have not forgotten you, but I don't want to talk to you here. Can't we
get away somewhere?"
The old fellow's keen eyes swept Sargent's face, reading there the signs
of the recent struggle.
"What's up, youngster?" He bent a little forward. "What's a troublin'
you? Your face is as red as a beet, and you've got a mighty bad glare
in your eyes. Come on up to my room here in the Mansion House. I was
resting very comfortable-like up there, till I saw some sort of a
scuffle going on out here." Then with a quick intuition, he searched
Sargent's face again. "It ain't possible you were mixed up in it!"
They went up the tavern steps and altered the Captain's room. When the
old fellow had closed the door after them, he turned back to Sargent,
who had sunk into a chair near the window, and watched the young fellow,
his lips twitching slightly and his eyes crisply twinkling with the
humour he was struggling to keep back.
"You weren't mixed up in it, youngster, were you?" he repeated, with his
lips twitching again.
Sargent met his look squarely. "Yes, I was in it. A street fight! I
knocked Lemuel Jervais down!"
"You! Lemuel Jervais--Oh!" And the Captain could restrain himself no
longer. He dropped into a chair, the whole of his great frame shaking
with loud gusts of laughter, while the tears gushed forth and rolled
down his furrowed cheeks. "On my honour--it's too good to believe," he
cried breathlessly. "You and Lem Jervais in a street fight. And when
you were on that boat with me I thought you were as harmless as a
kitten. Gee Whillikens!" and he let out a long whistle, "but you are a
promising youngster--after all. Easy, now. Don't blaze your eyes at me
that way. _I_ wasn't the cause of it. When you get cooled down
a-plenty, tell me about it. Ugh, but you are huffy about it!" as Sargent
remained impervious to his humour. "You know what I do when I get that
upset? I just lock myself up in my cabin where nobody can get to me and
I can get to nobody, and I cuss everybody and everything that I can get
my mind on--you ought to hear me! I can cuss like a beauty when I get
warmed up to my subject, and will you believe me, sir, when I come out
I'm as cool as a cucumber. Honest Injun, I am--just like a May morning.
Want to try it? I'll give you the room to yourself. Well--if you
won't, maybe telling me about it will help you let off a little steam.
Now--how d' it start?"
Sargent raised his head at the last question, and looked into the
twinkling grey eyes before him. When he spoke, his voice was sharp and
unsteady.
"He was drunk and laughed at me--laughed at my deformity! He said it
would be a joke for me to plead any case before the bar. I, a Yankee
school-teacher--a crippled one at that!"
The Captain was out of his chair and before Sargent in a second. The
twinkle had gone out of his eyes. They were steely now.
"The damned scoundrel! And you?"
"I knocked him down."
"Before the whole crowd? Good! Then?"
"He challenged me."
The old fellow's face brightened.
"Better still! When'll it be?"
"I don't know yet."
"Am I the first you've talked to?"
"Yes."
"Good! Good! I'll help you. I'll be your second."
The old fellow rubbed his hands together and the gleam came back into
his eyes, while his furrowed face became tinged with a faint glow that
shone youthful beneath the coarsened, weather-worn skin.
Sargent stared at him blankly.
"You," he exclaimed, seemingly without comprehension.
"Yes, I--that is," and the Captain glanced at him with a tinge of
resentment, "unless you prefer some one else."
Sargent grasped his hands silently.
"That's right; you let me take charge of this thing, boy. I'll do it up
in ship-shape." He let his hand drop with rough affection on Sargent's
shoulder. "It's mighty lucky I'm going to be here for two weeks. My
boilers are out of fix and I'm tied up repairs. Let me know when you
get the challenge and I'll help you fix the whole thing. I know all
about how these things are done. Now, don't go back on me, and think
you ought to ask a younger fellow, for if anything should happen to you
and I had to take your place, there ain't a living soul dependent on
me."
Sargent rose without a word. Then, turning suddenly, he went out of the
room and down the steps, followed by the old fellow, who still held his
arm in a firm grasp. Stopping when they had reached the pavement, the
Captain glanced once more at the young fellow's face, his twinkling eyes
beaming affectionately from their thousand encircling wrinkles.
"Who'd 'a' thought when we parted on the boat that day, that we'd meet
in a mix-up like this? I kind a' felt all along that you were going to
make your name. I can size up a promising youngster every time. Just
to think of it!" and he ended with a slap on Sargent's shoulder.
"Good-bye, and don't forget," he lowered his voice confidentially, "I'm
going to be your second. D'you hear? Even if you didn't ask me. It's
all of my own choosing."
*CHAPTER III*
*A DEMAND OF HONOUR*
The balmy twilight had softened into night as Sargent walked away from
the tavern, and in the sudden privacy of the darkness the diverting
influence of the old Captain's personality faded, and all the details of
his encounter with Jervais returned to him with an added intensity.
Again, as he felt the moment he struck Jervais, there came to him a
sensation of burning alive under the insult--the insult that he could
not repudiate. The blood rushed to his head and pounded like a great
firing of artillery, and when he had crossed the street from the tavern,
and struck into a deserted thoroughfare, he leaned against a fence to
keep from falling, for the mental agony had brought with it a keen sense
of physical weakness. Why was this curse of physical deformity to
follow him always! Was it some punishment of God's that was to be
eternal? The saner forces of his nature, the gentle influences of his
early training, the memories which had so far kept him pure and noble,
receded under this sudden unloosening of the resentment against his
infirmity which he had always forced himself to subdue. With this
unchaining of all restraint, he became for the moment another creature.
Barbaric instincts came to life, and he felt the thrill of a discoverer
at finding such characteristics in his possession.
Then, out of the swirling ensemble, came one thought that quickly
chained everything else into submission--a determination to meet Jervais
in the trial of Phelps, to oppose him, to defeat him, to bring him to an
inexorable failure before the Court, to make his fall so great that he
would be robbed even of any desire for future honours: That would be his
revenge. Afterward, he would not care what happened in the duel; nothing
would matter after he had fully tasted the sweetness of his revenge. So
completely had he sunk under the obsession of this new line of thought
that when he entered Judge Houston's unlighted library a few minutes
later, the metamorphosis showed in every line of his features.
He spoke no word of greeting, only grasped the extended hand and looked
into the kind eyes of the old gentleman with fixed intensity.
"Was the case you meant, the prosecution of Phelps?"
Judge Houston stepped back from him, surprised into a short silence by
the wild expression in Sargent's eyes.
"Yes--how did you guess it?"
"Thank God!"
The words escaped Sargent in a sob that was the concentrated expression
of his suffering. He sank into a familiar chair beside the table, and
let his head drop into his hands.
The old man looked at him in silence, surprise, sympathy and fear
glowing in his clear blue eyes. Finally he walked over to Sargent and
rested his hand on the young fellow's shoulder.
"What is it, boy? What is troubling you so?"
"It is only the relief your words have given me. My only fear was that I
might be mistaken."
The Judge's brow was wrinkled a long time as he puzzled over the words.
"Were you so anxious to have the case?" he asked. "You know, I was half
afraid you might not want it."
Sargent lifted his face and met the kind eyes. "Yes, I want it! I'm
going to make it the case of my life! It will be my first, but I'm
going to make it the greatest one of my career. If I ever go down in
history as a big man, this case will be the great one of them all!"
The old man was still bewildered. He moved away slowly and pushing his
chair up opposite Sargent, sat down and faced him, frankly studying his
face, watching the swift changes playing across it, noting the strange,
new determination that was already hardening the gentle lines about his
mouth. He felt his own heart suddenly contract with a sharp sense of
disappointment, for he had hoped to keep this boy, by means of his
influence and help, fresh and young in the battle of life; but he saw
now that something had forestalled him; something had already come with
a blighting sting.
He had been quick to read the sensitive, imaginative, capable nature of
Sargent the first time they had clasped hands. He had seen the
wonderful possibilities that would develop under the right
influences--the remarkable capacity for right and wrong, whichever it
would be that would tip the scales; and in that moment that the
resemblance to his own son had struck him, he had felt all the denied
love of a father stir within him and give itself to the boy. Afterwards,
he had gone further in his advances than ever before in his long life;
he had given him the freedom of his library, directing him in the use of
books, even preparing him for the legal examination with his own
questions, which he made more difficult than necessary. All the while he
had felt the intellectual joy of watching a brilliant mind expanding and
grasping new subjects; of looking far back into the shadowy past through
the rich imagination of a youthful mind. And with the father love that
bound him to Sargent, was blended a sense of pride that the youth should
grow along by his side, becoming under his tutelage the actual
expression of all the unrealized ideals of his own life.
But something had jarred the perfect sympathy; some enemy was already
tugging at the cords that bound them.
In the circle of lamplight lay a weather-worn, leather bound book. It
had been brought from Virginia on the long pilgrimage to the South, and
had always been a friend and a book of comfort. Instinctively the old
man's hand went out and touched it.
"It will be a difficult case," Sargent heard him saying, as if more to
himself than to any listener. "Yes--it is almost hopeless. You can not
possibly win it. I only wanted you to have the experience. It will get
you well started before the public."
"Why do you say it is hopeless?"
"There is so little evidence. You can not convict a man without
proofs."
"Is there absolutely nothing?"
"Oh, yes," the old man answered, patiently. "There are a few
circumstances. We can go into that later. There is plenty of time.
What I want to know now is," and he dropped his voice into a lower tone,
and looked at Sargent tenderly, "what is troubling you? Don't you care
to tell me?" he ended, with a frank note of pleading in his voice.
Sargent met his look unflinchingly. "I have never kept anything from
you," he began. "Why should I now, when you have done so much for me!
Only," and he hesitated, with the certainty that what he was going to
say would perhaps alter their friendship for ever. A feeling of
restraint made him silent, and with a leap his thoughts went back to the
other man, the Captain, the one who had weathered the storms of a
pioneer's life, and even in his old age was still a boy. He found
himself longing for the comradeship and joviality of the one who saw
only a desirable notoriety in fighting a duel; and yet, in the
kaleidoscopic varying of thought, he knew that in a saner moment he
would seek only the one now before him, for advice. The Captain
represented to him the expression of untempered passion, and at this
moment that was the one thing that his nature demanded.
In this light the calmness of Judge Houston became to him cold
criticism, before which he quailed.
Words that might in some way palliate his action rushed to his lips,
finding excuses that a moment before, in the absorption of his anger, he
would have despised.
"You believe," he said at last, in a more controlled voice, "that there
sometimes come in a man's life circumstances that rob him of the faculty
of reasoning? Perhaps one incident that blots out everything that has
gone before, leaving in its place only one absorbing determination. You
believe that, don't you?"
Judge Houston bowed his head silently.
"You believe too that there are things in life that a man must
resent--must resent even by going against all the laws of God and
man--that unless he does resent them the rest of his life must be
without self-respect and without honours. Then, if a man does not
fight, life is rendered valueless to him, both in his own eyes and those
of the community, and existence becomes a burden! At times like these
one must choose between two evils. I have chosen the least of the two."
"A duel!" The old man rose from his chair, and paced the floor, his
hands clasped behind him. "A duel? With whom?"
His lips were twitching slightly, and his hands--old, worn hands, which
the years had left drawn and stretched into a thousand creases, and the
sight of which, clasping and unclasping in his nervousness, smote
Sargent with a keen, knifelike pain, through the knowledge that he was
causing the old gentleman to suffer for his sake. He put out his hand
impulsively, and grasped the other's when he passed close to him.
"Don't blame me--forgive me," he said. "Don't make it any harder than
it is already. I believe in my heart you would have done the same."
"Tell me, my boy." The Judge's voice was full of sympathy.
The torrent of words came at last, and as he told his story Sargent
found a relief that left him weak and exhausted. The strain was
reaching its limit.
"Ah! you don't blame me," he ended brokenly. "I knew you would not!"
With his words, a reflection of the anger of his own eyes had sprung
alive in the old man's. Judge Houston stood before Sargent, his hands
gripping the shoulders of the young fellow with an intensity of
sympathy.
"Don't say any more," he said in a low voice that trembled slightly. "I
understand. I will stand with you."
"You!" Sargent moved away quickly, and stood staring at him. "You!"
And then his lips trembled. The end of his strength came, and he threw
himself across the sofa, his face in his hands, his whole body shaking
convulsively. "It's more than I deserve," he said. "That all this
should have come to me in one day--this hatred, and Captain Mentdrop's
friendship--and your--love. It is too much to understand."
The old gentleman stood a moment beside the table, his hand again on the
leather bound volume. As a shaft of light penetrated through the open
door, it rested on him a moment, concentrating in the beautiful gentle
eyes, and shining forth, in a deeper, fuller glory.
He went slowly to the sofa and sat down beside Sargent, his hand resting
with its peacegiving power upon the bowed head.
In a long silence that followed, his lips were still, but within was a
constantly repeated prayer, "God give me the power to lead him right.
Give me this power--if nothing else." Then aloud, as the voice of his
wife called to them from the dining-room. "It is nothing that I am
doing for you--only what I would have done for my son--and yoy have come
to take his place."
*CHAPTER IV*
*HIS FIRST CASE*
So the schoolhouse was closed again on the following Monday, and Sargent
rode into the town to plead his first case before the bar.
In the open square of the town, set far back in a grove of trees, stood
the brick courthouse, considered a large building in those days. In its
Hall of Justice was a plastered ceiling on which an architect from the
old world had fashioned a circle of hands, each with its forefinger
pointing directly down upon the heads of those who sat in judgment.
Home-seekers, coming there in an attempt to settle hopelessly involved
land suits: destitute, silent Indians, squatting on the door steps
awaiting the decision of some land agent; slaves brought in shiploads
from the Bermudas; even wealthy planters looked upon this Hall of
Justice with a certain awe. The plastered hands were ominous and
unavoidable; always when one looked at them they were pointing so
directly at one that it had grown into a saying that when a man was
brought before the judges he was "beneath the pointing fingers."
About the courthouse that day was gathered an unusual crowd, for at such
a season of the year, when the fields must be ploughed and cotton
planted, court was never very largely attended.
Down a long line of hitching posts was almost every conceivable vehicle,
including a huge prairie schooner filled with a curious crowd from the
Black River country. Whole families, parents, children, slaves, and
favourite dogs were picnicking about the square--all had come many miles
to hear the trial of a man who had made safety a very uncertain thing
for the last five years.
Sargent threaded his way among them, unknown, yet feeling a greater
responsibility resting upon him as he saw this evidence of the people's
interest. They were looking to him to remove this murderer from their
midst. As he went into the courthouse, he met Judge Houston. The old
gentleman extended his hand, and for a second smiled encouragingly into
the strained eyes of the young lawyer.
"You've been overdoing it, Sargent," he said quietly. "You should have
rested. Too much reading of law paralyzes the brain."
Sargent met his look earnestly, without the smile that was always so
ready upon his lips.
"I couldn't sleep, and I had to do something. I believe I've read every
murder case on record."
"And have you discovered a method by which you can win this one?"
Sargent's eyes glowed brilliantly as he answered. "Your doubt of me is
the greatest factor in forcing me on. I don't know how I shall do it,
but--I'm going to make that jury render a verdict of guilty."
The old gentleman's brows drew together, and he shook his head slowly,
letting his hand rest affectionately on Sargent's shoulder.
"I only hope you will succeed, Sargent--as much for the people's sake as
for your own. If justice is not meted out to Phelps by law, I fear it
will come to him through the hatred of the people. Go now, boy--do your
best. And remember, I have failed many and many a time, others are
failing continually, and no one really succeeds until failure has been
his tutor. Good-bye! Meet me when the day's session is over."
All through that first day, which was given over to the hearing of
evidence, Sargent had grown more and more under the conviction that if
he were to win the case it would come from some inspiration which had
not yet been given to him. Not that he had for a moment given up hope,
for each time such a thought flashed into his mind, it was followed by
the thundering necessity for success. And when Phelps was brought into
the room and he could look for the first time into the face of the man
whose freedom he was attempting to take from him, Sargent forgot
everything else in studying the highwayman's features. In them he had
suddenly realized an aid to his success.
All through the cross-examination of the witnesses he was thinking of
it, even to the intense moment when the two scraps of paper were
displayed: one a gun wadding found in the house of the murdered man and
the other in the pocket of Jacob Phelps. The two pieces were from a
paper of the same date, and though not fitting into each other were
considered the strongest evidence against the prisoner. Besides that,
only the proximity of the canebrake where Phelps was captured, and a
long, detailed report of his former daring robberies were all that he
had been able to procure.
The weak point of the evidence was that not an instance of murder could
be charged to Phelps. There had always been a doubt of his guilt--and in
this Jervais showed his strength. Each of his questions led in
labyrinthine windings to the end that nothing had been proved on the
prisoner. Indeed, those who swore they recognized him were eventually
misled into the belief that they were swearing to an uncertainty.
Finally the recess hour came, and in the afternoon, after all the
evidence had been taken, the court adjourned until the next day, when
the speeches for the two sides should be made.
Sargent waited for Judge Houston outside the courthouse. He had walked
to one side of the grounds where he would not meet the crowd of familiar
faces, and be forced to discuss the case, for already he had been quick
to feel the disappointment that had settled over them after all the
evidence had been heard. Their silence and lowered voices showed their
fears, and passing a group hurriedly at the recess hour, he had heard a
doubt expressed at Judge Houston's wisdom in appointing him to represent
the State. Many little incidents of the day were remembered by him long
afterwards, which, in the concentration of all his energies at the time,
he had not even been aware of. All he wanted at that moment was material
with which to impress the jury--material which was lacking he realized
with a sickening dread.
As he stood under the trees and faced the court-house, its brick walls
glowing in the late sun, once more the prisoner's face rose before him,
photographing itself indelibly upon his mind. Each feature stood out
enlarged and vivid; black eyes, bold and fearless and insolent, with the
surrounding whites almost entirely red from swollen veins; a low
forehead from which black, wiry hair grew out, straight and stiff; a
long, aquiline nose with wide nostrils in which showed a heavy growth of
hair; heavy lips, the lower one protruding doggedly, yet both suggesting
a certain generosity in their amplitude; the chin and side of the face
covered with a short beard which reached far up the cheeks to where pock
marks glowed deep and white against a swarthy complexion. It was a face
characteristic of daring and wild deeds, yet in some lines about the
eyes, inscrutable and haunting, there was something unconfessed.
All through the channels of Sargent's imagination, set in motion by this
face, insistently colouring every conclusion reached, was the hidden
characteristic about the man's eyes which signified something which he
felt certain would help him in some way if he could find out what it
meant. In a swift passion of futility he pushed out his hands to ward
off the first signal of defeat that was steadily creeping over him. He
covered his eyes to keep out the likeness of Phelps' face as it glowered
down upon him from the court-house wall. Was it possible that he had
failed? Had he been too self-confident? Was it only hatred and a
desire for vengeance which had made up the ingredients of his
confidence? At the end of each question stood the face of Jervais, and
the duel--after that, another question. Finally, through the
lengthening shadows, he strolled back to the broad steps and waited
Judge Houston's coming.
They walked home in the twilight, the old man's arm linked in Sargent's,
their heads bent forward in thoughtful silence.
"Did you look at him? Did you see his face?" Sargent asked as they
turned the corner and approached the house.
"Whose face?" Judge Houston looked up quickly.
"The man's--Jacob Phelps."
"Yes--why?"
"Did you see anything in it but cruelty--malignity--daring?"
"No--there was nothing else."
"Oh, but you are mistaken. There is something else."
"What?"
"I don't know. I'd give half my life to find out. I must find out
to-night--I will!"
Mrs. Houston was standing at the gate to welcome them, Natalia on her
pony before the block, both of them silent in their impatience to hear
the outcome of the first day.
"You all are bothered! I can see that right now. And such glum
faces--look at them, Natalia," Mrs. Houston said cheerfully, as the two
men came up to them. "I declare you all look as if Phelps was
prosecuting you, instead of the reverse! And I have gone to lots of
trouble to get up a good supper for you--lye-hominy, some nice, fresh
roasted yams, and waffles! And here you both look like you wouldn't eat
a mouthful, and Natalia says she won't stay either!" Mrs. Houston
sighed in much distress. "I wish sometimes there was no such thing as
law. It upsets my dinner hour and my plans, and is disastrous in lots
of ways."
"So you'd rather have your dinner on time," laughed Judge Houston, "than
all the highwaymen in the country in jail!" He walked across the
sidewalk to speak to Natalia, leaving Sargent and his wife together.
"Is it so bad?" she asked quickly, her face searching Sargent's
anxiously. "Are you worried about the outcome?"
"I know I shall win!" Sargent's eyes blazed again, "but I don't know yet
how I shall do it. If I should fail now--"
"Of course you will not. Don't let that enter your thoughts. Can't
Felix help you?"
"Not now," Sargent answered, his features still drawn and tense. "It's
all with me now, and I'm glad of it."
The gentle old lady looked at the youth before her, so earnest and
flushed, her eyes clouding at the possible disappointment awaiting him.
She had seen all these hopes and desires so often before, in the days
long passed when she and her young husband had started on their long
pilgrimage. Then, looking beyond him, her eyes dwelt on Natalia
pensively. When she spoke again her face was brimming with
cheerfulness.
"On your way home," she said softly, "be very good to her. Forget all
this worry and this abstraction and talk to her. It will do you good.
Do you realize the place you have taken in the child's life? It has made
me wonder if it was good for her or not. Sometimes," she ended,
reflectively, "I wonder what you have done to gain her love so--and yet,
I think I know."
Sargent glanced to where Natalia was leaning from her saddle and talking
intently with Judge Houston. For the first time that day the tenseness
of his face relaxed, and the memory of the courtroom and all it meant
slipped from him.
"I believe I gained her love," he answered slowly, "by first loving her.
Don't you think that is the only real way to gain another's love?"
"Yes--there are very few who fail to respond to being loved. It is so
flattering," she smiled lightly. "But Natalia needed you just when you
came. You know how out of sympathy she and Mrs. Brandon are?"
"That is not to be wondered at. Could you possibly find two more
opposite natures? One--cool, calculating, and always just; the
other--intense, wilful, passionate. Look at her now! She's more like
some little fairy who has been lost from other fairies than anything
else in the world. And how old she is at times! I feel that I am
talking to some one a great deal older than I am. Tell me, Mrs.
Houston," Sargent leaned nearer on the gate and his voice sank to a
whisper, "now that she is going away, how can I make her remember me?
If she were to go away and forget me--"
"She will not do that, my dear boy." She pressed his hand gently.
"She's at the impressionable age, and she loves you with all her little,
pent-up nature. She will not forget."
Sargent met her glance warmly. "You see, it is so different with me,
from most men. My sensitiveness, my wretched infirmity, seems to make
everything so much more serious to me. And when any one gets hold of my
affections, I feel a tremendous need for them always. That is the way
with Natalia--it was her sweet dependence, her yearning for sympathy,
her quaint charm that have bound me tocher for ever. Of course she is
only a child now," he hesitated suddenly, as if half unwilling to
express his real feelings, "but if I could have the hope that she would
come back to me some day--a woman loving me as she does now--anything
would be worth enduring--for that!"
"If you all are going to talk all the evening, I'm going home," Natalia
cried, from her pony. "And I told Zebby I'd be home surely by six
o'clock."
Sargent hurriedly mounted his horse, which had been brought to the gate,
and waved a farewell to Mrs. Houston. "Good-bye," she called to them,
waving her handkerchief as they rode off. "I'm going to hear you make
your maiden speech to-morrow. Good luck to you. Good-bye, Natalia."
It was almost dark when Sargent and Natalia left the town behind them,
and through the dark forest bordering the cotton fields, a feathery
crescent moon floated up and greeted them. The balmy spring breeze blew
in their faces, and in the Western sky still lingered the faint glow of
sunset. The cabins were sending up thin lines of white smoke, the
delicious odour of fried bacon was in the air, and the sound of some one
chopping wood in the distance gave a homely touch of comfort to the
scene. Completing the peaceful holiness of the spring twilight came the
harmonies of the slaves, singing as they went home from the day's work.
They rode along in silence. Natalia, dangling her little bonnet from
its green ribbons, looked up at Sargent intently, but his eyes did not
answer hers. They were bent on some distant object that she knew she
could never see, and sighing slightly, she resigned herself to waiting
for him to become aware of her presence. In her childlike adoration,
there was sufficient happiness in being near him.
When the gate loomed before them through the vista of trees, Natalia
guided her pony closer to Sargent, until he was forced to notice her.
"Aunt Maria said you were terribly bothered," she said, when he looked
down at her out of his long abstraction. "Is that what makes you so
different?" she ended plaintively.
"Yes--that's it, Natalia," Sargent answered, his brows knitted close
together. "It seems to have ruined my whole outlook. I can't think of
anything else. All the way home I could see nothing but that man's
face. I believe I'm beginning to lose hope, too. Would you be sorry if
Mr. Jervais won the case from me?"
Natalia looked up at him, drawing the pony to a sudden standstill in her
amazement.
"Mr. Jervais can't do that! You wouldn't let him! I hate him anyhow!"
She clenched her little hand. "Please don't let him win."
"Suppose I can not help myself? Suppose he has all the evidence on his
side? What can I do then?"
"Well--" she said slowly, as if attempting to arrive at some conclusion.
"Well--isn't Phelps a murderer?"
"Every one _thinks_ so. But I can not prove it."
"Do _you_ think so?"
"Yes, I do."
"Then," with an impatient toss of the head, "it's just as easy as can
be. Make him say it is so."
Sargent threw back his head and laughed heartily for the first time in
many days. And all the while Natalia stared at him with an expression
that spoke eloquently surprise and wounded pride.
"Well, you needn't laugh so much about it!" she exclaimed, as Sargent's
amusement seemed to increase. "You could make him tell you if you had a
mind to. Mammy says you have a silver tongue, and when people have that,
they can make other people tell everything they know. I don't care
though, if you don't make him tell," she cried, the tears coming into
her eyes as Sargent continued laughing. They were at the gate now, and
as he lifted her from the pony, she struggled out of his arms and flew
toward the house. "I don't care a picayune if you don't ever win a
case!" she called back to him from the veranda, and then slammed the
door tight after her.
Sargent walked slowly toward his room. The smile had gone from his face
now, and in its place was an odd, quickening expression.
"Make him tell you!" he repeated Natalia's words as he unlocked the door
of his room. "Make him tell you!" he repeated, as he blew out his
candle, hours later. "Make him tell you!" he repeated all through that
long, sleepless night.
*CHAPTER V*
*MAGNETISM*
The two men faced each other, the lawyer at one end of the long table,
the prisoner barely ten feet away, in his chair before the jury. The
moment was tense. Everything had been finished, even Jervais' eloquent
speech to the jury, in which he had cautioned the twelve men not to let
sentiment lead them to a decision, but to be guided only by the evidence
and what had absolutely been proved. And now remained only the speech
of the prosecution, on which rested the hopes of every one in the
courtroom.
Even the jury had grown restless under the continued want of facts in
the case. Their attitude toward the prisoner was but a reflection of
the sentiment of the townspeople--they feared the man; his presence was
a menace always to be faced; they wanted to be freed from his disturbing
proximity; and they wanted to feel that long trips to neighbouring
villages would be without the danger of this highwayman. In short they
wanted him dead.
But what they had heard was not convicting. It was impossible, so far,
to render a verdict of guilty, on what had been shown.
During the silence that followed Jervais' speech, Sargent rose from his
chair, and stepped forward. A wave of disappointment rushed over the
courtroom, for the people had hoped to the last that their district
attorney would be able to leave his bed and come to the rescue,
convicting the prisoner through the eloquence they had known for years.
But everything seemed in favour of the prisoner, every one admitted that
Jervais had made the finest speech of his career, and now that their
great attorney had been substituted by a youth who had not even made his
first speech before the bar, Phelps' chances for acquittal were
depressingly certain.
What could this young lawyer do? This limping, Yankee schoolteacher who
had come South to make a living? What could he do but complete the
fiasco of the trial? A titter was heard at one end of the courtroom,
followed by an outright laugh, and then, suddenly, silence fell again as
a counter wave of interest fell over the audience. Something in the
position of the two men--the lawyer and the prisoner--had claimed their
attention.
Sargent, in rising, had not faced the jury, but stood perfectly silent
and rigid, his gaze riveted upon the prisoner. In his eyes was no sign
of fear, but a calm watchfulness of some expected danger. The prisoner
returned the look, his blood-shot eyes keen and cat-like in the
intensity of the passion boiling back of them. His coarse, unkempt hair
hung in masses over his forehead, his rough skin and uneven beard and
crouching posture but intensified his expression of brutality and
vicious force.
The two seemed born to be antagonistic: the absolute want of visible
sympathy made the contrast impressive.
Sargent put aside his cane and steadied himself with one hand upon the
table; the other he held half poised, as if in the act of defence, for
that morning a strange story had been whispered about, and during
Jervais' speech it had reached him. He had been told that Phelps was
desperate enough to attack him even in the courtroom.
Then, with his gaze still searching the blood-shot eyes of the prisoner,
he began his speech. It took the intent crowd of listeners several
minutes to adjust themselves to what was happening; then they found that
the young lawyer was not talking to them, nor to the Judge, nor even to
the jury. His words were directed only to the man before him.
In a low, clear voice, heard in every corner of the courtroom, he was
describing to the prisoner, in pitiless detail, the crime committed;
painting vividly the scene of the murder, the aged, respected planter
lying dead on the floor of his room, a pool of blood about him, his
belongings scattered everywhere, his valuables all gone. He told of the
man's life, his charity, his good influence upon his neighbours. He
described him at home, at his evening meal, surrounded by a happy and
dependant family; his awakening in the night to find himself in the grip
of a brutal antagonist--and at last, his feeble death struggle with an
unseen foe.
The words came from his lips cold, crisp, clear cut, without feeling,
yet so forcibly were they chosen, so short and cogent, that they fell
upon the ears of his listeners like the beat of a huge hammer upon
marble.
The scene rose before the listeners with a vividness that the real one
would have lacked, for the wonderful voice of the young lawyer had set
fire to their imaginations, and each man saw through his eyes. Every
sentence jarred like an electric shock. There was no attempt at
eloquence. Where was the need of it with such a subject? And while
Sargent was unconsciously inflaming the passions of the crowd back of
him, he continued to gaze straight into the blood-shot eyes of the
prisoner with all the pent-up vital force within him. If he could only
see the faintest sign of acknowledged guilt! That was the thing for
which he was searching. It had not yet come.
For a moment his eyes wavered, and as if looking for some new
inspiration, he glanced through the open windows to where the leaves of
the trees were rustling in the breeze. He had found the prisoner
impervious to his words. It was as if he had not been talking, so far
as any change in the stolid features showed. There must be some other
method necessary to touch the face of iron before him. But he had not
reached the limit of his resources yet--no, not by half.
He turned back and faced the prisoner, as fresh and calm as if all the
turbulence of a few moments ago had not come from his lips.
Now his eyes held no longer the look of scorn and antagonism. They were
tender, appealing and sad. His voice softened and grew warm in its
tones, and from him emanated that irresistible gentleness that, we are
told, in after years drew even his enemies to him. He was using the
utmost force of his magnetism to draw a confession from the man before
him.
He began speaking again, telling of the family of the man who had been
murdered, dwelling with a deep sympathy upon the young, fatherless
children, who had to take up the burden of life without the guidance of
their parent. Then, almost in a whisper, and with deep reverence, he
spoke of the bereaved wife, a widow and a mother, a feeble woman, no
longer young, left alone to care for the children, separated from her
life partner and left to finish her days unprotected. He drew a telling
picture of his own mother, of every man's mother, in a like situation.
There were tears in the eyes of the audience as they listened, there
were tears in the eyes of the lawyer, and suddenly, as his words ended
in a faint whisper, the blood-shot eyes of the prisoner shifted uneasily
and were hidden for a moment by the falling lids.
A quiver passed over Sargent's slender figure. He lowered his right
hand from the position of defence, and placing it beside the other,
rested heavily against the table. A sensation of utter weariness crept
over him. He could not recall having felt so exhausted ever before. It
was the first time that he had used the full force of his magnetism, of
which until that day he had been in ignorance. For a second, overcome
by the new fatigue, he wondered if his power would last. The first
signal of the confession was held in the drooping lids of the prisoner.
Could he bring the rest?
Once more he took up the thread of his speech. Phelps met his gaze no
longer, even the crouching position of one ready to spring relaxed, and
he sank back into his chair and gazed steadily at his hands. Sargent
leaned forward in his intensity, his words coming more rapidly. He was
now dwelling on the laws of his country, on the need of these laws, of
the rights of man which must be recognized and obeyed, of the
Christianity of civilization, and of the punishment of God. His voice
grew steadily louder as he urged the murderer to repent before he should
reach the great tribunal of God, where repentance would be too late.
Still he could gain no answer from the man's downcast eyes. Within him
a voice grew louder and more insistent. He felt the words leaving him
in a stream of compelling force. Louder and louder, in the dead silence
of the room they grew into thunderbolts that seemed to shake the
building. On and on he went, a great light glowing from the depths of
his eyes, until by the compelling force of his invectives, the
irresistible power of his magnetism, the prisoner sprang from his chair
and faced him.
For an instant they stood with only the table separating them, the
accused man towering above the lawyer in a spasm of rage. Then,
sweeping over his coarsened features came an expression of utter despair
and misery, his eyes grew lustreless and dead, and drawing from his
shirt a concealed dirk, he threw it from him and lowered his face upon
his outstretched hands.
No word was spoken, but so completely did the agony of the man's face
express his confession, that a shiver ran over the audience.
In the silence which followed Sargent stood with folded arms, amid the
naked passions of the courtroom. A few minutes later, when he realized
that they were still waiting for him to speak, he turned towards the
jury and said slowly:
"Gentlemen, there is the murderer. Do with him as your conscience tells
you."
He thought it was several hours afterwards, when in fact it was only ten
minutes, that he became aware of his surroundings. He had sunk on the
bench after addressing the jury, and before him had begun to swim all
the fancies employed in his speech, and in a futile attempt to gather
and separate them, as he had done before, he found himself tumbling from
a great height, which his fast ebbing vital force made irresistible.
Then suddenly, in the midst of the turbulence, he felt the encouraging
warmth of a friend's hand, and looking up, saw Judge Houston's broad
back passing on towards the jury room.
Jacob Phelps lay forward on the table, his face buried in his
outstretched hands. Beyond him stood Jervais, facing the hushed
courtroom, with a countenance livid with fury.
Turning to see the cause of such an expression, Sargent looked for the
first time into the sea of faces, pale and still, yet gazing at him with
glowing eyes that told him their admiration and wonder. He understood
their silence, and thrilled under the depths of feeling that kept them
speechless. In that moment he knew that the commencement of his career
was a triumph.
And while he stood with every nerve in his body tingling responsively to
his blind joy, the jury re-entered the room and took their seats, and
Judge Houston's voice rang out loud and sonorous.
"Jacob Phelps! Stand up!"
Phelps lifted his bowed head, his eyes roving furtively over the crowd
of staring faces. Moving slightly, with the expression of one who is
dazed into semi-consciousness, he stared back into the sea of faces--not
one expression of kindness, of sympathy, of friendship for him was in
that entire throng. Then, with the dull look of one who has
relinquished all hope, he wheeled and faced the judge.
"Jacob Phelps, you have been judged, and convicted of murder--the
highest crime known to the laws of the State of Mississippi. Have you
anything to say, or any reason to give why the sentence of the law
should not be pronounced upon you?"
In the breathless stillness there came a pause. Phelps did not answer.
Again the judge's voice filled the courtroom.
"Then nothing now remains but the performance of my painful duty. The
sentence of the law and the judgment of the Court is that you be taken
hence to the jail of Adams County, and there safely confined until
Thursday, the twentieth day of June, 1833, when between the hours of ten
o'clock in the morning and noon, you be taken into the jail yard; and
there, by the Sheriff of this County, you be hanged by the neck until
you are dead--and may the Lord have mercy upon your soul!"
*CHAPTER VI*
*TO BE HANGED BY THE NECK UNTIL DEAD*
"Everett, you're a wonder, man." "Pick him up there, Suggs." "Now, all
at once! Lift him up!" "Now, all together, we'll sing, 'See the
conquering hero comes!'" "Where are we going? Oh, to the Mansion
House, of course. I'm going to set 'em up until everybody has his
fill." "Never heard a speech until I heard Everett's to-day."
Before he knew what had happened, Sargent had been surrounded as he came
out of the courtroom, and hoisted to the shoulders of an admiring crowd
that was waiting for him.
The people had gone wild in their enthusiasm over what he had done for
them. On that day he found himself a public man, at the mercy of the
whims of the public, and their whim at that moment was to find an outlet
for their admiration.
They took his cane away from him, some one grabbed his broad felt hat
and replaced it with a chimney pot that was not unbecoming by any means,
and then they carried him on their shoulders to the bar of the Mansion
House, and placing him on the counter, made him listen to their speeches
of congratulations while the waiters plied every one present with more
drinks than any one's capacity admitted.
Captain Mentdrop gave an eloquent peroration, in which he stated that he
was the first one to introduce the Honourable Sargent Everett to the
townspeople, who from thenceforth would give only honour and praise to
his name. He would have continued interminably if it had not been that
others were as anxious to claim that honour as the Captain. And for two
hours the speech-making and jollification lasted, until every one grew
hilarious over the motion that Sargent be sent as their representative
to the next Legislature.
When the excitement had reached its height, and a crowd had gone out on
the street to erect a bonfire--no matter if it were broad
daylight--Sargent saw his chance to get away and slipped quietly out the
back door of the tavern into a deserted street.
Walking as rapidly as his halting gait would permit, he traversed the
streets where he would hardly meet any one, and came at last to the
bluff that looked down over the river. Pushing his way through a tangle
of undergrowth, he reached a place far enough from the town to be secure
from interruption. Here he threw himself full length upon the ground,
breathing hard from the unusual physical exertion. He was utterly
exhausted, and covering his eyes with his hands he lay perfectly
motionless.
When he looked up again a scarlet sun was sinking into the banks of dull
grey clouds, and illumining weirdly the scene of river and distant flat
country.
Ah! it was a relief to get away from the crowd of gaping faces, even if
they spoke praise and admiration. And beyond that, he was glad that the
courthouse, with all the associations which had in one moment become
horrible to him, could not be seen from where he sat.
For a long time he remained perfectly still, gazing out upon the scene
before him, seeing in it only dreariness and despair accentuated by the
encroaching shadows; and all the time, as if to keep out some haunting
sound, he pressed both hands over his ears.
And the change had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly. Only a little
while before, flushed with the pride of his first success, the blood
surging happily through his veins, he had waited with the others for the
verdict, and as the words rang out across the hushed courtroom, "To be
hanged by the neck until you are dead!" they fell upon his overstrained
nerves like an electric shock. Something within him snapped, and in the
next moment he found himself looking into the miserable, hopeless eyes
of the prisoner as they led him from the room.
After that Sargent felt the buoyancy and joy and triumph slip completely
away from him. He was aware of nothing but the sound of those words, he
heard them whispered over the courtroom, he heard them in the
congratulations of his friends, he heard nothing else during the
speech-making at the tavern, and now he knew that they had followed him
to his retreat on the bluff, for he saw them written in lurid letters
across the scarlet sunset.
At first in the chaotic whirling of his thoughts, he could not
comprehend the strange effect upon him; he could see no reason for the
sinister obsession. He had gotten what he had been concentrating all
his energies upon for the past week. Why should the outcome overwhelm
him in this unlooked for manner! He puzzled over it, attempting to
separate the last expression of the prisoner's face and the meaning of
the words. They were too analogous to bear separation, and gradually,
gaining force with its development, came to Sargent the terrifying
realization that without him the sentence would not have been
pronounced. A kindred thought followed--more fearful than the first--in
which he saw himself the murderer, not the prisoner who had committed
the deed to escape detection, but he, a lawyer under the sanction of the
laws of God and man committing the same deed in the name of justice and
righteousness. And so the world would think of him; but how different he
knew it was. Righteousness and justice had not once entered his
thoughts; only hatred and revenge. Hatred and revenge! He had said
them aloud to himself at night, to keep them from slipping out of his
mind for even one second. And now he was to be paid for this deed with
money, blood-money, as the prisoner had been rewarded with the same.
Where was the difference? Was not each a taking of life? Was not any
man whose life was taken by another, murdered? Could there be any need
in the world great enough to abrogate that command of God's--"Thou shalt
not kill!"
He rose from the ground, and walked recklessly on into the woods that
crowned the bluff. The sunset was gone now, and only a misty twilight
hung through the vista of trees. A refreshing breeze from the north
brushed against his flushed face and brought a tingle to his feverish
senses. With the exhilaration came an added sharpness to his
perceptions.
Argue as he would, he could not make himself realize that it was an
ethical view of the case that he was taking. He saw himself at the
outset of his career, with this man's blood upon his hands, and
instinctively, with the insight that comes in a crisis of revulsion, he
knew that no matter how long he lived, he would never be able to approve
of capital punishment. The personal application was what riveted the
chains of his conviction. The simple statement that without his speech
the prisoner would have been free, answered eloquently all doubts and
questions. It was he alone, who was to bring this man to death; it was
useless to evade the responsibility.
"To be hanged by the neck until you are dead."
In a moment of terrifying excitement he spoke the words aloud, to gain a
better effect of their significance, and with the sound of his own
voice, the words received a more intimate meaning. Deeper under their
weight he sank, until it was by a supreme effort that he checked himself
in his mad striding, and turned back toward the town. There was some
one there, who could surely show him a new aspect of the case, in which
he could realize that the responsibility did not rest upon him alone. A
new thought, a suggestion, a word of sympathetic understanding would
mean so much to him--but all that praise, that enthusiastic admiration
so lavishly bestowed upon him because he had made a speech that would
rob a man of his life! He could not bear to think of hearing it again.
When he descended the hill the lights were glowing from the many windows
of the town, as if a reflection of the star-lit night. There were not
many doors open, for the spring night had suddenly grown cool, and the
barred portals seemed to Sargent to look down upon him with an aloofness
and withdrawal that expressed the attitude of the thinking world toward
him. If it were not the sentiment of that day, it would be when people
came to know and to judge him from the hidden motives.
The streets were dark, and as he made his way along no sound broke the
stillness save the regular tap of his cane upon the plank walk. With
resolute force and averted face he passed the courthouse, another block
beyond he passed the jail in which the prisoner was awaiting his death,
and finally, with the relaxation that comes when one realizes a haven
has at last been reached, he got to the open door of Judge Houston's
home, and looking through the hall and seeing the family at supper, he
slipped quietly into library, and sat down.
The soft glow from two candles on the mantel was pleasant to his tired
eyes; there was just light enough in the room for him to see the things
that had become familiar and dear to him. His eyes lingered longest on
the table where a row of books--law books of reference--always stood in
a prim, neat row. In front of them, more intimately handled and never
in the same place, thereby showing the love and use given to them, lay
the three books from which the old gentleman received his greatest
pleasure--Shakespeare, "Some Fruits of Solitude," and that old, leather
bound book, worn and frayed at the corners.
In the centre of the table lay the thick portfolio of pigskin, beside it
several newly cut quills, and to one side, laid by for the evening,
rested the gold snuff-box.
Sargent's glance lingered affectionately upon each article, reluctantly
falling at last upon the two notes addressed to himself, which were
placed conspicuously on the table. One he knew by its heavily embossed
envelope, its green seal, and the lustre of the ink with which it was
addressed. Tearing it open indifferently, he started up in surprise,
not expecting so sudden a culmination of the difficulty. Jervais had
requested him to meet him at daybreak of the next day--if it were
convenient. "Of course it is convenient," he murmured half aloud,
"only," and his thoughts raced back to the problem of that day.
He turned to the other message, a coarse piece of paper folded over
twice and addressed to him in a barely legible script. He unfolded this
with a keener interest than the other, and leaning forward so the candle
light would aid him in deciphering the words, he read:
"Will you come to see me? I want to tell you something. JACOB PHELPS."
He held the paper a long time in his hands, fingering it after his eyes
no longer read the words, and gradually, over his tortured senses,
drifted a feeling of peace and hope and joy. At last, under the full
realization of the opportunity that had come to him, he settled back in
his chair and closed his eyes.
In this attitude Judge Houston found him when he entered the library.
The old man did not extend his hand, nor for a few moments did he say
anything, having learned to read the young face before him like an open
book, and knowing that any words except those spoken by Sargent himself
would be irrelevant at that moment. Instead, he took down a long German
pipe with a china bowl, from the mantel shelf, and filling it with
tobacco, seated himself comfortably in a chair and crossed his legs;
silent, all the while.
Finally Sargent opened his eyes and looked at the old man without
speaking. At last the words came, trembling slightly from his
intensity.
"Did you ever convict a man for murder?"
The corners of the old man's mouth twitched; he was so certain that
would be the question. In answer he only nodded.
"And was the man hanged?"
He nodded again.
Sargent's voice rose to a higher pitch and broke harshly.
"How could you let it be done, and have any peace afterwards?"
The old man laid his pipe aside and came toward the table, sitting down
opposite Sargent.
"I found out that I was in the right. That the man should have been
hanged--that it was my duty to see that punishment was inflicted upon
him. Anything else would have been an evasion of my duty,--a greater sin
than I at first imagined the other was. I know what you are feeling at
this moment. Every man who has a conscience and a reverence for God and
has chosen criminal law for his profession goes through your experience.
There are so many sides to the situation--I doubt if you have thought of
but one."
Sargent moved impatiently in his chair. His fingers were thumping
nervously on the table all the time.
"Tell me the other side--I can see only one."
The old man leaned forward and met his eyes intently.
"What do you see?"
"'Thou shalt not kill.'"
Felix Houston leaned back in his chair and putting out his hand, drew
the old Bible toward him. Placing it on his knees, he turned the pages
with the familiarity of one who knew what was written on every one. At
last he held down a page, and ran his fingers across it, smoothing out
the crumpled, folded edge. "Listen," he said, raising his eyes to
Sargent's for a moment. "There are other commands in here, too. Read
here--Genesis--'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be
shed,' and in Exodus," the pages turned quickly, "'He that smiteth a
man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death,' and Leviticus,
'Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth,' and later, in the
words of Jesus, recorded by Matthew, 'All they that take the sword shall
perish with the sword.' Is not that enough?" He laid down the book,
and met Sargent's glance again. "You see now there are reasons for man
making laws with which the life of a murderer can be taken. It is the
command of God. It is His law given to us for self-protection."
Sargent shook his head wearily.
"Vengeance is mine," he quoted slowly, in response. "With that, I see
no reason for this law of man's. Why should we judge? Why should we
decide that a man has no right to live? 'Thou shalt not kill,' is the
word spoken by God. There is no evasion of it--I can see only that one
interpretation. It is final to me in its brevity. It embraces
everything. If Phelps is hanged, it will be the same as if I had killed
him myself, alone and unaided. The law back of it means nothing to me.
If he is hanged I will be a murderer."
Sargent crouched back in his chair as if to escape the physical
punishment his thoughts inflicted upon him. The disappointment caused
from the old man's failure to bring him any comfort intensified the
despair into which he had sunk.
"Think a moment, Sargent," Judge Houston said, attempting a new line of
persuasion. "Think of the good you have done the people by removing
such a danger from them. That should be palliation enough to relieve
you of any responsibility. Their gratitude to you is wonderful! Do you
know, they want to show it in some lasting form; there is already a
movement on foot to send you to the Legislature, and if you accept it, I
know you will be elected. Boy! you don't realize that your success has
been made. Cheer up! Open your eyes to your opportunities. There are
not many who make the start you have." Judge Houston grew more and more
enthusiastic as he continued. "I had no idea that you could win that
case. I only appointed you to give you the experience. But you have
shown your genius. That speech has made your start a triumph."
Sargent watched his enthusiasm coldly. A gulf of misunderstanding
seemed to be widening between him and his old friend to-night--a gulf in
which their sympathy of the past months was counted as nothing. Of all
the people in the world Felix Houston was the one Sargent had expected
to understand him in this trial. His disappointment grew almost
unbearable when he heard praise also coming from his friend's lips.
"A triumph," he murmured sadly. "What is a triumph when its gain means
the sacrifice of a man's life?"
"Have you thought of the lives you have probably saved by removing this
dangerous man from the country? That should help you a little."
"Was he so harmful? Had he killed any one before? There seemed no
proof of it."
"Did you not prove that he had killed one man? Is that not enough?"
"I did not prove anything--legally."
Felix Houston's brows drew together slowly. It was a signal of the end
of his patience.
"What did you do then, Sargent?"
"I played a trick on him--the meanest, lowest, most dastardly trick one
man ever played on another. There wasn't any law in it. I set myself to
work on the man's sympathies; I studied his face all that first day in
the courtroom, hunting for the vulnerable point in which to attack him.
All that day I could see nothing else but his face, yet I could not find
what it was that was there, that I did not recognize. And when I rode
home that evening with Natalia, I was telling her about the case, and
how hopeless it seemed, and what do you suppose she told me to do? The
very thing that I did--make the man confess, himself! She said that I
could do that if I wanted to. All that night I lay awake, thinking and
thinking of how I could persuade the man to tell his secret. I kept
repeating it to myself all through the long hours that I would make him
tell, seeing his face before me, always with that inscrutable expression
that meant that there was a vulnerable point. I must find it, I kept on
saying. I must find it! Then I thought out my speech, realizing as I
went over it, that if I went into every detail of the murder, that
somewhere in the recital I would find the spot in the man's nature. I
found it--you know when. He has a mother. I made him think of her!
After the first admission of my power I knew I had the man in my hands.
It was all very easy after that. But it was not law, you must admit
that. It was playing upon sentiments that are sacred to every human
being. I took that advantage of him while he was held before me--forced
to listen. He couldn't escape my words. I forced them into his brain.
I drove all the vital force that was in me into that man's conscience,
and made him speak out. He could not help it--he was powerless. But
that is not law, I say. I have no right to send him to the gallows on
such a confession. You should have seen that--you will now, I know. It
rests with you to help me make my reparation. I used this man to
further the gratification of revenge. I would not have gone into the
case with such vehemence if the defeat of Jervais had not been back of
it. Oh, you do see, then! The sin of it, don't you? But it is
true--every word of it. I am keeping back nothing from you. You have
told me that you loved me almost as much as you did your son, and you
know that I have returned that feeling, aye, more than I ever loved the
man who created me only continually to wound me! Will you prove to me
that your love is as great as you say? Will you grant me one request
that will mean everything to me?"
With his growing excitement, Sargent rose from the chair and placed both
hands on Judge Houston's. The old man met his wild, beseeching look
calmly. He knew now that he was brought face to face with a situation
that might end disastrously, but he did not shirk it. He was calmer
than he had ever been in his life.
"I will grant you any request--if it is right, and in my power."
Sargent took a long breath, though not yet one of relief. When he
spoke, the words came in a whisper, as if he feared an eavesdropper.
"Release Jacob Phelps!"
For twenty seconds the old copper faced clock on the mantel ticked off
the time loudly in the silent room. Then Felix Houston spoke.
"It is not in my power, and even if it were, I would not set at liberty
a man whose depredations and robberies have hung over this country for
ten years. You have asked me too much, Sargent. Go home and think this
matter over, and when you are calmer, more yourself, you will see the
exaggerated view you are taking. In the morning you will see everything
differently. Your responsibility in the case will have passed from you
entirely, and you will see it through the eyes of a sane man--you are
hardly that, now."
"In the morning may be too late to think of anything," Sargent answered
hurriedly, handing him Jervais' challenge.
Judge Houston read it at a glance and handed it back to him.
"Is that the note that was sent here? I left it on the table."
"Yes. May your man take my answer?"
"Of course. When?"
And without answering, Sargent wrote a few lines at the table, and
folding the paper carefully and sealing it, handed it to the slave who
was already waiting at the door.
When the man was gone and they were alone again, Sargent stretched out
his hands and grasped Judge Houston's.
"Won't you grant me that request?" he said, an expression of pitiful
yearning in his eyes. "It may be my last. I should not mind dying if I
knew the man were free," he added tentatively.
"Anything else in the world, Sargent," the old man answered brokenly.
"Anything else I would do for you."
"There is nothing else that matters," Sargent answered dryly, turning
away and reaching for his hat.
"You will come for me in the morning--at what time?"
Judge Houston rested against the table, watching Sargent's every
movement intently.
"At four o'clock. The sun rises at five now. I will make all
arrangements with the ferry man to take us over to the Louisiana side."
He stopped abruptly and looked at the old man standing as firm and as
steady as a piece of granite. "Somehow I feel the incongruity of you
going with me more forcibly now than ever. Won't it tell against you?
Won't it cause some loss of dignity to your position? You said you had
always disapproved of duels. It is too much that you are giving up for
me. It may be that I shall pass out of your life to-morrow, and for the
few months that we have been together--it seems too much. I know I've
disappointed you--some day perhaps you'll understand my reasons.
Somehow, though, I couldn't help it--I must be deformed in mind as in
body!"
The old gentleman made a step toward him, and steadied Sargent's
trembling figure with his firm arms.
"When you hear what I have done to-night," he continued, brokenly
evading the keen blue eyes bent upon him, "I believe you will
understand."
Felix Houston drew Sargent closer to him. His firm arm was about the
young fellow's shoulders, and he was reading his face intently for some
meaning to the last words.
"Sargent, boy--look at me---what do you mean?"
Suddenly Sargent straightened himself and answered the other's look
firmly.
"I don't know yet. I haven't quite decided. I shall be back here at
four o'clock."
*CHAPTER VII*
*ONE MEANS OF ESCAPE*
Outside the night shone clear and brilliant. Sargent stopped when he
had passed out into the street, and looked up through the canopy of
leaves to where a stretch of heavens glowed with the impenetrable purple
of the night. Across the infinitude of space a brilliant star suddenly
shot, leaving a trail of white fire in its wake. He stood there a few
minutes, his face uplifted to the calm beauty of the sky, his lips
moving in prayer.
When he began walking again a strange quiet had settled over all his
features and in his eyes burned the light of determination.
He walked rapidly, for though the moon had not yet risen, the night was
brilliant with the beautiful, translucent light of the stars. The
dwellings were dark, not a light glowed in a window; the town had sunk
into deep slumber.
He stopped at the tavern long enough to write a few words to Captain
Mentdrop about the duel, and once more hurried out into the night.
He passed the courthouse again. This time he did not quail, or pass it
with averted eyes, but looked at it with the expression of one who gives
thanks to something which has shown him the right path, be it ever so
hard and narrow to traverse.
Walking on, he stood at last before the small jail. It was a one story
brick building in which the sunken bars across the windows shone
sombrely in the clarity of the night. Beyond its suggestion of
imprisonment, there was a deeper and more lasting effect of utter
dreariness and despair, for the building stood on a plot of ground in
which neither a tree nor a shrub grew.
Without a moment of hesitation Sargent went up the path to the door, and
lifted the heavy knocker. Its report rang out on the quiet night like
some death signal, reverberating within, seemingly an hundred times.
Then came the heavy steps of the keeper, the sound of huge bolts sliding
out of fastenings, the clang of a chain, and at last Sargent stood
within the dimly lit corridor.
"Jacob Phelps sent for me. Is it possible for me to see him now?" he
said rapidly, striving in vain to hide his anxiety.
The jailer held his lantern close to Sargent's face, and inspected him
slowly.
"Have you an order from the sheriff?" he asked.
"No."
"It's against rules. I can't let you in."
"I know it is irregular, but this is my only chance to see him. I am
going away early in the morning. I only want to speak a few words with
him. My name is Sargent Everett--"
"The lawyer that made the speech to-day!" the jailer exclaimed. "Well,
sir, it's an honour to know you. I never heard tell of a speech like
the one you made, sir. No wonder Phelps wanted to see you."
Sargent turned away quickly to hide the look of suffering on his face.
Was he never to hear the end of that speech! Would it go down to the
grave with him! Suddenly he remembered his words to Judge Houston--"It
will be the speech of my life." Ah! verily it was so!
"Will you let me see him?" he asked again.
"Well--" the fellow debated. "I reckon it'll be all right since it's
you, Mr. Everett. But it's against rules, you know."
He led the way down the corridor, Sargent following him closely. At the
far end, the jailer turned toward him, eying his slight figure and
halting gait deprecatingly.
"Shall I leave the door open and wait for you out here? He's a mighty
tough customer--at least he was up to to-day. He's been as quiet as a
lamb since they brought him back from the courthouse. I don't know if
you'll be safe in there with him, for he's lots bigger than you. He
might take a notion to hurt you."
Sargent moved to the door impatiently. "I do not fear him, and you need
not wait at the door. Bar it on the outside, and do not come until I
call for you. Now--let me in."
The jailer put his hand on the bolts--then hesitated.
"Here--I have it. Put this pistol in your pocket--so--and you can keep
him at a safe distance. Don't let him see it unless he comes at
you--it's as much as my place is worth. There you are--now!"
The bolt slid back, the chain fell to the floor, and Sargent passed
through the opened door.
The room was small, its whitewashed walls giving out a dank odour. A
narrow bunk, a table and chair were the only furnishings. One window,
covered with bars, let in the light of the brilliant sky dotted with
innumerable stars. At the table, scribbling on some coarse paper in the
feeble glow of a candle, sat the prisoner--Jacob Phelps.
He looked up as Sargent entered; then, as if slowly recognizing him, he
rose from the table and stood looking at him with the dull expression
which had come into his eyes during the trial.
"So you've come, have you? I kinder thought you would."
Sargent met his glance steadily. "You said you wanted to see me."
Suddenly Phelps moved to the door and tried the bolt. It was barred
securely. Then he moved back quickly and stood close to Sargent,
catching hold of both his arms.
"D'you know they've locked you in here with me?" He began laughing
easily to himself. "You can't get out, any more'n I can. You're in my
power now like I was in yours this morning." His fingers sank into
Sargent's flesh with a grip of iron, his eyes suddenly grew brilliant,
his breath came hard and hot in the young fellow's face. "Suppose I'd
kill you now! Wouldn't it be fair? You've had your chance! This is
mine! You baby--I could wring your neck as easy as a chicken's." He
stopped abruptly and stared into Sargent's face searchingly.
The silence deepened. Sargent's eyes met the other's unflinchingly.
The pain of Phelps' grip came as a great relief to his mental agony.
"Well, what have you got to say for yourself? Why shouldn't I do it?"
"It is your right," came Sargent's low answer.
Phelps' fingers loosened their hold.
"Humph! So you're not afeard of me!"
"No--not now--after to-day."
"'Cause you convicted me you think I'm harmless--eh?"
"No--because I found the good in you."
Again Phelps stared at him hard while the light died gradually out of
his eyes. His hands slipped down Sargent's arms slowly until one
stopped suddenly on the pistol the jailer had thrust into his pocket. In
a second he had both arms about Sargent, and had grabbed the pistol in
his hand.
"So you's not afeard of me, eh, you damn liar. Yet you carry this!"
holding up the pistol for inspection in the candle light. "Six chambers
and all of 'em loaded," he ended, breaking the gun back into place.
"It is not mine. The jailer put it in my pocket as I entered here. I
never carried one in my life."
Phelps looked at him doubtfully. "Well--I believe you," he said
thoughtfully. "But I'm glad you brought it. It's a damn good thing you
did!"
Sargent started. "What do you mean?"
"Never you mind--I'll tell you later." He laid the pistol well out of
Sargent's reach and came back before him, folding his arms, and looking
down on him with a new expression--a look that seemed to express a
certain contentment. "D'you know why I sent for you? I wanted to thank
you."
Sargent's lip quivered. "For sentencing you?"
"No--for opening my eyes."
Sargent looked up and saw the huge man of fifty years standing before
him, suddenly timid, with his great, roughened hand outstretched.
"You ain't afeard to take it--is you? It's jest the hand of a man who's
goin' to die soon. It can't do you no harm and it'll do me a mighty lot
of good."
Sargent made a step forward, and grasped the waiting hand.
"Can you ever forgive me for taking your life?" he murmured unsteadily,
a spasm of suffering contracting his features.
For a moment the ruffian looked down at him, puzzled, then gave a quick,
coarse laugh.
"Is that what's hurting you? Well--it ain't hurting you half as bad as
it's hurting me--nohow. You've done me heaps of good--youngster." He
still held Sargent's hand in his iron grip, "and some day you're goin'
to be a big man. I could tell that by the sound in your voice when you
was speaking to-day. That's what got under my skin. It's jest as sweet
as a woman's and then again it's as hard as the devil's. Damn if I
wouldn't like to hear you make another speech!" He laughed grimly.
"But look here," with a quick movement and a glance at the pistol. "I
sent for you to tell you somethin'. Sit down thar in that chair. I'm
goin' to stand up--tired of sittin' down anyway."
The huge man swung one leg over the end of the table, and looked down
into the face of the lawyer with eyes softened by an expression of
bygone tenderness--the look Sargent had been searching for so long. It
thrilled him now as he saw it so clearly.
"As I said--you're goin' to be a big man some day, and you wants to
begin right now. You don't want to hurt people, sonny--I can see that
in your face."
Sargent's lips opened to answer, but no words came. It was when he
nodded that the big man continued. "So make up your mind right now that
you ain't goin' to send any more men to the gallows. Send 'em to prison
for life--that's all right--that gives 'em a chance to show people if
there's anything good in 'em. But when you kills 'em you cuts off all
their chances of doin' better. Ain't I right?"
Again Sargent nodded silently.
"Now, take me; I never knowed until to-day that I could have lived the
right sort of life like any other man. I say I never even thought it
till you told me. And you jest went and opened it up to me in sich a way
that I couldn't help seein' whar I could have done a whole heap better.
You kept makin' me wish I had one chance to show I could do what was
right,--and now it's come--it's come." He swung his leg from the table
and walked to the window. "They say that spot thar is where they're
goin' to string me up. But they ain't--they're goin' to be mightily
disappointed. Jacob Phelps ain't goin' to have his neck broke by no
rope. D'you hear that? Is you listenin' to me?"
Sargent rose in amazement. One step, and he was beside Phelps. "How
did you know?" he gasped. "No one could have suspected it. I only
decided a few minutes before I came here."
"Decided what?" Phelps asked, staring at him.
"To help you. I don't know yet how we can manage it."
Phelps looked at him quietly for a few minutes. Then he turned away
silently, and went to the bunk, sitting down on it, and letting his head
fall into his hands.
"So you think I'm doin' right," he murmured, his face still lowered.
"I'm kinder glad you do."
"Of course it is right. It's the only thing. I don't think I could
look the world in the face again if you were to be hanged." He moved
over to the bunk, and sat down beside Phelps. The candle had burned
low, and the wick, spluttering in the melted tallow, left the room in a
fitful gloom.
"I never killed any man unless I had to," Phelps continued slowly. "I
didn't mean to kill old Puckett that night. He jest held on so tight I
had to git away somehow." He ended with a deep groan.
In the long silence the candle gave a last flicker and went out. Except
for a narrow square of light from the window, half obscured by the
heavy, ominous looking bars, the room was now in total darkness.
Finally Phelps stretched out his arms and rising, went back to the
table. "But I reckon it's all regrettin' to no use now," he murmured,
picking up the piece of paper on which he had written, and folding it
carefully. "I wants you to send this to my old mother. She lives up in
South Ca'lina. I've wrote her name on here. I wants you to send this
with it, too." He pushed his hand into his woollen shirt, and pulled
out a leather pocketbook. "In here's receipts for all my money in a New
'leans bank. I want she should get all of it. I've been sendin' her
money all along, but I never let her know whar I was." He leaned across
the table, closer to Sargent till he could see his face more distinctly.
"I don't want her to know what happened to me." His voice sank to a
whisper. "Can't you jest tell her I died, or something? That's jest
what made me give in to you to-day--you telling 'bout Puckett's wife
left all alone with nobody to take care of her when she was gettin' old
and feeble. It put me to thinkin' 'bout my old ma, all by herself. I
didn't care after that what you folks did with me. I felt, somehow,
like nothin' made no difference any more. When I thought 'bout the way
I had run away from that poor old soul and left her all by herself,
somethin' inside me went all to smash. I didn't have a drop of fightin'
blood left in me.... You see that's what you done for one man,
youngster. 'Tain't agoin' to hurt ye any, neither.... Now don't stay
here no longer. Jest go along home. Here's my hand. Forget all 'bout
me, and don't never blame yourself. It had to be some day and--after
all--it won't be the gallows." He walked around the table and handed
the package to Sargent.
"I don't understand," Sargent exclaimed, not moving from his seat on the
bunk. "Why give me the package now? The other matter," he lowered his
voice, "is so much more important. How are you going to manage it? I
must know, so as to help you."
Phelps looked down at him, his lips moving into a kindly smile. "It's
easy enough. I don't mind; as soon as you're gone I'll do it. Trust me
to know the easiest way. I'm a sure shot, and I'm not the one to fail
on myself."
Sargent stared up at him, bewildered. The package slipped out of his
hand to the floor. As he struggled to his feet, he found himself
trembling violently with the sudden realization of what Phelps meant to
do. He stood perfectly still for a second, attempting to decide upon his
own course. There was only a moment or two in which to act, and every
second Phelps was watching him intently. His power of the courtroom was
nothing now--the force of words was gone. His lips were tight drawn;
even the mere act of speaking was an impossibility.
The pistol lying on the table shone with a metallic glint. Suddenly he
knew that he must get it away from Phelps at any cost. Gathering all
his forces, he made a dash toward it. When his fingers had closed upon
it, he felt Phelps' iron grip upon his arms.
"Give it up! You fool!" cried the outlaw. "D'you think I'm goin' to
change my mind because you do!"
They struggled across the dark room, Sargent edging toward the door, an
inch at a time. When he had almost reached it, dragging, writhing,
twisting himself in Phelps' grip, he felt his strength suddenly leave
him.
"Wait--Phelps--wait," he gasped. "I did not mean--this--I meant--"
"Let go--let go--and stop--your--talking! Let go, I say! You won't?
Well--take that!"
Sargent felt himself spinning through the darkness. As his head struck
the heavy bar of the window he heard a crashing sound, as if the walls
of the jail were falling together, then a brilliant flash--afterwards,
dead, black silence.
A few minutes later, he opened his eyes. There was a bright light in
the cell, and several men were moving about excitedly. The whole place
was filled with the stifling odour of powder. On the floor, a foot away
from him, lay the stiffening body of Jacob Phelps.
*CHAPTER VIII*
*THE CAPTAIN'S JOKE*
The old town clock was chiming two when Sargent finally passed the last
cabin, and turned from the highway into the private road to the house.
He had passed through the last hours dazed and only half understanding
what was taking place about him. His return to consciousness, the
horrible sight of Phelps' face mangled beyond recognition, the
excitement and the questions of the crowd which had so quickly
assembled, and his subsequent statement of the affair to the
Sheriff--all these details were gone through much like some dream in
which everything is half obscured and acted in without one's real
volition.
Friends' greetings and hand-clasps he had received without one word,
even when the physician had bound up his wound, an ugly gash on the
head, caused by his fall against the bars, he had merely asked if he
were free now to go his way.
The deathly stillness of the country, the wide gloom of the heavens,
dotted with a dazzling brilliance of stars, the vague, motionless
forests across the deserted fields, made the night seem to him a fit
setting for the weird, strange spell into which he had sunk.
When he stood before the big gate and saw the house gleaming in the
night brilliance, he started as if brought suddenly before something he
had not expected. A light shone from the parlour window, an
unprecedented thing at such an hour, yet it did not strike him as
unusual.
Tying his horse at the gate, for it would be only two hours before he
must return, he walked draggingly towards his room. There too was a
light and a figure standing in the doorway.
"Thank gracious, youse done cum, Massa Sargent," Dicey exclaimed,
running towards him. "Whar in de name ob de good Lawd has yer bin? Ole
Miss and Lil Miss an' ev'ybody else done gone all ter pieces 'bout
sumthin'. Ise bin smellin' er mouse but I cyant ketch him. Now--Massa
Sargent, whut's er causin' all dis heah fuss?"
Sargent moved past the old woman, into his room. "I cannot talk now,
Dicey," he said, going directly to a large armoire and unlocking it.
"To-morrow--all of you will know."
"But ole Miss wants ter see yer to-night. She bin er pacin' up an'
down, up an' down dat parloh flo' all night--a waitin' fer yer. Eber
sence Massa Jervais wuz heah she ain' seem hab no peace ob min'! She
done tole me ter watch fer yer and bring yer straight ter her--so cum
'long, right dis minit."
Sargent stared at her silently.
"You say Mr. Jervais has been here this evening."
"Yaas, suh, bout two hours."
"Then he told her!" Sargent exclaimed.
"Mos' eberything, I reckon. But cum on ober dar, fer I wants ter git
ter bed 'fo daybreak, sho'."
Sargent followed Dicey across the yard, into the dimly lit hall, where
the wall of portraits swam before him like the faces of the multitude he
had faced that day. Knocking at the parlour door, Dicey announced him,
and then disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
Mrs. Brandon was standing beneath the massive bronze chandelier, her
face paler than Sargent had ever seen it, her whole expression and poise
bereft of the cold assurance which had seemed the outward expression of
the woman's character.
Sargent closed the door after him, and stood facing her, both of them
silent a few moments.
"Is it true?" Mrs. Brandon finally demanded, her words coming colder and
crisper than ever before.
"You mean--that Mr. Jervais has challenged me, Mistress Brandon? If
so--he has and I have accepted. It is to be in a very few hours."
Her eyes blazed at Sargent, full of a violent hatred that led him to
read for a certainty the love she bore Jervais. Even in that moment of
his gloom and her anger, the incongruity of the love of this woman for
Jervais struck a distracting note in his thoughts.
"Are you determined to meet him, Mr. Everett?"
"I am, Mistress Brandon."
"Do you realize that it will cause you to lose your position in my
family? Of course such an unheard-of thing as a school-master fighting
a duel, is sufficient to annul our contract."
"I supposed this would be the case. I cannot blame you. You are quite
right."
She came a step nearer Sargent. Her lips pressed hard against each
other as she evidently forced herself to speak.
"If you will forego this duel, I shall reconsider the matter. I would
retain you as the children's tutor."
"Thank you, Mistress Brandon, there is no help for it now. I go to it
as my one chance of--" he broke off abruptly and turned towards the
door.
"Wait,--I am not through," she cried, her voice breaking shrilly, "I can
not have this duel--don't you understand--it must not take place. What
will keep you from it? Certainly there is something!"
Sargent met her eyes calmly. He could see now a weakening, a
tremulousness beneath her hauteur which in another moment might break
the indomitable spirit entirely. Suddenly he took her hand in his, very
gently.
"There is nothing for you to fear, Mistress Brandon. Believe me when I
tell you that my fire shall be thrown away. Mr. Jervais will be as safe
this time to-morrow as he is now. You have been very just and
hospitable to me while I was a member of your household. I thank you
for it, and ask you in parting to grant me only one request."
She had drawn away from him with the allaying of her fears. There was
no doubt of his sincerity. But with the feeling of safety, her pride
rushed over her again, and in the chagrin of having betrayed herself,
she became more coldly abducent than before.
"What is your request?" came her answer, full of predicated denial.
"To see Natalia before I leave."
Mrs. Brandon lifted her eyes in surprise.
"To-night? Now? Surely you know that would be impossible!"
"It would be for the last time," Sargent answered tentatively.
"Pardon me--but I can not think of it. Perhaps I might consent before
she goes--"
"After to-night it will be too late."
For answer Mrs. Brandon lifted the candlestick and passed out into the
hall.
In his plain room, the walls of whitewashed logs, and the spotless floor
covered with rag rugs, he pulled out the worn little hair trunk which
had come on the long journey from Maine with him. There was not very
much that he had to put in it, and when he had filled the tray, piling
one end with his much used books, he paused a moment, holding the last
one in his hand and gazing a long time at the fly leaf. It recalled
vividly that day--so far off now--when he and his mother had packed the
same little trunk, and she had given him the book as her last gift, to
be taken with him wherever he went. Her words were there before him on
the page now. He read them over and over again:
"My son, neglect not to peruse these sacred writings with interest, that
you may obtain that virtue which will guide you through life's thorny
path, fit you for an usefulness in life, peace in death, and happiness
in the spirit land."
He touched his lips to the book, afterwards wrapping it carefully, and
writing Natalia's name across the paper. Not now, but some day far off,
she would understand what it had represented to him.
Then sitting down before the table and putting the two candles close
together, he poured out the whole of his tortured soul, his
disappointment, the worldly success which was to him so damning a
bitterness, his utter hopelessness--all this he wrote to his mother in a
letter which was never to reach her.
A subdued rustling in the trees roused him with the certainty that the
time had come for him to be on his way. Blowing out the candles and
locking the door of the little room that had sheltered him for many
months, for the last time, he went through the grove to the gate. There
he paused and let his eyes rest for a moment on the old mansion of the
Spaniards.
The fragile, crescent moon was already lowering towards the distant
lowlands, and in its vague light the house was softly outlined among the
magnolias. Even then, as he had often felt before when looking at this
scene in the stillness of the night, Sargent felt a strange spell of
mystery and fatefulness creep over him. There was something ghostly in
the white house accentuated by the gloom of the grove and the inclosing
hedge of Cherokee roses, so filled with white dream flowers.
Against his will his thoughts drifted into fancies of Natalia's future.
He could see her going away to distant lands, beautiful and wealthy and
courted, and coming back perhaps to spend the happiness of her life in
this perfect setting. And, as always with his thoughts, the subject of
them became visible before him. He saw the beautiful, vivid little face
looking at him with the dependence and yearning for sympathy which had
first riveted the chains of his love. He saw the thin, delicate
features, the oval contour, the unusual softness of skin, almost olive
about the eyes and very white and fair on the temples, and the black
lashes and the velvety shadows beneath the eyes, that gave that
world-old expression when she smiled.
While he gazed before him, dwelling on each memory of the little girl he
was leaving for ever, he saw her eyes grow slowly bloodshot, then almost
imperceptibly her skin seemed to deaden and the ghastly red of clotted
blood obliterated the likeness, leaving in its place the mangled face of
Jacob Phelps. Digging the spurs into his horse, Sargent tore down the
road towards the town, at a breakneck speed.
Judge Houston was waiting at his door, calm and very pale. Together he
and Sargent walked to the tavern, without speaking a word beyond the
greetings. It was still quite dark, and as they neared the hostelry the
windows of the club room shone bright, and from within came the sounds
of noisy merriment.
"Will you tell Captain Mentdrop I am here, Judge?" Sargent said, when
they stood outside the door. "I should rather not go in there." He
shuddered at the thought of more congratulations about the yesterday.
Standing outside alone, he heard a loud burst of laughter--Jervais',
then the Captain's; afterwards a silence as the two parties came out at
the same time, Captain Mentdrop and Jervais leading the way, walking arm
in arm.
"Hello, Sargent, you're there, are you--and Judge Houston,--my
compliments, sir."
Jervais passed without a word to his friends who followed him out, and
then both parties took carriages, already waiting for them, and drove
down the long hill to the river.
"Well, sir, I've had a night of it 'pon my word, I have," cried the
Captain, seemingly in the best of spirits. "Will you believe it,
Sargent, I've been sitting in there with Lem Jervais since ten o'clock
last night!"
Sargent listened listlessly. "Is he so entertaining?" he asked without
interest.
The Captain looked at Judge Houston and dropped a sly wink.
"Immensely so! And when Suggs came in and told us about your scuffle
with Phelps--well, you'd 'a' learned something if you'd heard what he
said!"
Judge Houston had started at the mention of Phelps. In a moment his
hand was on Sargent's.
"What about Phelps, Sargent? Did you go to see him?"
Sargent met his glance beseechingly.
"Not now--Judge. After this is over, get Captain to tell you about it.
Please--not now!"
In the chill numbness of the hour before daybreak they took their places
in a skiff, and shot out on to the wide surface of the river. The white
mist obliterated the opposite bank, and when they had drifted a mile
below the town a narrow strip of sand bar suddenly appeared out of the
dark, and a moment later the boat was grounded upon the sand.
Close behind them came the other skiff, and both parties immediately
walked across the clean white bar, to two wide-spreading willows which
marked the spot of the then famous duelling ground.
When the two groups had formed themselves and the formal greetings gone
through, Judge Houston left Sargent's side, and going to Jervais, led
him a little way from the others. A very few words passed between them,
when Judge Houston turned away sadly and went back to his place.
"I told you so," said the Captain, raising his great shoulders
contemptuously. "When a challenge has been sent and accepted, it's a
man's duty to go through it without any more words. This reconciliation
business is all stuff--until you've got through fighting."
Judge Houston met the Captain's restless eyes calmly.
"Don't you think everything should be done to save a man's life?" he
asked quietly.
"Not one bit of it!" The Captain's hands met in a resounding clasp.
"That scoundrel," pointing to Jervais, "would be a heap better dead, and
as for saving his life, it would be better if all parties took a hand at
getting rid of him. This world would be a heap better with so many less
of that sort. If I was a praying man, I'd a said a bit of prayer for
Sargent to kill him."
"Yet you came out of the tavern a while ago, arm in arm with him!" Judge
Houston answered coldly. "Are your sentiments quite sincere, Captain
Mentdrop?"
The Captain looked into the face of the older man, much as a big dog
looks condescendingly upon another; then he slipped his arm through
Judge Houston's and led him away from Sargent. When he was out of
hearing, he put his mouth close to his companion's ear.
"Take a peep at Jervais," he whispered. "Don't you see he's all to
pieces--couldn't hit the side of a house if he tried a week. _That's_
what I've been doing with him all night. Loading him up! Loading him
up, sir! And not with buckshot either--with whiskey, mind you. D'you
think I was going to let that youngster stand up here and get killed by
that scoundrel? Well, I reckon not!"
Judge Houston's face paled. He gripped the Captain's arm with a
trembling hand. "Does Sargent know this?"
"No--of course not. Say, Judge, what d'you take me for, anyhow?"
"He must know it! You must tell him!"
"I? I'll be damned if I do!"
"Then I will."
"No, you won't either. Now, look here, Judge Houston, this is my
affair; and if you interfere, your age and position won't make a blame
bit of difference in what I might do to you. I'm bent and determined to
save that youngster, and all your pious conscience and principles and
fol-de-rol beliefs ain't going to keep me from it. You see what I mean,
don't you? So don't fret me, any more!"
Without a moment's delay, the Captain turned towards Jervais' party with
the magnificent bravado which was always at his command and called out:
"Shall we toss for the word, gentlemen?"
For a second a gold coin gleamed in the air and fell at the Captain's
feet.
"Thank you, gentlemen," he bowed, with a flourish, "the honour is mine."
Then opening a large valise, he took out four pistols and handed them to
Jervais' second, who handed them to Jervais. The selection was made.
At that moment the Captain saw Judge Houston make a step towards
Sargent. Quick as a flash his voice rang out--
"Are you ready, gentlemen? There is the sun."
It was too late for the warning. Judge Houston dropped back as Sargent
and Jervais stepped out on the clear stretch of sand. Turning back to
back, each walked ten strides in the opposite direction, then turned
again and faced each other. Sargent threw his cane from him, and looked
into Jervais' scowling face, a few yards away from him. In his
opponent's restless eyes, in his twitching lips and slightly trembling
hands, he understood, without being told, what the Captain had done for
him.
On the light breeze that raced before the dawn, the Captain's voice came
firm and loud.
"Gentlemen! Are you ready? Fire! One--"
Jervais fired.
"Two!"
Sargent's pistol was raised and as his fingers clasped the trigger, in
the knowledge that he must fire he aimed far to the right of Jervais,
then, with an uncontrollable movement, found himself pointing directly
at his opponent as the shot rang out.
"Three!"
When the whiff of smoke had cleared, both men were standing looking at
each other. For a second they stood still, then the seconds rushed
between and the duel was over.
"Great Lord!" cried the Captain, letting out his choicest string of
oaths. "Here I've been wasting a whole night expecting to see
something. And what d' I get? Two men standing up and looking at each
other over a whiff of smoke." Throwing a contemptuous look at Jervais'
companions, he grabbed Sargent about the shoulders and, squeezing him
hard, led him a good distance from the others. Then it was that the
young lawyer, passing through the valley of shadows, and just beginning
to see hope for the future, looked up at the old, wrinkled face bending
close beside him, and found the sparkling grey eyes overflowing with
merriment.
"Sonny," he said, giving Sargent a hearty squeeze and attempting to hold
his laughter no longer. "You needn't been so serious about this thing.
There wasn't a damn bullet in a one of them pistols!"
*CHAPTER IX*
*A PROMISE FOR THE FUTURE*
That night, when the boys had gone to sleep, Dicey came to the side of
Natalia's bed, and sat down, holding the little girl's hand close to her
tear-stained face. They were to be separated the next day, for the first
time in their companionship of twelve years. The morrow's boat was to
take Natalia on her long journey to the North.
"Mammy, he is not coming out here any more," Natalia said, her wide open
eyes staring into the old slave's face.
"No,--honey-chile,--he ain' comin' heah no mo'."
"And I won't see him to-morrow before I go?"
"No, sugar--ole Miss ain' gwine let him speak ter yer. She done said
dat pintedly, so dar ain' no use stedyin' 'bout hit no mo'."
Natalia glanced at the clock, its face shining bright in the light of a
solitary candle. The hands were at nine.
"Mammy," she crept over to the side of the bed where Dicey's ear was
most convenient. "Mammy, you love me very, very much--don't you?"
Dicey scented danger. In a moment her ears were keen.
"Sho' I does, honey-chile, you knows dat."
"And you would do anything I asked you, wouldn't you, Mammy?"
"Mebbe so--whut yer wants now?"
Natalia sat up and clasped her hands about her knees.
"I want to go to see him to-night, Mammy. Will you take me?"
Dicey leaned over the bed and pulled the quilt tight about the little
figure.
"Lay down, honey," she said soothingly, "and go ter sleep. All dis heah
'citement bout goin' way done addled yer. Co'se yer cyant go see Massa
Sargent ternight. Who ebber heerd tell ob sich a thing? Go ter sleep
now--I'se gwine sing ter yer bout Moses--"
"I don't want to hear about Moses, Mammy." Natalia threw off the quilt
and sprang out of bed. "I want to see him, Mammy, before he goes. I
want to tell him good-bye. Please take me."
Dicey shook her head knowingly, and stood up.
"Come on back to bed, honey, yer gwine ketch yer death ob col' standin'
dar in de night ar. Co'se yer cyant go out ter-night."
Natalia tossed the hair out of her eyes and faced Dicey angrily.
"If you won't take me, I'll get Zebby to. I know he'll do it."
"I knows whut I'se gwine do." Dicey walked to the door and turned the
key in the lock, removed it and placed it in her apron pocket. "Now
you'se got ter be managed. I'se gwine put yer in dat bed and you'se got
ter stay dar." She ended by turning towards Natalia and stopping
suddenly.
It was the first time the child had ever been thwarted by the old slave,
and seeing the wrath on her face that she had never seen there before,
she at first trembled a little, and then suddenly flared into a
passionate anger. It was then that Dicey stopped and stared at her.
"Don't you come near me, Mammy. Don't you try to put me in bed. I
won't go--I won't--I won't." She stamped her foot in rage. "And you'll
be very sorry you did me this way when I go away and leave you--you'll
be mighty sorry!"
Then came the storm of tears and Dicey had her in her soothing embrace
once more.
"You won't have to tell anybody, Mammy," came the words between sobs.
"Not a soul will know. You get Zebby to hook up the chaise and take me
into town. We can go to Aunt Maria's and she'll tell us where he is.
You see we could do it! Oh, you will, Mammy, you will--won't you?"
Natalia was skipping about the floor in wild delight, for already she
had seen the glimmer of consent in Dicey's eyes.
"Sh-h! Sh-h! Keep still," the old woman whispered. "You'll wake 'em
all up. Jes' yer stay right heah tell I see ef I kin fin' Zebby."
So it was that a half hour later they were jogging along the highway
towards the town, the starlight so brilliant that the lanterns were not
needed.
"Oh! look, Mammy, there's a shooting star!" cried Natalia.
"Humph! I ain' studyin' bout no shootin' stahs. I'm mighty worr'd bout
whut ole Miss gwine say when she kotch up wid me," grunted Dicey. "Ef
she done tek er notion she sell me, leaf's not."
"But she can't, Mammy, because you belong to me. You and Zebby both."
When they had reached Judge Houston's house, the front door was wide
open, and the sound of many voices, and the sight of many lights within,
made Natalia hesitate; then she made Dicey go in and ask for Mrs.
Houston.
In a moment the old lady was standing in the doorway, talking to Dicey,
and then hurrying down the steps.
"Natalia! What in the world are you doing here?" she exclaimed.
"I've come to tell him good-bye. Is he in there?"
"He--who?"
"The schoolmaster."
Mrs. Houston put out her arms and gathered the little girl to her,
carrying her into the yard.
"Yes--he's here--you little rascal," half crying, half laughing at
Natalia's anxious expression. "They are having a big meeting
to-night--a whole lot of the townspeople who want Sargent to run for the
Legislature."
Natalia drew back in disappointment, her lips trembling.
"Then I can't see him--and I did so want to tell him good-bye!"
"You wait a moment--go over there in the summer house and I'll see if he
cannot come out here for a little while."
Mrs. Houston entered the house, and pausing before the dining room door,
she waited a moment to attract some one's attention. About the long
mahogany table were seated twenty men. At one end sat Judge Houston, at
the other Sargent Everett. Between them were great heaps of papers,
filled with the proposed platform they were formulating, and at that
moment an old gentleman was standing and voicing his ideas on the
subject. In the midst of his speech, he caught Mrs. Houston's eye, and
stopped abruptly.
"Pardon me, gentlemen," she said as they all rose with one accord, "but
a lady has just called, and insists upon seeing one of you."
A general laugh and some uncertain flushes passed over the assembly.
"She would not give his name," Mrs. Houston continued, smiling with a
deep enjoyment upon the most confused faces, "but she referred to him as
the 'schoolmaster.' Do any of you answer to that name?"
Sargent was beside her in a moment.
"Is it Natalia?" he exclaimed softly.
"Yes. She is in the summer house."
Sargent found her sitting on the coping of the fish pond, staring down
at the gold fish showing distinctly in the strangely brilliant
starlight.
"I am going away to-morrow and you did not even tell me good-bye, when
you ran away from us!" she said, her dark eyes staring up at Sargent
reproachfully.
"But I could not, Natalia, everything was crowding upon me so--the
duel--the--"
"The duel!" she exclaimed.
"Sh-h-h! Don't talk so loud about it. The Judge does not want Mrs.
Houston to know." Sargent picked her up in his arms and carried her to
a bench on the far side of the summer house. She was very warm and
throbbing as he held her close to him, and even beneath the folds of the
cashmere shawl he could feel her excited little heart beating.
"Now--tell me about it," she whispered, when he sat down, still holding
her. "Tell me about the duel--was it a real one?"
"Yes, I suppose so." Sargent could not keep from smiling.
"How beautiful! I wish I had seen it! Who was it with?"
"Mr. Jervais."
"Oh--goody! Did you kill him?"
"No--neither of us was hurt."
She sighed disappointedly, and went silent, her head nestling in the
hollow of his shoulder.
"Do you have to hurry back to those old lawyers?"
Sargent shook his head.
"No. They've told me all there was to tell."
Natalia smiled up at him, her silent, sweet little smile. She did not
make any motion to move or say anything, but lay against him contentedly
gazing up at the sky.
"I've seen three shooting stars to-night--Oh! look! There's the fourth!"
she exclaimed, lifting her face to follow the flashing light. "And the
heavens--aren't they beautiful to-night? I wonder what it means. I
never saw the stars so bright before."
Again a short silence fell between them,--the quiet that unconsciously
comes to people when they feel a long separation is near; when the short
time left them should be crowded with words, and yet, a time when words
seem so worthless.
Sargent looked down into the pensive little face so close to his own.
In the night glow the two long braids of hair shone very soft and
glossy. His hand sunk into them unconsciously and its delicacy and
softness he found delicious to the touch.
"What makes your hair so beautiful?" he said impulsively, his hand still
upon it.
"Oh, my! is it?" Natalia sighed. "It ought to be, though, for Mammy
brushes it so--so long every morning and every night. Sometimes I wish
I didn't have any, until she tells me I'd be ugly without it. And she
says people won't love me when I'm grown up if I'm not pretty. Do you
believe that?" with sudden intensity.
"No." Sargent laughed easily. "That's a bad theory of Mammy Dicey's.
I'll have to tell her she's mistaken."
"And she says that a pretty child makes an ugly grown up person. Do you
believe that?"
"Sometimes it may prove true,--but I know of one where it is not going
to be the case."
Natalia's eyes beamed, and she edged up closer to Sargent, looking
searchingly into his face.
"Do you believe I'm going to be pretty when I am grown up?"
Sargent looked down at her a long time before he answered lightly, "Why,
of course. You are going to be the most beautiful woman in the world."
Natalia slid off his knee and stood facing him, both of her hands
clasped in his.
"I'm so--so glad. Because now I'm going away," she hurried on, "and I'm
going to be gone a long time, for I'm going to Boston and I'm going to
Europe, and later on Mamma Brandon says I can make the Grand Tour, and
when I come back--all grown up and educated and a real young lady and
beautiful--you will remember me--won't you? Mammy says gentlemen never
forget very beautiful ladies."
Sargent drew her radiant face, all flushed and intense, close to his.
"I'm going to remind you of this some day, Natalia, don't forget. So
you are coming back grown up and you are going to let me still love you
like I do now?"
"I don't want you to love me like you do now," with a toss of her head.
"No? Why?" and Sargent puzzled over her meaning.
"I want you to love me like I see young gentlemen loving young ladies.
Sending them pretty nosegays and going to church with them Sundays and
taking them to balls. That's the way I want you to do!"
Sargent's face contracted with sudden pain. He knew so well that he
could never fill the role that Natalia had already planned for her
lover.
"Nosegays, church going, dances," he repeated after her. "Well," with a
sigh, "I might do the first two, anyhow." Then seriously, "Natalia, I
want you to remember this." For a moment he stopped and looked directly
into her eyes. "You are a child now but you will soon be a woman--a
beautiful young lady, as you say. You are going far away from me and it
is only natural that you should forget all about me; but don't forget
this--I shall always love you, more and more as the years go along.
Don't forget that--nor this--that the greatest joy in my life will be to
be of some help to you some day, to save you some suffering, to help you
to some great happiness. I am starting out to-night on my life work; the
path has come to me through suffering, the deepest suffering and
despair, but the road is very clear to me now. I see my mission and my
work!" He stopped suddenly, his eyes glowing with the radiance of his
new found happiness. Then turning slowly back to the little girl, he
put his arms about her and lifted her from the ground.
"You couldn't remember all that, dear little Natalia, could you?" He
smiled on her yearningly. "But you can remember that when I look down
that beautiful road of life I shall always see you standing at the
end--the embodiment of all its happiness."
Then he kissed her and carried her quickly toward the gate, Dicey
meeting them on the walk.
"Jedgment day! ef hit ain' time you wuz er comin'. Keepin' yer ole mammy
up all hours--waitin' fer yer to tell de Perfesser gemman good-bye.
Come on heah, honey-chile, and let's jog erlong home. Good-bye, Massa
Sargent. We sho' is gwine miss yer out ter de big house. Good night,
Massa."
Sargent leaned on the gate, and listened until the sound of the chaise
had died away. Then brushing his hands across his eyes and squaring his
shoulders resolutely, he walked back to the house and into the room in
which the first move of his great political career was being originated.
*BOOK III*
*THE LOVER*
*CHAPTER I*
*AFTER SEVEN YEARS*
It was the proudest moment in Captain Mentdrop's long career. He was
bringing his new boat, the _Southern Belle_, up the river from New
Orleans on her maiden trip. The stories of this new boat had preceded
her, arousing the curiosity of the country people until every one was
enthusiastically impatient to see for himself this boat with a cabin so
wide that eight horses could stand abreast in it; with wonderful
stalactites of white and gold that hung from the ceiling, and swayed
with the motion of the boat; and real kerosene lamps all along the sides
of the dining saloon; and a water cooler at one end that was made of
solid silver and held twenty gallons of iced water,--indeed, there had
never been anything on the Mississippi River to equal this floating
palace.
The Captain had let no opportunity pass, by which he could make this
initial journey of his new boat one of glory and importance. He paced
the deck night and day, too excited to take a moment's rest. With his
hands shoved deep into his pockets and a mammoth Havana between his
lips--the pipe had disappeared with so much prosperity--he beamed down
upon the crowds gathered along the shore, always landing when the number
of sightseers justified the loss of time; and welcomed them on board
with a hospitality that was made lavish by a corps of Creole cooks and a
brass band.
To add to the interest of the voyage there were several brides and
grooms who had chosen this trip for the wedding journey, as was the
fashion of that day; and a party from Boston that had come down by sea
to New Orleans.
"Gee Whillikens!" laughed the Captain, when the stage planks had been
drawn up and a plantation landing left behind. "It does my old,
dried-up heart good to see all these folks so tickled over this boat.
It's giving 'em more downright satisfaction than anything they've seen
or done for a mighty long time. I tell you I'm glad I had a chance to
show 'em what was a sho' enough boat--a boat what is a boat! Now, sir,
you're from Boston, so I've been told, and I wants you to tell me,
honest injun now--did you ever see anything like this boat of mine, up
yonder?" He turned abruptly toward his companion, his twinkling eyes
searching the face before him.
"No, Captain, I must confess I never saw anything like your boat in my
part of the country; but then, we only have ships and sea-going vessels,
and even on the Hudson the boats are not half as large as this."
Captain Mentdrop turned back, evidently relieved. "I'm powerful glad to
hear it from one who's been up thar and knows. Are you down in these
parts for long?"
"No, not very long. In fact, Captain, to be perfectly frank with you,
I've come down here to be married."
The old Captain turned and inspected his companion more closely.
Leaning easily against the railing, one arm thrust carelessly into an
embroidered waistcoat, a suit of dark green broadcloth ornamented with
large pearl buttons, and a bell crowned beaver, each detail of his
costume proclaiming him a man of fashion--the stranger made a strikingly
handsome picture. Apart from his well-chosen clothes, his handsome
face--fair, with honest blue eyes and bright, blond hair--impressed one
with a certain freshness and charm. He was a man evidently used to the
niceties and refinements of life, one to whom difficulties and hardships
had never come.
"So you've come way down here to get you a bride, have you?" the Captain
commented, evidently satisfied with his inspection. "Something of a
long trip, it strikes me. She must be a powerful exception to her kind,
to draw a young blood all over this much travelling to get her."
The stranger laughed good-humouredly, his face beaming with a boyishness
that was winning. "She is an exception!" he answered, "and sufficiently
fascinating to make one travel any distance to win her; but, in my case,
I am not going to find her--she is already with me. She has been
spending several years with my family in Boston, and when we decided to
be married, she wanted to come down here to have the wedding in the old
home of her ancestors."
"And you come all this way--just to be married!" the Captain commented
with a shrug. "But I reckon when a feller gets way off yonder, he
kinder has a hankering after old places he used to know. I reckon that
was the way with your gal--just had to come back and see it once more!"
The stranger was silent a moment, viewing with evident interest the
stretch of wooded hills crowned by a rambling town, which was becoming
visible.
"Yes, I suppose you are right," he said, reflectively. "It was the
memories of her home and all the associations of childhood which had
become dear to her--now that she knows how delightful they were. But
after six or seven years it seems she would have forgotten all about
it--particularly as she was a little girl when she left."
The Captain shook his head, knowingly. "There you're wrong, young man.
It takes a youngster to remember things. I'll wager, sir, she can tell
you every one of the changes that's taken place since she left here.
And if you're going to Natchez, and I believe you said you were,--well,
sir, she'll find enough changes there. Whew! but it makes me feel
kinder like it's time for me to be turning in my checks when I look
around the old town and see the difference."
With a shake of his rugged frame, he went nearer the railing to better
scan the shore. Already they could see the line of carriages and the
brilliant colours of the crowd assembled to meet the boat. Some smaller
craft had left the town landing and gone forward to salute the new boat,
waving colours and blowing their whistles with royal welcome.
"All of them seem to know you, Captain," the stranger remarked, when the
Captain had called greetings to some men in a small boat.
"Yes, siree, they know me! Well, they ought to. I've been plying up and
down here among 'em for many a year, and I know pretty nearly every
blamed man between St. Louis and New 'leans; and every house, too," he
added, his eyes resting humourously upon an old two story building very
near the shore. "Yes, sir, nearly every one of these places has
something to say to me about what's gone afore. You see that shanty?
Well, sir, that used to be the biggest gambling den in the whole of this
country. The fellows were run out of town and they built this place
just outside the limits, and once, when I was a-takin' a crowd of
gentlemen down here from St. Louis on a round trip, we stopped off at
the town for a day, and will you believe me, sir, every blamed one of
them gentlemen went and got drunk and got mixed up wit them gamblers,
and when they come back to the boat damned if they had a cent--not a one
of 'em. That lot of scoundrels had just fleeced 'em. Well, sir, I just
made up my mind that I wasn't goin' to put up with such tom-foolery,
even if them town folks was bluffed out by the gang, and I set to work
to think how I could get back the money my passengers had dropped. So I
lets my boat drift down from the landing till I gets afore that very
shanty there, sir; then I stops her and hollers for somebody to come out
and talk to me--but they had no intention of comin' out in broad
daylight. Finally I lets off a load of buckshot against one of them
windows, and that brought one of the damn rascals to the door. Says I,
'I want the money you stole from my passengers, you dirty scoundrel!'
Says he--'Why don't you come off that dugout and get it?' and slams the
door. 'Well,' says I to myself, 'I reckon I'll show him a thing or
two!' So I makes two niggers swim ashore with a coil of rope and tells
'em to run clear round the house with it and bring both ends back to the
boat. You see that made a circle of the buildin', with me a-holdin'
both ends. I gets the line fastened tight, and then calls down to the
engineer to back off easy-like--just enough to make the rope taut. Then
I stops. Says I, callin' ashore--'I've got the deadwood on you now.
Will you come to time?' But they wasn't a-thinkin' that way, so I backs
off a little more, and then the old shanty begins to creak. Just a
little more and the whole damn house would a-tumbled over. It brought
'em to life, though! The whole gang jumped out of the windows and doors
and everywhere, and one of 'em called out that he'd give me the money
back if I'd hold up. Well, sir," he nodded toward the building, "you
see she's still a-standin' there."
The stranger joined the Captain in his hearty, infectious laughter.
"It's a great old country you have down here," he commented a few
minutes later. "The more I hear of it, the more I wonder how in the
world Sargent Everett ever made his way, in such surroundings."
Captain Mentdrop wheeled suddenly, his wrinkled old features showing a
new interest.
"D'you know Sargent Everett?"
"I should think I did! We went to college together."