CONCLUSION--IN THE GARDEN.
Through the dark the train came with a stuttering roar. I turned to
shake hands with Peters, but he had stepped from the platform to hold
his horse.
"Good-bye," he shouted. "This horse has seen the train every day since
he was born, but he'll run away if I don't hold him. But it runs in his
family to be afraid of the railroad. His brother was killed by a train.
Wish you well, and if you ever come this way again, stop off."
He was a skinflint and a rascal, but he had shortened a dreary day, and
at parting I regretted that I had not told him of my acquaintance with
his kinsman in the South.
With a change of cars, at daylight, I could reach Memphis late in the
afternoon, in time to continue my journey by boat to Bolanyo. I lay
back, with my hat pulled down over my face, and strove to compose myself
to sleep, and I dozed, but awoke at the solemn words of a judge,
rumbling with the rhythm of the train. Sometimes I argued that I was a
fool to trust myself to the humor of an excitable people; but soon I
discovered that this speculation was forced, that my mind refused to
treat it seriously, that my hope stood, not at the bar, under the
protection of the law, but in the Senator's garden. And from this
height, in the redolent air, I could not force myself down to muse upon
a long season in a cell, waiting for the court to convene.
Daylight came. I got off at a station, to step on board another train. I
counted my money and found that I might have enough, upon reaching
Memphis, to buy a suit of cheap clothes. But the most strenuous denial
must be practiced; I could not afford food nor even a newspaper.
It was nearly four o'clock when the train arrived at Memphis. I hastened
to the landing and learned that a boat would leave within half an hour
and that fifty cents would secure a deck passage to Bolanyo. I was
fitted out by a riverside clothier, and, after a quick "snack" of fish
on a houseboat, I stepped on board the steamer that had brought the
Senator and me with "Magnolia Land" up the river. I stood at the bow,
and my heart leaped at the sight of the first green tinge in the woods.
How soft and delicious was the atmosphere, after the raw wind of the
prairies and the lake. How gently the sun went down, without a shiver,
without a breath too cool.
I saw the lights of Bolanyo. And I felt about for something to
touch--something to brace me against the surging of an overpowering
emotion. I tried to picture the jail; I strove to recall the yell of the
mob, the awful night, the tread of merciless feet; but I saw a blossom
nodding in the sweet air; I heard a voice that filled my soul with
trembling melody.
The boat touched the shore, and I leaped upon the landing, before the
plank could be thrown out. And now a caution was necessary. To be
recognized meant a night in jail, perhaps another mob, and it was my
plan to go by lonely ways to the Senator's house and to surrender myself
to him. In my haste I was almost breathless. I passed the lonely
lamp-post and the thicket; I stood at the gate. I opened it without
noise, and, with my heart bounding, I stole up the steps, raised the
door-knocker and let it fall; and with the noise, the breaking of the
metrical throb of the silence, I sprung aside, almost choking. Someone
came slowly down the hall and fumbled at the lock. Would the door ever
be opened? It was, and Washington stood before me.
"Ah!" he cried, seizing me in his arms.
"Come right in yere, Sah, Lawd bless yo' life. Let me hep you. Laws er
massy, de man kai hardly walk. Yes, Sah, right yere in de libery."
He lifted me in his mighty arms, carried me into the library and eased
me down upon a chair. "Now, Sah--Sir--let us try to be cool; let us be
strong with the love of the Lord in our hearts."
He snatched up a hat and stood over me, fanning my face. "Yes, let us
thank our heavenly father."
"Where are they--she?" I asked.
"You must be cool, Mr. Belford. Your excitement might--might be bad for
you all. The Senator is out somewhere and so is Miss Florence. But you
shall see them soon. Just quiet yourself down."
"I must see them--him at once, to surrender myself."
"Surrender yourself? What for, Mr. Belford?"
"Washington, don't force me to say it. You know. I have come back to
give myself up, to stand my trial."
He ceased his fanning, stepped back and looked at me. "Mr. Belford,
haven't you seen the papers?"
"I have seen nothing. I have come to give myself up."
The hat fell from his hand. "Mr. Belford, you must prepare yourself to
hear something. Let me be slow so that it may not excite you."
"Out with it. I can stand anything."
"Yes, Sir, but I must remember my failing, my father's rude tongue. But
I will try to tell you in a civilized way. Once I told you of a woman I
loved--now do not be impatient. You must wait, and if you are not cool
you shall not see anyone. The husband of this woman was a sinner, and
his wife kept urging him to join my church. One night not long ago,
moved by the spirit, I talked to the hearts of men, and he was stricken
with conviction. And the next day he came to me. He said that he was in
the thicket and heard a pistol fire, and that not long afterward he came
upon Estell's body with a pistol lying beside it. He looked about. No
one was in sight. He thrust his hand into the dead man's pocket and drew
out a pocketbook and some papers. Then he took up the pistol, but was
afraid to touch the watch, knowing that it would be death to be found
with it. Just then he thought he heard someone coming and he ran away,
with the pocketbook, the papers and the pistol. And one of the papers
was a statement written by Estell. He confessed that he had engaged in
wild speculations, and that he was two hundred thousand dollars short in
his account with the State. He spoke of the commission which would be
appointed to go through his books, and said that he could not face the
disgrace--that death was his only recourse. It has all come out in the
newspapers, and the men who would have hanged you are willing now to
make the most gracious amends. They talk about you constantly, and they
come every day to ask if we have had any news of you. Why, yesterday a
town meeting was held and our ablest speakers blew the horn of your
praise."
"Where is _she_?" I demanded.
"She is out at present. Just be calm, and when the time comes you shall
see her. The Senator went North to see the play. She went with him, and
she hasn't been strong since; she was weak enough before. The Senator
wrote to the man who has the play, some time ago, and told him that he
would be held severely responsible for any mention of you in relation to
the murder as it was then thought. And the editor? He sent a retraction
to his paper; he acknowledged that he was a liar, and the Senator has
let him come back to settle up his affairs."
"Did she--did she grieve?"
"Her life since then has been one of deepest grief, Mr. Belford, but not
for _him_. And she sits in the garden every evening--waiting--and--and
she is there now, Sir."
I leaped from the chair; I ran into the garden, calling her name--not
Mrs. Estell--but "Florence! Florence!"
"Oh, who--who is calling me?" a voice cried, and I saw her clinging to a
tree for support, near the bench where we had often sat. I ran to her,
and the garden lamp light was in her eyes as she looked at me. I stood
in silence, looking at her. I took her hand, and in silence we sat down.
It was a long time before we spoke.
"Oh, that awful night!" she said, with her head bent low. "There was no
one to help you, and when I heard the bell ring I seized a knife from
the kitchen and threw a shawl over my head and ran down there to stab
the man that tied the rope. I knocked the lantern over and I cut the
cords--"
Half blind, I saw my tears gleaming in her hair. "And when you stepped
out of the carriage the night of the play you thought your dress was
caught. It was--I caught it to kiss it."
"Oh!" she cried--and that was all. We sat in silence, my tears gleaming
in her hair. And we heard a voice and a step and we stood up. The
Senator came, with his hand thrust forth, feeling as if he were blind.
And on my shoulder he put his arm, and it was heavy. And "My--my boy,"
was all he could say--"My boy."
THIS BOOK HAS BEEN PRINTED
DURING MAY, 1897, BY THE
BLAKELY PRINTING COMPANY,
CHICAGO, FOR WAY & WILLIAMS.