Charley Norton's good offices did not end when he had furnished judge
Price with a house, for Betty required of him that he should supply
that gentleman with legal business as well. When she pointed out the
necessity of this, Norton demurred. He had no very urgent need of a
lawyer, and had the need existed, Slocum Price would not have been his
choice. Betty knit her brows.
“He must have a chance; perhaps if people knew you employed him it would
give them confidence--you must realize this, Charley; it isn't enough
that he has a house--he can't wear it nor eat it!”
“And fortunately he can't drink it, either. I don't want to discourage
you, but his looks are all against him, Betty. If you take too great
an interest in his concerns I am afraid you are going to have him
permanently on your hands.”
“Haven't you some little scrap of business that really doesn't matter
much, Charley? You might try him--just to please me--” she persisted
coaxingly.
“Well, there's land I'm buying--I suppose I could get him to look up the
title, I know it's all right anyhow,” said Norton, after a pause.
Thus it happened that judge Price, before he had been three days in
Raleigh, received a civil note from Mr. Norton asking him to search
the title to a certain timber tract held by one Joseph Quaid; a
communication the effect of which was out of all proportion to the size
of the fee involved. The judge, powerfully excited, told Mahaffy he
was being understood and appreciated; that the tide of prosperity was
clearly setting his way; that intelligent foresight, not chance, had
determined him when he selected Raleigh instead of Memphis. Thereafter
he spoke of Charley Norton only as “My client,” and exalted him for his
breeding, wealth and position, refusing to admit that any man in the
county was held in quite the same esteem. All of which moved Mahaffy to
flashes of grim sarcasm.
The immediate result of Norton's communication had been to send the
judge up the street to the courthouse. He would show his client that he
could be punctual and painstaking. He should have his abstract of title
without delay; moreover, he had in mind a scholarly effort entirely
worthy of himself. The dull facts should be illuminated with an
occasional striking phrase. He considered that it would doubtless be of
interest to Mr. Norton, in this connection, to know something, too, of
mediaeval land tenure, ancient Roman and modern English. He proposed
artfully to pander to his client's literary tastes--assuming that he had
such tastes. But above all, this abstract must be entirely explanatory
of himself, since its final purpose was to remove whatever doubts his
mere appearance might have bred in Mr. Norton's mind.
“If my pocket could just be brought to stand the strain of new clothes
before the next sitting of court, I might reasonably hope for a share of
the pickings,” thought the judge.
Entering the court-house, he found himself in a narrow hall. On his
right was the jury-room, and on his left the county clerk's office,
stuffy little holes, each lighted by a single window. Beyond, and
occupying the full width of the building, was the court-room, with its
hard, wooden benches and its staring white walls. Advancing to the door,
which stood open, the judge surveyed the room with the greatest possible
satisfaction. He could fancy it echoing to that eloquence of which he
felt himself to be the master. He would show the world, yet, what was
in him, and especially Solomon Mahaffy, who clearly had not taken his
measure.
Turning away from the agreeable picture his mind had conjured up,
he entered the county clerk's office. He was already known to this
official, whose name was Saul, and he now greeted him with a pleasant
air of patronage. Mr. Saul removed his feet from the top of his desk and
motioned his visitor to a chair; at the same time he hospitably thrust
forward a square box filled with sawdust. It was plain he labored under
the impression that the judge's call was of an unprofessional character.
“A little matter of business brings me here, sir,” began the judge,
with a swelling chest and mellow accents. “No, sir, I'll not be
seated--another time I'll share your leisure if I may--now I am in some
haste to look up a title for my client, Mr. Norton.”
“What Norton?” asked Mr. Saul, when he had somewhat recovered from the
effect of this announcement.
“Mr. Charles Norton, of Thicket Point,” said the judge.
“I reckon you mean that timber tract of old Joe Quaid's.” Mr. Saul
viewed the judge's ruinous exterior with a glance of respectful awe,
for clearly a man who could triumph over such a handicap must possess
uncommon merit of some sort. “So you're looking after Charley Norton's
business for him, are you?” he added.
“He's a client of mine. We have mutual friends, sir--I refer to Miss
Malroy,” the judge vouchsafed to explain.
“You're naming our best people, sir, when you name the Malroys and the
Nortons; they are pretty much in a class by themselves,” said Mr. Saul,
whose awe of the judge was momentarily increasing.
“I don't underestimate the value of a social endorsement, sir, but
I've never stood on that,” observed the judge. “I've come amongst you
unheralded, but I expect you to find me out. Now, sir, if you'll be good
enough, I'll glance at the record.”
Mr. Saul scrambled up out of the depths of his chair and exerted himself
in the judge's behalf.
“This is what you want, sir. Better take the ledger to the window, the
light in here ain't much.” He drew forward a chair as he spoke, and
the judge, seating himself, began to polish his spectacles with great
deliberation. He felt that he had reached a crisis in his career, and
was disposed to linger over the hope that was springing up in his heart.
“How does the docket for the next term of court stand?” he inquired.
“Pretty fair, sir,” said Mr. Saul.
“Any litigation of unusual interest in prospect?” The judge was fitting
his glasses to the generous arch of his nose, a feature which nicely
indexed its owner's habits.
“No, sir, just the ordinary run of cases.”
“I hoped to hear you say different.”
“You've set on the bench, sir?” suggested Mr. Saul.
“In one of the eastern counties, but my inclination has never been
toward the judiciary. My temperament, sir, is distinctly aggressive--and
each one according to the gifts with which God has been graciously
pleased to endow him! I am frank to say, however, that my decisions have
received their meed of praise from men thoroughly competent to speak
on such matters.” He was turning the leaves of the ledger as he spoke.
Suddenly the movement of his hand was arrested.
“Found it?” asked Mr. Saul. But the judge gave him no answer; absorbed
and aloof he was staring down at the open pages of the book. “Found the
entry?” repeated Mr. Saul.
“Eh?--what's that? No--” he appeared to hesitate. “Who is this man
Quintard?” The question cost him an effort, that was plain.
“He's the owner of a hundred-thousand-acre tract in this and abutting
counties,” said Mr. Saul.
The judge continued to stare down at the page.
“Is he a resident of the county?” he asked, at length.
“No, he lives back yonder in North Carolina.”
“A hundred thousand acres!” the judge muttered thoughtfully.
“There or thereabouts--yes, sir.”
“Who has charge of the land?”
“Colonel Fentress; he was old General Ware's law partner. I've heard it
was the general who got this man Quintard to make the investment, but
that was before my time in these parts.”
The judge lapsed into a heavy, brooding silence.
A step sounded in the narrow hall. An instant later the door was pushed
open, and grateful for any interruption that would serve to take Mr.
Saul's attention from himself, the judge abruptly turned his back on the
clerk and began to examine the record before him. Engrossed in this, he
was at first scarcely aware of the conversation that was being carried
on within a few feet of him. Insensibly, however, the cold, level tones
of the voice that was addressing itself to Mr. Saul quickened the beat
of his pulse, the throb of his heart, and struck back through the years
to a day from which he reckoned time. The heavy, calf-bound volume in
his hand shook like a leaf in a gale. He turned slowly, as if in dread
of what he might see.
What he saw was a man verging on sixty, lean and dark, with thin, shaven
cheeks of a bluish cast above the jaw, and a strongly aquiline profile.
Long, black locks swept the collar of his coat, while his tall, spare
figure was habited in sleek broadcloth and spotless linen. For a moment
the judge seemed to struggle with doubt and uncertainty, then his face
went a ghastly white and the book slipped from his nerveless fingers to
the window ledge.
The stranger, his business concluded, swung about on his heel and
quitted the office. The judge, his eyes starting from their sockets,
stared after him; the very breath died on his lips; speechless and
motionless, he was still seeing that tall, spare figure as it had passed
before him, but his memories stripped a weight of thirty years from
those thin shoulders. At last, heavy-eyed and somber, he glanced about
him. Mr. Saul, bending above his desk, was making an entry in one of his
ledgers. The judge shuffled to his side.
“Who was that man?” he asked thickly, resting a shaking hand on the
clerk's arm.
“That?--Oh, that was Colonel Fentress I was just telling you about.” He
looked up from his writing. “Hello! You look like you'd seen a ghost!”
“It's the heat in here--I reckon--” said the judge, and began to mop his
face.
“Ever seen the colonel before?” asked Mr. Saul curiously.
“Who is he?”
“Well, sir, he's one of our leading planters, and a mighty fine lawyer.”
“Has he always lived here?”
“No, he came into the county about ten years ago, and bought a place
called The Oaks, over toward the river.”
“Has he--has he a family?” The judge appeared to be having difficulty
with his speech.
“Not that anybody knows of. Some say he's a widower, others again say
he's an old bachelor; but he don't say nothing, for the colonel is as
close as wax about his own affairs. So it's pure conjecture, sir.” There
was a brief silence. “The county has its conundrums, and the colonel's
one of them,” resumed Mr. Saul.
“Yes?” said the judge.
“The colonel's got his friends, to be sure, but he don't mix much with
the real quality.”
“Why not?” asked the judge.
“He's apparently as high-toned a gentleman as you'd meet with anywhere;
polished, sir, so smooth your fingers would slip if you tried to take
hold of him, but it's been commented on that when a horsethief or
counterfeiter gets into trouble the colonel's always first choice for
counsel.”
“Get's 'em off, does he?” The judge spoke somewhat grimly.
“Mighty nigh always. But then he has most astonishing luck in the
matter of witnesses. That's been commented on too.” The judge nodded
comprehendingly. “I reckon you'd call Tom Ware, out at Belle Plain,
one of Fentress' closest friends. He's another of your conundrums. I
wouldn't advise you to be too curious about the colonel.”
“Why not?” The judge was frowning now.
“It will make you unpopular with a certain class. Those of us who've
been here long enough have learned that there are some of these
conundrums we'd best not ask an answer for.”
The judge pondered this.
“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that freedom of speech is not allowed?” he
demanded, with some show of heat.
“Perfect freedom, if you pick and choose your topic,” responded Mr.
Saul.
“Humph!” ejaculated the judge.
“Now you might talk to me with all the freedom you like, but I'd
recommend you were cautious with strangers. There have been those who've
talked freely that have been advised to keep still or harm would come of
it.”
“And did harm come of it?” asked the judge.
“They always kept still.”
“What do you mean by talking freely?”
“Like asking how so and so got the money to buy his last batch of
niggers,” explained Mr. Saul rather vaguely.
“And Colonel Fentress is one of those about whose affairs it is best not
to show too much curiosity?”
“He is, decidedly. His friends appear to set a heap by him. Another of
his particular intimates is a gentleman by the name of Murrell.”
The judge nodded.
“I've met him,” he said briefly. “Does he belong hereabouts?”
“No, hardly; he seems to hold a sort of roving commission. His home is,
I believe, near Denmark, in Madison County.”
“What's his antecedents?”
“He's as common a white man as ever came out of the hills, but he
appears to stand well with Colonel Fentress.”
“Colonel Fentress!” The judge spat in sheer disgust.
“You don't appear to fancy the colonel--” said Mr. Saul.
“I don't fancy wearing a gag--and damned if I do!” cried the judge.
“Oh, it ain't that exactly; it's just minding your own business. I
reckon you'll find there's lot's to be said in favor of goin' ca'mly on
attending strictly to your own affairs, sir,” concluded Mr. Saul.
Acting on a sudden impulse, the judge turned to the door. The business
and the hope that had brought him there were forgotten. He muttered
something about returning later, and hastily quitted the office.
“Well, I reckon he's a conundrum too!” reflected Mr. Saul, as the door
swung shut.
In the hall the judge's steps dragged and his head was bowed. He was
busy with his memories, memories that spanned the desolate waste of
years in which he had walked from shame to shame, each blacker than the
last. Then passion shook him.
“Damn him--may God-for ever damn him!” he cried under his breath, in
a fierce whisper. A burning mist before his eyes, he shuffled down the
hall, down the steps, and into the shaded, trampled space that was known
as the court-house yard. Here he paused irresolutely. Across the way was
the gun-maker's shop, the weather-beaten sign came within range of
his vision, and the dingy white letters on their black ground spelled
themselves out. The words seemed to carry some message, for the judge,
with his eyes fixed on the sign as on some beacon of hope, plunged
across the dusty road and entered the shop.
At supper that night it was plain to both Mr. Mahaffy and Hannibal
that the judge was in a state of mind best described as beatific. The
tenderest consideration, the gentlest courtesy flowed from him as from
an unfailing spring; not that he was ever, even in his darkest hours,
socially remiss, but there was now a special magnificence to his manner
that bred suspicion in Mahaffy's soul. When he noted that the judge's
shoes were extremely dusty, this suspicion shaped itself definitely. He
was convinced that on the strength of his prospective fee the judge had
gone to Belle Plain, for what purpose Mr. Mahaffy knew only too well.
“It took you some time to get up that abstract, didn't it, Price?” he
presently said, with artful indirection.
“I shall go on with that in the morning, Solomon; my interest was
dissipated this evening,” rejoined the judge.
“Looks as though you had devoted a good part of your time to
pedestrianism,” suggested Mahaffy.
“Quite right, so I did, Solomon.”
“Were you at Belle Plain?” demanded Mahaffy harshly and with a black
scowl. The judge had agreed to keep away from Belle Plain.
“No, Solomon, you forget our pact.”
“Well, I am glad you remembered it.”
They finished supper, the dishes were cleared away and the candles
lighted, when the judge produced a mysterious leather-covered case. This
he placed upon the table and opened, and Mahaffy and Hannibal, who had
drawn near, saw with much astonishment that it held a handsome pair of
dueling pistols, together with all their necessary paraphernalia.
“Where did you get 'em, Judge?--Oh, ain't they beautiful!” cried
Hannibal, circling about the table in his excitement.
“My dear lad, they were purchased only a few hours ago,” said the judge
quietly, as he began to load them.
“For Heaven's sake, Price, do be careful!” warned Mahaffy, who had a
horror of pistols that extended to no other species of firearm.
“I shall observe all proper caution, Solomon,” the judge assured him
sweetly.
“Judge, may I try 'em some day?” asked Hannibal.
“Yes, my boy, that's part of a gentleman's education.”
“Well, look out you don't shoot him before his education begins,”
snapped Mahaffy.
“Where did you buy 'em?” Hannibal was dodging about the judge, the
better to follow the operation of loading.
“At the gunsmith's, dear lad. It occurred to me that we required small
arms. If you'll stand quietly at my elbow and not hop around, you'll
relieve Mr. Mahaffy's apprehension.”
“I declare, Price, you need a guardian, if ever a man did!” cried
Mahaffy, in a tone of utter exasperation.
“Why, Solomon?”
“Why?--they are absolutely useless. It was a waste of good money that
you'll be sorry about.”
“Bless you, Solomon--they ain't paid for!” said the judge, with a thick
little chuckle.
“I didn't do you the injustice to suppose they were; but you haven't any
head for business; aren't you just that much nearer the time when not a
soul here will trust you? That's just like you, to plunge ahead and use
up your credit on gimcracks!” Mahaffy prided himself on his acquaintance
with the basic principles of economics.
“I can sell 'em again,” observed the judge placidly.
“For less than half what they are worth!--I never knew so poor a
manager!”
The pistols were soon loaded, and the judge turned to Hannibal.
“I regretted that you were not with me out at Boggs' this evening,
Hannibal; you would have enjoyed seeing me try these weapons there. Now
carry a candle into the kitchen and place it on the table.”
Mahaffy laughed contemptuously, but was relieved to know the purpose to
which the judge had devoted the afternoon.
“What aspersion is rankling for utterance within you now, Solomon?” said
the judge tolerantly. Assuming a position that gave him an unobstructed
view across the two rooms, he raised the pistol in his hand and
discharged it in that brief instant when he caught the candle's flame
between the notches of the sight, but he failed to snuff the candle, and
a look of bitter disappointment passed over his face. He picked up the
other pistol. “This time--” he muttered under his breath.
“Try blowing it out try the snuffers!” jeered Mahaffy.
“This time!” repeated the judge, unheeding him, and as the pistol-shot
rang out the light vanished. “By Heaven, I did it!” roared the judge,
giving way to an uncontrollable burst of feeling. “I did it--and I can
'do it again--light the candle, Hannibal!”
He began to load the pistols afresh with feverish haste, and Mahaffy,
staring at him in amazement, saw that of a sudden the sweat was dripping
from him. But the judge's excitement prevented his attempting another
shot at once, twice his hand was raised, twice it was lowered, the
third time the pistol cracked and the candle's flame was blown level,
fluttered for a brief instant, and went out.
“Did I nick the tallow, Hannibal?” The judge spoke anxiously.
“Yes, sir, both shots.”
“We must remedy that,” said the judge. Then, as rapidly as he could
load and fire, bullet after bullet was sent fairly through the flame,
extinguishing it each time. Mahaffy was too astonished at this display
of skill even to comment, while Hannibal's delight knew no bounds. “That
will do!” said the judge at last. He glanced down at the pistol in his
hand. “This is certainly a gentleman's weapon!” he murmured.