The Marrow of Tradition by Charles W. Chesnutt (page 3)

house groaning with pain, stricken unto death by the hand of a just God, as a punishment for his sins.”

Olivia gave a start of indignation, but restrained herself.

“I was at once informed of what had happened, for I had means of knowing all that took place in the household. Old Jane–she was younger then–had come with you to my house; but her daughter remained, and through her I learned all that went on.

“I hastened immediately to the house, entered without knocking, and approached Mr. Merkell’s bedroom, which was on the lower floor and opened into the hall. The door was ajar, and as I stood there for a moment I heard your father’s voice.

“‘Listen, Julia,’ he was saying. ‘I shall not live until the doctor comes. But I wish you to know, dear Julia!’–he called her ‘dear Julia!’–‘before I die, that I have kept my promise. You did me one great service, Julia,–you saved me from Polly Ochiltree!’ Yes, Olivia, that is what he said! ‘You have served me faithfully and well, and I owe you a great deal, which I have tried to pay.’

“‘Oh, Mr. Merkell, dear Mr. Merkell,’ cried the hypocritical hussy, falling to her knees by his bedside, and shedding her crocodile tears, ‘you owe me nothing. You have done more for me than I could ever repay. You will not die and leave me,–no, no, it cannot be!’

“‘Yes, I am going to die,–I am dying now, Julia. But listen,–compose yourself and listen, for this is a more important matter. Take the keys from under my pillow, open the desk in the next room, look in the second drawer on the right, and you will find an envelope containing three papers: one of them is yours, one is the paper I promised to make, and the third is a letter which I wrote last night. As soon as the breath has left my body, deliver the envelope to the address indorsed upon it. Do not delay one moment, or you may live to regret it. Say nothing until you have delivered the package, and then be guided by the advice which you receive,–it will come from a friend of mine who will not see you wronged.’

“I slipped away from the door without making my presence known and entered, by a door from the hall, the room adjoining the one where Mr. Merkell lay. A moment later there was a loud scream. Returning quickly to the hall, I entered Mr. Merkell’s room as though just arrived.

“‘How is Mr. Merkell?’ I demanded, as I crossed the threshold.

“‘He is dead,’ sobbed the woman, without lifting her head,–she had fallen on her knees by the bedside. She had good cause to weep, for my time had come.

“‘Get up,’ I said. ‘You have no right here. You pollute Mr. Merkell’s dead body by your touch. Leave the house immediately,–your day is over!’

“‘I will not!’ she cried, rising to her feet and facing me with brazen-faced impudence. ‘I have a right to stay,–he has given me the right!’

“‘Ha, ha!’ I laughed. ‘Mr. Merkell is dead, and I am mistress here henceforth. Go, and go at once,–do you hear?’

“‘I hear, but I shall not heed. I can prove my rights! I shall not leave!’

“‘Very well,’ I replied, ‘we shall see. The law will decide.’

“I left the room, but did not leave the house. On the contrary, I concealed myself where I could see what took place in the room adjoining the death-chamber.

“She entered the room a moment later, with her child on one arm and the keys in the other hand. Placing the child on the floor, she put the key in the lock, and seemed surprised to find the desk already unfastened. She opened the desk, picked up a roll of money and a ladies’ watch, which first caught her eye, and was reaching toward the drawer upon the right, when I interrupted her:–

“‘Well, thief, are you trying to strip the house before you leave it?’

“She gave an involuntary cry, clasped one hand to her bosom and with the other caught up her child, and stood like a wild beast at bay.

“‘I am not a thief,’ she panted. ‘The things are mine!’

“‘You lie,’ I replied. ‘You have no right to them,–no more right than you have to remain in this house!’

“‘I have a right,’ she persisted, ‘and I can prove it!’

“She turned toward the desk, seized the drawer, and drew it open. Never shall I forget her look,–never shall I forget that moment; it was the happiest of my life. The drawer was empty!

“Pale as death she turned and faced me.

“‘The papers!’ she shrieked, ‘the papers! _You_ have stolen them!’

“‘Papers?’ I laughed, ‘what papers? Do you take me for a thief, like yourself?’

“‘There were papers here,’ she cried, ‘only a minute since. They are mine,–give them back to me!’

“‘Listen, woman,’ I said sternly, ‘you are lying–or dreaming. My brother-in-law’s papers are doubtless in his safe at his office, where they ought to be. As for the rest,–you are a thief.’

“‘I am not,’ she screamed; ‘I am his wife. He married me, and the papers that were in the desk will prove it.’

“‘Listen,’ I exclaimed, when she had finished,–‘listen carefully, and take heed to what I say. You are a liar. You have no proofs,–there never were any proofs of what you say, because it never happened,–it is absurd upon the face of it. Not one person in Wellington would believe it. Why should he marry you? He did not need to! You are merely lying,–you are not even self-deceived. If he had really married you, you would have made it known long ago. That you did not is proof that your story is false.’

“She was hit so hard that she trembled and sank into a chair. But I had no mercy–she had saved your father from _me_–‘dear Julia,’ indeed!

“‘Stand up,’ I ordered. ‘Do not dare to sit down in my presence. I have you on the hip, my lady, and will teach you your place.’

“She struggled to her feet, and stood supporting herself with one hand on the chair. I could have killed her, Olivia! She had been my father’s slave; if it had been before the war, I would have had her whipped to death.

“‘You are a thief,’ I said, ‘and of that there _are_ proofs. I have caught you in the act. The watch in your bosom is my own, the money belongs to Mr. Merkell’s estate, which belongs to my niece, his daughter Olivia. I saw you steal them. My word is worth yours a hundred times over, for I am a lady, and you are–what? And now hear me: if ever you breathe to a living soul one word of this preposterous story, I will charge you with the theft, and have you sent to the penitentiary. Your child will be taken from you, and you shall never see it again. I will give you now just ten minutes to take your brat and your rags out of this house forever. But before you go, put down your plunder there upon the desk!’

“She laid down the money and the watch, and a few minutes later left the house with the child in her arms.

“And now, Olivia, you know how I saved your estate, and why you should be grateful to me.”

Olivia had listened to her aunt’s story with intense interest. Having perceived the old woman’s mood, and fearful lest any interruption might break the flow of her narrative, she had with an effort kept back the one question which had been hovering upon her lips, but which could now no longer be withheld.

“What became of the papers, Aunt Polly?”

“Ha, ha!” chuckled Mrs. Ochiltree with a cunning look, “did I not tell you that she found no papers?”

A change had come over Mrs. Ochiltree’s face, marking the reaction from her burst of energy. Her eyes were half closed, and she was muttering incoherently. Olivia made some slight effort to arouse her, but in vain, and realizing the futility of any further attempt to extract information from her aunt at this time, she called William and drove homeward.

XVI

ELLIS TAKES A TRICK

Late one afternoon a handsome trap, drawn by two spirited bays, drove up to Carteret’s gate. Three places were taken by Mrs. Carteret, Clara, and the major, leaving the fourth seat vacant.

“I’ve asked Ellis to drive out with us,” said the major, as he took the lines from the colored man who had the trap in charge. “We’ll go by the office and pick him up.”

Clara frowned, but perceiving Mrs. Carteret’s eye fixed upon her, restrained any further expression of annoyance.

The major’s liking for Ellis had increased within the year. The young man was not only a good journalist, but possessed sufficient cleverness and tact to make him excellent company. The major was fond of argument, but extremely tenacious of his own opinions. Ellis handled the foils of discussion with just the requisite skill to draw out the major, permitting himself to be vanquished, not too easily, but, as it were, inevitably, by the major’s incontrovertible arguments.

Olivia had long suspected Ellis of feeling a more than friendly interest in Clara. Herself partial to Tom, she had more than once thought it hardly fair to Delamere, or even to Clara, who was young and impressionable, to have another young man constantly about the house. True, there had seemed to be no great danger, for Ellis had neither the family nor the means to make him a suitable match for the major’s sister; nor had Clara made any secret of her dislike for Ellis, or of her resentment for his supposed depreciation of Delamere. Mrs. Carteret was inclined to a more just and reasonable view of Ellis’s conduct in this matter, but nevertheless did not deem it wise to undeceive Clara. Dislike was a stout barrier, which remorse might have broken down. The major, absorbed in schemes of empire and dreams of his child’s future, had not become cognizant of the affair. His wife, out of friendship for Tom, had refrained from mentioning it; while the major, with a delicate regard for Clara’s feelings, had said nothing at home in regard to his interview with her lover.

At the Chronicle office Ellis took the front seat beside the major. After leaving the city pavements, they bowled along merrily over an excellent toll-road, built of oyster shells from the neighboring sound, stopping at intervals to pay toll to the gate-keepers, most of whom were white women with tallow complexions and snuff-stained lips,–the traditional “poor-white.” For part of the way the road was bordered with a growth of scrub oak and pine, interspersed with stretches of cleared land, white with the opening cotton or yellow with ripening corn. To the right, along the distant river-bank, were visible here and there groups of turpentine pines, though most of this growth had for some years been exhausted. Twenty years before, Wellington had been the world’s greatest shipping port for naval stores. But as the turpentine industry had moved southward, leaving a trail of devastated forests in its rear, the city had fallen to a poor fifth or sixth place in this trade, relying now almost entirely upon cotton for its export business.

Occasionally our party passed a person, or a group of persons,–mostly negroes approximating the pure type, for those of lighter color grew noticeably scarcer as the town was left behind. Now and then one of these would salute the party respectfully, while others glanced at them indifferently or turned away. There would have seemed, to a stranger, a lack, of spontaneous friendliness between the people of these two races, as though each felt that it had no part or lot in the other’s life. At one point the carriage drew near a party of colored folks who were laughing and jesting among themselves with great glee. Paying no attention to the white people, they continued to laugh and shout boisterously as the carriage swept by.

Major Carteret’s countenance wore an angry look.

“The negroes around this town are becoming absolutely insufferable,” he averred. “They are sadly in need of a lesson in manners.”

Half an hour later they neared another group, who were also making merry. As the carriage approached, they became mute and silent as the grave until the major’s party had passed.

“The negroes are a sullen race,” remarked the major thoughtfully. “They will learn their lesson in a rude school, and perhaps much sooner than they dream. By the way,” he added, turning to the ladies, “what was the arrangement with Tom? Was he to come out this evening?”

“He came out early in the afternoon,” replied Clara, “to go a-fishing. He is to join us at the hotel.”

After an hour’s drive they reached the hotel, in front of which stretched the beach, white and inviting, along the shallow sound. Mrs. Carteret and Clara found seats on the veranda. Having turned the trap over to a hostler, the major joined a group of gentlemen, among whom was General Belmont, and was soon deep in the discussion of the standing problem of how best to keep the negroes down.

Ellis remained by the ladies. Clara seemed restless and ill at ease. Half an hour elapsed and Delamere had not appeared.

“I wonder where Tom is,” said Mrs. Carteret.

“I guess he hasn’t come in yet from fishing,” said Clara. “I wish he would come. It’s lonesome here. Mr. Ellis, would you mind looking about the hotel and seeing if there’s any one here that we know?”

For Ellis the party was already one too large. He had accepted this invitation eagerly, hoping to make friends with Clara during the evening. He had never been able to learn definitely the reason of her coldness, but had dated it from his meeting with old Mrs. Ochiltree, with which he felt it was obscurely connected. He had noticed Delamere’s scowling look, too, at their last meeting. Clara’s injustice, whatever its cause, he felt keenly. To Delamere’s scowl he had paid little attention,–he despised Tom so much that, but for his engagement to Clara, he would have held his opinions in utter contempt.

He had even wished that Clara might make some charge against him,–he would have preferred that to her attitude of studied indifference, the only redeeming feature about which was that it _was_ studied, showing that she, at least, had him in mind. The next best thing, he reasoned, to having a woman love you, is to have her dislike you violently,–the main point is that you should be kept in mind, and made the subject of strong emotions. He thought of the story of Hall Caine’s, where the woman, after years of persecution at the hands of an unwelcome suitor, is on the point of yielding, out of sheer irresistible admiration for the man’s strength and persistency, when the lover, unaware of his victory and despairing of success, seizes her in his arms and, springing into the sea, finds a watery grave for both. The analogy of this case with his own was, of course, not strong. He did not anticipate any tragedy in their relations; but he was glad to be thought of upon almost any terms. He would not have done a mean thing to make her think of him; but if she did so because of a misconception, which he was given no opportunity to clear up, while at the same time his conscience absolved him from evil and gave him the compensating glow of martyrdom, it was at least better than nothing.

He would, of course, have preferred to be upon a different footing. It had been a pleasure to have her speak to him during the drive,–they had exchanged a few trivial remarks in the general conversation. It was a greater pleasure to have her ask a favor of him,–a pleasure which, in this instance, was partly offset when he interpreted her request to mean that he was to look for Tom Delamere. He accepted the situation gracefully, however, and left the ladies alone.

Knowing Delamere’s habits, he first went directly to the bar-room,–the atmosphere would be congenial, even if he were not drinking. Delamere was not there. Stepping next into the office, he asked the clerk if young Mr. Delamere had been at the hotel.

“Yes, sir,” returned the man at the desk, “he was here at luncheon, and then went out fishing in a boat with several other gentlemen. I think they came back about three o’clock. I’ll find out for you.”

He rang the bell, to which a colored boy responded.

“Front,” said the clerk, “see if young Mr. Delamere’s upstairs. Look in 255 or 256, and let me know at once.”

The bell-boy returned in a moment.

“Yas, suh,” he reported, with a suppressed grin, “he’s in 256, suh. De do’ was open, an’ I seed ‘im from de hall, suh.”

“I wish you’d go up and tell him,” said Ellis, “that–What are you grinning about?” he asked suddenly, noticing the waiter’s expression.

“Nothin’, suh, nothin’ at all, suh,” responded the negro, lapsing into the stolidity of a wooden Indian. “What shall I tell Mr. Delamere, suh?”

“Tell him,” resumed Ellis, still watching the boy suspiciously,–“no, I’ll tell him myself.”

He ascended the broad stair to the second floor. There was an upper balcony and a parlor, with a piano for the musically inclined. To reach these one had to pass along the hall upon which the room mentioned by the bell-boy opened. Ellis was quite familiar with the hotel. He could imagine circumstances under which he would not care to speak to Delamere; he would merely pass through the hall and glance into the room casually, as any one else might do, and see what the darky downstairs might have meant by his impudence.

It required but a moment to reach the room. The door was not wide open, but far enough ajar for him to see what was going on within.

Two young men, members of the fast set at the Clarendon Club, were playing cards at a small table, near which stood another, decorated with an array of empty bottles and glasses. Sprawling on a lounge, with flushed face and disheveled hair, his collar unfastened, his vest buttoned awry, lay Tom Delamere, breathing stertorously, in what seemed a drunken sleep. Lest there should be any doubt of the cause of his condition, the fingers of his right hand had remained clasped mechanically around the neck of a bottle which lay across his bosom.

Ellis turned away in disgust, and went slowly back to the ladies.

“There seems to be no one here yet,” he reported. “We came a little early for the evening crowd. The clerk says Tom Delamere was here to luncheon, but he hasn’t seen him for several hours.”

“He’s not a very gallant cavalier,” said Mrs. Carteret severely. “He ought to have been waiting for us.”

Clara was clearly disappointed, and made no effort to conceal her displeasure, leaving Ellis in doubt as to whether or not he were its object. Perhaps she suspected him of not having made a very thorough search. Her next remark might have borne such a construction.

“Sister Olivia,” she said pettishly, “let’s go up to the parlor. I can play the piano anyway, if there’s no one to talk to.”

“I find it very comfortable here, Clara,” replied her sister placidly. “Mr. Ellis will go with you. You’ll probably find some one in the parlor, or they’ll come when you begin to play.”

Clara’s expression was not cordial, but she rose as if to go. Ellis was in a quandary. If she went through the hall, the chances were at least even that she would see Delamere. He did not care a rap for Delamere,–if he chose to make a public exhibition of himself, it was his own affair; but to see him would surely spoil Miss Pemberton’s evening, and, in her frame of mind, might lead to the suspicion that Ellis had prearranged the exposure. Even if she should not harbor this unjust thought, she would not love the witness of her discomfiture. We had rather not meet the persons who have seen, even though they never mention, the skeletons in our closets. Delamere had disposed of himself for the evening. Ellis would have a fairer field with Delamere out of sight and unaccounted for, than with Delamere in evidence in his present condition.

“Wouldn’t you rather take a stroll on the beach, Miss Clara?” he asked, in the hope of creating a diversion.

“No, I’m going to the parlor. _You_ needn’t come, Mr. Ellis, if you’d rather go down to the beach. I can quite as well go alone.”

“I’d rather go with you,” he said meekly.

They were moving toward the door opening into the hall, from which the broad staircase ascended. Ellis, whose thoughts did not always respond quickly to a sudden emergency, was puzzling his brain as to how he should save her from any risk of seeing Delamere. Through the side door leading from the hall into the office, he saw the bell-boy to whom he had spoken seated on the bench provided for the servants.

“Won’t you wait for me just a moment, Miss Clara, while I step into the office? I’ll be with you in an instant.”

Clara hesitated.

“Oh, certainly,” she replied nonchalantly.

Ellis went direct to the bell-boy. “Sit right where you are,” he said, “and don’t move a hair. What is the lady in the hall doing?”

“She’s got her back tu’ned this way, suh. I ‘spec’ she’s lookin’ at the picture on the opposite wall, suh.”

“All right,” whispered Ellis, pressing a coin into the servant’s hand. “I’m going up to the parlor with the lady. You go up ahead of us, and keep in front of us along the hall. Don’t dare to look back. I shall keep on talking to the lady, so that you can tell by my voice where we are. When you get to room 256, go in and shut the door behind you: pretend that you were called,–ask the gentlemen what they want,–tell any kind of a lie you like,–but keep the door shut until you’re sure we’ve got by. Do you hear?”

“Yes, suh,” replied the negro intelligently.

The plan worked without a hitch. Ellis talked steadily, about the hotel, the furnishings, all sorts of irrelevant subjects, to which Miss Pemberton paid little attention. She was angry with Delamere, and took no pains to conceal her feelings. The bell-boy entered room 256 just before they reached the door. Ellis had heard loud talking as they approached, and as they were passing there was a crash of broken glass, as though some object had been thrown at the door.

“What is the matter there?” exclaimed Clara, quickening her footsteps and instinctively drawing closer to Ellis.

“Some one dropped a glass, I presume,” replied Ellis calmly.

Miss Pemberton glanced at him suspiciously. She was in a decidedly perverse mood. Seating herself at the piano, she played brilliantly for a quarter of an hour. Quite a number of couples strolled up to the parlor, but Delamere was not among them.

“Oh dear!” exclaimed Miss Pemberton, as she let her fingers fall upon the keys with a discordant crash, after the last note, “I don’t see why we came out here to-night. Let’s go back downstairs.”

Ellis felt despondent. He had done his utmost to serve and to please Miss Pemberton, but was not likely, he foresaw, to derive much benefit from his opportunity. Delamere was evidently as much or more in her thoughts by reason of his absence than if he had been present. If the door should have been opened, and she should see him from the hall upon their return, Ellis could not help it. He took the side next to the door, however, meaning to hurry past the room so that she might not recognize Delamere.

Fortunately the door was closed and all quiet within the room. On the stairway they met the bellboy, rubbing his head with one hand and holding a bottle of seltzer upon a tray in the other. The boy was well enough trained to give no sign of recognition, though Ellis guessed the destination of the bottle.

Ellis hardly knew whether to feel pleased or disappointed at the success of his manoeuvres. He had spared Miss Pemberton some mortification, but he had saved Tom Delamere from merited exposure. Clara ought to know the truth, for her own sake.

On the beach, a few rods away, fires were burning, around which several merry groups had gathered. The smoke went mostly to one side, but a slight whiff came now and then to where Mrs. Carteret sat awaiting them.

“They’re roasting oysters,” said Mrs. Carteret. “I wish you’d bring me some, Mr. Ellis.”

Ellis strolled down to the beach. A large iron plate, with a turned-up rim like a great baking-pan, supported by legs which held it off the ground, was set over a fire built upon the sand. This primitive oven was heaped with small oysters in the shell, taken from the neighboring sound, and hauled up to the hotel by a negro whose pony cart stood near by. A wet coffee-sack of burlaps was spread over the oysters, which, when steamed sufficiently, were opened by a colored man and served gratis to all who cared for them.

Ellis secured a couple of plates of oysters, which he brought to Mrs. Carteret and Clara; they were small, but finely flavored.

Meanwhile Delamere, who possessed a remarkable faculty of recuperation from the effects of drink, had waked from his sleep, and remembering his engagement, had exerted himself to overcome the ravages of the afternoon’s debauch. A dash of cold water braced him up somewhat. A bottle of seltzer and a big cup of strong coffee still further strengthened his nerves.

When Ellis returned to the veranda, after having taken away the plates, Delamere had joined the ladies and was explaining the cause of his absence.

He had been overcome by the heat, he said, while out fishing, and had been lying down ever since. Perhaps he ought to have sent for a doctor, but the fellows had looked after him. He hadn’t sent word to his friends because he hadn’t wished to spoil their evening.

“That was very considerate of you, Tom,” said Mrs. Carteret dryly, “but you ought to have let us know. We have been worrying about you very much. Clara has found the evening dreadfully dull.”

“Indeed, no, sister Olivia,” said the young lady cheerfully, “I’ve been having a lovely time. Mr. Ellis and I have been up in the parlor; I played the piano; and we’ve been eating oysters and having a most delightful time. Won’t you take me down there to the beach, Mr. Ellis? I want to see the fires. Come on.”

“Can’t I go?” asked Tom jealously.

“No, indeed, you mustn’t stir a foot! You must not overtax yourself so soon; it might do you serious injury. Stay here with sister Olivia.”

She took Ellis’s arm with exaggerated cordiality. Delamere glared after them angrily. Ellis did not stop to question her motives, but took the goods the gods provided. With no very great apparent effort, Miss Pemberton became quite friendly, and they strolled along the beach, in sight of the hotel, for nearly half an hour. As they were coming up she asked him abruptly,–

“Mr. Ellis, did you know Tom was in the hotel?”

Ellis was looking across the sound, at the lights of a distant steamer which was making her way toward the harbor.

“I wonder,” he said musingly, as though he had not heard her question, “if that is the Ocean Belle?”

“And was he really sick?” she demanded.

“She’s later than usual this trip,” continued Ellis, pursuing his thought. “She was due about five o’clock.”

Miss Pemberton, under cover of the darkness, smiled a fine smile, which foreboded ill for some one. When they joined the party on the piazza, the major had come up and was saying that it was time to go. He had been engaged in conversation, for most of the evening, with General Belmont and several other gentlemen.

“Here comes the general now. Let me see. There are five of us. The general has offered me a seat in his buggy, and Tom can go with you-all.”

The general came up and spoke to the ladies. Tom murmured his thanks; it would enable him to make up a part of the delightful evening he had missed.

When Mrs. Carteret had taken the rear seat, Clara promptly took the place beside her. Ellis and Delamere sat in front. When Delamere, who had offered to drive, took the reins, Ellis saw that his hands were shaking.

“Give me the lines,” he whispered. “Your nerves are unsteady and the road is not well lighted.”

Delamere prudently yielded the reins. He did not like Ellis’s tone, which seemed sneering rather than expressive of sympathy with one who had been suffering. He wondered if the beggar knew anything about his illness. Clara had been acting strangely. It would have been just like Ellis to have slandered him. The upstart had no business with Clara anyway. He would cheerfully have strangled Ellis, if he could have done so with safety to himself and no chance of discovery.

The drive homeward through the night was almost a silent journey. Mrs. Carteret was anxious about her baby. Clara did not speak, except now and then to Ellis with reference to some object in or near the road. Occasionally they passed a vehicle in the darkness, sometimes barely avoiding a collision. Far to the north the sky was lit up with the glow of a forest fire. The breeze from the Sound was deliciously cool. Soon the last toll-gate was passed and the lights of the town appeared.

Ellis threw the lines to William, who was waiting, and hastened to help the ladies out.

“Good-night, Mr. Ellis,” said Clara sweetly, as she gave Ellis her hand. “Thank you for a very pleasant evening. Come up and see us soon.”

She ran into the house without a word to Tom.

XVII

THE SOCIAL ASPIRATIONS OF CAPTAIN McBANE

It was only eleven o’clock, and Delamere, not being at all sleepy, and feeling somewhat out of sorts as the combined results of his afternoon’s debauch and the snubbing he had received at Clara’s hands, directed the major’s coachman, who had taken charge of the trap upon its arrival, to drive him to the St. James Hotel before returning the horses to the stable. First, however, the coachman left Ellis at his boarding-house, which was near by. The two young men parted with as scant courtesy as was possible without an open rupture.

Delamere hoped to find at the hotel some form of distraction to fill in an hour or two before going home. Ill fortune favored him by placing in his way the burly form of Captain George McBane, who was sitting in an armchair alone, smoking a midnight cigar, under the hotel balcony. Upon Delamere’s making known his desire for amusement, the captain proposed a small game of poker in his own room.

McBane had been waiting for some such convenient opportunity. We have already seen that the captain was desirous of social recognition, which he had not yet obtained beyond the superficial acquaintance acquired by association with men about town. He had determined to assault society in its citadel by seeking membership in the Clarendon Club, of which most gentlemen of the best families of the city were members.

The Clarendon Club was a historic institution, and its membership a social cult, the temple of which was located just off the main street of the city, in a dignified old colonial mansion which had housed it for the nearly one hundred years during which it had maintained its existence unbroken. There had grown up around it many traditions and special usages. Membership in the Clarendon was the _sine qua non_ of high social standing, and was conditional upon two of three things,–birth, wealth, and breeding. Breeding was the prime essential, but, with rare exceptions, must be backed by either birth or money.

Having decided, therefore, to seek admission into this social arcanum, the captain, who had either not quite appreciated the standard of the Clarendon’s membership, or had failed to see that he fell beneath it, looked about for an intermediary through whom to approach the object of his desire. He had already thought of Tom Delamere in this connection, having with him such an acquaintance as one forms around a hotel, and having long ago discovered that Delamere was a young man of superficially amiable disposition, vicious instincts, lax principles, and a weak will, and, which was quite as much to the purpose, a member of the Clarendon Club. Possessing mental characteristics almost entirely opposite, Delamere and the captain had certain tastes in common, and had smoked, drunk, and played cards together more than once.

Still more to his purpose, McBane had detected Delamere trying to cheat him at cards. He had said nothing about this discovery, but had merely noted it as something which at some future time might prove useful. The captain had not suffered by Delamere’s deviation from the straight line of honor, for while Tom was as clever with the cards as might be expected of a young man who had devoted most of his leisure for several years to handling them, McBane was past master in their manipulation. During a stormy career he had touched more or less pitch, and had escaped few sorts of defilement.

The appearance of Delamere at a late hour, unaccompanied, and wearing upon his countenance an expression in which the captain read aright the craving for mental and physical excitement, gave him the opportunity for which he had been looking. McBane was not the man to lose an opportunity, nor did Delamere require a second invitation. Neither was it necessary, during the progress of the game, for the captain to press upon his guest the contents of the decanter which stood upon the table within convenient reach.

The captain permitted Delamere to win from him several small amounts, after which he gradually increased the stakes and turned the tables.

Delamere, with every instinct of a gamester, was no more a match for McBane in self-control than in skill. When the young man had lost all his money, the captain expressed his entire willingness to accept notes of hand, for which he happened to have convenient blanks in his apartment.

When Delamere, flushed with excitement and wine, rose from the gaming table at two o’clock, he was vaguely conscious that he owed McBane a considerable sum, but could not have stated how much. His opponent, who was entirely cool and collected, ran his eye carelessly over the bits of paper to which Delamere had attached his signature. “Just one thousand dollars even,” he remarked.

The announcement of this total had as sobering an effect upon Delamere as though he had been suddenly deluged with a shower of cold water. For a moment he caught his breath. He had not a dollar in the world with which to pay this sum. His only source of income was an allowance from his grandfather, the monthly installment of which, drawn that very day, he had just lost to McBane, before starting in upon the notes of hand.

“I’ll give you your revenge another time,” said McBane, as they rose. “Luck is against you to-night, and I’m unwilling to take advantage of a clever young fellow like you. Meantime,” he added, tossing the notes of hand carelessly on a bureau, “don’t worry about these bits of paper. Such small matters shouldn’t cut any figure between friends; but if you are around the hotel to-morrow, I should like to speak to you upon another subject.”

“Very well, captain,” returned Tom somewhat ungraciously.

Delamere had been completely beaten with his own weapons. He had tried desperately to cheat McBane. He knew perfectly well that McBane had discovered his efforts and had cheated him in turn, for the captain’s play had clearly been gauged to meet his own. The biter had been bit, and could not complain of the outcome.

The following afternoon McBane met Delamere at the hotel, and bluntly requested the latter to propose him for membership in the Clarendon Club.

Delamere was annoyed at this request. His aristocratic gorge rose at the presumption of this son of an overseer and ex-driver of convicts. McBane was good enough to win money from, or even to lose money to, but not good enough to be recognized as a social equal. He would instinctively have blackballed McBane had he been proposed by some one else; with what grace could he put himself forward as the sponsor for this impossible social aspirant? Moreover, it was clearly a vulgar, cold-blooded attempt on McBane’s part to use his power over him for a personal advantage.

“Well, now, Captain McBane,” returned Delamere diplomatically, “I’ve never put any one up yet, and it’s not regarded as good form for so young a member as myself to propose candidates. I’d much rather you’d ask some older man.”

“Oh, well,” replied McBane, “just as you say, only I thought you had cut your eye teeth.”

Delamere was not pleased with McBane’s tone. His remark was not acquiescent, though couched in terms of assent. There was a sneering savagery about it, too, that left Delamere uneasy. He was, in a measure, in McBane’s power. He could not pay the thousand dollars, unless it fell from heaven, or he could win it from some one else. He would not dare go to his grandfather for help. Mr. Delamere did not even know that his grandson gambled. He might not have objected, perhaps, to a gentleman’s game, with moderate stakes, but he would certainly, Tom knew very well, have looked upon a thousand dollars as a preposterous sum to be lost at cards by a man who had nothing with which to pay it. It was part of Mr. Delamere’s creed that a gentleman should not make debts that he was not reasonably able to pay.

There was still another difficulty. If he had lost the money to a gentleman, and it had been his first serious departure from Mr. Delamere’s perfectly well understood standard of honor, Tom might have risked a confession and thrown himself on his grandfather’s mercy; but he owed other sums here and there, which, to his just now much disturbed imagination, loomed up in alarming number and amount. He had recently observed signs of coldness, too, on the part of certain members of the club. Moreover, like most men with one commanding vice, he was addicted to several subsidiary forms of iniquity, which in case of a scandal were more than likely to come to light. He was clearly and most disagreeably caught in the net of his own hypocrisy. His grandfather believed him a model of integrity, a pattern of honor; he could not afford to have his grandfather undeceived.

He thought of old Mrs. Ochiltree. If she were a liberal soul, she could give him a thousand dollars now, when he needed it, instead of making him wait until she died, which might not be for ten years or more, for a legacy which was steadily growing less and might be entirely exhausted if she lived long enough,–some old people were very tenacious of life! She was a careless old woman, too, he reflected, and very foolishly kept her money in the house. Latterly she had been growing weak and childish. Some day she might be robbed, and then his prospective inheritance from that source would vanish into thin air!

With regard to this debt to McBane, if he could not pay it, he could at least gain a long respite by proposing the captain at the club. True, he would undoubtedly be blackballed, but before this inevitable event his name must remain posted for several weeks, during which interval McBane would be conciliatory. On the other hand, to propose McBane would arouse suspicion of his own motives; it might reach his grandfather’s ears, and lead to a demand for an explanation, which it would be difficult to make. Clearly, the better plan would be to temporize with McBane, with the hope that something might intervene to remove this cursed obligation.

“Suppose, captain,” he said affably, “we leave the matter open for a few days. This is a thing that can’t be rushed. I’ll feel the pulse of my friends and yours, and when we get the lay of the land, the affair can be accomplished much more easily.”

“Well, that’s better,” returned McBane, somewhat mollified,–“if you’ll do that.”

“To be sure I will,” replied Tom easily, too much relieved to resent, if not too preoccupied to perceive, the implied doubt of his veracity.

McBane ordered and paid for more drinks, and they parted on amicable terms.

“We’ll let these notes stand for the time being, Tom,” said McBane, with significant emphasis, when they separated.

Delamere winced at the familiarity. He had reached that degree of moral deterioration where, while principles were of little moment, the externals of social intercourse possessed an exaggerated importance. McBane had never before been so personal.

He had addressed the young aristocrat first as “Mr. Delamere,” then, as their acquaintance advanced, as “Delamere.” He had now reached the abbreviated Christian name stage of familiarity. There was no lower depth to which Tom could sink, unless McBane should invent a nickname by which to address him. He did not like McBane’s manner,–it was characterized by a veiled insolence which was exceedingly offensive. He would go over to the club and try his luck with some honest player,–perhaps something might turn up to relieve him from his embarrassment.

He put his hand in his pocket mechanically,–and found it empty! In the present state of his credit, he could hardly play without money.

A thought struck him. Leaving the hotel, he hastened home, where he found Sandy dusting his famous suit of clothes on the back piazza. Mr. Delamere was not at home, having departed for Belleview about two o’clock, leaving Sandy to follow him in the morning.

“Hello, Sandy,” exclaimed Tom, with an assumed jocularity which he was very far from feeling, “what are you doing with those gorgeous garments?”

“I’m a-dustin’ of ’em, Mistuh Tom, dat’s w’at I’m a-doin’. Dere’s somethin’ wrong ’bout dese clo’s er mine–I don’ never seem ter be able ter keep ’em clean no mo’. Ef I b’lieved in dem ole-timey sayin’s, I’d ‘low dere wuz a witch come here eve’y night an’ tuk ’em out an’ wo’ ’em, er tuk me out an’ rid me in ’em. Dere wuz somethin’ wrong ’bout dat cakewalk business, too, dat I ain’ never unde’stood an’ don’ know how ter ‘count fer, ‘less dere wuz some kin’ er dev’lishness goin’ on dat don’ show on de su’face.”

“Sandy,” asked Tom irrelevantly, “have you any money in the house?”

“Yas, suh, I got de money Mars John give me ter git dem things ter take out ter Belleview in de mawnin.”

“I mean money of your own.”

“I got a qua’ter ter buy terbacker wid,” returned Sandy cautiously.

“Is that all? Haven’t you some saved up?”

“Well, yas, Mistuh Tom,” returned Sandy, with evident reluctance, “dere’s a few dollahs put away in my bureau drawer fer a rainy day,–not much, suh.”

“I’m a little short this afternoon, Sandy, and need some money right away. Grandfather isn’t here, so I can’t get any from him. Let me take what you have for a day or two, Sandy, and I’ll return it with good interest.”

“Now, Mistuh Tom,” said Sandy seriously, “I don’ min’ lettin’ you take my money, but I hopes you ain’ gwine ter use it fer none er dem rakehelly gwines-on er yo’n,–gamblin’ an’ bettin’ an’ so fo’th. Yo’ grandaddy ‘ll fin’ out ’bout you yit, ef you don’ min’ yo’ P’s an’ Q’s. I does my bes’ ter keep yo’ misdoin’s f’m ‘im, an’ sense I b’en tu’ned out er de chu’ch–thoo no fault er my own, God knows!–I’ve tol’ lies ’nuff ’bout you ter sink a ship. But it ain’t right, Mistuh Tom, it ain’t right! an’ I only does it fer de sake er de fam’ly honuh, dat Mars John sets so much sto’ by, an’ ter save his feelin’s; fer de doctuh says he mus’n’ git ixcited ’bout nothin’, er it mought bring on another stroke.”

“That’s right, Sandy,” replied Tom approvingly; “but the family honor is as safe in my hands as in grandfather’s own, and I’m going to use the money for an excellent purpose, in fact to relieve a case of genuine distress; and I’ll hand it back to you in a day or two,–perhaps to-morrow. Fetch me the money, Sandy,–that’s a good darky!”

“All right, Mistuh Tom, you shill have de money; but I wants ter tell you, suh, dat in all de yeahs I has wo’ked fer yo’ gran’daddy, he has never called me a ‘darky’ ter my face, suh. Co’se I knows dere’s w’ite folks an’ black folks,–but dere’s manners, suh, dere’s manners, an’ gent’emen oughter be de ones ter use ’em, suh, ef dey ain’t ter be fergot enti’ely!”

“There, there, Sandy,” returned Tom in a conciliatory tone, “I beg your pardon! I’ve been associating with some Northern white folks at the hotel, and picked up the word from them. You’re a high-toned colored gentleman, Sandy,–the finest one on the footstool.”

Still muttering to himself, Sandy retired to his own room, which was in the house, so that he might be always near his master. He soon returned with a time-stained leather pocket-book and a coarse-knit cotton sock, from which two receptacles he painfully extracted a number of bills and coins.

“You count dat, Mistuh Tom, so I’ll know how much I’m lettin’ you have.”

“This isn’t worth anything,” said Tom, pushing aside one roll of bills. “It’s Confederate money.”

“So it is, suh. It ain’t wuth nothin’ now; but it has be’n money, an’ who kin tell but what it mought be money agin? De rest er dem bills is greenbacks,–dey’ll pass all right, I reckon.”

The good money amounted to about fifty dollars, which Delamere thrust eagerly into his pocket.

“You won’t say anything to grandfather about this, will you, Sandy,” he said, as he turned away.

“No, suh, co’se I won’t! Does I ever tell ‘im ’bout yo’ gwines-on? Ef I did,” he added to himself, as the young man disappeared down the street, “I wouldn’ have time ter do nothin’ e’se ha’dly. I don’ know whether I’ll ever see dat money agin er no, do’ I ‘magine de ole gent’eman wouldn’ lemme lose it ef he knowed. But I ain’ gwine ter tell him, whether I git my money back er no, fer he is jes’ so wrop’ up in dat boy dat I b’lieve it’d jes’ break his hea’t ter fin’ out how he’s be’n gwine on. Doctuh Price has tol’ me not ter let de ole gent’eman git ixcited, er e’se dere’s no tellin’ w’at mought happen. He’s be’n good ter me, he has, an’ I’m gwine ter take keer er him,–dat’s w’at I is, ez long ez I has de chance.”

* * * * *

Delamere went directly to the club, and soon lounged into the card-room, where several of the members were engaged in play. He sauntered here and there, too much absorbed in his own thoughts to notice that the greetings he received were less cordial than those usually exchanged between the members of a small and select social club. Finally, when Augustus, commonly and more appropriately called “Gus,” Davidson came into the room, Tom stepped toward him.

“Will you take a hand in a game, Gus?”

“Don’t care if I do,” said the other. “Let’s sit over here.”

Davidson led the way to a table near the fireplace, near which stood a tall screen, which at times occupied various places in the room. Davidson took the seat opposite the fireplace, leaving Delamere with his back to the screen.

Delamere staked half of Sandy’s money, and lost. He staked the rest, and determined to win, because he could not afford to lose. He had just reached out his hand to gather in the stakes, when he was charged with cheating at cards, of which two members, who had quietly entered the room and posted themselves behind the screen, had secured specific proof. A meeting of the membership committee was hastily summoned, it being an hour at which most of them might be found at the club. To avoid a scandal, and to save the feelings of a prominent family, Delamere was given an opportunity to resign quietly from the club, on condition that he paid all his gambling debts within three days, and took an oath never to play cards again for money. This latter condition was made at the suggestion of an elderly member, who apparently believed that a man who would cheat at cards would stick at perjury.

Delamere acquiesced very promptly. The taking of the oath was easy. The payment of some fifteen hundred dollars of debts was a different matter. He went away from the club thoughtfully, and it may be said, in full justice to a past which was far from immaculate, that in his present thoughts he touched a depth of scoundrelism far beyond anything of which he had as yet deemed himself capable. When a man of good position, of whom much is expected, takes to evil courses, his progress is apt to resemble that of a well-bred woman who has started on the downward path,–the pace is all the swifter because of the distance which must be traversed to reach the bottom. Delamere had made rapid headway; having hitherto played with sin, his servant had now become his master, and held him in an iron grip.

XVIII

SANDY SEES HIS OWN HA’NT

Having finished cleaning his clothes, Sandy went out to the kitchen for supper, after which he found himself with nothing to do. Mr. Delamere’s absence relieved him from attendance at the house during the evening. He might have smoked his pipe tranquilly in the kitchen until bedtime, had not the cook intimated, rather pointedly, that she expected other company. To a man of Sandy’s tact a word was sufficient, and he resigned himself to seeking companionship elsewhere.

Under normal circumstances, Sandy would have attended prayer-meeting on this particular evening of the week; but being still in contumacy, and cherishing what he considered the just resentment of a man falsely accused, he stifled the inclination which by long habit led him toward the church, and set out for the house of a friend with whom it occurred to him that he might spend the evening pleasantly. Unfortunately, his friend proved to be not at home, so Sandy turned his footsteps toward the lower part of the town, where the streets were well lighted, and on pleasant evenings quite animated. On the way he met Josh Green, whom he had known for many years, though their paths did not often cross. In his loneliness Sandy accepted an invitation to go with Josh and have a drink,–a single drink. When Sandy was going home about eleven o’clock, three sheets in the wind, such was the potent effect of the single drink and those which had followed it, he was scared almost into soberness by a remarkable apparition. As it seemed to Sandy, he saw himself hurrying along in front of himself toward the house. Possibly the muddled condition of Sandy’s intellect had so affected his judgment as to vitiate any conclusion he might draw, but Sandy was quite sober enough to perceive that the figure ahead of him wore his best clothes and looked exactly like him, but seemed to be in something more of a hurry, a discrepancy which Sandy at once corrected by quickening his own pace so as to maintain as nearly as possible an equal distance between himself and his double. The situation was certainly an incomprehensible one, and savored of the supernatural.

“Ef dat’s me gwine ‘long in front,” mused Sandy, in vinous perplexity, “den who is dis behin’ here? Dere ain’ but one er me, an’ my ha’nt wouldn’ leave my body ‘tel I wuz dead. Ef dat’s me in front, den I mus’ be my own ha’nt; an’ whichever one of us is de ha’nt, de yuther must be dead an’ don’ know it. I don’ know what ter make er no sech gwines-on, I don’t. Maybe it ain’ me after all, but it certainly do look lack me.”

When the apparition disappeared in the house by the side door, Sandy stood in the yard for several minutes, under the shade of an elm-tree, before he could make up his mind to enter the house. He took courage, however, upon the reflection that perhaps, after all, it was only the bad liquor he had drunk. Bad liquor often made people see double.

He entered the house. It was dark, except for a light in Tom Delamere’s room. Sandy tapped softly at the door.

“Who’s there?” came Delamere’s voice, in a somewhat startled tone, after a momentary silence.

“It’s me, suh; Sandy.”

They both spoke softly. It was the rule of the house when Mr. Delamere had retired, and though he was not at home, habit held its wonted sway.

“Just a moment, Sandy.”

Sandy waited patiently in the hall until the door was opened. If the room showed any signs of haste or disorder, Sandy was too full of his own thoughts–and other things–to notice them.

“What do you want, Sandy,” asked Tom.

“Mistuh Tom,” asked Sandy solemnly, “ef I wuz in yo’ place, an’ you wuz in my place, an’ we wuz bofe in de same place, whar would I be?”

Tom looked at Sandy keenly, with a touch of apprehension. Did Sandy mean anything in particular by this enigmatical inquiry, and if so, what? But Sandy’s face clearly indicated a state of mind in which consecutive thought was improbable; and after a brief glance Delamere breathed more freely.

“I give it up, Sandy,” he responded lightly. “That’s too deep for me.”

“‘Scuse me, Mistuh Tom, but is you heared er seed anybody er anything come in de house fer de las’ ten minutes?”

“Why, no, Sandy, I haven’t heard any one. I came from the club an hour ago. I had forgotten my key, and Sally got up and let me in, and then went back to bed. I’ve been sitting here reading ever since. I should have heard any one who came in.”

“Mistuh Tom,” inquired Sandy anxiously, “would you ‘low dat I’d be’n drinkin’ too much?”

“No, Sandy, I should say you were sober enough, though of course you may have had a few drinks. Perhaps you’d like another? I’ve got something good here.”

“No, suh, Mistuh Tom, no, suh! No mo’ liquor fer me, suh, never! When liquor kin make a man see his own ha’nt, it’s ’bout time fer dat man ter quit drinkin’, it sho’ is! Good-night, Mistuh Tom.”

As Sandy turned to go, Delamere was struck by a sudden and daring thought. The creature of impulse, he acted upon it immediately.

“By the way, Sandy,” he exclaimed carelessly, “I can pay you back that money you were good enough to lend me this afternoon. I think I’ll sleep better if I have the debt off my mind, and I shouldn’t wonder if you would. You don’t mind having it in gold, do you?”

“No, indeed, suh,” replied Sandy. “I ain’ seen no gol’ fer so long dat de sight er it’d be good fer my eyes.”

Tom counted out ten five-dollar gold pieces upon the table at his elbow.

“And here’s another, Sandy,” he said, adding an eleventh, “as interest for the use of it.”

“Thank y’, Mistuh Tom. I didn’t spec’ no in-trus’, but I don’ never ‘fuse gol’ w’en I kin git it.”

“And here,” added Delamere, reaching carelessly into a bureau drawer, “is a little old silk purse that I’ve had since I was a boy. I’ll put the gold in it, Sandy; it will hold it very nicely.”

“Thank y’, Mistuh Tom. You’re a gentleman, suh, an’ wo’thy er de fam’ly name. Good-night, suh, an’ I hope yo’ dreams ‘ll be pleasanter ‘n’ mine. Ef it wa’n’t fer dis gol’ kinder takin’ my min’ off’n dat ha’nt, I don’ s’pose I’d be able to do much sleepin’ ter-night. Good-night, suh.”

“Good-night, Sandy.”

Whether or not Delamere slept soundly, or was troubled by dreams, pleasant or unpleasant, it is nevertheless true that he locked his door, and sat up an hour later, looking through the drawers of his bureau, and burning several articles in the little iron stove which constituted part of the bedroom furniture.

It is also true that he rose very early, before the household was stirring. The cook slept in a room off the kitchen, which was in an outhouse in the back yard. She was just stretching herself, preparatory to getting up, when Tom came to her window and said that he was going off fishing, to be gone all day, and that he would not wait for breakfast.

XIX

A MIDNIGHT WALK

Ellis left the office of the Morning Chronicle about eleven o’clock the same evening and set out to walk home. His boarding-house was only a short distance beyond old Mr. Delamere’s residence, and while he might have saved time and labor by a slightly shorter route, he generally selected this one because it led also by Major Carteret’s house. Sometimes there would be a ray of light from Clara’s room, which was on one of the front corners; and at any rate he would have the pleasure of gazing at the outside of the casket that enshrined the jewel of his heart. It was true that this purely sentimental pleasure was sometimes dashed with bitterness at the thought of his rival; but one in love must take the bitter with the sweet, and who would say that a spice of jealousy does not add a certain zest to love? On this particular evening, however, he was in a hopeful mood. At the Clarendon Club, where he had gone, a couple of hours before, to verify a certain news item for the morning paper, he had heard a story about Tom Delamere which, he imagined, would spike that gentleman’s guns for all time, so far as Miss Pemberton was concerned. So grave an affair as cheating at cards could never be kept secret,–it was certain to reach her ears; and Ellis was morally certain that Clara would never marry a man who had been proved dishonorable. In all probability there would be no great sensation about the matter. Delamere was too well connected; too many prominent people would be involved–even Clara, and the editor himself, of whom Delamere was a distant cousin. The reputation of the club was also to be considered. Ellis was not the man to feel a malicious delight in the misfortunes of another, nor was he a pessimist who welcomed scandal and disgrace with open arms, as confirming a gloomy theory of human life. But, with the best intentions in the world, it was no more than human nature that he should feel a certain elation in the thought that his rival had been practically disposed of, and the field left clear; especially since this good situation had been brought about merely by the unmasking of a hypocrite, who had held him at an unfair disadvantage in the race for Clara’s favor.

The night was quiet, except for the faint sound of distant music now and then, or the mellow laughter of some group of revelers. Ellis met but few pedestrians, but as he neared old Mr. Delamere’s, he saw two men walking in the same direction as his own, on the opposite side of the street. He had observed that they kept at about an equal distance apart, and that the second, from the stealthy manner in which he was making his way, was anxious to keep the first in sight, without disclosing his own presence. This aroused Ellis’s curiosity, which was satisfied in some degree when the man in advance stopped beneath a lamp-post and stood for a moment looking across the street, with his face plainly visible in the yellow circle of light. It was a dark face, and Ellis recognized it instantly as that of old Mr. Delamere’s body servant, whose personal appearance had been very vividly impressed upon Ellis at the christening dinner at Major Carteret’s. He had seen Sandy once since, too, at the hotel cakewalk. The negro had a small bundle in his hand, the nature of which Ellis could not make out.

When Sandy had stopped beneath the lamp-post, the man who was following him had dodged behind a tree-trunk. When Sandy moved on, Ellis, who had stopped in turn, saw the man in hiding come out and follow Sandy. When this second man came in range of the light, Ellis wondered that there should be two men so much alike. The first of the two had undoubtedly been Sandy. Ellis had recognized the peculiar, old-fashioned coat that Sandy had worn upon the two occasions when he had noticed him. Barring this difference, and the somewhat unsteady gait of the second man, the two were as much alike as twin brothers.

When they had entered Mr. Delamere’s house, one after the other,–in the stillness of the night Ellis could perceive that each of them tried to make as little noise as possible,–Ellis supposed that they were probably relatives, both employed as servants, or that some younger negro, taking Sandy for a model, was trying to pattern himself after his superior. Why all this mystery, of course he could not imagine, unless the younger man had been out without permission and was trying to avoid the accusing eye of Sandy. Ellis was vaguely conscious that he had seen the other negro somewhere, but he could not for the moment place him,–there were so many negroes, nearly three negroes to one white man in the city of Wellington!

The subject, however, while curious, was not important as compared with the thoughts of his sweetheart which drove it from his mind. Clara had been kind to him the night before,–whatever her motive, she had been kind, and could not consistently return to her attitude of coldness. With Delamere hopelessly discredited, Ellis hoped to have at least fair play,–with fair play, he would take his chances of the outcome.

XX

A SHOCKING CRIME

On Friday morning, when old Mrs. Ochiltree’s cook Dinah went to wake her mistress, she was confronted with a sight that well-nigh blanched her ebony cheek and caused her eyes almost to start from her head with horror. As soon as she could command her trembling limbs sufficiently to make them carry her, she rushed out of the house and down the street, bareheaded, covering in an incredibly short time the few blocks that separated Mrs. Ochiltree’s residence from that of her niece.

She hastened around the house, and finding the back door open and the servants stirring, ran into the house and up the stairs with the familiarity of an old servant, not stopping until she reached the door of Mrs. Carteret’s chamber, at which she knocked in great agitation.

Entering in response to Mrs. Carteret’s invitation, she found the lady, dressed in a simple wrapper, superintending the morning toilet of little Dodie, who was a wakeful child, and insisted upon rising with the birds, for whose music he still showed a great fondness, in spite of his narrow escape while listening to the mockingbird.

“What is it, Dinah?” asked Mrs. Carteret, alarmed at the frightened face of her aunt’s old servitor.

“O my Lawd, Mis’ ‘Livy, my Lawd, my Lawd! My legs is trim’lin’ so dat I can’t ha’dly hol’ my han’s stiddy ‘nough ter say w’at I got ter say! O Lawd have mussy on us po’ sinners! W’atever is gwine ter happen in dis worl’ er sin an’ sorrer!”

“What in the world is the matter, Dinah?” demanded Mrs. Carteret, whose own excitement had increased with the length of this preamble. “Has anything happened to Aunt Polly?”

“Somebody done broke in de house las’ night, Mis’ ‘Livy, an’ kill’ Mis’ Polly, an’ lef’ her layin’ dead on de flo’, in her own blood, wid her cedar chis’ broke’ open, an’ eve’thing scattered roun’ de flo’! O my Lawd, my Lawd, my Lawd, my Lawd!”

Mrs. Carteret was shocked beyond expression. Perhaps the spectacle of Dinah’s unrestrained terror aided her to retain a greater measure of self-control than she might otherwise have been capable of. Giving the nurse some directions in regard to the child, she hastily descended the stairs, and seizing a hat and jacket from the rack in the hall, ran immediately with Dinah to the scene of the tragedy. Before the thought of this violent death all her aunt’s faults faded into insignificance, and only her good qualities were remembered. She had reared Olivia; she had stood up for the memory of Olivia’s mother when others had seemed to forget what was due to it. To her niece she had been a second mother, and had never been lacking in affection.

More than one motive, however, lent wings to Mrs. Carteret’s feet. Her aunt’s incomplete disclosures on the day of the drive past the hospital had been weighing upon Mrs. Carteret’s mind, and she had intended to make another effort this very day, to get an answer to her question about the papers which the woman had claimed were in existence. Suppose her aunt had really found such papers,–papers which would seem to prove the preposterous claim made by her father’s mulatto mistress? Suppose that, with the fatuity which generally leads human beings to keep compromising documents, her aunt had preserved these papers? If they should be found there in the house, there might be a scandal, if nothing worse, and this was to be avoided at all hazards.

Guided by some fortunate instinct, Dinah had as yet informed no one but Mrs. Carteret of her discovery. If they could reach the house before the murder became known to any third person, she might be the first to secure access to the remaining contents of the cedar chest, which would be likely to be held as evidence in case the officers of the law forestalled her own arrival.

They found the house wrapped in the silence of death. Mrs. Carteret entered the chamber of the dead woman. Upon the floor, where it had fallen, lay the body in a pool of blood, the strongly marked countenance scarcely more grim in the rigidity of death than it had been in life. A gaping wound in the head accounted easily for the death. The cedar chest stood open, its strong fastenings having been broken by a steel bar which still lay beside it. Near it were scattered pieces of old lace, antiquated jewelry, tarnished silverware,–the various mute souvenirs of the joys and sorrows of a long and active life.

Kneeling by the open chest, Mrs. Carteret glanced hurriedly through its contents. There were no papers there except a few old deeds and letters. She had risen with a sigh of relief, when she perceived the end of a paper projecting from beneath the edge of a rug which had been carelessly rumpled, probably by the burglar in his hasty search for plunder. This paper, or sealed envelope as it proved to be, which evidently contained some inclosure, she seized, and at the sound of approaching footsteps thrust hastily into her own bosom.

The sight of two agitated women rushing through the quiet streets at so early an hour in the morning had attracted attention and aroused curiosity, and the story of the murder, having once become known, spread with the customary rapidity of bad news. Very soon a policeman, and a little later a sheriff’s officer, arrived at the house and took charge of the remains to await the arrival of the coroner.

By nine o’clock a coroner’s jury had been summoned, who, after brief deliberation, returned a verdict of willful murder at the hands of some person or persons unknown, while engaged in the commission of a burglary.

No sooner was the verdict announced than the community, or at least the white third of it, resolved itself spontaneously into a committee of the whole to discover the perpetrator of this dastardly crime, which, at this stage of the affair, seemed merely one of robbery and murder.

Suspicion was at once directed toward the negroes, as it always is when an unexplained crime is committed in a Southern community. The suspicion was not entirely an illogical one. Having been, for generations, trained up to thriftlessness, theft, and immorality, against which only thirty years of very limited opportunity can be offset, during which brief period they have been denied in large measure the healthful social stimulus and sympathy which holds most men in the path of rectitude, colored people might reasonably be expected to commit at least a share of crime proportionate to their numbers. The population of the town was at least two thirds colored. The chances were, therefore, in the absence of evidence, at least two to one that a man of color had committed the crime. The Southern tendency to charge the negroes with all the crime and immorality of that region, unjust and exaggerated as the claim may be, was therefore not without a logical basis to the extent above indicated.

It must not be imagined that any logic was needed, or any reasoning consciously worked out. The mere suggestion that the crime had been committed by a negro was equivalent to proof against any negro that might be suspected and could not prove his innocence. A committee of white men was hastily formed. Acting independently of the police force, which was practically ignored as likely to favor the negroes, this committee set to work to discover the murderer.

The spontaneous activity of the whites was accompanied by a visible shrinkage of the colored population. This could not be taken as any indication of guilt, but was merely a recognition of the palpable fact that the American habit of lynching had so whetted the thirst for black blood that a negro suspected of crime had to face at least the possibility of a short shrift and a long rope, not to mention more gruesome horrors, without the intervention of judge or jury. Since to have a black face at such a time was to challenge suspicion, and since there was neither the martyr’s glory nor the saint’s renown in being killed for some one else’s crime, and very little hope of successful resistance in case of an attempt at lynching, it was obviously the part of prudence for those thus marked to seek immunity in a temporary disappearance from public view.

XXI

THE NECESSITY OF AN EXAMPLE

About ten o’clock on the morning of the discovery of the murder, Captain McBane and General Belmont, as though moved by a common impulse, found themselves at the office of the Morning Chronicle. Carteret was expecting them, though there had been no appointment made. These three resourceful and energetic minds, representing no organized body, and clothed with no legal authority, had so completely arrogated to themselves the leadership of white public sentiment as to come together instinctively when an event happened which concerned the public, and, as this murder presumably did, involved the matter of race.

“Well, gentlemen,” demanded McBane impatiently, “what are we going to do with the scoundrel when we catch him?”

“They’ve got the murderer,” announced a reporter, entering the room.

“Who is he?” they demanded in a breath.

“A nigger by the name of Sandy Campbell, a servant of old Mr. Delamere.”

“How did they catch him?”

“Our Jerry saw him last night, going toward Mrs. Ochiltree’s house, and a white man saw him coming away, half an hour later.”

“Has he confessed?”

“No, but he might as well. When the posse went to arrest him, they found him cleaning the clothes he had worn last night, and discovered in his room a part of the plunder. He denies it strenuously, but it seems a clear case.”

“There can be no doubt,” said Ellis, who had come into the room behind the reporter. “I saw the negro last night, at twelve o’clock, going into Mr. Delamere’s yard, with a bundle in his hand.”

“He is the last negro I should have suspected,” said Carteret. “Mr. Delamere had implicit confidence in him.”

“All niggers are alike,” remarked McBane sententiously. “The only way to keep them from stealing is not to give them the chance. A nigger will steal a cent off a dead man’s eye. He has assaulted and murdered a white woman,–an example should be made of him.”

Carteret recalled very distinctly the presence of this negro at his own residence on the occasion of little Theodore’s christening dinner. He remembered having questioned the prudence of letting a servant know that Mrs. Ochiltree kept money in the house. Mr. Delamere had insisted strenuously upon the honesty of this particular negro. The whole race, in the major’s opinion, was morally undeveloped, and only held within bounds by the restraining influence of the white people. Under Mr. Delamere’s thumb this Sandy had been a model servant,–faithful, docile, respectful, and self-respecting; but Mr. Delamere had grown old, and had probably lost in a measure his moral influence over his servant. Left to his own degraded ancestral instincts, Sandy had begun to deteriorate, and a rapid decline had culminated in this robbery and murder,–and who knew what other horror? The criminal was a negro, the victim a white woman;–it was only reasonable to expect the worst.

“He’ll swing for it,” observed the general.

Ellis went into another room, where his duty called him.

“He should burn for it,” averred McBane. “I say, burn the nigger.”

“This,” said Carteret, “is something more than an ordinary crime, to be dealt with by the ordinary processes of law. It is a murderous and fatal assault upon a woman of our race,–upon our race in the person of its womanhood, its crown and flower. If such crimes are not punished with swift and terrible directness, the whole white womanhood of the South is in danger.”

“Burn the nigger,” repeated McBane automatically.

“Neither is this a mere sporadic crime,” Carteret went on. “It is symptomatic; it is the logical and inevitable result of the conditions which have prevailed in this town for the past year. It is the last straw.”

“Burn the nigger,” reiterated McBane. “We seem to have the right nigger, but whether we have or not, burn _a_ nigger. It is an assault upon the white race, in the person of old Mrs. Ochiltree, committed by the black race, in the person of some nigger. It would justify the white people in burning _any_ nigger. The example would be all the more powerful if we got the wrong one. It would serve notice on the niggers that we shall hold the whole race responsible for the misdeeds of each individual.”

“In ancient Rome,” said the general, “when a master was killed by a slave, all his slaves were put to the sword.”

“We couldn’t afford that before the war,” said McBane, “but the niggers don’t belong to anybody now, and there’s nothing to prevent our doing as we please with them. A dead nigger is no loss to any white man. I say, burn the nigger.”

“I do not believe,” said Carteret, who had gone to the window and was looking out,–“I do not believe that we need trouble ourselves personally about his punishment. I should judge, from the commotion in the street, that the public will take the matter into its own hands. I, for one, would prefer that any violence, however justifiable, should take place without my active intervention.”

“It won’t take place without mine, if I know it,” exclaimed McBane, starting for the door.

“Hold on a minute, captain,” exclaimed Carteret. “There’s more at stake in this matter than the life of a black scoundrel. Wellington is in the hands of negroes and scalawags. What better time to rescue it?”

“It’s a trifle premature,” replied the general. “I should have preferred to have this take place, if it was to happen, say three months hence, on the eve of the election,–but discussion always provokes thirst with me; I wonder if I could get Jerry to bring us some drinks?”

Carteret summoned the porter. Jerry’s usual manner had taken on an element of self-importance, resulting in what one might describe as a sort of condescending obsequiousness. Though still a porter, he was also a hero, and wore his aureole.

“Jerry,” said the general kindly, “the white people are very much pleased with the assistance you have given them in apprehending this scoundrel Campbell. You have rendered a great public service, Jerry, and we wish you to know that it is appreciated.”

“Thank y’, gin’l, thank y’, suh! I alluz tries ter do my duty, suh, an’ stan’ by dem dat stan’s by me. Dat low-down nigger oughter be lynch’, suh, don’t you think, er e’se bu’nt? Dere ain’ nothin’ too bad ter happen ter ‘im.”

“No doubt he will be punished as he deserves, Jerry,” returned the general, “and we will see that you are suitably rewarded. Go across the street and get me three Calhoun cocktails. I seem to have nothing less than a two-dollar bill, but you may keep the change, Jerry,–all the change.”

Jerry was very happy. He had distinguished himself in the public view, for to Jerry, as to the white people themselves, the white people were the public. He had won the goodwill of the best people, and had already begun to reap a tangible reward. It is true that several strange white men looked at him with lowering brows as he crossed the street, which was curiously empty of colored people; but he nevertheless went firmly forward, panoplied in the consciousness of his own rectitude, and serenely confident of the protection of the major and the major’s friends.

“Jerry is about the only negro I have seen since nine o’clock,” observed the general when the porter had gone. “If this were election day, where would the negro vote be?”

“In hiding, where most of the negro population is to-day,” answered McBane. “It’s a pity, if old Mrs. Ochiltree had to go this way, that it couldn’t have been deferred a month or six weeks.” Carteret frowned at this remark, which, coming from McBane, seemed lacking in human feeling, as well as in respect to his wife’s dead relative.

“But,” resumed the general, “if this negro is lynched, as he well deserves to be, it will not be without its effect. We still have in reserve for the election a weapon which this affair will only render more effective. What became of the piece in the negro paper?”

“I have it here,” answered Carteret. “I was just about to use it as the text for an editorial.”

“Save it awhile longer,” responded the general. “This crime itself will give you text enough for a four-volume work.”

When this conference ended, Carteret immediately put into press an extra edition of the Morning Chronicle, which was soon upon the streets, giving details of the crime, which was characterized as an atrocious assault upon a defenseless old lady, whose age and sex would have protected her from harm at the hands of any one but a brute in the lowest human form. This event, the Chronicle suggested, had only confirmed the opinion, which had been of late growing upon the white people, that drastic efforts were necessary to protect the white women of the South against brutal, lascivious, and murderous assaults at the hands of negro men. It was only another significant example of the results which might have been foreseen from the application of a false and pernicious political theory, by which ignorance, clothed in a little brief authority, was sought to be exalted over knowledge, vice over virtue, an inferior and degraded race above the heaven-crowned Anglo-Saxon. If an outraged people, justly infuriated, and impatient of the slow processes of the courts, should assert their inherent sovereignty, which the law after all was merely intended to embody, and should choose, in obedience to the higher law, to set aside, temporarily, the ordinary judicial procedure, it would serve as a warning and an example to the vicious elements of the community, of the swift and terrible punishment which would fall, like the judgment of God, upon any one who laid sacrilegious hands upon white womanhood.

XXII

HOW NOT TO PREVENT A LYNCHING

Dr. Miller, who had sat up late the night before with a difficult case at the hospital, was roused, about eleven o’clock, from a deep and dreamless sleep. Struggling back into consciousness, he was informed by his wife, who stood by his bedside, that Mr. Watson, the colored lawyer, wished to see him upon a matter of great importance.

“Nothing but a matter of life and death would make me get up just now,” he said with a portentous yawn.

“This is a matter of life and death,” replied Janet. “Old Mrs. Polly Ochiltree was robbed and murdered last night, and Sandy Campbell has been arrested for the crime,–and they are going to lynch him!”

“Tell Watson to come right up,” exclaimed Miller, springing out of bed. “We can talk while I’m dressing.”

While Miller made a hasty toilet Watson explained the situation. Campbell had been arrested on the charge of murder. He had been seen, during the night, in the neighborhood of the scene of the crime, by two different persons, a negro and a white man, and had been identified later while entering Mr. Delamere’s house, where he lived, and where damning proofs of his guilt had been discovered; the most important item of which was an old-fashioned knit silk purse, recognized as Mrs. Ochiltree’s, and several gold pieces of early coinage, of which the murdered woman was known to have a number. Watson brought with him one of the first copies procurable of the extra edition of the Chronicle, which contained these facts and further information.

They were still talking when Mrs. Miller, knocking at the door, announced that big Josh Green wished to see the doctor about Sandy Campbell. Miller took his collar and necktie in his hand and went downstairs, where Josh sat waiting.

“Doctuh,” said Green, “de w’ite folks is talkin’ ’bout lynchin’ Sandy Campbell fer killin’ ole Mis’ Ochiltree. He never done it, an’ dey oughtn’ ter be ‘lowed ter lynch ‘im.”

“They ought not to lynch him, even if he committed the crime,” returned Miller, “but still less if he didn’t. What do you know about it?”

“I know he was wid me, suh, las’ night, at de time when dey say ole Mis’ Ochiltree wuz killed. We wuz down ter Sam Taylor’s place, havin’ a little game of kyards an’ a little liquor. Den we lef dere an’ went up ez fur ez de corner er Main an’ Vine Streets, where we pa’ted, an’ Sandy went ‘long to’ds home. Mo’over, dey say he had on check’ britches an’ a blue coat. When Sandy wuz wid me he had on gray clo’s, an’ when we sep’rated he wa’n’t in no shape ter be changin’ his clo’s, let ‘lone robbin’ er killin’ anybody.”

“Your testimony ought to prove an alibi for him,” declared Miller.

“Dere ain’ gwine ter be no chance ter prove nothin’, ‘less’n we kin do it mighty quick! Dey say dey’re gwine ter lynch ‘im ter-night,–some on ’em is talkin’ ’bout burnin’ ‘im. My idee is ter hunt up de niggers an’ git ’em ter stan’ tergether an’ gyard de jail.”

“Why shouldn’t we go to the principal white people of the town and tell them Josh’s story, and appeal to them to stop this thing until Campbell can have a hearing?”

“It wouldn’t do any good,” said Watson despondently; “their blood is up. It seems that some colored man attacked Mrs. Ochiltree,–and he was a murderous villain, whoever he may be. To quote Josh would destroy the effect of his story,–we know he never harmed any one but himself”–

“An’ a few keerliss people w’at got in my way,” corrected Josh.

“He has been in court several times for fighting,–and that’s against him. To have been at Sam Taylor’s place is against Sandy, too, rather than in his favor. No, Josh, the white people would believe that you were trying to shield Sandy, and you would probably be arrested as an accomplice.”

“But look a-here, Mr. Watson,–Dr. Miller, is we-all jes’ got ter set down here, widout openin’ ou’ mouths, an’ let dese w’ite folks hang er bu’n a man w’at we _know_ ain’ guilty? Dat ain’t no law, ner jestice, ner nothin’! Ef you-all won’t he’p, I’ll do somethin’ myse’f! Dere’s two niggers ter one white man in dis town, an’ I’m sho’ I kin fin’ fifty of ’em w’at ‘ll fight, ef dey kin fin’ anybody ter lead ’em.”

“Now hold on, Josh,” argued Miller; “what is to be gained by fighting? Suppose you got your crowd together and surrounded the jail,–what then?”

“There’d be a clash,” declared Watson, “and instead of one dead negro there’d be fifty. The white people are claiming now that Campbell didn’t stop with robbery and murder. A special edition of the Morning Chronicle, just out, suggests a further purpose, and has all the old shopworn cant about race purity and supremacy and imperative necessity, which always comes to the front whenever it is sought to justify some outrage on the colored folks. The blood of the whites is up, I tell you!”

“Is there anything to that suggestion?” asked Miller incredulously.

“It doesn’t matter whether there is or not,” returned Watson. “Merely to suggest it proves it.

“Nothing was said about this feature until the paper came out,–and even its statement is vague and indefinite,–but now the claim is in every mouth. I met only black looks as I came down the street. White men with whom I have long been on friendly terms passed me without a word. A negro has been arrested on suspicion,–the entire race is condemned on general principles.”

“The whole thing is profoundly discouraging,” said Miller sadly. “Try as we may to build up the race in the essentials of good citizenship and win the good opinion of the best people, some black scoundrel comes along, and by a single criminal act, committed in the twinkling of an eye, neutralizes the effect of a whole year’s work.”

“It’s mighty easy neut’alize’, er whatever you call it,” said Josh sullenly. “De w’ite folks don’ want too good an opinion er de niggers,–ef dey had a good opinion of ’em, dey wouldn’ have no excuse f er ‘busin’ an’ hangin’ an’ burnin’ ’em. But ef dey can’t keep from doin’ it, let ’em git de right man! Dis way er pickin’ up de fus’ nigger dey comes across, an’ stringin’ ‘im up rega’dliss, ought ter be stop’, an’ stop’ right now!”

“Yes, that’s the worst of lynch law,” said Watson; “but we are wasting valuable time,–it’s hardly worth while for us to discuss a subject we are all agreed upon. One of our race, accused of certain acts, is about to be put to death without judge or jury, ostensibly because he committed a crime,–really because he is a negro, for if he were white he would not be lynched. It is thus made a race issue, on the one side as well as on the other. What can we do to protect him?”

“We kin fight, ef we haf ter,” replied Josh resolutely.

“Well, now, let us see. Suppose the colored people armed themselves? Messages would at once be sent to every town and county in the neighborhood. White men from all over the state, armed to the teeth, would at the slightest word pour into town on every railroad train, and extras would be run for their benefit.”

“They’re already coming in,” said Watson.

“We might go to the sheriff,” suggested Miller, “and demand that he telegraph the governor to call out the militia.”

“I spoke to the sheriff an hour ago,” replied Watson. “He has a white face and a whiter liver. He does not dare call out the militia to protect a negro charged with such a brutal crime;–and if he did, the militia are white men, and who can say that their efforts would not be directed to keeping the negroes out of the way, in order that the white devils might do their worst? The whole machinery of the state is in the hands of white men, elected partly by our votes. When the color line is drawn, if they choose to stand together with the rest of their race against us, or to remain passive and let the others work their will, we are helpless,–our cause is hopeless.”

“We might call on the general government,” said Miller. “Surely the President would intervene.”

“Such a demand would be of no avail,” returned Watson. “The government can only intervene under certain conditions, of which it must be informed through designated channels. It never sees anything that is not officially called to its attention. The whole negro population of the South might be slaughtered before the necessary red tape could be spun out to inform the President that a state of anarchy prevailed. There’s no hope there.”

“Den w’at we gwine ter do?” demanded Josh indignantly; “jes’ set here an’ let ’em hang Sandy, er bu’n ‘im?”

“God knows!” exclaimed Miller. “The outlook is dark, but we should at least try to do something. There must be some white men in the town who would stand for law and order,–there’s no possible chance for Sandy to escape hanging by due process of law, if he is guilty. We might at least try half a dozen gentlemen.”

“We’d better leave Josh here,” said Watson. “He’s too truculent. If he went on the street he’d make trouble, and if he accompanied us he’d do more harm than good. Wait for us here, Josh, until we ‘we seen what we can do. We’ll be back in half an hour.”

In half an hour they had both returned.

“It’s no use,” reported Watson gloomily. “I called at the mayor’s office and found it locked. He is doubtless afraid on his own account, and would not dream of asserting his authority. I then looked up Judge Everton, who has always seemed to be fair. My reception was cold. He admitted that lynching was, as a rule, unjustifiable, but maintained that there were exceptions to all rules,–that laws were made, after all, to express the will of the people in regard to the ordinary administration of justice, but that in an emergency the sovereign people might assert itself and take the law into its own hands,–the creature was not greater than the creator. He laughed at my suggestion that Sandy was innocent. ‘If he is innocent,’ he said, ‘then produce the real criminal. You negroes are standing in your own light when you try to protect such dastardly scoundrels as this Campbell, who is an enemy of society and not fit to live. I shall not move in the matter. If a negro wants the protection of the law, let him obey the law.’ A wise judge,–a second Daniel come to judgment! If this were the law, there would be no need of judges or juries.”

“I called on Dr. Price,” said Miller, “my good friend Dr. Price, who would rather lie than hurt my feelings. ‘Miller,’ he declared, ‘this is no affair of mine, or yours. I have too much respect for myself and my profession to interfere in such a matter, and you will accomplish nothing, and only lessen your own influence, by having anything to say.’ ‘But the man may be innocent,’ I replied; ‘there is every reason to believe that he is.’ He shook his head pityingly. ‘You are self-deceived, Miller; your prejudice has warped your judgment. The proof is overwhelming that he robbed this old lady, laid violent hands upon her, and left her dead. If he did no more, he has violated the written and unwritten law of the Southern States. I could not save him if I would, Miller, and frankly, I would not if I could. If he is innocent, his people can console themselves with the reflection that Mrs. Ochiltree was also innocent, and balance one crime against the other, the white against the black. Of course I shall take no part in whatever may be done,–but it is not my affair, nor yours. Take my advice, Miller, and keep out of it.’

“That is the situation,” added Miller, summing up. “Their friendship for us, a slender stream at the best, dries up entirely when it strikes their prejudices. There is seemingly not one white man in Wellington who will speak a word for law, order, decency, or humanity. Those who do not participate will stand idly by and see an untried man deliberately and brutally murdered. Race prejudice is the devil unchained.”

“Well, den, suh,” said Josh, “where does we stan’ now? W’at is we gwine ter do? I wouldn’ min’ fightin’, fer my time ain’t come yit,–I feels dat in my bones. W’at we gwine ter do, dat’s w’at I wanter know.”

“What does old Mr. Delamere have to say about the matter?” asked Miller suddenly. “Why haven’t we thought of him before? Has he been seen?”

“No,” replied Watson gloomily, “and for a good reason,–he is not in town. I came by the house just now, and learned that he went out to his country place yesterday afternoon, to remain a week. Sandy was to have followed him out there this morning,–it’s a pity he didn’t go yesterday. The old gentleman has probably heard nothing about the matter.”

“How about young Delamere?”

“He went away early this morning, down the river, to fish. He’ll probably not hear of it before night, and he’s only a boy anyway, and could very likely do nothing,” said Watson.

Miller looked at his watch.

“Belleview is ten miles away,” he said. “It is now eleven o’clock. I can drive out there in an hour and a half at the farthest. I’ll go and see Mr. Delamere,–he can do more than any living man, if he is able to do anything at all. There’s never been a lynching here, and one good white man, if he choose, may stem the flood long enough to give justice a chance. Keep track of the white people while I’m gone, Watson; and you, Josh, learn what the colored folks are saying, and do nothing rash until I return. In the meantime, do all that you can to find out who did commit this most atrocious murder.”

XXIII

BELLEVIEW

Miller did not reach his destination without interruption. At one point a considerable stretch of the road was under repair, which made it necessary for him to travel slowly. His horse cast a shoe, and threatened to go lame; but in the course of time he arrived at the entrance gate of Belleview, entering which he struck into a private road, bordered by massive oaks, whose multitudinous branches, hung with long streamers of trailing moss, formed for much of the way a thick canopy above his head. It took him only a few minutes to traverse the quarter of a mile that lay between the entrance gate and the house itself.

This old colonial plantation, rich in legendary lore and replete with historic distinction, had been in the Delamere family for nearly two hundred years. Along the bank of the river which skirted its domain the famous pirate Blackbeard had held high carnival, and was reputed to have buried much treasure, vague traditions of which still lingered among the negroes and poor-whites of the country roundabout. The beautiful residence, rising white and stately in a grove of ancient oaks, dated from 1750, and was built of brick which had been brought from England. Enlarged and improved from generation to generation, it stood, like a baronial castle, upon a slight eminence from which could be surveyed the large demesne still belonging to the estate, which had shrunk greatly from its colonial dimensions. While still embracing several thousand acres, part forest and part cleared land, it had not of late years been profitable; in spite of which Mr. Delamere, with the conservatism of his age and caste, had never been able to make up his mind to part with any considerable portion of it. His grandson, he imagined, could make the estate pay and yet preserve it in its integrity. Here, in pleasant weather, surrounded by the scenes which he loved, old Mr. Delamere spent much of the time during his declining years.

Dr. Miller had once passed a day at Belleview, upon Mr. Delamere’s invitation. For this old-fashioned gentleman, whose ideals not even slavery had been able to spoil, regarded himself as a trustee for the great public, which ought, in his opinion, to take as much pride as he in the contemplation of this historic landmark. In earlier years Mr. Delamere had been a practicing lawyer, and had numbered Miller’s father among his clients. He had always been regarded as friendly to the colored people, and, until age and ill health had driven him from active life, had taken a lively interest in their advancement since the abolition of slavery. Upon the public opening of Miller’s new hospital, he had made an effort to be present, and had made a little speech of approval and encouragement which had manifested his kindliness and given Miller much pleasure.

It was with the consciousness, therefore, that he was approaching a friend, as well as Sandy’s master, that Miller’s mind was chiefly occupied as his tired horse, scenting the end of his efforts, bore him with a final burst of speed along the last few rods of the journey; for the urgency of Miller’s errand, involving as it did the issues of life and death, did not permit him to enjoy the charm of mossy oak or forest reaches, or even to appreciate the noble front of Belleview House when it at last loomed up before him.

“Well, William,” said Mr. Delamere, as he gave his hand to Miller from the armchair in which he was seated under the broad and stately portico, “I didn’t expect to see you out here. You’ll excuse my not rising,–I’m none too firm on my legs. Did you see anything of my man Sandy back there on the road? He ought to have been here by nine o’clock, and it’s now one. Sandy is punctuality itself, and I don’t know how to account for his delay.”

Clearly there need be no time wasted in preliminaries. Mr. Delamere had gone directly to the subject in hand.

“He will not be here to-day, sir,” replied Miller. “I have come to you on his account.”

In a few words Miller stated the situation.

“Preposterous!” exclaimed the old gentleman, with more vigor than Miller had supposed him to possess. “Sandy is absolutely incapable of such a crime as robbery, to say nothing of murder; and as for the rest, that is absurd upon the face of it! And so the poor old woman is dead! Well, well, well! she could not have lived much longer anyway; but Sandy did not kill her,–it’s simply impossible! Why, _I_ raised that boy! He was born on my place. I’d as soon believe such a thing of my own grandson as of Sandy! No negro raised by a Delamere would ever commit such a crime. I really believe, William, that Sandy has the family honor of the Delameres quite as much at heart as I have. Just tell them I say Sandy is innocent, and it will be all right.”

“I’m afraid, sir,” rejoined Miller, who kept his voice up so that the old gentleman could understand without having it suggested that Miller knew he was hard of hearing, “that you don’t quite appreciate the situation. _I_ believe Sandy innocent; _you_ believe him innocent; but there are suspicious circumstances which do not explain themselves, and the white people of the city believe him guilty, and are going to lynch him before he has a chance to clear himself.”

“Why doesn’t he explain the suspicious circumstances?” asked Mr. Delamere. “Sandy is truthful and can be believed. I would take Sandy’s word as quickly as another man’s oath.”

“He has no chance to explain,” said Miller. “The case is prejudged. A crime has been committed. Sandy is charged with it. He is black, and therefore he is guilty. No colored lawyer would be allowed in the jail, if one should dare to go there. No white lawyer will intervene. He’ll be lynched to-night, without judge, jury, or preacher, unless we can stave the thing off for a day or two.”

“Have you seen my grandson?” asked the old gentleman. “Is he not looking after Sandy?”

“No, sir. It seems he went down the river this morning to fish, before the murder was discovered; no one knows just where he has gone, or at what hour he will return.”

“Well, then,” said Mr. Delamere, rising from his chair with surprising vigor, “I shall have to go myself. No faithful servant of mine shall be hanged for a crime he didn’t commit, so long as I have a voice to speak or a dollar to spend. There’ll be no trouble after I get there, William. The people are naturally wrought up at such a crime. A fine old woman,–she had some detestable traits, and I was always afraid she wanted to marry me, but she was of an excellent family and had many good points,–an old woman of one of the best families, struck down by the hand of a murderer! You must remember, William, that blood is thicker than water, and that the provocation is extreme, and that a few hotheads might easily lose sight of the great principles involved and seek immediate vengeance, without too much discrimination. But they are good people, William, and when I have spoken, and they have an opportunity for the sober second thought, they will do nothing rashly, but will wait for the operation of the law, which will, of course, clear Sandy.”

“I’m sure I hope so,” returned Miller. “Shall I try to drive you back, sir, or will you order your own carriage?”

“My horses are fresher, William, and I’ll have them brought around. You can take the reins, if you will,–I’m rather old to drive,–and my man will come behind with your buggy.”

In a few minutes they set out along the sandy road. Having two fresh horses, they made better headway than Miller had made coming out, and reached Wellington easily by three o’clock.

“I think, William,” said Mr. Delamere, as they drove into the town, “that I had first better talk with Sandy. He may be able to explain away the things that seem to connect him with this atrocious affair; and that will put me in a better position to talk to other people about it.”

Miller drove directly to the county jail. Thirty or forty white men, who seemed to be casually gathered near the door, closed up when the carriage approached. The sheriff, who had seen them from the inside, came to the outer door and spoke to the visitor through a grated wicket.

“Mr. Wemyss,” said Mr. Delamere, when he had made his way to the entrance with the aid of his cane, “I wish to see my servant, Sandy Campbell, who is said to be in your custody.”

The sheriff hesitated. Meantime there was some parleying in low tones among the crowd outside. No one interfered, however, and in a moment the door opened sufficiently to give entrance to the old gentleman, after which it closed quickly and clangorously behind him.

Feeling no desire to linger in the locality, Miller, having seen his companion enter the jail, drove the carriage round to Mr. Delamere’s house, and leaving it in charge of a servant with instructions to return for his master in a quarter of an hour, hastened to his own home to meet Watson and Josh and report the result of his efforts.

XXIV

TWO SOUTHERN GENTLEMEN

The iron bolt rattled in the lock, the door of a cell swung open, and when Mr. Delamere had entered was quickly closed again.

“Well, Sandy!”

“Oh, Mars John! Is you fell from hebben ter he’p me out er here? I prayed de Lawd ter sen’ you, an’ He answered my prayer, an’ here you is, Mars John,–here you is! Oh, Mars John, git me out er dis place!”

“Tut, tut, Sandy!” answered his master; “of course I’ll get you out. That’s what I’ve come for. How in the world did such a mistake ever happen? You would no more commit such a crime than I would!”

“No, suh, ‘deed I wouldn’, an’ you know I wouldn’! I wouldn’ want ter bring no disgrace on de fam’ly dat raise’ me, ner ter make no trouble fer you, suh; but here I is, suh, lock’ up in jail, an’ folks talkin’ ’bout hangin’ me fer somethin’ dat never entered my min’, suh. I swea’ ter God I never thought er sech a thing!”

“Of course you didn’t, Sandy,” returned Mr. Delamere soothingly; “and now the next thing, and the simplest thing, is to get you out of this. I’ll speak to the officers, and at the preliminary hearing to-morrow I’ll tell them all about you, and they will let you go. You won’t mind spending one night in jail for your sins.”

“No, suh, ef I wuz sho’ I’d be ‘lowed ter spen’ it here. But dey say dey ‘re gwine ter lynch me ternight,–I kin hear ’em talkin’ f’m de winders er de cell, suh.”

“Well, _I_ say, Sandy, that they shall do no such thing! Lynch a man