9046
HE young men in Carson Dwight's set had an odd sort of lounging-place. It was Keith Gordon's room above his father's bank in an old building which had withstood the shot and shell of the Civil War. “The Den,” as it was called by its numerous hap-hazard occupants, was reached from the street on the outside by a narrow flight of worm-eaten and rickety stairs and a perilous little balcony or passage that clung to the brick wall, twenty feet from the ground, along the full length of the building. It was here in one of the four beds that Keith slept, when there was room for him. After a big dance or a match game of baseball, when there were impecunious visitors from neighboring towns left over for various and sundry reasons, Keith had to seek the sanctimonious solitude of his father's home or go to the hotel.
The den was about twenty-five feet square. It was not as luxurious as such bachelor quarters went in Augusta, Savannah, or even Atlanta, but it answered the purpose of “the gang” which made use of it. Keith frankly declared that he had overhauled and replenished it for the last time. He said that it was absolutely impossible to keep washbasins and pitchers, when they were hurled out of the windows for pure amusement of men who didn't care whether they washed or not. As for the laundry bill, he happened to know that it was larger than that of the Johnston House or the boarding department of the Darley Female College. He said, too, that he had warned the gang for the last time that the room would be closed if any more clog-dancing were indulged in. He said his father complained that the plastering was dropping down on his desk below, and sensible men ought to know that a thing like that could not go on forever.
The rules concerning the payment for drinks were certainly lax. No accounts were kept of any man's indebtedness. Any member of the gang was at liberty to stow away a flask of any size in the bureau or wash-stand drawer, or under the mattresses or pillows of his or anybody else's bed, where Skelt, the negro who swept the room, and loved stimulants could not find it.
Bill Garner, as brainy as he was, while he was always welcome at his father's house in the country, a mile from town, seemed to love the company of this noisy set. Through the day it was said of him that he could read and saturate himself with more law than any man in the State, but at night his recreation was a cheap cigar, his old bulging carpet slippers, a cosey chair in Keith's room, and—who would think it?—the most thrilling Indian dime novel on the market. He could quote the French, German, Italian, and Spanish classics by the page in a strange musical accent he had acquired without the aid of a master or any sort of intercourse with native foreigners. He knew and loved all things pertaining to great literature—said he had a natural ear for Wagner's music, had comprehended Edwin Booth's finest work, knew a good picture when he saw it; and yet he had to have his dime novel. In it he found mental rest and relaxation that was supplied by nothing else. His bedfellow was Bob Smith, the genial, dapper, ever daintily clad clerk at the Johnston House. Garner said he liked to sleep with Bob because Bob never—sleeping or waking—took anything out of him mentally. Besides dressing to perfection, Bob played rag-time on the guitar and sang the favorite coon songs of the day. His duties at the hotel were far from arduous, and so the gang usually looked to him to arrange dances and collect toll for expenses. And Bob was not without his actual monetary value, as the proprietor of the hotel had long since discovered, for when Bob arranged a dance it meant that various socially inclined drummers of good birth and standing would, at a hint or a telegram from the clerk, “lay over” at Darley for one night anyway.
If Bob had any quality that disturbed the surface of his uniform equanimity it was his excessive pride in Carson Dwight's friendship. He interlarded his talk with what Carson had said or done, and Carson's candidacy for the Legislature had become his paramount ambition. Indeed, it may as well be stated that the rest of the gang had espoused Dwight's political cause with equal enthusiasm.
It was the Sunday morning following the night Pole Baker had prevented the meeting between Dwight and Dan Willis, and most of the habitual loungers were present waiting for Skelt to black their boots, and deploring the turn of affairs which looked so bad for their favorite. Wade Tingle was shaving at one of the windows before a mirror in a cracked mahogany frame, when they all recognized Carson's step on the balcony and a moment later Dwight stood in the doorway.
“Hello, boys, how goes it?” he asked.
“Oh, right side up, old man,” Tingle replied, as he began to rub the lather into his face with his hand to soften his week-old beard before shaving. “How's the race?”
“It's all right, I guess,” Dwight said, wearily, as he came in and sat down in a vacant chair against the wall. “How goes it in the mountains? I understand you've been over there.”
“Yes, trying to rake in some ads, stir up my local correspondents, and take subscriptions. As to your progress, old man, I'm sorry to say Wiggin's given it a sort of black eye. There was a meeting of farmers over in the tenth, at Miller's Spring. I was blamed sorry you were not there. Wiggin made a speech. It was a corker—viewed as campaign material solely. That chap's failed at the law, but he's the sharpest, most unprincipled manipulator of men's emotions I ever ran across. He showed you up as Sam Jones does the ring-tailed monster of the cloven foot.”
“What Carson said about the Willis and Johnson mob was his theme, of course?” said Garner, above the dog-eared pages of his thriller.
“That and ten thousand things Carson never dreamed of,” returned Tingle. “Here's the way it went. The meeting was held under a bush-arbor to keep the sun off, and the farmers had their wives and children out for a picnic. A long-faced parson led in prayer, some of the old maids piped up with a song that would have ripped slits in your musical tympanum, Garner, and then a raw-boned ploughman in a hickory shirt and one gallus introduced the guest of honor. How they could have overlooked the editor-in-chief and proprietor of the greatest agricultural weekly in north Georgia and picked out that skunk was a riddle to me.”
“Well, what did he say?” Garner asked, as sharply as if he were cross-examining a non-committal witness of importance.
“What did he say?” Tingle laughed, as he wiped the lather from his face with a ragged towel and stood with it in his hand. “He began by saying that he had gone into the race to win, and that he was going to the Legislature as sure as the sun was on its way down in this country and on its way up in China. He said it was a scientific certainty, as easily demonstrated as two and two make four. Those hardy, horny-handed men before him that day were not going to the polls and vote for a town dude who parted his hair in the middle, wore spike-toed shoes that glittered like a new dash-board, and was the ringleader of the rowdiest set of young card-players and whiskey-drinkers that ever blackened the morals of a mining-camp. He said that about the gang, boys, and I didn't have a thing to shoot with. In fact, I had to sit there and take in more.”
“What did he say about hisplatform?” Garner asked, with a heavy frown; “that's what I want to get at. You never can hurt a politician by circulating the report that he drinks—that's what half of 'em vote for.”
“Oh, his platform seemed to be chiefly that he was out to save the common people from the eternal disgrace of voting for a man like Dwight. He certainly piled it on thick and heavy. It would have made Carson's own mother slink away in shame. Carson, Wiggin said, had loved niggers since he was knee high to a duck, and had always contended that a negro owned by the aristocracy of the South was ahead of the white, razor-back stock in the mountains who had never had that advantage. Carson was up in arms against the White Caps that had come to Darley and whipped those lazy coons, and was going to prosecute every man in the bunch to the full extent of the United States law. If he got into the Legislature he intended to pass laws to make it a penitentiary offence for a white man to shove a black buck off the sidewalk. 'But he's not going to take his seat in the Capitol of Georgia,' Wiggins said, with a yell—'if Carson Dwight went to Atlanta it wouldnotbe on a free pass.' And, boys, that crowd yelled till the dry leaves overhead clapped an encore. The men yelled and the women and children yelled.”
“He's a contemptible puppy!” Dwight said, angrily.
“Yes, but he's a slick politician among men of that sort,” said Tingle. “He certainly knows how to talk and stir up strife.”
“And I suppose you sat there like a bump on a log, and listened to all that without opening your mouth!” Keith Gordon spoke up from his bed, where he lay in his bath-robe smoking over the remains of the breakfast Skelt had brought from the hotel on a big black tray.
“Well, Idid—get up,” Tingle answered, with a manly flush.
“Oh, youdid!” Garner leaned forward with interest.
“Well, I'm glad you happened to be on hand, for your paper has considerable influence over there.”
“Yes, I got up. I waved my hands up and down like a buzzard rising, to keep the crowd still till I could think of something to say; but, Carson, old man, you know what an idiot I used to be in college debates. I could get through fairly well on anything they would let me write down and read off, but it was the impromptu thing that always rattled me. I was as mad as hell when I rose, but all those staring eyes calmed me wonderfully. I reckon I stood there fully half a minute swallowing—”
“You damned fool!” Garner exclaimed, in high disgust.
“Yes, that's exactly what I was,” Tingle admitted. “I stood there gasping like a catfish enjoying his first excursion in open air. It was deathly still. I've heard it said that dying men notice the smallest things about them. I remember I saw the horses and mules haltered out under the trees with their hay and fodder under their noses—the dinner-baskets all in a cluster at the spring guarded by a negro woman. Then what do you think? Old Jeff Condon spoke up.
“'Lead us in prayer, brother,' he said, in reverential tones, and since I was born I never heard so much laughing.”
“You certainlydidplay into Wiggin's hands,” growled the disgruntled Garner. “That's exactly what a glib-tongued skunk like him would want.”
“Well, it gave me a minute to try to get my wind, anyway,” said Tingle, still red in the face, “but I wasn't equal to a mob of baseball rooters like that. I started in to deny some of Wiggin's charges when another smart Alec spoke up and said: 'Hold on! tell us about the time you and your candidate started home from a ball at Catoosa Springs in a buggy, and were so drunk that the horse took you to the house of a man who used to own him sixteen miles from where you wanted to go. Of course, you all know, boys, that was a big exaggeration, but I had no idea it was generally known. Anyway, I thought the crowd would laugh their heads off. I reckon it was the way I looked. I felt as if every man, woman, and child there had mashed a bad egg on me and was chuckling over their marksmanship. I ended up by getting mad, and I saw by Wiggin's grin that he liked that. I managed to say a few things in denial, and then Wiggin got up and roasted me and my paper to a turn. He said that in supporting Dwight editorially theHeadlightwas giving sanction to Dwight's ideas in favor of the negro and against honest white people, and that every man there who had any family or State pride ought to stop taking the dirty sheet; and, bless your life, some of them did cancel their subscriptions when they met me after the speaking; but I'm going to keep on mailing it, anyway. It will be like sending free tracts to the heathen, but it may bear fruit.”
9054
ALF an hour later all the young men had left the room except Garner and Dwight. Garner still wore the frown brought to his broad brow by Tingle's recital.
“I've set my heart on putting this thing through,” he said; “and while it looks kind of shaky, I haven't lost all hope yet. Of course, your reckless remarks about the White Caps have considerably damaged us in the mountains, but we may live it down. It may die a natural death if you and Dan Willis don't meet and plug away at each other and set the talk afloat again. I reckon he'll keep out of your way when he's sober, anyway.”
“I am not running after him,” Carson returned. “I simply said what I thought and Wiggin made the most of it.”
Garner was silent for several minutes, then he folded his dime novel and bent it across his knee, and when he finally spoke Dwight thought he had never seen a graver look on the strong face. He had seen it full of emotional tears when Garner was at the height of earnest appeal to a jury in a murder case; he had seen it dark with the fury of unjust legal defeat, but now there was a strange feminine whiteness at the corners of the big facile mouth, a queer twitching of the lips.
“I've made up my mind to tell you a secret,” he said, falteringly. “I've come near it several times and backed out. It's a subject I don't know how to handle. It's about a woman, Carson. You know I'm not a ladies' man. I don't call on women; I don't take them buggy-riding; I don't dance with them, or even know how to fire soft things at them like you and Keith, but I've had my experience.”
“It certainly is a surprise to me,” Dwight said, sympathetically, and then in the shadow of Garner's seriousness he found himself unable to make further comment.
“I reckon you'll lose all respect for me for thinking there was a ghost of a chance in that particular quarter,” Garner pursued, without meeting his companion's eye. “But, Carson, my boy, there is a certain woman that every man who knows her has loved or is still loving. Keith's crazy about her, though he has given up all hope as I did long ago, and even poor Bob Smith thinks he's in luck if she will only listen to one of his new songs or let him do her some favor. We all love her, Carson, because she is so sweet and kind to us—”
“You mean—” Dwight interrupted, impulsively, and then lapsed into silence, an awkward flush rising to his brow.
“Yes, I mean Helen Warren, old man. As I say, I had never thought of a woman that way in my life. We were thrown together once at a house-party at Hilburn's farm—well, I simply went daft. She never refused to walk with me when I asked her, and seemed specially interested in my profession. I didn't know it at the time, but I have since discovered that she has that sweet way with every man, rich or poor, married or single. Well, to make a long story short, I proposed to her. The whole thing is stamped on my brain as with a branding-iron. We had taken a long walk that morning and were seated under a big beech-tree near a spring. She kept asking about my profession, her face beaming, and it all went to my head. I knew that I was the ugliest man in the State, that I had no style about me, and knew nothing about being nice to women of her sort; but her interest in everything pertaining to the law made me think, you know, that she admired that kind of thing. I went wild. As I told her how I felt I actually cried. Think of it—I was silly enough to blubber like a baby! I can't describe what happened. She was shocked and pained beyond description. She had never dreamed that I felt that way. I ended by asking her to try to forget it all, and we had a long, awful walk to the house.”
“Thatwastough,” Carson Dwight said, a queer expression on his face.
“Well, I've told it to you for a special reason,” Garner said, with a big, trembling sigh. “Carson, I am a close observer, and I afterwards made up my mind that I knew why she had led me on to talk so much about the law and my work in particular.”
“Oh, you found that out!” Carson said, almost absently.
“Yes, my boy, it was about the time you and I were thinking of going in together. It was all on your account.”
Carson stared straight at Garner. “Myaccount? Oh no!”
“Yes, on your account. I've kept it from you all this time. I'm your friend now in full—to the very bone, but at that time I felt too sore to tell you. I'd lost all I cared for on earth, but I simply had too much of primitive man left in me to let you know how well you stood. My God, Carson, about that time I used to sit at my desk behind some old book pretending to read, but just looking at you as you sat at work wondering how it would feel to have what was yours. Then I watched you both together; you seemed actually made for each other, an ideal couple. Then came your—she refused you.”
“I know, I know, but why talk about it, Garner?” Carson had risen and stood in the doorway in the rays of the morning sun. There was silence for a moment. The church bells were ringing and negroes and whites were passing along the street below.
“It may be good for me to speak of it and be done with it, or it may not,” said Garner; “but this is what I was coming to. I've said it was a long time before I could tell you that she was once—I don't know how she is now, but she was at one time in love with you.”
“Oh no, no, she was never that!” Dwight said. “We were great friends, but she never cared that much for me or for any one.”
“Well, it was a long time before I could say what I thought about that, and I have only just now taken another step in self-renunciation. Carson, I can now say that you didn't have a fair deal, and that I have reached a point in which I want to see you get it. I think I know why she refused you.”
“You do?” Dwight said, pale and excited, as he came away from the door and leaned heavily against the wall near his friend.
“Yes, it was this way. I've studied it all out. She loved Albert as few women love their brothers, and his grim end was an almost unbearable shock. After his death, you know it leaked out that you had been Albert's constant companion through his dissipation, almost, in fact, up to the very end. She couldn't reconcile herself to your part, innocent as it was, in the tragedy, and it simply killed the feeling she had for you. I suppose it is natural to a character as strong as hers.”
“I've always feared that—that was the reason,” said Dwight, falteringly, as he went back to the door and looked out. There was a droop of utter dejection on him and his face seemed to have aged. “Garner,” he said, suddenly, “there is no use denying anything. You have admitted your love for her, why should I deny mine? I never cared for any other woman and I never shall.”
“That's right, but you didn't get a fair deal, all the same,” said Garner. “She's never looked for any sort of justification in your conduct; her poor brother's death stands like a draped wall between you, but I know you were not as black as you were painted. Carson, all the time you were keeping pace with Albert Warren you were blind to the gulf ahead of him and were simply glorying in his friendship—because he was her brother. Ah, I know that feeling!”
Carson was silent, while Garner's gray eyes rested on him for a moment full of conviction, and then he nodded. “Yes, I think that was it. It was my ruination, but I could not get away from the fascination of his companionship. He fairly worshipped her and used to talk of her constantly when we were together, and he—he sometimes told me things she kept back. He knew how I felt. I told him. Through him I seemed to be closer to her. But when the news came that he was dead, and when I met her at the funeral at the church, and caught her eye, I saw her shrink back in abhorrence. She wouldn't go out with me ever again after that, and was never exactly the same.”
“That was two years ago, my boy,” Garner said, significantly, “and your character has changed. You are a better, firmer man. In fact, it seems to me that your change dates from Albert Warren's death. But now I'm coming to the thing that prompted me to say all this. I met Major Warren in the post-office this morning. He was greatly excited. Carson, she has just written him that she is coming home for a long stay and the old gentleman is simply wild with delight.”
“Oh, she's coming, then!” Dwight exclaimed, in surprise.
“Yes, and Keith and Bob and the rest of her adorers will go crazy over the news and want to celebrate it. I didn't tell them. I wanted you to know it first. There is one other thing. You know you can't tell whether there is anything in an idle report, but the gossips say she has perhaps met her fate down there. I've even heard his name—one Earle Sanders, a well-to-do cotton merchant of good standing in the business world. But I'll never believe she's engaged to him till the cards are out.”
“I really think it may be true,” Carson Dwight said, a firm, set expression about his lips. “I've heard of him. He's a man of fine character and intellect. Yes, it may be true, Garner.”
“Well,” and Garner drew himself up and folded his arms, “if it should happen to be so, Carson, there would be only one thing to do, and that would be to grin and bear it.”
“Yes, that would be the only thing,” Dwight made answer. “She has a right to happiness, and it would have been wrong for her to have tied herself to me, when I was what I was, and when I am still as great a failure as I am.”
He turned suddenly out onto the passage, and Garner heard his resounding tread as he walked away.
“Poor old chap,” Garner mused, as he leaned forward and looked at the threadbare toes of his slippers, “if he weathers this storm he'll make a man right—if not, he'll go down with the great majority, the motley throng meant for God only knows what purpose.”
9061
HE Warren homestead was in a turmoil of excitement over Helen's return. The ex-slaves of the family for miles around had assembled to celebrate the occasion in quite the ante-bellum fashion. The men and grown boys sat about the front lawn and on the steps of the long veranda and talked of the day Helen was born, of her childhood, of her beauty and numerous conquests, away from them, and of the bare possibility of her deigning to accept the hand of some one of her powerful and wealthy suitors.
In her own chamber, a great square room with many windows, Helen, tall, graceful, with light-brown eyes and almost golden hair, was receiving the women and girls. She had brought a present suitable for each of them, as they knew she would, and the general rejoicing was equal to that of an old-time Georgia Christmas.
“You are all here,” Helen smiled, as she looked about the room, “except Mam' Linda. Is she not well?”
“Yessum, she's well as common,” Jennie, a yellow house-maid, said, “as well as she been since Pete had dat scrimmage wid de White Caps. Missie, you gwine notice er gre't change in Mam' Lindy. Since dat turrible night, while she seem strong in de body, she looks powerful weak in de face en sperit. Unc' Lewis is worried about 'er. She des set in er cottage do' en rock back an' fo'th all day long. You done heard 'bout dat lambastin', 'ain't you, Missie?”
“Yes, my father wrote me about it,” Helen replied, an expression of sympathetic pain on her well-featured face, “but he didn't tell me that mammy was taking it so hard.”
“He was tryin' ter keep you fum worryin',” Jennie said, observantly. “Marster knowed how much sto' you set by yo' old mammy. He was de maddest man you ever laid eyes on dat night, but he couldn't do nothin', fer it was all over, en dem white trash done skedaddle back whar dey come fum.”.
“And was Pete so much to blame?” Helen asked, her voice shaking.
“Blame fer de company he been keepin', Missie—dat's all; but what you gwine ter do wid er strappin' young nigger growin' up? It des like it was in de old day fo' de war. De niggers had to have deir places ter meet an' cut up shines. Dey been done too much of it at Ike Bowen's. De white folks dat lived round dar couldn't sleep at night. It was one long shindig or a fist-cuff scrap fum supper till daylight.”
“Well, I wish Mam' Linda would come to see me,” Helen said. “I'm anxious about her. If she isn't here soon I'll go to her.”
“She's comin' right on, Missie,” another negro girl said, “but she tol' Unc' Lewis she was gwine ter wait till we all cleared out. She say you her baby, en she ain't gwine ter be bothered wid so many, when she see you de fust time after so long.”
“That's exactly like her,” Helen smiled. “Well, you all must go now, and, Jennie, tell her I am dying to see her.”
The room was soon cleared of its chattering and laughing throng, and Linda, supported by her husband, a stalwart mulatto, came from her cottage behind the house and went up to Helen's room. She was short, rather portly, about half white, and for that reason had a remarkably intelligent face which bore the marks of a strong character. Entering the room, after sharply enjoining her husband to wait for her in the hall, she went straight up to Helen and laid her hand on the young lady's head.
“So I got my baby back once mo',” she said, tenderly.
“Yes, I couldn't stay away, Mammy,” Helen said, with an indulgent smile. “After all, home is the sweetest place on earth—but you mustn't stand up; get a chair.”
The old woman obeyed, slowly placing the chair near that of her mistress and sitting down. “I'm glad you got back, honey,” she said. “I loves all my white folks, but you is my baby, en I never could talk to de rest of um lak I kin ter you. Oh, honey, yo' old mammy has had lots en lots er trouble!”
“I know, Mammy, father wrote me about it, and I've heard more since I got here. I know how you love Pete.”
Linda folded her arms on her breast and leaned forward till her elbows rested on her knees. Helen saw a wave of emotion shake her whole body as she straightened up and faced her with eyes that seemed melting in grief. “Honey,” she said, “folks said when de law come en give we all freedom dat de good day was at hand. It was ter be a time er plenty en joy fer black folks; but, honey, never while I was er slave did I had ter suffer what I'm goin' thoo now. In de old time marster looked after us; de lash never was laid on de back er one o' his niggers. No white pusson never dared to hit one of us, en yit now in dis day er glorious freedom, er whole gang of um come in de dead er night en tied my child wid ropes en tuck turn about lashin' 'im. Honey, sometimes I think dey ain't no Gawd fer a pusson wid one single streak er black blood in 'im. Ef dey is er Gawd fer sech es me, why do He let me pass thoo what been put on me? I heard dat boy's cryin' half er mile, honey, en stood in de flo' er my house en couldn't move, listenin' en listenin' ter his screams en dat lash failin' on 'im. Den dey let 'im loose en he come runnin' erlong de street ter find me—ter find his mammy, honey—his mammy who couldn't do nothin' fer 'im. En dar right at my feet he fell over in er faint. I thought he was dead en never would open his eyes ergin.”
“And I wasn't here to comfort you!” Helen said, in a tearful tone of self-reproach. “You were alone through it all.”
“No, I wasn't, honey. Thank de Lawd, dar is some er de right kind er white folks left. Marse Carson Dwight heard it all fum his room en come over. He raised Pete up en tuck 'im in an' laid 'im on de baid. He tuck 'im up in his arms, honey, young marster did, en set to work to bring 'im to. An' after de po' boy was easy en ersleep en de doctor gone off, Marse Carson come ter me en tuck my hand. 'Mam' Lindy,' he said, es pale as ef he'd been sick er long time, 'dis night's work has give me some'n' ter think erbout. De best white men in de Souf won't stan' fer dis. Sech things cayn't go on forever. Ef I go to de Legislature I'll see dat dey gwine ter pass laws ter pertect you faithful old folks.”
“Carson said that?” Helen's voice was husky, her glance averted.
“Yes, en he was dead in earnest, honey; he wasn't des talkin' ter comfort me. I know, kase I done hear suppen else dat happened since den.”
“What was that?” Helen asked.
“Why, dey say dat Marse Carson went straight down-town en tried ter find somebody dat was in de mob. He heard Dan Willis was among 'em—you know who he is, honey. He's er bad, desp'rate moonshine man. Well, Marse Carson spoke his mind about 'im, an' dared 'im out in de open. Unc' Lewis said Mr. Garner an' all Marse Carson's friends tried to stop 'im, kase it would go dead agin 'im in his 'lection, but Marse Carson wouldn't take back er word, en was so mad he couldn't hold in. En dat another hard thing to bear, honey,” Linda went on. “Des think, Marse Carson cayn't even try to help er po' old woman lak me widout ruinin' his own chances.”
“Is it as serious as that?” Helen asked, with deep concern.
“Yes, honey, he never kin win his race lessen he act diffunt. Dey say dat man Wiggin is laughin' fit ter kill hisse'f over de way he got de upper hold. I told Marse Carson des t'other day he mustn't do dat way, but he laughed in my face in de sweet way he always did have. 'Ef dey vote ergin me fer dat, Mam' Lindy,' he say, 'deir votes won't be worth much.' Marse Carson is sho got high principle, honey. His pa think he ain't worth much, buthe'sall right. You mark my words, he's gwine ter make a gre't big man—he gwine ter do dat kase he's got er tender heart in 'im, an ain't afeard of anything dat walk on de yeath. He may lose dis one 'lection, but he'll not stop. I know young white men, thoo en thoo, en I never y it seen er better one.”
0067
“Have you—have you seen him recently?” Helen asked, surprised at the catch in her voice.
“Oh yes, honey,” the old woman said, plaintively; “seem lak he know how I'm sufferin', en he been comin' over often en talkin' ter me'n Lewis. Seem lak he's so sad, honey, here late. Ain't you seed 'im yit, honey?”
“No, he hasn't been over,” Helen replied, rather awkwardly. “He will come, though; he and I are good friends.”
“You gwine find 'im changed er lot, honey,” the old woman said. “Do you know, I don't believe he ever got over Marse Albert's death. He warn't ter blame 'bout dat, honey, dough I do believe he feel dat way. Seem lak we never kin fetch up Marse Albert's name widout Marse Carson git sad. One night here late when Lewis was talkin' 'bout when yo' pa went off en fetched young master home, Marse Carson hung his head en say: 'Mam' Lindy, I wish dat time could be go over ergin. I would act so diffunt. I never seed whar all dem scrapes was leadin' to. But it learned me a lesson, Mam' Lindy.'”
“That's it,” Helen said, bitterly, as if to herself; “he survived. He has profited by the calamity, but my poor, dear brother—” She went no further, for her voice broke and her eyes filled with tears.
“Don't think erbout dat, honey,” old Linda said, consolingly. “You got yo' one great trouble lak I has, but you is at home wid we all now, en you must not be sad.”
“I don't intend to be, Mammy,” Helen said, wiping her eyes on her handkerchief. “We are going to try to do something to keep Pete out of trouble. Father thinks it is his associates that are to blame. We must try in future to keep him away from bad company.”
“Dat what I want ter do, honey,” the old woman said, “en ef I des had somewhar ter send 'im so he could be away fum dis town I'd be powerful glad.”
9070
Helen anticipated, the young ladies of the town, her most intimate friends and former school-mates, came in a body that afternoon to see her. The reception formally opened in the great parlor down-stairs, but it was not many minutes before they all found themselves in Helen's chamber fluttering about and chattering like doves in their spring plumage.
“There's no use putting it off longer,” Ida Tarpley, Helen's cousin, laughed; “they are all bent on seeing yourthings, and they will simply spend the night here if you don't get them out.”
“Oh, I think that would look so vain and silly in me,” Helen protested, her color rising. “I don't like to exhibit my wardrobe as if I were a dressmaker, or a society woman who is hard up and trying to dispose of them.”
“The idea of your not doing it, dear,” Mary King, a little blonde, said, “when not one of us has seen a decent dress or hat since the summer visitors went away last fall.”
“Leave it to me,” Ida Tarpley laughed. “You girls get off the bed. I want something to lay them on. If it were only evening I'd make her put on that gown she wore at the Governor's ball. You remember what theConstitution'ssociety reporter said about it. He said it was a poet's dream. If I ever get one it will beina dream. You must really wear it to your dance, Helen.”
“Mydance?” Helen said, in surprise.
“Oh, I hope I'm not telling secrets,” Ida said; “but I met Keith Gordon and Bob Smith in town as I came on. They had a list and were taking subscriptions from all the young men. They had already enough put down to buy a house and lot. They say they are going to give you the swellest dance that was eyer heard of. Bob said that it simply had to surpass anything you'd been to in Augusta or Atlanta. Expense is not to be considered. The finest band in Chattanooga has already been engaged; the refreshments are to be brought from there by a caterer and a dozen expert waiters. A carload of flowers have been ordered. It is to open with a grand march.” Ida swung her hands and body comically to and fro as if in the cake walk, and bowed low. “Nobody is to be allowed to dance with you who hasn't an evening suit on, andthenonly once. They are all crazy about you, Helen. I never could understand it. I've tried to copy the look you have in the eyes hundreds of times, but it won't have the slightest effect.”
“There's only one explanation of it,” Miss Wimberley, another girl, remarked; “it is simply because she really likes them all.”
“Well, I really do, as for that,” Helen said; “and I think it is awfully nice of them to give me such a dance. It's enough to turn a girl's head. Well, if Ida really is going to pull out my things, I'll go down-stairs and make you a lemonade.”
Later in the afternoon the young ladies had all gone except Ida Tarpley, who lingered with Helen on the veranda.
“I'm glad the girls didn't have the bad taste to embarrass you by questioning you about Mr. Sanders,” Ida said. “Of course, it is all over town. Uncle spoke of the possibility of it to some one and that put it afloat. I'm anxious to see him, Helen. I know he must be nice—everything, in fact, that a man ought to be, for you always had high ideals.”
Helen flushed almost angrily, and she drew herself erect and stood quite rigid, looking at her cousin.
“Ida,” she said, “I don't like what you have just said.”
“Oh, dearest, I'm sorry, but I thought—”
“That's the trouble about a small town,” Helen went on. “People take such liberties with you, and about the most delicate things. Down in Augusta my friends never would think of saying I was actually engaged to a man till it was announced. But here at home it is in every mouth before they have even seen the gentleman in question.”
“But you really have been receiving constant attentions from Mr. Sanders for more than a year, haven't you, dear?” Miss Tarpley asked, blandly.
“Yes, but what of that?” Helen retorted. “He and I are splendid friends. He has been very kind and thoughtful of my comfort, and I like him. He is noble, sincere, and good. He extended the sweetest sympathy to me when I went down there under my great grief, and I never can forget it, but, nevertheless, Ida, I have not promised to marry him.”
“Oh, I see, it is not actually settled yet,” Miss Tarpley said. “Well, I'm glad. I'm very, very glad.”
“You are glad?” Helen said, wonderingly.
“Yes, I am. I'm glad because I don't want you to go away off down there and marry a stranger to us. I really hope something will break it up. I know Mr. Sanders must be awfully fond of you—any man would be who had a ghost of a chance of winning you—and I know your aunt has been doing all in her power to bring the match about—but I understand you, dear, and I am afraid you would not be happy.”
“Why do you say that so—so positively?” Helen asked, coldly.
“Because,” Ida said, impulsively, “I don't believe a girl of your disposition ever could love in the right way more than once, and—”
“And what?” Helen demanded, her proud lips compressed, her eyes flashing defiantly.
“Well, I may be wrong, dear,” Miss Tarpley went on, “but if you were not actually in love before you went to Augusta, you were very near it.”
“How absurd!” Helen exclaimed, with a little angry toss of her head.
“Do you remember the night our set drove out to the Henderson party? I went with Mr. Garner and Carson Dwight took you? Oh, Helen, I met you and Carson walking together in the moonlight that evening under the apple-trees in the old meadow, and if ever a pair of human beings really loved each other you two must have done so that night. I saw it in his happy, triumphant face, and in the fact, Helen dear, that you allowed him to be with you so much, when you knew other admirers were waiting to see you.”
Helen looked down; her face was clouded over, her proud lip twitched.
“Ida,” she said, tremulously, “I don't want you ever again to mention Carson Dwight's name to me in—in that way. You have no right to.”
“Yes, I have,” Ida protested, firmly. “I have the right as a loyal friend to the best, most suffering, and noblest young man I ever knew. I read you like a book, dear. You really cared very, very much for Carson once, but after your great loss you never thought the same of him again.”
“No, nor I never shall,” Helen said, firmly. “I admire him and shall treat him as a good friend when we meet, but that will be the end of it. Whether I cared for him or not, as girls care for young men, is neither here nor there. It is over with.”
“And all simply because he was a little wild at the time your poor brother—”
“Stop!” Helen said; “don't argue the matter. I can only now associate him with the darkest hour of my life. I'm tempted to tell you something, Ida,” and Helen bowed her head for a moment, and then went on in an unsteady voice. “When my poor brother's trunk was brought home, it was my duty to put the things it contained in order. There I found some letters to him, and one dated only two days before Albert's death was from—from Carson Dwight. I read only a portion of it, but it revealed a page in poor Albert's life that I had never read—never dreamed could be possible.”
“But Carson,” Ida Tarpley exclaimed; “what didhehave to do with that?”
Helen swallowed the lump in her throat, and with a cold, steely gleam in her eyes she said, bitterly: “He could have held out his hand with the superior strength you think he has and drawn the poor boy back from the brink, but he didn't. The words he wrote about it were light, flippant, and heartless. He treated the whole awful situation as a joke, as if—as if hehimselfwere familiar with such unmentionable things.”
“Ah, I begin to understand it all now!” Ida sighed. “That letter, coupled with Cousin Albert's awful death, was such a terrible shock that you cannot feel the same towards Carson. But oh, Helen, you would pity him if you knew him now as I do. He has never altered in his feelings towards you. In fact, it seems to me that he loves you even more deeply than ever. And, dear, if you had seen his patient efforts to make a better man of himself you'd not harbor such thoughts against him. You will understand Carson some day, but it may then be too late. I don't believe a woman ever has a real sweetheart but once. You may marry the man your aunt wants you to take, but your heart will some day turn back to the other. You will remember, too, and bitterly, that you condemned him for a youthful fault which you ought to have pardoned.”
“Do you think so, Ida?” Helen asked, her soft, brown eyes averted.
“Yes, and you'll remember, too, that while his other friends were trying to help him stick to his resolutions you turned against him. He's going to make a great and good man, Helen. I've known that for some time. He is having his troubles, but even they will help him to be stronger in the end. His greatest trial is going on right now, while folks are saying that you are going to marry another man. Pshaw! you may say what you like about Mr. Sanders' good qualities, but I know I shall not like him,” concluded Ida, with a smile, as she turned to go. “He is a usurper, and I'm dead against him.”
Helen remained on the veranda after her cousin had left till the twilight gathered about her. She was about to go in, as it was near tea-time, when she heard a grumbling voice down the street and saw old Uncle Lewis returning from town, driving his son, the troublesome Peter, before him.
“You go right thoo dat gate on back ter dat house, you black imp er 'straction!” he thundered, “er I'll tek er boa'd en lambast de life out'n you. Here it is night-time en you ain't chop no stove-wood fer de big house kitchen, en been lyin' roun' dem cotton wagons raisin' mo' rows wid dem mountain white men.”
“What's the matter, Uncle Lewis?” Helen asked, as the boy sulkily passed round the corner of the house and the old man, out of breath, paused at the steps.
“Oh, Missy, you don't know what me'n' Mam' Lindy got to bear up under. We don't know how ter manage dat boy. Lindy right now is out'n 'er head wid worry. Buck Black come tol' us 'bout an hour ago dat Pete en some mo' triflin' niggers was down at de warehouse sassin' some mountain white men. Buck heard Pete say dat Johnson en his gang couldn't whip him ergin dout gittin' in trouble, en dey was in er inch of er big row when de marshal busted it up. Buck ain't no fool, fer a black man, Missy, en he told me'n' Lindy ef we don't manage ter git Pete out'n de company he keeps dat dem white men will sho string 'im up.”
“Yes, something has to be done, that's plain,” said Helen, sympathetically. “I know Mam' Linda must be worrying, and I'll go down to see her this evening. It doesn't seem to me that a town like this is best for a boy like Pete. I'll speak to father about it, Uncle Lewis. It won't do to have Mammy bothered like this. It will kill her. She is not strong enough to stand it.”
“Oh, Missy,” the old man said, “I wish you would try ter do some'n'. Me'n' Lindy is sho at de end er our rope.”
“Well, I promise you I'll do all I can, Uncle Lewis,” Helen said, and, much relieved, the old negro trudged homeward.