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THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINA 
 
 THE COLLECTION OF 
 
 NORTH CAROLINIANA 
 
 PRESENTED BY 
 
 S, S. Robins 
 
 G813 
 T72r 
 
^ M 
 
THE PARTING. 
 
 " yumpinginto the frail vehicle^ shook the lines, spoke sharply to the fretting 
 steeds and dashed along the road into the very face of the coming storm."' — 
 
 p. 444. 
 
A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 BY 
 
 ALBION W. TOURGEE, LL.D., 
 
 Author of "A Fool's Errand," "Bricks Without Straw/' 
 
 "Figs and Thistles," etc. 
 
 AND 
 
 'ZOURI'S CHRISTMAS, 
 
 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT. 
 Boston and Concord: D. L. GUERNSEY. 
 
COPYRIGHT, 
 
 1874, BY J, B. Ford & Co., 
 188 1, BY Albion W. Tourgee. 
 
 All Rights Reserved. 
 
 Manufac hired by 
 
 S. W. GREEN'S SON, 
 
 74 & 76 Beekman St., 
 
 MEW YOKK. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 THIS tale was written in 1868-9, amid the scenes 
 and shortly after some of the veritable incidents 
 which it describes. It was originally published in 1874, 
 under the title of "Toinette," the name of the principal 
 female character, although not the pivotal person on 
 whom the whole action of the drama turns. 
 
 The book was written because its incidents, in effect, 
 had passed before my eyes with such vividness that I 
 could not but write. At that time (1868-9) I ^^^ "o 
 idea of publishing. The simple delight of portraying 
 what I observed was my only motive. 
 
 In the summer of 1865, before the battle-smoke had 
 well cleared away, I settled near Greensborough, N. C, 
 in the hope that a milder climate might aid me to 
 prolong a life somewhat shattered by the shocks of war. 
 My idea of Southern life was mainly derived from the 
 literature of the era before the war. It is true that 
 service in the army had somewhat modified it, but in 
 the main I venture to say that it was a fair reflex of 
 the idea and sentiment of the intelligent Northern man 
 of my age at that period. After I went South, the con- 
 trast between these pre-notions and what I saw of the 
 life around me, and the fresh relics of the life which 
 had just passed away, impressed me keenly, and soon 
 became a subject of engrossing interest. 
 
 I saw, or thought I saw, that the conscious evils of 
 slavery — the cruel lash, the impossible task, and what- 
 
 lU 
 
iv A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ever of opportunity for malice the system gave rise to — 
 had been, if not magnified, at least disproportionately 
 dwelt upon by the anti-slavery writers of the North. 
 At the same time, as I conceived, the u7iconscious evils of 
 the system — those which warped the brain and heart of 
 the master as well as dwarfed the soul of the slave — had 
 been allowed to drop out of sight in the heat of par- 
 tisan advocacy. I noticed, too, that these unconscious 
 evils were the very ones which had left their marks 
 upon character, and that every one who had been sub- 
 mitted to their influences was more or less scarred by 
 them — especially the master race ; and that these in- 
 fluences were a part of slavery which could not be 
 "abolished." It was beyond the power of Military 
 Proclamation, Constitutional Amendment, or legal enact- 
 ment — immortal as the essence on which its impress was 
 inscribed. I found, too, that the non-slaveholding whites 
 of the South had been unfairly massed, and represented 
 to the Northern mind by the terms "poor white," "mean 
 white," and "white trash;" while in fact they ranged 
 from this type up through the better class of "crop- 
 pers" — the metayers of the South — to the small farmers 
 and even considerable land-owners, who depended on 
 their own labor and that of free-born " hirelings" for the 
 cultivation of their crops. Impressed by these and 
 other differences, I wrote, setting down naught in anger, 
 nor contriving aught of malice against any man or sys- 
 tem — and not, indeed, for the public eye, but for my 
 own pleasure merely. The manuscript knocked about 
 my library — a fragment of it now and then being read for 
 the entertainment of some friend — until 1874, when one 
 whose name is itself an authority urged its publication. 
 
 The story is the delineation of a romantic sentiment, 
 having its root in slavery, but its flower and fruitage in 
 
PREFACE. y 
 
 freedom, and concerns itself with Slavery only in order 
 to mark the growth of character under that influence, and 
 show the natural and necessary sequence by which later 
 developments arose. It carefully traces only those un- 
 conscious influences which shape and mold mental and 
 moral qualities, and through which Slavery still lives and 
 dotninates. 
 
 Since the first publication of this book the impulse to 
 go further, and to include more broadly — both in num- 
 ber and in representative character — the impressions 
 made upon my mind by the various elements of life in 
 our Southern States, has, very naturally, but without 
 intention, resulted in a series of these pictures. The 
 past quarter of a century has been a remarkable era — 
 the meeting point of divergent systems, the arena 
 where antagonistic civilizations struggled for mastery. 
 Knowledge and ignorance, slavery and freedom, North- 
 man and Southron, Caucasian and African were the 
 opposing forces and contrasted elements. Scarcely 
 any age or nation presents so rich a field of romantic 
 incident as the conflict of these forces, viewed at first by 
 the glare of battle and afterward by the fitful gleam of 
 the embers of revolution. 
 
 The relations between a subject and a dominant race 
 are always fruitful of romance. Inequality of rank 
 (which may be said to culminate in the relation of mas- 
 ter and slave) is the burden of nearly all romantic fic- 
 tion. In our Southern States, since the legal status of 
 the two races has become identical, it is a task of extreme 
 delicacy to trace the line of previous habit and note its 
 continued strength. What the observer may clearly 
 recognize it may be difficult to convey to the reader's 
 mind, because the life of the present is engrafted on the 
 root of the past — because Yesterday binds with fetters 
 
 / 
 
Vi A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 of brass To-day. Yet this very difficulty adds a kind of 
 zest to the task, and the student of history may well 
 pause to consider carefully these strange and strongly 
 contrasted elements while yet they are incongruous in 
 their new relations, and before the Old shall have grad- 
 ually given way to the irresistible New. 
 
 "^ Fool's Errand,'' written in the summer of 1879, 
 deals chiefly with the turbulent era of what has been 
 called "Reconstruction," and, naturally, depicts the 
 typical elements that were prominent in that seething 
 caldron of politics heated by the fiery passions of caste. 
 
 " 'ZourVs ChristtnaSy' which is included in the present 
 volume, gives another view — a brighter and pleasanter 
 one, showing the kindly feelings between the freedman's 
 family and the former master and mistress, a case in 
 which continuing relations of dependence, though no 
 longer of bondage, preserve in the dominant race all the 
 generous cordiality which they feel for the negro " in his 
 own place." Its importance as a social study is not 
 indicated by its brevity. 
 
 In ^''Bricks Without Straw*^ some aspects of the present 
 condition of the colored race (1880) and their relations 
 to the whites in the great matters of Labor and Education 
 afford still another point of view, and present still new 
 types of character and romantic interest. 
 
 No one of these pictures professes to be a complete or 
 perfect representation of the whole era, but only of por- 
 tions of it, and of the types selected, each picture being 
 taken from a standpoint peculiar to itself. 
 
 A new edition of the present work has been 
 called for, and, in order that it may take its 
 proper and permanent place in this unpremeditated 
 " series," as setting forth the prime and simplest ele- 
 ments of the whole system of the Southern civilization 
 
 \ 
 
PREFACE. yii 
 
 — the Master and the Slave, separated by the whole 
 diameter of the social sphere, and yet united in a com- 
 mon destiny by that universal human passion, love — I 
 have revised it, eliminated some extraneous matter, 
 restored the original plan of the work, which followed 
 the facts in leaving the central problem unsolved, and 
 have given it the title which its main character naturally 
 demands — "^4 Royal Ge?itle7ftan.'' 
 
 For the types portrayed I claim only the utmost exact- 
 ness in tracing the verisimilitude of nature. That they 
 do not conform to certain conventional pre-notions may 
 be freely admitted. If the Poor White, the Slave, the 
 Freedman, and the Royal Gentleman are not as degraded, 
 as astute, as apish, as brutal or as noble as we have 
 been wont to have them pictured for us, assuredly the 
 fault is not in the present delineator. If the unconscious 
 influences of a former r^gi?ne are here accounted more 
 potent in producing the effects which we behold to-day 
 than the more apparent and tangible horrors of slavery, 
 it is only because long and patient study has taught the 
 fact. If the reader shall be surprised to find the idea 
 intimated that the dominant race suffered greater loss, 
 from the relation of slavery than the servile one, without 
 any of that compensating development which the latter- 
 received, the writer cannot admit himself in error, how- 
 ever startling the proposition. If the typical Royal Gen- 
 tleman shall apparently lack some of those regal attri- 
 butes with which our fancy has been wont to clothe his 
 class, the writer can only regret that the term has not 
 been more sharply defined or the attributes of the class 
 more clearly and justly analyzed hitherto. 
 
 In examining the many press notices, letters, etc., 
 which the original issue of the story called forth, it has 
 been amusing to note that points of the book which at 
 
viii A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the North are accounted defects, at the South are con- 
 sidered excellences, and vice versa. Perhaps few things 
 have been more sharply criticised at the North than the 
 putting of the popular dialect into the mouth of Manuel 
 Hunter, who is represented as an able and accomplished 
 lawyer, and a politician of national eminence. At the 
 South, on the other hand, the truth of this representation 
 has been universally recognized. So life-like, indeed, is 
 this picture, that hundreds of readers without hesitation 
 pitched upon one who was among the most eminent and 
 accomplished lawyers of his day and State as its original ; 
 not from the circumstances of his life, for these did not 
 accord, but from the close imitation of his language and 
 manner. One of his contemporaries, writing to me, 
 
 says : " I can see in every line of Manuel Hunter. 
 
 He was a grand man, and you have drawn him to the 
 life. I believe no one has ever noticed before how our 
 old-time country lawyers affected the vernacular, or dia- 
 lect rather. I suppose they did it to enhance their power 
 of presenting facts to the jury." To the Northern mind 
 this rugged, quaint, but very English dialect is the ear- 
 mark of the " poor white," by whom it is supposed to 
 be employed simply from ignorance; like the traditional 
 dialect of Brother Jonathan — having a possible parallel 
 among the most ignorant country folk, but not to be 
 thought of in the temples of justice or \he pefietralia of 
 "first families." After an experience of many years at 
 the bar and on the bench of the South, I can honestly 
 say that many of the finest and most eloquent appeals I 
 have ever heard addressed to court or jury have been 
 very largely clothed in this rough and peculiar but 
 wonderfully strong and pungent dialect. 
 
 The trouble is that the Northern man has made up a 
 South for himself, and, without the least hesitation, criti- 
 
PREFACE. ix 
 
 cises any departure from the original of his own imagina- 
 tion as untrue to life. 
 
 The same stricture has been made as to Betty Certain. 
 She sometimes uses the vernacular dialect and sometimes 
 does not. This would be unnatural at the North, where 
 such a dialect would be considered evidence of igno- 
 rance, of which everyone is anxious to avoid the impu- 
 tation. At the South, however, it will not do to judge 
 any man's position, wealth, or culture by his language, 
 the clothes he wears, or the house he lives in. 
 
 A similar state of facts is true as regards Chapter 
 XXXVII., "In His Mark." It has been severely de- 
 nounced at the North as a piece of unnatural and im- 
 possible cruelty of spirit. At the South it has received, 
 perhaps, more universal commendation than any other 
 part of the book. I quote from the letter of one of the 
 most accomplished lawyers, descended from one of the 
 most cultivated and influential families of North Caro- 
 lina. He says of it : " It is one of the truest and subtlest 
 studies of character I have ever read. I would like to 
 know the incident on which it is founded, as it is quite 
 beyond mere invention. I can see how it would seem 
 despicably mean from a Yankee stand-point — and it was 
 mean, considering all its relations; but just think what a 
 provocation — what an abomination — the conduct of the 
 heroine seemed, to one raised as he had been!" 
 
 Finally, I must add that this story is in " advocacy" 
 of nothing whatever ; // is a picture of facts. Farther it 
 does not go nor lead. Its pages were written because "I 
 looked, and saw, and a voice said ' Write !' " They were 
 published after many days, asking but the favor of 
 
 " one moment 
 Of the busy world's attention;" 
 
X A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 which has been kindly accorded in the demand for 
 numerous editions. 
 
 Issued under the title of "^ Royal Gentleman^'' the 
 story simply takes its place in the series alluded to, com- 
 prising works already published and others in course of 
 preparation. In putting forth this edition, the author 
 desires to acknowledge his indebtedness to the public 
 for exceptional favors, and to express the hope that the 
 interest thus shown may result in a just and righteous 
 comprehension of the questions which now press upon 
 the nation for solution, and to which he has tried to 
 contribute some light. 
 
 Albion W. Tourgee. 
 
 New York, May i, 1881. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. — Manuel Hunter . 
 II. — " Christmas Gift !" 
 
 III. — Mabel 
 
 IV. — From Sire to Son 
 V. — MoRTUA Manus . 
 VI. — Not in the Bond 
 VII. — Mystery 
 
 VIII. — Faithful Unto Death 
 IX.— A " Poor Poll " . 
 X. — Apollo's Oracle . 
 XI. — Nicotiniana 
 XII. — A Dead Client 
 XIII. — Warned 
 XIV.—" Oh, Limed Soul !" 
 XV. — " Things Hid From the Wise 
 XVI. — Out of Her Sphere. . 
 XVII. — Love's Logic 
 XVIII. — Exceptio PkOBAT Regulam 
 XIX. — Transition . 
 XX. — Before the Wedding . 
 XXI. — In the Clerk's Office 
 XXII. — The Holograph Proved 
 
 >> 
 
 PAGB 
 
 7 
 i8 
 
 42 
 
 55 
 66 
 
 77 
 
 91 
 
 100 
 
 114 
 
 .125 
 
 134 
 
 152 
 
 158 
 162 
 
 169 
 181 
 190 
 199 
 207 
 219 
 236 
 
Kii CONTENTS. 
 
 
 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXIII. Bond Given and Costs Paid . 
 
 PAGB 
 244 
 
 XXIV. A Review 
 
 
 249 
 
 XXV. — Reveille .... 
 
 
 
 255 
 
 XXVI. The Stack Rocks . 
 
 
 
 260 
 
 XXVII. The Executrix 
 
 
 
 277 
 
 XXVIII. Hagar .... 
 
 
 
 288 
 
 XXIX. — Not Vouched For . 
 
 
 
 310 
 
 XXX. — Chrysalid 
 
 
 
 316 
 
 XXXI. — Stricken 
 
 
 
 321 
 
 XXXII. — Darkness .... 
 
 
 
 Z12> 
 
 XXXIII. — Beginning of the End . 
 
 
 
 342 
 
 XXXIV. Types .... 
 
 
 
 346 
 
 XXXV. The Hospital . 
 
 
 
 359 
 
 XXXVI. — Unsubdued 
 
 
 
 371 
 
 XXXVIL In His Mark . 
 
 
 
 . 376 
 
 XXXVIII. Dispatch Boat, No. 9 
 
 
 I 
 
 . 384 
 
 XXXIX. Light 
 
 
 
 391 
 
 • 
 
 XL. — Knight Errant 
 
 
 » 
 
 . 402 
 
 XLI. — The Rescue 
 
 
 • 
 
 . 411 
 
 XLII. — In Her Own Right . 
 
 
 • 
 
 . 41S 
 
 XLIII. As of Old . 
 
 
 • 
 
 . 424 
 
 XLIV.— " Get Thee Behind Me, J 
 
 3ATA] 
 
 n" 
 
 . 435 
 
 XLV. — GooD-BY, Sweetheart 
 
 • 
 
 . 
 
 . 445 
 
 XLVI. — A Faithful Stewardship 
 
 . 
 
 . 451 
 
 XLVII.— The Seal of the Sepulc] 
 
 HER 
 
 . 
 
 . 460 
 
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS. 
 
 The Parting. (See page 444.) . . Froritispiece 
 
 Old Mabel, .... To face page 31 
 
 The Two Pets, 80 
 
 Faithful Unto Death, 98 
 
 Mr. Geoffrey and Betty Certain, . . 169 
 
 Aristocrat and Poor Poll, .... 189 
 
 The Old County Clerk, 219 
 
 Susan Edwards and the Lawyer, . . 227 
 
 Washington Square, Richmond, . . . 255 
 
 The Old Rivals, 307 
 
 The Wounded Hero, 330 
 
 The Man — Abraham Lincoln, . , . 355 
 
 The Brand, 37S 
 
 The Rescue, 414 
 
 A Rapturous Vision, 469 
 
 Quillar's Ford, on the Dan, , . . 4^^ 
 
A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 CHAPTER /. 
 
 MANUEL hunter' 
 
 IT was Christmas Eve in the year of grace 1858. 
 Manuel Hunter sat in his private room, half office 
 and half library, connected with his spacious mansion 
 by a covered way, latticed at the sides and overgrown 
 with vines. The building was a substantial brick one, 
 its front door opening on the main street of Perham, 
 a pleasant county-town of Carolina, which lay in the 
 midst of broad plantations and noble outlying country 
 mansions, a rifle-shot from the banks of the Cold 
 Spring, a sparkling tributary of the impetuous river 
 which sweeps through the Piedmont valley. It was a 
 rambling town of the olden time, with a history that 
 went back into the ante-revolutionary days, when it 
 was one of the boroughs which were honored with a 
 delegate in the Colonial Assembly. Its wide streets 
 were lined with ancient oaks and graceful elms, and 
 paved with a rude flagging which was said to have 
 been laid by the hands of British soldiers. 
 
 The interior of the room had that strange blending 
 of business and leisure, of office and library, so fre- 
 quently met with in the den of the Southern legal prac- 
 titioner ; for Manuel Hunter was a well - to - do lawyer, 
 
8 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 and still the leader on the circuit where he practiced, 
 though now well past threescore. An immense fire- 
 place upon one side, piled full of hissing logs, spread 
 a genial radiance over the room, which was also lighted 
 by a tallow dip stuck into a candlestick whose shape 
 and substance were effectually concealed by greasy 
 laminae, resulting from the expiring agonies of an un- 
 numbered succession of tallow dips consumed therein. 
 A collection of red and brown clay pipes of various 
 patterns and sizes, with their long reed stems, so famil- 
 iar to the smoker of that section, adorned one corner 
 of the fireplace, and several shorter editions of the same 
 were stuck in an open cigar-box upon the mantle, in 
 which was a goodly supply of tobacco — a thin plug 
 of which also peeped from the capacious pocket of the 
 owner's coat. The table was covered with a miscella- 
 neous array of books and papers, the usual legal para- 
 phernalia, mixed with pipes, matches, and almost 
 anything else for which it afforded easy lodgment — a 
 part of which debris had been pushed aside to make 
 room for the large server brought by a sprightly slave- 
 girl, and which she was then in the act of taking from 
 her head and depositing thereon. 
 
 It had covers for two, and a plentiful supply of 
 goodly viands. 
 
 The girl removed the napkins, arranged the dishes, 
 poured out the coffee and set the urn upon coals 
 dragged from the fire to keep it warm, and then stood 
 by as if awaiting orders. 
 
 The master fumbled in his pocket awhile, and finally, 
 dragging forth a bunch of keys, selected one, and hand- 
 
MANUEL HUNTER. 9 
 
 ing it to her, motioned towards a sort of side-board 
 on which stood a water-bucket and a drinking gourd. 
 The girl opened the cupboard, took out a decanter 
 and glasses, and placed them upon the table. 
 
 "That'll do, gal. I'll call ye to take 'em away," 
 said the master, and the girl retired and closed the 
 door. 
 
 Manuel Hunter, by the light of the tallow candle 
 upon the table and the flashing fire, was a man of 
 goodly presence, sixty or more, half gray, somewhat 
 inclined to corpulency, fidgety in his movements, and 
 rather roughly and negligently clothed. As he sat 
 there in his splint-bottomed easy chair, he was a fine 
 sample of a Southern country attorney at home. He 
 had been a figure at the bar in his day, and was a 
 man of no mean acquirements in the law. 
 
 He had had his share of honors too. In the Legis- 
 lature of his native State, and in the national Congress, 
 he had represented his county and district. His faculty 
 of keen observation, thorough good sense, and naturally 
 strong logical power, with a sort of quaint humor and 
 half-affected roughness of expression and manner, made 
 him a power upon the stump, and a wheel-horse of his 
 party in the section where he resided. There were 
 current rumors that more than once, and that, too, in 
 important crises of his party and the nation, this un- 
 couth country lawyer had been offered positions of the 
 first importance in the government. Certain it was, that 
 in one of those massive cases in the office, there were 
 piles of letters bearing the frank of more than one of 
 our great party leaders, and of the heads of more than 
 
10 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 one administration. If, however, he had received such 
 offers, they had never been accepted by him. Though 
 he had served one or two terms in Congress, he had 
 come back to his old mistress, the law, with renewed 
 diligence after each absence, like a penitent truant to 
 his task. There seemed to be something in the intri- 
 cate subtlety and ever-varying analogies and differences, 
 agreements and conflicts, of the common law, which 
 gave it an unfailing charm to his mind. Whether it 
 was the force of long established habit, or because the 
 rugged energy of his nature delighted in its obstacles, 
 it would be difficult to determine. True it was, and 
 also true that he looked to his achievements at the bar 
 as the solid ground of whatever remembrance he might 
 receive among the people. His political triumphs were 
 mere incidents of his career. They were sports, though 
 they might be the sports of a giant. 
 
 "Well, Geoffy, son," he said, taking off the high- 
 crowned hat which comported oddly enough with the 
 jeans, he wore, and removing from his mouth a masti- 
 cated segment of the plug in his pocket, " fill the glasses. 
 You 're young and peart. Yes, sugar. Only a drop of 
 the whiskey, though," he added, as the liquor ap- 
 proached the brim. " There, there — not too much. 
 You want to make your old daddy drunk. Stop, stop, 
 you knave ! " 
 
 He took the glass, and half its contents disappeared 
 at a draught. 
 
 He was one of those who are so often termed the 
 " old style " of men, who were not afraid of a glass of 
 grog; who took their whiskey "straight," and knew it 
 
MANUEL HUNTER, H 
 
 was pure, because distilled by themselves or their neigh- 
 bors. Since the days of temperance societies, temper- 
 ance revivals, and prohibitory legislation, the old man 
 had been frequently cited as a strong argum-cnt against 
 all such anti-convivial ideas and measures. Whether 
 it was the sturdy constitution unimpaired by the ex- 
 cesses of previous generations, the quality of the liquor 
 which he drank, or the fact that he was "one of the 
 old fellows," which preserved him from the effects of 
 life-long potations may well be left to the decision of 
 those oracles who preside at the veiled mysteries of 
 modern temperance — that shyest of all virtues, which 
 hides itself, not in the enticing grove or the darkened 
 cloister, but under the seductive veil of secresy in the 
 oath-bound Lodge — which unites with exquisite mimicry 
 the solemnities of the sanctuary and the gayeties of the 
 festival. 
 
 " No ! no more," said he, as his son held the bottle 
 towards him again. "Well, yes, you may — just a little. 
 This is more 'n half water, anyhow," with a gesture 
 toward his glass. " That 's good whiskey, though — 
 some of the real old style, made by an old Dutchman 
 at a little spring-still up the country. I got it for a 
 fee — half a barrel on 't — six or eight years ago. By 
 the by, I missed a mighty plain pint of law in the case 
 and got non-suited. My client, old Quarles, you know, 
 son, was powerful mad, as who could blame him, and, 
 reaching over the bar, he caught my collar, drew me 
 down, and said, * How 's this. Mister Lawyer, they say 
 I am non-suited } ' * Sho, sho ! ' says I, * didn't you 
 hear what the judge said.?' 'No,' said he, somewhat 
 
12 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 dubiously. 'Why, sir,' says I, pompously, 'he said it 
 was coram non judice^ sir, coratn non judice !' 'Did he 
 say that?' said old Quarks, 'then, of course, it's all 
 right.' He went off satisfied, and I kept the whiskey. 
 I hed clean forgot it till just t'other day." 
 
 The old man chuckled at the remembrance of his 
 joke. His son refilled the glass, and while it is being 
 emptied let us look at him. 
 
 A face over which twenty summers might have 
 passed, a light brown beard and moustache, clear gray 
 eyes, a broad brow, and hair darker than the beard. 
 Above the middle height, with a rather full figure, 
 dressed in fashionably cut garments of rich material, 
 but with something of his father's negligence of wear. 
 As he sat carelessly leaning on his elbow, sipping his 
 whiskey, and gazing dreamily at the fire, one would 
 have said of him that life had been easy to him thus 
 far, and, in the main, pleasant; that his future was — as 
 chance should make it. He was a man of good possibil- 
 ities, of dormant powers. For the present, cultivated, 
 indolent, dreamy, and yet of keen perceptions and quick 
 sensibilities ; somewhat haughty of manner but frank and 
 free among his friends, and of generous impulse ; not 
 unselfish or self-sacrificing, but ready to give of his 
 abundance, and to scatter profusely what his thrifty 
 father had carefully gathered. The whole county knew 
 him for " a right royal gentleman." 
 
 " Well, sonny, let's eat," said the old man. " I 
 told them to bring our supper here, Geoffy, son, 
 'cause I wanted to have a good talk with you, and 
 somehow no place comes quite so nateral for me to 
 
MANUEL HUNTER. 13 
 
 talk in, as the old office. I've done a heap o* wuk 
 here, son, in my time. Forty years — 'twas logs then, 
 Geoffrey — arly an' late, summer 'n winter. Thar a'n't 
 no nigger 'n the State *s ever tiled harder 'n ole Man- 
 uel Hunter, not one. An' it's all been for you, too, 
 son — you an' the gals, now Jeems is gone. Poor boy! 
 poor boy! Don't do as he did, Geoffy, don't. Don't 
 kill yourself with drink. Yer ole father's been easy — 
 too easy, I 'spect, with both on ye. He must hev a 
 little himself; always did. But don't take too much, 
 son, don't. There, take it away, Geoffy. Put it in 
 the cupboard there, and lock it up. It makes me sad. 
 Poor boy ! I wanted him to take my place at the 
 bar, Geoffy. You never will. More like yer ma, poor 
 dear. Yes, I know; you'll study — to please me, and 
 I'm glad of it — though, as you say, thar a'n't no need 
 on 't, as thar was for me. No, I sha'n't leave you in 
 debt, son. The old man ha'n't talked and writ all 
 his life to do that; and he knows how hard 'tis for a 
 youngster, too, to start with a load on his back. But 
 I did want the Hunter name to be kep' up on the 
 circuit. The rogues '11 all turn honest arter I'm dead, 
 'cause thar '11 be nobody to clar 'em. But there, there ; 
 let 's not talk any more about business till supper is over." 
 
 As the meal progressed the old man grew cheerier 
 and their conversation lightened till, at its close, he 
 called boisterously for the serving-maid to remove the 
 remnants. 
 
 **Toinette, Toinette!" he shouted. "Rot the lazy 
 jade! Call her, Geoffrey; you are younger than I. 
 Step to the door and call her, please." 
 
14 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 His son did as he was bidden, and the girl soon 
 appeared and removed the server. The young man 
 filled one of the long- stemmed clay pipes, and, after 
 lighting, handed it to his father; then drawing forth a 
 large meerschaum, he filled and lighted it for himself. 
 and for a few moments the two men resigned them- 
 selves to a quiet enjoyment of the vaporous luxury. 
 Their pipes were not unfit representatives of them- 
 selves: the old man's crude and strong, but capacious 
 and not without a certain look of luxury ; the young 
 man's smooth, compact, and polished — a luxury in 
 itself. At length the old man spoke: 
 
 " It's Christmas, Geoffrey, son, to-morrow, and you 
 know next week whatever plans are to be laid for the 
 next year's business must be settled on; and now that 
 you 've come home — I hope to stay — I wanted jes' to 
 talk things over with you quietly and set our stakes 
 for the year's work. I sha'n't leave you in debt, son, 
 as I told you awhile back, if I die to-morrow. But fust 
 hand me that bundle of papers in the right hand cor- 
 ner of the desk there. So. Now let 's see what ole 
 Manuel's worth, and what there is to take keer of. 
 Where 's my specs, child ? Oh, here ! " — as he drew 
 them down from the top of his head. 
 
 "Well, what's this.?" said he, taking the first paper 
 from the file. " The deed of the home place. The 
 plantation has been in the family ever since it was 
 settled. Yer grandfather left it mortgaged, though — 
 more 'n 'twas worth. I paid it off. There's the Gard- 
 ner plantation, the Culver place, the old Lovett place, 
 and other little parcels of two or three hundred acres 
 
MANUEL HUNTER. 15 
 
 apiece, mostly lyin' on the river, and jes' as good corn 
 and terbaccer lands as ever had a hoe in them — 
 plenty of woodland and seventy odd niggers, besides 
 the house servants, to tend 'em. 
 
 " You Ve been livin' on the Lovett place sence you 
 came home from college. It was lucky, too, comin' 
 jest as Craigie took sick and I could get no overseer 
 to look after it. And you've made a fine crap, too. 
 How do you like plantation life, son?" 
 
 "So well," answered Geoffrey, "that I was about 
 to ask you to let me have the Lovett place and the 
 hands on it for Christmas Gift, and allow me to settle 
 down into a quiet country bachelor." 
 
 " Sho, sho ! my. boy. Some of our high-strung gals 
 about here would have you in their train afore a 
 twelvemonth," said the father, laughingly. 
 
 " I am not anxious for a mistress," replied the son 
 with a shrug, "and I like the seclusion of the Lovett 
 place. You know, father, I am not fond of carous- 
 mg. 
 
 " True, true," said the old man, hastily, " and I 
 thank God for it. But why not come home and live 
 with us and study here in the office.''" 
 
 "Why do you so often dine and sup in the office, 
 father?" 
 
 The father smoked a moment in silence, and then 
 said, in a saddened tone : 
 
 " The house is lonely, Geoffy, since yer mother died, 
 though your sisters have a good deal of company, and 
 your aunt is a good housekeeper. It is lonely." 
 
 "You know," said Geoffrey — and his voice choked, 
 
16 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 for his mother's memory was pure and fresh to him — 
 "it is not far to the Lovett place. I could ride to 
 the office every day, if need be." 
 
 "So you could, son," was the reply. "It a'n't 
 just as I 'd planned it, but what 's the difference ? 
 There a'n't but three on ye, no how, an' it 's all 
 your'n at last. You shall have the Lovett place to 
 your share, and I '11 make you a deed on 't at once — 
 and the hands and stock. Have ye enough there 
 now to do the work on 't ?'* 
 
 " One or two more could be worked to advantage," 
 said Geoffrey, "and there are no house servants ex- 
 cept Bob and old Maggie." 
 
 "You ought to hev another house servant; a 
 woman. What un '11 ye take.?*' said his father. 
 
 " I would like it if you could let me have Toinette. 
 She is young and lively, and old Maggie does remind 
 one a little too much of a burying, sometimes," an- 
 swered the son. 
 
 "Oh, we couldn't spare Toinette!" said the old 
 lawyer, with a sharp glance at his son, as if he were 
 a witness under examination. 
 
 "Very well," said the young man, without looking 
 up. " Any one you can spare better would suit me as 
 well." 
 
 "So, so; I knew it," said his father. "No, you 
 shall hev her. She was a favorite with Ruthy, and, as 
 you say, is young and lively. She '11 be a likely gal 
 sometime, too. I '11 make out all the papers and give 
 ye a plantation ready stocked to begin with for your 
 Christmas." 
 
MANUEL HUNTER. 17 
 
 The young man was about to express his thanks 
 when the father stopped him with — 
 
 "No, no, Geoffy; you've got to study hard enough 
 to pay for this. If I set you up in the world before 
 you are twenty-one, you've got to promise to keep up 
 the Hunter name at the bar of the circuit." 
 
 " I will try my best, father," said the young man, 
 but his tone did not presage success. 
 
 " I have a new edition of Blackstone that I pur- 
 chased for you lately," said the father, " a right fine 
 one, too, with a new style of type, and the most keer- 
 fully edited book I ever looked into. It 's a Philadel- 
 phia edition, and just out. You may begin at once. 
 Come over every Saturday and I'll put you through a 
 set of questions, and have you ready for the County 
 Court in a year at most." 
 
 Awhile longer the two men sat together — father 
 and son : the one old and rough, scarred with many a 
 battle with the world, yet warm and tender-hearted to 
 his boy, as a mother to her babe. He was still a 
 child to those fond old eyes. And the son, young, 
 unskilled, unscathed by conflict with the world, and 
 careless what it had in store for him. 
 
 Along the covered way to the house, and into the 
 bright lighted parlor, they went together. 
 
 And so the plantation known as Lovett Lodge, five 
 miles from Perham by the river road, and the girl 
 "Toinette," with sundry other "chattels-real," passed 
 into the hands of the young master, Geoffrey Hunter, 
 Esq., from his father, Manuel Hunter — a Christmas 
 Gift, princely and unconditioned. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 "CHRISTMAS gift!" 
 
 THE next day was Christmas ; Christmas at the 
 Great House, in which Manuel Hunter lived — 
 "The Hunter Home," as he had jocosely named the 
 plantation years before. 
 
 As the gray dawn crept over the hill tops, a motley 
 crew of almost every age and shade of color came 
 thronging up from from the row of low, whitewashed 
 huts, which constituted the servants' quarters, to the 
 Great House. It was the modern slave's saturnalia — 
 the heathen festival rebaptized and christened — the week 
 whose license was a ludicrous mimicry of freedom, with 
 an undertone of sadness, like the refrain of a plantation 
 melody. Clad in their Sunday's best, they thronged 
 the piazza and hall of the House, and besieged with 
 uproarious freedom the room where " Ole Master " slept ; 
 and then, by turns, that of every other member of the 
 household. 
 
 "Christmas Gif, Mas'r Manuel"! "Christmas Gif"! 
 " Christmas Gif" ! was shouted, again and again, in 
 every variety of tone, from the shrill treble of child- 
 hood to the trembling huskiness of age. Male and 
 female vied with each other in increasing the clamor. 
 
 Meantime the old man had risen and was calling 
 for his body-servant. 
 
 " Dick I O Dick ! " he shouted, well knowing that 
 
" CHRIS TMA S GIFT !" 19 
 
 Dick had gone, with Manuel Hunter's pass in his pocket, 
 to a plantation several miles distant, to spend the Christ- 
 mas. " O Dick ! " he exclaimed again, angrily ; and 
 then opening the door, half-clad as he was, he called 
 for him again. 
 
 " Where has that black rascal gone ? I say, Dick ! " 
 
 His appearance was the signal for renewed vocifera- 
 tions. 
 
 " Christmas Gif ! Christmas Gif, mas'r ! De Lor' 
 bress him! H'm jus as spry 's if he was n't gwine on 
 seventy. H'm '11 live to keep many a rogue from 
 kissin' the widder yit ! Ki ! no danger ennybody 
 dancin' on nuffin while Mas'r Manwel lives ! Nebber 
 see a hangin* agin ! De sheriff's dun got so he dunno 
 how tu tie de knot ! It 's gone out of fashion on de 
 surcutes eber sense Mas'r Manwel clar de man fur 
 killin' tree 't wonst ! Lor', Lor,' 't use to be just as 
 common puttin' hemp roun' a gemman's neck as roun' 
 a cotting bale, 'fore Mas'r Manwel's time, I 'members ! 
 / do ! " said an old man, with a bald crown surrounded 
 by pads of snowy wool, who leaned upon a staff, and 
 seemed to be regarded as a sort of chief among them. 
 
 They knew the weak point of the old man, his 
 repute as a criminal lawyer, and with the slave's deft 
 flattery struck it at once, and bows and cheers, waving 
 hats, handkerchiefs and aprons^ greeted the master of 
 threescore slaves. 
 
 "Is that you, Martin.? How d'ye, old man," said 
 the master. " Why, you 're as peart as if you were n't 
 more 'n twenty-five this momin'. You'll help me, won't 
 you, Marty, boy, if that fellow Dick has run away ? He 
 
20 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ought tu hev twenty licks for it. How d'ye, boys? 
 How d'ye, gals? My shoes, Martin, and stockings. 
 Where can that black rascal hev put 'em .? " 
 
 Old Martin was down upon his knees at once, and 
 the crowd poured into the room, each one prying into 
 nooks and corners after the master's lost clothing, 
 while he kept on, half petulantly, half humorously, 
 scolding Dick and saying something pleasant to every 
 one whose eye he caught, alternately. 
 
 At length old Martin found one of the shoes under 
 the bed, and carefully shaking it, out rolled a silver 
 dollar, which he instantly appropriated, with a whoop 
 of delight and a mocking " Sarvant, sah," as he bowed 
 and scraped to his master, who angrily exclaimed : 
 
 " Here, you old rascal, are you going to rob me .'* " 
 
 "Hi! yah! yah!" laughed the old negro, still 
 clutching the silver, "Mas'r ought ter hev a better 
 pus nor dat ter keep the shiners in, else niggas steal 
 'em, shore ! " 
 
 It seemed as if the old man's money was every- 
 where except in its proper place, his purse. Each 
 stocking held a quarter ; and wnen his vest was handed 
 to him he put both his hands through the arm-holes, 
 in the old-fashioned way of putting on that garment, 
 and, by some unaccountable carelessness in swinging 
 it over his head, scattered dimes and half-dimes about 
 the room in a style that produced the utmost confu- 
 sion among the dusky rabble. 
 
 " Git out, you rascals ! " shouted the old man, 
 stamping his feet in pretended rage. 
 
 " Here, Martin, give me your cane while I beat the 
 
'^ CHRISTMAS GIFT!'' 21 
 
 knaves. There ! there ! " he added, as all but old Martin 
 left the room, and he stood, hat in hand, before him, 
 " go wake up young Mas'r Geoffrey. Here, Marty, 
 boy, is his Christmas Gift for him. You may take it 
 to him. I 've given him the Lovett place, and put you 
 in to take care of him. You won't let him disgrace 
 the old name, will you, Martin } " 
 
 " 'Deed I won't, sah," replied the old slave, as he 
 took the bundle of papers, and with a very conse- 
 quential air marched at the head of the chattering 
 troop toward young master's room. 
 
 Arriving at Geoffrey's door the clamor was renewed, 
 but was soon hushed by the barking of a large New- 
 foundland dog, which the young master had brought 
 home on his return from college, and who had a de- 
 cided aversion to the dusky inhabitants of the plantation, 
 though himself as highly " cullud " as any of them. 
 
 Leon had been growling his dissent to the riotous 
 proceedings of the morning for some time. He regarded 
 himself as the special guardian of Geoffrey, and always 
 shared his room. Now, as the clattering feet came up 
 the stairs and the servants clustered about the door- 
 way, shouting their boisterous greeting, he burst out 
 into a full-grown, threatening, imperative bark. 
 
 " Down, Leon ! nobody will hurt either of us," said 
 his master, " be quiet, I say ! " 
 
 " Christmas Gif ! Christmas Gif ! " shouted the ser- 
 vants. 
 
 " Thank you, boys, thank you ; but don't disturb 
 me now. I'll give you some tricks by-and-by," said 
 Geoffrey, lazily. 
 
22 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 When the clamor subsided, old Martin, rapping 
 deferentially upon the door, said : 
 
 " Please, sah, Mas'r Manwel guv me suthin', sah, 
 as I was to giv you, sah, for your Christmas Gif." 
 
 " Well, come in," said Geoffrey. " Down, Leon ! " 
 as the old man opened the door and walked in, care- 
 fully leaving it ajar for the accommodation of his 
 fellow-servants, who stood without, or perhaps to facil- 
 itate retreat in case of need. 
 
 " Sarvant, sah," said the old man, bending his 
 snowy head, with a princely grace, to the young mas- 
 ter, who sat up in bed and held out his hand for the 
 packet, and glancing dubiously at the still growling 
 Leon. 
 
 " Ah ! I see," said the son, " the title-deeds of 
 Lovett Lodge, with bill of sale of twelve hands and 
 house servants, including you too, Uncle Martin. My 
 father is very kind, indeed. I did not suppose he 
 could spare you." 
 
 " Mas'r Manwel says he hed to sen' ole Martin to 
 tak' keer ov de res', an' see that young Mas Geoff 
 'have himself," said the old man, with a chuckle. 
 
 " You and Hulda shall have the overseer's house 
 then ; and between us we will do his work, for I won't 
 have one of that tribe on the place," replied Geoffrey. 
 
 " It 's a right good plantation," said Martin, " with 
 a heap of good Ian', an' if ye jes* let ole Martin hev 
 his way, dat force '11 make a power o' corn an' right 
 smart uv terbaccer." 
 
 " Well, that will do, Martin. How d' ye, boys } I'll 
 be down to the storehouse after breakfast and see 
 
''CHRISTMAS GIFT !" 23 
 
 if I can find some Christmas gifts for you," said Geof- 
 Orey. 
 
 The old "uncle," with repeated bows and " Mornin*, 
 ^ah's," backed out of the room, like an inferior man- 
 darin ducking to one of higher grade, carefully closed 
 the door and with his friends went to salute the other 
 members of the family, and then dispersed to the 
 amusements of the Christmas time — the one week out 
 of fifty-two in which they caught a far-off glimpse of 
 freedom, the one thing that kept alive their faith in 
 the good time coming, the oft-predicted "Jubilee." 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter laid his head back upon his pil- 
 low and wandered off into a quiet reverie, of which 
 himself and his possessions formed, the subject matter. 
 He was now a man. The careless college life, with its 
 aimless rambling vacations, was over. He appreciated 
 the force of " ;;?^z/;;z " and "//^?^w," as applied to realty. 
 On the threshold of life he was independent, yes, rich — 
 one of the solid men of the country; one of the aris- 
 tocracy of the great South, securely entrenched behind 
 land and slaves, the two great bulwarks of respecta- 
 bility. These, if managed with prudence, would yield 
 him a constantly increasing income, and as he grew 
 older make his position still more secure. He would 
 take care of it. He was not extravagant nor, as he 
 assured himself, foolish. With his books, his music, 
 and his pipe, he pictured to himself a quiet country 
 life — independent, easy, honorable. 
 
 What would he do ? What was his ambition .? He 
 had none. Why should he toil, as his father had done, 
 until inaction was unbearable.'' Circumstances would 
 
24 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 do for him all that he desired. He had only to stand 
 and wait. Inaction was his best card, sure to win, and 
 no risk. Enjoyment was his aim. He would, there- 
 fore, be temperate, frugal, careful of his tastes and 
 habits, lest he should impair his power of enjoying the 
 good things fortune offered him. He would be a man, 
 not a beast; a philosopher, not a fool; and, accordingly, 
 would seek only cultivated and refining pleasures, not 
 bestial ones. 
 
 And who would enjoy these pleasures with him.^ 
 The full lip, sensuous and frank, curled into an un- 
 wonted sneer, and a half flush spread over his cheek 
 as the thought crossed his mind. It might have been. 
 It could not be a^ain. He had told his father the 
 night before that he had no desire to be the slave of 
 any woman. He meant it. When his mother died, his 
 faith in womanhood died too. So he said. 
 
 A boyish disappointment rankled in his memory. 
 When scarce a man he had thought he loved, and 
 had avowed his attachment to, a woman much older 
 than himself. Instead of treating with respect the 
 passionate avowal of the young heart, and saving the 
 self esteem of the impetuous lad, she had laughed at 
 his youth and driven him into the cynicism which he 
 had maintained so long that it had become half real. 
 He had determined to abjure women and prided him- 
 self on being a woman-hater. In the expressive phrase 
 of his vernacular he said he had " no use for them." 
 He half disliked his sisters and his aunt. There were 
 but three women among his slaves till he added that 
 fly-about creature last night. What did he do that 
 
" CHRIS TMA S GIFT I " 25 
 
 for ? He did not know. He half wished they were all 
 men. But one thing was sure, no woman should be 
 mistress in his house. His servants should owe no 
 divided allegiance if he lived to be four-score; that 
 was settled. The mouth shut quietly and firmly, the 
 brow drooped, the eyes half closed. There was an 
 iron will about the young nabob. 
 
 Cool, cautious, selfish, ambitious only for enjoy- 
 ment, and having in the very refinement of this desire 
 a safeguard against degrading pleasures, what will be 
 his life "i 
 
 As he went down to breakfast Geoffrey Hunter 
 met his new chattel, Toinette. She was carrying a 
 server to the dining-room, for her mother was the 
 cook at the Hunter Home, renowned for skill through- 
 out the country side. 
 
 " Christmas Gif, Mass Geoff," said the handmaiden, 
 dropping a courtesy under the server balanced on 
 her head. 
 
 "What do you want for your Christmas, Toinette ? " 
 
 "A new dress and a white apron, if you please, 
 sir," answered the girl, pertly. 
 
 Geoffrey smiled. 
 
 "I will give you that," he said, "and the greatest 
 Christmas you ever had, beside." 
 
 The look of childish pleasure on her face faded 
 into wonder as she gazed up at his and followed him 
 into the dining-room without further question. 
 
 No one else of the family had as yet answered the 
 bell. He leaned against the mantel and watched the 
 girl, as with an absent manner she removed the differ- 
 
.26 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ent dishes from tlie tray and placed them on the table. 
 He remembered his father's words, " She '11 be a likely 
 gal some day," There could be no doubt of that, and 
 quite unconsciously he began to estimate the market 
 value of this piece of humanity a few years later, when 
 Time should have ripened her charms, and developed 
 her fine points. 
 
 He was not sordid or unfeeling. He was simply 
 speculating on the probable future value of his newly 
 acquired possession, as the jockey calculates the 
 ''come out" of a colt, or the milkmaid counts the 
 eggs which exist only in expectancy. He did not 
 concern himself with the humanity or womanhood 
 of Toinette. Much less did he consider her moral 
 relations with himself, humanity or God. The law 
 made her his slave, and he was troubled with nothing 
 beyond. It was the chattel, not the human being, of 
 which he thought. ^'' Ho7no non persona" is the defini- 
 tion which the law gives to the status of the slave, 
 and the hater of slavery cannot wonder that the 
 master should contemplate only the legal relation. It 
 was but natural. True, Toinette was not so dark as 
 many of the race who are counted the descendants of 
 the unfortunate Ham but her mother was — well, a 
 shade darker than she; and the rule of the law is 
 inflexible partus sequitur ventrem. And so Toinette 
 was a slave, legally and properly, though scarcely of 
 darker integument than her new master, and perhaps 
 of no meaner ancestry, paternally. 
 
 He took the bill of sale from his pocket, and 
 read : 
 
" CHRISTMA S GIFT / " 27 
 
 "Yellow girl, Toinette, daughter of Mabel, four- 
 teen years old, regular featured, bright complexioned." 
 
 That was the description, and Geoffrey Hunter 
 concluded that ''the fly-about Toinette," as he had 
 termed her, "would be a fine article, worth a pretty 
 penny in a few years," as his father had said. Just 
 then came to his ears the voice of the chattel, as she 
 advanced through the long hall, bringing something 
 from the kitchen beyond. She had forgotten her per- 
 plexity, and was singing, in very lorgetfulness, that 
 noble Christmas carol, 
 
 " Brightest and best of the sons of the morning." 
 
 There was nothing ignoble in the voice. Rich and 
 full it pulsed along the notes of this grand old anthem, 
 wild and free. "A fine voice" he thought, as uncon- 
 sciously he hummed the air himself. 
 
 As she entered the doorway her singing ceased, 
 and she advanced to the table. 
 
 "Where did you learn that song, Toinette," asked 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 "Of Miss Ruthy, sir," answered Toinette, without 
 interrupting her work. 
 
 " Have you guessed what is the other Christmas 
 Gift I am to let you have.?" he asked. 
 
 "La, no, sir, dun forgot all 'bout it. I reckon 
 you 'se jis foolin me," she said, laughingly. 
 
 "No," said he, "you are going to have a new 
 master." 
 
 The plate fell from the young girl's hand, the color 
 fled from her cheeks, and she gasped, " Is dat so .? " 
 
28 A ROYAL gentleman: 
 
 "Yes, indeed it is. Father sold you yesterday/' 
 he answered. 
 
 "And mammy?" asked Toinette. 
 
 "No, he could not spare her," Geoffrey replied. 
 
 The girl's agony was painful to witness. He did 
 not enjoy the scene, and he hated anything he did 
 not enjoy. So he made haste to end it, by saying, 
 ■'But you have not asked who bought you, yet." 
 
 The 30und of his voice seemed to have awakened 
 the girl from a sort of trance, into which she had 
 fallen. Quick as thought she was down before him, 
 clasping his knees, and crying out: 
 
 "Don't, don't. Mass Geoffrey, don't let 'em sell 
 me 'way from mammy ! Don't let 'em take me 'way \ 
 I '11 work. Mass Geoffrey, arly an' late ! I won't never 
 be naughty ! No, I won't ! Pore mammy ! Pore mam- 
 my ! 'Twould kill her, Mas 'r Geoffrey ! Think of yer 
 own mammy; her that learned me the pretty songs, 
 and was kind to Toinette ; that said she loved her most 
 as well as if she was her own gal ! I wa 'n 't never bad 
 to Miss Ruthy, Mass 'r Geoffrey," and she raised her 
 face, pallid with fright, and with the tears streaming 
 down it — the thick brown hair falling back from the 
 fair broad brow — and looked at him beseechingly. 
 
 ^' Don't, Mass Geoffrey, for yer mudder's sake, and 
 the good Lord's sake! Don't let 'em take me 'way!" 
 His eyes moistened at this impetuous appeal, and his 
 voice was a little uncertain too, as he said, quickly: 
 
 " I won't, Toinette, I won't. I have bought you 
 myself. I am your new master. I am going to live at 
 Lovett Lodge, and you can come and see Mabel as 
 
" CHRIS TMA S GIF r / " 29 
 
 often as you wish. Father gave you to me for a 
 Christmas gift. There, there ! Go now." The chattel 
 was kissing his hands, and exclaiming through her 
 tears, 
 
 " Thank you, thank you ! God bless you, Massa 
 Geoffrey." 
 
 Somehow the master seemed to have overstepped 
 the legal definition, and confounded the " Homo " with 
 the " Persona," the chattel with the child. Very plain 
 distinctions are sometimes difficult to maintain. 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 MABEL. 
 
 WHEN Toinette returned to the kitchen one or 
 two of the other servants were there talking 
 of their holiday pleasures, so she said nothing to old 
 Mabel of her change of masters. Her agitation, how- 
 ever, did not escape the sharp eye of the old slave 
 woman. There is no Lavater in the world who can 
 compare, as a skillful physiognomist, with an observing 
 slave. 
 
 " What was the matter in yon " — with a motion 
 of the head toward the great house — " this morning, 
 Toinette .'' " said her mother w^hen the breakfast was 
 over, and she was preparing for the great dinner 
 which was to be served at the Hunter Home that even- 
 ing, as the Southern people always term the after- 
 noon. 
 
 " Mas'r Geoffrey scared me, mammy — that's all," 
 answered Toinette, carelessly. 
 
 "How.^" demanded the mother sharply. 
 
 " He told me I had got a new master now, and 
 I thought I had been sold away from you, mammy." 
 
 " No fear of that,'* said Mabel. " Miss Ruthy 
 told me you should n't ever be sold away from me, 
 an' Mas'r Manwell sed de same, an' promise Miss 
 Ruthy on her dyin' bed dat neither on us should 
 
MABEL. 31 
 
 ever be parted with, less we 's sot free, as we sartin 
 should be when he died, — so do n't hev no trouble 
 on dat score, chile." 
 
 " No, mammy. Mas'r Geoffrey tole me afterward 
 that I was n't sole away, but jes made a Christmas 
 gif to him," said Toinette. 
 
 " A Christmas gift to Geoffrey Hunter ! " said Mabel 
 incredulously. 
 
 "Yes," Toinette hastened to say; "but he is go- 
 ing to live on the Lovett place, and I can come and 
 see you when I choose." 
 
 " No doubt, no doubt," said her mother, with a 
 sneer. " Ah, chile, chile, better you had never been 
 born. O God ! O God ! canst thou not leave me 
 this one ! " 
 
 She sat down upon the floor of the kitchen, pulled 
 the white turban from her head, and weaving back and 
 forth, moaned piteously. With her eyes closed, her 
 long, white hair waving in the chill winter wind, her 
 tall form swaying to and fro, and muttering brokenly, 
 it is no wonder that the superstitious servants fled in 
 affright, declaring that iVunt Mabel was making charms 
 to witch somebody. Toinette having tried in vain to 
 arouse and console her mother fled with the other ser- 
 vants in terror. 
 
 In an hour or two the report of Aunt Mabel's 
 condition reached Miss Lucy, Geoffrey's aunt, who 
 straightway repaired to the kitchen ; having in constant 
 remembrance the fact that the grand dinner was de- 
 pendent solely upon the exertions of the old cook. 
 Entering the hut which served the princely Hunters 
 
32 -1 ROYAL GEN-TLEMAN, 
 
 for a kitchen, she beheld Aunt Mabel squatted on the 
 ground befare the fire, surrounded by the implements 
 of cookery, still weaving to and fro, and continu- 
 ing the sing-song utterances which had been taken for 
 incantations. And indeed there was something truly 
 fearful in the thin, spare figure, the stern, sad face, of 
 old parchment hue, and the heaving masses of long 
 white hair, which floated unconfined about her head. 
 Allied to the race whose curse she bore, remotely, if at 
 all. Aunt Mabel was a woman who showed unmistak- 
 able marks of terrible suffering and all but invincible 
 fortitude. The tall figure was unbowed, and the vigor 
 of maturity rather than the weakness and indecision of 
 age characterized her movements. It was evident that 
 the deep furrows on her brow and the mass of white ' 
 hair which hung upon her shoulders were the result 
 of sorrow and affliction, not of years. The mouth 
 whose nether lip had not lost its fullness, even amid 
 the relaxation of overwhelming calamity, yet bore evi- 
 dence of unusual firmness. 
 
 " What 's all this fuss about, gal .? " was the greet- 
 ing of Miss Lucy. 
 
 Old Mabel, for the first time, ceased her crooning, 
 and turned sharply on the intruder. Her brow gath- 
 ered a severe expression, and her face darkened with 
 wrath. 
 
 "Is it true. Miss Lucy.^" she said almost fiercely. 
 "Ye know, an' ye needn't try to fool old Mabel. Is 
 it true .^ Has Manwell Hunter " — she had forgotten 
 the mastership in her agony and wrath — " sole my baby, 
 my darlin', my las' one, that he promised Miss Ruthy 
 
OLD MABEL. 
 
 • She sat down on the floor of the kitchen, pulled the white turban from her head 
 and moving back and forth, moaned piteous ly.' —p. 32. 
 
MABEL. 33 
 
 on her dyin' bed should never be sole, but stay wid 
 de family till he died? He certain sed dat, ef I'd take 
 keer o' Miss Ruthy, an' I did — Toinette an' me nussed 
 her like a baby. An' Toinette learned to read — Miss 
 Ruthy holp her, though 'twas agin the law — so that she 
 might hear the blessed Gospel an' the Psalms, when 
 her own darters wud be gone for months, Mass'r Man- 
 well on the circuit, an' young Mass'r Geoff away to 
 college, ez he' s allers been nigh about. An' he prom- 
 ised atterwards — on'y the very day afore Miss Ruthy 
 died, when she was a beggin' him to set us free right 
 away, an' he '11 owed he would ef 't was n't for the law 
 — he promised then that Toinette nor me should n't 
 never be sold, he did, an' that he 'd put us in his will, 
 so 'z we 'd both be sot free as soon as ever he died, 
 which he 'llowed wouldn't be long no way." 
 
 " Law, gal, there 's no use to take on so. Toi- 
 nette ain't sold — only given to Geoffrey for a Christ- 
 mas. He '11 never take her away. What does he 
 want of her .? " answered Miss Lucy. 
 
 " Aye," broke in old Mabel, springing to her feet, 
 *^ what does he want of my gal .'' What did my young 
 master want of Mabel when she was young and hand- 
 some.? Wlien her cheek was 'most as fair an' her eye 
 as bright an' her step as nimble as Toinette 's .-* Does 
 you know, Miss Lucy .? Mabel's cheek was n't holler 
 then, nor her hair bleached. What made it .'* There 
 was three of 'em and dey 's all gone, Tc'nette was de 
 las' one. I ought to hev killed 'em when der lives was 
 young an' der souls was white an' pure. God forgive 
 me that I did n't. But I loved 'em, Miss Lucy, an' I 
 
34 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 hoped. An' now you come an' ax me what dey want 
 of my Toinette ! " 
 
 The well-kempt mistress shrank from the uplifted 
 finger, flashing eyes, and scathing tongue of the aroused 
 old slave-woman, with scarcely less of terror than the 
 servants had previously manifested. 
 
 " What an awful wicked old creature i " she mut- 
 tered, as she trotted back to the house, glancing over 
 her shoulder half-fearfully as she spoke. Then she 
 remembered she had said nothing to Mabel about the 
 dinner, which had been the object of her visit to the 
 kitchen, and, after hesitating a moment, she returned. 
 Seeing that Mabel had resumed her old position, she 
 gathered courage and spoke as a mistress should, 
 sharply and peremptorily. 
 
 " Mabel, we will have dinner at half-past one. 
 There will be at least ten, and you had better set 
 about getting it ready." 
 
 " Ef 't was only not de las' one ! " muttered the grim 
 presence on the hearth, with a fierce side-look from 
 under her close-bent brows which sent the blood back 
 to her mistress's heart with renewed terror. 
 
 "Horrid old thing!" said Miss Lucy, fleeing again 
 to the house. " I do believe she would poison us all. 
 I shall be quite afraid to eat anything after this. Who 
 ever saw such an ungrateful creature .? After being so 
 indulged and having her own way in everything, too. 
 But law, it's just like these niggers ! " and the good 
 lady arranged her collar at the parlor glass, and sat 
 down to wait for dinner and the diners. 
 
 Mabel watched her as she retreated to the house. 
 
MABEL. 35 
 
 and then, as if a new thought had struck her, arose and 
 marched at once up the latticed walk which led from 
 the house to Squire Hunter's office, along it to the door, 
 and, opening this without ceremony, walked up to the 
 table where her master sat, and, looking him straight in 
 the eyes while a deep fire burned in her own, she ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 "Is it true ? Hev ye sole my gal, my baby, my 
 Toinette ? " 
 
 " Sho, sho, Auntie," said the old attorney, fussily, 
 "don't be so put out! Sold Toinette? No more I 
 hain't ! Jes' made a present of her to Geoffrey. You 
 know the boy is lonely out at the Lovett place, with 
 nobody but old Maggie in the house, an' all old folks 
 on the plantation, too; an' no wonder either." 
 
 " Did n't you promise the blessed saint Miss Ruthy 
 on her dyin' bed that we shouldn't ever be separated, 
 and that we should both be sot free when you died, if 
 not afore .'' " she asked. 
 
 " Law, yes, child ! " he replied, " but do n't take on 
 so ; I forgot all about that ; I did certain, Auntie, or I 
 wouldn't hev let him have her though he did ask me, 
 so I wouldn't. But, law, gal, he '11 be tired of his bar- 
 gain and want me to rue, in a week. He '11 be glad to 
 send her back to you to get rid of her by that time. 
 Eh, gal } " and he attempted an unsuccessful chuckle. 
 
 " Yes, he '11 get tired of her some time an' send her 
 — not to her old mammy, but to de auction block ! 
 Oh, Mas'r Manwell, what '11 ye tell Miss Ruthy when 
 she axes ye' bout little Toinette, that she loved most 
 like her own child 1 " said the old woman, solemnly. 
 
36 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " Pshaw, pshaw, gal, you 're foolish. The gal 's well 
 enough off, an' would hev to be sold or hired some 
 time," he said. 
 
 " Not ef you hed kep' your promise to the dead," 
 broke in the old woman. 
 
 "That's neither here nor there, now," he said, pet- 
 tishly. " I have given a bill of sale to Geoffrey, and 
 she 's his property now. If I 've broken my word, it 's 
 the worse for me. But I '11 think of it w^hen he comes in 
 again, and see if he won't exchange her for some other gal." 
 
 "He won't do it, Manwell Hunter," she replied; "I 
 knows the Hunter blood too well. Ef he 's set his 
 heart on havin' the gal, the ole debble hisself couldn't 
 get him to turn loose his hold on her." 
 
 "Well, v/ell, I don't know; she's his property and 
 not mine. I 've nothing to do with it. Go away, 
 gal, go way, and do n't bother me. There," said he, 
 handing her a slip of paper, on which he had hastily 
 written a few words, " give that to Hendricks, and 
 he '11 let you have a fine calico and a new bonnet be- 
 sides your regular Christmas." 
 
 Mabel had taken the paper, evidently thinking it 
 referred to the matter uppermost in her mind, but as 
 he spoke of its contents, she dropped it as if it 
 burned her hand, and without looking up walked to 
 the door, where, turning suddenly, she said in a deep, 
 low voice : 
 
 " Manwell Hunter, may de Grod above do to you 
 as you have done to Mabel's Toinette ; little Toinette, 
 dat Miss Ruthy loved an' you forgot. May de old 
 Mas'r forgit you forever ! " 
 
MABEL. 37 
 
 She closed the door and departed. Manuel Hun- 
 ter shivered in his great arm-chair before the blazing 
 fire. 
 
 There was no dinner at the great house for the 
 crowd of Christmas friends that day. It was a thing 
 unheard of in the model menage of Manuel Hunter; 
 but when Miss Lucy went to the kitchen at one 
 o'clock, to give some trifling directions about the re- 
 past which should have been served some thirty min- 
 utes later, the great gaping fireplace was cold, pots 
 and kettles were scattered around, and the materials 
 which had been given out for the viands were still 
 untouched. 
 
 Amid the confusion, Mabel was nowhere to be 
 seen. Miss Lucy's lungs were exerted to the utmost 
 shouting, " Mabel ! O, Mabel ! " 
 
 Her patience received another strain, and " the 
 ingratitude of these niggers," was duly anathematized. 
 Messengers were sent hither and yon among the ser- 
 vants to hunt up and return the delinquent under 
 threats of various penalties. But all without success. 
 Old Mabel had disappeared from the possession and 
 control of Manuel Hunter. Another cook was per- 
 force extemporized from among the servants, and 
 two hours later a miserable travesty of the dinner 
 expected was placed upon the board at the Hunter 
 Home. 
 
 All this annovance and discomfort was laid to 
 Geoffrey's charge by his disappointed aunt and sisters, 
 in terms which did not tend to increase his desire for 
 their society. 
 
38 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " It was all owing to his foolish fancy for Toi- 
 nette," they said, " that there was such trouble with 
 old Mabel. He was so selfish. He would have that 
 good-for-nothing yaller gal, if everybody went without 
 dinners for a year. It was just like him." 
 
 Such remarks impaired his self-complacency. He 
 did not like to be blamed abstractly, and especially 
 not for what he considered to be a mere accident. 
 So when pcre Hunter said to the new wearer of the 
 toga virilis, after ominous fidgettings and stammerings, 
 the next evening, " Geoffy, son, would you mind ex- 
 changing that gal Toinette for Mary's Cely.?" 
 
 The young ex-collegian merely smoked a little 
 impatiently and said : 
 
 "I know of no reason why I should." 
 
 "Well, there ain't no reason, only Mabel takes on 
 so," replied the father. 
 
 " I do n't intend to make any woman my mistress 
 nor allow her to control my actions — least of all a 
 servant," said the son. " Toinette will be as well off 
 at the Lodge as here, and better, too, for I sha'n't 
 expect her to work much. I am not a fool, and though 
 I do n't intend to turn speculator, I know her value. 
 I asked for the girl because she was a favorite of 
 ma's and a sprightly creature. Now that you have 
 given her to me I shall keep her because Aunt Lucy 
 and my sisters have raised such a furore over my 
 causing old Mabel's pout, and so spoiling their dinner." 
 
 " True, true, she 's your property," said the old 
 man with a tone of disappointment, and so the subject 
 was dropped. 
 
MABEL. 39 
 
 It had been Geoffrey's intention to remain at the 
 paternal mansion during the Christmas week, but his 
 annoyance was so great that he directed his body- 
 servant, Bob, to have everything in readiness to return 
 to Lovett Lodge the next morning. He then sent for 
 Toinette and bade her make preparations to accompany 
 him. Seeing that the girl's face was clouded, and 
 divining the cause, he said : 
 
 " Do n't be put out at Aunt Mabel's huff. She feels 
 badly at your going away, no doubt, but when she 
 fmds how much easier you '11 live at the Lodge than 
 here, she '11 be glad you 've gone." 
 
 Toinette was young and fond of novelty. To be 
 the property of Geoffrey, the son, instead of Manuel, 
 the father, was by no means a terrible thing in her 
 eyes. Her alarm on learning that she was sold was 
 the result not of a change of ownership, but of fear 
 of removal from her mother and acquaintances. Her 
 memories of Geoffrey before his collegiate days, and 
 during vacations since, were not unpleasant. He had 
 always been a favorite among his father's servants, and 
 was reported by the hands on the Lovett place to be 
 a good, kind master, and especially opposed to the 
 cruel regime of so many masters and overseers. They 
 even reported that the tobacco crop had been housed 
 that year and cured in fine style without a lick being 
 struck, or hardly an ill word being uttered ; that they 
 had been well fed and fairly worked. Indeed, she 
 knew that very many of both sexes who had con- 
 trol of their own hiring had applied to "Young 
 Mass' Geoff' to put in wid him for de nex' year." 
 
40 A HOYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 But she remembered her mother's grief, so she only 
 said : 
 
 " Thank you, Mas'r Geoffrey, I hope we '11 get on 
 well," — in a quick, simple manner. Geoffrey looked at 
 her and thought — as he would of a thoroughbred colt 
 — fine blood there. She would be a lady if she wasn't 
 a nigger. Yet she was a nigger. He knew that, and 
 his property, too. She stood fondling old Leon's ear 
 while their master mused. The dog had become very 
 fond of the young girl who was making such trouble 
 to others. At length Geoffrey said, 
 
 " But I promised you a new dress and apron, — I 
 will do better; there," handing her a paper; "is an 
 order on Hendricks for a full rig ; dress, shoes, apron, 
 and other toggery, as a sailor would say. Get a nice 
 Sunday suit, and never mind the price. Bob will go 
 round with you." 
 The order read : 
 
 Messrs. Hendricks & Son. — Please furnish my girl Toinette, 
 the bearer, with as fine an outfit as your stock affords, regardless 
 of cost, allowing her to select, and send bill by Bob. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter. 
 
 " If I choose to make the gal a doll it 's nobody's 
 business. She's mine," said he to himself, as Toinette 
 went out. The idea seemed to strike him with pecu- 
 liar force. He would dress this slave girl as a lady, 
 and people should count it among the eccentricities 
 whicTi already they attributed to him. She and Leon 
 should be his pets. People should not say he did not 
 show good taste in his selections. The idea pleased 
 him wonderfully. He went himself the next morning 
 
MABEL. 41 
 
 to Hendricks & Son to see that his order was not 
 taken with a limitation. 
 
 Old Mabel did not come back to the kitchen of 
 Manuel Hunter during the Christmas, and all search 
 for her proved unavailing. Miss Lucy declared that 
 the overseer should give her "twenty licks" for every 
 day she was absent, a report which Manuel Hunter in- 
 stantly negatived upon, hearing it, — informing Miss 
 Lucy, somewhat sharply, that no one should strike 
 his niggers, except by his direction. He asked every 
 morning if she had returned, and seemed greatly troubled 
 when answered in the negative. His neighbors said 
 that "he sot a heap by that ongrateful old nigger." 
 The servants " 'llowed he was afeard he 'd lose de bes' 
 cook in de State." 
 
 Which was right.? Was it the loss of his dinner or 
 the loss of his chattel that troubled him, or had con- 
 science stripped the husk of mastership from his soul 
 and impressed upon him the humanity of his slave.'* 
 
 It was strange, but he made no threats, offered no 
 rewards, and, in short, took none of the steps a master 
 should to secure the recapture of a runaway. 
 
 4 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 FROM SIRE TO SON. 
 
 AT the time appointed, greatly to the surprise of the 
 paternal Hunter, Geoffrey started for his new plan- 
 tation, — himself and the driver, Bob, in the buggy seat, 
 and on the oval trunk support behind, his new " yaller 
 gal" Toinette, and — strange anomaly — her little bundle 
 of earthly possessions, the chattels-personal, which, from 
 a sort of necessity, adhered to the animate-personalty, 
 the chattel-real. For, somehow, there was no legal 
 subtlety which could deny the slave's right to some 
 sort of an outfit. 
 
 The fourth day of "the Christmas "—for "the 
 Christmas " to the slave reached from Dec. 25th to 
 Jan. I St, inclusive, the successive days being distin- 
 guished by numbering — had not opened as pleasantly 
 as its predecessor seemed to have promised. A cold, 
 drizzling, steady rain had set in with a sharp wind 
 from the north-west. It was almost the first cold storm 
 of the season. As Bob had remarked, lucidly, to the 
 temporary cook, in the kitchen of the Hunter man- 
 sion — "Bin so warm, it jes' open de skin so 't one git 
 full ob cold in a minit." Long wear had also opened 
 the finger ends of Bob's gloves — " they was once Mass' 
 Geoffrey's best pair, but that was a time ago," he had 
 said, jollily — and, as he drove along, each dusky finger 
 
FROM SIRE TO SON, 43 
 
 showed chill and shrunken through the worn integu- 
 ment. Well clad and comfortable sat the young mas- 
 ter beside him, wrapped and muffled, smoking in quiet 
 complacency. And behind, one hand clinging to the 
 back of the buggy seat, the other at once holding her 
 bundle and acting as an improvised balancing pole, 
 sat Toinette. Her abbreviated frock, of the coarse 
 linsey-woolsey which constituted the winter wear of 
 slaves and poor whites, flying in the wind and her 
 stockingless legs swinging to and fro, with the huge 
 uncomely shoes, made for plantation use, bouncing 
 bacK and forth as the wheels sank into overflowing 
 ruts or mounted upon roots and stumps which adorned 
 the highway, and which Bob was in no mood to 
 shun. 
 
 Bespattered with mud, bedraggled with rain, chilled 
 with the cold breath of the coming winter, she thought 
 of her mother's words, " Child, it were better you had 
 never been born." She was going away from her 
 mother, away from home — she called it " home " and 
 "hers." She almost laughed as she thought of it, not 
 bitterly — she had not yet reached the dregs — but it 
 seemed so absurd. What difference did it make to her 
 where she was — where she went } Nothing was hers, 
 not even herself. She doubted if her soul was. What 
 matter where she lived .-^ It was only so many days, 
 and then — would she have anything, own anything, 
 possess anything, be anything, after that great "Then ".? 
 She doubted. 
 
 How the wind blew ! She almost wished the chill 
 would reach her heart and stop its beating, before her 
 
44 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 life grew so fearfully sad as she knew her mother's 
 must have been. The master was dreaming of the in- 
 heritance toward which he rode, and Bob was too 
 cold to let the proud-stepping bay sleep in the traces. 
 He looked around sometimes too, and saw the little 
 half-clad creature behind, clinging to the seat-rail, 
 and bouncing to and fro as if blown by the wind. 
 He heard the low moans which came from the chilled 
 lips, and slyly gave the bay a touch of the whip. The 
 road was short from the Hunter Home to Lovett 
 Lodge that day to one of the men, long enough to the 
 bare-fingered chattel who held the whip and reins, and 
 seemed almost endless to the drenched and drabbled 
 creature, who was borne, chilled to the marrow, tearful 
 and hopeless, away from slavery's childhood and a 
 chattel mother, to a womanhood of bondage, with the 
 protection only of Him who shields the lamb from 
 ■ winter storms. 
 
 Thus they went to Lovett Lodge. 
 
 " Bless me ! " exclaimed Geoffrey, jumping from the 
 buggy as they reached their destination, half-benumbed 
 in spite of wrappings, as he saw old Leon, with his 
 fore-paws upon the axle, licking the tear-stained face 
 of his new friend, who clung in shivering unconscious- 
 ness to her perch, *' Bless me, if the child isn't near 
 about frozen ! Maggie ! O Maggie ! " 
 
 The master's voice brought from the house old Mag- 
 gie, — the very picture of rotund, healthy, black benig- 
 nity. A form and face that bade defiance to age and 
 trouble, and a step that showed capacity for a "heap 
 o* work yit." Her best calico was doing its Christmas 
 
FROM SIRE TO SON. 45 
 
 duty, the sleeves rolled above the elbows, to avoid mis- 
 hap, while the snowiest of turbans crowned her head, 
 whose matted locks were just beginning to show silver 
 threads. 
 
 "Why, whoever in the world hev yo' got thar. Mass* 
 Geoffrey?" she exclaimed, after dropping a curtsey and 
 uttering the customary " Christmas Gif." "Lawsakes, 
 ef t'aint Mabel's Toinette ! Shakes like it had an agur 
 fit," and the kind-hearted old slave woman folded her 
 sooty arms about the shivering, splattered figure on the 
 "buck-board," regardless of consequences to the best 
 calico, and carried her affectionately into the house. 
 Old Leon followed, contentedly, bringing the bundle 
 which had fallen from Toinette 's grasp. 
 
 There was a huge fire in the great sitting-room of 
 the mansion, for, besides the master's absence, the 
 fact that she was housekeeper at the Lodge, and 
 his almost constant occupation of the Library, had 
 given Maggie a show of reason for making herself a 
 pretty constant denizen of this room. A measure which 
 was attended with so many conveniences, and so pru- 
 dently executed, that Geoffrey had not only come to 
 acquiesce in, but really to approve, it. 
 
 He had all confidence in old Maggie, people said, 
 and allowed her great privileges. Why should he 
 not .? Those strong arms had been his cradle, and 
 from that bosom he had drawn the strength of his 
 young life. She was his old nurse, and she loved him 
 as her son, aye, even as she loved that son whose 
 lips had been taken from her breast, and who had 
 been sold to the trader, that she might give more at*. 
 
4G A A'OVAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 tention and care to the young heir of the Hunter 
 family. 
 
 "There was no trusting them," the sage Manuel 
 had said, when remonstrated with by his feeble wife. 
 They would neglect the children they were nursing, 
 as long as their own brats were in reach. It was a 
 likely young nigger, and wouldn't bring anything now, 
 scarcely; but it was better to sacrifice something, to 
 make sure the boy — his boy, the hope of the Hunter 
 name — should receive proper attention. 
 
 So the black baby was taken from the clinging arms 
 and yearning breast, and the puny wdiite one placed 
 there instead. How the arms loathed it ! How the 
 swelling breasts shrank from it, and refused it suste- 
 nance until its wailing cry minded the mother of her own 
 lost treasure. Then the arms clasped it close, the breast 
 yielded its wealth, and the slave mother supplied with 
 tearful assiduity the wants of her infant lord and mas- 
 ter. She had a foolish notion, that as she cared for 
 her nursling so would the Good Master in Heaven care 
 for her own motherless boy. Of course it was foolish. 
 God cared nothing for the little nigger brat. But it 
 consoled her, and she had always kept up the delusion. 
 It made her feel better, and kept her from giving up 
 entirely. Thus the white baby had come almost un- 
 consciously to take the place of the black one she had 
 lost, or, rather, since the latter was never forgotten, the 
 Caucasian master-child had come to be a twin exist- 
 ence, in the memory of the chattel-mother, with the lost 
 African slave-brat. So that when the actual baby in 
 her arms was christened, with abundant ceremony, 
 
FROM SIRE TO SON. 47 
 
 ''Geoffrey," with loving tears she had baptized the dusky 
 mannikin she nourished still in memory, " Jeff." 
 
 Before the huge fireplace sat a large splint-bottomed 
 arm-chair, from which Maggie had risen when called 
 by Geoffrey, and here she now deposited her burden, 
 and had removed the dripping bonnet when Geoffrey 
 appeared, bringing in the Christmas gifts which, care- 
 fully bundled up, had been stowed under the seat, 
 during the ride. 
 
 "Pore thing, pore thing," repeated old Maggie, 
 " whatever did you bring her fur, in dis awful weather 
 Mas'r Geoffrey.?" 
 
 "Why, to see you, Maggie, and be a little company 
 for you," replied the young master. 
 
 " Wal, wal ! " laughed Aunt iMaggie, for she was not 
 proof against flattery, especially from Geoffrey, and 
 when it assumed the form of considerate kindness, "but 
 ole Maggie's not so bad off fur company while young 
 Mas'r Geoff's about that you need to go and freeze dis 
 pore gal to death jes to bring her out to visit me, 
 though I da'say she wanted to come an' see old Mag- 
 gie. Dey all takes to me, black an' white — even de ole 
 dog hisself. Why, whatever has he got now .? " she ex- 
 claimed, as Leon came waddling up to her with a 
 somewhat cumbrous bundle in his mouth. " Law sakes ! 
 ef 't tain't the pore chile's duds ! What does it all 
 mean, IMass'r Geoffrey .? " 
 
 " Simply that my father made me a very bountiful 
 Christmas gift, including the Lovett place, my old nurse, 
 and about a dozen other servants," said Geoffrey, with 
 a poorly-assumed air of confident indifference. 
 
48 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " Wal, wal, I'se jes de same as bin yourn' dis one 
 an' twenty years," replied Maggie, " but dat do n't 
 'splain Toinette's bein' here." 
 
 "Toinette was a part of the present," said Geof- 
 frey. 
 
 "Wal, wal, I nebber! Toinette a part of de gif!" 
 said the old nnrse in amazement. 
 
 " Why, what is there so surprising about that .? " 
 asked Geoffrey. 
 
 "Oh, nuffin, nuffin, only I heard Mass'r Manwel 
 promise INIiss Ruth that he never Avould sell or give 
 'way Toinette ner Mabel, an' when he died dat *dey 
 sartin should be sot free," answered Maggie. 
 
 " Did my father promise my mother that "i " asked 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 " He did, chile, sartin shore ; shore 's ole nuss tells 
 ye, an' ye know she would n't tell a lie fur de hull 
 worl'," Maggie replied. 
 
 " No, Aunt Maggie, you never told me a lie, and I 
 do n't think you '11 begin now. This explains some- 
 thing though," said Geoffrey, and he began to pace the 
 room with a disturbed countenance. 
 
 "What is it, honey .^" said old Maggie, as she paused 
 in her task of restoring consciousness by rubbing and 
 warming Toinette's chilled limbs. 
 
 And then the young master sat down near the old 
 servant and told her all that had occurred during the 
 two previous days at the Hunter rnansion. AVhen he 
 had finished the old nurse looked grave for a time, and 
 then, turning sharply upon him, asked : 
 
 "What made ye ask Toinette of yer father? Ye 
 
FROM SIRE TO SON. 49 
 
 know he can't refuse ye, an' what do you want o* de 
 gal, anyhow? " 
 
 " I hardly know," he answered ; " I had a fancy for 
 her. She is so full of life, quick and intelligent. I 
 believe if my motives had been analyzed at the time 
 they would have been found to be, to give you a little 
 help and a good deal of company." 
 • "An' nuffin' else.''" she asked, eyeing him closely. 
 
 He hesitated a moment, flushed angrily, and then 
 replied, " Nothing else. You do n't think I mean to 
 turn speculator.^" and added, '' Xow that you have 
 told me my father's promise to my mother, I am deter- 
 mined that it shall be fulfilled. I will keep the girl 
 and take good care of her as ray mother did, and when 
 my father dies she shall be emancipated. She will 
 be quite as well off here as at home, I do not care to 
 have everybody know my intention, but I will attend 
 to it at once." 
 
 And so Toinette's future was mapped out before 
 she had recovered her consciousness. This Christmas 
 was likely to be an eventful one to her, at least. 
 
 Meantime but little progress was made in the process 
 of restoration. The chill was so severe as to threaten 
 serious results, and Geoffrey more than once suggested 
 sending for a physician. Aunt Maggie, however, de- 
 clared it unnecessary, and merely redoubled her own 
 efforts, saying that she " knowed better nor any doc- 
 tor." After a time the opening of Toinette's eyes, and 
 some wondering questions as to her whereabouts, veri- 
 fied the truth of the assertion, "It was only wrappin' 
 and rubbin', an' a good fire an' a little toddy she 
 
50 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 needed to bring her all right," Aunt Maggie said, as 
 she forced another dose of the latter down the girl's 
 unwilling throat. 
 
 She soon brightened, partook heartily of Aunt 
 Maggie's bountiful dinner, and was ready to begin 
 prospecting in the new dominion of her new master. 
 Having learned the interest manifested in her by 
 Leon, she at once established a sworn friendship with 
 the noble old Newfoundland, and from that day on 
 they were almost inseparable companions. 
 
 The young master watched her thoughtfully, as she 
 alternately petted the dog and inspected narrowly her 
 surroundings. The old nurse had arrayed her in the 
 best of her slave garments, instead of the old and 
 soiled one in which she had made the journey. Thus 
 clad, and the wealth of black hair brushed back from 
 her forehead and hanging in loose curls upon her 
 shoulders, with dark, liquid eyes, full of childish won- 
 der, and the red flushing the clear, soft olive of her 
 cheek, it was no wonder that Mr. Geoffrey Hun- 
 ter more than once thought of his father's remark — "A 
 right likely gal." But somehow he was not much in- 
 clined to estimate her value now. He had an idea in 
 his head which pleased him better, and w^as going to 
 carry it out. 
 
 Why should he not .^ he asked himself. He could 
 afford to. His mother liked this girl — half child yet — 
 who had attended her in sickness with such unusual 
 devotion — loved her almost as if she had been her 
 own daughter; and it was her desire that Toinette 
 should be emancipated. It should be done. Of course, 
 
FROM SIRE TO SON. 51 
 
 his mother would not have desired that she should 
 receive her freedom until she was prepared to pre- 
 serve and enjoy it. She should have freedom, and 
 he, Geoffrey Hunter, would prepare her for it. He 
 would do this in honor of his mother's memory. He 
 knew that she would approve the act could she but 
 know of it. The child was all but white, anyhow. 
 It was a shame to hold her a slave. He would edu- 
 cate her and fit her for freedom, and when his father 
 died — perhaps before — she should be free. 
 
 It was a generous resolve which warmed the heart 
 and moistened the eye of the young man. It brought 
 the reward which the very contemplation of a good 
 act always brings — the pay in advance which the Lord 
 gives to them that do right — a lightened spirit. 
 
 "Well, Toinette," said he presently, "did you get 
 a Christmas gift to suit you .? " 
 
 She lifted her eyes to his face and answered blunt 
 and straight : 
 
 " No, sah, did n't get any." 
 
 " Not get any, Toinette ! " he said. " Why not } " 
 
 " Mass'r Hendricks would n't let me have what 
 I wanted, so I come off widout anything," she re- 
 plied. 
 
 " That 's strange. I told Hendricks to let you 
 have whatever you liked, if it was the best in the 
 store," Geoffrey replied. 
 
 " That 's what he tole me, sah," said Toinette. 
 
 " And yet he would not let you have what you 
 wanted .^ " Geoffrey asked. 
 
 "No, sah." 
 
52 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " I do n't quite understand that. Tell me how it 
 was," her master said kindly. 
 
 " Well, you see, sah," said she, coming nearer, and 
 speaking earnestly, " I went to de store wid Bob, an' 
 giv' Mass'r Hendricks de order, an' tole him I wanted 
 a Christmas dress an' apron. He said, ' I under- 
 stand, I understand,* an' then begun to take down 
 the prettiest goods in de store, real splendid — like 
 Miss Lucy an' Miss Mary wears — all soft, an' warm, 
 an' nice. An' I kep' lookin' at one piece an' another, 
 an' wishin', an' wishin' I was some great lady to wear 
 such gran' close till I mos' got to thinkin' I was. I 
 stood there, an' kep' sayin', what a pretty dress this 
 would make, an' what a fine mantilly that ; an' Mass'r 
 Hendricks he kep' sayin', ' Which do you like bes', dis 
 one or dat one?' an' of course I'd tell him; an' I 
 do n't know but I'd stood there till now if it had n't 
 been for Bob." She hesitated, and Geoffrey abked : 
 
 " Well, what did Bob do ? " 
 
 " Nuffin', only " — and she hesitated. 
 
 "Only what.^" asked Geoffrey, evidently enjoying 
 the girl's story of her exploit. 
 
 " Well, he jis said to one of de men in de store, 
 
 * Lor' do n't she make Mass'r Geoffrey's r^ioney fly, 
 for a young un.' But I had no idea of buyin' them 
 nice things for myself, Mass'r Geoffrey, not a bit. So 
 I tole Mass'r Hendricks I jis wanted some good calico, 
 an' was only lookin' at these nice things; — tho' t he 
 was only showin' 'em to me for de fun. He only said, 
 
 * Yes, yes, I know,' an' would n't show me any calico 
 at all. He said 'twas Mass'r Geoff"'s orders, an' Mass'r 
 
FROM SIRE TO SON, 53 
 
 Geoff knowed what he was about, ef he was n't as old 
 as a bald eagle.' An' the long an' short of it was, he 
 would n't let me have calico, an' I would n't take any- 
 thing else." 
 
 " And so you got no Christmas gift ? " said Geof- 
 frey. 
 
 " No, sah," Toinette replied, 
 
 "What is this then.''" he asked, taking the one he 
 had brought in from the sideboard. " Bob said it was 
 your things, and here is Hendrick's bill of articles — 
 'Bought by Toinette'; this must be yours." 
 
 He unrolled the package and displayed the goods — 
 soft, rich merinos, with dainty trimmings, and fresh, 
 pure muslins, seeming like the work of fairy hands be- 
 side the coarse dress she now wore. A pretty hood 
 and elegant shoes completed the outfit. One by one 
 they rolled from Geoffrey's knees to the floor at the 
 feet of the wondering child. " It was not strange she 
 wished herself a lady," he thought, when he compared 
 the slave costume with the elegant goods upon the 
 floor. They did credit to her taste, too. No harsh, 
 glaring colors, but, as she said, " soft, and warm, and 
 nice." 
 
 " So these are not your things } " he said ; " you did 
 not buy them.^ " 
 
 " Oh, no, sah ! Mass'r Hendricks knows I did n't. 
 I tole him I only wanted calico," she answered, with a 
 frightened look. 
 
 " Then I must send them back, I suppose ? " said he. 
 
 " I reckon so, sah. He mus' a known I did n't want 
 such goods ez these," she answered, meditatively. 
 
54 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 * Of course ; but suppose I give them to you, would 
 you not like to wear them ? " said Geoffrey. 
 
 "Oh, Mass'r Geoffrey!" said the girl, in confusion, 
 
 "oh, Mass'r Geoff, I'se only a ." The blood rushed 
 
 over neck and face in a sweeping flood of shame. Her 
 limbs tottered, and her breath came quick and chok- 
 ingly. Of course he knew she was " only a ." As 
 
 if she should think of being anything else. Oh, why, 
 why! Her soul was beating against the prison bars 
 already. She knew that such garments were not befit- 
 ting "a ." Somehow the confusion got into Geof- 
 frey Hunter's face too. It was hot and flushed. He 
 was glad she did not finish the sentence. It was doubt- 
 ful which was the most nonplussed, the newly-acquired 
 slave or the newly-fledged master. 
 
 " Pshaw, pshaw ! " said he, petulantly, " they are 
 yours, child. Take them, take them ! " And he arose 
 and left the room. 
 
 "'Only a .' Gad, I was afraid she'd finish it 
 
 and say 'nigger.' I should have told her 'twas a lie 
 if she had. Damned if I believe there's 'nig' enough 
 in her veins to keep a musquito alive two seconds ! " 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 MORTUA MANUS. 
 
 GEOFFREY HUNTER was not a man to sleep 
 upon his intentions, good or bad. There was 
 no hesitating, waiting, or trifling in his composition. 
 Direct and earnest, he went like an arrow straight to 
 the mark. Accordingly the next day saw him alight 
 at the street door of his father's office. 
 
 " Howdye, son, howdye .'' Anything wrong at Lov- 
 ett's.''" asked the old man, anxiously. 
 
 " All tolerable there, 1 thank you ; I just came 
 over on business," said the son. 
 
 " Oh, something you need at Hendricks', I sup- 
 pose," said the father. 
 
 "No," replied Geoffrey, "my business is with you. 
 I want a deed of manumission." 
 
 ' Hey, Geoffrey," said the old man in surprise, " you 
 are not turning Abolitionist, are you.? You crazy boy, 
 you frighten me ! " 
 
 " No, I am not turning Abolitionist, and you need 
 not be frightened on that score, for I am not likely to ; 
 but, nevertheless, I want a deed of manumission drawn, 
 and if you will not do it for me I will go over to Per- 
 kins and employ him," said Geoffrey, laughing. 
 
 And then Geoffrey Hunter explained that having 
 learned it to be the desire of his lately deceased 
 
56 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 mother that Toinette should be manumitted, at least 
 on the death of her former master — he, her present 
 master, conceived it his duty, in consideration of his 
 dead parent's wish, to make provisions for her eman- 
 cipation according to his father's promise, if not be- 
 fore. He was strengthened in this resolution, too, by 
 an unwillingness which he felt to hold as a slave, or 
 sell, one who evidently had a strong preponderance 
 of Saxon blood. 
 
 " Yes, Geoffrey," said the old man, earnestly, " your 
 mother did wish the gal and her mammy sot free, and 
 spoke to me about it times without number, in her 
 later days. I did 'low to have it done then, but her 
 sister Lucy kept insisting that Ruthy was crazy, and 
 her conceits didn't signify; that if I'd only jest 
 promise, so 's to satisfy her, it would all be right. I 
 know I promised her once that they should be free at 
 my decease. And I did make that provision in my 
 will, as you will find when you come to be my ex- 
 ecutor, as I spect you will afore long. Sonny. How- 
 ever, it does not matter now, for that part of the will 
 can never be executed. 
 
 " You see, the General Assembly last winter took 
 it into their heads to regulate the matter of emanci- 
 pation, on the idea that the institution of slavery needed 
 another restriction to keep it in life. Besides that, 
 this abolition business at the North is playing the 
 wild with our people's notions. They think because 
 those fanatics are trying to free all the niggers, it is 
 our business to turn in and prevent any of them from 
 getting their liberty. We hav' n't got quite so bad as 
 
MORTUA MAN US. 57 
 
 that, Geoffy — not here. In some of the States they 
 have gone to even that length. There is enough re- 
 gard left with us yet for the very name of freedom, 
 ^ihat freedom so dear to the common law that it never 
 would take kindly to the system of slavery — there is 
 just enough of that left, so that a kind intention to- 
 ward a faithful or favorite slave can yet be carried 
 out, if a man is only rich enough to make a deed of 
 gift without his creditors interfering. Even then, how- 
 ever, he must get leave of the Superior Court and give 
 bond, with good security, in the penal sum of a thou- 
 sand dollars, conditioned that the manumitted slave 
 shall leave the State in ninety days thereafter, and 
 never return thereto. This has been the law in effect 
 since '35, when the Constitution was amended and the 
 * free niggers ' deprived of the elective franchise. One 
 always had the right, though, to manumit his slaves 
 by will, the executor complying with the statutory con- 
 ditions, till last winter, when the Legislature repealed 
 that part of the law and made all testamentary eman- 
 cipation void. I 'm sorry for it, too. It looks like an 
 admission of guilt — as if slavery was afraid of the 
 twinges of conscience on the death-bed an' could n't 
 hold its own when the soul began to shrivel into noth*- 
 ingness in the view and presence of the Infinite. 
 
 "I don't know, Geoffy, where all this matter of 
 legislating about slavery, p7'o and con^ in the States 
 and the general Government too, is going to end. 
 I can 't help being afeard that trouble will come 
 on 't sometime. At first, things went agin the South 
 
 m this matter, and it seemed as if slavery was going 
 5 
 
58 'i ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 to lose its foothold in the nation. I 'm sorry some- 
 times that it didn't. We'd been better off, Geoffy — 
 better off. Vou remember Jefferson was dead down 
 agin it, as were a good many of our best Southern men- 
 at first. You know, of course, what Jefferson said, 
 for the Abolitionists hev made a great handle on 't for 
 years, but perhaps you never heard that Kosciusko — 
 the Polish hero who fought for the Colonies in the 
 Revolution, and who certainly had no prejudice in the 
 matter — you may not have heard that he left his en- 
 tire estate to be used in freeing and educating nig- 
 gers. He spent most of his time with Jefferson at 
 Monticello, was a great friend of his, and made him 
 his executor. Jefferson declined the trust, on account 
 of his age, he said. I was over in Albemarle a few 
 years ago, an' went to the clerk's office to see the 
 original will. It 's there, and it seemed strange enough 
 to read the brief, quaint instrument and reflect that 
 the institution which this patriot so feared and de- 
 tested in its infancy has since grown up and over- 
 shadowed the whole land. It 's odd, too, that the very 
 party which Jefferson founded has been the jealous 
 guardian of slavery and its propagation. The centrif- 
 ugal force — the dispersion of power — which was his 
 favorite idea, has been the nurse of the institution 
 which he dreaded and condemned. Had the principle 
 of Hamilton — the centripetal tendency of power — pre- 
 vailed, there is little doubt that slavery would have dis- 
 appeared long ago before the numerical preponderance 
 of the North. 
 
 " Marshall, too, the great expounder of our consti- 
 
MORTUA MAN US. 59 
 
 tution, was never kindly disposed to slavery. Though 
 he had to pronounce it legal, from a conviction that 
 the young Republic could not endure the shock of an 
 adverse decision, there was an undertone went through 
 the entire case that was more convincing than the 
 text. You will find it in loth Wheaton^ and it 's worth 
 reading. 
 
 " The fact is, Geoffrey, those old fellows were the 
 right kind of Abolitionists. They owned niggers, and 
 wer' n't meddling with what they had no interest in, 
 or, like the old Sarmatian, were too high-minded to 
 have any but a noble motive. If there had been more 
 of them they would have found some way to get rid 
 of the trouble long ago. I 'm more 'n half of the no- 
 tion it would hev been better if they had. 
 
 " After this, everything turned in our favor, and 
 slavery has certainly been 'cock of the walk' since '32 
 or thereabouts. I 'm afraid it 's not for always, though. 
 The institution aint what it once was. Years ago, when 
 our fathers fust held slaves, they were poor an' hard- 
 working themselves, the majority of them. And even 
 the richest had to hev a keer over things we do n't 
 give 'em now-a-days. The system was patriarchal then, 
 sure enough. These poor heathen niggers had all the 
 privileges of a Christian family. Sometimes they learned 
 to read and write. They were kept and cared for, and 
 taught to work and obey the law. Those were great 
 things, Sonny, to teach a heathen to work and behave 
 himself — an' I 've always thought that slavery in the 
 United States was as divinely ordained as the church 
 itself. I 've no doubt time will prove it so. I do n't 
 
60 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 know why it was, for there 's a heap of bad things come 
 with it, or with its abuse, certain, but my word for it, 
 Son, it wa'n't no accident; God meant it — an' meant it 
 for some good, too. And when it 's done its work, he '11 
 find a way to end it. I 'm afeard it 's coming to be 
 such a high-pressure system of speculation,* that it will 
 bring up at the bad yet. The pesky Abolitionists fuss- 
 ing and jowering about what they know nothing of an* 
 haint no more interest in than a dog in a cider-mill, 
 to my notion, are just making a bad matter worse all 
 the time. They give an excuse to bad men to make 
 our slave-laws harsher and our practice rougher every 
 year — an' at the same time they provoke good men, by 
 their lies an' slanders, to sit still and see this done 
 without objections. 
 
 " There seems to be trouble brewing now, and I 
 think we are just at the fust on 't. But there, there, 
 do n't let 's talk about it any more. It 's an unpleas- 
 ant thing to think of at the best. It 's like every- 
 thing else in politics, brings a heap more trouble than 
 comfort or profit. Do n't ever touch 'em, Geoffy, 
 boy. Whatever other mean thing you may do, keep 
 out of politics. It spoils any man, and kills a lawyer 
 quicker than arsenic. 
 
 " But how about this matter we had in hand } 
 
 " I knew the will was of no account arter the act 
 
 of last winter ; so when you took a fancy to the gal, 
 
 just out 'o weakness or laziness — to avoid the trouble 
 
 of arguing you out on 't — I let you have her. So 
 
 * The word " speculate " and its derivations were applied at 
 the South exclusively to the traflfic in slaves. 
 
MORTUA MAN US. 61 
 
 now I own the mother, an' you own the gal, both of 
 whom I promised Ruthy should be emancipated at my 
 death. Now, as the law forbids my emancipating Mabel 
 by will, and you want to give Toinette her liberty, jes' 
 get yer pen, and sit down here, an' we '11 take the 
 fust step toward fulfilling yer mother's request, pore 
 dear. She '11 nigh forgit the joys of Heaven when she 
 sees her old Manuel an' our Geoffy remembering her 
 last wish, an doin' on 't. Now, let me see : the first 
 thing is a petition under ch. 107 of the Code, sec. 45' 
 It 's not done often, so that a lawyer is not usually 
 required to draw more than one in a lifetime, and not 
 one in a hundred of the profession could tell whether 
 it was right or wrong without consulting the statute. 
 " Now write the usual heading — 
 
 ' State of North Carolina, \ ^'' ^^'' Superio r Court. 
 
 County of Cold Spring, t o. • ^t- o 
 
 ) spring lerm^ 1^5 9. 
 
 * To the Honorable^ the Judge of said Co2iri :' 
 
 (" Put in your colon. Son. Never forgit yer colons 
 an' brackets in heading a paper. It has been decided 
 that punctuation is no part of a statute ; but I tell you. 
 Son, it is a part of a legal instrument. You mind what 
 has been said about pleading, that ' he who knows how 
 to use the words " said " and " aforesaid " is a good 
 pleader ' — not because these words are more important 
 than any others, but because a knowledge of their use 
 implies knowledge of a thousand other important things. 
 So, he that knows how to divide and distinguish prop- 
 erly between the different parts of a written instrument 
 — what may be well termed legal punctuation — is a 
 
62 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 good draughtsman, and no one else can be. Now 
 go on.) 
 
 " ' Your Petitioner, Manuel Hunter, respectfully rep- 
 resents unto your Honor, that he is an inhabitant of 
 the State and county aforesaid;' — (You see, Son, the 
 statute requires the petition to set forth that fact, be- 
 fore the court can have jurisdiction. The ordinary 
 form uses "citizen" or "resident," but the term em- 
 ployed in the statute is "inhabitant." It is a word 
 somewhat rare In our State legislation, being generally 
 confined to international law. I have spent some time 
 in trying to make out what reason there might be for 
 Its use here, but have never been able to discover. It 
 Is used, however, and a draughtsman should always 
 follow the statute. Remember that. Son) — ' that he Is 
 the sole and separate owner of a certain female slave 
 named Mabel, of the age of fifty ; or thereabouts ' — 
 (I never know'd her age exactly ; but with that white 
 hair she'll bear fifty as well as any other figure, and 
 there's generally less objection to freein* a slave of that 
 age, than one younger, 'specially if it 's a woman,) — 
 ' that the said petitioner is desirous of emancipating 
 the female slave aforesaid, in the manner prescribed by 
 law, and is ready, willing, and able to comply with the 
 conditions legally attaching to such emancipation. 
 
 " ' Your Petitioner further shows that he has given 
 due notice of his Intention, by Public Advertisement, 
 in the manner and form required by law. 
 
 " ' Your Petitioner, therefore, prays this Honorable 
 Court, to grant to him leave to manumit and set free 
 the aforesaid female slave, " Mabel," upon your Peti- 
 
MORTUA MAN US. 63 
 
 tioner entering into bond with sufficient security, con- 
 ditioned for the good behaviour of said slave, while 
 she shall remain in the State after her emancipation, 
 and that she shall depart therefrom within ninety days 
 from the granting of this Petition, according to the 
 statute in such cases made and provided. 
 
 'And your Petitioner will ever pray,' &c. 
 
 "There, now, let me sign it," and the old man took 
 the pen, and wrote in characters whose strength was 
 somewhat marred by the uncertainties of age, "Manuel- 
 Hunter." 
 
 " Now for the advertisement, for this is only half," 
 said he, as he removed his " specs " and leaned back 
 in his easy chair. 
 
 Geoffrey resumed his pen, and wrote to his father's 
 dictation as follows : 
 
 " To whom it may concern : 
 
 " You are hereby notified that the undersigned, being 
 the sole and separate owner of a certain female slave, 
 named " Mabel," will petition the Honorable Superior 
 Court to be held in and for the County of Cold 
 Spring, at its next term, to be held on the sixth Mon- 
 day after the first Monday in March next, for leave to 
 emancipate the same." 
 
 Signed, Manuel Hunter. 
 
 " Now you want to draw up exactly the same pa- 
 pers, in Toinette's case, only changing the names and 
 age," the old man said. " The advertisement you must 
 publish for six weeks in the Gazette — there's just time 
 to do it before the term." 
 
64 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 And so the papers were duly prepared, to set in 
 motion the machinery of the law, which was to trans- 
 form the chattels-r<f^7/ — Mabel and Toinette — into self- 
 directing human beings; and the same were duly filed 
 in the office of the Clerk of the Superior Court of the 
 County of Cold Spring, at the Courthouse in Perham, 
 in the good State of North Carolina. 
 
 The road to Lovett Lodge seemed shorter than ever 
 before to Geoffrey Hunter that night. The silly fool 
 flattered himself that he was doing an act of most 
 unusual charity towards a fellow-creature, who had 
 appealed strongly and peculiarly to his sympathies. 
 He did not think the act would be a curse to the girl. 
 He did not expect her to regard it in that light, and, 
 strangely enough, he did not once dream that she would 
 refuse the charity he designed to offer her. But he did 
 not mean she should know it at present. It would do 
 her no good. She would just grow lazy and dissatis- 
 fied with her present condition if she were told. It 
 would be time enough to inform her when the act of 
 emancipation was completed. 
 
 He did not consider that he was a dangerous Jac- 
 obin, thus to break up and disturb the normal con- 
 dition of things in the patriarchal South; that his 
 act was a step toward the recognition of " the nigger " 
 as a human being, an independent moral entity, instead 
 of an article of merchandise; that he was striking a 
 blow at the relations of master and slave on which the 
 harmony and prosperity of society depended; that he 
 was, in short, in great danger of becoming that terrible 
 thing, an Abolitionist. He did not think, in reflecting 
 
MORTUA MAN US. 65 
 
 upon what he had done for Toinette, of the Incapacity 
 of her race for self-support and self-protection. He 
 did not conjecture the possibility of her becoming a 
 vagabond, houseless and homeless, without means, char- 
 acter, or friends, because she had no master. And yet 
 this is the picture any one of his gentlemanly neighbors 
 would have drawn for him. 
 
 As he rode home that day, Geoffrey Hunter pic- 
 tured to himself a little cottage in one of the Western 
 free States, nice and cosy, with fruit and flowers, where 
 Mabel and her daughter Toinette, the faithful servitors 
 of his dead mother, should live in peace and content- 
 ment. More and more, as he dwelt upon the idea, was 
 he inclined to forget the monstrous anomaly which the 
 common law borrowed from the Roman, ^'' Ho?}io sed 
 non persona^'' and applied with redoubled stringency 
 to the American slave. Was it because he recognized 
 instinctively its falsity.^ Or was it because Geoffrey 
 Hunter was eccentric — all the Hunters were — and this 
 was an eccentricity? 
 
CHAP TER VI. 
 
 NOT IN THE BOND. 
 
 THAT night Geoffrey called old Maggie to the 
 library, and told her his plans about Toinette, 
 as far as he knew them. Overwhelming astonishment 
 closed the old nurse's mouth, or she would have inter- 
 rupted him frequently during the narration. As it was, 
 only short ejaculations of surprise and gratification 
 escaped her; but, when he had finished with the ques 
 tion : 
 
 " And now. Auntie, do you understand my idea "i " 
 "Oh law, yes, Mass 'r Geoffrey," said the old wo- 
 man. " De good Lor' be praised ! Understan' you ? I 
 reckon I does. You jes' wants tu larn Toinette to be 
 a lady an' not let her know all de time but what she 's 
 a slave. It 's a mighty hard ting tu do, Mass'r Geoffrey, 
 but we jes try, de bes' we knows. Dat's all. Lor', Lor*, 
 how proud I is ! De boy I nuss gwine tu do dis ting ! 
 Ole Maggie feel mos' as good ez ef she was a gal agin 
 an' gwine to be sot free herself. She don't want to be 
 free now " — seeing an inquiring look on Geoffrey's face. 
 " She 's tu ole, an' 'sides dat she could n't leave you, 
 Honey. No more she could n't, now she 's got you back 
 again." "But," said she, returning to the subject she 
 had left, " whar 's ye gwine to put Toinette ? She '11 
 
NOT IN THE BOND. 67 
 
 hev tu lodge somewhar besides with ole Maggie, if she 's 
 gwine to be free ? " 
 
 "Yes," said Geoffrey, "I wish her to be lodged and 
 treated in accordance with my plans for her future, and 
 so as to promote them as much as possible." 
 
 "Dat's what I thought," said Maggie, "an so I'll 
 jes fix up a room over the dining-room for her. Ther 's 
 one right comfortable an' tidy thar. An' that minds 
 me, Mass'r Geoffrey, dat I foun' annudder room in dis 
 house to-day, jes by accident, dat I reckon you nebber 
 saw." 
 
 " Another room ! " said Geoffrey, " you don't mean 
 to say that there 's any secret closet about the Lodge, 
 do you, Maggie? " 
 
 " No, not 'zactly a closet, but a room dat I nebber 
 dreamed of afore," said the old nurse. 
 
 " A secret room, where is it ? I thought nothing 
 could be hidden here. I must see this curiosity at 
 once," said Geoffrey. 
 
 "Oh, not to-night, Honey! Wait till mornin'," said 
 the old nurse, hastily. " I '11 show it tu ye in the mornin', 
 honey. Ole nuss' rheumatis proper bad to-night." 
 
 " O, Pshaw on your fears, Auntie," said Geoffrey, 
 taking up the tallow dip from the library-table, "the 
 room is not haunted as well as secret, is it .'' " 
 
 " De good Lor' only knows dat, shore, but ole Alag- 
 gie doesn't want to go dar to-night, nohow, Mass'r 
 Geoffrey," said the nurse. 
 
 "Well, well, only show me the door, and you need 
 not go in. I '11 go in alone. Come, where is it } " said 
 Geoffrey. 
 
68 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " De door opens right out of dis room," she an- 
 swered, without getting up. 
 
 " Out of this room ! Impossible," said Geoffrey. 
 
 For a full understanding of the references which will 
 be made to Lovett Lodge and its architectural fea- 
 tures, a description of that structure will be necessary. 
 It was of a style very frequent in the region where our 
 tale is located. The main building was of brick, two 
 stories high, built upon base-wall of considerable eleva- 
 tion, so that the porch, which ran along the front on 
 a level with the ground-floor, was raised upon brick 
 pillars three or four feet high. 
 
 There were three large rooms below, two in front, 
 — the "living room," as it is called, or sitting-room, 
 and parlor, w^ith a wide hall between, which opened on 
 a porch running along one side of the great dining- 
 room in the rear. A servant's lodging-room and a 
 great pantry or store-room opened off the dining-room. 
 The rooms were all large and high, evidently built for 
 coolness, rather than warmth. Each gable was bisected 
 by a huge chimney built upon the outside of the house 
 and opening its capacious jaws upon a line with the 
 walls of the room, so that the fireplaces were not in the 
 several rooms, but adjoining them. 
 
 The library was of wood, a story and a half high, 
 and abutted on the east side of the sitting-room. Its . 
 floor was of the same level, and it was supported on 
 brick pillars like the porch. It had been used as a 
 library before the Hunters came into possession of the 
 Lodge. It had evidently been built at a later day than 
 the main building, and seemed to have been constructed 
 
2\fOT IN THE BOND. 69 
 
 for the very purpose for which it was used. It opened 
 on the portico which ran along in front, and also had 
 a door communicating with the sitting-room. It had 
 but one window, a large one, reaching to the floor, on 
 the east end. Upon either side of the front door-way 
 was the counterpart of this window in appearance 
 from without, but the wall was solid, and the green 
 blinds outside were only an illusion. There were two 
 of these false windows also upon the back side of 
 the building, and one upon the east end, designed, it 
 was supposed, to break the monotony of the blank 
 wall. As one stood in the front door-way the fire- 
 place was in the right-hand corner, opposite, and its 
 flue ran up into the great chimney of the sitting-room, 
 though the two were separate below. To the left of 
 this was an immense oaken wardrobe, which looked 
 as much a part of the framework of the house as 
 the chimney itself, reaching from floor to ceiling, and 
 from the side of the chimney to the wall opposite. 
 Upon the side towards the chimney it w^as divided into 
 shelves and cupboards for papers, and in the corner 
 next the vrall it was wardrobe proper — a very conven- 
 ient piece of furniture to occupy a place in a country 
 gentleman's private office and library. The rest of the 
 walls were covered with open book-shelves. 
 
 " You 've been dreaming, Maggie. There 's no 
 door opening from this room except into the sitting- 
 room and porch," said Geoffrey. 
 
 "Yes, dar is," said the old woman positively. " Ole 
 Maggie wa' n't a-dreamin' when she found it. But 
 wait till mornin', Honey — do now, dat 's a dear — jes to 
 
70 A ROYAL gentleman: 
 
 please de pore ole nuss, dat 's got de rheumatism 
 so." 
 
 "Oh, bother the rheumatism, Auntie. It won't be 
 any better by dayUght than now. I am going to see 
 this curiosity before I sleep, so where 's the door .? " 
 said Geoffrey. 
 
 "In de wardrobe, Mass'r Geoffrey, ef ye mus* know; 
 but do n't go in dar to-night — do n't, please. De ole 
 Boy hisself may be in dar, fur all ole nuss knows t' 
 contrary. Oh Lor' ! oh Lor' ! " she exclaimed, as he 
 opened the door of the wardrobe, springing from her 
 chair and running toward him in a style that promised 
 well for her speedy recovery. " Did n't ye hear dat, 
 Honey .^ Do n'tj don't, Mass'r Geoffrey! It's de 
 den o' sarpints, shore." 
 
 " Hear what } " he asked, listening and looking at 
 her frightened visage. " I heard nothing but your con- 
 founded clatter. There 's no door here," he continued, 
 holding the candle above his head and inspecting the 
 interior of the wardrobe. 
 
 "Dar, dar," said the old nurse, in desperation, " ef 
 ye mus' go to de debble, go. Lift dat knob dar, 'n 
 see ef ye don't bleve ole Maggie den." 
 
 She pointed to a wooden knob precisely like the 
 others, and apparently designed for the same use. 
 Raising this a short distance, the back of the ward- 
 robe opened and disclosed a small but comfortable 
 room, with a wood fire burning on the hearth and a 
 chair standing before it. The rush of air from the 
 sudden opening of the door put out the light, and 
 Geoffrey, after standing a moment to recover from his 
 
NOT IN THE BOND, 71 
 
 astonishment, went back to the grate to relight it, old 
 Maggie clinging to his coat and calling upon the Lord 
 with exemplary energy. Having 'relighted the candle, 
 he returned and examined the newly-discovered room. 
 It had once been considerably used, as was evident 
 from its aspect ; and the furniture, though now scanty, 
 had been of the best quality of the olden style. It 
 contained a bed and a small dressing-case with a mir- 
 ror, a table, and two chairs. The fire had evidently 
 been burning for several hours, though Aunt Maggie 
 declared she had seen none when she was in the room. 
 There did not appear to Geoffrey, after careful exam- 
 ination, to be any other door than the one by which 
 they had entered. 
 
 How Aunt Maggie came to find this room, she 
 could scarcely tell. " Jes by accident," she said, "cos 
 Mass'r Geoffrey's coat hung to de knob when I went 
 to take it down." She had lighted a candle and came 
 cautiously into the room, looking hastily about. She 
 said there was wood in the fireplace but no fire at that 
 time. Geoffrey arrived at the conclusion that she must 
 have accidentally lighted it and had forgotten that she 
 had done so, thus producing this startling appearance 
 of occupancy which met them on their entrance. He 
 also concluded that the room had been unused for 
 several years — perhaps its very existence unknown to 
 those who had lately occupied the mansion. Thinking 
 it might be well that the existence of this room should 
 be kept as quiet as possible, he cautioned Maggie 
 to say nothing about it, and, on going out, locked 
 the wardrobe door and put the key in his pocket. . 
 
72 A J^ OVAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 What the room had been used for he did not know, 
 but it occurred to him at once that here was a place 
 where he could conduct the education of Toinette and 
 no one be the wiser but herself. He was determined she 
 should be educated, and although it was all well enough 
 that his mother, then a helpless invalid, should teach 
 a little " yaller " gal to read, that she might spell out 
 the Psalms and Gospels to her sick mistress, he knew 
 very well that it would not do to have it known in 
 the country that Geoffrey Hunter had turned tutor to 
 one of his own "she-niggers." He might work her night 
 and day, flog and starve and make her the mother of 
 his children, tear them from her breast and sell them 
 to toil and shame again, and all would be well — the 
 foundations of society would still be secure ; but teach 
 her to read and write, educate one of them ! Oh, he 
 knew ! He was Southern-born and was only trying an 
 experiment for the simple fun of the thing. He be- 
 lieved in slavery himself — not so firmly as some, per- 
 haps, not so clearly as he did in his own existence, 
 nor carried to its worst lengths, but enough for all 
 practical purposes. He hated the "speculator " and the 
 overseer. They were excrescences of the system and 
 arose from its abuses. He held that when slavery be- 
 came gregarious, when it passed beyond the stage in 
 which the master and slave were in some sense — often 
 a kind and intimate one — members of the same family, 
 then it became unchristian and barbarous. The great 
 barracoons of the richer planters, termed " quarters," 
 with the entire system of overseers and drivers, he 
 looked upon with distrust. It was stripping the slave 
 
NOT IN THE BOND. 73 
 
 of all humanity and extending the idea of chattelism 
 to a point too close to that of irrational beasts for 
 him to approve. He remembered to have heard that 
 his father had advocated the same ideas very strong- 
 ly when he was young, though he had consider- 
 ably relaxed in practice of late years. Was it because 
 Manuel Hunter was richer now ? He, Geoffrey, was 
 not going to do anything for the negro race ; he would 
 have scorned the imputation : but he meant simply to 
 carry out his own idea, his whim ; and, of course, to 
 fulfill his mother's request. 
 
 This Christmas time had more than its usual share 
 of strange and ghostly experiences. A weird pres- 
 ence, that of a woman, clad in gray, with noiseless 
 footsteps, and who made no shadow in the winter 
 moonlight, had terrified the servants at " The Home," 
 and some rabbit-hunters had beheld a similar presence 
 sitting on the ruins of an old house near Lovett 
 Lodge. It seemed as if the nights of "that season 
 wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated " had not 
 only ceased to be "wholesome," but had become the 
 very carnival time of ghostliness. 
 
 Toinette was soon a fixture at Lovett Lodge. 
 Maggie installed her in one of the upper back rooms, 
 and a white woman who lived in an old log-house on 
 Geoffrey's land, obtaining her sustenance by taking in 
 sewing and various other uncertain devices, was sent 
 for to come and make up the Christmas gift for the 
 new pet. Aunt Maggie had the management of the 
 affair, and seeing that the woman's curiosity was ex- 
 cited, she did not hesitate to tell her that it would be 
 
7i J A' OVAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 well for her to use due discretion in speaking of the 
 matter, or she " would git out o' dat' ar house mighty 
 quick an' git prosecutioned besides." 
 
 " Oh, no danger of me," the woman said, with a 
 leer, and rubbing her dipping-stick about in the box 
 of snuff she held. " No danger of her ; she had lived 
 on tliat place nigh twenty years, jes becos' she could 
 hold her tongue. People might do what they pleased. 
 She didn't keer so long's they didn't 'lest her. An' 
 she had seen strange things there in her time, but 
 't was none o' her business. No, she was n't gwine to 
 tell on 't, though them as did 'em was dead an' gone, 
 or dead at least — p'raps not gone 'zactly. She'd heard 
 —but then it wa'n't none of her business. They'd find 
 out soon enough. 'T was n't the fust time she 'd come 
 there to make ladies' dresses, for them as wa'n't all 
 white, an' mightn't be the last. She'd always been 
 well paid for 't, an* that was enough. She was hired 
 to sow clothes an' not to sow tares — as the Hard-shelU 
 minister used to talk about. He, he ! " The well- 
 laden snuff-brush, with its burden of "Carolina Belle," 
 found its way into her mouth, the blackened fangs 
 closed on it, and cut short the chuckle. 
 
 So Toinette was domesticated at the Lodge, ap- 
 parently as a sort of sinecured assistant of old Mag- 
 gie, with next to nothing to do, and every possible 
 liberty; as the protegee and pupil of Geoffrey Hunter, 
 according to his own dictum, when speaking to himself 
 in the library ; as his present pet and future mistress, 
 so said the little world which knew something of the 
 internal economy of Lovett Lodge. Which was right.'' 
 
NOT IN THE BOND. 75 
 
 The young visionary, or the cool, calculating world, 
 which judges others harshly because itself so vile? 
 
 Affairs progressed satisfactorily for several weeks. 
 Toinette — half child, half woman — accustomed to priv- 
 ilege, as the petted servant of Mistress Ruth in the 
 Hunter menage^ was not long in falling into the niche 
 which Geoffrey had designed for her. In her new and 
 becoming clothing she had more the appearance of a 
 bashful child than a privileged servant. Old Maggie 
 wondered how the girl could unconsciously adapt her- 
 self to the required position so easily. But the effort 
 on the part of the young master was most apparent. 
 He could not, consistently with his own views, treat her 
 as an equal, nor did it suit his purpose to regard her 
 altogether as a menial. Her easy acceptance of the 
 role of petted slave-child and her artless trust in him 
 and affection for his brave Newfoundlander were prob- 
 ably all that saved him from a renunciation of his 
 scheme, as soon as he came to realize the difficult role 
 it imposed on himself. He soon found that she could 
 be allowed to regard his purposed preparation as a sort 
 of play on her part, and as there was but little com- 
 pany at the Lodge, there was no fear of her being 
 seen while engaged in the dangerous act of spelling 
 out the Cadmean mysteries. So, while Greoffrey sat 
 in the library engaged in mastering the musty lore of 
 the common law, Toinette was intent upon the tasks 
 which Mass'r Geoffrey imposed, " to keep her out of 
 mischief," he said. After supper in the great room, 
 while Maggie cleared away the things, he would ques- 
 tion her upon her day's studies. It was not very dig- 
 
76 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 nified, a young country squire teaching one of his 
 "yaller gals;" but somehow he soon grew fond of his 
 evening task, and was irritable if anything prevented 
 him from discharging it. 
 
 Old Maggie would finish her work and sit down 
 in the corner of the fireplace, with her high turban 
 and sooty face, beaming with benignity, and between 
 the whiffs on her short pipe, exclaim, " Law sakes ! 
 how dat ar chile du larn ! " And Geoffrey himself 
 was forced to acknowledge a wonderful capacity for 
 acquisition in "that fly-about Toinette." 
 
CHAPTER VII.. 
 
 MYSTERY. 
 
 GEOFFREY HUNTER'S favorite recreation was 
 music, and of this he was passionately fond. Be- 
 sides possessing a fine tenor voice, which had been 
 trained and cultivated under the best masters, he was 
 a skillful performer upon several instruments. Almost 
 the first piece of furniture he had brought to Lovett 
 Lodge, when he came to superintend the plantation, 
 was a piano, which occupied a corner of the great sit- 
 ting-room. It had been a favorite amusement during 
 the summer and fall, to open the doors and windows 
 and play for the entertainment of the servants and any 
 friends they might have visiting them. Not unfre- 
 quently the porch and wide gravel-path in front were 
 the scene of a jolly break-down, executed by the de- 
 lighted darkies. 
 
 After the first harsh weather of Christmas had con- 
 tinued a day or two, it moderated, and that glory of a 
 Carolina winter came on, a period of vernal mildness 
 and loveliness, when we look for chill and gloom — the 
 days bright and balmy as April, and the nights frosty 
 but clear and radiant as September. 
 
 Bob was therefore commissioned by the other serv- 
 ants to ask Mass'r Geoffrey to give them permission 
 to dance on the porch and in the yard during the 
 
78 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Christmas, and to get him to play some of " dem nice 
 jig tunes on de pianner." The leave was readily ac- 
 corded, and during the rest of the holidays the nightly 
 carousal of the blacks was sure to begin with a break- 
 down on the porch. 
 
 At these times Geoffrey could not but notice the 
 rapt attention his pfotege'e gave to his performance at 
 the piano. When he could overcome her shyness suf- 
 ficiently to induce her to accompany him in some of 
 the familiar tunes his mother had taught her, he was 
 surprised at the vocal power she displayed and at the 
 wonderful facility with which she acquired both words 
 and music. He was a good musician, and, like most 
 performers fully appreciated the silent tribute of the 
 slave girl's admiration, whom he soon began to recog- 
 nize as one equally gifted with himself in musical ca- 
 pacity. Whatever precept or example offered her, she 
 seized with an amazing avidity. Ear and voice seemed 
 equally faultless, and Geoffrey Hunter felt the pride 
 an artist always has in a gifted pupil, as he taught 
 her, one after another, his favorite songs. The girl, if 
 properly trained, he admitted, would need nobody's care 
 when freed. That glorious voice and rich physique 
 would, when fully developed, prove a fortune on the 
 stage. In addition to a correct ear and fine voice she 
 seemed also to have that faultless intuition which ever 
 gives to genius the power of rendering feeling correctly. 
 His surprise soon began to ripen into a sort of respect, 
 and he was daily in danger of forgetting that the 
 gifted being, whose powers were unfolding under his 
 kindly touch, was a creature of an inferior race, and, 
 
M YSTER Y. 79 
 
 withal, his property. Every now and then he caught 
 himself picturing for her a great and enviable future, 
 the reward of her own powers developed and utilized. 
 He came to look forward to their cheerful evening 
 concerts, when the supper had been cleared away, in 
 the great room, with no little anticipation. 
 
 Meanwhile Toinette seemed to have lost all other 
 thought except that of rapt admiration, almost worship, 
 for Geoffrey Hunter. She never forgot that he was of 
 a superior race= She remembered it, and hated and 
 loathed the drop of darker blood which like the "juice 
 of cursed Hebanon," coursed through the natural gates 
 and alleys of her body, transforming and degrading all 
 the nobler blood. She paid daily and hourly tribute 
 unto Caesar, the myriad-minded monarch, whose per- 
 fections charmed her inexperienced thought, and, to 
 her eyes, crowned his brow with the beauty of an un- 
 attainable perfection. With great wondering eyes she 
 watched him as he played ; with enraptured ears she 
 listened while he read ; and when he spoke 
 
 •' It seemed that an angel had brightened the sod, 
 And brought to her bosom a message from God." 
 
 In everything he was to her a great glorious being — 
 a revelation of immaculate, white humanity — her Mas- 
 ter. She felt a sense of ownership in him. He was 
 her Mass' Geoffrey ! What a privilege to have such a 
 master ! How gladly she obeyed him, and when any- 
 thing pleased him how carefully she noted it ! Was 
 it not enough to be the petted servant of such a di- 
 vinity ! Her mind was not disturbed by any " com- 
 mon humanity " theories. She was content to be a 
 
80 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 slave if she could only serve Mass'r Geoff. She never 
 dreamed of being the "equal" of her demi-god. She 
 would like to be, of course; but then she was not; 
 She was only a "nigger," with a little white mixed in. 
 God only knew what for, and yet she was glad it was 
 there, for she had an idea that she would not have 
 been permitted to behold the unveiled glories of human 
 perfection, in the person of Geoffrey Hunter, if it had 
 not been for this admixture of Saxon blood. Thus, 
 the master was losing the arrogance of the owner in the 
 interest of the instructor, and the slave was merging 
 the servility of the chattel in the absorption of the 
 devotee. 
 
 A month had passed, and it seemed to Toinette 
 but a day since she had come into that paradise for 
 "pet niggers," Lovett Lodge. One night after they 
 had been practising a favorite song which Geoffrey 
 was teaching her, he praised her effort, and told her 
 if she were attentive and tried very hard she would 
 sometime be as good a musician as himself. She stared 
 incredulously. Nevertheless, she was gratified, and 
 when he dashed off in a merry waltz, which woke old 
 Maggie, who had been nodding in the corner, with a 
 start, she seized the paws of old Leon and danced 
 about with him for a partner, until both the lookers-on 
 were convulsed with laughter at their antics. Happen- 
 ing to go near one of the large uncurtained windows 
 opening on the porch, and chancing to glance up at it, 
 she stood an instant as if frozen in her tracks, and then, 
 with shriek after shriek, fled behind the player, exclaim- 
 ing : "Don't let 'em! don't let 'em, Mass'r Geoff!" 
 
MYSTERY. 81 
 
 Almost simultaneously old Maggie made her first 
 effort in tragedy, and, considering her previous train- 
 ing, the debut was certainly successful. Rising from 
 her chair with that sickly pallor and rigidity of feature 
 which intense excitement produces in the African, lean- 
 ing forward and gazing with a terrified stare at the 
 window, she pointed toward it with her hand and ex- 
 claimed in a half-whispered shriek : " Dar, dar, Mass'r 
 Geoffrey ! Look dar ! Oh, de good Lord ! Lord save 
 us! O Lo'ddy! O Lo'ddy!" 
 
 Geoffrey stopped playing, with a start, and glanced 
 at the window to which Maggie pointed, not because 
 she was pointing there, (for he did not look to see 
 the direction of her hand,) but from that instinctive 
 impulse by which the eye is ofttimes guided to see the 
 horrible or supernatural. He caught a glimpse,' only, 
 of a figure moving swiftly and noiselessly along the 
 porch. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter was no coward, but the supersti- 
 tions of his native Souih were woven in with the warp 
 of his existence. The tales which rest upon the lips 
 of every slave-nurse had constituted a large part of 
 the fairy-land of his youn^ thoughts. He had out- 
 grown his fear of " ghosts ana spirits," as a deliberate 
 thing, and would have laughea at such an accusation, if 
 it had not enraged him ; but sprung upon him suddenly, 
 the bias of childhood showed its power. His hands 
 were glued to the depressed keys, his heart gave a 
 great start, cold chills ran over him, and with bristling 
 hair he sat gazing at the window. Behind him on the 
 floor, sobbing and quaking, with hands pressed over 
 
82 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 her eyes, was Toinette; before the fire, sunk now upon 
 her knees, was Maggie, uttering incoherent prayers. 
 Outside, the moon shone, clear and cold, upon the 
 porch, and the squeaking noise made by the arm of 
 the climbing rose, which reached over and rubbed 
 against the window, was the only sound. Even daunt- 
 less old Leon was crouching with a cowed look at his 
 master's side. 
 
 It was but a moment. Manhood, firm, strong and 
 re-assuring, came rushing to the rescue and drove cred- 
 ulous, superstitious Boyhood back into the dim past. 
 He sprang to his feet and rushed upon the porch. He 
 ran to the end and looked up and down the enclosure. 
 The light of the full moon lay still and clear over all, 
 and there was no opportunity for concealment. The 
 figure he had seen was certainly going in that direction, 
 and could not have left the porch without having 
 jumped the railing and fallen some six or eight feet. 
 He was puzzled. To add to his quandary, there, only 
 a few yards from the foot of the steps, lay a large 
 mastiff, a present from his father, who had especially 
 recommended him as a remarkable guard-dog, look- 
 ing quietly up into his master's face as if inquiring 
 the reason of this unusual visit to his post of duty. 
 No one could have passed down the steps without 
 being seen by this dog, and it was a thing unheard of, 
 for any one to come inside the enclosure without his 
 giving the alarm. 
 
 He thought a moment, then went back to the great 
 room, and without speaking to the frightened women, 
 seated himself again at the piano, and rattled off a 
 
MYSTERY. 83 
 
 half dozen cheery airs as if nothing had occurred to 
 disturb his equanimity. It was like sunshine suc- 
 ceeding the vague uncertainties of night, to the terri- 
 fied women. He turned suddenly upon the younger 
 and said quietly: 
 
 " What was the matter with you, Toinette .'' " 
 
 She buried her face in her apron and said in a 
 horrified voice : 
 
 "Oh Mass 'r Geoff, don't ax me! don't ax me!" 
 
 Then Geoffrey spoke sternly, as a master should 
 to a disobedient servant — 
 
 " Toinette, stop this foolery. Come here and look 
 at me." 
 
 She obeyed at once. Had not her master spoken, 
 and was it not her duty to obey.? She would do his 
 bidding though body and soul perished. She stood 
 before him and looked straight into his eyes. This 
 ready obedience and sudden renunciation of her fear 
 surprised him. He had not expected and could not 
 understand it. Geoffrey Hunter had somewhat to 
 learn which the ''favorite yaller gal" had already ac- 
 quired. The teacher must learn of the pupil sometimes. 
 
 " What frightened you, Toinette .? " said he, kindly. 
 
 "S'pose 'twas a spook or de Debbie, sir," she re- 
 plied promptly. 
 
 The quaintness of the answer brought a smile to 
 Geoffrey's face, as he asked : 
 
 " Well, and what was the appearance of the ghostly 
 visitant ? " 
 
 "Ye know, Mass'r Geoffrey," she answered, "I was 
 playin' with Leon, and he came atween me and the 
 
84 A ROYAL gentleman; 
 
 wall, close by the window thar, an' I happened to look 
 up, and thar stood something like a woman, only so 
 tall and white, an' with eyes that burned like coals of 
 fire, lookin' straight at me, as ef it wanted to jes git 
 hold o* me an' kill me dead. And then I was so 
 scart, Mass'r Geoffrey, I run an' hollered, but I 
 couldn't help it — I couldn't, Mass'r Geoff — I couldn't." 
 
 All this old Maggie, with many a pious ejaculation 
 and fragmentary prayer, confirmed, adding that " it 
 was jes all white from top to bottom, all up an' down 
 de winder, an' hed a face like a dead pusson, only de 
 eyes, dey glistened like fox-fire in de night, an' jes 
 kep' watchin' Toinette all de time till Mass'r Geoffrey 
 stop playin' an' look up, an' den it jes wanish away 
 like a shadder in de water. Pore chile ! pore chile ! 
 She '11 not live many days. Her time 's nigh come. 
 It 's a shore sign, so de ole uns allers tells me, when 
 de folks comes from de dead in der grave-clothes an' 
 fastens der cold, dead eyes on any particular pusson 
 deys shore gwine to die. Pore chile! pore chile!" 
 
 " What did your ghost have on its head 1 " queried 
 Geoffrey. "You used to tell me, Maggie, that the 
 spooks always had their grave-clothes over their heads, 
 and found their way about without the aid of vision.^' 
 
 " An' so did dis one, too, Mass'r Geoff, only de eyes 
 burn so bright dey show right fru," protested the old 
 woman. 
 
 " And the face," said the skeptical Geoffrey, " how 
 about that ? You saw that too .•* " 
 
 " Oh, well, Honey, it 's only a ghost-shroud, anyhow, 
 an' jes show fru like glass," said Maggie. 
 
MYSTERY. 85 
 
 " What do you say about it, Toinette ? " asked Geof- 
 frey of the young girl, who had stood a thoughtful 
 listener to the conversation with Maggie. " Did you 
 see the face ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, sah," she replied, " I saw it quite plain. 
 It seemed cold an' pale an' hard like. The forehead 
 was wrinkled an' scowlin', and the mouth shet close. 
 Oh, sah, it looked mighty angry at me, an' somehow it 
 seemed as ef I had seen the face afore, a long time ago." 
 
 " In course ye has, chile," said old Maggie. " One 
 allers knows de sperret dat comes to warn us ov de . 
 end. It 's alius de 'miliar sperret dat de Scriptur tells 
 on. Pore chile ! ye 'd better be a prayin' den standin* 
 dar answerin' young Mass'r Geoffrey's fool questions, 
 when ez like ez not de death-damp 's comin' on yer 
 forrid now." 
 
 " Did you see the hair, Toinette.''" continued Geoffrey. 
 
 " I can 't jes remember, sah ; kind o' 'pears like I 
 did, an' then again I do n't know. There was n't no 
 cap or bonnet on her head, an' ef there was any hair 
 't was white as snow," answered Toinette. 
 
 " Shore 'nuff, shore 'nuff," said old Maggie, with a 
 start. " Wal, wal, it mout hev ben ! " 
 
 "And so," said Geoffrey, "you two silly women 
 have made all this hubbub because some old woman 
 happened to come and look in at the window." 
 
 " Who ever knowed anybody to come inside dis yard 
 an' ole Tige not bark at 'em.?" said the nurse, con- 
 temptuously. 
 
 " Oh, Tige was asleep and did not see her," said 
 Geoffrey. 
 
86 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 **Tige nebber sleep arter sundown," said the old 
 woman, stoutly. 
 
 " It 's strange how she came and went without be- 
 ing seen," he began — 
 
 " Or heard uther, Mass'r Geoff, Who ever knowed 
 any mortal man or woman to go 'long dat dar porch 
 an' nebber make noise 'nuff to be heard in dis yer 
 room when ebbryting was still 'nuff to hear an acorn 
 drop off de furdest tree in de yard ? " interrupted the 
 stubborn old servant. 
 
 Geoffrey could not answer the question, and yet his 
 reason assured him of two facts : First, the figure at 
 the window was no illusion. His own view of it had 
 been indistinct, but Toinette and old Maggie agreed in 
 all the essential particulars, and their testimony was 
 consistent. Second, he was convinced that it was no 
 apparition. The grounds for this belief he could not 
 have stated satisfactorily. He could not account for 
 its sudden and noiseless disappearance, nor for the un- 
 usual silence of the dogs, and yet he could not bring 
 himself to recognize their strange auditor as of a ghostly 
 nature. Somehow the incident connected itself in his 
 mind with the secret room back of the library. He 
 had not been there since the night he had first ex- 
 amined it. For some unaccountable reason he had 
 shrunk from entering it again. He put his hand in 
 his pocket and felt the key of the wardrobe. He 
 would go and examine it now. He rose, and, taking 
 the candle from the table, went into the library. Old 
 Maggie seemed to divine his purpose, and cried out : 
 
 " Oh, Mass'r Geoff, do n't, do n't ! Not to-night, 
 
MYSTERY. 87 
 
 wait till mornin'. Do, please, Mass'r Geoff. Dat boy's 
 contrariness will be his death, dat 's shore. Den what 
 will Mass'r Manwell do to ole nuss, 'cause she did n't 
 take keer of one dat 's jes' as headstrong ez de ole 
 debble. 'Pears like dat boy nebber would hear to no- 
 body's 'vice at all. Jes' will hev his own way 'n' it '11 
 be de ru 'nation ob him, shore. Good Lor' ! I 'm glad 
 dat great dog 's gone wid him. 'Pears like de critter 
 knows most ez much ez a human, eny how. He hez 
 got a heap o' sense." 
 
 Geoffrey went into the library and shut the door. 
 He was alone here, at the Lodge. Granting that 
 his hypothesis was correct, and that the mysterious 
 figure at the window and the secret of the room which 
 opened from the library through the wardrobe yonder 
 had some, to him, occult relation to each other, 
 what was it? He sat down by the dying fire upon 
 the library hearth and asked himself this question. 
 Was it good or ill the apparition boded .-* Did that 
 mysterious watcher have some sinister design against 
 himself that it thus pried into the secrets of his hearth 
 and made itself or herself — if, perchance, it was a wo- 
 man, which he did not for a moment believe — an oc- 
 cupant of his house.? For, somehow, he had never 
 yet been able to convince himself that the fire he saw 
 burning in the secret room had really been kindled 
 by old Maggie's carelessness, or by the hand of any 
 legitimate inhabitant of his domicil. Often, since he 
 had examined the room, he had been haunted with 
 the impression, as he sat reading in his great library 
 chair, that some one just beyond the wall was keeping 
 
88 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 up a constant and by no means friendly espionage 
 upon his acts. This night was not the first time that 
 he had experienced a feeling that hostile eyes were 
 gazing at him through the window of the sitting-room, 
 as he sat at the piano or heard Toinette's lessons. 
 Several times he had thought he caught a vanishing 
 glimpse of a figure, and once in particular of what 
 seemed flowing white hair or beard. It all came to 
 him now, and he reasoned upon the data carefully and 
 coolly. The white, snowy beard or hair were adopted 
 for the occasion. They were a part of, or, at least, in 
 fine keeping with the traditional get-up of a ghostly 
 character. It was all clear to his mind, except how 
 it was managed and what was the motive. He was 
 there alone — the only white man on the plantation, 
 and, for the matter of that, within a circuit of a mile 
 or more. He was reported rich. Was robbery the 
 crime intended .'* Hardly, or it would have been per- 
 petrated long ago ; for he was convinced that this sys- 
 tem of espial was a month old or thereabouts. What 
 then.'' He had not an enemy in the world. No man 
 could claim that he had ever acted dishonorably to- 
 wards him, or woman lay any evil at his door. What 
 could be the motive .-* It troubled him. 
 
 All at once he thought of a solution. Lovett Lodge 
 was a desirable piece of property, and some sharper, 
 knowing the secret of the hidden room — perhaps a de- 
 scendant of the builder — had devised this trick to give 
 the premises an unenviable reputation, a reputation 
 which he knew would greatly depreciate its value among 
 the superstitious people of the country, especially as 
 
MYSTERY. 89 
 
 it would render it almost impossible to keep the igno- 
 rant and cowardly slaves upon a plantation which was 
 believed to be haunted. Perhaps, too, it was calculated 
 that this annoyance would prove too much for his pa- 
 tience, and incline him to dispose of it at a moderate 
 price. The theory pleased him. He ran it over in 
 his mind two or three times, pacing back and forth in 
 the library. He would show this ingenious trader his 
 mistake. He would let him know that Geoffrey Hun- 
 ter was not to be fooled by any such shallow trickery. 
 And if it were not more cautiously played, he would 
 make it a sad game to the actor. He took a revolver 
 from a drawer in his desk, examined the caps, cocked 
 it, and, taking the candle, advanced to the door of 
 the wardrobe. Old Leon was lying before it and 
 seemed to be eyeing it dubiously. Geoffrey turned 
 the key in the lock and opened the wardrobe door. 
 The door into the hidden room was closed precisely 
 as he had left it. Mindful of his previous experience, 
 he took the revolver in his right hand and held the 
 candle at arm's length outside the wardrobe while he 
 moved the knob. The door opened suddenly as be- 
 fore and Leon at once sprung into the room. Geoffrey 
 followed, holding the candle above his head. It was 
 cold and empty and there were no signs of its having 
 been lately occupied. The ashes in the fire-place 
 looked as if they had been undisturbed since his pre- 
 vious visit. The bed-clothing and furniture told no 
 tales of use, but seemed to be in precisely the same 
 condition as when he last saw them. And yet he could 
 not rid himself of the idea that the room had lately 
 
 7 
 
90 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 been inhabited. Leon seemed to be of the same opin- 
 ion. He snuffed about the room eagerly, and finally- 
 concentrated his attention upon a spot near the fire- 
 place. After searching about the room he would return 
 each time and re-examine this spot, until apparently 
 confessing himself balked, he lay down and looked up 
 at his master^s face inquiringly. 
 
 "Well," thought Geoffrey, "I'm in here now, and 
 I 'm bound to know if there 's any other outlet to this 
 infernal den." 
 
 So he set to work and examined minutely every 
 portion of the room. He moved the bed and searched 
 the floor for a trap-door. He could find none. The 
 wall was a plain plastered one, and he sought along 
 it vainly for any evidence there might be of a joint. 
 And so he went around again and again, but could 
 find no opening save that by which he had entered 
 and the immovable windows with the fixed, unyielding 
 shutters on the back side. He went out, closed the 
 door, brought sealing-wax and placed his seal upon 
 it, and closed the door of the wardrobe, which he 
 locked and sealed also. 
 
 "There," said he, "if that den is occupied, no one 
 shall come in here without my knowledge." 
 
 And so he returned to the great room thwarted, 
 but not convinced nor even discouraged. His hypoth- 
 esis of the mystery was fixed and clear, and he should 
 not endanger his chances of eliminating the truth and 
 detecting the knave by imparting it to anyone. 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 
 
 THE next day Maggie put paper shades upon the 
 windows of the sitting-room. Geoffrey set him- 
 self to work out the mystery upon his hypothesis, and 
 adopted several clever devices to entrap the intruder, 
 without success. Nothing more was seen or heard to 
 throw light upon the matter, until the night of the suc- 
 ceeding Sabbath ; then indeed the question in regard 
 to the character of the mysterious visitant received a 
 terrible solution. 
 
 It was past midnight. The moon was shining clear- 
 ly upon the straggling mass of buildings which formed 
 Lovett Lodge. Its soft light came into the room oc- 
 cupied by Geoffrey Hunter, which was across the hall 
 from the living-room, and had once been the recep- 
 tion-room or parlor of the Lodge. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter was sitting on the side of his bed, 
 a look of mingled perplexity and terror upon his face. 
 Old Leon was going back and forth from his master^s 
 bed to the door, whining piteously. Geoffrey had 
 awakened from his sleep overwhelmed with terror. It 
 did not seem a dream. He could not remember any 
 definite thought which had caused his fright. He 
 could only hear the low whining of Leon. He called 
 
92 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 him, softly. The dog came and licked his hand, trem- 
 blinLT with excitement. 
 
 " What is it, fellow .^ " said Geoffrey, whispering and 
 putting his hand on the dog's neck. He held his breath 
 and listened. The dog grew restive. " Hist, hist. Be 
 still," he said under his breath. He heard the old 
 clock in the room across the hall tick the seconds 
 slowly. The silence was terrible. It seemed as if na- 
 ture never slept so deeply before. The night was one 
 dead sea of silence. Even the moonlight was oppres- 
 sive — a dull, ghastly glare. He was wide awake, but 
 still the horrible, nameless fear brooded over him like 
 a nightmare — a terrible foreboding waiting to be ful- 
 filled. He rose and began to dress, hurriedly, but 
 noiselessly, stopping every now and then to listen. 
 Every instant suspense and apprehension grew more 
 fearful. An overturned shoe made him start, gaze 
 wildly around, and grasp the revolver lying on the 
 table. He smiled — a faint and sickly smile — at his 
 own terrors, but still clutched the revolver, and looked 
 cautiously around. The dog was growing more rest- 
 less. Strange that he should act so ! He never did 
 before. Should he let him out.'* 
 
 He started towards the door to do so, moving 
 stealthily in his stockinged feet, as if afraid of his 
 own foot-fall. Suddenly shriek after shriek of mor- 
 tal terror rang through the house. A woman's voice, 
 strained to its utmost pitch and freighted with an agony 
 of fear. It made the silence populous with shapes of 
 terror. The ear which was oppressed with stillness a 
 moment since was overburdened with echoing horror now. 
 
FAITHFUL UNTO DEA TH. 93 
 
 There was no more uncertainty ; all was sharp, 
 clear, definite. Evil, crime, a life in mortal peril, was 
 the unmistakable language of those cries. Geoffrey's 
 fear was gone. Leon bounded at the door and began 
 tearing it vvith his teeth. Geoffrey hastened to undo 
 it, and the faithful brute sprang like an arrow down 
 the long hall, and Geofi"rey heard him ascending the 
 stairs towards Toinette's room almost before he had 
 stepped outside the door. All at once the shrieking 
 ceased. The terrible silence, pregnant of evil, came 
 again for an instant. Geoffrey's heart almost ceased 
 beating as he ran at his utmost speed along the hall. 
 Every sense seemed trebled in intensity and power. 
 He tried to shout to the dog, but no sound came 
 from his lips. Now there was a short, sharp, anxious 
 yelp, a loud, angry roar, and then the terrible silence 
 came again as Geoffrey reached the foot of the stairs. 
 He mounted swiftly, clutching the revolver, anticipat- 
 ing an encounter. It was strange he did not hear 
 Leon, he thought. He reached the top. It seemed an 
 age since he was at the bottom. All silent still. He 
 half paused. " Take 'em, Leon, take 'em, boy," he 
 shouted with an effort, as he rushed into the long, 
 dark hall leading from the landing towards Toinette's 
 room, braced for a desperate struggle. There is a 
 rustle behind him. His strained ear catches it. He 
 turns and sees a tall figure gliding swiftly down the 
 stairway. He wheels, and pursues, clears the stairs 
 almost at a bound, rushes along the side-hall into the 
 great one leading to the front doorway, and there, just 
 passing through the open door — How came it open } 
 
94 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 Maggie kept the keys — with a swift, gliding motion, 
 sees the tall figure he had seen before — the ghost of 
 Lovett Lodge. 
 
 He raised his revolver and fired quickly. Without 
 looking around or changing its pace in the least, the 
 figure kept on, and before he could fire again had 
 passed the door and turned toward the eastern end of 
 the porch. He redoubled his efforts, and caught a 
 glimpse of it, as he reached the door, descending the 
 flight of steps which led down from the porch. Another 
 shot, with like effect, and Geoffrey Hunter was stand- 
 ing where the figure had been ten seconds before, 
 looking to the right and left in the moonlit enclosure, 
 seeing nothing but the dog Tige, who was crouching, 
 silent and cowed, at the foot of the steps. He felt 
 the horror of his waking moments creeping back upon 
 him. Could it be that this mysterious entity was in- 
 deed ghostly in its character.? He went down the 
 steps slowly and thoughtfully. He peered beneath the 
 porch. The clear moonlight, streaming in at the west- 
 ern end, showed the brick wall and narrow brick col- 
 umns on which the porch rested with great distinctness. 
 A child of five years old could not have hidden from 
 his sight there. He passed around the eastern end of 
 the dwelling to the rear, peering into every shaded 
 nook, saying over and over again to himself, " It 
 cannot be far off." And yet he saw nothing, and 
 his strained ear caught no sound except the uproar in 
 the servants' quarters among the aroused and wonder- 
 ing inmates, and the outcries of old Maggie, who was 
 calling upon every individual in her vocabulary of 
 
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 95 
 
 names, whether of earthly or unearthly nature, for aid. 
 He paid no attention to them. He heard the noise 
 as an operative hears the clatter of machinery by 
 which he is daily surrounded — without heeding its 
 existence. The lightest footfall in the front enclos- 
 ure would have drowned them all to his ears. There 
 was none. He went back to the steps, peered under 
 the porch again, ascended, walked along the porch, 
 let down the hammer of his revolver, and went to his 
 own room. Striking a light at once, he passed along 
 the hall to the door of the housekeeper's room. Open- 
 ing it, he entered, and beheld old Maggie on her knees 
 in the corner, exclaiming frantically. 
 
 "Oh Lor', Lor', help us! an' ef de Lor' won 't help 
 us, Jesus Christ help. Do help, do Lor'!" 
 
 Seizing her by the shoulder, he shook her roughly, 
 saying : 
 
 "Stop this nonsense, Maggie." 
 
 " Oh, Mass 'r Geoffrey, whatever is de matter } Oh 
 you need n't shake de ole nuss's bones out of her black 
 skin!" — as Geoffrey continued shaking. "What has 
 happen 'd.?" Another shake. " Has-de-gho's-come-agin.?" 
 
 "Shut up, or it will." And shake followed shake 
 too fast for utterance upon her part. 
 
 " And now," said Geoffrey, when she was finally 
 silenced, "do as I tell you. Go and tell Bob and Mar- 
 tin to come here at once, and the others to go to bed. 
 D'ye hear?" 
 
 He was gone before she could find breath to ques- 
 tion. Not daring to remain alone, she hurried off to 
 the quarters to perform her master's bidding. 
 
06 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 Geoffrey passed quickly down the hall into the side 
 one, where he half-paused to listen. There was no 
 sound above. He passed up the stairs quickly, but 
 quietly. It seemed strange that he felt no such appre- 
 hension as when he last ascended them. His revolver 
 was in his pocket but he did not think of it. He 
 anticipated no struggle, and yet was oppressed with 
 fear. He paused at the head of the stairs, intending 
 to wait there till Bob and Martin came. He dreaded 
 to see the unknown horror, which waited him in the 
 obscurity of the hall. The boys would come in a 
 moment. It was here he had shouted to old Leon, 
 What had become of the dog.'* He held the can- 
 dle above his head and stood peering into the dark- 
 ness. He would call him. He did so and listened. 
 Was that a sigh he heard .'' It came again, piteous, 
 pleading, feeble. Was it human.? He could wait no 
 longer, but walked "rapidly down the hall. His foot 
 slipped and he almost fell. He lowered the candle 
 and looked. It was blood — a great pool of it. And 
 then it went in an irregular, zigzag line down the hall 
 towards Toinette's room. He followed it. Sometimes 
 draggled, and splashed, as if something had been drag- 
 ged through it, and then narrow and deep as if it had 
 gurgled from a wound. Geoffrey watched it and won- 
 dered. Still he went on, tremblingly. He had never 
 looked on murder, but now he felt that he must meet 
 it soon. There was a track of Leon's foot. Where 
 could the dog be.'' He heard, as if in a dream, the 
 voice of Bob in conversation with old Maggie, at the 
 foot of the stairs. He was at the door of Toinette's 
 
FAITHFUL UNTO DBA TH. 97 
 
 room now. It was ajar, and splashed at the bottom 
 with blood. He paused a moment, then opened it 
 and entered. Almost at his feet lay the form of Toi- 
 nette, her face, pale and rigid, turned towards him, 
 her night-dress dabbled with blood; and close beside 
 the white-robed figure of the unconscious girl, was the 
 form of the noble old dog. The faithful animal looked 
 in his master's face, with a beseeching gaze, flapped 
 his tail in recognition, and then licked the pallid face 
 before him tenderly. 
 
 Geoffrey stooped and put his hand on the pale 
 brow. There was no pulse in the temple. He sought 
 for the heart-beat, and, when it was withdrawn, his 
 hand was stained with blood. It moved him strange- 
 ly. He could not decide whether she was dead or 
 not. He stripped the. dress from her shoulder, and 
 there, just below the collar-bone, was a small blue 
 puncture, from the narrow blackened lips of which a 
 small dark stream trickled down over the fair white 
 bosom. He watched it a moment and thought it 
 flowed irregularly, as if she still breathed. He stooped 
 to raise her from the floor, when his attention was 
 attracted to old Leon. Now that he was in front of 
 him, he noticed that the white breast of his noble pet 
 was dark with blood, and that a great puddle of it had 
 collected where he lay. He seemed to be gnawing at 
 his breast. 
 
 "Poor fellow," said Geoffrey, "are you hurt too.?" 
 
 He put his hand on the dog's breast and felt the 
 
 hilt of a dagger buried deep in his chest. Then it all 
 
 flashed upon him: how the girl had been stabbed in 
 
 E 
 
08 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 her room the flight of the criminal, intercepted by the 
 dog; the short struggle in the hail, when the mur- 
 derer's knife, buried in the breast of the brave as- 
 sailant, had slipped from its owner's grasp. This 
 explained the trail of blood in the hall, and the after 
 silence of the dog. He had met the murderer and 
 received the fatal blow. Then, with his life-blood 
 flowing from the wound, in the very anguish-throes of 
 death, he had dragged himself to the side of the play- 
 mate for whom he had fallen. It came to the mind 
 of Geoffrey, too, that he owed his own life to the 
 faithful brute. The dagger was evidently the weapon 
 relied on, perhaps the only one used by the criminal, 
 and this being lost, he was not attacked, though he 
 must have passed within striking distance of the as- 
 sassin. 
 
 " Poor fellow," said Geoffrey. The dog looked at 
 him wistfully, tried feebly to grasp the dagger-hilt with 
 his teeth, then laid his head upon the neck of the un- 
 conscious girl and died. One of Geoffrey Hunter's 
 truest friends would watch over him no more. 
 
 He drew out the dagger and wiped it on Leon's 
 shaggy coat. It was a delicate affair, blue-bladed and 
 silver-hilted, like a lady's bijou, but a strong arm had 
 held it, and a cool head had directed the fatal stroke. 
 It was no chance blow. The point of attack was 
 selected, and the blade sent home with a will. He 
 put the dagger in his pocket, patted the noble head, 
 and, lifting it tenderly, laid it on the floor. Then, 
 gathering Toinette in his arms, he started along the 
 hall to the stairway. Carefully as if she were a woman 
 
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 
 
 ^''Patted the old dogs noble head^ and lifting it tenderly laid it on the floor. 
 
 Then, gathering Toinette in his arms, he started along the hall^ — p. q8. 
 
FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH. 99 
 
 and a sister, Geoffrey Hunter carried the lax form of 
 the stricken girl. Did he forget that she was a slave, 
 and only remember in that fearful hour the humanity 
 and womanhood of the " yaller gal Toinette " ? It could 
 hardly be, yet when he came to examine the wound, 
 after he had laid her on the sofa in the great room, he 
 did not ruthlessly expose her bosom, but folded back 
 the gown with care, and put on the bandages deftly 
 and tenderly, as if she were a woman rather than a 
 chattel. 
 
 As soon as this was done, he directed Bob to send 
 a boy for a physician, and himself, with three or four 
 of the most trusty hands, to keep watch about the 
 building, and see that no one left the premises until 
 morning. The blood from Toinette 's wound was 
 stanched for the time, and, through the influence of 
 stimulants, she at length recovered from her swoon 
 and looked inquiringly at Geoffrey, who sat by her 
 with his finger on her pulse. She seemed bewildered 
 at her novel situation, and would have spoken, but the 
 effort was so painful that she swooned again, and the 
 wound began to bleed afresh. 
 
 When she had revived somewhat Geoffrey said : 
 
 "You must not try to speak, Toinette. You have 
 been badly hurt, and must keep very quiet indeed ! " 
 
 He spoke tenderly and soothingly, and Toinette's 
 great dark eyes turned upon him wonderingly and 
 searchingly. Something in the expression of his face 
 seemed to satisfy her, and she closed them again with 
 a smile of contented weakness. 
 
CHAPTER IX, 
 
 A *'POOR POLL. " 
 
 MEANTIME, Aunt Maggie had been petitioning 
 for Geoffrey's leave to send for Betty Certain, 
 a neighbor woman, who had achieved a local reputation 
 for steadiness of head and skill of hand in important 
 crises of sickness and misfortune in the vicinity of the 
 Lodge. 
 
 She was said to be a woman of somewhat eccentric 
 disposition, neither young nor old, living alone upon a 
 little farm adjoining the Lovett Lodge plantation, and 
 known as the Old Certain Tract. It jutted into the 
 Lovett plantation, and the owaiers of the Lodge had at 
 various times offered unreasonable prices for the bit 
 of barren ridge, but their offers had invariably been 
 met with an almost angry refusal. 
 
 The woman, though a landowner in her own right, 
 did not belong to what was known in the community 
 as the better class of people. Her parents and fore- 
 bears had been " common livers," who had never owned 
 slaves, but relied solely upon their own labor for sub- 
 sistence. As a consequence the little tract of land 
 had grown poorer and poorer year by year, and its 
 occupants had kept pace with it in deterioration. So 
 Betty Certain — Mistress Certain, as she was frequently 
 called, no one seemed to know why — was a "poor 
 
A " POOR poll:' 101 
 
 white," but, withal, one without imputation of the vices 
 not unfrequently attaching to the females of her class, 
 and held in considerable repute for sturdy uprightness 
 as well as for unpretending kindness of heart. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter was unwilling to allow any one to 
 know more of the interior happenings of his household 
 at this juncture than was absolutely necessary, " espe- 
 cially," he said, " any poor white woman of whom he 
 knew nothing." 
 
 Old Maggie's entreaties finally prevailed, however, 
 upon the condition that Mistress Certain should first 
 report to him in person ; and if, after examination, she 
 seemed to him worthy of such honor, she was to re- 
 main, otherwise not. 
 
 Geoffrey was sitting by the table in the library when 
 she arrived. It was broad daylight without, but the 
 solid shutters were closed and a candle was burning 
 within. He was examining the dagger which he had 
 drawn from Leon's breast, when a servant came to say 
 she was waiting. He dropped it into a drawer of the 
 table and bade her enter. 
 
 She was by no means prepossessing in appearance. 
 A tall, large woman, of perhaps forty years, of lean, 
 muscular build, with a certain masculinity of appear- 
 ance which, as well as her apparent height, was doubt- 
 less enhanced by the coarse, scant, homespun dress, 
 which did not reach low enough to conceal the heavy 
 brogans and a part of the gray stockings which formed 
 her foot-gear. An old sun-bonnet, of the same dull, 
 uncertain color as her dress, adorned her head, and 
 under it the masses of her dark hair were gathered in 
 
102 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 heavy, shining plaits, contrasting strangely with her 
 somewhat coarse features and negligent attire. There 
 was nothing especially repulsive about the woman, and 
 her face had a sturdy resoluteness of aspect rather 
 pleasing than otherwise, when narrowly scanned. 
 
 Bidding her " How d' ye, ma'm," Geoffrey motioned 
 to a chair near the hearth. 
 
 The woman seated herself, stretched her feet toward 
 the fire, and gazed nonchalantly at the blaze. She was 
 evidently no whit abashed in the presence of the wealthy 
 young planter who deemed himself so infinitely superior 
 to any of her class. There was no curiosity or nerv- 
 ousness in her demeanor — just straightforward inde- 
 pendence. Neither voice or manner asked a question. 
 Geoffrey noted the fact and it suited him. 
 
 *' This is Mrs. Certain, I suppose .-* " said he. 
 
 " I 'm sometimes called that. Betty Certain 's my 
 name," she answered, without looking round. 
 
 " I have sent for you, Mrs. Certain," said Geoffrey, 
 "because I am in need of some one to — that is — Mag- 
 gie desired me to send for you to come and remain 
 at the Lodge for a few days." 
 
 " So I heerd," said the woman, quietly. 
 
 " At this time," continued the master of Lovett 
 " I could only with great reluctance consent that any 
 stranger should enter my house " — 
 
 " I 've been here afore," she interrupted. 
 
 "Yes, but we do not happen to be acquainted," 
 said he. 
 
 "Not 'specially." 
 
 " And at this time it is very necessary that all my — 
 
A ''POOR POLLr 103 
 
 all who are m my house," he said, correcting himself, 
 "should be entirely trustworthy." 
 
 " Betty Certain never stole nothin'," said the woman, 
 shortly. 
 
 "' Oh, no ! I " — beg your pardon he would have said, 
 but she was a "mean white" — "I did not mean that; 
 but can — can I trust your prudence, your discretion, 
 Mrs. Certain.?" 
 
 " I do n't ask to know your secrets, Geoffrey Hun- 
 ter," said the woman, sharply. "I 've known many a one 
 connected with this house, and got too poor pay for it 
 to keer to hear more," and she looked round the room 
 with a quiet familiarity that puzzled Geoffrey Hunter. 
 This ignorant, poor, " mean white " woman would not 
 be patronized, and was fast changing places with him 
 and assuming the air of careless condescension with 
 which he had set out. 
 
 He thought, however, that her allusion to payment 
 had given him a key to her character. He would try 
 again. So he said : 
 
 " I think I can trust you, Mrs. Certain, and I am 
 willing to pay you well Here is the first installment," 
 and he took a half-eagle from his drawer and held it 
 towards her. 
 
 The woman glanced at the money, then rose, gazed 
 searchingly at Geoffrey a moment, and said : 
 
 " Geoffrey Hunter, I'm a pore woman, an' I s'pose 
 folks tells sad tales on me — tho' I do n't keer fer that — 
 but there's some things I won't do, not fer no man's 
 money; an' 'fore I takes yours, ye mus* give me 
 yer word that there ain't no crime in what ye want 
 
104 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 done — no blood, nor anythin' that '11 make one think 
 atterwards that the devil's got a mortgage on ther 
 soul. I hed enuff o' that years ago, an' tho' I ain't 
 no better nor I should be, at the best, more 'n other 
 folks, I promised the Lord that if He would show my 
 hands clar o' that ar trouble, as they were, I 'd never 
 git into any more sech, an' I won't. An' so, sir, if ye 've 
 got anythin' to do that or'tn't tu be done, ye'd better 
 du it yerself, or git somebody else. I wo 'n't du it. 
 
 "But if you'll promise me there ain't no blood ner 
 wrong in the matter that ye want my help in, why, I'll 
 stay an' du it. Ef not, I '11 jes' go home. I know 
 *t ain't no common thing that's made young Geoffrey 
 Hunter sen' fer Betty Certain afore day in the winter 
 time. I ain't ter be fooled. Fa'r 's fa'r. Come out 
 squar' an' strait, an' ye can 'pend on my totin' right, 
 but ef ye try ter chaff me, an' git me inter trouble, 
 ye'll be sorry, shore." 
 
 Geoffrey was astounded. There was no chance of 
 patronizing this woman, if she was a "mean white." 
 She would have been strong-minded enough had her 
 station in life been different. She had taken the reins 
 from his hands, and put him in the shafts. She was 
 evidently the master of the situation, and he must sue 
 for terms, or let her go home, as she proposed. He 
 was now as anxious that she should stay as he had 
 been that she should not come. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Hunter," said the woman, " yes or no. 
 Will yer give me yer word 7 " 
 
 " There is no crime or wrong in this affair," said 
 Geoffrey slowly and emphatically, looking steadily in 
 
A ''POOR FOLLr 105 
 
 her eyes, *' of my seeking, aiding, or desiring. Will 
 that do?" 
 
 " There is crime in it then," said the woman cau- 
 tiously, " perhaps blood ? " 
 
 " Crime and blood," he assented. 
 
 " More blood, more blood ! An* in this house per- 
 haps.'* " 
 
 " In this house ! " he answered, 
 
 "I was afeard," she said, shaking her head. "It 
 hed a bad start at fust. I don't want ter be curus, 
 but perhaps ye wouldn't object tu tellin' me whose 
 blood it was } " 
 
 "Toinette's, my girl Toinette's," he said. 
 
 "An' you didn't do it, nor don't know who did.?" 
 she asked. 
 
 " I would almost as soon have thought of shedding 
 my own," he answered, solemnly. 
 
 " Dead ? " 
 
 "Not yet." 
 
 The woman took off her sun-bonnet and laid it on 
 the chair, smoothed her front hair, and felt the shin- 
 ing knob in which it was gathered at the back, caught 
 up the recreant locks about her ears, and replaced an 
 obtruding pin with a motion that made Geoffrey think 
 of a dagger-thrust. Then she spoke, in the quiet, 
 practical tone of one who is ready for work. 
 
 "Well, ]\Ir. Hunter, ef I can be of any service I'm 
 ready to begin." 
 
 Geoffrey picked up the coin from the table and 
 
 offered it to her again. 
 
 " Wait till it's arned. Mister Geoffrey. Time 'nuff 
 8 
 
106 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 then," said the woman, waving it aside. " Besides, 
 the son of Manuel Hunter has a right to ask some 
 favor of Betty Certain without pay." 
 
 Geoffrey asked her to be seated again, and briefly 
 related the events of the past night. He said nothing 
 of the previous occurrences, the apparition at the 
 window or the secret room, as he had no evidence to 
 connect them with the crime, though they were con- 
 stantly in his thought. 
 
 When he had finished, Betty Certain drew a long 
 breath, and said : 
 
 " Strange things hez happened in this house afore, 
 which nobody could explain, though I've always thought 
 I could guess at most on 't ; but this yer thing beats 
 me. Hevn't ye any idea. Mister Geoffrey, whose work 
 itis.?"- 
 
 "None," he answered, "except that it must have 
 been the work of an enemy — a bitter enemy," 
 
 " An' what enemy hev ye "i " she asked. 
 
 "I did not know that I had any," he replied. 
 
 "Could any one hev been jealous of the gal.?'' 
 eyeing him keenly. 
 
 " Impossible," he replied. 
 
 " Hev' ye looked fer any traces whar the gal was 
 stabbed 1 " she asked. 
 
 He replied in the negative, and suggested that they 
 should do so at once. They accordingly passed out 
 upon the porch, and as they went along he pointed to 
 the spot where he had last seen the figure. As they 
 went through the front door-way, they noted where his 
 shot had grazed the post, passing clear to the right 
 
A ''POORPOLLr ^ 107 
 
 of the figure, which had not then reached the door. 
 In the hall Mrs. Certain called attention to the bloody 
 imprint of a foot. They followed it on, up the stairs, 
 and to the room occupied by Toinette. It was a 
 small, narrow, delicate track, such as might have been 
 made by the slippered foot of a woman. 
 
 "Not bigger 'n fives, at the outside/' said Mrs. Cer- 
 tain, putting her broad pedestal beside it. 
 
 Further on, they found a small piece of gray cloth, 
 which Mrs. Certain pronounced to have been torn from 
 the sleeve of a woman's dress — "and somehow," said 
 she, " it seems as ef I hed seen sunthin' like it afore, 
 but I can't jes now remember whar." 
 
 The dog had evidently torn it from the assassin in 
 the struggle and carried it on in his mouth as he 
 dragged himself, bleeding and dying, towards the friend 
 for whom he had given his life, an unavailing sacrifice. 
 
 Entering the room where the crime had been com- 
 mitted, they found that Toinette had been dragged 
 from her bed, across the room, almost to the door, 
 where she had finally been struck down. Here was 
 the form of the noble old Newfoundland stretched stiff 
 and stark upon his side, where his own life-blood had 
 mingled with that of the young slave-girl whom he had 
 sought to defend. His white breast was clotted with 
 blood, and his paws, thrust forth appealingly towards 
 his young master in that last moment of his life, had 
 been frozen there by the icy touch of death, 
 
 Geoffrey loved the old dog, who had once saved 
 him from a watery grave, and afterwards been the in- 
 separable companion of his college days. He bent 
 
108 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 over him, patted his curly neck, and said with tear- 
 ful eyes, " Poor fellow ! poor fellow ! " On the plan- 
 tation Leon had been a sort of Grand Turk, whose 
 ways were never questioned, — going wherever his mas- 
 ter went, lying by his chair while he studied, and 
 keeping watch at his bedside w^hile he slept. Is it any 
 wonder that Geoffrey Hunter dropped tears upon the 
 shaggy coat of his old friend — the truest and most de- 
 voted he had ever known ? 
 
 There was nothing more to be learned here. In 
 fact, the mechanism, so to speak, of the attempted 
 murder was very simple and easily apprehended, ex- 
 cept one thing — the opening of the front door. The 
 doorway from the back porch into the hall at the foot 
 of the stairway, as is usual in Southern houses of this 
 character, was seldom locked at night, and anyone de- 
 siring merely to reach the room occupied by Toinette 
 might have entered there and passed up the stairs en- 
 tirely unmolested. Instead of doing so, it was evident 
 in this instance, as Geoffrey thought, that Aunt Mag- 
 gie's room had first been entered, the key taken from 
 the nail at the foot of her bed, the door unlocked, and 
 the key returned to its place. 
 
 Geoffrey remarked this as he passed through the 
 hall with the woman, on their return. She was still 
 twisting the blood-stained piece of gray cloth about 
 her finger in an absent way. 
 
 " So yer think whoever 't was must hev come in at 
 the side door, gone to Maggie's room for the key, then 
 'long this hall to the front door, an' back an' up the 
 stairs, afore she hurt the gal," said Mrs. Certain. 
 
A ''POOR POLV* 109 
 
 "Certainly," replied Geoffrey; "how else could it 
 have been done ? " 
 
 " Why not hev come in at the back door an' gone 
 up the stairs without coming in here at all ? " she asked. 
 
 Geoffrey started, and his surprise did not escape 
 the keen, gray eye of Mrs. Certain, who seemed almost 
 instinctively to be dragging his unacknowledged thought 
 to light. Unconsciously Geoffrey had, in his own mind, 
 connected this act of violence with the apparition which 
 had alarmed Toinette, and which had been seen only 
 in the front of the house, to such an extent that he had 
 failed to inquire why he had elaborated the hypoth- 
 esis which he had adopted. This latent premise 
 being absent from the mind of the woman, she had 
 naturally inquired, why should the would-be murderer 
 turn away from the intended victim, enter the old ser- 
 vant's room, pass along the corridor, unlock the front 
 door, return the key, and then proceed to the chamber 
 of Toinette, to commit the deed ? And this thought 
 found expression as the woman, watching him narrowly, 
 continued : 
 
 "An' what would anyone carry the key back into 
 Maggie's room fer 7 " 
 
 No reason was apparent. The young aristocrat saw 
 at once that this poor v/oman, whom he had contemned 
 and distrusted, had taken the lead in the investigation, 
 and that he must follow. It irritated him, and he an- 
 swered shortly : 
 
 " How should I know why ? It must have been done, 
 however." 
 
 The woman did not seem to hear him. They had 
 
110 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 stopped in the hall while speaking, and she stood lean- 
 ing back against the balusters, looking absently at the 
 wall before her. 
 
 " Whar did you say you slept ? " she asked, at 
 length, 
 
 Geoffrey indicated the room by a gesture. 
 
 " In thar ? " exclaimed the woman ; " an' was the 
 dog with you ? " 
 
 "Yes," he answered. 
 
 " An' war' he quiet afore the gal screamed ? " she 
 asked. 
 
 " His restlessness and growling wakened me." 
 
 " Geoffrey Hunter," said the woman, with startling 
 earnestness, " ye 'd best git out o' this yer house directly. 
 Them as entered here las' night came in by that ar 
 door,"— pointing to the front way-—" an' it 's my notion 
 that they meant harm tu you, mor'n tu the pore gal in 
 yon. It's not the fus' time the devil's played quare 
 pranks in this yer house, to my knowin'; an' bolts an* 
 bars ain't no account 'gin sech as went 'long here las' 
 night. Eft hadn't been fer that ar dog, it 's my notion 
 ye 'd not been here to tell about it now. An' now, ef 
 ye '11 take my advice, ye '11 not sleep in that thar room 
 ary other night, an' fur that matter, you 'd be safer 
 sleepin' away entirely. No good '11 come o' yer bidin 
 here." She was twisting and untwisting the bit of cloth 
 around her fingers absently, as she spoke. 
 
 Geoffrey was silent a moment. 
 
 "Come," said he, and they entered the room where 
 Toinette lay. 
 
 As they approached the sofa the woman's face again 
 
A " POOR FOLLr 111 
 
 assumed a look of indefinite, struggling surprise. It 
 seemed as if memory were engaged in an unsuccessful 
 effort at recognition. 
 
 With a half-despairing shake of the head she ap- 
 proached closer, and said: 
 
 "So this is the gal ez was hurt, is it?" 
 
 She did not seem to expect an answer, but wrap* 
 ping the bit of cloth about the forefinger of her left 
 hand, she began to undo the dressing and examine the 
 wound. A thin red line, slightly broader in the center, 
 with the pallid lips and purplish ring surrounding it, 
 which marks the wound made by a dagger, showed 
 itself upon the left breast, just above the girlish bosom. 
 
 " 'Twas a close call," said the woman, after regard- 
 ing it a moment, "an' I'll be boun' 'twas n't no or'nary 
 knife cut that ar hole." 
 
 As she replaced the bandages, nodding her head in 
 approbation of what had been done, Toinette opened 
 her eyes, and gazed wonderingly at her. The effect 
 upon the woman was marvelous. Surprise, incredulity, 
 fear, seemed at once to possess her countenance. Her 
 face flushed and paled by turns. With a quick move- 
 ment, the left hand, containing the piece of cloth she 
 had picked up in the hall above, was withdrawn from 
 Toinette's shoulder, and thrust under her apron. At 
 the same time she glanced furtively at Geoffrey. When 
 she drew forth her hand again the bit of gray cloth 
 had disappeared. 
 
 "Hush, chile," said the woman, as Toinette would 
 have spoken. " You 'd better save what breath ye have. 
 Ther 's no knowin' how long any 11 be lef ye." 
 
112 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "I'm to take keer o' her, ye said?" Geoffrey 
 nodded assent. "Then I may ez well begin," she said, 
 as she addressed herself with something of unnecessary 
 stir to the duties of nurse. 
 
 Geoffrey retired from the room, and Toinette soon 
 sank into a quiet slumber. 
 
 Then Mrs. Certain sat down and drew from its 
 hiding-place the piece of cloth. She smoothed it out 
 upon her knee, and gazed upon it long and earnestly. 
 
 "It's the very same," said she. "It's been many 
 a year since I see'd it, but I would a-knowed it anywhar. 
 I 'd good reason to remember it, though I never thought 
 to see it under these circumstances, never ! " Then 
 she sat a long time apparently absorbed in thought. 
 
 While she sat thus the doctor came to look at his 
 patient. He was simply an old and garrulous prac- 
 titioner of the country neighborhood. Geoffrey had 
 told him as much as he thought necessary for him to 
 know, no more. The girl had been stabbed. That was 
 all that could concern the medical attendant. 
 
 ^' Some of the niggers been quarreling with her, eh } 
 An' cut the gal, ye say.? Bad, bad! They allers will 
 cut, ef they can get a knife when the fit 's on." 
 
 He felt Toinette's pulse, and, removing the cover- 
 ing, adjusted his spectacles and looked at the wound. 
 He started — 
 
 " Eh ! What 's this } " looking minutely at the small, 
 dark puncture. " Who d 'ye say did this .? " 
 
 Geoffrey told him that the perpetrator was unknown. 
 
 " Do n't know who did it, Mr. Geoffrey ! " said the 
 old physician, looking keenly around. " Well, then. 
 
A ''POOR POLL." 113 
 
 look here. Let me tell you this is no common wound 
 —no cut made with a plantation-nigger's knife. It 
 was a genteel weapon did that, and a steady hand that 
 held it, too. I 'd wager money it 's not the first time 
 that blade has tasted blood, nor the first time that 
 hand has guided it." 
 
 Geoffrey then told him of the occurrence of the 
 night more minutely, and brought him the dagger 
 drawn from Leon's breast. 
 
 "Yes, yes," said the doctor, "this is it," comparing 
 it with the wound. " But where 's the dog .' " 
 
 Geoffrey informed him that the servants were then 
 taking him out for burial. They went together and 
 examined the body, and then returned. 
 
 " Yes," said the Doctor, " it was a steady and prac- 
 ticed hand. Not one in a hundred of the coolest of 
 men — I say men, for somehow I alius thought it was a 
 woman's hand that used that dirk — could have made 
 that stroke. As I 've said, it 's not the first time I 've 
 seen that style of cut, an* in this very house too. Ah, 
 Mrs. Certain, I see you remember it. What ! Never 
 heard of it, Mr. Geoffrey ? Yes, you were away at 
 school at that time, or too young to know about it 
 if you were at home, I reckon. Well, let 's have 
 breakfast, and over our pipes afterwards I '11 tell you 
 about it. I never let anything interfere with eating 
 and digestion. Yes, the gal 's well enough. Rest and 
 quiet — Betty Certain knows how to nuss her. I '11 
 leave her a little soothing powders, an* drop in towards 
 night again. I allow she '11 get well if she aint hurt any 
 more. It was a narrow miss, but she *s young an' strong." 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 APOLLO'S ORACLE. 
 
 BREAKFAST was over, and the doctor and Geoffrey 
 were seated in the library, each with a long- 
 stemmed pipe, and a box of light russet-yellow tobacco 
 between them. 
 
 During the meal, the doctor had, according to his 
 previously declared maxim, studiously refrained from 
 all reference to the present exciting events at the Lodge, 
 or previously enacted ones of which he had intimated 
 some knowledge. 
 
 " So you never heard the history of this house, Mr. 
 Geoffrey?" said he at length, as the clay pipe glowed 
 and puffed, and clouds of soft, bluish-white smoke rolled 
 from his mouth. 
 
 Geoffrey answered that he had not, and the old man 
 went on : 
 
 " Well, it 's queer. I Ve been practicing on the 
 river here for nigh about thirty years. Let me see — 
 I came here in '30 or '31, and this house was built a 
 few years later. Lovett — Arthur Lovett built it. He 
 came from somewhere down in the low country, and 
 was kin to the Loyds, and through them to the Petrees 
 and some other families in the country round. 
 
 " He was a man of somewhat unsocial disposition 
 
APOLLO'S ORACLE. 115 
 
 but finely educated and very well read. These books 
 about us bear testimony to his taste, for most of them 
 were his familiar friends. I see you have put your 
 law-sheep into that corner rack which he had filled 
 with a class of publications not very common nor pop- 
 ular in our part of the country, which were probably re- 
 moved before your father bought. It was a collection 
 of works on the institution of slavery. I reckon it 
 contained every book that had been published on the 
 subject in any language up to that time. 
 
 " Mr. Lovett was supposed to have peculiar no- 
 tions on this question, but so far as I know he never 
 expressed any opinion at all here, but just went on 
 about his own matters, kept his niggers at work, and 
 raised just as big crops as any of his neighbors. So 
 they generally let him alone. Once, however, the cir- 
 cuit-rider stopped here over night and got a glimpse 
 of some of these books, which I had seen many a time — 
 and had even read several of them which bore some- 
 what on professional matters — without a thought of 
 speaking of them, thinking it none of my business to 
 attend to anything pertaining to my patients except 
 their diseases. No sooner, however, did the preacher 
 see them than he began to tell about the country that 
 Mr. Lovett was not soiynd on the slavery question — 
 was a seditious, dangerous, and objectionable person. 
 
 " By itself, this report would, perhaps, have passed 
 for very little, but taken in connection with certain 
 facts in the menage of the Lodge, it gave him no little 
 notoriety for a time. One or two committees waited 
 upon him to regulate his doctrines and practice, but 
 
116 A ROYAL gentleman; 
 
 it was generally believed that they found the quiet re- 
 cluse less of a coward than they had presumed, and 
 were, in fact, badly outdone at their own game. 
 
 " He was a bachelor, of perhaps thirty-five or forty 
 years old when he first moved here, and had for a 
 housekeeper a young quadroon woman of remarkable 
 beauty as to whose status there was, for a time, consid- 
 erable discussion. 
 
 " It was said, and the revelations of a celebrated 
 action at law which you have probably read afterwards 
 proved the correctness of the rumor, that this man, 
 Arthur Lovett, had, at an early age, become enamored 
 of the girl, then his father's slave. Several children 
 were result of their intimacy, and so great was his in- 
 fatuation that he finally persuaded his father to execute 
 a deed of manumission for her and her children, and he, 
 thereupon, conveyed to them the major part of his own 
 estate, and continued his former intimacy. A doubt 
 having been intimated by an eminent attorney as to the 
 legality of the deed of manumission, Arthur persuaded 
 his father to take Belle and her children to New York 
 and have them freed according to the laws of that 
 State. This was accordingly done, but the woman, 
 after a time, returned to this State, and entered upon 
 her old relations with him. 
 
 "He seems to have been perfectly infatuated with 
 this yaller gal, and at one time to have imbibed all the 
 pestiferous doctrines of the Abolitionists. People were 
 very lenient upon this subject then. It was regarded 
 as a possible contingency that the slaves might, some- 
 time, be freed. Very many masters taught their people 
 
APOLLO'S ORACLE. 117 
 
 to read and write. The free negroes were then voters, 
 and were allowed a larger liberty than is now permitted 
 them. That was changed in '35, you know. Before that, 
 I have heard that some of them were ministers, regularly 
 ordained, and teachers of no mean efficiency. I have 
 understood that one or two of our Governors, and per- 
 haps Judges of the Supreme Court too, were, for a 
 time, under the tuition of a certain free negro, and per- 
 haps were fitted for college by him. There is a tale 
 which I have heard among the country people, that once, 
 when he came unexpectedly to a place where some of 
 his old pupils were at dinner, they compelled him almost 
 by force to sit down and eat with them, declaring 
 themselves honored by his society. I reckon it was 
 true too, for, by all I hear, he must have been a most 
 extraordinary man. I suppose the old fellows would 
 deny it now, though I have heard another ex-Governor 
 own that he had mustered in the same company with 
 free-niggers many a time in the old days ; and I 've 
 seen hundreds of our best men do the same thing. So, 
 people did not make so much note of Arthur Lovett 
 allowing this girl to read and write and have all the 
 accomplishments of a lady as we would now. 
 
 "But the relationship which existed between them, 
 after a time, began to occasion remark in the com- 
 munity, for it was too plainly one which no law-abid- 
 ing, Christian people could endure. They were indict- 
 ed, and, as is usual in such cases, prosecution became 
 persecution. People were not content to prosecute 
 them for adultery, but also set upon them, under the 
 'law just enacted, for inciting slaves to sedition, and 
 
118 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 for circulating seditious publications. It created a great 
 excitement in the region where they lived and I have 
 heard that the old man Lovett had to pay a pretty 
 sum to stop the prosecutions, which he could only do 
 upon condition that the parties should leave the county 
 for good. 
 
 " Thereupon, Arthur came here and bought this 
 place, taking a deed to himself ' as trustee for Belle 
 Lovett, a free person of color, and the children born of 
 her body,' as your law books phrase it. He built this 
 house, as I said, superintending it all himself and put- 
 ting into it all his whimsical notions. 
 
 " On coming here, Arthur Lovett seemed to have 
 determined to avoid any of those damaging suspicions 
 as to his relations with the girl Belle which had given 
 him trouble in the low country. It is true that he 
 lived in the same house here with her, and was very 
 attentive in his care of her children, who were really 
 bright, beautiful creatures. Beyond this, however, not 
 the most rigid scrutiny could detect any sign of famili- 
 arity. The girl occupied some well-furnished apart- 
 ments in that part of the house where the cutting was 
 done last night, and had absolute control of all that 
 pertained to the culinary department of the household, 
 being reputed to be something extraordinary in that 
 line. 
 
 *' Thus matters went on for some time without 
 change. At length the old man, Peter Lovett, died. 
 It was said that his death was caused by anxiety arising 
 from pecuniary losses, but this was perhaps an after- 
 thought engendered by the deplorable condition in 
 
APOLLO'S ORACLE. 119 
 
 which his estate was found to be after his death. It 
 proved to be utterly insolvent. His creditors seized 
 upon everything except the meager year's provisions for 
 the widow and her dower in her husband's real estate, 
 which the law allowed her to hold during her life. 
 Except for this, the mother and two unmarried sisters 
 were reduced to penury, and now it was seen how 
 thoughtless Arthur had been in yielding to his infatua- 
 tion for Belle. His mother soon died, and his sisters 
 came to live at the Lodge. They constantly upbraided 
 him with unkindness, and an utter disregard for their 
 comfort and interest. In fact, there was the worst kind 
 of a chronic family quarrel, in which the quiet, studious 
 young epicurean had decidedly the worst of the en- 
 counter. 
 
 " The gal who had caused all this trouble seems to 
 have behaved better than any of the rest. I have been 
 told that she offered to waive all her rights under the 
 deed of trust in case she was taken North with her chil- 
 dren and given a reasonable settlement there. The girl 
 evidently thought she was making a liberal offer, as she 
 certainly was if she had actually been a free woman, as 
 everybody at that time supposed her to be. It seemed, 
 however, to enrage the whole family against her, who 
 at once set upon her with redoubled violence. You 
 know how they would act in such a case. The gal's 
 old mistress, Nannie, was dead, and she had to fight 
 the other two sisters single-handed, or rather single- 
 tongued, for Arthur would not allow them to strike 
 the gal. 
 
 " As for Arthur, he was near about distracted. It is 
 
120 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 reasonable to suppose that the heat of his passion had 
 somewhat cooled, and that he began to see the folly 
 of his course. At any rate, he kept himself locked in 
 the library here, and smoked and cussed in grim solitude. 
 
 "About this time the administrator of the elder Lov- 
 ett's estate conceived the idea that the girl Belle and 
 her children might be held for the benefit of the es- 
 tate. He, therefore, brought suit against Arthur, in 
 whose possession he alleged they were, for their recov- 
 ery and also to compel him to account for their use 
 and profit for several years. 
 
 "After a great deal of litigation, the gal and her 
 children were adjudged to be still the property of the 
 estate, and were taken to the low country by the admin- 
 istrator and sold at public outcry, to make assets for 
 the payment of creditors. 
 
 " Meantime, Arthur seemed to have become thor- 
 oughly ashamed of his early life, and to have done all 
 in his power to shake off its memory and influences. 
 The deed to this plantation, which had been made as I 
 told you, had never been registered, and after the gal 
 had been taken as a slave, he made search for it, with 
 the intention of destroying it, I think, but without avail. 
 Your father's advice was asked, and he counseled the 
 making of a new deed directly to Arthur Lovett, with- 
 out any trusteeship expressed. The simple-minded man 
 of whom the plantation had been purchased was in- 
 formed that his former deed was lost and a new one 
 required, and for a slight gratuity executed another as 
 directed, making no inquiries. Indeed, he would have 
 been no wiser if he had. 
 
APOLLO'S ORACLE. 121 
 
 " Then affairs settled down, and people were begin- 
 ning to forget the occurrences which I have narrated, 
 when, all at once, we were startled with the announce- 
 ment that Arthur Lovett was about to marry Betty Cer- 
 tain — the Mistress Certain in the other room. Such a 
 marriage was hardly less remarkable than his liason 
 with th^ pretty quadroon. 
 
 " Betty Certain was a girl of perhaps twenty-one or 
 two, buxom and rugged, but of a very un-c^xXdXn posi- 
 tion in society. Her father was not exactly a poor 
 ivhite, for he owned a little piece of land and was a 
 comfortable liver, but they wer^ not, by any means, of 
 the class in society to which the I^ovetts belonged. 
 
 " She had, somehow, obtained the etitree of the 
 Lodge when Arthur first came, and was a sort of 
 privileged character here ever afterwards. She was a 
 strange, blunt sort of creature, of a good enough 
 character, with a kind of man-like fearlessness of conse- 
 quences which made her more dreaded than loved in 
 her own circle in life, and rendered it even more strange 
 that Arthur should have chosen her. Yet she was a 
 sort of favorite. One could hardly meet the fresh, 
 sturdy girl without being impressed with her good na- 
 ture and her good sense. She came of a tolerably fair 
 stock, too. Her grandfather, Ezra Certain, was the 
 agent of ' the Earl ' in the old days, when that dignitary 
 owned a grant which might have been an empire, if he 
 could have held it. He had a bee in his bonnet 
 though, and his oddities came out in his children pretty 
 strong. There is a story in the country that the family 
 name is not Certain, but I don't know how true it is. 
 
122 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " People generally thought the bride would be good 
 enough for the groom; but I always distrusted her, and 
 not unfrequently speculated as to how she had brought 
 the matter about, for it was evidently her own work. 
 There was a rumor that certain disclosures in reference 
 to their previous relations, made by a set of rough char- 
 acters who organized themselves into a committee of 
 vigilance for the purpose of whipping the gal — Belle — 
 and righting affairs generally at Lovett Lodge, led 
 eventually to this engagement. It was said that they 
 found something connected with the domestic econo- 
 my of the Lodge which compromised Miss Betty. 
 There certainly was a meeting between Bill Price, the 
 leader, and Lovett, which came near closing Price's 
 account without waiting for it to be balanced. I never 
 believed a word of this report, though, so far as it im- 
 plied any impropriety on her part. She had too much 
 prudence for that sort of thing. 
 
 " By the sisters of Arthur Lovett — proud and refined 
 ladies — Betty Certain, after her engagement with Arthur 
 was known, was treated with the utmost contempt, and 
 only seemed to be endured because they were power- 
 less to have things otherwise. Her conduct towards 
 them, and their ordinary intercourse, was such as might 
 be expected from what I have described — constant 
 abuse and recriminations upon both sides. 
 
 " Towards Arthur Lovett himself the conduct of 
 this woman was, to my mind, most remarkable. It was 
 the farthest removed from what would have been ex- 
 pected of a low-bred woman, who finds a man of 
 position in her toils and determines to profit by the 
 
APOLLO'S ORACLE. 123 
 
 discovery. She seemed to regard him with absolute 
 veneration, as a being of superior mold, and yet with 
 a constant and tender pity. Never have I seen a wo- 
 man's eyes beam with that peculiar light which speaks 
 the tender care of a watchful nurse over a beloved 
 object more clearly than when she watched his varying 
 moods. It was utterly devoid of the exultation you 
 would have looked for under the circumstances, and 
 did not seem so much passion as watchful adoration. 
 It was the mute watching for the will of the master 
 which you may have noticed in a favorite dog. Every 
 motion or gesture of his form or countenance seemed 
 to have a meaning which she was anxious to apprehend 
 and obey, not so much, it seemed to me, from love- as 
 from pity. She shielded him from the family broils, 
 which often raged, and was untiring in her efforts to 
 secure an atmosphere of quiet for the eccentric recluse. 
 
 " I watched her closely, for I was convinced that 
 she was a most consummate actress, as the proposed 
 marriage clearly proved. One would not expect it, but 
 that coarse, hard-featured woman, nursing that yaller 
 gal in yonder, has powers of intrigue, self-control, and 
 artful assumption of the garb and guise of feeling, 
 which I have never seen equaled. 
 
 "The effect upon her of the approaching marriage 
 was most remarkable. She seemed to be half- fright- 
 ened at the success of her own schemeSo Her watch- 
 fulness and anxiety towards Arthur redoubled, and 
 even her manner towards his sisters softened. She 
 listened quietly and kindly to their remonstrances, 
 and told them that it was not by her desire or wish, 
 
124 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 but in obedience to Arthur's solicitations, that she had 
 consented to become his wife. Of course they did 
 not believe a word of it, and when they retorted with 
 taunts and insinuations she repeated her old threats, 
 and told them that she was not yet powerless to repay 
 scorn with injury — though she might be when she be- 
 came the wife of Arthur Lovett. 
 
 " Yet she seemed to shrink from the day that would 
 witness her triumph, rather than to desire its advent. 
 It was put off from time to time with apparent dread, 
 and when it was finally fixed, she begged that the wed- 
 ding might be of the most private character, and that 
 they might start at once upon their bridal trip. 
 
 " I spoke to Lovett with regard to his approaching 
 nuptials, one day, but he changed the subject, betray- 
 ing, as I thought, a disinclination to speak of it. 
 
 " The trousseau for the bride was completed at last, 
 and a portion of it spread out upon a table at the 
 end of this room. The wedding was to have taken 
 place the next morning. Arthur Lovett was that night 
 in unusual spirits. He left the sitting-room immediately 
 after tea, and sat with Miss Betty in the library here 
 for an hour or so, attended her back to the sitting- 
 room door, and then, as was his custom, shut him- 
 self in here for the night with his books and his pipe. 
 
 " I was quite intimate at the Lodge at that time, 
 having some thought of marriage with Miss Bertha, 
 the younger sister of Arthur, so you see I was not 
 exactly a disinterested spectator of the events I am re- 
 lating. However, nothing ever came of it, and, consider- 
 ing what followed, I am sincerely glad there did not." 
 
CHAPTER XI. 
 
 NICOTINIANA. 
 
 '^ T FEAR," said the Doctor, refilling his pipe, which 
 -L had long been empty, " that I have been indulg- 
 ing in speculations rather than narrating the events 
 which I set out to tell. The fact is," he continued, 
 crowding the tobacco into the bowl, " that is the in- 
 variable effect of a narcotic upon a person of sedentary- 
 habits. Tobacco does not have the effect which has 
 been attributed to it, of depriving the mind of logical 
 power and accuracy, though its excessive use is in many 
 other respects hurtful enough. On the other hand, I 
 am inclined to the opinion that the purely logical power 
 is strengthened, or, at least, improved, by the abstrac- 
 tion which results from the use of the weed. Its sooth- 
 ing and quieting influences tend at once to the most 
 perfect abstraction and concentration of thought. The 
 mind, which is largely affected by the use of this nar- 
 cotic, or, indeed, any other, is disinclined to leave one 
 subject to pursue another. It seems to produce the most 
 perfectly conservative state of mind conceivable. The 
 victim, or subject rather, of confirmed narcotism, started 
 upon a train of thought, follows it with the utmost 
 persistence and pleasure to the farthest possible limit, 
 and leaves it with the greatest reluctance. 
 
126 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 " For instance, the religious speculations of the 
 Brahmins and other Eastern philosophical sects, and 
 the more recent but quite as marked tendency of the 
 German mind, I regard as an unmistakable evidence 
 of the effect of narcotics upon the men of sedentary 
 habits. The same is observable in our own country. 
 The brilliant speculative intellects are to be found — 
 at least until of late years — almost exclusively at the 
 South. It is true that nearly all works claiming that 
 character have been of New England origin, but they 
 have been mostly controversial and semi-religious works. 
 They are not properly speculative ; they are simply 
 cold mathematical deductions, from premises either 
 admitted or assumed. You might as well term Euclfd 
 speculative as Edwards and the theologic disputants 
 of that day. Speculation is always suggestive, inquir- 
 ing — awakening the mind to thought and research, 
 but not satisfying its wants. Demonstration, on the 
 other hand, leaves nothing to be done by the reader. 
 Beginning to read a book of that character is like 
 getting on a railway train — you must go where the 
 train goes. The demonstrator carries you with him 
 like a prisoner. The speculator sends you abroad alone, 
 into tangled thickets of luxuriant thought, full of un- 
 seen treasures and unexplored ways, and quietly waits 
 for you to come back to pursue your general course 
 with him. The one is the man who travels because 
 he must get to his journey's end, the other, the leisured 
 and accomplished tourist, who travels simply for the 
 enjoyment to be derived from wayside scenes and 
 chance encounters. 
 
NICO TINIANA . 127 
 
 " The former class are more apt to figure in litera- 
 ture and to leave a lasting record of their acts and 
 successes than the latter. It is for this reason that 
 our history presents the anomaly that it does. The 
 South has ruled the Government from its inception, 
 but the record of Northern statesmen and orators is 
 far more permanently brilliant and imposing than ours. 
 
 " The opponents of John Randolph — -a dozen of 
 them — are immortalized by speeches made in reply to 
 his, yet how meager is our record of those dazzling ef- 
 forts which it gave immortality to oppose! 
 
 " The same was true of Mr. Clay. He towered 
 above the giant from Massachusetts, as AVebster did 
 above his pigmy fellows — in strength, influence, and 
 effective eloquence — but a hundred years from now 
 Webster will be read with delight, Clay with surprise 
 and wonder that he was ever deemed an orator. The 
 same is true of our Badger, and Mangum, and a hun- 
 dred other names dear to every Southern heart. Their 
 strength was in the thoughts they suggested, not in 
 the conclusions they demonstrated. They were giant 
 minds, fitted by every circumstance of growth, train- 
 ing and habit for the highest effort of speculation — 
 the accurate delineation of the various relations which 
 our anomalous governmental machinery imposed upon 
 the Federal Union, the State, and the individual. 
 
 " Calhoun was the most powerful generalizer who 
 has ever appeared in the field of American political 
 thought. I have never been able to concur with his 
 views, not because I did not consider his reasoning 
 good, but because I did not want to admit his con- 
 
128 ^ ROYAL GENTLE MAX, 
 
 elusions, whether right or wrong. Our Southern states^ 
 men have always been speculators, suggesters. They- 
 have from the first supplied our political capital. They 
 have been the animating influences of our national 
 counsels. The Northern leaders have been leeches, 
 robbers, stealing the thoughts of our great careless 
 Goliaths, as they chatted over a glowing pipe or ut- 
 tered the results of years of subtle meditations in the 
 freedom of convivial intercourse. These diamonds of 
 priceless value they have carefully garnered and set 
 in crowns upon their brows, for the future to regard 
 with wonder. The issues have been ours, — the work 
 of our thinkers. The successes have been ours too, 
 the triumphs of our great intellects. The speeches, 
 the reports, and the personal fame, in the main, will 
 be theirs. We have had the past, they will have the 
 future. The speeches of our Northern statesmen are 
 their enduring monuments. The measures accom- 
 plished by our Southern giants, the rule obtained and 
 held by a numerical minority for two generations 
 against the hottest opposition, the form proud memorial 
 of their strength, seen but by few and appreciated 
 by still fewer. 
 
 "In the main, I attribute this to the leisure of the 
 Southern planter and the free use of tobacco. It is 
 true that at this time there are a few in chill New 
 England who are taking the highest rank as pub- 
 lished speculators — for the best speculative minds, as 
 I have said or intimated, rarely leave their lucubra- 
 tions to posterity at first hand. These Boston fellows, 
 however, seem to have happily united the faculties of 
 
NICO TIN I A NA. 129 
 
 the two classes. What a kin^ of suggesters is this 
 fellow, Emerson, and the author of The House with 
 Seven Gables I I understand that Emerson does not 
 smoke, which accounts for his writing so much. If 
 Tie smoked, he would be content to talk. 
 
 " Doctor," said Geoffrey, "don't you think you are 
 illustrating your own doctrine pretty fully .?" 
 
 "Well, perhaps I am," said he, with a laugh, "and 
 demonstrating its correctness too. Let me see. Where 
 did I leave off.'' Oh, yes. Arthur Lovett had come 
 into the library here, the night before the marriage 
 was to take place. There was no disturbance here 
 that night, but as he did not make his appearance at 
 the usual time next morning the door was forced 
 open, and in a great arm-chair, which was his favorite 
 seat, they found him, stone dead. 
 
 " I was called at once, and not only examined as 
 to the cause of his death but made an investigation as 
 to the means by which he had been killed — for killed 
 he undoubtedly was — by the hand of another. He 
 had been reading and smoking after Miss Betty left 
 him, and had probably fallen asleep, for his pipe was 
 lying on the floor beside him, and the volume was 
 pressed between his leg and the chair arm. 
 
 " He was stabbed just in front of the left shoulder, 
 the blade passing downward through the heart. I am 
 of the impression that his head was held forcibly in 
 a reclining position for a moment. His struggles were 
 but brief, however, as he must have died instantane- 
 ously. There was no blood, except a little on his 
 clothing about the wound, and upon a handkerchief-^ 
 
130 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 part of the bridal trouseau — which had evidently been 
 used to wipe the dagger. 
 
 " It seemed probable, in fact almost certain, from 
 the direction of the blow, that the murderer had stood 
 behind the chair when it was struck. It was a clean, 
 sharp, steady blow, and, judging from the wound, made 
 by the same weapon that cut that dainty hole in your 
 yaller gal out there last night — or at least its counter- 
 part. Two wounds could not more closely resemble 
 each other, except that this was evidently more hur- 
 ried, and directed too far back to be fatal. 
 
 " It may be a whimsical fancy, and certainly I can 
 offer no reason for the hypothesis ; but I cannot help 
 believing that this ere little toy m.ade both those wounds, 
 and that the same hand held it on both occasions. It 
 is of elegant workmanship, and seems to be of solid 
 silver mounting ; but it makes an ugly hole, with the 
 least possible strength. 
 
 " Did you ever think the Italians were philosophic 
 in choosing that form of weapon for assassination } It 
 has several peculiar merits. First, it reduces the re- 
 sistance to a minimum ; then it is more easily with- 
 drawn than the flat blade ; and being withdrawn, the 
 wound is not so liable to close and stop hemorrhage. 
 
 " But I do not mean to speculate on murder. I 
 have told you my story, and you can draw your own 
 inferences and take such precautions as you may 
 deem expedient and necessary. Perhaps you know 
 more of this than I do, and have the thread which 
 will guide you out of the labyrinth ; but I confess it 
 makes me nervous. I do not like such unexplained 
 
NICO TIN' I A NA, 131 
 
 phenomena. There seems to be a fatality about the 
 place of a peculiar character." 
 
 " Yes," he continued, in answer to an inquiry from 
 Geoffrey, " there was a great deal of excitement and 
 speculation over the death of Authur Lovett, and any 
 number of theories were advanced to account for it. 
 Your father, among others, examined the premises and 
 the body very carefully. He was then County Attor- 
 ney, and of course had an interest in the investiga- 
 tion of crime. He asked a great many questions of 
 all the witnesses before the Coroner's jury; but I 
 thought he signally failed in his attempt to elucidate 
 the mystery." 
 
 "Was there anything peculiar about the room.^" 
 asked Geoffrey. 
 
 ' No, nothing that I particularly recollect," said the 
 Doctor. "Yes, there was; the door was locked, and 
 the key upon the ring, with other keys, in his pocket, 
 as he always carried it. Nothing was taken from his 
 person that was known to have been on it, and nothing 
 was disturbed in the room." 
 
 "What could has'e been the motive for killing him.'*" 
 asked Geoffrev. 
 
 "Well, sir," answered the doctor, "it is hard to say. 
 No one had any grudge against him, or anything to 
 gain by his death, except his own family. Suspicion 
 ran hard against Betty Certain for a time, but on in- 
 vestigation it was shown that she had certainly far 
 more to gain by his life than by his death. His will 
 was written, but unsigned, leaving everything to his in- 
 tended wife, Betty Certain. It was shown that he 
 
132 A. ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 designed signing it before he started on his bridal* 
 tour. Dying intestate, all went to his sisters. Besides, 
 it was found that his life was heavily insured — 
 very heavily, for those days — and they received all this 
 too. These things made a great deal of talk about 
 the sisters, and I think the general idea was that they, 
 by some means, compassed his death. I have never 
 been quite able to disbelieve their protestations of inno- 
 cence, nor yet to account for the murder on any other * 
 hypothesis." 
 
 "What did Betty Certain do and say?" asked Geof- 
 frey. 
 
 "Betty Certain said very little. What she did was 
 to gather her own little wardrobe and personal effects, 
 carefully leaving out every gift she had received from 
 Lovett except her engagement ring, which you may 
 have noticed she still wears, and go home to her 
 mother's. After the property was sold, and the money 
 received from the Insurance Company, the sisters, by 
 your father's advice, I think, offered her a considerable 
 sum, perhaps one third. She did not take it, and when 
 they came to urge it upon her, told them plainly, that 
 she did not ^ want a?iy mo7iey of that color' Miss Betty 
 evidently believed that the manner of his death was not 
 unknown to them. 
 
 "The place was bought by your father at a bargain, 
 on account of the bad name given it after the murder, 
 and has been, generally, unoccupied, until you came 
 here." 
 
 "Its bad name!" said Geoffrey. "Does a place get a 
 bad name simply from a man having been killed upon it.''" 
 
NICOriNIANA, 133 
 
 "That alone," answered the doctor, "might not give it 
 one ; but there soon came to be tales abroad of spectral 
 figures, seen moving among your oaks, to which the 
 ordinary laws of nature did not apply. It was said that 
 a weird shape flitted back and forth, in the moonlight, 
 before which the dogs were silent, or howled in fear. 
 In other words, your pleasant residence is generally 
 supposed to be haunted. I hope you have experienced 
 nothing of this.''" noticing the start which his auditor 
 gave, at the sudden memory of what he had seen the 
 night before. 
 
 Geoffrey answered that he had no faith in ghostly 
 visitants, and was not likely to be troubled by them. 
 
 The doctor smilingly assented, knocked the ashes 
 from his pipe, and prepared to leave. 
 
 " By the way," said he, " I saw your father yester- 
 day. He has had another touch of paralysis, and I 
 am afraid he is failing. If there are any arrangements 
 to be made — as to his business, you know — they 
 should be attended to at once. There is no knowing 
 what may happen. Good day." 
 
 And the old Doctor rode away, leaving Geoffrey 
 Hunter with his strange problem yet unsolved. 
 
CHAPTER XII. 
 
 A DEAD CLIENT. 
 
 ACTING upon the doctor's advice, the next day 
 Geoffrey went to the Hunter Home and found 
 his father as had been described to him. The sight 
 of his son somewhat revived him, and he said with a 
 touch of his old vivacity : 
 
 " How d' ye, Geoffrey, son. I 'm powerful glad to 
 see you. I was jes' goin' to send a boy over arter ye. 
 Yes, as ye see, I 'm but poorly, but I hope all 's well 
 at the Lodge.?" 
 
 Geoffrey informed him briefly of what had trans- 
 pired there, of the stabbing of Toinette and killing of 
 Leon. 
 
 " Sho, sho ; ye do n't say so. Toinette, little Toi- 
 nette, stabbed ! Who should want to kill her ! An' 
 her mammy, old Mabel, come back this morning, too — 
 how bad she'll feel! An' the dog killed! Pity, pity. 
 He was a fine fellow, though he hadn't any nose an' 
 wa' n't worth nothin', only fer company-like, to you. 
 But he certain did think a power o' ye, no mistake. 
 An* Toinette, little Toinette, that yer ma loved so 
 well. My mind misgave me when you asked me for 
 her. It was wrong, my son, I ought not to hev let 
 you have her. An' that 'minds me that neither of us 
 'tended to the petitions for the emancipation of these 
 
A DEAD CLIENT. 135 
 
 gals at the last term of our Court. I thought o' it 
 one night during the term, an' did 'low to do it the 
 very next day, but I quite forgot it then. Of course^ 
 you thought I would see to it. You ain't ter blame. 
 But you mus' do it next time. The Court will be here 
 agin in November, an' you must look after it then; 
 mind now. Sonny, I may not be here then, an' if I am, 
 you must charge yerself with it, for the sake o' that 
 pore gal, Toinette. 
 
 " Stabbed, too ! It 's queer ; Arthur Lovett was 
 stabbed in that same house — let me see — ten or twelve 
 — yes, better than twelve — years ago. It was a won- 
 derfully mysterious affair. I did my best to find out 
 the truth on 't, but never could satisfy my own mind, 
 much less another, about it. 
 
 "You see, I was his counsel and friend as well as 
 County Attorney, and I made a thorough search arter 
 the murderer, but nothin' ever came on 't. He was 
 stabbed at night, sleepin' in his chair in the library. 
 Most folks laid it on his sisters, an' at first I did, too 
 — especially when I found he had not signed his will, 
 which he had drawn up in his own hand and would 
 probably have executed the next day. Indeed, he had 
 spoken to me about it several days before, and said 
 that he should make a will before he left on his bridal 
 trip. He was to have been married the next day, and 
 by his will he intended to have left everything nearly 
 to his wife, or the woman he would have married next 
 morning. He dying intestate, his sisters got it, includ- 
 ing an insurance policy of twenty-five thousand dollars 
 on his life. This made me more suspicious of his sis- 
 
136 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 ters than anyone else ; but I was satisfied that I was 
 wrong on seeing their absolute surprise when I informed 
 them of these facts. They never were knowin' to his 
 death, that I am sure of, but who was, or for what 
 purpose, with what motive, it passes me to say. 
 
 "I have got all the papers now. I was looking 
 them over only a little time back and wondering that 
 no clue had ever been found to his murder in all the 
 time that has elapsed since. It 's rare that crime man- 
 ages to hide so long; I don't think I have known 
 another case like it in nigh on to half-a-century of 
 practice. We will get the papers before you leave, and 
 you can take them home and look them over if you 
 choose. You will find some in the bundle not relating 
 to this particularly, but connected with Lovett's bus- 
 iness. You may find them all interesting. He was 
 party to one of the most important suits ever decided 
 by our Courts. You had better study this case thor- 
 oughly, for it may sometime involve the title of your 
 estate. I was never right satisfied that the decision 
 on which our title rests is good law. I did n't think 
 so when I bought, but just considered the chances 
 fair in my favor, an' it was goin' for nothing a'most. 
 The place was first deeded from old man Tommy Gray 
 to Arthur Lovett, as trustee for a yaller gal, Belle, and 
 her children, who lived with him. She had been man- 
 umitted according to the laws of New York, and was 
 also directed to be freed, by the will of the old man, 
 Peter Lovett, Arthur's father. This provision was 
 defeated by the codicil of the same will, which be- 
 queathed to her certain real property in the State, for 
 
A DEAD CLIENT. 137 
 
 her use and occupancy. The Courts refused to recog- 
 nize the act of manumission in New York, on the 
 ground that Belle and her child had been removed 
 to that State only for the temporary purpose of eman- 
 cipation, and had very soon thereafter returned to this 
 State. . This was thought to be in fraud of our statute 
 upon the subject, as it unquestionably was, so far as 
 the motives and intent of the master were concerned. 
 At the old man's death they were adjudged to be still 
 slaves, and were taken into possession by the executors 
 as part of the assets of the old man Peter's estate. 
 You will find the case, so far as it was reported, in 
 the eighth of Iredell. 
 
 " Now, you see at once, that if she or her heirs, 
 at any time, should succeed in getting his decision re- 
 versed — as I am of the opinion that it would be, if it 
 should ever be in their power to bring it up for con- 
 sideration, from a different standpoint, or even in 
 another tribunal — it might be a troublesome matter 
 for us. 
 
 " I have often wondered what the United States 
 Courts would do if this question should ever be fairly 
 presented to them. The act of emancipation in New 
 York, if regular and in accordance with their statutes, 
 and I have examined into this case and think it was, 
 clothed the gal. Belle, co instante^ with all the rights 
 of the richest white woman in the country before the 
 law. Can the intention of her former owner, however 
 fraudulent, deprive her of these rights .'' It may be said 
 that she was cognizant of his act, but she was then a 
 chattel, and could not be a party to a fraud, whether 
 
 10 
 
J 38 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 affecting her manumission or not. Surely her master's 
 fraudulent or unlawful intent could not operate to defeat 
 her of the rights which the statute of that State guar- 
 anteed her. 
 
 " It is one of those mixed questions which can 
 never be decided with strict obedience to logic, and 
 yet be entirely just. Or, rather, it is a question which 
 one series of logical deductions will decide in the affirm- 
 ative, and another, equally logical, in the negative. If 
 we regard Belle as having been first, last, and all the 
 time a chattel merely, then the decision is correct. 
 But if we consider her as a human being, with the 
 rights, powers and privileges of such, merely removed 
 by the operation of law, and consider the act of eman- 
 cipation as one personal to herself, then it is wrong. 
 The effects, too, are equally inharmonious. If the 
 decision is correct, the gal, Belle, loses the rights which 
 the law declares — the statute law of New York, I 
 mean, — she is entitled to maintain. If it is erroneous, 
 then the creditors of her master lose their right to sub- 
 ject his property to the payment of their just debts. 
 The real irreconcilability of these two lines of thought 
 was first pointed out to me by Arthur Lovett, and I 
 must say the puzzle has gone far to convince me in fact 
 that the state of slavery was designed to be a temporary 
 one merely, and, on account of its inconsistencies could 
 never obtain a permanent place in the laws and insti- 
 tutions of a free country. 
 
 " Suppose, now, that Belle Lovett, or her children, 
 should ever be in a condition to present this matter in 
 a tangible form to a United States Court, what would 
 
A DEAD CLIENT. 139 
 
 be the result? Candidly, Geoffrey, I don't see how we 
 could fail to go to the wall. I am satisfied our title 
 would be worthless — provided the original deed to Ar- 
 thur Lovett, as trustee, should be found, or could be 
 proven. You see it was never registered, and, in fact, 
 has not been seen since the gal, Belle, was taken by the 
 Executor. I always thought that it was in Arthur Lov- 
 ett 's possession after Belle, pore gal, was taken off and 
 sold — though he denied knowing anything about it, 
 saying he had not seen it for years, and assented, or 
 rather submitted, to the making of another deed by 
 the old man Gray, to himself individually. As the par- 
 ties were the same as in the former deed, this, even 
 when recorded, can only be of value to pass the prop- 
 erty, in so far as it is a renewal of the original one. 
 
 " I looked over Lovett's papers carefully, after his 
 death, but could find nothing of the missing deed. 
 The gal. Belle, must have carried it off with her, or she 
 may have placed it in the hands of some person to 
 hold for her, with the idea of sometime obtaining her 
 rights thereby. I have been looking for a suit about 
 the matter from year to year. 
 
 "But the strangest thing about it is that I cannot 
 find the gal herself. I tried to trace her out, after 
 Lovett died and I had bought the place, to see if I 
 could not compromise the matter with her, by freeing 
 her and her children. I never felt quite right about 
 it, for I got the property for a tithe of its value be- 
 cause people were so sartin' that the gal's claim would 
 sometime be urged. 
 
 "It's a queer thing, Geoffrey, but the older you 
 
140 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 grow the more you'll notice it, that the downright honest 
 notions of the people ain't far from the law and equity 
 of things. It makes little difference what prejudice or 
 passion may say. The vox populi is not the voice of 
 God when it comes in anger, rage or disappointment, 
 with hot blood and violence. It is not vox Dei, but 
 more probably the opposite, when it comes with a 
 roar and a shout, fervid and wild. Do n't trust it 
 then, Geoffrey, never. But when it comes calm and 
 deliberate, in the quiet chat of neighbors, or rises in a 
 man's mind as he smokes his pipe alone, or gives his 
 notions to his ole woman by the firelight after supper, 
 then I've ginerally found it was better law than we 
 ordinarily get in the Reports. When it comes in that 
 way, Geoffrey, the people's voice is so nigh what God 
 means, that one is taking onreasonable risks when he 
 goes agin it. Remember that. Sonny, remember that. 
 I took sich risk when I bought the Lovett place. I 
 don't know why. Perhaps I had a lingerin' notion that 
 I would, in effect, carry out Arthur Lovett's will — set 
 the gal an' her children free, an' make myself whole 
 out of the plantation — I don't know. He seemed to 
 care more about that than anything else, as you'll see 
 by reading his will. 
 
 " Ruthy always told me that if I did not make it 
 right with the gal, an' her children, the plantation would 
 just be a curse to us and our heirs. She never looked 
 in a law-book, nor anything resembling one, except the 
 Scriptures, but, queerly enough, she always used a legal 
 phrase in describing my relations to the property. She 
 said I was just a trustee for the rightful owner, who 
 
A DEAD CLIENT. 141 
 
 had been dispossessed by fraud ; which you know, Son, 
 is just what the courts would say, if her 'freedom 
 papers ' should prove good, and the deed to her use 
 should be established. 
 
 "As I said, I tried to trace the gal and her children. 
 They were all sold by the Executor at public auction. 
 The two older children to a trader who dealt in fancy 
 niggers for the Richmond market. He calculated to 
 keep them four or five years, as they was n't quite 
 ' prime ' at that age, and then sell them high. I found 
 out about them after Arthur died, and sent a trader 
 from t'other side the river to buy them for me. I got 
 the boy but missed the gal, and never could get trace 
 of her agin. 
 
 " I took the boy, Fred, North and set him free, and 
 left money enough in trust for him to send him to school 
 a right smart time. He 's a bright lad, and I guaran- 
 tee that if he has a fair show he '11 be no discredit to 
 the man that set him free. I 'd like to see him once 
 more, for somehow he 's some sort of evidence of one 
 good deed I 've done. I 'm always glad to think I did it, 
 too. I never told him his history, but when I am dead 
 I want you to write to him and get a fair and square 
 quit-claim. He is of age now and would probably give 
 one, for I tell you, my son, he nigh about worships 
 Manuel Hunter, and I would give more to deserve his 
 gratitude than anythin' else in this world. I can 't 
 bear that he should know how I hev been cheating 
 him as it were till I 'm past knowin' what he says of 
 my conduct." 
 
 I am sure, father," said Geoffrey, " he has reason 
 
 XI 
 
142 A 7? OVAL GENTLE MA ISr. 
 
 to be grateful. If you are the trustee, have you not 
 used the interest in the estate which you acquired for 
 his good? The law made him a slave, and he would 
 probably have remained so if it had not been for your 
 trusteeship, as you term it." 
 
 " Perhaps you 're right, my son. I wish Ruthy could 
 have heard her son — her favorite, too, you always were 
 — defending my conduct in that way. I 've a notion 
 though that she was something of that mind herself; 
 for when I came home an' told her that I had put the 
 boy at school, she half-started out of her chair, when 
 she had n't stood alone for years, and said, ' God bless 
 you, Manuel!' and then she clasped her hands, and 
 her lips moved, and the tears ran down her poor, pale 
 cheeks. An' that night, when she was wheeled out to 
 supper, she looked as bright and beaming as a glorified 
 angel. An' when she asked me not to go back to the 
 office, but to sit an' smoke in her room and hev a cosy 
 chat with her, I couldn't refuse, though some clients 
 war a-waitin' for me. An' so I sat by her easy-chair 
 well into the night. 
 
 " She said she 'd never been so proud of me since 
 I refused a fee from the prosecution an' volunteered to 
 defend a pore gal for killin' her master in defense of 
 her virtue. That was when I first came to the bar an' 
 fees was scarce an' small, but I could n't prosecute that 
 innocent gal for defending her honor against her mas- 
 ter's lust. Ruthy never ceased praisin' me for that. 
 
 " I knew that night she wouldn't be with me long, 
 for she was too nigh a saint to stay on earth. Oh, 
 Geoffy, boy, ye do n't know what a woman yer mother 
 
A DEAD CLIENT. 143 
 
 was ! It 's little Manuel Hunter would ha' been on 
 earth without her; an' if he 's any hope of heaven, it 's 
 all through her. I know she 's up there with the angels 
 now, and I hope to see her soon." 
 
 The two men wept in silence over the memory of 
 the sainted woman to whose influence so much of the 
 good in both was due. 
 
 The old man at length broke the silence, saying : 
 " I 'm glad we came to talk of these things, Geoffrey. 
 Now you '11 understand my will better. I made it 
 some years ago, as you know, but I added an important 
 codicil orly a fevv' weeks back. It 's about that woman 
 Belle. I can 't get rid of an impression that she 's alive 
 somewhere, and I want her hunted up and freed; an' 
 when that is done — not before, boy — make the best 
 bargain with her that you can. Mind, you 're to look 
 sharp for her. You are young and can travel. I know 
 only this — she was sold to Buck Loyd, an' he took 
 her to Alabama — at least I s'pose he took her there— 
 but what came of her atterwards I never could make 
 out. He lived a wild, roving life, an' no one could 
 ever track him so as to find the gal. I sent down 
 to the administrator's sale of his estate, but could 
 get no trace of her. In fact, he had lost more 'n 
 half the bills of sale for the niggers which he had. 1 
 bought Mabel then, because yer mother wanted a good 
 cook and she was recommended as something extra, 
 as she is. I saw the girl Belle several times, w^hen 
 she was with Lovett at the Lodge, and should know 
 her any time if I should see her — especially by her 
 long black hair, the finest I ever saw. Loyd prob- 
 
U4 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN: 
 
 ably traded her off, perhaps gambled her off, in some 
 drunken spree, and I am afraid the chances for find- 
 ing her are not good ; but you '11 try, boy, won't 
 you ? That 's the only thing on my mind, Geoffy. 
 You are my executor. You an' the gals will divide 
 the property equally after taking out a share for your 
 aunt, pore woman. Mabel, you know, is to be freed ; 
 remember, I promised your mother and the petition is 
 already filed, and I promised her, too, that Toinette 
 should be free at the same time. You '11 make yer old 
 father glad and do it, so that I can tell Ruthy that 
 we 've done as she wished, won't you, Geoffy .? Now, 
 don't forgit. Son, don't forgit." 
 
 "Yes, father," answered the son, "I will attend to it 
 at the next term, and we will have them both freed, and 
 sent away. You will remember it if I should forget." 
 
 " Thank ye, Son, thank ye ; but Manuel Hunter '11 
 have to answer at another bar, afore the Judge calls 
 over the docket in the Court House yonder, again. 
 Somehow it don't seem as if I should see you again 
 soon. But go home now. You 're needed there, an' 
 keep close watch. Somehow, I think ye '11 clear up 
 that mystery yet. Keep watch — keep watch. There's 
 nothing like a steady eye in this world. Good bye," 
 and the old man leaned back wearily in his chair, 
 while his son took the books and papers that his 
 father had referred to and returned to the Lodge. 
 
 The next day, the mind of Manuel Hunter — the 
 clearest-headed lawyer in his circuit for many a year 
 — had lapsed into childish imbecility, and his busy past 
 had become to him — a dream. 
 
A DEAD CLIENT. 145 
 
 That night Geoffrey Hunter sat alone in the library 
 at Lovett Lodge, and examined the papers referring to 
 the life and death of his predecessor in its possession, 
 Arthur Lovett. The first was the unsigned draft of a 
 will. In a small, distinct and peculiarly unmistakable 
 hand, it read : 
 
 " The last will and testajnent of Arthur Lovett of 
 Lovett Lodge, 
 
 " Being of sound mind, and of bodily health unim- 
 paired, I, Arthur Lovett, of Lovett Lodge, in the County 
 of Cold Spring, State of North Carolina, do indite the 
 following as my last will and testament: 
 
 ^^ Ite77i. — I give and bequeath to each of my sisters 
 five thousand dollars. 
 
 '"'' Lte77i. — I give and bequeath the residue of my 
 estate, after paying all my debts and the above lega- 
 cies, to my wife, Betty, to be used for the purposes, 
 and upon the conditions, hereinafter named — to wit: 
 
 " First. — That she shall employ such portion of the 
 said estate as may be necessary, in securing the free- 
 dom of Belle Lovett, and her children Fred, Alice, 
 and Antoinette. 
 
 " The said Belle Lovett was my beloved and devoted 
 servant, and the said children are my own. I had 
 supposed her to be free, and intended to repay her 
 devotion by such feeble reparation as our constitution 
 of society would allow me to make. As the law has 
 mocked my efforts in this, it is only just that I should 
 devote my estate to securing to her and her children 
 the liberty of which her love and my selfishness have 
 deprived them. 
 
146 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Second. — That when the liberation of the said 
 Belle Lovett and her children shall have been accom- 
 plished, my estate shall be equally divided, one-half to 
 go to my wife Betty, and one-half to the woman Belle 
 and her children. 
 
 '' Itejft. — I constitute and appoint Betty, my wife 
 aforesaid, executrix of this my last will and testament, 
 and exhort her to do, without fail, these acts of tardy 
 justice, which my own weakness of purpose has pre- 
 vented me from doing in my lifetime. 
 
 " Ite7n. — In case my said wife Betty shall fail or re- 
 fuse to qualify as executrix of this my will, for the pur- 
 poses herein expressed, then I hereby constitute and 
 appoint the Hon. Manuel Hunter executor and resid- 
 uary legatee, in the place of my said wife, and upon 
 like conditions, except that before entering upon the 
 execution of this devise, I require that he shall give 
 bond, with good security, to be approved by the Judge 
 of the Court of Equity of the county aforesaid, in the 
 sum of fifty thousand dollars, for the faithful per- 
 formance of the conditions thereto attached. 
 
 " And in case the said Manuel Hunter shall refuse 
 to accept such executorship, then it is my will, that 
 a trustee be appointed by the Court aforesaid, to use, 
 employ, and expend my estate so far as may be neces- 
 sary, for the purposes and in the manner above-named ; 
 and all my estate remaining, after the said persons have 
 been set at liberty, except a portion equal to the dower 
 and allowance guaranteed by law to the widow, I give 
 and bequeath in equal portions to Belle Lovett and her 
 children — Fred, Alice and Antoinette. 
 
A DEAD CLIENT. 147 
 
 ^^ Itei7t. — In case I should decease before my now 
 intended marriage shall have been consummated, it is 
 my will and desire that my intended wife, Betty Cer- 
 tain, in that event shall take and hold, under this my 
 will, as is herein and heretofore provided for my wife 
 Betty, the said Betty Certain being the person intended 
 to be thus designated, both as legatee and executrix; 
 and I desire that, in that event, she shall do and per- 
 form, all and singular, the acts and duties devolved on 
 my said wife, and receive all the benefits conferred 
 upon her in this my last will and testament. 
 
 " And it is my desire that the said court shall in 
 all things order and direct the said executrix, executor, 
 or trustee, in the faithful performance of the trust, im- 
 posed according to equity and good conscience, and 
 according to the plain purport and intent of this in- 
 strument, and without legal subtlety. 
 
 " In testimony whereof I have hereunto set my hand 
 this day of , 1845." 
 
 The signature that would have made this instru- 
 ment valid alone was lacking. Geoffrey Hunter thought 
 Arthur Lovett must indeed have been infatuated to 
 become such an idiot over a " yaller gal " who had 
 been his paramour. 
 
 " He must have been perfectly insane," was his 
 mental comment, " thus to have put himself at variance 
 with the laws and customs of the entire society in which 
 he lived. It is strange ! There must be something 
 radically wrong in a condition of things which made 
 this woman a slave and this man her master. The 
 institution itself is well enough, but there should be 
 
148 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 some limitation placed upon it. This woman seems 
 to have been a superior person. Why has not the old 
 Roman principle been adopted, that the noble who 
 married his manumitted slave raised her to his level, 
 without reproach. Slavery in the abstract is right, and 
 the proper sphere of the African race. Let the Aboli- 
 tionists say what they choose, of that I am satisfied. 
 But in the concrete — in individual instances — Toinette 
 now — with harsh, brutal treatment — My God ! think of 
 Toinette in that condition ! " He groaned at the idea. 
 " No wonder my mother wished her emancipated. It 
 shall be done without fail." 
 
 And so the conscience of the weak, hesitating, dead 
 Arthur Lovett awoke the dormant sense of right and 
 justice in the soul of the prompt and strong Geoffrey 
 Hunter, and made him, in spirit, the executor of the 
 unsigned testament. Perhaps there was an analogy in 
 their lives, like the refrain of a remembered song, 
 which he had not yet recognized. 
 
 "And so," pondered Geoffrey, "Betty Certain, the 
 hard-faced woman in yonder, was to have been the 
 wife of this visionary. What did he want of her ? Why 
 would he have married her } I cannot understand. 
 But of one thing I am satisfied : that proposed mar- 
 riage and this draft of a will, either singly or united, 
 were the cause of his death. As father says, ' I feel 
 as if I should sometime clear this mystery up.' " 
 
 The young man was evidently becoming interested 
 in the events which had so mysteriously encircled him. 
 He filled his pipe, and applied himself again to the 
 perusal of the documents before him. The next in- 
 
A DEAD CLIENT. 149 
 
 strument which he read was a letter from Manuel 
 Hunter to his client, dated some months previous to 
 Lovett's death : 
 
 " My Dear Sir : 
 
 " I have just returned from the Supreme Court, 
 where the cause of Albert Chasteen, Executor of Peter 
 Lovett, vs. Arthur Lovett and the heirs-at-law of Peter 
 Lovett has been argued and decided. 
 
 " Contrary to my expectations and positive convic- 
 tions, we have been thrown. Even now I am satisfied 
 that we are right and that the Court is wrong. But 
 it is useless to argue that. 
 
 " The decision proceeds upon these grounds : 
 
 " I St. That the emancipation in the State of New 
 York was invalid as being against public policy, and in 
 fraud of the jurisdiction of the Courts of this State. 
 Although the act of emancipation was in the State of 
 New York, yet as the girl Belle was taken there for 
 the express purpose of being freed and soon thereafter 
 returned to this State, it is held that this act was to 
 avoid the statute of this State, and the emancipation is 
 therefore fraudulent and invalid. 
 
 " 2d. That the clause in the will of Peter Lovett 
 providing for the emancipation of the girl at his 
 decease is void by reason of the codicil which be- 
 queaths certain real estate to a trustee for her use and 
 occupancy, which they held to be inconsistent with the 
 law requiring the removal of a freed person from the 
 State, and consequently void. 
 
 " This decision, of course, applies to all of hei chil- 
 
150 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 dren. They are slaves with her. The decision pre- 
 sumes everything against liberty, rather than in its favor. 
 It is correct enough so far as it affects the master, but 
 it utterly ignores the rights which emancipation con- 
 ferred on the girl. It defeats the girl of her liberty 
 because her master intended a fraud. 
 
 " I tried to get Chasteen to consent to a sale to me, 
 but he said he had had so much trouble with the gal 
 that she and the children should only be sold on the 
 block, adding that he hoped they would go into the 
 hands of traders so that you might never see them again. 
 
 " I am satisfied he will do all he can to prevent 
 your recovering possession. 
 
 " I would advise that you assume indifference, let 
 the sale pass a short time, and then deal with the 
 purchasers. Besides, I wish to examine whether some 
 steps cannot be taken to have this decision reviewed, 
 which I think might be done should any of them be 
 sold out of the State. 
 
 " I was never more inclined to concur in your no- 
 tion about the evil and misfortune of slavery than now. 
 It is either wrong or wrongly managed. 
 
 "Your friend, Manuel Hunter." 
 
 The rough old lawyer and his somewhat pampered 
 son, strangely enough, seem to have felt the same truth 
 in considering Arthur Lovett and his quadroon. In 
 the practical concrete both were slaveholders. In the 
 abstract, they were not so far removed from the Abo- 
 litionists of that day, as either themselves or those 
 fanatics would have maintained. 
 
A DEAD CLIENT. 151 
 
 He read several other papers, but none seemed to 
 show any light upon the questions he sought to solve. 
 
 At length he came to the last in the package. It 
 was carefully sealed, and a superscription covered the 
 entire face. It was in the handwriting of Arthur Lov- 
 ett, and ran as follows : 
 
 " To Belle Lovett, whom God designed for my 
 wife, who is the mother of my children, but whom 
 society made my slave, and my own weakness made 
 the victim of the most terrible wrong — or to any of her 
 children should she die before being legally emanci- 
 pated. 
 
 " Let no other hand break these seals. A. L." 
 
 On the back was written, in the sturdy, irregular 
 hand of Manuel Hunter : 
 
 " I have been strongly tempted to disregard the in- 
 junction of Arthur Lovett, to see if some clue to his 
 murder might not be obtained from this paper but 
 the last request of a friend is too sacred to be broken. 
 
 "M. H." 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter took his pen from the table and 
 wrote these words underneath : 
 
 " The example of a father restrains the hand of 
 his son. G. H." 
 
 He replaced the papers in the package and put 
 them in his private drawer. 
 
CHAPTER XIII, 
 
 WARNED. 
 
 BY the affliction of Manuel Hunter, the care of his 
 entire estate devolved upon Geoffrey, he having 
 been appointed trustee upon his father being adjudged 
 of unsound mind. 
 
 Examination of his father's estate fully disclosed 
 the fact that he had not boasted without cause, of his 
 material success in life. Patient industry and unflag- 
 ging zeal, united with foresight and prudence in his 
 investments, had borne their usual fruits to the old 
 lawyer. It was, however, soon discovered by Geoffrey, 
 that his father's kindly feeling and accommodating 
 spirit had led him to endorse for several parties to a 
 very large amount, enough, in fact, to nearly swallow 
 up his accumulations, should his estate be obliged to 
 pay them all. There was little apprehension of this, 
 however, as most of the principals were in good circum- 
 stances and abundantly able to discharge all liabilities. 
 
 To prepare the estate for a speedy settlement in 
 case of his father's decease, now a matter to be daily 
 expected, would require, however, no little time and 
 attention. To this task Geoffrey addressed himself 
 with the energy and concentration of purpose which 
 marked his nature when fully aroused. For several 
 months he did, and thought of, little else. His time 
 was mostly passed at the Home, and the father's office 
 
WARNED. 153 
 
 became almost as regular a place of resort, day by- 
 day, to the son, as it had been to the father in his 
 busiest years. 
 
 Meanv/hile the household at Lovett Lodge was still 
 kept up, though with only the occasional presence of 
 the master. Once in a week or two he would drive 
 over to pass the Sunday, and remain a few days to 
 see that matters were progressing favorably. 
 
 Immediately upon her recovery, Toinette had de- 
 voted herself to the piano, which had been opened for 
 her amusement during convalescence, and to such des- 
 ultory reading as the library afforded, and which struck 
 her fancy at the moment. 
 
 The question had often crossed Geoffrey's mind, 
 even amid the engrossing duties of his present life, as 
 to what was the best preparation which he could bestow 
 upon this favorite, to prepare her for that freedom which 
 at no distant day awaited her. Her condition, even in 
 the North, would be anomalous, and, in his view, even 
 pitiable. He earnestly desired, he often said to him- 
 self, to do what was wisest. She would, when eman- 
 cipated and at the North, be an outcast, nothing more — 
 nothing less. The race to which she was nearest akin 
 — he often questioned whether she was akin to any 
 other — would look upon her with scorn. It seemed 
 as if degradation awaited her in any view which could 
 be taken of the future. She was too light to be black, 
 and, of course, she could never be white. Poor girl! 
 it was not her fault but her misfortune. 
 
 And thus, while he speculated, she read his books, 
 
 and learned his music, and grew into a rarely beautiful 
 11 
 
15-i -/ ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 woman, with a quick and teeming fancy, and a demeanor 
 neither of the servant nor of the equal, the outgrowth 
 of her undefined position in the household, solving 
 the question, in fact, before he could perfect his theory. 
 
 Soon after her recovery, Geoffrey had taken Betty 
 Certain into his confidence so far as to inform her of 
 the intended emancipation of Toinette, and she spared 
 no pains to impart to the young slave girl, to whom 
 she seemed much attached, such useful information as 
 she had acquired, which, though by no means startling, 
 was by far greater than would have been supposed 
 from observation of her countenance and person, or 
 from knowledge of her surroundings in life. Somehow 
 and at some period, she had managed to pick up what 
 might be termed "a tolerable English education," wheth- 
 er from one of the log school-houses not very abundant 
 in that region, or through the charity of some teacher 
 at the " Silk-Stocking Academy," on " Gentleman 
 Ridge," it is unnecessary to enquire. In addition to 
 this, she had great powers of observation, and was 
 given to reading in an abstracted, unaccountable way 
 — as it seemed to Toinette — the books upon the library 
 shelves. They did not seem to be new to her, but 
 rather, old friends, and her quaint comments showed 
 her intimacy with the thoughts they contained. 
 
 And so for months they dwelt almost alone, the 
 middle-aged, hard-featured, poor white woman, and the 
 young slave girl just budding into womanhood, under 
 the roof of the young Antinous, whose time was then 
 given to conquering the difficulties which his new duties 
 devolved upon him. 
 
WARNED. 155 
 
 Time wrought a wonderful change in old Mabel. 
 She seemed to have lost all affection for the child she 
 had once so fondly loved. Mother and child did not 
 meet until the Christmas came again and Toinette went 
 to pass the season of festivity at her old home. 
 
 What was her surprise when, meeting her mother 
 at the kitchen door, in response to her joyful greeting 
 old Mabel repulsed her with the utmost coolness, and, 
 despite all her efforts, refused to bestow any loving 
 attention upon her. 
 
 " Go back to yer Mass'r Geoffrey," she said, grim- 
 ly. " Yer haint been my gal since the ole lyin' rascal, 
 that sits mumblin' yonder to hisself, an' waitin' fer de 
 debble to answer, giv' ye to his son. I do n't want to 
 see ye. I wish ye was dead." 
 
 " But, mother," said the affrighted girl, " do n't you 
 know we are both to be free when Mass'r Manuel dies 1 
 It's in his will. Mass'r Geoffrey told me so hisself. 
 An' then he 's going to take us North somewhere and 
 give us a nice home." 
 
 " Free ! " said old Mabel with a sneer. " Free ! Ye 
 like the word an' the idee, do n't ye } I used to like 
 it once, but I hates it now worse 'n de debble does 
 the sound o' prayer. Free ! I 've heard it so many 
 times that I'd hardly believe it if the Lord God his- 
 self, if ther' is one, should tell me so with his own 
 mouth. I could tell ye — but whar 's the use. Yer jes' 
 Mass'r Geoffrey Hunter's nigger, body an' soul, an' he 
 aint gwine to give up either one till it 's ready for de 
 debble's pickin' ! I tells ye so, an' I knows. Did n't 
 dat ar ole liar Manuel Hunter tell Miss Ruth, as is a 
 
156 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN-. 
 
 blessed angel in Heaven to-day, if there is sech a place, 
 on his bended knee, an' she a-dyin', with the light of 
 Heaven shinin' on her face — did n't I hear him tell 
 her dat ole Mabel an' her little gal Toinette should be 
 free' an given a home in a free land, atter she 'd done 
 wid 'em? An' didn't I feel like goin' down on my 
 knees an* kissin' de dust off his feet, cos I believed 
 him ? More fool I, for 't wa' n't the fust time lips like 
 his hed lied to me — lips dat orter hev turned cold in 
 death 'fore dey let one false word come fru dem to my 
 ear. But dey lied, an' he lied. He jes' kep' us right 
 on, an' when young Mass'r axed for ye, he jes' give 
 ye away as light as a penny to a beggar. 
 
 " An' when I went to him an' tole him of his 
 promise, an' axed him not to let ye go, he would not 
 heed me, cos he 'd promised ye to Mass'r Geoffrey, as 
 ef he had n't promised de dear dead saint, dat kep' 
 de debble off his pore soul so many years by her love 
 an' prayers. I cussed him den, an' de Lor' heard it, 
 ef he do n't take much 'count ov us pore niggers often. 
 
 " An' now, see de pore critter ! An' he aint half 
 over it yit. His body 's here, but I tell ye, gal, he 's 
 in hell-torment, as he ought to be. De debble made 
 a good trade de day Manuel Hunter guv ye to his son. 
 He' s gittin' his pay now. I loves to see him maun- 
 derin' an' putterin' about, with less sense dan de mean- 
 est nigger on de place, an' I say to myself, Dat's de 
 man Hunter, dat give away yer chile, to go thru all 
 dat you 've faced in yer life, agin. But he can't pay 
 it all. Geoff Hunter's turn 'U come some day. 
 
 "Ye pore gal, yer aint tu blame. I don't want tu 
 
WARNED. 157 
 
 hurt ye," she said, as Toinette sobbed and wept. " De 
 debble's got ye an' ye can't help it. It 's a pity dat 
 knife did not make an end of ye. Ye aint to blame, 
 I knows. Ye aint yer own, but Geoff Hunter's. I 
 do n't hate ye, gal, but jes' can 't abide to see ye. Go 
 back to yer master, an' if sin ever scotches yer white 
 soul his'n '11 hev tu pay for 't as sure as there 's anything 
 like justice in Heaven." 
 
 That night Toinette went back to Lovett Lodge, 
 confused, bewildered; wonderingly asking herself the 
 question after whose solution so many have vainly 
 groped. The infinite problem of life made her heart 
 heavy and her head dull. What wonder if the poor 
 child, standing in the darkness — walled in by stern ne- 
 cessity — lost sight of the dim spot of far away blue 
 sky above. What if she deemed the prison walls in- 
 surmountable byhope or faith and caught at the mock- 
 eries it held to cheer her hopeless misery. 
 
 She was no more a child. She lost her girlhood 
 the hour she bade her mother "good bye." A bright 
 rosy glamour hung over the earth when the petted 
 slave-child, Toinette, started to meet her mother that 
 day ; — a hot, yellow glare oppressed the eyelids of the 
 pampered slave-woman as she returned. 
 
 The change had come, the die was cast. She could 
 never be what she had been. She felt that dimly. 
 What would she be ? She did not know — hardly cared. 
 Her mother had told her to go back to her Mass'r 
 Geoffrey. She would go. He was kind to her. She 
 thought he was the only one who cared for her now. 
 
 So she fled from the Mother to the blaster. 
 
CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 *'OH, LIMED soul!" 
 
 GEOFFREY HUNTER had resumed his residence 
 at the Lodge before another summer came. The 
 burden of his father's business had either become less, 
 or he bore it more easily, as he became accustomed 
 to it. 
 
 The relations of the inmates of the Lodge to each 
 other seemed, however, to have changed, when he came 
 to be again an accustomed presence within its walls. 
 For a time there was an attempt upon the part of all 
 to take up the thread of life at the point where the 
 paralysis of the elder Hunter had separated the strands, 
 but it was a futile one. The sensuous young Epicurean 
 was then trying to prepare, in an impossible manner, for 
 an unheard of life, the budding mind of a slave-child. 
 The same being, grown to womanhood, conscious of her 
 charms, and with the memory of former intimacy and 
 favor, constituted a whole which Geoffrey Hunter in 
 his Utopian dreams had never fully counted on. The 
 reader will remember that he had at first viewed her as 
 a chattel, mentally calculating her probable market value 
 at maturity, and afterwards as a curious toy on which 
 he might try such visionary experiments of the humani- 
 tarian type as his fertile brain might suggest. Now, he 
 was forced to look upon her in another light — that of 
 
" OH, LIMED SOUL ! " 159 
 
 a woman. Already the country gossip had seized upon 
 the significant facts of his household menage to couple 
 his name with Toinette's in good-humored banter. 
 
 The rumor was not of that character w^hich could be, 
 or, in that state of society, even needed to be, put down. 
 There was no disgrace, scarcely an impropriety, coupled 
 with the relation it implied. It awakened him, how- 
 ever, to some facts which most probably had before 
 that unconsciously exerted an influence on his esthetic 
 nature, among which was the wonderful beauty of his 
 young bond-woman. 
 
 The familiarity of the child had given way to the 
 consciousness of womanhood, and as she passed before 
 his sight here and there about the house in tasks quite 
 self-imposed he could not shut from his mind an un- 
 easy, indefinite feeling that everything was not precisely 
 as he could desire. He became moody and fitful in 
 his temper. He could not but see that gradually and 
 almost unconsciously Toinette had assumed control of 
 the household ; that she had been placed by him in a 
 false position, but one which she filled with complete- 
 ness and grace. He was sorry she was there, yet would 
 not have her elsewhere. He did not analyze his own 
 feelings, but only knew that he was sorry she was a 
 slave, yet could not bear to send her away from him. 
 
 It was no wonder that the young sybarite felt the 
 charm of her presence. To a form of that lithe grace 
 and peculiar roundness which only a life of unrestrained 
 freedom under a Southern sun in youth can bestow, 
 Toinette added a face of singular loveliness. Eyes of 
 dark liquid brown, heavy brows, and a wealth of flow- 
 
L60 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ing locks, so dark as just to avoid the name of jetty, 
 which seemed ahnost to burden with their weight the 
 shapely head and slender neck. Her cheek had that 
 changeful softness which marks the perfection of the 
 brunette, and her manner was that rare blending of 
 boldness and timidity which provokes question and ap- 
 proach, yet baffles inquiry and courts retirement. One 
 of those female characters which no man can help try- 
 ing to read, yet which so few are able to solve ; one of 
 those combinations of attributes which give to some 
 rare instances of womanhood the power to " raise mor- 
 tals to the skies," or " drag angels down." 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter looked upon this vision of loveli- 
 ness and forgot that she was his chattel-real. Her 
 presence brought light, and her voice was music to 
 him. He listened for her footstep and was moody 
 and ill-tempered if she were absent. He did not stop 
 to inquire why, but her presence soothed him. He 
 loved to see her, to hear her sing, to have her do any 
 of the thousand trivial services which brought her 
 near him. It flattered his self-esteem, and gave him a 
 pleasure which he took care not to mar by too close 
 an analysis, when, at length, he discovered that he was 
 the sun of this beautiful slave-girl's life ; that her 
 heart beat for no joy but the rapture of his approval, 
 and that earth held no pleasure for her fluttering 
 bosom to be compared with the bliss of pouring the 
 precious ointment of her love upon his head, though 
 all unheeded and unblest in return. 
 
 Of course Geoffrey Hunter knew his position in 
 society too well to commit the enormity of falling in 
 
« OH, LIMED SOUL I " 161 
 
 love with a slave — even if she had been pampered and 
 petted and was destined to be free at no very distant 
 day. But he did not repel the love which perfumed 
 the passing moments, and so the jest of gossiping 
 tongues was entered in the books of heavenly record 
 as a fact; and Geoffrey Hunter was debited with the 
 safety of that fair soul, which had lavished the treas- 
 ures of its love upon him, and of other souls which 
 might yet bear the impress of both minds. Now 
 were they doubly master and slave — once by the bill- 
 of-sale, among his valuable papers and effects, and once 
 by acquisition in the market-overt, where Love is auc- 
 tioneer. 
 
 It was a light thing to the young slave-owner, and 
 Toinette did not dream of evil in her devotion. She 
 was too happy in the privilege of loving even once to 
 dream of sin. 
 
CHAPTER XV. 
 
 " THINGS HID FROM THE WISE." 
 
 BETTY CERTAIN seemed to be almost stupefied 
 with amazement at the discovery of the fact re- 
 vealed in the preceding chapter. For a time she 
 seemed quite undecided as to the course she should 
 adopt in view of it, and for some days she wandered 
 about the Lodge with a grotesque uncertainty of move- 
 ment, taking odd and uncouth positions, sitting cross- 
 wise upon her chair, and spitting, here and there, 
 regardless of consequences. 
 
 She was not an attractive woman at any time, and 
 now the vague look of doubt that hung about her every 
 limb and feature magnified her eccentricities, until they 
 bordered on the ludicrous. After long reflection she 
 decided upon her course. How she had come to stay 
 at the Lodge for the past two years, since Toinette had 
 recovered from her wounds, no one, not even herself, 
 could tell. Geoffrey had asked her to continue there, 
 a month or two after, when she proposed returning to 
 her home, and from some motive quite unknown to 
 others, at least, she had signified her assent, and the 
 matter had never been mentioned afterward. Whatever 
 it was, this poor white woman had evidently allowed it 
 to enter largely into her own plans for the future, which 
 seemed to have been utterly overturned by the newly 
 
''THINGS HID FROM THE WISE." 163 
 
 discovered intimacy between master and servant. Her 
 conclusion once reached, however, there was no more 
 uncertainty. She stood erect and faced the issue un- 
 flinchingly and promptly. Her log-house on the old 
 Certain tract was at once repaired under her own super- 
 intendence; the old shaded spring dug out, and the 
 entire premises made snug, cleanly and habitable. This 
 done, she once more sought an interview with Geoffrey 
 Hunter in the library. Since he had known her, Betty 
 Certain had manifested some characteristics, which, in 
 connection with what he had learned of her past life, 
 had impressed him with a profound respect for her 
 shrewdness, capacity, and trustworthiness. It was, 
 therefore, not without regret that he heard of her 
 determination to quit his roof, and he questioned 
 her closely as to her motive. 
 
 " I v>ill own to you, Mr. Hunter, that I had not 
 thought of leaving until within a few days, and it upset 
 me mightily for a while to think of doing it then," she 
 said in reply. 
 
 *'But why," he urged, "think of it at all.? You 
 have become almost as inseparable from Lovett Lodge 
 as the ivy on the chimney or the ghost which is said 
 to cling to its bounds." 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Geoffrey," she replied, "I came here at 
 your bidding, not intending to stay at all, but jes' 
 to let you know that a pore white woman could n't 
 always be bought. But when I seed that poor, tender 
 critter just at the point of death, an' seed that your 
 consarn for her was more like a father than that ov 
 a master, I concluded to stay, for a while, at least. 
 
164 ^ ROYAL gentleman: 
 
 Then atterwards I staid on, for a reason which I 
 need n't speak of now. Till by-and-by I begun to 
 love the gal Toinie as I should my own darter, if I *d 
 had one, I suppose. An' then you told me how she 
 an' old Mabel, her mother, was to be sot free ez soon 
 ez ever Manwell Hunter died, an' I 'lowed that I 'd 
 jest stay here with her till that time, and then pick 
 up an* go North with you all, when you tuk' em away, 
 an' see if I liked it any better than this country. I 
 wanted to be nigh Toinette, anyhow." 
 
 "And why not do it yet?" asked Geoffrey. 
 
 " Things hez changed since then, Geoffrey Hunter," 
 said the woman quickly ; " Toinette will never be sot 
 free, now." 
 
 "Toinette not liberated? Why?" 
 
 " Do n't ask me. You knows better than I can tell 
 you," said she, coolly. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter was discomfited. This poor white 
 woman annoyed him. Yet he could not tell why. He 
 got up hastily and walked once or twice across the 
 room nervously. Betty Certain sat still and looking 
 at the fire nonchalantly. Her demeanor angered him. 
 What right had she to call him to account for his 
 conduct ? Was it any of her business what his relations 
 were with his own servant ? He would let her know 
 her place. 
 
 " So you came to read me a" lecture, did you. Miss 
 Betty ? If you expect to become my guardian it is 
 certainly time you sought quarters elsewhere." 
 
 It was a harsh speech for a man of culture and 
 refinement to make to a woman, but this woman was 
 
''THINGS HID FROM THE WISEr 165 
 
 no longer young, and was only a " poor white " at 
 best. 
 
 " It 's not the fust time 's trouble brought me here 'n 
 crime druv me away," said the woman quietly. 
 
 " You do n't mean to accuse vie of crime, Betty 
 Certain?" said he, hotly. 
 
 "Oh, I didn't come here to argy with a lawyer as 
 tu what 's crime an' what aint. Mebbe you do n't 
 think it 's enny crime tu stain the white soul ov that 
 young cretur in yon, an' send her into hell, coz she 
 thinks you an angel, strayed away from home, an' be- 
 lieves that wickedness can 't live in yer heart. An' 
 maybe I was wrong in callin' it by that name ; but 
 it 's what 's bro't the bad name to Lovett Lodge, an', 
 in my 'pinion, has caused all the crime an' blood that 's 
 been done an' shed here. I kin remember, Geoffrey 
 Hunter, when ye were n't out of frocks an' Arthur 
 Lovett lived here, with the prettiest yaller gal I 've 
 ever seen 'cept Toinette — an' somehow she 'minds 
 me of her often. Ther' never wuz a better man 
 lived 'twixt soil and sunshine than that same Arthur 
 Lovett, and I 've no more idee thet he tho't ther' was 
 any more harm in takin' that gal fur his mistress, at 
 fust, than you would in marryin' one ov the neighbor's 
 gals. But it led from this to that, quarrelin', an' fight- 
 in', an' lyin' to the poor crittur, till it all ended in 
 blood and death — Arthur Lovett's blood an' death, too. 
 I 've always hearn that two as travels the same road is 
 likely to come to the same eend. An' you 're follerin' 
 in Arthur Lovett's tracks, shore ! But that 's your affair 
 and not mine." 
 
166 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 The allusion to Arthur Lovett and reference to his 
 death awakened Geoffrey's curiosity, and he remem- 
 bered the connection of Betty Certain with that event, 
 and the mysterious relation which seemed to have ex- 
 isted between that murder and the one attempted after 
 he came into possession of the Lodge. He determined 
 at this time to gather such further information as he 
 could from her, to see if, by chance, it might not shed 
 some new light upon the crime with which he was him- 
 self more intimately concerned. He would speak her 
 fair, therefore, and pay no attention to her reflections 
 upon his life. So he said: 
 
 "Well, Mrs. Certain, we will not quarrel, now that 
 we are about to part company. What do I owe you.?" 
 
 The woman seemed somewhat surprised at his tone, 
 and, after a moment, replied: 
 
 " If I 've been wuth anything to Geoffrey Hunter he 
 knows the vally ov what I Ve done, better than I do. 
 I '11 not make any barter about the matter. I did not 
 come here for money, ez I said afore, an' I 've been 
 treated well in this house, that I hev, an' I shall hev 
 no complaint to make with what ye 're a mind to pay 
 me, for kind o' holding things straight an' snug-like. 
 Then, tu, ther 's a feelin' about this house ther' ain't 
 no whar else, an' it 's wuth suthin', to me, to live in it." 
 
 Geoffrey was surprised at the evident earnestness 
 and feeling of this declaration. This low-down woman 
 always surprised him. Collected, cool, self-poised at 
 all times, she seemed to have none of the insecutiveness 
 which ought, in the estimation of the favored portion 
 of mankind, who constitute the best society, to mark 
 
" THINGS HID FROM THE WISE." 167 
 
 one of her station in life. She seemed even to have not 
 a little of that delicacy and refinement of feeling which 
 Geoffrey had supposed to have been monopolized in 
 the creation of the self-indulgent Brahmins of his own 
 caste. So, having paid her liberally for her services, 
 spoken of her future plans and preferences, as she 
 seemed about to retire without herself introducing the 
 topic of peculiar interest to him, he finally said: 
 
 "I have always thought, Mrs. Certain, that the re- 
 lation you sustained to Arthur Lovett, and the scrutiny 
 you gave the circumstances attending his death, as well 
 as your observation of Toinette's wound, and knowledge 
 of its surroundings, must enable you to form a better 
 and more tenable theory, as to these strangely connected 
 acts, than any one else. I have never given up the 
 hope of detecting the perpetrator of these crimes, for 
 I am of opinion that the same hand struck the blow in 
 both instances; nor, to tell the truth, to get rid of the 
 apprehension that the same may be attempted again. 
 Would you be willing to make a confidant of me, so 
 far as to tell me whatever you may know of the former?" 
 
 Betty Certain sat in deep thought for a time, and 
 then said slowly : 
 
 " I dunno, Geoffrey Hunter, I dunno. It 's been 
 several year ago, an' I had 'lowed never to say any- 
 thing to a livin' mortal about it. Your father tried 
 his best tu make me tell suthin', and I du believe 
 Manuel Hunter was Arthur Lovett's friend, tho' he 
 had n't many this side of Heaven. I dunno. It 's a 
 long story, an' not over pleasant, leastways to me, an' 
 it aint wuth nothing without yer hear the whole ; for I 
 
168 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 do n't know nothing positive, only guesses and sur- 
 mises from some circumstances that nobody else knows 
 about, put along with them y've been told of. I can't 
 give yer an answer now, but if I determine to do it, 
 I '11 come over in the morning, a bit after sun-up, an 
 tell yer all I know. Ef I do n't come, then ye may 
 know that Betty Certain 's concluded not to tell any- 
 thing about this matter, but just let time and eternity 
 settle it as they may ; an' ef she makes up her mind 
 that way, you may be sure of one thing, she 's going 
 tu keep a close tongue while she 's got her senses, an' 
 she won't lose them, till she 's nigh about ready for the 
 t'other world herself." 
 
 i ■.. ..-.■. \ 
 
MR. GEOFFREY AND BETTY CERTAIN. 
 
 *' ^Pve covte^ ye see^ she said sharply as she satdown^ drawing her chair 
 
 close to the fire."' — p. 169. 
 
CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 OUT OF HER SPHERE. 
 
 AT the time she had intimated that she would 
 come, if she came at all, Betty Certain entered 
 the library again. She looked pale and worn. She had 
 evidently been thinking of the past, and a night of 
 sleepless misery had given her a dull and haggard look, 
 which showed how deeply the memories she had come 
 to relate were wrought into her life. 
 
 "I've come, ye see," she said sharply as she sat 
 down, drawing her chair close to the fire, for the morn- 
 ing was a chill autumn one, and gazed absently at the 
 flames. She paid no attention to Geoffrey's respectful 
 greeting — in fact, did not seem to hear it. After a time 
 she looked up and caught his eye curiously scanning her 
 dress, for she had laid off the more elegant style which 
 she had adopted during her residence at the Lodge 
 and gone back to the coarse linsey and heavy shoes of 
 the poor white, which she had worn two years ago. 
 
 "Yes, Mr. Geoffrey," she said, somewhat bitterly, 
 " I 've gone back to linsey-woolsey, an' I reckon for the 
 last time. Pitv I ever laid it off. All the trouble of 
 my life has come to me in good clothes. Ef I 'd alius 
 staid whar natur' put me, an' never tried to be anything 
 better than 'a poor Poll' all my days, I shouldn't 
 hev been here to tell ye what I know of Arthur Lovr 
 
170 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ett's life and death, whatever other crimes I might 
 hev hed knowledge on. I 've sometimes thought thet 
 Providence designed my troubles ez a punishment 
 for trying to git above the sphere He 'd placed me 
 
 in." 
 
 " But your family is not so low, Miss Betty. I find 
 upon inquiry that it is one of the oldest in the State. 
 An ancestor of yours came over as agent for the Earl, 
 and was afterward a man of large estate, for the coun- 
 try and times, if I am not mistaken." 
 
 " Oh, ther 's no mistake about that, but the family 
 hez kind of run out sence that time. Ye see Gran 'ther 
 Ezra — that's the one yer mean — didn't come as the 
 Earl's agent at fust, but was brought to Virginny when 
 a boy and sold for his passage-money. Ye see, he was 
 stole from his people in Glasgow, by the captain as 
 brought him over, who pretended that he had agreed 
 to pay for his passage. Of course he couldn't pay, 
 bein' but a lad, an' stole from home at that. So he 
 was sold for the money an' had to work for the man 
 that bought him like a slave, till he was one-and-twenty 
 or more. That 's the way we come to hev the name of 
 Certain. You see he was articled to the planter as 
 bought him, he bein' a mere boy of eight or ten years 
 old, as a 'certain boy,' the name bein' left out entirely 
 ' — whether by mistake or not, nobody ever knew. When 
 his master found it out, he just called him ' Certain ' 
 for a nickname. After he got his freedom, he just put 
 his given name Ezra to this nickname and went as 
 Ezra Certain always atterward. He found out soon 
 after that he wuz of good family in Scotland, but h» 
 
OUT OF HER SPHERE, 171 
 
 never would give up the name he hed made for him- 
 self, but left it to his children, and, as you sed, he 
 growed rich while he was agent for the Earl, an' hed 
 his pick of the land hereabouts. 
 
 " But he never would own a nigger. He sed he 'd 
 been a slave once hisself, an' it wor not right nor Chris- 
 tian tu grow rich off another man's labor an' not pay 
 him for it. An' he could not see ez the color of the 
 man's hide made any difference with the right or wrong 
 of the matter. So he wouldn't hev a slave, an' taught 
 his boys arter him to hev the same notions, an' we all 
 kep' livin' on here, generation after generation, kind uv 
 between the hammer an' the anvil, growin' poorer an' 
 poorer while our neighbors growed richer and richer, 
 till we weren't of no more account beside them than 
 a black-jack beside uv a white-oak. That 's how we 
 come to be poor; but ef we hain't growed rich by 
 slavery, we 've ginerally missed the sins that come from 
 it — leastways, a part of them. An' I don't know but 
 Gran'ther Ezra wuz right in the long run. Time an' 
 eternity together, may be it 's better to be poor then 
 hev more souls then one to account for in the end. 
 But that' s neither here nor thar. I wuz alluz poor. 
 The first I remember we lived, mother an' I — for my 
 father died afore my memory — on what was left of the 
 old Certain Tract — a little, pore plantation about the old 
 spring, which Gran'ther Ezra picked out as the pretti- 
 est place he 'd seen to live on. It is pretty, as you 
 know, an' a pretty price you 've offered for it more nor 
 once, but it won't be sold while Betty Certain hez any 
 need for a home 
 
172 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 " While I was a right young gal Arthur Lovett came 
 from somewhere down in the low-country and settled 
 here. There was no one with him then — of his family 
 I mean — except the gal Bella ye 've heard so much 
 about. He put up the log kitchen fust, an' lived in 
 that while this house was building. He was mighty per- 
 ticklar, an' hed it all done under his own eye. 
 
 "I don't know how I fust became acquainted with 
 them. Just accidentally, I s'pose. They were our nigh- 
 est neigbors, you know, an' I was a young gal and sort 
 o' lonely staying at home with only ma. So I used to 
 come over here an' chat with the gal at first. By-and- 
 by he got to noticing me, an' seemed to be pleased at 
 the interest I took in the house he was buildin'. His 
 books came afore this part was done, an' he had some 
 light shelves made an' put them up in the parlor. I 'd 
 never seen but a few books afore, but I wuz desperate 
 fond of reading. So one day I made bold to try and 
 borrow one. 'What,' said he, 'can you read, Miss 
 Betty.''' And then he asked what I had read, and 
 laughed till he like to have died when I told him the 
 few simple books which had fallen in my way. I was 
 angry, and told him I did not want his books at all 
 if that was the way he treated poor folks. I was going 
 off in a huff, but he called me back, looking very sober, 
 and begged my pardon for what he termed ' an act of 
 inexcusable meanness.' Then he requested me to make 
 free use of any books I might find in his library. I was 
 too hungry for the wonders of the world of printed 
 thought at that time to hold my pique, and there 's few 
 books on the shelves yonder that I 've not looked inside 
 
OUT OF HER SPHERE. 173 
 
 iheir lids and took in what I might of their messages of 
 good or evil." 
 
 Geoffrey uttered an exclamation of surprise. 
 
 " No wonder you 're surprised, Geoffrey Hunter. 
 You think a ' poor white ' has little right to know more 
 than a nigger." 
 
 " I wish yoQ would not call yourself a * poor white,' 
 Miss Betty," said he. 
 
 " But I am, and can't forget it if I would. There 
 has been twice that it almost slipped from my mind, 
 but it never will again- Time brings it out clearer 
 after each lapse. 
 
 " Do you mind your horse — Polydore, that you 
 bought of Mr. Duke .? He was branded when he was 
 young on the left shoulder. It do n't show when he 
 comes sleek and glossy to your library door for you 
 to mount in the morning. He is just wrapped in 
 gleaming silver then, and the badge of ownership and 
 service is hidden. But when he has been ridden a 
 day, and dust and heat have soiled his coat, and he 
 comes home sweaty and drooping, then the brand stands 
 out plain 'D.' He is your pet horse now, worthy of 
 the finest stall and keeping, but he was once Mr. 
 Duke's scraggy foal, and slept in an old field without 
 his supper. The brand tells that tale on him when he 
 sweats. So when trouble comes on me the mark comes 
 out strong, and I show the ' poor white ' brand. It 's 
 on my tongue and in my heart, Mr. Geoffrey, an' will 
 be while I live on earth, and after I go to Heaven 
 too, if people who own niggers and put on airs come 
 there." 
 
174 .-i ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Unconsciously she had forgotten, as she often did, 
 the vernacular of the "poor white," and her diction 
 showed something of the culture which her words im- 
 plied. She checked her excitement after a moment, 
 and pursued her narrative quietly. 
 
 " Well, in that way I became a pretty constant vis- 
 itor at the Lodge. Arthur Lovett was the mildest, 
 tenderest-hearted man that ever lived, of slender make, 
 with a dark, irregular face, great brown eyes, waving 
 hair, which one could hardly say whether 't was black 
 or brown. He was retiring and modest, almost timid, 
 and seemed to be half afraid of the rest of the world. 
 He seldom went away from home, but stayed here 
 with his books and Belle and their little ones, just as 
 contented as if she had been white and they were 
 lawfully married. The neighbor people made a heap 
 ov talk for a time, but it all mostly died out after a 
 few months till he had been here some two or three 
 years. Then it sort of leaked out that the woman 
 * Belle ' that he wor' living with was not a slave, but 
 just a free-nigger. Then it was that the people said 
 this was not to be borne. It was bad enough for a 
 man to live with his own slave, and be the father of 
 children that were to be sold on the block. But this 
 might be tolerated. The necessities of the institution 
 and the country demanded a certain laxity in regard 
 to some things; but the idea that the moral and high- 
 minded people of Cold Spring county would endure 
 the spectacle of a white man defying the laws of God 
 and man by living openly with a free-nigger, whose off- 
 spring would also be free, and the mother not subject 
 
OUT OF HER SPHERE. I75 
 
 to execution for the debts of the father, was altogether 
 preposterous ! Public policy, decency, and religion, 
 cried out against it as an outrage. The church met 
 and fulminated against him. The people met and 
 passed resolutions. He was formally notified that he 
 must send the woman away, or the just anger of an 
 outraged community would fall upon him. They were 
 mistaken for once. They could n't skeer Arthur Lovett 
 by no such means. They miscalculated when they 
 thought that shy, bashful man was a coward. He sent 
 them back a letter that stung like an adder, I should say, 
 daring them to put their cowardly threats into execution. 
 
 " Not long atterwards, as I were going on home one 
 night, just arter dark, I heard voices afore me in the 
 wood path, and stopped behind a tree; for I didn't 
 care to meet strangers thar in the dark; 
 
 "As they passed whar I stood I made out from ther 
 chat that they were going to whip that free-nigger that 
 Arthur Lovett wuz keeping, I knew, from their voices, 
 that several in the crowd wuz the most rascally desper- 
 ate characters in the country round, and I knew that 
 before they could do this they would hev to kill Arthur 
 Lovett. The idea made me deadly faint. I didn't stop 
 to think, but just turned an' run down by the branch, 
 an' along the farm-lane, to the Lodge, and told Arthur 
 Lovett before they got here. He was sitting in this 
 very room, and when I told him only smiled, an' sed, 
 *The cowards! I expected it, and they will find me 
 ready. Thank you, Miss Betty,' he added, pleasantly, 
 * you'd better go home the other way; they might be 
 rude to you.* 
 
17G A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " So I run out by the back way into the orchard, an' 
 stopped by the oat-stacks to see the end on 't. I do n't 
 believe I knew it till that minute, but I found it out 
 then — when Bill Price rode up and hailed the house, 
 and Arthur Lovett came out on the porch an' answered 
 as calm an quiet as ef he *d bin settin' in the chair here, 
 a' talkin' to me — I knew then that I loved Arthur Lov- 
 ett ; that a hair of his head was dearer to me than all 
 other lives on earth. He stood there on the porch in 
 his slippers and wine-colored dressing-gown, an' Bill 
 Price called to him to come down to the gate. 
 
 " * By no means, gentlemen,' said he, ' 'Light and 
 walk in.' 
 
 "So they dismounted — those who had horses — and 
 all came in. I watched them as they came through the 
 gate toward the porch. There was seventeen of them — 
 strong, reckless men. I thought ther would be trouble, 
 an' ef ther was I could not leave Arthur Lovett. I 
 would hev been right glad to die to serve him then. 
 So, I started round to the wood-yard for the axe, to be 
 ready when the time came. Just then the first one was 
 about settin' his foot on the porch, when he said : 
 
 " * Gentlemen, I know your errand, and you will 
 please listen to me, before you come further.' I had 
 crept over the fence an' got the axe, an' crawled up by 
 the house corner yonder by that time. 
 
 "'I know your errand,' he repeated, 'and desire to 
 aid you in its performance. You have come to inspect 
 and regulate my domestic arrangements, to make them 
 conform to the highly moral and respectable standard 
 which you so fully and ably represent. Your charac- 
 
OUT OF HER SPHERE. 177 
 
 ters, gentlemen, are a sufficient guarantee that your 
 efforts are entirely in the behalf of a most laudable and 
 exalted public virtue.' He spoke as quiet and calm, an' 
 with a cold, hard sneer, which I had never heard in his 
 voice before. It froze me where I stood, and I crept 
 close to the house, still holding the axe, and wondering 
 what would come next. 
 
 "'Mr. Bill Price,' said he, 'you seem to be leader 
 and spokesman for this crowd of high-toned gentlemen. 
 Will you please to station a certain number, so as to 
 prevent egress from the house, and allow me to conduct 
 you, and such as you may select, through the same.?* 
 
 " So three or four men went on each side to guard 
 the house, and the others went inside with Lovett. 
 
 " I could hear him as they went from room to room, 
 taunting and twitting them in a manner most wonder- 
 ful to me, who knew him to be so mild and gentle. 
 
 " He made them get down on their knees and look 
 under the beds, peep into the wardrobes, move out the 
 sofas, and go from top to bottom over the house. 
 
 " Then he came back with them all upon the porch 
 an' kep' on talkin* : 
 
 "'Gentlemen,' said he, * accept my thanks! It is 
 not everyone who can have his household affairs reg- 
 ulated by a committee of high-toned gentlemen. Won't 
 you look under the carpets, gentlemen } Did you find 
 everything right, gentlemen.? Did you look in all my 
 drawers and chests ? Of course no one would suspect 
 you if anything should be lost. Very happy to have 
 met you, gentlemen. Will you examine the kitchen 
 now V 
 
178 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "'Yes, by God!' says Bill Price, Sve will. You 
 ca n't bluff us off in that way. We know the gal 's here 
 an' we're bound to hev her. Come on, men!' 
 
 " An' they started with half-a-dozen candles right 
 round by the corner where I was, for the kitchen — Ar- 
 thur Lovett with them. 
 
 " I knew they 'd see me if I staid, an' then I knew 
 what ud be said about it ; so I broke and run, still 
 holdin' on to the axe. The fellow who was set to guard 
 that corner called out at once : 
 
 " ' Here she is, here she is,' as he saw me start. 
 Then I was close on him and hit him with the axe — 
 the eye, not the edge, or it would have killed him on 
 the spot — but he kinder started back and his cheek- 
 bone got the heft uv the blow. 
 
 " I jumped the fence, an' they all tuck after me 
 like hounds follerin' of a fox. When I came to cross 
 the branch in the meadow I slipped an' fell, an' afore 
 I could get up they hed me an' was pullin' me back 
 towards the house afore I could offer any resistance. 
 
 *' When we got nigh the house Bill Price called out : 
 
 " ' We 've caught your bird, after all, Mr. Lovett. 
 Here, fellows, bring a light and let 's have a squint of 
 her face. She "s a lively wench, anyhow, and fights 
 like the devil. We '11 see if a hundred or so, well laid 
 on, wont tame her a bit.' 
 
 " ' She 's nigh killed Mike Garner with the axe,' said 
 another, 'and ought to be hung for it.* 
 
 "'Whom have you there.?' said Arthur, coming up 
 just as lights were brought by some others. He was 
 very pale and spoke anxiously — I thought it was for 
 
OUT OF HER SPHERE, I79 
 
 me, and fear and shame were forgotten In an Instant. 
 My heart beat wildly with unexpected joy, and my face, 
 as I looked up, must have reflected the pleasure I felt. 
 
 " He shaded his eyes with his left hand and peered 
 at me as the lights came up. 
 
 " ' My God !' said he, ' is it you. Miss Betty V Then 
 they all stared into my face, and Bill Price said : 
 
 "'Derned if it aint Bet Certain, boys. Why, gal, 
 ye 're gettin' Into business young, aint ye ?' 
 
 " At that they all laughed, and one of them said : 
 
 " ' Blast her ! let 's switch her anyhow. She 's nigh 
 killed poor Mike, and oughtn't to be playin' agin a 
 free-nigger nohow.' 
 
 "Then Bill Price spoke up an' sez, 'No, gentlemen; 
 no. Ef a gentlemen chooses to amuse himself as a gen- 
 tlemen, we 've no right to interfere. We 've come to 
 break up Mr. Lovett's disgraceful connection with a 
 free-nigger, but if he 's cast her off and took up with 
 Betty Certain we 've nothing to say, except to congrat- 
 ulate him on the Improvement of his taste, beg his 
 pardon for our untimely visit and wish him good even- 
 ing ; ' and with that he let me go. 
 
 "I had not thought of this view of my situation 
 till he spoke. Then I put my hands over my face 
 an' sunk down with a groan. Arthur Lovett came 
 close beside me and said: 
 
 " * Gentlemen, I pledge you my word that I was un- 
 aware of the presence of this young lady on my plan- 
 tation. As you know, she Is the daughter of my 
 nearest neighbor — of a family poor but respectable; 
 and I believe her to be as pure as any lady In the 
 
180 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 land. I cannot explain her presence here to-night, but 
 am confident it was with a good motive. You are 
 aware she has no father or brother, and you must now 
 apologize for your aspersions of her character, or an- 
 swer to me personally for the same.' 
 
 " ' Mr, Lovett knows where to find ils,' said Bill 
 Price, 'an' any of us will be happy to accommodate 
 him. Good night.' 
 
 "'You will hear from me in the morning, sir,' said 
 Arthur. 
 
 *' Then they mounted their horses and rode away. 
 
 "Arthur Lovett raised me gently from the ground 
 and led me into the house." 
 
CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 love's logic. 
 
 *^ T WUS sorter staggered at the turn things had taken, 
 X and when we got into the sitting-room only had 
 a sort of confused notion of all that had been going 
 on. Arthur gave me a glass of wine, and waited till I 
 had recovered myself before he spoke. 
 
 "'You're better now, Miss Betty,' said he; *you 
 have been badly frightened,' 
 
 *' I could not say ' yes ' and would not say * no. 
 
 " It was not the fright that upset me, but the idea 
 that every one would soon be speaking of me as Arthur 
 Lovett's mistress. I suppose something like this 
 showed in my face, for he came up an' put his hand 
 on my head tenderly ez if I had been a child, and 
 says : 
 
 " ' Miss Betty, how did you come to be here ? You 
 had plenty of time to have escaped before these scoun- 
 drels arrived.' 
 
 " I thought there was a little touch of reproach in 
 his voice, an' it hurt me. I loved him too well an' 
 hed suffered too much for him that night to endure 
 reproof. The tears came into my eyes and choked 
 my words as I replied : 
 
 " ' Oh, Mr. Lovett, I was afeard they might do you 
 some harm, an' — an' — an' — ' 
 
182 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 <( i 
 
 And so you came back with that axe to aid in my 
 defense, did you ?' 
 
 '' I hung my head an' my face burned, but in my 
 heart I was glad that he would know of my love. He 
 might not return it. I had no idea that he would ; but 
 it was an honest, brave love, and I felt that he could 
 not despise it. 
 
 "'Did you think,' he continued, 'that it would en- 
 danger your reputation and might imperil your life.''' 
 
 " I looked him full in the face and answered, ' I 
 didn't care, sir. I was bound you shouldn't be hurt.' 
 
 " He started, took his hand quickly from my head, 
 and turned away with a disturbed, anxious look upon 
 his face and walked the floor for some time in deep 
 thought. I watched him silently. How noble he 
 seemed as he walked back and forth in utter forget- 
 fulness of my presence. His lips were close shut, 
 his features flushed, and his form seemed instinct with 
 busy thoughts. I knew he was thinking of me, though 
 he had forgotten my presence. I was glad that he 
 knew of my love. He, at least, would respect me, and 
 I had told him the simple truth. As to others, his 
 regard hid all the obloquy which they might cast upon 
 me. He was iny world. 
 
 " I had no idea that he would ever return my love. 
 The thought of any tenderer relation with him than I 
 had before enjoyed had never once entered my mind. 
 To feel that he was my friend, that I might look 
 upon him and know that he would condescend to re- 
 member me with kindness, that he would sometimes 
 think pleasantly and tenderly of the risks I had under- 
 
LOVES LOGIC. 183 
 
 taken for him that night, was more than enough for 
 my new-found love. I could not help blushing, but 
 I was not ashamed. I had all that I desired, and so I 
 sat and waited for his moody fit to pass, that I might 
 hear what he would say. 
 
 " At length he threw himself upon the sofa and 
 buried his face in the pillows. I wished I might go 
 and smooth his hair, but I dared not. After a time 
 he got up and came toward me. His face was pale 
 and his eyes bloodshot. For the first time he seemed 
 to have become aware of my presence. 
 
 '- ' Miss Betty,' said he, ' I beg your pardon. I had 
 quite forgotten that you were here. I am in trouble. 
 I cannot thank you now for your kindness to-night. I 
 shall not forget it. Let us say no more about it now. 
 Permit me to accompany you to your home.' 
 
 " He gave me his arm, and we went out into the 
 moonlight and along the wood-path to our house. He 
 spoke of everything but the occurrences of that night. 
 I do n't know what was said, whether we made haste or 
 loitered. I only know that he left me at our door, 
 lifting his hat with profound courtesy as he said : 
 
 " ' Good-night, Miss Betty. With your leave, I shall 
 call in a short time to express my gratitude for the 
 heroism you have displayed to-night.' 
 
 " Then he was gone. I saw his form disappear along 
 the path we had just come, and then I sat down upon 
 the old door-stone and wondered why the world seemed 
 so different to me from the one the sun had set upon. 
 
 " The moonlight was certainly brighter and softer 
 than I had ever known before. I was, of course, the 
 
184 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 same Betty Certain, but somehow I did not feel the 
 same. All was so bright and yet so strange. I sat and 
 thought a long time, but yet the mystery remained. I 
 went in at last and sought to sleep, with a strange med- 
 ley of pleasant and unpleasant things in my mind. 
 
 "I saw nothing more of Arthur Lovett for several 
 days. Meantime there had come a report that he and 
 Bill Price had fought a duel at the Neck; that Price 
 had been seriously and Lovett slightly wounded. No 
 one seemed to know anything of the cause of the duel 
 so far as I could learn. / knew that Arthur Lovett 
 had risked his life against a practiced duelist to re- 
 deem my reputation. 
 
 " If I had loved him before, I worshiped him then. 
 I would have done his bidding gladly if it had periled 
 my soul. I longed to go to him, to kiss the wound he 
 had received for my sake ; but I knew that if he wanted 
 me he would send for me. 
 
 " Besides that, had he not shed his blood to save 
 my character.? And should I peril anything so pre- 
 cious lightly.'* I did not go to the Lodge, but waited 
 day after day for Arthur Lovett to come to me. 
 
 " I was sure he would come — he had promised that 
 he would — to thank me. He was my debtor then ; 
 now I was his, I thought. He would come, and I 
 would thank him. Then he would go away, the rich, 
 gifted, cultured Arthur Lovett, along the path which 
 was marked out for him, and I — I would go my way. 
 Once more I was to be allowed to bow at the shrine 
 of my idolatry. Then our ways would separate forever. 
 The thought annoyed me ; I murmured at my poverty 
 
LOVE'S LOGIC. 185 
 
 and lowliness ; yet I did not dream that it could be 
 otherwise. 
 
 " One day my mother was gone to a neighbor's, 
 and I sat dreaming in the soft sunlight of a mild 
 October afternoon, when there came a rap at the door 
 and a shadow fell across the lintel. 
 
 " I knew who was there, and my heart beat so wildly 
 that I could scarcely rise and bid him come in and 
 be seated. Never did our neat old cabin seem so poor 
 and uncouth before. I was ashamed of the rude door, 
 hung on its wooden hinges ; of the little room, and 
 the snowy bed with its high posts ; of the floor, full 
 of great cracks ; of the smoked and spotted ceiling, 
 brown with age ; of the gourd, beside the bucket at the 
 door ; of the low, cross-legged table, which we kept 
 clean and white enough for the Saviour and his Apos- 
 tles to have eaten the Last Supper from; I was even 
 ashamed of the cosy splint-bottomed chair, in which I 
 asked him to be seated. 
 
 *' It may seem strange that I had never observed 
 how meanly we lived at my mother's before ; but, you 
 know, one does not see the shadows till the sun shines. 
 
 " Arthur Lovett was pale and careworn. His left 
 arm was in a sling. I think he noticed my chagrin. 
 I know my cheeks burned. He seemed to look at me 
 more keenly than he had ever done before. I was not 
 altogether a fright in those days, Mr. Geoffrey, if niy 
 looking-glass told the truth. 
 
 " At length, after the ordinary chat of the day, he 
 
 Said he wanted to talk with me, and asked if I would 
 
 Walk with him. I think he saw my embarrassment- 
 is 
 
186 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 arising from our mean surroundings, divined its cause, 
 and desired to remove it. 
 
 " Down the branch, below the spring a hundred 
 yards, was a cluster of old field-pines, with one or 
 two of original growth, a patriarchal oak, a few cedars, 
 and a fringe of second-growth poplars and gums. 
 This had been my playground in childhood; and my 
 place of refuge from the world ever since. Many an 
 hour I had hidden away beneath its shadows and peo- 
 pled its stillness with the creations of Shakespeare, and 
 Scott, and other authors whom Arthur Lovett's kind- 
 ness had put into my hands. 
 
 " I had arranged in it different resorts for various 
 times of day and changing moods. I knew now where 
 the evening sun was creeping in and lighting up a 
 fairy room, whose door-way was a cedar bough, and 
 whose walls were of impenetrable evergreen, flecked 
 with the yellow leaves of a young poplar — which had 
 thrust its head aspiringly between a pine and cedar 
 but to have its ambition cruelly checked — and half-can- 
 opied by a dog-wood, which was just in the glory of 
 its gold and crimson autumn robe. The ground was 
 carpeted with leaves and strewn with cones. 
 
 " A great rock, with a cedar at one end and an 
 ancient pine at the other, with a wide shelf near its 
 base, and rising at the back ten or twelve feet above, 
 with a crest covered with the mingled hues of a purple- 
 leaved creeper, which clambered over it, and a dark 
 green ivy, a spray of which I had torn from the library 
 chimney here and planted beside my rock, constituted 
 the sofa, the place of honor, in my dream-palace. 
 
LOVBS LOGIC. 187 
 
 " Upon this seat, through the dogwood branches fell 
 the autumn sunlight at that hour. 
 
 "You smile, Mr, Geoffrey, and no wonder. What 
 right had Betty Certain to such a bower 1 But she 
 had it, and though I haven't seen it for years, I guar- 
 antee that you would say I hadn't half done it jus- 
 tice — even now. 
 
 " So when Arthur Lovett asked me to walk with him, 
 it struck me all at once that I would take him there 
 and I said, very quickly: 
 
 " ' Yes, Mr. Lovett, our castle is a rude one ; but 
 I 've got a bower that is worthy of a queen. Shall we 
 go there V 
 
 " He smiled, a little amused or surprised, and said : 
 
 "*If you please, I should like to see your ideal of a 
 royal residence. I have seen many a queen's bower 
 in my travels abroad, and always felt a sort of name- 
 less pity for the poor birds within those gilded cages.' 
 
 '' Then we went down by the spring and I showed 
 him the path around the old oak and under the alder 
 bushes, down the little branch, till we came opposite 
 the bower, then up among the boulders and under the 
 pines, treading the cones in the shadows, and breathing 
 the rich balsam odors, till we came out into the sun- 
 shine, before the very door. 
 
 "Then I stopped and asked him in what direction 
 the house was from us, and laughed till the tears came 
 when he pointed the wrong way. 
 
 " It was n't so particularly funny, and I never knew 
 why I laughed or cried then, only I didn't want to 
 cry, and I could n't help laughing. 
 
188 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " Then I lifted up the cedar bough that formed my 
 door-way, and bade him stoop low and enter. 
 
 " He did so, and I followed him. He looked sharply 
 round and then, turning to me, said : 
 
 " ' You spoke truly. It is worthy of a queen. Let 
 me lead the sovereign to her throne.' He turned and 
 held out his hand. 
 
 " I sat down upon a rock, beside the door, put my 
 hands to my face, and wept. 
 
 " He seemed distressed, and asked the cause of my 
 grief. 
 
 "I told him I had brought him there to show him 
 my only treasure, of which no one else knew, and 
 then he mocked me. 
 
 "'You mistake. Miss Betty,' said he, quickly. 'Your 
 bower is certainly a gem, and I but intended to com- 
 pliment you, through it.' 
 
 "Then he took my hand and led me to the seat 
 by the rock. As soon as we had sat down he grew 
 silent and moody again. I picked up the painted leaves 
 which lay about, and made bouquets and crowns, and 
 watched him in silence. Suddenly he looked at me, 
 with a peculiar significance, and said ; 
 
 " Miss Betty, were you not afraid to bring me 
 hither.?' 
 
 " I comprehended him at once, and said, slowly and 
 clearly : 
 
 "'No.' 
 
 "'This is the second time you have placed your 
 honor in my keeping,' said he. 
 
 " ' He that guards the shadow so well will never tar- 
 
I 
 
 I 
 

 
 ARISTOCRAT AND POOR POLL. 
 
 '■'•At length he stopped before me^ and flashed out : ' Betty Certain, ii'IH you be my 
 iv'/e f . , . I was too astonished to speakr — p. 189/ 
 
LOVES LOGIC. 189 
 
 nish the substance,' I replied, glancing at his wounded 
 arm. 
 
 " He flushed, and was silent. Then he got up and 
 walked back and forth, as he had done that other night 
 in the parlor. At length he stopped before me, and 
 flashed out : 
 
 "'Betty Certain, will you be my wife.'*' 
 
 " My heart stood still. I must have shaken my head, 
 for I was too astonished to speak. 
 
 "'Hush, hush!' he said, 'don't say no; don't say 
 anything until you have heard me.' 
 
 " So I sat still. I could not have spoken if I had 
 tried. He walked about a moment to master or conceal 
 his agitation, and then came back and sat down near 
 me. After a moment, he spoke." 
 
CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 EXCEPTIO PROBAT REGULAM. 
 
 ^' < T DO not ask you to be my wife, Miss Betty,' 
 X said he, 'for any of the reasons ordinarily lead- 
 ing a man to make such a request of a woman. I 
 have long since passed that age when passion alone 
 controls our action in such matters. Even if I were 
 younger, my experience of life has been such that I 
 would long since have disowned such motive. Neither 
 is the course which I have adopted a hasty or unpre- 
 meditated one. On the contrary, it is one which has 
 only been determined upon after the most mature and 
 earnest consideration. But before you can fully ap- 
 preciate my situation, I must detail to you the cir- 
 cumstances which have led to it. 
 
 " ' As you are aware, I am the only son of one of 
 the wealthiest planters in the eastern portion of the 
 State. From my boyhood nothing has been denied 
 me that I desired. I was the autocrat of Heptwilde 
 (my father's plantation) from my birth. Pampered and 
 petted in everything, I passed my boyhood in the 
 usual freedom of plantation life. I have promised that 
 you shall have a full recital of my life, and I shall 
 extenuate nothing. I passed my collegiate course with 
 steadiness and credit, and did not become involved in 
 anything serious or discreditable until the summer of 
 my twenty-third year. 
 
EXCEP TIO PROBA T REG ULA M. 191 
 
 " ' At that time, my two sisters returned home from 
 boarding-school, bringing with them a young girl whom 
 my father had purchased at the special request of the 
 elder, some three years before, and who had since then 
 been her maid. She had been much petted by my sis- 
 ter and her companions on account of her exceeding 
 beauty and intelligence, and had been permitted (per- 
 haps it was necessary to stimulate my sister's indo- 
 lence) to pursue the same studies as her young mis- 
 tress, which she had done to far better purpose. Her 
 mind seemed to have an instinctive aptitude for ac- 
 quiring knowledge. The sciences of which my sisters 
 had but a cursory knowledge, she had in a measure 
 mastered, and the languages their tongues refused to 
 pronounce were as music upon hers. 
 
 " * From the moment I saw Belle, 1 loved her, not 
 with the degrading passion of a favorite, but with a 
 deep, holy tenderness, that would lead me to give my 
 life for her happiness without hesitation. From that 
 moment, I have never ceased to love her. Every pos- 
 sible means was taken by my family to break off the 
 attachment, but it has only grown stronger with every 
 obstacle which has been placed in its way. For a time 
 I tried to break away from the spell of her beauty, 
 and the charm of her love, for I knew that our at- 
 tachment, contrary, as it was, to the laws, both of 
 Church and State, could only bring sorrow and trouble ; 
 but I Was too weak to adhere to my good resolutions. 
 
 " ' Months grew into years, and I was still the de- 
 voted slave of my father's servant. Meantime my 
 father had given me a plantation near his own, and 
 
192 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 we lived there for some time in comparative quiet* 
 Then we were indicted, and the whole country was 
 in a ferment over our relation. I wonder now that 
 I should have been so mad. Yet I could not help it. 
 
 " ' My father agreed to compromise the prosecution 
 if I would give up the girl. This I agreed to do on 
 condition that he would emancipate her and her child. 
 He agreed to do so, and I went to Europe and traveled 
 for two years. 
 
 " ' On my return I found that Belle had been taken 
 to New York and emancipated according to the laws 
 of that State. She had afterward returned and lived 
 
 in the town of N , though this fact was unknown 
 
 to my father. He was so delighted at what he con- 
 sidered a final rupture of my disgraceful connection, 
 that he at once gave me a deed of gift of quite a num- 
 ber of slaves, and added a codicil to his will devising 
 certain property to Bella for her own use and occu- 
 pancy. It seems he had some years before provided for 
 her emancipation by will. 
 
 " ' I was too weak to avoid the connection which 
 Bella was nothing loath to resume, and so sold my plan- 
 tation and, taking Bella and her child, came and bought 
 the plantation here and built the Lodge — as you know. 
 
 " ' My family at last abandoned me to my infatuation,, 
 but with sorrow and shame. They had used every 
 means to reclaim me, but in vain. I was an only son,, 
 and used the power which this fact gave me without 
 scruple to secure compliance in my shameful course.. 
 
 " ' Bella has lived with me ever since. Instead of 
 one child we have now three. My father has lately 
 
EXCEPTIO P ROB AT REGULAM. I93 
 
 died insolvent, and the deeds of gift which he made to 
 me are void against his previous creditors. This will 
 take away a large portion of my estate. Already they 
 have demanded Belle and her children. I shall resist 
 their claim to the last moment, but fear they will ulti- 
 mately succeed. If so, my cup of misery will be more 
 than full. I cannot live to see my children slaves or 
 the woman I have so fondly loved under the lash of 
 the overseer. 
 
 " ' I do not know what may be the result of the case 
 now pending, but my mind is made up to this : Belle 
 must be emancipated, and she and our children freed. 
 They must be sent to some Northern State and com- 
 fortably settled. My relations with them must cease 
 entirely, for I have not only them to provide for but 
 my own impoverished sisters. My counsel thinks the 
 creditors will undoubtedly hold all the slaves I received 
 from my father except Belle and her children. This 
 will leave barely enough upon the plantation to support 
 my sisters. Thus impoverished, I can do but little to 
 free Belle and the children, or provide for them, and 
 at all events must draw upon the confidence of friends 
 to obtain money to liberate them should they be held 
 by the executor.' 
 
 "Arthur Lovett ceased speaking, and I sat looking 
 at him in silent wonder. 
 
 "'You have followed me. Miss Betty.?' he said at 
 length. 
 
 " I nodded in the affirmative, and he went on. 
 
 " ' I presume you see in all this no reason why I 
 should ask you to be my wife, or that you should con- 
 
194 A ROYAL GEKfTLEMAN. 
 
 sent to do so, but on the contrary, abundant reason 
 why you should not. I told you at first that no com- 
 mon motive actuated me. Several years ago I had the 
 design of going abroad, taking Belle with me and mar- 
 rying there. I examined the matter while in Europe, 
 and concluded that the legality of such a marriage was 
 at least doubtful. At any rate, I did not do it. Per- 
 haps for no better reason than mere inertness of pur- 
 pose. But at that time I took a policy of insurance 
 upon my life for a large sum, which is payable in the 
 first instance to my widow, should I die leaving one, 
 and if not, to my heirs-at-law, who in that case would 
 be my two sisters. 
 
 " * You see at once that I had intended this for Belle 
 — poor girl — and her children. Should she be sold for 
 the benefit of my father's creditors I may be unable to buy 
 her and she may yet be in dire need of this provision. 
 
 " ' Now, Betty Certain, you see why I have asked 
 you to be my wife. I have studied you closely, and 
 feel that I can rely upon you. Your word, once pledged, 
 will be sacred. I cannot offer you love or purity of 
 life heretofore, but I can give you the highest respect, 
 and you need have no fear of future infidelity. I shall 
 think no more of poor Belle, except to study how I 
 may remedy the wrongs which have been imposed upon 
 her. It is almost a necessity that I should marry, if I 
 would accomplish this, which I believe to be a holy 
 purpose. If I die unmarried, this money will go to my 
 sisters, who charge Belle with what they are pleased to 
 term my ruin, and they would gladly see her and her 
 children in bondage. 
 
EXCEPTIO PROBAT REGULAM. 195 
 
 (( ( 
 
 You love me, Miss Betty. I respect and revere 
 you. Will you aid me in my distress.''' 
 
 "I sat silent. My idol was being rapidly trans- 
 formed to my eyes. Yet why.'' I had known all the 
 time of his unholy love. Was he less worthy now 
 that he sought to shake it off, than when he gloried 
 in his shame .? It could not be. Yet I was silent. 
 
 " ' There is another view to be taken of this mat- 
 ter which I would urge were it not ungenerous to do 
 so,' he said again. 
 
 "'What is that.?' I asked. 
 
 "'Could I not imagine.''' he asked. ' How would 
 the world associate our names after what had been 
 witnessed by so many.'' He could and would defend 
 my honor, so far as it lay in his power, whatever might 
 be my answer ; but as his betrothed wife no tongue 
 would dare to wag against me. That relation would 
 be an unimpeachable guarantee of purity.' 
 
 " It struck me oddly then ; but it was true, en- 
 tirely true. His smutched garments would be a shield 
 to my unsoiled virtue. I knew it, and I was grateful 
 to him for what he had already done for me. Be- 
 sides that, I thought I could help him, and — God, 
 forgive me — perhaps I was tired of being a ' pore 
 white.' 
 
 " At any rate, when he said again, solemnly and 
 slowly : 
 
 " Knowing all this, Betty Certain, will you be my 
 wife } Will you take the bond of faithfulness to one 
 who has given the freshness of his love to another "i 
 And will you be the almoner of my bounty to the 
 
196 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Hagar of my youth, when death shall have palsied m) 
 hand and sealed my lips ?' 
 
 "Then I looked up at him, and answered, *I will.* 
 
 " He gazed at me searchingly a moment, and said, 
 ' In very truth ?' 
 
 " ' In very truth,' I replied. 
 
 " Then he fell upon his knees beside the rocky seat, 
 and, with streaming eyes and quivering lips, thanked 
 God that He had opened a way for him out of his 
 calamity, and had prepared a means whereby the load 
 of his sin might be lightened. I never heard another 
 such a prayer. And when it was over he rose, and, 
 putting an arm about my waist, drew me to him, kissed 
 my forehead, and said : 
 
 " ' God bless you, Betty Certain, God bless you ! 
 You do not know what you have saved me from ; and 
 you have won more love than I thought it possible to 
 give.' 
 
 " He looked into my eyes, from which the tears 
 were streaming, and, reading there the joy that filled 
 my heart, he clasped me closer, and said : 
 
 " ' And you are happy ? Thank God ! I know 
 now that He will give me a new love, stronger than 
 the old passion, and pure and bright.' 
 
 " Then all was light, and my heart danced to the 
 melody of Love's holy hymn until the great shadow 
 fell upon my life. The hope that Arthur Lovett would, 
 or might, one day love me, even with a heart scarred 
 and blasted by an unholy passion, was enough — I asked 
 
 no more. 
 
 After a moment we went out of my old summer 
 
I 
 
 EXCEPTIO PROBAT REGULAM. 197 
 
 palace, .by the cedar-bough door, through the pine 
 thicket, by the spring, to the house. The pathway has 
 grown up now, and I have rarely been there since. 
 The world seemed different when we came out from 
 what it was when we went in. It had blown up 
 cold and bleak. The sun still shone, but dully and 
 chill. 
 
 " When we came to the house my mother was at 
 home. She had never liked Arthur Lovett, and met 
 us coldly. Arthur told her I had consented to be- 
 come his wife, and asked her acquiescence. She re- 
 plied ' that she should neither consent nor oppose, but 
 she thought his previous course promised but little 
 happiness to the wife he might marry ; that she never 
 did like the idea of rich and pore folks marrying to- 
 gether — but little good came on 'c generally.' 
 
 " She never opened her lips about the matter again. 
 In all the trouble of the future she never uttered a 
 word of blame, nor asked a syllable of explanation. 
 
 " So he bade me good night, and went away, and I, 
 the betrothed wife of Arthur Lovett, stood in the door 
 of my mother's humble cottage and watched him as he 
 went towards his home. I did not think I had yielded 
 to his prayer because he was so much above me in 
 society — though I was mighty tired of being poor Betty 
 Certain — still less had I consented on account of a 
 plea he had put forth for Belle, though indeed I did 
 pity the poor girl with all my heart. But I think it was 
 mainly because his whole story had been a cry for help. 
 I loved him so that I would have gone to the world's 
 end to do him the slightest service Why, then, should 
 
198 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 I not accept the way which opened to me the sanctuary 
 of his heart? 
 
 " I shivered as I went in. The future seemed dark 
 and chill as well as the closing autumn day. But yet I 
 was strong and firm, and happy, too — for I meant that 
 Arthur should love me some day, as he said he might." 
 
CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 TRANSITION, 
 
 '^ '^ I ^HIS was the beginning and end of our court- 
 X ship. Arthur had but two requests to make. 
 The first, that we should be married as soon as possible^ 
 the other, that I should spend the time intervening at 
 the Lodge, with his sisters, who would come in a few 
 days. He said the first request was for his own sake. 
 He had an impression that he would not live many- 
 months, and he wanted to be sure that his desires would 
 be fulfilled in case he should not. At all events, hav- 
 ing determined upon this course he did not wish to 
 omit any chance for its failure. He therefore desired 
 the arrangement consummated at an early day, and 
 he wished me to come and live with his sisters for 
 my own sake, as, if our relation was thus openly ac- 
 knowledged, there would be less inclination to scan- 
 dalous reports upon the part of our neighbors. I 
 had no opposition to offer to either proposition. 
 
 " His sisters came the next week, and the week 
 after it was decided that the Executors of his father's 
 estate could hold the slaves in dispute. Your father 
 came home from court and wrote to Arthur upon the 
 subject at once. Arthur received his letter on Satur- 
 day, we talked it over that evening, and on Sunday 
 your father came here and had a long conversation 
 
200 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 with him. His idea was that Arthur had better let the 
 slaves be sold, and then deal with the buyers, thinking 
 that if it were known that he was interested in the 
 bidding the creditors would run them up on him, in 
 order to get money on their debts. Arthur told him 
 of our intended marriage, but without explanation as to 
 its cause. I think from your father's subsequent de- 
 meanor towards me, that he thought it the trick of a 
 'poor white' woman, to get a husband above her. 
 
 "Your father was a good man, Mr. Geoffrey, and I 
 am not sure that I did right in not confiding in him 
 after Arthur's death. But I could not trust any one 
 then, all was so confused and strange. 
 
 "Well, your father's advice was taken, and Arthur 
 promised to give uj) possession of the slaves without 
 remonstrance. The matter was clearly understood with 
 Belle, as he told me, that she and the children were 
 to be sold, and, after a short time had elapsed, he was to 
 buy them back, take them North and set them free; so, 
 when they were again demanded by the Executor, they 
 were surrendered w^ithout opposition. 
 
 "Arthur's sisters, who were now at the Lodge, were 
 weak, vain women, rather past the prime, and quite 
 inclined to attribute their solitary condition to their 
 brother's irregularities. The insolvency of their father's 
 estate had not tended to improve their tempers, and 
 the knowledge that their brother — after breaking off 
 with Belle — proposed at once to marry a poor girl of 
 the neighborhood was altogether too much for their 
 aristocratic instincts; and the welcome they gave me 
 was far from cordial. I endeavored, at first, to mollify 
 
TRANSITION. 201 
 
 their resentment, but, finding that mildness was thrown 
 away upon them, I took up my own defense and 
 answered scorn with railing, to so good purpose that 
 in a short time they were forced to ask a truce for the 
 mere sake of quiet. That was all I expected, or, indeed, 
 desired — for, to tell the truth, I had no use for Arthur's 
 sisters. They were selfish and insincere, but I did not 
 think so hardly of them until after his death. I have 
 reason to believe that, although they ceased all direct 
 assault upon me, they, nevertheless, continued to assail 
 me to Arthur, and constantly opposed our marriage. 
 I have always thought they were instrumental in put- 
 ting it off, from Christmas, when it was to have taken 
 place, until the following Spring, and I have never been 
 quite free from the impression that they also caused his 
 death — though my confidence in this suspicion has 
 been considerably shaken. 
 
 " Well, we lived here at the Lodge while the prepa- 
 rations were being made for our wedding — Arthur, his 
 sisters, and myself. Arthur had made your father his 
 agent to conduct the affairs relating to Belle, and we 
 were to proceed upon our trip at once after the mar- 
 riage. It was intended that we should be absent three 
 months or more, and in contemplation of this absence 
 Arthur had carefully arranged all his business matters 
 and had also made his will. He conversed with me 
 freely upon all his matters of business, and seemed 
 to lean upon me as if he found me very necessary 
 to him. He seemed to think my plain, blunt sense 
 was worthy of consideration, and we came to converse 
 
 of all our affairs with the cool matter-of-fact manner 
 14 
 
202 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 which rarely comes till after marriage. There was no 
 love on his part, at least he said not, though it is a 
 comfort to me now, to think that his feeling toward 
 me was far warmer than he thought. For me, I was 
 so far below him that my regard was more like wor- 
 ship than love. I cannot tell you how it was, Mr. 
 Geoffrey, but when I saw that every thought of his life 
 almost was to put that woman Belle and her children 
 beyond the danger of servitude, and when he even 
 asked me to be his wife in order that he might have a 
 still stronger motive to put them away, wishing thereby 
 to pledge his honor to me, as well as his love for them, 
 for their good — somehow, after that, he seemed glorified 
 to my eyes as no other mortal ever was. Then, too, 
 the reason was plain why he had chosen me. Not be- 
 cause he loved me, but in order that he might shield 
 me from ill-repute, thus again sacrificing his own interest, 
 and perhaps happiness, for my honor. To say that I 
 loved him would but faintly express my feelings toward 
 him. I know now that God only should receive the ven- 
 eration which I gave to him. I do n't suppose another 
 woman would have felt so, but I couldn't help it. I 
 had lived a sort of odd and lonely life at best, having 
 to do with few, either men or women, and had filled my 
 world more with those people one meets in books and 
 fancy than those who really live on earth. 
 
 " I loved Arthur Lovett, not wildly or passionately, 
 but with the steady adoration which might be given to 
 one immeasurably a superior. So it was almost like a 
 foretaste of heaven when he would say, after our supper 
 at night '• 
 
TRANSITION. 203 
 
 " * Betty, come into the library for a little while, I 
 want to consult you on some matters.' 
 
 ''I thought then, as I know now, that he did this 
 knowing how much pleasure it would give to me, rather 
 than get my poor notion upon whatever he was intend- 
 ing to do." 
 
 "You said that he consulted you about his will," 
 said Geoffrey. " Did you see it in its completed form 
 — =or as near completed as he left it.?" 
 
 "Oh, yes," she replied. "They would never have 
 found it at all if it had n't been for my telling your 
 father where it was. I knew it was not signed, and did 
 not suppose it could be of any value. So I thought 
 for a time that I would just leave it where it was till 
 I had an opportunity to get it out and keep it myself 
 in memory of his trust and confidence in me, and also 
 of the kindly heart he bore towards those whom it 
 seemed he could not help, alive or dead, do what he 
 might. But then I thought it was but right to let his 
 sisters and the world know what he had intended to 
 do, even if he had failed to accomplish it. I was in 
 hopes, too, that they might regard his wishes far enough 
 to have the gal and her children set free, even if his 
 will was not lawful." 
 
 " You knew that his will was not signed, you say. 
 . How did you know that.?" queried Geoffrey. 
 
 " Well, you see we were to have been married the 
 next day. That was the loth of April. His sisters, as 
 I told you, had succeeded in putting off the wedding 
 on one plea and another, but chiefly, they said, because 
 my clothes w^re n't fitting ; which, indeed, was true 
 
204 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 enough, for we poor folks do n't often need anything 
 better than linsey, and if we did, hav'n't the where- 
 withal to get it. Besides that, I was n't much given 
 to dress at any time, and until Arthur took an interest 
 in me, cared but little what I wore. 
 
 " Arthur agreed that his sisters were in the right 
 and that I ought to have a good stock of dresses 
 made up before we married. So we 'd been all this 
 time buying, and sewing, and getting all things ready. 
 I should not have taken much interest in it if Arthur 
 had not seemed to watch every preparation with a boy- 
 ish delight. His sisters hated me powerful, but they 
 had a heap o' pride and wanted me to make a proper 
 show. So they planned and fussed till one would have 
 thought they were going to be married themselves. 
 
 "That last day, in the evening, all the bride's dresses 
 had been taken into the library for Arthur to look at, 
 and they were left all about the room at night. After 
 supper we had our usual chat there, and a very gay 
 one it was, too, for us. He laughed at my rusticity, 
 because of all the dresses I preferred a certain gray 
 one, which was intended only to travel in, and said he 
 would teach me better taste before we returned from 
 our tour. 
 
 " He told me that he had finished the final draft of 
 his will and burned all the others ; that the next day, 
 the first thing after we were married, he meant to sign 
 it, and have your father and the minister witness it. 
 
 "* And then, Betty,' said he, 'I shall put it here in 
 this drawer' — pointing to one in that very desk — * which 
 no one else knows of, and where it will be perfectly safe. 
 
TRANSITION, 205 
 
 1 will show you how to open the drawer, so that you 
 can find it if I should die on our journey; but you 
 must be sure and have Mr. Hunter, or some other relia- 
 ble person with you, when you open it/" 
 
 " But there is no secret drawer in that desk," said 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 "Didn't your father tell you, Mr. Geoffrey.? He 
 must have forgotten it. Let me show you, then," said 
 the woman. 
 
 " Now, you just unlock that upper drawer, and 
 open it half way or so. Now put your hand inside 
 and run it along the inside of the upper part, until you 
 find a little knob. Now press this toward you and a 
 shallow drawer will fall down." 
 
 Geoffrey did as directed, when the concealed drawer, 
 or tray rather, fell down on its hinges. It disclosed a 
 folded paper, which he took out and found to be in 
 his father's handwriting — and to this effect : 
 
 ''April 15, 1845. 
 " I opened this secret drawer in the desk of Arthur 
 Lovett, this day, on the information of Betty Certain, 
 in her presence, and in that of George Rawson and 
 James M. Dixon, and found herein the unsigned hol- 
 ograph will of the said Arthur Lovett, and opened 
 and read the same in the presence of the parties 
 above-named. {Signed) Manuel Hunter." 
 
 " So this is where the will, which I received from 
 my father, was found, is it.?" said Geoffrey, musingly. 
 " Poor fellow. It is a pity it could not have been 
 carried out. He seemed so much in earnest about 
 
20G A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 it. Do you suppose he anticipated any special dan- 
 ger?" 
 
 " I do not know," she answered; "he seemed very 
 much concerned about the condition of his affairs, in 
 case he should die, and talked of it a great deal in a 
 way that made me shiver with dread. I am quite sure 
 he did not expect to live very long ; but whether he 
 anticipated disease or violence I could not say. He 
 was sometimes very low in spirits, and took a very 
 gloomy view of the future. At such times one would 
 have thought he apprehended almost immediate death." 
 
CHAPTER XX, 
 
 BEFORE THE WEDDING. 
 
 ** T TE seemed to be constantly apprehensive that his 
 \. X favorite scheme might fail through his unex- 
 pected death. I think his will would have been prop- 
 erly executed before, but he had somehow reasoned 
 himself into the belief, or got the belief without rea- 
 soning, that he would leave me as his widow, to settle 
 and arrange affairs as he desired. 
 
 *' I do not think he expected to outlive his marriage 
 a great while. He said to me once that he would give 
 me his hand in marriage in order to make me his hand 
 in death. I feared that he intended suicide, until he 
 once said to me that no man was worth saving who 
 could not endure his lot upon earth until it pleased 
 God to call him to leave it. Knowing his strong faith 
 which had outlasted all irregularities of life and all the 
 scath of error, I at once abandoned this idea. 
 
 " It may seem presumptuous, Mr. Geoffrey, but I 
 have often thought that Arthur Lovett had a clear 
 forewarning of his end, though his mind was no doubt 
 troubled as to its cause and source. This may be only 
 a notion, but I can account for his acts in no other 
 way. 
 
 " As I said, we were to be married the next day, and 
 the new dresses were here in the library. Among them 
 
508 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 was the soft gray one, which I admired so much, and 
 Arthur had laughed at me for preferring over the richer 
 and gayer ones. It was hanging over a chair at the 
 other end of the table, and I kept thinking while Arthur 
 was talking to me about the will and such matters that 
 it would become me better as his wife than all the rest 
 of the finery there. 
 
 " I never spoke of it to a human soul before, Geof- 
 frey Hunter, but I am as sure as if I had seen it with 
 my own eyes that Arthur Lovett was killed by a woman's 
 hand. I do n't know how it was managed, and I won't 
 say what woman did it, but this you may be sure of, 
 it was a ivomaiis hand that took his life.'' 
 
 "A woman's.? What makes you think so.?" asked 
 Geoffrey, surprised at her earnestness. 
 
 "Because no one but a woman would have taken 
 from the room what the person who murdered him did," 
 she answered. • 
 
 " Why," said Geoffrey, " I always understood that 
 nothing was missed from the room." 
 
 "There was not, by any one but me," she replied. 
 
 "And what did you miss.?" asked Geoffrey. 
 
 "The one who murdered him took away that gray 
 dress," she answered slowly. 
 
 Geoffrey started, and as his mind comprehended fully 
 how powerfully this circumstance pointed to the sisters 
 of Lovett, he said with a shudder: 
 
 " You say that this dress was the least valuable of 
 all those which were in the room.?" 
 
 " It was, and not of a value or appearance to tempt 
 any one, beside the others," Miss Betty replied. 
 
BEFORE THE WEDDING. 209 
 
 "You think, then, that the taking of that dress 
 pointed to a hostility toward yourself?" Geoffrey asked. 
 
 " I prized it more than all the rest. Depend upon 
 it, Mr. Hunter, it was a woman who took it, and one 
 who knew my fancy for it, too. She took that dress to 
 show me that the blow was aimed more at me than at 
 Arthur Lovett," was Miss Betty's earnest reply. 
 
 "Who knew of your fancy for this dress.''" Geoffrey 
 asked. 
 
 " Arthur Lovett and his two sisters," she answered, 
 steadily and coldly. 
 
 "No other person.^" he asked. 
 
 " No other person," was the reply. 
 
 " You think, then, that Lovett's sisters caused his 
 death?" Geoffrey said. 
 
 " I was sure of it once, now I do n't know what to 
 think," said Miss Betty, slowly. 
 
 "Why did you not speak of this at the time?" asked 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 " You forget how I was placed," said Miss Betty. 
 " It would simply have been deemed an insane attempt 
 on the part of a poor white girl, who had beguiled a 
 gentleman into a promise of marriage, to wreak her dis- 
 appointment by trying to throw suspicion upon two re- 
 spectable ladies of unquestionable character and motive. 
 No, Mr. Geoffrey, I knew nothing about law, but com- 
 mon sense taught me that. So, when I saw I was struck, 
 I did not squeal, but sat down to watch and see if time 
 did n't put the rest of the threads in my hands. I al- 
 ways thought I should see my way clear some time, 
 and I have not lost faith yet." 
 
210 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " But you said you did not know what to think 
 now," said Geoffrey. "You are not, then, so sure that 
 a woman did the deed ?" 
 
 "Just as sure that it was a woman," answered Miss 
 Betty, "but fiot so sure what one it was." 
 
 " What one!" said Geoffrey in surprise. "What 
 one could it be, if not one of his sisters.?" 
 
 "I don't know," she replied, "and yet I am not 
 sure it was one of them." 
 
 " What has occurred to change your mind on this 
 subject.?" asked Geoffrey. 
 
 " The knowledge that the same person who killed 
 Arthur Lovett attempted Toinette's life!" said she, 
 looking earnestly at Geoifrey Hunter. 
 
 "What!" exclaimed Geoffrey, springing from his 
 chair. "The same person! How do you know.?" 
 
 " She wore the dress which was made for me, and 
 which was in Arthur Lovett's room when I left him on 
 the night of his murder, and was taken away by the 
 person who killed him," said Miss Betty, slowly. 
 
 "What! wore your dress ! What proof have you.?" 
 cried Geoffrey, with a look and tone of horror. 
 
 " I am not in the habit of saying what I cannot 
 prove," said Betty Certain, with a sort of testiness in 
 her tone. " If I had been, I should have told a good 
 deal years ago. I had chance enough, goodness knows, 
 with Manuel Hunter begging at me early and late, in 
 public and private. I am sure he thought I might 
 have put my finger on the murderer if I had been so 
 minded; and I thought I could then myself, but I 
 don't know now. But if vou want to know what sat- 
 
BEFORE THE WEDDING. 211 
 
 isfies me that the woman who killed Arthur Lovett 
 was the one who tried to kill your Toinette, it 's just 
 this : I picked up this in the passage where Leon 
 fought with the woman," and she took from her pocket 
 the fragment she had picked up in the hall and handed 
 it to Geoffrey. 
 
 "You see," she said, "it is part of the left sleeve — 
 and, if you will look closely, you will see by the fresh 
 color that there has been some trimming on it about 
 half an inch deep, and sort of diamond shaped." 
 
 Geoffrey looked at the fragment, which was some 
 four Or five inches long, and about three inches wide 
 at the bottom, and somewhat triangular in shape, having 
 evidently been torn out by the dog's teeth, catching at 
 the upper angle. He saw evident marks of the trim* 
 ming spoken of, and also drops of blood. This mys* 
 tery appalled him. 
 
 "That trimming was velvet ribbon, and that is a 
 piece of my grey dress which was taken from the 
 library here the night he was killed," said Miss Betty. 
 " I remember everything abeut that dress as though it 
 were yesterday. I could not quite call it up at first, 
 and kept turning the piece round my finger, that 
 morning I first saw it, till it all came as plain as 
 day, when Toinette first opened her eyes on me, as I 
 sat by the sofa. That's the main reason why I came 
 here, Mr. Geoffrey, and one reason why I have stayed. 
 I knew Arthur Lovett's murderer had been here 
 once since his death, and hoped she might come 
 again." 
 
 "Hoped she might come again!" said Geoffrey, in 
 
212 A J^OYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 surprise and vexation. " You did not want any one else 
 killed, did you?" 
 
 "Certainly not/' she replied, "but I did want to find 
 out the murderer, and I thought if she came I would 
 see her, and perhaps know her, and be able to bring 
 her to justice yet." 
 
 " It 's a pity you have been disappointed," said Geof- 
 frey ; " though, I must say, I am not sorry that a 
 woman of such inclinations should decide to stay away 
 from my house." 
 
 "She has not stayed away!" said Miss Betty. 
 
 "Not stayed away.? How so.? Have you seen her.?" 
 he asked, hurriedly. 
 
 "I have," she replied. 
 
 "When and where?" asked Geoffrey. 
 
 " Last night, upon the porch, at the window of your 
 sitting-room," continued Miss Betty. 
 
 "How did you happen to see her there?" asked 
 Geoffrey. 
 
 "After my conversation with you yesterday," said 
 Miss Betty, "I went home, but, somehow, when I got 
 to thinking of these matters of which I have told you, 
 I thought I ought not to leave you in ignorance of what 
 I knew, even for a single night. It troubled me so 
 that I finally started over here. It was perhaps an 
 hour after daylight down when I left home. When I 
 got here, I climbed over the side-fence into the front 
 yard, instead of going round by the gate or back by the 
 quarters. As I came along under the trees and among 
 the shrubbery, I heard some one singing in the sitting- 
 room. I came around the end of the porchj to the 
 
BEFORE THE WEDDING. 213 
 
 Steps, and looked up at the windows of the sitting- 
 room, which were lighted, and there I saw a woman 
 looking in and shaking her head and clenched hand 
 at some one on the inside." 
 
 "Did you see her face? Who is she?" asked 
 Geoffrey, impetuously. 
 
 "I saw her face plainly," she answered, "but I do 
 not know who she is. One thing I do know, however. 
 She is not either of the sisters of Arthur Lovett." 
 
 " Describe her appearance," said Geoffrey. 
 
 " She is a woman of near my height, of sharp, regular 
 features, and with hair as white as snow that falls down 
 to her waist," said Miss Betty. 
 
 "And her dress?" asked Geoffrey. 
 
 " She had on the dress of which you have a piece," 
 she answered, " I noticed that especially." 
 
 "Well, what became of her?" he asked. 
 
 " I do not know," she said. " I was so beat by 
 seeing her there — though I had watched for her many 
 a night — that I think I must have fainted, for when I 
 came to myself again I was sitting in the angle of the 
 porch-wall and the steps, and the light was out in the 
 house. I am not much accustomed to fright, Mr. 
 Geoffrey, but I was terribly frightened then. While I 
 stood there thinking what I ought to do, I heard a 
 step, and saw the figure of that woman come out from 
 under the other end of the porch and go down to the 
 lane. I followed carefully, but lost sight of her in 
 the old field beyond. Then I came back here and 
 watched till day, but she did not come again." 
 
 "Strange," said Geoffrey, musingly; "that was pre- 
 
214 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 cisely the Impression produced on me the night of the 
 assault on Toinette. It tallies with her description of 
 the woman she saw looking through the window, which 
 Maggie also saw and I caught a glimpse of as she 
 passed by, and exactly fits the negroes' tales of the 
 Ghost of Lovett Lodge. Mistress Certain, you have 
 undoubtedly seen the ghost,'' he added, jocularly. 
 
 "Mr. Geoffrey," she replied, "I know nothing about 
 ghosts, and do n't believe in them at all ; but if I did, 
 I should know this— 'that it was no ghost I saw last 
 night. It was a real, flesh and blood, woman, and an 
 angry and dangerous one, too," 
 
 Geoffrey did not reply, but rose and walked the 
 room in troubled thought. It was very strange, this 
 baffling mystery. He had tried to grasp it for tw^o 
 years, and yet it came and went about him -with im- 
 punity. His enclosure, his house, even his most secret 
 hours were open to this gray-clad specter. Toinette 
 had seen it, and Maggie. He doubted not that only 
 the purest accident had saved the former from death. 
 He, himself, had had a glimpse of it, and now, at last, 
 strong, cold-blooded, sensible Betty Certain had been 
 scared half out of her wits by the apparition. It 
 had been unseen for a year or more. Now it had 
 reappeared. And still it had Toinette under surveil- 
 lance. Why did it follow that girl so persistently, or 
 was it not the girl, but himself, who was shadowed.? 
 If himself, why should he be an object of resentment.'* 
 And whether himself or the girl, why should the assas- 
 sin of Arthur Lovett pursue them } . These questions 
 he could not answer. 
 
BEFORE THE WEDDING. 215 
 
 Betty Certain sat with her elbows on her knees, re- 
 garding the fire attentively, and Geoffrey could not 
 help appealing to her in his extremity. 
 
 " What does it mean, Mrs. Certain 1 Who can be 
 dogging either me or Toinette in this manner.?" he 
 asked, anxiously. 
 
 "It 's hard to say who^ Mr. Geoffrey, but it is very 
 evident that it means no good to one of you. As it 
 was Toinette before, I think it 's likely to be her now. 
 If she stays here I do n't see how she is to avoid the 
 knife that came so near taking her off before," said 
 Miss Betty. 
 
 " That reminds me," said Geoffrey, " that I wanted 
 to show you that knife, and ask if you knew anything 
 about it." 
 
 " I noticed it," she answered, '' that first morning 
 on which we met, in the drawer of the desk, which 
 was open when I came in, and again when you showed 
 it to the doctor. It was one that used to belong to 
 Arthur Lovett. I have heard him say that it was the 
 dirk of some foreign robber, perhaps an Italian, which 
 had been the instrument of a great many murders be- 
 fore he got it. He bought it when abroad as a curi- 
 osity. Yes, I recollect there was an Italian legend 
 upon the hilt, something in this wise : 
 
 " * Revenge seeks not the form to mar 
 With reeking wound and gaping scar.' " 
 
 " It is here now," said he, as he opened a drawer 
 of the table-desk and examined its contents. " Why, 
 how is this .?" he continued. " I am sure I placed it 
 here. Who could have taken it out .?" 
 
216 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " Depend upon it, Geoffrey Hunter, the hand that took 
 it will find a use for it soon ; and your Toinette will not 
 come off so easily next time," said the woman earnestly. 
 
 Apparently, the absence of the dagger impressed 
 Geoffrey with more anxiety than all the conversation 
 with Miss Betty had done. He sat turning over the 
 various articles which the drawer contained, in an ab- 
 sent, puzzled manner, for a time ; then turning " to the 
 woman, he said, suddenly : 
 
 " Mrs. Certain, I cannot bear that any harm should 
 befall Toinette from her presence here. It is not right 
 that I should expose her thus to danger. Our con- 
 versation about Arthur Lovett has given me some fears 
 that I might travel the same road. I do not think I 
 am a coward, nor was he ; but there seems to be the 
 same dark fate about my life that hung over that of 
 my predecessor at the Lodge. I have a mind to lib- 
 erate this girl, Toinette, and take her North at once. 
 You have spoken of desiring to go with her, Miss 
 Betty. Do you still wish it .?" 
 
 '' I cannot go now, Mr. Geoffrey," she answered. 
 " When the mystery of Arthur's death seemed far be- 
 yond my reach, or rather when I thought I knew its 
 cause and could not bring the criminals to justice — 
 because they were his sisters — I was anxious to go away. 
 Now I am satisfied that it was not those sisters, but 
 another woman, and I cannot go away until I have 
 stripped the vail from her face, and unraveled the mys- 
 tery of his death. I must stay here and watch. But 
 I do hope you will do as you say before further harm 
 befalls the poor girl." 
 
BEFORE THE WEDDING. 21? 
 
 " I will," said Geoffrey. " This very day she shall 
 go to Perham, where I shall have to stay until I can 
 arrange the business ; after that I shall take her at 
 once to some part of the North, and leave her as com- 
 fortably settled as I can." 
 
 Betty Certain seemed strongly moved at this decla- 
 ration. She stood up and took hold of Geoffrey's arm. 
 Her lips quivered, and tears were in her eyes, as she 
 said : 
 
 " God bless you, Geoffrey Hunter ! You will make 
 Heaven brighter for your dear old mother, if you do. 
 Oh ! " she continued, " if Arthur Lovett had but had 
 your determination he might have been alive and happy 
 now. Alive, at least," she continued musingly; "he 
 hardly could have been very happy away from that 
 girl." 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter was not one to let a resolution 
 grow cold before it was acted on. He instantly or- 
 dered the carriage to be brought around after dinner, 
 and directed Toinette to be ready to accompany him 
 to Perham. 
 
 Returning to the library, he said : 
 
 " There are some papers referring to Arthur Lovett's 
 affairs, Mrs. Certain, which I wish to leave in your hands 
 until my return. They are in this package and were 
 given to me by my father. But," he continued, "we 
 have not settled yet. Here are two hundred dollars. 
 Do you think that sufficient V 
 
 "Too much, sir,", she answered, "for I was about 
 to ask a privilege which I shall hardly dare to do if 
 you pay me so liberally." 
 
 15 
 
218 
 
 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "What is it?" asked Geoffrey. "I will grant any- 
 thing you wish, for I know you would not make an 
 unreasonable request." 
 
 " It is that I may occupy the Lodge during you: 
 absence," said Miss Betty. 
 
 "i\re you not afraid to do so?" asked Geoffrey. 
 
 " Now that my old notion of Arthur's death hasf 
 proved false, I do not see why I should fear his mur- 
 derer. But whether I am in danger or not, I am 
 determined to find out who did it, and think myself 
 more likely to succeed here than anywhere else," she 
 replied. 
 
 "Certainly," said Geoffrey. "You are welcome to 
 occupy the Lodge, but I fear you will have cause to 
 regret your request." 
 
 " Thank you, sir," she replied ; " I will go now and 
 see that Toinette is ready in time." 
 
THE OLD COUNTY CLERK. 
 
 " His "white hair still bristled full and fierce above his fiorehead. and his sharp 
 gray eye looked yortli. from und^r bushy brovjs zj'.th undiinvied kei.7inessy — p. 219. 
 
CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 IN THE CLERK S OFFICE. 
 
 THE next day Geoffrey Hunter went to the office 
 of the Clerk of the Superior Court for the County 
 of Cold Spring. 
 
 The clerk was George Rawson, one of the parties 
 who were present when Manuel Hunter took the will of 
 Arthur Lovett from the secret drawer in the desk. 
 He had been for thirty years the clerk of the Court. 
 Two or three generations of lawyers had gone through 
 the treadmill of legal routine under his eye. He was 
 a patriarch of the Court — a man of giant frame and 
 evident strength in his younger days, grown full and 
 rotund in his later years and from his sedentary life. 
 His white hair still bristled full and fierce above his 
 forehead, and his sharp gray eye looked forth from 
 under bushy lids with undimmed keenness, apparently 
 to demonstrate that the gold-bowed glasses on his nose 
 were only a joke which he played to show how lightly 
 the years sat upon him. The only triumph which Time 
 seemed to have achieved over him was in his hearing, 
 which was slightly impaired, as the ready use of his 
 hand as a sound-gatherer testified. The office was in 
 the court-house, upon the lower floor, and paved with 
 brick. The court-house itself was an ancient structure, 
 and the office contained records reaching back into the 
 
220 ^4 KOYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 ante-revolutionary days, when strange judges sometimes 
 sat upon the bench and administered a wild justice 
 which has scarcely its counterpart. The king's judges 
 of assize had once entered by the door and gone out by 
 the window, greatly to the detriment of wigs and robes, 
 but glad to escape with life minus the emblems of 
 dignity from the hands of the Regulators. There were 
 entries in those quaint old dockets which the clerk 
 had made with trembling hand and with the muzzle 
 of a pistol at his head — entries in which the forms 
 of law were mimicked and its officers assailed with a 
 quaint wit and ludicrous profanity combined. In this 
 old office, with its dusty shelves, shattered cases, and 
 mouldy records, sat George Rawson, C.S.C., beside 
 a table of stained and grimy pine, before a smoulder- 
 ing fire within the capacious chimney-jaws, smoking a 
 clay pipe, with the inevitable long reed stem of the 
 country. 
 
 He seemed, like his records, to be a relic of a past 
 generation — a messenger sent by the old Colony to the 
 young State, who had lingered to see the effect of 
 the message he was charged to deliver. Those old 
 papers wxre as boyhood's playmates to him. He knew 
 their lineaments and purport at a glance. He was a 
 noble type of a race fast passing away, which grew 
 slowly into positions of trust and then held them for a 
 lifetime, despite the changes of party. He was a kindly 
 man of the justest impulses — the guardian of all 
 widows and orphans ex-officio^ or, at least, by color of 
 office, and " Uncle " to three or four generations of boys 
 and girls. 
 
JlSr THE CLERK'S OFFICE, 221 
 
 No sooner did he see Geoffrey Hunter, on the morn- 
 ing of which we write, and exchange the customary- 
 greetings, with especial inquiries as to the health of 
 the senior Hunter, than the old man said : 
 
 "I was just thinking of you, Geoffrey. Sit down 
 here and fill up. I must have a talk with you. Shut 
 to that door and turn the key, for I do n't want any 
 one coming in to interrupt what I have to say." 
 
 Geoffrey protested that he was in great haste and 
 much pressed for time, evidently thinking that the old 
 man's social habits were about to make him the scape- 
 goat of a morning's loneliness. 
 
 " Oh, bother your hurry ! I 've got something to 
 say to you that is more important than anything you 're 
 likely to find of record here, I '11 wager. So sit down 
 and be quiet while I tell it." 
 
 Geoffrey at length complied, and when he was fairly 
 settled to a smoke with one of the old man's genuine 
 *' Powhatan " pipes, sending forth clouds of incense from 
 the fragrant Kinhikannick, the old man, drawing down 
 his brows and looking up at his unconcerned auditor, 
 asked abruptly : 
 
 "You're livin* at Lovett Lodge now, aren't ye?" 
 
 Geoffrey was all attention in an instant. 
 
 "Yes," he answered, "why.?" 
 
 "You've heard, of course,' resumed the old man, 
 "a great deal about Arthur Lovett and his oddities, if 
 I may call them so, for I never could make out in my 
 own mind rightly, whether he was absolutely crazy or 
 just peculiar and eccentric. And, queer enough, that 
 is just what bothers me now, and has for some time 
 
222 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 gone by. If I were just sure now," said he musingly, 
 " that the man was phim crazy, so to speak, I should 
 know just what I ought to do; and if I knew that he 
 was only rattle-brained, odd-like, I should know just 
 what I ought not to do." 
 
 Geoffrey remarked that he did not see how the 
 mental condition of a man who had been dead almost 
 a score of years could influence any one's action now, 
 or at least alter his duty. 
 
 " More than you think, young man ; more than you 
 think," said the old clerk. "Though, by the way, you 
 may be right, in a sense. It may change facts and 
 results ; but, perhaps, it ought not to affect my action. 
 It cannot alter my duty. The law must decide upon 
 that. You know that Arthur Lovett was the owner 
 of Lovett Lodge; that he lived there and died there — 
 a very mysterious death, too. But you may not be 
 aware that at the time of his death he was about to 
 marry a neighbor of yours, one Betty Certain. You 
 had heard of that too, eh.? Yes, he was all ready. The 
 wedding clothes were bought, and he had got his license 
 a week before, and made me promise to come down 
 and see them made one. It was an odd move, and I 
 could not understand it, and told him so, when he 
 came for the license ; but he said he did not need a 
 guardian, and if he chose to marry my grandmother he 
 supposed he had the right to do so without telling 
 every upstart why he did it. 
 
 "I told him I had no intention to reflect upon his 
 right, but only repeated the usual comment on his 
 match, in the hope that he would be at liberty to tell 
 
IiV THE CLERK'S OFFICE. 223 
 
 me something with which to stop the mouths of mis- 
 chievous talkers. 
 
 " I said this just to smooth matters over with Mr. 
 Lovett, because he was not one that I wanted any fuss 
 with. But, just as usual, he went off contrary-wise to 
 any one else, and took it all in dead earnest, and 
 said : 
 
 " ' Just so, Mr. Rawson. Well, since you suggest it, 
 I will do so. You may say to all inquirers that I marry 
 Betty Certain, first, because I know her to be an honest, 
 right-minded woman, and, secondly, because in her 
 extreme devotion to me, she compromised her charac- 
 ter to save me from danger and trouble.' 
 
 " ' But you certainly paid that debt when you fought 
 Bill Price on her account,' I said. 
 
 "'I stopped the tongue of slander,' he replied; 'I 
 wish to kill it dead, which I can do only by making 
 her my wife.' 
 
 " So I made out the license and he staid some time 
 in the office talking with me of his affairs. He was 
 in mighty low spirits, and said he had no idea 
 that he would live any great length of time, and 
 if his wishes could only be carried out, after he was 
 dead, he would not care to. In fact, I thought he was 
 about the most dolorous bridegroom I had ever seen. 
 
 " After he had finally left the office he came back 
 and made me promise to come down to the wedding, 
 as he would have some business for me to do before he 
 went off on his trip. So, it was arranged that he was to 
 send in a led-horse for me the night before, and I was 
 to go out to the Lodge on the day of the bridal. He 
 
224 A I^OYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 was so depressed, however, that before he left he 
 made me promise that, if it should ever be in my power 
 after his death to promote what I knew to be his 
 wishes, without injury to myself, I would do it. 
 
 " I had no idea that I should ever be called to 
 do anything of the kind ; but it is this very promise 
 which has been weighing on me for months, and would 
 be yet if it had not been for your remark that his state 
 of mind could not affect 7ny duty. No more can it. 
 If his desires were sane and reasonable, it is, of course, 
 my duty to speak out about them. If they were other- 
 wise, the law will refuse to carry them into operation. 
 In any case, the law must decide — my duty is plain. 
 
 " Now, you see," said the old man, between long 
 puffs at his well-lighted pipe, " as I told you, I was 
 present when your father took the will of Arthur 
 Lovett from the place Betty Certain showed him, and 
 read it over to us — Betty Certain, Mr. Dixon, and me. 
 He found it in a sort of secret drawer that let 
 down on hinges, like some of these new trunk-covers, 
 on the inside of the upper drawer of the desk. 
 
 " The drawer into which this tray fell, when the 
 spring was touched, was locked, and the key was found 
 in Lovett's pocket. In this drawer was found all the 
 money he is supposed to have had in his possession at 
 the time of his death — something to the rise of two hun- 
 dred dollars — and the only two notes that he is known 
 to have held against any one — one of these was against 
 an insolvent party, and the other has been collected by 
 the administrator, and amounted to some three or four 
 hundred dollars more. His accounts with his factors 
 
IN THE CLERK'S OFFICE. 235 
 
 in Richmond, check-book and bills of sale for all of 
 his slaves, were in this drawer, neatly tied and filed, as 
 well as a great many other papers whose value might 
 be a question. These seemed to be all ' the valuable 
 papers and effects ' that he had, and I have not heard 
 that any others have ever been discovered. In the 
 upper or secret drawer there was no other paper, ex- 
 cept a sealed package directed to the gal Bella that he 
 was so bewitched about — by the by, she was a most 
 remarkable nigger, and if any one was ever excusable 
 for such foolishness, it was Arthur Lovett. There were 
 some little trinkets also in it, but nothing of any value. 
 The place for a signature and a scrawl seal, as well as 
 an attestation clause, showed that he intended to have 
 executed it formally before witnesses, and, I am inclined 
 to think, that was the business he wanted to see me 
 about the morning of his marriage. 
 
 "The woman. Certain, claimed that he had told her 
 that was his intention, the night before. I never knew 
 how much reliance to put in what that woman said 
 about the matter, or anyone else, in fact. There is 
 one thing, she was certainly clear of all suspicion of 
 having caused his death, for all her interest depended 
 on his living to execute the will at least ; and, for aught I 
 can see, afterward too ; for the place of Arthur Lovett 's 
 wife was one she might well be proud of, even with 
 the incumbrance of the gal, Bella, who, by the way, had 
 before that been sold by his father's executors, and 
 gone, no one knew where 
 
 " Your father got me to try and trace her up, 
 but I never could get beyond the day of sale itself. 
 
22 G A I^OYAL GENTLEMAiW 
 
 I went to N , where the sale took place, and after 
 
 some inquiry found that the man ' Edwards,' whom the 
 sale-list filed in the Clerk's office showed to have bought 
 the gal Bella, was a poor, no-account cuss that lived in 
 the pines some four or five miles out. Of course, every- 
 body knew that he never had money enough in his 
 life to buy half as likely a nigger as this gal, Bella, and 
 consequently, that he must have acted for some one 
 else. 
 
 " I learned that when the girl was knocked off 
 to him at the sale, some one made the remark that 
 he was not good for the price, and the executor 
 told him that he would be required to give undoubt- 
 ed security. But he stepped up and said he didn't 
 want any credit, and just paid the cash in hand for the 
 gal and took her off before the sale was over. I in- 
 quired of some of the man's neighbors how long he 
 kept her, and was surprised to learn that he had 
 never been known to have a slave at all, nor would 
 they believe that such was the case. He was just a 
 poor cracker-cuss, hardly better than a nigger himself. 
 
 " I took occasion to go by his house, and called for 
 a drink of water — if the flat, warm, swamp-settlings they 
 drink there can be called water. His wife came out 
 with a gourd and piggin, both, I must allow, clean and 
 tidy, which is more than I could possibly say of her. 
 
 " She was a big, gaunt woman, who wore about No. 
 9 shoes, and stood with hands on her hips while I 
 drank and talked. In return for the water, I offered 
 her a drink of whisky from my flask. She finished a 
 good bit of it, and in response to a question said she 
 

 
 
 
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IN THE CLERK'S OFFICE. 227 
 
 had no 'terbacker,' but had some of the best ' rozzum * 
 one ever stuck a tooth in. As I had never learned to 
 like rosin, I did not find whether this was true or not. 
 When I thought I had put myself on terms with her 
 to entitle me to do so, I broached the subject of the 
 nigger. She seemed completely dumbfounded, but I, 
 thinking it was all put on — for I was now satisfied that 
 her husband was made an agent simply to conceal the 
 real buyer — put my foot in the soup by asking her finally, 
 straight out, what had become of the nigger gal her 
 husband brought home and kept for a spell. 
 
 " Do n't you ever make such a mistake as that, 
 Geoffrey ! 
 
 " The woman flew up in a minute. She said she 
 would have me know that Susan Edwards was n't one 
 of that sort. She did n't harbor anybody's runaway 
 niggers in her house ; and if her husband ever brought 
 any black sluts around there, she 'd h'ist 'em, that she 
 would — and she 'd h'ist me, too, if I did n't make off 
 about my business ; and with that, before I could turn 
 my horse in his tracks, she threw that piggin of wa- 
 ter over me, gourd and all. The last I saw of Mrs. 
 Susan Edwards, she was standing in the middle of the 
 road, holding her empty piggin, sticking her black 
 fangs into that good 'rozzum,' and cussing about the 
 worst soaked ' stranger ' that ever run from a she- 
 cracker. Well, I found Mr. Edwards himself afterwards, 
 and with a deal of difficulty and not a little good whisky, 
 got him to tell me what he knowed, which was n't much 
 after all. It seems a man had come to him that 
 morning and got him to bid for the woman, and per- 
 
228 A ROYAL gentleman; 
 
 haps one or both of the children, and handed him the 
 money to pay for them, taking care to keep him in 
 sight till the purchase was complete. That night he 
 met the gentleman at a low sort of eating-house in 
 the town, who paid him for his trouble one hundred 
 dollars in bank-bills, and as much whisky as Mr. Ed- 
 wards could comfortably dispose of, which, if I may 
 judge by what I saw of him, was a right smart fee in 
 itself. He said that the stranger made out the bill of 
 sale, and he signed it ; but could not remember his 
 name or where he was from. Had an idea that he 
 belonged in Alabama; but did not know why. Said 
 that he spoke of ' toting ' things to the stage-house, 
 as he was going away that night, so I gave up the 
 idea of his being an Alabamian, who would have said 
 '* pack ' instead of ' tote ' ; and I could never get on the 
 track of the gal or the buyer after that, though your 
 father kept me at it for the best part of a year, when- 
 ever I could be spared from the office. He always 
 insisted that this fellow Edwards bought her for Buck 
 Lloyd, and would have me go to attend the Adminis- 
 trator's sale of his property, to see if I could not learn 
 something of the gal; and 'twas there I bought his 
 cook, Mabel. It must have cost him right smart first 
 and last — his search after that girl and her children — 
 and I never knew rightly what he did it for. I never 
 thought he was foolish enough to want to get them 
 just to free them, even if Arthur Lovett was his 
 friend and very anxious about the matter. Manuel 
 Hunter was never the man to indulge in any senti- 
 mentality at such a cost to himself." 
 
IN THE CLERK'S OFFICE, 229 
 
 " My father has been a man of much more tender 
 susceptibilities than many suppose," said Geoffrey, sen- 
 tentiously. 
 
 "Now, look here, Geoffrey, don't fly off in that way," 
 said the old clerk, his eyes sparkling with humor. 
 " Every one knows that a man who had his own way to 
 make in the world, and made it as your father did, 
 did n't go about throwing his money away on other 
 people's whims. No, sir ; he had some reason of his 
 own for wanting to get hold of that gal. Of course it 
 was n't the same reason that Lovett had for not want- 
 ing to let her go, for, in that case, he would not have 
 been so anxious about her children. Now, Geoffrey, 
 can you imagine why your father should want to own 
 that woman and her children.^" 
 
 " I think he had a very laudable desire to carry 
 out the wishes of an unfortunate friend," said Geoffrey. 
 
 "Oh, I thought we had disposed of that before," 
 said Rawson. " He was not the man for that. It's true 
 he did free the boy when he got him — or said he did. 
 I was never quite sure of it." 
 
 "I have seen a copy of the record," said Geoffrey, 
 angrily. 
 
 "Well, well," said Rawson, "I won't deny it; but do 
 you know what bargain he made with him, before he 
 turned him loose .^" 
 
 "I am sure I do not," said Geoffrey. "In fact I do 
 not see how he could have made any. A contract to 
 pay for an intended liberation would not be good, nor 
 any other agreement made with a slave." 
 
 " Oh, of course not," said the other. " But did you 
 
230 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN', 
 
 never hear or know of any contract or release executed 
 by the boy?" 
 
 " It is simply impossible that there should have been 
 anything of the kind." 
 
 " Of course the boy was then a minor, and any bar- 
 gain with him would have been worthless — but it may 
 have been done since." 
 
 " Mr. Rawson," said Geoffrey, " I have the utmost 
 confidence in the belief that my father liberated this 
 boy simply because it was his friend's dying wish he 
 should be set free. In fact, I know it." 
 
 "Pshaw, pshaw, my son; haven't you got over that 
 yet .'' Why, then, did he not manumit Toinette, as he 
 promised your mother to do, when she was dying, in- 
 stead of giving her to you to re-enact the tragedy or 
 comedy, whatever you call it, of ' Arthur and his gal 
 Bella' at Lovett Lodge?" 
 
 " Stop, Mr. Rawson," said Geoffrey, rising ; " I cannot 
 permit you to speak thus of my father, who is now so 
 stricken by disease as to be the same as in the tomb, 
 so far as the defense of his own acts is concerned." 
 
 " Sit down, sir, sit down," said Rawson, severely. 
 " I am too old for you to gain anything by quarreling 
 with me ; besides, every one knows that George Rawson 
 owed your father too much good will, before you were 
 born, ever to speak of him with unnecessary harshness. 
 And I must say, young man, that if his son had half 
 the sense his poor father has lost, he would know that 
 he was disgracing his father far more by openly living 
 with that girl, than I could if I were to talk slanders 
 of him all the time. Manuel Hunter was too proud, as 
 
IN THE CLERK'S OFFICE. 231 
 
 well as too good, a man, ever to have brought shame 
 upon his family in that way." 
 
 "You judge me harshly, Mr. Rawson," said Geoffrey, 
 flushing nevertheless. 
 
 "Well, well, that 's none of my business, of course," 
 said the old man in a pacificatory tone ; " but you pro- 
 voked me a little by thinking that I could slander your 
 father. But we were talking about his motive in want- 
 ing to get these Lovett niggers. I 've thought of it a 
 good deal, but asked no questions. Your father knew 
 me well enough to know that I would do his business 
 without meddling with his reasons. Nevertheless, I 
 am satisfied that he had reasons of his own, and as he 
 is now past telling them and you are the one interested 
 — at least having the same interest that he had, or will 
 have, under your father's will afore many a day — I will 
 tell you what I think they were, and it 's my opinion it 
 will pay Manuel Hunter's heir to listen and remember 
 too!" 
 
 He then gave Geoffrey a detailed account of the 
 relation which Belle and her children sustained to the 
 Lovett Lodge property through the deed of trust made 
 in her behalf to Arthur, of which the reader is already 
 informed. 
 
 At its conclusion Geoffrey informed him that he 
 had been made aware of these facts by his father, and 
 had that morning come to his office to examine the 
 records in regard to the matter, and he would be glad 
 if Mr. Rawson would assist him. 
 
 "Wait, wait," said the old clerk, somewhat pettish- 
 ly, " I am not through yet. Wait and hear all that I 
 
232 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 have to say. You can examine the records afterwards. 
 No, no; fill up and sit down," he continued, as Geoffrey 
 again pleaded haste and business. 
 
 " As I said before, you are not likely to have more 
 important business, as Manuel Hunter's trustee and 
 heir, for many a day, than listening to me about this 
 Lovett matter. 
 
 "I have already told you," he continued, when 
 Geoffrey had done as he had bidden, " how this holo- 
 graph script, purporting to be Arthur Lovett's will, was 
 found. At that time I do n't suppose any one had an 
 idea that it could by any possibility be established as 
 such. I know your father had not, or his course would 
 have been different, for he had not only been Lovett's 
 counsel, but was his best friend. There seemed to be 
 a strange attraction about the shy and peculiar young 
 Lovett for the hard-headed, busy old lawyer, your fa- 
 ther. The recreation he seemed most to enjoy was a 
 half day's chat with Lovett in his library. 
 
 " I never could imagine what they found to talk 
 about; but they were certainly great cronies, which was 
 the more remarkable from the fact that your father 
 had very few intimates and favored associates. He 
 lived in his business — that 's how he came to succeed 
 so well. I 'm mightily affeard his son won't keep up his 
 reputation. 
 
 " But that 's neither here nor there. I was speaking 
 of this will. Your father had no idea it could be sus- 
 tained, and as the only parties interested in it were 
 Bella and her children, who I do n't suppose ever heard 
 of it, and could have done nothing if they had, and 
 
IN THE CLERK'S OFFICE. 233 
 
 this woman, Betty Certain, who was ignorant of the mat- 
 ter, and who, I must admit, did not seem to care any- 
 thing about the property now that Lovett was dead, 
 it was never offered for probate, and nothing was ever 
 done about it. 
 
 " I remember that the only question Betty Certain 
 asked of your father was, whether there was no way by 
 which Lovett's wishes in regard to the gal and her 
 children could be carried out. She did n't seem to 
 think a word about herself. Your father said he would 
 do all he could. I asked him before the administra- 
 tion was granted in the estate whether he was going 
 to offer the will for probate. He replied that he had 
 looked the matter over carefully, and was satisfied that 
 it did not come under the statute, not being found 
 among the valuable papers and effects of the deceased, 
 and it was useless to incur unnecessary expense on ac- 
 count of it. I agreed with him then, thinking him 
 entirely right, as he was mighty apt to be on a matter 
 of law that he looked into carefully. Right lately, 
 however, I 've taken to thinking the other way. You 
 may not have seen it ; but the Supreme Court at its 
 last term decided a case as near upon all fours with 
 this as one could well be. I have received the volume 
 within a week or two — which, by the way, is shockingly 
 printed — and have read the case three or four times 
 very carefully. I can 't see how a case could be made 
 to fit this closer. There were two drawers without 
 locks, but having a common cover fastened with one. 
 In one of these was the valuable papers, money, etc., of 
 the deceased, and in the other the will with some loose 
 
 16 
 
23-i A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 papers of no account. Now they say that the fact of 
 their being under one common lock justifies the con- 
 clusion that these two drawers may be taken as one, 
 and constitute a proper depository for a holograph will 
 imder the statute. 
 
 " The case of Arthur Lovett's will, to my mind, is 
 quite a bit stronger than this. Don't you think so.?" 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," answered Geoffrey, absently. 
 
 "And if that will should be proved," said the old 
 man, with a little surprise at Geoffrey's demeanor in 
 his tone, " what do you think your title to Lovett 
 Lodge would be good for?" 
 
 " Not much, certainly," said Geoffrey, quietly. 
 
 "Not much.? Not much.?" said Rawson, excitedly. 
 "It wouldn't be worth the paper it's written on!" 
 
 "Of course not," assented Geoffrey. 
 
 "Well, I must say you take it quietly for one who 
 has a smart chance of losing a fine estate. Now, do 
 you know what I am going to do in this matter.? 
 You reminded me a while ago that circumstances 
 could not affect duty. I am going to apply that idea 
 now, and if your ox is gored, you must remember it is 
 your own bull that did it. I am going to inform 
 Betty Certain of the facts I have just told you." 
 
 " That is evidently your duty, Mr. Rawson," said 
 Geoffrey, " though I shall do it myself, probably before 
 you have an opportunity." 
 
 " That 's right, my son ; that 's right. I see you 've 
 got some of your old father's shrewdness, for all you've 
 kept still so long. By all means see her and make 
 the best bargain you can in the matter." 
 
IN THE CLERK'S OFFICE. 235 
 
 Geoffrey smiled. "Will you loan me this volume?" 
 said he, pointing to the one Rawson had referred to. 
 
 " Certainly. The case is Robertson et al. vs. Carter 
 and Others, page 592," Rawson answered. 
 
 Geoffrey bade him good morning, and went out. 
 
 "Ah!" said the old clerk, looking after him, " there 's 
 a heap of come-out in the Hunter stock yet." 
 
CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 THE HOLOGRAPH PROVED. 
 
 GEOFFREY HUNTER was as good as his word. 
 He examined the case which the clerk had re- 
 ferred to, and compared it with the provisions of the 
 statute on which the will depended for validity. By 
 this it was provided that a will might be established 
 and be valid to convey real and personal property, al- 
 though not executed in the presence of witness, if 
 certain requisites were complied with. These were : 
 
 I St. That it must be wholly in the handwriting of 
 the person whose will it appears to be, being thence 
 denominated a holograph. 
 
 2d. The name of the testator must be subscribed 
 thereto or inserted in some part of the will. 
 
 3d. It must be found among the valuable papers 
 and effects of the deceased, or have been lodged in the 
 hands of some person for safe-keeping. 
 
 After this comparison he was surprised that there 
 could ever have been a doubt as to the validity of the 
 will now in his possession. There evidently could not 
 have been but for the very narrow construction previ- 
 ously given to the clause, " among the valuable papers 
 and eifects " of the testator. This, having been found 
 in the secret drawer, was effectually separated from all 
 his valuables. The very just and reasonable construe- 
 
THE HOLOGRAPH PROVED. 237 
 
 tion which was applied in the case last before the Court 
 removed all doubt. 
 
 That very evening he went to the humble dwell- 
 ing of Betty Certain, and informed her of the facts he 
 had learned from Rawson and explained their probable 
 results. He added, that after having himself read the 
 case, and carefully examined the subject, he had no 
 doubt that if she offered the will for probate it 
 would be sustained, and she would be allowed to 
 qualify as Executrix. He farther stated that as there 
 seemed little probability of the discovery of Belle and 
 her younger children, a large portion of the estate 
 would revert to her. The information did not seem 
 to elate the woman at all. Poor white as she was, she 
 listened calmly, and only remarked that she had always 
 believed that Arthur's will in regard to Belle and her 
 children would some time be carried out. 
 
 " You see, Mr. Geoffrey," she said, " I believe that 
 Arthur Lovett sincerely repented the sin and weakness 
 of his course toward the gal Belle, and earnestly desired 
 to make all reparation in his power and avoid further 
 error. That is why he would have married me. He 
 was not a man to break his plighted faith, however 
 weak he might have been in other respects. He want- 
 ed a wife, in order that his vows to her might free him 
 from a temptation he could not otherwise resist. He 
 chose also to marry me because he could thereby dis- 
 charge what he regarded as a debt toward me, though 
 I did not. I knew or felt this, in a dim sort of way, 
 when he said to me, * Betty Certain, will you be my 
 wife?' but I have seen it clearer since he died. And 
 
238 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 I could not but believe that the good God would re- 
 member the prayer of one who was striving so earnestly 
 to do right. Now I see that He has. 
 
 " But," she continued, after a moment's thought, 
 '' how will this affect you 1 Will you not lose what 
 your father paid for Lovett Lodge .'^" 
 
 Geoffrey admitted that this would be the result. 
 
 " Then," said she, " I will repay you out of such 
 portion of the estate as falls to my share." 
 
 Geoffrey protested that his father had bought it as 
 a speculation with his eyes open, and that he could 
 claim no reparation if he lost. Betty Certain would 
 not hear a word of it. The poor white woman was 
 determined that it should be as she decided, or she 
 would not move in the matter at all. So the young 
 aristocrat became the object of her magnanimity, and 
 it was arranged that she should repay the purchase 
 money, and that the profits of the plantation and his 
 improvements should offset the rents during his occu- 
 pancy, should the will be established and the pur- 
 chase money not be recovered from the heirs of Lovett. 
 
 The necessary legal steps were soon taken under 
 Geoffrey's advice. The heirs, seeing that the case was 
 hopeless for them, compromised upon terms very favor- 
 able to themselves, and the will was shortly afterwards 
 admitted to probate, and Betty Certain, as Executrix 
 of the will of Arthur Lovett, became the rightful pos- 
 sessor of Lovett Lodge. 
 
 Toinette had some time before bidden adieu to her 
 kind old friend Betty Certain, and had been staying 
 with her mother at the Hunter Home, awaiting the term 
 
THE HOLOGRAPH PROVED. 239 
 
 of Court at which her emancipation was to be com- 
 pleted. 
 
 Her reception by old Mabel was very peculiar — 
 a sort of tender pity, united with cold sneering un- 
 belief in the professed intentions of their young master, 
 marked her conversation and demeanor. 
 
 " Do n't set yer heart on freedom, pore chile," she 
 would say, " cos Geoffrey Hunter won't never part with 
 ez likely a gal ez you in no such way. Do n't believe 
 a word of it, honey. He 's jes' telling you that to fool 
 ye, and git ye to go 'way with him peaceably, that 's 
 all ; an' directly when he get 's ye off you '11 find your- 
 self belonging to somebody else, an' Mass'r Geoffrey 
 coming home with the money ye brought in his pocket. 
 He 's jes' got tired of ye — wants to marry likely, or 
 else wants to put ye off before a baby in yer arms 
 spoils yer market. 
 
 " Wants the child born free, ye say } What does 
 he care for the child of my Toinette .? If he did n't 
 want a slave child, what did he ruin a slave girl for.? 
 Answer me that. Oh, you poor innocent! I know 
 how it is. The lying, deceitful villain has made you 
 love him better than your own soul. You would rather 
 be a slave all your life, and bear slave-children too, if 
 he would but love ye, than go away and be as free as 
 he promises. Now, isn't it so, chile.?" 
 
 Toinette hung her head, and between blushes and 
 sobs admitted that it was true. 
 
 " My pore, pore child," said old Mabel vehemently, 
 as she took her in her arms, "don't do it! Don't 
 trust to your pore, weak heart, nor the word of any 
 
240 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAISf, 
 
 man that owns a slave. Your old mother did that 
 when she was young and pure, and almost as fair as 
 you. She believed a man whose lightest word was 
 better than the oath of any Hunter that ever lived ; and 
 yet he lied to her, basely and vilely deceived her. 
 Yes, he sold me for gold when I had borne him chil- 
 dren, shared his toils and evils, and loved him better 
 than all else in Heaven and earth. Yes, honey, you 
 are his child — you have his features more than mine, 
 and his ways too. 
 
 " Oh, I loved him, chile, better than my own soul. 
 I thought his promises were truer than the Word of 
 God ; yet he sold me — who had suffered and borne for 
 him more than the most devoted wdfe could — sold me 
 for gold, sold me on the block with you in my arms, 
 darling ! He was as false as the hell to which he w^ent. 
 So are they all, Geoffrey Hunter among them. Do n't 
 tell me; I know, chile. An' now, when I' m growing 
 old, I have to wear this cursed badge," tearing the 
 turban from her head, " and serve in the Hunter kitchen, 
 and watch my darling, the last of all my children, go- 
 ing the same hard road of sorrow, suffering, and crime- 
 It has made me a devil," she added wildly. " God 
 knows what it will do for you. 
 
 " But remember this, honey. If Geoffrey Hunter 
 does serve you in that way, he shan't ever enjoy the 
 gold you bring him. Your old mother '11 look out for that. 
 She has been wronged, but she 's been revenged too, an' 
 Geoffrey Hunter '11 find that old Mabel knows how to 
 pay him back all the wrong he does her Toinette." 
 
 Toinette shuddered, as the long, gray hair of her 
 
THE HOLOGRAPH PROVED. 241 
 
 mother, unloosed by the removal of the turban, flowed 
 free about her shoulders — and gazed with a startled 
 look of doubting fear at the weird figure before her. 
 She seemed to be trying to recall some frightful memory. 
 
 Old Mabel caught the look, and seemed, for a mo- 
 ment, to hesitate as to the course she should pursue. 
 Her eyes lost their wild gleam, and she gazed thought- 
 fully and tenderly upon her child. 
 
 " Not yet, not yet " — she muttered, and winding the 
 long gray locks about her head, she replaced the turban, 
 remarking, " They were not always gray, Toinette, and 
 it is not age that has made them so now." 
 
 She busied herself with her work for a time, and 
 then said : 
 
 "We will not say anything more about these things 
 now, Toinette, only promise me one thing, child : When 
 you go away, you must write to me. You can do that. 
 No matter where you are sold, you can get a chance to 
 write to me, or have some one do it for you. Send the 
 letter in care of old George Rawson. He will read it 
 to me — remember that. The slave-girl must not be 
 able to read or write. If Geoffrey Hunter does by you 
 according to his promise, sign your letter 'Toinette.' 
 If he does not, sign it ' Antoinette,' and then, no matter 
 what else you may write, old iMabel will know what 
 to do." 
 
 Toinette gave the required promise, and then re- 
 lapsed into abstraction. Old Mabel observed it, and, 
 with evident anxiety to divert her thoughts, she said : 
 
 " But who will have charge at Lovett Lodge now 
 that Mass'r Geoffrey is going away .''" 
 
242 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Why, haven't you heard?" answered Toinette. 
 She then informed her mother of the recent occur- 
 rences, by which Lovett Lodge had passed into the 
 hands of Betty Certain, under the will of Arthur Lov- 
 ett. 
 
 "Betty Certain! Betty Certain!" said old Mabel, 
 when she had heard the whole story, with Toinette's 
 warm praises of her old friend. " Betty Certain, a low- 
 down, scheming, poor white woman, queening it at 
 Lovett Lodge ! She has rare luck indeed ! She has 
 been working for that this many a year, and has finally 
 got it. She carries a high hand, no doubt.?" 
 
 Toinette hastened to assure her, that, on the con- 
 trary, Betty Certain did not seem at all elated by her 
 good fortune, but only anxious to discover Belle Lovett 
 and her children, that she might carry out the will of 
 Arthur Lovett. 
 
 " No doubt, child, but she pretends so, and no 
 wonder that you believe her. She was always a com- 
 plete hypocrite. She is no doubt anxious to find Belle 
 Lovett and her children — not to set them free and 
 give them half that estate, but to make sure that they 
 never get free at all, so that she can keep the whole." 
 
 Toinette warmly protested against this aspersion of 
 the motives of her old friend, but in vain. Old Mabel 
 still shook her head incredulously, and declared that she 
 "knew Betty Certain. She couldn't fool her." "And 
 that reminds me," she said, " that there is one thing 
 more I ought to do. I have been hesitating about it 
 for some time; but now my mind is made up." 
 
 She went to the hearth of the kitchen, and after 
 
THE HOLOGRAPH PROVED. 043 
 
 some trouble took up one of the bricks. After dig- 
 ging for a moment in the ground beneath, she took 
 out a small tin box, and, opening this, selected from 
 among its contents a flat parcel, carefully wrapped in 
 a piece of snuff-bladder, which had been securely sewed 
 around it. Replacing the box, she came towards Toi- 
 nette, and handing her the package, said : 
 
 " You may have heard that old Manuel Hunter 
 pretended that he had found and emancipated Arthur 
 and Belle Lovett's oldest child, Fred. I have never 
 been right certain whether this tale was true or not, 
 though I heard him tell the missis so when he came 
 back, but I have heard him lie to her at other times, 
 and he might have been doing it then. He promised 
 her to set my Toinette free as soon as ever she died, 
 an' instead of that he gave her to Mass'r Geoffrey for 
 a plaything. 
 
 "But if he did set him free, and if Geoffrey fulfills 
 his promise to you, you may be able to find this boy, 
 Fred Lovett. If you can, do so, and give him this 
 package, and tell him to open it in your presence. If 
 you should learn of his death, you may open it yourself. 
 By all means keep it with the utmost care till you are 
 freed, or meet with Fred. Let no one know that you 
 have it, and keep it always about your person. Not 
 there, not there," she said, as she saw Toinette about 
 to put it in her bosom. " Do you think it would be 
 safe there if you should be put upon the block } Sew 
 it into the folds of your frock, and keep it as if your 
 salvation depended on it. Who knows but it does.?" 
 she added, dreamily. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 BOND GIVEN AND COSTS PAID. 
 
 IT was the eighth Monday after the first Monday in 
 September, and was Court week in Perham. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter, sitting in the easy-chair which his 
 father had occupied so many years, heard through the 
 open door of the office, about the hour of ten, the 
 voice of the crier, as he proclaimed : 
 
 " Oyez, oyez, all you good people who have any- 
 thing to do or to sue in this Honorable Superior 
 Court of Law and Equity, this day begun and held 
 for the County of Cold Spring, come forward and give 
 your attendance and you shall be heard." 
 
 Looking up at the venerable structure which had 
 so long served for the dispensation of justice, he saw 
 the rotund face of the crier framed in a portion of the 
 window-sash from which some mischievous urchin had 
 broken the pane, beaming with good nature, self-impor- 
 tance, and the lurid effulgence resulting from immemo- 
 rial potations of apple-jack, while his wheezing, broken 
 tones went out in the bright October morning through 
 the sleepy streets of the village. The knots of idlers 
 heard it, and slowly wended their way to the court- 
 house. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter heard it, and, remembering the 
 business which of late had so engrossed his attention, 
 
BOND GIVEN AND COSTS PAID. 245 
 
 took from a drawer of the table two bonds, which had 
 been previously executed, and followed the crowd to 
 the place of justice. 
 
 Upon the first opportunity which presented itself, 
 Geoffrey's counsel rose and called the attention of His 
 Honor, the Presiding Judge of the Court, to the fact 
 that at Spring Term, 1858, a petition had been filed 
 by Manuel Hunter, praying for permission to emanci- 
 pate a certain female slave, ''Mabel." His Honor would 
 find the necessary facts set forth in the petition. Due 
 notice had been given by advertisement, as required 
 by law, as appeared from the certificate of the publisher. 
 Since that time, the petitioner having become " non 
 compos^'' the guardian of his estate, who was also his 
 son, desired to obtain leave of court to complete the 
 act in which the petitioner had taken the initiatory 
 steps before being stricken with disease. He was ready 
 to give the necessary bond for the good behavior of the 
 slave while in the State, and her removal therefrom 
 within ninety days, as the statute required. The learned 
 counsel admitted that the application to amend the 
 proceedings by making the guardian a party was some- 
 what anomalous. He was not aware of any precedent 
 directly in point. But as the proceedings had been 
 begun before there was any suspicion of intellectual 
 decline on the part of the owner, it seemed but just 
 and proper that his charitable design toward a servant- 
 woman of mature age and meritorious and faithful ser- 
 vices should not be defeated by his misfortune. 
 
 His Honor, having duly considered the matter, felt 
 constrained to deny the motion for leave to emancipate.. 
 
^46 A ROYAL GENTLEMAiV. 
 
 He regretted that what was apparently the will and 
 purpose of so eminent a citizen as the petitioner should 
 be defeated ; especially, while he suffered under such 
 terrible affliction, which he sincerely hoped would yet 
 prove to be temporary in its character. Yet, in fact, it 
 was this very affliction, and consequent mental disability 
 of the Petitioner, which rendered it necessary for the 
 Court to deny the prayer of the petition. The tendency 
 of legislation and judicial decision was certainly adverse 
 to the emancipation of slaves. The unfortunate agita- 
 tion of the questions affecting our rights as citizens of 
 the Southern States to hold and control our own 
 property, by the Abolitionists of the North, had led to 
 the imposition of restrictions hitherto unknown to our 
 law. The course of these fanatics, instead of tending 
 to ameliorate the condition or improve the chances of 
 freedom to the slave, for whom they professed such un- 
 necessary and undeserved sympathy, had an opposite ef- 
 fect, and he feared they were doing much to render this 
 sacred relation of master and slave the evil thing they 
 chose to represent it. He was sorry that restrictive leg- 
 islation had gone so far, but, of course, retaliatory meas- 
 ures were but natural to a people who had been so 
 foully defamed, oppressed and robbed. Recent events, 
 in his opinion, presaged still further trouble. His Honor 
 hoped if the North persisted in her insane attempt 
 to force upon the South a President so obnoxious to 
 her people as the low-down fanatical demagogue who 
 was striving for the place, against the voice of the 
 entire Southern people — for he was sure no Southern 
 man would vote for such a creature — that they would 
 
BOXD GIVEX AND COSTS PAID. 247 
 
 be taught that brave men would not submit to such 
 indignity. 
 
 Under these circumstances, and with these views, 
 the court was of opinion that the guardian of the Peti- 
 tioner could not be made a party, and the manumission 
 perfected under this petition. Emancipation by devise 
 was now forbidden. His Honor thought this was a 
 case coming within the spirit and reason of that statute, 
 if not within its terms ; and he did not think that 
 emancipation was an act which the courts ought to en- 
 courage by a too liberal construction of the law^s. Our 
 domestic institutions would be in great danger unless 
 protected by the courts. 
 
 In the case of Geoffrey petitioning in his own be- 
 half for permission to free Toinette, no such ground, 
 nor, indeed, any reasonable ground, could be urged 
 to defeat the prayer of the Petitioner, and it was 
 granted. Geoffrey immediately gave the bond required 
 by law, paid the costs of the proceeding, and directed 
 a copy of the record, duly certified, to be made out 
 and furnished him. 
 
 That night he handed this copy of the record to 
 Toinette, thereby sundering the claim his father's bill- 
 of-sale had given him over this "likely chattel," and 
 transforming the slave-girl into the freed-woman. The 
 interest he had acquired in Toinette by sale in the 
 market overt of Love was not so easily terminated. 
 The reason of the failure of the application in behalf 
 of Mabel was duly explained to that old worthy, who 
 merely listened with an incredulous smile. 
 
 A week afterw^ards Geoffrey Hunter left Perham, 
 
248 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 having the freed-woman Toinette in his charge, and 
 was absent a month. When he returned he brought 
 to old Mabel a letter from her daughter, dated at 
 Oberlin, Ohio, and signed "Toinette." 
 
CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 A REVIEW. 
 
 AT the date of our last chapter the muttering thun- 
 ders of approaching revolution were beginning to 
 be heard in the land« The old Whig Party had been 
 shattered by the loss of confidence in its leaders con- 
 sequent upon their support of the Fugitive Slave Law, 
 and acquiescence in other measures of a similar nature, 
 distasteful to a large majority of its adherents. The 
 avowed Abolitionists, as they were called, of the North, 
 were comparatively few. Almost the entire mass of the 
 Northern people acquiesced in slavery ; at the same time, 
 there was a latent animosity toward the institution which 
 existed all over the free States, and embraced, probably, 
 three-fourths of their voting strength. In theory, these 
 men agreed with "the fanatics," that slavery was a crime 
 and a wrong, both to the free citizen and the slave. In 
 practice, they held with the pro-slavery party, that with 
 slavery, in the *States where it was already established, 
 the General Government could not interfere. They were 
 opposed to slavery, but they regarded the Constitution 
 and the precedents and practice under it, as legalizing 
 the institution in those States, and they believed these 
 States alone, had the power to abolish it. On the other 
 hand, too, it had come generally to be accepted that the 
 people of the North could not be compelled to aid in 
 
250 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 supporting, defending, or propagating this institution. 
 The Fugitive Slave Law, and the course adopted by the 
 Government towards the new Territory of Kansas, 
 therefore, thrust upon the people of the North the most 
 unwelcome issues. The former made every freeman 
 the agent of the slavery propagandists, in its support 
 and protection; it imposed upon everyone the duties 
 of a special policeman and informer, to prevent the es- 
 cape of slaves from a bondage which was believed to 
 be unholy and infamous, and made him the upholder 
 of a system which only his reverence for the Constitu- 
 tion had restrained him from destroying. The latter 
 was equally distasteful, as it thrust slavery, even by 
 fraud and violence, into territory which had been until 
 that day consecrate to freedom. It was the harpy claw 
 of slavery tearing and befouling our national domain. 
 From the moment the first of these measures received 
 the sanction of a Whig administration, that party was 
 doomed, and from that moment the passive Abolitionists 
 were mainly transformed into active ones — a vast ma- 
 jority of the North were willing and anxious to do all 
 that legitimately could be done to curb the aggressions 
 and destroy the power of slavery. 
 
 Hence, the Republican Party and its triumph in the 
 election of a President, with a majority of the members 
 of Congress, undoubtedly meant the repeal of all this 
 peculiarly odious legislation; and their zeal, in all prob- 
 ability, would have gone further, much further, in reac- 
 tionary legislation. 
 
 The South was right in the claim that the organi- 
 zation of the Republican Party, and the nomination of 
 
A REVIEW. 251 
 
 Abraham Lincoln for the Presidency, as well as his 
 subsequent election, meant hostility to slavery. It 
 meant opposition by every legitimate means to the sys- 
 tem which had long been a disgrace to our flag and an 
 insult to every freeman of the nation. It was the pro- 
 test of the people of the North against a great wrong 
 which they ]:ad long merely tolerated, confessing its 
 evil character but pleading their own inability to pre- 
 vent. The leaders of the Party denied this, but the logic 
 of human action affirmed it. 
 
 When the Presidential nominee declared, '' I would 
 to God that the foot of the slave did not rest upon 
 American soil," not only the vast audience who listened 
 to him applauded the sentiment and said "amen" in 
 their hearts, but the great majority of the North re- 
 echoed it. And when he added, " But, having been 
 established and recognized by every branch of our Gov- 
 ernment, I do not see how the General Government 
 can interfere with it in the States where it now exists," 
 the heart of the free North again beat responsive to 
 his words — a sorrowful assent. Politicians denied this 
 fact, of which they were the creatures, and declared 
 that the North did not desire the abolition of slavery — 
 that they only wanted the Fugitive Slave Law repealed 
 because it invaded their own sacred rights. Poor fools ! 
 they could not see how the index finger had moved on 
 the dial of history since the mob of Boston struggled 
 and hustled each other in her narrow lanes and alleys, 
 raging in a hot ferment for the blood of Garrison and 
 Thomson. They had forgotten that thirty and odd 
 years had elapsed — thirty years of growth and fruit, of 
 
252 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 patient inquiry and close observation — since every mem- 
 ber of the United States Senate, under the lash and 
 spur of the imperial-minded Calhoun, vied with each 
 other in their adulation of slavery, and in denunciation 
 of the seditious fanatics who would destroy that patri- 
 archal institution and turn the course of society from 
 the way ordained of God — winning thereby the applause 
 of the entire press, and the approbation of a large ma- 
 jority of Ihe people. They did not recognize the grow- 
 ing strength of the underlying feeling of Abolitionism — 
 the conviction of the unrighteousness of slavery. They 
 did not perceive that the logic of a people wonderfully 
 prone to question and decide for themselves, had re- 
 jected the absurdity of the human-brute. 
 
 For eighteen hundred years Christianity has striven 
 to make comprehensible the problem of the God-man, 
 "Christ Jesus. Reason rejects the anomaly. Religion 
 appeals to Faith and flies to the Holy of Holies, which 
 is veiled from vulgar view by the mystic formula, " I 
 believe." Reason has no weapons to oppose to this 
 unseen and intangible foe. She is stricken in the heel 
 and dies. Resistance ceases, and the inquirer becomes 
 a convert. No other subject can stand upon this van- 
 tage ground. Reason is omnipotent except where Faith 
 is supreme. 
 
 So, when the touchstone of human reason was ap- 
 plied to the fabric of chattel slavery — property in human 
 beings — it fell. The mind may accept the miracle of 
 the Holy-Child, but not the abomination of the huiran- 
 brute. Thus the problem presented itself: Given the 
 form of man, the instincts and passions of man. the 
 
A RE VIE IV. 253 
 
 reason and soul of man, the powers and attributes of 
 man — what is the creature ? And the unhesitating 
 voice of reason answered — Man. And if man, what is 
 his position, what his rights, privileges, and duties, his 
 relations to his fellows and to God ? And again reason 
 answered in a triumphant tone, " Those of his fellow 
 mortals, varying only in degree. Of him to whom little 
 is given, little shall be required." 
 
 Slavery sought to hide its deformity with the veil 
 of faith, and take refuge with religion in the sanctuary 
 of simple belief. It would not do. Reason was jealous 
 of her attributes, and religion fearful of too much com- 
 panionship in her sacred seclusion. So reason and re- 
 ligion — in the main — struck hands in denying the claims 
 of slavery. 
 
 Thus far had the people walked in the light. The 
 politicians — still infused with the formularies of years 
 of artful dodging of the momentous issue — denied this 
 flank march which the people had made while they 
 slept in darkness, even when the triumphant hosts came 
 wheeling into line with shouts and banners, bearing 
 onward to the seat of power the incarnation of their 
 own idea, the enlightened conscience with the uncertain 
 hand, the ready will groping for a possible way — Abra- 
 ham Lincoln, the clear-eyed, giant-limbed child of the 
 great North-west. 
 
 The South was not deceived. Their politicians read 
 the mystic symbols, which the hands of groping millions 
 thus unconsciously had traced, with surer ken than their 
 brethren of the North. They saw that it was a por- 
 tentous mustering of uncounted forces against their 
 
254 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Moloch. They only erred In supposing these legitimate 
 and unavoidable consequences of their acts to be con- 
 sciously and immediately intended by their promoters. 
 At once they sounded the note of alarm and prepared 
 to do battle for their idol — on the stump first, and in 
 the field afterward, if need be — and among the foremost 
 and most zealous of them all was Geoffrey Hunter. 
 His quick and subtle mind caught the logic of these 
 events with unerring certainty. Regarding slavery, as 
 he did, as both legally and morally right, except in pe- 
 culiar instances, he considered the course of parties 
 at the North as an unjustifiable assault upon the con- 
 stitutional rights of the Southern States. 
 
WASHINGTON SQUARE— RICHMOND. 
 
 * Around this regal city /or /ozir years zvas to rage the combat o/ which it ivas 
 
 itself the JirizeT 
 
CHAPTER XXV, 
 
 REVEILLE. 
 
 WHEN Geoffrey reached Richmond .on his return, 
 he found that city and all the country beyond 
 aflame with excitement. The chain had been severed 
 which bound the States into one common nationality. 
 South Carolina had seceded ! Secession, war, Southern 
 independence, pro and con^ were the staples of conver- 
 sation. As yet, it was not clear that the other States 
 would go with the pioneer in revolution. Experienced 
 politicians were of the opinion that they would not. 
 The most influential journals were, as yet, uncommitted 
 to the doctrine of rebellion. Only the newsboys, the 
 train-haunters, and loungers about the depots spoke pos- 
 itively upon this point. They saw the tendency of feel- 
 ing — they knew that nearly all they met either favored 
 this movement or opposed it upon some paltry quibble 
 that was not worth a moment's consideration. It was 
 like stubble in the pathway of the devouring flame. 
 
 Through the first hot blast of the coming sirocco, 
 Geoffrey Hunter came to his home. As the fierce 
 breath of the desert storm scathes the lineaments and 
 crisps the beard which feels its wrath, transforming 
 youth into maturity and manhood into age in a few 
 brief seconds, so in these few days did the storm of 
 war bring out the stern, bold man which had slumbered 
 beneath the soft exterior of Geoffrey Hunter. 
 
256 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He flung himself into the foremost rank, and with 
 tongue and pen, incessantly and unweariedly, urged 
 the appeal to arms. As the winter passed the war of 
 ideas grew more fierce, and for a time the result seemed 
 doubtful ; but as the spring opened the obstacles were 
 one by one removed, and before summer had assumed 
 her throne a united South were ready to do battle for 
 what they counted as sacred rights. 
 
 There were some few who thought the very show of 
 force would be sufficient to secure their object. Geof- 
 frey was not of this number. He knew that they had 
 an enemy slow to anger and not given to bravado, un- 
 stinted in devotion to the views they entertained, fertile 
 in expedients, unbounded in resource, and unyielding 
 in purpose. He knew that the war, at all events, must 
 be long and bloody, and the issue doubtful. His only 
 hope was that by promptitude of movement the seat of 
 government, with perhaps one of the great commercial 
 centers of the Atlantic coast — the ganglia of trade — 
 might be seized before the huge leviathan of the North 
 could rouse himself to resist. 
 
 Acting upon this idea, he was one of the first to 
 enlist. He was elected captain of the Cold Spring 
 Greys, a company of young men every one of whom 
 was worthy of a commission in any well-appointed army. 
 They were the best scions of the best stocks in the 
 country, the bravest sons of the first families. The 
 young attorney, whose name alone — herited from an 
 honored sire — was a power at the bar, stood side by 
 side in the ranks with the gifted young politician who 
 had risen, almost in a day, from the dim obscurity of 
 
REVEILLE. 257 
 
 the academic grove to places of honor and power. 
 Wealth and learning, youth and patriotism, ambition 
 and valor, were linked with every name which graced 
 the roll of the Cold Spring Greys, with Geoffrey Hunter 
 at their head. 
 
 It was strange how he came to outrank all his 
 fellows at the very first. It was not because he had 
 greater wealth — for money could not buy the suffrages 
 of that gallant band — nor because he had any advan- 
 tages in position — for prouder names and more suc- 
 cessful men, in the ordinary affairs of life, stood among 
 the undistinguished rank and file. 
 
 It was not even from any greater inherent capacity 
 for military affairs, for more than one who now tipped 
 the cap to him in deference, as a superior, rose after- 
 wards to wear more stars and achieve a brighter re- 
 nown. It was simply because Geoffrey Hunter was 
 gravely and seriously in earnest. He expected war, 
 rugged, harsh, red-handed, cruel, unrelenting war, and 
 he was ready for it. He did not expect to achieve 
 fame. He did not enlist to avoid political ruin, or to 
 build up a mole from which to fight with advantage 
 the wordy conflicts of the hustings, in the future. He 
 had no ulterior motives. He did not go into the war 
 because he was ashamed to stay at home, or afraid it 
 would hurt his interests, to win applause or avoid 
 ignominy. He went to fight, — and this earnestness 
 showed in his words, looks, and acts. It gave his 
 youth the dignity of age, and his inexperience the 
 practical sagacity of the veteran. It aged him in a 
 day. It impressed his fellows, and, without previous 
 
258 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 personal popularity, he was from the first facile princeps 
 where it was an honor to be even the socius. 
 
 It was just as the spring was yielding her tender 
 beauty to the fierce ravishment of the fervid summer 
 that this band of youthful patriots mustered in the 
 streets of Perham, en route to join the Army of Vir- 
 ginia. All was music and rejoicing. They went to 
 the battle with the joyous rites that are wont to at- 
 tend the return of victors. But few thought of blood, 
 or suffering, or defeat. The enemy was a myth and a 
 jest, the war a pleasant picnic, and the " Godspeed " 
 they were receiving only an antetype of the " welcome 
 home,' the soldiers might expect before the autumn 
 came and the crops were garnered. One saucy beauty 
 proffered her handkerchief — a dainty bit of lace and lin- 
 en — " to staunch all the blood the Yankees would dare 
 shed." Another, more given to the horribly grotesque, 
 besought her true-love to bring her back " the skull of 
 that old tyrant, Abe Lincoln, for a soap-gourd." Alas, 
 alas ! how close of kin are laughter and tears ! 
 
 And over all rose and fell the rollicking strains of 
 Dixie — Dixie, strange child of bondage and burlesque 
 — the refrain of the plantatio n negro, caught and linked 
 with livelier bars to suit the purpose of the simulated 
 African, in whose hands the guitar became a banjo, 
 and whose minstrelsy was a satire worthy of Cervantes ; 
 Dixie, snatched from the slave and the mountebank 
 and sanctified and exalted by the passion of a whole 
 people ; Dixie, the casket which the slave gave to the 
 master, in which to enshrine his holiest thought, the 
 strain which fired the Southern heart, the Grecian horse 
 
REVEILLE. 259 
 
 which was brought withm the citadel of slavery, and 
 spawned a brood which broached the walls to the be- 
 leaguring fanatics. 
 
 Flowers, and garlands, and beauty, and laughter, all 
 were there. The early roses, where the Southern sun 
 paints every petal with a richness quite unknown in 
 harsher climes; the jasmine, with its odor half conceal- 
 ing a lingering hint of the poisonous exhalations of its 
 swampy home (was it prophetic of Chickahominy .'') ; 
 the feather-flower, with its white plumes drooping, as if 
 speaking the stainless grief of the white-robed angels, 
 with myriads of other fair hues and intoxicating odors, 
 were woven into garlands, and wreaths, and crowns, and 
 stars, by fair hands, inspired by loving hearts, and 
 showered upon the anticipated victors. 
 
 Alas ! alas ! how quickly time changes the rose-leaf 
 into mold ! 
 
CHAPTER XXVI, 
 
 THE STACK ROCKS. 
 
 BETTY CERTAIN had been for several months 
 the possessor of Lovett Lodge, but she continued 
 to live at the old Certain place, and still wore the 
 linsey-woolsey gown and its coarse accompaniments. 
 As she told Geoffrey, she had determined never to 
 lay these aside again, having an almost superstitious 
 belief that the renunciation of what she considered 
 her appropriate habiliments would be the precursor of 
 misfortune and sorrow. She had not yet removed to 
 the Lodge, because she had been busy in ^attending to 
 the necessary work of the plantation which was carried 
 on by the new force she had hired for that purpose, 
 under her own oversight. She had told Geoffrey, when 
 he protested against this course upon her part, that 
 she felt perfectly competent to take care of the plan- 
 tation and manage it successfully, and added that she 
 considered it her duty to so manage and economize 
 as to put the estate in as good a condition as it was 
 when left by Arthur Lovett, in order that his bequests 
 might be carried out to the letter. She deemed her- 
 self merely a trustee to accomplish this purpose. She 
 had an abiding faith that Belle Lovett and her other 
 children would some day be found to receive their 
 portion of the estate. She did not know what use 
 
THE STACK ROCKS. 261 
 
 she would make of her own share ; but she doubted 
 not in time to be able to devote it to as good a pur- 
 pose as Arthur Lovett would have desired, and she 
 wished it to be capable of as much good as when he 
 designed to have placed it in her hands. So she gave 
 the most unw^earying attention to every detail of the 
 farm management ; corrected abuses and stopped waste, 
 which the too easy Geoffrey had allowed, and " pitched 
 a crop " of unusual acreage for that plantation. She 
 had also been busy at the Lodge, restoring everything 
 to the status it had borne when Arthur Lovett was 
 alive. The old furniture — or other as near like it as 
 could be obtained — had been set in the old places ; 
 books, pictures etc., which Geoffrey had discarded or 
 rearranged, were put into their former positions, and 
 the whole premises restored " on the model of the an- 
 tique," as one might say. ^'' Arthtir my Kiiig^' was the 
 constant refrain of her faithful heart, and she had pro- 
 cured and arranged everything that could remind her of 
 the days which she spent near him, as his prospective 
 wife. It had been a time of unexampled stir and in- 
 dustry both on the plantation and at the Lodge, and 
 everywhere the coarse heavy shoes and linsey gown of 
 Betty Certain were seen, and her firm voice and keen 
 eye directed all things. The neighboring planters 
 looked on in amazement, and said to one another that 
 Betty Certain was showing the same vigor and energy 
 that made her great-grandfather Ezra the right-hand of 
 the Earl upon his vast estates in the Carolinas. But the 
 preparations were finally completed, and to-morrow Bet- 
 ty Certain intended to leave her mother's cottage for 
 
262 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Lovett Lodge. She wondered, as she passed along the 
 wood-path toward her old home, if she would ever go 
 back to it again to live. Her head was bent forward, 
 and her hands were clasped loosely behind her as she 
 walked on with a heavy, deliberate stride, like a man 
 lost in thought. The sun had set, and the wood-path 
 was growing dark to unaccustomed eyes ; but she kept 
 on with the confidence of familiarity, avoiding rocks, 
 roots and branches without thought of their existence. 
 She was not a lovely woman, and certainly not a 
 weak one. Fate had made her a strange compound. 
 Under different circumstances she might have graced 
 a throne and rivaled the proudest names in history. 
 She could do and dare without faltering; she could 
 suffer without complaining, and love without return. 
 There was one thing she had never yet done — forgive. 
 Was she capable of forgiving a great, an unforgotten 
 Avrong.? Her soul was above flattery, the lust of 
 wealth, or the desire of ease. Was it also above re- 
 venge 1 This night was to decide. The crucial test 
 was to be applied before the moon, now just rising, 
 should sink beneath the horizon. Step by step she 
 was approaching the crisis of her fate, but she knew 
 it not. She was dreaming of other days, and of the 
 varied circumstances under which she had passed 
 along that woodland path, to and from the Lodge. 
 First a careless girl, impelled by curiosity to see the 
 new comers ; then an impassioned maiden, bounding to 
 the rescue of her unconscious lover ; then upon his 
 arm in the moonlight ; then as his affianced wife ; then 
 an unwedded widow, in sorrow and darkness, under the 
 
THE STACK ROCKS. 263 
 
 shadow of crime ; and then her later migrations — al- 
 ways leaving the cabin in the sunshine, and coming 
 back to it in the storm. She thought of her mother's 
 sad predictions and their fulfillment, and she deter- 
 mined to go to the Lodge only as a temporary home, 
 and to keep up the old Certain place as a harbor of 
 refuge when the storm came — as she doubted not it 
 would, though when or how she could not foresee. So 
 she walked on, dreaming of the past, and wondering at 
 the future. The moon, gleaming through an opening in 
 the undergrowth, lighted up her form for an instant, 
 showing her bowed and unbonneted head, with its dark 
 hair gathered into a hard and shining knot behind. 
 
 A woman crouching behind the bole of a great oak, 
 that stood beside the path a few yards in advance, saw 
 her as she passed through this gleam of light, and her 
 eyes brightened with a baleful glare. Then she listened 
 eagerly for her steps as she came on through the dark- 
 ness, and watched the dim outline of her figure as it 
 approached nearer and nearer. The crouching form 
 by the oak trembled with excitement. The fierce eyes 
 flashed like gleaming coals, and the right-hand quivered 
 with eagerness as it clutched a glittering blade. Slow- 
 ly onward comes the unsuspecting victim. The figure 
 in ambush begins to measure the distance and calculate 
 its spring. The flexed limbs tremble for the signal of 
 attack. Still it waits for the victim to take one more 
 step. 
 
 Wake! Betty Cej-iain! Wake from your dream! or 
 the past and the future will be blended in oblivion. 
 Stay your footsteps ! Turn and fly ! For once let Lovett 
 
264 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Lodge be a refuge from danger. Lift your eyes — the 
 ghost, the terrible ghost — the murderer of Arthur — the 
 mutilator of Toinette — is before you ! 
 
 She knows it not. She is dreaming of the day 
 when Arthur Lovett stood with her in her wild-wood 
 bower and asked her to become his wife. She will go 
 there to-morrow. She will look once more upon the 
 scene of those plighted vows which she has kept so 
 faithfully. Her foot is raised for the last step. 
 
 The limbs of the figure by the oak become rigid 
 with expectancy. The right hand, clutching the knife, 
 is swiftly raised ! When Betty Certain's foot shall fall 
 again in the pathway, the signal will thrill along the 
 quivering nerves, the limbs will bound like loosened 
 springs, the form will be launched upon her, the blow 
 struck, and another chapter in the tragedy of Lovett 
 Lodge will be at an end ! But no, not yet. Ere the 
 footfall comes to the waiting ear, ere the step is made, 
 Betty Certain wakes from her dream, halts, and looks 
 quickly up. The upraised dagger, passing through a 
 shaft of moonlight, casts a brief reflection upon her 
 dress. She sees it and starts back — awake, alert. Too 
 late ! She is still within reach of the crouching horror 
 — the terrible mystery which goes hand in hand with 
 death. With a cry of disappoinxment and rage, the 
 figure rises and bounds upon her in the darkness. In- 
 stinctively she knows the presence that confronts her. 
 The strong arms are raised to shield herself from the 
 shock. She hears the cry, the rustle of garments in the 
 gloom, and feels a sharp, prickling sting in the left 
 shoulder. At the same time her right hand comes in 
 
THE STACK ROCKS. 265 
 
 contact with a mass of flowing hair, and two fiercely 
 burning orbs confront her, glaring wildly in her face. 
 The nameless horror which for an instant paralyzed her 
 frame passes as rapidly away. She realizes that the 
 attack has been made and has failed of its purpose, for 
 the present at least. She knows that the murderer of 
 Arthur Lovett is before her, within her reach, grasping 
 for her throat in mad, wild haste ; that the hairs which 
 fall over her hand and wrist are the gray locks of the 
 ghost and murderess. A wild joy seizes her. She 
 forgets that she is wounded. Now — Heaven help her ! 
 — Arthur's death shall be avenged, and Toinette's suf- 
 erings expiated. Her usual confidence returns. She 
 does not doubt her power. The ghost of Lovett Lodge 
 shall be laid that night, and her own years of desola- 
 tion shall be recompensed. 
 
 Her right hand closes fiercely upon the strong, thick 
 locks and she springs backward with a sudden jerk. The 
 grasp which the murderess had fixed upon her throat 
 is broken, though it strips the strong linsey dress from 
 her breast and tears it to the waist. She feels a deadly 
 faintness as the dagger is wrenched from her shoulder, 
 partly by her own movement and partly by the act of 
 her assailant. For an instant all is dark and her brain 
 reels. Then she feels the murderess trying to free 
 herself from her clutch to repeat the blow. 
 
 Fear, and love, and revenge, waken in her breast 
 a wild medley of emotion. The instinct of self-preserv- 
 ation surmounts natural weakness and her wound is 
 forgotten. 
 
 She perceived at once the advantage which her 
 M 
 
266 A kOVAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 accidental clutch in the hair of the murderess gave her, 
 and with a half-shriek, half-laugh of instinctive joy, she 
 gave another backward leap, and brought her antag- 
 onist to her knees. Her enemy was evidently a power 
 ful woman, and made frequent attempts to regain her 
 position and renew the attack. But Betty Certain 
 was not only brave but desperate. She was strong, 
 too, despite the surprise of the attack and the wound 
 she had received. Back — back — along the flinty path 
 with a wild energy she dragged the prostrate woman 
 like a tiger bearing off its prey, never giving her time 
 to recover, twisting her hand in the long hair and 
 chuckling with an insane delight. She saw her advan- 
 tage and her heart throbbed with the wild joy of 
 gratified revenge. She forgot her wound. She thought 
 not of danger. The assassin of Arthur was in her power ! 
 What were her groans to Betty Certain ? Music — rare 
 music. Bruise her? beat her.^ kill her? aye, torture 
 her she would ! Die ? She should die the most painful 
 death she could devise ! Had she not killed her idol ? 
 She would drag her along the path which he had trod, 
 till every spot his foot had touched was bathed in blood. 
 Her victim clutched at roots and bushes, and clung to 
 them with desperate strength. She gathered with her 
 left hand still more of the thick, strong hair, twisted 
 it about her hand again and again, and pulled with a 
 giant's strength to break her hold. Then she thought 
 of her heavy plantation shoes, and kicked her in the 
 face — not deftly and easily as a man would have done, 
 but awkwardly, yet hitting hard and strong, again and 
 again — thinking every blow of Arthur and his death. 
 
THE STACK ROCKS. 267 
 
 Still the woman kept her hold for a time. Then she 
 suddenly loosed one hand and snatched wildly at Betty 
 Certain's foot. She missed it, but caught the strong 
 linsey dress. Then she let go her hold upon the root 
 and tried to rise. If she should get upon her feet the 
 issue would still be doubtful. Arthur's murderess might 
 yet escape. Betty Certain tried to tear away from her. 
 The woman's grip was a desperate one and the tough 
 homespun would not yield. She had grasped it now 
 with both hands. She would soon be on her feet. 
 Betty Certain still clutched the hair — now close to her 
 antagonist's head. Suddenly she thrust her hands 
 downward, falling forward herself, casting her whole 
 weight on the neck of her enemy. The woman sank 
 beneath her, crushed down upon the flinty path. The 
 woman's face was turned from her, the right side of 
 her head pressed upon the ground. Betty Certain put 
 one knee upon her shoulder and held her powerless. 
 She could hold her thus, but how long } That was 
 the question. The frenzy which had possessed her for 
 a time had somewhat abated. She felt the pain of her 
 wound now, and a desire to know its location and char- 
 acter. Once or twice a sort of faintness stole over her, 
 but by dint of a strong effort of will she repelled it. 
 The strange woman had never ceased to struggle. Even 
 now she was searching with her left hand, which 
 was still free, for something in the pathway. Her 
 breath came hard and thick, and she sometimes 
 groaned when her struggles proved futile, but said 
 not a word — neither did Betty Certain. With the latter, 
 however, it was becoming a question of importance, 
 
268 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 how long she would be able to maintain her present 
 advantage. Uninjured, she would have been more than 
 a match for her opponent, though the latter was a wo- 
 man of great activity and with a litheness of build well 
 calculated for endurance. The faintness which she had 
 experienced, as well as the almost total uselessness of 
 her left arm, warned her that should she lose her present 
 advantage, the odds would be decidedly in favor of her 
 antagonist. How should she maintain it with her fail- 
 ing strength ? Betty Certain pondered the question 
 anxiously. 
 
 She did not think of her own safety so much as the 
 escape of Arthur's assassin. Even if she should retain 
 her position until day, there was little chance of any one 
 coming to her aid in that lonely wood-path. The ser- 
 vants at the Lodge would think her in the field, and 
 those in the field would suppose her to be at the house, 
 and none would be within reach of her voice. To re- 
 main in her present position until chance brought relief 
 seemed' to her, after long consideration, simply im- 
 possible. What, then, should she do .'' There were but 
 two alternatives. She must either kill or disable the 
 enemy. How could this be done } It was a difficult 
 question, on account of the faintness likely to arise from 
 the use of her wounded arm. Suddenly she saw some- 
 thing glittering in the path. The moon, now risen 
 higher, glanced bright through the clustering branches 
 in uncertain patches of light. In one of these, within 
 easy reach, was something glistening strangely. At 
 first she could not make it out. At length she knew. 
 It was a jewel in the hilt of the dagger with which 
 
THE STACK ROCKS. 269 
 
 she had been struck, and to which her assailant had 
 desperately held until compelled to release it and 
 grasp the root, to save herself from being dragged 
 along the path. It was this which the w^oman was even 
 now groping blindly for, among the stones, with her left 
 hand. It was just outside the circle she so carefully 
 explored. She held her victim yet closer, and with her 
 lamed arm reached over and seized the weapon. The 
 woman made a fearful effort to throw her off as she did 
 so, but in vain. Betty Certain held the dagger up in a 
 streak of moonlight, and examined it narrowly. It was 
 the very one with which Toinette had been wounded. 
 Her heart throbbed with joy as she made the discovery. 
 The woman groaned as she saw the w^eapon, and 
 ceased her struggles. 
 
 "It's no use, Betty Certain," she said; "you've got 
 the advantage of me now, and can kill me as soon as 
 you choose. I don't blame you. I meant to have 
 killed you. I hev stood in yer way more than once. 
 Yer ain't Arthur Lovett's wife, an I 've worn the wed- 
 ding clothes you had no use for. I 'm much obliged 
 for them," she added, mockingly. 
 
 Betty Certain's frame shook with revengeful emotion. 
 She should die — this mocking hend — die by her hand ; 
 and she raised the dagger, then another thought seemed 
 to strike her. She placed her right knee upon the 
 woman's neck, and loosed the clutch she had kept 
 in her hair. Then, taking the dagger in her right hand, 
 she directed her to place her hands behind her back. 
 
 "Do you want to torture me.''" cried the woman. 
 " Do you want to see me hung } Kill me now !" And she 
 
270 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 stubbornly refused to move. Betty Certain pricked her 
 here and there with the sharp dagger-point until the wo- 
 man cringed and groaned, but still refused. Again and 
 again, with deliberate coolness, Betty Certain mutilated 
 the prostrate form to compel obedience. Human nature 
 could finally bear no more, and the unhappy creature 
 yielded, and crossed her hands upon her back. Then 
 Betty Certain loosened the strong linen apron which sae 
 wore, and with the knife shred it into strips. Taking the 
 knife in her teeth she leaned forward and bound the 
 woman's hands tightly. Then she tied several of the 
 shreds together, making a rope a few feet long, and 
 attached it to them. Then she rose, holding the end 
 of this extemporized rope, and stood over her pros- 
 trate victim. Her breast heaved with excitement ; her 
 teeth were set and her eyes flashed. All the memories 
 of the years of blighted hope, the thought of her dead 
 love — the happiness that might have been but for this 
 woman at her feet, surged through her mind at once. 
 The moonlight came through the trees, and lighted 
 up the prostrate form. Betty Certain stooped and 
 examined the dress narrowly. It was part of her 
 own wedding trousseau — the grey traveling-dress which 
 she had fancied, and in regard to which Arthur had 
 rallied her the last time she had heard his voice. Her 
 excitement, before intense, was increased ten-fold by 
 this discovery; her eyes were bloodshot, her face 
 twitched, and her voice was hoarse and trembled with 
 anger and revenge as she rose. The woman had not 
 moved or spoken since she was bound. Betty Certain 
 shook the dagger yet red with her own blood above 
 
THE STACK ROCKS. 271 
 
 her, and it seemed, for an instant, that the last scene in 
 the drama of Lovett Lodge was about to be enacted. 
 Then she restrained herself, and said, hoarsely, " Get 
 up!" The woman did not move or answer, "Get 
 up!" repeated Betty, spurning her fiercely with her foot. 
 
 The woman groaned, and said, " Kill me, Betty Cer- 
 tain, kill me ! I would have killed you, but did not 
 mean to torture you ! I did not torture ht?fi.'* 
 
 This allusion to Arthur was too much for Betty Cer- 
 tain. She became furious with rage. 
 
 ^^ Get tip! get up!'' she cried, and she kicked and 
 stamped her victim with unbridled fury. The demon 
 of revenge had taken possession of her soul. She would 
 gladly have trodden the flesh from her enemy's bones. 
 The groans gave her a wild delight, and the poor 
 wretch's shrieking, "I will! I will!" had been several 
 times repeated before she desisted from her attacks so 
 as to allow her to comply. Even then she would not, 
 but her mind had formed a plan of revenge beside 
 which death by violence would be as nothing. She 
 would have a revenge commensurate with her suffering, 
 and her long waiting; as signal as her loss and injury 
 by this woman's act had been. 
 
 The woman rose to a sitting posture. Betty Cer- 
 tain took her by the hair, assisted her to her feet, and 
 bade her go forward along the path toward the old 
 Certain place. She obeyed, moving with difliculty. 
 When they reached the house, Betty Certain lighted a 
 tallow candle and surveyed her captive closely. Her 
 face was disfigured with cuts and bruises. From her 
 mouth and nose the blood was still flowing, and her 
 
272 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 dress and long grey hair were dabbled with its stains. 
 Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot, but still burned 
 with a look of sullen disappointment. She seemed not 
 to notice the scrutiny to which she was submitted ; but 
 her countenance lighted up with a gleam of satisfaction 
 despite its ghastliness, when she saw the look of pain 
 that came over the face of Betty Certain as she glanced 
 at the dress in which she had hoped to be habited 
 as a bride, so many long years ago. She put out her 
 hands and felt it softly, lovingly. Looking up, she 
 caught the gaze of the murderess fastened upon her, 
 as if rejoicing in her pain. The tenderness faded from 
 Betty Certain's countenance in an instant, and was suc- 
 ceeded by a look of stern determination. She made 
 her victim sit down upon a chair, and passed the rope 
 which bound her hanas under the chair and tied it about 
 her feet. She then took down from a peg in the corner 
 of the room a coil of small rope which had been some- 
 time used for plow-lines. Having undone it, she put 
 the knotted end beneath her foot and tried its strength. 
 She seemed satisfied with the result, and proceeded to 
 tie one end firmly around the crossed hands of her 
 captive. The other she fastened to a wooden peg in 
 the wall behind her. Then she poured water in the 
 tin basin beside the door and washed her own face and 
 hands, bound up her hair which had become loose in 
 the struggle, and washed and roughly bandaged her 
 wound. It was, she found, in her arm, just at the 
 shoulder, missing the joint a little and glancing off 
 backwards. It bled freely, but she judged that it would 
 not prove serious. The woman asked for water, and 
 
THE STACK RO CKS, 273 
 
 she took her the gourd and held it to her lips while 
 she drank. She did not speak to her. She sought 
 about the house and gathered up some pieces of fat 
 pine, which she split with the axe and made into a 
 small bundle, and placed a bunch of matches in hei 
 pocket. She undid the cloth rope from her victim's 
 ankles, and taking the end of the plow-line from the 
 peg where she had fastened it, she made a half-hitch 
 about the woman's neck and led her with it like a halter. 
 Then, taking the torch in one hand, said, "Come!" 
 The woman rose, and was led out of the door and 
 along the path to the spring. 
 
 She walked rapidly and dragged the woman roughly 
 after her. When she came opposite the bower which 
 she had visited with Arthur Lovett years ago, she still 
 kept along the bank till she came to an angle of the 
 rocky ledge upon its crest. Upon the slope of the hill 
 here, where it turned to the southward, the woods 
 were more open, and a number of huge rocks, whose 
 summits were almost on a level with the surrounding 
 oaks, stood like a group of grizzled sentinels. In shape 
 they were not far different from the hay-stacks of the 
 country, and, standing but a few feet apart, were cer- 
 tainly suggestive of the crowded stack-yard of a thrifty 
 farmer. From this analogy they were named and 
 known, throughout the country round, as " the Stack 
 Rocks." Here had been a famous deer-stand in the 
 days of Betty Certain's father, whose old Queen's Arm 
 had dropped many an antlered buck and sleek-coated 
 doe, as they came dashing round the hill toward the 
 thickets that grew along the branch below. Even at 
 
274 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 this day the patient stalker sometimes gets a shot at 
 the same noble game when the Stack Rock drive is 
 made. 
 
 Among these giant rocks Betty Certain threaded her 
 way with the easy familiarity of one whose feet are 
 following a path they learned in childhood. 
 
 She stopped before the entrance of a sort of cave, 
 held her torch under an overhanging rock for a moment, 
 and bade her prisoner look upward. A small patch of 
 sky was visible between the tree-tops, with the moon, 
 now at the zenith, and a few stars. The woman com- 
 plied. 
 
 " Take a good look," said Betty Certain, " you will 
 never see the like again." 
 
 The woman did not seem surprised, but looked again 
 and then turned towards her leader. The latter mo- 
 tioned with the torch towards the mouth of the cave and 
 told her to go in. The woman stooped and entered. 
 Betty Certain followed, holding the rope. After a few 
 steps the cave widened into a sort of room. There 
 seemed to be no opening beyond. The woman stopped. 
 On the side opposite the entrance were several rocks, 
 on the top of which stood one which seemed to over- 
 hang its base in every direction. Betty Certain stepped 
 forward, and, laying her torch upon one of the rocks 
 on which this one rested, placed her hand against it, 
 and, with little exertion, rocked it to and fro on its 
 pedestal. 
 
 "You see," she said, "how easily it may be over- 
 turned." The woman shuddered and closed her eyes, 
 as if she saw herself crushed and mangled by its fall. 
 
THE STACK ROCKS. 275 
 
 B€tty Certain laughed — a low, chuckling, cruel laugh 
 — and said : 
 
 "But I do not mean to push it over on you." The 
 woman looked up in surprise. Betty Certain laughed 
 again, and her victim shuddered at the sound. 
 
 " I never thought when, a little girl, I found this 
 cave and made it my playhouse, that it would serve me 
 for such a purpose.. Come!" she added, in a sneering 
 tone, "I have not shown you all its attractions." 
 
 She seized the torch and led the woman round the 
 pile of rocks. Just behind it was an opening low and 
 narrow. One must stoop to enter. Betty Certain mo- 
 tioned her prisoner toward it, and said sternly : 
 Go m. 
 
 The woman hesitated. Betty Certain stuck the 
 flaming lightwood in a crevice of the rock, and said, 
 
 "Well, if I must drag you in by the hair, as I did 
 along the path, I can do it," and she moved toward 
 her victim as if to tie her limbs. The woman stooped 
 and entered the aperture with a moan. Betty took 
 the torch and followed. The opening grew smaller, 
 and they were compelled to go upon their knees. 
 After a short distance, it expanded again, and they 
 came out into another room. The air seemed thick 
 and heavy, and thousands of bats took wing and 
 flew about in the yellow murky light which the torch 
 made in the cavern gloom. The apartment was not a 
 large one — not more than ten steps across. Betty Cer- 
 tain led her victim around it without a word. Its walls 
 were rough rocks, with here and there a cleft, which 
 showed the white hard clay or metamorphic gravel 
 
276 '^ ROYAL gentleman: 
 
 of the hill substrata. It was evidently not one of 
 those crevices which time and torrents cut out of the 
 limestone of some sections; but a subterranean fissure, 
 w^hich had been formed by the primitive rocks having 
 become wedged together in the last act of some great 
 natural drama, in the early days of the world's history. 
 Granite with veins of quartz constituted the walls and 
 ceiling. Near the middle of the apartment was a slen- 
 der shaft of granite, rising some seven or eight feet 
 and then abruptly terminating, like a broken pillar at a 
 dead hero's grave. Betty Certain, having finished the 
 circuit of the cave, led the woman to this pillar and bade 
 her sit down upon a stone, some ten or twelve inches 
 high, which lay against it. When this was done, she 
 passed the cord she held around her left arm, above 
 the elbow, carried it round the rock, and after fasten- 
 ing it about the other, drew them tightly back and 
 tied the rope securely; so that the woman sat against 
 the rock with her hands fastened together behind it. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 THE EXECUTRIX. 
 
 BETTY CERTAIN sat down upon a fragment of 
 rock in front of her victim, and held the torch 
 close to the woman's terror-stricken face. There was 
 a strange leer upon her own, as she said : 
 
 " You will be perfectly safe here, and folks out- 
 side will be safe, too." 
 
 "What are you going to do?" asked the woman. 
 
 " Do .^ Nothing. Only when I go out from here 
 I shall push over that rock which you saw before the 
 entrance." 
 
 " And bury me alive ?" the woman said wdth a shud- 
 der. 
 
 There was no reply. 
 
 " I cannot blame you, Betty Certain," she contin- 
 ued, '" but it is a terrible revenge you are taking. I 
 have done you great wrong, it is true, and would have 
 done more. I do n't ask for any mercy, but if you 
 would grant me one request — just one — you may do 
 what you like with me then. It is not for me so much 
 as for another — for Toinette." 
 
 "Toinette!" said Betty. "Toinette! You tried to 
 kill her once. Do you wish me to do it for you.?" 
 
 " Do not mock me, Betty Certain," said the captive 
 woman. " What I wish you to do is to take a package, 
 
278 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 which hangs round my neck by a gold chain, and for- 
 ward it to Toinette. It contains papers of the utmost 
 importance to her." 
 
 Betty Certain seemed incredulous. 
 
 " How do you come to have papers of importance to 
 Toinette ? Who are you .? How can I believe you ? 
 Did you not try to murder her.? What interest have 
 you in her?" 
 
 " I am her mother," said the woman. 
 
 " You her mother ?'' said Betty Certain, peering sus- 
 piciously at her in the dull murkiness of the cavern. 
 "Why, then, did you seek to kill her.?" 
 
 " To save her from a worse fate," answered the 
 woman calmly. " Had she been your child, would you 
 have rather seen her dead or polluted.?" 
 
 " True, too true," said Betty. " I had never thought 
 of that. You, then, are Manuel Hunter's cook — old 
 Mabel?" she inquired, eyeing her keenly. 
 
 " I am Arthur Lovett's freedwoman, Belle Lovett," 
 answered the woman sharply. 
 
 "What? What did you say? Belle Lovett? Did 
 you say your name was Belle Lovett?" said Betty Cer- 
 tain in a confused, uncertain manner, which showed how 
 completely she was overwhelmed with astonishment. 
 Somehow she did not think of doubting the woman's 
 declaration. There was something so consistent with all 
 that was known of the tragedy of Lovett Lodge and ex- 
 plained so much that had been mysterious in it, that she 
 could but recognize its truth. 
 
 " That is my name," said the woman. 
 
 " And yet you killed him — killed Arthur Lovett — 
 
THE EXECUTRIX, 279 
 
 killed the man who loved you better than his own soul. 
 Why, why, did you do it?" 
 
 " Because he was about to marry you. Because he 
 bartered off my children, and myself, when I had been 
 more than wife to him, for gold to satisfy his sisters — 
 cruel, heartless women — and to buy gay frocks for 
 a poor white woman who had coaxed him to agree to 
 marry her. Why did I kill him 1 Because he was 
 blacker than hell with lies which he had told me!" 
 answered the woman fiercely. 
 
 "Poor woman!. Poor thing!''' said Betty Certain. 
 "You little know what love he had for you. At the 
 very moment when he died by your hand, his will, just 
 written, gave you and your children one-half of his 
 estate. You were jealous of me. You did not know 
 that almost his sole reason in offering marriage to me 
 was to secure some one who would fulfill his wishes in 
 regard to you and your children in the event of his 
 death." 
 
 "Is that true.?" asked the woman eagerly. "Did 
 he tell you this.?" 
 
 " It was our only courtship," said Betty sternly. " He 
 never uttered a word of love to me. But I loved him 
 better than you. I would have given up all to you had 
 he thought it a duty. At this very time I was prepar- 
 ing to seek you out to give you liberty, and with it your 
 share of the estate. And now I find you stained 
 with his blood. Oh God ! — It cannot be ! You are 
 not Belle Lovett ! What proofs have you .? Give me 
 proof." 
 
 " Alas!" said the woman, "but for Toinette I would 
 
2g0 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 not care to produce them. They are in the packet in 
 my bosom. Take them and examine them." 
 
 Betty Certain put her hand under the woman's dress 
 with a shudder. She found the packet, broke the chain 
 with a hasty jerk, and drew it forth. It was like one 
 which was found in the drawer with the will of Arthur 
 Lovett, and she mentioned this fact. 
 
 *' Yes," replied the woman, " there were two exactly 
 alike. My likeness was in that one, and you will find 
 his portrait in this." 
 
 Betty Certain sat gazing at the packet she held 
 for some moments in silence. The harsh expression 
 of gratified revenge which her face had worn was 
 lost, and one of painful surprise and perplexity suc- 
 ceeded to it. That the murderess of Arthur Lovett 
 should be the woman whose very name and life was 
 sanctified to her by his love, and whom she had prom- 
 ised, again and again, to act towards as he would have 
 desired she should, was a startling thought. 
 
 " I will come back," she said finally, as she took the 
 remains of the torch, knocking off the charred end, and 
 passed quickly out through the passage by which they 
 had entered. Her victim gazed after her with a dull, 
 vacant stare. 
 
 Betty Certain passed rapidly along the path they 
 had come until she reached the cottage. She lighted 
 a candle, placed it upon the deal table, and proceeded 
 at once to the perusal of the papers contained in the 
 packet she had taken from the neck of Belle Lovett. 
 It was no easy matter to decipher them, for they had 
 grown dim with age, and the rough usage to which 
 
THE EXECUTRIX. 281 
 
 they had been exposed. Betty Certain had none of 
 the skill in deciphering written instruments which comes 
 from frequent exercise. She but rarely had occasion 
 to read any written document, and was unfamiliar with 
 the various styles of different hands. After unfolding 
 the closely compressed papers, she found, and, with 
 much labor managed to decipher, the original deed of 
 manumission given to Belle by the old man, Peter 
 Lovett, in New York. It had the certificate of probate 
 and registration upon it, and she did not doubt its 
 genuineness. There were also several letters addressed 
 to Belle Lovett, all of them unquestionably in the hand- 
 writing of Arthur. 
 
 Betty Certain plodded through them carefully. 
 
 The past was now an open book to her, and she 
 asked herself what was her duty. What would Arthur 
 Lovett have desired her to do under like circum- 
 stances .-* She took up the packet and drew from it 
 the golden locket which this strange woman in the 
 cave yonder had worn so many years. That woman — 
 what should she call her .'* Slave 1 Mistress 1 Mur- 
 deress ? At least, and by whatever name, the Fate of 
 Arthur Lovett, linked to him by the tenderest ties. 
 Betty Certain recognizes that, as regards Arthur Lovett, 
 she is but secondary to this strange compound now 
 bound down in the cave. She must ask herself, if she 
 would faithfully perform the trust which the dead had 
 imposed on her, not how ought Betty Certain to feel 
 towards Belle Lovett, and what should Betty Certain's 
 conduct be toward her, but what ought Arthur Lovett, 
 or one representing solely his interest and duty, to do 
 
282 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 under these circumstances? It was as the executrix, 
 nay more, as the trustee, the representative of his in- 
 most thoughts and wishes, that she must now act. 
 
 What had the woman done ? She had taken the Hfe 
 of Arthur Lovett ! Why ? Under a mistaken, though 
 reasonable, misconception of his views in regard to her- 
 self. How came she to consider that question at all } 
 What gave her the right to say to Arthur Lovett, 
 " What are you going to do with me and my chil- 
 dren?" Could Arthur Lovett blame this woman whose 
 life had been a series of blighted hopes and priceless 
 sacrifices on his behalf? Could he blame her if, when 
 she found herself for the third time a slave, and saw 
 him quietly contemplating marriage with another, she 
 lost faith in his promises? Betty Certain considered 
 the question fairly, and concluded that Arthur Lovett, 
 looking down from the rest which had succeeded his 
 unquiet life, could not but say that the act of this 
 woman was by no means without excuse, and she had 
 no doubt that he would wish her to receive no punish- 
 ment therefor. So, that was settled. As Arthur Lovett's 
 representative she could not injure this woman in any 
 manner, for the act which was uppermost in her 
 mind. 
 
 What else had she done ? She had tried to kill 
 Toinette. Toinette was her daughter, and exposed to 
 the very danger which had filled her own life with 
 trouble and anguish, and which had since then actually 
 overtaken the daughter. A Roman father had been 
 made immortal for slaying his daughter to save her from 
 a like fate. She could not be blamed for that. Betty 
 
THE EXECUTRIX. 283 
 
 Certain even felt a sort of womanly pride in the act 
 herself, now that she knew its motive. 
 
 What else? She had attempted to murder her — 
 Betty Certain. The act was dastardly, revengeful, and 
 without excuse. Was she called upon to forgive that ? 
 The lines about her mouth set clear and sharp as she 
 considered this question. It was evident that she did 
 not desire to answer in the affirmative. But, with her 
 old habit, she asked herself, "What would Arthur wish 
 me to do.''" And then she thought of the woman her- 
 self, harassed and inflamed by a life of untold misery, 
 crowded, as it seemed, with incurable evils. And as 
 she sighed, "Poor thing!" the victory was complete. 
 Betty Certain had forgiven her bitterest enemy. She 
 could bid defiance to revenge. The crown, which so 
 many years of suffering had wrought for her, was placed 
 by angel hands upon her brow just as the dawn cast 
 its first rosy gleams through the eastern window. She 
 shut the door carefully and cast herself on her knees 
 by the bedside. Sobs and groans shook her form and 
 attested her utter prostration of spirit. 
 
 The "poor-white" woman, who had been a mur- 
 derer in heart that night, returned fervent thanks to 
 the kind Providence which had saved her from the 
 commission of crime. She recognized the Merciful 
 Hand which had built up an impassable barrier be- 
 tween her and the temptation by which she was beset. 
 The mystery of the past was made plain to her in 
 that hour, and she sought for faith and wisdom to 
 guide her in the future. 
 
 At length she rose, and wiping away her tears, 
 
284 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 balhed her face and sat down by the fire she had 
 kindled some hours before. There was a new Hght, 
 a peaceful radiance on her plain, strong face that spoke 
 of a spirit which had come out of temptation, purified 
 and strengthened by its fiery blast. 
 
 She lifted the locket, and was about to press the 
 spring and gaze upon the features. She hesitated; no, 
 she would not do it. It belonged to that woman in the 
 cave yonder. It was her secret. The receptacle of her 
 joys and sorrows, her kisses and tears. It was that 
 woman's shrine. She would not mar its sanctity. 
 
 Betty Certain was not a woman to do things by 
 halves. She wrapped up the locket and papers, and 
 put them in a drawer of the old bureau. Then, gather- 
 ing another handful of pine splinters, she started again 
 for the cave. She walked briskly, almost gaily, like one 
 who goes to a pleasant task. When she reached it, she 
 lighted the pine torch and went in. The woman looked 
 at her with a haggard but hopeless gaze. Betty Certain 
 cut the cords which bound her arms. The woman 
 looked up, as if she wondered what new torture 
 awaited her. 
 
 " Come," said Betty Certain, and she motioned to- 
 ward the entrance. 
 
 A terrible fear seemed to take possession of the wo- 
 man's mind. 
 
 "Don't!" she cried; "don't, Betty Certain— kill 
 me here ! Let me stay here and starve ; bury me alive ; 
 beat me, torture me, do what you will with me — I won't 
 blame you — only do n't give me up to be hung for mur- 
 der ! No, no ; I '11 bless you. Perhaps my Toinie 's 
 
THE EXECUTRIX. 285 
 
 right anyhow, and you are the good woman she thinks 
 you. If you are, do n't give me up to be made a spec- 
 tacle of by a brutal crowd. You are a woman — spare 
 me. You know I am counted only a nigger, but I am 
 human and have some claims on your mercy. If I did 
 kill Arthur Lovett, just think of the life I 've led. And 
 oh, Miss Betty, if you ever loved him, think that he 
 once loved me, and spare me, and Toinette, his child, 
 from the degradation of a public death, for his sake. 
 Please, Miss Betty, please!" 
 
 The woman had thrown herself on the ground at 
 Betty's feet as she made this appeal, and it was with 
 difficulty that the latter could stop the torrent of words 
 she poured forth. At length she said : 
 
 " I have no intention of giving you up to anyone. 
 I want you to go to the house. 1 cannot talk with 
 you here." 
 
 "Is there no one waiting for me.?" asked the 
 trembling prisoner. 
 
 " I have neither seen nor spoken to anyone but 
 you since sundown last night." 
 
 The woman followed her out and went wdth her to 
 the house. Arriving there, Betty Certain at once pro- 
 vided for removing all traces of the night's rencontre 
 from the person and clothing of the woman. Her face 
 was washed, and its cuts and bruises poulticed. The 
 dress which she wore was exchanged for one of her owm 
 linsey gowns, and then setting a cup of warm coffee 
 with some biscuits before the strange guest, Betty Cer- 
 tain addressed her thus : 
 
 " I have read the papers you gave me and have de- 
 
286 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN'. 
 
 cided that it is my duty to act towards you strictly as 
 Arthur Lovett would desire were he present. 
 
 " Your great crime was against him, and was the 
 outgrowth of a relation more sinful upon his part than 
 upon yours. I am confident that he would desire me 
 on his behalf to overlook this act, and if I cannot 
 forgive that stroke which has shrouded my life in 
 sorrow, at least to take no step looking to its punish- 
 ment. No one but myself knows or suspects your 
 connection with that act. Your other crimes having 
 been merely attempts, I do not consider it incumbent 
 on me to disclose. 
 
 " You are, therefore, safe ; but it is necessary that we 
 should have some further conversation, in order that I 
 may exactly determine upon my duty towards you, as 
 the executrix of Arthur Lovett. We are neither of us 
 in a condition to consider that matter now. You can 
 stay here, entirely undisturbed, to-day. You will find 
 all that you wish in the cupboard, and your papers are 
 in this drawer. You can lock the door if you desire. I 
 must go to the Lodge, lest my absence arouse inquiry. 
 I will come to see you at sundown. Rest as much as 
 you can, for we have much to think of and decide 
 upon." 
 
 Betty Certain went to the Lodge, and faithfully ob- 
 served the directions she had given to the woman she 
 had left in her cottage. She sought simply rest and 
 recuperation. It was a matter of surprise among the 
 house servants that Miss Betty found time that day to 
 sleep. The affairs of the plantation were left for once 
 to take care of themselves. 
 
THE EXECUTRIX. 38? 
 
 As the sun went down she set out for the old cottage. 
 Arriving there she found the door closed, but not 
 locked, and, on entering, she found it empty. The fire 
 was still burning on the hearth, and there were evident 
 indications that the woman had prepared a meal during 
 the evening, Betty concluded that she had become 
 suspicious of a design upon her part to betray her to 
 the authorities, and was in hiding somewhere in sight 
 of the house at that instant, and would probably come 
 in when she found her suspicions unfounded. In this 
 surmise "^he was correct* and, after sitting by the hearth 
 a few moments, she heard footsteps carefully approach- 
 ing the house. 
 
 "Come in," she said, in a loud tone; "if I had in- 
 tended to do you an injury you would not have seen 
 the sunshine to-day." 
 
 The woman came in very much abashed at the base- 
 less suspicion she had displayed. Betty motioned to a 
 chair opposite, and she sat down in silence. The two 
 women scanned each other narrowly a long time before 
 either spoke. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII, 
 
 HAGAR. 
 
 AFTER a time Betty Certain spoke. It cost her 
 an effort to master her repugnance to the blood- 
 stained woman before her; but she conceived ^it a part 
 of her duty to inform her of all that could affect her 
 interests or those of her children. So she said : 
 
 " I have brought with me all the papers in my pos- 
 session referring to Arthur Lovett and his estate which 
 may concern you." 
 
 She took a bundle from her pocket and read — one 
 after another — the will of Arthur Lovett, the letters of 
 Manuel Hunter, and a copy of the record in the case 
 in which Bella and her children had been declared the 
 property of the estate of Peter Lovett. Then she told 
 her all that had been done in the matter since Arthur's 
 death, so far as she knew it. 
 
 Then she handed to Bella the packet found in the 
 drawer of Arthur Lovett's desk by Manuel Hunter. 
 The woman had been sitting upon a chair in front of 
 Betty Certain, but as the latter read, she bowed her 
 head lower and lower, until she finally slid from the 
 chair to the floor, and was now lying with her head 
 bowed upon her knees at the feet of Betty Certain, her 
 form convulsed with sobs and groans. 
 
 It was with difficulty that she could be induced to 
 
HA GAR. 289 
 
 take the packet which was offered her. She shrank 
 away from it, protesting that she was not worthy to take 
 anything which Arthur Lovett's hand had touched. 
 
 Betty Certain was angry at what she deemed the 
 woman's hypocrisy. 
 
 " But he was not too good for you to kill !" she said 
 sharply. 
 
 " I would have died before I would have harmed 
 him, if I had known all this," said the w^oman flushing 
 up ; " and I ought to have known it, too, for he had 
 never deceived me — never. It was just my own wicked- 
 ness — all my own. Why did n't you kill me, Betty Cer- 
 tain, and not let me live to know all this } It would 
 have been mercy. Nothing could be worse than what 
 I suffer now — notJihig I No, I 'm not taking on. What 
 did I do it for .? Well, I '11 tell you, Betty Certain. 
 You sha' n't have a worse opinion of me than I deserve, 
 an' that 's bad enough. It 's no use now. All the 
 harm 's done I could ever do ; but I 'd like to tell you 
 how it all happened. Besides, I want to show you just 
 where and how I 've lived, so that my children may 
 have the benefit of that will you 've just read. I was 
 bought for one of Arthur Lovett's sisters when only a 
 chit of a girl. She saw me when they were going 
 through Richmond taking her to school, an' took a 
 fancy to me, an' nothing would do but she must have 
 me to wait on her. I was, perhaps, fourteen, and she 
 a year or two older. Her father paid a round price for 
 me, you may be sure, for I was counted a fancy article. 
 
 "Miss Nannie wasn't the brightest of gals, nor the 
 
 most studious. In order to spur her up to greater effort, 
 N 
 
290 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the teacher would frequently say that ' Belle could get 
 such lessons without trouble ;' that ' Belle would excel 
 her, if she had a chance,' and ail such talk. I heard this, 
 and, being naturally proud and aml^itious, I got the 
 stupid girl to teach me what she knew, and very soon 
 was leading her in her own studies. Instead of being 
 angry or ashamed at being thus outstripped, Miss Nan- 
 nie was gratified at the fact of being spared some of the 
 labor of study by my ability to assist her. It became 
 one of my tasks to learn and repeat her lessons to her 
 until she partly understood them. She used to boast 
 of me among her companions as her * pony,' and I was 
 frequently called upon to show off my acquirements 
 before a few of her particular cronies, and was some- 
 times subjected to punishment for failing to make her 
 understand my explanations. I had my revenge by re- 
 fusing to assist her at all, and threatening to disclose 
 her conduct, in teaching me what I had learned. This 
 threat was sufficient, and, in the main, I had a very 
 agreeable time with my young mistress at the school. 
 When she finally graduated and went back to the plan- 
 tation, after three years, the slave was far better edu- 
 cated than the mistress, and I was treated by her more 
 like an equal than a servant, 
 
 " I was petted, proud, and vain. I did not know 
 what slavery was. I knew that I belonged to my 
 mistress, and that she could sell me if she would — or 
 her father, for I did not even know who owned me ; but 
 I did not dream that I could ever be anything but a 
 petted servant. I had the run of the old house at 
 Heptwilde. My sojourn at the school had given me a 
 
HA GAR. 291 
 
 love for books, and the library was a mine of joy to me. 
 Here, buried in a great arm-chair, made of broom-straw 
 by some ingenious plantation hand, I used to spend 
 hours at a time. My young mistress, jealous of her 
 rights, would not allow any one else to claim my ser- 
 vices, and ' Miss Belle,' as the other servants called me, 
 was never . required to do more than attend to her 
 wants. When my light tasks were over, I was sure to 
 find my way to the library. The members of the fam- 
 ily who were at home were not much given to read- 
 ing, and I was nearly sure to be undisturbed in the 
 dusty, cobwebbed old room. I learned that the books 
 themselves had been mainly the property of an old 
 bachelor uncle of my mistress, who had died years 
 before and had left his library to his nephew and 
 namesake, Arthur Lovett, who was then at college. 
 
 " And here one morning, sitting in that old arm-chair, 
 Arthur Lovett came upon me. I had on one of my 
 mistress's dresses which she had given me, and was read- 
 ing a volume of poems — Byron's — I remember. He 
 came and rested his arms upon the back of the chair, 
 and said, in a quizzing tone : 
 
 "'Is that the literature they read at Belleville.?' — 
 which was the name of the school my young mistress 
 had attended. 
 
 " I started up in confusion and tried to utter some 
 excuse, but could not. 
 
 " ' I beg pardon,' he said, as soon as he saw my 
 face, ' I thought you were my sister Nannie, whom I 
 have not seen since my return. Excuse my rudeness, 
 and allow me to present myself — Mr. Arthur Lovett, at 
 

 292 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 your service. I was not aware that any young lady 
 was staying with my sister.' 
 
 I am not a young lady,' I managed to say. 
 Not a young lady!' he rejoined, with an amused 
 smile. 'Then, pray, what are you.?' 
 
 " He evidently took me in my fright and embarrass- 
 ment for some overgrown child, who had only self- 
 possession enough to deny young ladyhood. The re- 
 flection piqued my pride, for I had not unfrequently 
 compared myself with my mistress and her companions, 
 both in appearance and demeanor, and arrived at con- 
 clusions by no means flattering to them. 
 
 " I answered humbly enough, however, ' I am Miss 
 Nannie's girl Belle, if you please, sir.' 
 
 "'What!' he exclaimed, 'you my sister's maid.-* 
 You a — a — a slave.'*' 
 
 "I answered, 'Yes, sir,' and for the first time in my 
 life I felt the degradation of my position. 
 
 " He gazed at me awhile in silence, and then asked : 
 
 "'And do you read Byron, my girl.?' 
 
 " I answered quickly that my mistress had allowed 
 me to learn to read at school, but she knew nothing 
 of my coming to the library. 
 
 "*Well,' he said good-naturedly, 'you shall pay for 
 trespassing on my dominions by reading to me till I 
 see fit to dismiss you. Sit down,' said he, motioning 
 to the old arm-chair while he took another, ' make your 
 own selection and go on. I may be allowed to smoke, 
 I suppose.?' he added, as he lighted a cigar. 
 
 " There was not much in it. I had served a sim- 
 pleton for years, and had been the creature of another's 
 
HA GAR. 293 
 
 whims and caprices all my life. I do n't know why, 
 but I had never felt what it was to be a slave till 
 that moment. I had never been so debased before. 
 
 "'Well, girl,' said my new master, 'begin, or I shall 
 think you were just shamming.' 
 
 " My blood boiled. I know my face must have 
 flushed. I would let him see that I was not a fool if I 
 was a nigger. I would read, as his own sister could 
 not. I opened to 'Mazeppa,' and read its marvelous 
 measures until hearer, library, servitude, and life were 
 all forgotten, and I was the impassioned but helpless 
 burden of the wild horse, borne 'away! away!' to 
 love and empire in the wilderness. 
 
 "I finished the poem before I stopped. Then I 
 looked up and blushed, for I had forgotten his presence 
 and had been reading to myself. His cigar had gone 
 out and he was holding it absently in his fingers. 
 
 " For a while he was silent, then he said : 
 
 "'And you say you are my sister's maid.-*' 
 
 "'Yes, sir.' 
 
 "'And your name is Bella.-*' 
 
 "'Yes, sir.' 
 
 " Somehow I could not say ' Marse Arthur * to him, 
 though I tried all I knew to do it, then and after- 
 wards. 
 
 " ' Well, Bella, you are at liberty to come here as 
 often as you like and read any book you choose. This 
 is my den and no one will interrupt you.' 
 
 " He rose, and, with as courteous a ' Good-morning ' 
 as if I had been the finest lady in the land, left me 
 there alone. 
 
294: A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "From that moment I loved Arthur Lovett with all 
 the intensity of a wild, ungoverned nature, and I spared 
 no pains to secure his love in return. What had I 
 to lose ? My good name ? I was only a slave and 
 had no use for a good name. I loved Arthur Lovett, 
 and Arthur Lovett should love me in return. That 
 was my thought. 
 
 " I will not try to tell you all the means I used to 
 secure his love. Enough that I was not scrupulous. 
 I played for a kingdom and an Antony at once, and 
 with no chance of loss in case of failure. Of course I 
 won — you know that. I gave a fierce, wild, jealous 
 love, and received a warm, tender, self-sacrificing devo- 
 tion that counted everything as dross except that which 
 ministered to my enjoyment. Arthur Lovett became a 
 servant of servants unto his sister's maid. I was proud 
 of my conquest. I boasted of it, and through the love 
 of the only son I became queen regnant at Hept- 
 wilde. 
 
 " You know, I suppose, what followed ; much I am 
 sure you do. I might have had freedom then, but I 
 despised it without Arthur Lovett. I was determined 
 to have him for my own. I did not care for freedom 
 till after we had children. I did n't mind hardship 
 or indignity so long as I had Arthur and he was true 
 to me. His father and his sisters schemed in every way 
 to separate us. You have probably heard the story. 
 It was in vain. All the force and tenacity of his ten- 
 der, trustful, careless nature seemed absorbed by his 
 passion for me. 
 
 "When we came to have children, I loved them 
 
HAGAR. ^ 295 
 
 hardly less wildly and fiercely than I did him. I trem- 
 bled at the future which lay before them. His friends 
 thought they saw in this a means by which they might 
 separate us. They offered me and my children liberty 
 if I would go away from him and remain absent. I 
 agreed to do so. I did not intend to keep my bargain. 
 I thought that if I was once free — I and my children — 
 I could never be enslaved again. I always thought so 
 until the Court decided otherwise. I thought that was 
 a shame then, and never really believed it till you read 
 it to me to-day. 
 
 " Well, they took me North, to New York, and I was 
 liberated. A year after I returned, and Arthur came 
 back to me as readily as a piece of loose iron to a 
 magnet. They told me it would endanger my freedom 
 if I staid ; but I laughed at them. 
 
 "After a time we came up here, and you know 
 what our life was. I believe you never liked me and 
 I certainly never trusted you. It would have been 
 well if I had. But I did not hate you until I had 
 been taken away and sold by the executor. Before I 
 went I agreed that if Arthur would buy me and my 
 children, as he promised he would, and take us North 
 and emancipate us, I would stay there. He did not say 
 a word about you, and I did not know that he had 
 any intention of marrying at all. I thought that if 
 he took me North, I would find a way to keep him 
 there, though I had agreed that he might come back 
 to his sisters. 
 
 "We had had a heap of trouble first and last, as you 
 know. And although it had come through my own 
 
296 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 wickedness — perhaps for that very reason — I had lost 
 confidence in every human being except Arthur Lovett, 
 and at last in him also. I thought I had been injured, 
 persecuted, deceived, and dragged about, all because I 
 happened to be a slave, and the man I loved was 
 free. 
 
 "I never could make it out, Miss Betty, why you 
 should have the right to marry Arthur Lovett, if you 
 were both agreed, and I should not. I felt that it 
 was wrong; that God made me to love Arthur and 
 him to love me, and so I fought and suffered, and 
 would not give up when all the world was against me. 
 And Arthur, he was just wax in my hand. I would 
 have been content to have been his mistress and have 
 remained a slave forever, but for the children. 
 
 " Oh, Miss Betty, if you had children bright and 
 beautiful as mine, how would you like to see them 
 doomed to the life I 've led, or a lower one, if not 
 quite so bad } — brutes instead of devils — that 's the dif- 
 ference. 
 
 " Well, I went peaceably to be sold by the execu- 
 tor. Toinette was in arms then, you know, so we 
 were sold together. We were bought by a poor white 
 cuss for Buck Lloyd, who had a plantation over the 
 line in Virginia, not more than thirty or forty miles 
 from here, though he lived in Alabama. He brought 
 us first to his plantation, mighty careful and secret-like. 
 I thought he was just acting as Arthur's agent, and so 
 made no remonstrance when he changed my name to 
 Mabel. He probably did not give me credit for know- 
 ing half as much as I did. I am satisfied now that his 
 
HA GAR 297 
 
 object in buying and hiding me was to speculate on 
 Arthur's attachment for me. Thinking him Arthur's 
 friend, however, I compHed with his wishes and re- 
 mained entirely unknown except as his cook, Mabel. 
 
 "After a while, I heard a rumor among some of 
 the niggers that Arthur Lovett was about to marry. 
 Then it struck me that all this executor business was 
 a made-up thing to impose on me, get me out of the 
 way, and off his hands, and at the same time raise a 
 little ready money. I heard it was you he was going 
 to marry, too. Miss Betty, and I remembered his duel 
 with Bill Price, and that affair with the Committee, and 
 it all came up to strengthen my jealous suspicion. I 
 don't know but I could have stood it to have had him 
 marry, if he had first freed me and my children, or if I 
 had known he would do it — though that would have 
 been hard enough to bear; but coming with the idea 
 that he had betrayed and sold me and my children, 
 made me mad — raging mad. 
 
 " I left Toinette in my cook's hut and came to see 
 if it were true, prepared to do whatever the circum- 
 stances would allow — anything and everything that a 
 woman well nigh, if not quite, crazed could do. 
 
 " I came to the Lodge after nightfall, stole into the 
 secret room, and opened the door into the wardrobe. 
 I was there and heard your talk in the library. I 
 heard him laugh and jest with you, about the dress 
 you fancied. I saw him caress you and bid you 
 good-night — for the last time, he said, lightly — and 
 then I determined that his words should come true — 
 that so it should be. All my fears and suspicions had 
 
 18 
 
298 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 been confirmed. He had sold me and my children 
 into slavery to get us out of your way and his sisters'. 
 Perhaps those very clothes were bought with the price 
 of our blood. He filled his pipe and lit it. I knew 
 he would sleep before it was smoked out. He had 
 given me when he came back from Europe a trian- 
 gular Italian poniard, which had belonged to a noted 
 brigand, with the remark that I might need it some- 
 time for defense. It had generally been in the drawer 
 of his desk, for I seldom carried it; but when I went 
 to be sold that last time, he brought it to me and 
 told me to take it, as insult or injury to myself or 
 children might demand its use. 
 
 " So I had it hidden then in my bosom. You 
 know, Betty Certain — bitterly know — what followed. 
 AVhen the deed was done, I thought the weapon had 
 well fulfilled the purposes for which it had been given 
 me. 
 
 " After that I gave up pretty much all hope of free 
 dom. I resigned — no, not resigned, but abandoned 
 myself to the idea that my children must just follow 
 in my footsteps and gather only the bitter fruits of 
 slavery and sin. 
 
 '* My new master, despairing of any speculation by 
 reason of my connection with Arthur Lovett, took me 
 to his home in Alabama, where he died soon after, but 
 not before he had learned to fear me and, because of 
 this mainly, to treat me well. 
 
 " I had always kept the deed of the plantation at 
 the Lodge, which was made in trust to Arthur Lovett, 
 for my use. I had a notion that some time it would be 
 
HA GAR. 299 
 
 of value to my children — I had given up all hope for 
 myself — though I had lost sight of the two older ones. 
 During this time I scarcely felt a regret for the terrible 
 crime I had committed, though I was not unfrequently 
 very anxious in regard to my own safety. Considering 
 Arthur to be guilty of all the wrong and treachery which 
 I supposed to have been practiced toward me, I easily 
 convinced myself that I had only meted out to him 
 the justice he deserved. 
 
 " At the sale of Lloyd's estate I was bought by an 
 agent of Manuel Hunter, George Rawson — who was on 
 the search, he said, of Belle Lovett and her children. 
 He had known me well when we lived here at the 
 Lodge, but my hair had turned gray with sorrow, and 
 he did not recognize in the care-worn Mabel Lloyd, the 
 noted cook of Buck Lloyd the gambler and speculator, 
 the once blithe and handsome Belle Lovett, mistress 
 of Arthur Lovett and queen of Lovett Lodge, as the 
 people around us used to call me. 
 
 " He asked me a great many questions about the 
 woman he was after, and I made up a story about her 
 which he fully believed, and which I am satisfied put 
 them finally on the wrong track. As I was going cheap 
 at the sale on account of my old appearance, as well 
 as my reputation as a girl of desperate temper, he bought 
 us on a speculation, I think — me and Toinette. 
 
 " I was brought back to Perham and subjected to 
 the closest cross-examination by old Manuel Hunter. 
 He had also seen me frequently at the Lodge, as he was 
 the close friend of Arthur Lovett, but he did not 
 recognize me at all. I repeated my story about Belle 
 
300 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Lovett, and deceived him as easily as I had Rawson. 
 He took me from the latter and put me in the kitchen, 
 as I had a great reputation as a cook, which, indeed, I 
 deserved, for I had studied cookery to please Arthur, 
 who was something of an epicure, as were all his family. 
 
 " During this time I had carried about in my slave's 
 bundle the dress I had taken from the library that 
 night. I took it just to spite you, to let you know that 
 I meant to hit you as well as him, and I used to gloat 
 over it by hours at a time, as the token of my revenge. 
 I thought a thousand times I would burn it up, lest 
 it should betray me, but yet I did not. If my bun- 
 dle had been searched by either Rawson or old Marse 
 Manuel, I should have been lost. 
 
 " As it was, I was in constant fear. I thought the 
 motive of Manuel Hunter was to discover Arthur Lov- 
 ett's murderer, though it would seem from what I have 
 since learned, that it was to get possession of the deed 
 of trust, and so perfect his title to the Lodge. 
 
 " I also took with me part of the keys which I had 
 in my possession as housekeeper at the Lodge. I did 
 this not with any idea of using them afterwards, but 
 from a sort of jealousy, to prevent their falling into the 
 hands of any woman who might come into my place. 
 They seemed a sort of badge of the ownership which I 
 had in the premises. They were to me what the crown 
 is to the sovereign. When I wanted to get at Toinette 
 and Geoffrey Hunter afterwards, I found that instead of 
 new locks, duplicates of the keys had been procured, and 
 I could therefore enter the Lodge at pleasure. The be- 
 lief that the house was haunted, arising from my having 
 
HA GAR. 801 
 
 been seen a few times during my nightly visits, greatly 
 assisted me in my designs. 
 
 *' One side of the fire-place in the secret room opens 
 outward under the building upon strong hinges by 
 means of a handle fastened into the soapstone of which 
 it is made. On the inside it is worked by moving the 
 right andiron to one side. It was made by Arthur on 
 purpose to afford a safe concealment of our relations, 
 and a secure place of retreat in case any danger should 
 threaten, as on that night when Bill Price and his gang 
 searched the house. I was in there with my children 
 all the while. It was the only time we were compelled 
 to use it for that purpose, but it was our ordinary ren- 
 dezvous, and in its security were passed the happiest 
 moments of my life. It has been my haunt when- 
 ever opportunity served since, and possesses a horrible 
 fascination for me, though I have never entered it since 
 that night without the most overwhelming terror. I 
 always seem to see Arthur Lovett coming through the 
 door in the wardrobe, with his great dark eyes fixed 
 upon me in the deepest sadness. He never seems 
 angry at me, only so sorrowful and pitying — oh, God ! 
 I now know why he should be sad rather than angry. 
 How could I wrong him with the thought of treach- 
 ery ! 
 
 " As years went on and Miss Ruthy got Marse Man- 
 uel's promise that Toinette and I should be freed, at 
 least when he died, I began to hope once more, but 
 when he gave Toinette to young Marse Geoffrey, and he 
 brought her here to Lovett Lodge, I was just frantic. 
 I determined to kill both Geofi"rey and old Manuel as 
 
302 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 well as my child — I would kill her first though. She 
 should never tread the path which I had come. I 
 would send her soul white and pure to heaven before 
 vice and crime had smutched it, if it separated us 
 forever. I thought I could not be worsted; I was 
 doomed now — I knew that ; but she, my last, my dar- 
 ling — she should be saved ! 
 
 " You know I failed in the attempt I made to do this. 
 When you came and watched over her that discouraged 
 me. I used to come and look at her, and would some- 
 times think that I ought to carry my first plan into exe- 
 cution, but I never tried to harm her afterwards, nor 
 indeed any one until you came into possession of the 
 Lodge, and I thought you were enjoying what was 
 justly and truly mine — the fruits of a robbery of which 
 we were the victims, I and my children. I meant to 
 have killed you and then to have destroyed myself. 
 
 "And, now, Betty Certain, you know just how bad 
 Belle Lovett has been. I can't thank you for sparing 
 me last night, for I 'm sorry you did it ; but you are 
 better than I ever thought you, or you could not have 
 done it. There is one reason for my telling you this 
 story that I have not spoken of before — I have a request 
 to make of you : that you will never, unless their interests 
 shall absolutely require it, reveal to my children the 
 atrocity of my acts. I shall not live to see them. I do 
 not wish to; but you will find them. You will give 
 them what their father intended them to have. Promise, 
 now, that you will tell them nothing that will make them 
 think worse of their mother than they have done before. 
 Will you do it. Miss Betty .>" 
 
HA GAR. 303 
 
 "Poor woman," said Betty, sadly; "you can hardly 
 be blamed, though you committed an awful crime. So 
 far as I am concerned, I forgive you freely, and will do 
 all that I can to hide your act from the knowledge of 
 vour children." 
 
 "Thank you. Miss Betty," said the woman, humbly; 
 " I could not have asked forgiveness from one whom I 
 had so deeply injured, but my heart feels lighter, now 
 that you have granted it." 
 
 " Now, then," said Betty, as if she would leave an 
 unpleasant subject, "we must talk of the future. You 
 remember the will provides for your emancipation, as 
 well as that of your children." 
 
 "Does it.^" said Belle, absently; "I had forgotten. 
 I'm getting mighty dull at best. Would you mind let- 
 ting me take that packet and these papers, and leaving 
 me until morning.^ Perhaps I could think of something 
 that should be done by that time. It's a long time 
 since I have read or written much ; but it seems as if I 
 could make out almost anything in Arthur's hand." 
 
 Betty Certain immediately rose, laid the papers in the 
 chair before the woman, and prepared to depart. As 
 she approached the door Belle called to her, and said : 
 
 "You will not forget, Miss Betty.?" 
 
 She turned and asked, 
 
 "Forget what.?" 
 
 "What you promised me," said the woman. 
 
 " Certainly not, and I will come back by an hour 
 after sun-up in the morning." 
 
 "And you are sure you forgive me?" asked the wo- 
 man, tremulously. 
 
S04 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Betty Certain came back and stood beside the bowed 
 and shrinking figure on the floor. Reaching down she 
 put her hand upon her head, and, raising her eyes, said 
 solemnly : 
 
 " Only as I forgive thee, poor deceived woman, may 
 God forgive me, who might have been worse than you, 
 had I been thus tempted." 
 
 The tears burst from the woman's eyes, and, seizing 
 the hand which rested on her head, she covered it with 
 kisses, murmuring between her sobs: 
 
 " God bless you ! Good-by, Betty Certain ! God 
 bless you!" 
 
 "Good-by," said Betty Certain confusedly, and hur- 
 ried away. " Thank God, her blood is not on my 
 hands," she said, as she came near the scene of the last 
 night's encounter. " God judge the poor creature. For 
 my part, I can't make out whether she is more sinned 
 against or sinning. She has done wrong, undoubtedly, 
 much wrong; but, surely, somebody before her did not 
 do right. I don't know how it is, but, the more I look 
 at it, the more it seems as if nothing but evil came out 
 of slavery. I 'm more 'n ever of the notion Gran'ther 
 Ezra was right — ' It 's better to be poor than to have 
 more souls than yer own to answer for.' Somebody's 
 responsible for Belle Lovett being what she was, an so 
 becoming what she is, an I 'm thankful that that some- 
 body's not Betty Certain, any way. Poor girl ! poor 
 .girl ! though, after all, I was wrong to think of stepping 
 into her place, an' bein' Arthur Lovett's wife. She was 
 his wife, I 'm sure of it now, in God's sight. I know 
 he always felt so; but I thought it was only his kind- 
 
HAGAR. 305 
 
 heartedness. He was weak, not bad. He did not mean 
 to wrong Belle, nor did I, and yet perhaps we did. An' 
 so God punished us — all at once — Arthur and Belle and 
 me, and the somebody or something whose agency was 
 long before ours — who sowed the seed, of which this was 
 the harvest — all in that one act of hers. Poor girl \ 
 Poor girl ! I was half afraid I was doing wrong to hide 
 her crime and cheat the law, but now I know that 
 only God can judge aright such as she is. Poor 
 woman !" 
 
 The next morning, when Betty Certain went, " an 
 hour after sun-up," as she had promised, to her old 
 home, the door was shut, and there remained no sign of 
 life therein. Her heart stood still with foreboding. 
 Had the woman died of the injuries she had received 
 in the struggle. Her head was terribly swollen, and 
 her face disfigured, yesterday. Betty's heart misgave 
 her that she had not attended better to her condition. 
 She remembered then, the tone in which the woman had 
 said, Good-by. It was the hopeless, solemn one, in 
 which we bid farewell to those on whom visible is the 
 seal of death. 
 
 She hurried on and opened the door. The room 
 was still and empty. On the chair by which the woman 
 had sat was the bundle of papers she had brought yes- 
 terday, together with those she had taken from Belle 
 Lovett's neck, the envelope which had been around the 
 packet she had given to Belle, and a small locket. She 
 took up the latter and opened it. It was the duplicate 
 of the one Belle had worn, and contained a portrait of 
 her when she was young. 
 
306 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 A slip of paper dropped out, on which this was 
 written : 
 
 " I desire that this may be given to my daughter, 
 Toinette. Belle Lovett." 
 
 The handwriting was delicate and refined, though it 
 had the constrained and uncertain appearance which 
 characterizes that of one long unaccustomed to the 
 pen. 
 
 Betty Certain closed the locket, and looking again at 
 the bundle of papers in the chair, saw a note addressed 
 to herself in the same hand. She took it, and read as 
 follows : 
 " Miss Betty : 
 
 " One hour after sun-up to-morrow I shall be no 
 more. I have done so much evil to those whom I have 
 loved best, that I am only anxious to end a miserable 
 and sinful life. God forgive me, perhaps this act is 
 more sinful than any other. The poniard Arthur gave 
 me will at least find its true mission, when it pierces 
 the heart which has been the worst enemy of 
 
 Belle Lovett. 
 
 " P. S. — If you will push over the rock, you will at 
 once afford me burial, and remove all danger of in- 
 quiry, or need of revelation on your part. God bless 
 you, Betty Certain, whom I have hated for so long. I 
 am almost happy at the thought that I shall soon be at 
 rest and at peace with all. B. L." 
 
 Betty Certain opened the drawer. The dagger was 
 gone. 
 
 " Oh dear ! Oh dear ! More blood, more blood, 
 
THE OLD RIVALS, 
 
 "■ She flashed the torch above the prostrate form ^ G d rest her 
 
 soul.' muttered the 'poor tuhite^ ivojnan, as shy bent over her riial in the love of 
 Arthur Lovetty - p. 307. 
 
HAGAR. 307 
 
 more blood !" she exclaimed. " Oh God ! will the 
 shadow of crime never be lifted ?" 
 
 Then she was seized with a sudden hope. The act 
 might not yet be committed. 
 
 The woman might have hoped to deceive her into 
 becoming an involuntary actor in her death. She flew 
 along the path which led to the cave — among the 
 stately rocks — through the outer room — until she stood 
 before the mystic rock which guarded the opening to 
 the inner cavern. Here she stopped to gather the frag- 
 ments of the torch she had thrown down at her former 
 visit, and light them with a match. She then made hei* 
 way further into the interior. She emerged from the 
 low passage, and went up to the pillared rock in the 
 middle. In the dim light she almost stumbled over the 
 object of her search. She put her hand down to save 
 herself from falling, and it touched the woman's breast. 
 It was warm and wet. Betty Certain lifted her hand 
 with a shudder, and held it near the torch. It was red 
 with blood. For a moment her strong heart was faint. 
 Then she flashed the torch above the prostrate form. 
 The head was resting on the low rock, where she had 
 sat before ; the eyes were closed, and the countenance 
 peaceful. 
 
 "God rest her soul," muttered the "poor-white" 
 woman, as she bent over her rival in the love of 
 Arthur Lovett. 
 
 Then she went out and put her strong shoulder 
 against the strangely balanced rock and swayed it back 
 and forth, until it fell over with a crash, and sealed 
 the tomb of Belle Lovett until, upon the resurrection 
 
308 A ROYAL GENTLEMA^r. 
 
 morning, the angel shall again roll away the stone from 
 the sepulcher. 
 
 Old Mabel had been so accustomed to periodic 
 absences, that her final one was not considered any- 
 thing very remarkable, until several days had elapsed, 
 and then the search that was made revealed no trace 
 of the fugitive. The death of Manuel Hunter about 
 this time, and the dispersion of the household at the 
 Home soon after, distracted attention, in a great degree, 
 from the unaccountable absence of the old domestic. 
 As time went on, it was generally conceded that she 
 was dead; and a great freshet which occurred about 
 that time was usually credited with being the means 
 of her death. 
 
 Of all that she had learned concerning Toinette, 
 Betty Certain informed her in a letter which, with diffi- 
 culty, she procured to be forwarded through the lines 
 of the contending armies, a long time after, through 
 the influence of Colonel Geoffrey Hunter. She did not, 
 however, feel called upon to convey this information to 
 the latter individual, rightly concluding that the matters 
 she desired to reserve would be better kept by commu- 
 nicating the information she had received from Belle 
 to none except those to whom her duty implicitly re- 
 quired that she should relate it. She gave Toinette 
 no further explanation of the manner in which she 
 had learned these facts, than that they were revealed 
 by her mother just before her death ; leaving it to be 
 inferred that nothing of an extraordinary character had 
 accompanied her demise. 
 
 She also sent a complete and systematic account of 
 
I 
 
 HAGAR. 309 
 
 the condition of the estate and of the two*fold claim 
 which the children of Arthur Lovett and Belle had 
 upon it — the one arising under the deed of trust which 
 might yet be declared valid, and the other under the 
 will of Arthur — and made inquiries in regard to the boy 
 Fred, whom Toinette then first learned to be her 
 brother. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 NOT VOUCHED FOR. 
 
 THREE years have elapsed since the slave-girl 
 Toinette was transformed into a freed-woman 
 and settled upon the free soil of Ohio. 
 
 The liberality or conscience of Geoffrey — let us not 
 question the motive too closely — had provided for her 
 support, first, by purchasing a small house for her oc- 
 cupancy, and, secondly, by providing that a certain 
 stipend should be annually paid to her. She had im- 
 proved the knowledge which she had derived from 
 " Mass'r Geoffrey " to an extent that made her capable 
 of supporting herself and the bright young boy, who 
 called her " Mamma " and answered to the name of 
 Geoffrey, by teaching, when, during the last year, the 
 annuity had ceased. No one imagined that the 
 refined and elegant woman, known among her neigh- 
 bors as " Mrs. Hunter," had ever worn the garb of 
 the slave ; nor did any one of them dream that there 
 was any taint of impurity in her blood ; while her mod- 
 est demeanor and strict propriety of deportment had 
 prevented any suspicion of illegitimacy on the part of 
 her child. She was regarded as an intelligent and 
 attractive young widow, in somewhat limited circum- 
 stances. That was all. 
 
 She was a universal favorite in the community where 
 
NOT VOUCHED FOR. 3H 
 
 she lived, as from her amiability and good nature she 
 well deserved to be in any. The same animation and 
 sprightliness which had attracted the notice of Geoffrey 
 Hunter brought her many friends, and she came uncon- 
 sciously and without other deception than complete 
 silence as to her past to be received as an equal in a 
 society which, for intelligence and virtue, has not its 
 superior in the land. Educated and refined Christian 
 ladies and gentlemen were her familiar friends. Of 
 course, it was all upon the hypothesis of an unmixed 
 Caucasian descent. While a few of them would, per- 
 haps, have esteemed her no less had the bar-sinister 
 of that unfortunate race, whom the tipsy patriarch 
 is supposed to have cursed with an efficacy which could 
 hardly have been expected from a drunkard's anathema, 
 been traced on her brow ; yet the major part of them, 
 while they would have given her credit for her 
 accomplishm.ents, would have shrunk at once from 
 association with her, even without further knowledge of 
 her past life. With this revealed, and her descent known, 
 she would have been as much a Pariah in that part of 
 the nation, which boasted of its freedom and equality, 
 and even in a community of the most ardent fanatics, 
 as in the very hotbed of slavery. That marvelous an- 
 thropophobia, superinduced by integumentary duski- 
 ness to which the American citizen is so strangely 
 subject, pervaded all ranks and classes. Some pro- 
 fessed to be superior to its influences, but they 
 were rarx aves, and were not unfrequently supposed to 
 be themselves infected with the malady they professed 
 to despise. The fanatics claimed the slave to be a 
 
312 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " man and a brother," but he was a brother who had 
 neglected his opportunities — a poor relation who was 
 only recognized when extreme genealogical accuracy 
 was required. 
 
 So Toinette passed under false colors, but they were 
 colors which she had no part or lot in claiming. It was 
 all the fault of those heedless, great-hearted people of 
 the Northwest, who are not given to questions of ante- 
 cedents. The thoughtless creatures receive every one 
 who comes into their midst at their face-value, without 
 examining closely as to the grade of alloy. Every- 
 thing that has the impress of humanity's mint goes 
 there at par, until the base metal shows its color. 
 Every piece is good enough until the corrupted coin- 
 age tarnishes with use. Every soul is counted white 
 until its stains appear. 
 
 Now, as God had written purity upon the soul and 
 brow of Toinette, and sealed it with the spotless off- 
 spring which she cherished so fondly, and as form and 
 feature were cast in the fairest mould of that cream 
 of the Caucasian — the Anglo-Saxon-American of the 
 XlXth century — the chef d' oeuvre of created humanity, 
 in the ineradicable convictions of every individual of 
 that favored family — it is hardly to be wondered at that 
 these unsuspicious people should never have detected 
 the infinitesimal trace of the dusky Orient, which 
 Ariel himself might have failed to discover. Neither 
 is it strange that they should not have discovered the 
 trace of Sin, when her only transgression had been but 
 as the unconscious indelicacies of rollicking childhood. 
 
 The knowledge that she was heir in her own right 
 
NOT VOUCHED FOR. 3 13 
 
 to a considerable portion of the estate of Arthur 
 Lovett, how much it was difficult then to say, seemed 
 to the inexperienced Toinette a direct interposition 
 of Providence in her behalf, a visible confirmation 
 of the position among her fellow-mortals, in which 
 events over which she had no control had placed her. 
 
 At this time occurred an event which tended not a 
 little to strengthen these new ideas. She saw in the 
 columns of a daily journal the following : 
 
 An Incident of the Massacre at Fort Pillow. — We had 
 a conversation yesterday with Col. J , of the — th Colored Infan- 
 try, one of the regiments which surrendered at Fort Pillow, and 
 which was massacred almost to a man, with the utmost disregard of 
 the terms of capitulation. He spoke of some most signal instances of 
 devotion to the cause and the tiag, upon the part of those brave 
 men who are fighting for the liberty of their race. 
 
 Col. J was fortunately absent on leave at the time of the 
 
 capitulation, but visited the scene of carnage a few days afterwards. 
 
 He found without difficulty, he says, the place where his regiment 
 stood in line and were shot down by their inhuman captors, after 
 having laid down their arms and surrendered. The scene, as he 
 described it, must have been horrible in the extreme ; but the most 
 touching incident was connected with the color-bearer of his regi- 
 ment. 
 
 He was a young man of splendid figure and bearing, having 
 scarcely a trace of the African in color or feature. He had been a 
 slave, but was emancipated when quite young, and had acquired a 
 good education, which, with his fine soldierly qualities, greatly en- 
 deared him to his fellow-soldiers, and made him a universal favorite 
 with the officers of the regiment, many of whom also shared his fate. 
 
 He seems to have determined to save the colors of his regiment 
 from the hands of the enemy at all hazards, and had accordingly torn 
 them from the staff, and wrapped them around his body, before the 
 capitulation. He was found with his hands clasped tightly over his 
 breast ; and the thoughtful colonel, opening his jacket, to find some 
 memento for the friends of his dead favorite, found there the colors, 
 which he had given into his hands a few months before, with an earnest 
 injunction that they should never be surrendered. Three bullets 
 19 
 
314 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 had passed at once through the flag and the faithful heart which had 
 striven to protect it from dishonor. 
 
 The poor fellow was buried with the honors of war, shrouded in 
 the flag which he had so nobly saved from the hands of a brutal 
 enemy. 
 
 In his breast-pocket was found a photograph of President Lin- 
 coln, wrapped in a copy of the Emancipation Proclamation, also a 
 deed of manumission in favor of Fred. Lovett, "a mulatto boy, 
 aged twelve years, the property of Manuel Hunter, of Cold Spring 
 county, N. C." This deed seems to have been admitted to probate 
 
 and registered in Lorrain county, Ohio. Col. J left these articles 
 
 at this office, where they may be claimed by any friend of Sergeant 
 Lovett. 
 
 The barbarism which could slay such men in cold blood, when 
 they had honorably surrendered after a brave struggle, is too in- 
 famous for comment. 
 
 Toinette saw this in a journal which was printed in 
 a neighboring city. She did not know whether it was 
 true or false, but she wrote to the publishers, and 
 said : " Send the papers found on Sergeant Lovett to 
 me. I am his sister." And they came — the deed of 
 manumission, the proclamation, and the sad, uncomely 
 carte of the great liberator — all stained with blood. 
 
 Then she believed. She felt that her brother had 
 died a hero, in the great struggle for the liberty of his 
 race. Her boy was thoroughly ennobled now — first by 
 descent from one of those knightly heroes who battled 
 for the unrighteous and doomed cause of human bond- 
 age, believing it to be the side of Liberty and Right, 
 instead of Slavery and Oppression ; and again by kin- 
 ship with that brother, who had proved himself worthy 
 of knighthood, though born a slave. 
 
 Toinette may have been mistaken. So was, perhaps, 
 the editor of the popular journal. Fred Lovett may 
 have been no hero at all. He may never have fought 
 
NOT VOUCHED FOR. 315 
 
 bravely, surrendered honorably, or been butchered 
 treacherously. We do not know. History must settle 
 that. We have nothing to do with the matter. We 
 are only concerned in the death of Fred Lovett, and 
 the influence of that fact on Toinette and her fortunes. 
 
 There may have been no — th Colored Infantry, no 
 battle at Fort Pillow, no surrender, no horrible mas- 
 sacre — whose recital chills the blood — there may have 
 been no Fort Pillow at all, in fact. We only know that 
 Fred Lovett died — that thus the editor wrote at that 
 day — however history may teach — and thus Toinette 
 believed. 
 
 After she knew this, she opened the packet which 
 her mother, old Mabel, had given her for Fred Lovett, 
 and found it to contain a deed from " Thomas Gray 
 to Arthur Lovett, as Trustee for Belle Lovett, free- 
 woman of color," of the premises she had known as 
 Lovett Lodge. 
 
 Whether she was an heiress by her father's will, or 
 her mother's right, she knew not. 
 
CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 CHRYSALID. 
 
 THE beauty of form and feature which had marked 
 the childhood of Toinette had ripened with years 
 into a rare loveliness. Her sunny temperament still pre- 
 vailed, and gave to every event a cheerful significance. 
 She had never lost faith in the love which had gladdened 
 her young life. She knew it had no legal sanction — that 
 it bore the stain which makes the purest love the keenest 
 disgrace. Yet she cherished its memory. Her love for 
 Geoffrey had been of that all-sacrificing character which 
 does not ask advantage, require recognition, or demand 
 its right. You may call it degraded and servile if you 
 will, it is that love which woman not seldom gives with- 
 out question, without fear, without hope. As the years 
 had elapsed, and she came to realize more clearly the 
 relations in which they had stood to each other, she 
 began to be grateful to the Power which had separated 
 them, though she yet clung to a vague, foolish hope that 
 time would bring a remedy for the evil, and yet leave 
 her the joy of love. As the fierce struggle of the na- 
 tional war passed through its preliminary phases, and 
 finally disclosed the Divine message which it bore of 
 freedom to all, this vain hope began to take a more 
 tangible form in the mind of Toinette. The poor 
 creature loved so blindly that she could not think that 
 
CHRYSALID, 317 
 
 the object of her adoration had never once contemplat- 
 ed the hypothesis of which she dreamed — perhaps had 
 never even desired its possibility. But she did not 
 know — she did not wish to know — she would not know. 
 "When this war is ended," she said to herself, "then he 
 will have no slaves — there will be no slavery ; and — 
 and, if I have improved, if I am as refined and lady- 
 like as others, then he will love, me still. He cannot 
 help it, when he sees our beautiful boy;" and then she 
 would caress the child. Day by day, hour by hour, 
 she wTought to make herself the fit companion of the 
 man she loved. No task was too severe, no study too 
 exacting. For hours before the day-break on the cold 
 winter mornings, she pursued with unwearying assiduity 
 her musical studies and practice, that she might give 
 the entire day to other duties. Her progress was amaz- 
 ing. She came very soon to be regarded as a musical 
 prodigy, even in a community of skilled musicians. 
 Every department of science and literature she laid 
 under contribution to her hopeless and insane love. 
 Every day should have opened her eyes to its absurdity, 
 but, on the contrary, each day seemed to strengthen 
 her delusion. 
 
 As the war progressed and the end grew nearer, her 
 heart became more and more wrapped up in her vain 
 fancy; as the clasp of the giant grew closer and closer 
 upon the throat of the Rebellion, as the thundering at 
 Petersburg grew louder and louder, she could not resist 
 the yearning which impelled her to go to the scene of 
 combat. She knew that he, Geoffrey Hunter, her idol, 
 was there. She knew that he was fighting for the cause 
 
318 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 of Rebellion and Slavery, and she knew that he would 
 be beaten; that his cause must fall; but yet she gloried 
 in his courage. It stirred her pulses with a wild joy to 
 know that the man she loved could yet fight bravely for 
 a cause which he knew to be doomed. As, day by day, 
 she read the reports of that heroic defense, half-trem- 
 bling lest she should find that death had robbed her of 
 her idol, her heart bounded with pride as she thought 
 that one of that proud band of dauntless heroes was the 
 father of her boy. She did not stop to ask, she did 
 not think, whether the matrimonial bond had cast its 
 halo of respectability around that curly head or not. 
 She knew that kindly nature had marked its parent- 
 age, in the deep blue eye, the broad, fair brow, the 
 bright brown locks, and, more than all, in the imperi- 
 ous mouth, the soft, clear tone, and the proud and 
 haughty carriage. If her slave-life had made her less 
 regardful of the marriage sanction, who shall blame her.? 
 Purer offering was never laid on the altar of love than 
 the bounding pride with which she told to her young 
 boy at evening the story of his father's heroism. She 
 painted the perils of the siege with the prescient accu- 
 racy of love — snatching from the briefest hints the whole 
 horrible truth. The want, exposure, the constant fire, 
 the unexpected attack, the gallant repulse — and in it all 
 she painted the form of her hero, foremost, manfullest 
 of all ; the sire of that fair boy, his second self, who list- 
 ened with wide-eyed wonderment to the tale he could 
 not understand. 
 
 And so she went on, ever filling her heart with fond 
 hope, until it could beat no more so far away from the 
 
CHRYSALID. 319 
 
 scene of her hero's exploits. Every moment was agony 
 until she could be near him, could see his danger, and 
 share in part his peril. So it came about that in the 
 early autumn she left her son with some kind friends, 
 telling him that she went to seek his father and bring 
 him home to his boy. For so the silly child cheated her- 
 self into believing she would do. And she went away 
 and became one of that noble army of women who 
 brought the sunshine of heaven into camp and hospital. 
 They would have kept her at this post or that, but she 
 would take no denial, and pressed on until she found 
 herself under the very guns of the beleaguered city. 
 There she did her work quietly, cheerfully, praying ever 
 for the cause of those she served, and gazing lovingly 
 toward the long lines of gray earthworks which showed 
 the enemy's position, and trying to picture the place and 
 occupation of her idol. How ardently she longed for 
 the end. Of course the city must fall — she never 
 doubted that — and the unholy cause with it. But her 
 idol — he should be like the house of Rahab. She would 
 find him and shield him. He should be her part of the 
 plunder when the final assault was made. She would 
 save his life and give him hers ; not upon conditions, oh, 
 no ! but freely, gladly. It was his already. She vron- 
 dered if he knew or ever would know how fully, how 
 completely. She was sure he would. Perhaps he was 
 sick. She would nurse him back into life. Perhaps he 
 was wounded, or would be when the end came. She 
 had an impression that he would be. She would work 
 very hard — she would be very faithful in the hospital — 
 that she might learn the more skillfully to bind up his 
 
320 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 wounds and bid the soul that was so dear hold its place 
 in the shattered tenement. Oh ! she would find him — 
 just over there — and he would be hers. Her Geoffrey — 
 her — The warm blush told the word she would not 
 even whisper to her own fond heart. Poor, silly, loving 
 woman ! How merciful would have been the bursting 
 shell that had brought a message from beyond the pearly 
 gates to that pure, trusting heart — too pure to know its 
 own impurity. 
 
CHAPTER XXXI. 
 
 STRICKEN. 
 
 HOUR by hour the end approached. The lines 
 grew longer and longer ; and one of them grew 
 daily thinner and weaker. 
 
 Still it did not break, till one day in the early 
 spring. Sheridan with his troopers, and Warren with 
 his footmen, had been for days passing on to the 
 southward by the hospital, where Toinette sat and 
 watched them. She knew by a sort of intuition that 
 the last throe of the gigantic rebellion had come. She 
 watched silently, praying for the success of liberty, 
 and at the same time hoping that the enemy would 
 crown their long resistance with an heroic struggle, 
 and that one of the gray-coated braves at least would 
 go up from the field of battle unscathed. For days she 
 could not sleep. The. busy preparation for new pa- 
 tients at the hospital filled her with horror. At length 
 the day of days came — the day to which all had looked 
 forward with dread or anticipation, when there came 
 the sound of heavy firing away to the southward. 
 
 The blow was struck, and the blue line swept 
 round to the South-Side, cutting off the aorta of the 
 rebellion. But two courses were now before the 
 master-mind who had so long conducted the defense. 
 
322 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 immediate and perilous retreat before a flushed and 
 victorious foe, or one more blow, desperate and all but 
 hopeless, which only transcendent genius and super- 
 human courage could render successful. There was 
 only one chance in a thousand — nay, only one in a mil- 
 lion. Yet, there was something in its favor. The cause 
 for which the defenders had fought so long and bravely 
 was doomed. Lee knew ///<?/, so did all his captains, 
 so did every soldier, so did all thinking men. Re- 
 treat without a counter-check w^as almost instant death. 
 The end could not be far off, at best, but the chances 
 for such combinations as would make a further series 
 of Fabian operations possible, were very few indeed, if 
 the victorious army of his wary and tireless opponent 
 were upon his heels. AVhatever hope of success there 
 was left to Lee lay in so paralyzing his enemy that no 
 immediate pursuit could be made. If this could be 
 done the struggle might yet be prolonged. He pro- 
 vided, therefore, for a counter-check which, if success- 
 ful, would so cripple the huge leviathan that lay 
 stretched out before him, as to give an opportunity for 
 successful retreat, and end the most famous of defenses 
 with the most brilliant achievement of a shattered army. 
 If it had succeeded, the coming ages would have looked 
 back with ever-increasing wonder upon the mind which 
 conceived and the men who executed the daring stroke. 
 That was the critical moment for the fame of Lee as 
 a soldier. In that hour he failed to write his name, as 
 he might have done, beside that even of the great Na- 
 poleon. The policy of desperation was foreign to his 
 mind. Had Jackson then been at the head of that be- 
 
STRICKEN. 3^3 
 
 leaguered army, there had been another page of Con- 
 federate history to write — not successful, it is probable, 
 nay, almost certain — for exhaustion had already pro- 
 ceeded too far, but certainly more brilliant than any 
 other. 
 
 Lee showed that he comprehended the opportunity, 
 but feared to risk all in taking advantage of it. He 
 saw the chance and counted the odds. But in the very 
 moment of its accomplishment his nerve failed. He 
 could not risk all upon one throw. The spirit of his 
 great Roman exemplar was so strong upon him that he 
 could not resist preparing for the contingency of failure. 
 So he took a handful only of his decimated forces and 
 hurled them in the gray of morning upon one of his 
 enemy's strongholds. Just where the opposing line was 
 weakest in numbers, and most difficult to reinforce, 
 he tried to thrust in a wedge which should divide 
 the vast trunk and menace both extremes. Time and 
 place were each chosen with exquisite skill. So signal 
 was the success of this little band, that it shows all 
 the more clearly how great was the error which he 
 made, who entrusted to so few the only remain- 
 ing chance of winning a transcendently glorious fu- 
 ture. 
 
 On, on, came the last column to which was com- 
 mitted the final opportunity of an army crowned with 
 the unsurpassed glory of an unequal contest. It seemed 
 as if the inspiration of their message to posterity had 
 swelled every heart and strung every nerve to deeds of 
 unprecedented valor. Their onset was as the lightning 
 flash in its brilliancy, and like its scath in results. 
 
324 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Over the mighty works they clambered, and their ene- 
 mies' ranks fled before them hke the mist before the 
 morning. When the sun cast his full radiance over the 
 scene, the line of Grant was broken in twain, and the 
 divided trunk was shivering in both its threatened mem- 
 bers. As the fog rolled away. It was seen how trivial 
 was the force which had thus imperiled a whole army, 
 " and the Federal troops, burning with shame at their 
 cowardly retreat, rushed forward in a mighty wave of 
 flashing steel to retake the lost works, and hurl the pre- 
 sumptuous foe back to his hiding place. 
 
 Then It was that the tide of battle ebbed and flowed 
 for a brief space, the reddest and wildest about the walls 
 of Steadman. Then the brave force of Confederate as- 
 sailants, crippled and broken — the few who had come 
 still fewer by half as they returned — fell sullenly back. 
 Their work had been accomplished. Charged with the 
 final protest of a failing cause, which had been long sus- 
 tained with unparalleled bravery against overwhelm- 
 ing numbers, they had delivered Its last defiance with 
 heroic valor, and now fell back to rejoin their compan- 
 ions of the doomed army of Northern Virginia. Lee 
 had touched the very summit of military skill, and at 
 the instant when about to write his name side by side 
 with the proudest In the history of arms, his hand had 
 trembled and his spirit failed. He showed that he could 
 comprehend the glory of that transcendent genius, and 
 could follow with his intellect the victorious footsteps 
 of the mightiest of warriors, but had not the fortitude 
 to pursue them in deed. He saw his opportunity, but 
 withheld his hand from the tempting cup. That day 
 
STRICKEN. 325 
 
 the soldiers of the Army of Northern Aarginia crowned 
 themselves with an immortality of glory, and the Com- 
 mander of that army only just missed the acme of 
 military renown. 
 
 Had his life ended with the struggle in which he was 
 engaged, the world had never known how much greater 
 than the greatest of mere warriors was the Christian hero 
 whose genius was the soul of the Confederate cause. 
 The hand, which on this last day of promise could put 
 away the glittering bauble of military fame, was strong 
 enough also to thrust aside the temptation of personal 
 aggrandizement, to put upon his brow the thorny crown 
 of self-forgetfulness, and make himself a great exemplar 
 to the people whom he loved. It was the years that fol- 
 lowed the hour of failure, which gave the key to his 
 whole career, which made his name one of the proud- 
 est of which our nation, or the world, can boast — as 
 representing one of the few in all the ages who could 
 resolutely subordinate his own glory to the good of his 
 fellows — his fame, to what he deemed his duty. 
 
 It was the unnoted years at Lexington which crown- 
 ed the life of Lee with its brightest halo. 
 
 No sooner had the struggle ended than the wounded 
 rictims of this last spasmodic effort of the dying cause 
 began to pour into the hospitals in the rear of the Fed- 
 eral lines. In one of the nearest of these was Toinette. 
 She scanned each new arrival with nervous anxiety, and 
 though she attended to her duties as a nurse with a 
 marked effort at assiduity, yet it was with an absent- 
 mindedness that spoke little in favor of her compe- 
 tency. The surgeon in charge noticed it, when she 
 
3->6 '-^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 failed to comprehend and obey his instructions in regard 
 to a poor fellow who was under her care. 
 
 " You are too weary and excited to-day, Madame," 
 said he, " to be in the hospital. The attack has discon- 
 certed you. You have not been out so long as many of 
 us, and I do not wonder at it. You had better not try 
 to remain." 
 
 "Oh no!" she answered hastily, "I w^ould not go 
 away now for the world. This is what I came for." 
 
 " But your services will be equally needed after you 
 have rested," replied the doctor, "and you will pardon 
 me for saying they will be much more valuable then, for 
 you seem now to be much excited — indeed quite ill," he 
 added, eyeing her keenly. 
 
 " Oh, I could not rest, doctor, while I knew that 
 these poor wounded men were being brought here every 
 moment, needing care and attention." The kind old 
 doctor, with that ready perception of the finer traits of 
 human nature which is a characteristic of the profession, 
 saw at once that she had some especial reason for 
 remaining at her post, and surmising that it was anxiety 
 with regard to some one in whose safety she was par- 
 ticularly interested, remarked : 
 
 " Well, if you will remain, you had better attend 
 in the receiving ward. You will have enough to 
 do there to keep your thoughts from wool-gathering. 
 Though," he added, seeing her suddenly growing paler, 
 " most of those who are brought here are Rebs. Poor 
 fellows, they seem to have suffered terribly this morn- 
 ing." 
 
 Poor Toinette's brain reeled for an instant as she 
 
STRICKEN. 32? 
 
 thought of the all terrible details of the morning's fight 
 which she had heard. She could not help thinking 
 somehow that her idol was in that shattered forlorn 
 hope which had been hurled against the leviathan 
 in order that the rest of the army might escape. With 
 a heart heavy with fearful forebodings she went to the 
 receiving ward. 
 
 The ambulances were there discharging momently 
 their loads of suffering humanity. Hour after hour the 
 number of maimed and bleeding forms increased. 
 Among them passed the surgeons and nurses, the former 
 inspecting with practiced celerity the condition of the 
 various sufferers, removing those most seriously wound- 
 ed at once to the operating ward and directing the 
 action of the nurses in relieving the less critical cases. 
 It was not a romantic place for a woman to be. The 
 fine lady whose heroism exhausts itself in sopping 
 her lover's aching head with a wet handkerchief, or 
 binding up his bruised hand, would have fared badly 
 in that low, grim tent which they called the Re- 
 ceiving Ward of Hospital No. — of the Corps 
 
 of the Army of the Potomac. Some of its inmates were 
 upon stretchers and some upon the ground. Blood, 
 flowing or clotted, was everywhere. Dirty, powder- 
 blackened faces were smeared with it. Unkempt, tan- 
 gled heads of hair were still more closely matted with 
 the crimson ooze. Some gaping wounds were already 
 sealed up by nature's own bandage, the hardened 
 fibrine, while the regular spirt which showed the arte- 
 rial flow from others marked the heart-beats as life 
 ebbed away into eternity. It was the place for tender, 
 
328 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 careful hands and willing hearts ; but they must be 
 joined with unshrinking- eyes and callous nerves. No 
 faintness, no qualmishness, no sentiment, no delicacy 
 there, except delicacy of touch and the sentiment which 
 will endure all things to relieve suffering humanity. 
 The matted locks must be cleansed and smoothed, 
 the clammy brow bathed, the grimy face washed, 
 the fevered tongue cooled, the wound dressed, the 
 bleeding staunched, death in its most horrible forms 
 faced, and every sense made the messenger at each 
 instant of some unpleasant overture which death and 
 suffering send to the living and the whole. 
 
 The canvas tent-wall alone separated the receiving, 
 from the operating, ward. The half-whispered words of 
 hurried consultation, the grating of the saw, the keen 
 shudder-bringing rush of the sharp knife deftly wielded, 
 the groan, the curse, the gasp, and, amid all, the sicken- 
 ing, fearful drip, drip, of the ever-flowing blood from 
 the operating-table — all came with fearful significance 
 to the ears behind the canvas screen. The surgeons, 
 red-handed, perhaps with red drops upon the face and 
 clothing, passed to and fro. One whose face had been 
 literally bathed in the jet from a severed artery, stopped 
 to examine the wound of a new arrival, whose only 
 anxiety on earth seemed to be to pick the clotted blood 
 from his clammy hands and from under his long nails. 
 When the horrible pictures separated, Toinette washed 
 the stiffening hands and pallid brow, and received a 
 look of gratitude from the poor shattered clay. Then 
 she folded the hands over the quiet breast and closed 
 the stiffening lids over eyes^ that should see no more. 
 
STRICKEN. 329 
 
 Death had come while she yet ministered to the suf- 
 ferer. 
 
 "Ha! what have we here?" said the chief surgeon, 
 as towards the close of the day he stopped beside a 
 stretcher on which had just been laid a new arrival. 
 
 The wounded man seemed unconscious, though his 
 open, moving eyes and regular breathing, with a certain 
 nervous twitching of the fingers, showed that he was 
 yet alive. His sword was still lashed to his wrist, and 
 his uniform showed him to have been a colonel in the 
 Confederate service. 
 
 The surgeon passed a hand rapidly over his face, 
 close to his eyes, and seeing that he did not wink, said 
 to himself, " Blind, unconscious — strange. It must be 
 some injury of the brain." For upon first glance no 
 wound was apparent, and there did not appear any 
 hemorrhage to indicate its locality. The surgeon 
 turned his head upon one side and discovered under 
 the temple, behind and below the lower edge of the 
 eye, just where the walls of the skull join the pillars of 
 the cheek, the small round wound where a rifle or pistol 
 ball had entered. 
 
 "Here, Jones," he said to an attendant, "bring me 
 a probe." 
 
 A set of these instruments was soon placed in his 
 hands, and he began one of those wonderful explora- 
 tions by which the skillful surgeon tracks with unerring 
 certainty the hidden course of the most vagrant missile. 
 How admirable the art which puts an eye upon the end 
 of that flexible wand and bids it follow the enemy of 
 life in its dark and tortuous path among the shivered 
 
 20 
 
330 ^-i JiOYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 tissues, until it has traced it to its lodgment ! As the 
 surgeon with unhesitating, but skilled and delicate 
 touch, thrust in the probe, he muttered to himself: 
 
 " Just below the upper angle of the left malar, at its 
 junctu.e with the temporal. Through the ethnoid," he 
 said as the probe passed on. " Why, Jones, it must 
 have come out." 
 
 He withdrew the probe, and turning the patient's 
 head, examined the other side with care. In passing 
 his hand over it, a slight swelling attracted his atten- 
 tion. 
 
 " Oh, here it is. A knife and a pair of forceps, 
 Jones." 
 
 They were brought. Two or three quick, steady 
 strokes and the forceps were thrust in, and a battered 
 bloody piece of lead drawn out, and laid on the patient's 
 breast. Then several small pieces of bone. Then the 
 old surgeon cleansed the wound with water, laid a wet 
 compress upon each temple, and put another across his 
 forehead. Then he felt his pulse again, and again 
 passed a hand over his eyes. The sun came in at the 
 tent-door, and lighted up the face of the doctor and his 
 reclining patient. 
 
 Leaning against the tent-pole, and gazing at them 
 with a pallid face and sinking limbs, was Toinette. Her 
 hour had come. The wounded officer was Geoffrey 
 Hunter. 
 
 •She came forward as the Surgeon finished his hasty 
 dressing of the wound, and said, in a voice which she 
 meant should be natural and steady: 
 
 "Will he live, do you think, sir.^" The Surgeon 
 
STRICKEN. 331 
 
 looked up suddenly and sharply into her face. The 
 tone had not escaped him, and in her pallid cheek and 
 anxious, yearning eye he read the confirmation of his 
 morning's suspicion. 
 
 " So this is your secret, child," he said to himself as 
 he turned his gaze upon the face of his patient. " Poor 
 child ! a rebel, too ! Well, it will probably make but 
 little difference in a few hours!" 
 
 But to her he said, after a moment, " He may, if he 
 is carefully nursed, though the chances are very few. 
 It is a very unusual case, and it is hard to say just what 
 the danger is. Certainly, it is very great. It might be 
 better for him that he should die than recover." 
 
 " Will you tell me what to do. Doctor, and let me 
 nurse him.^" she asked. "You need not fear; I shall 
 make no mistakes, and will take the best of care of 
 nn. 
 
 "I have no doubt, my child," said the Surgeon, 
 kindly ; " and the first thing you have to do is to main- 
 tain the same self-control you are now exercising," and 
 he looked at her meaningly. 
 
 His look and tone very nearly destroyed the de- 
 meanor which he praised. Her lips quivered, her bosom 
 heaved, and her voice was hoarse and tremulous, as 
 there, amid those scenes, she grasped the blood-stained 
 hand of the old doctor, and said : 
 
 "Thank you, sir." 
 
 Then she stooped down and kissed the upturned 
 brow of the unconscious form between them, and rose 
 up again, pale .but collected, VN'aiting for instructions. 
 
 The old doctor's eyes svere dim, and his voice husky, 
 
332 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 as he said, " Never mind, now, he is doing very well. 
 I will see you again presently," and he walked quickly 
 away. 
 
 Then Toinette sat down upon the side of the 
 stretcher, unfastened the sword-knot from his wrist, and 
 laid the weapon reverently by his side. Then she 
 brought water and bathed his hands and face, his neck 
 and ears, and combed and brushed his matted beard. 
 Then she sat by him and held his unconscious hand 
 in hers, till the daylight faded into darkness, dreaming — 
 fondly dreaming — forgetful of the fateful current which 
 circled in her veins, and made a gulf betwixt her and 
 her idol deeper than hell itself, and so wide that nothing 
 but sin could over-leap it. She forgot that freedom and 
 refinement could not make her white, and that virtuous 
 love would fly astonished from the embrace which sin- 
 ful passion sought. 
 
 She hid the battered bullet in her bosom. Well for 
 her if it had been hidden in her heart. 
 
 The kind old surgeon had Geoffrey removed to a 
 wall-tent, apart from the rest, and there, day after day, 
 Toinette attended the stricken man. 
 
 With unwearying devotion she supplied the wants 
 and attended to every desire of the invalid. No labor 
 was too great, nothing too severe for her. And as he 
 began to show signs of recovery, her step grew lighter, 
 and her eye beamed with a clearer luster. 
 
 She was cheating herself with fond hopes that when 
 delirium had left his disordered mind he would recog- 
 nize her. She had not a doubt that he loved her. 
 Then her happiness would be complete. 
 
CHAPTER XXXII. 
 
 DARKNESS. 
 
 AT length it came. One bright morning when the 
 earth was aglow with the beauty of the advancing 
 Spring time, when the songs of birds flooded the soft 
 air with enchanting melody, she came just at daybreak 
 to the tent of Geoffrey Hunter. Upon the topmost limb 
 of a dense cedar, which stood a few yards from the 
 tent, a mocking-bird was swaying to and fro, and pour- 
 ing forth his morning love song — the truest expression 
 of the master passion nature or art has ever produced ; 
 now, glowing and confident, it rolled forth in exult- 
 ant notes, which seemed to crowd upon each other 
 in a burning haste for utterance ; anon, plaintive and 
 low, as a discarded angel might have pleaded with 
 his earthly love in those primal days when heavenly 
 lovers wooed the daughters of men ; then, freighted 
 with a bitter, mocking hate, the very essence of jeal- 
 ousy — and ending in a calm, clear, caressing carol, 
 bespeaking the boundless bliss of wedded love. 
 
 Toinette stopped at the tent door and listened to 
 this wonderful songster, her heart the while interpreting 
 the cadences of his song. She thought — as he rose and 
 soared away in the dim morning light, making the balmy 
 spring dawning resonant with the matchless melody of 
 
334 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 love — poor fool ! she thought that it was but an omen 
 and prognostic of her own rewarded devotion, a type 
 and prelude of the music which should fill her future. 
 She had been wearied with many wakeful nights, 
 and another attendant of the hospital, touched by her 
 devotion, had persuaded her to take one night's rest. 
 A few moments before this friend had called her 
 and informed her that the patient had slept quietly 
 the whole night, and now seemed to be entirely with- 
 out any symptom of the fever which before had been 
 hanging about him. Toinette's heart had leaped with 
 joy at the announcement. A night of calm, peaceful, 
 natural rest meant restored reason, as she thought, 
 and the ever present love sprang uj^ in her heart, 
 buoyant with the hope of recognition. So she had 
 dressed with unusual care, endeavoring to make her- 
 self as attractive as her moderate conveniences would 
 permit. " I wish that his first sight of me should be 
 as pleasant as may be. He used to say that I was 
 handsome. I wonder if he will think so now ? I am 
 sure I am much prettier than I was then," she murmur- 
 ed, as her little mirror disclosed the soft, rich complexion 
 of the perfect brunette, charged with its wealth of color 
 ebbing and flowing like the tide, almost imperceptibly, 
 with her varying thought — never flushing, never pallid, 
 on the instant and a wealth of wavy hair just far enough 
 removed from black to match the eyes of melting 
 brown, in whose liquid depths sat the image of the 
 fairest soul and purest love that had ever strayed from 
 Heaven. Every charm was heightened a thousand-fold 
 by the love M'hich throbbed and bounded in her bosom 
 
THE WOUNDED HERO. 
 
 ^ Leaning- a^ainsi the t nt-pole^ and gazing at them ivitJi a pallid /ace and sinking 
 
 limbs, ivas Toinette.'^ — p. 330. 
 
DARKNESS. 33 
 
 o 
 
 Every motion, as she dressed, was an utterance of 
 affection. She petted her hair as she combed and 
 brushed it ; her face as she bathed and burnished it in 
 the coarse towel. The rustle of her dress as it fell 
 about her (it was one she had brought in the hope of 
 meeting him, and had never worn before at the hospital) 
 was music to her ears which ached for the sound of his 
 voice in approval. She felt as light of heart as the 
 happy warbler who had awakened the echoes of the 
 morning by his sweet caroling without. Her feet spurned 
 the earth as she crossed the open space to the tent 
 where her idol lay. Her heart ached with the fullness 
 of ecstacy as she raised the curtain and entered. She 
 pressed her hand upon her breast and held her breath 
 as she advanced to the side of the rough cot in which 
 he lay. It was not yet quite light in the tent, but she 
 could see that he was sleeping calmly. His easy, 
 regular breathing showed that he was free from pain, 
 and her heart overflowed with gratitude as she thought 
 that reason had regained its throne. Glad tears flowed 
 from her eyes, and joyous murmurs — half sobbings, and 
 half laughter — came from her lips. 
 
 She stooped over the sleeper and pressed upon his 
 lips a tender, trembling, burning kiss — one of those 
 embraces which might overturn a kingdom or found an 
 empire. 
 
 The sleeper woke with a start. The eyes opened 
 and gazed wonderingly about. She had raised his head, 
 and stood bending over him, her face beaming with 
 expectancy, ready to repeat the embrace upon the first 
 sign of recognition. But it came not. 
 
,^36 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " Where am I ?" came in a querulous voice from the 
 lips which had just received that baptism of love. 
 
 " He is only half himself," thought the fond heart, 
 with ready excuse for its idol. " He does not know 
 me yet." So she answered, and her voice sounded un- 
 natural to herself even, from the restraint she was forced 
 to exercise : 
 
 " You are with friends — in the hospital. You were 
 very badly wounded, and have been sick for some time. 
 You are very weak, and must be quiet, now." 
 
 " One question," he said. 
 
 " Now he will ask. He has recognized me at 
 length," said the fond heart to itself, and a flood of joy 
 mantled neck and brow. "Well.''" she said, and her 
 tone was a bar from the mocking bird's final strain. 
 
 " Did we take the Fort V 
 
 Poor heart ! Not yet. 
 
 But then he did not know. It was but natural that 
 the hero should ask about the battle which was raging 
 when he was stricken dov/n. 
 
 "Yes," she answered patiently; "but after you had 
 held it for a time your men were assaulted in turn, and 
 it was retaken." 
 
 "And held by the enemy.?" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " I am then, a prisoner 1' 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 And still he did not ask. 
 
 " Be still, fond heart, lest your beatings disturb thy 
 idol. Wait — wait — thy time will come." So whispered 
 love — fond love — blind love. 
 
DARKNESS. 337 
 
 "What makes it so dark here?" asked the sufferer. 
 
 "Ah, that 's it," said the trusting watcher to herself. 
 " His eyes are unused to the dim morning Hght as yet. 
 I will open the tent and let in the sunlight." 
 
 With nimble fingers she undid the fastening and 
 threw back one-half of the tent front, letting the bright 
 sunlight stream in upon the sufferer's face. 
 
 "What a beautiful sunrise!" she exclaimed with 
 rapture in her tones, as she went back to the couch. 
 " It has been a long time since you have seen one be- 
 fore." 
 
 "Sunrise !" he said in a tone of astonishment, "it is 
 dark, I tell you, quite dark." 
 
 The sun was pouring his full radiance upon the 
 staring eye-balls, but they saw it not. 
 
 Toinette comprehended it in an instant, and with a 
 low moan fell upon the camp-stool by the cot. This 
 unexpected horror, coming so suddenly in the very foot- 
 steps of anticipated joy, quite unnerved her, and bitter 
 sobs burst from her lips. 
 
 She quite forgot that he had not recognized her 
 voice or rewarded her love, and only remembered the 
 affliction which had fallen upon him. 
 
 He heard her sobs, and partially understood their 
 cause. 
 
 His face blanched, his lips quivered, and the clasped 
 hands closed quickly together in a trembling embrace, 
 as his heart prepared itself for the saddest of all tidings 
 to the soul of a young, brave, and aspiring man — -the 
 doom of darkness — a doom with which few hearts can 
 wrestle. Well did the ancient poet represent the *'w<?;/- 
 
338 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 striDH horrendum^ informer i?ige}is,'* who threatened all 
 who touched his barren island with destruction, as 
 being disarmed and rendered powerless and contempt- 
 ible, by the doom of impenetrable darkness. 
 
 Few, indeed, are the Samsons who can tower 
 above this terrible fate and show themselves more 
 majestic, and potent under its visitation than before. 
 Now and then a Homer and a Milton walks proudly 
 and confidently to the pinnacle of fame with sightless 
 orbs, but to few is the inner light of such transcendent 
 genius given. Even Milton, fearful of his fame, paid 
 his entrance fee to Westminster. Blind, indeed, was he 
 when he did so. Most frequently the halting feet grope 
 their way more deeply into obscurity, and the head 
 which might have been crowned with honor is laid 
 ungarlanded in the nameless grave. 
 
 At length he spoke with trembling lips, and a tone 
 in which the plaintive inquiry of blindness already pre- 
 vailed — that unconscious prayer for help that lives upon 
 the tongue of the blind as well as in the step that ques- 
 tions the pathway before it is completed. 
 
 "Is the sun shining.''" he asked. 
 
 Toinette mastered her emotion and answered in a 
 tone firm and unshrinking, yet freighted with a rich 
 sympathy : 
 
 "It is." 
 
 There was silence in the tent. The stricken soul 
 was wrestling with its fearful doom. Toinette rose qui- 
 etly and went with heavy footsteps to her own little 
 apartment. The birds sang as merrily as when she 
 came, but she did not hear them. She almost hated the 
 
DARKNESS. 330 
 
 sunshine because it would not enlighten the darkness in 
 which he lay. She took off and laid aside the pretty- 
 dress, silently and sadly, and donned again the soft grey 
 hospital habit. 
 
 Then she sought the surgeon-in-chief and asked him 
 to visit her patient. She informed him of his return to 
 consciousness, but said nothing about the discovery 
 that had been made. Poor child ! she hoped it might 
 not be found so bad by the doctor, as it seemed to her, 
 and she feared to ask lest her worst fears should be 
 confirmed. The surgeon went into the tent, but she 
 staid without, walking to and fro and sometimes sitting 
 upon a wooden seat in the bright sunshine. She could 
 hear the two men talking now and then, but did not 
 catch their words. She would have given worlds to 
 have known their purport, yet she would not go 
 nearer. 
 
 Nay, she moved further off, in very dread lest she 
 might hear what she was dying, almost, to know. It 
 seemed an age that the doctor remained. At length he 
 came out. She knew by his look that his message was 
 one of evil. He would confirm her worst fears. And 
 yet she must ask. She must hear him speak the terrible 
 words. Certainty must be made doubly sure. So she 
 met him and said pleadingly : 
 
 ''Will he ever see again.?'" 
 
 " I am afraid not," he answered tenderly and gravely. 
 
 She caught at the uncertainty which was intended 
 only to break the force of the blow, and asked with a 
 sudden up-springing hope : 
 
 "There is then a chance.?" 
 
340 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He shook his head sadly, and answered : 
 
 "I am sorry to say, I think not." 
 
 " Oh, it was terrible ! She could have endured 
 death, because she was prepared for it; but this — 
 The world grew dark to her own bright eyes, as she 
 thought of this terrible doom. 
 
 The surgeon regarded her kindly, as she struggled 
 with her emotion, and finally said, gently : 
 
 " You have met this man before, Mrs. Hunter. 
 Pardon me for asking; but is he a friend — a relative 
 of yours?" 
 
 Toinette was about to answer "Yes," when all at 
 once the truth flashed upon her as it never had be- 
 fore. She was no longer the slave-girl whose position 
 had half-excused her sin. Geoffrey Hunter was no 
 longer her master, and compliance with his will was 
 no longer but making the best of evil circumstances. 
 Her love was no longer the garland which crowned the 
 Thyrsus, hiding with its loveliness a harsh and inevit- 
 able fate. She was now Mrs. Hunter — so she was called 
 — regarded as a widow, educated, free, with a young 
 life committed to her charge, whose pure soul she 
 must not smutch with evil influence. Her old life was 
 dead. The Geoffrey Hunter of the past was dead to 
 her, too. This was another, a stricken stranger, in 
 yonder, who had no stronger claims upon her tender 
 ness than the terrible nature of his afiliction. 
 
 In that instant she was born again. The menial 
 nature died in her soul. The spirit and thought of 
 the slave-girl departed, and the free woman, pure and 
 noble, self-reliant and brave, stood forth in her stead. 
 
DARKNESS. 341 
 
 The warm blood mounted to her brow — the blush of 
 unconscious modesty, violated by her own thought — 
 and her eyes fell as this young mother, for the first 
 time conscious of the usual instincts of maidenhood, 
 said to che watchful inquirer : 
 
 "I — don't — know. — That is — . Please don't ask 
 me now." 
 
 "Certainly," he answered; and his kind old face 
 was full of sympathy. "I would not intrude upon any 
 private matter of Mrs. Hunter's ; but remember, if you 
 should ever w^ant a friend, in any matter, great or 
 small, I shall be happy to serve you. And if at any 
 time you should deem me worthy of your confidence, 
 you will find it not misplaced. Meantime, let your 
 patient yonder be kept as quiet as possible for the 
 present. No excitement — no conversation that can be 
 avoided. Shall I send another nurse.''" 
 
 "No, if you please. I will remember," she said, 
 quietly. 
 
 " Well, good morning, then," — and he went away, 
 wondering what the secret was, but verifying the adage 
 that truth is stranger than fiction, by imagining noth- 
 ing half so w^onderful as Toinette's actual relation to 
 Geoffrey Hunter. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII. 
 
 BEGINNING OF THE END, 
 
 EVERY day brought wonderful changes now. The 
 army had broken up the quarters so long occu- 
 pied and changed the base, which had grown in a few 
 months from an almost deserted landing to be a busy 
 metropolis. The long lines of works were silent, and 
 the deserted guns grinned at each other an impotent 
 defiance. Now and then a fort was left with a small 
 garrison, and here and there a force of Veteran Reserves 
 or a body of light-duty men was still encamped. The 
 vultures, and the poor from the fallen city, came forth 
 and prowled lazily about in the late bustling camps 
 A stray dog or a lame horse, with here and there a 
 broken caisson or wrecked army wagon, was all that 
 remained except the long lines of low, daubed chim- 
 neys, the tent-poles, the shabby bunks, and the hard- 
 beaten paths which marked the "company streets," to 
 show that thousands upon thousands had teemed amid 
 that solitude but yesterday. 
 
 The hospitals change, too ; but more slowly, and with 
 more apparent effort. When the order for the troops to 
 march is given, the various surgeons send their regi- 
 mental invalids, actual and prospective, to the division 
 hospital. Here the Surgeon in charge, after an unusu- 
 ally thorough inspection, sends as many as he can back 
 to their commands on " Hght duty," and forwards the 
 
BEGINNING OF THE END. 343 
 
 rest to the appointed depots for the sick and wounded, 
 while he prepares to follow his command unless detailed 
 by the Medical Director in charge of the hospitals. 
 
 Such were the scenes of desolation and turmoil 
 through which Geoffrey Hunter and his faithful nurse 
 passed soon after the events of the last two chapters. 
 The god of war had gone to other fields upon which 
 now hour by hour were being worked out the closing 
 moves of the great problem in which two mighty powers 
 had been so long engaged. From every side the forces 
 of Grant were centering upon the doomed remnant. 
 Horse and foot seemed omnipresent. Wherever Lee 
 thrust out his tentaculce. they touched a bayonet or a 
 saber, or the whizzing shell or pattering grape cut off a 
 groping member, and it spake by its absence of an en- 
 circling enemy. Lee was straining every nerve to ac- 
 complish one thing, to reach one spot. He had ordered 
 all the captains of his shattered corps to meet him 
 there. And at that very point, with the strange pre- 
 science of true military genius. Grant had directed his 
 own generals also to concentrate. 
 
 So that at this moment Virginia presented a strange 
 spectacle. Richmond and Petersburg, for years the 
 looked-for prize of contest, deserted, and the enemy, 
 without waiting for a " God speed " from any one, fall 
 away from the coveted booty and rush along the road 
 which the real prize has taken. And in the very midst 
 of the thronging columns of blue — eager and anxious 
 for their prey — trembling and shattered, sullen and al- 
 most hopeless, plodded the wavering, melting column 
 of gray. 
 
344 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 The man who rode the noble " Traveler " at their 
 front has not quite given up hope. The instinct of his 
 soldiers is truer this time than his wondrous forecast. 
 He would not risk everything at Steadman, because there 
 was a chance for him to make the movement which he 
 is now striving to accomplish. Behind him comes the 
 great presence — the smoking Sphinx whose puzzle he 
 has failed to read — the remorseless destiny which pur- 
 sues him everywhere and upon every flank road his 
 lieutenants. Blue and gray couriers ride here and there 
 in inextricable confusion across the country. The dis- 
 patches meant for Gordon are in the hands of Warren, 
 while Sheridan peruses those intended for Longstreet. 
 On the other hand, those of Ord and Wright inform the 
 Confederate commander of the dangers which surround 
 him. 
 
 Every road but one was held. Lee hoped that 
 was open. Grant knew it was sealed. Finally there 
 came a message from the Smoker's lips. It was only a 
 suggestion, a hint, that the result was inevitable. Might 
 it not as well be here as there ? The gray-bearded cava- 
 lier saw the face which menaced him. Yet his Fabian 
 nature would not give up. He would try the gate and 
 prove whether it was closed and guarded. He plodded 
 on — one day more, only one. He found the gate then 
 and grim war-dogs beside it whom he dared not at- 
 tempt to remove, and so the man who would not take 
 the offer of a matchless immortality at Fort Steadman — 
 lest he might lose the chance of victory on other fields 
 — gave up his ajpiy a bloodless prize, like a wolf in 
 the hunter's snare. 
 
BEGINNING OF THE END. 345 
 
 And while these great events were being worked out 
 by the master-minds who were matched on this great 
 field of empire, in a way and manner to themselves un- 
 known, which is to all a mystery except to the shoul- 
 der-strapped disciples of Esculapius, Geoffrey Hunter 
 and his nurse, Mrs. Antoinette Hunter, had passed 
 from Division to Corps, from Corps to Department, and 
 from Department to the General Hospital at City Point. 
 
 Although his sight was destroyed, the recovery of 
 Geoffrey Hunter from the effects of his wound was 
 otherwise wonderfully rapid. He had remembered, in 
 part at least, the determination with which he had set 
 out in life. His pleasures had always been those which 
 would not vitiate his powers of enjoyment. He had 
 indulged in no intemperance or excess, and now the 
 strength of a sound constitution, with the reserve vi- 
 itality which only a life of activity and prudence can 
 give, enabled him to recover speedily from a wound 
 which would ordinarily have proved mortal or have re- 
 quired months to effect its cure. The case was what is 
 known in surgical lore as a healing "by first intention," 
 which seems to be a recovery in which nature is not 
 balked in her beneficent designs by human depravity. Of 
 course, the old Surgeon was not inclined to have his 
 art entirely lost sight of, and in his statement of the 
 case the skill of the attendant and the devotion of the 
 nurse came in, perhaps, for a larger share of credit 
 than nature, a correct life, and a strong constitution ; 
 and who shall blame him if he was somewhat partial to 
 
 his calling? 
 21 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV. 
 
 TYPES. 
 
 IT was the 4th of April, 1865 — five days before the end 
 came, and the heroes surrendered to kindred heroes 
 at Appomattox. Richmond was the seat of empire no 
 more. The brave men who had upheld the glory which 
 for a time she knew were either buried in the harsh, 
 arid, bloomless soil of wasted, desolated Virginia, or 
 were the disheartened victims of the unsuccessful 
 struggle. The truculent horde, who had thronged her 
 streets while war promised even a dubious hope of plun- 
 der, had vanished. 
 
 The city, queenly in its location and advantages, had 
 gained nothing by Confederate rule. The metropolis 
 of the rebellion, it reaped only a sorrowful prominence in 
 disaster from its fall. Want and misery, disease and 
 crime, had walked hand in hand with prodigality and 
 profligacy while blood flowed for its safety. The poor 
 had grown more abject and dependent, the vicious more 
 abandoned and depraved, while the rich had reveled 
 in fictitious wealth. , 
 
 There had been a marvelous show of opulence. The 
 ordinary means of estimation had almost failed. The 
 unit of value had shrunk first to one decimal place and 
 then to another in quick succession. What represented 
 value by the legal fiction was more plentiful than many 
 
TYPES. 347 
 
 of the ordinary articles of daily use. Only the gifts of 
 God were so abundant. Luxuries of the table were 
 sometimes worth more than money, bulk for bulk. 
 
 Want at times had pressed so close that bands of 
 women, gaunt and hunger-pinched, defied the hand of 
 power, bore down the guards about the public stores, 
 broke locks and bolts, and, shouting like frenzied bac- 
 chanals, possessed themselves of food. Aye, even tore 
 the clothing from their limbs there in the garish light 
 of day — the chill winter day — to make extempore sacks 
 in which to bear a portion to their children. 
 
 Around this regal city for four years had raged the 
 combat of which it was itself the prize. More than 
 once the camp-fires of the enemy had gleamed in the 
 eyes of its affrighted citizens. Once it was almost 
 begirt by their lurid glow. They were the funeral 
 torches of the mightiest of those now dead. In their 
 glare the soul of Jackson had departed. Then, in her 
 suburbs, within sight of the windows of Libby even, 
 were seen the blue-coated cavaliers making good their 
 way along the streets of the city. A few more sabers 
 might have conquered. 
 
 During all these months and years her artisans had 
 toiled night and day. That grand old giant, the turbid, 
 growling James, fitly god-sired by the testy king, had 
 given them his aid. The furnace-fires glowed, the mill- 
 wheels turned, the burrs rolled ceaselessly, and the busy 
 spindles whirred like points of quivering light. All was 
 action, effort. But the war-god had swallowed up the 
 results. Instead of growth and prosperity, decay and 
 destruction had set their marks upon the haughty 
 
348 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 capital. To crown all came the flame. Poor Rich- 
 mond ! No heart exulted in thy downfall while looking 
 on this ruin ! Pity drowned all other thought ! 
 
 The little great man whom accident had made the 
 head of a mighty political movement ; whose audacity 
 was equal to the task of attempting to out-rank such 
 men as Jackson, and Lee, and a host of others, upon 
 whose brows was written immortality — this seemingly 
 successful pigmy had betaken himself to dishonorable 
 flight with the gold which he had hoarded. Already 
 was opening the fathomless chasm of impenetrable ob- 
 scurity in which his innate mediocrity was finally to 
 seek its level, along with the fit companions whom his 
 jealous imbecility had associated in his administration. 
 Fortune turned terribly against this miserable gamester 
 at the eleventh hour. From others she had taken king- 
 doms and power, and given them instead — renown. 
 Many whom she has shabbily treated in life she has im- 
 mortalized in death. This man had been her favorite 
 always heretofore. He had won upon the weakest hands. 
 Merit, ability, learning, devotion, all were nothing before 
 his barefaced luck, and ever-winning impudence. He 
 was made the head of the Confederacy with overwhelm- 
 ing unanimity, though a thousand overtopped him in all 
 the requisites of leadership. But the scales turned at 
 length, and he fell so low that his humblest enemy 
 could not but pity him. War and defeat brought him 
 neither death nor glory. Ignoble in his fall as he had 
 been unworthy in his rise, he whined and paltered, 
 sniveled for sympathy in his woes, fed on the charity 
 of the people he had ruined, and sank fussing and 
 
TYPES. 349 
 
 fuming into that deepest hell, a living tomb — the oblivion 
 which engulfs a worthless life before the mantle of 
 charity is cast about the memory of the dead. 
 
 The slender, gray clad figure, erect and lithe, which 
 had so long been known to dwellers in the city as " the 
 President " was gone, and in his stead there came one 
 of a different order. The elegant and courtly chief of 
 the Confederacy — the lordly planter of Great Bend, the 
 favored child, nourished and cultured by the Govern- 
 ment he had endeavored to subvert — to the last moment 
 retained the trappings and the pomp of power. He was 
 an aristocrat — one of the few selected and ordained to 
 rule — whose mission it is to govern. He boasted that 
 he belonged to a class who were born to command, even 
 as the slave was born to serve. He knew that a thou- 
 sand must live and die as paupers, or slaves, in order 
 that one " gentleman " might exist, yet he counted them 
 cheap, even at that price. 
 
 For those who waged the war which his class had 
 inaugurated — who did the fighting, while they reaped the 
 profit and the glory, if profit or glory resulted from the 
 struggle — the great substratum of the people, " the poor 
 white trash " — he had the most sovereign and supreme 
 contempt. They were the clods upon which he walked, 
 the stones which paved his pathway to renown. They 
 were but as the dust of the balances to such as he. Yet 
 from this class came the Avenger. 
 
 Two days before, in the gathering Sabbath twilight 
 gloom, the hoof strokes of the flying Aristocrat had 
 awakened the wondering echoes of the almost deserted 
 streets. Now, along the same roughly paved street, in 
 
350 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 the mild sunlight of the April afternoon, came the tall, 
 angular form, and coarse, dark features of " the Great 
 Uncouth " — that man into whose hands the destinies of 
 millions had been committed ; whom Liberty had chosen 
 from her myriad sons and consecrated, half against his 
 will, to the fulfillment of her noblest, holiest work — 
 Abraham Lincoln — the " rail splitter " of the Sangamon 
 country — the "poor white" of the Kentucky " knobs,' 
 — walking in triumph along the way his high-bred op- 
 ponent had ridden in defeat. 
 
 Unaccompanied save by the friend on whose arm he 
 leaned, and the wondering lad who clasped his hand, 
 along the streets of the fallen Capital, paced this 
 strangely compounded being ; the head of a conquering 
 army, yet not of it ; the ruler of a victorious people, yet 
 desirous only that victory should be forgotten ; in the 
 proudest of earthly positions, yet clothed with humility ; 
 the chosen instrument of chastisement and vengeance, 
 yet overflowing with mercy ; the appointed victim of 
 disappointed hatred and ambition, yet anxious only for 
 peace and reconciliation ; the representative " poor 
 white," the embodiment of a triumphant democracy, 
 gazing on the ruined seats of a defeated oligarchy " with 
 malice toward none, and with charity for all." Since 
 the Nazarene wept over Jerusalem Time has not limned 
 on the canvas of history another scene to compare in its 
 elements of moral grandeur, and in completeness of de- 
 tail and surroundings, with Lincoln entering the Capital 
 of the Confederacy before the glare of the contest had 
 paled, or its thunders were hushed. 
 
 He strides absently along with a sad, pitying look 
 
TYPES. 351 
 
 upon his face — grand in its very uncouthness, scarred 
 and furrowed by the buffetings of fortune — regarding 
 with strange inquiry all that surrounds him. His sham- 
 bling, uncertain gait is strong and rapid. The friend 
 who walks beside him pants with the fatigue of unac- 
 customed exercise. The great, grim presence knows it 
 not. The boy begs him to slacken his walk. He hears 
 him not. He does not heed the half curious, half sullen 
 stare of the loungers in the streets, among whom the 
 rumor of his identity is already afloat, nor the occasional 
 cheer of knots of freedmen who thus tender their thanks 
 for the indefinite bliss, which they have hardly tasted — 
 the freedom which is linked forever with the name of 
 Lincoln. He hears and lifts his hat, absently and 
 silently. In thought, as usual, he is questioning the 
 future. He is asking of toppling walls, decaying houses, 
 and neglected, half-paved streets what lesson they have 
 to give him of the future, of this land whose destiny he 
 would trace and shape aright. 
 
 Thought stamped upon his homely features long 
 since the index of a mighty query, and his life has been 
 one of ceaseless questionings. He has not delved much 
 in books, nor worshiped science and philosophy ; but 
 of men and events he has ever sought the reason of their 
 existence and development. His genius was not forma- 
 tive but extractive. From laurel and thistle he gathered 
 alike the truth they bore, and it became at once, by 
 instant assimilation, a part of himself. He did not 
 meditate — continuous, consequential thought was irk- 
 some to him. He did not see events afar off; but he 
 caught the signs of their approach, he read the storm- 
 
352 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 signals of the near future with a wonderful accuracy and 
 ease. Man or nature never passed unchallenged before 
 his eye. 
 
 Perhaps it was from this natural bent of his mind — 
 perhaps it was the stupendous questions with which he 
 had to deal, but for some reason, certain it was that 
 after he assumed the Presidential chair, the mind of Mr. 
 Lincoln seemed constantly groping after the Infinite, 
 feeling after the Omnipotent. The truth that was to be 
 wrought out by the Rebellion, the purpose which existed 
 in the Infinite Mind and in accordance with which that 
 mighty conflict began and proceeded, seems to have 
 dawned upon his mind only by piecemeal. Day after 
 day and month after month, he hesitated and shrunk 
 from the course which the first battle of Bull Run made 
 inevitable, as thousands of minds had clearly discov- 
 ered before. Even in the fall of 1862, when he saw 
 the path of freedom, clearly defined and opened before 
 him, his cautious mind built up a bulwark of hypo- 
 thetical threats behind which he might retire in case it 
 should become necessary. It was not necessary. In- 
 deed, that public feeling which he feared (was it the 
 creature of that Omniscience which he distrusted 1:) very 
 soon so blocked up his backward path that he could 
 not but go on. As the future showed, this indecision 
 was his greatest source of strength. 
 
 And now another and a .greater question faced him. 
 The Rebellion was virtually ended. In a few days, as 
 he believed, the Confederacy would be a thing of the 
 past. The reconciliation of the hostile moieties of the 
 republic was a far more difficult and delicate task than 
 
TYPES. 353 
 
 the prosecution of the war, which was to restore the 
 ancient unity of its territory. 
 
 As he crossed on foot, that April day, over the turbid 
 waters of the James, the river spake to him. It was the 
 remonstrance, sullen and angry, of unused power or 
 unimproved opportunity which it had for two hundred 
 years been crooning to the dwellers upon its banks. 
 The quick-eared child of nature heard and compre- 
 hended its complaint as he leaned over the parapet and 
 looked at the swollen torrent. Then he turned and 
 gazed sadly at the lone island where so many thousands 
 had died for the cause which would render his name 
 immortal. He passed on and saw the scath and havoc 
 of the flame. The last foot-print of the departing war- 
 fiend. His brow was troubled and dark. His deep, 
 anxious eyes were filled with brooding care. His right 
 shoulder drooped more than its wont, and he stooped 
 from his grand height as if borne down by the burden 
 which was laid upon his life. The " poor white " was 
 walking among his kindred. The problem of his birth 
 came before his manhood for solution. 
 
 As he strode along facing this great problem, ques- 
 tioning eagerly all that passed before his eyes in that 
 hour of a nation's second birth, the sound of music 
 was heard — the fife and drum — and a marching column 
 passed before him, at its head the starry banner. In 
 column by platoon, it swept along the broad and silent 
 thoroughfare. 
 
 Blue-clad, but dusky-faced, the steel-crowned ranks 
 pressed forward to the time of that weird melody, 
 which burst spontaneously from patriot hearts when 
 
354 A ROYAL GENTLEMAX. 
 
 freemen first mustered for the struggle with slavery, 
 and moved the people ever onward to the fulfillment of 
 its own wild prophecy. 
 
 As they passed on in the long, swinging step, this 
 grandly measured air inspires the uncertain groping 
 Figure, which stood upon the curbstone and gazed at 
 them, as if he would grasp from the strange medley its 
 true significance. The deep, yearning glance rested on 
 those sable soldiers of liberty, as they passed, with 
 kindly questioning. There was no love in his glance, 
 no gratitude — scarcely respect — only grave, kindly won- 
 der. He gazed at them as a chemist might at a 
 new element which he had cast among the discordant 
 contents of a bubbling crucible, uncertain of its eff'ects 
 — expecting little from its action — caring nothing for 
 its fate. It was a column of Weitzel's colored troops 
 proceeding to their quarters as the garrison of the 
 city. Suddenly the associations of the place and time 
 became too much for the impressionable soldiery, and 
 from a thousand throats burst the wild anthem of lib- 
 erty, and the glorious chorus, 
 
 " Our God is inarching on," 
 
 swelled from end to end of the swaying column. 
 
 Some subordinate, as he passed, recognized the po- 
 tent presence on the curbstone, and brought his de- 
 tachment to the " Shoulder arms," in token of respect, 
 as they passed. Those in the rear imitated his ex- 
 ample, and an extempore review was the result. 
 
 The " Poor- White " President did not take to cere- 
 mony and parade as kindly as the aristocrat who 
 had fled before the power he represented. He had 
 
TYPES. 355 
 
 not been taught in childhood to receive reverence 
 himself, but to yield it to others. The lordly wave 
 of the hand — the courtly nod of the superior — never 
 came naturally to the uncouth genius of the new West. 
 Yet he felt this tribute of respect. He knew that it 
 was to him — the man, Abraham Lincoln — and not to 
 the ruler, that it was offered. He would return the 
 greeting. And he did it, as he did all things else, in 
 a way peculiar to himself — not with the touch of the 
 visor, which the Regulations prescribe; but by taking 
 off his hat with a grave courtesy, and standing un- 
 covered while the soldiery passed. And as he stood 
 there, and watched the allies whom freedom had armed 
 in her own defense, the darkness and the boding care 
 faded out of his eyes, and only kindly sympathy and 
 trusting hope shone there instead. Why was it 1 Had 
 he solved the problem which the future presented.'* 
 Perhaps, dimly. 
 
 The companion of the President was also a man of 
 historic name — a name linked inseparably with every 
 great question and phase of our national progress for 
 many a year. His mind had stamped its impress upon 
 every measure of the party of freedom, and his burning 
 eloquence had scotched, like a tongue of flame, the in- 
 famies of slavery. No danger could daunt, no suffering 
 subdue, this leonine child of the East. His voice might 
 be hushed by the brutal hand of the desperado, but 
 his eye never lost its defiance, nor did his spirit quail 
 before the haughty power which ruled the nation with 
 a rod of iron. He, too, was not an originator. He did 
 not go before and show the way to coming ages and 
 
356 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 peoples ; but he had the skill of the Indian hunter for 
 the trail, which other minds had made. He had conned 
 the lessons of history to exhaustion. He adopted in- 
 stinctively that course of thought which those furthest 
 in advance of their fellows had indicated as the truest 
 and best. He was not the engineer who followed 
 the compass of thought through the dark wilderness of 
 coming events and marked out the path of future em- 
 pire ; but he came in the very front of the onward march 
 of events. His eagle eye discerned the " guides and 
 pointers " which showed the line of right, and. he made 
 plain and broad the way in which the nation should 
 walk. To him the slightest vestiges of truth and free- 
 dom were apparent. He traced their faintest footsteps 
 as the ordinary mind pursues the simplest formulas of 
 mathematics. His ruthless logic and keen analysis, uni- 
 ted to an eloquence whose overwhelming force was like 
 the lava-tide which bursts from fierce Vesuvius, swept 
 away all obstacles, and showed the pathway clear and un- 
 mistakable, to the dullest mind and most unwilling feet. 
 His mind was not groping and tentative, like his com- 
 panion's. It was not speculative, not assimilative, but 
 demonstrative. He was a prophet who had just wit- 
 nessed the fulfillment of his own predictions. Others 
 before him, it is true, had traced the line of thought 
 which had pointed to the end they had just wit- 
 nessed. The flying enemy, the conquered capital, the 
 vanished power, had all been foreshadowed by other 
 minds — the pioneers, whom truth had sent into the wil- 
 derness — but he had most clearly demonstrated it; had 
 marked it so plainly that he who runs might read. 
 
TYPES. 357 
 
 Even those who would not see it could not ever after- 
 ward hide it from their sight. 
 
 It is said, that very early in the war when the great, 
 troubled heart of the President had pondered the course 
 he should adopt in an important crisis through all the 
 tedious watches of a sleepless night, he came very early 
 in the morning to this accomplished co-worker and said : 
 
 " I have determined on my course. I shall do so 
 and so. Is there any authority for it.?" 
 
 And the Scholar had answered doubtfully : " I will 
 consult the oracles and learn." 
 
 And thereupon, he read and pondered the sages of 
 the law, and found that the collected wisdom of the 
 ages pointed to the same conclusion to which the in- 
 stinctive prescience of the Pioneer had led. 
 
 Thus the heart and conscience of the West linked 
 hands with the knowledge and culture of the East to 
 accomplish the great work which was set before them. 
 
 During the entire struggle this bold, positive, de- 
 cided mind supplemented the hesitating, fearful, doubt- 
 ing one of the President, not by leading or con- 
 trolling, but by confirming. It is doubtful if the 
 keen, questioning frontiersman did not generally go 
 before the polished child of the East, but while he 
 was running the course again and again, in doubt 
 and uncertainty, perplexed with difficulties and varia- 
 tions, this other great mind of a different order came 
 to his aid, and so confirmed his conviction and cleared 
 his view, by citing the examples and precedents which 
 history affords, that he could no longer hesitate. 
 
 He was the Fanatic. 
 
358 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Did he, too, learn in that hour of the completest 
 triumph which is ever vouchsafed to man — the triumph, 
 of ideas to which he has devoted life and strength 
 — as he looked upon the wreck and scath of that war 
 by which that triumph had been wrought, did he learn 
 that lesson of abounding charity which had wrought 
 out its perfect work in the heart of his great chief? 
 Did he learn that abstract right might be the sorest 
 evil in the concrete, and that the most grievous wrong 
 might be linked with elements of the noblest manhood 
 and most admirable virtue? Were the seeds in that 
 hour planted in his bosom which in the future should 
 fructify in statesmanship inspired and impersonated with 
 the divine message of Christianity shrined in that holi- 
 est of words, " Forgive " ? Perhaps ; but he is of sterner 
 stuff than the compatriot whom Providence has made 
 his chief in position, though of less commanding intel- 
 lect. He is of the fine white marble of Carrara, on 
 which the graver must work long and patiently to trace 
 his chosen design. 
 
 It was all there in its appropriate symbols — the grand 
 allegory of the nation's second birth — the Poor White 
 President — the Fanatic of the regal mind and leonine 
 mien — the ranks of armed freedmen, and the conquered 
 Capital devastated by fire and awaiting its further 
 doom, half-sullenly, half-hopefully. Away to the south- 
 ward the arm of the Laborer, the silent Hammerer, was 
 pounding away at the lordly crest of the flying Cavalier. 
 All were types, and grand ones in their way, of the Past 
 and Future, of which that moment was the connecting 
 and dividing Present. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV. 
 
 THE HOSPITAL. 
 
 IT is the convalescent ward of a General Hospital. 
 The patients are Confederate officers and soldiers 
 wounded in the last battles around Petersburg and 
 Richmond. The row of clean, white beds and the well- 
 swept floor betray the order and neatness of a per- 
 manent hospital. The breath of Spring comes through 
 the open windows, and some are sitting up in their 
 cots gazing out upon the fair scene below. A busy- 
 city of tents and rough plank buildings, put up in depot 
 style of unplaned boards, long and narrow, with a crowd- 
 ed wharf, and a swift-flowing river dotted with all man- 
 ner of craft — all flying the stars and stripes — while city, 
 wharf, and shipping are alive with thousands of blue- 
 clad men, rank and file, line and staff, of every grade 
 and branch of the service. This was City Point — 
 Grant's depot of supplies in the Spring of 1865. There 
 is not much cheerfulness in this ward of the great hos- 
 pital. The greater part of its inmates are heart-sick, as 
 well as suffering under bodily affliction. 
 
 " It cannot last much longer," says one gray-coated 
 invalid to another. " Uncle Bobby Lee can never get 
 to Johnston, with all the force which Grant has in pur- 
 suit of him. It 's my notion that the jig 's about up, 
 
360 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 and, for one, I 'm glad of it. It would have to come 
 in the end, and may as well be now as later." 
 
 " What shall we do now.?" asked his comrade queru- 
 lously. " The niggers will all be freed, and we shall 
 only have a few acres of poor land left, with nobody to 
 till it." 
 
 " Oh, bother the land, that may be confiscated, too, 
 for all we know, and go along with the two-legged 
 chattels-real." 
 
 " That is true ; and then what will we do .'*" respond- 
 ed the other. 
 
 *' Do ? Hanged if I know," said the first speaker. 
 " But I '11 be bound we find something to do. We 
 have as good a chance as the niggers, any how. For 
 me, the first thing I am going to do, if ever I get out 
 of this, is to turn Yankee, and take the first job that 
 offers. I 've dug ditches for the Confederacy without 
 pay — or as good — and now I will dig for any one that 
 will pay." 
 
 " Don 't be too certain about the future. Captain," 
 said one of his listeners. " Old Abe may set you up in 
 the hemp business before he gets through with you." 
 
 " That 's so," said the first speaker, " or if Lee 
 should make the trip and unite with Johnston, we may 
 be sent to Point Look-Out or Bull's Island, till ' this 
 cruel war is over,' if we should chance to out-last it. 
 Well, it 's what we enlisted for, boys; and as far as hemp- 
 pulling is concerned, I reckon we have all done enough 
 *to entitle us to a share in that business." 
 
 "By the way," said another, "have you heard that 
 Lincoln is here V 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 361 
 
 >»> 
 
 "No!" answered several, "is it so?' 
 
 " That 's what the Doctor told me just now ; and 
 Lieutenant Goldwin, who went out this morning on 
 parole, said that he saw him but a little time ago, walk- 
 ing about without any escort, talking with every one he 
 met." 
 
 " And whittling, I suppose, like every other Yankee," 
 said one. 
 
 " I wish he would come here and get off one of his 
 little jokes, to liven us up some," said another. 
 
 " I would like to see him, any how," said a third, 
 "just to know what he is like. Wouldn 't you, Colonel?" 
 turning to Geoffrey's cot and speaking to him. 
 
 For the moment they had forgotten his blindness, 
 but as they looked at him and saw his sightless orbs 
 turned toward them, and the look of painful anger that 
 swept over his face, they regretted the unfortunate for- 
 getfulness, and were not surprised at the bitterness of 
 his reply : 
 
 " I am more fortunate than the rest of you, for I am 
 in no danger of seeing the monster." 
 
 Knowing that he was brooding upon his affliction, 
 his comrades made an effort to divert his attention from 
 it. 
 
 "You have another piece of luck, too," said one of 
 them, gaily ; " you have quite cut us all out with that 
 little Yankee nurse. She has neither ears nor eyes for 
 anyone but you." 
 
 " That 's so, Colonel ; you have made a conquest 
 there, certain," said another, " and it 's a pity you can- 
 not see what a prize you have taken, too." 
 
 22 
 
362 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "The trimmest piece of dry-goods I have seen in 
 many a day," chimed in a third. 
 
 "A lady, gentlemen, a perfect lady, if I ever saw- 
 one," said a brusque lieutenant from the opposite cot, 
 " and for my part, if she has a special fancy for Colonel 
 Hunter, I can 't blame her, for, indeed, boys, he de- 
 serves it." 
 
 " I say, God bless her, anyhow," said a gallant cap- 
 tain ; " the very sight of the sweet creature bustling 
 about and making things tidy for us, with such a de- 
 mure, modest look, has been worth more than all the 
 doctor's stuff to me." 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter raised himself upon his elbows and 
 listened with a show of interest to the remarks of his 
 fellow-officers upon the nurse. He recognized the kind- 
 ly sympathy which had induced this cheerful badinage, 
 and was anxious to humor it, that they might think 
 themselves successful in the diversion they had at- 
 tempted. 
 
 " Hold on, gentlemen," said he, " you will make my 
 misfortune unbearable, if I am to hear the praises of 
 this goddess and not to see her. Could n't some of 
 you lend me your eyes.? Edgerton, what is she 
 
 like r 
 
 "What is she like!" said Edgerton, a gigantic ar- 
 tillery captain, bearded like the pard. " Like — an angel 
 who stays below here out of pity for human woe, and 
 brings the air of heaven with her!" 
 
 " Too ethereal by half," said Geoffrey, laughing. 
 " Not being accustomed to the lineaments of female 
 Yankee angels, your description is lost on me. Brig- 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 363 
 
 den, can 't you tell me something more of her person-^ 
 elle? Let me not burst in ignorance." 
 
 Brigden, thus appealed to, gave a minute description 
 of Toinette, adding similar laudations, declaring his 
 absolute envy of the fortunate colonel, and saying that 
 he would willingly lose his eyes if he could only have 
 as pretty a pair watch over him as tenderly. 
 
 One after another added a touch to Brigden 's de- 
 scription, and, in a tone of light but respectful badinage, 
 pictured the pretty Yankee woman to Geoffrey Hunter. 
 
 Determined to promote the mirth, he answered : 
 
 "It won't do, gentlemen; I can't make her out. 
 Now, would you believe it, the only personage your 
 description calls to my mind is a very likely yaller gal 
 I used to own." 
 
 "Hear him!" 
 
 "'The sacrilegious brute!" 
 
 " Compare a Yankee angel to a she-nigger ! Gad, 
 Hunter," said Edgerton, " it 's well you 're blind. If 
 you could see, I 'd have you at ten paces for that, as 
 soon as we could hobble." 
 
 "Take care. Hunter," said Dancey, "I expect you 
 will regret any such reflection in the future. I 've been 
 inquiring with regard to the dea certa — by the way, 
 I imagine our ' dear creature ' is but a corruption of 
 that phrase — at least, it 's only a free rendering of it. I 
 find that her name is Hunter, too, and that she is a 
 widow. I presume she married some far-away cousin 
 of yours, and looks upon you as the predestined suc- 
 cessor of the dear departed. Had n't you any Yankee 
 cousins, Colonel.'*" 
 
364 A ROYAL gentleman; 
 
 " Certainly," said Geoffrey, now thoroughly Inter- 
 ested ; " a large number of them. Did you learn what 
 part of the country she was from ?" 
 
 " Yes, I saw it on her travelling bag, as we came 
 here. It was marked : 
 
 " Mrs. Antoinette Hunter, 
 
 '' Oberlin, Ohior 
 
 Mrs. Antoinette Hunter! He had never heard of 
 such a person. Yet somehow it seemed familiar. He 
 felt puzzled and exhausted, so he lay down with 
 that strange disregard of observation, which at first 
 accompanies blindness, and began to move his hand 
 nervously and inquiringly over the blanket. Nature 
 was beginning that peculiar training by which she makes 
 amends for the loss of one sense, in a measure, by 
 supplementing the power of another. His comrades, 
 thinking that he was wearied, ceased their badinage 
 and he thought over what had been said without in- 
 terruption. It was queer this pretty nurse's name 
 should be "Hunter;" but then there were a great 
 many Hunters in the North. Antoinette Hunter. 
 That was a pretty name. It was strange she should 
 take a fancy to him, and be named Antoinette, too. 
 That was Toinette's name — when it was written in full, 
 it was only Toinette for short. He remembered writing 
 it "Antoinette," in the deed of manumission. He re- 
 collected just how it looked then — how every letter 
 was formed, " Antoinette, woman of color, born May 
 4th, 1844 ; dark hair and eyes, light complexion, very 
 likely." That 's the way she was described in the bill 
 
THE HOSPITAL. 365 
 
 of sale he had received from his father. He had n't 
 thought of her for a long time, hardly since the war 
 began. That was one nigger Lincoln did n't get the 
 chance to free. He smiled grimly to himself as the 
 thought struck him. 
 
 He wondered how she was getting on. Her young 
 one must be three — four — yes, better than four years old. 
 
 She had written that it was a boy — as if he cared ! 
 He had got the letter but a little time before Lincoln 
 cut off the mails. He wondered how he would have 
 answered it, if the war had not relieved him of the 
 necessity. It was strange he had been so infatuated 
 with the girl. She was handsome, though. And she 
 just filled the description given of this wonderful 
 nurse, though his fellow-officers did laugh at the idea. 
 
 It was amusing. Hair, complexion, eyes, figure, all 
 fitted exactly. Her voice, too, was like Toinette's, now 
 that he thought of it. It would be odd if she should 
 turn out to be a relative. She had certainly been 
 very attentive and watchful towards him. All his 
 comrades seemed to have noticed that. It was pleasant 
 to be the object of a pretty woman's solicitude, even 
 if she was only a Yankee nurse. They all agreed 
 that she was very much of a lady, too. That made 
 it nicer yet. That was the reason she was so quiet 
 and delicate in her ways. How tender and patient 
 she had been towards him ; never uttering any remon- 
 strance or reproach, however much he had fretted or 
 scolded, or whatever hard things he had said about the 
 Yankees. How kind and faithful she had been. She 
 had hardly left him for a moment, until he was put 
 
366 A ROYAL gentleman: 
 
 into the convalescent ward. There were so many here, 
 she could only come occasionally, and could only pay 
 him ordinary attention when sJie did. Of course not — 
 it would not be proper. Though she still combed and 
 brushed his hair, and did a hundred little offices which 
 she might have omitted without neglecting her duty, 
 but which all made him more comfortable and happy, 
 if one in such darkness could be termed happy. Every 
 touch was a caress, too. She must be an angel, as they 
 told him, and a sweet-tempered one at that. She must 
 be beautiful, too, by Brigden's description. Somehow, 
 he had always thought she looked just as they had 
 described her. He seemed to have known her before. 
 So like Toinette, too. She could hardly have been 
 prettier. He wished he could see her. Really, he was 
 half in love with the little mystery. Pshaw ! a blind 
 man in love! A woman wouldn't look at him a second 
 time ! Toinette herself — a free nigger — would n't care 
 for him now. 
 
 This woman had shown wonderful sympathy for 
 him, though. He remembered now, that he had heard 
 her sobbing at his bedside when she thought him asleep. 
 He didn't know why, but he had always believed she 
 was crying on his account. What a tender touch she 
 had. She would sit and fondle his hand for hours in 
 silence, and he was sure that he had felt tears dropping 
 on it at such times. Once or twice she had kissed it — 
 softly, sorrowfully he thought. Somehow it had thrilled 
 him strangely. It seemed, too, that once — when was it.'' 
 — or was it a dream in that long night which had fallen 
 on him .'' No, he remembered it now. It was that 
 
777^ HOSPITAL. 367 
 
 morning when he first learned that the sun would shine 
 no more for him. He had heard her, (as he lay, half- 
 dreaming) come into the tent noiselessly almost. Then 
 she bent over him and kissed his lips — a trembling, 
 fervent, dewy kiss, freighted with hope and love. His 
 blood bounded at its memory. He had been so ab- 
 sorbed in his affliction that he had forgotten it till now. 
 What lips ! How they spoke in that silent pressure ! It 
 was a hymn and prayer in one. Gratitude for the past 
 and hope for the future were syllabled to his soul in its 
 trembling, tender eagerness ! He had never felt but 
 one kiss like it, and that was Toinette's. He thought 
 of the first time he had kissed her. The girl had 
 exquisite lips. A Sybarite could not have helped 
 kissing them, if she was a nigger. He remembered 
 thinking she was only a pretty pet; yet, somehow, he 
 trembled when he gave her that first kiss. Then he 
 remembered how it became a habit, and he always 
 claimed one, if she came into the library when he was 
 there. He remembered, too, how her kisses ripened 
 from simple childish jests, to tender, clinging endear- 
 ments. They were wonderfully like this Yankee nurse's 
 stolen embrace. He did not know that kisses were so 
 much alike. Well, if she had Toinette's lips they were 
 nearly matchless — full, tender, mobile, and exquisitely 
 cut and penciled. He remembered now that last kiss 
 she had given him, when he left her a free woman, 
 waiting for maternity in her new Northern home. She 
 hung around his neck, and her lips had the same cling- 
 ing tenderness, only it was a burden of beseeching which 
 they bore. There was no eager joy in them. It liked 
 
368 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 to have broken him down. He was sorry enough for 
 the poor girl, off there alone, with such a dreary pros- 
 pect and among strangers, too. He came very near 
 waiting till her trial was over, just out of pity. He 
 thought he would have done so but for the news that 
 came from home — the tidings of coming war. What was 
 the name of that free-nigger town where he left her? 
 Oh yes, Oberlin ! Oberlin .^ Oberlin 1 Why that — yes — 
 that was the name Brigden saw on the nurse's traveling 
 bag ! It could not — yes. He saw it all now. Strange he 
 had been such a fool. The jade had taken his name, and 
 passed for a widow — and a w^hite woman, too ! Probably 
 called her brat Hunter! Perhaps named it after him, too 
 — GeolTrey Hunter, Jr. ! Mistress Antoinette Hunter, 
 forsooth ! It was a sharp game she had played ! And 
 she had even tried to entrap him ! Had been kissing 
 him, and coquetting about him before his brother officers. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter's face showed the most extreme 
 disgust. It actually sickened him that a free nigger 
 should impose on him and his fellows so successfully. 
 
 " A lady 1 Ha ! ha ! ha ! that was a good joke any- 
 how ! He 'd teach her better than to put on airs and 
 pretend to be white, the huzzy ! He 'd show his broth- 
 er officers, too, that a blind man could see better than 
 them all. Of course, it would cut her up mightily. 
 She deserved it, too, trying to pass herself off as white 
 and associating with white people. To be sure, she had 
 taken mighty good care of him, as she ought to have 
 done. She would have been an ungrateful huzzy if she 
 had not. Did n't he treat her well when he owned her } 
 No other nigger woman in Cold Spring county was 
 
THE HOSPITAL 369 
 
 dressed so well, and she had nothing to do but just take 
 her ease and enjoy herself. If ever a nigger was well 
 treated, she was. Besides that, he had given her free- 
 dom. It is true, his mother had wished it and his father 
 promised it, but that .did n't oblige him to do it. She 
 was his property and he gave her up. Made her a pres- 
 ent of herself. No slight thing, either; a cool two 
 thousand, cash on the nail. Of course she ought to 
 nurse him. And he would admit she had done so faith- 
 fully — no doubt of that. He could realize, too, that she 
 deserved the encomiums which her beauty had received 
 from his fellow-sufferers. It was no wonder they had 
 thought she was white. He had had doubts about there 
 being any black blood in her veins, himself. She had 
 deceived them handsomely. He would expose her, the 
 brazen-faced impostor ! Trying to pass for white, eh } 
 God ! if I had not happened to have been here, she 
 might have married some of these good, impressible fel- 
 lows ! Who knows !" 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter's face grew white with horror as he 
 contemplated this fearful contingency. He lay in silence 
 awhile arranging his plans. 
 
 Then he called to the red-whiskered artillery giant 
 who had termed Toinette an angel. Somehow he 
 thought it would do him good to pluck his angel before 
 his eyes. Of course, it was a mere matter of duty, just 
 to unmask the cheat. 
 
 " Edgerton, did n't Brigden say that the little Yan- 
 kee nurse hailed from Oberlin.^" 
 
 "I reckon so, though I don't mind the name," an- 
 swered Edgerton. 
 
370 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 " Is n't that the place where there is a school for 
 free-niggers?" 
 
 "Really, I don't know," said the giant, good-na- 
 turedly. "Is it?" 
 
 "Yes, it is," said Geoffrey, peevishly ; " I was there 
 once and saw them — niggers going about as important 
 and saucy and well dressed and as much thought of, 
 they do say, as any one." 
 
 " Well, we shall have no others but free niggers after 
 this, I reckon," said Edgerton, "and must get used to it." 
 
 " Yes, to seeing them around probably ; but not to 
 associating with them." 
 
 " Of course not," assented Edgerton. 
 
 " That 's what I wanted to say," said Geoffrey, awk- 
 wardly. " That woman — that nurse you fellows have 
 all gone crazy over is — is — is a free-nigger !'' 
 
 " A what ? Mrs. Hunter, do you mean ? A free 
 nigger ! You are crazy. Hunter. It is sacrilege to 
 think of the conjunction!" said the giant. 
 
 " Sacrilege or not, it is true. I '11 wager a hundred 
 pounds of the best Cold Spring tobacco against half as 
 many greenback dollars that I prove it to you before 
 night," said Geoffrey, stubbornly. 
 
 "I'll take you," said Edgerton, " and a half-dozen 
 more such bets. But mind you. Hunter, not a word of 
 insult or improper language to the little saint. Damn 
 me if I could stand that, even from you." 
 
 " Certainly not," said Geoffrey; "and if am not right, 
 I will go down on my knees to the little Yankee, in pen- 
 ance for my suspicion, besides losing my wager. But I 
 shall not do either." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI, 
 
 UNSUBDUED. 
 
 HARDLY had this conversation closed, when there 
 was a stir at the other end of the ward, and the 
 surgeon in charge of the Hospital, wich a young Con- 
 federate surgeon, who had been taken with his wounded 
 and had chosen to remain and care for them, came down 
 the long row of cots with a figure clad in a costume 
 very unusual in that region at that time — plain black 
 cloth of civilian cut, with a silk hat held awkwardly 
 in his hand. Only a glance at the honest, kindly, in- 
 quiring face was needed to convince every one, even 
 those unfamiliar with it, except by report, that they 
 looked upon that wonderful child of the North- West — 
 Abraham Lincoln. 
 
 As he came down between the cots, the occupants 
 who were able rose and returned his kindly greeting 
 with politeness, and usually with cordiality. To those 
 still unable to arise he addressed hopeful, kindly words 
 in his half-humorous, half-apologetic manner as he pass- 
 ed on. Coming to the knot of less disabled invalids 
 about Geoffrey, he was introduced to each by the Con- 
 federate surgeon. 
 
 " I regret, gentlemen," said he, " that the fortune of 
 war has been unkind to you, but hope that every ob- 
 tainable comfort is provided for you by those having 
 
372 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 you in charge, as I doubt not it is. I see you have your 
 own surgeon with you, for which I am glad. One al- 
 ways wants his own doctor. I hope that the days of 
 suffering and conflict are over, and that you will soon be 
 at liberty to return to your several homes with such 
 degree of health as Providence may vouchsafe." 
 
 After some further conversation he bade them " good 
 morning," and was about to retire, they thanking him 
 for having called upon them, being sincerely gratified at 
 his earnest kindliness, when the surgeon turned toward 
 Geoffrey, and said : " Col. Hunter, I beg your pardon, 
 I should have given you an introduction earlier. Mr. 
 President, this is the officer of whom you have heard, 
 who actually led the assaulting column at Fort Stead- 
 man, though not nominally in command. He was the 
 last one to leave the Fort when it was retaken. In fact 
 he did not leave it ; he was wounded, just at the south- 
 western angle of the Fort by a ball which passed 
 through, just below the eyes, quite destroying his 
 vision." 
 
 " Allow me, Col. Hunter," said Lincoln, " to express 
 my sorrow that so brave a man should have met such a 
 deplorable misfortune." 
 
 " I do not count it a misfortune," said Geoffrey 
 coldly. 
 
 " Not count it a misfortune .'* How is that .'*" asked 
 the President. 
 
 " Because I am saved thereby from looking on the 
 monster who has destroyed my country," said Geoffrey. 
 
 A shadow of pain passed over the dark, plain face 
 which was gazing down in benignant compassion on the 
 
UNSUBDUED. 373 
 
 speaker, yet 'it did not lose its kindliness of expression, 
 nor his voice its tone of sympathy, as he replied : 
 
 " It is for the sake of that country, my young friend, 
 that I regret your wound." 
 
 Then he "went on, gravely commenting on all he 
 saw which interested him. When they reached another 
 room, he said to the surgeon : 
 
 " Poor fellow ! It is no wonder he is waspish ; those 
 were glorious eyes to lose their sight so young. Can 
 nothing be done for him.?" 
 
 "I am afraid not," the surgeon answered. "If the 
 optic nerve is actually injured, certainly not. His 
 wound has healed so readily, though, that I am half- 
 convinced it is mere paralysis caused by the shock and 
 by attendant inflamation. This might be benefited, 
 perhaps, by an operation, or by an application of elec- 
 tricity, if we had the apparatus for it. It is doubtful, 
 but I think, if applied soon, it might save his sight," 
 
 " And you have not the means to perform the oper- 
 ation here. Could it be done in Washington.'*" 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 "And you think it would save his sight.?" 
 
 "I hope so." 
 
 Toinette had stood with clasped hands a little at 
 one side, listening to this conversation. Instinctively 
 she knew that it concerned Geoffrey. Now she came 
 forward, and, speaking to the President, said with sim- 
 ple earnestness : 
 
 " Please, sir, please have him taken there. You can. 
 Oh! be kind and do it." 
 
 "This is his nurse, sir, who has taken very great 
 
374 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 interest in him, as indeed we all have, though he was 
 very rude to you, sir," said the surgeon. 
 
 " He would not thank me even for that favor, I 
 suppose, but I cannot refuse your request, Madam. He 
 shall be removed at once. Could he endure the jour- 
 ney, Doctor.?" 
 
 "Oh yes, sir." 
 
 " Poor fellow," said the President, "he ought to have 
 his sight, if only to see what a pretty nurse has fallen 
 to his lot. Good morning. Madam." 
 
 The President went to the Surgeon's Quarters, where 
 he staid for a short time, and, by shrewd questioning, 
 found that the old doctor had been at his post for 
 more than four years, without leave of absence. Half 
 an hour after he left, the surgeon was relieved from the 
 charge of the Hospital, by order of the Department 
 Medical Director, and the courier who brought the 
 order handed him an envelope containing the follow- 
 ing, in the strong, direct handwriting of the morning's 
 guest : 
 
 " Surgeon A. C. Kirkland has leave of absence for 
 three months, at the end of which time, he will report 
 to the Surgeon General's Office, Washington, D. C. 
 
 "A. Lincoln, President y 
 
 Underneath was added in the same hand : 
 
 " The Commander of Dispatch Boat, No. 9, will 
 furnish transportation to Surgeon A. C. Kirkland, in 
 charge of Col. G. Hunter, wounded prisoner of war, 
 from City Point to Washington, and one nurse 
 
 " A. Lincoln." 
 
I 
 
 UNSUBDUED. 375 
 
 Inquiry developed the fact that Dispatch Boat No. 9 
 was specially detailed to take the President and his at- 
 tendants back to Washington that night. He had made 
 room on the little craft for the faithful surgeon, the 
 devoted nurse, and his afflicted enemy. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII. 
 
 IN HIS MARK. 
 
 THE surgeon at once sought Toinette and informed 
 her of their good fortune. 
 
 " It is all through your intercession, too, Mrs. Hun- 
 ter. Take the order in and read it to the Colonel. I 
 should be ashamed to tell him after seeing how he 
 treated the noblest man that ever lived, this morning." 
 
 So Toinette took the letter and went, with a dancing 
 heart, and eyes all full of light and love, to the convales- 
 cent ward to read the glad tidings to her idol. 
 
 Geoffrey's wager with Edgerton had become known 
 to every one in the ward, by this time, though no one 
 believed he had any chance of winning it, all regarding 
 it as a half crazy fancy, as they did also his deliberate 
 insult of their distinguished visitor. 
 
 All eyes were therefore turned upon Toinette the 
 moment she entered the ward. 
 
 " You are sure to win," whispered Brigden to Edger- 
 ton, as she came down the aisle towards them. 
 
 Of course I am," said Edgerton ; then addressing 
 Toinette he added : 
 
 " Your great man, Lincoln, was very chatty with us 
 poor rebs to-day, Mrs. Hunter. He is not half the 
 beast we thought him, but seems just a kind-hearted, 
 ^ plain old man. In fact, I like him." 
 
IN HIS MARK. 377 
 
 At the mention of her name Geoffrey Hunter had 
 risen from his pillow, and sat with his face turned 
 toward Edgerton, with an expression of intense bitter- 
 ness resting on his features. 
 
 "Mrs. Hunter! Mrs. Hunter!" he was saying over 
 and over to himself. " The brazen cheat ! how glibly 
 she talks to Edgerton," he thought, as Toinette replied 
 to that officer's remark : 
 
 *' Indeed he is good. I have the proof of that in 
 my hand." 
 
 She held up the letter as she spoke. Geoffrey 
 Hunter's brow grew darker as he heard the words. 
 The sound of her voice, so full of the rippling melody 
 of overpowering love, had almost disarmed him at first, 
 but a strange jealousy seized him as he heard her 
 words. 
 
 "She had proof of his goodness in her hand." She 
 had received some favor — perhaps a gift from the mon- 
 ster whom he thanked God that he could not see. 
 What right had she to receive favors from any one 
 but him — especially from that baboon. She was a 
 nigger, but Lincoln had not freed her. He had done 
 that years ago. If Toinette had gratitude to any one it 
 was to him. No, he would not forfeit his wager. He 
 would not cover her hypocrisy and shame. She de- 
 served all he could make her feel for trying to pass for a 
 white woman and a lady. 
 
 This rushed through his brain in an instant, and 
 then, with a voice hoarse with excitement, he cried out, 
 imperiously: "I say, you girl, Toinette! Toinette!" 
 
 Five years were brushed away in a second. Their 
 
 23 
 
o 
 
 78 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 months of toil and study were in vain. The knowledge 
 and accomplishments for which she had striven were 
 blotted out. The snug little home in the free North was 
 forgotten. The love of that brave boy was obliterated. 
 The free, white, intelligent, interesting, beautiful Mrs. 
 Hunter was lost for the moment. In her stead was the 
 poor, abject, timid, pretty "nigger gal." The old life 
 o'erwhelmed and possessed her, like the evil spirits, which 
 entered into Magdalen. She was instantly the slave 
 Toinette, and heard the master's voice — Marse Geof- 
 frey's, the voice she loved — calling her in tones of angry 
 passion. All other thought had slipped away. The 
 world was void, except those two ideas : Marse Geoffrey; 
 Toinette. The owner calls ; the slave must answer. She 
 saw nothing, knew nothing, heard nothing but this. The 
 hospital, the rows of white cots, the anxious faces all 
 staring at her, all, all, were gone. She was a chattel at 
 Lovett Lodge again, and Marse Geoffrey in the library 
 was calling for her angrily. She started like a guilty 
 loiterer, and answered instantly, with the inimitable and 
 indescribable intonation of the slave : 
 
 "Sir.?" 
 
 That was all she said. It was enough. It revealed 
 all. The brand showed. The one drop of base ad- 
 mixture had overtopped all else, and marred the fair- 
 est hopes. 
 
 "Sir.?" 
 
 It was the knell of hope and peace and love to 
 one poor heart. It told of blighted visions, wasted toil 
 and squandered love. It was the mark which slavery 
 had put upon her soul. The deed of manumission 
 

 .-is^cSBSt*' 
 
 
 
 << ,/;j:-""l', 
 
 ■r^. •1 
 
 11 
 
 i^^El^it ! !' 
 
 ^■^""^ 'W-^i^'' 
 
 THE BRAND. 
 
 " /Ti? cried out imperiously : ' / say, you girl, Toinette ! ' , . . The free 
 white, intelligent, interesting, beautiful Mrs. Hunter was lost for a moment. 
 . . . She started, and answered instantly with the inimitable and inde- 
 scribable intonation of the slave — ' Sir ?^ " — p. 378. 
 
IN HIS MARK. 379 
 
 had made her body free. Her soul was yet in shack- 
 les. Geoffrey Hunter had released the one. God and 
 Eternity alone could manumit the other. It was the 
 private mark of bondage. 
 
 To Geoffrey Hunter it was the tidings of triumph 
 over his fellows, despite his blindness. 
 
 "Ha, ha, gentlemen!" he shouted. "What do you 
 think now.? Who can see best now.?" 
 
 The words recalled Toinette from her dream. She 
 started as one just wakened, and looked round on the 
 anxious faces which were turned towards her. She 
 knew at once what it all meant. She who had been 
 respected and reverenced by all these men before was 
 nothing to them now. She wore the garb of the Pariah. 
 The emblem of degradation was on her. She was only 
 the free nigger, Toinette, to them now. 
 
 Oh, it was terrible ! But worse than that, it was 
 the hand of love which had stricken her. The dream 
 of the slave and the hope of the freedwoman were 
 both crushed at once in that dastardly act. She had 
 guarded him so untiringly, that disease had crept away 
 from his life, baffled and defeated. She had waited and 
 longed to hear those lips breathe her name, aye, her old 
 slave name, Toinette. She would have been glad to be 
 a slave forever, if love had only softened its accents. 
 But now — oh, God ! — it meant shame, disgrace, degrada- 
 tion instead. Her love was repaid in scorn — aye, worse 
 than scorn, debasement! Her "royal gentleman" was 
 degraded! His throne was vacant! He had striven 
 to tarnish and debase the white soul that would have 
 dared the perils of perdition for his sake. She felt 
 
380 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 this dimly, confusedly, as she stood stunned and stu- 
 pefied by the blow. She looked pleadingly around 
 with a dumb pale face. There was sympathy in every 
 eye, except the glaring blind ones that blazed at her 
 yonder. She knew they were there, though she did 
 not see them. She had the surgeon's letter still in 
 her hands, and was turning it over and over. Suddenly 
 she recollected her errand. She held the letter toward 
 Edgerton, and said, in a low pleading tone : 
 
 " Please, sir, will you read it to him.'*" 
 
 Edgerton took the letter, and, with a groan which 
 was a half-shriek, Toinette fled out of the door by which 
 Mrs. Hunter had entered. 
 
 Pity for her, and indignation at Geoffrey's course, 
 filled every breast. Geoffrey, himself, was the only man 
 who was not aware of the enormity of his conduct. 
 Deprived of all knowledge of the actual change which 
 time had made in Toinette ; regarding her as only the 
 petted slave whom he had freed, and whom he supposed 
 had endeavored to palm off a deception of the basest 
 character upon himself and his associates, he was only 
 half-aware of the terrible blow he had struck and of 
 the fair field he had devastated. 
 
 "Well, Edgerton," he cried out, "who has won, old 
 fellow.'* who has the best eyes?" he shouted in glee. 
 
 "You have, sir," replied Edgerton, in a voice husky 
 with suppressed anger and emotion; "but, by God, sir! 
 if I had been you I 'd rather have been the loser. I 
 would not have done what you have to-day, for all the 
 greenbacks the Lincoln government has ever issued." 
 
IX HIS MARK. 381 
 
 There was no dissent from this by any of the others. 
 Geoffrey was amazed. Here he had exposed a cheat, 
 discovered an impostor of the most infamous kind to 
 his friends — a nigger woman trying to pass herself off 
 for a white lady — and they were denouncing him for it ! 
 He could not understand it. Had he been mean.'' 
 Was it base and cowardly and ungrateful to do as 
 he had done ? Conscience told him at once that it 
 was. But she was obtaining regard and respect under 
 false pretenses. He had only exposed her — shown her 
 up in her true colors. But he might have done it less 
 harshly. He might have warned her in private conver- 
 sation. He might have spared her the arrow that 
 brought that wailing cry with which she had fled away. 
 Conscience could not be argued off from these grounds. 
 
 But would these men who were blaming him now, 
 would they have been more considerate in his place .'' 
 Their conduct and language toward him said that they 
 would. He wondered if it were true. Had he less 
 manliness, delicacy, and gratitude than the great flaming 
 giant Edgerton .? It seemed so. And thus retribution 
 came swiftly upon him. Geofl'rey Hunter felt debased 
 because he had done a mean act ; not sorrowful because 
 he had trodden under foot so fair a flower of love. 
 
 And yet Captain Edgerton and his fellow-offlcers 
 were unjust in their view of Geoffrey Hunter's conduct. 
 Every one of them would have done the same or worse 
 had they been in his place. The difl"erence was that 
 they had seen the woman Mrs. Hunter, and could not 
 conceive (although their reason assured them it was 
 true) that she had ever been the slave-girl Toinette; 
 
382 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 while Geoffrey Hunter had only seen and known her as 
 a slave-girl, and did not dream that she was but the 
 shell within which slept the woman — the lady — Mrs. 
 Hunter. 
 
 Edgerton read the doctor's letter which Toinette 
 had given him, and as he concluded the surgeon himself 
 appeared and informed Geoffrey of the object of the 
 transfer, stating that it had been ordered by the Presi- 
 dent on account of Mrs. Hunter's earnest entreaty in 
 his behalf. 
 
 Geoffrey remembered the cheery tones of Toinette 
 as she came down the aisle and spoke of the proof of 
 the President's kindness which she held in her hand. 
 He remembered, too, the wailing cry and tottering steps 
 with which she had fled from him after he had spoken. 
 He knew then that she had come to bring him this mes- 
 sage of hope and joy, and that it was this which had 
 made her step so light and her tone so joyous. And he 
 had stricken the bearer of glad tidings. It was too bad — 
 altogether too bad. She was a kind-hearted, thoughtful 
 girl, and he was a brute to speak to her as he did. He 
 remembered beating Leon once for waking him in the 
 night by howling and whining without cause, as he 
 thought. Even after that, however, the faithful brute had 
 kept on his clamour, and finally tore the covering from 
 his bed, forcing him to rise. When he did so and opened 
 the door of his room, he found the block in which he 
 lodged on fire. In a few minutes more the avenues of 
 escape would have been cut off. He remembered put- 
 ting his arms about the shaggy neck, when they were in 
 safety, and begging the pardon of the faithful creature 
 
IN HIS MARK. 383 
 
 with tears and caresses for his unreasoning harshness. 
 Somehow, he felt so towards Toinette now. He could 
 not keep back the tears which welled up into the eyes to 
 which the poor girl was so anxious to restore the light. 
 He would acknowledge his brutality, when he saw her 
 again, and make amends by kindness in the future for 
 his harshness of to-day. She was a good girl. Would 
 she forget his unkindness as old Leon had done } He 
 hoped she would. Why should n't she 1 Yet, some- 
 how, he had a doubt. 
 
 He groped his \vay to Edgerton's cot and told him 
 he could not accept the wager he had won. He was 
 sorry he had been so harsh to the poor girl. Would 
 Edgerton tell his comrades when he had gone that he 
 regretted his meanness ? He would apologize to her 
 himself. 
 
 The large-hearted cannoneer took the apology for 
 more than it meant, and responded : 
 
 "So you ought, Hunter, so you ought; for, notwith- 
 standing all that 's passed, I still say she 's an angel and 
 would almost make a heaven herself." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII. 
 
 DISPATCH BOAT NO. p. 
 
 DISPATCH Boat No. 9 was one of those little steam 
 yachts which constituted the eyes and ears of the 
 Federal fleets, the pilot fishes of their men-of-war, the 
 courier-pigeons of the deep. Who that witnessed any 
 portion of the struggle on the coast or along our great 
 rivers does not remember these wonderful little speci- 
 mens of marine architecture? Ever alert, coming and 
 going, they seemed more like living creatures than any 
 other mechanism that man has devised. One moment 
 lying at the wharf with steam up — seemingly as restive 
 of the cable and snub-post as the blooded steed of the 
 knotted rein, — the next instant scurrying off with a frol- 
 icsome, . self-important air, the crazy wheels leaving a 
 foamy wake line far behind. What an air of mysterious 
 reticence there was about the puffing, restless creatures ! 
 Out into the storm and darkness at night-fall, going 
 none knew whither — with a bustling, self-conceited air 
 that provoked a smile — breasting the billows and taking 
 the wind in their teeth as if they gloried in the resist- 
 ance of tempest and wave, or bursting at morning out 
 of the darkness " that hung over river and lea," like 
 creatures born of the night and the mist, they were ever 
 the same prescient, cunning litttle monsters, with the 
 artful, knowing leer of Venus' Dolphins, and the speed 
 
DISPA rCH BOA T No. 9. 38/) 
 
 of winged-footed Mercury charged with the commands 
 of Jove — riddles which the great silent sea propounded 
 ever to the dwellers on the land. Like a woman they 
 were always stirring up a strife, yet never in it. Thread- 
 ing their way among looming navies like a street Arab 
 tlirough a crowd. Always ready for a voyage of an 
 hour or a month. At home in the crowded roadstead 
 or on the billowy deep, trying the unexplored channel 
 or bumping their noses upon the sand bar. Whirring 
 by the sentry on the fortress, casting the red gleam 
 of its signal-light on the distant picket, disappearing 
 in the haze of summer's evening, or springing, dripping 
 and sleety from the mist of winter's morning, the Dis- 
 patch Boat was ever the same unresting, inscrutable 
 little mystery. 
 
 Who that saw them has not watched them hour by 
 hour, trying vainly to guess the import of the messages 
 they bore ? Was this one outward bound, bearing 
 orders to Dupont or Farragut, or merely carrying some 
 gallant official *' Salt " to a scene of revelry.^ Was that, 
 breasting the rushing river, freighted with momentous 
 tidings for the silent Hammer at Petersburg, or only 
 bearing some favored fair one to the embrace of her 
 hero? Mercury served Venus not less frequently than 
 Mars. 
 
 The very Queen of this fleet of Mother Gary Chick- 
 ens, which tossed about in the teeth of the war-tempest, 
 was Dispatch Boat No. 9. Before the war, she had been 
 one of the most perfect and complete of the floating 
 palaces which Fashion prescribed as the correct thing 
 for the nautically inclined spendthrift and pleasure seek- 
 
 R 
 
386 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 er. No pains had been spared in her make and equip- 
 ment. Little compact engines, running swift and smooth, 
 with perfect-fitting joints and noiseless bearings, beauti- 
 ful as toys, yet strong as banded giants ; full of strange 
 nooks and cosy corners ; every inch of space improved, 
 and every art exhausted to fill that space with comfort ; 
 she was in everything a wonder of skillful workmanship 
 and patient ingenuity. 
 
 When the war came on, her patriotic owner, having 
 theretofore been worth very little either to himself or 
 his country, suddenly made the startling determination 
 to offer himself and his costly toy to the Government 
 for the war, and, greatly to his surprise, both were ac- 
 cepted. So he doffed his fancy sailor rig and put on the 
 regulation blue, pulled down the silken pennant, shipped 
 a brass howitzer, ran up the triangular bunting with the 
 white field and scarlet edge bearing the mystic numeral, 
 and the queen of sea palaces and the Commodore of the 
 Yacht Club were transformed into Dispatch Boat No. 9 
 and her Lieutenant Commanding. 
 
 Upon this craft the President with two or three at- 
 tendants, and the surgeon, his patient, and the nurse, 
 were to make the passage to Washington. All were 
 ready at the appointed hour except Toinette. The sur- 
 geon, fearing that she would be left, went in search of 
 her and found her kneeling in a sort of stupor by the 
 hard pallet which she occupied in the nurses' ward. 
 She did not seem to have been weeping, but she an- 
 swered his enquiries vaguely, her eyes were heavy and 
 bloodshot, and her head burning with fever. The kind 
 surgeon, who traced all evils to a physical cause, in-- 
 
DISPA TCH BOA T No. 9. 387 
 
 stinctively diagnosed the case with one hand upon her 
 pulse and the other laid inquiringly upon her forehead 
 — and this is what he thought : 
 
 Over-work, excitement, the prospect of getting this 
 good-for-nothing Confederate fire-eater to Washington 
 and restoring his sight, was too much for the poor 
 woman. 
 
 " She *s been a slave to him, anyhow," he muttered, 
 little knowing how near his thought came to the sad 
 truth which underlay her suffering. " Strange she 
 thinks so much of him. Lucky she 's going out of 
 this malarious atmosphere, too. Threatened with con- 
 gestion now." 
 
 What he did was to shake her smartly and bid her, 
 with unwonted harshness, prepare for the journey. She 
 obeyed him, mechanically. Mearrwhile, he took his pre- 
 scription book from his pocket and wrote on one of the 
 blanks a few lines in the hieroglyphics of his profession. 
 
 Calling an attendant, he sent it to the dispensary ; 
 when she returned, he took the wine-glass which she 
 brought from her hand, and, first shaking and smelling 
 the mixture with professional caution, directed Toinette 
 brusquely to "Take it, and come along." 
 
 She obeyed, and giving her little baggage to a mes- 
 senger in w^aiting, bade adieu to the friends whom she 
 had found during her hospital service, and leaning upon 
 the arm of the old surgeon, went to the landing and on 
 board the boat. 
 
 Geoffrey had arrived before them, having been 
 brought in an ambulance, and his self-importance was 
 somewhat wounded that neither of them was there to 
 
388 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 attend to his wants. The surgeon had made arrange- 
 ments that he should be placed in the quietest part of 
 the boat, and one of its miniature state-rooms had been 
 appropriated to Toinette's use. 
 
 On this little craft there could not be much seclu- 
 sion, but it was not until the evening meal that Toinette 
 came forth and joined the little company on the deck. 
 
 Geoffrey, in his narrow berth below, had several 
 times inquired for his nurse, and had been informed by 
 the Surgeon, somewhat sententiously, that Mrs. Hunter 
 was too sick to attend upon him. 
 
 Upon the deck the unassuming ease and cordiality 
 of the President, with his quaint and characteristic 
 humor, made this Spring evening one long to be remem- 
 bered by those who were privileged to participate in 
 its joys. 
 
 The thrilling events of the past few days, with the 
 still more important results that were looked for hourly, 
 were the themes of conversation, and when these had 
 been duly canvassed the scenery through which they 
 were passing, and its historic associations, formed sub- 
 jects of pleasant intercourse. The Commander of the 
 little craft gave a narrative of her adventures and 
 escapes daring the struggle. As the evening wore on 
 Mr. Lincoln seemed to grow quiet and moody. His 
 questioning spirit was asking strange things of the glori- 
 ous moonlight, the flowing river, and the darkening 
 land. His restless, hesitating soul was throwing out 
 tentacles into the future. The questions which arose in 
 his mind were so overwhelming in their character that 
 they very soon crushed out the conversation, and the 
 
DISPA TCH BOA T No. 9. 389 
 
 great man on whose heart they rested by day and by 
 night sat with bowed head, and with that look of 
 weariness which marked the latter years of his life 
 watched the course of the boat as she sped on her way. 
 The others were hushed into silence bv his solemn sad- 
 ness. 
 
 After a time Dr. Kirkland broke the stillness, which 
 was becoming painful, by asking Toinette to sing. She 
 declined, out of regard for the silent presence in their 
 midst. Mr. Lincoln had heard the request, though seem- 
 ingly unobservant, and at once seconded the desire for 
 a song. 
 
 So Toinette, with the thought of the great careworn, 
 overburdened heart before her, and the scath of the 
 great sorrow yet fresh in her memory, looked out upon 
 the deepening gloom and sung : 
 
 Oh, why should we fear when the tempest comes down, 
 And the storm glowers o'er us with pitiless frown ? 
 The clouds that above us so threateningly lower 
 But re-echo the mandate of Infinite Power : 
 
 " Hush, terrified souls ! as in darkness ye plod, 
 Be still, and remember that I am your God ! 
 
 " Why deem that thy burden of sorrow and care 
 
 Is more than thy faltering spirit can bear ? 
 
 Why shrink from the task to thy moments assigned? 
 
 He knoweth thy weakness — He tempers the wind. 
 Be still — and but think, as the wine press is trod, 
 *Tis the will of thy Father — the vineyard of God ! 
 
 " Though the thunders above thee unceasingly roll 
 His eye watches ever thy storm-driven soul ; 
 Though the grave yawns before, in impervious gloom 
 Yet the Infinite dwells in the shade of the tomb. 
 Be still and remember, oh murmuring clod, 
 Thy Future is only the Present of God !" 
 
390 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 Toinette's voice rang out in the darkness, mingling 
 with the rush of waters about the tiny craft, and the cool 
 breath which came from a dark storm-cloud that hung 
 upon her quarter. Geoffrey heard it, and was filled with 
 jealous anger that she should sing for other ears than 
 his. 
 
 The gloom faded out of the face of the President, as 
 he came toward her and said : 
 
 " I thank you, Madam, for uttering in song the truths 
 which ought to live in my heart at this time." 
 
 He pressed her hand in gratitude. The little group 
 broke up and sleep soon wrapt in unconsciousness her 
 strangely gathered passengers, -while Dispatch Boat No. 9 
 battled with the storm and sped on, with characteristic 
 self-importance, as if she knew the precious freight she 
 bore 
 
CHAPTER XXXIX 
 
 LIGHT. 
 
 GEOFFREY did not meet Toinette during the trip. 
 He had an indistinct notion that she had bent 
 over his cot while he slept, and kissed him. He could 
 not be sure, however. It might have been a dream. 
 Certain it was that she did not come to him in his 
 waking hours. Upon their arrival at Washington he 
 was transferred to one of the numerous hospitals in 
 that city, where Dr. Kirkland left him to rest and re- 
 cruit his strength while he himself paid a brief visit 
 to his family in New York. Before he left, Geoffrey 
 asked him in as unconcerned a manner as he could, 
 why his old nurse had not been with him since his 
 transfer, adding that he thought the order included her 
 also. 
 
 "Oh, Mrs. Hunter!" said the doctor, carelessly. 
 " Yes, the order did include transportation for her, but 
 on our arrival here she said she could not stay away 
 from her home longer, and so went on this m.orning," 
 he answered. 
 
 " I should have thought she might have staid to 
 see the result of your experiment, after having me 
 dragged here to endure it," said Geoffrey, petulantly. 
 
 " There is no compulsion about the matter, Colonel 
 Hunter. You need not endure the operation unless 
 
o 
 
 92 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 you desire," answered the surgeon, quickly, with the 
 tone of offended dignity one always employs when his 
 craft is assailed. He resented, too, his patient's in- 
 gratitude to his devoted nurse, 
 
 " Oh, I did not mean to hurt your feelings, doctor. 
 Of course I wish the operation to be performed, and 
 can never sufficiently thank you for the interest you 
 have taken in my case. I only thought she ought 
 not to have deserted me," replied Geoffrey, apologet- 
 ically. 
 
 But the surgeon was stubborn. Once started on a 
 train of thought he was loth to abandon it. He would 
 not let his patient off so easily, but said : 
 
 " I do n't see why you should blame Mrs. Hunter 
 for obtaining for you just what you desire. I should 
 think that you ought rather to thank her for a last 
 chance of recovery." 
 
 " Yes, but she knew I would be lonely and worried 
 here, and I had got used to her ways. She ought to 
 have staid and helped me pass the Rubicon at least," 
 answered Geoffrey, fretfully, 
 
 " But you forget. Colonel Hunter, that she undoubt- 
 edly owes duties to others as well as to you. She 
 tells me that she has a child of four, though she don't 
 look twenty herself, poor dear. Of course, she is anx- 
 ious about him after so long absence with the army, and 
 you ought not to blame her for going to see him 
 after all she has done for you," the surgeon rejoined. 
 
 Geoffrey answered nothing ; the surgeon's words 
 were too true to be argued. How true he did not 
 know who uttered them. Geoffrey wondered whether 
 
LIGHT. 393 
 
 they had any covert meaning — whether the surgeon was 
 aware of the true relations between himself and Toi- 
 nette. He could think of no question that would cast 
 light upon this subject without awakening suspicion, 
 and so said no more about it. 
 
 The surgeon called an attendant and gave particu- 
 lar directions with regard to the diet and care of his 
 patient during his absence. He had consulted several 
 practitioners of eminence in the profession, and w^as the 
 more convinced by a comparison of views with them 
 that there was no actual disease of the organs of vision, 
 but simple torpidity of the nerves connected with them 
 consequent upon the shock of the wound and the 
 subsequent inflammation of the surrounding parts. 
 
 He proposed to employ certain stimulants to restore 
 the normal action of these nerves, and in case of their 
 failure so to do, which he fully anticipated from his pre- 
 vious treatment, he then proposed to apply electricity, 
 from which he hoped for good results ; but in case he 
 should fail by this means, he resolved to attempt an 
 operation which he had long contemplated — an opera- 
 tion of extreme delicacy, which only one man had 
 hitherto been daring enough and skillful enough to at- 
 tempt. His counsel and perhaps assistance Dr. Kirk- 
 land expected to procure in this case. 
 
 In order that either of these courses of treatment 
 should succeed, it was necessary that the patient should 
 avoid all excitement and irritation. This fact was very 
 strongly impressed both on the patient and the nurse. 
 Having thus cautioned the man in whom he had 
 taken such unusual interest, he departed. Upon the 
 
394 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 little slate at the head of Geoffrey's cot he left a writ- 
 ten statement for the attending physician, giving the 
 name and rank of the patient, and the history of the 
 case. 
 
 Before morning came again, the blackest pall which 
 ever enwrapt a sorrowing nation hung over the American 
 people. In the very hour of final triumph, when grati- 
 tude and mercy filled his heart to overflowing, Abraham 
 Lincoln died by the assassin's hand ! 
 
 At the first, horror hushed every tongue. Thought 
 was paralyzed by the terrible tragedy. Then sorrow, the 
 most intense and solemn, swept over the land, and the 
 Martyr-President was borne to his prairie tomb amid 
 the regretful silence of his enemies, and the bursting 
 grief of millions, in whose hearts and memories his name 
 was enshrined as the noblest, the truest, the grandest of 
 earth. 
 
 And, as the people whom he trusted and revered 
 thronged the route of the sad pilgrimage and gazed 
 upon that dark, sad face — rugged and grim in feature, 
 wan and weary in life, but peaceful and benignant in 
 death — as crowding millions came with bowed heads and 
 streaming eyes, as loving hands and aching hearts 
 showered on his senseless clay the emblems of tender 
 remembrance — in that hour, there came to every heart, 
 unsyllabled and unuttered, the knowledge that this man 
 was of God ; that the same mysterious Providence which 
 had once rebuked the pride of Israel by choosing the 
 lowly Nazarene for the indwelling of His Spirit, had, in 
 these latter days, selected this halting, trembling, self- 
 distrusting seeker after aid — this " Poor White," upon 
 
LIGHT. 395 
 
 whose birth rested the blight of slavery's baneful influ- 
 ence — and consecrated him to the holy work which, 
 like the Son of God, he had consummated only in his 
 death. 
 
 Others may have been greater in gifts and learning, 
 in intellect and will, more brilliant in action, more fertile 
 in resource, more varied in accomplishment, more com- 
 manding in power ; — but in the glory of a high and holy 
 purpose, faithfully, trustfully and tenderly fulfilled ; of 
 a transcendent mission executed with unwearying humil- 
 ity and zeal, Abraham Lincoln stands the first among 
 the men whom the ages have brought forth — that man 
 who walked " with firmness in the right, as God gives 
 us to see the right " — " with malice toward none, and 
 with charity for all." 
 
 The knowledge of this tragedy came with peculiar 
 force to Geoffrey Hunter. He was no admirer of the 
 man who had passed away, yet he could not forget that 
 he had received the most extraordinary kindness at his 
 hands, and that he had requited his courtesy only with 
 the most inexcusable insult. 
 
 As, hour after hour, the sound of mourning, the 
 hushed murmur of affliction, which attended this calam- 
 ity came to his ears, his mind could dwell only upon his 
 brutal reply to the kind inquiry which Mr. Lincoln had 
 addressed to him, and the favor which the President had 
 afterwards extended to him. He would have given any- 
 thing could the man he had scorned but have lived 
 until he had thanked him for a generous act towards an 
 undeserving foe, and begged forgiveness for his unjusti- 
 fiable conduct. 
 
30G A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 It was not in the nature of Geoffrey Hunter to 
 smother any sentiment which might obtain lodgment in 
 his mind, and this thought so troubled him that, instead 
 of that repose which his friend the surgeon desired, a 
 state of the most intense nervous excitement supervened. 
 His brain seemed on fire with a wild agony. A fierce 
 griping pain compressed his temples as in a vice, and 
 the course of the terrible wound, which had caused his 
 suffering, seemed lined with seared and smoking fibers. 
 
 The optic nerves, which brought no message from 
 the outer world, so thrilled Avith the terrible shock which 
 had doomed them to darkness that they pictured con- 
 stantly to the seething brain the torn and shattered 
 fibers along the missile's course, shrinking and trem- 
 bling, bathed in the lurid light which marks the dis- 
 charge of fire-arms. He seemed to see the wound fresh 
 and livid along its whole course. 
 
 The sense of hearing became also a source of tor- 
 ture. The waves of sound beat upon the tense mem- 
 branes with a fearful violence. The most perfect silence 
 attainable was to him instinct with terrific sound. The 
 rustling of the clothing of his cot, the footfall of the 
 attendant, the song of birds, the very waving of the 
 leaves was torture the most exquisite and intense to his- 
 throbbing nerves. 
 
 To add to this deleterious excitement came the 
 knowledge, retailed by some thoughtless attendant, that 
 the surgeon, upon whose aid he knew Dr. Kirkland had 
 chiefly relied in the performance of the operation which 
 he feared might become necessary, was dead. He was 
 the very head of his profession — ''''facile princeps " — no 
 
LIGHT. 397 
 
 hand so skillful, no eye so accurate, no judgment so un- 
 erring as his. No one else had ever been so daring as 
 to attempt this operation ; nor had he ever performed 
 it, to the extent which might become necessary in Geof- 
 frey Hunter's case. The story of his death was strangely 
 tragic. 
 
 He had risen to the labor of the day, which a long 
 life, the utmost devotion to his profession, and unparal- 
 leled success had rendered unusually onerous, and was 
 taking his morning meal, when his eye fell upon the an- 
 nouncement which clouded the land with gloom. 
 "Abraham Lincoln is dead I" — he exclaimed in tones of 
 horror, and, as if called to attend the man his soul 
 revered above all others, in the journey to the celestial 
 gates, the great physician folded his hands, as if in 
 prayer, and was no more. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter felt that his last chance for restor- 
 ation was gone. If the other remedies should fail he 
 must ever grope in darkness. It was a terrible prospect. 
 He prayed for death, as he had often done since his 
 affliction. 
 
 When he thought of the mysterious connection be- 
 tween the death of the renowned surgeon, whose life 
 was almost his only hope, and the man whom he had 
 so grossly affronted, and whose kindness he had never 
 acknowledged, it seemed to him that it was a judgment 
 upon him for his ingratitude and meanness. He counted 
 it an omen of misfortune, and gave up all hope of re- 
 covery. 
 
 In this condition the good old surgeon found his 
 patient when he returned. The attendants and the 
 
398 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 medical officer in charge of the Hospital gave him a 
 full account of the symptoms during his absence. To 
 add to their alarming character the wound had broken 
 out afresh, and active suppuration was in progress. 
 The doctor sat by the cot of his patient for 
 several hours, studying his condition carefully. With 
 the dogged resolution of the best of his profession he 
 enjoyed the struggle with disease when it became des- 
 perate, and hated, above all things, to yield it the palm 
 of victory. 
 
 He did not particularly care to save this man more 
 than any other. Toinette had nursed him because he 
 was Geoffrey Hunter. The doctor had treated him be- 
 cause it was a very rare and peculiar wound — a " beau- 
 tiful case " he would have said to a professional brother. 
 Perhaps, too, he was somewhat interested in him on 
 Toinette's account. She was a favorite of his, and 
 her heart was evidently wrapped up, somehow, in the 
 life of this stricken man. He was afraid the fellow 
 had treated her badly. He had evidently done or said 
 something which had made her anxious to avoid fur- 
 ther contact with him, for the doctor did not believe 
 a word of her story about her sudden anxiety to be at 
 home. So after thinking a long time he went to the 
 nearest Telegraph office and wrote this message : 
 *' Mrs. Antoinette Hunter, Oberlin, Ohio : 
 
 " Come instantly if you would save G. H, 
 
 "Dr. KiRKLAND." 
 
 Forty-eight hours afterwards Geoffrey Hunter had 
 been removed from the General Hospital, and was domi- 
 ciled in quiet quarters, opening upon one of the public 
 
LIGHT. 399 
 
 squares which are scattered about in that beautiful 
 Capital, and at his bedside sat Toinette. She was again 
 the faithful nurse, moving noiselessly about the room, 
 anticipating every wish, taking every precaution, obser- 
 ving every direction ; yet never obtruding attention 
 upon the patient. 
 
 In a short time her ministrations gave him rest, and 
 the man of science began to see points of light again 
 in the horoscope of Geoffrey Hunter. 
 
 Weeks passed, and faithful nursing and skillful treat- 
 ment were again successful. The wound was healed, 
 and the patient's nerves so invigorated that the doctor 
 decided to attempt a restoration of vision. 
 
 The room was darkened, and the poles of a light 
 galvanic battery, one of which was so shaped as to fit 
 the orb of the eye, were applied. The mysterious fluid 
 thrilled along the torpid nerves and brought to the 
 darkened brain again the primal message of creative 
 power — ''Let there be light." 
 
 Day after day, the application was repeated with per- 
 severing hope. At length the patient spoke of seeing 
 little quivering points of light whenever the battery was 
 applied ; then he could dimly distinguish figures after it 
 was removed. Then the doctor directed his eyes to be 
 lightly bandaged, and the applications were made more 
 frequently, though not always directly to the eyes. He 
 wished to stimulate the sluggish nerves. After a time 
 he daily removed the bandages for a short time, and 
 little by little admitted the light; but his directions 
 were imperative that the bandages should not be re- 
 moved for an instant during his absence. 
 
400 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 During these visits of the surgeon he had insisted 
 upon Toinette's taking that exercise which her close 
 attendance upon the sick man rendered imperative to 
 her health, so that Geoftrey had never seen his nurse, 
 nor did she know the actual progress which he was 
 making toward recovery. The doctor had his own 
 notions and kept his own counsel. At length he asked 
 her one morning, upon returning from her walk, to come 
 into the room. 
 
 She was dressed in the pretty walking habit which 
 prevailed at that time, gay with the bright colors of the 
 early summer styles. Exercise and health lighted up 
 her eyes and flushed her cheeks. The doctor thought 
 her beautiful. Now was the time for the stroke which 
 he had been so long meditating. He would not wait 
 for her to remove her bonnet or gloves, but brought 
 her in, just as she left the promenade. 
 
 The shades were drawn aside, and the morning sun 
 was pouring his full radiance into the room. Leaning 
 upon the propped-up pillows, with those glorious eyes 
 bathed in the radiance of restored vision and shrinking 
 not from the bright sunlight, was Geoffrey Hunter. 
 
 " Colonel Hunter," said the old doctor, somewhat 
 sententiously, " allow me to introduce the person to 
 whom you are mainly indebted for your life and for 
 your restored vision ; Mrs. Hunter," and he waved his 
 hand pompously toward the bright vision at his 
 side. 
 
 Toinette had, at the first sight of Geoffrey, started 
 toward him, with an involuntary cry of joy. Collecting 
 her thoughts, she stopped midway of the room, her 
 
LIGHT. 401 
 
 hands clasped and tears of joy running down her 
 cheeks. 
 
 Suddenly her face and brow flushed painfully, and 
 with a low, sobbing cry she turned and fled from the 
 room. 
 
 It would be hard to describe the expression of Geof- 
 frey Hunter's face as the old doctor turned an inquiring 
 glance toward him. 
 
 Surprise and doubt seemed strangely mixed with re- 
 gret in his flushed countenance. 
 
 The doctor had played his kindly little game and 
 failed. He was still more puzzled that afternoon when 
 Mrs. Hunter called at his room, and, after asking if 
 Geoffrey's recovery was complete and perfect, and being 
 assured that it was, bade him good-by. 
 
 But he was amazed when Geofl"rey asked the next 
 morning, "Where is — is — Mrs. Hunter.?" 
 
 " Where is she 1 Why, gone home ! gone back to 
 Oberlin ! Didn't she let you know she was going.?" 
 
 The kind-hearted Esculapius gave it up then. There 
 was something quite inscrutable about those two young 
 people. They were clearly made for each other, and he 
 believed by no means indifferent to one another. Yet 
 one was a widow, the other a stupid bachelor, and both 
 seemed only anxious to get as far from one another as 
 possible. 
 
CHAPTER XL, 
 
 KNIGHT ERRANT. 
 
 GEOFFREY HUNTER was forbidden excitement 
 or employment. Weeks, perhaps months, of rest, 
 were deemed essential to his complete and perfect re- 
 covery. The good doctor expected to remain in the 
 city at least until the debris of the war had been cleared 
 away and the Government was once more on a peace 
 footing. He knew there was no way to keep the rest- 
 less young rebel in reasonable subjection to hygienic 
 rules except to represent the danger of relapse as im- 
 minent, and require his daily attendance at his office 
 for inspection. 
 
 With the rest of his compatriots, therefore. Col. 
 Hunter gave his parole of honor and was at liberty to 
 go wherever he chose, subject only to the dictates of 
 Dr. Kirkland. He owed too much to him to disregard 
 them lightly. So he wandered about the streets of 
 Washington day after day, watching — sometimes with 
 amusement and sometimes with indignation — the break- 
 ing up of the great army which had overwhelmed and 
 smothered the rebellion. He saw, without resentment, 
 the smartly dressed, thoroughly-drilled soldiers of the 
 East, and the bronzed and shabby veterans of the West, 
 but when he beheld battalions of armed negroes march- 
 ing along the Avenue amid the plaudits of thousands, 
 
KNIGHT ERRANT. 403 
 
 or acting as guards and orderlies at the Departments 
 and the White House, his whole nature revolted with 
 disgust. He became a rebel again in heart and wished 
 that lie had never signed the parole, a copy of which 
 he carried in his pocket. He began to wonder, even, 
 if he were bound to observe a pledge given to a Gov- 
 ernment which could so infamously degrade and insult 
 every white man in its limits. Then he grew restive 
 and excitable. The atmosphere of Washington seemed 
 charged with a baleful electricity. He, himself, was 
 full of hatred and disgust. He must go away soon or 
 there would be an explosion which, though it might 
 hurt no one else, would assuredly demolish himself. 
 
 He told the old doctor so ; and that worthy, seeing 
 that his power was relaxing, surrendered at discretion, 
 only stipulating for as much time as he could obtain 
 before delivering his patient up to the future and him- 
 self. It was arranged, therefore, that before the " dog 
 days " settled upon the dusty, miasmatic metropolis, he 
 should give his parole of prudence to the good physician 
 and depart. 
 
 When this time had arrived, Geoffrey approached 
 the doctor, whom, despite his kindness, he could not 
 help regarding as a Yankee and therefore as purely 
 mercenary in all his acts, for the purpose of offering 
 payment for the care which he had received from him. 
 He doubted not — or tried not to doubt — that gain had 
 been the motive of all his seeming kindness. And he 
 would admit that he deserved reward. He had been 
 untiring, faithful, and had proved himself profoundly 
 skilled in his profession. 
 
404 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 With these views he called upon Dr. Kirkland and 
 inquired almost pompously what he should pay him for 
 his services. 
 
 "What, sir?" said the old doctor in surprise. 
 
 Ceoffrey repeated his inquiry. 
 
 The old surgeon laid down his pen, for he was mak- 
 ing out his daily report, and turned his office-chair 
 round toward his visitor. 
 
 " Colonel Hunter," he said in serious tones, " since 
 you were brought in from Fort Hell, wounded, I have 
 attended you faithfully, have I not.?" 
 
 "Indeed, you have," answered Geoffrey, warmly; 
 "and I desire to pay you liberally." 
 
 " Allow me to inform you, Colonel Hunter," replied 
 the doctor, " that the Government of the United States 
 pays me for my time and rewards my services. I at- 
 tended you as a prisoner of war simply, and in my 
 official capacity." 
 
 " I had flattered myself that I had received unusual 
 attention," said Geoffrey, somewhat bitterly. 
 
 "Yours was an unusual case," said the surgeon, 
 calmly. 
 
 " You will not allow me to offer you any further 
 compensation, then.?" said Geoffrey. 
 
 "Colonel Hunter," responded the doctor, " you must 
 be aware that it would be an insult to me to offer it." 
 
 "Pshaw!" said Geoffrey. "You only wish to hu- 
 miliate me by trying to insist on my obligations to the 
 government. It is not the government to whom I am 
 indebted, but to you, and I insist upon tendering pay- 
 ment." 
 
KNIGHT ERRANT. 405 
 
 The doctor tapped a bell upon his desk, and said : 
 
 " Colonel Hunter, your unreasoning devotion to the 
 Confederacy led you to insult President Lincoln, and 
 drive away a most devoted nurse; and now you would 
 let it lead you to quarrel with me. You cannot see 
 that any good can come out of Nazareth. I hope time 
 will cure you. He is a grim nurse, but he accomplishes 
 wonders sometimes. Good by," he continued, as an 
 orderly entered — " avoid labor and excitement as much 
 you can, and as long. You had better travel for a 
 while ; it will divert your mind and restore your nervous 
 system. My horse, John, for Colonel Hunter," — to the 
 orderly, who had answered the bell. "You must not 
 walk so far in your present excited state, Colonel. You 
 can tie him before the hotel, and John will bring him 
 back." 
 
 Geoffrey was not a little affected and was somewhat 
 non-plussed by this final exhibition of regard on the part 
 of the old doctor. Somehow the Yankee surgeon had 
 surprised him. He had spoken commiseratingly of him 
 to his very face He had even referred to his previous 
 acts in language which he knew they deserved. He was 
 not used to being treated thus. And yet the offender 
 had been very kind to him. He could not be angry with 
 him. Was he ungrateful, or had he mistaken the char- 
 acter of his enemies.? He held out his hand, and said, 
 somewhat ruefully: 
 
 " At least, doctor, I may offer you my thanks for 
 your services.?" 
 
 "Certainly, certainly," said the doctor cheerfully, 
 shaking the proffered hand. " And I am right glad 
 
406 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 they have been worth your thanks, Colonel. I have 
 certainly never had a patient for whom I have had 
 kinder feelings, and it hurt me that you should 
 think that I had gone beyond my duty, for surreptitious 
 gain." 
 
 "I meant no offense, Doctor," said Geoffrey, humbly. 
 
 "I believe you, Colonel," he ans\yered. "You only 
 miscalculated for the latitude. That was all. You 
 thought because I was born north of Mason and Dixon's 
 I was essentially mercenary, and could know no other 
 motive. Never mind about denying. You cannot do 
 so truthfully, and are too candid to distort the fact 
 without embarrassment. Good by, now ; the horse 
 is ready. If you should ever have a relapse, which I 
 think unlikely, I shall be glad to serve you. Keep 
 out of trouble, excitement, and hard work as long as 
 you can. If the world gets headed wrong, let it go. 
 You can 't stop it, and will only get crushed yourself 
 if you try. Good by, again." 
 
 And with a hearty handshake the doctor and pa- 
 tient parted to go their various ways — each with added 
 respect and kindness for the other. 
 
 When Geoffrey reached his hotel, he found there a 
 letter from an old comrade-in-arms, who, at the close of 
 our hostilities, had taken service in Mexico. It was a 
 letter of condolence, for the writer was not aware of his 
 friend's recovery, and, with the thoughtlessness which 
 sometimes marks letters of this character, it was chiefly 
 filled with lamentation for what might have been but 
 for Geoffrey's misfortune. He painted in glowing colors 
 the advantages of the service in which he was engaged, 
 
KNIGHT ERRANT. 407 
 
 not the least of which was the absence of that banner 
 which had lately flaunted in the face of their brave 
 legions in gaudy triumph. 
 
 Geoffrey determined to answer the letter in person. 
 The doctor had recommended travel and absence 
 from familiar and exciting associations. Here was 
 an opportunity, as it seemed providentially thrown in 
 his way, to comply with his counsel. His mind was 
 made up instantly. 
 
 Then, with strange inconsistence, his thought recur- 
 red to Toinette. She had been a faithful creature. 
 There was no denying that. He had treated her badly, 
 too, especially after what she had done for him. He 
 was sorry. He would go and tell her so before he 
 went away, perhaps never to return to his native land. 
 
 So he bought a ticket next morning for Oberlin, and, 
 on arriving there, went straight to the little cottage 
 which he had bought for his freedwoman five years 
 before. 
 
 It was occupied by strangers. He could only learn 
 that some weeks before she had sold the property and 
 departed. The present occupants knew nothing of her 
 destination. 
 
 It was strange that his impulses should be thus 
 baffled. He walked about the aimless streets of this 
 abnormally-minded little village, this pretty den of 
 venomous fanatics, and pondered the odd circum- 
 stance. 
 
 When he went with the self-complacent hauteur of 
 the lordly Southerner, to pay off and recompense the 
 priceless services and inestimable kindnesses of the 
 
408 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 Yankee surgeon, never doubting that a sufficiency of 
 pelf would more than satisfy the greed of one who had 
 inherited, as he conceived, only mercenary proclivities, 
 he was met with a sturdy rebuff, which had brought a 
 flush of shame to his own face, and made his thanks, 
 when finally tendered, seem cold and beggarly. He felt 
 annoyed by it. Either he had quite mistaken the rest 
 of the world or himself. 
 
 And now his former slave-woman, after putting him 
 under obligations of the most exalted character, after 
 displaying the most wonderful devotion, never remitting 
 in her tenderness even after his unjustifiable harsh-, 
 ness, had fled from him — fled from his very gratitude as 
 if it had been a pestilence — and left him her debtor 
 with no power to release himself from the claim. 
 
 It seemed as if the fates pursued him with a grim 
 mockery of his antipathies. Was he to be forever be- 
 holden to those whom he had hated most bitterly? 
 Was his intense Southern pride to be thus baffled and 
 humbled, first by the man who, of all living mortals, he 
 had regarded with the most disgust and hate — the dead 
 Lincoln — then by the blue-coated surgeon, and finally 
 by his former slave } To each he owed an incalculable 
 debt, which he could never discharge. Each seemed 
 to hold a lien upon his life. How could he ever hate 
 these natural enemies of himself and his class as he 
 should, when the very light that flooded his eyes was a 
 living witness of their charity ? These indissoluble 
 obligations vexed him. He would cancel them by fly- 
 ing from them. 
 
 A hasty visit to Perham confirmed him in this res- 
 
KNIGHT ERRANT. 409 
 
 At. 
 
 olution. The Hunter Home was desolate. During the 
 war his aunt and one of his sisters had died. The other 
 had married and removed to the home of her husband, 
 who was striving to conquer another fortune from the 
 virgin soil of the South-west in lieu of that which the 
 collapse of the Confederacy had swallowed up. 
 
 Not less desolate than the old mansion was ihe 
 entire aspect of the country round about. Everything 
 had changed. A blight was upon every form of life. 
 Only the skeleton of the past remained, and even that 
 sadly shattered and disjointed. The present seemed 
 at outs with all that had gone before. In the expressive 
 language of the times, "the bottom rail was on top.'' 
 Society was overturned and prosperity uprooted. The 
 future presented only the impenetrable blackness of 
 despair. 
 
 Filled with such sentiments and apprehensions, 
 Geoffrey Hunter left his affairs in the hands of the 
 agent by whom they had been long and successfully 
 administered, and himself became one of that band of 
 self-expatriated exiles who, soon after the war, flaunted 
 the willow of the " Lost Cause " upon foreign soil, and 
 consoled themselves for the loss of what they deemed 
 their rights, by taking service under a despot — reveng- 
 ing themselves upon the nation which had but just put 
 down a rebellion, by undertaking a like enterprise for 
 a government whose existence was a mere accident. 
 While claiming to be chevaliers sa7is reproche^ they be- 
 came, in fact, soldiers of fortune, bartering for gold the 
 swords they had consecrated with such high resolves 
 and solemn vows. • 
 
 25 
 
410 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 As the bronzed and bearded veteran drove through 
 the streets of Perham, conscious of skill and power, on 
 the way to his new field of. action, he remembered that 
 day of early summer when he had marched along that 
 same street at the head of a band of heroes, enwreathed 
 as a victor and applauded to the echo. Now there was 
 no wreath on his brow. Was it because he represented 
 no high principle or worthy sentiment.-* Could it be 
 that he was mercenary } The thought chafed "him. 
 
CHAPTER XLI. 
 
 THE RESCUE, 
 
 GEOFFREY HUNTER was doomed to disappoint- 
 ment in his new adventure. The role of a Free 
 Lance did not comport with his nature. Besides, he 
 soon found that the advantages, so glowingly pictured 
 by his friend, were far more roseate when viewed from 
 a distance than they seemed on close approach. The 
 skies were no brighter, the air no purer, nor was the 
 comparison between the people he had left — even after 
 emancipation had become an accomplished fact — and 
 the mongrel, incoherent, half-savage masses with which 
 this tropical land of refuge abounded to be made in 
 any manner to the depreciation of the former. If there 
 was little hope for what these fastidious patriots fondly 
 termed their "country," there was infinitely less for that 
 which they had adopted. 
 
 Besides, there was not that swift decay, that utter 
 disintegration and destruction of the Government of 
 the Union after the war, which they had so confidently 
 expected and so vehemently predicted. The nation 
 seemed a little staggered in its career of progress by 
 the terrific shock of battle, but there was no weakness, 
 no indecision of purpose. It was the quiet of repose. 
 The stillness of the giant of the herd while he is 
 gathering his strength for a fresh onset. 
 
412 A J? OVAL gentleman: 
 
 These over-zealous apostles of the Lost Cause were 
 greatly amazed that the governmental structure of the 
 nation did not crumble and fall as one by one they 
 shook off the dust of their feet as a testimony against 
 it, and were not a litde disappointed at the result. 
 They did not take into account the fact that the 
 noblest spirits, the leading minds of the cause of 
 which they claimed to be the only faithful adherents 
 in defeat, had remained at home, following the lead of 
 that Christian soldier, the illustrious Lee, whose name 
 no American can trace without pride, and whose glory 
 would alone redeem the iniquity of the war if self- 
 sacrifice and unswerving devotion could obliterate the 
 stain of a causeless conflict. These good men, as true 
 to themselves as they had been to the Confederacy, 
 did not count the nation lost because their cause 
 had not jorospered in its results, but felt it their duty 
 to remain and give what aid they might in building up 
 the places which war had made desolate, and aiding 
 the people who had so faithfully followed their lead 
 in the terrible struggle through which they had passed. 
 
 God bless these noble men, their names and memo- 
 ries, greater in defeat than they could possibly have 
 been in victory, whose patriotism and devotion were 
 proof against the corrupting influence of humiliation 
 and misfortune ! 
 
 One by one, in a few short months, these Hannibals 
 of the rebellion, who had sworn eternal hatred to the 
 Yankee, and to whom the " Stars and Stripes " were so 
 offensive that they chose to wear the badge of despot- 
 ism rather than dwell under their shadow, came dropping 
 
THE RESCUE. 413 
 
 quietly back to the seats which had known them before. 
 Among these patriots who early repented his excessive 
 zeal was Geoffrey Hunter, and on the following Spring, 
 before the white-oak leaves were as large as squirrels' 
 ears, or the falling blossoms of the dogwood indicated 
 the proper season for planting, he was wandering about 
 his paternal mansion and broad plantations, moody, dis- 
 contented, and unsatisfied. 
 
 In one of his desultory rambles along the river which 
 found its way through the bottom-lands of Cold Spring, 
 Geoffrey Hunter was startled by a cry for help. Rush- 
 ing in the direction of the voice, he came out upon the 
 bank of the river at a point where it turned suddenly 
 from its course and swept over a half-submerged granite 
 ledge. Upon the point of one of these rocks, in the 
 very midst of the rushing waters, stood a boy of six or 
 seven ; fair as a lily, with long, golden, ringleted hair, 
 which was blowing about in the Spring sunlight while he 
 swung his blue-banded sailor-hat and shouted in delight 
 at the wild turbulence of the mad stream, which seemed 
 to be gloating in anticipation over its fair prey. He 
 had gone from rock to rock along the ledge, sometimes 
 stepping from one to another, sometimes running along 
 the timbers of a fish-trap which had once spanned the 
 stream at this point, and at others walking upon pieces 
 of drift-wood which had lodged against the jutting 
 rocks. Along one of these he had passed to the rock 
 where he now stood. His weight, though light, had 
 loosened the log and it had floated off, leaving him 
 upon the rock unconscious of danger. His nurse, a 
 colored girl of twelve or fourteen, unable to go to him, 
 
414 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 was running up and down the bank uttering frantic 
 shrieks for help. Just as Geoffrey came up, the boy, 
 attracted by these cries, turned round and saw himself 
 isolated from the bank as has been described, and in- 
 stinctively starting back, his foot slipped, and in an in- 
 stant the little sailor-hat, floating away upon the foam- 
 ing waters of the cascade, was all that could be seen 
 of the brave young boy. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter did not hesitate an instant. The 
 fierce impetuosity which carried him, sword in hand, 
 over the walls of Steadman, while his men were yet 
 far behind, was not dead. In a moment, gun and 
 game-bag were thrown aside, his boots off, and he was 
 running from rock to rock, towards the point where 
 the child disappeared. The waters raged about him 
 exultingly, as a new victim, rushing into their insatiate 
 grasp. They dinned their fierce greediness into his 
 ears, as he stood a second, watching for some indica- 
 tions of the child's whereabouts. Then they flung up 
 a tiny hand for an instant to decoy him into their 
 grasp, then whirled their victim farther away. He 
 smiled with grim joy at the danger that offered, and 
 answered the challenge of the waves by a long, low 
 leap, stretching himself along the water towards the 
 point where the child had disappeared. The sweep- 
 ing current caught his limbs, and drew them under 
 him, dashed him out of his course, and would 
 have hurled him broadside upon a sharp spur of the 
 rock, but his eye was too keen, and his arm too quick 
 
 and strong. He was borne around the jutting rock, 
 into the eddy where the child had last been seen. 
 
h 
 
 THE RESCUE. 
 
 " G«« and game-bag were thrown aside, his boots off, and he was running front 
 
 rock to rock,, toward the point where the child disappearedy — p. 414, 
 
THE RESCUE. 415 
 
 The foaming waters hide the bottom. Their cease- 
 less thunder dins in his ears terribly. The spray is 
 in his eyes. He can see no trace of the child. What 
 shall he do 1 Has the boy been carried out of the eddy 
 beyond the next shoal } Or has he sunk there .'' He 
 can see nothing to guide him. He swims round and 
 round like a disappointed retriever, seeking for sunken 
 prey. All at once he feels a silken mesh about his 
 hand. Have the water-sprites cast a net about him 1 
 He clasps it firmly, and raises his hand quickly to the 
 surface, bringing with it the dripping, blanched face 
 of the boy. Then he shouts with delight. But the 
 struggle is yet to come. The mad waters are not to 
 be cheated of their prey thus easily, and fling him 
 roughly back when he seeks to leave the eddy for the 
 shore. Then he gathers the strong nankeen jacket of 
 the boy in his teeth, throws one of the limp arms over 
 his neck, and with his burden thus on his shoulder, and 
 the strong arms free to battle with the currents, he 
 strikes out for the shore. The struggle is a hard one, 
 but the sturdy swimmer triumphs, and brings the boy 
 in safety to the bank. 
 
 He loses not a moment, but begins to strip the 
 clinging garments from the flaccid form which he lays 
 upon the grass, in the warm sunshine, wrapped in the 
 coat which he had himself thrown off, and begins press- 
 ing the chest, and raising and lowering the arms, to in- 
 duce respiration. He hushes the clamor of the nurse 
 with harsh words, and, quickening her memory with a 
 blow, bids her run for whiskey and blankets. 
 
 " Remember," he shouts, as she flies from him, 
 
416 A ROYAL GENTLEMAM, 
 
 "blankets and whiskey, or I'll throw you in where he 
 came from." 
 
 Then an idea strikes him. There is a bed of soft, 
 gray sand, just above the shoal, which the river has 
 thrown upon the bank in high water. It must be heated 
 now by the warm rays of the Spring sun. If the boy 
 were in that his limbs would soon lose their chill. He 
 picks him up and runs. His knees are w^eak and trem- 
 bling, from his struggle with the river. The water rings 
 in his ears, and his head spins with excitement and 
 fatigue. But he pushes on. He stumbles over logs and 
 rocks. His feet and legs are bruised by frequent falls. 
 Once his head is cut. The brambles tear him, and the 
 bushes cling about him, but, at length, he reaches the 
 bed of sand. He lays the boy down, and with his hands 
 scoops out a bed in the warm mass. Then he unwraps 
 the coat and lays the white form upon the gray, glittering 
 sand, in the place which he has made for him, and heaps 
 the hot particles about it. The naked form is covered 
 deep in an instant, all but the chest and head. He folds 
 the coat and lays it under the boy's head, and begins 
 again his labor of coaxing life back into the little form. 
 
 He thought vaguely how some mother's heart would 
 bleed should the brave boy never breathe again, and 
 labored with redoubled energy, watching for some signs 
 of success. These came at length — first, a soft, low sigh> 
 so low that he almost thought it but imagination, then 
 another and another; then beads of sweat upon the 
 brow, before so pallid and clammy ; then a slight flush 
 of the fair cheek, and finally the eyes opened and gazed 
 at him unconsciouslv. He was saved. 
 
THE RESCUE. 417 
 
 At this moment voices came to his ears — a mother's 
 voice, shrieking, "My boy! my boy!" 
 
 Geoffrey was weak and trembling with his exertions, 
 but he answered the hail, hoarsely and with difficulty, 
 "Here! Here!" 
 
 The sun seemed swimming in space, and burning 
 his very brain. He thought that a woman came rushing 
 along the bank and snatched the child to her bosom. 
 She was young and beautiful, though tearful and pallid, 
 panting with fatigue and fright. 
 
 He thought. No — he wasn't sure — yes — it was Toi- 
 nette I 
 
 Then his brain reeled, and the darkness which had 
 settled down upon him at Steadman, seemed about to 
 throw over him again its horrible pall. He looked up 
 and saw Betty Certain standing before him administer- 
 ing to himself one of the remedies which he had sent 
 for to resuscitate the boy. It was a strange group 
 which stood around the child he had saved, and the 
 mind of Geoffrey could think only of the changes which 
 time had wrought, as he was driven home that balmy 
 evening, with the thanks of the young mother ringing in 
 his ears, along the very road by which he had brought 
 his pet chattel a few years before, to Lovett Lodge. 
 
CHAPTER XLTT. 
 
 INHEROWNRIGHT. 
 
 IMMEDIATELY upon the recovery of Geoffrey Hun- 
 ter at Washington, Toinette had returned to Oberlin, 
 and soon after disposed of her little property there, in 
 order that she might comply with the repeated requests 
 of Betty Certain that she should return and enjoy that 
 which she was entitled to receive under her father's 
 will. 
 
 Her head was full of strange, wild notions of the 
 future. The dissipation of one dream did not destroy 
 all of her hallucinations. She had once been the actual 
 mistress of Lovett Lodge, and she now longed to be the 
 acknowledged head of the establishment. Her rela- 
 tions with the subject race had been so slight in reality, 
 that she could be pardoned for half-overlooking their 
 influence upon her destiny, in estimating the future. 
 Yet, through all her dreams would come that ominous 
 "Toinette! Toinette!" of the hospital. 
 
 With a strange medley in her mind, therefore, she 
 went back to Lovett Lodge. It was her home. Her 
 heart had clung about it ever since her eyes had missed 
 the shadow of its majestic oaks, and she had gone away 
 to live among strangers. More than anything else her 
 kinship to the enslaved race was manifested in her 
 strangely intense attachment to locality. Her little 
 
IN HER WN RIGHT. 419 
 
 cottage at the North had never been her home. It was 
 only a temporary abode to her. She always looked 
 back to the loosely-built, rambUng Lodge, as her ideal 
 of a home. 
 
 To this place so eventful in her life she now re- 
 turned, and soon became thoroughly domesticated in 
 her old haunts. She did not inform her friends and 
 neighbors where she intended to go, because she had a 
 sort of instinct that it was not well that she should 
 carry with her, into her new life, too much of the old. 
 
 Old Maggie and many of those who had been her 
 fellow-servants had been emancipated by decree of the 
 King of Kings before the Liberator had signed that 
 proclamation which was to be an estoppel of record 
 against the claims of every American citizen who sought 
 to hold property in man. 
 
 Owing also to the general removal of the freedmen 
 at the close of the war, but few were left in the neigh- 
 borhood of Lovett's who could have recognized Toi- 
 nette as a former inmate of the Lodge. The chances 
 of recognition were greatly lessened also, by the se- 
 cluded life which she had led as Geoffrey Hunter's 
 favorite, and the fact that, although a slave, she had 
 never associated much with the servants, and was only 
 known to those who waited about the Lodge. 
 
 When, therefore, the well-dressed, refined, and at- 
 tractive Mrs. Hunter, with her beautiful boy, came the 
 Summer after the surrender and took up her residence 
 at the Lodge, whose occupant, Mrs. Betty Certain, 
 greeted her as an old acquaintance, no questions were 
 asked in regard to her. 
 
4-20 A JiOYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 The war and its results had made strange bed- 
 fellows, and it was generally assumed that Mrs. Hunter 
 was a lady much above Betty Certain's rank in life, but 
 not so well supplied with the essentials of comfortable 
 living as the executrix of the last will and testament of 
 Arthur Lovett. In short, that she was the relict of 
 some brave man whom the war had swallowed up — a 
 widow in decayed circumstances. Her generally som- 
 ber attire strengthened this opinion, and the only re- 
 mark occasioned by her presence, was that excited by 
 her beauty. So, she had since dwelt quietly at the 
 Lodge with her old friend. 
 
 Upon Betty Certain the effect of her presence was 
 remarkable. There seemed to be a constant struggle 
 going on in her mind as to the proper demeanor to be 
 adopted towards the new inmate of the house she had 
 occupied alone for five years. When they had lived 
 there before, Toinette had actually been its mistress, al- 
 though a slave, and it was but natural that she should 
 now assume the privileges and familiarities to which she 
 had then been accustomed. To the poor white woman 
 this was not so easy. She could not forget that the 
 woman who was her guest had been a slave, and was 
 supposed to have in her veins a stain of African blood 
 — remote and obscure, it was true — but by presumption 
 of law and of birth, still there. She had a strange fond- 
 ness for Toinette — who was wonderfully like Arthur 
 Lovett in form and feature, and in many of her inteU 
 lectual characteristics. While she remained a slave-girl 
 there could be no mistake m regard to their relations, 
 and she had not scrux)led to exhibit this fondness to- 
 
IN HER WN RIGHT, 421 
 
 wards her. Then, too, she herself was only Betty Cer- 
 tain, living on the old Certain tract ; not having arrived 
 at that dignity and importance in the neighborhood 
 which had resulted from the control of the Lovett 
 estate in her capacity of executrix, and, as everybody 
 supposed, sole heir of the same. Now it was different. 
 
 She had been taught to consider slavery as a wrong. 
 " Granther Ezra " had so esteemed it, and had refused 
 to contaminate his soul with the touch of the " unclean 
 thing," and had enjoined this doctrine, like the com- 
 mandment of " Jonadab, the son of Rechab," upon "his 
 sons, their wives, and their children, forever." Arthur 
 Lovett thought slavery wrong, yet practiced it, and 
 suffered by its scath. So Betty Certain had no love for 
 slavery, and was glad it was destroyed. But then, she had 
 no love for the enslaved race either. She was no more 
 in favor of their farther advancement than the proudest 
 aristocrat of the old slave regime. She had been poor ; 
 her family was poor as far back as she knew it ; but 
 she was white,, and was proud of the fact — perhaps 
 prouder than otherwise she would have been, because, 
 she nad little other ground for vanity. She could not 
 forget this and associate with any one having a soup^on 
 of the unfortunate blood in their veins, upon terms ap- 
 proaching to equality, without some qualms of pride, if 
 not of conscience. 
 
 Therefore it was, that while the "poor white " woman 
 really loved her whom she had nursed and petted as a 
 slave girl without thought of degradation or contami- 
 nation resulting therefrom, she found it necessary, as 
 she thought, to maintain a certain distance and reserve 
 
422 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 towards the elegant and refined creature into which time 
 and fortune had transformed her, lest she should lower 
 herself by a recognition of the social equality of one 
 even infinitesimally akin to the inferior race. 
 
 Toinette having unconsciously arrogated to herself 
 the first place in the household, Betty Certain could only 
 maintain the distance she deemed essential to her dig- 
 nity as a person of unmixed Caucasian descent by resum- 
 ing the inferior one she had formerly held. So that any 
 one who had casually observed the menage at the Lodge 
 would have taken Toinette for the luxuriously-inclined 
 and somewhat careless mistress, and Betty Certain for 
 the exceedingly faithful housekeeper and manager, who 
 took all care from her shoulders. 
 
 This delicate " distinction in regard to race, color, 
 and previous condition," in the mind of the poor white 
 woman, did not seem to extend to the boy " Geoffrey." 
 Indeed, it appeared to be somewhat regretfully enter- 
 tained — as a matter of duty only — towards the mother. 
 Whether it was the additional strain of Anglo-Saxon, 
 .the increased remoteness of the typical Ethiopian, the 
 difference of sex, the tender years, or the irresistible 
 winsomeness of the boy himself, certain it was that he 
 walked into the heart of the childless woman, and set up 
 a kingdom there over which he was the undisputed 
 autocrat. The wealth of love which Betty Certain could 
 not display towards Toinette because of the inherent 
 ineradicable antagonism of race, she lavished more 
 abundantly upon her child. It may have been illogical, 
 but it was natural. Even the subtle instincts of the poor 
 white could not trace in that blue-eyed, sunny-haired 
 
IN HER WN RIGHT. 423 
 
 young Adonis, who so strangely mingled the traits of 
 Geoffrey Hunter and Arthur Lovett, any hint upon which 
 this unconquerable and inscrutable aversion could be 
 based. So she assumed the responsibilities of aunthood 
 toward him without scruple, and cutdid the young 
 mother in loving obedience to the imperious little 
 tyrant. 
 
CHAPTER XLIIL 
 
 AS OF OLD. 
 
 IF Geoffrey Hunter came frequently to Lovett Lodge 
 during the illness of the child whom he had saved, 
 his visits were accounted those of condolence and sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 He could not have avoided being interested in the 
 little life which hung trembling in the balance for many 
 days, even if he had not been aware that this fluttering 
 soul was but an offshoot of his own existence. He had, 
 too, somewhat of the pride of paternity, which led him 
 to regard this brave, beautiful boy with actual solicitude. 
 He recognized the dauntless spirit which had led him 
 on from rock to rock, amid the mad rush of the wild 
 rapid, as akin to the reckless daring of his own nature. 
 As the child grew better, and he sasv more of his pecu- 
 liarities, he could not but recognize himself — his way 
 and manner, in a thousand trifles, by others unnoticed. 
 The boy's mind was an open volume to him, which he 
 read with ease by the light of his own memory and in- 
 stinct. It was a delightful study, which, by its very 
 novelty, blotted from his mind, for the time being, the 
 peculiar relations of the child and the mother to him- 
 self. It amused him to note how familiar the boy's 
 mental lineaments seemed to his own consciousness. 
 The boy's development was an open book of ever- 
 
AS OF OLD, 425 
 
 increasing interest to the watcher, to whom, in a double 
 sense, he owed his life, who recognized each movement, 
 attitude, and gesture as his own, and seemed instinctive- 
 ly able to divine what he would do or say under any 
 given circumstances. 
 
 Every day he called to inquire as to the boy's re- 
 covery, and long before it was completed had become a 
 familiar visitant at his bed-side. Instinctively the boy 
 seemed attracted to his new friend. Utterly unconscious 
 of the relation which subsisted between them, he still 
 seemed to recognize a kindred nature. He looked for 
 Geoffrey's coming anxiously, and was fretful and uneasy 
 if it was delayed after the usual hour. 
 
 Absorbed in the danger which threatened her child, 
 Toinette had hardly time to observe who it was that 
 brought him to her arms. During the sorrowful days 
 that followed her solicitude was so great that she scarcely 
 noticed the presence of Geoffrey at the Lodge, All 
 thought of their previous relations was blotted from 
 her mind. She had no time to think of anything except 
 her darling boy. She had dreamed so often, too, of a 
 glad time to come when her boy's .^'<xther should ac^ 
 knowledge the relationship, and should share with her 
 the joys and sorrows of parentage, that it hardly seemed 
 strange to see him sitting by the bedside and soothing 
 the little sufferer. Why should he not ! It was his boy 
 as well as hers. She was almost glad in this hour, 
 when the death-angel hovered close above her darling, 
 that another heart shared, as she believed it did, her 
 parental anguish. 
 
 Dim, fragmentary thoughts like these were all that 
 
 96 
 
4;>G A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 she gave to Geoffrey Hunter in those dark hours, while 
 life struggled with death for the prize of that fair form. 
 The keen-eyed, poor-white woman, Betty Certain, 
 knowing nothing of the later relations between Geof- 
 frey and Toinettc, long accustomed to seeing them to- 
 gether at the Lodge and having unbounded love for 
 both, was equally blind to his presence and its possible 
 consequences. Geoffrey's upright conduct in regard to 
 the Lovett estate, his bravery and suffering in the war, 
 and, above all, as it seemed to her, his honorable and 
 even generous course toward Toinette herself, had won 
 her confidence and admiration beyond comparison with 
 all other men, excepting always Arthur Lovett, of sainted 
 memory. It was true that Geoffrey Hunter, having the 
 young girl under his control, and in his charge, had 
 used the opportunities afforded by his position in a 
 manner altogether wrong and improper. He had no 
 right to make his slave-girl the mother of his children. 
 It was wicked. Arthur Lovett had erred in the same 
 way, but Geoffrey had generously atoned for his fault. 
 He had freed the servant woman who had shared his 
 embraces, and had thereby discharged his debt, made 
 compensation to Toinette, and also avoided the crime of 
 enslaving his own offspring. Betty Certain looked upon 
 it in no harsher light than this. Tenderly as she had 
 always regarded Toinette, she had never properly esti- 
 mated her love for Geoffrey. She had never realized 
 that the all-absorbing, self-forgetting passion which dwelt 
 in her own heart for Arthur Lovett might have its 
 counterpart in that which Toinette gave to Geoffrey. 
 She would have admitted, if asked, that the girl loved 
 
AS OF OLD. 427 
 
 her former master, or had loved him, at least, but she 
 would have used the term with a limited significance. It 
 had never occurred to her that the devotion which had 
 sanctified the years of her own life to vestal service at 
 the shrine of a holy memory might also dwell in the 
 bosom of Toinette. 
 
 Perhaps it is not strange. There was something so 
 obnoxious to the mutuality of sentiment and regard 
 which perfect love demands in the relation of slavery, 
 that it is scarce a matter of wonder that one knowing 
 this relation to exist should suppose love to be an im- 
 possible concomitant. Besides, she had never done full 
 justice to Belle Lovett, who, with all her errors, had 
 loved Arthur vv^ith a wild intensity, as sincere if not as 
 pure as her own. She thought she did, but in her in- 
 most heart she rejoiced that the relation between them 
 had been that of master and menial. She put her own 
 devoted attachment on a higher plane. It was of a no- 
 bler grade — a better rank, somehow. She had never 
 been much disturbed by the love which he had avowed 
 for his slave, because she zvas a slave. She was a poor 
 creature. Arthur had wronged her ; but he desired to 
 make reparation, and would have done so, had he lived. 
 As his agent and trustee, she would do it yet. That 
 was all right, all proper, and it was enough. She 
 counted the love of the slave-woman as something 
 which could be priced and paid for. It partook in 
 her mind of the chattel nature of the giver. Its re- 
 jection and violation were the subject matter of com- 
 pensation. She would not justify — she never had 
 justified — such conduct on the part of Geoffrey or Ar- 
 
428 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 thur. It was wrong for them to be the paramours of 
 bondwomen — not because they spurned and crushed 
 the flowers of love beneath their feet; but because the 
 canons of decency and morality were violated. It 
 was wrong for Geoffrey Hunter to make the slave-girl 
 Toinette the amusement of his leisure moments, not 
 so much because of the wrong which he did to her, 
 as on account of the evil which he wrought to him- 
 self. 
 
 She had never contemplated it as a possibility that 
 the girl Toinette could aspire to love Geoffrey Hunter 
 as an equal might have done — that she should ever 
 dream of being the one love, the all in all, the wife, of 
 her master. 
 
 As the boy recovered, his attachment for his new 
 friend gained strength. He rode with him almost daily. 
 Short, careful trips at first, gradually growing longer 
 as his strength increased. Thus the former master 
 became again a familiar presence at Lovett Lodge. 
 
 As Toinette's care for her child relaxed with his 
 returning health, she began to consider the embarrass- 
 ments of her position with the seriousness which they 
 required. Her eyes had been opened as well as 
 Geoffrey's, though in a different sense. She remem- 
 bered always, with unutterable horror, that scene in 
 the hospital, and felt that an impassable chasm lay 
 between them. She knew her position and her weak- 
 ness, and felt that she could neither expose herself to 
 the suspicions which his frequent visits would soon 
 engender, nor trust her own heart to see him amid 
 the surroundings of their former intimacy. She owed 
 
AS OJ^ OLD. 429 
 
 It to herself, her child, the race to which she was 
 so strangely allied, and to the womanhood which had 
 sprung to life in her heart, to put an end to their 
 association. How should this be done ? There was 
 but one way to accomplish it without exposing her- 
 self to annoyance and mortification. She must leave 
 Lovett Lodge, and leave it for good. She arrived at 
 this conclusion one morning while her boy was taking 
 his accustomed ride with his new-found friend. Geof- 
 frey's demeanor toward her, during her affliction, had 
 been strictly that of a gentleman. Neither by word 
 nor look had he presumed upon their former relation 
 His courtesy had been unobtrusive and unaffected. 
 Instinctively he had recognized the lady whom his 
 comrades in the hospital had discovered in Toinette. 
 At first he had been at a loss for a convenient term by 
 which to address her. He could not bring himself to 
 call her "Mrs. Hunter." He felt that it would not 
 do to address her as " Toinette," so he had fallen back 
 on the indefinite "Madame," which, being very generally 
 used in that section, was liable to no objection on the 
 score of formality or affectation, as it might be in a 
 Northern community. 
 
 Toinette saw and appreciated this delicacy. She 
 regretted then for the first time that she had ever as- 
 sumed the name of Mrs. Hunter, though in truth it was 
 a fiction which chance had put ready made into her 
 hands. Geoffrey had taken the deed for the little house 
 which he had purchased for her in the name of Antoi- 
 nette Hunter, adding the master's name to her slave- 
 appellative, and Toinette's modesty and propriety of 
 
430 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 deportment, together with her stiidioiisness and the de- 
 votion she manifested to her child, so impressed her 
 neighbors that they instinctively termed her Mrs. Hun- 
 ter, without inquiry as to the fact of wifehood. The 
 war which came on so soon after she had come among 
 them, and the cutting off of all communication between 
 the North and South, was accepted by all as a good and 
 sufficient reason for the absence of the man whom they 
 had assumed to be her husband. So, without a suspicion 
 as to her origin, they had accepted her as free, white, 
 and married — a woman to be pitied because of the 
 separation which the war had wrought between herself 
 and her husband. 
 
 To say that Toinette did not encourage this idea, 
 after it had become prevalent, would be untrue. It 
 was hardly to be expected of poor human nature that 
 she would fail to put herself on the vantage-ground 
 which was thus laid open to her footsteps. In doing 
 so, however, she was quite unconscious of an intent to 
 deceive, and only anxious to secure herself from re- 
 mark and aspersion by what seemed a providential stu- 
 pidity of the people among whom she was thrown. 
 She was afraid now that Geoffrey would attribute its 
 adoption to herself and thereby infer the existence of 
 that secret dream which she had nourished so long, and 
 which had in part originated from the bestowal of this 
 title upon her and the role which she had been almost 
 compelled, in consequence, to adopt. 
 
 Clearly, she must leave the Lodge, and at once. 
 Her dream was dissipated. Her idol broken. Yet she 
 loved Geoffrey Hunter as fervently as ever. In justice 
 
AS OF OLD. 431 
 
 to herself she must flee his presence, which, however 
 loved, could only contaminate. 
 
 Toinette did not for a moment contemplate delay, 
 nor underestimate its dangers. She had laid this down 
 as her rule of conduct, that if her life should ever be 
 made known to her boy, he should have no cause to 
 blush for any act of hers after she became free. She 
 would keep herself pure for his sake, not only from 
 evil, but from its very appearance and the possibility of 
 its imputation. 
 
 She had a dim idea that she had not always been 
 mistaken as to the nature of the regard which Geoffrey 
 Hunter had once entertained for her. She went back 
 over her life here at the Lodge; his fondness for her 
 society, his enjoyment of her presence and conversation, 
 his evident regret at her absence, even the course which 
 he adopted in her emancipation, convinced her that his 
 regard for her was something more than the mere liking 
 of a licentious man for his mistress. She believed that 
 even yet he loved her. Perhaps it was her desire that 
 he should — her quenchless love for him — which led her 
 to this belief. At the same time she did not think that 
 he would ever give it the sanction of public acknowl- 
 edgement. She knew the world now too well, and ap- 
 preciated its prejudices too justly, to think thai^ even 
 for a moment. His attachment, his love, she believed 
 to be sincere, but she felt that he would never manifest 
 it in a form which she could recognize or permit without 
 self-abasement and shame. She feared that he might 
 desire to renew their former relations, and determined to 
 go away before this insult to her love should be offered. 
 
432 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 She sat in the library of the Lodge, in the old arm- 
 chair which Geoffrey had so often occupied when he was 
 master there, in which Arthur Lovett sat when the hand 
 of love — transformed to hate by a series of strange events 
 — loosed the silver cord of his life. 
 
 The memories of the past came over her, and she 
 wept at the destruction of its bright visions. She half- 
 wished she could have remained a slave, uninformed of 
 the nobler duties and obligations of free womanhood. 
 The love of Geoffrey Hunter — she was sure she would 
 have enjoyed that — would have compensated her 
 for much. If he had but remembered his Toinette ! — 
 how sweet that name had sounded upon his lips ! — she 
 would never have dreamed of marriage — never would 
 have thought it wrong — at least not seriously wrong. 
 Oh ! it would have been sweet to have been his — worth 
 '■ — almost the pangs and debasements of slavery ! 
 
 She wept as she thought of it. Had freedom been 
 worth its price ? What had she received by it 1 Her- 
 self, volition, certainly; but with isolation, friendless- 
 ness! There was no one to love her, hardly a friend 
 in whom she could confide. Just sufficiently con- 
 nected with the menial race to be spurned by the 
 dominant one, her position as associated with the 
 one was always liable to suspicion and detection, and 
 to identify herself with the other was to step down 
 the ladder of development to a level which she shud- 
 dered to contemplate. She had risen far above the 
 mass of the lately subject race. By education and cult- 
 ure she was the equal, aye, the superior, of thousands 
 of the master race. She felt this, and the sting of her 
 
JS OF OLD. 433 
 
 destiny was all the sharper for its knowledge. She was 
 not a missionary. She did not care to devote herself to 
 the elevation of the freed people. She loved the good 
 things of life, her own enjoyments, light, love, music, 
 pleasant and agreeable surroundings. She was not wide 
 in her views. She did not care to make the world so 
 much better for her having lived in it. She did not 
 think she was called to do it, perhaps scarcely thought 
 of it at all. 
 
 She was not strong-minded, only strong-hearted; 
 did not love everybody, only a few ; but those few she 
 loved wildly, passionately — not because it was her duty, 
 but because she delighted in loving them. She did not 
 like hardships or sacrifice. She did not worship ab- 
 stract right. The dictates of her heart prevailed always 
 over the edicts of reason. She could endure anything, 
 everything for one she loved, and esteem it a joy, a 
 privilege, so to do ; but she had no love for general 
 humanity which could sweeten labor or sacrifice in its 
 behalf. The good which was in her nature was con- 
 crete, not abstract. She loved her own, herself, her boy, 
 her friends, and, above all, her master, Geoffrey Hunter [ 
 
 Therefore it was, that while she sat and wept over 
 the shattered memories of the past, almost regretting the 
 slave life she had lost, when she heard the voice of her 
 boy returning from his ride her regret instantly van- 
 ished. Her tears were dried at once. Her mother-love 
 was the mystic solvent of her unworthy doubt. She 
 would go away at once for his sake. She would take 
 him where knowledge of his origin and parentage could 
 never come — to the world's end if need be. He should 
 
 T 
 
434 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 never know shame. His proud spirit should never be 
 humbled and broken with the stigma of ignoble birth. 
 She would be what she seemed — a lady. He should 
 never blush for his mother. He should never know that 
 the proud man who petted him now was his father, or 
 that the slave Toinette was his mother. Toinette was 
 dead ! She would bury her ! 
 
 It was in that instant that the iron of slavery en- 
 tered deeper into her soul than ever before. She saw 
 how it had blasted her love and shriveled her life. 
 That terrible "Toinette! Toinette!" of the hospital 
 rang in her ears as she heard the prattling of her boy 
 and the footsteps of Geoffrey ascending the very stairs 
 down which the ghost of Lovett Lodge had disappeared 
 while she lay prostrated with the dagger-stroke so many 
 years ago. Why had she ever risen to life again ? She 
 wished she had died ! 
 
 Hastily wiping away her tears, she went to the library 
 door to meet them as they stepped upon the porch. 
 Her mind was made up. She would announce her 
 decision without delay. What must be done should be 
 done at once. 
 
CHAPTER XLIV. 
 
 "get thee behind me, SATAN." 
 
 "/^~AH, mamma!" said the boy, running towards her, 
 ^^^ his cheek glowing with restored health, and his 
 eyes radiant with animation and joy. *' Oh, mamma ! 
 may I go home with Col. Hunter? He says he has a 
 great big house, and a pony, and a dog, and — and the 
 dog's name is Leon, and he is the nicest old fellow- 
 only not so nice as another Leon who died long ago — 
 and no little boy at all. Please mamma, let me go. 
 That's a dear, pretty mamma!" said the artless child, 
 caressing the fair head that bowed to kiss his upturned 
 face. 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter gazed upon the pretty picture with 
 a strange medley of emotions. He was both proud and 
 envious of the bright boy, whose arm encircled that fair 
 neck and who received those caresses. He almost for- 
 got that it was but his former slave girl and her brat. 
 His heart was clamoring for her love, and his tongue 
 burned to utter the prayer of affection. 
 
 Toinette having hushed the child's prattlings, rose 
 and stood holding his hand, as she said with grave 
 earnestness : 
 
 "Do you really desire it, sir.?" 
 
 " Indeed I do," answered Geoffrey, " and if you 
 will permit him to go, I will promise to take the best 
 care of him while he is with me." 
 
436 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN'. 
 
 " I do not doubt that, sir," she replied, her eyes 
 looking straight into his with an unshrinking steadiness, 
 which made his own waver before their calm light, and 
 added, with the same quiet gravity, " I know you would ; 
 yet I have one request to make before I can give my 
 permission." 
 
 " You know I will grant any request you can make, 
 madame," he answered quickly, almost tenderly. 
 
 " It is only that " she hesitated, and a slight 
 
 blush overspread her face, but her gaze did not lose its 
 steadiness, nor her voice its tone of gentle dignity, as 
 she continued : " Only that you will promise that he 
 shall never love his mother less for granting him this 
 favor." 
 
 There was no mistaking her meaning. The emphasis 
 was too marked to be unnoticed. She wished to seal 
 his lips as to the past. That past swept by -him an in- 
 stant panorama, as his eyes fell before hers for a moment. 
 Then he raised them and gazed at her again, as she stood 
 in his presence. The past was dead in her. The present 
 and the future alone were written in her face. There 
 was no shame, no consciousness of impurity or inferior- 
 ity in her look. It was the unshrinking gaze of a candid 
 woman, conscious of what her son might some day re- 
 gard as a fault, yet full of conscious innocence and 
 purity. There was neither reproach nor entreaty. Just 
 the inquiry whether he would let the past remain sealed 
 to the child. His face flushed as he answered 
 warmly : 
 
 " You do not think I would do anything to prevent 
 
 it r 
 
''GET THEE BEHIND ME, SATAN." 437 
 
 Then all at once he remembered that scene in the 
 hospital. His eyes fell, and he added confusedly and 
 humbly : 
 
 " I beg pardon ; I had forgotten that you have reason 
 to think ill of me. You have my promise. I had hoped 
 that my conduct since then would have obliterated that 
 memory." 
 
 His eyes flashed up at her a look of haughty, 
 passionate reproach. Poor Toinette ! She had not 
 expected this. She was not armed at all points. 
 She saw him in his magnificent strength and courage 
 breasting the rushing stream, reckless of his own lifej to 
 save that fair-haired treasure by her side. Instinctively 
 she sank down by the boy and clasped him in her 
 arms. A flood of tears gushed over his golden locks, 
 as with trembling lips she said : 
 
 " It has, it has — a thousand times. I did not mean 
 that. You do not think I did V she asked, as she raised 
 her eyes, welling over with tears, to his face. 
 
 " No, no," he answered, hastily, "but will you let me 
 have the -boy for a while.''" 
 
 "Yes, certainly. Run, Geoffrey, and tell nurse to 
 get you ready." She kissed the boy, and stood before 
 him again, self-poised and calm. " You have a right to 
 ask it, and there will be no opportunity hereafter. But 
 you must bring him back on Monday." 
 
 " Why so soon .''" 
 
 "We shall leave here on Wednesday." 
 
 " Leave on Wednesday } Leave the Lodge, do you 
 mean .'*" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
438 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 "Where are you going?*' 
 
 "I do not know." 
 
 "Do not know? When will you return?" 
 
 "Never." 
 
 His quick glance half read her thought. " You are 
 going to avoid me," he said. She turned pale and 
 leaned against the doorway for support, but did not 
 answer. He turned and strode, with quick, angry steps, 
 along the porch. Then he wheeled suddenly, and came 
 back. 
 
 " Toinette, why do you treat me thus ? You know 
 that I love you, and am miserable without you. Have 
 I not suffered enough for one thoughtless act ? Have 
 I not treated you kindly and tenderly ever since ? You 
 do not love me, or you would forget it." 
 
 His voice was tremulous with emotion, and his eyes 
 burned into her very soul. She looked into them, 
 and saw the yearning love of his passionate nature. 
 Poor Toinette, how her own heart throbbed responsive 
 to that fierce appeal! She knew that he loved her, 
 loved her as he never could, or would, love, any other 
 woman. He was not speaking to the slave-girl. His 
 manner was earnest, respectful, tender. It was the lan- 
 guage of a thirsty soul, asking the love of its fellow, free, 
 untrammeled, pure. He had forgotten all else. She was 
 all the world to him in that hour of love's supremest 
 mastery. "Toinette" — "Toinette!" How sweet was 
 that name now breathed in the tender, trembling accents 
 of his lips. Poor weak heart, what wonder that the 
 world slipped away from her view, too. Geoffrey — her 
 idol, her inaster — bowed before her and sought her love. 
 
''GET THEE BEHIND ME, SATAN." 439 
 
 Joy flushed her face. Her color came and went. The 
 glad tears defied restraint. She uttered a low cry, half 
 sob, half moan. She looked up at him and clasped 
 her hands, feebly and pleadingly. She trembled, and 
 would have fallen. Instantly the strong arms enclosed 
 her in their fervid grasp. She was pillowed on his 
 bosom, and his lips showered kisses upon lips and 
 brow. Her dream was fulfilled. Geoffrey loved her. 
 Life had no further joy. Yet even in that ecstatic mo- 
 ment there came over her enraptured soul a dim sense 
 of evil. But there could be no danger. His arms were 
 around her. She was at home. The warm, sweet sun- 
 shine lay peaceful and quiet upon the porch. The trees 
 stood in the calm of the mid-summer noon without a 
 leaf stirred by the wind. Nature was bathed in silence 
 and sunshine. Her joyous heart throbs were audible in 
 the hush of that bright mid-day. All was light and 
 love. 
 
 " Toinette, Toinette," he murmured as he clasped 
 her yet closer to his breast. " You are mine — mine al- 
 ways — you will not leave me } You must not leave 
 me ! We will live here at the Lodge and be happy, as 
 in the dear old times." 
 
 A cloud skirted the sunbeams. How quickly the 
 gloom succeeded the brightness. " The old times " 
 at the Lodge with Geoffrey Hunter! What different 
 pictures did those words bring to those two minds of 
 the war — its anticipations, glories, hopes, triumphs and 
 reverses, and its sad and bitter consequences swept be- 
 fore the eyes of one. Bondage and freedom, chat- 
 telism and self-assertion, existence and non-existence 
 
440 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 gleamed in ineffaceable contrast before the other. Slav- 
 ery and womanhood now stood before her in the future. 
 She must at this juncture elect the one or the other — 
 decide to be true to herself or to go back to moral 
 bondage. 
 
 She half released herself from his embrace, and 
 looking calmly yet eagerly in his face, repeated : 
 
 "As in the olden time?" 
 
 "Yes, yes, my dear, why not?" with a sudden ques- 
 tioning glance. 
 
 "Because the past can never be again." 
 
 " True, times have changed, but we may still be 
 happy as we were then." 
 
 "Have we not changed, too?" 
 
 " Changed ! how ? I have not changed toward you 
 Toinette?" 
 
 "Yet we can never be to each other as we have 
 been." 
 
 "Cannot! why?" 
 
 "Why? Why? Will you not see?" she cried in des- 
 peration, impetuously, at last. " Because a free woman 
 may not lend herself to the evil which slavery might 
 excuse." 
 
 His countenance darkened and his arms loosened 
 their clasp. 
 
 She stood before him calm, determined, unshrink- 
 ing. 
 
 " So," he cried, and Toinette remembered that ter- 
 rible moment in the hospital as she heard the tone. 
 " So you insist upon ' social equality,* I suppose. You 
 expect me to marry you, perhaps?" 
 
''GET THEE BEHIND ME, SATAN.'' 441 
 
 It was a harsh, cruel sneer, but Toinette did not 
 flinch. 
 
 " I expect and insist on nothing, Colonel Hunter," 
 she replied with dignity ; " but I will not sully love with 
 sin and shame. I demand nothing from others, but I 
 must, I will, respect myself." 
 
 "You presume on my love," said he, angrily; "you 
 think me so enamoured that I will degrade myself and 
 disgrace my family openly to obtain you. You are- 
 mistaken." 
 
 He turned away and walked angrily toward the 
 steps. As he started down them he looked up and saw 
 her gazing after him with a sad, tearful look. He came 
 back instantly. 
 
 " You did not mean it, Toinette. Say you did not 
 mean it," he cried, as he caught her clasped hands in 
 both his own. " You know it cannot be. You know 
 Geoffrey Hunter cannot marry one who — who — has been 
 a slave. It would disgrace him and his family forever. 
 Besides, the law* does not allow it. Our marriage would 
 
 * The legal presumptions arising out of a state of slavery were somewhat 
 peculiar, and now that it no longer exists, as a form of society, are likely to 
 be forgotten. Many Indians, as well as negroes, were enslaved, and no 
 doubt some persons of unmixed white blood also. The language of the old 
 statutes upon this subject is very suggestive. They declare "all Negroes, 
 Mulattos, Indians, Mezzotints, and other slaves who have been sold or held 
 as such, to be slaves, they and their children, except such as may be freed 
 for merit." From and after that time (about 1730) the condition of slavery 
 was heritable in the female line. Every child of a slave woman, no matter 
 what its race or color, was a slave and without legal remedy. It was a pre- 
 sumption which could be rebutted only by an act of manumission. 
 
 Connected with this was another and very essential presumption, to wit ; 
 That the individual who was held as a slave was presumed to be such until 
 the contrary was shown. It reversed the presumption of the commga law 
 37 
 
4:4:2 ^i ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 be a crime, and if attempted would be void. The very- 
 evil you seek to escape would be enhanced by it. But 
 I am certain you do not doubt that I love you as well 
 as wife ever was loved on earth." 
 
 "Don't— don't!" she wailed fitfully. "You would 
 not have me yield to sinful passion because the law pro- 
 hibits me a holy love.''" 
 
 "Would you have me degrade myself and make the 
 Hunter name a badge of infamy to obtain your love .'*" 
 
 "Would you degrade not only ourselves but our off- 
 spring for the sake of the Hunter name .'* You would 
 not expect a sister to even listen to such a proposal." 
 
 " Do be reasonable, Toinette, and lay aside your 
 high notions. Wherever did you get them from ? Free- 
 dom does not make you white any more than Lee's sur- 
 render made me black. You are not a lady, and need 
 not try to act the part of one. The barrier which na- 
 
 and put the onus of showing the fact of freedom upon the individual who 
 claimed to be unlawfully held. 
 
 Another presumption was that a person having more than one-stxtecfith 
 of colored blood ivas a slave ! It seems impossible, but such was the fact. 
 Reversing this too, but of less frequent application, and less clearly estab- 
 lished by judicial construction, was the presumption of color from the fact 
 of slavery. Nothing else appearing, the fact of slaveiy within three genera- 
 tions made the fairest Saxon, in the eye of the law, a "colored person," 
 This presumption was carried to a much greater extent in common thought 
 than by the courts. The terms "nigger" and "slave" were synonomous 
 in the common mind. 
 
 This is the manner in which Geoffrey Hunter is here represented as re- 
 ferring to the law, which, it may be remarked, prevails in nearly all of the 
 States, both Northern and Southern, prohibiting the marriage of persons of 
 colored blood with whites, and presuming all to be colored who have more 
 than one-sixteenth of negro or Indian blood. It would seem that Toinette 
 did not fall within this categor}% in strictness, but the fact that she had been 
 a slave fixed her status in his mind as clearly as if she had borne the fea." 
 tures of the despised race. 
 
''GET THEE BEHIND ME, SATAN?' 443 
 
 ture and the law has put between us matrimonially is 
 insuperable. Yet you know I love you. I cannot live 
 without you. Consider, Toinette, the difficulties. Why 
 can we not enjoy the substance without quarreling about 
 the shadow?" 
 
 Then she burst out on him. 
 
 "Because the passion which would degrade its ob- 
 ject is alike unworthy of the giver and the recipient, 
 and a disgrace to both. No gentleman would offer it to 
 any woman he pretended to love." 
 
 "Very well, madame," said he, bitterly, "you will 
 find that Geoffrey Hunter will never demean himself by 
 marrying a nigger ! You had better go back North and 
 try your wiles on some of the Yankees who have put 
 these infamous notions into your head. Social equality 
 will never prevail here; I can promise you that. Go, 
 by all means." 
 
 His brow black with the offended pride of race and caste, 
 Geoffrey Hunter left the woman whom he truly loved, 
 overwhelmed with anger because her virtue had resisted 
 his shameful advances. He passed down the steps and 
 out along the path where his horse was pawing and toss- 
 ing his head with impatience. 
 
 While they had talked, one of the sudden storms of 
 early summer had arisen. Now the black, dense clouds 
 with gray-rifted rain-fronts were coming, sweeping on, 
 and the wild breath of the mad storm was tossing the 
 leaves and bending the trees in its path. Its dark, chill 
 presence rested majestically upon the Lodge and its sur- 
 roundings, and its dull, fierce roar mingled with his 
 words of angry parting. 
 
444 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 He tore the bridle from the rack, and, jumping into 
 the frail vehicle, shook the lines, spoke sharply to the 
 fretting steed, and, with angry imprecations, dashed 
 along the road into the very face of the coming storm. 
 
 Upon the porch of the Lodge two figures watched 
 his course — the boy, who wept with disappointment, and 
 the woman, who shaded her eyes with her hand and with 
 a calm but mournful gaze watched his course until the 
 coming darkness veiled him from her view. 
 
CHAPTER XLV. 
 
 GOOD-BY, SWEETHEART. 
 
 THE day after his interview with Toinette at the 
 Lodge, Geoffrey Hunter wrote : 
 " Toinette : 
 
 " I cannot part from you thus in anger. T'orgive my 
 hasty temper, which seemed to make me do you injust- 
 ice. I was wrong and you were right ; quite right to re- 
 fuse all love but that which profiers honorable marriage. 
 And yet, Toinette, I cannot marry you, however wildly 
 I love you. You know that as well as I. Besides all 
 else there is the law, which puts an impenetrable wall 
 between us. It is said to be based on the law of God. 
 I do not know. It seems unreasonable, but we cannot 
 violate it, even if willing to face all other obstacles. It 
 would disgrace and ruin us both. But your presence 
 makes me forget all else. I can only remember that you 
 live — only seek to possess you. Do not go away, Toinette. 
 Perhaps the time may come when this cruel necessity will 
 not rest upon us. God knows what of change may not oc- 
 cur. I would willingly give up all else for your love, but I 
 cannot change my idenity — I cannot lose myself. Why has 
 not the convulsion which has wrought the miracle of liber- 
 ty for so many freed me also from the shackles of the past } 
 But alas ! it has not. I am still Geoffrey Hunter. I can be 
 
 445 
 
446 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 no other. The chains of the slave have been transfer- 
 red to the master. 
 
 " Grant me one brief interview at least before you go. 
 All will be dark afterward. That which would have 
 made me always happy is denied me. Do not refuse 
 me this last request, for the sake of the child I have 
 learned to love second only to yourself. 
 
 " Geoffrey Hunter." 
 
 Toinette sighed as she read. Geoffrey Hunter had 
 been her idol so long that defects in his character 
 were like motes in a sunbeam. She was sorry he had 
 written. He was much nobler in the fierceness of his • 
 wrath the day before. Her " royal gentleman " was 
 discrowned. It seemed belittling his manhood to con- 
 fess his love, and, at the same time, yield so tamely to 
 obstacles. She was ashamed that her Samson was 
 bound with the green withes of prejudice, and yielded 
 to their restraint so readily. Why was he given that 
 grand strength 1 Where was his manhood, that he 
 should sit down like a child and say, "I would, but I 
 dare not.'*" Something like contempt grew up in her 
 bosom, yet she did not wish to indulge in such feeling. 
 It was really mixed with sadness even now. 
 
 She was like an artisan who has wrought upon a 
 lens for many long and weary months, hoping and ex- 
 pecting that it will be clearer and stronger than any which 
 has ever before been made. Day by day he has cut and 
 carved, ground and polished, with tireless care and a 
 skill which only years of toil can give, and every night he 
 has guarded his work from injury with a love as jealous 
 
GOOD-BY, SWEETHEART. 447 
 
 as a miser would bestow upon a Koh-i-noor. With it he 
 expected that the arcana of nature might be unlocked, 
 and the mysteries of the heavens be read aright. But 
 just when it is ready for the mounting, and he comes to 
 apply the final test, he finds that it has one slight de- 
 fect. It is a very slight one. To any eye but that of 
 the scientific expert it is a perfect crystal — clear as a 
 diamond, exquisitely cut and finished. There is only 
 that little flaw where the fibres crossed and knotted in 
 cooling, where an imprisoned bubble produces a diver- 
 sion of the rays passing through it and distorts the 
 transmitted image. It is only a shght defect, but it is a 
 fatal one. So it was with this note. It was the bubble 
 in Geoffrey's mind to the love-testing gaze of Toinette. 
 It was easier to go away from him now that he was 
 so ready to give her up at the demand of prejudice. 
 If he had held his peace she would have given him 
 credit for suffering and enduring silently. She had not 
 really expected him to run counter to all that stood in 
 his way — at least not after that ruthless scene in the 
 hospital — until he had come with his eyes open to all 
 that time had wrought, and had sought her love. Even 
 then she did not entirely expect it ; but he might at 
 least have made an indignant protest against the shack- 
 les he was bound to wear. She would have suffered 
 all with him — for him — willingly, if he had bowed with- 
 out yielding. She did not demand marriage, but her 
 heart insisted on the love which sanctifies that relation. 
 It was the knowledge that he would be content with 
 less, that he would offer a love which would debase 
 its object, that he would persuade her to yield herself 
 
448 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 to shame, which cut her to the quick. She would go 
 away before her idol shattered himself completely at 
 her feet. She would not see him again. Henceforth 
 she had only her boy and herself. She would be 
 something that would take away the stigma of the 
 past. She would win what she did not inherit — a name 
 — a name without reproach. She was young yet — 
 only twenty-three. How wide the world seemed ! There 
 must be something in it for her to do and win. With 
 her boy to inspire, what might she not accomplish .? 
 Her dawning ambition made her spirit buoyant and 
 confident. She knew too little of the world to estimate 
 aright the obstacles before her. 
 
 So she sat down and wrote, in reply: 
 
 " Col. Hunter will pardon me for declining to accede 
 to his request. To do so would only produce unneces- 
 sary pain." 
 
 Then she pondered long as to how she should sign it. 
 She had the heritage of the slave — no patronymic. She 
 had been known as Mrs. Hunter. The freedman took 
 the name of his master. She had done the same, merely 
 following the custom, but she could bear that name no 
 longer. It was the badge of something more than bond- 
 age now — the name of a dead love, a perished hope. 
 She would bear her father's name hereafter. Slavery and 
 the past should thereby drop out of her life at once. It 
 should serve her present purpose, too. When she went 
 away from Lovett Lodge forever she would take with 
 her its name. She would be Antoinette Lovett. No 
 one would trace her by that. Even Geoffrey, if he 
 
GOOD-BV, SWEETHEART. 449 
 
 should try, would not think of such a simple subterfuge. 
 She would bury herself and her boy in the great busy 
 world. She would cut him off from his own past and 
 hers, by linking him in name with a still remoter past. 
 She would bear her father's name and belong to his race. 
 For the last time she would write the name which had 
 but lately sounded so sweetly in her ears, when uttered 
 by the lip whose accents she had heard for the last time. 
 She took her pen, signed the note " Toinette," and dis- 
 patched it to Geoffrey Hunter. 
 
 He was thunderstruck when he received it. The 
 petted slave-girl had made another metamorphosis. She 
 had not only met his love with warmth, and then repelled 
 his disgraceful overtures with the severity of a vestal, 
 but now she dismissed him with the dignity and cool- 
 ness of a queen, and the grace of a practiced coquette. 
 Would he never learn her many-sided character.? He 
 would see her, whether she desired it or not. He could 
 not part with her thus. Could he part with her at all.^^ 
 The world seemed empty enough without her presence. 
 Why should he give her up 1 Disgrace 1 What disgrace 
 had he to fear. They would be few — he smiled grimly 
 as he thought of it — who would attribute anything dis- 
 creditable to the man who was first over the walls 
 of Steadman — Fort Hell, they called it — appropri- 
 ately enough, too. He need not fear disgrace. A 
 few silly women might wag their tongues against him. 
 What did he care .? His prospects .? What prospects 
 had he to be injured by anything.? The war had de- 
 stroyed all hope of political preferment, and he had no 
 desire for any other. The fates had marked out an 
 
450 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 even course of life for nim as Geoffrey Hunter, gentle- 
 man farmer, or gentleman lounger, as the case might be. 
 Nothing more. Why should he not go abroad and 
 take Toinette with him ? That was poor Arthur Lov- 
 ett's plan. He w^ould have done better if he had car- 
 ried it out, too. He lacked nerve. It was not strange 
 that he did. It was a fearful thing to marry one 's own 
 nigger. He felt that. He would rather have faced 
 Fort Hell at its hottest than do the like. Yet he was 
 just at this moment considering it. Perhaps — pshaw/ 
 He would go and see her once more, anyhow. Just to 
 show her that he could demean himself as a gentleman, 
 if nothing more. She had said she was going on Wed- 
 nesday. He would see her on Tuesday evening. So 
 he determined. 
 
CHAPTER XLVI 
 
 A FAITHFUL STEWARDSHIP. 
 
 WHEN Toinette informed Betty Certain ot ner 
 determination, and the reasons which influenced 
 her in its adoption, the surprise of the good woman was 
 unbounded. 
 
 " Sure enough," she said; "the most natural thing in 
 the world, though I am at the first of it but this very 
 minute." 
 
 The more she considered the matter, the better she 
 seemed to appreciate Toinette's position and honor her 
 motives. 
 
 " Yes, certainly," she had said, " you cannot stay here 
 any longer; but where will you go, and what will you 
 do.?" 
 
 Toinette replied that she did not know. She would 
 go somewhere and find something to do. Of that she 
 was sure. Betty Certain was not satisfied. She wan- 
 dered about all Sunday afternoon, with her hands 
 clasped behind her like a man, thinking it over. And 
 when Toinette retired at night she left her still pacing 
 backward and forward in the moonlight under the bud- 
 ding oaks. 
 
 "Go to bed, child," she had said tenderly when Toi- 
 nette came to persuade her to retire. "Go to bed an' 
 sleep. Betty Certain 's got a heap to think of on your 
 
452 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN, 
 
 account to-night, and she hopes you '11 sleep sounder for 
 it many a night hereafter." 
 
 Youth, health, and an untroubled conscience enabled 
 Toinette to comply with this injunction in spirit as well 
 as letter. She woke once in the night and saw that her 
 old friend was not in her bed. She listened and could 
 not hear the monotonous tramp of the thoughtful watch- 
 er beneath the trees. She wondered at it, but soon slept 
 again. 
 
 She little thought that the poor-white woman that night 
 bowed by the rocky seat under the newly-leaved dogwood 
 trees, where Arthur Lovett had knelt twenty years before, 
 to ask for guidance in her duty toward Arthur Lovett 's 
 daughter. Did she seek for aid from God or Arthur 
 Lovett .'' It would be hard to tell. The two were strange- 
 ly blended in that brave and faithful heart. Arthur 
 Lovett's wish was, to her mind, but the reflex of God's 
 will; for the essence of both was right and truth. 
 
 For a long time she communed with the past, and 
 when she rose her mind had grasped its relations to the 
 present and the future in a manner quite satisfactory to 
 herself. She liad given up some cherished dreams, and 
 had prepared herself for another term of self-sacrifice 
 and devotion to the duty which Arthur Lovett had de- 
 volved on her as the price of his love. The next morn- 
 ing she asked Toinette to come into the library, and, 
 sitting there with the girl's head in her lap, she talked 
 of the future to her. 
 
 " I Ve been thinking, Toinie, what I ought to do in 
 the course things are taking now. You know I hev just 
 considered myself always as only a trustee or agent for 
 
A FAITHFUL STEWARDSHIP. 453 
 
 Arthur Lovett as regards the property here, which came 
 into my hands as executrix. You know it was his will 
 that one-half should go to your mother and her children 
 after the expense of freeing them had been paid, and 
 the other half to me. You were all to be freed, though, 
 'fore any division took place, if it took the whole estate 
 to do it. Well, as things turned out, there was n't any 
 need for that expense, so now the whole estate is for di- 
 vision. Your mother, brother, and sister are dead. I 
 managed to trace the latter, and found she died only a 
 year or two after being sold. So, you see, you and I are 
 the only heirs. You know I took the place in '60. It 's 
 been a bad time to farm since then, but it hain't run 
 down on my hands. I hired the hands to work it the 
 first year, and then the war began ; an' if I could ever 
 hev been tempted to buy a slave, I was saved from it by 
 the conviction, which I could never get rid of, that the 
 war would be a failure and slave property a dead loss 
 when it was over. Geoffrey Hunter tried to have me 
 buy, but I held off and kept on hirin'. Castin' about 
 for something in which to invest the money the crops 
 brought, I could think of nothin' that seemed to promise 
 a chance of safety but land. I thought that would be 
 here when the war was over, an' be less likely to be de- 
 stroyed than any other property. So I turned the terbac- 
 ker crop every year except the last one into land. Land 
 was high and not much on 't for sale, but I did the best 
 I could, an' it's turned out better 'n I expected. Most on 
 it joins the plantation here, so that now, instead of one 
 thousand acres, the Lovett Lodge plantation amounts to 
 nigh double that. Its all prime terbacker land, bringing 
 
454 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 a light staple but curing up bright and even, 30 as to just 
 suit the style of fine cured leaf that's all the rage now. 
 There are a few hundred dollars due on the last purchase 
 yet, but my last crop is in the hands of the commission 
 merchants, and at the wonderful price terbacker is bring- 
 ing since the war will not only pay this but leave a hand- 
 some surplus. It 's all good quality, a fine lot of light 
 wrappers, and the best grade of lugs I have ever made. 
 " One-half of this'is yours, now, for I have taken the 
 title to myself, in all cases, as executrix of Arthur 
 Lovett, and the lawyers tell me that we are what they call 
 joint-tenants of it all, with equal rights and powers over 
 it. It will all be yours if you should outlive old Betty 
 Certain — as I trust you may, many a year. 
 
 " At present prices these lands will yield a revenue 
 that would have astonished poor Arthur, in his day. It's 
 true the land won't bring much, nothing like what it 
 oughter, according to its yield of terbacker. However, 
 it will turn out enough every year for us to live on, and 
 live well too. So that you need not have any fear on 
 that score. You 're able to live without help from Mr. 
 Geoffrey Hunter or any one else. 
 
 "Now, I had always intended to sell out and go 
 North with you when the war was over. Somehow, I 
 thought that must be a more kindly climate for poor 
 whites and free niggers than this, for many a year to 
 come. * What's bred in the bone,' you know, dear. 
 Now take your ease. You are as fair and accomplished 
 as any lady in the land; fairer than most, and better 
 educated, in fact, than many. I have heard Geoffrey 
 Hunter boast that you did great credit to his teaching, 
 more than he had ever expected. 
 
A FAITHFUL STEWARDSHIP. 455 
 
 "Many a year — perhaps many a generation — must 
 pass, however, before such as Geoffrey Hunter could 
 unite himself with you in marriage, no matter what may 
 have been your previous relations. It would be social 
 and political suicide. So, too, the time will never come, 
 whilst I live, that Betty Certain will not be a mere ' poor 
 poll,' because her father did not happen to own slaves. 
 Oh ! I know the spirit that lives among this people. 
 The few have lorded it over the many so long that they 
 will cling to the scepter until the last moment. 
 
 " As I said, it has been my idea to sell out and go 
 North with you. But the misfortune is, the lands are 
 worth nothing now, for no one has the money to buy. 
 So I thought we would stay here for a few years, till 
 prices improved — as they soon will, if terbacker keeps 
 up — and then sell and move off. In any event I meant 
 to keep with you. Somehow, you seem nigher to me 
 than any one else, if there is supposed to be colored 
 blood in your veins, — as if you orter have been my 
 daughter. You have your father's great, wonderful dark 
 eyes, and his graceful, quiet, attractive ways. So I had 
 always planned it out that after we had spent a few 
 years here, saving and laying up as w^e could, that; we 
 would go away where no one would ever know that you 
 had been a slave, or I a ' poor white,' and end our days 
 in some cozy corner, where the outlook on earth would 
 be brighter, and heaven perhaps a little nigher, or over 
 a better road, at least. 
 
 " But this thing has come on me so sudden-like, that 
 it has marred all my plans, perhaps frustrated them for- 
 ever. As you say, you must go away from here at 
 
456 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 once. I know the Hunter family better than you. If 
 there 's one quality they 've got more of than any other, 
 it 's obstinacy — sheer, straight-out obstinacy. Geoffrey 
 Hunter will no more think of giving you up, because 
 you have refused to listen to his improper advances, 
 than he would of marrying you — which he would never 
 think of doin', unless he went plumb crazy. I see it 
 makes ye wince, gal, an' I don't wonder, for there a' n't 
 a spark of reason in it. 
 
 " God made you as beautiful, as pure, and as bright 
 as He ever created woman ; but He made you a slave, 
 too, and, for some inscrutable reason, He mixed one 
 lone drop of black blood with the warm tide that man- 
 tles to your cheek, and when He did that. He separated 
 you and Geoffrey Hunter, so far as lawful love is con- 
 cerned, further than the East is from the West. 
 
 " For two hundred years that custom which is more 
 powerful than law has said, ' You may take the colored 
 woman as a concubine, and raise up children who shall 
 wear the bond of the slave, or the degradation of the 
 free black, but neither God's holy ordinance, nor the 
 willing covenant, which constitutes marriage in the law, 
 shall sanctify your union, or save your children from 
 shame.' 
 
 " Against this custom, this tradition, Geoffrey Hunter 
 must butt his head if he would marry you, my dear, and 
 he will never do it. He is not afraid of any danger 
 but what he conceives to be dishonor; the loss of repu- 
 tation, position, influence, he shrinks from with a mortal 
 terror. He might die for love of you, but he will never 
 marry you, Toinette. Neither will he give you up. 
 
A FAITHFUL STEWARDSHIP. 457 
 
 Thinking that you will see the futility of your hope, and 
 the strength of his devotion — which, indeed, I do think 
 is very great — and will finally yield to your love, he 
 will continue to pursue you until his purpose is ac- 
 complished. 
 
 "Well," seeing Toinette's dissenting gesture, "per- 
 haps he might never accomplish that, but your life would 
 be made miserable by his unceasing importunities. So 
 you must go away at once. 
 
 " This means, too, that I must as certainly stay. 
 Why? Because, don't you see? we are not ready to 
 sell. You must have money to live on, and I must stay 
 here and make it. 
 
 "No, not a word. Do as I tell you. Old Betty 
 Certain has been faithful enough to Arthur Lovett's 
 memory, an' wishes to claim a sort of obedience from 
 his daughter. Has n't she? There, there, I did n't 
 mean to blame you, child. Do n't cry, please. It puts 
 me out to see your bright eyes full of tears and think 
 that I have caused them. 
 
 " Well, as I said, do you go now just where you wish, 
 and live as it best suits you, only this : you must live 
 like a lady, wherever you are. Remember that : no 
 scrimping, no pinching, but as a lady ought to live, and 
 Betty Certain will furnish the money — out of your prop- 
 erty, and what your father left her. 
 
 " Yes, I '11 come too, as soon as ever I get the last 
 place paid for, and can sell to advantage. Betty Cer- 
 tain don't want to be an overseer all her life, but she 
 will do it a while longer to help Arthur Lovett's daughter 
 and her own Toinette, Ye see, dear, I have a double 
 
 38 
 
458 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 claim on you : your father's memory and injunction, 
 and the love that grew up between us before I knew 
 who you were. I have never felt towards you the same 
 as others, since I saw you with that hole in your white 
 bosom, so like the scar that bleeds always in my 
 memory." 
 
 Overcome with emotion, the "poor-white" woman 
 clasped the sobbing Toinette to her breast, and kissed 
 her again and again, while the tears flowed like rain 
 down her hard furrowed cheek. She had quite over- 
 come the strange shyness which she had felt towards 
 Toinette soon after her return, and seemed to have for- 
 gotten the prejudice arising from her birth altogether. 
 
 " There, there," she said, at length, smiling, and put- 
 ting her hand over Toinette's mouth, "no thanks. Not 
 a word. You know it is my only pleasure, and now you 
 would spoil it all by putting me in debt for the sweet 
 pretty ways in which you would thank me. No, no; 
 I'm not to be cheated in that way. Really," said she, 
 " I am almost glad there is a bar to your marriage with 
 Geoffrey Hunter; I shall have you all to myself now, and 
 there is nothing to prevent my loving you, thank God !" 
 and she wound her strong arms about the slender girl, 
 and laughed amid her tears. 
 
 " The * poor-white ' and the slave are too nigh of kin 
 to marry even if we were not both women — which, thank 
 God, we are — so we can trust each other." 
 
 " Well, well," she continued, after a short time, as she 
 dried her eyes and repressed her sobs, "you must be 
 thinking of getting away. When did you tell him you 
 were going.?" 
 
A FAITHFUL STEWARD SHIP. 459 
 
 "Wednesday," said Toinette. 
 
 " Wednesday ? then he '11 be here afore sundown of a 
 Tuesday evening, sure. You must take the Tuesday 
 morning train. And where will you go,?" 
 
 " I do not know," replied Toinette. 
 
 " Do not know .'* That means you will not tell." 
 
 " You cannot — " began Toinette in protest. 
 
 " Stop," said her companion, " you are right. It is 
 altogether better that I should not know for the present. 
 There is the firm name of my New York factors. Let 
 them know your address, and write to me through them. 
 Draw on me through them for whatever funds you may 
 require." 
 
 And so it was done as they had planned. Toinette 
 left a letter for Geoffrey Hunter, should he come to 
 the Lodge ; with many tears bade adieu to the faithful 
 stewardess of her dead father's bounty, and with her 
 wondering child turned her face again northward in 
 search of some place where she might forget what 
 :she had been, and either begin a new life or at least 
 decently bury the old. She clasped the child to her 
 heart, and, young as she was, felt that she lived only 
 in him, and so filled the future with dreams of which 
 he was the sun and center. 
 
CHAPTER XLVIL 
 
 THE SEAL OF THE SEPULCHER. 
 
 BETTY CERTAIN'S prediction was well proved, 
 for the afternoon of Tuesday was but half spent 
 when Geoffrey Hunter drew rein before Lovett Lodge 
 once more. He noticed as he approached, under the 
 great oaks on the lawn, that the house seemed very still 
 — almost deserted. Little Geoffrey was nowhere in 
 sight, nor did he hear his voice as usual. Could he be 
 ill } It was with a strange foreboding that he advanced 
 to the library, the door of which stood open, and beheld 
 sitting in the great arm-chair by the table — Miss Betty 
 Certain. 
 
 She looked up at him with dull, heavy eyes, which 
 bore the trace of weeping, and nodded response to his 
 greeting. 
 
 "Where is Toinette .?" asked Geoffrey, in a tone of 
 alarm. 
 
 " Gone," said the woman, doggedly. " You ought to 
 know, you drove her away." 
 
 She was not inclined to spare him. 
 
 " Gone where .'' — when ?" he questioned. 
 
 " I do n't know where, but she went away this morn- 
 ing," she answered, testily. 
 
 "Gone! gone!" said Geoffrey Hunter, " and you do 
 not know where } Did she — that is — have you any mes- 
 sage for me.^" 
 
 " ^ 46Q 
 
THE SEAL OF THE SEPULCHER. 461 
 
 '* I have," she answered, "a message and a parcel 
 for you. Here is the parcel. The message is a singular 
 one, but I am bound to deliver it as she told me. She — 
 that is, Toinette — desired me to tell you that it was her 
 request that you should read the enclosure I have just 
 handed you, in the secret room which opens off from 
 this." 
 
 " Her request shall be law to me in this," said Geof- 
 frey, tenderly, as he took the packet from her hands. 
 
 Betty Certain rose and left the library, closing the 
 door after her. 
 
 After a few moments, Geoffrey Hunter opened the 
 door of the wardrobe and touched the familiar knob. 
 The door swung open, and he entered the secret room 
 at Lovett Lodge. It showed signs of recent occupancy. 
 The little table was drawn before the hearth, and a chair 
 stood beside it. By a sort of instinct he felt that it 
 had been lately used by Toinette. He closed the door, 
 sat down by the table, broke the seal of the packet 
 which he had received, and read : 
 
 "Geoffrey Hunter: 
 
 " I am writing this in the secret room at Lovett 
 Lodge. You will readily comprehend why I chose to 
 retire here to address you the last communication which 
 you will receive from me. Little did I think, when you 
 first disclosed to my wondering eyes this mystery of our 
 abode, that it would ever be so closely linked with that 
 inner life which the daily routine of existence does but 
 hide from those who observe it only outwardly. As, 
 trembling with the mysterious dread which your nar- 
 
462 A ROYAL gentleman: 
 
 rative of all that you knew of its history had inspired, 
 I came with you through the door and down the steps 
 into the hidden room, where the sunshine through the 
 one window above poured down the warmth and glad- 
 ness of the spring-time afternoon, you cannot imagine 
 the strange, rapturous joy which seized my being. God's 
 sunshine and my master's presence made it heaven. I 
 did not know then why I was so happy. I do now. It 
 was freedom — the freedom of love. All the shackles of 
 the world were cast aside. My spirit was as free as 
 yours. The mastership which crowned your brow was 
 not that which your father's deed conveyed, but the 
 kingliness of love. The owner was shut out ; the king 
 whom I adored alone was w4th me then. And you, too, 
 bowed beneath the yoke of love. Our souls were peers 
 in that blissful moment. You did not come down to 
 my level, nor had I risen up to yours, in the eye of the 
 world. We were just two souls meeting on the same 
 plane, mutually giving and receiving — asking and yield- 
 ing a regnant love. 
 
 "From that moment I ceased to be a slave. No 
 shackles could have bound me afterwards. My soul 
 was yours by free gift — my friend, my companion. And 
 this hidden room was Paradise to me from that day 
 Nothing could loose me from the devotion I then as- 
 sumed but your own act — perhaps not even that. Love 
 is not easily recalled. If its treasures are once squan- 
 dered they may never be regained. The bankrupt may 
 recover his wealth, but the prodigal of love can never 
 re-collect its priceless treasures. 
 
 " Do not think I blame you for aught that followed. 
 
THE SEAL OF THE SEPULCHER. 4G3 
 
 You but obe5'ed the dictates of a love whose behests 
 are higher than any human law. Your inmost soul 
 recognized the falsity of that social relation which 
 placed the rod in your hand and the chain upon my 
 wrist. I know that you are proud, Geoffrey Hunter ; I 
 could never have loved you had you not been. But I 
 dare to tell you, now, that your soul was at its best and 
 proudest when you brushed aside the cob-web fictions 
 which clung about its past, and we met heart to heart 
 in this sanctuary, peers and partners in heart. I was 
 your equal. I did not know it then, nor indeed until of 
 late. Now I see it. In devotion, in steadfastness of 
 purpose^ in the self-sacrifice of holy love, I was your 
 equal — perhaps more than your equal. 
 
 "And now the former slave-girl is free; free of limb 
 by your instinct of justice; free of heart by the knowl- 
 edge of God's truth. Her once master is a slave now, 
 bound with the sinful chains which generations of 
 slavery have forged as the safeguard of that great 
 Moloch. 
 
 "Upon you, the master — the legitimate offspring of 
 the dominant race — this evil, with a thousand others 
 which will be hereafter recognized, has come to rest. 
 That domestic love, so long forbidden to the slave, re- 
 venges itself now upon the master. 
 
 " In your passion yesterday you would have led me 
 to trample on my womanhood. I know .your reason 
 and manhood disclaim that unholy thought, for there is 
 but one path to happiness — one path which justice, 
 truth and love open to your feet, and that is so hedged 
 up that you dare not attempt it. The heart which has 
 
464 ^ ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 spurned danger in a thousand forms trembles before the 
 mandate of exclusion which the world would fulminate 
 against him for violation of its edicts. 
 
 "You think this is a strange farewell. It may be, 
 and yet not stranger than that which you improvised 
 yesterday. But you little knew your Toinette if you 
 thought that the years which have passed since we sat 
 here together had taught her nothing. They could not 
 teach her to love you more, but they have taught her to 
 love you better. She would but ill deserve even the 
 smutched and tainted love you proffered her if she could 
 be the willing instrument of soiling your soul with the 
 deliberate vice of continuing in the light of freedom the 
 course upon which we stumbled in the darkness of 
 slavery. 
 
 " Thank God, the love I bear you is too pure to 
 bend even to your entreaty to evil. I seemed to you 
 at first, no doubt, to yield yesterday to your love. If I 
 did so, it was only because I had taught myself to be- 
 lieve that you were so brave and true that you would 
 tear aside the fictions of race and caste, and recognize 
 and reward the love you knew I cherished. I ought 
 not to have thought so. I see it now. You are but 
 human, and that would require superhuman strength. I 
 ought to have remembered in what mould you were cast, 
 what influences had been around you, and how that 
 noble nature, which my heart had discovered, was ham- 
 pered in its development and crippled in its action by 
 the traditions of the past. 
 
 " Expecting so much, I was, for a time, bitterly dis- 
 appointed. Then I did you injustice. That Was all — • 
 
THE SEAL OP THE SEPULCHER. 465 
 
 until I received your note of this morning, in which 
 you cite the infamous law, which was enacted, it would 
 seem, simply to give an excuse for the perpetration of 
 crime, and to perpetuate the vilest evils which slavery 
 engendered. Christian marriage is forbidden in the 
 most solemn manner, and under infamous penalties ; but 
 unbounded license is scarcely rebuked. If it is such a 
 law as this which you regard as above the sanctity of our 
 love, then, indeed, it is time we should separate forever. 
 I cannot quench my love, but I can protect myself from 
 temptation and shame. 
 
 " I shall leave a day sooner than I had intended, pur- 
 posely to avoid your presence, being satisfied that you 
 will seek to meet me again, despite my refusal. You 
 would never dream of intruding upon one whom you 
 would term " a lady" after she had declined an inter- 
 view, but you cannot regard your freedwoman as having 
 even the paltry right of refusing her presence, when you 
 choose to demand it. 
 
 " Whither I shall go, I do not know, nor what I shall 
 do. The world is wide, and I shall find a place and a 
 work that will serve my aim, which is to rear and edu- 
 cate our son, that he may be worthy of his father at his 
 best estate — his fairest possibility. I cannot cease to 
 love you, but, since the barriers between us are insur- 
 mountable, I shall strive only to remember those happier 
 days, when this room was the paradise of a love than 
 which earth knew no purer. I had hoped that it 
 might receive that sanction which would banish the 
 shadow of evil. It was a vain hope — God forgive me, a 
 foolish one — as I now see. Farewell, Geoffrey Hunter. 
 
4G6 A ROYAL GENTLEMAN. 
 
 That reputation, honor, and prosperity may be yours, 
 shall ever be the prayer of 
 
 " TOINETTE." 
 
 " P. S. — I shall take with me the sword that was 
 strapped to your wrist when you were brought to the 
 hospital. I have kept it ever since. You, perhaps, did 
 not know that it had been preserved. I wish to tell 
 our boy the story of his father's bravery, when he shall 
 be old enough to be proud of it, though he may never 
 know his name. If you are unwilling that I should 
 retain it, you have but to inform our old friend, Betty 
 Certain, and it will be returned. T." 
 
 Geoffrey Hunter read the letter and then left the 
 house, casting a sad and regretful look back at the 
 room which had so many and such strange memories 
 connected with it, mounted his horse and rode away. 
 
 That night Betty Certain went into the secret room 
 and sat for a long time, alone in the moonlight, thinking 
 of its past. Then she rose, and taking hold of one of 
 the brass-topped andirons, moved it aside, and one of 
 the deep jambs of the chimney, which seemed a solid 
 slab of soapstone, fell outward upon hinges, as Belle 
 Lovett had described, and she felt the chill breezes from 
 without come sweeping into the room. 
 
 She moved it back and closed the opening again; 
 then looked around the room and went out by the door 
 , into the wardrobe. Then she took out the knob which 
 served to lift the bolt, letting that fall back into the 
 socket, and taking a man's knife from her pocket, she 
 whittled a piece of pine to fill the place the knob had 
 

 I THE SEAL OF THE SEPULCHER. 467 
 
 occupied. She drove this in flush and smooth with the 
 back of the wardrobe, and then screw^ed into the plank 
 one of the black japanned wardrobe hooks of modern 
 days, whose base covered and concealed the place which 
 the wooden knob had occupied. Thus the inner door 
 was sealed up beyond danger of accidental discovery or 
 ordinary search. 
 
 " I know the other entrance," she said, " and that is 
 enough. If Arthur Lovett never had made that con- 
 trivance it might have saved a heap of trouble." 
 
 The Stack Rocks still rear their gray heads to sun 
 and storm, like a mighty Stonehenge of some forgotten 
 race of giants ; the river flows ever onward — a watery 
 highway to the sea ; the Master, the Slave, and the Poor 
 White, late dw^ellers on its banks, are borne down the 
 current of time toward the great ocean of a common 
 humanity. 
 
 The landmarks of the Past are disappearing, but the 
 fetters of brass which it forged are yet upon the hands 
 which the eager Present stretches forth to that grim 
 Sphinx — the Future — whose secret no man knoweth. 
 
 THE END. 
 
'ZouRFS Christmas. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. — Wanted — A Stocking 
 II. — Missouri Compromise 
 III. — Uncle Peter . 
 IV. — The Fordman's Gift 
 V. — Impudence 
 VI. — Compy 'Siders on't . 
 VII. — A Mistake and a Misstep 
 VIII. — Marse Ben and Trumpeter 
 
 PAGE 
 469 
 
 474 
 
 480 
 
 4S6 
 493 
 5^3 
 514 
 520 
 
'ZOURI'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 * 
 
 CHAPTER /. 
 
 WANTED — A STOCKING. 
 
 <( 
 
 OH, Aunt Compy ! Aunt Compy ! Aunt-y 
 Comp-y!" said a hesitatingly persistent voice. 
 "La, chile, what is it now.'' You've ben a-foUerin' 
 ob me roun' all dis bressed mornin' jes' fer all de worl' 
 like a pet pig a-squealin' arter his brekfuss. What is 
 
 * The use of the word Christmas at the South is curiously con- 
 tradistinguished from the same word at the North. At the North 
 it means the twenty-fifth of December. At the South it may 
 either mean that particular day or include the week succeeding. 
 The day is more generally designated by connecting the word with 
 Christmas and saying " Christmas-day," as the week is frequently 
 denominated "Christmas-week." " Z";^^ Christmas" invariably 
 means the week following the day. " My Christmas" or " their 
 Christmas" is used indifferently to designate either a gift received 
 at Christmas or the method in which the week is spent, according 
 to the context. For instance a man will say " I had a capital 
 Christmas," that is, enjoyed the week capitally. Or a boy will dis- 
 play a knife and say, that is " my Christmas," that is, Christmas 
 gift or present. The Christmas salution is never "Merry Christ- 
 mas !" but " Christmas Gift !" Its observance much more resem- 
 bles a secular holiday than a religious one. It is always ushered 
 in with the firing of guns and popping of fireworks. 
 
470 'ZOUM'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 it? Speak out ! 'Speakin' may relieve yer,' ez de min- 
 ister says ter de sinner-folks at de pra'ar-meetins. 
 Now whatever duz yer want, 'Zouri ? ' 
 
 The speaker was a sturdy, good-natured looking 
 colored woman of middle age, with a white-turbaned 
 head, a snuff-stick in her mouth, and sleeves rolled 
 above her elbows, displaying plump and comely ebony 
 arms as she stood with a hand upon each hip confront- 
 ing the inquiring child. She spoke not unkindly, and 
 her face was full of suppressed laughter as she looked 
 down upon the scraggly bit of humanity before her. 
 
 " Aunt Compy," said 'Zouri, twisting her mouth 
 about in dubious perplexity and pulling at a knot of 
 hair with one hand while with the other she rolled up 
 her linsey-woolsey dress in unconscious embarrassment 
 until an unwonted length of brown leg was exposed — 
 "Aunt Compy, mayn't I hev a stockin'?" 
 
 " Stockins ! Yah! yah! yah!" laughed the woman. 
 " Bress my soul ef de chile ain't gettin' proud ! What 
 yer gwine ter du wid stockins, honey ? Gwine ter put 
 'em on dat leg.^" pointing to the exposed limb. " Dey 
 would look proud dar, now wouldn't dey ! Will yer 
 hev 'em open-work or knit close .-* or p'raps ye '11 hev 
 'em 'broidered .'' Sakes alive! but ye're gittin' mighty 
 ladyfied sencc yer's ben up ter de great house, arn't 
 yer, now.-*" 
 
 " But I don't want 'em to war ; yer knows I don't, 
 Aunt Compy," said the child in a tone of grieved re- 
 monstrance. 
 
 " Don't want ter war 'em 1 Lor' bress us, what else 
 yer gwine ter du wid stockins, chile V' 
 
WANTED— A STOCKING. 471 
 
 " Ain't Christmas agwine ter come?" asked the child 
 suggestively. 
 
 " Christmas gwine ter come ? Co'se it am ; least- 
 ways I spects 'twill ef de res'rection don't git roun' too 
 soon fer it. But what's dat got ter du wid yer stock- 
 ins, honey ? Yer ain't gwine ter enny Christmas ball 
 dis ye'r, is .yer? Yer ain't quite peart nuff for dat yet, 
 I reckon." 
 
 " I wants ter hang it up den, Auntie." 
 
 " Sakes alive, what yer want ter hang up a stockin* 
 fer, chile ?" 
 
 " Oh, you knows. Aunt Compy. What yer want ter 
 bother 'Zouri fer? Ain't young Mars Ferdie an' Miss 
 Sue an' all de chillen up ter de big house gwine ter 
 hang up der stockins in de chimbly corner de night 
 afore de Christmas, so's ter hev 'em handy where Marse 
 Santy Claus kin cum down der chimbly an' put de 
 Chris'mus gifs in 'em ?" 
 
 " La, chile, yer don't spose ole Santy's ever gwine 
 ter cum ter niggers' houses, does yer ? Yah, yah," 
 added Aunt Compy, while her fat shoulders shook with 
 laughter, " he's got too much sense ter cum pokin' 
 down any sech old stick-chimblys ez dat ar, he hez. 
 Santa Claus ain't no fool. He hain't got no secon' 
 hand doll-babies, wid one leg off an' nary an arm an' 
 praps one eye punched out, for sech Httle niggers ez 
 you, honey. He don't keer nuffin 'bout us Fo'teenth 
 'Mendments, he don't. He 'sociates wid white folks, 
 he does." 
 
 " Now, Aunt Compy, yer's funnin' at me, you is," 
 said the child seriously; "but I knows 'tain't so; coz 
 
 29 
 
472 'ZOURrS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 didn't I hear Miss Sophy tell Marse Ferdie all' bout it — • 
 how dat Marse Santy Claus allers comes roun' 'bout 
 Christmas-time, wid a whole cartful ob Christmas gifs, 
 and comes right down der chimbly, hisself, an' puts all 
 sorts o' nice things in good chillen's stockins ef dey jes 
 hangs 'em up handy roun' de jamb ob de chimbly de 
 night afore? An' didn't I hear her say how he won't 
 give de bad chillens ennything only praps a piece o' 
 rock, er a lump o' dirt, er some ole mean 'simmons — or 
 sumfin' o' dat sort?" 
 
 " In course you did, honey," said Aunt Compy with 
 a queer look in her eyes ; " but bless yer heart, chile, 
 she meant white chillen — dem ez lives in big houses, an* 
 hez rich daddies and mammies, what's able ter buy 
 Christmas fer der chillen ! Dat's what she meant." 
 
 " No, 'twa'n't. Aunt Compy," persisted the child, 
 " coz didn't she read out ob the big Bible wid de picters 
 in it 'bout de little baby dat was jes de sweetest an' 
 nicest baby ever was in der worl' — ever was er ever 
 will be — wid der sun shinin' all 'bout his head, what 
 was brung tu his mammy jes dat er way and put inter 
 de feed-trough fer a Christmas gif hisself? Dat's true, 
 too, Aunt Compy. I seed it my own self — de picter, I 
 mean — an' dar de little feller was, a layin' right dar in 
 der feed-trough afo' de oxens. His folks wa'n't rich, 
 so Miss Sophy says, an' you knows dat dey wasn't. 
 Dey wouldn't 'a' been a livin' in de stable ef dey hed 
 been, would dey, now, Aunt Compy? Dey wa'n't rich, 
 an' Santa Claus brung dem a Christmas gif, so now." 
 
 " Sakes alive, you's a quare gal. D'ye know who dat 
 baby was, honey?" 
 
WANTED— A STOCKING. 473 
 
 " Miss Sophy sed 'twas de Holy Baby," answered 
 'Zouri composedly. 
 
 " Why, dat was Jesus Christ, honey — the Lor' Jesus 
 Christ. Didn't yer nebber h'yer tell 'bout him, chile?" 
 
 "No," said the child, wondering at the woman's sud- 
 den earnestness, " nobody but Miss Sophy, an' she sed 
 'twas a Christmas gif — de fust one ennybody ever 
 hed — an' dat Marse Santy Clause brung it to his pa an' 
 ma 'cause dey was good folks dough dey was pore." 
 
 " Chile, chile ! How you does talk," said the woman 
 chidingly. "Hush yer mouf now, an' go an' tak keer 
 o' dem frowsicatin' chillen. Whar you s'pose dey've 
 done gone while we's been a confabulatin' here .?" 
 
 The woman was about to turn bustling to her work 
 but the child still persisted, and her voice, burdened 
 with coming tears, was tender and pleading enough as she 
 laid hold of the woman's dress and said : 
 
 "But don't Santy bring t'ings to good chillen.'*" 
 
 " In course he does, honey ? Dar, dar, chile, run 
 away now," said the w^oman soothingly. 
 
 "But, Aunt Compy," persisted the now tearful child, 
 "h'ain't I ben a good gal.? Oh, Auntie, I'se tried, yer 
 don't know how hard I's tried, to be good!" 
 
 " Dar, dar ! run away, chile !" said the woman kindly. 
 " You shuah hez been a good little gal alius. Run away 
 now, an' yer Aunt Compy'll 'sider on't, chile." 
 
 With a look that told the thanks she did not know 
 how to speak, the child ran lightly out of the house and 
 down the pathway to where " dem frowsicatin' chillen" 
 were playing under a big persimmon tree which grew at 
 the foot of the garden. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 MISSOURI COMPROMISE. 
 
 ^ '^ OURI was ten years old. She was not pretty nor 
 ^-^ nice. Her face was of a dull-brown color, like 
 half-burnt coffee, and her head was clothed with little 
 kinkled frizzles of woolly hair, which would have covered 
 it close if the hairs had not twined round each other, 
 like the tendrils of a rank-growing wisteria which had 
 nothing else to cling to, until they had formed funny 
 little knots between which the brown skin showed in 
 patches from nape to brow. Her face was not round 
 and fat, as children of her race are usually pictured, but 
 sallow and peaked, though the nose was short and the 
 end of it seemed to be trying to cross the incurving 
 bridge and get upon the round, smooth forehead above. 
 There were only two pretty things about her counten- 
 ance : a pair of great brown, dreamy, half-wild eyes, and 
 teeth which showed under the thick, red lips like star of 
 Bethlehem lilies in a bed of black tulips. She was 
 straight as an arrow. She had toted water from the 
 spring down by the branch, a hundred yards away from 
 the house, balancing upon her head the full bucket with 
 the gourd floating on the top, almost ever since she was 
 big enough to follow the pathway to and fro; and it had 
 made her erect and strong. 
 
 Her wardrobe was not elegant nor abundant. One 
 
MISSOURI COMPROMISE. 475 
 
 cotton dress, which had given out before the summer was 
 over, with a heavy linsey-woolsey one for winter, which 
 had been long enough when it was made a year before, 
 constituted all the garments that she could remember to 
 have had. Stockings and shoes and hats and gloves and 
 cloaks she had seen, and wondered dully how people 
 could have them all and not die of happiness. 
 
 She was not nice either. Her face and hands had 
 been washed sometimes, but the dust of the red clay 
 hills had made acquaintance with the sun-burnt frizzles 
 of her hair months before, and soap and water, comb 
 and brush had never disputed the territory with it. She 
 tried to comb her hair once with the card Uncle Peter 
 used to reduce his matted locks to subjection, and won- 
 dered how people lived, who combed their " har" every 
 day. 
 
 The thin, flat feet, which looked so big for the long, 
 slender legs, were washed — every time it rained. 
 
 She lived in a house with one room and one door, and 
 one wooden shutter which served the purpose of a win- 
 dow. There was a great open black-jambed fireplace, in 
 the corner of which she could stand without stooping. 
 The stone hearth had sunk away from the rough plank 
 floor, so that the chickens and the kittens could come 
 up between, and one time a big moccasin snake on his 
 travels in August had crawled up and stretched himself 
 on the hearth as if he had found the winter quarters he 
 was seeking. The chimney itself was made of sticks 
 crossed at the ends and daubed with mud. When 
 the hearth sunk it had tipped away from the house, and 
 was now propped up with a fence-rail. The house was 
 
476 'ZOURFS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 of logs, of course. There was a table, one chair, a bench 
 and one bed in the house. There was no second story ; 
 only some loose boards laid upon the cross-logs on one 
 side, with a rough ladder leading up to them, made what 
 they called the " up-sta'rs." Here 'Zouri slept with one 
 of the children of Aunt Compy, with whom she lived. 
 Their bed was a rude pallet on the boards, and they 
 could look up through the rough shingle roof and see 
 the stars shining down, on pleasant nights, while on 
 stormy ones the wind and rain sometimes came in on 
 them. By crawling to the edge they could look down 
 into the room below without obstruction. 
 
 'Zouri was an orphan. Her Aunt Compy was the 
 twin sister of her mother. They had been named by 
 a rollicking master in the old slave days after a meas- 
 ure much talked about in those times, the one " Missouri," 
 shortened to 'Zouri, and the other "Compromise," which 
 had been reduced to Comp or Compy. Of these sisters 
 'Zouri had always been feeble, unable to do her tasks, 
 and had been accounted of little value as a slave. 
 
 Light work about the cabins and sometimes at the 
 master's house, had fallen to her lot. She was not what 
 was known as a house-servant, but a sort of favored field- 
 hand. Compy was, on the contrary, robust and sleek, a 
 very picture of health and vigor. She set great store 
 by her puny sister, and took from her shoulders all the 
 hard tasks she could get opportunity to lighten. 
 
 During the war 'Zouri had married (if that term may 
 be used to designate the relations between slaves), one of 
 the smartest and brightest of the house-servants. The 
 truth is that they had assumed that relation which was 
 
MISSOURI COMPROMISE. 417 
 
 properly designated by the usual phrase, " taking up with 
 each other." Neither law nor religion gave it any sanc- 
 tion. Neither the parties themselves nor the rest of the 
 world were bound to regard it. It neither conferred 
 marital right nor exacted marital duty. It was simply 
 that imitation of the home — that dim shadow of the 
 domestic Eden for which the slave foolishly yearned, but 
 which he might not enter. It was the lowest step of 
 barbarism, compelled, enforced, and commanded by the 
 highest civilization. This husband, of whose position as 
 a house-servant 'Zouri had been somewhat vain, had 
 celebrated his freedom by an act of meanness which was 
 very unusual with his race. When a law was enacted 
 allowing those who had lived together as man and wife 
 in the slave times to register themselves as such, and 
 assume in fact the relation they had before but simulated, 
 he refused to give the name of wife to the feeble woman 
 whose days were evidently almost numbered. So she 
 was left, with the burden of her failing health and her 
 little child to care for, to struggle with the difficult prob- 
 lem of existence. She took up her burden bravely, 
 making no murmur, working when she could, and wait- 
 ing patiently for the end. She would make no appeal to 
 her sister, because she felt that in the old days she had, 
 through the instigation of the man she had called her 
 husband, treated Compy and her man Pete, a common 
 field-hand, with something of injustice. When the war 
 had ended, however, and the opportunity had come to 
 show his m.anhood, the rough, blundering Peter had 
 shown his vast superiority to the soft and foppish house- 
 servant, by taking Compy to the court-house and having 
 
478 'ZOURVS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 themselves duly recorded by the clerk of the county court 
 as husband and wife, thereby sanctioning before men the 
 relation he had years before assumed in the sight of God. 
 Having before that removed to another portion of the 
 country, Compy was unaware of the straits to which her 
 sister was reduced, until the wolf was at her very door 
 and the fatal cough grew so deep and boding that the 
 sufferer knew that her days were numbered. 
 
 It was in those sad, harsh months of i866-'7, when so 
 many of the race perished from want and exposure, and 
 many more would have perished but for the charity 
 which reached out its ready hand from the cities of the 
 conquering North to save its sons in the gloomiest of 
 these dark hours, that 'Zouri's pride and strength at last 
 gave way, and, taking her little namesake by the hand, 
 she set out to take her to her sister, in the hope that she 
 would not forget the child when she herself should die. 
 It was not more than a day's journey to one who was 
 well and sturdy; but 'Zouri was not far from the end, 
 the child was only a weak toddler, and it was not till the 
 evening of the third day that she sank down at the 
 threshold of her sister's humble cabin. Compy did not 
 refuse the added burden, nor remember the scorn which 
 had been visited on her "old man" by 'Zouri and her 
 unworthy consort in the old days. Though the times 
 were bad and mouths were hard to fill, both Compy and 
 Pete made them welcome without reproach — 'Zouri and 
 the little one — gave them their only bed, and did all 
 they could for their comfort. It was not for long. In 
 a month 'Zouri passed away, leaving the puny child of 
 two and a half years to the care of the sister who had 
 
MISSOURI COMPROMISE. 479 
 
 been her own good-natured nurse and support in her 
 young days. The mother's name was the child's only 
 inheritance. 
 
 Compy never for a moment thought of casting her 
 sister's child upon the county or having it bound out, 
 even to herself, as she was often advised to do. It could 
 share with her own, she said; and with them it had 
 shared from that day. 
 
 So little 'Zouri had grown to ten years old in the 
 cabin of her aunt ; not living sumptuously, yet having 
 almost always enough of the coarse fare on which they 
 lived — corn-bread and bacon, with the sweet potatoes, 
 snaps, and cabbages which grew in the little truck patch. 
 
 Uncle Peter worked for 'Squire Hartson, their *' ole 
 Marse," who lived in the big house in the grove, upon the 
 hills beyond the river a mile away. Aunt Compy 
 worked there too, sometimes in the field with her hus- 
 band, ploughing and sprouting and hoeing and suc- 
 coring the tobacco, and sometimes at the house when 
 " Miss Sophy" would send for her if there was a press of 
 work or some of the servants were sick. Sometimes 
 they got money for their wages and sometimes "truck;" 
 he eight dollars a month, and she twenty-five cents a 
 day. They did not always use this wisely ; and with the 
 best of economy it was not a bountiful supply for man 
 and wife and three children, besides the one the dead 
 sister had left as her sole legacy. But they were not 
 unhappy, and the children grew and rolled and rollicked 
 about on the red hillside, almost unconscious that there 
 was a brighter or fairer spot upon earth, 
 
CHAPTER III. 
 
 UNCLE PETER. 
 
 PETER was black, broad-shouldered, low-browed, 
 and grizzled-bearded. He was slow and dull. 
 Heavy-limbed, as strong as Samson, little given to 
 laughter, but seeming to enjoy others' sports, there was 
 yet a sullen determination about him, which, united with 
 his great strength, gave him the reputation of being " de 
 wus man ter pick a quarrel wid on de ribber." He was 
 a man of few words, of great endurance, and one who 
 thoroughly understood the mysteries of curing tobacco. 
 From the planting of the seed-bed to the burning of the 
 coal and the stripping of the leaf, there was not a step 
 which Uncle Peter did not completely understand and 
 could not be trusted to take at the right moment. He 
 knew just how much heat was required for each of the 
 varying qualities of leaf, in different sorts of weather and 
 at every stage of the curing process, in order to produce 
 the bright, silky, yellow staple which was so highly prized 
 in the market. He had, too, that steady, pertinacious 
 faithfulness which would watch this process to comple- 
 tion without exhaustion or neglect. These qualities, as 
 well as the fact that Peter was, in his way, a very enthu- 
 siastic and accomplished sportsman, had inclined 'Squire 
 Ben Hartson to keep him in his employ. So he made 
 him his " curer," and gave him the cabin across the ford. 
 
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UNCLE PETER. 481 
 
 thereby adding to his monthly stipend the chance to earn 
 a bit, now and then, by piloting a traveler across the 
 ford, which in high water was both difficult and danger- 
 ous. One of the main public roads from the mountains 
 to the eastward had crossed the Dan at this point for a 
 hundred years, and continuous travel had worn a deep 
 gully in the face of the red clay hill, as it wound around 
 the great honey locust in front of Peter's cabin, down to 
 the ford. Ordinarily, the bright, dashing stream was not 
 more than a hundred yards in width where it broke over 
 the granite ledge which made the shoal just where it 
 turned sheerly northward from its former easterly course. 
 But when the waterspouts broke in the mountains, or the 
 return " trade-wind " cast the moisture, which it had 
 brought from the distant x\tlantic, against the forest- 
 crowned crags of the Appalachian range for many days, 
 then the wide second bottoms became a turbid sea, and 
 the red, wrathful flood seethed and hissed with angry 
 swirl over the hidden barrier. 
 
 A cow and a half-dozen lean and hungry shoats, which 
 ran in the range during the summer, and, with the cost 
 of a little corn in the fall, or without it if a good mast 
 season, would provide meat for his family the better part 
 of the coming year; an old gun of doubtful make and 
 uncertain antiquity, of which he was very fond ; an 
 ancient hound, whose fame as a 'possum-dog was un- 
 rivaled in the county; a bench-legged fice, with one 
 upward-pointing and one drooping ear and an estab- 
 lished reputation as a squirrel-dog; and a formidable 
 array of rude fishing-tackle — these constituted Uncle 
 Peter's earthly goods and possessions at the time of our 
 
^82 'ZOURVS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 Story. Ten years of health and strength, ten years of 
 steady labor — what he would have accounted self-denial 
 and thrift — had not served him to accumulate, all told, a 
 hundred dollars in value. Yet he had not done so 
 badly. He had lived fairly well, dressed warmly enough 
 in winter, his family had not suffered, and he was not in 
 debt. He was, perhaps, a trifle better off than the aver- 
 age of his fellows. 
 
 'Squire Ben Hartson was the owner of a plantation of 
 one thousand acres, which lay in a bend of the Dan, 
 with the mountains rising dark and green to the west- 
 ward. His pride had always been to be accounted the 
 best farmer and the most devoted sportsman of the 
 region. " To follow the hounds and to oversee his own 
 plantation," he was wont to say, " are the especial duties 
 of a country gentleman." The war interfered but little 
 with his life or prospects, except by the emancipation 
 which came at its close. Even this loss was soon nearly 
 made good by his thrifty management and the high price 
 of his staple soon after the war. He was a rare specimen 
 of the Southern planter, in that he was not a politician. 
 When his slaves became freedmen, he hired them without 
 fuss or grumbling. 
 
 But 'Squire Ben Hartson was not one of those who 
 thought that emancipation had wrought a miracle in the 
 colored man; nor was he conscious of one in himself. 
 In rude phrase, he was wont to say that the negro was 
 free, but he was a " nigger" yet. He did not "take any 
 stock" in constitutional amendments or equal rights. He 
 was no politician, he said, but he did not propose to be 
 ruled by " niggers," on his plantation nor off it. He had 
 
UMCLE PETER. 483 
 
 been a fair master in slave times, feeding well, expecting 
 and demanding good work, and preserving strict disci- 
 pline. He seldom used the whip, and never, he was 
 wont to boast, " on the same nigger twice." As he was 
 fair before, so he was just after emancipation. He 
 offered good wages, paid them with scrupulous exact- 
 ness, required the same work, exacted the same defer- 
 ence, and enforced the same discipline as in the old slave 
 times. Disobedience or insubordination brought a blow 
 after as well as before; and though he paid the small 
 fines assessed for such infractions of the law, it was well 
 understood that " Marse Ben" was a "fractious" em- 
 ployer, but a good paymaster ; which virtue counter- 
 balanced the vice in the minds of his employes; and he 
 had the pick of the country in his service. So he fol- 
 lowed his hounds and drove his farm, cursed and beat 
 his hands, was called" Marse," approached with fear, and 
 addressed hat in hand. Yet his employes were usually 
 devoted to his interests, and, in fact, rather proud of 
 their somewhat imperious and impetuous, but honest and 
 kindly employer. 
 
 Perhaps no little of this was due to his wife, the amiable 
 invalid mistress of the fair mansion he had built in the 
 centre of his demesne, on the top of a far-seen hill and 
 in the midst of a stately grove of ancient oaks. She had 
 been unquestioned mistress there from the hour he 
 brought his newly-wedded Sophy home until the present. 
 Her weakest wish was law to Ben Hartson, and she was 
 wise enough never to ask what might not be readily 
 awarded. 
 
 She never complained of her husband's somewhat 
 
484 'ZOURFS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 roystering habits, and was shrewdly suspected of having 
 as much pride in his sportsmanly achievements as him- 
 self. Despite the fact that she had always been feeble, 
 she was a notable housekeeper, and the hospitality of 
 " Content" was noted throughout the country-side. If he 
 was impetuous, she was overflowing with kindness; 
 and many a time did her gentle ministry avert the trou- 
 ble which might have flowed from his too hasty blows or 
 abusive words. Yet she was as rigid a disciplinarian as 
 he, and had never been known to utter a disapproving 
 word as to any of his acts. She was worshiped as gen- 
 erally as he was feared. Their youngest child and only 
 son, the " Marse Ferdie" spoken of by little 'Zouri, a 
 golden-haired boy of six, was the only source of disa- 
 greement that had ever come into the household. Ben 
 was afraid the boy would have his mother's gentle ways, 
 and never choose to follow the dogs or rule the planta- 
 tion with a rod of iron. Softness was all right in a 
 woman, but he would rather have laid the boy in his 
 grave than look forward to his being anything else than 
 the rough-rider and hard-hitter he was himself. For 
 her, she so loved the gentle, sweet-faced child, that she 
 could not think of his becoming like the brown-bearded 
 giant whom she loved so well as her husband. It seemed 
 to involve a change of personality which she shuddered 
 to contemplate. The mistress was rarely able to go 
 abroad, and was much of the time confined to her own 
 room , but even from her invalid couch her eye was upon 
 every movement of the household. So that, on the whole, 
 " Content" was regarded as a model establishment. 
 Peter and "Marse Ben" had got along with each other 
 
UNCLE PETER. 485 
 
 very well year after year. The one did his tasks without 
 words ; and the other had used some self-restraint 
 towards him because he knew Pete's temper and neither 
 desired to provoke a conflict nor to lose his services. 
 Occasionally Peter had been allowed to go with " Marse 
 Ben" on a hunt instead of his regular waiting-boy, and 
 not unfrequently " Marse Ben" had joined his employe 
 in a " fishing frolic" on the river, with the deeps and 
 shallows and the habits of the finny population of which 
 he knew more than any dweller on its banks for many 
 a mile. Neither were men of words; but by virtue of 
 similarity of tastes there had grown up a sort of silent 
 sympathy, which, while it did nothing to lessen the dis- 
 tance between them gave to each a respect for the other 
 which rarely attends the relation they sustained. 
 
 " Marse Ben" had once testified in the court-house 
 with some vehemence that Peter, who was a witness in 
 an action, had " as good a character as any nigger could 
 have." This would not seem to be much from some 
 men, but it was going a great way for Ben Hartson. 
 
 This fact had not escaped the watchful attention of the 
 invalid wife ; and, anxious always to advance her husband's 
 interest as well as his pleasure, she had investigated the 
 fordman's wife and family, and had taken pains to aid 
 them, by employing Compy to do such work as she was 
 fitted to perform about "the great house," whenever the 
 force of servants there regularly employed proved insuf- 
 ficient for her need. Thus it was that Peter, the ford- 
 man, and Compy, his wife, came to regard themselves, 
 and were by others regarded, as in a sense favorites of 
 the master and mistress of Content. 
 
CHAPTER IV. 
 
 THE FORDMAN's GIFT. 
 
 PETER the younger, and Bunk and Dot were the 
 names of the children who were at once the 
 charge and associates of 'Zouri. Their ages were seven, 
 five and three respectively. They were fat, black and 
 dirty. One garment apiece constituted their wardrobe, 
 which was seldom washed and still less frequently 
 renewed. The elder, and namesake of the father, had 
 been promoted to the dignity of trousers a few months 
 previous, but they were as yet held to be fit and proper 
 for state occasions only. Three healthier or more 
 rugged and turbulent young Africo-Americans never 
 rollicked about a cabin or roamed over an old field, than 
 these. None ever more naturally gave an almost infan- 
 tile nurse an infinite amount of trouble. During the 
 summer that had just passed 'Zouri had been promoted 
 from the care of the children alone to be a sort of de- 
 puty housekeeper in Uncle Peter's cabin. To her had 
 long been committed the care of the premises and of the 
 children during the absence of Aunt Compy, and the 
 care thus thrown upon her had given an old and ma- 
 tured look to her young face ; but not until during the 
 past summer had she ever been elevated to the dignity of 
 preparing a meal for the head of the household. At that 
 time, however, Mrs. Hartson was under the necessity of 
 
THE FORDMAN'S GIFT. 487 
 
 obtaining an extra servant during an illness and could 
 think of no one who would so well serve her purpose as 
 the strong, cheerful and healthy Aunt Compy. This de- 
 mand required her absence not only during the day 
 but often at night also, and during her absence the little 
 child of her dead sister was installed as mistress of 
 Uncle Peter's cabin. 
 
 It was not a very onerous task, it is true. She had 
 only to make coffee and corn-bread and fry the bacon 
 for breakfast, and do the same for dinner and supper. 
 It chanced, however, to be an occasion when Peter was 
 not very closely occupied, and for the first time he 
 seemed to have noticed particularly the " little gal " who 
 had been one of his family for years. He had never 
 been unkind to her. Indeed, he might well have said 
 that he had made no difference between her and his 
 own children. It was true. He had paid little atten- 
 tion to any of them. If they were sick, Compy nursed 
 them all alike; he did not concern himself in regard to 
 them. If they were well, they ate and frolicked about, 
 and he regarded them with complacence, as he did his 
 dogs and his pigs. 
 
 Sometimes he spoke sharply to them, sometimes took 
 them with him on fishing expeditions, and now and then 
 upon his return from occasional trips to the court-house 
 brought them some little treat. He was a man of few 
 words at best, and of those few, only the briefest and 
 lightest were wasted upon the children. When left 
 alone with little 'Zouri for a housekeeper, he had fully 
 expected to have added to his daily labors the cooking 
 of his own food and that of the children ; a task which 
 
 30 
 
488 'ZOURVS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 he was fully competent to perform, being, as is not un- 
 frequently the case with the freedman, a much better 
 cook than his wife, but one which he would never con- 
 descend to assist in during his wife's presence, lest the 
 due tone of domestic discipline should be relaxed. 
 
 When upon his return from labor on the first day 
 after the departure of his wife he found the midday 
 meal awaiting him, he was so surprised that he could 
 not refrain from saying, as he sat down to discuss it : 
 
 " Wal, I declar, 'Zouri, you's getting to be a right 
 peart gal." 
 
 After dinner he had visited his hooks, and, finding a 
 large fish upon one of them, he had brought it to the 
 house, and after cleaning it and stufiing it with some 
 cold bread and pieces of bacon had encased it in a mor- 
 tar made of stiff white pipe-clay, which cropped out on 
 the hillside just below the house, in which he pierced a 
 few holes with a broom-straw, and burying it beneath the 
 ashes, directed 'Zouri to keep a slow fire burning over it, 
 and promised that when he came home they would have 
 a treat, and that if it was well done she might take the 
 " favorite bit over to de missus. P'raps it might chirk 
 her up a little," he said, " ter taste a bite ob sech a fish ez 
 dat, cooked ez it orter be." 
 
 That evening he returned from his work early, 
 and said, as he washed his hands and rolled up his 
 sleeves : 
 
 " I tole Mars Ben I was gwine to send over a piece ob 
 red-hoss baked in der ash-heap for de missus, an' he 
 said he was glad on't. So he let me outen de crap 
 'bout an hour earlier dan common. I specs de ole ras- 
 
THE FORDMAN'S GIFT. 489 
 
 cal calkerlate ter get a bite on't hisself. He knows what 
 a good fish is like when Uncle Peter's cooked it. He's 
 tried it manv a time afo' now." 
 
 He removed the great fish carefully from its bed in 
 the hot embers, and found that its case of wet clay, 
 hardened by the heat, had been transformed into a 
 rough earthenware shell. From the interstices in which 
 the broom-straws had been stuck now rose a fragrant 
 steam. He rolled it out upon the hearth, carefully 
 brushed the ashes from it with the hearth-broom, tapped 
 it here and there with the handle of the knife he held in 
 his hand, and announced his satisfaction at the result in 
 unmeasured terms. 
 
 "Ah, dat's it, 'Zouri. D'clar, chile, I b'leve you's 
 gwine ter be a born cook, shore 'nuff. Now, I knows 
 dat red-hoss am done jes' right — knows it jest ez well, 
 chile, ez ef I done eat a piece on't. He ain't burnt 
 nuther. D'ye h'yer dat, now.?" He struck the case as 
 he spoke and a lo^v metallic sound followed. " Now, 
 yer see, chile, dat ar red-hoss hev jest swelled up an' 
 filled dis yer shell full ob soft, white, steamin' meat, dat 
 is ez juicy an' sweet ez ef it hed been cooked in honey. 
 Now, ef it hed sounded sharp an ci'ar I'd 'a 'know'd you'd 
 hed on too much fire an' burnt it to a cinder; an' ef it 
 hed been dull an' dead-like I'd 'a 'know'd de mud wa'n't 
 fully sot on de inside, an' so, ob co'se, de fish wa'n't 
 done. 'Taint everybody ez kin keep up jes percisely 
 de right so't ob a fire fer bakin' in de ashes. Now, you's 
 hit percisely de korrect thing, chile. It wants a stiddy 
 fire — not hot ez blazes fer a spell an' den cold, but jes' a 
 reg'lar, mod'rate, stiddy heat all der time. An' den it 
 
490 'ZOURI'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 wants ter be kep' up till ye're ready ter eat the fish, afore 
 yer break der shell, 'coz a fish ain*t no 'count, so far ez 
 de taste goes, 'less yer eats it hot." 
 
 Then he carefully cut the fish across, taking especial 
 pains not to crack or shatter the hard clay case, but cut- 
 ting it smoothly and squarely off. An inspection of the 
 contents of the rude shell fully justified his anticipa- 
 tions, which were further approved by the exquisite 
 odor which floated through the hut as the delicately 
 cooked meat was exposed. 
 
 " Now, honey, I shows yer how ter tote a baked fish a 
 mile an' hev it jes ez fresh an' hot ez ef de fire hed jest 
 been raked offen him. Han' me one ob dem hot corn 
 pones, honey. You's made 'em beautiful, dat's a fac' — 
 crust jest ez thick, an' hard, an' brown ez a chinquepin nut 
 — de rale ole Virginny bake-oven pone. None ob yer 
 hoe-cake slosh dar. Yer got dat ob yer Aunt Compy. 
 She sartin do make de mos' satisfyin' an' substanshuel 
 corn-pones dat ebber a hungry man sot a tooth in." 
 
 Taking the pone he divided the upper crust from the 
 lower and laid one half of it carefully over the severed 
 end of the "favorite" part of the fish, which was, of 
 course, the tail. It fitted neatly, and made a close hot 
 cover to the clay case in which half of the roasted fish 
 was resting. Then wrapping it carefully in a clean table- 
 cloth which 'Zouri produced for the purpose, he handed 
 it to the child, saying : 
 
 " Dar now, honey, run 'long ober to the great house an' 
 take dis in to de missis, yeself. Doan yer let none o' 
 dem fool niggahs dat's hangin' roun' dar 'suade ye ter 
 let 'em tech it. Don't be 'fraid o' none ob 'em, honev. 
 
THE FORDMAN'S GIFT, 491 
 
 Jes' you goes 'long, brave ez a lion, an ef enny one axes 
 ye any questions 'bout what ye got dar, 'er what yer 
 gwine ter do wid it, you jes' speak up ez chirk ez yer 
 please an tell 'em you's got a present for de missus, what 
 Uncle Peter sent to her, an' yer ain't gwine ter give it inter 
 nobody's han's on'y her own bressed lily-fingered ones. 
 D'ye h'yer, chile ? ' 
 
 " Sartin, Uncle Peter," said the child, taking the swath- 
 ed fish in her arms as if it were a baby, which in truth it 
 did not a little resemble, in its white linen wrappings, and 
 starting in trembling delight to do her errand. At the 
 threshold she turned, however, and inquired: " Oh ! Uncle 
 Peter, spose Marse Ben hisse'f comes an' axes me for it, or 
 Aunt Compy, what shall I do .? Let 'em hev' it, I reckon." 
 
 " Yer reckon so, duz yer .?" answered Peter in an awful 
 voice. " See here, chile, whar's my hat ? I may jes ez 
 well go an' take dat bite o' fish ober ter de missus myself. 
 Dar yer gwine ter go an' gib dat ar red-hoss ter Marse Ben ! 
 Bless my soul, chile, de missus nebber git a mouf-ful on't 
 — nebber. I kno' Marse Ben. He jes lift up dat piece 
 of corn-pone on de end, jes ter smell on't like, an' 'fore 
 yer knows Jack from Gill dat ar bit of mud-shell's ez 
 empty ez a last year's buzzard nest." 
 
 " But Aunt Compy V said the child, satisfied as to Mr. 
 Hartson, and already clasping the fish with stubborn 
 determination. 
 
 "Aunt Compy!" said Peter with a fine scorn. "Bless 
 yer life, don't yer know how keerless dat gal is 1 like ez 
 not she jis set dat hot mossel down somewhars, anforgits 
 all 'bout it till de day atter to-morrow ! Oh, I goes an' 
 takes it myself. 
 
402 'ZOURVS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " No no !" shrieked 'Zouri, as she sprang out of the 
 door, "please don't, Uncle Peter, I'll do it all right- 
 shuah! I will." 
 
 **Wal, den, ef yer tinks yer ken 'bey orders an' do's I 
 tell yer, I haint no 'jection," said Peter gravely. " But 
 now 'member; dont yer let none of 'em fool yer! Yer 
 jes go right up ter de fron' doah an ax de way ter Miss 
 Sophy's room, an' don't yer take no answer contrary-wise 
 from nobody ! Yer h'yer dat now, an' ef yer don' mine 
 yer'll hev ter settle wid Uncle Peter. Mine dat now." 
 
 "Ob co'se, ob co'se," said the child, edging rapidly 
 away, and beginning to descend the hill towards the river, 
 along which for a mile on either side stretched 'Squire 
 Hartson's plantation. Peter called after her again. 
 
 "Yer mus' be mighty kerful crossin' de fo'd, chile. 
 Look sharp whar yer set yer feet on de foot-log. It's a 
 mighty hard ting ter kerry a dead fish 'cross a runnin' 
 stream — almost sure ter stumble ef yer don't watch out. 
 Now be spry, gal. We'll wait der suppah till yer comes 
 an' hev one yer'll dream 'bout den. Mind now, honey, 
 watch out and step quick." 
 
 Considering that the nearest approach to Miss Sophy's 
 room, or any other room in the residence of Mr. Hartson, 
 which Uncle Peter had ever made was to go hat in hand 
 to the steps of the back piazza and there ask to see " Marse 
 Ben," and wait humbly until that individual presented 
 himself, his directions to the child smacked somewhat of 
 bravado. The good Peter labored under a desire to be 
 thought a hero by his children, being confident, no doubt 
 that there was no one else likely to be of that opinion. 
 
CHAPTER V. 
 
 IMPUDENCE. 
 
 AN idle housemaid saw with amazement an uncouth 
 little " nigger gal " coming boldly along the ave- 
 nue of oaks which led from the front gate, a hundred 
 yards away, up the gentle eminence on which stood the 
 substantial brick mansion built by Ben Hartson for the 
 reception of his bride, and on her arrival christened, with 
 much rejoicing, Content — a name which it had well justi- 
 fied in the owners' lives. 
 
 It was a piece of unwonted impudence for a colored 
 person to approach the house from this direction, and 
 the housemaid wondered as the child drew near " whar 
 dat gal could hev ben raised. None ob Marse Ben's 
 niggers nebber do dat." 
 
 As 'Zouri drew nearer, and manifested an intention to 
 mount the steps and enter the front door, the astonished 
 Abigail could restrain her wrath no longer. Rushing out 
 she met her at the top of the steps with a push, and the 
 words, 
 
 "What in de name ob gracious yer doin' here, chile.'* 
 Hain't yer got no mo' sense than ter be walkin' right 
 inter white folk's houses dat er way.?" 
 
 " I'se got somfin' fer Miss Sophy," said 'Zouri, stoutly, 
 no doubt expecting that to be an " open sesame." 
 
 "Yer has.? Wal, take it roun' to der kitchen, den, an' 
 gib it ter de cook," was the reply. 
 
4U4: ZOUKrs CHRISTMAS. 
 
 *' Gib it ter de cook ?" said 'Zouri in amazement. " 1 
 shan't do no sech thing, an' yer needn't try ter 'suade me 
 ter, neither. I'se got somfin' fer Miss Sophy ez I don't 
 'low ter give ter nobody else." 
 
 " What is't yer got ?" asked the girl with some curiosity. 
 
 " Dat's no matter o' yourn," said 'Zouri, drawing back. 
 " It's fer Miss Sophy, an' Marse Ben wants her terhev it, 
 too ; so yer'd better let me come in." 
 
 " Sakes alive!" said the maid. "P'r'aps yer spects 
 
 yer's gwine right in ter Miss Sophy's room, yerself, lookin 
 
 ez yer do." 
 
 " I's got ter give dis yer to Miss Sophy," persisted 
 'Zouri. 
 
 "Yer don't know what yer's talkin' about, chile," said 
 the girl good-naturedly. And then added as she reached 
 out her hand, " Here gib me dat bundle an' I'll take it to 
 de missus, an' you jes' run roun' to de kitchen an' wait 
 for the word she'll send yer." 
 
 " I sha'n't do it," said 'Zouri, firmly. Her heart was 
 beating wildly, as it had done every moment since she 
 started on her errand, but she remembered the injunction 
 of Uncle Peter not to let " any of dem niggers impose on 
 her," and she stoutly adhered to her marching orders. 
 " I sha'n't do it ; an' yer better let me in, too, coz ef yer ' 
 don't Marse Ben '11 be mad, so he will." 
 
 She manifested signs of coming sulkiness, and the 
 woman saw that neither command nor persuasion would 
 avail to induce her to surrender the parcel ; and her duty 
 as a faithful maid was evidently to get her away from 
 this place before the ladies and gentlemen came out from 
 supper. This, however, was no easy task. 
 
IMPUDENCE, 495 
 
 " Yer'd better let me alone," said the wiry young sav- 
 age, as she jerked away from a grasp intended to effect 
 her quiet removal. " Yer'd better let me 'lone er I'll 
 holler, gal. I reckon 'twould scar ye ef I should try. 
 I'd wake ebery dog on der plantation de bery fust whack. 
 I'll bet ole Marster 'an Missus 'ud tink a succus full ob 
 wile cats hed bruk loose, ef I should try." 
 
 Of all things the girl wished to avoid an outcry. 
 'Zouri saw her advantage in the maid's indecision. 
 
 " La sakes !" said the maid, '* what a horrid little nigger 
 you is!" 
 
 "Who's dat you call nigger.?" said 'Zouri, now thor- 
 oughly angry. "Yer'd better not, kase I'll holler ef yer 
 does. I'll holler ter Miss Sophy, I'll holler murder 
 an' — an' fire; dat's what I will." 
 
 " Dont yer nebber do it," said the servant excitedly, 
 " Don't yer know yer'd kill the missus, shuah, ef yer 
 did.? She's fearder o' fire nor a rattle-snake ob ash-bark. 
 Don't you begin ter do dat er way, chile. Who is yer, 
 anyhow .? Whose yer mammy, gal .?" 
 
 " Hain't got none," said 'Zouri sullenly, " ner no daddy 
 either. I's 'Zouri." 
 
 " 'Zouri who .?" asked the servant. 
 
 " 'Zouri nobody ; jes Aunt Comp's 'Zouri." 
 
 " Oh yes, I 'members now, you's her sister's gal what's 
 dead. All right, honey, I'll send her ter see ef she can't 
 make yer 'have yerself." 
 
 The girl went into the hall, and 'Zouri had a strong 
 notion to follow, but her heart failed her. In a moment 
 Aunt Compy came out and said : 
 
 " Why 'Zouri, what's dis Liza's been a tellin' 'bout yer ? 
 
496 'ZOURrS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 What yer here fer, anyhow? Don't yer know yer mustn't 
 never come to de front do'ah ob white folks' houses ?" 
 
 " Uncle Peter shuah tole me I mus' come ter de fron' 
 doah', an' not ter gib dis yer ter nobody 'ceptin Miss 
 Sophy," whimpered 'Zouri, "an'," she added more 
 firmly, " I'se gwine ter do it too." 
 
 " Sho ! Sho! 'Zouri!" said Compy in good-natured 
 protestation? "you rnusn't take on so honey? nobody's 
 gwine ter hurt ye, chile. What's dat yer got, anyhow?" 
 
 " It's sumfin' fer Miss Sophy," was the sobbing but 
 sullen reply. 
 
 " Wal, let me hev it, honey, an' you goes roun' ter de 
 kitchen an' I comes presently an' bring yer something 
 nice. 
 
 " No yer don't," said 'Zouri, jumping backways as 
 Compy advanced towards her. 
 
 She had forgotten that she was standing on the porch, 
 and missing her footing she fell backwards down the whole 
 flight of steps — a miscellaneous assortment of big feet, 
 slender legs, scared eyes and knotty head, according to 
 the end which chanced to be uppermost during her re- 
 treat. Her nerves, already strung to their highest tension, 
 gave way as she found herself falling, and she showed how 
 she could " holler" without the trouble of an effort. The 
 effects of the exhibition were hardly inferior to what she 
 had predicted. Mr. Hartson, always on the watch for 
 anything that might disturb his wife during her seasons 
 of nervous prostration, hurried from the supper table to 
 her room, spoke a few reassuring words, and then passed 
 on to the porch. By that time several of his guests were 
 there. Aunt Compy was on her knees trying to hush 
 
IMPUDENCE. 497 
 
 the excited child, who was now repeating, hysteri- 
 cally : 
 
 " I wants ter see Miss Sophy ! I wants ter see Miss 
 Sophy ! " over and over again, in a tone which must have 
 been audible at the cabin from which she came but for 
 the dash and ripple of the intervening river. She was 
 still clasping her precious burden to her breast with both 
 hands, which had not once been lifted to save herself 
 during the fall, so great was her appreciation of the trust 
 committed to her care. 
 
 " Hush your mouth!" said the master, imperiously, 
 as he came forward, and, putting his hand on her 
 head, gave it a twist which seemed to have the effect 
 of shutting off the torrent of sound. ''What are you 
 making all this row about ?" 
 
 ^' I wants ter see Miss Sophy," w^himpered 'Zouri. 
 
 "We ought to know that by this time," said Hart- 
 son, with an amused smile. "We hain't heard any- 
 thing: else lately." 
 
 The guests laughed pleasantly, and the servants, 
 who had now collected, snickered doubtfully. The 
 change from the horrible to the ridiculous was so sud- 
 den, and his feelings were so relieved to find that noth- 
 ing had occurred which would be likely to distress his 
 wife, that Mr. Ben Hartson was at once in good 
 humor. Yet he asked, with some sternness: 
 
 " What do you want to see Miss Sophy for ?" 
 
 "Kase I'se got somefin' fer her," answered the child, 
 simply. 
 
 " Why don't you give it to Compy, then ? She'll 
 take it to Miss Sophy," said Hartson, kindly. 
 
498 'ZOURrS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 "Aunt Compy's so powerful kerless," said 'Zouri, 
 looking up earnestly, ''dat jes' ez like ez not she'd 
 forgit ter give it ter de missus till de week atter ter- 
 morrer." 
 
 Upon this another ripple of laughter ran through 
 the crowd. 
 
 "Well, I declare," said the master, smiling, "you're 
 not far wrong there, child." Then he added, sooth- 
 ingly, "Well, give it to me, and I'll take it to Miss 
 Sophy myself." 
 
 " Oh, I can't do dat, Marse Ben," said the child; " I 
 can't do it no sort o' way; I can't — I can't, Marse 
 Uncle Peter charge me 'a'ticular not ter do dat no- 
 how; kase, he said, ef you once got a holt ob dat ar 
 red-hoss yer'd eat him up, bones and all, quicker'n a 
 cat 'ud lap sweet milk." 
 
 There was a roaring laugh now, in which Ben Hart- 
 son joined heartily. 
 
 "Well, I'll be durned," said he, " ef you ain't the 
 coolest customer I've had lately." 
 
 Just then his little boy came through the crowd and 
 said to him softly: 
 
 " Papa, mamma says, if you please she wishes you'd 
 let her come in herself." 
 
 A request from his wife preferred by the lips of his 
 son was something that Ben Hartson not only could 
 not refuse but could not even hesitate to grant. 
 
 "All right, Ferdie," said he, laughing; "take her in 
 to Sophy, and we'll see if she can make anything of 
 this young wildcat." 
 
 Ferdie took one of 'Zouri's hands, which still clasped 
 
IMPUDENCE. 499 
 
 her precious bundle, and the half-clad colored child 
 followed the fair-haired, blue-eyed, cherub-like Cau- 
 casian without hesitation up the steps, across the porch, 
 among the gaily-dressed ladies, who moved their 
 white robes aside to let them pass, into the stately 
 hall, across the soft-carpeted sitting-room, and into 
 the home sanctuary of the stately mansion, the mis- 
 tress's own room. 
 
 " I swear," said Ben Hartson, as he looked after 
 them with moist eyes, " ain't that a picture !" 
 
 Then they all followed — first the master, then his 
 guests, and the servants filing cautiously after them. 
 Ferdie led his charge straight up to his mother, where 
 she sat in her reclining chair, slender and pale, dressed 
 with that fitness of selection which marks the woman 
 of most delicate nature, and wearing that look of mar- 
 velous composure which bespeaks a heart chastened 
 by suffering. 
 
 " This is the little girl that cried so, mamma," said 
 Ferdie. 
 
 "What is your name, honey .^" asked Mrs. Hartson, 
 sweetly. 
 
 " 'Zouri," was the mechanical reply, as the child 
 stood gazing on her interlocutor with a look of rapt 
 amazement. 
 
 " What made you cry so just now, Zouri ?" 
 
 " Kase I wanted ter see Miss Sophy. " 
 
 " Well, look at her," with a smile. 
 
 " Be you Miss Sophy ?" 
 
 " Yes ; who did you think I was ?" 
 
500 'ZOURIS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " Fout yer wuz a angel," said 'Zouri earnestly. 
 
 •* And weren't far wrong either," interjected Mr. 
 Hartson in an undertone. 
 
 " Oh! hush, dear, don't worry the child any more/' 
 said Mrs. Hartson, w^ith a faint blush showing on her 
 pale cheek. " What did you want of me, child ?" she 
 asked. 
 
 "Only ter give yer dis," said 'Zouri, advancing and 
 laying the bundle carefully in her lap. 
 
 "Better not open it, Sophy," said Hartson mischiev- 
 ously. " I've a presentiment that it's a baby which 
 this young woman intends to cast upon your charity 
 for support." 
 
 There was a little ripple of laughter, for all sounds 
 were tempered in the fair woman's sick chamber. 
 
 "Oh, don't, husband," laughed his wife softly, as 
 with an eager curiosity she undid the numerous folds 
 until the fish with its red-clay case and Indian-pone 
 cover lay exposed upon her lap and the fragrance of 
 the yet hot and delicate morsel floated through the 
 room. Then the sick woman clapped her hands and 
 laughed as she had not been khowm to laugh before 
 in weeks — until the tears came flowing over her softly 
 flushing cheeks. 
 
 "It's a red-horse," she cried; "a baked red-horse!" 
 
 Then the laughter grew contagious, and a peal rang 
 around the sick-room which must have frightened 
 away disease. 
 
 'Zouri had stood looking on in wonder, twisting her 
 frock with one hand and a knot of her kinky hair with 
 the other. At la?t she stroke, half indignantly: 
 
IMPUDENCE. 501 
 
 " 'Co'se it is; Uncle Peter sent it." 
 
 "Of course he did," said the mistress, still laugh- 
 ing. Then she held it up for all the company to see, 
 and after -a while she called for a fork and a cup of 
 tea, and, Pushed and smiling, with many a jest and 
 merry quirk from her husband and the on-looking 
 guests, she ate Uncle Peter's red-horse and 'Zouri's 
 corn-pone; and when she had finished said she be- 
 lieved it would make her well. 
 
 "Don't you think, mamma, that's wHat God sent it 
 for ?" said little Ferdie, looking up at his mother, with 
 his fair, sweet face aglow. 
 
 There was a hush fell over the fair bevy in the room 
 as the mother clasped her beautiful child to her breast 
 and exclaimed, "God grant it, my son," and Ben Hart- 
 son uttered a solemn and fervent "Amen." 
 
 It was well after nightfall when Aunt Compy accom- 
 panied 'Zouri to her home bearing a heavy-laden bas- 
 ket, and later yet, when the story had been told over 
 and over again and the unexpectedly sumptuous sup- 
 per discussed in Uncle Peter's house. The event 
 added not a little to that worthy's self-importance, and 
 at once raised 'Zouri to an important rank in the little 
 household. 
 
 Strangely enough, from that very day the health of 
 the Mistress of Content began to improve, and, as a 
 consequence, no doubt, 'Zouri became a prime favorite 
 there. Marse Ben had always a good word for her, 
 and Miss Sophy had more than once requested Aunt 
 Compy to bring her over to play with the little Ferdie, 
 
502 'ZOURVS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 who had come to look upon her as the providential 
 instrument of his mother's recovery. Aunt Compy 
 had been employed at the great house a good part of 
 the summer, and 'Zouri had come to be an especial 
 favorite with Uncle Peter, who declared her to be "de 
 peartest little gal on de plantation, by all odds." 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 COMPY 'SIDERS ON't. 
 
 THE conversation with which our story opened 
 had occurred a little more than a week before 
 Christmas. Aunt Compy had promised little 'Zouri 
 "to 'sider on't," which she proceeded to do by talking 
 to herself with no little vigor of tone and language, as 
 soon as the child had left the hut. 
 
 " 'Clar ef dat chile didn't mos' make me break down 
 an* cry right out! On'y jes think on't now. Compy, 
 yer's ben a mitey mean, bad auntie ter dat ar chile. 
 What yer s'pose yer sister 'Zouri, her ez de dear chile's 
 named atter — jes ez ef hit ed ben done a purpose ter 
 'mind yer on her ebbry time yer speaks her name — 
 what d'yer s'pose she think on yer now ? P'raps she's 
 lookin' down outen der sky an' a watchin' yer doins 
 toward dat ar gal o' hern; wouldn't be one bit s'prised 
 ef she was; an' what d'yer s'pose now dat ar delicate 
 creeter tinks ob her big strappin' sister what she lef 
 her little gal tu, ter take keer on ? 
 
 " Yer hev tuk keer on her ? Now, yer mean lyin' 
 huzzy, don' yer tell me dat when yer know ef de deah 
 ghos* ob yer dead sister should come fru dat ar doah 
 yer couldn't find a word ter say ter it 'bout its little 
 gal. No, yer hain't done jes' der same by hit ez by 
 yer own chillen. Fust place yer's jes' made it a nuss- 
 
 31 
 
504 'ZOURPS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 gal an' a nigger fer yer own chillen ebcr since yer's 
 hed it. Den, yer's shirked an' shifted on ter dat ar 
 mite uv a gal nigh 'bout haf yer oughter done yer 
 own black lazy self ! Jes' tink how yer's let her bring 
 water from dat dar spring, 'long dat slippery side-hill 
 path whar de sun shines de hottest an' de win' blows 
 de coldest uv any place in der whole country, while 
 yer's sot here in de shade er by der fire doin' nuffin* 
 on airth only smokin' er snuffin', p'raps. Ain't yer 
 'shamed, yer mean, lazy, good-fer-nothin' black huzzy!" 
 
 She rose and went to the door of the hut and looked 
 down towards the spring, as if seeking new food for 
 her self-condemnation. If such was her purpose she 
 was successful in it. Half way down the bleak slip- 
 pery path w^as 'Zouri w4th little Dot in her arms, mak- 
 ing her way with difficulty toward the house, while 
 Dot was screaming at the top of her voice. 
 
 " Look dar, now," she continued, as she proceeded 
 with her self-castigation, "jes' see how yer's let her 
 take ker o' dem big fat chillen o' yourn, totin' an' 
 slavin' for 'em jes' all der time. 'Clar' for't ef she 
 hain't been a heap more mudder to 'em as you is — all 
 'cept de bornin', an' dat's a fac. An' now yer finks on 
 it, what hez yer ever done fer 'em, on'y jes' de scoldin' 
 an' de wallopin'? Dat 'er gal never done none o' dat. 
 I don't 'How she ebber hit one ob dem young ones a 
 lick in her life. I don't b'lieve she ebber scolded 'em. 
 Quare, ain't it? An' now I gets ter t'ink on't, hit is 
 quare, shore 'nough, but I jes' can't 'member hearin' 
 dat ar gal jowerin' at der chillen — no, not er once. 
 'Clar' I don't see how she gets 'long wid 'em 'thout it. 
 
COMFY 'SIDERS ON'T. 505 
 
 Sick er well, dough, she takes care on 'em jes' ez ef 
 dey wuz her own. An' yer hain't nebber done nuffin' 
 for her, on'y jes' gib her bread an' meat dat she more'n 
 arned ebbry day ob her life. On'y jes' look at her 
 now ! Dat's de bery bes' dress dat ar chile's got. An' 
 no shoes ! 'Clar' I don't b'lieve she's ever hed a par 
 in her life, an' here she is gwine on ten years ole. Ef 
 she's ever hed a shoe on her foot it's been some old 
 'uns ob mine; an' nary bunnit, an', I do declar', I don't 
 reckon de pore chile hez ebber been ter meetin' 'bove 
 once or twic't in her life. Hev a Christmas ! Pore 
 chile, dat she shel, an' a good un too, jes' ez shuah ez 
 my name's Comp. I'll speak ter Peter 'bout hit, dis 
 berry day ! Der ain't no reason on airth why we 
 shouldn't do der far ting by 'Zouri, 'specially dis Fall 
 when we's had sech good luck in de crap, an' terbac- 
 cer's cured up ez yaller ez a hick'ry leaf. Here, you, 
 Dot, git down outen 'Zouri's arms an' come here ter 
 me ! What yer makin' all dat noise 'bout, now ? Hush 
 up yer mouf an' tell me dis minnit. An' you, 'Zouri, 
 go in der house an' set down an' rest yerself, chile. 
 Yer look ez ef dese chillen ud war yer life out." 
 
 Compy was not one to let her good resolution rust 
 or rot from disuse. She was dull and easy, and it 
 was but natural for her to forget that the little child 
 whom her sister had left to her care had been unusu- 
 ally faithful over the few things which constituted the 
 duties of her young life, and that she had left both her 
 love and her gratitude to be regarded as a matter of 
 course by the little orphan. When, however, her atten- 
 tion was directed to the fact, and her somewhat slug- 
 
506 'ZOURrS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 gish nature once aroused, there was no such thing as 
 rest for her until she had made amends for what she 
 deemed her neglect. She at once determined to give 
 the child a Christmas which should be ever memor- 
 able to her. Shoes, a new dress, and a hat of some 
 sort were the least of the luxuries which she deter- 
 mined should gladden the Christmas of the namesake 
 of her dead sister. But the first thing was to prepare 
 the stockings for which 'Zouri had asked, for she was 
 determined not only that the child should have a 
 memorable Christmas, but that she should have it in 
 her own way; so that very evening (which in the 
 South means afternoon) she went over to the great 
 house and had a talk with Miss Sophy, whom she 
 found not only ready to sympathize with her wishes, 
 but anxious to co-operate in her plans. She had taken 
 a peculiar interest in 'Zouri, all the more because her 
 little boy seemed to have a decided preference for her 
 as a playmate. She had even thought of hiring the 
 child as a nurse-girl for him, and would have done so, 
 only there seemed^ to her housewifely mind no need 
 to increase the force of servants already employed 
 about the mansion. Perhaps, too, there was something 
 of superstition attaching to 'Zouri in connection with 
 her own recovery. 
 
 Compy procured from the kind lady the necessary 
 yarn and had a stocking set up before she started for 
 home, which she did in time to join her husband on 
 his way from work. 
 
 '' What yer gwine ter do Christmas time, Peter ?" 
 she asked, as they strolled along the road to the ford. 
 
COMFY 'SIDERS ON'T. 507 
 
 " Wal, I der know," said Peter. " Specs I go down 
 ter de Co't-house, Christmas Day, an' den praps hev a 
 hunt er two, an' kinder slosh roun' loose like." 
 
 "An'spen'a month's wages in 'blockade,' I spec, 
 afore de week's out," said Compy, laughing. 
 
 " Wal, honey, I did 'low to hev a little egg-nogg of 
 a Christmas Eve. Br'er Sam's comin' over wid his 
 wife an' some o' de nayburs up de ribber dat we 
 ain't seen in a smart while. Br'er Sam's gwine ter 
 furnish de eggs, an Jim Black 'lowed he'd bring 
 over a poun' er two ob sugar. So 'twon't all be our 
 treat, honey," said Peter, soothingly, as if he had anti' 
 cipated dissent on her part to the proposed entertain- 
 ment. Compy made no reply, and walked along a 
 moment in silence. Then Peter asked somewhat 
 uneasily : 
 
 " What's der matter wid yer, Compy ? What yer 
 lookin' so sober 'bout ?" 
 
 They had reached the ford, and Compy sat down on 
 the end of the foot-log. 
 
 "I'se been t'inkin', Peter," she said, "an I'se been 
 ober ter see Miss Sophy, an' been a talkin' wid her, an' 
 it's all sot me to t'inkin' a heap mo.' D'yer know how 
 long we'se been free?" 
 
 " Ebber sence de surrender, haint we ?" said Peter, 
 wonderingly. 
 
 "Yes, to be sure," answered Compy, "but how 
 long's dat ? How many year ?" 
 
 " "Wal, dar yer got me now, honey," said the man, 
 with a blank smile. " I nebber could make head ner 
 tail at reraemberin' figgers. It mout be tree year, an' 
 
508 'ZOURrS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 den agin it mout be five, for aught I knows to de con- 
 trary." 
 
 " Psha !" said the woman, impatiently, "don't be so 
 stupid, Peter. It's gwine on ten year!" 
 
 " Yerdon' say now !" said Peter in surprise. ** La, 
 chile, how time do fly, don't it now ? We's gittin' right 
 smart an' ole too. An' dat accounts now ; I recolleck 
 when I combed my har, which wuz — las' Sunday wuz a 
 fortnight, I noticed it war a gittin' right gray, like." 
 
 *" Yes," said Compy, " we's a' gittin' ole, an' so's de 
 chillen." 
 
 " Dat's a fac', honey," said Peter, vivaciously ; " dar's 
 dat gal 'Zouri is certain gittin' mighty peart an' handy 
 like. An' de boy, Compy, dat ar little Pete, he ain't 
 no slouch nigger. D'yer see dat string o' fish he catch 
 todder day ? Der little scamp, he foun' whar I'd been 
 a baitin' 'em agin de Chris'mas week, ef so be de 
 weather should be open like, an' he jes' tuk my bes' 
 hook an' line an' went dar an' cotch a smart string on 
 'em all by hisself. But what set yer t'inkin' ob dese 
 t'ings jes' now, honey ?" 
 
 "I wuz jes' a thinkin'," said Compy, *' dat in all dis 
 time we hadn't done but monstr'us little ter show we's 
 glad ob de freedom we'be hed, er ter make it good ter 
 de chillen." 
 
 " Why, Compy, haint we allers got long well 'nuff ? 
 hed enuff ter eat an' drink an' war — sech as 'tis ?" 
 asked Peter. 
 
 " Sartin, sartin," said Compy, '' an' we's had strong 
 ban's ter git it wid ebbry day. Bress der good Lor' 
 der haint none on us been sick' — cept little Jim ez 
 
COMPy 'SIDERS ON'T. 509 
 
 died " — there was a break in her voice for an instant, 
 and then she said — "but we haint got nuffin' ahead — 
 dat is, nuffin' uv any account — an' de chillen ain't any 
 better off dan we wuz at dar age. Dey haint got no 
 larnin' an' ain't no nearer bein' like white folk dan dey 
 wuz de day ob de s'render, ez I ken see." 
 
 " Dat's a fac'," said Peter solemnly. 
 
 " Yes, 'tis a fac'," said the woman ; " an' I say, hit 
 oughtn't ter be so nuther, dat it oughtn't." 
 
 " Ob co'se," assented the man dully. 
 
 " An', I say, Peter," continued Compy, " dar's 
 'Zouri: we'd orter do jes' ez well by her an' be jes' as 
 kerful uv her ez ef she wuz our ovv-n gal." 
 
 " Ob co'se," assented Peter with somewhat of ani- 
 mation ; "I've alius thought dat." 
 
 " But we hain't done it, Peter !" 
 
 " No ?" incredulously. 
 
 " No, we hain't. Does yer s'posed at she'd a* been 
 till ten year ole ez she hez been ef she wuz our'n? Yer 
 kno' she wouldn't, Peter. I'm not a blamin' you. Yer 
 ain't ter blame, ner I either, only we nebber thought 
 nuffin' on't." 
 
 " Dat's so," said her husband seriously. 
 
 " An' it's time we wuz a thinkin' uv our own chillen 
 too." 
 
 " Dat's so, agin," said Peter, looking admiringly at 
 his wife. 
 
 " I've been axin Miss Sophy 'bout it," she continued, 
 " an' a axin her ter tell me how we's gwine ter mend, 
 kase I knowed yer'd be willin' ter take her advice, 
 Peter." 
 
610 'ZOURVS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " Dat I would, honey," said he; " she jes is de mos* 
 masterful woman dat ebber drew bref, ef she is puny- 
 like." 
 
 " Wal, Pete," Compy never called her husband Pete, 
 except when she wished to coax him to her way of 
 thinking, " Miss Sophy says ez how we jes' kinder 
 fritters away what we make, an' 'stead uv makin' 
 ebbry t'ing go jes' ez fur ez 'twill we don't take no 
 sort o' keer fer things dat's little, an' first we know 
 dey mount up ter all we've got, er a little mo' ; an' I 
 bleeve it's so." 
 
 " More'n likely 't mout be so," said Peter, dubiously. 
 
 " She axed me," continued Compy, " what our las' 
 Chris'mas cost us, an' when I tole her I reckoned a 
 matter of two or three dollars, she kinder laughed 
 like, an' went an' got Mars Ben's count book, an' 
 what wid de figgers she got from dat an' what I could 
 make out ter remember, she figgered out dat we ate, 
 an' drunk, an' frowed away in dat Chris'mas week 
 more'n we'd bofe made in the month afore it." 
 
 " Yer don't say !" ejaculated Peter. 
 
 " It's so, shuah," responded Compy. 
 
 " Wal, what yer gwine to do 'bout hit, honey 1 Jes 
 not hab any Chris'mas ?" asked he dubiously. 
 
 " No," answered Compy, " she showed me how we 
 could hev a heap better one an' not cost nigh so 
 much." 
 
 " Dar now, didn't I say she was a powerful peart 
 woman, dat Miss Sophy ? Hit's a mighty good thing 
 fer Mars Ben he's got jes'sech a wife," said Peter, 
 philosophically. 
 
COMFY 'SIDERS ON' T. 511 
 
 " And dis is de way she says fer to do it," said 
 Compy; "she says ez how ye're a great hunter an' 
 fisher, ez eberybody knows ter be true, Pete, only yer 
 allers gives away all yer cotches. Yer see yer could 
 cotch atwixt now an' Chris'mas Day right smart 
 o' nice fish, an' den yer mout cotch two or three 
 'possums o' nights, an' praps yer mout bait up a tur- 
 key er two an' shoot 'em. An' dis, she sez, wid de 
 bacon an' de meal, an' jes' a dust ob flour and a little 
 buttah an' sugah, '11 jes' be all we needs fer a better 
 Chris'mas, a heap sight, dan lots ob white folks 
 hab." 
 
 "An' not a bit ob 'blockade,' honey? Is dat what 
 yer mean ?" asked Peter. 
 
 "Wal," said Compy meditatively, "we mout hev a 
 Chris'mas dinner, an ax Br'er Sam's folks an' de 
 odders you spoke 'bout, an' we inout hev jes' otie glass 
 uv egg-nogg — jes' kinder fer dessert like. An' den 
 you know, honey, we could take de rest ob de money 
 an' gib de chillen a power of presents dat dey needs." 
 
 There was a moment of silence. Then the husband 
 said : 
 
 "Compy, I'll be dod-derned ef we don't try dat ar 
 new fangled plan ob Miss Sophy's. I couldn't git fru 
 de Chris'mas widout jes' a drap o' sperits, but I'll 
 'low a good dinner wid a good egg-nogg arter it'll do 
 nigh 'bout ez well ez more sperits an' less grub. I'll 
 try it any way. I reckon it's right, an' whether 'tis or 
 no I'm boun' ter do dat much jes' to pleasure you, 
 honey." 
 
 It was said with a sly wink and grin, and Compy, 
 
512 'ZOURrS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 springing up, threw her arm about his neck and gave 
 him a kiss. 
 
 " Oh, you good ole boy !" 
 
 Then they crossed the foot-log together, and, as 
 they went up the hill, she told him of 'Zouri's desire 
 for a stocking for Christmas, and showed him the one 
 she had begun. 
 
 " So yer gwine ter have a reg'lar white folks' Chris'- 
 mas ?" he added. 
 
 " Dat's it, honey," she replied ; " why shouldn't we? 
 We's free now, an' drinkin', an' carousin', an' shootin' 
 off guns ain't der way we ought to be adoin' no mo'." 
 
 " Dat's so, honey," responded he. 
 
 From that hour it was hard to say which was 
 busiest or most enthusiastic in preparing for the new 
 festival. A thousand plans were discussed between 
 them, and Miss Sophy was regularly consulted as to 
 all of them. Of the greater portion of these 'Zouri 
 was kept in profound ignorance, but that she was to 
 have a stocking, and that each of the other children 
 was to have one also, she was duly informed. There- 
 upon her imagination ran riot as to what " Marse 
 Santa Glaus" would put into it. Her faith was with- 
 out spot. The sainted Miss Sophy, herself all but an 
 angel, as she thought, had told her the legend, and she 
 no more thought of doubting it than she would have 
 questioned the revealed and attested word of God. 
 Moreover, " young Marse Ferdie" had told her one 
 day, when she had accompanied Aunt Gompy to the 
 mansion, just what he expected, and had given as a 
 reason for his faith that he had " asked God to please 
 
COMFY 'SIDEKS ON' T. 513 
 
 send Santa Claus to bring 'em." Among his expected 
 presents was a doll. Though he was now six years 
 old, he was, as he always had been, very fond of a doll, 
 and his especial desire was that Santa Claus should 
 bring him a large girl doll that could open its eyes 
 and turn its head. He had been so persistent in his 
 importunity that one of his sisters had finally pro- 
 mised that she would ask Santa Claus to bring it, 
 with which promise he rested content. When his 
 father came to hear of it, however, for the first time 
 in his life Ben Hartson interfered in the domestic 
 affairs of his household. He vowed that the child 
 should have no more doll-babies. He might have a 
 pony, a dog — anything but a doll. He was afraid he 
 was going to grow up a " milksop sort of gal-boy, 
 anyhow," and he wouldn't have it encouraged. It was 
 in vain that his wife urged that it had been promised 
 the child ; fhat he would be sadly disappointed, and 
 lose something of that faith which is the brightest 
 part of childhood. He swore that she was spoiling 
 the boy ; that it ought never to have been promised 
 him, and even if it was it should never be given him. 
 As the doH had already been purchased, Mrs. Hartson, 
 finding her husband quite implacable, could think of 
 no better method to dispose of it than by giving it to 
 Compy for 'Zouri. Meantime, little Ferdie discoursed 
 with rapture to 'Zouri of the expected gift, describing 
 over and over to her the details of its appearance and 
 clothing, which he had little by little extracted from 
 his sister as the description of the doll she had 
 asked Santa Claus to bring him. 
 
CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A MISTAKE AND A MISSTEP. 
 
 IT was Christmas Eve. All the preparations for the 
 morrow had been made. Uncle Peter had been 
 into town during the afternoon, and had returned show- 
 mg none of the signs which usually attested the proxim- 
 ity of the Christmas. Not only 'Zouri's stockings but 
 three other little ones had been hung upon the jamb 
 of the toppling chimney. Grim Uncle Peter, with a 
 queer twinkle in his eyes, had superintended their 
 suspension, and had succeeded in giving to each one 
 a choice location where the open leg of the little stock- 
 ing would just gape wide and plain in the very face 
 of Santa Claus as he scrambled down the old crooked- 
 backed stick chimney. The children had been sent 
 to bed early, with strict injunction that any one who 
 should try to act the Paul Pry on Santa Claus would 
 surely miss receiving anything from him. It had 
 been a dull, rainy day, but just at night the clouds 
 cleared away, and a brisk, cold wind sprang up from 
 the north-westward, giving promise of a sharp frost. 
 
 'Zouri had clambered up the ladder into the rude 
 loft with little Dot, and together they had hid 
 their faces under the cover of their rude pal- 
 let to render the temptation to peep impossible of 
 fulfillment, and, whispering to each other of their 
 
A MISTAKE AND A MISSTEP. 515 
 
 hopes, had- fallen asleep. The stars were shining 
 brightly and coldly through the roof when 'Zouri 
 awoke. All was still. She could hear Uncle Peter 
 snoring in the room below. How she wondered if 
 Santa Claus had made his rounds yet ! She had al- 
 ways heard that he came just about twelve o'clock. 
 She wondered whether it was yet past midnight or 
 not. She was afraid to look toward the chimney, lest 
 she should infringe the command of the mystic gift- 
 bearer. Yet she did so long to know if he had passed 
 that way, if he had come down the old stick chimney, 
 if he had brought her any gifts, and, if so, what. She 
 waited — it seemed to her an age. She was sure it 
 must be past midnight. At length she concluded to 
 take just one look, not to spy on Santa Claus, but just 
 to see if he had come. So she crawled out of the 
 pallet-bed on which they slept and crept to the edge 
 of the loose boards which constituted the flooring of 
 the loft. Then she looked down at the fireplace. The 
 fire had almost died away, but just as she was strain- 
 ing her eyes to catch a glimpse of the stockings a big 
 log that had burned quite in two under the ashes 
 Uncle Pete had heaped on it fell apart, and one of 
 the ends rolled over and burst into a blaze. The 
 light of this blaze fell fair on 'Zouri's stocking and 
 enabled her to see that it was full — more than full, for 
 whatever was in it came above the top and hung over 
 almost as if it would fall out. What could it be? She 
 guessed a thousand things, each more improbable 
 than the other, and with each guess her curiosity in- 
 creased. It was useless for her to think of sleeping. 
 
516 'ZOURrS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 She crept back to the pallet and lay down beside Dot, 
 who was slumbering peacefully. It seemed impossi- 
 ble that Santa Claus should have been so kind as to 
 remember her. She had half expected that he would 
 not. She wondered if there would be any harm in 
 her going to see what it was without waiting for 
 morning. Right or wrong, the first she knew she 
 found herself stealing down the ladder and tiptoeing 
 across the rough cabin floor toward the fireplace. The 
 wind blew cold through the wide cracks, but she did 
 not feel it. She reached the fireplace and standing on 
 tiptoe gazed at the overcrowded stocking. Her eyes 
 distended with amazement. She could not believe 
 the message which they brought. She reached forth 
 her hand and touched it doubtfully, seeking assur- 
 ance. Still she doubted. The justification of her 
 faith appalled her. She drew forth the topmost par- 
 cel cautiously and with a trembling hand. It was 
 wrapped in soft white tissue paper, and seemed too 
 delicate and rich for the surroundings in which she 
 stood. Her heart gave a great bound as it flashed 
 upon her that it might not be for her. At last she 
 knelt down upon the rough, shattered hearth, and lay- 
 ing the bundle before her unwrapped it, tenderly and 
 softly. How black her hands seemed where they 
 showed against the clear white paper ! Fold after 
 fold of the silky tissue she removed until — was it a 
 dream of heaven? Had the quaint, grim. Christian 
 elfin brought her an angel from the sky ? She clasped 
 her hands and gazed in mute, worshipful amazement 
 at the vision of loveliness which lay upon the rough 
 
ZOURI'S CHRISTMAS. 
 
 " She clasped her hands and gazed in tnute luorship/ul amazement at the 
 
 vision oy loveliness which lay upon the rough mud-ivhitened 
 
 hearth be/ore her.'''' — p. 517. 
 
A MISTAKE AND A MISSTEP. 517 
 
 mud-whitened hearth before her, lit into life-like 
 seeming by the flickering blaze of the expiring brand. 
 A doll lay before her, with features wrought to the 
 life in delicately tinted wax, which by the dim light 
 seemed animate and cherubic, with fair wavy hair 
 falling over its tiny dimpled shoulders, and dressed in 
 robes of gossamer sheen which to her simple seeming 
 only fairy fingers could have wrought ! Her heart was 
 hushed with a rapture before unknown. The sweet 
 similitude of mimic life had unlocked to her hungry 
 soul the pearly gates of the heaven of beauty. How 
 long she gazed upon it she knew not. She only awoke 
 from her rapturous vision when the flickering flame 
 died out in darkness and the chill wind blew through 
 crevices and cast the smothering smoke into her face. 
 Then she folded her fairy treasure in its wrappings, 
 clasped it to her bounding heart, and in rapt ecstasy 
 climbed the ladder to her pallet. Still clasping it 
 close she crept beneath the dingy cover. 
 
 But she could not sleep ; the vision she had seen 
 engendered other visions. Her fancy ran riot as to 
 what the morrow would bring forth — not for herself. 
 Her cup was already full. No more of rapture could 
 be pressed into it — but to others — to little Dot, and 
 Pete, and Bunk ! She was sorry she had not looked 
 into their stockings, too ! Her heart reproached her 
 for her selfishness. And then her thought recurred 
 to the great house across the river, to the angel lady 
 who dwelt there. She would take her — yes, her doll 
 — her very own angel dolly — over and show it to Miss 
 Sophy to-morrow. How proud and happy she would 
 
518 'ZOURIS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 be when that lady of all ladies saw the beautiful e^ift 
 which Santa Claus had brought to 'Zouri — little 'Zouri, 
 to whom she had been so kind. And then her thought 
 recurred to her golden-haired, blue-eyed playmate, 
 "young Marse Ferdie," whose face was the fairest and 
 sweetest she had ever seen, except the face of her 
 Christmas dolly. It was like that, too — just so white 
 and fair, with the tender pink mixed wuth its velvet soft- 
 ness — just the same. She wondered if the dolly which 
 he expected would be so beautiful. She wondered if — 
 
 All at once she sat up panting with horror. The 
 blood forsook her face. Her limbs were numb and 
 cold. Her hair would have stood on end but for its 
 close entanglements. Her breath came hard and fast ! 
 A horrible idea had seized upon her mind ! 
 
 " Dar now," she said to herself, as soon as her ter- 
 ror-parched tongue would obey her will, " dat no- 
 'count Santa Claus done made a mistake, arter all. 
 Dis yer doll baby not mine at all. Mout a knowed 
 dat afore. Heap too fine fer nigger gal ter hab, enny- 
 how. Pore Marse Ferdie ! He'll jes' cry his purty 
 eyes out when he fin' ole Santy serve him sech a trick ! 
 An' he's been lookin' for it so long, too. Bress his 
 heart ! I takes it right ober an' gives it ter him in de 
 mornin', fust thing, so I will ! But, la sakes ! 'twon't 
 nebber seem like ez ef Santy hed bro't hit an' put hit 
 in 'is stockin' ez he orter done, nohow, ef taint dar 
 when he gits up in de mornin'. No mo' hit won't ! 
 Ef I could on'y " 
 
 She sprang out of her bed, laid the precious bundle 
 down on the pallet, caught her old linsey-wolsey dress 
 
A MISTAKE AND A MISSTEP. 519 
 
 from a nail in the rafter, slipped it on, and, taking the 
 doll upon her arm, ran down the ladder without mak- 
 ing noise enough to wake a mouse ; raised the wooden 
 latch, opened the door cautiously, and ran down the 
 well-known path to the ford. The cold wind whistled 
 about her, but she did not feel it. The moist clay 
 was stiffening with frost, but she did not heed it. The 
 moon hid her face behind a cloud as if to daunt her, 
 but she knew the path too well to need its light. 
 
 Before there was time to think she was at the ford 
 and pattering along the foot-log. The rain which had 
 clung to its foot-worn surface here and there had 
 turned to ice since the sun went down. She did not 
 mind it. She reached the middle of the stream. An 
 owl upon the other bank rose and floated away above 
 her with a weird " To-whit ! to-whoo !" The water 
 dashed bright and cold over the rocky bed below. She 
 knew the current was deep and strong. There was a 
 slip, a quick, vain effort to rally, a sudden splash, one 
 shrill shriek, and 'Zouri and young Marse Ferdie's 
 dolly were borne downward by the cold, hungry river 
 that laughed and gurgled in cruel glee as it dragged 
 the young life along. There was another cry as she 
 came once to the surface. She held the doll high 
 above the water to save it from destruction. The 
 water dragged her down again — down to the bottom ; 
 dashed her against the cold, sharp stones ; twisted the 
 linsey gown about her legs, and then tossed her up to 
 the surface, so that the cold winter moon which for a 
 time had hid her light might see the prey the river 
 had caught through her treachery. 
 
 32 
 
CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 MARSE BEN AND TRUMPETER. 
 
 IT was one o'clock, and Squire Ben Hartson was on 
 his way home from Benbury Court-house, where 
 he had been with some friends making some festive 
 preparations for the advent of Christmas. He was 
 mounted on his favorite dappled-bay hunter Trump- 
 eter — "the best horse," he was wont to declare, "in 
 the whole State to ride to hounds in a bad country, 
 or when one was a little uncertain of his way or a 
 leetle too large for his saddle ;" which latter qualifica- 
 tion was well understood to refer to the effects of cer- 
 tain spirituous decoctions which were especially abun- 
 dant about the period of the Christmas holidays. He 
 had reached the brow of the hill, and was turning 
 toward the ford around the great locust in front of 
 Peter's hut, when he heard a sound which caused hini 
 to draw rein and listen. The horse champed the bit 
 and stamped angrily at the delay. He was impatient 
 for his stall and the generous feed which he knew 
 was waiting in his trough. While his master listened 
 he threw up his head and neighed. The rays of the 
 moon just emerging from a cloud sparkled brightly 
 in the filmy mist which rose from his nostrils. His 
 master started like one affrighted at the sound, and 
 jerked the rein savagely. His heart was beating 
 
MARSE BEN AND TRUMPETER. 521 
 
 quick, and a feeling of nameless horror crept over 
 
 him. 
 
 " I declare," he muttered to himself when he had 
 listened a moment and heard nothing, "if Sophy knew 
 this I do believe she'd think I was drunk. I ain't, 
 though, nor I ain't tight — much. I should have to 
 admit, if I was sworn, that I do feel my spirits a lee- 
 tle. That last dram with Dr. Mack was jest a trifle 
 more'n I oughter hev taken on. It couldn't be helped, 
 though. Couldn't say " No " to an old friend on Christ- 
 mas Eve. But I ain't drunk, and I did hear a scream. 
 That I'll swear. And, by the same token, 'twas from 
 down there at the ford, too. I don't know why 'tis, 
 but I've always hated to cross that ford late in the 
 night, ever since we took Sam Ingold out of it twelve 
 years ago. I've always thought there was foul play 
 about that matter somehow, and more'n once I've 
 thought I heard something there when I knew there 
 was nobody there to make a sound. There 'twas 
 again ! No ? Get along, Trumpeter ! durned if I 
 don't believe the devil has got some sort of business 
 on hand there now. If he has we may as well take a 
 hand as anybody, old fellow ; eh, Trump ?" 
 
 He dug his spurs into the horse's flank, and with a 
 loud view-halloo dashed down to the ford and half 
 across the bright plashing expanse of moonlit water 
 before he stopped. He had drawn his pistol as he 
 came, and as he drew rein he peered up and down 
 the stream in apprehension of something terrible, 
 he knew not what. He could see nothing, yet could 
 not rid himself of the idea that something horrible 
 
522 'ZOURFS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 was to be seen if he but knew where to look. The 
 horse pulled upon the rein, and when his master 
 loosed it, dropped his head to the water and began to 
 drink. Hartson scanned the banks of the stream 
 keenly, but saw nothing unusual. The current where 
 he stood was too swift for the horse to drink, and he 
 edged little by little downward where the water flowed 
 over the granite ledge and settled still and deep be- 
 low. Reaching this he satisfied his thirst and stood 
 waiting his master's pleasure. All at once he uttered 
 a snort of surprise and almost unseated his rider as 
 he sprang aside snorting and gazing down the stream 
 in terror. 
 
 "Well, I swear," said Hartson, now thoroughly 
 cool, "this beats everything. I hear the devil, and 
 you see him. Hanged if I don't find out what all this 
 means before I leave here, if it takes till Christmas a 
 year !" 
 
 Following the direction of the horse's affrighted 
 glance his rider saw a small white spot in the still 
 black water below. He remembered then that durmg 
 the last summer freshet a willow had w^ashed from 
 the bank above, and wdth a mass of earth clinging to 
 its roots had been carried over the ripple at the ford, 
 but had sunk in the still water below, above which its 
 branches just showed at low water. He knew at once 
 that the moving white spot which he saw w^as some- 
 thing which had lodged against the willow and was 
 moved up and down by the action of the water. Hav- 
 ing set himself to lay the ghost of Quillar's Ford, and 
 being now thoroughly roused, he did ixX hesitate a 
 
MARSE BEN AND TRUMPETER. 523 
 
 • 
 
 moment, but giving his horse the spur he dashed into 
 the black eddy and swam toward the white object. 
 As they came near the horse edged around it and 
 snorted with terror, but his master kept him in place, 
 and when he came within reach made a clutch at the 
 white spot. His heavy hand pressed down a light, 
 fluffy mass, and grasped — a human arm ! 
 
 "Hi, Trump!" he shouted, as he turned his horse's 
 head to the shore and clung with one hand to the 
 saddle-bow and with the other to the strange burden 
 which was trailing after them. Ben Hartson was no 
 coward. Though he might for a moment flinch at a 
 superstition, there was no tangible horror or danger 
 which could for a moment daunt him. Long before 
 he reached the shore he had regained his composure ; 
 and when they came to shoal water he drew the drip- 
 ping thing to which the arm was attached alongside 
 of him, peered at it by the moonlight, and seeing 
 that it was the body of a child, swung it upon his sad- 
 ele-bow and by a brief examination decided that life 
 was not extinct. He did not wait to know more, but 
 dug the rowels into his horse and in a moment after 
 had jumped the gate into his own yard, sprung from 
 his horse, and, carrying his burden into his own room 
 where he knew a fire was burning, laid it limp and 
 dripping on the hearth-rug, waked his servant, bade 
 him rouse the cook, and returned to make a further 
 examination. He recognized the child at a glance, 
 and was trying to think what to say to his wife to 
 prevent shocking her nerves, when he heard her speak 
 at his side. 
 
524 'ZOUUrS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 '' I declare if it ain't 'Zouri ! What does it mean, 
 Ben ?'• 
 
 " It means," said he coolly, "that if we don't watch 
 out sharp there'll be one less nigger on the plantation 
 to-morrow than to-day." 
 
 '' But what — " she began. 
 
 " I don't know. I found her in the river, and here 
 she is. Let's have some brandy and blankets." 
 
 But it was useless for him to give further directions. 
 The Mistress of Content took charge of the matter at 
 once. The wet clothing was removed, brandy forced 
 between the cold lips, hot blankets wrapped around the 
 little form. After a time 'Zouri began to respond to 
 these efforts with feeble sighs, and in an hour she was 
 past all danger. Squire Hartson sent back to Peter's 
 house, and soon both he and his wife were there won- 
 dering at the strange sight. No explanation could be 
 offered until Compy caught sight of the doll, terribly 
 washed and draggled, which lay limp and broken on 
 the floor. A light broke upon her which was confirm- 
 ed the next day by 'Zouri's statement. 
 
 "Well, I declare," said Ben Hartson, as he stood 
 beside the lounge on which 'Zouri lay and heard her 
 sobbingly and timidly relate the story of her night 
 adventures while he held his little golden-haired boy 
 by the hand. " So you started out at that time of the 
 night to bring this little rascal that dolly, did you, be- 
 cause you thought Santa Clans had made a mistake ? 
 It was lucky that Trumpeter and I came along about 
 that time. But you deserve the dolly, and you shall 
 have it." 
 
MARSE BEN AND TRUMPETER. 525 
 
 " And I too, papa ; mayn't I have a dolly-baby, too 
 — a new dolly-baby, papa >" 
 
 "Well, yes," laughed his father. "I never made 
 anything settmg up against your ma yet ! I reckon 
 you'll have to be a gal-boy for another year." 
 
 So Squire Ben Hartson mounted upon Trumpeter 
 and rode away to Benbury Court-house, where he told 
 the story of 'Zouri's adventure of the night before 
 with many a commendation of " that plucky little 
 nigger gal ' who risked her life, and almost lost it, too, 
 for his little Ferdie. He came home bringing two 
 dolls larger and nicer than the unfortunate one whose 
 glory the river had destroyed. 
 
 The Christmas feast at Uncle Peter's was delayed 
 until the fourth day of the Christmas week, but it 
 came finally, and " Bre'er Sam's" folks and the neigh- 
 bors from up the river were there. Uncle Peter was 
 beaming and cordial in his Sunday suit, his broad, 
 honest face aglow, his hair carefully combed and mat- 
 ted close, and his grizzled moustache bristling with a 
 quaint show of fierceness above his wide mouth. He 
 had had great luck on the river and in the forest, as 
 the well-spread table showed. A monster turkey- 
 gobbler which had wandered up to his baited blind at- 
 tested the murderous capacity of his gun, and occupied 
 the place of honor in the centre of the table. On one 
 of its flanks a fat opossum grinned, and on the other 
 a magnificent Red Horse, done to a turn, bore testi- 
 mony also to his prowess. With these were the rich 
 brown corn-pones for which Compy was celebrated. 
 
526 'ZOURrs CHRISTMAS. 
 
 the round hard-crusted biscuits of flaky white within, 
 and great piles of baked sweet potatoes. Of everything 
 there was a lavish abundance, except of the regular 
 Christmas drink. Just one glass of foamy nogg stood 
 by each plate. Compy was radiant in a new dress, 
 happiness, and the pride of a cook whose climacteric 
 feast has come upon the table without misadventure. 
 
 i 'Zouri came to her Christmas dinner in the family 
 carriage of the Hartsons, magnificent, to her own eyes 
 at least, in the sheen of Christmas clothes in their first 
 newness, and bearing in her arms a dolly even more 
 beautiful than the one over which Santa Claus had 
 blundered so sadly. With her the carriage brought 
 a basket stored with many tit-bits from the pantry of 
 the great house, with dishes borrowed for the Christ- 
 mas feast, and " young Marse Ferdie," bearing a doll 
 which was the undistinguishable twin of that in 'Zouri's 
 arms. Little Pete in boots and trousers, and Bunk 
 and Dot in the glory of new frocks, stood here and 
 there among the guests in the crowded cabin, with 
 distended eyes, and fingers in their mouths, astounded 
 at the unaccustomed magnificence. Master Ferdie, as 
 
 . well as the servant who brought him, had been care- 
 fully instructed to return at once, but both he and the 
 driver were overpersuaded, and when the feast was 
 set, Marse Ferdie was perched high up in the place of 
 honor. When the company were placed. Uncle Peter, 
 standing at the head of the table, asked a well-conned 
 blessing, and hearty amens came from the bowed 
 heads around the board. Then he lifted his glass of 
 nogg, and with a bow and a scrape to the table said ; 
 
MARSE BEN AND TRUMPETER. 527 
 
 " Ladies an' gemmea, yer'll 'low me ter drink yer 
 good healths an' Chris'mas Gif s !" 
 
 Then he tried to drain the glass, but a part of the 
 foamy nogg remained in it despite his efforts, and part 
 was deposited in a creamy half-moon upon his dark 
 moustache. The "gemmen" alluded to sprang up 
 and followed his example. 
 
 " Sarvunt, Uncle Peter," said one. 
 
 "Ladies, your good healths," another. 
 
 " De crack hunter an' fisher ob de Dan," a third. 
 
 " De lady dat bro't luck ter Quillar's Fo'd," said 
 another, gallantly bowing to Compy. 
 
 Uncle Peter kept bowing and scraping in response 
 to these compliments. Compy with her big coffee- 
 pot in her hand kept dropping courtesies and smiling 
 contentedly at these pleasantries. The "ladies" sim- 
 pered, and the children first stared and then laughed as 
 the fun went on. It was too much for Marse Ferdie, 
 and presently he piped in childish treble from his lofty 
 perch, " 'Rah for Uncle Peter and — and — and Santa 
 Claus !" 
 
 In this the table joined with uproarious shouts. 
 
 But Uncle Peter, rising from his lowest bow and 
 wiping the spray of the egg-nogg from his moustache, 
 said : 
 
 " Ladies an' gemmen, dar's whar you's mistaken. 
 An' beggin' de parding of young Marse Ferdie, dar's 
 whar he's mistaken, too. 'Tain't fer ye ter be givin' 
 me compliments, ner Compy ner Santy Claus neither. 
 Ef it hadn't a' been dat one pe'tickler little gal hed sot 
 her heart on habbin' a reg'lar white-folks' Christmas 
 
528 'ZOURVS CHRISTMAS. 
 
 we'd ncbber a hed none in dis yer house, dat's shuah. 
 Kase ef it hadn't been fer her, Aunt Compy 'd nebber 
 a' 'sidered ; an' ef she hadn't 'sidered she'd nebber a' 
 waked up Uncle Peter; an' sides dat, an' a heap mo', 
 we'd nebber hed no help ner counsel from der bressed 
 Miss Sophy. An' I speaks fer her, ladies an' gemmen, 
 an' I axes yer, in her name, to jes' set to an' help yer- 
 selves to 'Zouri's Chris'mas." 
 
 There was mirth and laughter and unaffected enjoy- 
 ment of the substantial feast. Young and old were 
 alike boisterous and alike happy. The Christmas 
 dinner was accounted by all a grand success, and 
 the compliments to Peter with which it commenced 
 were more than eclipsed by those to Compy, with 
 which it ended. 
 
 The Christmas week passed off pleasantly, but far 
 more quietly than had been usual at the fordman's 
 cabin. When on its last night Aunt Compy and 
 Uncle Peter sat beside the smoldering fire after the 
 children were asleep, the former said: 
 
 " Wal, Peter, what yer tinks now 'bout habbin' ub a 
 white-folks' Chris'mas ?" 
 
 "D'yer know, Compy," he responded, solemnly, 
 "dat I hain't tuck a drap o' liquor, 'cept dat one 
 glass ub egg-nogg, ner shot a gun 'cept at somefin' 
 game, ner hed any carryin's on sech ez we ginerally 
 hez ?" 
 
 " An' how yer likes it, Peter ?" 
 
 "So well,. honey, dat I nebber 'lows ter hab any 
 udder kin' o' Chris'mas ez long ez I knows myself. 
 Does you ?" 
 
MARSE BEN AND TRUMPETER. 529 
 
 "No, honey, dat I don't ; an' it's quare too. It's all 
 'long o' dat gal 'Zouri, dat we come ter try it." 
 
 " Dat's so, Compy; I'se been tinkin* ob it a heap. 
 'Pears like dat gal's been a 'fillin' de Scripter dat says, 
 ^ An' a little chile shall lead 'urn.' " 
 
 And in truth the child had led them along the path 
 that leads to freedom — not that which comes by 
 " proclamation" and " constitutional amendment," but 
 that which springs from self-denial, self-control, and 
 self-direction. 
 
PUBLISHED BY FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT, 
 27 Park Place, New York. 
 
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 By ALBION W. TOMGEE, late Judgs Superior Ccnrt, Norm Carolina. 
 
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 Camp and Cabin: Sketches of Life and Travel in the West. 
 
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 Brave Hearts. An American Novel. Illustrations by Darley, 
 Stephens, F. Beard, and Kendrick. i2mo. Cloth, $1. 
 
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PUBLISllED BY FORDS, HOWARD, & HULBERT, 
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 HARRIET BEECHER STOWL'S BOOKS. 
 
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This book must n( 
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