Front matter (continued 3)

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:

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

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."

CHAPTER VII

ONE MEANS OF ESCAPE

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.

CHAPTER VIII

THE CAPTAIN'S JOKE

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.

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:

"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."

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!"

CHAPTER IX

A PROMISE FOR THE FUTURE

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.

BOOK III

THE LOVER

CHAPTER I

AFTER SEVEN YEARS

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!"

CHAPTER II

THE VOICE OF THE PAST

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?"