Books: The Law of the Land
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Emerson Hough >> The Law of the Land
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Tears still stood in Miss Lady's eyes, as she put both her hands in
the big one extended to her. "Colonel Cal," said she, "it's a wonder
that I can know my friends, or tell the truth, or do anything that's
right. It's been deceit, and treachery, and wrong about me all the
time. I have hardly heard a true word, it seems to me, except when I
was with the Sisters. But I think that she, Mrs. Ellison, told me one
true thing, although she didn't mean it that way. She said, 'There's
nothing in the world for a woman except the men.' That's the truth.
It's been the truth for me. They're not all bad; I know now I've met
two good ones, at least."
"You said two?" asked Blount.
Miss Lady hesitated. "Yes--two," she said, "I'm so sorry."
Blount caught the penitence of her tone and the meaning of her
unfinished speech, and was content to leave his friend's case as it
was. "Miss Lady," said he, sternly, "what do you mean idling around
here all the morning? Can't you hear my dogs hollering? Them puppies
will just naturally starve to death, and here you are a-visiting
around in the shade, not tending to business."
It was a sober and thoughtful young woman who looked up at him. "All
my life, Colonel Cal," said she, "there has been a sort of cloud
before my eyes. I could not see clearly. Tell me, do you think I'll
ever understand, and see everything clearly, and be my real self?"
"Yes, girl," said Calvin Blount, "you'll see it all clear, some day;
and I hope it won't be long. Now, I said, go feed them puppies. And
look at old Hec, there, wanting to talk to you."
CHAPTER XIX
THREE LADIES LOUISE
In the city, as well as in the country, spring came with a sensible
charm. John Eddring, as he gazed out of his office one morning at the
slow life of the southern city and felt the breath of the warm wind
at the casement, abandoned himself for the time to the relaxation of
the season. Peace and content seemed to abide here also, and Eddring,
looking out of his window, sighed not altogether in sadness that his
world was proving so endurable; that it might even, in time, prove
comforting. With a man's exultation, he found happiness in the
certainty that he could do his work, and that there was work for him
to do--work perhaps in some sort higher than that which he had
recently assigned to himself. Before him on his desk there lay a
communication which meant his nomination as candidate at the next
election for the state Legislature. It was pointed out to him that in
all likelihood greater honors might await him at the hands of his
district, as of the county. He found in this not so much personal
pride as a sense of responsibility. Yet there remained comfort in the
fact that he was growing, that he was in some measure attaining. As
with any man truly great, this left him no more selfish, no more
egotistic, than is the stringed instrument which, under the miracle
of a higher power, finds itself capable of music.
Upon Eddring's desk at that moment there lay close beside the opened
letter certain papers, none other than the brief in the case of
Louise Loisson against Henry Decherd, in ejectment, defendant charged
with holding certain properties without legal title thereto. For
years now Eddring had followed the curious and intricate question of
the Loisson estate, and little by little he had seen the tangled
skein unravel beneath his hand. There were necessary links of the
evidence yet to be supplied.
As against all adverse title, there needed to be urged for his client
descent for three generations, carried in each generation by a single
child, who in each case bore the name of Louise Loisson--certainly a
strange and singular legal contingency. There needed to be three
ladies Louise; and of these he had found but two. There was no great
difficulty in establishing the fact that the grandmother of Louise
Loisson was the daughter of the Comte de Loisson; that she returned
to Paris early in the nineteenth century; that in spite of her noble
birth she figured for some years as a danseuse in leading Continental
cities,--a dancer of strange dances. This Louise Loisson, as he
discovered, had some years later, after declining all manner of
titled suitors, married a distant cousin, by name Raoul de Loisson,
of Favreuil-Chantry, France; a young nobleman of democratic
tendencies, who later removed to New Orleans, in the state of
Louisiana. So much for the first Louise Loisson.
Records showed that to Raoul and Louise Loisson was born one
daughter, Louise, who married one Robert Fanning, a planter and
cattle dealer. But the confusion of records brought about by the
Civil War left it impossible to tell what became of this Louise
Loisson-Fanning, or of either of her parents. The trail ended
abruptly; nor could Eddring find any means of pursuing it further,
certain as he was that, in the person of Miss Lady, he had found the
third Louise Loisson and the rightful heiress of the Loisson
properties in the mountains below St. Louis. Again he looked at his
uncompleted papers, and again he sighed.
It was well toward noon, and Eddring was busying himself about other
matters, when he heard the knock of his faithful henchman, Jack, and
bade him enter.
"Lady done sent me over f'om de hotel, sah," said Jack. "I brung her
trunk up f'om de de-pot. Heah's her kyard. She's over to the hotel,
an' wants you to come oveh dah."
Eddring started to his feet as he saw the name upon the card. "Tell
the lady," said he, "to come here to my own office. Tell her to come
at once, and say that I will wait for her." And thus, a half-hour
later, there appeared at his door the figure of Alice Ellison,
sometime adventurous, yet not always happy, woman of fortune.
Eddring gazed at her sharply. She seemed older. Traces of dissipation
showed upon her face. Her eye, a trifle more furtive, glanced from
side to side as though she felt herself pursued. Yet in spite of all,
Alice Ellison, even at her years, was a woman not wholly without
charm. She stood now, hesitating, her hand still upon the knob of the
door, her face not altogether confident as she gazed at the man
before her.
"Come in, Madam, and be seated," said Eddring. "I am very glad to see
you."
His tone reassured her, and she entered, half-extending to him her
hand.
"I--I know you are a good lawyer, Mr. Eddring," said she, "and I--
well, I'm in trouble. I've a case, a very interesting one, which
means a great deal of money to some one. I thought that perhaps you'd
like to take my case. I have always had so much respect for you, Mr.
Eddring."
She turned upon him eyes which might have been compelling enough
under certain circumstances, but whose glance was lost upon the man
before her. Eddring stepped quietly to the door, closed it and sprung
the lock. "Madam," said he, "are you alone in this case? Do you not
really mean that you and Mr. Henry Decherd are partners in this
enterprise?"
She started up. "Open the door!" she cried. "Let me out!"
"No," said Eddring; "you can not go. In one way it is effrontery for
you to come here. But in another, it was the best thing you could do.
The case of yourself and this man Decherd might be taken without
retainer by the prosecuting attorney of any of a half-dozen
localities. You may know that I'm acquainted with many of the details
of this case in the past; but still you have done well to come here."
"You'll not tell him--" she began.
"You mean Decherd?" She nodded, her hand at her throat. "I'm afraid
of him," she said. "He'll kill me. He'll kill me some day, surely. I
wanted you--I wanted you to take care of me. I--I've always thought
so much of you, Mr. Eddring."
She reached out to him a pitiful hand, and on her face was the
horrible mask of a woman endeavoring feminine arts while upon her
soul there sat naught but horror and personal concern. Eddring looked
at her in simple pity. "Be seated here, Madam," said he. "Be quiet,
and make yourself at ease. The safest thing you can do is to tell me
the whole truth. I want your story, and I must have it. That will be
the safest thing for you."
"But I don't want--I don't want any one to hear us."
"No one need hear us. We shall not need even a notary or a clerk.
Talk to me freely, and afterward I will make a memorandum, which you
can attest. In the case of a contested land title, that can later be
introduced under a bill for the perpetuation of the evidence. You
must simply tell me the truth, now, and in your own way."
The face of Alice Ellison grew more haggard. Suddenly all the
weakness of her sex swept over her--all the weakness also of the
wrong-doer. The comfort of the confessional seemed the sole happiness
possible for her. And so it was that she gave to Eddring the first
direct confirmation of that which he had by piece-work reasoning
convinced himself to be the truth. He first rapidly ran over the
salient features of the Loisson story, explaining to her fully his
interest In the same, and pointing out to her the certainty of his
success as well as the hopelessness of any contest on the part of
herself or Decherd. Thereafter his questions induced the other to
speak definitely.
"You were right about the book," said Alice Ellison. "It was found in
the Congressional Library by that man, by Mr. Decherd. I took it from
there myself, and I always kept it. The first Louise Loisson married
her cousin, I think, in about 1841, and she and her husband came to
New Orleans not long after that. Louise Loisson the second was born
in 1848 at New Orleans, and she married, as you say, this Mr.
Fanning. She was not known as Louise Loisson. Raoul de Loisson turned
a very ardent democrat. He was known in New Orleans, or at least
publicly known, under the name of Ellison, which form of his name he
thought was more American.
"Louise, his daughter, was also known under the name of Ellison. She
was not married until 1874. Before her marriage she was an orphan,
and you might have found, had you been lucky enough, proof of the
fact that she was known on the stage of the old French Opera House,
even after the close of the Civil War. Her mother died while Louise,
the second Louise, was in her youth. Her father, then a major in a
Louisiana regiment, was killed during the war, in the fighting near
Atlanta.
"Louise Ellison was thus, like all the other unfortunate girls of
that family, left alone early in life. The first Louise perhaps
learned her strange dancing in a school of her own somewhere in the
West. Louise Ellison the second also had her own methods. She danced
in New Orleans for a time, but went from there to Paris. They all
danced--they could not help it. It was heredity, I suppose. The
second one danced, like her mother--and then married."
"I thought you said she was married in New Orleans."
"Not in New Orleans, but in Paris. You know, at one time, the rich
planters of Louisiana spent half the year regularly in Paris. It was
so with Robert Fanning. The story is that he met her first in Paris,
dancing at one of the theaters, and creating a furore, as her mother
had before her. He learned that she was American and from New
Orleans, and year after year he urged her to marry him. She must have
been late in her twenties before she finally did so, for that was in
1874. They probably lived in Paris for a time, for it was not until
1877 that they came back to Fanning's plantation, where her baby was
born."
The hand of John Eddring, lying upon the table before him, twitched
and trembled. "And that child," said he, "was Miss Lady Ellison? Tell
me, tell me at once!"
"Yes," whispered Alice Ellison, her eyes turned aside from his gaze.
Eddring drew a long sigh of relief. "Thank God!" said he. "So that
was our Miss Lady Ellison, and she was not your child. Now, tell me,
as soon as you can, how did it all happen? Tell me, where did you
meet Decherd? Who was he? Was he your husband? Tell me now, as fast
as you can."
Mrs. Ellison paled before his vehemence, and her voice broke a bit
tremulously. "Well, then, wait," said she. "I'm going to tell you.
You must know all this is hard--awfully hard. If I told you this you
could put me in prison. You could do anything. Promise me that you
will not take any action."
"I promise you," said Eddring, sharply. "Tell me the truth, and help
me to put this girl where she belongs, and I'll see that you are not
prosecuted. But now tell me about yourself and this man Decherd. Were
you married? Where did you meet him?"
"I was born in the North," she went on, hesitating. "I won't tell you
my name. My family was good enough. I may have been wild when I was a
girl. I won't say as to that. I was a good deal older than Henry
Decherd when I first met him at New York. He attended a law school
there. He told me he came of good family, and he seemed able and
well-bred enough. He was infatuated with me. We--well, we left New
York together."
"Were you married?"
"You need not know. At least we were engaged then to be married, and
God knows our lives were tangled closely enough from that time on. We
were not very old, either of us. I presume we cared for each other--
you know how that is. The trouble with him was he was following off
after all the women in the world. Some think that is strength. Any
woman who knows how to love knows it is weakness, and not strength.
At any rate, it was that which made our first trouble. Meantime, he
was not regularly taking up the practice of the law. I found him
practically disowned by his family, who were Shreveport people
originally. In one way or another he found a bit to do. He knew
Robert Fanning and his wife through the fact that he had done legal
work of some sort for Fanning. He knew also an old lawyer, or sort of
notary, who used to do business for Eaoul de Loisson, or Ralph
Ellison, as he called himself, years before. I can't tell you the
name of that old lawyer, but Decherd could if he wanted to. He was
somewhere down on Baronne Street in those days.
"At that time Mr. Decherd used to talk to me more freely. He told me
that the old lawyer had told him that the Loissons were legal heirs
to considerable lands somewhere up the river, not far from St. Louis.
He said that Raoul de Loisson always laughed at that when he brought
it up, and declared that any good American ought to be able to make
his own living by himself, without counting upon his wife's fortune.
Robert Fanning felt the same way. He thought he could make a living
for his wife, without looking up the old estate, which at that time
was not known to be of any great value."
"But go on, tell me about Fanning," broke in Eddring, impatiently.
"I am going to, as well as I can. You must remember that Mr. Decherd
was then still a very young man indeed. I myself was older, as I
said. This old notary, or lawyer, or whatever he was, had never seen
me, and I do not know whether he was well acquainted or not with the
Louise Ellison who was Fanning's wife. I only know that we went out
to Fanning's plantation sometime about the year 1877. Mr. Fanning was
away in Texas, and there came news of his death somewhere down in the
Rio Grande country, where he had gone to purchase cattle. I don't
think his wife ever knew of his fate. Henry Decherd and I were there
together at the plantation.
"If I told you the truth now you would not believe it. But what I am
telling you is the truth, and I will swear to it. Louise Fanning died
two days after her baby was born. I lay there in their house at that
time, and they told me that my baby had died. There was no one then
acting as the head of the house. The servants were all distracted.
One day some one came and put this live baby, the daughter of Louise
Fanning, in my arms. Oh! you don't know, but I longed so for my baby!
My arms fairly ached. So then I took this one and loved it. Sir, I
was a mother to her, a sort of mother--as good, I suppose, as I could
have been at all--for a long time."
Eddring sat looking at her, his fingers pressed closely to his lips.
"What you tell me, Madam, is very, very strange," said he. "It might
perhaps have been true."
"Believe it or not," said Alice Ellison, "it is the truth, as I have
told you. There was no head to that household. There was no place to
leave that little child. I took it for my own. I did not at that time
intend any wrong. I don't know whether Decherd did at that time or
not. It was there at the Fannings' that we met the girl Delphine, who
had come in there from somewhere in the Indian Nations. She was then
in her early teens, and was good-looking. I don't want to talk much
about it, but it was then, I think, that Henry Decherd got--got
interested in her. What he told her I don't know. He found out in
some way that her name was Loise. In some way then and later he got
to looking up the name of Loise in St. Louis, where the girl said her
people originally lived. He assumed the management of her case, along
with some other lawyers to whom he carried it."
"But did he think she was the heiress of the Loisson estates?"
"You, as a lawyer, can tell that better than I can. In some ways he
had a good mind. He never told me much after that, except that he
said if this case was ever decided he could not lose, no matter which
way it went. We waited, years and years, for the case to get through
the Supreme Court."
"How did you live in the meantime, and where did you go?"
"Don't ask me that. We lived the best way we could. Decherd got money
now and again, and for reasons of his own he sent some money, once in
a while, to keep me and the child, although he practically abandoned
me, and, as I think, associated the more with this girl Delphine. He
claimed to me all the time that it was necessary for him to live in
this part of the country, in order to handle the lawsuit for her. She
moved up here from New Orleans, I suppose to some town not far from
Colonel Blount's plantation. I think he got us in there at Blount's
place because he thought it would be less expense to him. In the
meantime, I had educated the girl the best I could. Sir, I loved her
in a way, until I thought other men were noticing her; and then I
could not stand it."
"But you have not told me all of your story up to that time," said
Eddring. "It is not easy for one absolutely to steal a child, and
never be detected and punished for it. Moreover, you have not
explained to me how you came by the name under which you were known
to all of us. You say you were not Mrs. Decherd. Then who were you?"
The woman's lip half-curled in scorn. "Henry Decherd would have
guessed that long ago," said she. "Who was to detect us? What was
there to hinder? The Fanning family was wiped out. After the war he
had no relatives remaining. I have just told you his wife was unknown
in this country. This was her first visit after her marriage in
Paris. When Henry Decherd and I took the baby back to New Orleans,
what was there to hinder my being Louise Ellison-Fanning, the widow
of Robert Fanning? Decherd was my attorney. The old notary helped
these supposed descendants of his friend. It was he who helped us
find the lead lands in St. Francois County. The old notary was as
much a lover of the old nobility as Raoul de Loisson was a flouter of
it."
"Ah, I begin to see," said Eddring. "I can see it unwinding now!"
"Yes, it was not difficult, but on the contrary, very simple. A
criminal, if you please, may be bold, and boldness means success.
Now, it was this old notary who, through friends of his in the
Louisiana Legislature, had the Ellison name changed back legally to
Loisson, as the records of that state show to-day, although you have
not discovered those facts. As for me, it made little difference. The
name of Ellison was established in the state of Louisiana. I simply
took it, and wore it because I had no better. I did as many another
woman has done; got on as best I could. But I tell you, I loved the
girl for a long time. She was sweet and good. I felt she was my own,
until the time when she began to dance; and then I knew perfectly
well that sometime the truth would come out. I could feel it. Blood
and breeding--I tell you, you can't escape that. It's all bound to
come out. I might have known--I did know. I dreaded it, all along. I
always knew the truth would come out some day."
The two sat looking at each other in silence for a time. "Tell me the
rest," said Eddring, at length.
"The old lawyer died in 1879 or 1880," she went on, "but by that time
Mr. Decherd knew all that he cared to learn. As I said, he was less
confidential with me after that. That was the time when he was
infatuated with Delphine. Everything was to his liking. He was fond
of intrigue, and the more intricate it was, the better for him. He
was not afraid--when he had only women to be afraid of. With
Delphine and me he did as he pleased, passing from one to the other.
Delphine knew a part of the story, I do not know just how much. I
never dared talk too much with Delphine, for fear I might learn too
much, or she might learn too much. I was afraid of her, and I was
more afraid of him. When Miss Lady grew up, then I got jealous of
her--oh! I could not help it. I'm a woman, you know, and a woman
likes to be loved by some one. I got to comparing Decherd with
Colonel Blount; and then I--well, never mind. I need only say I was
frightened, and I needed a friend, and I knew the Big House was the
best home we were apt to have, and the safest place. It was a
terrible situation down there, and only three of us knew. Of the
three, Decherd was the only one who knew all the facts."
"I'll say for him," said Eddring, "that his boldness was startling
enough. He was a dangerous man."
"Yes, he was dangerous. But when he got started in this he could not
turn back."
"Exactly what Colonel Blount said to me one time," said Eddring. "He
was on a trembling bog, and he had to keep on running."
"Did Colonel Blount say that? Does he know everything?"
"As much as I know, or presently he will do so; I shall tell him all
of this in due time."
"Where is the girl? Where is Lady now?"
"At the Big House, and safe."
"And where is Henry Decherd?"
"That I do not know. We'll hear from him some day, no doubt."
The woman looked about her, as though still in fear. "Tell me, Mr.
Eddring," said she, "did you--did you ever--I mean, do you love that
girl yourself?"
"Very much, Madam," said John Eddring, quietly,
"Are you going to marry her?"
"No."
"Then why did she give you her case?"
"I was chosen by her friend, Colonel Blount, as the lawyer best
acquainted with these facts."
"Ah! sir," said Mrs. Ellison, turning again upon him the full glance
of her dark eyes. "Why? Can you not see--do you not know? Why trouble
with a half-baked chit like her? Drop it all, sir. You are lawyer
enough to know that my case is as good as hers, if handled well. If I
knew one man upon whom I could depend--ah! you do not know, you will
not see!"
One hand, white, thick-palmed, shapely, approached his upon the
table. He could feel its warmth before it touched his own. Then
swiftly he caught the hand in a hard and stern grasp, looking
straight into the eyes of its owner. "Madam," said he, "none of this!
I have asked you to tell me the truth. I have told you the truth. The
truth leaves us very far apart. You are safe; but you must
understand." Her eyes sank, and on her cheek the dull flush
reappeared.
"Now I want you to go on and answer a few more questions," said
Eddring, finally. "I suppose that while you were all there at the Big
House you were partners, after a fashion. How much did you know of
Delphine's stirring up the negroes in that neighborhood?"
"I did not know much of it. I only guessed. I put nothing beyond
Decherd."
"Did you know anything about the levee-cutting?"
"Nothing whatever. They didn't tell me anything of that. I presume it
didn't suit Henry Decherd to tell me everything he was doing."
"I can imagine that," said Eddring. "There was a time for Decherd to
lighten ship, and, as you say, he had only women to fear."
"I knew myself when the time came for me to leave him," said the
woman, now apathetically. "I went over to St. Louis soon after Miss
Lady first left the Big House, and after Decherd followed her. I knew
that he was smitten with Miss Lady, and that there would be trouble,
and that neither Delphine nor myself would be safe. I hid as best I
could, and lived as best I could. Lately I have been frightened. I
thought I would come to see you. I hoped you might help me. I don't
know what I did think."
"You don't know where Decherd is at present?"
"No, I do not."
"Do you have any hope that he will ever care for you in any way?"
"Yes," said the woman, slowly and dully, "he cares for me. He'll care
for me. He'll find me some day, now that you've taken Miss Lady from
him."
"And you will go back to him?"
"Never! God forbid. Love him? No!"
"Yet you think he will look you up again. Why? To get help in this
lawsuit?"
"You do not know him. He knows that all his hope in this lawsuit was
gone long ago. He's not a fool. But he is going to hunt me up some
day. He's going to find me; and then--he's going to kill me. He's
killed Delphine, and he's going to kill me."
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