OLD MARCELLUS
Marcellus Pemberton, the third, greeted Hal courteously, yet coldly.
White-haired and rugged, he welcomed his guest with all the pompous
grace of the old southern aristocracy. He promised to dispatch an Indian
toward _Manaos_ at once, then sniffing airily asked what part of
“Yankee-land” the stranger had come from.
Hal took it in good part and smiled. There wasn’t a Yankee-land any
longer, he informed the old man. The United States was one; all those
abiding there were Americans. Yankee was an almost obsolete word.
“Not for the spirit of the Old South,” said Old Marcellus defiantly. “We
of the jungle are free men and not to be driven out of our homes by
those who do not agree with our political and personal views. We can
stay here until we die—we have our Indian servants....”
“Slaves?” Hal interposed, looking about at the ragged-looking Indians
moving in and out of their miserable thatched huts.
“An ageless and honorable custom if one treats one’s slaves like human
beings,” said the old man coldly. “I treat mine as best I can after all
these years of poverty. Misfortune and hardship can come to any man,
even to the free man of the jungle.” He said this last as if to reassure
himself that he believed what he had said.
“Misfortune comes to all of us at some time or other, Mr. Pemberton,”
Hal said politely. “I’ve had a touch of it myself, and I’m feeling
rather low down just now. By your leave, I’ll rest until the old vim and
vigor come back.”
Old Marcellus was the soul of hospitality despite his prejudices. To
slight a guest on his property was the last thing in the world he would
care to do, whether that guest was a hated Yankee or no. And, with Hal’s
admission of indisposition, all his innate courtesy came to the fore. He
poured out apologies profusely, and bade his granddaughter show their
guest his quarters.
“Such as they are,” she smiled, as she led Hal to a rude hut next to
their own. “But it’s the best we have to offer—we reserve it especially
for infrequent guests.”
She led Hal through a low, narrow opening and nodded at the single
chair, the hammock and the washbasin on an old-fashioned stand. It was
primitive, but scrupulously neat and clean.
“Things have just gone along so-so with we Pembertons,” she explained
apologetically. “It’s impossible to grow much more than potatoes here.
We raise chickens and a half mile from here we can get all the
pineapples you want to eat.”
“Boy!” Hal exclaimed. “That sounds darn good to me—just like home. And
chicken? Young lady, I’m your friend for life. You don’t happen to drink
such luxurious beverages as tea and coffee, do you?”
“Through Rene’s generosity we allow ourselves that luxury,” she smiled.
“This property yields us no income whatsoever, Mr. Hal. And it yields
but half of our food.”
“Then why on earth do you people stay here?” Hal asked, flinging himself
down on the chair.
“Grandfather again,” said the girl wistfully. “It was here that we found
Father’s canoe and camping outfit, but no lode. And Grandfather, bound
as he is to memories and to the dim, dead past, had us pack up and leave
our more comfortable quarters thirty miles below here and come live on
this poverty-stricken site. He said that if Father had died here, we
should live here in his memory. A queer man is my grandfather, Mr. Hal.
He’s old and I respect him—indeed, I wouldn’t think of being aught but
obedient to his every wish. Still, I cannot help thinking that his
bitterness is not good.”
“Bitterness is terrible,” Hal agreed. “But one thing, it hasn’t affected
you and that’s good.”
“I’ve seen too much of it. It hasn’t affected my brother Rene, except in
a political way. Grandfather’s ideas about free men in the jungle has
affected him, but that’s all. He’s come to believe that the jungle man
should rebel and take part of the earnings of his more fortunate brother
in the cities.”
“What a strange, struggling family you are!” Hal said, watching the
girl’s sad, piquant face. “Memories and the past are all right as long
as they don’t interfere with the happiness of the present, huh? I bet
you think that way, don’t you, Miss Felice?”
“I do, Mr. Hal,” she admitted, “but you’re the first one to whom I’ve
confessed it.”
“Then it’s safe with me,” Hal said whimsically, “and what’s more it’s
better on my chest than on yours. I’m glad I came along to relieve you
of the burden, honest I am.”
“And I’m glad you came along too. Rene stays away so long sometimes. It
gets rather dull.”
“Not when I’m around,” Hal chuckled, and looked down at the girl
intently. “There’s something about me, my uncle always says, that seems
to whoop things up wherever I go. He says I’m not in a place very long
before things just naturally begin to happen. So if that holds good here
too, Miss Felice, just sit tight and hope for the worst.”
She laughed heartily and, shaking her finger playfully at Hal, stepped
outside.
“The worst can’t be too bad for me,” she called back over her slim
shoulder. “The worst would be better than just this!”
And by that same token did Felice Pemberton invite the long arm of
destiny into that little settlement on the _River of Pale Death_.