As Mr. Joe-Bob Grissom passed the Bascom Place on his way home, after gathering from Major Jimmy Bass all the news and gossip of the town, he heard Mr. Francis Underwood, the owner of the Place, walking up and down the piazza, singing. Mr. Underwood appeared to be in a cheerful mood, and he had a right to be. He was young,—not more than thirty,—full of life, and the world was going on very well with him. Mr. Grissom paused a moment and listened; then he made up his mind to go in and have a chat with the young man. He opened the gate and went up the avenue under the cedars and Lombardy poplars. A littledistance from the house he was stopped by a large mastiff. The great dog made no attempt to attack him, but majestically barred the way.
“Squire,” yelled Joe-Bob, “ef you’ll call off your dog, I’ll turn right ’roun’ an’ go home an’ never bother you no more.”
“Is that you, Joe-Bob?” exclaimed Mr. Underwood. “Well, come right on. The dog won’t trouble you.”
The dog thereupon turned around and went up the avenue to the house and into the porch, where he stretched himself out at full length, Joe-Bob following along at a discreet distance.
“Come in,” said Underwood heartily; “I’m glad to see you. Take this large rocking-chair; you will find it more comfortable than the smaller one.”
Mr. Grissom sat down and looked cautiously around to see where the dog was.
“I did come, Squire,” he said, “to see you on some kinder business, but that dratted dog has done skeered it clean out ’n me.”
“Prince is a faithful watcher,” said Underwood, “but he never troubles any one who is coming straight to the house. Do you, old fellow?” The dog rapped an answer on the floor with his tail.
“Well,” said Joe-Bob, “I’d as lief be tore up into giblets, mighty nigh, as to have my sev’m senses skeered out’n me. What I’m afeared of now,” he went on, “is that that dog will jump over the fence some day an’ ketch old Judge Bascome whilst he’s a-pirootin’ ’roun’ here a-lookin’ at the old Place. An’ ef he don’t ketch the Judge, it’s more’n likely he’ll ketch the Judge’s gal. I seen both of ’em this very evenin’ whilst I was a-goin’ down town.”
“Was that the Judge?” exclaimed young Mr. Underwood, with some show of interest; “and was the lady his daughter? I heard they had returned.”
“That was jest percisely who it was,” said Joe-Bob with emphasis. “It wa’n’t nobody else under the shinin’ sun.”
“Well,” said Mr. Underwood, “I have seen them walking by several times. It is natural they should be interested in the Place. The old gentleman was born here?”
“Yes,” said Joe-Bob, “an’ the gal too. They tell me,” he went on, “that the old Judge an’ his gal have seed a many ups an’ downs. I reckon they er boun’ fer to feel lonesome when they come by an’ look at the prop’ty that use’ to be theirn. I hear tellthat the old Judge is gwine to try an’ see ef he can’t git it back.”
Francis Underwood said nothing, but sat gazing out into the moonlight as if in deep thought.
“I thinks, says I,” continued Joe-Bob, “that the old Judge’ll have to be lots pearter ’n he looks to be ef he gits ahead of Squire Underwood.”
The “Squire” continued to gaze reflectively down the dim perspective of cedars and Lombardy poplars. Finally he said:—
“Have a cigar, old man. These are good ones.”
Joe-Bob took the cigar and lighted it, handling it very gingerly.
“I ain’t a denyin’ but what they are good, Squire, but somehow er nuther me an’ these here fine seegyars don’t gee,” said Joe-Bob, as he puffed away. “They’re purty toler’ble nice, but jest about the time I git in the notion of smokin’ they’re done burnted up, an’ then ef you ain’t got sev’m or eight more, it makes you feel mighty lonesome. Now I’ll smoke this’n’, an’ it’ll sorter put my teeth on edge fer my pipe, an’ when I git home I’ll set up an’ have a right nice time.”
“And so you think,” said Underwood, speaking as if he had not heard Joe-Bob’s remarks about the cigar—“and so you think Judge Bascom has come to buy the old Place.”
“No, no!” said Joe-Bob, with a quick deprecatory gesture. “Oh, no, Squire! not by no means! No, no! I never said them words. What I did say was that it’s been talked up an’ down that the old Judge is a-gwine to try to git his prop’ty back. That’s what old Major Jimmy Bass said he heard, an’ I thinks, says I, he’ll have to be monst’us peart ef he gits ahead of Squire Underwood. That’s what I said to myself, an’ then I ast old Major Jimmy, says I, what the Judge would do wi’ the prop’ty arter he got it, an’ Major Jimmy, he ups an’ says, says he, that the old Judge would sell it back to Frank Underwood, says he.”
The young man threw back his head and laughed heartily, not less at the comical earnestness of Joe-Bob Grissom than at the gossip of Major Jimmy Bass.
“It seems, then, that we are going to have lively times around here,” said Underwood, by way of comment.
“Yes, siree,” exclaimed Joe-Bob; “that’swhat Major Jimmy Bass allowed. Do you reckon, Squire,” he continued, lowering his voice as though the matter was one to be approached cautiously, “do you reckon, Squire, they could slip in on you an’ trip you up wi’ one of ’em writs of arousement or one of ’em bills of injectment?”
“Not unless they catch me asleep,” replied Underwood, still laughing. “We get up very early in the morning on this Place.”
“Well,” said Joe-Bob Grissom, “I ain’t much of a lawyer myself, an’ so I thought I’d jest drap in an’ tell you the kind of talk what they’ve been a-rumorin’ ’roun’. But I’ll tell you what you kin do, Squire. Ef the wust comes to the wust, you kin make the old Judge an’ the gal take you along wi’ the Place. Now them would be my politics.”
With that Joe-Bob gave young Underwood a nudge in the short ribs, and chuckled to such an extent that he nearly strangled himself with cigar smoke.
“I think I would have the best of the bargain,” said the young man.
“Now you would! you reely would!” exclaimed Joe-Bob in all seriousness. “I can’t tell you the time when I ever seed alikelier gal than that one wi’ the Judge this evenin’. As we say down here in Georgia, she’s the top of the pot an’ the pot a-b’ilin’. I tell you that right pine-blank.”
After a little, Mr. Grissom rose to go. When Mr. Underwood urged him to sit longer, he pointed to the sword and belt of Orion hanging low in the southwest.
“The ell an’ yard are a-makin’ the’r disappearance,” he said; “an’ ef I stay out much longer, my old ’oman’ll think I’ve been a-settin’ up by a jug somewheres. Now ef you’ll jest hold your dog, Squire, I’ll go out as peaceful as a lamb.”
“Why, I was just going to propose to send him down to the big gate with you,” said young Underwood. “He’ll see you safely out.”
“No, no, Squire!” exclaimed Joe-Bob, holding up both hands. “Now don’t do the like of that. I don’t like too much perliteness in folks, an’ I know right well I couldn’t abide it in a dog. No, Squire; jest hold on to the creetur’ wi’ both hands, an’ I’ll find my way out. Jest ketch him by the forefoot. I’ve heard tell before now that ef you’ll hold a dog by his forefoot he can’t git loose, an’ nuther kin he bite you.”
Long after Mr. Joe-Bob Grissom had gone home young Francis Underwood sat in his piazza smoking and thinking. He had a good deal to think about, too, for he was perhaps the busiest and the thriftiest person that Hillsborough had ever seen. He had a dairy farm stocked with the choicest strains of Jersey cattle, and he shipped hundreds of pounds of golden butter all over the country every week in the year; he bred Percheron horses for farm-work and trotting-horses for the road; he had a flourishing farm on which he raised, in addition to his own supplies, a hundred or more bales of cotton every year; he had a steam saw-mill and cotton-gin; he was a contractor and builder; and he was also an active partner in the largest store in Hillsborough. Moreover he took a lively interest in the affairs of the town. His energy and his progressive ideas seemed to be contagious, for in a few years the sleepy old town had made tremendous strides, and everything appeared to move forward with an air of business—such is the force of a genial and robust example.
There is no doubt that young Underwood was somewhat coolly received when he firstmade his appearance in Hillsborough. He was a New Yorker and therefore a Yankee; and some of the older people, who were still grieving over the dire results of the war, as old people have a right to do, made no concealment of their prejudices. Their grief was too bitter to be lightly disposed of. Perhaps the young man appreciated this fact, for his sympathies were wonderfully quick and true. At any rate, he carried himself as buoyantly and as genially in the face of prejudice as he did afterwards in the face of friendship.
The truth is, prejudice could not stand before him. He had that magnetic personality which is a more precious possession than fame or fortune. There was something attractive even in his restless energy; he had that heartiness of manner and graciousness of disposition that are so rare among men; and, withal, a spirit of independence that charmed the sturdy-minded people with whom he cast his lot. It was not long before the younger generation began to seek Mr. Underwood out, and after this the social ice, so to speak, thawed quickly.
In short, young Underwood, by reason of a strong and an attractive individuality, becamea very prominent citizen of Hillsborough. He found time, in the midst of his own business enterprises, to look after the interests of the town and the county. One of his first movements was to organize an agricultural society which held its meeting four times a year in different parts of the county. It was purely a local and native suggestion, however, that made it incumbent on the people of the neighborhood where the Society met to grace the occasion with a feast in the shape of a barbecue. The first result of the agricultural society—which still exists, and which has had a wonderful influence on the farmers of middle Georgia—was a county fair, of which Mr. Underwood was the leading spirit. It may be said, indeed, that his energy and his money made the fair possible. And it was a success. Young Underwood had not only canvassed the county, but he had “worked it up in the newspapers,” as the phrase goes, and it tickled the older citizens immensely to see the dailies in the big cities of Atlanta, Macon, and Savannah going into rhetorical raptures over their fair.
As a matter of fact, Francis Underwood, charged with the fiery energy of a modernAmerican, found it a much easier matter to establish himself in the good graces of the people of Hillsborough and the surrounding country than did Judge Bascom when he returned to his old home with his lovely daughter. Politically speaking, he had committed the unpardonable sin when he accepted office under what was known as the carpet-bag government. It was an easy matter—thus the argument ran—to forgive and respect an enemy, but it was hardly possible to forgive a man who had proved false to his people and all their traditions—who had, in fact, “sold his birthright for a mess of pottage,” to quote the luminous language employed by Colonel Bolivar Blasingame in discussing the return of Judge Bascom. It is due to Colonel Blasingame to say that he did not allude to the sale of the Bascom Place, but to the fact that Judge Bascom had drawn a salary from the State treasury while the Republicans were in power in Georgia.
This was pretty much the temper of the older people of Hillsborough even in 1876. They had no bitter prejudices against the old Judge; they were even tolerant and kindly; but they made it plain to him thathe was regarded in a new light, and from a new standpoint. He was made to feel that his old place among them must remain vacant; that the old intimacies were not to be renewed. But this was the price that Judge Bascom was willing to pay for the privilege of spending his last days within sight of the old homestead. He made no complaints, nor did he signify by word or sign, even to his daughter, that everything was not as it used to be.
As for the daughter, she was in blissful ignorance of the situation. She was a stranger among strangers, and so was not affected by the lack of sociability on the part of the townspeople—if, indeed, there was any lack so far as she was concerned. The privations she endured in common with her father were not only sufficient to correct all notions of vanity or self-conceit, but they had given her a large experience of life; they had broadened her views and enlarged her sympathies, so that with no sacrifice of the qualities of womanly modesty and gentleness she had grown to be self-reliant. She attracted all who came within range of her sweet influence, and it was not long before she had broken down all the barriersthat prejudice against her father might have placed in her way. She established a primary school, and what with her duties there and with her music-class she soon had as much as she could do, and her income from these sources was sufficient to support herself and her father in a modest way; but it was not sufficient to carry out her father’s plans, and this fact distressed her no little.
Sometimes Judge Bascom, sitting in the narrow veranda of the little house they occupied, would suddenly arouse himself, as if from a doze, and exclaim:—
“We must save money, daughter; we must save money and buy the old Place back. It is ours. We must have it; we must save money.” And sometimes, in the middle of the night, he would go to his daughter’s bedside, stroke her hair, and say in a whisper:—
“We are not saving enough money, daughter; we must save more. We must buy the old Place back. We must save it from ruin.”
There was one individual in Hillsborough who did not give the cold shoulder toJudge Bascom on his return, and that was the negro Jesse, who had been bought by Major Jimmy Bass some years before the war from Merriwether Bascom, a cousin of the Judge. Jesse made no outward demonstration of welcome; he was more practical than that. He merely went to his old master with whom he had been living since he became free, and told him that he was going to find employment elsewhere.
“Why, what in the nation!” exclaimed Major Bass. “Why, what’s the matter, Jess?”
The very idea was preposterous. In the Bass household the negro was almost indispensable. He was in the nature of a piece of furniture that holds its own against all fashions and fills a place that nothing else can fill.
“Dey ain’t nothin’ ’t all de matter, Marse Maje. I des took it in my min’, like, dat I’d go off some’r’s roun’ town en set up fer myse’f,” said Jesse, scratching his head in a dubious way. He felt very uncomfortable.
“Has anybody hurt your feelin’s, Jess?”
“No, suh! Lord, no, suh, dat dey ain’t!” exclaimed Jesse, with the emphasis of astonishment. “Nobody ain’t pester me.”
“Ain’t your Miss Sarah been rushin’ you roun’ too lively fer to suit your notions?”
“No, suh.”
“Ain’t she been a-quarrelin’ after you about your work?”
“No, Marse Maje; she ain’t say a word.”
“Well, then, Jess, what in the name of common sense are you gwine off fer?” The major wanted to argue the matter.
“I got it in my min’, Marse Maje, but I dunno ez I kin git it out straight.” Jesse leaned his cane against the house, and placed his hat on the steps, as if preparing for a lengthy and elaborate explanation. “Now den, hit look dis way ter me, des like I’m gwine ter tell you. I ain’t nothin’ but a nigger, I know dat mighty well, en nobody don’t hafter tell me. I’m a nigger, en you a white man. You’re a-settin’ up dar in de peazzer, en I’m a-stan’in’ down yer on de groun’. I been wid you a long time; you treat me well, you gimme plenty vittles, en you pay me up when you got de money, en I hustle roun’ en do de bes’ I kin in de house en in de gyarden. Dat de way it been gwine on; bofe un us feel like it all sati’factual. Bimeby it come over me dat maybe I kin do mo’ work dan what I been a-doin’ engit mo’ money. Hit work roun’ in my min’ dat I better be layin’ up somepin’ n’er fer de ole ’oman en de chillun.”
“Well!” exclaimed Major Bass with a snort. It was all he could say.
“En den ag’in,” Jesse went on, “one er de ole fambly done come back ’long wid his daughter. Marse Briscoe Bascom en Miss Mildred dey done come back, en dey ain’t got nobody fer ter he’p um out no way; en my ole ’oman she say dat ef I got any fambly feelin’ I better go dar whar Marse Briscoe is.”
For some time Major Jimmy Bass sat silent. He was shocked and stunned. Finally Jesse picked up his hat and cane and started to go. As he brushed his hat with his coat-sleeve his old master saw that he was rigged out in his Sunday clothes. As he moved away the major called him:—
“Oh, Jess!”
“Suh?”
“I allers knowed you was a durned fool, Jess, but I never did know before that you was the durndest fool in the universal world.”
Jesse made no reply, and the major went into the house. When he told his wifeabout Jesse’s departure, that active-minded and sharp-tongued lady was very angry.
“Indeed, and I’m glad of it,” she exclaimed as she poured out the major’s coffee; “I’m truly glad of it. For twenty-five years that nigger has been laying around here doing nothing, and we a-paying him. But for pity’s sake I’d ’a’ drove him off the lot long ago. You mayn’t believe it, but that nigger is ready and willing to eat his own weight in vittles every week the Lord sends. I ain’t sorry he’s gone, but I’m sorry I didn’t have a chance to give him a piece of my mind. Now, don’t you go to blabbing it around, like you do everything else, that Jesse has gone and left us to go with old Briscoe Bascom.”
Major Bass said he wouldn’t, and he didn’t, and that is the reason he expressed surprise when Joe-Bob Grissom informed him that Jesse was waiting on the old Judge and his daughter. Major Jimmy was talkative and fond of gossip, but he had too much respect for his wife’s judgment and discretion to refuse to toe the mark, even when it was an imaginary one.
The Bascom family had no claim whatever on Jesse, but he had often heard hismother and other negroes boasting over that they had once belonged to the Bascoms, and fondness for the family was the result of both tradition and instinct. He had that undefined and undefinable respect for people of quality that is one of the virtues, or possibly one of the failings, of human nature. The nearest approach to people of quality, so far as his experience went, was to be found in the Bascom family, and he had never forgotten that he had belonged to an important branch of it. He held it as a sort of distinction. Feeling thus, it is no wonder that he was ready to leave a comfortable home at Major Jimmy Bass’s for the privilege of attaching himself and his fortunes to those of the Judge and his daughter. Jesse made up his mind to take this step as soon as the Bascoms returned to Hillsborough, and he made no delay in carrying out his intentions.
Early one morning, not long after Judge Bascom and his daughter had settled themselves in the modest little house which they had selected because the rent was low, Mildred heard some one cutting wood in the yard. Opening her window blinds a little, she saw that the axe was wielded by a stalwartnegro a little past middle age. Her father was walking up and down the sidewalk on the outside with his hands behind him, and seemed to be talking to himself.
A little while afterwards Mildred went into the kitchen. She found a fire burning in the stove, and everything in noticeably good order, but the girl she had employed to help her about the house was nowhere to be seen. Whereupon the young lady called her—
“Elvira!”
At this the negro dropped his axe and went into the kitchen.
“Howdy, Mistiss?”
“Have you seen Elvira?” Mildred asked.
“Yes’m, she wuz hangin’ roun’ yer when I come roun’ dis mornin’. I went in dar, ma’m, en I see how de kitchen wuz all messed up, en den I sont her off. She de mos’ no ’countest nigger gal what I ever laid my two eyes on. I’m name’ Jesse, ma’m, en I use’ ter b’long ter de Bascom fambly when I wuz a boy. Is you ready fer breakfus, Mistiss?”
“Has my father—has Judge Bascom employed you?” Mildred asked. Jesse laughed as though enjoying a good joke.
“No ’m, dat he ain’t! I des come my own se’f, kaze I know’d in reason you wuz gwine ter be in needance er somebody. Lord, no ’m, none er de Bascoms don’t hafter hire me, ma’m.”
“And who told you to send Elvira away?” Mildred inquired, half vexed and half amused.
“Nobody ain’t tell me, ma’m,” Jesse replied. “When I come she wuz des settin’ in dar by de stove noddin’, en de whole kitchen look like it been tored up by a harrycane. I des shuck her up, I did, en tell her dat if dat de way she gwine do, she better go ’long back en stay wid her mammy.”
“Well, you are very meddlesome,” said Mildred. “I don’t understand you at all. Who is going to cook breakfast?”
“Mistiss, I done tell you dat breakfus is all ready en a-waitin’,” exclaimed Jesse in an injured tone. “I made dat gal set de table, en dey ain’t nothin’ ter do but put de vittles on it.”
It turned out to be a very good breakfast, too, such as it was. Jesse thought while he was preparing it that it was a very small allowance for two hearty persons. But thesecret of its scantiness cropped out while the Judge and his daughter were eating.
“These biscuits are very well cooked. But there are too many of them. My daughter, we must pinch and save; it will only be for a little while. We must have the old Place back; we must rake and scrape, and save money and buy it back. And this coffee is very good, too,” he went on; “it has quite the old flavor. I thought the girl was too young, but she’s a good cook—a very good cook indeed.”
Jesse, who had taken his stand behind the Judge’s chair, arrayed in a snow-white apron, moved his body uneasily from one foot to the other. Mildred, glad to change the conversation, told her father about Jesse.
“Ah, yes,” said Judge Bascom, in his kindly, patronizing way; “I saw him in the yard. And he used to belong to the Bascoms? Well, well, it must have been a long time ago. This is Jesse behind me? Stand out there, Jesse, and let me look at you. Ah, yes, a likely negro; a very likely negro indeed. And what Bascom did you belong to, Jesse? Merriwether Bascom! Why, to be sure; why, certainly!”the Judge continued with as much animation as his feebleness would admit of. “Why, of course, Merriwether Bascom. Well, well, I remember him distinctly. A rough-and-tumble sort of man he was, fighting, gambling, horse-racing, always on the wing. A good man at bottom, but wild. And so you belonged to Merriwether Bascom? Well, boy, once a Bascom always a Bascom. We’ll have the old Place back, Jesse, we’ll have it back: but we must pinch ourselves; we must save.”
Thus the old Judge rambled on in his talk. But no matter what the subject, no matter how far his memory and his experiences carried him away from the present, he was sure to return to the old Place at last. He must have it back. Every thought, every idea, was subordinate to this. He brooded over it and talked of it waking, and he dreamed of it sleeping. It was the one thought that dominated every other. Money must be saved, the old Place must be bought, and to that end everything must tend. The more his daughter economized the more he urged her to economize. His earnestness and enthusiasm impressed and influenced the young girl in a larger measurethan she would have been willing to acknowledge, and unconsciously she found herself looking forward to the day when her father and herself would be able to call the Bascom Place their own. In the Judge the thought was the delusion of old age, in the maiden it was the dream of youth; and pardonable, perhaps, in both.
Their hopes and desires running thus in one channel, they loved to wander of an evening in the neighborhood of the old Place—it was just in the outskirts of the town—and long for the time when they should take possession of their home. On these occasions Mildred, by way of interesting her father, would suggest changes to be made.
“The barn is painted red,” she would say. “I think olive green would be prettier.”
“No,” the Judge would reply; “we will have the barn removed. It was not there in my time. It is an innovation. We will have it removed a mile away from the house. We will make many changes. There are hundreds of acres in the meadow yonder that ought to be in cotton. In my time we tried to kill grass, but this man is doing his best to propagate it. Look at that field of Bermudathere. Two years of hard work will be required to get the grass out.”
Once while the Judge and his daughter were passing by the old Place they met Prince, the mastiff, in the road. The great dog looked at the young lady with kindly eyes, and expressed his approval by wagging his tail. Then he approached and allowed her to fondle his lionlike head, and walked by her side, responding to her talk in a dumb but eloquent way. Prince evidently thought that the young lady and her father were going in the avenue gate and to the house, for when they got nearly opposite, the dog trotted on ahead, looking back occasionally, as if by that means to extend them an invitation and to assure them that they were welcome. At the gate he stopped and turned around, and seeing that the fair lady and the old gentleman were going by, he dropped his bulky body on the ground in a disconsolate way and watched them as they passed down the street.
The next afternoon Prince made it a point to watch for the young lady; and when she and her father appeared in sight he ran to meet them and cut up such unusual capers, barking and running around, that his masterwent down the avenue to see what the trouble was. Mr. Underwood took off his hat as Judge Bascom and his daughter drew near.
“This is Judge Bascom, I presume,” he said. “My name is Underwood. I am glad to meet you.”
“This is my daughter, Mr. Underwood,” said the Judge, bowing with great dignity.
“My dog has paid you a great compliment, Miss Bascom,” said Francis Underwood. “He makes few friends, and I have never before seen him sacrifice his dignity to his enthusiasm.”
“I feel highly flattered by his attentions,” said Mildred, laughing. “I have read somewhere, or heard it said, that the instincts of a little child and a dog are unerring.”
“I imagine,” said the Judge, in his dignified way, “that instinct has little to do with the matter. I prefer to believe”—He paused a moment, looked at Underwood, and laid his hand on the young man’s stalwart shoulder. “Did you know, sir,” he went on, “that this place, all these lands, once belonged to me?” His dignity had vanished, his whole attitude changed. The pathos in his voice, which was suggestedrather than expressed, swept away whatever astonishment Francis Underwood might have felt. The young man looked at the Judge’s daughter and their eyes met. In that one glance, transitory though it was, he found his cue; in her lustrous eyes, proud yet appealing, he read a history of trouble and sacrifice.
“Yes,” Underwood replied, in a matter-of-fact way. “I knew the place once belonged to you, and I have been somewhat proud of the fact. We still call it the Bascom Place, you know.”
“I should think so!” exclaimed the Judge, bridling up a little; “I should think so! Pray what else could it be called?”
“Well, it might have been called Grasslands, you know, or The Poplars, but somehow the old name seemed to suit it best. I like to think of it as the Bascom Place.”
“You are right, sir,” said the Judge with emphasis; “you are right, sir. It is the Bascom Place. All the powers of earth cannot strip us of our name.”
Again Underwood looked at the young girl, and again he read in her shining but apprehensive eyes the answer he should make.
“I have been compelled to add some conveniences—I will not call them improvements—and I have made some repairs, but I have tried to preserve the main and familiar features of the Place.”
“But the barn there; that is not where it should be. It should be a mile away—on the creek.”
“That would improve appearances, no doubt; but if you were to get out at four or five o’clock in the morning and see to the milking of twelve or fifteen cows, I dare say you would wish the barn even nearer than it is.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose so,” responded the Judge; “yes, no doubt. But it was not there in my time—not in my time.”
“I have some very fine cows,” Underwood went on. “Won’t you go in and look at them? I think they would interest Miss Bascom, and my sister would be glad to meet her. Won’t you go in, sir, and look at the old house?”
The Judge turned his pale and wrinkled face towards his old home.
“No,” he said, “not now. I thank you very much. I—somehow—no, sir, I cannot go now.”
His hand shook as he raised it to his face, and his lips trembled as he spoke.
“Let us go home, daughter,” he said after a while. “We have walked far enough.” He bowed to young Underwood, and Mildred bade him good-bye with a troubled smile.
Prince went with them a little way down the street. He walked by the side of the lady, and her pretty hand rested lightly on the dog’s massive head. It was a beautiful picture, Underwood thought, as he stood watching them pass out of sight.
“You are a lucky dog,” he said to Prince when the latter came back, “but you don’t appreciate your privileges. If you did you would have gone home with that lovely woman.” Prince wagged his tail, but it is doubtful if he fully understood the remark.
One Sunday morning, as Major Jimmy Bass was shaving himself, he heard a knock at the back door. The major had his coat and waistcoat off and his suspenders were hanging around his hips. He was applying the lather for the last time, and the knocking was so sudden and unexpected that herubbed the shaving-brush in one of his eyes. He began to make some remarks which, however appropriate they may have been to the occasion, could not be reported here with propriety. But in the midst of his indignant monologue he remembered that the knocking might have proceeded from some of Mrs. Bass’s lady friends, who frequently made a descent on the premises in that direction for the purpose of borrowing a cupful of sugar or coffee in a social way. These considerations acted as powerful brakes on the conversation that Major Bass was carrying on with some imaginary foe. Holding a towel to his smarting eye, he peeped from his room door and looked down the hall. The back door was open, but he could see no one.
“Who was that knocking?” he cried. “I’ll go one eye on you anyways.”
“’T ain’t nobody but me, Marse Maje,” came the response from the door.
“Is that you, Jess?” exclaimed the major. “Well, pleg-take your hide to the pleg-taked nation! A little more an’ you’d ’a’ made me cut my th’oat from year to year; an’ as it is, I’ve jest about got enough soap in my eye fer to do a day’s washin’.”
“Is you shavin’ yourse’f, Marse Maje?” asked Jesse, diplomatically.
“That I am,” replied the major with emphasis. “I allers was independent of white folks, an’ sence you pulled up your stakes an’ took up wi’ the quality I’m about independent of the niggers. An’ it’s mighty quare to me,” the major went on, “that you’d leave your high an’ mighty people long enough fer to come a-bangin’ an’ makin’ me put out my eyes. Why, ef I’d ’a’ had my razor out, I’ll be boun’ you’d made me cut my th’oat, an’ much good may it ’a’ done you.”
“Name er goodness, Marse Maje,” protested Jesse, “what make you go on dat a-way? Ef I’d ’a’ knowed you wuz busy in dar I’d ’a’ set out in de sun en waited twel you got thoo.”
“Yes,” said the major in a sarcastic but somewhat mollified tone, “you’d ’a’ sot out there an’ got to noddin’, an’ then bimeby your Miss Sarah would ’a’ come along an’ ketched you there, an’ I’ll be boun’ she’d ’a’ lammed you wi’ a chunk of wood; bekaze she don’t ’low no loafin’ in the back yard sence you been gone. I don’t know what you come fer,” the major continued, stillwiping the lather out of his eye, “an’ nuther do I keer; but sence you are here you kin come in an’ finish shavin’ me, fer to pay fer the damage you’ve done.”
Jesse was apparently overjoyed to find that he could be of some service. He bustled around in the liveliest manner, and was soon mowing the major’s fat face with the light but firm touch for which he was noted. As he shaved he talked.
“Marse Maje,” he said, “does you know what I come fer dis mornin’?”
“I’ve been tryin’ to think,” replied the major; “but I couldn’t tell you ef I was a-gwine to be hung fer it. You are up to some devilment, I know mighty well, but I wish’t I may die ef I’ve got any idee what it is.”
“Now, Marse Maje, what make you talk dat’a’way?”
“Oh, I know you, Jess, an’ I’ve been a-knowin’ you a mighty long time. Your Miss Sarah mayn’t know you, Jess, but I know you from the groun’ all the way up.”
Jesse laughed. He was well aware that the major’s wife was the knowing one of that family. He had waited until that excellent lady had issued from the house onher way to church, and it was not until she was out of sight that he thought it safe to call on the major. Even now, after he had found the major alone, the negro was somewhat doubtful as to the propriety of explaining the nature of his business; but the old man was inquisitive.
“Oh, yes, Jess!” the major went on, after pausing long enough to have the corner of his mouth shaved—“oh, yes! I know you, an’ I know you’ve got somethin’ on your min’ right now. Spit it out.”
“Well, I’ll tell you de trufe, Marse Maje,” said Jesse, after hesitating for some time; “I tell you de Lord’s trufe, I come yer atter somepin’ ter eat.”
Major Bass caught the negro by the arm, pushed the razor carefully out of the way, and sat bolt upright in the chair.
“Do you mean to stan’ up there, you triflin’ rascal,” the major exclaimed, “an’ tell me, right before my face an’ eyes, that you’ve come a-sneaking back here atter vittles? Whyn’t you stay where the vittles was?” Major Bass was really indignant.
“Wait, Marse Maje; des gimme time,” said Jesse, nervously strapping the razor on the palm of his hand. “Des gimme time,Marse Maje. You fly up so, suh, dat you git me all mixed up wid myse’f. I come atter vittles, dat’s de Lord’s trufe; but I ain’t come atter ’em fer myse’f. Nigger like me don’t stay hongry long roun’ whar folks know um like dey does me.”
“Well, who in the name of reason sent you, then?” asked the major.
“Nobody ain’t sont me, suh,” said Jesse.
“Well, who do you want em’ fer?” insisted the major.
“Marse Judge Bascom en Miss Mildred,” replied Jesse solemnly.
Major Jimmy Bass fell back in his chair in a state of collapse, overcome by his astonishment.
“Well!” he exclaimed, as soon as he could catch his breath. “Ef this don’t beat the Jews an’ the Gentiles, the Scribes an’ the Pharisees, then I ain’t a-settin’ here. Did they tell you to come to this house fer vittles?”
“No, suh;datdey ain’t—datdey ain’t! Ef Miss Mildred wuz ter know I went anywhar on dis kin’ er errun’ she’d mighty nigh have a fit.”
“Well,well,WELL!” snorted the major.
“I des come my own se’f,” Jesse wenton. He would have begun shaving again, but the major waved him away. “Look like I ’bleege’ ter come. You’d ’a’ come yo’se’f, Marse Maje, druther dan see dem folks pe’sh deyse’f ter deff. Dey got money, but Marse Judge Bascom got de idee dat dey hafter save it all fer ter buy back de ole Place. Dey pinch deyse’f day in en day out, en yistiddy when Miss Mildred say she gwine buy somepin’ fer Sunday, Marse Judge Bascom he say no; he ’low dat dey mus’ save en pinch en buy back de ole home. I done year him say dat twel it make me plum sick. An’ dar dey is naturally starvin’ deyse’f.
“Miss Mildred,” continued Jesse, “got idee dat her pa know what he talkin’ ’bout; but twix’ you en me, Marse Maje, dat ole man done about lose his min’. He ain’t so mighty much older dan what you is, but he mighty feeble in his limbs, en he mighty flighty in his head. He talk funny, now, en he don’t talk ’bout nothin’ skacely but buyin’ back the ole Place.”
“Jess,” said Major Bass in the smooth, insinuating tone that the negro knew so well, and that he had learned to fear, “ain’t I allers treated you right? Ain’t I allers done the clean thing by you?”
“Yes, Marse Maje, you is,” said the negro with emphasis.
“Well, then, Jess, what in the name of Moses do you want to come roun’ me wi’ such a tale as this? Don’t you know I know you clean through? Whyn’t you come right out an’ say you want the vittles fer yourself? What is the use whippin’ the devil ’roun’ the stump?”
“Marse Maje,” said Jesse, solemnly, “I’m a-tellin’ you de Lord’s trufe.” By this time he had begun to shave the major again.
“Well,” said Major Bass, after a pause, during which he seemed to be thinking, “suppos’n’ I was to let myself be took in by your tale, an’ suppos’n’ I was to give you some vittles, what have you got to put ’em in?”
“I got a basket out dar, Marse Maje,” said Jesse, cheerfully. “I brung it a purpose.”
“Why, tooby shore, tooby shore!” exclaimed the major, sarcastically. “Ef you was as forehanded as you is fore-thoughted you wouldn’t be a-runnin’ roun’ beggin’ vittles from han’ to mouth. But sence you are here you’d better make haste; bekaze ef yourMiss Sarah comes back from church and ketches you here, she’ll kick up a purty rippit.”
The major was correct. As he and Jesse went into the pantry Mrs. Bass entered the front door. Flinging her bonnet and mantilla on a bed, she went to the back porch for a drink of water. The major heard her coming through the hallway, and, by a swift gesture of his hand, cautioned Jesse to be quiet.
“I’ll vow if the place ain’t left to take care of itself,” Mrs. Bass was saying. “Doors all open, chickens in the dining-room, cat licking the churn-dasher, and I’ll bet my existence that not a drop of fresh water has been put in the house-bucket since I left this morning. Everything gone to rack and ruin. I can’t say my prayers in peace at home, and if I go to church one Sunday in a month there ain’t no satisfaction in the sermon, because I know everything’s at loose ends on this whole blessed place. And if you’d go up the street right now, you’d find Mr. Bass a-setting up there at the tavern with the other loafers, a-giggling and a-snickering and a-dribbling at the mouth like one possessed.”
The major, in the pantry, winced visibly at this picture drawn true to life, and as he attempted to change his position he knocked a tin vessel from one of the shelves. He caught at it, and it fell to the floor with a loud crash.
“The Lord have mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Bass. “Is Satan and all his imps in the pantry, a-tearing down and a-smashing up things?” Not being a timid woman, she hastened to investigate. The sight she saw in the pantry struck her speechless. In one corner stood the major, holding up one foot, as if he was afraid of breaking something, and vainly trying to smile. In another corner stood Jesse, so badly frightened that very little could be seen of his face except the whites of his eyes. The tableau was a comical one. Mrs. Bass did not long remain speechless.
“Mr. Bass!” she exclaimed, “what under the shining sun are you doing colloguing with niggers in my pantry? If you want to collogue with niggers, why, in the name of common sense, don’t you take ’em out to the barn? What are you doing in there, anyhow? For mercy’s sake! have you gone stark-natural crazy? And if youain’t, what brand-new caper are you trying to cut up?”
“Don’t talk so loud, Sarah,” said the major, wiping the cold perspiration from his face. “All the neighbors’ll hear you.”
“And why shouldn’t they hear me?” exclaimed Mrs. Bass. “What could be worse than for me to come home from church in broad daylight and find you penned up in my pantry, arm-in-arm with a nigger? What business have you got with niggers that you have to take ’em into my pantry to collogue with ’em? I’d a heap rather you’d ’a’ taken ’em in the parlor—a heap rather.”
Then Mrs. Bass’s eyes fell on the basket Jesse had in his hand, and this added to her indignation.
“I believe in my soul,” she went on, “that you are stealing the meat and bread out of your own mouth to feed that nigger. If you ain’t, what is the basket for?”
“Tut, tut, Sarah, don’t you go on so; you’ll make yourself the laughin’-stock of the town,” said the major in a conciliatory tone.
“And what’ll you be?” continued Mrs. Bass, relentlessly; “what’ll you be—ahoneyin’ up with buck niggers in my pantry in the broad open daytime? Maybe you’ll have the manners to introduce me to your pardner. Who is he, anyhow?” Then Mrs. Bass turned her attention to the negro.
“Come out of my pantry, you nasty, trifling rascal! Who are you?”
“’T ain’t nobody but me, Miss Sa’ah,” said Jesse as he issued forth.
“You!” she exclaimed. “You are the nigger that was too biggity to stay with ’em that raised you up and took care of you, and now you come back and try to steal their bread and meat! Well! I know the end of the world ain’t so mighty far off.”
Mrs. Bass sank into a chair, exhausted by her indignation. Then the major took the floor, so to say, and showed that if he could be frightened by his wife, he could also, at the proper time, show that he had a will of his own. He explained the situation at some length, and with an emphasis that carried conviction with it. He made no mention of Jesse in his highly colored narrative, but left his wife to infer that while she was at church praying for peace of mind and not having her prayers answered to any great extent, he was at home engaged in works ofpractical charity. Nothing could have been finer than the major’s air of injured innocence, unless it was Jesse’s attitude of helpless and abandoned humiliation. The result of it was that Mrs. Bass filled the basket with the best she had in the house, and Jesse went home happy.
As for the Bascoms, they seemed to be getting along comfortably in spite of the harrowing story that Jesse had told to Major Jimmy Bass and to others. As a matter of fact, the shrewd negro had purposely exaggerated the condition of affairs in the Bascom household. He had an idea that the fare they lived on was too common and cheap for the representatives of such a grand family, forgetting, or not knowing, the privations they had passed through. The Judge insisted on the most rigid economy, and Mildred was at one with him in this. She was familiar with the necessity for it, but she could see that her father was anxious to push it to unmeasurable lengths. It never occurred to her, however, that her father’s morbid anxiety to repossess theBascom Place was rapidly taking the shape of mania. This desire on the part of Judge Bascom was a part of his daughter’s life. She had heard it expressed in various ways ever since she could remember, and it was a part, not merely of her experience, but of her growth and development. She had heard the matter discussed so many times that it seemed to her nothing but natural that her father should one day realize the dream of his later years and reoccupy the old Place as proprietor.
Judge Bascom had no other thought than this. As he grew older and feebler, the desire became more ardent and overpowering. While his daughter was teaching her school, with which she had made quite a success, the Judge would be planning improvements to be added to his old home when he should own it again. Not a day passed—unless, indeed, the weather was stormy—that he did not walk in the neighborhood of the old Place. Sometimes he would go with his daughter, sometimes he would go alone, but it was observed by those who came to be interested in his comings and goings that he invariably refused to accept the invitation of Mr. Underwood to enter the house or toinspect the improvements that had been made. He persisted in remaining on the outside of the domain, content to wait for the day when he could enter as proprietor. He was willing to accept the position of spectator, but he was not willing to be a guest.
The culmination came one fine day in the fall, and it was so sudden and so peculiar that it took Hillsborough completely by surprise, and gave the people food for gossip for a long time afterwards. The season was hesitating as to whether summer should return or winter should be introduced. There was a hint of winter in the crisp morning breezes, but the world seemed to float summerwards in the glimmering haze that wrapped the hills in the afternoons. On one of these fine mornings Judge Bascom rose and dressed himself. His daughter heard him humming a tune as he walked about the room, and she observed also, with inward satisfaction, that his movements were brisker than usual. Listening a little attentively, she heard him talking to himself, and presently she heard him laugh. This was such an unusual occurrence that she was moved to knock at his door. He respondedwith a cheery “Come in!” Mildred found him shaved and dressed, and she saw that there was a great change in his appearance. His cheeks, usually so wan and white, were flushed a little and his eyes were bright. He smiled as Mildred entered, and exclaimed in a tone that she had not heard for years:—
“Good-morning, my daughter! And how do you find yourself this morning?”
It was the old manner she used to admire so when she was a slip of a girl—a manner that was a charming combination of dignity and affection.
“Why, father!” she exclaimed, “you must be feeling better. You have positively grown younger in a night.”
The Judge laughed until his eyes sparkled. “Yes, my dear, I am feeling very well indeed. I never felt better. I am happy, quite happy. Everything has been made clear to me. I am going to-day to transact some business that has been troubling me a long time. I shall arrange it all to-day—yes, to-day.”
The change that had come over her father was such a relief to Mildred that she asked him no questions. Now, as always, shetrusted to his judgment and his experience. Jesse, however, was more critical. He watched the Judge furtively and shook his head.
“Mistiss,” he said to Mildred when he found an opportunity, “did you shave master?”
“Why, what a ridiculous question!” she exclaimed. “How could I shave him? It makes me shiver merely to touch the razors.”
“Well, Mistiss,” Jesse insisted, “ef I ain’t shave him, en you ain’t shave him, den who de name er goodness is done gone en done it?”
“He shaved himself, of course,” Mildred said. “He is very much better this morning. I noticed it the moment I saw him. I should think you could see it yourself.”
“I seed somepin’ nuther wuz de matter,” said Jesse. “Somepin’ ’bleege’ ter be de matter when I put him ter bed las’ night des like he wuz a baby, ma’m, en now yer he is gwine roun’ des ez spry ez de nex’ one. Yessum, somepin’ ’bleege’ ter be de matter. Yistiddy his han’s wuz shakin’ same like he got de polzy, ma’m, en now yer he is shavin’ hisse’f; dat what rack my min’.”
“Well, I hope you are glad he is so well, Jesse,” said Mildred in an injured tone.
“Oh, yessum,” said Jesse, scratching his head. “Lor’, yessum. Dey ain’t nobody no gladder dan what I is; but it come on me so sudden, ma’m, dat it sorter skeer me.”
“Well, it doesn’t frighten me,” said Mildred. “It makes me very happy.”
“Yessum,” replied Jesse deferentially. He made no further comment; but after Mildred had gone to attend to her school duties he made it his business to keep an eye on the Judge, and the closer the negro watched, the more forcibly was he struck by the great change that a night had made in the old man.
“I hear talk ’bout folks bein’ conjured inter sickness,” Jesse said to himself, “but I ain’t never hear talk ’bout dey bein’ conjured so dey git well.”
Certainly a great change had come over Judge Bascom. He stood firmly on his feet once more. He held his head erect, as in the old days, and when he talked to Jesse his tone was patronizing and commanding, instead of querulous and complaining. He seemed to be very fastidious about his appearance. After Mildred had gone to herschool, Jesse was called in to brush the Judge’s hat and coat and to polish his shoes. The Judge watched this process with great interest, and talked to the negro in his blandest manner. This was not so surprising to Jesse as the fact that the Judge persisted in calling him Wesley; Wesley was the Judge’s old body-servant who had been dead for twenty years. It was Wesley this and Wesley that so long as Jesse was in the room, and once the Judge asked how long before the carriage would be ready. The negro parried this question, but he remembered it. He was sorely puzzled an hour afterwards, however, when Judge Bascom called him and said:—
“Wesley, tell Jordan he need not bring the carriage around for me. I will walk. Jordan can bring your mistress when she is ready.”
“Well,” exclaimed Jesse, when the Judge disappeared in the house, “dis bangs me! What de name er goodness put de ole man Jerd’n in his min’, which he died endurance er de war? It’s all away beyant me. Miss Mildred oughter be yer wid her pa right now, yit, ef I go atter her, dey ain’t no tellin’ what he gwine do.”
Jess cut an armful of wood, and then made a pretense of washing dishes, going from the kitchen to the dining-room several times. More than once he stopped to listen, but he could hear nothing. After a while he made bold to peep into the sitting-room. There was nobody there. He went into the Judge’s bedroom; it was empty. Then he called—“Marster! oh, Marster!” but there was no reply. Jess was in a quandary. He was not alarmed, but he was uneasy.
“Ef I run en tell Miss Mildred dat Marster done gone som’ers,” he said to himself, “she’ll des laugh en say I ain’t got no sense; en I don’t speck I is, but it make my flesh crawl fer ter hear folks callin’ on dead niggers ter do dis en do dat.”
Meanwhile the Judge had sallied forth from the house, and was proceeding in the direction of the Bascom Place. His step was firm and elastic, his bearing dignified. The acquaintances whom he met on his way stopped and looked after him when they had returned his Chesterfieldian salutation. He walked rapidly, and there was an air of decision in his movements that had long been lacking. At the great gate opening into the avenue of the Bascom Place the Judge wasmet by Prince the mastiff, who gave him a hospitable welcome, and gravely preceded him to the house. Miss Sophie, Mr. Underwood’s maiden sister, who was sitting in the piazza, engaged on some kind of feminine embroidery, saw the Judge coming, too late to beat a retreat, so she merely whipped behind one of the large pillars, gave her dress a little shake at the sides and behind, ran her hands over her hair, and appeared before the caller cool, calm, and collected.
“Good-morning, madam,” said the Judge in his grand way, taking off his hat.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Miss Sophie. “Have this chair?”
“No, no,” said the Judge, smiling blandly, and waving his hand. “I prefer my own chair—the large rocker with the cushion, you know. It is more comfortable.”
Somewhat puzzled, Miss Sophie fetched a rocker. It had no cushion, but the Judge seemed not to miss it.
“Why, where are the servants?” he asked, his brows contracting a little. “I could have brought the chair.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Miss Sophie, “if I were to sit down and expect the negroes to wait on me, I’d have a good many disappointments during the day.”
“Yes,” said the Judge, “that is very true; very true. Where is Wesley?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Miss Sophie replied. “Is he a white man or a negro?”
“Wesley?” exclaimed the Judge. “Why, he’s a nigger; he’s my body-servant.”
“Isn’t this Judge Bascom?” Miss Sophie inquired, regarding him curiously.
“Yes, certainly, madam,” responded the Judge.
“Well, I’ve seen a negro named Jesse following you and your daughter about,” said Miss Sophie. “Perhaps you are speaking of Jesse.”
“No, no,” said the Judge. “I mean Wesley—or maybe you are only a visitor here. Your face is familiar, but I have forgotten your name.”
“I am Francis Underwood’s sister,” said Miss Sophie, with some degree of pride.
“Ah, yes!” the Judge sighed—“Francis Underwood. He is the gentleman who has had charge of the place these several years. A very clever man, I have no doubt. He has done very well, very well indeed; better than most men would have done. Do you know where he will go next year?”
“Now, I couldn’t tell you, really,” MissSophie replied, looking at the Judge through her gold-rimmed eye-glasses. “He did intend to go North this fall, but he’s always too busy to carry out his intentions.”
“Yes,” said Judge Bascom; “I have no doubt he is a very busy man. He has managed everything very cleverly here, and I wish him well wherever he goes.”
Miss Sophie was very glad when she heard her brother’s step in the hall; not that she was nervous or easily frightened, but there was something in Judge Bascom’s actions, something in the tone of his voice, some suggestion in his words, that gave her uneasiness, and she breathed a sigh of relief when her stalwart brother made his appearance.
Francis Underwood greeted his guest cordially—more cordially, Miss Sophie thought, than circumstances warranted; but the beautiful face of Mildred Bascom was not stamped on Miss Sophie’s mind as it was on her brother’s.
“I am sorry to put you to any inconvenience,” said the Judge, after they had talked for some time on commonplace topics—“very sorry. I have put the matter off until at last I felt it to be a solemn duty Iowed my family to come here. Believe me, sir,” he continued, turning to the young man with some emotion—“believe me, sir, it grieves me to trouble you in the matter, but I could no longer postpone coming here. I think I understand and appreciate your attachment”—
“Why, my dear sir,” cried Francis Underwood in his heartiest manner, “it is no trouble at all. No one could be more welcome here. I have often wondered why you have never called before. Don’t talk about trouble and inconvenience.”
“I think I understand and appreciate your attachment for the Place,” the Judge went on as though he had not been interrupted, “and it embarrasses me, I assure you, to be compelled to trouble you now.”
“Well,” said Francis Underwood, with a hospitable laugh, “if it is no trouble to you, it certainly is none to me. As my neighbors around here say, when I call on them, ‘just make yourself at home.’”
Judge Bascom rose from his chair trembling. He seemed suddenly to be laboring under the most intense excitement.
“My home?” he almost shrieked—“make myself at home! In God’s name,man, what can you mean? Itismy home! It has always been my home! Everything here is mine—every foot of land, every tree, every brick and stone and piece of timber in this house. It isallmine, and I will have it! I have come here to assert my rights!”
He panted with passion and excitement as he looked from Francis Underwood to Miss Sophie. He paused, as if daring them to dispute his claims. Miss Sophie, who had a temper of her own, would have given the Judge a piece of her mind, but she saw her brother regarding the old man with a puzzled, pitying expression. Then the truth flashed on her, and for an instant she felt like crying. Francis Underwood approached the Judge and led him gently back to his chair.
“Now that you are at home, Judge Bascom,” he said, “you need not worry yourself.”
“I tell you it ismine!” the Judge went on, beating the arm of his chair with his clenched fist; “it is mine. It has always been mine, and it will always be mine.”
Francis Underwood stood before the old man, active, alert, smiling. His sister saidafterwards that she was surprised at the prompt gentleness with which her brother disposed of what promised to be a very disagreeable scene.
“Judge Bascom,” said the young man, swinging himself around on his boot-heels, “as your guest here, allow me to suggest that you ought to show me over the place. I have been told you have some very fine cows here.”
Immediately Judge Bascom was himself again. His old air of dignity returned, and he became in a moment the affable host.
“As my guests here,” he said, smiling with pleasure, “you and the lady are very welcome. We keep open house at the Bascom Place, and we are glad to have our friends with us. What we have is yours. I suppose,” he went on, still smiling, “some of our neighbors have been joking about our cows. We have a good many of them, but they don’t amount to much. They have been driven to the pasture by this time, and that is on the creek a mile and a half from here. I wonder where Wesley is! I think he is growing more worthless every year. He ought to be here with my daughter. The carriage was sent for her some time ago.”
“I will see if he is in the yard,” said Underwood, and his sister followed him through the hall.
“Mercy!” Miss Sophie exclaimed when they were out of hearing; “does the old Judge purpose to swarm and settle down on us?” She had an economical turn of mind. “What in the world is the matter with him?”
“I pity him from the bottom of my heart,” said Francis Underwood, “but I am sorrier for his daughter. Everything seems to be blotted out of his mind except the notion that he is the owner of this Place. We must humor him, sister, and we must be tender with the daughter. You know how to do that much better than I do.”
Miss Sophie frowned a little. The situation was a new and trying one, but she had been confronted with emergencies before, and her experience and her strong common sense stood her in good stead now. With a woman’s promptness she decided on a line of action at once sympathetic and effectual. The buggy was ordered out and young Underwood went for a physician.
Then, when he had returned, Miss Sophie said he must go for the daughter, and shecautioned him, with some severity of manner, as to what he should say and how he should deport himself. But at this Francis Underwood rebelled. Ordinarily he was a very agreeable and accommodating young fellow, but when his sister informed him that he must fetch Mildred Bascom to her father, he pulled off his hat and scratched his blond head in perplexity.
“What could I say, sister?” he protested. “How could I explain the situation? No; it is a woman’s work, and you must go. It would be a pretty come-off for me to go after this poor girl and in a fit of awkwardness frighten her to death. It is bad enough as it is. There is no hurry. You shall have the carriage. It would never do for me to go; no one but a woman knows how to be sympathetic in a matter of this kind.”
“I never knew before that you were so bashful,” said Miss Sophie, regarding him keenly. “It is a recent development.”
“It is not bashfulness, sister,” said Underwood, coloring a little. “It is consideration. How could I explain matters to this poor girl? How could I prevail on her to come here without giving her an inkling ofthe situation, and thus frighten her, perhaps unnecessarily?”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Miss Sophie, who, as an experienced spinster, was not always ready to make concessions of this kind. “At any rate I’ll go for Miss Bascom, and I think I can manage it without alarming her; but the matter troubles me. I hope the poor old Judge will not be a dangerous guest.”
“There is not the slightest fear of that,” said Francis Underwood. “He is too feeble for that. When I placed my hand on his shoulder just now he was all of a tremble. He is no stronger than a little child, and no more dangerous. Besides, the doctor is with him.”
“Well,” said Miss Sophie with a sigh, “I’ll go. Women are compelled to do most of the odd jobs that men are afraid to take up; but I shiver to think of it. I shall surely break down when I see that poor child.”
“No,” said her brother, “you will not. I know you too well for that. We must humor this old man, and that will be for me to do; his daughter must be left to you.”