The raft drifted on into the day's heat; and when at last Yancy awoke, it was to find Henry and Keppel seated beside him, each solacing him with a small moist hand, while they regarded him out of the serious unblinking eyes of childhood.
“Howdy!” said he, smiling up at them.
“Howdy!” they answered, a sociable grin puckering their freckled faces.
“Do you find yo'self pretty well, sir?” inquired Keppel.
“I find myself pretty weak,” replied Yancy.
“Me and Kep has been watching fo' to keep the flies from stinging you,” explained Henry.
“We-all takes turns doin' that,” Keppel added.
“Well, and how many of you-all are there?” asked Yancy.
“There's six of we-uns and the baby.”
They covertly examined this big bearded man who had lost his nevvy, and almost his life. They had overheard their father and mother discuss his plans and knew when he was recovered from his wounds if he did not speedily meet up with his nevvy at a place called Memphis, he was going back to Lincoln County, which was near where they came from, to have the hide off a gentleman of the name of Slosson. They imagined the gentleman named Slosson would find the operation excessively disagreeable; and that Yancy should be recuperating for so unique an enterprise invested him with a romantic interest. Henry squirmed closer to the recumbent figure on the bed.
“Me and Kep would like mighty well to know how you-all are goin' to strip the hide offen to that gentleman's back,” he observed.
Yancy instantly surmised that the reference was to Slosson.
“I reckon I'll feel obliged to just naturally skin him,” he explained.
“Sho', will he let you do that?” they demanded.
“He won't be consulted none. And his hide will come off easy once I get hold of him by the scruff of the neck.” Yancy's speech was gentle and his lips smiling, but he meant a fair share of what he said.
“Sho', is that the way you do it?” And round-eyed they gazed down on this fascinating stranger.
“I may have to touch him up with a tickler,” continued Yancy, who did not wish to prove disappointing. “I reckon you-all know what a tickler is?”
They nodded.
“What if Mr. Slosson totes a tickler, too?” asked Keppel insinuatingly. This opened an inviting field for conjecture.
“That won't make no manner of difference. Why? Because it's a powerful drawback fo' a man to know he's in the wrong, just as it's a heap in yo' favor to know you're in the right.”
“My father's got a tickler; I seen it often,” vouchsafed Henry.
“It's a foot long, with a buck horn handle. Gee whiz!—he keeps it keen; but he never uses it on no humans,” said Keppel.
“Of course he don't; he's a high-spirited, right-actin' gentleman. But what do you reckon he'd feel obliged to do if a body stole one of you-all?” inquired Yancy.
“Whoop! He'd carve 'em deep!” cried Keppel.
At this moment Mrs. Cavendish appeared, bringing Yancy's breakfast. In her wake came Connie with the baby, and the three little brothers who were to be accorded the cherished privilege of seeing the poor gentleman eat.
“You got a nice little family, ma'am,” said Yancy.
“Well, I reckon nobody complains mo' about their children than me, but I reckon nobody gets mo' comfort out of their children either. I hope you-all are a-goin' to be able to eat, you ain't had much nourishment. La, does yo' shoulder pain you like that? Want I should feed you?”
“I am sorry, ma'am, but I reckon you'll have to,” Yancy spoke regretfully. “I expect I been a passel of bother to you.”
“No, you ain't. Here's Dick to see how you make out with the chicken,” Polly added, as Cavendish presented himself at the opening that did duty as a door.
“This looks like bein' alive, stranger,” he commented genially. He surveyed the group of which Yancy was the center. “If them children gets too numerous, just throw 'em out.”
“You-all ain't told me yo' name yet?” said Yancy.
“It's Cavendish. Richard Keppel Cavendish, to get it all off my mind at a mouthful. And this lady's Mrs. Cavendish.”
“My name's Yancy—Bob Yancy.”
Mr. Cavendish exchanged glances with Mrs. Cavendish. By a nod of her dimpled chin the lady seemed to urge some more extended confidence on his part. Chills and Fever seated himself at the foot of Yancy's bed.
“Stranger, what I'm a-goin' to tell you, you'll take as bein' said man to man,” he began, with the impressive air of one who had a secret of great moment to impart; and Yancy hastened to assure him that whatever passed between them, his lips should be sealed. “It ain't really that, but I don't wish to appear proud afo' no man's, eyes. First, I want to ask you, did you ever hear tell of titles?”
Polly and the children hung breathlessly on Mr. Yancy's reply.
“I certainly have,” he rejoined promptly. “Back in No'th Carolina we went by the chimneys.”
“Chimneys? What's chimneys got to do with titles, Mr. Yancy?” asked Polly, while her husband appeared profoundly mystified.
“A whole lot, ma'am. If a man had two chimneys to his house we always called him Colonel, if there was four chimneys we called him General.”
“La!” cried Polly, smiling and showing a number of new dimples. “Dick don't mean militia titles, Mr. Yancy.”
“Them's the only ones I know anything of,” confessed Yancy.
“Ever hear tell of lords?” inquired Chills and Fever, tilting his head on one side.
“No.” And Yancy was quick to notice the look of disappointment on the faces of his new friends. He felt that for some reason, which was by no means clear to him, he had lost caste.
“Are you ever heard of royalty?” and Cavendish fixed the invalid's wandering glance.
“You mean kings?”
“I shore do.”
Yancy regarded him reflectively and made a mighty mental effort.
“There's them Bible kings—” he ventured at length.
Mr. Cavendish shook his head.
“Them's sacred kings. Are you familiar with any of the profane kings, Mr. Yancy?”
“Well, taking them as they come, them Bible kings seemed to average pretty profane.” Yancy was disposed to defend this point.
“You must a heard of the kings of England. Sho', wa'n't any of yo' folks in the war agin' him?”
“I'd plumb forgot, why my daddy fit all through that war!” exclaimed Yancy. The Cavendishes were immensely relieved. Polly beamed on the invalid, and the children hunched closer. Six pairs of eager lips were trembling on the verge of speech.
“Now you-all keep still,” said Cavendish. “I want Mr. Yancy should get the straight of this here! The various orders of royalty are kings, dukes, earls and lords. Earls is the third from the top of the heap, but lords ain't no slouch; it's a right neat little title, and them that has it can turn round in most any company.”
“Dick had ought to know, fo' he's an earl himself,” cried Polly exultantly, unable to restrain herself any longer, while a mutter came from the six little Cavendishes who had been wonderfully silent for them.
“Sho', Richard Keppel Cavendish, Earl of Lambeth! 'Sho', that was what he was! Sho'!” and some transient feeling of awe stamped itself upon their small faces as they viewed the long and limber figure of their parent.
“Is that mo' than a Colonel?” Yancy risked the question hesitatingly, but he felt that speech was expected from him.
“Yes,” said the possessor of the title.
“Would a General lay it over you any?”
“No, sir, he wouldn't.”
Yancy gazed respectfully but uncertainly at Chills and Fever.
“Then all I got to say is that I've traveled considerably, mostly between Scratch Hill and Balaam's Cross Roads, meeting with all kinds of folks; but I never seen an earl afo. I take it they are some scarce.”
“They are. I don't reckon there's another one but me in the whole United States.”
“Think of that!” gasped Yancy.
“We ain't nothin' fo' style, it bein' my opinion that where a man's a born gentleman he's got a heap of reason fo' to be grateful but none to brag,” said Cavendish.
“Dick's kind of titles are like having red hair and squint eyes. Once they get into a family they stick,” explained Polly.
“I've noticed that, 'specially about squint eyes.” Yancy was glad to plant his feet on familiar ground.
“These here titles go to the eldest son. He begins by bein' a viscount,” continued Chills and Fever. He wished Yancy to know the full measure of their splendor.
“And their wives are ladies-ain't they, Dick?”
Cavendish nodded.
“Anybody with half an eye would know you was a lady, ma'am,” said Yancy.
“Kep here is an Honorable, same as a senator or a congressman,” Cavendish went on.
“At his age, too!” commented Yancy.
“And my daughter's the Lady Constance,” said Polly.
“Havin' such a mother she ain't no choice,” observed Yancy, with an air of gentle deference.
“Dick's got the family, Mr. Yancy. My folks, the Rhetts, was plain people.”
“Some of 'em ain't so noticeably plain, either,” said Yancy.
“Sho', you've a heap of good sense, Mr. Yancy!” and Cavendish shook him warmly by the hand. “The first time I ever seen her, I says, I'll marry that lady if it takes an arm! Well, it did most of the time while I was co'tin' her.”
“La!” cried Polly, blushing furiously. “You shouldn't tell that, Dick. Mr. Yancy ain't interested.”
“Yes, sir, I'd been hearin' about old man Rhett's Polly fo' considerable of a spell,” said Cavendish, looking at Polly reflectively. “He lived up at the head waters of the Elk River. Fellows who had been to his place, when girls was mentioned would sort of shake their heads sad-like and say, 'Yes, but you had ought to see old man Rhett's Polly, all the rest is imitations!' Seemed like they couldn't get her off their minds. So I just slung my kit to my back, shouldered my rifle, and hoofed it up-stream. I says, I'll see for myself where this here paragon lays it all over the rest of her sect, but sho—the closter I came to old man Rhett the mo' I heard of Polly!”
“Dick, how you do run on,” cried Polly protestingly, but Chills and Fever's knightly soul dwelt in its illusions, and the years had not made stale his romance. Also Polly was beaming on him with a wealth of affection.
“I seen her fo' the first time as I was warmin' the trail within a mile of old man Rhett's. She was carrying a grist of co'n down to the mill in her father's ox cart. When I clapped eyes on her I says, 'I'll marry that lady. I'll make her the Countess of Lambeth—she'll shore do fo' the peerage any day!' That was yo' mommy, sneezic's!” Mr. Cavendish paused to address himself to the baby whom Connie had relinquished to him.
“You bet I made time the rest of the way. I says, 'She's sixteen if she's a day, and all looks!' I broke into old man Rhett's clearin' on a keen run. He was a settin' afo' his do' smokin' his pipe and he glanced me over kind of weary-like and says, 'Howdy!' It wa'n't much of a greetin' the way he said it either; but I figured it was some better than bein' chased off the place. So I stepped indo's, stood my rifle in a corner and hung up my cap. He was watchin' me and presently he drawled out, 'Make yo'self perfectly at home, stranger.'
“I says, 'Squire'—he wa'n't a squire, but they called him that—I says, 'Squire, my name's Cavendish. Let's get acquainted quick. I'm here fo' to co'te yo' Polly. I seen her on the road a spell back and I couldn't be better suited.'
“He says, 'You had ought to be kivered up in salt, young man, else yo'll spile in this climate.'
“I says, 'I'll keep in any climate.'
“He says, 'Polly ain't givin' her thoughts much to marryin', she's busy keepin' house fo' her pore old father.'
“I says, 'I've come here special fo' to arouse them thoughts you mention. If I seem slow.'
“He says, 'You don't. If this is yo' idea of bein' slow, I'd wish to avoid you when you was in a hurry.'
“I says, 'Put in yo' spare moments thinkin' up a suitable blessin' fo' us.'
“He says, 'You'll have yo' hands full. There's a number of young fellows hereabouts that you don't lay it over none in p'int of freshness or looks.'
“I says, 'Does she encourage any of 'em?'
“He says, 'Nope, she don't. Ain't I been tellin' you she's givin' her mind to keepin' house fo' her pore old father?'
“I says, 'If she don't encourage 'em none, she shore must disencourage 'em. I 'low she gets my help in that.'
“He says, 'They'll run you so far into the mountings, Mr. Cavendish, you'll never be heard tell of again in these parts.'
“I says, 'I'll bust the heads offen these here galoots if they try that!'
“He asks, grinnin', 'Have you arranged how yo' remains are to be sent back to yo' folks?'
“I says, 'I'm an orphan man of title, a peer of England, and you can leave me lay if it cones to that.'
“'Well,'. he says, 'if them's yo' wishes, the buzzards as good as got you.”' Cavendish lapsed into a momentary silence. It was plain that these were cherished memories.
“That's what I call co'tin!” remarked Mr. Yancy, with conviction.
The Earl of Lambeth resumed
“It was as bad as old man Rhett said it was. Sundays his do'yard looked like a militia muster. They told it on him that he hadn't cut a stick of wood since Polly was risin' twelve. I reckon, without exaggeration, I fit every unmarried man in that end of the county, and two lookin' widowers from Nashville. I served notice on to them that I'd attend to that woodpile of old man Rhett's fo' the future; that I was qualifying fo' to be his son-in-law, and seekin' his indorsement as a provider. I took 'em on one at a time as they happened along, and lambasted 'em all over the place. As fo' the Nashville widowers,” said Cavendish with a chuckle, and a nod to Polly, “I pretty nigh drownded one of 'em in the Elk. We met in mid-stream and fit it out there; and the other quit the county. That was fo'teen years ago; but, mind you, I'd do it all over again to-morrow.”
“But, Dick, you ain't telling Mr. Yancy nothin' about yo' title,” expostulated Polly.
“I'd admire to hear mo' about that,” said Yancy.
“I'm gettin' round to that. It was my great grandfather come over here from England. His name was Richard Keppel Cavendish, same as mine is. He lived back yonder on the Carolina coast and went to raisin' tobacco. I've heard my grandfather tell how he'd heard folks say his father was always hintin' in his licker that he was a heap better than he seemed, and if people only knowed the truth about him they'd respect him mo', and mebby treat him better. Well, sir, he married and riz a family; there was my grandfather and a passel of girls—and that crop of children was the only decent crop he ever riz. I've heard my grandfather tell how, when he got old enough to notice such things, he seen that his father had the look of a man with something mysterious hangin' over him, but he couldn't make it out what it was, though he gave it a heap of study. He seen, too, that let him get a taste of licker and he'd begin to throw out them hints, how if folks only knowed the truth they'd be just naturally fallin' over themselves fo' to do him a favor, instead of pickin' on him and tryin' to down him.
“My grandfather said he never knowed a man, either, with the same aversion agin labor as his father had. Folks put it down to laziness, but they misjudged him, as come out later, yet he never let on. He just went around sorrowful-like, and when there was a piece of work fo' him to do he'd spend a heap of time studyin' it, or mebby he'd just set and look at it until he was ready fo' to give it up. Appeared like he couldn't bring himself down to toil.
“Then one day he got his hands on a paper that had come acrost in a ship from England. He was readin' it, settin' in the shade; my grandfather said he always noticed he was partial to the shade, and his wife was pesterin' of him fo' to go and plow out his truck-patch, when, all at once, he lit on something in the paper, and he started up and let out a yell like he'd been shot. 'By gum, I'm the Earl of Lambeth!' he says, and took out to the nearest tavern and got b'ilin' full. Afterward he showed 'em the paper and they seen with their own eyes where Richard Keppel Cavendish, Earl of Lambeth, had died in London. My great grandfather told 'em that was his uncle; that when he left home there was several cousins—which was printed in the paper, too—but they'd up and died, so the title naturally come to him.
“Well, sir, that was the first the family ever knowed of it, and then they seen what it was he'd meant when he throwed out them hints about bein' a heap better than he seemed. He said perhaps he wouldn't never have told, only he couldn't bear to be misjudged like he'd always been.
“He never done a lick of work after that. He said he couldn't bring himself down to it; that it was demeanin' fo' a person of title fo' to labor with his hands like a nigger or a common white man. He said he'd leave it to his family to see he didn't come to want, it didn't so much matter about them; and he lived true to his principles to the day of his death, and never riz his hand except to feed himself.”
Cavendish paused. Yancy was feeling that in his own person he had experienced some of the best symptoms of a title.
“Then what?” he asked.
“Well, sir, he lived along like that, never complainin', my grandfather said, but mighty sweet and gentlelike as long as there was plenty to eat in the house. He lived to be nigh eighty, and when he seen he was goin' to die he called my grandfather to him and says, 'She's yours, Dick,'—meanin' the title—and then he says, 'There's one thing I've kep' from you. You've been a viscount ever since I come into the title, and then he went on and explained what he wanted cut on his tombstone, and had my grandfather write it out, so there couldn't be any mistake. When he'd passed away, my grandfather took the title. He said it made him feel mighty solemn and grand-like, and it come over him all at once why it was his father hadn't no heart fo' work.”
“Does it always take 'em that way?” inquired Yancy.
“It takes the Earls of Lambeth that way. I reckon you might say it was hereditary with 'em. Where was I at?”
“Your grandpap, the second earl,” prompted Polly.
“Oh, yes—well, he 'lowed he'd emigrate back to England, but while he was studying how he could do this, along come the war. He said he couldn't afford to fight agin his king, so he pulled out and crossed the mountings to avoid being drug into the army. He said he couldn't let it get around that the Earls of Lambeth was shootin' English soldiers.”
“Of course he couldn't,” agreed Yancy.
“It's been my dream to take Polly and the children and go back to England and see the king about my title. I 'low he'd be some surprised to see us. I'd like to tell him, too, what the Earls of Lambeth done fo' him—that they was always loyal, and thought a heap better of him than their neighbors done, and mebby some better than he deserved. Don't you reckon that not hearin' from us, he's got the notion the Cavendishes has petered out?”
Mr. Yancy considered this likely, and said so.
“You might send him writin' in a letter,” he suggested.
The furious shrieking of a steam-packet's whistle broke in upon them.
“It's another of them hawgs, wantin' all the river!” said Mr. Cavendish, and fled in haste to the steering oar.
During all the long days that followed, Mr. Yancy was forced to own that these titled friends of his were, despite their social position, uncommon white in their treatment of him. The Earl of Lambeth consorted with him in that fine spirit that recognizes the essential brotherhood of man, while his Lady Countess was, as Yancy observed, on the whole, a person of simple and uncorrupted tastes. She habitually went barefoot, both as a matter of comfort and economy, and she smoked her cob-pipe as did those other ladies of Lincoln County who had married into far less exalted stations than her own. He put these simple survivals down to her native goodness of heart, which would not allow of her succumbing to mere pride and vainglory, for he no more doubted their narrative than they, doubted it themselves, which was not at all.
Charley Norton's good offices did not end when he had furnished judge Price with a house, for Betty required of him that he should supply that gentleman with legal business as well. When she pointed out the necessity of this, Norton demurred. He had no very urgent need of a lawyer, and had the need existed, Slocum Price would not have been his choice. Betty knit her brows.
“He must have a chance; perhaps if people knew you employed him it would give them confidence—you must realize this, Charley; it isn't enough that he has a house—he can't wear it nor eat it!”
“And fortunately he can't drink it, either. I don't want to discourage you, but his looks are all against him, Betty. If you take too great an interest in his concerns I am afraid you are going to have him permanently on your hands.”
“Haven't you some little scrap of business that really doesn't matter much, Charley? You might try him—just to please me—” she persisted coaxingly.
“Well, there's land I'm buying—I suppose I could get him to look up the title, I know it's all right anyhow,” said Norton, after a pause.
Thus it happened that judge Price, before he had been three days in Raleigh, received a civil note from Mr. Norton asking him to search the title to a certain timber tract held by one Joseph Quaid; a communication the effect of which was out of all proportion to the size of the fee involved. The judge, powerfully excited, told Mahaffy he was being understood and appreciated; that the tide of prosperity was clearly setting his way; that intelligent foresight, not chance, had determined him when he selected Raleigh instead of Memphis. Thereafter he spoke of Charley Norton only as “My client,” and exalted him for his breeding, wealth and position, refusing to admit that any man in the county was held in quite the same esteem. All of which moved Mahaffy to flashes of grim sarcasm.
The immediate result of Norton's communication had been to send the judge up the street to the courthouse. He would show his client that he could be punctual and painstaking. He should have his abstract of title without delay; moreover, he had in mind a scholarly effort entirely worthy of himself. The dull facts should be illuminated with an occasional striking phrase. He considered that it would doubtless be of interest to Mr. Norton, in this connection, to know something, too, of mediaeval land tenure, ancient Roman and modern English. He proposed artfully to pander to his client's literary tastes—assuming that he had such tastes. But above all, this abstract must be entirely explanatory of himself, since its final purpose was to remove whatever doubts his mere appearance might have bred in Mr. Norton's mind.
“If my pocket could just be brought to stand the strain of new clothes before the next sitting of court, I might reasonably hope for a share of the pickings,” thought the judge.
Entering the court-house, he found himself in a narrow hall. On his right was the jury-room, and on his left the county clerk's office, stuffy little holes, each lighted by a single window. Beyond, and occupying the full width of the building, was the court-room, with its hard, wooden benches and its staring white walls. Advancing to the door, which stood open, the judge surveyed the room with the greatest possible satisfaction. He could fancy it echoing to that eloquence of which he felt himself to be the master. He would show the world, yet, what was in him, and especially Solomon Mahaffy, who clearly had not taken his measure.
Turning away from the agreeable picture his mind had conjured up, he entered the county clerk's office. He was already known to this official, whose name was Saul, and he now greeted him with a pleasant air of patronage. Mr. Saul removed his feet from the top of his desk and motioned his visitor to a chair; at the same time he hospitably thrust forward a square box filled with sawdust. It was plain he labored under the impression that the judge's call was of an unprofessional character.
“A little matter of business brings me here, sir,” began the judge, with a swelling chest and mellow accents. “No, sir, I'll not be seated—another time I'll share your leisure if I may—now I am in some haste to look up a title for my client, Mr. Norton.”
“What Norton?” asked Mr. Saul, when he had somewhat recovered from the effect of this announcement.
“Mr. Charles Norton, of Thicket Point,” said the judge.
“I reckon you mean that timber tract of old Joe Quaid's.” Mr. Saul viewed the judge's ruinous exterior with a glance of respectful awe, for clearly a man who could triumph over such a handicap must possess uncommon merit of some sort. “So you're looking after Charley Norton's business for him, are you?” he added.
“He's a client of mine. We have mutual friends, sir—I refer to Miss Malroy,” the judge vouchsafed to explain.
“You're naming our best people, sir, when you name the Malroys and the Nortons; they are pretty much in a class by themselves,” said Mr. Saul, whose awe of the judge was momentarily increasing.
“I don't underestimate the value of a social endorsement, sir, but I've never stood on that,” observed the judge. “I've come amongst you unheralded, but I expect you to find me out. Now, sir, if you'll be good enough, I'll glance at the record.”
Mr. Saul scrambled up out of the depths of his chair and exerted himself in the judge's behalf.
“This is what you want, sir. Better take the ledger to the window, the light in here ain't much.” He drew forward a chair as he spoke, and the judge, seating himself, began to polish his spectacles with great deliberation. He felt that he had reached a crisis in his career, and was disposed to linger over the hope that was springing up in his heart.
“How does the docket for the next term of court stand?” he inquired.
“Pretty fair, sir,” said Mr. Saul.
“Any litigation of unusual interest in prospect?” The judge was fitting his glasses to the generous arch of his nose, a feature which nicely indexed its owner's habits.
“No, sir, just the ordinary run of cases.”
“I hoped to hear you say different.”
“You've set on the bench, sir?” suggested Mr. Saul.
“In one of the eastern counties, but my inclination has never been toward the judiciary. My temperament, sir, is distinctly aggressive—and each one according to the gifts with which God has been graciously pleased to endow him! I am frank to say, however, that my decisions have received their meed of praise from men thoroughly competent to speak on such matters.” He was turning the leaves of the ledger as he spoke. Suddenly the movement of his hand was arrested.
“Found it?” asked Mr. Saul. But the judge gave him no answer; absorbed and aloof he was staring down at the open pages of the book. “Found the entry?” repeated Mr. Saul.
“Eh?—what's that? No—” he appeared to hesitate. “Who is this man Quintard?” The question cost him an effort, that was plain.
“He's the owner of a hundred-thousand-acre tract in this and abutting counties,” said Mr. Saul.
The judge continued to stare down at the page.
“Is he a resident of the county?” he asked, at length.
“No, he lives back yonder in North Carolina.”
“A hundred thousand acres!” the judge muttered thoughtfully.
“There or thereabouts—yes, sir.”
“Who has charge of the land?”
“Colonel Fentress; he was old General Ware's law partner. I've heard it was the general who got this man Quintard to make the investment, but that was before my time in these parts.”
The judge lapsed into a heavy, brooding silence.
A step sounded in the narrow hall. An instant later the door was pushed open, and grateful for any interruption that would serve to take Mr. Saul's attention from himself, the judge abruptly turned his back on the clerk and began to examine the record before him. Engrossed in this, he was at first scarcely aware of the conversation that was being carried on within a few feet of him. Insensibly, however, the cold, level tones of the voice that was addressing itself to Mr. Saul quickened the beat of his pulse, the throb of his heart, and struck back through the years to a day from which he reckoned time. The heavy, calf-bound volume in his hand shook like a leaf in a gale. He turned slowly, as if in dread of what he might see.
What he saw was a man verging on sixty, lean and dark, with thin, shaven cheeks of a bluish cast above the jaw, and a strongly aquiline profile. Long, black locks swept the collar of his coat, while his tall, spare figure was habited in sleek broadcloth and spotless linen. For a moment the judge seemed to struggle with doubt and uncertainty, then his face went a ghastly white and the book slipped from his nerveless fingers to the window ledge.
The stranger, his business concluded, swung about on his heel and quitted the office. The judge, his eyes starting from their sockets, stared after him; the very breath died on his lips; speechless and motionless, he was still seeing that tall, spare figure as it had passed before him, but his memories stripped a weight of thirty years from those thin shoulders. At last, heavy-eyed and somber, he glanced about him. Mr. Saul, bending above his desk, was making an entry in one of his ledgers. The judge shuffled to his side.
“Who was that man?” he asked thickly, resting a shaking hand on the clerk's arm.
“That?—Oh, that was Colonel Fentress I was just telling you about.” He looked up from his writing. “Hello! You look like you'd seen a ghost!”
“It's the heat in here—I reckon—” said the judge, and began to mop his face.
“Ever seen the colonel before?” asked Mr. Saul curiously.
“Who is he?”
“Well, sir, he's one of our leading planters, and a mighty fine lawyer.”
“Has he always lived here?”
“No, he came into the county about ten years ago, and bought a place called The Oaks, over toward the river.”
“Has he—has he a family?” The judge appeared to be having difficulty with his speech.
“Not that anybody knows of. Some say he's a widower, others again say he's an old bachelor; but he don't say nothing, for the colonel is as close as wax about his own affairs. So it's pure conjecture, sir.” There was a brief silence. “The county has its conundrums, and the colonel's one of them,” resumed Mr. Saul.
“Yes?” said the judge.
“The colonel's got his friends, to be sure, but he don't mix much with the real quality.”
“Why not?” asked the judge.
“He's apparently as high-toned a gentleman as you'd meet with anywhere; polished, sir, so smooth your fingers would slip if you tried to take hold of him, but it's been commented on that when a horsethief or counterfeiter gets into trouble the colonel's always first choice for counsel.”
“Get's 'em off, does he?” The judge spoke somewhat grimly.
“Mighty nigh always. But then he has most astonishing luck in the matter of witnesses. That's been commented on too.” The judge nodded comprehendingly. “I reckon you'd call Tom Ware, out at Belle Plain, one of Fentress' closest friends. He's another of your conundrums. I wouldn't advise you to be too curious about the colonel.”
“Why not?” The judge was frowning now.
“It will make you unpopular with a certain class. Those of us who've been here long enough have learned that there are some of these conundrums we'd best not ask an answer for.”
The judge pondered this.
“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that freedom of speech is not allowed?” he demanded, with some show of heat.
“Perfect freedom, if you pick and choose your topic,” responded Mr. Saul.
“Humph!” ejaculated the judge.
“Now you might talk to me with all the freedom you like, but I'd recommend you were cautious with strangers. There have been those who've talked freely that have been advised to keep still or harm would come of it.”
“And did harm come of it?” asked the judge.
“They always kept still.”
“What do you mean by talking freely?”
“Like asking how so and so got the money to buy his last batch of niggers,” explained Mr. Saul rather vaguely.
“And Colonel Fentress is one of those about whose affairs it is best not to show too much curiosity?”
“He is, decidedly. His friends appear to set a heap by him. Another of his particular intimates is a gentleman by the name of Murrell.”
The judge nodded.
“I've met him,” he said briefly. “Does he belong hereabouts?”
“No, hardly; he seems to hold a sort of roving commission. His home is, I believe, near Denmark, in Madison County.”
“What's his antecedents?”
“He's as common a white man as ever came out of the hills, but he appears to stand well with Colonel Fentress.”
“Colonel Fentress!” The judge spat in sheer disgust.
“You don't appear to fancy the colonel—” said Mr. Saul.
“I don't fancy wearing a gag—and damned if I do!” cried the judge.
“Oh, it ain't that exactly; it's just minding your own business. I reckon you'll find there's lot's to be said in favor of goin' ca'mly on attending strictly to your own affairs, sir,” concluded Mr. Saul.
Acting on a sudden impulse, the judge turned to the door. The business and the hope that had brought him there were forgotten. He muttered something about returning later, and hastily quitted the office.
“Well, I reckon he's a conundrum too!” reflected Mr. Saul, as the door swung shut.
In the hall the judge's steps dragged and his head was bowed. He was busy with his memories, memories that spanned the desolate waste of years in which he had walked from shame to shame, each blacker than the last. Then passion shook him.
“Damn him—may God-for ever damn him!” he cried under his breath, in a fierce whisper. A burning mist before his eyes, he shuffled down the hall, down the steps, and into the shaded, trampled space that was known as the court-house yard. Here he paused irresolutely. Across the way was the gun-maker's shop, the weather-beaten sign came within range of his vision, and the dingy white letters on their black ground spelled themselves out. The words seemed to carry some message, for the judge, with his eyes fixed on the sign as on some beacon of hope, plunged across the dusty road and entered the shop.
At supper that night it was plain to both Mr. Mahaffy and Hannibal that the judge was in a state of mind best described as beatific. The tenderest consideration, the gentlest courtesy flowed from him as from an unfailing spring; not that he was ever, even in his darkest hours, socially remiss, but there was now a special magnificence to his manner that bred suspicion in Mahaffy's soul. When he noted that the judge's shoes were extremely dusty, this suspicion shaped itself definitely. He was convinced that on the strength of his prospective fee the judge had gone to Belle Plain, for what purpose Mr. Mahaffy knew only too well.
“It took you some time to get up that abstract, didn't it, Price?” he presently said, with artful indirection.
“I shall go on with that in the morning, Solomon; my interest was dissipated this evening,” rejoined the judge.
“Looks as though you had devoted a good part of your time to pedestrianism,” suggested Mahaffy.
“Quite right, so I did, Solomon.”
“Were you at Belle Plain?” demanded Mahaffy harshly and with a black scowl. The judge had agreed to keep away from Belle Plain.
“No, Solomon, you forget our pact.”
“Well, I am glad you remembered it.”
They finished supper, the dishes were cleared away and the candles lighted, when the judge produced a mysterious leather-covered case. This he placed upon the table and opened, and Mahaffy and Hannibal, who had drawn near, saw with much astonishment that it held a handsome pair of dueling pistols, together with all their necessary paraphernalia.
“Where did you get 'em, Judge?—Oh, ain't they beautiful!” cried Hannibal, circling about the table in his excitement.
“My dear lad, they were purchased only a few hours ago,” said the judge quietly, as he began to load them.
“For Heaven's sake, Price, do be careful!” warned Mahaffy, who had a horror of pistols that extended to no other species of firearm.
“I shall observe all proper caution, Solomon,” the judge assured him sweetly.
“Judge, may I try 'em some day?” asked Hannibal.
“Yes, my boy, that's part of a gentleman's education.”
“Well, look out you don't shoot him before his education begins,” snapped Mahaffy.
“Where did you buy 'em?” Hannibal was dodging about the judge, the better to follow the operation of loading.
“At the gunsmith's, dear lad. It occurred to me that we required small arms. If you'll stand quietly at my elbow and not hop around, you'll relieve Mr. Mahaffy's apprehension.”
“I declare, Price, you need a guardian, if ever a man did!” cried Mahaffy, in a tone of utter exasperation.
“Why, Solomon?”
“Why?—they are absolutely useless. It was a waste of good money that you'll be sorry about.”
“Bless you, Solomon—they ain't paid for!” said the judge, with a thick little chuckle.
“I didn't do you the injustice to suppose they were; but you haven't any head for business; aren't you just that much nearer the time when not a soul here will trust you? That's just like you, to plunge ahead and use up your credit on gimcracks!” Mahaffy prided himself on his acquaintance with the basic principles of economics.
“I can sell 'em again,” observed the judge placidly.
“For less than half what they are worth!—I never knew so poor a manager!”
The pistols were soon loaded, and the judge turned to Hannibal. “I regretted that you were not with me out at Boggs' this evening, Hannibal; you would have enjoyed seeing me try these weapons there. Now carry a candle into the kitchen and place it on the table.”
Mahaffy laughed contemptuously, but was relieved to know the purpose to which the judge had devoted the afternoon.
“What aspersion is rankling for utterance within you now, Solomon?” said the judge tolerantly. Assuming a position that gave him an unobstructed view across the two rooms, he raised the pistol in his hand and discharged it in that brief instant when he caught the candle's flame between the notches of the sight, but he failed to snuff the candle, and a look of bitter disappointment passed over his face. He picked up the other pistol. “This time—” he muttered under his breath.
“Try blowing it out try the snuffers!” jeered Mahaffy.
“This time!” repeated the judge, unheeding him, and as the pistol-shot rang out the light vanished. “By Heaven, I did it!” roared the judge, giving way to an uncontrollable burst of feeling. “I did it—and I can 'do it again—light the candle, Hannibal!”
He began to load the pistols afresh with feverish haste, and Mahaffy, staring at him in amazement, saw that of a sudden the sweat was dripping from him. But the judge's excitement prevented his attempting another shot at once, twice his hand was raised, twice it was lowered, the third time the pistol cracked and the candle's flame was blown level, fluttered for a brief instant, and went out.
“Did I nick the tallow, Hannibal?” The judge spoke anxiously.
“Yes, sir, both shots.”
“We must remedy that,” said the judge. Then, as rapidly as he could load and fire, bullet after bullet was sent fairly through the flame, extinguishing it each time. Mahaffy was too astonished at this display of skill even to comment, while Hannibal's delight knew no bounds. “That will do!” said the judge at last. He glanced down at the pistol in his hand. “This is certainly a gentleman's weapon!” he murmured.