.. -*- encoding: utf-8 -*-

.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 46381
   :PG.Title: The Lead of Honour
   :PG.Released: 2014-07-22
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Norval Richardson
   :MARCREL.ill: Frank \T. Merrill
   :DC.Title: The Lead of Honour
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1910
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE LEAD OF HONOUR
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      :alt: Sargent Everett. From a painting by Frank T. Merrill

      Sargent Everett.
      From a painting by Frank T. Merrill

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      THE LEAD
      OF HONOUR

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      BY

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      NORVAL RICHARDSON

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      WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOUR BY
      FRANK T. MERRILL

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      GROSSET & DUNLAP
      PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK

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      *Copyright, 1910*
      BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
      (INCORPORATED)

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      *Entered at Stationers' Hall, London*

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      *All rights reserved*

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      First Impression, July, 1910
      Second Impression, August, 1910
      Third Impression, September, 1910
      Fourth Impression, October, 1910

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      TO
      THE ONE WHO IS THE INSPIRATION OF ALL
      THAT IS BEST IN THESE PAGES
      L. R.

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   CONTENTS

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   BOOK I—THE SCHOOLMASTER

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CHAPTER

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I.  `Youth and Ambition`_
II.  `The Captain's Advice`_
III.  `Juleps and Politics`_
IV.  `A Gentleman of the Old School`_
V.  `The House of the Spaniards`_

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   BOOK II—THE LAWYER

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I.  `Pictures in the Fire`_
II.  `The Opened Wound`_
III.  `A Demand of Honour`_
IV.  `His First Case`_
V.  `Magnetism`_
VI.  `To Be Hanged by the Neck until Dead`_
VII.  `One Means of Escape`_
VIII.  `The Captain's Joke`_
IX.  `A Promise for the Future`_

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   BOOK III—THE LOVER

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I.  `After Seven Years`_
II.  `The Voice of the Past`_
III.  `Mammy Dicey's Story`_
IV.  `Slaves for Stakes`_
V.  `Candlelight`_
VI.  `His Wedding Present`_
VII.  `The Hour of the Wedding`_
VIII.  `Orange Blossoms and Prison Bars`_
IX.  `The Honourable Sargent Everett`_
X.  `The Lead of Honour`_
XI.  `A Road to Happiness`_
XII.  `The Music of His Voice`_
XIII.  `The Garden of Shadows`_





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.. _`YOUTH AND AMBITION`:

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   BOOK I


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   THE SCHOOLMASTER

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   THE LEAD OF HONOUR

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   CHAPTER I

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   YOUTH AND AMBITION

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Beyond the gleam of the torch basket at the
masthead, the bosom of the great Father of Waters
widened into a sea, infinite in its solitude, desolately vast
in the impending gloom of the purple night.  An
orange coloured moon hovered on the dark strip of
the horizon; the hot breeze of a Southern August
was stirring fitfully.

He was standing alone on the upper deck of the
boat, looking straight before him with that intensity
of gaze and purpose in his deep hazel eyes that our
grandfathers tell us about—a wonderful expression
in which the energy of his thoughts seemed to throw
out a flamelike glow holding the observer spellbound
and charmed into forgetfulness.  He was young then,
little over twenty, and his thin, slight figure, erect and
full of simple dignity, was clothed in plain garments
of black, relieved at the wrist bands with fine white
linen and at the collar by a high stock whose pointed
ends extended up beyond his chin.  His face, delicately
moulded and oval to perfection, had written upon it,
in the freshness of its youth, all the hopes and desires
and ambitions that remained with him to the end—for
it seems that he never lost his youthful appreciation
of life, nor knew what it meant to sink under
disappointments.  In his hand he carried a small cane which
he used to aid him in walking and in standing firmly;
for one leg was shrunken into a slight deformity.

On the intense, lonely stillness of the night the
throbbing puffs of the engines seemed the voice of
the great river—relentless, solemn, insistent.  The
tinkling of the pilot's bell sounded intermittently from
the engine-room; and monotonously reiterated, came
the weird call of the leadsman as he sounded the
depths of the uncertain channel.

"M-a-r-k eight!  M-a-r-k eight!  Quarter less eight!"

Sargent Everett turned away from the deepening
gloom of the river, restless and impatient, now that
his destination was so near.  Three days, if all went
well, would see him in the town he had chosen for the
commencement of his career.

The leadsman's call broke more harshly on the
night.  "Mark four!  Mark four!  Quarter—less—"

Suddenly the pulsing of the engines stopped and
the boat drifted into the enveloping shadows of the
shore.  The branches of a tree swept the upper deck,
leaving sprays of moss tangled in the railing.  A bell
crashed out a signal of alarm and the boat came to a
full stop.

"Tie up and get out there and sound that channel,
Jiggetts," came a sonorous voice from the lower deck.
"I'm not a-countin' on goin' a-ground here to-night.
God knows what this old river's been up to since we
passed up, two months ago."

Directly following the words, a huge line of rope
went coiling through the air to the shore.  Two
negroes sprang after it, hastily wrapping it around a
mammoth cottonwood tree that towered out of the
darkness.  A skiff shot out from the boat; two men
at the oars, and one standing well forward recording
the depth as they moved carefully along.

In a few minutes the boat became enveloped once
more in the stillness of the night; the flare from the
torch baskets at the masthead gleamed upon a shore
of endless willows, a distant line of cypresses, a land
where seemingly no explorer had yet penetrated.  The
call of the leadsman grew fainter and fainter, dying
away at last to an echo.

"Mighty sorry to tie up."  The Captain's voice
broke the stillness as he approached the young
traveller, "but I reckon it's better than runnin' on one
of them bars and restin' there till another boat comes
along and pulls us off.  I reckon you'd rather run the
chance, hey, just so's you could get to the end of your
travellin'.  I know how you feel.  You're just itching
to get there this minute and get to work—ain't it
the truth?"

The Captain, a rugged pioneer, known from one
end of the river to the other, shoved his hands deep
into his pockets and peered into the darkness.

"Yes, I want to get there, Captain.  I'm impatient
and restless and all that,—and yet," he hesitated,
following the glance of the man beside him.  "I
believe I've fallen under the spell of this old river.  At
first it made me think of the ocean in its breadth and
loneliness, but I see now that it is not the same at all.
This wilderness of lowlands that we have been passing
through for the last week makes it seem even more
desolate and forsaken.  Yet—in its very solitude
one feels a certain nearness to God," he ended
reflectively.

The old Captain's eyes shifted from the black
shore, deepening, as his gaze lingered on the broad
expanse of water, into an expression much like that
of a dog that gazes into the eyes of the master it
worships.

"We-ell, I reckon I'm sorter fond of it, too.
When a feller's lived with a thing fifty years he's
mighty likely to have some sorter feelin' for it."  His
eyes twinkled as he continued, "Y' know, sir, that
old river always puts me in mind of a woman; it's
changing its mind all the time, it's cantankerous—you
can't any more count on it than a bad penny, and
when it takes a notion to change its channel, it just
goes ahead and does it and don't say a thing.  Why,
sir, haven't I see it cut off ten miles in one place by
goin' straight through when it used to make a bend!
I like it, though, just because it's notionate and don't
bother about anybody.  D' you ever hear the old
sayin' that when the good Lord made it, He washed
His hands in it and told it to go where it damn
pleased?  Well, sir," the old fellow threw back his
head and let out a gust of laughter, "it's been doin'
that pretty nigh ever since!"

He turned around as he ended so that he looked
into the young man's face, and in the moments of
silence that followed, the mass of wrinkles about his
eyes moved into an expression of half mirth, half
sadness.  He had liked the youngster, as he called him,
since the moment he had come aboard at St. Louis
and taken passage for the South.  Something in Sargent
Everett's peculiarly winning manner, in his fresh
good humour and manliness, or perhaps a sympathy
for his deformity, had awakened an interest in the
old boatman.  What it was he did not stop to
consider, but he liked the boy, and now that his long
journey was nearing its end, he felt a pang of regret
that was new to him.  Looking into the bright, hopeful
face before him, he thought that, after all, youth
was the only period of life worth living.

"An' so you're another one of them fellers who're
comin' down here to make their fortunes," he finally
said, as if more in comment than in question.

The young fellow's face brightened responsively.

"I hope it will be my fortune—but at present it
is more a living I am seeking."

The Captain put out both hands, taking firm hold
of the young fellow's arms and looking squarely into
his face.

"Then why in the devil did you come down here?"
he said sharply.  "It's no place for the likes of you!
You're not the sort of youngster for this kind of rough
life.  Why didn't you go to a big town, son?  This
country's for pioneers."

The young fellow drew himself away, a look of pain
flashing across his face.

"I'm not delicate," he said quickly.  "I'm very
strong.  I was the best swimmer at college.  You
think because my leg is bad that I can't do what other
men have done!  Give me time and I'll show you!"

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, lad," the old
fellow answered slowly, relighting the pipe which he
held always in his mouth.  "I know darned well
you've got grit enough to pull you through, but why,
of all places in this country, you should have chosen
Natchez—kinder puzzles me.  Haven't you ever
heerd about what they call 'Natchez-under-the-Hill?'  Why,
sir, it's the toughest hole on the river!"

"It was the offer I had that brought me, Captain.
New England is crowded with school-teachers; there
was nothing for me to do, and I had to work.  My
father was a sea captain, as I told you, and in the year
1812 he lost everything.  Since then we have been
very poor.  I had to do something—and I had this
offer down here."

The Captain drew at his pipe reflectively, letting
the words of the young man die away on the stillness
of the night.

"So you're goin' to be a school-teacher!"  The
words came so frankly full of disappointment that the
young fellow laughed outright.

"Not always, I hope," he answered, still smiling.
"As soon as I finish studying for the examinations,
I hope to be admitted to the bar.  Then I can practise
law."

The Captain gave an expressive grunt.

"That's worse yet—a lawyer—begad!  Why,
boy, what chance'll you have in this hotbed of
pioneers and adventurers that's been flockin' down here
for the last fifteen years?  Why, sir, with shin-plaster
currency and rich cotton plantations and more slaves
than they know what to do with, and gambling and
drinking all the time—what can a youngster like you
expect to do!"  The old fellow's head wagged doubtfully.
"I'd a heap rather see you go all the way down
to New 'leans with me and take a vessel back to where
you come from than stop off in this here country," he
added with another expressive grunt and a deep dig
into his pockets.

"You think, then," the young fellow smiled with
a courage that felt no dampening from the advice
given.  "You think I'm not fit to make my way in
the community you describe?"

"Yes, sir, that's exactly what I'm a-thinkin'.
You've been brought up different from these folks
and you haven't the first inkling of the life down here.
It'll go powerful hard on you and I don't see where
the good'll come in."

"Still you are bound to admit that it is a good place
for a lawyer," the youth answered, unabashed.

"Ye-es, I grant you that.  Natchez is only about
fifty miles from Jackson, and I suppose your head's
already set on the Capitol.  'Tain't what you're goin'
to make out of it that's a-worryin' me—it's what in
the devil's going to become of you, with that set of
reckless spendthrifts.  Ho, there, Jiggetts!"  He
sprang forward and peered down at the returning
skiff.  "How 'bout the channel?"

"All right, sir.  We can make it safe.  Same as
when we came up," a voice answered out of the
darkness.

"How 'bout wood—got enough?" the Captain
called down to the engineer who stood on the lower
deck.

"Plenty to get us to ole man Vick's plantation, and
I'm a-countin' on bein' thar to-morrow mornin'."

"Good!  Let's pull out and get ahead agin."

A little later the boat was pushing towards the
middle stream, the shore dwindling on each side to
a thin, black ribbon.  The moon had risen well into
the sky and was shedding its cold light over the glassy
surface of the river; the deep puffs of the engines
sent columns of black smoke far up into the clear
heavens.

"Come over here, youngster," called the Captain
from the forward deck, where he had settled himself
into a chair, his feet elevated on the railing to the
level of his head, the glow from his pipe gleaming full
into his face.  "Come over here and sit down.  You
ain't sleepy, yet, I reckon—are you?"

From where they sat the forward part of the lower
deck was in full view.  Two torch baskets, filled with
blazing pine, brilliantly illuminated that part of the
boat.  On both sides were piles of meal and corn,
sacks of salt meat and barrels of flour, and two bales
of cotton on their way to New Orleans, and thence
to Boston by sea—the first bales of that season.

In the centre, where the light fell strongest, was
a group of negroes; some lying full length in the deep
sleep of exhaustion, others gathered in small circles
from which came the sound of rattling dice.  The
twanging of a banjo and the sound of many shuffling
feet floated out softly on the silent river.

When the young man had taken his seat beside the
Captain, the old fellow laid his hand on his shoulder,
almost affectionately.

"If you're bent and determined on gettin' off at
Natchez," he began between short puffs at his pipe,
"I've a mind to give you some advice.  Want to hear it?"

"Of course I do, Captain," he answered quickly.
"But I don't want you to think I shall not succeed
there.  When a fellow is willing to work, and
overflowing with energy and ambition, success is bound
to come.  I know it will come to me—I'm going to
it.  And if the fight is to be a difficult one, as you say,"
he added after a moment's hesitation, "perhaps it
will make me all the stronger for the struggle.  You
are not going to discourage me, Captain, no matter
how wild or savage you paint this country.  I am
going to stop here."

The Captain's heavy hand fell on the young man's
knee with a hearty slap, and for a moment he looked
into the brave face before him yearningly.

"You've got the right spirit, lad.  I'm mighty glad
to see it, too.  But y' see I'm a powerful lot of years
older than you—how many d' I tell you t'other day?"

"Forty-three."

"We-ell, you see, forty-three years of experience is
worth something, I'd let you know.  I've seen this
country almost from the beginning of the white
settlements.  I used to come down here on flat boats
with my pa, way back in the days of the Revolution,
and when we reached New 'leans, we'd go all the way
back to Vincennes in wagons.  Ugh! those were days
for you!  And nights, too, with panthers howling
round our prairie schooners, and Indians tryin' to slip
up and scalp you 'most any time.  Natchez belonged
to the Spaniards then—you'll see old Gayosa's
government house still standin' there.  But now, since
Mississippi's been let in as a State, it seems to me like
'most everybody's been tryin' to get down here.  If
many more of you Yankees come on down, we'll soon
be a populated country."

"Then you like Yankees—you do not think that
will make me unpopular—down here?" the young
fellow interrupted.

"Shucks!  It ain't where a man comes from."  The
old fellow uncrossed his legs and crossed them again.
"It's the man himself.  That's fust what I was about
to tell you.  If a man's a good feller, then folks'll treat
him like one; but if he comes down here with a lot
of bottled-up notions from that there cold country of
yours, they'll not have much use for him.  And that's
where you've got to be precious careful.  I tell you
right now, if you make a hit at the start, it won't take
you long to win out.  Go in for a good time, show
'em you're a good feller, and take my word for it,
they'll think you're a heap smarter than if you spend
your time tryin' to ram your book knowledge down
their throats."

The young fellow remained silent, reflecting over
the Captain's advice.  Through its crudities, he was
beginning to see and appreciate the viewpoint of one
whom experience had made a reader of human nature.

"At first, go easy, and take things as they come;
don't air your own opinions every chance you get;
don't strut around like some young lawyers I see, with
a long face, and a head full of—what d' you call that
feller that wrote the big book?"

"Blackstone?"

"Yes, sir, that's the one.  Don't always be talkin'
about him and lookin' as independent as a wood-sawyer's
clerk.  You know exactly what I mean."  The
Captain tilted his chair to a more dangerous angle.

"If you'll make yourself one of 'em, you'll come out
all right—I'll bet my bottom dollar on that!  For
you've got a way with you, as the sayin' goes, and
that's the principal thing a feller needs in this world."

"The only trouble is," the young man answered,
smiling broadly, "that I have got some old-fashioned
principles, as you call them, and convictions, too."

"Damn your convictions."  The Captain's chair
came to the floor with a crash.  "That's what ruins
more men than anything else—convictions!  I say
if you've got 'em, keep 'em to yourself—don't let
'em out!  Remember, you're goin' to a country where
everything is wide open and you've got to be one of
the boys—or you might just as well turn your head
back to where you come from."

The young fellow laughed heartily.  Edging his
chair closer to the Captain, he watched the play of
his features in the glow from his pipe.  The thousand
wrinkles about his eyes changed eloquently with the
intenseness of his words.  "Evidently you have
decided that I am terribly solemn, Captain.  But you
are wrong," he said, still laughing easily.  "I enjoy
life, and a good time as much as anybody—perhaps
more than most!  Only I haven't taken that
enjoyment in gambling and drinking, which you seem to
think so necessary."

For answer, the old man's head shook doubtfully.

"Then you'd better give up being a lawyer down
here," his grey eyes danced merrily.  "Unless," his
hands came together with a loud clap, "unless—you'd
like to give 'em the idea you're a sport, and
at the same time not be one.  Gee whilligens!" he
cried, laughing until the tears rolled down his
furrowed cheeks.  "That would be a fine set out.
Listen, youngster, I'm going to tell you how to do it, and
if you don't get 'em coming your way right from the
jump, my name's not Benjamin Mentdrop.  Now, first
of all, when you land at Natchez, ride right up the
hill to the Mansion House.  You'll see a lot of fellers
loafing 'round there to find who come on the boat—what
you are and what's your business—you know
the kind I mean; the sort whose business is finding
out other people's.  Then, there's always a lot of
the bloods of the town there, too.  Well, don't let 'em
know you've even seen 'em.  Just walk in and sign
your name with a flourish, so," his hand swept the
air, with a rather dangerous gesture for a pen.  "Just
as soon as you're through, you'll see 'em go up and
read your name, and when they all are eyeing you,
just walk over to the bar—so."  Here the Captain
got up and swaggered across the deck with a bravado
that bespoke personal experience.  "And order—plenty
loud enough for the crowd to hear what you're
sayin'—a bottle o' champagne and a box o' cigars
sent up to your room.  I tell you, sir," taking his seat
again, "that'll make your reputation without any
waiting."

The young fellow joined in the infectious laughter
of the Captain.  It was too natural a performance
not to show that the old fellow was describing his own
methods.

"I'm afraid that reputation would be one I'd never
outlive," he said, when they had become serious again.
"What do you suppose would become of my position
as tutor in the family I'm going to?"

"Position-your-grandaddy!  The thing is to make
a hit; you don't have to live up to it," the Captain
promptly rejoined.  "All you want is to have the
crowd see you know a thing or two and they'll take
you up before you know it.  And if you're going to
be a lawyer, you want these fellows' cases, and I tell
you right now, you've got to play 'em a bit.  When
you get as old as I am you'll see then how this whole
blamed thing they call life is nothin' more'n less than
a steady game of bluff—right straight through!"

The boat was swinging into a broad bend of the
river when he finished, and through the clarity of the
night, a long line of hills was coming into view on the
eastern horizon.  The long journey through banks
of endless flat country was left behind and the sloping
hills rose as if to extend a welcome to the voyagers.

"That's old Vick's plantation across the point," the
Captain said, rising and stretching his arms above his
head.  "Looks like we're near there, don't it; but
it'll be mornin' before we land."  Looking at his large
watch, its open face characteristic of its owner, he
gave an exclamation of surprise and turning away
hurried down the ladder to the lower deck.

"Don't forget what I've been telling you!" he
called back as he disappeared.  "I wa'n't born
yesterday, nor the day before neither."

The young fellow walked forward when he was
alone, and stood where he could see beneath him the
prow of the boat pushing its way into the impenetrable
blue of the broad stream.  He had felt the
influence of the river that night more than at any time
during his voyage.  Its immensity, its awfulness,
gripped him with a new understanding of eternity.
The endless legends it embodied rose before him;
gorgeous pageants passed in review; into his vision
came the long procession of pioneers who had set sail
upon these waters; De Soto first, who slept now
within its enveloping solitude, afterwards Joliet and
Marquette, La Salle with his cross of conquest and his
flag of France, the Spaniards from the Mexican Gulf
clashing with the English out of the North, and
always, coming first upon the river and still present in
their silent, stealthy canoes, the real owners of its
breadth and length—the Red Men.  All these he
saw pushing their way along and seeking their
fortune, even as he was doing now.

His face was turned towards the south, the place
to which his destiny was calling him; in it lay the
mystery of his future.  Far behind him was the land
of his birth, which held the compelling force that was
driving him on and on to that future, as relentlessly
as the silent river was sweeping to the sea.

In an incident of his childhood lay this force which
had made the severing of home ties less bitter and
the setting out towards an unknown country the first
step in the realization of years of determination.  So
filled with suffering was this incident that, after twelve
years, it lived in his thoughts' with insistent detail.

It had happened in an apple orchard in Maine.
There had been a day of great festivity, gay in the
gathering of apples, and in the knowledge that a ship
had been sighted in which the sea captain, his father,
was returning from a six months' voyage.  He saw
himself as a little limping boy who had just come
home from the town school, flushed with pride at the
success of his first speech; then he saw himself late
in the day, when the ship had anchored and the friends
had gathered in a circle over the completed work,
repeating the speech to the enthusiastic crowd.

How well he remembered the encouraging faces,
the baskets of red apples all about, the pungent smell
of the fruit, the twisted branches of the trees back
of them, and beyond, far down the sloping hill, the
great Atlantic on which the ship had come to anchor!
His first speech!  Even the words stuck in his
memory!  Then, while the great joy he had felt in their
applause was flushing his face and making him tingle
with the first stirrings of awakened talent, he had been
lifted into the arms of the sea captain who had stolen
up behind the tree and heard him.  In that moment
came the blow which was yet to mar or make him.
The proud father, holding him up before the crowd,
had cried out with a great roar of laughter:

"He's a pretty bright little rascal, isn't he?  We'll
have to send him to college one of these days and
make a big speaker out of him—even if he is a cripple."

"Even if he is a cripple!"  The words rang out
as sharply now as they had twelve years before.  He
heard them so distinctly that the inflection of the big
man's voice, thoughtless and unmeaning as it had been,
made him throb with the first opening of the wound.
Cripple!  Cripple!  The words were as the whistling
of knotted thongs.  Never before that day had he
heard them applied to him.  Now they were to be with
him always; he was powerless to forget them.  They
had pushed him on and on from that time forward,
in a mad desire to embrace all the learning within his
power so as to show the world some day that it was
not a curse of God's, to be less perfect than other men.





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.. _`THE CAPTAIN'S ADVICE`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   THE CAPTAIN'S ADVICE

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One day later the young pioneer who had come
South to make his fortune looked eagerly out upon a
distant view of sloping hills.  The end of his long
journey had come.  The little town, nestling at the
top of the bluffs, in a setting of thick foliage, brought
to him a thrill of expectancy.  Everything lay before
him there, his beginning on the long journey of his
life work, his success or failure, his happiness or his
sorrow.

It was still very early in the morning and in the
mistiness of the scene, in the shadowy beauty of the
daybreak, his imagination carried him far into a
future of his own creating.  The lazy curling smoke of
early morning fires rising from the town became
symbolic to him, the soft beauty of an aged oak grove,
festooned in grey moss and reflected in the gloomy
surface of the water by the pale rose background of
dawning day meant to him that disappointments and
vain strivings were to pass from him forever now.
He was very young and full of expectancy and hope,
and as he threw back his head and breathed deeply,
the colour rushed into his face, and his shoulders
squared themselves unconsciously.

The summons to breakfast called him away for a
few minutes, but he was soon back again, watching
each detail of the scene as it unfolded before him,
impatiently restless at the slow movement of the boat.

Finally the boat rounded a point and made directly
across the broad sweeping bend of the river toward
the opposite shore where a settlement of houses at
the foot of the bluff had suddenly come into view.

"Well, here we are."  He felt the grasp of the
captain's hand upon his arm.  "How d' you like the
looks of your new home?  You wait till you get on
top of the hill, though.  Natchez under the hill and
on top is a mighty different place.  I'm going to liven
'em up a bit this morning and let 'em know we're
coming.  If these folks didn't see a boat every now
and then, they'd think they were dead, sure."  He
smiled good humouredly as a shrill whistle floated
across the water from the town.  "Bless me, if they
ain't got that saw mill to working—the first one
between here and New 'leans, I reckon.  Just wait
a minute, though, and I'll give 'em an answer.  I told
the fireman to stuff the engine plumb full of pitch
pine—'that'll give us a powerful lot of black smoke—and
when I turn loose oh the whistle, watch out!"

The boat drifted a little below the landing, then
turning slowly, pushed its way steadily against the
current.  In the meantime the Captain had taken his
position well forward where he could view the lower
deck and direct the landing of the boat.  "Hi
there—you," followed by a collection of magnificent oaths
as he found a negro going contrary to his directions.
"Get out there to that capstan—man the bars—now—all
together—easy," ending with more eloquent
oaths as the heavy coils of rope were thrown
to the shore, and the stage planks shoved into place.

The young traveller stood staring down into the
throng of upturned faces, realizing that out of all the
number there was not one he had seen before or from
whom he could claim a welcome.  There were bronzed
faced woodsmen, there were the old residents, paler
by contrast, and as enthusiastic in their welcome of
a boat that brought them newspapers and tidings of
the world, as children expecting a new toy; there were
the black shining faces of the negroes who lounged
on the cotton bales lining the banks; there were
Indians in their bright blankets and feathers; here and
there were dark skinned Spaniards; indeed it would
have been difficult to find a nationality that was not
represented in Natchez in those days.

Back of this oddly assorted throng extended high
piles of cotton bales waiting to be transported to
New Orleans, and beyond these a few houses and
stores, after which the hill rose abruptly with a
winding road climbing to the summit.  At the top,
wide spreading trees cut off any view of the upper town.

"Good luck to you, my boy," the old Captain said,
slipping his arm through the young fellow's as they
passed down the stage plank.  "I'm counting on
hearing big things of you one of these days, and I hate
to be disappointed.  Don't you forget my advice,
and remember—if you're ever in a tight fix or
mixed up in some sorter trouble, you know where to
come."

"Thank you, Captain," the young fellow answered,
his hand tightening in its hold upon the big rough one.
To find such honest hearty friendship beaming upon
him from the old weather worn face made him regret
more keenly their parting.  "But if I take your
advice I'm afraid I'll need your help sooner than you
think."

The Captain gave way to one of his sudden bursts
of noisy laughter.  "Never you mind that—lad," he
said with a chuckle.  "What I told you was downright
common horse sense.  I'll see you some of these
days again, and I've a sneaking notion it won't be so
far off."  He turned away hurriedly and had soon
disappeared in the crowd of negroes that were
unloading the boat.

The young fellow stepped ashore and was taken
possession of by a negro with a beaming face, who
shouldered his trunk and carpet bag without any
consultation whatever, and led the way toward a nameless
vehicle standing in the road.  It was at least some
satisfaction to find one who had anticipated his
wishes, and the newcomer took his seat in the hack
with a sigh of relief and some doubts of a successful
ascent of the steep hill which loomed before him.

"Whar to, Boss?" came from the eminently
competent guide when he had mounted the box.
Evidently he was porter, coachman and owner of the
vehicle.

"To the Mansion House."

"I knowed it," with a shake of his head and a
display of fine white teeth.  "All de sho' 'nough white
folks goes dah.  It's de place ob de town."  Then
with a dashing sweep of the whip, he set off up the
hill at a rattling pace.  Half way up they came to a
sudden stop and the driver turned round again.
"Boss," he began in an evident desire to be friendly.
"is Gin'r'l Jackson still President ob de United
States?"  His doubts settled on this question, the
precarious speed was resumed, the top of the hill
reached and the journey ended before a long two
story building, proudly bearing a large sign on which
was painted in red and yellow letters, "The Mansion
House."

Two negro porters rushed forward from the main
door that opened directly on the pavement, one grabbing
the carpet bag from the vehicle, the other lifting
the little hair trunk with an ease that showed the
lightness of its contents.

The young fellow stopped a moment as he stepped
to the pavement and glanced at his surroundings.
The pavement before the tavern was of brick, wide
and shaded by overarching elms that cast a thick
shade, making the place into a sort of veranda for
the hostelry.  Tables and chairs were placed here, and
several groups of men had gathered on the pavement
to procure the papers that had just been brought up
from the boat.  Near the main door four men were
seated about a table, one reading aloud from a paper,
interrupted at almost every other word by the
vehement and noisy comments of his listeners, while an
agile waiter was supplying the party continually with
trays of drinks.

As the young fellow slowly made his way toward
the door of the hostelry the man who was reading
stopped suddenly, laid down his paper, and frankly
stared at him.  The others followed the glance of the
first so that he was forced to undergo the scrutiny of
the entire crowd as he entered the tavern.

He instinctively knew that he was being criticized
and commented upon, and stopping a moment inside
the door, he heard one of them say—"Another
Yankee schoolteacher—I'll wager!  If we don't look
out we'll have nothing but Yankee professors and
school marms down here presently."  Then followed
a burst of laughter and an order for another round
of juleps.

The young fellow flushed hotly.  The tone of the
man's voice, the implied insult, the utter contempt
these men felt for his position, made him tingle with
a violent anger; then, with the quick subduing of his
resentment came the thought of the old captain's
advice.  A moment more and he had made a decision
that in calm self-possession would have been utterly
at variance with his judgment.  Following the
captain's suggestion he walked with considerable dignity
across the room, wrote his name across the ledger
with a flourish, ordered the best room the tavern
afforded, then asked to be directed to the bar where
he gave orders for a box of cigars and a bottle of
champagne to be sent to his room.

The first effect of his action was in the attention
of the negro who had driven him up from the boat
and was now filling the part of waiter; the fellow
fairly danced before him in his endeavours to
anticipate his wishes.  He flung open the door of the
bedroom with a superb flourish as if he were admitting
some royal personage, bowing obsequiously as the
young man passed in.  When two cigars had been
added to a dollar tip, the negro nearly lost his
balance in getting back down stairs to impart his
information to the others.  Passing through the barroom one
of the men at the table outside called to him.

"Who's the limping Yankee, Jonas?"

"Mr. Sargent Everett, Boss, an' a sho' 'nough
gentleman too, sir."

"Schoolteacher, Jonas?"

"Lawdy, no-o, Boss, not him.  He's a gentleman
of means—he is.  Ordered a bottle of champagne
and a box of cigars soon's he done got in de house."

The questioner whistled.

"Well—that sounds pretty good for a Yankee.
Let's ask him down, boys, what do you say?  Maybe
he can give us some news from Washington."

"By all means; let's have him down and find out
what he is," the others assented.

In a few minutes the young traveller was greeted
by his black friend with the information that Lawyer
Lemuel Jervais presented his compliments and would
be pleased to have Mr. Sargent Everett join him and
his friends in a round of juleps.

At first his eyes widened in surprise, then he flushed
with the memory of his recent anger, finally ending
by throwing himself back in his chair and laughing
till the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Meanwhile Jonas' eyes were moving with beaming
admiration from the face of the stranger to the bottle
of champagne and back again.

"Boss," he said finally, seeing that the newcomer
showed no signs of seriousness.  "Boss, don't you
want me to open the wine for you?"

"No," the young man answered, rising.  "I'll let
you open it for me later.  Present my compliments to
the gentlemen and tell them I'll be with them in a
few minutes."

As he stood before the mirror of his bureau and
adjusted a fresh stock, he smiled at the wavering
reflection before him.

"Sargent Everett," he said, half aloud.  "You've
made a first impression—and—I'm very much of
the opinion—that it may prove an uncomfortably
lasting one."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`JULEPS AND POLITICS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   JULEPS AND POLITICS

.. vspace:: 2

"Yes, gentlemen, it is true—the President
removed seven hundred office holders and appointed in
their places men of his own political beliefs."

"Well, Jefferson did the same—why not Jackson?"

"Yes, but what is his reason?"

"He claims the affairs of a republic will be best
administered when the officers hold the same political
sentiments as their President."

"That may be, but if we invest such power in our
President we might as well not have fought for our
liberties at all.  Our fathers set us free and now, by
Gad, this man wants to make us all slaves again."

"That'll do, Jervais, we've heard enough of your
theories for awhile.  Let this gentleman continue.
What is this news about the Bank of the United
States, Mr. Everett?"

Everett was sitting at the table with his newly
made friends—old friends now, since two hours had
already passed in answering their insatiable store of
questions.  They were thirsty for news, these men
who were eight weeks' travel from the seat of
government in a place where incidents happening two
months before, were read about and discussed as if
just taking place.  It was easy enough for Everett
to interest them, for one who had just visited
Washington and listened to the debates of the eloquent
Colonel Hayne with Daniel Webster, the rising young
orator from Massachusetts, was to them a man to
be respected and listened to.  The National
Intelligencer lay on the table before them, neglected and
unread, even though it had come on that day's boat,
for these events of their own country, narrated by a
young man whose flushed face and glowing eyes spoke
so eloquently a deep interest and grasp of his subject,
had an added significance to the group of men about
him.  His statements were interrupted by exclamations,
more often oaths, and once in a heated argument
that took place between two of the listeners as
to the claims of the Whigs and the Democrats, the
whole crowd was compelled to separate the
combatants and enforce silence.

Everett studied the faces of his companions as they
leaned on the table and listened to him.  He found
in them something he had never seen in the friends
of his youth, in the constrained countenances of the
more civilized New Englanders.  Here were quick
candour and unconsidered opinions, condemnation and
praise in the same breath, sudden resentment of some
statement as if it were a personal insult to differ from
another's opinion, and in all of them a certain
artlessness, the fresh vigour and enthusiasm of a
community that was still young and still recklessly
successful.  In these men the young stranger found a
fascination that charmed him, he felt his repressed
sympathy surge within him and rush out to meet the
cordiality of these new friends.  He could call them
his friends already, he felt sure, for in their attitude
of attention and interest he intuitively felt that they
liked him.  He saw it in the whimsical smile of the
lanky Tennessean who with his chimney pot hat set
at a rakish angle and his linsey waistcoat unbuttoned
under the stress of the moment, watched him with
eyes that were keenly kind; it was in the sparkling
eyes of the dark little Creole, who met each
description of Washington with praises of New Orleans and
La Belle Teche.  He saw it in the intense interest of
two members of the Legislature, and in the land
agent, and even in the critical smile of handsome
debonnaire Lemuel Jervais, the Beau of the town, the
wealthiest of all the young "bloods," the most
promising lawyer admitted to the bar that year—although
in his nonchalant indifference Everett saw a certain
envy that was flattering.

"About the United States Bank charter," Everett
continued, in answer to the last question, "they say
Mr. Jackson claims it is unconstitutional and
inexpedient.  He recommends that the old charter be
allowed to expire by its own limitation."

"And when will that be?"

"In '36.  It is whispered that he hopes to distribute
the surplus which has accumulated among State
banks."

"He can't do it, I'm sure.  There is no warrant of
law for such an act."

"Did you ever know Andrew Jackson to wait for
anything when his mind was made up!"

"You didn't finish about the revenues at
Charleston—were they collected?"

"Yes, and the President wouldn't hear to the
debate of Hayne and Webster.  He took matters into
his own hands and issued a proclamation denying the
right of any state to nullify the laws of Congress."

"There they go again, making us into a worse
monarchy than we've just thrown off.  In ten years
we won't have any rights.  I suppose if Andrew
Jackson took a notion, he'd abolish slavery.  But if he
does, do you know what we'll do down here?"  Jervais'
voice thundered out irritably, and he struck the
table with his fist.  "We'll secede."

For a second the questions stopped, and in the
silence Everett saw that a subject had been mentioned
that threw a sullen anger over the entire group.

"So Charleston had to back down, did she!"
drawled Mr. Suggs.

"I don't know whether you'd call it backing down
or not, but when Scott reached there with his troops
and a man-of-war, the nullifying party had disappeared."

"Hmp!" grunted the Tennessean, "I reckon I'll
have to go up to the Hermitage and see Andy, he's
getting to be such a big bug now-a-days."

"He won't know you any longer, Suggs—better
not go.  And the Indians, Mr. Everett, how about
them?"

Everett went into a long discussion of the
formation of the Indian Territory which was being urged
by Andrew Jackson as a solution of the Indian problem.

All the while Jervais was sitting with his chair
tilted back against the wall, listening with supercilious
indifference.

"How does it happen, Mr. Everett?" he said at
last, looking into the face of the newcomer with a
directness that spoke the doubt beneath his question.
"How does it happen that you tell us nothing of this
anti-slavery agitation that comes rumoured from
Boston?  You say you are from that country—so, of
course, you oppose slavery too.  Have you come down
here to sow seeds of abolition?"

Everett met the eyes of his questioner squarely, and
realized for the first time that this was the man who
had made the slurring remark as he entered the
tavern.  For a few moments he considered his answer,
knowing well that the impression he had made upon
these men would be instantly annulled by the wrong
words.  Any personal prejudice on the subject which
he might have acquired from the sentiments already
spreading in the North he immediately put aside.

"I think that question," he answered slowly, meeting
the intense look of each man in the crowd, "should
be settled by the people who are slave owners.  I am
not—so I know nothing of the subject."

A burst of applause came from the crowd, followed
by each fellow extending a hand to Everett and
insisting upon his taking another julep.

"If they'd all do that way and mind their own
business it'd be a whole lot better," drawled
Mr. Suggs.  "You ain't like Miss Prudence Varnum that
came down here from Salem last year—and I'm
certainly glad of it.  She gave out she'd come here
to teach school, but we soon found out it wasn't that.
By Jingo, she'd come down here to write a book on
the sins of slavery.  We all didn't want the likes of
her in town and we all just fixed a way to get her
back home where she belonged.  I just goes to her
one day and tells her I'd heard she was writing a book,
and that I could tell her a damn sight more about
slavery than any fellow in town—if she wanted to
hear it.  She said she wasn't writing any book at all,
but if I had a mind to tell her she had no objections
to listening.  You can bet I laid it on heavy.  I lied
as fast as a dog can trot, and the whiter her face got
the more I'd lie.  You can bet I made up a good tale
about the way I had spent the last Sunday down on
old Seth Burton's plantation.  Says I, 'Miss
Prudence, it certainly was blood curdling, and you sure
want to put it in your book.  But somehow, I kinder
hate to tell you about it.'  Says she, 'Oh, Mr. Suggs,
please do.  You don't know how it will help me to
know the real state of this corrupt country.'  Then I
told her that we had run out of amusement, and just
to liven up things, Seth had a big nigger tied to a
tree and rammed a powder horn down his throat.
'Then, madam,' says I, 'he put a slow match to the
powder while the rest of us stood off and bet whether
the nigger's head would be blown clean off or just
half way.'  That went pretty hard on her, but I was
bent on giving her her fill, so I went right on and
told her that when they had too many nigger babies
on old Seth's plantation he'd have them brought to
town in a cotton basket and sold by the dozen, and if
they didn't sell them all, he had what was left thrown
in the river.  I got up to leave after my last little
piece of information, for I saw I'd have a fainting
woman on my hands if I didn't.  But, bless you, she
called me back when I'd reached the door, and said,
'Mr. Suggs, you have opened my eyes.  I had no
idea it was such a wicked town.  It almost makes me
wonder what they would do to any one who expressed
her disapproval of slavery.'  'Well, ma'm,' says I, 'I
never heard tell of but one woman who expressed her
opposition to the matter, and considering the
reputation of this town, I can't say they treated her so
badly.  They only tarred and feathered her, and rode
her on a rail for a few squares.'  She left town on
the first boat up the river, believing every word I'd
told her, and I reckon she's lecturing right now on
the information I gave her.  But that's the way we
handle 'em down here, if we don't like 'em, and it's
a tip to you, sir, because you appear to be the best
Yankee we've seen down this way.  Hello, there's the
stage from Jackson."

The loud fan-fare of a horn broke upon the mid
day drowsiness of the town.  In a few minutes the
pavement before the tavern was crowded.  From
every direction people came running to get a close
view of the day's arrival.  A row of negro waiters
lined up before the tavern door, an array that went
far to impress the provincial voyageur as to the
importance of the hostelry.  Some Indians gathered in
a silently observing group, and in a brick store across
the street clerks and customers stood in the front
door—for this was the terminus of the forty mile coach
trip from Jackson, and the event of the day that broke
the monotony of existence.

In a cloud of dust the coach finally made its appearance,
a great lumbering car, swung on leather straps,
and tilting from side to side, as the six lathered horses
were urged into a final gallop by means of a cracking
whip, loud blasts of the horn, and an impressive
handling of the reins which the driver managed in
magnificent style.

The group about the table, interrupted in their
political discussions, wheeled about in their chairs,
and though the block where the coach was to pull up
was only a few paces directly before them, Jervais had
already risen and detached himself from the others.

"Expecting some one, Jervais?" Mr. Suggs called
after him, at the same time winking at the rest of
the group.

Jervais flushed and turned back for a moment.

"Yes, Mistress Brandon is returning from Cooper's
Well to-day."

Everett started and half rose from his chair.

"Mistress James Brandon?" he asked quickly.

"Yes," Jervais answered, looking at him with the
hauteur that was his marked characteristic.  "Do you
know her?"

"No—at least I mean only through letters.  I
have come down here to be a tutor for her children."

Before he had finished speaking the coach was at
the block, and Jervais had rushed forward, to see that
the ladder was placed firmly in the door.

The first passenger to appear was a tall woman,
enveloped in a voluminous linen duster, her features
almost obscured beneath a green barège veil.  Jervais
assisted her to alight with elaborate courtesy, and
then turned to lift out two boys and a little girl.

The girl, when she stepped down to the pavement,
evidently disdaining the proffered help of Jervais,
looked about her in apparent search for some friend.
As her glance travelled from one face to another, it
rested for a moment on Everett, half questioning,
then quickly shifted to the others.  In the second that
their eyes met Everett got a vivid impression of her
oddly beautiful face—thin, and very dark, with
intense grey eyes that contrasted almost weirdly with
her black hair.  In the deep shadow of a projecting
poke bonnet her eyes seemed almost too large for the
delicate contour of her face, and as she turned away,
he noticed that she wore her hair in two long plaits.

Suddenly she uttered a quick cry of pleasure as she
saw an old man coming towards her out of the crowd,
and after rushing forward to kiss him they both
turned towards a carriage which had just stopped
near the pavement.

"So they are to be my first pupils," Everett said
half aloud, and smiling as he watched the party drive
off.

Mr. Suggs, sitting next to him, heard the words
and saw the smile.  "And a nice job you'll have, too,"
he said in a confidential whisper.  "That little gal,
you saw her, didn't you?  She's Natalia Brandon and
a whole school in herself, if what I hear going around
is so.  But she ought to be kinder interesting too,
she's got enough history back of her.  You know, her
mother," Suggs edged his chair closer to Everett and
lowered his voice, "it's whispered hereabouts, was a
daughter of Gayosa.  Of course, I don't want you to
say it as coming from me, but there's a lot of folks
think it, just the same."

"Mistress Brandon," Everett exclaimed, "that's
impossible!  I know her relatives in Boston."

"Oh no—not Mistress Brandon.  She's the gal's
stepmother.  Brandon was married twice."

Everett looked in the direction the party had gone
Their carriage had already disappeared down the
street.

"And the old gentleman who met her," he asked,
"who was he?"

"Shh!  Here he comes with Jervais now."

Suggs rose as the two men came towards the table
and held out his hand to the older man with the
unmistakable signs of feeling a certain importance in
the occasion.

"Mighty glad you come over here, Judge," he
exclaimed in tones patently unctuous.  "We've got
something brand new in town to-day—a Yankee
that's not an abolitionist."





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.. _`A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL

.. vspace:: 2

As Everett rose to respond to the introduction of
the newcomer, "Judge Houston," as Suggs explained
with a flourish, "a Virginian, living in Mississippi,
but still breathing the air of Virginia," he felt
intuitively that he was standing before a man it would
be an honour to know.  In that moment the impression
the others had made upon him became cheap and
vulgar, for in the quiet strong face of this man who
was evidently past sixty there was a benignity and
gentleness, an intelligence made up not only of cleverness
and book learning, but of a long life's experience
in which sorrow and thought and difficulties overcome
had brought a result near to perfection.  He was a
tall man, with broad heavy shoulders that were finally
admitting the long struggle in a slight stoop; his face
was strong, yet mild; his mouth firm with the
stability of largeness and generosity.  His head, with its
high forehead, heavy eyebrows, and prominence in
the region that denotes intelligence, would have
conveyed an impression of cold intellectuality, had it not
been for the mellowing expression that shone from
his clear blue eyes—a look that spoke without effort
kindness and sympathy and friendliness toward the
world.  Beneath the force of his personality one felt
something more potent than strength—perhaps it
was the strength of sweetness.  His carriage was
dignified, yet natural; aristocratic yet gentle; and his
graciousness softened the somewhat formal manner
of the Colonial days which still clung to him.  He
wore the old fashioned fair top boots and shorts of
that elder day, a shirt of fine ruffled linen, a waistcoat
of the finest embroidered silk, and his hair, iron grey
and thick, was reached back from the noble forehead
and hung down in a queue behind, tied with a black
silk ribbon—a fashion already passing with the
memories of the Revolution.  He was close shaven and
neat to a nicety, with the exception of some grains
of snuff which fell occasionally from the massive gold
snuff box that hung from a chain about his collar.

When he had taken his seat at the table, and was
mixing with an expression of pleasurable anticipation
the toddy the waiter had brought him, he looked at
Everett with a curiosity that quickly became flattering
interest.  The young fellow's eyes fell before the
searching gaze of the older man for in them he
imagined he saw a faint surprise at the company he had
chosen upon his arrival.  It was then that he regretted
for the first time the wounded pride which had made
him descend to the use of the Captain's advice.

The conversation changed from the arguing,
tempestuous channel in which it had been running, and
with the new influence that was felt by everyone,
became more conservative and dignified.

"I suppose you have told them everything," the old
man said to Everett when the tavern bell had
reminded the group that it was their dinner hour.  "Did
you ever see fellows so hungry for news?" he added,
as Jervais, the last to leave, had moved away.  "But
you must remember we are a long way off from the
world down here."

"I was hardly aware myself that so much had
happened until I began to tell them all I knew," Everett
answered, happy to find himself alone with Judge
Houston.  "I believe I told them everything I have
read and heard for months, and yet," he stopped
suddenly and looked up to see if any of them remained,
"do you know, I forgot to tell them that King George
was dead and that the Duke of Clarence is now
William the Fourth!"

"They will see it in the papers," the old man
answered smiling, "I am sure you have told them enough
for one day.  I am the one who missed it all.  Will
you do me the honour of going home to dinner with
me?  It would give me much pleasure to hear all about
the world from one who is so recently from the scene
of action.  Perhaps, too, I can show my appreciation
by giving you something better than the corn dodgers
and goat meat that you would surely get in this tavern."

Everett kept his eyes on the old man's as he rose
from his chair in accepting the invitation.  The
surprise and pity which people always showed on first
noting his deformity had made him morbidly sensitive
and watchful, and when he saw no change of expression
on the face of this old gentleman of Virginia
that gave evidence that he had noticed his lameness,
a feeling of great joy, almost love, rushed over him
for the other; though, in the slow pace at which they
walked and his frequent halts to call attention to some
important object along the way, Everett knew that in
this lay a veiled consideration.

The street was broad and cool in the shade of
overarching trees, and as they strolled along, Judge
Houston's arm resting on his, and his deep voice steady
and full of the charm of provincial accent, Everett
began to feel more and more contented with the call
which had brought him to this place.

"That old church—yes—it was built by the
Spaniards," the old man leaned against a fence for
a moment.  "And even I can remember when criminals
used it as a place of safety—a sanctuary.  I
saw a murderer run up those steps and put his finger
in the key hole of that same old door and keep his
pursuers at bay.  A queer old custom—but it has
been years ago now.  And their old priest, Father
Brady, they called him—he was my ideal when I was
a boy," he talked on as they resumed their walk.  "He
had great power over the Indians—used to get out
among them and cowhide them into his church.  And
when it came to hunting he was the best shot in the
town, and the best judge of horses and liquor—had
a wink and a joke and a blessing and an alms for
every one.  Oh, I can tell you all the stories you
want to know about Natchez; some of them are
grewsome and some fantastic—but they are being
forgotten now with the changes everywhere.  We are
getting civilized by degrees down here.  Wife said
the other day she had no intention of dying till she
saw a steam car coming right into our town."

He ended with a smile as they stopped before a
house set far back in a grove of trees.  Walking
beside him up the broad brick pavement, bordered on
each side by high box, Everett realized that he was
standing before the typically Southern home, with its
façade of massive white columns, its wide green blinds
against the red bricks, and its broad, hospitable verandas.

When he stood in the cool shade of the hall, the
glare of the brilliant day shut out, the old gentleman's
wife came forward to meet them.  Looking down
into her gentle sweet face Everett found himself
wondering if Judge Houston and the grey haired gentle
woman could not be some kin—for the long life
together, the practice of the same pursuits, the
indulgence, or more the renunciation of similar tastes had
wrought a likeness between them which made the
wife seem but a more delicate feminine edition of the
man.

"You see the resemblance, Maria?" Judge Houston
said to his wife, when the introduction was over.

"Oh yes, indeed—I saw it at once," she murmured
in a low voice, and Everett thought he saw
tears in her eyes as she turned quickly away.  "I shall
tell Cynthie to have dinner at once.  I know you have
been starving.  Think of it—on a boat for a month!"

Everett turned back to Judge Houston as they were
left alone and found the old gentleman smiling upon
him with the same sad expression he had found in
Mrs. Houston's eyes.

"I seem to remind you of someone," he said slowly,
hesitating in the doubt of intruding upon what was
evidently their sorrow.

"Yes—your resemblance to my son is very striking.
He went out into the Western territories with
some pioneers when he was just about your age.  He
was unlucky—the Indians—it is a long story—I
shall tell it to you one of these days."  The old
gentleman pulled forward a chair and waved Everett
towards one beside him.  "And you are going to
Mistress Brandon's?" he added, evidently wishing to
change the subject.

"Yes," Everett answered.  "I shall be glad to have
you tell me something about her and her family for
I practically know nothing.  My chum at college,
Morgan Talbot, is a kinsman of Mistress Brandon
and he carried on the correspondence with her about
me.  She is taking me entirely on his recommendation,
and I'm sure," he laughed, "she can't know Morgan
well, or she wouldn't take a recommendation from
a person who lets his heart rule his brain as Morgan
does.  It was entirely his friendship for me that made
him do it."

"You must remember that when we get down here
we don't have many opportunities to see relatives who
live so far away as Boston.  Mistress Brandon is a
very capable and well educated woman.  She has
superintended the management of the plantation ever
since Brandon died and has done it remarkably well;
indeed, she is the wealthiest woman in this part of
the state.  There are three children.  The eldest is
not her child—she is a daughter of Brandon's first
wife."

Just then Mrs. Houston reappeared to ask them
into dinner.

"I see you are already gossiping," she said, when
they vere seated in the high ceilinged dining room,
made cool and free from flies by a large wooden fan
hung from the ceiling above the table and kept in
continual motion by a little negro who stood in one
corner of the room and dozed as he automatically
pulled the cord.  "I've always told Judge Houston
that it is an erroneous idea that women do the gossiping,"
she continued in her gentle, drawling voice, "I
assure you, Mr. Everett, everything I know, I find
out from him," with a charming glance of accusation
at her husband, "after his visits to the Mansion House."

"But my news is political, Maria," expostulated
Judge Houston.  "And that isn't gossiping."

"Indeed—so you call arguing whether Mistress
Brandon will accept Mr. Jervais or not, a political
discussion!"

"I never told you that, my dear," the old man
smiled gently.

"No—of course you didn't, but some one else's
husband told his wife and she told me."  With which
remark Mrs. Houston turned back to Everett.  "You
will be delighted with your new friends," pouring the
coffee from an enormous silver urn.  "To begin with,
the place itself is beautiful.  It was built by one of
the Spanish governors and the romances connected
with it are thrilling—but you will hear them all.
Natalia will tell them to you."

"There she goes," laughed Judge Houston.
"There won't be a thing left for you to find out for
yourself, Mr. Everett.  Maria, my dear, do leave
something to the gentleman's imagination."

"Well, I only thought it wise for Mr. Everett to
know something about them," she responded on the
defensive.  "Don't you think so, Mr. Everett?"

"Indeed I do, Mrs. Houston.  It might help me
to avoid any embarrassing subjects," he laughed
happily, the hospitality and friendliness of this old
fashioned couple making him feel more at home in the
midst of their good natured banter.

"Embarrassing subjects!  There you are quite
right, Mr. Everett.  For instance, Felix," with a
conciliatory look toward her husband, "you know it
would not do for him to ask much about the
Spaniards, would it?  You see, Mr. Everett, the mother
of Natalia—that is the girl's name—was a Spaniard.
Please don't think I'm gossiping now, but you'll
understand I'm telling you this for your own benefit.
The Spanish rule ended here about the time we came,
so we don't pretend to know what the truth of the
matter is.  Suffice it to say, however, that Natalia's
grandmother seems to have been criticized for her
rather unconventional way of living.  It was during
her lifetime that the house was built, and from what
I gather there was no lack of entertainment at all
times.  Her daughter, a beautiful, shy little creature,
as delicate and sensitive as a flower, was fortunately
sent to New Orleans to be educated and escaped the
surroundings and influence of her mother.  Brandon
married her soon after her mother died, and as she
had inherited this property here, they came back to
Natchez to live.  She was the most fascinating
creature I ever knew, although that was not well—indeed,
no one knew her well, and I often heard it said that
she died insane shortly after Natalia's birth—some
more coffee, Cynthie—but you can't believe
everything you hear.  I believe she just died as naturally
as anyone else.  Do have some more Sally Lunn—Cynthie,
bring some hot rolls.  Tell me, Mr. Everett,
is it really true that you have pie for breakfast in New
England?"

"I was just wondering what my mother would say
to such extravagance as four kinds of hot bread
at one meal.  And as for pie," Everett laughed,
"I'm afraid I'll have to admit I have eaten it for
breakfast.  Hot rolls are a Sunday attraction at
home."

"I suppose we do strike a Northerner as extravagant,"
Mrs. Houston sighed helplessly, "but when
one has so many slaves standing around, they must
be kept busy.  If I had to cook myself I don't
suppose you would have had anything for dinner but
baker's bread and fig preserves.  You don't have slaves
in Maine, either, do you?"

Everett met Judge Houston's eye and smiled.

"No," the old gentleman answered for him, "the
Yankees imported them and found them unadapted
to their climate, so they sent them down here and
sold them to us.  Now, I understand, they have
decided they do not approve of slavery.  Are you all
that clever, Mr. Everett," he ended with a good
humoured laugh.

"I have not read much on the subject," Everett
answered, realizing that beneath the laughter there
lay a deep seriousness.  "But from what I have heard
and from the reports of the Maryland Society, I had
gotten the impression that many of the Southerners
were in favour of emancipation."

"A great many are—in fact, some have gone so
far as to give their slaves freedom.  A man who died
here last year, by his will, emancipated his slaves—there
were nearly one hundred of them—and he also
provided for their transportation to Africa with a full
supply of agricultural implements and medicine and
a year's provisions.  It was a very good example he
set, and one I hope will be imitated."

"Then you believe in emancipation?"

"I am in favour of emancipation with colonization.
That is the only way it is possible.  You can't allow
slaves to be liberated and remain in the States, for
in such a case the effect of an intermediate class
between owners and slaves would be disastrous.  The
negroes must be either sent out of the country or
remain slaves.  There is no half way ground to be
considered."

"From what you say, Judge Houston," Everett
said, in the slight pause that followed, "I find myself
wondering if you are a slave owner."

"Oh yes, I plead guilty, but in a very small way.
We have five slaves, and I venture to say they wouldn't
leave us if they could.  Do you think so, Maria?"

Before answering, Mrs. Houston called the pleasant
faced negro woman to her, "Cynthie, go upstairs,"
she said, an evident ruse to get the woman out of the
room, "and bring me a—pocket handkerchief.  I
wanted to tell you about her," she continued when
they were alone.  "I asked her once what she would
do if I set her free.  Will you believe me?—she cried
for a week and begged me every hour of the day
please not to do it.  You see, Mr. Everett, they feel
they are a part of the family—and so they are.  We
take care of them just like they were children.  Of
course, we hear of cases where they are badly treated,
but it is quite unusual."

"Yes," Judge Houston added, "if people would
only stop to consider that it is to a man's interest to
treat his slaves well, in order that they may do their
work, probably they would soon see the fallacy of the
exaggerated tales that are causing so much ill feeling
in the North."

"Now, here you all have been discussing this everlasting
slave question," Mrs. Houston said, as they
finally rose from the table, "and all the time I have
been wondering to myself over a very different matter.
Can either of you guess what it is?"

"The wonderings of a woman's mind are quite
beyond us, eh, Mr. Everett?" said Judge Houston.

"I shall have to admit my failure this time."  Everett
smiled at Mrs. Houston.

"Well," she continued, half seriously, "I was
trying to calculate how long it will take you to tame
Natalia."

Everett flushed slightly and did not attempt to hide
the surprise he felt at the remark.

"Ah, there you go with your woman's eternal
speculation on some ridiculous topic."  Judge Houston
frowned in mock disapproval. "Here you take a
young fellow, and before he has ever seen the child
you put all sorts of ideas into his head about her."

"Nevertheless, I notice the young man is embarrassed,"
Mrs. Houston continued in evident enjoyment
of Everett's increasing confusion.  "It appears
to me that perhaps he has seen our little girl already.
Have you, Mr. Everett?"

Everett glanced at Judge Houston, smiling, then
back at the kind old lady who was bent on teasing him.

"Someone pointed out Mistress Brandon and her
children to me as they got out of the coach to-day,"
he answered finally.

"And there was a little girl, the daughter?" Mrs. Houston
insisted.

"Yes, I think there was a little girl."

"Hm'm, I knew it.  Was she about twelve years
old and very pretty, with black hair and grey eyes?"

"Yes—I believe her eyes were grey—since you
mention it."

"Since I mention it!"  Mrs. Houston laughed
easily.  "Seems to me you're mighty indifferent about
your pupil."  Then seriously, "She's a great pet of
ours and I want you to be kind to her.  She's a
handful, everyone says, but Felix and I love her dearly.
And indeed, I can't see how anyone keeps from it.
Some people find her rather strange at first, and I
must admit she is wilful, but after you know her a
while you'll understand her.  That is what I want
you to do if you are to teach her—understand her
and sympathize with her and be very good to her.
Remember she has neither father nor mother."  She
laid her hand almost beseechingly, on Everett's arm.

"You may trust me to do that," Everett smiled
into her kind eyes.  "You see, she will be my first
pupil, and, of course, I shall take pride in making her
reflect credit upon me."

"That may be a little difficult.  She never would
study except what she wanted to, but perhaps you may
exert a good influence over her in that direction."  She
glanced at Everett intently as if reading him and
ended, "I'm half a mind to think you will, too."

Everett and Judge Houston strolled through the
cool, darkened hall, and back to the front veranda,
where large red rocking chairs and palmetto fans were
invitingly awaiting them.  As they stood for a
moment, looking out toward the street, a wagon came
into view, piled high with bales of cotton and pulled
by six oxen.

"There is some cotton from the Brandon place,"
Judge Houston said to Everett.  "Would you like
to see it closer?  You can tell it by the marks on the
bales."

They walked down to the gate and watched the
heavy load pass down the street on its way to the
distant country from which Everett had come.

"This will be the greatest country in the world
some day," the old gentleman said when they were
back on the veranda and had settled themselves in
the comfortable chairs.  "All we need is more capital,
more people and more facilities for transportation.
But tell me about yourself now—your plans—and
what you hope to do."

"You've probably heard it from many a young
fellow before," Everett answered, looking responsively
into the face turned with kindly interest toward him.
"I have chosen law as my profession.  It has always
been my desire since the time I found a long illness
had left me unfit for any great physical work.  My
father was a sea captain and could never understand
this choice of mine—a queer notion, as he called it.
But I'm going on with it and make a success of it,
if hard work and hope will do it.  I had some little
success with oratory at college, but what I need now
is the opportunity to read law and prepare to be
admitted to the bar.  There seemed no good opportunity
for me in New England, everything there is so
crowded, and the chance to teach in Mrs. Brandon's
family seemed the best thing for me to do.  It will
give me leisure to study, and then, Morgan Talbot
tells me her library is very large."

"It is magnificent.  Brandon had case after case
of books shipped to him from England—those that
he could not get from New York.  The library got so
large that he had to build a special room for it.  But
to go back to yourself—how much law do you know?
I saw this morning in your talk with those fellows
that you were able to grapple with the mazes of
politics.  But the point for you now is to get a solid
foundation of details.  Do you think you could get
in study enough this winter to pass examinations next
spring?"

With the minutes slipping by they talked on,
sometimes Everett unbosoming himself to the kind old
gentleman as he had never done before, sometimes the
old man telling him of the needs and greater demands
of the bar of the Southwest, pointing out to him lines
of study and books that would be more useful to him
in the special characteristics of the law in that country.

In his low modulated voice he told the young
fellow starting out on the life journey things that were
to come back to him many years later.  Afterwards
Sargent Everett often recalled his words about success
when he was feeling its empty sting: "The path of
the successful man is not strewn with flowers.
Failure and disappointment are the walls that, when once
passed, become golden experiences.  Success judged
by the outside world and felt by the one who has
succeeded are two very different things—sometimes,
perhaps most often, the success seen by the world is
the least of all successes.  What one strives for and
yearns for and so rarely accomplishes is a thing that
others are unaware of—a thing too sacred to be
spoken."

Everett sat spell bound under the influence of the
Judge's words.  In the rise and fall of the voice, an
inflection which had in it a delightful bit of
provincialism, he found a charm that was persuasive and
forceful.

When the town clock, a block away, chimed three,
he rose reluctantly with a sigh that spoke frankly his
regret at leaving.

"I wish I might spend the remainder of the
afternoon with you," he said, his hand clasping the old
gentleman's.  "But my journey is not quite finished,
yet.  I shall go out to Mistress Brandon's now and
meet her and see if I am acceptable."

"Tell her I approve," Judge Houston laid his hand
on Everett's shoulder.  "And if I'm not very much
mistaken it may have some weight.  Tell her we
became good friends in one day."

Everett pressed the old gentleman's hand warmly.
"Good friends!" he replied, "you are already
more than that to me.  I feel as if I had known you
always—that I had some right to expect all this
kindness from you."

The old man's eyes met his affectionately.

"You have—I've told you.  It's the resemblance."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HOUSE OF THE SPANIARDS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HOUSE OF THE SPANIARDS

.. vspace:: 2

An hour later Everett was riding out of the town
on his way to Mrs. Brandon's home.  About him on
all sides the scene was bathed in the splendour of late
afternoon sunlight.  A heavy stake-and-rider fence
bordered the road, and beyond it stretched the wide,
sweeping cotton fields—snow white with their
unpicked product.  He drew in the reins, resting his
horse, while he marvelled at the tall plants, almost
as tall as himself, and the strange effect of the spotless
cotton against the distant border of forest.  Across
the fields came to him the sound of voices chanting—sweet
with harmony, and looking in the direction from
which it came, he saw bright turbaned negro women
and stalwart men moving steadily through the rows
of plants, picking the cotton and dragging huge
baskets after them.

Turning from the high road two miles south of
the town, he rode down a narrow roadway on both
sides of which giant cottonwood trees towered, and
where spreading cypresses, their long branches
festooned with grey moss, cast a cooling shade.

At the end of the narrow road a gateway loomed,
a large massive piece of iron grill work swung
between two columns of brick and cement.  Beyond
these columns, the fence extended, elaborately
designed iron pickets bound together with a tracery of
grapes and leaves, before which a hedge of Cherokee
roses grew, its thorny branches accentuating the effect
of security and aloofness from the world.

Everett stopped before the gate and looked beyond,
into the depths of a magnolia grove which seemed a
continuance of the wood he had just passed through,
so filled was it with the sprawling shadows of the
thick foliage and the golden spots of sifting sunlight.
He was so lost in his first impressions of the place,
its stillness, its old-world charm, its fairylike mystery,
that he started abruptly when he saw a little girl
sitting at the foot of one of the gate posts, surveying him
through gently questioning eyes.  Her feet were
crossed under her, as she leaned comfortably against
the post, and in her lap she held a large, heavy book,
one finger still upon the page from which her gaze
had wandered.

Everett met her eyes in silence for a moment, looking
down at her thin little face, flushed from the rose
glow of the setting sun, and feeling in a flash the
vividness of her odd beauty.  Her brow was very
white and delicate and her blue-black glossy hair,
parted in the middle and brushed back to where it
was braided, made her seem paler than she really
was, for her skin was a rich olive.  Everett forgot
the beautiful colouring, the almost weird thinness of
her slight figure, the sweet half questioning mouth—all
these were lost sight of when he had seen her
eyes.  They were so strange in all they represented
that he was lost in admiration and wonder—for in
them, although childlike still in their innocence—was
tenderness, sympathy, wilfulness and humour—all
of these, and more striking still, an intentness that
kept changing them from grey to black and back again.

She broke the silence that Everett had forgotten
about.  "Are you the schoolmaster," her voice was
high and fresh and liquid, "from Maine?"

Then Everett took off his hat and bowed low,
smiling down upon her.

"I'm so—so glad," she sighed, as if the burden
of the world had fallen from her shoulders.  Then
she closed the book with a snap.  "I've been waiting
here hours to see what you looked like."

Everett laughed outright.

"If I had known you were waiting I should have
come sooner.  I did not know Mrs. Brandon knew
that I had arrived."

"Oh yes—Mr. Jervais told her."

"Then I can see her now?"

She met his look for a second—then glanced down
at her book.

"She's riding over the place now, but she told me
to tell you to wait for her.  You can tie your horse
there," indicating a ring imbedded in the gate post,
"then we can go to the house."

Sargent followed her through the gate and along
the driveway which extended under the magnolia
trees.  The gloom of the grove was intense, the black
green leaves shutting out the sky entirely and making
the ground beneath dank, where a pale green moss
grew in lieu of a lawn.  Through the vista of trees,
glowing bright against the eternal twilight of the
grove, the house came into their vision, gleaming like
some palace in an enchanted wood.

Sargent stopped when they had gone a little further,
and looked at the house.  The little girl stopped, too,
close beside him, and watched his expression intently.
From their position only the front of the house
was visible, a stretch of plain, cemented columns that
rose from a pavement of deep red flags, level with the
ground, to the red tiled roof, two stories high.  Back
of the columns, the lower rooms extended out from
the upper floor, in this way forming a balcony to the
entire second floor, which was enclosed in an iron
balustrade.  From this balcony two flights of stone
steps, semi-circular in form, and iron-railed, led down
to the pavement below, and in the opening formed
by these steps was the wide front door.  It was an
odd conception of architecture and gave the house a
strange, foreign aspect, accentuated by the more
familiar appearance of the second floor, with its wide
windows and dark green shutters.

Sargent had forgotten the little girl beside him,
lost in admiration of the strange old house, when he
felt a cold hand slipped into his, and looking down,
found her glowing eyes gazing timidly up at him.

"You like it?" she questioned quickly.

"It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen!"

She smiled contentedly, her hand still in his.

"It's mine—when I get grown up.  If you hadn't
liked it—I'd have hated you just like I did Miss
Hampton who was our governess last year."

Sargent felt her hand clench in his and saw her
eyes grow dark.  Giving a tug at the book she
carried, to get it more comfortably under her arm, she
started on again.

"Did you hate her so," Sargent said, glancing at
the book she held in her hand, "because she made you
study such a big book as that?"

"This?—Oh no, I love to read this—only I
don't understand it all.  I just hated her because she
said this was a lonesome old place, and I didn't like
for her to say that, for the Spaniards built this house
and my mother was Spanish—so am I."  Then
suddenly, "Are you going to teach me the three R's?
Uncle Felix calls it that," smiling again.  "Isn't it
funny, because I know they don't begin with an R,"
putting her hand in Sargent's once more.  "Won't
you please leave out the 'Rithmetic?"

Sargent laughed down at her.

"Arithmetic—of course not.  We all have to
learn that."

"I'm so—so sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I hate it!"

"Perhaps I may be able to help you like it."

"No," positively, "you won't.  It's so stupid and
dry.  I want you to teach me how to spell, that
bothers me so; and I want to learn how to say
Shakespeare's plays."

"Shakespeare!" Sargent exclaimed.  "How old are you?"

"I'm going on twelve."

"And what do you like best of Master Shakepeare's?"

"I like the story about Orlando and Rosalind.
Shall I say some of it for you?  Let's go over there
by the bench and you can hear me say it right now."

She tripped ahead of Sargent along a path that
led from the drive, suddenly going slower when she
saw that he could not follow her so rapidly.  A little
way down the path they came to the edge of the grove,
where an iron bench was placed beneath one of the
great trees, making an ideal place where one could
sit in shady protection and gaze out upon a scene so
dramatic in its breadth and majesty.

Far down the sloping hill the river swept along,
the low country across the mile-wide current
mystically dozing in the golden light of the advancing
evening.  In the restfulness of the twilight, when all
Nature had sunk into a gentleness and mistiness, when
the light was softening and objects which had been
sharply outlined were imperceptibly growing unreal,
it became a scene made up of dreams and fancies.

Sargent sank on the bench, under the influence of
the scene and its resemblance to the one he had left
so far behind him.  A doubt of ever seeing the place
he called home rushed over him, bringing with it the
first deep pang of home-sickness.  Why had he come
so far from home?  Was it really for his good?

All the while the little girl was hastily turning the
pages of the book, searching for the lines she wanted.
At last, finding what she sought, she ran over them,
her lips moving inaudibly with the words.  Finally
her finger marking the lines, she handed the book to
Sargent and stood erect before him.

"Now," she said, "will you hear them?" looking
at him shyly, for she had been quick to see the wistful
look in his eyes.

He met her look, smiling encouragingly, as she
clasped her hands behind her and riveted her gaze
on the trees for better concentration.  Then she spoke
the lines in a quick, excited voice:

   |  "And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
   |  Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
   |  Sermons in stones, and good in everything."

Sargent waited until she had finished, then closed
the book slowly, repeating the lines after her.  She
listened intently, her eyes growing deeper as she came
nearer to him.

"Say it again, please," she almost whispered,
sitting down on the bench beside him and slipping her
hand through his arm.  "It is so beautiful when you
say it.  I know I'm going to like you—your voice
is so—so sweet!"

Sargent turned toward her and clasped her little
hand in his own.

"Who told you to learn those lines?" he asked,
after a moment's silence.

"Uncle Felix.  He says they always make him think
of this place.  Mammy Dicey says Mamma used to
call this 'The Garden of Shadows.'"

"The Garden of Shadows," Sargent repeated.
"What a beautiful name; but it's rather sad, don't
you think?"

"Mammy Dicey says Mamma was always sad."

"And don't you remember her yourself?"

The little head moved from side to side and a
wistful expression crept into her eyes.  "No—I don't
remember her—I was too little, I s'pose.  Sometimes,
though, when there's nobody in the house, I go and
sit in the parlour and look at her picture and play
like I'm talking to her.  Mammy Dicey says she was
beautiful—her picture is."

Sargent looked down at her tenderly.  Something
in the plaintive notes in her voice appealed to him
strangely.  Her vivid little face, with the deep
expression of her eyes, drew him toward her with the
instinctive feeling that in some way they were to be
very close together in the years that were to come.
The beautiful surroundings, with their old-world
charm, and aloofness from the world, seemed a part
of the child; unconsciously he felt that she was the
expression of all that it had stood for—of all its
strange beauty.

"You are like your mother—aren't you?" he
said, his look still upon her.

She turned away quickly and looked straight
before her.  "Father used to say so—that is why he
named me 'Natalia'—for her.  Now, please don't
call me 'Natalia' like so many people do.  It's
Nataaya—that's the way my mother said it—that's
the Spanish pronunciation."

"Very well, then, I shall call you Nataaya,"
Sargent repeated after her.  "You seem to know
a great deal about your mother, not to remember
her.  Does Mrs. Brandon talk to you so much about
her?"

Natalia looked up, startled.

"No—she never talks to me about my mother.
Aunt Maria—that's Mrs. Houston—she's told me
lots about her, but Mammy Dicey tells me most."

"Who is Mammy Dicey?"

"Mammy Dicey's my Mamma's slave.  She always
lived with Mamma ever since before Mamma
was born, and now she belongs to me.  She tells me
all about the time when Mamma was a little girl just
like me," her face lit up wonderfully with her evident
love of the subject, "and she tells me all the time
about the trips she and Mamma used to take to New
Orleans, and the years they spent in the Convent down
there, and of the long, long trip they once took to the
old country.  Mammy says they didn't see anything
but water for months and months.  I wish so—so
much I could take a trip like that with Mammy.
Then, sometimes, on cold winter nights when we sit
in the kitchen and Mammy can see pictures in the
fire, I get her to tell me about the times Mamma used
to walk here, in the Garden of Shadows, and cry all
the time because Father had gone to fight the Indians.
I'll get her to tell you sometime, only you mustn't
laugh at me when I cry."  She stopped, out of breath
with the rush of words.

"Why do you cry, Natalia?" Sargent asked gently,
when she had rested a moment in silence.

"Oh, I don't know, except," and the tears were
already in her eyes.  "I can't help wishing she was
living when I get very, very lonesome."

"And is that so often in this lovely place?"

"No—not so much.  It's just when I get mad
with James and Bushnell, and Mammy's busy, and
I'm all by myself—like I was this evening.  I s'pose
every little girl gets that way when she hasn't got a
Mamma.  Have you got one?"

Sargent put his arm around her and drew the frail
little figure close to him.  When she had rested her,
chin against his arm, and he could feel the quick
beating of her heart, he leaned over and kissed the heavy
waves of her hair.

"Yes, I have a mother," he answered, almost in
a whisper, "but she is nearly as far away from me
as yours is.  Indeed, I believe she is farther—for
you have everything here that was your mother's, and
that is a great deal."

For a little while Natalia was silent, then she
murmured without looking up, "Is she beautiful like
mine—and do you love her very much?"

"Yes—she is very pretty, I think," he said in
answer to her last question, "and I am like her, too,
just as you are like your mother."

"It's lucky for a man, Mammy says—but it's
terribly unlucky for a girl."  She sat up suddenly and
faced Everett.  "Do you believe I'm going to be
unhappy because I look like Mamma?"

"Of course you'll not be unhappy.  To be as pretty
as your mother must have been should make you very
lucky, I think."

Natalia smiled contentedly, and the colour rushed
into her face, a deep claret colour that glowed
subdued beneath her smooth skin and faded away into
the exquisite slenderness of her throat.

"Tell me about your mamma, please."

Through her question Everett was again looking
far away to a place where he knew the ones he loved
were gathered, perhaps at that very moment.  He
could see it so distinctly, that almost unconsciously,
he began to talk about it to the little girl beside him,
as if it were all there before him.

"My home, Natalia, was way up on a hill where
we could look down upon the town and out into the
bay where there are so many little islands—one for
each day in the year, they say—and way beyond those
islands was the great Atlantic Ocean.  In front of our
house was an apple orchard; did you ever see one?
It is the most beautiful thing in the world.  And in the
spring and summer my mother used to always make
me sit beside her out there, and study my lessons, and
when I would get tired, she would close the books
and tell me stories of great heroes—making them
more real to me by telling me they inhabited those
islands before us....  When I was a little fellow
of ten I was very ill.  The doctor said I was going
to die, but my mother said I should not!  And one
night when there was a terrible storm, and the ships
could not come into port, she went out on to the cliff
where there was nothing but snow and ice, and where
the surf dashed up and froze on everything—she
went out all by herself and prayed to God to spare
my life, and promised Him if I lived she would rear
me into a fine man, who would do good in the world
and be a great help to people who had forgotten
who God was....  My father came home on his
ship that night, and when they told him my mother
had gone out into the storm, he went out and found
her lying unconscious in the snow.  When he brought
her back into the room where I lay dying, a great
change came over me at once.  I got well; all except
my leg; it kept shrinking so I can never use it again....
So when my father found he couldn't make a
sailor of me, like himself, he got angry with me and
called me the little cripple.  He didn't know how that
hurt me, and once, when my little sister died, and my
mother got a letter from him, he thought she said
it was I who had died, and he wrote her it was a
fortunate thing, as I could never have been an honour
to them....  It was then that my mother denied
herself that I should go to school and have all the
advantages of an education.  It was hard on her and on the
others—for we were very poor, but she would hear
to nothing else but that I should learn all that was
in my power....  And the day I left her, Natalia,
to come down here, I told her good-bye in the orchard,
and as I went down to the ship I could still see her
standing there, waving to me.  Even when the ship
was out to sea, I imagined I could still see her there,
and I swore to myself that day that the next time she
stood there and looked for me, I should be coming
back to her a great man!"

The sun was half gone before the far horizon, the
grove of magnolias had grown black in the dusk, and
a multitude of birds were fluttering in the protecting
foliage, whispering good-nights to each other.  A
delicious breeze swept up from the bosom of the river,
cooling the parched earth, and bringing with it the
promise of a refreshing evening.

Finally Everett rose from the bench.  "So we
should be very good friends, Natalia," he said as she
walked beside him, still silent from her sympathetic
listening, "for we are both without the one we love
best in the world.  Will you see now if Mistress
Brandon has returned?  It is growing late, and I must get
back to town to-night."

In the distance the sound of the gate opening and
the crunch of hoofs on the driveway made Sargent
look toward the house.  A woman on horseback was
riding up to the door, followed by two men, who
rode a little behind her.

"That's Mamma Brandon now," Natalia cried,
"and her overseers.  She's been going over the
plantation with them, getting ready for the cotton
picking."  She walked a little ahead of Sargent, so that
she reached Mrs. Brandon's side just as she
dismounted on the block before the door.

"He's come," she cried breathlessly.  "The
schoolmaster!  And I like him so much!"

Mrs. Brandon threw her reins to a negro, and
looked quickly at Sargent as he came toward her.

"You are Mr. Everett," she said, extending her
gloved hand.  "Morgan wrote me that you would
probably reach here this month.  Will you come inside?"

She turned away and walked into the house, leaving
Sargent, who followed closely, with an impression
of a tall, fair woman, with steady, cold blue eyes and
a determined mouth.  In the first moment of greeting
he had seen her utter lack of sympathy with the old
house.  In a flash the thought that had come to him
in the garden, returned—the child was the rightful
owner.

"If you will excuse me for a few minutes," she
continued, when they were within the hall.  "I have
been overlooking the places this afternoon.  After a
month's absence it was quite necessary.  Natalia, take
Mr. Everett into the parlour.  I shall be there in a
few moments."

In the gloom of the interior of the house Sargent
could distinguish very little until his eyes had grown
accustomed to the subdued light.

The hall was spacious, with a brick floor over which
were thrown squares of carpet, and on the walls, which
were of the same cement as the exterior, hung a
remarkable collection of portraits.  Tier after tier they
rose to the ceiling, all of them in massive gilt frames
that glistened against the white walls and increased
the effect of a ghostly multitude looking down upon
the intruder.

Following Natalia into a large salon which opened
into this hall, Sargent found himself in a vast room
of mirrors, with furniture shrouded in linen covers
and a polished mahogany floor that repeated all the
furnishings.

When they were alone again, Natalia stood directly
before Sargent, her face peering up at him through
the misty light.

"I'm going to call James and Bushnell to meet
you," she said, "and they're going to be so glad when
I tell them you're not one bit like Mr. Jervais said
you were."  She smiled happily.  "He said you were
a regular old Yankee schoolmaster—and a crippled
one at that!  Oh!" she cried, seeing the quick flash
of pain in Sargent's face—it was the thrust that
always made him flinch—"I didn't mean to hurt
you!"  Her eyes darkened suddenly and the tears
rushed down her checks.  "Now you won't like me
at all—I'm so—so sorry!"  Then she ran weeping
out of the room.

.. vspace:: 2

So it was that Sargent Everett's long journey from
Maine to Mississippi in those old days came to an
end.  Sitting in his room that night at the tavern,
writing home by the light of a single candle, he held
his quill poised above the paper, while the faces of
the day rushed in procession before him.  The
wrinkled, weather-beaten face of the steamboat captain;
the kind, noble features of the Virginia gentleman;
the calm, placid face of the chatelaine of the old
Spanish home; and last of all, the haunting grey eyes of
the little girl.  In each of them he found something
that made him realize they would help in the moulding
of his future.  His first step had been made.  What
would the unknown bring to him?  His head sank on
his arms and the words of the far away one rang in
his ears, urging him on and on to success.

A light tap sounded on the door.

"Come in," he called out, and the shining face of
Jonas appeared in the doorway.

"Boss, I jes' cum ter fin' out ef yer didn' want
hit open'd now?"

"No, Jonas," Sargent smiled, glancing at the bottle
of champagne placed conspicuously on the table.
"I've decided to keep it as a souvenir of my first day
in a new country—and of some one whose advice,
I verily believe, saved the day!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`PICTURES IN THE FIRE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   BOOK II

.. class:: center large bold

   THE LAWYER

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER I

.. class:: center medium bold

   PICTURES IN THE FIRE

.. vspace:: 2

Spring had come, the joyous, impatient spring of
the South, bringing in one day a new world, full of
warmth and splendour.  The old house of the
Spaniards gleamed once more in the sunshine, long shafts
of gold penetrated the shadows of the magnolias and
rested with a dazzling brilliance upon the surrounding
line of columns.  And the garden along the terrace
burst into a sudden glory that showed it knew well
that the cold winds of the North had died away for
many months.

Far down the hillside the great river crept stealthily
out of its banks, crawling up and up until the
lowlands of the opposite shore became a wide, yellow,
seemingly boundless sea.

Then the seared forest began to tremble into a
faint green, and everywhere were the chatter of birds
and the sounds of awakening life.  Weather prophets
shook their heads, saying the spring had come too
early, that it would mean a bad season for the crops;
the plantation overseers were caught napping, and
rushed hundreds of slaves into the field to make the
ground ready for planting; and along the road toward
the town three caravans of Voyageurs had passed
already, on their way from New Orleans to
St. Louis—all this in the early part of March.

The days, lengthening and full of a lazy warmth,
were perfect for a short cessation from the routine
of the schoolroom, so that when the young schoolmaster
had asked for a week's leave in which he might
ride to a day's distant village, for the purpose of
passing his examinations before the Judges of the
Supreme Court, his request was readily granted.  The
boys had received the announcement with childish
delight.  Natalia had said nothing.

The day after the schoolroom was closed, the little
girl wandered far down the hillside, and watched the
great river, turbulent and angry in its swollen channel.
She sat there a long time, not thoroughly contented
in the freedom of the holiday, for the last few weeks
had been unhappy ones for her.  The schoolmaster had
been severe and impatient for many days, and he had
not taken her with him on his long walks through the
woods.  Until lately it had been almost the daily
custom to go directly after dinner along the crest of
the hill quite away from the road, toward the town.
Natalia would dance along beside him, flitting away
now and then to inspect a hitherto undiscovered
grapevine swing or a new birdnest, and then again walking
slowly beside him, listening intently while he told her
some wonderful story of bygone days.  Sometimes
when the story was very complicated and the words
too big for her to grasp the meaning, she would walk
close beside him, one hand in his, her eyes shut tight
while she listened only to the music of his voice.
Many days they would go quite into the town and
stop at Judge Houston's for a half hour, and while
Mrs. Houston gave them huge slices of jelly cake,
and raisins, and tall goblets of milk, the Judge and
the schoolmaster would discuss the new laws of the
State.  Then it was such fun to come back, in the late
afternoon, when the wind was whistling through the
trees and the grove about the house was filling with
queer shadows, and find everybody gathered about the
blazing logs for a while before the study hour.

But all this had ended a month before.  The
schoolmaster walked no more in the afternoons; he went
directly from the dinner table to the library, and shut
himself in, not coming out even when the supper bell
rang, and many nights when Mammy Dicey carried
the little girl up to her room she could see a line of
light beneath the library door.  It would be there still
when she came down hours later, and twice it had
been there when she went back to waken the children
in the morning.  It was this way to the day he left,
not one minute wasted, as he drove himself on and
on toward his examinations.

Natalia had at first been impatient and complaining
of the neglect, then she had become wounded,
and at last silent, and what might have been a joyous
holiday grew more and more monotonous.

When the seventh day had come she had gone
down to the big gate, taking the great cumbersome
Shakespeare with her, and, settling herself comfortably
against the post, had waited for the schoolmaster's
return.  In the happiness of seeing him again
she had become quite forgiving.

The morning passed and he did not come.  The
afternoon dragged along until the birds had all
fluttered into the grove, and gone to sleep—still, he did
not come.  Night came on, a question or two was
asked, and at last bedtime arrived, with no news.

Mammy Dicey sat beside Natalia's bed a long time
that night, singing the whole repertoire of lullabys
that usually closed the dusky little lids, without avail.
Natalia lay staring up at the ceiling with wide-open
eyes full of doubts and fears.  There had come a
report the day after the schoolmaster's departure, that
Jacob Phelps, a notorious highwayman, had suddenly
appeared near the town and robbed the Jackson coach
in broad daylight.  With the incident, all the
memories and experiences of the town folk were awakened,
and each one was recounting what he had heard of
the man.  It added picturesqueness to the tales, that
the freebooter was not a member of a gang, but
accomplished his daring robberies without the aid of
confederates; and in contrast to all the robbers that
infested this new country, he killed his victims only
when forced to do so in escaping.  The tales had
reached the children through the servants, and for
Natalia there had been no peace during the long days
of the schoolmaster's absence.

When Mammy Dicey had blown out the candle
and left the room, closing the door tight after
her, Natalia jumped out of bed and ran to the
window.  Raising it, and pushing the shutters far
apart, she leaned out so as to get a view of the big
gate.

The moon was just rising, and by its cold, white
light she could see far down the empty road.  She
stood looking out, until the night wind chilled her,
and she shivered under her thin nightgown.  Finally
she closed the shutters and crept back to bed, huddling
herself beneath the heavy quilt until she stopped trembling.
Still she could not sleep for the quick beating
of her heart and her intent listening.  At last she got
up resolutely, tiptoed to the door and went out into
the hall, where a single candle always burned at night.
For a moment she hesitated at the top of the
dark staircase, then crept noiselessly downstairs and
through the dining-room until she reached the door
that led across an open passage to the kitchen.  She
gave a quick sigh of relief when she saw a flickering
light through the kitchen window, and rushing across
the passage, burst into the room and into old Dicey's
arms, as she crouched before the fire.

"Fo' de Lawd, honey chile, whut yer doin' a runnin'
'round heah in de middle ob de night!" the old
woman cried, gathering the child to her deep bosom
and holding her tight.  "An' yer footsies all cold an'
naked an' nothin' more'n yer nightgown on.  Whut's
de mattah, honey?"

"Oh, Mammy, why don't he come?" Natalia
whispered, her head buried against the old negro.

"He's a comin', sugar, he's all right.  Now—put
dis shawl 'round yer an' git wahm.  I'se gwine
ter set up an' wait fer him an' gib him sumthin'
ter eat when he gits heah.  Ole Miss tole me ter do hit."

"But he said he would only be gone a week, and
it's a week now, Mammy—and over.  And Mammy,
I was so mean to him when he went away.  I wouldn't
tell him good-bye because he wouldn't take me
walking any more, and shut himself up and studied and
studied and studied—all the time.  So when he came
to tell us good-bye, I told him I did not want to shake
hands with him because I hated him and hoped he
wouldn't ever come back.  And Mammy," the tears
were streaming down her face now, "he said maybe
he wouldn't come back, maybe something would
happen to him.  Now I know what he meant—he meant
Jacob Phelps might kill him."

"No—he didn't mean dat.  Don' yer worry erbout
him, honey.  Yer don' stedy 'bout nobody but him
all de time.  Sence dat schoolmas'r come yer done
clean fergit yer Mammy Dicey."

Natalia's arms went about the old woman's neck
and hugged her tight.  "I won't ever forget you,
Mammy," she said.  "Not for anybody.  But I do
love him lots—next to you.  He's so good to me
all the time and I love so to watch his eyes—aren't
they soft and sweet?  And, Mammy, he always lets
me talk to him about Mamma.  Then he tells me about
his Mamma away up in that cold country—so far
away.  Don't you love to hear him talk?  Even if he
does talk in great big words sometimes, I just love
to hear him.  I don't care if I don't know what he
means, it sounds so fine and beautiful, and his voice
just flows and flows—like the Bayou in the spring,
Mammy—oh! do you reckon Jacob Phelps has got him?"

"Sh'h—honey chile, sh'h.  Cose he hain' got him.
Now you just snuggle up 'ginst me an' git wahm.
Whut yer want Mammy ter sing ter yer?  Now—dat's
a heap bettah—ain' it?"

Holding the little girl close in her arms, Dicey
reached out with one hand and threw a short log upon
the fire, then sitting back comfortably again, and
rocking to and fro, she began singing in a barely
audible whisper an intimate little lullaby, just for
themselves:

   |  "Whar, oh whar am de Hebrew chilluns?
   |  Whar, oh whar am de Hebrew chilluns?
   |  Whar, oh whar am de Hebrew chilluns?
   |  Way ober in de Promis' Lan'."

The song was of no avail.  Natalia still gazed out
of wide open eyes.  Then Dicey changed the meter of
her melody and began again:

   |  "Whar was Moses when de light went out?
   |  Whar was Moses when de light went out?
   |  Whar was Moses when de light went out?
   |  Settin' in de dark wid his mouf poked out."

Natalia always chuckled over the last words of the
song, but that night she only stirred restlessly and
stared up into the old slave's eyes.  The flickering
glow of the fire fell on Dicey's face, lighting up the
countenance which had always been the dearest in the
world to the little girl.  The other slaves shunned the
strange looking old woman, who had not come from
San Domingo with them; and her high cheek-bones
and the tinge of red beneath her brown skin gave
credence to the story that her father was an Indian.
Many of them had whispered to Natalia that her old
Mammy was a Voodoo, and once, when two slaves
had died of smallpox, a "conjure" bag and a tiny
black coffin had been found on the doorstep which
the others said Dicey had employed to gain a revenge.

But Natalia loved the old woman too deeply to be
weaned from her.  She and Zebediah and Dicey grew
closer as the years sped along, the old hostler remaining
faithful to his one partner who had worked side
by side with him in the grand old days of Gayosa
and the Spanish occupation.  To them, Natalia was
all that was left out of that glorious past.

The kitchen had always been Dicey's favourite
resting place, and at night when the other slaves had
finished their work and gone to the quarters, she
would pull a little stool up to the hearth and crouch
down before the dying embers, gazing intently into
the glow and sometimes crooning softly to herself.
It seemed to suit her—this great old room which
had for a floor the hard, clean-swept earth, was ceiled
with roughhewn beams and filled along one side with
a wagonwide fireplace.  And when not even a candle
was left burning, it seemed to suit her even better, for
then the four pots hanging from heavy cranes above
the fire, the rows of iron ovens placed against the
wall, the marble topped bread table, and the immense,
copper preserving kettle in a far corner—all these
became her eloquent friends of the past, and in their
companionship she lived again the stories each held
for her.

At the end of the song she glanced into Natalia's
sleepless eyes and smiled.  Even in her inexperience,
the little girl knew that here was a love nearly akin
to that of the mother she had never known.

"It's no use, Mammy, I can't go to sleep."  Natalia
slipped from Dicey's arms to the floor.  "Look,
it's nearly eleven o'clock.  Oh!  Mammy!" happily,
"maybe he stayed at Uncle Felix's house in town.
But he said he would come right back here."  She
ran to the window and peered out into the moonlight.
Everything was deathly still.  "Mammy," she said,
coming back to Dicey and leaning against her, "can't
you look into the fire and see pictures and find out
if he is coming back?  Clytie told me the other day
that you were a Voodoo and could tell what would
happen to people—can you?"

The old woman's eyes flashed into such angry
brilliance that Natalia stepped back, crying
out—"Mammy, what's the matter?  I never saw you look
that way before."

Dicey's brows wrinkled over her eyes into a sinister
expression, while her fingers twisted themselves
into strange shapes as she pressed them together in
her lap.

"Clytie tole yer dat, did she?  Whut else she done
tole yer?"

"Nothing else, Mammy.  Why are you so mad?"

"'Cause dat nigger's tryin' to put you 'ginst
me—I knowed it all de time."

"But no one can do that, Mammy, and I don't mind
you being a Voodoo if you'll look in the fire and see
if the schoolmaster is coming back.  Won't you,
please, Mammy?"

"Whut yer wants ter know sich er heap 'bout dat
Perfesser fur?" Dicey said, a little subdued from her
excitement, and pulling Natalia back to her.  "Hit's
no use yer stedyin' 'bout him an' lubbin' him, 'cause
he's gwine 'way from heah soon's he kin, and he's
nebber gwine stedy 'bout you no mo'.  Sho' an' he
ain', chile, an' hit ain' no use fer yer to be a lubbin
him to sich er pint.  Sh'h, sugar plum, don' yer cry
now," for at her words Natalia's eyes had clouded
and the tears were beginning to pour down her cheeks.
"I'se jest talkin'—dat's all.  Cose he lubs
yer—eve'ybody do.  Sh'h now, and Mammy'll fin' pictures
fer yer in de fire."

She knelt on the hearth and poked the back log
until some glowing coals fell from it.  Then she
leaned forward and raked them into a heap, blowing
upon them all the time to keep them alive.  Natalia
crept up behind her, watching intently her every
movement.  The room was deathly still, except for the
laboured breathing of the old woman blowing life
into the cooling embers, and as the moments slipped
by, the moon swung opposite the window and sent a
streak of ghostly light into the dark kitchen.

Natalia stared into Dicey's face, a new fear of the
old woman taking possession of her.  She had never
seen this expression on her face, a far away look in
her eyes as if she were seeing into another world and
was frozen lifeless by the vision.

Natalia put one cold, trembling hand on the negro's
coarsened one.  There was no response to her touch.
"What is it, Mammy?" she whispered.  "Tell me
what you see."

The old woman's body shook convulsively, then
she sank upon her haunches and sat still, staring into
the ashes.  "I sees a long, long time afore me."  She
began to count automatically until she reached six,
then suddenly stopped.  "Six years.  I sees heaps ob
watah and heaps ob trabellin' 'bout.  I sees a strange
man wid yeller ha'r an' blue eyes.  An' dah's er
weddin' goin' on, and a bride ooman all dressed out waitin'
fer him—an' he ain' comin'.  Dah's er dead man,
too.  Who's he?  Who's he?  Fo' Gawd, I knows
him.  An' de bride ooman—Lawdy, honey chile,"
the old woman's voice rose to a shrill cry.  "Honey
chile, de bride ooman's you."

Dicey grabbed Natalia to her, her bosom rising and
falling rapidly, her breath gasping, her eyes wild with
the vision.  And while they sat there, each clinging
to the other under the strange spell, the loud clanging
of a bell burst upon the still night.  Both of them
rose quickly and ran to the window.  Dicey threw the
sash up, and the sound of the bell rushed into the room,
bringing with it the intensity of the one who was
ringing it a mile away.

"Hit's de bell on Massa Puckett's plantashun,"
Dicey said, after she had listened a few minutes in
silence.  "Sumthin's done happen.  Mebbe his house
done ketch fire.  We kin go up ter yo' room an' see."

She had picked up Natalia and carried her toward
the door, when she stopped again.  The sound of a
galloping horse out on the highroad came to them
distinctly.  Another minute and the horse had stopped
before the gate and they could hear some one
approaching the house.

Dicey lighted a candle and held it to the window.
"It's only I, Dicey," Sargent Everett's voice came
out of the darkness.  "Is every one safe here?
Mr. Puckett has been murdered and a crowd of men are
out with the bloodhounds.  They think it is some of
Jacob Phelps' work."

Dicey opened the door, and held the candle high
to light him in.  "Ole Miss done tole me ter sabe
yer some suppah.  I knows yer's hungry and tired
out.  Come in heah and set down."

Sargent entered the room, the candle light gleaming
on his dusty clothes and weary features.  Before
he had gone half way across the room he fell into the
nearest chair, from utter exhaustion.

"How's our little girl, Dicey?" were his first
words.

Dicey looked up from the tray she was placing on
the table, and smiled, shaking her head knowingly.

"I reckon she's all right, now dat you'se back."

All the while Natalia was watching him from the
dark corner in which she stood, noting the tired look
in his eyes, and the strange new expression of
excitement that made his face seem almost unfamiliar.
Then suddenly she flew across the room toward him,
and pressed both arms tight about his neck, gazing
at him with eyes grown brilliantly black.

"I'm so—so glad you've come back!"

"Fo' de Lawd!" cried Dicey, dropping a dish with
a clatter.  "Ain' you got no manners at all, runnin'
round heah fo' a gemman wid nothin' more'n a jaybird
on!  I sees I'se got ter manage yer!  Come heah
and git up to yer room dis minit," and as the door
closed after them Sargent heard the complaint
growing louder and louder—"No mo' manners dan er
jack-rabbit—dan er jack-rabbit!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE OPENED WOUND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER II


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE OPENED WOUND

.. vspace:: 2

In the afternoon of the next day, when the schoolroom
had been closed, Sargent rode into the town.
In his pocket he carried a letter which had come to
him a few hours before, from Judge Houston.

.. vspace:: 2

"My most hearty congratulations," it ran, "I have
heard from one of your compagnons de voyage, of
your success.  Are you ready for your first case?  It is
waiting for you.  Come in this afternoon.

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent

"FELIX HOUSTON."

.. vspace:: 2

His first case!  Sargent read the delicate,
painstaking chirography again and again.  Could it be
possible that he was to have a chance to plead before
the bar, when his examinations were only a few days
behind him!

He had received the note as he stood in the door
of the little schoolhouse, with the sound in his ears of
the children buzzing over their lessons, and as the
full realization of its meaning swept over him, he
pulled out the loud clanking watch his father had once
brought him from the Bermudas, and impatiently
counted the time that must elapse before he could
know what the letter really meant.

It seemed hours before the time came to leave, and
Zebediah stood at the door with a horse saddled and
waiting for him.

"You've just come back, and you're going away
already!" Natalia said plaintively, following
him to the gate, her little hand clasped tight in his.

"But I shall not be gone long, Natalia—only an
hour or two.  And when I come back, I shall tell you
all about the terrible judges who sat on a platform,
all in a row, and asked me all sorts of questions about
the laws of our country."

"I don't care a picayune about the judges," the
little girl complained, "but I do want you to tell me
all about old Mr. Puckett, and how Jacob Phelps
killed him.  Mammy says Mamma Brandon told her
not to tell us about it, but you will, won't you?"

Sargent looked down at her, as she stood with her
vivid little face, excited and intense over the subject,
looking up at him, her hands clasped tight in a
characteristic gesture.  It always made him marvel when
he saw her so passionately intent over something—for
in the darkening grey eyes and warm rich glow
beneath her olive skin, a wealth of hereditary influence
asserted itself.

"You will tell me when you come back?" she
repeated, as Sargent mounted his horse without
answering.

"Wouldn't you rather hear about my first case?"
he asked, avoiding an answer.

"Your first case?"

"Yes—Judge Houston says he has one for me.
So I am going now to find out what it is."

Natalia slipped one hand through the bars of the
great gate, and leaned against it, not in the least
enthusiastic.

"I don't care much about the case," she began,
almost sadly, "if it is going to take you away every
day after school, and keep you from reading to me
any more or taking me walking.  I wouldn't care if
you didn't ever have a case if it's going to be this way."

Sargent leaned from his saddle, and lifted the little
girl up beside him.

"It isn't going to be that way, Natalia," he said
quietly when she was comfortably adjusted and
tugging at her skirts.  "Nothing in the world is going
to separate us—ever.  Will you ride with me to the
main road?"

As they passed out of the gate, the boughs of the
overlapping trees casting queer shadows upon their
path, the faint, pungent odour of new leaves making
the air fresh and spicy, they were silent a long time,
each happy and contented in a very different way.

"Then what Mammy told me last night isn't so?"
Natalia broke the long silence.

"What did she tell you?"

"That you would soon be going away, and forgetting
all about me."

Sargent shook his head, slowly.  From where he
sat he could only see the little head with its mass of
black hair and two long braids.  Suddenly he leaned
forward and kissed it in the wide part.  "I shall never
forget you, Natalia.  It will be quite the other way."

"Not even when I go away?"

"Not even then—but that will not be soon."

For a moment Natalia was silent; then, in a
whisper, "You mustn't tell it, but—I may go next week.
I heard Mamma Brandon reading a letter this week
to Aunt Maria.  It was from her kinsfolk in Boston.
They want her to send me up there."

"To the Talbots!" Sargent exclaimed.  "I know
them.  Morgan Talbot is my best friend.  We were
at college together."

"I don't want to go without you," Natalia
continued slowly, then with sudden enthusiasm;
"Couldn't you go with me?  I'll ask Mamma
Brandon as soon as I get back home."

They were at the highroad now, and Sargent drew
in his rein.  "It would be fine," he laughed, "but
like many fine things, it's not altogether practical."

"Anyhow, I'm going right back to ask Mamma
Brandon if she won't let you go," and as Sargent
turned into the main road, he looked back and saw
her running toward the house.

When he reached the town, the signs of the awakening
season were on all sides.  Lawns were being raked
clean, gardens were blossoming, women were on the
walks and talking to each other over fences, about the
new shipment of delaines and dimities and lawns that
had just come up from New Orleans.  Houses were
wide open and the sunlight was gilding and brightening
everything.  A farmer, standing in his wagon,
was selling his last lot of smoked sausage to a crowd
gathered about him; and selling it to advantage, for
he was telling them there would be no more until next
November.  Old Mrs. Buckingham was airing her
mattress on the front veranda, and her famous begonias
had been seen on the steps for at least a week.
Verily, spring had come.

The road that passed the old house of the Spaniards
led directly into the town, and became its main
street.  As Sargent rode along it he felt a growing
affection for these townsfolk and their habitations,
for they had received him, not as a stranger but as
an old friend.  Already he was beginning to recognize
nearly all the faces he saw, for with his frequent
visits to the town, his walks with Judge Houston, their
churchgoing each Sunday, and the many afternoons
he had spent in the brick courthouse, listening to the
arguing of cases where flamboyant eloquence and
thundering invective usually brought success—all
these associations had given him a feeling of
becoming one of them.

When he had left his horse at the stable, and turned
toward the tavern to get a late newspaper—there
had been a boat that day—-he noticed the unusual
crowd gathered on the street, particularly in the
courthouse yard and before the jail.

"Is there a boat in, or a coach, or an Indian
massacre?" he asked,—when he had stopped at the
greeting of some friends.

"Haven't you heard?" exclaimed Mr. Pintard, a
wealthy planter from an adjoining county.

"You forget I live in the country," Sargent explained,
smiling.  "But I trust all this excitement warrants
your interest."

"Josiah Puckett was murdered last night and
Jacob Phelps has been trapped and brought into town.
He's over there in the jail now.  We've got him this
time."

"Then he was the man who killed Mr. Puckett?"
Sargent asked quickly.

"There's no doubt of it.  The hounds tracked him
to the canebrake on Puckett's place.  It's wonderful—the
first time he was ever captured in his whole career!"

"And now that we've got him," commented Mr. Suggs,
joining the group, "I don't see why he should
have any trial.  We all know what he's done, and I
say there's no excuse for waiting: I say string him
up to-night!  But!—Judge Houston says not.  He
says the man must be tried—that we are barbarians
no longer.  So the trial is to come off next week."

"A trial!" exclaimed Pintard.  "What good is a
trial without a defence, and who would defend Phelps?
I'll wager you could not find a man in the county who
would take the case."

"Not so fast, my friend," drawled Mr. Suggs.
"Somebody has been found to defend him."

The crowd gathered closer.  Suggs always carried
startling tidings; it was part of his profession.

"Who?" demanded the half dozen listeners.

"Mr. Lemuel Jervais!" Mr. Suggs pronounced
the name quietly, with the enjoyment of one who
delighted in throwing bombs.

"Lemuel Jervais!  You don't mean it!  It's a
damned lie!  Why, he wouldn't dare!  He couldn't
afford it!"

Mr. Suggs drew himself to his full height, swelling
portentously beneath his linsey waistcoat, and looked
each man squarely in the eye.

"Gentlemen," he answered, "if you can not take
the word of a gentleman, go in the Mansion House
bar and ask Mr. Jervais himself.  I just left him
there."  Then, from a more antagonistic height,
"And I'd like to know who the blackguard is who
called what I said, 'a damned lie'!"

"Why has Jervais done this!" Sargent exclaimed,
ignoring the last remark.  "There must be some good
reason.  Of course, he can explain it."

"Oh yes,—he explains it," Suggs answered, his
anger diverted.  "He says he's had a streak of bad
luck lately, and he's got to pay up some way.  Phelps
offered him a thousand dollars to clear him."

"He'll never win that thousand," Pintard
commented.  "He might as well throw up the case now.
Clear Phelps in this town, where we all know what
he's been doing for ten years!  Why, man, it's
ridiculous!"

Mr. Suggs leisurely folded his arms and looked
reflectively in the direction of the jail.

"On the contrary," he remarked, "it will be very
easy for him to clear Phelps.  The evidence is only
circumstantial.  No one saw him commit the murder.
Nobody can swear to it.  All they know is that he
was captured in a canebrake near Puckett's house, on
the night of the murder, and it will take a mighty
good lawyer to convince the jury that he is the
murderer; that is, unless the trial is overruled by
sentiment, and it's not likely to be, with Felix Houston
as judge.  I'll tell you, gentlemen, I don't want the
prosecution.  It's not a job worth having."

"Somebody's got to do it, though.  Attorney
Semmes has been sick for a month and can not leave
his home.  Who'll they get?"

"The Judge will appoint some one to-morrow
morning, I understand."  Mr. Suggs replied from his
inexhaustible store of information.  "And let us all
pray," he added, meekly folding his hands across his
breast, "that it won't be one of us."

Sargent slipped away from the crowd, unnoticed.
The possible meaning of Judge Houston's note rushed
over him, bringing with it an army of hopes and fears.
Could it be that he himself was to represent the State
in this trial?  The idea stuck in his thoughts with the
potency of truth.  Under its influence he walked
rapidly in the direction of his friend's home, with the
question obliterating his surroundings.

He was passing the Mansion House when he heard
his name called loudly, and turning, found Jervais
staggering toward him, out of the barroom.

"Hello, Everett!  Didn't know you could walk so
fast."  Jervais slapped him on the back and laughed
noisily.  Sargent took the outstretched hand and then
dropped it quickly, in his desire to get away from
the man, for Jervais when sober had always been
irritating to him, almost insulting in his hauteur;
drunk, he was both disgusting and dangerous.  They
had met frequently during the winter, for it was the
regular custom of Jervais to take Sunday dinner with
Mrs. Brandon, a fact which Sargent had never been
able to understand.  Nothing seemed so incongruous
to him as the cool, self-possessed, formal chatelaine
receiving attention from a man of Jervais's calibre
and reputation.  The man had never grown congenial,
and during the last months their discussions at the
dinner table had been so heated that Sargent had
chosen that day to spend in long rides, in preference
to sitting through a dinner of several hours, opposite
a man whose political and social beliefs were so
directly opposed to his own.  Judge Houston had
laughed over the antagonism, telling Sargent it was
good training for him to meet such a man and learn
to restrain himself.  Sargent had answered that
restraint, when it was a matter of convictions and creeds,
was worthless.

"Haven't seen you since you got in the ring,"
Jervais continued unsteadily.  "How d'you feel?  Like
you could conquer the world, I suppose!  How many
years do you think you'll have to wait for a
case?—Ten—eh?  Say—wait a minute—will you?" as
Sargent struggled from his grasp.  "Want to tell
you something—it's a secret.  Phelps offered me a
thousand dollars to clear him.  I had to take
it—been gambling too much lately.  But I tell you,
Everett, I don't want the Widow Brandon to hear about
it.  Now—don't tell her—will you?"

"Of course not, Jervais; I'll not mention it to her.
But you had better tell her yourself.  Of course she
will hear of it from some one.  Good-bye, I'm in a
hurry."

"Say, Everett," Jervais still clung to his arm.
"When are you going to have your first case?  Im
dead anxious to see you before the bar.  A Yankee
schoolteacher a lawyer—that'll be *rich*!  Say—a
crippled one, too—that'll be a joke."  He ended with
another loud burst of merriment.

For a second Sargent stared into the leering face
of the drunken man.  Then, trembling in a spasm of
rage, his fingers knotted themselves together, and
before he was aware of what he was doing, his arm
had shot up and delivered a blow full into Jervais'
face.

As soon as he had done it, a strange calm swept
over him, and he stood as one aloof, looking on the
result of his act.

Jervais staggered back a step, wheeled in an
attempt to keep his balance, and fell full length upon
the pavement.

In a second a crowd was about them, several
assisting Jervais to rise.

When he had regained his feet, Sargent made a
step toward him—"Is he hurt?" he asked very
quietly.

"No—don't you know you can't hurt a drunken man?"

Then Jervais made a lunge toward him, but was
held back by two men who were supporting him.  His
face was distorted into the trembling features of rage,
flushed a purple crimson, and from his eyes shot out
the fury of unchained hatred.  Sargent involuntarily
looked away, sickened.

"You damned cripple!—to insult me in the
street!" Jervais shouted in his fury.  "You can't
fight like a man with a man.  You'd claim you were
not able, I suppose!  But I demand satisfaction!  I'll
have it, too.  There's one way to settle this
thing—d'you hear?  A way to settle this for good!"

"Very well—we'll settle it whenever you wish."  Sargent
wheeled quickly and walked from the crowd.

Half a block away he found himself suddenly standing
before some one who barred the way.  When he
had felt both his arms in a tight grip, and heard the
sound of a familiar, hearty laugh, he looked up and
recognized Captain Mentdrop.

For a moment his excitement and surprise kept
back a greeting, so that the old Captain's face lost
its geniality and the twinkle in his eyes became frank
disappointment.  "So you've forgotten me, have
you?" he said, with an odd little ring in his voice.

"No—no, Captain!" Sargent struggled to force
the words.  "Of course I have not forgotten you, but
I don't want to talk to you here.  Can't we get away
somewhere?"

The old fellow's keen eyes swept Sargent's face,
reading there the signs of the recent struggle.

"What's up, youngster?" He bent a little forward.
"What's a troublin' you?  Your face is as red as a
beet, and you've got a mighty bad glare in your eyes.
Come on up to my room here in the Mansion House.
I was resting very comfortable-like up there, till I
saw some sort of a scuffle going on out here."  Then
with a quick intuition, he searched Sargent's face
again.  "It ain't possible you were mixed up in it!"

They went up the tavern steps and altered the
Captain's room.  When the old fellow had closed the door
after them, he turned back to Sargent, who had sunk
into a chair near the window, and watched the young
fellow, his lips twitching slightly and his eyes crisply
twinkling with the humour he was struggling to keep back.

"You weren't mixed up in it, youngster, were
you?" he repeated, with his lips twitching again.

Sargent met his look squarely.  "Yes, I was in it.
A street fight!  I knocked Lemuel Jervais down!"

"You!  Lemuel Jervais—Oh!"  And the Captain
could restrain himself no longer.  He dropped
into a chair, the whole of his great frame shaking
with loud gusts of laughter, while the tears gushed
forth and rolled down his furrowed cheeks.  "On
my honour—it's too good to believe," he cried
breathlessly.  "You and Lem Jervais in a street fight.
And when you were on that boat with me I thought
you were as harmless as a kitten.  Gee Whillikens!"
and he let out a long whistle, "but you are a
promising youngster—after all.  Easy, now.  Don't blaze
your eyes at me that way.  *I* wasn't the cause of it.
When you get cooled down a-plenty, tell me about it.
Ugh, but you are huffy about it!" as Sargent
remained impervious to his humour.  "You know what
I do when I get that upset?  I just lock myself up
in my cabin where nobody can get to me and I can
get to nobody, and I cuss everybody and everything
that I can get my mind on—you ought to hear me!
I can cuss like a beauty when I get warmed up to
my subject, and will you believe me, sir, when I come
out I'm as cool as a cucumber.  Honest Injun, I
am—just like a May morning.  Want to try it?  I'll
give you the room to yourself.  Well—if you won't,
maybe telling me about it will help you let off a
little steam.  Now—how d' it start?"

Sargent raised his head at the last question, and
looked into the twinkling grey eyes before him.
When he spoke, his voice was sharp and unsteady.

"He was drunk and laughed at me—laughed at
my deformity!  He said it would be a joke for me
to plead any case before the bar.  I, a Yankee
school-teacher—a crippled one at that!"

The Captain was out of his chair and before
Sargent in a second.  The twinkle had gone out of his
eyes.  They were steely now.

"The damned scoundrel!  And you?"

"I knocked him down."

"Before the whole crowd?  Good!  Then?"

"He challenged me."

The old fellow's face brightened.

"Better still!  When'll it be?"

"I don't know yet."

"Am I the first you've talked to?"

"Yes."

"Good!  Good!  I'll help you.  I'll be your second."

The old fellow rubbed his hands together and the
gleam came back into his eyes, while his furrowed
face became tinged with a faint glow that shone
youthful beneath the coarsened, weather-worn skin.

Sargent stared at him blankly.

"You," he exclaimed, seemingly without comprehension.

"Yes, I—that is," and the Captain glanced at him
with a tinge of resentment, "unless you prefer some
one else."

Sargent grasped his hands silently.

"That's right; you let me take charge of this
thing, boy.  I'll do it up in ship-shape."  He let his
hand drop with rough affection on Sargent's shoulder.
"It's mighty lucky I'm going to be here for two
weeks.  My boilers are out of fix and I'm tied up
repairs.  Let me know when you get the challenge
and I'll help you fix the whole thing.  I know all about
how these things are done.  Now, don't go back on
me, and think you ought to ask a younger fellow,
for if anything should happen to you and I had to
take your place, there ain't a living soul dependent on
me."

Sargent rose without a word.  Then, turning
suddenly, he went out of the room and down the steps,
followed by the old fellow, who still held his arm in
a firm grasp.  Stopping when they had reached the
pavement, the Captain glanced once more at the young
fellow's face, his twinkling eyes beaming affectionately
from their thousand encircling wrinkles.

"Who'd 'a' thought when we parted on the boat
that day, that we'd meet in a mix-up like this?  I kind
a' felt all along that you were going to make your
name.  I can size up a promising youngster every
time.  Just to think of it!" and he ended with a slap
on Sargent's shoulder.  "Good-bye, and don't forget,"
he lowered his voice confidentially, "I'm going
to be your second.  D'you hear?  Even if you didn't
ask me.  It's all of my own choosing."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`A DEMAND OF HONOUR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   A DEMAND OF HONOUR

.. vspace:: 2

The balmy twilight had softened into night as
Sargent walked away from the tavern, and in the sudden
privacy of the darkness the diverting influence of the
old Captain's personality faded, and all the details
of his encounter with Jervais returned to him with
an added intensity.

Again, as he felt the moment he struck Jervais,
there came to him a sensation of burning alive under
the insult—the insult that he could not repudiate.
The blood rushed to his head and pounded like a
great firing of artillery, and when he had crossed the
street from the tavern, and struck into a deserted
thoroughfare, he leaned against a fence to keep from
falling, for the mental agony had brought with it a
keen sense of physical weakness.  Why was this curse
of physical deformity to follow him always!  Was
it some punishment of God's that was to be eternal?
The saner forces of his nature, the gentle influences
of his early training, the memories which had so far
kept him pure and noble, receded under this sudden
unloosening of the resentment against his infirmity
which he had always forced himself to subdue.  With
this unchaining of all restraint, he became for the
moment another creature.  Barbaric instincts came to
life, and he felt the thrill of a discoverer at finding
such characteristics in his possession.

Then, out of the swirling ensemble, came one
thought that quickly chained everything else into
submission—a determination to meet Jervais in the trial
of Phelps, to oppose him, to defeat him, to bring him
to an inexorable failure before the Court, to make his
fall so great that he would be robbed even of any
desire for future honours: That would be his revenge.
Afterward, he would not care what happened in the
duel; nothing would matter after he had fully tasted
the sweetness of his revenge.  So completely had he
sunk under the obsession of this new line of thought
that when he entered Judge Houston's unlighted
library a few minutes later, the metamorphosis showed
in every line of his features.

He spoke no word of greeting, only grasped the
extended hand and looked into the kind eyes of the
old gentleman with fixed intensity.

"Was the case you meant, the prosecution of Phelps?"

Judge Houston stepped back from him, surprised
into a short silence by the wild expression in Sargent's
eyes.

"Yes—how did you guess it?"

"Thank God!"

The words escaped Sargent in a sob that was the
concentrated expression of his suffering.  He sank
into a familiar chair beside the table, and let his head
drop into his hands.

The old man looked at him in silence, surprise, sympathy
and fear glowing in his clear blue eyes.  Finally
he walked over to Sargent and rested his hand on
the young fellow's shoulder.

"What is it, boy?  What is troubling you so?"

"It is only the relief your words have given me.
My only fear was that I might be mistaken."

The Judge's brow was wrinkled a long time as he
puzzled over the words.

"Were you so anxious to have the case?" he asked.
"You know, I was half afraid you might not want it."

Sargent lifted his face and met the kind eyes.
"Yes, I want it!  I'm going to make it the case of
my life!  It will be my first, but I'm going to make
it the greatest one of my career.  If I ever go down
in history as a big man, this case will be the great
one of them all!"

The old man was still bewildered.  He moved away
slowly and pushing his chair up opposite Sargent, sat
down and faced him, frankly studying his face,
watching the swift changes playing across it, noting the
strange, new determination that was already hardening
the gentle lines about his mouth.  He felt his own
heart suddenly contract with a sharp sense of
disappointment, for he had hoped to keep this boy, by
means of his influence and help, fresh and young in
the battle of life; but he saw now that something had
forestalled him; something had already come with
a blighting sting.

He had been quick to read the sensitive, imaginative,
capable nature of Sargent the first time they had
clasped hands.  He had seen the wonderful possibilities
that would develop under the right influences—the
remarkable capacity for right and wrong, whichever
it would be that would tip the scales; and in
that moment that the resemblance to his own son had
struck him, he had felt all the denied love of a father
stir within him and give itself to the boy.
Afterwards, he had gone further in his advances than ever
before in his long life; he had given him the freedom
of his library, directing him in the use of books, even
preparing him for the legal examination with his own
questions, which he made more difficult than necessary.
All the while he had felt the intellectual joy of
watching a brilliant mind expanding and grasping
new subjects; of looking far back into the shadowy
past through the rich imagination of a youthful mind.
And with the father love that bound him to Sargent,
was blended a sense of pride that the youth should
grow along by his side, becoming under his tutelage
the actual expression of all the unrealized ideals of
his own life.

But something had jarred the perfect sympathy;
some enemy was already tugging at the cords that
bound them.

In the circle of lamplight lay a weather-worn,
leather bound book.  It had been brought from
Virginia on the long pilgrimage to the South, and had
always been a friend and a book of comfort.
Instinctively the old man's hand went out and touched it.

"It will be a difficult case," Sargent heard him
saying, as if more to himself than to any listener.
"Yes—it is almost hopeless.  You can not
possibly win it.  I only wanted you to have the
experience.  It will get you well started before the
public."

"Why do you say it is hopeless?"

"There is so little evidence.  You can not convict
a man without proofs."

"Is there absolutely nothing?"

"Oh, yes," the old man answered, patiently.
"There are a few circumstances.  We can go into
that later.  There is plenty of time.  What I want
to know now is," and he dropped his voice into a
lower tone, and looked at Sargent tenderly, "what
is troubling you?  Don't you care to tell me?" he
ended, with a frank note of pleading in his voice.

Sargent met his look unflinchingly.  "I have never
kept anything from you," he began.  "Why should
I now, when you have done so much for me!  Only,"
and he hesitated, with the certainty that what he was
going to say would perhaps alter their friendship for
ever.  A feeling of restraint made him silent, and
with a leap his thoughts went back to the other man,
the Captain, the one who had weathered the storms
of a pioneer's life, and even in his old age was still
a boy.  He found himself longing for the comradeship
and joviality of the one who saw only a desirable
notoriety in fighting a duel; and yet, in the
kaleidoscopic varying of thought, he knew that in a saner
moment he would seek only the one now before him,
for advice.  The Captain represented to him the
expression of untempered passion, and at this moment
that was the one thing that his nature demanded.

In this light the calmness of Judge Houston became
to him cold criticism, before which he quailed.

Words that might in some way palliate his action
rushed to his lips, finding excuses that a moment
before, in the absorption of his anger, he would have
despised.

"You believe," he said at last, in a more controlled
voice, "that there sometimes come in a man's life
circumstances that rob him of the faculty of
reasoning?  Perhaps one incident that blots out everything
that has gone before, leaving in its place only one
absorbing determination.  You believe that, don't you?"

Judge Houston bowed his head silently.

"You believe too that there are things in life that
a man must resent—must resent even by going
against all the laws of God and man—that unless
he does resent them the rest of his life must be
without self-respect and without honours.  Then, if a man
does not fight, life is rendered valueless to him, both
in his own eyes and those of the community, and
existence becomes a burden!  At times like these one
must choose between two evils.  I have chosen the
least of the two."

"A duel!"  The old man rose from his chair, and
paced the floor, his hands clasped behind him.  "A
duel?  With whom?"

His lips were twitching slightly, and his hands—old,
worn hands, which the years had left drawn and
stretched into a thousand creases, and the sight of
which, clasping and unclasping in his nervousness,
smote Sargent with a keen, knifelike pain, through
the knowledge that he was causing the old gentleman
to suffer for his sake.  He put out his hand impulsively,
and grasped the other's when he passed close to him.

"Don't blame me—forgive me," he said.  "Don't
make it any harder than it is already.  I believe in
my heart you would have done the same."

"Tell me, my boy."  The Judge's voice was full
of sympathy.

The torrent of words came at last, and as he told
his story Sargent found a relief that left him weak
and exhausted.  The strain was reaching its limit.

"Ah! you don't blame me," he ended brokenly.
"I knew you would not!"

With his words, a reflection of the anger of his
own eyes had sprung alive in the old man's.  Judge
Houston stood before Sargent, his hands gripping the
shoulders of the young fellow with an intensity of
sympathy.

"Don't say any more," he said in a low voice that
trembled slightly.  "I understand.  I will stand with
you."

"You!" Sargent moved away quickly, and stood
staring at him.  "You!"  And then his lips trembled.
The end of his strength came, and he threw
himself across the sofa, his face in his hands, his
whole body shaking convulsively.  "It's more than I
deserve," he said.  "That all this should have come
to me in one day—this hatred, and Captain Mentdrop's
friendship—and your—love.  It is too much
to understand."

The old gentleman stood a moment beside the table,
his hand again on the leather bound volume.  As a
shaft of light penetrated through the open door, it
rested on him a moment, concentrating in the beautiful
gentle eyes, and shining forth, in a deeper, fuller
glory.

He went slowly to the sofa and sat down beside
Sargent, his hand resting with its peacegiving power
upon the bowed head.

In a long silence that followed, his lips were still,
but within was a constantly repeated prayer, "God
give me the power to lead him right.  Give me this
power—if nothing else."  Then aloud, as the voice
of his wife called to them from the dining-room.  "It
is nothing that I am doing for you—only what I
would have done for my son—and yoy have come to
take his place."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HIS FIRST CASE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   HIS FIRST CASE

.. vspace:: 2

So the schoolhouse was closed again on the following
Monday, and Sargent rode into the town to plead
his first case before the bar.

In the open square of the town, set far back in a
grove of trees, stood the brick courthouse, considered
a large building in those days.  In its Hall of Justice
was a plastered ceiling on which an architect from the
old world had fashioned a circle of hands, each with
its forefinger pointing directly down upon the heads
of those who sat in judgment.

Home-seekers, coming there in an attempt to settle
hopelessly involved land suits: destitute, silent
Indians, squatting on the door steps awaiting the
decision of some land agent; slaves brought in shiploads
from the Bermudas; even wealthy planters looked
upon this Hall of Justice with a certain awe.  The
plastered hands were ominous and unavoidable;
always when one looked at them they were pointing
so directly at one that it had grown into a saying that
when a man was brought before the judges he was
"beneath the pointing fingers."

About the courthouse that day was gathered an
unusual crowd, for at such a season of the year, when
the fields must be ploughed and cotton planted, court
was never very largely attended.

Down a long line of hitching posts was almost
every conceivable vehicle, including a huge prairie
schooner filled with a curious crowd from the Black
River country.  Whole families, parents, children,
slaves, and favourite dogs were picnicking about the
square—all had come many miles to hear the trial
of a man who had made safety a very uncertain thing
for the last five years.

Sargent threaded his way among them, unknown,
yet feeling a greater responsibility resting upon him
as he saw this evidence of the people's interest.  They
were looking to him to remove this murderer from
their midst.  As he went into the courthouse, he met
Judge Houston.  The old gentleman extended his
hand, and for a second smiled encouragingly into
the strained eyes of the young lawyer.

"You've been overdoing it, Sargent," he said
quietly.  "You should have rested.  Too much
reading of law paralyzes the brain."

Sargent met his look earnestly, without the smile
that was always so ready upon his lips.

"I couldn't sleep, and I had to do something.  I
believe I've read every murder case on record."

"And have you discovered a method by which you
can win this one?"

Sargent's eyes glowed brilliantly as he answered.
"Your doubt of me is the greatest factor in forcing
me on.  I don't know how I shall do it, but—I'm
going to make that jury render a verdict of
guilty."

The old gentleman's brows drew together, and he
shook his head slowly, letting his hand rest affectionately
on Sargent's shoulder.

"I only hope you will succeed, Sargent—as much
for the people's sake as for your own.  If justice is
not meted out to Phelps by law, I fear it will come
to him through the hatred of the people.  Go now,
boy—do your best.  And remember, I have failed
many and many a time, others are failing continually,
and no one really succeeds until failure has been his
tutor.  Good-bye!  Meet me when the day's session
is over."

.. vspace:: 2

All through that first day, which was given over
to the hearing of evidence, Sargent had grown more
and more under the conviction that if he were to win
the case it would come from some inspiration which
had not yet been given to him.  Not that he had for
a moment given up hope, for each time such a thought
flashed into his mind, it was followed by the thundering
necessity for success.  And when Phelps was
brought into the room and he could look for the first
time into the face of the man whose freedom he was
attempting to take from him, Sargent forgot
everything else in studying the highwayman's features.
In them he had suddenly realized an aid to his success.

All through the cross-examination of the witnesses
he was thinking of it, even to the intense moment when
the two scraps of paper were displayed: one a gun
wadding found in the house of the murdered man
and the other in the pocket of Jacob Phelps.  The
two pieces were from a paper of the same date, and
though not fitting into each other were considered the
strongest evidence against the prisoner.  Besides that,
only the proximity of the canebrake where Phelps was
captured, and a long, detailed report of his former
daring robberies were all that he had been able to
procure.

The weak point of the evidence was that not an
instance of murder could be charged to Phelps.
There had always been a doubt of his guilt—and in
this Jervais showed his strength.  Each of his
questions led in labyrinthine windings to the end that
nothing had been proved on the prisoner.  Indeed,
those who swore they recognized him were eventually
misled into the belief that they were swearing to an
uncertainty.

Finally the recess hour came, and in the afternoon,
after all the evidence had been taken, the court
adjourned until the next day, when the speeches for
the two sides should be made.

Sargent waited for Judge Houston outside the
courthouse.  He had walked to one side of the
grounds where he would not meet the crowd of familiar
faces, and be forced to discuss the case, for already
he had been quick to feel the disappointment that had
settled over them after all the evidence had been heard.
Their silence and lowered voices showed their fears,
and passing a group hurriedly at the recess hour, he
had heard a doubt expressed at Judge Houston's
wisdom in appointing him to represent the State.  Many
little incidents of the day were remembered by him
long afterwards, which, in the concentration of all his
energies at the time, he had not even been aware of.
All he wanted at that moment was material with which
to impress the jury—material which was lacking he
realized with a sickening dread.

As he stood under the trees and faced the court-house,
its brick walls glowing in the late sun, once
more the prisoner's face rose before him, photographing
itself indelibly upon his mind.  Each feature stood
out enlarged and vivid; black eyes, bold and fearless
and insolent, with the surrounding whites almost
entirely red from swollen veins; a low forehead from
which black, wiry hair grew out, straight and stiff;
a long, aquiline nose with wide nostrils in which
showed a heavy growth of hair; heavy lips, the lower
one protruding doggedly, yet both suggesting a
certain generosity in their amplitude; the chin and side
of the face covered with a short beard which reached
far up the cheeks to where pock marks glowed deep
and white against a swarthy complexion.  It was a
face characteristic of daring and wild deeds, yet in
some lines about the eyes, inscrutable and haunting,
there was something unconfessed.

All through the channels of Sargent's imagination,
set in motion by this face, insistently colouring every
conclusion reached, was the hidden characteristic
about the man's eyes which signified something which
he felt certain would help him in some way if he could
find out what it meant.  In a swift passion of futility
he pushed out his hands to ward off the first signal
of defeat that was steadily creeping over him.  He
covered his eyes to keep out the likeness of Phelps'
face as it glowered down upon him from the court-house
wall.  Was it possible that he had failed?  Had
he been too self-confident?  Was it only hatred and
a desire for vengeance which had made up the
ingredients of his confidence?  At the end of each
question stood the face of Jervais, and the duel—after
that, another question.  Finally, through the
lengthening shadows, he strolled back to the broad steps and
waited Judge Houston's coming.

They walked home in the twilight, the old man's
arm linked in Sargent's, their heads bent forward in
thoughtful silence.

"Did you look at him?  Did you see his face?"
Sargent asked as they turned the corner and
approached the house.

"Whose face?" Judge Houston looked up quickly.

"The man's—Jacob Phelps."

"Yes—why?"

"Did you see anything in it but cruelty—malignity—daring?"

"No—there was nothing else."

"Oh, but you are mistaken.  There is something else."

"What?"

"I don't know.  I'd give half my life to find out.
I must find out to-night—I will!"

Mrs. Houston was standing at the gate to welcome
them, Natalia on her pony before the block, both of
them silent in their impatience to hear the outcome
of the first day.

"You all are bothered!  I can see that right now.
And such glum faces—look at them, Natalia,"
Mrs. Houston said cheerfully, as the two men came up to
them.  "I declare you all look as if Phelps was
prosecuting you, instead of the reverse!  And I have gone
to lots of trouble to get up a good supper for
you—lye-hominy, some nice, fresh roasted yams, and
waffles!  And here you both look like you wouldn't eat
a mouthful, and Natalia says she won't stay
either!"  Mrs. Houston sighed in much distress.  "I wish
sometimes there was no such thing as law.  It upsets
my dinner hour and my plans, and is disastrous in
lots of ways."

"So you'd rather have your dinner on time,"
laughed Judge Houston, "than all the highwaymen
in the country in jail!"  He walked across the
sidewalk to speak to Natalia, leaving Sargent and his
wife together.

"Is it so bad?" she asked quickly, her face searching
Sargent's anxiously.  "Are you worried about the
outcome?"

"I know I shall win!" Sargent's eyes blazed
again, "but I don't know yet how I shall do it.  If
I should fail now—"

"Of course you will not.  Don't let that enter your
thoughts.  Can't Felix help you?"

"Not now," Sargent answered, his features still
drawn and tense.  "It's all with me now, and I'm
glad of it."

The gentle old lady looked at the youth before her,
so earnest and flushed, her eyes clouding at the
possible disappointment awaiting him.  She had seen all
these hopes and desires so often before, in the days
long passed when she and her young husband had
started on their long pilgrimage.  Then, looking
beyond him, her eyes dwelt on Natalia pensively.  When
she spoke again her face was brimming with cheerfulness.

"On your way home," she said softly, "be very
good to her.  Forget all this worry and this abstraction
and talk to her.  It will do you good.  Do you
realize the place you have taken in the child's life?
It has made me wonder if it was good for her or not.
Sometimes," she ended, reflectively, "I wonder what
you have done to gain her love so—and yet, I think
I know."

Sargent glanced to where Natalia was leaning from
her saddle and talking intently with Judge Houston.
For the first time that day the tenseness of his face
relaxed, and the memory of the courtroom and all
it meant slipped from him.

"I believe I gained her love," he answered slowly,
"by first loving her.  Don't you think that is the only
real way to gain another's love?"

"Yes—there are very few who fail to respond to
being loved.  It is so flattering," she smiled lightly.
"But Natalia needed you just when you came.  You
know how out of sympathy she and Mrs. Brandon are?"

"That is not to be wondered at.  Could you
possibly find two more opposite natures?  One—cool,
calculating, and always just; the other—intense,
wilful, passionate.  Look at her now!  She's more like
some little fairy who has been lost from other fairies
than anything else in the world.  And how old she
is at times!  I feel that I am talking to some one a
great deal older than I am.  Tell me, Mrs. Houston," Sargent
leaned nearer on the gate and his voice sank
to a whisper, "now that she is going away, how can
I make her remember me?  If she were to go away
and forget me—"

"She will not do that, my dear boy."  She pressed
his hand gently.  "She's at the impressionable age,
and she loves you with all her little, pent-up nature.
She will not forget."

Sargent met her glance warmly.  "You see, it is
so different with me, from most men.  My sensitiveness,
my wretched infirmity, seems to make everything
so much more serious to me.  And when any
one gets hold of my affections, I feel a tremendous
need for them always.  That is the way with Natalia—it
was her sweet dependence, her yearning for
sympathy, her quaint charm that have bound me tocher
for ever.  Of course she is only a child now," he
hesitated suddenly, as if half unwilling to express his
real feelings, "but if I could have the hope that she
would come back to me some day—a woman loving
me as she does now—anything would be worth
enduring—for that!"

"If you all are going to talk all the evening, I'm
going home," Natalia cried, from her pony.  "And
I told Zebby I'd be home surely by six o'clock."

Sargent hurriedly mounted his horse, which had
been brought to the gate, and waved a farewell to
Mrs. Houston.  "Good-bye," she called to them,
waving her handkerchief as they rode off.  "I'm
going to hear you make your maiden speech to-morrow.
Good luck to you.  Good-bye, Natalia."

It was almost dark when Sargent and Natalia left
the town behind them, and through the dark forest
bordering the cotton fields, a feathery crescent moon
floated up and greeted them.  The balmy spring breeze
blew in their faces, and in the Western sky still
lingered the faint glow of sunset.  The cabins were
sending up thin lines of white smoke, the delicious odour
of fried bacon was in the air, and the sound of some
one chopping wood in the distance gave a homely
touch of comfort to the scene.  Completing the peaceful
holiness of the spring twilight came the harmonies
of the slaves, singing as they went home from the
day's work.

They rode along in silence.  Natalia, dangling her
little bonnet from its green ribbons, looked up at
Sargent intently, but his eyes did not answer hers.  They
were bent on some distant object that she knew she
could never see, and sighing slightly, she resigned
herself to waiting for him to become aware of her
presence.  In her childlike adoration, there was
sufficient happiness in being near him.

When the gate loomed before them through the
vista of trees, Natalia guided her pony closer to
Sargent, until he was forced to notice her.

"Aunt Maria said you were terribly bothered," she
said, when he looked down at her out of his long
abstraction.  "Is that what makes you so different?"
she ended plaintively.

"Yes—that's it, Natalia," Sargent answered, his
brows knitted close together.  "It seems to have
ruined my whole outlook.  I can't think of anything
else.  All the way home I could see nothing but that
man's face.  I believe I'm beginning to lose hope, too.
Would you be sorry if Mr. Jervais won the case from me?"

Natalia looked up at him, drawing the pony to a
sudden standstill in her amazement.

"Mr. Jervais can't do that!  You wouldn't let him!
I hate him anyhow!"  She clenched her little hand.
"Please don't let him win."

"Suppose I can not help myself?  Suppose he
has all the evidence on his side?  What can I do then?"

"Well—" she said slowly, as if attempting to
arrive at some conclusion.  "Well—isn't Phelps a
murderer?"

"Every one *thinks* so.  But I can not prove it."

"Do *you* think so?"

"Yes, I do."

"Then," with an impatient toss of the head, "it's
just as easy as can be.  Make him say it is so."

Sargent threw back his head and laughed heartily
for the first time in many days.  And all the while
Natalia stared at him with an expression that spoke
eloquently surprise and wounded pride.

"Well, you needn't laugh so much about it!" she
exclaimed, as Sargent's amusement seemed to increase.
"You could make him tell you if you had a mind to.
Mammy says you have a silver tongue, and when
people have that, they can make other people tell
everything they know.  I don't care though, if you don't
make him tell," she cried, the tears coming into her
eyes as Sargent continued laughing.  They were at
the gate now, and as he lifted her from the pony, she
struggled out of his arms and flew toward the house.
"I don't care a picayune if you don't ever win a
case!" she called back to him from the veranda, and
then slammed the door tight after her.

Sargent walked slowly toward his room.  The
smile had gone from his face now, and in its place
was an odd, quickening expression.

"Make him tell you!" he repeated Natalia's words
as he unlocked the door of his room.  "Make him
tell you!" he repeated, as he blew out his candle, hours
later.  "Make him tell you!" he repeated all through
that long, sleepless night.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`MAGNETISM`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   MAGNETISM

.. vspace:: 2

The two men faced each other, the lawyer at one
end of the long table, the prisoner barely ten feet away,
in his chair before the jury.  The moment was tense.
Everything had been finished, even Jervais' eloquent
speech to the jury, in which he had cautioned the
twelve men not to let sentiment lead them to a
decision, but to be guided only by the evidence and what
had absolutely been proved.  And now remained only
the speech of the prosecution, on which rested the
hopes of every one in the courtroom.

Even the jury had grown restless under the
continued want of facts in the case.  Their attitude
toward the prisoner was but a reflection of the
sentiment of the townspeople—they feared the man; his
presence was a menace always to be faced; they
wanted to be freed from his disturbing proximity;
and they wanted to feel that long trips to neighbouring
villages would be without the danger of this
highwayman.  In short they wanted him dead.

But what they had heard was not convicting.  It
was impossible, so far, to render a verdict of guilty,
on what had been shown.

During the silence that followed Jervais' speech,
Sargent rose from his chair, and stepped forward.
A wave of disappointment rushed over the courtroom,
for the people had hoped to the last that their district
attorney would be able to leave his bed and come to
the rescue, convicting the prisoner through the
eloquence they had known for years.  But everything
seemed in favour of the prisoner, every one admitted
that Jervais had made the finest speech of his career,
and now that their great attorney had been substituted
by a youth who had not even made his first
speech before the bar, Phelps' chances for acquittal
were depressingly certain.

What could this young lawyer do?  This limping,
Yankee schoolteacher who had come South to make
a living?  What could he do but complete the fiasco
of the trial?  A titter was heard at one end of the
courtroom, followed by an outright laugh, and then,
suddenly, silence fell again as a counter wave of
interest fell over the audience.  Something in the
position of the two men—the lawyer and the
prisoner—had claimed their attention.

Sargent, in rising, had not faced the jury, but stood
perfectly silent and rigid, his gaze riveted upon the
prisoner.  In his eyes was no sign of fear, but a calm
watchfulness of some expected danger.  The prisoner
returned the look, his blood-shot eyes keen and
cat-like in the intensity of the passion boiling back of
them.  His coarse, unkempt hair hung in masses over
his forehead, his rough skin and uneven beard and
crouching posture but intensified his expression of
brutality and vicious force.

The two seemed born to be antagonistic: the absolute
want of visible sympathy made the contrast impressive.

Sargent put aside his cane and steadied himself with
one hand upon the table; the other he held half poised,
as if in the act of defence, for that morning a strange
story had been whispered about, and during Jervais'
speech it had reached him.  He had been told that
Phelps was desperate enough to attack him even in
the courtroom.

Then, with his gaze still searching the blood-shot
eyes of the prisoner, he began his speech.  It took
the intent crowd of listeners several minutes to adjust
themselves to what was happening; then they found
that the young lawyer was not talking to them, nor
to the Judge, nor even to the jury.  His words were
directed only to the man before him.

In a low, clear voice, heard in every corner of the
courtroom, he was describing to the prisoner, in
pitiless detail, the crime committed; painting vividly the
scene of the murder, the aged, respected planter lying
dead on the floor of his room, a pool of blood about
him, his belongings scattered everywhere, his
valuables all gone.  He told of the man's life, his
charity, his good influence upon his neighbours.  He
described him at home, at his evening meal, surrounded
by a happy and dependant family; his awakening in
the night to find himself in the grip of a brutal
antagonist—and at last, his feeble death struggle with an
unseen foe.

The words came from his lips cold, crisp, clear cut,
without feeling, yet so forcibly were they chosen, so
short and cogent, that they fell upon the ears of his
listeners like the beat of a huge hammer upon marble.

The scene rose before the listeners with a vividness
that the real one would have lacked, for the wonderful
voice of the young lawyer had set fire to their
imaginations, and each man saw through his eyes.
Every sentence jarred like an electric shock.  There
was no attempt at eloquence.  Where was the need
of it with such a subject?  And while Sargent was
unconsciously inflaming the passions of the crowd
back of him, he continued to gaze straight into the
blood-shot eyes of the prisoner with all the pent-up
vital force within him.  If he could only see the
faintest sign of acknowledged guilt!  That was the thing
for which he was searching.  It had not yet come.

For a moment his eyes wavered, and as if looking
for some new inspiration, he glanced through the open
windows to where the leaves of the trees were
rustling in the breeze.  He had found the prisoner
impervious to his words.  It was as if he had not been
talking, so far as any change in the stolid features
showed.  There must be some other method necessary
to touch the face of iron before him.  But he had
not reached the limit of his resources yet—no, not
by half.

He turned back and faced the prisoner, as fresh
and calm as if all the turbulence of a few moments ago
had not come from his lips.

Now his eyes held no longer the look of scorn and
antagonism.  They were tender, appealing and sad.
His voice softened and grew warm in its tones, and
from him emanated that irresistible gentleness that,
we are told, in after years drew even his enemies to
him.  He was using the utmost force of his magnetism
to draw a confession from the man before him.

He began speaking again, telling of the family of
the man who had been murdered, dwelling with a
deep sympathy upon the young, fatherless children,
who had to take up the burden of life without the
guidance of their parent.  Then, almost in a whisper,
and with deep reverence, he spoke of the bereaved wife,
a widow and a mother, a feeble woman, no longer
young, left alone to care for the children, separated
from her life partner and left to finish her days
unprotected.  He drew a telling picture of his own
mother, of every man's mother, in a like situation.

There were tears in the eyes of the audience as they
listened, there were tears in the eyes of the lawyer, and
suddenly, as his words ended in a faint whisper, the
blood-shot eyes of the prisoner shifted uneasily and
were hidden for a moment by the falling lids.

A quiver passed over Sargent's slender figure.  He
lowered his right hand from the position of defence,
and placing it beside the other, rested heavily against
the table.  A sensation of utter weariness crept over
him.  He could not recall having felt so exhausted
ever before.  It was the first time that he had used
the full force of his magnetism, of which until that
day he had been in ignorance.  For a second,
overcome by the new fatigue, he wondered if his power
would last.  The first signal of the confession was held
in the drooping lids of the prisoner.  Could he bring
the rest?

Once more he took up the thread of his speech.
Phelps met his gaze no longer, even the crouching
position of one ready to spring relaxed, and he sank
back into his chair and gazed steadily at his hands.
Sargent leaned forward in his intensity, his words
coming more rapidly.  He was now dwelling on the
laws of his country, on the need of these laws, of the
rights of man which must be recognized and obeyed,
of the Christianity of civilization, and of the punishment
of God.  His voice grew steadily louder as he
urged the murderer to repent before he should reach
the great tribunal of God, where repentance would
be too late.

Still he could gain no answer from the man's
downcast eyes.  Within him a voice grew louder and more
insistent.  He felt the words leaving him in a stream
of compelling force.  Louder and louder, in the dead
silence of the room they grew into thunderbolts that
seemed to shake the building.  On and on he went,
a great light glowing from the depths of his eyes,
until by the compelling force of his invectives, the
irresistible power of his magnetism, the prisoner
sprang from his chair and faced him.

For an instant they stood with only the table
separating them, the accused man towering above the
lawyer in a spasm of rage.  Then, sweeping over his
coarsened features came an expression of utter despair
and misery, his eyes grew lustreless and dead, and
drawing from his shirt a concealed dirk, he threw it
from him and lowered his face upon his outstretched
hands.

No word was spoken, but so completely did the
agony of the man's face express his confession, that
a shiver ran over the audience.

In the silence which followed Sargent stood with
folded arms, amid the naked passions of the
courtroom.  A few minutes later, when he realized that
they were still waiting for him to speak, he turned
towards the jury and said slowly:

"Gentlemen, there is the murderer.  Do with him
as your conscience tells you."

He thought it was several hours afterwards, when
in fact it was only ten minutes, that he became aware
of his surroundings.  He had sunk on the bench
after addressing the jury, and before him had begun
to swim all the fancies employed in his speech, and
in a futile attempt to gather and separate them, as he
had done before, he found himself tumbling from a
great height, which his fast ebbing vital force made
irresistible.

Then suddenly, in the midst of the turbulence, he
felt the encouraging warmth of a friend's hand, and
looking up, saw Judge Houston's broad back passing
on towards the jury room.

Jacob Phelps lay forward on the table, his face
buried in his outstretched hands.  Beyond him stood
Jervais, facing the hushed courtroom, with a countenance
livid with fury.

Turning to see the cause of such an expression,
Sargent looked for the first time into the sea of faces,
pale and still, yet gazing at him with glowing eyes
that told him their admiration and wonder.  He
understood their silence, and thrilled under the depths
of feeling that kept them speechless.  In that moment
he knew that the commencement of his career was a
triumph.

And while he stood with every nerve in his body
tingling responsively to his blind joy, the jury
re-entered the room and took their seats, and Judge
Houston's voice rang out loud and sonorous.

"Jacob Phelps!  Stand up!"

Phelps lifted his bowed head, his eyes roving
furtively over the crowd of staring faces.  Moving
slightly, with the expression of one who is dazed into
semi-consciousness, he stared back into the sea of
faces—not one expression of kindness, of sympathy,
of friendship for him was in that entire throng.  Then,
with the dull look of one who has relinquished all
hope, he wheeled and faced the judge.

"Jacob Phelps, you have been judged, and
convicted of murder—the highest crime known to the
laws of the State of Mississippi.  Have you anything
to say, or any reason to give why the sentence of the
law should not be pronounced upon you?"

In the breathless stillness there came a pause.
Phelps did not answer.  Again the judge's voice filled
the courtroom.

"Then nothing now remains but the performance
of my painful duty.  The sentence of the law and the
judgment of the Court is that you be taken hence to
the jail of Adams County, and there safely confined
until Thursday, the twentieth day of June, 1833, when
between the hours of ten o'clock in the morning and
noon, you be taken into the jail yard; and there, by
the Sheriff of this County, you be hanged by the neck
until you are dead—and may the Lord have mercy
upon your soul!"





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.. _`TO BE HANGED BY THE NECK UNTIL DEAD`:

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   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   TO BE HANGED BY THE NECK UNTIL DEAD

.. vspace:: 2

"Everett, you're a wonder, man."  "Pick him up
there, Suggs."  "Now, all at once!  Lift him up!"  "Now,
all together, we'll sing, 'See the conquering
hero comes!'"  "Where are we going?  Oh, to the
Mansion House, of course.  I'm going to set 'em up
until everybody has his fill."  "Never heard a speech
until I heard Everett's to-day."

Before he knew what had happened, Sargent had
been surrounded as he came out of the courtroom,
and hoisted to the shoulders of an admiring crowd
that was waiting for him.

The people had gone wild in their enthusiasm over
what he had done for them.  On that day he found
himself a public man, at the mercy of the whims of
the public, and their whim at that moment was to find
an outlet for their admiration.

They took his cane away from him, some one
grabbed his broad felt hat and replaced it with a
chimney pot that was not unbecoming by any means, and
then they carried him on their shoulders to the bar
of the Mansion House, and placing him on the
counter, made him listen to their speeches of congratulations
while the waiters plied every one present with
more drinks than any one's capacity admitted.

Captain Mentdrop gave an eloquent peroration, in
which he stated that he was the first one to introduce
the Honourable Sargent Everett to the townspeople,
who from thenceforth would give only honour and
praise to his name.  He would have continued
interminably if it had not been that others were as
anxious to claim that honour as the Captain.  And for
two hours the speech-making and jollification lasted,
until every one grew hilarious over the motion that
Sargent be sent as their representative to the next
Legislature.

When the excitement had reached its height, and
a crowd had gone out on the street to erect a
bonfire—no matter if it were broad daylight—Sargent saw
his chance to get away and slipped quietly out the
back door of the tavern into a deserted street.

Walking as rapidly as his halting gait would permit,
he traversed the streets where he would hardly
meet any one, and came at last to the bluff that looked
down over the river.  Pushing his way through a
tangle of undergrowth, he reached a place far enough
from the town to be secure from interruption.  Here
he threw himself full length upon the ground,
breathing hard from the unusual physical exertion.  He
was utterly exhausted, and covering his eyes with his
hands he lay perfectly motionless.

When he looked up again a scarlet sun was sinking
into the banks of dull grey clouds, and illumining
weirdly the scene of river and distant flat country.

Ah! it was a relief to get away from the crowd
of gaping faces, even if they spoke praise and
admiration.  And beyond that, he was glad that the
courthouse, with all the associations which had in
one moment become horrible to him, could not be seen
from where he sat.

For a long time he remained perfectly still, gazing
out upon the scene before him, seeing in it only
dreariness and despair accentuated by the encroaching
shadows; and all the time, as if to keep out some
haunting sound, he pressed both hands over his ears.

And the change had come so suddenly, so unexpectedly.
Only a little while before, flushed with the
pride of his first success, the blood surging happily
through his veins, he had waited with the others for
the verdict, and as the words rang out across the
hushed courtroom, "To be hanged by the neck until
you are dead!" they fell upon his overstrained nerves
like an electric shock.  Something within him snapped,
and in the next moment he found himself looking
into the miserable, hopeless eyes of the prisoner as
they led him from the room.

After that Sargent felt the buoyancy and joy and
triumph slip completely away from him.  He was
aware of nothing but the sound of those words, he
heard them whispered over the courtroom, he heard
them in the congratulations of his friends, he heard
nothing else during the speech-making at the tavern,
and now he knew that they had followed him to his
retreat on the bluff, for he saw them written in lurid
letters across the scarlet sunset.

At first in the chaotic whirling of his thoughts, he
could not comprehend the strange effect upon him;
he could see no reason for the sinister obsession.  He
had gotten what he had been concentrating all his
energies upon for the past week.  Why should the
outcome overwhelm him in this unlooked for
manner!  He puzzled over it, attempting to separate the
last expression of the prisoner's face and the meaning
of the words.  They were too analogous to bear
separation, and gradually, gaining force with its
development, came to Sargent the terrifying realization
that without him the sentence would not have been
pronounced.  A kindred thought followed—more
fearful than the first—in which he saw himself the
murderer, not the prisoner who had committed the
deed to escape detection, but he, a lawyer under the
sanction of the laws of God and man committing the
same deed in the name of justice and righteousness.
And so the world would think of him; but how
different he knew it was.  Righteousness and justice had
not once entered his thoughts; only hatred and
revenge.  Hatred and revenge!  He had said them aloud
to himself at night, to keep them from slipping out
of his mind for even one second.  And now he was
to be paid for this deed with money, blood-money,
as the prisoner had been rewarded with the same.

Where was the difference?  Was not each a taking
of life?  Was not any man whose life was taken by
another, murdered?  Could there be any need in the
world great enough to abrogate that command of
God's—"Thou shalt not kill!"

He rose from the ground, and walked recklessly
on into the woods that crowned the bluff.  The
sunset was gone now, and only a misty twilight hung
through the vista of trees.  A refreshing breeze from
the north brushed against his flushed face and brought
a tingle to his feverish senses.  With the exhilaration
came an added sharpness to his perceptions.

Argue as he would, he could not make himself
realize that it was an ethical view of the case that he
was taking.  He saw himself at the outset of his
career, with this man's blood upon his hands, and
instinctively, with the insight that comes in a crisis of
revulsion, he knew that no matter how long he lived,
he would never be able to approve of capital
punishment.  The personal application was what riveted the
chains of his conviction.  The simple statement that
without his speech the prisoner would have been free,
answered eloquently all doubts and questions.  It was
he alone, who was to bring this man to death; it was
useless to evade the responsibility.

"To be hanged by the neck until you are dead."

In a moment of terrifying excitement he spoke the
words aloud, to gain a better effect of their
significance, and with the sound of his own voice, the words
received a more intimate meaning.  Deeper under
their weight he sank, until it was by a supreme effort
that he checked himself in his mad striding, and
turned back toward the town.  There was some one
there, who could surely show him a new aspect of
the case, in which he could realize that the
responsibility did not rest upon him alone.  A new thought,
a suggestion, a word of sympathetic understanding
would mean so much to him—but all that praise, that
enthusiastic admiration so lavishly bestowed upon him
because he had made a speech that would rob a man
of his life!  He could not bear to think of hearing it
again.

When he descended the hill the lights were glowing
from the many windows of the town, as if a reflection
of the star-lit night.  There were not many doors
open, for the spring night had suddenly grown cool,
and the barred portals seemed to Sargent to look down
upon him with an aloofness and withdrawal that
expressed the attitude of the thinking world toward him.
If it were not the sentiment of that day, it would be
when people came to know and to judge him from
the hidden motives.

The streets were dark, and as he made his way
along no sound broke the stillness save the regular
tap of his cane upon the plank walk.  With resolute
force and averted face he passed the courthouse,
another block beyond he passed the jail in which the
prisoner was awaiting his death, and finally, with the
relaxation that comes when one realizes a haven has
at last been reached, he got to the open door of Judge
Houston's home, and looking through the hall and
seeing the family at supper, he slipped quietly into
library, and sat down.

The soft glow from two candles on the mantel was
pleasant to his tired eyes; there was just light enough
in the room for him to see the things that had become
familiar and dear to him.  His eyes lingered longest
on the table where a row of books—law books of
reference—always stood in a prim, neat row.  In
front of them, more intimately handled and never in
the same place, thereby showing the love and use given
to them, lay the three books from which the old
gentleman received his greatest pleasure—Shakespeare,
"Some Fruits of Solitude," and that old, leather
bound book, worn and frayed at the corners.

In the centre of the table lay the thick portfolio of
pigskin, beside it several newly cut quills, and to one
side, laid by for the evening, rested the gold snuff-box.

Sargent's glance lingered affectionately upon each
article, reluctantly falling at last upon the two notes
addressed to himself, which were placed conspicuously
on the table.  One he knew by its heavily embossed
envelope, its green seal, and the lustre of the ink with
which it was addressed.  Tearing it open indifferently,
he started up in surprise, not expecting so sudden a
culmination of the difficulty.  Jervais had requested
him to meet him at daybreak of the next day—if
it were convenient.  "Of course it is convenient," he
murmured half aloud, "only," and his thoughts raced
back to the problem of that day.

He turned to the other message, a coarse piece of
paper folded over twice and addressed to him in a
barely legible script.  He unfolded this with a keener
interest than the other, and leaning forward so the
candle light would aid him in deciphering the words,
he read:

.. vspace:: 2

"Will you come to see me?  I want to tell you
something.  JACOB PHELPS."

.. vspace:: 2

He held the paper a long time in his hands, fingering
it after his eyes no longer read the words, and
gradually, over his tortured senses, drifted a feeling
of peace and hope and joy.  At last, under the full
realization of the opportunity that had come to him,
he settled back in his chair and closed his eyes.

In this attitude Judge Houston found him when he
entered the library.  The old man did not extend his
hand, nor for a few moments did he say anything,
having learned to read the young face before him like
an open book, and knowing that any words except
those spoken by Sargent himself would be irrelevant
at that moment.  Instead, he took down a long
German pipe with a china bowl, from the mantel shelf,
and filling it with tobacco, seated himself comfortably
in a chair and crossed his legs; silent, all the while.

Finally Sargent opened his eyes and looked at the
old man without speaking.  At last the words came,
trembling slightly from his intensity.

"Did you ever convict a man for murder?"

The corners of the old man's mouth twitched; he
was so certain that would be the question.  In answer
he only nodded.

"And was the man hanged?"

He nodded again.

Sargent's voice rose to a higher pitch and broke
harshly.

"How could you let it be done, and have any peace
afterwards?"

The old man laid his pipe aside and came toward
the table, sitting down opposite Sargent.

"I found out that I was in the right.  That the
man should have been hanged—that it was my duty
to see that punishment was inflicted upon him.
Anything else would have been an evasion of my duty,—a
greater sin than I at first imagined the other was.
I know what you are feeling at this moment.  Every
man who has a conscience and a reverence for God
and has chosen criminal law for his profession goes
through your experience.  There are so many sides
to the situation—I doubt if you have thought of but one."

Sargent moved impatiently in his chair.  His fingers
were thumping nervously on the table all the time.

"Tell me the other side—I can see only one."

The old man leaned forward and met his eyes intently.

"What do you see?"

"'Thou shalt not kill.'"

Felix Houston leaned back in his chair and putting
out his hand, drew the old Bible toward him.  Placing
it on his knees, he turned the pages with the familiarity
of one who knew what was written on every one.  At
last he held down a page, and ran his fingers across
it, smoothing out the crumpled, folded edge.
"Listen," he said, raising his eyes to Sargent's for a
moment.  "There are other commands in here, too.  Read
here—Genesis—'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by
man shall his blood be shed,' and in Exodus," the
pages turned quickly, "'He that smiteth a man, so
that he die, shall be surely put to death,' and Leviticus,
'Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth,'
and later, in the words of Jesus, recorded by
Matthew, 'All they that take the sword shall perish with
the sword.'  Is not that enough?"  He laid down the
book, and met Sargent's glance again.  "You see
now there are reasons for man making laws with
which the life of a murderer can be taken.  It is the
command of God.  It is His law given to us for
self-protection."

Sargent shook his head wearily.

"Vengeance is mine," he quoted slowly, in
response.  "With that, I see no reason for this law of
man's.  Why should we judge?  Why should we
decide that a man has no right to live?  'Thou shalt
not kill,' is the word spoken by God.  There is no
evasion of it—I can see only that one interpretation.
It is final to me in its brevity.  It embraces
everything.  If Phelps is hanged, it will be the same as if
I had killed him myself, alone and unaided.  The law
back of it means nothing to me.  If he is hanged I
will be a murderer."

Sargent crouched back in his chair as if to escape
the physical punishment his thoughts inflicted upon
him.  The disappointment caused from the old man's
failure to bring him any comfort intensified the
despair into which he had sunk.

"Think a moment, Sargent," Judge Houston said,
attempting a new line of persuasion.  "Think of the
good you have done the people by removing such a
danger from them.  That should be palliation enough
to relieve you of any responsibility.  Their gratitude
to you is wonderful!  Do you know, they want to
show it in some lasting form; there is already a
movement on foot to send you to the Legislature, and if
you accept it, I know you will be elected.  Boy! you
don't realize that your success has been made.  Cheer
up!  Open your eyes to your opportunities.  There
are not many who make the start you have."  Judge
Houston grew more and more enthusiastic as he
continued.  "I had no idea that you could win that case.
I only appointed you to give you the experience.  But
you have shown your genius.  That speech has made
your start a triumph."

Sargent watched his enthusiasm coldly.  A gulf
of misunderstanding seemed to be widening between
him and his old friend to-night—a gulf in which
their sympathy of the past months was counted as
nothing.  Of all the people in the world Felix Houston
was the one Sargent had expected to understand him
in this trial.  His disappointment grew almost
unbearable when he heard praise also coming from his
friend's lips.

"A triumph," he murmured sadly.  "What is a
triumph when its gain means the sacrifice of a man's
life?"

"Have you thought of the lives you have probably
saved by removing this dangerous man from the
country?  That should help you a little."

"Was he so harmful?  Had he killed any one
before?  There seemed no proof of it."

"Did you not prove that he had killed one man?
Is that not enough?"

"I did not prove anything—legally."

Felix Houston's brows drew together slowly.  It
was a signal of the end of his patience.

"What did you do then, Sargent?"

"I played a trick on him—the meanest, lowest,
most dastardly trick one man ever played on another.
There wasn't any law in it.  I set myself to work on
the man's sympathies; I studied his face all that first
day in the courtroom, hunting for the vulnerable point
in which to attack him.  All that day I could see
nothing else but his face, yet I could not find what it was
that was there, that I did not recognize.  And when
I rode home that evening with Natalia, I was telling
her about the case, and how hopeless it seemed, and
what do you suppose she told me to do?  The very
thing that I did—make the man confess, himself!
She said that I could do that if I wanted to.  All that
night I lay awake, thinking and thinking of how I
could persuade the man to tell his secret.  I kept
repeating it to myself all through the long hours that
I would make him tell, seeing his face before me,
always with that inscrutable expression that meant
that there was a vulnerable point.  I must find it, I
kept on saying.  I must find it!  Then I thought out
my speech, realizing as I went over it, that if I went
into every detail of the murder, that somewhere in
the recital I would find the spot in the man's nature.
I found it—you know when.  He has a mother.  I
made him think of her!  After the first admission of
my power I knew I had the man in my hands.  It was
all very easy after that.  But it was not law, you must
admit that.  It was playing upon sentiments that are
sacred to every human being.  I took that advantage
of him while he was held before me—forced to listen.
He couldn't escape my words.  I forced them into his
brain.  I drove all the vital force that was in me into
that man's conscience, and made him speak out.  He
could not help it—he was powerless.  But that is
not law, I say.  I have no right to send him to the
gallows on such a confession.  You should have seen
that—you will now, I know.  It rests with you to
help me make my reparation.  I used this man to
further the gratification of revenge.  I would not have
gone into the case with such vehemence if the defeat
of Jervais had not been back of it.  Oh, you do see,
then!  The sin of it, don't you?  But it is
true—every word of it.  I am keeping back nothing from
you.  You have told me that you loved me almost
as much as you did your son, and you know that I
have returned that feeling, aye, more than I ever loved
the man who created me only continually to wound
me!  Will you prove to me that your love is as great
as you say?  Will you grant me one request that will
mean everything to me?"

With his growing excitement, Sargent rose from
the chair and placed both hands on Judge Houston's.
The old man met his wild, beseeching look calmly.
He knew now that he was brought face to face with
a situation that might end disastrously, but he did not
shirk it.  He was calmer than he had ever been in
his life.

"I will grant you any request—if it is right, and
in my power."

Sargent took a long breath, though not yet one
of relief.  When he spoke, the words came in a
whisper, as if he feared an eavesdropper.

"Release Jacob Phelps!"

For twenty seconds the old copper faced clock on
the mantel ticked off the time loudly in the silent
room.  Then Felix Houston spoke.

"It is not in my power, and even if it were, I
would not set at liberty a man whose depredations and
robberies have hung over this country for ten years.
You have asked me too much, Sargent.  Go home
and think this matter over, and when you are calmer,
more yourself, you will see the exaggerated view you
are taking.  In the morning you will see everything
differently.  Your responsibility in the case will have
passed from you entirely, and you will see it through
the eyes of a sane man—you are hardly that, now."

"In the morning may be too late to think of
anything," Sargent answered hurriedly, handing him
Jervais' challenge.

Judge Houston read it at a glance and handed it
back to him.

"Is that the note that was sent here?  I left it on
the table."

"Yes.  May your man take my answer?"

"Of course.  When?"

And without answering, Sargent wrote a few lines
at the table, and folding the paper carefully and
sealing it, handed it to the slave who was already waiting
at the door.

When the man was gone and they were alone again,
Sargent stretched out his hands and grasped Judge
Houston's.

"Won't you grant me that request?" he said, an
expression of pitiful yearning in his eyes.  "It may
be my last.  I should not mind dying if I knew the
man were free," he added tentatively.

"Anything else in the world, Sargent," the old man
answered brokenly.  "Anything else I would do for you."

"There is nothing else that matters," Sargent answered
dryly, turning away and reaching for his hat.

"You will come for me in the morning—at what time?"

Judge Houston rested against the table, watching
Sargent's every movement intently.

"At four o'clock.  The sun rises at five now.  I
will make all arrangements with the ferry man to take
us over to the Louisiana side."  He stopped abruptly
and looked at the old man standing as firm and as
steady as a piece of granite.  "Somehow I feel the
incongruity of you going with me more forcibly now
than ever.  Won't it tell against you?  Won't it cause
some loss of dignity to your position?  You said you
had always disapproved of duels.  It is too much that
you are giving up for me.  It may be that I shall pass
out of your life to-morrow, and for the few months
that we have been together—it seems too much.  I
know I've disappointed you—some day perhaps you'll
understand my reasons.  Somehow, though, I couldn't
help it—I must be deformed in mind as in body!"

The old gentleman made a step toward him, and
steadied Sargent's trembling figure with his firm arms.

"When you hear what I have done to-night," he
continued, brokenly evading the keen blue eyes bent
upon him, "I believe you will understand."

Felix Houston drew Sargent closer to him.  His
firm arm was about the young fellow's shoulders, and
he was reading his face intently for some meaning
to the last words.

"Sargent, boy—look at me—-what do you mean?"

Suddenly Sargent straightened himself and answered
the other's look firmly.

"I don't know yet.  I haven't quite decided.  I
shall be back here at four o'clock."





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.. _`ONE MEANS OF ESCAPE`:

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   CHAPTER VII


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   ONE MEANS OF ESCAPE

.. vspace:: 2

Outside the night shone clear and brilliant.  Sargent
stopped when he had passed out into the street,
and looked up through the canopy of leaves to where
a stretch of heavens glowed with the impenetrable
purple of the night.  Across the infinitude of space a
brilliant star suddenly shot, leaving a trail of white
fire in its wake.  He stood there a few minutes, his
face uplifted to the calm beauty of the sky, his lips
moving in prayer.

When he began walking again a strange quiet had
settled over all his features and in his eyes burned the
light of determination.

He walked rapidly, for though the moon had not
yet risen, the night was brilliant with the beautiful,
translucent light of the stars.  The dwellings were
dark, not a light glowed in a window; the town had
sunk into deep slumber.

He stopped at the tavern long enough to write a
few words to Captain Mentdrop about the duel, and
once more hurried out into the night.

He passed the courthouse again.  This time he did
not quail, or pass it with averted eyes, but looked at it
with the expression of one who gives thanks to something
which has shown him the right path, be it ever
so hard and narrow to traverse.

Walking on, he stood at last before the small jail.
It was a one story brick building in which the sunken
bars across the windows shone sombrely in the clarity
of the night.  Beyond its suggestion of imprisonment,
there was a deeper and more lasting effect of utter
dreariness and despair, for the building stood on a
plot of ground in which neither a tree nor a shrub grew.

Without a moment of hesitation Sargent went up
the path to the door, and lifted the heavy knocker.
Its report rang out on the quiet night like some death
signal, reverberating within, seemingly an hundred
times.  Then came the heavy steps of the keeper, the
sound of huge bolts sliding out of fastenings, the clang
of a chain, and at last Sargent stood within the dimly
lit corridor.

"Jacob Phelps sent for me.  Is it possible for me
to see him now?" he said rapidly, striving in vain to
hide his anxiety.

The jailer held his lantern close to Sargent's face,
and inspected him slowly.

"Have you an order from the sheriff?" he asked.

"No."

"It's against rules.  I can't let you in."

"I know it is irregular, but this is my only chance
to see him.  I am going away early in the morning.
I only want to speak a few words with him.  My name
is Sargent Everett—"

"The lawyer that made the speech to-day!" the
jailer exclaimed.  "Well, sir, it's an honour to know
you.  I never heard tell of a speech like the one you
made, sir.  No wonder Phelps wanted to see you."

Sargent turned away quickly to hide the look of
suffering on his face.  Was he never to hear the end
of that speech!  Would it go down to the grave with
him!  Suddenly he remembered his words to Judge
Houston—"It will be the speech of my life."  Ah! verily
it was so!

"Will you let me see him?" he asked again.

"Well—" the fellow debated.  "I reckon it'll be
all right since it's you, Mr. Everett.  But it's against
rules, you know."

He led the way down the corridor, Sargent following
him closely.  At the far end, the jailer turned
toward him, eying his slight figure and halting gait
deprecatingly.

"Shall I leave the door open and wait for you out
here?  He's a mighty tough customer—at least he
was up to to-day.  He's been as quiet as a lamb since
they brought him back from the courthouse.  I don't
know if you'll be safe in there with him, for he's lots
bigger than you.  He might take a notion to hurt you."

Sargent moved to the door impatiently.  "I do not
fear him, and you need not wait at the door.  Bar it
on the outside, and do not come until I call for you.
Now—let me in."

The jailer put his hand on the bolts—then hesitated.

"Here—I have it.  Put this pistol in your
pocket—so—and you can keep him at a safe distance.
Don't let him see it unless he comes at you—it's
as much as my place is worth.  There you are—now!"

The bolt slid back, the chain fell to the floor, and
Sargent passed through the opened door.

The room was small, its whitewashed walls giving
out a dank odour.  A narrow bunk, a table and chair
were the only furnishings.  One window, covered with
bars, let in the light of the brilliant sky dotted with
innumerable stars.  At the table, scribbling on some
coarse paper in the feeble glow of a candle, sat the
prisoner—Jacob Phelps.

He looked up as Sargent entered; then, as if slowly
recognizing him, he rose from the table and stood
looking at him with the dull expression which had
come into his eyes during the trial.

"So you've come, have you?  I kinder thought you
would."

Sargent met his glance steadily.  "You said you
wanted to see me."

Suddenly Phelps moved to the door and tried the
bolt.  It was barred securely.  Then he moved back
quickly and stood close to Sargent, catching hold of
both his arms.

"D'you know they've locked you in here with me?"  He
began laughing easily to himself.  "You can't get
out, any more'n I can.  You're in my power now like
I was in yours this morning."  His fingers sank into
Sargent's flesh with a grip of iron, his eyes suddenly
grew brilliant, his breath came hard and hot in the
young fellow's face.  "Suppose I'd kill you now!
Wouldn't it be fair?  You've had your chance!  This
is mine!  You baby—I could wring your neck as
easy as a chicken's."  He stopped abruptly and stared
into Sargent's face searchingly.

The silence deepened.  Sargent's eyes met the other's
unflinchingly.  The pain of Phelps' grip came as
a great relief to his mental agony.

"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?
Why shouldn't I do it?"

"It is your right," came Sargent's low answer.

Phelps' fingers loosened their hold.

"Humph!  So you're not afeard of me!"

"No—not now—after to-day."

"'Cause you convicted me you think I'm harmless—eh?"

"No—because I found the good in you."

Again Phelps stared at him hard while the light
died gradually out of his eyes.  His hands slipped
down Sargent's arms slowly until one stopped suddenly
on the pistol the jailer had thrust into his pocket.
In a second he had both arms about Sargent, and had
grabbed the pistol in his hand.

"So you's not afeard of me, eh, you damn liar.
Yet you carry this!" holding up the pistol for
inspection in the candle light.  "Six chambers and all of
'em loaded," he ended, breaking the gun back into
place.

"It is not mine.  The jailer put it in my pocket
as I entered here.  I never carried one in my life."

Phelps looked at him doubtfully.  "Well—I believe
you," he said thoughtfully.  "But I'm glad
you brought it.  It's a damn good thing you did!"

Sargent started.  "What do you mean?"

"Never you mind—I'll tell you later."  He laid
the pistol well out of Sargent's reach and came back
before him, folding his arms, and looking down on
him with a new expression—a look that seemed to
express a certain contentment.  "D'you know why I
sent for you?  I wanted to thank you."

Sargent's lip quivered.  "For sentencing you?"

"No—for opening my eyes."

Sargent looked up and saw the huge man of fifty
years standing before him, suddenly timid, with his
great, roughened hand outstretched.

"You ain't afeard to take it—is you?  It's jest
the hand of a man who's goin' to die soon.  It can't
do you no harm and it'll do me a mighty lot of good."

Sargent made a step forward, and grasped the waiting hand.

"Can you ever forgive me for taking your life?"
he murmured unsteadily, a spasm of suffering
contracting his features.

For a moment the ruffian looked down at him,
puzzled, then gave a quick, coarse laugh.

"Is that what's hurting you?  Well—it ain't
hurting you half as bad as it's hurting me—nohow.
You've done me heaps of good—youngster."  He
still held Sargent's hand in his iron grip, "and some
day you're goin' to be a big man.  I could tell that
by the sound in your voice when you was speaking
to-day.  That's what got under my skin.  It's jest
as sweet as a woman's and then again it's as hard as
the devil's.  Damn if I wouldn't like to hear you make
another speech!"  He laughed grimly.  "But look
here," with a quick movement and a glance at the
pistol.  "I sent for you to tell you somethin'.  Sit
down thar in that chair.  I'm goin' to stand
up—tired of sittin' down anyway."

The huge man swung one leg over the end of the
table, and looked down into the face of the lawyer
with eyes softened by an expression of bygone
tenderness—the look Sargent had been searching for so
long.  It thrilled him now as he saw it so clearly.

"As I said—you're goin' to be a big man some
day, and you wants to begin right now.  You don't
want to hurt people, sonny—I can see that in your face."

Sargent's lips opened to answer, but no words came.
It was when he nodded that the big man continued.
"So make up your mind right now that you ain't goin'
to send any more men to the gallows.  Send 'em to
prison for life—that's all right—that gives 'em a
chance to show people if there's anything good in 'em.
But when you kills 'em you cuts off all their chances
of doin' better.  Ain't I right?"

Again Sargent nodded silently.

"Now, take me; I never knowed until to-day that
I could have lived the right sort of life like any other
man.  I say I never even thought it till you told me.
And you jest went and opened it up to me in sich a
way that I couldn't help seein' whar I could have done
a whole heap better.  You kept makin' me wish I had
one chance to show I could do what was right,—and
now it's come—it's come."  He swung his leg from
the table and walked to the window.  "They say that
spot thar is where they're goin' to string me up.  But
they ain't—they're goin' to be mightily disappointed.
Jacob Phelps ain't goin' to have his neck broke by
no rope.  D'you hear that?  Is you listenin' to me?"

Sargent rose in amazement.  One step, and he was
beside Phelps.  "How did you know?" he gasped.
"No one could have suspected it.  I only decided a
few minutes before I came here."

"Decided what?" Phelps asked, staring at him.

"To help you.  I don't know yet how we can manage it."

Phelps looked at him quietly for a few minutes.
Then he turned away silently, and went to the bunk,
sitting down on it, and letting his head fall into his
hands.

"So you think I'm doin' right," he murmured, his
face still lowered.  "I'm kinder glad you do."

"Of course it is right.  It's the only thing.  I don't
think I could look the world in the face again if you
were to be hanged."  He moved over to the bunk,
and sat down beside Phelps.  The candle had burned
low, and the wick, spluttering in the melted tallow,
left the room in a fitful gloom.

"I never killed any man unless I had to," Phelps
continued slowly.  "I didn't mean to kill old Puckett
that night.  He jest held on so tight I had to git away
somehow."  He ended with a deep groan.

In the long silence the candle gave a last flicker
and went out.  Except for a narrow square of light
from the window, half obscured by the heavy,
ominous looking bars, the room was now in total darkness.

Finally Phelps stretched out his arms and rising,
went back to the table.  "But I reckon it's all
regrettin' to no use now," he murmured, picking up the piece
of paper on which he had written, and folding it
carefully.  "I wants you to send this to my old mother.
She lives up in South Ca'lina.  I've wrote her name
on here.  I wants you to send this with it, too."  He
pushed his hand into his woollen shirt, and pulled out
a leather pocketbook.  "In here's receipts for all my
money in a New 'leans bank.  I want she should get
all of it.  I've been sendin' her money all along, but
I never let her know whar I was."  He leaned across
the table, closer to Sargent till he could see his face
more distinctly.  "I don't want her to know what
happened to me."  His voice sank to a whisper.
"Can't you jest tell her I died, or something?  That's
jest what made me give in to you to-day—you telling
'bout Puckett's wife left all alone with nobody to take
care of her when she was gettin' old and feeble.  It
put me to thinkin' 'bout my old ma, all by herself.  I
didn't care after that what you folks did with me.  I
felt, somehow, like nothin' made no difference any
more.  When I thought 'bout the way I had run away
from that poor old soul and left her all by herself,
somethin' inside me went all to smash.  I didn't have
a drop of fightin' blood left in me....  You see that's
what you done for one man, youngster.  'Tain't agoin'
to hurt ye any, neither....  Now don't stay here no
longer.  Jest go along home.  Here's my hand.
Forget all 'bout me, and don't never blame yourself.  It
had to be some day and—after all—it won't be the
gallows."  He walked around the table and handed
the package to Sargent.

"I don't understand," Sargent exclaimed, not
moving from his seat on the bunk.  "Why give me the
package now?  The other matter," he lowered his
voice, "is so much more important.  How are you
going to manage it?  I must know, so as to help you."

Phelps looked down at him, his lips moving into a
kindly smile.  "It's easy enough.  I don't mind; as
soon as you're gone I'll do it.  Trust me to know the
easiest way.  I'm a sure shot, and I'm not the one to
fail on myself."

Sargent stared up at him, bewildered.  The package
slipped out of his hand to the floor.  As he struggled
to his feet, he found himself trembling violently with
the sudden realization of what Phelps meant to do.
He stood perfectly still for a second, attempting to
decide upon his own course.  There was only a
moment or two in which to act, and every second Phelps
was watching him intently.  His power of the
courtroom was nothing now—the force of words was
gone.  His lips were tight drawn; even the mere act
of speaking was an impossibility.

The pistol lying on the table shone with a metallic
glint.  Suddenly he knew that he must get it away
from Phelps at any cost.  Gathering all his forces,
he made a dash toward it.  When his fingers had
closed upon it, he felt Phelps' iron grip upon his arms.

"Give it up!  You fool!" cried the outlaw.
"D'you think I'm goin' to change my mind because
you do!"

They struggled across the dark room, Sargent
edging toward the door, an inch at a time.  When he had
almost reached it, dragging, writhing, twisting himself
in Phelps' grip, he felt his strength suddenly leave
him.

"Wait—Phelps—wait," he gasped.  "I did not
mean—this—I meant—"

"Let go—let go—and stop—your—talking!
Let go, I say!  You won't?  Well—take that!"

Sargent felt himself spinning through the darkness.
As his head struck the heavy bar of the window he
heard a crashing sound, as if the walls of the jail
were falling together, then a brilliant flash—afterwards,
dead, black silence.

A few minutes later, he opened his eyes.  There
was a bright light in the cell, and several men were
moving about excitedly.  The whole place was filled
with the stifling odour of powder.  On the floor, a
foot away from him, lay the stiffening body of Jacob
Phelps.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CAPTAIN'S JOKE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE CAPTAIN'S JOKE

.. vspace:: 2

The old town clock was chiming two when Sargent
finally passed the last cabin, and turned from the
highway into the private road to the house.  He had passed
through the last hours dazed and only half understanding
what was taking place about him.  His return to
consciousness, the horrible sight of Phelps' face
mangled beyond recognition, the excitement and the
questions of the crowd which had so quickly assembled, and
his subsequent statement of the affair to the Sheriff—all
these details were gone through much like some
dream in which everything is half obscured and acted
in without one's real volition.

Friends' greetings and hand-clasps he had received
without one word, even when the physician had bound
up his wound, an ugly gash on the head, caused by his
fall against the bars, he had merely asked if he were
free now to go his way.

The deathly stillness of the country, the wide gloom
of the heavens, dotted with a dazzling brilliance of
stars, the vague, motionless forests across the deserted
fields, made the night seem to him a fit setting for the
weird, strange spell into which he had sunk.

When he stood before the big gate and saw the
house gleaming in the night brilliance, he started as
if brought suddenly before something he had not
expected.  A light shone from the parlour window, an
unprecedented thing at such an hour, yet it did not
strike him as unusual.

Tying his horse at the gate, for it would be only
two hours before he must return, he walked draggingly
towards his room.  There too was a light and
a figure standing in the doorway.

"Thank gracious, youse done cum, Massa Sargent,"
Dicey exclaimed, running towards him.  "Whar in
de name ob de good Lawd has yer bin?  Ole Miss and
Lil Miss an' ev'ybody else done gone all ter pieces 'bout
sumthin'.  Ise bin smellin' er mouse but I cyant ketch
him.  Now—Massa Sargent, whut's er causin' all dis
heah fuss?"

Sargent moved past the old woman, into his room.
"I cannot talk now, Dicey," he said, going directly
to a large armoire and unlocking it.  "To-morrow—all
of you will know."

"But ole Miss wants ter see yer to-night.  She bin
er pacin' up an' down, up an' down dat parloh flo' all
night—a waitin' fer yer.  Eber sence Massa Jervais
wuz heah she ain' seem hab no peace ob min'!  She
done tole me ter watch fer yer and bring yer straight
ter her—so cum 'long, right dis minit."

Sargent stared at her silently.

"You say Mr. Jervais has been here this evening."

"Yaas, suh, bout two hours."

"Then he told her!" Sargent exclaimed.

"Mos' eberything, I reckon.  But cum on ober dar,
fer I wants ter git ter bed 'fo daybreak, sho'."

Sargent followed Dicey across the yard, into the
dimly lit hall, where the wall of portraits swam before
him like the faces of the multitude he had faced that
day.  Knocking at the parlour door, Dicey announced
him, and then disappeared into the shadows of the hall.

Mrs. Brandon was standing beneath the massive
bronze chandelier, her face paler than Sargent had
ever seen it, her whole expression and poise bereft
of the cold assurance which had seemed the outward
expression of the woman's character.

Sargent closed the door after him, and stood facing
her, both of them silent a few moments.

"Is it true?" Mrs. Brandon finally demanded, her
words coming colder and crisper than ever before.

"You mean—that Mr. Jervais has challenged me,
Mistress Brandon?  If so—he has and I have
accepted.  It is to be in a very few hours."

Her eyes blazed at Sargent, full of a violent hatred
that led him to read for a certainty the love she bore
Jervais.  Even in that moment of his gloom and her
anger, the incongruity of the love of this woman for
Jervais struck a distracting note in his thoughts.

"Are you determined to meet him, Mr. Everett?"

"I am, Mistress Brandon."

"Do you realize that it will cause you to lose your
position in my family?  Of course such an unheard-of
thing as a school-master fighting a duel, is sufficient
to annul our contract."

"I supposed this would be the case.  I cannot blame
you.  You are quite right."

She came a step nearer Sargent.  Her lips pressed
hard against each other as she evidently forced herself
to speak.

"If you will forego this duel, I shall reconsider
the matter.  I would retain you as the children's
tutor."

"Thank you, Mistress Brandon, there is no help for
it now.  I go to it as my one chance of—" he broke
off abruptly and turned towards the door.

"Wait,—I am not through," she cried, her voice
breaking shrilly, "I can not have this duel—don't
you understand—it must not take place.  What
will keep you from it?  Certainly there is something!"

Sargent met her eyes calmly.  He could see now a
weakening, a tremulousness beneath her hauteur which
in another moment might break the indomitable spirit
entirely.  Suddenly he took her hand in his, very
gently.

"There is nothing for you to fear, Mistress Brandon.
Believe me when I tell you that my fire shall
be thrown away.  Mr. Jervais will be as safe this time
to-morrow as he is now.  You have been very just
and hospitable to me while I was a member of your
household.  I thank you for it, and ask you in parting
to grant me only one request."

She had drawn away from him with the allaying
of her fears.  There was no doubt of his sincerity.  But
with the feeling of safety, her pride rushed over her
again, and in the chagrin of having betrayed herself,
she became more coldly abducent than before.

"What is your request?" came her answer, full of
predicated denial.

"To see Natalia before I leave."

Mrs. Brandon lifted her eyes in surprise.

"To-night?  Now?  Surely you know that would
be impossible!"

"It would be for the last time," Sargent answered
tentatively.

"Pardon me—but I can not think of it.  Perhaps
I might consent before she goes—"

"After to-night it will be too late."

For answer Mrs. Brandon lifted the candlestick and
passed out into the hall.

.. vspace:: 2

In his plain room, the walls of whitewashed logs,
and the spotless floor covered with rag rugs, he pulled
out the worn little hair trunk which had come on the
long journey from Maine with him.  There was not
very much that he had to put in it, and when he had
filled the tray, piling one end with his much used
books, he paused a moment, holding the last one in his
hand and gazing a long time at the fly leaf.  It
recalled vividly that day—so far off now—when he
and his mother had packed the same little trunk, and
she had given him the book as her last gift, to be taken
with him wherever he went.  Her words were there
before him on the page now.  He read them over and
over again:

.. vspace:: 2

"My son, neglect not to peruse these sacred writings
with interest, that you may obtain that virtue which
will guide you through life's thorny path, fit you for
an usefulness in life, peace in death, and happiness in
the spirit land."

.. vspace:: 2

He touched his lips to the book, afterwards wrapping
it carefully, and writing Natalia's name across
the paper.  Not now, but some day far off, she would
understand what it had represented to him.

Then sitting down before the table and putting the
two candles close together, he poured out the whole
of his tortured soul, his disappointment, the worldly
success which was to him so damning a bitterness, his
utter hopelessness—all this he wrote to his mother
in a letter which was never to reach her.

A subdued rustling in the trees roused him with the
certainty that the time had come for him to be on his
way.  Blowing out the candles and locking the door
of the little room that had sheltered him for many
months, for the last time, he went through the grove
to the gate.  There he paused and let his eyes rest
for a moment on the old mansion of the Spaniards.

The fragile, crescent moon was already lowering
towards the distant lowlands, and in its vague light
the house was softly outlined among the magnolias.
Even then, as he had often felt before when looking
at this scene in the stillness of the night, Sargent felt
a strange spell of mystery and fatefulness creep over
him.  There was something ghostly in the white house
accentuated by the gloom of the grove and the inclosing
hedge of Cherokee roses, so filled with white
dream flowers.

Against his will his thoughts drifted into fancies of
Natalia's future.  He could see her going away to
distant lands, beautiful and wealthy and courted, and
coming back perhaps to spend the happiness of her life
in this perfect setting.  And, as always with his
thoughts, the subject of them became visible before
him.  He saw the beautiful, vivid little face looking
at him with the dependence and yearning for sympathy
which had first riveted the chains of his love.  He saw
the thin, delicate features, the oval contour, the
unusual softness of skin, almost olive about the eyes and
very white and fair on the temples, and the black lashes
and the velvety shadows beneath the eyes, that gave
that world-old expression when she smiled.

While he gazed before him, dwelling on each memory
of the little girl he was leaving for ever, he saw
her eyes grow slowly bloodshot, then almost
imperceptibly her skin seemed to deaden and the ghastly red
of clotted blood obliterated the likeness, leaving in its
place the mangled face of Jacob Phelps.  Digging the
spurs into his horse, Sargent tore down the road
towards the town, at a breakneck speed.

Judge Houston was waiting at his door, calm and
very pale.  Together he and Sargent walked to the
tavern, without speaking a word beyond the greetings.
It was still quite dark, and as they neared the hostelry
the windows of the club room shone bright, and from
within came the sounds of noisy merriment.

"Will you tell Captain Mentdrop I am here,
Judge?" Sargent said, when they stood outside the
door.  "I should rather not go in there."  He
shuddered at the thought of more congratulations about
the yesterday.

Standing outside alone, he heard a loud burst of
laughter—Jervais', then the Captain's; afterwards a
silence as the two parties came out at the same time,
Captain Mentdrop and Jervais leading the way,
walking arm in arm.

"Hello, Sargent, you're there, are you—and Judge
Houston,—my compliments, sir."

Jervais passed without a word to his friends who
followed him out, and then both parties took carriages,
already waiting for them, and drove down the long
hill to the river.

"Well, sir, I've had a night of it 'pon my word,
I have," cried the Captain, seemingly in the best of
spirits.  "Will you believe it, Sargent, I've been
sitting in there with Lem Jervais since ten o'clock last
night!"

Sargent listened listlessly.  "Is he so entertaining?"
he asked without interest.

The Captain looked at Judge Houston and dropped
a sly wink.

"Immensely so!  And when Suggs came in and
told us about your scuffle with Phelps—well, you'd
'a' learned something if you'd heard what he said!"

Judge Houston had started at the mention of
Phelps.  In a moment his hand was on Sargent's.

"What about Phelps, Sargent?  Did you go to see him?"

Sargent met his glance beseechingly.

"Not now—Judge.  After this is over, get Captain
to tell you about it.  Please—not now!"

In the chill numbness of the hour before daybreak
they took their places in a skiff, and shot out on to the
wide surface of the river.  The white mist obliterated
the opposite bank, and when they had drifted a mile
below the town a narrow strip of sand bar suddenly
appeared out of the dark, and a moment later the boat
was grounded upon the sand.

Close behind them came the other skiff, and both
parties immediately walked across the clean white bar,
to two wide-spreading willows which marked the spot
of the then famous duelling ground.

When the two groups had formed themselves and
the formal greetings gone through, Judge Houston
left Sargent's side, and going to Jervais, led him a
little way from the others.  A very few words passed
between them, when Judge Houston turned away sadly
and went back to his place.

"I told you so," said the Captain, raising his great
shoulders contemptuously.  "When a challenge has
been sent and accepted, it's a man's duty to go through
it without any more words.  This reconciliation
business is all stuff—until you've got through fighting."

Judge Houston met the Captain's restless eyes calmly.

"Don't you think everything should be done to
save a man's life?" he asked quietly.

"Not one bit of it!"  The Captain's hands met in
a resounding clasp.  "That scoundrel," pointing to
Jervais, "would be a heap better dead, and as for
saving his life, it would be better if all parties took a
hand at getting rid of him.  This world would be
a heap better with so many less of that sort.  If I was
a praying man, I'd a said a bit of prayer for Sargent
to kill him."

"Yet you came out of the tavern a while ago, arm
in arm with him!" Judge Houston answered coldly.
"Are your sentiments quite sincere, Captain Mentdrop?"

The Captain looked into the face of the older man,
much as a big dog looks condescendingly upon
another; then he slipped his arm through Judge
Houston's and led him away from Sargent.  When he was
out of hearing, he put his mouth close to his
companion's ear.

"Take a peep at Jervais," he whispered.  "Don't
you see he's all to pieces—couldn't hit the side of a
house if he tried a week.  *That's* what I've been doing
with him all night.  Loading him up!  Loading him
up, sir!  And not with buckshot either—with whiskey,
mind you.  D'you think I was going to let that
youngster stand up here and get killed by that
scoundrel?  Well, I reckon not!"

Judge Houston's face paled.  He gripped the
Captain's arm with a trembling hand.  "Does Sargent
know this?"

"No—of course not.  Say, Judge, what d'you take
me for, anyhow?"

"He must know it!  You must tell him!"

"I?  I'll be damned if I do!"

"Then I will."

"No, you won't either.  Now, look here, Judge
Houston, this is my affair; and if you interfere, your
age and position won't make a blame bit of difference
in what I might do to you.  I'm bent and determined
to save that youngster, and all your pious conscience
and principles and fol-de-rol beliefs ain't going to keep
me from it.  You see what I mean, don't you?  So
don't fret me, any more!"

Without a moment's delay, the Captain turned
towards Jervais' party with the magnificent bravado
which was always at his command and called out:

"Shall we toss for the word, gentlemen?"

For a second a gold coin gleamed in the air and
fell at the Captain's feet.

"Thank you, gentlemen," he bowed, with a flourish,
"the honour is mine."

Then opening a large valise, he took out four pistols
and handed them to Jervais' second, who handed
them to Jervais.  The selection was made.

At that moment the Captain saw Judge Houston
make a step towards Sargent.  Quick as a flash his
voice rang out—

"Are you ready, gentlemen?  There is the sun."

It was too late for the warning.  Judge Houston
dropped back as Sargent and Jervais stepped out on
the clear stretch of sand.  Turning back to back, each
walked ten strides in the opposite direction, then turned
again and faced each other.  Sargent threw his cane
from him, and looked into Jervais' scowling face, a
few yards away from him.  In his opponent's restless
eyes, in his twitching lips and slightly trembling hands,
he understood, without being told, what the Captain
had done for him.

On the light breeze that raced before the dawn, the
Captain's voice came firm and loud.

"Gentlemen!  Are you ready?  Fire!  One—"

Jervais fired.

"Two!"

Sargent's pistol was raised and as his fingers clasped
the trigger, in the knowledge that he must fire he aimed
far to the right of Jervais, then, with an uncontrollable
movement, found himself pointing directly at his
opponent as the shot rang out.

"Three!"

When the whiff of smoke had cleared, both men
were standing looking at each other.  For a second
they stood still, then the seconds rushed between and
the duel was over.

"Great Lord!" cried the Captain, letting out his
choicest string of oaths.  "Here I've been wasting a
whole night expecting to see something.  And what
d' I get?  Two men standing up and looking at each
other over a whiff of smoke."  Throwing a contemptuous
look at Jervais' companions, he grabbed Sargent
about the shoulders and, squeezing him hard, led him
a good distance from the others.  Then it was that
the young lawyer, passing through the valley of
shadows, and just beginning to see hope for the future,
looked up at the old, wrinkled face bending close
beside him, and found the sparkling grey eyes
overflowing with merriment.

"Sonny," he said, giving Sargent a hearty squeeze
and attempting to hold his laughter no longer.  "You
needn't been so serious about this thing.  There wasn't
a damn bullet in a one of them pistols!"





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.. _`A PROMISE FOR THE FUTURE`:

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   CHAPTER IX


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   A PROMISE FOR THE FUTURE

.. vspace:: 2

That night, when the boys had gone to sleep, Dicey
came to the side of Natalia's bed, and sat down,
holding the little girl's hand close to her tear-stained face.
They were to be separated the next day, for the first
time in their companionship of twelve years.  The
morrow's boat was to take Natalia on her long
journey to the North.

"Mammy, he is not coming out here any more,"
Natalia said, her wide open eyes staring into the old
slave's face.

"No,—honey-chile,—he ain' comin' heah no mo'."

"And I won't see him to-morrow before I go?"

"No, sugar—ole Miss ain' gwine let him speak
ter yer.  She done said dat pintedly, so dar ain' no use
stedyin' 'bout hit no mo'."

Natalia glanced at the clock, its face shining bright
in the light of a solitary candle.  The hands were at
nine.

"Mammy," she crept over to the side of the bed
where Dicey's ear was most convenient.  "Mammy,
you love me very, very much—don't you?"

Dicey scented danger.  In a moment her ears were keen.

"Sho' I does, honey-chile, you knows dat."

"And you would do anything I asked you, wouldn't
you, Mammy?"

"Mebbe so—whut yer wants now?"

Natalia sat up and clasped her hands about her
knees.

"I want to go to see him to-night, Mammy.  Will
you take me?"

Dicey leaned over the bed and pulled the quilt tight
about the little figure.

"Lay down, honey," she said soothingly, "and go
ter sleep.  All dis heah 'citement bout goin' way done
addled yer.  Co'se yer cyant go see Massa Sargent
ternight.  Who ebber heerd tell ob sich a thing?  Go ter
sleep now—I'se gwine sing ter yer bout Moses—"

"I don't want to hear about Moses, Mammy."  Natalia
threw off the quilt and sprang out of bed.
"I want to see him, Mammy, before he goes.  I want
to tell him good-bye.  Please take me."

Dicey shook her head knowingly, and stood up.

"Come on back to bed, honey, yer gwine ketch yer
death ob col' standin' dar in de night ar.  Co'se yer
cyant go out ter-night."

Natalia tossed the hair out of her eyes and faced
Dicey angrily.

"If you won't take me, I'll get Zebby to.  I know
he'll do it."

"I knows whut I'se gwine do."  Dicey walked to
the door and turned the key in the lock, removed it and
placed it in her apron pocket.  "Now you'se got ter
be managed.  I'se gwine put yer in dat bed and you'se
got ter stay dar."  She ended by turning towards
Natalia and stopping suddenly.

It was the first time the child had ever been thwarted
by the old slave, and seeing the wrath on her face that
she had never seen there before, she at first trembled
a little, and then suddenly flared into a passionate
anger.  It was then that Dicey stopped and stared at her.

"Don't you come near me, Mammy.  Don't you try
to put me in bed.  I won't go—I won't—I won't."  She
stamped her foot in rage.  "And you'll be very
sorry you did me this way when I go away and leave
you—you'll be mighty sorry!"

Then came the storm of tears and Dicey had her in
her soothing embrace once more.

"You won't have to tell anybody, Mammy," came
the words between sobs.  "Not a soul will know.  You
get Zebby to hook up the chaise and take me into town.
We can go to Aunt Maria's and she'll tell us where he
is.  You see we could do it!  Oh, you will, Mammy,
you will—won't you?"

Natalia was skipping about the floor in wild delight,
for already she had seen the glimmer of consent
in Dicey's eyes.

"Sh-h!  Sh-h!  Keep still," the old woman whispered.
"You'll wake 'em all up.  Jes' yer stay right
heah tell I see ef I kin fin' Zebby."

So it was that a half hour later they were jogging
along the highway towards the town, the starlight so
brilliant that the lanterns were not needed.

"Oh! look, Mammy, there's a shooting star!"
cried Natalia.

"Humph!  I ain' studyin' bout no shootin' stahs.
I'm mighty worr'd bout whut ole Miss gwine say when
she kotch up wid me," grunted Dicey.  "Ef she done
tek er notion she sell me, leaf's not."

"But she can't, Mammy, because you belong to me.
You and Zebby both."

When they had reached Judge Houston's house, the
front door was wide open, and the sound of many
voices, and the sight of many lights within, made
Natalia hesitate; then she made Dicey go in and ask for
Mrs. Houston.

In a moment the old lady was standing in the
doorway, talking to Dicey, and then hurrying down the
steps.

"Natalia!  What in the world are you doing here?"
she exclaimed.

"I've come to tell him good-bye.  Is he in there?"

"He—who?"

"The schoolmaster."

Mrs. Houston put out her arms and gathered the
little girl to her, carrying her into the yard.

"Yes—he's here—you little rascal," half crying,
half laughing at Natalia's anxious expression.  "They
are having a big meeting to-night—a whole lot of the
townspeople who want Sargent to run for the Legislature."

Natalia drew back in disappointment, her lips
trembling.

"Then I can't see him—and I did so want to tell
him good-bye!"

"You wait a moment—go over there in the summer
house and I'll see if he cannot come out here for
a little while."

Mrs. Houston entered the house, and pausing before
the dining room door, she waited a moment to attract
some one's attention.  About the long mahogany table
were seated twenty men.  At one end sat Judge
Houston, at the other Sargent Everett.  Between them were
great heaps of papers, filled with the proposed
platform they were formulating, and at that moment an
old gentleman was standing and voicing his ideas on
the subject.  In the midst of his speech, he caught
Mrs. Houston's eye, and stopped abruptly.

"Pardon me, gentlemen," she said as they all rose
with one accord, "but a lady has just called, and
insists upon seeing one of you."

A general laugh and some uncertain flushes passed
over the assembly.

"She would not give his name," Mrs. Houston continued,
smiling with a deep enjoyment upon the most
confused faces, "but she referred to him as the
'schoolmaster.'  Do any of you answer to that name?"

Sargent was beside her in a moment.

"Is it Natalia?" he exclaimed softly.

"Yes.  She is in the summer house."

Sargent found her sitting on the coping of the
fish pond, staring down at the gold fish showing
distinctly in the strangely brilliant starlight.

"I am going away to-morrow and you did not even
tell me good-bye, when you ran away from us!" she
said, her dark eyes staring up at Sargent reproachfully.

"But I could not, Natalia, everything was crowding
upon me so—the duel—the—"

"The duel!" she exclaimed.

"Sh-h-h!  Don't talk so loud about it.  The Judge
does not want Mrs. Houston to know."  Sargent
picked her up in his arms and carried her to a bench
on the far side of the summer house.  She was very
warm and throbbing as he held her close to him, and
even beneath the folds of the cashmere shawl he could
feel her excited little heart beating.

"Now—tell me about it," she whispered, when he
sat down, still holding her.  "Tell me about the
duel—was it a real one?"

"Yes, I suppose so."  Sargent could not keep from
smiling.

"How beautiful!  I wish I had seen it!  Who was
it with?"

"Mr. Jervais."

"Oh—goody!  Did you kill him?"

"No—neither of us was hurt."

She sighed disappointedly, and went silent, her head
nestling in the hollow of his shoulder.

"Do you have to hurry back to those old lawyers?"

Sargent shook his head.

"No.  They've told me all there was to tell."

Natalia smiled up at him, her silent, sweet little
smile.  She did not make any motion to move or say
anything, but lay against him contentedly gazing up
at the sky.

"I've seen three shooting stars to-night—Oh! look!
There's the fourth!" she exclaimed, lifting her
face to follow the flashing light.  "And the
heavens—aren't they beautiful to-night?  I wonder what it
means.  I never saw the stars so bright before."

Again a short silence fell between them,—the quiet
that unconsciously comes to people when they feel a
long separation is near; when the short time left them
should be crowded with words, and yet, a time when
words seem so worthless.

Sargent looked down into the pensive little face
so close to his own.  In the night glow the two long
braids of hair shone very soft and glossy.  His hand
sunk into them unconsciously and its delicacy and
softness he found delicious to the touch.

"What makes your hair so beautiful?" he said
impulsively, his hand still upon it.

"Oh, my! is it?" Natalia sighed.  "It ought to
be, though, for Mammy brushes it so—so long every
morning and every night.  Sometimes I wish I didn't
have any, until she tells me I'd be ugly without it.
And she says people won't love me when I'm grown
up if I'm not pretty.  Do you believe that?" with
sudden intensity.

"No."  Sargent laughed easily.  "That's a bad
theory of Mammy Dicey's.  I'll have to tell her she's
mistaken."

"And she says that a pretty child makes an ugly
grown up person.  Do you believe that?"

"Sometimes it may prove true,—but I know of
one where it is not going to be the case."

Natalia's eyes beamed, and she edged up closer to
Sargent, looking searchingly into his face.

"Do you believe I'm going to be pretty when I am
grown up?"

Sargent looked down at her a long time before he
answered lightly, "Why, of course.  You are going
to be the most beautiful woman in the world."

Natalia slid off his knee and stood facing him, both
of her hands clasped in his.

"I'm so—so glad.  Because now I'm going
away," she hurried on, "and I'm going to be gone a
long time, for I'm going to Boston and I'm going to
Europe, and later on Mamma Brandon says I can
make the Grand Tour, and when I come back—all
grown up and educated and a real young lady and
beautiful—you will remember me—won't you?
Mammy says gentlemen never forget very beautiful
ladies."

Sargent drew her radiant face, all flushed and
intense, close to his.

"I'm going to remind you of this some day, Natalia,
don't forget.  So you are coming back grown
up and you are going to let me still love you like I do
now?"

"I don't want you to love me like you do now,"
with a toss of her head.

"No?  Why?" and Sargent puzzled over her meaning.

"I want you to love me like I see young gentlemen
loving young ladies.  Sending them pretty nosegays
and going to church with them Sundays and taking
them to balls.  That's the way I want you to do!"

Sargent's face contracted with sudden pain.  He
knew so well that he could never fill the role that
Natalia had already planned for her lover.

"Nosegays, church going, dances," he repeated
after her.  "Well," with a sigh, "I might do the first
two, anyhow."  Then seriously, "Natalia, I want you
to remember this."  For a moment he stopped and
looked directly into her eyes.  "You are a child now
but you will soon be a woman—a beautiful young
lady, as you say.  You are going far away from me
and it is only natural that you should forget all about
me; but don't forget this—I shall always love you,
more and more as the years go along.  Don't forget
that—nor this—that the greatest joy in my life will
be to be of some help to you some day, to save you
some suffering, to help you to some great happiness.
I am starting out to-night on my life work; the path
has come to me through suffering, the deepest
suffering and despair, but the road is very clear to me now.
I see my mission and my work!"  He stopped suddenly,
his eyes glowing with the radiance of his new
found happiness.  Then turning slowly back to the
little girl, he put his arms about her and lifted her
from the ground.

"You couldn't remember all that, dear little Natalia,
could you?" He smiled on her yearningly.  "But
you can remember that when I look down that beautiful
road of life I shall always see you standing at the
end—the embodiment of all its happiness."

Then he kissed her and carried her quickly toward
the gate, Dicey meeting them on the walk.

"Jedgment day! ef hit ain' time you wuz er comin'.
Keepin' yer ole mammy up all hours—waitin' fer yer
to tell de Perfesser gemman good-bye.  Come on heah,
honey-chile, and let's jog erlong home.  Good-bye,
Massa Sargent.  We sho' is gwine miss yer out ter
de big house.  Good night, Massa."

Sargent leaned on the gate, and listened until the
sound of the chaise had died away.  Then brushing
his hands across his eyes and squaring his shoulders
resolutely, he walked back to the house and into the
room in which the first move of his great political
career was being originated.





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.. _`AFTER SEVEN YEARS`:

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   BOOK III

.. class:: center large bold

   THE LOVER

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

   CHAPTER I

.. class:: center medium bold

   AFTER SEVEN YEARS

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It was the proudest moment in Captain Mentdrop's
long career.  He was bringing his new boat, the
*Southern Belle*, up the river from New Orleans on
her maiden trip.  The stories of this new boat had
preceded her, arousing the curiosity of the country
people until every one was enthusiastically impatient
to see for himself this boat with a cabin so wide that
eight horses could stand abreast in it; with wonderful
stalactites of white and gold that hung from the
ceiling, and swayed with the motion of the boat; and
real kerosene lamps all along the sides of the dining
saloon; and a water cooler at one end that was made
of solid silver and held twenty gallons of iced
water,—indeed, there had never been anything on the
Mississippi River to equal this floating palace.

The Captain had let no opportunity pass, by which
he could make this initial journey of his new boat
one of glory and importance.  He paced the deck night
and day, too excited to take a moment's rest.  With
his hands shoved deep into his pockets and a mammoth
Havana between his lips—the pipe had disappeared
with so much prosperity—he beamed down upon the
crowds gathered along the shore, always landing when
the number of sightseers justified the loss of time;
and welcomed them on board with a hospitality that
was made lavish by a corps of Creole cooks and a
brass band.

To add to the interest of the voyage there were
several brides and grooms who had chosen this trip
for the wedding journey, as was the fashion of that
day; and a party from Boston that had come down by
sea to New Orleans.

"Gee Whillikens!" laughed the Captain, when the
stage planks had been drawn up and a plantation
landing left behind.  "It does my old, dried-up heart good
to see all these folks so tickled over this boat.  It's
giving 'em more downright satisfaction than anything
they've seen or done for a mighty long time.  I tell
you I'm glad I had a chance to show 'em what was a
sho' enough boat—a boat what is a boat!  Now, sir,
you're from Boston, so I've been told, and I wants
you to tell me, honest injun now—did you ever see
anything like this boat of mine, up yonder?"  He
turned abruptly toward his companion, his twinkling
eyes searching the face before him.

"No, Captain, I must confess I never saw anything
like your boat in my part of the country; but then,
we only have ships and sea-going vessels, and even on
the Hudson the boats are not half as large as this."

Captain Mentdrop turned back, evidently relieved.
"I'm powerful glad to hear it from one who's been
up thar and knows.  Are you down in these parts for
long?"

"No, not very long.  In fact, Captain, to be
perfectly frank with you, I've come down here to be
married."

The old Captain turned and inspected his companion
more closely.  Leaning easily against the railing, one
arm thrust carelessly into an embroidered waistcoat,
a suit of dark green broadcloth ornamented with large
pearl buttons, and a bell crowned beaver, each detail
of his costume proclaiming him a man of fashion—the
stranger made a strikingly handsome picture.
Apart from his well-chosen clothes, his handsome
face—fair, with honest blue eyes and bright, blond
hair—impressed one with a certain freshness and
charm.  He was a man evidently used to the niceties
and refinements of life, one to whom difficulties and
hardships had never come.

"So you've come way down here to get you a bride,
have you?" the Captain commented, evidently satisfied
with his inspection.  "Something of a long trip, it
strikes me.  She must be a powerful exception to her
kind, to draw a young blood all over this much
travelling to get her."

The stranger laughed good-humouredly, his face
beaming with a boyishness that was winning.  "She
is an exception!" he answered, "and sufficiently
fascinating to make one travel any distance to win her;
but, in my case, I am not going to find her—she is
already with me.  She has been spending several years
with my family in Boston, and when we decided to be
married, she wanted to come down here to have the
wedding in the old home of her ancestors."

"And you come all this way—just to be married!"
the Captain commented with a shrug.  "But I reckon
when a feller gets way off yonder, he kinder has a
hankering after old places he used to know.  I reckon
that was the way with your gal—just had to come
back and see it once more!"

The stranger was silent a moment, viewing with
evident interest the stretch of wooded hills crowned
by a rambling town, which was becoming visible.

"Yes, I suppose you are right," he said, reflectively.
"It was the memories of her home and all the associations
of childhood which had become dear to her—now
that she knows how delightful they were.  But
after six or seven years it seems she would have
forgotten all about it—particularly as she was a little
girl when she left."

The Captain shook his head, knowingly.  "There
you're wrong, young man.  It takes a youngster to
remember things.  I'll wager, sir, she can tell you
every one of the changes that's taken place since she
left here.  And if you're going to Natchez, and I
believe you said you were,—well, sir, she'll find enough
changes there.  Whew! but it makes me feel kinder
like it's time for me to be turning in my checks
when I look around the old town and see the
difference."

With a shake of his rugged frame, he went nearer
the railing to better scan the shore.  Already they
could see the line of carriages and the brilliant colours
of the crowd assembled to meet the boat.  Some
smaller craft had left the town landing and gone
forward to salute the new boat, waving colours and
blowing their whistles with royal welcome.

"All of them seem to know you, Captain," the
stranger remarked, when the Captain had called
greetings to some men in a small boat.

"Yes, siree, they know me!  Well, they ought to.
I've been plying up and down here among 'em for
many a year, and I know pretty nearly every blamed
man between St. Louis and New 'leans; and every
house, too," he added, his eyes resting humourously
upon an old two story building very near the shore.
"Yes, sir, nearly every one of these places has
something to say to me about what's gone afore.  You see
that shanty?  Well, sir, that used to be the biggest
gambling den in the whole of this country.  The
fellows were run out of town and they built this place
just outside the limits, and once, when I was a-takin'
a crowd of gentlemen down here from St. Louis on
a round trip, we stopped off at the town for a day,
and will you believe me, sir, every blamed one of them
gentlemen went and got drunk and got mixed up wit
them gamblers, and when they come back to the boat
damned if they had a cent—not a one of 'em.  That
lot of scoundrels had just fleeced 'em.  Well, sir, I
just made up my mind that I wasn't goin' to put up
with such tom-foolery, even if them town folks was
bluffed out by the gang, and I set to work to think
how I could get back the money my passengers had
dropped.  So I lets my boat drift down from the
landing till I gets afore that very shanty there, sir; then
I stops her and hollers for somebody to come out and
talk to me—but they had no intention of comin' out
in broad daylight.  Finally I lets off a load of
buckshot against one of them windows, and that brought
one of the damn rascals to the door.  Says I, 'I want
the money you stole from my passengers, you dirty
scoundrel!'  Says he—'Why don't you come off
that dugout and get it?' and slams the door.  'Well,'
says I to myself, 'I reckon I'll show him a thing or
two!'  So I makes two niggers swim ashore with a
coil of rope and tells 'em to run clear round the house
with it and bring both ends back to the boat.  You
see that made a circle of the buildin', with me a-holdin'
both ends.  I gets the line fastened tight, and then
calls down to the engineer to back off easy-like—just
enough to make the rope taut.  Then I stops.  Says
I, callin' ashore—'I've got the deadwood on you
now.  Will you come to time?'  But they wasn't
a-thinkin' that way, so I backs off a little more, and
then the old shanty begins to creak.  Just a little more
and the whole damn house would a-tumbled over.  It
brought 'em to life, though!  The whole gang jumped
out of the windows and doors and everywhere, and
one of 'em called out that he'd give me the money
back if I'd hold up.  Well, sir," he nodded toward the
building, "you see she's still a-standin' there."

The stranger joined the Captain in his hearty,
infectious laughter.  "It's a great old country you have
down here," he commented a few minutes later.  "The
more I hear of it, the more I wonder how in the world
Sargent Everett ever made his way, in such surroundings."

Captain Mentdrop wheeled suddenly, his wrinkled
old features showing a new interest.

"D'you know Sargent Everett?"

"I should think I did!  We went to college together."

The old Captain extended his hand.  "Let's shake,"
he said.  "I think more of that youngster than anybody
else in the world.  If you're his friend, I'm yours."

"I'm very glad to hear it.  Do you know," the
stranger answered, meeting the Captain's look with a
keener interest, "I haven't seen him since we parted
at college.  I hardly think that I would know him
now—and particularly since he has grown so famous."

"Famous!  Well, I reckon!  Why, sir, you ought
to have been here a month ago when he come back
from a speech-makin' trip.  It would 'a' done your
heart good to see how the people turned out to give
him a welcome.  They had a torch-light procession
that night and fired a cannon, and had an all 'round
jollification!  I was sure proud for him.  It showed up
plainer that day how everybody felt about him.  That
was a grand speech he made at Jackson!  Did you hear
anything about it, up in your country?"

"No.  But I hope I'll have an opportunity to hear
him speak while I'm down here.  You have heard him
often, I suppose?"

"Not half as often as I'd like to," the old Captain
answered.  "I heard him make his first speech, and
'pon my word, it's a wonder—the way he gets under
your skin and makes you feel what he's a-sayin'.  It
ain't so much his words you hear when you're listening
to him—it's more the sound of his voice and the
look of his face.  He jest takes all a feller's idees away
from him and makes him think jest like he does.  But
I reckon you won't get a chance to hear him if you're
only here for a week or two."  The old fellow gave a
gesture of disappointment.  "He's running for
Congress now.  I'm kinder sorry, too, cause I ain't much
on politics—I can't look at things but one way
myself, and that's straight at 'em, and politicians seem
to me to spend all their time a-beatin' 'round the bush.
But I reckon Sargent'll show 'em a new way.  He
knows how—you can bet your bottom dollar on that!"

"I should like for Natalia to hear you talk about
him.  I believe I'll go find her," the young man said,
turning away with the decision.  "He used to be her
tutor when she lived down here."

"It ain't no use," the Captain raised a detaining
hand.  "It won't do her a bit of good to hear about
him.  He don't give a snap of his fingers about the
lady folks.  I heard some of 'em call him a
woman-hater—of course that ain't so," he added, laughing
easily to himself, "but jest because he don't spend
his time a-flyin' 'round with 'em, they're bound to
resent it."

"And he has never married," the other added.

"Married!  Well, I reckon not!  He lives all by
himself in a mighty fine house that he's built up there
on the hill, and if you want to be entertained in real
style, you must take a meal with him, for he's got the
finest cook in the town.  But as for women—"  Captain
Mentdrop lowered his voice confidentially and
drew closer to the stranger.  "You know it kinder
worries me, but I can't make it out.  Some say he's
jest timid, and absorbed in his work, and then we all
know he's mighty touchy about his bad leg, but for
the sakes of me, I don't see why he thinks limpin'
makes him objectionable to the ladies.  I heard one
gal say she thought it made him lots more picture-like,
and made her think of Lord Byron, and you know
he was a lady-killer, right!"

"And he is wealthy, too, I understand."

"Well, I reckon!  He made dead oodles of money
out of a lawsuit that him and Judge Houston had
together.  See that ridge south of the town?"  He
waved his hand in the direction.  "There was a whole
lot of property there, that was left to a number of
heirs, and it seems the whole crowd could never be
got together to sign the deeds, so half of 'em signed
for the other half and sold the property, and when the
other half turned up you can see what the mix-up was.
Well, sir, Sargent and old man Houston took the
case for the heirs that hadn't signed, with the
arrangement that they was to get half.  And they did.  That
put the youngster way up in the pictures.  He had
money to burn, but I never seen him do any of them
blamed tricks you hear tell about down here.  He
never lit a cigar with a ten dollar bill like I've seen
some dern fools do.  He's got too much sense.  Do
you know, I believe he's got more learnin' crammed
in his head than any other man I ever seen."

"He was that way at Bowdoin College.  The rest
of his class did not have a chance."

"And I'm mightily afeard it's goin' to be the death
of him yet.  He over-does things.  And after every
big case, you can hear tell about the crazy things he
does.  Of course I know how 'tis, for he once told
me that when he got through a case and making a big
speech, he couldn't rest one minute—that everything
was flyin' round in his head like fire, and it takes him
a day or two to get quieted down again.  It went
mighty hard with him at first, he took things so
serious-like, and I just found out one day that the thing
he needed worst in the world, was to take every blamed
situation in life with a pinch of humour.  Well, sir,"
the old fellow slapped his sides and let out a gust of
laughter, "I soon found out he had it in him and
didn't know it.  Since then he's been makin' people
laugh till the tears roll down their cheeks; and then,
by Jingo, before he's through they're cryin' sure
enough.  I thought I'd split my sides the other night,
when a feller was tellin' about his experience with
him in a country tavern, away off in the backwoods."

The Captain spread his legs apart and rammed his
hands deep into his pockets.  When a fresh Havana
was between his lips he was completely at his ease.
"Seems like Sargent had a big case down there,
wherever it was," he continued, "and after it was all
over, he had to spend the night in a room with another
feller—the tavern was so crowded.  Well, sir, in the
middle of the night, it seems that his bed-feller was
mightily put out by a gallaniper peckin' at him.  He
raised such a racket about it that Sargent told him to
shut up and let him go to sleep—that the thing
wouldn't bite him if it wan't for his good.  Mighty
poor comfort to the other feller, I says.  Anyhow the
feller got up and caught it, and showed it to Sargent.
Then, bless you, both of 'em got up and argued
whether it was good or bad for gallanipers to be in
the world.  Nothin' would suit Sargent but that they
settle the question by law.  So they went all over the
tavern at three o'clock in the mornin', mind you, and
waked up everybody until they got twelve men to
come to their room, and sit like a jury while they
argued the case.  It must 'a' been rich!"  The old
fellow stopped, overcome by laughter, while the tears
rolled down his cheeks.  "Can't you see 'em?  Twelve
sleepy men, all sittin' in a row in their night-shirts,
while two lunatic lawyers went into vigorous harangues.
It must 'a' been side-splittin'.  They say
Sargent placed a table before the jury, put the
gallaniper under a tumbler on the table, and made
everybody take a look at it.  Then his companion began
the prosecution, while he spoke in defence.  They tell
me that by that time the whole tavern had adjourned
to that room, and they kept up the argument till broad
daylight."

"So Sargent has developed a talent for humour?"
laughed the newcomer.

"Humour—well, I reckon!  He's got a-plenty of
it.  In fact, and this is strictly between you and
me—it's his humour that makes him so popular.  That's
what brings him close to the people; and if he didn't
have it, he'd be too far away and above all the rest
of us common, ordinary folks."  The old fellow's face
softened suddenly.  "Sometimes when I've talked to
him a while," he continued in a quiet voice, "I go back
to my boat and stay out on her all by myself at night,
wondering if just knowing him hasn't done me a
powerful lot o' good."  The Captain's eyes grew almost
wistful, even the steely twinkle growing gentle and
kindly.  "Jest to show you," he went on, "I told him
I was goin' to leave him every cent I had, and d'you
know, he said not to do that—that he had enough,
and there was a world of people that needed it.  So,
together, we've fixed it to go to an orphan asylum in
New 'leans.  That's the first man it's been my luck
to meet that ever refused to take a red cent.  Whoa! there."

In a second the whole aspect of the Captain changed,
as he strode forward to the front of the deck and called
out directions for the landing of the boat.

In the interest of his discussion the boat had gone
many feet beyond the landing, and in the chagrin of
his preoccupation, the old fellow made the air about
him resound with a splendid outburst of oaths.

"It jest goes to prove," he said to himself, when
the ropes had been swung over the piles and the boat
was settling easily against the wharf.  "It jest goes
to prove that I'm gettin' old and played out—standin'
up here a-talkin' about a blamed lawyer, and lettin'
my boat slide clean past the landin'.  Shucks!"





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.. _`THE VOICE OF THE PAST`:

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   CHAPTER II


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   THE VOICE OF THE PAST

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Judge Houston was in the crowd that day that
lined the wharf, impatient to board the new boat.
No one was in more gala attire than he, with a fresh
ribbon on his queue, wearing a suit of fine blue linen,
so stiffly starched that the tails of his long coat stood
far out on each side of him, and in his lapel, to give
a finishing touch to his Colonial appearance, Mrs. Houston
had placed, with characteristic precision, a
pink japonica.

It was a great day to both of them, and often, as
the boat drew nearer, the old gentleman would smile
sweetly toward his wife, who was waiting by his side.
Seven years had passed over them lightly, the touches
of age showing more like caresses than cares; leaving
snow-white hair instead of flecked grey; touching
their features with many fine lines, so full of
character and accomplishment, that, as they came, one
wondered over all they meant.  Only, perhaps, in the stoop
of the shoulders, in the sometimes trembling hand,
and the heavy stick upon which he always rested, did
the old gentleman's friends see the encroachments of
age.  It was only in that, however, for his eyes were
as clear and blue as they had always been, shedding
about him even more sympathy and benignity.  His
wife, the one who had stood beside him from the first
days of their pioneer voyage, had grown along with
him into the realm of approaching shadows, not
lagging behind nor rushing before, but beside him hand
in hand as they had always been.

A little distance from the wharf, seated in a
high-swung chariot of modish trappings, sat Lemuel
Jervais and his wife.

Mrs. Jervais watched the approaching boat with
mingled pride and apprehension.  Her thoughts were
travelling backward over the years that had passed
since she had sent the little girl so far away.  They
had never loved each other; Mrs. Jervais seeing in
Natalia too many of the characteristics of her
husband's first wife, to be drawn to the child, and Natalia
realizing this and shrinking from it.  "But she had
done her duty," Mrs. Jervais sighed contentedly as she
viewed the approaching boat.  "She had seen that the
plantations brought Natalia an income that left no
wish unsatisfied.  But now," she mused, "Natalia
was no longer a child, she was coming back a woman,
and a woman who seemed to have suddenly become
imbued with the memories of her childhood and a
desire to visit her old home again."

For several years Natalia's letters had dwindled,
until recently they had become merely notes of thanks
in reference to the management of the estate and a
few lines about her plans.  Then, quite without
warning, a letter had come to Mrs. Jervais from her, in
which she had told of her approaching marriage, and
of her wish to return to her home for that occasion.
"Probably you will think it strange," the letter read,
"when I tell you I want to be married in my old home.
It does seem a long journey to make for such a short
visit, especially as Morgan and I shall make Boston
our home; but in thinking about the dear, old place
that has come down to me from my Spanish ancestors,
the idea has taken possession of me that I would like
my marriage to be solemnized amid those surroundings.
Uncle Felix would call it quixotic in me, I know,
and at the same time, understand; I feel sure that you
appreciate my sentiment in regard to the old place, too,
and that will explain better than words what I am
going to ask of you.

"I want you to help me in arranging the wedding.
You wrote that the house had been closed ever since
your marriage to Mr. Jervais, so do not go to much
trouble in fixing it up.  Left to my own wishes, the
wedding would be simple, but Morgan insists that it
be elaborate, as it will be my only wedding—he hopes.
Perhaps it is only right that I should ask all our old
friends, indeed, I want them about me at that time.
It is a time in a girl's life when such things count most,
and I feel that it will start me out on my new life
happier for carrying away as many dear memories as
possible; so ask every one we used to know.

"Of course I need not mention that I want you and
Mr. Jervais to be the hosts for me, and stay at the
old home until the wedding—after that I shall not
keep you, for it is my idea to spend our honeymoon
there, Morgan and I alone in the sweet old place.  I
am writing Aunt Maria also, and I know she will be
glad to help you all she can.  Be sure to insist upon
her making the wedding cake—one of those wonderful,
tall affairs which I remember so well.  In reading
over what I have written, I can not help wondering
if I have asked too much of you; but then, you must
remember, there is no one else except the boys, and
they are much too interested in college even to go
down there with me.  I could go on indefinitely with
plans—but I shall wait until we meet, to tell you
everything."

The letter had caused no end of consternation in
the town.  Mrs. Jervais had driven, the day it came,
to Mrs. Houston, finding the old lady holding a
similar letter in her lap and weeping copiously over the
news it contained.  Together they had driven out to
the old house and opened it once more to the golden
warmth of the June sun.  A corps of slaves was
brought from the cotton fields, back to their former
quarters, and in so short a time it seemed like magic,
the old home of the Spaniards shone resplendent again.
The garden was put in trim shape and the broad drive
to the gate was cleared of the weeds that had so long
grown in neglected luxuriance.

Invitations were sent out broadcast, and for many
days garrets were being ransacked, and old brocades
and laces that had lain idle for a generation or more
were again brought to life to do duty for such a grand
occasion.  It was an exceptional time for the gossips
and when the report spread over the town that all the
refreshments were coming from a distance, and that
it was actually a fact that the fiddlers were to be
brought up from New Orleans, the whole place thrilled
with expectancy.

At last the day of the arrival came.  As the boat
eased itself against the wharf and the great ropes were
thrown ashore and made fast, Judge Houston stepped
forward and shaded his eyes with his hand.  At last
his face lighted up with a smile as he saw the face
of the little girl peering out of the crowd of passengers.
She was just as he had remembered her—yet
strangely different, too.  There were the same
beautiful grey eyes, grown darker with the years, still full
of a sympathy that had deepened through the wide
outlook of travel and experience; there was still the
delicate oval of the face; the rich, creamy complexion,
as smooth and flawless as in childhood; the hair, if
possible, blacker, and worn parted and brought back
over the ears and coiled low on the neck.  The sprite-like
look of the child still clung to her, for even in
the voluminous folds of her fashionable frock, her
figure showed fragile and lithe and gracefully poised;
and as she walked down the stage plank, her face bent
forward intently searching for a familiar face, the old
man knew that the little girl had come back dearer
to them than ever before.

Natalia rushed into his arms, when she had seen
him, her eyes searching his face and lingering on every
feature as the memories crowded about her thick and
overflowing.  Neither of them had said a word.

"Natalia!  Natalia!" the old gentleman finally
spoke, holding her a little way from him.  "I believe
you are the same little girl.  Changed?  Not one bit!"

"Yes, Uncle Felix," Natalia answered, smiling
through tear-dimmed eyes, "the same little girl—but
changed—a great deal.  Oh!" and she broke
away to embrace Mrs. Houston.  "And Morgan,
where are you?  This is Uncle Felix and Aunt Maria;
and this is Millicent Talbot, Aunt Maria—and
Morgan's brother, Joel.  Aren't we a large family party?
And where are the Jervais?  Oh, I see them coming."

Mrs. Jervais came forward with outstretched arms.
Evidently the past was bringing her and Natalia closer
than they had ever expected.  Then came Lemuel
Jervais a portly man of forty, handsome and more
affably haughty than ever.

"And there's the old carriage!  How good of you
to bring it out!" Natalia cried, with a grateful glance
at Mrs. Jervais.  "And bless my heart—if it isn't
old Zebby on the box!  Zebby!  Zebby!" she called
aloud, pushing her way through the crowd and
running towards the carriage.  "Zebby!  Zebby!  Isn't
it wonderful?  Hasn't it been a long time?"  She
clasped both his hands as the old negro almost fell
from the box to reach her.  "And Mammy Dicey,
Zebby where is she?  Why didn't she come to meet
me?  The mean old thing!  I wouldn't treat *her* this way."

Zebediah's face fell at the mention of Dicey's name,
and he made a great fuss at opening the carriage door.

There were three carriages to carry them, and
Mrs. Jervais insisted that Natalia should ride in her new
smart one, but Natalia had already urged Judge
Houston and his wife and Morgan into the old one
Zebediah commanded, into which she quickly followed.

"Now, Zebby," she cried breathlessly, sinking back
into the seat.  "Drive very, very slowly, and let me
see everything."

So they started up the hill, the other carriages
following and a procession of wagons which were to
bring the trunks and all the wonderful wedding
delicacies that had come on the same boat.

Natalia was exclaiming, laughing, and often tears
were standing in her eyes, as they drove along.  Pointing
out familiar old buildings to Talbot and asking
Mrs. Houston and the Judge a thousand questions,
they passed through the town where many curious
glances were cast towards the bride.

Not until the town was left behind and the river
was showing now and then through the rifts in the
trees, did Natalia grow calmer.  Where the road to
the house met the highway, she suddenly called to
Zebediah to stop.

"I want to get out and walk to the house, Aunt
Maria," she explained.  "It will come back to me
gradually then; I don't want to hurry or miss
anything.  Come with me, Morgan?"  Talbot helped her
out and in a few moments they stood alone in the road,
the other carriages having passed on.  "I love this
place very, very dearly, Morgan," Natalia said,
slipping her hand through his arm and walking slowly.
"It is where my father and mother were very happy.
It is where I was the most unhappy—and the happiest
of little girls, and now—it is where my perfect
happiness will come to me.  I have felt all through my
life that this old place would mean everything to me,
one day—that all that was worth while would happen
to me here.  And it will," she ended, smiling up
at him, "for we are to spend our honeymoon here."

Morgan Talbot looked before him intently, curious
to see what manner of place it was that held his
sweetheart's love so deeply.  And as he looked through the
dense shade of the trees to the wide open gate and
beyond to the gleaming columns, he felt the charm of
the old world surroundings creep over him.  Turning
finally towards Natalia and meeting her look, anxious
for his approval, he saw with a sudden flash of insight,
that the girl before him—intense, passionate, and
oddly beautiful—was the culmination of the old
house and all that had gone before.

"It is beautiful, Natalia," he said softly, drawing
her closer to him.  "It is more than you told me."

"And you will love it with me, Morgan?"

"I shall love it because it is a part of you."

They were directly before the iron gate now.
Everything was very still in the glowing warmth of
the sunshine.  Natalia leaned against the gate, and
drank in the view like a thirsty traveller.  It spoke
eloquently of the coming in and going out of the many
who had gone before her, and of her own days, too;
and as she gazed at it, little incidents of her
childhood—long forgotten but safely stored away, came
forward and made their bows and claimed her attention.
The scene suddenly became peopled to her.  Everything
was significant.  The depths of the magnolia
grove were filled with mysterious ghosts of the past,
and the red tiles of the roof, gleaming just above the
dark line of the trees, called to her with the cry of
familiar voices.  The present slipped entirely from
her under the rush of the pent-up memories crowding
about on all sides.

"Shall we walk on now?"

The voice of her lover startled her.  She looked
up at him and smiled vaguely.

"Isn't it beautiful, Morgan?  I wish you could
see it as I do.  Everything means so much to me that
it can never mean for you.  It makes me sad, dear,
that you did not know it with me."

Talbot laughed down into her intense eyes.  "It
is happiness enough for me to know you now—why
bother about what has gone before?"

Natalia did not answer for a moment.  "Perhaps
you do not understand, Morgan, or perhaps the old
characteristics of my childhood are coming back to
me.  Do you know, they used to call me 'peculiar'?
I wasn't like other children."

"I know—you were so much more beautiful."

"That reminds me," Natalia laughed, with a
sudden change of mood, "of how dreadfully afraid I was
that I would not be good-looking when I grew up.
There was only one person who really comforted me
about it, and he always insisted that my claim to a
goodly appearance would not disappear with age."

"That was a man who knew the standards of
beauty.  I should like to meet him.  What was his name?"

"You will laugh when I tell you.  It was Sargent
Everett."

"Dear old Sargent!" Talbot exclaimed, his face
lighting up with pleasure.  "I wonder if he got my
letter.  The Captain on the boat is a great friend of
Sargent's.  He told me a great deal about him, but
he said he was not here now.  Wouldn't it be
unfortunate if he were not at our wedding? Did you ask
any one if he would be here?"

"No—I didn't ask," Natalia answered slowly.
"It's very odd—I haven't thought of him for a
long time; not since you said you were going to
write him about our wedding.  Did you receive an
answer?"

"No—I did not have time.  I didn't expect one
until I saw him here."

"I wonder if he has forgotten me," Natalia
murmured, sinking on the bench near the gate, and
motioning Talbot to the seat beside her.  "Let's sit down
here for a while.  You don't mind my dreaming aloud
to you, do you?"

His arm slipped about her until her head rested
against his shoulder, and her eyes closed for a moment
as if she had suddenly grown weary.

"No, indeed, dear, dream all you want, and tell
me about your old school days with Sargent.  Aren't
you proud that your tutor has become so celebrated?"

"I knew he would be, some day, for even when I
knew him he was a wonderful speaker.  I never heard
him make but one speech—it was beautiful and
awful—all in one.  I cried for weeks afterwards
whenever I thought of it.  And now, Morgan, I am going
to make you terribly jealous.  I'm going to tell you
something that will surprise you very much."

She looked up at him, her eyes narrowing with the
quaint habit of childhood.

"You are not my first love."

She straightened up and faced him, finally breaking
into her soft, merry laugh.  "I was desperately in
love with Sargent Everett once."

"Seven years ago," Talbot answered lightly.  "I
can hear about it calmly—*now*."

"But it was very serious," Natalia insisted.  "I
really was in earnest, and after he left our house and
fought a duel, he became a real hero to me.  It was
terrible when we had to part.  I just made up my mind
to die.  But you see—I didn't," sighing happily.
"And the night before I went away I made my old
Mammy take me to him so I could say good-bye.  I
made him swear not to forget me, for I was coming
back a beautiful woman some day and would expect
him to marry me.  You can imagine how terribly
smitten I was!"

"And at twelve!  Did he promise?"

"Indeed he did, and said I could not come back
more beautiful than I was at that moment.  Then I
kissed him, Morgan, and he said I must send for him,
even if it were to the ends of the earth, if I ever needed
him.  So we plighted our troth and parted.  It was all
just like a fairy book, and it seems hundreds of years
ago.  We used to walk right along here together.
You see his mother was a long way off, up in Maine,
and mine was gone for ever, and that drew us very
close together.  Seriously, Morgan, I loved him very
dearly.  The day I went away I sent him a miniature
of myself, all in a locket with a chain, and told Mammy
to tell him to keep it before him always.  It was only
when I became so occupied in school, and growing
up, that I finally forgot all about him.  Then, since
I've known you, the past seems to have counted for
very little with me—until to-day."  Her words ended
softly, and for a moment silence fell between them.

"I believe I shall get jealous if you go on talking
much more about old Sargent."  Talbot leaned over
and looked into her face, smiling.  "Really, did you
think that you loved Sargent?  I can't get used to the
idea," he laughed.  "And to think of Sargent Everett
being in love with anybody!  He was always too deep
in books when I knew him.  It would be very easy
to realize that people would love him—all of us did
at school.  But somehow, I always felt that people did
not mean much to him."

At his words, Natalia drew herself away in mock
hauteur.  "Am I to infer, sir, that you understand
why I should have loved him, but not how he could
have loved me?"

Morgan drew her hands into his, laughing all the
time.  "Yes, Natalia, I'll wager if it came to a point,
that you were very much more in love with him than
he was with you."

"Perhaps you are right, Morgan," Natalia answered
his laugh happily.  "But I did love him—I
assure you."

"And it makes me wonder all the more that you
fell in love with me after loving Sargent.  We are not
a bit alike.  But then I suppose you are variable—indeed
I know you are.  But it's to be hoped that you
will not be any more.  It's a wonderful thing—how
people do change their loves, isn't it?"

Natalia's eyes narrowed for a moment as she looked
beyond the gate.

"Don't try to analyze love," she replied.  "I tried
once and it did no good.  I always came back to the
point that I loved you and nothing else mattered.  How
did I fall in love with you?"  She repeated the words
after him, taking hold of his hand and counting his
fingers as she narrated her reasons.  "Well—first,
it must have been your frank admiration that touched
me—I am always very sensitive to admiration.
Then, you look upon life with so bright an eye, so
smilingly, that it makes me feel safe and contented
to know that my own too sensitive nature will bloom
under your brightness.  It's the contrast, Morgan,
that's it.  You give me what I have not.  You meet
a demand of my nature.  It is that which makes the
perfect love."

Talbot looked at her a moment, his face grown
serious and almost sad.  "It is not my own happiness
that I ever think of—there is only one thing that
could ruin that for me—losing you," he said,
Natalia's hand still clasped in his own.  "But when I
think of the great difference between us, I wonder if
it is possible for me to make you happy.  I love gaiety
and the world, and people, and deep down in your
heart, I don't believe you do.  And I can't help
thinking that you do many things for my sake, isn't it so?"

Natalia shook her head slowly, and smiled.  "No,
I'm not doing a thing for you, Morgan, that doesn't
give me pleasure.  Don't try to find flaws in our love,
or search for some hidden reason for unhappiness.
It's too perfect as it is, and I love you better, Morgan
dear, when you are not attempting an analytical state
of mind."  She laughed at him gayly.  "You're the
old-fashioned lover who brings nosegays to his lady-love,
and writes her billet-doux, and is always telling
her how beautiful she is—that is why I love you
so, Morgan.  That has always been my ideal of a
lover since I was a little girl.  Be that way always,
please.  Now shall we walk on towards the house?
Oh, look, the magnolias have put on their wedding
garments to do us honour.  They are in full bloom!"

They passed through the gate and into the shadow
of the grove where the trees were filled with gorgeous
white velvety blossoms, and where in the dream
shadows they lingered awhile.

They came finally upon the others grouped in the
shade of the deep veranda, where Lemuel Jervais was
playing the part of host by mixing them his famous
sangaree, and Mrs. Houston was insisting that every
one should have at least three slices of her equally
famous jelly cake.

Morgan and Natalia looked at them from the protection
of a column until Millicent Talbot spied them.
"Well—you'd better hurry or you'll miss the party,"
she called to them.  "We thought you were lost.  I
was sure Natalia had forgotten the way."

"No, I was only dreaming aloud to Morgan, over
the old days.  He was very kind and listened, for all
the world as if he were not bored.  I'll not do it often,
though, for fear it might get monotonous.  You don't
know how beautiful everything looks," Natalia
continued, putting her arm about Mrs. Jervais' waist.
"How good of you to do it all for me."  Suddenly
she stopped and looked about the group, then made
a step towards the open hall door.  "Do you know,"
she said, with a catch in her voice, that showed her
fear, "I have let all this time go by, and haven't
seen Mammy Dicey yet.  Poor old soul—is she very
feeble?  Where *is* she?  I know she is anxiously
waiting for me."

For a few minutes silence fell upon every one, while
Natalia searched each face for an answer.  At last
when her eyes began to fill with tears over the
certainty that she was never to see her old nurse again,
Mrs. Houston rose, and casting a swift glance at
Mrs. Jervais, led Natalia a little way from the others.
When they had reached the front door, quite beyond
hearing of the others, Natalia stopped and faced
Mrs. Houston.

"Is she dead?" she exclaimed in a low voice.  "I
shall never forgive myself for not writing to her more.
Poor old Mammy!"

"No, she is not dead," Mrs. Houston answered,
hesitating a moment over the information, "but she
is not here any more."

Natalia's brows wrinkled in bewilderment.  "Not
here!  But she belonged to me!  Surely she is not
hired to any one?"

"You are mistaken, Natalia.  She did not belong
to you, as we all thought.  She was included in the
property your father left his wife.  Felix looked up
the matter and found it that way.  When you were
sent away—"

"Yes?" Natalia asked, breathlessly.

"Mrs. Jervais sold her.  You know she never liked
her, and as soon as the opportunity was propitious I
suppose she thought it would be better for them to
separate.  Of course she never had an idea you would
care one way or the other."

Natalia lifted her head suddenly, while the colour
mounted to her cheeks; her eyes flashed and her lips
trembled in quick anger.  "She did belong to me!
I know it!  My father told me so when he was dying.
It was a trick she played to get Mammy away from me."

Mrs. Houston stared into the passionate face before
her, startled as the resemblance to the little girl
of earlier days became so vivid.  If Natalia had only
stamped her foot, as of old, the likeness would have
been identical.

"My dear child," the old lady expostulated in a
lowered voice.  "Please don't take it that way.  I'm
sure you misjudge her.  Even if it is true, don't say
anything now,—not until after the wedding.  She
has really done a great deal for you."

Natalia leaned forward and kissed the old lady.
"Of course I'll behave, dear Aunt Maria," her voice
controlled, but tears still in her eyes.  "But I loved
Mammy so.  To have anything happen to her, or for
her to suffer hurts me like it would myself."  Then
eagerly, "But I can buy her back.  Do you know who
owns her?"

Mrs. Houston looked away, smiling vaguely.
"Some one who has found her too valuable to part
with, I'm thinking."

"Who?" Natalia murmured, her eagerness disappearing
in her greater disappointment.

The keen old lady watched the vivid face before
her, searching it with a sudden earnestness when she
answered, "Sargent Everett owns her now."





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.. _`MAMMY DICEY'S STORY`:

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   CHAPTER III


.. class:: center medium bold

   MAMMY DICEY'S STORY

.. vspace:: 2

Natalia stood on the front veranda after dinner,
leaving the others gathered about the table, the men
sipping their Madeira, and discussing the admission
of the Lone Star State to the Union, and the
wonderful new invention of the magnetic telegraph; while
the ladies pulled their rocking chairs close together
and went into the minutest details of the wedding.

Morgan had risen with Natalia, following her out
of the room, but she had sent him back, pleading as
an excuse that she wished to be alone to live over once
more in memory the incidents of her childhood.  So
many things had lain dormant through the years
almost forgotten in the rush and interest of the life about
her, that she felt dazed into a mood of introspection
when she found herself once more in the surroundings
of the long ago.

She sighed aloud when Morgan had gone back into
the house, and leaning against one of the massive
columns of the porch, felt a sensation of relief stealing
over her at finding herself alone.  In the flood of
re-awakened memories there had come to her a
feeling that Morgan was not a part of them, could never
be, and with this realization she knew that in some
way the bond of sympathy between them had, for
the moment, widened.  He could never feel with her
all the place represented; even with years and years
in the narration of little incidents, he would still not
see it as she did, know what it meant to her, nor find
in each surrounding the stories that cried aloud to
her.  It was the moment in her love when she realized
for the first time that two people can never be *wholly*
one—that a vast gulf of early years and childhood
and dreams would always separate them, no matter
how great became the love of their maturer years.

So sensitive was she to his moods and preferences,
that she had understood as they lingered before the
gate and looked into the grove of magnolias, that the
charm of the spot and the happiness of a honeymoon
spent in it would be hers so much more fully than his.
For a little while this realization had brought her
unhappiness, and a wish to be alone; after her dreams
she knew that she would go back to her lover more
contented than ever before.

She strolled away from the house, and passing on
into the cool shadows of the grove, came at last to the
brow of the hill.  Here she sat down and leaned
against a tree, letting herself drift back across the
bridge of years.

In a moment of restlessness she let down her hair
and unconsciously began braiding it in the two long
plaits of her childhood.  Suddenly she found herself
laughing with the care-free merriment of a little girl.
It was the same old world, after all; seven years had
made no difference, everything was exactly as she had
left it.

Resting her hands back of her head, her fingers
touching the cool bark of the tree with a luxurious
sensation, she gazed out through half closed lashes
upon the broad, golden river and the misty lowlands
beyond, floating in the haze of the languid June day.

Everything now was as yesterday.  She was feeling
it all over again, going over every little incident.  The
little log school-house recalled so vividly a dreadful
example in fractions, and as she worried over it again,
she found herself listening for the low, beautiful voice
making it plain to her.  On and on she drifted until
she felt once more the presence of the schoolmaster
and her old adoration of him.

Suddenly in the swirling of her memories she halted.
That love of the little girl made her open her eyes
wide.  It had been ideal, beautiful, innocent.  Would
there be anything in her life like it again?  Was that
which had taken its place, equal?  Could anything
take its place?  Again the utter devotion of it came
back to her; the beginning of it in her self-anger for
wounding him the day she had called him the cripple.
Ah! now she could understand how she had hurt
him!  Their first long talk together where she sat
now; his kind, deep, hazel eyes, changing Protean-like,
as he listened to her while she recounted stories
Dicey had told her of her mother; his patience and
kindness through the long school hours; the night
she waited for his return, and the fear that Phelps
had waylaid him; that first case when his voice had
thundered in her ears and made her shudder; and
at last,—the pain of parting with him!

She sat up quickly and stared about her.  Why had
she forgotten all this?  Why had it not been in her
thoughts for so many years?  And he—had he
forgotten also?  Gradually she rose to her feet with the
childish impulse of seeking Dicey, who would answer
so satisfactorily all her questions.  Then came the
clashing of reality against dreams, and unconsciously
the tears rushed into her eyes for what had gone
from her for ever.

But the old yearning for her nurse remained, and
with a sudden determination, she walked quickly
through the grove, skirting the house and garden so
as not to be interrupted, and made her way to the
slaves' quarters.

The door of Dicey's room stood open.  On the
steps before it sat two negro women shelling beans
into large pans.  Natalia passed on quickly, a sharp
pain in her heart for the empty room which used to
be so crowded with happy moments.

When she came to the barn she smiled again, for
there was old Zebediah, washing the carriage that
had brought them from the boat, as familiar and
complacent as if there were no such thing as seven
years to pass by.

"Why didn't you tell me, Zebby?" she exclaimed,
without explanation.  "Why didn't you tell me at
the boat?"

The old negro lifted his head in dismay.

"Wha' yer talkin' 'bout, lil Miss?"

"About Mammy, Zebby.  They tell me she belongs
to Mr. Everett now."

"Yas'm, she sho' do.  I done seen her day befo'
yistiddy."

"Did she know I was coming?"

"Not tell I done tole her."

"What did she say, Zebby?"

Zebediah's hand went up to his head, scratching
thoughtfully.

"She didn said nuthin', lil Miss.  She jest th'od
her apron ober her face and went ter moanin'."

Natalia's lips suddenly trembled.

"Take me there, Zebby—now!  I want to see her.
I can't wait.  Saddle the horse and go with me."

But Zebediah did not respond to her enthusiasm.
He stood staring at her as if he had not comprehended
her words.

"Yer cyant go ter dat house, lil Miss.  Dar ain'
nobody libs dar 'ceptin' Marse Everett.  Dar ain'
no lady fo'ks in de house."

"I don't care, Zebby," Natalia laughed.  "I'm not
going to see him.  I'm going to see Mammy Dicey.
I'll be back in a minute, so hurry and get the horses
ready."

She ran up the steps on the back porch, and to her
room, scattering the mass of clothes which had just
been unpacked, until she found the riding habit she
was looking for.  Very quietly, without meeting any
one, she went back to the barn where Zebediah stood
holding the horses, and showing his row of fine white
teeth in a smile of admiration and pleasure.

"Yer ain't er bit lak grown up fo'ks, lil Miss.  Yer
jest de lil gal dat went 'way frum heah long time ergo."

"I'm just the same little girl, Zebby," Natalia
smiled back at him, putting her foot into his broad
palm, "until you help me to mount—and then," as
she settled herself in the saddle, "you'll find I've
gained a pound or two."

The afternoon had advanced until the rays of
sun were slanting through the trees, and as they rode
along the old road, Natalia gave the horse the reins,
while she drank in the beauty of the woods and open
fields, and looked for landmarks that brought back
with them incidents and stories.  Once, she stopped
before the place where the Puckett house formerly
stood—now only a crumbling chimney remaining,
surrounded by a grove of China trees: and again,
along the brow of a hill, where there was another
view of the river as it swept into a broad bend and
disappeared in the fertile delta.  Finally the town
lay before them in its setting of beautiful trees.

"I don't know where he lives, Zebby," Natalia
said, drawing in the reins, and looking back to
Zebediah.  "You see, I am a stranger, after all."

"Dar's de house," Zebediah answered, pointing
towards a dwelling which stood close to the road,
in the suburbs of the town.

"That house!" Natalia exclaimed.  "I passed it
this morning, and Mammy did not even wave to me."

"I seen her, dough.  She wuz down on de landin'
an' lookin' at yer.  I knowed she be fer seein' yer
somehow."

"Why didn't you tell me, Zebby?"

The old negro again went silent.

"I tell yer, lil Miss,—Dicey she so perculiar.  I
dunno ef she wants me ter tell yer or not; den agin
I never knows if yer wuz feelin' like Ole Miss did
or no.  I jest keep mah mouf shet for dem reasons."

"Shame on you, Zebby!  Do you think that I
would ever forget any one who was as good to me
as you and Mammy were?  Now, hold my horse.  I
want to go in by myself."

Natalia paused before the gate, and stood a
moment irresolutely before entering.  The thought that
she might be doing something a little rash, never came
to her until that moment; then in her great desire
to see her old nurse, all considerations left her, and
she went up the walk and rang the bell.  The
reverberation echoed down the hall as she waited, and it
was not until she had rung several times that she
heard some one coming.  Then the door opened, and
Dicey stood facing her.

Zebediah, watching intently from the road, saw
Natalia suddenly enveloped in the old negro woman's
arms, and drawn into the house and the door closed
after them.

Dicey had not uttered a sound when she found
Natalia at the door; only her arms opened and she
pressed the girl to her bosom, their tears mingling
as the old slave covered her face and hands with
kisses.

"Honey-chile, honey-chile, honey-chile!"

Natalia's head rested on the old familiar bosom,
with the comforting feeling of dependence and trust
which she had not known since she had last nestled
there.  When she looked up again she found herself
sitting on the stair steps, her head leaning against
Dicey's knee and the well known voice ringing in
her ears.

"Yer hasn't fergotten me, has yer, honey-chile?
I knowed yer hadn't."

Natalia's eyes answered for her eloquently.

"Your hair has turned white, Mammy," she said,
when she had dried her tears; "and you are
so—so fat, Mammy—and Mammy, you don't belong to
me any longer," the last with a look of reproach.

"She didn' want me no longer when yer went
away," Dicey answered, her dark eyes glistening
suddenly with an expression of malignant anger.
Natalia saw the wrinkling of the brows that she had
dreaded when a child, for it never came except when
Dicey's deep anger was kindled; and even now she
felt a reflection of her childish dread at the familiar
signal.

"She put me up fer sale lak as ef I wuz any udder
nigger!  She put me up in de slabe-market fer
anybody—fer anybody to buy!  Dar wuz'n no use fer
her doin' me dat way.  She could ha' sold me at home.
But she wouldn'.  She hated me—she wanted ter
make me out cheap—dat wuz it.  She didn' want
me and she didn' ker who it wuz got me!"

Natalia put her hand gently over the old woman's lips.

"Sh-h!  Don't say that about her, Mammy.  It
could not have been that bad."

"But it wuz, I tell yer!  Now I kin hate her 'cause
I don' berlong ter her no longer.  No good'll cum
ter her!"

The words rang out in the deserted hall forebodingly.
A ray of sunlight penetrated the coloured fan
light above the door, dwelling for a moment with a
strange significance, illumining the old negro's
snow-white hair, her heavily lined features, her reddish
brown skin and weird eyes.

"I did not know all this, Mammy," Natalia answered
in a low voice.  "I did not know.  If I had
it would have been different."

"Cose yer didn' know—yer done jes' fergit all
'bout Dicey—nebber think 'bout things down heah
a bit, did yer, honey?  I knowed dat wuz hit—hit
wuz nateral enough.  Yer wuzn't nuthin' but er lil
gal when yer lef me."

"But you never sent me a letter, Mammy.  You
never got any one to answer mine for you."

Again the old woman's features contracted.

"She nebber gib me no letters frum yer.  I nebber
knowed whar yer wuz."

"You never got my letters?"

Dicey shook her head violently.  Natalia looked
at her a long time during the silence that followed,
still holding her hand tight in her own.

"And to think that Sargent Everett should have
bought you, Mammy," she said finally.  "If it had
to be—I'm glad he was the one."

"De Lawd'll sho' bless him fer hit," the old slave
answered.  "Ef hit hadn' been fer him I'd 'a' kilt
mase'f.  Hit would 'a' been easy enough."

Natalia pressed the long-coarsened fingers as they
clung to hers.

"Tell me about it, Mammy; tell me everything.
Let's make up for those long years of separation.
How long was it after I left you, that it happened?"

"Jes' 'bout six months, honey.  I'se mos' fergit
now—hit seem so long ago; and I wuz feelin' so
down-in-de-mouf and glum when you done gone, I
didn't take no notice ob de time.  Hit wuz one day
in de summer time dat Ole Miss cum out ter mah
room, an' say she want ter speak ter me.  I knows
hit wuz goin' powerful ha'd wid me cause I could
tell by de looks in her eyes.  She say she wouldn' hab
no mo' use fer me sence yer gone away, and de boys
would be goin' soon—and dat she done made up
her min' ter sell me.  'But yer cayn't, Ole Miss,'
says I, 'yer cyant sell me 'cause I doan belong ter
yer—I belongs ter lil Miss.  Marse Brandon say
so fo' he died.'  Den she turn red an' white, all in
a sudden, and says dat he mont 'a' say dat, but he
done made no sich statemen' in his will, and dat she
wuz goin' ter sell me neberdeless.  'Yer knows he
said dat,' says I to her, 'an' ef lil Miss wuz heah yer
wouldn' dar do hit.'  Den she get powerful mad and
tole me ter git mah things togedder and be reddy ter
go ter de Co't house de nex' mawnin'.  Den I jes'
gib way an' cry, cause I neber b'liebe I'd be put up
wid all dem udder niggers an' sole lak dem.  But she
didn' listen ter me no mo', and went away....
Zebby drive me ter town de nex' mawnin' an' Ole
Miss han' me ober ter de trader-man, and didn' say
no wo'd ter me when she leabe.  Dar wuz a big crowd
ob people dar ter see de slabes—two hundred ter be
sole dat day and a lot ob plantation fo'ks done cum
ter town ter buy."

Suddenly Dicey stopped, and stared before her
silently, her hands clasping Natalia's until she winced
from the pain.

"Den mah time cum," she resumed, her voice lowered,
and long pauses between the sentences.  "De
trader-man read out a whole lot ob things she done
writ bout me, sayin' I wuz er fust class cook an' could
sew and a whole lot ob things I could do—I done
seen em sell slabes befo' dis, but I nebber 'spected ter
be one ob dem dat wuz sole—nebber!  Nebber!  I
wouldn' look up when dey read all 'bout me 'til I
heerd somebody say five hundred dollars fer me.
Seem lak ter me I knowed de voice—hit wuz Jedge
Houston.  Den anudder one bid seben hundred
dollars an' anudder one say er thousan'....  Sumthin'
tell me ter look up when dey call out er thousan',
an' I see Marse Everett a-standin' under er tree 'cross
de street, an' I look at him so ha'd dat he finerlly see
me and start ter runnin' whar I wuz.  'Dicey, what
do dis mean?' says he ter me.  'Yer cyant be sole.
Yer belongs ter Miss Natalia.'  'I knows I does,'
says I, and begin ter cry out loud.  I couldn' he'p it
when he done look at me so kin' and gentle-lak....
Den I heerd him tell de trader-man dar wuz some
mistake, but de man said Missus Brandon owned me
and wuz sellin' me.  I cried all de mo' when I seen
him turn away hopeless lak, 'cause I think he wuz
goin' away an' leabe me ter dem people.  Den de
trader-man begin callin' out louder and louder—'One
thousan' dollars—one thousan' dollars' tell I feel like
hollerin' myself, fer I wuz nigh crazy, an' den when
he wuz 'bout ter turn me ober ter er stranger man
Marse Everett come up an' says sumthin' ter him and
he yell out 'Twelve hundred.'  Den de udder man say
'Thirteen hundred!'  Den Marse Everett fourteen
hundred, den fourteen hundred fifty an' den dar wuz
er long silence....  Den I heerd Marse Everett say
in er easy low voice—'Fifteen hundred' jes' easy
and quiet, lak he kin, and den, Bless de Lawd!  I seen
de udder man go away....  De trader-man and
Marse Everett talk er long time after dat and den
Marse Everett cum ter me and say, 'Cum with me,
Dicey, everything's all right now.  Hit's done took
de las' cent I had ter buy yer, Dicey, but she lubbed
yer, and I'm goin' ter keep yer fer her tell she cum
back.'  Den I jes' went down on mah knees and kiss
his hands and say, 'Yer won't hab no regrets, Marse
Sargent, I'll serbe yer tell I die, and she'll make it
up ter yer—one ob dese days.'"

The hall was filling with shadows.  The sunshine
through the fan light had died away, yet the two did
not move.

"And then, Mammy," Natalia whispered.

"Den he tuk me ter Jedge Houston's house and
lef me dar wid dem an' I done stay dar two years
tell he begin ter look up in de worl'.  Yer know him
and de Jedge done win er suit for er heap ob
property an' dat's whar he fust got his money.  After
dat he built dis house and he been libin' heah eber
sence.  I keeps de house fer him and does de cookin'—an'
all de time we's both been bidin' our time an'
waitin' fer yer ter cum back."

"Waiting for me!" Natalia exclaimed, drawing
away quickly.

Dicey bowed her head in answer.

"He done tole me once dat when yer tole him
good-bye dat night, yer tole him he mus'n' lub no
oder woman tell yer cum back—all grown up.  So
yer sees, he's been keepin' his wo'd all de time, an'
once, he showed me de picture you sent him.  De same
lil picture de artis'-man tuk so long ter paint ob yer,
fo' yer pa died.  An' when I seen hit, I jes' cry and
cry and cry, cause hit set me a thinkin' 'bout ole times
when yer ma and me wuz lil gals togedder—cause
de picture's jes' lak her."

"But, Mammy, he doesn't still think I meant what
I said then, does he?  I was only a child when I said
that.  Surely he has forgotten by this time."

"Fergit!  Lawd bless yer, honey, he don' fergit
nuthin' 'bout yer.  He used ter talk ebery day 'bout
yer tell lately—"

Natalia waited silently for the old woman to continue,
her hands clasping and unclasping in her lap.

"Tell lately when we heerd yer wuz a-comm' home
ter git married.  Sence den he hain't sed nothin' much.
I tole him hit wuzn't so, dat yer sho' wouldn' marry
nobody but him."

Natalia winced under the last words; then broke
abruptly into a laugh.

"But I am going to be married, Mammy.  I'm
going to be married next week, and then I'm going
away again for good, and you are going with me.
I'm going to buy you back from Mr. Everett, and
take you with me."

Dicey looked at her hard, moving her head from
side to side.

"No, honey-chile."  she said slowly.  "I cyant
leabe him now—even fer yer."

"Yes, you can, Mammy, dear," and Natalia leaned
her head on the old woman's bosom.  "That is one
of the principal things I came back for—to get you.
I want to be a little girl again and get you to tell me
stories about mamma, and go to sleep at night holding
your hand—just like I used to do, Mammy.
Oh, if we could only stay *little* always," she sighed
wistfully.  "If the world would only stop moving
and let us stay just the same all the time—we could
be so—*so* happy.  But here I am—a woman now,
and you, Mammy, you are an old woman, with your
white hair and your wrinkles—but I love you, all
the same—more than any one in the world except—"

"'Cept who?"

"Except my sweetheart."

Dicey's eyes flashed.

"Dat curly-headed, pretty man in de green coat,
dat was settin' in frunt ob yer in de ca'iage?"

"Yes, that was he.  But 'pretty' is not the word
that describes him, Mammy.  'Handsome' suits him
better."

For a second Dicey deigned no answer.

"Wait tell yer sees Marse Sargent—den yer'll
see whut er han'some gemman is, sho' 'nough."

"You are entirely too faithful to him, Mammy
Dicey," Natalia laughed.  "He has stolen your love
from me."

"An' wait tell yer hears him speak in public.  De
people goes wild ober him.  Las' week dey fired off
cannons when he cum home frum Jackson, and dat
night dey built bon-fires all ober de town ter do him
honour, an' when he begin ter speak in de Co't-house
squar' and eberybody went ter heah him, yer could
er heerd er pin drap, eberything wuz so quiet.  An'
when de words cum dey soun' so beautiful an' sweet
dey set me ter stedyin' 'bout mos' ebery thing in
jineral."

"I heard him speak once, don't you remember?"  Natalia's
eyes narrowed as if she were again reviewing
that time.  "It was wonderful, too.  I can remember
it now just as if it were yesterday."

"Dat wuzn't nothin'.  He done been all ober de
State now and he's cellibrated ebery whar he goes.
Honey-chile, yer jes' wait tell yer heah him agin."

"It's no use, Mammy."  Natalia sighed leniently.
"You see I'm interested in only one man now, and
as I'm going to be married next week, I don't believe
it's proper for me to listen to the praises of another
as you are singing them."

Rising, with her arm still about Dicey, she walked
slowly to the door.

"You see how dark it is getting.  You have almost
made me forget that Morgan will be waiting for
me and wondering where I am.  Tell him, though,
Mammy—your Marse Sargent—that he must come
out to see me to-morrow, and be sure to make him
promise to let me have you.  I am not going away
without you."

"He's away on er speakin' trip now.  He won't be
back fer er week."

"So he will not be here for my wedding!"  Natalia
frowned with evident disappointment.  "Then
I must write him about you at once."

Dicey stared at Natalia a moment, and then drawing
her face down until it rested on her bosom, she
kissed her as she used to do, on the top of her head,
in the wide part.

"Listen, honey-chile," she whispered, halting at
the door, with the old strange look of visions in her
eyes.  "Does yer 'member de night yer axed Mammy
to fin' picters in de fire fer yer?"

"Of course I remember, Mammy," Natalia answered
from the steps.  "You always were finding
them for me.  Do you do it still?"

"I'se speakin' 'bout one time in perticula'," Dicey
answered gravely.

Natalia halted, drawing her brows together thoughtfully.

"No, I don't remember particularly, Mammy," she
cried gaily, blowing a kiss back to the old woman.
"Come out to-morrow and tell me about it.  Good-bye!"

Dicey turned back into the hall and locked the door
after her.  It was almost dark now, and as she stood
alone among the grey shadows of the twilight the old
look of visions burned wildly in her eyes.

Suddenly she went to the back door and out into
the yard.  Stopping at last before the wood house,
she called to a negro man inside.

"Jonas!  Jonas!  Does yer know whar Marser is?"

"He mighty nigh two days' good ridin' way from
heah.  Whut yer wants ter know fer?"

"Nebber yer min', nigger.  Yer go ter Jedge Houston's
ter-night an' fin' out fer certin whar Marse Sargent
am ter be found.  We'se goin' ter be needin' him
in er mighty few days."





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.. _`SLAVES FOR STAKES`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV


.. class:: center medium bold

   SLAVES FOR STAKES

.. vspace:: 2

The Mansion House was still the gathering place
of all the prominent citizens, as it had been when
Sargent Everett had landed there; only now the little
tavern had grown into a famous hostelry.  Its façade
had been dignified with the addition of a third story;
its front pavement had been widened into a spacious
terrace, where tables and chairs were placed invitingly
beneath the trees; and along its front was an extensive
row of large rocking chairs, gay and hospitable
with bright red paint, and always occupied at the hours
the coaches were expected.  But the real glory of the
tavern was its bar and so-called club room, decorated
with trophies brought there by its wealthy patrons—Indian
relics, muskets from some pioneer campaign,
skins and furs belonging to celebrated hunters, and
most prominent of all, a huge pair of antlers, silver
tipped and engraved with the name of Captain Mentdrop,
which he had won in a boat race from St. Louis
to New Orleans.

Almost any hour of the day and late into the night,
wealthy planters of the surrounding country and
prominent men of the town were to be found there, discussing
politics, consummating large land deals, gambling,
with bales of cotton, slaves, and some times whole
plantations as stakes.  "We call it 'flush' times,"
Jervais said, as he drove into the town with Morgan
and Joel Talbot.  "With State banks issuing bills by
the sheet, and no showing of credit asked except for
a fellow to prove that he needs money, there is no
better name for it.  Why, man, there don't seem to
be anybody about here that isn't flush; property has
gone beyond reach, and the whole Southwest is wide
open.  Only last month I was talking to a fellow that
used to be my overseer.  He had just been to New
York, and with a letter avouching his citizenship, and
a clean shirt, he had gotten all the money he wanted.
No wonder everybody's flocking this way."

"It can't last.  It's fictitious.  Wait until the Specie
Circular begins to take effect," Morgan replied.

"Ah, there you have it.  But while all this fun is
going on, I say a fellow's a fool not to enjoy it and
make all he can out of it.  I, for one," and Jervais
blew a cloud of cigar smoke luxuriously about him,
"I, for one, am not asleep.  It's the time in a century
for a lawyer!"

"So it seems.  See how my old friend is rising on
the wave," Talbot commented.

"Your old friend?"

"Yes—Sargent Everett.  You know he came
down here through me."

Jervais leaned back in his seat with assumed
indifference.  "Why d'ye know, that surprises me," he
said, viewing Talbot with the lazy hauteur of his
younger days.  "What can you possibly find to
interest you in a fellow like Everett?"

Morgan did not answer at once.  Sitting beside
Jervais, he had been observing him closely during the
drive.  He had already felt a growing dislike for the
man, seeing beneath the suave manners a certain cold
insolence; but thinking that this was perhaps a
reflection of Natalia's attitude towards him, Morgan had
attempted to overcome it.  Now, with the sneering
words about his old friend, he felt this dislike deepening.

"He is going to Congress, I hear," Joel put in
during the moment of silence.

"That's not certain, by a long shot.  Wait until you
see the ballot, and then, from what I know, Sargent
Everett will realize that he never did stand a show.
But here's the tavern."  Jervais spoke with evident
relief.  "Now, I'll have a chance to introduce you to
some of my friends.  This fellow coming toward us,"
he continued, as they stepped from the carriage, "is
a good example of what the flush times are doing.  A
few years ago he was a poor, down-in-the-mouth land
agent; now kindly observe him—he has ambitions
towards the Governor's mansion if you please!  Come
over, Mr. Suggs, and shake hands with Mr. Talbot
and his brother—from Boston."

Mr. Suggs advanced with his usual appreciation of
an important occasion.  A chimney pot hat and a tight
frock coat, closely buttoned across his narrow chest,
accentuated his gaunt figure, and increased the air of
prosperity which his recent admission to the bar
demanded.

"Mighty glad to meet you, gentlemen.  From
Boston—did I understand?"

"Of course, Suggs, the original members of the
Tea Party," Jervais put in with a wink towards
Morgan.  "Mr. Suggs wants to give you the impression
that he never heard of you before, Talbot.  And I'll
bet you the juleps he knows more about you now than
you do about yourself.  But come, let's sit down.
What's your last case, Suggs?"

In a moment Jervais had drawn a crowd about
them, every one coming up to extend a cordial
welcome to the Northerners.  There was Colonel
Andrews, a gentleman of flowing beard and manners,
who told of his exploits in the Battle of New Orleans,
with all the enthusiasm of the original moment; there
was another just back from the Florida campaign;
another on his way to New Orleans to purchase half
a hundred slaves for his plantations—and many men
of the town, young and old, each evidently glad of
an opportunity to meet and converse with men from
the far distant North.

Jervais was at his best as host of the occasion, doing
the honours with the elegance of manner which had
made him so successful with a certain class.  Reports
of Talbot's wealth and position had preceded him, and
nothing was more to Jervais' pleasure than to
introduce such a personage to the town.

"It's certainly a great pleasure to meet you
gentlemen," Mr. Suggs was saying to Joel, having placed
his chair confidentially near him.  "I was only
wishing to-day that I could have had some one from a
distance to hear me argue a case.  Now, you would
have appreciated it, I know.  A long toddy," to the
waiter.  "I was defending a boy who had stolen his
neighbour's calf.  It was a mighty ticklish case, too,
I'd let you know—because all the neighbourhood was
against the poor devil."  Suggs stopped a moment
impressively.

"Of course you cleared him," some one called out,
who had been listening.

"But tell me how," Joel laughed.  "It seems an
impossible feat."

"Well, sir, you would think so," Mr. Suggs
continued seriously, "though when I looked into the
matter, I found the poor fellow was starving, and you
know yourself, Mr. Talbot, a man that's starving ain't
responsible for his acts—ain't I right?"

"And if he's dying of thirst, Suggs—what then?"
some one broke in.

"Of course the jury saw it that way.  I made it
so plain to them they *had* to.  Now, I've a theory—"

"Joel, I want you to meet Mr. Morancy.  He's our
national hero in this part of the world.  D'you ever
hear of him in Boston—the fellow who won fifty
thousand dollars in one poker game!"

Joel found himself shaking hands with a florid faced
man with iron grey hair.  Beneath the shade of a broad
brimmed felt hat, the calm features gave no clue to
such an extravagant reputation.

"But it occurred on a Mississippi River steamboat,
Mr. Talbot."  Mr. Morancy laughed, as he shook hands.

"He wants to give you the impression that it was
an accident," Colonel Andrews put in, "but it was as
premeditated as the fellow who had waited for a Royal
Flush."

"Tell us, Colonel!  Sh'h!  The Colonel's on for a
story!" came from the crowd.

The old fellow threw back his shoulders and swelled
portentously.

"Gentlemen," he said, in his rolling, grandiloquent
style, "I never tell that story except when there is
a chance for me to hold what that fellow had waited
for."

It was a signal for the crowd to move to the club
room just back of the bar.  There, three cloth-covered
tables were placed in the centre of the room.  About
one, several men were already hard at it, the sound
of the chips, the boisterous laughter and oaths telling
that the game was at its height.

Jervais was the first to sit down, his eyes surveying
the crowd with the glitter of a devotee of the game.
"Sit down, Talbot," he cried to Morgan.  "I want
you to have a little taste of how we play poker down
here.  Come on, Colonel Andrews, and you, Morancy,
although I don't want you to look forward to fifty
thousand on this game.  We'll go it easy in consideration
for the strangers," he ended, with a glance
towards Morgan that brought a rush of blood to his face.

"I beg you gentlemen will not let my presence
dampen your game in the least," Morgan said quietly
taking his seat next Colonel Andrews.  "I shall be
delighted to play your game as you play it, and I shall
not object even to a table stake, if that is your
custom."  He looked at Jervais with this last thrust, and smiled
broadly.

"We usually start," Colonel Andrews hastened to
explain, clearing his throat and glancing about the
crowd, "on a modest limit, and sometimes end up on
table stakes.  But we might begin there to-day, if you
gentlemen are agreeable.  I think it will be swift
enough for any of you if we make it all jacks with
a dollar ante.  Shall we each buy a thousand for
Stakes? ... Very well, then."

The Colonel, acting as banker, dealt out to each
player a thousand dollars' worth of chips, and each
gave him his I.O.U. for the amount.  "Let's see
who deals."  he continued, dealing a card to each player.
"Ah! a king: I deal.  Well," the deck of cards
falling together between his long fingers, "well,
gentlemen, everybody come in and look pleasant!"  Another
moment and each chipped in his ante, and the cards
began flying around.

"Now I can continue my story," Colonel Andrews
went on, draining a tall tumbler of champagne, and
looking at Morgan with a glance of approbation.  He
was keen enough to have caught the stranger's
refutation of Jervais' remark, and liked his bold stroke.

"Yes—I'm anxious to hear it.  You said it was
a Royal Flush?"

"That is what it is about.  Ever hold one?"

"No, I've never been so lucky as that," Morgan
answered, picking up his cards.  "It's worth living
for, though, I expect."

"Well—I reckon.  Yes, sir, he believed it would
come to him some day, and..."  The Colonel became
silent suddenly, as he looked at his cards.  All
hands passed, and the deal went to Jervais.

"Yes, as I was saying, he knew it would come to
him one of these days.  He got it at last, too, and
as luck would have it, the game was the biggest he
had ever got mixed up in."  The Colonel paused again
when the cards had been dealt, and when Morancy
opened with but Jervais staying, he continued: "And,
bless your soul, when he actually did see that Royal
family staring up at him, he had to tie his handkerchief
around his neck to keep from yelling."

Jervais opened the next pot for twenty-five dollars,
saying to the Colonel, "Go on, I'm listening.  You
said the fellow got at last what he was looking for."

But the Colonel was too much occupied then to
notice.  In the pause Morgan glanced about the room.
The third table had been taken now, and the room
was gradually filling with a crowd of onlookers.  In
those days it was not a crime to stand behind a man
and watch his game, for such was the common feeling
of good-fellowship, that each man trusted the one
behind him and accepted him as a gentleman of honour.
Besides, the Mansion House was only open to gentlemen.

The sound of clinking chips, the dense clouds of
smoke, and the endless hubbub of voices in many keys,
were steadily making the room stifling.  Waiters
were rushing around to supply every want at the same
time.

With the rapid succession of pots and the unusually
brisk plays, the Colonel had evidently forgot to
proceed with his story—or at least had deferred
concluding until the present absorbing interest of the game
had subsided.  Jervais was losing steadily; his hands
were just large enough to keep him in nearly every
play—and almost invariably small enough to lose the
pots.  In the meantime he had bought another
thousand chips, and that now was nearly gone.  Morgan's
luck was unprecedented; it seemed he could draw to
anything and win.

The last pot—opened by Jervais—had gone to
Morgan, and the deal was now his.  Jervais had
ordered a bowl of punch for the crowd, and was just
testing the first glass.  Measuring the pile of chips
before Morgan, he suddenly asked the Colonel for
four thousand more, with the apparent purpose of
matching Morgan's money in anticipation of an
opportunity for favourable encounter.

"Here's to bridegroom's luck," he called to
Morgan.  Talbot smiled and drained his glass.

"As I was saying," the Colonel began again, "he
was in a big game and they'd gotten the pot up to
ten thousand dollars—yes, sir,—there was ten
thousand in the pot and that fellow bet ten
thousand, naturally.  The crowd wouldn't stand for it
though: wanted to give him only a show down; they
said the fellow didn't have ten thousand dollars to
his name.  Did he?  Well, to tell the truth—no, he didn't."

The cards had been dealt again, and the table went
silent.  Morancy opened, the Colonel raised, Jervais
doubled, and Morgan stayed.  Morancy, too raised,
and the Colonel, Jervais, and Morgan called.

After the draw the betting became lively once
more,—confined, though, to Jervais and Talbot.
Morancy and the Colonel having but relatively small
amounts before them, came in for a show down.
Finally Morgan "tapped" Jervais, the former laying
down four Aces, the latter four Queens.  Both had
drawn the fourth card.

"There's something in bridegroom's luck, after all,"
commented Morancy, smiling good-humouredly at
Jervais, who had not won a hand, and was begin
to show it.

"Pretty good for you," commented the Colonel, as
the deal flew again from his fingers.  "Take my
advice, and don't keep your host in this game much
longer," he added in an aside to Morgan.  "He's
always hard up, the darned fool, and never was known
to have sense enough to quit.  You see, he's getting
pretty far gone, already."  Then aloud, "but you
couldn't bluff that fellow, even if he didn't have the
ten thousand.  He wrote out a check on the best bank
in the town and threw it on the table.  What did the
others do?  Why, they gave him the laugh.  They
didn't want checks—they wanted hard cash."

"Five cards," called Jervais irritably.

Morancy's caught the Colonel's eye and his own
closed eloquently.  "Give me two," he said.

Morgan took two.  As the hands went down, Morgan
got the pile again.

"Well—I suppose your man was bluffing with his
ten thousand?

"When they wouldn't take his check, he called for
paper and ink, and wrote to the President of the bank.
I've got what I've been looking for all my life.  Am
I good for ten thousand dollars?"

"For God's sake shut up, Colonel," cried Jervais.
"We're playing poker."

The next deal was Morgan's.  Candles were being
brought in as the room gradually darkened, and with
the soft light the surroundings took on a new aspect.
lire newcomers were growing numerous with the
approaching evening, until a double circle of men was
around the tables.  A general interest was being
displayed in the Northerner's luck, accounts of which had
reached to the outside of the tavern.

Morgan stopped before dealing and looked at his
watch.  Then he looked at Jervais.  "They expect us
back at seven o'clock," he said.  "Shall we stop now?"

"No," Jervais cried, his voice shaking slightly,
his face flushing from the effects of too much liquor.
"Your luck's too good for me to quit."

Morgan looked up quickly, then glanced at the
others.  "Well, one more hand around then—but
the last," he said deliberately.  "We are expected at
home at seven," he continued in explanation to the
others.  "Possibly Mr. Jervais does not understand
my impatience."

"Nor your luck."  suggested the Colonel.

"Go on—go on," Jervais muttered.  "If you're
in a hurry, let's get through.  I'll show you something
this time."

"Better walk around your chair," Morancy laughed.

Jervais wheeled towards him.  "Is it your money
I'm losing?"

Jervais now replaced his depleted pile by a further
purchase of chips, and announced that, as it was the
last hand around, he would not limit his stake to the
money in front of him, but would, so far as he was
concerned, allow or make any bet.

The cards were dealt in silence.

"Three for me," cried Jervais, his hand falling
heavily upon the table.

The Colonel looked around the table, his face
elaborately expressionless.

"I stand pat," said Morgan.  After the others had
drawn he bet fifty dollars.

"I raise you two hundred," added Jervais, who had
filled.

"That let's me out," came from Morancy, with the
resignation of an old fighter.  He was followed by the
three other men.

"One thousand more," said Morgan, facing Jervais
squarely.

"Gentlemen, you will have to excuse me," and the
Colonel laid down his hand.

"Fifteen hundred more."

"Two thousand better," from Morgan.

"Twenty-five hundred better than you."

Morgan studied his hand intently for a few
seconds.  "Well, we'll make it three thousand more.
Colonel, I'm very anxious to hear the end of that
story."

Jervais' face was livid now.

"Four thousand—d'you hear?  I say four!  You
can't bluff *me*!"

Morgan met his look with a sudden realization that
the affair had gone too far, although a glance around
the room told him that he could not afford to end the
game; that must be done by Jervais.

"I make it five thousand."  Morgan's voice trembled
a little.

"By God, I'll call you!" Jervais answered.  "And
pay you in slaves if I lose."

Morgan was on his feet in a moment.  "I'm not
gambling for slaves," he cried angrily, throwing four
deuces on the table.  "You know, Mr. Jervais, how
I feel on that subject."

Jervais had risen also, steadying himself against the
back of his chair.

"Easy, gentlemen, easy," cried the Colonel, leaning
across the table between the two men.  "Call the game
off for this evening.  You're both a little excited now."

"Jervais can call the game off or not as he chooses,"
Morgan said sharply, turning away.  "But he can't
pay me in slaves."

Jervais steadied himself with an effort.  "Well, I
won't then, since you're so particular.  You and I
can settle this affair ourselves.  Let's go home
now—only—you've got to come back here again and show
these gentlemen how long that luck of yours can keep
up."  As he turned sullenly toward the door Morancy
and several others quietly surrounded him, without
saying a word.

"Oh, I'll come back," Morgan smiled easily at the
prospect of getting away with so little trouble.  "I'm
here for two weeks, gentlemen," and bowing to the
crowd, he left the club-room, followed by Joel.

"It's a great failing of his," the Colonel explained,
as he walked with Morgan to the carriage.  "Getting
worse and worse all the time.  Sorry it happened this
evening, but you forget all about it—Lem won't
remember a thing by morning."

They were nearly at the carriage now, where Jervais
had been safely landed on the back seat.

"Oh, I almost forgot to finish that story," said the
Colonel, his hand holding Morgan's in a tight clasp.
"The fellow had talked so much about that hand he
was living for that the banker knew what he meant.
So he said it was all right, and on the strength of
that the crowd accepted the fellow's
ten-thousand-dollar bet, and every one dropped out.  But if it had
come to a show-down, by jingo, there wasn't a damn
thing in his hand but a pair of deuces.  Good night,
my boy,—see you to-morrow."  And he went off
laughing.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CANDLELIGHT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V


.. class:: center medium bold

   CANDLELIGHT

.. vspace:: 2

After supper that evening, when they were leaving
the dining-room, Natalia slipped her arm through
Judge Houston's, and drew him towards the big salon
across the hall.

"Let's you and I run away from the others for
a while," she whispered as they entered the room.  "I
haven't had any talk at all with you, and if we slip
in here and sit over on that old davenport in the corner,
they'll never find us, and we can talk, and talk, and
talk—like we used to.  There is so much that I want
you to tell me; so much that I want to tell you."

She led him across the highly polished floor, the old
gentleman playfully assuming that he might slip.

"Suppose I should fall, Natalia," he complained;
"I never did like these slippery floors.  I won't let
Maria have them at home."

"Lean on me, Uncle Felix," she answered, smiling.
"I know it will be difficult for you to do, though—you
never leaned on any one in your life, did you?
Put your arm through mine and take a step—so.
Any one would think we were dancing a minuet or
a Virginia reel!  But you will dance the quadrille
with me at my own wedding, won't you, Uncle Felix?
Now!" she ended, landing him safely on the deep sofa.

"The time is coming, Natalia, when I must lean on
some one all the time," the old gentleman sighed.  "It
isn't very far off, either.  Do you know, I find myself
deferring to Maria for the smallest things, and when
not Maria—it is Sargent."

"Sargent Everett," Natalia repeated after him,
piling some cushions on the horse-hair upholstery so that
the old gentleman would lean back comfortably.  Then
she pushed a small stool before the sofa, and sat down
upon it, resting her chin in her hand while the other
one lay across his knee.  "Sargent Everett," she said
again thoughtfully.  "That is one of the things I want
you to tell me, Uncle Felix—all about him."

The late twilight of the warm June day still glowed
through the windows.  The whispering of the birds
as they sought shelter for the night in the magnolia
grove floated in to them, lending a potent charm to
the quiet surroundings.  Judge Houston did not
answer at once, and in the long silence that widened
between them, he felt for a while that almost any
words would jar the contentment of the moment.
Occasionally his hand moved across Natalia's hair—a
touch so gentle and loving that she wondered if her
father would have meant more to her than this dear
old man.

"There is so much to tell," he began at last, "and
I would gain so much pleasure in the telling that you
would fall asleep long before I was half through.
Indeed, Natalia, Sargent is making these last days of
my life very happy, for in his success I seem to get a
pleasure so deep that at times I imagine his triumphs
are my own."

Natalia moved restlessly, as if to rise, then sank
back on the stool again.

"Why is it that every one I meet seems to worship
him?" she murmured, half complaining.  "You have
always loved him more than me—yes, you have, dear
Uncle Felix, and now, when I come back home, I find
Dicey is his slave—and willingly, too.  He has stolen
the love of you both from me.  I am growing very,
very jealous of him.  Do you know, Uncle Felix, Dicey
says she will not leave him, but I believe she will, don't
you?"

"I did not know you had seen her.  Was she here to-day?"

"No.  I went to her."

"At Sargent's house—to-day?"

"Yes, that is where I was all the afternoon.  He
was not there.  Dicey said he was out of town on
some political tour.  Tell me about him, Uncle Felix—it
has been years and years since I heard from
him or about him.  Occasionally I have seen articles
in the papers about his speeches.  Are they so
wonderful?  Have you some of them that I could read?"

Judge Houston's eyes glowed with the enthusiasm
that was always in them when he spoke of Sargent,
nor did Natalia miss the sudden quickening of
interest and kindling of energies that so obviously
manifested his devotion.

"His speeches are remarkable works of beauty and
construction, but they are nothing in comparison with
his delivery.  It always saddens me when I think of
his future reputation—when he goes down in
history—as he surely will—for people will not realize
half his power in reading his speeches; his magnetism,
his charm, his force that holds one spellbound
in listening—all that will be lost to the next
generation, and it is that, more than anything else, that has
made him remarkable.  I took out my watch one day
to see how long he would take for a certain speech,
and I found myself at the end of the speech still
holding the watch in my hand, entirely forgotten."

"Then the years have brought him success," Natalia
reflected.  "I remember his great ambition, and
a phrase of his—'I want to show the world that
because a man is a cripple he can still be a great man.'"

The Judge bowed his head, enthusiastically
"My one great hope is that I shall live to hear
his voice sounding in the walls of the Capitol at
Washington.  It will, too, one of these days."

"Tell me about his success," Natalia said leaning
back comfortably against his knees.

"It is a long, long story, Natalia, and would weary
you in the telling.  It began when you were here.
Don't you remember the trial of Phelps?  That
started him on the upward path, and it also had a
much deeper significance than the world ever
supposed.  When he had convicted Phelps it troubled
him so that he went to the jail with the object of
releasing the fellow.  Fortunately for Sargent Phelps
never knew his intention, and killed himself and ever
since then Sargent has defended any and every criminal
that comes to him.  He calls it his life-work—saving
men so as to give them another chance.  After
that case, he was sent to the Legislature and now
we are going to send him to Congress—the election
takes place this week.  After that he says he is
coming back here and settle down in his home and be
content to practise criminal law, which he has made
his special work.  Some day, when you meet him,
get him to tell you about his theory in regard to it;
it is beautiful."

"When I meet him," Natalia reflected softly.  "It
seems that I shall not see him again, Uncle Felix;
and yet, do you know, this place is not the same to me
as it used to be, and I believe that it is because he is
not here.  In some way he seems to be very closely
woven into all the impressions of my childhood—he
and Dicey."  Suddenly she turned and looked up into
the old man's face.  "Uncle Felix, Dicey told me
that he always talked of the time when I should come
back to him.  Is it really so?  Did he think that?"

Judge Houston leaned back, so that the protecting
shadows would betray no expression on his face.  It
was too late now for her to know.  He would tell her
nothing that would in any way tinge her happiness
with a shade of sadness or regret.  When he answered
her, his voice was steady, almost gay, in an attempt
at carelessness.

"That was a dream of mine, Natalia.  You and
he were dearer to me than any others in the world.
It was only natural that I should have hoped that you
two might have loved each other.  But you see," he
sighed in mock despair, "I am carrying out the words
of the prophet—'your old men shall dream dreams'—and
I am a very old man, Natalia.  I shall be
seventy-six my next birthday."

"Seventy-six years," Natalia repeated, absently,
wondering over the reason for his not replying to
her question.  Could it be that what Dicey said was
true?  She hurriedly drove the doubt from her
thoughts, for a strange fear had suddenly crept into
her consciousness—the fear that her great happiness
might come to her through the suffering of another.
With the intuitive perception she rose from her stool
with a start.  The room had become totally dark;
only the light from the hall threw a faint shaft into
the room.

She groped her way to the tall black marble mantel,
over which hung the portrait of her mother, and lit
the two seven-branched candlesticks.  Going back to
the stool, she sat down as before, resting her face in
her hands and gazing at the portrait.

In the soft glow of candlelight the room looked
enormous.  The vista made by the two mirrors at each
end and directly opposite to each other created a
perspective that was without limit in its repeated
reflection.  The portrait gained a semblance of life from
the deep shadows and high lights, and looked down
from its gorgeous gilt frame on the crimson damask
upholstery and rosewood carvings, with the affection
that years of association had created.  The gleaming
mahogany floor gathered into its embrace the
reflection, and in the subdued light and the strange
fragrance of passed years breathing life into the
speechless objects, Natalia felt that she was growing nearer
to what it all represented to her than she had ever
been before.

"Seventy-six years," she said again thoughtfully.
"How beautiful to grow old as you have done, Uncle
Felix.  Nay, is it growing old?  It seems to me that
with you and Aunt Maria it has been a gradual
growing nearer to a beautiful future life—a gentle
approach towards God.  I wonder if I shall grow old
that way, or die in the heyday of my youth and
happiness—as my mother did.  To think that I never
knew her," she sighed, when she had looked a long
time at the portrait.  "And now when I seem to
think of her most, when I feel that I need her—she
is gone.  Can there be a greater loss to a girl than
not to know a mother?  And I shall never know what
it is!  Sometimes it makes me very sad when I realize
there is no one from whom I can claim anything—no
one to whom I can go and demand things because
of the ties of blood.  Even you and Aunt Maria are
really no kin—are not tied except by love."

The old man leaned forward and turned her face
towards him.

"Could any ties be stronger than those of love?"
he smiled into her eyes.

"I know, dear Uncle Felix," she pressed his
hands as she answered, "but the tie of blood is a
very wonderful thing.  It makes me feel so dreadfully
lonely at times, to know that you, that Morgan, that
every one is doing for me not because they ought to,
but because they love me—perhaps pity me.
Probably I express myself badly, and yet—you must
know what I mean.  It is lack of that *right* to lean
on some one for help and protection, and feel that you
are only demanding of him what it is his duty to give.
That is what I expect my marriage to bring me."

Judge Houston leaned nearer to her, intently
watching the changing expressions that played across her
face, and which seemed to gather brilliancy from the
portrait towards which she looked.  His eye wandered
from the painted face to the living reproduction,
then back again—and between them there rose
before him his old bridge of dreams—dreams which
the last month had shattered.  Again he felt an almost
overwhelming desire to tell her of that dream which
was but the reflection of the dream of another; if
it were only possible to let her know of the plans and
talks and hopes that he and the other one had made
their guiding star for years!  But he could not—his
duty to her kept him silent, and in her love he realized
the hopelessness of his own desires.

Then in the more than three-score years of calm
restraint and self-denial, his deep affection for the
man who had become his son rushed over him and
made him speak.

"Natalia," he hurried over the words, "there is
something I want to know—from your own lips."

"You can ask me anything, Uncle Felix."  She
turned her face towards him with the frankness of
a child.  "I have no secrets that I would not tell you."

His hand rested on her shoulder while he searched
her eyes.

"How great is your love for Morgan Talbot?"

Natalia met his eyes seriously for a few moments;
and then she laughed softly.

"What a question, Uncle Felix, and particularly
when it comes from you!  How great is my love for
the man I am going to marry?  Do you know me so
little that you deem such a question necessary?"

"No.  But I know you so well that I know that
you will tell me the truth—that is, if you answer
me seriously."

Gradually the smile faded into a pensive expression,
and Natalia turned slowly back to where the gleaming
portrait held her attention again.

"How great is my love," she murmured as if in
self-questioning.  "How great is my love?  Why,
Uncle Felix, how do I know how great it is?  What
is there for me to compare it to?"

The old man leaned towards her, and though her
face was turned from him when he spoke, she felt
that there was something left unsaid behind his words.

"Is this the first time you have loved?  Is there
nothing that went before, by which you can judge?"

"No, nothing."  Natalia turned and searched his
eyes for the hidden meaning.  "I have never been
in love before, unless—" her face flushed slightly
as she found his meaning, "unless it were my old
admiration for Sargent Everett.  But then I was too
young to know."

Judge Houston leaned back once more into the
protecting shadows of the wall, it had come at last
he sighed to himself, and she had been the first to
mention it.

"And is this love that you now feel, like the first?"

"No."  She shook her head, her face saddening
sweetly.  "No.  I adored Sargent Everett.  It was
worship.  A girl only has that experience once in
life; fortunately it came to me early and I outgrew
it.  But I remember it painfully well.  It is the sort
of feeling that one must have who bows down and
worships a god, and sees that god returning his
affection—can there be any sensation more wonderful!
And all the incidents of our association naturally
added a picturesqueness that impressed my childish
imagination, coloured it, and made his image sink
very deep upon mv mind.  This morning when I went
out to the old bench under the magnolias where he
and I used to sit, I actually felt a return of my old
love for him.  I actually forgot Morgan for the
moment!"  She ended with a happy laugh.

"Tell me then," Judge Houston asked after a
pause.  "How does this other love differ from the
first?"

She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned back
against the sofa, her eyes half closed in meditation.
Finally, with a graceful movement, she put out her
hand and drew the old man's into hers.

"My love for Morgan," she began slowly.  "How
can I ever describe it! It did not come to me
suddenly—it was more the outgrowth of association—a
drifting into it without realization.  Is it not
always that way?"  She lifted her face towards the
old man intently, and found him looking down at her
with a sad expression that she did not understand.

"You say you found it that way?"

"Yes, Uncle Felix," Natalia answered gayly.
"Now please don't upbraid me for not falling in love
at first sight.  You know such things don't happen
nowadays.  I first met Morgan at the boarding
school where Mamma Brandon sent me.  Millicent
was there with me at the time, and through our
friendship I began to hear stories of her beautiful brother
whom she described as the acme of all that was
handsome and brave and wonderful.  You must remember
we were only twelve then.  It is rather a strange
thing, now, as things have eventuated, that I used to
answer all her descriptions of Morgan with effusions
about Sargent Everett.  Then I met him.  You can
see the impression he would be likely to make upon
a lonely little school-girl away from the few people
who had ever loved her.  Naturally the absent scene
faded as the years passed, and I found myself living
only in the world about me—a world filled with all
the interests of the school and my broadening
education, and made a place of enchantment to me by the
kindness and affection of Morgan's family.  They
made me one of them.  And when the day of real
freedom came, when I left school to enter the world,
with the enormous accretions from my plantations
which you and Mamma Brandon had so skilfully
managed for me—everything was perfect.  Ah, it
was beautiful!  That first year of my real life.  I can
remember exactly my sensations the night I made my
debut.  We went to the opera first to hear Jenny Lind
sing, and afterwards there was a big ball.  I carried
a beautiful bouquet of lilies of the valley—oh, Uncle
Felix, it was gorgeous!  That was two years ago.
Since then, you know how I have travelled, how I
spent a year in Europe, losing myself in the shadows
of all that historic past, all that overpowering
procession of events that has left its monuments for us
to wonder over....  Those were carefree days,
happy and thoughtless, with no suspicion of a
to-morrow, and in them, with me—for long periods of
travel—was Morgan—always faithful, always
attentive, always an ideal lover.  I never thought of
marrying him then—at least never seriously, until
I came back from Europe, and found that the same
things that filled my life before amused me no longer.
I was tired of playing, Uncle Felix, I had played too
much.  Something within called me to the great
problems of life—I felt that I wanted to be in touch
with people whose lives were amounting to something,
who were doing good in the world and helping others.
I seemed to realize then, for the first time, that I was
drifting along in a happiness that would bring me
nothing in the future, and I saw myself in my old
age, when my youth and freshness and beauty were
all gone, as a little child, without any one dependent
upon me for their happiness.  I think it was that,
Uncle Felix," and she drew his hand gently to her
cheek, "that opened my eyes to Morgan's love.  He
was there, waiting to give me a protection and haven
from that awful lonely future.  And I thought of
you and Aunt Maria growing old together so
beautifully, and I know now, Uncle Felix, that Morgan
and I shall do the same....  When I have a child,
Uncle Felix, think how everything that has gone
before will be as nothing!  When I have one that is
mine, a part of me—that is what will make my life
divine!"  Suddenly she put her hands up to his face
and kissed him.  "Forgive me!  Forgive me!  I did
not mean to wound you.  I did not mean to thrust
my happiness at you—so."

There were tears in the old man's eyes as she talked
on, lost in her own narration, and when she looked
up at him again, they were streaming down his cheeks,
she rose from the stool and slipped on to the sofa
beside him, pulling his arm around her waist, so that
her face lay close against his, with the silence
deepening between them.

"Uncle Felix," she began again, after having risen
and carefully snuffed the candles on the mantel.  "I
have never told any one what I have told you
to-night; indeed, there was no one to tell—not even
Morgan.  It was my thought of you and this dear
old place that made me wish to solemnize my marriage
here.  It may be the last time I shall ever be here,
at least for many, many years; yet now that I have
come back, and all the past has rushed over me with
all its old charm and fascination—I feel that I should
like to remain here always.  There is something so
protected and safe here—an aloofness from the world
that would save one from almost every suffering.
But of course it is impossible."  She stirred
restlessly.  "Already Morgan is growing impatient, and
wants to get back to the rush and stir of a city."  She
rose and with both hands pulled the old gentleman
up after her.  "Let's go back to the others now.
But first—I may never have the chance to speak to
you of it again—tell Sargent Everett of my deep
affection for him still—tell him that I shall always
be grateful for his having made me a very happy
little girl, and that the only thing that marred my
happiness on my wedding day was his absence.  Now,
let's go back to Morgan."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HIS WEDDING PRESENT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI


.. class:: center medium bold

   HIS WEDDING PRESENT

.. vspace:: 2

The wedding day came—a beautiful day, filled
with the glory of June sunshine, warm, sweet,
brilliant—bringing in its perfection omens of great
happiness.

The old home gained in beauty as the grove about
it grew heavily laden with the honeyed fragrance of
the magnolia blossoms, and the deep green leaves
became even more varnished and glistening.  The cool
shadows and the topaz patches of sunlight mingled
upon the tall columns; the red-tiled roof glowed as
if with an understanding of its responsibility that day.

Natalia rose in the early morning and passing
through the hall, where already there were signs of
much stirring and preparation, went out into the
garden.  It was still very early.  The first smoke from
the quarters was curling lazily upward, and from the
barn came the tinkling sound of bells as the cows
were led into the pens for milking; and all through
the atmosphere, insistent and penetrating, was that
indefinable, vibrating sound of nature awakening in
the early morning.

The garden greeted her with a burst of bloom,
veiled timidly in its protection of dew.  She lifted her
face to the soft air, and breathed the delicious
fragrance of the honeysuckle.  Everything was perfect
to her at this moment.  She looked through the eyes
of one to whom the world has become a consummation
of ideals.

She lingered beside the pomegranate bush, smiling
as she vainly sought for the jay-bird's nest that she
had found there when a child; then she strolled on
into the depths of the grove.  How fortunate she
was, she reflected, as her eyes lingered on all her
surroundings, to have this quiet, beautiful spot in
which to solemnize the marriage that was to bring
her completeness.  How perfect that her honeymoon
should be spent in the surroundings that her mother
and father had known at such a time.  In each detail
she imagined she could discover some preference of
theirs; in the quiet and aloofness of the early
morning she felt intuitively that they were with her.

The sound of a step behind her made her turn
quickly, a quick frown at the interruption changing
instantly into a smile of happiness, for Morgan had
seen her from his window and followed her.

"It is our wedding day, sweetheart," he said when
he had reached her and put his arm about her.  "Our
wedding day—think of it!  May I be the first to
kiss you on such an important day?"

Natalia looked up at him thoughtfully, dwelling
with a tender glance upon his bright, manly face
and fair hair.  In the morning brilliance he shone
resplendent, catching, as if by natural attraction, all
the beauty and freshness of the day in his brilliant
colouring and deep blue eyes.

"Is it such an important day?" Natalia answered
softly.  "I sometimes wonder if marriage is not an
anticlimax.  The greatest moment to me was when
I realized that I loved you.  Nothing will ever equal
the joy of that—not even our wedding."

"That is a girl's way of looking at it," Morgan
laughed easily.  "With a man it is quite different.
You see, dear, he fears so that the girl might change
her mind, that he is not really happy and satisfied
until she actually belongs to him."

"There you go, Morgan."  Natalia looked away,
answering his smile half-heartedly.  "Joking when
I am serious.  But it is very fortunate, I suppose.  I
should always see the serious side of life if it were
not for you.  I am so glad that we are different, dear.
You see—we are antidotes.  You correct my seriousness—I
sober your lightheartedness."

Morgan looked at her curiously.

"Yet you can be as gay as I, Natalia.  You were
so at school; you were on our long voyage together.
It is only since we have been engaged that you
have changed.  What is it?  Are you not entirely
happy?"

"Of course I am—the happiest woman in the
world!  Only I feel my happiness differently from
you.  It is a more serious thing to me.  It's my
nature, I suppose.  I've been trying all my life to let
people know how happy I was, and even when in my
most melancholy spells I found a certain quiet peace,
I had to appear gay to keep others from thinking I
was miserable.  It's a trick of mine, to hide my real
feelings, I suppose.  We're all acting, anyhow, don't
you think so?"

"No, I'm not," Talbot smiled down at her gayly.
"I honestly believe I am as nearly frank as people
get.  I never could hide my emotions, and I've never
yet learned to control my anger."

"How dreadfully you frighten me, Morgan."  Natalia
frowned in assumed fear.  "Suppose you should
get angry with me—would you treat me very badly?
Would you whip me?"  She laughed outright.
"Dicey says there used to be an old farmer here who
whipped his wife every Saturday night because he
said it was the only way a man could make a woman
respect him.  And she also says that when the man
was sent to jail for stealing his neighbour's cow, that
his wife would go with him.  Such a case makes one
ponder, doesn't it, Morgan, as to which is the right
way to hold another's love?"

"I'll never treat you that way, Natalia, because,"
and he hesitated, half-serious, "I'm almost afraid of
you at times—when your eyes grow very black and
the colour fades out of your face.  I don't know
whether it is anger, or what.  It makes you
wonderfully beautiful, though."

"I know—it is when I'm very intense.  It's when
my Spanish blood is aroused.  Sometimes I have felt
that I was acting without my own volition—that
some one else, a new nature within me, was
compelling me on to something I was helpless to combat.
I will tell you about it some day, but not this
morning.  I've determined to let nothing mar our happiness
to-day.  But I have a request to make," she ended
tentatively.

"Anything in the world—you have only to name
it," Morgan replied promptly, swinging her hand in
his, to and fro, like a happy schoolboy.

"Do you know, sir," Natalia began, with mincing
manner and chiding voice, "that you spent all of
yesterday afternoon and the one before, away from
me—and worst of all—with Mr. Jervais!"

Morgan's face showed his evident surprise.

"You don't mean to tell me, Natalia, that you
objected to that!  Certainly you didn't want me to
stay here all the time listening to you women folks
discuss trousseaux and wedding cakes!"

Natalia smiled at him silently.

"That must be a very attractive place—that Mansion
House," she commented archly.

"The tavern!  What do you know about it?"

"Uncle Felix told me how popular you were there—how
many friends you had made already.  It doesn't
take a very lively imagination to picture the poker
games there, for I've heard of them ever since I could
remember.  There were great old days, then, and still
are, I fancy, if you men would only tell about it.  But,
seriously, Morgan, don't go this afternoon.  Promise me."

Morgan's face had clouded as she ended, and slipping
his arm around her he led her towards the bench
on the brow of the hill.

"Listen, Natalia," he said, when they had sat
down.  "Something happened yesterday which I did
not want you to know.  Now, I see I had best tell
you.  Lemuel Jervais and I got into a pretty reckless
game of poker all the afternoon.  Towards the end
I think he must have reached the limit of his ready
resources, for when every one had withdrawn and he
and I were sticking it out, he said he was going to
pay me in slaves, if he lost.  You know my feelings
in regard to slavery.  So when it came to that, I threw
down my hand and said I was not gambling for human
beings!"  Morgan dropped his hands between his
knees and stared before him in silence.  "It was all
rather unfortunate, but I suppose couldn't be helped,"
he continued.  "What makes it a little embarrassing to
me is that Jervais insisted that I should go back again
to-day and finish the game."

"But you didn't agree to it, did you?" Natalia
exclaimed.

"What else could I do?" Morgan answered rather
gloomily.  "He is my host and yours, and would take
offence—particularly as I have been the winner all
along.  Besides, it wouldn't do not to go for a little
while.  Do you know what I've decided to do?" he
added, bright again.  "I'm going to let Jervais win
rather heavily, and then suggest that we come back
here."

Natalia met his brightness only half-way.

"I suppose you will have to do it, but you *will* come
back soon?"

"You have my word for it."

"Well, then, I suppose I'll have to be contented."  Natalia
smiled again.  "But after to-day, when
everybody has gone away, and Brother Joel and
Millicent are on their way to New Orleans, and we shall
be here all alone—you must not let a single thing,
no matter how great, take you away from me.  Just
you and I—all alone!  I've planned each day—almost
every moment!"

They strolled a little way down the hill, to where
the ground rolled precipitately to the river.  The
opposite shore was still grey and misty with the
retreating night, and over the stretch of wilderness hung
a blue veil of mystery.

"The Indians call it 'The Land of the Setting
Sun,'" Natalia said, looking out before her.  "Poor
wild creatures!  It seems the only land left them now.
To me it always seemed the future.  One thinks one
sees it, yet it is all vague and unknown."

"That is not the way with our future, though,"
Morgan replied, gathering Natalia in his arms.
"Ours is neither vague nor unknown.  This day is
a symbol of what it is to be.  It will be only
happiness," he kissed her, "happiness—and happiness
again!"

.. vspace:: 2

The day deepened in beauty as the hours passed,
and all the while elaborate decorations were being
arranged throughout the house.  Many friends came,
bringing wagon loads of trailing vines and ferns and
wild hydrangeas.  Festoons of Southern smilax were
twined about the columns and draped from one to the
other, so that the old house looked gay and youthful,
as it had many years ago; and along the veranda,
tables were placed on which stood tall crystal globes
protecting the candles which were to illumine the place
at nightfall; and along the balustrade of the upper
balcony was a row of candles which encircled the
house, and would make it a blaze of glory.

In the grove hundreds of transparences were hung
high among the thick foliage, vying with the white
blossoms in doing honour to the occasion; two big
piles of brush were placed far out on the road beyond
the gate, which were to be set ablaze in the evening
and light the late arrivals on their way.

Within, the large salon was heavy with the odour
of gardenias.  The walls were covered with the
fragrant blossoms and from the corners of the ceiling
to where the bronze chandelier swung with its
hundred and fifty candles, garlands of ivy were draped.
Across the hall, the dining-room floor was waxed until
Zebediah pronounced it too slippery for any one to
stand upon, much less attempt dancing.  Even the
library was thrown open, a thing never done before
in entertaining, and all the wedding presents displayed
there—presents that brought smiles and tears to
Natalia, for in many of these gifts she realized that
the friends of her parents were parting with their
heirlooms to do her honour.  There were priceless
pieces of Sevres china; a huge punch bowl of Bohemian
glass, the sides cut in broad panels which showed
layers of rose and cream; candlesticks in bronze and
brass and silver; many pieces of Sheffield plate and
silver that had come to America with its early settlers;
and, causing more trouble and amusement than all the
other presents, a magnificent peacock sent by old
Mrs. Buckingham, which thought its special duty was to
make the air ring with hideous cries.

In the late afternoon Natalia went down the stairs
on the back veranda to inspect the last touches that
Mrs. Jervais and Mrs. Houston were giving the
supper table.  The veranda had been enclosed the whole
length in osnaburgs, and a long table extended from
one end to the other, literally groaning under the
weight of appetizing delicacies.

Already the front of the house was gay with the
people who had driven many miles to the wedding,
and whose carriages and wagons were encamped
without the gates awaiting the return to them in the
early morning; for it was the custom of those days
to spend the entire night in jollification, the fiddlers
never resting their bows until the sunlight clashed
with candle-light.

"Oh, Natalia, look at those nougat pyramids!
Aren't they dreams!" Millicent cried.  "I know they
must be six feet high."

"They were made in New Orleans," commented
Mrs. Jervais, proudly, following the two girls as they
moved down the table inspecting everything.

"Won't it be a pity to break them?  But of course
every one will want a souvenir to take home.  Natalia,
I think you ought to keep one whole in memory
of the day.  And there's the wedding cake!  In five
terraces!  Isn't it beautiful?  Where in the world did
you get it, Mrs. Houston?"

Mrs. Houston's eyes lit up with enthusiasm.

"I made every bit of it myself.  It took the whites
of fifty eggs!"

"What on earth did you do with the yelks?" exclaimed
Millicent, dumbfounded.

"Is there nothing I can do?" Natalia said, putting
her arms about the old lady, and kissing her cheek.
"How good you all are to me!  I seem to grow
happier every moment—"

The clang of the door-bell broke on her unfinished
words, and in the next moment a servant had entered
with a note.  Natalia took it from the salver, and
glanced at the address, drawing her brows together,
as if in recollection.  The others waited silently
impatient.

"Do open it, Natalia," Millicent cried.  "I *know*
it's another wedding present.  Won't you read it
aloud?"

Natalia still held the note in her hand, thoughtfully
regarding it.

"I'm trying to remember whose writing it is.  It's
very familiar.  Oh, I know now!  It's Sargent Everett's."

She tore open the envelope, letting it fall to the
floor as she hurriedly read the note.  When she looked
up again, the tears were streaming down her face.

"He has sent me the most precious wedding present
in the world," she cried with a sob in her voice.
"He has given Mammy back to me!"

She ran through the dining-room, and down the
full length of the hall, and out on to the front porch,
throwing herself into the old slave's arms.

"He has given you to me, Mammy!  He has given
you to me!  You're mine—you dear old Mammy
Dicey!  Come on upstairs to my room, and tell me
all about it.  Mammy, I'm getting everything in the
world to-day.  Isn't it wonderful?  And now you've
come back to me!"

She pulled the old woman up the steps beside her,
and into the big room where they had spent many
hours together.

It was about dusk, and the room was in the quiet
gloom of twilight.  Natalia locked the door after
they had entered, and pushing a big arm chair close
beside the bed, she led Dicey who stood in the centre
of the room, dazed into forgetfulness by the familiar
objects about her, to it, and made her sit down while
she threw herself on the bed and drew the old slave's
hands into both her own.

"It's like old times, isn't it, Mammy?  Just exactly
like it used to be—you there beside me when I went
to sleep.  Oh, Mammy, I'm so happy!  I want to cry
just a little like I used to, and you hold my hand and
pat it and sing to me,—very soft and low, ah! now!"

And with the light gently fading from behind the
bowed blinds, and the room sinking into darkness, the
old slave chanted softly, with the tears streaming
down her furrowed cheeks:

   |  "Whar, oh, whar am de Hebrew chillun,
   |  Whar, oh, whar am de Hebrew chillun,
   |  Whar, oh, whar am de Hebrew chillun,
   |  Way ober in de promis' lan'."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HOUR OF THE WEDDING`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HOUR OF THE WEDDING

.. vspace:: 2

Evening closed about the old home; the candles
in the garden began to glimmer and throw a fairylike
glow through the shrubbery; the two great bonfires
on each side of the gate were lighted and illumined the
road for near a mile.  Carriages began rolling up to
the front door and discharging their elaborately
costumed occupants.  The sound of laughter and merry
voices floated up in waves, and in the distance came
the wail of fiddles being tuned.

Suddenly a rap sounded on the door; the sanctuary
of the two reunited women was broken.

"Natalia!  Natalia!  All the guests are arriving,"
Millicent called in an excited voice.  "Have you
begun to dress?  Do let me in!  It's scandalous for
them to be so late!"

Natalia sprang from the bed and hurried to the door.

"Is it really late?" she exclaimed, as Millicent burst
into the room.  "I hadn't an idea time was flying so.
Mammy and I had gone back years and years, and
forgotten everything.  Is Morgan ready?"

"Ready!  I should think not!" Millicent answered.
"Do you know, neither he nor Joel nor Mr. Jervais
have come back yet; and they have been gone for
hours.  Mrs. Houston sent the Judge in an hour ago
to bring them back.  It's perfectly dreadful for them
to behave like this, and I intend to tell them so as soon
as they come!"

Natalia listened calmly, then turned away to hide
the anxiety in her eyes.

"They will be here before we know it," she answered,
after a little while, forcing a smile to her lips.

"I suppose they became interested in some discussion
and forgot all about the time.  Just like men!  But
do hurry, Millicent, and come back as soon as you
can to help me dress.  Now, Mammy," she turned
back to Dicey, stopping a moment to survey herself
in the cheval glass.  "Are you going to help make
me very beautiful to-night?  I believe I'll wear my
hair like I used to.  It's dreadfully unfashionable
now, but I believe it's becoming."

She sat down in the chair, and unloosening her hair,
let it fall in waves about her.  Clasping her hands
tight in her lap, she looked steadily before her the
anxiety creeping back into her eyes.  All the while
Dicey watched her closely.  In the old woman's eyes
the strange look had come again.  It was burning
brilliantly now.

"I wish he had come sooner.  I wish—" Natalia
lifted her head resolutely—"I mean platted in a
crown, Mammy, like you did it when I was a little
girl.  Have you forgotten how?"

"No—I hain't fergit."

"Then you arrange it for me, and I'll wear the
daisies in it that you brought me.  Won't that be
fetching?  I'll sit very still, Mammy, while you fix
it.  Do you remember," she laughed plaintively, "how
I used to wriggle and fidget when you would do it
that way?"

Dicey did not move toward her.  Shaking her head
firmly she only stared.

"I won't fix hit dat way fer yer," she suddenly
burst out.  "I won't!  I won't!"

"Why, Mammy, don't you think it's becoming?"

"I won't fix hit dat way 'cause he allus said he
lak hit dat way."

Natalia looked at her bewildered.

"But Morgan never saw me wear it that way.
How could he know?"

"I don' mean him.  I means Marse Sargent."

Natalia broke into a merry laugh and drew the old
woman's face down to her own.

"You dear—old—foolish—Mammy!  Of
course I didn't know you were talking about Sargent
Everett.  Besides—what difference does he make
now?  I believe you were teasing me about him,
anyhow.  If he thought so much of me he would have
come to my wedding."

Dicey shook her head unconvinced.

"Is dat all de larnin' yer done pick up in yer
trabbelin', honey?  Hit's 'cause he lubs yer so dat he
cyant b'ar seein' yer marryin' anoder man.  Dat's hit,
honey-chile."

Natalia narrowed her eyes a moment; then smiled,
a little wistfully.

"You are entirely too wise, Mammy.  Sometimes
I almost fear you.  You are trying to make me
unhappy on my wedding night, by telling me my
happiness is breaking another's heart.  You know it isn't
really so—now is it, Mammy?"

Dicey's face was turned away from Natalia as she
moved about the room, pulling down the shades and
lighting the candles.  Twice she opened her lips to
speak, then closed them tight and went on.  Suddenly
she stopped and went back to Natalia.

"Yer is breakin' his heart—yer is—yer is.  Yer
tole him yer wuz gwine come back ter him an' yer
ought ter done hit.  Yer know yer ought to—cause
yer done pledge yerself ter him."  Her face was close
to Natalia's as she whispered the words, and
involuntarily the girl drew back, startled.  The intensity
of the old woman's eyes was ominous.  The next
moment Natalia rose from her chair and faced her.

"Mammy, you are trying your best to make me
miserable.  I never thought it of you.  You have lost
all your love for me for your new master.  Because
you love him so, you think every one must—but I
do not—do you hear, Mammy?  I don't love him one
bit any more; he doesn't love me either.  It's all your
imagination!  And if you don't stop talking about
him, I'm going to send you right back to him!"

Natalia's voice was calm, but her eyes flashed into
the old woman's, speaking her anger.  In another
moment Dicey was on her knees with her arms about
her.

"Fergive me! honey-chile, I didn' mean nothin'!"
she cried.  "I lubs yer more'n ennybody in de worl',
but I cyant help er feelin' kinder perturbed 'bout pore
Marse.  Yer hain't gwine sen' me erway, will yer?
Say yer won', honey, 'cause he'll be powerful mad wid
me ef he knows I'se done made yer mad.  I'll do yer
ha'r anyway yer says ef yer'll only say yer hain't
gwine sen' me erway."

Natalia's anger went as it had come.  The next
moment she was seated before the mirror, with Dicey
brushing and platting her hair.

"We always did quarrel, Mammy," she laughed
happily again.  "I suppose it proves our love, don't
you?  But it does make me so jealous to find you
loving somebody more than you do me," she added,
reflectively.  "It really is odd how he makes people
love him," glancing at Dicey's enigmatic face reflected
in the mirror.  "I'm talking about your master,
Mammy.  I see now that I have lost your love
entirely.  But if he does for others as he has done for
me, I do not wonder at it," she sighed.  "Who else
would have thought of sending you to me for a
wedding present?"

"Eberybody do lub him," Dicey rejoined, her eyes
once more sparkling with her enthusiasm of the
subject.  "An' de young ladies—yer ought ter see how
dey turns out in dere fine kerridges, all rigged up in
finery and foolishness, when he's gwine ter speak.
Dey all jes' makes sheep eyes at him all de time, an'
he neber takes no notice ob none ob dem."

"That's your way of seeing him, Mammy.  I'll
wager he's in love with half a dozen girls this very
minute.  Now begin putting in the daisies, please.
Yes, three at a time.  Honestly, now, Mammy, crossing
your heart and body, you don't think he is as
handsome as Morgan, do you?"

"I neber did lak bloo eyes," Dicey answered firmly.
"'Specially when dey is light bloo."

"But his are not light blue.  They are very dark
and beautiful.  Wait until you see him close.  Now,
my wedding dress, Mammy.  Isn't it a dream?"  Natalia
went to the sofa where the wedding finery
was displayed.  "I brought it all the way from Paris
last year.  You see, Mammy, it has three skirts."

"Lawdy 'bove us!" cried Dicey, touching the gown
gingerly.  "Hit's got sho' nuff leabes on hit, hain't
hit?"

"Yes, they are arbour-vitae leaves.  Millicent has
been sewing them on, all day.  The design represents
the walls of Troy.  You know all about that, don't
you, Mammy?" she laughed merrily.  "You see
there is a border on each flounce, and on the waist,
too.  I saw the Princess Amèlie wear one just like
it.  Now call Millicent, Mammy, for she will have
to help me get into it.  And Aunt Maria, too, and ask
Mrs. Jervais to bring the jewel box."

Left alone, Natalia peered through the closed blinds
into the yard below.  From the lights and moving
figures, she turned her eyes towards the heavens.
There, too, the stars shone in a gay brilliance.

"My wedding night!"  She whispered happily.
"My wedding night!"  She turned away from the
window with a strange new excitement rushing over
her.  Her eyes grew deep black, glowing with
intensity.  Her face became flushed with a gorgeous
colour.

Millicent burst into the room, completely arrayed.
"How do I look, Natalia?  Do you like the ribbon
here, or there?  It's so dreadfully hard to decide.
Would you believe it—those hateful men have not
come yet!  I don't believe this ribbon is the right
colour, after all.  Do you suppose anything has
happened to them?"

Natalia looked quickly towards the clock.

"It's only half after seven.  The ceremony is at
eight," she said slowly—then eagerly, "Perhaps they
have come and you didn't know it."

"No, I have just come from Morgan's room, and
he is not there.  But you *must* dress, Natalia,"
Millicent urged, picking up the wedding gown.  "Here—get
into this, while I help you.  Aren't you glad the
leaves look fresh?  They are as green as if they had
just been picked.  Can't you see the girls wondering
if they are real?  And the wedding bouquet—it's
wonderful!  Mrs. Houston has just been telling me
how it was made.  She says she took a stick and
covered it with green silk, then she laid sprays of cedar,
fan shape, all over that, then in the centre she sewed
the cape jessamines, all real close together.  It's the
most beautiful bouquet I ever saw!" Millicent ended
breathlessly.

Natalia made no comment.  She stood silently
docile while the gown was fastened.

"It is very strange that he should do this way,"
she murmured to herself, "and he promised
me—  Perhaps their carriage broke down on the way out!"
she exclaimed.  "It must be something like that!"

Mrs. Jervais entered the room, her face beaming
her approval upon Natalia.  In her hand she carried
a large, elaborately carved sandal wood box.

"Do you know where they are?  Have you heard
from them?" Natalia cried, rushing towards her.

Mrs. Jervais answered her with her calm smile.

"Don't worry, clear, they will be here in plenty of
time.  Nothing has happened, I'm sure.  If you knew
Lemuel as I do, you'd know that he had taken them all
to the Mansion House, where he always gets involved
in those eternal political discussions.  You know there
is much talk now of a war with the Cherokees—so
they are trying to settle it, I know.  But here are the
jewels, Natalia.  They have not been opened since
your mother's death."

Natalia took the box in her arms, pressing it to her
affectionately.

"I have never seen them," she said, taking a key
that Judge Houston had brought her that day, and
slipping it into the lock.  "I always said I would
never wear them until I was married."  She placed the
box on a chair and knelt down before it.  "I have
always thought," she began, very softly, "that there
are a few things that one should wear very seldom—some
things only once.  I am never going to wear
this dress again."  She laid her hand softly into the
folds of the white tarletan.  "I'm going to put it
away in the cedar chest after to-night—way up in
the attic—and only take it out on my anniversaries,
to dream over."

She turned the key in the lock and lifted the lid.
Lying on a white velvet lining, grown yellow with age,
was a magnificent collection of jewels.  There was a
necklace formed of oblong pearl medallions, the
centre of each filled by a large sapphire; there were
ear-rings of the same design which would hang to the
wearer's shoulder; four bracelets completed the set.
There were several quaint brooches of onyx and
pearls and diamonds, and some heavy pieces of white
coral, elaborately carved.

Mrs. Houston had entered while Natalia was gazing
into the case, and stood just behind her, one hand
resting on her shoulder.

"You saw her wear them, Aunt Maria," Natalia
murmured, finally.  "Then place them on me just as
she would have liked them to be."

Leading her up to the cheval glass, the old lady
clasped the necklace about her throat, slipped the
bracelets far up her arms, and adjusted the ear-rings
to her minute satisfaction; leaving for the last the
veil, which she pinned to Natalia's blue-black hair
with a broad band of sapphires, her own present to
the bride, and one that had done duty a century before,
along the banks of the James River.

"Now you are wonderfully beautiful, Natalia," she
said, giving a last touch and stepping away to gain
a better view of the arrangement.  "Your eyes have
caught the glow of the sapphires.  Look at her,
Millicent!  Isn't she lovely?"

Any one who now sees the portrait of her, painted
by Weygant, will realize how beautiful she must have
been that night; for the artist seems to have caught,
with a remarkable inspiration, the gorgeous depths
of her eyes, and even in the canvas one sees the faint,
velvety shadows that gradually faded away from her
heavy black lashes.  This, probably, was what accentuated
their brilliancy and gave the effect of an inner,
glowing light.  As she faced the others and felt their
admiration, the excitement rushed over her again, and
for a moment she was dazzling.

Dicey was the first to turn from her and gaze
towards the window.

"Do you see them coming, Mammy?" Natalia
asked, still before the mirror.

"No, ma'am, dey's all done quit comin'," came
Dicey's low murmur.

Natalia turned swiftly towards Mrs. Houston,
searching her face for some sign of anxiety.  She
found none.

"You all go downstairs and entertain the people,"
she said at last.  "Mammy will stay here with me
until Morgan comes."

"I *do hope* they will come soon," Millicent said,
kissing Natalia for the tenth time.  "I'm terribly
impatient and flustered, and I always get so red in
the face when I am excited."

"It will not be long now," Mrs. Houston said
cheerfully, "I sent Felix for them an hour ago, and
you may be sure he will find them.  I'll send you word,
dear, as soon as I see them coming."

Left alone with Dicey, Natalia turned slowly back
to the mirror and looked at herself a long time.  The
veil was still thrown back from her face, and in the
soft glow of the candles, the reflection gained a vague,
misty charm.

During the long silence the sound of fiddling
floated up to the room.  Surely he had come now!
That was the reason for the music.  As she listened,
the music faded softly and finally stopped altogether.
Still there was no sound of a carriage on the driveway.
Finally she sank into a chair and looked at Dicey,
who was peering intently through the shutters.  Then
she glanced at the clock.  It was exactly eight—the
marriage hour.  The fiddling began again, and
mingling with it, the sounds of laughter in the garden
and the swishing of silks along the veranda.

She rose from the chair, walking about the room,
while the clock ticked off the minutes relentlessly.  In
the stillness of the room her voice sounded harsh and
unnatural.

"Mammy—do you see him coming?"

Dicey did not answer nor move from her position.

"Mammy—come here!"

The old slave held up her hand cautiously.

"Wait—I sees er kerridge."

Natalia laughed happily.

"How foolish I've been!  I was actually getting nervous!"

"Dey is drivin' mighty slow—sh-h—dar's er man
lyin' 'cross de back seat—sumthin's done happen."

Natalia rushed toward the window and threw the
shutters wide apart.  In the glow of the illuminations
she saw the occupants of the carriage distinctly.
Judge Houston and another man sat on the front
seat; on the back seat, lying outstretched, was a limp
figure, the face covered with a handkerchief.

She rushed to the door and out into the hall,
pausing half-way down the steps when she saw the men
carrying the helpless form into the parlour.  She stood
there, as if frozen lifeless, the crowded hall unseen,
the curious glances of the guests unnoticed.  Then,
when the muffled stillness was broken by a shriek,
she moved one step further.  It was Mrs. Jervais'
voice that had resounded through the crowded house.

It was then that Judge Houston came out of the
parlour and closed the door after him.  Signalling the
crowd to fall back, he went towards the steps.
Natalia had reached him now, her hands clinging to him
in sudden trembling.

"Is it Morgan—in there?"

The old gentleman shook his head, and looking
down into Natalia's pallid, quivering face framed by
the wedding veil, he drew her close to him.

"No—it is Lemuel Jervais."

"And Morgan—where is he?"

Judge Houston did not reply at once.  Putting his
arm about Natalia, and motioning away the staring
crowd, he led her down the hall to a deserted place
on the back veranda, where the wedding supper was
already on the table and the candles blazing.

"They had a difficulty over cards—Morgan and
Jervais," the old gentleman spoke in a low voice.
"When I got there Lemuel was—dead.  If I could
only have gotten there sooner!" he ended, his whole
figure shaking with emotion.

Natalia leaned heavily against the wall.

"Where is Morgan?" she finally asked.

"There was only one place for him to go to—the
jail.  It seems to have been a very bitter fight,—the
slavery question was at the back of it,—you know the
type of Jervais' followers.  I knew the jail was the
only safe place for him—I was powerless to stem the
crowd."

"Is he safe—now?"

"Yes."

Suddenly Natalia tore the veil from her head and
threw it away from her.

"Will you take me to him, Uncle Felix—now—at once?"

The old gentleman drew back, startled by her vehemence.

"Not to-night, Natalia.  It is no place for you."

For a second her eyes flashed into his.

"If he is in danger I want to face it with him!
Will you go with me?  Or shall I go alone?"





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.. _`ORANGE BLOSSOMS AND PRISON BARS`:

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   CHAPTER VIII


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   ORANGE BLOSSOMS AND PRISON BARS

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The fiddles were hushed.  The sounds of gaiety
and laughter died on the lips of the merry throng.
The guests rushed for their wraps; word was sent to
awaken the slaves and harness the horses for the hasty
departure; everywhere were the subdued murmurs
and confusion of the dismayed gathering.

Through it all Judge Houston and Natalia went
calmly to the carriage, the startled crowd falling back
with averted faces, letting them pass in silence.

Natalia sank into the carriage, exhausted and
trembling.  The strain of the last hour, with its
culmination, had brought to her a relinquishing of all
restraint.  She found herself clinging to Judge
Houston's arm as if in some way the mere contact with
another would bring back her usual strength and
composure.  They had passed into the highway before
either of them spoke.

"Are you sure that he is safe—that I am not too
late?"  The words trembled through her lips.

"I am positive of it," Judge Houston answered,
forcing his words to speak encouragement.  "The
jail was the best place possible to take him.  Indeed,
it was the only safe place.  You know the reputation
of the lower element of this town, and Lemuel always
had a strong following among them.  He has often
admitted they were his political backing.  And this
trouble between him and Morgan was what made me
fear some sort of an outbreak.  You see—at the
bottom of it all, was some argument about slavery."  The
old man drew down his brows thoughtfully.  "It
seems to be developing into a curse upon our heads.
God knows where it will lead us!  And Morgan was
unwise—he spoke out his views too literally—his
statements aroused ill-feeling in others, so that his
attitude now is telling against him."  He stopped
abruptly and pressed Natalia's hand.  "I tell you all
this," he continued more calmly, "to show you why
I thought the jail a safe place.  If there should be an
unusual excitement, the restlessness of the mob would
be quelled by the State's protection.  I would not leave
him, even to come to you, until I knew he was
perfectly safe."

A light wind had risen with the night, and from the
south there came a sea of racing, mackerel clouds.
The night was intensely dark.  Except for the flicker
of the carriage lanterns and the few stars that shone
through the breaks in the clouds, their surroundings
were indistinguishable.

"I can't bear the thought of him there, surrounded
by enemies, and I, out here—safe and protected.
Why didn't you come for me sooner, Uncle Felix!"
Natalia cried.  "Drive faster, Zebby!  Lash the
horses!"

Though the carriage rocked from side to side, and
the horses were galloping at their utmost speed, urged
on by the singing whip, it seemed to Natalia they were
dragging along inch by inch.

At last she loosened her hold of Judge Houston's
arm and leaned back against the cushions.

"My wedding night!" she murmured, covering her
face with her hands.  "My wedding night!"

Finally the lights of the town twinkled down the road.

"Here is the town, Natalia," Judge Houston cried,
putting his arm across her shoulders and drawing her
to him.  "We shall be there in a few minutes now and
you will see that he is safe, as I told you."

Zebediah cracked his whip incessantly, and in a few
minutes more the suburbs had been passed and the
street lights were about them.  The town seemed
utterly deserted, a quiet gloom hovering over the
darkened houses, until they drew near the Mansion House
Tavern.  Here people were standing in excited groups.
A block beyond the street was a seething mass of men.
Standing on the fence of the courthouse yard, a rough,
savage faced man was inciting the crowd, gesticulating
wildly to make himself heard above the noise.
There was a deep, vibrating murmur rising from the
crowd, filling the air with a foreboding sound.  On all
sides one could read plainly indignation and violent
antagonism.

Judge Houston's face grew pale and set as they
drew nearer the jail.  One glance at the crowd had
told him what it represented.  Already the mutterings
of that great trouble which was a few years later to
separate a united country, had begun to spread; into
the midst of these people had come a man from the
centre of the opposition country, who had proclaimed
his beliefs and fought for them, killing his opponent
in the difficulty.  The feeling of the masses centred
against this stranger.

The old gentleman who had weathered the years of
pioneer life and had seen the deep-rooted evil
widening the breach, knew that Morgan Talbot's life hung
in the balance.  The crowd about him bespoke its
ingredients—the lower elements of the town, inflamed
by the followers of Jervais into a recklessness that
meant almost anything.  He also realized that the best
element—the friends he could call upon to defend
Talbot—were all guests at the wedding and had not
yet returned to the town.

"I cyant go no fudder, Jedge."

Zebediah's whisper broke upon Judge Houston's
great fear.  He stood up in the carriage and surveyed
the crowd.  It was dense up to the gate of the jail
yard.  In that moment it rushed over him that the
sight of Natalia might have some effect upon the
crowd.  He glanced at her quickly and saw that she
was determined and self-controlled.

"We shall have to walk—take my arm—now."

Taking one of the lanterns that hung to the dashboard
of the carriage, and holding it in his hand so
that the light fell full upon Natalia, showing distinctly
her white gown and jewels, Judge Houston half led,
half pushed her into the midst of the crowd.

The effect was as he had expected.  The crowd
turned and looked at them; a whispered exclamation
followed; then, during an ominous silence, a pathway
was made for them, through which they passed to the
gate of the jail yard.

There the keeper laid a detaining hand on Judge
Houston's arm.  "If it comes to the worst—if they
make a rush, we are powerless!"

"Keep them back until our friends return to town."

The old gentleman's voice rang with a new firmness.
"They all know and are coming to our assistance.
I shall be back here in a minute and stand by you."

"Is it as bad as that?" Natalia asked so quietly
that Judge Houston looked searchingly into her face.
In her expression he saw the look that always comes
into the faces of the brave.

"No, I don't believe they will do anything—they
wouldn't dare!  They are not so violent as they look."

At the end of the walk they stood at last before the
jail door.  When they had passed within and Natalia
heard the bolt shoot into place, and knew that the
threatening crowd without was separated from her
by the heavy iron door, she leaned against it for
renewed strength.  Then, taking Judge Houston's
outstretched hand, she followed him down the dimly lit
corridor, only vaguely aware that she would find
Morgan in such a place.  Still gripping the outstretched
hand she followed the old man into the cell.

Morgan Talbot and Joel were outlined against the
window.  From without came the subdued murmur of
the multitude so that they did not hear the door open.
Suddenly Morgan turned and faced them.  Starting
back, he looked from Natalia to Judge Houston, his
eyes bloodshot and staring.

For a minute no one spoke.

"Why did you bring her?" Morgan's voice came
harshly.  "Don't you know what that crowd out
there means?  You could have spared her this at
least!"

He motioned to the window where Joel still leaned
against the bars, listening intently.  There was no
look of affection as he glanced from Natalia to the old
man; it was hardly one of recognition.

Natalia moved quickly across the floor, putting both
hands upon his shoulders.

"He brought me because I would not stay away,
Morgan.  Do you think I could have left you in this
awful crowd?"  Her voice broke and she began to
tremble violently.  "Morgan—what did you do?
How did it happen?"

"How did it happen!"  He stared down into her
face, his hands hanging limp at his sides, his voice
hard and grating.  "How did it happen?  Don't you
know?  I am a murderer!"

With the words Natalia shuddered and withdrew
her hands.

"No!  No! don't say that!  Don't use that word! it
was an accident.  I know it was—tell me so!"

Talbot continued to stare at her strangely.  When
she drew away from him, he laughed abruptly.

"I knew *that* would make you feel differently," he
said almost in a whisper, as if to himself.  "I knew it
would kill your love for me," he ended with a sob.

Natalia lifted her head proudly.  Instantly her hands
were clinging to him again, and her voice as she spoke
to him deepened vibrantly.

"*Nothing* could alter my love, Morgan.  I have
come here to convince you of that.  Look at me!  Can't
you see?"

Judge Houston went quietly across the room and
taking Joel by the arm, led him to the door.  They
went out noiselessly, unnoticed by the others.  "Look
here, Joel," said the Judge as they stood in the
corridor, "I want you to realize with me that public feeling
will probably affect the verdict of the coroner's jury.
We have a big battle ahead of us."  The young fellow
shook his head sadly.

"Don't you see, Morgan?" Natalia within was saying
to Morgan, her voice rising as she strove to force
some response into his eyes.  "Don't you see I am in
my wedding dress?  I came as soon as Uncle Felix
told me."

He stared at her a long time, the wild, hunted look
gradually dying out, leaving only an expression of
dumb misery.

"Natalia!  Natalia!" he murmured at last, as if
realizing for the first time that it was she.
"Natalia—that is your wedding dress!  Oh, my God!"
he cried out, turning away from her and leaning
against the wall.  "It can never be
now—never—never!"  Then came the dry, hard sobs of a man
who sees nothing but despair before him.

Natalia did not attempt to stop him.  When he
sank on to the cot, his face buried in his hands, she
went and sat beside him, her eyes dry and glowing.
She knew a more soothing relief had come to him
than any words she might employ.

As they sat there, the folds of her wedding dress
falling about them, the candles burned low, until only
a ghostly gleam sparkled upon her necklace of pearls
and sapphires.

Gradually the low murmuring without grew fainter
and fainter, then died away entirely.  The silence
about them deepened; yet neither of them moved.
The minutes raced along.  Once, Natalia rose and
lighted another candle, the first one having burned
into its socket.

At last, when Morgan lifted his face to hers, he
found its beauty and quiet encouragement a continuance
of the peace her presence had brought him.

"Natalia," he whispered, "you love me still?  It
has made no difference?"

She smiled at him bravely.

"*Nothing* could."

"Are you honest with me, Natalia—or is it only pity?"

For answer she leaned forward and kissed him.

"Then it is true," he said, drawing her hand into
his, his face brightening for a second.  Then again,
crept back the look of deep misery.  "I believe you
still love me, Natalia, but we cannot be married now.
No, I wouldn't ask it of you.  I love you too dearly
to have your life ruined by being tied to a *murderer*."

"Don't use that word, Morgan.  Please don't use
it.  You are not a murderer.  It was all an accident.
Am I not right?  Tell me about it and I can show you
with your own words that I am right."

Morgan stretched his hands out on the cot, his
fingers moving nervously in an incessant thumping.

"We spoke of it that morning—*this* morning," he
added.  "It seems a thousand years ago now!  I was
telling you about our game of poker at the tavern,
don't you remember?  To-day it was the same all
over again.  He had not raised the money,—he had
only brought the slaves themselves to pay his gambling
debts.  One he pointed out, as worthy to pay any
man's debts—a mulatto girl, a pitiful, beautiful little
creature that wept as she was brought before us.  I
told Jervais that I played cards with gentlemen for
pleasure and not for traffic in human souls!  I told him
he was insulting me."  He stopped a moment and
shuddered.  "It all happened very quickly.  He struck
me a blow—I returned it.  Then I saw him draw
his pistol and spring on me.  His hands were about
my neck when I had gotten the pistol out of his grasp.
As they tightened I knew I was going to kill him.  I
can feel his hands loosening now, after the report.
Great God!  I can feel him slipping down, and down,
until he lay dead on the floor before me!"  He rose
suddenly from the cot and stretched out both arms
helplessly before him.

Natalia listened intently.  Not an inflection of his
voice escaped her.  When he finished she met his eyes
resolutely.

"It was not your fault.  You did not do it
intentionally.  It was self defence."

"But I knew I was going to kill him.  I knew it all
the time."

"Yes, but you had to!  No one could blame you!
You are as innocent as I!  The law will protect you."

Morgan gazed at her a long time in silence.

"Natalia,—help me to do what is right.  It rests
with you to make it easier for me.  Don't come back
here any more after to-night.  Don't let me see you
again.  This must be the last time, dear."

He went to the cot where she still sat and looked
down into her eyes.

"I am going away if I am liberated, and I am never
going to see you again.  It is the only way I can prove
my love to you,—the only thing that would be just
to you."

Natalia's eyes wavered from his burning glance.
Suddenly she rose and went to the door, her face
illumined by a wonderful smile.

"Where are you going, Natalia," Morgan exclaimed.

She did not answer.  Knocking on the door until
it was opened, she faced Judge Houston and Joel
calmly.

"Uncle Felix, I wish our marriage to be performed
to-night.  Will you send for a minister?"

Judge Houston looked at her, startled, then his eyes
sought Talbot's for an explanation.  Coming back
again to Natalia's, he saw the decision was hers.

"Would it not be better to wait until to-morrow?"
he suggested, quickly aware of incongruity in such a
marriage.

"No, it is not a time for waiting.  I must prove to
Morgan that this has made no difference in my love
for him."

Finally the old gentleman turned away from her,
reading the force in her face that brooked no interference.
When he was at the door he heard Morgan speaking.

"Stop!" he commanded.  "I refuse to be married
to-night.  Natalia does not know what she is doing."

"You both see I am perfectly calm," she said,
turning to Joel and Judge Houston.  "I desire above
everything that we shall be married to-night.  I beg
of you—Morgan—"

Morgan shook his head with a determination that
was greater than hers.  With the decision his face
gained some of its lost brilliancy.  He became once
more the handsome, virile man of that morning.

"When I am a free man, Natalia—when I am
cleared—if you still wish it then—not before.  I
am determined."

The four of them were silent for a few moments.
So much was at stake at that moment that each one
felt the trembling of the future within his hands.  At
last Judge Houston stepped forward and wrung Morgan's hand.

"You are right, Morgan," he said, with his eyes
bent admiringly upon the young man.  "You are a
brave fellow."  Then he turned to Natalia.  "Everything
outside is quiet.  The danger has subsided and
I think it is time we were going back home."

"Must I go?" Natalia started, and turned swiftly
back to Morgan.  "Had we not better stay longer?  I
don't want to leave you, Morgan."

Judge Houston went towards the door.  Holding
his watch in his hand, he looked at it intently for
several minutes.

"It is after two o'clock."  He finally turned to
Natalia and drew her away with him.  "It will be
better for Morgan to rest, and you, too.  We should
only excite him by staying longer.  Take my advice,
Natalia."

"Yes, go," Morgan urged, smiling bravely as she
drew back at the door and looked appealingly to him.
"I am all right now.  See how quiet I am!  It was
brave of you to come, Natalia.  God bless you both!"
he ended with a break in his voice.

"We shall come back in the morning," Judge Houston
said, attempting a cheerful tone.  "Try to get
a little sleep, and don't think too much about it.
Joel—you make him rest.  Everything will come out
all right in the end—take my word for it."

Natalia broke from his hold, and ran back to Morgan,
clinging to him as if it were their last parting.

"I shall not sleep," she whispered, her head buried
on his shoulder.  "I shall be thinking of you all the
time—thinking of you and praying for you.  And
early in the morning I am coming back."

A moment more and the iron door had been
slammed and bolted between them.

.. vspace:: 2

Outside the night had grown cool.  Gusts of wind
blew through the trees, ominously; across the sky the
clouds drifted in restless, ever-changing forms.

Natalia was silent as she went out to the carriage,
raising her eyes only once to glance furtively at the
deserted street.  Everything was strangely still now.
No one was in sight, where a short while before was
a murmuring throng.

The old man sitting beside her in the carriage could
find no words to break the silence of the long drive
home.  Only by the affectionate pressure of his hand
did Natalia know that his thoughts were continually
of her.

A single light was burning in the hall when the
carriage stopped before the house.  The veranda and
grove were deserted, the illuminations of the garden
had been extinguished, and just beginning to show
in the fitful light of the late moon were the ghostly
blossoms of the magnolias.

Mrs. Houston and Millicent came to the door at
the sound of the carriage, meeting them before they
had entered the house.

"Is he safe?" Millicent cried.

"Yes, he is safe," Natalia answered, dully.  Then
turning to Mrs. Houston, she asked, "Where is she?"

The old lady looked towards the door.

"She is in there," nodding in the direction of the
parlour.  "She has not left his side since they placed
him there.  She would let no one stay with her."

Natalia hesitated, as she entered the hall, and stood
irresolutely before the closed door.

"I must say something to her.  It is only right.
Yet—" she clasped her hands helplessly, searching
the faces before her as if for some assistance.
"Yet—*what* can I say?"

Standing there helplessly, she did not hear the
parlour door open, nor see Mrs. Jervais motionlessly
looking at her.  Her face was not tear-stained.  Only in
her eyes did the others read a grief which had already
crystallized into a brilliant hardness, emanating from
her like the diamond cross that sparkled on her breast.
She did not move from her position in the doorway,
all the time gazing at Natalia with a concentrated
expression that gathered intensity as she waited.

Suddenly Natalia turned and saw her.  Holding out
her arms impetuously she made a step towards her—then
stopped.  The other woman's face repelled her.

"What can I say—what can I tell you?" Natalia
murmured.  "You must know how I feel for you—how
I suffer with you."

Mrs. Jervais' eyes seemed to be burning into the
girl before her.

"Suffer!  What do you know of that?  Why should
you suffer?  You have not lost the one you
love—yet."  She stopped abruptly, lending a sharp accent
to the last word.

Natalia drew back.  The implied suggestion seemed
to scream at her from the woman's blazing eyes.

"If it were not for you he would still be
here."  Mrs. Jervais made a step nearer.  "You asked me to
come here and do this for you.  I did, and what has
it brought me—death!  It is accursed—this place
of your ancestors.  So were they—*all* of them!
When they lived here it brought them nothing but
death.  It drove your mother to madness.  And
now—" her voice in its calmness grew even more
sinister, "it will bring its curse upon *you*.  Do you
think a *murderer* could bring you any happiness?"

Natalia shrank back from her, reaching out for the
steadying hand of Judge Houston.

"Mrs. Jervais," he expostulated gently, "Natalia
is suffering, too.  You forget that in your own grief.
Have you no kind words for her?"

"It is no time for kind words, Felix Houston.  It
is only bitterness and hatred that I have now!  Why
should I feel kindly towards a woman who has brought
a man here that he might kill my husband?  When
she has lost as I have, then I shall be kind, perhaps!
And it will not be long that she will wait!  I shall not
leave a stone unturned to punish with death the one
who caused it."

She turned abruptly back into the room and closed
the door.  In the intense stillness of the house the key
grated harshly in the lock, as she turned it.  Without
a word Mrs. Houston put her arm around Natalia
and led her toward the stairs.  When she stood on
the steps Natalia turned and faced them.

"Don't any of you come with me," she said faintly.
"I must be alone.  No, Millicent, not to-night.  I only
want to be alone now."  And turning from them, she
walked slowly up the stairs, clinging to the rail to
steady herself while the others stood silently watching her.

Opening the door, the flickering light of a candle
burned far into its socket greeted her.  At first she
stopped in the centre of the room, her hands clasped
vise-like, while the excitement and strain gradually
dropped away from her, leaving only a wave of utter
weariness.  She sank into a chair near the massive,
four-post bed, gazing listlessly at her wedding veil
and bouquet of gardenias which lay carelessly upon
the sheets where they had been thrown.  Vaguely she
felt their significance; in a way they represented her
wedding day—the day that had dawned so brilliantly,
and was now only a crumpled, withered memory.

A rasping pain shot through her, and leaning
forward she pressed both hands to her temples.  Was this
the real side of life that had come to her at last?  Was
this what she had so yearned for—a grappling with
things that counted?  Ah, no, it could not be that, for
this was only despair and horror.  Suddenly she
shivered violently with the thought that perhaps she was
no better fitted to combat it than her mother had been.

A weird, ghostly light on her bride's veil drew her
back once more to her surroundings.  Looking up she
saw the pale outline of the window against the dark
room.  With the realization that another day was
dawning, there rushed over her for the first time, in
its full meaning, the horrifying thought that her lover
had killed a man.  Hitherto the excitement had kept
her from any analysis of her own emotions—everything
had been swept aside in the thought of Morgan.
But now, facing her pitilessly, was the awful necessity
of introspection, of seeing the situation from her
viewpoint, of being honest with herself.  *Would* it make
any difference to her?  A feeling of self-hate swept
over her that she should consider herself in the least.
Yet, fight against it as she would, the question
insistently remained.  But there would be time enough for
all such thoughts after the trial.  The trial!
Mrs. Jervais' words rang in her ears again.  She started at
the thought.  Would Morgan be cleared?  Was there
any doubt?  The horror of her fancies choked her and
she rose from her chair as if seeking something that
moment, that would aid her.

As she turned towards the window, her eyes fell
upon Dicey, sitting upright in a chair against the wall,
her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes staring straight
into her own.  The old slave had kept the vigil with
her mistress.

Dicey rose and made towards her.

"Will yer go ter bed, now, honey?"  Her voice
was very low, caressing and gentle.  "Hit'll soon be
day and yer ought ter tak er lil res'."

"Rest!  I can't, Mammy.  I must do something to
help him.  He is to be tried for murder!  He must
be saved.  Oh, Mammy," her voice broke with a sob.
"What can I do?"

She went to the window and raised it, letting the
chill breeze of the daybreak blow upon her face and
neck.  All the world in its dreary greyness spoke to
her only of despair and death.  Finally she felt Dicey's
arm about her, gently drawing her back from the
window.  The strange look of visions was alive in
the old slave's eyes once more, more burning and
intense than ever.

"Yer kin sabe him, honey-chile, easy 'nuff," she
whispered.  "All yer got ter do is ter sen' word to
Marse Sargent ter cum an' 'fend him."

A weary smile flitted across Natalia's lips as she
thought of the old woman's love for her master.  Then
her face grew serious again.

"I'll do *anything*, Mammy.  But he is not here.
Where can I find him?"

"Yer jes' write de letter an' I'll make Jonas—dat's
his body-servant—fetch hit ter him.  I knows whar
his wharbouts is.  I'se been er keepin' up wid him
for fo' days.  Yer writes de letter an' he'll git hit ter
him."

Natalia stared at her a moment, then going quickly
to her desk, pulled out her portfolio.  When the paper
was spread before her she paused, thoughtfully.

"How strange," she said half aloud.  "I remember
it so distinctly now.  He told me if I ever needed
him—" her lips curved into the smile of the little
girl, and the tears fell fast upon the sheet of paper.

Before the address was dry, Dicey was flying with
it towards the town.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE HONOURABLE SARGENT EVERETT`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE HONOURABLE SARGENT EVERETT

.. vspace:: 2

In a little village, far off in the eastern part of the
State, a great crowd was assembling.  The planters
and their wives and children, every one from the
adjoining counties, were going into the village that
morning.  Some rode horses; others mules; some
were in crude wagons without springs; others in old
coaches no longer fit for regular service; and many
on foot—all of them followed by their favourite
slaves.  It was to be a great day in the lives of these
simple country folk.  Tidings had gone forth that the
great lawyer was to speak to them that day, telling
them all about their rights; explaining to them the
mysteries of their great Constitution, and the
importance of proper representation.  Every man felt it his
special duty to hear what was going to be said, and
although this celebrated lawyer was not of their
political beliefs, being a Whig while the county was
Democratic, they were glad of the opportunity to hear a
man speak, whose name was becoming a byword
throughout the State.  Though un-lettered, hard-fisted
woodland patriots caring little for the outside
world except in what would bring them absolute freedom,
they were still keenly alive to the needs and laws
that would open their great forests to the civilized world.

And while the sun rose higher and the brilliance of
the June morning deepened, and the crowd grew
larger and more impatient, the man who had caused
all this interest sat in the cool shade of a veranda,
looking steadily out before him through deeply
brooding eyes.

It was a beautiful scene of wide, luxuriant cotton
fields, stretching out before him.  Nearby, a garden
of luxuriant flowers, guarded by smoothly clipped box
hedges, filled the air with a delicious fragrance.

Beside him on the veranda, comfortably lounging
in a spacious rocking chair, sat his host, Colonel
Pickram; a portly old gentleman, bluff and hearty, and
red of face.  Beyond, through the open window, came
the laughter and gay chatter of the two daughters of
the house, healthy, comely girls who moved about the
room, giving directions for what was to be a sumptuous
dinner.

Colonel Pickram gazed at his guest under questioning
brows.  The great lawyer was not to-day as he
had known him before.  The virility and life seemed
to have lessened in him since the last visit; he was
no longer the sparkling conversationalist he had known
before; the winning humour that had drawn every
one to him was gone.  As he sat there silent, his hands
clasped en his knees, his eyes full of a sad expression
of yearning, even the dull perception of the self-satisfied
farmer was aware that he was not himself.

"Mr. Everett," Colonel Pickram broke the long
silence, "you've been working too hard on the
campaign.  It's telling on you.  I reckon you're mighty
glad to-morrow's the last day."

Everett looked up abstractedly.

"Yes—I'm glad to-morrow sees the end of this
trip—and yet," he drew himself together
responsively, "it has been a wonderful experience.
Whenever I get nearer to the people and begin to like them
all the more after I know them, and find them liking
me—I feel that I have accomplished so much more
than merely winning their votes.  That is what I love
in this work—the winning of friends.  And then,
Colonel," he glanced almost affectionately at his
surroundings, "being in a home like this always gives
me such pleasant memories to carry away with me.
Still, it makes me very homesick at times."  His voice
lowered again and the sadness crept back into his eyes.
"It takes me back to my old home days.  I'd give
almost anything to be back there to-day.  But this
ambition!"  He sighed, a half humourous, half sorrowful
expression twisting his lips.  "It is wonderful
what it will make us give up."

The Colonel crossed one leg deliberately over the
other, blowing a long line of smoke between them.

"Well, sir, I've often wondered if the game of
politics was worth the candle.  Here I am, with my
two fine lassies, as good girls as you'll ever find in any
country, and a plain home, but it's comfortable enough,
and plenty of slaves and mules to make a crop and
pay my bills.  It's all I want and I'm right happy—just
as contented as if I owned the world.  But then—I'm
old and you're young.  I look back and you look
forward.  That's what makes the difference, I reckon."

"But you are right, Colonel, and I am wrong.  All
a fellow works for in this life is a happy home; and
it seems I'm never going to have that—at least the
kind I mean, the complete one.  It gets further and
further away as I get older.  I used to say that when
I was thirty I would have all those I loved about me.
Look at me now!"  He spread out his hands futilely.
"I'm nearly thirty, living alone, a bachelor, and many
times, for all my gay spirits and friends, terribly
lonely."

"You ought to get married.  Why don't you?
There are plenty of nice girls everywhere."

Everett winced and turned abruptly away.  When
he spoke again his face was towards the cotton fields.
"But they don't want a cripple for a husband," he
answered the old man's remark.  "They want a man
of fine proportions, who will do them credit when they
are seen together.  They want one who—" he
narrowed his eyes a moment, and in them came the
tenderness of bygone days, "—who will go to church
with them, and send them beautiful nosegays and take
them to dances."  He ended, smiling upon the
Colonel's surprised countenance.  "I once heard a woman
say, Colonel," he began again, more seriously, "that
she chose her husband because he looked well in a
ball-room.  And I don't blame her—perfection and
beauty are the greatest factors in our lives."

The old Colonel smiled over his pipe.

"I'm afraid, Mr. Everett, that you are a much
better lawyer than a judge of the ladies.  I have a
higher opinion of them than you have.  They are not
half so silly as you paint them."

"You misunderstand me, Colonel," Everett answered
hurriedly.  "I revere them more than any
man.  But they love the beautiful in life, and they are
beautiful themselves.  My bitterness comes only from
my inability to give them what they demand."

Colonel Pickram grunted sarcastically.

"You can give them a good deal, I think.  I'd like
to see the woman who wouldn't be satisfied to be a
Congressman's wife and spend her winters in Washington.
The trouble with you, Mr. Everett, and you'll
pardon me for saying it, is that you've never been in
love."

Sargent rose from his chair almost abruptly.
Walking to the end of the veranda and back again, he
faced Colonel Pickram, smiling down into the rough
old fellow's face as if he were much his elder.

"Perhaps you are right, Colonel," he said, taking
out his watch.  "Time's up, however, so we had better
drop dreaming and be on our way to grapple with
politics."

Squaring his shoulders and throwing back his head,
a gesture of his earlier days that clung to him still,
Sargent threw off the melancholy of the past day, and
became once more the man who charmed people by the
thousands.  Colonel Pickram noticed the quick change
and pondered over it.  "Big men were curious
creatures," he reflected.  "They could jump from one
mood into another just as easily as a travelling
magician he saw last week, could change a rabbit into a
pocket handkerchief."

As they passed across the meadow, towards the
village, the signal of their approach was given.  The
multitude left their lunches, and hurried towards the
platform from which the speech was to be made.

Every one's neck was craned to catch the first
glimpse of the two men as they approached.  One
they knew well, though in his linen waistcoat and
Sunday stock—which had already wellnigh brought
on an attack of apoplexy—Colonel Pickram did not
look familiar.  They noticed the slow and pompous
dignity with which he moved beside the stranger, and
felt instinctively that he considered this the proudest
day of his life.  The man beside him walked with the
aid of a cane and dragged one foot slightly after him.
The crowd stared.  Was it possible that this unobtrusive
young man, in a black coat and chimney-pot
hat, could be the one they had heard so much about?
They looked at him curiously, drawn unconsciously by
his kindly dark eyes, and the winning smile upon his
handsome face.  But he did not represent to them a
political champion.  Some mistake had been made.
They were evidently the dupes of some jest that had
been played upon them.

While they speculated over the matter, Colonel
Pickram led the young man to a place before the
platform where the crowd pressed closest.  Here a few
introductions were made, after which the word went
over the gathering, that the small, limping man was
really Sargent Everett.

As they waited, he climbed the steps of the platform
and looked down into the crowd of faces.  With the
removal of his hat, his aspect changed suddenly.  He
looked taller, the high polished forehead lent a dignity
and breadth to his whole physique.  The enthusiasm
and intellect that always glowed in his eyes when he
faced an audience gave out sparks of magnetism that
quieted the waiting throng into an inspiring audience.

During the ensuing moments of waiting it seemed
to them that the warmth and friendliness of his glance
was shed upon each one of them individually.  When
his lips parted and his opening words came forth—

.. vspace:: 2

"FELLOW CITIZENS!  By the Father of Waters I
have used this greeting; on the banks of the great
Ohio I have spoken it; here I say it again, and many
hundreds of miles east of us, west of us, north of us,
I can still employ these words and thrill with the
knowledge that before me are—'My fellow citizens.'"

.. vspace:: 2

—the crowd fell under the spell of the man's
electrifying talent and listened with bated breath.

Seeing him then one would have said that he was
the same as when he had made that wonderful speech
that convicted the highwayman; the one who had led
so forcibly in the Legislature when the State's new
Constitution was formulated; who had thrilled many
audiences in New Orleans; who had made his name
sound far into the North when he had conducted a
famous trial in Kentucky.  And he had been the same,
years making no change except to deepen and intensify
his genius, until a few months before, when, almost
indescribably, yet vividly discernible to his intimates,
a difference had come.  The world did not know; he
was still lighthearted and buoyant to it; but to those
who loved him best when alone with him, there was a
strange loss of youth in his countenance, an abstraction,
almost a lessening of that spontaneous sympathy
which was such a potent ingredient of his charm.  But
in his public life there was no difference.  Standing
before a crowd, and meeting its warm, inspiring
glances, any thought of personal effort was lost.  He
became a wonderful machine which throbbed and
pulsated with the dynamic force of a great mind.

So it was that day before the gathering in the little
village.  Though before his speech he had sunk deep
into a valley of shadows and knew well it would be
the same again when the excitement had died out,
now that he was facing them, he was only aware of
the powerful influence that always made him charm
his audience.

He made only a few gestures as he spoke, and even
then, the expression of his face and the movement of
his hands were perfectly attuned to the subject.  There
was nothing theatrical; one saw and understood the
general effect only.  There was no time for any
criticism or thought.  The words came in a constant
flowing sound and through them the magnetism of
the man glowed, reaching each listener with an
irresistible force that drew him with a surrendering of
beliefs, of convictions, of desires, often even against
his personal wish.  His face, illumined by the inward
fire of his imagination, grew steadily in beauty and
nobility, until it became fascinating with the brilliance
of the thoughts reflected through it.  His well moulded
features, showing clear-cut and perfect in the ivory
whiteness which had recently come to them, drew even
those who did not understand the wonderful flow of
words; indeed, in all his speeches this look of idealism
was ever uppermost—an expression which none of
the portrait painters of his day were able to reproduce.
When he realized that the attention of the audience
was his, he paused.  Then, with renewed energy, he
plunged deeper into his subject, and was reaching the
height to which his forensic talent swept him, when
an incident on the outskirts of the crowd caught his
attention.  Some one had just ridden up on a horse
and was trying to force his way through the crowd.
Evidently there was resistance on the part of the
listeners and voices were raised in protest against the
newcomer's insistence.  Then, several men pushed
aside and made a path for the man, and Sargent saw
a negro making his way slowly through the crowd
towards him.  As he drew nearer he recognized Jonas.
Climbing up the ladder to the platform the negro did
not hesitate one moment until he had thrust a letter
into-Sargent's hand.

Sargent stopped in the midst of the speech and
looked at Jonas, half frowning, half smiling at the
negro's temerity in reaching him through the crowd.

"Marse Sargent, please sah, read dat lettah—right
now, sah!  Hit's a mattah ob life an' death, sah!"

Sargent turned back to his audience, smiling.
"One moment, please," he said, laughing down into
the sea of upturned expectant faces, "I think my
opponents have put up some joke on me.  I want to read
it to you and then we can laugh over it together."  Then
he tore open the letter indifferently.

"Lawdy, I sho wuz glad ter heah yer voice, Marse
Sargent.  I'se been er gwine ober dis heah kentry fer
three days er sarchin' fer yer.  Ole Dicey tole me fer
ter git out on de road an' fin' yer an' ter gib yer dis
heah lettah.  She done said hit wuz a mattah ob life
an' death," Jonas ended panting, looking around on
the crowd and grinning with the success of his quest.

Sargent did not hear his words.  At the first glance
at the handwriting he had started.  While he read the
crowd waited breathlessly.  When he had finished he
turned to Colonel Pickram, his face flushed deeply, his
words coming with a rush.

"Colonel Pickram, I want your fastest horse.  I
must be in Natchez by Sunday."

"Of course you can have anything I've got.  Has
anything happened?"

"Yes—a great deal—for me."

Colonel Pickram noted the strangely flushed face
and was more deeply puzzled than ever.

"You forget to-morrow at Canton.  You are going
to meet your opponent there.  It is the deciding day.
You can't afford to miss that!  It's your big chance!"

Everett shook his head smiling.  When he answered
his eyes were full of the expression of a man who is
drunk with joy.

"No," he said, "my chance lies in Natchez next
week—the great chance of my life!"

Colonel Pickram looked at him amazed.  Had the
man lost his mind!

"But the people here!  Your speech!  They are
waiting for you to finish it!"

Sargent had already picked up his hat and cane.

"Tell them I am ill—that I cannot go on.  Tell
them anything, Colonel, I don't care what.  I can't
say anything more.  I haven't a moment to lose.
Good-bye to all of you!"





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.. _`THE LEAD OF HONOUR`:

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   CHAPTER X


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   THE LEAD OF HONOUR

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On and on through the country Sargent urged his
horse, followed closely by the faithful Jonas.  They
had stopped only for a change of horses and for food,
taking no rest until at the end of the second day he
realized that his wild impatience must be curbed or
the end of the journey would find him exhausted.

But the night's rest had brought him no peace;
the physical relaxation seemed to intensify the mental
excitement.  The few moments of sleep were but
agitated lurid dreams.  He would awaken from them
startled, with cold sweat upon his face and hands and
the two words ringing in his ears that had come
to him with Natalia's letter—"My chance!  My
chance!"

Early the next morning he resumed the journey
no calmer in the knowledge that before sunset he
would reach his destination.

The forest rang with the two words all through
the hot day; in the early morning the mists hovering
over the cotton fields whispered them to him; the
gallop of his horse beat then, into a rhythmic
insistence.  It was a throbbing, joyful sound, singing in
his ears, glowing in his face, crystallizing in his eyes.
It was the intervention of Fate, smiling upon him,
and telling him that his opportunity had come at last;
that it was the moment when the dreams and inspiration
of his youth would become a reality.  The last
months of hopelessness, when he had felt that the
loss of his ideal, the goal of all his plans, had slipped
from him, were forgotten in the thrilling thought that
all hope was not gone.  One more chance was left;
already he felt it to be the forerunner of happiness.

Always a man who lost himself in the grip of one
idea, he could see nothing else but that Natalia was
not yet married.  The fact that the marriage was
postponed because her lover, his old schoolmate, had
killed Lemuel Jervais, was all a vague background
to the other great certainty.  The outcome did not
intrude itself upon the theme that sounded so steadily
in his ears.  Nothing else counted until he could reach
her side and pour out all the pent-up yearnings of the
years and years that he had planned and builded and
waited for her.

When Natalia had gone away a little girl, leaving
behind her the fragrance of her charm, the lingering
notes of her sweet dependence, Sargent had treasured
her memory within his heart, keeping it alive and more
vividly before him by its very secrecy.  Only two knew
that beneath the success of the young lawyer there
was a strong, true hope that was leading him on
towards a future his dreams made perfect.  What
difference did it make to him when her letters
dwindled and finally ceased?  That was only natural in a
girl developing into womanhood.  Of course she
would forget for a while; that in itself would make
the memories and devotions of her childhood all the
stronger when she came back to them.  When the
letters to him had stopped coming and only occasionally
Mrs. Houston had received one, it was always a great
day to them.  The old lady would send for Sargent,
and reading aloud to him what Natalia had written,
they would end by planning for the wonderful time
when she would be coming back to them.  Then, at
last had come the letter concerning her marriage.
Mrs. Houston had not hesitated when she realized
the duty that lay before her, but in the choosing of
time and place, there was a subtle sympathy and
gentleness that expressed her nature completely.  She
had driven to Sargent's home in the late afternoon
and sending word for him to drive with her, had
gradually broached the subject, ending by reading the
letter.  They had driven home in silence amid the
gathering shadows, her hand on his, neither meeting
the other's saddened eyes.  Afterwards had come the
work of the campaign, into which Sargent threw
himself as never before, seeking vainly, through physical
and mental fatigue, forgetfulness.  Then, when his
intelligence, his humour, and his bitter disappointment
were struggling in a great fight to build up his
life as it had been before, Natalia's message came to
him.  Beside her, he could tell her of what the years
without her, yet so completely filled with her, had
meant to him.  She would listen, he kept repeating
over and over to himself; he would make her listen,
she would be powerless to combat his great love; it
was of such force that obstacles would be swept
before it as by a storm.  In the delirious happiness
of this obsession there was left no room for sane
thoughts.

Towards evening he rode into the town.  The
church bells were ringing their call to the evening
services, for it was Sunday.  The air was filled with
the last glow of liquid, golden sunlight; over all
Nature was spread the luxurious, lazy warmth of
summer.

Sargent did not spare his weary horse as he entered
the town; even then his impatience seemed to become
greater with his destination reached.  Riding directly
to Judge Houston's house, for he was not certain but
that he might find her with them, he threw his reins
to Jonas and dismounted.  Walking toward the house,
his habitual halting step grown more perceptible in
his exhaustion, he suddenly realized the strain he had
forced himself to undergo.  Yet, in his face still
glowed the beauty of his hope.  Fatigue and utter
weariness were powerless to affect its potency.

The servant told him that Judge Houston was just
preparing to drive back to the country; that he had
been in town all day.  Sargent found him in the
garden back of the house, his head bent forward in deep
thought.  With the quick straightening of his body
and the bright light in his eyes when he looked up,
Sargent knew that his coming had brought a great
relief.

"I am glad they found you, Sargent," he exclaimed.
"Natalia told me she had written you.  We
need you, boy—we need all the help we can get."

Sargent held the old man's hand while he searched
his eyes.

"Where is she now?" he almost whispered.

"Natalia?  At her home.  Maria and I are staying
out there with her."

Judge Houston drew his hand away slowly, his
brows wrinkling into an expression of bewilderment
as he noted more closely the flushed face before him.
Suddenly he put out his hand and motioned Sargent
to sit on the bench beside him.  His voice trembled
slightly when he spoke.

"Do you know what has happened?"

"Yes—she wrote me—and asked me to come
and save Morgan!"

"Do you know what she meant?"

Sargent glanced up.  The old man's hand was
shaking as it rested on his shoulder, and in his
eyes there had come quickly an expression of sharp
pain.

"Do you know what she meant?" he repeated,
almost harshly.

"Yes, of course—but why—"

Sargent's voice failed him.  His old friend had
read his hope and in his face now was speaking the
suffering that he knew was coming.  In the moment
of silence Sargent faced the old man squarely.

"You mean—" he said, his voice cold and hard.
Already his happiness of the past two days was
stealing away from him.

"She loves Morgan Talbot with her whole intense
nature.  If he is not saved I fear almost anything.
You know her mother's end?  It is your chance,
Sargent—"

"My chance!"  Sargent stood up, repeating the
words that had rung in his ears for so many hours,
though now the accent spoke of dead hope.  Still
saying them over to himself as if seeking for some
hidden meaning in the mere sound of the words, he
left Judge Houston and walked to the far end of the
garden.

The old gentleman followed him, finally standing
beside him when he leaned on the fence.

After a long silence, his glance still riveted on the
ground before him, Sargent spoke:

"Are you quite sure?" he murmured.  "There
might be some mistake—yet."

Judge Houston moved nearer him, his whole face
showing his surprise.  It was a phase of Sargent's
character that he had not seen before.

"I was not certain until I carried her to the jail
to see Morgan," he said slowly.  "That night I knew
he meant everything to her.  It was a silly dream of
ours ever to hope for anything else.  As well as we
knew her, we should have been sure of her love for
the man she would marry.  Why did you, of all of
us, hope for any change?"

Sargent lifted his face with a quivering flash of
anger.

"Why did I hope?  Why did I think my chance
had come?" he burst out with vehemence.  "Are you
so old that the meaning of love and all its joy have
been forgotten?  Do you think that because I have
sunk all desires and cravings into my ambition, that
covered up in my heart was no passion?  I am only
a human being—with all the pent-up yearnings for
what I see others possessing.  Why should I not use
my opportunity now that it has come to me?  I will,
Great God, I will!  Don't stop me!  I'm going to
her to plead my cause, to lay my love before her.
She will not refuse it—she *shall* not.  There is
a time in every man's life when he must forget
everything but himself!  I am going to do that now!"

Judge Houston did not interrupt him.  When the
wild flow of words had ceased he remained quietly
beside Sargent, giving no sign that he had heard what
was said.

"You think I am insane, I suppose," Sargent
rushed on, even more intensely than before.  "You
think because I speak out the great desire of my
heart—because at last the blood is boiling in my veins,
making me like other people, like all the creatures
God has made to claim their rights—you think
because of all this," his voice broke shrilly, "that I am
not the man you thought I was.  Is it not so?"  He
turned and faced Judge Houston, grasping both his
arms.  "You are disappointed, distressed, terribly
shaken in me—answer me?  I want to hear you speak?"

The old gentleman's eyes beamed into Sargent's.

"My faith in you is shaken—not one jot!"  His
words came crisp and full of a deep significance.  "I
know you too well.  I love you as I would have loved
my son.  My confidence in you is without limit.  I
know what you will do as surely as if I were going
to do it myself!"

Their eyes burned into each other: then over them,
enveloping them, came the silence of a miracle.
Sargent's hands fell to his side.  His body shook for a
second like a man who was in the grip of a chill;
then, as he gradually grew steady, a great calmness
swept over him; his face grew white and set, and
from his eyes shone out the look that the wise old
man beside him knew would come—the expression
of one who has been tempted, and is feeling at last
the infinite glory of renunciation.

"How did you know?" Sargent asked at last with
a broken sob.

The old gentleman shook his head sadly.

"The other side was not you, Sargent.  It was a
dream—a horrible dream."

Sargent put his hands to his forehead, pushing back
his hair and showing the ivory whiteness of his brow.
His face, illumined by the miraculous thought that
had come in one minute, grew steadily in beauty until
it became almost glorified in its brilliance.

In that instant the meaning of his whole life came
to him.  His early training, the teachings of his
mother, and later his first great experience in his
chosen profession, when it seemed that all sides were
narrowing about him in his great failure and despair.
In Phelps he realized the beacon light that started
him towards the goal.  It was through him that the
conviction had come to him to make his life-work a
defence of men who had taken the wrong road.  Now,
with a thrilling sense of seeing deep into the mystery
of life, he realized that every little detail had been a
preparation for what was coming.  Even his recent
temptation was a strengthening of his forces.  And
from it all he lifted his head with the transcendence
of the knowledge was to come the flowering of his life.

He stretched out both hands to Judge Houston.

"Thank God!" he murmured, "my dear, dear
friend.  It was left to you to stand by me and show
me the way."  He wrung the old gentleman's hands,
then turned resolutely, with the upward lift of his
head that was more eloquent than ever before.  "Now
let us go to Morgan.  My work begins there first."

Judge Houston slipped his arm through Sargent's
as they strolled back to the house.

"And afterwards—to Natalia.  She needs you, too."

"No—not yet," Sargent answered, the glow of
the great thought burning deeply in his eyes.
"Later—when I have shown her what my love can do;
then—perhaps—but not before!"





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.. _`A ROAD TO HAPPINESS`:

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   CHAPTER XI


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   A ROAD TO HAPPINESS

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The Judge's surmise as to the verdict of the coroner's
jury had proved to be true.  It had seemed wise,
therefore, to proceed quickly with the trial in order
to avoid inflaming the already excited sentiment of
Jervais' adherents.  Now the first day of the trial
was ending.  Natalia stood on the veranda waiting
for Judge Houston; he was to take her to see
Morgan.

The approaching evening brought to her strange,
restless thoughts; an overwhelming rush of emotions
which had so filled her for the last four days.  She
felt, as she stood alone, with all the old, familiar
surroundings about her, that she was being pushed
relentlessly on towards a situation which, for some
unknown reason, she dreaded.  A change had come
over her; already she felt the great influence of the
tragedy upon her life.  It had opened the more serious
side of her nature, unchaining characteristics which
had been felt only vaguely heretofore.  The very
depths of sympathy seemed to have stirred within her;
a closer relationship to those about her made her
realize that before she had viewed the world through
the eyes of a happy egoism.  Now she was an integral
part of life, bearing her burden as the endless
thousands had done before her.  With this realization had
come a feeling of strength, of capacity, of endurance;
and a determination to make the ties which had bound
her and Morgan more full of meaning and purpose.

Breaking through this comforting purpose came,
at moments, a strange restlessness.  It always forced
itself upon her after her visits to Morgan.  After the
first night in the jail, she had gone to him every day,
spending several hours in the little white-washed room
where the iron bars across the window kept their
surroundings palpably before them.  She had hoped
that after the first night of suffering and despondency
Morgan would gradually drift back into the buoyancy
which had seemed always such an integral part of
his nature.  She had expected that to help him
towards a more hopeful outlook.  But it was quite
the other way.  The weight of the crime had fallen
with a crushing blow upon the man who had known
nothing but a care-free life during his thirty years.
The courage in his eyes had died out; there were deep
circles beneath them; even his brilliant colouring had
faded into a lifeless pallor.  To one whose life had
been so far removed from tragedy as Morgan's, the
blow brought a lessening of all energies.  The full
realization that he had killed a man came to him with
such a shock that he shrank from it like a child, cowed
and irremediably injured.

Natalia had at first felt her whole being go out
to him in sympathy and love; when she saw him each
morning seeking her eyes so like some pitiful,
wounded animal, she began to wonder if he could
be the same man she had known before.  Disappointment
followed pity, and afterwards self-hate that she
should have expected him to be unchanged by this
experience.  It was then that the full conception of
the great moral outcome of the tragedy came to her.
She knew in a moment of flashing intuition, that her
happiness and Morgan's lay in her hands alone.  All
the courts of the world, with their justice and gifts
of liberty, could not do for him what she must do.
But could she do it?  The question left her cold and
trembling.

All during the week she had gone bravely through
the ordeal that confronted her.  Mrs. Jervais had left
the morning after the day set for the wedding, having
refused to see Natalia, and leaving behind her a
request that they should not meet again.  Then had
come the greatest trial of all, when, looking out of
the window, Natalia saw the funeral procession pass
through the grove where still lingered some of the
decorations for her wedding.

Always beside her, through these dismal days,
Dicey stood; encouraging and comforting in her
tenderness.  Each evening the old slave would leave
Natalia for a little while, going through the big gate
and out to the highway, where she stood and watched
for the long-expected messenger.  When at last Jonas
had ridden out to impart to her his successful mission,
Dicey had spoken no word of approval, but turning
swiftly, had rushed back to the house and into
Natalia's room with wildly illumined face.

"He's cum, honey!" she cried.  "He done cum
at las'.  Now hit's gwine be all right.  Eberything's
done been sabed."

And later that evening Judge Houston sent word
to them that Sargent had come and that he would
stay in town with him that night.

When Judge Houston came for her, Natalia took
her place in the carriage beside him, her lips silent, her
eyes seeking his for some outcome of the first day's
trial.  As they passed out of the gate into the deserted
road, the old gentleman put his arm about her and
drew her head down on his shoulder.

"We haven't long to wait now, little girl," he said,
his words gaining a benignity in their tenderness.
"Everything is going as we wish it now.  Sargent
is at the helm," he ended, his voice full of calm certainty.

"He came in answer to my letter?" Natalia murmured.

"Yes—he got it in the midst of one of his speeches."

"He left his campaign for me?"

The old gentleman nodded.

"For you—and for Morgan."

Natalia lifted her head, suddenly.

"Uncle Felix," she cried, "will it mean a loss to
him?  Did he let his chance go for—for us?"

"I hope it will not be that way."  Judge Houston
looked away from her questioning eyes.  "There was
only one more speech.  It was the one in which he
was to meet his opponent.  But that was nothing to
him, Natalia.  If you knew him as I do, you would
realize that nothing counts with him when a friend
calls for help."

Natalia clasped her hands, helplessly.  When she
spoke again her lips were trembling.

"I know, Uncle Felix, I know that.  But I have
no right to call him back from his work.  If this
should cause him to lose his election to Congress, it
would be upon my hands.  I have no right to wreck
people's lives as I am doing.  Already Mrs. Jervais'
words are sinking heavily upon me—I can't forget
them.  Uncle Felix, what does it mean?  Why has
all this come to me?  Is my race accursed—as she
said?"  She shrank closer to him, her hands seeking
his for comfort.  "It seems to me that I pray every
moment.  My lips are moving always in supplication.
And yet—" her expression changed to one of intense
fear—"I wonder sometimes if I know what I am
praying for."

He looked down at her, puzzled at this sudden
shrinking, his eyes seeking hers in explanation.

"I know you don't understand," she began again,
in answer to his look.  "I am not myself.  Perhaps
it has been too much for me to stand.  But I dread
something, Uncle Felix, something that is coming.
I don't seem to have the strength for the duty that
lies before me.  It is not so much the outcome of the
trial," she continued, calmer, "as what will come
afterwards."

The old man pressed her hand sympathetically.  "I
know," he said thoughtfully.  "That is a question
that had to come to one of your nature.  And the
hardest part of it is that no one can help you; you
must work it out alone.  Only one thing can bring
you back your happiness—Morgan and your love for him."

"You mean, Uncle Felix—"

"That your love for him will make you forget the deed."

She drew a long sigh, and clung closer to his side.

"It is not that," she answered slowly.  "That has
made no difference in my love for him.  It will make
a difference in our happiness, I know; but what I
fear is the change in Morgan.  There is something
that he is keeping from me.  I have seen it every day
that I was with him.  Do you know what it is, Uncle
Felix?"

The old gentleman looked away, avoiding her question.

"Sargent went to him yesterday evening, as soon
as he had come.  I left them together," he resumed
after a short silence.

"Did you see him afterwards—when he had left
Morgan?"

"No.  I only saw him at breakfast this morning.
But he could talk of nothing but the details of the
trial."  Judge Houston was still looking away from
her.  "Perhaps," he said with a start, "Sargent will
do for Morgan what no one else could do."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that when Morgan hears the speech for
his defence, couched in legal terms and showing in
a convincing way that he is not guilty of—of murder,
it will bring to him a realization of his innocence.
Sargent's speech is going to be wonderful."  The
old man's eyes deepened with the certainty of that
knowledge.  "I saw that yesterday when he came
back, worn out and exhausted from the long journey.
Do you know, Natalia," he looked at her searchingly,
"I believe it would help you, too.  Will you go?"

They rode along in silence, while Natalia's hand
trembled in his clasp.

"When will it be?"

"I hope to-morrow.  If all the evidence is heard
by noon, the speeches will come in the afternoon."

"Do you think I could bear seeing Morgan in that
room before a court of judges?" she murmured,
asking the question more of herself than of him.  "I
am afraid, Uncle Felix.  It would be indelibly stamped
upon my memory."

"But you would be hearing him defended against
an accusation that was unjust.  You would see him
in the light of justice and right.  That would be the
lasting thought.  Take my advice, Natalia," he urged.
"Perhaps your sensitiveness recoils from being seen
there; but there are some situations in life in which
we must forget our preferences for others."

"Your confidence helps me—but if the outcome
should be otherwise?"

"It cannot be otherwise.  If you knew Sargent
as I do, you would know that there could be no
doubt."

Natalia sank back against the cushions.  Every
argument that she had used lately seemed to lead directly
to one answer—Sargent Everett.  The confidence he
inspired in every one seemed without limit; even
Judge Houston, with an age and experience that were
exceptional, was willing to trust everything to him,
gaining from that trust a happy confidence where
doubts were unknown.  And deeper than this trust,
was the love that she had seen with her own eyes.
Mrs. Houston showed it in the brightness of her face
when she discussed him, and Dicey seemed to be
under a spell which not even her love for Natalia
could affect.  Natalia found herself wondering over
Judge Houston's words when he had finished talking,
and in her thoughts had suddenly flashed a pang
of resentment that this man had grown deeper into
the hearts of those she loved, than herself.  She was
passing his house as this thought came into her mind,
and in the quiet dignity of the classic white columns
against the red brick, the clean swept lawn and
carefully clipped box, she imagined she saw a reflection
of the man's purpose and strength.

Following the feeling of jealousy came the
remembrance of what he was doing for her.  He had given
up his campaign, unfinished, to save her lover.  And
it was alone from the call for help that she had sent
to him.  Suddenly every word that she had heard
about him since her return to the old home stood out
distinctly, full of hidden meanings, full of evasions,
that she had only guessed at and pushed out of her
thoughts as unreasonable.  Now she saw plainly.
Every detail spoke a certainty.  And she,
stumbling blindly through it all, had at the end
demanded a sacrifice that would ruin his career in the
world.

They had reached the town and were passing along
the streets at the hour when people were coming from
their supper tables to sit on the lawns.  Natalia
loosened her veil and shrank further back into the
carriage, shuddering from the looks of sympathy cast
towards her.  When they had reached the jail and
gone up the walk together, she stopped a moment
before the door and laid her hand on Judge Houston's
arm.

"Why did Sargent Everett not come to me instead
of to Morgan?  It was I who sent for him."  The
overpowering discovery had pressed out all other
thoughts at that moment.

"Because Morgan needed him," came the answer,
the old man's face averted.  "You did not."

Natalia withdrew her hand, a little bewildered.
Perhaps, after all, her inflamed imagination had
carried her beyond the truth!

They entered the gloomy corridor together, and as
the door to Morgan's cell was unlocked, Judge
Houston stepped back to let Natalia enter alone.  During
her former visits she had found Joel always beside
Morgan, cheering him and talking about the trial in a
lively manner that was a feeble attempt to dispel the
gloom which had settled over him.  This time Morgan
was alone, standing at the window looking out at the
gorgeous sunset.  When he turned at her entrance,
she started back when she had seen the expression of
his face.  The change was remarkable; instead of the
mute suffering which she had seen in his eyes during
the last few days, was now a semblance of his old self,
the same brilliant expression and colouring, only
deepened and strengthened by experience.  And in his
eyes, as they rested on her, she saw again the love
which had hitherto been veiled in the unwonted
expression of his despair.

As he came toward her, a flood of doubts swept
over her and she put out her hands as if to ward off
a blow.

"Something has happened, Morgan," she cried.
"What is it?"

He gathered her hands into his strong clasp and
led her to a chair, looking down at her all the time,
like one who had not seen her for a long time.  When
she had sunk into the chair, still staring at him
anxiously, he pulled a stool up beside her, and took hold
of her hands again.

"It is nearly over, Natalia," he said with a happy
ring in his voice.  "They tell me to-morrow will
bring the end of the trial.  Will you ever forgive me,
dear?"

"Forgive you!  What?" she answered, still reading
his face for some explanation.

"For almost ruining your happiness and mine.  I
had felt all along that your love for me would die after
I had killed Jervais; that even if it were in self-defence,
you would not be able to forget the crime.  But
it isn't true—you do not feel that way, do you?"

"Morgan—you have changed!  Something has
happened that I do not know about!  What is it?"

She put her hands on his shoulders and searched
his face.  A rush of doubts was making her heart
beat furiously.

"I am changed!  I am an entirely different man,"
he answered, smiling into her anxious eyes.  "How
could a man who was as wretched as I, and who has
suddenly been shown the way to happiness, be
otherwise than changed!  The world has become a different
place to me, Natalia; and after the trial, when I am
a free man and take up my life again, it will mean
so much more to me than ever before.  Perhaps I shall
be a little older—but we aren't children any longer,
either of us, and the serious side of life had to come
some day.  I think what made it so hard on me was
that it came so suddenly."  He stopped for a moment,
pressing her hands tight, then holding them to his
lips.  "There has been a change in you, too, Natalia,"
he continued, his face glowing with the love he was
expressing.  "I saw it keenly that night you came
to me here.  At first I thought your love for me was
gone,—not that you were not kind and sympathetic
and gentle—but in your eyes I fancied I saw more
pity than love."

Morgan rose from his seat and stood before her,
as if shaking off the remembrance of that hour.  "It
almost drove me mad that night when my imagination
was let loose, and in its reflected images I saw
a future in which you had forsaken me, and I was
left to drift through life alone, without hope, with
only the horror of a crime for companionship.  It
was always with me—that haunting fancy—until,"
his voice deepened vibrantly, "until I was shown my
mistake."

"Until you were shown," Natalia repeated mechanically.

"Yes, until I was shown my happiness—by Sargent Everett."

She pressed her hand quickly to her heart.  Its
quick throbbing had frightened her.  It was true now;
she no longer felt any doubts.  Her happiness and
Morgan's were being builded upon the sacrifice of
another.  The exaltation of the thought swept through
her with a great rush; a lightness, almost a dizziness,
made her breath come quickly.  She found herself
trembling with vague, uncomprehending emotions.
Then followed the quick reversal; and the throbbing
life ebbed away, leaving her cold and numb.

"What did he tell you?" she heard herself asking.

Morgan looked down at her from the great height
of his renewed self-confidence.

"He told me so much that I hardly know where to
begin.  In my utter despair, last night, when it seemed
to me that I should prefer this trial to end in my
death—I had reached that depth, Natalia—he came.
It was the moment when I needed help most, and when
I saw him standing there at the door, and looking for
all the world as he used to when he would come into
my room at college—I knew that he had come to
help me.  His whole aspect told me so, before he had
said one word.  It was a long time before he would
let me tell him about this awful week, but when he
did, it was wonderful to see how the friend
disappeared in the lawyer.  He asked me question after
question, relentlessly, sharply, insistently, over and
over again the same questions until I felt that he had
forgotten what he was doing.  Finally he stopped;
it was after midnight.  When he had risen to go, I
asked him to stay longer so that I could tell him of
the plan I had been formulating.  I did not speak of
it to you because I knew so well what your answer
would be.  I had decided to go away after the
trial—for a year or more.  I was not going to write to
you nor ask you to write to me.  I did not even want
you to know where I was, so that when the year had
passed, you would know if you still loved me—if this
tragedy had made any difference in your love."

"You told him that?" she interrupted, wondering
over the answer.

"Yes—just as I am telling you.  He listened to
me quietly,—strangely quiet, I thought—until I
looked up and saw him gazing down upon that table
as if he had not heard a single word.  It was a long
time before he answered me, and when his eyes met
mine again, they were full of weariness, almost pitifully
weary.  I believe the fellow is killing himself
with work."

"What did he say?"  Natalia's voice came low and
halting.

"He said that if we should ever need each other,
it would be now; that when I went away I must take
you with me; that if you were not with me at such
a time, our love would have lost its usefulness; that
if it meant anything to us, it must shine brighter in
our time of trouble."

Natalia rose from the chair and went to the window.
Resting her hands against the bars, she peered out
into the fast gathering dusk; her back towards
Morgan, giving her a certain sense of privacy which she
craved at that moment.  As Morgan continued talking
to her, she found herself watching with a strange
intentness, the objects disappearing from her view as
the night shadows crept nearer and nearer.

"I told him how I feared your love for me was
gone," Morgan continued, his words rolling out with
increasing enthusiasm.  "Of how I felt my deed had
made a great abyss between us.  It was then that he
said you were not a woman who would forsake the
man she loved when he needed her most.  He said it
was the time in a woman's life when she became
divine—when the woman was like you; pure and
true and noble."

"Pure and true and noble."  Again the great
thought of immolation surged through Natalia.  She
gripped the bars before her, steadying herself with the
little strength that seemed left her.  Pure and true
and noble!  He had said that of her, he had thought
that of her, and he had known her only years ago.
And yet she was causing him to give up everything
in his life, even his political career, to save her
happiness!

The night was about her now.  The square of window
through which she peered became a black splotch
in which her thoughts burst into tongues of
far-reaching flames.

In the long silence she heard Morgan coming
towards her.  His arm slipped around her waist, and
as his words came, she felt his hot breath against her
cheek.

"He talked about you so beautifully, Natalia," he
said, with a half-humourous note in his voice, "that
one would have thought it was he who was in love
with you instead of I.  He said that I must fight for
your love now, more than I ever had before; that I
must make you forget everything that had happened,
in the happiness I could bring you.  And then—in
a moment—it came to me—the mistake I had made.
I had been looking for you to do everything; and I
nothing for myself."

Suddenly a sob broke from her, and in that moment
Morgan pressed her to him in a close embrace and
covered her face with kisses.  All the passion of the
man had been called into life by the sob.  He knew
now that she did love him.  The tragedy and its days
of misery were forgotten in the future that stretched
before them, as brilliant and as beautiful as it had
ever been.

Pure and true and noble!  The words still rang
in Natalia's consciousness, blotting out even the
thought that her lover had regained his strength.
With his arms about her, she still heard them; even
with Morgan's lips pressed upon hers, she seemed to
gain a wider perception of what had been done for
her sake.

"My trial will end to-morrow, Sargent thinks,"
he went on, in a torrent of words, still holding her
tight in his arms.  "Afterwards—when I am free—for
I shall be free, Natalia, I feel it can not be
otherwise—we shall go away, you and I; a long way
off, where there will be nothing to remind us of this
awful week.  We shall forget everything, even the
old house that you used to love so.  But you don't
now, do you?  Why, you are shivering, Natalia!
Haven't you the confidence in my release that I have?
But you have not heard Sargent yet.  Wait until you
hear him to-morrow, for you are going, aren't you?
I want you to.  There's an odd power about him; I
noticed it to-day when he questioned the witnesses.
He seems to get everything out of every one by his
quiet, easy manner."  He stopped a moment and went
back to the table.  "Natalia, after the trial, will you
do something I wish very much?  There is a boat
Wednesday; if everything is settled to-morrow, are
you willing to leave the next day?  I somehow feel
that we shall be happier the sooner all this is behind us."

Natalia's eyes were closed tight, her lips pressed
close together, while she stood listening to Morgan's
voice as if it came from a great distance.  Through
the happiness of his words, through the happiness they
brought her, was blending a bitter suffering that kept
back all response to his joy.  The power of the greater
thought still throbbed in her veins.  Her own love
and Morgan's had become a weak, puerile thing by
comparison.

At last she forced herself into a calm self-possession
and turned towards him.

"Of course I am going with you, Morgan," she
said, laying her head on his shoulder and forcing a
smile to her lips, "and the sooner we go, as you say,
the happier we shall be."

.. vspace:: 2

The lantern on the gate post flashed into Natalia's
face as they drove into the grounds; and as Judge
Houston assisted her from the carriage, he extended
his arm, for he had seen her pallor.

"You are very pale, Natalia," he said, bending
over her.  "Poor little girl, it has been a bad, bad
time for you; but 'twill be all right soon.  Let me
carry you up-stairs."

"No, Uncle Felix," she put out her hand quickly.
"You go in.  I want to stay out here a few minutes.
Tell Millicent that Morgan is happy again."

The old gentleman stooped and kissed her very
gently and went into the house.

When she was alone, she walked along the stone
slabs of the veranda to a place where the columns cast
a deep shadow.  Kneeling upon the cold stones, she
lifted her clasped hands in prayer for the one who
had saved her happiness through his own renunciation.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE MUSIC OF HIS VOICE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE MUSIC OF HIS VOICE

.. vspace:: 2

In the early morning Dicey went into Natalia's
room, and noiselessly turning the slats in a shutter,
crept toward the bed.  She stood there irresolutely
for a few moments; then went softly around to the
other side of the bed where she could look into
Natalia's face.  She started back when she saw the
wide-open, sleepless eyes gazing at her.

Laying her hand soothingly on Natalia's feverish
brow, she gently smoothed back the long black hair.

"Honey-chile," she said, when the light began to
stream through the shutters, "I jes' knows yer ain'
slep' er wink an' heah hit's de day Marsa gwine speak.
An' yer hain' tole yer ole Mammy whut fixins ter lay
out fer yer.  Which is dey, honey?  Yer jes' tell
Mammy an' she'll fix dem so's yer won' habe er speck
ob worry 'bout dem."

Natalia looked at her yearningly.

"Dear old Mammy," she answered, "how you love
me—how I love you."

"Sho I lubs yer, honey—bettah dan anybody
else—eben bettah dan Marse Sargent.  But yer mus'
look killin' ter-day, honey-chile," said Dicey, returning
to the subject of most importance in her eyes.  "Whut
furbelows mus' I put out?"

Natalia stirred restlessly, finally taking hold of
Dicey's coarsened hand and holding it close to her
face.

"Don't bother, Mammy—I am not going to hear
him speak—I don't think I could bear it."

"Yer not gwine heah de Marser speak?"  Dicey
stared at her, her countenance eloquent of dismay.
"Yer not gwine heah him!" she reiterated, her voice
rising to a higher pitch.

"No," Natalia answered, meeting the angry eyes
sadly.  "I can't do it, Mammy."

"An' he cum all dis way jes' fer yer, and dat de
way yer gwine treat him!  I calls hit er bu'nin'
shame!"

The old slave's temper gained control of her, and
in her impatience she frowned darkly upon Natalia.

"He will never know, Mammy."  She questioned
the words as she spoke them.  "He would not see
me if I were there."

"He'd see yer and he'd know ef yer wuzn' dar.  Ef
yer don' go, I'se gwine back ter him."

"You can't go back to him, Mammy.  You belong
to me, now."

"Cose I does, honey."  Dicey's voice softened as
her anger ebbed.

"But I wants yer ter go.  He wants yer ter go, too,
I know he does."

"Mammy," Natalia said, lying perfectly still, her
eyes staring into Dicey's.  "Do you know why he is
doing all this for me?"

"Cose I does.  Hit's 'cause he lubs yer."

"Yes, that's it, Mammy.  But what have I done
for him?  What right have I to demand all this from
him?  What have I done to deserve it?  What can I
do now—"

She ended abruptly, turning away and burying her
face in the pillows.  It was then that Dicey sat down
on the bed and leaned close to her, her eyes suddenly
ablaze with a great hope.

"You'se gwine ter heah him, honey," she said, after
a long pause, during which she viewed the situation in
her mind, seeking through channels of thought to
find the road that would lead towards the goal she
had been planning.  "You'se gwine ter heah him,
'cause ef you'se gwine way ter-morrow hit'll be de
las' chance yer'll git ter heah him.  Yer see, don' yer,
dat yer bettah see him dis one las' time—dis one las'
time."

Natalia moved suddenly and sat up; resting her
hands for a moment on the side of the bed, as if still
undecided, she finally put her feet to the floor and
faced Dicey.

"I believe you are right, Mammy," she said
thoughtfully.  "It is the last time I shall ever hear
him or see him.  If I only had the courage—"

.. vspace:: 2

Downstairs she found Mrs. Houston standing in
the midst of boxes and packing materials.  Judge
Houston had told her the night before of Morgan's
desire to leave on the first boat.  Seeing the wisdom
in such a step he had advised his wife to go on with
the preparations for departure as if everything were
already decided.  So great was the confidence of this
old couple in Sargent's ability, that they could conceive
of no outcome of the trial other than they had planned.

When Natalia had gone out on the back veranda,
she went directly up to the old lady and kissed her.
There were no words either of them could find to say.
Mrs. Houston went back to her work, wrapping each
article with the precise care of a vain housewife.

"I am nearly through," she said at last.  "Almost
all of the wedding presents are packed—except the
peacock."  She attempted a smile, and failed sadly.
"Of course you do not want to take him with you."

Natalia turned away quickly.

"I don't want to take any of them, Aunt Maria,"
she said, tears coming into her eyes.  "I don't want
to go away.  It has all been terrible—these last
days—but I still love this old place better than any
in the world.  But I must do it for Morgan's sake.
He would be miserable here."

The old lady put down her package carefully, then
went to Natalia and gathered her in her arms.

"You'll forget all about it after a while," she said
gently.  "And some day you both will be coming back
here, happier than ever.  Now tell me," wiping her
eyes and returning to matters of the moment, "when
will you be married—to-night or in the morning?"

"To-morrow morning," Natalia answered slowly.

Just then Dicey brought a tray on which a steaming
cup of coffee and hot rolls were displayed temptingly.

"Now, you'se got ter drink hit, honey," she
insisted, making a great fuss over placing it before
Natalia.  "'Cause we ain' gwine hab no dinnah, fer
de Jedge done jes' send word fer us ter be in town
fo' two o'clock."

.. vspace:: 2

The Court House yard was crowded.  Along the
fence and beneath the protection of the trees was the
gathering of carriages and wagons which always told
that something unusual was taking place within the
old brick building.

When the carriage containing Natalia, Millicent and
Mrs. Houston had stopped before the gate, Natalia
looked silently at the building, feeling almost as if she
were viewing it through the eyes of another person.
That within it, her lover was being tried for his life,
and defended by the man who had given up everything
for her, seemed to enhance the feeling of aloofness
and helplessness which had taken possession of
her since the day before.  She felt that she no longer
lived in the same sphere with those about her; that
she had reached a vague, uninhabited world where
her surroundings were only dreams and weirdly haunting
words and fiery tongues of conscience that moved
in an endless circle and crushed her with their fearful
cries.

She had not heard the words addressed to her
during the long drive; and it was only when Judge
Houston came towards the carriage and spoke to them, that
she awakened from the lethargy.  Even then, as he
told her that it was time to go into the court room,
she seemed to be only half conscious of his words.

"Give me your hand, Natalia," the old gentleman
said, standing beside the carriage.  Mrs. Houston and
Millicent were already on the sidewalk.

Natalia looked at him a moment, then glanced beyond
to the building where people were banked in the
windows.  Within, she easily imagined the sea of faces.

"Uncle Felix," she cried, shrinking back, and covering
her face with her hands.  "I can't go.  It would
be fearful to see Morgan there, before that crowd.
I could not bear it!  Let me stay here and wait, but
tell him I am here, near him!"

The old gentleman looked at the others, perplexed.
Without a word, Mrs. Houston stepped back into the
carriage and took her seat beside Natalia.

"I shall stay with her," she said..  "You all go in.
We will be waiting for you over there—under that
tree.  Don't wait a minute to come to us, when you
know," she added with a quick anxious look towards
her husband.

Zebediah drove a few yards away from the gate,
where a great spreading elm cast a protecting shade.
They were closer to the building than before, and from
where they sat they could easily see into the court
room through a wide window.  The sounds of the
stirring crowd within came to them quite distinctly,
particularly as the grounds about the building were
deserted for the great interest within.

Mrs. Houston, alert and keen to see all that was
taking place, sat bolt upright, one hand on Natalia's,
the other moving with nervous jerks as she swayed
a large palmetto fan.  Natalia was in the same position
as when she had shrunk back from Judge Houston—both
hands covering her face while she huddled pitifully
against the cushions.

A half hour passed, with the sound of monotonous
voices floating out to them.  The murmur of some
one reading seemed endless.  Then came a long pause.
Mrs. Houston suddenly leaned forward and listened.

"Sargent is speaking—at last!" she whispered.
"Listen!  Listen!"

Natalia lowered her hands slowly from her face.
At first she heard only a slight rippling of the leaves
of the tree above her, then, on the stillness of the
summer day, the sound of a voice drifted towards
her—a voice she had heard years and years ago.
Her hand tightened on Mrs. Houston's.  Suddenly
she stood up and stepped out of the carriage.

"Where are you going, Natalia?" Mrs. Houston
cried after her.

Without answering she walked to the gate and went
rapidly up the walk.  Reaching the steps to the main
door, she seemed to change her mind quickly and went
along the side of the building until she was just
beneath an open window.  Here she sank behind the
protection of a shrub, and sat perfectly still.

The voice that had drawn her was very near now.
She could hear the words distinctly; they came in a
steady stream, mellow, soft, fluent.

At first she attempted to follow the words, vainly
trying to force her thoughts into a comprehension of
the reasoning employed.  She soon found that useless;
and with a long sigh in which a deep contentment
enveloped her, she abandoned herself to the luxury
of listening only to the music of the voice.  It was
sweet and clear like the ringing of silver bells in the
early morning; it was deep and modulated and
resounding, like the veiled diapason of a Cathedral
organ; it was winning and gentle and fresh, bringing to
her in some indefinable way, the faint fragrance of
delicate flowers.

Suddenly the years dropped away.  It was all a
dream—her thinking she was really grown.  She was
sitting on the terrace under the big magnolia tree and
the schoolmaster was reading to her.  It was such a
very sad story he was reading; she could hardly keep
back the tears, for it was all about some poor lady
who sewed all day on her dress and had to spend the
night ripping it.  She had cried, she remembered now;
and when he had asked her why, she had been so
ashamed and said it was because she hated her frock
so—a red and purple poplin that had come all the
way from Boston.  And then they were sitting there
again, one cold winter afternoon, and were watching
the sun sink behind the black, frosty lowlands.  She
had asked him why the Indians had called it the Land
of the Setting Sun, and he had told her wonderful
stories of a race that had inhabited all this country
and were forced, step by step, to go out into that
distant wilderness where the sun set every night.
Trifling incidents crowded one upon the other, accentuating
the reality of the vision, until she suffered as
keenly, throbbed with as great a joy, as she had in
living those days.

A slight pause came.

Then the flowing words continued.  But in that
moment the dreams had vanished.  She knew now
what the voice meant.  It was fighting for her lover's
life, her happiness.  Her whole future was dependent
on its continuance, its force, its compelling magnetism.
She felt it now in every fibre of her being.  It filled
her with an indefinable happiness.  She understood so
well what it meant; it was the full glory of his love.
She was satisfied now that he had carried her to that
dizzy height with him.  She would never forget; it
would be with her for ever.  In that lay its transcendent
beauty.  Through its divinity it would become eternal.

Suddenly the music ceased.  She looked up.  Mrs. Houston
was leaning over her and saying something.
Finally she understood the words:

"His speech is over.  Come back to the carriage
with me."

She rose from the ground and walked unsteadily
back to the carriage.  In a few minutes Judge
Houston and Millicent had joined them.

"Would you prefer to wait at my house?" she
heard him asking.  "The speech for the prosecution
will last about an hour, I suppose.  After that we
don't know how long the jury will take."

"Let us stay here," Natalia answered in a voice
that did not seem her own.  "I shall be nearer
Morgan.  It would be deserting him to go away."

"Very well, my dear.  I shall come to you as soon
as I know the verdict."

An hour more, with the sound of other voices.
Endless arguments and set phrases and instructions
to twelve men who had already reached a decision.
Evening came on gradually, the trees grew dark and
began their twilight whispers; negroes began to
harness their horses to the wagons, coachmen straightened
up and roused their teams; the air grew charged with
expectancy.  There was a deathly, waiting stillness.
The case was before the jury.  Natalia grasped
Mr. Houston's hand.

"How much longer?" she asked.  "How much
longer, Aunt Maria?"

"The speeches are evidently finished, Natalia.  We
have not heard any voices for a good while."

"Then the end is nearly here?"

The old lady smiled, reassuringly.

"I believe we shall all be happy in a very few
minutes."

Suddenly Millicent stood up in the carriage.

"Here comes Judge Houston!" she cried, her voice
shaking a little.  "Oh! he is smiling!  I can see him
from here.  Look, Natalia!  Don't you see?  Morgan
is free!  There he is—coming to us now!"





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE GARDEN OF SHADOWS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII


.. class:: center medium bold

   THE GARDEN OF SHADOWS

.. vspace:: 2

They drove home in the fast-gathering dusk.  The
sun was gone, but through the breaks in the trees a
gorgeous after-glow was illumining the skies.  Mountains
of clouds were piled up, bank upon bank, until
the broad sweep of heavens was filled with pinnacles
of deep rose, each vying with the other in more
majestic composition.

When they had reached the house the colour had
faded; the bright light from the windows streamed
out across the doorway; the magnolia grove was
slumbering in the peaceful summer night.

Natalia stepped within the hall, where the candles
were burning cheerily and the savoury odours of
supper came from the dining room, and smiled wistfully
upon them all.

"You go with them, Morgan," she said, a weary
note in her voice as she stood with his arm about her.
"All of you have a good time at supper—but let me
go to my room.  You will not mind, dear?"  She
looked up at him yearningly.  "I believe I would be
a little happier alone—for a while," she ended,
turning away.

Judge Houston followed her to the steps, detaining
her hand in his.

"Natalia," he said, in a lowered voice.  "Everything
is all right with you?  You are happy again?"

She smiled into his eyes a little sadly.

"Yes, I am very happy, Uncle Felix.  Only—it is
so different a happiness from what I used to know.  It
seems a deeper, a more meaning thing than I have
ever felt before.  That is why I want to be alone.
You understand, don't you?"

The old gentleman pressed her hand.

"Will you come down again?" he asked, after a
moment's pause.  "Sargent is coming out here
to-night.  I should like for him to see you."

Natalia's eyes deepened and she came closer to him.

"I am glad, so—so glad, he is coming," she said
thoughtfully.  "Yes—I shall come down again.  Tell
him I shall be waiting for him in the garden—the
garden of shadows—he will know."

She went slowly up the steps to her room.  It was
empty; even Dicey had been attracted to the kitchen
by reports of the wonderful supper that was being
prepared.

She stood looking about her for a long time.  It
was to be her last night among the old surroundings
she had loved so well.  The old bed, with its huge
posts and carvings of fruit and flowers, seemed to
respond to her caressing glance; the marble mantel
spoke to her of the many winter evenings spent before
its hospitable face; the wall paper and the carpet, each
repeating a design of baskets of roses, held stories of
the long ago; everything was overflowing with what
had gone before—holding their story of her mother's
life, and now, her own.

She picked up a cashmere shawl she had found in
an old cedar chest in the attic and pulled it across her
shoulders.  That, too, was of that elder day, and as
she felt its folds about her, it seemed a link that
brought her in even closer contact with the past.

After a little while she went down the stairs again,
avoiding the door to the dining room, and slipping
into the parlour unnoticed.  Her mother's portrait
gazed down upon her, calm and peaceful, in the candle
light.  Was it their last parting, she mused as she
stood before it; would they never look into each
other's eyes again!  She turned away with dimmed
eyes, and went noiselessly out into the night.

It was an evening in which the vibrant sounds of
Nature became only a distant throbbing, vague and
indistinct.  It was very still for moments, almost
breathless save for the occasional breeze with its
burden of rustling leaves.

Unconsciously Natalia went towards the bench
under the magnolia, and sitting down, looked out
across the wide, shimmering river, towards the far
horizon.  The minutes drifted along while the stars
came out, and the evening deepened in beauty.  The
breezes slept now; all the world seemed to have sunk
into a balmy somnolence.

As she sat there, lost to her surroundings yet vividly
in sympathy with them, the sound of a cane tapping
lightly on the ground, broke the silence.  She lifted
her head quickly, with the movement of one who is
startled by a memory; then, rising quickly, she looked
through the grove and saw some one coming towards
her.  The light was in her eyes so she could see only
indistinctly the silhouette of a figure coming directly
towards where she stood.  Suddenly she smiled, made
a quick step forward, then drew back again.

"The schoolmaster!" she whispered to herself,
smiling over the familiar name.  Then she called to
him in a low voice with the words that brought
rushing back the night she had waited for him by the
kitchen fire.  "It's you—you've come—I'm so—so glad!"

He was before her now, holding her hands in his
and looking down into her face with the kind, sweet
expression she had forgotten for so long a time.

"Natalia!  Natalia!" he said as if a little dazed.
"You have grown into a woman, haven't you?"

Quite suddenly she drew her hands away from him
and sank on the bench, the tears streaming down her
face.

"I am so, so glad you have come," she repeated
between her sobs.  "If you only knew how I have
suffered these last few days.  I can't help
crying—forgive me.  You seem to bring back the old, happy
days to me so.  I know you will think I'm quite the
little girl still."

Sargent sat down beside her, drawing her hand
through his arm, and holding it gently.

"They told me you were out here," he began, his
voice trembling slightly, "and I asked them to let me
find you.  I thought I knew where you were.  I
did—you see."

Natalia did not attempt to answer him; drying her
eyes with her free hand, she began to look at him
intently.

"When I got your message," he continued in the
low, modulated voice that rang in her ears searchingly,
"I believe I expected to see you again just as you had
gone away.  It brought back our days together, with
such a rush; it made me realize that *you* had not
forgotten, either.  You see, Natalia, even in politics,
everything is not entirely blotted out."

She drew her hand slowly away from him, clasping
them both tight in her lap.

"And yet you threw away your chance, to come to me!"

"Don't you remember my promise to come to you?
I said no matter where I was, I would come to you
when you needed me.  Do you think I should have
deserved to win if I had done otherwise?"

"I had released you from that promise—by not
keeping mine," she answered with unsteady voice.

"You were only a little girl then, Natalia—of
course you did not know what you were promising.
Besides, we were both children, and children forget
quickly."

She looked at him, curiously.  Could it be true that
she was mistaken?

"*You* did not forget," she murmured.

"How could I forget what you had been to me!
Those were long, long days to me, Natalia, and
without you, I don't know how I should have gotten
through them.  You made them beautiful and happy
for me, for in your confidence and dependence, I was
brought out of my brooding upon those I had left
behind me.  You and Judge Houston were the only
ones to whom I could tell my real yearnings, and even
as a child, I felt you understood and sympathized.  It
was hard on me when you went away; only in endless
work did I find any consolation.  Ah, how I did work,
Natalia!  People say things come easy to me, but that
is because when others begin to study a case my nights
of ceaseless labour have been finished.  But in the late
afternoons, my thoughts always drifted back to you;
and when this dear old place was closed, and your
little brothers and their mother went away, I would
come out here often and sit, right where you are now,
and wonder where you were and if you would ever
come back to me again."

Natalia leaned back on the bench with a gradual
lessening of all forces.  Sargent's influence, the calm
tones of his voice, the old charm of his presence, crept
over her with a quieting effect that left her wholly
contented.  She had no other wish now than to hear him
talking to her.

"And yet," he said wistfully, "there is so little that
I know of you during those years; there is so much
for you to tell me."

"It seems nothing now," she answered, breaking
the silence of a few moments.  "I do not seem to have
really lived until the last few days—the rest was only
playing, and not worth recounting."

"Ah—but you are wrong.  It is because it was
your life that I want to hear it."

Natalia looked at him quickly and saw only his
kind, glowing eyes bent on her.

"And since I have suffered," she continued slowly,
"it seems to me those years of my life taught me so
little how to know life."

"They taught you to love," Sargent answered
quietly.  "Don't you count that as a great deal?"

"Yes,—but I—" she stopped abruptly.  It was
on her lips to say she had known that as a little girl,
and in the knowledge that she could not say it to him,
came to her the first feeling of restraint.

"That is all one need learn to be happy," he
continued, as if unaware of the interruption.  "It is the
centre about which the world is circling—at least the
part of the world that is worthiest.  Tell me about
yourself and Morgan, Natalia.  Tell me as you used
to, when we would sit out here after school hours, I
forgetting that I was a teacher, and you, that you were
a little girl.  I wonder if you have forgotten the lines
about 'books in brooks.'"

As if in reply she leaned a little forward and looked
up before her into the starlit sky, quoting softly:

   |  "And this our life, exempt from public haunt,
   |  Finds tongues in trees, books in running brooks,
   |  Sermons in stones, and good in everything."
   |

"Do you remember how you would explain to me
over and over again, about sermons being in stones?
And how you laughed when I asked Mammy if she
understood.  No, I don't believe I've forgotten
anything," laughing lightly, as the restraint slipped from
her and the old feeling of sympathy rushed back.
"How your voice brings it all back to me!  Have I
been asleep and dreaming all these years and just
awakened?  I can shut my eyes and listen to you, and
at once I am a little girl again.  That is what I am
going to do now.  Talk to me, as you say I used to
talk to you.  Tell me of your great success."

Sargent gazed at her as she leaned back against
the bench, one hand over her eyes to shut out all sense
of reality.  He could see the gentle rise and fall of
her bosom beneath the thin frock; and the helpless,
tired look of her hand as it lay in her lap, struck him
with a peculiar tenderness.  It made him forget for
a moment.  He leaned forward to kiss it, then drew
back slowly.

"I used to tell you fairy tales then," he began at
last.  "You see—I can't now.  You wouldn't believe
them."

With her hand still before her eyes she answered him.

"Start at the time when I went away and tell me
everything.  I know it will sound like a fairy
tale—your rise to the heights."

"My rise," he said, questioningly.  "I believe it
has come."

Natalia turned towards him, her face brilliant.

"Then you were elected—you go to Washington—Uncle
Felix said the news would come to-night!"

Sargent turned away from the brilliance of her
glance.  It was almost too much for him to bear that
she should have thought that was what he meant.
Suddenly his lips tightened firmly.  She should not
know!

"You don't know what happiness it is to me to
know it," Natalia continued, her face glowing with a
new happiness.  "I thought I had caused you to give
up your election, to come to me.  Now, it is all
different.  Everything with you is successful—absolutely
everything you undertake."

Sargent winced at her words, thinking of a time,
years gone by, when Judge Houston had told him that
success seen by the world, and felt by the man, were
widely separated.  "Yes, even my old friend calls
it that—and yet," he leaned forward, letting his face
sink into his hands, "it is not what I want.  I care
not one jot for all the politics in the world.  What
I love best is the work here in a restricted field where
I am so close to those I help.  Can't you see it as I
do, Natalia?  I feel that every man whose life I save
and start on a new course of living in which he realizes
his sin, and through repentance gains the true light—can't
you see that such work is greater than all the
arguments of government, the discussions of tariff, the
settling of bank questions, all the impersonal work that
goes to make up the life of a public man?"

Natalia had turned towards him as he talked on,
watching the glow of enthusiasm in his eyes, and
gradually feeling the force of his magnetism sweep
over her.  Unconsciously her lips parted in her intentness,
while she listened spellbound to the controlling
influences of his life.

"You make me feel that religion and law are the
same," she said, when he paused for a moment's rest.

"They *are* the same.  All our laws have their
foundation in the word of God.  No law without that basis
is worthy of consideration.  My first case taught me
that, when I convicted Jacob Phelps; and ever since,
when I see a man condemned to death, I feel all the
suffering I endured the day he was sent to jail.  I
always feel an irresistible desire to rise up and cry out
to leave vengeance to God.  And now," his voice deepened
vibrantly, "when a man comes to me and asks
me to defend him for some crime, I feel a wonderful
inspiration all through the work.  The greater the
crime the greater seems my inspiration, for out of the
depths of the deed, I see the man's awakening, his
regeneration, his approach towards God for it is
only through suffering that we attain the heights."

He stopped abruptly, carried further than he had
realized, by his enthusiasm.  When he turned to
Natalia, he found her hand on his arm, her eyes glowing
into his.

"Do you believe that?  Are you sure?  It only
came to me to-day, that we reached the heights
through suffering."  Her voice trembled as the words
rushed forth.  "I had always thought before that
suffering ruined everything; that life should be made
up entirely of joy and sunshine and happiness—that
suffering would rob it of its beauty.  But in my love,"
she ended sadly, "I had hoped to escape it.  I had
wanted that perfect—always."

"Perhaps this suffering has come to you, Natalia,
to show you how deep your love for Morgan was—how
much he meant to you.  Perhaps it came to show
you that—"  Suddenly he stopped and turned away
from her—changing his words with a violent shifting
of thought.  "Love is the only unselfish thing in the
world," he continued, calm once more.  "Everything
else is but a gratification of self, some suffering
undergone for an already estimated compensation.  Even
when we lead good lives, refrain from sinning, form
for ourselves strict codes of honour—it is not because
we wish to do all those things; it is the eternal benefit
which we believe will be the outcome of such a course.
The very motive of the world is selfishness, and that
there should be in it such a wonderful thing as love,
is incomprehensible; for in love the ego is lost; we
feel only a desire to make the object of our love happy,
to grant every wish, to anticipate every desire; and in
the accomplishment of this, every part of selfishness
is forgotten.  We sink our being into that other one.
It is the most beautiful thing God has given us, and
it is the greatest sin of all; for in it we forget our
duty to our Creator—we go directly against his great
command."

Natalia searched his face as she listened.  When
he had stopped and turned towards her, his eyes bent
upon her in the great love he had just spoken, the
blood rushed to her face, mounting higher and higher,
until it pounded in her temples.  Still she could not
turn from him.  The love in his eyes held her painfully.
Words rushed to her lips.  She strove to hold
them back.  Why should she ask it of him?  She
knew now from his own lips.  He had told her everything.
Again the words cried out to her for utterance.
Her will was as nothing, and she listened to her own
voice when she finally spoke, as if it came from a great
distance.

"That is what love means to you?"

He bowed his head silently.

"And you find in it a great happiness?"

Her question died unanswered on the quiet evening.
Far down the sloping hill, on the glittering expanse of
water, the vague form of a flat-boat drifted by, a single
light gleaming at the bow.  At last Natalia stirred.
One hand was pressed against her bosom, as she stared
straight out before her.

"You make me feel unworthy all the love that has
been given me," she said.  "It seems I have done
nothing for any one—always nothing."

"Ah, but you have done a great deal, Natalia,"
Sargent answered quickly.  "Think what you were
to Morgan in his hour of adversity.  He told me
before the trial that without you his life would be
wrecked.  He says you are the only reason for taking
up his life again.  Is that not a great deal?  And
then," his voice lowered and grew very gentle, "you
have brought a great happiness into my life.  Without
the memories of our happy days together, it would
have been a very desolate old world to me.  I always
knew you would not forget me entirely; a guiding
star, no matter how high it soars, never forgets its
follower.  If every man could have a memory, as I
have had, to guide him through the pitfalls and
temptations of his youth, when he is struggling on to the
heights where character is formed, this would be a
far better world.  My greatest efforts could never be
enough to show what I mean—Natalia."

He waited for her to speak, but no words came.
She sat looking out into the night, as if his voice had
been unheard.  Her shawl had fallen to the ground
and lay at her feet.  Sargent stooped and, picking it
up, held it to his lips a moment.

"Our lives seem to have grown very far apart,"
he began once more, attempting no longer to keep the
caressing notes from showing, "but I want you to
remember that I shall never forget you.  You believe
that, don't you?  There is only one thing I am going
to ask of you."  He paused and brushed his hand
across his eyes.  "When you and Morgan go back
home—when you go back to Boston to live, will you
go some day to see my mother?  I should love for her
to see you once.  She knows all about you.  I hardly
believe that you would have to tell her your name."

Suddenly, from a distance, the sound of music
floated to them.  Sargent lifted his head and listened;
then stood up.  "They are coming for me," he said,
a great weariness creeping into his voice.  "I must
go back to the town and make my speech of thanks."

Natalia's hand touched his arm.

"Don't go—yet," she murmured.  "I have something
to tell you."

Sargent sat down beside her, her hand still resting
on his arm.  In the dim light he could see her tears:

"I don't know how to tell you—you sent me
Mammy Dicey—I can't thank you—now you have
saved Morgan—"

The music was coming nearer.  The sound of
drums and fife throbbed loudly in the quiet night.
Suddenly the flare of lights shot through the grove.
The torchlight procession had reached the gate, and
now many voices were calling loudly for their new
representative.

Natalia stopped in the midst of her words.  A
streak of light from one of the torches fell full upon
Sargent's face, in which she saw with pitiless detail
the signs of his great renunciation.  In the knowledge
her heart grew cold and still.  She moved nearer him,
and held out both her hands.  For a little while they
stood thus, each meeting the other's glance steadily.
"When you were a little girl, Natalia," Sargent said
tentatively, his words a whisper, "I always kissed you
when I went away."

She leaned toward him, and in her uplifted face
he read her answer.  Putting his hands gently on he
hair and pressing back the heavy coils, he kissed her
on the brow.

Another loud cry from the impatient crowd, and
the gates were thrown open and the grounds
brilliantly illuminated by the torches.

Natalia stood where he had left her, watching him
walk towards the crowd, his head held high, his figure
outlined against the flaring torches.  For a few
moments she stood motionless, then going swiftly
through the garden to the back veranda, she went
up-stairs without meeting any one.

When she had reached the upper hall, the hurrahs
and loud cheering of the crowd floated up to
her through the open windows.  Hesitating a
moment, she finally went to the door leading on the
balcony, and stood looking down upon the gathering.

Directly in front of the house the crowd was
forming into a line.  The band was already at the gate,
closely following came the torch bearers, and last of
all a carriage.  She leaned forward, shading her eyes
from the flickering illumination.  He was in the
carriage now, on the back seat, and beside him sat an
old, grizzled-haired man, whose weather-beaten,
joyful countenance beamed upon Sargent in his hour of
triumph.

As she watched them the signal was given, the
drums beat a resounding tattoo, the fife took up the
melody, and the parade began to move.  Through the
gate they went and out into the road, where the sounds
gradually grew muffled and the flaring torches,
gleaming through the trees, became faint as fireflies.  At
last the drum sounded in a faint echo; then the night
grew once more dark and still.

A hand grasped Natalia's.  Starting, she turned
and found Morgan's arm about her.

"We have been searching for you everywhere,
dearest," he said, looking down into her face, his
smile suddenly fading when he saw the tears in her
eyes.  "Sargent told me he had seen you."

In the silence that was deepening about them,
Morgan gazed intently at Natalia.  Once he brushed his
hands before his eyes as if clearing away a mist; then
his arms tightened about Natalia as she lowered her
head on his shoulder.

"I am beginning to understand, Natalia," he said,
his voice breaking with emotion.  "It was all for
*your* sake—for *your* happiness—what he has done!"

"For *our* happiness, Morgan," Natalia answered,
the tears streaming down her face.  "He has brought
you back to me—he has saved our love."

For a while they stood thus, looking out into the
quiet night, her head upon his shoulder, his arm about
her.  "And, oh, Morgan," Natalia finally spoke, her
eyes deepening with the glow of an inward light, "I
can hear it still—the music of his voice," her words
sank to a whisper, "it seems to me it will always be
ringing in my ears—always—always."

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   THE END.

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A CERTAIN RICH MAN.  By William Allen White.

A vivid, startling portrayal of one man's financial greed, its
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IN OUR TOWN.  By William Allen White.  Illustrated by
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Realistic stories of men and women living midst the savage
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YELLOWSTONE NIGHTS.  By Herbert Quick.

A jolly company of six artists, writers and other clever
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THE PROFESSOR'S MYSTERY.  By Wells Hastings and
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THE SIEGE OF THE SEVEN SUITORS.  By Meredith Nicholson.
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Seven suitors vie with each other for the love of a beautiful
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THE MAGNET.  By Henry C. Rowland.  Illustrated by Clarence
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THE TURN OF THE ROAD.  By Eugenia Brooks Frothingham.

A beautiful young opera singer chooses professional success
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SCOTTIE AND HIS LADY.  By Margaret Morse.  Illustrated
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A young girl whose affections have been blighted is presented
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SHEILA VEDDER.  By Amelia E. Barr.  Frontispiece by
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The first big success of this much loved American novelist.
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THE TRAIL OF NINETY-EIGHT.  By Robert W. Service.
Illustrated by Maynard Dixon.

One of the best stories of "Vagabondia" ever written, and
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