It had been with no little reluctance that Solomon Mahaffy accompanied
Yancy and Cavendish to Belle Plain; he would have preferred to remain in
Raleigh in attendance upon judge Price. Intimately acquainted with the
judge's mental processes, he could follow all the devious workings of
that magnificent mind; he could fathom the simply hellish ingenuity
he was capable of putting forth to accomplish temporary benefits.
Permitting his thoughts to dwell upon the mingled strength and weakness
which was so curiously blended in Slocum Price's character, he had
horrid visions of that great soul, freed from the trammels of restraint,
confiding his melancholy history to Mr. Pegloe in the hope of bolstering
his fallen credit at the City Tavern.
Always where the judge was concerned he fluctuated between extremes of
doubt and confidence. He felt that under the urgent spur of occasion
his friend could rise to any emergency, while a sustained activity made
demands which he could not satisfy; then his efforts were discounted by
his insane desire to realize at once on his opportunities; in his haste
he was for ever plucking unripe fruit; and though he might keep one eye
on the main chance the other was fixed just as resolutely on the nearest
tavern.
With the great stake which fate had suddenly introduced into their
losing game, he wished earnestly to believe that the judge would stay
quietly in his office and complete the task he had set himself; that
with this off his hands the promise of excitement at Belle Plain
would compel his presence there, when he would pass somewhat under the
restraining influence which he was determined to exert; in short, to
Solomon, life embraced just the one vital consideration, which was to
maintain the judge in a state of sobriety until after his meeting with
Fentress.
The purple of twilight was stealing over the land when he and his two
companions reached Belle Plain. They learned that Tom Ware had returned
from Memphis, that the bayou had been dragged but without results, and
that as yet nothing had been heard from Carrington or the dogs he had
gone for.
Presently Cavendish and Yancy set off across the fields. They were going
on to the raft, to Polly and the six little Cavendishes, whom they had
not seen since early morning; but they promised to be back at Belle
Plain within an hour.
By very nature an alien, Mahaffy sought out a dark corner on the wide
porch that overlooked the river to await their return. The house had
been thrown open, and supper was being served to whoever cared to stay
and partake of it. The murmur of idle purposeless talk drifted out to
him; he was irritated and offended by it. There was something garish
in this indiscriminate hospitality in the very home of tragedy. As the
moments slipped by his sense of displeasure increased, with mankind
in general, with himself, and with the judge--principally with the
judge--who was to make a foolish target of himself in the morning. He
was going to give the man who had wrecked his life a chance to take
it as well. Mahaffy's cold logic dealt cynically with the preposterous
situation his friend had created.
In the midst of his angry meditations he heard a clock strike in the
hall and counted the strokes. It was nine o'clock. Surely Yancy and
Cavendish had been gone their hour! He quitted his seat and strolled
restlessly about the house. He felt deeply indignant with everybody and
everything. Human intelligence seemed but a pitiable advance on brute
instinct. A whole day had passed and what had been accomplished?
Carrington, the judge, Yancy, Cavendish--the four men who might have
worked together to some purpose had widely separated themselves; and
here was the duel, the very climax of absurdity. He resumed his dark
corner and waited another hour. Still no Carrington, and Yancy and
Cavendish had not come up from the raft.
“Fools!” thought Mahaffy bitterly. “All of them fools!”
At last he decided to go back to the judge; and a moment later was
hurrying down the lane in the direction of the highroad, but, jaded
as he was by the effort he had already put forth that day, the walk
to Raleigh made tremendous demands on him, and it was midnight when he
entered the little town.
It can not be said that he was altogether surprised when he found
their cottage dark and apparently deserted. He had half expected
this. Entering, and not stopping to secure a candle, he groped his way
up-stairs to the room on the second floor which he and the judge shared.
“Price!” he called, but this gained him no response, and he cursed
softly under his breath.
He hastily descended to the kitchen, lighted a candle, and stepped into
the adjoining room. On the table was a neat pile of papers, and
topping the pile was the president's letter. Being burdened by no
false scruples, and thinking it might afford some clue to the judge's
whereabouts, Mahaffy took it up and read it. Having mastered its
contents he instantly glanced in the direction of the City Tavern, but
it was wrapped in darkness.
“Price is drunk somewhere,” was his definite conclusion. “But he'll be
at Boggs' the first thing in the morning--most likely so far gone he
can hardly stand!” The letter, with its striking news, made little or no
impression on him just then; it merely furnished the clue he had sought.
The judge was off somewhere marketing his prospects.
After a time Mahaffy went up-stairs, and, without removing his clothes,
threw himself on the bed. He was worn down to the point of exhaustion,
yet he could not sleep, though the deep silence warned him that day was
not far off. What if--but he would not let the thought shape itself in
his mind. He had witnessed the judge's skill with the pistol, and he had
even a certain irrational faith in that gentleman's destiny. He prayed
God that Fentress might die quickly and decently with the judge's bullet
through his brain. Over and over in savage supplication he muttered his
prayer that Fentress might die.
He began to watch for the coming of the dawn, but before the darkness
lifted he had risen from the bed and gone downstairs, where he made
himself a cup of wretched coffee. Then he blew out his candle and
watched the gray light spread. He was impatient now to be off, and fully
an hour before the sun, set out for Boggs', a tall, gaunt figure in the
shadowy uncertainty of that October morning. He was the first to reach
the place of meeting, but he had scarcely entered the meadow when
Fentress rode up, attended by Tom Ware. They dismounted, and the colonel
lifted his hat. Mahaffy barely acknowledged the salute; he was in no
mood for courtesies that meant nothing. Ware was clearly of the same
mind.
There was an awkward pause, then Fentress and Ware spoke together in
a low tone. The planter's speech was broken and hoarse, and his heavy,
bloodshot eyes were the eyes of a haunted man; this was all a part of
Fentress' scheme to face the world, and Ware still believed that the
fires Hicks had kindled had served his desperate need.
When the first long shadows stole out from the edge of the woods
Fentress turned to Mahaffy, whose glance was directed toward the distant
corner of the field, where he knew his friend must first appear.
“Why are we waiting, sir?” he demanded, his tone cold and formal.
“Something has occurred to detain Price,” answered Mahaffy.
The colonel and Ware exchanged looks. Again they spoke together, while
Mahaffy watched the road. Ten minutes slipped by in this manner, and
once more Fentress addressed Mahaffy.
“Do you know what could have detained him?” he inquired, the ghost of a
smile curling his thin lips.
“I don't,” said Mahaffy, and relapsed into a moody and anxious silence.
He held dueling in very proper abhorrence, and only his feeling of
intense but never-declared loyalty to his friend had brought him there.
Another interval of waiting succeeded.
“I have about reached the end of my patience; I shall wait just ten
minutes longer,” said Fentress, and drew out his watch.
“Something has happened--” began Mahaffy.
“I have kept my engagement; he should have kept his,” Fentress
continued, addressing Ware. “I am sorry to have brought you here for
nothing, Tom.”
“Wait!” said Mahaffy, planting himself squarely before Fentress.
“I consider this comic episode at an end,” and Fentress pocketed his
watch.
“Scarcely!” rejoined Mahaffy. His long arm shot out and the open palm of
his hand descended on the colonel's face. “I am here for my friend,” he
said grimly.
The colonel's face paled and colored by turns.
“Have you a weapon?” he asked, when he could command his voice. Mahaffy
exhibited the pistol he had carried to Belle Plain the day before.
“Step off the ground, Tom.” Fentress spoke quietly. When Ware had done
as he requested, the colonel spoke again. “You are my witness that I was
the victim of an unprovoked attack.”
Mr. Ware accepted this statement with equanimity, not to say
indifference.
“Are you ready?” he asked; he glanced at Mahaffy, who by a slight
inclination of the head signified that he was. “I reckon you're a green
hand at this sort of thing?” commented Tom evilly.
“Yes,” said Mahaffy tersely.
“Well, listen: I shall count, one, two, three; at the word three you
will fire. Now take your positions.”
Mahaffy and the colonel stood facing each other, a distance of twelve
paces separating them. Mahaffy was pale but dogged, he eyed Fentress
unflinchingly. Quick on the word Fentress fired, an instant later
Mahaffy's pistol exploded; apparently neither bullet had taken effect,
the two men maintained the rigid attitude they had assumed; then Mahaffy
was seen to turn on his heels, next his arm dropped to his side and the
pistol slipped from his fingers, a look of astonishment passed over his
face and left it vacant and staring while his right hand stole up toward
his heart; he raised it slowly, with difficulty, as though it were held
down by some invisible weight.
A hush spread across the field. It was like one of nature's invisible
transitions. Along the edge of the woods the song of birds was stricken
into silence. Ware, heavy-eyed Fentress, his lips twisted by a tortured
smile, watched Mahaffy as he panted for breath, with his hand clenched
against his chest. That dead oppressive silence lasted but a moment,
from out of it came a cry that smote on the wounded man's ears and
reached his consciousness.
“It's Price--” he gasped, his words bathed in blood, and he pitched
forward on his face.
Ware and Fentress had heard the cry, too, and running to their horses
threw themselves into the saddle and galloped off. The judge midway of
the meadow roared out a furious protest but the mounted men turned into
the highroad and vanished from sight, and the judge's shaking legs bore
him swiftly in the direction of the gaunt figure on the ground.
Mahaffy struggled to rise, for he was hearing his friend's voice now,
the voice of utter anguish, calling his name. At last painful effort
brought him to his knees. He saw the judge, clothed principally in
a gaily colored bed-quilt, hatless and shoeless, his face sodden and
bleary from his night's debauch. Mahaffy stood erect and staggered
toward him, his hand over his wound, his features drawn and livid, then
with a cry he dropped at his friend's feet.
“Solomon! Solomon!” And the judge knelt beside him.
“It's all right, Price; I kept your appointment,” whispered Mahaffy; a
bloody spume was gathering on his lips, and he stared up at his friend
with glassy eyes.
In very shame the judge hid his face in his hands, while sobs shook him.
“Solomon--Solomon, why did you do this?” he cried miserably.
The harsh lines on the dying man's face erased themselves.
“You're the only friend I've known in twenty years of loneliness, Price.
I've loved you like a brother,” he panted, with a pause between each
word.
Again the judge buried his face in his hands.
“I know it, Solomon--I know it!” he moaned wretchedly.
“Price, you are still a man to be reckoned with. There's the boy; take
your place for his sake and keep it--you can.”
“I will--by God, I will!” gasped the judge. “You hear me? You hear me,
Solomon? By God's good help, I will!”
“You have the president's letter--I saw it,” said Mahaffy in a whisper.
“Yes!” cried the judge. “Solomon, the world is changing for us!”
“For me most of all,” murmured Mahaffy, and there was a bleak instant
when the judge's ashen countenance held the full pathos of age and
failure. “Remember your oath, Price,” gasped the dying man. A moment of
silence succeeded. Mahaffy's eyes closed, then the heavy lids slid back.
He looked up at the judge while the harsh lines of his sour old face
softened wonderfully. “Kiss me, Price,” he whispered, and as the judge
bent to touch him on the brow, the softened lines fixed themselves in
death, while on his lips lingered a smile that was neither bitter nor
sneering.