THE HINT NOT TAKEN.
The eyes of the civilized world were now directed to the settlement wherein
Beulah was murdered, in order to witness there the workings of the
sentiment of justice.
The poet's pen, the artist's brush, the sculptor's chisel, have long since
despaired of adequately setting forth the natural charms of the Southland,
the home of birds and flowers, grand with mountains, beautiful with
valleys, restful in the girdling arms of her majestic streams, presided
over by skies that are the bluest of the blue.
Knowing the proud place given the Southland by the fiat of Nature, the
world of mankind riveted its gaze upon her eagerly and pressed to know the
fate of those who murdered Beulah. The great heart of the South throbbed
with a sense of shame over the perpetration of the crime and now sought to
shake itself loose from the benumbing influences of an ever-pervading race
feeling that was so powerful as to render inoperative so many higher
sentiments. The pulpit and the press spoke in terrible tones to the hearts
and consciences of the whites in denunciation of the crime and in demand
that the guilty parties be brought to trial.
In addition to their natural horror of the crime, the best white people of
the South had another incentive for desiring that they should act worthily
in the matter. The white people had arrogated to themselves the right of
exclusive control of public affairs. This act had been quietly submitted to
by the Negroes, and the people of the North at that time appeared to be
disposed to accept in great measure the Southern white man's view of his
own problem. With all that they demanded practically conceded, they felt
the more under obligations to make human life within their borders safe and
sacred.
The Governor of the State offered large rewards for the apprehension and
conviction of the perpetrators of the crime. In spite, however, of all the
indignation of the South, no arrests were made. The members of the mob were
in some way related to practically every influential family in the county
in which the crime had been committed. In many cases the prosecutors would
have found themselves proceeding against their closest kin.
The coroner's jury, duly impanelled and sworn, viewed the remains of Beulah
and brought in the stereotyped verdict that "the deceased came to her death
at the hands of a party or parties to the jury unknown." This verdict
brought the incident to a close, so far as society, acting through legally
constituted agencies, was concerned. But the incident was not in reality
closed; for when a given agency fails to adequately meet the demands of
humanity, the people find a way of making their power felt. Public
sentiment began to mete out, in its own peculiar way, the justice which the
courts had felt unable to administer.
The young men who had committed the crime, found themselves ostracized on
every hand. Those who were engaged to be married, received notes cancelling
their engagements.
When the people so elect they can make a citizen's garb burn into the soul
of a man with an intensity equal to that of prison stripes. If the
perpetrators of the crime were not convicts, the difference would not have
been discovered by a comparison of their feelings with those of real
convicts.
It came to the ears of 'Squire Mullen that his son Alfred had been the one
to apply the torch and to strike the blow that brought on Beulah's death.
The 'Squire was the soul of honor, as he understood it, and while he
believed it to be the design of God that the white man should keep the
Negro in a subordinate place, he yet deemed it an unspeakable horror to
needlessly afflict a helpless people.
'Squire Mullen went to the room of his son on the night of the day on which
he had heard of the part that the young man had played in the matter. The
hour was late; his son was asleep in bed. The father said to himself as he
looked at his sleeping offspring:
"I do not yet know that my boy is _that_ guilty. Let me stroke those Saxon
curls and kiss his cheek once more before I find out whether or not he is
guilty." His caressings awoke Alfred, and the tenderness died out of the
'Squire's face, a look of stern justice mounted the throne.
He said: "Alfred, news reaches me that you applied the torch to Uncle
Stephen's house while his daughter was in there, and that you struck the
blow that killed her. I have come to know of you, my son, as to whether you
did or did not do these things."
Alfred sat up in bed, a look of deep remorse upon his young and handsome
face.
"Father," he said, "I would give the world to be able to truthfully say
that the statements are false; but I cannot. The statements are true, too
true!"
'Squire Mullen's eyes closed, his features became pinched, a harrowing
groan escaped his lips. In his heart, honor and justice were throttling the
love of his son. The moment was as excruciating as the soul of man ever
knew. The struggle was great, for the opposing forces were great; but the
conflict was of but a moment's duration.
'Squire Mullen turned and dragged himself out of the room. His step was no
longer elastic. That instant had brought on the old age which his
energetic will had persisted in delaying. In a few minutes he returned,
bringing with him the family pistol. He placed it on the lamp-stand that
stood at the head of Alfred's bed. Without saying a word he left the room.
He went to bed, but, alas, could not sleep. He lay throughout the night
expecting a sound that failed to come. When the fowls in the barnyard began
to signal the approach of day, he arose and went to Alfred's room again. He
said, "Alfred! Alfred! Alfred!" Alfred awoke.
"Can you sleep on such a night?" said the 'Squire, in tones of agony. "Is
the family honor that low also? Can we thus bear open disgrace? Alfred!
Alfred! There is a pistol at the head of your bed." So saying, the 'Squire
returned to his room to again listen for the sound that would have been the
most welcome of any that could be made.
Alfred now understood that his father desired him to commit suicide. He
grasped the pistol and held it in his hand. He longed at that moment for
the courage to die, but it was missing. He had been brought up from infancy
by a "black mammy," and she had succeeded in imbuing his soul with her
living fear of hell and her conceptions of a personal devil. As he sought
to lift the pistol to his head, vivid pictures of lurid flames and grinning
demons arose and paralyzed the hand that he desired to pull the trigger.
Day broke and he was yet alive.
The 'Squire now came and took the pistol from the table where Alfred had
replaced it, saying not a word to his son. That day he summoned all of his
relations that were near by to gather at his home. In response to his
request they came, their wives and daughters accompanying them.
In the middle of the afternoon the men repaired to the front yard, leaving
the women in the house. It was somewhat cold and a bonfire was started to
keep them warm. A circle of chairs was formed around the fire and the men
sat down, two chairs having been put within the circle to be occupied by
'Squire Mullen and Alfred. These two now took their seats side by side. A
huge leather back book was in the 'Squire's hands. His face wore a stern
aspect, but one could tell that grief born of love was gnawing at his
vitals. Since the previous night his hair had whitened and his brave eye
had lost its glitter. He arose to address the meeting. Opening the book
which he had in hand, he said: "Kinsmen, I hold in my hand the record book
of the Mullens. I shall on this occasion read to you a terse statement of
the most notable achievements of the Mullens from the time of William of
Normandy until the present."
They all listened attentively while he read, Alfred's eyes being cast upon
the ground.
Having traced the family history to his own generation, the 'Squire read of
the deeds of prowess of himself and the others assembled who had rendered
excellent service to the cause of the Southern Confederacy. When through
with this he called the name of Alfred Mullen.
The 'Squire paused, then said: "Kinsmen, it would appear that I must now
record the deed of one who claims to be my offspring and a partaker of the
blood of our illustrious family. If so be, then the record must read that
Alfred Mullen, on a _Christmas_ morn, murdered a Negro _girl_ in the
absence of all _male_ protection. The murder was _unprovoked_, and
committed by Alfred Mullen while he had the protection of a gang of his
fellows.
"Kinsmen, I have summoned you here to know if this deed must go on record.
If you decide that it shall not go on record, you know what that means."
Turning to Alfred, he said: "It means that you must abandon the name of
Mullen upon pain of being killed; that you must never lay claim to kinship
with us; that you must go forth with the mark of Cain upon your brow."
The 'Squire now took his seat. There was a short pause. Then one by one the
relatives arose and, with becoming gravity, made speeches repudiating
Alfred, insisting that his sin against the traditional honor of the house
of Mullen was unpardonable.
Before taking a final vote, Alfred was asked as to whether he had anything
to say. He made no reply; his head was still bowed. A vote was then taken
and Alfred stood expelled from the Mullen family forever.
The assembly now adjourned, and all the men, save Alfred, returned to the
house, where sat the women in silence and in sorrow. Alfred, the out-cast,
had gone. When the men entered the room Mrs. Mullen read in their
countenances the fate of her boy, and she uttered a short, sharp scream of
anguish that she could not repress.
"Mourn not for Cain," said 'Squire Mullen, whose twitching face belied the
sternness of his voice. His heart, too, was sadly, cruelly torn by what had
befallen his boy, but as best he could he maintained an outward calm.
That night a mob was formed at 'Squire Mullen's house. In silence the men
proceeded to the barroom where their sons had imbibed the inspiration for
their nefarious crime. They dragged out all of the kegs and barrels
containing liquor, and emptied the contents on the ground. They then set
the building on fire, and it was soon an ash-heap. A committee waited upon
the barkeeper, reimbursed him for his losses and warned him to never more
sell liquor in that settlement.