"Why, bless your little heart, Phil, of course your daddy will do

whatever you want, if he's here to do it. But you'll live, Phil,

please God, until I am old and bent and white-haired, and you are a

grown man, with a beard, and a little boy of your own."

"Yas, suh," echoed the old servant, "an' till ole Peter's bones is

long sence crumble' inter dus'. None er de Frenches' ain' never died

till dey was done growed up."

On the afternoon following the colonel's visit to Mink Run, old Peter,

when he came for Phil, was obliged to stay long enough to see the

antics of the mechanical mule; and had not that artificial animal

suddenly refused to kick, and lapsed into a characteristic balkiness

for which there was no apparent remedy, it might have proved difficult

to get Phil away.

"There, Philip dear, never mind," said Miss Laura, "we'll have Ben

mend it for you when he comes, next time, and then you can play with

it again."

Peter had brought with him some hooks and lines, and, he and Phil,

after leaving the house, followed the bank of the creek, climbing a

fence now and then, until they reached the old mill site, upon which

work had not yet begun. They found a shady spot, and seating

themselves upon the bank, baited their lines, and dropped them into a

quiet pool. For quite a while their patience was unrewarded by

anything more than a nibble. By and by a black cat came down from the

ruined mill, and sat down upon the bank at a short distance from them.

"I reckon we'll haf ter move, honey," said the old man. "We ain't

gwine ter have no luck fishin' 'g'ins' no ole black cat."

"But cats don't fish, Uncle Peter, do they?"

"Law', chile, you'll never know w'at dem critters _kin_ do, 'tel you's

watched 'em long ez I has! Keep yo' eye on dat one now."

The cat stood by the stream, in a watchful attitude. Suddenly she

darted her paw into the shallow water and with a lightning-like

movement drew out a small fish, which she took in her mouth, and

retired with it a few yards up the bank.

"Jes' look at dat ole devil," said Peter, "playin' wid dat fish jes'

lack it wuz a mouse! She'll be comin' down heah terreckly tellin' us

ter go 'way fum her fishin' groun's."

"Why, Uncle Peter," said Phil incredulously, "cats can't talk!"

"Can't dey? Hoo said dey couldn'? Ain't Miss Grac'ella an' me be'n

tellin' you right along 'bout Bre'r Rabbit and Bre'r Fox an de yuther

creturs talkin' an' gwine on jes' lak folks?"

"Yes, Uncle Peter, but those were just stories; they didn't really

talk, did they?"

"Law', honey," said the old man, with a sly twinkle in his rheumy eye,

"you is de sma'tes' little white boy I ever knowed, but you is got a

monst'us heap ter l'arn yit, chile. Nobody ain' done tol' you 'bout de

Black Cat an' de Ha'nted House, is dey?"

"No, Uncle Peter--you tell me."

"I didn' knowed but Miss Grac'ella mought a tole you--she knows mos'

all de tales."

"No, she hasn't. You tell me about it, Uncle Peter."

"Well," said Peter, "does you 'member dat coal-black man dat drives de

lumber wagon?"

"Yes, he goes by our house every day, on the way to the sawmill."

"Well, it all happen' 'long er him. He 'uz gwine long de street one

day, w'en he heared two gent'emen--one of 'em was ole Mars' Tom

Sellers an' I fuhgot de yuther--but dey 'uz talkin' 'bout dat ole

ha'nted house down by de creek, 'bout a mile from hyuh, on de yuther

side er town, whar we went fishin' las' week. Does you 'member de

place?"

"Yes, I remember the house."

"Well, as dis yer Jeff--dat's de lumber-wagon driver's name--as dis

yer Jeff come up ter dese yer two gentlemen, one of 'em was sayin,

'I'll bet five dollahs dey ain' narry a man in his town would stay in

dat ha'nted house all night.' Dis yer Jeff, he up 'n sez, sezee,

'Scuse me, suh, but ef you'll 'low me ter speak, suh, I knows a man

wat'll stay in dat ole ha'nted house all night.'"

"What is a ha'nted house, Uncle Peter?" asked Phil.

"W'y. Law,' chile, a ha'nted house is a house whar dey's ha'nts!"

"And what are ha'nts, Uncle Peter?"

"Ha'nts, honey, is sperrits er dead folks, dat comes back an' hangs

roun' whar dey use' ter lib."

"Do all spirits come back, Uncle Peter?"

"No, chile, bress de Lawd, no. Only de bad ones, w'at has be'n so

wicked dey can't rest in dey graves. Folks lack yo' gran'daddy and yo'

gran'mammy--an' all de Frenches--dey don' none er _dem_ come back, fer

dey wuz all good people an' is all gone ter hebben. But I'm fergittin'

de tale.

"'Well, hoo's de man--hoo's de man?' ax Mistah Sellers, w'en Jeff tol'

'im dey wuz somebody wat 'ud stay in de ole ha'nted house all night.

"'I'm de man,' sez Jeff. 'I ain't skeered er no ha'nt dat evuh walked,

an' I sleeps in graveya'ds by pref'ence; fac', I jes nach'ly lacks ter

talk ter ha'nts. You pay me de five dollahs, an' I'll 'gree ter stay

in de ole house f'm nine er clock 'tel daybreak.'

"Dey talk' ter Jeff a w'ile, an' dey made a bahgin wid 'im; dey give

'im one dollah down, an' promus' 'im fo' mo' in de mawnin' ef he

stayed 'tel den.

"So w'en he got de dollah he went uptown an' spent it, an' 'long 'bout

nine er clock he tuk a lamp, an' went down ter de ole house, an' went

inside an' shet de do'.

"Dey wuz a rickety ole table settin' in de middle er de flo'. He sot

de lamp on de table. Den he look 'roun' de room, in all de cawners an'

up de chimbly, ter see dat dey wan't nobody ner nuthin' hid in de

room. Den he tried all de winders an' fastened de do', so dey couldn'

nobody ner nuthin' git in. Den he fotch a' ole rickety chair f'm one

cawner, and set it by de table, and sot down. He wuz settin' dere,

noddin' his head, studyin' 'bout dem other fo' dollahs, an' w'at he

wuz gwine buy wid 'em, w'en bimeby he kinder dozed off, an' befo' he

knowed it he wuz settin' dere fast asleep."

"W'en he woke up, 'long 'bout 'leven erclock, de lamp had bu'n' down

kinder low. He heared a little noise behind him an' look 'roun', an'

dere settin' in de middle er de flo' wuz a big black tomcat, wid his

tail quirled up over his back, lookin' up at Jeff wid bofe his two big

yaller eyes.

"Jeff rub' 'is eyes, ter see ef he wuz 'wake, an w'iles he sot dere

wond'rin' whar de hole wuz dat dat ole cat come in at, fus' thing he

knowed, de ole cat wuz settin' right up 'side of 'im, on de table, wid

his tail quirled up roun' de lamp chimbly.

"Jeff look' at de black cat, an' de black cat look' at Jeff. Den de

black cat open his mouf an' showed 'is teef, an' sezee----"

"'Good evenin'!'

"'Good evenin' suh,' 'spon' Jeff, trimblin' in de knees, an' kind'er

edgin' 'way fum de table.

"'Dey ain' nobody hyuh but you an' me, is dey?' sez de black cat,

winkin' one eye.

"'No, suh,' sez Jeff, as he made fer de do', _'an' quick ez I kin git

out er hyuh, dey ain' gwine ter be nobody hyuh but you!_'"

"Is that all, Uncle Peter?" asked Phil, when the old man came to a

halt with a prolonged chuckle.

"Huh?"

"Is that all?"

"No, dey's mo' er de tale, but dat's ernuff ter prove dat black cats

kin do mo' dan little w'ite boys 'low dey kin."

"Did Jeff go away?"

"Did he go 'way! Why, chile, he jes' flew away! Befo' he got ter de

do', howsomevuh, he 'membered he had locked it, so he didn' stop ter

try ter open it, but went straight out'n a winder, quicker'n

lightnin', an' kyared de sash 'long wid 'im. An' he'd be'n in sech

pow'ful has'e dat he knock' de lamp over an' lack ter sot de house

afire. He nevuh got de yuther fo' dollahs of co'se, 'ca'se he didn't

stay in de ole ha'nted house all night, but he 'lowed he'd sho'ly

'arned de one dollah he'd had a'ready."

"Why didn't he want to talk to the black cat, Uncle Peter?"

"Why didn' he wan' ter talk ter de black cat? Whoever heared er sich a

queshtun! He didn' wan' ter talk wid no black cat, 'ca'se he wuz

skeered. Black cats brings 'nuff bad luck w'en dey doan' talk, let

'lone w'en dey does."

"I should like," said Phil, reflectively, "to talk to a black cat. I

think it would be great fun."

"Keep away f'm 'em, chile, keep away f'm 'em. Dey is some things too

deep fer little boys ter projec' wid, an' black cats is one of 'em."

They moved down the stream and were soon having better luck.

"Uncle Peter," said Phil, while they were on their way home, "there

couldn't be any ha'nts at all in the graveyard where my grandfather is

buried, could there? Graciella read a lot of the tombstones to me one

day, and they all said that all the people were good, and were resting

in peace, and had gone to heaven. Tombstones always tell the truth,

don't they, Uncle Peter?"

"Happen so, honey, happen so! De French tombstones does; an' as ter de

res', I ain' gwine to 'spute 'em, nohow, fer ef I did, de folks under

'em mought come back an' ha'nt me, jes' fer spite."

_Seventeen_

By considerable effort, and a moderate outlay, the colonel at length

secured a majority of interest in the Eureka mill site and made

application to the State, through Caxton, for the redemption of the

title. The opposition had either ceased or had proved ineffective.

There would be some little further delay, but the outcome seemed

practically certain, and the colonel did not wait longer to set in

motion his plans for the benefit of Clarendon.

"I'm told that Fetters says he'll get the mill anyway," said Caxton,

"and make more money buying it under foreclosure than by building a

new one. He's ready to lend on it now."

"Oh, damn Fetters!" exclaimed the colonel, elated with his victory. He

had never been a profane man, but strong language came so easy in

Clarendon that one dropped into it unconsciously. "The mill will be

running on full time when Fetters has been put out of business. We've

won our first fight, and I've never really seen the fellow yet."

As soon as the title was reasonably secure, the colonel began his

preparations for building the cotton mill. The first step was to send

for a New England architect who made a specialty of mills, to come

down and look the site over, and make plans for the dam, the mill

buildings and a number of model cottages for the operatives. As soon

as the estimates were prepared, he looked the ground over to see how

far he could draw upon local resources for material.

There was good brick clay on the outskirts of the town, where bricks

had once been made; but for most of the period since the war such as

were used in the town had been procured from the ruins of old

buildings--it was cheaper to clean bricks than to make them. Since the

construction of the railroad branch to Clarendon the few that were

needed from time to time were brought in by train. Not since the

building of the Opera House block had there been a kiln of brick made

in the town. Inquiry brought out the fact that in case of a demand for

bricks there were brickmakers thereabouts; and in accordance with his

general plan to employ local labour, the colonel looked up the owner

of the brickyard, and asked if he were prepared to take a large

contract.

The gentleman was palpably troubled by the question.

"Well, colonel," he said, "I don't know. I'd s'posed you were goin' to

impo't yo' bricks from Philadelphia."

"No, Mr. Barnes," returned the colonel, "I want to spend the money

here in Clarendon. There seems to be plenty of unemployed labour."

"Yes, there does, till you want somethin' done; then there ain't so

much. I s'pose I might find half a dozen niggers round here that know

how to make brick; and there's several more that have moved away that

I can get back if I send for them. If you r'al'y think you want yo'r

brick made here, I'll try to get them out for you. They'll cost you,

though, as much, if not more than, you'd have to pay for machine-made

bricks from the No'th."

The colonel declared that he preferred the local product.

"Well, I'm shore I don't see why," said the brickmaker. "They'll not

be as smooth or as uniform in colour."

"They'll be Clarendon brick," returned the colonel, "and I want this

to be a Clarendon enterprise, from the ground up."

"Well," said Barnes resignedly, "if you must have home-made brick, I

suppose I'll have to make 'em. I'll see what I can do."

Colonel French then turned the brick matter over to Caxton, who, in

the course of a week, worried Barnes into a contract to supply so many

thousand brick within a given time.

"I don't like that there time limit," said the brickmaker, "but I

reckon I can make them brick as fast as you can get anybody roun' here

to lay 'em."

When in the course of another week the colonel saw signs of activity

about the old brickyard, he proceeded with the next step, which was to

have the ruins of the old factory cleared away.

"Well, colonel," said Major McLean one day when the colonel dropped

into the hotel, where the Major hung out a good part of the time, "I

s'pose you're goin' to hire white folks to do the work over there."

"Why," replied the colonel, "I hadn't thought about the colour of the

workmen. There'll be plenty, I guess, for all who apply, so long as it

lasts."

"You'll have trouble if you hire niggers," said the major. "You'll

find that they won't work when you want 'em to. They're not reliable,

they have no sense of responsibility. As soon as they get a dollar

they'll lay off to spend it, and leave yo' work at the mos' critical

point."

"Well, now, major," replied the colonel, "I haven't noticed any

unnatural activity among the white men of the town. The Negroes have

to live, or seem to think they have, and I'll give 'em a chance to

turn an honest penny. By the way, major, I need a superintendent to

look after the work. It don't require an expert, but merely a good

man--gentleman preferred--whom I can trust to see that my ideas are

carried out. Perhaps you can recommend such a person?"

The major turned the matter over in his mind before answering. He

might, of course, offer his own services. The pay would doubtless be

good. But he had not done any real work for years. His wife owned

their home. His daughter taught in the academy. He was drawn on jury

nearly every term; was tax assessor now and then, and a judge or clerk

of elections upon occasion. Nor did he think that steady employment

would agree with his health, while it would certainly interfere with

his pleasant visits with the drummers at the hotel.

"I'd be glad to take the position myself, colonel," he said, "but I

r'aly won't have the time. The campaign will be hummin' in a month or

so, an' my political duties will occupy all my leisure. But I'll bear

the matter in mind, an' see if I can think of any suitable person."

The colonel thanked him. He had hardly expected the major to offer his

services, but had merely wished, for the fun of the thing, to try the

experiment. What the colonel really needed was a good foreman--he had

used the word "superintendent" merely on the major's account, as less

suggestive of work. He found a poor white man, however, Green by name,

who seemed capable and energetic, and a gang of labourers under his

charge was soon busily engaged in clearing the mill site and preparing

for the foundations of a new dam. When it was learned that the colonel

was paying his labourers a dollar and a half a day, there was

considerable criticism, on the ground that such lavishness would

demoralise the labour market, the usual daily wage of the Negro

labourer being from fifty to seventy-five cents. But since most of the

colonel's money soon found its way, through the channels of trade,

into the pockets of the white people, the criticism soon died a

natural death.

_Eighteen_

Once started in his career of active benevolence, the colonel's

natural love of thoroughness, combined with a philanthropic zeal as

pleasant as it was novel, sought out new reforms. They were easily

found. He had begun, with wise foresight, at the foundations of

prosperity, by planning an industry in which the people could find

employment. But there were subtler needs, mental and spiritual, to be

met. Education, for instance, so important to real development,

languished in Clarendon. There was a select private school for young

ladies, attended by the daughters of those who could not send their

children away to school. A few of the town boys went away to military

schools. The remainder of the white youth attended the academy, which

was a thoroughly democratic institution, deriving its support partly

from the public school fund and partly from private subscriptions.

There was a coloured public school taught by a Negro teacher. Neither

school had, so far as the colonel could learn, attained any very high

degree of efficiency. At one time the colonel had contemplated

building a schoolhouse for the children of the mill hands, but upon

second thought decided that the expenditure would be more widely

useful if made through the channels already established. If the old

academy building were repaired, and a wing constructed, for which

there was ample room upon the grounds, it would furnish any needed

additional accommodation for the children of the operatives, and avoid

the drawing of any line that might seem to put these in a class apart.

There were already lines enough in the town--the deep and distinct

colour line, theoretically all-pervasive, but with occasional curious

exceptions; the old line between the "rich white folks" or

aristocrats--no longer rich, most of them, but retaining some of their

former wealth and clinging tenaciously to a waning prestige--and the

"poor whites," still at a social disadvantage, but gradually evolving

a solid middle class, with reinforcements from the decaying

aristocracy, and producing now and then some ambitious and successful

man like Fetters. To emphasise these distinctions was no part of the

colonel's plan. To eradicate them entirely in any stated time was of

course impossible, human nature being what it was, but he would do

nothing to accentuate them. His mill hands should become, like the

mill hands in New England towns, an intelligent, self-respecting and

therefore respected element of an enlightened population; and the

whole town should share equally in anything he might spend for their

benefit.

He found much pleasure in talking over these fine plans of his with

Laura Treadwell. Caxton had entered into them with the enthusiasm of

an impressionable young man, brought into close contact with a

forceful personality. But in Miss Laura the colonel found a sympathy

that was more than intellectual--that reached down to sources of

spiritual strength and inspiration which the colonel could not touch

but of which he was conscious and of which he did not hesitate to

avail himself at second hand. Little Phil had made the house almost a

second home; and the frequent visits of his father had only

strengthened the colonel's admiration of Laura's character. He had

learned, not from the lady herself, how active in good works she was.

A Lady Bountiful in any large sense she could not be, for her means,

as she had so frankly said upon his first visit, were small. But a

little went a long way among the poor of Clarendon, and the life after

all is more than meat, and the body more than raiment, and advice and

sympathy were as often needed as other kinds of help. He had offered

to assist her charities in a substantial way, and she had permitted it

now and then, but had felt obliged at last to cease mentioning them

altogether. He was able to circumvent this delicacy now and then

through the agency of Graciella, whose theory was that money was made

to spend.

"Laura," he said one evening when at the house, "will you go with me

to-morrow to visit the academy? I wish to see with your eyes as well

as with mine what it needs and what can be done with it. It shall be

our secret until we are ready to surprise the town."

They went next morning, without notice to the principal. The school

was well ordered, but the equipment poor. The building was old and

sadly in need of repair. The teacher was an ex-Confederate officer,

past middle life, well taught by the methods in vogue fifty years

before, but scarcely in harmony with modern ideals of education. In

spite of his perfect manners and unimpeachable character, the

Professor, as he was called, was generally understood to hold his

position more by virtue of his need and his influence than of his

fitness to instruct. He had several young lady assistants who found in

teaching the only career open, in Clarendon, to white women of good

family.

The recess hour arrived while they were still at school. When the

pupils marched out, in orderly array, the colonel, seizing a moment

when Miss Treadwell and the professor were speaking about some of the

children whom the colonel did not know, went to the rear of one of the

schoolrooms and found, without much difficulty, high up on one of the

walls, the faint but still distinguishable outline of a pencil

caricature he had made there thirty years before. If the wall had been

whitewashed in the meantime, the lime had scaled down to the original

plaster. Only the name, which had been written underneath, was

illegible, though he could reconstruct with his mind's eye and the aid

of a few shadowy strokes--"Bill Fetters, Sneak"--in angular letters in

the printed form.

The colonel smiled at this survival of youthful bigotry. Yet even then

his instinct had been a healthy one; his boyish characterisation of

Fetters, schoolboy, was not an inapt description of Fetters,

man--mortgage shark, labour contractor and political boss. Bill,

seeking official favour, had reported to the Professor of that date

some boyish escapade in which his schoolfellows had taken part, and it

was in revenge for this meanness that the colonel had chased him

ignominiously down Main Street and pilloried him upon the schoolhouse

wall. Fetters the man, a Goliath whom no David had yet opposed, had

fastened himself upon a weak and disorganised community, during a

period of great distress and had succeeded by devious ways in making

himself its master. And as the colonel stood looking at the picture he

was conscious of a faint echo of his boyish indignation and sense of

outraged honour. Already Fetters and he had clashed upon the subject

of the cotton mill, and Fetters had retired from the field. If it were

written that they should meet in a life-and-death struggle for the

soul of Clarendon, he would not shirk the conflict.

"Laura," he said, when they went away, "I should like to visit the

coloured school. Will you come with me?"

She hesitated, and he could see with half an eye that her answer was

dictated by a fine courage.

"Why, certainly, I will go. Why not? It is a place where a good work

is carried on."

"No, Laura," said the colonel smiling, "you need not go. On second

thought, I should prefer to go alone."

She insisted, but he was firm. He had no desire to go counter to her

instincts, or induce her to do anything that might provoke adverse

comment. Miss Laura had all the fine glow of courage, but was secretly

relieved at being excused from a trip so unconventional.

So the colonel found his way alone to the schoolhouse, an unpainted

frame structure in a barren, sandy lot upon a street somewhat removed

from the centre of the town and given over mainly to the humble homes

of Negroes. That his unannounced appearance created some embarrassment

was quite evident, but his friendliness toward the Negroes had already

been noised abroad, and he was welcomed with warmth, not to say

effusion, by the principal of the school, a tall, stalwart and dark

man with an intelligent expression, a deferential manner, and shrewd

but guarded eyes--the eyes of the jungle, the colonel had heard them

called; and the thought came to him, was it some ancestral jungle on

the distant coast of savage Africa, or the wilderness of another sort

in which the black people had wandered and were wandering still in

free America? The attendance was not large; at a glance the colonel

saw that there were but twenty-five pupils present.

"What is your total enrolment?" he asked the teacher.

"Well, sir," was the reply, "we have seventy-five or eighty on the

roll, but it threatened rain this morning, and as a great many of them

haven't got good shoes, they stayed at home for fear of getting their

feet wet."

The colonel had often noticed the black children paddling around

barefoot in the puddles on rainy days, but there was evidently some

point of etiquette connected with attending school barefoot. He had

passed more than twenty-five children on the streets, on his way to

the schoolhouse.

The building was even worse than that of the academy, and the

equipment poorer still. Upon the colonel asking to hear a recitation,

the teacher made some excuse and shrewdly requested him to make a few

remarks. They could recite, he said, at any time, but an opportunity

to hear Colonel French was a privilege not to be neglected.

The colonel, consenting good-humouredly, was introduced to the school

in very flowery language. The pupils were sitting, the teacher

informed them, in the shadow of a great man. A distinguished member of

the grand old aristocracy of their grand old native State had gone to

the great North and grown rich and famous. He had returned to his old

home to scatter his vast wealth where it was most needed, and to give

his fellow townsmen an opportunity to add their applause to his

world-wide fame. He was present to express his sympathy with their

feeble efforts to rise in the world, and he wanted the scholars all to

listen with the most respectful attention.

Colonel French made a few simple remarks in which he spoke of the

advantages of education as a means of forming character and of fitting

boys and girls for the work of men and women. In former years his

people had been charged with direct responsibility for the care of

many coloured children, and in a larger and indirect way they were

still responsible for their descendants. He urged them to make the

best of their opportunities and try to fit themselves for useful

citizenship. They would meet with the difficulties that all men must,

and with some peculiarly their own. But they must look up and not

down, forward and not back, seeking always incentives to hope rather

than excuses for failure. Before leaving, he arranged with the

teacher, whose name was Taylor, to meet several of the leading

coloured men, with whom he wished to discuss some method of improving

their school and directing their education to more definite ends. The

meeting was subsequently held.

"What your people need," said the colonel to the little gathering at

the schoolhouse one evening, "is to learn not only how to read and

write and think, but to do these things to some definite end. We live

in an age of specialists. To make yourselves valuable members of

society, you must learn to do well some particular thing, by which

you may reasonably expect to earn a comfortable living in your own

home, among your neighbours, and save something for old age and the

education of your children. Get together. Take advice from some of

your own capable leaders in other places. Find out what you can do for

yourselves, and I will give you three dollars for every one you can

gather, for an industrial school or some similar institution. Take

your time, and when you're ready to report, come and see me, or write

to me, if I am not here."

The result was the setting in motion of a stagnant pool. Who can

measure the force of hope? The town had been neglected by mission

boards. No able or ambitious Negro had risen from its midst to found

an institution and find a career. The coloured school received a

grudging dole from the public funds, and was left entirely to the

supervision of the coloured people. It would have been surprising had

the money always been expended to the best advantage.

The fact that a white man, in some sense a local man, who had yet come

from the far North, the land of plenty, with feelings friendly to

their advancement, had taken a personal interest in their welfare and

proved it by his presence among them, gave them hope and inspiration

for the future. They had long been familiar with the friendship that

curbed, restricted and restrained, and concerned itself mainly with

their limitations. They were almost hysterically eager to welcome the

co-operation of a friend who, in seeking to lift them up, was obsessed

by no fear of pulling himself down or of narrowing in some degree the

gulf that separated them--who was willing not only to help them, but

to help them to a condition in which they might be in less need of

help. The colonel touched the reserves of loyalty in the Negro nature,

exemplified in old Peter and such as he. Who knows, had these reserves

been reached sooner by strict justice and patient kindness, that they

might not long since have helped to heal the wounds of slavery?

"And now, Laura," said the colonel, "when we have improved the schools

and educated the people, we must give them something to occupy their

minds. We must have a library, a public library."

"That will be splendid!" she replied with enthusiasm.

"A public library," continued the colonel, "housed in a beautiful

building, in a conspicuous place, and decorated in an artistic

manner--a shrine of intellect and taste, at which all the people, rich

and poor, black and white, may worship."

Miss Laura was silent for a moment, and thoughtful.

"But, Henry," she said with some hesitation, "do you mean that

coloured people should use the library?"

"Why not?" he asked. "Do they not need it most? Perhaps not many of

them might wish to use it; but to those who do, should we deny the

opportunity? Consider their teachers--if the blind lead the blind,

shall they not both fall into the ditch?"

"Yes, Henry, that is the truth; but I am afraid the white people

wouldn't wish to handle the same books."

"Very well, then we will give the coloured folks a library of their

own, at some place convenient for their use. We need not strain our

ideal by going too fast. Where shall I build the library?"

"The vacant lot," she said, "between the post-office and the bank."

"The very place," he replied. "It belonged to our family once, and I

shall be acquiring some more ancestral property. The cows will need to

find a new pasture."

The announcement of the colonel's plan concerning the academy and the

library evoked a hearty response on the part of the public, and the

_Anglo-Saxon_ hailed it as the dawning of a new era. With regard to

the colonel's friendly plans for the Negroes, there was less

enthusiasm and some difference of opinion. Some commended the

colonel's course. There were others, good men and patriotic, men who

would have died for liberty, in the abstract, men who sought to walk

uprightly, and to live peaceably with all, but who, by much brooding

over the conditions surrounding their life, had grown hopelessly

pessimistic concerning the Negro.

The subject came up in a little company of gentlemen who were gathered

around the colonel's table one evening, after the coffee had been

served, and the Havanas passed around.

"Your zeal for humanity does you infinite credit, Colonel French,"

said Dr. Mackenzie, minister of the Presbyterian Church, who was one

of these prophetic souls, "but I fear your time and money and effort

will be wasted. The Negroes are hopelessly degraded. They have

degenerated rapidly since the war."

"How do you know, doctor? You came here from the North long after the

war. What is your standard of comparison?"

"I voice the unanimous opinion of those who have known them at both

periods."

"_I_ don't agree with you; and I lived here before the war. There is

certainly one smart Negro in town. Nichols, the coloured barber, owns

five houses, and overreached me in a bargain. Before the war he was a

chattel. And Taylor, the teacher, seems to be a very sensible fellow."

"Yes," said Dr. Price, who was one of the company, "Taylor is a very

intelligent Negro. Nichols and he have learned how to live and prosper

among the white people."

"They are exceptions," said the preacher, "who only prove the rule.

No, Colonel French, for a long time _I_ hoped that there was a future

for these poor, helpless blacks. But of late I have become profoundly

convinced that there is no place in this nation for the Negro, except

under the sod. We will not assimilate him, we cannot deport him----"

"And therefore, O man of God, must we exterminate him?"

"It is God's will. We need not stain our hands with innocent blood. If

we but sit passive, and leave their fate to time, they will die away

in discouragement and despair. Already disease is sapping their

vitals. Like other weak races, they will vanish from the pathway of

the strong, and there is no place for them to flee. When they go

hence, it is to go forever. It is the law of life, which God has given

to the earth. To coddle them, to delude them with false hopes of an

unnatural equality which not all the power of the Government has been

able to maintain, is only to increase their unhappiness. To a doomed

race, ignorance is euthanasia, and knowledge is but pain and sorrow.

It is His will that the fittest should survive, and that those shall

inherit the earth who are best prepared to utilise its forces and

gather its fruits."

"My dear doctor, what you say may all be true, but, with all due

respect, I don't believe a word of it. I am rather inclined to think

that these people have a future; that there is a place for them here;

that they have made fair progress under discouraging circumstances;

that they will not disappear from our midst for many generations, if

ever; and that in the meantime, as we make or mar them, we shall make

or mar our civilisation. No society can be greater or wiser or better

than the average of all its elements. Our ancestors brought these

people here, and lived in luxury, some of them--or went into

bankruptcy, more of them--on their labour. After three hundred years

of toil they might be fairly said to have earned their liberty. At any

rate, they are here. They constitute the bulk of our labouring class.

To teach them is to make their labour more effective and therefore

more profitable; to increase their needs is to increase our profits in

supplying them. I'll take my chances on the Golden Rule. I am no lover

of the Negro, _as_ Negro--I do not know but I should rather see him

elsewhere. I think our land would have been far happier had none but

white men ever set foot upon it after the red men were driven back.

But they are here, through no fault of theirs, as we are. They were

born here. We have given them our language--which they speak more or

less corruptly; our religion--which they practise certainly no better

than we; and our blood--which our laws make a badge of disgrace.

Perhaps we could not do them strict justice, without a great sacrifice

upon our own part. But they are men, and they should have their

chance--at least _some_ chance."

"I shall pray for your success," sighed the preacher. "With God all

things are possible, if He will them. But I can only anticipate your

failure."

"The colonel is growing so popular, with his ready money and his

cheerful optimism," said old General Thornton, another of the guests,

"that we'll have to run him for Congress, as soon as he is reconverted

to the faith of his fathers."

Colonel French had more than once smiled at the assumption that a mere

change of residence would alter his matured political convictions. His

friends seemed to look upon them, so far as they differed from their

own, as a mere veneer, which would scale off in time, as had the

multiplied coats of whitewash over the pencil drawing made on the

school-house wall in his callow youth.

"You see," the old general went on, "it's a social matter down here,

rather than a political one. With this ignorant black flood sweeping

up against us, the race question assumes an importance which

overshadows the tariff and the currency and everything else. For

instance, I had fully made up my mind to vote the other ticket in the

last election. I didn't like our candidate nor our platform. There was

a clean-cut issue between sound money and financial repudiation, and

_I_ was tired of the domination of populists and demagogues. All my

better instincts led me toward a change of attitude, and I boldly

proclaimed the fact. I declared my political and intellectual

independence, at the cost of many friends; even my own son-in-law

scarcely spoke to me for a month. When I went to the polls, old Sam

Brown, the triflingest nigger in town, whom I had seen sentenced to

jail more than once for stealing--old Sam Brown was next to me in the

line.

"'Well, Gin'l,' he said, 'I'm glad you is got on de right side at

las', an' is gwine to vote _our_ ticket.'"

"This was too much! I could stand the other party in the abstract, but

not in the concrete. I voted the ticket of my neighbours and my

friends. We had to preserve our institutions, if our finances went to

smash. Call it prejudice--call it what you like--it's human nature,

and you'll come to it, colonel, you'll come to it--and then we'll send

you to Congress."

"I might not care to go," returned the colonel, smiling.

"You could not resist, sir, the unanimous demand of a determined

constituency. Upon the rare occasions when, in this State, the office

has had a chance to seek the man, it has never sought in vain."

_Nineteen_

Time slipped rapidly by, and the colonel had been in Clarendon a

couple of months when he went home one afternoon, and not finding Phil

and Peter, went around to the Treadwells' as the most likely place to

seek them.

"Henry," said Miss Laura, "Philip does not seem quite well to-day.

There are dark circles under his eyes, and he has been coughing a

little."

The colonel was startled. Had his growing absorption in other things

led him to neglect his child? Phil needed a mother. This dear,

thoughtful woman, whom nature had made for motherhood, had seen things

about his child, that he, the child's father, had not perceived. To a

mind like Colonel French's, this juxtaposition of a motherly heart and

a motherless child seemed very pleasing.

He despatched a messenger on horseback immediately for Dr. Price. The

colonel had made the doctor's acquaintance soon after coming to

Clarendon, and out of abundant precaution, had engaged him to call

once a week to see Phil. A physician of skill and experience, a

gentleman by birth and breeding, a thoughtful student of men and

manners, and a good story teller, he had proved excellent company and

the colonel soon numbered him among his intimate friends. He had seen

Phil a few days before, but it was yet several days before his next

visit.

Dr. Price owned a place in the country, several miles away, on the

road to Mink Run, and thither the messenger went to find him. He was

in his town office only at stated hours. The colonel was waiting at

home, an hour later, when the doctor drove up to the gate with Ben

Dudley, in the shabby old buggy to which Ben sometimes drove his one

good horse on his trips to town.

"I broke one of my buggy wheels going out home this morning,"

explained the doctor, "and had just sent it to the shop when your

messenger came. I would have ridden your horse back, and let the man

walk in, but Mr. Dudley fortunately came along and gave me a lift."

He looked at Phil, left some tablets, with directions for their use,

and said that it was nothing serious and the child would be all right

in a day or two.

"What he needs, colonel, at his age, is a woman's care. But for that

matter none of us ever get too old to need that."

"I'll have Tom hitch up and take you home," said the colonel, when the

doctor had finished with Phil, "unless you'll stay to dinner."

"No, thank you," said the doctor, "I'm much obliged, but I told my

wife I'd be back to dinner. I'll just sit here and wait for young

Dudley, who's going to call for me in an hour. There's a fine mind,

colonel, that's never had a proper opportunity for development. If

he'd had half the chance that your boy will, he would make his mark.

Did you ever see his uncle Malcolm?"

The colonel described his visit to Mink Run, the scene on the piazza,

the interview with Mr. Dudley, and Peter's story about the hidden

treasure.

"Is the old man sane?" he asked.

"His mind is warped, undoubtedly," said the doctor, "but I'll leave it

to you whether it was the result of an insane delusion or not--if you

care to hear his story--or perhaps you've heard it?"

"No, I have not," returned the colonel, "but I should like to hear

it."

This was the story that the doctor told:

* * * * *

When the last century had passed the half-way mark, and had started

upon its decline, the Dudleys had already owned land on Mink Run for a

hundred years or more, and were one of the richest and most

conspicuous families in the State. The first great man of the family,

General Arthur Dudley, an ardent patriot, had won distinction in the

War of Independence, and held high place in the councils of the infant

nation. His son became a distinguished jurist, whose name is still a

synonym for legal learning and juridical wisdom. In Ralph Dudley, the

son of Judge Dudley, and the immediate predecessor of the demented old

man in whom now rested the title to the remnant of the estate, the

family began to decline from its eminence. Ralph did not marry, but

led a life of ease and pleasure, wasting what his friends thought rare

gifts, and leaving his property to the management of his nephew

Malcolm, the orphan son of a younger brother and his uncle's

prospective heir. Malcolm Dudley proved so capable a manager that for

year after year the large estate was left almost entirely in his

charge, the owner looking to it merely for revenue to lead his own

life in other places.

The Civil War gave Ralph Dudley a career, not upon the field, for

which he had no taste, but in administrative work, which suited his

talents, and imposed more arduous tasks than those of actual warfare.

Valour was of small account without arms and ammunition. A

commissariat might be improvised, but gunpowder must be manufactured

or purchased.

Ralph's nephew Malcolm kept bachelor's hall in the great house. The

only women in the household were an old black cook, and the

housekeeper, known as "Viney"--a Negro corruption of Lavinia--a tall,

comely young light mulattress, with a dash of Cherokee blood, which

gave her straighter, blacker and more glossy hair than most women of

mixed race have, and perhaps a somewhat different temperamental

endowment. Her duties were not onerous; compared with the toiling

field hands she led an easy life. The household had been thus

constituted for ten years and more, when Malcolm Dudley began paying

court to a wealthy widow.

This lady, a Mrs. Todd, was a war widow, who had lost her husband in

the early years of the struggle. War, while it took many lives, did

not stop the currents of life, and weeping widows sometimes found

consolation. Mrs. Todd was of Clarendon extraction, and had returned

to the town to pass the period of her mourning. Men were scarce in

those days, and Mrs. Todd was no longer young, Malcolm Dudley courted

her, proposed marriage, and was accepted.

He broke the news to his housekeeper by telling her to prepare the

house for a mistress. It was not a pleasant task, but he was a

resolute man. The woman had been in power too long to yield

gracefully. Some passionate strain of the mixed blood in her veins

broke out in a scene of hysterical violence. Her pleadings,

remonstrances, rages, were all in vain. Mrs. Todd was rich, and he was

poor; should his uncle see fit to marry--always a possibility--he

would have nothing. He would carry out his purpose.

The day after this announcement Viney went to town, sought out the

object of Dudley's attentions, and told her something; just what, no

one but herself and the lady ever knew. When Dudley called in the

evening, the widow refused to see him, and sent instead, a curt note

cancelling their engagement.

Dudley went home puzzled and angry. On the way thither a suspicion

flashed into his mind. In the morning he made investigations, after

which he rode round by the residence of his overseer. Returning to the

house at noon, he ate his dinner in an ominous silence, which struck

terror to the heart of the woman who waited on him and had already

repented of her temerity. When she would have addressed him, with a

look he froze the words upon her lips. When he had eaten he looked at

his watch, and ordered a boy to bring his horse round to the door. He

waited until he saw his overseer coming toward the house, then sprang

into the saddle and rode down the lane, passing the overseer with a

nod.

Ten minutes later Dudley galloped back up the lane and sprang from his

panting horse. As he dashed up the steps he met the overseer coming

out of the house.

"You have not----"

"I have, sir, and well! The she-devil bit my hand to the bone, and

would have stabbed me if I hadn't got the knife away from her. You'd

better have the niggers look after her; she's shamming a fit."

Dudley was remorseful, and finding Viney unconscious, sent hastily for

a doctor.

"The woman has had a stroke," said that gentleman curtly, after an

examination, "brought on by brutal treatment. By G--d, Dudley, I

wouldn't have thought this of you! I own Negroes, but I treat them

like human beings. And such a woman! I'm ashamed of my own race, I

swear I am! If we are whipped in this war and the slaves are freed, as

Lincoln threatens, it will be God's judgment!"

Many a man has been shot by Southern gentlemen for language less

offensive; but Dudley's conscience made him meek as Moses.

"It was a mistake," he faltered, "and I shall discharge the overseer

who did it."

"You had better shoot him," returned the doctor. "He has no soul--and

what is worse, no discrimination."

Dudley gave orders that Viney should receive the best of care. Next

day he found, behind the clock, where she had laid it, the letter

which Ben Dudley, many years after, had read to Graciella on Mrs.

Treadwell's piazza. It was dated the morning of the previous day.

An hour later he learned of the death of his uncle, who had been

thrown from a fractious horse, not far from Mink Run, and had broken

his neck in the fall. A hasty search of the premises did not disclose

the concealed treasure. The secret lay in the mind of the stricken

woman. As soon as Dudley learned that Viney had eaten and drunk and

was apparently conscious, he went to her bedside and took her limp

hand in his own.

"I'm sorry, Viney, mighty sorry, I assure you. Martin went further

than I intended, and I have discharged him for his brutality. You'll

be sorry, Viney, to learn that your old Master Ralph is dead; he was

killed by an accident within ten miles of here. His body will be

brought home to-day and buried to-morrow."

Dudley thought he detected in her expressionless face a shade of

sorrow. Old Ralph, high liver and genial soul, had been so indulgent a

master, that his nephew suffered by the comparison.

"I found the letter he left with you," he continued softly, "and must

take charge of the money immediately. Can you tell me where it is?"

One side of Viney's face was perfectly inert, as the result of her

disorder, and any movement of the other produced a slight distortion

that spoiled the face as the index of the mind. But her eyes were not

dimmed, and into their sombre depths there leaped a sudden fire--only

a momentary flash, for almost instantly she closed her lids, and when

she opened them a moment later, they exhibited no trace of emotion.

"You will tell me where it is?" he repeated. A request came awkwardly

to his lips; he was accustomed to command.

Viney pointed to her mouth with her right hand, which was not

affected.

"To be sure," he said hastily, "you cannot speak--not yet."

He reflected for a moment. The times were unsettled. Should a wave of

conflict sweep over Clarendon, the money might be found by the enemy.

Should Viney take a turn for the worse and die, it would be impossible

to learn anything from her at all. There was another thought, which

had rapidly taken shape in his mind. No one but Viney knew that his

uncle had been at Mink Run. The estate had been seriously embarrassed

by Roger's extravagant patriotism, following upon the heels of other

and earlier extravagances. The fifty thousand dollars would in part

make good the loss; as his uncle's heir, he had at least a moral claim

upon it, and possession was nine points of the law.

"Is it in the house?" he asked.

She made a negative sign.

"In the barn?"

The same answer.

"In the yard? the garden? the spring house? the quarters?"

No question he could put brought a different answer. Dudley was

puzzled. The woman was in her right mind; she was no liar--of this

servile vice at least she was free. Surely there was some mystery.

"You saw my uncle?" he asked thoughtfully.

She nodded affirmatively.

"And he had the money, in gold?"

Yes.

"He left it here?"

Yes, positively.

"Do you know where he hid it?"

She indicated that she did, and pointed again to her silent tongue.

"You mean that you must regain your speech before you can explain?"

She nodded yes, and then, as if in pain, turned her face away from

him.

Viney was carefully nursed. The doctor came to see her regularly. She

was fed with dainty food, and no expense was spared to effect her

cure. In due time she recovered from the paralytic stroke, in all

except the power of speech, which did not seem to return. All of

Dudley's attempts to learn from her the whereabouts of the money were

equally futile. She seemed willing enough, but, though she made the

effort, was never able to articulate; and there was plainly some

mystery about the hidden gold which only words could unravel.

If she could but write, a few strokes of the pen would give him his

heart's desire! But, alas! Viney may as well have been without hands,

for any use she could make of a pen. Slaves were not taught to read or

write, nor was Viney one of the rare exceptions. But Dudley was a man

of resource--he would have her taught. He employed a teacher for her,

a free coloured man who knew the rudiments. But Viney, handicapped by

her loss of speech, made wretched progress. From whatever cause, she

manifested a remarkable stupidity, while seemingly anxious to learn.

Dudley himself took a hand in her instruction, but with no better

results, and, in the end, the attempt to teach her was abandoned as

hopeless.

Years rolled by. The fall of the Confederacy left the slaves free and

completed the ruin of the Dudley estate. Part of the land went, at

ruinous prices, to meet mortgages at ruinous rates; part lay fallow,

given up to scrub oak and short-leaf pine; merely enough was

cultivated, or let out on shares to Negro tenants, to provide a living

for old Malcolm and a few servants. Absorbed in dreams of the hidden

gold and in the search for it, he neglected his business and fell yet

deeper into debt. He worried himself into a lingering fever, through

which Viney nursed him with every sign of devotion, and from which he

rose with his mind visibly weakened.

When the slaves were freed, Viney had manifested no desire to leave

her old place. After the tragic episode which had led to their mutual

undoing, there had been no relation between them but that of master

and servant. But some gloomy attraction, or it may have been habit,

held her to the scene of her power and of her fall. She had no kith

nor kin, and her affliction separated her from the rest of mankind.

Nor would Dudley have been willing to let her go, for in her lay the

secret of the treasure; and, since all other traces of her ailment had

disappeared, so her speech might return. The fruitless search was

never relinquished, and in time absorbed all of Malcolm Dudley's

interest. The crops were left to the servants, who neglected them. The

yard had been dug over many times. Every foot of ground for rods

around had been sounded with a pointed iron bar. The house had

suffered in the search. No crack or cranny had been left unexplored.

The spaces between the walls, beneath the floors, under the

hearths--every possible hiding place had been searched, with little

care for any resulting injury.

* * * * *

Into this household Ben Dudley, left alone in the world, had come when

a boy of fifteen. He had no special turn for farming, but such work as

was done upon the old plantation was conducted under his supervision.

In the decaying old house, on the neglected farm, he had grown up in

harmony with his surroundings. The example of his old uncle, wrecked

in mind by a hopeless quest, had never been brought home to him as a

warning; use had dulled its force. He had never joined in the search,

except casually, but the legend was in his mind. Unconsciously his

standards of life grew around it. Some day he would be rich, and in

order to be sure of it, he must remain with his uncle, whose heir he

was. For the money was there, without a doubt. His great-uncle had hid

the gold and left the letter--Ben had read it.

The neighbours knew the story, or at least some vague version of it,

and for a time joined in the search--surreptitiously, as occasion

offered, and each on his own account. It was the common understanding

that old Malcolm was mentally unbalanced. The neighbouring Negroes,

with generous imagination, fixed his mythical and elusive treasure at

a million dollars. Not one of them had the faintest conception of the

bulk or purchasing power of one million dollars in gold; but when one

builds a castle in the air, why not make it lofty and spacious?

From this unwholesome atmosphere Ben Dudley found relief, as he grew

older, in frequent visits to Clarendon, which invariably ended at the

Treadwells', who were, indeed, distant relatives. He had one good

horse, and in an hour or less could leave behind him the shabby old

house, falling into ruin, the demented old man, digging in the

disordered yard, the dumb old woman watching him from her inscrutable

eyes; and by a change as abrupt as that of coming from a dark room

into the brightness of midday, find himself in a lovely garden, beside

a beautiful girl, whom he loved devotedly, but who kept him on the

ragged edge of an uncertainty that was stimulating enough, but very

wearing.

_Twenty_

The summer following Colonel French's return to Clarendon was

unusually cool, so cool that the colonel, pleasantly occupied with his

various plans and projects, scarcely found the heat less bearable than

that of New York at the same season. During a brief torrid spell he

took Phil to a Southern mountain resort for a couple of weeks, and

upon another occasion ran up to New York for a day or two on business

in reference to the machinery for the cotton mill, which was to be

ready for installation some time during the fall. But these were brief

interludes, and did not interrupt the current of his life, which was

flowing very smoothly and pleasantly in its new channel, if not very

swiftly, for even the colonel was not able to make things move swiftly

in Clarendon during the summer time, and he was well enough pleased to

see them move at all.

Kirby was out of town when the colonel was in New York, and therefore

he did not see him. His mail was being sent from his club to Denver,

where he was presumably looking into some mining proposition. Mrs.

Jerviss, the colonel supposed, was at the seaside, but he had almost

come face to face with her one day on Broadway. She had run down to

the city on business of some sort. Moved by the instinct of defense,

the colonel, by a quick movement, avoided the meeting, and felt safer

when the lady was well out of sight. He did not wish, at this time, to

be diverted from his Southern interests, and the image of another

woman was uppermost in his mind.

One moonlight evening, a day or two after his return from this brief

Northern trip, the colonel called at Mrs. Treadwells'. Caroline opened

the door. Mrs. Treadwell, she said, was lying down. Miss Graciella had

gone over to a neighbour's, but would soon return. Miss Laura was

paying a call, but would not be long. Would the colonel wait? No, he

said, he would take a walk, and come back later.

The streets were shady, and the moonlight bathed with a silvery glow

that part of the town which the shadows did not cover. Strolling

aimlessly along the quiet, unpaved streets, the colonel, upon turning

a corner, saw a lady walking a short distance ahead of him. He thought

he recognised the figure, and hurried forward; but ere he caught up

with her, she turned and went into one of a row of small houses which

he knew belonged to Nichols, the coloured barber, and were occupied by

coloured people. Thinking he had been mistaken in the woman's

identity, he slackened his pace, and ere he had passed out of hearing,

caught the tones of a piano, accompanying the words,

_"I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls,

With vassals and serfs at my s-i-i-de."_

It was doubtless the barber's daughter. The barber's was the only

coloured family in town that owned a piano. In the moonlight, and at a

distance of some rods, the song sounded well enough, and the colonel

lingered until it ceased, and the player began to practise scales,

when he continued his walk. He had smoked a couple of cigars, and was

returning toward Mrs. Treadwells', when he met, face to face, Miss

Laura Treadwell coming out of the barber's house. He lifted his hat

and put out his hand.

"I called at the house a while ago, and you were all out. I was just

going back. I'll walk along with you."

Miss Laura was visibly embarrassed at the meeting. The colonel gave no

sign that he noticed her emotion, but went on talking.

"It is a delightful evening," he said.

"Yes," she replied, and then went on, "you must wonder what I was

doing there."

"I suppose," he said, "that you were looking for a servant, or on some

mission of kindness and good will."

Miss Laura was silent for a moment and he could feel her hand tremble

on the arm he offered her.

"No, Henry," she said, "why should I deceive you? I did not go to find

a servant, but to serve. I have told you we were poor, but not how

poor. I can tell you what I could not say to others, for you have

lived away from here, and I know how differently from most of us you

look at things. I went to the barber's house to give the barber's

daughter music lessons--for money."

The colonel laughed contagiously.

"You taught her to sing--

_'I dreamt that I dwelt in marble halls?'_"

"Yes, but you must not judge my work too soon," she replied. "It is

not finished yet."

"You shall let me know when it is done," he said, "and I will walk by

and hear the finished product. Your pupil has improved wonderfully. I

heard her singing the song the day I came back--the first time I

walked by the old house. She sings it much better now. You are a good

teacher, as well as a good woman."

Miss Laura laughed somewhat excitedly, but was bent upon her

explanation.

"The girl used to come to the house," she said. "Her mother belonged

to us before the war, and we have been such friends as white and black

can be. And she wanted to learn to play, and offered to pay me well

for lessons, and I gave them to her. We never speak about the money at

the house; mother knows it, but feigns that I do it out of mere

kindness, and tells me that I am spoiling the coloured people. Our

friends are not supposed to know it, and if any of them do, they are

kind and never speak of it. Since you have been coming to the house,

it has not been convenient to teach her there, and I have been going

to her home in the evening."

"My dear Laura," said the colonel, remorsefully, "I have driven you

away from your own home, and all unwittingly. I applaud your

enterprise and your public spirit. It is a long way from the banjo to

the piano--it marks the progress of a family and foreshadows the

evolution of a race. And what higher work than to elevate humanity?"

They had reached the house. Mrs. Treadwell had not come down, nor had

Graciella returned. They went into the parlour. Miss Laura turned up

the lamp.

* * * * *

Graciella had run over to a neighbour's to meet a young lady who was

visiting a young lady who was a friend of Graciella's. She had

remained a little longer than she had meant to, for among those who

had called to see her friend's friend was young Mr. Fetters, the son

of the magnate, lately returned home from college. Barclay Fetters was

handsome, well-dressed and well-mannered. He had started at one

college, and had already changed to two others. Stories of his

dissipated habits and reckless extravagance had been bruited about.

Graciella knew his family history, and had imbibed the old-fashioned

notions of her grandmother's household, so that her acknowledgment of

the introduction was somewhat cold, not to say distant. But as she

felt the charm of his manner, and saw that the other girls were vieing

with one another for his notice, she felt a certain triumph that he

exhibited a marked preference for her conversation. Her reserve

gradually broke down, and she was talking with animation and listening

with pleasure, when she suddenly recollected that Colonel French would

probably call, and that she ought to be there to entertain him, for

which purpose she had dressed herself very carefully. He had not

spoken yet, but might be expected to speak at any time; such marked

attentions as his could have but one meaning; and for several days she

had had a premonition that before the week was out he would seek to

know his fate; and Graciella meant to be kind.

Anticipating this event, she had politely but pointedly discouraged

Ben Dudley's attentions, until Ben's pride, of which he had plenty in

reserve, had awaked to activity. At their last meeting he had demanded

a definite answer to his oft-repeated question.

"Graciella," he had said, "are you going to marry me? Yes or no. I'll

not be played with any longer. You must marry me for myself, or not at

all. Yes or no."

"Then no, Mr. Dudley," she had replied with spirit, and without a

moment's hesitation, "I will not marry you. I will never marry you,

not if I should die an old maid."

She was sorry they had not parted friends, but she was not to blame.

After her marriage, she would avoid the embarrassment of meeting him,

by making the colonel take her away. Sometime she might, through her

husband, be of service to Ben, and thus make up, in part at least, for

his disappointment.

As she ran up through the garden and stepped upon the porch--her

slippers were thin and made no sound--she heard Colonel French's voice

in the darkened parlour. Some unusual intonation struck her, and she

moved lightly and almost mechanically forward, in the shadow, toward a

point where she could see through the window and remain screened from

observation. So intense was her interest in what she heard, that she

stood with her hand on her heart, not even conscious that she was

doing a shameful thing.

* * * * *

Her aunt was seated and Colonel French was standing near her. An open

Bible lay upon the table. The colonel had taken it up and was reading:

"'Who can find a virtuous woman? For her price is far above rubies.

The heart of her husband doth safely trust in her. She will do him

good and not evil all the days of her life. Strength and honour are

her clothing, and she shall rejoice in time to come.'

"Laura," he said, "the proverb maker was a prophet as well. In these

words, written four thousand years ago, he has described you, line for

line."

The glow which warmed her cheek, still smooth, the light which came

into her clear eyes, the joy that filled her heart at these kind

words, put the years to flight, and for the moment Laura was young

again.

"You have been good to Phil," the colonel went on, "and I should like

him to be always near you and have your care. And you have been kind

to me, and made me welcome and at home in what might otherwise have

seemed, after so long an absence, a strange land. You bring back to me

the best of my youth, and in you I find the inspiration for good

deeds. Be my wife, dear Laura, and a mother to my boy, and we will try

to make you happy."

"Oh, Henry," she cried with fluttering heart, "I am not worthy to be

your wife. I know nothing of the world where you have lived, nor

whether I would fit into it."

"You are worthy of any place," he declared, "and if one please you

more than another, I shall make your wishes mine."

"But, Henry, how could I leave my mother? And Graciella needs my

care."

"You need not leave your mother--she shall be mine as well as yours.

Graciella is a dear, bright child; she has in her the making of a

noble woman; she should be sent away to a good school, and I will see

to it. No, dear Laura, there are no difficulties, no giants in the

pathway that will not fly or fall when we confront them."

He had put his arm around her and lifted her face to his. He read his

answer in her swimming eyes, and when he had reached down and kissed

her cheek, she buried her head on his shoulder and shed some tears of

happiness. For this was her secret: she was sweet and good; she would

have made any man happy, who had been worthy of her, but no man had

ever before asked her to be his wife. She had lived upon a plane so

simple, yet so high, that men not equally high-minded had never

ventured to address her, and there were few such men, and chance had

not led them her way. As to the others--perhaps there were women more

beautiful, and certainly more enterprising. She had not repined; she

had been busy and contented. Now this great happiness was vouchsafed

her, to find in the love of the man whom she admired above all others

a woman's true career.

"Henry," she said, when they had sat down on the old hair-cloth sofa,

side by side, "you have made me very happy; so happy that I wish to

keep my happiness all to myself--for a little while. Will you let me

keep our engagement secret until I--am accustomed to it? It may be

silly or childish, but it seems like a happy dream, and I wish to

assure myself of its reality before I tell it to anyone else."

"To me," said the colonel, smiling tenderly into her eyes, "it is the

realisation of an ideal. Since we met that day in the cemetery you

have seemed to me the embodiment of all that is best of my memories of

the old South; and your gentleness, your kindness, your tender grace,

your self-sacrifice and devotion to duty, mark you a queen among

women, and my heart shall be your throne. As to the announcement, have

it as you will--it is the lady's privilege."

"You are very good," she said tremulously. "This hour repays me for

all I have ever tried to do for others."

* * * * *

Graciella felt very young indeed--somewhere in the neighbourhood of

ten, she put it afterward, when she reviewed the situation in a calmer

frame of mind--as she crept softly away from the window and around the

house to the back door, and up the stairs and into her own chamber,

where, all oblivious of danger to her clothes or her complexion, she

threw herself down upon her own bed and burst into a passion of tears.

She had been cruelly humiliated. Colonel French, whom she had imagined

in love with her, had regarded her merely as a child, who ought to be

sent to school--to acquire what, she asked herself, good sense or

deportment? Perhaps she might acquire more good sense--she had

certainly made a fool of herself in this case--but she had prided

herself upon her manners. Colonel French had been merely playing with

her, like one would with a pet monkey; and he had been in love, all

the time, with her Aunt Laura, whom the girls had referred to

compassionately, only that same evening, as a hopeless old maid.

It is fortunate that youth and hope go generally hand in hand.

Graciella possessed a buoyant spirit to breast the waves of

disappointment. She had her cry out, a good, long cry; and when much

weeping had dulled the edge of her discomfiture she began to reflect

that all was not yet lost. The colonel would not marry her, but he

would still marry in the family. When her Aunt Laura became Mrs.

French, she would doubtless go often to New York, if she would not

live there always. She would invite Graciella to go with her, perhaps

to live with her there. As for going to school, that was a matter

which her own views should control; at present she had no wish to

return to school. She might take lessons in music, or art; her aunt

would hardly care for her to learn stenography now, or go into

magazine work. Her aunt would surely not go to Europe without inviting

her, and Colonel French was very liberal with his money, and would

deny his wife nothing, though Graciella could hardly imagine that any

man would be infatuated with her Aunt Laura.

But this was not the end of Graciella's troubles. Graciella had a

heart, although she had suppressed its promptings, under the influence

of a selfish ambition. She had thrown Ben Dudley over for the colonel;

the colonel did not want her, and now she would have neither. Ben had

been very angry, unreasonably angry, she had thought at the time, and

objectionably rude in his manner. He had sworn never to speak to her

again. If he should keep his word, she might be very unhappy. These

reflections brought on another rush of tears, and a very penitent,

contrite, humble-minded young woman cried herself to sleep before Miss

Laura, with a heart bursting with happiness, bade the colonel

good-night at the gate, and went upstairs to lie awake in her bed in a

turmoil of pleasant emotions.

Miss Laura's happiness lay not alone in the prospect that Colonel

French would marry her, nor in any sordid thought of what she would

gain by becoming the wife of a rich man. It rested in the fact that

this man, whom she admired, and who had come back from the outer world

to bring fresh ideas, new and larger ideals to lift and broaden and

revivify the town, had passed by youth and beauty and vivacity, and

had chosen her to share this task, to form the heart and mind and

manners of his child, and to be the tie which would bind him most

strongly to her dear South. For she was a true child of the soil; the

people about her, white and black, were her people, and this marriage,

with its larger opportunities for usefulness, would help her to do

that for which hitherto she had only been able to pray and to hope.

To the boy she would be a mother indeed; to lead him in the paths of

truth and loyalty and manliness and the fear of God--it was a

priceless privilege, and already her mother-heart yearned to begin the

task.

And then after the flow came the ebb. Why had he chosen her? Was it

_merely_ as an abstraction--the embodiment of an ideal, a survival

from a host of pleasant memories, and as a mother for his child, who

needed care which no one else could give, and as a helpmate in

carrying out his schemes of benevolence? Were these his only motives;

and, if so, were they sufficient to ensure her happiness? Was he

marrying her through a mere sentimental impulse, or for calculated

convenience, or from both? She must be certain; for his views might

change. He was yet in the full flow of philanthropic enthusiasm. She

shared his faith in human nature and the triumph of right ideas; but

once or twice she had feared he was underrating the power of

conservative forces; that he had been away from Clarendon so long as

to lose the perspective of actual conditions, and that he was

cherishing expectations which might be disappointed. Should this ever

prove true, his disillusion might be as far-reaching and as sudden as

his enthusiasm. Then, if he had not loved her for herself, she might

be very unhappy. She would have rejoiced to bring him youth and

beauty, and the things for which other women were preferred; she would

have loved to be the perfect mate, one in heart, mind, soul and body,

with the man with whom she was to share the journey of life.

But this was a passing thought, born of weakness and self-distrust,

and she brushed it away with the tear that had come with it, and

smiled at its absurdity. Her youth was past; with nothing to expect

but an old age filled with the small expedients of genteel poverty,

there had opened up to her, suddenly and unexpectedly, a great avenue

for happiness and usefulness. It was foolish, with so much to be

grateful for, to sigh for the unattainable. His love must be all the

stronger since it took no thought of things which others would have

found of controlling importance. In choosing her to share his

intellectual life he had paid her a higher compliment than had he

praised the glow of her cheek or the contour of her throat. In

confiding Phil to her care he had given her a sacred trust and

confidence, for she knew how much he loved the child.

_Twenty-one_

The colonel's schemes for the improvement of Clarendon went forward,

with occasional setbacks. Several kilns of brick turned out badly, so

that the brickyard fell behind with its orders, thus delaying the work

a few weeks. The foundations of the old cotton mill had been

substantially laid, and could be used, so far as their position

permitted for the new walls. When the bricks were ready, a gang of

masons was put to work. White men and coloured were employed, under a

white foreman. So great was the demand for labour and so stimulating

the colonel's liberal wage, that even the drowsy Negroes around the

market house were all at work, and the pigs who had slept near them

were obliged to bestir themselves to keep from being run over by the

wagons that were hauling brick and lime and lumber through the

streets. Even the cows in the vacant lot between the post-office and

the bank occasionally lifted up their gentle eyes as though wondering

what strange fever possessed the two-legged creatures around them,

urging them to such unnatural activity.

The work went on smoothly for a week or two, when the colonel had some

words with Jim Green, the white foreman of the masons. The cause of

the dispute was not important, but the colonel, as the master,

insisted that certain work should be done in a certain way. Green

wished to argue the point. The colonel brought the discussion to a

close with a peremptory command. The foreman took offense, declared

that he was no nigger to be ordered around, and quit. The colonel

promoted to the vacancy George Brown, a coloured man, who was the next

best workman in the gang.

On the day when Brown took charge of the job the white bricklayers, of

whom there were two at work, laid down their tools.

"What's the matter?" asked the colonel, when they reported for their

pay. "Aren't you satisfied with the wages?"

"Yes, we've got no fault to find with the wages."

"Well?"

"We won't work under George Brown. We don't mind working _with_

niggers, but we won't work _under_ a nigger."

"I'm sorry, gentlemen, but I must hire my own men. Here is your

money."

They would have preferred to argue their grievance, and since the

colonel had shut off discussion they went down to Clay Jackson's

saloon and argued the case with all comers, with the usual distortion

attending one-sided argument. Jim Green had been superseded by a

nigger--this was the burden of their grievance.

Thus came the thin entering wedge that was to separate the colonel

from a measure of his popularity. There had been no objection to the

colonel's employing Negroes, no objection to his helping their

school--if he chose to waste his money that way; but there were many

who took offense when a Negro was preferred to a white man.

Through Caxton the colonel learned of this criticism. The colonel

showed no surprise, and no annoyance, but in his usual good-humoured

way replied:

"We'll go right along and pay no attention to him. There were only two

white men in the gang, and they have never worked under the Negro;

they quit as soon as I promoted him. I have hired many men in my time

and have made it an unvarying rule to manage my own business in my own

way. If anybody says anything to you about it, you tell them just

that. These people have got to learn that we live in an industrial

age, and success demands of an employer that he utilise the most

available labour. After Green was discharged, George Brown was the

best mason left. He gets more work out of the men than Green did--even

in the old slave times Negroes made the best of overseers; they knew

their own people better than white men could and got more out of them.

When the mill is completed it will give employment to five hundred

white women and fifty white men. But every dog must have his day, so

give the Negro his."

The colonel attached no great importance to the incident; the places

of the workmen were filled, and the work went forward. He knew the

Southern sensitiveness, and viewed it with a good-natured tolerance,

which, however, stopped at injustice to himself or others. The very

root of his reform was involved in the proposition to discharge a

competent foreman because of an unreasonable prejudice. Matters of

feeling were all well enough in some respects--no one valued more

highly than the colonel the right to choose his own associates--but

the right to work and to do one's best work, was fundamental, as was

the right to have one's work done by those who could do it best. Even

a healthy social instinct might be perverted into an unhealthy and

unjust prejudice; most things evil were the perversion of good.

The feeling with which the colonel thus came for the first time

directly in contact, a smouldering fire capable always of being fanned

into flame, had been greatly excited by the political campaign which

began about the third month after his arrival in Clarendon. An

ambitious politician in a neighbouring State had led a successful

campaign on the issue of Negro disfranchisement. Plainly

unconstitutional, it was declared to be as plainly necessary for the

preservation of the white race and white civilisation. The example had

proved contagious, and Fetters and his crowd, who dominated their

State, had raised the issue there. At first the pronouncement met with

slight response. The sister State had possessed a Negro majority,

which, in view of reconstruction history was theoretically capable of

injuring the State. Such was not the case here. The State had survived

reconstruction with small injury. White supremacy existed, in the

main, by virtue of white efficiency as compared with efficiency of a

lower grade; there had been places, and instances, where other methods

had been occasionally employed to suppress the Negro vote, but, taken

as a whole, the supremacy of the white man was secure. No Negro had

held a State office for twenty years. In Clarendon they had even

ceased to be summoned as jurors, and when a Negro met a white man, he

gave him the wall, even if it were necessary to take the gutter to do

so. But this was not enough; this supremacy must be made permanent.

Negroes must be taught that they need never look for any different

state of things. New definitions were given to old words, new pictures

set in old frames, new wine poured into old bottles.

"So long," said the candidate for governor, when he spoke at Clarendon

during the canvas, at a meeting presided over by the editor of the

_Anglo-Saxon_, "so long as one Negro votes in the State, so long are

we face to face with the nightmare of Negro domination. For example,

suppose a difference of opinion among white men so radical as to

divide their vote equally, the ballot of one Negro would determine the

issue. Can such a possibility be contemplated without a shudder? Our

duty to ourselves, to our children, and their unborn descendants, and

to our great and favoured race, impels us to protest, by word, by

vote, by arms if need be, against the enforced equality of an inferior

race. Equality anywhere, means ultimately, equality everywhere.

Equality at the polls means social equality; social equality means

intermarriage and corruption of blood, and degeneration and decay.

What gentleman here would want his daughter to marry a blubber-lipped,

cocoanut-headed, kidney-footed, etc., etc., nigger?"

There could be but one answer to the question, and it came in thunders

of applause. Colonel French heard the speech, smiled at the old

arguments, but felt a sudden gravity at the deep-seated feeling which

they evoked. He remembered hearing, when a boy, the same arguments.

They had served their purpose once before, with other issues, to

plunge the South into war and consequent disaster. Had the lesson been

in vain? He did not see the justice nor the expediency of the proposed

anti-Negro agitation. But he was not in politics, and confined his

protests to argument with his friends, who listened but were not

convinced.

Behind closed doors, more than one of the prominent citizens admitted

that the campaign was all wrong; that the issues were unjust and

reactionary, and that the best interests of the State lay in uplifting

every element of the people rather than selecting some one class for

discouragement and degradation, and that the white race could hold its

own, with the Negroes or against them, in any conceivable state of

political equality. They listened to the colonel's quiet argument that

no State could be freer or greater or more enlightened than the

average of its citizenship, and that any restriction of rights that

rested upon anything but impartial justice, was bound to re-act, as

slavery had done, upon the prosperity and progress of the State. They

listened, which the colonel regarded as a great point gained, and they

agreed in part, and he could almost understand why they let their

feelings govern their reason and their judgment, and said no word to

prevent an unfair and unconstitutional scheme from going forward to a

successful issue. He knew that for a white man to declare, in such a

community, for equal rights or equal justice for the Negro, or to take

the Negro's side in any case where the race issue was raised, was to

court social ostracism and political death, or, if the feeling

provoked were strong enough, an even more complete form of extinction.

So the colonel was patient, and meant to be prudent. His own arguments

avoided the stirring up of prejudice, and were directed to the higher

motives and deeper principles which underlie society, in the light of

which humanity is more than race, and the welfare of the State above

that of any man or set of men within it; it being an axiom as true in

statesmanship as in mathematics, that the whole is greater than any

one of its parts. Content to await the uplifting power of industry and

enlightenment, and supremely confident of the result, the colonel went

serenely forward in his work of sowing that others might reap.

_Twenty-two_

The atmosphere of the Treadwell home was charged, for the next few

days, with electric currents. Graciella knew that her aunt was engaged

to Colonel French. But she had not waited, the night before, to hear

her aunt express the wish that the engagement should be kept secret.

She was therefore bursting with information of which she could

manifest no consciousness without confessing that she had been

eavesdropping--a thing which she knew Miss Laura regarded as

detestably immoral. She wondered at her aunt's silence. Except a

certain subdued air of happiness there was nothing to distinguish Miss

Laura's calm demeanor from that of any other day. Graciella had

determined upon her own attitude toward her aunt. She would kiss her,

and wish her happiness, and give no sign that any thought of Colonel

French had ever entered her own mind. But this little drama,

rehearsed in the privacy of her own room, went unacted, since the

curtain did not rise upon the stage.

The colonel came and went as usual. Some dissimulation was required on

Graciella's part to preserve her usual light-hearted manner toward

him. She may have been to blame in taking the colonel's attentions as

intended for herself; she would not soon forgive his slighting

reference to her. In his eyes she had been only a child, who ought to

go to school. He had been good enough to say that she had the making

of a fine woman. Thanks! She had had a lover for at least two years,

and a proposal of marriage before Colonel French's shadow had fallen

athwart her life. She wished her Aunt Laura happiness; no one could

deserve it more, but was it possible to be happy with a man so lacking

in taste and judgment?

Her aunt's secret began to weigh upon her mind, and she effaced

herself as much as possible when the colonel came. Her grandmother had

begun to notice this and comment upon it, when the happening of a

certain social event created a diversion. This was the annual

entertainment known as the Assembly Ball. It was usually held later in

the year, but owing to the presence of several young lady visitors in

the town, it had been decided to give it early in the fall.

The affair was in the hands of a committee, by whom invitations were

sent to most people in the county who had any claims to gentility. The

gentlemen accepting were expected to subscribe to the funds for hall

rent, music and refreshments. These were always the best the town

afforded. The ball was held in the Opera House, a rather euphemistic

title for the large hall above Barstow's cotton warehouse, where

third-class theatrical companies played one-night stands several times

during the winter, and where an occasional lecturer or conjurer held

forth. An amateur performance of "Pinafore" had once been given there.

Henry W. Grady had lectured there upon White Supremacy; the Reverend

Sam Small had preached there on Hell. It was also distinguished as

having been refused, even at the request of the State Commissioner of

Education, as a place for Booker T. Washington to deliver an address,

which had been given at the town hall instead. The Assembly Balls had

always been held in the Opera House. In former years the music had

been furnished by local Negro musicians, but there were no longer any

of these, and a band of string music was brought in from another town.

So far as mere wealth was concerned, the subscribers touched such

extremes as Ben Dudley on the one hand and Colonel French on the

other, and included Barclay Fetters, whom Graciella had met on the

evening before her disappointment.

The Treadwell ladies were of course invited, and the question of ways

and means became paramount. New gowns and other accessories were

imperative. Miss Laura's one party dress had done service until it was

past redemption, and this was Graciella's first Assembly Ball. Miss

Laura took stock of the family's resources, and found that she could

afford only one gown. This, of course, must be Graciella's. Her own

marriage would entail certain expenses which demanded some present

self-denial. She had played wall-flower for several years, but now

that she was sure of a partner, it was a real sacrifice not to attend

the ball. But Graciella was young, and in such matters youth has a

prior right; for she had yet to find her mate.

Graciella magnanimously offered to remain at home, but was easily

prevailed upon to go. She was not entirely happy, for the humiliating

failure of her hopes had left her for the moment without a recognised

admirer, and the fear of old maidenhood had again laid hold of her

heart. Her Aunt Laura's case was no consoling example. Not one man in

a hundred would choose a wife for Colonel French's reasons. Most men

married for beauty, and Graciella had been told that beauty that

matured early, like her own, was likely to fade early.

One humiliation she was spared. She had been as silent about her hopes

as Miss Laura was about her engagement. Whether this was due to mere

prudence or to vanity--the hope of astonishing her little world by

the unexpected announcement--did not change the comforting fact that

she had nothing to explain and nothing for which to be pitied. If her

friends, after the manner of young ladies, had hinted at the subject

and sought to find a meaning in Colonel French's friendship, she had

smiled enigmatically. For this self-restraint, whatever had been its

motive, she now reaped her reward. The announcement of her aunt's

engagement would account for the colonel's attentions to Graciella as

a mere courtesy to a young relative of his affianced.

With regard to Ben, Graciella was quite uneasy. She had met him only

once since their quarrel, and had meant to bow to him politely, but

with dignity, to show that she bore no malice; but he had

ostentatiously avoided her glance. If he chose to be ill-natured, she

had thought, and preferred her enmity to her friendship, her

conscience was at least clear. She had been willing to forget his

rudeness and be a friend to him. She could have been his true friend,

if nothing more; and he would need friends, unless he changed a great

deal.

When her mental atmosphere was cleared by the fading of her dream, Ben

assumed larger proportions. Perhaps he had had cause for complaint; at

least it was only just to admit that he thought so. Nor had he

suffered in her estimation by his display of spirit in not waiting to

be jilted but in forcing her hand before she was quite ready to play

it. She could scarcely expect him to attend her to the ball; but he

was among the subscribers, and could hardly avoid meeting her, or

dancing with her, without pointed rudeness. If he did not ask her to

dance, then either the Virginia reel, or the lancers, or quadrilles,

would surely bring them together; and though Graciella sighed, she did

not despair. She could, of course, allay his jealousy at once by

telling him of her Aunt Laura's engagement, but this was not yet

practicable. She must find some other way of placating him.

Ben Dudley also had a problem to face in reference to the ball--a

problem which has troubled impecunious youth since balls were

invented--the problem of clothes. He was not obliged to go to the

ball. Graciella's outrageous conduct relieved him of any obligation to

invite her, and there was no other woman with whom he would have cared

to go, or who would have cared, so far as he knew, to go with him. For

he was not a lady's man, and but for his distant relationship would

probably never have gone to the Treadwells'. He was looked upon by

young women as slow, and he knew that Graciella had often been

impatient at his lack of sprightliness. He could pay his subscription,

which was really a sort of gentility tax, the failure to meet which

would merely forfeit future invitations, and remain at home. He did

not own a dress suit, nor had he the money to spare for one. He, or

they, for he and his uncle were one in such matters, were in debt

already, up to the limit of their credit, and he had sold the last

bale of old cotton to pay the last month's expenses, while the new

crop, already partly mortgaged, was not yet picked. He knew that some

young fellows in town rented dress suits from Solomon Cohen, who,

though he kept only four suits in stock at a time, would send to New

York for others to rent out on this occasion, and return them

afterwards. But Ben would not wear another man's clothes. He had borne

insults from Graciella that he never would have borne from any one

else, and that he would never bear again; but there were things at

which his soul protested. Nor would Cohen's suits have fitted him. He

was so much taller than the average man for whom store clothes were

made.

He remained in a state of indecision until the day of the ball. Late

in the evening he put on his black cutaway coat, which was getting a

little small, trousers to match, and a white waistcoat, and started to

town on horseback so as to arrive in time for the ball, in case he

should decide, at the last moment, to take part.

_Twenty-three_

The Opera House was brilliantly lighted on the night of the Assembly

Ball. The dancers gathered at an earlier hour than is the rule in the

large cities. Many of the guests came in from the country, and

returned home after the ball, since the hotel could accommodate only a

part of them.

When Ben Dudley, having left his horse at a livery stable, walked up

Main Street toward the hall, carriages were arriving and discharging

their freight. The ladies were prettily gowned, their faces were

bright and animated, and Ben observed that most of the gentlemen wore

dress suits; but also, much to his relief, that a number, sufficient

to make at least a respectable minority, did not. He was rapidly

making up his mind to enter, when Colonel French's carriage, drawn by

a pair of dashing bays and driven by a Negro in livery, dashed up to

the door and discharged Miss Graciella Treadwell, radiantly beautiful

in a new low-cut pink gown, with pink flowers in her hair, a thin

gold chain with a gold locket at the end around her slender throat,

white slippers on her feet and long white gloves upon her shapely

hands and wrists.

Ben shrank back into the shadow. He had never been of an envious

disposition; he had always looked upon envy as a mean vice, unworthy

of a gentleman; but for a moment something very like envy pulled at

his heartstrings. Graciella worshipped the golden calf. _He_

worshipped Graciella. But he had no money; he could not have taken her

to the ball in a closed carriage, drawn by blooded horses and driven

by a darky in livery.

Graciella's cavalier wore, with the ease and grace of long habit, an

evening suit of some fine black stuff that almost shone in the light

from the open door. At the sight of him the waist of Ben's own coat

shrunk up to the arm-pits, and he felt a sinking of the heart as they

passed out of his range of vision. He would not appear to advantage by

the side of Colonel French, and he would not care to appear otherwise

than to advantage in Graciella's eyes. He would not like to make more

palpable, by contrast, the difference between Colonel French and

himself; nor could he be haughty, distant, reproachful, or anything

but painfully self-conscious, in a coat that was not of the proper

cut, too short in the sleeves, and too tight under the arms.

While he stood thus communing with his own bitter thoughts, another

carriage, drawn by a pair of beautiful black horses, drew up to the

curb in front of him. The horses were restive, and not inclined to

stand still. Some one from the inside of the carriage called to the

coachman through the open window.

"Ransom," said the voice, "stay on the box. Here, you, open this

carriage door!"

Ben looked around for the person addressed, but saw no one near but

himself.

"You boy there, by the curb, open this door, will you, or hold the

horses, so my coachman can!"

"Are you speaking to me?" demanded Ben angrily.

Just then one of the side-lights of the carriage flashed on Ben's

face.

"Oh, I beg pardon," said the man in the carriage, carelessly, "I took

you for a nigger."

There could be no more deadly insult, though the mistake was not

unnatural. Ben was dark, and the shadow made him darker.

Ben was furious. The stranger had uttered words of apology, but his

tone had been insolent, and his apology was more offensive than his

original blunder. Had it not been for Ben's reluctance to make a

disturbance, he would have struck the offender in the mouth. If he had

had a pistol, he could have shot him; his great uncle Ralph, for

instance, would not have let him live an hour.

While these thoughts were surging through his heated brain, the young

man, as immaculately clad as Colonel French had been, left the

carriage, from which he helped a lady, and with her upon his arm,

entered the hall. In the light that streamed from the doorway, Ben

recognised him as Barclay Fetters, who, having finished a checkered

scholastic career, had been at home at Sycamore for several months.

Much of this time he had spent in Clarendon, where his father's wealth

and influence gave him entrance to good society, in spite of an

ancestry which mere character would not have offset. He knew young

Fetters very well by sight, since the latter had to pass Mink Run

whenever he came to town from Sycamore. Fetters may not have known

him, since he had been away for much of the time in recent years, but

he ought to have been able to distinguish between a white man--a

gentleman--and a Negro. It was the insolence of an upstart. Old Josh

Fetters had been, in his younger days, his uncle's overseer. An

overseer's grandson treated him, Ben Dudley, like dirt under his feet!

Perhaps he had judged him by his clothes. He would like to show

Barclay Fetters, if they ever stood face to face, that clothes did

not make the man, nor the gentleman.

Ben decided after this encounter that he would not go on the floor of

the ballroom; but unable to tear himself away, he waited until

everybody seemed to have gone in; then went up the stairs and gained

access, by a back way, to a dark gallery in the rear of the hall,

which the ushers had deserted for the ballroom, from which he could,

without discovery, look down upon the scene below. His eyes flew to

Graciella as the needle to the pole. She was dancing with Colonel

French.

The music stopped, and a crowd of young fellows surrounded her. When

the next dance, which was a waltz, began, she moved out upon the floor

in the arms of Barclay Fetters.

Ben swore beneath his breath. He had heard tales of Barclay Fetters

which, if true, made him unfit to touch a decent woman. He left the

hall, walked a short distance down a street and around the corner to

the bar in the rear of the hotel, where he ordered a glass of whiskey.

He had never been drunk in his life, and detested the taste of liquor;

but he was desperate and had to do something; he would drink till he

was drunk, and forget his troubles. Having never been intoxicated, he

had no idea whatever of the effect liquor would have upon him.

With each succeeding drink, the sense of his wrongs broadened and

deepened. At one stage his intoxication took the form of an intense

self-pity. There was something rotten in the whole scheme of things.

Why should he be poor, while others were rich, and while fifty

thousand dollars in gold were hidden in or around the house where he

lived? Why should Colonel French, an old man, who was of no better

blood than himself, be rich enough to rob him of the woman whom he

loved? And why, above all, should Barclay Fetters have education and

money and every kind of opportunity, which he did not appreciate,

while he, who would have made good use of them, had nothing? With this

sense of wrong, which grew as his brain clouded more and more, there

came, side by side, a vague zeal to right these wrongs. As he grew

drunker still, his thoughts grew less coherent; he lost sight of his

special grievance, and merely retained the combative instinct.

He had reached this dangerous stage, and had, fortunately, passed it

one step farther along the road to unconsciousness--fortunately,

because had he been sober, the result of that which was to follow

might have been more serious--when two young men, who had come down

from the ballroom for some refreshment, entered the barroom and asked

for cocktails. While the barkeeper was compounding the liquor, the

young men spoke of the ball.

"That little Treadwell girl is a peach," said one. "I could tote a

bunch of beauty like that around the ballroom all night."

The remark was not exactly respectful, nor yet exactly disrespectful.

Ben looked up from his seat. The speaker was Barclay Fetters, and his

companion one Tom McRae, another dissolute young man of the town. Ben

got up unsteadily and walked over to where they stood.

"I want you to un'erstan'," he said thickly, "that no gen'l'man would

mensh'n a lady's name in a place like this, or shpeak dissuspeckerly

'bout a lady 'n any place; an' I want you to unerstan' fu'thermo' that

you're no gen'l'man, an' that I'm goin' t' lick you, by G--d!"

"The hell you are!" returned Fetters. A scowl of surprise rose on his

handsome face, and he sprang to an attitude of defence.

Ben suited the action to the word, and struck at Fetters. But Ben was

drunk and the other two were sober, and in three minutes Ben lay on

the floor with a sore head and a black eye. His nose was bleeding

copiously, and the crimson stream had run down upon his white shirt

and vest. Taken all in all, his appearance was most disreputable. By

this time the liquor he had drunk had its full effect, and complete

unconsciousness supervened to save him, for a little while, from the

realisation of his disgrace.

"Who is the mucker, anyway?" asked Barclay Fetters, readjusting his

cuffs, which had slipped down in the melee.

"He's a chap by the name of Dudley," answered McRae; "lives at Mink

Run, between here and Sycamore, you know."

"Oh, yes, I've seen him--the 'po' white' chap that lives with the old

lunatic that's always digging for buried treasure----

_'For my name was Captain Kidd,

As I sailed, as I sailed.'_