AMOS JUDD

AMOS JUDD

BY
J. A. MITCHELL

ILLUSTRATED BY A. I. KELLER

NEW YORK
CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS
1901
Copyright, 1895, 1901, by Charles Scribner’s Sons

ILLUSTRATIONS

FROM DRAWINGS IN COLOR BY A. I. KELLER

AMOS JUDD

I

AT the station of Bingham Cross Roads four passengers got off the train. One, a woman with bundles, who was evidently familiar with her surroundings, walked rapidly away through the hot September sunshine toward the little village in the distance.

The other three stood on the platform and looked about, as if taking their bearings. They were foreigners of an unfamiliar species. Their fellow-passengers in the car had discussed them with an interest not entirely free from suspicion, and their finally getting out at such an unimportant station as Bingham Cross Roads caused a surprise which, although reasonably under control, was still too strong for concealment. From the windows of the car at least a dozen pairs of eyes were watching them. The two men and the little boy who composed this group were of dark complexion, with clean-cut, regular features. The oldest, a man of sixty years or more, had a military bearing, and was, if one could judge from appearances, a person of authority in his own country, wherever that might be. Although the younger man seemed to resemble him, it was in such a general way that he might be either his son or no relation whatever.

But the little boy had excited a yet greater interest than his companions. Although but six or seven years old, he comported himself with as much dignity and reserve as the gentleman with the silver hair. This gave the impression, and without apparent intention on his part, that he also was an important personage. His dark eyes were strikingly beautiful and, like those of his seniors, were distinctly foreign in design.

When the train moved away the three travellers approached the man with one suspender, who filled the position of station agent, baggage-master, switchman, telegraph operator and freight clerk, and inquired if there was a conveyance to the village of Daleford. He pointed to a wagon at the farther end of the platform; that was the Daleford stage. In answer to further questions they learned that the next train back again, toward New York, left at six-thirty; that Daleford was seven miles away; that they could spend an hour in that village and catch the train without hurrying.

The only baggage on the platform consisted of two peculiar-looking trunks, or rather boxes, which the multifarious official knew to be theirs, as no similar articles had ever been manufactured in America. They were covered with designs laid on in metal, all elaborately engraved, and it was not suspected along the route that these profuse and tarnished ornaments were of solid silver. This luggage was strapped behind the stage, two venerable horses were awakened and the travellers started off. Joe, the driver, a youth with large ears and a long neck, soon gave his passengers some excellent opportunities to explain themselves, which they neglected. Aside from a few simple questions about Daleford and Mr. Josiah Judd, to whose house they were going, the conversation was in a language of which he had no knowledge. The first two miles of their route lay along the Connecticut valley, after which they climbed to higher ground. The boy seemed interested in the size of the elms, the smell of the tobacco fields, the wild grapes, and the various things that any boy might notice who had never seen their like before.

The day was warm, and the road dusty, and when they entered Daleford the boy, with the old gentleman’s arm about him, had been asleep for several miles. Coming into the village at one end, they drove down the main street, beneath double rows of elms that met above their heads in lofty arches, the wide common on their right. The strangers expressed their admiration at the size and beauty of these trees. Moreover the cool shade was restful and refreshing. No signs of human life were visible either in the street or about the white houses that faced the common, and this with the unbroken silence gave an impression that the inhabitants, if they existed, were either absent or asleep.

The driver stopped for a moment at the post-office which occupied a corner in the only store, and gave the mail-bag to the post-mistress, a pale young woman with eye-glasses and a wealth of artificial hair; then, after rumbling through the village for half a mile, they found themselves again in the country.

The last house on the right, with its massive portico of Doric columns, seemingly of white marble, had the appearance of a Grecian temple. But these appearances were deceptive, the building being a private residence and the material of native pine.

As they approached this mendacious exterior the little boy said something in the foreign language to his companions, whereupon they told the driver to stop at the door, as Mr. Judd was inside.

“That ain’t Mr. Judd’s house,” he answered. “His is nearly a mile farther on, around that hill,” and he gave the horses a gentle blow to emphasize the information. But the boy repeated his statement, whatever it was, and the younger man said, with some decision:

“Mr. Judd is inside. Stop here.”

As the driver drew up before the house he remarked, with a sarcastic smile:

“If Mr. Judd lives here, he’s moved in since mornin’.”

But the remark made no visible impression. They all got out, and while the two men approached the front door by an old-fashioned brick walk, the boy strolled leisurely through the grassy yard beside the house. The driver was speculating within himself as to what kind of a pig-headed notion made them persist in stopping at Deacon Barlow’s, when, to his surprise, Mr. Judd emerged from a doorway at the side and advanced with long strides toward the diminutive figure in his path.

Mr. Judd was a man about sixty years of age, tall, thin and high-shouldered. His long, bony face bore no suggestions of beauty, but there was honesty in every line. The black clothes which hung loosely upon his figure made him seem even taller and thinner than he really was. The boy looked him pleasantly in the face and, when he had approached sufficiently near, said, in a clear, childish voice, slowly and with laborious precision:

“Josiah Judd, the General Subahdàr Divodas Gadi and the Prince Rájanya Kásim Mir Dewân Musnud desire to speak with you.”

Mr. Judd stopped short, the bushy eyebrows rising high in astonishment. His mouth opened, but no sound came forth. The foreign appearance of the speaker, his familiar manner of addressing one so much older than himself, together with a demeanor that showed no signs of disrespect, and above all, his allusion to the presence of titled strangers caused the American to suspect, for a few seconds, that he was the victim of some mental irregularity. He pushed the straw hat from his forehead, and looked more carefully. The youthful stranger observed this bewilderment, and he was evidently surprised that such a simple statement should be received in so peculiar a manner. But Mr. Judd recovered his composure, lowered the bushy eyebrows, and drawing his hand across his mouth as if to get it into shape again, asked:

“Who did you say wanted to see me, sonny?”

A small hand was ceremoniously waved toward the two strangers who were now approaching along the Doric portico. Coming up to Mr. Judd they saluted him with a stately deference that was seldom witnessed in Daleford, and the General handed him a letter, asking if he were not Mr. Josiah Judd.

“Yes, sir, that’s my name,” and as he took the letter, returned their salutations politely, but in a lesser degree. He was not yet sure that the scene was a real one. The letter, however, was not only real, but he recognized at once the handwriting of his brother Morton, who had been in India the last dozen years. Morton Judd was a successful merchant and had enjoyed for some years considerable financial and political importance in a certain portion of that country.

DEAR Josiah: This letter will be handed you by two trustworthy gentlemen whose names it is safer not to write. They will explain all you wish to know regarding the boy they leave in your charge. Please take care of this boy at least for a time and treat him as your own son. I am writing this at short notice and in great haste. You have probably read of the revolution here that has upset everything. This boy’s life, together with the lives of many others, depends upon the secrecy with which we keep the knowledge of his whereabouts from those now in power.

Will write you more fully of all this in a few days. Give my love to Sarah, and I hope you are all well. Hannah and I are in excellent health. Your affectionate brother,

Morton Judd.

P. S. You might give out that the boy is an adopted child of mine and call him Amos Judd, after father.

These words threw a needed light on the situation. He shook hands with the two visitors and greeted them cordially, then, approaching the boy who was absorbed in the movements of some turkeys that were strolling about the yard, he bent over and held out his hand, saying, with a pleasant smile:

“And you, sir, are very welcome. I think we can take good care of you.”

But the child looked inquiringly from the hand up to its owner’s face.

“Mr. Judd wishes to take your hand,” said the General, then adding, by way of explanation, “He never shook hands before. But these customs he will soon acquire.” The small hand was laid in the large one and moved up and down after the manner of the country.

“Don’t they shake hands in India?” asked Mr. Judd, as if it were something of a joke. “How do you let another man know you’re glad to see him?”

“Oh, yes, we shake hands sometimes. The English taught us that. But it is not usual with persons of his rank. It will be easily learned, however.”

After a word or two more they took their seats in the wagon, the boy at his own request getting in front with the driver. They soon came in sight of the Judd residence, a large, white, square, New England farmhouse of the best type, standing on rising ground several hundred feet from the road, at the end of a long avenue of maples. Clustered about it were some magnificent elms. As they entered the avenue the driver, whose curiosity could be restrained no longer, turned and said to the boy:

“Did you ever see Mr. Judd before?”

“No.”

“Then how did you know ’twas him?”

“By his face.”

He looked down with a sharp glance, but the boy’s expression was serious, even melancholy.

“Ever been in this town before?”

“No.”

“Did Mr. Judd know you was comin’?”

“No.”

“Then what in thunder made you s’pose he was in Deacon Barlow’s?”

“In thunder?”

“What made you think he was in that house?”

The boy looked off over the landscape and hesitated before answering.

“I knew he was to be there.”

“Oh, then he expected you?”

“No.”

Joe laughed. “That’s sort of mixed, ain’t it? Mr. Judd was there to meet you when he didn’t know you were comin’. Kinder met you by appointment when there wasn’t any.” This was said in a sarcastic manner, and he added:

“You was pretty sot on stoppin’ and I’d like to know how you come to be so pop sure he was inside.”

The dark eyes looked up at him in gentle astonishment. This gave way to a gleam of anger, as they detected a mocking expression, and the lips parted as if to speak. But there seemed to be a change of mind, for he said nothing, looking away toward the distant hills in contemptuous silence. The driver, as a free and independent American, was irritated by this attempted superiority in a foreigner, and especially in such a young one, but there was no time to retaliate.

Mrs. Judd, a large, sandy-haired, strong-featured woman, gave the guests a cordial welcome. The outlandish trunks found their way upstairs, instructions were given the driver to call in an hour, and Mrs. Judd, with the servant, hastened preparations for a dinner, as the travellers, she learned, had eaten nothing since early morning.

When these were going on Mr. Judd and the three guests went into the parlor, which, like many others in New England, was a triumph of severity. Although fanatically clean, it possessed the usual stuffy smell that is inevitable where fresh air and sunlight are habitually excluded. There were four windows, none of which were open. All the blinds were closed. In this dim light, some hair ornaments, wax flowers, a marriage certificate and a few family photographs of assiduous and unrelenting aspect seemed waiting, in hostile patience, until the next funeral or other congenial ceremony should disturb their sepulchral peace. While the men seated themselves about the table, the boy climbed upon a long horse-hair sofa, whence he regarded them with a bored but dignified patience. The General, before seating himself, had taken from his waist an old-fashioned money-belt, which he laid upon the table. From this he extracted a surprising number of gold and silver coins and arranged them in little stacks. Mr. Judd’s curiosity was further increased when he took from other portions of the belt a number of English bank-notes, which he smoothed out and also laid before his host.

“There are twelve thousand pounds in these notes,” he said, “and about two thousand in sovereigns, with a few hundred in American money.”

“Fourteen thousand pounds,” said Mr. Judd, making a rough calculation, “that’s about seventy thousand dollars.”

The General nodded toward the boy. “It belongs to him. Your brother, Mr. Morton Judd, perhaps told you we left in great haste, and this is all of the available property we had time to convert into money. The rest will be sent you later. That is, whatever we can secure of it.”

Now Mr. Judd had never been fond of responsibility. It was in fact his chief reason for remaining on the farm while his younger brother went out into the world for larger game. Moreover, seventy thousand dollars, to one brought up as he had been, seemed an absurdly large amount of money to feed and clothe a single boy.

“But what am I to do with it? Save it up and give him the interest?”

“Yes, or whatever you and Mr. Morton Judd may decide upon.”

While Mr. Judd was drawing his hand across his forehead to smooth out the wrinkles he felt were coming, the General brought forth from an inner pocket a small silk bag. Untying the cord he carefully emptied upon the table a handful of precious stones. Mr. Judd was no expert in such things, but they were certainly very pretty to look at and, moreover, they seemed very large.

“These,” continued the General, “are of considerable value, the rubies particularly, which, as you will see, are of unusual size.”

He spoke with enthusiasm, and held up one or two of them to the light. Mr. Judd sadly acknowledged that they were very handsome, and threw a hostile glance at the gleaming, many-colored, fiery-eyed mass before him. “How much do they represent, the whole lot?”

The General looked inquiringly at his companion. The Prince shook his head. “It is impossible to say, but we can give a rough estimate.”

Then taking them one by one, rubies, diamonds, emeralds, pearls, and sapphires, they made a list, putting the value of each in the currency of their own country, and figured up the total amount in English pounds.

“As near as it is possible to estimate,” said the Prince, “their value is about one hundred and sixty thousand pounds.”

“How much do they represent, the whole lot”

“One hundred and sixty thousand pounds!” exclaimed Mr. Judd. “Eight hundred thousand dollars!” and with a frown he pushed his chair from the table. The General misunderstood the movement, and said: “But, sir, there are few finer jewels in India, or even in the world!”

“Oh, that’s all right,” said Mr. Judd. “I’m not doubting their worth. It’s only kind of sudden,” and he drew his hands across his eyes, as if to shut out the dazzling mass that flashed balefully up at him from the table. For a New England farmer, Josiah Judd was a prosperous man. In fact he was the richest man in Daleford. But if all his earthly possessions were converted into cash they would never realize a tenth part of the unwelcome treasure that now lay before him. He was, therefore, somewhat startled at being deluged, as it were, out of a clear sky, with the responsibility of nearly a million dollars. The guests also mentioned some pearls of extraordinary value in one of the trunks.

“Well,” he said, with an air of resignation, “I s’pose there’s no dodgin’ it, and I’ll have to do the best I can till I hear from Morton. After the boy goes back to India of course I sha’n’t have the care of it.”

The General glanced toward the sofa to be sure he was not overheard, then answered, in a low voice: “It will be better for him and will save the shedding of blood if he never returns.”

But the boy heard nothing in that room. He was slumbering peacefully, with his head against the high back of the sofa, and his spirit, if one could judge from the smile upon his lips, was once more in his own land, among his own people. Perhaps playing with another little boy in an Oriental garden, a garden of fountains and gorgeous flowers, of queer-shaped plants with heavy foliage, a quiet, dreamy garden, where the white walls of the palace beside it were supported by innumerable columns, with elephants’ heads for capitals: where, below a marble terrace, the broad Ganges shimmered beneath a golden sun.

Maybe the drowsy air of this ancestral garden with its perfume of familiar flowers made his sleep more heavy, or was it the thrum of gentle fingers upon a mandolin in a distant corner of the garden, mingling with a woman’s voice?

Whatever the cause, it produced a shock, this being summoned back to America, to exile, and to the hair-cloth sofa by the voice of Mrs. Judd announcing dinner; for the step was long and the change was sudden from the princely pleasure garden to the Puritan parlor, and every nerve and fibre of his Oriental heart revolted at the outrage. There was a war-like gleam in the melancholy eyes as he joined the little procession that moved toward the dining-room. As they sat at table, the three guests with Mrs. Judd, who poured the tea, he frowned with hostile eyes upon the steak, the boiled potatoes, the large wedge-shaped piece of yellow cheese, the pickles, and the apple-pie. He was empty and very hungry, but he did not eat. He ignored the example of the General and the Prince, who drank the strong, green tea, and swallowed the saleratus biscuits as if their hearts’ desires at last were gratified. He scowled upon Mrs. Judd when she tried to learn what he disliked the least. But her husband, swaying to and fro in a rocking-chair near the window, had no perception of the gathering cloud, and persisted in questioning his visitors in regard to India, the customs of the people, and finally of their own home life. Mrs. Judd had noticed the black eyebrows and restless lips were becoming more threatening as the many questions were answered; that the two-pronged fork of horn and steel was used solely as an offensive weapon to stab his potatoes and his pie.

At last the tempest came. The glass of water he had raised with a trembling hand to his lips was hurled upon the platter of steak, and smashed into a dozen pieces. With a swift movement of his arms, as if to clear the deck, he pushed the pickles among the potatoes and swept his pie upon the floor. Then, after a futile effort to push his chair from the table, he swung his legs about and let himself down from the side. With a face flushed with passion, he spoke rapidly in a language of which no word was familiar to his host or hostess, and ended by pointing dramatically at Mr. Judd, the little brown finger quivering with uncontrollable fury. It appeared to the astonished occupant of the rocking-chair that the curse of Allah was being hurled upon the house of Judd. Standing for a moment in silence and glowering upon them all in turn, the boy swung about with a defiant gesture, stalked through the open door and out of the house.

Josiah Judd, whose heart was already sinking under the responsibility of the crown jewels of a kingdom, experienced a sickening collapse in the presence of the Oriental thunderbolt that had just exploded on his peaceful New England hearthstone. His jaw fell, he ceased rocking, and turned his eyes in painful inquiry upon his guests.

There was an awkward silence. The General and the Prince had risen to their feet as if in apology to the hostess, but she had accepted the outburst with unruffled calmness. Her kind, restful, homely face showed no annoyance. Rising quietly from the table she followed the stormy guest and found him around in front of the house, sitting upon the granite doorstep, his chin in his hands, frowning fiercely upon the quaint old flower-garden before him. He got up as she approached and stood a few feet away, regarding her with a hostile scowl. Seating herself upon the step she said, with a pleasant smile:

“Of course you are tired, sonny, we all understand that, and you are unhappy to-day, but it won’t be for long.”

These assuring words failed of their purpose, and he eyed her sidewise, and with suspicion. He was too old a bird to be fooled so easily. A few sprigs were torn from the box border within his reach as if the conversation bored him.

“I had a boy once,” continued Mrs. Judd. “I understand boys, and know just how you feel. We shall be good friends, I’m sure.”

After a pause devoted to serious reflection, he inquired:

“Did your boy like you?”

“Oh, yes.”

He came nearer and stood in front of her. Then, slowly and with the precision with which he always delivered himself when speaking English, he said:

“My mother was different from you, and her clothes were more beautiful, but if one boy liked you another might. I might. Would you like to see my mother’s portrait?”

Mrs. Judd said she would like very much to see it, and he began fumbling about and seemed to be tickling himself near the buckle of his belt. But, as it proved, he was ascertaining the whereabouts of a locket, which he finally fished up by means of a gold chain about his neck. The chain was of such a length that the locket, instead of reposing near the heart of the wearer, hung a little below the centre of the stomach. When it finally emerged above his collar, he placed the warm miniature in her hand, saying:

“That is my mother.”

It was a dark face, surmounted by a jewelled head-dress of a style that Mrs. Judd had never seen, even in pictures. After looking more carefully at the miniature and then up into the eyes that were watching hers, she found the same square forehead and sensitive mouth, and the same dark melancholy, heavily fringed eyes, by far the most beautiful she had ever seen. The picture in her hand was a truthful portrait of himself. As she looked from the portrait into the face before her she felt it was perhaps fortunate this mother was ignorant of the changes that already had turned the current of his life. With a brown hand on each of her knees he was looking into her eyes with the anxious gaze of a hungry soul, seeking for sympathy, and too proud to ask it. But Mrs. Judd understood. She laid a hand upon his shoulder with an expression upon her honest face that rendered words unnecessary. He blinked and swallowed in a mighty effort to suppress what he evidently considered an undignified and compromising sentiment. But in vain. Sinking upon his knees he buried his face in her lap and gave way to the most vehement, uncontrollable grief. The small frame shook with sobs, while her apron grew wet with tears. He took his sorrow with the same passionate recklessness that characterized his anger at the dinner-table. Mrs. Judd rested her hand upon the short black hair and tried to summon words of solace for a grief that seemed to threaten the integrity of his earthly body. She could only stroke his head and tell him not to be unhappy; that all would end well; that he should soon return home.

In the midst of these efforts the voice of Mr. Judd came around the corner calling out that the wagon was here. The boy jumped to his feet as if he had received a shock. Drawing the sleeve of his jacket across his tear-stained face, he summoned an expression of severity and indifference that under other circumstances would have forced a smile from his newly acquired friend. The soldier was himself again; the warrior was on parade. As they walked together around the house to the dining-room, he beside her with a resolute step and chin in the air, she wondered what manner of training could have taught him at the age of seven to suppress all boyish emotions, and put on at will the dignity of a Roman Senator.

The General and the Prince were awaiting them. With many compliments they thanked the host and hostess for their hospitality, and regretted the necessity that took them away in such unfortunate haste; it was a flying trip and their absence must not be lengthened by an hour, as these were troublous times in their part of India. As they moved toward the wagon Mrs. Judd held her husband back, believing there might be a parting at which strangers would not be welcome. But the parting, like all else, was dignified and ceremonious. She could not see the boy’s face, for he stood with his back toward her, but as far as she could judge he also was calm and self-possessed. She noticed, however, that the General had to swallow, with a sudden gulp, a large portion of what appeared to be a carefully constructed sentence.

They drove in silence down the long avenue beneath the maples, and the driver, perhaps to put them at their ease, said something about getting along faster in this light wagon than with the stage, but both his passengers seemed in a silent mood and made no answer. As they turned into the main road the General, who was on the side nearest the house, looked back. At the farther end of the avenue stood the boy in the same position, still watching them. The old soldier brought his hand to his hat and down again in a military salute that was evidently familiar to the little person at the farther end of the driveway, for it was promptly acknowledged, and although a farewell to the last ties between himself and his country, was returned with head erect, as from one veteran to another.

II

TWENTY years have passed.

The corner mansion of the Van Koovers is ablaze with light. Long rows of carriages surmounted by sleepy coachmen extend along Madison Avenue and into the neighboring street. The temporary awning from the front door to the curbstone serves only to shield the coming and departing guest from the gaze of heaven, for the moon and stars are shining brightly, as if they also would like to enter. But when the front door opens, which is frequent, it emits a blast of music, taunting and defiant, reminding the outside universe of its plebeian origin.

Inside there is a scene of festivity and splendor, of dazzling gayety, of youth and mirth and decorous joy. The opulence of the Van Koovers is of sanctifying solidity, and when they give a ball they do it in a style to be remembered. The house itself, with its sumptuous furniture, its magnificent ceilings and stately dimensions is sufficiently impressive in every-day attire, but to-night it reminds you of the Arabian Tales. The family portraits, the gracious dignity of the host and hostess, the bearing of the servants, all speak of pedigree and hereditary honors.

Roses and violets, in lavish profusion, fill every corner, are festooned around doors and windows, even along the walls and up the stairs, their perfume mingling with the music. And the music, dreamy yet voluminous, sways hither and thither a sea of maidens with snowy necks and shimmering jewels, floating gracefully about in the arms of anxious youths. These youths, although unspeakably happy, wear upon their faces, as is usual upon such occasions, an expression of corroding care.

As a waltz came to an end, a tall, light-haired girl with crimson roses in her dress, dropped into a seat. She fanned herself rapidly as if to drive away a most becoming color that had taken possession of her cheeks. Her breath came quickly, the string of pearls upon her neck rising and falling as if sharing in the general joy. With her long throat, her well-poised head, and a certain dignity of unconscious pride she might be described as old-fashioned from her resemblance to a favorite type in the portraits of a century ago. Perhaps her prettiest feature was the low, wide forehead about which the hair seemed to advance and recede in exceptionally graceful lines. Her charm to those who know her but superficially was in her voice and manner, in the frankness of her eyes, and, above all perhaps, in that all-conquering charm, a total absence of self-consciousness. But whatever the reason, no girl in the room received more attention.

Her partner, a sculptor with a bald head and a reputation, took the chair beside her. As her eyes wandered carelessly about the room she inquired, in an indifferent tone: “Who is that swarthy youth talking with Julia Bancroft?”

“I don’t know. He looks like a foreigner.” Then he added, with more interest, “But isn’t he a beauty!”

“Yes, his features are good.”

“He is an Oriental of some sort, and doesn’t quite harmonize with a claw-hammer coat. He should wear an emerald-green nightcap with a ruby in the centre, about the size of a hen’s egg, a yellow dressing-gown and white satin trousers, all copiously sprinkled with diamonds.”

She smiled. “Yes, and he might be interesting if he were not quite so handsome; but here he comes!”

The youth in question, as he came down the room and passed them, seemed to be having a jolly time with his companion and he failed to notice the two people who were discussing him. It was a boyish face notwithstanding the regular features and square jaw, and at the present moment it wore a smile that betrayed the most intense amusement. When he was well out of hearing, the sculptor exclaimed: “He is the most artistic thing I ever saw! The lines of his eyes and nose are superb! And what a chin! I should like to own him!”

“You couldn’t eat him.”

“No, but I could put him on exhibition at five dollars a ticket. Every girl in New York would be there; you among them.”

Miss Cabot appeared to consider. “I am not so sure. He probably is much less interesting than he looks. Handsome males over three years of age are the deadliest bores in life; sculptors of course excepted.”

“It does seem to be a kind of prosperity the human male is unable to support without impairment.” Then addressing a blasé young man lounging wearily by:

“Horace, do you know who that is talking with Miss Bancroft?”

Horace, a round-shouldered blond whose high collar seemed to force his chin, not upward, but outward horizontally, fingered the ends of a frail mustache and asked:

“You mean that pigeon-toed fellow with the dark face?”

Miss Cabot could not help laughing. “There’s a summing up of your beauty,” she exclaimed, turning to the sculptor.

He smiled as he answered: “It is evident you are an admirer. But do you know who he is?”

“Yes, I know him.”

“Well, what is it? A Hindu prince, a Persian poet, or a simple corsair of the Adriatic?”

“He is a Connecticut farmer.”

“Never!”

“And his name is Judd—Amos Judd.”

“Oh, dear!” sighed Miss Cabot. “What a come down! We hoped he was something more unusual than that.”

“Well, he is more unusual than that. He is a paralyzer of the female heart. I knew him in college. At dances and parties we were generally sure to find him tucked away on the stairs or out on a porch with the prettiest girl of the ball, and he looked so much like an Oriental prince we used to call him the Bellehugger of Spoonmore.”

“Disgusting!”

“But that is a trifling and unimportant detail of his character, Miss Cabot, and conveys a cold impression of Mr. Judd’s experiences. Don Giovanni was a puritanical prig in comparison. Then at college he had the bad taste to murder a classmate.”

Miss Cabot looked up in horror.

“But then he had his virtues. He could drink more without showing it than any fellow in college, and he was the richest man in his class.”

“Oh, come now, Horace,” said the sculptor, “you are evidently a good friend of his, but your desire to do him a good turn may be carrying you beyond the limits of—how shall I say it?”

“You mean that I am lying.”

“Well, that is the rough idea.”

Horace smiled. “No, I am not lying. It is all true,” and he passed wearily on.

It was not many minutes before Molly Cabot was again moving over the floor, this time with the son of the house. Stephen Van Koover was one of those unfortunates whose mental outfit qualified him for something better than the career of clothes and conversation to which he was doomed by the family wealth.

“This recalls old times. Isn’t it three or four years since we have danced together?” he asked. “Or is it three or four hundred?”

“Thank you! I am glad you realize what you have missed.”

“You do dance like an angel, Miss Molly, and it’s a sin to squander such talent on me. I wish you would try it with Judd; my sisters say his dancing is a revelation.”

“Judd, the murderer?”

“Who told you that?”

“Horace Bennett.”

“I might have guessed it. Truth and Horace were never chums. Judd bears the same relation to Horace as sunshine to a damp cellar.”

As the music ceased they strolled to a little divan at the end of the room.

“He did kill a man, a classmate, but he had the sympathies of his entire class. It was partly an accident, anyway.”

“I am glad for his sake, as there seems to be a prejudice against murder.”

“This was a little of both. We were having a supper, about twenty of us, just before class-day. After the supper, when we were all a trifle hilarious, Slade came up behind Judd and poured some wine down his neck. Judd faced about; then Slade made a mock apology, and added an insulting speech. He was a master in that sort of thing, and while doing it he emptied his wineglass into Judd’s face. Now Judd is overweighted with a peculiar kind of Oriental pride, and also with an unfortunate temper; not a bad temper, but a sudden, unreliable, cyclonic affair, that carries the owner with it, generally faster than is necessary, and sometimes a great deal farther. Now Slade knew all this, and as he was an all-around athlete and the heavier man, there was no doubt in our minds that he meant Judd should strike out, and then he would have some fun with him.

“Well, Judd grew as black as a thundercloud, but he kept his temper. His hand shook as he wiped his face with his handkerchief and quietly turned his back upon him. Then it was that the other man made the crowning error of his life. He was just enough of a bully to misunderstand Judd’s decent behavior, and his contempt was so great for one who could accept such an indignity that he kicked him. Judd wheeled about, seized him by the throat and banged his head against the wall with a force and fury that sobered every fellow in the room. Close beside them was an open window reaching to the floor, with a low iron railing outside. Judd, half lifting him from the floor, sent him flying through this window, and over the balcony.”

“Gracious! Was he dead from the blows on his head?”

“No, but a blow awaited him outside that would have finished an ox. This window was about thirteen feet from the ground, and below it stood a granite hitching post. When Slade came down like a diver from a boat and struck head foremost against the top of this post something was sure to suffer, and the granite post is there to-day, with no signs of injury.”

“How can you speak of it in such a tone!”

“Well, I am afraid none of us had a deep affection for the victim. And then Judd was so refreshingly honest! He said he was glad Slade was dead; that the world would be better if all such men were out of it, and refused to go to the funeral or to wear the usual class mourning.”

“Which was in disgustingly bad taste!”

“Possibly, but uncommonly honest. And then it is hardly fair to judge him by our standards. He is built of foreign material, and he had received something that it was simply not in his nature to forgive.”

Their voices were drowned in the music that again filled the room. The dance over, they sauntered out into the large hall, where Flemish and Italian tapestries formed an opulent harmony with Van Koover portraits. In the air of this apartment one breathed the ancestral repose that speaks of princely origin. It was not intended, however, that this atmosphere should recall the founder of the house who, but four generations ago, was peddling knick-knacks along the Bowery.

As Miss Cabot was uncomfortably warm and suggested a cooler air he led her to the farther end of the long hall, beyond the stairs, and halted at the entrance of a conservatory.

“Delicious!” and she inhaled a long breath of the fresh, moist air.

“Wait for me just a moment, and I will bring you the glass of water,” and he vanished.

An inviting obscurity pervaded this conservatory, which, like the rest of the Van Koover mansion, was spacious and impressive. At the farther end, the gloom was picturesquely broken by rays of moonlight slanting through the lofty windows. The only living occupants seemed to be one or two pairs of invisible lovers, whose voices were faintly audible above the splashing of the little fountain in the centre. This busy fountain formed a discreet accompaniment to the flirtations in the surrounding shrubbery. Stepping to the side of the basin, she stood for a moment looking down into its diminutive depths. The falling water and the distant music formed a soothing melody, and a welcome restfulness stole gently upon her senses as she inhaled, with the fragrance of the tropics, the peace and poetry of a summer night. She stood for a moment yielding to a gentle enchantment; it seemed a different world, apart from the great city in which she lived, a world of flowers, and perfumes, of fountains and perpetual music; of moonlight and of whispering lovers.

At last, as if waking from a dream, the girl raised her head and looked toward the windows beyond, where a flood of moonlight illumined deep masses of exotic foliage, repeating them in fantastic shadows on the marble floor. Walking slowly from the fountain, she lingered between the overhanging palms, then stepped into the moonbeams, a radiant figure with her bare neck and arms and glistening jewels in this full white light, against the gloom of the conservatory. The diamonds in the crescent above her forehead flashed as if quivering into life as she stopped and looked up at the planet.

A figure close beside her, that had formed part of the surrounding shadow, started back with a suddenness that caused her, also, to retreat a step and press a hand to her heart. It was more from nervousness than fear, as she was simply startled. She at once recovered herself, ashamed at being taken off her guard, but a glance at the man beside her, whose face was now also in the light, filled her with a fresh surprise. It was the Oriental beauty; the murderer, Judd, and the intensity of his expression almost frightened her. His eyes were fixed upon her own in speechless wonder, and as they moved to the crescent in her hair, then back again to her face, they showed both terror and astonishment. Yet it seemed a look of recognition, for he bent eagerly forward, as if to make sure he were not mistaken.

It was all in an instant. Then, with a step backward and an inclination of the head, he stammered:

“I beg your pardon. I—I was startled. Pray forgive me.”

He gave an arm to his companion, a pretty girl in pink who, standing behind him, had missed the details of the little scene, and they walked away among the plants and out of the conservatory.

Later in the evening, as Miss Cabot stood near the door of the ball-room, the girl with whom she was speaking introduced a friend, and she found herself again in the presence of the Connecticut farmer, the young man of the moonlight. But this time he wore a very different expression from that of the conservatory. There was a pleasant smile on the dark and somewhat boyish face as he apologized for the scene among the plants. “I am sorry if it annoyed you, but I was startled by an unexpected resemblance.”

She looked into his eyes as he spoke, and understood why the sculptor should have been enthusiastic over such a face. It was of an unfamiliar type, and bore a curious resemblance to those she had attributed as a child to the heroes of her imagination. The eyes were long, dark, and seemed capable of any quantity of expression, either good or bad. Miss Cabot was uncertain as to whether they pleased her. At present they looked somewhat anxiously into her own with a touch of misgiving. Nevertheless, she felt that he was telling her only a portion of the truth.

“I beg your pardon, I—I was startled”

“If it is my misfortune to startle unsuspecting guests when I come upon them without notice, it is for me to apologize. No,” then continuing hastily, as he began a protestation: “You needn’t explain! Do not trouble yourself to tell me that only the most disturbing types of beauty cause you just that kind of a shock.”

“But why not, if it is the truth? Besides, as you stepped out into the moonlight you were a blinding apparition, all in white, against the darkness behind. I have no doubt the moon herself was a little startled.”

“You certainly were less happy in concealing your agitation than the—other victim.”

Although his manner was deferential and gave indications of a positive but discreetly repressed admiration, she felt ill at ease with him. It was impossible to forget his repulsive title, and turning partly away she looked over the room, and answered:

“Since you are completely recovered and my apology is accepted, I suppose there is nothing more to be done.”

As the words were uttered the opening strains of a waltz came floating across the hall, and he begged that she give him a dance in token of absolution. It was easier to grant it than to refuse, and in another moment they were gliding over the floor. As they moved away she experienced a new sensation. This partner, while adapting himself to her own movements, carried her with a gentle force that relieved her of all volition. While, in effect, borne up and along by the music, she was governed by a pressure that was hardly perceptible; yet, at a critical instant, when a reckless dancer came plunging toward them, she felt herself swung lightly from his path, to relapse at once into a tranquil security and float peacefully away. This floating with the music was so easy, so very drowsy and relaxing, that her consciousness almost drifted with the rhythm of the waltz. Once, as her eyes were uplifted to the gorgeous frieze, the white-winged Cupids that a moment before were lolling idly against the blue and gold background seemed now to be keeping time with the music, swaying and dancing in their irresponsible nakedness.

Miss Cabot was surprised when the music ceased and at once regretted having danced such a length of time with a stranger of unsavory reputation. As they left the ball-room and entered the ancestral hall she was flushed and out of breath, endeavoring with one hand to replace a lock of hair that had fallen about her neck.

“It’s a shame,” he muttered.

“What? That we danced so long?”

“Oh, no! That it should ever end!”

They looked about for a resting-place, but all were occupied. Girls in pink, in white, in pale blue, in delicate yellow, in every color that was becoming to their individual beauty, or to its absence, were clustered about the great hall, filling every seat. Around them, like bees in a flower-garden, hovered men in black.

“There is our chance,” he said, pointing to the stairs. Upon the first landing, but three steps from the floor, there was a semicircular recess along whose wall ran a cushioned seat. At the entrance, upon a pedestal of Sienna marble, sat a Cupid with a finger upon his lips; a bit of ancient sculpture from a Roman temple. Behind him, within, an inviting gloom suggested repose and silence. As they stepped upon the tiger-skin that nearly covered the landing, Miss Cabot was accosted by a man whose thoughtful face brightened up at the meeting. When he glanced at her companion there was a similar welcome, and they called each other John and Amos, and appeared to be on intimate terms. After a short conversation he left them and descended into the hall. She was puzzled at the friendship of these two men, and wondered what there could possibly be in common between a promising clergyman of exceptional purity of character and this dissolute, hot-headed Judd. As they seated themselves in the alcove, she said, in a tone of surprise:

“So you and John Harding are friends!”

He smiled. “Yes; and I lament your astonishment.”

She blushed at her stupid betrayal of the thought, while he made no effort to conceal his amusement.

“It may be an unkind thing to say of him, but we have been good friends for several years.”

Laying her fan in her lap, she devoted both hands to the wandering lock. “Is that what drove him to the church?”

“No. For that I am not responsible, thank Heaven!”

“Why thank Heaven? Is there any harm in being a clergyman?”

“It depends on the man. In this case it certainly seems a waste of good material.”

Now, it happened that Molly Cabot’s religious convictions were deeply rooted, and she felt a thrill of indignation at this slur upon a sacred calling. Of course, it was not surprising that a spoiled youth with a murderous temper should prove an atheist and a scoffer, but she was irritated, and instinctively took the field as the champion of a righteous cause.

“Then you consider it a waste of good material for an honest man to serve the church?”

Her energy surprised him, but he answered, pleasantly: “I do not say that. No one is too good for any honest work. I only say that a man of John Harding’s originality and courage puts himself in a false position by so doing.”

“I do not see how,” and her eyes were fixed upon his own in open hostility. He still smiled serenely and met her glance with provoking calmness.

“Well, at present he is young and full of enthusiasm, believing everything, and more besides; but he is only twenty-seven now and will do a heap of thinking before he is forty. The pathetic part of it is that he binds himself to a creed, and the man who can think for thirteen years on any subject without modifying his faith ought to be in a museum.”

“Not if it is the true faith.”

“If it is the true faith, there is danger in thinking, as he may think away from it; so why waste a brain like Harding’s?”

In spite of a certain deference and gentleness of tone with which he uttered these positive sentiments there was evident enjoyment in the shock they created. While he was speaking she noticed in the centre of his forehead a faint scar about the size of a thimble end. It seemed an evanescent mark, only visible when he turned his face at certain angles with the light, and suggested the thought that if all young men of such opinions were marked in a similar manner it might serve as a wholesome warning to unbelievers.

She looked down at her fan a moment, then answered, very quietly:

“So all clergymen over forty are either hypocrites or fools. It must be very satisfying to entertain a thorough contempt for so large a profession.”

“Oh, don’t say contempt. Rather an excess of sympathy for the unfortunate.”

At that moment Horace Bennett, in ascending the stairs, stopped for an instant upon the landing and stood facing them. His eyes rested upon herself and Mr. Judd, then she saw him glance at the marble Cupid who, with his finger to his lips, seemed acting as a sentinel for whatever lovers were within. Then he pulled the ends of his miserable little mustache, and with a half-suppressed smile muttered something to his companion, and they passed up the stairs. The hot blood flew to her cheeks as she recalled what he had said earlier in the evening of this man beside her: “We were sure to find him tucked away on the stairs or out on the porch with a girl. So we called him the Bellehugger of Spoonmore.”

Never in her life had she felt so degraded, so cheapened in her own esteem. Hot, cold, with burning cheeks, and tears of mortification in her eyes she rose from her seat, pressing a handkerchief against her lips, and stepped swiftly out upon the landing and down into the hall. Mr. Judd followed and inquired anxiously if she were ill; could he do anything? His solicitude, which was genuine, caused her to realize how extraordinary her behavior must appear to him. The close air in the alcove, she answered coldly, must have affected her. It was only a little dizziness.

To her great relief a young man came hurrying up, and exclaimed:

“I have been looking everywhere for you, Miss Cabot! The cotillion is on!”

A formal nod to Mr. Judd, and she moved away with an unuttered prayer that their paths in future might be far apart. Her wish was granted, at least for that night, for she saw him no more at the Van Koovers’.

When she reached home and entered her own chamber, the moonlight was streaming into the room, and before turning up the lights she had the curiosity to stand near the window with a hand-glass and study her own reflection. Only the usual face was there, and as usual, the nose was too short, the chin too long, and all the other defects were present; but even in the moonlight they seemed hardly sufficient to frighten a strong young man.

III

A FIRST interview with the Hon. J. W. Cabot, senior member of the firm of Cabot, Hollingsworth & Perry, generally resulted in a belief that this distinguished lawyer was a severe, unsympathetic man whose dignity, under ordinary pressure, was not likely to abate. An abundant crop of short gray hair covered a square, well-shaped head; a head that seemed hard and strong. His forehead, his jaw, and his shoulders were also square, and they also seemed hard and strong.

His manner was cold, his voice firm and even, and he was never ruffled. The cool gray eyes rested calmly upon you as if screening, out of consideration for your own fallacious knowledge, the profundity of wisdom that reposed behind them. His memory seemed infallible. The extent and accuracy of his legal knowledge was a perpetual surprise, even to his partners. For simplifying complex entanglements his clearness and rapidity amounted to a genius. His fees were colossal. In short, he seemed just the man who would never write such a note as this:

TOWHEAD:

I Shall bring an old friend to dinner to-night.

Don’t give us rubber olives or shad of last year’s vintage. He is not a bric-à-brac shop.

Jimsey.

This document was sent to his daughter, who since her mother’s death, three years ago, had managed the household. When a child of five she overheard a friend address him frequently as Jim, whereupon she adjusted a final syllable to render it less formal, and ever after continued to use it.

It was an afternoon in March that this note arrived, nearly four months after the ball at the Van Koovers’, and when, an hour or two later, her father presented his old friend, Mr. Samuel Fettiplace, she was struck by his enormous frame and by the extraordinary color of his face. This color, a blazing, resplendent red, not only occupied his nose and cheeks, but extended, in quieter tones, over his forehead and neck, even to the bald spot upon the top of his head. It had every appearance of being that expensive decoration that can only be procured by a prolonged and conscientious indulgence in the choicest Burgundies.

His large, round, light-blue eyes were all the bluer from their crimson setting. A more honest pair she had never seen. These, with his silver hair and benevolent forehead, gave the impression of a pleasantly intemperate bishop. Molly Cabot well knew that her father, and especially her mother, could never have achieved a warm and lasting friendship for one whose habits were honestly represented by such compromising colors.

With old-fashioned courtesy he gave her his arm into the dining-room, and as they seated themselves at table he said: “You look like your mother, Miss Molly, and I am glad of it; the same forehead and eyes, and the same kind expression. I was afraid when I saw you last you were going to look like your father. He isn’t so bad looking, considering the life he has led, but it would be a calamitous thing for a well-meaning girl to resemble any lawyer.”

She laughed: “But papa is not as bad as he looks, you know.”

“Yes, he is; I have known him longer than you have. But there seem to be honors in dishonor. During these years that I have been trotting about the globe he has been climbing higher and higher, until now his legs are dangling from the topmost round. Why, I understand that none but the solidest billionaires and the fattest monopolies presume to retain him.”

“I am afraid someone took you for a hay-seed, Sam, and has been stuffing you.”

“No, they have not!” exclaimed the daughter. “Everybody says he is the best lawyer in New York. He has refused to be a judge several times!”

“Oh, come, Molly! Don’t make a fool of your old father!”

“Go ahead, Miss Molly,” cried Mr. Fettiplace. “Don’t mind him! I know you are right. But I suppose he pays the customary penalty for his greatness; slaves day and night, both summer and winter, eh?”

“Yes, he does, and if you have any influence with him, Mr. Fettiplace, I wish you would bring it to bear.”

“I will. He shall do just as you decide.”

“Now, Molly,” said Mr. Cabot, “be just. Have I not promised to take a three months’ vacation this summer?”

“Where do you spend the summer?” asked Mr. Fettiplace.

“I don’t know yet. We gave up our place at the shore two years ago. The salt air does not agree with me any too well; and neither Molly nor I care for it particularly.”

There was a pause, and the guest felt that the wife’s death might have saddened the pleasant memories in the house by the sea. As if struck with an idea, he laid down his fork and exclaimed:

“Why not come to Daleford? There is a house all furnished and ready for you! My daughter and her husband are going abroad, and you could have it until November if you wished.”

“Where is that, Sam?”

“Well,” said Mr. Fettiplace, closing his eyes in a profound calculation, “I am weak at figures, but on the map it is north of Hartford and about a quarter of an inch below the Massachusetts border.”

Mr. Cabot laughed. “I remember you were always weak at figures. What is it, a fashionable resort?”

“Not at all. If that is what you are after, don’t think of it.”

“But it is not what we are after,” said Molly. “We want a quiet place to rest and read in.”

“With just enough walking and driving,” put in the father, “to induce us to eat and sleep a little more than is necessary.”

“Then Daleford is your place,” and the huge guest, with his head to one side, rolled his light-blue eyes toward Molly.

“Do tell us about it,” she demanded.

“Well, in the first place Daleford itself is a forgotten little village, where nothing was ever known to happen. Of course births, marriages, and deaths have occurred there, but even those things have always been more uneventful than anywhere else. Nothing can take place without the whole village knowing it, and knowing it at once: yet the inhabitants are always asleep. No one is ever in sight. If you should lock yourself in your own room, pull down the curtains and sneeze, say your prayers or change a garment at an unaccustomed hour, all Daleford would be commenting on it before you could unlock the door and get downstairs again.”

“That sounds inviting,” said Mr. Cabot. “There is nothing like privacy.”

“I only tell you this so there shall be no deception. But all that does not really concern you, as our house is a mile from the village.” Then he went on to describe its real advantages: the pure air, the hills, the beautiful scenery, the restful country life, and when he had finished his hearers were much interested and thought seriously of going to see it.

“I notice, Sam, that you make no mention of the malaria, rheumatism, or organized bands of mosquitoes, drunk with your own blood, who haul you from your bed at dead of night. Or do you take it for granted we should be disappointed without those things?”

“No, sir. I take it for granted that every New Yorker brings those things with him,” and again a large china-blue eye was obscured by a laborious wink as its mate beamed triumphantly upon the daughter.

There were further questions regarding the house, the means of getting there, and finally Molly asked if there were any neighbors.

“Only one. The others are half a mile away.”

“And who is that one?” she asked.

“That one is Judd, and he is an ideal neighbor.”

“Is he a farmer?”

“Yes, in a way. He raises horses and pups and costly cattle.” Then, turning to Mr. Cabot. “It is the young man I brought into your office this morning, Jim.”

“Well, he is too beautiful for the country! If I could spend a summer near a face like that I shouldn’t care what the scenery was.”

“Is his name Amos Judd?” asked Molly.

“Why, yes. Do you know him?”

“I think I met him early this winter. His reputation is not the best in the world, is it?”

Mr. Fettiplace seemed embarrassed. He took a sip of wine before answering.

“Perhaps not. There have been stories about him, but,” and he continued with more than his habitual earnestness, “I have a higher opinion of him and would trust him farther than any young man I know!”

She felt, nevertheless, that Mr. Judd’s reputation might not be a proper subject for a young lady to discuss, and she remained silent. But her father was not a young lady, and he had heard nothing of the improprieties of the young man’s career. “What is his particular line of sin?” he inquired.

“He has none. At present he is all right; but at college, and that was five years ago, I am afraid he took a livelier interest in petticoats than in the advertised course of study.”

“Of course he did,” said Mr. Cabot. “That beauty was given him for the delectation of other mortals. To conceal it behind a book would be opposing the will of his Creator.”

“Poor Amos,” said Mr. Fettiplace with a smile, as he slowly shook his head. “His beauty is his curse. He regards it as a blight, is ashamed of it, and would give a good deal to look like other people. Everybody wonders who he is and where he came from. As for the women, they simply cannot keep their eyes away from him.”

“If I were a woman,” said Mr. Cabot, in a slow, judicial manner, “I should throw my arms about his neck and insist upon remaining there.”

Mr. Fettiplace chuckled, not only at the solemnity of his friend’s face during the delivery of the speech, but at the contemptuous silence with which this and similar utterances were received by the daughter. There had always been a gentler and more lovable side to James Cabot, and he was glad to see that success and honors had not destroyed the mental friskiness and love of nonsense that had been an irresistible charm in former years. He was also glad to witness the affection and perfect understanding between father and daughter. It was evident that from long experience she was always able to sift the wheat from the chaff, and was never deceived or unnecessarily shocked by anything he might choose to say.

“Well, he will be here soon,” said Mr. Fettiplace, “but as you are only a man, you may have to content yourself with sitting in his lap.”

“Is Mr. Judd coming here this evening?” inquired Molly, in a tone that betrayed an absence of pleasure at the news.

Her father looked over in mild surprise. “Yes, did I forget to tell you? I asked him to dine, but he had another engagement. He is to drop in later. And, by the way, Sam, where did the young man get that face? No line of Connecticut farmers bequeathed such an inheritance.”

“No, they did not. Judd’s little mystery has never been cleared up. I can only repeat the common knowledge of Daleford, that the boy was brought to this country when he was about six years old, and that a few handfuls of diamonds and rubies came with him. The value of this treasure has been exaggerated, probably, but with all allowances made it must have amounted to more than a million dollars.”

“Why!” exclaimed Molly. “It’s quite like a fairy tale!”

“Yes, and the mystery is still agoing. Josiah Judd, in whose hands he was placed, happened to be the only person who knew the boy’s history, and he died without telling it. Who the child was or why he was sent here no one knows and no one seems likely to discover. Josiah died about twelve years ago, and ever since that time stray clusters of emeralds, pearls, and diamonds have been turning up in unexpected places about the house. Some are hidden away in secretary drawers, others folded in bits of paper behind books. They have tumbled from the pockets of Josiah’s old clothes, and a few years ago his widow discovered in one of his ancient slippers an envelope containing something that felt like seeds. On the outside was written ‘Amos’s things.’ She tore it open and found a dozen or more magnificent rubies, rubies such as one never sees in this country. They were sold for over two hundred thousand dollars.”

“Gracious!” exclaimed Molly, “what possessed him to leave them in such places? Was he crazy?”

“On the contrary, he was too wise. Not wishing to dispose of them in a lump, he did it gradually, and concealed them for greater safety in different places, so that no one thief could steal them all. Whenever he sold them he invested the proceeds in solid securities. No one knows to what extent the old farmhouse is still a jewel casket. It is more than likely that cracks and corners to-day are hiding their precious stones.”

“How mysterious and exciting!” exclaimed Molly. “It seems too romantic for practical New England.”

“That is just the trouble with it,” said her father. He leaned back in his chair and continued, with a smile, “I suspect our guest has been reading his ‘Monte Cristo’ lately, which may account for a pardonable exaggeration in a historian who means to be honest. Who told you all this, Sam? The Judds’ family cat?”

Mr. Fettiplace drew his hand slowly across his forehead and closed his blue eyes, as if hesitating for a reply. “There is so much that is hard to believe connected with Amos that one ought to prepare his audience before talking about him. I will tell you one little thing that happened to myself, an occurrence not dependent upon other people’s credulity. One day last autumn, late in the afternoon, I was walking along an untravelled road through the woods, when I met two little children who were playing horse. The front one, the horse, wore a garment that looked like a white silk overcoat without sleeves. Otherwise the children were roughly clad, with battered straw hats and bare feet. The overcoat had a curious, Oriental cut, and there was a good deal of style to it; so much, in fact, and of such a foreign flavor, that I stopped to get a better look at it. The wearer, a boy of eight or ten, I recognized as the son of an unprosperous farmer who lived in a dilapidated old house not far away. When I asked him where he got his jacket he said he wore it at the children’s tableaux: that he was the prince who awoke the sleeping beauty in the town hall last night. Then I remembered there had been a performance to raise money for the library.

“While talking with him I noticed there were four rows of little pearl-shaped buttons around the neck and down the front. They formed part of an elaborate design, beautifully embroidered in gold and silver thread, old and somewhat tarnished, but in excellent preservation. I asked him what those ornaments were, and he answered they were beads. ‘But who owns the jacket?’ I asked: ‘Does it belong to you?’ No, it belonged to Mrs. Judd, who had lent it for the performance. ‘Then why don’t you return it to Mrs. Judd?’ Oh, they were going to return it to-morrow morning. I offered to take it, as I was going that way, and the jacket was handed over.

“The more I examined the article, the more interested I became, and finally I sat down on a rock and made a study of it. I found the garment was of white silk and completely covered with a most elaborate stitching of gold and silver thread. I am no expert in precious stones, but I knew those beads were either pearls or tremendously clever imitations, and when I remembered there was a good old-fashioned mystery connected with Amos’s arrival in these parts, I began to feel that the beads stood a fair chance of being more than they pretended. I counted a hundred and twenty of them.

“When I took the garment to Mrs. Judd and told her what I thought, she didn’t seem at all surprised; simply told me it had been lying in a bureau-drawer ever since Amos came, about twenty years ago. She is over eighty and her memory has gone rapidly the last few years, but she closed her eyes, stroked her hair, and said she remembered now that her husband had told her this jacket was worth a good many dollars. And so they always kept it locked away in an upstairs drawer, but she had forgotten all about that when she offered it to the Faxons for their performance. Down the front of the jacket were large splashes of a dark reddish-brown color which she said had always been there, and she remembered thinking, as she first laid the coat away, that Amos had been in some mischief with currant jelly. Amos was away just then, but when he returned we took all the beads off, and a few days later I showed a dozen of them to a New York jeweller who said they were not only real pearls, but for size and quality he had seldom seen their equal.”

“They must have been tremendously valuable,” said Molly.

“They averaged twelve hundred dollars apiece.”

“Gracious!” she exclaimed. “And there were a hundred and twenty of them?”

“Yes; they brought a little more than a hundred and forty thousand dollars.”

“It all harmonizes with Judd’s appearance,” said Mr. Cabot; “I should not expect him to subsist on every-day American dividends. But it’s a good jacket, even for fairy land.”

“Yes, it certainly is, and yet there was the usual touch of economy in it,” Mr. Fettiplace continued. “When we came to remove the pearls, we found a little gold loop or ring in the setting behind each one of them. Those loops passed through a sort of circular button-hole in the garment, and a gold wire, running along beneath the silk, held the jewels in place, so that by drawing out the wire they were all detached.”

“Well, where was the economy in that?”

“By being adjusted and removed so easily they probably served, when occasion required, as necklace, belt, bracelets, earrings, diadems, or the Lord knows what.”

“Of course,” assented Mr. Cabot. “A frugal device that might be of service to other farmers. And you began, Sam, by describing Daleford as an uneventful place. It seems to me that Bagdad is nothing to it.”

Mr. Fettiplace sipped his coffee without replying. After a short silence, however, with his eyes upon the coffee which he stirred in an absent-minded way, he continued:

“There are one or two other things connected with Judd which are much more difficult to explain. Daleford is full of mysterious tales of supernatural happenings in which he is the hero of prophecies and extraordinary fulfilments; always incredible, but told in honest faith by practical, hard-headed people. Any native will give them to you by the yard, but the hero, under no conditions, ever alludes to them himself.”

“Which probably proves,” said Mr. Cabot, “that the hero is the only one to be relied on. It is such fun to believe in the incredible! That is the charm of miracles, that they are impossible.”

The rosy guest turned to the daughter with a smile, saying: “And there is nothing like a hard-headed old lawyer to drag you back to earth.”

“What were these tales, Mr. Fettiplace? What did they refer to?” she asked.

But Mr. Fettiplace evidently felt that he had said enough, possibly because a portion of his audience was not of encouraging material, for he only answered in a general way that the stories related to impossible experiences, and were probably only village gossip.

After dinner they sat around the fire in the next room, the two men with their cigars and Molly at work over a bit of tapestry representing the Maid of Orleans on a fat, white horse. This horse, according to her father, must have belonged to a Liverpool circus, and was loaned to Joanna for tapestry only. When Mr. Judd appeared Molly felt an augmented interest in this hero of the white jacket, but it was against both conscience and judgment and in spite of a pious resolve to consider him simply as a libertine with a murderous temper. That her father and Mr. Fettiplace had no such abhorrence was evident from their cordial greeting.

The conversation became general, although the burden of it was borne by Mr. Fettiplace, who seemed to possess upon every subject either some interesting facts or a novel theory. Once, when he was telling them something so amusing that it seemed safe to count upon a strict attention from all his hearers, she looked over at Mr. Judd and found his eyes fixed earnestly upon her face. It was a look so serious, of such infinite melancholy that, in surprise, her own glance involuntarily lingered for a second. He at once turned his eyes in another direction, and she felt angry with herself for having given him even so slight a testimonial of her interest. Although a trivial episode, it served to increase the existing hostility and to strengthen an heroic resolve. This resolve was to impress upon him, kindly but clearly, the impossibility of a serious respect on her part for a person of such unenviable repute. Later, when the two older men went up into the library to settle some dispute concerning a date, he came over and seated himself in a chair nearer her own, but also facing the fire.

“Your ears must have tingled this evening, Mr. Judd.”

“Ah, has Mr. Fettiplace been giving me away?”

“On the contrary; he is a stanch friend of yours.”

“Indeed he is, but it might require an exceedingly skilful friend to throw a favorable light on such a subject.”

“How delightfully modest! I assure you he gave you an excellent character.”