THE next morning Steve Hoyle left town and Stella began at once to
put into execution her plan to entrap John Graham in the meshes of her
beauty and deliver him to justice. She felt instinctively that if this
man with his intense and romantic nature ever yielded to the spell
of her love, there could be no limit to which he would not go at her
bidding. With equal certainty she realised that the task would be
a delicate one--a task which might put to the test every power she
possessed. Her whole being rose to the work with a thrill of keen, cruel
interest--the interest of the primitive huntress on track of the rarest,
wildest and most daring game.
The first difficulty which apparently opened an impassable gulf between
them was the suit which John Graham had begun to regain possession of
the estate. The language in which his complaint had been drawn was the
limit of bitter accusation permitted in a legal document--parts of it,
indeed, the Court had ordered stricken from the record as scandalous and
irrelevant.
Stella’s eyes danced with excitement as she read in the morning’s
paper the announcement of his withdrawal of this suit. The news was
accompanied by a brief statement which might have been written as a
personal apology to her for the language he had used.
_“I beg leave to say to the public in withdrawing this action that
I regret the overheated language in which the original complaint was
expressed.”_
Without a moment’s hesitation she seized her pen and wrote him an
invitation to call. Her words revealed the deeply laid scheme on which
her mind had seized in a flash of inspiration. She read and reread it
carefully:
_My dear Mr. Graham:_
_Permit me to thank you for the manly words of retraction which you
have used in this morning’s paper.-Your withdrawal of this suit and the
generous manner in which it was done, removes the only barrier to our
friendly acquaintance. I wish to renew it, and ask you to please accept
at once the position of my personal attorney in the settlement of my
father’s estate. Your influence in the courts of North Carolina, your
eloquence and genius will, be of invaluable service to an orphan girl
who needs the advice of one on whose integrity she can absolutely rely._
_Trusting that you may honour me by answering this request in person at
three o’clock this afternoon._
_Sincerely,_
_Stella Butler._
John Graham could not believe his senses when he first read this letter.
The boy had turned and gone without waiting for an answer and he sat
stupefied by a whirl of conflicting emotions.
He read it again, bent and kissed her name. He had never before seen
her handwriting. He studied it with curious interest. Its deep lines
revealed with startling distinctness traits of a remarkable character.
It was full of long strokes of the pen with equal emphasis across, up
and down. The letters were unevenly formed, showing the self-willed,
imperious spirit that had refused to copy the lines set by another
hand, and yet the effect was pleasing and held the eye in a continuous
surprise at its sensational curves and dashes. Through every line he
felt the throb of an intense nature, which seemed to sink into inaudible
whispers of emotion in the queer little twists of the pen with which
each sentence ended.
He placed the note in an inner pocket. Had he received this invitation
yesterday, he would have locked his doors, shouted and danced for joy at
the opportunity to press her hand again and look into those deep brown
eyes that haunted him waking or dreaming. Now it was a serious question.
Within twenty-four hours he had received confirmation of two suspicions
which had oppressed him since the night of Butler’s death--that his
father might have committed the deed and that Billy was in the party of
masqueraders.
In either case, the stain of the Judge’s blood was on the house of
Graham and the Angel of Death stood with drawn sword barring the way of
his happiness. He would not seek the hand of Stella with the blood of
her father on his own. He would accept the moral responsibility of his
father’s act or that of his younger brother. He had reproached himself
bitterly that he had neglected to know and teach his high-strung younger
brother as he might. The mother dead, his father a hopeless mental
invalid, Billy had grown up with no hand to guide his wayward fancy. It
was not to be wondered at that he soon recognised no authority save that
of his own will.
Stella’s request had brought John face to face with the problems of his
father and Billy. He must know the truth before he could answer that
letter. Better to strangle the love that was fast swelling in his heart
than wait until the hour when the call of love might drown the voice of
honour.
He left his office and went at once to his father’s room. The Major was
dressed with his habitual care, his linen spotless, his boots carefully
polished, his thin white hair brushed straight back from his high
forehead. He was seated in his armchair, gently stroking with his
chalk-white bony hand his delicate ghostly beard, while delivering to
Alfred one of his interminable talks of the old life in the South. At
times he forgot the war and the horrors which followed and reenacted the
scenes of the past until his former slave, too full to bear more, would
stop him tenderly, and get him to change the subject.
“Leave us awhile, Alfred,” John said, on entering.
“Yassah,” the old butler answered, bowing himself out with stately
dignity.
John closed the door and drew his chair close to the Major’s.
“Father, I want to ask you something very particular,” he began.
The old man smiled indulgently.
“Well, out with it, you young rascal! You’ve been flying round her long
enough. I knew it would come at last. So she’s got you, has she!
Well, well, Jennie’s a fine girl, my boy; I danced at her father’s
and mother’s wedding. I wish I had more to give you. You’ll have to be
content with the lower plantation, and a dozen slaves to start with.”
“Listen, father,” John urged, stopping him with a gentle pressure on his
arm. “And try to remember. Have you encountered Butler lately?”
“Change our butler!--what better butler do you want than Alfred? He’s an
aristocrat to his finger tips. I wouldn’t think of reducing him from his
present rank; what has he done to offend any one?”
“I mean the Judge who took the house--I mean Judge Butler.”
“Ah! A man of low origin and no principle, my son--a renegade who
betrayed his people for thirty pieces of silver--silver stained with
blood--a dirty, contemptible office-seeker. I wouldn’t lower myself by
speaking to such a man.”
“Yes, I know father,” John broke in, “but I’m trying to recall to your
memory the visits you have made at night lately to the old home.”
“Of course, I love the old home. I was born here. I brought my bride
here. I’ll never leave it except for a better world.”
John felt a lump rise in his throat and rose to go. It was useless.
Besides, the thing was unthinkable. How could this feeble old man spring
on one of Butler’s physique and stab him to death. He couldn’t, except
in a moment of superhuman frenzy which sometimes comes to the insane.
There was the thought which returned again and again to torment him!
Aunt Julie Ann declared the ghost was seen to pass through the hall and
go upstairs but a few moments before the tragedy. Yes, it was possible.
John peered into his father’s restless eyes with a mad desire to lift
the mysterious veil that obscured the world from his vision. The horror
of the sickening tragedy strangled him and he turned, abruptly leaving
the room.
He sought Billy with a growing sense of helpless and bitter despair.
Since the day of their brief quarrel which followed the demonstration
before old Larkin, Billy had avoided John. Since Butler’s death they had
scarcely spoken. The effect of this tragedy on his headstrong younger
brother first led John to suspect his membership in the newly organised
Klan under Steve’s leadership.
John found him in his room reading.
“Billy, I must have a serious talk with you,” the older brother began.
“All right, sit down,” the boy answered, laying aside his book.
“A youngster of eighteen who keeps to his room for days at a time and
reads is either sick or has something on his mind.”
“Which do you think?” Billy asked, looking vaguely out the window.
“I’ll answer you by asking a question, and I want you to answer on the
honour of a Graham. Are you a member of Steve Hoyle’s Klan?”
“You have no right to ask that question,” was the hot reply.
“Yes, I have,” John slowly said, “for two reasons. As the organiser
of the original Ku Klux Klan in this state I hold myself in a measure
responsible for its existence even in its lowest forms. But that’s not
all, my boy, you’re my brother, and I love you.”
Billy’s eyes blinked and he looked at the ceiling. He had never heard
such an expression from John’s lips before.
“I wish I’d slipped my arm around you and told you that long ago. I’ve
always been proud of your high-strung, sensitive spirit, proud in my own
heart that we were of the same blood, and I want to ask you to forgive
me for seeing so little of you and being of so little help to you.”
A sob caught the boy’s breath.
“You’ll let me help you now?” John asked tenderly, extending his hand.
Billy rose trembling, his eyes running over with tears, took a step
toward the door, turned and threw himself into John’s arms, sobbing
bitterly.
The older brother held him close for a moment in silence, and slowly
said at last:
“Now tell me.”
“I was at Judge Butler’s that night!”
John sank to a chair with a groan.
“My God! I knew it!”
“But, of course, you know that I had nothing to do with any attack on a
man in whose house I was a guest,” he went on rapidly. “The whole thing
is a horrible mystery to us all. Every man in our crowd was in the
ballroom dancing.”
“How did you know that?” John interrupted sharply.
“Because I counted them as they entered.”
“_You_ counted them?”
“Yes.”
“Then you were in command of the crowd?” Billy hesitated a moment, and
said:
“Yes!”
John drew a deep breath and turned his head away in anguish.
“I could not resist the temptation to lead them. I wanted to see
inside the old house again--you understand. I never dreamed of anything
happening.”
“None of the boys were drinking?”
“No, and there wasn’t a fool among them--they were all my chums and
friends in town.”
“Then go at once and tell them that I say to put a thousand miles
between them and this town in the next forty-eight hours--to Texas if
possible.”
“Why?” asked Billy with a touch of wounded pride.
“There are a hundred reasons--one is enough. There’s a price on the head
of the man who committed that crime.”
“My men didn’t do it!”
“Granted. But one of these fine days a white-livered traitor may crawl
from your Klan and claim his reward of gold or office. You will be
convicted in ten minutes.”
Billy turned pale, and straightened his boyish figure.
“Well, I’ll tell my men to go. I’ll not run.”
“You can serve your men best by going. The bravest general always knows
when to retreat.”
“I’ll stand my ground.”
“You must go. I can fight for you better with a thousand miles between
us. I’ll play a trick on my Yankee friends this time. I’m going to send
you North into the enemy’s country--to college.”
Billy was trembling now with a new excitement. His heart was set on a
college career and he hadn’t as yet hoped to find the way.
“How will you do it?” he asked eagerly.
“Old Nickaroshinski will take my note. I’ll borrow the money.”
The boy smiled for the first time in a month.
“Oh! John, you’ve taken a load off my soul.”
John’s hand crushed the letter from Stella, which he was unconsciously
grasping in his pocket.
“And you’ve piled one on my soul under which I’ll stagger to the grave,”
he cried within, outwardly answering with a smile and warm grip of the
hand as he said:
“Quick now, boy. Don’t lose a minute. There will be some heart-broken
mothers in town tomorrow night. There’s but one choice: the plains of
the West, or a prison pen.”
“I’ll go at once,” Billy cried, seizing his hat and hastily leaving.
Pale and haggard, John slowly returned to his office. He looked at his
watch. It was five minutes to three. Stella was waiting to receive him.
He could hear the low sweet tones of her voice greeting him, and see her
great brown eyes smiling their welcome.
But his mind was made up. Safety lay in flight. He wrote a brief reply
to her letter.
_My dear Miss Butler:_
_I thank you for the honour you do me in the request you make. I regret
that I cannot see my way clear at present to accept your offer. I
have many reasons, and I beg you to believe that they are very serious
ones--otherwise I would hasten to answer in person your call._
_With sincere regrets,_
_John Graham_
Stella received the note with mingled surprise and rage, and immediately
wired the Attorney General in the cipher code he had given her asking
for the assistance for two months of the best detective the Secret
Service could command.
General Champion replied within two hours. “Mr. Ackerman leaves here
to-night. He will report to you in Independence to-morrow.”