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A Tar-Heel Baron
_SECOND EDITION_
[Illustration: "OAKWOOD"]
A Tar-Heel Baron
_by_
Mabell Shippie Clarke Pelton
With Illustrations by
Edward Stratton Holloway
Philadelphia & London
J. B. Lippincott Company
1903
COPYRIGHT, 1903
BY J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY
Published February, 1903
_Electrotyped and Printed by_
_J. B. Lippincott Company, Philadelphia, U.S.A._
TO
F. A. P.
"_One who never turned his back but marched breast forward,
Never doubted clouds would break,
Never dreamed, though right were worsted, wrong would triumph,
Held we fall to rise, are baffled to fight better,
Sleep to wake._"
Contents
Chapter Page
I FRIEDRICH VON RITTENHEIM 7
II THE SNARE OF THE FOWLER 22
III A WEAK MAN'S STRENGTH 38
IV "THOU SHALT NOT COVET THY NEIGHBOR'S WIFE" 47
V A STRONG MAN'S WEAKNESS 61
VI "I WARRANT THERE'S VINEGAR AND PEPPER IN'T!" 74
VII IN THE SOUTHERN APPALACHIANS 85
VIII SYDNEY RIDES AGAINST TIME 105
IX "IT NEEDED ONLY THIS!" 118
X THROUGH THE MIST 132
XI IN THE CORN 146
XII ILLUMINATION 156
XIII RECONCILIATION 171
XIV THE FOURTH OF JULY 179
XV THE GANDER-PULLING 193
XVI ON THE BRIDGE 202
XVII OUT OF A CLEAR SKY 216
XVIII BUSINESS PLANS 230
XIX HILDA 242
XX SACRIFICE 255
XXI A POKE PARTY 267
XXII VON RITTENHEIM COLLECTS HIS RENT 285
XXIII THE 'POSSUM-HUNT 299
XXIV "FOUGHT THE FIGHT" 312
XXV CARL VON STERNBURG 322
XXVI SURRENDER 335
XXVII DIXIE 348
List of Illustrations
Page
OAKWOOD _Frontispiece_
A FENCE AT THE TOP OF A SHARP ASCENT 109
TO THE FRENCH BROAD, WHERE FLETCHER'S BRIDGE CROSSES THE
RIVER 204
PINK ROSES AND RED SWUNG TO AND FRO IN THE SUNSHINE AS
THEY CLIMBED THE DOCTOR'S WHITEWASHED PORCH 242
"IT IS NOT FITTING THAT A VON RITTENHEIM SHOULD LIVE
IN A CABIN LIKE THAT" 269
A Tar-Heel Baron
I
Friedrich von Rittenheim
The incongruity of his manner of life was patent to all who saw. The
mountaineers around him recognized it, but they attributed it to the
fact of his being a foreigner. The more cultivated folk realized that a
man of the world who bore every mark of good birth and breeding was
indeed out of place in the gray jeans of the North Carolina farmer,
guiding the plough with his own hand.
At first no one knew just how to take him, even to the calling of his
name. Baron Friedrich Johann Ludwig--and a half-dozen more--von
Rittenheim was a good deal to compass. The farmers and the negroes
finally settled upon "Mr. Baron."
As to "taking him," it was he who took them, and by storm. He was as
poor as his poorest neighbors, that was evident, so they felt no
jealousy, and laid aside the mistrust which is the countryman's shield
and buckler. He asked agricultural instruction from the men, was
courteously respectful to the women, and played with the children.
Among those of more gentle birth there was little question of their
reception of him after once he had ridden to their doors, making the
first visit, as in the old country. To be sure, he had appeared astride
a mule, but neither his mount nor his dress could conceal a soldierly
bearing that made him the envy of every man who saw him. And he had but
to click his heels together and make his queer foreign bow that
displayed the top of his fair head, and to kiss the fingers of the
"gnaedige Frau," to win the hearts of all the women. His English, in
itself, was no small charm, for, though he had conquered his w's and
th's, his use of idiom was ever new.
It was of the Baron that Dr. Morgan and his wife were talking as they
drove towards home at sunset of a late March day.
"Hanged if Ah know how the fellow gets on," said the Doctor. "It was
fall when he came here, and that farm he bought from Ben Frady hadn't
any crop on it but a mahty little corn. He did his winter ploughing and
killed the pig he took with the place, but how he's pulling through Ah
don't know."
The Doctor spat in a practised and far-reaching manner into the red
clay mud, and shook the reins over the backs of the horse and mule,
which plodded on unheeding.
"This is 'starvation time,' too. Ah noticed yesterday our bacon was
getting low," returned Mrs. Morgan, with the application to self that a
country life induces. "The Baron never did tell any one about his money
affairs, did he, Henry?"
It would be hard to say why she asked, unless for the sake of
continuing the conversation, for, had there been any such bit of
gossip, it would have been the Doctor's exclusive property only so long
as it took him to drive from the place where he had heard it to his own
house.
"Not a word," he replied. "Hi, Pete, what are you doing?"
Always a careless driver, the Doctor was more than ever so when the
state of the roads precluded travelling faster than a walk. He had not
noticed the mud-hole which the mule had tried to jump. In his
harnesses, twine, rope, and wire played as prominent a part as leather.
In fact, most of the points of responsibility were guarded by those
materials rather than by the original. Pete's jump and his mate's
consequent shy proved too much for long-worn traces, and two of them
snapped.
"Hang those things! That outside one popped just yesterday, Sophy,"
said the Doctor, in a tone of grievance, as if the fact of its having
broken yesterday ought to have rendered him free from the liability of
a similar annoyance to-day.
"Ah reckon you-all 'll have to get a new harness some time," returned
Sophy, placidly, holding the reins which her husband transferred to her
as, with no great relish, he lowered his long, lean person into the red
sea of mud below.
"Rather juicy down here. Got any string, wife?"
"Not a bit. You'll have to take a piece out of the lines," suggested
Mrs. Morgan, with resource born of long experience.
"Ah 'low Ah will, though they're pretty short now from doing the same
thing befo'."
He examined them gravely.
"They ain't very strong, either," he added. "Let's see, where are we
at?" He looked about him for landmarks. "Oh, there's the road that
leads to the Baron's over yonder. Give me yo' handkerchief fo' this
other trace now, and we'll try and get there befo' it pops again."
Friedrich von Rittenheim was standing on the porch in front of his
cabin, gazing at the western sky. A royal mantle of purple enwrapped
the shoulders of mighty Pisgah against a background of lucent gold. The
expression of anxiety and of spiritless longing left the man's face as
he watched the melting glory.
"_Wunderschoen!_" he murmured. "I wonder if she, too, is seeing it,
also."
The Doctor's buggy came laboring into sight around the corner of the
house.
"_Ach_, here are my so good friends, who are ever welcome. I kiss your
hand, gr-racious Madam," he cried, as he went to the side of the
carriage, and unshrinkingly saluted an old fur glove, from which the
gracious madam's every finger was protruding.
"Ah've broken mah traces, Baron. Can you-all let me have some wire or
string?"
"With delight, my dear Doctor. And will you not do me the honor to
enter herein, dear lady, while the Herr Doctor and I r-repair the
har-rness?"
He helped her from the buggy with a courtesy that induced a responsive
manner in her, and she sailed ponderously into the cabin, displaying an
elegance that caused her husband to chuckle and say to himself,--
"He certainly does fetch the women!"
The Baron stirred the fire, whose light fell on a scar, the mark of a
student duel, that crept out from under his hair. He left Mrs. Morgan
stretching her plump feet and puffy hands to enjoy the flames' warmth,
while her keen eyes examined every corner of the bare room, its tidily
swept hearth, and the bunch of galax leaves on the table.
"You-all keep pretty neat fo' a bachelor," she said, when the two men
came in after their task was done. "Ah always tell the Doctor it's
lucky he's married and has some one to look after him. You see he's no
great shakes at keeping clean now;" she looked him over with an eye
made critical by his proximity to the German, who was a model of
soldierly neatness; "and if he wasn't married, Ah don't know what he'd
be!"
Von Rittenheim didn't know, either, so he said, "That is one advantage
of an ar-rmy tr-raining, Mrs. Mor-rgan."
"Well, Ah don't know as Ah agree with you there, Baron," she replied.
"Henry was in the army all through the Civil War, and Ah don't think
his habits were a bit improved at the end of it."
Henry grinned appreciatively, but the Baron's features betrayed only
such interest as incited Mrs. Morgan to further conversation.
"Where's the rocking-chair you had when Ah was here befo'? That was Ben
Frady's mother's chair. Ah've seen the old woman sitting out on the
po'ch in it many a time."
She waited for an answer, and Friedrich colored to the roots of his
hair. It was on his tongue's tip to say that it was in the next room,
but Mrs. Morgan was quite capable of penetrating there; and, besides,
telling the truth was another result of army training. He stammered
something about having disposed of it, and hastened to ask if Madam
would not like a cup of coffee.
It was a natural pride that deterred von Rittenheim from confessing to
these friends of not many months' standing that he had sold the chair,
the only thing in the house worth selling, and had sold it from
necessity. The Doctor was right in his suspicions that the Baron was
not getting on comfortably. Ten days ago he had spent his very last
cent, and he was learning the true meaning of the word "poverty." The
crop of corn that he had bought with the farm had served him until now
as feed for the mule, as meal and hominy, and, by the alchemy of the
alembic, as whisky. The end of the bacon from Ben Frady's pig was on
the shelf in the cupboard before which he was standing, and he had just
offered to his guest the last of the coffee with which the sale of old
Mrs. Frady's chair had provided him. It was this anxiety that had
clouded his brow as he looked at the sunset. He had nothing to send to
market, not even wood, for his bit of forest yielded only enough for
his own use. He had sold his cow, and had let a man have his mule for
its keep.
It had not hurt his pride to live on this little mountain farm. He was
as independent there as at home; more so, because the social demands
upon him were as nothing. But no money and no food meant that he must
work for a wage, and that galled him. Then, at this season of the year,
what work was there to be done? No one needed extra laborers.
It looked very much as if he were brought face to face with starvation,
and a man of thirty-five does not encounter such a prospect as gayly as
a youth.
Fortunately for his further catechism, the idea of coffee appealed to
Mrs. Morgan, and von Rittenheim set about making it, secretly wondering
what his breakfast would be like without it, but preparing it none the
less cheerfully.
"I gr-rieve, dear Frau Mor-rgan," he said, as he offered her the cup,
"that I have not cr-ream for you,--or sugar, either," he added, peering
into a bowl that he knew to be empty. He brightened as he picked up a
little pitcher. "But molasses; may I give to you molasses?"
"Yes, indeed," returned Mrs. Morgan, cordially. "Ah like them just as
well as sugar. Just a few, now," as she held out her cup.
"Shall it be coffee for you, Herr Doctor, or whisky? See, I have a jug
of corn whisky which I myself made."
"No need to ask me, sir. Whisky, of course," and the Doctor's eyes
twinkled under their shaggy brows. "Not bad fo' new whisky," he
commented, as he swallowed the fiery stuff. "How do you make it, Baron?
Ah didn't know you had a still."
"Nor have I, except a little affair in a bucket, with a bit of r-rubber
hose for a worm. It makes enough for me. It is not a pleasant drink,"
he added, quaintly.
"But better than nothing, eh?" returned the Doctor, jovially, and then
was sorry that he had said it, for his glance had fallen within the
cupboard, and had spied out the emptiness of the larder. To cover his
mistake, he added,--
"Mind you-all don't sell any. It's against the law, you know."
"A very str-range law. If I from my corn make meal or hominy, or what
you call 'r-roughness,' for the cattle to eat, I may sell them. But if
I make whisky, I must dr-rink it all myself, eh?"
"Yes, or give it to me! You see they must tax us on something, and
while they class whisky as a luxury--"
"Cor-rn whisky?" interrupted Friedrich, incredulous.
"--they know it's enough of a necessity with us North Carolina
mountaineers, at any rate, to return some revenue."
"My sympathy is with the moonshiners, I confess, Herr Doctor; though it
is also with men who think such a bever-rage good to dr-rink! You go?
Ah, dear lady, I hope it will be soon again that you honor my house."
The Baron looked after the buggy as it disappeared in the dusk, and
then turned back into the cabin, once more to face the harsh reality of
his thoughts.
It grew clear to him that he must seek work in Asheville, the nearest
large town, a dozen miles away. He must walk there and beg for
employment like any tramp. Such straits as this he had not anticipated
when he had made the sacrifice that had forced him to leave the
Fatherland, though he did not for a moment regret that sacrifice.
What he could not formulate was just how he had been brought to his
present pass. It was with stinging honesty that he owned it to be
through some lack of foresight or of energy. But how should he have
energy when he had no purpose in life?
To be sure, there was Sydney Carroll, who might supply purpose to any
man who loved her, if that man were not a broken-spirited craven. The
hopeless longing that had been in his eyes while he gazed at the sunset
filled them once more. What had he to offer her but devotion,--the one
capacity that was mighty within him? No, not even Love could endow him
with Purpose.
Always he completed the circle of his thoughts. He must work for
somebody else. That would be, indeed, a new experience and a bitter.
He was fighting with his pride when a call outside summoned him. It was
the cry that has brought many a man to his door to be shot to death;
but von Rittenheim had no feuds, and went forward without hesitation.
"Can you-all give me some supper?" asked a man who loomed big in the
darkness as he sat on his horse. "Ah must have taken the wrong turn
back yonder and wandered off the county road."
"This r-road goes only by my house like a bow of which the county
r-road is the str-ring," explained the Baron. "Dismount, I beg, and
with much pleasure will I give you what I can."
It was little enough, though to the bit of bacon was added a couple of
apples roasted in the ashes. It was to the credit of the visitor's
powers of perception that he did not ask for other than was set before
him, and compel his host to disclose his poverty. He was a man of
middle age, with a shrewd face whose expression was spoiled by an
occasional look of slyness or glance of suspicion.
"Very fair whisky," approved the stranger. "Do you get it round here?"
"I make it."
"You do?" with a sudden contraction of the eyelids.
Von Rittenheim saw nothing but his own regret at his necessarily meagre
hospitality, for which he tried to make amends by being increasingly
agreeable.
"You will like to see my little affair?" he asked, after describing the
primitive manufacture of his still.
"Ah'm afraid Ah must be going on; Ah'm obliged to get to Asheville
to-night. But if you'd sell me a quart of yo' whisky to keep me warm on
the way, Ah'd like it."
He opened the door and looked out.
"It's right smart cold," he added.
Friedrich made no reply. He had checked his first impulse, which was to
offer to give the fellow all the whisky he wanted, and he looked with a
sort of fascination at the coin which the other drew from his pocket
and tossed on to the table. Undoubtedly he was hungrier than ever he
had been in his life, and not only had he seen his supper devoured
before his eyes, but there would be nothing to eat in the morning
before his long walk to town. With this money he could buy something at
the store which he must pass on his way.
His recent conversation with Dr. Morgan went through his mind. He
glanced at his guest, who was buttoning his coat and tightening a spur
preparatory to starting.
"I think he will not tell," thought von Rittenheim, and he found an
empty bottle and filled it from the jug. Then he helped the stranger
with his horse, and after his departure returned to look ruefully into
the fire.
"Never before," he mused, "did one of my race commit so petty a wrong."
II
The Snare of the Fowler
It was at the early hour when the morning brings to the earth no warmth
and but a dim and grudging light, that a sharp rap summoned von
Rittenheim to his cabin door. Three men stood outside in the grayness,
their horses tied to trees behind them. To his surprise, Friedrich
recognized his guest of the previous evening.
"_Ach_, my good friend, you did not reach Asheville last night?"
Unconsciously he frowned as he realized that if these men wanted
breakfast he would have to confess that there was nothing to eat in the
house. At the thought his instinct of hospitality and his pride both
suffered.
"Yes, Ah got to Asheville, and Ah've come back--fo' you."
The man entered the cabin and motioned to his companions, who stepped
one to each side of the Baron.
"What do you mean?" Von Rittenheim spoke with amazement born of entire
lack of understanding. His mind could not compass the treachery of the
man to whom he had given his last mouthful.
"Ah mean that Ah'm a United States deputy-marshal, and that Ah 'rest
you fo' retailing."
Von Rittenheim started, a motion that caused three hands to seek as
many pistol-pockets.
"You mean for selling to you last night that whisky to keep the cold
from you?"
"Correct. Of co'se you-all took yo' chances, 'n you struck the wrong
man."
Deputy-marshal Wilder chuckled complacently. He had made few captures
lately, and he counted on this to look well at headquarters. Besides,
he was having less trouble with the "big Dutchy" than he had expected.
Indeed, he had prepared his assistants for a hard fight.
"You mistake--I did not str-rike you--yet," said Friedrich,
misunderstanding. "But I compr-rehend that you arrest me, and for
what."
Von Rittenheim looked at Wilder with so much contempt that the man
turned away shamefaced. Still, the justice of his capture appealed to
the German, trained in the soldier's school, for it was true that he
had transgressed the law, and knowingly. That he should have yielded to
the weakness aroused his irritability.
"I am a fool," he ejaculated.
"You-all needn't say anything to incriminate yo'self," said the deputy,
more from habit than because the remark was appropriate.
"I go with you."
Von Rittenheim put on his hat. One of the men tinkled a pair of
handcuffs in his jacket-pocket, and raised his brows inquiringly at
Wilder. The latter nodded, though doubtfully. As he picked himself up
from the floor a little later he realized that his doubt was justified.
At the mere sight of the irons the Baron had flashed into fury. He
flung one man across the table with a violence that brought him several
minutes' quiet. The other rolled into a corner, and Wilder fell
altogether too near for comfort to the bricks of the fireplace.
As the deputy-marshal rose he felt von Rittenheim's grasp on his
throat.
"You understand not," he cried, his usually good English almost
unintelligible in his excitement, "You understand not--how, indeed,
should you?--that I am a gentleman. When I say I go with you, I go."
Giving him a shake as a final relief to his feelings, he added,
imperatively,--
"Come, pick up your fr-riends and let us start. You have a horse for
me?"
No one was disposed to make another attempt to handcuff the captive,
and the little detachment set out, headed by the prisoner, who had much
more the appearance of a leader than did any one of the crestfallen
group behind him.
The miles passed but slowly, so heavy was the road's deep mud, and it
seemed to von Rittenheim that he had been travelling for hours when
they crossed the Six Mile Branch that measured but half their journey
done. The keen air of the early morning, whose cold was accentuated by
a drizzling rain, chilled him to the bone, unfortified by food as he
was. He experienced the physical misery that forces to submission men
of large build more quickly than those of lighter make.
His mind suffered in sympathy, and his thoughts were of the bitterest.
Never had his experience known an act of perfidy like that of Wilder.
To have betrayed his hospitality was bad enough,--to have lured him on
to selling the whisky was the act of a villain. He cursed the chance
that had brought the fellow to his door. How had it happened?
The scoundrel had said that he had missed the way, but that was not
probable. The county road was plain enough. He must have passed Dr.
Morgan, too, who would have set him right.
A pang of suspicion came into his mind. One had betrayed him, why not
the other? The Doctor was aware that he had the whisky. He must have
stopped Wilder, knowing him to be an officer, and told him about it.
As a matter of fact, the deputy's story was true. In the dusk he had
turned into the Baron's road without noticing that he had left the
highway. He had passed the Doctor, and had spoken to him, but it was on
the State Road, before he had found himself to be out of his way.
Von Rittenheim, faint from lack of food, sick at heart over his
position, and filled with disgust at his betrayal, was in a mood to
accept any suspicion, and the evil thought grew fat within him. He
pondered every word of his conversation with the Morgans, and fancied
that he saw indisputable evidence of the Doctor's falseness in his talk
about whisky.
The course of affairs in Asheville was brief. Wilder rode beside his
prisoner when they came to the town, not because he feared Friedrich's
escape, but that he might have the appearance of being in command of
the troop. Von Rittenheim was too closely absorbed in his own painful
thoughts to pay any attention to this enforced companionship. He
dismounted wearily as the squad drew rein before the Federal Building,
and followed the deputy-marshal into the commissioner's office.
It was early, but Mr. Weaver was at his desk, for he happened to be
pressed with work.
He was a nervous, bustling man, with an expression of acuteness, and a
trick of rubbing his head with a circular motion, as if he were trying
to effect a tonsure by force of friction. He nodded a recognition of
Wilder and his men, and sent a look of surprise at Von Rittenheim,
whose appearance was not what was usual in the prisoners brought before
him, although his dress seemed to indicate the mountaineer.
"What for?" he asked Wilder, gruffly, when he was at liberty to attend
to them.
"Retailing," returned the deputy-marshal, and proceeded to tell a story
in which the details of his method of purchasing the liquor were
meagre, but the account of the German's resistance to the officers was
full.
Baron von Rittenheim pleaded guilty to the charge against him, and
listened to the exaggerated tale of the arrest without comment, though
with a look of disgust that did not escape Mr. Weaver. Perhaps he knew
his man in Wilder. At any rate, a few trenchant questions brought out
the fact that Friedrich had resisted only when an attempt was made to
handcuff him.
"Really, Wilder," said the commissioner, sharply, "you make me tired.
Haven't you got good sense? Do you suppose a fellow like that is going
to run away?"
"No knowing what these cussed foreigners won't do," growled Wilder, and
added something about being blown up before his prisoner, that brought
a frown to Mr. Weaver's brow.
He was puzzled about von Rittenheim, and he felt sure that there was
something in the case that was not in evidence; but the man had pleaded
guilty, and there was nothing to do but to hold him for the Grand Jury.
"Who'll go on your bond?" he asked, taking up his pen.
"Bond?"
"You must give a justified bond for your appearance before the United
States Court in May."
"Oh, I see. I do not know. I have no fr-riends."
"It's only two hundred dollars."
"It might be only two hundred cents, still would it be the same.
Yesterday I thought I had fr-riends, but to-day----"
He broke off abruptly, and again Weaver gave a perplexed rub to the top
of his head. He opened a door and spoke to a negro boy who passed a
waiting life in the anteroom.
"Sam, ask Mr. Gudger to step here, if he's in the building."
Mr. Gudger was a professional bondsman who added this calling to that
of real-estate dealer and insurance agent, and interwove the three
occupations with some talent and much success.
Von Rittenheim's farm served to secure Gudger against loss, while the
mention of its existence caused the commissioner again to rub his head.
Why in the world should a man----? He gave up the conundrum in despair,
and applied himself to the necessary business.
Friedrich took but a passive part in the transaction, whose detail,
with its rapid interchange of technicalities, he did not attempt to
understand. His courteous dignity and submission to the justice of the
legal procedure told nothing of the caldron of feeling boiling within
him at the _in_-justice that had brought him to a pass where this thing
was right.
As he walked away from the Federal Building, his mind began to leave
these thoughts and to dwell on the almost equally disagreeable subject
of what he should do next. His immediate need was of something to eat.
He was sick with hunger, and he found himself even casting a regretful
thought after Wilder's quarter of a dollar. His hand had happened to
touch it in his pocket during his morning ride, and he had flung it
from him as far as he could into the woods beside the road.
"But, no," he thought, "rather would I starve than buy food with that."
He went up Patton Avenue, and eyed the signs on the buildings in the
hope of seeing one that would suggest to him some way of making money.
The early morning's rain had turned into snow, that beat into the open
place from the north, and drove the loafers from their accustomed
haunts. The pavement was whitening rapidly.
"The first of April to-morrow," thought von Rittenheim, disgustedly.
"What will happen to those pease that I put into the gr-round last
week?"
As he stood, sheltered from the storm by a projecting building, he
reflected that it was useless for him to go back into the country.
There was no planting to be done as early as this, except that of a few
garden vegetables, and he had no seeds to plant even if he went.
He remembered as if it were long ago that he had meant to come to
Asheville to-day, and thought with grim humor that after all he had not
been obliged to walk.
Yes, he must find some occupation in town that would support him during
the month that intervened before the sitting of the court. He knew that
the usual sentence for moonshining was "A hundred dollars or three
months," and, since he had no money, he must submit to the degradation
of imprisonment. May, June, July. That would bring him to August, and
it would be time enough then to consider the future.
A von Rittenheim in prison! A shudder went through him with the
thought, and a wild desire to avert the evil. If only he had not
pledged his farm to that bondsman!
Friedrich's life had not been one to promote business knowledge. At
home he had known but little of affairs--in America, nothing. He did
not realize that he might have raised on his place ten times the amount
of his fine without affecting Mr. Gudger's interests. He thought that
his negotiation with that excellent person had put his estate out of
his hands for all similar uses. Vaguely he thought that the bondsman
would be released when his trial came on, and that at that time the
land would be free again, and that perhaps it might be arranged then.
But he did not see how, for they would not allow him to go out to do
it, and he did not know any one who would take a mortgage on it. And,
oh, how sleepy he was--and how hungry--and how the cold bit through
him!
He bestirred himself and walked around the square. He was studying the
window of a harness-shop which appealed to him as having to do with the
subject he knew most about--horses; and he was pondering in what
capacity he would offer his services to the proprietor, when he was
accosted by a negro boy.
"The boss wants you-all over yonder," he said, grinning affably.
"The--who?" asked the Baron, to whom the appellation was new.
"The boss in the revenue office, Mr. Weaver. He wants you. Ah'm his boy
Sam."
Friedrich supposed that some form had been omitted, and returned with
docility to the Federal Building. Mr. Weaver nodded pleasantly as he
entered.
"This German was brought in here just after you went out, von
Rittenheim. I want you to interpret, if you will."
Friedrich's breakfast seemed now more nebulous than ever, but even this
hour's tedium came to an end, and Weaver, with a "Thank you," pushed a
half-dollar along the table towards him.
"No, no. It is a pleasure, my dear sir," began the Baron, when suddenly
he brought his heels together, made his low bow, and took the money. "I
thank you, _mein Herr_. I need it. I will take it."
Mr. Weaver looked at him with the provincial American's amusement at
foreigners' ways, mingled with shrewdness.
"By the way, do you mind telling me how you-all got into this scrape?"
The German flushed and tossed back his head. Then he controlled
himself, and said, gently,--
"But perhaps you have a r-right to know. If you will excuse me for a
time, however, I will r-return after a breakfast. I left my house very
early this morning."
Weaver noticed the sudden pinched look of faintness that turned von
Rittenheim's ruddy face ashy.
"He's missed more than one meal," he thought, but said aloud only, "Any
time before two o'clock."
It was not much that the commissioner learned from von Rittenheim after
all, for food brought back self-reliance and courage, and he felt that
the whole story of his trouble would be an appeal for sympathy that he
could not make. However, he told enough to cause Weaver to say under
his breath a few condemnatory things about the deputy-marshal, and then
he asked,--
"What are you going to do?"
"I hope to find some occupation in Asheville until the time of my
tr-rial."
"What do you want to do?"
"I care not. I am well, str-rong. I fear not labor."
Mr. Weaver compared with a glance von Rittenheim's figure with his own
puny proportions, and said,--
"No, I should think not!"
Then he rubbed his head and asked,--
"Can you teach?"
"I know not. Never have I done such a thing. I am a soldier."
"That's easily seen. Still, you're a university man."
He touched his forehead just where on Friedrich's the tip of his scar
was visible.
"Oh, yes. I was at Heidelberg."
"I suspect you'll do if you-all are willing to try. My boy's fitting
for college, and he's getting badly behind in his German. If you'd
tackle his instruction for a few weeks, I'm sure it would be of great
value to him. Will you do it?"
"If you will accept a novice, I shall be gr-rateful." And again
Friedrich made his low bow.
"Then be at my house at five this afternoon, and here's a week's salary
in advance. You'll be wanting it, perhaps."
So was Baron von Rittenheim established as Tommy Weaver's tutor, and
fortunate he thought himself.
Fortunate he was, in that this engagement secured to him his simple
living; but most unlucky in that it left him with too much spare time.
Had he worked at a task that occupied seven or eight hours a day, his
thoughts would have filtered through the weariness of his body, and
been purified thereby. But his leisure was abundant, and he spent it in
brooding over his troubles.
To those that had wrung him before was added his present shame. And his
shame was embittered by his suspicion of Dr. Morgan. He held Wilder of
no account. He was beneath a gentleman's notice. But Dr. Morgan had
pretended to be his friend. He dwelt on all his intercourse with him,
and weighed every conversation that he remembered. There came to him
half a hundred trifling circumstances that seemed to substantiate his
distrust.
The lack of his accustomed exercise told on his health. He grew moody
and irritable, and daily the wish for revenge grew stronger.
Satisfaction was due him, and satisfaction he would have.
III
A Weak Man's Strength
It was three weeks later. Bud Yarebrough, going rabbit-hunting,
pondered, as he trudged along the road, upon the freaks of an April
that had come in with snow, and alternately had warmed and chilled the
swelling hopes of bud and blossom, until the end of the month showed
trees and shrubs but a trifle farther advanced than at its beginning.
"Jus' like M'lissy used to treat me!"
He made the comparison with a breath of relief that that time of
wretchedness and rapture was past.
He heard the sound of hoofs approaching from behind, and whistled to
heel his three scrawny hounds. When he made sure of the rider's
identity, he shifted his gun to his other shoulder, and pulled off his
remnant of felt in salutation of Miss Carroll. As she stopped to speak
to him, he stared earnestly at her horse's neck; but kind Nature
permits even a shy man's vision to take a wide range, and Bud by no
means was unobservant of the brilliant skin framed by a glory of red
hair; of the velvet dark eyes with their darker lashes; and of the
corduroy habit, brownly harmonious with the sorrel horse and the clay
road, as with its wearer's coloring.
"How is Melissa, Bud?"
Some of Sydney Carroll's friends thought her voice her greatest charm.
"And the baby? She's a dear baby! I think she looks like Melissa, don't
you?"
"She's tol'able--they's tol'able. Yes, Miss Sydney, they says so,"
replied the lad, whose condition as the father of a family seemed to
cast him into depths of bashfulness.
"It's a great responsibility for you, Bud. I hope you feel it. And I
hope that you won't let _this_ happen often."
Sydney gravely tapped her eye with her finger, while Bud stole a shamed
hand over his own visual organ, which was surrounded by the paling
glories of a recent contusion. The color mounted to his hair as he
stammered,--
"Hit wasn't that--that what you think, Miss Sydney. Hit was a stick o'
wood----" But his voice trailed off into nothingness before the girl's
gaze.
"Bud, I know--I heard how it happened. Don't tell me what isn't true."
Bud kicked a stone that lay at his feet.
"You-all always does find out," he murmured, with unwilling admiration.
"You see Ah was right smart glad about the baby, 'n 'bout M'lissy bein'
so well, 'n Ah jus' took a little; 'n Pink Pressley was awful
aggravatin', 'n Ah jus' 'lowed Ah didn' want nothin' t' interrup' mah
joy," he ended, looking up with a humorous twinkle that brought a
responsive smile to the severe young face before him.
"But Ah know hit ain' right to M'lissy," he went on hurriedly, for he
realized that the smile was only transitory, "'n Ah'm goin' to try, Ah
sho' am," he added, stepping out of the way of the horse, grown uneasy
at this long colloquy. "Ah certainly am goin' to get out the tools 'n
look 'em over to-morrow," he finished, as Sydney gathered up her reins.
"I hope so, Bud; but why don't you do it _to-day_?" she called back,
saying to herself, as Johnny broke into a canter, "As if poor Bud ever
could do anything to-day! He should have been born in the land of
_manana_."
The horse lengthened his stride into a sweeping gallop where the
condition of the road permitted, slackening his pace and betaking
himself to the side, and even to the footpath on the bank, when the mud
grew too deep for speed. The girl paid little attention to him, for,
like all mountain horses, he was accustomed to pick his way with a
sagacity that man cannot assist.
On Sydney's face rested a shade too heavy to have been brought there by
the failings, customary to the country, of Melissa's husband. But
twenty years are not proof against the joint attack of sunshine and
fresh, sweet air and the glorious motion of a horse, and she seemed a
happy, care-free girl to Bob Morgan, sitting in the sun on his father's
porch.
Unlike the Carroll house, which was of stone and surrounded by roofed
verandas, Dr. Morgan's dwelling presented an unabashed glare of
whitewashed weather-boarding. It needed only green shutters to be a
hostage from New England. In summer a rose climbed over the portico and
broke the snowy monotony, but at this season the leafless stems served
only to enhance the bareness.
As he heard Sydney's approach Bob raised his aching head from his hand
and sprang unsteadily to his feet. She was quick to notice his
condition, for she knew only too well the weakness that was wringing
the heart of the good old Doctor and lining "Miss Sophy's" face. Bob
was their only son and only child, "'n hit do seem strange," the
country women said, "that a man who's done's much good's the ol' Doctor
shouldn' have better luck with his boy."
Sydney flushed as Bob ran unevenly along the path to take her from the
saddle. Her experiences seemed to be like history this morning. A
little sigh escaped her as she looked about for the Doctor, and then
resigned herself to be lifted down by Bob's strong and eager, though
shaking, hands.
To him her manner was quite the reverse of her attitude towards the
other victim of a weak will from whom she just had parted. If to
Yarebrough she was straightforward, to this man she was diplomatic. If
to Bud she was Mentor, to Bob she was Telemachus. If Bud stared at her
in puzzled surprise at her "always finding out," Bob exerted himself to
appear before her a man on whom she could rely, because he was sure
that she never had thought of him otherwise.
"Yes, it is a lovely day," she replied, in answer to his salutation.
"Is your mother at home? And what in the world is the matter with your
face?"
He was holding open the gate for her to pass, and she saw that it would
be absurd any longer to ignore his appearance.
"The calf got mixed up in the rose-bush, and while I was getting him
out he kicked me," explained Bob, glibly, shamelessly loading upon the
back of a tiny and unoffending little bull-calf nibbling in front of
the door the burden of his scratched and bruise-stained countenance.
Sydney averted her eyes as he told this unblushing lie, and sighed
again as she thought of the poor mother, for she knew how long a
Carolinian can stay on a horse, and that Bob must have been bad,
indeed, to have rolled off, as it was evident that he had done.
"You must let me do it up for you," she said. "Go and get me the
witch-hazel and something for a bandage."
She sat and waited for him in the living-room, where modern taste had
made use of the blue-and-white homespun coverlets of the Doctor's
grandmother as door curtains and couch covers. She noticed the kettle
swung over the fire from the same crane that had balanced its burden
thus for a hundred years, and she listened to Bob knocking about
up-stairs in the room over her head.
"Now, sit down," she cried, when he returned. "You're so dreadfully
tall. Towels! That won't do at all! Here, I'll wet my handkerchief and
put that on first."
"May I keep it?"
Bob's good eye twinkled merrily, and what was visible of the other
showed some amusement.
"Of course not. You'll return it to me as soon as you can."
Sydney's mouth twitched in appreciation of his audacity.
"I'm afraid I can't very soon," he replied, gravely. "I expect to need
it for a long, long time."
He turned to the mirror and gazed therein at his shock of black hair
rising above the linen, and at the one rueful eye visible below.
"It makes me look rather a fool, doesn't it? But it's awfully sweet of
you to do it, Sydney. I say, Sydney." Suddenly he wheeled about and
seized both her hands. "Is it always going to be this way? Are you
never going to care for me? You know I'd give my life for you. You
never asked me to do anything yet that I didn't do," he hurried on,
yearning for an answer from her, yet knowing well that when she raised
those white lids the eyes would not give him the reply that he wanted.
"Truly, I'll do anything you say, if only you'll care a little, just a
little, dear!"
He drew her to him, and she raised to his her eyes, warm, brown,
swimming in tears. He let fall her hands, realizing that she _knew_--that
she always had known--and feeling how empty were his words when he had
never tried to do for her sake the one thing that might touch her.
Letting fall her hands, he sank speechless upon his knees, and buried
his head in the blue-and-white coverlet of the couch.
With tear-laden eyes Sydney walked to the gate, her hands outstretched
before her, like a blind man feeling his way. Johnny rubbed his nose in
sympathy against her shoulder as she unfastened his chain. It was the
first time in Bob's fond, foolish, generous life that ever he had
allowed Sydney to do for herself anything that he could do for her.
As Johnny carried his mistress down the State Road, and the "bare,
ruined choirs" of the trees became clear to her eyes once again, she
realized that a new pain and a new pity had come into her life--and a
new responsibility.
IV
"Thou Shalt Not Covet thy Neighbor's Wife"
It was fortunate that Johnny needed no guiding hand, for his mistress
was far too absorbed in her thoughts to give him any attention. She did
not see the ranks of gray tree-trunks through which peered glimpses of
blue as the land fell away against the background of the sky; the heavy
bunches of mistletoe in some leafless top failed to attract her
attention; and she was blind to the beauty of the coarse green
pine-needles against the brown masses of the oak-leaves that cling to
the branches all winter to cheat the Devil of his bargain, the Earth,
which is to be his when all the boughs are bare.
Her whole soul was filled with a longing to help Bob Morgan,--Bob, her
dear old playfellow, so lovable and, alas! so weak. Already she had
tried to foster his self-respect and to encourage his firmness by
indirect means. It seemed now as if the chance were given her to act
more openly. If only she could do so without rousing in the boy's
breast a hope that she could not fulfil, for she knew that never could
she love him as he wanted to be loved!
It was not that a difference of birth, of rearing, of tradition placed
her apart from him. She even had a fondness for him, but love--no!
She had been thinking a great deal about love of late. She knew what it
was to have men in love with her. Her grandmother, with whom she lived
at fine old Oakwood, had introduced her in Baltimore, where she revived
many old-time connections; and she had had another season in New
Orleans. Her striking beauty had brought her a success that pleased
Mrs. Carroll more than Sydney herself. The haughty old lady approved
the girl's coldness, and nodded in agreement with Aunt Frony, who
watched her young mistress's path with proprietary satisfaction.
"She cert'nly do favor her paw; 'n she walks along tru all dem
gen'lemen like Joseph tru dat co'nfiel' wif de sheaves a-bowin' befo'
him, 'n he never pay no mo' 'tention to 'em 'n if dey jus' common
roughness--'n no mo' do she!"
"My son's daughter demeans herself as one of her family should," had
been Mrs. Carroll's reply; but she was really gratified at this
aloofness that seemed to excite the attention which she felt to be her
granddaughter's due, without inducing a surrender of her heart.
Sydney's marriage would take from her her only companion, and was an
evil that the old lady recognized as necessary, but to be put off as
long as possible.
Sydney regarded the various love-affairs in which she had had a part as
the usual incidents in every woman's career. They had touched her
little. She was extraordinarily lacking in conceit, and she could not
realize, since her sympathy was unquickened by a responsive affection,
that a love of short growth could mean much to its possessor. This lack
of appreciation of love's intensity was increased by the fact that her
own simplicity of thought and straightforwardness of character always
had prevented her from taking seriously any man's attentions until they
resolved themselves definitely into intentions.
None of her experiences had moved her like this with Bob Morgan. When,
in the autumn, she had given up her season in town on account of her
grandmother's feebleness, it had been one of her consolations that at
least she would be free from that sort of complication. And here was
something worse than anything that had gone before, because her real
fondness for Bob gave her an insight into his pain, and a pity for the
sorrow that she knew she must inflict upon him.
She felt vaguely into the darkness for a realization of what love was.
She had lain awake many a night that winter, waiting for her
grandmother's call, listening to the rain as it dripped upon the roof
from the twig-tips of the oaks, and dreaming a waking dream of what a
love would mean that would make any sacrifice a joy, any pain a
rapture. And, like all women from Time's beginning, she had cried into
the shadow, "Oh, that I, too, may have this joy, this sacrifice, this
pain!"
At the cross-roads Johnny fell into a walk until he should learn his
rider's wish. _He_ preferred to go home; but if she chose the
right-hand road he was willing to carry her over it, mistaken as he
felt her decision to be.
Sydney roused at the change of gait and turned the horse into the
homeward way; but, just as he was settling down gleefully to his work,
she remembered that she had failed entirely to accomplish the errand
upon which her grandmother had sent her; the errand that had clouded
her brow with anxiety.
Mrs. Carroll was very fond of Baron von Rittenheim. He interested her,
he amused her, he aroused her curiosity, and his formal manners
recalled to her memory the gallants of her youth. He called upon her
frequently, and the old lady looked forward to his visits with
agreeable anticipation. For three weeks he had not been to Oakwood, and
she was determined no longer to endure such neglect,--at any rate, to
investigate it. To this end she had sent Sydney to Dr. Morgan's to
inquire of him news of the recreant German. And Sydney had not stayed
to see the Doctor or Mrs. Morgan!
Obedient to the rein, Johnny stopped and looked about with an air of
inquiring patronage. His mistress was not given to abrupt changes of
intention, but he was willing to humor her when they appeared.
"I can't go back to the Doctor's, of course," thought Sydney. "I'll go
to Melissa Yarebrough's,--she'll know."
Off from the State Road, just beyond the cross-roads, a rough trail led
into the woods. Sydney turned into it, and rode between bushes of
laurel and rhododendron, whose glossy leaves shone dark above her head
even as she sat upon her horse. Patches of vivid green moss crept
confidingly to the foot of the oaks, and a bit of arbutus, as pink as
the palm of a baby's hand, peered from under its leathery cover. A few
daring buds tentatively were opening their tiny leaves to the world,
and some stray blades of grass pricked, verdant, through the general
brownness.
This was but a deserted lane, which Sydney had chosen as affording a
short cut to Melissa's, and, of a sudden, the passage was closed by a
snake fence eight rails high. It was beyond Johnny's jumping powers,
but his rider was undaunted. Leaning over the right side of the horse
she dexterously pulled apart the top rails where they crossed, and
Johnny cleverly stepped back in time to avoid their hitting his legs in
their fall. Pressing forward again, she dislodged the next pair, and
then Johnny took the breach neatly, and picked his discriminating way
through the brush on the other side.
Though their cabins were a mile apart, the Yarebroughs were Baron von
Rittenheim's nearest neighbors, and Sydney thought that Melissa would
know if he were ill, as she feared.
But as she rode on in sinuous avoidance of protruding boughs and
upstart bushes, she was seized by a shyness quite new to her. It seemed
as if she could not bear to question Melissa about the Baron. She
fancied she saw the girl's possible look of amusement. It became
suddenly a position which she stigmatized as "horrid!"
Beside her a big white pine spread an inviting seat of heaped-up tags,
and she slipped off the horse and leaned against the broad trunk.
Johnny, at the bridle's length, nibbled at the enamelled green of the
lion's tongue with equine vanity,--for he knew that it would beautify
his coat,--and pushed his muzzle down among the dry leaves beyond the
radius of the pine-needles, lipping them daintily in search of
something more appetizing beneath.