THE WOLF BLOOD
It was not until the next day that Judge Kirtley went to see Mr. De
Jarnette.
"I will give him an opportunity to sleep over it," he told his wife. "A
man's sober second thought is always in the morning."
But Richard De Jarnette's sleep had not been long enough nor sound
enough to change his mind.
"The stubbornness of the man is incredible," the Judge reported when he
got home. "He's going to make us trouble--I can see that. He makes no
accusation against Margaret. He doesn't try in the least to defame her
character, but he says his brother undoubtedly had sufficient reasons
for making such a will and that he shall carry out his wishes."
"I suppose the small matter of Margaret's having borne the child is no
reason why he should consult _her_ wishes," said Mrs. Kirtley,
indignantly.
"Apparently not. He simply ignores her."
"What could he do with a baby? He can't take care of it! I can't see why
he wants it."
"It isn't that he wants it. This is not affection. But for some reason
he is determined that Margaret shall not have it."
"It is a dog-in-the-manger spirit!"
"No." the Judge said, thoughtfully, "it isn't that." From long habit his
judicial mind was weighing evidence on both sides. "I am convinced that
he has some reason for this, but so far I haven't been able to get at
it. I asked him plainly if he had anything against Margaret. He said he
had no accusations to make. And indeed I don't see that he could make
any. If ever in a case like this a woman has been absolutely blameless,
that woman is Margaret."
"What does he propose to do with the child?"
"I asked him that. He says he shall leave him in charge of the old woman
who has taken care of him all his life, but he intends to take them to
his home. He says she is perfectly competent and trustworthy--"
"Well, that is true," acknowledged Mrs. Kirtley. "I never saw a more
faithful nurse."
"So he says. He claims that Margaret has herself told him repeatedly
that the old woman knows better what to do with the child than she
does."
"As if that proved anything! Every young mother has to learn. The man is
a brute! Will he take Philip at once?"
"Oh, no! A will must always be admitted to probate before anybody can
have any rights under it. And when it is we will be there to contest
it."
"Have you talked with Margaret?"
"No. She is to come to the office this afternoon."
When he laid the case before her there Margaret listened in silence. Her
excitement of the day before was gone. In fact Judge Kirtley would have
been glad to see her more moved than she was. Her calmness seemed almost
like despair.
"I knew he would not do it," she said. "He means us harm."
"Well, just for the present, my dear, I seem to have been unsuccessful,
but I have by no means given up hope of its being compromised."
"What reason does he give for persisting in taking Philip from me?"
"None at all. He simply falls back on the will and says he wants to
carry out his brother's wishes."
"There is some reason," she said positively. "He hates me. For what
cause I cannot tell. I have felt it since the day Victor died. He has
avoided me ever since. I am _afraid of him_. And yet I feel powerless
before a fear that cannot even be defined. Why should he hate me?"
"I think that is imagination. Are you willing to talk with him?"
"Why, certainly."
"Very well then, I shall arrange for you to see him to-morrow--in his
private office."
Then they fell to talking about the will and Margaret said,
hesitatingly, "Judge Kirtley, are you sure it wouldn't make any
difference--Philip's not being born when the will was made, I mean. It
seems as if it must make a difference."
He went to the library and took down the Statute Book, turning to
Chapter XXVII, Section one, and read:
"Sec. 1. ... That when any person hath or shall have any child or
children under the age of one and twenty years, and not married at
the time of his death, that it shall and may be lawful to and for
the father of such child or children, whether born at the time of
the decease of the father, or at that time in _ventre sa mere_; or
whether such father be within the age of one and twenty years, or of
full age, by his deed executed in his lifetime, or by his last will
and testament in writing, in the presence of two or more credible
witnesses, in such manner, and from time to time as he shall
respectively think fit, to dispose of the custody and tuition of
such child or children, for, and during such time as he and they
shall respectively remain under the age of one and twenty years, or
any lesser time, to any person or persons in possession or
remainder, other than Popish recusants:--"
She listened carefully. As he closed the book she said scathingly, "I
don't wonder they put it in a foreign tongue. That would sound very
harsh in English."
Then after a moment she asked, "Judge Kirtley, how does it happen that
such an infamous law was ever put upon our Statute Books?"
"That is a long story, Margaret, or rather there are links in the chain
that go back a long way. It doesn't take much time in the telling." He
was glad to turn her thoughts into a slightly different channel.
"You see, when Maryland ceded the District of Columbia to the United
States for a permanent seat of government, it was provided by an act of
Congress that all the laws of the State of Maryland, as they then
existed, should be and continued in force in the District, or at least
such part of it as had been ceded by that State."
"Did Maryland have such a law?" asked Margaret, incredulously.
"Yes, Maryland and a good many of the other states--the older ones
particularly. They have been gradually modifying these laws in a number
of them, but--"
"How did they ever happen to have such a law in the first place?" she
interrupted. "I did not dream that such things would be tolerated in
this age."
"The explanation is simple enough. When the English emigrants came to
this country and founded commonwealths they brought with them ready-made
the language, the laws, and the institutions of the mother country.
These had only to be modified and adapted to changed conditions that
they found here."
"Then this is really an English law?"
"An English law dating back to the time of Charles II. It was originally
framed to prevent the Catholics from obtaining possession of the
children of a Protestant father, I believe."
"It sounds as if it might have gone back to the Dark Ages," said
Margaret, indignantly, "or to barbarism! It seems so strange that I have
never heard of it before."
"Not at all. Most people do not know about laws until they are touched
by them."
"You say some of the states have repealed this law. Why did they do it?"
"Oh, they found it contrary to the spirit of the age, I suppose. I guess
the women's rights people prodded them up a little, maybe."
"Judge Kirtley," said Margaret, after a pause in which her mind had gone
from women's rights to women's wrongs, "do you suppose many women are
forced to give up their children under this law?"
"Not many of your kind, Margaret. Perhaps not many of any kind. But it
is a thing well known that many brutal men know of this law and hold it
as a club over their wives. A lazy, good-for-nothing negro, for
instance, will often make his wife support him, here in the District
where there are so many of them, by using this threat."
"Oh, it is cruel! cruel!" she cried, her voice trembling with
indignation.
"Margaret, I think, judging from your face just now, that if you were a
man you would say of this law, as Lincoln did of slavery, 'If I ever get
a chance at that institution _I'll hit it hard_!'"
"I would! I would! If I were a man. But what can a woman do but suffer!"
"Some of them learn to fight," he said, "enough at least to defend their
young."
It was in her mind to ask him further questions, but he forestalled
them.
"You'd better go home now, child, and think no more about it for a
while. I will see Mr. De Jarnette and arrange to go with you to his
office to-morrow."
This meeting never took place. Judge Kirtley went to Margaret's home
just before night to tell her that Mr. De Jarnette had declined to talk
it over with her. It could be settled much more satisfactorily with her
attorney, he had said.
"I never expected him to do it," Margaret said, shaking as with a chill.
"Judge Kirtley, what does it mean? Why does he shun me so?"
"My own idea, Margaret, is that he is afraid to risk talking it over
with you for fear of having his resolution broken down by your tears."
"I should never go to him with tears!" said Margaret, with flashing
eyes.
"I think perhaps it is just as well for you not to go," remarked Judge
Kirtley, prudently. "I believe time will bring it right anyway. And
don't let your fears run away with you, Margaret. He wouldn't think of
doing anything except according to law--and the law is always
deliberate. After the will is filed, with petition for probate, several
weeks will have to elapse before it can be settled, even if it is
settled satisfactorily to all concerned. If we find there is going to be
trouble this will give us time to decide upon our line of procedure. We
may have to contest the will."
"On the ground that it is unjust?"
"No. A will can be contested in the probate court only on the ground
that the testator was of unsound mind and hence incapable of making a
will, or that he was unduly influenced. By the way, have you ever seen
anything in your husband that would lead you to think that he might be
of unsound mind?"
"No," said Margaret, after a moment's thought, "not a thing. He was very
passionate, but otherwise perfectly sane."
"Hm-m. And have you any reason to think that Mr. Richard De Jarnette
would have tried to influence him in the making of this will?"
"No. I am sure he would never have done it. It would not have been in
the least like him."
"Well, Margaret," said the Judge, dryly, "I think I will not call you as
a witness in this case just yet ... It seems to me that the unsound mind
theory might be successful, in spite of what you say. These fits of
passion that you speak of--anger is a short-lived madness, you know--the
fact that his mother did some unexplained things; and then his
unaccountable desertion of you--well, we will see."
"It seems to me," said Margaret, rather timidly, "that the plea that the
will is unjust is so much more forcible than any other. Anybody can see
that without argument. It is self-evident."
"Very true, but the law recognizes only these two reasons for setting
aside a will. Unfortunately the laws of this District permit a man to
make just such a will. It remains for us only to prove that he was
mentally incapable of making one at all, or, as I said, that he was
unduly influenced."
Margaret shook her head and sighed. She did not believe that either
could be established.
"Now don't let your fears run away with you, Margaret. Be sensible. Mr.
De Jarnette wouldn't harm Philip. It is absurd to think of it."
"Oh, I _am_ afraid! There is no telling what he would do if he ever got
hold of him. He must have some object in wanting him. And you know it is
no good object."
It was useless to reason with her. Her fears had placed her beyond
reason. He went away, promising to see Mr. De Jarnette again.
When he was gone, Margaret went to her room and sat down. Her strength
seemed suddenly gone. She could not stand. Her head was dry and burning
and her hands like ice. A thousand fears assailed her. A girl of
twenty-one, shielded from contact with the world or a knowledge of its
wickedness was poorly fitted to cope with such fears. They were
unreasonable, of course, but Margaret did not know it.
If she could only get away where he could never find them! or at any
rate until Philip was no longer a baby. She might have courage to face
it when he was a few years older--but a baby was _so_ helpless! And she
looked despairingly at the little form lying there in the unconscious
grace of sleep, the soft breath parting rosy lips, and the moist locks
clustering in rings on the fair forehead.
"Oh, Mammy Cely," she cried in desperation, "_why_ does he want my
baby?"
The black woman shook her head. There had been no secrecy with her about
the will. Her relations with the mother and child had been too close for
Margaret to have any hesitation about telling her, and her own need of
comfort too urgent for her to have been prudent had she had. She must
talk to somebody. So Mammy Cely knew the whole story, and was wrung
between sympathy for Margaret and loyalty to "Marse Richard."
"The Lord knows, Miss Margaret!" she said, shaking her head. "It beats
me!"
She turned away and began arranging the shades for the night, muttering
below her breath as she did so, "Hit's the wolf blood! That's what it
is!"
"What did you say, Mammy Cely?"
The old woman made no reply.
"Mammy _Cely_! what did you _say_?"
"Miss Margaret,--I don't want to tell you nothin' about it--maybe it
ain't so anyway."
"Maybe what isn't so?" Margaret's curiosity was now thoroughly aroused.
"Why,--'bout the Jarnettes' havin' wolf hearts. That's what they used to
say. I don't know 'm. But I reckon it's so. I thought sho' Marse Richard
was gwineter 'scape it. He ain' never showed that strain befo'. But look
lak it's a curse. They can't git shet of it. Hit's there. Fire can't
burn it and water can't squinch it! Honey ... it was Marse Richard's
daddy wha' sold my little Cass away from me."
"Your baby?" cried Margaret in horror. "Sold your baby?"
"Well, she wa'n't jes as you might say a baby," said Mammy Cely, with
scrupulous exactness, "but she was the onlies' one I had, and when a
mother loses a child--specially her onlies' one--no matter how old it
is, it's her baby. 'Pears lak she always goes back to that.--Yaas, 'm,
he sold her--down South. It's more than thirty years sence then. And I
ain't never seen her sence."
"Oh, Mammy Cely! How could you _bear_ it?"
Mammy Cely looked at her with dry eyes.
"A body can bear a heap of things, honey, they think they can't when
they are yo' age. I bore it because there wa'n't anything else to do.
That's why people bear most of their troubles."
"Mammy Cely, tell me about it," cried Margaret impulsively. "Sit down
and tell me."
The old woman took the chair on the other side of the crib. It seemed to
her that it might not be a bad thing for Margaret to get her mind upon
another trouble that was greater than her own. Perhaps that was it--and
perhaps she wanted to tell the story.