blacksmith shop, a man stopped at the wide-open door.
"Will you give me a night's lodging? I have walked far to-day, and I'm
a stranger in this part of the country."
'Zeki'l wheeled, the light from the forge shining across his face. It
brought out the stranger's face and form in bold relief also. "Why, it's
Zeke Morgan!" he cried, walking into the shop.
"Yes: I thought I recognized your voice, Miller," said 'Zeki'l, slowly,
and without much pleasure at the recognition.
They had been in prison together, and 'Zeki'l had left Miller there. He
had never felt any liking for the man, and less now than ever, as he
looked at his ragged clothing and dissipated face. He had evidently
been steadily sinking in vice, and its repulsiveness was impressed upon
his outward being. But a certain pity stirred 'Zeki'l's heart. He
remembered his own friendlessness when he entered that settlement.
Could he show less mercy than had been shown to him?
"Sit down, won't you?" he said kindly, blowing up the coals in the forge
to a glowing heat.
"That I will. I'm footsore, and hungry as a bear. I'm in luck to meet
with you, comrade," chuckling.
'Zeki'l winced. The man's familiarity grated upon him.
"Where are you goin'?" he inquired.
"Oh, nowhere in particular. I'm jest out."
"Why, I thought your time would be up in two years after I left."
Miller shrugged his shoulders. "Yes; but I made so many attempts to
escape that they kept adding extra time to my term."
He sat down while 'Zeki'l finished his work.
"You seem to be getting on pretty well," he continued, his restless eyes
scanning the surroundings.
"Only tolerable."
Two or three of the neighbors dropped in, one to leave a broken plow,
another to tell a bit of gossip. They stared curiously at 'Zeki'l's
disreputable companion, who jocosely informed them that Morgan had once
been his chum.
'Zeki'l felt annoyed, and, closing up the shop, invited his guest into
the house. They had supper, then sat down and smoked. Miller talked a
good deal, and asked many questions about the neighborhood and the
store; but at last he fell asleep, huddled up on the bed, and 'Zeki'l
lay down on a bench, recollections of his prison life keeping him awake
far into the night. When he awoke the next morning his guest was gone.
He was glad of it. The man's presence oppressed him--brought a sense of
degradation. But what were his feelings when he heard that Mr. Davy
Tanner's store had been robbed, the mail-box rifled, letters torn open,
and various articles of wearing apparel taken!
He grew so pale, seemed so agitated and confused, that the man who had
come up to tell the news stared wonderingly, half-suspiciously at him.
He had brought the plow to the shop the evening before, and he now
looked around for the stranger.
"Where is your friend?" he inquired.
"He is no friend of mine."
"But he 'lowed that he knew you."
"Yes."
"Where?"
"In prison," said 'Zeki'l, quietly, though he flushed with shame.
"Aha! I lowed so, I jest 'lowed so, last night."
'Zeki'l tingled all over. He had never felt the degradation of being a
convict more keenly than at that moment. He suspected Miller of the
theft: this man's tone implied that he suspected them both. It showed
how slight a hold he had upon the trust of his neighbors if they could
so readily believe that he would rob the best friend he had in the
settlement. He went into the house, and sat down by the hearth, his head
leaned between his hands.
News of the robbery spread, and men left their work to go over to the
store--stirred up, pleasantly excited. It was not often that Zion Hill
settlement could boast of having anything so important as this robbery
take place within its limits, and it must be made the most of.
'Zeki'l held aloof from the store, where he knew a large crowd had
collected, but later in the day a small delegation came up to interview
him. He read suspicion in every face, indignation in every eye. His
quiet, honest life among them had been forgotten; they remembered only
that he had been a convict.
"Once a thief, always a thief, I say!" one man cried loudly.
'Zeki'l clenched his hands, but what could he say in self-defense? He
made a clear, straight-forward statement of all he knew about Miller,
earnestly denying all knowledge of the robbery, but he felt the slight
impression it made on their doubting minds. They did not openly accuse
him, but they asked many questions, they exchanged knowing glances, and
when they went away he felt that he had been tried and condemned. The
sheriff had gone in pursuit of Miller, and all day groups of men sat or
stood about the store whittling sticks, chewing tobacco, and talking.
It was a most enjoyable day to them. It afforded excitement, and gave
an opportunity to air opinions--to bring forth old prejudices. There
was almost universal condemnation of 'Zeki'l. He had entertained the
thief, had given him all the information necessary, and the more bitter
ones wagged their heads and said that no doubt he had shared in the
spoils. Even Mr. Davy Tanner looked sad and doubtful, though he
defended the unfortunate man.
"We've no right ever to accuse a person without evidence o' guilt. We
don't know even that this other man had anything to do with it--though
circumstances do all p'int that way--let alone 'Zeki'l Morgan. It's
best to hold our peace till we find out the truth."
"But it looks mighty suspicious ag'in' 'Zeki'l."
"Because he's been in the penitentiary, an' we think he's got a bad name
by it."
"Well, ain't that enough to set honest men ag'in' him?"
"Yes; but it ain't best to always judge a man by his misdeeds in the
past, but rather by his good deeds in the present, an' what they promise
for the future."
"Why not, when it's accordin' to scriptur'?"
So the talk went on, while 'Zeki'l sat by his fireless hearth or walked
aimlessly up and down the yard. At dusk his brother called, looking
almost as haggard as he did.
"It's a bad thing, 'Zeki'l."
"Yes," said 'Zeki'l, listlessly.
"They are fools to think you had anything to do with it, plumb fools."
"It's natural they should, 'Lijy."
"I can't stand it, 'Zeki'l! Lord! I can't stand it!"
He fell into a chair and covered his face with his hands.
"Chut, man! what does it matter?" said 'Zeki'l, bracing himself up and
forcing a smile. "Don't let 'Lizabeth believe it, that's all I ask."
"She'll never believe it."
"It's all right, then; I'll not care what the rest o' the world thinks."
"But I do," cried 'Lijy, starting up, "an' I'll put an end to it by--"
"You'll not do anything rash, 'Lijy," said 'Zeki'l, firmly, quietly, and
laid his hand on the other's shoulder. "Recollect your family."
He looked slight and insignificant by the side of his brother, but his
face had a strength and calmness which seemed to give it a power the
other lacked. 'Lijy groaned, and turned tremblingly away.
A week passed, but Zion Hill settlement could not go back to its
every-day vocations until somebody had been arrested for the robbery.
The man Miller seemed to be wary prey, eluding his pursuers with the
crafty skill of an old offender. It was a solitary week to 'Zeki'l. He
had been completely ostracized by his neighbors. They openly shunned
him, and no more work came to his forge. He stood in the empty shop one
day, wondering what he should do next, where he should go, when
'Lizabeth walked slowly, quietly in.
He flushed painfully.
"You see I'm idle," he said, pointing to the dead coals in the forge.
"They don't think I'm worthy o' doin' their work any longer."
"I wouldn't mind," she said, tenderly, laying her hand on his arm.
"They'll see they are mistaken after a while, and be glad enough to come
back to you."
[Illustration: "THE SHERIFF, TWO DEPUTIES, AND MILLER."]
"I don't know," with a heavy sigh. "It's the injustice that hurts me,
an' the lack o' faith in my honesty. The years I've lived here count
for nothin' with them."
"I have faith in you, 'Zeki'l."
He laid his hand over hers.
"If I had you, 'Lizabeth, if I only had you to help me bear it!"
"That's what I've come for, 'Zeki'l. I'm crippled. It may be that I'll
turn out to be more of a burden than a comfort to you, but I can't sit
down there any longer, knowin' you are here slighted and sufferin' all
alone. 'Zeki'l, have pity on me, if you've none on yourself, and let me
bear this trouble with you."
He trembled before the future her words conjured up.
"Could you, would you, be willin' to bear my disgrace, share it, be
shunned like a plague, have no company, no friend, but me?"
"What are friends to the one we love, or company? I'd give up all the
world, 'Zeki'l, willin'ly, willin'ly, for you."
He looked into her deep, earnest eyes, realized the full truth of her
words, and drew her closer to him.
"It's a great sacrifice, 'Lizabeth, an' I'm wrong to let you make it;
but--the Lord forgive me! I can't hold out alone any longer. My will
an' my courage are all broke down. I need help; I need you."
After a momentary silence he dusted a bench, and they sat down to talk
over their plans for the future. The shop, black with charcoal and iron
dust, was a queer place for such a conversation; but they paid little
heed to their surroundings.
"Marthy Ann will never get over your marryin' me," said 'Zeki'l.
"Then she can make the best of it."
The next day was Saturday, and the beginning of the regular monthly
"meetin'" at Zion Hill church. Everybody in the settlement who could,
attended services that day. The Morgans were all there, even 'Lizabeth,
and 'Zeki'l sat in his accustomed place, apparently unmindful of the
cold, hostile glances and whispers around him. Through open doors and
windows shone golden sunlight, floated spicy odors from the woods
surrounding all but the front of the church, which faced the public
road; and vagrant bees mingled their lazy hum with the champing of bits
and the stamping of iron-shod hoofs in the thickets, where the mules and
the horses were tied.
It was a quiet but alert congregation. A kind of expectancy--of
suspense--filled the air. No telling what might happen before the day
was over. The preacher made the robbery the theme of his discourse, and
there were nods and approving looks when he referred to the punishment
laid up for those who persisted in doing evil. It was a fitting finale
that just before the benediction was pronounced a small cavalcade rode
up to the church door--the sheriff, two deputies, and Miller. A thrill
ran through the church, a rustle, a whisper, and the preacher cried
aloud to the sheriff:
"What do you want, Brother Mangum?"
"'Zeki'l Morgan."
"Here he is! here he is!" cried more than one voice, and men rose to
their feet and laid eager hands on the unresisting 'Zeki'l.
"What do you want him for?" cried 'Lijy Morgan, rising from his seat in
the deacons' corner. "What's he done?"
"Helped to rob the store."
"We've said so, we've said so, ever since it happened!" a chorus of
stern but triumphant voices exclaimed.
"Bring up the witness ag'in' him, the man that says he did it," said
'Lijy, advancing to the open space before the pulpit.
"No man has said out an' out that he helped to do it, but Miller--"
"It's a lie," cried 'Lijy, loud enough to be heard beyond the church
door.
'Zeki'l's eyes were fixed anxiously, warningly, on his brother, and once
he tried to throw off the hands holding him.
"Prove it, then!" a taunting voice cried out.
"I will," said 'Lijy, though he grew pale, and trembled strangely. "A
more honest man than 'Zeki'l Morgan never lived."
"What do you know of him?"
Again 'Zeki'l strove to free himself, but failed.
"'Lijy!" he called imploringly, "'Lijy, 'Lijy, mind what you say!"
'Lijy looked across at him.
"I will mind the truth, 'Zeki'l." He turned to the congregation.
"I come here with good recommendations, brethren; I am a deacon o' the
church; you have faith in my integrity, my honor." An approving murmur
went up. "If a dozen thieves were to stop at my house there'd be no
suspicion against me." He paused, passed his hand over his face, then
looked up again. "Years ago there were two brothers in this State who
grew up together happy and contented. The elder one was always a little
wild, and would get drunk sometimes, even after he'd married and had a
family to look after, but the younger was the steadiest, best boy in the
settlement. One night the elder brother, in a fit of drunken
recklessness, stole a horse from the camp of a Kentucky drover, an'
nobody found it out but his brother, who undertook to return the horse,
an' was arrested. He took the guilt, he stood the trial, an' went to the
penitentiary. He lost his good name, the girl he loved, his home,
everything in the world an honest man values. He served his time, an'
instead o' comin' home to be a reproach to his cowardly brother, he,
when free, went away into a strange settlement to live. An' by an' by
his brother moved there too, an' his conscience hurt him more an' more
as he saw what a sad, lonesome life the convict lived. He was
prosperous, he enjoyed the confidence of his fellow-men, while the other
was shunned, and regarded with distrust." Emotion checked his utterance
for a moment; then he turned and pointed to 'Zeki'l. "Brethren, look at
that man; look without prejudice or suspicion, an' you'll not see guilt
in his face nor on his conscience. There never lived a truer hero than
'Zeki'l Morgan. Nobody should know it better than I, for I am the
brother whose crime he suffered for."
Then he walked across the floor to 'Zeki'l's side in the midst of the
deepest silence which had ever fallen upon a congregation in Zion Hill
church.
*WAS IT AN EXCEPTIONAL CASE?*
The Capelles were Louisianians, of French descent, and before the war
lived in New Orleans, occasionally visiting their plantations on Red
River. But Anthony Capelle was killed in the battle of Vicksburg, and
after the surrender Mrs. Anthony Capelle sold the Red River plantations
for about half their value, placed her New Orleans property in the hands
of a lawyer, gathered up some of her household stuffs, books, and other
things she prized, and with her little daughter Madeline, and one old
negro who had spent his life in the service of the Capelles, removed to
Marietta, Georgia. Those were days of change and great confusion, and
she disappeared from New Orleans and the knowledge of old friends
without calling forth comment or question, and she was received into the
social life of Marietta in the same way. It was not the time to sit in
judgment on one's neighbors--to probe for secret motives or purposes. A
common woe made all akin. From a merchant and planter who wished to
sell out and go west to recuperate his broken fortunes, Agnese Capelle
bought a house and lot on the northeast side of the town, and with her
small family settled quietly down. It was a picturesque old house,
built after the colonial fashion, and set back from the street in the
seclusion of an oak grove. In the early spring the graveled walks were
bordered with jonquils and mountain pink, and from April to December the
roses bloomed along the garden fence and around the piazza.
The tumult following the war died away. People ceased to go about with a
helpless, bewildered look as they learned to adjust themselves to the
new conditions of life, and realized that the negro could no longer be
regarded as a slave, but as a free citizen, with all the rights and
privileges of citizenship. The laws of the country made white and black
equal, but there was some bitter triumph in the consciousness that
unwritten social laws would hold them forever apart, two distinct races,
one degraded by color and past servitude. On the surface of life the
agitations and thrills of the strong undercurrents ceased to make much
impression; they had sunk too deep. The country at large settled to
outward peace, and from politics and social questions attention turned
to commerce and manufacture, to the development of rich mineral
resources, and to literature. But the years passed quietly enough over
the Capelles. They were so strongly fixed in their pride and prejudices
against social equality that they pursued their own gentle, even way,
untouched by the convulsions and throes of fierce indignation around
them. Their servants were treated with kindness and consideration, and
when the old man who had clung to them with unbroken faith through
slavery and freedom died, they wept over him, and felt that a noble
friend had been lost, though also a negro and a servant. And Madeline
developed into womanhood, beginning her education at her mother's knee,
and finishing it at a college in Virginia.
She was gifted above the average girl in wit and beauty, and possessed
not only fascinating, lovely manners, but the tenderest heart and the
finest sympathies. She was a girl of ardent temperament, but refined
and delicate in all her tastes, and pure in thought and aspiration. She
had strong convictions and opinions of her own, read and reflected more
than the ordinary Southern girl, and loved music passionately. The
simplest strain could make her eyes kindle, her color come and go, in a
sort of silent rapture, and the pathos of a negro song moved her heart
deeply. In person she was slightly above medium height, and held her
head with an imperial grace not at all unsuitable to her youth and her
French ancestry. Her hair was burnished brown, with a crisp wave in it,
her eyes blue-gray and brilliant. But she lacked the clear, thin,
transparent skin usually accompanying such hair and eyes, the blood
pulsing through it pink as a rose. Hers was soft as velvet, with an
opaque creamy tint, and the faintest suggestion of color, ordinarily.
She had scores of friends, and in her own small family circle was looked
upon as the most beautiful and lovable girl in the world. In Agnese
Capelle's love for this fair daughter there was a passionate protective
tenderness, a subtle quality one would have called pity, had not such a
thing seemed absurd in connection with Madeline. While not betraying
any undue anxiety over her marriage and settlement in life, she studied
each suitor that appeared on the scene, and if eligible, gave him a
gracious welcome. But Madeline's heart remained in her own possession
until she met Roger Everett.
Marietta was just attracting the attention of the Northern invalid and
also the Northern capitalist. A few delicate, weak-lunged people had
found their way to it, and a company of enterprising men had projected a
railroad to pass through the north Georgia mountains, across the Blue
Ridge, and into North Carolina and Tennessee. Along the line of this
road marble quarries were being opened and gold and talc mines
discovered; but Marietta still preserved its provincial ways and
appearances, its best houses the old colonial mansions, its churches
overgrown with ivy, Cherokee-rose hedges bounding the pastures and
gardens on the outskirts of the town, and inclosing the
neglected-looking graveyard. Its picturesque hills were overshadowed by
Kennesaw Mountain, with the solitary peak of Lost Mountain rising far to
the south, and the dim, broken outline of the Blue Ridge range bounding
the northern horizon. The hills and the mountains are still there, but
the town has caught the spirit of progress sweeping with electrical
effect over the South. Handsome modern residences are springing up,
hotels and boarding-houses are being opened, and on the northeast side
of the town a beautiful national cemetery has been laid out, where the
Union soldiers who fell in the battles around Atlanta lie buried. The
public square is still the scene of lively traffic in the fall, when the
streets are crowded with wagons heavily loaded with cotton, the farmers,
white and black, standing around, clothed in jeans and homespun, while
the buyers go about thrusting sampling-hooks into the great bales to
test the quality of the cotton and to determine its market value. But
these brown, tobacco-chewing countrymen jostle the New Yorker, the
Bostonian, and, indeed, people from all parts of the Union, seeking
health and fortune.
Roger Everett was one of the first New England men to find his way to
Marietta, and to invest in the Pickens County Marble Works. He belonged
to _the_ Everetts of Massachusetts, a family of strong abolitionists,
and possessed his share of the traditional New England reserve and the
deeply rooted New England pride. For a year or two he devoted himself
almost exclusively to business, making only occasional visits to
Marietta; but his circle of acquaintances widened, and, being young and
handsome and cultivated, he was at last drawn into the social life of
the town, and few parties or picnics were complete without him. He and
Madeline met at one of the picnics, danced together once at one of the
parties, but their acquaintance really began the day a large party went
up the new railroad to the marble works. It fell to Everett to play the
part of cicerone, and though Madeline shrieked less and asked fewer
questions than the other girls, there was an intelligent comprehension
in her eyes when he explained the process of getting out the marble from
the quarries, and the machinery used for cutting it into blocks, that
made him feel that he was talking directly to her. They lunched on the
bank of Long Swamp Creek, with the purple shadows of the mountains
falling over them, and mountain laurel in bloom all about them. Then
Madeline and the young Northerner strolled away down the stream to look
for maidenhair ferns. They talked at first on general topics, and then
the girl asked some questions about the North, drawing in her breath
with little quivering sighs as he told her of frozen rivers, of snows so
deep one could scarcely walk through them, of sleighing and skating.
"And--and is it true what they say about the negroes?" she questioned
hesitatingly, curious to hear with her own ears the opinion of one of
these rabid abolitionists--at least she had read in the papers that they
were rabid.
He smiled, broke off a bit of laurel, pink and fragrant, and offered it
to her.
"What do they say, Miss Capelle?"
"That they are equal--that we should recognize them. Oh, I hardly know
how to explain it," breaking off with a little laugh, not caring to
tread too boldly on delicate ground for fear he should feel wounded.
"We respect them where they deserve it, just as we do all men," he said
calmly.
"Regardless of color?"
"Yes. What has the color of a man's skin to do with the question of his
worth?"
"Everything, if he is a negro. Could you--I beg your pardon for asking
the question--sit at the table with a _negro?_ actually break bread with
him as your equal?"
"If he were a gentleman, yes," firmly, his blue eyes meeting hers
fearlessly.
"Oh, oh! how could you? I cannot understand it. I am fond of some
negroes. I loved Uncle Sam, I like Aunt Dilsey, and I'm sorry for them
as a race, but meet them on common ground I could not." And then they
drifted away from the dangerous topic.
He walked with her and her mother to the train that evening, and Mrs.
Capelle invited him warmly and graciously to call upon them when he came
to Marietta again.
"He is interesting," she said to Madeline, with a backward glance
through the car window at his tall, slight figure as the train swept
them away from the station.
"Do you think so, _cherie_ mama?" indifferently, _her_ eyes looking down
upon her lap.
"He is handsome and well-bred."
"Oh, he is a Yankee," maliciously.
"He is a gentleman."
And then they looked at each other and laughed gently, and Madeline held
up a little paper-weight of pale pink marble, veined with threads of
white, that he had selected and ordered polished for her as a souvenir
of the day.