As Mr. Mason finished the services and sat down, he was startled with an outburst of "Shall we meet beyond the river." Everybody joined in the song, negroes and all, their rich, full voices dominating the others, and making Mr. Mason thrill in every nerve as the quaint music filled the house, and went echoing out upon the summer air. When the "Beautiful River" was finished some one outside the door took up the refrain:

"Oh, that will be joyful, joyful, joyful; Oh, that will be joyful, When we meet to part no more."

This appealed to the blacks, who entered into the singing heart and soul, some of the older ones keeping time with a swinging motion of their bodies, and one old lady in her enthusiasm bringing down her fist upon the doorstep, on which she was sitting, and shouting in a way which warned Jake of danger. He knew the signs, and putting down the little girl, who had fallen asleep in his lap, he went to the old negress, who was beginning to get under full headway, and holding her uplifted arm, said to her:

"Hush, Aunt Judy, hush; this ain't no place to have the pow'. This ain't a pra'r meetin'; tis a 'Piscopal funeral, this is, such as they have in Virginny."

What Judy might have said is uncertain, for there came a diversion in the scene. The child had followed Jake to the door, where she stood wide-eyed and attentive, and when the last words of the hymn ended, she sang in a clear, shrill voice, "Be joyful when we meet to part no more." Her voice was singularly sweet and full, and Mr. Mason said to himself, "She'll be a singer some day, if she is not crazy first." Nothing now could keep old Judy from one more burst, and her "Yes, thank de Lawd, we'll meet to part no mo'," rang out like a clarion, and the religious services were over.

There still remained what was the most interesting part to the audience—taking leave of the corpse—and for a few minutes the sobs, and cries, and ejaculations were bewildering to Mr. Mason, who had never had an experience of this kind. Jake quieted the tumult as soon as possible, reminding the people again that this was a first-class 'Piscopal funeral, such as the quality had in Virginny. The old grandmother was led to the coffin by Mandy Ann, who shook her up and told her to look at Miss Dory, but not cry much, if she could help it. She didn't cry at all, but nearly every one did in the adjoining room, where they said to each other, "Ole Miss is takin' leave and don't sense it an atom." The little girl was held up by Jake, who made her kiss her mother.

"Mamma's s'eep," the child said, as she kissed the pale lips which would never smile on her again.

There was a fresh outburst of sobs and tears from the spectators, and then the coffin was closed, and the procession took its way across the hot sands to the little enclosure in the clearing, where other members of the Harris family were buried. Remembering the impatience of the people in the house, Mr. Mason wished to shorten the service at the grave, but Jake said: "No. We'll have the whole figger for Miss Dory." Mr. Mason went the whole figure with uncovered head under the broiling sun, and when he was through he felt as if his brains were baked. The Crackers did not seem to mind the heat at all. They were accustomed to it, and after their return from the grave, stayed round until the white mule and sail-topped shay were brought up for Mr. Mason's return to the hotel.

As Jake was very busy, a young negro boy was sent in his place. Naturally loquacious, he kept up a constant stream of talk, but as he stammered frightfully the most Mr. Mason could understand was that Miss Dory was a dandy, ole Miss 'onery, whatever that might mean, and Jake a big head, who thought he knew everything because he was free and could read.

The next day was Sunday, and Mr. Mason took for the subject of his remarks in the parlor of the hotel the story of Lazarus and Dives, and every time he spoke of Dives receiving his good things in life, he thought of the man whom the landlord had designated a "Northern cuss"; and every time he spoke of Lazarus, he thought of poor little Dory and that humble grave in the sands of the palmetto clearing.

It was covered before night with young dwarf palmettoes, which Mandy Ann laid upon it with a thought that they would keep her young mistress cool. All through the day she had restrained her feelings, because Jake told her that was the way to do.

"Seems ef I should bust," she said to herself more than once, and when at last the day was over, and both ole Miss and the little girl were asleep, she stole out to the newly made grave, and lying down upon it among the palmettoes she cried bitterly, "Oh, Miss Dory, Miss Dory, kin you har me? It's Mandy Ann, an' I'm so sorry you're dead, an' sorry I was so bad sometimes. I have tried to be better lately, sense I got growed. Now, hain't I, an' I hain't tole many lies, nor tached a thing sense I took that bill from him. Cuss him, wharever he is! Cuss him to-night, ef he's alive; an' ef his bed is soff' as wool, doan let him sleep for thinkin' of Miss Dory. Doan let him ever know peace of min' till he owns the 'ittle girl; though, dear Lawd, what should we do without her—me an' Jake?"

Mandy Ann was on her knees now, with her hands uplifted, as she prayed for cusses on the man who had wrought such harm to her mistress. When the prayer was finished she fell on her face again and sobbed, "Miss Dory, Miss Dory, I must go in now an' see to 'ittle chile, but I hates to leave you hyar alone in de san'. Does you know you's got on my ring? I gin it to you, an' ole granny Thomas 'gin in' when she seed it, an' said you mus' be good. I'se mighty glad I gin it to you. 'Twas all I had to give, an' it will tell 'em whar you've gone that you was good."

There was a dampness in the air that night, and Mandy Ann felt it as she rose from the grave, and brushed bits of palmetto from her dress and hair. But she did not mind it, and as she walked to the house she felt greatly comforted with the thought that she had cussed him, and that Miss Dory was wearing her ring as a sign that she was good, and that "ole granny Thomas had gin in."



CHAPTER VII

COL. CROMPTON

He was young to be a colonel, but the title was merely nominal and complimentary, and not given for any service to his country. When only twenty-one he had joined a company of militia—young bloods like himself—who drilled for exercise and pleasure rather than from any idea that they would ever be called into service. He was at first captain, then he rose to the rank of colonel, and when the company disbanded he kept the title, and was rather proud of it, as he was of everything pertaining to himself and the Cromptons generally. It was an old English family, tracing its ancestry back to the days of William the Conqueror, and boasting of two or three titles and a coat-of-arms. The American branch was not very prolific, and so far as he knew, the Colonel was the only remaining Crompton of that line in this country, except the son of a half-brother. This brother, who was now dead, had married against his father's wishes, and been cut off from the Crompton property, which, at the old man's death, all came to the Colonel. It was a fine estate, with a very grand house for the New England town by the sea in which it was situated. It was built by the elder Crompton, who was born in England, and had carried out his foreign ideas of architecture, and with its turrets and square towers it bore some resemblance to the handsome places he had seen at home. It was of stone, and stood upon a rise of ground, commanding a view of the sea two miles away, and the pretty village on the shore with a background of wooded hills stretching to the west. It was full of pictures and bric-a-brac, and statuary from all parts of the world, for the Colonel's father had travelled extensively, and brought home souvenirs from every country visited. Florida had furnished her quota, and stuffed parokeets and red birds, and a huge alligator skin adorned the walls of the wide hall, together with antlers and pieces of old armor, and other curios. A small fortune was yearly expended upon the grounds which were very large, and people wondered that the Colonel lavished so much upon what he seemed to care so little for, except to see that it was in perfect order, without a dried leaf, or twig, or weed to mar its beauty.

It had not always been thus with him. When he first came into possession of the place he was just through college, and had seemed very proud and fond of his fine estate, and had extended his hospitality freely to his acquaintances, keeping them, however, at a certain distance, for the Crompton pride was always in the ascendant, and he tolerated no familiarities, except such as he chose to allow. This genial social life lasted a few years, and then there came a change, following a part of a winter spent in South Carolina and Georgia with his intimate friend and college chum, Tom Hardy. Communication between the North and South was not as frequent and direct then as it is now, and but little was known of his doings. At first he wrote occasionally to Peter, his head servant, to whom he entrusted the care of the house; then his letters ceased and nothing was heard from him until suddenly, without warning, he came home, looking much older than when he went away, and with a look upon his face which did not leave it as the days went on.

"'Spect he had a high old time with that Tom Hardy, and is all tuckered out," Peter said, while the Colonel, thinking he must give some reason for his changed demeanor, said he had malaria, taken in some Southern swamp.

If there was any disease for which Peter had a special aversion it was malaria, which he fancied he knew how to treat, having had it once himself. Quinine, cholagogue, and whiskey were prescribed in large quantities, and Peter wondered why they failed to cure. He did not suspect that the quinine went into the fire, and the cholagogue down the drain-pipe from the washstand. The Colonel's malaria was not the kind to be cured by drugs, and there came a day when, after the receipt of a letter from Tom Hardy, he collapsed entirely, and Peter found him shivering in his room, his teeth chattering, and his fingers purple with cold.

"You have got it bad this time," Peter said, suggesting the doctor, and more quinine and cholagogue, and a dose of Warburg's Tincture.

The Colonel declined them all. What he needed was another blanket, and to be let alone. Peter brought the blanket and left him alone, while he faced this new trouble which bore no resemblance to malaria. He was just beginning to be more hopeful of the future, and had his plans all laid, and knew what he should do and say, and now this new complication had arisen and brushed his scheme aside. He had sown the wind and was reaping a cyclone, and he swore to himself, and hardened his heart against the innocent cause of his trouble, and thought once of suicide as he had on the St. John's the year before. He spent money, just the same, upon his handsome grounds; but it was only for the pride he had in keeping them up, and not for any pleasure he had in them. He never picked a flower, or sat on any of the seats under the trees, and, unless the day was very hot, was seldom seen upon his broad piazza, where every day Peter spread rugs and placed chairs because his master liked to see them there, if they were not used. His library was his favorite place, where he sat for hours reading, smoking, and thinking, no one knew of what, or tried to know, for he was not a man to be easily approached, or questioned as to his business. If he had malaria it clung to him year after year, while he grew more reserved and silent, and saw less and less of the people. Proud as Lucifer they called him, and yet, because he was a Crompton, and because of the money he gave so freely when it was asked for, he was not unpopular; and when the town began to grow in importance on account of its fine beach and safe bathing, and a movement was made to change its name from Troutburg to something less plebeian, Crompton was suggested, and met with general approval. No one was better pleased with the arrangement than the Colonel himself, although he did not smile when the news was brought to him. He seldom smiled at anything, but there was a kindling light in his eyes, and his voice shook a little as he thanked the committee who waited upon him. To be known as "Col. Crompton of Crompton" was exceedingly gratifying to his vanity, and seemed in a way to lift the malarious cloud from him for a time at least.

It was more than three years since Tom Hardy's letter had thrown him into a chill, and everything as yet was quiet. Nothing had come from the South derogatory to him, and he had almost made himself believe that this state of things might go on for years, perhaps forever, though that was scarcely possible. At all events he'd wait till the storm burst, and then meet it somehow. He was a Crompton and had faith in himself, and the faith was increased by the compliment paid by his townspeople; and as he was not one to receive a favor without returning it, he conceived the idea of giving an immense lawn-party, to which nearly everybody should be invited. He had shut himself up too much, he thought—he must mingle more with the people, and build around himself a wall so strong that nothing in the future could quite break it down.

Peter and the rest of his servants were consulted and entered heartily into his plan. Cards of invitation were issued bearing the Crompton monogram, and a notice inserted in the daily paper to the effect that any who failed to receive a card were to know it was a mistake, and come just the same. There was a great deal of excitement among the people, for it had been a long time since any hospitality had been extended to them, and they were eager to go, knowing that something fine was to be expected, as the Colonel never did anything by halves. The day of the lawn-party was perfect—neither too hot nor too cold—and the sun which shone upon that humble funeral in the palmetto clearing shone upon a very different scene in the Crompton grounds, where the people began to assemble as early as one o'clock. The grass on the lawn was like velvet, without a stick or stone to be seen, for two gardeners had been at work upon it since sunrise, cutting and raking, and sprinkling, until it was as fresh as after a soft summer shower. The late roses and white lilies were in full bloom, the latter filling the air with a sweet odor and making a lovely background. There were tables and chairs under the maples and elms, and rugs and pieces of carpet wherever there was a suspicion of dampness in the ground. There was a brass band in one part of the grounds, and a string band in another, where the young people danced under the trees. Refreshments were served at five o'clock, and the festivities were kept up till the sun went down, and half the children were sick from overeating—the mothers were tired, and some of the men a little shaky in their legs, and thick in their speech, from a too frequent acquaintance with the claret punch which stood here and there in great bowls, free as water, and more popular. The crowning event of the day came when the hundreds of lanterns were lighted on the piazzas and in the trees, and every window in the house blazed with candles placed in so close proximity to each other, that objects could be plainly seen at some distance.

The Colonel was going to make a speech, and he came out upon an upper balcony, where the light from ten tall lamps fell full upon him, bringing out every feature of his face distinctly. He was rather pale and haggard, but the people were accustomed to that, and charged it to the malaria. He was very distinguished looking, they thought, as they stood waiting for him to commence his speech. All the afternoon he had been the most courteous of hosts—a little too patronizing, perhaps, for that was his way, but very polite, with a pleasant word for every one. He knew he was making an impression, and felt proud in a way as Crompton of Crompton, when he stepped out upon the balcony and saw the eager, upturned faces, and heard the shout which greeted him. And still there was with him a feeling of unrest—a presentiment that on his horizon, seemingly so bright, a dark cloud was lowering, which might at any moment burst upon the head he held so high. He was always dreading it, but for the last few days the feeling had been stronger until now it was like a nightmare, and his knees shook as he bowed to the people confronting him and filling the air with cheers.

No contrast could have been greater than that between the scene on which he looked down—the park, the flowers, the fountains, and the people—and the palmetto clearing in far away Florida. He did not know of the funeral and the group assembled around the log-cabin. But he knew of the clearing. He had been there, and always felt his blood tingle when he thought of it, and it was the picture of it which had haunted him all day, and which came and stood beside him, shutting out everything else, as he began to thank the people for the honor conferred upon him by calling the town by his name.

He didn't deserve it, he said. He didn't deserve anything from anybody.

"Yes, you do," went up from a hundred throats, for under the influence of the good cheer and the attention paid them the man was for the time being a hero.

"No, I don't," he continued. "I am a morally weak man—weaker than water where my pride is concerned—and if you knew me as I know myself you would say I was more deserving of tar and feathers than the honor you have conferred upon me."

This was not at all what he intended to say, but the words seemed forced from him by that picture of the palmetto clearing standing so close to him. His audience did not know what he meant. So far as they knew he had been perfectly upright, with no fault but his pride and coldness by which he came rightfully as a Crompton. He must have visited the punch bowls too often, they thought, and didn't know what he was talking about. After a pause, during which he was trying to thrust aside the clearing, and the log-house, and the old woman in her chair, and Mandy Ann, and to pull himself together, he went on to say:

"You have been for a long time discussing the site of a new school-house, in place of the old one which stands so near the marshes, that it is a wonder your children have not all died with fever and ague. Some of you want it on the hill—some under the hill—some in one place, and some in another. Nobody wants it near his own premises. A school-house with a lot of howling children is not a desirable neighbor to most people. For my part I don't object to it. I like children."

Here he stopped suddenly as the image of a child he had never seen came before him and choked his utterance, while the people looked at each other, and wondered how long he had been so fond of children. It was generally conceded that he did not care for them—disliked them in fact—and he had never been known to notice one in any way. Surely he had been too near the claret bowls. He detected the thought of those nearest to him, and continued:

"I am not one to show all I feel. It is not my nature. I am interested in children, and as proof of it I will tell you my plan. There are two acres of land on the south side of the park. I fenced it off for an artificial pond, but gave it up. There is a spring of good water there, with plenty of shade trees for the children to play under. I will give this land for the new school-house."

Here he was obliged to stop, the cheers were so deafening. When they subsided he went on rapidly:

"I will build the house, too. Such an one as will not shame District No. 5 in Crompton. It shall be a model house, well lighted and ventilated, with broad, comfortable seats, especially for the little ones, whose feet shall touch the floor. It shall be commenced at once, and finished before the winter term."

He bowed and sat down, white and perspiring at every pore, and hardly knowing to what he had committed himself. The cheers were now a roar which went echoing out into the night, and were heard nearly as far as the village on the beach, the people wondering more and more at his generosity, and sudden interest in their little ones. And no one wondered more than himself. He did not care a picayune for children, nor whether their feet touched the floor or not, and he had not intended pledging himself to build the house when he began. But as he talked, the palmetto clearing stared him in the face, shutting out everything from his vision, except a long seat directly in front of him, on which several little girls whose feet could not touch the ground were fast asleep, their heads falling over upon each other, and the last one resting upon the arm of the settee. It was a pretty picture, and stirred in him feelings he had never experienced before. He would do something for the children, expiatory, he said to himself, as he sat down, thinking he ought to be the proudest and happiest of men to have the town called for him, and to stand so high in the esteem of his fellow citizens. What would they say if they knew what he did, and how cowardly he was because of his pride. Sometime they must know. It could not be otherwise, but he would put off the evil day as long as he could, and when, at last, his guests began to leave, and he went down to bid them good-night, his head was high with that air of patronage and superiority natural to him, and which the people tolerated because he was Col. Crompton.

That night he had a chill—the result of so much excitement to which he was not accustomed, he said to Peter, who brought him a hot-water bag and an extra blanket, and would like to have suggested his favorite remedies, quinine and cholagogue, but experience had taught him wisdom, and putting down the hot-water bag and blanket, he left the room with a casual remark about the fine day, and how well everything had passed off, "only a few men a little boozy," he said, "and three or four children with bruised heads caused by a fall from a swing."

The lawn-party had been a great success, and the Colonel knew he ought to be the happiest man in town, whereas he was the most miserable. He could not hear Mandy Ann's curses as she knelt on her mistress's grave, nor see her dusky arms swaying in the darkness to emphasize her maledictions. He didn't know there was a grave, but something weighed him down with unspeakable remorse. Every incident of his first visit South came back to him with startling vividness, making him wonder why God had allowed him to do what he had done. Then he remembered his trip on the "Hatty," when he kept himself aloof from everybody, with a morbid fear lest he should see some one who knew him, or had heard of him, or would meet him again. He remembered the log-house and his supper, when Mandy Ann served from a dinner-plate, and his napkin was a pocket handkerchief. He remembered the mumbling old woman in her chair; but most of all he remembered the girl who sat opposite him. Her face was always with him, and it came before him now, just as it was in the moonlight, when she said: "You can trust me. I will do the best I can."

She had stood with her hands upon the fence and he saw them as they looked then, and holding up his own he said, "They were little brown hands, but they should have been white like mine. Poor Dory!"

There was a throb of pity in his heart as his remorse increased, and the hot night seemed to quiver with the echo of Mandy Ann's "cuss him, cuss him wherever he may be, and if his bed is soff as wool doan' let him sleep a wink." His bed was soft as wool, but it had no attraction for him, and he sat with his hot-water bag and blanket until his chill passed, and was succeeded by a heat which made him put blanket and bag aside, and open both the windows of his room. The late moon had risen and was flooding the grounds with its light, bringing out distinctly the objects nearest to him. Some tables and chairs were left standing, a few lanterns were hanging in the trees, and in front of him was the long bench on which the little girls had been sleeping, with their feet from the ground, when he made his speech. The sight of this brought to his mind the day three years before when, just as his plans were perfected, there had come a letter which made him stagger as from a heavy blow, while all around him was chaos, dark and impenetrable. In most men the letter would have awakened a feeling of tenderness, but he was not like most men. He was utterly selfish, and prouder than any Crompton in the long line of that proud race, and, instead of tenderness or pity, he felt an intense anger against the fate which had thus dealt with him when he was trying to do right.

What to do next was the question, which Tom Hardy, as cold and unfeeling as himself, answered for him.

"You are in an awful mess," he wrote, "and the only course I see is to keep them supplied with money, and let things run until they come to a focus, as I suppose they must, though they may not. Florida is a long ways from Massachusetts. Few Northerners ever go to Enterprise, and if they do they may not hear of the clearing and its inmates. The girl is not over-bright. I beg your pardon, but she isn't, and will be apt to be quiet when she makes up her mind that she is deserted. The only one you have to fear is that nigger, Jake; but I reckon we can manage him; so cheer up and never make such an infernal fool of yourself again."

Something in this letter had grated on the Colonel's feelings—the reference to the girl, perhaps—but he had decided to follow Tom's advice, and let things run until they came to a focus. They had run pretty smoothly for three years, and only a few letters, forwarded by his friend who now lived in Palatka, and kept a kind of oversight of the clearing, came to trouble him. These he always burned, but he could not forget, and the past was always with him, not exactly as it was on the night after his lawn-party, when it seemed to him that all the powers of the bottomless pit had united against him, and if ever a man expiated his wrong-doing in remorse and mental pain he was doing it. The laudations of the crowd which had cheered him so lustily were of no account, nor the honor conferred by giving the town his name. Nothing helped him as he stood with the sweat rolling down his face, and looked out upon his handsome grounds, which he did not see because of the palmetto clearing, and the little child, and the young mother on whose grave the moon was shining. Mandy Ann's curse was surely taking effect, for no sleep came to him that night, and the next day found him worn and pale, and when Peter, sure of a malarious attack worse than usual, ventured to offer his cholagogue and quinine, he was sworn at, and told to take himself off with his infernal drugs.

"I am tired with yesterday's mob. I shall be better when I am rested, and get the taste out of my mouth of Tom, Dick, and Harry tramping over the premises," he thought.

This was not very complimentary to the Tom's, and Dick's, and Harry's who had tramped through his grounds, but they did not know his thoughts, and were full of the lawn-party, and the new school-house, the work on which was commenced early in August, when a large number of men appeared, and were superintended and urged on by the Colonel himself. He did not work, but he was there every day, issuing orders and making suggestions, and in this way managing to dissipate in part the cloud always hanging over him, and which before long was to assume a form which he could not escape.



CHAPTER VIII

THE CHILD OF THE CLEARING

The school-house was finished, and was a model of comfort and convenience. It was well lighted and ventilated, and every child of whatever age could touch its feet to the floor. If it were in any sense expiatory, it had proven a success, for the palmetto clearing did not haunt the Colonel as it had done on the day of the lawn-party. It was a long time since he had heard from there, and he was beginning to wonder if anything had happened, when Peter brought him an odd-looking letter, directed wrong side up, written with a pencil, and having about it a faint perfume of very bad tobacco. It was addressed to "Mr. Kurnal Krompton, Troutberg, Mass." The writer evidently did not know of the recent change of name, and the letter had been long on the way, but had reached its destination at last, and was soiled and worn, and very second-class in its appearance, Peter decided, as he took it from the office and studied it carefully. No such missive had, to his knowledge, ever before found its way into the aristocratic precincts of Crompton Place. If it had he had not seen it, and he wondered who could have sent this one. He found his master taking his breakfast, and, holding the letter between his thumb and fingers, as if there were contamination in its touch, he handed it to him.

"Fairly turned speckled when he looked at it," Peter thought, as he left the room. "Wish I had seen where it was mailed."

An hour later, Jane, the housemaid, came to him and said, "The Colonel wants you."

Peter found him in his bedroom, packing a satchel with a shaking hand and a face more speckled than it had been when he read the letter.

"Peter," he said, "fold up these shirts for me, and put in some collars and socks. I am going on a little trip, and may be gone two weeks, maybe more. Hold your tongue."

When he wished Peter to be particularly reticent, he told him to hold his tongue. Peter understood, and held it, and finished packing the satchel, ordered the carriage for the eleven o'clock train, and saw his master off, without knowing where he was going, except that his ticket was for New York.

"That smelly letter has something to do with it, of course," he said. "I wish I knew where it was from."

He was arranging the papers on the library table, when he stopped suddenly with an exclamation of surprise, for there, under his hand, lay the smelly letter, which the Colonel had forgotten to put away.

"Phew! I thought I got a whiff of something bad," he said, and read again the superscription, with a growing contempt for the writer. "Nobody will know if I read it, and I shall hold my tongue, as usual," he thought, his curiosity at last overcoming his sense of honor.

Opening the envelope, he took out the piece of foolscap, on which was neither date nor name of place.

"Kurnal Krompton," it began. "Yer fren' in Palatky done gone to Europe. He tole me yer name 'fore he went, an' so I rite meself to tell you Miss Dory's ded, an' ole Miss, too. She done dide a week ago, an' Miss Dory las' July. What shal I do wid de chile? I shood of rit when Miss Dory dide, but Mandy Ann an' me—you 'members Mandy Ann—sed how you'd be comin' to fotch her rite away, an' we cuddent bar to part wid her whilst ole Miss lived. But now she's done ded de chile doan or'to be brung up wid Crackers an' niggers, an' den dar's de place belonged to ole Miss, an' dar's Mandy Ann. She doan' or'ter be sole to nobody. I'd buy her an' set her free ef I had de money, but I hain't. She's a rale purty chile—de little girl. You mite buy Mandy Ann an' take her for lil chile's nuss. Jake Harris."

"Jerusalem!" Peter exclaimed. "Here's a go. Who is Miss Dory? Some trollop, of course—and she is dead, and old Miss, too. Who is old Miss? and who is Mandy Ann the Colonel is to buy? I'd laugh, rank Abolitionist as he is! And what will he do with a child? Crackers and niggers? What is a Cracker?"

Peter had no opinion on that head. He knew what a nigger was, and at once detected another odor besides bad tobacco, and opened the window to air the room. Then he began to study the postmark to see where the letter came from. It was not very clear, and it took him some time to make out "Palatka, Fla." The latter baffled him, it was so illegible, but he was sure of "Palatka," and wondered where it was. Hunting up an atlas, he went patiently through State after State, till he found Palatka, on the St. John's River, Florida.

"Florida! That's where he's gone. There are niggers enough there, but who the Crackers are is beyond me," Peter said. "I believe I'll copy this, letter."

He did copy it, and then waited for developments.

Meanwhile the Colonel was hurrying South as fast as steam could take him. Arrived in New York, he found himself in time to take a boat bound for Savannah, and shutting himself up in his stateroom sat down to analyze his feelings, and solve the problem which had for so long been confronting him. A part of it was solved for him. Eudora was dead; but there was the child. Something must be done with her, and Jake's words kept repeating themselves in his mind:

"She doan or'ter be brung up wid Crackers an' niggers."

"No, she don't or'ter," the Colonel thought, involuntarily adopting Jake's dialect; but what to do with her was the question.

If Tom Hardy had been home he would have consulted him, but Tom was away, and he must face the difficulty alone, knowing perfectly well what his duty was, and finally making up his mind to do it. If he chose to adopt a child it was no one's business. As a Crompton he was above caring for gossip or public opinion. To be sure the child would be a nuisance, and a constant reminder of what he would like to forget; but it was right, and he owed it to the mother to care for her little girl. He began to think a good deal of himself for this kind of reasoning, and by the time he reached Jacksonville he had made up his mind that he was a pretty nice man after all, and felt happier than he had in years. Death had closed one page of his life, and the distance between Florida and Massachusetts would close the other, and he was much like himself when he at last stepped on board the "Hatty," and started up the river.

There was room for him at the Brock House this time, and he registered his name. "Col. James Crompton, Crompton, Mass.," and said he had come to look after a family in the palmetto clearing, Harris was the name, and through a friend he was interested in them. The landlord was not the same who had been there on the occasion of the Colonel's first visit, but he knew something about the clearing, and volunteered whatever information he had concerning the family, speaking of the recent death of the demented old woman, and of the little child left to the care of two negroes, and saying, he hoped the gentleman had come to take it to its friends, if it had any.

The Colonel bowed and said that was his business, and early the next morning started on foot along the road he had trodden twice before, and which brought Eudora before him so vividly that it seemed as if she were walking at his side, and once, as some animal ran through the bushes near the grave at the turn of the road, he started at the sound as if it had been the rustle of Eudora's white dress as he heard it that day. He was beginning to get nervous, and by the time the clearing was reached he was as cold as he had been at home, when Peter brought him the hot-water bag and blanket. He noticed the improvements which had been made in the place since he was there last, and knew it was Jake's handiwork. He had never seen the man, and shrank a little from meeting him, knowing how infinitely superior to himself in a moral way the poor African was. He remembered Mandy Ann perfectly, and recognized her as she came to the door, shading her eyes with her hand to look at him; then she disappeared suddenly, and Jake, who was at the rear of the house, fixing a barrel to catch rain-water, was clutched by the arm, and nearly thrown backwards, as the girl exclaimed: "For the Lawd's sake, Jake, it's comin'—it's comin'—it's hyar!"

"What's comin'? The las' day, that you look so skeered?" Jake said, while Mandy Ann continued: "De man from de Norf, Cunnel Crompton, you call him—done come for lill chile!"

She put her apron over her face and began to cry, while Jake wiped his hands, and hurrying round the house, met the Colonel just as he reached the door. There was not the least servility in Jake's manner, although it was respectful, as he said, "How d'ye, Mas'r Crompton. I'm shoo it's you, an' I'se right glad to see you, though I 'spects you done come for the lill chile, an' I feel fit to bust when I think of partin' wid her. Walk in, walk in; take a cheer, an' I'll sen' Mandy Ann for de lill chile. She's in de play-house I made her, jess dis side de graves, whar she sits an' plays. Thar's a tree thar an' she calls it de shady."

"Thanks!" the Colonel said, taking a chair, while Jake went for Mandy Ann, and found her struggling with the child, not far from the door.

The chile had seen the stranger as soon as Mandy Ann; and as visitors were rare at the cabin, and she was fond of society, she left her sand pies, and her slice of bread and molasses, and started for the house, meeting Mandy Ann, who seized her, saying, "Come an' have on a clean frock and be wassed. Your face is all sticky, an' han's, too—an' de gemman from de Norf, de Cunnel, is hyar."

As it happened, the chile didn't approve of changing her dress and having her face washed. She was in a hurry to see the gentleman, and she pulled back, and fought, and called Mandy Ann an "ole nigger," and told her to "leg-go," and finally wrenched herself free, and ran like a little spider to the house, and into the room where the Colonel was sitting. Starting to his feet he stood looking down at the mite staring at him with her great dark eyes, in which was a look which had puzzled the Rev. Mr. Mason when he saw her at her mother's funeral. She was a very pretty child, with a round, chubby face just now smeared with molasses, as were her fat little hands, while her dress, open at the back, showed signs of the sand and water with which it had come in contact. And she stood, holding the Colonel with her eyes, until he began to feel cold again, and to think of his hot-water bag. He did not care for children, and this one—

"Heavens!" he thought to himself. "Can I do it? Yes, I must!"

Then, putting out his hand, he said, "Little girl, will you shake hands with me."

Nothing abashed she was going forward, when Mandy Ann rushed in and pulled her back, exclaiming: "Oh, sar, not wid dem han's; dey mus' be wassed."

"You ole Mandy Ann nigger, you lemme be. I won't be wassed," was the sharp reply, and the dark eyes flashed with a fire which made the Colonel think of himself when roused, and he began to feel a good deal of respect for the spoiled tyrant.

"Little girl," he said, very gently, but firmly, "Go with Mandy and be washed, and then come and see—" he came very near saying "see what I have brought you," without at all knowing why it should have come into his mind.

It had never occurred to him to bring her anything, but he wished now that he had, and began to wonder what he had that would please a child. He was fond of jewelry, and wore on his watch-chain several ornaments, and among them a very small, delicately carved book in ivory. He could detach it easily, and he began to do so, while the child eyed him curiously. She had seen very few gentlemen, and this one attracted her, he was so tall and imposing; and when he said again, "Go and be washed," she obeyed him, and the Colonel was a second time alone, for Jake was making his ablutions, and changing his working clothes for his best, in which he looked very respectable, when he at last rejoined his guest, and began at once in a trembling voice to speak of the business which had brought the Colonel there.



CHAPTER IX

THE COLONEL AND JAKE

"I 'lowed you had the best right to her because 'twas you that sent the money," he said.

The Colonel neither assented nor dissented, and Jake went on: "Thar is nobody else. Miss Dory never tole nothin'; she was silent as de grave about—him—de fader of de lill chile, I mean. 'It's all right,' she'd say. 'I tole him I wouldn't tell till he came—an' I won't—but, it's all right. Elder Covil knows—send for him.' That's just afore she died."

"And did you send for him?" the Colonel asked with some alarm, and Jake replied: "I went for him an' he wasn't thar—had moved off—an' another gemman, the Rev. Mr. Charles Mason, what I foun' at the hotel, 'tended de buryin' with his pra'r book, 'case I wanted somethin' 'bout de Resurrection an' de Life. 'Twas as fust class a funeral as we could have out hyer. She wore her white gown—the one Mandy Ann says she wore when you war hyer. You members it?"

The Colonel nodded, and Jake, thinking he could do nothing better than repeat all the particulars, went on: "She had a nice coffin from Palatka, an' Mandy Ann done fixed her rale nice, wid flowers in her han's, an' on her bosom, an', does you 'member givin' Mandy Ann a dollar when you's here afore?"

Again the Colonel nodded and Jake went on: "Well, she done bought a ring wid some of it—not rale gold, you know, but looked most like it—an' what do you think Mandy Ann did, as the last thing she could do for Miss Dory?"

Jake was growing excited, and the Colonel nervous, as the negro continued: "It was too small for her, to be shue, but she thought a sight on't, but more of Miss Dory's good name."

There was a great ridge in the Colonel's forehead, between his eyes, as he repeated, "Her good name?"

"Yes, sar," Jake answered. "What could you 'spec when dar's a lill chile, and no fader for shoo, as anybody knows, but me an' Mandy Ann, an' Mas'r Hardy. Naterally they'd talk. But I 'shured 'em 'twas all right, an' knocked down one or two Crackers what grinned when I tole 'em, an' Mandy Ann did a power of fitin'. She's great at it—jess like a cat, an' we got 'em pretty much all under, except a few ole women, who never quite gin in till de last. Ole granny Thomas was de worst, an' de rest follered her; but she gin in when she seen de ring Mandy Ann slipped on Miss Dory's weddin' finger, an' dar wasn't a s'picion on de lam' as she lay in her coffin."

The Colonel's lips moved spasmodically, while Jake continued: "Thar was a right smart of 'em hyar, an' the minister read from de pra'r book jest as I seen 'em in Virginny 'mongst de quality, an' when de blacks set up a singin' so loud that ole Aunt Judy nighly had de pow'—dat's a kind of fit, you know, when dey gits to feelin' like kingdom come—I stopped her. I was boun' to have de funeral fust class. When ole Miss died, I let 'em have dar way, an' ole Aunt Judy had de pow' till her missus, who was hyar, shook her out on't. That was ole Miss Thomas, who stood out agin Miss Dory till she seen de ring. She says to me, says she, 'Does you know whar de chile's fader is?' an' says I, 'S'posin' I do?' 'Then sen' for him,' says she. 'Tain't fittin' de chile to stay on hyar.' 'I'm gwine to sen',' says I, an' I did, an' you've done come. Is you gwine to take her?"

Jake's broad chest heaved as he asked this question, to which the Colonel replied, "That is what I came for."

Jake had assumed that he was the child's father, and he did not contradict him, but said, "You call her the child. Has she no name?"

"Yes, Dory; dat's what her mother called her, but to me dar's only one Dory, an' she's dead, an' 'twas handy to say de lill chile or honey. Is you gwine to take her right away?"

"Yes, when the 'Hatty' goes back," the Colonel replied, with a feeling of pity for the negro, whose face was quivering, and whose voice shook as he said, "It's best, I s'pose, but 'twill be mighty lonesome hyar, with the chile gone from de 'shady' whar she plays, an' from de cradle whar I rocks her, an' from dese arms what totes her many a time, when she goes through de clarin' in de woods. You wouldn't be wantin' me an Mandy Ann to go wid you? De chile is wonderfully 'tached to us, an' has some spells only we can manage."

The Colonel shook his head. Jake and Mandy Ann knew too much for him to take them North. The child would soon forget its surroundings. People would stop wondering after a while, and the past would be bridged over, as far as was possible. On the whole the future looked brighter than it had done for years, and on this account the Colonel could afford to be very suave and gentle with this poor negro.

"No, Jake," he said, very kindly. "You would not be happy at the North, it is so different from the South. I cannot take you, nor Mandy Ann, but I shall reward you for all you have done for the child, and for her mother."

The last words came slowly, and there was a kind of tremor in the Colonel's voice.

"I 'specs you are right," Jake said meekly; "but it'll be mighty hard, an' what's gwine to become of Mandy Ann? Who does she 'long to, now Miss Dory an' ole Miss is both dead? I 'longs to myself, but what of Mandy Ann?"

Here was a problem the Colonel had not thought of. But his mind worked rapidly and clearly, and he soon reached a decision, but before he could speak of it the child appeared. It had taken a long time to wash and dress her, for the little hands were grimy, and the face very sticky, and a good deal of scrubbing had been necessary, with a good deal of squabbling, too—and the Colonel had heard some of the altercations—the child's voice the louder, as she protested against the soap and water used so freely. Jake had closed one of the doors to shut out the noise, saying as he did so, "She's got a heap of sperrit, but not from de Harrises, dey hadn't an atom."

It did not puzzle the Colonel at all to know where the sperrit came from, and he did not like the child the less because of it. She was in the room now, scrubbed till her face shone, and her hair, which was curly, lay in rings upon her forehead. Mandy Ann had put on her best frock, a white one, stiff with starch, and standing out like a small balloon. The Colonel liked her better in the limp, soiled gown, as he had seen her first, but she was clean, and she came to him and put up her hand as Mandy Ann had told her to do. It was a little soft, fat, baby hand, such as the Colonel had never touched in his life, and he took it and held it a moment, while the old malarious feeling crept over him, and he could have sworn that the thermometer, which, when he left the "Hatty" had stood at seventy-five, had fallen to forty degrees. As a quietus during the washing, Mandy Ann had suggested that "mabby de gemman done brung somethin'," and remembering this the little girl at once asked, "Has you done brung me sumptin'? Mandy Ann tole me so."

The Colonel's thermometer dropped lower still at the speech, so decidedly African, and his pride rose up in rebellion, and his heart sank, as in fancy he heard this dialect in his Northern home. But he must bear it, and when, as he did not at once respond to her question, she said, "Has you done brung me sumptin'?" he was glad he had removed the little ivory book from his watch-chain. It was something, and he gave it to her, saying, "This is for you—a little book. Do you know what a book is?"

She was examining the ornament on the back of which was carved a miniature bar of music, with three or four notes. The child had seen written music in a hymn-book, which belonged to her mother, and from which she had often pretended to sing, when she played at a funeral, or prayer meeting, as she sometimes did under the shady. Jake had not spoken of this habit to the Colonel. He was waiting to take him to the graves, and the play-house near them, and he was watching the child as she examined the carving. Lifting up her bright eyes to the Colonel, she said, "Moosich—me sing," and a burst of childish song rang through the room—part of a negro melody, and "Me wants to be an angel" alternating in a kind of melody, to which the Colonel listened in wonder.

"Me done sing dood," she said, and her eyes shone and flashed, and her bosom rose and fell, as if she were standing before an audience, sure of success and applause.

Jake did clap his hands when she finished, and said to the Colonel, "She done goes on dat way very often. She's wonderful wid her voice an' eyes. 'Specs she'll make a singer. She's a little quar—dem Harrises—"

Here he stopped suddenly, and asked, "Is you cole?" as he saw the Colonel shiver. He knew the Harrises were quar, and this dark-haired, dark-eyed child singing in a shrill, high-pitched, but very sweet voice, seemed to him uncanny, and he shrank from her as she said. "Me sing some mo'."

Jake now interfered, saying, "No, honey; we're gwine to yer mother's grave."

"Me go, too," the child answered, slipping her hand into the Colonel's and leading the way to a little enclosure where the Harrises were buried.

The Colonel felt quar with that hand holding his so tight, and the child hippy-ty-hopping by his side over the boards Jake had put down for a walk to the graveyard.

"Dis mine. Me play here," the child said, more intent upon her play-house than upon her mother's grave.

The play-house was a simple affair, which Jake had constructed. There were two pieces of board for a floor, and a small bench for a table, on which were bits of broken cups and saucers, the slice of bread and molasses the child had left when she went to see the stranger, a rag doll, fashioned from a cob, with a cloth head stuffed with bran, and a book, soiled and worn as from frequent usage. The child made the Colonel look at the doll which she called Judy, "after ole mammy Judy, who came nigh havin' de pow' at de funeral, an' who done made it for her," Jake explained. The book—a child's reader—was next taken up, the little girl saying, "Mamma's book—me read," and opening it she made a pretense of reading something which sounded like "Now I lay me." The Colonel, who had freed his hand from the fingers which had held it so fast, looked inquiringly at Jake, who said, "Miss Dory's book; she done read it a sight, 'case 'twas easier readin' dan dem books from Palatka; an' she could larn somethin' from it, but de long words floored her an' me, too, who tried to help her."

For a moment the Colonel seemed agitated, and taking the book from the child he said, "Can I have it?"

"No, sar!" Jake answered emphatically. "I wouldn't part wid it for de world. It's a part of Miss Dory, an' she tried so hard to read good an' be a lady. Mandy Ann lived a spell wid de quality, an' got some o' dar ways, an' I got some in Virginny, an' we tole 'em to her, an' she done tried till towards de las' she gin it up. ''Taint no use,' she said to me. 'I'm 'scouraged. I can never be a lady. Ef he comes after I'm dead, tell him I tried an' couldn't.' She meant the chile's fader, her husband. Ain't you her husband?"

It was a direct question, and Jake's honest eyes were looking steadily at the Colonel, whose lips were white, and opened and shut two or three times before he answered, "I am nobody's husband, and never shall be. I knew your young mistress, and was interested in her, and shall care for the child. Don't ask me any more questions."

Up to this moment Jake had felt quite softened towards the man he had once thought to kill. But now he wanted to knock him down, but restrained himself with a great effort, and answered, "I axes yer pardon, but I'se allus thought so—an'—an'—I thinks so still."

To this there was no reply, and Jake, who had sent home his shaft, which he knew was making the proud man quiver, spoke next of a monument for Miss Dory, and asked where he'd better get it.

"Where you think best," the Colonel answered. "Only get a good one, and send the bill to me."

"Yes, sar; thank'ee, Mas'r," Jake said, beginning to feel somewhat less like knocking the Colonel down. "What shall I put on it?" he asked, and the Colonel replied, "What was on her coffin?"

"Jess 'Eudora, aged twenty.' I didn' know no odder name—las' name, I mean. I was shue 'twan't Harris."

"Put the same on the monument," the Colonel said; "and, Jake, keep the grave up. She was a good girl."

"Fo' de Lawd, I knows dat, an' I thank'ee, Mas'r, for sayin' dem words by de grave whar mabby she done har'em; thank'ee."

The tears were in Jake's eyes, as he grasped the Colonel's hand and looked into the face which had relaxed from its sternness, and was quivering in every muscle. The proud man was moved, and felt that if he were alone he would have knelt in the hot sand by Eudora's grave, and asked pardon for the wrong he had done her. But Jake was there, and the child looking on with wide-open eyes, and though she did not understand what was said she knew that Jake was crying, and charged it to the stranger—"the bad man, to make Shaky cry—I hates 'oo," she said, beginning to strike at him.

"Hush! honey, hush!" Jake said, while the Colonel began to feel the need of several hot-water bags as he went back to the house where Mandy Ann, remembering the hospitable ways at Miss Perkins's when people called, had set out for him the best the house afforded, including the china plate he remembered so well.

He felt that to eat would choke him, but forced himself to take a sip of coffee and a bit of corn bread. The little girl had remained behind in her play-house, and he was glad of that. She was a restraint upon him. He wanted to talk business, and he did not know how much she would understand. When her great bright eyes were on him he felt nervous as if she were reading his thoughts, and was more himself with her away. He must talk about her and her going with him on the "Hatty," and Jake listened with a swelling heart, and Mandy Ann with her apron over her head to hide her tears. They knew it must be, and tried to suppress their feelings.

"It's like takin' my life," Jake said, "but it's for de best. Miss Dory would say so, but, Mas'r Crompton, you'll fotch her back sometime to de ole place. You'll tell her of her mudder, an' me, an' Mandy Ann. You won't let her done forget."

Nothing could be further from the Colonel's intentions than to let the child come back, and everything he could do to make her forget was to be done, but he could not say so to Jake, and with some evasive answer he hurried on to business, and spoke of the house and clearing, which now by right of inheritance belonged to the child. As he assumed her guardianship he should also assume an oversight of her property, and it was his wish that Jake should stay on the place, receiving a certain sum yearly for his services, and having all he could make besides. For anything of his own which he had spent on the clearing he was to be repaid, and all the money Eudora had put by was to be his. Jake felt like a millionaire, and expressed his thanks with choking sobs. Then, glancing at Mandy Ann, he asked as he had asked before, "An' what 'bout Mandy Ann? I 'longs to myself, but who's she 'long to, now ole Miss an' young Miss is dead?"

"Yes, who's nigger be I? Whar am I gwine?" Mandy Ann cried, jerking her apron from her head.

"In the natural sequence of things you belong to the little girl," the Colonel replied, adding, "I might buy you—"

But he got no further. All of Mandy Ann's animosity, when Ted suggested that the man from the North had come to buy her, and she had begged her mistress to save her from such a fate, had returned, and she exclaimed vehemently, "Fo' de Lawd, not dat ar. Lemme stay hyar. You 'members Ted, de colored boy on de 'Hatty.' We's kep' company, off an' on, a year, sometimes quarrelin', and den makin' up. I can't leave Ted."

Her soul was in her eyes, as she begged for herself and Ted, and the Colonel hastened to say, "You did not let me finish. I couldn't buy you, if I would, and if I did I'd set you free. I will see that this is done some time."

"Bress you, Mas'r, for dat ar," Mandy Ann began, but the Colonel stopped her by saying, "You are young to be keeping company."

"I'se 'most as ole as Miss Dory when lill chile was born," was the reply, which silenced the Colonel with regard to her age.

He had quite a liking for Mandy Ann, and meant to do all he could for her and Jake, and after some further conversation it was arranged that she should stay with the latter, the Colonel promising to see that her wages were paid, and saying that she could keep the money for herself. He was certainly acting generously towards the two blacks, who would have been happy but for the parting with the child, which weighed so heavily upon them. There was not much time left, for the "Hatty" sailed early the next morning, and the Colonel must be on board that night.

Great as was their grief it was nothing compared to the antagonism of the child, when she heard she was to go with the Colonel, and leave Jake and Mandy Ann behind. She would not go, she said, and fought like a little tiger when that evening the Colonel came for her, and Mandy Ann tried to dress her for the journey. Under the table, and lounge, and chairs she crawled in her efforts to hide, and finally springing into Jake's lap begged him to keep her, promising to be good and never call him nor Mandy Ann niggers again, and nearly breaking Jake's heart with her tears and pretty coaxings. At last worn out with excitement, and feeling that the battle was against her, she sobbed, "Go wid me, Shaky, if I goes."

"I 'spects I'll hev to go part way—say to Savannah—ef you gets her off quiet. Thar's that in her will make her jump inter de river ef we pushes her too far," Jake said, and the Colonel, who was sweating like rain, and did not care for a scene on the "Hatty," finally consented for Jake to accompany them to Savannah, trusting Providence for what might follow.

Thus quieted the child made no resistance when Mandy Ann changed her soiled white dress for one more suitable for the trip, and then began to pack her few belongings. Here the Colonel stopped her. He did not know much about children's clothes, but he felt intuitively that nothing of the child's present wardrobe would ever be worn at Crompton Place. He did not say this in so many words, but Mandy Ann understood him and asked, "Ain't she to carry nothin'?"

"Nothing but what is necessary on the road," the Colonel replied, and an old satchel was filled with a night-dress, a clean apron, a pair of stockings, and Mandy Ann's tears, which fell like rain as she performed her last office for the little girl, who, now that Jaky was going, began to look forward to the trip with childish delight.

Judy was wrapped carefully in paper and put into the satchel, and then she was ready. Mandy Ann went with her to the boat, where, as it was late, scarcely any one was visible except Ted, to whom Mandy Ann intrusted her charge, bidding him 'muse her when he could, and whispering to him the good luck which had come to her and Jake through the Colonel's generosity. Then with a terrible wrench in her heart, she took the child in her arms and said, "Doan' you forget me, honey, an' some time you'll be comin' agen. Oh, I can't bar it!" and with a wail which was scarcely like a human cry she dropped the child, and hurrying from the boat ran swiftly up the lane, and was soon out of sight. There were two or three bursts of tears for Mandy Ann, but for the most part the little girl was quiet until Savannah was reached, and she heard Jake was to leave her. Then she showed of what she was capable, and the Colonel looked on aghast, wondering what he should do when Jake was gone. She had played on the way with Judy, whose appearance had provoked a smile from some of the passengers, making the Colonel wonder if there were not something more reputable in looks than Judy, with her features of ink and the sewed-up gash in the side of her neck from which a little bran was still oozing. He didn't know much about dolls, but was sure there must be some in Savannah, and he went on a tour of inspection, and found a gold ring with a small stone in it for Mandy Ann in place of the one buried with poor Dory. This he would give to Jake to take home to the negro girl, he thought, and then continued his search for dolls, finding one which could stand up, and sit down, and was gorgeous in a satin dress, with earrings in its ears. This was more in keeping with his ideas, and he took it to the hotel, hoping he had seen the last of Judy, who, he suggested, should be thrown away. He didn't know children. The little girl was delighted with her new doll, which she handled gingerly, as if afraid to touch it, and which she called Mandy Ann. But she clung to Judy just the same, quite to the disgust of the Colonel.

Poor Jake grew thin during the few days they spent in Savannah, and he knew he was nearing the end.

"I must buy her somfin'," he thought, and one morning when he was walking with her past a dry goods store he saw in the window a little scarlet merino cloak, lined with white satin, and looking so pretty that he stopped to look at it, while the little girl jumped up and down, exclaiming, "Oh, the buffitel cloak. Me wants it, Shaky; me wants it."

Going into the store Jake inquired the price, which was so large that his heart sank. It would take nearly all the money he had with him to buy it, but reflecting that the Colonel was paying his bills, and that on his return home he could eat two meals a day, and light ones at that, until he had saved the required sum, he bought the cloak; and, when the final parting came, wrapped it round the little girl, and carrying her to the steamer put her down, and left hurriedly, while she rolled on the floor screaming for Shaky, and bumping her head against a settee. As the boat moved off, Jake stood on the wharf watching it for a long distance, with a feeling that all the brightness of his life had vanished with the little girl, whom the harassed and half-crazed Colonel would have given much to have left with him had it been practicable.



CHAPTER X

EUDORA

The Colonel had been gone nearly three weeks and no one knew where he was, or thought it strange that they didn't. It was his habit to go suddenly and return just as suddenly. Peter had his opinion, and felt curious to know if the Colonel would bring back Jake and Mandy Ann besides the child, and had many a hearty laugh by himself as he imagined the consternation of the household when this menagerie was turned in upon them. Naturally his master would let him know when to expect him, he thought, and was greatly surprised one morning when a station hack drove into the yard, and the Colonel entered the house looking years older than when he went away.

With him was a little girl, three years old or more, clinging to his hand as if in fear. Her garments were all coarse and old-fashioned, except the scarlet merino cloak. The hood was drawn over her head, and from it there looked out a pair of eyes, which, had Peter ever heard of the word, he would have said were uncanny, they were so large, and bright, and moved so rapidly from one object to another. She dropped the hood from her head, and began tugging at the ribbons of her cloak, while her lip quivered as if she were about to cry. It came at last, not like anything Peter had ever heard, and was more like a howl than a cry, for "Shaky; me wants Shaky."

It was loud, and shrill, and penetrated to all parts of the house, bringing Sally, the cook, Jane, the chambermaid, and Sam, the coachman, all into the hall, where they stood appalled at what they saw.

"Shaky, Shaky," the child wailed on, frightened by the strange faces around her, and as he did not come she threw herself upon the floor, and began to bump her head up and down, her last resort when her paroxysms were at their height.

The Colonel had borne a good deal since leaving Savannah, and had more than once been tempted to turn back and either bring Shaky, or leave the child with him. She had cried for him till she was purple in the face, and the stewardess had struck her on her back to make her catch her breath, and then taken her in her arms, and tried to comfort her. Perhaps it was owing to her color that the child took to her so readily that the Colonel said to her, "Keep her quiet, if you can, and I do not care what I pay you."

After that the little girl staid mostly with the stewardess, and was comparatively happy. Judy was a great comfort to her, and she kept it hugged to her bosom through the day, and slept with it at night, and when she reached the Crompton House it was in the inside pocket of her cloak. Becoming detached from the pocket as she rolled on the floor it fell at Peter's feet, making him start, it was so unlike anything he had seen in years.

"Great guns!" he exclaimed, spurning it with his foot, and sending it near the child, who snatched it up with a cry of "Judy, Judy, my Judy."

"Who is she, and where did she come from?" the cook asked, while Jane tried to soothe the excited child.

"Her name is Eudora Harris," the Colonel said. "Her father is a sneaking scoundrel; her mother was a good woman, and my friend. She is dead, and there is no one to care for her child but myself. I have brought her home to bring up as my own. Jaky is the colored man who took care of her with Mandy Ann, a colored girl. She will cry for her by and by."

As if to prove his words true the child set up a howl for Mandy Ann; "me wants Mandy Ann," while the Colonel continued, "She is to be treated in all respects as a daughter of the house. Get her some decent clothes at once, you women who understand such things. Don't mind expense. Give her a pretty room, and I think you'd better hunt up some young person to look after her. Until the girl comes Jane must sleep in the room with her, and don't bother me unless it is necessary; I feel quite used up, and as if I had been through a thrashing-machine. I am not used to children, and this one is—well, to say the least, very extraordinary."

This was a good deal for the Colonel to say at one time to his servants, who listened in wonder, none of them knowing anything except Peter, who kept his knowledge to himself. And this was all the explanation the Colonel gave, either to his servants, or to the people outside who knew better than to question him, and who never mentioned the child in his presence. Gossip, however, was rife in the neighborhood, and many were the surmises as to the parentage of the little girl who for a time turned the Crompton House upside down, and made it a kind of bedlam when her fits were on, and she was rolling on the floor, and bumping her head, with cries for Shaky and Mandy Ann. She was homesick, and cared nothing for the beautiful things they brought her. Against the pretty dresses she fought at first, and then submitted to them, but kept her old one in a corner of her room, and Susie, the girl hired to attend her, sometimes found her there asleep with her head upon it, and Judy held closely in her arms. They bought her a doll-house which was fitted up with everything calculated to please a child, but after inspecting it a while she turned from it with a cry for her "shady" under the palm tree in the clearing. The doll, Mandy Ann, which the Colonel had bought in Savannah, never took the place of Judy, who was her favorite, together with the scarlet cloak, which she would seldom let out of her sight. During the day she kept it round her, saying, "Me's cold," and at night she had it near her bed where she could see it the first thing in the morning.

The Colonel knew the town was full of speculation and surmises, but he did not care. Surmises which went wide of the mark were better than the real truth would have been, and that he could not tell. He had left a large part of his past in Florida, and trusted it would not follow him. He could not leave the little girl, and he meant to do his duty by her, outwardly at least. He had no love for her, and could not manufacture one. He would rather she had never been born; but inasmuch as she was born, and was very much alive, she must be cared for.

There was a private baptism in his library one Sunday afternoon, and she was christened Amy Eudora. Amy was for his mother; Eudora for no one knew whom, except Peter, who thought of the smelly letter, and knew that Eudora was for the young mother, dead somewhere in Florida. But he held his tongue, and tried to make up to the little girl her loss of Shaky, for whom she cried for days. Then, as she grew accustomed to her surroundings, she became contented, and her merry chatter filled the house from morning till night. Every one was devoted to her, except the Colonel. He was kind, but never encouraged her advances; never kissed her, never took her in his lap, or allowed her in his library. She called him father, and he answered to the name, while she was Eudora Harris to others. He tried at first to call her Amy, but she stoutly resisted.

"Me's Dory. Shaky and Mandy Ann calls me Dory," she would say, with a stamp of her foot, refusing to answer to any name but Dory, which came at last to be Dora as she grew older.

She learned to read in the new school-house by the south gate of the park, and when she heard that the Colonel built it, she called it hers, and queened it over her companions with an imperiousness worthy of the Colonel himself. When questioned of her old home her answers were vague. There was a river somewhere, and her mother was sick, and she reckoned she had no father but Shaky.

As she grew older, she became very reticent of her past, and, if she remembered it at all, she held her tongue, like Peter. Once, when she was more than usually aggressive, claiming not only the school-house but everything in and around it, she was told by the children that she lived with niggers till she came to Crompton Place, and they guessed her mother was one, and nobody knew anything about her anyway. There was a fierce fight in which Dora came off victorious, with a scratch or two on her face and a torn dress. That afternoon the Colonel was confronted by what seemed a little maniac, demanding to know if her mother was black, and if she had lived only with negroes until she came to Crompton.

"No, to both questions, and never let me hear another word on the subject as long as you live," was the Colonel's answer, given with a sternness before which the girl always quailed.

She was afraid of the Colonel, and kept aloof from him as much as possible, rarely seeing him except at meal times, and then saying very little to him and never dreaming how closely he watched her, attributing every pecularity, and she had many, to the Harris taint, of which he had a mortal terror. But however much or little there might have been of the Harris blood in her, the few who knew her found her charming, as she grew from childhood into a beautiful girl of eighteen, apparently forgetful of everything pertaining to her Florida home. The doll-house, with all the expensive toys bought for her, had been banished to a room in the attic, and with them finally went Judy and Mandy Ann. The red cloak she seemed to prize more than all her possessions. It was more in keeping with her surroundings than Judy, and she often wrapped it around her as she sat upon the piazza, when the day was cool, and sometimes wore it on her shoulders to breakfast in the morning. Once she asked the Colonel where it came from, and he answered "Savannah," and went on reading his paper with a scowl on his forehead which warned her she was on dangerous ground. He was not fond of questions, and she did not often trouble him with them, but lived her silent life, increasing in beauty with every year, and guarded so closely from contact with the outer world that she scarcely had an intimate acquaintance.

It was not the Colonel's wish that she should have any. Indeed, he hardly knew what he did want. He was aristocratic, and exclusive, and wished to make her so, and keep her from contact with the common herd, as he secretly designated the people around him. He knew she was beautiful, with an imperiousness of manner she took from him, and a sweet yielding graciousness she took from her mother. Sometimes a smile, or turn of her head, or kindling in her eyes, would bring the dead woman so vividly to his mind that he would rise suddenly and leave the room, as if a ghost were haunting him. On these occasions he was sterner than usual with Eudora, who chafed under the firm rein held upon her, and longed to be free.

The Colonel had it in his mind to take her to Europe, hoping to secure a desirable marriage for her. He should tell her husband, of course, who she was, knowing that money and position would atone for the Harris blood, and feeling that in this way he would be entirely freed from the page of life which did not now trouble him much. He was still Crompton of Crompton, with his head as high as ever. The Civil War had swept over the land like a whirlwind. Tom Hardy had been among the first to enlist in the Southern army, and been killed in a battle. The Colonel had heard of his death with a pang, and also with a certain feeling of relief, knowing that he was about the only one who possessed a knowledge of his folly, or his whereabouts. There was still Jake, who wrote occasionally, asking for his lill Miss and telling of Mandy Ann, whom the war had made free, and who had married Ted, and was living in her own house outside the clearing. Everything was out of the way except Eudora, who, before he had proposed his trip to Europe, took herself from him in a most summary manner. The restraint laid upon her was becoming more than she could bear, and she rebelled against it.

"I shall elope some day—see if I don't," she said to Peter, who still remained in the family, and was her confidant in most things. "I shall say 'yes' to the first man who proposes, and leave this prison for the world, and the grand sights which Adolph says are everywhere. Here I am, cooped up with no young society, and seldom allowed to attend a picnic, or party, or concert, and I do so enjoy the latter, only I often feel as if I could do better than the professionals. Adolph says I can, and he knows."

Adolph Candida was her music teacher, who, alone of the young men in Crompton, had free access to the house. He was a fine fellow as well as teacher, and had done much to develop Dora's taste and love for music, which had strengthened with her years, until her voice was wonderful for its scope and sweetness. Naturally there sprang up between the young people an affection which ripened into love, and Candida was told by Eudora to ask her father's sanction to their marriage. That she could stoop to care for her music teacher the Colonel never dreamed, and was speechless with surprise and anger when asked by the young Italian for her hand. To show him the door was the work of a moment, and then Dora was sent for. She came at once, with a look in her eyes which made the Colonel hesitate a little before he told her what he had done, and what he expected her to do.

"If you disobey me in the slightest, you are no longer a daughter of my house," he said, in the cold, hard tone which Dora knew so well, and had feared so much.

But the fear was over now. Something had transformed the timid girl into a woman, with a courage equal to the Colonel's. For a time she stood perfectly still, with her eyes fixed upon the angry man, listening to him until he spoke of her as the daughter of the house; then, with a gesture of her hands, which bade him stop, she exclaimed, "I did not know I was daughter of anything. For fifteen years I have lived here, and though you have been kind to me in your way, you have surrounded yourself with an air of reserve so cold and impregnable that I have never dared ask you who I am, since I was a child, and asked you about my mother. You told me then never to mention that subject again, and I never have. But do you think I have forgotten that I had a mother? I have not. I do forget some things in a strange way. They come in a moment and go, and I cannot bring them back, but the face I think was mother's is not one of them. Of my father I remember nothing. I have been told that when you brought me here you said he was a scoundrel! Are you he? Are you my father?"

The Colonel was white as a sheet, and his lips twitched nervously, as if it were hard for them to frame the word No, which came at last decidedly. Over Dora's face a look of disappointment passed, and her hands grasped the back of a chair in front of her, as if she needed support.

"If you are not my father, who and what was my mother?" was her next question, and the Colonel replied, "She was an honest woman. Be satisfied with that."

"I never for a moment thought her dishonest," the girl exclaimed, vehemently. "I remember her as some one seen in a dream—a frail little body, with a sweet face which seldom smiled. There were other faces round us—dusky ones—negroes, weren't they?"

Her eyes compelled the Colonel to bow assent, and she continued, "I thought so, and our home was South; not a grand home like this, but a cabin, I think. Wasn't it a cabin?"

Again the Colonel bowed, and Dora went on, "There came a day when it was full of people, and somebody was in a box, and I sat in Shaky's lap. I have never forgotten him. He was all the father I knew."

The Colonel drew a long breath, and she went on, "He held me up, and bade me kiss the white face in the box. That was my mother?"

Again her eyes made the Colonel bow assent, and she continued, "After that there is a blank, with misty recollections of another box on the table, and a walk across hot sands with Shaky, and then I came here, where you have tried hard to blot all the past from my memory, as if it were something of which to be ashamed. But I shall find my mother's family some day, and Shaky, if he is living, and shall know all about it. There was a girl, too—Mandy Ann. I called the doll you gave me for her. She took care of me when Shaky didn't. He is more distinct. He took you to the graves the day you came for me, and I went with you and showed you my play-house under the palm tree—the poor little thing, but dearer to me than the best you have ever given me, because it was hedged round with love, even if it were the love of negroes. Things are coming back to me now so vividly, pressing on my brain which feels as if it would burst, and I remember the blacks, and their prayer meetings, and the songs they sang, and their hallelujahs and amens sound in my ears, and I think they always have, and helped me on and up when I have been practising difficult music. When a child at school I was often taunted and mocked for what the children called my negro brogue and talk. We had several battles in which I generally beat, although I was one against a dozen. There is a good deal of fight in me which I must have inherited from my father, who, I suppose, was a Southerner, if you are not he."

The Colonel only glared at her, and she continued, "I have been told, too, that there is a negro twang in my voice, and I am glad of it, and try to imitate the sounds which come to me from a past I so dimly remember, and which I think are echoes from some negro prar meeting. You see I have not forgotten the dialect of my early surroundings, and some day—I tell you again, I shall find the place and the graves of my people, and know what you have kept from me so carefully."

"Better not. You'll be sorry if you do. Your mother's family were Crackers," the Colonel said. "You would not be proud of the connection, although they were respectable people."

If Dora had ever heard of Crackers she knew very little about them, and cared less. She was greatly excited, and her eyes flashed and glowed with that light which Mr. Mason and Peter had noticed years before, and from which the Colonel turned away as from something dangerous.

"My mother was a Cracker? My father was a Mr. Harris—a Cracker, too. I am not your daughter, as I have been weak enough at times to believe, and—yes, I will confess it—I was weak enough to be proud that I was a Crompton; but that is over now; my father and mother were Crackers. I am a Cracker, and Eudora Harris. I am eighteen, and my own mistress—amenable to the authority of no one. I am glad for that, as it makes me free to do as I please. Good evening."

She bowed and left the room, leaving him stunned that she dared defy him, and half resolved to call her back and tell her the truth. But he didn't, and it was years before he saw her again.

The next morning she was missing. She had gone with Candida—where, he took no pains to inquire. She sent him a New York paper, with a notice of her marriage, and the names of herself and husband in the list of passengers sailing on the Celtic. He put the paper in the fire with the tongs, and after that a great silence fell upon the house, and the Colonel grew more reserved than ever, and more peculiar. He forbade the servants to mention Dora's name, or tell him where she was, if they knew. They didn't know, and many years went by, and to all intents and purposes she was dead to those who had known her as a bright, beautiful girl. Jake, who wrote to inquire for her, was told that she had run away and married, and the Colonel neither knew nor cared where she was, and was not to be troubled with any more letters, which he should not answer. Jake was silenced, and there was no link connecting the Colonel with the past, except his memory which lashed him like the stings of scorpions. His hair turned white as snow; there was a stoop between his shoulders, and his fifty-five years might have been sixty-five, he aged so fast, as time went on, and his great house became so intolerable to him that he at last hailed with delight an event which, sad as it was in some respects, brought him something of life and an interest in it.



PART II



CHAPTER I

HOWARD CROMPTON TO JACK HARCOURT

"Crompton House, June —, 18—.

"Dear Jack:

"I have bearded the lion in his den and found him a harmless old cove, after all, with many of his fangs extracted. You know, I am the son of his half-brother, who was many years his junior. I fancy the two never agreed very well, and when I wrote, proposing that I should visit Crompton House, I was surprised at the cordial reply, bidding me pack up my traps and come at once. I packed up and came, and, if I know myself, I shall stay. I am the only near relative he has in the world. He has a large estate to dispose of, was never married, and, of course, has no children, unless—

"There must everlastingly be an unless, or a but somewhere, and here it is—a big one in the shape of a woman—a lovely woman, too, if she is nearer forty than twenty. Don't you remember I once told you of a girl whom my uncle brought home from the South, and who ran off with her music teacher, an Italian. Well, she is here—a wreck physically and mentally in one sense; not exactly insane, but with memory so impaired that she can tell nothing of her past, or perhaps she does not wish to. She always says, when questioned about it, 'I don't remember, and it makes my head ache to try.'

"It seems her first husband, Candida, took her abroad and gave her every advantage in music, both in Paris and Italy. When he died she married Homer Smith, an American, who was associated with him in some way. After his return to America he got up what was known as the 'Homer Troupe.' He dropped his last name, thinking the Smith Troupe would not sound as well as Homer. His wife was the drawing card. She had a wonderful voice as a girl, they say, with a peculiarly pathetic tone in it, like what you hear in negro concerts, and it was this and her beauty which took with the people. She hated the business, but was compelled to sing by her husband, who, I fancy, was a tyrant and a brute. They starred it in the far West mostly, until her health and mind gave way, and she went raving mad on the stage, I believe. He put her in a private asylum in San Francisco. How long she was there I don't know, and she don't know. She was always a little queer, they say, and people predicted she would be crazy some time. Her husband died suddenly in Santa Barbara. Just before he died he tried to say something, but could only manage to give his physician the Colonel's address, and say, 'Tell him where my wife is.'

"Off started the Colonel, lame, and gouty, and rheumatic as he is, and brought her home, and has set her up as a kind of queen whose slightest wish is to be obeyed. To do her justice she has not many wishes. She is very quiet, talks but little, and seems in a kind of brown study most of the time. Occasionally she rouses up and asks if we are sure he is dead—the he being her husband—the last one, presumably. When we tell her he is she smiles and says, 'I think I'm glad, for now I shall never have to sing again in public.' Then she says in a very different tone, 'Baby is dead, too; and my head has ached so hard ever since that I cannot think or remember, only it was sudden and took my life away.'

"She has an old red cloak which at times she wraps around a shawl, and cuddles it as if it were a baby, crooning some negro melody she heard South. There must have been a little child who died, but she is not clear on the subject. Sometimes it is a baby; sometimes a grown girl; sometimes it died in one place; sometimes in another; but always just before she was going to sing, and the room was full of coffins until she sank down, and knew no more. Whether my uncle has taken pains to inquire about the child, I don't know. He does not like children, and is satisfied to have Amy back, and is trying to atone for his former harshness. He calls her Amy, instead of Eudora, because the latter was the name by which she was known in the Homer Troupe, and he saw it flaunted on a handbill advertising the last concert in which she took part.

"Don't think I have heard all this from him. He is tighter than the bark of a tree with regard to his affairs, and I do not think any one in the town knows anything definite about her singing in public, or the asylum; but there is a servant, Peter, who has grown old in the family. He knows everything, and has told me about my uncle bringing the child home, and how she cried for days for Shaky, a colored man, and slept in the red cloak, and kept it around her in the day-time because he gave it to her. I have learned that she was never lawfully adopted, and that my uncle has made no will. Still she must be something to him, but certainly not his lawful child, or why his reticence with regard to her. I am the only near relative bearing the Crompton name. I have made myself very necessary to him—am in fact, in a way, a son of the house. He is very much broken, and if he dies without a will—