"Will you come to see me? I want to tell you something. JACOB PHELPS."He held the paper a long time in his hands, fingering it after his eyes no longer read the words, and gradually, over his tortured senses, drifted a feeling of peace and hope and joy. At last, under the full realization of the opportunity that had come to him, he settled back in his chair and closed his eyes.In this attitude Judge Houston found him when he entered the library. The old man did not extend his hand, nor for a few moments did he say anything, having learned to read the young face before him like an open book, and knowing that any words except those spoken by Sargent himself would be irrelevant at that moment. Instead, he took down a long German pipe with a china bowl, from the mantel shelf, and filling it with tobacco, seated himself comfortably in a chair and crossed his legs; silent, all the while.Finally Sargent opened his eyes and looked at the old man without speaking. At last the words came, trembling slightly from his intensity."Did you ever convict a man for murder?"The corners of the old man's mouth twitched; he was so certain that would be the question. In answer he only nodded."And was the man hanged?"He nodded again.Sargent's voice rose to a higher pitch and broke harshly."How could you let it be done, and have any peace afterwards?"The old man laid his pipe aside and came toward the table, sitting down opposite Sargent."I found out that I was in the right. That the man should have been hanged—that it was my duty to see that punishment was inflicted upon him. Anything else would have been an evasion of my duty,—a greater sin than I at first imagined the other was. I know what you are feeling at this moment. Every man who has a conscience and a reverence for God and has chosen criminal law for his profession goes through your experience. There are so many sides to the situation—I doubt if you have thought of but one."Sargent moved impatiently in his chair. His fingers were thumping nervously on the table all the time."Tell me the other side—I can see only one."The old man leaned forward and met his eyes intently."What do you see?""'Thou shalt not kill.'"Felix Houston leaned back in his chair and putting out his hand, drew the old Bible toward him. Placing it on his knees, he turned the pages with the familiarity of one who knew what was written on every one. At last he held down a page, and ran his fingers across it, smoothing out the crumpled, folded edge. "Listen," he said, raising his eyes to Sargent's for a moment. "There are other commands in here, too. Read here—Genesis—'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed,' and in Exodus," the pages turned quickly, "'He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death,' and Leviticus, 'Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth,' and later, in the words of Jesus, recorded by Matthew, 'All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.' Is not that enough?" He laid down the book, and met Sargent's glance again. "You see now there are reasons for man making laws with which the life of a murderer can be taken. It is the command of God. It is His law given to us for self-protection."Sargent shook his head wearily."Vengeance is mine," he quoted slowly, in response. "With that, I see no reason for this law of man's. Why should we judge? Why should we decide that a man has no right to live? 'Thou shalt not kill,' is the word spoken by God. There is no evasion of it—I can see only that one interpretation. It is final to me in its brevity. It embraces everything. If Phelps is hanged, it will be the same as if I had killed him myself, alone and unaided. The law back of it means nothing to me. If he is hanged I will be a murderer."Sargent crouched back in his chair as if to escape the physical punishment his thoughts inflicted upon him. The disappointment caused from the old man's failure to bring him any comfort intensified the despair into which he had sunk."Think a moment, Sargent," Judge Houston said, attempting a new line of persuasion. "Think of the good you have done the people by removing such a danger from them. That should be palliation enough to relieve you of any responsibility. Their gratitude to you is wonderful! Do you know, they want to show it in some lasting form; there is already a movement on foot to send you to the Legislature, and if you accept it, I know you will be elected. Boy! you don't realize that your success has been made. Cheer up! Open your eyes to your opportunities. There are not many who make the start you have." Judge Houston grew more and more enthusiastic as he continued. "I had no idea that you could win that case. I only appointed you to give you the experience. But you have shown your genius. That speech has made your start a triumph."Sargent watched his enthusiasm coldly. A gulf of misunderstanding seemed to be widening between him and his old friend to-night—a gulf in which their sympathy of the past months was counted as nothing. Of all the people in the world Felix Houston was the one Sargent had expected to understand him in this trial. His disappointment grew almost unbearable when he heard praise also coming from his friend's lips."A triumph," he murmured sadly. "What is a triumph when its gain means the sacrifice of a man's life?""Have you thought of the lives you have probably saved by removing this dangerous man from the country? That should help you a little.""Was he so harmful? Had he killed any one before? There seemed no proof of it.""Did you not prove that he had killed one man? Is that not enough?""I did not prove anything—legally."Felix Houston's brows drew together slowly. It was a signal of the end of his patience."What did you do then, Sargent?""I played a trick on him—the meanest, lowest, most dastardly trick one man ever played on another. There wasn't any law in it. I set myself to work on the man's sympathies; I studied his face all that first day in the courtroom, hunting for the vulnerable point in which to attack him. All that day I could see nothing else but his face, yet I could not find what it was that was there, that I did not recognize. And when I rode home that evening with Natalia, I was telling her about the case, and how hopeless it seemed, and what do you suppose she told me to do? The very thing that I did—make the man confess, himself! She said that I could do that if I wanted to. All that night I lay awake, thinking and thinking of how I could persuade the man to tell his secret. I kept repeating it to myself all through the long hours that I would make him tell, seeing his face before me, always with that inscrutable expression that meant that there was a vulnerable point. I must find it, I kept on saying. I must find it! Then I thought out my speech, realizing as I went over it, that if I went into every detail of the murder, that somewhere in the recital I would find the spot in the man's nature. I found it—you know when. He has a mother. I made him think of her! After the first admission of my power I knew I had the man in my hands. It was all very easy after that. But it was not law, you must admit that. It was playing upon sentiments that are sacred to every human being. I took that advantage of him while he was held before me—forced to listen. He couldn't escape my words. I forced them into his brain. I drove all the vital force that was in me into that man's conscience, and made him speak out. He could not help it—he was powerless. But that is not law, I say. I have no right to send him to the gallows on such a confession. You should have seen that—you will now, I know. It rests with you to help me make my reparation. I used this man to further the gratification of revenge. I would not have gone into the case with such vehemence if the defeat of Jervais had not been back of it. Oh, you do see, then! The sin of it, don't you? But it is true—every word of it. I am keeping back nothing from you. You have told me that you loved me almost as much as you did your son, and you know that I have returned that feeling, aye, more than I ever loved the man who created me only continually to wound me! Will you prove to me that your love is as great as you say? Will you grant me one request that will mean everything to me?"With his growing excitement, Sargent rose from the chair and placed both hands on Judge Houston's. The old man met his wild, beseeching look calmly. He knew now that he was brought face to face with a situation that might end disastrously, but he did not shirk it. He was calmer than he had ever been in his life."I will grant you any request—if it is right, and in my power."Sargent took a long breath, though not yet one of relief. When he spoke, the words came in a whisper, as if he feared an eavesdropper."Release Jacob Phelps!"For twenty seconds the old copper faced clock on the mantel ticked off the time loudly in the silent room. Then Felix Houston spoke."It is not in my power, and even if it were, I would not set at liberty a man whose depredations and robberies have hung over this country for ten years. You have asked me too much, Sargent. Go home and think this matter over, and when you are calmer, more yourself, you will see the exaggerated view you are taking. In the morning you will see everything differently. Your responsibility in the case will have passed from you entirely, and you will see it through the eyes of a sane man—you are hardly that, now.""In the morning may be too late to think of anything," Sargent answered hurriedly, handing him Jervais' challenge.Judge Houston read it at a glance and handed it back to him."Is that the note that was sent here? I left it on the table.""Yes. May your man take my answer?""Of course. When?"And without answering, Sargent wrote a few lines at the table, and folding the paper carefully and sealing it, handed it to the slave who was already waiting at the door.When the man was gone and they were alone again, Sargent stretched out his hands and grasped Judge Houston's."Won't you grant me that request?" he said, an expression of pitiful yearning in his eyes. "It may be my last. I should not mind dying if I knew the man were free," he added tentatively."Anything else in the world, Sargent," the old man answered brokenly. "Anything else I would do for you.""There is nothing else that matters," Sargent answered dryly, turning away and reaching for his hat."You will come for me in the morning—at what time?"Judge Houston rested against the table, watching Sargent's every movement intently."At four o'clock. The sun rises at five now. I will make all arrangements with the ferry man to take us over to the Louisiana side." He stopped abruptly and looked at the old man standing as firm and as steady as a piece of granite. "Somehow I feel the incongruity of you going with me more forcibly now than ever. Won't it tell against you? Won't it cause some loss of dignity to your position? You said you had always disapproved of duels. It is too much that you are giving up for me. It may be that I shall pass out of your life to-morrow, and for the few months that we have been together—it seems too much. I know I've disappointed you—some day perhaps you'll understand my reasons. Somehow, though, I couldn't help it—I must be deformed in mind as in body!"The old gentleman made a step toward him, and steadied Sargent's trembling figure with his firm arms."When you hear what I have done to-night," he continued, brokenly evading the keen blue eyes bent upon him, "I believe you will understand."Felix Houston drew Sargent closer to him. His firm arm was about the young fellow's shoulders, and he was reading his face intently for some meaning to the last words."Sargent, boy—look at me—-what do you mean?"Suddenly Sargent straightened himself and answered the other's look firmly."I don't know yet. I haven't quite decided. I shall be back here at four o'clock."CHAPTER VIIONE MEANS OF ESCAPEOutside the night shone clear and brilliant. Sargent stopped when he had passed out into the street, and looked up through the canopy of leaves to where a stretch of heavens glowed with the impenetrable purple of the night. Across the infinitude of space a brilliant star suddenly shot, leaving a trail of white fire in its wake. He stood there a few minutes, his face uplifted to the calm beauty of the sky, his lips moving in prayer.When he began walking again a strange quiet had settled over all his features and in his eyes burned the light of determination.He walked rapidly, for though the moon had not yet risen, the night was brilliant with the beautiful, translucent light of the stars. The dwellings were dark, not a light glowed in a window; the town had sunk into deep slumber.He stopped at the tavern long enough to write a few words to Captain Mentdrop about the duel, and once more hurried out into the night.He passed the courthouse again. This time he did not quail, or pass it with averted eyes, but looked at it with the expression of one who gives thanks to something which has shown him the right path, be it ever so hard and narrow to traverse.Walking on, he stood at last before the small jail. It was a one story brick building in which the sunken bars across the windows shone sombrely in the clarity of the night. Beyond its suggestion of imprisonment, there was a deeper and more lasting effect of utter dreariness and despair, for the building stood on a plot of ground in which neither a tree nor a shrub grew.Without a moment of hesitation Sargent went up the path to the door, and lifted the heavy knocker. Its report rang out on the quiet night like some death signal, reverberating within, seemingly an hundred times. Then came the heavy steps of the keeper, the sound of huge bolts sliding out of fastenings, the clang of a chain, and at last Sargent stood within the dimly lit corridor."Jacob Phelps sent for me. Is it possible for me to see him now?" he said rapidly, striving in vain to hide his anxiety.The jailer held his lantern close to Sargent's face, and inspected him slowly."Have you an order from the sheriff?" he asked."No.""It's against rules. I can't let you in.""I know it is irregular, but this is my only chance to see him. I am going away early in the morning. I only want to speak a few words with him. My name is Sargent Everett—""The lawyer that made the speech to-day!" the jailer exclaimed. "Well, sir, it's an honour to know you. I never heard tell of a speech like the one you made, sir. No wonder Phelps wanted to see you."Sargent turned away quickly to hide the look of suffering on his face. Was he never to hear the end of that speech! Would it go down to the grave with him! Suddenly he remembered his words to Judge Houston—"It will be the speech of my life." Ah! verily it was so!"Will you let me see him?" he asked again."Well—" the fellow debated. "I reckon it'll be all right since it's you, Mr. Everett. But it's against rules, you know."He led the way down the corridor, Sargent following him closely. At the far end, the jailer turned toward him, eying his slight figure and halting gait deprecatingly."Shall I leave the door open and wait for you out here? He's a mighty tough customer—at least he was up to to-day. He's been as quiet as a lamb since they brought him back from the courthouse. I don't know if you'll be safe in there with him, for he's lots bigger than you. He might take a notion to hurt you."Sargent moved to the door impatiently. "I do not fear him, and you need not wait at the door. Bar it on the outside, and do not come until I call for you. Now—let me in."The jailer put his hand on the bolts—then hesitated."Here—I have it. Put this pistol in your pocket—so—and you can keep him at a safe distance. Don't let him see it unless he comes at you—it's as much as my place is worth. There you are—now!"The bolt slid back, the chain fell to the floor, and Sargent passed through the opened door.The room was small, its whitewashed walls giving out a dank odour. A narrow bunk, a table and chair were the only furnishings. One window, covered with bars, let in the light of the brilliant sky dotted with innumerable stars. At the table, scribbling on some coarse paper in the feeble glow of a candle, sat the prisoner—Jacob Phelps.He looked up as Sargent entered; then, as if slowly recognizing him, he rose from the table and stood looking at him with the dull expression which had come into his eyes during the trial."So you've come, have you? I kinder thought you would."Sargent met his glance steadily. "You said you wanted to see me."Suddenly Phelps moved to the door and tried the bolt. It was barred securely. Then he moved back quickly and stood close to Sargent, catching hold of both his arms."D'you know they've locked you in here with me?" He began laughing easily to himself. "You can't get out, any more'n I can. You're in my power now like I was in yours this morning." His fingers sank into Sargent's flesh with a grip of iron, his eyes suddenly grew brilliant, his breath came hard and hot in the young fellow's face. "Suppose I'd kill you now! Wouldn't it be fair? You've had your chance! This is mine! You baby—I could wring your neck as easy as a chicken's." He stopped abruptly and stared into Sargent's face searchingly.The silence deepened. Sargent's eyes met the other's unflinchingly. The pain of Phelps' grip came as a great relief to his mental agony."Well, what have you got to say for yourself? Why shouldn't I do it?""It is your right," came Sargent's low answer.Phelps' fingers loosened their hold."Humph! So you're not afeard of me!""No—not now—after to-day.""'Cause you convicted me you think I'm harmless—eh?""No—because I found the good in you."Again Phelps stared at him hard while the light died gradually out of his eyes. His hands slipped down Sargent's arms slowly until one stopped suddenly on the pistol the jailer had thrust into his pocket. In a second he had both arms about Sargent, and had grabbed the pistol in his hand."So you's not afeard of me, eh, you damn liar. Yet you carry this!" holding up the pistol for inspection in the candle light. "Six chambers and all of 'em loaded," he ended, breaking the gun back into place."It is not mine. The jailer put it in my pocket as I entered here. I never carried one in my life."Phelps looked at him doubtfully. "Well—I believe you," he said thoughtfully. "But I'm glad you brought it. It's a damn good thing you did!"Sargent started. "What do you mean?""Never you mind—I'll tell you later." He laid the pistol well out of Sargent's reach and came back before him, folding his arms, and looking down on him with a new expression—a look that seemed to express a certain contentment. "D'you know why I sent for you? I wanted to thank you."Sargent's lip quivered. "For sentencing you?""No—for opening my eyes."Sargent looked up and saw the huge man of fifty years standing before him, suddenly timid, with his great, roughened hand outstretched."You ain't afeard to take it—is you? It's jest the hand of a man who's goin' to die soon. It can't do you no harm and it'll do me a mighty lot of good."Sargent made a step forward, and grasped the waiting hand."Can you ever forgive me for taking your life?" he murmured unsteadily, a spasm of suffering contracting his features.For a moment the ruffian looked down at him, puzzled, then gave a quick, coarse laugh."Is that what's hurting you? Well—it ain't hurting you half as bad as it's hurting me—nohow. You've done me heaps of good—youngster." He still held Sargent's hand in his iron grip, "and some day you're goin' to be a big man. I could tell that by the sound in your voice when you was speaking to-day. That's what got under my skin. It's jest as sweet as a woman's and then again it's as hard as the devil's. Damn if I wouldn't like to hear you make another speech!" He laughed grimly. "But look here," with a quick movement and a glance at the pistol. "I sent for you to tell you somethin'. Sit down thar in that chair. I'm goin' to stand up—tired of sittin' down anyway."The huge man swung one leg over the end of the table, and looked down into the face of the lawyer with eyes softened by an expression of bygone tenderness—the look Sargent had been searching for so long. It thrilled him now as he saw it so clearly."As I said—you're goin' to be a big man some day, and you wants to begin right now. You don't want to hurt people, sonny—I can see that in your face."Sargent's lips opened to answer, but no words came. It was when he nodded that the big man continued. "So make up your mind right now that you ain't goin' to send any more men to the gallows. Send 'em to prison for life—that's all right—that gives 'em a chance to show people if there's anything good in 'em. But when you kills 'em you cuts off all their chances of doin' better. Ain't I right?"Again Sargent nodded silently."Now, take me; I never knowed until to-day that I could have lived the right sort of life like any other man. I say I never even thought it till you told me. And you jest went and opened it up to me in sich a way that I couldn't help seein' whar I could have done a whole heap better. You kept makin' me wish I had one chance to show I could do what was right,—and now it's come—it's come." He swung his leg from the table and walked to the window. "They say that spot thar is where they're goin' to string me up. But they ain't—they're goin' to be mightily disappointed. Jacob Phelps ain't goin' to have his neck broke by no rope. D'you hear that? Is you listenin' to me?"Sargent rose in amazement. One step, and he was beside Phelps. "How did you know?" he gasped. "No one could have suspected it. I only decided a few minutes before I came here.""Decided what?" Phelps asked, staring at him."To help you. I don't know yet how we can manage it."Phelps looked at him quietly for a few minutes. Then he turned away silently, and went to the bunk, sitting down on it, and letting his head fall into his hands."So you think I'm doin' right," he murmured, his face still lowered. "I'm kinder glad you do.""Of course it is right. It's the only thing. I don't think I could look the world in the face again if you were to be hanged." He moved over to the bunk, and sat down beside Phelps. The candle had burned low, and the wick, spluttering in the melted tallow, left the room in a fitful gloom."I never killed any man unless I had to," Phelps continued slowly. "I didn't mean to kill old Puckett that night. He jest held on so tight I had to git away somehow." He ended with a deep groan.In the long silence the candle gave a last flicker and went out. Except for a narrow square of light from the window, half obscured by the heavy, ominous looking bars, the room was now in total darkness.Finally Phelps stretched out his arms and rising, went back to the table. "But I reckon it's all regrettin' to no use now," he murmured, picking up the piece of paper on which he had written, and folding it carefully. "I wants you to send this to my old mother. She lives up in South Ca'lina. I've wrote her name on here. I wants you to send this with it, too." He pushed his hand into his woollen shirt, and pulled out a leather pocketbook. "In here's receipts for all my money in a New 'leans bank. I want she should get all of it. I've been sendin' her money all along, but I never let her know whar I was." He leaned across the table, closer to Sargent till he could see his face more distinctly. "I don't want her to know what happened to me." His voice sank to a whisper. "Can't you jest tell her I died, or something? That's jest what made me give in to you to-day—you telling 'bout Puckett's wife left all alone with nobody to take care of her when she was gettin' old and feeble. It put me to thinkin' 'bout my old ma, all by herself. I didn't care after that what you folks did with me. I felt, somehow, like nothin' made no difference any more. When I thought 'bout the way I had run away from that poor old soul and left her all by herself, somethin' inside me went all to smash. I didn't have a drop of fightin' blood left in me.... You see that's what you done for one man, youngster. 'Tain't agoin' to hurt ye any, neither.... Now don't stay here no longer. Jest go along home. Here's my hand. Forget all 'bout me, and don't never blame yourself. It had to be some day and—after all—it won't be the gallows." He walked around the table and handed the package to Sargent."I don't understand," Sargent exclaimed, not moving from his seat on the bunk. "Why give me the package now? The other matter," he lowered his voice, "is so much more important. How are you going to manage it? I must know, so as to help you."Phelps looked down at him, his lips moving into a kindly smile. "It's easy enough. I don't mind; as soon as you're gone I'll do it. Trust me to know the easiest way. I'm a sure shot, and I'm not the one to fail on myself."Sargent stared up at him, bewildered. The package slipped out of his hand to the floor. As he struggled to his feet, he found himself trembling violently with the sudden realization of what Phelps meant to do. He stood perfectly still for a second, attempting to decide upon his own course. There was only a moment or two in which to act, and every second Phelps was watching him intently. His power of the courtroom was nothing now—the force of words was gone. His lips were tight drawn; even the mere act of speaking was an impossibility.The pistol lying on the table shone with a metallic glint. Suddenly he knew that he must get it away from Phelps at any cost. Gathering all his forces, he made a dash toward it. When his fingers had closed upon it, he felt Phelps' iron grip upon his arms."Give it up! You fool!" cried the outlaw. "D'you think I'm goin' to change my mind because you do!"They struggled across the dark room, Sargent edging toward the door, an inch at a time. When he had almost reached it, dragging, writhing, twisting himself in Phelps' grip, he felt his strength suddenly leave him."Wait—Phelps—wait," he gasped. "I did not mean—this—I meant—""Let go—let go—and stop—your—talking! Let go, I say! You won't? Well—take that!"Sargent felt himself spinning through the darkness. As his head struck the heavy bar of the window he heard a crashing sound, as if the walls of the jail were falling together, then a brilliant flash—afterwards, dead, black silence.A few minutes later, he opened his eyes. There was a bright light in the cell, and several men were moving about excitedly. The whole place was filled with the stifling odour of powder. On the floor, a foot away from him, lay the stiffening body of Jacob Phelps.CHAPTER VIIITHE CAPTAIN'S JOKEThe old town clock was chiming two when Sargent finally passed the last cabin, and turned from the highway into the private road to the house. He had passed through the last hours dazed and only half understanding what was taking place about him. His return to consciousness, the horrible sight of Phelps' face mangled beyond recognition, the excitement and the questions of the crowd which had so quickly assembled, and his subsequent statement of the affair to the Sheriff—all these details were gone through much like some dream in which everything is half obscured and acted in without one's real volition.Friends' greetings and hand-clasps he had received without one word, even when the physician had bound up his wound, an ugly gash on the head, caused by his fall against the bars, he had merely asked if he were free now to go his way.The deathly stillness of the country, the wide gloom of the heavens, dotted with a dazzling brilliance of stars, the vague, motionless forests across the deserted fields, made the night seem to him a fit setting for the weird, strange spell into which he had sunk.When he stood before the big gate and saw the house gleaming in the night brilliance, he started as if brought suddenly before something he had not expected. A light shone from the parlour window, an unprecedented thing at such an hour, yet it did not strike him as unusual.Tying his horse at the gate, for it would be only two hours before he must return, he walked draggingly towards his room. There too was a light and a figure standing in the doorway."Thank gracious, youse done cum, Massa Sargent," Dicey exclaimed, running towards him. "Whar in de name ob de good Lawd has yer bin? Ole Miss and Lil Miss an' ev'ybody else done gone all ter pieces 'bout sumthin'. Ise bin smellin' er mouse but I cyant ketch him. Now—Massa Sargent, whut's er causin' all dis heah fuss?"Sargent moved past the old woman, into his room. "I cannot talk now, Dicey," he said, going directly to a large armoire and unlocking it. "To-morrow—all of you will know.""But ole Miss wants ter see yer to-night. She bin er pacin' up an' down, up an' down dat parloh flo' all night—a waitin' fer yer. Eber sence Massa Jervais wuz heah she ain' seem hab no peace ob min'! She done tole me ter watch fer yer and bring yer straight ter her—so cum 'long, right dis minit."Sargent stared at her silently."You say Mr. Jervais has been here this evening.""Yaas, suh, bout two hours.""Then he told her!" Sargent exclaimed."Mos' eberything, I reckon. But cum on ober dar, fer I wants ter git ter bed 'fo daybreak, sho'."Sargent followed Dicey across the yard, into the dimly lit hall, where the wall of portraits swam before him like the faces of the multitude he had faced that day. Knocking at the parlour door, Dicey announced him, and then disappeared into the shadows of the hall.Mrs. Brandon was standing beneath the massive bronze chandelier, her face paler than Sargent had ever seen it, her whole expression and poise bereft of the cold assurance which had seemed the outward expression of the woman's character.Sargent closed the door after him, and stood facing her, both of them silent a few moments."Is it true?" Mrs. Brandon finally demanded, her words coming colder and crisper than ever before."You mean—that Mr. Jervais has challenged me, Mistress Brandon? If so—he has and I have accepted. It is to be in a very few hours."Her eyes blazed at Sargent, full of a violent hatred that led him to read for a certainty the love she bore Jervais. Even in that moment of his gloom and her anger, the incongruity of the love of this woman for Jervais struck a distracting note in his thoughts."Are you determined to meet him, Mr. Everett?""I am, Mistress Brandon.""Do you realize that it will cause you to lose your position in my family? Of course such an unheard-of thing as a school-master fighting a duel, is sufficient to annul our contract.""I supposed this would be the case. I cannot blame you. You are quite right."She came a step nearer Sargent. Her lips pressed hard against each other as she evidently forced herself to speak."If you will forego this duel, I shall reconsider the matter. I would retain you as the children's tutor.""Thank you, Mistress Brandon, there is no help for it now. I go to it as my one chance of—" he broke off abruptly and turned towards the door."Wait,—I am not through," she cried, her voice breaking shrilly, "I can not have this duel—don't you understand—it must not take place. What will keep you from it? Certainly there is something!"Sargent met her eyes calmly. He could see now a weakening, a tremulousness beneath her hauteur which in another moment might break the indomitable spirit entirely. Suddenly he took her hand in his, very gently."There is nothing for you to fear, Mistress Brandon. Believe me when I tell you that my fire shall be thrown away. Mr. Jervais will be as safe this time to-morrow as he is now. You have been very just and hospitable to me while I was a member of your household. I thank you for it, and ask you in parting to grant me only one request."She had drawn away from him with the allaying of her fears. There was no doubt of his sincerity. But with the feeling of safety, her pride rushed over her again, and in the chagrin of having betrayed herself, she became more coldly abducent than before."What is your request?" came her answer, full of predicated denial."To see Natalia before I leave."Mrs. Brandon lifted her eyes in surprise."To-night? Now? Surely you know that would be impossible!""It would be for the last time," Sargent answered tentatively."Pardon me—but I can not think of it. Perhaps I might consent before she goes—""After to-night it will be too late."For answer Mrs. Brandon lifted the candlestick and passed out into the hall.In his plain room, the walls of whitewashed logs, and the spotless floor covered with rag rugs, he pulled out the worn little hair trunk which had come on the long journey from Maine with him. There was not very much that he had to put in it, and when he had filled the tray, piling one end with his much used books, he paused a moment, holding the last one in his hand and gazing a long time at the fly leaf. It recalled vividly that day—so far off now—when he and his mother had packed the same little trunk, and she had given him the book as her last gift, to be taken with him wherever he went. Her words were there before him on the page now. He read them over and over again:"My son, neglect not to peruse these sacred writings with interest, that you may obtain that virtue which will guide you through life's thorny path, fit you for an usefulness in life, peace in death, and happiness in the spirit land."He touched his lips to the book, afterwards wrapping it carefully, and writing Natalia's name across the paper. Not now, but some day far off, she would understand what it had represented to him.Then sitting down before the table and putting the two candles close together, he poured out the whole of his tortured soul, his disappointment, the worldly success which was to him so damning a bitterness, his utter hopelessness—all this he wrote to his mother in a letter which was never to reach her.A subdued rustling in the trees roused him with the certainty that the time had come for him to be on his way. Blowing out the candles and locking the door of the little room that had sheltered him for many months, for the last time, he went through the grove to the gate. There he paused and let his eyes rest for a moment on the old mansion of the Spaniards.The fragile, crescent moon was already lowering towards the distant lowlands, and in its vague light the house was softly outlined among the magnolias. Even then, as he had often felt before when looking at this scene in the stillness of the night, Sargent felt a strange spell of mystery and fatefulness creep over him. There was something ghostly in the white house accentuated by the gloom of the grove and the inclosing hedge of Cherokee roses, so filled with white dream flowers.Against his will his thoughts drifted into fancies of Natalia's future. He could see her going away to distant lands, beautiful and wealthy and courted, and coming back perhaps to spend the happiness of her life in this perfect setting. And, as always with his thoughts, the subject of them became visible before him. He saw the beautiful, vivid little face looking at him with the dependence and yearning for sympathy which had first riveted the chains of his love. He saw the thin, delicate features, the oval contour, the unusual softness of skin, almost olive about the eyes and very white and fair on the temples, and the black lashes and the velvety shadows beneath the eyes, that gave that world-old expression when she smiled.While he gazed before him, dwelling on each memory of the little girl he was leaving for ever, he saw her eyes grow slowly bloodshot, then almost imperceptibly her skin seemed to deaden and the ghastly red of clotted blood obliterated the likeness, leaving in its place the mangled face of Jacob Phelps. Digging the spurs into his horse, Sargent tore down the road towards the town, at a breakneck speed.Judge Houston was waiting at his door, calm and very pale. Together he and Sargent walked to the tavern, without speaking a word beyond the greetings. It was still quite dark, and as they neared the hostelry the windows of the club room shone bright, and from within came the sounds of noisy merriment."Will you tell Captain Mentdrop I am here, Judge?" Sargent said, when they stood outside the door. "I should rather not go in there." He shuddered at the thought of more congratulations about the yesterday.Standing outside alone, he heard a loud burst of laughter—Jervais', then the Captain's; afterwards a silence as the two parties came out at the same time, Captain Mentdrop and Jervais leading the way, walking arm in arm."Hello, Sargent, you're there, are you—and Judge Houston,—my compliments, sir."Jervais passed without a word to his friends who followed him out, and then both parties took carriages, already waiting for them, and drove down the long hill to the river."Well, sir, I've had a night of it 'pon my word, I have," cried the Captain, seemingly in the best of spirits. "Will you believe it, Sargent, I've been sitting in there with Lem Jervais since ten o'clock last night!"Sargent listened listlessly. "Is he so entertaining?" he asked without interest.The Captain looked at Judge Houston and dropped a sly wink."Immensely so! And when Suggs came in and told us about your scuffle with Phelps—well, you'd 'a' learned something if you'd heard what he said!"Judge Houston had started at the mention of Phelps. In a moment his hand was on Sargent's."What about Phelps, Sargent? Did you go to see him?"Sargent met his glance beseechingly."Not now—Judge. After this is over, get Captain to tell you about it. Please—not now!"In the chill numbness of the hour before daybreak they took their places in a skiff, and shot out on to the wide surface of the river. The white mist obliterated the opposite bank, and when they had drifted a mile below the town a narrow strip of sand bar suddenly appeared out of the dark, and a moment later the boat was grounded upon the sand.Close behind them came the other skiff, and both parties immediately walked across the clean white bar, to two wide-spreading willows which marked the spot of the then famous duelling ground.When the two groups had formed themselves and the formal greetings gone through, Judge Houston left Sargent's side, and going to Jervais, led him a little way from the others. A very few words passed between them, when Judge Houston turned away sadly and went back to his place."I told you so," said the Captain, raising his great shoulders contemptuously. "When a challenge has been sent and accepted, it's a man's duty to go through it without any more words. This reconciliation business is all stuff—until you've got through fighting."Judge Houston met the Captain's restless eyes calmly."Don't you think everything should be done to save a man's life?" he asked quietly."Not one bit of it!" The Captain's hands met in a resounding clasp. "That scoundrel," pointing to Jervais, "would be a heap better dead, and as for saving his life, it would be better if all parties took a hand at getting rid of him. This world would be a heap better with so many less of that sort. If I was a praying man, I'd a said a bit of prayer for Sargent to kill him.""Yet you came out of the tavern a while ago, arm in arm with him!" Judge Houston answered coldly. "Are your sentiments quite sincere, Captain Mentdrop?"The Captain looked into the face of the older man, much as a big dog looks condescendingly upon another; then he slipped his arm through Judge Houston's and led him away from Sargent. When he was out of hearing, he put his mouth close to his companion's ear."Take a peep at Jervais," he whispered. "Don't you see he's all to pieces—couldn't hit the side of a house if he tried a week.That'swhat I've been doing with him all night. Loading him up! Loading him up, sir! And not with buckshot either—with whiskey, mind you. D'you think I was going to let that youngster stand up here and get killed by that scoundrel? Well, I reckon not!"Judge Houston's face paled. He gripped the Captain's arm with a trembling hand. "Does Sargent know this?""No—of course not. Say, Judge, what d'you take me for, anyhow?""He must know it! You must tell him!""I? I'll be damned if I do!""Then I will.""No, you won't either. Now, look here, Judge Houston, this is my affair; and if you interfere, your age and position won't make a blame bit of difference in what I might do to you. I'm bent and determined to save that youngster, and all your pious conscience and principles and fol-de-rol beliefs ain't going to keep me from it. You see what I mean, don't you? So don't fret me, any more!"Without a moment's delay, the Captain turned towards Jervais' party with the magnificent bravado which was always at his command and called out:"Shall we toss for the word, gentlemen?"For a second a gold coin gleamed in the air and fell at the Captain's feet."Thank you, gentlemen," he bowed, with a flourish, "the honour is mine."Then opening a large valise, he took out four pistols and handed them to Jervais' second, who handed them to Jervais. The selection was made.At that moment the Captain saw Judge Houston make a step towards Sargent. Quick as a flash his voice rang out—"Are you ready, gentlemen? There is the sun."It was too late for the warning. Judge Houston dropped back as Sargent and Jervais stepped out on the clear stretch of sand. Turning back to back, each walked ten strides in the opposite direction, then turned again and faced each other. Sargent threw his cane from him, and looked into Jervais' scowling face, a few yards away from him. In his opponent's restless eyes, in his twitching lips and slightly trembling hands, he understood, without being told, what the Captain had done for him.On the light breeze that raced before the dawn, the Captain's voice came firm and loud."Gentlemen! Are you ready? Fire! One—"Jervais fired."Two!"Sargent's pistol was raised and as his fingers clasped the trigger, in the knowledge that he must fire he aimed far to the right of Jervais, then, with an uncontrollable movement, found himself pointing directly at his opponent as the shot rang out."Three!"When the whiff of smoke had cleared, both men were standing looking at each other. For a second they stood still, then the seconds rushed between and the duel was over."Great Lord!" cried the Captain, letting out his choicest string of oaths. "Here I've been wasting a whole night expecting to see something. And what d' I get? Two men standing up and looking at each other over a whiff of smoke." Throwing a contemptuous look at Jervais' companions, he grabbed Sargent about the shoulders and, squeezing him hard, led him a good distance from the others. Then it was that the young lawyer, passing through the valley of shadows, and just beginning to see hope for the future, looked up at the old, wrinkled face bending close beside him, and found the sparkling grey eyes overflowing with merriment."Sonny," he said, giving Sargent a hearty squeeze and attempting to hold his laughter no longer. "You needn't been so serious about this thing. There wasn't a damn bullet in a one of them pistols!"
"Will you come to see me? I want to tell you something. JACOB PHELPS."
He held the paper a long time in his hands, fingering it after his eyes no longer read the words, and gradually, over his tortured senses, drifted a feeling of peace and hope and joy. At last, under the full realization of the opportunity that had come to him, he settled back in his chair and closed his eyes.
In this attitude Judge Houston found him when he entered the library. The old man did not extend his hand, nor for a few moments did he say anything, having learned to read the young face before him like an open book, and knowing that any words except those spoken by Sargent himself would be irrelevant at that moment. Instead, he took down a long German pipe with a china bowl, from the mantel shelf, and filling it with tobacco, seated himself comfortably in a chair and crossed his legs; silent, all the while.
Finally Sargent opened his eyes and looked at the old man without speaking. At last the words came, trembling slightly from his intensity.
"Did you ever convict a man for murder?"
The corners of the old man's mouth twitched; he was so certain that would be the question. In answer he only nodded.
"And was the man hanged?"
He nodded again.
Sargent's voice rose to a higher pitch and broke harshly.
"How could you let it be done, and have any peace afterwards?"
The old man laid his pipe aside and came toward the table, sitting down opposite Sargent.
"I found out that I was in the right. That the man should have been hanged—that it was my duty to see that punishment was inflicted upon him. Anything else would have been an evasion of my duty,—a greater sin than I at first imagined the other was. I know what you are feeling at this moment. Every man who has a conscience and a reverence for God and has chosen criminal law for his profession goes through your experience. There are so many sides to the situation—I doubt if you have thought of but one."
Sargent moved impatiently in his chair. His fingers were thumping nervously on the table all the time.
"Tell me the other side—I can see only one."
The old man leaned forward and met his eyes intently.
"What do you see?"
"'Thou shalt not kill.'"
Felix Houston leaned back in his chair and putting out his hand, drew the old Bible toward him. Placing it on his knees, he turned the pages with the familiarity of one who knew what was written on every one. At last he held down a page, and ran his fingers across it, smoothing out the crumpled, folded edge. "Listen," he said, raising his eyes to Sargent's for a moment. "There are other commands in here, too. Read here—Genesis—'Whoso sheddeth man's blood, by man shall his blood be shed,' and in Exodus," the pages turned quickly, "'He that smiteth a man, so that he die, shall be surely put to death,' and Leviticus, 'Breach for breach, eye for eye, tooth for tooth,' and later, in the words of Jesus, recorded by Matthew, 'All they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.' Is not that enough?" He laid down the book, and met Sargent's glance again. "You see now there are reasons for man making laws with which the life of a murderer can be taken. It is the command of God. It is His law given to us for self-protection."
Sargent shook his head wearily.
"Vengeance is mine," he quoted slowly, in response. "With that, I see no reason for this law of man's. Why should we judge? Why should we decide that a man has no right to live? 'Thou shalt not kill,' is the word spoken by God. There is no evasion of it—I can see only that one interpretation. It is final to me in its brevity. It embraces everything. If Phelps is hanged, it will be the same as if I had killed him myself, alone and unaided. The law back of it means nothing to me. If he is hanged I will be a murderer."
Sargent crouched back in his chair as if to escape the physical punishment his thoughts inflicted upon him. The disappointment caused from the old man's failure to bring him any comfort intensified the despair into which he had sunk.
"Think a moment, Sargent," Judge Houston said, attempting a new line of persuasion. "Think of the good you have done the people by removing such a danger from them. That should be palliation enough to relieve you of any responsibility. Their gratitude to you is wonderful! Do you know, they want to show it in some lasting form; there is already a movement on foot to send you to the Legislature, and if you accept it, I know you will be elected. Boy! you don't realize that your success has been made. Cheer up! Open your eyes to your opportunities. There are not many who make the start you have." Judge Houston grew more and more enthusiastic as he continued. "I had no idea that you could win that case. I only appointed you to give you the experience. But you have shown your genius. That speech has made your start a triumph."
Sargent watched his enthusiasm coldly. A gulf of misunderstanding seemed to be widening between him and his old friend to-night—a gulf in which their sympathy of the past months was counted as nothing. Of all the people in the world Felix Houston was the one Sargent had expected to understand him in this trial. His disappointment grew almost unbearable when he heard praise also coming from his friend's lips.
"A triumph," he murmured sadly. "What is a triumph when its gain means the sacrifice of a man's life?"
"Have you thought of the lives you have probably saved by removing this dangerous man from the country? That should help you a little."
"Was he so harmful? Had he killed any one before? There seemed no proof of it."
"Did you not prove that he had killed one man? Is that not enough?"
"I did not prove anything—legally."
Felix Houston's brows drew together slowly. It was a signal of the end of his patience.
"What did you do then, Sargent?"
"I played a trick on him—the meanest, lowest, most dastardly trick one man ever played on another. There wasn't any law in it. I set myself to work on the man's sympathies; I studied his face all that first day in the courtroom, hunting for the vulnerable point in which to attack him. All that day I could see nothing else but his face, yet I could not find what it was that was there, that I did not recognize. And when I rode home that evening with Natalia, I was telling her about the case, and how hopeless it seemed, and what do you suppose she told me to do? The very thing that I did—make the man confess, himself! She said that I could do that if I wanted to. All that night I lay awake, thinking and thinking of how I could persuade the man to tell his secret. I kept repeating it to myself all through the long hours that I would make him tell, seeing his face before me, always with that inscrutable expression that meant that there was a vulnerable point. I must find it, I kept on saying. I must find it! Then I thought out my speech, realizing as I went over it, that if I went into every detail of the murder, that somewhere in the recital I would find the spot in the man's nature. I found it—you know when. He has a mother. I made him think of her! After the first admission of my power I knew I had the man in my hands. It was all very easy after that. But it was not law, you must admit that. It was playing upon sentiments that are sacred to every human being. I took that advantage of him while he was held before me—forced to listen. He couldn't escape my words. I forced them into his brain. I drove all the vital force that was in me into that man's conscience, and made him speak out. He could not help it—he was powerless. But that is not law, I say. I have no right to send him to the gallows on such a confession. You should have seen that—you will now, I know. It rests with you to help me make my reparation. I used this man to further the gratification of revenge. I would not have gone into the case with such vehemence if the defeat of Jervais had not been back of it. Oh, you do see, then! The sin of it, don't you? But it is true—every word of it. I am keeping back nothing from you. You have told me that you loved me almost as much as you did your son, and you know that I have returned that feeling, aye, more than I ever loved the man who created me only continually to wound me! Will you prove to me that your love is as great as you say? Will you grant me one request that will mean everything to me?"
With his growing excitement, Sargent rose from the chair and placed both hands on Judge Houston's. The old man met his wild, beseeching look calmly. He knew now that he was brought face to face with a situation that might end disastrously, but he did not shirk it. He was calmer than he had ever been in his life.
"I will grant you any request—if it is right, and in my power."
Sargent took a long breath, though not yet one of relief. When he spoke, the words came in a whisper, as if he feared an eavesdropper.
"Release Jacob Phelps!"
For twenty seconds the old copper faced clock on the mantel ticked off the time loudly in the silent room. Then Felix Houston spoke.
"It is not in my power, and even if it were, I would not set at liberty a man whose depredations and robberies have hung over this country for ten years. You have asked me too much, Sargent. Go home and think this matter over, and when you are calmer, more yourself, you will see the exaggerated view you are taking. In the morning you will see everything differently. Your responsibility in the case will have passed from you entirely, and you will see it through the eyes of a sane man—you are hardly that, now."
"In the morning may be too late to think of anything," Sargent answered hurriedly, handing him Jervais' challenge.
Judge Houston read it at a glance and handed it back to him.
"Is that the note that was sent here? I left it on the table."
"Yes. May your man take my answer?"
"Of course. When?"
And without answering, Sargent wrote a few lines at the table, and folding the paper carefully and sealing it, handed it to the slave who was already waiting at the door.
When the man was gone and they were alone again, Sargent stretched out his hands and grasped Judge Houston's.
"Won't you grant me that request?" he said, an expression of pitiful yearning in his eyes. "It may be my last. I should not mind dying if I knew the man were free," he added tentatively.
"Anything else in the world, Sargent," the old man answered brokenly. "Anything else I would do for you."
"There is nothing else that matters," Sargent answered dryly, turning away and reaching for his hat.
"You will come for me in the morning—at what time?"
Judge Houston rested against the table, watching Sargent's every movement intently.
"At four o'clock. The sun rises at five now. I will make all arrangements with the ferry man to take us over to the Louisiana side." He stopped abruptly and looked at the old man standing as firm and as steady as a piece of granite. "Somehow I feel the incongruity of you going with me more forcibly now than ever. Won't it tell against you? Won't it cause some loss of dignity to your position? You said you had always disapproved of duels. It is too much that you are giving up for me. It may be that I shall pass out of your life to-morrow, and for the few months that we have been together—it seems too much. I know I've disappointed you—some day perhaps you'll understand my reasons. Somehow, though, I couldn't help it—I must be deformed in mind as in body!"
The old gentleman made a step toward him, and steadied Sargent's trembling figure with his firm arms.
"When you hear what I have done to-night," he continued, brokenly evading the keen blue eyes bent upon him, "I believe you will understand."
Felix Houston drew Sargent closer to him. His firm arm was about the young fellow's shoulders, and he was reading his face intently for some meaning to the last words.
"Sargent, boy—look at me—-what do you mean?"
Suddenly Sargent straightened himself and answered the other's look firmly.
"I don't know yet. I haven't quite decided. I shall be back here at four o'clock."
CHAPTER VII
ONE MEANS OF ESCAPE
Outside the night shone clear and brilliant. Sargent stopped when he had passed out into the street, and looked up through the canopy of leaves to where a stretch of heavens glowed with the impenetrable purple of the night. Across the infinitude of space a brilliant star suddenly shot, leaving a trail of white fire in its wake. He stood there a few minutes, his face uplifted to the calm beauty of the sky, his lips moving in prayer.
When he began walking again a strange quiet had settled over all his features and in his eyes burned the light of determination.
He walked rapidly, for though the moon had not yet risen, the night was brilliant with the beautiful, translucent light of the stars. The dwellings were dark, not a light glowed in a window; the town had sunk into deep slumber.
He stopped at the tavern long enough to write a few words to Captain Mentdrop about the duel, and once more hurried out into the night.
He passed the courthouse again. This time he did not quail, or pass it with averted eyes, but looked at it with the expression of one who gives thanks to something which has shown him the right path, be it ever so hard and narrow to traverse.
Walking on, he stood at last before the small jail. It was a one story brick building in which the sunken bars across the windows shone sombrely in the clarity of the night. Beyond its suggestion of imprisonment, there was a deeper and more lasting effect of utter dreariness and despair, for the building stood on a plot of ground in which neither a tree nor a shrub grew.
Without a moment of hesitation Sargent went up the path to the door, and lifted the heavy knocker. Its report rang out on the quiet night like some death signal, reverberating within, seemingly an hundred times. Then came the heavy steps of the keeper, the sound of huge bolts sliding out of fastenings, the clang of a chain, and at last Sargent stood within the dimly lit corridor.
"Jacob Phelps sent for me. Is it possible for me to see him now?" he said rapidly, striving in vain to hide his anxiety.
The jailer held his lantern close to Sargent's face, and inspected him slowly.
"Have you an order from the sheriff?" he asked.
"No."
"It's against rules. I can't let you in."
"I know it is irregular, but this is my only chance to see him. I am going away early in the morning. I only want to speak a few words with him. My name is Sargent Everett—"
"The lawyer that made the speech to-day!" the jailer exclaimed. "Well, sir, it's an honour to know you. I never heard tell of a speech like the one you made, sir. No wonder Phelps wanted to see you."
Sargent turned away quickly to hide the look of suffering on his face. Was he never to hear the end of that speech! Would it go down to the grave with him! Suddenly he remembered his words to Judge Houston—"It will be the speech of my life." Ah! verily it was so!
"Will you let me see him?" he asked again.
"Well—" the fellow debated. "I reckon it'll be all right since it's you, Mr. Everett. But it's against rules, you know."
He led the way down the corridor, Sargent following him closely. At the far end, the jailer turned toward him, eying his slight figure and halting gait deprecatingly.
"Shall I leave the door open and wait for you out here? He's a mighty tough customer—at least he was up to to-day. He's been as quiet as a lamb since they brought him back from the courthouse. I don't know if you'll be safe in there with him, for he's lots bigger than you. He might take a notion to hurt you."
Sargent moved to the door impatiently. "I do not fear him, and you need not wait at the door. Bar it on the outside, and do not come until I call for you. Now—let me in."
The jailer put his hand on the bolts—then hesitated.
"Here—I have it. Put this pistol in your pocket—so—and you can keep him at a safe distance. Don't let him see it unless he comes at you—it's as much as my place is worth. There you are—now!"
The bolt slid back, the chain fell to the floor, and Sargent passed through the opened door.
The room was small, its whitewashed walls giving out a dank odour. A narrow bunk, a table and chair were the only furnishings. One window, covered with bars, let in the light of the brilliant sky dotted with innumerable stars. At the table, scribbling on some coarse paper in the feeble glow of a candle, sat the prisoner—Jacob Phelps.
He looked up as Sargent entered; then, as if slowly recognizing him, he rose from the table and stood looking at him with the dull expression which had come into his eyes during the trial.
"So you've come, have you? I kinder thought you would."
Sargent met his glance steadily. "You said you wanted to see me."
Suddenly Phelps moved to the door and tried the bolt. It was barred securely. Then he moved back quickly and stood close to Sargent, catching hold of both his arms.
"D'you know they've locked you in here with me?" He began laughing easily to himself. "You can't get out, any more'n I can. You're in my power now like I was in yours this morning." His fingers sank into Sargent's flesh with a grip of iron, his eyes suddenly grew brilliant, his breath came hard and hot in the young fellow's face. "Suppose I'd kill you now! Wouldn't it be fair? You've had your chance! This is mine! You baby—I could wring your neck as easy as a chicken's." He stopped abruptly and stared into Sargent's face searchingly.
The silence deepened. Sargent's eyes met the other's unflinchingly. The pain of Phelps' grip came as a great relief to his mental agony.
"Well, what have you got to say for yourself? Why shouldn't I do it?"
"It is your right," came Sargent's low answer.
Phelps' fingers loosened their hold.
"Humph! So you're not afeard of me!"
"No—not now—after to-day."
"'Cause you convicted me you think I'm harmless—eh?"
"No—because I found the good in you."
Again Phelps stared at him hard while the light died gradually out of his eyes. His hands slipped down Sargent's arms slowly until one stopped suddenly on the pistol the jailer had thrust into his pocket. In a second he had both arms about Sargent, and had grabbed the pistol in his hand.
"So you's not afeard of me, eh, you damn liar. Yet you carry this!" holding up the pistol for inspection in the candle light. "Six chambers and all of 'em loaded," he ended, breaking the gun back into place.
"It is not mine. The jailer put it in my pocket as I entered here. I never carried one in my life."
Phelps looked at him doubtfully. "Well—I believe you," he said thoughtfully. "But I'm glad you brought it. It's a damn good thing you did!"
Sargent started. "What do you mean?"
"Never you mind—I'll tell you later." He laid the pistol well out of Sargent's reach and came back before him, folding his arms, and looking down on him with a new expression—a look that seemed to express a certain contentment. "D'you know why I sent for you? I wanted to thank you."
Sargent's lip quivered. "For sentencing you?"
"No—for opening my eyes."
Sargent looked up and saw the huge man of fifty years standing before him, suddenly timid, with his great, roughened hand outstretched.
"You ain't afeard to take it—is you? It's jest the hand of a man who's goin' to die soon. It can't do you no harm and it'll do me a mighty lot of good."
Sargent made a step forward, and grasped the waiting hand.
"Can you ever forgive me for taking your life?" he murmured unsteadily, a spasm of suffering contracting his features.
For a moment the ruffian looked down at him, puzzled, then gave a quick, coarse laugh.
"Is that what's hurting you? Well—it ain't hurting you half as bad as it's hurting me—nohow. You've done me heaps of good—youngster." He still held Sargent's hand in his iron grip, "and some day you're goin' to be a big man. I could tell that by the sound in your voice when you was speaking to-day. That's what got under my skin. It's jest as sweet as a woman's and then again it's as hard as the devil's. Damn if I wouldn't like to hear you make another speech!" He laughed grimly. "But look here," with a quick movement and a glance at the pistol. "I sent for you to tell you somethin'. Sit down thar in that chair. I'm goin' to stand up—tired of sittin' down anyway."
The huge man swung one leg over the end of the table, and looked down into the face of the lawyer with eyes softened by an expression of bygone tenderness—the look Sargent had been searching for so long. It thrilled him now as he saw it so clearly.
"As I said—you're goin' to be a big man some day, and you wants to begin right now. You don't want to hurt people, sonny—I can see that in your face."
Sargent's lips opened to answer, but no words came. It was when he nodded that the big man continued. "So make up your mind right now that you ain't goin' to send any more men to the gallows. Send 'em to prison for life—that's all right—that gives 'em a chance to show people if there's anything good in 'em. But when you kills 'em you cuts off all their chances of doin' better. Ain't I right?"
Again Sargent nodded silently.
"Now, take me; I never knowed until to-day that I could have lived the right sort of life like any other man. I say I never even thought it till you told me. And you jest went and opened it up to me in sich a way that I couldn't help seein' whar I could have done a whole heap better. You kept makin' me wish I had one chance to show I could do what was right,—and now it's come—it's come." He swung his leg from the table and walked to the window. "They say that spot thar is where they're goin' to string me up. But they ain't—they're goin' to be mightily disappointed. Jacob Phelps ain't goin' to have his neck broke by no rope. D'you hear that? Is you listenin' to me?"
Sargent rose in amazement. One step, and he was beside Phelps. "How did you know?" he gasped. "No one could have suspected it. I only decided a few minutes before I came here."
"Decided what?" Phelps asked, staring at him.
"To help you. I don't know yet how we can manage it."
Phelps looked at him quietly for a few minutes. Then he turned away silently, and went to the bunk, sitting down on it, and letting his head fall into his hands.
"So you think I'm doin' right," he murmured, his face still lowered. "I'm kinder glad you do."
"Of course it is right. It's the only thing. I don't think I could look the world in the face again if you were to be hanged." He moved over to the bunk, and sat down beside Phelps. The candle had burned low, and the wick, spluttering in the melted tallow, left the room in a fitful gloom.
"I never killed any man unless I had to," Phelps continued slowly. "I didn't mean to kill old Puckett that night. He jest held on so tight I had to git away somehow." He ended with a deep groan.
In the long silence the candle gave a last flicker and went out. Except for a narrow square of light from the window, half obscured by the heavy, ominous looking bars, the room was now in total darkness.
Finally Phelps stretched out his arms and rising, went back to the table. "But I reckon it's all regrettin' to no use now," he murmured, picking up the piece of paper on which he had written, and folding it carefully. "I wants you to send this to my old mother. She lives up in South Ca'lina. I've wrote her name on here. I wants you to send this with it, too." He pushed his hand into his woollen shirt, and pulled out a leather pocketbook. "In here's receipts for all my money in a New 'leans bank. I want she should get all of it. I've been sendin' her money all along, but I never let her know whar I was." He leaned across the table, closer to Sargent till he could see his face more distinctly. "I don't want her to know what happened to me." His voice sank to a whisper. "Can't you jest tell her I died, or something? That's jest what made me give in to you to-day—you telling 'bout Puckett's wife left all alone with nobody to take care of her when she was gettin' old and feeble. It put me to thinkin' 'bout my old ma, all by herself. I didn't care after that what you folks did with me. I felt, somehow, like nothin' made no difference any more. When I thought 'bout the way I had run away from that poor old soul and left her all by herself, somethin' inside me went all to smash. I didn't have a drop of fightin' blood left in me.... You see that's what you done for one man, youngster. 'Tain't agoin' to hurt ye any, neither.... Now don't stay here no longer. Jest go along home. Here's my hand. Forget all 'bout me, and don't never blame yourself. It had to be some day and—after all—it won't be the gallows." He walked around the table and handed the package to Sargent.
"I don't understand," Sargent exclaimed, not moving from his seat on the bunk. "Why give me the package now? The other matter," he lowered his voice, "is so much more important. How are you going to manage it? I must know, so as to help you."
Phelps looked down at him, his lips moving into a kindly smile. "It's easy enough. I don't mind; as soon as you're gone I'll do it. Trust me to know the easiest way. I'm a sure shot, and I'm not the one to fail on myself."
Sargent stared up at him, bewildered. The package slipped out of his hand to the floor. As he struggled to his feet, he found himself trembling violently with the sudden realization of what Phelps meant to do. He stood perfectly still for a second, attempting to decide upon his own course. There was only a moment or two in which to act, and every second Phelps was watching him intently. His power of the courtroom was nothing now—the force of words was gone. His lips were tight drawn; even the mere act of speaking was an impossibility.
The pistol lying on the table shone with a metallic glint. Suddenly he knew that he must get it away from Phelps at any cost. Gathering all his forces, he made a dash toward it. When his fingers had closed upon it, he felt Phelps' iron grip upon his arms.
"Give it up! You fool!" cried the outlaw. "D'you think I'm goin' to change my mind because you do!"
They struggled across the dark room, Sargent edging toward the door, an inch at a time. When he had almost reached it, dragging, writhing, twisting himself in Phelps' grip, he felt his strength suddenly leave him.
"Wait—Phelps—wait," he gasped. "I did not mean—this—I meant—"
"Let go—let go—and stop—your—talking! Let go, I say! You won't? Well—take that!"
Sargent felt himself spinning through the darkness. As his head struck the heavy bar of the window he heard a crashing sound, as if the walls of the jail were falling together, then a brilliant flash—afterwards, dead, black silence.
A few minutes later, he opened his eyes. There was a bright light in the cell, and several men were moving about excitedly. The whole place was filled with the stifling odour of powder. On the floor, a foot away from him, lay the stiffening body of Jacob Phelps.
CHAPTER VIII
THE CAPTAIN'S JOKE
The old town clock was chiming two when Sargent finally passed the last cabin, and turned from the highway into the private road to the house. He had passed through the last hours dazed and only half understanding what was taking place about him. His return to consciousness, the horrible sight of Phelps' face mangled beyond recognition, the excitement and the questions of the crowd which had so quickly assembled, and his subsequent statement of the affair to the Sheriff—all these details were gone through much like some dream in which everything is half obscured and acted in without one's real volition.
Friends' greetings and hand-clasps he had received without one word, even when the physician had bound up his wound, an ugly gash on the head, caused by his fall against the bars, he had merely asked if he were free now to go his way.
The deathly stillness of the country, the wide gloom of the heavens, dotted with a dazzling brilliance of stars, the vague, motionless forests across the deserted fields, made the night seem to him a fit setting for the weird, strange spell into which he had sunk.
When he stood before the big gate and saw the house gleaming in the night brilliance, he started as if brought suddenly before something he had not expected. A light shone from the parlour window, an unprecedented thing at such an hour, yet it did not strike him as unusual.
Tying his horse at the gate, for it would be only two hours before he must return, he walked draggingly towards his room. There too was a light and a figure standing in the doorway.
"Thank gracious, youse done cum, Massa Sargent," Dicey exclaimed, running towards him. "Whar in de name ob de good Lawd has yer bin? Ole Miss and Lil Miss an' ev'ybody else done gone all ter pieces 'bout sumthin'. Ise bin smellin' er mouse but I cyant ketch him. Now—Massa Sargent, whut's er causin' all dis heah fuss?"
Sargent moved past the old woman, into his room. "I cannot talk now, Dicey," he said, going directly to a large armoire and unlocking it. "To-morrow—all of you will know."
"But ole Miss wants ter see yer to-night. She bin er pacin' up an' down, up an' down dat parloh flo' all night—a waitin' fer yer. Eber sence Massa Jervais wuz heah she ain' seem hab no peace ob min'! She done tole me ter watch fer yer and bring yer straight ter her—so cum 'long, right dis minit."
Sargent stared at her silently.
"You say Mr. Jervais has been here this evening."
"Yaas, suh, bout two hours."
"Then he told her!" Sargent exclaimed.
"Mos' eberything, I reckon. But cum on ober dar, fer I wants ter git ter bed 'fo daybreak, sho'."
Sargent followed Dicey across the yard, into the dimly lit hall, where the wall of portraits swam before him like the faces of the multitude he had faced that day. Knocking at the parlour door, Dicey announced him, and then disappeared into the shadows of the hall.
Mrs. Brandon was standing beneath the massive bronze chandelier, her face paler than Sargent had ever seen it, her whole expression and poise bereft of the cold assurance which had seemed the outward expression of the woman's character.
Sargent closed the door after him, and stood facing her, both of them silent a few moments.
"Is it true?" Mrs. Brandon finally demanded, her words coming colder and crisper than ever before.
"You mean—that Mr. Jervais has challenged me, Mistress Brandon? If so—he has and I have accepted. It is to be in a very few hours."
Her eyes blazed at Sargent, full of a violent hatred that led him to read for a certainty the love she bore Jervais. Even in that moment of his gloom and her anger, the incongruity of the love of this woman for Jervais struck a distracting note in his thoughts.
"Are you determined to meet him, Mr. Everett?"
"I am, Mistress Brandon."
"Do you realize that it will cause you to lose your position in my family? Of course such an unheard-of thing as a school-master fighting a duel, is sufficient to annul our contract."
"I supposed this would be the case. I cannot blame you. You are quite right."
She came a step nearer Sargent. Her lips pressed hard against each other as she evidently forced herself to speak.
"If you will forego this duel, I shall reconsider the matter. I would retain you as the children's tutor."
"Thank you, Mistress Brandon, there is no help for it now. I go to it as my one chance of—" he broke off abruptly and turned towards the door.
"Wait,—I am not through," she cried, her voice breaking shrilly, "I can not have this duel—don't you understand—it must not take place. What will keep you from it? Certainly there is something!"
Sargent met her eyes calmly. He could see now a weakening, a tremulousness beneath her hauteur which in another moment might break the indomitable spirit entirely. Suddenly he took her hand in his, very gently.
"There is nothing for you to fear, Mistress Brandon. Believe me when I tell you that my fire shall be thrown away. Mr. Jervais will be as safe this time to-morrow as he is now. You have been very just and hospitable to me while I was a member of your household. I thank you for it, and ask you in parting to grant me only one request."
She had drawn away from him with the allaying of her fears. There was no doubt of his sincerity. But with the feeling of safety, her pride rushed over her again, and in the chagrin of having betrayed herself, she became more coldly abducent than before.
"What is your request?" came her answer, full of predicated denial.
"To see Natalia before I leave."
Mrs. Brandon lifted her eyes in surprise.
"To-night? Now? Surely you know that would be impossible!"
"It would be for the last time," Sargent answered tentatively.
"Pardon me—but I can not think of it. Perhaps I might consent before she goes—"
"After to-night it will be too late."
For answer Mrs. Brandon lifted the candlestick and passed out into the hall.
In his plain room, the walls of whitewashed logs, and the spotless floor covered with rag rugs, he pulled out the worn little hair trunk which had come on the long journey from Maine with him. There was not very much that he had to put in it, and when he had filled the tray, piling one end with his much used books, he paused a moment, holding the last one in his hand and gazing a long time at the fly leaf. It recalled vividly that day—so far off now—when he and his mother had packed the same little trunk, and she had given him the book as her last gift, to be taken with him wherever he went. Her words were there before him on the page now. He read them over and over again:
"My son, neglect not to peruse these sacred writings with interest, that you may obtain that virtue which will guide you through life's thorny path, fit you for an usefulness in life, peace in death, and happiness in the spirit land."
He touched his lips to the book, afterwards wrapping it carefully, and writing Natalia's name across the paper. Not now, but some day far off, she would understand what it had represented to him.
Then sitting down before the table and putting the two candles close together, he poured out the whole of his tortured soul, his disappointment, the worldly success which was to him so damning a bitterness, his utter hopelessness—all this he wrote to his mother in a letter which was never to reach her.
A subdued rustling in the trees roused him with the certainty that the time had come for him to be on his way. Blowing out the candles and locking the door of the little room that had sheltered him for many months, for the last time, he went through the grove to the gate. There he paused and let his eyes rest for a moment on the old mansion of the Spaniards.
The fragile, crescent moon was already lowering towards the distant lowlands, and in its vague light the house was softly outlined among the magnolias. Even then, as he had often felt before when looking at this scene in the stillness of the night, Sargent felt a strange spell of mystery and fatefulness creep over him. There was something ghostly in the white house accentuated by the gloom of the grove and the inclosing hedge of Cherokee roses, so filled with white dream flowers.
Against his will his thoughts drifted into fancies of Natalia's future. He could see her going away to distant lands, beautiful and wealthy and courted, and coming back perhaps to spend the happiness of her life in this perfect setting. And, as always with his thoughts, the subject of them became visible before him. He saw the beautiful, vivid little face looking at him with the dependence and yearning for sympathy which had first riveted the chains of his love. He saw the thin, delicate features, the oval contour, the unusual softness of skin, almost olive about the eyes and very white and fair on the temples, and the black lashes and the velvety shadows beneath the eyes, that gave that world-old expression when she smiled.
While he gazed before him, dwelling on each memory of the little girl he was leaving for ever, he saw her eyes grow slowly bloodshot, then almost imperceptibly her skin seemed to deaden and the ghastly red of clotted blood obliterated the likeness, leaving in its place the mangled face of Jacob Phelps. Digging the spurs into his horse, Sargent tore down the road towards the town, at a breakneck speed.
Judge Houston was waiting at his door, calm and very pale. Together he and Sargent walked to the tavern, without speaking a word beyond the greetings. It was still quite dark, and as they neared the hostelry the windows of the club room shone bright, and from within came the sounds of noisy merriment.
"Will you tell Captain Mentdrop I am here, Judge?" Sargent said, when they stood outside the door. "I should rather not go in there." He shuddered at the thought of more congratulations about the yesterday.
Standing outside alone, he heard a loud burst of laughter—Jervais', then the Captain's; afterwards a silence as the two parties came out at the same time, Captain Mentdrop and Jervais leading the way, walking arm in arm.
"Hello, Sargent, you're there, are you—and Judge Houston,—my compliments, sir."
Jervais passed without a word to his friends who followed him out, and then both parties took carriages, already waiting for them, and drove down the long hill to the river.
"Well, sir, I've had a night of it 'pon my word, I have," cried the Captain, seemingly in the best of spirits. "Will you believe it, Sargent, I've been sitting in there with Lem Jervais since ten o'clock last night!"
Sargent listened listlessly. "Is he so entertaining?" he asked without interest.
The Captain looked at Judge Houston and dropped a sly wink.
"Immensely so! And when Suggs came in and told us about your scuffle with Phelps—well, you'd 'a' learned something if you'd heard what he said!"
Judge Houston had started at the mention of Phelps. In a moment his hand was on Sargent's.
"What about Phelps, Sargent? Did you go to see him?"
Sargent met his glance beseechingly.
"Not now—Judge. After this is over, get Captain to tell you about it. Please—not now!"
In the chill numbness of the hour before daybreak they took their places in a skiff, and shot out on to the wide surface of the river. The white mist obliterated the opposite bank, and when they had drifted a mile below the town a narrow strip of sand bar suddenly appeared out of the dark, and a moment later the boat was grounded upon the sand.
Close behind them came the other skiff, and both parties immediately walked across the clean white bar, to two wide-spreading willows which marked the spot of the then famous duelling ground.
When the two groups had formed themselves and the formal greetings gone through, Judge Houston left Sargent's side, and going to Jervais, led him a little way from the others. A very few words passed between them, when Judge Houston turned away sadly and went back to his place.
"I told you so," said the Captain, raising his great shoulders contemptuously. "When a challenge has been sent and accepted, it's a man's duty to go through it without any more words. This reconciliation business is all stuff—until you've got through fighting."
Judge Houston met the Captain's restless eyes calmly.
"Don't you think everything should be done to save a man's life?" he asked quietly.
"Not one bit of it!" The Captain's hands met in a resounding clasp. "That scoundrel," pointing to Jervais, "would be a heap better dead, and as for saving his life, it would be better if all parties took a hand at getting rid of him. This world would be a heap better with so many less of that sort. If I was a praying man, I'd a said a bit of prayer for Sargent to kill him."
"Yet you came out of the tavern a while ago, arm in arm with him!" Judge Houston answered coldly. "Are your sentiments quite sincere, Captain Mentdrop?"
The Captain looked into the face of the older man, much as a big dog looks condescendingly upon another; then he slipped his arm through Judge Houston's and led him away from Sargent. When he was out of hearing, he put his mouth close to his companion's ear.
"Take a peep at Jervais," he whispered. "Don't you see he's all to pieces—couldn't hit the side of a house if he tried a week.That'swhat I've been doing with him all night. Loading him up! Loading him up, sir! And not with buckshot either—with whiskey, mind you. D'you think I was going to let that youngster stand up here and get killed by that scoundrel? Well, I reckon not!"
Judge Houston's face paled. He gripped the Captain's arm with a trembling hand. "Does Sargent know this?"
"No—of course not. Say, Judge, what d'you take me for, anyhow?"
"He must know it! You must tell him!"
"I? I'll be damned if I do!"
"Then I will."
"No, you won't either. Now, look here, Judge Houston, this is my affair; and if you interfere, your age and position won't make a blame bit of difference in what I might do to you. I'm bent and determined to save that youngster, and all your pious conscience and principles and fol-de-rol beliefs ain't going to keep me from it. You see what I mean, don't you? So don't fret me, any more!"
Without a moment's delay, the Captain turned towards Jervais' party with the magnificent bravado which was always at his command and called out:
"Shall we toss for the word, gentlemen?"
For a second a gold coin gleamed in the air and fell at the Captain's feet.
"Thank you, gentlemen," he bowed, with a flourish, "the honour is mine."
Then opening a large valise, he took out four pistols and handed them to Jervais' second, who handed them to Jervais. The selection was made.
At that moment the Captain saw Judge Houston make a step towards Sargent. Quick as a flash his voice rang out—
"Are you ready, gentlemen? There is the sun."
It was too late for the warning. Judge Houston dropped back as Sargent and Jervais stepped out on the clear stretch of sand. Turning back to back, each walked ten strides in the opposite direction, then turned again and faced each other. Sargent threw his cane from him, and looked into Jervais' scowling face, a few yards away from him. In his opponent's restless eyes, in his twitching lips and slightly trembling hands, he understood, without being told, what the Captain had done for him.
On the light breeze that raced before the dawn, the Captain's voice came firm and loud.
"Gentlemen! Are you ready? Fire! One—"
Jervais fired.
"Two!"
Sargent's pistol was raised and as his fingers clasped the trigger, in the knowledge that he must fire he aimed far to the right of Jervais, then, with an uncontrollable movement, found himself pointing directly at his opponent as the shot rang out.
"Three!"
When the whiff of smoke had cleared, both men were standing looking at each other. For a second they stood still, then the seconds rushed between and the duel was over.
"Great Lord!" cried the Captain, letting out his choicest string of oaths. "Here I've been wasting a whole night expecting to see something. And what d' I get? Two men standing up and looking at each other over a whiff of smoke." Throwing a contemptuous look at Jervais' companions, he grabbed Sargent about the shoulders and, squeezing him hard, led him a good distance from the others. Then it was that the young lawyer, passing through the valley of shadows, and just beginning to see hope for the future, looked up at the old, wrinkled face bending close beside him, and found the sparkling grey eyes overflowing with merriment.
"Sonny," he said, giving Sargent a hearty squeeze and attempting to hold his laughter no longer. "You needn't been so serious about this thing. There wasn't a damn bullet in a one of them pistols!"