MAJOR WELCH AND RUTH BECOME RESIDENTS
It was yet early in the day, when the travellers drove up to Red Rock,
and though there were certain things which showed that the place was
not kept up as it had formerly been, it was far handsomer, and appeared
to be more extensively cultivated, than any plantation they had yet
seen. A long line of barns and stables lay at some little distance
behind the mansion, half screened by the hill, and off to one side
stretched a large garden with shrubbery, apparently somewhat neglected,
at the far end of which was a grove or great thicket of evergreens and
other trees.
A tall man with a slight stoop in his shoulders came down the broad
steps, and advanced to meet them as they drove up.
“Is this Colonel Welch?” he asked.
“Well, not exactly, but Major Welch,” said that gentleman, pleasantly,
wondering how he could know him, “and you are—Mr. Still?”
“Yes, sir, I’m the gentleman: I’m Mr. Still—Colonel Still, some of ’em
calls me; but I’m like yourself, Colonel, I don’t care for titles. The
madam, I suppose, sir?” he smiled, as he handed Ruth down.
“No, my daughter, Miss Welch,” said the Major, a little stiffly, to
Ruth’s amusement.
“Ah! I thought she was a leetle young for you, Colonel; but sometimes
we old fellows get a chance at a fresh covey and we most always try
to pick a young bird. We’re real glad to see you, ma’am, and to have
the honor of entertainin’ so fine a young lady in our humble home. My
son Wash, the Doctor, ain’t at home this mornin’, but he’ll be back
to-night, and he’ll know how to make you have a good time. He’s had
advantages his daddy never had,” he explained.
There was something almost pathetic, Major Welch thought, in this
allusion to his son, and his recognition of his own failure to measure
up to his standard. It made Major Welch overlook his vulgarity and his
attempt to be familiar. And the Major decided anew that Hiram Still was
not half as black as he had been painted, and that the opposition to
him which he had discovered was nothing but prejudice.
As they entered the house, both Major Welch and Ruth stopped on the
threshold, with an exclamation. Before them stretched one of the most
striking halls Ruth had ever seen. At the other end was an open door
with a glimpse of green fields and blue hills in the distance; but it
was the hall itself that took Ruth’s eye. And it was the picture of
the man in the space just over the great fireplace that caught Major
Welch. The “Indian-killer” again stood before him. Clad in his hunter’s
garb, with the dark rock behind him, his broken rifle at his feet, his
cap on the back of his head, and his yellow hair pushed from under
it, his eyes fastened on Major Welch with so calm and yet so intense
a look that Major Welch was almost startled. That figure had suddenly
obliterated the years. It brought back to him vividly the whole of his
former visit.
Ruth, impressed by the expression of her father’s face, and intensely
struck by the picture, pressed forward to her father’s side, almost
holding her breath.
“I see you’re like most folks, ma’am; you’re taken first thing with
that picture,” said Still; then added, with a half laugh, “and it’s
the only picture in the batch I don’t really like. But I jist mortally
dislikes that, and I’d give it to anybody who’d take it down from thar,
and save me harmless.”
He went off into a half reverie. The Major was examining the frame
curiously. He put his finger on a dim, red smear on the bottom of
the frame. Memory was bringing back a long train of recollections.
Hardly more than ten years before, he had stood on that same spot and
done the same thing. This hall was thronged with a gay and happy and
high bred company. He himself was an honored guest. His gracious host
was standing beside him, telling him the story. He remembered it all.
Now—they were all gone. It was as if a flood had swept over them.
These inanimate things alone had survived. He ran his hand along the
frame.
The voice of his host broke in on his reflections.
“That thar red paint I see you lookin’ at, got on the frame one day
the picture fell down before the war. A nigger was paintin’ the hairth
right below it; it wa’n’t nailed then—and a gust of wind come up
sudden and banged a door and the picture dropped right down in the
paint. Mr. Gray, who used to own this place, was a settin’ right by
the winder where his secretary used to stand, and I had jest come back
from the South the day befo’ and was talkin’ to Mr. Gray about it in
the hall here that minute. ‘Well,’ says I to him, ‘if I was you, I’d
be sort o’ skeered to see that happen’;—because thar’s a story about
it, that whenever it comes down the old fellow in the grave-yard gits
up, and something’s goin to happen to the man as lives here. ‘No,’ he
says, ‘Hiram (he always called me Hiram), I’m not superstitious; but if
anything should happen, I have confidence in you to know you’d still be
faithful—a faithful friend to my wife and boys,’ he says, in them very
words. And I says to him, ‘Mr. Gray, I promise you I will, faithful.
And that’s what I’ve done, Major, I’ve kept my word and yet, see how
they treat me! So after I got the place I nailed the picture in the
wall—or rather just before that,” he said in his former natural voice,
“and it ain’t been down since, an’ it ain’t comin’ down neither.”
“But does that keep him from coming on his horse as they say? Has he
ever been seen since you nailed the frame to the wall?” Ruth asked.
“Well, ma’am, I can only tell you that I ain’t never seen him,” said
their host, with a faint, little smile. “Some says he’s still ridin’,
and every time they hears a horse nicker at night around here they say
that’s him; but I can’t say as I believes it.”
“Of course you cannot,” said the Major, a little abruptly, “for you
know it isn’t he; you have too much sense. A good head and a good
conscience never see apparitions.” The Major was still thinking of the
past.
“How like he is to a picture I saw at Dr. Cary’s, that they said was of
a young Mr. Gray who still lives about here,” said Ruth, recurring to
the picture. She turned and was surprised to see what a change had come
over her host’s face. He suddenly changed the subject.
“Well, I’m glad you’ve come down, Colonel. Only I’m sorry I didn’t know
just when you were coming. I’d have sent my carriage for you. I’ve been
lookin’ out for you, and I’ve got the prettiest place in the country
for you,” he said. He nodded over in the direction of the garden. “I
want to take you to see it. It will just suit you. The house ain’t big,
but the land’s as rich as low grounds.
“And you’re the very sort of a man we want here, Major. Your name
will be worth a heap to us. Between ourselves, you can conjure with a
Gover’ment title like a trick-doctor. Now, this fall, if you just go in
with us—How would you like to go to the Legislature?” he asked, his
voice lowered the least bit, and interrupting himself in a way he had.
“Not at all,” said Major Welch. “No politics for me. Why, I’m not
eligible—even if I settle here. I suppose there are some requirements
in the way of residence and so forth?”
“Oh! requirements ain’t nothin’. We’ve got the Legislature, you see,
and we—There’s some several been elected ain’t been here as long as
you’ll been when the election comes off.” He glanced at Major Welch
and interrupted himself again. “The fact is, Major,” he explained, in
a somewhat lower key, “we’ve had to do some things a leetle out of
the regular run—to git the best men we could. But if we could get a
gentleman like yourself——”
“No, I’m not in politics,” said Major Welch, decisively. “I’ve neither
experience nor liking for it, and I’ve come for business purposes——”
“Of course, you are quite right, Major, you’re just like me; but I
didn’t know what your opinion was. Well, you’ve come to the right place
for business, Major,” he said, in so changed a voice that he seemed
to be two persons speaking. “It’s the garden spot of the world—the
money’s jest layin’ round to waste on the ground, if the folks jist had
the sense to see it. All it wants is a little more capital. Colonel
Leech and them’s been talkin’ about runnin’ a railroad through this
region. You know after all’s said and done, Colonel, I ain’t nothin’
but a plain farmer. I talks about railroads, but, fact is, I’d ruther
see cotton and corn grow ’n the finest railroad’s ever run. My son
Wash, the Doctor, he’s got education, and he’s got city ways and wants
a railroad, and I says to him, that’s all right, Wash, you have yer
railroad and enjoy it, but jist let yer old pappy set on his porch and
see the crops grow. I’ve made ten thousand dollars a year clear money
on this place, and that’s good enough for me, I says. That may sound
like foolishness to you, Major, but that’s my raisin’, and a man can’t
git over his raisin’.”
This was a philosophic fact which the Major had often been struck with,
and it appeared to him now that he had a most excellent example of it
before him.
As Major Welch was desirous to get settled as soon as possible, he and
Ruth rode over that afternoon to take a look at the place Still had
spoken of. A detour of a mile or so brought them around to a small
farm-house with peaked roof and dormer windows, amid big locust-trees,
on top of a hill. Behind it, at a little distance, rose the line of
timbered spurs that were visible through the hall-door at Red Rock, and
in front a sudden bend brought the river in view, with an old mill on
its nearer bank, and the comb of water flashing over the dam. Ruth gave
an exclamation of delight. She sketched rapidly just what they could
do with the place. Still observed her silently, and when Major Welch
inquired what price was asked for the place, told him that he could
not exactly say that it was for sale. The Major looked so surprised at
this, however, that he explained himself.
“It is this way,” he said, “it is for sale and it ain’t.”
“Well, that’s a way I do not understand. Whose is it?” said Major
Welch, so stiffly that the other changed his tone.
“Well, the fact is, Colonel, to be honest about it,” he said, “this
here place belongs to me; but I was born on this here place, not
exactly in this house, but on the place, an’ I always thought’t if
anything was to happen—if my son Wash, the Doctor, was to git married
or anything, and take a notion to set up at Red Rock, I might come back
here and live—you see?”
The Major was mollified. He had not given the man credit for so much
sentiment.
“Of course, if you really wants it—?” began Still, but the Major said,
no, he would not insist on one’s making such a sacrifice; that such a
feeling did him credit.
So the matter ended in Still’s proposing to lease the place to the
Major, which was accepted, Major Welch agreeing to the first price
he named, only saying he supposed it was the customary figure, which
Still assured him was the case. He pointed out to him that the land was
unusually rich.
“What’s the name of the place?” asked Ruth.
“Well, ’tain’t got any special name. We call it Stamper’s,” Still said.
“Stamper—Stamper?” repeated the Major. “Where have I heard that name?”
“You might ’a heard of him in connection with the riot’t took place
near here a few years ago, when a dozen or so soldiers was murdered.
’Twas up here they hatched the plot and from here they started. They
moved away from here, and I bought it.”
It was not in this connection that the Major recalled the name.
“What was ever done about it?” he asked.
“Nothin’. What could you do?” demanded Still, tragically.
“Why arrest them and hang them, or send them to prison.”
Still gave an ejaculation.
“You don’t know ’em, Major! But we are gittin’ ’em straight now,” he
added.
On their return to Red Rock they found that Still’s son, the Doctor,
had arrived. He was a tall, dark, and, at a distance, a rather handsome
young man; but on nearer view this impression vanished. His eyes were
small and too close together, like his father’s, but instead of the
good-humored expression which these sometimes had, his had a suspicious
and ill-contented look. He dressed showily and evidently took great
pride in his personal appearance. He had some education and was fond of
making quotations, especially in his father’s presence, toward whom his
attitude was one of censoriousness and ill-humor.
His manner to the Major was always polite, and to Ruth it was
especially so; but to the servants it was arrogant, and to his father
it was little short of contemptuous. The Major heard him that evening
berating someone in so angry a tone that he thought it was a dog he was
scolding, until he heard Hiram Still’s voice in mild expostulation;
and again at the table that evening Dr. Still spoke to his father so
sharply for some little breach of table etiquette that the Major’s
blood boiled. The meekness with which the father took his son’s rebuke
did more to secure for him the Major’s friendship than anything else
that occurred during their stay with him.