I heard her as I passed there yesterday."

Miss Laura gave an apprehensive start.

"There were Negroes in the house in the old days," he went on

unnoticing, "and surely a good old house, gone farther astray than

ours, might still be redeemed to noble ends. I shall renovate it and

live in it while I am here, and at such times as I may return; or if I

should tire of it, I can give it to the town for a school, or for a

hospital--there is none here. I should like to preserve, so far as I

may, the old associations--_my_ associations. The house might not fall

again into hands as good as those of Nichols, and I should like to

know that it was devoted to some use that would keep the old name

alive in the community."

"I think, Henry," said Miss Laura, "that if your visit is long enough,

you will do more for the town than if you had remained here all your

life. For you have lived in a wider world, and acquired a broader

view; and you have learned new things without losing your love for the

old."

_Ten_

The deed for the house was executed on Friday, Nichols agreeing to

give possession within a week. The lavishness of the purchase price

was a subject of much remark in the town, and Nichols's good fortune

was congratulated or envied, according to the temper of each

individual. The colonel's action in old Peter's case had made him a

name for generosity. His reputation for wealth was confirmed by this

reckless prodigality. There were some small souls, of course, among

the lower whites who were heard to express disgust that, so far, only

"niggers" had profited by the colonel's visit. The _Anglo-Saxon_,

which came out Saturday morning, gave a large amount of space to

Colonel French and his doings. Indeed, the two compositors had

remained up late the night before, setting up copy, and the pressman

had not reached home until three o'clock; the kerosene oil in the

office gave out, and it was necessary to rouse a grocer at midnight to

replenish the supply--so far had the advent of Colonel French

affected the life of the town.

The _Anglo-Saxon_ announced that Colonel Henry French, formerly of

Clarendon, who had won distinction in the Confederate Army, and since

the war achieved fortune at the North, had returned to visit his

birthplace and his former friends. The hope was expressed that Colonel

French, who had recently sold out to a syndicate his bagging mills in

Connecticut, might seek investments in the South, whose vast

undeveloped resources needed only the fructifying flow of abundant

capital to make it blossom like the rose. The New South, the

_Anglo-Saxon_ declared, was happy to welcome capital and enterprise,

and hoped that Colonel French might find, in Clarendon, an agreeable

residence, and an attractive opening for his trained business

energies. That something of the kind was not unlikely, might be

gathered from the fact that Colonel French had already repurchased,

from William Nichols, a worthy negro barber, the old French mansion,

and had taken into his service a former servant of the family, thus

foreshadowing a renewal of local ties and a prolonged residence.

The conduct of the colonel in the matter of his old servant was warmly

commended. The romantic circumstances of their meeting in the

cemetery, and the incident in the justice's court, which were matters

of public knowledge and interest, showed that in Colonel French,

should he decide to resume his residence in Clarendon, his fellow

citizens would find an agreeable neighbour, whose sympathies would be

with the South in those difficult matters upon which North and South

had so often been at variance, but upon which they were now rapidly

becoming one in sentiment.

The colonel, whose active mind could not long remain unoccupied, was

busily engaged during the next week, partly in making plans for the

renovation of the old homestead, partly in correspondence with Kirby

concerning the winding up of the loose ends of their former business.

Thus compelled to leave Phil to the care of some one else, he had an

excellent opportunity to utilise Peter's services. When the old man,

proud of his new clothes, and relieved of any responsibility for his

own future, first appeared at the hotel, the colonel was ready with a

commission.

"Now, Peter," he said, "I'm going to prove my confidence in you, and

test your devotion to the family, by giving you charge of Phil. You

may come and get him in the morning after breakfast--you can get your

meals in the hotel kitchen--and take him to walk in the streets or the

cemetery; but you must be very careful, for he is all I have in the

world. In other words, Peter, you are to take as good care of Phil as

you did of me when I was a little boy."

"I'll look aftuh 'im, Mars Henry, lak he wuz a lump er pyo' gol'. Me

an' him will git along fine, won't we, little Mars Phil?"

"Yes, indeed," replied the child. "I like you, Uncle Peter, and I'll

be glad to go with you."

Phil and the old man proved excellent friends, and the colonel,

satisfied that the boy would be well cared for, gave his attention to

the business of the hour. As soon as Nichols moved out of the old

house, there was a shaking of the dry bones among the mechanics of the

town. A small army of workmen invaded the premises, and repairs and

improvements of all descriptions went rapidly forward--much more

rapidly than was usual in Clarendon, for the colonel let all his work

by contract, and by a system of forfeits and premiums kept it going at

high pressure. In two weeks the house was shingled, painted inside and

out, the fences were renewed, the outhouses renovated, and the grounds

put in order.

The stream of ready money thus put into circulation by the colonel,

soon permeated all the channels of local enterprise. The barber, out

of his profits, began the erection of a row of small houses for

coloured tenants. This gave employment to masons and carpenters, and

involved the sale and purchase of considerable building material.

General trade felt the influence of the enhanced prosperity.

Groceries, dry-goods stores and saloons, did a thriving business. The

ease with which the simply organised community responded to so slight

an inflow of money and energy, was not without a pronounced influence

upon the colonel's future conduct.

When his house was finished, Colonel French hired a housekeeper, a

coloured maid, a cook and a coachman, bought several horses and

carriages, and, having sent to New York for his books and pictures and

several articles of furniture which he had stored there, began

housekeeping in his own establishment. Succumbing willingly to the

charm of old associations, and entering more fully into the social

life of the town, he began insensibly to think of Clarendon as an

established residence, where he would look forward to spending a

certain portion of each year. The climate was good for Phil, and to

bring up the boy safely would be henceforth his chief concern in life.

In the atmosphere of the old town the ideas of race and blood attained

a new and larger perspective. It would be too bad for an old family,

with a fine history, to die out, and Phil was the latest of the line

and the sole hope of its continuance.

The colonel was conscious, somewhat guiltily conscious, that he had

neglected the South and all that pertained to it--except the market

for burlaps and bagging, which several Southern sales agencies had

attended to on behalf of his firm. He was aware, too, that he had felt

a certain amount of contempt for its poverty, its quixotic devotion to

lost causes and vanished ideals, and a certain disgusted impatience

with a people who persistently lagged behind in the march of progress,

and permitted a handful of upstart, blatant, self-seeking demagogues

to misrepresent them, in Congress and before the country, by

intemperate language and persistent hostility to a humble but large

and important part of their own constituency. But he was glad to find

that this was the mere froth upon the surface, and that underneath it,

deep down in the hearts of the people, the currents of life flowed, if

less swiftly, not less purely than in more favoured places.

The town needed an element, which he could in a measure supply by

residing there, if for only a few weeks each year. And that element

was some point of contact with the outer world and its more advanced

thought. He might induce some of his Northern friends to follow his

example; there were many for whom the mild climate in Winter and the

restful atmosphere at all seasons of the year, would be a boon which

correctly informed people would be eager to enjoy.

Of the extent to which the influence of the Treadwell household had

contributed to this frame of mind, the colonel was not conscious. He

had received the freedom of the town, and many hospitable doors were

open to him. As a single man, with an interesting little motherless

child, he did not lack for the smiles of fair ladies, of which the

town boasted not a few. But Mrs. Treadwell's home held the first place

in his affections. He had been there first, and first impressions are

vivid. They had been kind to Phil, who loved them all, and insisted on

Peter's taking him there every day. The colonel found pleasure in Miss

Laura's sweet simplicity and openness of character; to which

Graciella's vivacity and fresh young beauty formed an attractive

counterpart; and Mrs. Treadwell's plaintive minor note had soothed and

satisfied Colonel French in this emotional Indian Summer which marked

his reaction from a long and arduous business career.

_Eleven_

In addition to a pronounced attractiveness of form and feature, Miss

Graciella Treadwell possessed a fine complexion, a clear eye, and an

elastic spirit. She was also well endowed with certain other

characteristics of youth; among them ingenuousness, which, if it be a

fault, experience is sure to correct; and impulsiveness, which even

the school of hard knocks is not always able to eradicate, though it

may chasten. To the good points of Graciella, could be added an

untroubled conscience, at least up to that period when Colonel French

dawned upon her horizon, and for some time thereafter. If she had put

herself foremost in all her thoughts, it had been the unconscious

egotism of youth, with no definite purpose of self-seeking. The things

for which she wished most were associated with distant places, and her

longing for them had never taken the form of envy of those around her.

Indeed envy is scarcely a vice of youth; it is a weed that flourishes

best after the flower of hope has begun to wither. Graciella's views

of life, even her youthful romanticism were sane and healthful; but

since she had not been tried in the furnace of experience, it could

only be said of her that she belonged to the class, always large, but

shifting like the sands of the sea, who have never been tempted, and

therefore do not know whether they would sin or not.

It was inevitable, with such a nature as Graciella's, in such an

embodiment, that the time should come, at some important crisis of her

life, when she must choose between different courses; nor was it

likely that she could avoid what comes sometime to all of us, the

necessity of choosing between good and evil. Her liking for Colonel

French had grown since their first meeting. He knew so many things

that Graciella wished to know, that when he came to the house she

spent a great deal of time in conversation with him. Her aunt Laura

was often busy with household duties, and Graciella, as the least

employed member of the family, was able to devote herself to his

entertainment. Colonel French, a comparatively idle man at this

period, found her prattle very amusing.

It was not unnatural for Graciella to think that this acquaintance

might be of future value; she could scarcely have thought otherwise.

If she should ever go to New York, a rich and powerful friend would be

well worth having. Should her going there be delayed very long, she

would nevertheless have a tie of friendship in the great city, and a

source to which she might at any time apply for information. Her

fondness for Colonel French's society was, however, up to a certain

time, entirely spontaneous, and coloured by no ulterior purpose. Her

hope that his friendship might prove valuable was an afterthought.

It was during this happy period that she was standing, one day, by the

garden gate, when Colonel French passed by in his fine new trap,

driving a spirited horse; and it was with perfect candour that she

waved her hand to him familiarly.

"Would you like a drive?" he called.

"Wouldn't I?" she replied. "Wait till I tell the folks."

She was back in a moment, and ran out of the gate and down the steps.

The colonel gave her his hand and she sprang up beside him.

They drove through the cemetery, and into the outlying part of the

town, where there were some shaded woodland stretches. It was a

pleasant afternoon; cloudy enough to hide the sun. Graciella's eyes

sparkled and her cheek glowed with pleasure, while her light brown

hair blown about her face by the breeze of their rapid motion was like

an aureole.

"Colonel French," she said as they were walking the horse up a hill,

"are you going to give a house warming?"

"Why," he said, "I hadn't thought of it. Ought I to give a house

warming?"

"You surely ought. Everybody will want to see your house while it is

new and bright. You certainly ought to have a house warming."

"Very well," said the colonel. "I make it a rule to shirk no plain

duty. If I _ought_ to have a house warming, I _will_ have it. And you

shall be my social mentor. What sort of a party shall it be?"

"Why not make it," she said brightly, "just such a party as your

father would have had. You have the old house, and the old furniture.

Give an old-time party."

* * * * *

In fitting up his house the colonel had been animated by the same

feeling that had moved him to its purchase. He had endeavoured to

restore, as far as possible, the interior as he remembered it in his

childhood. At his father's death the furniture had been sold and

scattered. He had been able, through the kindly interest of his

friends, to recover several of the pieces. Others that were lost past

hope, had been reproduced from their description. Among those

recovered was a fine pair of brass andirons, and his father's

mahogany desk, which had been purchased by Major Treadwell at the sale

of the elder French's effects.

Miss Laura had been the first to speak of the desk.

"Henry," she had said, "the house would not be complete without your

father's desk. It was my father's too, but yours is the prior claim.

Take it as a gift from me."

He protested, and would have paid for it liberally, and, when she

would take nothing, declared he would not accept it on such terms.

"You are selfish, Henry," she replied, with a smile. "You have brought

a new interest into our lives, and into the town, and you will not let

us make you any return."

"But I am taking from you something you need," he replied, "and for

which you paid. When Major Treadwell bought it, it was merely

second-hand furniture, sold under the hammer. Now it has the value of

an antique--it is a fine piece and could be sold in New York for a

large sum."

"You must take it for nothing, or not at all," she replied firmly.

"It is highway robbery," he said, and could not make up his mind to

yield.

Next day, when the colonel went home, after having been down town an

hour, he found the desk in his library. The Treadwell ladies had

corrupted Peter, who had told them when the colonel would be out of

the house and had brought a cart to take the desk away.

When the house was finished, the interior was simple but beautiful. It

was furnished in the style that had been prevalent fifty years before.

There were some modern additions in the line of comfort and

luxury--soft chairs, fine rugs, and a few choice books and

pictures--for the colonel had not attempted to conform his own tastes

and habits to those of his father. He had some visitors, mostly

gentlemen, and there was, as Graciella knew, a lively curiosity among

the ladies to see the house and its contents.

The suggestion of a house warming had come originally from Mrs.

Treadwell; but Graciella had promptly made it her own and conveyed it

to the colonel.

* * * * *

"A bright idea," he replied. "By all means let it be an old-time

party--say such a party as my father would have given, or my

grandfather. And shall we invite the old people?"

"Well," replied Graciella judicially, "don't have them so old that

they can't talk or hear, and must be fed with a spoon. If there were

too many old, or not enough young people, I shouldn't enjoy myself."

"I suppose I seem awfully old to you," said the colonel,

parenthetically.

"Oh, I don't know," replied Graciella, giving him a frankly critical

look. "When you first came I thought you _were_ rather old--you see,

you are older than Aunt Laura; but you seem to have grown

younger--it's curious, but it's true--and now I hardly think of you as

old at all."

The colonel was secretly flattered. The wisest man over forty likes to

be thought young.

"Very well," he said, "you shall select the guests."

"At an old-time party," continued Graciella, thoughtfully, "the guests

should wear old-time clothes. In grandmother's time the ladies wore

long flowing sleeves----"

"And hoopskirts," said the colonel.

"And their hair down over their ears."

"Or in ringlets."

"Yes, it is all in grandmother's bound volume of _The Ladies' Book_,"

said Graciella. "I was reading it only last week."

"My mother took it," returned the colonel.

"Then you must have read 'Letters from a Pastry Cook,' by N.P. Willis

when they came out?"

"No," said the colonel with a sigh, "I missed that. I--I wasn't able

to read then."

Graciella indulged in a brief mental calculation.

"Why, of course not," she laughed, "you weren't even born when they

came out! But they're fine; I'll lend you our copy. You must ask all

the girls to dress as their mothers and grandmothers used to dress.

Make the requirement elastic, because some of them may not have just

the things for one particular period. I'm all right. We have a cedar

chest in the attic, full of old things. Won't I look funny in a hoop

skirt?"

"You'll look charming in anything," said the colonel.

It was a pleasure to pay Graciella compliments, she so frankly enjoyed

them; and the colonel loved to make others happy. In his New York firm

Mr. French was always ready to consider a request for an advance of

salary; Kirby had often been obliged to play the wicked partner in

order to keep expenses down to a normal level. At parties débutantes

had always expected Mr. French to say something pleasant to them, and

had rarely been disappointed.

The subject of the party was resumed next day at Mrs. Treadwell's,

where the colonel went in the afternoon to call.

"An old-time party," declared the colonel, "should have old-time

amusements. We must have a fiddler, a black fiddler, to play

quadrilles and the Virginia Reel."

"I don't know where you'll find one," said Miss Laura.

"I'll ask Peter," replied the colonel. "He ought to know."

Peter was in the yard with Phil.

"Lawd, Mars Henry!" said Peter, "fiddlers is mighty sca'ce dese days,

but I reckon ole 'Poleon Campbell kin make you shake yo' feet yit, ef

Ole Man Rheumatiz ain' ketched holt er 'im too tight."

"And I will play a minuet on your new piano," said Miss Laura, "and

teach the girls beforehand how to dance it. There should be cards for

those who do not dance."

So the party was arranged. Miss Laura, Graciella and the colonel made

out the list of guests. The invitations were duly sent out for an

old-time party, with old-time costumes--any period between 1830 and

1860 permissible--and old-time entertainment.

The announcement created some excitement in social circles, and, like

all of Colonel French's enterprises at that happy period of his

home-coming, brought prosperity in its train. Dressmakers were kept

busy making and altering costumes for the ladies. Old Archie

Christmas, the mulatto tailor, sole survivor of a once flourishing

craft--Mr. Cohen's Universal Emporium supplied the general public with

ready-made clothing, and, twice a year, the travelling salesman of a

New York tailoring firm visited Clarendon with samples of suitings,

and took orders and measurements--old Archie Christmas, who had not

made a full suit of clothes for years, was able, by making and

altering men's garments for the colonel's party, to earn enough to

keep himself alive for another twelve months. Old Peter was at

Archie's shop one day, and they were talking about old times--good old

times--for to old men old times are always good times, though history

may tell another tale.

"Yo' boss is a godsen' ter dis town," declared old Archie, "he sho'

is. De w'ite folks says de young niggers is triflin' 'cause dey don'

larn how to do nothin'. But what is dere fer 'em to do? I kin 'member

when dis town was full er black an' yaller carpenters an' 'j'iners,

blacksmiths, wagon makers, shoemakers, tinners, saddlers an' cab'net

makers. Now all de fu'nicher, de shoes, de wagons, de buggies, de

tinware, de hoss shoes, de nails to fasten 'em on wid--yas, an' fo' de

Lawd! even de clothes dat folks wears on dere backs, is made at de

Norf, an' dere ain' nothin' lef' fer de ole niggers ter do, let 'lone

de young ones. Yo' boss is de right kin'; I hopes he'll stay 'roun'

here till you an' me dies."

"I hopes wid you," said Peter fervently, "I sho' does! Yas indeed I

does."

Peter was entirely sincere. Never in his life had he worn such good

clothes, eaten such good food, or led so easy a life as in the

colonel's service. Even the old times paled by comparison with this

new golden age; and the long years of poverty and hard luck that

stretched behind him seemed to the old man like a distant and

unpleasant dream.

* * * * *

The party came off at the appointed time, and was a distinct success.

Graciella had made a raid on the cedar chest, and shone resplendent in

crinoline, curls, and a patterned muslin. Together with Miss Laura and

Ben Dudley, who had come in from Mink Run for the party, she was among

the first to arrive. Miss Laura's costume, which belonged to an

earlier date, was in keeping with her quiet dignity. Ben wore a suit

of his uncle's, which the care of old Aunt Viney had preserved

wonderfully well from moth and dust through the years. The men wore

stocks and neckcloths, bell-bottomed trousers with straps under their

shoes, and frock coats very full at the top and buttoned tightly at

the waist. Old Peter, in a long blue coat with brass buttons, acted as

butler, helped by a young Negro who did the heavy work. Miss Laura's

servant Catherine had rallied from her usual gloom and begged the

privilege of acting as lady's maid. 'Poleon Campbell, an old-time

Negro fiddler, whom Peter had resurrected from some obscure cabin,

oiled his rheumatic joints, tuned his fiddle and rosined his bow, and

under the inspiration of good food and drink and liberal wage, played

through his whole repertory, which included such ancient favourites

as, "Fishers' Hornpipe," "Soldiers' Joy," "Chicken in the Bread-tray,"

and the "Campbells are Coming." Miss Laura played a minuet, which the

young people danced. Major McLean danced the highland fling, and some

of the ladies sang old-time songs, and war lyrics, which stirred the

heart and moistened the eyes.

Little Phil, in a child's costume of 1840, copied from _The Ladies'

Book_, was petted and made much of for several hours, until he became

sleepy and was put to bed.

"Graciella," said the colonel to his young friend, during the evening,

"our party is a great success. It was your idea. When it is all over,

I want to make you a present in token of my gratitude. You shall

select it yourself; it shall be whatever you say."

Graciella was very much elated at this mark of the colonel's

friendship. She did not dream of declining the proffered token, and

during the next dance her mind was busily occupied with the question

of what it should be--a ring, a bracelet, a bicycle, a set of books?

She needed a dozen things, and would have liked to possess a dozen

others.

She had not yet decided, when Ben came up to claim her for a dance. On

his appearance, she was struck by a sudden idea. Colonel French was a

man of affairs. In New York he must have a wide circle of influential

acquaintances. Old Mr. Dudley was in failing health; he might die at

any time, and Ben would then be free to seek employment away from

Clarendon. What better place for him than New York? With a position

there, he would be able to marry her, and take her there to live.

This, she decided, should be her request of the colonel--that he

should help her lover to a place in New York.

Her conclusion was really magnanimous. She might profit by it in the

end, but Ben would be the first beneficiary. It was an act of

self-denial, for she was giving up a definite and certain good for a

future contingency.

She was therefore in a pleasant glow of self-congratulatory mood when

she accidentally overheard a conversation not intended for her ears.

She had run out to the dining-room to speak to the housekeeper about

the refreshments, and was returning through the hall, when she stopped

for a moment to look into the library, where those who did not care to

dance were playing cards.

Beyond the door, with their backs turned toward her, sat two ladies

engaged in conversation. One was a widow, a well-known gossip, and the

other a wife known to be unhappily married. They were no longer young,

and their views were marked by the cynicism of seasoned experience.

"Oh, there's no doubt about it," said the widow. "He came down here to

find a wife. He tried a Yankee wife, and didn't like the breed; and

when he was ready for number two, he came back South."

"He showed good taste," said the other.

"That depends," said the widow, "upon whom he chooses. He can probably

have his pick."

"No doubt," rejoined the married lady, with a touch of sarcasm, which

the widow, who was still under forty, chose to ignore.

"I wonder which is it?" said the widow. "I suppose it's Laura; he

spends a great deal of time there, and she's devoted to his little

boy, or pretends to be."

"Don't fool yourself," replied the other earnestly, and not without a

subdued pleasure in disabusing the widow's mind. "Don't fool yourself,

my dear. A man of his age doesn't marry a woman of Laura Treadwell's.

Believe me, it's the little one."

"But she has a beau. There's that tall nephew of old Mr. Dudley's.

He's been hanging around her for a year or two. He looks very handsome

to-night."

"Ah, well, she'll dispose of him fast enough when the time comes. He's

only a poor stick, the last of a good stock run to seed. Why, she's

been pointedly setting her cap at the colonel all the evening. He's

perfectly infatuated; he has danced with her three times to once with

Laura."

"It's sad to see a man make a fool of himself," sighed the widow, who

was not without some remnants of beauty and a heart still warm and

willing. "Children are very forward nowadays."

"There's no fool like an old fool, my dear," replied the other with

the cheerful philosophy of the miserable who love company. "These fair

women are always selfish and calculating; and she's a bold piece. My

husband says Colonel French is worth at least a million. A young wife,

who understands her business, could get anything from him that money

can buy."

"What a pity, my dear," said the widow, with a spice of malice, seeing

her own opportunity, "what a pity that you were older than your

husband! Well, it will be fortunate for the child if she marries an

old man, for beauty of her type fades early."

Old 'Poleon's fiddle, to which one of the guests was improvising an

accompaniment on the colonel's new piano, had struck up "Camptown

Races," and the rollicking lilt of the chorus was resounding through

the house.

_"Gwine ter run all night,

Gwine ter run all day,

I'll bet my money on de bobtail nag,

Oh, who's gwine ter bet on de bay?"_

Ben ran out into the hall. Graciella had changed her position and was

sitting alone, perturbed in mind.

"Come on, Graciella, let's get into the Virginia reel; it's the last

one."

Graciella obeyed mechanically. Ben, on the contrary, was unusually

animated. He had enjoyed the party better than any he had ever

attended. He had not been at many.

Colonel French, who had entered with zest into the spirit of the

occasion, participated in the reel. Every time Graciella touched his

hand, it was with the consciousness of a new element in their

relations. Until then her friendship for Colonel French had been

perfectly ingenuous. She had liked him because he was interesting, and

good to her in a friendly way. Now she realised that he was a

millionaire, eligible for marriage, from whom a young wife, if she

understood her business, might secure the gratification of every wish.

The serpent had entered Eden. Graciella had been tendered the apple.

She must choose now whether she would eat.

When the party broke up, the colonel was congratulated on every hand.

He had not only given his guests a delightful evening. He had restored

an ancient landmark; had recalled, to a people whose life lay mostly

in the past, the glory of days gone by, and proved his loyalty to

their cherished traditions.

Ben Dudley walked home with Graciella. Miss Laura went ahead of them

with Catherine, who was cheerful in the possession of a substantial

reward for her services.

"You're not sayin' much to-night," said Ben to his sweetheart, as they

walked along under the trees.

Graciella did not respond.

"You're not sayin' much to-night," he repeated.

"Yes," returned Graciella abstractedly, "it was a lovely party!"

Ben said no more. The house warming had also given him food for

thought. He had noticed the colonel's attentions to Graciella, and had

heard them remarked upon. Colonel French was more than old enough to

be Graciella's father; but he was rich. Graciella was poor and

ambitious. Ben's only assets were youth and hope, and priority in the

field his only claim.

Miss Laura and Catherine had gone in, and when the young people came

to the gate, the light still shone through the open door.

"Graciella," he said, taking her hand in his as they stood a moment,

"will you marry me?"

"Still harping on the same old string," she said, withdrawing her

hand. "I'm tired now, Ben, too tired to talk foolishness."

"Very well, I'll save it for next time. Good night, sweetheart."

She had closed the gate between them. He leaned over it to kiss her,

but she evaded his caress and ran lightly up the steps.

"Good night, Ben," she called.

"Good night, sweetheart," he replied, with a pang of foreboding.

In after years, when the colonel looked back upon his residence in

Clarendon, this seemed to him the golden moment. There were other

times that stirred deeper emotions--the lust of battle, the joy of

victory, the chagrin of defeat--moments that tried his soul with tests

almost too hard. But, thus far, his new career in Clarendon had been

one of pleasant experiences only, and this unclouded hour was its

fitting crown.

_Twelve_

Whenever the colonel visited the cemetery, or took a walk in that

pleasant quarter of the town, he had to cross the bridge from which

was visible the site of the old Eureka cotton mill of his boyhood, and

it was not difficult to recall that it had been, before the War, a

busy hive of industry. On a narrow and obscure street, little more

than an alley, behind the cemetery, there were still several crumbling

tenements, built for the mill operatives, but now occupied by a

handful of abjectly poor whites, who kept body and soul together

through the doubtful mercy of God and a small weekly dole from the

poormaster. The mill pond, while not wide-spreading, had extended back

some distance between the sloping banks, and had furnished swimming

holes, fishing holes, and what was more to the point at present, a

very fine head of water, which, as it struck the colonel more forcibly

each time he saw it, offered an opportunity that the town could ill

afford to waste. Shrewd minds in the cotton industry had long ago

conceived the idea that the South, by reason of its nearness to the

source of raw material, its abundant water power, and its cheaper

labour, partly due to the smaller cost of living in a mild climate,

and the absence of labour agitation, was destined in time to rival and

perhaps displace New England in cotton manufacturing. Many Southern

mills were already in successful operation. But from lack of capital,

or lack of enterprise, nothing of the kind had ever been undertaken in

Clarendon although the town was the centre of a cotton-raising

district, and there was a mill in an adjoining county. Men who owned

land mortgaged it for money to raise cotton; men who rented land from

others mortgaged their crops for the same purpose.

It was easy to borrow money in Clarendon--on adequate security--at ten

per cent., and Mr. Fetters, the magnate of the county, was always

ready, the colonel had learned, to accommodate the needy who could

give such security. He had also discovered that Fetters was acquiring

the greater part of the land. Many a farmer imagined that he owned a

farm, when he was, actually, merely a tenant of Fetters. Occasionally

Fetters foreclosed a mortgage, when there was plainly no more to be

had from it, and bought in the land, which he added to his own

holdings in fee. But as a rule, he found it more profitable to let the

borrower retain possession and pay the interest as nearly as he could;

the estate would ultimately be good for the debt, if the debtor did

not live too long--worry might be counted upon to shorten his

days--and the loan, with interest, could be more conveniently

collected at his death. To bankrupt an estate was less personal than

to break an individual; and widows, and orphans still in their

minority, did not vote and knew little about business methods.

To a man of action, like the colonel, the frequent contemplation of

the unused water power, which might so easily be harnessed to the car

of progress, gave birth, in time, to a wish to see it thus utilised,

and the further wish to stir to labour the idle inhabitants of the

neighbourhood. In all work the shiftless methods of an older

generation still survived. No one could do anything in a quarter of an

hour. Nearly all tasks were done by Negroes who had forgotten how to

work, or by white people who had never learned. But the colonel had

already seen the reviving effect of a little money, directed by a

little energy. And so he planned to build a new and larger cotton mill

where the old had stood; to shake up this lethargic community; to put

its people to work, and to teach them habits of industry, efficiency

and thrift. This, he imagined, would be pleasant occupation for his

vacation, as well as a true missionary enterprise--a contribution to

human progress. Such a cotton mill would require only an

inconsiderable portion of his capital, the body of which would be left

intact for investment elsewhere; it would not interfere at all with

his freedom of movement; for, once built, equipped and put in

operation under a competent manager, it would no more require his

personal oversight than had the New England bagging mills which his

firm had conducted for so many years.

From impulse to action was, for the colonel's temperament, an easy

step, and he had scarcely moved into his house, before he quietly set

about investigating the title to the old mill site. It had been

forfeited many years before, he found, to the State, for non-payment

of taxes. There having been no demand for the property at any time

since, it had never been sold, but held as a sort of lapsed asset,

subject to sale, but open also, so long as it remained unsold, to

redemption upon the payment of back taxes and certain fees. The amount

of these was ascertained; it was considerably less than the fair value

of the property, which was therefore redeemable at a profit.

The owners, however, were widely scattered, for the mill had belonged

to a joint-stock company composed of a dozen or more members. Colonel

French was pleasantly surprised, upon looking up certain musty public

records in the court house, to find that he himself was the owner, by

inheritance, of several shares of stock which had been overlooked in

the sale of his father's property. Retaining the services of Judge

Bullard, the leading member of the Clarendon bar, he set out quietly

to secure options upon the other shares. This involved an extensive

correspondence, which occupied several weeks. For it was necessary

first to find, and then to deal with the scattered representatives of

the former owners.

_Thirteen_

In engaging Judge Bullard, the colonel had merely stated to the lawyer

that he thought of building a cotton-mill, but had said nothing about

his broader plan. It was very likely, he recognised, that the people

of Clarendon might not relish the thought that they were regarded as

fit subjects for reform. He knew that they were sensitive, and quick

to resent criticism. If some of them might admit, now and then, among

themselves, that the town was unprogressive, or declining, there was

always some extraneous reason given--the War, the carpetbaggers, the

Fifteenth Amendment, the Negroes. Perhaps not one of them had ever

quite realised the awful handicap of excuses under which they

laboured. Effort was paralysed where failure was so easily explained.

That the condition of the town might be due to causes within

itself--to the general ignorance, self-satisfaction and lack of

enterprise, had occurred to only a favoured few; the younger of these

had moved away, seeking a broader outlook elsewhere; while those who

remained were not yet strong enough nor brave enough to break with the

past and urge new standards of thought and feeling.

So the colonel kept his larger purpose to himself until a time when

greater openness would serve to advance it. Thus Judge Bullard, not

being able to read his client's mind, assumed very naturally that the

contemplated enterprise was to be of a purely commercial nature,

directed to making the most money in the shortest time.

"Some day, Colonel," he said, with this thought in mind, "you might

get a few pointers by running over to Carthage and looking through the

Excelsior Mills. They get more work there for less money than anywhere

else in the South. Last year they declared a forty per cent. dividend.

I know the superintendent, and will give you a letter of introduction,

whenever you like."

The colonel bore the matter in mind, and one morning, a day or two

after his party, set out by train, about eight o'clock in the morning,

for Carthage, armed with a letter from the lawyer to the

superintendent of the mills.

The town was only forty miles away; but a cow had been caught in a

trestle across a ditch, and some time was required for the train crew

to release her. Another stop was made in the middle of a swamp, to put

off a light mulatto who had presumed on his complexion to ride in the

white people's car. He had been successfully spotted, but had

impudently refused to go into the stuffy little closet provided at the

end of the car for people of his class. He was therefore given an

opportunity to reflect, during a walk along the ties, upon his true

relation to society. Another stop was made for a gentleman who had

sent a Negro boy ahead to flag the train and notify the conductor that

he would be along in fifteen or twenty minutes with a couple of lady

passengers. A hot journal caused a further delay. These interruptions

made it eleven o'clock, a three-hours' run, before the train reached

Carthage.

The town was much smaller than Clarendon. It comprised a public square

of several acres in extent, on one side of which was the railroad

station, and on another the court house. One of the remaining sides

was occupied by a row of shops; the fourth straggled off in various

directions. The whole wore a neglected air. Bales of cotton goods were

piled on the platform, apparently just unloaded from wagons standing

near. Several white men and Negroes stood around and stared listlessly

at the train and the few who alighted from it.

Inquiring its whereabouts from one of the bystanders, the colonel

found the nearest hotel--a two-story frame structure, with a piazza

across the front, extending to the street line. There was a buggy

standing in front, its horse hitched to one of the piazza posts. Steps

led up from the street, but one might step from the buggy to the floor

of the piazza, which was without a railing.

The colonel mounted the steps and passed through the door into a small

room, which he took for the hotel office, since there were chairs

standing against the walls, and at one side a table on which a

register lay open. The only person in the room, beside himself, was a

young man seated near the door, with his feet elevated to the back of

another chair, reading a newspaper from which he did not look up.

The colonel, who wished to make some inquiries and to register for the

dinner which he might return to take, looked around him for the clerk,

or some one in authority, but no one was visible. While waiting, he

walked over to the desk and turned over the leaves of the dog-eared

register. He recognised only one name--that of Mr. William Fetters,

who had registered there only a day or two before.

No one had yet appeared. The young man in the chair was evidently not

connected with the establishment. His expression was so forbidding,

not to say arrogant, and his absorption in the newspaper so complete,

that the colonel, not caring to address him, turned to the right and

crossed a narrow hall to a room beyond, evidently a parlour, since it

was fitted up with a faded ingrain carpet, a centre table with a red

plush photograph album, and several enlarged crayon portraits hung

near the ceiling--of the kind made free of charge in Chicago from

photographs, provided the owner orders a frame from the company. No

one was in the room, and the colonel had turned to leave it, when he

came face to face with a lady passing through the hall.

"Are you looking for some one?" she asked amiably, having noted his

air of inquiry.

"Why, yes, madam," replied the colonel, removing his hat, "I was

looking for the proprietor--or the clerk."

"Why," she replied, smiling, "that's the proprietor sitting there in

the office. I'm going in to speak to him, and you can get his

attention at the same time."

Their entrance did not disturb the young man's reposeful attitude,

which remained as unchanged as that of a graven image; nor did he

exhibit any consciousness at their presence.

"I want a clean towel, Mr. Dickson," said the lady sharply.

The proprietor looked up with an annoyed expression.

"Huh?" he demanded, in a tone of resentment mingled with surprise.

"A clean towel, if you please."

The proprietor said nothing more to the lady, nor deigned to notice

the colonel at all, but lifted his legs down from the back of the

chair, rose with a sigh, left the room and returned in a few minutes

with a towel, which he handed ungraciously to the lady. Then, still

paying no attention to the colonel, he resumed his former attitude,

and returned to the perusal of his newspaper--certainly the most

unconcerned of hotel keepers, thought the colonel, as a vision of

spacious lobbies, liveried porters, and obsequious clerks rose before

his vision. He made no audible comment, however, but merely stared at

the young man curiously, left the hotel, and inquired of a passing

Negro the whereabouts of the livery stable. A few minutes later he

found the place without difficulty, and hired a horse and buggy.

While the stable boy was putting the harness on the horse, the colonel

related to the liveryman, whose manner was energetic and

business-like, and who possessed an open countenance and a sympathetic

eye, his experience at the hotel.

"Oh, yes," was the reply, "that's Lee Dickson all over. That hotel

used to be kep' by his mother. She was a widow woman, an' ever since

she died, a couple of months ago, Lee's been playin' the big man,

spendin' the old lady's money, and enjoyin' himself. Did you see that

hoss'n'-buggy hitched in front of the ho-tel?"

"Yes."

"Well, that's Lee's buggy. He hires it from us. We send it up every

mornin' at nine o'clock, when Lee gits up. When he's had his breakfas'

he comes out an' gits in the buggy, an' drives to the barber-shop nex'

door, gits out, goes in an' gits shaved, comes out, climbs in the

buggy, an' drives back to the ho-tel. Then he talks to the cook, comes

out an' gits in the buggy, an' drives half-way 'long that side of the

square, about two hund'ed feet, to the grocery sto', and orders half a

pound of coffee or a pound of lard, or whatever the ho-tel needs for

the day, then comes out, climbs in the buggy and drives back. When the

mail comes in, if he's expectin' any mail, he drives 'cross the square

to the post-office, an' then drives back to the ho-tel. There's other

lazy men roun' here, but Lee Dickson takes the cake. However, it's

money in our pocket, as long as it keeps up."

"I shouldn't think it would keep up long," returned the colonel. "How

can such a hotel prosper?"

"It don't!" replied the liveryman, "but it's the best in town."

"I don't see how there could be a worse," said the colonel.

"There couldn't--it's reached bed rock."

The buggy was ready by this time, and the colonel set out, with a

black driver, to find the Excelsior Cotton Mills. They proved to be

situated in a desolate sandhill region several miles out of town. The

day was hot; the weather had been dry, and the road was deep with a

yielding white sand into which the buggy tires sank. The horse soon

panted with the heat and the exertion, and the colonel, dressed in

brown linen, took off his hat and mopped his brow with his

handkerchief. The driver, a taciturn Negro--most of the loquacious,

fun-loving Negroes of the colonel's youth seemed to have

disappeared--flicked a horsefly now and then, with his whip, from the

horse's sweating back.

The first sign of the mill was a straggling group of small frame

houses, built of unpainted pine lumber. The barren soil, which would

not have supported a firm lawn, was dotted with scraggy bunches of

wiregrass. In the open doorways, through which the flies swarmed in

and out, grown men, some old, some still in the prime of life, were

lounging, pipe in mouth, while old women pottered about the yards, or

pushed back their sunbonnets to stare vacantly at the advancing buggy.

Dirty babies were tumbling about the cabins. There was a lean and

listless yellow dog or two for every baby; and several slatternly

black women were washing clothes on the shady sides of the houses. A

general air of shiftlessness and squalor pervaded the settlement.

There was no sign of joyous childhood or of happy youth.

A turn in the road brought them to the mill, the distant hum of which

had already been audible. It was a two-story brick structure with many

windows, altogether of the cheapest construction, but situated on the

bank of a stream and backed by a noble water power.

They drew up before an open door at one corner of the building. The

colonel alighted, entered, and presented his letter of introduction.

The superintendent glanced at him keenly, but, after reading the

letter, greeted him with a show of cordiality, and called a young man

to conduct the visitor through the mill.

The guide seemed in somewhat of a hurry, and reticent of speech; nor

was the noise of the machinery conducive to conversation. Some of the

colonel's questions seemed unheard, and others were imperfectly

answered. Yet the conditions disclosed by even such an inspection

were, to the colonel, a revelation. Through air thick with flying

particles of cotton, pale, anæmic young women glanced at him

curiously, with lack-luster eyes, or eyes in which the gleam was not

that of health, or hope, or holiness. Wizened children, who had never

known the joys of childhood, worked side by side at long rows of

spools to which they must give unremitting attention. Most of the

women were using snuff, the odour of which was mingled with the flying

particles of cotton, while the floor was thickly covered with

unsightly brown splotches.

When they had completed the tour of the mills and returned to the

office, the colonel asked some questions of the manager about the

equipment, the output, and the market, which were very promptly and

courteously answered. To those concerning hours and wages the replies

were less definite, and the colonel went away impressed as much by

what he had not learned as by what he had seen.

While settling his bill at the livery stable, he made further

inquiries.

"Lord, yes," said the liveryman in answer to one of them, "I can tell

you all you want to know about that mill. Talk about nigger

slavery--the niggers never were worked like white women and children

are in them mills. They work 'em from twelve to sixteen hours a day

for from fifteen to fifty cents. Them triflin' old pinelanders out

there jus' lay aroun' and raise children for the mills, and then set

down and chaw tobacco an' live on their children's wages. It's a sin

an' a shame, an' there ought to be a law ag'inst it."

The conversation brought out the further fact that vice was rampant

among the millhands.

"An' it ain't surprisin'," said the liveryman, with indignation

tempered by the easy philosophy of hot climates. "Shut up in jail all

day, an' half the night, never breathin' the pyo' air, or baskin' in

God's bright sunshine; with no books to read an' no chance to learn,

who can blame the po'r things if they have a little joy in the only

way they know?"

"Who owns the mill?" asked the colonel.

"It belongs to a company," was the reply, "but Old Bill Fetters owns a

majority of the stock--durn, him!"

The colonel felt a thrill of pleasure--he had met a man after his own

heart.

"You are not one of Fetters's admirers then?" he asked.

"Not by a durn sight," returned the liveryman promptly. "When I look

at them white gals, that ought to be rosy-cheeked an' bright-eyed an'

plump an' hearty an' happy, an' them po' little child'en that never

get a chance to go fishin' or swimmin' or to learn anything, I allow I

wouldn' mind if the durned old mill would catch fire an' burn down.

They work children there from six years old up, an' half of 'em die of

consumption before they're grown. It's a durned outrage, an' if I ever

go to the Legislatur', for which I mean to run, I'll try to have it

stopped."

"I hope you will be elected," said the colonel. "What time does the

train go back to Clarendon?"

"Four o'clock, if she's on time--but it may be five."

"Do you suppose I can get dinner at the hotel?"

"Oh, yes! I sent word up that I 'lowed you might be back, so they'll

be expectin' you."

The proprietor was at the desk when the colonel went in. He wrote his

name on the book, and was served with an execrable dinner. He paid his

bill of half a dollar to the taciturn proprietor, and sat down on the

shady porch to smoke a cigar. The proprietor, having put the money in

his pocket, came out and stepped into his buggy, which was still

standing alongside the piazza. The colonel watched him drive a stone's

throw to a barroom down the street, get down, go in, come out a few

minutes later, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, climb into

the buggy, drive back, step out and re-enter the hotel.

It was yet an hour to train time, and the colonel, to satisfy an

impulse of curiosity, strolled over to the court house, which could be

seen across the square, through the trees. Requesting leave of the

Clerk in the county recorder's office to look at the records of

mortgages, he turned the leaves over and found that a large proportion

of the mortgages recently recorded--among them one on the hotel

property--had been given to Fetters.

The whistle of the train was heard in the distance as the colonel

recrossed the square. Glancing toward the hotel, he saw the landlord

come out, drive across the square to the station, and sit there until

the passengers had alighted. To a drummer with a sample case, he

pointed carelessly across the square to the hotel, but made no

movement to take the baggage; and as the train moved off, the colonel,

looking back, saw him driving back to the hotel.

Fetters had begun to worry the colonel. He had never seen the man, and

yet his influence was everywhere. He seemed to brood over the country

round about like a great vampire bat, sucking the life-blood of the

people. His touch meant blight. As soon as a Fetters mortgage rested

on a place, the property began to run down; for why should the nominal

owner keep up a place which was destined in the end to go to Fetters?

The colonel had heard grewsome tales of Fetters's convict labour

plantation; he had seen the operation of Fetters's cotton-mill, where

white humanity, in its fairest and tenderest form, was stunted and

blighted and destroyed; and he had not forgotten the scene in the

justice's office.

The fighting blood of the old Frenches was stirred. The colonel's

means were abundant; he did not lack the sinews of war. Clarendon

offered a field for profitable investment. He would like to do

something for humanity, something to offset Fetters and his kind, who

were preying upon the weaknesses of the people, enslaving white and

black alike. In a great city, what he could give away would have been

but a slender stream, scarcely felt in the rivers of charity poured

into the ocean of want; and even his considerable wealth would have

made him only a small stockholder in some great aggregation of

capital. In this backward old town, away from the great centres of

commerce, and scarcely feeling their distant pulsebeat, except when

some daring speculator tried for a brief period to corner the cotton

market, he could mark with his own eyes the good he might accomplish.

It required no great stretch of imagination to see the town, a few

years hence, a busy hive of industry, where no man, and no woman

obliged to work, need be without employment at fair wages; where the

trinity of peace, prosperity and progress would reign supreme; where

men like Fetters and methods like his would no longer be tolerated.

The forces of enlightenment, set in motion by his aid, and supported

by just laws, should engage the retrograde forces represented by

Fetters. Communities, like men, must either grow or decay, advance or

decline; they could not stand still. Clarendon was decaying. Fetters

was the parasite which, by sending out its roots toward rich and poor

alike, struck at both extremes of society, and was choking the life of

the town like a rank and deadly vine.

The colonel could, if need be, spare the year or two of continuous

residence needed to rescue Clarendon from the grasp of Fetters. The

climate agreed with Phil, who was growing like a weed; and the colonel

could easily defer for a little while his scheme of travel, and the

further disposition of his future.

So, when he reached home that night, he wrote an answer to a long and

gossipy letter received from Kirby about that time, in which the

latter gave a detailed account of what was going on in the colonel's

favourite club and among their mutual friends, and reported progress

in the search for some venture worthy of their mettle. The colonel

replied that Phil and he were well, that he was interesting himself in

a local enterprise which would certainly occupy him for some months,

and that he would not visit New York during the summer, unless it were

to drop in for a day or two on business and return immediately.

A letter from Mrs. Jerviss, received about the same time, was less

easily disposed of. She had learned, from Kirby, of the chivalrous

manner in which Mr. French had protected her interests and spared her

feelings in the fight with Consolidated Bagging. She had not been

able, she said, to thank him adequately before he went away, because

she had not known how much she owed him; nor could she fittingly

express herself on paper. She could only renew her invitation to him

to join her house party at Newport in July. The guests would be

friends of his--she would be glad to invite any others that he might

suggest. She would then have the opportunity to thank him in person.

The colonel was not unmoved by this frank and grateful letter, and he

knew perfectly well what reward he might claim from her gratitude. Had

the letter come a few weeks sooner, it might have had a different

answer. But, now, after the first pang of regret, his only problem was

how to refuse gracefully her offered hospitality. He was sorry, he

replied, not to be able to join her house party that summer, but

during the greater part of it he would be detained in the South by

certain matters into which he had been insensibly drawn. As for her

thanks, she owed him none; he had only done his duty, and had already

been thanked too much.

So thoroughly had Colonel French entered into the spirit of his yet

undefined contest with Fetters, that his life in New York, save when

these friendly communications recalled it, seemed far away, and of

slight retrospective interest. Every one knows of the "blind spot" in

the field of vision. New York was for the time being the colonel's

blind spot. That it might reassert its influence was always possible,

but for the present New York was of no more interest to him than

Canton or Bogota. Having revelled for a few pleasant weeks in memories

of a remoter past, the reaction had projected his thoughts forward

into the future. His life in New York, and in the Clarendon of the

present--these were mere transitory embodiments; he lived in the

Clarendon yet to be, a Clarendon rescued from Fetters, purified,

rehabilitated; and no compassionate angel warned him how tenacious of

life that which Fetters stood for might be--that survival of the

spirit of slavery, under which the land still groaned and

travailed--the growth of generations, which it would take more than

one generation to destroy.

In describing to Judge Bullard his visit to the cotton mill, the

colonel was not sparing of his indignation.

"The men," he declared with emphasis, "who are responsible for that

sort of thing, are enemies of mankind. I've been in business for

twenty years, but I have never sought to make money by trading on the

souls and bodies of women and children. I saw the little darkies

running about the streets down there at Carthage; they were poor and

ragged and dirty, but they were out in the air and the sunshine; they

have a chance to get their growth; to go to school and learn

something. The white children are worked worse than slaves, and are

growing up dulled and stunted, physically and mentally. Our folks down

here are mighty short-sighted, judge. We'll wake them up. We'll build

a model cotton mill, and run it with decent hours and decent wages,

and treat the operatives like human beings with bodies to nourish,

minds to develop; and souls to save. Fetters and his crowd will have

to come up to our standard, or else we'll take their hands away."

Judge Bullard had looked surprised when the colonel began his

denunciation; and though he said little, his expression, when the

colonel had finished, was very thoughtful and not altogether happy.

_Fourteen_

It was the week after the colonel's house warming.

Graciella was not happy. She was sitting, erect and graceful, as she

always sat, on the top step of the piazza. Ben Dudley occupied the

other end of the step. His model stood neglected beside him, and he

was looking straight at Graciella, whose eyes, avoiding his, were bent

upon a copy of "Jane Eyre," held open in her hand. There was an

unwonted silence between them, which Ben was the first to break.

"Will you go for a walk with me?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, Ben," she replied, "but I have an engagement to go driving

with Colonel French."

Ben's dark cheek grew darker, and he damned Colonel French softly

beneath his breath. He could not ask Graciella to drive, for their old

buggy was not fit to be seen, and he had no money to hire a better

one. The only reason why he ever had wanted money was because of her.

If she must have money, or the things that money alone would buy, he

must get money, or lose her. As long as he had no rival there was

hope. But could he expect to hold his own against a millionaire, who

had the garments and the manners of the great outside world?

"I suppose the colonel's here every night, as well as every day," he

said, "and that you talk to him all the time."

"No, Ben, he isn't here every night, nor every day. His old darky,

Peter, brings Phil over every day; but when the colonel comes he talks

to grandmother and Aunt Laura, as well as to me."

Graciella had risen from the step, and was now enthroned in a

splint-bottomed armchair, an attitude more in keeping with the air of

dignity which she felt constrained to assume as a cloak for an uneasy

conscience.

Graciella was not happy. She had reached the parting of the ways, and

realised that she must choose between them. And yet she hesitated.

Every consideration of prudence dictated that she choose Colonel

French rather than Ben. The colonel was rich and could gratify all her

ambitions. There could be no reasonable doubt that he was fond of her;

and she had heard it said, by those more experienced than she and

therefore better qualified to judge, that he was infatuated with her.

Certainly he had shown her a great deal of attention. He had taken her

driving; he had lent her books and music; he had brought or sent the

New York paper every day for her to read.

He had been kind to her Aunt Laura, too, probably for her niece's

sake; for the colonel was kind by nature, and wished to make everyone

about him happy. It was fortunate that her Aunt Laura was fond of

Philip. If she should decide to marry the colonel, she would have her

Aunt Laura come and make her home with them: she could give Philip the

attention with which his stepmother's social duties might interfere.

It was hardly likely that her aunt entertained any hope of marriage;

indeed, Miss Laura had long since professed herself resigned to old

maidenhood.

But in spite of these rosy dreams, Graciella was not happy. To marry

the colonel she must give up Ben; and Ben, discarded, loomed up larger

than Ben, accepted. She liked Ben; she was accustomed to Ben. Ben was

young, and youth attracted youth. Other things being equal, she would

have preferred him to the colonel. But Ben was poor; he had nothing

and his prospects for the future were not alluring. He would inherit

little, and that little not until his uncle's death. He had no

profession. He was not even a good farmer, and trifled away, with his

useless models and mechanical toys, the time he might have spent in

making his uncle's plantation productive. Graciella did not know that

Fetters had a mortgage on the plantation, or Ben's prospects would

have seemed even more hopeless.

She felt sorry not only for herself, but for Ben as well--sorry that

he should lose her--for she knew that he loved her sincerely. But her

first duty was to herself. Conscious that she possessed talents,

social and otherwise, it was not her view of creative wisdom that it

should implant in the mind tastes and in the heart longings destined

never to be realised. She must discourage Ben--gently and gradually,

for of course he would suffer; and humanity, as well as friendship,

counselled kindness. A gradual breaking off, too, would be less

harrowing to her own feelings.

"I suppose you admire Colonel French immensely," said Ben, with

assumed impartiality.

"Oh, I like him reasonably well," she said with an equal lack of

candour. "His conversation is improving. He has lived in the

metropolis, and has seen so much of the world that he can scarcely

speak without saying something interesting. It's a liberal education

to converse with people who have had opportunities. It helps to

prepare my mind for life at the North."

"You set a great deal of store by the North, Graciella. Anybody would

allow, to listen to you, that you didn't love your own country."

"I love the South, Ben, as I loved Aunt Lou, my old black mammy. I've

laid in her arms many a day, and I 'most cried my eyes out when she

died. But that didn't mean that I never wanted to see any one else.

Nor am I going to live in the South a minute longer than I can help,

because it's too slow. And New York isn't all--I want to travel and

see the world. The South is away behind."

She had said much the same thing weeks before; but then it had been

spontaneous. Now she was purposely trying to make Ben see how

unreasonable was his hope.

Ben stood, as he obscurely felt, upon delicate ground. Graciella had

not been the only person to overhear remarks about the probability of

the colonel's seeking a wife in Clarendon, and jealousy had sharpened

Ben's perceptions while it increased his fears. He had little to offer

Graciella. He was not well educated; he had nothing to recommend him

but his youth and his love for her. He could not take her to Europe,

or even to New York--at least not yet.

"And at home," Graciella went on seriously, "at home I should want

several houses--a town house, a country place, a seaside cottage. When

we were tired of one we could go to another, or live in hotels--in the

winter in Florida, at Atlantic City in the spring, at Newport in the

summer. They say Long Branch has gone out entirely."

Ben had a vague idea that Long Branch was by the seaside, and exposed

to storms. "Gone out to sea?" he asked absently. He was sick for love

of her, and she was dreaming of watering places.

"No, Ben," said Graciella, compassionately. Poor Ben had so little

opportunity for schooling! He was not to blame for his want of

knowledge; but could she throw herself away upon an ignoramus? "It's

still there, but has gone out of fashion."

"Oh, excuse me! I'm not posted on these fashionable things."

Ben relapsed into gloom. The model remained untouched. He could not

give Graciella a house; he would not have a house until his uncle

died. Graciella had never seemed so beautiful as to-day, as she sat,

dressed in the cool white gown which Miss Laura's slender fingers had

done up, and with her hair dressed after the daintiest and latest

fashion chronicled in the _Ladies' Fireside Journal_. No wonder, he

thought, that a jaded old man of the world like Colonel French should

delight in her fresh young beauty!

But he would not give her up without a struggle. She had loved him;

she must love him still; and she would yet be his, if he could keep

her true to him or free from any promise to another, until her deeper

feelings could resume their sway. It could not be possible, after all

that had passed between them, that she meant to throw him over, nor

was he a man that she could afford to treat in such a fashion. There

was more in him than Graciella imagined; he was conscious of latent

power of some kind, though he knew not what, and something would

surely happen, sometime, somehow, to improve his fortunes. And there

was always the hope, the possibility of finding the lost money.

He had brought his great-uncle Ralph's letter with him, as he had

promised Graciella. When she read it, she would see the reasonableness

of his hope, and might be willing to wait, at least a little while.

Any delay would be a point gained. He shuddered to think that he might

lose her, and then, the day after the irrevocable vows had been taken,

the treasure might come to light, and all their life be spent in vain

regrets. Graciella was skeptical about the lost money. Even Mrs.

Treadwell, whose faith had been firm for years, had ceased to

encourage his hope; while Miss Laura, who at one time had smiled at

any mention of the matter, now looked grave if by any chance he let

slip a word in reference to it. But he had in his pocket the outward

and visible sign of his inward belief, and he would try its effect on

Graciella. He would risk ridicule or anything else for her sake.

"Graciella," he said, "I have brought my uncle Malcolm's letter along,

to convince you that uncle is not as crazy as he seems, and that

there's some foundation for the hope that I may yet be able to give

you all you want. I don't want to relinquish the hope, and I want you

to share it with me."

He produced an envelope, once white, now yellow with time, on which

was endorsed in ink once black but faded to a pale brown, and hardly

legible, the name of "Malcolm Dudley, Esq., Mink Run," and in the

lower left-hand corner, "By hand of Viney."

The sheet which Ben drew from this wrapper was worn at the folds, and

required careful handling. Graciella, moved by curiosity, had come

down from her throne to a seat beside Ben upon the porch. She had

never had any faith in the mythical gold of old Ralph Dudley. The

people of an earlier generation--her Aunt Laura perhaps--may once have

believed in it, but they had long since ceased to do more than smile

pityingly and shake their heads at the mention of old Malcolm's

delusion. But there was in it the element of romance. Strange things

had happened, and why might they not happen again? And if they should

happen, why not to Ben, dear old, shiftless Ben! She moved a porch

pillow close beside him, and, as they bent their heads over the paper

her hair mingled with his, and soon her hand rested, unconsciously,

upon his shoulder.

"It was a voice from the grave," said Ben, "for my great-uncle Ralph

was dead when the letter reached Uncle Malcolm. I'll read it

aloud--the writing is sometimes hard to make out, and I know it by

heart:

_My Dear Malcolm:

I have in my hands fifty thousand dollars of government money,

in gold, which I am leaving here at the house for a few days.

Since you are not at home, and I cannot wait, I have confided

in our girl Viney, whom I can trust. She will tell you, when

she gives you this, where I have put the money--I do not write

it, lest the letter should fall into the wrong hands; there are

many to whom it would be a great temptation. I shall return in

a few days, and relieve you of the responsibility. Should

anything happen to me, write to the Secretary of State at

Richmond for instructions what to do with the money. In great

haste_,

_Your affectionate uncle,_

RALPH DUDLEY"

Graciella was momentarily impressed by the letter; of its reality

there could be no doubt--it was there in black and white, or rather

brown and yellow.

"It sounds like a letter in a novel," she said, thoughtfully. "There

must have been something."

"There must _be_ something, Graciella, for Uncle Ralph was killed the

next day, and never came back for the money. But Uncle Malcolm,

because he don't know where to look, can't find it; and old Aunt

Viney, because she can't talk, can't tell him where it is."

"Why has she never shown him?" asked Graciella.

"There is some mystery," he said, "which she seems unable to explain

without speech. And then, she is queer--as queer, in her own way, as

uncle is in his. Now, if you'd only marry me, Graciella, and go out

there to live, with your uncommonly fine mind, _you'd_ find it--you

couldn't help but find it. It would just come at your call, like my

dog when I whistle to him."

Graciella was touched by the compliment, or by the serious feeling

which underlay it. And that was very funny, about calling the money

and having it come! She had often heard of people whistling for their

money, but had never heard that it came--that was Ben's idea. There

really was a good deal in Ben, and perhaps, after all----

But at that moment there was a sound of wheels, and whatever

Graciella's thought may have been, it was not completed. As Colonel

French lifted the latch of the garden gate and came up the walk toward

them, any glamour of the past, any rosy hope of the future, vanished

in the solid brilliancy of the present moment. Old Ralph was dead, old

Malcolm nearly so; the money had never been found, would never come to

light. There on the doorstep was a young man shabbily attired, without

means or prospects. There at the gate was a fine horse, in a handsome

trap, and coming up the walk an agreeable, well-dressed gentleman of

wealth and position. No dead romance could, in the heart of a girl of

seventeen, hold its own against so vital and brilliant a reality.

"Thank you, Ben," she said, adjusting a stray lock of hair which had

escaped from her radiant crop, "I am not clever enough for that. It is

a dream. Your great-uncle Ralph had ridden too long and too far in the

sun, and imagined the treasure, which has driven your Uncle Malcolm

crazy, and his housekeeper dumb, and has benumbed you so that you sit

around waiting, waiting, when you ought to be working, working! No,

Ben, I like you ever so much, but you will never take me to New York

with your Uncle Ralph's money, nor will you ever earn enough to take

me with your own. You must excuse me now, for here comes my cavalier.

Don't hurry away; Aunt Laura will be out in a minute. You can stay and

work on your model; I'll not be here to interrupt you. Good evening,

Colonel French! Did you bring me a _Herald_? I want to look at the

advertisements."

"Yes, my dear young lady, there is Wednesday's--it is only two days

old. How are you, Mr. Dudley?"

"Tol'able, sir, thank you." Ben was a gentleman by instinct, though

his heart was heavy and the colonel a favoured rival.

"By the way," said the colonel, "I wish to have an interview with your

uncle, about the old mill site. He seems to have been a stockholder in

the company, and we should like his signature, if he is in condition

to give it. If not, it may be necessary to appoint you his guardian,

with power to act in his place."

"He's all right, sir, in the morning, if you come early enough,"

replied Ben, courteously. "You can tell what is best to do after

you've seen him."

"Thank you," replied the colonel, "I'll have my man drive me out

to-morrow about ten, say; if you'll be at home? You ought to be there,

you know."

"Very well, sir, I'll be there all day, and shall expect you."

Graciella threw back one compassionate glance, as they drove away

behind the colonel's high-stepping brown horse, and did not quite

escape a pang at the sight of her young lover, still sitting on the

steps in a dejected attitude; and for a moment longer his reproachful

eyes haunted her. But Graciella prided herself on being, above all

things, practical, and, having come out for a good time, resolutely

put all unpleasant thoughts aside.

There was good horse-flesh in the neighbourhood of Clarendon, and the

colonel's was of the best. Some of the roads about the town were

good--not very well kept roads, but the soil was a sandy loam and was

self-draining, so that driving was pleasant in good weather. The

colonel had several times invited Miss Laura to drive with him, and

had taken her once; but she was often obliged to stay with her mother.

Graciella could always be had, and the colonel, who did not like to

drive alone, found her a vivacious companion, whose naïve comments

upon life were very amusing to a seasoned man of the world. She was as

pretty, too, as a picture, and the colonel had always admired

beauty--with a tempered admiration.

At Graciella's request they drove first down Main Street, past the

post-office, where she wished to mail a letter. They attracted much

attention as they drove through the street in the colonel's new trap.

Graciella's billowy white gown added a needed touch of maturity to her

slender youthfulness. A big straw hat shaded her brown hair, and she

sat erect, and held her head high, with a vivid consciousness that she

was the central feature of a very attractive whole. The colonel shared

her thought, and looked at her with frank admiration.

"You are the cynosure of all eyes," he declared. "I suppose I'm an

object of envy to every young fellow in town."

Graciella blushed and bridled with pleasure. "I am not interested in

the young men of Clarendon," she replied loftily; "they are not worth

the trouble."

"Not even--Ben?" asked the colonel slyly.

"Oh," she replied, with studied indifference, "Mr. Dudley is really a

cousin, and only a friend. He comes to see the family."

The colonel's attentions could have but one meaning, and it was

important to disabuse his mind concerning Ben. Nor was she the only

one in the family who entertained that thought. Of late her

grandmother had often addressed her in an unusual way, more as a woman

than as a child; and, only the night before, had retold the old story

of her own sister Mary, who, many years before, had married a man of

fifty. He had worshipped her, and had died, after a decent interval,

leaving her a large fortune. From which the old lady had deduced that,

on the whole, it was better to be an old man's darling than a young

man's slave. She had made no application of the story, but Graciella

was astute enough to draw her own conclusions.

Her Aunt Laura, too, had been unusually kind; she had done up the

white gown twice a week, had trimmed her hat for her, and had worn

old gloves that she might buy her niece a new pair. And her aunt had

looked at her wistfully and remarked, with a sigh, that youth was a

glorious season and beauty a great responsibility. Poor dear, good old

Aunt Laura! When the expected happened, she would be very kind to Aunt

Laura, and repay her, so far as possible, for all her care and

sacrifice.

_Fifteen_

It was only a short time after his visit to the Excelsior Mills that

Colonel French noticed a falling off in the progress made by his

lawyer, Judge Bullard, in procuring the signatures of those interested

in the old mill site, and after the passing of several weeks he began

to suspect that some adverse influence was at work. This suspicion was

confirmed when Judge Bullard told him one day, with some

embarrassment, that he could no longer act for him in the matter.

"I'm right sorry, Colonel," he said. "I should like to help you put

the thing through, but I simply can't afford it. Other clients, whose

business I have transacted for years, and to whom I am under heavy

obligations, have intimated that they would consider any further

activity of mine in your interest unfriendly to theirs."

"I suppose," said the colonel, "your clients wish to secure the mill

site for themselves. Nothing imparts so much value to a thing as the

notion that somebody else wants it. Of course, I can't ask you to act

for me further, and if you'll make out your bill, I'll hand you a

check."

"I hope," said Judge Bullard, "there'll be no ill-feeling about our

separation."

"Oh, no," responded the colonel, politely, "not at all. Business is

business, and a man's own interests are his first concern."

"I'm glad you feel that way," replied the lawyer, much relieved. He

had feared that the colonel might view the matter differently.

"Some men, you know," he said, "might have kept on, and worked against

you, while accepting your retainer; there are such skunks at the bar."

"There are black sheep in every fold," returned the colonel with a

cold smile. "It would be unprofessional, I suppose, to name your

client, so I'll not ask you."

The judge did not volunteer the information, but the colonel knew

instinctively whence came opposition to his plan, and investigation

confirmed his intuition. Judge Bullard was counsel for Fetters in all

matters where skill and knowledge were important, and Fetters held his

note, secured by mortgage, for money loaned. For dirty work Fetters

used tools of baser metal, but, like a wise man, he knew when these

were useless, and was shrewd enough to keep the best lawyers under his

control.

The colonel, after careful inquiry, engaged to take Judge Bullard's

place, one Albert Caxton, a member of a good old family, a young man,

and a capable lawyer, who had no ascertainable connection with

Fetters, and who, in common with a small fraction of the best people,

regarded Fetters with distrust, and ascribed his wealth to usury and

to what, in more recent years, has come to be known as "graft."

To a man of Colonel French's business training, opposition was merely

a spur to effort. He had not run a race of twenty years in the

commercial field, to be worsted in the first heat by the petty boss of

a Southern backwoods county. Why Fetters opposed him he did not know.

Perhaps he wished to defeat a possible rival, or merely to keep out

principles and ideals which would conflict with his own methods and

injure his prestige. But if Fetters wanted a fight, Fetters should

have a fight.

Colonel French spent much of his time at young Caxton's office,

instructing the new lawyer in the details of the mill affair. Caxton

proved intelligent, zealous, and singularly sympathetic with his

client's views and plans. They had not been together a week before the

colonel realised that he had gained immensely by the change.

The colonel took a personal part in the effort to procure signatures,

among others that of old Malcolm Dudley and on the morning following

the drive with Graciella, he drove out to Mink Run to see the old

gentleman in person and discover whether or not he was in a condition

to transact business.

Before setting out, he went to his desk--his father's desk, which Miss

Laura had sent to him--to get certain papers for old Mr. Dudley's

signature, if the latter should prove capable of a legal act. He had

laid the papers on top of some others which had nearly filled one of

the numerous small drawers in the desk. Upon opening the drawer he

found that one of the papers was missing.

The colonel knew quite well that he had placed the paper in the drawer

the night before; he remembered the circumstance very distinctly, for

the event was so near that it scarcely required an exercise, not to

say an effort, of memory. An examination of the drawer disclosed that

the piece forming the back of it was a little lower than the sides.

Possibly, thought the colonel, the paper had slipped off and fallen

behind the drawer.

He drew the drawer entirely out, and slipped his hand into the cavity.

At the back of it he felt the corner of a piece of paper projecting

upward from below. The paper had evidently slipped off the top of the

others and fallen into a crevice, due to the shrinkage of the wood or

some defect of construction.

The opening for the drawer was so shallow that though he could feel

the end of the paper, he was unable to get such a grasp of it as would

permit him to secure it easily. But it was imperative that he have the

paper; and since it bore already several signatures obtained with some

difficulty, he did not wish to run the risk of tearing it.

He examined the compartment below to see if perchance the paper could

be reached from there, but found that it could not. There was

evidently a lining to the desk, and the paper had doubtless slipped

down between this and the finished panels forming the back of the

desk. To reach it, the colonel procured a screw driver, and turning

the desk around, loosened, with some difficulty, the screws that

fastened the proper panel, and soon recovered the paper. With it,

however, he found a couple of yellow, time-stained envelopes,

addressed on the outside to Major John Treadwell.

The envelopes were unsealed. He glanced into one of them, and seeing

that it contained a sheet, folded small, presumably a letter, he

thrust the two of them into the breast pocket of his coat, intending

to hand them to Miss Laura at their next meeting. They were probably

old letters and of no consequence, but they should of course be

returned to the owners.

In putting the desk back in its place, after returning the panel and

closing the crevice against future accidents, the colonel caught his

coat on a projecting point and tore a long rent in the sleeve. It was

an old coat, and worn only about the house; and when he changed it

before leaving to pay his call upon old Malcolm Dudley, he hung it in

a back corner in his clothes closet, and did not put it on again for a

long time. Since he was very busily occupied in the meantime, the two

old letters to which he had attached no importance, escaped his memory

altogether.

The colonel's coachman, a young coloured man by the name of Tom, had

complained of illness early in the morning, and the colonel took

Peter along to drive him to Mink Run, as well as to keep him company.

On their way through the town they stopped at Mrs. Treadwell's, where

they left Phil, who had, he declared, some important engagement with

Graciella.

The distance was not long, scarcely more than five miles. Ben Dudley

was in the habit of traversing it on horseback, twice a day. When they

had passed the last straggling cabin of the town, their way lay along

a sandy road, flanked by fields green with corn and cotton, broken by

stretches of scraggy pine and oak, growing upon land once under

cultivation, but impoverished by the wasteful methods of slavery; land

that had never been regenerated, and was now no longer tilled. Negroes

were working in the fields, birds were singing in the trees. Buzzards

circled lazily against the distant sky. Although it was only early

summer, a languor in the air possessed the colonel's senses, and

suggested a certain charity toward those of his neighbours--and they

were most of them--who showed no marked zeal for labour.

"Work," he murmured, "is best for happiness, but in this climate

idleness has its compensations. What, in the end, do we get for all

our labour?"

"Fifty cents a day, an' fin' yo'se'f, suh," said Peter, supposing the

soliloquy addressed to himself. "Dat's w'at dey pays roun' hyuh."

When they reached a large clearing, which Peter pointed out as their

destination, the old man dismounted with considerable agility, and

opened a rickety gate that was held in place by loops of rope.

Evidently the entrance had once possessed some pretensions to

elegance, for the huge hewn posts had originally been faced with

dressed lumber and finished with ornamental capitals, some fragments

of which remained; and the one massive hinge, hanging by a slender

rust-eaten nail, had been wrought into a fantastic shape. As they

drove through the gateway, a green lizard scampered down from the top

of one of the posts, where he had been sunning himself, and a

rattlesnake lying in the path lazily uncoiled his motley brown

length, and sounding his rattle, wriggled slowly off into the rank

grass and weeds that bordered the carriage track.

The house stood well back from the road, amid great oaks and elms and

unpruned evergreens. The lane by which it was approached was partly

overgrown with weeds and grass, from which the mare's fetlocks swept

the dew, yet undried by the morning sun.

The old Dudley "mansion," as it was called, was a large two-story

frame house, built in the colonial style, with a low-pitched roof, and

a broad piazza along the front, running the full length of both

stories and supported by thick round columns, each a solid piece of

pine timber, gray with age and lack of paint, seamed with fissures by

the sun and rain of many years. The roof swayed downward on one side;

the shingles were old and cracked and moss-grown; several of the

second story windows were boarded up, and others filled with sashes

from which most of the glass had disappeared.

About the house, for a space of several rods on each side of it, the

ground was bare of grass and shrubbery, rough and uneven, lying in

little hillocks and hollows, as though recently dug over at haphazard,

or explored by some vagrant drove of hogs. At one side, beyond this

barren area, lay a kitchen garden, enclosed by a paling fence. The

colonel had never thought of young Dudley as being at all energetic,

but so ill-kept a place argued shiftlessness in a marked degree.

When the carriage had drawn up in front of the house, the colonel

became aware of two figures on the long piazza. At one end, in a

massive oaken armchair, sat an old man--seemingly a very old man, for

he was bent and wrinkled, with thin white hair hanging down upon his

shoulders. His face, of a highbred and strongly marked type,

emphasised by age, had the hawk-like contour, that is supposed to

betoken extreme acquisitiveness. His faded eyes were turned toward a

woman, dressed in a homespun frock and a muslin cap, who sat bolt

upright, in a straight-backed chair, at the other end of the piazza,

with her hands folded on her lap, looking fixedly toward her

_vis-à-vis_. Neither of them paid the slightest attention to the

colonel, and when the old man rose, it was not to step forward and

welcome his visitor, but to approach and halt in front of the woman.

"Viney," he said, sharply, "I am tired of this nonsense. I insist upon

knowing, immediately, where my uncle left the money."

The woman made no reply, but her faded eyes glowed for a moment, like

the ashes of a dying fire, and her figure stiffened perceptibly as she

leaned slightly toward him.

"Show me at once, you hussy," he said, shaking his fist, "or you'll

have reason to regret it. I'll have you whipped." His cracked voice

rose to a shrill shriek as he uttered the threat.

The slumbrous fire in the woman's eyes flamed up for a moment. She

rose, and drawing herself up to her full height, which was greater

than the old man's, made some incoherent sounds, and bent upon him a

look beneath which he quailed.

"Yes, Viney, good Viney," he said, soothingly, "I know it was wrong,

and I've always regretted it, always, from the very moment. But you

shouldn't bear malice. Servants, the Bible says, should obey their

masters, and you should bless them that curse you, and do good to them

that despitefully use you. But I was good to you before, Viney, and I

was kind to you afterwards, and I know you've forgiven me, good Viney,

noble-hearted Viney, and you're going to tell me, aren't you?" he

pleaded, laying his hand caressingly upon her arm.

She drew herself away, but, seemingly mollified, moved her lips as

though in speech. The old man put his hand to his ear and listened

with an air of strained eagerness, well-nigh breathless in its

intensity.

"Try again, Viney," he said, "that's a good girl. Your old master

thinks a great deal of you, Viney. He is your best friend!"

Again she made an inarticulate response, which he nevertheless seemed

to comprehend, for, brightening up immediately, he turned from her,

came down the steps with tremulous haste, muttering to himself

meanwhile, seized a spade that stood leaning against the steps, passed

by the carriage without a glance, and began digging furiously at one

side of the yard. The old woman watched him for a while, with a

self-absorption that was entirely oblivious of the visitors, and then

entered the house.

The colonel had been completely absorbed in this curious drama. There

was an air of weirdness and unreality about it all. Old Peter was as

silent as if he had been turned into stone. Something in the

atmosphere conduced to somnolence, for even the horses stood still,

with no signs of restlessness. The colonel was the first to break the

spell.

"What's the matter with them, Peter? Do you know?"

"Dey's bofe plumb 'stracted, suh--clean out'n dey min's--dey be'n dat

way fer yeahs an' yeahs an' yeahs."

"That's Mr. Dudley, I suppose?"

"Yas, suh, dat's ole Mars Ma'com Dudley, de uncle er young Mistah Ben

Dudley w'at hangs 'roun Miss Grac'ella so much."

"And who is the woman?"

"She's a bright mulattah 'oman, suh, w'at use' ter b'long ter de

family befo' de wah, an' has kep' house fer ole Mars' Ma'com ever

sense. He 'lows dat she knows whar old Mars' Rafe Dudley, _his_ uncle,

hid a million dollahs endyoin' de wah, an' huh tongue's paralyse' so

she can't tell 'im--an' he's be'n tryin' ter fin' out fer de las'

twenty-five years. I wo'ked out hyuh one summer on plantation, an' I

seen 'em gwine on like dat many 'n' many a time. Dey don' nobody roun'

hyuh pay no 'tention to 'em no mo', ev'ybody's so use' ter seein'

'em."

The conversation was interrupted by the appearance of Ben Dudley, who

came around the house, and, advancing to the carriage, nodded to

Peter, and greeted the colonel respectfully.

"Won't you 'light and come in?" he asked.

The colonel followed him into the house, to a plainly furnished

parlour. There was a wide fireplace, with a fine old pair of brass

andirons, and a few pieces of old mahogany furniture, incongruously

assorted with half a dozen splint-bottomed chairs. The floor was bare,

and on the walls half a dozen of the old Dudleys looked out from as

many oil paintings, with the smooth glaze that marked the touch of the

travelling artist, in the days before portrait painting was superseded

by photography and crayon enlargements.

Ben returned in a few minutes with his uncle. Old Malcolm seemed to

have shaken off his aberration, and greeted the colonel with grave

politeness.

"I am glad, sir," he said, giving the visitor his hand, "to make your

acquaintance. I have been working in the garden--the flower-garden--for

the sake of the exercise. We have negroes enough, though they are very

trifling nowadays, but the exercise is good for my health. I have

trouble, at times, with my rheumatism, and with my--my memory." He

passed his hand over his brow as though brushing away an imaginary

cobweb.

"Ben tells me you have a business matter to present to me?"

The colonel, somewhat mystified, after what he had witnessed, by this

sudden change of manner, but glad to find the old man seemingly

rational, stated the situation in regard to the mill site. Old Malcolm

seemed to understand perfectly, and accepted with willingness the

colonel's proposition to give him a certain amount of stock in the new

company for the release of such rights as he might possess under the

old incorporation. The colonel had brought with him a contract,

properly drawn, which was executed by old Malcolm, and witnessed by

the colonel and Ben.

"I trust, sir," said Mr. Dudley, "that you will not ascribe it to any

discourtesy that I have not called to see you. I knew your father and

your grandfather. But the cares of my estate absorb me so completely

that I never leave home. I shall send my regards to you now and then

by my nephew. I expect, in a very short time, when certain matters

are adjusted, to be able to give up, to a great extent, my arduous

cares, and lead a life of greater leisure, which will enable me to

travel and cultivate a wider acquaintance. When that time comes, sir,

I shall hope to see more of you."

The old gentleman stood courteously on the steps while Ben accompanied

the colonel to the carriage. It had scarcely turned into the lane when

the colonel, looking back, saw the old man digging furiously. The

condition of the yard was explained; he had been unjust in ascribing

it to Ben's neglect.

"I reckon, suh," remarked Peter, "dat w'en he fin' dat million

dollahs, Mistah Ben'll marry Miss Grac'ella an' take huh ter New

Yo'k."

"Perhaps--and perhaps not," said the colonel. To himself he added,

musingly, "Old Malcolm will start on a long journey before he finds

the--million dollars. The watched pot never boils. Buried treasure is

never found by those who seek it, but always accidentally, if at all."

On the way back they stopped at the Treadwells' for Phil. Phil was not

ready to go home. He was intensely interested in a long-eared

mechanical mule, constructed by Ben Dudley out of bits of wood and

leather and controlled by certain springs made of rubber bands, by

manipulating which the mule could be made to kick furiously. Since the

colonel had affairs to engage his attention, and Phil seemed perfectly

contented, he was allowed to remain, with the understanding that Peter

should come for him in the afternoon.

_Sixteen_

Little Phil had grown very fond of old Peter, who seemed to lavish

upon the child all of his love and devotion for the dead generations

of the French family. The colonel had taught Phil to call the old man

"Uncle Peter," after the kindly Southern fashion of slavery days,

which, denying to negroes the forms of address applied to white

people, found in the affectionate terms of relationship--Mammy, Auntie

and Uncle--designations that recognised the respect due to age, and

yet lost, when applied to slaves, their conventional significance.

There was a strong, sympathy between the intelligent child and the

undeveloped old negro; they were more nearly on a mental level,

leaving out, of course, the factor of Peter's experience, than could

have been the case with one more generously endowed than Peter, who,

though by nature faithful, had never been unduly bright. Little Phil

became so attached to his old attendant that, between Peter and the

Treadwell ladies, the colonel's housekeeper had to give him very

little care.

On Sunday afternoons the colonel and Phil and Peter would sometimes

walk over to the cemetery. The family lot was now kept in perfect

order. The low fence around it had been repaired, and several leaning

headstones straightened up. But, guided by a sense of fitness, and

having before him the awful example for which Fetters was responsible,

the colonel had added no gaudy monument nor made any alterations which

would disturb the quiet beauty of the spot or its harmony with the

surroundings. In the Northern cemetery where his young wife was

buried, he had erected to her memory a stately mausoleum, in keeping

with similar memorials on every hand. But here, in this quiet

graveyard, where his ancestors slept their last sleep under the elms

and the willows, display would have been out of place. He had,

however, placed a wrought-iron bench underneath the trees, where he

would sit and read his paper, while little Phil questioned old Peter

about his grandfather and his great-grandfather, their prowess on the

hunting field, and the wars they fought in; and the old man would

delight in detailing, in his rambling and disconnected manner, the

past glories of the French family. It was always a new story to Phil,

and never grew stale to the old man. If Peter could be believed, there

were never white folks so brave, so learned, so wise, so handsome, so

kind to their servants, so just to all with whom they had dealings.

Phil developed a very great fondness for these dead ancestors, whose

graves and histories he soon knew as well as Peter himself. With his

lively imagination he found pleasure, as children often do, in looking

into the future. The unoccupied space in the large cemetery lot

furnished him food for much speculation.

"Papa," he said, upon one of these peaceful afternoons, "there's room

enough here for all of us, isn't there--you, and me and Uncle Peter?"

"Yes, Phil," said his father, "there's room for several generations of

Frenches yet to sleep with their fathers."

Little Phil then proceeded to greater detail. "Here," he said, "next

to grandfather, will be your place, and here next to that, will be

mine, and here, next to me will be--but no," he said, pausing

reflectively, "that ought to be saved for my little boy when he grows

up and dies, that is, when I grow up and have a little boy and he

grows up and grows old and dies and leaves a little boy and--but where

will Uncle Peter be?"

"Nem mine me, honey," said the old man, "dey can put me somewhar e'se.

Hit doan' mattuh 'bout me."

"No, Uncle Peter, you must be here with the rest of us. For you know,

Uncle Peter, I'm so used to you now, that I should want you to be near

me then."

Old Peter thought to humour the lad. "Put me down hyuh at de foot er

de lot, little Mars' Phil, unner dis ellum tree."

"Oh, papa," exclaimed Phil, demanding the colonel's attention, "Uncle

Peter and I have arranged everything. You know Uncle Peter is to stay

with me as long as I live, and when he dies, he is to be buried here

at the foot of the lot, under the elm tree, where he'll be near me all

the time, and near the folks that he knows and that know him."

"All right, Phil. You see to it; you'll live longer."

"But, papa, if I should die first, and then Uncle Peter, and you last

of all, you'll put Uncle Peter near me, won't you, papa?"