IT was long past midnight when Mrs. Eaton went down-stairs for the
fourth time to see if her son had returned home.
She was alone with the servants in the old Eaton house, which was
three miles from Broad Acres, and she had not ventured out in the
storm, which had been raging since early evening. The wind shook the
old house at intervals with the moan of autumn in the gale, yet the
roll of thunder recalled midsummer. Once she had looked out and, in a
blinding flash, saw the old cottonwoods in front of the house stripped
naked by the wind. There was a weird aspect to the world in that one
fierce moment of illumination, and the tumult of sounds without, the
creaking of the old house within, and the interminable ticking of the
clocks recalled to her shrinking mind a memory of that other night,
long ago, when she had been summoned home from Lexington, to find her
husband’s dead body in the long west room, and hear the whisperings
of the terrified servants on the stairs. She knew that even now the
negroes were locked in the wing, for they believed that on such nights
Eaton walked, demanding the blood of the Yarnalls, and since Yarnall’s
death, violent as his own, they had shrieked at shadows.
Though she realized the folly of their superstitions, poor Jinny Eaton,
alone and vaguely terrified, shivered too. Once she caught herself
looking over her shoulder, and at last she cried hysterically. The
wind, sweeping a long branch against the window, rattled the pane,
and she started up, white with fright. In a sudden panic she rang for
her maid, but no one answered, though she heard the blurred sound
far in the distance; a glance at the clock told her it was nearly
two. There was no light except in the hall and the library, where
she herself had turned the electric switch, and she walked through
all the other dim rooms, starting at a shadow, and looking over her
shoulder when the floors creaked behind her. The house was much more
richly furnished than Broad Acres, and everywhere she was surrounded
with the luxuries that she loved. But alone there, in those desolate
hours before the dawn, poor Jinny found no comfort in the things
that had always seemed so comforting. In a vague way at first, and
constantly resisting even her own convictions, she had begun to feel
a doubt of Jacob,--Jacob, who had been almost omnipotent to her, who
had represented all her hopes and aspirations for years, and was, in
her own eyes, the achievement of her life. To have her faith in him
shaken was more bitter than death. And where was he? A premonition of
evil oppressed her, as she wandered from place to place in restless
unhappiness. Earlier in the night she had tried in vain to reach him
over the telephone: now her only resource was to wait. She went from
window to window, peeping out, her face drawn and haggard, and all
the well-preserved traces of her former beauty lost in her pathetic
dishevelment. She watched the morning dawn over the long fields that
smoked with moisture, and she saw the broken limbs of the trees and the
dead leaves that scurried before the wind, like the shriveled ghosts
of summer. Then, just as she had given up the vigil, and sank in a
disconsolate heap in the nearest chair, she heard his latch-key in the
door, and running into the hall fell on his neck in a fit of hysterical
weeping.
“Oh, Jacob,” she sobbed, “where have you been?”
“Don’t be silly!” he said crossly, and loosened her arms from his neck.
“I’m dead beat; where’s Davidson? I want something.”
“The servants are not up yet,” his mother faltered. “I’ll get you some
whiskey and soda, dear, and I’ll ring up Davidson. I’ve been up all
night.”
Jacob flung himself into a chair and sat there waiting for her to bring
the liquor and wait on him, as she had waited on him all his life. But,
if she thought of this at all, it was only with an alarmed perception
of the haggard moodiness of his expression. She saw that he had been
drinking heavily already, but she dared not deny him more, and, in a
way, she had faith in his own judgment in the matter. She had never
known him to drink more than he was able to bear, and she did not know
that Will Broughton said that Trench owed his life to Eaton’s tippling,
and steadier nerves and a firmer hand would have dealt certain death.
She came back at last, after a lengthy excursion to the pantry, and
brought him some refreshments, arranged hastily on a little tray by
hands so unaccustomed to any sick-room service that they were almost
awkward. She put the things down beside him on the table and fluttered
about, eager to help him and almost afraid of him, as she was in his
ungracious moods. But her desire for news, the certainty that he
could settle all her doubts, lent a pleasurable thrill of excitement
to her trepidation. Her news from the city had been vague, and the
announcement of Caleb’s acquittal had only filtered to her over a
belated telephone to the housekeeper, but here was the fountainhead of
all her information.
Meanwhile Jacob drank the liquor, but scarcely tasted the food, and his
lowering expression disfigured his usually smooth good looks. He leaned
back in his chair, staring absently at the bottle, and saying nothing,
though he slowly closed and unclosed his hands, a trick of his when
angry or deeply distraught. His mother, seeing the gesture, experienced
another throb of dismay; something had happened, something which struck
at the root of things, but what? She fluttered to the window and
opening the shutter let in the pale gray light of morning, and as she
did it she heard the servants stirring in the wing. At last she could
endure suspense no longer.
“For heaven’s sake, Jacob!” she cried, “what is the matter?”
He gave her a sidelong look from under heavy lids and seemed to
restrain an impulse to speak out. “I suppose you know that rascal is
acquitted?” he said curtly.
“I could scarcely believe it!” she replied, dropping into the chair
opposite and pushing back her long full sleeves and loosening the
ribbons at her throat, as if she suddenly felt the heat. “It seems
impossible--after your evidence, too, and Governor Aylett’s! That jury
must have been full of anarchists.”
“Full of asses!” snapped Jacob. “I fancy that you don’t know that Diana
Royall got up on the witness-stand and made a public exhibition of
herself to clear him?”
“Diana?” Mrs. Eaton could not believe her ears.
“Yes, Diana,” mocked her son, “our Diana. She went on the stand and
created a sensation, took the court by storm and the city. Good Lord!
Her name’s in every club in the place.”
“I--I can’t believe it!” gasped his mother: “it’s incredible--Diana
Royall?”
“Incredible?” He rose, his face was white with fury. “Is it incredible?
Do you remember her mother?”
Mrs. Eaton collapsed. “Jacob!” she breathed, “don’t! It makes me shiver
to think you might have married her.”
“By God, I would to-day!” he cried, unable to restrain himself, “if
only to break her spirit, to make her pay for this!”
“I can’t see what she knew,” Mrs. Eaton protested, “she--a young
girl--and all this awful scandal about Jean Bartlett in the papers. In
my day, a young girl would have been ashamed to show her face in the
court.”
“Well, she wasn’t,” said Jacob dryly; “she appeared and told the court
that at the hour of the shooting she was alone with Caleb Trench in the
prisoners’ cage!”
“Merciful heavens!” ejaculated Mrs. Eaton faintly, “was David crazy to
let her do it?”
“He’s an old fool!” said Jacob fiercely, “a damned old fool!”
Mrs. Eaton clasped her hands. “I’m only too thankful, Jacob, that you
never married her!” she said devoutly.
“She’s refused me twice,” said Jacob grimly.
His mother uttered an inarticulate sound. And at that instant Davidson,
an old gray-headed negro, appeared and Jacob called him. “Tell James
to pack my suit-case,” he said sharply. “I’m going to Lexington this
morning on the eight-forty.”
“Doctor Cheyney’s at the doah, suh,” said Davidson, “and would like ter
see yo’.”
“What does that old fool want, I wonder?” Jacob remarked, as he rose to
follow the negro into the hall.
“What are you going so soon for, Jacob?” his mother asked tremulously,
“and can you--the bail--”
“I’ve arranged that,” said Jacob shortly, and flung himself out of the
room.
Dr. Cheyney was looking out from under the cover of his buggy, and old
Henk was breathing as if they had ascended the hill at an unusual gait.
“Morning, Jacob,” said the doctor pleasantly, “I stopped by to leave
that book for your mother; Mrs. Broughton asked me to bring it when I
passed yesterday and I clean forgot it.”
Jacob took the volume gingerly and looked politely bored. What in the
world did the old fool mean by bringing books before seven o’clock in
the morning?
Dr. Cheyney gathered up the reins: conversation seemed improbable, but
he noticed that Davidson had gone back into the house. They were quite
alone under the leaden sky, and the fresh wind blew moist across their
faces.
“By the way,” said the old man carelessly, “Judge Hollis has been with
Juniper all night and at six this morning I heard he had a confession.”
Jacob looked up into the doctor’s eyes, his own narrowing. “Ah,” he
said, “I presume Judge Hollis makes out that Juniper did the shooting?”
“Don’t know,” said Dr. Cheyney, slapping the reins on Henk’s broad
back, “heard there would be an arrest to-day,” and he drove slowly off,
the old wheels sinking in first one rut and then another, and jolting
the carriage from side to side.
Jacob Eaton stood looking after it a minute, then he turned and went
into the house. It was now seven o’clock in the morning.
That evening, at the corresponding hour, Colonel Royall and Diana
were dining alone at Broad Acres. The fact that Diana had been drawn
into an undesirable publicity through her unexpected connection with
the celebrated case troubled Colonel Royall profoundly. He was an
old-fashioned Southern gentleman, and believed devoutly in sheltering
and treasuring his beautiful daughter; every instinct had been jarred
upon by the mere fact of her appearance on the witness-stand, and the
circumstances, too, which made it practically his own fault. He blamed
himself for his carelessness in ignorantly leaving her in a room used
by the prisoners and, in fact, for taking her there at all. Yet he
fully sympathized with her in her courage. Behind it all, however, was
a memory which stung, and the knowledge that an old scandal is never
really too dead to rise, like a phœnix, from its ashes.
All through the latter part of the summer the colonel had been unwell,
and lately Diana had watched him with deep concern. Dr. Cheyney
pooh-poohed her solicitude, said the colonel was as sound as a boy
of ten, and only advised a cheerful atmosphere. But Diana, sitting
opposite to him that day at dinner, saw how white and drawn his face
was, how pinched his lips, how absent his gentle blue eyes. She felt
a sudden overwhelming dread and found it difficult to talk and laugh
lightly, even when he responded with an eagerness that was an almost
pathetic attempt at his natural manner.
They were just leaving the dining-room when Judge Hollis was announced,
and Diana was almost glad, even of this interruption, though she was
conscious of a sharp dread that they were to hear more of the trial. A
glance at the judge’s face as he stalked into the room confirmed this
impression; he was no longer wholly triumphant, his rugged jaw was
locked, and his shaggy brows hung low over his keen eyes. He walked
into the center of the room as usual and banged his hat down on the
table.
“David,” he said abruptly, “how deep are you in with Jacob Eaton?”
Colonel Royall leaned forward in his chair, his hands clasping the
arms. “Pretty well in,” he said simply, “unless he’s sold out my shares
for me. I asked it, but he didn’t do it last week.”
“Oh, Lordy!” said the judge.
Diana went around the table and put her hand on her father’s shoulder;
her young figure, drawn to its full height, seemed to stand between him
and impending misfortune.
“Juniper confessed this morning,” said Judge Hollis harshly, forcing
himself to his unpleasant task. “He was hired by Jacob Eaton to stand
in the window of the court-room while Jacob fired from behind him and
killed Yarnall.”
Colonel Royall rose and stood, white as ashes. “My God!” he said.
Diana flung one arm around him. Judge Hollis stood looking at them a
moment, then he cleared his throat, choked and went on.
“Caleb Trench to-day gave me the proofs that Aaron Todd and others have
collected in regard to the Eaton Investment Company. The shares are not
worth the paper they’re written on, the company is a name, a bubble, a
conspiracy. Not one cent will ever be recovered by the stockholders.
Before nine o’clock this morning Jacob Eaton jumped his bail and ran.
He can’t be found--he--”
Diana suddenly stretched out a white arm before her father, as if she
warded off a blow.
“Not another word, Judge,” she said sternly, “not a word--on your life!”
Judge Hollis uttered an exclamation and went over to the colonel’s
side. “Royall,” he said, “I’m a brute--but it’s God’s truth.”
“I know it,” said Colonel Royall, “and Jacob is of my blood--I feel the
disgrace. Hollis, I feel the disgrace!” and he sat down and covered his
face with his hands.