backward look at his tyrant. Graciella, bending her head over the
wall, followed his movements with a swift tenderness in her sparkling
brown eyes.
"I love him better than anything on earth," she sighed, "but it would
never do to tell him so. He'd get so conceited that I couldn't manage
him any longer, and so lazy that he'd never exert himself. I must get
away from this town before I'm old and gray--I'll be seventeen next
week, and an old maid in next to no time--and Ben must take me away.
But I must be his inspiration; he'd never do it by himself. I'll go
now and talk to that dear old Colonel French about the North; I can
learn a great deal from him. And he doesn't look so old either," she
mused, as she went back up the walk to where the colonel sat on the
piazza talking to the other ladies.
_Six_
The colonel spent a delightful evening in the company of his friends.
The supper was typically Southern, and the cook evidently a good one.
There was smothered chicken, light biscuit, fresh eggs, poundcake and
tea. The tablecloth and napkins were of fine linen. That they were
soft and smooth the colonel noticed, but he did not observe closely
enough to see that they had been carefully darned in many places. The
silver spoons were of fine, old-fashioned patterns, worn very thin--so
thin that even the colonel was struck by their fragility. How
charming, he thought, to prefer the simple dignity of the past to the
vulgar ostentation of a more modern time. He had once dined off a
golden dinner service, at the table of a multi-millionaire, and had
not enjoyed the meal half so much. The dining-room looked out upon the
garden and the perfume of lilac and violet stole in through the open
windows. A soft-footed, shapely, well-trained negro maid, in white
cap and apron, waited deftly upon the table; a woman of serious
countenance--so serious that the colonel wondered if she were a
present-day type of her race, and if the responsibilities of freedom
had robbed her people of their traditional light-heartedness and
gaiety.
After supper they sat out upon the piazza. The lights within were
turned down low, so that the moths and other insects might not be
attracted. Sweet odours from the garden filled the air. Through the
elms the stars, brighter than in more northern latitudes, looked out
from a sky of darker blue; so bright were they that the colonel,
looking around for the moon, was surprised to find that luminary
invisible. On the green background of the foliage the fireflies glowed
and flickered. There was no strident steam whistle from factory or
train to assault the ear, no rumble of passing cabs or street cars.
Far away, in some distant part of the straggling town, a sweet-toned
bell sounded the hour of an evening church service.
"To see you is a breath from the past, Henry," said Mrs. Treadwell.
"You are a fine, strong man now, but I can see you as you were, the
day you went away to the war, in your new gray uniform, on your fine
gray horse, at the head of your company. You were going to take Peter
with you, but he had got his feet poisoned with poison ivy, and
couldn't walk, and your father gave you another boy, and Peter cried
like a baby at being left behind. I can remember how proud you were,
and how proud your father was, when he gave you his sword--your
grandfather's sword, and told you never to draw it or sheath it,
except in honour; and how, when you were gone, the old gentleman shut
himself up for two whole days and would speak to no one. He was glad
and sorry--glad to send you to fight for your country, and sorry to
see you go--for you were his only boy."
The colonel thrilled with love and regret. His father had loved him,
he knew very well, and he had not visited his tomb for twenty-five
years. How far away it seemed too, the time when he had thought of
the Confederacy as his country! And the sword, his grandfather's
sword, had been for years stored away in a dark closet. His father had
kept it displayed upon the drawing-room wall, over the table on which
the family Bible had rested.
Mrs. Treadwell was silent for a moment.
"Times have changed since then, Henry. We have lost a great deal,
although we still have enough--yes, we have plenty to live upon, and
to hold up our heads among the best."
Miss Laura and Graciella, behind the colonel's back, exchanged meaning
glances. How well they knew how little they had to live upon!
"That is quite evident," said the colonel, glancing through the window
at the tasteful interior, "and I am glad to see that you have fared so
well. My father lost everything."
"We were more fortunate," said Mrs. Treadwell. "We were obliged to let
Belleview go when Major Treadwell died--there were debts to be paid,
and we were robbed as well--but we have several rentable properties in
town, and an estate in the country which brings us in an income. But
things are not quite what they used to be!"
Mrs. Treadwell sighed, and nodded. Miss Laura sat in silence--a
pensive silence. She, too, remembered the time gone by, but unlike her
mother's life, her own had only begun as the good times were ending.
Her mother, in her youth, had seen something of the world. The
daughter of a wealthy planter, she had spent her summers at Saratoga,
had visited New York and Philadelphia and New Orleans, and had taken a
voyage to Europe. Graciella was young and beautiful. Her prince might
come, might be here even now, if this grand gentleman should chance to
throw the handkerchief. But she, Laura, had passed her youth in a
transition period; the pleasures neither of memory nor of hope had
been hers--except such memories as came of duty well performed, and
such hopes as had no root in anything earthly or corruptible.
Graciella was not in a reflective mood, and took up the burden of the
conversation where her grandmother had dropped it. Her thoughts were
not of the past, but of the future. She asked many eager questions of
New York. Was it true that ladies at the Waldorf-Astoria always went
to dinner in low-cut bodices with short sleeves, and was evening dress
always required at the theatre? Did the old Knickerbocker families
recognise the Vanderbilts? Were the Rockefellers anything at all
socially? Did he know Ward McAllister, at that period the Beau Brummel
of the metropolitan smart set? Was Fifth Avenue losing its
pre-eminence? On what days of the week was the Art Museum free to the
public? What was the fare to New York, and the best quarter of the
city in which to inquire for a quiet, select boarding house where a
Southern lady of refinement and good family might stay at a reasonable
price, and meet some nice people? And would he recommend stenography
or magazine work, and which did he consider preferable, as a career
which such a young lady might follow without injury to her social
standing?
The colonel, with some amusement, answered these artless inquiries as
best he could; they came as a refreshing foil to the sweet but
melancholy memories of the past. They were interesting, too, from this
very pretty but very ignorant little girl in this backward little
Southern town. She was a flash of sunlight through a soft gray cloud;
a vigorous shoot from an old moss-covered stump--she was life, young
life, the vital principle, breaking through the cumbering envelope,
and asserting its right to reach the sun.
After a while a couple of very young ladies, friends of Graciella,
dropped in. They were introduced to the colonel, who found that he had
known their fathers, or their mothers, or their grandfathers, or their
grandmothers, and that many of them were more or less distantly
related. A little later a couple of young men, friends of Graciella's
friends--also very young, and very self-conscious--made their
appearance, and were duly introduced, in person and by pedigree. The
conversation languished for a moment, and then one of the young ladies
said something about music, and one of the young men remarked that he
had brought over a new song. Graciella begged the colonel to excuse
them, and led the way to the parlour, followed by her young friends.
Mrs. Treadwell had fallen asleep, and was leaning comfortably back in
her armchair. Miss Laura excused herself, brought a veil, and laid it
softly across her mother's face.
"The night air is not damp," she said, "and it is pleasanter for her
here than in the house. She won't mind the music; she is accustomed to
it."
Graciella went to the piano and with great boldness of touch struck
the bizarre opening chords and then launched into the grotesque words
of the latest New York "coon song," one of the first and worst of its
kind, and the other young people joined in the chorus.
It was the first discordant note. At home, the colonel subscribed to
the opera, and enjoyed the music. A plantation song of the olden time,
as he remembered it, borne upon the evening air, when sung by the
tired slaves at the end of their day of toil, would have been
pleasing, with its simple melody, its plaintive minor strains, its
notes of vague longing; but to the colonel's senses there was to-night
no music in this hackneyed popular favourite. In a metropolitan music
hall, gaudily bedecked and brilliantly lighted, it would have been
tolerable from the lips of a black-face comedian. But in this quiet
place, upon this quiet night, and in the colonel's mood, it seemed
like profanation. The song of the coloured girl, who had dreamt that
she dwelt in marble halls, and the rest, had been less incongruous; it
had at least breathed aspiration.
Mrs. Treadwell was still dozing in her armchair. The colonel,
beckoning Miss Laura to follow him, moved to the farther end of the
piazza, where they might not hear the singers and the song.
"It is delightful here, Laura. I seem to have renewed my youth. I
yield myself a willing victim to the charm of the old place, the old
ways, the old friends."
"You see our best side, Henry. Night has a kindly hand, that covers
our defects, and the starlight throws a glamour over everything. You
see us through a haze of tender memories. When you have been here a
week, the town will seem dull, and narrow, and sluggish. You will find
us ignorant and backward, worshipping our old idols, and setting up no
new ones; our young men leaving us, and none coming in to take their
place. Had you, and men like you, remained with us, we might have
hoped for better things."
"And perhaps not, Laura. Environment controls the making of men. Some
rise above it, the majority do not. We might have followed in the
well-worn rut. But let us not spoil this delightful evening by
speaking of anything sad or gloomy. This is your daily life; to me it
is like a scene from a play, over which one sighs to see the curtain
fall--all enchantment, all light, all happiness."
But even while he spoke of light, a shadow loomed up beside them. The
coloured woman who had waited at the table came around the house from
the back yard and stood by the piazza railing.
"Miss Laura!" she called, softly and appealingly. "Kin you come hyuh a
minute?"
"What is it, Catherine?"
"Kin I speak just a word to you, ma'am? It's somethin'
partic'lar--mighty partic'lar, ma'am."
"Excuse me a minute, Henry," said Miss Laura, rising with evident
reluctance.
She stepped down from the piazza, and walked beside the woman down one
of the garden paths. The colonel, as he sat there smoking--with Miss
Laura's permission he had lighted a cigar--could see the light stuff
of the lady's gown against the green background, though she was
walking in the shadow of the elms. From the murmur which came to him,
he gathered that the black woman was pleading earnestly, passionately,
and he could hear Miss Laura's regretful voice, as she closed the
interview:
"I am sorry, Catherine, but it is simply impossible. I would if I
could, but I cannot."
The woman came back first, and as she passed by an open window, the
light fell upon her face, which showed signs of deep distress,
hardening already into resignation or despair. She was probably in
trouble of some sort, and her mistress had not been able, doubtless
for some good reason, to help her out. This suspicion was borne out by
the fact that when Miss Laura came back to him, she too seemed
troubled. But since she did not speak of the matter, the colonel gave
no sign of his own thoughts.
"You have said nothing of yourself, Laura," he said, wishing to divert
her mind from anything unpleasant. "Tell me something of your own
life--it could only be a cheerful theme, for you have means and
leisure, and a perfect environment. Tell me of your occupations, your
hopes, your aspirations."
"There is little enough to tell, Henry," she returned, with a sudden
courage, "but that little shall be the truth. You will find it out, if
you stay long in town, and I would rather you learned it from our lips
than from others less friendly. My mother is--my mother--a dear, sweet
woman to whom I have devoted my life! But we are not well off, Henry.
Our parlour carpet has been down for twenty-five years; surely you
must have recognised the pattern! The house has not been painted for
the same length of time; it is of heart pine, and we train the flowers
and vines to cover it as much as may be, and there are many others
like it, so it is not conspicuous. Our rentable property is three
ramshackle cabins on the alley at the rear of the lot, for which we
get four dollars a month each, when we can collect it. Our country
estate is a few acres of poor land, which we rent on shares, and from
which we get a few bushels of corn, an occasional load of firewood,
and a few barrels of potatoes. As for my own life, I husband our small
resources; I keep the house, and wait on mother, as I have done since
she became helpless, ten years ago. I look after Graciella. I teach in
the Sunday School, and I give to those less fortunate such help as the
poor can give the poor."
"How did you come to lose Belleview?" asked the colonel, after a
pause. "I had understood Major Treadwell to be one of the few people
around here who weathered the storm of war and emerged financially
sound."
"He did; and he remained so--until he met Mr. Fetters, who had made
money out of the war while all the rest were losing. Father despised
the slavetrader's son, but admired his ability to get along. Fetters
made his acquaintance, flattered him, told him glowing stories of
wealth to be made by speculating in cotton and turpentine. Father was
not a business man, but he listened. Fetters lent him money, and
father lent Fetters money, and they had transactions back and forth,
and jointly. Father lost and gained and we had no inkling that he had
suffered greatly, until, at his sudden death, Fetters foreclosed a
mortgage he held upon Belleview. Mother has always believed there was
something wrong about the transaction, and that father was not
indebted to Fetters in any such sum as Fetters claimed. But we could
find no papers and we had no proof, and Fetters took the plantation
for his debt. He changed its name to Sycamore; he wanted a post-office
there, and there were too many Belleviews."
"Does he own it still?"
"Yes, and runs it--with convict labour! The thought makes me shudder!
We were rich when he was poor; we are poor and he is rich. But we
trust in God, who has never deserted the widow and the fatherless. By
His mercy we have lived and, as mother says, held up our heads, not
in pride or haughtiness, but in self-respect, for we cannot forget
what we were."
"Nor what you are, Laura, for you are wonderful," said the colonel,
not unwilling to lighten a situation that bordered on intensity. "You
should have married and had children. The South needs such mothers as
you would have made. Unless the men of Clarendon have lost their
discernment, unless chivalry has vanished and the fire died out of the
Southern blood, it has not been for lack of opportunity that your name
remains unchanged."
Miss Laura's cheek flushed unseen in the shadow of the porch.
"Ah, Henry, that would be telling! But to marry me, one must have
married the family, for I could not have left them--they have had only
me. I have not been unhappy. I do not know that I would have had my
life different."
Graciella and her friends had finished their song, the piano had
ceased to sound, and the visitors were taking their leave. Graciella
went with them to the gate, where they stood laughing and talking. The
colonel looked at his watch by the light of the open door.
"It is not late," he said. "If my memory is true, you too played the
piano when you--when I was young."
"It is the same piano, Henry, and, like our life here, somewhat thin
and weak of tone. But if you think it would give you pleasure, I will
play--as well as I know how."
She readjusted the veil, which had slipped from her mother's face, and
they went into the parlour. From a pile of time-stained music she
selected a sheet and seated herself at the piano. The colonel stood at
her elbow. She had a pretty back, he thought, and a still youthful
turn of the head, and still plentiful, glossy brown hair. Her hands
were white, slender and well kept, though he saw on the side of the
forefinger of her left hand the telltale marks of the needle.
The piece was an arrangement of the well-known air from the opera of
_Maritana_:
_"Scenes that are brightest,
May charm awhile,
Hearts which are lightest
And eyes that smile.
Yet o'er them above us,
Though nature beam,
With none to love us,
How sad they seem!"_
Under her sympathetic touch a gentle stream of melody flowed from the
old-time piano, scarcely stronger toned in its decrepitude, than the
spinet of a former century. A few moments before, under Graciella's
vigorous hands, it had seemed to protest at the dissonances it had
been compelled to emit; now it seemed to breathe the notes of the old
opera with an almost human love and tenderness. It, too, mused the
colonel, had lived and loved and was recalling the memories of a
brighter past.
The music died into silence. Mrs. Treadwell was awake.
"Laura!" she called.
Miss Treadwell went to the door.
"I must have been nodding for a minute. I hope Colonel French did not
observe it--it would scarcely seem polite. He hasn't gone yet?"
"No, mother, he is in the parlour."
"I must be going," said the colonel, who came to the door. "I had
almost forgotten Phil, and it is long past his bedtime."
Miss Laura went to wake up Phil, who had fallen asleep after supper.
He was still rubbing his eyes when the lady led him out.
"Wake up, Phil," said the colonel. "It's time to be going. Tell the
ladies good night."
Graciella came running up the walk.
"Why, Colonel French," she cried, "you are not going already? I made
the others leave early so that I might talk to you."
"My dear young lady," smiled the colonel, "I have already risen to go,
and if I stayed longer I might wear out my welcome, and Phil would
surely go to sleep again. But I will come another time--I shall stay
in town several days."
"Yes, _do_ come, if you _must_ go," rejoined Graciella with emphasis.
"I want to hear more about the North, and about New York society
and--oh, everything! Good night, Philip. _Good_ night, Colonel
French."
"Beware of the steps, Henry," said Miss Laura, "the bottom stone is
loose."
They heard his footsteps in the quiet street, and Phil's light patter
beside him.
"He's a lovely man, isn't he, Aunt Laura?" said Graciella.
"He is a gentleman," replied her aunt, with a pensive look at her
young niece.
"Of the old school," piped Mrs. Treadwell.
"And Philip is a sweet child," said Miss Laura.
"A chip of the old block," added Mrs. Treadwell. "I remember----"
"Yes, mother, you can tell me when I've shut up the house,"
interrupted Miss Laura. "Put out the lamps, Graciella--there's not
much oil--and when you go to bed hang up your gown carefully, for it
takes me nearly half an hour to iron it."
"And you are right good to do it! Good night, dear Aunt Laura! Good
night, grandma!"
Mr. French had left the hotel at noon that day as free as air, and he
slept well that night, with no sense of the forces that were to
constrain his life. And yet the events of the day had started the
growth of a dozen tendrils, which were destined to grow, and reach
out, and seize and hold him with ties that do not break.
_Seven_
The constable who had arrested old Peter led his prisoner away through
alleys and quiet streets--though for that matter all the streets of
Clarendon were quiet in midafternoon--to a guardhouse or calaboose,
constructed of crumbling red brick, with a rusty, barred iron door
secured by a heavy padlock. As they approached this structure, which
was sufficiently forbidding in appearance to depress the most
lighthearted, the strumming of a banjo became audible, accompanying a
mellow Negro voice which was singing, to a very ragged ragtime air,
words of which the burden was something like this:
_"W'at's de use er my wo'kin' so hahd?
I got a' 'oman in de white man's yahd.
W'en she cook chicken, she save me a wing;
W'en dey 'low I'm wo'kin', I ain' doin' a thing!"_
The grating of the key in the rusty lock interrupted the song. The
constable thrust his prisoner into the dimly lighted interior, and
locked the door.
"Keep over to the right," he said curtly, "that's the niggers' side."
"But, Mistah Haines," asked Peter, excitedly, "is I got to stay here
all night? I ain' done nuthin'."
"No, that's the trouble; you ain't done nuthin' fer a month, but loaf
aroun'. You ain't got no visible means of suppo't, so you're took up
for vagrancy."
"But I does wo'k we'n I kin git any wo'k ter do," the old man
expostulated. "An' ef I kin jus' git wo'd ter de right w'ite folks,
I'll be outer here in half a' hour; dey'll go my bail."
"They can't go yo' bail to-night, fer the squire's gone home. I'll
bring you some bread and meat, an' some whiskey if you want it, and
you'll be tried to-morrow mornin'."
Old Peter still protested.
"You niggers are always kickin'," said the constable, who was not
without a certain grim sense of humour, and not above talking to a
Negro when there were no white folks around to talk to, or to listen.
"I never see people so hard to satisfy. You ain' got no home, an' here
I've give' you a place to sleep, an' you're kickin'. You doan know
from one day to another where you'll git yo' meals, an' I offer you
bread and meat and whiskey--an' you're kickin'! You say you can't git
nothin' to do, an' yit with the prospect of a reg'lar job befo' you
to-morrer--you're kickin'! I never see the beat of it in all my bo'n
days."
When the constable, chuckling at his own humour, left the guardhouse,
he found his way to a nearby barroom, kept by one Clay Jackson, a
place with an evil reputation as the resort of white men of a low
class. Most crimes of violence in the town could be traced to its
influence, and more than one had been committed within its walls.
"Has Mr. Turner been in here?" demanded Haines of the man in charge.
The bartender, with a backward movement of his thumb, indicated a door
opening into a room at the rear. Here the constable found his man--a
burly, bearded giant, with a red face, a cunning eye and an
overbearing manner. He had a bottle and a glass before him, and was
unsociably drinking alone.
"Howdy, Haines," said Turner, "How's things? How many have you got
this time?"
"I've got three rounded up, Mr. Turner, an' I'll take up another befo'
night. That'll make fo'--fifty dollars fer me, an' the res' fer the
squire."
"That's good," rejoined Turner. "Have a glass of liquor. How much do
you s'pose the Squire'll fine Bud?"
"Well," replied Haines, drinking down the glass of whiskey at a gulp,
"I reckon about twenty-five dollars."
"You can make it fifty just as easy," said Turner. "Niggers are all
just a passell o' black fools. Bud would 'a' b'en out now, if it
hadn't be'n for me. I bought him fer six months. I kept close watch of
him for the first five, and then along to'ds the middle er the las'
month I let on I'd got keerliss, an' he run away. Course I put the
dawgs on 'im, an' followed 'im here, where his woman is, an' got you
after 'im, and now he's good for six months more."
"The woman is a likely gal an' a good cook," said Haines. "_She'd_ be
wuth a good 'eal to you out at the stockade."
"That's a shore fact," replied the other, "an' I need another good
woman to help aroun'. If we'd 'a' thought about it, an' give' her a
chance to hide Bud and feed him befo' you took 'im up, we could 'a'
filed a charge ag'inst her for harborin' 'im."
"Well, I kin do it nex' time, fer he'll run away ag'in--they always
do. Bud's got a vile temper."
"Yes, but he's a good field-hand, and I'll keep his temper down. Have
somethin' mo'?"
"I've got to go back now and feed the pris'ners," said Haines, rising
after he had taken another drink; "an' I'll stir Bud up so he'll raise
h--ll, an' to-morrow morning I'll make another charge against him
that'll fetch his fine up to fifty and costs."
"Which will give 'im to me till the cotton crop is picked, and several
months more to work on the Jackson Swamp ditch if Fetters gits the
contract. You stand by us here, Haines, an' help me git all the han's
I can out o' this county, and I'll give you a job at Sycamo' when yo'r
time's up here as constable. Go on and feed the niggers, an' stir up
Bud, and I'll be on hand in the mornin' when court opens."
When the lesser of these precious worthies left his superior to his
cups, he stopped in the barroom and bought a pint of rotgut whiskey--a
cheap brand of rectified spirits coloured and flavoured to resemble
the real article, to which it bore about the relation of vitriol to
lye. He then went into a cheap eating house, conducted by a Negro for
people of his own kind, where he procured some slices of fried bacon,
and some soggy corn bread, and with these various purchases, wrapped
in a piece of brown paper, he betook himself to the guardhouse. He
unlocked the door, closed it behind him, and called Peter. The old man
came forward.
"Here, Peter," said Haines, "take what you want of this, and give some
to them other fellows, and if there's anything left after you've got
what you want, throw it to that sulky black hound over yonder in the
corner."
He nodded toward a young Negro in the rear of the room, the Bud
Johnson who had been the subject of the conversation with Turner.
Johnson replied with a curse. The constable advanced menacingly, his
hand moving toward his pocket. Quick as a flash the Negro threw
himself upon him. The other prisoners, from instinct, or prudence, or
hope of reward, caught him, pulled him away and held him off until
Haines, pale with rage, rose to his feet and began kicking his
assailant vigorously. With the aid of well-directed blows of his fists
he forced the Negro down, who, unable to regain his feet, finally,
whether from fear or exhaustion, lay inert, until the constable,
having worked off his worst anger, and not deeming it to his advantage
seriously to disable the prisoner, in whom he had a pecuniary
interest, desisted from further punishment.
"I might send you to the penitentiary for this," he said, panting for
breath, "but I'll send you to h--ll instead. You'll be sold back to
Mr. Fetters for a year or two tomorrow, and in three months I'll be
down at Sycamore as an overseer, and then I'll learn you to strike a
white man, you----"
The remainder of the objurgation need not be told, but there was no
doubt, from the expression on Haines's face, that he meant what he
said, and that he would take pleasure in repaying, in overflowing
measure, any arrears of revenge against the offending prisoner which he
might consider his due. He had stirred Bud up very successfully--much
more so, indeed, than he had really intended. He had meant to procure
evidence against Bud, but had hardly thought to carry it away in the
shape of a black eye and a swollen nose.
_Eight_
When the colonel set out next morning for a walk down the main street,
he had just breakfasted on boiled brook trout, fresh laid eggs, hot
muffins and coffee, and was feeling at peace with all mankind. He was
alone, having left Phil in charge of the hotel housekeeper. He had
gone only a short distance when he reached a door around which several
men were lounging, and from which came the sound of voices and loud
laughter. Stopping, he looked with some curiosity into the door, over
which there was a faded sign to indicate that it was the office of a
Justice of the Peace--a pleasing collocation of words, to those who
could divorce it from any technical significance--Justice, Peace--the
seed and the flower of civilisation.
An unwashed, dingy-faced young negro, clothed in rags unspeakably
vile, which scarcely concealed his nakedness, was standing in the
midst of a group of white men, toward whom he threw now and then a
shallow and shifty glance. The air was heavy with the odour of stale
tobacco, and the floor dotted with discarded portions of the weed. A
white man stood beside a desk and was addressing the audience:
"Now, gentlemen, here's Lot Number Three, a likely young nigger who
answers to the name of Sam Brown. Not much to look at, but will make a
good field hand, if looked after right and kept away from liquor; used
to workin', when in the chain gang, where he's been, off and on, since
he was ten years old. Amount of fine an' costs thirty-seven dollars
an' a half. A musical nigger, too, who plays the banjo, an' sings jus'
like a--like a blackbird. What am I bid for this prime lot?"
The negro threw a dull glance around the crowd with an air of
detachment which seemed to say that he was not at all interested in
the proceedings. The colonel viewed the scene with something more than
curious interest. The fellow looked like an habitual criminal, or at
least like a confirmed loafer. This must be one of the idle and
worthless blacks with so many of whom the South was afflicted. This
was doubtless the method provided by law for dealing with them.
"One year," answered a voice.
"Nine months," said a second.
"Six months," came a third bid, from a tall man with a buggy whip
under his arm.
"Are you all through, gentlemen? Six months' labour for thirty-seven
fifty is mighty cheap, and you know the law allows you to keep the
labourer up to the mark. Are you all done? Sold to Mr. Turner, for Mr.
Fetters, for six months."
The prisoner's dull face showed some signs of apprehension when the
name of his purchaser was pronounced, and he shambled away uneasily
under the constable's vigilant eye.
"The case of the State against Bud Johnson is next in order. Bring in
the prisoner."
The constable brought in the prisoner, handcuffed, and placed him in
front of the Justice's desk, where he remained standing. He was a
short, powerfully built negro, seemingly of pure blood, with a
well-rounded head, not unduly low in the brow and quite broad between
the ears. Under different circumstances his countenance might have
been pleasing; at present it was set in an expression of angry
defiance. He had walked with a slight limp, there were several
contusions upon his face; and upon entering the room he had thrown a
defiant glance around him, which had not quailed even before the stern
eye of the tall man, Turner, who, as the agent of the absent Fetters,
had bid on Sam Brown. His face then hardened into the blank expression
of one who stands in a hostile presence.
"Bud Johnson," said the justice, "you are charged with escaping from
the service into which you were sold to pay the fine and costs on a
charge of vagrancy. What do you plead--guilty or not guilty?"
The prisoner maintained a sullen silence.
"I'll enter a plea of not guilty. The record of this court shows that
you were convicted of vagrancy on December 26th, and sold to Mr.
Fetters for four months to pay your fine and costs. The four months
won't be up for a week. Mr. Turner may be sworn."
Turner swore to Bud's escape and his pursuit. Haines testified to his
capture.
"Have you anything to say?" asked the justice.
"What's de use er my sayin' anything," muttered the Negro. "It won't
make no diff'ence. I didn' do nothin', in de fus' place, ter be fine'
fer, an' run away 'cause dey did n' have no right ter keep me dere."
"Guilty. Twenty-five dollars an' costs. You are also charged with
resisting the officer who made the arrest. Guilty or not guilty? Since
you don't speak, I'll enter a plea of not guilty. Mr. Haines may be
sworn."
Haines swore that the prisoner had resisted arrest, and had only been
captured by the display of a loaded revolver. The prisoner was
convicted and fined twenty-five dollars and costs for this second
offense.
The third charge, for disorderly conduct in prison, was quickly
disposed of, and a fine of twenty-five dollars and costs levied.
"You may consider yo'self lucky," said the magistrate, "that Mr.
Haines didn't prefer a mo' serious charge against you. Many a nigger
has gone to the gallows for less. And now, gentlemen, I want to clean
this case up right here. How much time is offered for the fine and
costs of the prisoner, Bud Johnson, amounting to seventy-five dollars
fine and thirty-three dollars and fifty-fo' cents costs? You've heard
the evidence an' you see the nigger. Ef there ain't much competition
for his services and the time is a long one, he'll have his own
stubbornness an' deviltry to thank for it. He's strong and healthy and
able to do good work for any one that can manage him."
There was no immediate response. Turner walked forward and viewed the
prisoner from head to foot with a coldly sneering look.
"Well, Bud," he said, "I reckon we'll hafter try it ag'in. I have
never yet allowed a nigger to git the better o' me, an', moreover, I
never will. I'll bid eighteen months, Squire; an' that's all he's
worth, with his keep."
There was no competition, and the prisoner was knocked down to Turner,
for Fetters, for eighteen months.
"Lock 'im up till I'm ready to go, Bill," said Turner to the
constable, "an' just leave the irons on him. I'll fetch 'em back next
time I come to town."
The unconscious brutality of the proceeding grated harshly upon the
colonel's nerves. Delinquents of some kind these men must be, who were
thus dealt with; but he had lived away from the South so long that so
sudden an introduction to some of its customs came with something of a
shock. He had remembered the pleasant things, and these but vaguely,
since his thoughts and his interests had been elsewhere; and in the
sifting process of a healthy memory he had forgotten the disagreeable
things altogether. He had found the pleasant things still in
existence, faded but still fragrant. Fresh from a land of labour
unions, and of struggle for wealth and power, of strivings first for
equality with those above, and, this attained, for a point of vantage
to look down upon former equals, he had found in old Peter, only the
day before, a touching loyalty to a family from which he could no
longer expect anything in return. Fresh from a land of women's clubs
and women's claims, he had reveled last night in the charming
domestic, life of the old South, so perfectly preserved in a quiet
household. Things Southern, as he had already reflected, lived long
and died hard, and these things which he saw now in the clear light of
day, were also of the South, and singularly suggestive of other things
Southern which he had supposed outlawed and discarded long ago.
"Now, Mr. Haines, bring in the next lot," said the Squire.
The constable led out an old coloured man, clad in a quaint assortment
of tattered garments, whom the colonel did not for a moment recognise,
not having, from where he stood, a full view of the prisoner's face.
"Gentlemen, I now call yo'r attention to Lot Number Fo', left over
from befo' the wah; not much for looks, but respectful and obedient,
and accustomed, for some time past, to eat very little. Can be made
useful in many ways--can feed the chickens, take care of the children,
or would make a good skeercrow. What I am bid, gentlemen, for ol'
Peter French? The amount due the co't is twenty-fo' dollahs and a
half."
There was some laughter at the Squire's facetiousness. Turner, who had
bid on the young and strong men, turned away unconcernedly.
"You'd 'a' made a good auctioneer, Squire," said the one-armed man.
"Thank you, Mr. Pearsall. How much am I offered for this bargain?"
"He'd be dear at any price," said one.
"It's a great risk," observed a second.
"Ten yeahs," said a third.
"You're takin' big chances, Mr. Bennet," said another. "He'll die in
five, and you'll have to bury him."
"I withdraw the bid," said Mr. Bennet promptly.
"Two yeahs," said another.
The colonel was boiling over with indignation. His interest in the
fate of the other prisoners had been merely abstract; in old Peter's
case it assumed a personal aspect. He forced himself into the room and
to the front.
"May I ask the meaning of this proceeding?" he demanded.
"Well, suh," replied the Justice, "I don't know who you are, or what
right you have to interfere, but this is the sale of a vagrant nigger,
with no visible means of suppo't. Perhaps, since you're interested,
you'd like to bid on 'im. Are you from the No'th, likely?"
"Yes."
"I thought, suh, that you looked like a No'the'n man. That bein' so,
doubtless you'd like somethin' on the Uncle Tom order. Old Peter's
fine is twenty dollars, and the costs fo' dollars and a half. The
prisoner's time is sold to whoever pays his fine and allows him the
shortest time to work it out. When his time's up, he goes free."
"And what has old Peter done to deserve a fine of twenty dollars--more
money than he perhaps has ever had at any one time?"
"'Deed, it is, Mars Henry, 'deed it is!" exclaimed Peter, fervently.
"Peter has not been able," replied the magistrate, "to show this co't
that he has reg'lar employment, or means of suppo't, and he was
therefore tried and convicted yesterday evenin' of vagrancy, under our
State law. The fine is intended to discourage laziness and to promote
industry. Do you want to bid, suh? I'm offered two yeahs, gentlemen,
for old Peter French? Does anybody wish to make it less?"
"I'll pay the fine," said the colonel, "let him go."
"I beg yo' pahdon, suh, but that wouldn't fulfil the requi'ments of
the law. He'd be subject to arrest again immediately. Somebody must
take the responsibility for his keep."
"I'll look after him," said the colonel shortly.
"In order to keep the docket straight," said the justice, "I should
want to note yo' bid. How long shall I say?"
"Say what you like," said the colonel, drawing out his pocketbook.
"You don't care to bid, Mr. Turner?" asked the justice.
"Not by a damn sight," replied Turner, with native elegance. "I buy
niggers to work, not to bury."
"I withdraw my bid in favour of the gentleman," said the two-year
bidder.
"Thank you," said the colonel.
"Remember, suh," said the justice to the colonel, "that you are
responsible for his keep as well as entitled to his labour, for the
period of your bid. How long shall I make it?"
"As long as you please," said the colonel impatiently.
"Sold," said the justice, bringing down his gavel, "for life, to--what
name, suh?"
"French--Henry French."
There was some manifestation of interest in the crowd; and the colonel
was stared at with undisguised curiosity as he paid the fine and
costs, which included two dollars for two meals in the guardhouse, and
walked away with his purchase--a purchase which his father had made,
upon terms not very different, fifty years before.
"One of the old Frenches," I reckon, said a bystander, "come back on a
visit."
"Yes," said another, "old 'ristocrats roun' here. Well, they ought to
take keer of their old niggers. They got all the good out of 'em when
they were young. But they're not runnin' things now."
An hour later the colonel, driving leisurely about the outskirts of
the town and seeking to connect his memories more closely with the
scenes around him, met a buggy in which sat the man Turner. After the
buggy, tied behind one another to a rope, like a coffle of slaves,
marched the three Negroes whose time he had bought at the constable's
sale. Among them, of course, was the young man who had been called Bud
Johnson. The colonel observed that this Negro's face, when turned
toward the white man in front of him, expressed a fierce hatred, as of
some wild thing of the woods, which finding itself trapped and
betrayed, would go to any length to injure its captor.
Turner passed the colonel with no sign of recognition or greeting.
Bud Johnson evidently recognised the friendly gentleman who had
interfered in Peter's case. He threw toward the colonel a look which
resembled an appeal; but it was involuntary, and lasted but a moment,
and, when the prisoner became conscious of it, and realised its
uselessness, it faded into the former expression.
What the man's story was, the colonel did not know, nor what were his
deserts. But the events of the day had furnished food for reflection.
Evidently Clarendon needed new light and leading. Men, even black men,
with something to live for, and with work at living wages, would
scarcely prefer an enforced servitude in ropes and chains. And the
punishment had scarcely seemed to fit the crime. He had observed no
great zeal for work among the white people since he came to town; such
work as he had seen done was mostly performed by Negroes. If idleness
were a crime, the Negroes surely had no monopoly of it.
_Nine_
Furnished with money for his keep, Peter was ordered if again molested
to say that he was in the colonel's service. The latter, since his own
plans were for the present uncertain, had no very clear idea of what
disposition he would ultimately make of the old man, but he meant to
provide in some way for his declining years. He also bought Peter a
neat suit of clothes at a clothing store, and directed him to present
himself at the hotel on the following morning. The interval would give
the colonel time to find something for Peter to do, so that he would
be able to pay him a wage. To his contract with the county he attached
little importance; he had already intended, since their meeting in the
cemetery, to provide for Peter in some way, and the legal
responsibility was no additional burden. To Peter himself, to whose
homeless old age food was more than philosophy, the arrangement seemed
entirely satisfactory.
Colonel French's presence in Clarendon had speedily become known to
the public. Upon his return to the hotel, after leaving Peter to his
own devices for the day, he found several cards in his letter box,
left by gentlemen who had called, during his absence, to see him.
The daily mail had also come in, and the colonel sat down in the
office to read it. There was a club notice, and several letters that
had been readdressed and forwarded, and a long one from Kirby in
reference to some detail of the recent transfer. Before he had
finished reading these, a gentleman came up and introduced himself. He
proved to be one John McLean, an old schoolmate of the colonel, and
later a comrade-in-arms, though the colonel would never have
recognised a rather natty major in his own regiment in this shabby
middle-aged man, whose shoes were run down at the heel, whose linen
was doubtful, and spotted with tobacco juice. The major talked about
the weather, which was cool for the season; about the Civil War, about
politics, and about the Negroes, who were very trifling, the major
said. While they were talking upon this latter theme, there was some
commotion in the street, in front of the hotel, and looking up they
saw that a horse, attached to a loaded wagon, had fallen in the
roadway, and having become entangled in the harness, was kicking
furiously. Five or six Negroes were trying to quiet the animal, and
release him from the shafts, while a dozen white men looked on and
made suggestions.
"An illustration," said the major, pointing through the window toward
the scene without, "of what we've got to contend with. Six niggers
can't get one horse up without twice as many white men to tell them
how. That's why the South is behind the No'th. The niggers, in one way
or another, take up most of our time and energy. You folks up there
have half your work done before we get our'n started."
The horse, pulled this way and that, in obedience to the conflicting
advice of the bystanders, only became more and more intricately
entangled. He had caught one foot in a manner that threatened, with
each frantic jerk, to result in a broken leg, when the colonel,
leaving his visitor without ceremony, ran out into the street, leaned
down, and with a few well-directed movements, released the threatened
limb.
"Now, boys," he said, laying hold of the prostrate animal, "give a
hand here."
The Negroes, and, after some slight hesitation, one or two white men,
came to the colonel's aid, and in a moment, the horse, trembling and
blowing, was raised to its feet. The driver thanked the colonel and
the others who had befriended him, and proceeded with his load.
When the flurry of excitement was over, the colonel went back to the
hotel and resumed the conversation with his friend. If the new
franchise amendment went through, said the major, the Negro would be
eliminated from politics, and the people of the South, relieved of the
fear of "nigger domination," could give their attention to better
things, and their section would move forward along the path of
progress by leaps and bounds. Of himself the major said little except
that he had been an alternate delegate to the last Democratic National
Nominating Convention, and that he expected to run for coroner at the
next county election.
"If I can secure the suppo't of Mr. Fetters in the primaries," he
said, "my nomination is assured, and a nomination is of co'se
equivalent to an election. But I see there are some other gentlemen
that would like to talk to you, and I won't take any mo' of yo' time
at present."
"Mr. Blake," he said, addressing a gentleman with short side-whiskers
who was approaching them, "have you had the pleasure of meeting
Colonel French?"
"No, suh," said the stranger, "I shall be glad to have the honour of
an introduction at your hands."
"Colonel French, Mr. Blake--Mr. Blake, Colonel French. You gentlemen
will probably like to talk to one another, because you both belong to
the same party, I reckon. Mr. Blake is a new man roun' heah--come down
from the mountains not mo' than ten yeahs ago, an' fetched his
politics with him; but since he was born that way we don't entertain
any malice against him. Mo'over, he's not a 'Black and Tan
Republican,' but a 'Lily White.'"
"Yes, sir," said Mr. Blake, taking the colonel's hand, "I believe in
white supremacy, and the elimination of the nigger vote. If the
National Republican Party would only ignore the coloured politicians,
and give all the offices to white men, we'll soon build up a strong
white Republican party. If I had the post-office here at Clarendon,
with the encouragement it would give, and the aid of my clerks and
subo'dinates, I could double the white Republican vote in this county
in six months."
The major had left them together, and the Lily White, ere he in turn
made way for another caller, suggested delicately, that he would
appreciate any good word that the colonel might be able to say for him
in influential quarters--either personally or through friends who
might have the ear of the executive or those close to him--in
reference to the postmastership. Realising that the present
administration was a business one, in which sentiment played small
part, he had secured the endorsement of the leading business men of
the county, even that of Mr. Fetters himself. Mr. Fetters was of
course a Democrat, but preferred, since the office must go to a
Republican, that it should go to a Lily White.
"I hope to see mo' of you, sir," he said, "and I take pleasure in
introducing the Honourable Henry Clay Appleton, editor of our local
newspaper, the _Anglo-Saxon_. He and I may not agree on free silver
and the tariff, but we are entirely in harmony on the subject
indicated by the title of his newspaper. Mr. Appleton not only
furnishes all the news that's fit to read, but he represents this
county in the Legislature, along with Mr. Fetters, and he will no
doubt be the next candidate for Congress from this district. He can
tell you all that's worth knowin' about Clarendon."
The colonel shook hands with the editor, who had come with a twofold
intent--to make the visitor's acquaintance and to interview him upon
his impressions of the South. Incidentally he gave the colonel a great
deal of information about local conditions. These were not, he
admitted, ideal. The town was backward. It needed capital to develop
its resources, and it needed to be rid of the fear of Negro
domination. The suffrage in the hands of the Negroes had proved a
ghastly and expensive joke for all concerned, and the public welfare
absolutely demanded that it be taken away. Even the white Republicans
were coming around to the same point of view. The new franchise
amendment to the State constitution was receiving their unqualified
support.
"That was a fine, chivalrous deed of yours this morning, sir," he
said, "at Squire Reddick's office. It was just what might have been
expected from a Southern gentleman; for we claim you, colonel, in
spite of your long absence."
"Yes," returned the colonel, "I don't know what I rescued old Peter
from. It looked pretty dark for him there for a little while. I
shouldn't have envied his fate had he been bought in by the tall
fellow who represented your colleague in the Legislature. The law
seems harsh."
"Well," admitted the editor, "I suppose it might seem harsh, in
comparison with your milder penal systems up North. But you must
consider the circumstances, and make allowances for us. We have so
many idle, ignorant Negroes that something must be done to make them
work, or else they'll steal, and to keep them in their place, or they
would run over us. The law has been in operation only a year or two,
and is already having its effect. I'll be glad to introduce a bill for
its repeal, as soon as it is no longer needed.
"You must bear in mind, too, colonel, that niggers don't look at
imprisonment and enforced labour in the same way white people do--they
are not conscious of any disgrace attending stripes or the ball and
chain. The State is poor; our white children are suffering for lack of
education, and yet we have to spend a large amount of money on the
Negro schools. These convict labour contracts are a source of
considerable revenue to the State; they make up, in fact, for most of
the outlay for Negro education--which I approve of, though I'm frank
to say that so far I don't see much good that's come from it. This
convict labour is humanely treated; Mr. Fetters has the contract for
several counties, and anybody who knows Mr. Fetters knows that there's
no kinder-hearted man in the South."
The colonel disclaimed any intention of criticising. He had come back
to his old home for a brief visit, to rest and to observe. He was
willing to learn and anxious to please. The editor took copious notes
of the interview, and upon his departure shook hands with the colonel
cordially.
The colonel had tactfully let his visitors talk, while he listened, or
dropped a word here and there to draw them out. One fact was driven
home to him by every one to whom he had spoken. Fetters dominated the
county and the town, and apparently the State. His name was on every
lip. His influence was indispensable to every political aspirant. His
acquaintance was something to boast of, and his good will held a
promise of success. And the colonel had once kicked the Honourable Mr.
Fetters, then plain Bill, in presence of an admiring audience, all the
way down Main Street from the academy to the bank! Bill had been, to
all intents and purposes, a poor white boy; who could not have named
with certainty his own grandfather. The Honourable William was
undoubtedly a man of great ability. Had the colonel remained in his
native State, would he have been able, he wondered, to impress himself
so deeply upon the community? Would blood have been of any advantage,
under the changed conditions, or would it have been a drawback to one
who sought political advancement?
When the colonel was left alone, he went to look for Phil, who was
playing with the children of the landlord, in the hotel parlour.
Commending him to the care of the Negro maid in charge of them, he
left the hotel and called on several gentlemen whose cards he had
found in his box at the clerk's desk. Their stores and offices were
within a short radius of the hotel. They were all glad to see him, and
if there was any initial stiffness or shyness in the attitude of any
one, it soon became the warmest cordiality under the influence of the
colonel's simple and unostentatious bearing. If he compared the cut of
their clothes or their beards to his own, to their disadvantage, or if
he found their views narrow and provincial, he gave no sign--their
hearts were warm and their welcome hearty.
The colonel was not able to gather, from the conversation of his
friends, that Clarendon, or any one in the town--always excepting
Fetters, who did not live in the town, but merely overshadowed it--was
especially prosperous. There were no mills or mines in the
neighbourhood, except a few grist mills, and a sawmill. The bulk of
the business consisted in supplying the needs of an agricultural
population, and trading in their products. The cotton was baled and
shipped to the North, and re-imported for domestic use, in the shape
of sheeting and other stuffs. The corn was shipped to the North, and
came back in the shape of corn meal and salt pork, the staple articles
of diet. Beefsteak and butter were brought from the North, at
twenty-five and fifty cents a pound respectively. There were cotton
merchants, and corn and feed merchants; there were dry-goods and
grocery stores, drug stores and saloons--and more saloons--and the
usual proportion of professional men. Since Clarendon was the county
seat, there were of course a court house and a jail. There were
churches enough, if all filled at once, to hold the entire population
of the town, and preachers in proportion. The merchants, of whom a
number were Jewish, periodically went into bankruptcy; the majority of
their customers did likewise, and thus a fellow-feeling was promoted,
and the loss thrown back as far as possible. The lands of the large
farmers were mostly mortgaged, either to Fetters, or to the bank of
which he was the chief stockholder, for all that could be borrowed on
them; while the small farmers, many of whom were coloured, were
practically tied to the soil by ropes of debt and chains of contract.
Every one the colonel met during the afternoon had heard of Squire
Reddick's good joke of the morning. That he should have sold Peter to
the colonel for life was regarded as extremely clever. Some of them
knew old Peter, and none of them had ever known any harm of him, and
they were unanimous in their recognition and applause of the colonel's
goodheartedness. Moreover, it was an index of the colonel's views. He
was one of them, by descent and early associations, but he had been
away a long time, and they hadn't really known how much of a Yankee he
might have become. By his whimsical and kindly purchase of old Peter's
time--or of old Peter, as they smilingly put it, he had shown his
appreciation of the helplessness of the Negroes, and of their proper
relations to the whites.
"What'll you do with him, Colonel?" asked one gentleman. "An ole
nigger like Peter couldn't live in the col' No'th. You'll have to buy
a place down here to keep 'im. They wouldn' let you own a nigger at
the No'th."
The remark, with the genial laugh accompanying it, was sounding in the
colonel's ears, as, on the way back to the hotel, he stepped into the
barber shop. The barber, who had also heard the story, was bursting
with a desire to unbosom himself upon the subject. Knowing from
experience that white gentlemen, in their intercourse with coloured
people, were apt to be, in the local phrase; "sometimey," or uncertain
in their moods, he first tested, with a few remarks about the weather,
the colonel's amiability, and finding him approachable, proved quite
talkative and confidential.
"You're Colonel French, ain't you, suh?" he asked as he began applying
the lather.
"Yes."
"Yes, suh; I had heard you wuz in town, an' I wuz hopin' you would
come in to get shaved. An' w'en I heard 'bout yo' noble conduc' this
mawnin' at Squire Reddick's I wanted you to come in all de mo', suh.
Ole Uncle Peter has had a lot er bad luck in his day, but he has fell
on his feet dis time, suh, sho's you bawn. I'm right glad to see you,
suh. I feels closer to you, suh, than I does to mos' white folks,
because you know, colonel, I'm livin' in the same house you wuz bawn
in."
"Oh, you are the Nichols, are you, who bought our old place?"
"Yes, suh, William Nichols, at yo' service, suh. I've own' de ole
house fer twenty yeahs or mo' now, suh, an' we've b'en mighty
comfo'table in it, suh. They is a spaciousness, an' a air of elegant
sufficiency about the environs and the equipments of the ed'fice, suh,
that does credit to the tas'e of the old aristocracy an' of you-all's
family, an' teches me in a sof' spot. For I loves the aristocracy; an'
I've often tol' my ol' lady, 'Liza,' says I, 'ef I'd be'n bawn white I
sho' would 'a' be'n a 'ristocrat. I feels it in my bones.'"
While the barber babbled on with his shrewd flattery, which was
sincere enough to carry a reasonable amount of conviction, the colonel
listened with curiously mingled feelings. He recalled each plank, each
pane of glass, every inch of wall, in the old house. No spot was
without its associations. How many a brilliant scene of gaiety had
taken place in the spacious parlour where bright eyes had sparkled,
merry feet had twinkled, and young hearts beat high with love and hope
and joy of living! And not only joy had passed that way, but sorrow.
In the front upper chamber his mother had died. Vividly he recalled,
as with closed eyes he lay back under the barber's skilful hand, their
last parting and his own poignant grief; for she had been not only his
mother, but a woman of character, who commanded respect and inspired
affection; a beautiful woman whom he had loved with a devotion that
bordered on reverence.
Romance, too, had waved her magic wand over the old homestead. His
memory smiled indulgently as he recalled one scene. In a corner of the
broad piazza, he had poured out his youthful heart, one summer
evening, in strains of passionate devotion, to his first love, a
beautiful woman of thirty who was visiting his mother, and who had
told him between smiles and tears, to be a good boy and wait a little
longer, until he was sure of his own mind. Even now, he breathed, in
memory, the heavy odour of the magnolia blossoms which overhung the
long wooden porch bench or "jogging board" on which the lady sat,
while he knelt on the hard floor before her. He felt very young indeed
after she had spoken, but her caressing touch upon his hair had so
stirred his heart that his vanity had suffered no wound. Why, the
family had owned the house since they had owned the cemetery lot! It
was hallowed by a hundred memories, and now!----
"Will you have oil on yo' hair, suh, or bay rum?"
"Nichols," exclaimed the colonel, "I should like to buy back the old
house. What do you want for it?"
"Why, colonel," stammered the barber, somewhat taken aback at the
suddenness of the offer, "I hadn' r'ally thought 'bout sellin' it. You
see, suh, I've had it now for twenty years, and it suits me, an' my
child'en has growed up in it--an' it kind of has associations, suh."
In principle the colonel was an ardent democrat; he believed in the
rights of man, and extended the doctrine to include all who bore the
human form. But in feeling he was an equally pronounced aristocrat. A
servant's rights he would have defended to the last ditch; familiarity
he would have resented with equal positiveness. Something of this
ancestral feeling stirred within him now. While Nichols's position in
reference to the house was, in principle, equally as correct as the
colonel's own, and superior in point of time--since impressions, like
photographs, are apt to grow dim with age, and Nichols's were of much
more recent date--the barber's display of sentiment only jarred the
colonel's sensibilities and strengthened his desire.
"I should advise you to speak up, Nichols," said the colonel. "I had
no notion of buying the place when I came in, and I may not be of the
same mind to-morrow. Name your own price, but now's your time."
The barber caught his breath. Such dispatch was unheard-of in
Clarendon. But Nichols, a keen-eyed mulatto, was a man of thrift and
good sense. He would have liked to consult his wife and children about
the sale, but to lose an opportunity to make a good profit was to fly
in the face of Providence. The house was very old. It needed shingling
and painting. The floors creaked; the plaster on the walls was loose;
the chimneys needed pointing and the insurance was soon renewable. He
owned a smaller house in which he could live. He had been told to name
his price; it was as much better to make it too high than too low, as
it was easier to come down than to go up. The would-be purchaser was a
rich man; the diamond on the third finger of his left hand alone would
buy a small house.
"I think, suh," he said, at a bold venture, "that fo' thousand dollars
would be 'bout right."
"I'll take it," returned the colonel, taking out his pocket-book.
"Here's fifty dollars to bind the bargain. I'll write a receipt for
you to sign."
The barber brought pen, ink and paper, and restrained his excitement
sufficiently to keep silent, while the colonel wrote a receipt
embodying the terms of the contract, and signed it with a steady hand.
"Have the deed drawn up as soon as you like," said the colonel, as he
left the shop, "and when it is done I'll give you a draft for the
money."
"Yes, suh; thank you, suh, thank you, colonel."
The barber had bought the house at a tax sale at a time of great
financial distress, twenty years before, for five hundred dollars. He
had made a very good sale, and he lost no time in having the deed
drawn up.
When the colonel reached the hotel, he found Phil seated on the
doorstep with a little bow-legged black boy and a little white dog.
Phil, who had a large heart, had fraternised with the boy and fallen
in love with the dog.
"Papa," he said, "I want to buy this dog. His name is Rover; he can
shake hands, and I like him very much. This little boy wants ten cents
for him, and I did not have the money. I asked him to wait until you
came. May I buy him?"
"Certainly, Phil. Here, boy!"
The colonel threw the black boy a silver dollar. Phil took the dog
under his arm and followed his father into the house, while the other
boy, his glistening eyes glued to the coin in his hand, scampered off
as fast as his limbs would carry him. He was back next morning with a
pretty white kitten, but the colonel discouraged any further purchases
for the time being.
* * * * *
"My dear Laura," said the colonel when he saw his friend the same
evening, "I have been in Clarendon two days; and I have already bought
a dog, a house and a man."
Miss Laura was startled. "I don't understand," she said.
The colonel proceeded to explain the transaction by which he had
acquired, for life, the services of old Peter.
"I suppose it is the law," Miss Laura said, "but it seems hardly
right. I had thought we were well rid of slavery. White men do not
work any too much. Old Peter was not idle. He did odd jobs, when he
could get them; he was polite and respectful; and it was an outrage to
treat him so. I am glad you--hired him."
"Yes--hired him. Moreover, Laura. I have bought a house."
"A house! Then you are going to stay! I am so glad! we shall all be so
glad. What house?"
"The old place. I went into the barber shop. The barber complimented
me on the family taste in architecture, and grew sentimental about
_his_ associations with the house. This awoke _my_ associations, and
the collocation jarred--I was selfish enough to want a monopoly of the
associations. I bought the house from him before I left the shop."
"But what will you do with it?" asked Miss Laura, puzzled. "You could
never _live_ in it again--after a coloured family?"
"Why not? It is no less the old house because the barber has reared
his brood beneath its roof. There were always Negroes in it when we
were there--the place swarmed with them. Hammer and plane, soap and
water, paper and paint, can make it new again. The barber, I
understand, is a worthy man, and has reared a decent family. His
daughter plays the piano, and sings:
_'I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,
With vassals and serfs by my side.'_