IN the weeks that followed, while Diana nursed her sprained ankle in
enforced retirement, changes were taking place at the Cross-Roads.
Caleb Trench did not close his little shop, but he put out the new
sign: “Caleb Trench, Attorney-at-law.”
The little rear room, into which he had carried Diana, was converted
into an office, with a new table and another bookcase. Shot, the
yellow mongrel, moved from the rear door to the front, and the great
metamorphosis was complete. If we could only change our souls as easily
as we do our surroundings, how magnificent would be the opportunities
of life!
Caleb Trench had opened his law office, but as yet he had no clients,
that is, no clients who were likely to pay him fees. The countrymen who
traded with him and knew him to be honest came by the score to consult
him about their difficulties, but they had no thought of paying for
Caleb’s friendship, and Caleb asked them nothing. Yet his influence
with them grew by that subtle power that we call personal magnetism,
and which is, more truly, the magnetism of vital force and sometimes of
a clear unbiased mind.
For the most part Caleb and the dog sat together in the office, and
their friendship for each other was one of the natural outcomes of the
master’s life. The solitary man loved his dog, and the dog, in turn,
adored him and lay content for hours at his feet. It was the seventh
week after he had carried Diana into his little shop, and as he sat
there, by his desk, the moving sunshine slanting across the floor of
the office, he recalled the instant when her head lay unconsciously on
his shoulder and her cheek touched his rough coat. For one long moment
his mind dwelt on it, and dwelt on her by his fire, with the glow of
it in her eyes, her soft voice, her sweet manners, in which there was
just a suggestion of condescension, until she forgot it and spoke to
him naturally and freely. He saw her plainly again, as plainly as he
saw the swaying boughs of the silver birch before his window. Then he
thrust the thought resolutely away and turned almost with relief to
face the shambling country youth who had entered without knocking.
“Well, Zeb?” he said shortly, but not unkindly.
“I stopped by ter see yo’, Mr. Trench,” Zeb Bartlett drawled slowly; “I
thought mebbe yo’d help me out.”
Trench glanced at him and saw that he had been drinking. He was a
lean, lank boy of nineteen, with a weak face that gave evidence of a
weaker brain, and he bore a strong resemblance to his half-sister; he
was accounted almost an idiot by the gossips of Eshcol, and was always
in trouble, but, as he was the only grandson of a poor old woman, he
escaped his deserts.
“What do you want now, Zeb?” Trench asked dryly, turning back to his
papers; he was still studying law with a zeal that was later to bear
fruit in the case that divided Eshcol.
“I want two dollahs,” Zeb said with a whine. “I haven’t had any work
fer a week, an’ Jean’s starvin’ agin. Gimme two dollahs, Mr. Trench,
an’ I’ll return it with--with interes’ on Saturday night, sho’,” he
said, triumphing at the end, and pulling off his soft felt hat to rub
his head helplessly.
“Not two cents,” said Caleb; “you’d get drunk.”
“I sure won’t!” protested Zeb, his mouth drooping and his hands falling
weakly at his sides, as if he had suddenly lost the starch necessary to
keep his lines crisp. “I ain’t seen liquor fer a month.”
“What have you been drinking then?” Trench asked, with the ghost of a
smile.
“Water,” said Zeb, rallying, “water--ef it warn’t fer that I’d be dry
ez punk. ’Deed, Mr. Trench, I needs money. Jean’s mighty sick.”
“No, she isn’t,” said Caleb. “I spoke to her at the market this
morning.”
Zeb’s mouth opened again, like a stranded fish, and he stared; but
he wanted the money. “She wuz took sick after that,” he explained,
brightening, “she asked me ter git it. Gimme er dollah, Mr. Trench.”
“No,” said Caleb.
“Fifty cents,” whined Zeb, but a sullen look was coming into his light
eyes.
“No!”
“Twenty-five cents!” pleaded the borrower, wheedling, but with angry
eyes.
“Not a cent; you’d spend it on whiskey,” Caleb said.
Zeb’s face changed, the cringing attitude of a seeker of a favor fell
from him, he snarled. “You’re a low-down, mean, sniveling shopkeeper!”
he began. “I believe Jean’s tellin’ on yo’, sure enough, I--”
Caleb rose from his seat, his great figure towering over the drunkard,
as he took him by the collar and thrust him out the door. “Go home,” he
said, “and don’t you ever come here again!”
Zeb fell out of his hand and shambled up against the silver birch,
sputtering. He hated Trench, but he was afraid to give voice to his
wrath. Besides, Shot was between them now, every hair erect on the
ridge of his spine. Zeb shook his fist and trembled.
“Go home,” said Trench again, and then to the dog, “Come, Shot!” and he
turned back contemptuously.
As he did so, a tall farmer in brown homespun, with a wide-brimmed
straw hat, drove up in his light wagon and got down to speak to him.
The newcomer’s eyes fell on Zeb. “Drunk again,” he remarked.
Trench nodded, and the two went into the office.
Zeb Bartlett sank down under the trees and wept; he was just far enough
gone to dissolve with self-pity. He believed Trench to be a monster who
owed him two dollars for his very existence. He sat under the silver
birch and babbled and shook his fist. Then his thirst overcame him, and
he gathered himself together again and shambled down the road toward
the nearest public house. He usually earned his drinks by scrubbing the
floors, but this morning he had not felt like scrubbing and, because
scrub he must, he hated Caleb Trench yet more, and turned once in the
road to shake his fist and weep.
Meanwhile Trench was going patiently through the papers of his new
visitor, Aaron Todd. The stout mountaineer owned timberlands, had
a sawmill and grew corn on his fertile lower meadows for the city
markets. Todd was considered rich, and his money was sought for new
investments. The get-rich-quick machines thrive upon the outlying
districts. Todd had been asked to put more money in the Eaton Land
Company; he had some there already and was suddenly smitten with a
caution that sent him to Caleb. The lawyer was new, but the clear
brain of the shopkeeper had been tested. Todd knew him, and watched as
he turned the papers over and read the glowing circular of the Land
Company, its capital, its stock and its declared dividends. It was
alluring and high sounding, a gilt-edged affair.
Trench looked up from the long perusal, the perpendicular line between
his brows sharp as a scar. “Are you all in?” he asked abruptly.
Todd shook his head. “No,” he said tersely, “about five thousand. I
could put in ten, but that would strip me down to the ground. The
interest’s large and I need it if I’m to run that sawmill another
year.”
“Don’t do it,” said Trench.
As Todd took back the papers and strapped them together with an
India-rubber band, his face was thoughtful. “Why not?” he asked at
last; “you’ve got a reason.”
Trench nodded.
Todd looked at him keenly. “Mind tellin’ it?” he asked.
“Why, yes,” said Caleb, “it’s not proven, but I’m willing to show you
one objection; this scheme is offering abnormal interest--”
“And paying it,” threw in Todd.
“And paying it now,” admitted Trench, “but for how long? Why can they
pay ten per cent when the others only pay four and a half? I’d put my
money in the four and a half per cent concerns and feel safe. When a
firm offers such an inducement, it’s not apt to be sound; it isn’t
legitimate business, as I see it.”
Todd put the papers slowly back into his pocket. “Mebbe you’re right,”
he admitted, “but they’re all in it; I reckon the whole East Mountain
district’s in it, an’ half of Eshcol. They say it’s Jacob Eaton’s.”
Trench strummed lightly on the desk with his fingers. “So they say,” he
assented without emotion.
Todd ruminated, cutting off a piece of tobacco. “Eaton’s bent on
lickin’ Yarnall out of the nomination, an’ we don’t want Aylett again.
I believe I’ll take to your ticket,” he remarked.
Trench looked at him, and his full regard had a singularly
disconcerting effect; Diana herself had felt it. “Vote for Peter
Mahan,” he said coolly.
“See here, Trench,” said Todd abruptly, “I believe you’d make a man
vote for the devil if you looked at him like that!”
Caleb laughed, and his laugh was as winning as his smile; both were
rare. “I’m only suggesting Mahan,” he said.
“We’ve never had a Republican, not since five years before the war.
That was before I was born,” Todd replied. “It would sweep out every
office-holder in the State, I reckon.”
“Where’s your civil service?” asked Trench dryly.
“It’s rotten,” said Todd. “There ain’t a man in now that ain’t an
Eaton or an Aylett runner. I’d a damned sight rather hunt a flea in
a feather-bed than try to catch Jacob Eaton when he’s dodging in
politics.”
“Yet Mr. Eaton has you all in the hollow of his hand,” said Trench.
“You don’t like his methods; you’re all the time reviling his politics,
but there isn’t a man among you that dares vote the Republican ticket.
It’s not his fault if he is your boss.”
Todd rubbed the back of his head. “There’s a pesky lot of truth in
that,” he admitted reluctantly, “but--well, see here, Mr. Trench, about
three quarters of the county’s his, anyway, and the rest of it belongs
to men who’ve invested with him an’ they’re afraid to run against him.”
“This Land Company seems to be about the biggest political engine he
has,” Caleb remarked. “Twenty-nine out of every thirty tell me the same
story. Practically, then, Mr. Eaton hasn’t bought you, but he’s got
your money all in his control, you elect his underlings and through
them he governs you, speculates with your money, and, in time, you’ll
send him to the United States Senate. As a matter of fact, if the same
system worked in the other States, he could be President.”
“By George, so he could! I hadn’t thought of it,” said Todd, letting
his heavy fist fall on the table with a force that made every article
on it dance. “Mr. Trench, I want you to put that before the people
up to Cresset’s Corners. There’s going to be a town meeting there on
Friday night. If you’ll let me, I’ll post it in the post-office that
you’ll speak on the Republican ticket. You can just drop this in as you
go along.”
Caleb thought hard, drawing a line on the table with his paper-cutter.
“I’m perfectly willing to speak for the Republican ticket,” he
said, amused, “but this is not germane to that subject. If they ask
questions I’ll answer them, but I wouldn’t start out to attack Mr.
Eaton personally without grounds. I’ve said all I want to say here and
now; of course I’ll say it over again in public, but I can’t throw Mr.
Eaton’s method into the Republican ticket.”
“I’ll ask all the questions,” said Todd. “What I want is, to get the
facts out. Everybody’s for Eaton because everybody’s scairt, an’
really Yarnall’s the best man we’ve got.”
“Then vote for Yarnall,” Trench advised coolly.
“He ain’t Republican, an’ you want the Republican ticket,” protested
Todd, a little bewildered.
“We can’t elect it,” said Caleb; “even with the Democratic Party split,
we can’t get votes enough. If you’re a Democrat vote for Yarnall.”
Todd folded his tobacco pouch and thrust it into his trousers’ pocket,
with burrowing thoughtfulness, then he pulled the crease out of his
waistcoat. “How many have you said that to?” he asked.
Trench smiled. “To every man who has asked me,” he replied, “the
Republican ticket first and Yarnall next.”
Todd rose and picked up his broad hat. “I reckon we’ll have Yarnall
after all,” he drawled, “but you’ll speak Friday, Trench?”
Trench nodded.
Just then some one came into the shop with the frou-frou of ruffled
skirts. Caleb went out, followed by Shot first and Todd last. Shot
greeted the newcomer with uplifted paw. Miss Kitty Broughton bowed
and shook hands with the dog, laughing; she was very pretty, and in
a flowered muslin, with a broad-brimmed saucy straw, she looked the
incarnation of spring. No one would have imagined that she was a
granddaughter of old Judge Hollis and a grandniece of Miss Sarah.
She went up to the counter and pushed a square white envelope across
to Caleb. Meanwhile, Aaron Todd had gone out to his wagon and was
climbing into it. Trench took the envelope, smiling back into Miss
Kitty’s laughing blue eyes, and opened it.
“So you’re ‘out,’ are you, Miss Broughton?” he asked, “or is this only
the first alarm?”
“It’s my first really and truly ball,” said Kitty, “and Aunt Sarah’s
going to lead the Virginia Reel!” She clapped her hands delightedly.
“You’ll come, Mr. Trench?”
“I haven’t been to a ball in six years,” replied Caleb, smiling, “I
wouldn’t know a soul. You’re good to me, Miss Broughton, and I’ll send
a bouquet.”
“You’ll come!” said Kitty.
He shook his head, still smiling. “Shot would be better fun,” he said;
“you mustn’t invite shopkeepers, Miss Kitty.”
Kitty pouted, but a red streak went up to her hair. She knew she would
be teased by her intimates later for that very thing. Yet Caleb was
a gentleman, and Judge Hollis loved him; Kitty was not sure that she
could not love him herself if he tried to make her, but he never did,
and he looked as detached now as a pyramid of Egypt, which was a nettle
to her vanity.
“Will you come?” she demanded, leaning on the counter and nestling
her little round chin into the hollow of her hands. Something in the
gesture made him think of Diana--if Kitty had but known it!
“Can’t you let me off?” he asked good-naturedly.
She shook her head. “Please come,” she said. “I bet Judge Hollis a
dollar that I’d make you--and I’ll have to go without my dollar if you
refuse; he swore you would.”
“Suppose you let me pay the debt, Miss Kitty?” Caleb smiled.
She shook her head. “Oh, it’s more than the money,” she protested.
“He’ll say I couldn’t get you to come. I’ve got some pride about it; I
hate to be laughed at.”
“So do I,” sympathized Trench, “and they’ll laugh at me for going.
They’ll call me the Yankee shopkeeper--but I’ll go.”
She clapped her hands delightedly. “Really? Honor bright?”
“Honor bright,” he affirmed; “will you dance with me, Miss Broughton?”
“The very first dance,” laughed Kitty. “You’re the captive of my bow
and spear. You’ll be angry, too, for everybody wants to dance first
with Diana Royall. She’s the belle, and her sprained ankle’s well
again. Was it true that you carried her in out of the rain?” she asked
curiously, her blue eyes dancing.
“I didn’t know you gossiped,” parried Trench.
“Oh, I love it!” she protested, “and Diana won’t tell me. It sounds so
romantic, too. I’ll know, though--because you’ll ask her to dance next
if you did.”
“I don’t think you will know,” said Caleb.
She looked across the counter at him, her head on one side. “Why won’t
you tell me?”
“Ask Miss Royall,” he suggested quietly.
“I know it’s true now!” Kitty cried.
“Go home and mind your own business, you minx!” said Judge Hollis,
suddenly appearing, his large figure filling the door. “Don’t let her
waste your time, Caleb,--the idlest little girl in the county.”
“I’ve won my dollar!” cried Kitty, presenting an ungloved little hand,
the pink palm up; “pay your debts, sir.”
The judge laughed and drew out a silver dollar. “Are you going, Caleb?”
he asked. “I won’t pay till I’m certain; the baggage fleeces me.”
“I’ve promised,” said Caleb, smiling; “she’s fairly earned it, Judge.”
“There it is, miss,” said the judge and kissed her. “Now go home!”
Kitty laughed. “I can’t,” she said, “I’ve got a dollar more to spend
at Eshcol. I’m going into town. Good-bye, and be sure you come, Mr.
Trench.”
“He will,” said the judge firmly, “or you’ll refund that dollar.”
“I’ll go, Miss Broughton,” Caleb said, though in his heart he dreaded
it; he had a proud man’s aversion to meeting discourtesy from those
who despised his poverty, and he had observed the red when it stained
Kitty’s cheek. But, after all, it was a small matter, he reflected; to
one of Caleb’s habits of thought the social part of life was a small
matter. Yet it is the small things which prick until the blood comes.