[Illustration: 9035]
T was a little after sunrise; the family had just
left the breakfast-table when Bishop walked in; his shoes and trousers
were damp with dew and covered with the dust of the road. His wife saw
him entering the gate and called out to him from the hall:
“Well, I declare! Didn't you go to Atlanta?”
He came slowly up the steps, dragging his feet after him. He had the
appearance of a man beaten by every storm that could fall upon a human
being.
“Yes, I went,” he said, doggedly. He passed her and went into the
sitting-room, where his brother-inlaw stood at the fireplace lighting
his pipe with a live coal of fire on the tip of a stick. Abner Daniel
looked at him critically, his brows raised a little as he puffed, but he
said nothing. Mrs. Bishop came in behind her husband, sweeping him from
head to foot with her searching eyes.
“You don't mean to tell me you walked out heer this mornin',” she cried.
“Lord have mercy!”
“I don't know as I've prepared any set speech on the subject,” said her
husband, testily; “but I walked. I could 'a' gone to a livery an' ordered
out a team, but I believe thar's more'n one way o' wearin' sackcloth
an' ashes, an' the sooner I begin the better I 'll feel.” Abner Daniel
winked; the scriptural allusion appealed to his fancy, and he smiled
impulsively.
“That thar is,” he said. “Thar's a whole way an' a half way. Some folks
jest wear it next to the skin whar it don't show, with broadcloth ur
silk on the outside. They think ef it scratches a little that 'll satisfy
the Lord an' hoodwink other folks. But I believe He meant it to be whole
hog or none.”
Mrs. Bishop was deaf to this philosophy. “I don't see,” she said, in her
own field of reflection--“I don't see, I say, how you got to Atlanta;
attended to business; seed Adele; an' got back heer at sunrise. Why,
Alfred--”
But Bishop interrupted her. “Have you all had prayers yet?”
“No, you know we hain't,” said his wife, wondering over his strange
manner. “I reckon it can pass jest this once, bein' as you are tired an'
hain't had nothin' to eat.”
“No, it can't pass, nuther; I don't want to touch a mouthful; tell the
rest of 'em to come in, an' you fetch me the Book.”
“Well!” Mrs. Bishop went out and told the negro woman and her daughter
to stop washing the dishes and go in to prayer. Then she hurried out to
the back porch, where Alan was oiling his gun.
“Something's happened to yore pa,” she said. “He acts queer, an' says
sech strange things. He walked all the way from Darley this morning, an'
now wants to have prayers 'fore he touches a bite o' breakfast. I reckon
we are ruined.”
“I'm afraid that's it,” opined her son, as he put down his gun and
followed her into the sitting-room. Here the two negroes stood against
the wall. Abner Daniel was smoking and Bishop held the big family Bible
on his quivering knees.
“Ef you mean to keep it up,” Abner was saying, argumentatively, “all
right an' good; but I don't believe in sudden spurts o' worship. My
hosses is hitched up ready to haul a load o' bark to the tannery, an'
it may throw me a little late at dinner; but ef you are a-goin' to make a
daily business of it I'm with you.”
“I'm a-goin' to be regular from now on,” said Bishop, slowly turning the
leaves of the tome. “I forgot whar I read last.”
“You didn't finish about Samson tyin' all them foxes' tails together,”
said Abner Daniel, as he knocked the hot ashes from his pipe into
the palm of his hand and tossed them into the chimney. “That sorter
interested me. I wondered how that was a-goin' to end. I'd hate to have
a passle o' foxes with torches to the'r tails turned loose in my wheat
jest 'fore cuttin' time. It must 'a' been a sight. I wondered how that
was a-goin' to end.”
“You 'll wonder how _yo're_ a-goin' to end if you don't be more
respectful,” said his sister.
“Like the foxes, I reckon,” grinned Abner, “with a eternal torch tied
to me. Well, ef I am treated that away, I 'll go into the business o'
destruction an' set fire to everything I run across.”
“Ain' t you goin' to tell us what you did in Atlanta 'fore you have
prayer?” asked Mrs. Bishop, almost resentfully.
“No, I hain't!” Bishop snapped. “I 'll tell you soon enough. I reckon I
won't read this mornin'; let's pray.”
They all knelt reverently, and yet with some curiosity, for Bishop often
suited his prayers to important occasions, and it struck them that he
might now allude to the subject bound up within him.
“Lord, God Almighty,” he began, his lower lip hanging and quivering,
as were his hands clasped in the seat of his chair, “Thou knowest the
struggle Thy creatures are makin' on the face of Thy green globe to live
up to the best of the'r lights an' standards. As I bend before Thee this
mornin' I realize how small a bein' I am in Thy sight, an' that I ort
to bow in humble submission to Thy will, an' I do. For many yeers this
family has enjoyed Thy bounteous blessings. We've had good health,
an' the influence of a Bible-readin', God-fearin' community, an' our
childern has been educated in a way that raised 'em head an' shoulders
above many o' the'r associates an' even blood kin. I don't know exactly
whar an' how I've sinned; but I know I have displeased Thee, fer Thy
scourge has fallen hard an' heavy on my ambitions. I wanted to see my
boy heer, a good, obedient son, an' my daughter thar in Atlanta, able to
hold the'r heads up among the folks they mix with, an' so I reached out.
Maybe it was forbidden fruit helt out by a snake in the devil's service.
I don't know--Thou knowest. Anyways, I steered my course out o' the calm
waters o' content an' peace o' soul into the whirlpool rapids o'
avarice an' greed. I'lowed I was in a safe haven an' didn't dream o'
the storm-clouds hangin' over me till they bust in fury on my head. Now,
Lord, my Father, give them hearts of patience an' forgiveness fer the
blunders of Thy servant. What I done, I done in the bull-headed way that
I've always done things; but I meant good an' not harm. These things we
ask in the name o' Jesus Christ, our blessed Lord an' Master. Amen.”
During the latter part of the prayer Mrs. Bishop had been staring at her
husband through her parted fingers, her face pale and agitated, and as
she rose her eyes were glued to his face.
“Now, Alfred,” she said, “what are you goin' to tell us about the
railroad? Is it as bad as brother Ab thought it would be?”
Bishop hesitated. It seemed as if he had even then to tear himself from
the clutch of his natural stubbornness. He looked into all the anxious,
waiting faces before he spoke, and then he gave in.
“Ab made a good guess. Ef I'd 'a' had his sense, or Alan' s, I'd 'a' made
a better trader. It's like Ab said it was, only a sight wuss--a powerful
sight wuss!”
“Wuss?” gasped his wife, In fresh alarm. “How could it be wuss? Why,
brother Ab said--”
“I never have told you the extent o' my draim's,” went on Bishop in the
current of confession. “I never even told Perkins yesterday. Fust
an' last I've managed to rake in fully twenty thousand acres o'
mountain-land. I was goin' on what I'lowed was a dead-shore thing.
I secured all I could lay my hands on, an' I did it in secret. I was
afeerd even to tell you about what Perkins said, thinkin' it mought leak
out an' sp'ile my chances.”
“But, father,” said Alan, “you didn't have enough money to buy all that
land.”
“I got it up”--Bishop's face was doggedly pale, almost defiant of his
overwhelming disaster--“I mortgaged this farm to get money to buy Maybry
and Morton's four thousand acres.”
“The farm you was going to deed to Alan?” gasped his wife. “You didn't
include that?”
“Not in _that_ deal,” groaned Bishop. “I swapped that to Phil Parsons
fer his poplar an' cypress belt.” The words seemed to cut raspingly into
the silence of the big room. Abner Daniel was the only one who seemed
unmoved by the confession. He filled his pipe from the bowl on the
mantel-piece and pressed the tobacco down with his forefinger; then he
kicked the ashes in the chimney till he uncovered a small five coal. He
eyed it for a moment, then dipped it up in the shovel, rolled it into
his pipe, and began to smoke.
“So I ain't a-goin' to git no yeerly pass over the new road,” he said,
his object being to draw his brother-in-law back to Perkins's action in
the matter.
“Perkins was a-lyin' to me,” answered Bishop. “He hain't admitted it yet;
but he was a-lyin'. His object was to he'p the Tompkins sell out fer a
decent price, but he can' t be handled; he's got me on the hip.”
“No,” said Abner. “I'd ruther keep on swappin' gold dollars fer
mountain-land an' lettin' it go fer taxes 'an to try to beat a lawyer at
his own game. A court-house is like the devil's abode, easy to git into,
no outlet, an' nothin' but scorch while you are thar.”
“Hush, fer the name o' goodness!” cried Mrs. Bishop, looking at her
husband. “Don't you see he's dyin' from it? Are you all a-goin' to kill
'im? What does a few acres o' land ur debts amount to beside killin' a
man 'at's been tryin' to help us all? Alfred, it ain't so mighty awful.
You know it ain't! What did me 'n' you have when we started out but
a log-house boarded up on the outside? an' now we've got our childern
educated an' all of us in good health. I railly believe it's a sin agin
God's mercy fer us to moan an' fret under a thing like this.”
“That's the talk,” exclaimed Abner Daniel, enthusiastically. “Now you
are gittin' down to brass tacks. I've always contended--”
“For God's sake, don't talk that way!” said Bishop to his wife. “You
don't mean a word of it. You are jest a-sayin' it to try to keep me from
seein' what a fool I am.”
“You needn't worry about me, father,” said Alan, firmly. “I am able
to look out for myself an' for you and mother. It's done, and the best
thing to do is to look at it in a sensible way. Besides, a man with
twenty thousand acres of mountain-land paid for is not broken, by a long
jump.”
“Yes, I'm gone,” said Bishop, a wavering look of gratitude in his eye as
he turned to his son. “I figured on it all last night. I can't pay the
heavy interest an' come out. I was playin' for big stakes an' got left.
Thar's nothin' to do but give up. Me buyin' so much land has made it
rise a little, but when I begin to try to sell I won't be able to give
it away.”
“Thar's some'n in that,” opined Abner Daniel, as he turned to leave the
room. “I reckon I mought as well go haul that tan-bark. I reckon you
won't move out 'fore dinner.”
Alan followed him out to the wagon.
“It's pretty tough, Uncle Ab,” he said. “I hadn't the slightest idea it
was so bad.”
“I wasn't so shore,” said Daniel. “But I was jest a-thinkin' in thar.
You've got a powerful good friend in Rayburn Miller. He's the sharpest
speculator in North Georgia; ef I was you, I'd see him an' lay the whole
thing before him. He 'll be able to give you good advice, an' I'd take
it. A feller that's made as much money as he has at his age won't give a
friend bad advice.”
“I thought of him,” said Alan; “but I am a little afraid he will think
we want to borrow money, and he never lets out a cent without the best
security.”
“Well, you needn't be afeerd on that score,” laughed the old man, as
he reached up on the high wagon-seat for his whip. “I once heerd 'im say
that business an' friendship wouldn't mix any better'n oil an' water.”
V
[Illustration: 9042]
HE following Saturday Alan went to Darley, as he
frequently did, to spend Sunday. On such visits he usually stayed at the
Johnston House, a great, old-fashioned brick building that had survived
the Civil War and remained untouched by the shot and shell that hurtled
over it during that dismal period when most of the population had
“refugeed farther south.” It had four stories, and was too big for the
town, which could boast of only two thousand inhabitants, one-third of
whom were black. However, the smallness of the town was in the hotel's
favor, for in a place where no one would have patronized a second-class
hotel, opposition would have died a natural death. The genial proprietor
and his family were of the best blood, and the Johnston House was a sort
of social club-house, where the church people held their affairs and the
less serious element gave dances. To be admitted to the hotel without
having to pay for one's dinner was the hallmark of social approval. It
was near the ancient-looking brick car-shed under which the trains of
two main lines ran, and a long freight warehouse of the same date
and architecture. Around the hotel were clustered the chief financial
enterprises of the town--its stores, post-office, banks, and a hall
for theatrical purposes. Darley was the seat of its county, and another
relic of the days before the war was its court house. The principal
sidewalks were paved with brick, which in places were damp and green,
and sometimes raised above their common level by the undergrowing roots
of the sycamore-trees that edged the streets.
In the office of the hotel, just after registering his name, Alan
met his friend Rayburn Miller, for whose business ability, it may be
remembered, Abner Daniel had such high regard. He was a fine-looking man
of thirty-three, tall and of athletic build; he had dark eyes and hair,
and a ruddy, out-door complexion.
“Hello,” he said, cordially. “I thought you might get in to-day, so I
came round to see. Sorry you've taken a room. I wanted you to sleep with
me to-night. Sister's gone, and no one is there but the cook. Hello, I
must be careful. I'm drumming for business right under Sanford's nose.”
“I 'll make you stay with me to make up for it,” said Alan, as the clerk
behind the counter laughed good-naturedly over the allusion to himself.
“Blamed if I don't think about it,” said Miller. “Come round to the
office. I want to talk to you. I reckon you've got every plough going
such weather as this.”
“Took my horse out of the field to drive over,” said Alan, as they
went out and turned down to a side street where there was a row of law
offices, all two-roomed buildings, single-storied, built of brick, and
bearing battered tin signs. One of these buildings was Miller's, which,
like all its fellows, had its door wide open, thus inviting all the
lawyers in the “row” and all students of law to enter and borrow books
or use the ever-open desk.
Rayburn Miller was a man among ten thousand in his class. Just after
being graduated at the State University he was admitted to the bar and
took up the practice of law. He could undoubtedly have made his way at
this alone, had not other and more absorbing talents developed within
him. Having had a few thousand dollars left him at his father's death,
he began to utilize this capital in “note shaving,” and other methods
of turning over money for a handsome profit furnished by the unsettled
conditions, the time, and locality. He soon became an adept in many
lines of speculation, and as he was remarkably shrewd and cautious, it
is not to be wondered at that he soon accumulated quite a fortune.
“Take a seat,” he said to Alan, as they went into the office, and he
threw himself into the revolving-chair at his littered desk. “I want to
talk to you. I suppose you are in for some fun. The boys are getting
up a dance at the hotel and they want your dollar to help pay the band.
It's a good one this time. They've ordered it from Chattanooga. It will
be down on the seven-thirty-five. Got a match?”
Alan had not, and Miller turned his head to the open door. An old negro
happened to be passing, with an axe on his shoulder.
“Heigh, there, Uncle Ned!” Miller called out.
The negro had passed, but he heard his name called and he came back and
looked in at the door.
“Want me, Marse Rayburn?”
“Yes, you old scamp; get me a match or I 'll shoot the top of your head
off.”
“All right, suh; all right, Marse Rayburn!”
“You ought to know him,” said Miller, with a smile, as the negro hurried
into the adjoining office. “His wife cooks for Colonel Barclay; he
might tell you if Miss Dolly's going to-night, but I know she is. Frank
Hillhouse checked her name off the list, and I heard him say she'd
accepted. By-the-way, that fellow will do to watch. I think he and the
Colonel are pretty thick.”
“Will you never let up on that?” Alan asked with a flush.
“I don't know that I shall,” laughed Rayburn. “It seems so funny to see
you in love, or, rather, to see you think you are.”
“I have never said I was,” said Alan, sharply.
“But you show it so blamed plain,” said Miller.
“Heer 'tis, Marse Rayburn. Marse Trabue said you could have a whole box
ef you'd put up wid sulphur ones.”
Miller took the matches from the outstretched hand and tossed a cigar
to Alan. “Say, Uncle Ned,” he asked, “do you know that gentleman?”
indicating Alan with a nod of his head.
A quizzical look dawned in the old negro's eyes, and then he gave a
resounding guffaw and shook all over.
“I reckon I know his hoss, Marse Rayburn,” he tittered.
“That's a good one on you, Alan,” laughed Miller. “He knows your
'hoss.'I 'll have to spring that on you when I see you two together.”
As the negro left the office Mr. Trabue leaned in the doorway, holding
his battered silk hat in his hand and mopping his perspiring face.
He nodded to Alan, and said to Miller: “Do you want to write?”
“Not any more for you, thanks,” said Miller. “I have the back-ache now
from those depositions I made out for you yesterday.”
“Oh, I don't mean that,” the old lawyer assured him, “but I had to
borrow yore ink just now, and seein' you at yore desk I thought you
might need it.”
“Oh, if I do,” jested Miller, “I can buy another bottle at the
book-store. They pay me a commission on the ink I furnish the row. They
let me have it cheap by the case. What stumps me is that you looked
in to see if I needed it. You are breaking the rule, Mr. Trabue. They
generally make me hunt for my office furniture when I need it. They've
borrowed everything I have except my iron safe. Their ignorance of the
combination, its weight, and their confirmed laziness is all that saved
it.”
When the old lawyer had gone the two friends sat and smoked in silence
for several minutes. Alan was studying Miller's face. Something told him
that the news of his father's disaster had reached him, and that Miller
was going to speak of it. He was not mistaken, for the lawyer soon
broached the subject.
“I've been intending to ride out to see you almost every day this week,”
he said, “but business has always prevented my leaving town.”
“Then you have heard--”
“Yes, Alan, I'm sorry, but it's all over the country. A man's bad luck
spreads as fast as good war news. I heard it the next day after your
father returned from Atlanta, and saw the whole thing in a flash. The
truth is, Perkins had the cheek to try his scheme on me. I'm the first
target of every scoundrel who has something to sell, and I've learned
many of their tricks. I didn't listen to all he had to say, but got rid
of him as soon as I could. You must not blame the old man. As I see it
now, it was a most plausible scheme, and the shame of it is that no one
can be handled for it. I don't think the Tompkins heirs knew anything of
Perkins's plans at all, except that he was to get a commission, perhaps,
if the property was sold. Trabue is innocent, too--a cat's-paw. As for
Perkins, he has kept his skirts clear of prosecution. Your father will
have to grin and bear it. He really didn't pay a fabulous price for
the land, and if he were in a condition to hold on to it for, say,
twenty-five years, he might not lose money; but who can do that sort
of thing? I have acres and acres of mountain-land offered me at a much
lower figure, but what little money I've made has been made by turning
my capital rapidly. Have you seen Dolly since it happened?”
“No, not for two weeks,” replied Alan. “I went to church with her Sunday
before last, and have not seen her since. I was wondering if she had
heard about it.”
“Oh yes; she's heard it from the Colonel. It may surprise you, but the
thing has rubbed him the wrong way.”
“Why, I don't understand,” exclaimed Alan. “Has he--”
“The old man has had about two thousand acres of land over near your
father's purchases, and it seems that he was closely watching all your
father's deals, and, in spite of his judgment to the contrary, Mr.
Bishop's confidence in that sort of real-estate has made him put a
higher valuation on his holdings over there. So you see, now that your
father's mistake is common talk, he is forced to realize a big slump,
and he wants to blame some one for it. I don't know but that your father
or some one else made him an offer for his land which he refused. So you
see it is only natural for him to be disgruntled.”
“I see,” said Alan. “I reckon you heard that from Miss Dolly?”
Miller smoked slowly.
“Yes”--after a pause--“I dropped in there night before last and she told
me about it. She's not one of your surface creatures. She talks sensibly
on all sorts of subjects. Of course, she's not going to show her heart
to me, but she couldn't hide the fact that your trouble was worrying her
a good deal. I think she'd like to see you at the ball to-night. Frank
Hillhouse will give you a dance or two. He's going to be hard to
beat. He's the most attentive fellow I ever run across. He's got a new
buggy--a regular hug-me-tight--and a high-stepping Kentucky mare for the
summer campaign. He 'll have some money at his father's death, and all
the old women say he's the best catch in town because he doesn't drink,
has a Sunday-school class, and will have money. We are all going to wear
evening-suits to-night. There are some girls from Rome visiting Hattie
Alexander, and we don't want them to smell hay in our hair. You know how
the boys are; unless all of us wear spike-tails no one will, so we took
a vote on it and we 'll be on a big dike. There 'll be a devilish lot of
misfits. Those who haven't suits are borrowing in all directions. Frank
Buford will rig out in Colonel Day's antebellum toggery. Did you bring
yours?”
“It happens to be at Parker's shop, being pressed,” said Alan.
“I've had three in the last six years,” laughed Miller. “You know how
much larger Todd Selman is than I am; he bursted one of mine from collar
to waist last summer at the Springs, and sweated so much that you could
dust salt out of it for a month afterwards. I can't refuse 'em, God
bless 'em! Jeff Higgins married in my best Prince Albert last week and
spilled boiled custard on it; but he's got a good wife and a fair job on
a railroad in Tennessee now. I'd have given him the coat, but he'd never
have accepted it, and been mad the rest of his life at my offer. Parker
said somebody had tried to scrape the custard off with a sharp knife,
and that he had a lot of trouble cleaning it. I wore the coat yesterday
and felt like I was going to be married. Todd must have left some of
his shivers in it I reckon that's as near as I 'll ever come to the
hitching-post.”
Just then a tall, thin man entered. He wore a rather threadbare
frock-coat, unevenly bound with braid, and had a sallow, sunken, and
rather long face. It was Samuel Craig, one of the two private bankers of
the town. He was about sixty years of age and had a pronounced stoop.
“Hello!” he said, pleasantly; “you young bloods are a-goin' to play
smash with the gals' hearts to-night, I reckon. I say go it while you
are young. Rayburn, I want to get one of them iron-clad mortgage-blanks.
I've got a feller that is disposed to wiggle, an' I want to tie 'im up.
The inventor of that form is a blessing to mankind.”
“Help yourself,” smiled Miller. “I was just telling Mr. Trabue that I
was running a stationery store, and if I was out of anything in the line
I'd order it for him.”
The banker laughed good-humoredly as he selected several of the blanks
from the drawer Rayburn had opened in the desk.
“I hope you won't complain as much of hard times as Jake Pitner does,”
he chuckled. “I passed his store the other day, where he was standin'
over some old magazines that he'd marked down.
“'How's trade?' I asked 'im. 'It's gone clean to hell,' he said, and I
noticed he'd been drinking. 'I 'll give you a sample of my customers,'
he went on. 'A feller from the mountains come in jest now an' asked the
price of these magazines. I told him the regular price was twenty-five
cents apiece, but I'd marked 'em down to five. He looked at 'em for about
half a hour an' then said he wasn't goin' out o' town till sundown an'
believed he'd take one if I'd read it to him.'”
Craig laughed heartily as he finished the story, and Alan and Miller
joined in.
“I want you to remember that yarn when you get to over-checkin' on me,”
said Craig, jestingly. “I was just noticing this morning that you have
drawn more than your deposit.”
“Over-checked?” said Miller. “You 'll think I have when all my checks get
in. I mailed a dozen to-day. They 'll slide in on you in about a week and
you 'll telegraph _Bradstreet's_ to know how I stand. This is a _fine_
banker,” Miller went on to Alan. “He twits me about over-checking
occasionally. Let me tell you something. Last year I happened to have
ten thousand dollars on my hands waiting for a cotton factory to begin
operations down in Alabama, and as I had no idea when the money would
be called for I placed it with his nibs here 'on call.'Things got in a
tangle at the mill and they kept waiting, and our friend here concluded
I had given it to him.”
“I thought you had forgotten you had it,” said Craig, with another of
his loud, infectious laughs.
“Anyway,” went on Miller, “I got a sudden order for the amount and ran
in on him on my way from the post-office. I made out my check and stuck
it under his nose. Great Scott! you ought to have seen him wilt. I don't
believe he had half of it in the house, but he had ten million excuses.
He kept me waiting two days and hustled around to beat the band. He
thought I was going to close him up.”
“That was a close shave,” admitted Craig. “Never mind about the
over-checking, my boy; keep it up, if it will help you. You are doing
altogether too much business with the other bank to suit me, anyway.”