He put his handkerchief into his hat, changed his hat to his other hand and stood looking at Jucklin; and I had expected to see the old man leap off the floor in a rage, but I cannot recall ever having seen a cooler show of indifference. "I put gaffs on 'em early this mornin' an' kept 'emwaitin' for the finish, and when it come it come soon," he said.
"Mr. Jucklin, I had hoped to make myself sufficiently clear. I have come, sir, to break the engagement that was foolishly arranged by us to bind your daughter and my son."
"Bob died first, but Sam could jest stagger, and he fluttered against me and covered my hands with his blood; and I must apologize for not washin' 'em, but it is not too late to make some sort of amends. I will wipe 'em on your jaws, sir!"
He sprang forward, but I caught him. "You must be perfectly cool and perfectly sensible, Mr. Jucklin," I said, as quickly as I could, holding him. "Remember that he is in your house."
And this quieted him. Even the most pronounced backwoodsman in the South is sometimes graced with a sudden and almost marvelous courtesy, the unconscious revival of a long lost dignity; and this came upon the old man, and, bowing low, he said:
"I humbly beg your pardon, sir."
"And I should be a brute not to grant it," the General replied, bowing in turn. "But I hope that reason rather than the fact of my being under your roof will govern your conduct."
During this time, and, indeed, from the moment when the General had entered the room, Guinea stood beside the rocking-chair in which her mother was seated; no changehad come over her countenance, but with one hand resting on the back of the chair she had remained motionless, with the exception that she placed her hand on her mother's head at the moment when I caught the old man in my arms. I saw this, though her motion was swift, for I was looking at her rather than at her father. And now the General turned to the girl.
"My dear," he said. She frowned slightly, but her lips parted with a cold smile that came out of her heart.
"My dear child, it is hard for me to say this to you, for I feel that you can but regard me a feelingless monster that would rend an innocent and loving heart, and God knows that I now beg your forgiveness, but in this life cruel things must be done, done that those who come after us may feel no sting of reproach cast by an exacting society. I am an old man, my dear, and shall soon be taken to the burial ground where my fathers sleep in honor. They left me a proud name and I must not soil it. The oldest stone there is above a breast that braved old Cromwell's pikemen—the noble heart of a cavalier beat in that bosom—and can you ask——"
"I have asked nothing, General."
"You are a noble young woman."
"But your son will come to me and kneel at my feet."
A flush flew over the General's face. "No, it is with his full consent that I have come. Indeed, I would have put off my coming until a more befitting day, but he knew his duty and bade me do mine."
"He will kneel at my feet," she said; and he had not replied when we heard footsteps in the passage—wild footsteps. There was a moment of sharp clicking at the door latch, as if a nervous hand had touched it, and then Millie broke into the room. Her face was white, her hair hung about her shoulders.
"You have kept me away!" she cried, stamping her feet and frowning at her father. "Yes, you have kept me away, but I have come and I hate you."
The old General was stupefied. "You may tell your cold-blooded son what to do," she went on, "but my heart is my own. He asked me to marry him and I will—I will break into the penitentiary and marry him. And you would have had me marry Dan Stuart. Just before he was killed he told me he would kill Alf if I said I loved him. I will go to the jail and marry him there."
She ran to Guinea, and they put their arms about each other and wept; and the old woman pressed her book to her bosom and sobbed over it. Through old Lim's wire-like beard a smile, hard and cynical, was creeping out, and the General was fiercely struggling with himself. He had bitten his lip until his mouth was reddening with blood.
"Come, you are going home with me," he said.
"I am not!" his daughter cried, with her arms tight about Guinea. "I am not; I am going to the jail."
"Then I will take you home."
"Don't touch me!" she cried, shrinking back into a corner. "Don't touch me, for I am almost mad. Whatdo I care for your pride? What do I care for the old graveyard? You have tried to break my heart, but I will marry him. He is worth ten thousand such men as your cold-blooded son. Don't you touch me, father. Mr. Hawes!" she screamed, "don't let him touch me."
The old General had stepped forward as if to lay hands upon her, but he stepped back, bowed and said: "You are a lady and I am a gentleman, and these facts protect you from violence at my hands, but I here denounce you—no, I don't, my daughter. I cannot denounce my own flesh and blood. I will leave you here to-night, hoping that when this fit of passion is over reason will lead you home. Good-night."
Long we sat there in a calm, after the General left us; and the two girls, on a bench in a corner, whispered to each other. How wild had been my guessing at the character of Millie! How could one so shy, so gentle, so fond of showing her dimples, cast off all timidity and set herself in opposition to her father's authority and pride? I could but argue that she was wrong, that she had forgotten her duty, thus to stand out and violently defy him, and yet I admired her for the spirit she had shown. And I believed that Guinea was just as determined, just as passionate. But she was wiser.
I told the old man what Alf had requested me to tell him, that he must sell his farm and go away, and he replied that he would. "I don't think, though, that I can get very much for it. Parker's land joins mine, and may be I can strike a trade with him. Of course, I don't want to live here any longer, for no matter what may come now we've got the name. Susan, I never saw a woman behave better than you have to-night. The old stock—and I'm with the book from kiver to kiver. And now, Millie, let me say a word to you. Of course, I know exactly how you feel, and all that—how that you couldn't help yourself—butto-morrow mornin' after breakfast I would, if I was in your place, go right home and ask my father's forgiveness. I say if I was in your place, for if you do you won't have half so much to be sorry for, and in this life I hold that we're doin' our best when we do the fewest things to regret. What do you think?"
"I'm sorry I talked that way, and he's getting old, too. But I had a cause. He made me stay in the house, and he ought to remember that I am of the same blood he is and that it's awful to be humiliated. But there's one thing I'm going to do. When Alf's tried again, I'm going to tell them what Stuart said. I would have done it this time, but I was ashamed to say anything about it. I have been nearly crazy, but I'm awfully sorry that I talked that way. And, oh, suppose he were to die to-night? I never could forgive myself. I must go home now, Mr. Jucklin. Yes, I can't stay another minute. You'll go with me, won't you, Mr. Hawes?"
"I will gladly do so," I answered.
"And I will go, too," said Guinea.
We took a lantern, but the night was so dark that we went round by the road, rather than over the meadows. Millie said that she scarcely remembered how she had come, but she thought that she had run the most of the way. And over and over as we walked along she repeated: "I'm awfully sorry."
As we came out of the woods, where the road bent in toward the big gate, we saw a light burning in the library.Millie stopped suddenly and clutched my arm. "Suppose he won't let me come back?" she said. "I don't know in what sort of a humor I may find him. Mr. Hawes, you go on and see him first, please?"
"And I will wait out here," Guinea spoke up, and her voice trembled. "Of course, I can't go into the house after what has happened. Nobody must know that I am here."
I left them standing in the dark, and when I stepped upon the porch I heard some one walking heavily and slowly up and down the library. On the door was a brass knocker, and when I raised it and let it fall, the foot-steps came hastily to the door. A hanging lamp was burning in the hall, and I saw that the old General himself had opened the door.
"Oh, it's you Mr. Hawes. I couldn't tell at first. My old eyes are getting flat, sir. Step into the library."
"No, I thank you. I have but a moment to stay."
"Step in, sir," he insisted, almost commanded, and I obeyed. Chyd was under a lamp, reading a sheep-skin covered book. He looked up as I entered, nodded, and then resumed his reading.
"Sit down," said the General.
"No, I thank you, for, as I say, I have but a moment to remain. Your daughter is exceedingly sorry that she acted——"
"Where is she, sir?"
"She has come with me, but fearing that your resentment——"
"What, is she out there waiting in the dark? What, my child out there waiting to know whether she can come into her father's house? I will go to her, sir. Come, Chyd, let us both go."
I stepped to the door and stood confronting the old man and his son.
"You can go, General, if you will, but your son must remain where he is."
"What, I don't understand you, sir. How dare you—what do you mean, sir?"
"Your son must not come with us. That is what I mean."
"Not go to welcome his sister home. Get out of my way, sir!"
"Wait, General. He should not go out there, for the reason that some one else, out of kindness, has accompanied your daughter and me."
"Ah, I beg your pardon," said the old man, bowing. "Chyd, stay where you are."
Millie was inside the yard, but Guinea was in the road, standing at the gate. "Come, my child!" the old man called. Millie ran to him and he took her in his arms. And he lifted her off the ground, slight creature that she was, and carried her up the steps.
Guinea took my arm and homeward we went, and not a word was spoken until we entered the dark woods.
"You saw Chyd?" she said.
"Yes, and the old gentleman wanted him to come out."
"To kneel at my feet so soon?"
"No, to welcome his sister. Are you so anxious for the time to come?"
"Yes," she answered, without hesitation.
"And is it because you love him?" I asked bitterly.
"You and I are to be the best of friends, Mr. Hawes, and you must not reproach me."
"Forgive me if I have hurt you," I said, stupidly.
"But you must not keep on wounding me merely to be forgiven. I said that he would kneel at my feet, and this may sound foolish to you, but he will. How do I know? I feel it; I don't know why, but I do. And we are to leave the old home if father can sell the land. It's better to go, but it will be still better to come back, and we will. Do you think that I am merely a simple girl without ambition? I am not; I dream."
"I know that you are a noble woman."
"Oh, don't flatter me now. It's first reproach, and then flattery. But have you thought of the real nobility of some one else—yourself?"
I strove to laugh, but I know that it must have been a miserable croak. "I have done nothing to merit that opinion," I replied.
"Oh, it is a part of your nature to suppress yourself. Do you know that I expect great things of you? I do."
"I know one thing that I'm going to do—I am going to buy the old house and a narrow strip of land—the pathand the spring. That's all I want—the house, the path and the spring, with just a little strip running a short distance down the brook where the moss is so thick. I have the promise of money from Perdue, and I think that I can borrow some of Conkwright. Yes, I must have the house and the path and the spring and the strip of moss-land that lies along the branch. It will be merely a poetic possession, but such possessions are the richest to one who has a soul; and no one with a soul will bid against me. It is a mean man that would bid against a sentiment."
"You must be nearly worn out," she said, when for some distance we had walked in silence.
"I may be, but I don't know it yet. And so long as I don't know it, why, of course, I don't care."
For a long time we said nothing. Her hand was on my arm, but I scarcely felt its weight, except when we came upon places where the road was rough; and I wished that the way were rougher, that I might feel her dependence upon me. Once she stepped into a deep rut, and I caught her about the waist, but when I had lifted her out, she gently released herself. She said that the road was rougher than she had ever before found it, and I was ready to swear that it was the most delightful highway that my feet had trod; indeed, I did swear it, but she warned me not to use such strong language when I meant to convey but a weak compliment.
"Let us walk faster," she said. "It is away past midnight. I do believe it's nearly day. Can you see yourwatch?"
"Yes, but I can't see the time."
"Nobody can see time, Mr. Teacher of Children."
"But I could not tell the time even if I were to hold the lantern to the watch."
"Oh, of course you could. Why do you talk that way?"
"I am moved to talk that way because I know that the watch, being in sympathy with me, refuses to record time when I am with you—it frightens off the minutes in an ecstasy."
"Nonsense, Mr. Hawes. I do believe daylight is coming. What a night we have passed, and here I am unable to realize it, and mother is heart-broken over our disgrace. But I suppose it will fall upon me and crush me when we have gone away. My brother sentenced to the penitentiary! To myself I have repeated these words over and over and yet they don't strike me."
"Perhaps it is because your mind is on some one else," I replied, with a return of my feeling of bitterness.
With a pressure gentle and yet forgetful her hand had been resting on my arm, but in an instant the pressure was gone like a bird fluttering from a bough, and out in the road she was walking alone.
"I earnestly beg your pardon. I scarcely knew what I was saying. Won't you please take my arm?"
"To be compelled to drop it again before we have gone a hundred yards?"
"No, to drop it when we have reached the gate. Won't you, please? I don't deny that I am a fool. I have always been a fool. My father said so and he was right. Everybody made fun of me because I was so easily cheated; and you ought to be willing to forgive a man who was born a failure. Whenever there has been a mistake to be made I have made it. Once I was caught in a storm and when I came in dripping, my father said that I hadn't sense enough to come in out of the rain. But I am stronger with every one else than I am with you, and——"
She was laughing at me; but it was a laugh of sympathy, of forgiveness, and I caught her hand and placed it upon my arm. And so we walked along in silence, she pressing my arm when the road was rough. Daylight was coming and we could see the house, dark and lonesome beyond the black ravine.
"What a peculiar man the General is," I said, feeling the growing heaviness of the silence. "I can hardly place him; but I believe he has a kind heart."
"Yes," she replied, "he is kind and brave and generous, but over it all is a weakness."
"And he is of a type that is fast disappearing," said I. "A few years more and his class will be but a memory, and then will come almost a forgetfulness, but later on he will reappear as a caricature from the pen of some careless and unsympathetic writer."
We had crossed the ravine and were now at the gate, and here I halted. "What, aren't you going in?" she asked,looking up at me, and in the dim light I could see her face, pale and sad.
"No," I answered, "I am going to town."
"At this hour, and when you are so tired?"
"The horse is rested, and as for myself, my duty must give me vigor."
"I don't understand you. What can you do in town?"
"I can bear the divinest of tidings—I can tell Alf that Millie loves him."
She stood looking down, and, bending over her, I kissed her hair, and oh, the heaven of that moment, at the gate, in the dawn; and oh, the thrilling perfume of her hair, damp with the dew brushed from the vine and the leaf of the spice-wood bush. And there, without a word, I left her, her white hands clasped on her bosom; and over the roadway I galloped with a message on my lips and incense in my soul.
The sun was an hour above the tree-tops when I rode up to the livery-stable, and the town was lazily astir. Merchants were sprinkling the brick pavements in front of their stores, and on the public square was a bon-fire of trash swept from the court-house. I hastened to the jail, and for the first time the jailer hesitated when I applied for admission. My eagerness, apparent to every one, appeared to be mistrusted by him, and he shook his head. I told him that he might go in with me, that my mission was simply to deliver a message.
"The man has been sentenced," said he, "and I don't know what good a message can do him. I am ordered to be very strict. Some time ago a man was in this jail, sentenced to the penitentiary, but he didn't go—a friend came in and left him some pizen. And are you sure you ain't got no pizen about you."
"You may search me."
"But I don't know pizen when I see it. Man's got a right to kill himself, I reckon, but he ain't got no right to rob me of my position as jailer, and that's what it would do. Write down your message and I'll take it to him."
"That would take too long. The judge has granted hima new trial and surely he wouldn't want to kill himself now."
"Well, I reckon you're right, but still we have to be mighty particular. I don't know, either but you might be taking him some whisky. Man's got a right to drink whisky, it's true, but it don't speak well for the morals and religious standin' of a jailer if he's got a lot of drunken prisoners on hand; so, if you've got a bottle about you anywhere you'd better let me take it."
"I've got no bottle."
"That so? Didn't know but you might have one. Prohibition has struck this town putty hard, you know. Search yourself and see if you hain't got a bottle."
"Don't you suppose I know whether I've got one or not? But if you want one you shall have it."
"S-h-e-e! Don't talk so loud. There's nothin' that sharpens a man's ears like prohibition. Say," he whispered, "a good bottle costs about a dollar."
"Here's your dollar. It's my last cent, but you shall have it."
"Oh, it ain't my principle to rob a man," he said as he took the money. "But I do need a little licker this mornin'. Why, I'm so dry I couldn't whistle to a dog. No pizen, you understand," he added, with a wink, as he opened the door.
The drawing of the bolts must have aroused Alf from sleep, for when I stepped into the corridor he was sitting on the edge of his bed, rubbing his eyes.
"Helloa, is that you, Bill? What are you doing here this time of day? Why, I haven't had breakfast yet."
"I have come to tell you something, and I want you to be quiet while I tell it."
"That's all right, old man. Go ahead. I can stand anything now."
I told him of the scene in the sitting-room, of the walk to the General's house—told him all except that kiss at the gate. He uttered not a word; he had taken hold of the bars and was standing with his head resting upon his arms—had gradually found this position, and now I could not see his face. Long I stood there, waiting, but he spoke not. Suddenly he wheeled about, fell upon his bed and sobbed aloud. And so I left him, and ere I reached the door I knew that his sobbing was a prayer, that his heart had found peace and rest. Upon a pardon from the governor he could have looked with cool indifference, for without that girl's love he cared not to live; but now to know that through the dark she had fled from her home, rebellious against her father's pride, wild with love—it was a mercy granted by the Governor of governors.
I went to see Conkwright and told him of the threat that Stuart had made, and the old man's eyes glistened. "We ought to have had that girl on the stand in the first place," he said. "But it was a delicate matter and, of course, we didn't know that she could bear so strongly upon the case. It's all right—better as it is, and that boy will get off as sure as you are sitting there. That threatwas worse than his standing in the road, waiting. Yes, sir, it's all right, and you may take up your school again and go ahead with your work."
"I don't want to go ahead with it, Mr. Conkwright. I want to study law with you. The school was only a makeshift, any way. You are getting old and you need some one to do the drudgery of your office. I will come in and work faithfully."
"Don't know but you are right, Billy."
"I wish, sir, that you wouldn't call me Billy."
"All right, Colonel."
"And I don't care to be called Colonel. You may call me Bill, if you want to, but Billy——"
"A little too soft, eh? All right. I don't know but you are the very man I want. You are faithful and you've got a good head. Call again in a day or two. It has been a long time since I had a partner. Yes, come in again, and I think we can arrange it."
"There is something else that I want to speak about, and to me it is of more importance than——"
"Love!" the old man broke in, winking at me.
"I'll tell you, if you'll wait a moment. Then you may place your own estimate upon it."
I told him of the broken engagement, of Chyd's indifference, of the old couple's plan to leave the community, and I unfolded my sentimental resolve to buy the old house. "And now I must ask a favor," I continued. "Old man Perdue told me that he would pay me for the time—timeI have not taught, but as I am not going to fill out the term it wouldn't be right to take the money."
"Ah, and it is law you want to study?"
"Why, of course. Didn't I make that plain?"
"Oh, yes. And you don't think it would be right to take the money? Go ahead, though."
"I know it wouldn't be right. And what I want to ask of you is this: The investment will require about two hundred dollars. Won't you lend me that amount?"
He scratched his head, scratched his chin, bit off a chew of tobacco, stretched himself and said: "Well, I have been lending money all my life, and I don't see why I should stop now. Did you ever hear of anybody paying back borrowed money except in a poker game? I never did. Do people really pay back? I don't know what the custom is over in the part of the country you came from, but the rules are very strict here, and they are not violated very often—they rarely pay back. And they never violate the rule with me."
"My dear sir, I will pay you——"
"Yes, I know. Oh, you've got the formula down pretty fine. Make a good lawyer. I've got some money in that safe, that is, if nobody has robbed me. Let me see if I've been robbed."
He opened the safe and took out a package of banknotes. "Don't believe I've been robbed. Rather singular, too," he went on, counting the money. "Two hundred, you said. Better take two-fifty—you need some clothes.Pardon me for being so keen an observer. It really escaped my notice until this moment. But what you want with the old house is more than I can understand. No, Billy—Bill, I mean—no, I understand it and it is a noble quality."
He rolled up the money, handed it to me and continued to talk. "After all, sentiment is the only thing in life, but you'd better not tell this about town—I'd never get another case. Yes, sir, and the poet is the only man who really lives. Now go on and buy your acre of sentiment, and when you have closed the bargain, lie down upon your possessions and go to sleep. Tell the old man that he is a fool for going away, but tell him also that I don't blame him for being a fool. Yes, sir, I love a fool, for it's the wise man that puts me to trouble. Give my warmest regards to that old woman. Let me tell you something: Many years ago I was a poor young fellow working about the court-house. And the clothes you've got on now are wedding garments compared with what mine were. Well, one day I stopped at Jucklin's house to get out of the rain—he hadn't been married long—and soon after I went into the sitting-room, the wife began to whisper to the husband, and when she went out, which she did a moment later, Jucklin turned to me and said: 'Go up stairs, take off your britches and throw 'em down here, and I'll bring 'em back to you after a while.' I was actually out at the knees, sir, and I did as he told me, and when he brought my trousers back they were neatly patched. Yes, sir, givemy warmest regards to that old woman, for if she isn't a Christian there never was one. Well, what are you hanging around here for? Trying to thank me? Is that it? Well, just go on, my boy, and we'll attend to that some other time."
"You know what I feel, Mr. Conkwright, and I will not attempt to thank you, but I must say that I was never more surprised in a man. I was told that you were hard and unsympathetic."
"Sorry you found me out, sir. Let a lawyer get the name of being kind and they say that he is emotional, but has no logic. Blackstone had to give up poetry. Well, good-day. I'm busy."
I ate breakfast at the tavern, nodding over the table; and I was so sleepy that I could scarcely sit my horse as I rode toward home. The day was hot and drowsy was the air, in the road and on the hill-side, where a boy, weary and heavy with the leg-pains of adolescence, was dragging himself after a plow. Once I dozed off to sleep and awoke under a tree, the wise old horse knowing that he could take advantage of my sleepiness to bat his eyes in the shade, and when I spoke to him he started off at a trot as if surprised to find that he had turned aside from his duty. I was nearly home and was riding along half asleep when the frightful squealing of a pig drew my attention down a lane that opened into the road. The animal was caught under a rail fence and his companions were running up to him, one after another, and were rakinghim with their sharp teeth. I got down and fought off the excited beasts, knocked one of them down for his cruelty, and lifted the fence to liberate the prisoner; and when he was free his companions, the ones that had been ripping his hide, ran up to congratulate him upon his good fortune; and in the whole performance I saw a heartless phase of human life, musing as I rearranged the rails that had been lifted away, and when I straightened up there stood Etheredge looking at me.
"These are my hogs," he said.
"I didn't know that," I replied, "but I might have known that they were members of your family."
"Yes, you might have known a great many things that you have never been wise enough to find out. But I don't want to lash words with you, Mr. Hawes. I simply stopped to tell you that a man who would go out of his way to lift a heavy fence to help a hog is not a bad fellow; and I want to apologize for anything that I have said to anger you. I have nothing against you and I don't blame you for sticking to a friend. One of these days you'll find that I'm not half as bad a fellow as you have had cause to think me. Let us call off our engagement. Is it a go?"
"Doctor, I have no desire to kill you, and I think that your death would be the result of our keeping that engagement."
"Pretty confident sort of a man, I take it. And after all, bravery is nothing but a sort of over-confidence. But I don't believe that you would kill me; I believe that itwould be the other way, and it is not out of fear that I propose a setting aside of our indefinite agreement to meet each other. But be that as it may, we will call it off unless you insist, and if you do, why, as a gentleman I shall be compelled to meet you. I am brave enough to confess that I can't help but admire you morally and physically. In a small way, I was once a demonstrator of anatomy, and from an outside estimate I must pronounce you as fine a specimen of manhood as I ever saw. And if you'll come over to the house we'll take a long drink on the strength of it."
"The spirit of your hospitality is not lost upon me, Doctor, but the truth is, I never drink. But with a cheerful willingness I accept your other proposition—to set aside our engagement. It was no more your fault than mine."
"Yes, it was, Mr. Hawes—I wantonly nagged at you. But we will let it drop. Under present conditions we can't be very good friends, but there will come a time when you must acknowledge that malice may know what it is to be honest, if not generous."
"Don't go now, Doctor; you have interested me. Tell me what you mean."
"I wish you good-day, Mr. Hawes," was his reply, as he strode off down the lane. And he left me holding him in a strange sort of regard; he had flattered me and had hinted at a future generosity. Could it be that he intended to modify his evidence when again he should appear againstAlf? A demonstrator of anatomy—and he could soothe a nerve as well as expose a muscle. I felt kindly toward him as I rode along, though blaming myself for my weakness. But I have never known a very large man who had not some vital weakness—of vanity, egotism, over-generosity, foolish tenderness—something in ill-keeping with a well-poised morality. With old Sir John we have more flesh, and, therefore, more of frailty.
As I came within sight of the house I saw three men slowly walking about in the yard, and, upon reaching the gate, I recognized them as Parker, Jucklin and Perdue. I turned the horse into a lot and joined them.
"Well," said Jucklin, "it's all over and I have sold out to Parker."
"Not the house, too!" I cried in alarm.
The old man smiled and winked at Parker. "Well, not quite," he said. "Guinea told me what you wanted, and sir, you can have it, though I tell you right now that it ain't worth much."
"Will you take two hundred dollars?"
"Not from you, Bill. You may have the house and the path and the spring and the strip of moss, for if you haven't earned that and more——"
"Hold on, Mr. Jucklin. I want the property made over to me in regular form when I have paid you for it. I will accept of no concession; want to pay as much as Mr. Parker would have paid, and I have borrowed money enough to close the deal. You are going away and you will needevery cent you can possibly raise; and I demand that you take the two hundred dollars that I have collected for you. It will be of no use to say that you will not, for I am determined, and, although you have been very kind, you will find me a hard man to fight. And remember that there is a debt to be paid."
He held out his hand and looked over toward the General's house as I gripped his rough palm.
"I have buried 'em over by the edge of the woods," he said; "buried 'em with their gaffs on. I couldn't help it—they had to fight to a finish. Yes, it shall be as you say. I will pay what I owe and still have money enough to get away off somewhere. We'll draw up the papers in town and have it over with at once."
"Mr. Hawes, I've got a hundred dollars that's yours," said old man Perdue. "I have brought the money, and here it is."
"I can't take it, Mr. Perdue. I haven't earned it, and shall not earn it. I am not going to teach your school."
"The deuce you say! Why, my grandson thinks there ain't nobody in the world like you—says you can whip any livin' man. You must teach that school."
"No, I am going to study law with Judge Conkwright."
"What, with him? Don't you do it. Why, there ain't a harder hearted man on the face of the earth than he is. Smart as a whip, but he don't go to church once in five years. Oh, you needn't smile, for it's a fact. Not once in five years, and what can you expect from a man like that?Oh, he'll grind you into the very ground. Ain't got a particle of feelin'."
"I expect him to teach me the law and I can get along with my present stock of religion. But even if he were to offer me his religion, I would accept it. I know him better than you can ever know him. But we have no cause to discuss him. No, I can't take your money."
"But you have earned some of it. Twenty-five dollars, at least."
"Well, I will take that much."
"Take it all," said Parker.
"No, twenty-five," I replied.
"You are your own boss," Perdue observed; "you know best. Here's your twenty-five, and I'll make it fifty if you'll send out word that the new man, whoever he may be, mustn't go into the creek. You are the sort of a reformer that this community has needed. Well, gentlemen, I've got to get home. Issue your proclamation, sir, and send for the other twenty-five."
Parker said that it was time for him to go, and, adding that he would meet Jucklin in town, left us at the door.
Mrs. Jucklin was brighter than I had expected to find her, and when I told her what Conkwright had said, that Alf would surely be acquitted, the light of a new hope leaped into her eyes.
"I told Limuel that God would not permit such a wrong," she said. "Didn't I, Limuel?"
"You said something about it, Susan; I have forgotexactly what it was. It's all right if the judge says he knows it. Yes, sir, it's all right. But we'll leave here all the same. Don't reckon we'll ever come back; can't stand to be p'inted at. Fight a man in a minit if he p'ints at me."
"Oh, Limuel, don't talk about fighting when we are in so much trouble."
"Fight a man in a minit if he p'ints at me. Knock down a sign-post if it p'ints at me. Well, we want a little bite to eat. Been about six weeks since I eat anything, it seems like."
All this time I was wondering where Guinea could be, and was startled by every sound. The mother asked me how Alf looked and how he had acted when I had pictured Millie's leaving home; and I told her mechanically, wondering, listening; and I broke off suddenly, for I thought there was a footstep at the door. No, it was a chicken in the passage. They asked me many questions and I answered without hearing my own words. Mrs. Jucklin went out to the dining-room and the old man began to talk about his chickens. He had found them bloody and stiff, and had buried them in a box lined with an old window curtain. And now there was a step at the door. I looked up and Guinea stood there, looking back, listening to her mother. And thus she stood a long time, I thought, and yet she must have known that I was in the room. Mr. Jucklin spoke to her and she came in, walking very slowly. Her face was pale, with a sadness that smote my heart. She sat down and looked out of the window. Mrs.Jucklin called the old man, and when he was gone I told Guinea that I had left Alf in a convulsive joy; and, still looking out of the window, she said: "You are the noblest man I ever met."
I sprang to my feet, but quickly she lifted her hand and motioned me back, though she still looked away. "Sit down, please. Don't you remember our agreement to be frank with each other?"
"Yes, I remember it, but frankness means the opposite of restraint."
"Yes, but frankness should always have judgment behind it."
"Guinea!" She looked at me. "Guinea, you say that after a while he will kneel at your feet."
"Yes, after a while, Mr. Hawes."
"But let me—let me kneel at your feet now!"
Slowly she shook her head. "No, Mr. Hawes, you must never do that. Sometime we may kneel together, but you must never kneel to me. Now we are frank, aren't we? We may go to church together and hear some one pray a beautiful prayer, a prayer that may seem the echo of our own heart-throbs. Sweet is confidence, and I ask you to have confidence in me. Let me have my way, and when the time is ripe, I will come to you with my hands held out. Yes, when the time is ripe. And then there will be no reproaches and nothing to forgive, but everything to worship and to bless. Oh, I am a great talker when once I am started, Mr. Hawes, and I think all the time. Ithought this morning as I stood at the gate, just as you left me standing; I heard you galloping down the road. And do you know what I thought of? It was almost profane, but I thought of the baptizing at the river of Jordan, when the spirit came down like a dove; and I knew what must have been the thrilling touch of that spirit, for the holiness of love had touched my hair. No, Mr. Hawes, not now. There, sit down again and let me talk, for I am started now. Oh, and you thought that I was dumb and feelingless? You mustn't weep; but as for me, why, I am a woman and tears are a woman's inheritance. There, I have said enough, and after this we must speak to each other as friends—until the time when I shall come to you with my hands held out; and then I am going to tell you of a woman who loved a man, not with a halting, half-hearted love, but with a love as broad as God's smile when the earth is in bloom. You didn't know that I was so persistent, did you? Isn't it time for a woman to be persistent? No woman has ever kept silence, they tell us, but women have been constrained to talk around the subject, festooning it with their insinuating fancies. But women are more outspoken now and are permitted to be truer to themselves. Yes, you must have confidence in me; let me indulge my dream a while longer, and then I will come to you, but until then let us be friends."
"But won't you let me tell you something now? Won't you let me tell you that in the moonlight I bowed until my head touched the dust, worshiping you as you stood——"
"No, not now; not until I come. And won't you respect my wishes, even if they are foolish?"
"Now and forever, angel, your word shall be a divine law unto me."
"They are calling us," she said. "Come on."
In the afternoon I went to town with the old man, to attend upon the transfer of the property, and I slept in the wagon, conscious of Guinea when the road was rough, and sweetly dreaming of her when there was no jolt to disturb my slumber. It was long after midnight when we returned. I was resolved to go early to bed, for Guinea and her mother were sadly engaged packing a box with the bric-a-brac upon which time and association had placed the seal of endearment.
"Now, I wonder what has become of that old lace curtain," said Mrs. Jucklin. "I have looked everywhere and can't find it, and I know it was in the chest up stairs."
The old man began to scratch his head.
"I don't know who could have taken it," Mrs. Jucklin went on. "It couldn't have walked off, I'm sure. Limuel?"
"Yes, ma'm."
"Do you know what has become of that old curtain?"
"What, that ragged old thing that wan't worth nothin'?"
"Worth nothin'! Why, it belonged to my grandmother."
"I never heard of that before."
"Oh, yes, you have, and what's the use of talkin' that way? You've known it all the time."
"News to me," said the old man.
"It's not news to you, anything of the sort; but the question is, do you know what has become of it?"
"Susan, in this here life many things happen, things that we wish hadn't happened. I am not sorry that they fit to a finish, for that had to be; but I am sorry that I wrapped 'em in that curtain when I buried 'em."
"Gracious alive, what has possessed the man! Oh, you do distress me so. How could you do such a thing, Limuel? I do believe you have gone daft. But you go right out there now and dig up them good-for-nothin' chickens and bring me that curtain. Go right on this minit."
"What, Susan, and rob the dead and the brave? You wouldn't have me do that."
"Go on, I tell you, or I'll go myself, and throw the fetchtaked things over to the hogs. The idee of wrappin' up them cruel, good-for-nothin' things in a curtain like that. Oh, I never was so provoked in my life."
The old man got up and stretched himself. "Bill," said he, "I am sometimes forced to believe that the women folks are lackin' in human sympathy. Ma'm, I'll fetch your curtain, but I've got to have somethin' to wrap around the dead and the brave."
"Don't you take that apron. Why, if he wouldn't take the best apron I've got, right out from under my very eyes. And you can't have that stand cover, either."
"Well, but, by jings, what can I have? Am I a traveler that has jest stopped here to stay all night? There's no use in talkin'; I'm goin' to have 'em put away decent. Take me for a barbarian?"
He went out, and just as I was going up to bed I met him in the passage way, with a roll of white stuff in his bare arms, and as he stepped into the room I heard his wife exclaim: "Mercy on me, if he hasn't taken his best shirt. And what he is goin' to do for somethin' to wear the Lord only knows."
I heard Guinea laughing, and then I heard the old man say that what a man happened to wear would make but little difference with the Lord.
I was so worn that my sleep that night was dreamless, but when early at morning they called me to breakfast I knew that during the hours of that deep oblivion I had been vaguely conscious of a dim and shadowy happiness; and a vivid truth came upon me with the first glimpse of sunlight.
The old man was waiting at the foot of the stairs. "Bill, we are goin' over to the station right after we eat a bite," he said. "We can't take but a few things, and we'll leave the most of our trumpery till we git settled somewhere. Take care of that horse you've been ridin'—he don't belong to us; was left here by a man some time ago, feller that had to go away off somewhere to see his folks. So, you jest keep him till he's called for; and I've left you plenty of corn out there to feed him on. You can studyyour books here about as well as you can in town, and I wish you'd sorter look after the things. Parker will drive us over to the station."
"And am I to go also?" I asked.
"No, I believe not. It's Guinea's arrangement and not mine. Let her have her own way. All women have got their whims, the whole kit an' b'ilin' of 'em, and you might as well reason with a weather cock. Wait a minit before we go in. As soon as we git half way settled Guinea will write to you. I have no idee where I'm goin', but it will be away off somewhere. It makes me shudder every time I meet a man that I know, and I'd bet a horse that if I was to meet a cross-eyed feller I'd fight him. If Alf gits clear he can come to us. And you—I'm sorry you have decided to go in with Conkwright, for I wanted you to come with Alf."
"I will come. Nothing shall stand in the way. Mr. Jucklin, have you noticed——"
"Yes, I've noticed everything. And it's all right. And Susan has noticed everything and it's all right with her. There never was a prouder human than Guinea, sir; the old General's pride is rain water compared to her'n. And she's got an idee in her head—I don't exactly understand it, but she's got it there and we'll have to let her keep it till she wants to throw it aside. I was over to the General's before sun up this mornin'. He swore that he wouldn't take the money, but I left it under a brick-bat on the gate post and come away. Well, everything issettled, and all I can say now is, God bless you."
We were silent at breakfast, and we dared not look at one another. A wagon came rattling through the gate, and Parker shouted that he was ready. No one had said a word, but the old man struck the table with his fist and exclaimed: "I insist on everybody showin' common sense. I don't want anybody to speak to me. I'll fight in a minit. Git in that wagon without a word. Hush, now."
I wanted to lead Guinea to the wagon, to feel again her dependence upon me, but she pretended to be looking away when I attempted to take her hand, and so she walked on alone; but I helped her into the vehicle, and I kissed her hand when she took hold of the seat. She gave me a quick look and a smile; and the wagon rolled away. I stood on the log step, watching it, and as it was slowly sinking beyond the hill I saw the flutter of a handkerchief.
I went up to my room and sat down, sad that I had seen her going away from me, yet happy to know that she had left her heart in my keeping. But the foolishness of this separation struck me with a force that had been lacking until now, and for a time I felt toward the old man a hardness that not even a keen appreciation of his kindness and his drollery could soften. Gradually, however, the truth came to me that Alf had drawn the plan, and with my arms stretched out toward the hill-top that had slowly arisen between me and the fluttering handkerchief I foolishly apologized to the old man. I did morefoolish things than that; I improvised a hymn and sang it to Guinea—a chant that, no doubt, would have been immeasurably funny to the cold-hearted and the sane, but it brought the tears to my eyes and rendered the rafters just above my head a work of lace, far away. And at these devotions I might have remained for hours had not a sharp footfall smote upon my ear. I hastened down stairs, and at the entrance of the passage stood Chyd Lundsford, looking about, slowly lashing his leg with a switch.
"Helloa! Where are all the folks?"
"They are gone, sir," I answered, stiffly bowing to him.
"Gone? I don't know that I quite catch your meaning."
"If it be illusive you have made it so. I said that they were gone, which means, of course, that they are not here."
"I understand that all right enough, but do you mean that they are not in at present or that they have really left home?"
"They have no home, sir."
He gave himself a sharp cut with the switch. "It can't have been so very long since they left, for the old man was over to see father this morning. Which way did they go? I may overtake them."
"That would be greatly against their wish, sir."
"I am not asking for an opinion. I want to know which way they went."
"I am not at liberty to tell you that. They have gone out into a world that is as strange to them as Americawas to Columbus."
"Rot. There isn't a smarter woman anywhere than Guinea. She has read everything and she knows the world as well as I do. But why are you not privileged to tell me which way they went? I have something to say that concerns them closely. Did they go toward town?"
"Do you suppose that they would go away without first seeing their son?"
"Then you mean that they went to town. Why the devil can't you speak out? Why should you stand as a stumbling block?"
"Why should I stand as a sign post?"
"Now here, you needn't show your selfishness in this matter. She wouldn't wipe her feet on you."
"No, but she would wipe them on you."
"What!" He took a step forward, but he stepped back again and stood there, lashing himself with the switch. "My father tells me that you are a gentleman," he said.
"And you may safely accept your father's opinion of me," I answered.
"But you are not striving, sir, to make that opinion good."
"A good opinion needs no bolstering up."
"This bantering is all nonsense. I've got nothing against you; I have simply asked you a civil question."
"And I hope to be as civil as you are, but out of regard for the feelings of those old people and their daughter I cannot tell you which way they went. You couldn't overtakethem, any way."
"But I can try."
"Yes, you could have tried yesterday and the day before, and a week ago, when they needed your sympathy."
He dropped his switch, but he caught it up again, and his face was red. "I might say, sir, that what I have done and that which I have failed to do is no business of yours, but I feel that there is a measure of justice in what you say, and I acknowledge that I have been wrong. That is why I am here now—to set myself right."
"In matters of business we may correct an error, Mr. Lundsford; we may rub out one figure and put down another, but a mark made upon the heart is likely to remain there."
"I will not attempt to bandy sentimentalities with you, sir. I am a practical man, a scientist, if you wish; and I came here to tell that girl that my breaking off the engagement—you must know all about it—was wrong. I told my father to come, for just at that time I didn't feel that as a man who looks forward to something a little more than a name I could afford to marry her. But I was wrong; any living man could afford to marry her. I was wrong, and that ought to settle it."
"And I think, sir, that it does settle it as far as you are concerned."
"Do you mean that she won't marry me? Oh, yes, she will, not out of any foolish love, but because she would be proud of my success. Well, I may not overtake her, butI will write to her. Yes, that will do as well. She will want to know how things are getting along here, and will write to you, and when she does I wish you would show me her letter. What are you laughing at? Haven't you got any sense at all?"
"I hope so, but I am not so much of a scientist that I am a fool."
"No, but you are so much of a fool that you are not a scientist, by a d——d sight."
He had me there, and it was his time to laugh, and he did. He was so tickled that he roared, walking up and down the passage; and he was so pleased that he held out his hand to shake upon the merit of his joke. I was not disposed to be surly and I shook hands with him, and he clapped me on the shoulder, still laughing, and declared that it was a piece of wit worthy of the dissecting-room, and that he would jolt his fellows with it.
"I am glad you are so much pleased," I remarked.
"Why, don't you think it's good, eh? Of course, you do. Well, it's better to part laughing, anyway."
"You are not too much of a scientist to be a philosopher," I said. And I expected him to continue his line of deduction and to say that I was too much of a philosopher to be a scientist, but he did not; he sobered and gravely remarked:
"Yes, I am devilish sorry that this thing came about, and I hope that Guinea will not take a romantic view of it. I guess they'll be back after a while, if Alf is cleared,and from what I hear I suppose he will be."
"May I ask how your sister is?"
"Certainly. She's all right; doesn't eat much, but her pulse is normal—little excited, but hardly noticeable. Loves that fellow, doesn't she? Strong, good-looking boy, but not very practical. Hope he'll come out all right. Ah, I was going to say something, but it has escaped me. Oh, yes, you are in love with Guinea. Be frank, now."
"Yes, I worship her."
"Hardly the word, but it will do, on an impulse. I think a good deal of her myself. I said just now that she wouldn't wipe her feet on you, and I beg your pardon. She may wipe them on you. You are going to stay here, eh? Well, come over to the house. No reason why there should be any ill-will between us. Good-day."
I sat down on the step and watched him until he had ridden out of sight, and I was pleased that he went toward his home, not that I was afraid of a renewal of the engagement; I knew that it was forever set aside. But I felt that his overtaking the wagon would bring an additional trouble to the father and the mother; indeed, I was afraid that the old man might kill him. Strange fellow Chyd was, and I liked him as an oddity, as something wholly different from myself or from any impulsive being. He was not cruel—he simply had no heart.
I walked about the old place until nearly noon, and then I went to town. The jailer met me with a doubtful shaking of his scheming head, and I knew that again he had received orders to be rigid in his discipline, but I was resolved that the old rascal's appetite for liquor should not play a second prank upon me; so when he hinted at another bottle I told him that I had spent so much of my life as a temperance lecturer that it was against my conscience to buy a favor with whisky. I looked steadily at him, and he began to wince.
"Why, to be sure," said he, "but, my dear sir, I didn't buy whisky with that dollar—bought a ham with it. If I didn't I'm the biggest liar in the world; and I don't reckon there's a family in this town that needs another ham right now worse than mine does."
"That may be, but I can't afford to pay so heavy a price every time I enter this place. You know that I am associated with the prisoner's lawyer, but we'll waive that right—I'll go to the sheriff and get an order from him."
"Why, my dear sir, that's unnecessary. Walk right in; but remember your promise not to say anything about that ham. There are a lot of vegetarians in this town, andif they hear of my eating meat they'll hold it against me. Walk in, sir."
I found Alf in high spirits. Conkwright had called and had assured him that his day of liberty was not far off. I told him that the old house was deserted, and he stood musing, looking at me dreamily, as if his mind were hovering over the scenes of his boyhood. I let him dream, for I knew the sweetness of a melancholy reverie. Sometimes the soul is impatient of the body's dogged hold on life, and steals away to view its future domain, to draw in advance upon its coming freedom—now lingering, now swifter than a hawk—and then it comes back and we say that we have been absent-minded. Alf started—his soul had returned. "And weren't you surprised to see them drive toward town?" he asked.
"Who, your parents and Guinea? They didn't; they drove toward the railway station."
"But they came to town, my dear boy—were here in this jail. They must have driven round to deceive you, for they knew that you would want to come with them, and they deceived you to spare you the pain of seeing us together. And I'm glad you were spared, though mother stood it much better than I expected. But this was because she firmly believes I'll be cleared. They haven't been gone a great while—there's a station not far from this town. Father played another trick on you. Yesterday, when he came to town to deed over the land, he left you dozing in the wagon and slipped off round here. I wassurprised, for I had positively ordered him not to come. But he set me to laughing before he got in. 'Open that door by the order of the sheriff!' he cried at the jailer. 'Here's the order; look at it, but don't you look at me. Fight you in a minit.' And then he came in, and the first thing he told me was that they had gaffs on. He said that he had fought hard to keep mother from coming, at night when the rest were asleep; and I swore that she must not come, but she did. Bill, you brought me a message that sent me to heaven; and now let me ask if you know that Guinea loves you? There, don't say a word—you know it. She told me, standing where you are now—told me everything, and what a talker she is when once she is started. But you must let her have her way, and she will come to you, holding out her hands. Have you seen Millie?"
"No, not since that night. But I am going to see her."
Then I told him that Chyd had come to the house—I reproduced the scene, and Alf's merriment rang throughout the jail.
"Yes," he said, "you can go over there all right enough. The General likes you, anyway. I don't know what he thinks of me—still sizes me as a boy, I suppose; and if he were to come in here now I believe he would ask me what father was doing. But it makes no difference what he thinks. The judge tells me that you are going to study law with him. Jumped into an interesting case right at once, didn't you?"
We talked a long time and we laughed a great deal, forwe were in a paradise, although in a jail. And I left him with a promise that I would soon bring him a direct word from Millie.
I found Conkwright in his office, with his slippered feet on a table. He bade me come in, and he said nothing more, but sat there pressing his closed eye-lids with his thumb and fore-finger. How square a chin he had and how rugged was his face, trenched with the deep ruts of many a combat. His had been a life of turmoil and of fight. He was not born of the aristocracy. I had heard that he was the son of a Yankee clock peddler. But to success he had fought his way, over many an aristocratic failure.
"Judge, have you finally decided that I may come into your office?"
"Thought we settled that at first," he replied, without opening his eyes. "Yes, you may come in; glad to have you, and, by the way, I've got some work I want you to do right now. A woman was in here to-day to see if I could get her husband out of the penitentiary. I don't know but I helped put him there—believe I did. I was busy when she came in, and when she went away I remembered how poorly she was dressed, and I am afraid that I didn't speak to her as kindly as I should have. She lives at the south end of the street behind the jail, left hand side, I believe. Look in that vest hanging up there and you'll find twenty dollars in the pocket, right hand side, I think. Take the money and slip down to that woman's house and give it toher. But don't let anyone see you and don't tell her who sent it. Might tell her that the State sent it as wages due for overtime put in by her husband. And you needn't come back this evening, for it's time to close up."
I looked back at him as I stepped out. He had not changed his position and his eyes were still closed. And this was my first work as a student of the law—a brave beginning, the agent of a noble design. I found the place without having to make inquiry, and a wretched hut it was. The woman was shabby and two ragged children were lying on the floor. I gave her the twenty dollars—I did more, I gave her a part of the money which Perdue had given me. I explained that her husband had worked overtime and that the State, following an old custom, had sent her the wages of his extra labor. She was not a very good-natured woman; she said that the State and the rest of us ought to be ashamed of ourselves for having robbed her of her husband, and she declared that if she ever got money enough she would sue old Conkwright and the sheriff and everybody else. I was glad enough to quit that wretched and depressing scene; and in the cool of the evening I strolled about the town. The business part of the place was mean, but further out there were handsome old residences, pillared and vine-clad. And in front of the most attractive one I halted to gaze at the trees and the shrubbery, dim in the twilight.
A boy came along and I asked him who lived there and he answered: "Judge Conkwright."
"He deserves to live in even a better house," I mused, as I turned away; and just then I was clapped upon the shoulder with a "Helloa, my old friend"—the telegraph operator. I shook hands with him, and at once he began to tell me of his affairs. "Getting along all right," he said. "Haven't got quite as much freedom as I used to have, but I reckon it's better for me. Wife thinks so much of me that she's jealous of the boys—don't want me to stay out with them at night. Don't reckon there's anything more exacting than a rag. But I had to have one. Without calico there ain't much real fun in this life. But enough of calico's society is about the enoughest enough a man can fetch up in his mind. Tell you what—I'll run on home and come back, and then you can go with me."
"No, I couldn't think of putting you to so much trouble."
"Won't be any trouble. Simply don't want to surprise her, you know."
"I'll call on you before long, but now I must go to the tavern."
"All right, and if I can get off I'll come over to see you. And I'll tell you what we'll do along about 11 o'clock. We'll go over to Atcherson's store with a lot of fellers and cook some eggs in the top of a paste-board hat box. Ever cook them that way? It's a world beater. Just break the eggs in the lid of the box and put it on the stove and there you are. Finest stuff you ever eat. But while you're eating you mustn't let them tell that jug story.Couldn't eat a bite after that. Well, I leave you here."
Fearing that the operator's "rag" might fail in the strict enforcement of the regulations that had been thrown about the night-time movements of her husband, that he might break out of the circle of his wife's fondness and call on me at the tavern, I left that place soon after supper and resumed my walk about the town. In some distant place where the land was dry a shower of rain had fallen, for the air was quickened with the coming of that dusty, delicious smell, that reminiscent incense which more than the perfume of flower or shrub takes us back to the lanes and the sweet loitering places of youth. Happiness will not bear a close inspection; to be flawless it must be viewed from a distance—we must look forward to something longed for, or backward to some time remembered; and my happiness on this night was not perfect, for a sense of loneliness curdled it with regret, but here and there, as I walked along, I found myself in an ecstasy—my nerves thrilled one another like crossed wires, electrified. I knew that it might be a long time before I should hear from Guinea, but I was still drunk with the newness of the feeling that she loved me.
Prayer-meeting bells were ringing, and old men and old women came out of the dark shadow of the trees, into the light that burned in front of a church—hearts that with age were slow and heavy, praying for the blessing of an Infinite Mystery. I entered the church and knelt down to pray, for I am not so advanced a thinker as the manwho questions the existence of God; but I must admit that my thoughts were far away from the mumblings that I heard about me, far, indeed, from the mutterings of my own lips; and so I went out and sniffed the prayer of nature, the smell of rain that came from far off down the dusty road.
Early the next morning I went to Conkwright's office, to tell him that for a time I preferred to study in the country. The old man was walking up and down the room, with his hands behind him.
"Did you find that woman?" he asked.
"Yes, and I let no one see me."
"Good. You gave her the twenty dollars, and—is that all you gave her?"
"Why, that was all you told me to give her."
"Yes, I know, but didn't you give her some of your own money? Speak out now. No shilly-shallying with me."
"Well, she was so wretched that I gave her five dollars of my own money."
"You did, eh? The money you borrowed from me, you mean?"
"No, money that old Perdue thinks I earned. He insisted upon my taking twenty-five dollars."
"It's all right, my boy. Yes, it's all right, but you'll have to be more careful. It is noble to give, but it is not wise to look for an opportunity. It is better to give to the young than to the old, for the good we do the youthgrows with him into a hallowed memory—stimulates him to help others—while the memory of the aged is fitful. Whenever you see a boy trying to amount to something, help him, for that is a direct good, done to mankind. Now to business. Have you read Blackstone?"
"Yes, but not thoroughly. I have never owned his book."
"There he is on my desk. I keep him near me. The lawyer who outgrows that book—well, I may be an old fogy on the subject, so I'll say nothing more except to commend the treatise to a lawyer as I would the multiplication table to a student of mathematics. And now let me say that when you have been with me one year we will begin to talk about other matters, the question of money, for instance. Don't be extravagant—don't give money because you don't know what else to do with it—and I will see that you shall not want for anything. Oh, yes, I know you are thinking of getting married, but it won't cost much to keep your wife. We'll fix all that, and if I don't make a lawyer out of you I am much fooled. You are in love and are mighty sappy just at present, but you'll come round all right; yes, sir, all right after a while."
"I think, Judge, that I can study much better out at the old house, and if you have nothing for me to do I should like to spend several days at a time out there."
"Why, is that the way to assist me? What good can you do me by poking off out there in the woods? Well,you may for a while. Three days a week for a time, eh? All right. You are as hard to break in as a steer. What about those stories you told at the General's house. I hear that they were great. But don't let people put you down as a story teller, for when a lawyer gets that reputation, no matter how profound he may be, the public looks upon him as a yarn-spinner, rather than a thinker. You might put them in print, but not under your own name. Bill—came within one of calling you Billy—a great many men succeed in law not because they are bright, but because they are stupid. I never see a jackass that I don't think of a judge—some judges that I know. Well, now, the first and one of the most important things to do is to go over to that tailor and have yourself measured for a suit of clothes. Did I say measured? Surveyed is the word," he added, looking at me from head to foot and then laughing. "Yes, I think that's the word. Well, go on now."