The Lead of Honour

Sargent Everett.
From a painting by Frank T. Merrill

THE LEAD
OF HONOUR

BY

NORVAL RICHARDSON

WITH FRONTISPIECE IN COLOUR BY
FRANK T. MERRILL

GROSSET & DUNLAP
PUBLISHERS : : NEW YORK

Copyright, 1910
BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)

Entered at Stationers' Hall, London

All rights reserved

First Impression, July, 1910
Second Impression, August, 1910
Third Impression, September, 1910
Fourth Impression, October, 1910

TO
THE ONE WHO IS THE INSPIRATION OF ALL
THAT IS BEST IN THESE PAGES
L. R.

CONTENTS

BOOK I—THE SCHOOLMASTER

CHAPTER

1. [Youth and Ambition]
2. [The Captain's Advice]
3. [Juleps and Politics]
4. [A Gentleman of the Old School]
5. [The House of the Spaniards]

BOOK II—THE LAWYER

1. [Pictures in the Fire]
2. [The Opened Wound]
3. [A Demand of Honour]
4. [His First Case]
5. [Magnetism]
6. [To Be Hanged by the Neck until Dead]
7. [One Means of Escape]
8. [The Captain's Joke]
9. [A Promise for the Future]

BOOK III—THE LOVER

1. [After Seven Years]
2. [The Voice of the Past]
3. [Mammy Dicey's Story]
4. [Slaves for Stakes]
5. [Candlelight]
6. [His Wedding Present]
7. [The Hour of the Wedding]
8. [Orange Blossoms and Prison Bars]
9. [The Honourable Sargent Everett]
10. [The Lead of Honour]
11. [A Road to Happiness]
12. [The Music of His Voice]
13. [The Garden of Shadows]

BOOK I

THE SCHOOLMASTER

THE LEAD OF HONOUR

CHAPTER I

YOUTH AND AMBITION

Beyond the gleam of the torch basket at the masthead, the bosom of the great Father of Waters widened into a sea, infinite in its solitude, desolately vast in the impending gloom of the purple night. An orange coloured moon hovered on the dark strip of the horizon; the hot breeze of a Southern August was stirring fitfully.

He was standing alone on the upper deck of the boat, looking straight before him with that intensity of gaze and purpose in his deep hazel eyes that our grandfathers tell us about—a wonderful expression in which the energy of his thoughts seemed to throw out a flamelike glow holding the observer spellbound and charmed into forgetfulness. He was young then, little over twenty, and his thin, slight figure, erect and full of simple dignity, was clothed in plain garments of black, relieved at the wrist bands with fine white linen and at the collar by a high stock whose pointed ends extended up beyond his chin. His face, delicately moulded and oval to perfection, had written upon it, in the freshness of its youth, all the hopes and desires and ambitions that remained with him to the end—for it seems that he never lost his youthful appreciation of life, nor knew what it meant to sink under disappointments. In his hand he carried a small cane which he used to aid him in walking and in standing firmly; for one leg was shrunken into a slight deformity.

On the intense, lonely stillness of the night the throbbing puffs of the engines seemed the voice of the great river—relentless, solemn, insistent. The tinkling of the pilot's bell sounded intermittently from the engine-room; and monotonously reiterated, came the weird call of the leadsman as he sounded the depths of the uncertain channel.

"M-a-r-k eight! M-a-r-k eight! Quarter less eight!"

Sargent Everett turned away from the deepening gloom of the river, restless and impatient, now that his destination was so near. Three days, if all went well, would see him in the town he had chosen for the commencement of his career.

The leadsman's call broke more harshly on the night. "Mark four! Mark four! Quarter—less—"

Suddenly the pulsing of the engines stopped and the boat drifted into the enveloping shadows of the shore. The branches of a tree swept the upper deck, leaving sprays of moss tangled in the railing. A bell crashed out a signal of alarm and the boat came to a full stop.

"Tie up and get out there and sound that channel, Jiggetts," came a sonorous voice from the lower deck. "I'm not a-countin' on goin' a-ground here to-night. God knows what this old river's been up to since we passed up, two months ago."

Directly following the words, a huge line of rope went coiling through the air to the shore. Two negroes sprang after it, hastily wrapping it around a mammoth cottonwood tree that towered out of the darkness. A skiff shot out from the boat; two men at the oars, and one standing well forward recording the depth as they moved carefully along.

In a few minutes the boat became enveloped once more in the stillness of the night; the flare from the torch baskets at the masthead gleamed upon a shore of endless willows, a distant line of cypresses, a land where seemingly no explorer had yet penetrated. The call of the leadsman grew fainter and fainter, dying away at last to an echo.

"Mighty sorry to tie up." The Captain's voice broke the stillness as he approached the young traveller, "but I reckon it's better than runnin' on one of them bars and restin' there till another boat comes along and pulls us off. I reckon you'd rather run the chance, hey, just so's you could get to the end of your travellin'. I know how you feel. You're just itching to get there this minute and get to work—ain't it the truth?"

The Captain, a rugged pioneer, known from one end of the river to the other, shoved his hands deep into his pockets and peered into the darkness.

"Yes, I want to get there, Captain. I'm impatient and restless and all that,—and yet," he hesitated, following the glance of the man beside him. "I believe I've fallen under the spell of this old river. At first it made me think of the ocean in its breadth and loneliness, but I see now that it is not the same at all. This wilderness of lowlands that we have been passing through for the last week makes it seem even more desolate and forsaken. Yet—in its very solitude one feels a certain nearness to God," he ended reflectively.

The old Captain's eyes shifted from the black shore, deepening, as his gaze lingered on the broad expanse of water, into an expression much like that of a dog that gazes into the eyes of the master it worships.

"We-ell, I reckon I'm sorter fond of it, too. When a feller's lived with a thing fifty years he's mighty likely to have some sorter feelin' for it." His eyes twinkled as he continued, "Y' know, sir, that old river always puts me in mind of a woman; it's changing its mind all the time, it's cantankerous—you can't any more count on it than a bad penny, and when it takes a notion to change its channel, it just goes ahead and does it and don't say a thing. Why, sir, haven't I see it cut off ten miles in one place by goin' straight through when it used to make a bend! I like it, though, just because it's notionate and don't bother about anybody. D' you ever hear the old sayin' that when the good Lord made it, He washed His hands in it and told it to go where it damn pleased? Well, sir," the old fellow threw back his head and let out a gust of laughter, "it's been doin' that pretty nigh ever since!"

He turned around as he ended so that he looked into the young man's face, and in the moments of silence that followed, the mass of wrinkles about his eyes moved into an expression of half mirth, half sadness. He had liked the youngster, as he called him, since the moment he had come aboard at St. Louis and taken passage for the South. Something in Sargent Everett's peculiarly winning manner, in his fresh good humour and manliness, or perhaps a sympathy for his deformity, had awakened an interest in the old boatman. What it was he did not stop to consider, but he liked the boy, and now that his long journey was nearing its end, he felt a pang of regret that was new to him. Looking into the bright, hopeful face before him, he thought that, after all, youth was the only period of life worth living.

"An' so you're another one of them fellers who're comin' down here to make their fortunes," he finally said, as if more in comment than in question.

The young fellow's face brightened responsively.

"I hope it will be my fortune—but at present it is more a living I am seeking."

The Captain put out both hands, taking firm hold of the young fellow's arms and looking squarely into his face.

"Then why in the devil did you come down here?" he said sharply. "It's no place for the likes of you! You're not the sort of youngster for this kind of rough life. Why didn't you go to a big town, son? This country's for pioneers."

The young fellow drew himself away, a look of pain flashing across his face.

"I'm not delicate," he said quickly. "I'm very strong. I was the best swimmer at college. You think because my leg is bad that I can't do what other men have done! Give me time and I'll show you!"

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, lad," the old fellow answered slowly, relighting the pipe which he held always in his mouth. "I know darned well you've got grit enough to pull you through, but why, of all places in this country, you should have chosen Natchez—kinder puzzles me. Haven't you ever heerd about what they call 'Natchez-under-the-Hill?' Why, sir, it's the toughest hole on the river!"

"It was the offer I had that brought me, Captain. New England is crowded with school-teachers; there was nothing for me to do, and I had to work. My father was a sea captain, as I told you, and in the year 1812 he lost everything. Since then we have been very poor. I had to do something—and I had this offer down here."

The Captain drew at his pipe reflectively, letting the words of the young man die away on the stillness of the night.

"So you're goin' to be a school-teacher!" The words came so frankly full of disappointment that the young fellow laughed outright.

"Not always, I hope," he answered, still smiling. "As soon as I finish studying for the examinations, I hope to be admitted to the bar. Then I can practise law."

The Captain gave an expressive grunt.

"That's worse yet—a lawyer—begad! Why, boy, what chance'll you have in this hotbed of pioneers and adventurers that's been flockin' down here for the last fifteen years? Why, sir, with shin-plaster currency and rich cotton plantations and more slaves than they know what to do with, and gambling and drinking all the time—what can a youngster like you expect to do!" The old fellow's head wagged doubtfully. "I'd a heap rather see you go all the way down to New 'leans with me and take a vessel back to where you come from than stop off in this here country," he added with another expressive grunt and a deep dig into his pockets.

"You think, then," the young fellow smiled with a courage that felt no dampening from the advice given. "You think I'm not fit to make my way in the community you describe?"

"Yes, sir, that's exactly what I'm a-thinkin'. You've been brought up different from these folks and you haven't the first inkling of the life down here. It'll go powerful hard on you and I don't see where the good'll come in."

"Still you are bound to admit that it is a good place for a lawyer," the youth answered, unabashed.

"Ye-es, I grant you that. Natchez is only about fifty miles from Jackson, and I suppose your head's already set on the Capitol. 'Tain't what you're goin' to make out of it that's a-worryin' me—it's what in the devil's going to become of you, with that set of reckless spendthrifts. Ho, there, Jiggetts!" He sprang forward and peered down at the returning skiff. "How 'bout the channel?"

"All right, sir. We can make it safe. Same as when we came up," a voice answered out of the darkness.

"How 'bout wood—got enough?" the Captain called down to the engineer who stood on the lower deck.

"Plenty to get us to ole man Vick's plantation, and I'm a-countin' on bein' thar to-morrow mornin'."

"Good! Let's pull out and get ahead agin."

A little later the boat was pushing towards the middle stream, the shore dwindling on each side to a thin, black ribbon. The moon had risen well into the sky and was shedding its cold light over the glassy surface of the river; the deep puffs of the engines sent columns of black smoke far up into the clear heavens.

"Come over here, youngster," called the Captain from the forward deck, where he had settled himself into a chair, his feet elevated on the railing to the level of his head, the glow from his pipe gleaming full into his face. "Come over here and sit down. You ain't sleepy, yet, I reckon—are you?"

From where they sat the forward part of the lower deck was in full view. Two torch baskets, filled with blazing pine, brilliantly illuminated that part of the boat. On both sides were piles of meal and corn, sacks of salt meat and barrels of flour, and two bales of cotton on their way to New Orleans, and thence to Boston by sea—the first bales of that season.

In the centre, where the light fell strongest, was a group of negroes; some lying full length in the deep sleep of exhaustion, others gathered in small circles from which came the sound of rattling dice. The twanging of a banjo and the sound of many shuffling feet floated out softly on the silent river.

When the young man had taken his seat beside the Captain, the old fellow laid his hand on his shoulder, almost affectionately.

"If you're bent and determined on gettin' off at Natchez," he began between short puffs at his pipe, "I've a mind to give you some advice. Want to hear it?"

"Of course I do, Captain," he answered quickly. "But I don't want you to think I shall not succeed there. When a fellow is willing to work, and overflowing with energy and ambition, success is bound to come. I know it will come to me—I'm going to it. And if the fight is to be a difficult one, as you say," he added after a moment's hesitation, "perhaps it will make me all the stronger for the struggle. You are not going to discourage me, Captain, no matter how wild or savage you paint this country. I am going to stop here."

The Captain's heavy hand fell on the young man's knee with a hearty slap, and for a moment he looked into the brave face before him yearningly.

"You've got the right spirit, lad. I'm mighty glad to see it, too. But y' see I'm a powerful lot of years older than you—how many d' I tell you t'other day?"

"Forty-three."

"We-ell, you see, forty-three years of experience is worth something, I'd let you know. I've seen this country almost from the beginning of the white settlements. I used to come down here on flat boats with my pa, way back in the days of the Revolution, and when we reached New 'leans, we'd go all the way back to Vincennes in wagons. Ugh! those were days for you! And nights, too, with panthers howling round our prairie schooners, and Indians tryin' to slip up and scalp you 'most any time. Natchez belonged to the Spaniards then—you'll see old Gayosa's government house still standin' there. But now, since Mississippi's been let in as a State, it seems to me like 'most everybody's been tryin' to get down here. If many more of you Yankees come on down, we'll soon be a populated country."

"Then you like Yankees—you do not think that will make me unpopular—down here?" the young fellow interrupted.

"Shucks! It ain't where a man comes from." The old fellow uncrossed his legs and crossed them again. "It's the man himself. That's fust what I was about to tell you. If a man's a good feller, then folks'll treat him like one; but if he comes down here with a lot of bottled-up notions from that there cold country of yours, they'll not have much use for him. And that's where you've got to be precious careful. I tell you right now, if you make a hit at the start, it won't take you long to win out. Go in for a good time, show 'em you're a good feller, and take my word for it, they'll think you're a heap smarter than if you spend your time tryin' to ram your book knowledge down their throats."

The young fellow remained silent, reflecting over the Captain's advice. Through its crudities, he was beginning to see and appreciate the viewpoint of one whom experience had made a reader of human nature.

"At first, go easy, and take things as they come; don't air your own opinions every chance you get; don't strut around like some young lawyers I see, with a long face, and a head full of—what d' you call that feller that wrote the big book?"

"Blackstone?"

"Yes, sir, that's the one. Don't always be talkin' about him and lookin' as independent as a wood-sawyer's clerk. You know exactly what I mean." The Captain tilted his chair to a more dangerous angle.

"If you'll make yourself one of 'em, you'll come out all right—I'll bet my bottom dollar on that! For you've got a way with you, as the sayin' goes, and that's the principal thing a feller needs in this world."

"The only trouble is," the young man answered, smiling broadly, "that I have got some old-fashioned principles, as you call them, and convictions, too."

"Damn your convictions." The Captain's chair came to the floor with a crash. "That's what ruins more men than anything else—convictions! I say if you've got 'em, keep 'em to yourself—don't let 'em out! Remember, you're goin' to a country where everything is wide open and you've got to be one of the boys—or you might just as well turn your head back to where you come from."

The young fellow laughed heartily. Edging his chair closer to the Captain, he watched the play of his features in the glow from his pipe. The thousand wrinkles about his eyes changed eloquently with the intenseness of his words. "Evidently you have decided that I am terribly solemn, Captain. But you are wrong," he said, still laughing easily. "I enjoy life, and a good time as much as anybody—perhaps more than most! Only I haven't taken that enjoyment in gambling and drinking, which you seem to think so necessary."

For answer, the old man's head shook doubtfully.

"Then you'd better give up being a lawyer down here," his grey eyes danced merrily. "Unless," his hands came together with a loud clap, "unless—you'd like to give 'em the idea you're a sport, and at the same time not be one. Gee whilligens!" he cried, laughing until the tears rolled down his furrowed cheeks. "That would be a fine set out. Listen, youngster, I'm going to tell you how to do it, and if you don't get 'em coming your way right from the jump, my name's not Benjamin Mentdrop. Now, first of all, when you land at Natchez, ride right up the hill to the Mansion House. You'll see a lot of fellers loafing 'round there to find who come on the boat—what you are and what's your business—you know the kind I mean; the sort whose business is finding out other people's. Then, there's always a lot of the bloods of the town there, too. Well, don't let 'em know you've even seen 'em. Just walk in and sign your name with a flourish, so," his hand swept the air, with a rather dangerous gesture for a pen. "Just as soon as you're through, you'll see 'em go up and read your name, and when they all are eyeing you, just walk over to the bar—so." Here the Captain got up and swaggered across the deck with a bravado that bespoke personal experience. "And order—plenty loud enough for the crowd to hear what you're sayin'—a bottle o' champagne and a box o' cigars sent up to your room. I tell you, sir," taking his seat again, "that'll make your reputation without any waiting."

The young fellow joined in the infectious laughter of the Captain. It was too natural a performance not to show that the old fellow was describing his own methods.

"I'm afraid that reputation would be one I'd never outlive," he said, when they had become serious again. "What do you suppose would become of my position as tutor in the family I'm going to?"

"Position-your-grandaddy! The thing is to make a hit; you don't have to live up to it," the Captain promptly rejoined. "All you want is to have the crowd see you know a thing or two and they'll take you up before you know it. And if you're going to be a lawyer, you want these fellows' cases, and I tell you right now, you've got to play 'em a bit. When you get as old as I am you'll see then how this whole blamed thing they call life is nothin' more'n less than a steady game of bluff—right straight through!"

The boat was swinging into a broad bend of the river when he finished, and through the clarity of the night, a long line of hills was coming into view on the eastern horizon. The long journey through banks of endless flat country was left behind and the sloping hills rose as if to extend a welcome to the voyagers.

"That's old Vick's plantation across the point," the Captain said, rising and stretching his arms above his head. "Looks like we're near there, don't it; but it'll be mornin' before we land." Looking at his large watch, its open face characteristic of its owner, he gave an exclamation of surprise and turning away hurried down the ladder to the lower deck.

"Don't forget what I've been telling you!" he called back as he disappeared. "I wa'n't born yesterday, nor the day before neither."

The young fellow walked forward when he was alone, and stood where he could see beneath him the prow of the boat pushing its way into the impenetrable blue of the broad stream. He had felt the influence of the river that night more than at any time during his voyage. Its immensity, its awfulness, gripped him with a new understanding of eternity. The endless legends it embodied rose before him; gorgeous pageants passed in review; into his vision came the long procession of pioneers who had set sail upon these waters; De Soto first, who slept now within its enveloping solitude, afterwards Joliet and Marquette, La Salle with his cross of conquest and his flag of France, the Spaniards from the Mexican Gulf clashing with the English out of the North, and always, coming first upon the river and still present in their silent, stealthy canoes, the real owners of its breadth and length—the Red Men. All these he saw pushing their way along and seeking their fortune, even as he was doing now.

His face was turned towards the south, the place to which his destiny was calling him; in it lay the mystery of his future. Far behind him was the land of his birth, which held the compelling force that was driving him on and on to that future, as relentlessly as the silent river was sweeping to the sea.

In an incident of his childhood lay this force which had made the severing of home ties less bitter and the setting out towards an unknown country the first step in the realization of years of determination. So filled with suffering was this incident that, after twelve years, it lived in his thoughts' with insistent detail.

It had happened in an apple orchard in Maine. There had been a day of great festivity, gay in the gathering of apples, and in the knowledge that a ship had been sighted in which the sea captain, his father, was returning from a six months' voyage. He saw himself as a little limping boy who had just come home from the town school, flushed with pride at the success of his first speech; then he saw himself late in the day, when the ship had anchored and the friends had gathered in a circle over the completed work, repeating the speech to the enthusiastic crowd.

How well he remembered the encouraging faces, the baskets of red apples all about, the pungent smell of the fruit, the twisted branches of the trees back of them, and beyond, far down the sloping hill, the great Atlantic on which the ship had come to anchor! His first speech! Even the words stuck in his memory! Then, while the great joy he had felt in their applause was flushing his face and making him tingle with the first stirrings of awakened talent, he had been lifted into the arms of the sea captain who had stolen up behind the tree and heard him. In that moment came the blow which was yet to mar or make him. The proud father, holding him up before the crowd, had cried out with a great roar of laughter:

"He's a pretty bright little rascal, isn't he? We'll have to send him to college one of these days and make a big speaker out of him—even if he is a cripple."

"Even if he is a cripple!" The words rang out as sharply now as they had twelve years before. He heard them so distinctly that the inflection of the big man's voice, thoughtless and unmeaning as it had been, made him throb with the first opening of the wound. Cripple! Cripple! The words were as the whistling of knotted thongs. Never before that day had he heard them applied to him. Now they were to be with him always; he was powerless to forget them. They had pushed him on and on from that time forward, in a mad desire to embrace all the learning within his power so as to show the world some day that it was not a curse of God's, to be less perfect than other men.

CHAPTER II

THE CAPTAIN'S ADVICE

One day later the young pioneer who had come South to make his fortune looked eagerly out upon a distant view of sloping hills. The end of his long journey had come. The little town, nestling at the top of the bluffs, in a setting of thick foliage, brought to him a thrill of expectancy. Everything lay before him there, his beginning on the long journey of his life work, his success or failure, his happiness or his sorrow.

It was still very early in the morning and in the mistiness of the scene, in the shadowy beauty of the daybreak, his imagination carried him far into a future of his own creating. The lazy curling smoke of early morning fires rising from the town became symbolic to him, the soft beauty of an aged oak grove, festooned in grey moss and reflected in the gloomy surface of the water by the pale rose background of dawning day meant to him that disappointments and vain strivings were to pass from him forever now. He was very young and full of expectancy and hope, and as he threw back his head and breathed deeply, the colour rushed into his face, and his shoulders squared themselves unconsciously.

The summons to breakfast called him away for a few minutes, but he was soon back again, watching each detail of the scene as it unfolded before him, impatiently restless at the slow movement of the boat.

Finally the boat rounded a point and made directly across the broad sweeping bend of the river toward the opposite shore where a settlement of houses at the foot of the bluff had suddenly come into view.

"Well, here we are." He felt the grasp of the captain's hand upon his arm. "How d' you like the looks of your new home? You wait till you get on top of the hill, though. Natchez under the hill and on top is a mighty different place. I'm going to liven 'em up a bit this morning and let 'em know we're coming. If these folks didn't see a boat every now and then, they'd think they were dead, sure." He smiled good humouredly as a shrill whistle floated across the water from the town. "Bless me, if they ain't got that saw mill to working—the first one between here and New 'leans, I reckon. Just wait a minute, though, and I'll give 'em an answer. I told the fireman to stuff the engine plumb full of pitch pine—'that'll give us a powerful lot of black smoke—and when I turn loose oh the whistle, watch out!"

The boat drifted a little below the landing, then turning slowly, pushed its way steadily against the current. In the meantime the Captain had taken his position well forward where he could view the lower deck and direct the landing of the boat. "Hi there—you," followed by a collection of magnificent oaths as he found a negro going contrary to his directions. "Get out there to that capstan—man the bars—now—all together—easy," ending with more eloquent oaths as the heavy coils of rope were thrown to the shore, and the stage planks shoved into place.

The young traveller stood staring down into the throng of upturned faces, realizing that out of all the number there was not one he had seen before or from whom he could claim a welcome. There were bronzed faced woodsmen, there were the old residents, paler by contrast, and as enthusiastic in their welcome of a boat that brought them newspapers and tidings of the world, as children expecting a new toy; there were the black shining faces of the negroes who lounged on the cotton bales lining the banks; there were Indians in their bright blankets and feathers; here and there were dark skinned Spaniards; indeed it would have been difficult to find a nationality that was not represented in Natchez in those days.

Back of this oddly assorted throng extended high piles of cotton bales waiting to be transported to New Orleans, and beyond these a few houses and stores, after which the hill rose abruptly with a winding road climbing to the summit. At the top, wide spreading trees cut off any view of the upper town.

"Good luck to you, my boy," the old Captain said, slipping his arm through the young fellow's as they passed down the stage plank. "I'm counting on hearing big things of you one of these days, and I hate to be disappointed. Don't you forget my advice, and remember—if you're ever in a tight fix or mixed up in some sorter trouble, you know where to come."

"Thank you, Captain," the young fellow answered, his hand tightening in its hold upon the big rough one. To find such honest hearty friendship beaming upon him from the old weather worn face made him regret more keenly their parting. "But if I take your advice I'm afraid I'll need your help sooner than you think."

The Captain gave way to one of his sudden bursts of noisy laughter. "Never you mind that—lad," he said with a chuckle. "What I told you was downright common horse sense. I'll see you some of these days again, and I've a sneaking notion it won't be so far off." He turned away hurriedly and had soon disappeared in the crowd of negroes that were unloading the boat.

The young fellow stepped ashore and was taken possession of by a negro with a beaming face, who shouldered his trunk and carpet bag without any consultation whatever, and led the way toward a nameless vehicle standing in the road. It was at least some satisfaction to find one who had anticipated his wishes, and the newcomer took his seat in the hack with a sigh of relief and some doubts of a successful ascent of the steep hill which loomed before him.

"Whar to, Boss?" came from the eminently competent guide when he had mounted the box. Evidently he was porter, coachman and owner of the vehicle.

"To the Mansion House."

"I knowed it," with a shake of his head and a display of fine white teeth. "All de sho' 'nough white folks goes dah. It's de place ob de town." Then with a dashing sweep of the whip, he set off up the hill at a rattling pace. Half way up they came to a sudden stop and the driver turned round again. "Boss," he began in an evident desire to be friendly. "is Gin'r'l Jackson still President ob de United States?" His doubts settled on this question, the precarious speed was resumed, the top of the hill reached and the journey ended before a long two story building, proudly bearing a large sign on which was painted in red and yellow letters, "The Mansion House."

Two negro porters rushed forward from the main door that opened directly on the pavement, one grabbing the carpet bag from the vehicle, the other lifting the little hair trunk with an ease that showed the lightness of its contents.

The young fellow stopped a moment as he stepped to the pavement and glanced at his surroundings. The pavement before the tavern was of brick, wide and shaded by overarching elms that cast a thick shade, making the place into a sort of veranda for the hostelry. Tables and chairs were placed here, and several groups of men had gathered on the pavement to procure the papers that had just been brought up from the boat. Near the main door four men were seated about a table, one reading aloud from a paper, interrupted at almost every other word by the vehement and noisy comments of his listeners, while an agile waiter was supplying the party continually with trays of drinks.

As the young fellow slowly made his way toward the door of the hostelry the man who was reading stopped suddenly, laid down his paper, and frankly stared at him. The others followed the glance of the first so that he was forced to undergo the scrutiny of the entire crowd as he entered the tavern.

He instinctively knew that he was being criticized and commented upon, and stopping a moment inside the door, he heard one of them say—"Another Yankee schoolteacher—I'll wager! If we don't look out we'll have nothing but Yankee professors and school marms down here presently." Then followed a burst of laughter and an order for another round of juleps.

The young fellow flushed hotly. The tone of the man's voice, the implied insult, the utter contempt these men felt for his position, made him tingle with a violent anger; then, with the quick subduing of his resentment came the thought of the old captain's advice. A moment more and he had made a decision that in calm self-possession would have been utterly at variance with his judgment. Following the captain's suggestion he walked with considerable dignity across the room, wrote his name across the ledger with a flourish, ordered the best room the tavern afforded, then asked to be directed to the bar where he gave orders for a box of cigars and a bottle of champagne to be sent to his room.

The first effect of his action was in the attention of the negro who had driven him up from the boat and was now filling the part of waiter; the fellow fairly danced before him in his endeavours to anticipate his wishes. He flung open the door of the bedroom with a superb flourish as if he were admitting some royal personage, bowing obsequiously as the young man passed in. When two cigars had been added to a dollar tip, the negro nearly lost his balance in getting back down stairs to impart his information to the others. Passing through the barroom one of the men at the table outside called to him.

"Who's the limping Yankee, Jonas?"

"Mr. Sargent Everett, Boss, an' a sho' 'nough gentleman too, sir."

"Schoolteacher, Jonas?"

"Lawdy, no-o, Boss, not him. He's a gentleman of means—he is. Ordered a bottle of champagne and a box of cigars soon's he done got in de house."

The questioner whistled.

"Well—that sounds pretty good for a Yankee. Let's ask him down, boys, what do you say? Maybe he can give us some news from Washington."

"By all means; let's have him down and find out what he is," the others assented.

In a few minutes the young traveller was greeted by his black friend with the information that Lawyer Lemuel Jervais presented his compliments and would be pleased to have Mr. Sargent Everett join him and his friends in a round of juleps.

At first his eyes widened in surprise, then he flushed with the memory of his recent anger, finally ending by throwing himself back in his chair and laughing till the tears rolled down his cheeks.

Meanwhile Jonas' eyes were moving with beaming admiration from the face of the stranger to the bottle of champagne and back again.

"Boss," he said finally, seeing that the newcomer showed no signs of seriousness. "Boss, don't you want me to open the wine for you?"

"No," the young man answered, rising. "I'll let you open it for me later. Present my compliments to the gentlemen and tell them I'll be with them in a few minutes."

As he stood before the mirror of his bureau and adjusted a fresh stock, he smiled at the wavering reflection before him.

"Sargent Everett," he said, half aloud. "You've made a first impression—and—I'm very much of the opinion—that it may prove an uncomfortably lasting one."

CHAPTER III

JULEPS AND POLITICS

"Yes, gentlemen, it is true—the President removed seven hundred office holders and appointed in their places men of his own political beliefs."

"Well, Jefferson did the same—why not Jackson?"

"Yes, but what is his reason?"

"He claims the affairs of a republic will be best administered when the officers hold the same political sentiments as their President."

"That may be, but if we invest such power in our President we might as well not have fought for our liberties at all. Our fathers set us free and now, by Gad, this man wants to make us all slaves again."

"That'll do, Jervais, we've heard enough of your theories for awhile. Let this gentleman continue. What is this news about the Bank of the United States, Mr. Everett?"

Everett was sitting at the table with his newly made friends—old friends now, since two hours had already passed in answering their insatiable store of questions. They were thirsty for news, these men who were eight weeks' travel from the seat of government in a place where incidents happening two months before, were read about and discussed as if just taking place. It was easy enough for Everett to interest them, for one who had just visited Washington and listened to the debates of the eloquent Colonel Hayne with Daniel Webster, the rising young orator from Massachusetts, was to them a man to be respected and listened to. The National Intelligencer lay on the table before them, neglected and unread, even though it had come on that day's boat, for these events of their own country, narrated by a young man whose flushed face and glowing eyes spoke so eloquently a deep interest and grasp of his subject, had an added significance to the group of men about him. His statements were interrupted by exclamations, more often oaths, and once in a heated argument that took place between two of the listeners as to the claims of the Whigs and the Democrats, the whole crowd was compelled to separate the combatants and enforce silence.

Everett studied the faces of his companions as they leaned on the table and listened to him. He found in them something he had never seen in the friends of his youth, in the constrained countenances of the more civilized New Englanders. Here were quick candour and unconsidered opinions, condemnation and praise in the same breath, sudden resentment of some statement as if it were a personal insult to differ from another's opinion, and in all of them a certain artlessness, the fresh vigour and enthusiasm of a community that was still young and still recklessly successful. In these men the young stranger found a fascination that charmed him, he felt his repressed sympathy surge within him and rush out to meet the cordiality of these new friends. He could call them his friends already, he felt sure, for in their attitude of attention and interest he intuitively felt that they liked him. He saw it in the whimsical smile of the lanky Tennessean who with his chimney pot hat set at a rakish angle and his linsey waistcoat unbuttoned under the stress of the moment, watched him with eyes that were keenly kind; it was in the sparkling eyes of the dark little Creole, who met each description of Washington with praises of New Orleans and La Belle Teche. He saw it in the intense interest of two members of the Legislature, and in the land agent, and even in the critical smile of handsome debonnaire Lemuel Jervais, the Beau of the town, the wealthiest of all the young "bloods," the most promising lawyer admitted to the bar that year—although in his nonchalant indifference Everett saw a certain envy that was flattering.

"About the United States Bank charter," Everett continued, in answer to the last question, "they say Mr. Jackson claims it is unconstitutional and inexpedient. He recommends that the old charter be allowed to expire by its own limitation."

"And when will that be?"

"In '36. It is whispered that he hopes to distribute the surplus which has accumulated among State banks."

"He can't do it, I'm sure. There is no warrant of law for such an act."

"Did you ever know Andrew Jackson to wait for anything when his mind was made up!"

"You didn't finish about the revenues at Charleston—were they collected?"

"Yes, and the President wouldn't hear to the debate of Hayne and Webster. He took matters into his own hands and issued a proclamation denying the right of any state to nullify the laws of Congress."

"There they go again, making us into a worse monarchy than we've just thrown off. In ten years we won't have any rights. I suppose if Andrew Jackson took a notion, he'd abolish slavery. But if he does, do you know what we'll do down here?" Jervais' voice thundered out irritably, and he struck the table with his fist. "We'll secede."

For a second the questions stopped, and in the silence Everett saw that a subject had been mentioned that threw a sullen anger over the entire group.

"So Charleston had to back down, did she!" drawled Mr. Suggs.

"I don't know whether you'd call it backing down or not, but when Scott reached there with his troops and a man-of-war, the nullifying party had disappeared."

"Hmp!" grunted the Tennessean, "I reckon I'll have to go up to the Hermitage and see Andy, he's getting to be such a big bug now-a-days."

"He won't know you any longer, Suggs—better not go. And the Indians, Mr. Everett, how about them?"

Everett went into a long discussion of the formation of the Indian Territory which was being urged by Andrew Jackson as a solution of the Indian problem.

All the while Jervais was sitting with his chair tilted back against the wall, listening with supercilious indifference.

"How does it happen, Mr. Everett?" he said at last, looking into the face of the newcomer with a directness that spoke the doubt beneath his question. "How does it happen that you tell us nothing of this anti-slavery agitation that comes rumoured from Boston? You say you are from that country—so, of course, you oppose slavery too. Have you come down here to sow seeds of abolition?"

Everett met the eyes of his questioner squarely, and realized for the first time that this was the man who had made the slurring remark as he entered the tavern. For a few moments he considered his answer, knowing well that the impression he had made upon these men would be instantly annulled by the wrong words. Any personal prejudice on the subject which he might have acquired from the sentiments already spreading in the North he immediately put aside.

"I think that question," he answered slowly, meeting the intense look of each man in the crowd, "should be settled by the people who are slave owners. I am not—so I know nothing of the subject."

A burst of applause came from the crowd, followed by each fellow extending a hand to Everett and insisting upon his taking another julep.

"If they'd all do that way and mind their own business it'd be a whole lot better," drawled Mr. Suggs. "You ain't like Miss Prudence Varnum that came down here from Salem last year—and I'm certainly glad of it. She gave out she'd come here to teach school, but we soon found out it wasn't that. By Jingo, she'd come down here to write a book on the sins of slavery. We all didn't want the likes of her in town and we all just fixed a way to get her back home where she belonged. I just goes to her one day and tells her I'd heard she was writing a book, and that I could tell her a damn sight more about slavery than any fellow in town—if she wanted to hear it. She said she wasn't writing any book at all, but if I had a mind to tell her she had no objections to listening. You can bet I laid it on heavy. I lied as fast as a dog can trot, and the whiter her face got the more I'd lie. You can bet I made up a good tale about the way I had spent the last Sunday down on old Seth Burton's plantation. Says I, 'Miss Prudence, it certainly was blood curdling, and you sure want to put it in your book. But somehow, I kinder hate to tell you about it.' Says she, 'Oh, Mr. Suggs, please do. You don't know how it will help me to know the real state of this corrupt country.' Then I told her that we had run out of amusement, and just to liven up things, Seth had a big nigger tied to a tree and rammed a powder horn down his throat. 'Then, madam,' says I, 'he put a slow match to the powder while the rest of us stood off and bet whether the nigger's head would be blown clean off or just half way.' That went pretty hard on her, but I was bent on giving her her fill, so I went right on and told her that when they had too many nigger babies on old Seth's plantation he'd have them brought to town in a cotton basket and sold by the dozen, and if they didn't sell them all, he had what was left thrown in the river. I got up to leave after my last little piece of information, for I saw I'd have a fainting woman on my hands if I didn't. But, bless you, she called me back when I'd reached the door, and said, 'Mr. Suggs, you have opened my eyes. I had no idea it was such a wicked town. It almost makes me wonder what they would do to any one who expressed her disapproval of slavery.' 'Well, ma'm,' says I, 'I never heard tell of but one woman who expressed her opposition to the matter, and considering the reputation of this town, I can't say they treated her so badly. They only tarred and feathered her, and rode her on a rail for a few squares.' She left town on the first boat up the river, believing every word I'd told her, and I reckon she's lecturing right now on the information I gave her. But that's the way we handle 'em down here, if we don't like 'em, and it's a tip to you, sir, because you appear to be the best Yankee we've seen down this way. Hello, there's the stage from Jackson."

The loud fan-fare of a horn broke upon the mid day drowsiness of the town. In a few minutes the pavement before the tavern was crowded. From every direction people came running to get a close view of the day's arrival. A row of negro waiters lined up before the tavern door, an array that went far to impress the provincial voyageur as to the importance of the hostelry. Some Indians gathered in a silently observing group, and in a brick store across the street clerks and customers stood in the front door—for this was the terminus of the forty mile coach trip from Jackson, and the event of the day that broke the monotony of existence.

In a cloud of dust the coach finally made its appearance, a great lumbering car, swung on leather straps, and tilting from side to side, as the six lathered horses were urged into a final gallop by means of a cracking whip, loud blasts of the horn, and an impressive handling of the reins which the driver managed in magnificent style.

The group about the table, interrupted in their political discussions, wheeled about in their chairs, and though the block where the coach was to pull up was only a few paces directly before them, Jervais had already risen and detached himself from the others.

"Expecting some one, Jervais?" Mr. Suggs called after him, at the same time winking at the rest of the group.

Jervais flushed and turned back for a moment.

"Yes, Mistress Brandon is returning from Cooper's Well to-day."

Everett started and half rose from his chair.

"Mistress James Brandon?" he asked quickly.

"Yes," Jervais answered, looking at him with the hauteur that was his marked characteristic. "Do you know her?"

"No—at least I mean only through letters. I have come down here to be a tutor for her children."

Before he had finished speaking the coach was at the block, and Jervais had rushed forward, to see that the ladder was placed firmly in the door.

The first passenger to appear was a tall woman, enveloped in a voluminous linen duster, her features almost obscured beneath a green barège veil. Jervais assisted her to alight with elaborate courtesy, and then turned to lift out two boys and a little girl.

The girl, when she stepped down to the pavement, evidently disdaining the proffered help of Jervais, looked about her in apparent search for some friend. As her glance travelled from one face to another, it rested for a moment on Everett, half questioning, then quickly shifted to the others. In the second that their eyes met Everett got a vivid impression of her oddly beautiful face—thin, and very dark, with intense grey eyes that contrasted almost weirdly with her black hair. In the deep shadow of a projecting poke bonnet her eyes seemed almost too large for the delicate contour of her face, and as she turned away, he noticed that she wore her hair in two long plaits.

Suddenly she uttered a quick cry of pleasure as she saw an old man coming towards her out of the crowd, and after rushing forward to kiss him they both turned towards a carriage which had just stopped near the pavement.

"So they are to be my first pupils," Everett said half aloud, and smiling as he watched the party drive off.

Mr. Suggs, sitting next to him, heard the words and saw the smile. "And a nice job you'll have, too," he said in a confidential whisper. "That little gal, you saw her, didn't you? She's Natalia Brandon and a whole school in herself, if what I hear going around is so. But she ought to be kinder interesting too, she's got enough history back of her. You know, her mother," Suggs edged his chair closer to Everett and lowered his voice, "it's whispered hereabouts, was a daughter of Gayosa. Of course, I don't want you to say it as coming from me, but there's a lot of folks think it, just the same."

"Mistress Brandon," Everett exclaimed, "that's impossible! I know her relatives in Boston."

"Oh no—not Mistress Brandon. She's the gal's stepmother. Brandon was married twice."

Everett looked in the direction the party had gone Their carriage had already disappeared down the street.

"And the old gentleman who met her," he asked, "who was he?"

"Shh! Here he comes with Jervais now."

Suggs rose as the two men came towards the table and held out his hand to the older man with the unmistakable signs of feeling a certain importance in the occasion.

"Mighty glad you come over here, Judge," he exclaimed in tones patently unctuous. "We've got something brand new in town to-day—a Yankee that's not an abolitionist."

CHAPTER IV

A GENTLEMAN OF THE OLD SCHOOL

As Everett rose to respond to the introduction of the newcomer, "Judge Houston," as Suggs explained with a flourish, "a Virginian, living in Mississippi, but still breathing the air of Virginia," he felt intuitively that he was standing before a man it would be an honour to know. In that moment the impression the others had made upon him became cheap and vulgar, for in the quiet strong face of this man who was evidently past sixty there was a benignity and gentleness, an intelligence made up not only of cleverness and book learning, but of a long life's experience in which sorrow and thought and difficulties overcome had brought a result near to perfection. He was a tall man, with broad heavy shoulders that were finally admitting the long struggle in a slight stoop; his face was strong, yet mild; his mouth firm with the stability of largeness and generosity. His head, with its high forehead, heavy eyebrows, and prominence in the region that denotes intelligence, would have conveyed an impression of cold intellectuality, had it not been for the mellowing expression that shone from his clear blue eyes—a look that spoke without effort kindness and sympathy and friendliness toward the world. Beneath the force of his personality one felt something more potent than strength—perhaps it was the strength of sweetness. His carriage was dignified, yet natural; aristocratic yet gentle; and his graciousness softened the somewhat formal manner of the Colonial days which still clung to him. He wore the old fashioned fair top boots and shorts of that elder day, a shirt of fine ruffled linen, a waistcoat of the finest embroidered silk, and his hair, iron grey and thick, was reached back from the noble forehead and hung down in a queue behind, tied with a black silk ribbon—a fashion already passing with the memories of the Revolution. He was close shaven and neat to a nicety, with the exception of some grains of snuff which fell occasionally from the massive gold snuff box that hung from a chain about his collar.

When he had taken his seat at the table, and was mixing with an expression of pleasurable anticipation the toddy the waiter had brought him, he looked at Everett with a curiosity that quickly became flattering interest. The young fellow's eyes fell before the searching gaze of the older man for in them he imagined he saw a faint surprise at the company he had chosen upon his arrival. It was then that he regretted for the first time the wounded pride which had made him descend to the use of the Captain's advice.

The conversation changed from the arguing, tempestuous channel in which it had been running, and with the new influence that was felt by everyone, became more conservative and dignified.

"I suppose you have told them everything," the old man said to Everett when the tavern bell had reminded the group that it was their dinner hour. "Did you ever see fellows so hungry for news?" he added, as Jervais, the last to leave, had moved away. "But you must remember we are a long way off from the world down here."

"I was hardly aware myself that so much had happened until I began to tell them all I knew," Everett answered, happy to find himself alone with Judge Houston. "I believe I told them everything I have read and heard for months, and yet," he stopped suddenly and looked up to see if any of them remained, "do you know, I forgot to tell them that King George was dead and that the Duke of Clarence is now William the Fourth!"

"They will see it in the papers," the old man answered smiling, "I am sure you have told them enough for one day. I am the one who missed it all. Will you do me the honour of going home to dinner with me? It would give me much pleasure to hear all about the world from one who is so recently from the scene of action. Perhaps, too, I can show my appreciation by giving you something better than the corn dodgers and goat meat that you would surely get in this tavern."

Everett kept his eyes on the old man's as he rose from his chair in accepting the invitation. The surprise and pity which people always showed on first noting his deformity had made him morbidly sensitive and watchful, and when he saw no change of expression on the face of this old gentleman of Virginia that gave evidence that he had noticed his lameness, a feeling of great joy, almost love, rushed over him for the other; though, in the slow pace at which they walked and his frequent halts to call attention to some important object along the way, Everett knew that in this lay a veiled consideration.

The street was broad and cool in the shade of overarching trees, and as they strolled along, Judge Houston's arm resting on his, and his deep voice steady and full of the charm of provincial accent, Everett began to feel more and more contented with the call which had brought him to this place.

"That old church—yes—it was built by the Spaniards," the old man leaned against a fence for a moment. "And even I can remember when criminals used it as a place of safety—a sanctuary. I saw a murderer run up those steps and put his finger in the key hole of that same old door and keep his pursuers at bay. A queer old custom—but it has been years ago now. And their old priest, Father Brady, they called him—he was my ideal when I was a boy," he talked on as they resumed their walk. "He had great power over the Indians—used to get out among them and cowhide them into his church. And when it came to hunting he was the best shot in the town, and the best judge of horses and liquor—had a wink and a joke and a blessing and an alms for every one. Oh, I can tell you all the stories you want to know about Natchez; some of them are grewsome and some fantastic—but they are being forgotten now with the changes everywhere. We are getting civilized by degrees down here. Wife said the other day she had no intention of dying till she saw a steam car coming right into our town."

He ended with a smile as they stopped before a house set far back in a grove of trees. Walking beside him up the broad brick pavement, bordered on each side by high box, Everett realized that he was standing before the typically Southern home, with its façade of massive white columns, its wide green blinds against the red bricks, and its broad, hospitable verandas.

When he stood in the cool shade of the hall, the glare of the brilliant day shut out, the old gentleman's wife came forward to meet them. Looking down into her gentle sweet face Everett found himself wondering if Judge Houston and the grey haired gentle woman could not be some kin—for the long life together, the practice of the same pursuits, the indulgence, or more the renunciation of similar tastes had wrought a likeness between them which made the wife seem but a more delicate feminine edition of the man.

"You see the resemblance, Maria?" Judge Houston said to his wife, when the introduction was over.

"Oh yes, indeed—I saw it at once," she murmured in a low voice, and Everett thought he saw tears in her eyes as she turned quickly away. "I shall tell Cynthie to have dinner at once. I know you have been starving. Think of it—on a boat for a month!"

Everett turned back to Judge Houston as they were left alone and found the old gentleman smiling upon him with the same sad expression he had found in Mrs. Houston's eyes.

"I seem to remind you of someone," he said slowly, hesitating in the doubt of intruding upon what was evidently their sorrow.

"Yes—your resemblance to my son is very striking. He went out into the Western territories with some pioneers when he was just about your age. He was unlucky—the Indians—it is a long story—I shall tell it to you one of these days." The old gentleman pulled forward a chair and waved Everett towards one beside him. "And you are going to Mistress Brandon's?" he added, evidently wishing to change the subject.

"Yes," Everett answered. "I shall be glad to have you tell me something about her and her family for I practically know nothing. My chum at college, Morgan Talbot, is a kinsman of Mistress Brandon and he carried on the correspondence with her about me. She is taking me entirely on his recommendation, and I'm sure," he laughed, "she can't know Morgan well, or she wouldn't take a recommendation from a person who lets his heart rule his brain as Morgan does. It was entirely his friendship for me that made him do it."

"You must remember that when we get down here we don't have many opportunities to see relatives who live so far away as Boston. Mistress Brandon is a very capable and well educated woman. She has superintended the management of the plantation ever since Brandon died and has done it remarkably well; indeed, she is the wealthiest woman in this part of the state. There are three children. The eldest is not her child—she is a daughter of Brandon's first wife."

Just then Mrs. Houston reappeared to ask them into dinner.

"I see you are already gossiping," she said, when they vere seated in the high ceilinged dining room, made cool and free from flies by a large wooden fan hung from the ceiling above the table and kept in continual motion by a little negro who stood in one corner of the room and dozed as he automatically pulled the cord. "I've always told Judge Houston that it is an erroneous idea that women do the gossiping," she continued in her gentle, drawling voice, "I assure you, Mr. Everett, everything I know, I find out from him," with a charming glance of accusation at her husband, "after his visits to the Mansion House."

"But my news is political, Maria," expostulated Judge Houston. "And that isn't gossiping."

"Indeed—so you call arguing whether Mistress Brandon will accept Mr. Jervais or not, a political discussion!"

"I never told you that, my dear," the old man smiled gently.

"No—of course you didn't, but some one else's husband told his wife and she told me." With which remark Mrs. Houston turned back to Everett. "You will be delighted with your new friends," pouring the coffee from an enormous silver urn. "To begin with, the place itself is beautiful. It was built by one of the Spanish governors and the romances connected with it are thrilling—but you will hear them all. Natalia will tell them to you."

"There she goes," laughed Judge Houston. "There won't be a thing left for you to find out for yourself, Mr. Everett. Maria, my dear, do leave something to the gentleman's imagination."

"Well, I only thought it wise for Mr. Everett to know something about them," she responded on the defensive. "Don't you think so, Mr. Everett?"

"Indeed I do, Mrs. Houston. It might help me to avoid any embarrassing subjects," he laughed happily, the hospitality and friendliness of this old fashioned couple making him feel more at home in the midst of their good natured banter.

"Embarrassing subjects! There you are quite right, Mr. Everett. For instance, Felix," with a conciliatory look toward her husband, "you know it would not do for him to ask much about the Spaniards, would it? You see, Mr. Everett, the mother of Natalia—that is the girl's name—was a Spaniard. Please don't think I'm gossiping now, but you'll understand I'm telling you this for your own benefit. The Spanish rule ended here about the time we came, so we don't pretend to know what the truth of the matter is. Suffice it to say, however, that Natalia's grandmother seems to have been criticized for her rather unconventional way of living. It was during her lifetime that the house was built, and from what I gather there was no lack of entertainment at all times. Her daughter, a beautiful, shy little creature, as delicate and sensitive as a flower, was fortunately sent to New Orleans to be educated and escaped the surroundings and influence of her mother. Brandon married her soon after her mother died, and as she had inherited this property here, they came back to Natchez to live. She was the most fascinating creature I ever knew, although that was not well—indeed, no one knew her well, and I often heard it said that she died insane shortly after Natalia's birth—some more coffee, Cynthie—but you can't believe everything you hear. I believe she just died as naturally as anyone else. Do have some more Sally Lunn—Cynthie, bring some hot rolls. Tell me, Mr. Everett, is it really true that you have pie for breakfast in New England?"

"I was just wondering what my mother would say to such extravagance as four kinds of hot bread at one meal. And as for pie," Everett laughed, "I'm afraid I'll have to admit I have eaten it for breakfast. Hot rolls are a Sunday attraction at home."

"I suppose we do strike a Northerner as extravagant," Mrs. Houston sighed helplessly, "but when one has so many slaves standing around, they must be kept busy. If I had to cook myself I don't suppose you would have had anything for dinner but baker's bread and fig preserves. You don't have slaves in Maine, either, do you?"

Everett met Judge Houston's eye and smiled.

"No," the old gentleman answered for him, "the Yankees imported them and found them unadapted to their climate, so they sent them down here and sold them to us. Now, I understand, they have decided they do not approve of slavery. Are you all that clever, Mr. Everett," he ended with a good humoured laugh.

"I have not read much on the subject," Everett answered, realizing that beneath the laughter there lay a deep seriousness. "But from what I have heard and from the reports of the Maryland Society, I had gotten the impression that many of the Southerners were in favour of emancipation."

"A great many are—in fact, some have gone so far as to give their slaves freedom. A man who died here last year, by his will, emancipated his slaves—there were nearly one hundred of them—and he also provided for their transportation to Africa with a full supply of agricultural implements and medicine and a year's provisions. It was a very good example he set, and one I hope will be imitated."

"Then you believe in emancipation?"

"I am in favour of emancipation with colonization. That is the only way it is possible. You can't allow slaves to be liberated and remain in the States, for in such a case the effect of an intermediate class between owners and slaves would be disastrous. The negroes must be either sent out of the country or remain slaves. There is no half way ground to be considered."

"From what you say, Judge Houston," Everett said, in the slight pause that followed, "I find myself wondering if you are a slave owner."

"Oh yes, I plead guilty, but in a very small way. We have five slaves, and I venture to say they wouldn't leave us if they could. Do you think so, Maria?"

Before answering, Mrs. Houston called the pleasant faced negro woman to her, "Cynthie, go upstairs," she said, an evident ruse to get the woman out of the room, "and bring me a—pocket handkerchief. I wanted to tell you about her," she continued when they were alone. "I asked her once what she would do if I set her free. Will you believe me?—she cried for a week and begged me every hour of the day please not to do it. You see, Mr. Everett, they feel they are a part of the family—and so they are. We take care of them just like they were children. Of course, we hear of cases where they are badly treated, but it is quite unusual."

"Yes," Judge Houston added, "if people would only stop to consider that it is to a man's interest to treat his slaves well, in order that they may do their work, probably they would soon see the fallacy of the exaggerated tales that are causing so much ill feeling in the North."

"Now, here you all have been discussing this everlasting slave question," Mrs. Houston said, as they finally rose from the table, "and all the time I have been wondering to myself over a very different matter. Can either of you guess what it is?"

"The wonderings of a woman's mind are quite beyond us, eh, Mr. Everett?" said Judge Houston.

"I shall have to admit my failure this time." Everett smiled at Mrs. Houston.

"Well," she continued, half seriously, "I was trying to calculate how long it will take you to tame Natalia."

Everett flushed slightly and did not attempt to hide the surprise he felt at the remark.

"Ah, there you go with your woman's eternal speculation on some ridiculous topic." Judge Houston frowned in mock disapproval. "Here you take a young fellow, and before he has ever seen the child you put all sorts of ideas into his head about her."

"Nevertheless, I notice the young man is embarrassed," Mrs. Houston continued in evident enjoyment of Everett's increasing confusion. "It appears to me that perhaps he has seen our little girl already. Have you, Mr. Everett?"

Everett glanced at Judge Houston, smiling, then back at the kind old lady who was bent on teasing him.

"Someone pointed out Mistress Brandon and her children to me as they got out of the coach to-day," he answered finally.

"And there was a little girl, the daughter?" Mrs. Houston insisted.

"Yes, I think there was a little girl."

"Hm'm, I knew it. Was she about twelve years old and very pretty, with black hair and grey eyes?"

"Yes—I believe her eyes were grey—since you mention it."

"Since I mention it!" Mrs. Houston laughed easily. "Seems to me you're mighty indifferent about your pupil." Then seriously, "She's a great pet of ours and I want you to be kind to her. She's a handful, everyone says, but Felix and I love her dearly. And indeed, I can't see how anyone keeps from it. Some people find her rather strange at first, and I must admit she is wilful, but after you know her a while you'll understand her. That is what I want you to do if you are to teach her—understand her and sympathize with her and be very good to her. Remember she has neither father nor mother." She laid her hand almost beseechingly, on Everett's arm.

"You may trust me to do that," Everett smiled into her kind eyes. "You see, she will be my first pupil, and, of course, I shall take pride in making her reflect credit upon me."

"That may be a little difficult. She never would study except what she wanted to, but perhaps you may exert a good influence over her in that direction." She glanced at Everett intently as if reading him and ended, "I'm half a mind to think you will, too."

Everett and Judge Houston strolled through the cool, darkened hall, and back to the front veranda, where large red rocking chairs and palmetto fans were invitingly awaiting them. As they stood for a moment, looking out toward the street, a wagon came into view, piled high with bales of cotton and pulled by six oxen.

"There is some cotton from the Brandon place," Judge Houston said to Everett. "Would you like to see it closer? You can tell it by the marks on the bales."

They walked down to the gate and watched the heavy load pass down the street on its way to the distant country from which Everett had come.

"This will be the greatest country in the world some day," the old gentleman said when they were back on the veranda and had settled themselves in the comfortable chairs. "All we need is more capital, more people and more facilities for transportation. But tell me about yourself now—your plans—and what you hope to do."

"You've probably heard it from many a young fellow before," Everett answered, looking responsively into the face turned with kindly interest toward him. "I have chosen law as my profession. It has always been my desire since the time I found a long illness had left me unfit for any great physical work. My father was a sea captain and could never understand this choice of mine—a queer notion, as he called it. But I'm going on with it and make a success of it, if hard work and hope will do it. I had some little success with oratory at college, but what I need now is the opportunity to read law and prepare to be admitted to the bar. There seemed no good opportunity for me in New England, everything there is so crowded, and the chance to teach in Mrs. Brandon's family seemed the best thing for me to do. It will give me leisure to study, and then, Morgan Talbot tells me her library is very large."

"It is magnificent. Brandon had case after case of books shipped to him from England—those that he could not get from New York. The library got so large that he had to build a special room for it. But to go back to yourself—how much law do you know? I saw this morning in your talk with those fellows that you were able to grapple with the mazes of politics. But the point for you now is to get a solid foundation of details. Do you think you could get in study enough this winter to pass examinations next spring?"

With the minutes slipping by they talked on, sometimes Everett unbosoming himself to the kind old gentleman as he had never done before, sometimes the old man telling him of the needs and greater demands of the bar of the Southwest, pointing out to him lines of study and books that would be more useful to him in the special characteristics of the law in that country.

In his low modulated voice he told the young fellow starting out on the life journey things that were to come back to him many years later. Afterwards Sargent Everett often recalled his words about success when he was feeling its empty sting: "The path of the successful man is not strewn with flowers. Failure and disappointment are the walls that, when once passed, become golden experiences. Success judged by the outside world and felt by the one who has succeeded are two very different things—sometimes, perhaps most often, the success seen by the world is the least of all successes. What one strives for and yearns for and so rarely accomplishes is a thing that others are unaware of—a thing too sacred to be spoken."

Everett sat spell bound under the influence of the Judge's words. In the rise and fall of the voice, an inflection which had in it a delightful bit of provincialism, he found a charm that was persuasive and forceful.

When the town clock, a block away, chimed three, he rose reluctantly with a sigh that spoke frankly his regret at leaving.

"I wish I might spend the remainder of the afternoon with you," he said, his hand clasping the old gentleman's. "But my journey is not quite finished, yet. I shall go out to Mistress Brandon's now and meet her and see if I am acceptable."

"Tell her I approve," Judge Houston laid his hand on Everett's shoulder. "And if I'm not very much mistaken it may have some weight. Tell her we became good friends in one day."

Everett pressed the old gentleman's hand warmly. "Good friends!" he replied, "you are already more than that to me. I feel as if I had known you always—that I had some right to expect all this kindness from you."

The old man's eyes met his affectionately.

"You have—I've told you. It's the resemblance."

CHAPTER V

THE HOUSE OF THE SPANIARDS

An hour later Everett was riding out of the town on his way to Mrs. Brandon's home. About him on all sides the scene was bathed in the splendour of late afternoon sunlight. A heavy stake-and-rider fence bordered the road, and beyond it stretched the wide, sweeping cotton fields—snow white with their unpicked product. He drew in the reins, resting his horse, while he marvelled at the tall plants, almost as tall as himself, and the strange effect of the spotless cotton against the distant border of forest. Across the fields came to him the sound of voices chanting—sweet with harmony, and looking in the direction from which it came, he saw bright turbaned negro women and stalwart men moving steadily through the rows of plants, picking the cotton and dragging huge baskets after them.

Turning from the high road two miles south of the town, he rode down a narrow roadway on both sides of which giant cottonwood trees towered, and where spreading cypresses, their long branches festooned with grey moss, cast a cooling shade.

At the end of the narrow road a gateway loomed, a large massive piece of iron grill work swung between two columns of brick and cement. Beyond these columns, the fence extended, elaborately designed iron pickets bound together with a tracery of grapes and leaves, before which a hedge of Cherokee roses grew, its thorny branches accentuating the effect of security and aloofness from the world.

Everett stopped before the gate and looked beyond, into the depths of a magnolia grove which seemed a continuance of the wood he had just passed through, so filled was it with the sprawling shadows of the thick foliage and the golden spots of sifting sunlight. He was so lost in his first impressions of the place, its stillness, its old-world charm, its fairylike mystery, that he started abruptly when he saw a little girl sitting at the foot of one of the gate posts, surveying him through gently questioning eyes. Her feet were crossed under her, as she leaned comfortably against the post, and in her lap she held a large, heavy book, one finger still upon the page from which her gaze had wandered.

Everett met her eyes in silence for a moment, looking down at her thin little face, flushed from the rose glow of the setting sun, and feeling in a flash the vividness of her odd beauty. Her brow was very white and delicate and her blue-black glossy hair, parted in the middle and brushed back to where it was braided, made her seem paler than she really was, for her skin was a rich olive. Everett forgot the beautiful colouring, the almost weird thinness of her slight figure, the sweet half questioning mouth—all these were lost sight of when he had seen her eyes. They were so strange in all they represented that he was lost in admiration and wonder—for in them, although childlike still in their innocence—was tenderness, sympathy, wilfulness and humour—all of these, and more striking still, an intentness that kept changing them from grey to black and back again.

She broke the silence that Everett had forgotten about. "Are you the schoolmaster," her voice was high and fresh and liquid, "from Maine?"

Then Everett took off his hat and bowed low, smiling down upon her.

"I'm so—so glad," she sighed, as if the burden of the world had fallen from her shoulders. Then she closed the book with a snap. "I've been waiting here hours to see what you looked like."

Everett laughed outright.

"If I had known you were waiting I should have come sooner. I did not know Mrs. Brandon knew that I had arrived."

"Oh yes—Mr. Jervais told her."

"Then I can see her now?"

She met his look for a second—then glanced down at her book.

"She's riding over the place now, but she told me to tell you to wait for her. You can tie your horse there," indicating a ring imbedded in the gate post, "then we can go to the house."

Sargent followed her through the gate and along the driveway which extended under the magnolia trees. The gloom of the grove was intense, the black green leaves shutting out the sky entirely and making the ground beneath dank, where a pale green moss grew in lieu of a lawn. Through the vista of trees, glowing bright against the eternal twilight of the grove, the house came into their vision, gleaming like some palace in an enchanted wood.

Sargent stopped when they had gone a little further, and looked at the house. The little girl stopped, too, close beside him, and watched his expression intently. From their position only the front of the house was visible, a stretch of plain, cemented columns that rose from a pavement of deep red flags, level with the ground, to the red tiled roof, two stories high. Back of the columns, the lower rooms extended out from the upper floor, in this way forming a balcony to the entire second floor, which was enclosed in an iron balustrade. From this balcony two flights of stone steps, semi-circular in form, and iron-railed, led down to the pavement below, and in the opening formed by these steps was the wide front door. It was an odd conception of architecture and gave the house a strange, foreign aspect, accentuated by the more familiar appearance of the second floor, with its wide windows and dark green shutters.

Sargent had forgotten the little girl beside him, lost in admiration of the strange old house, when he felt a cold hand slipped into his, and looking down, found her glowing eyes gazing timidly up at him.

"You like it?" she questioned quickly.

"It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen!"

She smiled contentedly, her hand still in his.

"It's mine—when I get grown up. If you hadn't liked it—I'd have hated you just like I did Miss Hampton who was our governess last year."

Sargent felt her hand clench in his and saw her eyes grow dark. Giving a tug at the book she carried, to get it more comfortably under her arm, she started on again.

"Did you hate her so," Sargent said, glancing at the book she held in her hand, "because she made you study such a big book as that?"

"This?—Oh no, I love to read this—only I don't understand it all. I just hated her because she said this was a lonesome old place, and I didn't like for her to say that, for the Spaniards built this house and my mother was Spanish—so am I." Then suddenly, "Are you going to teach me the three R's? Uncle Felix calls it that," smiling again. "Isn't it funny, because I know they don't begin with an R," putting her hand in Sargent's once more. "Won't you please leave out the 'Rithmetic?"

Sargent laughed down at her.

"Arithmetic—of course not. We all have to learn that."

"I'm so—so sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I hate it!"

"Perhaps I may be able to help you like it."

"No," positively, "you won't. It's so stupid and dry. I want you to teach me how to spell, that bothers me so; and I want to learn how to say Shakespeare's plays."

"Shakespeare!" Sargent exclaimed. "How old are you?"

"I'm going on twelve."

"And what do you like best of Master Shakepeare's?"

"I like the story about Orlando and Rosalind. Shall I say some of it for you? Let's go over there by the bench and you can hear me say it right now."

She tripped ahead of Sargent along a path that led from the drive, suddenly going slower when she saw that he could not follow her so rapidly. A little way down the path they came to the edge of the grove, where an iron bench was placed beneath one of the great trees, making an ideal place where one could sit in shady protection and gaze out upon a scene so dramatic in its breadth and majesty.