indifference.
"How does it happen, Mr. Everett?" he said at last, looking into the
face of the newcomer with a directness that spoke the doubt beneath his
question. "How does it happen that you tell us nothing of this
anti-slavery agitation that comes rumoured from Boston? You say you are
from that country--so, of course, you oppose slavery too. Have you come
down here to sow seeds of abolition?"
Everett met the eyes of his questioner squarely, and realized for the
first time that this was the man who had made the slurring remark as he
entered the tavern. For a few moments he considered his answer, knowing
well that the impression he had made upon these men would be instantly
annulled by the wrong words. Any personal prejudice on the subject
which he might have acquired from the sentiments already spreading in
the North he immediately put aside.
"I think that question," he answered slowly, meeting the intense look of
each man in the crowd, "should be settled by the people who are slave
owners. I am not--so I know nothing of the subject."
A burst of applause came from the crowd, followed by each fellow
extending a hand to Everett and insisting upon his taking another julep.
"If they'd all do that way and mind their own business it'd be a whole
lot better," drawled Mr. Suggs. "You ain't like Miss Prudence Varnum
that came down here from Salem last year--and I'm certainly glad of it.
She gave out she'd come here to teach school, but we soon found out it
wasn't that. By Jingo, she'd come down here to write a book on the sins
of slavery. We all didn't want the likes of her in town and we all just
fixed a way to get her back home where she belonged. I just goes to her
one day and tells her I'd heard she was writing a book, and that I could
tell her a damn sight more about slavery than any fellow in town--if she
wanted to hear it. She said she wasn't writing any book at all, but if
I had a mind to tell her she had no objections to listening. You can
bet I laid it on heavy. I lied as fast as a dog can trot, and the
whiter her face got the more I'd lie. You can bet I made up a good tale
about the way I had spent the last Sunday down on old Seth Burton's
plantation. Says I, 'Miss Prudence, it certainly was blood curdling,
and you sure want to put it in your book. But somehow, I kinder hate to
tell you about it.' Says she, 'Oh, Mr. Suggs, please do. You don't
know how it will help me to know the real state of this corrupt
country.' Then I told her that we had run out of amusement, and just to
liven up things, Seth had a big nigger tied to a tree and rammed a
powder horn down his throat. 'Then, madam,' says I, 'he put a slow match
to the powder while the rest of us stood off and bet whether the
nigger's head would be blown clean off or just half way.' That went
pretty hard on her, but I was bent on giving her her fill, so I went
right on and told her that when they had too many nigger babies on old
Seth's plantation he'd have them brought to town in a cotton basket and
sold by the dozen, and if they didn't sell them all, he had what was
left thrown in the river. I got up to leave after my last little piece
of information, for I saw I'd have a fainting woman on my hands if I
didn't. But, bless you, she called me back when I'd reached the door,
and said, 'Mr. Suggs, you have opened my eyes. I had no idea it was
such a wicked town. It almost makes me wonder what they would do to any
one who expressed her disapproval of slavery.' 'Well, ma'm,' says I, 'I
never heard tell of but one woman who expressed her opposition to the
matter, and considering the reputation of this town, I can't say they
treated her so badly. They only tarred and feathered her, and rode her
on a rail for a few squares.' She left town on the first boat up the
river, believing every word I'd told her, and I reckon she's lecturing
right now on the information I gave her. But that's the way we handle
'em down here, if we don't like 'em, and it's a tip to you, sir, because
you appear to be the best Yankee we've seen down this way. Hello,
there's the stage from Jackson."
The loud fan-fare of a horn broke upon the mid day drowsiness of the
town. In a few minutes the pavement before the tavern was crowded.
From every direction people came running to get a close view of the
day's arrival. A row of negro waiters lined up before the tavern door,
an array that went far to impress the provincial voyageur as to the
importance of the hostelry. Some Indians gathered in a silently
observing group, and in a brick store across the street clerks and
customers stood in the front door--for this was the terminus of the
forty mile coach trip from Jackson, and the event of the day that broke
the monotony of existence.
In a cloud of dust the coach finally made its appearance, a great
lumbering car, swung on leather straps, and tilting from side to side,
as the six lathered horses were urged into a final gallop by means of a
cracking whip, loud blasts of the horn, and an impressive handling of
the reins which the driver managed in magnificent style.
The group about the table, interrupted in their political discussions,
wheeled about in their chairs, and though the block where the coach was
to pull up was only a few paces directly before them, Jervais had
already risen and detached himself from the others.
"Expecting some one, Jervais?" Mr. Suggs called after him, at the same
time winking at the rest of the group.
Jervais flushed and turned back for a moment.
"Yes, Mistress Brandon is returning from Cooper's Well to-day."
Everett started and half rose from his chair.
"Mistress James Brandon?" he asked quickly.
"Yes," Jervais answered, looking at him with the hauteur that was his
marked characteristic. "Do you know her?"
"No--at least I mean only through letters. I have come down here to be
a tutor for her children."
Before he had finished speaking the coach was at the block, and Jervais
had rushed forward, to see that the ladder was placed firmly in the
door.
The first passenger to appear was a tall woman, enveloped in a
voluminous linen duster, her features almost obscured beneath a green
barege veil. Jervais assisted her to alight with elaborate courtesy,
and then turned to lift out two boys and a little girl.
The girl, when she stepped down to the pavement, evidently disdaining
the proffered help of Jervais, looked about her in apparent search for
some friend. As her glance travelled from one face to another, it rested
for a moment on Everett, half questioning, then quickly shifted to the
others. In the second that their eyes met Everett got a vivid
impression of her oddly beautiful face--thin, and very dark, with
intense grey eyes that contrasted almost weirdly with her black hair.
In the deep shadow of a projecting poke bonnet her eyes seemed almost
too large for the delicate contour of her face, and as she turned away,
he noticed that she wore her hair in two long plaits.
Suddenly she uttered a quick cry of pleasure as she saw an old man
coming towards her out of the crowd, and after rushing forward to kiss
him they both turned towards a carriage which had just stopped near the
pavement.
"So they are to be my first pupils," Everett said half aloud, and
smiling as he watched the party drive off.
Mr. Suggs, sitting next to him, heard the words and saw the smile. "And
a nice job you'll have, too," he said in a confidential whisper. "That
little gal, you saw her, didn't you? She's Natalia Brandon and a whole
school in herself, if what I hear going around is so. But she ought to
be kinder interesting too, she's got enough history back of her. You
know, her mother," Suggs edged his chair closer to Everett and lowered
his voice, "it's whispered hereabouts, was a daughter of Gayosa. Of
course, I don't want you to say it as coming from me, but there's a lot
of folks think it, just the same."
"Mistress Brandon," Everett exclaimed, "that's impossible! I know her
relatives in Boston."
"Oh no--not Mistress Brandon. She's the gal's stepmother. Brandon was
married twice."
Everett looked in the direction the party had gone Their carriage had
already disappeared down the street.
"And the old gentleman who met her," he asked, "who was he?"
"Shh! Here he comes with Jervais now."
Suggs rose as the two men came towards the table and held out his hand
to the older man with the unmistakable signs of feeling a certain
importance in the occasion.
"Mighty glad you come over here, Judge," he exclaimed in tones patently
unctuous. "We've got something brand new in town to-day--a Yankee
that's not an abolitionist."
*CHAPTER IV*
*A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL*
As Everett rose to respond to the introduction of the newcomer, "Judge
Houston," as Suggs explained with a flourish, "a Virginian, living in
Mississippi, but still breathing the air of Virginia," he felt
intuitively that he was standing before a man it would be an honour to
know. In that moment the impression the others had made upon him became
cheap and vulgar, for in the quiet strong face of this man who was
evidently past sixty there was a benignity and gentleness, an
intelligence made up not only of cleverness and book learning, but of a
long life's experience in which sorrow and thought and difficulties
overcome had brought a result near to perfection. He was a tall man,
with broad heavy shoulders that were finally admitting the long struggle
in a slight stoop; his face was strong, yet mild; his mouth firm with
the stability of largeness and generosity. His head, with its high
forehead, heavy eyebrows, and prominence in the region that denotes
intelligence, would have conveyed an impression of cold intellectuality,
had it not been for the mellowing expression that shone from his clear
blue eyes--a look that spoke without effort kindness and sympathy and
friendliness toward the world. Beneath the force of his personality one
felt something more potent than strength--perhaps it was the strength of
sweetness. His carriage was dignified, yet natural; aristocratic yet
gentle; and his graciousness softened the somewhat formal manner of the
Colonial days which still clung to him. He wore the old fashioned fair
top boots and shorts of that elder day, a shirt of fine ruffled linen, a
waistcoat of the finest embroidered silk, and his hair, iron grey and
thick, was reached back from the noble forehead and hung down in a queue
behind, tied with a black silk ribbon--a fashion already passing with
the memories of the Revolution. He was close shaven and neat to a
nicety, with the exception of some grains of snuff which fell
occasionally from the massive gold snuff box that hung from a chain
about his collar.
When he had taken his seat at the table, and was mixing with an
expression of pleasurable anticipation the toddy the waiter had brought
him, he looked at Everett with a curiosity that quickly became
flattering interest. The young fellow's eyes fell before the searching
gaze of the older man for in them he imagined he saw a faint surprise at
the company he had chosen upon his arrival. It was then that he
regretted for the first time the wounded pride which had made him
descend to the use of the Captain's advice.
The conversation changed from the arguing, tempestuous channel in which
it had been running, and with the new influence that was felt by
everyone, became more conservative and dignified.
"I suppose you have told them everything," the old man said to Everett
when the tavern bell had reminded the group that it was their dinner
hour. "Did you ever see fellows so hungry for news?" he added, as
Jervais, the last to leave, had moved away. "But you must remember we
are a long way off from the world down here."
"I was hardly aware myself that so much had happened until I began to
tell them all I knew," Everett answered, happy to find himself alone
with Judge Houston. "I believe I told them everything I have read and
heard for months, and yet," he stopped suddenly and looked up to see if
any of them remained, "do you know, I forgot to tell them that King
George was dead and that the Duke of Clarence is now William the
Fourth!"
"They will see it in the papers," the old man answered smiling, "I am
sure you have told them enough for one day. I am the one who missed it
all. Will you do me the honour of going home to dinner with me? It
would give me much pleasure to hear all about the world from one who is
so recently from the scene of action. Perhaps, too, I can show my
appreciation by giving you something better than the corn dodgers and
goat meat that you would surely get in this tavern."
Everett kept his eyes on the old man's as he rose from his chair in
accepting the invitation. The surprise and pity which people always
showed on first noting his deformity had made him morbidly sensitive and
watchful, and when he saw no change of expression on the face of this
old gentleman of Virginia that gave evidence that he had noticed his
lameness, a feeling of great joy, almost love, rushed over him for the
other; though, in the slow pace at which they walked and his frequent
halts to call attention to some important object along the way, Everett
knew that in this lay a veiled consideration.
The street was broad and cool in the shade of overarching trees, and as
they strolled along, Judge Houston's arm resting on his, and his deep
voice steady and full of the charm of provincial accent, Everett began
to feel more and more contented with the call which had brought him to
this place.
"That old church--yes--it was built by the Spaniards," the old man
leaned against a fence for a moment. "And even I can remember when
criminals used it as a place of safety--a sanctuary. I saw a murderer
run up those steps and put his finger in the key hole of that same old
door and keep his pursuers at bay. A queer old custom--but it has been
years ago now. And their old priest, Father Brady, they called him--he
was my ideal when I was a boy," he talked on as they resumed their walk.
"He had great power over the Indians--used to get out among them and
cowhide them into his church. And when it came to hunting he was the
best shot in the town, and the best judge of horses and liquor--had a
wink and a joke and a blessing and an alms for every one. Oh, I can
tell you all the stories you want to know about Natchez; some of them
are grewsome and some fantastic--but they are being forgotten now with
the changes everywhere. We are getting civilized by degrees down here.
Wife said the other day she had no intention of dying till she saw a
steam car coming right into our town."
He ended with a smile as they stopped before a house set far back in a
grove of trees. Walking beside him up the broad brick pavement,
bordered on each side by high box, Everett realized that he was standing
before the typically Southern home, with its facade of massive white
columns, its wide green blinds against the red bricks, and its broad,
hospitable verandas.
When he stood in the cool shade of the hall, the glare of the brilliant
day shut out, the old gentleman's wife came forward to meet them.
Looking down into her gentle sweet face Everett found himself wondering
if Judge Houston and the grey haired gentle woman could not be some
kin--for the long life together, the practice of the same pursuits, the
indulgence, or more the renunciation of similar tastes had wrought a
likeness between them which made the wife seem but a more delicate
feminine edition of the man.
"You see the resemblance, Maria?" Judge Houston said to his wife, when
the introduction was over.
"Oh yes, indeed--I saw it at once," she murmured in a low voice, and
Everett thought he saw tears in her eyes as she turned quickly away. "I
shall tell Cynthie to have dinner at once. I know you have been
starving. Think of it--on a boat for a month!"
Everett turned back to Judge Houston as they were left alone and found
the old gentleman smiling upon him with the same sad expression he had
found in Mrs. Houston's eyes.
"I seem to remind you of someone," he said slowly, hesitating in the
doubt of intruding upon what was evidently their sorrow.
"Yes--your resemblance to my son is very striking. He went out into the
Western territories with some pioneers when he was just about your age.
He was unlucky--the Indians--it is a long story--I shall tell it to you
one of these days." The old gentleman pulled forward a chair and waved
Everett towards one beside him. "And you are going to Mistress
Brandon's?" he added, evidently wishing to change the subject.
"Yes," Everett answered. "I shall be glad to have you tell me something
about her and her family for I practically know nothing. My chum at
college, Morgan Talbot, is a kinsman of Mistress Brandon and he carried
on the correspondence with her about me. She is taking me entirely on
his recommendation, and I'm sure," he laughed, "she can't know Morgan
well, or she wouldn't take a recommendation from a person who lets his
heart rule his brain as Morgan does. It was entirely his friendship for
me that made him do it."
"You must remember that when we get down here we don't have many
opportunities to see relatives who live so far away as Boston. Mistress
Brandon is a very capable and well educated woman. She has
superintended the management of the plantation ever since Brandon died
and has done it remarkably well; indeed, she is the wealthiest woman in
this part of the state. There are three children. The eldest is not
her child--she is a daughter of Brandon's first wife."
Just then Mrs. Houston reappeared to ask them into dinner.
"I see you are already gossiping," she said, when they vere seated in
the high ceilinged dining room, made cool and free from flies by a large
wooden fan hung from the ceiling above the table and kept in continual
motion by a little negro who stood in one corner of the room and dozed
as he automatically pulled the cord. "I've always told Judge Houston
that it is an erroneous idea that women do the gossiping," she continued
in her gentle, drawling voice, "I assure you, Mr. Everett, everything I
know, I find out from him," with a charming glance of accusation at her
husband, "after his visits to the Mansion House."
"But my news is political, Maria," expostulated Judge Houston. "And
that isn't gossiping."
"Indeed--so you call arguing whether Mistress Brandon will accept Mr.
Jervais or not, a political discussion!"
"I never told you that, my dear," the old man smiled gently.
"No--of course you didn't, but some one else's husband told his wife and
she told me." With which remark Mrs. Houston turned back to Everett.
"You will be delighted with your new friends," pouring the coffee from
an enormous silver urn. "To begin with, the place itself is beautiful.
It was built by one of the Spanish governors and the romances connected
with it are thrilling--but you will hear them all. Natalia will tell
them to you."
"There she goes," laughed Judge Houston. "There won't be a thing left
for you to find out for yourself, Mr. Everett. Maria, my dear, do leave
something to the gentleman's imagination."
"Well, I only thought it wise for Mr. Everett to know something about
them," she responded on the defensive. "Don't you think so, Mr.
Everett?"
"Indeed I do, Mrs. Houston. It might help me to avoid any embarrassing
subjects," he laughed happily, the hospitality and friendliness of this
old fashioned couple making him feel more at home in the midst of their
good natured banter.
"Embarrassing subjects! There you are quite right, Mr. Everett. For
instance, Felix," with a conciliatory look toward her husband, "you know
it would not do for him to ask much about the Spaniards, would it? You
see, Mr. Everett, the mother of Natalia--that is the girl's name--was a
Spaniard. Please don't think I'm gossiping now, but you'll understand
I'm telling you this for your own benefit. The Spanish rule ended here
about the time we came, so we don't pretend to know what the truth of
the matter is. Suffice it to say, however, that Natalia's grandmother
seems to have been criticized for her rather unconventional way of
living. It was during her lifetime that the house was built, and from
what I gather there was no lack of entertainment at all times. Her
daughter, a beautiful, shy little creature, as delicate and sensitive as
a flower, was fortunately sent to New Orleans to be educated and escaped
the surroundings and influence of her mother. Brandon married her soon
after her mother died, and as she had inherited this property here, they
came back to Natchez to live. She was the most fascinating creature I
ever knew, although that was not well--indeed, no one knew her well, and
I often heard it said that she died insane shortly after Natalia's
birth--some more coffee, Cynthie--but you can't believe everything you
hear. I believe she just died as naturally as anyone else. Do have
some more Sally Lunn--Cynthie, bring some hot rolls. Tell me, Mr.
Everett, is it really true that you have pie for breakfast in New
England?"
"I was just wondering what my mother would say to such extravagance as
four kinds of hot bread at one meal. And as for pie," Everett laughed,
"I'm afraid I'll have to admit I have eaten it for breakfast. Hot rolls
are a Sunday attraction at home."
"I suppose we do strike a Northerner as extravagant," Mrs. Houston
sighed helplessly, "but when one has so many slaves standing around,
they must be kept busy. If I had to cook myself I don't suppose you
would have had anything for dinner but baker's bread and fig preserves.
You don't have slaves in Maine, either, do you?"
Everett met Judge Houston's eye and smiled.
"No," the old gentleman answered for him, "the Yankees imported them and
found them unadapted to their climate, so they sent them down here and
sold them to us. Now, I understand, they have decided they do not
approve of slavery. Are you all that clever, Mr. Everett," he ended
with a good humoured laugh.
"I have not read much on the subject," Everett answered, realizing that
beneath the laughter there lay a deep seriousness. "But from what I
have heard and from the reports of the Maryland Society, I had gotten
the impression that many of the Southerners were in favour of
emancipation."
"A great many are--in fact, some have gone so far as to give their
slaves freedom. A man who died here last year, by his will, emancipated
his slaves--there were nearly one hundred of them--and he also provided
for their transportation to Africa with a full supply of agricultural
implements and medicine and a year's provisions. It was a very good
example he set, and one I hope will be imitated."
"Then you believe in emancipation?"
"I am in favour of emancipation with colonization. That is the only way
it is possible. You can't allow slaves to be liberated and remain in
the States, for in such a case the effect of an intermediate class
between owners and slaves would be disastrous. The negroes must be
either sent out of the country or remain slaves. There is no half way
ground to be considered."
"From what you say, Judge Houston," Everett said, in the slight pause
that followed, "I find myself wondering if you are a slave owner."
"Oh yes, I plead guilty, but in a very small way. We have five slaves,
and I venture to say they wouldn't leave us if they could. Do you think
so, Maria?"
Before answering, Mrs. Houston called the pleasant faced negro woman to
her, "Cynthie, go upstairs," she said, an evident ruse to get the woman
out of the room, "and bring me a--pocket handkerchief. I wanted to tell
you about her," she continued when they were alone. "I asked her once
what she would do if I set her free. Will you believe me?--she cried
for a week and begged me every hour of the day please not to do it. You
see, Mr. Everett, they feel they are a part of the family--and so they
are. We take care of them just like they were children. Of course, we
hear of cases where they are badly treated, but it is quite unusual."
"Yes," Judge Houston added, "if people would only stop to consider that
it is to a man's interest to treat his slaves well, in order that they
may do their work, probably they would soon see the fallacy of the
exaggerated tales that are causing so much ill feeling in the North."
"Now, here you all have been discussing this everlasting slave
question," Mrs. Houston said, as they finally rose from the table, "and
all the time I have been wondering to myself over a very different
matter. Can either of you guess what it is?"
"The wonderings of a woman's mind are quite beyond us, eh, Mr. Everett?"
said Judge Houston.
"I shall have to admit my failure this time." Everett smiled at Mrs.
Houston.
"Well," she continued, half seriously, "I was trying to calculate how
long it will take you to tame Natalia."
Everett flushed slightly and did not attempt to hide the surprise he
felt at the remark.
"Ah, there you go with your woman's eternal speculation on some
ridiculous topic." Judge Houston frowned in mock disapproval. "Here you
take a young fellow, and before he has ever seen the child you put all
sorts of ideas into his head about her."
"Nevertheless, I notice the young man is embarrassed," Mrs. Houston
continued in evident enjoyment of Everett's increasing confusion. "It
appears to me that perhaps he has seen our little girl already. Have
you, Mr. Everett?"
Everett glanced at Judge Houston, smiling, then back at the kind old
lady who was bent on teasing him.
"Someone pointed out Mistress Brandon and her children to me as they got
out of the coach to-day," he answered finally.
"And there was a little girl, the daughter?" Mrs. Houston insisted.
"Yes, I think there was a little girl."
"Hm'm, I knew it. Was she about twelve years old and very pretty, with
black hair and grey eyes?"
"Yes--I believe her eyes were grey--since you mention it."
"Since I mention it!" Mrs. Houston laughed easily. "Seems to me you're
mighty indifferent about your pupil." Then seriously, "She's a great
pet of ours and I want you to be kind to her. She's a handful, everyone
says, but Felix and I love her dearly. And indeed, I can't see how
anyone keeps from it. Some people find her rather strange at first, and
I must admit she is wilful, but after you know her a while you'll
understand her. That is what I want you to do if you are to teach
her--understand her and sympathize with her and be very good to her.
Remember she has neither father nor mother." She laid her hand almost
beseechingly, on Everett's arm.
"You may trust me to do that," Everett smiled into her kind eyes. "You
see, she will be my first pupil, and, of course, I shall take pride in
making her reflect credit upon me."
"That may be a little difficult. She never would study except what she
wanted to, but perhaps you may exert a good influence over her in that
direction." She glanced at Everett intently as if reading him and
ended, "I'm half a mind to think you will, too."
Everett and Judge Houston strolled through the cool, darkened hall, and
back to the front veranda, where large red rocking chairs and palmetto
fans were invitingly awaiting them. As they stood for a moment, looking
out toward the street, a wagon came into view, piled high with bales of
cotton and pulled by six oxen.
"There is some cotton from the Brandon place," Judge Houston said to
Everett. "Would you like to see it closer? You can tell it by the
marks on the bales."
They walked down to the gate and watched the heavy load pass down the
street on its way to the distant country from which Everett had come.
"This will be the greatest country in the world some day," the old
gentleman said when they were back on the veranda and had settled
themselves in the comfortable chairs. "All we need is more capital,
more people and more facilities for transportation. But tell me about
yourself now--your plans--and what you hope to do."
"You've probably heard it from many a young fellow before," Everett
answered, looking responsively into the face turned with kindly interest
toward him. "I have chosen law as my profession. It has always been my
desire since the time I found a long illness had left me unfit for any
great physical work. My father was a sea captain and could never
understand this choice of mine--a queer notion, as he called it. But I'm
going on with it and make a success of it, if hard work and hope will do
it. I had some little success with oratory at college, but what I need
now is the opportunity to read law and prepare to be admitted to the
bar. There seemed no good opportunity for me in New England, everything
there is so crowded, and the chance to teach in Mrs. Brandon's family
seemed the best thing for me to do. It will give me leisure to study,
and then, Morgan Talbot tells me her library is very large."
"It is magnificent. Brandon had case after case of books shipped to him
from England--those that he could not get from New York. The library
got so large that he had to build a special room for it. But to go back
to yourself--how much law do you know? I saw this morning in your talk
with those fellows that you were able to grapple with the mazes of
politics. But the point for you now is to get a solid foundation of
details. Do you think you could get in study enough this winter to pass
examinations next spring?"
With the minutes slipping by they talked on, sometimes Everett
unbosoming himself to the kind old gentleman as he had never done
before, sometimes the old man telling him of the needs and greater
demands of the bar of the Southwest, pointing out to him lines of study
and books that would be more useful to him in the special
characteristics of the law in that country.
In his low modulated voice he told the young fellow starting out on the
life journey things that were to come back to him many years later.
Afterwards Sargent Everett often recalled his words about success when
he was feeling its empty sting: "The path of the successful man is not
strewn with flowers. Failure and disappointment are the walls that, when
once passed, become golden experiences. Success judged by the outside
world and felt by the one who has succeeded are two very different
things--sometimes, perhaps most often, the success seen by the world is
the least of all successes. What one strives for and yearns for and so
rarely accomplishes is a thing that others are unaware of--a thing too
sacred to be spoken."
Everett sat spell bound under the influence of the Judge's words. In
the rise and fall of the voice, an inflection which had in it a
delightful bit of provincialism, he found a charm that was persuasive
and forceful.
When the town clock, a block away, chimed three, he rose reluctantly
with a sigh that spoke frankly his regret at leaving.
"I wish I might spend the remainder of the afternoon with you," he said,
his hand clasping the old gentleman's. "But my journey is not quite
finished, yet. I shall go out to Mistress Brandon's now and meet her
and see if I am acceptable."
"Tell her I approve," Judge Houston laid his hand on Everett's shoulder.
"And if I'm not very much mistaken it may have some weight. Tell her we
became good friends in one day."
Everett pressed the old gentleman's hand warmly. "Good friends!" he
replied, "you are already more than that to me. I feel as if I had
known you always--that I had some right to expect all this kindness from
you."
The old man's eyes met his affectionately.
"You have--I've told you. It's the resemblance."
*CHAPTER V*
*THE HOUSE OF THE SPANIARDS*
An hour later Everett was riding out of the town on his way to Mrs.
Brandon's home. About him on all sides the scene was bathed in the
splendour of late afternoon sunlight. A heavy stake-and-rider fence
bordered the road, and beyond it stretched the wide, sweeping cotton
fields--snow white with their unpicked product. He drew in the reins,
resting his horse, while he marvelled at the tall plants, almost as tall
as himself, and the strange effect of the spotless cotton against the
distant border of forest. Across the fields came to him the sound of
voices chanting--sweet with harmony, and looking in the direction from
which it came, he saw bright turbaned negro women and stalwart men
moving steadily through the rows of plants, picking the cotton and
dragging huge baskets after them.
Turning from the high road two miles south of the town, he rode down a
narrow roadway on both sides of which giant cottonwood trees towered,
and where spreading cypresses, their long branches festooned with grey
moss, cast a cooling shade.
At the end of the narrow road a gateway loomed, a large massive piece of
iron grill work swung between two columns of brick and cement. Beyond
these columns, the fence extended, elaborately designed iron pickets
bound together with a tracery of grapes and leaves, before which a hedge
of Cherokee roses grew, its thorny branches accentuating the effect of
security and aloofness from the world.
Everett stopped before the gate and looked beyond, into the depths of a
magnolia grove which seemed a continuance of the wood he had just passed
through, so filled was it with the sprawling shadows of the thick
foliage and the golden spots of sifting sunlight. He was so lost in his
first impressions of the place, its stillness, its old-world charm, its
fairylike mystery, that he started abruptly when he saw a little girl
sitting at the foot of one of the gate posts, surveying him through
gently questioning eyes. Her feet were crossed under her, as she leaned
comfortably against the post, and in her lap she held a large, heavy
book, one finger still upon the page from which her gaze had wandered.
Everett met her eyes in silence for a moment, looking down at her thin
little face, flushed from the rose glow of the setting sun, and feeling
in a flash the vividness of her odd beauty. Her brow was very white and
delicate and her blue-black glossy hair, parted in the middle and
brushed back to where it was braided, made her seem paler than she
really was, for her skin was a rich olive. Everett forgot the beautiful
colouring, the almost weird thinness of her slight figure, the sweet
half questioning mouth--all these were lost sight of when he had seen
her eyes. They were so strange in all they represented that he was lost
in admiration and wonder--for in them, although childlike still in their
innocence--was tenderness, sympathy, wilfulness and humour--all of
these, and more striking still, an intentness that kept changing them
from grey to black and back again.
She broke the silence that Everett had forgotten about. "Are you the
schoolmaster," her voice was high and fresh and liquid, "from Maine?"
Then Everett took off his hat and bowed low, smiling down upon her.
"I'm so--so glad," she sighed, as if the burden of the world had fallen
from her shoulders. Then she closed the book with a snap. "I've been
waiting here hours to see what you looked like."
Everett laughed outright.
"If I had known you were waiting I should have come sooner. I did not
know Mrs. Brandon knew that I had arrived."
"Oh yes--Mr. Jervais told her."
"Then I can see her now?"
She met his look for a second--then glanced down at her book.
"She's riding over the place now, but she told me to tell you to wait
for her. You can tie your horse there," indicating a ring imbedded in
the gate post, "then we can go to the house."
Sargent followed her through the gate and along the driveway which
extended under the magnolia trees. The gloom of the grove was intense,
the black green leaves shutting out the sky entirely and making the
ground beneath dank, where a pale green moss grew in lieu of a lawn.
Through the vista of trees, glowing bright against the eternal twilight
of the grove, the house came into their vision, gleaming like some
palace in an enchanted wood.
Sargent stopped when they had gone a little further, and looked at the
house. The little girl stopped, too, close beside him, and watched his
expression intently. From their position only the front of the house was
visible, a stretch of plain, cemented columns that rose from a pavement
of deep red flags, level with the ground, to the red tiled roof, two
stories high. Back of the columns, the lower rooms extended out from
the upper floor, in this way forming a balcony to the entire second
floor, which was enclosed in an iron balustrade. From this balcony two
flights of stone steps, semi-circular in form, and iron-railed, led down
to the pavement below, and in the opening formed by these steps was the
wide front door. It was an odd conception of architecture and gave the
house a strange, foreign aspect, accentuated by the more familiar
appearance of the second floor, with its wide windows and dark green
shutters.
Sargent had forgotten the little girl beside him, lost in admiration of
the strange old house, when he felt a cold hand slipped into his, and
looking down, found her glowing eyes gazing timidly up at him.
"You like it?" she questioned quickly.
"It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen!"
She smiled contentedly, her hand still in his.
"It's mine--when I get grown up. If you hadn't liked it--I'd have hated
you just like I did Miss Hampton who was our governess last year."
Sargent felt her hand clench in his and saw her eyes grow dark. Giving
a tug at the book she carried, to get it more comfortably under her arm,
she started on again.
"Did you hate her so," Sargent said, glancing at the book she held in
her hand, "because she made you study such a big book as that?"
"This?--Oh no, I love to read this--only I don't understand it all. I
just hated her because she said this was a lonesome old place, and I
didn't like for her to say that, for the Spaniards built this house and
my mother was Spanish--so am I." Then suddenly, "Are you going to teach
me the three R's? Uncle Felix calls it that," smiling again. "Isn't it
funny, because I know they don't begin with an R," putting her hand in
Sargent's once more. "Won't you please leave out the 'Rithmetic?"
Sargent laughed down at her.
"Arithmetic--of course not. We all have to learn that."
"I'm so--so sorry."
"Why?"
"Because I hate it!"
"Perhaps I may be able to help you like it."
"No," positively, "you won't. It's so stupid and dry. I want you to
teach me how to spell, that bothers me so; and I want to learn how to
say Shakespeare's plays."
"Shakespeare!" Sargent exclaimed. "How old are you?"
"I'm going on twelve."
"And what do you like best of Master Shakepeare's?"
"I like the story about Orlando and Rosalind. Shall I say some of it for
you? Let's go over there by the bench and you can hear me say it right
now."
She tripped ahead of Sargent along a path that led from the drive,
suddenly going slower when she saw that he could not follow her so
rapidly. A little way down the path they came to the edge of the grove,
where an iron bench was placed beneath one of the great trees, making an
ideal place where one could sit in shady protection and gaze out upon a
scene so dramatic in its breadth and majesty.
Far down the sloping hill the river swept along, the low country across
the mile-wide current mystically dozing in the golden light of the
advancing evening. In the restfulness of the twilight, when all Nature
had sunk into a gentleness and mistiness, when the light was softening
and objects which had been sharply outlined were imperceptibly growing
unreal, it became a scene made up of dreams and fancies.
Sargent sank on the bench, under the influence of the scene and its
resemblance to the one he had left so far behind him. A doubt of ever
seeing the place he called home rushed over him, bringing with it the
first deep pang of home-sickness. Why had he come so far from home?
Was it really for his good?
All the while the little girl was hastily turning the pages of the book,
searching for the lines she wanted. At last, finding what she sought,
she ran over them, her lips moving inaudibly with the words. Finally
her finger marking the lines, she handed the book to Sargent and stood
erect before him.
"Now," she said, "will you hear them?" looking at him shyly, for she had
been quick to see the wistful look in his eyes.
He met her look, smiling encouragingly, as she clasped her hands behind
her and riveted her gaze on the trees for better concentration. Then
she spoke the lines in a quick, excited voice:
"And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
Sermons in stones, and good in everything."
Sargent waited until she had finished, then closed the book slowly,
repeating the lines after her. She listened intently, her eyes growing
deeper as she came nearer to him.
"Say it again, please," she almost whispered, sitting down on the bench
beside him and slipping her hand through his arm. "It is so beautiful
when you say it. I know I'm going to like you--your voice is so--so
sweet!"
Sargent turned toward her and clasped her little hand in his own.
"Who told you to learn those lines?" he asked, after a moment's silence.
"Uncle Felix. He says they always make him think of this place. Mammy
Dicey says Mamma used to call this 'The Garden of Shadows.'"
"The Garden of Shadows," Sargent repeated. "What a beautiful name; but
it's rather sad, don't you think?"
"Mammy Dicey says Mamma was always sad."
"And don't you remember her yourself?"
The little head moved from side to side and a wistful expression crept
into her eyes. "No--I don't remember her--I was too little, I s'pose.
Sometimes, though, when there's nobody in the house, I go and sit in the
parlour and look at her picture and play like I'm talking to her. Mammy
Dicey says she was beautiful--her picture is."
Sargent looked down at her tenderly. Something in the plaintive notes
in her voice appealed to him strangely. Her vivid little face, with the
deep expression of her eyes, drew him toward her with the instinctive
feeling that in some way they were to be very close together in the
years that were to come. The beautiful surroundings, with their
old-world charm, and aloofness from the world, seemed a part of the
child; unconsciously he felt that she was the expression of all that it
had stood for--of all its strange beauty.
"You are like your mother--aren't you?" he said, his look still upon
her.
She turned away quickly and looked straight before her. "Father used to
say so--that is why he named me 'Natalia'--for her. Now, please don't
call me 'Natalia' like so many people do. It's Nataaya--that's the way
my mother said it--that's the Spanish pronunciation."
"Very well, then, I shall call you Nataaya," Sargent repeated after her.
"You seem to know a great deal about your mother, not to remember her.
Does Mrs. Brandon talk to you so much about her?"
Natalia looked up, startled.
"No--she never talks to me about my mother. Aunt Maria--that's Mrs.
Houston--she's told me lots about her, but Mammy Dicey tells me most."
"Who is Mammy Dicey?"
"Mammy Dicey's my Mamma's slave. She always lived with Mamma ever since
before Mamma was born, and now she belongs to me. She tells me all
about the time when Mamma was a little girl just like me," her face lit
up wonderfully with her evident love of the subject, "and she tells me
all the time about the trips she and Mamma used to take to New Orleans,
and the years they spent in the Convent down there, and of the long,
long trip they once took to the old country. Mammy says they didn't see
anything but water for months and months. I wish so--so much I could
take a trip like that with Mammy. Then, sometimes, on cold winter nights
when we sit in the kitchen and Mammy can see pictures in the fire, I get
her to tell me about the times Mamma used to walk here, in the Garden of
Shadows, and cry all the time because Father had gone to fight the
Indians. I'll get her to tell you sometime, only you mustn't laugh at me
when I cry." She stopped, out of breath with the rush of words.
"Why do you cry, Natalia?" Sargent asked gently, when she had rested a
moment in silence.
"Oh, I don't know, except," and the tears were already in her eyes. "I
can't help wishing she was living when I get very, very lonesome."
"And is that so often in this lovely place?"
"No--not so much. It's just when I get mad with James and Bushnell, and
Mammy's busy, and I'm all by myself--like I was this evening. I s'pose
every little girl gets that way when she hasn't got a Mamma. Have you
got one?"
Sargent put his arm around her and drew the frail little figure close to
him. When she had rested her, chin against his arm, and he could feel
the quick beating of her heart, he leaned over and kissed the heavy
waves of her hair.
"Yes, I have a mother," he answered, almost in a whisper, "but she is
nearly as far away from me as yours is. Indeed, I believe she is
farther--for you have everything here that was your mother's, and that
is a great deal."
For a little while Natalia was silent, then she murmured without looking
up, "Is she beautiful like mine--and do you love her very much?"
"Yes--she is very pretty, I think," he said in answer to her last
question, "and I am like her, too, just as you are like your mother."
"It's lucky for a man, Mammy says--but it's terribly unlucky for a
girl." She sat up suddenly and faced Everett. "Do you believe I'm
going to be unhappy because I look like Mamma?"
"Of course you'll not be unhappy. To be as pretty as your mother must
have been should make you very lucky, I think."
Natalia smiled contentedly, and the colour rushed into her face, a deep
claret colour that glowed subdued beneath her smooth skin and faded away
into the exquisite slenderness of her throat.
"Tell me about your mamma, please."
Through her question Everett was again looking far away to a place where
he knew the ones he loved were gathered, perhaps at that very moment.
He could see it so distinctly, that almost unconsciously, he began to
talk about it to the little girl beside him, as if it were all there
before him.
"My home, Natalia, was way up on a hill where we could look down upon
the town and out into the bay where there are so many little
islands--one for each day in the year, they say--and way beyond those
islands was the great Atlantic Ocean. In front of our house was an
apple orchard; did you ever see one? It is the most beautiful thing in
the world. And in the spring and summer my mother used to always make
me sit beside her out there, and study my lessons, and when I would get
tired, she would close the books and tell me stories of great
heroes--making them more real to me by telling me they inhabited those
islands before us.... When I was a little fellow of ten I was very ill.
The doctor said I was going to die, but my mother said I should not!
And one night when there was a terrible storm, and the ships could not
come into port, she went out on to the cliff where there was nothing but
snow and ice, and where the surf dashed up and froze on everything--she
went out all by herself and prayed to God to spare my life, and promised
Him if I lived she would rear me into a fine man, who would do good in
the world and be a great help to people who had forgotten who God
was.... My father came home on his ship that night, and when they told
him my mother had gone out into the storm, he went out and found her
lying unconscious in the snow. When he brought her back into the room
where I lay dying, a great change came over me at once. I got well; all
except my leg; it kept shrinking so I can never use it again.... So when
my father found he couldn't make a sailor of me, like himself, he got
angry with me and called me the little cripple. He didn't know how that
hurt me, and once, when my little sister died, and my mother got a
letter from him, he thought she said it was I who had died, and he wrote
her it was a fortunate thing, as I could never have been an honour to
them.... It was then that my mother denied herself that I should go to
school and have all the advantages of an education. It was hard on her
and on the others--for we were very poor, but she would hear to nothing
else but that I should learn all that was in my power.... And the day I
left her, Natalia, to come down here, I told her good-bye in the
orchard, and as I went down to the ship I could still see her standing
there, waving to me. Even when the ship was out to sea, I imagined I
could still see her there, and I swore to myself that day that the next
time she stood there and looked for me, I should be coming back to her a
great man!"
The sun was half gone before the far horizon, the grove of magnolias had
grown black in the dusk, and a multitude of birds were fluttering in the
protecting foliage, whispering good-nights to each other. A delicious
breeze swept up from the bosom of the river, cooling the parched earth,
and bringing with it the promise of a refreshing evening.
Finally Everett rose from the bench. "So we should be very good
friends, Natalia," he said as she walked beside him, still silent from
her sympathetic listening, "for we are both without the one we love best
in the world. Will you see now if Mistress Brandon has returned? It is
growing late, and I must get back to town to-night."
In the distance the sound of the gate opening and the crunch of hoofs on
the driveway made Sargent look toward the house. A woman on horseback
was riding up to the door, followed by two men, who rode a little behind
her.
"That's Mamma Brandon now," Natalia cried, "and her overseers. She's
been going over the plantation with them, getting ready for the cotton
picking." She walked a little ahead of Sargent, so that she reached
Mrs. Brandon's side just as she dismounted on the block before the door.
"He's come," she cried breathlessly. "The schoolmaster! And I like him
so much!"
Mrs. Brandon threw her reins to a negro, and looked quickly at Sargent
as he came toward her.
"You are Mr. Everett," she said, extending her gloved hand. "Morgan
wrote me that you would probably reach here this month. Will you come
inside?"
She turned away and walked into the house, leaving Sargent, who followed
closely, with an impression of a tall, fair woman, with steady, cold
blue eyes and a determined mouth. In the first moment of greeting he
had seen her utter lack of sympathy with the old house. In a flash the
thought that had come to him in the garden, returned--the child was the
rightful owner.
"If you will excuse me for a few minutes," she continued, when they were
within the hall. "I have been overlooking the places this afternoon.
After a month's absence it was quite necessary. Natalia, take Mr.
Everett into the parlour. I shall be there in a few moments."
In the gloom of the interior of the house Sargent could distinguish very
little until his eyes had grown accustomed to the subdued light.
The hall was spacious, with a brick floor over which were thrown squares
of carpet, and on the walls, which were of the same cement as the
exterior, hung a remarkable collection of portraits. Tier after tier
they rose to the ceiling, all of them in massive gilt frames that
glistened against the white walls and increased the effect of a ghostly
multitude looking down upon the intruder.
Following Natalia into a large salon which opened into this hall,
Sargent found himself in a vast room of mirrors, with furniture shrouded
in linen covers and a polished mahogany floor that repeated all the
furnishings.
When they were alone again, Natalia stood directly before Sargent, her
face peering up at him through the misty light.
"I'm going to call James and Bushnell to meet you," she said, "and
they're going to be so glad when I tell them you're not one bit like Mr.
Jervais said you were." She smiled happily. "He said you were a
regular old Yankee schoolmaster--and a crippled one at that! Oh!" she
cried, seeing the quick flash of pain in Sargent's face--it was the
thrust that always made him flinch--"I didn't mean to hurt you!" Her
eyes darkened suddenly and the tears rushed down her checks. "Now you
won't like me at all--I'm so--so sorry!" Then she ran weeping out of
the room.
So it was that Sargent Everett's long journey from Maine to Mississippi
in those old days came to an end. Sitting in his room that night at the
tavern, writing home by the light of a single candle, he held his quill
poised above the paper, while the faces of the day rushed in procession
before him. The wrinkled, weather-beaten face of the steamboat captain;
the kind, noble features of the Virginia gentleman; the calm, placid
face of the chatelaine of the old Spanish home; and last of all, the
haunting grey eyes of the little girl. In each of them he found
something that made him realize they would help in the moulding of his
future. His first step had been made. What would the unknown bring to
him? His head sank on his arms and the words of the far away one rang
in his ears, urging him on and on to success.
A light tap sounded on the door.
"Come in," he called out, and the shining face of Jonas appeared in the
doorway.
"Boss, I jes' cum ter fin' out ef yer didn' want hit open'd now?"
"No, Jonas," Sargent smiled, glancing at the bottle of champagne placed
conspicuously on the table. "I've decided to keep it as a souvenir of my
first day in a new country--and of some one whose advice, I verily
believe, saved the day!"
*BOOK II*
*THE LAWYER*
*CHAPTER I*
*PICTURES IN THE FIRE*
Spring had come, the joyous, impatient spring of the South, bringing in
one day a new world, full of warmth and splendour. The old house of the
Spaniards gleamed once more in the sunshine, long shafts of gold
penetrated the shadows of the magnolias and rested with a dazzling
brilliance upon the surrounding line of columns. And the garden along
the terrace burst into a sudden glory that showed it knew well that the
cold winds of the North had died away for many months.
Far down the hillside the great river crept stealthily out of its banks,
crawling up and up until the lowlands of the opposite shore became a
wide, yellow, seemingly boundless sea.
Then the seared forest began to tremble into a faint green, and
everywhere were the chatter of birds and the sounds of awakening life.
Weather prophets shook their heads, saying the spring had come too
early, that it would mean a bad season for the crops; the plantation
overseers were caught napping, and rushed hundreds of slaves into the
field to make the ground ready for planting; and along the road toward
the town three caravans of Voyageurs had passed already, on their way
from New Orleans to St. Louis--all this in the early part of March.
The days, lengthening and full of a lazy warmth, were perfect for a
short cessation from the routine of the schoolroom, so that when the
young schoolmaster had asked for a week's leave in which he might ride
to a day's distant village, for the purpose of passing his examinations
before the Judges of the Supreme Court, his request was readily granted.
The boys had received the announcement with childish delight. Natalia
had said nothing.
The day after the schoolroom was closed, the little girl wandered far
down the hillside, and watched the great river, turbulent and angry in
its swollen channel. She sat there a long time, not thoroughly contented
in the freedom of the holiday, for the last few weeks had been unhappy
ones for her. The schoolmaster had been severe and impatient for many
days, and he had not taken her with him on his long walks through the
woods. Until lately it had been almost the daily custom to go directly
after dinner along the crest of the hill quite away from the road,
toward the town. Natalia would dance along beside him, flitting away now
and then to inspect a hitherto undiscovered grapevine swing or a new
birdnest, and then again walking slowly beside him, listening intently
while he told her some wonderful story of bygone days. Sometimes when
the story was very complicated and the words too big for her to grasp
the meaning, she would walk close beside him, one hand in his, her eyes
shut tight while she listened only to the music of his voice. Many days
they would go quite into the town and stop at Judge Houston's for a half
hour, and while Mrs. Houston gave them huge slices of jelly cake, and
raisins, and tall goblets of milk, the Judge and the schoolmaster would
discuss the new laws of the State. Then it was such fun to come back,
in the late afternoon, when the wind was whistling through the trees and
the grove about the house was filling with queer shadows, and find
everybody gathered about the blazing logs for a while before the study
hour.
But all this had ended a month before. The schoolmaster walked no more
in the afternoons; he went directly from the dinner table to the
library, and shut himself in, not coming out even when the supper bell
rang, and many nights when Mammy Dicey carried the little girl up to her
room she could see a line of light beneath the library door. It would
be there still when she came down hours later, and twice it had been
there when she went back to waken the children in the morning. It was
this way to the day he left, not one minute wasted, as he drove himself
on and on toward his examinations.
Natalia had at first been impatient and complaining of the neglect, then
she had become wounded, and at last silent, and what might have been a
joyous holiday grew more and more monotonous.
When the seventh day had come she had gone down to the big gate, taking
the great cumbersome Shakespeare with her, and, settling herself
comfortably against the post, had waited for the schoolmaster's return.
In the happiness of seeing him again she had become quite forgiving.
The morning passed and he did not come. The afternoon dragged along
until the birds had all fluttered into the grove, and gone to
sleep--still, he did not come. Night came on, a question or two was
asked, and at last bedtime arrived, with no news.
Mammy Dicey sat beside Natalia's bed a long time that night, singing the
whole repertoire of lullabys that usually closed the dusky little lids,
without avail. Natalia lay staring up at the ceiling with wide-open eyes
full of doubts and fears. There had come a report the day after the
schoolmaster's departure, that Jacob Phelps, a notorious highwayman, had
suddenly appeared near the town and robbed the Jackson coach in broad
daylight. With the incident, all the memories and experiences of the
town folk were awakened, and each one was recounting what he had heard
of the man. It added picturesqueness to the tales, that the freebooter
was not a member of a gang, but accomplished his daring robberies
without the aid of confederates; and in contrast to all the robbers that
infested this new country, he killed his victims only when forced to do
so in escaping. The tales had reached the children through the
servants, and for Natalia there had been no peace during the long days
of the schoolmaster's absence.
When Mammy Dicey had blown out the candle and left the room, closing the
door tight after her, Natalia jumped out of bed and ran to the window.
Raising it, and pushing the shutters far apart, she leaned out so as to
get a view of the big gate.
The moon was just rising, and by its cold, white light she could see far
down the empty road. She stood looking out, until the night wind
chilled her, and she shivered under her thin nightgown. Finally she
closed the shutters and crept back to bed, huddling herself beneath the
heavy quilt until she stopped trembling. Still she could not sleep for
the quick beating of her heart and her intent listening. At last she
got up resolutely, tiptoed to the door and went out into the hall, where
a single candle always burned at night. For a moment she hesitated at
the top of the dark staircase, then crept noiselessly downstairs and
through the dining-room until she reached the door that led across an
open passage to the kitchen. She gave a quick sigh of relief when she
saw a flickering light through the kitchen window, and rushing across
the passage, burst into the room and into old Dicey's arms, as she
crouched before the fire.
"Fo' de Lawd, honey chile, whut yer doin' a runnin' 'round heah in de
middle ob de night!" the old woman cried, gathering the child to her
deep bosom and holding her tight. "An' yer footsies all cold an' naked
an' nothin' more'n yer nightgown on. Whut's de mattah, honey?"
"Oh, Mammy, why don't he come?" Natalia whispered, her head buried
against the old negro.
"He's a comin', sugar, he's all right. Now--put dis shawl 'round yer
an' git wahm. I'se gwine ter set up an' wait fer him an' gib him
sumthin' ter eat when he gits heah. Ole Miss tole me ter do hit."
"But he said he would only be gone a week, and it's a week now,
Mammy--and over. And Mammy, I was so mean to him when he went away. I
wouldn't tell him good-bye because he wouldn't take me walking any more,
and shut himself up and studied and studied and studied--all the time.
So when he came to tell us good-bye, I told him I did not want to shake
hands with him because I hated him and hoped he wouldn't ever come back.
And Mammy," the tears were streaming down her face now, "he said maybe
he wouldn't come back, maybe something would happen to him. Now I know
what he meant--he meant Jacob Phelps might kill him."
"No--he didn't mean dat. Don' yer worry erbout him, honey. Yer don'
stedy 'bout nobody but him all de time. Sence dat schoolmas'r come yer
done clean fergit yer Mammy Dicey."
Natalia's arms went about the old woman's neck and hugged her tight. "I
won't ever forget you, Mammy," she said. "Not for anybody. But I do
love him lots--next to you. He's so good to me all the time and I love
so to watch his eyes--aren't they soft and sweet? And, Mammy, he always
lets me talk to him about Mamma. Then he tells me about his Mamma away
up in that cold country--so far away. Don't you love to hear him talk?
Even if he does talk in great big words sometimes, I just love to hear
him. I don't care if I don't know what he means, it sounds so fine and
beautiful, and his voice just flows and flows--like the Bayou in the
spring, Mammy--oh! do you reckon Jacob Phelps has got him?"
"Sh'h--honey chile, sh'h. Cose he hain' got him. Now you just snuggle
up 'ginst me an' git wahm. Whut yer want Mammy ter sing ter yer?
Now--dat's a heap bettah--ain' it?"
Holding the little girl close in her arms, Dicey reached out with one
hand and threw a short log upon the fire, then sitting back comfortably
again, and rocking to and fro, she began singing in a barely audible
whisper an intimate little lullaby, just for themselves:
"Whar, oh whar am de Hebrew chilluns?
Whar, oh whar am de Hebrew chilluns?
Whar, oh whar am de Hebrew chilluns?
Way ober in de Promis' Lan'."
The song was of no avail. Natalia still gazed out of wide open eyes.
Then Dicey changed the meter of her melody and began again:
"Whar was Moses when de light went out?
Whar was Moses when de light went out?
Whar was Moses when de light went out?
Settin' in de dark wid his mouf poked out."
Natalia always chuckled over the last words of the song, but that night
she only stirred restlessly and stared up into the old slave's eyes.
The flickering glow of the fire fell on Dicey's face, lighting up the
countenance which had always been the dearest in the world to the little
girl. The other slaves shunned the strange looking old woman, who had
not come from San Domingo with them; and her high cheek-bones and the
tinge of red beneath her brown skin gave credence to the story that her
father was an Indian. Many of them had whispered to Natalia that her old
Mammy was a Voodoo, and once, when two slaves had died of smallpox, a
"conjure" bag and a tiny black coffin had been found on the doorstep
which the others said Dicey had employed to gain a revenge.
But Natalia loved the old woman too deeply to be weaned from her. She
and Zebediah and Dicey grew closer as the years sped along, the old
hostler remaining faithful to his one partner who had worked side by
side with him in the grand old days of Gayosa and the Spanish
occupation. To them, Natalia was all that was left out of that glorious
past.
The kitchen had always been Dicey's favourite resting place, and at
night when the other slaves had finished their work and gone to the
quarters, she would pull a little stool up to the hearth and crouch down
before the dying embers, gazing intently into the glow and sometimes
crooning softly to herself. It seemed to suit her--this great old room
which had for a floor the hard, clean-swept earth, was ceiled with
roughhewn beams and filled along one side with a wagonwide fireplace.
And when not even a candle was left burning, it seemed to suit her even
better, for then the four pots hanging from heavy cranes above the fire,
the rows of iron ovens placed against the wall, the marble topped bread
table, and the immense, copper preserving kettle in a far corner--all
these became her eloquent friends of the past, and in their
companionship she lived again the stories each held for her.
At the end of the song she glanced into Natalia's sleepless eyes and
smiled. Even in her inexperience, the little girl knew that here was a
love nearly akin to that of the mother she had never known.
"It's no use, Mammy, I can't go to sleep." Natalia slipped from Dicey's
arms to the floor. "Look, it's nearly eleven o'clock. Oh! Mammy!"
happily, "maybe he stayed at Uncle Felix's house in town. But he said he
would come right back here." She ran to the window and peered out into
the moonlight. Everything was deathly still. "Mammy," she said, coming
back to Dicey and leaning against her, "can't you look into the fire and
see pictures and find out if he is coming back? Clytie told me the
other day that you were a Voodoo and could tell what would happen to
people--can you?"
The old woman's eyes flashed into such angry brilliance that Natalia
stepped back, crying out--"Mammy, what's the matter? I never saw you
look that way before."
Dicey's brows wrinkled over her eyes into a sinister expression, while
her fingers twisted themselves into strange shapes as she pressed them
together in her lap.
"Clytie tole yer dat, did she? Whut else she done tole yer?"
"Nothing else, Mammy. Why are you so mad?"
"'Cause dat nigger's tryin' to put you 'ginst me--I knowed it all de
time."
"But no one can do that, Mammy, and I don't mind you being a Voodoo if
you'll look in the fire and see if the schoolmaster is coming back.
Won't you, please, Mammy?"
"Whut yer wants ter know sich er heap 'bout dat Perfesser fur?" Dicey
said, a little subdued from her excitement, and pulling Natalia back to
her. "Hit's no use yer stedyin' 'bout him an' lubbin' him, 'cause he's
gwine 'way from heah soon's he kin, and he's nebber gwine stedy 'bout
you no mo'. Sho' an' he ain', chile, an' hit ain' no use fer yer to be
a lubbin him to sich er pint. Sh'h, sugar plum, don' yer cry now," for
at her words Natalia's eyes had clouded and the tears were beginning to
pour down her cheeks. "I'se jest talkin'--dat's all. Cose he lubs
yer--eve'ybody do. Sh'h now, and Mammy'll fin' pictures fer yer in de
fire."
She knelt on the hearth and poked the back log until some glowing coals
fell from it. Then she leaned forward and raked them into a heap,
blowing upon them all the time to keep them alive. Natalia crept up
behind her, watching intently her every movement. The room was deathly
still, except for the laboured breathing of the old woman blowing life
into the cooling embers, and as the moments slipped by, the moon swung
opposite the window and sent a streak of ghostly light into the dark
kitchen.
Natalia stared into Dicey's face, a new fear of the old woman taking
possession of her. She had never seen this expression on her face, a
far away look in her eyes as if she were seeing into another world and
was frozen lifeless by the vision.
Natalia put one cold, trembling hand on the negro's coarsened one.
There was no response to her touch. "What is it, Mammy?" she whispered.
"Tell me what you see."
The old woman's body shook convulsively, then she sank upon her haunches
and sat still, staring into the ashes. "I sees a long, long time afore
me." She began to count automatically until she reached six, then
suddenly stopped. "Six years. I sees heaps ob watah and heaps ob
trabellin' 'bout. I sees a strange man wid yeller ha'r an' blue eyes.
An' dah's er weddin' goin' on, and a bride ooman all dressed out waitin'
fer him--an' he ain' comin'. Dah's er dead man, too. Who's he? Who's
he? Fo' Gawd, I knows him. An' de bride ooman--Lawdy, honey chile,"
the old woman's voice rose to a shrill cry. "Honey chile, de bride
ooman's you."
Dicey grabbed Natalia to her, her bosom rising and falling rapidly, her
breath gasping, her eyes wild with the vision. And while they sat
there, each clinging to the other under the strange spell, the loud
clanging of a bell burst upon the still night. Both of them rose
quickly and ran to the window. Dicey threw the sash up, and the sound
of the bell rushed into the room, bringing with it the intensity of the
one who was ringing it a mile away.
"Hit's de bell on Massa Puckett's plantashun," Dicey said, after she had
listened a few minutes in silence. "Sumthin's done happen. Mebbe his
house done ketch fire. We kin go up ter yo' room an' see."
She had picked up Natalia and carried her toward the door, when she
stopped again. The sound of a galloping horse out on the highroad came
to them distinctly. Another minute and the horse had stopped before the
gate and they could hear some one approaching the house.
Dicey lighted a candle and held it to the window. "It's only I, Dicey,"
Sargent Everett's voice came out of the darkness. "Is every one safe
here? Mr. Puckett has been murdered and a crowd of men are out with the
bloodhounds. They think it is some of Jacob Phelps' work."
Dicey opened the door, and held the candle high to light him in. "Ole
Miss done tole me ter sabe yer some suppah. I knows yer's hungry and
tired out. Come in heah and set down."
Sargent entered the room, the candle light gleaming on his dusty clothes
and weary features. Before he had gone half way across the room he fell
into the nearest chair, from utter exhaustion.
"How's our little girl, Dicey?" were his first words.
Dicey looked up from the tray she was placing on the table, and smiled,
shaking her head knowingly.
"I reckon she's all right, now dat you'se back."
All the while Natalia was watching him from the dark corner in which she
stood, noting the tired look in his eyes, and the strange new expression
of excitement that made his face seem almost unfamiliar. Then suddenly
she flew across the room toward him, and pressed both arms tight about
his neck, gazing at him with eyes grown brilliantly black.
"I'm so--so glad you've come back!"
"Fo' de Lawd!" cried Dicey, dropping a dish with a clatter. "Ain' you
got no manners at all, runnin' round heah fo' a gemman wid nothin'
more'n a jaybird on! I sees I'se got ter manage yer! Come heah and git
up to yer room dis minit," and as the door closed after them Sargent
heard the complaint growing louder and louder--"No mo' manners dan er
jack-rabbit--dan er jack-rabbit!"
*CHAPTER II*
*THE OPENED WOUND*
In the afternoon of the next day, when the schoolroom had been closed,
Sargent rode into the town. In his pocket he carried a letter which had
come to him a few hours before, from Judge Houston.
"My most hearty congratulations," it ran, "I have heard from one of your
compagnons de voyage, of your success. Are you ready for your first
case? It is waiting for you. Come in this afternoon.
"FELIX HOUSTON."
His first case! Sargent read the delicate, painstaking chirography
again and again. Could it be possible that he was to have a chance to
plead before the bar, when his examinations were only a few days behind
him!
He had received the note as he stood in the door of the little
schoolhouse, with the sound in his ears of the children buzzing over
their lessons, and as the full realization of its meaning swept over
him, he pulled out the loud clanking watch his father had once brought
him from the Bermudas, and impatiently counted the time that must elapse
before he could know what the letter really meant.
It seemed hours before the time came to leave, and Zebediah stood at the
door with a horse saddled and waiting for him.
"You've just come back, and you're going away already!" Natalia said
plaintively, following him to the gate, her little hand clasped tight in
his.
"But I shall not be gone long, Natalia--only an hour or two. And when I
come back, I shall tell you all about the terrible judges who sat on a
platform, all in a row, and asked me all sorts of questions about the
laws of our country."
"I don't care a picayune about the judges," the little girl complained,
"but I do want you to tell me all about old Mr. Puckett, and how Jacob
Phelps killed him. Mammy says Mamma Brandon told her not to tell us
about it, but you will, won't you?"
Sargent looked down at her, as she stood with her vivid little face,
excited and intense over the subject, looking up at him, her hands
clasped tight in a characteristic gesture. It always made him marvel
when he saw her so passionately intent over something--for in the
darkening grey eyes and warm rich glow beneath her olive skin, a wealth
of hereditary influence asserted itself.
"You will tell me when you come back?" she repeated, as Sargent mounted
his horse without answering.
"Wouldn't you rather hear about my first case?" he asked, avoiding an
answer.
"Your first case?"
"Yes--Judge Houston says he has one for me. So I am going now to find
out what it is."
Natalia slipped one hand through the bars of the great gate, and leaned
against it, not in the least enthusiastic.
"I don't care much about the case," she began, almost sadly, "if it is
going to take you away every day after school, and keep you from reading
to me any more or taking me walking. I wouldn't care if you didn't ever
have a case if it's going to be this way."
Sargent leaned from his saddle, and lifted the little girl up beside
him.
"It isn't going to be that way, Natalia," he said quietly when she was
comfortably adjusted and tugging at her skirts. "Nothing in the world
is going to separate us--ever. Will you ride with me to the main road?"
As they passed out of the gate, the boughs of the overlapping trees
casting queer shadows upon their path, the faint, pungent odour of new
leaves making the air fresh and spicy, they were silent a long time,
each happy and contented in a very different way.
"Then what Mammy told me last night isn't so?" Natalia broke the long
silence.
"What did she tell you?"
"That you would soon be going away, and forgetting all about me."
Sargent shook his head, slowly. From where he sat he could only see the
little head with its mass of black hair and two long braids. Suddenly
he leaned forward and kissed it in the wide part. "I shall never forget
you, Natalia. It will be quite the other way."
"Not even when I go away?"
"Not even then--but that will not be soon."
For a moment Natalia was silent; then, in a whisper, "You mustn't tell
it, but--I may go next week. I heard Mamma Brandon reading a letter this
week to Aunt Maria. It was from her kinsfolk in Boston. They want her
to send me up there."
"To the Talbots!" Sargent exclaimed. "I know them. Morgan Talbot is my
best friend. We were at college together."
"I don't want to go without you," Natalia continued slowly, then with
sudden enthusiasm; "Couldn't you go with me? I'll ask Mamma Brandon as
soon as I get back home."
They were at the highroad now, and Sargent drew in his rein. "It would
be fine," he laughed, "but like many fine things, it's not altogether
practical."
"Anyhow, I'm going right back to ask Mamma Brandon if she won't let you
go," and as Sargent turned into the main road, he looked back and saw
her running toward the house.
When he reached the town, the signs of the awakening season were on all
sides. Lawns were being raked clean, gardens were blossoming, women
were on the walks and talking to each other over fences, about the new
shipment of delaines and dimities and lawns that had just come up from
New Orleans. Houses were wide open and the sunlight was gilding and
brightening everything. A farmer, standing in his wagon, was selling
his last lot of smoked sausage to a crowd gathered about him; and
selling it to advantage, for he was telling them there would be no more
until next November. Old Mrs. Buckingham was airing her mattress on the
front veranda, and her famous begonias had been seen on the steps for at
least a week. Verily, spring had come.
The road that passed the old house of the Spaniards led directly into
the town, and became its main street. As Sargent rode along it he felt
a growing affection for these townsfolk and their habitations, for they
had received him, not as a stranger but as an old friend. Already he
was beginning to recognize nearly all the faces he saw, for with his
frequent visits to the town, his walks with Judge Houston, their
churchgoing each Sunday, and the many afternoons he had spent in the
brick courthouse, listening to the arguing of cases where flamboyant
eloquence and thundering invective usually brought success--all these
associations had given him a feeling of becoming one of them.
When he had left his horse at the stable, and turned toward the tavern
to get a late newspaper--there had been a boat that day---he noticed the
unusual crowd gathered on the street, particularly in the courthouse
yard and before the jail.
"Is there a boat in, or a coach, or an Indian massacre?" he asked,--when
he had stopped at the greeting of some friends.
"Haven't you heard?" exclaimed Mr. Pintard, a wealthy planter from an
adjoining county.
"You forget I live in the country," Sargent explained, smiling. "But I
trust all this excitement warrants your interest."
"Josiah Puckett was murdered last night and Jacob Phelps has been
trapped and brought into town. He's over there in the jail now. We've
got him this time."
"Then he was the man who killed Mr. Puckett?" Sargent asked quickly.
"There's no doubt of it. The hounds tracked him to the canebrake on
Puckett's place. It's wonderful--the first time he was ever captured in
his whole career!"
"And now that we've got him," commented Mr. Suggs, joining the group, "I
don't see why he should have any trial. We all know what he's done, and
I say there's no excuse for waiting: I say string him up to-night!
But!--Judge Houston says not. He says the man must be tried--that we
are barbarians no longer. So the trial is to come off next week."
"A trial!" exclaimed Pintard. "What good is a trial without a defence,
and who would defend Phelps? I'll wager you could not find a man in the
county who would take the case."
"Not so fast, my friend," drawled Mr. Suggs. "Somebody has been found to
defend him."
The crowd gathered closer. Suggs always carried startling tidings; it
was part of his profession.
"Who?" demanded the half dozen listeners.
"Mr. Lemuel Jervais!" Mr. Suggs pronounced the name quietly, with the
enjoyment of one who delighted in throwing bombs.
"Lemuel Jervais! You don't mean it! It's a damned lie! Why, he
wouldn't dare! He couldn't afford it!"
Mr. Suggs drew himself to his full height, swelling portentously beneath
his linsey waistcoat, and looked each man squarely in the eye.
"Gentlemen," he answered, "if you can not take the word of a gentleman,
go in the Mansion House bar and ask Mr. Jervais himself. I just left
him there." Then, from a more antagonistic height, "And I'd like to
know who the blackguard is who called what I said, 'a damned lie'!"
"Why has Jervais done this!" Sargent exclaimed, ignoring the last
remark. "There must be some good reason. Of course, he can explain
it."
"Oh yes,--he explains it," Suggs answered, his anger diverted. "He says
he's had a streak of bad luck lately, and he's got to pay up some way.
Phelps offered him a thousand dollars to clear him."
"He'll never win that thousand," Pintard commented. "He might as well
throw up the case now. Clear Phelps in this town, where we all know what
he's been doing for ten years! Why, man, it's ridiculous!"
Mr. Suggs leisurely folded his arms and looked reflectively in the
direction of the jail.
"On the contrary," he remarked, "it will be very easy for him to clear
Phelps. The evidence is only circumstantial. No one saw him commit the
murder. Nobody can swear to it. All they know is that he was captured
in a canebrake near Puckett's house, on the night of the murder, and it
will take a mighty good lawyer to convince the jury that he is the
murderer; that is, unless the trial is overruled by sentiment, and it's
not likely to be, with Felix Houston as judge. I'll tell you,
gentlemen, I don't want the prosecution. It's not a job worth having."
"Somebody's got to do it, though. Attorney Semmes has been sick for a
month and can not leave his home. Who'll they get?"
"The Judge will appoint some one to-morrow morning, I understand." Mr.
Suggs replied from his inexhaustible store of information. "And let us
all pray," he added, meekly folding his hands across his breast, "that
it won't be one of us."
Sargent slipped away from the crowd, unnoticed. The possible meaning of
Judge Houston's note rushed over him, bringing with it an army of hopes
and fears. Could it be that he himself was to represent the State in
this trial? The idea stuck in his thoughts with the potency of truth.
Under its influence he walked rapidly in the direction of his friend's
home, with the question obliterating his surroundings.
He was passing the Mansion House when he heard his name called loudly,
and turning, found Jervais staggering toward him, out of the barroom.
"Hello, Everett! Didn't know you could walk so fast." Jervais slapped
him on the back and laughed noisily. Sargent took the outstretched hand
and then dropped it quickly, in his desire to get away from the man, for
Jervais when sober had always been irritating to him, almost insulting
in his hauteur; drunk, he was both disgusting and dangerous. They had
met frequently during the winter, for it was the regular custom of
Jervais to take Sunday dinner with Mrs. Brandon, a fact which Sargent
had never been able to understand. Nothing seemed so incongruous to him
as the cool, self-possessed, formal chatelaine receiving attention from
a man of Jervais's calibre and reputation. The man had never grown
congenial, and during the last months their discussions at the dinner
table had been so heated that Sargent had chosen that day to spend in
long rides, in preference to sitting through a dinner of several hours,
opposite a man whose political and social beliefs were so directly
opposed to his own. Judge Houston had laughed over the antagonism,
telling Sargent it was good training for him to meet such a man and
learn to restrain himself. Sargent had answered that restraint, when it
was a matter of convictions and creeds, was worthless.
"Haven't seen you since you got in the ring," Jervais continued
unsteadily. "How d'you feel? Like you could conquer the world, I
suppose! How many years do you think you'll have to wait for a
case?--Ten--eh? Say--wait a minute--will you?" as Sargent struggled
from his grasp. "Want to tell you something--it's a secret. Phelps
offered me a thousand dollars to clear him. I had to take it--been
gambling too much lately. But I tell you, Everett, I don't want the
Widow Brandon to hear about it. Now--don't tell her--will you?"
"Of course not, Jervais; I'll not mention it to her. But you had better
tell her yourself. Of course she will hear of it from some one.
Good-bye, I'm in a hurry."
"Say, Everett," Jervais still clung to his arm. "When are you going to
have your first case? Im dead anxious to see you before the bar. A
Yankee schoolteacher a lawyer--that'll be _rich_! Say--a crippled one,
too--that'll be a joke." He ended with another loud burst of merriment.
For a second Sargent stared into the leering face of the drunken man.
Then, trembling in a spasm of rage, his fingers knotted themselves
together, and before he was aware of what he was doing, his arm had shot
up and delivered a blow full into Jervais' face.
As soon as he had done it, a strange calm swept over him, and he stood
as one aloof, looking on the result of his act.
Jervais staggered back a step, wheeled in an attempt to keep his
balance, and fell full length upon the pavement.
In a second a crowd was about them, several assisting Jervais to rise.
When he had regained his feet, Sargent made a step toward him--"Is he
hurt?" he asked very quietly.
"No--don't you know you can't hurt a drunken man?"
Then Jervais made a lunge toward him, but was held back by two men who
were supporting him. His face was distorted into the trembling features
of rage, flushed a purple crimson, and from his eyes shot out the fury
of unchained hatred. Sargent involuntarily looked away, sickened.
"You damned cripple!--to insult me in the street!" Jervais shouted in
his fury. "You can't fight like a man with a man. You'd claim you were
not able, I suppose! But I demand satisfaction! I'll have it, too.
There's one way to settle this thing--d'you hear? A way to settle this
for good!"
"Very well--we'll settle it whenever you wish." Sargent wheeled quickly
and walked from the crowd.
Half a block away he found himself suddenly standing before some one who
barred the way. When he had felt both his arms in a tight grip, and
heard the sound of a familiar, hearty laugh, he looked up and recognized
Captain Mentdrop.
For a moment his excitement and surprise kept back a greeting, so that
the old Captain's face lost its geniality and the twinkle in his eyes
became frank disappointment. "So you've forgotten me, have you?" he
said, with an odd little ring in his voice.
"No--no, Captain!" Sargent struggled to force the words. "Of course I
have not forgotten you, but I don't want to talk to you here. Can't we
get away somewhere?"
The old fellow's keen eyes swept Sargent's face, reading there the signs
of the recent struggle.
"What's up, youngster?" He bent a little forward. "What's a troublin'
you? Your face is as red as a beet, and you've got a mighty bad glare
in your eyes. Come on up to my room here in the Mansion House. I was
resting very comfortable-like up there, till I saw some sort of a
scuffle going on out here." Then with a quick intuition, he searched
Sargent's face again. "It ain't possible you were mixed up in it!"
They went up the tavern steps and altered the Captain's room. When the
old fellow had closed the door after them, he turned back to Sargent,
who had sunk into a chair near the window, and watched the young fellow,
his lips twitching slightly and his eyes crisply twinkling with the
humour he was struggling to keep back.
"You weren't mixed up in it, youngster, were you?" he repeated, with his
lips twitching again.
Sargent met his look squarely. "Yes, I was in it. A street fight! I
knocked Lemuel Jervais down!"
"You! Lemuel Jervais--Oh!" And the Captain could restrain himself no
longer. He dropped into a chair, the whole of his great frame shaking
with loud gusts of laughter, while the tears gushed forth and rolled
down his furrowed cheeks. "On my honour--it's too good to believe," he
cried breathlessly. "You and Lem Jervais in a street fight. And when
you were on that boat with me I thought you were as harmless as a
kitten. Gee Whillikens!" and he let out a long whistle, "but you are a
promising youngster--after all. Easy, now. Don't blaze your eyes at me
that way. _I_ wasn't the cause of it. When you get cooled down
a-plenty, tell me about it. Ugh, but you are huffy about it!" as Sargent
remained impervious to his humour. "You know what I do when I get that
upset? I just lock myself up in my cabin where nobody can get to me and
I can get to nobody, and I cuss everybody and everything that I can get
my mind on--you ought to hear me! I can cuss like a beauty when I get
warmed up to my subject, and will you believe me, sir, when I come out
I'm as cool as a cucumber. Honest Injun, I am--just like a May morning.
Want to try it? I'll give you the room to yourself. Well--if you
won't, maybe telling me about it will help you let off a little steam.
Now--how d' it start?"
Sargent raised his head at the last question, and looked into the
twinkling grey eyes before him. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and
unsteady.
"He was drunk and laughed at me--laughed at my deformity! He said it
would be a joke for me to plead any case before the bar. I, a Yankee
school-teacher--a crippled one at that!"
The Captain was out of his chair and before Sargent in a second. The
twinkle had gone out of his eyes. They were steely now.
"The damned scoundrel! And you?"
"I knocked him down."
"Before the whole crowd? Good! Then?"
"He challenged me."
The old fellow's face brightened.
"Better still! When'll it be?"
"I don't know yet."
"Am I the first you've talked to?"
"Yes."
"Good! Good! I'll help you. I'll be your second."
The old fellow rubbed his hands together and the gleam came back into
his eyes, while his furrowed face became tinged with a faint glow that
shone youthful beneath the coarsened, weather-worn skin.
Sargent stared at him blankly.
"You," he exclaimed, seemingly without comprehension.
"Yes, I--that is," and the Captain glanced at him with a tinge of
resentment, "unless you prefer some one else."
Sargent grasped his hands silently.
"That's right; you let me take charge of this thing, boy. I'll do it up
in ship-shape." He let his hand drop with rough affection on Sargent's
shoulder. "It's mighty lucky I'm going to be here for two weeks. My
boilers are out of fix and I'm tied up repairs. Let me know when you
get the challenge and I'll help you fix the whole thing. I know all
about how these things are done. Now, don't go back on me, and think
you ought to ask a younger fellow, for if anything should happen to you
and I had to take your place, there ain't a living soul dependent on
me."
Sargent rose without a word. Then, turning suddenly, he went out of the
room and down the steps, followed by the old fellow, who still held his
arm in a firm grasp. Stopping when they had reached the pavement, the
Captain glanced once more at the young fellow's face, his twinkling eyes
beaming affectionately from their thousand encircling wrinkles.
"Who'd 'a' thought when we parted on the boat that day, that we'd meet
in a mix-up like this? I kind a' felt all along that you were going to
make your name. I can size up a promising youngster every time. Just
to think of it!" and he ended with a slap on Sargent's shoulder.
"Good-bye, and don't forget," he lowered his voice confidentially, "I'm
going to be your second. D'you hear? Even if you didn't ask me. It's
all of my own choosing."
*CHAPTER III*
*A DEMAND OF HONOUR*
The balmy twilight had softened into night as Sargent walked away from
the tavern, and in the sudden privacy of the darkness the diverting
influence of the old Captain's personality faded, and all the details of
his encounter with Jervais returned to him with an added intensity.
Again, as he felt the moment he struck Jervais, there came to him a
sensation of burning alive under the insult--the insult that he could
not repudiate. The blood rushed to his head and pounded like a great
firing of artillery, and when he had crossed the street from the tavern,
and struck into a deserted thoroughfare, he leaned against a fence to
keep from falling, for the mental agony had brought with it a keen sense
of physical weakness. Why was this curse of physical deformity to
follow him always! Was it some punishment of God's that was to be
eternal? The saner forces of his nature, the gentle influences of his
early training, the memories which had so far kept him pure and noble,
receded under this sudden unloosening of the resentment against his
infirmity which he had always forced himself to subdue. With this
unchaining of all restraint, he became for the moment another creature.
Barbaric instincts came to life, and he felt the thrill of a discoverer
at finding such characteristics in his possession.
Then, out of the swirling ensemble, came one thought that quickly
chained everything else into submission--a determination to meet Jervais
in the trial of Phelps, to oppose him, to defeat him, to bring him to an
inexorable failure before the Court, to make his fall so great that he
would be robbed even of any desire for future honours: That would be his
revenge. Afterward, he would not care what happened in the duel; nothing
would matter after he had fully tasted the sweetness of his revenge. So
completely had he sunk under the obsession of this new line of thought
that when he entered Judge Houston's unlighted library a few minutes
later, the metamorphosis showed in every line of his features.
He spoke no word of greeting, only grasped the extended hand and looked
into the kind eyes of the old gentleman with fixed intensity.
"Was the case you meant, the prosecution of Phelps?"
Judge Houston stepped back from him, surprised into a short silence by
the wild expression in Sargent's eyes.
"Yes--how did you guess it?"
"Thank God!"
The words escaped Sargent in a sob that was the concentrated expression
of his suffering. He sank into a familiar chair beside the table, and
let his head drop into his hands.
The old man looked at him in silence, surprise, sympathy and fear
glowing in his clear blue eyes. Finally he walked over to Sargent and
rested his hand on the young fellow's shoulder.
"What is it, boy? What is troubling you so?"
"It is only the relief your words have given me. My only fear was that I
might be mistaken."
The Judge's brow was wrinkled a long time as he puzzled over the words.
"Were you so anxious to have the case?" he asked. "You know, I was half
afraid you might not want it."
Sargent lifted his face and met the kind eyes. "Yes, I want it! I'm
going to make it the case of my life! It will be my first, but I'm
going to make it the greatest one of my career. If I ever go down in
history as a big man, this case will be the great one of them all!"
The old man was still bewildered. He moved away slowly and pushing his
chair up opposite Sargent, sat down and faced him, frankly studying his
face, watching the swift changes playing across it, noting the strange,
new determination that was already hardening the gentle lines about his
mouth. He felt his own heart suddenly contract with a sharp sense of
disappointment, for he had hoped to keep this boy, by means of his
influence and help, fresh and young in the battle of life; but he saw
now that something had forestalled him; something had already come with
a blighting sting.
He had been quick to read the sensitive, imaginative, capable nature of
Sargent the first time they had clasped hands. He had seen the
wonderful possibilities that would develop under the right
influences--the remarkable capacity for right and wrong, whichever it
would be that would tip the scales; and in that moment that the
resemblance to his own son had struck him, he had felt all the denied
love of a father stir within him and give itself to the boy. Afterwards,
he had gone further in his advances than ever before in his long life;
he had given him the freedom of his library, directing him in the use of
books, even preparing him for the legal examination with his own
questions, which he made more difficult than necessary. All the while he
had felt the intellectual joy of watching a brilliant mind expanding and
grasping new subjects; of looking far back into the shadowy past through
the rich imagination of a youthful mind. And with the father love that
bound him to Sargent, was blended a sense of pride that the youth should
grow along by his side, becoming under his tutelage the actual
expression of all the unrealized ideals of his own life.
But something had jarred the perfect sympathy; some enemy was already
tugging at the cords that bound them.
In the circle of lamplight lay a weather-worn, leather bound book. It
had been brought from Virginia on the long pilgrimage to the South, and
had always been a friend and a book of comfort. Instinctively the old
man's hand went out and touched it.
"It will be a difficult case," Sargent heard him saying, as if more to
himself than to any listener. "Yes--it is almost hopeless. You can not
possibly win it. I only wanted you to have the experience. It will get
you well started before the public."
"Why do you say it is hopeless?"
"There is so little evidence. You can not convict a man without
proofs."
"Is there absolutely nothing?"
"Oh, yes," the old man answered, patiently. "There are a few
circumstances. We can go into that later. There is plenty of time.
What I want to know now is," and he dropped his voice into a lower tone,
and looked at Sargent tenderly, "what is troubling you? Don't you care
to tell me?" he ended, with a frank note of pleading in his voice.
Sargent met his look unflinchingly. "I have never kept anything from
you," he began. "Why should I now, when you have done so much for me!
Only," and he hesitated, with the certainty that what he was going to
say would perhaps alter their friendship for ever. A feeling of
restraint made him silent, and with a leap his thoughts went back to the
other man, the Captain, the one who had weathered the storms of a
pioneer's life, and even in his old age was still a boy. He found
himself longing for the comradeship and joviality of the one who saw
only a desirable notoriety in fighting a duel; and yet, in the
kaleidoscopic varying of thought, he knew that in a saner moment he
would seek only the one now before him, for advice. The Captain
represented to him the expression of untempered passion, and at this
moment that was the one thing that his nature demanded.
In this light the calmness of Judge Houston became to him cold
criticism, before which he quailed.
Words that might in some way palliate his action rushed to his lips,
finding excuses that a moment before, in the absorption of his anger, he
would have despised.
"You believe," he said at last, in a more controlled voice, "that there
sometimes come in a man's life circumstances that rob him of the faculty
of reasoning? Perhaps one incident that blots out everything that has
gone before, leaving in its place only one absorbing determination. You
believe that, don't you?"
Judge Houston bowed his head silently.
"You believe too that there are things in life that a man must
resent--must resent even by going against all the laws of God and
man--that unless he does resent them the rest of his life must be
without self-respect and without honours. Then, if a man does not
fight, life is rendered valueless to him, both in his own eyes and those
of the community, and existence becomes a burden! At times like these
one must choose between two evils. I have chosen the least of the two."
"A duel!" The old man rose from his chair, and paced the floor, his
hands clasped behind him. "A duel? With whom?"
His lips were twitching slightly, and his hands--old, worn hands, which
the years had left drawn and stretched into a thousand creases, and the
sight of which, clasping and unclasping in his nervousness, smote
Sargent with a keen, knifelike pain, through the knowledge that he was
causing the old gentleman to suffer for his sake. He put out his hand
impulsively, and grasped the other's when he passed close to him.
"Don't blame me--forgive me," he said. "Don't make it any harder than
it is already. I believe in my heart you would have done the same."
"Tell me, my boy." The Judge's voice was full of sympathy.
The torrent of words came at last, and as he told his story Sargent
found a relief that left him weak and exhausted. The strain was
reaching its limit.
"Ah! you don't blame me," he ended brokenly. "I knew you would not!"
With his words, a reflection of the anger of his own eyes had sprung
alive in the old man's. Judge Houston stood before Sargent, his hands
gripping the shoulders of the young fellow with an intensity of
sympathy.
"Don't say any more," he said in a low voice that trembled slightly. "I
understand. I will stand with you."
"You!" Sargent moved away quickly, and stood staring at him. "You!"
And then his lips trembled. The end of his strength came, and he threw
himself across the sofa, his face in his hands, his whole body shaking
convulsively. "It's more than I deserve," he said. "That all this
should have come to me in one day--this hatred, and Captain Mentdrop's
friendship--and your--love. It is too much to understand."
The old gentleman stood a moment beside the table, his hand again on the
leather bound volume. As a shaft of light penetrated through the open
door, it rested on him a moment, concentrating in the beautiful gentle
eyes, and shining forth, in a deeper, fuller glory.
He went slowly to the sofa and sat down beside Sargent, his hand resting
with its peacegiving power upon the bowed head.
In a long silence that followed, his lips were still, but within was a
constantly repeated prayer, "God give me the power to lead him right.
Give me this power--if nothing else." Then aloud, as the voice of his
wife called to them from the dining-room. "It is nothing that I am
doing for you--only what I would have done for my son--and yoy have come
to take his place."
*CHAPTER IV*
*HIS FIRST CASE*
So the schoolhouse was closed again on the following Monday, and Sargent
rode into the town to plead his first case before the bar.
In the open square of the town, set far back in a grove of trees, stood
the brick courthouse, considered a large building in those days. In its
Hall of Justice was a plastered ceiling on which an architect from the
old world had fashioned a circle of hands, each with its forefinger
pointing directly down upon the heads of those who sat in judgment.
Home-seekers, coming there in an attempt to settle hopelessly involved
land suits: destitute, silent Indians, squatting on the door steps
awaiting the decision of some land agent; slaves brought in shiploads
from the Bermudas; even wealthy planters looked upon this Hall of
Justice with a certain awe. The plastered hands were ominous and
unavoidable; always when one looked at them they were pointing so
directly at one that it had grown into a saying that when a man was
brought before the judges he was "beneath the pointing fingers."
About the courthouse that day was gathered an unusual crowd, for at such
a season of the year, when the fields must be ploughed and cotton
planted, court was never very largely attended.
Down a long line of hitching posts was almost every conceivable vehicle,
including a huge prairie schooner filled with a curious crowd from the
Black River country. Whole families, parents, children, slaves, and
favourite dogs were picnicking about the square--all had come many miles
to hear the trial of a man who had made safety a very uncertain thing
for the last five years.
Sargent threaded his way among them, unknown, yet feeling a greater
responsibility resting upon him as he saw this evidence of the people's
interest. They were looking to him to remove this murderer from their
midst. As he went into the courthouse, he met Judge Houston. The old
gentleman extended his hand, and for a second smiled encouragingly into
the strained eyes of the young lawyer.
"You've been overdoing it, Sargent," he said quietly. "You should have
rested. Too much reading of law paralyzes the brain."
Sargent met his look earnestly, without the smile that was always so
ready upon his lips.
"I couldn't sleep, and I had to do something. I believe I've read every
murder case on record."
"And have you discovered a method by which you can win this one?"
Sargent's eyes glowed brilliantly as he answered. "Your doubt of me is
the greatest factor in forcing me on. I don't know how I shall do it,
but--I'm going to make that jury render a verdict of guilty."
The old gentleman's brows drew together, and he shook his head slowly,
letting his hand rest affectionately on Sargent's shoulder.
"I only hope you will succeed, Sargent--as much for the people's sake as
for your own. If justice is not meted out to Phelps by law, I fear it
will come to him through the hatred of the people. Go now, boy--do your
best. And remember, I have failed many and many a time, others are
failing continually, and no one really succeeds until failure has been
his tutor. Good-bye! Meet me when the day's session is over."
All through that first day, which was given over to the hearing of
evidence, Sargent had grown more and more under the conviction that if
he were to win the case it would come from some inspiration which had
not yet been given to him. Not that he had for a moment given up hope,
for each time such a thought flashed into his mind, it was followed by
the thundering necessity for success. And when Phelps was brought into
the room and he could look for the first time into the face of the man
whose freedom he was attempting to take from him, Sargent forgot
everything else in studying the highwayman's features. In them he had
suddenly realized an aid to his success.
All through the cross-examination of the witnesses he was thinking of
it, even to the intense moment when the two scraps of paper were
displayed: one a gun wadding found in the house of the murdered man and
the other in the pocket of Jacob Phelps. The two pieces were from a
paper of the same date, and though not fitting into each other were
considered the strongest evidence against the prisoner. Besides that,
only the proximity of the canebrake where Phelps was captured, and a
long, detailed report of his former daring robberies were all that he
had been able to procure.
The weak point of the evidence was that not an instance of murder could
be charged to Phelps. There had always been a doubt of his guilt--and in
this Jervais showed his strength. Each of his questions led in
labyrinthine windings to the end that nothing had been proved on the
prisoner. Indeed, those who swore they recognized him were eventually
misled into the belief that they were swearing to an uncertainty.
Finally the recess hour came, and in the afternoon, after all the
evidence had been taken, the court adjourned until the next day, when
the speeches for the two sides should be made.
Sargent waited for Judge Houston outside the courthouse. He had walked
to one side of the grounds where he would not meet the crowd of familiar
faces, and be forced to discuss the case, for already he had been quick
to feel the disappointment that had settled over them after all the
evidence had been heard. Their silence and lowered voices showed their
fears, and passing a group hurriedly at the recess hour, he had heard a
doubt expressed at Judge Houston's wisdom in appointing him to represent
the State. Many little incidents of the day were remembered by him long
afterwards, which, in the concentration of all his energies at the time,
he had not even been aware of. All he wanted at that moment was material
with which to impress the jury--material which was lacking he realized
with a sickening dread.
As he stood under the trees and faced the court-house, its brick walls
glowing in the late sun, once more the prisoner's face rose before him,
photographing itself indelibly upon his mind. Each feature stood out
enlarged and vivid; black eyes, bold and fearless and insolent, with the
surrounding whites almost entirely red from swollen veins; a low
forehead from which black, wiry hair grew out, straight and stiff; a
long, aquiline nose with wide nostrils in which showed a heavy growth of
hair; heavy lips, the lower one protruding doggedly, yet both suggesting
a certain generosity in their amplitude; the chin and side of the face
covered with a short beard which reached far up the cheeks to where pock
marks glowed deep and white against a swarthy complexion. It was a face
characteristic of daring and wild deeds, yet in some lines about the
eyes, inscrutable and haunting, there was something unconfessed.
All through the channels of Sargent's imagination, set in motion by this
face, insistently colouring every conclusion reached, was the hidden
characteristic about the man's eyes which signified something which he
felt certain would help him in some way if he could find out what it
meant. In a swift passion of futility he pushed out his hands to ward
off the first signal of defeat that was steadily creeping over him. He
covered his eyes to keep out the likeness of Phelps' face as it glowered
down upon him from the court-house wall. Was it possible that he had
failed? Had he been too self-confident? Was it only hatred and a
desire for vengeance which had made up the ingredients of his
confidence? At the end of each question stood the face of Jervais, and
the duel--after that, another question. Finally, through the
lengthening shadows, he strolled back to the broad steps and waited
Judge Houston's coming.
They walked home in the twilight, the old man's arm linked in Sargent's,
their heads bent forward in thoughtful silence.
"Did you look at him? Did you see his face?" Sargent asked as they
turned the corner and approached the house.
"Whose face?" Judge Houston looked up quickly.
"The man's--Jacob Phelps."
"Yes--why?"
"Did you see anything in it but cruelty--malignity--daring?"
"No--there was nothing else."
"Oh, but you are mistaken. There is something else."
"What?"
"I don't know. I'd give half my life to find out. I must find out
to-night--I will!"
Mrs. Houston was standing at the gate to welcome them, Natalia on her
pony before the block, both of them silent in their impatience to hear
the outcome of the first day.
"You all are bothered! I can see that right now. And such glum
faces--look at them, Natalia," Mrs. Houston said cheerfully, as the two
men came up to them. "I declare you all look as if Phelps was
prosecuting you, instead of the reverse! And I have gone to lots of
trouble to get up a good supper for you--lye-hominy, some nice, fresh
roasted yams, and waffles! And here you both look like you wouldn't eat
a mouthful, and Natalia says she won't stay either!" Mrs. Houston
sighed in much distress. "I wish sometimes there was no such thing as
law. It upsets my dinner hour and my plans, and is disastrous in lots
of ways."
"So you'd rather have your dinner on time," laughed Judge Houston, "than
all the highwaymen in the country in jail!" He walked across the
sidewalk to speak to Natalia, leaving Sargent and his wife together.
"Is it so bad?" she asked quickly, her face searching Sargent's
anxiously. "Are you worried about the outcome?"
"I know I shall win!" Sargent's eyes blazed again, "but I don't know yet
how I shall do it. If I should fail now--"
"Of course you will not. Don't let that enter your thoughts. Can't
Felix help you?"
"Not now," Sargent answered, his features still drawn and tense. "It's
all with me now, and I'm glad of it."
The gentle old lady looked at the youth before her, so earnest and
flushed, her eyes clouding at the possible disappointment awaiting him.
She had seen all these hopes and desires so often before, in the days
long passed when she and her young husband had started on their long
pilgrimage. Then, looking beyond him, her eyes dwelt on Natalia
pensively. When she spoke again her face was brimming with
cheerfulness.
"On your way home," she said softly, "be very good to her. Forget all
this worry and this abstraction and talk to her. It will do you good.
Do you realize the place you have taken in the child's life? It has made
me wonder if it was good for her or not. Sometimes," she ended,
reflectively, "I wonder what you have done to gain her love so--and yet,
I think I know."
Sargent glanced to where Natalia was leaning from her saddle and talking
intently with Judge Houston. For the first time that day the tenseness
of his face relaxed, and the memory of the courtroom and all it meant
slipped from him.
"I believe I gained her love," he answered slowly, "by first loving her.
Don't you think that is the only real way to gain another's love?"
"Yes--there are very few who fail to respond to being loved. It is so
flattering," she smiled lightly. "But Natalia needed you just when you
came. You know how out of sympathy she and Mrs. Brandon are?"
"That is not to be wondered at. Could you possibly find two more
opposite natures? One--cool, calculating, and always just; the
other--intense, wilful, passionate. Look at her now! She's more like
some little fairy who has been lost from other fairies than anything
else in the world. And how old she is at times! I feel that I am
talking to some one a great deal older than I am. Tell me, Mrs.
Houston," Sargent leaned nearer on the gate and his voice sank to a
whisper, "now that she is going away, how can I make her remember me?
If she were to go away and forget me--"
"She will not do that, my dear boy." She pressed his hand gently.
"She's at the impressionable age, and she loves you with all her little,
pent-up nature. She will not forget."
Sargent met her glance warmly. "You see, it is so different with me,
from most men. My sensitiveness, my wretched infirmity, seems to make
everything so much more serious to me. And when any one gets hold of my
affections, I feel a tremendous need for them always. That is the way
with Natalia--it was her sweet dependence, her yearning for sympathy,
her quaint charm that have bound me tocher for ever. Of course she is
only a child now," he hesitated suddenly, as if half unwilling to
express his real feelings, "but if I could have the hope that she would
come back to me some day--a woman loving me as she does now--anything
would be worth enduring--for that!"
"If you all are going to talk all the evening, I'm going home," Natalia
cried, from her pony. "And I told Zebby I'd be home surely by six
o'clock."
Sargent hurriedly mounted his horse, which had been brought to the gate,
and waved a farewell to Mrs. Houston. "Good-bye," she called to them,
waving her handkerchief as they rode off. "I'm going to hear you make
your maiden speech to-morrow. Good luck to you. Good-bye, Natalia."
It was almost dark when Sargent and Natalia left the town behind them,
and through the dark forest bordering the cotton fields, a feathery
crescent moon floated up and greeted them. The balmy spring breeze blew
in their faces, and in the Western sky still lingered the faint glow of
sunset. The cabins were sending up thin lines of white smoke, the
delicious odour of fried bacon was in the air, and the sound of some one
chopping wood in the distance gave a homely touch of comfort to the
scene. Completing the peaceful holiness of the spring twilight came the
harmonies of the slaves, singing as they went home from the day's work.
They rode along in silence. Natalia, dangling her little bonnet from
its green ribbons, looked up at Sargent intently, but his eyes did not
answer hers. They were bent on some distant object that she knew she
could never see, and sighing slightly, she resigned herself to waiting
for him to become aware of her presence. In her childlike adoration,
there was sufficient happiness in being near him.
When the gate loomed before them through the vista of trees, Natalia
guided her pony closer to Sargent, until he was forced to notice her.
"Aunt Maria said you were terribly bothered," she said, when he looked
down at her out of his long abstraction. "Is that what makes you so
different?" she ended plaintively.
"Yes--that's it, Natalia," Sargent answered, his brows knitted close
together. "It seems to have ruined my whole outlook. I can't think of
anything else. All the way home I could see nothing but that man's
face. I believe I'm beginning to lose hope, too. Would you be sorry if
Mr. Jervais won the case from me?"
Natalia looked up at him, drawing the pony to a sudden standstill in her
amazement.
"Mr. Jervais can't do that! You wouldn't let him! I hate him anyhow!"
She clenched her little hand. "Please don't let him win."
"Suppose I can not help myself? Suppose he has all the evidence on his
side? What can I do then?"
"Well--" she said slowly, as if attempting to arrive at some conclusion.
"Well--isn't Phelps a murderer?"
"Every one _thinks_ so. But I can not prove it."
"Do _you_ think so?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then," with an impatient toss of the head, "it's just as easy as can
be. Make him say it is so."
Sargent threw back his head and laughed heartily for the first time in
many days. And all the while Natalia stared at him with an expression
that spoke eloquently surprise and wounded pride.
"Well, you needn't laugh so much about it!" she exclaimed, as Sargent's
amusement seemed to increase. "You could make him tell you if you had a
mind to. Mammy says you have a silver tongue, and when people have that,
they can make other people tell everything they know. I don't care
though, if you don't make him tell," she cried, the tears coming into
her eyes as Sargent continued laughing. They were at the gate now, and
as he lifted her from the pony, she struggled out of his arms and flew
toward the house. "I don't care a picayune if you don't ever win a
case!" she called back to him from the veranda, and then slammed the
door tight after her.
Sargent walked slowly toward his room. The smile had gone from his face
now, and in its place was an odd, quickening expression.
"Make him tell you!" he repeated Natalia's words as he unlocked the door
of his room. "Make him tell you!" he repeated, as he blew out his
candle, hours later. "Make him tell you!" he repeated all through that
long, sleepless night.
*CHAPTER V*
*MAGNETISM*
The two men faced each other, the lawyer at one end of the long table,
the prisoner barely ten feet away, in his chair before the jury. The
moment was tense. Everything had been finished, even Jervais' eloquent
speech to the jury, in which he had cautioned the twelve men not to let
sentiment lead them to a decision, but to be guided only by the evidence
and what had absolutely been proved. And now remained only the speech
of the prosecution, on which rested the hopes of every one in the
courtroom.
Even the jury had grown restless under the continued want of facts in
the case. Their attitude toward the prisoner was but a reflection of
the sentiment of the townspeople--they feared the man; his presence was
a menace always to be faced; they wanted to be freed from his disturbing
proximity; and they wanted to feel that long trips to neighbouring
villages would be without the danger of this highwayman. In short they
wanted him dead.
But what they had heard was not convicting. It was impossible, so far,
to render a verdict of guilty, on what had been shown.
During the silence that followed Jervais' speech, Sargent rose from his
chair, and stepped forward. A wave of disappointment rushed over the
courtroom, for the people had hoped to the last that their district
attorney would be able to leave his bed and come to the rescue,
convicting the prisoner through the eloquence they had known for years.
But everything seemed in favour of the prisoner, every one admitted that
Jervais had made the finest speech of his career, and now that their
great attorney had been substituted by a youth who had not even made his
first speech before the bar, Phelps' chances for acquittal were
depressingly certain.
What could this young lawyer do? This limping, Yankee schoolteacher who
had come South to make a living? What could he do but complete the
fiasco of the trial? A titter was heard at one end of the courtroom,
followed by an outright laugh, and then, suddenly, silence fell again as
a counter wave of interest fell over the audience. Something in the
position of the two men--the lawyer and the prisoner--had claimed their
attention.
Sargent, in rising, had not faced the jury, but stood perfectly silent
and rigid, his gaze riveted upon the prisoner. In his eyes was no sign
of fear, but a calm watchfulness of some expected danger. The prisoner
returned the look, his blood-shot eyes keen and cat-like in the
intensity of the passion boiling back of them. His coarse, unkempt hair
hung in masses over his forehead, his rough skin and uneven beard and
crouching posture but intensified his expression of brutality and
vicious force.
The two seemed born to be antagonistic: the absolute want of visible
sympathy made the contrast impressive.
Sargent put aside his cane and steadied himself with one hand upon the
table; the other he held half poised, as if in the act of defence, for
that morning a strange story had been whispered about, and during
Jervais' speech it had reached him. He had been told that Phelps was
desperate enough to attack him even in the courtroom.
Then, with his gaze still searching the blood-shot eyes of the prisoner,
he began his speech. It took the intent crowd of listeners several
minutes to adjust themselves to what was happening; then they found that
the young lawyer was not talking to them, nor to the Judge, nor even to
the jury. His words were directed only to the man before him.
In a low, clear voice, heard in every corner of the courtroom, he was
describing to the prisoner, in pitiless detail, the crime committed;
painting vividly the scene of the murder, the aged, respected planter
lying dead on the floor of his room, a pool of blood about him, his
belongings scattered everywhere, his valuables all gone. He told of the
man's life, his charity, his good influence upon his neighbours. He
described him at home, at his evening meal, surrounded by a happy and
dependant family; his awakening in the night to find himself in the grip
of a brutal antagonist--and at last, his feeble death struggle with an
unseen foe.
The words came from his lips cold, crisp, clear cut, without feeling,
yet so forcibly were they chosen, so short and cogent, that they fell
upon the ears of his listeners like the beat of a huge hammer upon
marble.
The scene rose before the listeners with a vividness that the real one
would have lacked, for the wonderful voice of the young lawyer had set
fire to their imaginations, and each man saw through his eyes. Every
sentence jarred like an electric shock. There was no attempt at
eloquence. Where was the need of it with such a subject? And while
Sargent was unconsciously inflaming the passions of the crowd back of
him, he continued to gaze straight into the blood-shot eyes of the
prisoner with all the pent-up vital force within him. If he could only
see the faintest sign of acknowledged guilt! That was the thing for
which he was searching. It had not yet come.
For a moment his eyes wavered, and as if looking for some new
inspiration, he glanced through the open windows to where the leaves of
the trees were rustling in the breeze. He had found the prisoner
impervious to his words. It was as if he had not been talking, so far
as any change in the stolid features showed. There must be some other
method necessary to touch the face of iron before him. But he had not
reached the limit of his resources yet--no, not by half.
He turned back and faced the prisoner, as fresh and calm as if all the
turbulence of a few moments ago had not come from his lips.
Now his eyes held no longer the look of scorn and antagonism. They were
tender, appealing and sad. His voice softened and grew warm in its
tones, and from him emanated that irresistible gentleness that, we are
told, in after years drew even his enemies to him. He was using the
utmost force of his magnetism to draw a confession from the man before
him.
He began speaking again, telling of the family of the man who had been
murdered, dwelling with a deep sympathy upon the young, fatherless
children, who had to take up the burden of life without the guidance of
their parent. Then, almost in a whisper, and with deep reverence, he
spoke of the bereaved wife, a widow and a mother, a feeble woman, no
longer young, left alone to care for the children, separated from her
life partner and left to finish her days unprotected. He drew a telling
picture of his own mother, of every man's mother, in a like situation.
There were tears in the eyes of the audience as they listened, there
were tears in the eyes of the lawyer, and suddenly, as his words ended
in a faint whisper, the blood-shot eyes of the prisoner shifted uneasily
and were hidden for a moment by the falling lids.
A quiver passed over Sargent's slender figure. He lowered his right
hand from the position of defence, and placing it beside the other,
rested heavily against the table. A sensation of utter weariness crept
over him. He could not recall having felt so exhausted ever before. It
was the first time that he had used the full force of his magnetism, of
which until that day he had been in ignorance. For a second, overcome
by the new fatigue, he wondered if his power would last. The first
signal of the confession was held in the drooping lids of the prisoner.
Could he bring the rest?
Once more he took up the thread of his speech. Phelps met his gaze no
longer, even the crouching position of one ready to spring relaxed, and
he sank back into his chair and gazed steadily at his hands. Sargent
leaned forward in his intensity, his words coming more rapidly. He was
now dwelling on the laws of his country, on the need of these laws, of
the rights of man which must be recognized and obeyed, of the
Christianity of civilization, and of the punishment of God. His voice
grew steadily louder as he urged the murderer to repent before he should
reach the great tribunal of God, where repentance would be too late.
Still he could gain no answer from the man's downcast eyes. Within him
a voice grew louder and more insistent. He felt the words leaving him
in a stream of compelling force. Louder and louder, in the dead silence
of the room they grew into thunderbolts that seemed to shake the
building. On and on he went, a great light glowing from the depths of
his eyes, until by the compelling force of his invectives, the
irresistible power of his magnetism, the prisoner sprang from his chair
and faced him.
For an instant they stood with only the table separating them, the
accused man towering above the lawyer in a spasm of rage. Then,
sweeping over his coarsened features came an expression of utter despair
and misery, his eyes grew lustreless and dead, and drawing from his
shirt a concealed dirk, he threw it from him and lowered his face upon
his outstretched hands.
No word was spoken, but so completely did the agony of the man's face
express his confession, that a shiver ran over the audience.
In the silence which followed Sargent stood with folded arms, amid the
naked passions of the courtroom. A few minutes later, when he realized
that they were still waiting for him to speak, he turned towards the
jury and said slowly:
"Gentlemen, there is the murderer. Do with him as your conscience tells
you."
He thought it was several hours afterwards, when in fact it was only ten
minutes, that he became aware of his surroundings. He had sunk on the
bench after addressing the jury, and before him had begun to swim all
the fancies employed in his speech, and in a futile attempt to gather
and separate them, as he had done before, he found himself tumbling from
a great height, which his fast ebbing vital force made irresistible.
Then suddenly, in the midst of the turbulence, he felt the encouraging
warmth of a friend's hand, and looking up, saw Judge Houston's broad
back passing on towards the jury room.
Jacob Phelps lay forward on the table, his face buried in his
outstretched hands. Beyond him stood Jervais, facing the hushed
courtroom, with a countenance livid with fury.
Turning to see the cause of such an expression, Sargent looked for the
first time into the sea of faces, pale and still, yet gazing at him with
glowing eyes that told him their admiration and wonder. He understood
their silence, and thrilled under the depths of feeling that kept them
speechless. In that moment he knew that the commencement of his career
was a triumph.
And while he stood with every nerve in his body tingling responsively to
his blind joy, the jury re-entered the room and took their seats, and
Judge Houston's voice rang out loud and sonorous.
"Jacob Phelps! Stand up!"
Phelps lifted his bowed head, his eyes roving furtively over the crowd
of staring faces. Moving slightly, with the expression of one who is
dazed into semi-consciousness, he stared back into the sea of faces--not
one expression of kindness, of sympathy, of friendship for him was in
that entire throng. Then, with the dull look of one who has
relinquished all hope, he wheeled and faced the judge.
"Jacob Phelps, you have been judged, and convicted of murder--the
highest crime known to the laws of the State of Mississippi. Have you
anything to say, or any reason to give why the sentence of the law
should not be pronounced upon you?"
In the breathless stillness there came a pause. Phelps did not answer.
Again the judge's voice filled the courtroom.
"Then nothing now remains but the performance of my painful duty. The
sentence of the law and the judgment of the Court is that you be taken
hence to the jail of Adams County, and there safely confined until
Thursday, the twentieth day of June, 1833, when between the hours of ten
o'clock in the morning and noon, you be taken into the jail yard; and
there, by the Sheriff of this County, you be hanged by the neck until
you are dead--and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul!"
*CHAPTER VI*
*TO BE HANGED BY THE NECK UNTIL DEAD*
"Everett, you're a wonder, man." "Pick him up there, Suggs." "Now, all
at once! Lift him up!" "Now, all together, we'll sing, 'See the
conquering hero comes!'" "Where are we going? Oh, to the Mansion
House, of course. I'm going to set 'em up until everybody has his
fill." "Never heard a speech until I heard Everett's to-day."
Before he knew what had happened, Sargent had been surrounded as he came
out of the courtroom, and hoisted to the shoulders of an admiring crowd
that was waiting for him.
The people had gone wild in their enthusiasm over what he had done for
them. On that day he found himself a public man, at the mercy of the
whims of the public, and their whim at that moment was to find an outlet
for their admiration.
They took his cane away from him, some one grabbed his broad felt hat
and replaced it with a chimney pot that was not unbecoming by any means,
and then they carried him on their shoulders to the bar of the Mansion
House, and placing him on the counter, made him listen to their speeches
of congratulations while the waiters plied every one present with more
drinks than any one's capacity admitted.
Captain Mentdrop gave an eloquent peroration, in which he stated that he
was the first one to introduce the Honourable Sargent Everett to the
townspeople, who from thenceforth would give only honour and praise to
his name. He would have continued interminably if it had not been that
others were as anxious to claim that honour as the Captain. And for two
hours the speech-making and jollification lasted, until every one grew
hilarious over the motion that Sargent be sent as their representative
to the next Legislature.
When the excitement had reached its height, and a crowd had gone out on
the street to erect a bonfire--no matter if it were broad
daylight--Sargent saw his chance to get away and slipped quietly out the
back door of the tavern into a deserted street.
Walking as rapidly as his halting gait would permit, he traversed the
streets where he would hardly meet any one, and came at last to the
bluff that looked down over the river. Pushing his way through a tangle
of undergrowth, he reached a place far enough from the town to be secure
from interruption. Here he threw himself full length upon the ground,
breathing hard from the unusual physical exertion. He was utterly
exhausted, and covering his eyes with his hands he lay perfectly
motionless.
When he looked up again a scarlet sun was sinking into the banks of dull
grey clouds, and illumining weirdly the scene of river and distant flat
country.
Ah! it was a relief to get away from the crowd of gaping faces, even if
they spoke praise and admiration. And beyond that, he was glad that the
courthouse, with all the associations which had in one moment become
horrible to him, could not be seen from where he sat.
For a long time he remained perfectly still, gazing out upon the scene
before him, seeing in it only dreariness and despair accentuated by the
encroaching shadows; and all the time, as if to keep out some haunting
sound, he pressed both hands over his ears.
And the change had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly. Only a little
while before, flushed with the pride of his first success, the blood
surging happily through his veins, he had waited with the others for the
verdict, and as the words rang out across the hushed courtroom, "To be
hanged by the neck until you are dead!" they fell upon his overstrained
nerves like an electric shock. Something within him snapped, and in the
next moment he found himself looking into the miserable, hopeless eyes
of the prisoner as they led him from the room.
After that Sargent felt the buoyancy and joy and triumph slip completely
away from him. He was aware of nothing but the sound of those words, he
heard them whispered over the courtroom, he heard them in the
congratulations of his friends, he heard nothing else during the
speech-making at the tavern, and now he knew that they had followed him
to his retreat on the bluff, for he saw them written in lurid letters
across the scarlet sunset.
At first in the chaotic whirling of his thoughts, he could not
comprehend the strange effect upon him; he could see no reason for the
sinister obsession. He had gotten what he had been concentrating all
his energies upon for the past week. Why should the outcome overwhelm
him in this unlooked for manner! He puzzled over it, attempting to
separate the last expression of the prisoner's face and the meaning of
the words. They were too analogous to bear separation, and gradually,
gaining force with its development, came to Sargent the terrifying
realization that without him the sentence would not have been
pronounced. A kindred thought followed--more fearful than the first--in
which he saw himself the murderer, not the prisoner who had committed
the deed to escape detection, but he, a lawyer under the sanction of the
laws of God and man committing the same deed in the name of justice and
righteousness. And so the world would think of him; but how different he
knew it was. Righteousness and justice had not once entered his
thoughts; only hatred and revenge. Hatred and revenge! He had said
them aloud to himself at night, to keep them from slipping out of his
mind for even one second. And now he was to be paid for this deed with
money, blood-money, as the prisoner had been rewarded with the same.
Where was the difference? Was not each a taking of life? Was not any
man whose life was taken by another, murdered? Could there be any need
in the world great enough to abrogate that command of God's--"Thou shalt
not kill!"
He rose from the ground, and walked recklessly on into the woods that
crowned the bluff. The sunset was gone now, and only a misty twilight
hung through the vista of trees. A refreshing breeze from the north
brushed against his flushed face and brought a tingle to his feverish
senses. With the exhilaration came an added sharpness to his
perceptions.
Argue as he would, he could not make himself realize that it was an
ethical view of the case that he was taking. He saw himself at the
outset of his career, with this man's blood upon his hands, and
instinctively, with the insight that comes in a crisis of revulsion, he
knew that no matter how long he lived, he would never be able to approve
of capital punishment. The personal application was what riveted the
chains of his conviction. The simple statement that without his speech
the prisoner would have been free, answered eloquently all doubts and
questions. It was he alone, who was to bring this man to death; it was
useless to evade the responsibility.
"To be hanged by the neck until you are dead."
In a moment of terrifying excitement he spoke the words aloud, to gain a
better effect of their significance, and with the sound of his own
voice, the words received a more intimate meaning. Deeper under their
weight he sank, until it was by a supreme effort that he checked himself
in his mad striding, and turned back toward the town. There was some
one there, who could surely show him a new aspect of the case, in which
he could realize that the responsibility did not rest upon him alone. A
new thought, a suggestion, a word of sympathetic understanding would
mean so much to him--but all that praise, that enthusiastic admiration
so lavishly bestowed upon him because he had made a speech that would
rob a man of his life! He could not bear to think of hearing it again.
When he descended the hill the lights were glowing from the many windows
of the town, as if a reflection of the star-lit night. There were not
many doors open, for the spring night had suddenly grown cool, and the
barred portals seemed to Sargent to look down upon him with an aloofness
and withdrawal that expressed the attitude of the thinking world toward
him. If it were not the sentiment of that day, it would be when people
came to know and to judge him from the hidden motives.
The streets were dark, and as he made his way along no sound broke the
stillness save the regular tap of his cane upon the plank walk. With
resolute force and averted face he passed the courthouse, another block
beyond he passed the jail in which the prisoner was awaiting his death,
and finally, with the relaxation that comes when one realizes a haven
has at last been reached, he got to the open door of Judge Houston's
home, and looking through the hall and seeing the family at supper, he
slipped quietly into library, and sat down.
The soft glow from two candles on the mantel was pleasant to his tired
eyes; there was just light enough in the room for him to see the things
that had become familiar and dear to him. His eyes lingered longest on
the table where a row of books--law books of reference--always stood in
a prim, neat row. In front of them, more intimately handled and never
in the same place, thereby showing the love and use given to them, lay
the three books from which the old gentleman received his greatest
pleasure--Shakespeare, "Some Fruits of Solitude," and that old, leather
bound book, worn and frayed at the corners.
In the centre of the table lay the thick portfolio of pigskin, beside it
several newly cut quills, and to one side, laid by for the evening,
rested the gold snuff-box.
Sargent's glance lingered affectionately upon each article, reluctantly
falling at last upon the two notes addressed to himself, which were
placed conspicuously on the table. One he knew by its heavily embossed
envelope, its green seal, and the lustre of the ink with which it was
addressed. Tearing it open indifferently, he started up in surprise,
not expecting so sudden a culmination of the difficulty. Jervais had
requested him to meet him at daybreak of the next day--if it were
convenient. "Of course it is convenient," he murmured half aloud,
"only," and his thoughts raced back to the problem of that day.
He turned to the other message, a coarse piece of paper folded over
twice and addressed to him in a barely legible script. He unfolded this
with a keener interest than the other, and leaning forward so the candle
light would aid him in deciphering the words, he read:
"Will you come to see me? I want to tell you something. JACOB PHELPS."
He held the paper a long time in his hands, fingering it after his eyes
no longer read the words, and gradually, over his tortured senses,
drifted a feeling of peace and hope and joy. At last, under the full
realization of the opportunity that had come to him, he settled back in
his chair and closed his eyes.
In this attitude Judge Houston found him when he entered the library.
The old man did not extend his hand, nor for a few moments did he say
anything, having learned to read the young face before him like an open
book, and knowing that any words except those spoken by Sargent himself
would be irrelevant at that moment. Instead, he took down a long German
pipe with a china bowl, from the mantel shelf, and filling it with
tobacco, seated himself comfortably in a chair and crossed his legs;
silent, all the while.
Finally Sargent opened his eyes and looked at the old man without
speaking. At last the words came, trembling slightly from his
intensity.
"Did you ever convict a man for murder?"
The corners of the old man's mouth twitched; he was so certain that
would be the question. In answer he only nodded.
"And was the man hanged?"
He nodded again.
Sargent's voice rose to a higher pitch and broke harshly.
"How could you let it be done, and have any peace afterwards?"
The old man laid his pipe aside and came toward the table, sitting down
opposite Sargent.
"I found out that I was in the right. That the man should have been
hanged--that it was my duty to see that punishment was inflicted upon
him. Anything else would have been an evasion of my duty,--a greater sin
than I at first imagined the other was. I know what you are feeling at
this moment. Every man who has a conscience and a reverence for God and
has chosen criminal law for his profession goes through your experience.
There are so many sides to the situation--I doubt if you have thought of
but one."
Sargent moved impatiently in his chair. His fingers were thumping
nervously on the table all the time.
"Tell me the other side--I can see only one."
The old man leaned forward and met his eyes intently.
"What do you see?"
"'Thou shalt not kill.'"
Felix Houston leaned back in his chair and putting out his hand, drew
the old Bible toward him. Placing it on his knees, he turned the pages
with the familiarity of one who knew what was written on every one. At
last he held down a page, and ran his fingers across it, smoothing out
the crumpled, folded edge. "Listen," he said, raising his eyes to
Sargent's for a moment. "There are other commands in here, too. Read
here--Genesis--'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be
shed,' and in Exodus," the pages turned quickly, "'He that smiteth a
man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death,' and Leviticus,
'Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth,' and later, in the
words of Jesus, recorded by Matthew, 'All they that take the sword shall
perish with the sword.' Is not that enough?" He laid down the book,
and met Sargent's glance again. "You see now there are reasons for man
making laws with which the life of a murderer can be taken. It is the
command of God. It is His law given to us for self-protection."
Sargent shook his head wearily.
"Vengeance is mine," he quoted slowly, in response. "With that, I see
no reason for this law of man's. Why should we judge? Why should we
decide that a man has no right to live? 'Thou shalt not kill,' is the
word spoken by God. There is no evasion of it--I can see only that one
interpretation. It is final to me in its brevity. It embraces
everything. If Phelps is hanged, it will be the same as if I had killed
him myself, alone and unaided. The law back of it means nothing to me.
If he is hanged I will be a murderer."
Sargent crouched back in his chair as if to escape the physical
punishment his thoughts inflicted upon him. The disappointment caused
from the old man's failure to bring him any comfort intensified the
despair into which he had sunk.
"Think a moment, Sargent," Judge Houston said, attempting a new line of
persuasion. "Think of the good you have done the people by removing
such a danger from them. That should be palliation enough to relieve
you of any responsibility. Their gratitude to you is wonderful! Do you
know, they want to show it in some lasting form; there is already a
movement on foot to send you to the Legislature, and if you accept it, I
know you will be elected. Boy! you don't realize that your success has
been made. Cheer up! Open your eyes to your opportunities. There are
not many who make the start you have." Judge Houston grew more and more
enthusiastic as he continued. "I had no idea that you could win that
case. I only appointed you to give you the experience. But you have
shown your genius. That speech has made your start a triumph."
Sargent watched his enthusiasm coldly. A gulf of misunderstanding
seemed to be widening between him and his old friend to-night--a gulf in
which their sympathy of the past months was counted as nothing. Of all
the people in the world Felix Houston was the one Sargent had expected
to understand him in this trial. His disappointment grew almost
unbearable when he heard praise also coming from his friend's lips.
"A triumph," he murmured sadly. "What is a triumph when its gain means
the sacrifice of a man's life?"
"Have you thought of the lives you have probably saved by removing this
dangerous man from the country? That should help you a little."
"Was he so harmful? Had he killed any one before? There seemed no
proof of it."
"Did you not prove that he had killed one man? Is that not enough?"
"I did not prove anything--legally."
Felix Houston's brows drew together slowly. It was a signal of the end
of his patience.
"What did you do then, Sargent?"
"I played a trick on him--the meanest, lowest, most dastardly trick one
man ever played on another. There wasn't any law in it. I set myself to
work on the man's sympathies; I studied his face all that first day in
the courtroom, hunting for the vulnerable point in which to attack him.
All that day I could see nothing else but his face, yet I could not find
what it was that was there, that I did not recognize. And when I rode
home that evening with Natalia, I was telling her about the case, and
how hopeless it seemed, and what do you suppose she told me to do? The
very thing that I did--make the man confess, himself! She said that I
could do that if I wanted to. All that night I lay awake, thinking and
thinking of how I could persuade the man to tell his secret. I kept
repeating it to myself all through the long hours that I would make him
tell, seeing his face before me, always with that inscrutable expression
that meant that there was a vulnerable point. I must find it, I kept on
saying. I must find it! Then I thought out my speech, realizing as I
went over it, that if I went into every detail of the murder, that
somewhere in the recital I would find the spot in the man's nature. I
found it--you know when. He has a mother. I made him think of her!
After the first admission of my power I knew I had the man in my hands.
It was all very easy after that. But it was not law, you must admit
that. It was playing upon sentiments that are sacred to every human
being. I took that advantage of him while he was held before me--forced
to listen. He couldn't escape my words. I forced them into his brain.
I drove all the vital force that was in me into that man's conscience,
and made him speak out. He could not help it--he was powerless. But
that is not law, I say. I have no right to send him to the gallows on
such a confession. You should have seen that--you will now, I know. It
rests with you to help me make my reparation. I used this man to
further the gratification of revenge. I would not have gone into the
case with such vehemence if the defeat of Jervais had not been back of
it. Oh, you do see, then! The sin of it, don't you? But it is
true--every word of it. I am keeping back nothing from you. You have
told me that you loved me almost as much as you did your son, and you
know that I have returned that feeling, aye, more than I ever loved the
man who created me only continually to wound me! Will you prove to me
that your love is as great as you say? Will you grant me one request
that will mean everything to me?"
With his growing excitement, Sargent rose from the chair and placed both
hands on Judge Houston's. The old man met his wild, beseeching look
calmly. He knew now that he was brought face to face with a situation
that might end disastrously, but he did not shirk it. He was calmer
than he had ever been in his life.
"I will grant you any request--if it is right, and in my power."
Sargent took a long breath, though not yet one of relief. When he
spoke, the words came in a whisper, as if he feared an eavesdropper.
"Release Jacob Phelps!"
For twenty seconds the old copper faced clock on the mantel ticked off
the time loudly in the silent room. Then Felix Houston spoke.
"It is not in my power, and even if it were, I would not set at liberty
a man whose depredations and robberies have hung over this country for
ten years. You have asked me too much, Sargent. Go home and think this
matter over, and when you are calmer, more yourself, you will see the
exaggerated view you are taking. In the morning you will see everything
differently. Your responsibility in the case will have passed from you
entirely, and you will see it through the eyes of a sane man--you are
hardly that, now."
"In the morning may be too late to think of anything," Sargent answered
hurriedly, handing him Jervais' challenge.
Judge Houston read it at a glance and handed it back to him.
"Is that the note that was sent here? I left it on the table."
"Yes. May your man take my answer?"
"Of course. When?"
And without answering, Sargent wrote a few lines at the table, and
folding the paper carefully and sealing it, handed it to the slave who
was already waiting at the door.
When the man was gone and they were alone again, Sargent stretched out
his hands and grasped Judge Houston's.
"Won't you grant me that request?" he said, an expression of pitiful
yearning in his eyes. "It may be my last. I should not mind dying if I
knew the man were free," he added tentatively.
"Anything else in the world, Sargent," the old man answered brokenly.
"Anything else I would do for you."
"There is nothing else that matters," Sargent answered dryly, turning
away and reaching for his hat.
"You will come for me in the morning--at what time?"
Judge Houston rested against the table, watching Sargent's every
movement intently.
"At four o'clock. The sun rises at five now. I will make all
arrangements with the ferry man to take us over to the Louisiana side."
He stopped abruptly and looked at the old man standing as firm and as
steady as a piece of granite. "Somehow I feel the incongruity of you
going with me more forcibly now than ever. Won't it tell against you?
Won't it cause some loss of dignity to your position? You said you had
always disapproved of duels. It is too much that you are giving up for
me. It may be that I shall pass out of your life to-morrow, and for the
few months that we have been together--it seems too much. I know I've
disappointed you--some day perhaps you'll understand my reasons.
Somehow, though, I couldn't help it--I must be deformed in mind as in
body!"
The old gentleman made a step toward him, and steadied Sargent's
trembling figure with his firm arms.
"When you hear what I have done to-night," he continued, brokenly
evading the keen blue eyes bent upon him, "I believe you will
understand."
Felix Houston drew Sargent closer to him. His firm arm was about the
young fellow's shoulders, and he was reading his face intently for some
meaning to the last words.
"Sargent, boy--look at me---what do you mean?"
Suddenly Sargent straightened himself and answered the other's look
firmly.
"I don't know yet. I haven't quite decided. I shall be back here at
four o'clock."
*CHAPTER VII*
*ONE MEANS OF ESCAPE*
Outside the night shone clear and brilliant. Sargent stopped when he
had passed out into the street, and looked up through the canopy of
leaves to where a stretch of heavens glowed with the impenetrable purple
of the night. Across the infinitude of space a brilliant star suddenly
shot, leaving a trail of white fire in its wake. He stood there a few
minutes, his face uplifted to the calm beauty of the sky, his lips
moving in prayer.
When he began walking again a strange quiet had settled over all his
features and in his eyes burned the light of determination.
He walked rapidly, for though the moon had not yet risen, the night was
brilliant with the beautiful, translucent light of the stars. The
dwellings were dark, not a light glowed in a window; the town had sunk
into deep slumber.
He stopped at the tavern long enough to write a few words to Captain
Mentdrop about the duel, and once more hurried out into the night.
He passed the courthouse again. This time he did not quail, or pass it
with averted eyes, but looked at it with the expression of one who gives
thanks to something which has shown him the right path, be it ever so
hard and narrow to traverse.
Walking on, he stood at last before the small jail. It was a one story
brick building in which the sunken bars across the windows shone
sombrely in the clarity of the night. Beyond its suggestion of
imprisonment, there was a deeper and more lasting effect of utter
dreariness and despair, for the building stood on a plot of ground in
which neither a tree nor a shrub grew.
Without a moment of hesitation Sargent went up the path to the door, and
lifted the heavy knocker. Its report rang out on the quiet night like
some death signal, reverberating within, seemingly an hundred times.
Then came the heavy steps of the keeper, the sound of huge bolts sliding
out of fastenings, the clang of a chain, and at last Sargent stood
within the dimly lit corridor.
"Jacob Phelps sent for me. Is it possible for me to see him now?" he
said rapidly, striving in vain to hide his anxiety.
The jailer held his lantern close to Sargent's face, and inspected him
slowly.
"Have you an order from the sheriff?" he asked.
"No."
"It's against rules. I can't let you in."
"I know it is irregular, but this is my only chance to see him. I am
going away early in the morning. I only want to speak a few words with
him. My name is Sargent Everett--"
"The lawyer that made the speech to-day!" the jailer exclaimed. "Well,
sir, it's an honour to know you. I never heard tell of a speech like
the one you made, sir. No wonder Phelps wanted to see you."
Sargent turned away quickly to hide the look of suffering on his face.
Was he never to hear the end of that speech! Would it go down to the
grave with him! Suddenly he remembered his words to Judge Houston--"It
will be the speech of my life." Ah! verily it was so!
"Will you let me see him?" he asked again.
"Well--" the fellow debated. "
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