THE FIRST SPARK PASSES
"Now, gentlemen," shouted the auctioneer when he had finished his oration
upon the girl's attractions, "what 'tin I bid? Eight hundred?"
Stephen caught his breath. There was a long pause no one cared to start
the bidding.
"Come, gentlemen, come! There's my friend Alf Jenkins. He knows what
she's worth to a cent. What'll you give, Alf? Is it eight hundred?"
Mr. Jenkins winked at the auction joined in the laugh.
"Three hundred!" he said.
The auctioneer was mortally offended. Then some one cried:--"Three
hundred and fifty!"
It was young Colfax. He was recognized at once, by name, evidently as a
person of importance.
"Thank you, Mistah Colfax, suh," said the auctioneer, with a servile wave
of the hand in his direction, while the crowd twisted their necks to see
him. He stood very straight, very haughty, as if entirely oblivious to
his conspicuous position.
"Three seventy-five!"
"That's better, Mistah Jenkins," said the auctioneer, sarcastically. He
turned to the girl, who might have stood to a sculptor for a figure of
despair. Her hands were folded in front of her, her head bowed down. The
auctioneer put his hand under her chin and raised it roughly. "Cheer up,
my gal," he said, "you ain't got nothing to blubber about now."
Hester's breast heaved and from her black eyes there shot a magnificent
look of defiance. He laughed. That was the white blood.
The white blood!
Clarence Colfax had his bid taken from his lips. Above the heads of the
people he had a quick vision of a young man with a determined face, whose
voice rang clear and strong,-- "Four hundred!"
Even the auctioneer, braced two ways, was thrown off his balance by the
sudden appearance of this new force. Stephen grew red over the sensation
he made. Apparently the others present had deemed competition with such
as Jenkins and young Colfax the grossest folly. He was treated to much
liberal staring before the oily salesman arranged his wits to grapple
with the third factor.
Four hundred from--from--from that gentleman. And the chubby index seemed
the finger of scorn.
"Four hundred and fifty!" said Mr. Colfax, defiantly.
Whereupon Mr. Jenkins, the New Orleans dealer, lighted a very long cigar
and sat down on the coping. The auctioneer paid no attention to this
manoeuvre. But Mr. Brice and Mr. Colfax, being very young, fondly
imagined that they had the field to themselves, to fight to a finish.
Here wisdom suggested in a mild whisper to Stephen that there was a last
chance to pull out. And let Colfax have the girl? Never. That was pride,
and most reprehensible. But second he thought of Mr. Canter and of Nancy,
and that was not pride.
"Four seventy-five!" he cried.
"Thank you, suh."
"Now fur it, young uns!" said the wag, and the crowd howled with
merriment.
"Five hundred!" snapped Mr. Colfax.
He was growing angry. But Stephen was from New England, and poor, and he
thought of the size of his purse. A glance at his adversary showed that
his blood was up. Money was plainly no consideration to him, and young
Colfax did not seem to be the kind who would relish returning to a young
lady and acknowledge a defeat.
Stephen raised the bid by ten dollars. The Southerner shot up fifty.
Again Stephen raised it ten. He was in full possession of himself now,
and proof against the thinly veiled irony of the oily man's remarks in
favor of Mr. Colfax. In an incredibly short time the latter's impetuosity
had brought them to eight hundred and ten dollars.
Then several things happened very quickly.
Mr. Jenkins got up from the curb and said, "Eight hundred and
twenty-five," with his cigar in his mouth. Scarcely had the hum of
excitement died when Stephen, glancing at Colfax for the next move, saw
that young gentleman seized from the rear by his uncle, the tall Colonel.
And across the street was bliss Virginia Carvel, tapping her foot on the
pavement.
"What are you about, sir?" the Colonel cried. "The wench isn't worth it."
"Mr. Colfax shook himself free.
"I've got to buy her now, sir," he cried.
"I reckon not," said the Colonel. "You come along with me."
Naturally Mr. Colfax was very angry. He struggled but he went. And so,
protesting, he passed Stephen, at whom he did not deign to glance. The
humiliation of it must have been great for Mr. Colfax. "Jinny wants her;
sir," he said, "and I have a right to buy her."
"Jinny wants everything," was the Colonel's reply. And in a single look
of curiosity and amusement his own gray eyes met Stephen's. They seemed
to regret that this young man, too, had not a guardian. Then uncle and
nephew recrossed the street, and as they walked off the Colonel was seen
to laugh. Virginia had her chin in the air, and Clarence's was in his
collar.
The crowd, of course, indulged in roars of laughter, and even Stephen
could not repress a smile, a smile not without bitterness. Then he
wheeled to face Mr. Jerkins. Out of respect for the personages involved,
the auctioneer had been considerately silent daring the event. It was Mr.
Brice who was now the centre of observation.
Come, gentlemen, come, this here's a joke--eight twenty-five. She's worth
two thousand. I've been in the business twenty yea's, and I neve' seen
her equal. Give me a bid, Mr.--Mr.--you have the advantage of me, suh."
"Eight hundred and thirty-five!" said Stephen.
"Now, Mr. Jerkins, now, suh! we've got twenty me' to sell."
"Eight fifty!" said Mr. Jerkins.
"Eight sixty!" said Stephen, and they cheered him.
Mr. Jenkins took his cigar out of his teeth, and stared.
"Eight seventy-five!" said he.
"Eight eighty-five!" said Stephen.
There was a breathless pause.
"Nine hundred!" said the trader.
"Nine hundred and ten!" cried Stephen.
At that Mr. Jerkins whipped his hat from off his head, and made Stephen a
derisive bow.
"She's youahs, suh," he said. "These here are panic times. I've struck my
limit. I can do bettah in Louisville fo' less. Congratulate you, suh
--reckon you want her wuss'n I do."
At which sally Stephen grew scarlet, and the crowd howled with joy.
"What!" yelled the auctioneer. "Why, gentlemen, this heah's a joke. Nine
hundred and ten dollars, gents, nine hundred and ten. We've just begun,
gents. Come, Mr. Jerkins, that's giving her away."
The trader shook his head, and puffed at his cigar.
"Well," cried the oily man, "this is a slaughter. Going at nine hundred
an' ten--nine ten--going--going--" down came the hammer--"gone at nine
hundred and ten to Mr.--Mr.--you have the advantage of me, suh."
An attendant had seized the girl, who was on the verge of fainting, and
was dragging her back. Stephen did not heed the auctioneer, but thrust
forward regardless of stares.
"Handle her gently, you blackguard," he cried.
The man took his hands off.
"Suttinly, sah," he said.
Hester lifted her eyes, and they were filled with such gratitude and
trust that suddenly he was overcome with embarrassment.
"Can you walk?" he demanded, somewhat harshly.
"Yes, massa."
"Then get up," he said, "and follow me."
She rose obediently. Then a fat man came out of the Court House, with a
quill in his hand, and a merry twinkle in his eye that Stephen resented.
"This way, please, sah," and he led him to a desk, from the drawer of
which he drew forth a blank deed.
"Name, please!"
"Stephen Atterbury Brice."
"Residence, Mr. Brice!"
Stephen gave the number. But instead of writing it clown, the man merely
stared at him, while the fat creases in his face deepened and deepened.
Finally he put down his quill, and indulged in a gale of laughter, hugely
to Mr. Brice's discomfiture.
"Shucks!" said the fat man, as soon as he could.
"What are you givin' us? That the's a Yankee boa'din' house."
"And I suppose that that is part of your business, too," said Stephen,
acidly.
The fat man looked at him, pressed his lips, wrote down the number,
shaken all the while with a disturbance which promised to lead to another
explosion. Finally, after a deal of pantomime, and whispering and
laughter with the notary behind the wire screen, the deed was made out,
signed, attested, and delivered. Stephen counted out the money grimly, in
gold and Boston drafts.
Out in the sunlight on Chestnut Street, with the girl by his side, it all
seemed a nightmare. The son of Appleton Brice of Boston the owner of a
beautiful quadroon girl! And he had bought hex with his last cent.
Miss Crane herself opened the door in answer to his ring. Her keen eyes
instantly darted over his shoulder and dilated, But Stephen, summoning
all his courage, pushed past her to the stairs, and beckoned Hester to
follow.
"I have brought this--this person to see my mother," he said
The spinster bowed from the back of her neck. She stood transfixed on a
great rose in the hall carpet until she heard Mrs. Brice's door open and
slam, and then she strode up the stairs and into the apartment of Mrs.
Abner Reed. As she passed the first landing, the quadroon girl was
waiting in the hall.