Books: The Law of the Land
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Emerson Hough >> The Law of the Land
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19 Produced by Duncan Harrod, Juliet Sutherland, Charles Franks
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[Illustration: MISS LADY]
THE LAW OF THE LAND
_Of Miss Lady, whom it involved in mystery, and of
John Eddring, gentleman of the South, who
read its deeper meaning_
A NOVEL
_By_
EMERSON HOUGH
Author of
The Mississippi Bubble
The Way to the West
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
ARTHUR I. KELLER
COPYRIGHT 1904
EMERSON HOUGH
TO R.E.B.
TO T.A.D.
CONTENTS
BOOK I
CHAPTER
I Miss LADY
II MULEY
III THE VISITOR
IV A QUESTION OF VALUATION
V CERTAIN PROBLEMS
VI THE DRUM
VII THE BELL
VIII THE VOLCANO
IX ON ITS MAJESTY'S SERVICE
X MISS LADY OF THE STAIR
XI COLONEL CALVIN BLOUNT'S PROPOSAL
XII A WOMAN SCORNED
XIII JOHN DOE vs. Y.V.R.R.
XIV NUMBER 4
XV THE PURSUIT
XVI THE TRAVELING BAG
XVII MISS LADY AND HENRY DECHERD
XVIII MISFORTUNE
BOOK II
I THE MAKING OF THE WILDERNESS
BOOK III
I EDDRING, AGENT OF CLAIMS
II THE OPINIONS OF CALVIN BLOUNT
III REGARDING LOUISE LOISSON
IV THE RELIGION OF JULES
V DISCOVERY
VI THE DANCER
VII THE SUMMONS
VIII THE STOLEN STEAMBOAT
IX THE ACCUSER
X THE VOYAGE
XI THE WILDERNESS
XII THE HOUSE OF HORROR
XIII THE NIGHT IN THE FOREST
XIV AT THE BIG HOUSE
XV CERTAIN MOTIVES
XVI THE NEW SHERIFF
XVII THE LAW OF THE LAND
XVIII MISS LADY AT THE BIG HOUSE
XIX THREE LADIES LOUISE
XX THE LID OF THE GRAVE
XXI THE RED RIOT OF YOUTH
XXII AMENDE HONORABLE
THE LAW OF THE LAND
CHAPTER I
MISS LADY
Ah, but it was a sweet and wonderful thing to see Miss Lady dance, a
strange and wondrous thing! She was so sweet, so strong, so full of
grace, so like a bird in all her motions! Now here, now there, and
back again, her feet scarce touching the floor, her loose skirt, held
out between her dainty fingers, resembling wings, she swam through
the air, up and down the room of the old plantation house, as though
she were indeed the creature of an element wherein all was
imponderable, light and free of hampering influences. Darting,
nodding, beckoning, courtesying to something that she saw--it must
have moved you to applause, had you seen Miss Lady dance! You might
have been restrained by the feeling that this was almost too unreal,
too unusual, this dance of the young girl, all alone, in front of the
great mirror which faithfully gave back the passing, flying figure
line for line, flush for flush, one bosom-heave for that of the
other. Yet the tall white lilies in the corner saw; and the tall
white birds, one on each side of the great cheval glass, saw also,
but fluttered not; since a lily and a stork and a maiden may each be
tall and white, and each may understand the other subtly.
Miss Lady stood at length, tall and white, her cheeks rosy withal,
her blown brown hair pushed back a bit, one hand lightly resting on
her bosom, looking--looking into the mirror, asking of it some
question, getting, indeed, from it some answer--an answer embodying,
perhaps, all that youth may mean, all that the morning may bring.
For now the sun of the South came creeping up apace, and saw Miss
Lady as it peered in through the rose lattice whereon hung scores of
fragrant blossoms. A gentle wind of morning stirred the lace curtains
at the windows and touched Miss Lady's hair as she stood there,
asking the answer of the mirror. It was morning in the great room,
morning for the southern day, morning for the old plantation whose
bell now jangled faintly and afar off--morning indeed for Miss Lady,
who now had ceased in her self-absorbed dance. At this very moment,
as she stood gazing into the mirror, with the sunlight and the roses
thus at hand, one might indeed have sworn that it was morning for
ever, over all the world!
Miss Lady stood eager, fascinated, before the glass; and in the
presence of the tall flowers and the tall birds, saw something which
stirred her, felt something which came in at the window out of the
blue sky and from the red rose blossoms, on the warm south wind.
Impulsively she flung out her arms to the figure in the glass.
Perhaps she felt its beauty and its friendliness. And yet, an instant
later, her arms relaxed and sank; she sighed, knowing not why she
sighed.
Ah, Miss Lady, if only it could be for ever morning for us all! Nay,
let us say not so. Let us say rather that this sweet picture of Miss
Lady, doubled by the glass, remains to-day imperishably preserved in
the old mirror--the picture of Miss Lady dancing as the bird flies,
and then standing, plaintive and questioning, before her own image,
loving it because it was beautiful and friendly, dreading it because
she could not understand.
Miss Lady had forgotten that she was alone, and did not hear the step
at the door, nor see the hand which presently pushed back the
curtain. There stepped into the room, the tall, somewhat full figure
of a lady who stood looking on with eyes at first surprised, then
cynically amused. The intruder paused, laughing a low, well-fed,
mellow laugh. On the moment she coughed in deprecation. Miss Lady
sprang back, as does the wild deer startled in the forest. Her hands
went to her cheeks, which burned in swift flame, thence to drop to
her bosom, where her heart was beating in a confusion of throbs,
struggling with the reversed current of the blood of all her tall
young body.
"Mamma!" she cried. "You startled me." "So it seems," said the new-
comer. "I beg your pardon. I did not mean to intrude upon your
devotions."
She came forward and seated herself-a tall woman, a trifle full of
figure now, but still vital of presence. Her figure, deep-chested,
rounded and shapely, now began to carry about it a certain air of
ease. The mouth, well-bowed and red, had a droop of the same
significance. The eyes, deep, dark and shaded by strong brows, held
depths not to be fathomed at a glance, but their first message was
one of an open and ready self-indulgence. The costume, flowing, loose
and easy, carried out the same thought; the piled black hair did not
deny it; the smile upon the face, amused, half-cynical, confirmed it.
Here was a woman of her own acquaintance with the world, you would
have said. And in the next breath you must have asked how she could
have been the mother of this tall girl, at whom she now smiled thus
mockingly.
"I was just--I was--well, I was dancing, mamma," said Miss Lady. "It
is so nice." This somewhat vaguely.
"Yes," said her mother; "why?"
"I do not know," said Miss Lady, frankly, and turning to her with
sudden courage. "I was dancing. That is all."
"Yes, I know."
"Well, is it any crime, mamma, I should like to ask?" This with
spirit, and with eyes showing themselves able to flash upon occasion.
"Not in the least, my dear. Indeed, I am not at all surprised. I knew
it was coming."
"What was coming, mammal? What do you mean?"
"Why, that this was going to happen--that you were going to dance. It
was nearly time."
"I do not know what you mean."
"It was always thus with the Ellisons," said the other woman. "All
the Ellisons danced this way once in their lives. All the girls do
so. They're very strange, these Ellison girls. They dance because
they must, I suppose. It's as natural as breathing, for them. You
can't help it. It's fate. But listen, child. It is time I took you
more in hand. You will be marrying before long--"
"Mamma!" Miss Lady blushed indignantly. "How can you talk so? I
don't know--I didn't--I shan't--"
"Tut, tut. Please don't. It is going to be a very warm day. I really
can't go into any argument. Take my word, you will marry soon; or if
you don't, you will reverse all the known horoscopes of the family.
That, too, is the fate of the Ellison girls--certain marriage! Our
only hope is in some miracle. It is time for me to take you in hand.
Listen, Lady. Let me ask you to sit a trifle farther back upon that
chair. So, that is better. Now, draw the skirt a little closer. That
is well. Now, sit easily, keep your back from the chair; try to keep
your feet concealed. Remember, Lady, you are a woman now, and there
are certain rules, certain little things, which will help you so
much, so much."
Mrs. Ellison sighed, then yawned, touching her white teeth with the
tip of her fan. "Dear me, it certainly is going to be warm," she said
at last. "Lady, dear, please run and get my book, won't you? You know
your darling mamma is getting so--well, I won't say fat, God forbid!
but so--really--well, thank you."
Miss Lady fled gladly and swiftly enough. For an instant she halted,
uncertain, on the wide gallery, her face troubled, her attitude
undecided. Then, in swift mutiny, she sprang down the steps and was
off in open desertion. She fled down the garden walk, and presently
was welcomed riotously by a score of dogs and puppies, long since her
friends.
Left alone, the elder lady sat for a moment in thought. Her face now
seemed harder in outline, more enigmatical. She gazed after the girl
who left her, and into her eyes came a look which one must have
called strangely unmaternal--a look not tender, but hard,
calculating, cold.
"She is pretty," she murmured to herself half-aloud. "She is going to
be very pretty--the prettiest of the family in generations, perhaps.
Well-handled, that girl could marry anybody. I'll have to be careful
she doesn't marry the wrong one. They're headstrong, these Ellisons.
Still, I think I can handle this one of them. In fact, I
_must_." She smiled gently and settled down into a half-reverie,
purring to herself. "Dear me!" she resumed at length, starting up,
"how warm it grows! Where has that girl gone? I do believe she has
run away. Delphine! Ah-h-h-h, Delphine!"
There came no audible sound of steps, but presently there stood, just
within the parted draperies, the figure of the servant thus called
upon. Yet that title sat ill upon this tall young woman who now stood
awaiting the orders of her mistress. Garbed as a servant she was, yet
held herself rather as a queen. Her hair, black and luxuriant, was
straight and strong, and, brushed back smoothly from her temples as
it was, contrasted sharply with a skin just creamy enough to
establish it as otherwise than pure white. Egyptian, or Greek, or of
unknown race, this servant, Delphine, might have been; but had it not
been for her station and surroundings, one could never have suspected
in her the trace of negro blood. She stood now, a mellow-tinted
statue of not quite yellow ivory, silent, turning upon her mistress
eyes large, dark and inscrutable as those of a sphinx. One looking
upon the two, as they thus confronted each other, must have called
them a strange couple. Why they should be mistress and servant was
not a matter to be determined upon a first light guess. Indeed, they
seemed scarcely such. From dark eye to dark eye there seemed to pass
a signal of covert understanding, a signal of doubt, or suspicion, or
armed neutrality, yet of mutual comprehension.
"Delphine," said Mrs. Ellison, presently, "bring me a glass of wine.
And from now on, Delphine, see to it that you watch that girl. Tell
me what she does. There's very little restraint of any kind here on
the plantation, and she is just the age--well, you must keep me
informed. You may bring the decanter, Delphine. I really don't feel
fit for breakfast."
CHAPTER II
MULEY
In the warm sun of the southern morning the great plantation lay as
though half-asleep, dozing and blinking at the advancing day. The
plantation house, known in all the country-side as the Big House,
rested calm and self-confident in the middle of a wide sweep of
cleared lands, surrounded immediately by dark evergreens and the
occasional primeval oaks spared in the original felling of the
forest. Wide and rambling galleries of one height or another crawled
here and there about the expanses of the building, and again paused,
as though weary of the attempt to circumvent it. The strong white
pillars, rising from the ground floor straight to the third story,
shone white and stately, after that old southern fashion, that
Grecian style, simplified and made suitable to provincial purses by
those Adams brothers of old England who first set the fashion in
early American architecture. White-coated, with wide, cool, green
blinds, with ample and wide-doored halls and deep, low windows, the
Big House, here in the heart of the warm South-land, was above all
things suited to its environment. It was a home taking firm hold upon
the soil, its wide roots reaching into traditions of more than one
generation. Well toward the head of the vast Yazoo-Mississippi Delta,
the richest region on the face of the whole earth, the Big House
ruled over these wide acres as of immemorial right. Its owner,
Colonel Calvin Blount, was a king, an American king, his right to
rule based upon full proof of fitness.
In the heart of the only American part of America, the Big House,
careless and confident, could afford to lie blinking at the sun, or
at the broad acres which blinked back at it. It was all so safe and
sure that there was no need for anxiety. Life here was as it had been
for generations, even for the generation following the upheaval of
the Civil War. Open-handed, generous, rich, lazily arrogant, kindly
always, though upon occasions fiercely savage, this life took hold
upon that of a hundred years ago. These strings of blacks, who now,
answering the plantation bell, slowly crawled down the lane to the
outlying fields, might still have been slaves. This lazy plow,
tickling the opulent earth, might have been handled by a slave rather
than by this hired servitor, whose quavering, plaintive song, broken
mid-bar betimes, now came back across the warm distances which lay
trembling in the rays of the advancing sun. These other dark-skinned
servants, dawdling along the galleries, or passing here and yonder
from the detached quarters of kitchen, and cook-room, and laundry and
sleeping-rooms--they also humming musically at their work, too full
of the sun and the certainty of comfort to need to hurry even with a
song--all these might also have been tenants of an old-time estate,
giving slow service in return for a life of carelessness and
irresponsibility. This was in the South, in the Delta, the garden of
the South, the garden of America; a country crude, primitive,
undeveloped in modern ways, as one might say, yet by right entitled
to its own assuredness. It asked nothing of all the world.
All this deep rich soil was given to the people of that land by
Father Messasebe. Yards deep it lay, anciently rich, kissed by a sun
which caused every growing thing to leap into swift fruition. The
entire lesson of the scene was one of an absolute fecundity. The
grass was deep and green and lush. The sweet peas and the roses and
the morning-glories, and the honeysuckles on the lattice, hung ranks
deep in blossoms. A hundred flocks of fowl ran clucking and chirping
about the yard. Across the lawn a mother swine led her brood of
squeaking and squealing young. A half-hundred puppies, toddlers or
half-grown, romped about, unused fragments of the great hunting pack
of the owner of this kingdom. Life, perhaps short, perhaps rude,
perhaps swiftly done, yet after all life--this was the message of it
all. The trees grew vast and tall. The corn, where the stalks could
still be seen, grew stiff and strong as little trees. The cotton,
through which the negroes rode, their black kinky heads level with
the old shreds of ungathered bolls, showed plants rank and coarse
enough to uphold a man's weight free of the ground. This sun and this
soil--what might they not do in brooding fecundity? Growth,
reproduction, the multifold--all this was written under that sky
which now swept, deep and blue, flecked here and there with soft and
fleecy clouds, over these fruitful acres hewn from the primeval
forest.
The forest, the deep, vast forest of oak and ash and gum and ghostly
sycamore; the forest, tangled with a thousand binding vines and
briers, wattled and laced with rank blue cane--sure proof of a soil
exhaustlessly rich--this ancient forest still stood, mysterious and
forbidding, all about the edges of the great plantation. Here and
there a tall white stump, fire-blackened at its foot, stood, even in
fields long cultivated, showing how laborious and slow had been the
whittling away of this jungle, which even now continually encroached
and claimed its own. The rim of the woods, marked white by the
deadened trees where the axes of the laborers were reclaiming yet
other acres as the years rolled by, now showed in the morning sun
distinctly, making a frame for the rich and restful picture of the
Big House and its lands. Now and again overhead there swung slowly an
occasional great black bird, its shadow not yet falling straight on
the sunlit ground, as it would at midday, when the puppies of the
pack would begin their daily pastime of chasing it across the fields.
This silent surrounding forest even yet held its ancient creatures--
the swift and graceful deer, the soft-footed panther, the shambling
black bear, the wild hog, the wolf, all manner of furred creatures,
great store of noble wild fowl--all these thriving after the fecund
fashion of this brooding land. It was a kingdom, this wild world, a
realm in the wilderness; a kingdom fit for a bold man to govern, a
man such as might have ruled in days long gone by. And indeed the Big
House and its scarcely measured acres kept well their master as they
had for many years. The table of this Delta baron was almost
exclusively fed from these acres; scarce any item needful in his life
required to be imported from the outer world. The government of
America might have fallen; anarchy might have prevailed; a dozen
states might have been taken over by a foreign foe; a score of states
might have been overwhelmed by national calamity, and it all had
scarce made a ripple here in this land, apart, rich, self-supporting
and content. It had always been thus here.
But if this were a kingdom apart and self-sufficient, what meant this
thing which, crossed the head of the plantation--this double line,
tenacious and continuous, which shone upon the one hand dark, and
upon the other, where the sun touched it, a cold gray in color? What
meant this squat little building at the side of these rails which
reached out straight as the flight of a bird across the clearing and
vanished keenly in the forest wall? This was the road of the iron
rails, the white man's perpetual path across the land. It clung close
to the ground, at times almost sinking into the embankment now grown
scarcely discernible among the concealing grass and weeds, although
the track itself had been built but recently. This railroad sought to
efface itself, even as the land sought to aid in its effacement, as
though neither believed that this was lawful spot for the path of the
iron rails. None the less, here was the railroad, ineradicable,
epochal, bringing change; and, one might say, it made a blot upon
this picture of the morning.
An observer standing upon the broad gallery, looking toward the
eastward and the southward, might have seen two figures just emerging
from the rim of the forest something like a mile away; and might then
have seen them growing slowly more distinct as they plodded up the
railway track toward the Big House. Presently these might have been
discovered to be a man and a woman; the former tall, thin, dark and
stooped; his companion, tall as himself, quite as thin, and almost as
bent. The garb of the man was nondescript, neutral, loose; his hat
dark and flapping. The woman wore a shapeless calico gown, and on her
head was a long, telescopic sunbonnet of faded pink, from which she
must perforce peer forward, looking neither to the right nor to the
left.
The travelers, indeed, needed not to look to the right or the left,
for the path of the iron rails led them directly on. Now and again
clods of new-broken earth caused them to stumble as they hobbled
loosely along. If the foot of either struck against the rail, its
owner sprang aside, as though in fear, toward the middle of the
track. Slowly and unevenly, with all the zigzags permissible within
the confining inches of the irons, they came on up toward the squat
little station-house. Thence they turned aside into the plantation
path and, still stumbling and zigzagging, ambled up toward the house.
They did not step to the gallery, did not knock at the door, or,
indeed, give any evidences of their intentions, but seated themselves
deliberately upon a pile of boards that lay near in the broad expanse
of the front yard. Here they remained, silent and at rest, fitting
well enough into the sleepy scene. No one in the house noticed them
for a time, and they, tired by the walk, seemed content to rest under
the shade of the evergreens before making known their errand. They
sat speechless and content for some moments, until finally a mulatto
house-servant, passing from one building to another, cast a look in
their direction, and paused uncertainly in curiosity. The man on the
board-pile saw her.
"Here, Jinny! Jinny!" he called, just loud enough to be heard, and
not turning toward her more than half-way. "Come heah."
"Yassah," said the girl, and slowly approached.
"Get us a little melk, Jinny," said the speaker.
"We're plumb out o' melk down home."
"Yassah," said Jinny; and disappeared leisurely, to be gone perhaps
half an hour.
There remained little sign of life on the board-pile, the bonnet tube
pointing fixedly toward the railway station, the man now and then
slowly shifting one leg across the other, but staring out at nothing,
his lower lip drooping laxly. When the servant finally brought back
the milk-pail and placed it beside him, he gave no word of thanks.
The sunbonnet shifted to include the mulatto girl within its full
vision, as the latter stood leaning her weight on one side-bent foot,
idly wiping her hands upon her apron.
"Folks all well down to yo' place, Mistah Bowles?" said she, affably.
"Right well."
"Um-h-h." Silence then fell until Jinny again found speech.
"Old Bess, that's the Cunnel's favoright dawg, you-all know, she done
have 'leven puppies las' night."
"That so?"
"Yassah. Cunnel, he's off down on the Sun-flowah."
"Um-h-h."
"Yassah; got most all his dawgs wid 'im. We goin' to have
b'ah meat now for sho',"--this with a wide grin.
"Reckon so," said the visitor. "When's Cunnel coming back, you
reckon?"
"I dunno, suh, but he sho' won't come back lessen he gets a b'ah. If
you-all could wait a while, yon-all could take back some b'ah meat,
if you wantuh."
"Um-h-h," said the man, and fell again into silence. To all
appearances, he was willing to wait here indefinitely, forgetful of
the pail of milk, toward which the sun was now creeping ominously
close. The way back home seemed long and weary at that moment. His
lip drooped still more laxly, as he sat looking out vaguely.
Not so calm seemed his consort, she of the sun-bonnet. Eestored to
some extent by her tarrying in the shade, she began to shift and
hitch about uneasily upon the board-pile. At length she leaned a bit
to one side, reached into a pocket and, taking out a snuff-stick and
a parcel of its attendant compound, began to take a dip of snuff,
after the habit of certain of the population of that region. This
done, she turned with a swift jerk of the head, bringing to bear the
tube of her bonnet in full force upon her lord and master.
"Jim Bowles," she said, "this heah is a shame! Hit's a plumb shame!"
There was no answer, save an uneasy hitch on the part of the person
so addressed. He seemed to feel the focus of the sunbonnet boring
into his system. The voice in the bonnet went on, shot straight
toward him, so that he might not escape.
"Hit's a plumb shame," said Mrs. Bowles, again.
"I know it, I know it," said her husband at length, uneasily. "That
is, about us having to walk up heah. That whut you mean?"
"Yassir, that's whut I do mean, an' you know it."
"Well, now, how kin _I_ help it? We kain't take the only mewel we got
and make the nigger stop wu'k. That ain't reasonable. Besides, you
don't think Cunnel Blount is goin' to miss a pail o' melk now and
then, do you?"
A snort of indignation greeted this supposition.
"Jim Bowles, you make me sick," replied his wife. "We kin get melk
heah as long as we want to, o' co'se; but who wants to keep a-comin'
up heah, three mile, for melk? It ain't right."
"Well, now, Sar' Ann, how kin I help it?" said Jim Bowles. "The cow
is daid, an' I kain't help it, an' that's all about it. My God,
woman!" this with sudden energy, "do you think I kin bring a cow to
life that's been kilt by the old railroad kyahs? I ain't no
'vangelist."
"You kain't bring old Muley to life," said Sarah Ann Bowles, "but
then--"
"Well, but then! But _whut?_ Whut you goin' to do? I reckon you do
whut you do, huh! You just walk the track and come heah after melk, I
reckon, if you want it. You ought to be mighty glad I come along to
keep you company. 'Tain't every man goin' to do that, I want to tell
you. Now, it ain't my fault old Muley done got kilt."
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