Books: The Law of the Land
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Emerson Hough >> The Law of the Land
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"Well, now, Mr. Eddring," said Mrs. Wilson, "I've come in heah this
mawnin' to see you about ouah hawse. You know ouah Molly hawse got
kilt down at the depot two weeks ago by the railroad kyahs. I
declare, I felt so bad I sat down and cried; I couldn't get supper
that day. We was so much attached to Molly--why, Mr. Eddring, you
don't know how bad we-all did feel about that hawse. It don't seem
right to us nohow."
"No, things do go wrong sometimes, Mrs. Wilson," said Eddring,
soothingly. "Now, I know that horse. Mr. Wilson drove me behind her
the other day when I was down at your town. Good horse. A little old
and a trifle lame, if I remember right." He smiled pleasantly.
"Lame! Why, Molly never was lame a day in her whole life. She never
did have no lameness at all, unless it was a sort of hitch now and
then like, but you couldn't call it right lame. Now, Mr. Wilson
didn't come up. I tol' him you was a mighty nice man and you wouldn't
let a lady get the worst of a business deal. I thought we could talk
it over and you would do about what was right. Now, two hundred
dollars--"
"Two hundred dollars! Why, my dear madam, you know I can get you
another horse--"
"Get us another hawse like Molly! I'd like to know where you can get
a hawse that's been in ouah family twenty years for any two hundred
dollars! Why, Mr. Eddring, I always thought you was a fair-minded
gentleman."
"Don't call me that, don't call me a gentleman," said Eddring, "and
don't you call _me_ fair-minded! But now, just look here. We didn't
ask that Molly horse to get on our track. We didn't want to kill her,
now, did we? All we wanted was to steam up there to the platform, and
put off some groceries and let off a few passengers. We didn't want to
kill _anybody's_ horse. Now, I know Molly has been in your family a
long time; a good horse, I don't deny it. We couldn't make it right
with you if we paid you a _thousand_ dollars; so just let's forget it
and try to be friends. Let me give you a check for forty dollars."
"Forty dollars!"
"Now, then, Mrs. Wilson, this is not to be for Molly, it's just
trying to be friendly. I want to feel free to come down and sit at
your table and look you all in the face."
"I don't see how you could do that, and only pay me forty dollars,
Mr. Eddring." A grieved look sat on the lady's face.
"Well, now, I reckon I could, if I just saw you dressed up in a new
gown that I saw in the window down at the store this morning. I
reckon I could, if I saw hanging in your hall that hat that I saw
this morning, down on the street."
"Do you think forty dollars would buy them, Mr. Eddring?" asked Mrs.
Wilson.
"Surely it would, and leave you enough to pay for your whole trip up
here, and buy some things for the children besides. Now, look here, I
don't want you to think I'm offering that to _pay_ you for Molly. I
ain't paying for any horses for Mr. Wilson. He is a gentleman that
don't need ask favors of anybody, and he's going to pick out his own
horses. You tell him I said he was a good judge of a horse. I want you
to tell him I scorn to offer you money for this here Molly horse of
yours--I scorn to do so. Mr. Wilson will make more than two hundred
dollars in a day or so, the way cotton is going up this week. I just
throw in this forty dollars--here is the voucher for it--so as to show
you I am your friend. Now, if you ever want any shopping done up here
any time; Mrs. Wilson, just write to me and I'll do the best I can.
I'd go right down to the store with you to look at that dress, if it
wasn't that I have to be right busy here for a while. Good-by, Mrs.
Wilson, good-by, madam. Good-by to you all. I am glad you all came in.
Good-by, little folks; here's something;" and each, small hand
received a silver piece from the claim agent.
Mrs. Wilson passed out with a puzzled expression on her face. On the
stairway she sighed. "Well, he is a nice man, anyhow," said she, to
her companion.
This little party had scarce disappeared before there came another
visitor, this time a fat colored woman of middle age, who labored up
the stair and halted at the door.
"Come in, auntie," called the claim agent, from Ms desk, "what's the
matter?"
"You know whut's the matter, Mr. Edd'ron," said the caller. "You
'membehs me?"
"Yes," said the claim agent, "you had a baby run down at the street
crossing yesterday. We sent it to the hospital. How is it getting
along?"
"Hit's daid, Mr. Edd'ron. Yas sah, my lil' Gawge is daid."
"What? Oh, pshaw!"
"Yas sah, lil' Gawge done die six o'clock dis maw-nin'." She shook
with sobs. The claim agent dropped his own face into his hands. The
weary look came back again into his eyes. At last he turned and went
up to the black woman where she stood sobbing, and extended his hand.
"There, there, auntie," he said, "I'm sorry, mighty sorry. Now,
listen. I can't settle this thing this morning. Here is ten dollars
of my own money to help bury the boy decently. As soon as I can, I
will take up the matter, and I will settle it the best I can for you.
Now, go away; please, go away."
The negro woman ceased her sobbing as she took the bill.
"Ten dollahs," said she, "ten dollahs for dat baby! Dat'll buhy him
right fine, it sho' will, Mr. Edd'ron. You'se a fine man, Mr.
Edd'ron, 'deed you is."
Eddring smiled bitterly. He paced up and down the room, his head bent
down. Presently he turned to his assistant.
"Go on over to the depot," said he, "and see if there is any more
mail. I don't think I will do any letters just now."
Left alone, he continued to pace up and down, until at length he
heard steps and again a knock at the door, after the custom in
business in that region. This time there entered the tall form of his
whilom friend, Colonel Calvin Blount, from his plantation down the
road. Him he saluted right gladly and asked eagerly regarding his
health.
"I am well, right well," said Blount, "Just came up to see about a
little cotton. It looks like twelve cents before long."
"Well, with cotton at twelve cents you ought not to have any quarrel
with the world, Colonel Blount."
"Well, now," replied Blount, "I need about everything I can get to
put my place in order again. It's some months now since we had our
little war down there, and I haven't got together half the hands I
need yet. Some of my people cleaned out and we never did hear
anything more of them. We've got plenty of niggers in jail down there
yet; but that ain't the way we want it. We want 'em to get out of
jail and into the fields at work. They'd rather stay in jail. They
get as much to eat, and more time to rest."
"Well, they did raise trouble that time, didn't they?" said Eddring.
"What do you suppose started them, Colonel? Who was it put them up to
do it?" Blount shook his head.
"That's the puzzle," said he. "It was some one with brains; and not
the kind of brains that grows under kinky hair, either."
The two men sat silent for a time. "Oh, by the way," said Blount, at
length, "I was just going to say I brought up Mrs. Ellison and Miss
Lady with me this morning. I left them over at the hotel right now.
Do you know, Eddring, that girl has grown up to be a plumb beauty!
She's handsome enough to just scare you. Why, I never did know there
was so many young men in this whole town before that were acquainted
with me. Looks like she was a public menace to business on the
streets. Pine girl. And just as good as she's handsome!"
Eddring felt the blood surge up into his face, but he made no
comment. He knew that the one unsafe thing for him to do was to see
again this same Miss Lady, and yet against this decision all the
riotous blood of his heart surged out in protest. He took a swift
turn to the window.
"By Jove, Colonel," he cried, "out there goes that fellow Jim Hargis,
from over near Jewelville. He's got that brag dog of his along."
"Dog? What dog?" cried Blount.
"There, that's the one," said Eddring, pointing out a man passing by,
who was accompanied by a pepper-and-salt foxhound. "Do you see that
dog? Well, Jim Hargis says that's the coldest-nosed hound ever run a
trail, and he's got five hundred dollars to bet his equal don't live
in the South."
"Humph," sneered Blount, "I reckon he never did see my old Hec."
"Hec! Why, he says he'd make Hec look like a pot-licker if he ever
got mixed up with his dog."
"What! My old Hec! Five hundred dollars! Say, you just holler to
him, while I run down stairs." And away went the irate Colonel, his
hands fumbling in his pockets.
Eddring did not stay to see the result of his stratagem. Instead, as
he found himself alone, he walked up in front of the little mirror
which hung upon the wall. He gazed straight into it, examining with
frowning face the reflection which he witnessed. He ran a hand across
the gray-tinged hair, turned up a corner of the mustache with a
reflective finger, man-fashion, and looked eagerly, searchingly, at
the face which confronted him. It was a face slightly lined, a trifle
tired. He stood there thinking, questioning this image. As he turned
away he sighed.
The wind rustled the dingy curtains at the dingy window, as he flung
himself discontentedly into a chair, A bar of sunlight lay across the
floor; at the window there came the sound of a song bird from a near-
by tree; but these signs and sounds of an outdoor world John Eddring
did not note. He felt nothing but the grim imprisonment of these
dusty walls. In his soul was revolt, rebellion. He smote his hand
hard upon the papers which, lay before him on the desk.
"This, this," he exclaimed aloud, "this is all my life! Good God! it
is to buy life, human life, human sufferings, and to buy them cheap!
I swear, I can see blood on every voucher that I sign! That's my
business. I must buy these things cheap; and they say I don't buy
them cheap enough--they want me to put in my whole heart, and honor,
and principles. Here is my salary for the month." Pie drew the slip
of paper toward him and sat looking at it. "And here is the last
correspondence from the superintendent. Complaints, all of it. Once I
thought I should succeed. Success-yes, I have succeeded--in being
absolutely wretched every day of my life. God! God! Is this all?"
He pushed the papers from him and half rose, leaning over the desk,
resting on his hands.
"Success," he muttered again to himself. "What is it? I gave up the
law and I took the salary." He paused and sighed. "At any rate," he
resumed, musing still aloud, "my old mother has had a roof over her
head, and has had three meals a day. Well, it's made me old. I
suppose I oughtn't to mind, but oh, damn everything! Damn everything,
I say!" He scattered the papers with a blow of his hand, and
whirling, stood once more before the mirror, which seemed to have
some unusual interest for him. He did not at first hear the step of
the visitor who now entered the door and came gently up behind him.
"Confound you!" cried he, suddenly, as at length he caught the
footfall. "What do you mean by coming in like that?"
The frail and gray-haired lady who halted at this salutation was as
much startled as himself. "Why, John!" said she. "Why, John!"
Turning, Eddring caught her by the hand, his face flushed.
"Mother!" he cried, "I thought it was the clerk."
"Why, John," repeated Mrs. Eddring, "I didn't know that you ever
swore."
"I don't, mother, except sometimes. The fact is--well, today I just
had to."
"You were thinking of something else."
"Well, yes. I beg your pardon. I was just feeling pretty good over
the way business matters were going, and--well, the truth is, I was
just a little--well, a little exuberant, you know."
Mrs. Eddring seated herself and looked about her at the dingy little
office, which ever seemed to her poor housing for one who, in her
belief, was the greatest man in all the world.
"I beg your pardon, John," said she, "for intruding in your business
hours, but I was down-town to-day, and I thought I would just drop in
to see you." She gazed at him keenly, noting with a mother's eye the
worn look on his face.
"I don't think you've been looking well lately, John," said she.
"Does your arm still trouble you?"
"Why, of course not, it's all well. Why, I'm feeling fine, fine! You
and I ought to be feeling well these days, for you know we have just
finished paying for our house, and everything is looking perfectly
splendid all around. You didn't know I had a raise in my salary last
month, did you?" He turned his back, as he said this last, that his
mother might not discover on his face so palpable a falsehood.
"Is that so, John?" she said. "Why, I'm so glad!" A faint spot of
color came into the faded cheeks, and the old eyes brightened. "Well,
I'm sure you deserved it. They couldn't pay you more than you're
worth."
"No," said Eddring, grimly, "they are not apt to." His mother caught
no hidden meaning, but went on.
"You're a good business man, John, I know," said she, "and I know you
have always been a gentleman in your work." Here spoke the old South,
its pride visible in the lift of the white crowned head, and the
flash of an eye not yet dimmed in spite of the gentleness of the
pale, thin face.
Eddring gulped a bit. "Well, you know, in business," said he, "a
fellow pretty near has to choose--"
"And you have always chosen to be a gentleman."
"As near as I could, mother," said he, gravely. "I have just done the
best I could. Now, as I was saying, I am feeling mighty fine to-day.
Everything coming out so well--the truth is--"
"John," said his mother, sharply, "why do you say 'the fact is,' and
'the truth is'? You don't usually do that."
He did not answer, and there went on the subtle self-communings of
the mother-brain, exceedingly difficult to lead astray. For the time
she did not voice her thought, but approaching him, placed a hand
upon his shoulder, and brushed back a lock of hair from his forehead.
"Pretty gray, isn't it, mother?" said he, smiling at her.
"Nonsense! Is that what you were thinking about?"
"Well, you see, I'm getting--"
"No, you're not! You don't look a day over twenty-five."
"That's right. That's right," said he, blithely. "I am twenty-five,
exactly twenty-five; and they're raising my salary right along.
What'll it be when I'm fifty?"
"You ought to have a new necktie, John," said his mother, smoothing
down the lapel of his coat. "A rising man, like you, my son, must
always remember little things."
"That's right," said he. "That's right. You know I'm so careless. The
truth is--"
"There you go again, John! Now why are you so particular to tell me
that what you are saying to me is the truth? Just as if you ever in
your life said anything which wasn't true."
He did not answer, but hurriedly turned away, that the keen eyes
might not examine his face too closely. She followed him.
"John," said she, sharply, "tell me, what's the trouble? Tell me the
truth."
"I have," said he. The words choked him, and she knew it. He evaded
once more the attack of her eyes, but again she followed him, her
face now very pale, her lips trembling.
"Boy," said she, "tell me, what is it? Is there a woman? Is there
anybody?"
"Nobody in all the world but you," he declared bravely. It was of no
avail, and he knew it, as the keen eyes finally found his own.
"John!" said his mother, "you have _not_ been telling me the truth."
"Well, I know it," said he, calmly, and with far greater happiness.
"Of _course_ I haven't. Who said I was? O, Lord! you can't fool
a woman any way on earth. Now here--"
"Who is this girl?" asked his mother, with a certain sternness as she
gazed at him directly; "for of course I knew very well what was the
matter. I suppose I shall have to face this some day, though it has
been so long--"
Eddring looked her straight in the face in return, and this time
without flinching.
"The dearest girl in the world," said he. "But I reckon she's not for
me."
"Who is she? Where is she? Where did you meet her? Have you a
picture?"
"I don't need one."
"What's her name--her family? Of course--"
"She hasn't any family. I don't know where she came from."
"_John!_"
"Well, it's true."
"But you could not expect--"
"I expect nothing!" cried he, again striking his clenched hand upon
the table. "Here is my world. Oh, well, you know now if I ever swear,
and why."
Her lip trembled. "I never knew you did," said she. "John, tell me,
have you ever spoken to her?"
"Good God! no, never. How could I? What have I to offer a girl like
her? Who am I? What am I?"
She caught his head in her arms and drew his face down to her bosom.
"There, there," said she. "There, there, now."
But presently he broke from her, and swung out into the room, erect
and active once more, a sudden triumph in his carriage, a brighter
glance in the eye for a time grown dull.
"Pshaw! Here," said he, "here I am, pitying myself! That isn't a good
thing for a man to do. A man oughtn't to complain. He ought to take
his medicine."
"Look," he cried, coming to her again, "maybe the world is just
loving me, that's all, and doesn't know. Maybe it's the same as it
was when I scratched my face on your breast-pin when I was a baby,
when your arms were around my neck. You did not mean it. Maybe life
does not mean it. Maybe it's just _loving_ us all the time.
"Come, now, you shall see this girl who is of no family. Come with
me. She is here, right in town, this very day."
"Where is she, John?"
"Why, Colonel Blount told me that she and her mother were over at
the hotel. Could we call? Wouldn't it be all right if we did?"
"If the ladies are strangers in town," said Mrs. Eddring, slowly,
"and if they are friends of yours, then I will call on them with
you."
"Come!" said he, feverishly. "Come!"--then suddenly: "Tell me, mammy,
does my hair look so awfully gray?"
"John," said she, "there isn't a gray hair in it. Come on, what are
you waiting for?"
Eddring had turned, and was fumbling at a drawer in his desk. He
raised a face flushed and conscious-looking. "The fact is, mother,
I've got a new necktie right here, and--and I want to put it on."
CHAPTER X
MISS LADY OF THE STAIR
"I have always told you, Lady," said Mrs. Ellison, "how a girl who
hasn't any fortune can best achieve things. Of course, it's a
question of a man. When she has found the man, it rests with her. She
must let herself out and yet keep herself in hand. Emotion, but not
too much, and at the right time--that's the scheme for a girl who
wants to succeed."
"How you preach, mamma!" said Miss Lady, petulantly. "You are always
talking to me about the men. As if I cared a straw!"
"You ought to care, Lady. Men! Why, there's nothing in the world for
a woman except the men."
Miss Lady said nothing, but went on adjusting a pin which she took
from among several others held in her mouth. At length she patted
down her gown, and frowned with a sigh of satisfaction, as she looked
down over her long and adequate curves. Discovering a wrinkle in the
skirt of her gown, she smoothed it out deftly with both hands.
"There are not very many gentlemen to bother about down at the Big
House now, mamma," said she; "at least, not since Mr. Decherd left.
But then, he's coming back. Did you know that?"
Mrs. Ellison's face showed a swift gleam of satisfaction. "I hope he
will," said she. "But, after all, we must sometime go somewhere else.
Now, New Orleans, or New York perhaps. You are almost pretty
sometimes, Lady. We could do things with you, in the right place."
Miss Lady stamped her foot upon the floor in sudden fury. "Mamma,"
cried she, "when you talk this way I fairly hate you!"
"You talk like all the foolish Ellisons," said the other, slowly.
"Now, I could tell you things, when the time came. But, meantime, you
forget that you and I have absolutely no resources."
"Excepting me!" This with white scorn.
"Excepting you." This with frank cynicism.
Miss Lady controlled herself with difficulty. "At least," said she,
"we have a home with Colonel Blount. He has always said he wanted us
to stay, and that he couldn't do without us. Now"--and she laughed
gaily--"if Colonel Blount didn't have a red mustache, I might marry
him, mightn't I?"
"Be done with such talk," said Mrs. Ellison, sharply, "You'd much
better think about Mr. Decherd. And yet,"--she frowned and nervously
bit her finger-tips as she turned away. Miss Lady made no answer
except to go over again to stand before the mirror, where she
executed certain further pattings and smoothings of her apparel.
The two were occupied, in these somewhat dingy quarters in the hotel,
in preparing for their sallying out upon a shopping expedition in the
city, an event of a certain interest to plantation dwellers. Mrs.
Ellison paused in her own operations to extract from a hand-bag a
flask, wherefrom she helped herself to a generous draft. Miss Lady
caught the flask from her.
"You disgust me, mamma," said she. "How often have I told you!"
"You were not quick enough, my dear," said Mrs. Ellison, calmly.
"Now, I was saying that you were born for lace and satins. Promise
me, Lady, no matter what happens, that if you ever get them, you will
give me a few things for myself, won't you? Sometimes--sometimes I am
not certain." She smiled as she spoke. There might have been politic
overture, or beseeching, or threat, or deadly sarcasm in her speech.
Miss Lady could not tell; and it had taken, indeed, a keen student to
define the real meaning of the enigmatical face of Alice Ellison,
woman not yet forty, ease-loving, sensuous, yet for this time almost
timorous.
"Now, a good, liberal man," began Mrs. Ellison presently, however,
"is the best ambition for any young woman. For some reasons, we might
do better than remain at the Big House longer. We will see, my dear,
we'll see." And so they stepped out into the hall.
It was a vision when Miss Lady came down the stair. Young men who saw
her removed their hats, and old men thanked God that the day of
miracles was not gone; so fair was Miss Lady as, with head high, and
body slow and stately beyond her years, and foot light and firm, she
came down the little stairway, and glorified it with youth and the
spirit of the morning.
Miss Lady had indeed, within the last few months, rapidly grown up
into compellingly beautiful young womanhood. Much of the girlishness
was gone and the firmer roundness of full femininity had taken its
place. Her neck, a column of white above its frill of laces, rose
strong and fine. Her hair, unlighted by the sun, was dark and full of
velvet shadows. Her eyes, with long lashes softly falling, offered
the shadows and the mysteries of the dawn. Her figure asked small
aid, and, needing none, carried, and was not made by, the well-cut
gown of light silken weave, dotted here and there with small red
fleur-de-lis. A maze of long scarlet ribbons hung from Miss Lady's
waist, after a fashion of her own, and for purposes perhaps remotely
connected with a tiny fan which now appeared, and now again was lost.
A cool, sweet ripeness was reflected in the spot of color here and
there upon the fawn-colored wide brim of the hat, upon the smooth
cheek, on the lips of the short and high curved mouth. As she walked,
there was heard the whispering rustle of the Feminine; that sound
indefinable, which creeps upon man's unwitting senses and enslaves
him, he knows not how or when or why.
Well enough all this served to set in tumult the pulses of at least
one who saw Miss Lady, fresh as a little white cloud, warm as a tiny
spot of yellow sunlight, cool and mysterious as the morning, thus
framed as a picture on the stair.
John Eddring and his mother, unannounced by reason of the
slothfulness of a negro messenger, sat in the hotel waiting-room,
which served as the "ladies' parlor," opening out near the foot of
the stairway. And so it chanced that they saw Miss Lady and her
companion as they descended. It seemed to Eddring that this vision on
the stair was the most beautiful thing in all the world. He was
smitten at once dumb and motionless. He felt his mother's hand on his
arm.
"John," said she, "did you see that girl? She was _perfectly_
beautiful!" The touch aroused him. She saw it all written in his
face.
"She?" he murmured. "Miss Lady!" and presently sprang after, to
return a moment later with the two ere they had left the hall.
Whereupon followed all manner of helpless, hopeless, banal and
inadequate commonplaces, out of which Eddring blankly remembered only
that the visit of Miss Lady to the city was to terminate that
evening, at the departure of the down train. And so, after all,
little remained for him but a present parting, though all his soul
cried out for speech with Miss Lady alone, for the sight of her face
only. It was as though within the moment all the energies of his life
had been directed into a new channel, whose insufficient walls were
threatened with destruction by the flooding torrent. The primeval man
arose, exulting, sure; and so, in a moment, John Eddring knew why the
world was made, and by what tremendous enginery of imperious desire
it is driven on its way. Work, riches, art, music, architecture, the
vast industrialism of an age, all this thing called progress--all,
all were for this alone, this thing of love! The atmosphere about him
thrilled, vibrant with this message of the universe. The interspaces
of all things seemed lambent, and therein fixed centrally was this
ineffaceable and ineffable picture. He gazed, and as he gazed there
came to him but one thought: For ever.
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