THE next morning Judge Hollis walked into Caleb Trench’s little back
room.
In the broad daylight the judge was a stately figure, tall, stout,
white-haired, with a high Roman nose and a mouth and chin like a
Spartan’s. He always wore an old-fashioned, long frock coat, a high
pointed collar and stiff black tie; in summer his waistcoat was white
marseilles, with large buttons and a heavy watch-chain; he carried a
gold-headed cane and he took snuff.
He found Trench in his shirt sleeves, plodding over some papers, his
face flushed and his jaw set, a trick he had in perplexity. The judge
eyed him grimly. “Well,” he said, “what’s the price of cockerels
to-day?”
Trench, who had not noticed his entrance, rose and gave the old man a
chair. “To-day I’m figuring out the price of men,” he replied; “every
single investor in the Eaton Land Company has been notified--in one
way or another--that only Aylett men are to go to the Democratic
Convention.”
The judge whistled softly.
“It’s true,” said Trench, throwing back his head with a peculiar
gesture of the right hand that was at once characteristic and
striking. “I’m ashamed for you Democrats,” he added.
The judge squared his massive shoulders and gripped his gold-headed
cane. “You young black Republican agitator,” he retorted bitterly,
“produce your evidence.”
Trench brought his palm down sharply on his desk. “It’s here,” he said;
“Aaron Todd has been threatened, but he did not put in his last savings
and is standing firm; the rest are like frightened sheep. Because I
pointed out this lever in my Cresset speech they seem to think it’s a
fulfillment, and they’ve poured in on me to-day to beg me to get their
investments out for them! Meanwhile the company has declared that no
dividends will be paid until after election, neither will they refund.
If I carry the cases into court against Eaton, he’ll take advantage
of the bankruptcy law. The investors in the country are frightened
to death, and they’d vote for Satan for governor if they thought it
would insure their money. Yarnall’s an honest man, but there are fifty
hand-bills in circulation accusing him of everything short of arson and
murder. That’s your Democratic campaign.”
“And your Republican one is to stir up the niggers,” thundered the
judge. “Peter Mahan’s been out in the Bottoms speaking to ten thousand
blacks! By the Lord Harry, sir, I wish they were all stuffed down his
throat!”
Whereat Caleb Trench laughed suddenly. “Judge,” he said, “if Peter
Mahan could be elected, you’d have a clean straight administration.”
“He can’t be, sir,” snapped the judge, “and I’m glad of it!”
“You’ll be sorry,” Trench remarked calmly, “unless you nominate
Yarnall.”
“I’m for Aylett,” the judge said soberly. “I shall vote for Aylett in
the convention; Yarnall will split the party. That’s what you want, you
young cub!”
Caleb smiled. “I’m interested to know how much money it will take to
nominate Aylett,” he said; “you’re for Aylett, judge, but you’re not
strong enough to defeat Yarnall.”
“Neither are you strong enough to nominate him,” said the judge
sharply. “You look out for the blood feud, Caleb; these fellows behind
Jacob Eaton haven’t forgotten that the Yarnalls drew the last blood.
They’re mighty like North American Indians, and your Cresset speech
stirred up a hornet’s nest. I’m for Aylett and peace.”
Trench folded the papers on his desk reflectively. “I can’t make out
Jacob Eaton,” he said.
The judge chuckled. “He’s a mighty queer package,” he said grimly,
“a cross between a mollycoddle and a bully. Jinny Eaton raised him
in jeweler’s cotton for fear he’d catch the measles, and he went to
college with a silver christening mug and a silk quilt. When he got
there he drank whiskey and played the races, and some poor devil, who
was working his way through college, coached him for his exams. He got
out with a diploma but no honors, and enough bad habits to sink a ship.
Then Jinny introduced him to society as the Model Young Man. He’s been
speculating ever since, and he’s got the shrewd business sense that old
man Eaton had. He doesn’t care two cents for Aylett, but he’s going
to fight Yarnall to the knife. He-- What the devil’s the matter with
Zeb Bartlett?” the judge suddenly added, stooping to look out of the
window. “He’s been walking past the front door, back and forth, four or
five times since I’ve been sitting here, and he’s making faces until he
looks like a sculpin.”
Trench laughed grimly. “He does that at intervals,” he replied,
“because I won’t lend him a dollar to get tipsy on.”
The judge grunted, his head still lowered to command a view of the
shambling figure of the idiot. Then he rose suddenly and went to the
window, thrusting his hand into his pocket. “Here, Zeb!” he shouted,
in his stentorian tones, “take that and get drunk, and I’ll have you
arrested,” and he flung out fifty cents.
Bartlett groveled for it in the dust, found it and grinned idiotically.
Then, retreating a few steps, he looked back and kissed his hand, still
gurgling. The judge watched him out of sight, then he sat down and took
snuff. “Don’t let that fool hang around here,” he said sharply; “it
will get a crank into his head and the Lord knows how it’s going to
come out. Give him a quarter and let him go.”
“I won’t,” said Caleb dryly. “I’d rather give it to his grandmother;
she’ll need it.”
“To be sure,” said the judge ironically, “and she’d give it to him with
a dime on top of it; that’s a woman down to the ground. If there’s
anything worthless within a hundred miles, they’ll adore it!”
As he spoke, there was a rustle in the outer shop and Miss Sarah
suddenly thrust her head in the door. She always wore the most
extraordinary bonnets, and the one to-day had a long green plume that
trembled and swayed behind her head like the pendulum of an eight-day
clock.
“Judge,” she said, “I wish you’d get up and go home. It sounds rude,
Caleb, but he’s always insisting on dinner at one o’clock sharp,
because his grandmother had it, and he’s never there until the roast is
overdone or the gravy is spoiled! Besides, I’m alarmed; I’ve discovered
something about Juniper.” Miss Sarah came in and shut the door and put
her back against it, her air conveying some deep and awful mystery.
“He’s got fifty dollars.”
The judge brought down his heavy brows over his high nose in a judicial
frown, but his eyes snapped. “What’s the nigger been up to?” he asked
calmly; “been negotiating law business for him, Trench?”
Caleb shook his head, smiling.
“He’s been stealing,” said Miss Sarah with conviction.
“Think likely,” said the judge, “but from whom? Not me, Sarah; if it
had been from me it would have been fifty cents.”
“I never thought it was from you,” she retorted scornfully, “but I’ve
hunted the house over to see if he could have pawned anything and--”
The judge brought his hand down on his knee. “The silver teapot, Sarah!”
She shook her head. “Aunt Charity’s got it; she gave a supper last
night and they had their usual fight and she locked him out. He sat on
the step all night and came to our house for something to eat; then he
showed the fifty-dollar bill. Of course he stole it.”
The judge meditated, looking grim.
It was Trench who made the suggestion. “Isn’t that rather large for
campaign money?” he asked mildly.
The judge swore, then he got up and reached for his hat. “I’ll make him
take it back,” he said viciously.
“Take it where?” demanded Miss Sarah vaguely.
“To Ballyshank!” retorted the judge, jamming his hat down on his head.
They all emerged into the outer room just as Miss Royall appeared in
the shop-door. She was dressed in a pink muslin with a wide straw hat
trimmed with pink roses, and looked like a woodland nymph. The judge
swung off his hat.
“We’ve been having a political tournament,” he said, “and now comes the
Queen of Love and Beauty.”
Diana liked the old man and smiled her most charming smile. Miss Sarah
went up and pecked her cheek, a rite that elderly ladies still like
to perform in public. Trench, longing to play the host but too proud
to risk a rebuke, bowed silently. Something in Diana’s eye warned him
that she was minded to make him repent the dance she had given him; the
scoldings she had received were rankling in her mind. Unhappily, too,
something in the judge’s manner said, “So ho! is this a flirtation?”
Her cheeks burned.
The judge blundered. “Let me offer a chair,” he said, with
old-fashioned courtesy, “then we will ask you to help us solve a riddle
of Sarah’s. She has found that Juniper is unusually rich, a kind of
ebony John Jacob Astor, the proud possessor of fifty dollars.”
Diana declined the chair. “Juniper?” she repeated. “Oh, yes, I know all
about it!”
“Did he steal it from you, dear?” Miss Sarah asked excitedly.
“Jacob Eaton gave it to him,” Diana replied simply, “he thought he
needed it; he’s been out of work, and you know what a nuisance Lysander
is.”
“But fifty dollars, my dear!” protested Miss Hollis faintly.
Diana caught the glances between the judge and Trench and stiffened.
“My cousin is generous,” she said.
The judge took snuff.
Poor Caleb fell into the snare. “Miss Royall, do sit down,” he urged,
pushing forward the chair.
Diana’s chin went up; her eyes sparkled. “Thank you, I only came for
that bolt of pink ribbon,” she said grandly, indicating it with her
parasol, and then, opening her purse, “How much is it?”
“It’s sold,” said Trench, and shut his lips like a steel trap.
Diana turned crimson. “Oh,” she said, then she swung around and drew
her arm through Miss Sarah’s thin black silk-clad elbow, that was like
the hook of a grappling iron. “I think you were going?” she cooed.
The old lady hesitated, confused. “I--I--” she began.
“Here’s the carriage,” said Diana sweetly, and drew her out of the
door; “there’s room for you, judge,” she called back, not even glancing
at Trench.
“I’ll walk,” said the judge, “I’m a young man yet; don’t you forget it,
my girl!”
Diana laughed. “The youngest I know, in heart,” she said, and waved her
hand as they drove off.
The judge looked at Caleb soberly. “You’ve done it, young man,” he said
quietly.
A slow painful blush went up to Caleb’s hair. “So be it,” he said
bitterly. “I’m human and I’ve borne all I can,” and he turned away.
“My God!” he added, with a violence so unusual and so heartfelt that
it startled the judge, “does that girl think me the dirt under her
feet because I’ve sold ribbon? I’m a gentleman; I’m as well-born and
as well-bred as she is, but she won’t recognize it--more than half
an hour. One day she’s--she’s an angel of courtesy and kindness, the
next she insults me. She and Eaton have made my life here a hell!” He
clenched his hands until the nails bit into the flesh.
“She’s young,” said Judge Hollis slowly, “and ill advised.”
Trench struggled to be calm; his face paled again, the light died out
of his eyes. “Let her leave me in peace!” he cried at last.
The judge drew a pattern on the floor with his stick. “She admires you
immensely,” he said deliberately, “and she respects you.”
Trench laughed bitterly.
The judge put on his hat again and held out his hand. “I’ll give you
the odds on the money, Caleb,” he said, “but I’d like to know--by the
Lord Harry, I’d like to know--what Eaton’s buying niggers for at this
late date?”
He got no answer. Caleb’s face was as set as flint.