CHAPTER I_The Law of the Land Of Miss Lady, Whom It Involved in Mystery, and of John Eddring, Gentleman of the South, Who Read Its Deeper Meaning: A Novel

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and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team.

[Illustration: MISS LADY]

THE LAW OF THE LAND

_Of Miss Lady, whom it involved in mystery, and of

John Eddring, gentleman of the South, who

read its deeper meaning_

A NOVEL

_By_

EMERSON HOUGH

Author of

The Mississippi Bubble

The Way to the West

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY

ARTHUR I. KELLER

EMERSON HOUGH

TO R.E.B.

TO T.A.D.

CONTENTS

BOOK I

CHAPTER

I Miss LADY

II MULEY

III THE VISITOR

IV A QUESTION OF VALUATION

V CERTAIN PROBLEMS

VI THE DRUM

VII THE BELL

VIII THE VOLCANO

IX ON ITS MAJESTY'S SERVICE

X MISS LADY OF THE STAIR

XI COLONEL CALVIN BLOUNT'S PROPOSAL

XII A WOMAN SCORNED

XIII JOHN DOE vs. Y.V.R.R.

XIV NUMBER 4

XV THE PURSUIT

XVI THE TRAVELING BAG

XVII MISS LADY AND HENRY DECHERD

XVIII MISFORTUNE

BOOK II

I THE MAKING OF THE WILDERNESS

BOOK III

I EDDRING, AGENT OF CLAIMS

II THE OPINIONS OF CALVIN BLOUNT

III REGARDING LOUISE LOISSON

IV THE RELIGION OF JULES

V DISCOVERY

VI THE DANCER

VII THE SUMMONS

VIII THE STOLEN STEAMBOAT

IX THE ACCUSER

X THE VOYAGE

XI THE WILDERNESS

XII THE HOUSE OF HORROR

XIII THE NIGHT IN THE FOREST

XIV AT THE BIG HOUSE

XV CERTAIN MOTIVES

XVI THE NEW SHERIFF

XVII THE LAW OF THE LAND

XVIII MISS LADY AT THE BIG HOUSE

XIX THREE LADIES LOUISE

XX THE LID OF THE GRAVE

XXI THE RED RIOT OF YOUTH

XXII AMENDE HONORABLE

THE LAW OF THE LAND

CHAPTER I

MISS LADY

Ah, but it was a sweet and wonderful thing to see Miss Lady dance, a

strange and wondrous thing! She was so sweet, so strong, so full of

grace, so like a bird in all her motions! Now here, now there, and

back again, her feet scarce touching the floor, her loose skirt, held

out between her dainty fingers, resembling wings, she swam through

the air, up and down the room of the old plantation house, as though

she were indeed the creature of an element wherein all was

imponderable, light and free of hampering influences. Darting,

nodding, beckoning, courtesying to something that she saw--it must

have moved you to applause, had you seen Miss Lady dance! You might

have been restrained by the feeling that this was almost too unreal,

too unusual, this dance of the young girl, all alone, in front of the

great mirror which faithfully gave back the passing, flying figure

line for line, flush for flush, one bosom-heave for that of the

other. Yet the tall white lilies in the corner saw; and the tall

white birds, one on each side of the great cheval glass, saw also,

but fluttered not; since a lily and a stork and a maiden may each be

tall and white, and each may understand the other subtly.

Miss Lady stood at length, tall and white, her cheeks rosy withal,

her blown brown hair pushed back a bit, one hand lightly resting on

her bosom, looking--looking into the mirror, asking of it some

question, getting, indeed, from it some answer--an answer embodying,

perhaps, all that youth may mean, all that the morning may bring.

For now the sun of the South came creeping up apace, and saw Miss

Lady as it peered in through the rose lattice whereon hung scores of

fragrant blossoms. A gentle wind of morning stirred the lace curtains

at the windows and touched Miss Lady's hair as she stood there,

asking the answer of the mirror. It was morning in the great room,

morning for the southern day, morning for the old plantation whose

bell now jangled faintly and afar off--morning indeed for Miss Lady,

who now had ceased in her self-absorbed dance. At this very moment,

as she stood gazing into the mirror, with the sunlight and the roses

thus at hand, one might indeed have sworn that it was morning for

ever, over all the world!

Miss Lady stood eager, fascinated, before the glass; and in the

presence of the tall flowers and the tall birds, saw something which

stirred her, felt something which came in at the window out of the

blue sky and from the red rose blossoms, on the warm south wind.

Impulsively she flung out her arms to the figure in the glass.

Perhaps she felt its beauty and its friendliness. And yet, an instant

later, her arms relaxed and sank; she sighed, knowing not why she

sighed.

Ah, Miss Lady, if only it could be for ever morning for us all! Nay,

let us say not so. Let us say rather that this sweet picture of Miss

Lady, doubled by the glass, remains to-day imperishably preserved in

the old mirror--the picture of Miss Lady dancing as the bird flies,

and then standing, plaintive and questioning, before her own image,

loving it because it was beautiful and friendly, dreading it because

she could not understand.

Miss Lady had forgotten that she was alone, and did not hear the step

at the door, nor see the hand which presently pushed back the

curtain. There stepped into the room, the tall, somewhat full figure

of a lady who stood looking on with eyes at first surprised, then

cynically amused. The intruder paused, laughing a low, well-fed,

mellow laugh. On the moment she coughed in deprecation. Miss Lady

sprang back, as does the wild deer startled in the forest. Her hands

went to her cheeks, which burned in swift flame, thence to drop to

her bosom, where her heart was beating in a confusion of throbs,

struggling with the reversed current of the blood of all her tall

young body.

"Mamma!" she cried. "You startled me." "So it seems," said the new-

comer. "I beg your pardon. I did not mean to intrude upon your

devotions."

She came forward and seated herself-a tall woman, a trifle full of

figure now, but still vital of presence. Her figure, deep-chested,

rounded and shapely, now began to carry about it a certain air of

ease. The mouth, well-bowed and red, had a droop of the same

significance. The eyes, deep, dark and shaded by strong brows, held

depths not to be fathomed at a glance, but their first message was

one of an open and ready self-indulgence. The costume, flowing, loose

and easy, carried out the same thought; the piled black hair did not

deny it; the smile upon the face, amused, half-cynical, confirmed it.

Here was a woman of her own acquaintance with the world, you would

have said. And in the next breath you must have asked how she could

have been the mother of this tall girl, at whom she now smiled thus

mockingly.

"I was just--I was--well, I was dancing, mamma," said Miss Lady. "It

is so nice." This somewhat vaguely.

"Yes," said her mother; "why?"

"I do not know," said Miss Lady, frankly, and turning to her with

sudden courage. "I was dancing. That is all."

"Yes, I know."

"Well, is it any crime, mamma, I should like to ask?" This with

spirit, and with eyes showing themselves able to flash upon occasion.

"Not in the least, my dear. Indeed, I am not at all surprised. I knew

it was coming."

"What was coming, mammal? What do you mean?"

"Why, that this was going to happen--that you were going to dance. It

was nearly time."

"I do not know what you mean."

"It was always thus with the Ellisons," said the other woman. "All

the Ellisons danced this way once in their lives. All the girls do

so. They're very strange, these Ellison girls. They dance because

they must, I suppose. It's as natural as breathing, for them. You

can't help it. It's fate. But listen, child. It is time I took you

more in hand. You will be marrying before long--"

"Mamma!" Miss Lady blushed indignantly. "How can you talk so? I

don't know--I didn't--I shan't--"

"Tut, tut. Please don't. It is going to be a very warm day. I really

can't go into any argument. Take my word, you will marry soon; or if

you don't, you will reverse all the known horoscopes of the family.

That, too, is the fate of the Ellison girls--certain marriage! Our

only hope is in some miracle. It is time for me to take you in hand.

Listen, Lady. Let me ask you to sit a trifle farther back upon that

chair. So, that is better. Now, draw the skirt a little closer. That

is well. Now, sit easily, keep your back from the chair; try to keep

your feet concealed. Remember, Lady, you are a woman now, and there

are certain rules, certain little things, which will help you so

much, so much."

Mrs. Ellison sighed, then yawned, touching her white teeth with the

tip of her fan. "Dear me, it certainly is going to be warm," she said

at last. "Lady, dear, please run and get my book, won't you? You know

your darling mamma is getting so--well, I won't say fat, God forbid!

but so--really--well, thank you."

Miss Lady fled gladly and swiftly enough. For an instant she halted,

uncertain, on the wide gallery, her face troubled, her attitude

undecided. Then, in swift mutiny, she sprang down the steps and was

off in open desertion. She fled down the garden walk, and presently

was welcomed riotously by a score of dogs and puppies, long since her

friends.

Left alone, the elder lady sat for a moment in thought. Her face now

seemed harder in outline, more enigmatical. She gazed after the girl

who left her, and into her eyes came a look which one must have

called strangely unmaternal--a look not tender, but hard,

calculating, cold.

"She is pretty," she murmured to herself half-aloud. "She is going to

be very pretty--the prettiest of the family in generations, perhaps.

Well-handled, that girl could marry anybody. I'll have to be careful

she doesn't marry the wrong one. They're headstrong, these Ellisons.

Still, I think I can handle this one of them. In fact, I

_must_." She smiled gently and settled down into a half-reverie,

purring to herself. "Dear me!" she resumed at length, starting up,

"how warm it grows! Where has that girl gone? I do believe she has

run away. Delphine! Ah-h-h-h, Delphine!"

There came no audible sound of steps, but presently there stood, just

within the parted draperies, the figure of the servant thus called

upon. Yet that title sat ill upon this tall young woman who now stood

awaiting the orders of her mistress. Garbed as a servant she was, yet

held herself rather as a queen. Her hair, black and luxuriant, was

straight and strong, and, brushed back smoothly from her temples as

it was, contrasted sharply with a skin just creamy enough to

establish it as otherwise than pure white. Egyptian, or Greek, or of

unknown race, this servant, Delphine, might have been; but had it not

been for her station and surroundings, one could never have suspected

in her the trace of negro blood. She stood now, a mellow-tinted

statue of not quite yellow ivory, silent, turning upon her mistress

eyes large, dark and inscrutable as those of a sphinx. One looking

upon the two, as they thus confronted each other, must have called

them a strange couple. Why they should be mistress and servant was

not a matter to be determined upon a first light guess. Indeed, they

seemed scarcely such. From dark eye to dark eye there seemed to pass

a signal of covert understanding, a signal of doubt, or suspicion, or

armed neutrality, yet of mutual comprehension.

"Delphine," said Mrs. Ellison, presently, "bring me a glass of wine.

And from now on, Delphine, see to it that you watch that girl. Tell

me what she does. There's very little restraint of any kind here on

the plantation, and she is just the age--well, you must keep me

informed. You may bring the decanter, Delphine. I really don't feel

fit for breakfast."

CHAPTER II

MULEY

In the warm sun of the southern morning the great plantation lay as

though half-asleep, dozing and blinking at the advancing day. The

plantation house, known in all the country-side as the Big House,

rested calm and self-confident in the middle of a wide sweep of

cleared lands, surrounded immediately by dark evergreens and the

occasional primeval oaks spared in the original felling of the

forest. Wide and rambling galleries of one height or another crawled

here and there about the expanses of the building, and again paused,

as though weary of the attempt to circumvent it. The strong white

pillars, rising from the ground floor straight to the third story,

shone white and stately, after that old southern fashion, that

Grecian style, simplified and made suitable to provincial purses by

those Adams brothers of old England who first set the fashion in

early American architecture. White-coated, with wide, cool, green

blinds, with ample and wide-doored halls and deep, low windows, the

Big House, here in the heart of the warm South-land, was above all

things suited to its environment. It was a home taking firm hold upon

the soil, its wide roots reaching into traditions of more than one

generation. Well toward the head of the vast Yazoo-Mississippi Delta,

the richest region on the face of the whole earth, the Big House

ruled over these wide acres as of immemorial right. Its owner,

Colonel Calvin Blount, was a king, an American king, his right to

rule based upon full proof of fitness.

In the heart of the only American part of America, the Big House,

careless and confident, could afford to lie blinking at the sun, or

at the broad acres which blinked back at it. It was all so safe and

sure that there was no need for anxiety. Life here was as it had been

for generations, even for the generation following the upheaval of

the Civil War. Open-handed, generous, rich, lazily arrogant, kindly

always, though upon occasions fiercely savage, this life took hold

upon that of a hundred years ago. These strings of blacks, who now,

answering the plantation bell, slowly crawled down the lane to the

outlying fields, might still have been slaves. This lazy plow,

tickling the opulent earth, might have been handled by a slave rather

than by this hired servitor, whose quavering, plaintive song, broken

mid-bar betimes, now came back across the warm distances which lay

trembling in the rays of the advancing sun. These other dark-skinned

servants, dawdling along the galleries, or passing here and yonder

from the detached quarters of kitchen, and cook-room, and laundry and

sleeping-rooms--they also humming musically at their work, too full

of the sun and the certainty of comfort to need to hurry even with a

song--all these might also have been tenants of an old-time estate,

giving slow service in return for a life of carelessness and

irresponsibility. This was in the South, in the Delta, the garden of

the South, the garden of America; a country crude, primitive,

undeveloped in modern ways, as one might say, yet by right entitled

to its own assuredness. It asked nothing of all the world.

All this deep rich soil was given to the people of that land by

Father Messasebe. Yards deep it lay, anciently rich, kissed by a sun

which caused every growing thing to leap into swift fruition. The

entire lesson of the scene was one of an absolute fecundity. The

grass was deep and green and lush. The sweet peas and the roses and

the morning-glories, and the honeysuckles on the lattice, hung ranks

deep in blossoms. A hundred flocks of fowl ran clucking and chirping

about the yard. Across the lawn a mother swine led her brood of

squeaking and squealing young. A half-hundred puppies, toddlers or

half-grown, romped about, unused fragments of the great hunting pack

of the owner of this kingdom. Life, perhaps short, perhaps rude,

perhaps swiftly done, yet after all life--this was the message of it

all. The trees grew vast and tall. The corn, where the stalks could

still be seen, grew stiff and strong as little trees. The cotton,

through which the negroes rode, their black kinky heads level with

the old shreds of ungathered bolls, showed plants rank and coarse

enough to uphold a man's weight free of the ground. This sun and this

soil--what might they not do in brooding fecundity? Growth,

reproduction, the multifold--all this was written under that sky

which now swept, deep and blue, flecked here and there with soft and

fleecy clouds, over these fruitful acres hewn from the primeval

forest.

The forest, the deep, vast forest of oak and ash and gum and ghostly

sycamore; the forest, tangled with a thousand binding vines and

briers, wattled and laced with rank blue cane--sure proof of a soil

exhaustlessly rich--this ancient forest still stood, mysterious and

forbidding, all about the edges of the great plantation. Here and

there a tall white stump, fire-blackened at its foot, stood, even in

fields long cultivated, showing how laborious and slow had been the

whittling away of this jungle, which even now continually encroached

and claimed its own. The rim of the woods, marked white by the

deadened trees where the axes of the laborers were reclaiming yet

other acres as the years rolled by, now showed in the morning sun

distinctly, making a frame for the rich and restful picture of the

Big House and its lands. Now and again overhead there swung slowly an

occasional great black bird, its shadow not yet falling straight on

the sunlit ground, as it would at midday, when the puppies of the

pack would begin their daily pastime of chasing it across the fields.

This silent surrounding forest even yet held its ancient creatures--

the swift and graceful deer, the soft-footed panther, the shambling

black bear, the wild hog, the wolf, all manner of furred creatures,

great store of noble wild fowl--all these thriving after the fecund

fashion of this brooding land. It was a kingdom, this wild world, a

realm in the wilderness; a kingdom fit for a bold man to govern, a

man such as might have ruled in days long gone by. And indeed the Big

House and its scarcely measured acres kept well their master as they

had for many years. The table of this Delta baron was almost

exclusively fed from these acres; scarce any item needful in his life

required to be imported from the outer world. The government of

America might have fallen; anarchy might have prevailed; a dozen

states might have been taken over by a foreign foe; a score of states

might have been overwhelmed by national calamity, and it all had

scarce made a ripple here in this land, apart, rich, self-supporting

and content. It had always been thus here.

But if this were a kingdom apart and self-sufficient, what meant this

thing which, crossed the head of the plantation--this double line,

tenacious and continuous, which shone upon the one hand dark, and

upon the other, where the sun touched it, a cold gray in color? What

meant this squat little building at the side of these rails which

reached out straight as the flight of a bird across the clearing and

vanished keenly in the forest wall? This was the road of the iron

rails, the white man's perpetual path across the land. It clung close

to the ground, at times almost sinking into the embankment now grown

scarcely discernible among the concealing grass and weeds, although

the track itself had been built but recently. This railroad sought to

efface itself, even as the land sought to aid in its effacement, as

though neither believed that this was lawful spot for the path of the

iron rails. None the less, here was the railroad, ineradicable,

epochal, bringing change; and, one might say, it made a blot upon

this picture of the morning.

An observer standing upon the broad gallery, looking toward the

eastward and the southward, might have seen two figures just emerging

from the rim of the forest something like a mile away; and might then

have seen them growing slowly more distinct as they plodded up the

railway track toward the Big House. Presently these might have been

discovered to be a man and a woman; the former tall, thin, dark and

stooped; his companion, tall as himself, quite as thin, and almost as

bent. The garb of the man was nondescript, neutral, loose; his hat

dark and flapping. The woman wore a shapeless calico gown, and on her

head was a long, telescopic sunbonnet of faded pink, from which she

must perforce peer forward, looking neither to the right nor to the

left.

The travelers, indeed, needed not to look to the right or the left,

for the path of the iron rails led them directly on. Now and again

clods of new-broken earth caused them to stumble as they hobbled

loosely along. If the foot of either struck against the rail, its

owner sprang aside, as though in fear, toward the middle of the

track. Slowly and unevenly, with all the zigzags permissible within

the confining inches of the irons, they came on up toward the squat

little station-house. Thence they turned aside into the plantation

path and, still stumbling and zigzagging, ambled up toward the house.

They did not step to the gallery, did not knock at the door, or,

indeed, give any evidences of their intentions, but seated themselves

deliberately upon a pile of boards that lay near in the broad expanse

of the front yard. Here they remained, silent and at rest, fitting

well enough into the sleepy scene. No one in the house noticed them

for a time, and they, tired by the walk, seemed content to rest under

the shade of the evergreens before making known their errand. They

sat speechless and content for some moments, until finally a mulatto

house-servant, passing from one building to another, cast a look in

their direction, and paused uncertainly in curiosity. The man on the

board-pile saw her.

"Here, Jinny! Jinny!" he called, just loud enough to be heard, and

not turning toward her more than half-way. "Come heah."

"Yassah," said the girl, and slowly approached.

"Get us a little melk, Jinny," said the speaker.

"We're plumb out o' melk down home."

"Yassah," said Jinny; and disappeared leisurely, to be gone perhaps

half an hour.

There remained little sign of life on the board-pile, the bonnet tube

pointing fixedly toward the railway station, the man now and then

slowly shifting one leg across the other, but staring out at nothing,

his lower lip drooping laxly. When the servant finally brought back

the milk-pail and placed it beside him, he gave no word of thanks.

The sunbonnet shifted to include the mulatto girl within its full

vision, as the latter stood leaning her weight on one side-bent foot,

idly wiping her hands upon her apron.

"Folks all well down to yo' place, Mistah Bowles?" said she, affably.

"Right well."

"Um-h-h." Silence then fell until Jinny again found speech.

"Old Bess, that's the Cunnel's favoright dawg, you-all know, she done

have 'leven puppies las' night."

"That so?"

"Yassah. Cunnel, he's off down on the Sun-flowah."

"Um-h-h."

"Yassah; got most all his dawgs wid 'im. We goin' to have

b'ah meat now for sho',"--this with a wide grin.

"Reckon so," said the visitor. "When's Cunnel coming back, you

reckon?"

"I dunno, suh, but he sho' won't come back lessen he gets a b'ah. If

you-all could wait a while, yon-all could take back some b'ah meat,

if you wantuh."

"Um-h-h," said the man, and fell again into silence. To all

appearances, he was willing to wait here indefinitely, forgetful of

the pail of milk, toward which the sun was now creeping ominously

close. The way back home seemed long and weary at that moment. His

lip drooped still more laxly, as he sat looking out vaguely.

Not so calm seemed his consort, she of the sun-bonnet. Eestored to

some extent by her tarrying in the shade, she began to shift and

hitch about uneasily upon the board-pile. At length she leaned a bit

to one side, reached into a pocket and, taking out a snuff-stick and

a parcel of its attendant compound, began to take a dip of snuff,

after the habit of certain of the population of that region. This

done, she turned with a swift jerk of the head, bringing to bear the

tube of her bonnet in full force upon her lord and master.

"Jim Bowles," she said, "this heah is a shame! Hit's a plumb shame!"

There was no answer, save an uneasy hitch on the part of the person

so addressed. He seemed to feel the focus of the sunbonnet boring

into his system. The voice in the bonnet went on, shot straight

toward him, so that he might not escape.

"Hit's a plumb shame," said Mrs. Bowles, again.

"I know it, I know it," said her husband at length, uneasily. "That

is, about us having to walk up heah. That whut you mean?"

"Yassir, that's whut I do mean, an' you know it."

"Well, now, how kin _I_ help it? We kain't take the only mewel we got

and make the nigger stop wu'k. That ain't reasonable. Besides, you

don't think Cunnel Blount is goin' to miss a pail o' melk now and

then, do you?"

A snort of indignation greeted this supposition.

"Jim Bowles, you make me sick," replied his wife. "We kin get melk

heah as long as we want to, o' co'se; but who wants to keep a-comin'

up heah, three mile, for melk? It ain't right."

"Well, now, Sar' Ann, how kin I help it?" said Jim Bowles. "The cow

is daid, an' I kain't help it, an' that's all about it. My God,

woman!" this with sudden energy, "do you think I kin bring a cow to

life that's been kilt by the old railroad kyahs? I ain't no

'vangelist."

"You kain't bring old Muley to life," said Sarah Ann Bowles, "but

then--"

"Well, but then! But _whut?_ Whut you goin' to do? I reckon you do

whut you do, huh! You just walk the track and come heah after melk, I

reckon, if you want it. You ought to be mighty glad I come along to

keep you company. 'Tain't every man goin' to do that, I want to tell

you. Now, it ain't my fault old Muley done got kilt."

"Ain't yo' fault!"

"No, it ain't my _fault_. Whut am I goin' to do? I kain't get no otheh

cow right now, an' I done tol' you so. You reckon cows grows on

bushes?"

"Grows on bushes!"

"Yes, or that they comes for nuthin'?"

"Comes for nuthin'!"

"Yes, Sar' Ann, that's whut I said. I tell you, it ain't so fur to

come, ain't so fur up heah, if you take it easy; only three mile. An'

Cunnel Blount'll give us melk as long as we want. I reckon he would

give us a cow, too, if I ast him. I s'pose I could pay him out o' the

next crop, if they wasn't so many things that has to be paid out'n

the crop. It's too blame bad 'bout Muley." He scratched his head

thoughtfully.

"Yes," responded his spouse, "Muley was a heap better cow than you'll

ever git ag'in. Why, she give two quo'ts o' melk the very mawnin' she

was kilt--two quo'ts. I reckon we didn't have to walk no three mile

that mawnin', did we? An' she that kin' and gentle-like--oh, we ain't

goin' to git no new cow like Muley, no time right soon, I want to

tell you that, Jim Bowles."

"Well, well, I know all that," said her husband, conciliatingly, a

trifle easier now that the sunbonnet was for the moment turned aside.

"That's all true, mighty true. But what kin you _do_?"

"Do? Why, do _somethin_'! Somebody sho' ought to suffer for this heah.

This new fangled railroad a-comin' through heah, a-killin' things, an'

a-killin' _folks_! Why, Bud Sowers said just the other week he heard

of three darkies gittin' kilt in one bunch down to Allenville. They

standin' on the track, jes' talkin' an' visitin' like. Didn't notice

nuthin'. Didn't notice the train a-comin'. 'Biff!' says Bud; an' thah

was them darkies."

"Yes," said Mr. Bowles, "that's the way it was with Muley. She just

walk up out'n the cane, an' stan' thah in the sun on the track, to

sort o' look aroun' whah she could see free fer a little ways. Then,

'long comes the railroad train, an' biff! Thah's Muley!"

"Plumb daid!"

"An' she a good cow for us for fo'teen yeahs! It don't look exactly

right, now, does it? It sho' don't"

"It's a outrage, that's whut it is," said Sar' Ann Bowles.

"Well, we got the railroad," said her husband, tentatively.

"Yes, we got the railroad," said Sar' Ann Bowles, savagely, "an' whut

yearthly good is it? Who wants any railroad? Whut use have we-all got

fer it? It comes through ouah farm, an' scares ouah mewel, an' it

kills ouah cow; an' it's got me so's I'm afeared to set foot outsid'n

ouah do', lessen it's goin' to kill me, too. Why, all the way up heah

this mawnin', I was skeered every foot of the way, a-fear-in' that

there ingine was goin' to come along an' kill us both!"

"Sho'! Sar' Ann," said her husband, with superiority. "It ain't time

fer the train yit--leastwise I don't think it is." He looked about

uneasily.

"That's all right, Jim Bowles. One of them ingines might come along

'most any time. It might creep up behin' you, then, biff! Thah's Jim

Bowles! Whut use is the railroad, I'd like to know? I wouldn't be

caught a-climbin' in one o' them thah kyars, not fer big money.

Supposin' it run off the track?"

"Oh, well, now," said her husband, "maybe it don't, always."

"But supposin' it _did_?" The front of the telescope turned toward him

suddenly, and so perfect was the focus this time that Mr. Bowles

shifted his seat and took refuge upon another board at the other end

of the board-pile, out of range, albeit directly in the ardent

sunlight, which, warm as it was, did not seem to him so burning as the

black eyes in the bonnet, or so troublous as the tongue which went on

with its questions.

"Whut made you vote fer this heah railroad?" said Sarah Ann,

following him mercilessly with the bonnet tube. "We didn't want no

railroad. We never did have one, an' we never ought to a-had one. You

listen to me, that railroad is goin' to ruin this country. Thah ain't

a woman in these heah bottoms but would be skeered to have a baby

grow up in her house. Supposin' you got a baby; nice little baby,

never did harm no one. You a-cookin' or somethin'--out to the smoke-

house like enough; baby alone fer about two minutes. Baby crawls out

on to the railroad track. Along comes the ingine, an' biff! Thah's

yo' baby!"

Mrs. Bowles shed tears at this picture which she had conjured up, and

even her less imaginative consort became visibly affected, so that

for a moment he half straightened up.

"Hit don't look quite right," said he, once more. "But, then, whut

you goin' to do? Whut _kin_ we do, woman?" he asked fiercely.

"Why, if the men in these heah parts was half men," said his wife, "I

tell you whut they'd do. They'd git out and tear up every foot of

this heah cussed railroad track, an' throw it back into the cane.

That's whut they'd do."

"Sho' now, would you?" said Jim Bowles.

"Shore I would. You got to do it if things keeps on this-away."

"Well, we couldn't, lessen Cunnel Blount said it was all right, you

know. The Cunnel was the friend of the road through these heah

bottoms. He 'lowed it would help us all."

"Help? Help us? Huh! Like to know how it helps us, killin' ouah cow

an' makin' us walk three mile of a hot mornin' to git a pail o' melk

to make up some co'hn bread. You call that a help, do you, Jim

Bowles? You may, but I don't an' I hain't a-goin' to. I got some

sense, I reckon. Railroad! Help! Huh!"

Jim Bowles crept stealthily a little farther away on his own side of

the board-pile, whither it seemed his wife could not quite so readily

follow him with her transfixing gaze.

"Well, now, Sar' Ann," said he, "the Cunnel done tol' me hit was all

right. He said some of ouah stock like enough git kilt, 'cause you

know these heah bottoms is growed up so close like, with cane an' all

that, that any sort of critters like to git out where it's open, so's

they kin sort o' look around like, you know. Why, I done seen four

deer trails whils' we was a-comin' up this mawnin', and I seen whah a

b'ah had come out an' stood on the track. Now, as fer cows, an' as

fer niggers, why, it stands to reason that some of them is shore

goin' to git kilt, that's all."

"An' you men is goin' to stand that from the railroad? Why don't you

make them pay for whut gits kilt?"

"Well, now, Sar' Ann," said her husband, conciliatorily, "that's just

whut I was goin' to say. The time the fust man come down through heah

to talk about buildin' the railroad, he done said, like I tol' you

Cunnel Blount said, that we might git some stock kilt fer a little

while, till things kind o' got used to it, you know; but he 'lowed

that the railroad would sort o' pay for anything that got kilt like,

you know."

"Pay! The railroad goin' to pay you!" Again the remorseless sunbonnet

followed its victim and fixed him with its focus. "Pay you! I didn't

notice no money layin' on the track where we come along this mawnin',

did you? Yes, I reckon it's goin' to pay you, a whole heap!" The

scorn of this utterance was limitless, and Jim Bowles felt his

insignificance in the untenable position which he had assumed.

"Well, I dunno," said he, vaguely, and sighed softly; all of which

irritated Mrs. Bowles to such an extent that she flounced suddenly

around to get a better gaze upon her master. In this movement, her

foot struck the pail of milk which had been sitting near, and

overturned it.

"Jinny," she called out, "you, Jinny!"

"Yassam," replied Jinny, from some place on the gallery.

"Come heah," said Mrs. Bowles. "Git me another pail o' melk. I done

spilled this one."

"Yassam," replied Jinny, and presently returned with the refilled

vessel.

"Well, anyway," said Jim Bowles at length, rising and standing with

hands in pockets, inside the edge of the shade line of the

evergreens, "I heard that thah was a man come down through heah a few

days ago. He was sort of takin' count o' the critters that done got

kilt by the railroad kyahs."

"That so?" said Sarah Ann, somewhat mollified.

"I reckon so," said Jim Bowles. "I 'lowed I'd ast Cunnel Blount 'bout

that sometime. 0' co'se it don't bring Muley back, but then---"

"No, hit don't," said Sarah Ann, resuming her original position. "And

our little Sim, he just loved that Muley cow, little Sim, he did,"

she mourned.

"Say, Jim Bowles, do you heah me?"--this with a sudden flirt of the

sunbonnet in an agony of actual fear. "Why, Jim Bowles, do you know

that ouah little Sim might be a-playin' out thah in front of ouah

house, on to that railroad track, at this very minute? S'pose,

s'posen--along comes that thah railroad train! Say, man, whut you

standin' there in that thah shade fer? We got to go! We got to git

home! Come right along this minute, er we may be too late."

And so, smitten by this sudden thought, they gathered themselves

together as best they might and started toward the railroad for their

return. Even as they did so there appeared upon the northern horizon

a wreath of smoke rising above the forest. There was the far-off

sound of a whistle, deadened by the heavy intervening vegetation; and

presently, there puffed into view one of the railroad trains still

new upon this region. Iconoclastic, modern, strenuous, it wabbled

unevenly over the new-laid rails up to the station-house, where it

paused for a few moments ere it resumed its wheezing way to the

southward. The two visitors at the Big House gazed at it open-mouthed

for a time, until all at once her former thought crossed the woman's

mind. She turned upon her husband.

"Thah it goes! Thah it goes!" she cried. "Right on straight to ouah

house! It kain't miss it! An' little Sim, he's sho' to be playin' out

thah on the track. Oh, he's daid right this minute, he sho'ly is!"

Her speech exercised a certain force upon Jim Bowles. He stepped on

the faster, tripped upon a clod and stumbled, spilling half the milk

from the pail.

"Thah, now!" said he. "Thah hit goes ag'in. Done spilt the melk.

Well, hit's too far back to the house now fer mo'. But, now, mebbe

Sim wasn't playin' on the track."

"Mebbe he wasn't!" said Sarah Ann, scornfully. "Why, _o' co'se_ he

was."

"Well, if he was," said Jim Bowles, philosophically, "why, Sar' Ann,

from whut I done notice about this yeah railroad train, why--it's

_too late_, now."

He might perhaps have pursued this logical course of thought further,

had not there occurred an incident which brought the conversation to

a close. Looking up, the two saw approaching them across the lawn,

evidently coming from the little railway station, and doubtless

descended from this very train, the alert, quick-stepping figure of a

man evidently a stranger to the place. Jim and Sarah Ann Bowles

stepped to one side as he approached and lifted his hat with a

pleasant smile.

"Good morning," said the stranger. "It's a fine day, isn't it? Can

you tell me whether or not Colonel Blount is at home this morning?"

"Well, suh," said Jim Bowles, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "He ah,

an' he ain't. He's home, o' co'se; that is, he hain't gone away no

whah, to co'te er nothin'. But then ag'in, he's out huntin', gone

afteh b'ah. I reckon he's likely to be in 'most any day now."

"'Most any day?"

"Yessah. You better go on up to the house. The Cunnel will be right

glad to see you. You're a stranger in these parts, I reckon? I'd be

glad to have you stop down to my house, but it's three mile down the

track, an' we hatter walk. You'd be mo' comfo'table heah, I reckon.

Walk on up, and tell 'em to give you a place to set. My woman an'

me, I reckon we got to git home now, suh. It's somethin' might be

mighty serious."

"Yas, indeed," murmured Mrs. Bowles, "we got to git along."

"Thank you," said the stranger. "I am very much obliged to you,

indeed. I believe I will wait here for just a little while, as you

say. Good morning, sir. Good morning, madam."

He turned and walked slowly up the path toward the house, as the

others pursued their way to the railroad track, down which they

presently were plodding on their homeward journey. There was at least

a little milk left in the pail when finally they reached their log

cabin, with its yard full of pigs and chickens. Eagerly they scanned

the sides of the railway embankment as they drew near, looking for

signs of what they feared to see. One need not describe the fierce

joy with which Sarah Ann Bowles fell upon little Sim, who was

presently discovered, safe and dirty, knocking about upon the kitchen

floor in abundant company of puppies, cats and chickens. As to the

reproaches which she heaped upon her husband in her happiness, it is

likewise unnecessary to dwell thereupon.

"I knowed he would be kilt," said Sarah Ann.

"But he _hain't_," said her husband, triumphantly. And for one time in

their married life there seemed to be no possible way in which she

might contradict him, which fact for her constituted a situation

somewhat difficult.

"Well, 'tain't yo' fault ef he hain't," said she at length. The rest

of her revenge she took upon the person of little Sim, whom she

alternately chastened and embraced, to the great and grieved surprise

of the latter, who remained ignorant of any existing or pending

relation upon his part with the methods or the instruments of modern

progress.

CHAPTER III

THE VISITOR

The new-comer at the Big House was a well-looking figure as he

advanced up the path toward the white-pillared galleries. In height

just above middle stature, and of rather spare habit of body, alert,

compact and vigorous, he carried himself with a half-military self-

respect, redeemed from aggressiveness by an open candor of face and

the pleasant, forthright gaze of kindly blue-gray eyes. In spite of a

certain gravity of mien, his eyes seemed wont to smile upon occasion,

as witnessed divers little wrinkles at the corners. He was smooth-

shaven, except for a well-trimmed dark mustache; the latter offering

a distinct contrast to the color of his hair, which, apparently not

in full keeping with his years, was lightly sprinkled with gray. Yet

his carriage was assuredly not that of middle age, and indeed, the

total of his personality, neither young nor old, neither callow nor

acerb, neither lightly unreserved nor too gravely severe, offered

certain problems not capable of instant solution. A hurried observer

might have guessed his age within ten years but might have been wrong

upon either side, and might have had an equal difficulty in

classifying his residence or occupation.

Whatever might be said of this stranger, it was evident that he was

not ill at ease in this environment; for as he met coming around the

corner an old colored man, who, with a rag in one hand and a bottle

in the other, seemed intent upon some errand at the dog kennel

beyond, the visitor paused not in query or salutation, but tossed his

umbrella to the servant and at the same time handed him his

traveling-bag. "Take care of these. Bill," said he.

Bill, for that was indeed his name, placed the bag and umbrella upon

the gallery floor, and with the air of owning the place himself,

invited the visitor to enter the Big House.

"The Cunnel's not to home, suh," said Bill. "But you bettah come in

and seddown. I'll go call the folks."

"Never mind," said the visitor. "I reckon I'll just walk around a

little outside. I hear Colonel Blount is off on a bear hunt."

"Yassah," said Bill. "An' when he goes he mostly gits b'ah. I'se

right 'spondent dis time, though, 'deed I is, suh."

"What's the matter?"

"Why, you see, suh," replied Bill, leaning comfortably back against a

gallery post, "it's dis-away. I'm just goin' out to fix up old Hec's

foot. He's ouah bestest b'ah-dog, but he got so blame biggoty, las'

time he was out, stuck his foot right intoe a b'ah's mouth. Now,

Hec's lef' home, an' me lef home to 'ten' to Hec. How kin Cunnel

Blount git ary b'ah 'dout me and Hec along? I'se right 'spondent,

dat's whut I is."

"Well, now, that's too bad," said the stranger, with a smile.

"Too bad? I reckon it sho' is. Fer, if Cunnel Blount don't git no

b'ah--look out den, _I_ kin tell you."

"Gets his dander up, eh?"

"Dandah--dandah! You know him? Th'ain't no better boss, but ef he

goes out huntin' b'ah an' don't get no _b'ah_--why, then th' ain't no

reason goin' _do_ foh him."

"Is Mrs. Blount at home, Bill?"

"Th'ain't no Mrs. Blount, and I don't reckon they neveh will be.

Cunnel too busy huntin' b'ah to git married. They's two ladies heah,

no relation o' him; they done come heah a yeah er so ago, and they-

all keeps house fer the Cunnel. That's Mrs. Ellison and her dahteh,

Miss Lady. She's a pow'ful fine gal, Miss Lady."

"I don't know them," said the visitor.

"No, sah," said Bill. "They ain't been heah long. Dese heah low-down

niggers liken to steal the Cunnel blin', he away so much. One day, he

gits right mad. 'Lows he goin' to advehtize fer a housekeepah-lady.

Then Mas' Henry 'Cherd--he's gemman been livin' couple o' yeahs 'er

so down to near Vicksburg, some'rs; he's out huntin' now with the

Cunnel--why, Mas' 'Cherd he 'lows he knows whah thah's a lady, jus'

the thing. Law! Cunnel didn't spec' no real lady, you know, jes'

wantin' housekeepah. But long comes this heah lady, Mrs. Ellison, an'

brings this heah young lady, too--real quality. 'Miss Lady' we-all

calls her, right to once. Orto see Cunnel Cal Blount den! 'Now, I

reckon I kin go huntin' peaceful,' says he. So dem two tuk holt. Been

heah ever since. Mas' 'Cherd, he has in min' this heah yallah gal,

Delpheem. Right soon, heah come Delpheem 'long too. Reckon she runs

the kitchen all right. Anyways we's got white folks in the parlah,

whah they allus _orto_ be white folks."

"Well, you ought to thank your friend--what is his name--Ducherd--

Decherd? Seems as though I had heard that name, below somewhere."

"Yas, Mas' Henry 'Cherd. We does thank him. He sut'nly done fix us

all up wid women-folks. We couldn't no _mo'_ git erlong 'dout Miss

Lady now, 'n we could 'dout _me,_ er the Cunnel. But, _law!_ it don't

make no diff'ence to Cunnel Blount who's heah or who ain't heah, he

jest gotter hunt _b'ah._ You come 'long wid me, I could show you b'ah

hides up stairs, b'ah hides on de roof, b'ah hides on de sheds, b'ah

hides on de barn, and a tame b'ah hitched to the cotton-gin ovah

thah."

"He seems to make a sort of specialty of bear, doesn't he? Got a

pretty good pack, eh?"

"Pack? I should say we has! We got the bestest b'ah pack in

Miss'ippi, er in de whole worl'. We sho' is fixed up fer huntin'.

But, now, look heah, two three days ago the railroad kyahs done run

ovah a fine colt whut de Cunnel was raisin' fer a saddle hoss--kilt

it plumb daid. That riled him a heap. 'Damn the railroad kyahs,' sez

he. An' den off he goes huntin', sort o' riled like. Now, ef he comes

back, and ef he don't git no _b'ah,_ why, you won't see old Bill

'round heah fer 'bout fo' days."

"You seem to know him pretty well."

"Know him? I orto. Raised wid him, an' lived heah all my life. Now,

when you see Cunnel Blount come home, he'll come up 'long dat lane,

him an' de dogs, an' dem no 'count niggers he done took 'long wid

him; an' when he gits up to whah de lane crosses de railroad track,

ef he come ridin' 'long easy like, now an' den tootin' his hawn to

so'ht o' let us know he's a-comin'--ef he do dat-away, dat's all

right,--dat's all right." Here the garrulous old servant shook his

head. "But ef he don't--well den--"

"That's bad, if he doesn't, eh?"

"Yassah. Ef he don' come a-blowin' an' ef he _do_ come _a-singin'_,

den look out! I allus did notice, ef Cunnel Blount 'gins to sing

'ligious hymns, somethin's wrong, and somethin' gwine ter drap. He

hain't right easy ter git along wid when he's a-singin'. But if you'll

'scuse me, suh, I gotter take care o' old Hec. Jest make yourself to

home, suh,--anyways you like."

The visitor contented himself with wandering about the yard, until at

length he seated himself on the board-pile beneath the evergreen

trees, and so sank into an idle reverie, his chin in his hand, and

his eyes staring out across the wide field. His face, now in repose,

seemed more meditative; indeed one might have called it almost

mournful. The shoulders drooped a trifle, as though their owner for

the time forgot to pull himself together. He sat thus for some time,

and the sun was beginning to encroach upon his refuge, when suddenly

he was aroused by the faint and far-off sound of a hunting horn. That

the listener distinguished it at such a distance might have argued

that he himself had known hound and saddle in his day; yet he readily

caught the note of the short hunting horn universally used by the

southern hunters, and recognized the assembly call for the hunting

pack. As it came near, all the dogs that remained in the kennel yards

heard it and raged to escape from their confinement. Old Bill came

hobbling around the corner. Steps were heard on the gallery, and the

visitor's face showed a slight uneasiness as he caught a glimpse of a

certain spot now suddenly made alive by the flutter of a soft gown

and the flash of a bunch of scarlet ribbons. Thither he gazed as

directly as he might in these circumstances.

"Dat's her! dat's Miss Lady!" said Bill to his new friend, in a low

voice. "Han'somest young lady in de hull Delta. Dey'll all be right

glad ter see de Cunnel back. He's got a b'ah sho', fer he's comin' a-

blowin'."

Bill's joy was not long-lived, for even as the little cavalcade came

in view, a tall figure on a chestnut hunting horse riding well in

advance, certain colored stragglers following, and the party-colored

pack trotting or limping along on all sides, the music of the

summoning horn suddenly ceased. Looking neither to the right nor to

the left, the leader of the hunt rode on up the lane, sitting loose

and careless in the saddle, his right hand steadying a short rifle

across the saddle front. He rode thus until presently those at the

Big House heard, softly rising on the morning air, the chant of an

old church hymn: "On Jordan's strand I'll _take_ my stand, An-n-n--"

"Oh, Lawd!" exclaimed Bill. "Dat's his very wustest chune." Saying

which he dodged around the corner of the house.

CHAPTER IV

A QUESTION OP VALUATION

Turning in from the lane at the yard gate, Colonel Calvin Blount and

his retinue rode close up to the side door of the plantation house;

but even here the master vouchsafed no salutation to those who

awaited his coming. He was a tall man, broad-shouldered, lean and

muscular; yet so far from being thin and dark, he was spare rather

from physical exercise than through gaunt habit of body; his

complexion was ruddy and sun-colored, and the long mustache hanging

across his jaws showed a deep mahogany-red. Western ranchman one

might have called him, rather than southern planter. Scotch-Irish,

generations back, perhaps, yet southern always, and by birth-right

American, he might have been a war-lord of another land and day. No

feudal baron ever dismounted with more assuredness at his own hall,

to toss careless rein to a retainer. He stood now, tall and straight,

a trifle rough-looking in his careless planter's dress, but every

inch the master. A slight frown puckered up his forehead, giving to

his face an added hint of sternness.

Behind this leading figure of the cavalcade came a younger man. In

age perhaps at the mid thirties, tall, slender, with dark hair and

eyes and with a dark mustache shading his upper lip, Henry Decherd,

formerly of New Orleans, for a few years dweller in the Delta,

sometime guest of Colonel Blount at the Big House plantation and

companion of the hunt, made now a figure if not wholly eye-filling,

at least handsome and distinguished. His dress was neat to the verge

of foppishness, nor did it seem much disordered by the hardships of

the chase. Upon his clean-cut face there sat a certain arrogance, as

of one at least desirous of having his own way in his own sphere. Not

an ill-looking man, upon the whole, was Henry Decherd, though his

reddish-yellow eyes, a bit oblique in their setting, gave the

impression alike of a certain touchiness of temper and an

unpleasantly fox-like quality of character. There was an air not

barren of self-consciousness as he threw himself out of the saddle,

for it might have been seen that under his saddle, and not that of

Colonel Blount, there rested the black and glossy hide of the great

bear which had been the object of the chase. Decherd stood with his

hand resting on the hide and gazed somewhat eagerly, one might have

thought, toward the gallery whence came the flash of scarlet ribbons.

Colonel Blount busied himself with directions as to the horses and

dogs. The latter came straggling along in groups or pairs or singles,

some of them hobbling on three legs, many showing bitter wounds. The

chase of the great bear had proved stern pastime for them. Of half a

hundred hounds which had started, not two-thirds were back again, and

many of these would be unfit for days for the resumption of their

savage trade. None the less, as the master sounded again, loud and

clear, the call for the assembly, all the dogs about the place, young

and old, homekeepers and warriors, came pouring in with heads

uplifted, each pealing out his sweet and mournful music. Colonel

Blount spoke to dozens of them, calling each by its proper name.

"Here, Bill," he called to that worthy, who had now ventured to

return from his hiding-place, "take them out to the yard and fix them

up. Now, boys, go around to the kitchen and tell them to give you

something to eat."

In the confusion of the disbandment of the hunt, the master of the

Big House had as yet hardly found time to look about him, but now, as

the conclave scattered, he found himself alone, and turning,

discovered the occupant of the board-pile, who arose and advanced,

offering his hand.

"This is Colonel Blount, I presume," said he.

"Yes, sir, that's my name. I beg your pardon, I'm sure, but I didn't

know you were there. Come right on into the house and sit down, sir.

Now, your name is--?"

"Eddring," said the new-comer. "John Eddring. I am just down on the

morning train from the city."

"I'm right glad to see you, Mr. Eddring," said Colonel Blount,

extending his hand. "It seems to me I ought to know your family. Over

round Hillsboro, aren't you? Tell me, you're not the son of old Dan

H. Eddring of the Tenth Mississippi in the war?"

"That was an uncle of mine."

"Is that so, is that so? Why, Dan H. Eddring was my father's friend.

They slept and fought and ate together for four years, until my

father was killed in the Wilderness."

"And my uncle before Richmond; John Eddring, my father, long before,

at Ball's Bluff."

"I was in some of that fighting myself," said Colonel Blount, rubbing

his chin. "I was a boy, just a boy. Well, it's all over now. Come on

in. I'm mighty glad to see you." Yet the two, without plan, had now

wandered over toward the shade of the evergreen, and presently they

seated themselves on the board-pile.

"Well, Colonel Blount," said the visitor, "I reckon you must have had

a good hunt."

"Yes, sir, there ain't a b'ah in the Delta can get away from those

dogs. We run this fellow straight on end for ten miles; put him

across the river twice, and all around the Black Bayou, but the dogs

kept him hot all the time, I'm telling you, for more than five miles

through the cane, clean beyond the bayou."

"Who got the shot, Colonel?" asked Eddring--a question apparently

most unwelcome.

"Well, I ought to have had it," said Blount, with a frown of

displeasure. "The fact is, I did take a flying chance from horseback,

when the b'ah ran by in the cane half a mile back of where they

killed him. Somehow I must have missed. A little while later I heard

another shot, and found that young gentleman there, Mr. Decherd, had

beat me in the ride. But man! you ought to have heard that pack for

two hours through the woods. It certainly would have raised your hair

straight up. You ever hunt b'ah, sir?"

"A little, once in a while, when I have the time."

"Well, you don't go away from here without having a good hunt. You

just wait a day or so until my dogs get rested up."

"Thank you, Colonel, but I am afraid I can't stay. You see, I am down

here on a matter of business."

"Business, eh?"--Well, a man that'll let business interfere with a

b'ah hunt has got something wrong about him."

"Well, you see, a railroad man can't always choose," said his guest.

"Railroad man?" said Colonel Blount. A sudden gloom fell on his ruddy

face. "Railroad man, eh? Well, I wish you was something else. Now, I

helped get that railroad through this country--if it hadn't been for

me, they never could have laid a mile of track through here. But now,

do you know what they done did to me the other day, with their damned

old railroad?"

"No, sir, I haven't heard."

"Well, I'll tell you--Bill! Oh, _Bill!_ Go into the house and

get me some ice; and go pick some mint and bring it here to this

gentleman and me--Say, do you know what that railroad did? Why, it

just killed the best filly on my plantation, my best running stock,

too. Now, I was the man to help get that railroad through the Delta,

and I--"

"Well, now, Colonel Blount," said the other, "the road isn't a bad

sort of thing for you-all down here, after all. It relieves you of

the river market and it gives you a double chance to get out your

cotton. You don't have to haul your cotton twelve miles back to the

boat any more. Here is your station right at your door, and you can

load on the cars any day you want to."

"Oh, that's all right, that's all right. But this killing of my

stock?"

"Well, that's so," said the other, facing the point and ruminatingly

biting a splinter between his teeth. "It does look as if we had

killed about everything loose in the whole Delta during the last

month or so."

"Are you on this railroad?" asked Blount, suddenly.

"I reckon I'll have to admit that I am," said the other, smiling.

"Passenger agent, or something of that sort, I reckon? Well, let me

tell you, you change your road. Say, there was a man down below here

last week settling up claims--Bill! Ah-h, _Bill!_ Where you gone?"

"Yes," said Eddring, "it certainly did seem that when we built this

road every cow and every nigger, not to mention a lot of white folks,

made a bee-line straight for our right-of-way. Why, sir, it was a

solid line of cows and niggers from Memphis to New Orleans. How could

you blame an engineer if he run into something once in a while? He

couldn't _help_ it."

"Yes. Now, do you know what this claim settler, this claim agent man

did? Why, he paid a man down below here two stations--what do you

_think_ he paid him for as fine a heifer as ever eat cane? Why,

fifteen dollars!"

"Fifteen dollars!"

"Yes, fifteen dollars."

"That looks like a heap of money for a heifer, doesn't it, Colonel

Blount?"

"A heap of money? Why, no. Heap of _money_? Why, what you mean?"

"Heifers didn't bring that before the road came through. Why, you

would have had to drive that heifer twenty-five miles before you

could get a market, and then she wouldn't have brought over twelve

dollars. Now, fifteen dollars, seems to me, is about right."

"Well, let the heifer go. But there was a cow killed three miles

below here the other day. Neighbors of mine. I reckon that claim

agent wouldn't want to allow any more than fifteen dollars for Jim

Bowles' cow, neither."

"Maybe not."

"Well, never mind about the cow, either; but look here. A nigger lost

his wife down there, killed by these steam cars--looks like the

niggers get fascinated by them cars. But here's Bill coming at last.

Now, Mr. Eddring, we'll just make a little julep. Tell me, how do you

make a julep, sir?"

Eddring hitched a little nearer on the board-pile. "Well, Colonel

Blount," said he, "in our family we used to have an old silver mug--

sort of plain mug, you know, few flowers around the edge of it--been

in the family for years. Now, you take a mug like that, and let it

lie in the ice-box all the time, and when you take it out, it's sort

of got a white frost all over it. Now, my old daddy, he would take

this mug and put some fine ice into it,--not too fine. Then he'd take

a little cut loaf sugar, in another glass, and he'd mash it up in a

little water--not too much water--then he'd pour that in over the

ice. Then he would pour some good corn whisky in till all the

interstices of that ice were filled plumb up; then he'd put some

mint--"

"Didn't smash the mint? Say, he didn't smash the mint, did he?" said

Colonel Blount, eagerly, hitching over toward the speaker.

"Smash it? I should say not, sir! Sometimes, at certain seasons of

the mint, he might just sort of take a twist at the leaf, to sort of

release a little of the flavor, you know. You don't want to be rough

with mint. Just twist it gently between the thumb and finger. Then

you set it in nicely around the edge of the glass. Sometimes just a

little powder of fine sugar around on top of the mint leaves, and

then--"

"Sir," said Colonel Blount, gravely rising and taking off his hat,

"you are welcome to my home!"

Eddring, with equal courtesy, arose and removed his own hat.

"For my part," resumed Blount, judicially, "I rather lean to a piece

of cut glass, for the green and the crystal look mighty fine

together. I don't always make them with any sugar on top of the mint.

But, you know, just a circle of mint--not crushed--not crushed, mind

you--just a green ring of fragrance, so that you can bury your nose

in it and forget your troubles. Sir, allow me once more to shake your

hand. I think I know a gentleman when I see one."

Oddly enough, this pleasant speech seemed to bring a shade of sadness

to Eddring's face. "A gentleman?" said he, smiling slightly. "Well,

don't shake hands with me yet, sir. I don't know. You see, I'm a

railroad man, and I'm here on business."

"Damn it, sir, if it was only your description of a julep, if it was

only your mention of that old family silver mug, devoted to that

sacred purpose, sir, that would be your certificate of character

here. Forget your business. Come down here and live with me. We'll go

hunting b'ah together. Why, man, I'm mighty glad to make your

acquaintance."

"But wait," said Eddring, "there may be two ways of looking at this."

"Well, there's only one way of looking at a julep," said Blount, "and

that's down the mint. Now, I'll show you how we make them down here

in the Sunflower country."

"But, as I was a-saying--" and here Blount set down the glasses

midway in his compounding, and went on with his interrupted

proposition; "now here was that nigger that lost his wife. Of course

he had a whole flock of children. Now, what do you think that claim

agent said he would pay that nigger for his wife?"

"Well, I--"

"Well, but what do you _reckon?"_

"Why, I reckon about fifteen dollars."

"That's it, that's it!" said Blount, slapping his hand upon the board

until the glasses jingled. "That's just what he did offer; fifteen

dollars! Not a damned cent more."

"Well, now, Colonel Blount," said Eddring, "you know there's a heap

of mighty trifling niggers loose in this part of the world. You see,

that fellow would marry again in a little while, and he might get a

heap better woman next time. There's a lot of swapping wives among

these niggers at best. Now, here's a man lost his wife decent and

respectable, and there's nothing on earth a nigger likes better than

a good funeral, even if it has to be his own wife. Now, how many

nigger funerals are there that cost fifteen dollars? I'll bet you if

that nigger had it to do over again he'd a heap rather be rid of her

and have the fifteen dollars. Look at it! Fine funeral for one wife

and something left over to get a bonnet for his new wife. I'll bet

there isn't a nigger on your place that wouldn't jump at a chance

like that."

Colonel Blount scratched his head. "You understand niggers all right,

I'll admit," said he. "But, now, supposing it had been a white man?"

"Well, supposing it was?"

"We don't need to suppose. There was the same thing happened to a

white family. Wife got killed--left three children."

"Oh, you mean that accident down at Shelby?"

"Yes, Mrs. Something-or-other, she was. Well, sir, damn me, if that

infernal claim agent didn't have the face to offer fifteen dollars

for her, too!"

"Looks almost like he played a fifteen dollar limit all the time,

doesn't it?" said Eddring.

"It certainly does. It ain't right."

"Well, now, I heard about that woman. She was a tall, thin creature,

with no liver left at all, and her chills came three times a week.

She wouldn't work; she was red-headed and had only one straight eye;

and as for a tongue--well, I only hope, Colonel Blount, that you and

I will never have a chance to meet anything like that. Of course, I

know she was killed. Her husband just hated her before she died, but

blame _me_, just as soon as she was _dead_, he loved her more than if

she was his sweetheart all over again. Now, that's how it goes. Say, I

want to tell you, Colonel Blount, this road is plumb beneficent, if

only for the fact that it develops human affection in such a way as

this. Fifteen dollars! Why, I tell you, sir, fifteen dollars was more

than enough for that woman!" He turned indignantly on the board-pile.

"I reckon," said Colonel Blount, "that you would say that about my

neighbor Jim Bowles' cow?"

"Certainly. I know about that cow, too. She was twenty years old and

on her last legs. Road kills her, and all at once she becomes a dream

of heifer loveliness. _I_ know."

"I reckon," said Colonel Blount, still more grimly, "I reckon if that

damned claim agent was to come here, he would just about say that

fifteen dollars was enough for my filly."

"I shouldn't wonder. Now, look here, Colonel Blount. You see, I'm a

railroad man, and I'm able to see the other side of these things. We

come down here with our railroad. We develop your country. We give

you a market and we put two cents a pound on top of your cotton

price. We fix it so that you can market your cotton at five dollars a

bale cheaper than you used to. We double and treble the price of

every acre of land within thirty miles of this road. And yet, if we

kill a chance cow, we are held up for it. The sentiment against this

road is something awful."

"Oh, well, all right," said Blount, "but that don't bring my filly

back. You can't get Himyah blood every day in the week. That filly

would have seen Churchill Downs in her day, if she had lived."

"Yes; and if she had, you would have had to back her, wouldn't you?

You would have trained that filly and paid a couple of hundred for

it. You would have fitted her at the track and paid several hundred

more. You would have bet a couple of thousand, anyway, as a matter of

principle, and, like enough, you'd have lost it. Now, if this road

paid you fifteen dollars for that filly and saved you twenty-five

hundred or three thousand into the bargain, how ought you to feel

about it? Are you twenty-five hundred behind, or fifteen ahead?"

Colonel Calvin Blount had now feverishly finished his julep, and as

the other stopped, he placed his glass beside him on the board-pile

and swung a long leg across so that he sat directly facing his

enigmatical guest. The latter, in the enthusiasm of his argument,

swung into a similar position, and so they sat, both hammering on the

board between them.

"Well, I would like to _see_ that damned claim agent offer me

fifteen dollars for that filly," said Blount. "I might take fifty,

for the sake of the road; but fifteen--why, you see, it's not the

money; I don't care fifteen cents for the fifteen dollars, but it's

the principle of the thing. T'aint right."

"Well, what would you do?"

"Well, by God, sir, if I saw that claim agent--"

"Well, by God, sir, _I'm_ that claim agent; and I _do_ offer you

fifteen dollars for that filly, right now!"

"What! You--"

"Yes, me!"

"Fifteen dollars!"

"Yes, sir, fifteen dollars."

Colonel Blount burst into a sudden song--"On _Jor_-dan's strand I'll

_take_ my stand!" he began.

"It's all she's worth," interrupted the claim agent.

Blount fairly gasped. "Do you mean to tell me," said he, in forced

calm, "that you are this claim agent?"

"I have told you. That's the way I make my living. That's my duty."

"Your duty to give me fifteen dollars for a Himyah filly!"

"I said fifteen."

"And I said fifty."

"You don't get it."

"I don't, eh? Say, my friend,"--Blount pushed the glasses away, his

choler rising at the temerity of this, the only man who in many a

year had dared to confront him. "You look here. Write me a check for

fifty; and write it now."

"I've heard about that filly," said the claim agent, "and I've come

here ready to pay you for it. Here you are."

Blount glanced at the check. "Why, it's fifteen dollars," said he,

"and I said fifty."

"But I said fifteen."

"Look here," said Blount, his calm becoming still more menacing, as

with a sudden whip of his hand he reached behind him. Like a flash he

pulled a long revolver from its holster. Eddring gazed into the round

aperture of the muzzle and certain surrounding apertures of the

cylinder. "Write me a check," said Blount, slowly, "and write it for

fifty. I'll tear it up when I get it if I feel like it, but no man

shall ever tell me that I took fifteen dollars for a Himyah filly.

Now you write it."

He spoke slowly. His pistol hand rested on his knee, now suddenly

drawn up. Both voice and pistol barrel were steady.

The eyes of the two met, and which was the braver man it had been

hard to tell. Neither flinched. Eddring returned a gaze as direct as

that which he received. The florid face back of the barrel held a

gleam of half-admiration at witnessing his deliberation. The claim

agent's eye did not falter.

"You said fifty dollars, Colonel Blount," said he, just a suggestion

of a smile at the corner of his mouth. "Don't you think there has

been a slight misunderstanding between us two? If you are so blamed

particular, and really _want_ a check for fifty, why, here it is." He

busied himself a moment, and passed over a strip of paper. Even as he

did so, the ire of Colonel Blount cooled as suddenly as it had gained

warmth. A sudden contrition sat on his face, and he crowded the paper

into his pocket with an air half shamefaced.

"Sir--Mr. Eddring," he began falteringly.

"Well, what do you want? You've got your check, and you've got the

railroad. We've paid our little debt to you."

"Sir," said Blount. "My friend--why, sir, here is your julep."

"To hell with your julep, sir!"

"My friend," said Blount, flushing, "you serve me right. I am

forgetting my duties as a gentleman. I ask you into my house."

"I'll see you damned first," said Eddring, hotly.

"Right!" cried Blount, exultingly. "You're right. You're one of the

fighting Eddrings, just like your daddy and your uncle, sure as

you're born! Why, sir, come on in. You wouldn't punish the son of

your uncle's friend, your own daddy's friend, would you?"

But the ire of Eddring was now aroused. A certain smoldering fire,

long with difficulty suppressed, began to flame in spite of him.

"Bring me out a plate," said he, bitterly, "and let me eat on the

gallery. As you say, I am only a claim agent. Good God, man!" and

then of a sudden his wrath arose still higher. His own hand made a

swift motion. "Give me back that check," he said, and his extended

hand presented a weapon held steady as though supported by the limb

of a tree. "You didn't give me a fair show."

[Illustration: "EDDRING GAZED INTO THE ROUND APERTURE OF IHE MUZZLE]

"Well, by the eternal!" half whispered Colonel Calvin Blount to

himself. "Ain't he a fighting chicken?"

"Give it to me," demanded Eddring; and the other, astounded, humbled,

reached into his pocket.

"I will give it to you, boy," said he, soberly, "and twenty like it,

if you'll forget all this and come into my house. I'm mighty sorry. I

don't want the money. You know that. I want _you._ Come on in, man."

He handed back the slip of paper. "Come on in," he repeated.

"I will not, sir," said Eddring. "This was business, and you made it

personal."

"Oh, business!" said Blount.

"Sir," said John Eddring, "the world never understands when a man has

to choose between being a business man and a gentleman. It does not

always come to just that, but you. see, a man has to do what he is

paid to do. Can't you see it is a matter of duty? I can't afford to

be a gentleman--"

"And you are so much one, my son," said Calvin Blount, grimly, "that

you won't do anything but what you know is right. My friend, I won't

ask you in again, not any more, right now. But when you can, come

again, sir, some day. When you can come right easy and pleasant, my

son, why, you know I want you."

John Eddring's hard-set jaw relaxed, trembled, and he dared not

commit himself to speech. With a straight look into Colonel Blount's

eyes, he turned away, and passed on down the path, Blount looking

after him more than half-yearningly.

So intent, indeed, was the latter in his gaze upon the receding

figure that he did not hear the swift rush of light feet on the

gallery, nor turn until Miss Lady stood before him. The girl swept

him a deep courtesy, spreading out the skirt of her biscuit-colored

gown in mocking deference of posture.

"Please, Colonel Cal," said she, "since he can't hear the dinner

bell, would he be good enough to tell whether or not he will come in

and eat? Everything is growing cold; and I made the biscuits."

Calvin Blount put out his hand, and a softer shade came upon his

face. "Oh, it's you, Miss Lady, is it?" said he. "Yes, I'm back home

again. And you made the biscuits, eh?"

"You are back home," said Miss Lady, "all but your mind. I called to

you several times. Who is that gentleman you are staring at? Why

doesn't he come in and eat with us?"

Colonel Blount turned slowly as Miss Lady tugged at his arm. "Who is

he?" he replied half-musingly. "Who is he? You tell me. He refused to

eat in Calvin Blount's house; that's why he didn't come in, Miss

Lady. He says he's the cow coroner on the Y. V. road, but I want to

tell you, he's the finest fellow, and the nearest to a gentleman,

that ever struck this country. That's what he is. I'm mighty troubled

over his going away, Miss Lady, mighty troubled." And indeed his face

gave warrant to these words, as with slow footsteps and frowning

brow, he yielded to the pressure of the light hand on his arm, and

turned toward the gallery steps.

CHAPTER V

CERTAIN PROBLEMS

After his midday meal, Colonel Calvin Blount, wandering aimlessly

and none too well content about the yard, came across one of his

servants, who was in the act of unrolling the fresh bear hide and

spreading it out to dry. He kicked idly at a fold in the hide.

"Look here, Jim," he said suddenly, "Mr. Decherd killed this b'ah,

didn't he?"

"Yassah," said Jim.

"And he shoots a rifle; and here are three holes--buckshot holes--in

the hide. And you had a gun loaded with buckshot. Did you lend it to

Mr. Decherd?"

"No, sah," said Jim, turning his head away.

"Look here, boy," said Blount. "There is no liar, black or white, can

go out with my dogs; because my dogs don't lie and I don't. Now, tell

me about this."

"Well, Cunnel," said the boy, half ready to blubber, "the b'ah was

faihly a-chawin' ol' Fly up. He wus right at me, an' I ran up close

so's not to hurt ol' Fly, and I done shot him."

"That's all right," said Colonel Blount. "How about the rest?"

"Well, sah, I had the b'ah mos' skinned, when up comes Mr. 'Cherd.

'That's my b'ah,' said he. 'Co'se it is,' says I. Then he 'lowed he'd

give me two dollahs ef I said he was de man dat killed de b'ah."

Blount stared reflectively at a knot-hole in the side of the barn.

"Jim," said he, at length, "give me the two dollars. I'll take care

of that." So saying, he swung on his heel and turned away.

The day was now far advanced, and the great white house had grown

silent. As Blount entered, he met no one at first, but finally at the

door of a half-darkened room midway of the hall, he heard the rustle

of a gown and saw approaching him the not uncomely figure of the

quasi-head of the menage, Mrs. Ellison. The latter moved slowly and

easily forward, pausing at the doorway, where, so framed, she

presented a picture attractive enough to arrest the attention of even

a bear-hunting bachelor.

"I am glad to see you back, Colonel," said she. "I am always so

uneasy when you are away;" she sighed.

Blount felt himself vaguely uncomfortable, but was not quite able to

turn away.

"I was just in my room," said Mrs. Ellison, "as I heard you passing

by. I had a little headache."

"That's too bad," said Colonel Blount, and turned again to go. The

unspoken invitation of the other still restrained him. She leaned

against the door, soft-eyed, her white hand waving an effective fan,

an attractive, a seductive picture.

"Why don't you ever come in and sit down and talk to me for a

minute?" said she, at length. "I scarcely see you at all any more."

Blount gathered an uneasy hint of something, he knew not what; yet he

followed her back into the half-darkened room, and presently, seated

near her, and wrapped in his own enthusiasms, forgot all but the bear

chase, whose incidents he began eagerly to relate. His vis-a-vis sat

looking at him with eyes which took in fully the careless strength of

his tall and strong figure. For some time now her eyes had rested on

this same figure, this man who had to do with work and the chase,

with hardship and adventure, and never anything more gentle--this man

who could not see!

"You must be more careful," said Mrs. Ellison. "But still, you are

safely back, and I'm glad you had good luck."

"Well, I don't know what you would call good luck," said Blount. "The

fact is, I had a little trouble, coming in."

"Trouble? In what way?"

"Well, it happened this way," said he, with a quick glance about him.

"I don't like to mention such things, but I suppose you ought to

know. This was about a couple of negroes back in the country a way.

You know, I am a sort of deputy sheriff, and I was called on to do a

little work with those same negroes. I suppose you know, ma'am, that

those negroes used to run this whole state a few years ago, though

they ain't studying so much about politics to-day."

"I know something of that," said Mrs. Ellison. "That was soon after

the war, they tell me. But they gave that up long ago. They don't

bother with politics now."

"No," resumed Blount. "They're not studying so much as they used to.

Not long ago I had a number of northern philanthropists down here,

who came down to look into the "conditions in this district." I said

I'd show them everything they wanted; so I sent out for some of my

field hands. I said to one of them, "Bill," said I, "these gentlemen

want to ask you some questions. I suppose your name is William Henry

Arnold, isn't it?" "Yassah," said Bill. "You was county supervisor

here some years ago, wasn't you, Bill?' 'Yassah,' said Bill. I said,

'I beg your pardon, Mr. William Henry Arnold, but will you please

step up here to my desk and write your name for these gentlemen?'

'Why, sho'! boss,' said he, 'you know I kain't write mah name.'

'That's all,' said I.

"'Now, gentlemen,' said I, 'exhibit number two is Mr. George

Washington Sims. 'George,' said I, 'you used to be our county

treasurer, didn't you?' He said he did. 'Who paid the taxes, then,

George?' said I. 'Why, boss, you white folks paid most of 'um.' 'All

right, Mr. George Washington Sims,' said I, 'you step up here and

write your name for these gentlemen.' He just laughed. 'That'll do,'

said I.

"'Exhibit number three,' said I to these northern philanthropists,

'is our late distinguished fellow citizen, Abednego Shadrach Jones.

He was our county clerk down here a while back. 'Nego, who paid the

taxes, time you was clerk?' He was right uncomfortable. 'Why, boss,'

said he, 'you paid most of 'um, you an' the white folks in heah. No

niggah man had nothin' to pay taxes on.'

"'You know that we white folks had to pay for the schools and

bridges, and the county buildings--had to pay salaries--had to pay

the county clerk and the janitor--had to pay everything?' I said to

him. 'Yassah,' said Nego.

"'You were elected legally, and we white folks couldn't out-vote you,

nohow?' 'Yassah,' said he. 'I s'pose we wus all 'lected legal 'nough.

I dunno rightly, but dey all done tol' me dat wuz so.'

"'Nego,' said I, 'step up here to your boss' desk and write your

name, just like you do when I give you credit for a bale of cotton.'

Nego he steps up and he makes a mark, and a mighty poor mark at that.

'You can go,' I said to him.

"'Now, gentlemen,' said I to them, 'do you want exhibits number four

and five and six?' And they allowed they didn't.

"There was one fellow in the lot who stepped up to me and took my

hand. He was a Federal colonel in the war, but he said to me,

'Colonel Blount, I beg your pardon. You have made this plainer to me

than I ever saw it before. It would be the ruin of this country if

you gave over the control of your homes and property and let them be

run by people like these. You have solved this problem for

yourselves, and you ought to be left to solve it all the time. As for

us folks from the North, we are a lot of ignorant meddlers; and as

for me, I'm going home.'"

Blount fell silent, musing for a time. "Some folks say, 'Educate the

negro,'" he resumed finally, "they say 'Uplift him.' They say 'Give

him a chance.' So do I. I will give him more than a chance. I will

let the negroes do all they can to help themselves, and I'll do the

balance myself. But they can't rule me, until they are better than I

am; and that's going to be a long while yet. Constitution or no

constitution, government or no government, the black rule can't and

don't go in the Delta! It wouldn't be _right_.

"Now, I'll tell you about those two poor fellows to-day," he

continued. "There was Tom Sands, who works on a plantation about

twelve miles from here. He has been getting drunk and beating his

wife and scaring his children for about three months. Judge Williams

had him up not long ago and bound him over to keep the peace, and

when I last saw the judge he told me to take this negro up, if I was

going by there any time, and bring him up and put him in jail for a

while, until he got to behaving himself again. You know we have to do

these things right along, to keep this country quiet.

"Well, when we were coming in from the hunt, we passed within a few

miles of his cotton patch, and I rode over to see him. He was out in

the field, and I found him and told him he had to come along. He

refused to come. He swore at me--and he was not even a county

surveyor in the old days! Then I ordered him in the name of the law

to come along. He picked up a piece of fence rail and started at me.

I had to get down off my horse to meet him. I own I struck him right

hard. There was another boy, a big black negro, that must have come

in here lately from some other part of the country, a big, stoop-

shouldered fellow--well, he started for me, too. I took up the same

piece of fence rail and knocked him down.

"I ought not to have told you this, ma'am," said Blount, rising. "But

then, maybe it's just as well that I did. You never can tell what

will come out of these things. We live over a black volcano in this

country all the time. Now, I didn't bring in either one of my

prisoners. I hoped that maybe they would take this fence rail

argument as a sort of temporary equivalent to a term in jail. But to-

morrow I'm going down in there and bring that Sands boy in. We never

dare give an inch in a matter of this kind."

"Do you think they will make any trouble?" said Mrs. Ellison.

"Never you mind about the _trouble_ part of it," said Blount, quietly.

"I reckon he'll come in. I'm going to take a _wagon_ this time. So

that's the kind of luck we had on this b'ah hunt."

He arose to go, and left Mrs. Ellison sitting still in the shaded

room, her fan now at rest, her eyes bent down thoughtfully, but her

foot tapping at the floor. The incidents just related passed quickly

from her mind. She remembered only that, as they talked, this man's

eye had wandered from her own. He was occupied with problems of

politics, of business, of sport, and was letting go that great game

for a strong man, the game of love! She could scarce tell at the

moment whether she most felt for him contempt or hatred--or something

far different from either.

At length she arose and paced the room, swiftly as the press of

strange events which were hurrying her along. Indeed, she might,

without any great shrewdness, have found warning in certain things

happening of late in and around the Big House; but Alice Ellison ever

most loved her own fancy as counsel. The blacks might rise if they

liked; Miss Lady might do as she listed, after all. Delphine and

young Decherd might go their several ways; but as for her, and as for

this man Calvin Blount--ah, well!

She yawned and stretched out her arms, feline, easy, graceful, and so

at length sank into her easy chair, half purring as she shifted now

and again to a more comfortable position.

CHAPTER VI

THE DRUM

John Eddring, the heat of his late encounter past, sat moodily

staring out from the platform of the little station to which he had

returned. He was angry with all the world, and angry with himself

most of all. It had been his duty to deal amicably with a man of the

position of Colonel Calvin Blount, yet how had he comported himself?

Like a school-boy! But for that he might have been the accepted guest

now, there at the Big House, instead of being the only man ever known

to turn back upon its door. But for his sudden choler, he reflected,

he might perhaps at this very moment be within seeing and speaking

distance of this tall girl of the scarlet ribbons, the very same

whose presence he had vaguely felt about the place all that morning,

in the occasional sound of a distant song, or the rush of feet upon

the gallery, or the whisk of skirts frequently heard. The memory of

that picture clung fast and would not vanish. She was so very

beautiful, he reflected. It had been pleasanter to sit at table in

such company than thus here alone, hungry, like an outcast.

He felt his gaze, like that of a love-sick boy, turning again and

again toward the spot where he had seen her last. The realization of

this angered him. He rebuked himself sternly, as having been unworthy

of himself, as having been light, as having been unmanly, in thus

allowing himself to be influenced by a mere irrational fancy. He

summoned his strength to banish this chimera, and then with sudden

horror which sent his brow half-moist, he realized that his faculties

did not obey, that he was thinking of the same picture, that his eyes

were still coveting it, his heart--ah, could there be truth in these

stories of sudden and uncontrollable impulses of the heart? The very

whisper of it gave him terror. His brow grew moister. For him, John

Eddring--what could the world hold for him but this one thing of

duty?

Duty! He laughed at the thought. These two iron bands before his eyes

irked his soul, binding him, as they did, hard and fast to another

world full of unwelcome things. There came again and again to his

mind this picture of the maid with the bright ribbons. He gazed at

the distant spot beneath the evergreens where he had seen her. He

could picture so distinctly her high-headed carriage, the straight

gaze of her eyes, the glow on her cheeks; could restore so clearly

the very sweep of the dark hair tumbled about her brow. Smitten of

this sight, he would fain have had view again. Alas! it was as when,

upon a crowded street, one gazes at the passing figure of him whose

presence smites with the swift call of friendship--and turns, only to

see this unknown friend swallowed up in the crowd for ever. Thus had

passed the view of this young girl of the Big House; and there

remained no sort of footing upon which he could base a hope of a

better fortune. Henceforth he must count himself apart from all Big

House affairs. He was an outcast, a pariah. Disgusted, he rose from

his rude seat at the window ledge and walked up the platform. He

found it too sunny, and returned to take a seat again upon a broken

truck near by.

There was a little country store close to the platform, so built that

it almost adjoined the ware-room of the railway station; this being

the place where the colored folk of the neighborhood purchased their

supplies. At the present moment, this building seemed to lack much of

its usual occupancy, yet there arose, now and again, sounds of low

conversation partly audible through the open window. The voices were

those of negroes, and they spoke guardedly, but eagerly, with some

peculiar quality in their speech which caught the sixth sense of the

Southerner, accustomed always to living upon the verge of a certain

danger. The fact that they were speaking thus in so public a place,

and at the mid-hour of the working day, was of itself enough to

attract the attention of any white dweller of that region.

"I tell yuh," said one, "it's gone fah 'nough. Who runs de fahms, who

makes de cotton, who does de wu'k for all dis heah lan'? Who used to

run de gov'ment, and who orter now, if it ain't us black folks? Dey

throw us out, an' dey won't let us vote, an' we-all know we gotter

right to vote. Dey say a nigger ain't fitten ter do nothin' but wu'k,

wu'k, wu'k. Nigger got good a right to live de way he want ter as de

white man is. Now it's time fer change. De Queen, you-all knows, she

done say de time come fer a change."

A low growl, as from the throats of feeding beasts, greeted this

comment. Footfalls, shuffling, approached the speaker.

"Tom Sands is daid, dat's whut he is," resumed the first speaker,

"leastways as good as daid, 'cause he's just a-layin' thah an' kain't

move er speak. An' look at me, look at my haid. De ol' man hit him

pow'ful hahd, an' ef he didn't hit me jest de same, it wasn't no

fault o' his'n, I tell you. He jes' soon killed bof of us niggers

thah as not. Whaffor? He want we-all to come inter town an' git

fined, git into jail ag'in." More growls than one greeted this, and

then there came silence for a while.

"My ol' daddy done tol' me twenty-five yeah ago," said the first

speaker, "dat de time was a-goin' ter come. Dey wus onct a white man

f'om up Norf come all over dis country, fifty yeah ago, an' he

preached it ter de niggers befo' de wah dat some day de time gwine

come. We wus ter raise up all over the Souf an' kill all de white

folks, an' den all de white women--

"We wus ter kill all de white men," at length resumed the same voice.

"De white men f'om de Norf wus ter ride intoe de towns den an' rob

all de banks an' divide de money wid we-all, an' dey wus to open de

sto's and give ebery nigger all de goods he want wifout paying

nuthin' fer 'em; and den nigger ain't gwine to wu'k no mo'.

"Dat white man and his folks, my ol' daddy said, fifty yeah ago, dey

wu'k secret all over the Souf, from Tenn'ssee ter Louisian'. Dat was

fifty yeah ago, but my ol' daddy say when he was a piccaninny, dis

heah thing got out somehow an' de white folks down Souf dey cotch dis

white man f'om de Norf, an' done hang him, an' dey done hang and burn

a heap o' niggers all over de Souf.

"Dat wus long time befo' de wah. Dey tol' us-all dat de time wuz sho'

comin' den; but den de preachers and de doctors dey tol' us-all it

mightn't be come den, but it would come some day. Den 'long come de

wah, an' de preachers an' de doctors an' de white folks up Norf dey

done tol' us, nigger gwine ter be free, not to have ter wu'k no mo'.

Huh! Now look at us! We wu'k jest as hard as we ever did, an' we git

no mo' fer it dan whut we eat an' weah. We kain't vote. Dey done

robbed us outen dat. We kain't be nobody. We kain't git 'long. We

hatter wu'k jest same, wu'k, wu'k, wu'k, all de time. Nigger jest as

well be daid as hatter wu'k all de time--got no vote, ner nuthin'.

Dat's whut de Queen she done tol' me right plain las' meetin' we had.

She say white folks up Norf gwine to help nigger now, right erlong.

Things gwine be different now, right soon."

Murmurs, singularly stirring, peculiarly ominous, answered this

extended speech. Encouraged, the orator went on. "We ain't good as

slaves, we-all ain't. We wu'k jest ez hahd. Dey gin us a taste o' de

white bread, an' den dey done snatch it 'way f'om us. We want ter be

like white folks. Up Norf dey tell us we gwine ter be, but down heah

dey won't let us."

Now suddenly the voice broke into a wail and rose again in a half-

chant. Evidently the storekeeper was absent, perhaps across the way

for his dinner. The building was left to the blacks. Without

premeditation, those present had dropped into one of those "meetings"

which white men of that region never encourage.

"Dey brung us heah in chains, O Lord!" shouted the orator. "Yea, in

chains dey done weigh us down! O Lord, make us delivery. O Lord,

smite down ouah oppressohs."

"Lord! Lord! yea, O Lord, smite down!" responded the ready chorus.

And there were sobs and strange savage gutterals which no white ear

may ever fully understand. The white listener on the station platform

understood enough, and his eager face grew tense and grave. A meeting

of the blacks, thus bold at such a time, meant nothing but danger,

perhaps danger immediate and most serious.

The wild chant rose and fell in a sudden gust, and then the voice

went on. "De time is heah; I seen it in a dream, I seen it in a

vision f'om de Lord. De Lord done tell it to de Queen, and done say

ter me, 'Rise, rise and slay mightily. Take de land o' de oppressoh,

take his women away f'om him an' lay de oppressoh in de dus'! Cease

dy labors, Gideon, cease an' take dy rest! Enter into de lan', O

Gideon, an' take it foh dyself! O, Lord, give us de arm of de

Avengeh. I seen it, I seen it on de sky! I done seen it foh yeahs,

an' now I seen it plain! De moon have it writ on her face las' night,

de birds sing it in de trees, de chicken act it in his talk dis vehy

mawnin'. De dog he howl it out las' night. De sun he show it plain

dis vehy day. De trees say it, now weeks an' weeks. All de worl' say

to nigger now, jes' like he heah it fifty yeah ago, jes' like he heah

it in de wah we made--'De Time, de Time!' I heah it in my ears. I

kain't heah nuthin' else but dat--'De Time, de Time am heah!' Nuthin'

but jes' dis heah, 'De Time, de Time am heah!'"

And now there ensued a yet stranger thing. There was no further voice

of the orator; but thee arose a wild, plaintive sound of chanting, a

song which none but those who sang it might have understood. Its

savage unison rose and fell for just one bar or so, and then sank to

sudden silence. There came a quick shuffling of feet in separation.

The group fell apart. The store was empty! Out in the open air, under

the warm summons of the sun, there passed a merry, laughing group of

negroes, happy, care-free, each humming the burden of some simple

song, each slouching across the road, as though ease and the warm sun

filled all his soul! Dissimulation and secretiveness, seeded in

savagery, nourished in oppression, ingrained in the soul for

generations, are part of a nature as opaque to the average Caucasian

eye as is the sable skin of Africa itself.

They scattered, but a keen eye followed them. Eddring saw that they

began to come together again at different points, group joining

group, and all bending their steps toward the edge of the surrounding

forest. Had the owner of the Big House, or any planter thereabout,

seen this gathering at the midday hour, when the people should have

been at their work, he would assuredly have stopped them and made

sharp questioning. But at the moment the storekeeper was at home

asleep in his noonday nap; the owner of the Big House had problems of

his own, and, as it chanced, none of the neighboring planters was at

the railroad station. John Eddring, now fully alert, looked sharply

about him, then slipped down from the railway platform. He crossed a

little field by a faint path, and hurried off to the shadow of the

woods, his course paralleling the forest road as nearly as might be.

At half-past three that afternoon, at a point five miles from the

railway station, there was enacted a scene which might more properly

have claimed as its home a country far distant from this. Yet there

was something fitting in this environment. All around swept the

heavy, solemn forest, its giant oaks draped here and there with the

funereal Spanish moss. A ghostly sycamore, a mammoth gum-tree now and

then thrust up a giant head above the lesser growth. Smaller trees,

the ash, the rough hickory, the hack-berry, the mulberry, and in the

open glades the slender persimmon and the stringy southern birches

crowded close together. Over all swept the masses of thick cane

growth, interlaced with tough vines of grape and creeping, thorned

briers. It was the jungle. This might have been Africa itself!

And it might have been Africa itself which produced the sound that

now broke upon the ear--a deep, single, booming note which caused the

brooding air of the ancient wood to shiver as though in apprehension.

There had been faint forest sounds before that note broke out: the

small birds running up and down the tree-trunks had chirped and

chattered faintly; the squirrels on the nut trees had dropped some

bits of bark which rustled faintly as they fell from leaf to leaf; a

rabbit ambling across the way had left a vine a-tremble as it

disappeared, and a far-off crow had uttered its hoarse note as it

alighted on a naked limb. But as this deep, reverberant, single note

boomed out across the jungle, there came a sudden hush of all nature.

It was as though each living thing caught terror at the sound. Only

far above, as though they heard a summons, the black-winged buzzards

idly circled over.

The note came again, single, deep, vibrant, smiting a world gone

silent. There had been the interval of a full minute between the two

echoes of the giant drum. A minute followed before it spoke again.

And thus there boomed out across the jungle, deep, solemn, ominous,

miles-wide in its far-reaching quality, this note of the savage drum;

the drum never made by white hands, never seen by the eyes of white

men; the drum whose note has never yet been heard in the North, but

which some day, perhaps, may be; whose note is not yet understood by

those of the North, over-wise, arrogant in the arrogance of an utter

ignorance, who may yet one day hear its strange and frenzied summons!

The drum spoke on--the drum of the savage people, of the ancient

savage tribes. The rolling vibration of its speech swung and

extended, causing the leaves to shiver in its strange power. The

sound could have been heard for miles--was heard for miles. Slipping

down the little leafy paths in the cane, pushing along the edges of

the highway for a time, ready to step out of sight upon the instant

did occasion arise for concealment; coming down the paths made by

deer and bear and panther; moving slowly but speedily and with

confidence through this cover of vine and jungle, to which the black

man takes by instinct, but which is never really understood by the

white man; knowing the secrets of this savage wilderness, yielding to

its summons and to this summons of the compelling drum, whose note

shivered and throbbed through all the heavy air of the afternoon--

these people, these inhabitants of the jungle, slipped and slunk and

hesitated and came on, until at last this little, secret, unknown

building which served as their hidden temple was fairly packed with

them; and a circle, open-eared, alert for any sudden danger, made a

human framing half-hidden in the shrouding of the mighty canes.

One blast of the horn of white hunter or of chance traveler, and the

spot had been deserted on the instant, its peopling vanished beyond

discovery. But there was no horn of hunter, no sound even of tinkling

cow-bell, no voice of youth in song or conversation. Only the sound

of the great drum, the drum made years ago and hidden in a spot known

to few, spoke out its sullen summons, slowly, in savage deliberation.

Its sound had a carrying quality of its own, unknown in white men's

instruments. It was heard at the Big House, five miles away, though

it was not recognized as an actual and distinct sound, white ears not

being attuned to it. Even here at the hidden temple it seemed not

more than the whisper of a sound, scarce louder than it appeared

miles away. It was bell and drum in one, and trump of doom as well.

The drum spoke on, the drum of the jungle. It whispered of revenge to

those who crept up to the dusky drummer and stood waiting to drink in

at each long interval this deep intoxicating stimulus, the note of

the priestly drum. And each deep throb of the drum carried a greater

frenzy, a frenzy still suppressed, yet mysteriously growing. The riot

of the ominous clanging sank into the blood of these people, though

still it only caused them to shiver and now and then to sob--to sob!

these giants, these tremendous human beings, these black or bronze

Titans of the field, transplanted--in time, perhaps, to have their

vengeance of the ages! They stood, their eyes rolling, their mouths

slavering slightly, the muscles of their shoulders now and again

rolling or relaxing, their hands coming tight together, palm smitten

to palm, jaw clenched hard upon its fellow.

The drum spoke on. Inside the low log building certain preparations

progressed, mummeries peculiar to the tribesmen, not to be described,

strange, grotesque, sickening, horrible. A few donned fantastic

uniforms cut out from colored oil-cloths. They placed upon their

heads plumed hats of shapes such as white men do not create. They

buckled about their bodies belts spangled with bits of shining things

such as white men do not wear. They drew slowly together and passed

apart. They seated themselves now, in long rows, upon logs hewn out

as benches, on either side of the long room; but restless of this,

they rose again and again to pace, walking, walking, uneasy, anxious.

Now and then an arm was flung up. Outside, where ranks of eyes gazed

unwinking, hypnotized, upon the door of the temple, there rose no

sound save now and then this strange sobbing.

And still the drum throbbed on, the drum of the jungle, whose sound

not all white men have heard as yet. The forest shivered across its

miles of matted growth, as it heard the growling voice which called,

"The Time! The Time!" Relentless, measured, so spoke the savage drum.

CHAPTER VII

THE BELL

Meanwhile at the Big House there was no suspicion of what was going

forward in the forest beyond; indeed the occupants had certain

problems of their own to absorb them. A strange unrest seemed in

possession of the place. Decherd had disappeared for a time. Mrs.

Ellison, in her own room, rang and called in vain for Delphine. The

master himself, moody and aloof, took saddle and rode across the

fields; but if there were fewer hands at labor than there should have

been, he did not notice the fact as he rode on, his hat pulled down

over his face, and his mind busy with many things, not all of which

were pleasing to him.

As for Miss Lady, she occupied herself during the afternoon much

after the fashion of any young girl of seventeen left thus, without

companions of her own sex and age. She strolled about the yard,

finding fellowship with the hounds, with the horses in the

neighboring pasture. She looked up in pensive question at the clouds,

feeling the soft wind, the hot kiss of the sun on her cheek. Upon her

soul sat the melancholy of youth. In her heart arose unanswered

queries of young womanhood.

Now, as to this young man, Henry Decherd, thought Miss Lady, why

should he trouble her by being continually about when she did not

care for him? Why had he been so eager, even from the first day when

he met her at the Big House? What had he to do with her coming to the

Big House? Why did her mother now leave her with him, and, then

again, capriciously call her away from him? And why should she

herself avoid him, dismiss him, and then wonder whither he had gone?

Miss Lady, with one vague thought or another in her mind, wandered

idly back to the great drawing-room where but an hour ago she had

last seen Henry Decherd. He was not there as she peered in at the

door; wherefore she needed no excuse, but stepped in and dropped into

a chair which offered invitation in the depths of the half-darkened

room.

A beautiful girl was Miss Lady, round of throat and arm, already

stately, quite past the days of flat immaturity. A veritable young

goddess one might have called her, with her high, short mouth and

upright head, and her shoulders carried back with a certain

haughtiness. Yet only a gracious, pensive goddess might have had this

wistfulness in the deep eyes, this little pensive droop of the mouth

corners, this piteous quality of the eye which left one saying that

here, after all, was a maiden most like to the wild deer of the

forest, strong, beautiful, yet timid; ready to flee, yet anxious to

confide.

As she sat thus, the idle gaze of Miss Lady chanced upon an object

lying on the floor, fallen apparently by accident from the near-by

table. She stooped to pick it up, examining it at first carelessly

and then with greater interest. It was a book, a little old-fashioned

book, in the French language, the covers now broken and faded, though

once of brave red morocco. The type was old and quaint, and the paper

yellow with age. Miss Lady had never seen this book before, and now,

failing better occupation, fell to reading in it. Presently she

became so absorbed that once more she was surprised by the quiet

approach of Mrs. Ellison. The latter paused at the door, looked in

and coughed a second time. Miss Lady started in surprise.

"You frightened me, mamma," said she, "coming up so close. You are

always frightening me that way. Do you think I need watching all the

time?"

"Well, you know, my child, we must not keep Colonel Blount waiting

for his dinner."

"But tell me, what book is this, mamma?" said Miss Lady to her. "It's

French. See, I can read some of it. It is about people in St. Louis

years and years ago. It tells about a Louise Loisson--isn't that a

pretty name!--who was a captive among the Indians, or something of

that sort. She was an heiress, like enough, too, I can't make out

just what, but certainly well-born. I think her father was a count,

or something. Mamma, you should have insisted upon my taking up

French more thoroughly when I was at the Sisters'. Now, this is the

strangest thing."

"Nonsense, child. Can't you spend your time better than fooling with

such trash?"

"It isn't trash, mamma. The girl went to France, to Paris, and she

danced--she was famous."

Mrs. Ellison shifted uneasily. "You are old enough to begin reading

books of proper sort. I don't know how you pick up such notions as

this," said she.

"Is not the book yours, mamma?"

"Why, no, of course not. I don't know whose it is."

How much it might have saved Mrs. Ellison later had she now simply

picked up this book, admitted its ownership and so concealed it for

ever! How much, too, that had meant in the life of Miss Lady, its

chance finder! Yet this was not to be. Fate sometimes teaches a woman

to say the thing which at the instant relieves, though it later

damns. It was Mrs. Ellison's fate to deny all knowledge of this

little volume.

"Come, we must hurry, my child," she repeated. Miss Lady resolved to

come back after dinner and look further into this interesting book.

Mrs. Ellison resolved the same. Her interest in the little volume was

far greater than she cared to evince. She hesitated. Her eyes turned

to it again and again, her hands longed to clutch it. Once more in

her possession, she resolved that never in the future should it be

left lying carelessly about, to fall into precisely the wrong hands.

She hurried Miss Lady away from the place.

"Go and get ready for dinner," she commanded, "and try to look your

best to-night; you know we've Mr. Decherd, and perhaps other company.

That girl Delphine has run away, and I had to look after things

myself; I don't want you to disgrace me--"

"I'll try not," said Miss Lady, coolly, and swept her a mocking

courtesy.

Mrs. Ellison gazed after her with ill-veiled hostility, but turned

away presently, quite as anxious as she was angry. This girl was a

problem, and a dangerous one as well.

Things were not going smoothly at the Big House. Sam, the curly-

headed, embryonic butler, who gazed out over Colonel Blount's dinner-

table each evening in solemn dignity, knew that something was wrong

with his people that evening, though he could not tell what. Some of

them talked too much. Miss Lady laughed too much. The boss was too

thoughtful, and young Massa Decherd--whom Sam had never learned to

like--was too scowling. Little Sam was almost relieved when a knock

summoned him without, and he betook his ten years of dignity from

Colonel Blount's right hand, to learn what might be wanted at the

door.

"What is it, Sam?" asked Colonel Blount.

"M-m-m-m-man outside, sah, h-h-h-he wants to see you, sah."

"Well, Sam, if there is a gentleman outside, why don't you ask him to

come in and eat with us? Don't you know your manners, Sam? Why do I

give you this place to run if you can't ask a gentleman to come in

and sit at your table when we are having dinner?"

"D-d-did as-s-s-sk him, sah," said Sam, "b-b-but he wouldn't c-c-c-

_come_ in; n-n-n-no, sah, wouldn't c-c-c-_come_ in."

"What, wouldn't come in, eh?"

"No, sah, s-s-s-says you must come out, sah. W-w-w-wants to see you,

sah. H-h-h-he won't wait."

It was the claim agent of the Y. V. railroad who stood on the gallery

awaiting the appearance of Colonel Blount. The latter looked at him

quietly for a moment, and held out his hand.

"Come in," said he, "you are just in time for dinner. I'm glad to see

you back."

"Colonel Blount," said Eddring, in spite of himself grown again

swiftly choleric, "damn your dinner! I have come back because as a

white man I've got to tell you what you ought to know." There was an

eagerness in his tone whose import was recognized by Blount.

"What's up?" said he, shortly. "Niggers?"

"Yes, down below there."

"Down towards the Sands' place?"

"Yes, they've been holding a meeting all the afternoon; they've got a

regular church over there in the cane. They've got a leader this

time, of some sort; I can't find out who it is, but it all means

trouble. There has been a plot going on for a long time. They think

you have been too rough with them, and, in fact, I reckon they are

just generally right desperate and dangerous. They've heard a lot of

this political and educational talk from up North, and it's done what

might have been expected all along. The niggers are up. They are

going to march on your house to-night. Why, haven't you heard their

infernal drum going all the evening! This is insurrection, I tell

you!"

"Come in," said Blount, simply. "I thank you."

"I don't want any thanks," said Eddring, "I am telling you this

because you are a white man and so am I. It is my duty."

Blount reached out his hand again. "Not necessary," said Eddring; but

the older man threw a long arm over his shoulders, so that for an

instant they looked into each other's eyes; then quickly Eddring

turned and caught Blount by the hand.

"I can't come in," said he, "until you take back this infernal

voucher we were wrangling over."

"Oh, well," said Blount, "I will take it, if that will please you, or

you may keep it, if that will please you better. There's no time for

that sort of thing now. Come in and sit down at my table--and now

you, Sam, run and tell Mollie to ring the big plantation bell, and

keep it ringing until I tell her to stop."

John Eddring thus came back to the Big House which lately he had left

in anger; and as he entered the great dining-room he saw once more

his coveted picture, the image of the morning, the tall young girl

with the brown ruff of hair rolling back from the smooth brow, above

the clear-seeing dark eyes. Here again, by miracle, had come his

friend, to meet him in the smother of the grimy way of life! Yet he

thought the girl looked at him but coldly as he stood wearily apart.

He felt himself unaccredited, a man of no station. Again there swept

over him the feeling of his own insufficiency, his own failure of all

life's things worth having. It seemed to him that in this young

girl's gaze there called out to him the cool, insolent tone of

pitiless youth, saying: "I know you not; you are not my friend."

Himself simple and direct in good masculine sort, he knew little of

such thing as coquetry, nor knew that the soul feminine might hide

much curiosity, if not interest, behind a glance indifferently

turned, a word calmly or coolly spoken. And so he raged, unhappy in

his own ignorance, and most of all unhappy for that, now disobedient

to all his mandates, there surged up in his heart a great and

dangerous longing, the mutiny of a soul too long crushed down by the

iron hand of the commonplace,--the iron hand of this thing called

Duty.

Out of this sudden conflict, and out of this sudden misery, he could

formulate no better course of action to set him straight; and in the

uneasy silence, tense, overstrung, he almost longed for that physical

action which he knew must presently follow.

But now there pealed out suddenly upon the air of evening the mighty

clangor of the great bell, the one used only in time of stress at the

Big House, which soon sent all else silent. High and clear arose the

note, ringing out for a moment and then silent, only to resume. The

dinner in the great hall passed with few explanations vouchsafed, and

presently Mrs. Ellison hurried Miss Lady away. Eddring, dimly aware

that now in spite of himself he was established on some sort of

footing in the Big House, none the less reflected that the occasion

counted for but little from a social standpoint. He caught himself

looking at the door where the tall young woman had disappeared. For

the time he forgot his own station, and his own errand in that place.

He forgot no more than an instant, for there came to him the swift

feeling that a grave peril impended for this girl, for all the white

women of the house. From that moment his problems became savagely

impersonal. He was simply one of a few men called upon to defend a

home, and the women of that home. He asked his soul as to his fitness

for the task, and rejoiced grimly that he found himself calm and

ready for this thing which was now his duty.

Colonel Calvin Blount scarcely spoke, yet he gladly welcomed his

neighbor, the storekeeper, Ben Buckner, who now came strolling up to

the gallery steps; and he smiled with yet greater pleasure when he

peered out of the window into the twilight and saw riding up to the

gate his other neighbor, Jim Bowles, who carried across the saddle in

front of him a long rifle. Behind Bowles, on the family mule, sat his

wife, Sarah Ann, dipping snuff vigorously.

"Good even', Cunnel," said Bowles, alighting, "I heah you-all got a

b'ah this mawnin'. I just brung my own gun 'long heah, 'lowin' I

might see somethin' 'long the road, even if it is gittin' a little

dark." Blount smiled grimly. No mention was made of the ringing of

the bell until Blount himself explained.

"You-all know something is up," said he.

"Yas, sah," said Buckner, evincing no great curiosity.

"Well, there's trouble enough on hand right now. We need every white

man we can get. Bowles, take your wife inside to get something to

eat, and you, Ben, go back and get your women-folks; and don't forget

your Winchester."

The bell spoke on. The plantation paths now began to blacken with

slowly moving figures, but within the Big House there was no

confusion. Colonel Blount paced slowly up and down the gallery.

Hearing footfalls, he turned.

"Oh, it's you, Decherd, is it? I'm right glad you're going home to-

morrow morning, and not to-night. We need men who can shoot. I will

give you something for every black head you can make a hole in to-

night. What would you like? Say about two dollars?" Decherd gulped

and reddened, and made such shamefaced defense as he could. There was

an ugly look of ill temper on his face, but he found Calvin Blount a

hard man to approach with any masculine asperities.

"The next time," said Blount to him, quietly, "if I were you, Mr.

Decherd, and I heard the Blount pack going out, I don't believe I

would ride along." He was away before Decherd could frame reply. At

that instant Eddring appeared on the gallery calling out to him.

"Listen, listen to it," cried Eddring, "don't you hear it? That's

their drum; it's coming closer."

The little party of white men faced toward the sound.

"Here, Bill," cried Blount. "Call the ladies here to me at once." He

turned to them, as presently they appeared, questioning him.

"Never mind," he said, "there's going to be a little trouble, but we

can handle it. It's out of the difficulty with that Sands nigger that

I was telling you about, Mrs. Ellison. Now, here, you and Miss Lady

take these two pistols, and go into Miss Lady's room. No matter what

happens, you stay there until you are called. If any one tries to get

into the room, wait until he gets almost in, then shoot, and shoot

straight. Don't be scared, and keep quiet; well take care of you,

these gentlemen and myself. I must tell you that it was my friend Mr.

Eddring here who brought the news and warned us. You ought to thank

him, but not now; get on into that room."

The women took the weapons, and Eddring noticed that of the two Mrs.

Ellison seemed the more frightened. The younger one was pale, but her

eye did not flicker or falter. She looked straight at each man, at

Bowles and Buckner, both impassive, at Calvin Blount, now beginning

to flush under his fighting choler; yes, and at last at him, John

Eddring, pale and serious, but steady as the door-jamb against which

he leaned.

"It was fortunate for us, sir, that you came," she said in a voice

that did not tremble as much as did his in stammering a reply. So she

passed on within, and the eyes of those silent men followed her.

"Now then, Bill," cried Calvin Blount, sharply, "get the hands into

line so we can count them. Here, into the kitchen there, all you

people, every one of you. If I see a head out of the window this

night it will get a hole put through it. Do you hear? Get under cover

and stay there. Ring that bell, Bill, louder, louder! Keep it going!

We'll show these people what we think, and what we'll do."

So, high over the droning sounds of sleeping evening-tide, there

arose the challenge of the white man's bell, calling out to the

savage drum its answer and its defiance.

CHAPTER VIII

THE VOLCANO

At length the sound of bell and drum alike ceased. The great house

went grim and silent. The sound of the flying night-jars died away,

and the chorus of crickets and katydids began as the dusk settled

down. Inside the kitchen, a detached building in which the plantation

forces were now practically confined, there arose occasional sounds

of half-hysterical laughter, snatches of excited talk, now and then

the quavering of a hymn. In the kennel yards a hound, prescient,

raised his voice, and was joined by another, until the whole pack,

stirred by some tense feeling in the air, lifted up in tremulous

unison a far-reaching wail.

After a time even the mingled calling of the pack droned away, and

silence came once more, a silence hard to endure, since now each

occupant of the Big House knew that the assailants must be close

about. Each man had a window assigned to his care, and so all settled

for the task ahead. An hour passed that seemed a score of hours.

Then, over toward the railroad track, there came a confused sound of

muffled footfalls in ragged unison, and presently a sort of chant,

broken now and then by shoutings. Suddenly there boomed out once

more, full and unmistakable, the voice of the great drum of Africa.

The beating was now rapid and sonorous, and the sound of the drum was

accompanied by a savage volume of cries. A mass of shadow appeared at

the end of the lane, soon lapping over into the yard in front of the

Big House.

There arose near at hand answering calls, containing a scarcely

concealed note of encouragement. At a window in the kitchen there

appeared a head and arm thrust out. Eddring saw it and pointed. "Why

don't you shoot, man?" said the slow voice of Bowles at his elbow.

"I can't; it's murder!" said Eddring, drawing away. Yet even as he

did so he saw the long brown barrel of the squirrel rifle rise level

and hang motionless. There came a sharp, thin, inadequate report, and

at the kitchen window the shoulders of the unfortunate flung upward

and fell hanging. Eddring felt sick with horror, but Bowles lowered

his rifle calmly, as if this were but target practice. Not a hand in

the kitchen dared pull back into the room the body of the dead negro.

And now there came a sudden rush of feet; a medley of deep-throated

callings came almost from the gallery edge. The assault, savage,

useless, almost hopeless, had begun. Eddring remembered always that

it seemed to him that this young gentleman, Henry Decherd, was a

trifle pale; that Bowles was at least a dozen feet tall; that Colonel

Calvin Blount was quite turned to stone; and that he himself was not

there personally, but merely witnessing some fierce and fearful

nightmare in which others were concerned. Once he heard Mrs. Ellison

call repeatedly to Delphine, and was dimly conscious that there was

no answer. Once, too, he saw, standing at the door, the tall figure

of the young girl, Miss Lady--the white girl, the prototype of

civilization; woman, sweet, to be shielded, to be cared for, to be

protected--yea, though it were with a man's heart-blood. And after

this spectacle John Eddring looked about him no more, but cherished

his rifle and used it.

About him were vague and confused sounds of a conflict of which he

saw little save that directly in front of his own window. He was

conscious of a second insignificant rifle-crack at his right, and

heard other shots from Blount's window at the left. His own work he

did methodically, feeling that his duty was plain to him. He was a

rifleman. His firing was not aimless, but exact, careful, pitilessly

unagitated.

The black mass in front broke and scattered, and drew together again

and came on. The assailants reached every portion of the front yard,

hiding behind buildings, trees, anything they could find. At the rear

of the house, among the barns, there arose the yelping of dogs cut

down at the kennels, and screams rang out where the maddened blacks,

no longer human, were stabbing horses and cattle and leaving them

half dead. Then there arose a sudden flicker of flame. Some voice

cried out that they had fired the cotton-gin. From other buildings

closer at hand there also arose flames. From the kitchen came cries

and lamentations. Here and there over the ground, plain in the

moonlight, or huddled blackly in the shadows, there lay long blurs

where the rifles had done their work. Yet from a point not far from

the corner of the gallery there came continual firing.

"That's from behind that board-pile out there," cried Blount,

stepping back from his window. "We've got to get them out." Eddring,

not pausing for speech, plunged out of the window, rushed across the

gallery and over the narrow space to the shelter whence was coming

this close firing. His weapon spoke once and was lowered. Then he

fled back as swiftly as he had gone.

"Get back in here, you fool!" cried Blount, pulling him in at the

window as he returned. "How many were there?"

"Two," said Eddring, breathless. "One was a woman."

"Woman!" cried Blount; "what woman?"

There was no time to ponder as to this, for now shouts sounded behind

them. The crashing of glass and cries of fear came from the room

where the women had been left. The men hurried thither, and as they

gained the door, a black face appeared at the broken pane. Once more

Eddring felt hesitation at what seemed simple murder, yet still his

rifle was rising when he felt a sudden dizziness assail him. A long

arm pushed him away. He saw the brown barrel of the squirrel rifle

rising into line once more. The black at the window fell back, shot

through the forehead. Sarah Ann handed Jim Bowles another bullet. "I

always did love you, ol' man," said Sarah Ann, as he blew the smoke

from the long barrel of his rifle before reloading.

Eddring saw and heard thus much, but presently he sank half-

unconscious, not knowing the puzzle of the shot which had struck him

here so far toward the interior of the house. After a time the horror

of it all drew to its climax and passed on. Buckner, the storekeeper,

slipped down to the railroad station and set going an imperative

clicking on the wire. Two hours later there came a special train,

whose appearance put an end to the conflict. Dawn found the engine

fuming at the station-house, and dawn saw the Big House still

standing, charred a little at one corner, near which lay the body of

the unfortunate who had sought to apply the brand. Eddring, still

faint and dizzy, but not seriously hurt, sat at a little table

opposite Colonel Blount, who, himself gray and gaunt, had paused for

a time in his uneasy walk about the premises. A mocking-bird on the

trellis without the door trilled its song high and sweet, as though

the coming sunshine could reveal nothing of that which had been

there.

CHAPTER IX

ON ITS MAJESTY'S SERVICE

John Eddring, one morning, a month, or so after the Big House

battle, sat in the offices devoted to the use of the division claim

agent of the Y. Y. lines, whose headquarters were situated in a squat

building around which went on the scattered industries of the city

known as the industrial capital of a certain region of the South.

Beyond these dingy confines might have been seen other structures yet

more squat and dreary, from which issued the lines of iron rails

which led out into the South, rails which even here paralleled the

shores of the great river, as though dependent upon it for

maintenance and guidance. The mighty flood, unmindful, swept toward

the South, its tawny mane far out in midstream wrinkled by the breath

of an up-stream air.

Beyond the nearest bend there arose, above the cover of the gray

forest, the dense smoke of a steamer, and near at hand there came now

and again the coughing roar of the whistles of yet other river boats.

Slow smoke issued also from steamers tied up at the levee, where,

under low wooden canopies, lay piles and rows of brown-cased cotton

bales, continually increased in number by other bales brought up in

long drays, each drawn by a single mule. Above the hot wharves rose

the slope of close stone riprapping, fence against Father Messasebe,

who now and then, in spirit of sport or of forgetfulness, reached out

for his immemorial tribute of the soil. The sun was reflected from

this wall down on the depot building and the wharf floor beyond.

Across the water came the strumming of a banjo, and the low note of

singing also arose from the rooms where workmen shuffled about with

truck and hook, shifting the cotton bales. An inspector, almost the

only white man at the wharf, moved slowly from bale to bale, ripping

the covers with his knife and probing with his cotton auger into the

middle of each bale to test its quality. Mules dozed about with

lopping ears. Nowhere was there haste; neither here nor on the

street; nor in the railway offices beyond, where sat John Eddring,

agent of the personal injury department of this southern railway.

The room was not attractive, with its few chairs, its rows of letter

files, its desks and copying presses. The table at which Eddring sat

was worn and lacking in polish. Upon the wall hung a map showing the

divers lines of the Y. V. railroad; a chart depicting the street

crossings in the city of New Orleans; an engineer's elevation of a

bridge somewhere on the line. Severely professional were these

surroundings; as was indeed the central figure in the room, who now

sat at his desk opening the morning mail. He looked up presently as

there came a knock at the door, and soon was on his feet, hat in

hand; for the first caller of the day proved to be a lady. Apparently

she was an acquaintance of the claim agent, who addressed her by

name.

"Come in, Mrs. Wilson," he said pleasantly.

Mrs. Wilson, just arrived from a small town down the railroad, had

brought with her her sister, her mother and four children, not to

mention a neighbor who had come along to do a little shopping.

Eddring employed himself in getting a sufficient number of chairs for

this little body of visitors. Inquiries as to the health of himself

and his family ensued, reciprocated politely by Eddring, who asked

after Mrs. Wilson's kith and kin and the leading citizens of her

town. These preliminaries were long, but the claim agent was

apparently well acquainted with them and regarded them as necessary.

"Well, now, Mr. Eddring," said Mrs. Wilson, "I've come in heah this

mawnin' to see you about ouah hawse. You know ouah Molly hawse got

kilt down at the depot two weeks ago by the railroad kyahs. I

declare, I felt so bad I sat down and cried; I couldn't get supper

that day. We was so much attached to Molly--why, Mr. Eddring, you

don't know how bad we-all did feel about that hawse. It don't seem

right to us nohow."

"No, things do go wrong sometimes, Mrs. Wilson," said Eddring,

soothingly. "Now, I know that horse. Mr. Wilson drove me behind her

the other day when I was down at your town. Good horse. A little old

and a trifle lame, if I remember right." He smiled pleasantly.

"Lame! Why, Molly never was lame a day in her whole life. She never

did have no lameness at all, unless it was a sort of hitch now and

then like, but you couldn't call it right lame. Now, Mr. Wilson

didn't come up. I tol' him you was a mighty nice man and you wouldn't

let a lady get the worst of a business deal. I thought we could talk

it over and you would do about what was right. Now, two hundred

dollars--"

"Two hundred dollars! Why, my dear madam, you know I can get you

another horse--"

"Get us another hawse like Molly! I'd like to know where you can get

a hawse that's been in ouah family twenty years for any two hundred

dollars! Why, Mr. Eddring, I always thought you was a fair-minded

gentleman."

"Don't call me that, don't call me a gentleman," said Eddring, "and

don't you call _me_ fair-minded! But now, just look here. We didn't

ask that Molly horse to get on our track. We didn't want to kill her,

now, did we? All we wanted was to steam up there to the platform, and

put off some groceries and let off a few passengers. We didn't want to

kill _anybody's_ horse. Now, I know Molly has been in your family a

long time; a good horse, I don't deny it. We couldn't make it right

with you if we paid you a _thousand_ dollars; so just let's forget it

and try to be friends. Let me give you a check for forty dollars."

"Forty dollars!"

"Now, then, Mrs. Wilson, this is not to be for Molly, it's just

trying to be friendly. I want to feel free to come down and sit at

your table and look you all in the face."

"I don't see how you could do that, and only pay me forty dollars,

Mr. Eddring." A grieved look sat on the lady's face.

"Well, now, I reckon I could, if I just saw you dressed up in a new

gown that I saw in the window down at the store this morning. I

reckon I could, if I saw hanging in your hall that hat that I saw

this morning, down on the street."

"Do you think forty dollars would buy them, Mr. Eddring?" asked Mrs.

Wilson.

"Surely it would, and leave you enough to pay for your whole trip up

here, and buy some things for the children besides. Now, look here, I

don't want you to think I'm offering that to _pay_ you for Molly. I

ain't paying for any horses for Mr. Wilson. He is a gentleman that

don't need ask favors of anybody, and he's going to pick out his own

horses. You tell him I said he was a good judge of a horse. I want you

to tell him I scorn to offer you money for this here Molly horse of

yours--I scorn to do so. Mr. Wilson will make more than two hundred

dollars in a day or so, the way cotton is going up this week. I just

throw in this forty dollars--here is the voucher for it--so as to show

you I am your friend. Now, if you ever want any shopping done up here

any time; Mrs. Wilson, just write to me and I'll do the best I can.

I'd go right down to the store with you to look at that dress, if it

wasn't that I have to be right busy here for a while. Good-by, Mrs.

Wilson, good-by, madam. Good-by to you all. I am glad you all came in.

Good-by, little folks; here's something;" and each, small hand

received a silver piece from the claim agent.

Mrs. Wilson passed out with a puzzled expression on her face. On the

stairway she sighed. "Well, he is a nice man, anyhow," said she, to

her companion.

This little party had scarce disappeared before there came another

visitor, this time a fat colored woman of middle age, who labored up

the stair and halted at the door.

"Come in, auntie," called the claim agent, from Ms desk, "what's the

matter?"

"You know whut's the matter, Mr. Edd'ron," said the caller. "You

'membehs me?"

"Yes," said the claim agent, "you had a baby run down at the street

crossing yesterday. We sent it to the hospital. How is it getting

along?"

"Hit's daid, Mr. Edd'ron. Yas sah, my lil' Gawge is daid."

"What? Oh, pshaw!"

"Yas sah, lil' Gawge done die six o'clock dis maw-nin'." She shook

with sobs. The claim agent dropped his own face into his hands. The

weary look came back again into his eyes. At last he turned and went

up to the black woman where she stood sobbing, and extended his hand.

"There, there, auntie," he said, "I'm sorry, mighty sorry. Now,

listen. I can't settle this thing this morning. Here is ten dollars

of my own money to help bury the boy decently. As soon as I can, I

will take up the matter, and I will settle it the best I can for you.

Now, go away; please, go away."

The negro woman ceased her sobbing as she took the bill.

"Ten dollahs," said she, "ten dollahs for dat baby! Dat'll buhy him

right fine, it sho' will, Mr. Edd'ron. You'se a fine man, Mr.

Edd'ron, 'deed you is."

Eddring smiled bitterly. He paced up and down the room, his head bent

down. Presently he turned to his assistant.

"Go on over to the depot," said he, "and see if there is any more

mail. I don't think I will do any letters just now."

Left alone, he continued to pace up and down, until at length he

heard steps and again a knock at the door, after the custom in

business in that region. This time there entered the tall form of his

whilom friend, Colonel Calvin Blount, from his plantation down the

road. Him he saluted right gladly and asked eagerly regarding his

health.

"I am well, right well," said Blount, "Just came up to see about a

little cotton. It looks like twelve cents before long."

"Well, with cotton at twelve cents you ought not to have any quarrel

with the world, Colonel Blount."

"Well, now," replied Blount, "I need about everything I can get to

put my place in order again. It's some months now since we had our

little war down there, and I haven't got together half the hands I

need yet. Some of my people cleaned out and we never did hear

anything more of them. We've got plenty of niggers in jail down there

yet; but that ain't the way we want it. We want 'em to get out of

jail and into the fields at work. They'd rather stay in jail. They

get as much to eat, and more time to rest."

"Well, they did raise trouble that time, didn't they?" said Eddring.

"What do you suppose started them, Colonel? Who was it put them up to

do it?" Blount shook his head.

"That's the puzzle," said he. "It was some one with brains; and not

the kind of brains that grows under kinky hair, either."

The two men sat silent for a time. "Oh, by the way," said Blount, at

length, "I was just going to say I brought up Mrs. Ellison and Miss

Lady with me this morning. I left them over at the hotel right now.

Do you know, Eddring, that girl has grown up to be a plumb beauty!

She's handsome enough to just scare you. Why, I never did know there

was so many young men in this whole town before that were acquainted

with me. Looks like she was a public menace to business on the

streets. Pine girl. And just as good as she's handsome!"

Eddring felt the blood surge up into his face, but he made no

comment. He knew that the one unsafe thing for him to do was to see

again this same Miss Lady, and yet against this decision all the

riotous blood of his heart surged out in protest. He took a swift

turn to the window.

"By Jove, Colonel," he cried, "out there goes that fellow Jim Hargis,

from over near Jewelville. He's got that brag dog of his along."

"Dog? What dog?" cried Blount.

"There, that's the one," said Eddring, pointing out a man passing by,

who was accompanied by a pepper-and-salt foxhound. "Do you see that

dog? Well, Jim Hargis says that's the coldest-nosed hound ever run a

trail, and he's got five hundred dollars to bet his equal don't live

in the South."

"Humph," sneered Blount, "I reckon he never did see my old Hec."

"Hec! Why, he says he'd make Hec look like a pot-licker if he ever

got mixed up with his dog."

"What! My old Hec! Five hundred dollars! Say, you just holler to

him, while I run down stairs." And away went the irate Colonel, his

hands fumbling in his pockets.

Eddring did not stay to see the result of his stratagem. Instead, as

he found himself alone, he walked up in front of the little mirror

which hung upon the wall. He gazed straight into it, examining with

frowning face the reflection which he witnessed. He ran a hand across

the gray-tinged hair, turned up a corner of the mustache with a

reflective finger, man-fashion, and looked eagerly, searchingly, at

the face which confronted him. It was a face slightly lined, a trifle

tired. He stood there thinking, questioning this image. As he turned

away he sighed.

The wind rustled the dingy curtains at the dingy window, as he flung

himself discontentedly into a chair, A bar of sunlight lay across the

floor; at the window there came the sound of a song bird from a near-

by tree; but these signs and sounds of an outdoor world John Eddring

did not note. He felt nothing but the grim imprisonment of these

dusty walls. In his soul was revolt, rebellion. He smote his hand

hard upon the papers which, lay before him on the desk.

"This, this," he exclaimed aloud, "this is all my life! Good God! it

is to buy life, human life, human sufferings, and to buy them cheap!

I swear, I can see blood on every voucher that I sign! That's my

business. I must buy these things cheap; and they say I don't buy

them cheap enough--they want me to put in my whole heart, and honor,

and principles. Here is my salary for the month." Pie drew the slip

of paper toward him and sat looking at it. "And here is the last

correspondence from the superintendent. Complaints, all of it. Once I

thought I should succeed. Success-yes, I have succeeded--in being

absolutely wretched every day of my life. God! God! Is this all?"

He pushed the papers from him and half rose, leaning over the desk,

resting on his hands.

"Success," he muttered again to himself. "What is it? I gave up the

law and I took the salary." He paused and sighed. "At any rate," he

resumed, musing still aloud, "my old mother has had a roof over her

head, and has had three meals a day. Well, it's made me old. I

suppose I oughtn't to mind, but oh, damn everything! Damn everything,

I say!" He scattered the papers with a blow of his hand, and

whirling, stood once more before the mirror, which seemed to have

some unusual interest for him. He did not at first hear the step of

the visitor who now entered the door and came gently up behind him.

"Confound you!" cried he, suddenly, as at length he caught the

footfall. "What do you mean by coming in like that?"

The frail and gray-haired lady who halted at this salutation was as

much startled as himself. "Why, John!" said she. "Why, John!"

Turning, Eddring caught her by the hand, his face flushed.

"Mother!" he cried, "I thought it was the clerk."

"Why, John," repeated Mrs. Eddring, "I didn't know that you ever

swore."

"I don't, mother, except sometimes. The fact is--well, today I just

had to."

"You were thinking of something else."

"Well, yes. I beg your pardon. I was just feeling pretty good over

the way business matters were going, and--well, the truth is, I was

just a little--well, a little exuberant, you know."

Mrs. Eddring seated herself and looked about her at the dingy little

office, which ever seemed to her poor housing for one who, in her

belief, was the greatest man in all the world.

"I beg your pardon, John," said she, "for intruding in your business

hours, but I was down-town to-day, and I thought I would just drop in

to see you." She gazed at him keenly, noting with a mother's eye the

worn look on his face.

"I don't think you've been looking well lately, John," said she.

"Does your arm still trouble you?"

"Why, of course not, it's all well. Why, I'm feeling fine, fine! You

and I ought to be feeling well these days, for you know we have just

finished paying for our house, and everything is looking perfectly

splendid all around. You didn't know I had a raise in my salary last

month, did you?" He turned his back, as he said this last, that his

mother might not discover on his face so palpable a falsehood.

"Is that so, John?" she said. "Why, I'm so glad!" A faint spot of

color came into the faded cheeks, and the old eyes brightened. "Well,

I'm sure you deserved it. They couldn't pay you more than you're

worth."

"No," said Eddring, grimly, "they are not apt to." His mother caught

no hidden meaning, but went on.

"You're a good business man, John, I know," said she, "and I know you

have always been a gentleman in your work." Here spoke the old South,

its pride visible in the lift of the white crowned head, and the

flash of an eye not yet dimmed in spite of the gentleness of the

pale, thin face.

Eddring gulped a bit. "Well, you know, in business," said he, "a

fellow pretty near has to choose--"

"And you have always chosen to be a gentleman."

"As near as I could, mother," said he, gravely. "I have just done the

best I could. Now, as I was saying, I am feeling mighty fine to-day.

Everything coming out so well--the truth is--"

"John," said his mother, sharply, "why do you say 'the fact is,' and

'the truth is'? You don't usually do that."

He did not answer, and there went on the subtle self-communings of

the mother-brain, exceedingly difficult to lead astray. For the time

she did not voice her thought, but approaching him, placed a hand

upon his shoulder, and brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead.

"Pretty gray, isn't it, mother?" said he, smiling at her.

"Nonsense! Is that what you were thinking about?"

"Well, you see, I'm getting--"

"No, you're not! You don't look a day over twenty-five."

"That's right. That's right," said he, blithely. "I am twenty-five,

exactly twenty-five; and they're raising my salary right along.

What'll it be when I'm fifty?"

"You ought to have a new necktie, John," said his mother, smoothing

down the lapel of his coat. "A rising man, like you, my son, must

always remember little things."

"That's right," said he. "That's right. You know I'm so careless. The

truth is--"

"There you go again, John! Now why are you so particular to tell me

that what you are saying to me is the truth? Just as if you ever in

your life said anything which wasn't true."

He did not answer, but hurriedly turned away, that the keen eyes

might not examine his face too closely. She followed him.

"John," said she, sharply, "tell me, what's the trouble? Tell me the

truth."

"I have," said he. The words choked him, and she knew it. He evaded

once more the attack of her eyes, but again she followed him, her

face now very pale, her lips trembling.

"Boy," said she, "tell me, what is it? Is there a woman? Is there

anybody?"

"Nobody in all the world but you," he declared bravely. It was of no

avail, and he knew it, as the keen eyes finally found his own.

"John!" said his mother, "you have _not_ been telling me the truth."

"Well, I know it," said he, calmly, and with far greater happiness.

"Of _course_ I haven't. Who said I was? O, Lord! you can't fool

a woman any way on earth. Now here--"

"Who is this girl?" asked his mother, with a certain sternness as she

gazed at him directly; "for of course I knew very well what was the

matter. I suppose I shall have to face this some day, though it has

been so long--"

Eddring looked her straight in the face in return, and this time

without flinching.

"The dearest girl in the world," said he. "But I reckon she's not for

me."

"Who is she? Where is she? Where did you meet her? Have you a

picture?"

"I don't need one."

"What's her name--her family? Of course--"

"She hasn't any family. I don't know where she came from."

"_John!_"

"Well, it's true."

"But you could not expect--"

"I expect nothing!" cried he, again striking his clenched hand upon

the table. "Here is my world. Oh, well, you know now if I ever swear,

and why."

Her lip trembled. "I never knew you did," said she. "John, tell me,

have you ever spoken to her?"

"Good God! no, never. How could I? What have I to offer a girl like

her? Who am I? What am I?"

She caught his head in her arms and drew his face down to her bosom.

"There, there," said she. "There, there, now."

But presently he broke from her, and swung out into the room, erect

and active once more, a sudden triumph in his carriage, a brighter

glance in the eye for a time grown dull.

"Pshaw! Here," said he, "here I am, pitying myself! That isn't a good

thing for a man to do. A man oughtn't to complain. He ought to take

his medicine."

"Look," he cried, coming to her again, "maybe the world is just

loving me, that's all, and doesn't know. Maybe it's the same as it

was when I scratched my face on your breast-pin when I was a baby,

when your arms were around my neck. You did not mean it. Maybe life

does not mean it. Maybe it's just _loving_ us all the time.

"Come, now, you shall see this girl who is of no family. Come with

me. She is here, right in town, this very day."

"Where is she, John?"

"Why, Colonel Blount told me that she and her mother were over at

the hotel. Could we call? Wouldn't it be all right if we did?"

"If the ladies are strangers in town," said Mrs. Eddring, slowly,

"and if they are friends of yours, then I will call on them with

you."

"Come!" said he, feverishly. "Come!"--then suddenly: "Tell me, mammy,

does my hair look so awfully gray?"

"John," said she, "there isn't a gray hair in it. Come on, what are

you waiting for?"

Eddring had turned, and was fumbling at a drawer in his desk. He

raised a face flushed and conscious-looking. "The fact is, mother,

I've got a new necktie right here, and--and I want to put it on."

CHAPTER X

MISS LADY OF THE STAIR

"I have always told you, Lady," said Mrs. Ellison, "how a girl who

hasn't any fortune can best achieve things. Of course, it's a

question of a man. When she has found the man, it rests with her. She

must let herself out and yet keep herself in hand. Emotion, but not

too much, and at the right time--that's the scheme for a girl who

wants to succeed."

"How you preach, mamma!" said Miss Lady, petulantly. "You are always

talking to me about the men. As if I cared a straw!"

"You ought to care, Lady. Men! Why, there's nothing in the world for

a woman except the men."

Miss Lady said nothing, but went on adjusting a pin which she took

from among several others held in her mouth. At length she patted

down her gown, and frowned with a sigh of satisfaction, as she looked

down over her long and adequate curves. Discovering a wrinkle in the

skirt of her gown, she smoothed it out deftly with both hands.

"There are not very many gentlemen to bother about down at the Big

House now, mamma," said she; "at least, not since Mr. Decherd left.

But then, he's coming back. Did you know that?"

Mrs. Ellison's face showed a swift gleam of satisfaction. "I hope he

will," said she. "But, after all, we must sometime go somewhere else.

Now, New Orleans, or New York perhaps. You are almost pretty

sometimes, Lady. We could do things with you, in the right place."

Miss Lady stamped her foot upon the floor in sudden fury. "Mamma,"

cried she, "when you talk this way I fairly hate you!"

"You talk like all the foolish Ellisons," said the other, slowly.

"Now, I could tell you things, when the time came. But, meantime, you

forget that you and I have absolutely no resources."

"Excepting me!" This with white scorn.

"Excepting you." This with frank cynicism.

Miss Lady controlled herself with difficulty. "At least," said she,

"we have a home with Colonel Blount. He has always said he wanted us

to stay, and that he couldn't do without us. Now"--and she laughed

gaily--"if Colonel Blount didn't have a red mustache, I might marry

him, mightn't I?"

"Be done with such talk," said Mrs. Ellison, sharply, "You'd much

better think about Mr. Decherd. And yet,"--she frowned and nervously

bit her finger-tips as she turned away. Miss Lady made no answer

except to go over again to stand before the mirror, where she

executed certain further pattings and smoothings of her apparel.

The two were occupied, in these somewhat dingy quarters in the hotel,

in preparing for their sallying out upon a shopping expedition in the

city, an event of a certain interest to plantation dwellers. Mrs.

Ellison paused in her own operations to extract from a hand-bag a

flask, wherefrom she helped herself to a generous draft. Miss Lady

caught the flask from her.

"You disgust me, mamma," said she. "How often have I told you!"

"You were not quick enough, my dear," said Mrs. Ellison, calmly.

"Now, I was saying that you were born for lace and satins. Promise

me, Lady, no matter what happens, that if you ever get them, you will

give me a few things for myself, won't you? Sometimes--sometimes I am

not certain." She smiled as she spoke. There might have been politic

overture, or beseeching, or threat, or deadly sarcasm in her speech.

Miss Lady could not tell; and it had taken, indeed, a keen student to

define the real meaning of the enigmatical face of Alice Ellison,

woman not yet forty, ease-loving, sensuous, yet for this time almost

timorous.

"Now, a good, liberal man," began Mrs. Ellison presently, however,

"is the best ambition for any young woman. For some reasons, we might

do better than remain at the Big House longer. We will see, my dear,

we'll see." And so they stepped out into the hall.

It was a vision when Miss Lady came down the stair. Young men who saw

her removed their hats, and old men thanked God that the day of

miracles was not gone; so fair was Miss Lady as, with head high, and

body slow and stately beyond her years, and foot light and firm, she

came down the little stairway, and glorified it with youth and the

spirit of the morning.

Miss Lady had indeed, within the last few months, rapidly grown up

into compellingly beautiful young womanhood. Much of the girlishness

was gone and the firmer roundness of full femininity had taken its

place. Her neck, a column of white above its frill of laces, rose

strong and fine. Her hair, unlighted by the sun, was dark and full of

velvet shadows. Her eyes, with long lashes softly falling, offered

the shadows and the mysteries of the dawn. Her figure asked small

aid, and, needing none, carried, and was not made by, the well-cut

gown of light silken weave, dotted here and there with small red

fleur-de-lis. A maze of long scarlet ribbons hung from Miss Lady's

waist, after a fashion of her own, and for purposes perhaps remotely

connected with a tiny fan which now appeared, and now again was lost.

A cool, sweet ripeness was reflected in the spot of color here and

there upon the fawn-colored wide brim of the hat, upon the smooth

cheek, on the lips of the short and high curved mouth. As she walked,

there was heard the whispering rustle of the Feminine; that sound

indefinable, which creeps upon man's unwitting senses and enslaves

him, he knows not how or when or why.

Well enough all this served to set in tumult the pulses of at least

one who saw Miss Lady, fresh as a little white cloud, warm as a tiny

spot of yellow sunlight, cool and mysterious as the morning, thus

framed as a picture on the stair.

John Eddring and his mother, unannounced by reason of the

slothfulness of a negro messenger, sat in the hotel waiting-room,

which served as the "ladies' parlor," opening out near the foot of

the stairway. And so it chanced that they saw Miss Lady and her

companion as they descended. It seemed to Eddring that this vision on

the stair was the most beautiful thing in all the world. He was

smitten at once dumb and motionless. He felt his mother's hand on his

arm.

"John," said she, "did you see that girl? She was _perfectly_

beautiful!" The touch aroused him. She saw it all written in his

face.

"She?" he murmured. "Miss Lady!" and presently sprang after, to

return a moment later with the two ere they had left the hall.

Whereupon followed all manner of helpless, hopeless, banal and

inadequate commonplaces, out of which Eddring blankly remembered only

that the visit of Miss Lady to the city was to terminate that

evening, at the departure of the down train. And so, after all,

little remained for him but a present parting, though all his soul

cried out for speech with Miss Lady alone, for the sight of her face

only. It was as though within the moment all the energies of his life

had been directed into a new channel, whose insufficient walls were

threatened with destruction by the flooding torrent. The primeval man

arose, exulting, sure; and so, in a moment, John Eddring knew why the

world was made, and by what tremendous enginery of imperious desire

it is driven on its way. Work, riches, art, music, architecture, the

vast industrialism of an age, all this thing called progress--all,

all were for this alone, this thing of love! The atmosphere about him

thrilled, vibrant with this message of the universe. The interspaces

of all things seemed lambent, and therein fixed centrally was this

ineffaceable and ineffable picture. He gazed, and as he gazed there

came to him but one thought: For ever.

"John," said Mrs. Eddring, when they were again alone, "that's a

sweet girl, a _very_ sweet girl. Did you notice how she thanked

me--as being the elder lady, you know--for our call? I think--"

Eddring started, only half-hearing her.

"But that lady, her mother," went on Mrs. Eddring, "I can't tell, yet

for some reason I do not fully understand her. But--" and here she

gained conviction, "you need not tell_ me!_ There is _family_

somewhere back of that girl, my son. She's good enough. She's--"

"Good enough!" cried John Eddring. "Good enough! What do you mean?"

"Ah, my boy," said Mrs. Eddring, sighing, "I know. I presume, I hope,

that you feel quite as the general did, when I was a girl. Sometimes

I have thought the world was changing in such matters. I shall want

to see this young lady again, and often. We must inquire--but here I

am, talking with you, when of course you must be back at your work.

I'll leave you now."

"Work!" cried John Eddring. "Work!"

CHAPTER XI.

COLONEL CALVIN BLOUNT'S PROPOSAL.

The mild winter of the Delta region wore itself gradually away, and

now again the sun was high in the mid-arc of the sky, glowing so warm

that the earth, rich and teeming, seemed once more to quiver under

its ardor. The sloth of ease and comfort was in the air. The big bees

droned among the flowers at the lattice, and out in the glaring

sunlight the lusty cocks led their bands betimes, crowing each his

loud defiance. In the pastures, under the wide-armed oaks, the cattle

and horses stood dozing. Life on the old plantation seemed, after

all, to have set on again much in its former quiet channels. If

within the year there had been insubordination, violence, death

hereabout, the scene no longer showed it. The Delta, less than a

quarter white, more than three-quarters black, was once more at rest,

and waiting.

This was the scene over which Miss Lady looked out one day as she sat

in a big rocking-chair in the shade, in a favorite spot of the wide

gallery, feeling dreamily, if not definitely, the spirit of the idle

landscape which lay shimmering in the sun. Her gaze gained directness

and comprehension at last.

This, thought Miss Lady, was the world! It was all the world for her.

This, so far as she could see, was to be her fate--to sit and look

out over the wide reaches of the cotton fields, to hear the negroes

sing their melodies, to watch the lazy life of an inland farm. This

was to be the boundary of her world, this white and black rim of the

forest hedging all about. This lattice was to shut in her life for

ever. She might meet no white woman but her mother, no white man.

Things were not quite clear to Miss Lady's mind to-day. She sank back

in the chair, and all the world again seemed vague, confused,

shimmering, like this scene over which she gazed. She sighed, her

foot tapping at the gallery floor. Sometimes it seemed to Miss Lady

that she must break out into cries of impatience, that she must fly,

that she must indeed seek out a wider world. What was that world, she

wondered, the world out there beyond the rim of the ancient forest

that hedged her in? What did it hold for a girl? Was there life in

it? Was there love in it? Was there answer in it?

The old bear-dog, Hec, came around the corner of the house from his

napping in the shade, and sat looking up in adoration at his

divinity, inquiring mutely whether that divinity would permit a

common warrior like himself to come and kiss her hand. She saw him

finally and extended one hand idly; at which Hec dropped his ears,

wagged his tail uncertainly, and came on slowly up the stair. He

nozzled his head tentatively against her knee; and so, receiving

sanction, went into delighted waggings, licking tenderly the soft

white hand which stroked his head.

"Oh, Hec, dear old Hec," said Miss Lady, "I am _so_ lonesome!" And

Hec, understanding vaguely that all was not quite well with his

divinity, uplifted his voice in deep regret. "I am so _lonesome,_"

repeated Miss Lady, softly, to herself.

A step on the gallery caused her to turn. Colonel Blount crossed the

length of the gallery and paused at her side. "Miss Lady," said he,

"you just literally honey my b'ah-dogs up so all the time, that after

a while I'll be ashamed to call the pack my own. I'm almost afraid

now to take them out hunting, for fear some of them will get hurt;

and you always make such a fuss about it."

"You get them all bitten and cut up," said Miss Lady. "How do you

think that feels?"

"I know how it feels," said Blount, slowly. "As to dogs, I think

there are times when it's a sort of relief to them. You can't change

the way the world is made, Miss Lady. How'd you like to sit here for

ever and never get a chance to see anything outside of this here

yard?"

Unconsciously, he had come close to a certain mark. "I should die,"

said Miss Lady, simply. "I was just thinking--"

"What were you thinking?" said Blount, suddenly.

"I don't blame Hec, after all. I should die if I had to stay here for

ever, with just nothing to do--nothing--nobody--"

Blount suddenly pulled up his chair and sat down close at hand.

"Tell me, Miss Lady, what do you mean?" said he. "Tell me, child.

Ain't you happy here?"

"Well, I don't know."

"Yes, you do know; and I asked you if you weren't happy."

"Maybe you don't understand all about girls, Colonel Calvin," said

Miss Lady.

"I don't reckon I do. I don't reckon God A'mighty does, either,

hardly. I thought you and your mother were contented here. You've

made it a sort of heaven for me. I 'lowed it would run along for ever

that-away."

Silence fell between them. "Miss Lady," said Blount, finally, "I came

out here this morning on purpose to hunt you up. Now, listen. You say

you're not happy here. I have been nothing but happy ever since you

came. For a long time I didn't know why. I didn't know why I kept on

asking where was Miss Lady at, where was Miss Lady gone to. 'Now,

where is Miss Lady?' I found myself asking this very morning. About

an hour ago I found myself asking that mighty strong. Then I just set

myself down, right out there on the board-pile, and done reasoned it

all out. Then I found out why I was asking that question so much. I

found out why I never did get married, Miss Lady. The reason was, I

never wanted to, till now."

Miss Lady was looking far away now, out across the fields. Her face

was pale, save for a small red spot in either cheek. She moved as

though she would have turned to face this man whose eyes she felt,

yet this she was unable to do. She heard the voice go on, softer than

she had ever known it before.

"Miss Lady," said Calvin Blount, "now listen to me. I've grown up

down here like any savage. I haven't been much better than my old

daddy, nor much different; and every man ought to grow better than

his dad, if he can. I have driven the niggers to work, and I have

been comfortable on what they raised. I can see it's right rough down

here, though. I never used to think so. All I wanted in the world was

rain enough to make the cotton sure, and mast enough to make the

b'ahs come. I was happy, or thought I was, until you came, though I

reckon I never really knew what that word meant before. I never did

see a woman I liked as well as my pack of dogs. This place was good

enough for me. Now, listen. I was fool enough to think for one

minute, Miss Lady, for just one minute, that it was good enough for

you. I thought maybe you and I could understand a heap of things

together. Now, I hear you say that you're lonesome, that you're not

happy here. Happy? Why, I tell you, Miss Lady, I am half-dying of

lonesomeness right now, right here in my own home, on my own ground,

in the only place in God A'mighty's world where I am fit to live."

"You must not," said Miss Lady, and turned toward him eyes in which

stood sudden tears. "I must go. I must go away."

"Listen, I tell you," said Blount again, sternly, and put out a hand

as she would have risen. "You go away? Where would you go? What would

you do? Now, wait till I get done. Here," he cried almost savagely,

"stand up here like I tell you, and listen to what I've got to say!

Stand right there!" He drew in one grasp from his pocket his

handkerchief and his gauntlet gloves, and swept a place clean upon

the gallery floor before her.

"Stand right there, Miss Lady," said he, with all his old

imperiousness. "Stand in that place where I done made it clean and

easy for you, like I want to make the whole world clean and easy for

you always. I'd like to smooth it that-away for you, always. Now,

look at me, Miss Lady. I ain't a coward, at least I never was till

now, and maybe not now; for I came here as soon as I knew how this

thing was, though God knows I wanted to get on my horse and ride the

other way as fast as I could. I came here because I wouldn't have

been a man if I hadn't come, if I hadn't said this to the first woman

I ever thought twice about."

"Don't, don't, please! please!" cried Miss Lady, pushing out her

hands, but he commanded her again, sternly.

"Stop," said he. "There's one time when a man has a right to say his

say, and say it all. I've got to tell you this. I've got to offer

myself to you in marriage, Miss Lady. I've got to ask that of you;

and, God pity me, I've got to give myself my own answer. Listen!

Stop! It ain't for you to answer. It's for me.

"Now, look at me. I'm strong. I'm not afraid of any living thing,

except you. I'm old, but there's younger men that's no better. I'm

rich enough. I've got two thousand acres of the best land in the

Delta, and that's the best on earth. There's money enough here to

take you anywhere you want to go in all the world. I couldn't be mean

to no woman. It's in my nature to feel that a woman is a thing to be

took care of, for ever and for ever--that oughtn't to work, that

oughtn't to worry, that ought to just _be!_ I don't know much about

women, but I always did feel that-away. You'd never have to worry

about that. I wouldn't lie to you, not for any reason. No man should

ever raise a breath against you. If"--he swept a hand over his face,

but still went on.

"Listen," he said, "Miss Lady Ellison, I, Calvin Blount, old Calvin

Blount, this sort of man like I told you, I offer myself to you, and

all I have, for your own. I offer you that--" The girl's eyes looked

up at him, swimming now all the more in tears. His face was

distorted, but he went on. "Don't," said he, "please don't! Listen,

here's the answer. By the Eternal, you _can't_ and you _shan't_ marry

old Cal Blount! It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be right, Miss

Lady," said he again, presently. "It's right for me to tell you that I

never thought twice of any other woman, that in my soul I love you,

that I never shall know a happy day without you; but it's right, too,

for me to give myself the answer, and I do. And it's No, Miss Lady,

it's No!" He turned away. Miss Lady felt about her blindly and dropped

her head on the rail of the chair, sobbing.

"I can't help it. I can't help things, Colonel Cal," said she, "but

then, but then--"

"Yes, child; yes, Miss Lady," said Calvin Blount,

gently, "but then, but then! I never did know much, but I'm learnin'.

I'm man enough now to know all about what you mean when you say 'but

then.' Come, it's all over. But I can't bear to see you cry. Please

stop, Miss Lady. Don't do that."

Miss Lady could not stop. She buried her face in her hands. She half

felt the touch of a hand, very light, upon her head, a touch given

but once, and swiftly withdrawn. She heard him continue. "This home

is yours," said he, "and you can stay here, I'll go out into the

woods again. You need not fret and you need not fear. We couldn't,

maybe, both stay here together now. Or, it may be there's a bigger

world for you somewhere, and you want to go there. I won't stand in

your way, and I'll help you all I can. I'm done talking about this,

now and for ever. But if you don't stop crying, I'll get on my horse

right now, and I'll ride out in the woods and I never will come back

again."

Miss Lady put out her hand to him.

"Sir," said she, half-whispering, "I didn't know that men were this

way. It's different from what I thought. But you must remember," and

she smiled wanly, "you must remember always only that it was you who

refused yourself. Please think of it that way, Mr. Cal."

Old Hec ventured up the steps again and stood looking dumbly from one

to the other of these two. At last he deserted his master and went

over and laid his big head on Miss Lady's lap, looking up at her with

questioning eyes.

[Illustration: SHE HALF FELT THE TOUCH OF A HAND, VERY LIGHT, UPON

HER HEAD.]

CHAPTER XII

A WOMAN SCORNED

As Colonel Blount passed from the gallery into the house he came

under the gaze of a close observer. Mrs. Ellison, for reasons of her

own watchful and suspicious, had heard these agitated voices on the

gallery, and, had it been possible without detection, would not have

been in the least above eavesdropping. This being impossible, she was

forced to draw her own conclusions, based in part upon her own

suspicions. The droop of this man's shoulders, the drawn look of his

face, spoke plainly enough for her. Hardly had the sound of his

footsteps died away before she was out of the door of her room and by

the side of Miss Lady, who still sat, pensive and downcast, in her

rocking-chair on the gallery.

Miss Lady was not prepared for the spectacle which thus met her gaze,

this woman with clenched hands and distorted face, and attitude which

spoke only of antagonism and threat. There came a swift catch at her

heart, for this was the woman to whom of natural right she should now

have fled in search of consolation. It seemed to her now as though

all her world had known a sudden change. It was as when some tender

creature, fresh risen from the earth, ventures into the strange, new

world of the air, to flutter its brief day. Eternity seems to stretch

before it, an eternity of joy hinted in the first glance at this new

universe which it attains. Yet comes the sun, the sudden, blighting

sun, the same influence which has broken the brooding envelope of

another world and brought this gentle being into its new life, and

this cruel sun withers at once the tender creature in all its hope

and youthfulness and beauty, ending its bright day ere it as yet is

noon. Thus seemed the universe to Miss Lady, no longer young, care-

free, joyous, but now suddenly grown old. One look, one sudden flash

of her inner comprehension, and she knew it to be for ever

established that this woman, her mother, was her mother no more! Why,

she knew not, yet this was sure, she was not her mother, but her

enemy. How dubiously swam all the world about poor Miss Lady at that

instant! She knew, even before the enraged woman at her side had

formulated her emotion into speech.

"So now, you treacherous little cat," said Mrs. Ellison, between her

shut teeth, "you've been at work, have you? Oh, I might have known it

all along. You've been trying to undermine me, have you? Why, do you

think I'll let a little minx, a little half-baked brat like you, keep

me out of getting the man I want? I'll show you, Miss Lady girl!"

"Stop! Wait! What are you saying?" cried Miss Lady.

"You'll listen to what I am saying," cried Mrs. Ellison. "You've been

leading him on, and now you presume to reject him--to reject the roof

over your head and the bread in your mouth. Why, I never thought of

him seriously for you! You've ruined us both in every way, yourself

and me. Why, can't you see that if we stayed here he had to be for

one or the other of us? And could you not know that I wanted him for

myself? Oh, don't say 'wait'--don't speak to me! I know it all as

well as if I had seen it. Now, you've got to walk, that's all."

"Oh, mamma, mamma," cried Miss Lady, "do not!"

"'Oh, mamma, mamma!'" mocked the other; "stop your tongue, girl, and

don't you dare to call me 'mamma' again. I am not your mother, and

never was!"

Miss Lady gasped and went pale, but the cruel voice went on. "You

don't know what you are, or who you are. You're nothing, you're

nobody! You had no chance except what I could give you, and you'll

never know now what a chance that was! I would have made you, girl. I

would have done something with you, something for us both--but not

now, ah, no, not now! You, to cut me out from the only man I ever

really did want!"

Miss Lady rose, suddenly aflame with resentment, and feeling a

courage which came she knew not whence.

"Madam," said she, with calmness in spite of her anger, "I don't know

what you mean by this, but I am certain you are telling the truth. I

will not talk to you at all. You degrade us both. As to Colonel

Blount, I never said a word, I never did the first thing--I didn't--I

didn't tell him anything--I could not help--"

"You could not help! You could not help! Of course you could not

help! Neither can I help. But the main thing, after all, is that you

have thrown away a home for both of us--"

"Madam," said Miss Lady, now very quiet and calm, "there is only one

thing certain in all the world to me at this moment, and that is that

you do not love me, that you never will, and that I don't feel toward

you as I should. It is as you say. I could not stay here now; I shall

have to go somewhere. Colonel Blount himself knows that. He said so."

"Your mother!" resumed Mrs. Ellison, laughing shrilly, "I am about as

much your mother"--she began, but caught herself up; "you are nobody,

I say, and you'll have to go take care of yourself as best you can.

You don't know what you're throwing away, young woman. If you had

left things to me there would have been none of this trouble. Now I

shall have to go too, for I would die rather than stay here now. I

hate that man!"

Miss Lady for a moment saw the naked soul of this woman whom she had

called her mother, even as at that moment she saw her own soul; and

between this which she saw and that which remained in her own bosom,

she recognized no kinship. Problems there were for her, but this was

not one of them.

"Madam," said she at length, with a dignity beyond her years, "you

are right. We must go, both of us; but we shall not go together."

She turned to leave the gallery, and as she passed, gazed straight

into the face of Mrs. Ellison. She saw there a swift change. The red

rage, the anger, the jealousy were gone. Haggard, with eyes shifting

as though in search of refuge, the woman showed now nothing so much

as a pale terror! Miss Lady unconsciously followed her gaze. There,

near a door at the farther end of the gallery, quiet, impassive,

stood the girl Delphine. She did not speak, but gazed at Mrs. Ellison

with eyes wherein there might have been seen a certain somber fire.

"I--I did not call, Delphine," stammered Mrs. Ellison. "No, no, I did

not call."

Silent as before, Delphine turned back. With swift intuition Miss

Lady caught the conviction that some relationship existed between

these two which she herself did not understand. A sudden sense of

insecurity possessed her, mingled with the reflection that the master

of the Big House was ignorant of what arrested drama was here going

on under his own roof. If she dared but tell the master what she

suspected--ah! then perhaps this comfortable landscape, which but

lately she had found monotonous, might again enfold her sweetly and

safely; and never again would she call it aught but satisfying. Yet

every instinct told her that to the master of the Big House she could

go no more. Thus she pondered, and as she pondered her panic fear

increased to a blind terror, overwhelming every other emotion. But

one resolve remained--as soon as might be, she must fly, and find a

hiding spot unknown to any of those who had been her associates in

this place which for a time she had called home.

CHAPTER XIII

JOHN DOE VERSUS Y.V.R.R.

There are but few of the humble who are untrustworthy. Continually

we discover the great truth that faithfulness and loyalty are general

human traits, nowhere more so than among those from whom they should

not be expected; nowhere more so than among those who are debarred

from hope. The great captains of industry so-called, themselves blown

full of pride of circumstance, prate often of the inefficiencies of

human cattle; yet continually the wonder remains that these same

cattle continue to do that which their conscience tells them is right

for them to do, and to do it for the sake of the doing. The lives of

all of us are daily put in charge of beings entitled fully to an

Iago-like hatred, who might hate for the very sake of hating; yet

these are the faithful ones, who do right for the sake of its doing.

When one of these forsakes his own creed--then it is that danger

exists for all. It is the unfaithfulness of the humble which is the

unusual, the fateful, the tremendous thing.

There was small active harm in the somewhat passive soul of John

Eddring's assistant, William Carson, the large-handed young man who

acted as clerk and stenographer and rendered more or less blundering

service about the office. Perhaps there was more of curiosity than

evil in his nature. It was curiosity in the first place which gave

him personal knowledge of a certain list of judgment claims against

the Y.V. railway, which the chief agent of that road had recently

cautioned Eddring, division agent, to keep revised up to date and to

hold close under cover as a matter of absolute secrecy. These things

were more or less familiar to William Carson through his acquaintance

with the correspondence of the office. This very injunction of

secrecy inflamed his curiosity to the point of action. In the absence

of his chief, he rummaged through the office papers until he

unearthed these lists, and to these latter he gave a more careful

scrutiny than he had accorded many other matters under his immediate

charge. He figured up the totals of the unpaid claims, and the

figures startled him. He reflected that so much money in one sum

would represent very many things to him personally. This established,

he reflected further that it was in the first place most unrighteous

to withhold these sums from the lawful claimants, and in the second

place, to withhold them from himself. He was sure that the company

did not need, and ought not to have, this money. If only, thought

William Carson, these judgments might be collected, and if only--but

beyond this thought his brain was not shrewd enough to travel.

It needed a bolder mind, and this, as it chanced, was at hand, after

the devil's fashion in such affairs. Henry Decherd had known Carson

in the community where he had lived before his removal to the city.

The two had since then met by chance now and again on the street or

elsewhere. Once, when Eddring chanced to be out of town, they

happened to meet and paused for a conversation longer than usual.

There came a hint from Carson, a word of quick inquiry from Decherd,

a flush of timorous guilt upon the face of the unfaithful humble one;

and presently these two repaired to the office of the claim agent,

locked the door behind them, and soon were absorbed in certain lines

and columns of figures which had been prepared by Carson.

"This ain't for ten years, nor half of it," said the latter, at

length. "But you can see it runs up to a good lot of money. Look

here." Decherd gave a long whistle as he looked at the footings of

the columns of figures.

"And they're all unpaid claims," he said. "Judgments from one end of

the line to the other, it looks like. By Jove, it does seem that the

road had to pay for about everything in the Delta, doesn't it?"

"Oh, it don't have to pay _these_ things, don't you worry," said

Carson. "It don't need no sympathy, _this_ road don't. It will take

care of itself, all right. These ain't claims that's going to be

_paid,_ but ones that _ain't_ going to be paid. They're ones that's in

judgment and can be collected; but the owners of these judgments don't

seem to know their rights. They don't collect. Maybe they're dead or

moved away, or maybe they've forgotten all about it, or maybe their

lawyers haven't taken pains to tell them--you can't tell about all

these things. Every big accident that happens on the road, there's a

lot of judgments taken against the road; but they don't all get paid,

as you see. That is one of the secrets of our business."

"A pretty situation of affairs, isn't it?" said Decherd. "Looks like

the road would have to pay, if these claims were fought."

"I should say so. These judgments are on the court records all the

way from here to New Orleans, and they're all as good as gold. The

company can't dodge out of one of them, if a fellow takes enough.

interest to get around and collect. Most of them are air-tight. Some

have gone on appeal to upper courts, but we don't bother to appeal

these little ones. And, you know, there ain't a court in the Delta

that wouldn't cinch the road if it got a chance."

"How much do they foot up?" said Decherd again, reaching out his hand

for the papers.

"About eighty thousand dollars, or something like that. Why, if a

fellow--"

"A fellow couldn't push the whole thing at once, you know; he would

be discovered the first thing," said Decherd. The other pricked up

his ears eagerly.

"Suppose he was caught," said he, "what could they do? If I want to

go down to John Jones' cabin, down somewhere in the cane-brakes, and

give him five dollars for a judgment that he has forgot about, or is

scared to try to collect, why, I get the judgment, and it's legal,

ain't it? Or suppose I just poke him up to collect it and he gives me

half? That's legal, ain't it? And who can help it, even if anybody

knew? Why, say, if I was Mr. Eddring there, knowing what he does

about these claims, do you reckon I'd be working very long? I reckon

not. I'd go in along this line of road and I'd get some fellow to

hunt up these claims, a few at a time, and I'd see that the company

_paid_ these judgments!" He swelled up at the thought of his own

daring. "Why, Mr. Eddring," he went on, "he could stand in on both

_sides_--draw a salary from the company, an' divide with the niggers

and the white folks that has claims against the road. It's easy,

especially with the niggers, because they never do know what's going

on, anyhow."

Decherd puckered up his lips, and paused for a time in thought.

Carson went on. "I wouldn't ask anything better than this," said he,

"to get plumb rich in about two or three years."

Decherd walked up and down slowly, his finger pressed to his chin in

thought. His face was worn and haggard. His clothing had taken on a

seedy cast not formerly common to him. Apparently things might have

been better with him in a financial way. Perhaps he saw a way to mend

matters. "Halves?" said he at length, suddenly looking straight into

Carson's face.

The clerk flushed a dull red. The conspiracy was formed. "Why, yes,"

said he, his voice half-trembling. "I reckon that would be about

right."

"Well, then, give me the lists," said Decherd. "I'm up and down the

road in the Delta now and then. I'll take care of these things. As

for you, whatever you see or hear, keep your mouth shut, or it'll be

the worse for you."

"Sure," said Carson, and endeavored to laugh.

CHAPTER XIV

NUMBER 4

One day not long subsequent to the little meeting of Decherd and

Carson in Eddring's office, there chanced to be in the same southern

city one James Thompson, traveling representative of a furnishing

house in the North, he being then engaged in completing his regular

business trip through that part of the country. Mr. Thompson, it

seemed, found himself in need of a traveling-bag, and, fancying the

merchandising possibilities of the place, stepped into a prominent

shop on the main street at a late hour of the afternoon, and

proceeded to satisfy his somewhat exacting personal taste. He

selected a bag of alligator leather, of what seemed to him suitable

dimensions and trimmings.

"This will do me, I think," said he, "about as long as I need one.

I'm going to quit the road and settle down before long."

"You better haf your name-cart put on it, anyvays," said the

salesman. "It's more stylish."

But Mr. Thompson was in a hurry and could not wait for that. He was

obliged to leave the city that night on train Number 4, the New

Orleans Limited on the Y. V. railroad. Presently, he chuckled to

himself, he would not be taking train Number 4 any more, but would be

sleeping at home in his own bed, and not obliged to get up in the

morning until he felt like it. His season's work was nearly over, and

after that he intended to retire from the house and start up in a

business of his own; all of which are very comforting reflections to

one who is past fifty, and who has been "on the road" for many years.

In due time Mr. Thompson, smoking a comfortable cigar, ambled up to

the gate beyond which stood Number 4 in the railway station. He

tossed his alligator bag to the porter at the car step, who placed it

among others on the platform of the car. Mr. Thompson then ambled

into the car and sought out the smoking-compartment, heaving a sigh

of content as he settled down to the enjoyment of his cigar.

The conductor of Number 4 looked at his watch, raised his hand and

cried out "All aboard!" shortly and sharply. In the waiting-room of

the station a negro train-caller sang out, "All abo-o-oh-d!" in a

long-drawn minor, which sounded rather as warning than as invitation.

The caller, as he completed his last round, sprang aside to escape

the rush of a young man who ran through the gate just in time to

catch the moving train. He threw his own hand-bag up on the platform

for the porter's care, and also passed back into the train. This

late-comer was Henry Decherd.

As Number 4 rolled out to the southward, the usual little comedy of a

railway train at night-time began. An old lady asked the porter a

dozen times what time the "kyars would get to N'Yawlns." Two florid

gentlemen leaned together in one seat and discussed cotton, cotton,

cotton. In yet another berth two young farmers were having their

first experience in high life, and were eager to try the experience

of actually going to sleep upon the cars while the same continued

their forward progress--a thing which had seemed impossible to them.

Not removing their clothing, they venturesomely pulled off their

shoes, and thereafter, in some fashion, managed to squeeze together

into the same berth. "Why, I'm a-layin' mighty comf'table now,"

exclaimed one presently, to his own evident surprise and

gratification.

"So'm I," exclaimed the other. Silence then for a little while, when

again the first voice was heard: "Why, my feet's right wahm!"

"So's mine!" replied his friend, in equal delight and surprise.

"I reckon I'll take my shoes inside," said the first speaker,

presently.

"So'll I," said the second; after which there came silence.

In another part of the car was a lady with a little child, which

jumped and squirmed about, and made eyes at all mankind, including

James Thompson. The latter made eyes in turn, and waggled his fingers

at the youngster, which trilled and gurgled as it danced up and down,

now hiding its face, again springing up into view above the back of

the plush-covered seat.

"I have three of my own back home, madam," said Mr. Thompson, going

up to the mother of the child. "Come here, baby, and give me a kiss;

because I'm a poor man who can't be kissed by his own little girl."

The child kissed him gleefully and sweetly a dozen times; and

perhaps, after all, that was shriving and absolution for James

Thompson. Not all of us go down into the valley of the shadow with

the kiss of innocence on our lips.

Number 4 steamed on to the southward. She crossed the flat bottoms

where the great river was hedged out by the levees; edged off again

toward the red clay hills and finally, leaving this fringe of little

eminences, plunged straight and deep into the ancient forests of the

Delta, whose flat floor lay out ahead for many miles. Number 4 was

now in the wilderness. Panther, and fox, and owl went silent when the

wild scream of Number 4 was heard; of Number 4, carrying its burden

of the ancient comedy and tragedy of life, its hates, and loves, and

mysteries, its sordid, its little and its tremendous things.

Later in the night Number 4 groaned and creaked and protested at the

stop for the little siding of the Big House plantation, eighty miles

from the point where she had begun her flight. Her brake shoes ground

so sternly that the heavy oaken beams whined at the strain put on

them; yet obedient to the hand of man, she did stop, though it was

but to discharge a single passenger.

Henry Decherd hurried out into the darkness like some creature hard

pursued. Number 4 swept on, clacking, rumbling, screaming. The shriek

of her whistle, heard now and again, was loud, careless, imperious,

self-assured.

But what meant this hoarse and swiftly broken note, as though Number

4 were caught in sudden mortal fear? What meant this broken,

quavering wail, as though the monster were suddenly arrested by an

utter agony? What, sounding far across the sullen forest, was this

rending and crashing roar? Number 4 had been here, hurrying onward.

But now--now where and what was Number 4?

Meeting her fate, Number 4 plunged, ground, shivered, shortened and

then fell apart, shattered like a house of toys. For an instant the

wilderness heard no sound, until there arose, terrible in its volume,

the wail of a general human agony. There was no answer save that,

borne far upon the humid air of the night, there came the solemn

calling of the deep-throated hunting pack of the Big House kennels.

Each night the pack called out their defiance to Number 4 as she

swept by with her roar and rattle and the imperious challenge of her

whistle. She was their enemy. But now they knew that evil had been

done, that life was in jeopardy; even as they knew that the mighty at

last had fallen.

CHAPTER XV

THE PURSUIT

It was a strange party that took breakfast at the Big House table on

the morning after the railway wreck. All these guests, injured or

well, crippled or whole, were gay and talkative. Gestures, hysterical

smiles marked their conduct. Their faces showed no spell of horror.

Men had looked at the long row of dead on the platform at the

station. "That is my father," said one; and another, "This is my

sister," but they spoke impersonally, and only to satisfy the

curiosity of others. There was no room for an individual terror. A

woman with both arms broken and her head heavily bound sat laughing,

and again raised her voice in a hymn of thanksgiving.

The broken-hearted search, the frenzied efforts at relief occupied

all comers far into the morning. It was long before any one thought

of asking the cause of the disaster; yet presently reason sufficient

was discovered. The broken railway train covered with its wreckage

the immediate cause of the accident: a pile of timbers erected

carefully and solidly between the rails. Seeing this, after a time,

there began to mount in the jarred and dazed senses of these human

beings a sullen desire for justice or revenge.

Among the first to seek the head of the train where the wrecking

timbers lay was John Eddring, who arrived on the early train from the

city. By virtue of his office as agent of the personal injury

department, he at once began to possess himself of such facts as

might be of use later on. With face pale, but steady, he traversed

the entire length of the shattered train, examining, inquiring,

making a record of the dead and injured, and in some cases examining

papers and effects for purposes of identification.

There was in particular one victim, a large, well-looking man, who

had been killed in the forward compartment of one of the sleeping

cars, he being the only one who suffered death or extreme injury in

that car. Close by was his hand-bag, but this bore no card and

offered no distinguishing mark serving to identify its owner. The

porter could remember only that this gentleman had got on at the city

and had not yet been "checked up." The porter was sure that this was

his valise, for he had himself brought it in from the platform.

"Thompson, James Thompson," said a newspaper worker, one of those who

mysteriously appeared before the accident was many hours old. "Here's

his accident insurance card. Got it in his pocketbook. It's twelve

thousand to his wife, anyhow, I reckon. Davenport, Iowa; that's his

home."

Eddring felt it his duty to examine more thoroughly the effects of

this victim. The hand-bag held absolutely no items of personal

equipment. Its sole contents were a small and curiously bound little

volume, printed in the French language, and a bundle of papers of

legal size, typewritten and backed in the form of railway documents.

Eddring could not conceal a start as he glanced at these papers.

Hurriedly he thrust into his pocket papers, book and all.

He had reason for surprise. Here, in this nameless package in the

care of this stranger, James Thompson of Davenport, Iowa, was a full

list of the outstanding judgment claims against the Y. V. railway

throughout his own division; a list of whose existence he supposed no

one except himself had any knowledge whatever! Attached to the

package of papers there was a letter written in a woman's hand. Hasty

and professional as was his glance, and much disturbed as he was by

the discovery which accompanied his finding of the letter, the words

which met his eyes carried a shock such as he had not known in all

the years of service in his eventful calling.

"Dearest," ran the communication, not wholly ill written: "Dearest,

you said you would come last week, but you did not. I am uneasy. Are

you forgetting me? Does that girl mean more to you than I do--does

either of them? Why, they don't know how to love. You know I would do

anything for you if you kept on in the old way, but you shall not

leave me. You say you have to 'keep things in careful shape.' I have

wished a thousand times that girl had been out of the way long ago.

Then you would have to depend on me now for everything, love and all.

You say you will divide it all with me when we get it. What do I care

about that? Let it all go, and let us go and live somewhere together

and be happy as we were.

"Now if you are not telling me the truth, you are getting yourself

into trouble, and you will have enough of that anyhow. As for madam,

it's not you she wants any more. Yet she can't bear to have you look

at the girl. You don't know women very much. Now she has forgotten

her part, let her make it up with old man Blount and let the girl go.

You and I can fight it out the way we started to before they ever

came down here. I say one string to a bow is better than two. You

will have to choose between these strings.

"If I ever feel certain that you are lying to me, I'll do what ought

to have been done, and then I won't care. You can have all the money

if you ever get it, but I am going to have all of you, and no

dividing with anybody. I have no place in the world here, and am

standing everything and waiting and hoping. Sometime people will hear

from me. Sometimes I hate myself and you, and all the world. I would

do big things if I once started. The best thing you can do is to come

down here to me right soon. We must have a talk, and, besides, I want

to see you."

The letter bore no signature, save a scrawled mark or sign, which

Eddring did not pause to examine at the moment. Indeed he had no time

to ponder or to speculate, for even as he folded the letter and

placed it in his pocket with the other articles taken from the

valise, he heard a sudden cry, and, going forward, joined again the

group that had formed about the pile of fatal timbers at the head of

the wreck. Some one showed him a handkerchief, a sodden bit of linen

which had been taken from under the heap of logs. It was a woman's

handkerchief, and as Eddring spread it out on his hand he noted in

one corner a curious embroidered mark. At this he gazed intently,

with a vague feeling that somewhere he had seen a similar mark

before. It was like some rude monogram or crest.

"If you don't mind," said he, quietly, "I should like to have that

handkerchief. It might be useful with other evidence which I have in

my possession." None offered objections, and Eddring presently moved

away. He felt a certain mental uneasiness which he could not fully

formulate; but presently all speculation was carried from his mind by

the crowding of events about him.

There had by this time appeared the sheriff of Tullahoma County, who

brought with him the most practical agencies of justice possible for

that peculiar country, three dogs known widely as skilled followers

of human trails. To the sheriff Eddring now offered the newly

discovered handkerchief. The latter held it out to the dogs, which

sniffed at it gravely, and sniffed also at the place where it had

been found under the derailing timbers. The sheriff went about his

duties methodically, now moving back all the spectators so that the

dogs might have full opportunity in their work.

The tail of the lead dog at length began to move slowly from side to

side. He walked a pace or so down the bank and paused, the other two

coming to him. The sheriff pointed silently. Distinctly marked in the

soil was the print of a shoe--a woman's shoe, long, narrow. All three

of the dogs now moved toward a gap in the row of stumps which formed

a rude hedge for the cleared right of way. At this little gap the

narrow footprint was seen again, with others made by bare feet. At

the edge of the wood, there came a long, low, sobbing call from the

lead dog, and presently the others wailed their confirmation; so that

the trail was now steadily begun.

They followed the dogs for miles, across glade and ridge and opening,

through jungles of vines and matted cane; and presently they came

upon paths which converged, separated and converged again, as might

have been in the jungle about a village of the Black Continent. They

went on and on, and finally they came out, as John Eddring in his

heart knew they presently would, at the edge of a little hidden

opening, surrounded by a wall of deep green cane. There before them

stood a long, low, log structure, which he himself could have

described in advance. Upon the door, done in the blind, morbid

egotism of crime, which so often leaves open sign and signal for its

own undoing, there showed, cut deep in the jamb, a rude sign,

cabalistic, mysterious, fetish-like. To Eddring it seemed for the

instant to be the same mark as that upon the handkerchief. He could

not explain these things in his own mind. Others of the party were

more interested in pointing out once more, in the confusion of

footprints before the building, the imprint of the same narrow shoe.

Eddring was striving to connect this imprint with the mark on the

handkerchief and on the door, with certain things which he had heard

on this very spot long before; and with that glimpse of a woman's

garb in the darkness at the time of the night attack on the Big

House.

There was no time to ponder upon these things. The dogs passed over

the trampled ground in front of the building, sniffed at the door,

circled the building, sniffed at the windows, passed slowly into the

empty room when the door was opened for them. Then they drew apart

again, and, wailing once more solemnly, headed back along a path

which presently brought all into the plain road to the railway

station. The procession moved more rapidly now, and presently it had

crossed the railway track and turned into the lane which led up to

the Big House, the dogs threading without hesitation the maze of

footprints which covered all the ground thereabout. They came on with

heads down and tails slowly moving, now and again giving utterance to

their long and mournful note, until presently they and those who

followed them were met at the yard gate by Colonel Blount, who came

down to greet the sheriff of the county, whom he knew very well.

"Jim," said he, "I know you and your dogs, and I know what you're

doing. It's all right, but I want to warn you to be mighty careful

about my own dogs. They won't run with any other pack, and they'll

kill a strange dog just as sure as they can get to him."

The sheriff looked at him and shook his head, as if to say that

justice must have its course. Blount made no further objection, and

the three trailing dogs, entering the gate, now crossed the lawn and

passed around the corner of the house toward the quarters of the

servants, beyond which lay the kennels of the fighting Big House

pack. The baying of these dogs, penned up, had been incessant. They

could tolerate no thought of intelligence other than their own at

this work. They were born and trained to fight, and knew no kinship

with their species. It had been better for Jim Peters, sheriff of

Tullahoma, had he taken the advice of the master of the Big House;

for as he turned into the yard at the rear of the house, the

prediction of the latter came true, and so swiftly that none saw how

it chanced.

Who loosed the gate no one ever knew; but certainly it was opened,

and the fighting bear-pack came boiling out, eager for any foe. There

was ineffectual shouting over a mass of writhing, snarling creatures

of many colors. In a moment the solemn-faced emissaries of justice

lay dead and mangled on an unfinished trail. Blount caught the

sheriff's hand as it moved toward his revolver.

"It's no use shooting the dogs, Jim," said he. "You've run the trail

fair to here, and you know I'll help you run it to the end. I don't

know what to say. Hell's broke loose in the Delta."

CHAPTER XVI

THE TRAVELING-BAG

The sheriff turned upon Blount his grave face, and for a time made

no answer. "You're right, Cal," said he, at length. "Things are bad

down here. It's no nigger planned this thing. But if it wasn't, then

who did?"

"I don't know," said Blount. "Some day, my friend, we'll find out,

and then we'll see whether or not there's any law left in the Delta

for people who do things like that." He pointed toward the spot where

a long line of men were now busily engaged in removing from the rails

the fragments of what had been train Number 4.

"Come into the house, men," said Blount, presently. "Let's get

something to eat." There had been more than a hundred persons taken

in as guests at the Big House that day, but even yet the hospitality

of the old planter's home was not quite exhausted. The two ladies of

the house had abundance to do in caring for the injured, but the

servant, Delphine, had become the presiding spirit of the household

in these hours of stress. In some way Delphine brought partial order

out of the chaos, and the great table still was served.

By this time there had begun the pitiful procession which was to

empty the Big House of its company. The tracks were nearly cleared by

the wrecking crew, and long rows of fires were consuming the broken

evidences of the ruin that had been wrought. The injured had been

cared for as best might be by the physicians of the relief train, and

this train, with its burden of the living and the dead, now started

on its journey northward. The day of Number 4 was done. The iron way

would soon again have its own. Another Number 4, screaming, exultant,

defiant, would again pursue its course across the wilderness.

Naturally, in hours so crowded with perplexities, the master of the

Big House had had small time to specialize his hospitality. The

demands of the living, the needs of the suffering, the eagerness of

all in the search for the author of this disaster, kept him, as well

as others, so occupied that he scarce knew what was going forward. He

had not known that Henry Decherd was about the place until he saw him

seated at his own table. He made no inquiries, supposing that Decherd

might have been a passenger on the train; yet he greeted this

uninvited guest none too warmly, even in that sanctuary. Deeherd

thought best later to explain his presence. He had been on the

wrecked train, he said to Colonel Blount, but had by some miracle

escaped. He was on his way to New Orleans, and wished to take the

first train down as soon as traffic was resumed. He hoped that he was

not intruding too much if he once more dropped in on his old friend.

To this Colonel Blount listened grimly and said no word, only

sweeping his hand toward the table. "Eat," said he, and so turned

away. He would have done as much for a strange hound in his yard, and

Decherd knew it.

It was well on in the afternoon when John Eddring, still busy with

his confused mass of papers, was in turn approached at the table

where he sat by this same Henry Decherd. The latter carried in his

hand a traveling-bag which he extended toward the claim agent. "Mr.

Eddring." said he, "I found this bag in my room, but it isn't mine.

They tell me you've got track of a lot of things. Did you see

anything of an alligator bag about like this?"

"Why do you ask?" said Eddring, quietly.

"Well, I know you're claim agent on the road," said Decherd. "You

seem to be getting ready for a lot of trouble later on. I didn't know

but you might have seen my bag among others. Nothing in it much--a

few collars and brushes, you know; things I could use now if I had

them."

"Would you let me see this bag?" said Eddring. Decherd, somewhat

uneasily, as it seemed to Eddring, opened the valise and displayed

its contents. "This seemed to belong to some fellow by the name of

Thompson," said he, as he rummaged among the articles. "Maybe he has

gone back to the city--maybe he's got my bag. See, here's a letter

addressed to him, 'James Thompson, Davenport'--" Eddring glanced at

the handwriting. It bore no resemblance to that of another letter

which at that moment rested in his own pocket. His face half-flushed.

He begged the dead man's pardon. This, he felt assured, was from

James Thompson's wife. The other letter, he felt with swift

conviction, was from a woman different. Yes, and to a different man.

Yet he held his own counsel as to this.

"I shouldn't wonder if it were your bag that I've got in my own room,

Mr. Decherd," said he. He rose and led the way, and Decherd,

perforce, must follow. "Is this yours?" He held up to Decherd's view

the valise which had once contained the book and papers earlier

mentioned. Eddring looked narrowly into Decherd's face. He saw it

suddenly change color, going from pale to sallow.

Decherd made a distinct effort at recovering himself. "Y-yes, that's

it--it looks like it, anyhow," said he.

Eddring handed him the valise. Decherd pressed the spring of the lock

and looked into the interior.

"Why, it's empty!" cried he. "What in--"

"Yes," said Eddring, simply, "it's empty." Decherd cast at him one

swift, veiled look, under which Eddring saw all the covert venom of a

dangerous serpent that is aroused. "It's not my bag, anyhow," said

Decherd, regaining his composure. "I thought it was, but mine had my

name on the plate."

"Yes?" said Eddring. "I am sorry I can't help you. Well, if the bag

isn't yours, I'll just keep it. I don't doubt the owner will be found

in time." The eyes of the two met fairly now; and from that instant

there was issue joined between them.

CHAPTER XVII

MISS LADY AND HENRY DECHERD

Why Henry Decherd should have remained so long at the Big House at

this particular time might have found plausible answer in any of a

dozen ways. There were reasons indeed why Decherd should be covertly

pleased at matters as he now found them. Colonel Blount touched his

pride keenly enough by practically ignoring his presence, yet he made

amends by continuing moody and aloof, spending little time about the

house. John Eddring had long since taken his departure for the city.

Mrs. Ellison was rarely visible about the house. There was an

atmosphere of uneasiness, an unsettled discontent over all things.

Yet, for the oblique purposes of Henry Decherd, matters could not

have been better arranged. So much being established, he played his

chosen part at least with boldness. In spite of all this recent

stress and strain, in spite of this continuing trace of sadness and

anxiety which lay over all, Henry Decherd none the less knew very

well that there was now at hand the best and perhaps the last

opportunity which, he might expect for the carrying out of a certain

intention which, above all other purposes, worthy or unworthy, had

long possessed his soul. At times he was absent from the Big House,

none knew where; for in the careless bigness of that place there were

no locks upon the doors and no hours for the spreading of the table.

Each came and went as he pleased. In no other situation could Decherd

have found things shaped better to his plan.

That plan, the sole motive which could have kept him at that time in

that certain locality, was to speak alone with Miss Lady. Even thus

favored by circumstances, he found this purpose difficult to

accomplish. Now it was Colonel Blount who passed moodily across the

yard; or it was Mrs. Ellison who accosted him just as he started to

follow the young girl down the hall or out on the gallery. Once or

twice the girl Delphine stopped him in some such errand and held him

on one pretext or another in some corner of the place. Yet Decherd,

involved as was the game he played, persisted and at length had his

more immediate wish.

He came upon Miss Lady at last in the twilight on the big gallery,

when the birds were chirping all about and the insects were attuning

their nightly orchestra. He walked directly up to her.

"Miss Lady," he said suddenly, without parley or preface, "ah, Miss

Lady, how glad I am to find you at last!"

The girl drew back from him, at once divining the import of his air

and tone; but he went on.

"I've waited so long," said he. "There's always been some one about.

Couldn't you see--don't you see what it is that brings me to you!" He

would have caught her hand in his own feverish one, but again she

drew away, looking at him with startled eyes.

"Dearest," he went on, "listen. I can't do without you. I have loved

you ever since first I saw you. Come, tell me--"

Even the icy silence of the girl scarce served to check him. There

was, indeed, evident on his face the existence of an emotion as

genuine as could be conceived in a soul like his. It was, moreover,

the very devil's instant for approaching this poor girl, hopeless,

outcast, overstrung, altogether and piteously in need of comfort. At

that time Miss Lady could count upon no friend in all the world. She

had no confidante, no counselor. That, of all possible moments, was

the most fortunate time for a man like Henry Decherd, even had the

sweet beauty and helplessness of this girl not wrung from him respect

as well as an unrestrained and passionate regard. What was it, then,

which at that moment intervened between these two? What was the

hidden guidance that came to Miss Lady at that time? She herself

could not explain. She could not have told what caused her to tremble

as though of an ague--could not have told why, though she sought to

see clearly the face of this man who came to her with the words of a

lover, there seemed to fall between them some interposing veil,

rendering his features uncertain, indistinct. Craving and needing a

friend at this hour of her life, none the less she saw not now that

friend.

"No," she called out, frightened. "No! Do not!" And that was all that

she could think, as all that she could do was to move yet farther

away.

He would not accept repulse, but followed on with eager and

impassioned words. "I love you!" he whispered. "Come, what is this

place to you? There's a big world full of things to see and do! We'll

be married, we'll travel, we shall see the world. You shall know what

love can mean--what life really is! Miss Lady, dearest--"

After all, by the will of the immortal gods, who sometimes have in

care the welfare of the Miss Ladys of this earth, Henry Decherd erred

in these very proofs of a passion sincere as he was capable of

feeling. A too hasty ardor failed where a calmer friendship had gone

further toward winning a heart-sore, helpless girl. The balance of

the issue, for a moment trembling in his favor, was, within the

instant, quite destroyed.

"Sir," said Miss Lady, and he paused as she freed her hand and

stepped back from him, strangely cold and calm, "I have given you no

possible right--"

"But you don't understand. Listen, I tell you," he began again.

"I can not listen; it is not right for me to listen. I am too

troubled with many things to listen to you now. You don't know who I

am. I do not know, myself, who I am. You've been deceived by her--you

don't know. I have no mother, as I thought I had. I am going away

from here to-morrow. I don't know where I shall go, but I know I

shall not stay here. It's wrong for me to stay. It's wrong for me to

listen to yon. I can't tell you all I've heard." Miss Lady's lip

trembled.

"Did she tell you? Has Mrs. Ellison--" cried Decherd, suddenly

flushing. But Miss Lady was too much disturbed to notice his speech

or his changed expression. She could only reiterate, "I am going

away."

"Oh, come now," said he, his voice again gaining confidence and his

face showing relief as he glanced about him. "Come, you are only

tired. I ought not to have troubled you this way, this evening, but I

could not help it--I could not wait. I was afraid--but then to-

morrow--I'll see you to-morrow. Think, Miss Lady, think--"

"I have thought," said Miss Lady, with sudden decision. "I have

thought; and as for to-morrow, there'll be none for me at this place.

I'm going away at once. I must begin life all over again. It has been

wrong for me to live here at all. Why did you ask us to come here? We

would have been better off where we were, even if we were poor and

helpless."

"It's been heaven here since you came."

"Oh, it was kind of you to get mamma and me a home here. It has been

home. It has been so sweet. I love it--I shall always love it. It is

big and free here for everybody. One can live here--one could live

here if it were right. Colonel Blount is a splendid man, a grand man--

"Yes?"

"Yes, yes, a splendid man."

"But you'll not stay here?" There was well-nigh as much eagerness as

regret in his tone. She did not note it.

"No, I can not," she replied. "I can't tell you everything--I don't

want to tell you everything. No one is to blame, I suppose. It's all

because I have just grown up, and find I'm in the wrong place. I have

been living along here just--just like one of the blacks out there in

the fields--without--without taking thought. If it were honest, if I

could do anything, if I belonged to any one and could feel that in

some way I earned the right to--to--not take thought, then it would

be different."

"That's what I say! That's as I want to have it," he began; but she

would not listen.

"But it isn't right," she went on. "I can't tell you everything. I

can't even tell you about Mrs. Ellison. Perhaps you have been

deceived. Ask her. Go ask Colonel Blount, and he may tell you what he

likes. But for me, just forget me. I couldn't love you--I couldn't

love any one now. I am cold, all through."

The plaintiveness of her speech touched even this man. He held out

his arms. "No, no," she cried, as she drew back. "I tell you, the

world has gone to pieces. I must find a new one. I am not myself, I

am lost; I don't know what I am." Again for a half-instant, touched

as he was, Decherd went near to forgetting the lover. There was

almost exultation on his face as he saw how fortune was now favoring

him in his plans. There was nothing he wished so much as that Miss

Lady might leave the Big House at once and for ever.

"I can't tell who I am!" the girl repeated, as though in an agony of

entreaty. "I'm some one else! It's so strange. I must go--"

"But where would you go?" said he.

"I do not know; somewhere."

"But then? Why, what could you do, alone? Think--here am I offering

you all you need, a home in some other place, comfort, safety, some

one to care for you--why, perhaps it might mean riches before long--I

will tell you--you'll find it hard enough alone."

"Yes, it will be new and hard," said Miss Lady, with a wan smile. "I

have never thought very much for myself. Some one has always seemed

ready to do things for me. I can't do very much. But then, you know,

sometimes the things you can't do show you the way to things that you

can."

"You are obstinate," cried Decherd, angry now, as only a weak man

would have been. "I'll follow you, wherever you go! The time will

come when you will be glad enough to see me."

"Mr. Decherd," said Miss Lady, straightening into a quick aloofness,

"you said you loved me. That sounds to me as if in some way you were

threatening me."

"Well, I will," he reiterated sullenly. "You'd better think."

Miss Lady shook her head slowly from side to side. "I am frightened,"

she said. "Perhaps some girls would not be. But, in some way, though

I am easy to frighten, I don't seem easy to frighten from things that

I think I ought to do."

Knowing now that he had found obstacle in this girl's will not thus

to be overcome, Decherd allowed his anger to get the better of him.

"Go, then!" he cried brutally.

"Sir," said Miss Lady, "you yourself may go now, if you please;" and

she stood so unagitated, so composed and certain of herself, certain

as well of his obedience, that Decherd knew here was a woman

different from any with whom he had hitherto had to do. Flinging out

his hands in anger at his own mistake, his own folly, he turned and

strode away. Miss Lady, sinking into the chair, gazed out at a world

now grown indistinct and shadowy, full of the terrors of uncertainty.

Decherd knew himself beaten for the time, when he left her. But

though he promised it to himself, he did not follow Miss Lady at that

time; for before another moon had lit the mysterious realm of the

forest beyond which lay an unknown world, Miss Lady was indeed gone.

Carrying with her not even a clear knowledge of her own past,

doubting her own parentage, doubting almost her own identity;

helpless, unprepared, and all too ignorant of the world from which

such as she should for ever be shielded and protected, she had left

the only spot on earth she knew as home, the only place where she

could claim a friend, and fared out into the unknown! It was as if

some evil harpy of the air had swooped down and borne her into the

pathless sky, as though the earth or the waters had closed over her

and left no trace. The simple and the sincere, those most direct and

frank, ofttimes are most difficult to follow in their actions when

they take counsel wholly of themselves. Miss Lady had no involved

motive, none but the one direct and imperative, no means except the

one immediately at hand. Hence, so impelled, so guided, she

disappeared completely, impossible as that might have seemed. Not

even in the piteous little note which Colonel Calvin Blount later

crushed in his hand, did she give any clue to her destination.

Henry Decherd did not take the down train on that day. Had he taken

Miss Lady's declarations seriously, and suspected a deliberate

intention on her part, he might have watched the only avenue of

escape possible for her. But this he did not do.

In truth the plans of Henry Decherd himself, _quasi_ guest at

the Big House, guest tolerated, guest under suspicion, were at that

time of a nature singularly intricate, and demanding all his skill

and resources. It was certain that Decherd did not disappear with

Miss Lady--so much was left to comfort Colonel Calvin Blount. It was

certain also that he said no adieus to his long-time host, nor gave

any hint as to his own departure. Yet it was clearly proved by many

of the servants about the Big House that Decherd was seen mounted and

riding to the westward at an early hour of the same morning in which

Miss Lady was thought to have left the place.

This fact, indeed Decherd himself, was well-nigh forgotten in the

grief which now came to the master of the Big House. Troubled as

Colonel Calvin Blount was, there was born, and there remained, in his

mind the unshakable belief that Miss Lady had not of her own will

gone with Henry Decherd.

CHAPTER XVIII

MISFORTUNE

How narrow and inefficient are sometimes all the ways of fate and

life! By how small a margin, passing upon the crowded ways of life,

do we ofttimes miss the friend who comes with running feet to meet

us! The very train which bore Miss Lady from the Big House brought

down from the northward John Eddring, eagerly bent upon an errand of

his own--John Eddring, for weeks restless, harried and driven of his

own heart, and now fully committed to a purpose whereon depended all

his future happiness. He must find Miss Lady, must see her once more;

must tell her this one thing indisputably sure, that the paths of

earth had been shaped solely that they two might walk therein for

ever! He must tell her of his loneliness, of his ambitions; and of

this, his greatest hope. Desperately in haste, he scarce could wait

until the train pulled up at the little station. He sprang off on the

side opposite from the station, and ran up the lane.

Ah! blind one, not to see, not to feel, not to know that the dearest

dweller of the Big House was here, directly at hand upon the platform,

unseen, but upon the point of stepping aboard the train which had

brought him, and which was now to carry her away. Miss Lady, laying

her plans well, had practically concealed herself until the very

moment of the arrival of the train. And so now these two passed,

their feet thereafter running far apart.

Colonel Blount received his guest with a strikingly haggard look upon

his face; yet at first he made no explanations. He saw Eddring

glancing round, and knew whom he sought.

"She isn't here," the planter said very quietly, and handed him the

note which he had but a few moments earlier discovered. Eddring's

face went as bloodless as his own as he read the few simple lines.

"What's the reason of this?" he cried fiercely. "When did she go?"

"I don't know," said Blount, "unless it was right now. She may have

been right by you--right there at the train for all I know; and I

reckon like enough that's just how it happened."

"Where's Decherd?"

"I don't know--gone somewhere. He didn't go with her."

"But Mrs. Ellison?"

"She's not gone," said Blount, grimly, "but she's going. I don't

count her in any more. Here's the key to Mrs. Ellison's room. It's

better she shouldn't see any one this morning."

"But Blount--why, Cal, my friend--what does all this mean?"

"I don't know. All I can say is, hell's broke loose down here."

They passed down the hall together toward Blount's office room.

"By the way," said the latter, "here's a telegram that got here just

before you did. It's come from the city on a repeat order and must

have passed you on your way. It's railroad business, I reckon."

Eddring tore open the sleazy gray envelope and read the message. His

face was hardened into deep lines as he looked up at his friend, and

without comment handed over the bit of paper. The message read as

follows:

"Eddring, Division Superintendent Personal Injury Department,-----:

You are temporarily relieved duties your office by Allen, of

Hillsboro, pending investigation irregularities charged your

division. Strong developments of claims long considered abated.

Letter. Dix, Agent."

The two men looked at each other for a moment. Blount extended his

hand, and Eddring, gulping, took it.

"God!" he gasped, as he looked at the two bits of paper in his hand.

"Did more wrong and misery ever come to a fellow all at once than

I've got here in these?"

"I know what this telegram means," he said, "and it's all a mistake.

In a week or so I'd have put the whole thing before them. But now,

they suspect me of being a thief, and I'll never work another day for

them, exonerated or unexonerated."

"Well, what of that?" Blount speke hotly. "You're lucky to lose that

job--I've been hoping for a long time that cussed railroad would fire

you. There's bigger things in the world for you than drudging along

on a salary. You just go ahead and set up office for yourself--fight

'em every chance you get; give 'em hell; I'll stake you till you get

on your feet. But damn it, boy, that's not what's bothering me--it's

that girl--she's _got_ to be found."

"She's got to be found," Eddring repeated. Even Calvin Blount, little

used as he was to searching beneath the surface, knew that Eddring

had ceased to give the railroad a thought.

Blount looked at him keenly.

BOOK II

CHAPTER I

THE MAKING OP THE WILDERNESS

In the northern pine-lands Father Messasebe murmured to himself,

whispering among his rush-environed shores.

"You have taken from me my own," murmured Father Messasebe. "You have

swept away my children. You have made child's roads for yourselves

along my courses. You have had freedom with me, the Father of the

Waters. You, small, have had your liberties with me--with me, who am

great, ancient, abiding. But now, since you have taken away my red

wilderness, I shall make for myself a black wilderness. In time

between these two there shall lie a wilderness of that which once was

white!"

And so Father Messasebe, the mighty, the ancient, the abiding, called

upon the spirits of the air, which are his kin, and upon the spirits

of the earth, which are his friends, and these made cause. The small

drop of dew, which hung upon the green beard of the wild rice-plant,

dropped down into the hands of Father Messasebe. It did not tarry, as

had once been its wont, upon the mossy floor of the wilderness, but

hastened on. It met rain-drops shaken from the trees, these drops

also hastening. The fountains, once slow and deliberate among the

roots of the ancient forest floor, tarried not now upon their beds,

but hurried on to join the dew and the rain in a great journeying.

The ravaged forest gave up its springs. The brooks ran dry, and left

barren the penetralia of the tamaracks and cedars. All these hurried

on, little flow meeting little flow, and they joining yet others; and

so finally a great flood joined itself to others great, and this

volume coursed on through lake and channel, and surged along all the

root-shot banks of the great upper water-ways.

The floods passed on, making a merriment which grew more savage and

exultant. The scarred and whitening trees stood silent, watching the

waters pass; and the round hills smiled not as their feet were washed

high with the hurrying floods. And when Father Messasebe at length

came into the country where tall hills stood, neither did these hills

protest, but joined in that which was now forward, and sent down red

and gray and brown trickles of their own to augment the tawny waters.

And then the country of low hills, which had no trees, sent out its

sluggish streams also, across the deep loam-lands, to stain still

further the once clean stream of Messasebe. And word went abroad that

Father Messasebe had rebelled--word that reached the white-topped

mountains far in the West; and these mountains, loyal, sent their

white waters down until they, too, grew red, but still tarried not,

and rolled on to meet the general stream. And the green mountains in

the East, also loyal, sent their floods as well; until Father

Messasebe, hating gathered all his armies, marched on and on, to make

anew a wilderness of his own.

Thus the floods came at length to a wide land covered with great

trees, a land deep and rich, filled with all manner of growing and

brooding things; a land of fat soil carried thither no one knows

whence; a land apart and prepared. So Messasebe, having traveled many

miles, came to a country inhabited by the slow snake, by the otter,

and the beaver, the panther, the deer, the bear--many children whom

he long had loved.

Along the edge of this lower land there ran low earthen fences made

by the white man, who had laid claim upon the kingdom of the Father

of the Floods--vainly-builded fences of earth, hopelessly seeking to

hedge out the imperious flow of Messasebe, the ancient, the enduring.

Father Messasebe, seeing these things, called back to the following

legions of his children that here was time for sport. And all the

waters laughed loud and long, dallying with their prey.

"In the North they have robbed me," said Father Messasebe to his

legions. "Here in the South they would bind me. Ho! now for the game

of letting in the floods, of making anew my wilderness.

"For a wilderness," said Father Messasebe, "the world has ever had.

And whether gentle overpower barbarian, or barbarian in turn overcast

the gentle, always there will be a wilderness, and out of it will

come combat.

"But the World is ancient and abiding," said Father Messasebe to his

children, "and the World cares no whit for those things sometimes

called good and new. In the years, that which is new becomes old.

Only the World and its children endure. Only the old prevails. Only

the wilderness, and the combat of weak and strong, remain for ever.

"And at all combat," said Father Messasebe to his children, "the

World smiles, knowing that the strong must win; and knowing that in

time the strong will become weak. Wherefore let us build our

wilderness for a time, like to that which will one day rise again

along all my shores, great trees growing where cities are to-day.

"Only in the ages," said Father Messasebe to his children, "do the

weak come to be the strong. Wherefore must the strong prevail, each

in his own day. It is the Law!"

BOOK III

CHAPTER I

EDDRING, AGENT OP CLAIMS

Some three years subsequent to that mysterious departure of Miss

Lady in search of a world beyond the rim of the confining forest,

there sat in his office, one fine morning in June, no less a person

than John Eddring, formerly claim agent of the Y.V. railway. Eddring

looked older, more wearied. He seemed disappointed in his years of

fruitless search, in the following of false clues, in the death of

new hopes. And yet from the man's clear eye there shone a certain

grim comfort of accomplishment.

He was now surrounded, as before, with the customary paraphernalia of

a business office. A few desks, a cabinet letter-file, a typewriter

stand or two, a chart, a picture askew upon the wall--this might

still have been the office of the Y.V. railway. Indeed, there was

printed upon the office door the modest sign, "John Eddring, Agent of

Claims."

Yet this was no longer the office of Eddring, claim agent of the

railway. There had been change. Eddring, agent of claims, was in

business for himself, and upon the other side of the pretty game of

cross purposes. That which he had taken for calamity had proved good

fortune. The world had loved him, even as it tried him. The advice of

his old mother he had discovered to be almost prophetic. At last he

found himself making use of that legal profession which had formerly

been but one of the adjuncts of his earlier occupation. He had opened

office for himself, and now paid service to no man.

Eddring had made it his especial care, from the beginning of this

work, to undertake that less esteemed branch of the law which has to

do with the collection of claims, and, naturally or by choice, he

found himself concerned more commonly with the claims of the weak

against the strong. Collection law is little esteemed as against the

better paid and vaster practice of the corporation law; yet Eddring

had succeeded. To his own surprise, and that of others, he began to

find his humble way of life pleasant and desirable. His business had

widened rapidly, and, to his own wonder, now began to offer him a

view into wide avenues of employment. Occupied not only with many

minor matters, but with more considerable prosecutions, John Eddring,

agent of claims, was possessor of a business yielding him four-fold

the yearly value of his former salary on the Y.V. road.

As to the latter, it had promptly withdrawn charges which presently

it found impossible to prove. The head men of the railway were keen

enough, after all. They studied the growing list of judgments

collected against the road throughout the Delta country, but they

could find no trace of John Eddring behind these claims. No system of

detectives, no hired espionage could belie the truth. Finally

convinced, they did the unusual and somewhat handsome thing of

writing their former claim agent a full letter of apology and of

asking his return to his late employment, at a salary precisely

double that which he had resigned. Eddring had replied to this that,

though agent of claims, he could not find it in his heart to serve as

a corporation claim agent. So, he had labored on, prosperous to a

just extent, and happy as only that man can be who finds work which

gives him delight in the doing, and which offers a future built upon

the honest accomplishment of the present.

On this morning Eddring, humming contentedly as he went about his

work at the humble desk before him, heard a knock and a shuffling

tread which by instinct he knew belonged to some member of the

colored race. "Come in," said he, without looking up.

"Good mawnin', Mas' Edd'ern," said the newcomer.

"Oh, it's you, is it, Jack?" said Eddring. "Well, come in."

Jack by profession was a local expressman, owner of a rickety wagon

and a tumble-down mule. He was coffee-colored in complexion. His feet

projected quaintly behind as well as in front. His lips projected

also, as did his eyes, wide-rimmed and bulging. His trousers were too

long for him, and his coat hung limp from his stooped shoulders. His

speech was low and soft. Not an heroic figure, you would have said,

yet, as it seemed, a person possessed of a certain history.

"Where did you come from, Jack?" said Eddring. "I thought you were in

jail up at Jackson."

"No, sah, Mas' Edd'ern," replied Jack. "Dem folks up thah never did

put me in jail at all. I got tired of it, an' at las' I jest walked

on home."

As to the case of Jack, there had recently been enacted, on the

public square of this southern city, a tawdry little tragedy in brown

and coffee color, having to do with the fascinations of a certain

damsel known in her own circles as the "gold-tooth girl." The latter

had, in her earlier days, drifted northward, where she had learned

many things, among these the fact that the white race is exceedingly

difficult to imitate, desirable though such imitation may seem. The

mistress of Sally chanced to be the possessor of a gold-crowned

tooth, and nothing would do Sally herself except the same ornament.

Having persuaded a dentist to sacrifice one of her splendid bits of

ivory, she became so enamored of her own dazzling smile that perforce

she must return again to the South, where such radiance would in all

likelihood meet with a better reception. To such charms it was small

wonder that Jack, a man of certain solidity and stability of business

among his kind, should have fallen victim. Jack and Sally had lived

together some six months before Jack had come into Mr. Eddring's

office and asked for the loan of a six-shooter. This latter he had

returned a couple of hours later, with the calm remark that he had

just shot a "yaller nigger" who had been "pesterin' 'round his wife."

Jack's arrest and trial followed quickly. Eddring, out of friendship,

took his case, and promptly lost it, it being the argument of the

prosecuting attorney that "we can't have shooting here on the streets

by niggers." Pending the argument for a new trial, Jack had been sent

to Jackson jail, where he met with the difficulty of one for whom

there seems to be no place in the social system.

"Dem white folks up thah never would let me in jail at all," said he,

complainingly. "When I got thah, de jailah man and his wife wuz right

sick, and dey warn't no one to take care o' things. I ain't bad at

nussin' folks, so I jest turned in an' nussed dat jailah man an' his

folks fer 'bout six weeks. I soht o' run dat jail, up dah, fer a

while, myself. De jailah was too po'ly to enjoy wu'kkin' vehy hahd,

so I tuk de keys, an' when dey didn't need me at nights, ovah at his

house, I allus locked myse'f in reg'lar every night, so's to feel I

wuz doin' right, you know. In de mawnin', right early, I made

breakfast foh dem, an' fix dem up like. Fin'lly, dey got well, an' I

giye de keys to de jailah er de she'iff, er whoever he wuz, and I sez

I reckon he bettah lock me up now, and he sez to me, 'Go long, you

damn nigger, I ain't a-goin' to lock you up at _all._ I _couldn't,'_

says he to me. It looks like dere ain't no place fer a nigger."

"Well, Jack," suggested Eddring, trying not to smile, "why don't you

walk across the bridge there, over into Arkansas, and get clear of

this whole thing for good?"

"Now, Mas' Edd'ern, whut makes you talk like dat? You know I wouldn'

do dat an' leave you heah, 'sponsible fer me."

"Well," said Eddring, "in some ways your case does seem a little

irregular, but perhaps the court would fix it up now and let you stay

right where you are. You go and get your mule and wagon, if you can

find them, and go to work again. I'll see Judge Baines this evening,

and tell him just what you have told me. Go on, now. I suppose you

are going to take that woman back to live with you?"

"Oh, yessah. I kain't help dat nohow. I done licked her dis mawnin',

fust thing I done. She's a heap more humble and con-_trite_ now."

At this Eddring grumbled and turned back to his work. Still Jack

hesitated. A certain gravity sat on his face.

"Mas' Edd'ern," said he, finally, "kin you tell me why de rivah is

out all ovah de lan' down below, and why dere's so many people

wu'kkin' tryin' to stop de breaks?"

"No," said Eddring. "I know there's a big overflow, and it's getting

worse."

"Mas' Edd'ern," said Jack, stepping close to him, "dar's been a heap

of devil-_ment_ to wu'k down dah."

"What do you know about it?"

"I knows a heap about it. De niggers all over in dah is gittin'

mighty bad. Now, my wife she done tol' me dat dis mawnin',--she's

a-feelin' mighty con-_trite."_

"What did she tell you about it?"

"Well, Mas' Edd'ern, you know, sah, dere's a heap o' things about

black folks dat white folks kain't understand an' nevah will. You

know fer ovah fifty yeahs black folks has been thinkin' sometime

dey'd run dis country. All de time dere's some 'ligious doctah, or

preacheh or other, tellin' dem dat. Now, dat sort o' thing been goin'

on down dah fer long while. Dere's a sort o' woman, conjuh woman,

'mongst dem. Dey call her de Queen now.

"Now, while I wuz up at Jackson, my wife she done had a heap o' truck

wid dem niggers f'om down in dah. My wife tol' me all about dis yer

Queen. She tol' me all about the devil-_ment_ dat's been goin' on and

is a-gwine to go on down in dat country. Hit's right in whah Cunnel

Blount lives. I've knowed for yeahs, o' co'se, how frien'ly you two is

to each otheh. Now, Mas' Edd'ern, you've been right good to me. I dess

thought--seein' dat I couldn't pay you nohow--I'd tell you dis heah,

and you could do whut you liked. De trufe is, niggers down heah been

gittin' mighty biggoty lately, dey get so much 'couragement f'om up

Norf. Massa Edd'ern, dey sho'ly do think dey gwine ter run dis country

atter while. O' co'se every nigger whut's got any sense knows

diff'rent f'om dat, but it seem like dey allus wuz a heap o' triflin'

niggers whut ain't willin' to wu'k, but _is_ willin' to make trouble.

I dess thought I'd tell you 'bout dis heah."

Eddring turned at his desk for a moment. "Take this over to the

telegraph office at once, Jack," said he. "It's a message to Colonel

Blount. I want to see him; and I want you to stay around, so I can

get you when he comes up."

The Law of the Land Of Miss Lady, Whom It Involved in Mystery, and of John Eddring, Gentleman of the South, Who Read Its Deeper Meaning: A Novel · 第 1 / 22 章