CHAPTER VIIIORANGE BLOSSOMS AND PRISON BARSThe fiddles were hushed. The sounds of gaiety and laughter died on the lips of the merry throng. The guests rushed for their wraps; word was sent to awaken the slaves and harness the horses for the hasty departure; everywhere were the subdued murmurs and confusion of the dismayed gathering.Through it all Judge Houston and Natalia went calmly to the carriage, the startled crowd falling back with averted faces, letting them pass in silence.Natalia sank into the carriage, exhausted and trembling. The strain of the last hour, with its culmination, had brought to her a relinquishing of all restraint. She found herself clinging to Judge Houston's arm as if in some way the mere contact with another would bring back her usual strength and composure. They had passed into the highway before either of them spoke."Are you sure that he is safe—that I am not too late?" The words trembled through her lips."I am positive of it," Judge Houston answered, forcing his words to speak encouragement. "The jail was the best place possible to take him. Indeed, it was the only safe place. You know the reputation of the lower element of this town, and Lemuel always had a strong following among them. He has often admitted they were his political backing. And this trouble between him and Morgan was what made me fear some sort of an outbreak. You see—at the bottom of it all, was some argument about slavery." The old man drew down his brows thoughtfully. "It seems to be developing into a curse upon our heads. God knows where it will lead us! And Morgan was unwise—he spoke out his views too literally—his statements aroused ill-feeling in others, so that his attitude now is telling against him." He stopped abruptly and pressed Natalia's hand. "I tell you all this," he continued more calmly, "to show you why I thought the jail a safe place. If there should be an unusual excitement, the restlessness of the mob would be quelled by the State's protection. I would not leave him, even to come to you, until I knew he was perfectly safe."A light wind had risen with the night, and from the south there came a sea of racing, mackerel clouds. The night was intensely dark. Except for the flicker of the carriage lanterns and the few stars that shone through the breaks in the clouds, their surroundings were indistinguishable."I can't bear the thought of him there, surrounded by enemies, and I, out here—safe and protected. Why didn't you come for me sooner, Uncle Felix!" Natalia cried. "Drive faster, Zebby! Lash the horses!"Though the carriage rocked from side to side, and the horses were galloping at their utmost speed, urged on by the singing whip, it seemed to Natalia they were dragging along inch by inch.At last she loosened her hold of Judge Houston's arm and leaned back against the cushions."My wedding night!" she murmured, covering her face with her hands. "My wedding night!"Finally the lights of the town twinkled down the road."Here is the town, Natalia," Judge Houston cried, putting his arm across her shoulders and drawing her to him. "We shall be there in a few minutes now and you will see that he is safe, as I told you."Zebediah cracked his whip incessantly, and in a few minutes more the suburbs had been passed and the street lights were about them. The town seemed utterly deserted, a quiet gloom hovering over the darkened houses, until they drew near the Mansion House Tavern. Here people were standing in excited groups. A block beyond the street was a seething mass of men. Standing on the fence of the courthouse yard, a rough, savage faced man was inciting the crowd, gesticulating wildly to make himself heard above the noise. There was a deep, vibrating murmur rising from the crowd, filling the air with a foreboding sound. On all sides one could read plainly indignation and violent antagonism.Judge Houston's face grew pale and set as they drew nearer the jail. One glance at the crowd had told him what it represented. Already the mutterings of that great trouble which was a few years later to separate a united country, had begun to spread; into the midst of these people had come a man from the centre of the opposition country, who had proclaimed his beliefs and fought for them, killing his opponent in the difficulty. The feeling of the masses centred against this stranger.The old gentleman who had weathered the years of pioneer life and had seen the deep-rooted evil widening the breach, knew that Morgan Talbot's life hung in the balance. The crowd about him bespoke its ingredients—the lower elements of the town, inflamed by the followers of Jervais into a recklessness that meant almost anything. He also realized that the best element—the friends he could call upon to defend Talbot—were all guests at the wedding and had not yet returned to the town."I cyant go no fudder, Jedge."Zebediah's whisper broke upon Judge Houston's great fear. He stood up in the carriage and surveyed the crowd. It was dense up to the gate of the jail yard. In that moment it rushed over him that the sight of Natalia might have some effect upon the crowd. He glanced at her quickly and saw that she was determined and self-controlled."We shall have to walk—take my arm—now."Taking one of the lanterns that hung to the dashboard of the carriage, and holding it in his hand so that the light fell full upon Natalia, showing distinctly her white gown and jewels, Judge Houston half led, half pushed her into the midst of the crowd.The effect was as he had expected. The crowd turned and looked at them; a whispered exclamation followed; then, during an ominous silence, a pathway was made for them, through which they passed to the gate of the jail yard.There the keeper laid a detaining hand on Judge Houston's arm. "If it comes to the worst—if they make a rush, we are powerless!""Keep them back until our friends return to town."The old gentleman's voice rang with a new firmness. "They all know and are coming to our assistance. I shall be back here in a minute and stand by you.""Is it as bad as that?" Natalia asked so quietly that Judge Houston looked searchingly into her face. In her expression he saw the look that always comes into the faces of the brave."No, I don't believe they will do anything—they wouldn't dare! They are not so violent as they look."At the end of the walk they stood at last before the jail door. When they had passed within and Natalia heard the bolt shoot into place, and knew that the threatening crowd without was separated from her by the heavy iron door, she leaned against it for renewed strength. Then, taking Judge Houston's outstretched hand, she followed him down the dimly lit corridor, only vaguely aware that she would find Morgan in such a place. Still gripping the outstretched hand she followed the old man into the cell.Morgan Talbot and Joel were outlined against the window. From without came the subdued murmur of the multitude so that they did not hear the door open. Suddenly Morgan turned and faced them. Starting back, he looked from Natalia to Judge Houston, his eyes bloodshot and staring.For a minute no one spoke."Why did you bring her?" Morgan's voice came harshly. "Don't you know what that crowd out there means? You could have spared her this at least!"He motioned to the window where Joel still leaned against the bars, listening intently. There was no look of affection as he glanced from Natalia to the old man; it was hardly one of recognition.Natalia moved quickly across the floor, putting both hands upon his shoulders."He brought me because I would not stay away, Morgan. Do you think I could have left you in this awful crowd?" Her voice broke and she began to tremble violently. "Morgan—what did you do? How did it happen?""How did it happen!" He stared down into her face, his hands hanging limp at his sides, his voice hard and grating. "How did it happen? Don't you know? I am a murderer!"With the words Natalia shuddered and withdrew her hands."No! No! don't say that! Don't use that word! it was an accident. I know it was—tell me so!"Talbot continued to stare at her strangely. When she drew away from him, he laughed abruptly."I knewthatwould make you feel differently," he said almost in a whisper, as if to himself. "I knew it would kill your love for me," he ended with a sob.Natalia lifted her head proudly. Instantly her hands were clinging to him again, and her voice as she spoke to him deepened vibrantly."Nothingcould alter my love, Morgan. I have come here to convince you of that. Look at me! Can't you see?"Judge Houston went quietly across the room and taking Joel by the arm, led him to the door. They went out noiselessly, unnoticed by the others. "Look here, Joel," said the Judge as they stood in the corridor, "I want you to realize with me that public feeling will probably affect the verdict of the coroner's jury. We have a big battle ahead of us." The young fellow shook his head sadly."Don't you see, Morgan?" Natalia within was saying to Morgan, her voice rising as she strove to force some response into his eyes. "Don't you see I am in my wedding dress? I came as soon as Uncle Felix told me."He stared at her a long time, the wild, hunted look gradually dying out, leaving only an expression of dumb misery."Natalia! Natalia!" he murmured at last, as if realizing for the first time that it was she. "Natalia—that is your wedding dress! Oh, my God!" he cried out, turning away from her and leaning against the wall. "It can never be now—never—never!" Then came the dry, hard sobs of a man who sees nothing but despair before him.Natalia did not attempt to stop him. When he sank on to the cot, his face buried in his hands, she went and sat beside him, her eyes dry and glowing. She knew a more soothing relief had come to him than any words she might employ.As they sat there, the folds of her wedding dress falling about them, the candles burned low, until only a ghostly gleam sparkled upon her necklace of pearls and sapphires.Gradually the low murmuring without grew fainter and fainter, then died away entirely. The silence about them deepened; yet neither of them moved. The minutes raced along. Once, Natalia rose and lighted another candle, the first one having burned into its socket.At last, when Morgan lifted his face to hers, he found its beauty and quiet encouragement a continuance of the peace her presence had brought him."Natalia," he whispered, "you love me still? It has made no difference?"She smiled at him bravely."Nothingcould.""Are you honest with me, Natalia—or is it only pity?"For answer she leaned forward and kissed him."Then it is true," he said, drawing her hand into his, his face brightening for a second. Then again, crept back the look of deep misery. "I believe you still love me, Natalia, but we cannot be married now. No, I wouldn't ask it of you. I love you too dearly to have your life ruined by being tied to amurderer.""Don't use that word, Morgan. Please don't use it. You are not a murderer. It was all an accident. Am I not right? Tell me about it and I can show you with your own words that I am right."Morgan stretched his hands out on the cot, his fingers moving nervously in an incessant thumping."We spoke of it that morning—thismorning," he added. "It seems a thousand years ago now! I was telling you about our game of poker at the tavern, don't you remember? To-day it was the same all over again. He had not raised the money,—he had only brought the slaves themselves to pay his gambling debts. One he pointed out, as worthy to pay any man's debts—a mulatto girl, a pitiful, beautiful little creature that wept as she was brought before us. I told Jervais that I played cards with gentlemen for pleasure and not for traffic in human souls! I told him he was insulting me." He stopped a moment and shuddered. "It all happened very quickly. He struck me a blow—I returned it. Then I saw him draw his pistol and spring on me. His hands were about my neck when I had gotten the pistol out of his grasp. As they tightened I knew I was going to kill him. I can feel his hands loosening now, after the report. Great God! I can feel him slipping down, and down, until he lay dead on the floor before me!" He rose suddenly from the cot and stretched out both arms helplessly before him.Natalia listened intently. Not an inflection of his voice escaped her. When he finished she met his eyes resolutely."It was not your fault. You did not do it intentionally. It was self defence.""But I knew I was going to kill him. I knew it all the time.""Yes, but you had to! No one could blame you! You are as innocent as I! The law will protect you."Morgan gazed at her a long time in silence."Natalia,—help me to do what is right. It rests with you to make it easier for me. Don't come back here any more after to-night. Don't let me see you again. This must be the last time, dear."He went to the cot where she still sat and looked down into her eyes."I am going away if I am liberated, and I am never going to see you again. It is the only way I can prove my love to you,—the only thing that would be just to you."Natalia's eyes wavered from his burning glance. Suddenly she rose and went to the door, her face illumined by a wonderful smile."Where are you going, Natalia," Morgan exclaimed.She did not answer. Knocking on the door until it was opened, she faced Judge Houston and Joel calmly."Uncle Felix, I wish our marriage to be performed to-night. Will you send for a minister?"Judge Houston looked at her, startled, then his eyes sought Talbot's for an explanation. Coming back again to Natalia's, he saw the decision was hers."Would it not be better to wait until to-morrow?" he suggested, quickly aware of incongruity in such a marriage."No, it is not a time for waiting. I must prove to Morgan that this has made no difference in my love for him."Finally the old gentleman turned away from her, reading the force in her face that brooked no interference. When he was at the door he heard Morgan speaking."Stop!" he commanded. "I refuse to be married to-night. Natalia does not know what she is doing.""You both see I am perfectly calm," she said, turning to Joel and Judge Houston. "I desire above everything that we shall be married to-night. I beg of you—Morgan—"Morgan shook his head with a determination that was greater than hers. With the decision his face gained some of its lost brilliancy. He became once more the handsome, virile man of that morning."When I am a free man, Natalia—when I am cleared—if you still wish it then—not before. I am determined."The four of them were silent for a few moments. So much was at stake at that moment that each one felt the trembling of the future within his hands. At last Judge Houston stepped forward and wrung Morgan's hand."You are right, Morgan," he said, with his eyes bent admiringly upon the young man. "You are a brave fellow." Then he turned to Natalia. "Everything outside is quiet. The danger has subsided and I think it is time we were going back home.""Must I go?" Natalia started, and turned swiftly back to Morgan. "Had we not better stay longer? I don't want to leave you, Morgan."Judge Houston went towards the door. Holding his watch in his hand, he looked at it intently for several minutes."It is after two o'clock." He finally turned to Natalia and drew her away with him. "It will be better for Morgan to rest, and you, too. We should only excite him by staying longer. Take my advice, Natalia.""Yes, go," Morgan urged, smiling bravely as she drew back at the door and looked appealingly to him. "I am all right now. See how quiet I am! It was brave of you to come, Natalia. God bless you both!" he ended with a break in his voice."We shall come back in the morning," Judge Houston said, attempting a cheerful tone. "Try to get a little sleep, and don't think too much about it. Joel—you make him rest. Everything will come out all right in the end—take my word for it."Natalia broke from his hold, and ran back to Morgan, clinging to him as if it were their last parting."I shall not sleep," she whispered, her head buried on his shoulder. "I shall be thinking of you all the time—thinking of you and praying for you. And early in the morning I am coming back."A moment more and the iron door had been slammed and bolted between them.Outside the night had grown cool. Gusts of wind blew through the trees, ominously; across the sky the clouds drifted in restless, ever-changing forms.Natalia was silent as she went out to the carriage, raising her eyes only once to glance furtively at the deserted street. Everything was strangely still now. No one was in sight, where a short while before was a murmuring throng.The old man sitting beside her in the carriage could find no words to break the silence of the long drive home. Only by the affectionate pressure of his hand did Natalia know that his thoughts were continually of her.A single light was burning in the hall when the carriage stopped before the house. The veranda and grove were deserted, the illuminations of the garden had been extinguished, and just beginning to show in the fitful light of the late moon were the ghostly blossoms of the magnolias.Mrs. Houston and Millicent came to the door at the sound of the carriage, meeting them before they had entered the house."Is he safe?" Millicent cried."Yes, he is safe," Natalia answered, dully. Then turning to Mrs. Houston, she asked, "Where is she?"The old lady looked towards the door."She is in there," nodding in the direction of the parlour. "She has not left his side since they placed him there. She would let no one stay with her."Natalia hesitated, as she entered the hall, and stood irresolutely before the closed door."I must say something to her. It is only right. Yet—" she clasped her hands helplessly, searching the faces before her as if for some assistance. "Yet—whatcan I say?"Standing there helplessly, she did not hear the parlour door open, nor see Mrs. Jervais motionlessly looking at her. Her face was not tear-stained. Only in her eyes did the others read a grief which had already crystallized into a brilliant hardness, emanating from her like the diamond cross that sparkled on her breast. She did not move from her position in the doorway, all the time gazing at Natalia with a concentrated expression that gathered intensity as she waited.Suddenly Natalia turned and saw her. Holding out her arms impetuously she made a step towards her—then stopped. The other woman's face repelled her."What can I say—what can I tell you?" Natalia murmured. "You must know how I feel for you—how I suffer with you."Mrs. Jervais' eyes seemed to be burning into the girl before her."Suffer! What do you know of that? Why should you suffer? You have not lost the one you love—yet." She stopped abruptly, lending a sharp accent to the last word.Natalia drew back. The implied suggestion seemed to scream at her from the woman's blazing eyes."If it were not for you he would still be here." Mrs. Jervais made a step nearer. "You asked me to come here and do this for you. I did, and what has it brought me—death! It is accursed—this place of your ancestors. So were they—allof them! When they lived here it brought them nothing but death. It drove your mother to madness. And now—" her voice in its calmness grew even more sinister, "it will bring its curse uponyou. Do you think amurderercould bring you any happiness?"Natalia shrank back from her, reaching out for the steadying hand of Judge Houston."Mrs. Jervais," he expostulated gently, "Natalia is suffering, too. You forget that in your own grief. Have you no kind words for her?""It is no time for kind words, Felix Houston. It is only bitterness and hatred that I have now! Why should I feel kindly towards a woman who has brought a man here that he might kill my husband? When she has lost as I have, then I shall be kind, perhaps! And it will not be long that she will wait! I shall not leave a stone unturned to punish with death the one who caused it."She turned abruptly back into the room and closed the door. In the intense stillness of the house the key grated harshly in the lock, as she turned it. Without a word Mrs. Houston put her arm around Natalia and led her toward the stairs. When she stood on the steps Natalia turned and faced them."Don't any of you come with me," she said faintly. "I must be alone. No, Millicent, not to-night. I only want to be alone now." And turning from them, she walked slowly up the stairs, clinging to the rail to steady herself while the others stood silently watching her.Opening the door, the flickering light of a candle burned far into its socket greeted her. At first she stopped in the centre of the room, her hands clasped vise-like, while the excitement and strain gradually dropped away from her, leaving only a wave of utter weariness. She sank into a chair near the massive, four-post bed, gazing listlessly at her wedding veil and bouquet of gardenias which lay carelessly upon the sheets where they had been thrown. Vaguely she felt their significance; in a way they represented her wedding day—the day that had dawned so brilliantly, and was now only a crumpled, withered memory.A rasping pain shot through her, and leaning forward she pressed both hands to her temples. Was this the real side of life that had come to her at last? Was this what she had so yearned for—a grappling with things that counted? Ah, no, it could not be that, for this was only despair and horror. Suddenly she shivered violently with the thought that perhaps she was no better fitted to combat it than her mother had been.A weird, ghostly light on her bride's veil drew her back once more to her surroundings. Looking up she saw the pale outline of the window against the dark room. With the realization that another day was dawning, there rushed over her for the first time, in its full meaning, the horrifying thought that her lover had killed a man. Hitherto the excitement had kept her from any analysis of her own emotions—everything had been swept aside in the thought of Morgan. But now, facing her pitilessly, was the awful necessity of introspection, of seeing the situation from her viewpoint, of being honest with herself.Wouldit make any difference to her? A feeling of self-hate swept over her that she should consider herself in the least. Yet, fight against it as she would, the question insistently remained. But there would be time enough for all such thoughts after the trial. The trial! Mrs. Jervais' words rang in her ears again. She started at the thought. Would Morgan be cleared? Was there any doubt? The horror of her fancies choked her and she rose from her chair as if seeking something that moment, that would aid her.As she turned towards the window, her eyes fell upon Dicey, sitting upright in a chair against the wall, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes staring straight into her own. The old slave had kept the vigil with her mistress.Dicey rose and made towards her."Will yer go ter bed, now, honey?" Her voice was very low, caressing and gentle. "Hit'll soon be day and yer ought ter tak er lil res'.""Rest! I can't, Mammy. I must do something to help him. He is to be tried for murder! He must be saved. Oh, Mammy," her voice broke with a sob. "What can I do?"She went to the window and raised it, letting the chill breeze of the daybreak blow upon her face and neck. All the world in its dreary greyness spoke to her only of despair and death. Finally she felt Dicey's arm about her, gently drawing her back from the window. The strange look of visions was alive in the old slave's eyes once more, more burning and intense than ever."Yer kin sabe him, honey-chile, easy 'nuff," she whispered. "All yer got ter do is ter sen' word to Marse Sargent ter cum an' 'fend him."A weary smile flitted across Natalia's lips as she thought of the old woman's love for her master. Then her face grew serious again."I'll doanything, Mammy. But he is not here. Where can I find him?""Yer jes' write de letter an' I'll make Jonas—dat's his body-servant—fetch hit ter him. I knows whar his wharbouts is. I'se been er keepin' up wid him for fo' days. Yer writes de letter an' he'll git hit ter him."Natalia stared at her a moment, then going quickly to her desk, pulled out her portfolio. When the paper was spread before her she paused, thoughtfully."How strange," she said half aloud. "I remember it so distinctly now. He told me if I ever needed him—" her lips curved into the smile of the little girl, and the tears fell fast upon the sheet of paper.Before the address was dry, Dicey was flying with it towards the town.CHAPTER IXTHE HONOURABLE SARGENT EVERETTIn a little village, far off in the eastern part of the State, a great crowd was assembling. The planters and their wives and children, every one from the adjoining counties, were going into the village that morning. Some rode horses; others mules; some were in crude wagons without springs; others in old coaches no longer fit for regular service; and many on foot—all of them followed by their favourite slaves. It was to be a great day in the lives of these simple country folk. Tidings had gone forth that the great lawyer was to speak to them that day, telling them all about their rights; explaining to them the mysteries of their great Constitution, and the importance of proper representation. Every man felt it his special duty to hear what was going to be said, and although this celebrated lawyer was not of their political beliefs, being a Whig while the county was Democratic, they were glad of the opportunity to hear a man speak, whose name was becoming a byword throughout the State. Though un-lettered, hard-fisted woodland patriots caring little for the outside world except in what would bring them absolute freedom, they were still keenly alive to the needs and laws that would open their great forests to the civilized world.And while the sun rose higher and the brilliance of the June morning deepened, and the crowd grew larger and more impatient, the man who had caused all this interest sat in the cool shade of a veranda, looking steadily out before him through deeply brooding eyes.It was a beautiful scene of wide, luxuriant cotton fields, stretching out before him. Nearby, a garden of luxuriant flowers, guarded by smoothly clipped box hedges, filled the air with a delicious fragrance.Beside him on the veranda, comfortably lounging in a spacious rocking chair, sat his host, Colonel Pickram; a portly old gentleman, bluff and hearty, and red of face. Beyond, through the open window, came the laughter and gay chatter of the two daughters of the house, healthy, comely girls who moved about the room, giving directions for what was to be a sumptuous dinner.Colonel Pickram gazed at his guest under questioning brows. The great lawyer was not to-day as he had known him before. The virility and life seemed to have lessened in him since the last visit; he was no longer the sparkling conversationalist he had known before; the winning humour that had drawn every one to him was gone. As he sat there silent, his hands clasped en his knees, his eyes full of a sad expression of yearning, even the dull perception of the self-satisfied farmer was aware that he was not himself."Mr. Everett," Colonel Pickram broke the long silence, "you've been working too hard on the campaign. It's telling on you. I reckon you're mighty glad to-morrow's the last day."Everett looked up abstractedly."Yes—I'm glad to-morrow sees the end of this trip—and yet," he drew himself together responsively, "it has been a wonderful experience. Whenever I get nearer to the people and begin to like them all the more after I know them, and find them liking me—I feel that I have accomplished so much more than merely winning their votes. That is what I love in this work—the winning of friends. And then, Colonel," he glanced almost affectionately at his surroundings, "being in a home like this always gives me such pleasant memories to carry away with me. Still, it makes me very homesick at times." His voice lowered again and the sadness crept back into his eyes. "It takes me back to my old home days. I'd give almost anything to be back there to-day. But this ambition!" He sighed, a half humourous, half sorrowful expression twisting his lips. "It is wonderful what it will make us give up."The Colonel crossed one leg deliberately over the other, blowing a long line of smoke between them."Well, sir, I've often wondered if the game of politics was worth the candle. Here I am, with my two fine lassies, as good girls as you'll ever find in any country, and a plain home, but it's comfortable enough, and plenty of slaves and mules to make a crop and pay my bills. It's all I want and I'm right happy—just as contented as if I owned the world. But then—I'm old and you're young. I look back and you look forward. That's what makes the difference, I reckon.""But you are right, Colonel, and I am wrong. All a fellow works for in this life is a happy home; and it seems I'm never going to have that—at least the kind I mean, the complete one. It gets further and further away as I get older. I used to say that when I was thirty I would have all those I loved about me. Look at me now!" He spread out his hands futilely. "I'm nearly thirty, living alone, a bachelor, and many times, for all my gay spirits and friends, terribly lonely.""You ought to get married. Why don't you? There are plenty of nice girls everywhere."Everett winced and turned abruptly away. When he spoke again his face was towards the cotton fields. "But they don't want a cripple for a husband," he answered the old man's remark. "They want a man of fine proportions, who will do them credit when they are seen together. They want one who—" he narrowed his eyes a moment, and in them came the tenderness of bygone days, "—who will go to church with them, and send them beautiful nosegays and take them to dances." He ended, smiling upon the Colonel's surprised countenance. "I once heard a woman say, Colonel," he began again, more seriously, "that she chose her husband because he looked well in a ball-room. And I don't blame her—perfection and beauty are the greatest factors in our lives."The old Colonel smiled over his pipe."I'm afraid, Mr. Everett, that you are a much better lawyer than a judge of the ladies. I have a higher opinion of them than you have. They are not half so silly as you paint them.""You misunderstand me, Colonel," Everett answered hurriedly. "I revere them more than any man. But they love the beautiful in life, and they are beautiful themselves. My bitterness comes only from my inability to give them what they demand."Colonel Pickram grunted sarcastically."You can give them a good deal, I think. I'd like to see the woman who wouldn't be satisfied to be a Congressman's wife and spend her winters in Washington. The trouble with you, Mr. Everett, and you'll pardon me for saying it, is that you've never been in love."Sargent rose from his chair almost abruptly. Walking to the end of the veranda and back again, he faced Colonel Pickram, smiling down into the rough old fellow's face as if he were much his elder."Perhaps you are right, Colonel," he said, taking out his watch. "Time's up, however, so we had better drop dreaming and be on our way to grapple with politics."Squaring his shoulders and throwing back his head, a gesture of his earlier days that clung to him still, Sargent threw off the melancholy of the past day, and became once more the man who charmed people by the thousands. Colonel Pickram noticed the quick change and pondered over it. "Big men were curious creatures," he reflected. "They could jump from one mood into another just as easily as a travelling magician he saw last week, could change a rabbit into a pocket handkerchief."As they passed across the meadow, towards the village, the signal of their approach was given. The multitude left their lunches, and hurried towards the platform from which the speech was to be made.Every one's neck was craned to catch the first glimpse of the two men as they approached. One they knew well, though in his linen waistcoat and Sunday stock—which had already wellnigh brought on an attack of apoplexy—Colonel Pickram did not look familiar. They noticed the slow and pompous dignity with which he moved beside the stranger, and felt instinctively that he considered this the proudest day of his life. The man beside him walked with the aid of a cane and dragged one foot slightly after him. The crowd stared. Was it possible that this unobtrusive young man, in a black coat and chimney-pot hat, could be the one they had heard so much about? They looked at him curiously, drawn unconsciously by his kindly dark eyes, and the winning smile upon his handsome face. But he did not represent to them a political champion. Some mistake had been made. They were evidently the dupes of some jest that had been played upon them.While they speculated over the matter, Colonel Pickram led the young man to a place before the platform where the crowd pressed closest. Here a few introductions were made, after which the word went over the gathering, that the small, limping man was really Sargent Everett.As they waited, he climbed the steps of the platform and looked down into the crowd of faces. With the removal of his hat, his aspect changed suddenly. He looked taller, the high polished forehead lent a dignity and breadth to his whole physique. The enthusiasm and intellect that always glowed in his eyes when he faced an audience gave out sparks of magnetism that quieted the waiting throng into an inspiring audience.During the ensuing moments of waiting it seemed to them that the warmth and friendliness of his glance was shed upon each one of them individually. When his lips parted and his opening words came forth—"FELLOW CITIZENS! By the Father of Waters I have used this greeting; on the banks of the great Ohio I have spoken it; here I say it again, and many hundreds of miles east of us, west of us, north of us, I can still employ these words and thrill with the knowledge that before me are—'My fellow citizens.'"—the crowd fell under the spell of the man's electrifying talent and listened with bated breath.Seeing him then one would have said that he was the same as when he had made that wonderful speech that convicted the highwayman; the one who had led so forcibly in the Legislature when the State's new Constitution was formulated; who had thrilled many audiences in New Orleans; who had made his name sound far into the North when he had conducted a famous trial in Kentucky. And he had been the same, years making no change except to deepen and intensify his genius, until a few months before, when, almost indescribably, yet vividly discernible to his intimates, a difference had come. The world did not know; he was still lighthearted and buoyant to it; but to those who loved him best when alone with him, there was a strange loss of youth in his countenance, an abstraction, almost a lessening of that spontaneous sympathy which was such a potent ingredient of his charm. But in his public life there was no difference. Standing before a crowd, and meeting its warm, inspiring glances, any thought of personal effort was lost. He became a wonderful machine which throbbed and pulsated with the dynamic force of a great mind.So it was that day before the gathering in the little village. Though before his speech he had sunk deep into a valley of shadows and knew well it would be the same again when the excitement had died out, now that he was facing them, he was only aware of the powerful influence that always made him charm his audience.He made only a few gestures as he spoke, and even then, the expression of his face and the movement of his hands were perfectly attuned to the subject. There was nothing theatrical; one saw and understood the general effect only. There was no time for any criticism or thought. The words came in a constant flowing sound and through them the magnetism of the man glowed, reaching each listener with an irresistible force that drew him with a surrendering of beliefs, of convictions, of desires, often even against his personal wish. His face, illumined by the inward fire of his imagination, grew steadily in beauty and nobility, until it became fascinating with the brilliance of the thoughts reflected through it. His well moulded features, showing clear-cut and perfect in the ivory whiteness which had recently come to them, drew even those who did not understand the wonderful flow of words; indeed, in all his speeches this look of idealism was ever uppermost—an expression which none of the portrait painters of his day were able to reproduce. When he realized that the attention of the audience was his, he paused. Then, with renewed energy, he plunged deeper into his subject, and was reaching the height to which his forensic talent swept him, when an incident on the outskirts of the crowd caught his attention. Some one had just ridden up on a horse and was trying to force his way through the crowd. Evidently there was resistance on the part of the listeners and voices were raised in protest against the newcomer's insistence. Then, several men pushed aside and made a path for the man, and Sargent saw a negro making his way slowly through the crowd towards him. As he drew nearer he recognized Jonas. Climbing up the ladder to the platform the negro did not hesitate one moment until he had thrust a letter into-Sargent's hand.Sargent stopped in the midst of the speech and looked at Jonas, half frowning, half smiling at the negro's temerity in reaching him through the crowd."Marse Sargent, please sah, read dat lettah—right now, sah! Hit's a mattah ob life an' death, sah!"Sargent turned back to his audience, smiling. "One moment, please," he said, laughing down into the sea of upturned expectant faces, "I think my opponents have put up some joke on me. I want to read it to you and then we can laugh over it together." Then he tore open the letter indifferently."Lawdy, I sho wuz glad ter heah yer voice, Marse Sargent. I'se been er gwine ober dis heah kentry fer three days er sarchin' fer yer. Ole Dicey tole me fer ter git out on de road an' fin' yer an' ter gib yer dis heah lettah. She done said hit wuz a mattah ob life an' death," Jonas ended panting, looking around on the crowd and grinning with the success of his quest.Sargent did not hear his words. At the first glance at the handwriting he had started. While he read the crowd waited breathlessly. When he had finished he turned to Colonel Pickram, his face flushed deeply, his words coming with a rush."Colonel Pickram, I want your fastest horse. I must be in Natchez by Sunday.""Of course you can have anything I've got. Has anything happened?""Yes—a great deal—for me."Colonel Pickram noted the strangely flushed face and was more deeply puzzled than ever."You forget to-morrow at Canton. You are going to meet your opponent there. It is the deciding day. You can't afford to miss that! It's your big chance!"Everett shook his head smiling. When he answered his eyes were full of the expression of a man who is drunk with joy."No," he said, "my chance lies in Natchez next week—the great chance of my life!"Colonel Pickram looked at him amazed. Had the man lost his mind!"But the people here! Your speech! They are waiting for you to finish it!"Sargent had already picked up his hat and cane."Tell them I am ill—that I cannot go on. Tell them anything, Colonel, I don't care what. I can't say anything more. I haven't a moment to lose. Good-bye to all of you!"
CHAPTER VIII
ORANGE BLOSSOMS AND PRISON BARS
The fiddles were hushed. The sounds of gaiety and laughter died on the lips of the merry throng. The guests rushed for their wraps; word was sent to awaken the slaves and harness the horses for the hasty departure; everywhere were the subdued murmurs and confusion of the dismayed gathering.
Through it all Judge Houston and Natalia went calmly to the carriage, the startled crowd falling back with averted faces, letting them pass in silence.
Natalia sank into the carriage, exhausted and trembling. The strain of the last hour, with its culmination, had brought to her a relinquishing of all restraint. She found herself clinging to Judge Houston's arm as if in some way the mere contact with another would bring back her usual strength and composure. They had passed into the highway before either of them spoke.
"Are you sure that he is safe—that I am not too late?" The words trembled through her lips.
"I am positive of it," Judge Houston answered, forcing his words to speak encouragement. "The jail was the best place possible to take him. Indeed, it was the only safe place. You know the reputation of the lower element of this town, and Lemuel always had a strong following among them. He has often admitted they were his political backing. And this trouble between him and Morgan was what made me fear some sort of an outbreak. You see—at the bottom of it all, was some argument about slavery." The old man drew down his brows thoughtfully. "It seems to be developing into a curse upon our heads. God knows where it will lead us! And Morgan was unwise—he spoke out his views too literally—his statements aroused ill-feeling in others, so that his attitude now is telling against him." He stopped abruptly and pressed Natalia's hand. "I tell you all this," he continued more calmly, "to show you why I thought the jail a safe place. If there should be an unusual excitement, the restlessness of the mob would be quelled by the State's protection. I would not leave him, even to come to you, until I knew he was perfectly safe."
A light wind had risen with the night, and from the south there came a sea of racing, mackerel clouds. The night was intensely dark. Except for the flicker of the carriage lanterns and the few stars that shone through the breaks in the clouds, their surroundings were indistinguishable.
"I can't bear the thought of him there, surrounded by enemies, and I, out here—safe and protected. Why didn't you come for me sooner, Uncle Felix!" Natalia cried. "Drive faster, Zebby! Lash the horses!"
Though the carriage rocked from side to side, and the horses were galloping at their utmost speed, urged on by the singing whip, it seemed to Natalia they were dragging along inch by inch.
At last she loosened her hold of Judge Houston's arm and leaned back against the cushions.
"My wedding night!" she murmured, covering her face with her hands. "My wedding night!"
Finally the lights of the town twinkled down the road.
"Here is the town, Natalia," Judge Houston cried, putting his arm across her shoulders and drawing her to him. "We shall be there in a few minutes now and you will see that he is safe, as I told you."
Zebediah cracked his whip incessantly, and in a few minutes more the suburbs had been passed and the street lights were about them. The town seemed utterly deserted, a quiet gloom hovering over the darkened houses, until they drew near the Mansion House Tavern. Here people were standing in excited groups. A block beyond the street was a seething mass of men. Standing on the fence of the courthouse yard, a rough, savage faced man was inciting the crowd, gesticulating wildly to make himself heard above the noise. There was a deep, vibrating murmur rising from the crowd, filling the air with a foreboding sound. On all sides one could read plainly indignation and violent antagonism.
Judge Houston's face grew pale and set as they drew nearer the jail. One glance at the crowd had told him what it represented. Already the mutterings of that great trouble which was a few years later to separate a united country, had begun to spread; into the midst of these people had come a man from the centre of the opposition country, who had proclaimed his beliefs and fought for them, killing his opponent in the difficulty. The feeling of the masses centred against this stranger.
The old gentleman who had weathered the years of pioneer life and had seen the deep-rooted evil widening the breach, knew that Morgan Talbot's life hung in the balance. The crowd about him bespoke its ingredients—the lower elements of the town, inflamed by the followers of Jervais into a recklessness that meant almost anything. He also realized that the best element—the friends he could call upon to defend Talbot—were all guests at the wedding and had not yet returned to the town.
"I cyant go no fudder, Jedge."
Zebediah's whisper broke upon Judge Houston's great fear. He stood up in the carriage and surveyed the crowd. It was dense up to the gate of the jail yard. In that moment it rushed over him that the sight of Natalia might have some effect upon the crowd. He glanced at her quickly and saw that she was determined and self-controlled.
"We shall have to walk—take my arm—now."
Taking one of the lanterns that hung to the dashboard of the carriage, and holding it in his hand so that the light fell full upon Natalia, showing distinctly her white gown and jewels, Judge Houston half led, half pushed her into the midst of the crowd.
The effect was as he had expected. The crowd turned and looked at them; a whispered exclamation followed; then, during an ominous silence, a pathway was made for them, through which they passed to the gate of the jail yard.
There the keeper laid a detaining hand on Judge Houston's arm. "If it comes to the worst—if they make a rush, we are powerless!"
"Keep them back until our friends return to town."
The old gentleman's voice rang with a new firmness. "They all know and are coming to our assistance. I shall be back here in a minute and stand by you."
"Is it as bad as that?" Natalia asked so quietly that Judge Houston looked searchingly into her face. In her expression he saw the look that always comes into the faces of the brave.
"No, I don't believe they will do anything—they wouldn't dare! They are not so violent as they look."
At the end of the walk they stood at last before the jail door. When they had passed within and Natalia heard the bolt shoot into place, and knew that the threatening crowd without was separated from her by the heavy iron door, she leaned against it for renewed strength. Then, taking Judge Houston's outstretched hand, she followed him down the dimly lit corridor, only vaguely aware that she would find Morgan in such a place. Still gripping the outstretched hand she followed the old man into the cell.
Morgan Talbot and Joel were outlined against the window. From without came the subdued murmur of the multitude so that they did not hear the door open. Suddenly Morgan turned and faced them. Starting back, he looked from Natalia to Judge Houston, his eyes bloodshot and staring.
For a minute no one spoke.
"Why did you bring her?" Morgan's voice came harshly. "Don't you know what that crowd out there means? You could have spared her this at least!"
He motioned to the window where Joel still leaned against the bars, listening intently. There was no look of affection as he glanced from Natalia to the old man; it was hardly one of recognition.
Natalia moved quickly across the floor, putting both hands upon his shoulders.
"He brought me because I would not stay away, Morgan. Do you think I could have left you in this awful crowd?" Her voice broke and she began to tremble violently. "Morgan—what did you do? How did it happen?"
"How did it happen!" He stared down into her face, his hands hanging limp at his sides, his voice hard and grating. "How did it happen? Don't you know? I am a murderer!"
With the words Natalia shuddered and withdrew her hands.
"No! No! don't say that! Don't use that word! it was an accident. I know it was—tell me so!"
Talbot continued to stare at her strangely. When she drew away from him, he laughed abruptly.
"I knewthatwould make you feel differently," he said almost in a whisper, as if to himself. "I knew it would kill your love for me," he ended with a sob.
Natalia lifted her head proudly. Instantly her hands were clinging to him again, and her voice as she spoke to him deepened vibrantly.
"Nothingcould alter my love, Morgan. I have come here to convince you of that. Look at me! Can't you see?"
Judge Houston went quietly across the room and taking Joel by the arm, led him to the door. They went out noiselessly, unnoticed by the others. "Look here, Joel," said the Judge as they stood in the corridor, "I want you to realize with me that public feeling will probably affect the verdict of the coroner's jury. We have a big battle ahead of us." The young fellow shook his head sadly.
"Don't you see, Morgan?" Natalia within was saying to Morgan, her voice rising as she strove to force some response into his eyes. "Don't you see I am in my wedding dress? I came as soon as Uncle Felix told me."
He stared at her a long time, the wild, hunted look gradually dying out, leaving only an expression of dumb misery.
"Natalia! Natalia!" he murmured at last, as if realizing for the first time that it was she. "Natalia—that is your wedding dress! Oh, my God!" he cried out, turning away from her and leaning against the wall. "It can never be now—never—never!" Then came the dry, hard sobs of a man who sees nothing but despair before him.
Natalia did not attempt to stop him. When he sank on to the cot, his face buried in his hands, she went and sat beside him, her eyes dry and glowing. She knew a more soothing relief had come to him than any words she might employ.
As they sat there, the folds of her wedding dress falling about them, the candles burned low, until only a ghostly gleam sparkled upon her necklace of pearls and sapphires.
Gradually the low murmuring without grew fainter and fainter, then died away entirely. The silence about them deepened; yet neither of them moved. The minutes raced along. Once, Natalia rose and lighted another candle, the first one having burned into its socket.
At last, when Morgan lifted his face to hers, he found its beauty and quiet encouragement a continuance of the peace her presence had brought him.
"Natalia," he whispered, "you love me still? It has made no difference?"
She smiled at him bravely.
"Nothingcould."
"Are you honest with me, Natalia—or is it only pity?"
For answer she leaned forward and kissed him.
"Then it is true," he said, drawing her hand into his, his face brightening for a second. Then again, crept back the look of deep misery. "I believe you still love me, Natalia, but we cannot be married now. No, I wouldn't ask it of you. I love you too dearly to have your life ruined by being tied to amurderer."
"Don't use that word, Morgan. Please don't use it. You are not a murderer. It was all an accident. Am I not right? Tell me about it and I can show you with your own words that I am right."
Morgan stretched his hands out on the cot, his fingers moving nervously in an incessant thumping.
"We spoke of it that morning—thismorning," he added. "It seems a thousand years ago now! I was telling you about our game of poker at the tavern, don't you remember? To-day it was the same all over again. He had not raised the money,—he had only brought the slaves themselves to pay his gambling debts. One he pointed out, as worthy to pay any man's debts—a mulatto girl, a pitiful, beautiful little creature that wept as she was brought before us. I told Jervais that I played cards with gentlemen for pleasure and not for traffic in human souls! I told him he was insulting me." He stopped a moment and shuddered. "It all happened very quickly. He struck me a blow—I returned it. Then I saw him draw his pistol and spring on me. His hands were about my neck when I had gotten the pistol out of his grasp. As they tightened I knew I was going to kill him. I can feel his hands loosening now, after the report. Great God! I can feel him slipping down, and down, until he lay dead on the floor before me!" He rose suddenly from the cot and stretched out both arms helplessly before him.
Natalia listened intently. Not an inflection of his voice escaped her. When he finished she met his eyes resolutely.
"It was not your fault. You did not do it intentionally. It was self defence."
"But I knew I was going to kill him. I knew it all the time."
"Yes, but you had to! No one could blame you! You are as innocent as I! The law will protect you."
Morgan gazed at her a long time in silence.
"Natalia,—help me to do what is right. It rests with you to make it easier for me. Don't come back here any more after to-night. Don't let me see you again. This must be the last time, dear."
He went to the cot where she still sat and looked down into her eyes.
"I am going away if I am liberated, and I am never going to see you again. It is the only way I can prove my love to you,—the only thing that would be just to you."
Natalia's eyes wavered from his burning glance. Suddenly she rose and went to the door, her face illumined by a wonderful smile.
"Where are you going, Natalia," Morgan exclaimed.
She did not answer. Knocking on the door until it was opened, she faced Judge Houston and Joel calmly.
"Uncle Felix, I wish our marriage to be performed to-night. Will you send for a minister?"
Judge Houston looked at her, startled, then his eyes sought Talbot's for an explanation. Coming back again to Natalia's, he saw the decision was hers.
"Would it not be better to wait until to-morrow?" he suggested, quickly aware of incongruity in such a marriage.
"No, it is not a time for waiting. I must prove to Morgan that this has made no difference in my love for him."
Finally the old gentleman turned away from her, reading the force in her face that brooked no interference. When he was at the door he heard Morgan speaking.
"Stop!" he commanded. "I refuse to be married to-night. Natalia does not know what she is doing."
"You both see I am perfectly calm," she said, turning to Joel and Judge Houston. "I desire above everything that we shall be married to-night. I beg of you—Morgan—"
Morgan shook his head with a determination that was greater than hers. With the decision his face gained some of its lost brilliancy. He became once more the handsome, virile man of that morning.
"When I am a free man, Natalia—when I am cleared—if you still wish it then—not before. I am determined."
The four of them were silent for a few moments. So much was at stake at that moment that each one felt the trembling of the future within his hands. At last Judge Houston stepped forward and wrung Morgan's hand.
"You are right, Morgan," he said, with his eyes bent admiringly upon the young man. "You are a brave fellow." Then he turned to Natalia. "Everything outside is quiet. The danger has subsided and I think it is time we were going back home."
"Must I go?" Natalia started, and turned swiftly back to Morgan. "Had we not better stay longer? I don't want to leave you, Morgan."
Judge Houston went towards the door. Holding his watch in his hand, he looked at it intently for several minutes.
"It is after two o'clock." He finally turned to Natalia and drew her away with him. "It will be better for Morgan to rest, and you, too. We should only excite him by staying longer. Take my advice, Natalia."
"Yes, go," Morgan urged, smiling bravely as she drew back at the door and looked appealingly to him. "I am all right now. See how quiet I am! It was brave of you to come, Natalia. God bless you both!" he ended with a break in his voice.
"We shall come back in the morning," Judge Houston said, attempting a cheerful tone. "Try to get a little sleep, and don't think too much about it. Joel—you make him rest. Everything will come out all right in the end—take my word for it."
Natalia broke from his hold, and ran back to Morgan, clinging to him as if it were their last parting.
"I shall not sleep," she whispered, her head buried on his shoulder. "I shall be thinking of you all the time—thinking of you and praying for you. And early in the morning I am coming back."
A moment more and the iron door had been slammed and bolted between them.
Outside the night had grown cool. Gusts of wind blew through the trees, ominously; across the sky the clouds drifted in restless, ever-changing forms.
Natalia was silent as she went out to the carriage, raising her eyes only once to glance furtively at the deserted street. Everything was strangely still now. No one was in sight, where a short while before was a murmuring throng.
The old man sitting beside her in the carriage could find no words to break the silence of the long drive home. Only by the affectionate pressure of his hand did Natalia know that his thoughts were continually of her.
A single light was burning in the hall when the carriage stopped before the house. The veranda and grove were deserted, the illuminations of the garden had been extinguished, and just beginning to show in the fitful light of the late moon were the ghostly blossoms of the magnolias.
Mrs. Houston and Millicent came to the door at the sound of the carriage, meeting them before they had entered the house.
"Is he safe?" Millicent cried.
"Yes, he is safe," Natalia answered, dully. Then turning to Mrs. Houston, she asked, "Where is she?"
The old lady looked towards the door.
"She is in there," nodding in the direction of the parlour. "She has not left his side since they placed him there. She would let no one stay with her."
Natalia hesitated, as she entered the hall, and stood irresolutely before the closed door.
"I must say something to her. It is only right. Yet—" she clasped her hands helplessly, searching the faces before her as if for some assistance. "Yet—whatcan I say?"
Standing there helplessly, she did not hear the parlour door open, nor see Mrs. Jervais motionlessly looking at her. Her face was not tear-stained. Only in her eyes did the others read a grief which had already crystallized into a brilliant hardness, emanating from her like the diamond cross that sparkled on her breast. She did not move from her position in the doorway, all the time gazing at Natalia with a concentrated expression that gathered intensity as she waited.
Suddenly Natalia turned and saw her. Holding out her arms impetuously she made a step towards her—then stopped. The other woman's face repelled her.
"What can I say—what can I tell you?" Natalia murmured. "You must know how I feel for you—how I suffer with you."
Mrs. Jervais' eyes seemed to be burning into the girl before her.
"Suffer! What do you know of that? Why should you suffer? You have not lost the one you love—yet." She stopped abruptly, lending a sharp accent to the last word.
Natalia drew back. The implied suggestion seemed to scream at her from the woman's blazing eyes.
"If it were not for you he would still be here." Mrs. Jervais made a step nearer. "You asked me to come here and do this for you. I did, and what has it brought me—death! It is accursed—this place of your ancestors. So were they—allof them! When they lived here it brought them nothing but death. It drove your mother to madness. And now—" her voice in its calmness grew even more sinister, "it will bring its curse uponyou. Do you think amurderercould bring you any happiness?"
Natalia shrank back from her, reaching out for the steadying hand of Judge Houston.
"Mrs. Jervais," he expostulated gently, "Natalia is suffering, too. You forget that in your own grief. Have you no kind words for her?"
"It is no time for kind words, Felix Houston. It is only bitterness and hatred that I have now! Why should I feel kindly towards a woman who has brought a man here that he might kill my husband? When she has lost as I have, then I shall be kind, perhaps! And it will not be long that she will wait! I shall not leave a stone unturned to punish with death the one who caused it."
She turned abruptly back into the room and closed the door. In the intense stillness of the house the key grated harshly in the lock, as she turned it. Without a word Mrs. Houston put her arm around Natalia and led her toward the stairs. When she stood on the steps Natalia turned and faced them.
"Don't any of you come with me," she said faintly. "I must be alone. No, Millicent, not to-night. I only want to be alone now." And turning from them, she walked slowly up the stairs, clinging to the rail to steady herself while the others stood silently watching her.
Opening the door, the flickering light of a candle burned far into its socket greeted her. At first she stopped in the centre of the room, her hands clasped vise-like, while the excitement and strain gradually dropped away from her, leaving only a wave of utter weariness. She sank into a chair near the massive, four-post bed, gazing listlessly at her wedding veil and bouquet of gardenias which lay carelessly upon the sheets where they had been thrown. Vaguely she felt their significance; in a way they represented her wedding day—the day that had dawned so brilliantly, and was now only a crumpled, withered memory.
A rasping pain shot through her, and leaning forward she pressed both hands to her temples. Was this the real side of life that had come to her at last? Was this what she had so yearned for—a grappling with things that counted? Ah, no, it could not be that, for this was only despair and horror. Suddenly she shivered violently with the thought that perhaps she was no better fitted to combat it than her mother had been.
A weird, ghostly light on her bride's veil drew her back once more to her surroundings. Looking up she saw the pale outline of the window against the dark room. With the realization that another day was dawning, there rushed over her for the first time, in its full meaning, the horrifying thought that her lover had killed a man. Hitherto the excitement had kept her from any analysis of her own emotions—everything had been swept aside in the thought of Morgan. But now, facing her pitilessly, was the awful necessity of introspection, of seeing the situation from her viewpoint, of being honest with herself.Wouldit make any difference to her? A feeling of self-hate swept over her that she should consider herself in the least. Yet, fight against it as she would, the question insistently remained. But there would be time enough for all such thoughts after the trial. The trial! Mrs. Jervais' words rang in her ears again. She started at the thought. Would Morgan be cleared? Was there any doubt? The horror of her fancies choked her and she rose from her chair as if seeking something that moment, that would aid her.
As she turned towards the window, her eyes fell upon Dicey, sitting upright in a chair against the wall, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes staring straight into her own. The old slave had kept the vigil with her mistress.
Dicey rose and made towards her.
"Will yer go ter bed, now, honey?" Her voice was very low, caressing and gentle. "Hit'll soon be day and yer ought ter tak er lil res'."
"Rest! I can't, Mammy. I must do something to help him. He is to be tried for murder! He must be saved. Oh, Mammy," her voice broke with a sob. "What can I do?"
She went to the window and raised it, letting the chill breeze of the daybreak blow upon her face and neck. All the world in its dreary greyness spoke to her only of despair and death. Finally she felt Dicey's arm about her, gently drawing her back from the window. The strange look of visions was alive in the old slave's eyes once more, more burning and intense than ever.
"Yer kin sabe him, honey-chile, easy 'nuff," she whispered. "All yer got ter do is ter sen' word to Marse Sargent ter cum an' 'fend him."
A weary smile flitted across Natalia's lips as she thought of the old woman's love for her master. Then her face grew serious again.
"I'll doanything, Mammy. But he is not here. Where can I find him?"
"Yer jes' write de letter an' I'll make Jonas—dat's his body-servant—fetch hit ter him. I knows whar his wharbouts is. I'se been er keepin' up wid him for fo' days. Yer writes de letter an' he'll git hit ter him."
Natalia stared at her a moment, then going quickly to her desk, pulled out her portfolio. When the paper was spread before her she paused, thoughtfully.
"How strange," she said half aloud. "I remember it so distinctly now. He told me if I ever needed him—" her lips curved into the smile of the little girl, and the tears fell fast upon the sheet of paper.
Before the address was dry, Dicey was flying with it towards the town.
CHAPTER IX
THE HONOURABLE SARGENT EVERETT
In a little village, far off in the eastern part of the State, a great crowd was assembling. The planters and their wives and children, every one from the adjoining counties, were going into the village that morning. Some rode horses; others mules; some were in crude wagons without springs; others in old coaches no longer fit for regular service; and many on foot—all of them followed by their favourite slaves. It was to be a great day in the lives of these simple country folk. Tidings had gone forth that the great lawyer was to speak to them that day, telling them all about their rights; explaining to them the mysteries of their great Constitution, and the importance of proper representation. Every man felt it his special duty to hear what was going to be said, and although this celebrated lawyer was not of their political beliefs, being a Whig while the county was Democratic, they were glad of the opportunity to hear a man speak, whose name was becoming a byword throughout the State. Though un-lettered, hard-fisted woodland patriots caring little for the outside world except in what would bring them absolute freedom, they were still keenly alive to the needs and laws that would open their great forests to the civilized world.
And while the sun rose higher and the brilliance of the June morning deepened, and the crowd grew larger and more impatient, the man who had caused all this interest sat in the cool shade of a veranda, looking steadily out before him through deeply brooding eyes.
It was a beautiful scene of wide, luxuriant cotton fields, stretching out before him. Nearby, a garden of luxuriant flowers, guarded by smoothly clipped box hedges, filled the air with a delicious fragrance.
Beside him on the veranda, comfortably lounging in a spacious rocking chair, sat his host, Colonel Pickram; a portly old gentleman, bluff and hearty, and red of face. Beyond, through the open window, came the laughter and gay chatter of the two daughters of the house, healthy, comely girls who moved about the room, giving directions for what was to be a sumptuous dinner.
Colonel Pickram gazed at his guest under questioning brows. The great lawyer was not to-day as he had known him before. The virility and life seemed to have lessened in him since the last visit; he was no longer the sparkling conversationalist he had known before; the winning humour that had drawn every one to him was gone. As he sat there silent, his hands clasped en his knees, his eyes full of a sad expression of yearning, even the dull perception of the self-satisfied farmer was aware that he was not himself.
"Mr. Everett," Colonel Pickram broke the long silence, "you've been working too hard on the campaign. It's telling on you. I reckon you're mighty glad to-morrow's the last day."
Everett looked up abstractedly.
"Yes—I'm glad to-morrow sees the end of this trip—and yet," he drew himself together responsively, "it has been a wonderful experience. Whenever I get nearer to the people and begin to like them all the more after I know them, and find them liking me—I feel that I have accomplished so much more than merely winning their votes. That is what I love in this work—the winning of friends. And then, Colonel," he glanced almost affectionately at his surroundings, "being in a home like this always gives me such pleasant memories to carry away with me. Still, it makes me very homesick at times." His voice lowered again and the sadness crept back into his eyes. "It takes me back to my old home days. I'd give almost anything to be back there to-day. But this ambition!" He sighed, a half humourous, half sorrowful expression twisting his lips. "It is wonderful what it will make us give up."
The Colonel crossed one leg deliberately over the other, blowing a long line of smoke between them.
"Well, sir, I've often wondered if the game of politics was worth the candle. Here I am, with my two fine lassies, as good girls as you'll ever find in any country, and a plain home, but it's comfortable enough, and plenty of slaves and mules to make a crop and pay my bills. It's all I want and I'm right happy—just as contented as if I owned the world. But then—I'm old and you're young. I look back and you look forward. That's what makes the difference, I reckon."
"But you are right, Colonel, and I am wrong. All a fellow works for in this life is a happy home; and it seems I'm never going to have that—at least the kind I mean, the complete one. It gets further and further away as I get older. I used to say that when I was thirty I would have all those I loved about me. Look at me now!" He spread out his hands futilely. "I'm nearly thirty, living alone, a bachelor, and many times, for all my gay spirits and friends, terribly lonely."
"You ought to get married. Why don't you? There are plenty of nice girls everywhere."
Everett winced and turned abruptly away. When he spoke again his face was towards the cotton fields. "But they don't want a cripple for a husband," he answered the old man's remark. "They want a man of fine proportions, who will do them credit when they are seen together. They want one who—" he narrowed his eyes a moment, and in them came the tenderness of bygone days, "—who will go to church with them, and send them beautiful nosegays and take them to dances." He ended, smiling upon the Colonel's surprised countenance. "I once heard a woman say, Colonel," he began again, more seriously, "that she chose her husband because he looked well in a ball-room. And I don't blame her—perfection and beauty are the greatest factors in our lives."
The old Colonel smiled over his pipe.
"I'm afraid, Mr. Everett, that you are a much better lawyer than a judge of the ladies. I have a higher opinion of them than you have. They are not half so silly as you paint them."
"You misunderstand me, Colonel," Everett answered hurriedly. "I revere them more than any man. But they love the beautiful in life, and they are beautiful themselves. My bitterness comes only from my inability to give them what they demand."
Colonel Pickram grunted sarcastically.
"You can give them a good deal, I think. I'd like to see the woman who wouldn't be satisfied to be a Congressman's wife and spend her winters in Washington. The trouble with you, Mr. Everett, and you'll pardon me for saying it, is that you've never been in love."
Sargent rose from his chair almost abruptly. Walking to the end of the veranda and back again, he faced Colonel Pickram, smiling down into the rough old fellow's face as if he were much his elder.
"Perhaps you are right, Colonel," he said, taking out his watch. "Time's up, however, so we had better drop dreaming and be on our way to grapple with politics."
Squaring his shoulders and throwing back his head, a gesture of his earlier days that clung to him still, Sargent threw off the melancholy of the past day, and became once more the man who charmed people by the thousands. Colonel Pickram noticed the quick change and pondered over it. "Big men were curious creatures," he reflected. "They could jump from one mood into another just as easily as a travelling magician he saw last week, could change a rabbit into a pocket handkerchief."
As they passed across the meadow, towards the village, the signal of their approach was given. The multitude left their lunches, and hurried towards the platform from which the speech was to be made.
Every one's neck was craned to catch the first glimpse of the two men as they approached. One they knew well, though in his linen waistcoat and Sunday stock—which had already wellnigh brought on an attack of apoplexy—Colonel Pickram did not look familiar. They noticed the slow and pompous dignity with which he moved beside the stranger, and felt instinctively that he considered this the proudest day of his life. The man beside him walked with the aid of a cane and dragged one foot slightly after him. The crowd stared. Was it possible that this unobtrusive young man, in a black coat and chimney-pot hat, could be the one they had heard so much about? They looked at him curiously, drawn unconsciously by his kindly dark eyes, and the winning smile upon his handsome face. But he did not represent to them a political champion. Some mistake had been made. They were evidently the dupes of some jest that had been played upon them.
While they speculated over the matter, Colonel Pickram led the young man to a place before the platform where the crowd pressed closest. Here a few introductions were made, after which the word went over the gathering, that the small, limping man was really Sargent Everett.
As they waited, he climbed the steps of the platform and looked down into the crowd of faces. With the removal of his hat, his aspect changed suddenly. He looked taller, the high polished forehead lent a dignity and breadth to his whole physique. The enthusiasm and intellect that always glowed in his eyes when he faced an audience gave out sparks of magnetism that quieted the waiting throng into an inspiring audience.
During the ensuing moments of waiting it seemed to them that the warmth and friendliness of his glance was shed upon each one of them individually. When his lips parted and his opening words came forth—
"FELLOW CITIZENS! By the Father of Waters I have used this greeting; on the banks of the great Ohio I have spoken it; here I say it again, and many hundreds of miles east of us, west of us, north of us, I can still employ these words and thrill with the knowledge that before me are—'My fellow citizens.'"
—the crowd fell under the spell of the man's electrifying talent and listened with bated breath.
Seeing him then one would have said that he was the same as when he had made that wonderful speech that convicted the highwayman; the one who had led so forcibly in the Legislature when the State's new Constitution was formulated; who had thrilled many audiences in New Orleans; who had made his name sound far into the North when he had conducted a famous trial in Kentucky. And he had been the same, years making no change except to deepen and intensify his genius, until a few months before, when, almost indescribably, yet vividly discernible to his intimates, a difference had come. The world did not know; he was still lighthearted and buoyant to it; but to those who loved him best when alone with him, there was a strange loss of youth in his countenance, an abstraction, almost a lessening of that spontaneous sympathy which was such a potent ingredient of his charm. But in his public life there was no difference. Standing before a crowd, and meeting its warm, inspiring glances, any thought of personal effort was lost. He became a wonderful machine which throbbed and pulsated with the dynamic force of a great mind.
So it was that day before the gathering in the little village. Though before his speech he had sunk deep into a valley of shadows and knew well it would be the same again when the excitement had died out, now that he was facing them, he was only aware of the powerful influence that always made him charm his audience.
He made only a few gestures as he spoke, and even then, the expression of his face and the movement of his hands were perfectly attuned to the subject. There was nothing theatrical; one saw and understood the general effect only. There was no time for any criticism or thought. The words came in a constant flowing sound and through them the magnetism of the man glowed, reaching each listener with an irresistible force that drew him with a surrendering of beliefs, of convictions, of desires, often even against his personal wish. His face, illumined by the inward fire of his imagination, grew steadily in beauty and nobility, until it became fascinating with the brilliance of the thoughts reflected through it. His well moulded features, showing clear-cut and perfect in the ivory whiteness which had recently come to them, drew even those who did not understand the wonderful flow of words; indeed, in all his speeches this look of idealism was ever uppermost—an expression which none of the portrait painters of his day were able to reproduce. When he realized that the attention of the audience was his, he paused. Then, with renewed energy, he plunged deeper into his subject, and was reaching the height to which his forensic talent swept him, when an incident on the outskirts of the crowd caught his attention. Some one had just ridden up on a horse and was trying to force his way through the crowd. Evidently there was resistance on the part of the listeners and voices were raised in protest against the newcomer's insistence. Then, several men pushed aside and made a path for the man, and Sargent saw a negro making his way slowly through the crowd towards him. As he drew nearer he recognized Jonas. Climbing up the ladder to the platform the negro did not hesitate one moment until he had thrust a letter into-Sargent's hand.
Sargent stopped in the midst of the speech and looked at Jonas, half frowning, half smiling at the negro's temerity in reaching him through the crowd.
"Marse Sargent, please sah, read dat lettah—right now, sah! Hit's a mattah ob life an' death, sah!"
Sargent turned back to his audience, smiling. "One moment, please," he said, laughing down into the sea of upturned expectant faces, "I think my opponents have put up some joke on me. I want to read it to you and then we can laugh over it together." Then he tore open the letter indifferently.
"Lawdy, I sho wuz glad ter heah yer voice, Marse Sargent. I'se been er gwine ober dis heah kentry fer three days er sarchin' fer yer. Ole Dicey tole me fer ter git out on de road an' fin' yer an' ter gib yer dis heah lettah. She done said hit wuz a mattah ob life an' death," Jonas ended panting, looking around on the crowd and grinning with the success of his quest.
Sargent did not hear his words. At the first glance at the handwriting he had started. While he read the crowd waited breathlessly. When he had finished he turned to Colonel Pickram, his face flushed deeply, his words coming with a rush.
"Colonel Pickram, I want your fastest horse. I must be in Natchez by Sunday."
"Of course you can have anything I've got. Has anything happened?"
"Yes—a great deal—for me."
Colonel Pickram noted the strangely flushed face and was more deeply puzzled than ever.
"You forget to-morrow at Canton. You are going to meet your opponent there. It is the deciding day. You can't afford to miss that! It's your big chance!"
Everett shook his head smiling. When he answered his eyes were full of the expression of a man who is drunk with joy.
"No," he said, "my chance lies in Natchez next week—the great chance of my life!"
Colonel Pickram looked at him amazed. Had the man lost his mind!
"But the people here! Your speech! They are waiting for you to finish it!"
Sargent had already picked up his hat and cane.
"Tell them I am ill—that I cannot go on. Tell them anything, Colonel, I don't care what. I can't say anything more. I haven't a moment to lose. Good-bye to all of you!"