As for the Bascoms, they seemed to be getting along comfortably in spite
of the harrowing story that Jesse had told to Major Jimmy Bass and to
others. As a matter of fact, the shrewd negro had purposely exaggerated
the condition of affairs in the Bascom household. He had an idea that the
fare they lived on was too common and cheap for the representatives of
such a grand family, forgetting, or not knowing, the privations they had
passed through. The Judge insisted on the most rigid economy, and Mildred
was at one with him in this. She was familiar with the necessity for it,
but she could see that her father was anxious to push it to unmeasurable
lengths. It never occurred to her, however, that her father’s morbid
anxiety to repossess the Bascom Place was rapidly taking the shape
of mania. This desire on the part of Judge Bascom was a part of his
daughter’s life. She had heard it expressed in various ways ever since
she could remember, and it was a part, not merely of her experience, but
of her growth and development. She had heard the matter discussed so many
times that it seemed to her nothing but natural that her father should
one day realize the dream of his later years and reoccupy the old Place
as proprietor.
Judge Bascom had no other thought than this. As he grew older and
feebler, the desire became more ardent and overpowering. While his
daughter was teaching her school, with which she had made quite a
success, the Judge would be planning improvements to be added to his
old home when he should own it again. Not a day passed—unless, indeed,
the weather was stormy—that he did not walk in the neighborhood of the
old Place. Sometimes he would go with his daughter, sometimes he would
go alone, but it was observed by those who came to be interested in his
comings and goings that he invariably refused to accept the invitation
of Mr. Underwood to enter the house or to inspect the improvements that
had been made. He persisted in remaining on the outside of the domain,
content to wait for the day when he could enter as proprietor. He was
willing to accept the position of spectator, but he was not willing to be
a guest.
The culmination came one fine day in the fall, and it was so sudden
and so peculiar that it took Hillsborough completely by surprise, and
gave the people food for gossip for a long time afterwards. The season
was hesitating as to whether summer should return or winter should be
introduced. There was a hint of winter in the crisp morning breezes, but
the world seemed to float summerwards in the glimmering haze that wrapped
the hills in the afternoons. On one of these fine mornings Judge Bascom
rose and dressed himself. His daughter heard him humming a tune as he
walked about the room, and she observed also, with inward satisfaction,
that his movements were brisker than usual. Listening a little
attentively, she heard him talking to himself, and presently she heard
him laugh. This was such an unusual occurrence that she was moved to
knock at his door. He responded with a cheery “Come in!” Mildred found
him shaved and dressed, and she saw that there was a great change in his
appearance. His cheeks, usually so wan and white, were flushed a little
and his eyes were bright. He smiled as Mildred entered, and exclaimed in
a tone that she had not heard for years:—
“Good-morning, my daughter! And how do you find yourself this morning?”
It was the old manner she used to admire so when she was a slip of a
girl—a manner that was a charming combination of dignity and affection.
“Why, father!” she exclaimed, “you must be feeling better. You have
positively grown younger in a night.”
The Judge laughed until his eyes sparkled. “Yes, my dear, I am feeling
very well indeed. I never felt better. I am happy, quite happy.
Everything has been made clear to me. I am going to-day to transact some
business that has been troubling me a long time. I shall arrange it all
to-day—yes, to-day.”
The change that had come over her father was such a relief to Mildred
that she asked him no questions. Now, as always, she trusted to his
judgment and his experience. Jesse, however, was more critical. He
watched the Judge furtively and shook his head.
“Mistiss,” he said to Mildred when he found an opportunity, “did you
shave master?”
“Why, what a ridiculous question!” she exclaimed. “How could I shave him?
It makes me shiver merely to touch the razors.”
“Well, Mistiss,” Jesse insisted, “ef I ain’t shave him, en you ain’t
shave him, den who de name er goodness is done gone en done it?”
“He shaved himself, of course,” Mildred said. “He is very much better
this morning. I noticed it the moment I saw him. I should think you could
see it yourself.”
“I seed somepin’ nuther wuz de matter,” said Jesse. “Somepin’ ’bleege’
ter be de matter when I put him ter bed las’ night des like he wuz a
baby, ma’m, en now yer he is gwine roun’ des ez spry ez de nex’ one.
Yessum, somepin’ ’bleege’ ter be de matter. Yistiddy his han’s wuz
shakin’ same like he got de polzy, ma’m, en now yer he is shavin’
hisse’f; dat what rack my min’.”
“Well, I hope you are glad he is so well, Jesse,” said Mildred in an
injured tone.
“Oh, yessum,” said Jesse, scratching his head. “Lor’, yessum. Dey ain’t
nobody no gladder dan what I is; but it come on me so sudden, ma’m, dat
it sorter skeer me.”
“Well, it doesn’t frighten me,” said Mildred. “It makes me very happy.”
“Yessum,” replied Jesse deferentially. He made no further comment; but
after Mildred had gone to attend to her school duties he made it his
business to keep an eye on the Judge, and the closer the negro watched,
the more forcibly was he struck by the great change that a night had made
in the old man.
“I hear talk ’bout folks bein’ conjured inter sickness,” Jesse said to
himself, “but I ain’t never hear talk ’bout dey bein’ conjured so dey git
well.”
Certainly a great change had come over Judge Bascom. He stood firmly on
his feet once more. He held his head erect, as in the old days, and when
he talked to Jesse his tone was patronizing and commanding, instead of
querulous and complaining. He seemed to be very fastidious about his
appearance. After Mildred had gone to her school, Jesse was called in to
brush the Judge’s hat and coat and to polish his shoes. The Judge watched
this process with great interest, and talked to the negro in his blandest
manner. This was not so surprising to Jesse as the fact that the Judge
persisted in calling him Wesley; Wesley was the Judge’s old body-servant
who had been dead for twenty years. It was Wesley this and Wesley that so
long as Jesse was in the room, and once the Judge asked how long before
the carriage would be ready. The negro parried this question, but he
remembered it. He was sorely puzzled an hour afterwards, however, when
Judge Bascom called him and said:—
“Wesley, tell Jordan he need not bring the carriage around for me. I will
walk. Jordan can bring your mistress when she is ready.”
“Well,” exclaimed Jesse, when the Judge disappeared in the house, “dis
bangs me! What de name er goodness put de ole man Jerd’n in his min’,
which he died endurance er de war? It’s all away beyant me. Miss Mildred
oughter be yer wid her pa right now, yit, ef I go atter her, dey ain’t no
tellin’ what he gwine do.”
Jess cut an armful of wood, and then made a pretense of washing dishes,
going from the kitchen to the dining-room several times. More than once
he stopped to listen, but he could hear nothing. After a while he made
bold to peep into the sitting-room. There was nobody there. He went into
the Judge’s bedroom; it was empty. Then he called—“Marster! oh, Marster!”
but there was no reply. Jess was in a quandary. He was not alarmed, but
he was uneasy.
“Ef I run en tell Miss Mildred dat Marster done gone som’ers,” he said
to himself, “she’ll des laugh en say I ain’t got no sense; en I don’t
speck I is, but it make my flesh crawl fer ter hear folks callin’ on dead
niggers ter do dis en do dat.”
Meanwhile the Judge had sallied forth from the house, and was proceeding
in the direction of the Bascom Place. His step was firm and elastic, his
bearing dignified. The acquaintances whom he met on his way stopped and
looked after him when they had returned his Chesterfieldian salutation.
He walked rapidly, and there was an air of decision in his movements that
had long been lacking. At the great gate opening into the avenue of the
Bascom Place the Judge was met by Prince the mastiff, who gave him a
hospitable welcome, and gravely preceded him to the house. Miss Sophie,
Mr. Underwood’s maiden sister, who was sitting in the piazza, engaged on
some kind of feminine embroidery, saw the Judge coming, too late to beat
a retreat, so she merely whipped behind one of the large pillars, gave
her dress a little shake at the sides and behind, ran her hands over her
hair, and appeared before the caller cool, calm, and collected.
“Good-morning, madam,” said the Judge in his grand way, taking off his
hat.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Miss Sophie. “Have this chair?”
“No, no,” said the Judge, smiling blandly, and waving his hand. “I prefer
my own chair—the large rocker with the cushion, you know. It is more
comfortable.”
Somewhat puzzled, Miss Sophie fetched a rocker. It had no cushion, but
the Judge seemed not to miss it.
“Why, where are the servants?” he asked, his brows contracting a little.
“I could have brought the chair.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Miss Sophie, “if I were to sit down and expect the
negroes to wait on me, I’d have a good many disappointments during the
day.”
“Yes,” said the Judge, “that is very true; very true. Where is Wesley?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Miss Sophie replied. “Is he a white man or a
negro?”
“Wesley?” exclaimed the Judge. “Why, he’s a nigger; he’s my body-servant.”
“Isn’t this Judge Bascom?” Miss Sophie inquired, regarding him curiously.
“Yes, certainly, madam,” responded the Judge.
“Well, I’ve seen a negro named Jesse following you and your daughter
about,” said Miss Sophie. “Perhaps you are speaking of Jesse.”
“No, no,” said the Judge. “I mean Wesley—or maybe you are only a visitor
here. Your face is familiar, but I have forgotten your name.”
“I am Francis Underwood’s sister,” said Miss Sophie, with some degree of
pride.
“Ah, yes!” the Judge sighed—“Francis Underwood. He is the gentleman who
has had charge of the place these several years. A very clever man, I
have no doubt. He has done very well, very well indeed; better than most
men would have done. Do you know where he will go next year?”
“Now, I couldn’t tell you, really,” Miss Sophie replied, looking at the
Judge through her gold-rimmed eye-glasses. “He did intend to go North
this fall, but he’s always too busy to carry out his intentions.”
“Yes,” said Judge Bascom; “I have no doubt he is a very busy man. He has
managed everything very cleverly here, and I wish him well wherever he
goes.”
Miss Sophie was very glad when she heard her brother’s step in the hall;
not that she was nervous or easily frightened, but there was something
in Judge Bascom’s actions, something in the tone of his voice, some
suggestion in his words, that gave her uneasiness, and she breathed a
sigh of relief when her stalwart brother made his appearance.
Francis Underwood greeted his guest cordially—more cordially, Miss Sophie
thought, than circumstances warranted; but the beautiful face of Mildred
Bascom was not stamped on Miss Sophie’s mind as it was on her brother’s.
“I am sorry to put you to any inconvenience,” said the Judge, after
they had talked for some time on commonplace topics—“very sorry. I have
put the matter off until at last I felt it to be a solemn duty I owed
my family to come here. Believe me, sir,” he continued, turning to the
young man with some emotion—“believe me, sir, it grieves me to trouble
you in the matter, but I could no longer postpone coming here. I think I
understand and appreciate your attachment”—
“Why, my dear sir,” cried Francis Underwood in his heartiest manner, “it
is no trouble at all. No one could be more welcome here. I have often
wondered why you have never called before. Don’t talk about trouble and
inconvenience.”
“I think I understand and appreciate your attachment for the Place,” the
Judge went on as though he had not been interrupted, “and it embarrasses
me, I assure you, to be compelled to trouble you now.”
“Well,” said Francis Underwood, with a hospitable laugh, “if it is no
trouble to you, it certainly is none to me. As my neighbors around here
say, when I call on them, ‘just make yourself at home.’”
Judge Bascom rose from his chair trembling. He seemed suddenly to be
laboring under the most intense excitement.
“My home?” he almost shrieked—“make myself at home! In God’s name,
man, what can you mean? It _is_ my home! It has always been my home!
Everything here is mine—every foot of land, every tree, every brick and
stone and piece of timber in this house. It is _all_ mine, and I will
have it! I have come here to assert my rights!”
He panted with passion and excitement as he looked from Francis Underwood
to Miss Sophie. He paused, as if daring them to dispute his claims.
Miss Sophie, who had a temper of her own, would have given the Judge a
piece of her mind, but she saw her brother regarding the old man with a
puzzled, pitying expression. Then the truth flashed on her, and for an
instant she felt like crying. Francis Underwood approached the Judge and
led him gently back to his chair.
“Now that you are at home, Judge Bascom,” he said, “you need not worry
yourself.”
“I tell you it is _mine_!” the Judge went on, beating the arm of his
chair with his clenched fist; “it is mine. It has always been mine, and
it will always be mine.”
Francis Underwood stood before the old man, active, alert, smiling.
His sister said afterwards that she was surprised at the prompt
gentleness with which her brother disposed of what promised to be a very
disagreeable scene.
“Judge Bascom,” said the young man, swinging himself around on his
boot-heels, “as your guest here, allow me to suggest that you ought to
show me over the place. I have been told you have some very fine cows
here.”
Immediately Judge Bascom was himself again. His old air of dignity
returned, and he became in a moment the affable host.
“As my guests here,” he said, smiling with pleasure, “you and the lady
are very welcome. We keep open house at the Bascom Place, and we are glad
to have our friends with us. What we have is yours. I suppose,” he went
on, still smiling, “some of our neighbors have been joking about our
cows. We have a good many of them, but they don’t amount to much. They
have been driven to the pasture by this time, and that is on the creek
a mile and a half from here. I wonder where Wesley is! I think he is
growing more worthless every year. He ought to be here with my daughter.
The carriage was sent for her some time ago.”
“I will see if he is in the yard,” said Underwood, and his sister
followed him through the hall.
“Mercy!” Miss Sophie exclaimed when they were out of hearing; “does the
old Judge purpose to swarm and settle down on us?” She had an economical
turn of mind. “What in the world is the matter with him?”
“I pity him from the bottom of my heart,” said Francis Underwood, “but I
am sorrier for his daughter. Everything seems to be blotted out of his
mind except the notion that he is the owner of this Place. We must humor
him, sister, and we must be tender with the daughter. You know how to do
that much better than I do.”
Miss Sophie frowned a little. The situation was a new and trying one,
but she had been confronted with emergencies before, and her experience
and her strong common sense stood her in good stead now. With a woman’s
promptness she decided on a line of action at once sympathetic and
effectual. The buggy was ordered out and young Underwood went for a
physician.
Then, when he had returned, Miss Sophie said he must go for the daughter,
and she cautioned him, with some severity of manner, as to what he
should say and how he should deport himself. But at this Francis
Underwood rebelled. Ordinarily he was a very agreeable and accommodating
young fellow, but when his sister informed him that he must fetch Mildred
Bascom to her father, he pulled off his hat and scratched his blond head
in perplexity.
“What could I say, sister?” he protested. “How could I explain the
situation? No; it is a woman’s work, and you must go. It would be a
pretty come-off for me to go after this poor girl and in a fit of
awkwardness frighten her to death. It is bad enough as it is. There is no
hurry. You shall have the carriage. It would never do for me to go; no
one but a woman knows how to be sympathetic in a matter of this kind.”
“I never knew before that you were so bashful,” said Miss Sophie,
regarding him keenly. “It is a recent development.”
“It is not bashfulness, sister,” said Underwood, coloring a little. “It
is consideration. How could I explain matters to this poor girl? How
could I prevail on her to come here without giving her an inkling of the
situation, and thus frighten her, perhaps unnecessarily?”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Miss Sophie, who, as an experienced
spinster, was not always ready to make concessions of this kind. “At
any rate I’ll go for Miss Bascom, and I think I can manage it without
alarming her; but the matter troubles me. I hope the poor old Judge will
not be a dangerous guest.”
“There is not the slightest fear of that,” said Francis Underwood. “He is
too feeble for that. When I placed my hand on his shoulder just now he
was all of a tremble. He is no stronger than a little child, and no more
dangerous. Besides, the doctor is with him.”
“Well,” said Miss Sophie with a sigh, “I’ll go. Women are compelled to
do most of the odd jobs that men are afraid to take up; but I shiver to
think of it. I shall surely break down when I see that poor child.”
“No,” said her brother, “you will not. I know you too well for that. We
must humor this old man, and that will be for me to do; his daughter must
be left to you.”