In the wire-grass : a novel / by Louis Pendleton

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IN THE WIRE-GRASS
A NOVEL

BY
LOUIS tPtENDLETON
AND OTHER
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LIBRARY
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SUP.'.COUNCIL, SO/.JURISDJCTION.

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NEW YORK

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D. APPLETON AND COMPANY ;l

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TO HER, NOW " IN THE WIRE-GRASS," WHO WILL JUDGE IT WITH A MOTHER'S FOND CHARITY, THIS BOW IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

CONTENTS.

PAGX

I. -CHIEFLY ABOUT GHOSTS . .

7

IL -THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS ..... 21

III. -AT THE WINDOW ....... 31

IV. -" TROUBLE 'PON TOP ER TROUBLE "... 40,

V. -MAUM CHLOE'S STRATAGEM . .

54

VI. -" Lo, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES !"

. 64

VII.--SWAMP FEVER ENDS Miss RACHEL'S RESPONSI-

74
VIIL -THAT SUMMER ....... 84 IX. -THE BROOKES OF MELVILLE . . . .92 X. -THE RAW COUNTRY GIRL . . . . .105 XI. -MR. REDDING REAPPEARS . . . . .116 XII. -TELLS OF A CURIOUS WRESTLING-BOUT AND THE EPISTOLARY BOMBSHELL WHICH FOLLOWED IT 130
XIIL--NIGHT TALK AT THE MATHIS FIRESIDE . . 143 XIV.--THE Fox HUNT AND ".Miss SUSANA JINKINS " . 152 XV.--BURSTS THE BLACK, FELL CLOUD . . .165 XVI.--PERPLEXITIES ........ 175 XVIL--Miss RACHEL'S STORY . . . . . . 184 XVIII.--MRS. BROOKE AS A PHYSICIAN AND MAUM CHLOK

AS AN AVENGING ANGEL ..... 197

XIX.--THE RETURNING WANDERER CREATES A SENSA

TION ......... 207

XX.--" BRING IN ANOTHER WOMAN " .

3x9

XXI.--THE DOCTOR'S REMEDY ACTS .... 959

....-..--.^.-

f
IN THE ViRE-GRASS.
i.
CHIEFLY ABOUT GHOSTS.
THE interior of the cabin consisted of a large square space, one quarter of which was partitioned off into a sleeping-apartment, leaving the other three quarters to serve for parlor, dining-room, and kitchen. The walls were decorated with torn bits of the flaring ad vertisement lettering ind coarse, gaudy pictures which, widely displayed on i house and wall, always herald the approach of the circus, and the shelves--though the lower one seemed to be in tolerably good or<Jer--suggested the chaos of a lumber-room. The overflow ing riffraff of the upper one, in which could be distin guished tangled fishing-tackle, a set of reed quills, and an old army musket, communicated by spider-web lad ders with the bunches of dried herbs and old socks stuffed with last year's seed suspended from the smoked-black beams or rafters overhead, which were themselves enshrouded in a veritable cobweb mist.
It was an August afternoon, but a small fire burned in the cavernous chimney-place in evidence that Uncle Tony, the lord of the house, was entertaining that un-

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IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

welcome visitor, the rheumatism. The old man, who sat before the fire and smoked his clay pipe in drowsy silence, was a specimen of the negro race one need not go far to find ; that is to say, well-meaning in the main and good-natured to the last degree, but conspicuous for certain faults which furnish a pathetic and amusing satire upon his open and avowed religious turn of mind.
Mammy Chloe, the wife (or " Maum" Chloe, as she was more frequently called) -- a fat, motherly creature--sat opposite industriously engaged with the rents in a pair of trousers ; and near her, though out of range of the fire, sat a white child, a fairhaired, ten-year-old little girl, with a book of Hans Andersen's fairy tales lying open on her lap. In the doorway lolled Silvey, the daughter of the house, a young person of uncertain age, who would have been described by her father as a "half-grown gal." She had been combing her stubborn locks with a wiretoothed instrument used for carding cotton, but now threw it aside and leaned forward to listen as old Tony began to speak :
" Wut dat you got deh, Aud'ey ? " u A story-book, Uncle Tony," answered the child, looking up in a pleased way. *A sto'y-book?"--squaring his chair around and eying the object in question. a Oh, yes," cried the little girl, with animation; "but it don't tell stories like the way you do, about ghosts and slavery days and Brer Rabbit and the TarBaby. It tells stories about kings and queens and soldiers and fairies and funny animals." "Lemme see de book, chile,"

CHIEFLY ABOUT GHOSTS.

g

"Why, can you read it?" asked the child, doubt
fully. " Ter be sho'," was the dignified response, and
little Audrey was enraptured, exclaiming joyfully that now her favorite story of the little girl no bigger than her finger might be read aloud for the benefit of all! She quickly found the place and passed the book to Uncle Tony, who took it and unknowingly held it up side down. Maum Chloe smiled quietly to herself and sighed, as the old man, having gazed steadily at the reversed page for some moments, turned to another part of the book, remarking with a grunt of disap proval :
"Donhlakdat'n." " Any one, then," said the child, patiently. At this juncture Silvey rose from the doorway and seated herself within, gazing at her father with eyes expressive of a mixture of wonder and admiration, as he, after a lengthy examination of the book, cleared his throat and began to read very slowly, the book still upside down: " l De man went ter town. [Here there was a pause, filled in by much clearing of the throat and sub sequent efforts to settle himself more comfortably in his chair.] De man 'e went ter town, an* 'e sole 'e cotton [fit of coughing]--'e sole 'e cotton, an' 'e tuck 'n git whisky wid de spondulix. . . . De man 'e drink 'e dram tell 'e plum' drunk, den 'e rear an' 'e tear.' " Here there was a pause of such length that the lit tle girl, who had been listening in amazement, ex claimed :
" Why, Uncle Tony, is that in there ?" " Ter be sho'! " was the sharp reply, and the old

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IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

man looked up suspiciously at his wife and daughter, who said nothing. " Wut you reck'n I been a-readin* it fer 'cep'n hit 'uz een yuh ? . . . ' De man rear an' 'e tear 'caze 'e got so much dram--'e rear roun' rao' samer dun a mad bull-ye'lin'; an' fuss ting yer know, yuh come de she'iff an' haul back an* hit 'im a clip side de head, an* tuck'n khye 'im 'long thoo town an' shet 'im up een dah calaboose.' "
All at once the little girl noted that the gilt letters of the binding were inverted. " Oh, Uncle Tony," she cried, laughing, " you can't read that way ! The book's upside down."
Old Tony was considerably staggered, but quickly recovered his dignity. " Don't I know dat ? Don't I know dat--say! " he demanded. " I k'n read des ez good one way ez anudder. I want yer ter know dese ole eyes ainh dis ole fer nut'n. . . , Oh, I ainh got no use fer dese yuh mannish chillun wut mek lak dey knows mo'n grown folks. Oh, shoo ! go 'way wid yer! "--returning the book to its owner with an air of great disgust.
Uncle Tony was in general as good-natured as pos sible, and cultivated the friendship of children with great amiability; but let one of them call in question his wisdom or learning, and the friendship was can celed--for the time. The failure of his little decep tion with Audrey greatly annoyed him, and an em barrassing silence followed--broken presently by the kindly voice of Maum Chloe :
"Aud'ey, spose'n you tell one de tales een yo' book."
The crestfallen little girl began to brighten at this proposal, and presently she was telling them how--ac-

CHIEFLY ABOUT GHOSTS.

n

cording to her beloved Hans Andersen--once upon a time a brave young soldier was coming home from the wars and, while passing through a great forest, he met a hideous old witch wearing a blue-checked apron, who promised him that if he would climb up a tall tree close by and get into the hollow and go down to the bottom and bring up her tinder-box he could have as much gold as he could " tote " ; how the soldier, having consented, listened to the old witch's direc tions, took her blue-checked apron, climbed the tree, got into the hollow, went down under the ground, and found himself before a door ; how he opened the door and entered a large room, where there was a big chest, and a dog sitting on it which had eyes as big as sau cers ; how the dog growled but could not frighten the brave soldier, who lifted him off the chest and set him on the old witch's blue apron, as he had been told to do ; and how, when the chest was opened, it was found to be full of copper coin.
"Oh! sho'-nuf?" cried the wondering Silvey, while Maum Chloe smiled encouragingly, and Uncle Tony, sternly indifferent, gazed silently into the fire.
"Yes," continued Audrey ; "and the soldier filled all his pockets and his knapsack and everything he had ; then he shut up the chest and put the dog back on it again. And then he opened another door, and went in and found another chest with another dog on it that had eyes as big as * mill-wheels.' "
" Oh-y! wut monst'ous eyes ! " ejaculated Silvey. " But the young soldier wasn't afraid. He lifted the big-eyed dog down and set him on the old witch's blue apron, and opened the chest and found it full of silver. And then he threw away all the copper money
\

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IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

and filled his pockets and knapsack with silver, and shut up the chest and put the dog back on it. And then he opened another door and went in and found another chest with a dog on it that had eyes as big as ' round towers ''--oh! a heap bigger than this house! "
" Eh-eh ! eh-eh ! " muttered Uncle Tony, tempted into comment in spite of himself. " Eh-eh ! wut sorter talk dis yuh ? How een de name er goodness dah man gwineter lif 'im !"
"Oh, the witch gave him the strength," explained the child. " And when the dog growled it sounded like thunder, but the brave soldier walked straight up to him and lifted him down, and opened the chest and found it full of gold. And then he threw away the silver and filled everything with gold, and put the dog back on the chest. And then he went back through all the rooms and crawled up the hollow of the tree, and when he came down the old witch asked him for

her tinder-box--that's something to strike matches on, I think--but he had forgotten all about it and had to go back after it. And when he brought it to her, he asked her what she was goin' to do with it, but she wouldn't tell, and he took his sword and cut off her head."
" Dass a bad man fer do dat, an* 'e 'zerve ter lose all dah money," commented kind-hearted Maum Chloe.
" He did lose it. He spent it all in a little while, and got so poor he didn't have anything to eat. But one night, when he struck his last match on the tinderbox three times, all those three big-eyed dogs appeared and called him master and asked him what he wanted. And he said he wanted some money, and they ran away and brought him a big pile. And whenever he

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CHIEFLY ABOUT GHOSTS. -

13

wanted any money after that he struck on his tinderbox and sent the dogs for it. He got so rich that he built a fine castle and married a beautiful princess, and the people made him the king. And that's all."
" Dass a mighty putty tale, Aud'ey," said Silvey, with genuine admiration.
" Putty, but wut do putty 'mount ter wen der ainh de littles' speck er troof een de whole rigmarole, eh ? " asked Uncle Tony, irreverently. " De man wut tell dat tale mus' sholy be de bigges' liar gwine ; hit's a won der ter me 'e donh drap dead een 'e tracks. But liars runs loose dese days. . . . Ef you wan ter yeh a ginnywine tale, des lis'en at me now an' I'll tell yer 'bout sup'n wut I seen wid my own eyes."
Such rough handling of the immortal Hans Ander sen disturbed the little girl very much, but at the pros pect of a story from Uncle Tony himself, she recov ered her spirits and joined Silvey in urging him to begin.
"Well," said the old man, "one time 'way up een ole F'ginny dey hung a man. Dis yuh 'uz 'way back yander een slave'y days, wut I tellin' yer 'bout. Dey hung a man, suh, an' atter de rope done broke 'e neck dey tuck 'im down an' chopped off 'e head. I dunner wuss de reason, but I yeh um say dey tuck'n chopped 'e head clean off fo' dey buried 'im--dass wut dey tell me. . . . Well, 'bout a munt atter dat, one ebenin' 'bout dark I 'uz a-ridin' 'long thoo a big swamp een dat neighborhood. I 'uz gwine 'long slow an' peace able, an' fuss ting yer know I 'uz gnigh 'bout drap off ter sleep. So wen I wake up an' look roun* I see sup'n cuyus right ahead er me deh een de road. I look at it--I look at it, suh, an' hit seem lak a man an* yit hit

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
donh seem lak a man. Hit seem lak sup'n mighty cuyus. Well, bimeby I start ter ride up closte, so I k'n see hit good, but, bless yer soul! chillun, time I bergin ter move up 'e done bergin ter move up!"
" Yere ! " cried Silvey, with enthusiasm, evidently relishing the supernatural outlook of the story.
" Time I bergin ter move up '^ done bergin ter move up, an' I tell yer wut dat creetur's legs stretched over dat road fum a who-las'-de-longes'! I says ter merse'f, * Dass a mighty cuyus somebody, but dis yuh nigger aim ter fine out sup'n 'bout 'im fo' 'e quit.' So I up 'n hollered : * Hello, deh ! Mister, weh yer gwine een sich a big hurry ?' An' would yer b'lieve it ? de man ainh say nut'n back--ainh say nair word--ainh even tu'n roun'I I tink ter merse'f mebby e' deef an* canh yeh me, an' den I spur up mer hawse ter cotch tip wid 'im. But, oh people, I never knowd wut I 'uz a-foolin' wid ! Des ez sho's I'm a-settin' yuh, I spur mer hawse up ter a fas' trot, den a 'lope an' den a run, an' yit I ainh bin able ter cotch up wid dat awful creetur' skippin' 'long de road so nimble! We kep' a-gwine on, gwine on, gwine on, dis-a way tell bimeby we got out'n de black swamp an' run out een de open, moonshiny big-road. An* den--laws-a-mussy! den I seen wut mek de ve'y marrer een mer bone git cole-- de man ainh had no head! "
" Oh, do fer heaben' sake ! " gasped Silvey, display ing the whites of her eyes to an alarming degree, while Maum Chloe uttered an awed, wondering ejaculation, and little Audrey looked the picture of terror.
"Right den,'* continued Uncle Tony, impressively, " I knowd dat man dey hung 'uz a-ha'ntin' dat neigh borhood ; right den I knowd I 'uz a prodjickin' wid a

CHIEFLY ABOUT GHOSTS.

15

spent, an' yer mer know I 'uz scared. I 'uz de scaredes' nigger wut ebber you seen een all yo' bawn days. Gentermens ! I gie de bridle sich anudder jerk ter stop dat hawse--donh talk ! But--laws-a-mussy! time I bergin ter slack up, deh hit done bergin ter slack up, an' time I done stop still, deh hit done stop still! . . . De Lord only knows weh I'd 'a been by dis time ef des den a squinch-owl had ner gi'n a awful screech up een a ole dead pine side de road an' scared mer hawse so e' jumped clean out'n de road an' went a-t'arin' thoo dem woods lak de debil 'uz at' 'im--an' I reck'n 'e wuz, too. I 'uz so scared--I 'uz so scared, suh, I clean gone an' mose loss mer senses an' didn' know nut'n hardly tell dat hawse stop fo' ole mawster's lotgate."
" Some people says der ainh no sich ting es ghostes," concluded Uncle Tony, " but right deh dey sho* dey lack er sense. Dem ghostes is dere ; some kin see um an' some can't--dass all. Mose anybody kin see de sign er sperits--yes-suh-ree ! Yer better look out, I tell yer, wen yer gwine 'long on a moonshiny night an' see a rabbit jump up an1 run cross de road right by yer ; yer better be partic'lar wen yer run up on a black cat een de dark an' see 'e eyeballs shine same ez balls er fire; yer better hustle 'long home, / tell yer, wen yer gwine 'long de road een de night-time an' feel a warm bref tech yer on de back er de neck--fer yer mer know dem sperits is a-prowlin' roun'."
"Do you think I'll ever see one, Uncle Tony?" ventured the trembling little girl.
" Eh-eh ! eh-eh! donh ax me dat," said the old man, hastily. " Chillun mus'n* be tinkin' 'bout dat. Chillun--"

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IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

At this moment a lady appeared at the door of the cabin, and Uncle Tony's speech was left unfinished.
" Yuh's Miss Rachel, Aud'ey," said Maum Chloe, quickly, and the child rose.
"Why, Audrey, I have been calling you all over the place," said the lady, with some impatience. "Come, now, and we'll water the flowers."
Miss Rachel was tall, pale, and thin, with large pa thetic brown eyes and delicate features; she had cer tainly been handsome once. Her age could not be more than thirty-five, and under favoring circum stances her lingering beauty might still have blos somed ; but Audrey could not remember the time when her aunt's face had not looked worn and anx ious. Just now it wore a far-away look of preoccupa tion, and the little girl, as she followed up the lane to the "big house," decided to postpone her contem plated inquiries on the subject of ghosts.
They got their watering-pots and spent a pleasant half-hour in the little flower-garden fronting the farm house, which was one of a common type in that region --a box-like wooden structure of six or seven rooms, almost surrounded by piazzas, and in full view from the public road, which ran through the pine woods out beyond the garden above mentioned. Even here the child held the ghost topic in abeyance, and allowed her aunt to go in and " give out supper" without a word on the subject.
Left alone, she found a seat on the piazza, and soon fell into a child's dream. The sun was long down, the crickets chirruped close by, and the cicadas sung out lustily from among the pines : as she looked out across the flower-garden toward the quiet woodlands, all dim

CHIEFLY ABOUT GHOSTS.

\j

and shadowy in the thickening twilight, and stretching far away into formless space, the little girl began to think it must be time for the elves and fairies to come out. Was not the whip-poor-will calling the hour to them, whistling them steadily forth from their homes down in those dim and bosky depths ? In her imagi nation she brought them out and saw them commence their nocturnal revels--saw them flitting hither and yon in all their radiant dress, while every gleaming fire-fly, emitting its beacon light far down in the dark ening woods, was made a lamp to guide the tiny feet of this light-hearted throng.
Later, the two sole inhabitants of the farm-house were together in the sitting-room, the lady engaged with some light needlework and the child at the open window looking out upon the night again. The dark pines which stood beyond the garden and stretched away until they met and mingled with the deep black shadows of Red Creek woods looked somber enough beneath that brilliant, star-glowing sky-arch, and, as the little girl gazed, came a vision of Uncle Tony's headless flying ghost which made her shudder at the thought of being alone deep down in those woods.
"Aunt Rachel," she spoke at last, " do you believe in ghosts ?"
"Why, what's the matter with you?" asked the lady, after an emphatic answer in the negative. " Un cle Tony has been telling you a ghost story, hasn't he ?"
" Yes'm."

" I thought so. He must stop that."

She then went on to say that all ghps,t stories were

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mere silly fabrications invented to frighten children.

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IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

But the little girl had returned to the night landscape, for at this moment the moon appeared above the dis tant dark rim of the Red Creek woods, first as a gleam ing crescent, then as a mellow, glowing sphere.
"Aunt Rachel, what makes the moon so big and yellow when it first rises ? It's always smaller and whiter when it gets 'way up high in the sky."
Aunt Rachel was not ready with an answer to this question, so she looked at the old-fashioned Scotch clock on the mantel-piece, remarking that it was nearly nine and bed-time. Audrey rose obediently, but asked to be allowed to go out on the back piazza and get a drink of water before she retired.
A few moments later the child rushed back into the room screaming with terror. " Oh, Aunt Rachel!--" running forward and hiding her face in the lady's lap--"there's--there's a ghost out there by the watershelf! "
Miss Rachel rose quickly. " Why, child, what do you mean ? . . . A ghost, indeed! Silvey or Maum Chloe, I suppose."
She seized the lamp, hurried to the door, and looked out " Audrey, come here!" * Then the frightened child moved slowly forward, and, clinging to her aunt's skirts, looked fearfully in the direction of the water-shelf.
" Now where's your ghost ? " " It's g-gone," gasped Audrey, in great relief. " Gone, eh ? ... It was nothing but your imagina tion. If Uncle Tony doesn't stop telling you those foolish tales he'll have to leave the place." But at this moment came a terrified scream from the lower part of the yard; some one was seen running,

CHIEFLY ABOUT GHOSTS.
and directly Silvey rushed up the steps and fell, rather than sat, at their feet, where she crouched trembling and moaning in abject fright.
" Why, Silvey, what on earth is the matter! " " Oh, Miss Rachel! dah ghose ! Oh, laws-a-mussy! dah ghose! Oh-y, oh-y ! dah ghose ! . . . I des 'uz a-comin' 'long up yuh wid a message fum maw, wen all uv a sudden I see a great big ole tall, wite ghose walk 'long deh een de yard an' jump obe' de fence een de g-yardin. . . . Oh-y! oh-y! dah ghose gwineter git me--I knows it gwineter cotch me. Oh, laws-a-mussy ! laws-a-mussy ! " " Don't be silly," said Miss Rachel, sternly. " If you saw anything at all, it was nothing but some prowl ing thief." Uncle Tony and his wife had been /alarmed by the screaming, and now approached. Thei there was con siderable confusion, while Silvey again related her ex perience. Maum Chloe appeared to concur with Miss Rachel in the belief that it was only a night prowler, but Uncle Tony declared his solemn conviction that it was really a ghost--a conviction still secretly held by Audrey and openly by Silvey. " Call up the dogs, Uncle Tony," said Miss Rachel at last. " May be you can put them on the scent.*' Accordingly the old man whistled up the dogs, and walked off a little way with them, endeavoring to set them on. " Sick 'im, Bonus ! sick 'im !" he cried in a low, cautious voice. " Sick 'im, Fanny ! Ssst! ssst! sick 'im ! "
But neither Bonus nor Fanny, though intelligently aware of what was wanted of themJfeeemed at all in clined to follow this advice, and me Wy wagged their

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IN' THE \VIRE-GRA5S.

ta : l-with surorisin:: rapidity, giving an occasional sniff,

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as thev* looked sa\s_. aiiouslv* at Uncle Tonv* --first at his

face, then at his feet,

" Don't v* er see dem do^^rr s ainh ^g-- wine bud^'--re. Miss Rachel.'' said the old man, triumphantly. " How een

de name er goodness BDITIS an' Fanny gwine track

a shcse ' Eh-eh ! ver canh speck urn ter do dat.

*--

*

A

Gr.os:e- d:nh lef de track er dev foots--no-suh-ree! "

"Don't be a foci. Uncle Tony," said the lady, great

ly annoyed. " Set on the dogs."

11 De'y wonh budge. I "tell yer. Miss Rachel.

Hurra* h !

dr- ;

kno'-vs

\vut

dev *

doin'.

Dev cot better * c,

sense 'n ter r,rod;ick \v;d sperits."

Miss Rachel wis deeot lv pi. rovoked. ''I believe ^vou are actually afraid to follow them," she said, sternly.

'; Take the lamp. Ma urn Chloe ; I'll see what I can do."

She then descended the steps and crossed the

whole extent of the wide, white yard in company with

the ccg=:, endeavoring meanwhile to start them, but

"

'.

""^

without success.

" Dat v oun~'-- wite 'oman d-inner wut she foolin' wid," remarked Uncle Tony, in an ominous tone, as

" Oh. dat'll do, Tony," objected Maum Chloe. ' Vc.-.'= =aved ::o much a'readv--sot Miss Rachel mad.

The ladv presentlv returned to the piazza--di-ai)-

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pointed, but satisfied that she had done her dutv.

''Whoever the man may be, he has gone," she said.

''Come into the house, Audrey."

The little girl followed at once, and the nes;rot;s

slowly retired to their cabin--there to discuss the ,s--host
f-~ i >- * o 1- 1- a v '- r-V iC-i i.,'J Ui.C iJ.^llt.

THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS.

21

II.
THE OLD MAX CF THE WOODS.
WHEN Miss Rachel Hall, a young and not unhand some woman, appeared in the little Southern Georgia town of Wiregrass Ridge with only a toddling baby girl and a black mammy for companions, and, without elaborately introducing herself--saying nothing at all of her past, in fact--quietly purchased a farm some two miles out and went and lived on it, she became in the natural course of events the subject of much and varied conjecture. Everybody wondered why she chose to go out and live all alone in the country rather than in the village, unless, indeed, it was to hide her self away the more securely ; for not a few declared that she had the air of one desirous of settling down permanently out of sight. She could not have been actuated by the love of farming, it being a notorious fact that her farm was a failure--nay, that the negro workmen idled and fattened at the expense of the poor secluded lady, who seemed to prefer to let everything go to ruin rather than ask advice of her neighbors. It was even asserted by certain well-informed persons that Uncle Tony, who had early married the black mammy, not only " bossed everything on the place," but carried the purse--pointing, in corroboration of this, to the fact that he and Maum Chloe (the black mammy) purchased all the supplies for the Hall farm and transacted whatever further business was neces sary at Wiregrass Ridge, where Miss Hall herself was never seen. But this latter was mere gossip, and in

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IX THE WIRE-GRASS.

the minds of sensible people old Tony and his quiet wife, who appeared to be equally as reticent as her mistress, were no doubt relegated to their true posi tion--that of trusted servants.
The ladv undeniably shunned society in a way to grievouslv disappoint and vex the curious, but she was universally commiserated as a sufferer. It was known thit she had called herself a ''bundle of nerves," and wi:h good reason ; that she passed days in bed per force from no perceptible malady. It was as if she were her nerves on her sleeve to have them jarred by every passing breath. The excitement of her con flict wi:h Uncle Tony over Audrey's ghost, her resolute endeavor to sift the matter and protect the child from hurtful fancies, and the after curious forebodinz-- in connection with the verv* cg, host in which she did not believe, were all contributing causes toward a sleepless night and a miserable morning for this poor, nervous woman--a morning, too, which unfortunately was witness of another and fur worse

Audrey had been sent into the garden to pick peas f jr dinner, and, the household duties of the hour hav

ing been disposed of, Miss Hall had seated herself

v.u:.-. a weary sigh to look through a city weekly paper wh::h came to her rer. ,ularlvf . Coming\^j into the house :".r a consultation a few minutes later, Maum Chloe

tound her mistress upon the sitting-room lounge all in

a quiver of excitement, and the newspaper lying on the ficcr at her feet.

"W'y, wut de matter, Miss Rachel?" asked the mammy, startled.

Miss

Hall

looked

up ^

with

frightened ^--

eves,



/

rose

THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS.
from the lounge, took an aimless step forward, and sat down again. Then she pointed to the paper.
" He has left there--he got away. It doesn't say how. . . . I'm glad-- I'm very glad for him to be away from that -- that place, but what is he to do ? Oh, what will he do ? . . . And if--if he should come--here ! "
" De Lord knows hit's bad news, honey, but we kin hope an' pray, an' mebby -- "
Acting on a sudden impulse Miss Hall rose, walked to the back door, and looked out. As her glance fell upon the water-shelf she started visibly, then turned hurriedly back into the room.
" Oh, I understand it, now. That ghost last night -- he--he is here already ! "
" Laws-a-mussy 1 honey, yer reck'n so sho-nuf ? " " Oh, there can be no doubt of it. It was he that frightened Audrey and Silvey -- he creeping around to get a chance to see me alone. Oh, Maum Chloe, what shall we do ? They will come here after him and-- and--" The frightened woman burst into sobs and dropped upon the lounge. For a few moments the old mammy stood helpless, watching her mistress with mournful eyes ; then she turned and hurried out, returning presently with a glass of wine. " Yuh, honey, tek a leetle tase er dis yuh," she coaxed. "Hit'11 holp yer feelin's mightily." In the garden meanwhile Audrey was listening to the persuasions of a boy and a girl who wanted her to run away to Red Creek with them on a fishing expedi tion. Long before her basket had been filled with peas, she heard two familiar voices cautiously calling to her from the lane. " Aud'ey! oh, Aud'ey! Come h-yer ter the fence! "

2_t

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

" Hay-o : Sally, is that you and Ben ? "--dropping her basket, and running eagerly to the fence.
i% We're gwine a-nshin' ter the creek," said Sally, a dark, sallow little girl of Audrey's age. "Don't yer want tcr come 2:0--des a little while ? Do please come
-..-''

" They're jes' a-bitin' like forty," remarked the boy,

who was as sallow as his little sister, but older and

stronger looking.

Benjamin and Sally Ann Mathis belonged to that

class of people who in Georgia are usually called

crackers, and whom Uncle Tony denominated u white

trash" or ''taller-face' po' buckra." The yellowish,

unhealthy pallor of these people's faces undeniably

suggested home-made tallow, with which the negroes

were fond of comparing them ; but this peculiar con

dition of their skins probably resulted from hard living

rather than from eating clay, as Uncle Tony claimed.

Be this as it may, the contempt he cherished for the

members of the Mathis family and their little farm a

mile and a half away was only equaled by the corre

sponding hatred it aroused in them. Let the old man

catch

Audrev *

plaving

IT *

<--

with

the

unfortunate

little

Sallv ,.

Ann, and he was not only filled with unmeasured in

dignation, but lost no time in informing Miss Rachel

of the disgraceful circumstance '. The sturdy thirteen-

year-old Benjamin cherished the plan of whipping

Uncle Tony as soon as he should become a man grown.

Pie would never have come about the Hall farm but

for the persuasions of his little follower, Sally Ann,

w-ho loved the sight of Audrey, and it was wholly due

to her efforts that he stood in the lane now.

When Audrey had given a hesitating consent to

THE OLD MAX OF THE WOODS.

2;

their proposal, at the suggestion of Sally Ann, the br-y climbed over the fence, and, having quickly filled the basket, set it down near the garden gate, where it would be found by Silvey. A few moments more, and they were out of the garden and gone. But ere they got clear of the lane Uncle Tony was upon them. They encountered him as he came out of an adjoin ing field, and he at once demanded to be told where they were going, which the Mathis children stoutly refused to do.
" Look yuh, Aud'ey," he said, as the child stood silent, <% you better be gwine back ter dat house stidder runnin' off dis-a way wid dem Mathis chillun. I gwine rigoht straigoht ter de house an' tell Miss Rachel on *you -- see 'f I don't ! You know mighty well she donh 'low you ter run loose wid all de riffraff er creation."
At this insult Benjamin and Sally Ann, though cut to the quick, lustily retorted by singing to a homely tune the following ridiculous doggerel, which the former was proud to have invented :
" -^ er an ' a monkey Scttin' on a rail ;
Q:\ly diJlince I kin see, Nigger got no tail! "
Uncle Tony was almost speechless with rage, and frantically looked about him for a stick ; whereupon the " riffraff er creation " took to their heels and fled down the lane with much triumphant laughter, closely followed by Audrey. By the time the old darkey had found a suitable weapon they were all out of reach, and he could only shake his stick at them. Xot content with that, he stood there several minutes, loudly abusing the Mathis family and all the " white

25

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

trash " of the county, and this although not a living

sou', was within hearm.;.

The runaways were soon far on their way, and

r resent'.y entered the Red Creek woods, where the

heaw nine timber was rendered vj et more dense bv<

the added growth of bay, hickory, dogwood, swamp-

poplar, etc. Here in places the long, trailing wire-

grass, which covered the whole country, was more

luxuriant

than

ever,

and

the white

old

logs CJ

lav about

in i: comfortably, like sleeping monsters. As they

descended a gradual slope, the underbrush thickened,

and soon Red Creek was in view. It was a good-

sized creek, deeo and shallow at intervals, the water

4.

/

in the shallows being almost as red as wine. In a hid

den nook they found a bateau loosely fastened to a

tree by an iron chain, and, boarding it, paddled away

over the sparkling red water between low banks over

run in places with vines and brambles, and thickly

grown
^--

uo*. with

trees,

hungo

here

and

there

with

the

*av and somber Spanish moss.

--

*

A

" Drap yer hook over yander in that dark eddy

nex: ter them bushes, Aud'ey," directed the boy Ben,

when they had arrived at an inviting " hole," or dark,

quiet pool into which the creek had widened, and he

had got the fishing-tackle ready. Audrey obeyed,

*

while the more experienced Sally Ann let down her

line where it so pleased her, without waiting for direc-

t". '-sT^.

" We'll trvt urn h-vf er a while,i " remarked Ben, as he

pitched
*

his

line. "

an' ef

thev *

don't

bite

rigrht, we'll <_>

up 'n go on down stream an' fish close ter the bank

fur pike." D-r:n_- the first ten minutes there was absolute

THE OLD MAX OF THE WOODS.

27

silence in the boat, all waiting eagerly for a bite ; but at the expiration of that time Sally Ann and Audrey began to exchange remarks, though the boy looked at them reprovingly, while maintaining continuous silence with the patience of a veteran angler. The little girls naively discussed that article of female wear used for the expansion of skirts, the astute Sally Ann relating how she had made herself a wooden one out of a num ber of selected barrel and keg hoops which served delightfully whenever she dressed herself surrepti tiously in her mother's best and trailed around the back yard. Before this topic was exhausted Sally Ann's float disappeared with some noise.
''Pull 'im! pull 'im!" urged Ben, excitedly. "I know he's a big un." Sally Ann pulled accordingly, and soon brought a fine trout to the surface. "Don't be in too big a hurry," warned the boy. "Let 'im play. . . . Now bring 'im in sorter slow."
But Sally Ann had been taken by surprise, and was greatly excited ; it was with more of a sudden jerk than a steady pull that she began to draw in, and be fore she knew it the trout made one more frantic struggle for liberty and was gone.
" Nex' time yer'll mine wut I tell yer," said Ben, without much pity for his mortified little sister. " It's a good day," he added, hopefully. "I think we gwineter rake urn."
A short while after he caught two bream and a trout in rapid succession, Sally Ann meanwhile having also caught a perch. Audrey, however, caught noth ing, and becoming discouraged, her eyes soon wan dered away from her float and roamed about the woods on either hand. And while so roaming, suddenly they

2?

IN THE \VIRE-GKA.-S.

fell upon a man--a gray-haired old man, sitting upon a loz in an or,en 2! ace some distance from the left hank cf the stream. At the same instant she was

' Ye: cork's gone, Aud'ey--pull I pull'. " In her excitement, the child rose to her feet and :uhed v. ith ah her might, soon bringing to the surface the larzest trout yet seen. Neglecting Ben's repeated cautions, she continued to pull desperately until, with a sudden wild flirt, the trout snapped the hook in two and was gone. Then the leaded line new high in the air, the p:le dropped from her gra-p. she tottered a moment, and, clutchinz wildlv for suunort, fell scream-

Tr.e bcv* leaned forward qiuickly in the endeavor to gra = i; her as she rose to the surface, but she was al
ready beyond his reach and floated on with the cur rent. The frightened Sally Ann began to cry, and for
the moment Ben was uncertain what to do ; he had never saved any one from drowning, did not swim as '.veil as he fished, and was afraid to jump into the
creek. Pie first s--.ot UD in ^g_ reat haste to loosen the bateau which had been fastened to an overhanging
-1

"Oh. Ben. make 'ase ! make 'ase !" sobbed Sally Ann, ".viMhing for glimrses cf Audrey as, rising and s:r.ki~g. she moved farther away with the current.
Then the boy tore off his coat and sprang into the creek. A few good strokes brought him to the stran gling child, and he seized her ere she went down again. But he unwarily drew her too near him, and, in spite o: his efforts to prevent it, she threw her arms round

THE OLD MAN OF THE WOODS.

29

X
his neck and clung fast. He called lustily for the boat,

and presently, struggling desperately, the boy went

,down out of sight with his burden. Then the terrified

and helpless Sally Ann set up such a screaming as

might have been heard half a mile.

Almost at once there came the sound of some one

running through the woods to the left, and in a mo-

O

O

f

ment a gray-haired, upright old man appeared upon

the bank.

" What is the matter 2 " he cried.

Just at that moment Ben struggled to the surface

with his burden, and instantly the man dashed into the

creek, reaching them and bringing them ashore ere the

wailing Sally Ann realized what was going on.

The boy had swallowed considerable water, but

still had his wits about him, and, after much coughing

and sputtering, was quite himself again. It was a more

serious matter with Audrey, however; she was insensi

ble, and at first they were in fear of her life. Seating

himself on a log, the strange man placed her with par

ticular care, face down, across his knees ; then he

pressed cautiously but heavily upon her back two or

three times, for several seconds each time, with the im

mediate effect of forcing the water out of lungs and

stomach and causing it to flow freely from the mouth.

At last he turned her upward again and held her gently

in his arms. Very soon she began to revive ; she

opened her eyes and looked about vaguely, but seemed

too weak to move.

Then the stranger directed Ben--who meanwhile

had swum out to the boat and brought it with the won

dering Sally Ann to shore--to pluck a. large leaf, twist

it into a cup, and dip up a little water, into which he

-0

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

poured a small amount of brandy out of a flask taken

from his pocket. Then he put the leafy cup to the

child's mcuth and watched anxiously for the result.

She s:on brightened perceptibly and made an effort to

rai^e herselt. As the strange man watched the face of

his charge, a curious, intent look--noted by the ob-

7

servant Ben--came into his eyes.

"Why--could it be possible ?''he murmured, ab

sently. "So like--so much like Hilda." . . . Sud

denly turning to Ben : " What is this child's name ? " Aud'ey"

" Aud'ey u-hai / "

i

Ben exchanged glances with Sally Ann : " Aud'ey "

was the only name they knew.

" Where'cbes she live?"

.'j

" Ut: ter Miss Hall's--Miss Rachel Hall's."

|'

1 he r-r~, stranger dropped his eager glance and inquired

|I

no further. He rose and placed Audrey in the boat.

{* :

" Take her home at once," he said. " Her clothes

ought to be changed as soon as possible--and yours,

toe."

" Who, me ? " said the boy, grinning. " Hit don't

matter 'bout me--no sir; a wettin' don't hurt me. I

git caught in a rain mose all the time."

Sally Ann \va? preparing to remark that she also

'

nvnded not brinr c aught in a rain--rather preferred

it, in fact--but he would not allow them another word,

harrying them into the boat and pushing it off with his

cw:: hands. Then he stood and watched them until

the bateau reuneed a bend of the creek.

AT THE WINDOW.
III.
AT THE WINDOW.
A LOUD knocking sounded upon the front door of the farm-house soon after breakfast next morning--a knocking so loud that it startled the chattering mock ing-bird on the honeysuckle arbor, and caused him to desist long enough to turn his head and bestow a glance of quizzical investigation upon the intruder. The glance revealed a short, stout cracker woman, in homespun frock and sun-bonnet, standing upon the piazza. She was at once distinguished by the peculiar complexion of her class, but her eyes were sharp and her face determined. After listening for some time to the renewed warble of the mocking-bird, she raised her stick and belabored the door with energy; evidently she was not to be trifled with.
The door suddenly swung back on its hinges, and the house-girl (Uncle Tony's daughter, Silvey) stood in the opening. Instantly the visitor drew herself up, and, with an assumption of haughty dignity, inquired :
"Is Miss Rachel home ?" " No'b'm," replied Silvey, in a tone which betrayed great disdain--" no'b'm ; she down een de g-yard'n." " Humph ! I like ter know ef you don't call that home ! " exclaimed the cracker woman, greatly insult ed. " Look h-yer, gal, ef you knows yer ^/jness, yer better run down thar right straight an' tell 'er Mis' Mathis is ter the house." \ There was a pause, as tf^y eyed each other defi antly. Silvev hesitated between a small desire to do

Ti VN- ~I-p rr i* T^~" ^\X\ "A^"KT'TLr -'/';"'Oi

cutv and a great desire to insult the

he latter, deeming it a scandalous com-

P

di^nity to allow further parley with

" ni^-er." cui:kiv brushed past the girl into the

_ >_*

j.

*

*

*-^

ill and walked intj the parlor, where she established

^r-el: -tirriv us on the one sofa which the apartment

~

* A.

I

.ntained. ^";th the disgusted ejaculation, (> Laws-a-

U5 = v, car. 'orr.an ! '' Silvey followed to the parlor

r .:-. where she paused only for one look, a contempt-

tr.e nea-^, a stage-wnisr. :r of the exclama-

! "--then was gone.

.. r -- c n ? n c announced '.

' O.e Mis' Mathis een de house. Miss Rachel. I

: yer shr come ter doctor up Aud'ey.'' Then she

. i~i. :\: the benefit of Maum Chloe. who was pres: : " Settin' een deh on de sofy bic: as tf>r,l:>ody. Yer

II

:ut tink she 'uz Mis' Gin'ul Lee 'er-e'f, fum de way

e put :n higity air-. Shoo ' she get de mose en-

:an:e er air taller-race' po' buckra. I e'/er see."

Miss Rachel was rath:-r annoyed, but went in and

ee:ei her visit:r Cjrdially enough, ir.quiring politely

Tes' toler':le. ma'am," said Mrs. Mathis, with a: friendliness--" ^es' s~j as ter be about. How

" Oh. quite well, thank you. How warm it is."

'' Y:.u right. Hit's gwineter be powerful hot befo'

cu-.ts " She paused to procure a cotton handker-

en ;e: from a pocket somewhere in the folds of her

dr :ss, wherewith to wir-e her perspiring face, and then

w

*

t.

^D

umed :

>( I'm mighty sorry 'bout it. Miss Rachel, but from

I k:n make cut. mv* childern,- Ben an' Sallv* Ann.?

AT THE WINDOW.

33

tuck'n tuck yo' little Aud'ey down in the creek yistiddy, an' putty nigh drownded uv 'er, an' when I hearn tell on it las' night I tole my ole man, s'l, ' Zachariah.' S'e, 'Well?' S'l, 'I think I'll jes' gether up an' go over thar in the mornin' an' see ef I kin be of any livin' use,' s'l. ' Fur I know in reason that chile is ap' ter be sick. Hit's more'n likely she tuck cold an' 's a-layin' up wi' the fever right now,' s'l, ' an' you know any little fever this time o' year is danjous,' s'l. ' Hit's ap' ter run inter \ypJwid, an' hit don't do ter fool with it,' s'l. An' so this mornin' I up an' come over."
" It was very kind of you," said Miss Rachel, gra ciously, " but really Audrey is in no danger. It is a very small matter--though I was rather frightened at first." She expected a formidable prescription, and dreaded to refuse it. Mrs. Mathis believed so firmly in her home-made remedies^and was so persistent in offering her services, that if Avas-nbt an easy matter to escape without offending frerv - r
" Come in and see her, if you like," Miss Rachel added, and led the way to the sitting-room, where the little girl lay awake on a lounge. Mrs. Mathis stooped over her, pressed one hand upon her forehead, and with the other felt her pulse.
"She's got right smart o' fever yit," she presently remarked, with a dubious shake of the head, "an', I reck'n, a bad cold in the bargain ; but, ez you say, she aint so turrible bad off. . . . Yit I'm a-thinkin' she couldn't do better'n ter tek a cup er tea I kin fix fur 'er--jes' a strong cup drawd from red pepper, yer know, with a leetle grain er sassafras root an' sage leaves throwd in. Hit '11 do 'er oodles er good, draw the cold out'n 'er head, an' holp 'er feelin's giner'ly."
3

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

While speaking she produced from the capacious depths

of her pocket the ingredients mentioned,

'' That can do her no harm," said Miss Rachel, re

lieved to find the prescription less formidable than she

had expected. "Give me what you want put in, and

I'll have Silvey make the tea at once."

But here Mrs. Mathis demurred. " No, ma'am--ef

hit's the same ter vou--I'd ruther do that merse'f," said

*

r

she, with a curious, half-embarrassed smile. '' I don't

put in ter have no triflin' nigger wench do no sich job

fur me, s' long ez I k'n raise a finger er mer own ; no,

ma'arn ! Niswewers is ni^_t. ^ers the worl' over,J an' *ver can't truss "em."

The world, as employed by Mrs. Mathis, probably

meant the county in which she lived ; none the less,

however, did her remark carry the weight of whole

sale condemnation. Miss Rachel allowed herself a

slightly deprecating smile, but said nothing, well

knowing that no extenuating word in behalf of Silvey

and her race would prevail in the smallest degree with

Mrs. Mathis.

" Oh, ter be sho', you kin stan' ter have 'em roun' ;

but riccllec' you an' me's diffunt. They don't dare ter

show you no impert'nence, but they think / ain't no

better'n a dog." Mrs. Mathis was bent on airing her

grievance. >{ Jes' let a nigger put 'is foot in my yard,"

she cried, angrily, " an' ef I don't show 'im a thing or

two my name ain't Sophrony Mathis ! Don't want

none uv 'em roun' me, nary time ! . . . Mebbe hit

looks powerful partic'lar," she continued, more quietly,

'' but ef hit's the same ter you, I'll jes* step out ter that

kitchen and fix this child's tea merse'f. I'm what likes

ter do mer own work--ever bit an' grain."

AT THE WINDOW.

35

Miss Rachel smilingly led the way to the kitchen, and soon Mrs. Mathis was very busy over the stove to the extreme mortification and disgust of Silvey when that young woman returned from the garden. The tea having been satisfactorily made, it was brought in, and the sick child partook of it with relish, after which Miss Rachel was obliged to go out and discuss with a workman about some matter on the farm. She prom ised to return soon.
" Oh, tek yer time--tek yer time," said Mrs. Mathis, good-humoredly. " Don't put yerself out for me. I'll jes' set h-yer tell I smoke mer pipe, then I'll start out an' go." She lighted it as she spoke, and seated her self near the window.
As she was going, Miss Rachel mentioned that there was brandy and blackberry wine in the closet-- if Mrs. Mathis would only help herself, well kno'wing this was the surest way of leaving content and good will behind her.
Once the cracker woman got her pipe fixed to suit, she directed her gaze through the window and seemed oblivious of everything. The little girl watched her until she was tired, then turned to the wall and went to sleep.
When at last her pipe was out, Mrs. Mathis rose and knocked out the ashes, sighing as she looked through the window toward the cotton-field.
" Half a dozen niggers ter do the work er this place," she ejaculated, impatiently, "let 'lone the extry hands in plantin' an' cottonpickin' time. Hit's a sin an' a shame ! "
Presently she turned from the window and ap proached the closet, first looking toward the door, as if

sjjp^--^^.~f "
IK THE WIRE-GRASS.
to make sure that she was unobserved. Pouring out a winegiassful of the brandy, she drank it with evident relish; then took out the wine-bottle and set it on the table with the glass. Seating herself comfortably, she now filled her glass to the brim, and drank a bumper with a gurgling sigh of satisfaction, first, however, re peating as a toast, ** The luck er the house."
She was in the midst of her third glass, sipping it with smacking lips, when all at once she started vio lently and rose from her seat "Nasty, good-furnuthin', spyin'hussy!" she muttered, directing a fierce glance toward the door. "Hit *ud do me good ter choke the very breath out'n 'er ! "
The object of this outbreak was Silvey, who had indeed been spying, and had been so indiscreet as to allow her face to be partly seen through the doorway. The interruption failed to divert Mrs. Mathis's atten tion from her glass, however; she finished it with great self-possession, then returned glass and bottle to the closet She now gave vent to several wheezy coughs, and afterward found it necessary to lift the edge of her frock and wipe her mouth. This done, she walked over to the lounge and gazed upon the sleeping child with a look of benign affection. Sud denly she bent her body, and there was the sound of a long-drawn, resonant kiss. Audrey opened her eyes and saw tears real tears of alcoholic emotion in the old woman's eyes.
Miss Rachel heaved a sigh of relief when she re turned to the house and found that her tiresome vis itor had departed. A few minutes before the lady of the house made this gratifying discovery, the maid Sthrey lad crept to the sitting-room door again, ami

AT THE WINDOW.

37

peeped in cautiously. Seeing the coast clear, she ran

to the closet and entered into a critical examination

of the state of the bottles therein. As she shut the

door and came away, her face was peculiarly ex

pressive.

" Greedy-mouf!" was her contemptuous utterance.

u I knowd dat wut she come yuh atter."

> After dinner that day, as she lay wearily on her

couch, the little girl heard her aunt talking with Maum

Chloe in an adjoining room; what was said she could

not follow, but from her store-house of child-experience

she knew that their low, earnest tones indicated the dis

cussion of some grave trouble. She wondered why

there should always be so much trouble. She fell

asleep among these thoughts, and when she awoke her

aunt was sitting in the room engaged in sewing. The

lady seemed more nervovs than usual, for she looked

up in a startled way at every sound, and frequently

went to the window and looked out Then it was that

the child inquired :

v

" Aunt Rachel, what made my mother die ? "

"What made her ditl" Miss Rachel spoke rather

irritably.

' " Tell me about her," begged the child.

" She died because she was very ill and her time

had come. . . . But sick little girls mustn't talk too

much. Try to go to sleep." Saying which, Miss Ra

chel abruptly left the room. Her tone was somewhat

sharp, but the child saw that she was deeply moved.

There it was again--that trouble. Why was there so

much trouble ?

The long afternoon dragged on, and, looking

through the window, Audrey saw at last that the sun

I
IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
was down. The twilight came on and slowly deep ened, as she lay there listening to the sounds which came up from the woods at night-fall. When it had grown dark, a screech-owl in one of the great oaks of the yard sent forth at intervals a harsh, weird cry that made the child shiver. She thought of the ghostly figure she had seen two nights ago on the back piazza, and wondered if it were creeping about in the dark pine woods now, and if she would ever see it again-- and was glad enough when her aunt entered the room with a lamp, followed by Silvey bearing a tray.
When she had been fed she forgot both the owl and the ghost, and soon fell asleep. It was later than nine o'clock when she again awoke at the sound of subdued conversation in the room. Miss Rachel was now seated at the window and Maum Chloe stood near.
" Yes; I think Audrey saw him,** the former was saying. " I don't see how it could have been anybody else--from her description of the way he looked and did. I hope that Mathis boy won't go about describ ing him, . . . You are sure neither you nor Uncle Tony has heard talk of a strange man lurking about in the woods ? "
" No, ma'am; I ainh yehd nut'n, ner him nut'n ez I knows on. . . . Miss Rachel, honey, donh worry 'bout it so; mebby we's mistooken anyhow."
* No; it can't be a mistake. I am sure he is not a mfle away from--oh !"
A light tap had sounded on the window-pane at her elbow. She was on her feet in an instant and stood trembling in every limb at sight of a face outside--a face and the dimly outlined head and shoulders of a
One intense, wildly-groping moment of inac-

AT THE WINDOW.

39

tivity, and the frightened woman was herself again. Quickly bending forward, she raised the sash wkh ac customed ease, then leaned far out, and low whispered sounds were heard in the room.
Maum Chloe, who had stood by in quaking terror, now chanced to look round, and saw that Audrey was half off her couch looking on in frightened silence.
" Lay down, honey! lay down I" she cried, softly, hurrying toward the child. " You mus'n be gittin* up dat-a way; you ketch yer def er cole. . . . Lemme kiver yer up, honey deh now, dass a good chile."
" What was that at the window ? It scared Aunt Rachel yes, it did "
" Oh, no, honey; did n' see nut'n nut'n 't all. Des been bavin' bad dreams dass all. Lay still now, sugar, an' go right ter sleep."
By this time Miss Rachel had put down the win dow and turned round. Maum Chloe met her with a warning look and a covert motion toward the little girl's couch. She understood, and at once resumed her seat as if nothing unusual had occurred. Her voice was somewhat unsteady, but she spoke calmly of household affairs for two or three minutes, until a convenient pretext for leaving the house having oc curred to her she suddenly rose to her feet, exclaim ing in a tone of vexed surprise:
" Well, well, if I haven't forgotten to skim the milk! Maum Chloe, you must go to the dairy with me. . . . But first go and call Silvey--to stay here till we get back. Audrey may wake up."
Accordingly Silvey was called, and then Miss Ra chel and Maum Chloe left the house for the dairy, which stood under a large oak tree at the farther side

IK THE WIRE-GRASS,

ef the moonlit yard. Toward this place they hurried,

trembling with fear.

' As sooaas the shade of the great oak was reached,

in her excitement Miss Rachel dropped the lantern which she carried and ran forward with a nervous, sobbing cry. The next moment found her in the arms

1

of die strange man whom Audrey had seen upon the

piazza, in the forest, and at the window. She threw

her arms around his neck and burst out crying. Not

a word was spoken. The black mammy stood silently

apart, tears of sympathy streaming down her cheeks.

But at last the excited woman's sobbing grew fainter,

and, drawing away from the man's embrace, she point

ed toward Maum Chloe:

''Our faithful old nurse,"she said. * I don't know

what I should have done without her."

" Maws'er come home ! 'e done come home !"

cried Maun Chloe, moving forward in an eager, glad

way which moved them deeply. a Maws'er gwine stay

wid us now, enty ? He ainh gine let urn khye 'im off

"- way off yawnder--no mo* ? "

The strange man's voice was unsteady, as he turned

to Miss Rachel and said :

"How good she is!"

IV.
w TROUBLE *PON TOP ER TROUBLE."
Fom some day* after this, though no more ghosts tb* piazza or faces at die window were seen,
iMisft Rachel appeared to be in a state of consuming

"TROUBLE 'PON TOP ER TROUBLE.* 41
anxiety and excitement Her private consultations with Maum Chloe were so frequent and lengthy that they excited comment among the negroes about the place.
"Dem two wimmin all time put'n dey head tergedder 'bout sup'n," remarked Uncle Tony, with con siderable disapproval. The old man was willing for Miss Rachel to be queen of the little domain, but he wanted to be prime minister in toto, and was somewhat jealous of this amount of favor shown bis wife.
Miss Rachel evidently had great plans on foot, with the execution of which Maum Chloe was inti mately connected. On two occasions Silvey detect ed her stepmother in the act of conveying a large cov ered basket to the woods after nightfall. The first time she made bold to inquire into the whys and wherefores of this singular proceeding, whereupon-- to her great astonishment--Maum Chloe rose upon her in wrath at her prying impudence, threatening to " beat" the very " hide off'n " her if^ she told any one of what she had seen. The second time she merely looked and wondered, and afterward held her peace through fear.
Finally all this culminated in an expedition of the two women into the swamp. Great was the astonish ment excited when it was announced that Miss Rachel and Maum Chloe contemplated a fishing excursion, especially after the "bay" was mentioned--ft name which, curiously enough, had become attached to the vast swamp-forest at the back of the little plantation.
" Dass a dang*ous place fer you-all ter be gwine een by yo*se%" declared Uncle Tony. "Deh's all/dem 'gators an' mockers'n an' wile-cats an' I dunner waft

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
all; an'des Uk ez not you wonh fine yer way back oat er deh 'twix di* an' nex' Chris'mus. Miss Rachel better hab me glong ter show 'er de way an* paddle de boat thoo dem tangle'y bushes."
But Maum Chloe promptly declined this offer. " I ainh been een deh wid you so many times fer nut'n," she said. "Don't you fret; we k'n git 'long. Any how we gwine ter-morrer, an' you know yer ainh gine stay 'way fum de lection."
u Dass so ter-morrer's Chused'y, de lection day, an' yer couldn' hire me ter stay 'way fum dat town. Got ter be deh ter holler hooraw fer Whitely."
The day of the election had been chosen purposely, and as soon as Uncle Tony had taken himself off next morning, Miss Rachel and her trusted old nurse started for the swamp. Leaving the yard, they followed a path skirting the great cotton field, adjoining which was a small sugar-cane patch. Though yet far from full maturity, the cane was tall and luxuriant, and when, a little farther on, Maum Chloe passed through a gate and plunged into it, she was obliged to hold her arm aloft in order to protect her face from the stiffening, keen-edged cane-blades. She reappeared immediately with the covered basket which had been quietly de posited here the night before, and they hurried on.
Half an hour later they entered the " bay " a ver itable wilderness of water, tangled underbrush, and forest trees which had never been fully explored. With the wide, open fields only a tittle way behind, they found themselves almost at once in a semi-tropic jun gle so dense that it seemed hardly possible to push on farther. The deep hush of the place/which the low
of the wind in the tops of the great old moss-
.;: -.-'-

"TROUBLE 'PON TOP ER TROUBLE." 43
draped trees only served to intensify, oppressed them with a peculiar feeling akin to awe, as though they stood suddenly on the brink of the infinite. It was the sublimity of vast solitude.
The narrowest of footpaths opened ahead, and, as they followed it on down into the dark, wooded deeps, they were occasionally startled by the sudden, sharp note of some wild bird, or by the sight of a harmless black snake gliding past; and they were seriously fright ened when they approached a bog and both saw and heard two hideous spotted moccasins, as they drew their rough bodies over the black mud.
" Better mine weh yer drap yer foot, Miss Rachel," warned Maum Chloe. M Dem mockers'n ainh so ap* ter pester we-all 'less'n we pleg um, but ef we 'uz ter step on one um long yuh een dis grass we des mout ez well fole our bans an' mek ready ter gie up de ghose. Oh, dey pizen fer true ! Put one um een a bag wid a rattlesnake, an' I dunner wich un fall out fuss. Rank pizen, bofe un um! Enty I done tell yer now ? Shoo!"
The last disdainful exclamation was by no means directed at Miss Rachel, but at the imaginary person who might willfully presume to doubt the facts of the case to his own ruin!
They passed the bog on a dead sapling thrown across, and soon reached the point where the water began. But this was not the end of their journey, for here was a small bateau, and opening ahead through the submerged forest was the same narrow path. After some exertion they found themselves seated in the lit* tie boat, with the fishing-tackle, basket, etc., satisfac torily arranged in the bottom; but the path proved to

44

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

be so narrow that the paddle could only rarely be used, and the bateau had to be pulled along from tree to tree. Following the winding boat path in this slow, laborious fashion for a quarter of a mile or more, over water varying in depth from two to six feet, they at last .emerged into a little open pool, dark, deep, and quiet, and inclosed by a wall of trees and undergrowth which seemed quite impenetrable. Three large alligators had their heads above the water toward the opposite side of the pool, at sight of which the nervous lady uttered an exclamation of alarm.
"Dey ainh comin* gnigh us," said Maum Chloe, reassuringly. "I useter be mighty fweared uv um merse'f wen I fuss start comin' een yuh wid Tony, but me I done got use ter um now. Dey wonh bodder us een de boat, do* ef hit 'uz a couple er litly chillun, er one of dese nice young shotes, een yuh stidder we grown folks, I spec* dey'd nab um mighty quick, you see um so. Ugh ! dey ugly creetur fer true! Dis yuh place fairly svarros wid um."
" Shall we fish now, or wait until we come back ?" " Ef we fish fuss, Miss Rachel, den yer know we k'n tek some ter Maws' Fred."
"Very well, then." Fish were plentiful and easily caught in this out-ofthe-way place (except the larger varieties, which were kept pretty well thinned out by his majesty the alliga tor), so it was not long before they had secured all they desired. Then Maum Chloe took up the paddle, and they moved across the little pool toward the allistors, which presently sunk quietly out of sight The boat glided on and approached the solid wall of green, which, however, was not solid, for, a low-hanging

"TROUBLE TON TOP ER TROUBLE.' 45
branch being pulled aside, the beginning of another narrow boat path was seen. With some difficulty the bateau was got into this, and they moved on as be fore.
Toward the end of three quarters of a mile they ap proached a small, thickly wooded island, probably not much more than two hundred yards in length. Here they drew up beside a bateau similar to their own and landed. A faintly marked path led them through the trees until a small clearing opened, and a hastily con structed log cabin and other signs of human presence appeared. A few tools and the litter suggestive of a carpenter's workshop were scattered in front of the cabin, and in the midst of it all Audrey's ghost was at work upon a rough table.
M. iss Rachel ran forward with an exclamation of delight, and threw her arms round him.
"Oh, I'm so glad to be here at last," she said, breathlessly. " I was very impatient--wanted to come almost the first day, but we thought it wouldn't do*"
" Well, I'm thankful that you can come at all." They seated themselves on a log and looked at each other with tender scrutiny. The man could not have been more than si$ty, for he was neither bent nor deeply wrinkled -- his features merely having a sharp and haggard look ; but he had the white hair of a patriarch of ninety. " Oh, those long, dreadful years! " moaned Miss Rachel, leaning against him and shutting her eyes, as if to escape from an ugly memory! " Don't think about it," said the strange man, gen tly stroking her hair. His manner was singularly touching, and there came a look upon his care-drawn,

46

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

though refined and intelligent face that might be called noble. Miss Rachel was soothed, but her anxieties soon found fresh vent.
" What a dreadful place for you to have to live in," she exclaimed. " I didn't dream it was half so wild. ,, . . Oh! just look at those poor hands--all swollen ! Why, those yellow flies and mosquitoes are perfectly horrible. . . . Couldn't we manage some other way ? Have--have a secret room, or something, in one of the out-houses up on the place ? "
" Don't worry, Rachel ; I will do very well here. The mosquitoes do trouble me, but if I build a fire down near the water at night, that draws them away from the bouse.** It was a wild place, sure enough-- he went on to say--but, of course, the wilder the better for his purposes. He thought he could dispense with the wild animals, however; they were certainly plenti ful and various, judging from their cries at night. There were evidently a great many wild cats--and possibly a panther or two--in the swamp.
Miss Rachel cried out in alarm, but he checked her again.
" Remember, I have a gun, and a house to shelter me," he said. "There's an abundance of game in here," he continued, after a moment. "A flock of wild turkeys roosts over there in those cypress trees every night, and at sundown the doves flock to this neighborhood by thousands. Then, there are plenty of dudes, and squirrels as thick as yellow flies almost. I believe all sorts of small animals can travel over the whole of this portion of the swamp without touching gfoond--the trees are so thick. . . . But come, see what you think of my ten days' work."

" TROUBLE 'PON TOP ER TROUBLE." 47
They rose and entered the little log house, which was merely a small, square, one-roomed affair, with a single window and a door. It was water-tight as to the roof, at least, and withal a surprising success, con sidering the disadvantage of great haste in construc tion, besides untold other difficulties against which the builder had to struggle. Some shelves, a rough chair, table, and bedstead completed the ghost's work. But there was other work by other hands. On the rough bedstead a neat bed was spread, and there were vari ous necessaries in small furniture and household uten sils. It seemed almost incredible that all this could have been successfully smuggled from the farmhouse down to this swamp-island of such difficult approach, showing that Miss Rachel's anxious planning and Maum Chloe's earnest execution had not been without remarkable result.
They went back to their seat on the log presently, and, while they sat watching Maum Chloe, who was busily scaling the fish down by the water's edge, the ghost outlined his plans for occupying himself through the unknown future. He would fish and hunt to sup ply his larder--for she must not attempt to send a basket of provisions to the woods too often; he had learned to make cotton-baskets once out of white-oak splints, and he could amuse himself at this, the white oak being plentiful on the little island; he had a natu ral mechanical turn, could do carving, etc., and--yes, he would make all sorts of things. He must have work; without it he would go mad. He must not fold his hands and repine and brood--that would destroy him, body and soul To be fully occupied, he must have intellectual exercise, too; he would write as well
1
f 1

IN THE WIRE-CRASS,
as lead. With all this, and the opportunity of seeing his loved ones now .and then, if he were not content, he had only himself to blame. So bravely spoke he to soothe the fearful, anxious woman beside him.
"Promise me you will never think of the trouble," she pleaded.
"' Trouble ?'"
** I mean the trouble of getting things and sending them down here. Anything that may suggest itself I want you to let me know--let me get it"
** 111 certainly let you get me all the books you can afford," he answered, smiling.
Meanwhile Maum Chloe had not forgotten the dinner. She built a fire, prepared the fish and fried them to crisp brown; then she brought out the table under a tree, opened the basket, and spread the con tents. The coffee was left to the last moment, and when it was brought to the table smoking hot, she an nounced that the dinner was ready.- Miss Rachel had now grown cheerful, the white-headed, fatherly ghost almost animated, and Maum Chloe was soon appar ently in a seventh heaven of rapture over the success of the meal, exerting herself and waiting upon them in a way to suggest all the dignified, semi-fantastic polite ness of a body-servant of the old-time rtgime now fast growing vague in our minds.
It was late when the two women again paddled across the little open pool deep down in that wild swamp, and the sun was long down and the dusk gath ering when they reached the farm-house. The negroes marveled greatly that Miss Rachel should stay in the swamp all day, but the fine string of fish which Maum Chloe exhibited was proof of how they had

r

M TROUBLE TON TJOP ER TROUBLE." 49

employed themselves, and no troublesome curiosity

was" excited.

|

Miss Rachel slept soundly that night. Her excite

ment had worn itself out, and for the present rest was

not impossible. She felt encouraged by the bright out

look. Her plan (and the ghost's) had not failed--not

yet, at any rate.

It really seemed to her the next day that her shat

tered nervous system was on the mend. She ate her

dinner with actual relish, and lay down afterward feel

ing deliciously drowsy. Indeed, as she lay on a lounge

near one of the front windows and looked languidly

out, she concluded that, after all, life was not taste

less. The trees began to swim, the earth and sky to

softly dissolve, and she was just losing herself in deli

cious nothingness when something caused her to un

close her eyes and bestow a parting glance upon the

scene without. That one last glance revealed a man

walking up to the front gate. There was nothing

startling in this, and Miss Rachel had caught only a

misty glimpse of the approaching man; nevertheless,

she was startled, and the drowsy ecstasy was gone like

a flash. As she raised herself on her elbow and looked

again, an expression of half-recognition grew in her

eyes. The man had now passed through the gate and

was coming toward the house. She got up hastily and

looked once more; then she knew him beyond a

doubt, and was filled with fright.

" Maum Chloe," she cried, rushing breathlessly into

the entry, where she encountered the old mammy,

" here comes Jasper Redding! "

"Oh, honey, sho-nuf?"

" He's right out there. I'm afraid he--yes, he must

4

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
know about it, and is coming to--to--yes; it must be that"
" Laws-a-mussy ! wut comin' nex' ? " murmured Maum Chloe. " Trouble 'pon top er trouble--trouble 'pon top er trouble."
" I hardly know what to do," whispered Miss Ra chel, desperately. " I'm so afraid he--" She stopped at the sound of a step on the piazza, and leaned against the wall in helpless fright.
u Dah po* buckra man shanh hu't my baby," cried the old mammy, with spirit " I wanter see 'im try it --I des wanter see 'im try it! "
The man outside, having knocked loudly with his stout walking-cane and waited some time for a re sponse in vain, politely cursed the house and all it contained, and calmly seated himself in a rockingchair on the piazza. He was a stout, red-whiskered man, some forty years of age, with a keen, intelligent gray eye, and a face expressive of good-humor, which even impatience could hardly obscure.
" Howdy, Miss Rachel ? " he shouted, bouncing to his feet and warmly shaking that lady's reluctant hand when she at last appeared. " I begun to think ther wa'n't nobody home. . . . Well, I am glad to see you-- shore. S'prised to see me, eh ? I thought so. Well, how are you, Miss Rachel ? You ain't ez rosy ez you was some years back."
" Oh, I do very well," she answered, indifferently. " When did you return ? " She sat down, first inviting Him to do the same.
" 'Bout a month ago," he replied. " I reck'n you thought I was done killed by the Injuns long ago ; you didn' ever expect to see ole Jasper Redding back

"TROUBLE TON TOP ER TROUBLE." 51
home from Texas, did you ? But, ez I said to Judge Mitchell, of Tyler, Texas, s'l, 'Judge, I'm a rovin' crit ter/ s'l, ' an' ther' ain't no tellin' whar 111 turn up at next,' s'l; an' I kin jes' tell you, Miss Rachel, I've been about a right smart sense I left South Georgey ten years back. But how come you to come h-yer to live ? You know, I stopped at the old place an' no body knowd whar you was moved, an' happenin' long h-yer in this town a week atterwards, lo an' behold I hearn you was livin' out h-yer ! An' out I come the fust chance ; an' ain't you glad to see me ? "
" Oh, ye--ye--well, that dep--that is--I mean; of course, I am."
He understood her hesitation. " That depends on whether I'm atter renewin' the old courtship, eh? Why, of course I am. Them was sweet times^we had, eh, Miss Rachel ? " He spoke with a species of iron ical gayety. " We two was jes' ez lovin' ez two kittens in a basket, wa'n't we ?--an* we 're both jes' a-dyin* to--"
Miss Rachel moved her chair farther away, with some noise; she flushed with anger, but controlled herself before she spoke, as if determined to be civil to him at any cost. She tried to laugh lightly, and tittered rather hysterically, as she said :
" Why will you talk such foolishness ? You know very well I never could endure you, in spite of your eternal good humor."
" Well, now, Miss Rachel," he declared, with a gay pretense of being much shocked, " that is hard--rale rough--on a feller jesp home from a ten years' trip. But you don't mean it; no, you don't--not by a long jump. When a woman says she hates a man these

.j^ :,L<J. > -.-'.-, :,-.,

--"- - V m " /

52

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

days, she jes' means she don't love 'im hard--not quite so hard ez thunder kin bump a stump, you know. That's all you mean, Miss Rachel, eh ? You jes' got in the way o' usin1 them big'hyperbolicals that air a-spreadin' 'mongst the women like wildfire--that's alL You see, I know--I've been around an' seen. I've hearn that sort er talk a lots round hotels, you know, from these h-yer Yankee women travelers. They're death on it When I hear 'em say a calico dress looks ' jus* too lovely ' an* * elegant' an' all that, I wonder what they kin find strong enough to say about silks an' satins an' sich like, an' when they holler for a mos quito-bite an' say hit's * jus* aorful,' * horrible,' * dread ful,' an* I dunner what all, thinks I to myself, what in the dickance will they have left to say when they git rattlesnake bit. But that's their way, you know, an' h-yer you er patternin' right after 'em 'thout knowin* it. So, you see, Miss Rachel, I know how to take your talk. Your bark is a heap worse'n your bite." He chuckled with self-applause.
She had turned her head away and heard him through in apathetic dismay at his mood. " That is very good," she now said, with a smile that was more than half a sneer--" but is it original ? Didn't you get the idea out of a newspaper ?"
* Hit fits the case," he answered, somewhat nettled. " I know what I'm a-talkin' about."
" I don't think you do," said Miss Rachel, quite overcome with anger at his persistence, "What is your business with me, Mr. Redding ? " she asked, ab ruptly, after a moment. . * I want you to many me--that's all."
She had been expecting this ; nevertheless, she ap-

"TROUBLE TON TOP ER TROUBLE." 53
peared to be stupefied with amazement. " You might have spared yourself the trouble of coming here, then," she said at last, with dignity. " I told.you long ago " --she was quite reckless now--" that I always would despise you--or words to that effect."
" So-ho! " he slowly rejoined. " Well, sense you talk so plain, I reck'n mebby I kin take a hand at it, too. When I ask you to marry me honer'ble an* peace able you don't do nothin' but fly off the handle an* git mad. That's all right; you don't scare me I want to marry you, with all yer scorn (that makes me want you worse), an' I'm a-gwine to dp tf, you hear me! "
" Why--why--" gasped Miss Rachel--" I've a great mind to order you off the place, sir!" She rose to leave him, but was so overcome by his quick rejoinder that she dropped powerless into her chair again.
" Try it--jes' try it! " he said, the good-humored expression fading completely out of his face for the first time. " Try it, an' see how quick I'll make you sorry for it. Oh, no, Miss Rachel; 'tain't like it useter be. You can't run the whole thing this time. I know a thing or two, don't you see! For one thing,. I know the ole man's out an' gone, an' 's a-hidin' round h-yer some'rs---you know whar--an' all I got to do is to be on the watch tell I find out, an' then let in the law on you all. You hear that, eh ? "
She had heard--had dropped her head helplessly upon her hands. She had not the strength to defy him--to deny what he had said. She felt lost, desolate, in his power.
" Now don't, Miss Rachel," said the man, kindly, when he saw that she was shaken with silent sobs. " I didn't say I was a-goin' to do it--only meant I could,

$4

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

you know, ef I was a mind to. Jes' say the word now, an* Jut'11 be all right--the ole man'll stay ez safe ez you kin fix 'im." As she made no answer, he was em boldened to come a little nearer and put out his rough hand to stroke her hair.
41 Don't dare touch me,!" she cried, drawing hastily away.
A moment later Audrey ran out on the piazza, and immediately Miss Rachel got up to cut short the inter view. Her courage was returning. The visitor's at tention was at once centered upon the child.
"Hello t that's the little gal, eh ?" said he, with a smile. " Come h-yer, honey."
Audrey walked forward with but little hesitation, and* looking at him curiously, inquired :
" Where did you come from ?" He appeared to be greatly amused at this, laughing outright. Then he said to Miss Rachel, "She looks like her ma, don't she ? "

V.
MAUM CHLOE S STRATAGEM.
BEFORE he took himself off--this man who was just "back home from Texas," and who called himself Jasper Redding--he announced that they might expect him soon again, possibly the next day, and Miss Rachel felt that he would keep his word. The poor woman quite collapsed, as it were, when he had gone, and did net leave her bed until noon next day. As soon as

i'

MAUM CHLOE'S STRATAGEM.

55

she felt able to talk, she sent for Maum Chloe; but the only result of their consultation was that the ghost should be told nothing about Redding.
"Now, don't forget," urged Miss Rachel. "I wouldn't hav^ him know for anything. . . . But, oh ! what am I to do ? If I refuse to satisfy that-- that man, he will certainly out with everything, and then--" She covered her eyes with her hands, shud dering.
** Donh be studyin' 'bout no sich ez dat, honey," said Maum Chloe, with decision. " Dah po'-buckra man got ter go some'rs else ter git de saderfacshun 'e atter--'e hatter go barkin' up anudder stump, 1 tell yer. I gwine tell 'im so, too. Maws' Fred wonh low it; 'e ainh gine 'low no chile er his'n ter ma'y no sich po' wite trash ez dat--no-suh-ree!--not eben ef 'e 'uz ter come 'umble, an* do 'e co'tin' same ez common, stidder rearm' roun' yuh so bigity lak 'e done yistiddy. Shoo ! Maws' Fred--I done know 'e mine too good-- Maws' Fred let urn come cotch 'im an' khye 'im back yawnder ter dan place fuss--'e will dat!"
" He sha'n't go back," cried Miss Rachel, bursting into tears, "no, not even if I have to marry that--that coarse--lout . . . Ugh!" She fell back among the pillows shaken with sobs, and stretched out her clinched hands frantically.
" Donh cry, honey--donh cry dis-a way," pleaded the old mammy in a soothing voice. " You shanh be pestered so by dah good-fer-nut'n po'-buckra man ; I gine tell 'im so, too. I lak ter know wut bizness 'e got wid you--wut bizness 'e got ter try ter mek you ma'y 'im dis-a way! Somebody ought ter tek dah man an' tie 'im 'cross a pine log, an* gie 'im 'bout fi*

56

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

hundud lashes fo' dey quit," cried the old woman, an grily. " 'E got de mose enshoance er air po'-buckra man wut eber I laid eyes on; *e need somebody ter mek 'im know 'e place. 'E ainh fitten ter drive yo' hawses, let lone ter--"
"I am in his power/' moaned Miss Rachel. " No, yer ain't, honey--no, yer ain't! Dey ainh foun' Maws' Fred yit, an' Mr. Reddin' hatter be mighty spry fo' 'e kin fine 'im--'e is dat! Donh fret, Miss Rachel; dey canh fine *im 'way een de swamp deh. Donh let dah sassy po'-buckra man bully yer dis-a way, honey. Nex* time 'e come, tell 'im ter g'long off fum yuh an' ten' ter 'e own bizness--tell 'im yer dunner nut'n 'tall 'bout wut 'e talkin' *bout, des same ez ef Maws' Fred wanh deh." u I wish I could, but I'm afraid." Maum Chloe went over her argument again, and talked with more spirit than ever, but her mistress only listened in apathetic despair. However, when later she rose and walked about the house, she began to take courage ; so great was her change of state, indeed, that when Jasper Redding presented himself that after noon, she made bold to send him word that she was too unwell to see him. And that night her head was so full of hopes and vague plans that she could not sleep. By morning she had decided on a plan of imme diate action--one, however, which would not bear the fight of day ; for no sooner had she put it into execu tion than she began bitterly to repent. However, early in the morning she called in Maum Chloe, and told her she had decided to appeal to Captain Brooke ; she had written him a note asking him to call on her,

MAUM CHLOE'S STRATAGEM.
and wanted her (Maum Chloe) to drive over to Mel ville in the buggy with Audrey and deliver it. Mel ville was not a village, but a plantation five miles distant, and Captain Brooke, who lived there with his mother, was a single gentleman who had the reputa tion for a great deal of quiet force of character.
Maum Chloe was delighted at the proposal, but asked, doubtfully : " You gine tell 'im Tx>ut Maws' Fred ? "
" No. I don't see why that should be necessary. He is a gentleman, and will not ask questions."
It would seem that Miss Rachel had reasoned (or had not reasoned) the matter out thus: She wanted counsel--help; was in sore need of it Captain Brooke could give it to her. True, their acquaintance was but slight, but she bad an intuitive feeling that he was one of the best of men and would act toward her with the kindest consideration. He was a gentleman, she was a lady; a gentleman would protect a lady if she needed his protection. She did need it Therefore, Captain Brooke would not be found wanting; he would come to her aid, and effectually silence that loud and obstinate bully, Jasper Redding. Just how he was to do this she did not know, but rested with vague confidence in the thought that a gentleman could do anything.
Maum Chloe did not stop to make prudent fore casts into the future--to inquire how Jasper Redding could be disposed of without the export of the ghost as a direct result; she had a weakness for the aris tocracy (the Brookes were unquestionably of the aris tocracy of the county, if the term may be allowed), and the plan met her delighted approval. Captain

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
Brooke had long ago been proposed in her own mind as a possible husband for her beloved Miss Rachel ; he would now come and talk with her, go away and come again--what might it not lead to in the end ?
All this passed through her mind ere she ordered the buggy brought round to the front and went to put on her best frock, while Miss Rachel was dressing the little girl, who was also pleased at the thought of going. Melville was not a new name to Audrey. She had been driven past there several times with her aunt, and would never forget the first glimpse of those ** white things in the yard," or Miss Rachel's smiling explanation that that was not a yard but a lawn, and that the * white things " were statues.
But the old mammy's dream, much to her distaste, was cut short They were hardly half a mile on their way to Melville before Miss Rachel had worked her self into a fever of regret over what she had done-- a fever which soon culminated in an order for the hurried saddling of another horse, which happened to be standing in the stables. And she would trust no messenger. Mounting the animal herself and riding away in hot haste, she overtook the buggy ere it had gone two miles on its road.
M I don't know what I could have been thinking of," said she, almost angrily, as she took her note from Maum Chloe's lingering grasp, and tore it into many fragments, "What would his mother think? It's ridiculous. If he were married, or I were older--"
--" it might do; but--no, I've changed my mind. . . . You may go on and take Audrey for a good ride, but don't go to Melville."
Early one morning, perhaps a week later, Maum

MAUM CHLOE'S STRATAGEM.

59

Chloe was cautiously making her way in the direction of the swamp with the ghost's basket of supplies on her arm. When the fields had been left behind, she felt freer and took her way through the pine woods with less caution. Walking absently along, carelessly humming a hymn which ran--

" Fox dig hole een de grotm'," etc.,

she all at once ran upon a now illustrious personage who had been refused admittance at the farm-house four times during the past ten days on the plea (a polite fiction) that Miss Rachel was too unwell to see him. Maum Chloe was not dissembler enough to con ceal her scared start and the slight dropping of her jaw; she was almost limp with fright.
"Why, hello! Aunt Chloe," cried Redding, goodhumoredly, "how you do ? "
"Ve'y well," she ejaculated, uneasily, forgetting the symptoms of an indisposition to which she was subject, which on another occasion she would have elaborated largely.
" What you doin' 'way down h-yer with that bas ket ?" continued her questioner, looking her squarely in the eye. ** Whar you gain* f "
" Me ? I gwine--I gwine--gwine ter--ter-- Wut you wanter know fer ? " broke off Maum Chloe, grow ing angry, and so regaining the use of her tongue.
" Nem-mind whar you goin'--what you got in that basket?"
" Dat any yof bizness, say ? Wut you got ter do wid dish yuh basket ? "
"My bizness or not--I'm a-goin' to see what's in it."

6o

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

" Den, Mr. Reddin', spose'n I say you sha'n't!" said Maum Chloe, hotly.
"Then 111 make you, ole 'oman," was the reply, with a determined smile.
The old mammy's eyes blazed. " Great goodness ! " she ejaculated, " whoeber yeh er de enshoance er dis buckra ? Wut bizness you got wid dis basket, I lak to know I"
" Oh, lemme see it," he urged, coming nearer. Maum Chloe quickly put the basket down behind her. " Ef you look een dis basket, you hatter knock me down fuss," she declared, in a rage. " An' den ef yer ainh no mo' a man 'n dat, des see--des see how quick I shames yer ober dis whole county! " " You impudent oie wench ! I a great mind to choke you," he threatened. However, he paused, feeling the sting of her rebuke in spite of his anger at her determination to thwart him. * Go ahade ! " she scornfully retorted. " Des tu'n right een an' do it, an* see wut'U-- Des do it now!" Her defiant attitude made him furious ; he stepped forward threateningly, but drew back with a muttering of angry oaths. " Pick it up and clear out! " he ordered. She obeyed with irritating deliberation. He moved out of the path to let her pass, and, as she swept by him, she shot him a glance from the corner of her eye and tossed her head disdainfully, uttering the exclama tion, " Shoo! " with sibilant, sustained breath, express ive of a world of contempt Maum Chloe did not look back--she would not deign, as long as it was not necessary to convince her

MAUM CHLOE'S STRATAGEM.

6l

that Jasper Redding was following at a distance. To deposit the basket at the usual place was now out of the question; so she did not even enter the swamp, but merely skirted it and followed a path leading on through the pine woods. This brought her after a while to a little clearing, in the center of which was a log cabin inclosed by a rail fence.
" Fanny! you Fanny! come ter de do','' called Maum Chloe at the fence, and directly a young negress appeared. " Yo' ma home ? " she then asked.
" No'b'm ; she gone ter town." 11 Well, donh mek no difiunce nohow--I ainh come ter stay. I des come over to bring a nice mess er greens wut I been promus Sister Marthy sense 'way fo* las' week." The girl stared in wonder, but Maum Chloe pushed by her into the house, and she followed--inquiring: " Who dah buckra man out yawnder ? " " Des some er de riffraff er creation. Now den," the old woman explained softly, "dish yuh ainh no mess er greens, no sich a ting. I des said dat ter fool dah buckra man out deh--'e all time stickin' 'e nose een other folks' bizness ! Now, honey, I aim ter put dese tings een dish yuh box an* shove hit und' de bed --an* don't yer bodder it, ner low nobody to tech it, you yeh me ? I comin* down yuh at* it dis ebenin*. Des do ez I tell yer--dass a good gal--an* I fotch yer sup'n putty nex' time I come." "Yes'm."
"Ef dah buckra man come een yuh an* ax you wut been een dis basket, tell 'im I des fotch a mess er greens fer yo' ma, you yeh me ? "
Maum Chloe went out with the cover of her basket

.62

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

hanging over the side, and found Jasper Redding at the fence.
" Well, aunty, I was mistaken, eh ? " said he, goodhumoredly. "That 'ere basket wa'n't for him, eh? You don't keep him down h-yer in the swamp--he's hid up ter the house some'rs, eh ? "
" Wut een de name er goodness you talkin' 'bout ?" said the cunning old woman, wonderingly.
"Oh, I reck'n you know. Ef you don't, hit won't be long 'fore you do."
Maum Chloe made a disdainful gesture with her hands, uttered her sibilant " Shoo!" and passed on. She walked very soberly until she had reached the fields and was out of sight and hearing ; then she bent her body and threw out her arms in the ludicrous African shrug.
" Oh, dah po' fool buckra!" she cried, in an ecstacy of laughter. " I done fool 'im--I done fool 'im!"
She went on up to the house and described her en counter with Redding and her subsequent successful stratagem with such glowing detail and such irresisti ble glee that Miss Rachel herself--though she thrilled with fear to think of what might have been the issue-- was forced to laugh outright,
But, although outwitted for the time, the enter prising bugbear was by no means disposed of--as Miss Rachel allowed herself to hope. He was heard from again in less than a week's time in the shape of a note brought to the farm-house by a young darkey whom Maum Chloe spoke of with great con tempt as a " triflin' town nigger." The note ran as follows:

!~&CAUM CHLOE'S STRATAGEM.

63

" WIREGRASS RIDGE, Sept. 24,

" Miss RACHEL : -- I am plum sick & tired off the

way you are doing. I jess tell you I aint no slouch to

be treated in no sich a way & I wont stand it. I know

mighty well you aint so sick as you make out & Ime

everlastinly tired off it. Ime plum out off payshunce

I write these few lines to let you know I aim to come

tomorrer & if you dont ask me in the house & treet me

like a Gentelman orter be I swear He make you sorry

for it. You think I aint found the old man but right

thare you make a &<r/stake as the boys useter say.

That old nigger aunty did fool me that day (she aint

no fool I kin tell you) but day fore yisterday I watched

her Unbeknown & seen wharbouts she put the basket

& waited & seen the old man come out the swomp &

Git it ; I watched good & sneaked along a piece the way

& seen right whar he went in at & dont you forget I

kin go right in & Nab him soons ever I a mind to.

" Yours in Friendship

" J. R."

It is hardly necessary to say that the lady to whom it was addressed was completely prostrated by this vulgar epistle. Maum Chloe tried to talk as spiritedly as ever, but her unhappy mistress had no courage left ; without a hope she waited for the remorseless hour and the remorseless man to come. What she would then do she knew not.
But the morrow's sun rose and set, and neither the hour nor the man had come. It was the same the next day and the next A week passed, and then, going into Wiregrass Ridge one day, Maum Chloe learned to her overflowing delight that their dreaded enemy had left the town quite suddenly some days before. And they heard of him no more for years.

IN THE WIRE-GRASS,
VI.
U LO, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES !"
IT was a simple, old-fashioned water-mill for grind ing corn. The pond water was kept at bay by a long earthen dam whose coating of white sand glistened in the sun. Over its central point the weather-beaten old mill-house squatted low, secure on its deep-sunken legs, and on working days, when the gates were up and the water flowed through into the "tail," the revolving mill-rocks sent forth a hoarse, humming sound which fell gratefully upon the ear of the approaching pedes trian bent under his heavy sack of corn.
But those who brought corn to mill usually came in carts, and this afternoon there was a buggy also ; which vehicle contained, beside the bushel-bag of corn under the seat, an old negress and a young white girl. Three years apparently had not changed Maum Chloe, but this tall young maid of thirteen, with her intent expression and serious dark-blue eyes, was not the same child who had sat at Uncle Tony's feet and listened to his ghost stories. She was prettier than ever, and, under her big sun-hat, with those soft meshes of light-brown hair blowing about her shoul ders, she was undeniably a pleasure to the eye. She was a positive delight to Maum Chloe's.
"* Honey, you gwine git out ? " asked the old mammy, when she had tied the horse and had begun to pull out the bag of corn.
The girl was looking absently across the expanse of mill-pond, and did not answer; but after a moment

'LO, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES!" 6$
she sprang lightly from the buggy and followed Maum Chloe on to the door of the rumbling mill.
" Meal or hom'ny ? " shouted the dusty miller, looming up faintly in the whitish mist which enveloped the noisy place.
Maum Chloe shouted her answer, and then, having watched him empty a measure of corn into the rattling hopper, she went back and joined Audrey without.
" We got ter wait mo'n a hour," she announced. " Fo' er fi' bags een deh ahead er our'n. I gwine fish,
She went and got some fishing-tackle out of the buggy, and then the young girl followed absently down the steep bank to the level, where the foaming water dashed past in the " tail." The old woman settled herself for fishing in an eddying spot somewhat re moved from the rushing current, while her dream ing companion sat by on a log and looked on in differently.
After watching for some time the bits of foam whirled headlong past, as it were to some unknown, yawning doom, the girl suddenly spoke :
" Maum Chloe, what did grandfather ever do to-- to--to make him have to hide that way ? What was it he did?"
" Eh-eh ! " muttered the old mammy, with a sad, peculiar smile, " Miss Rachel ainh tole you dat ? Den 'tainh none my bizness ter tell yer--you mus'n ax me ; you mus' go ter Miss Rackel."
" I have asked her, but she won't tell me. Just as soon as I ask her, she begins to talk about something else." The girl spoke sadly rather than pettishly.
" I kin tell yer dis much, honey," said Maum Chloe, 5

66

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

with great earnestness, ** Maws' Fred's a good man ; *e one er the bes' mens gwine."
Audrey knew that already--or believed it, at any rate. She never thought of the old man down in the swamp with anything like shame--nay, rather as one injured and persecuted who was to be pitied. This was the certain trend of her aunt's teaching, though the teaching itself was vague and unsatisfactory. The old mammy's just uttered reply was no whit more definite and did not satisfy Audrey, but she questioned no further, and went back with a soft, low sigh to the bits of foam floating past.
Maum Chloe's angling at the spot chosen was rather barren of result, although in the course of half an hour she safely landed a good-sized terrapin, and presently she decided to move farther down the branch, where the water would be less disturbed by the inflow from the mill-pond. Audrey followed aimlessly; fishing did not interest her, and one part of the stream prom ised to be no more diverting than another. However, no sooner had Maum Chloe settled herself at a desir able spot, than the girl declared that she was " going down yonder to get some of those yellow jessamines." The spot indicated was a hundred yards or more down stream--the only direction in which the view was open for any distance.
"Do please tek care weh yer step, honey," begged Maum Chloe. She disliked to have her charge go so far alone, but, a bite being momentarily expected, Audrey got off without much argument
Arrived at the spot, while twining some pieces of the beautiful, flower-laden vine around the crown of her big hat, all at once the girl's attention became fixed

" LO, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES ! " 6/
upon a sound coming from some point still farther down stream. Some one was whistling a peculiarly charming and merry air, and whistling it well. Audrey, of course, did not recognize it as the tenor solo in " Rigoletto " beginning, "La donna S mobile" but she was delighted with it, and involuntarily moved forward in the direction--burning with curiosity to know who the charming whistler might be. She made her way through the troublesome underbrush as fast as she could, guided by the sound. Arriving at a hopelessly wet and boggy place, she found it necessary to make a dttour, but even then failed to find firm ground, and was obliged to cross the bog on a fallen pine which spanned it. While midway upon the pine log the whistling, which was now quite near, suddenly ceased. Nevertheless--hoping it would recommence --the curious girl went on, and was almost in the act of springing to the ground on the farther side of the bog, when she drew back full of fright. A large moc casin lay coiled up in her path. It was a little muddy on the other side of the log, but she preferred the mud to the moccasin, and was preparing to jump down and run away as fast as possible--when, lo, another moc casin on the borders of the mud !
The limit of her self-possession was reached--she screamed. There were only two snakes, but Audrey thought she had seen a third and a fourth, and now, as she pressed her hands over her horrified eyes, they were magnified into dozens; in imagination she saw them gliding over the ground toward her--the very air was full of them. She screamed.
" Hello ! what's that ? " came a youthful voice from beyond a large clump of palmettoes not far away, and

68

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

in a moment the speaker appeared in the shape of a tall, handsome boy. " What's the matter ? " he called to her, and on hearing his voice Audrey opened her eyes.
" Moccasins! " she gasped. " Right there by you ! " The boy, who carried a pole and a string of fish in one hand, and a hatchet in the other, had halted with in less than three feet of the moccasin on the dry side of the log without perceiving it. Now, however, he was quick to see it, and struck at it with his hatchet, being so fortunate as to crush its head with the first blow. The other moccasin having by this time disap peared, Audrey felt bold enough to jump down beside her deliverer--for so she gratefully regarded him. " Oh, you ought to have been more careful!" she began, impetuously. " It might have bitten you. You oughtn't to get so near a moccasin as that--to cut off its head with a hatchet! It might have--" " Fortunately, I was too quick to give it the chance," said the boy, smiling--evidently pleased at her con cern.
" Ugh! just look ! there is some of its blood splashed on your hand ! . . . I wonder if a moccasin's blood is poisonous, too ? "
"Of course not," laughed the boy, wiping the blood away with his handkerchief. " If it were, I am afraid our defunct foe there would never have lived to reach his present bulk."
Smiling, he raised his eyes and looked at her-- looked into those misty dark-blue eyes of hers, which, it almost seemed, could not but glance fondly. She looked too, and saw a head of proud poise, an open brow, a sensitive mouth, rather a classic nose, a deter-

* LO, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES !" 69
mined jaw, and the 'darkest of brown eyes, which glowed intelligently ftom beneath well-marked eye brows. The boy--or rather, the youth, for his upper lip faintly foreshadowed a mustache--was perhaps seventeen years old.
" Where did you come from ?" he asked, curiously, "From up toward the mill. Maum Chloe is up there now. I came down here to--to get some yellow jessamines." "And I was just in time to play the hero, and res cue you from the jaws of yon blood-thirsty reptile,"-- with a mock grandiose air which became him. " Be hold him where he lieth--the monster !--to frighten a lady ! But he has his deserts--requiescat in pace" the boy added, well pleased to have an opportunity of showing that he was learning Latin. Audrey laughed with pleasure. This glib-tongued, self-possessed boy was to her a most interesting won der. She had no idea that the inspiration of his last brilliant speech might be traced back, in general to his wide reading of romantic novels, and in particular to a recent experience in private theatricals. " I'd like to ask you where you live and what is your name--if I may," said the boy, still looking at her as if the sight of her had been a great surprise to him. She answered both his questions without hesita tion, but in some wonder that he should care to know. " But may be I ought to have told you my name first," he then said. " I have several. There's Arthur, and there's Linton, and there's Markham. Goodness knows it's long enough ! but you needn't call it all at once, you know. Just make a selection of any one you like."

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
Audrey liked it all, and made no selection, even in her own mind. She seated herself absently on a con venient log, and played with her hat and smiled, say ing nothing whatever.
Meanwhile he told her that he lived in Savannah, and "when the folks went off for their Canada trip this summer they sorter gave me the reins, you know ; they said I could come down here and hunt and fish just as long as I wanted to. They all said it was a good place. Tom Howell and Hugh Avery used to come down here--Tom killed a deer down here once."
And so down he came ; but the accommodations at the farm-house where he had engaged board were not to his liking, and after a week he had packed up to go back (the sport so far hadn't proved brilliant by any means either), but in Wiregrass Ridge he had met Cap tain Brooke, who induced him to go out to Melville for a few days before returning to the city. He had stayed there two weeks, and had been invited to stay longer; but he could not impose on his host, though he should have enjoyed it immensely. However, he wasn't go ing home yet--had engaged to stay at Mr. Watson's, a much better place than the other.
" I tell you what, Captain Brooke is a real brick. He couldn't have been more polite if I had been an old friend. I'm going deer-hunting down over the Florida line with him and some fellows next week. Won't that be fun! . . . Don't you like Captain Brooke ? He's a splendid fellow--oh, it's a fine family. I didn't know you could meet such people 'way off down here--I--I mean I was agreeably surprised." He glanced a^ Audrey in some confusion, and quickly

i, . "LO. THE CONQUERING HERO COMES!" 71

x

*

added: " That ' Melville' of theirs is a fine place, isn't it?"
Audrey assented : adding, " I haven't been there often."
" Is that so ? Why, you ought to go there--go there to see Ame'lie. She's a sweet little thing, but she's not --not half as pretty as you are."
~ " Yes, she is; she's a heap prettier," stammered Audrey, in astonishment, no little pleased at this art less compliment
" Oh, of course you'll say that. . . . Ame'lie is a bright little thing, though. She's always talking French with her grandmother. She knows it better than English, they say. I believe she learned French first --in New Orleans, you know."
Here they heard the sound of dry leaves and twigs crushed under approaching feet, and directly Maum Chloe appeared. She had called Audrey several times in vain, and now came in haste to look for her. She took in the situation at a glance, and felt moved to look at the boy rather suspiciously, though she courtesied with great politeness, calling him "young mawster." He was not poor white trash ; he came of a fine breed evidently, but this was not the place for her " baby" to make his acquaintance. Her baby was getting too big to "play roun* wid boys same ez chillun."
" Time we 'uz gwine, honey," she said, briefly, and hurried Audrey off.
But the boy followed them to the mill, and stood by the buggy talking with them--even after they were ready to start--until Maum Chloe touched the horse with the whip and said, apologetically: .

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
14 Well, young mawster, hit's gittin* late an* we-all mus* be gwine long home."
44 Young mawster M as a form of address ten years after the war was certainly out of date ; but Maum Chloe clung tenaciously to the traditions of the old time, in spite of the fact that Uncle Tony felt moved to lecture her periodically for her folly. " Some nig gers is rank foolish," he would say in great disgust. " No use talkin*--yer canh larn urn nut'n."
As they turned into the public road a short distance from the mill, they encountered a covered buggy drawn by a handsome span of sorrel horses. Audrey smiled and bowed in response to the salute from the sole occu pant of the vehicle, and Maum Chloe actually beamed as she looked at the owner of Melville. She beamed, and yet she harbored an everlasting grudge against this gentleman. Had he not lived for nearly a dozen years in the same county with Miss Rachel without proposing to many her ! Such wanton slackness the old mammy could never forgive. Not that her mistress was pining away for him--oh, no (for it had always been Maum Chloe's theory that the very flower of the earth awaited Miss Rachel's indiflerent hand)--only, it was not un reasonable and might be hoped that she would give a gracious consent after having been sufficiently wooed.
The owner of Melville, however, had no place just now in Audrey's thoughts, which were absorbingly oc cupied with the young stranger they had left at the milL She had never seen any one like him--any one at once so handsome, so self-possessed, so well-dressed, and in every way so pleasing. She wondered at the difference between him and the boys whom she knew at the school in Wiregrass Ridge, drawing all sorts of

"LO, THE CONQUERING HERO COMES I"
comparisons between them, always to his credit. His very clothes seemed to her a part of him which could have no existence outside of him; the boys of Wiregrass Ridge never looked so in their clothes, nor was there quite the same charm about even Captain Brooke in his faultless black cloth on dress occasions. She did not know what it was to have one's measure at a fashionable tailor's--an advantage denied the youth of the village, who usually were forced to content them selves with selections from the "job lots" of readymade clothing a season or so old imported from the city by enterprising Israelites.
The sun had long set when they reached the farm house, and, on coming into the dusk of the sittingroom, Audrey was startled out of her thoughts on the episode of the afternoon by the sight of a pale, emaci ated old man retreating toward the window and glanc ing fearfully toward her. She was frightened only for a moment.
" Is that you, grandfather ?" she asked, softly. ' " Yes," was the husky reply. The old man's figure seemed to sway forward in the uncertain light, and he seated himself heavily on the lounge. " When did you come up ?" She went forward and kissed him tenderly. " Does Aunt Rachel know you --oh! how hot you are ! " "No," he answered, taking no notice of her ex clamation ; u she doesn't know. I've just come. Go and tell her."
Without remark the girl at once moved to obey-- carefully shutting the door behind her, from an ac quired habit of acting with caution in all that related to her grandfather.

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
VII.
SWAMP FEVER ENDS MISS RACHEL S RESPONSIBILITY.
A FEW minutes later Miss Rachel appeared, carrya lamp turned down low. She closed the door, set the lamp on the table, and was careful to draw all the curtains before she turned up the light. This done, she ran to the lounge.
" Oh, father, you frighten me ! I never thought you would try to come up this early. . . . Are you sure no one saw you ? "
u Yes. I came up through the corn and slipped across the yard just now when nobody was about."
" Oh ! how hot you are !" cried Miss Rachel suddenly, and began to feel his hands and face., " Why, what is the matter ? "
" I think I must have the swamp fever," he an swered, slowly.
She was too frightened to speak, and he con tinued :
" I'm afraid I'll have to stay here and let you nurse me through it As long as I am able to work, I can manage well enough down there, but for the last few days I've been so feverish and weary that any kind of work was out of the question. My head has been so bad I couldn't even read." He sighed, heavily. "It is intolerable to stay down there and do nothing."
" But what--how will we--" Her voice betrayed an agony of anxiety.
" If yon are afraid--if it will be too much of a tax on your strength, perhaps I had better go back."

MISS RACHEL'S RESPONSIBILITY ENDS. 75
She threw her arms round him in a burst of tears, and passionately declared that she would never allow him to go back to that dreadful swamp ; no, not even if they should come to take him away. She would de ceive them--outwit them--do anything.
" If I am discovered they will put me under arrest, but will hardly remove me at once. . . . But don't let us worry about that. If you agree, I prefer to take the risk and remain here."
It was discussed no further. Miss Rachel prepared her own room for him, and there he stayed--no one being admitted to the apartment besides Audrey and Maum Chloe. It was soon known about the place, however, that there was a sick man in the house, and then Maum Chloe took pains to announce that it was " one er Miss Rachel's kin-folks come fum away off --come las' night wid de fever on 'im an* tuck'n got down sick right straight. Mighty dang'ous sort er fe ver," she added ; "hit's ketchin', you see hit so. Dat wut dey tell me. Ef you niggers know wut good fer you, yer better stay off fum dah house fur ez yer kin. Enty I done tell yer now !"
This warning was heeded by all but Uncle Tony and Silvey ; these two conspired together to ^ learn more about the sick man. Alike jealous of the trust reposed in Maum Chloe by Miss Rachel, they were eager to annoy her by laying bare the secrets she evi dently shared. They did not connect .the arrival of the sick man with the long course of intrigue of the past three years--about which they knew just enough to know that it existed--but both curiosity and suspi cion were excited in them by the mysterious event and Maum Chloe's explanation. On the third day,

IN THE WIRE-GRASS*
encouraged by her father, Silvey started on an eaves dropping expedition.
Under one of the high windows of Miss Rachel's chamber--where now the sick man lay--was a shelf or scaffold on which chopped wood was piled in winter, being taken thence through the window as needed. Watching her opportunity, Silvey got up on this--bent on peeping in if practicable, and, in any case, deter mined on hearing whatever was to be heard. But, though the window was open, the curtain was drawn and she could see nothing. Nor did she hear any thing to the purpose--nothing more than Miss Rachel reading from a book. She came too late. A few min utes earlier she would have heard the strange man say in a slow, enfeebled voice :
" It was a terrible thing to do, Rachel, but I be lieve I should have gone mad if I had not done it. I was mad as it was."
"Don't think about it." " When I think of Hilda, I feel that I had some excuse for what I did, but I had no right to break out and escape. I bitterly repent of that now. If I thought I could live to get there, I believe I would go back now and give myself up.'* ** Oh, no, no ! Why should you ? You have suf fered too much already--a thousand times too much from their--their cruel law." " That is like a woman The law is not cruel, but just I was nearly crazy to be with you and Audrey," he continued* after a moment, ** but I had no right to break the law and cheat my keepers who trusted me. I repented of it in a week, and ever since you got me that work of Plato's on Socrates, I have been full of

MISS RACHEL'S RESPONSIBILITY ENDS.
remorse. It was left for Socrates to show me how great was my wrong. Sometimes I think he was the bravest of men, if not the greatest. He said ' There can no evil befall a good man, whether he be alive or dead,' and, with that as his inspiration, he pursued the right regardless of everything. He committed no crime, and yet, when unjustly condemned to die, on account of his respect for the laws, he refused to escape from prison when the opportunity was offered, while I--"
If Silvey had been in time, she would have heard Miss Rachel cry out here, refusing to be convinced. What the girl did hear was the sick man saying :
" Get the book and turn to * Crito,' and read me the passages I have marked." And then followed the monotonous sound of Miss Rachel's voice as she read.
Silvey, of course, could make nothing of all this, and finally took herself off in great disgust. But the next day when she mounted the wood-shelf she was more fortunate. Distinctly she heard the sick man say :
" I don't expect to live through it, Rachel." Then Miss Rachel, tearfully: "Oh, father, don't say that It can't be the time has come. It would be too dreadful for you to go and leave us now." " The sooner it is over the better. You will be relieved of a heavy care. When I am gone there need be no more concealments. You can devote yourself to the child, and grow well and happy." Then came the sound of sobs, followed by a long silence ; then Miss Rachel's voice : *' I am going to send for the doctor to-morrow. It must be done. If he is too curious, I'll tell him he has no right to ask questions. "

78

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

They spoke no more, and anon Silvey jumped down from her perch and ran to Uncle Tony in triumph.
** W'y n't you tell me dat sick buckra een de house 'uz Miss Rachel' daddy?" he demanded of Maum Chloe, an hour later. '* Oh, yer neenter try ter 'gny it now. Silvey done lis'en an' yeh it ?"
Driven into a corner, Maum Chloe confessed as much as Uncle Tony knew, but begged him earnestly to tell no one. He gave her his promise, but broke it the next day in Wiregrass Ridge. Always garrulous when in liquor, he this day took one dram too many, and poured out in a steady stream everything that was on his mind. And when the story of the sick father, whom that queer, secluded lady, Miss Rachel Hall, was nursing, reached a certain official of the county court, he pricked up his ears and listened attentively; and two hours later he had written and posted a letter in which the story was given in detail.
The same day the sick man began to grow rapidly worse, and by evening he was delirious. In the after noon the anxious lady of the house was annoyed by a visit from Silvey's mortal enemy, Mrs. Mathis, who was as persistent as usual in offering her services.
"I hearn tell a po' sick creetur* was h-yer," she began, " an* I lowed I'd drap roun* an* see ef I could n* be er some holp ter yer. * Zachariah,' s'l this mornin', 4 I know in reason Miss Rachel is plum' wo' out anussin' er that po' creetur',' s'l, ' an* by rights 1 ought er went over thar day fo' yistiddy,' s'l; but you see we was sidin* corn, an* one thing an* another, an' I couldn' hardly git off. But I--"
Mig<s Rachel interrupted--expressing polite thanks, bet firmly rejecting the proffered aid. Mrs. Mathis's

MISS RACHEL'S RESPONSIBILITY ENDS. 79
great kindness was appreciated, but they did not need to trouble her. The sufferer was, indeed, very ill, but there were enough of them to nurse him, and--they had sent for a doctor.
Miss Rachel excused herself immediately, and went back to the sick-room, leaving her visitor both puzzled and hurt. Dismissed without even a glimpse of the " po' sick creetur' " whom her eyes were aching to be hold ! This was hard. However, she felt better when Maum Chloe, at her mistress's suggestion, brought out a bottle of wine and some cris^ wafers on a tray, and Audrey came out to entertain her. She had been in vited to sit on the piazza, in the first place, and there Maum Chloe brought the tray, which she placed on a little table before the guest, with scrupulous politeness, although her patience suffered a severe strain. Audrey came out, and, half leaning, half sitting on the bannis ters, smiled at the cracker woman as she ate and drank and talked.
Mrs. Mathis asked curiously about the sick man, but, as that proved rather a fruitless source of conver sation, she passed to other topics. Warming over her repast, she began to praise the wine, and added:
" Good liquor is a mighty good thing. An' yit-- an' yit I hear tell some folks says we ain't ter tech it. They tell me some uv 'em thar in Wiregrass Ridge is tryin' ter git up a temp'ance serciety, er sump'n 'nother, ter git folks ter swear ter never tek another drap er liquor long ez they live, not even fur sickness ner nothin* else!" Mrs. Mathis looked inexpressibly shocked.
" Rayly, I dunner what they'll git at next," she con tinued. "Them folks thar in. that town is alters up

go

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

ter sump'n 'nother. I jes1 declare ef hit don't seem like ter me they can't git no peace er mind 'less 'n "they er stirrin' up some rank foolishness er some sort. I was in town a Thursday an' hearn that 'ere Mis' Wheeler a-talkin' it high thar in the pose-office, an' would you believe it, she turn to an* tried her level best ter git me ter jine. She said all we-all must jine ter keep the young folks straight. She 'lowed the world was gwine ter the dogs count'n er liquor, an' hit was time fur we-all to stop it. I says ter her, s'l-- soon's ever she give me a chance: 'You mer jine, ma'am, 's'l; ' you mer jine ef you a mind ter, but don't ast me ter 'ny 'myself jes' bercaze some folks ain't got no mo* sense 'n ter make hogs er theyself over liquor. No ma'am,' s'l; * hit ain't in reason,' s'l, 'fur when you take away my mornin* coffee an* 'casional tase er liquor ter holp me 'long, you take away more'n half my livin',' s'l, * an' yer mout jes' ez well ast me ter let you pick up a hatchet an' chop me in the head an' be done with it,' s'l."
Audrey laughed aloud, but, recollecting her grand father, quickly checked herself.
"Thass jes' what I tole her," said Mrs. Mathis, rising to go, ** an' she up'n got right mad; I seen it. I reck'n she 'bused me fur ever'thing you kin name atter I walked out er thar, but mighty little I cared."
The wine had put her into an exceedingly good humor, and she grew quite affectionate as she was taking her leave. She took Audrey's little hand be tween her great rough ones, and spoke of her son and daughter, Ben and Sally Ann, whom Audrey had seen very little of since the memorable fishing expedition long ago--spoke particularly of her son, who, as she

MISS RACHEL'S RESPONSIBILITY ENDS, gl
stated with some show of pride, having first gone " down the road " to work on a turpentine farm, had now secured a position of which he was proud on a Savannah River boat.
Silvey, who was listening around the corner of the house, heard all this in great wrath, and went and re ported it to Maum Chloe, with the added remark :
" I lak ter know ef ole Mis' Mathis tink Aud'ey gwine wase 'er time studyin' 'bout dah mannish boy er hern ! She neenter tink w'en Aud'ey git a young 'oman she gwine study 'bout sich triflin' po' buckra ez dat--shoo!"
The days dragged by. It was extremely hot weather for early summer--hot, still, and dry. The Gulf breeze came no more. " This weather is killing him," moaned Miss Rachel, as she looked upon the sufferer tossing and muttering in his delirium.
The hot, still days followed slowly one upon the other; the sun blazed, and the luxuriant growth in the great cotton field seemed to send up a steam. At last one night a great rain fell; the thunder made the house quake and the windows rattle, and the lightning-fire flamed all through the inclosing atmosphere. The day dawned cool, and the fickle breeze returned ; but too late to cool the fevered brow over which they watched tenderly, despairingly. The sick man was near his end. For many hours now he had lain in a stupor, and to-day his breath came so slowly and he lay so still that he hardly seemed to live.
The setting sun glowed upon the farthest rim of Red Creek woods, shooting long red rays, like parting caresses, over the fields of standing grain. They shot farther--they swam in through the open window and
6

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
82
touched the face of the dying man. A soft breeze was playing in the trees of the yard, but otherwise an intense, suffocating hush seemed to pervade the place. In the sick-room there was no movement or sound. Miss Rachel and Audrey kneeled one on each side of the narrow bed, while Maum Chloe waited anxiously near the door. The breath of the dying seemed to cease.
"Oh, he must be going," whispered Miss Rachel. " Father--father ! " she called, softly, eagerly ; ''speak to us once more."
And he who envied Socrates too late opened his eyes and knew them and smiled. He slowly put out his hands to them--to his daughter on the right and his grandchild on the left--and they leaned forward to catch his- last word. He spoke none. With his last glance resting through the window upon that glorious spot of gorgeous red-gold away beyond the forest's rim and beneath the purple-stained, piled white clouds, he breathed a soft, low sigh and--it was over.
The sun dropped down, the short twilight was fol lowed by the dusk of approaching night, and still those two kneeled there and held his dead hands. Came suddenly the sound of heavy feet upon the piazza and in the hall. Maum Chloe started apprehensively; the other two did not heed. She stepped quickly to the table and lighted the lamp.
The flood of light which fell on that touching tableau at the bed, fell also on three strange men as they halted just without the open door of the room. Miss Rachel rose when she saw them and stared in vacant alarm; she put out her hand, as though for support or help, and Audrey ran to her side.

MISS RACHEL'S RESPONSIBILITY ENDS. 83

"What do you want?" she asked at length, almost

whispering.

"Excuse me, madam," began the foremost of the

men, in a subdued voice, " but I have orders to--to--

arrest your father."

Miss Rachel had been weak and tottering before,

now she stood white and rigid, like one delivering a

judgment. She tried to speak, but her words seemed

held struggling in her throat.

"There," she said, in a husky whisper at last, and

slowly pointed to the bed.

The men seemed much taken aback, but their

leader stepped forward and satisfied himself that this

was no trick; and then, awed and abashed, he and his

companions stole silently away. But they had not

reached the yard-gate before Maum Chloe slipped out

of the house and ran after them.

" Gemmens, won't yer please wait deh one min

ute !" she called, softly, as she neared them. " Oh do,

mawsters"--looking from one to another "donh tell

on us--do please don't I Dey donh know *bout it een

dis neighborhood, an* hit'll be too bad fer de lil baby

--de lil gal w'en she grow up. Do, please, mawsters,

donh tell on us." She looked ready to fall on her

knees before them.

The man who had spoken to Miss Rachel--an

official who came from a distance--now said a few

words to the sheriff of the county, who then made an

swer to Maum Chloe*s entreaty:

" All right, aunty ; don't you fret. We won't talk

it around."

^

" Tanky, mawster! De Lord bless yer, mawster! "

' -4

84

IK THE WIRE-GRASS.

VIII.
THAT SUMMER.
" SOMEBODY out deh on de front piyaza want ter see you, Miss Aud'ey," announced Silvey, grinning. " Who is 'e ? Who dah putty boy ? "
Audrey said she didn't know, but she at once di vined who it was, and looked greatly pleased. She lost no time in presenting herself upon the piazza (nobody wanted to sit in the parlor in such warm weather). Of course it was young Markham whom she had met at the mill a short time since.
" You see, I've come," he said, with a sunny smile. "You didn't ask me, but I've come anyhow."
Concerned over the thought that perhaps she had been very remiss in neglecting to invite him, Audrey forgot to say she was glad to see him. However, she smiled her welcome, and they were soon seated on the coolest end of the piazza near the lattice-work over run with Madeira vines, and the boy was pouring out his chat in a continuous stream. Evidently his dress had received particular attention this afternoon, and in view of this, with all else combined, Audrey was more dazzled than ever.
u I went on a regular exploration the other day," he told her in the course of their rambling talk. "I heard about that lake in your * bay ' down yonder, and hired a darkey to show .me the way in there. My ! what a swamp it is ! We caught loads of fish. But that wasn't the best of it ; I shot an alligator, too--a great big one I You ought to have seen him churn

THAT SUMMER.

85

the water! I shot at him about twenty times before he sunk, and he blooded the water like everything. I wanted to cut off a piece of his tail for a trophy, but he sunk under. That's just my luck. And now when I go back to town the boys will laugh at my *big yarn/ I killed him, though--I'm sure of it ... But I was going to tell you about that island we dis covered in there. 'Way in the swamp we found an island and a house on it, and a big pile of cotton bas kets, and I don't know what all lying round. I wonder who could have lived in there ?"
Audrey was about to say that her grandfather had lived there, but checked herself. At this juncture Silvey appeared and announced :
" Miss Rachel call you, Miss Aud'ey." Audrey said, " I'll be back directly,'* and went within, the young negress meanwhile lingering to stare and grin at Arthur. Her attitude was so friendly and admiring that he smiled at her in turn. This much of a friendly footing established, she made bold to in quire : " Weh you come fum, boy ? " <l I am not a boy," said Arthur, gravely. " Wut you doin* yuh ?" Silvey continued, gig gling. " Enjoying myself," he answered. She was evidently still more tickled by this rejoin der, but soon found her voice : " Weh you scrape up any 'quaintance wid Miss Aud'ey, I lak ter know? Miss Rachel donh 'low her ter hab nut'n ter do wid boys--she too young ; she nut'n but a half-grown gal, you see 'er so. She mose five yeah younger'n I is, an' I ainh ok"

86

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

" No ; you are just the right age," said Arthur, laughing. "Are you married yet ? "
" Who, me ? G'way fum yuh, boy ! Cotch me gittin' ma'ied--shoo ! " She was never so amused in
all her life. " It's a wonder you weren't married long ago," said
Arthur, with a sly twinkle of the eye. " W'y ?" asked Silvey, eagerly. " Wuss de reason ?"
She looked actually inflated with importance. " Because you are so good-looking." " Be ashame' er yerse'f ter tell sich a story! " she
cried, in an ecstasy of laughter. " I'll bet there's a dozen or so dying for you now." Silvey bent her body forward and clapped her
hands, as a sign that she was undone. " Oh, you boy ! " was all she had voice to articulate.
" You'll be getting married before long, I'll bet," the boy continued, laughingly offering her fifty cents. "But I won't be here, so I make you my present in advance. Buy some beads to wear on the happy day."
Silvey's heart was unconditionally won. " Dass de puttyes', smartes', nices', boy I ever seen een all my fcawn days," she declared, as she passed Audrey in the hall
And where was Miss Rachel ? Shut up in a dark room, ill, in bed, and heedless of everything. Audrey went in and found that she was wanted to arrange the curtains so that more light might enter. Her aunt wanted to read.
Audrey's childhood had been curiously shadowed ; this had given her mind so serious a turn that she seemed to herself and to others to be older than her

THAT SUMMER.
years--which may explain why she now paused at the door to ask :
" Aunt Rachel, do young ladies ever--" " What is that Silvey is laughing at so ?" interrupted the sick lady. " I don't know. . . . Do young ladies ever ask-- young gentlemen to come to see them ? Invite them, I mean." " What ?"
The girl repeated her question.
" Why, what are you thinking about ? . . . It may depend on circumstances. If the parents have ap proved of the young man and invited him to the house first, then I suppose she may do it as much as she likes. But," she added, in sudden severit^, " otherwise it would be altogether wrong. . . . But it isii't time for you to be thinking about such things--not for six years yet."
Audrey left the room feeling downcast and guilty somehow ; she felt afraid. She had intended telling her aunt about her visitor, but after this lacked the courage. ** I can't invite you to come again," she told Arthur, in great distress, as he was going and spoke of a second visit. " Aunt Rachel says it's wrong. She won't allow of it."
" They don't care how much I go to Melville to see Ame*lie," said the sly boy, when he had recovered from his surprise; and Audrey felt then that her lot was doubly hard.
By chance or preconceived intent, Silvey met young Markham in the lane after he had left the house. " You comin' agin ?'' she asked, with her best face and broad est grin.
"No."

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
" W'y, wuss de reason ? '* was her concerned in quiry. "We be ve'y glad ter see yer," she added, se riously--just as though she were the person to do the honors of the house.
Arthur burst out laughing. " I knew I had made my peace with you," he thought. " The old lady, or that is, the aunt does n't approve," he said aloud. "She won't allow it."
"Wut?" cried the astonished Silvey, looking in expressibly shocked. " Miss Rachel come out deh an' tell you dat ? "
" No ; Miss Audrey said she said so." " I dunner wut mek Miss Rachel want ter be so strick fer," Silvey then remarked, m deep disapproval. " She mus* tink Miss Aud'ey a piece er gole. Ef you all want ter play tergedder, I dunner wuss de reason w'y yer oanh do it. I tell yer wut : you k'n come up dah lane deh ter our house any time, an* I'll go tell Miss Aud'ey you down deh. But, shoo! Miss Rachel so po'ly dese days, she wonh know nut'n. She lay up een dah room mose all de time, an' dunner wut gwine on. You k'n come an* walk right een de front gate, an' she neber know nut'n 'tall. I know Miss Aud'ey be mighty glad fer yer ter come play wid 'er." "'Play'?" echoed the boy, with a smile. " Is that what they say in this part of the country ?" " Co'se," was the decided reply; " chillun comes ter play wid chillun." The youngster was rather annoyed at this speech, but laughed in spite of himself. " No," he answered, turning to go; "I won't do the sneak. I don't care about coming enough for that."

THAT SUMMER.
Nevertheless, a few days later Silvey came up to the house and announced to Audrey :
" Dah boy down deh ter paw's house. I know 'e come des ter see you, but 'e wonh sesso. 'E een deh talkin* ter paw *bout killin' alligators; 'e an' paw mighty frenly wid one 'nudder."
But Audrey would not go down to Uncle Tony's. To go was so easy, not to go so hard ; she ran off to her room and shut herself in for fear she could not withstand the temptation. She applied what Miss Rachel had said in the abstract to Arthur and herself in particular, and thought that it must be in some way wrong for them to be together at all, unless at the house under her aunt's own eye. Twice or thrice she made up her mind to go and tell Miss Rachel of her young acquaintance and plead permission to go down and invite him to the house, but each time her heart failed her. She feared an outbreak of displeasure; for in the indisposition following the death of her grandfather her aunt had often seemed irritable and stern. So the afternoon passed--while she read a book in her room and shed tears alternately.
The summer dragged on in lonesome quiet. The invalid aunt, wrapped up in sorrowful brooding, gave her niece little attention, and for the young girl each day was more dreary than the last. The next time Silvey announced that young Markham was at Uncle Tony's the temptation was stronger than before.
" Dah boy down deh wid paw," said Silvey. 'E ax me weh you is ; 'e say'e lak ve'y much ter see yer."
Audrey told herself no--she would not go ; but by and by she crept down by an out-of-the-way path, and stood behind Uncle Tony's house, where she could

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
hear their voices. She crept up nearer and looked through a crack until she discovered Arthur and heard him speak. Then, all at once overcome with shame at what she was doing, she ran frightened away --ran blindly through an open gate into the corn-field and scratched her face against a stiff corn-blade be fore she knew what she was about. By long, winding ways she stole back to the house, and shut herself up and wept She could not go down now. It was out of the question; her face was scratched.
One day Audrey went for a ride across the country on Miss Rachel's pony, attended by Silvey on a mule. They rode past Melville, and she admired again the beautiful grounds and the statues which she had called '* white things " when first they met her wondering gaze. I mention this ride, because in the course of it they en countered young Markham (also on horseback), who turned and rode by Audrey some distance ahead of the negro girl on her slow-paced mule, much to the distaste of that young, conniving duenna, who was eager to hear what they might say to each other.
The next time the house-maid announced that" dah boy " was paying a visit at her father's cabin, it hap pened that Audrey concluded to visit the old man also, and thereafter they always called upon him on the same day. Arthur had won Uncle Tony as com pletely as he had won Silvey; Maum Chloe, too, was fond of him. The old man, who was " laid up " with the rheumatism much of the time now, was always glad to see the boy, listening eagerly to the recital of his exploits with rod and gun, and telling him marvelous hunting and fishing stories in return. Arthur came one day and told of having gone with a party into

THAT SUMMER.
Florida and killed a deer, and Uncle Tony's friend ship and admiration for him were then and there un alterably fixed.
The summer grew old, while Audrey became more and more fond of her delightful playfellow; the thought of parting made her heart beat No, it was not love; it was only a child-like, clinging affection for a companion of the opposite sex who in all ways delighted her--by no means what we call love. Even in the " sunny South " that could hardly awaken in the 'lieart of a girl little more than thirteen. 'Tis true, the nurse declared that Juliet was " not fourteen/' but I am inclined to think the nurse was in error by several years.
They roamed the farm -- Audrey and Arthur -- gathered the fruit, watched the harvesting, and talked with Uncle Tony together. Audrey was still afraid to speak, and Miss Rachel knew nothing of all this. The boy was to go to Harvard College soon after his return home, he told them; he would be there three years, and in the vacations he would travel with his family. Then his father wanted him to go through a course in the German university at Heidelberg. Six or seven years must pass before he could come back to Savan nah to live, but when he did come back he intended to seek Audrey out first of all things.
"I'm going to marry Audrey when I come back," he told Uncle Tony and Maum Chloe one day. " She's willing--aren't you, Audrey ? "
Audrey naively answered yes, without even a blush, and Uncle Tony gave them his blessing--or told them that he approved. But Maum Chloe, though she smiled at the boy with great fondness, remarked, dubi ously :

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
" Dunner *bout dat, honey, tell we-all know sup'n *bout yo' people " -- which appeared to amuse the youthful suitor a good deal.
" 111 write to you every day or two," promised the boy, recklessly, when the moment of parting came.
Then they kissed each other, and he was gone. He was gone the way he had come, leaving a void behind him which nothing could fill soon--children though they were--and a lonely little heart, which ached seri ously enough when the letters which were promised for u every day or two " came never at alL
IX.
THE BROOKES OF MELVILLE.
f
IN that era of financial depression, of wide-spread disintegration and change, which followed on the heels of the war, Colonel Wilfred Brooke of Tallahassee found himself in a position by no means enviable. In deed, the situation bordered on the tragical Though born to wealth and thoroughly appreciative of its advantages, he had, nevertheless, grown up to care in finitely more for scholarship and political life than for all the money-making schemes of the world; and throughout his career all his best effort and attention went in these directions, while his business affairs suffered for the want of that close scrutiny which was demanded. It was sufficient (he, perhaps, told himself) that he possessed vast lands and was an acknowledged wealthy man--let the troublesome ac-

THE BROOKES OF MELVILLE.

93

counts go ; and throughout the happy, splendid, ante bellum days, while he repeatedly represented his section in Congress or traveled with his family, his cotton plantations were managed by overseers who needed in their turn to be overseen. Meanwhile his purse strings were always loosened; his beautiful wife, who came of a New Orleans French family and had been educated in France, enjoyed the gratification of her most costly tastes; and when the money for the many expenditures was slow in coming, he borrowed with careless freedom of men quite eager to lend.
So with the great downfall or upheaval which left the "bottom rail on top," as men said, came swift and complete ruin for the Hon. Wilfred Brooke. Leav ing two sons dead on the battle-field behind him, he came home with the third and last to his distracted wife and neglected estates to find that his slaves had left the cotton plantations in black squads and joined the crowds swarming into the towns, toward which the dazzling word '* freedom " attracted them.
His vast lands were now left uncultivated, his revenue stopped, and his erstwhile obsequious cred itors began to clamor for their own. For a time he strove to right himself; his wife still drove through Tallahassee in her carriage, and his son still rode over his estates and tried to make terms with the negroes who, though poverty-stricken, looked upon work as slavery; but at last he bravely gave up and allowed his crumbling possessions to go for what they would bring. What they brought was a mere mockery of what their real value would have been in happier times. When all was gone, and the last creditor satis fied, the gallant colonel found himself with a thousand

94

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

dollars in his pocket, and without the promise of a future. For what future was there in a world upside down ? From the political arena, now occupied by scalawags, carpet-baggers, and ignorant negroes, he stood aloof like his fellows. Not a few of his best friends were leaving the country--some going to Cali fornia, some to Europe, some to South America (and the fact that a number of the latter afterward returned from Brazil in a special ship at the expense of our Government only serves to increase the pathos of the situation) ; to Colonel Wilfred Brooke the world seemed breaking up. But he was growirg old, and he loved the land still; he would not go. Rather than emigrate he would go into the country and settle down out of sight.
And this he did. In the sale of his estates he had reserved a six-thousand-acre tract of land in a sparsely settled county of Southern Georgia, and here he brought his wife and remaining son, then a young man of twenty-two. Less than a hundred acres of the large tract had ever been under cultivation, and there was nothing but a "double-pen" log house to receive them; but they made themselves comfortable as best they might, and the superfluous furniture was stored in a barn. For, having reserved his Tbooks to please himself, the colonel had reserved the greater part of their household furniture to please his wife--listening to her entreaties even so far as to bring up to the primitive Georgia county several fine pieces of lawn statuary.
Here they began life anew a life bristling with privations and discomforts for Mme. Brooke (she de clared she never had liked " Meeses," and we shall call

THE BROOKES OF MELVILLE.

95

her madame), but it is doubtful whether she suffered as much as her husband ; for, while he pined for politi cal life, with her it was only personal discomfort and a regretful looking back to the social triumphs of the old-time. She thought her lot hard enough, but in her saddest moments she acknowledged it to be far less painful than it would have been, had the crash come before her five daughters were all well and hap pily married.
The change of circumstances naturally was not so bitter for the son, and, when after three years the old colonel died, young Captain Walter Brooke assumed the direction of affairs with intelligent purpose and a hopeful mind. In this comparatively remote region the freedmen did not revolt from further labor with quite the determination visible in other quarters, but even here the great problem of the period was, how to get the land cultivated. To meet this difficulty as far as possible, Walter Brooke advertised among the ne groes a higher rate of wages than was usual, and so attracted to his service many more laborers than other wise would have offered, among whom he then selected the most willing and capable after trial. In this way he added to his force every year, meanwhile steadily increasing his acreage of cultivation until he had one of the largest plantations in the county. Even then, however, a large part of the six-thousand-acre tract was still untouched, although much of it had early been parceled out to small farmers as tenants. The times could hardly have been worse, but cotton would sell, and, by a close application to his business and his methods, young Captain Brooke began slowly to lay by money. Five years after the colonel's death, he

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
felt able to build a new bouse and take his mother on a visit to each of her five married daughters in almost as many different States, - The two planned the house between them, making it as nearly as possible like the old family mansion in Tallahassee. When finished they took pride in it, but Mme. Brooke complained of a horrible newness about everything. Two seasons of sun and rain in that cli mate, however, were enough to take the brightness out of so much white paint and impart to the building a sufficiently venerable appearance to insure respecta bility even in the eyes of an aristocrat. Built wide and low, with many large rooms and broad piazzas, and embowered in fine trees, the house was quite as cool, calm, and comfortable as it looked from the dusty public road far out in front. The surrounding grounds were Mme. Brooke's especial care and pride, and many were the weary hours she stood there and struggled with unappreciative negro workmen until the trees were planted, the flower-beds shaped, and the white sanded walks guided to suit her fancy. In the end it was an unusually beautiful garden which led all the way down to the great carriage-gate, an'd when finally the statuary was brought forth from the barn and put in place, the Melville of Audrey's child hood had come into existence.
Life now grew less and less hard for Mme. Brooke. As money became more plentiful, she was enabled to indulge in various luxuries dear to her heart, and to visit New Orleans at least once a year. It was her youngest daughter whom she visited there, the wife of one Octave St, Pierre, a Creole who, at the time of their marriage, had been on the staff of one of the

THE BROOKES OF MELVILLE.
prominent Confederate generals, and was now a suc cessful lawyer. From one of these visits the old madame returned with her granddaughter Ame"lie, and after that the bright-faced little maid spent a large part of the time at Melville.
Captain Brooke was no Frenchman himself, but he would not have had his French mother other than she was. It is true, she subscribed to a sensational Paris journal which he hardly liked to see in the house, but she had the "Revue des Deux Monies" also, and he knew she read and appreciated the best French authors be sides. He was not alarmed iat her habits, as were some of his neighbors. It did not disturb him that she slept late in the morning ind took coffee in bed, and it pleased him to see her <fcome out of her rooms every afternoon in a handsome Jtoilet, and wear it dur ing the evening whether therd was company or not. He shared her fondness for I cards--an amusement looked upon as sinful frivolity* (even where there was no gambling) by the majority of the people in the neighborhood. It was claimed, however, that Mme. Brooke really gambled a little ijiow and then, and with some slight reason. The old jady was indeed in the habit of staking small sums kt tcarti against equal amounts from her granddaughter's pin-money, and would become intensely excited over the game--being enraptured if she won, and bitterly annoyed if she lost. But at the close of these deliciously wicked little performances all the winnings were invariably returned to the loser. Some of the more straitlaced of her neighbors, though they admired the old lady, looked askance and really feared that she was beyond hope when they heard her talk of cards, the
7

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
New Orleans theatres, and of toasting her friends in wine.
On her side Mme. Brooke did not fail to criticise her neighbors. There were a few families in the county of the old sort who had refugeed there during th.e war (now mostly living in the little post-bellum town of Wiregrass Ridge, seven miles away), but the major ity of the flourishing people were what the old lady called "new," and as newness of this sort failed to appeal to her imagination, it is not difficult to explain why she sought little society.
Her one regret for years was that her- son did not marry. There were so many lovely young girls in Tallahassee and New Orleans among whom to seek a wife ; indeed, there were not a few in Thomasville and Wiregrass Ridge whom she would not have disdained ; but her son only smiled as she named and described them. Latterly she had begun to think of Audrey, who, at sixteen, promised to become a woman of un usual attractiveness, but here again she was disappoint ed. Captain Brooke conceived a strong brotherly affec tion for the fair young girl who came often to Melville, but that was all.
" I haven't found her yet, mother," he would say. He met many young ladies at the towns mentioned, and many others at the Southern watering-places which he visited in company with his mother during almost every July and August, the crops by that time having been " laid by " (that is to say, had got their growth and needed little looking after till the harvest-time), but he never showed more than a passing interest until one summer in Virginia, when he met Miss Gertrude Miller, a Washington girl. He was now past thirty,

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and Mme, Brooke had almost given up hope. But the result of this Acquaintance was an engagement at the end of six weeks, and a marriage in the course of a few months.
Miss Gertrude Miller was a Northern girl, and until they met Mme. Brooke suffered much anguish of mind. She had seen the North only with the eyes of a hurried traveler, but she had known some Northern girls more or less intimately one winter in St. Augustine, and they did not please her. They were of the type who, ac cording to Southern standards, are somewhat boister ous ; who have many words and much self-confidence; who say "Alus" and " Helun " and "How'lls"; in whose lives there is no mean, but--to judge from their conversation--only the two violent extremes repre sented by the things that are " just lovely " and the things that are " just awfuL" With a thrill of satisfac tion, Mme. Brooke saw at a glance that Miss Gertrude Miller did not belong to this type. The young lady was less beautiful than some blondes we have seen, per haps, but there was unmistakably a rare and indefinable loveliness about her face and manner which charmed the more as one looked the closer. It was this that won Captain Brooke. While Ame*lie St. Pierre and Audrey talked with wild enthusiasm of the beauty of her complexion, to his mother he said only that his wife was like a stately lily which seemed to lean lov ingly toward one, which seemed just frail and bending enough to suggest the need of a prop : all his life long he wanted to be that prop.
Mme. Brooke had hoped that her son would marry a Southern girl, but none the less, did she open her heart to the love of her daughter-in-law. She soon saw that



too

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k was a true marriage. With a mother's fond eye she marked its ennobling influence on her son ; with a woman's jealous scrutiny she saw how it was with the young wife how she brightened in her hus band's presence, and seemed to expand and glow with greater beauty for his eye ; and, seeing all this, the old lady gradually forgot her regrets and was content.
It was, I think, on a still October afternoon, about four years after this marriage, that Arthur Markham appeared unexpectedly at Melville. Mme. Brooke and her granddaughter had been playing a game of croquet, and were now seated together on a bench in the grounds. Amelie St. Pierre at seventeen and a half was not the beauty her grandmother evidently had been at that age, but she was a bewitching little creature, whose big black eyes gave her distinction and dominated the old lady's heart. In witness of their tender attachment, Mme. Brooke suddenly leaned forward until her gray curls mingled with the girl's black ringlets, and, looking into her face with affec tionate scrutiny, softly exclaimed : " Ah, que tu as de beaux yeux, ma belle ! "
This indiscreet speech was greeted by the girl with soft laughter and a kiss ; then she suddenly drew away and sprang lip from the bench, her face turned toward the carriage-gate.
" Grandmamma, somebody's coming," she ex claimed. u Yonder goes July to take the horse." She spoke French, as always when alone with the old lady. " It is a young gentleman," she announced further, and a moment later asked, with some anxiety: " Will I do as I jffla. graodmaTTiTpa ? "

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IOI

Mme. Brooke subjected the girl's toilet to one searching glance, and said, " Yes."
The young man, who was far too well dressed for a native of the county, came in, and, seeing the two ladies, walked toward them without hesitation--Ame'lie meanwhile noting that he was strikingly good-looking, and the old lady, that he showed unusual dignity for one so young. They advanced to meet him a few steps, and presently he was smiling and holding out his hand and speaking to Mme. Brooke in a glad, cheery way.
Did she not remember him--Arthur Markham-- who had stayed at Melville with them several weeks some seven years ago ? Turning to the girl at the old lady's side :
" And you must surely be little Miss Ame'lie, who used to talk French at me when I teased you."
Ame'lie, laughing in friendly fashion, acknowledged that he was right. "7" remember you," she said, as the old lady hesitated. " Grandmamma," she spoke rapidly in French, "don't you remember young M. Markham who was here that summer when I was such a little thing--that summer after I came out from New Orleans the first time ? "
Mme, Brooke began to recollect. *^Ah, oui-- Markham, ce joli garcon--ce beau jeune homme. Oh, yes--I remember you well." She gave her hand to Arthur again, smiling radiantly. " Since then you are changed very much, and I--I grow old ; I have grown so old, is it not so ? "
The young man laughingly assured her that she had grown young, and then told them that, having occasion to stop a day in Wiregrass Ridge, he had found it im-

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possible to resist his desire to come out and pay a visit to this beautiful old Melville; whereupon the ladies delighted him with a little shower of pretty speeches expressive of welcome.
"Are you just now returned from your studies at Heidelberg ?" asked Mme. Brooke, as they moved toward the house.
" No, madam. I left there two years ago, and I have been in America fifteen months."
They were met on the piazza by Captain Brooke who, as the young man noted, was little changed from the tall, open-faced, agreeable man whose gentlemanly characteristics he had admired as a boy. The glasses now worn perhaps added to the gravity of his expres sion, but Arthur recalled that even seven years ago his face had seemed prematurely grave, though always most genial. A few words of cordial welcome, and then the young man was presented to the planter's wife, who came out, followed by a handsome threeyear-old child.
u Well, Arthur, what did you do at Harvard and Heidelberg ? " asked Captain Brooke later; they were smoking their cigars on the piazza after supper. Mrs. Brooke was fond of the odor of her husband's cigar, and sat near them.
" Got crammed with a great deal of knowledge I'll never be able to use," was the smiling reply. " I sup pose a lawyer ought to know everything he can, though."
" Brother Tom was at Heidelberg two years," pur sued Captain Brooke, after a moment. " He liked it. Father thought something of sending me at one time, but changed his mind. I went to the University of Virginia,"

'.5*

THE BROOKES OF MELVILLE. ^
"Well, you didn't lose much," declared the other, lightly--adding: " I reckon pa sent me to Germany to get me out of the way."
Mrs. Brooke smiled in response to Arthur's glance, but her smile was not quite genuine. She had rapidly become acquainted with her husband's friend, who pleased her genuinely; but she hardly liked this speech, and she unquestionably disliked to hear a grown young man say " pa."
" But the war broke out, and I didn't go through," added Captain Brooke.
" Yes, he dropped everything, and went into the war--and did you know he was made a captain at twenty ?"
Mrs. Brooke spoke as if she took great pride in the fact, and Arthur expected to hear her give her husband his title presently. But she never called her husband "captain," and disliked to hear others do so. This was partly because of the time-honored tradition at the North that Southern men, in their rage for mili tary titles, manufactured them, but more especially because she had observed that the negroes addressed almost every white man whom they respected as "cap'n," thus robbing the word of all distinction. Her attitude would have been the same had her hus band been a colonel, seeing as she did how that title was cheapened and confused by the absurd custom which awarded it gratis to every lawyer in that part of the country, many of whom were too young to have been in the war at all. Nothing under general was uncommon enough to be valued, she declared. Her ob jections are good, and I would fain respect her wishes in the matter, allowing her honorable, husband to go

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through the pages of this book as plain " Mr." Brooke; but it would be extremely awkward to drop " captain " now, as every one will admit, and besides I own to a Southerner's respect for a military title honorably got
"But," pursued the captain, "I really had more of an opportunity than most of our young men now adays. . . . Well, after all, what does a mere farmer like me want with a university education ?"
" You are not a mere fanner ! " declared his wife, in playful protest. "A man who contributes to the scientific magazines on agricultural subjects--"
" If you will examine my hands--" "Oh, I know they are hard, but they are the hands of a gentleman." ** Call me planter, or what you like -- I live by farming." " But you are wholly unlike what we call a farmer in the North. You are more like my idea of the English country gentleman." lt My wife would like to make me out a Southern nabob," laughed Captain Brooke. " The day of that sort of thing has gone by." "He might be a leader in politics, if he chose, Mr. Markham," she smilingly persisted. " He might go to the higher branch of the Legislature, or even to Congress, if he would try--Judge Tompson told me so. And the ' Wiregrass Reporter' would be a mere nothing without his articles on local and State--" "I'm glad the editor of that respectable sheet is not within hearing," interrupted Captain Brooke. * You'll make Arthur think I've bargained with you to blow my horn, Gertrude."

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" Well, now you needn't laugh. I won't hear you call yourself a ' mere farmer.' "
Markham saw nothing but the tenderest affection in all this, and a warm feeling awoke in him for these married lovers. When Mme. Brooke came out and joined the others in pressing him to stay with them at least a day or two, his objections were easily disposed of. He wanted to stay. These people charmed him. Though they lacked in much of the culture of the modern world, there was a certain fineness of texture --a native refinement--about them which he thought was rarely to be met with anywhere. They would make delightful friends.

X.
THE RAW COUNTRY GIRL.
HE reflected upon this, as they helped him to spend a charming evening--an evening on the piazza, filled with moonlight, the thrilling rustle of the trees, and the song of the mocking-bird. But for the mention of a disturbing name, he could not have wished for more. Ame'lie said to him once: " You remember Audrey, don't you ? She is coming here to-morrow."
He did remember her, and he dreaded the coming meeting. Would she remember his vows, now seven years old, and be disposed to make claims on him ? That was the apprehension which troubled the young man. He had forgotten her long ago, and imagined himself in love a good many times since, but he was

io6

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

now free to pay court to his boyhood's " sweetheart " again if he chose. He was very sure he would not choose, and, fearing she might wish him to, he was uncomfortable. He had cherished the memory of his boyish affection perhaps a year, and then gradually ceased to think of its object. As he grew older and more world-wise, he thought of Audrey now and then with a smile, asking himself how, even as a boy, he could have been so ignorant as to be fascinated by her. In his mind he pictured her growing up into a raw country girl with red cheeks and a coarse skin ; perhaps also she would grow large and massive like some of the handsome German frauUin he had known at Heidelberg. He admired this in the German women ;
they were a grand race of mothers and a blessing to the world. But in Audrey he would detest it. The deli cate American woman suited him best as she was.
He calculated that Audrey was now something more than twenty years old. and he almost wished they would tell him she had married. But they only said she came to Melville a great deal, and they all loved her. Mrs. Brooke would have told him that in many respects she considered her one of the most beautiful girls she had ever seen that she was neither brunette nor yet quite blonde, and seemed to have all the best of both types but something restrained her. What she did tell him was, that the girl's aunt had only recently allowed her to begin receiving company, and that now some of the best young men of the neigh borhood were visiting her. He asked about her educa tion, and was told that she had never been sent away to school After several years at the " academy" in Wtregrass Ridge, Miss Hall had taken her away and

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lO/

engaged with one of the teachers to prescribe a course of reading for her, and come out Saturday mornings and give her lessons in Latin, French, and something else--botany or rhetoric, perhaps. Then, when she was eighteen, her aunt arranged with some old friends of the family in Washington to take her into their home ; and so she had spent nine months in the Capi tal, studying music under a master. Mrs. Brooke, who was musical, smilingly remarked that Miss Hall appeared to know so little of music as to imagine that Audrey could learn a great deal--in fact, enough to serve--in one winter, and was greatly disappointed when the girl came home unable to " play." It may be added that Mrs. Brooke was privately of the opin ion that even in so short a time Audrey might have learned enough to satisfy most people in Malvern County, had she been less truly musical. This ap peared to be the trouble.
The girl was intensely musical by nature it seemed. She acknowledged that the mere barbaric rhythm of the negro dance chant listened to in childhood could awaken in her something like ecstatic feelings, and that a single quavering, long-drawn stroke of a master-hand upon the violin could have the momentary power of changing for her the aspect of the whole world. But when she came to study, the technicalities of the art somehow appalled her. That music--this glorious sound-poetry which thrilled her to the soul--should be bound down in books, encumbered by rules, and only drawn out according to time marked by arithmet ical measure, was a fact which to her had never quite lost its wonder. She thought it ought to come of itself, as the wind came through the tree-tops, and glorify

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IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

the world. She liked best to put away all books and endeavor to improvise a succession of those combina tions of sound which would delight her most. The mere concord of octaves gave her a peculiar pleasure, and the filling in of chords of thirds and fifths added a rush of harmony which flowed into her senses in thrilling waves. Mrs. Brooke said the girl had a way of finding the chords in the major keys and gliding off into their corresponding minors, until she found those successive combinations which seemed to please her best, and which were always pregnant with passionate expression. It was a nature exquisitely sensitive mu sically, but not one to bear the drudgery which must precede successful piano-playing.
She certainly must be less raw than he had expect ed, was the young man's thought after hearing all this. If she stood the test as nobly as Melville had done, she would most assuredly be an interesting study; but this was more than could be hoped.
When they met the next morning, it was almost a meeting of strangers. "Here is Mr. Markham, Au drey,'* said Ame*lie. " Don't you remember him ? "
"I do remember Mr. Markham," said the girl, without warmth, slowly extending her hand. " I would never have known you," she added, after he had spoken.
And yet she had seen him the day before, and recognized him at a glance. They had met on the road to Melville, and, though he used his eyes well, he rode on quite ignorant of the identity of the excellent horsewoman who flashed past him and excited his ad miration. He saw now that it was the same Audrey, only the child had become a woman ; and she was as

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slender and delicate as he could have wished. He confessed the existence of her remarkable beauty with astonishment rather than pleasure, not having as yet lost the impression that she was a disturbing element for him at Melville. He made some inquiry about her aunt, which she answered, and then the necessity of further conversation directly addressed to each other was removed, to the relief of both.
There were walks in the grounds, games at croquet, music in the parlor, and conversation on the piazzas during the day, but they mutually avoided everything which might open the way to a tite-b-t&it. Markham was unaware that her avoidance was more determined than his own, though he watched her closely. He marked that a faint touch of sadness always settled on her face in moments of quiet; he was far from guess ing its cause, but it began to have a strange fascina tion for him before the day was gone.
Once, late in the day, they were left alone in spite of themselves. The girl was then quick to break the silence which fell between them by remarking upon the beauty of the grounds; but he made no answering remark, and after a moment said, recklessly :
" I suppose you thought I was not a man of my word, when I wrote only once, after--after making such promises."
She looked up at him in surprise, and then, as her glance wandered away, "I thought very little about it," she answered, with a light, musical laugh.
Somehow he was a good deal stirred by this indif ference, and spoke with feeling:
" Didn't you ? / thought about it a great deal." Whereupon the laughter faded out of the young

...-.-i..* jl^vVMi

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girl's face, and she grew pensive. A moment later she looked toward the house, and spoke with relief: "Here comes Amelie with the other mallet"
This was alL An hour afterward she left Melville without having invited him to visit her, and the next morning he took the train at Wiregrass Ridge for Sa vannah.
It was about three weeks later that Audrey, at the desire of Ame*lie, who was soon to return to her home in New Orleans, went to spend a fortnight at Melville. A few days after her arrival there the news reached them that young Markham was at a hotel in Wiregrass Ridge, he having come down to enjoy a week of partridge-shooting, as he alleged. Mme. Brooke at once ordered the carriage sent for him. He was at liberty to employ all his time shooting, she explained, when he arrived ; but meanwhile he should be housed at Melville, and not at a wretched country hotel.
In the afternoon Captain Brooke took him out, and they bagged a great many partridges (or quails, whichever they are); and on the second day they rode many miles through the vast stretches of pine woods near the Florida line deer-hunting with fair success. For the third day it was proposed that they "get up soon in the morning" (as Captain Brooke said) and try their fortune with the wild ducks of certain sequestered ponds in the neighborhood. But Arthur, who after all appeared to be much less interested in the sport than his host, pleaded a respite; and, as his affairs needed his attention, Captain Brooke willingly turned his guest over to the ladies for enter* tamment.
This arrangement no doubt pleased the young

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m

man, who spent a very pleasant day in the house, mak ing himself agreeable to Mrs. Brooke, jesting with the vivacious old madame, and laughing over little noth ings with happy-hearted Ame'lie. With Audrey he was more shy, and they rarely got beyond common places in conversation.
After that there was hunting only every other day.
"Well, Audrey, what you think, eh?" laughingly inquired Mme. Brooke one day. " This charming young mirliflore from Savannah--you like him ? " They were seated together on the piazza, and their eyes rested on Ame'lie and Arthur, who stood chat ting a short distance away in the grounds.
" I--I think he is a little conceited," said Audrey,
shyly. Mme. Brooke rippled her delicious little laugh.
" I think you like him, n'est-ce pas ? " Oh, that would please them all much ! She fell into French, prettily expressing the pleasure the idea gave her: Audrey was a familiar ; she might therefore allow herself that luxury.
"Tais-toi, ma chere," she interrupted, laughing lightly again, as the girl, with a faint blush, began a protest. " I only meant if you should like him, you know.. . . But may be I do wrong to call him a dandy. He has the jaw of a determined young man; he has much character, I think. But Ame'lie--she must not fall in love with him--ce beau jeune mirliflore ; she is for Charles Auvray, at New Orleans."
Audrey had heard of this proposed marriage for Ame'lie more than once, and knew all there was to tell, but now she made inquiries with an appearance of

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deep interest, and so the old lady was craftily diverted from the original topic.
Mme. Brooke took almost as much pleasure in the presence of Audrey and young Markham as did her granddaughter. It suggested a house party, and to the old lady's mind no social pleasure was equally as fascinating as a party of bright, happy-hearted young people properly chaperoned in a country house. If only they had others now--a real house party ! There were plenty of young ladies to be had for the asking, but Mme. Brooke reflected with a sigh that in these days all the young gentlemen were too much engaged.
An ordinary soiree was perfectly feasible, however, and this she decided on. The end of October was in excellent season for such an entertainment, the weather permitting both dancing within the house and prome nading without. These would be the chief features of the entertainment; Mme. Brooke was also determined on offering her guests champagne or regent's punch, along with the home-made ices, even at the risk of shocking her strait-laced neighbors.
The young people entered with enthusiasm into her plan of preparing for a new dance--or rather a very old one. She had learned to dance the minuet when a young girl, and she declared that not one of the dances of the present was half so graceful or pleas ing ; they must by all means practice beforehand, and dance the minuet. At first the idea seemed hopeless enough, for the Wiregrass Ridge string-band and their extremely limited repertoire were hardly to be counted on for such an occasion, and besides, where were the dancers to be found ? But Mme. Brooke was not dis couraged. . Judge Tompson and wife of Wiregrass

THE RAW COUNTRY GIRL.
Ridge had danced the minuet in their youth, she said; they were both past fifty, and would doubtless object, but they were her friends, and she would wheedle them into it.
"The judge will take me," she explained, "Walter, Mrs. Torapson; Mr. Markham, Audrey ; and we must invite Harry Barnwell for Ame"lie. And as for music, Gertrude promises to play for us."
These plans were successfully carried out, and when the evening came, they went through the new dance with no little tclat. The guests were mostly young people, but there were a few of the old madame's eld erly friends also. They came in carriages and bug gies, dressed in their best, and full of anticipation; for a party at Melville was not a common thing. The big house was full of light and color, and wore a gay face. There were no commonplace Chinese lanterns; the white statues in the shady grounds gleamed only in the strong yellow light of the autumn moon. The ubiquitous mocking-bird rustled here and there in the trees, now and then breaking forth into a ravishing nocturne. But nobody heard the mocking-bird, for the musicians (the string-band of limited experience referred to above) were doing tiheir bravest within the house.
It was not until half-past eleven o'clock, when the company had returned from the dining-room, that Mrs. Brooke took her seat at the piano and opened the music of "Don Giovannuf' Then there was a sight worth the seeing, when! Judge Tompson and Mme. Brooke, the judge's wife and the five selected young people stood forth and walked through the minuet to that delightful music of Mozart. The spec-
8

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tacle was made the more striking by the charming contrast between the two young girls in their conven tional evening toilets and the two old ladies in their wide, old-fashioned light silks, worn especially for the dance. The company--few of whom had ever seen a minuet even on the stage--would have expressed their pleasure in pronounced applause, had they thought it proper to applaud at all. As it was, when the dance was done there was a buzz of admiring remarks, in the midst of which Mme. Brooke and the judge led off for a promenade in the grounds, where they were soon followed by the whole company.
" What a delightful party," said Arthur, as he led his partner to a garden bench a little removed from the stream of promenading people. "It certainly must be an event for Malvern County. Your aunt is missing something.'*
"Aunt Rachel has never been here," said Audrey, with a tinge of sadness in her tone. " Her health is very bad, and she never goes anywhere."
The young man saw that his remark was unfor tunate, and changed the subject As he sat there and talked with this fair young girl whose every act pro claimed a native refinement which charmed him, he remembered what a royal contempt he had cherished for country people as a boy, and this led him to think, and presently to speak flatteringly of those now gath ered at Melville, like one who sees and generously ac knowledges an error. The Brookes were transplanted Tallahassee people, of course, but their guests also ap peared to be people of dignity and refinement. He said much in praise of the entertainment, greatly pleas ing his companion. He even enlarged on the advan-

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tages of the country over the city. And his enthusiasm was real, although in calmer moments he would doubt less have assured a disinterested third party that life outside of our central cities was stupid and crass in the extreme. Now he did not weigh his words, being under the spell of the moonlight; the minuet and Mo zart's music lingered in his memory, and--more than all--his mind was filled with the personality of the fair
creature at his side. " I want you to let me tell you how it was with me
after I went away long ago," he began, suddenly, in a changed voice, and Audrey, though she neither moved nor spoke, showed that she was disturbed. " I sup pose you got my letter ? " he asked.
" What letter ?" Her tone betrayed the same sur prise which her face had shown when he spoke of
writing " only once."
" The one I mailed at Boston. You see, I was so desperately unhappy I had to write it several times before it satisfied me at all, and that is how I failed to get it off before I left home."
" It never reached me "--solemnly. He cried out, in astonishment and regret, and then began his story, telling her how, when he had said good-by to her long ago and gone home to Savannah, he had told his father of the promises they had ex changed ; and how the father, though he listened in dulgently enough, declared that it was utter folly at such an age, and required him to write and tell her there could be nothing between them until his educa tion was completed. "He was very positive, and-- well, he made me promise to write to you only that once; he said anything further would interfere with

IN THE WIRE-GRASS. '
my studies, " I hoped for a long time to receive art answer from you," he continued, earnestly, " but after --well, perhaps a year, I didn't care so much. You see, I was very young. And then, as I grew older and thought I knew a great deal, I began to think that Georgia, outside of Savannah--I never lost ray loyalty and respect for Savannah--was perhaps a sadly provin cial place, and that when I saw you again you might be very different from what I thought you as a boy. I say this," he hastily added, " in order to confess how mistaken I was--in order to tell you that, after living abroad and seeing life almost everywhere, I think there is no one like you in the whole world."
The promenaders were returning to the house. " Is it not time for us to go in ? " asked Audrey, timidly. She made a motion to rise when he did not reply.
" How cruel you are ! " " I cruel ? " They had risen. He began eagerly what was perhaps a very rash speech, but the promenaders were coming too near ; he saw that he must stop. They looked at each other in awkward silence for a moment or two, then he offered his arm and they silently followed the people into the house.
XI.
MR. REDDING RE-APPEARS.
ABOUT ten o'clock in the morning, some three weeks later, the old black mammy called Maum Chloe was sitting upon the top rail of a " snake " fence, under

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a persimmon tree at the Hall farm, and, as she puck ered up her mouth and frowned over the astringent, scarcely ripe fruit, she looked meditatively toward the public road, which ran along through the pine woods a short distance away. Just across the road, like an oasis in the desert stretches of pine, was a grove of sturdy young live-oaks, upon which the old woman's gaze ever and anon rested lovingly ; for she came from " up the country," and hated the dreary sameness of these pine lands.
Suddenly a solitary negro, in a two-seated buggy, appeared on the road, and as Maum Chloe's gaze fast ened on him her eyes seemed to expand. " Great marster !" she ejaculated, in astonishment, " wut dat nigger mean by leavin* dah chile yawnder ter Melville atter Miss Rachel done sont 'im at' her ? You Josh!"
But Josh did not hear, and the horse trotted on quietly to the farm-house. " Well, ef dat don't beat all! " cried Maum Chloe, indignantly. " Cap'n Brooke an' dem people yawnder ter Melville neenter tink dey gine keep 'er over deh all de time. We want *er yuh."
How much longer she may have given vent to these injured reflections it will not be safe to conjecture, for the capacity of an agrieved negress for sustained so liloquy is really amazing; suffice it to say, she was presently interrupted by the appearance upon the road of a lady and gentleman on horseback, the former--as she saw at a glance--being the person whose nonarrival she had just been deploring. But the latter-- this fine young man--she had never seen before.
" Laws-a-mussy ! who dat ?" she ejaculated, in tensely interested.
The fine young man appeared to be talking very

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
earnestly, and the horses, seemingly left to their own discretion, were walking very lazily. Opposite the oak grove they came almost to a standstill, and then, tempted by the sight of fresh, green grass among the trees, they actually wandered out of the road without a sign of protest from their preoccupied riders! Some instinct, however, led them to keep close together, and when presently the young man leaned forward and grasped his companion's hand, he did not need to reach far.
Maum Chloe's old eyes were on a great strain by this time, and just as this happened they suddenly and most provokingly blinked and ran water. Even through the mist, however, she was conscious that the two figures swayed toward each other, and when her sight cleared the young man's face was still very near his companion's, which was one flame of blushes. Maum Chloe slid off the fence and started for the house almost at a run. She knew what had happened. Think of it! Miss Audrey had been kissed at the road-side by an unknown young man.
Miss Rachel Hall stood on the front piazza at the farm-house when the panting old woman entered the gate and hurried across the yard.
* Miss Rachel!"--in a mysterious, horrified voice-- M laws-a-mussy! Miss Rachel, wut yer reck'n ? I'uz .a-settin* on de fence down yawnder waitin* fer Miss Aud'ey an* Josh ter come *long, an'--an'--"
It was too scandalous to be spoken aloud; there might be some eavesdropping negro about. Maum Chloe whispered, and as she whispered, Miss Rachel's face turned gray.
* Wat dem people yawnder ter Melville done ter

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dah chile, I lak ter know ?" demanded the old mammy, indignantly, as Miss Rachel,stood mute. "ShooI I never hearn tell er no sich ez dat een our fam'ly een all my bawn days."
" You must be mistaken."
Maum Chloe shook her head solemnly. There was a noise at the front gate ; they looked up and saw Audrey and the strange young man just ready to dismount. " Deh dey is now ! Dass him," cried Maum Chloe, softly; then hurried away to call a boy to take the horses. Miss Rachel stood very still and very stiff, and stared coldly at the young people as they entered the yard and came toward her. In spite of her astonish ment and horror, however, she was to a certain degree charmed by their appearance at a nearer view. Their faces were suffused with a soft glow, and a tender, in describable light shone in their eyes. If she had ever looked on lovers in her life before, Miss Rachel felt vaguely that she saw them now.
The introduction was awkward in the extreme, and poor Audrey was much distressed. Arthur smiled, bowed, and spoke like a happy, contented man ; but Miss Rachel smiled not at all, and after she had said, " How do you do ? " her lips were locked. She merely stared at the girl accusingly, as Audrey gave some commonplace explanation of the young man's pres ence, and led the way to the parlor. Miss Rachel followed in gloomy silence, and sat down with them there; but after a few moments of difficult conver sation, in which she took almost no part, she rose abruptly and excused herself.

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When she had gone, Audrey looked at her lover in great distress. " I hope you are not hurt," she said, anxiously, as he moved nearer.
" Not at all"
" I don't know what can be the matter with Aunt Rachel Maum Chloe must have--you remember we saw her running up the lane; she must have--have-- seen us [blushing] and told her."
" I am sorry we frightened her," said Arthur, still with his contented smile.
"She knows nothing about--about our long ac quaintance, and perhaps thinks you are a perfect
stranger. ... I think I ought to go to her at once, and tell her everything," she continued, after a moment's reflection. " Perhaps--perhaps you had better go away now--don't you think so?--and come--come
some other time ? "
" Come to-morrow ?" She seemed doubtful about "to-morrow"; but he decided it Then she went out on the piazza, with him, and they parted with tender, lingering glances. In the sitting-room, Miss Rachel sat bolt upright in a chair, waiting; her mental attitude was to corre spond--i e., absolutely uncompromising. a Audrey," she called out, sternly, as soon as the girl entered the room, " did you allow that young man to kiss you ? " " I--I--hardly knew what he was going to do-- I--" coloring warmly, and half smiling. ** WeO, well, well! -- after everything I have taught you. .. . A mere acquaintance, too--oh, how awful!" Audrey became very white. " He is no mere ac-

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quaintance," she said, in excited denial. " I--I am engaged to him."
" You ? " " Or that is, I--I have acknowledged that I--like him. ... I have met him at Melville four or five times during the past two months ; at one time I saw him every day for two weeks there. And--and I knew him one whole summer seven years ago. We loved each other then, and -- and -- I never quite forgot him." She burst into tears, and Miss Rachel rapidly softened. " I never heard of such a thing! . . . Well, child, tell me about it. How could I know ? You have left me entirely in the dark." So the girl told her story. " He certainly appears well, and, if he is everything he ought to be, it may be for the best," said Miss Ra chel at length; " but I had been hoping you would fancy Tom Marshall. . . . What did you say his name was? I didn't catch it," Until now Audrey had spoken of her lover only as "he." At the sound of his name Miss Rachel half rose from her seat " Markham ! Markham ? " she ejaculated. " Is it that Savannah family ? " "Yes, madam. . . . Why, Aunt Rachel, did you know them ?" " Yes--I--I-- Oh, what on earth--" looking about her in fright.
Maum Chloe appeared in the doorway. " Somebody out yuh want ter see you, Miss Rachel," she announced.
The agitated lady seemed glad of the interruption. " We'll talk of this again, Audrey," she said, and fol lowed the old mammy out.

'-' ''-- - '--'----

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" Hit's Mr. ReddinV* whispered Maum Chloe, when they were in the hall. " He out deh on de piyaza."
In her preoccupation Miss Rachel did not even start at the mention of that name, and only said: "Send him to me in the parlor."
I have already described this stout, florid, redwhiskered Jasper Redding--this lower-middle-class Southern white man, a grade or two above the cracker in knowledge and sagacity, and several grades below him in actual vulgarity--and have no need to go into further detail. Suffice it to say, that he now bounced into the parlor and literally shouted his words of greeting.
" How you come on, Miss Rachel ? How do you do atter so long? You don't look a day older. Now I hain't a-sayin' that jes' for perliteness; hit's a fact." He put his hat down on the floor beside a chair which he took possession of without invitation.
Miss Rachel seated herself resignedly. " How's Aud'ey ?" inquired the visitor presently. "I reckon she's done growd up to be a fine young lady in full prime by now, eh ? " "Yes, she is fully grown." " Does she run with the young fellers round this neighborhood ?" " Does she--what ? " " I mean-ter-say, do they come to see 'er ?" "A few of them do. She visits the Brookes at Melville a great deal, which is, of course, a pleasant thing for her. It is a fine family." " 'Ristercratic serciety, eh ? " murmured Redding, with a low laugh. He picked up his hat and regarded it attentively. " I reckon they dunner who her father

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was ner nothin'. They dunner nothin' 'bout what her grandfather done, eh ? "
Miss Rachel had grown very pale. " No, they don't know," she answered, with averted face. " Some few may suspect something on account of what hap pened when father died, but that is all. Audrey doesn't know everything herself."
" So the ole man's dead, eh ? How long ? " " Seven years." " I thought he wouldn't hold out long down thar in that swamp " twirling his hat, musingly. ..." Well, Miss Rachel, you neenter be scared o' my tongue. I won't go tell nobody." "You are very kind to promise. I thank you." Tears of gratitude stood in her eyes. There fell a silence between them, during which Jasper Redding meditatively whittled a small piece of white pine taken from his vest pocket. "I reckon you wondered why I up an* left h-yer so sudden that time, atter threatenin' to nab the ole man, didn't you, Miss Rachel ? " he spoke presently. " It did seem strange," she answered, with indiffer ence. Redding laughed, musingly. " Well, I don't mind tellin' you, hit was detectives atter me what made me skip ; an' a woman sot 'em on. Hadn't been for that I wouldn't a give you up so easy you mer jes' bet yer sweet life on that. I taken a likin' to you the fust time I ever seen you, an' you mer know " Miss Rachel moved threateningly, and he made haste to interrupt himself and go on. "Well, you see ther' was a woman out thar in Texas what fooled me into promisin* to marry of her, but before the weddin' come

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off I got so sick of her I couldn't stan' it no longer, an' struck out an' left them diggins 'way behind. A little atter that I turned up in South Georgey an* found you livin' out h-yer. Well, I wa'n't h-yer no time hardly--hadn't mo'n got the ole man spotted down thai in the swamp--'fore h-yer come the detectives on my track. That woman done it Oh, I tell you 'Lisbeth wa'n't no fool; she knowd she could sue me for Breach of promise. She had the money to do it with, an' she sont all the way to Austin to hire them detectives an' set 'em on me* An' they everlas'nly worried me over the whole country nigh 'bout, an' finally I went back an* married the woman to git rid of her. But hit was an unlucky day for me. You don't
know that woman, Miss Rachel--oh, she was a case! I wouldn't own it to men folks, but ef 'Lisbeth didn't wear the breeches, then I'm a liar. I give 'er the reins jes' to have peace."
Mr. Redding spoke solemnly. " She had a tongue ez long ez from h-yer to Alabama, an' I let you know she kept it soople. She exercised it from mornin' till night, a-jowerin' an' a-quarrelin'; an' let 'lone all that, she was ez strong ez a mule, an' sometimes she was mighty free with her fist Oh, she was a whole ^eam in this world, an* I'm jes' what didn't git the best of a tussle all the time. Well, I lived the life of a dog with her gwine on nine year, an' then she tuck sick with the colic an' died. I hope God'11 forgive me, but I was so glad of it when she died I couldn't holp showin' it. I tried to act decent at the fun'al, but soon's ever we'd put *er in the groun* an* locked up house, I went off on a froKc to the next town. She left 'bout seven thousand dollars in money and property; hit all went

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to me, 'cause she didn't have no children. I had that much to thank her for. You bet I was a heap better off with that money than I'd 'a been with a set o' chil dren to look after."
Mr. Redding here paused and looked steadily at his companion, who was evidently distraite. " I'm wuth 'bout ten thousand dollars now, Miss Rachel," he said cautiously, after a moment, " an* I reckon you're wuth about the same. Ef we was to put our money together now, you an' me, we'd be putty well off for these times. Rayly, I don't see why we can't make it, Miss Rachel. I know I don't b'long to a big fam'ly, but I kin put on bigity airs with the next man ; you jes* try me. An' I've been a-lovin' you for over twenty years an*--"
"What did you say?" Redding had not gone far with the vulgar de tails of his hen-pecked existence before his listener's mind wandered and went back to the excited thoughts aroused by the mention of Arthur Markham's name. But, although Miss Rachel no longer followed his speech, his presence still weighed on her, and there filtered through her absorbing thought a dim consciousness that the man before her be came more and more insupportable as the moments passed. Now she awoke to what he was saying, and could scarcely speak for the disgust aroused by his words. " I was a-sayin'," pursued the man, clumsily, "that I couldn't see why you an' me couldn't make it. I'd be a mighty good husban' to yer." Miss Rachel blushed with anger and shame. She was not as afraid of this man now as she had been on

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a similar occasion seven years before, and when she rose to her feet she spoke with decision :
u I wish to hear no more of this, Mr. Redding. If you say another word, I'll leave the room."
" Well, ef you ain't stuck up ! " He had risen, too, angry in his turn. " Jes' because a respectable man comes to you as honer'ble as may be an' asts you to marry him, you fly off the handle an' make out like
you er insulted." " It is insult, sir, after all that has happened--after
the way you took advantage of my helpless position seven years ago," said Miss Rachel, sternly. " I tell you, I will not endure it My father is dead, and you no longer have any power over me."
She was moving out of the room, and he moved after her; he followed her across the hall to the sittingroom door.
" That's all right, Miss Rachel," he rejoined, in a hard, determined way. " The ole man's gone, to be sure, but ricollect the facts ain't dead, an' they mout'n be so almighty relishin'to Aud'ey's 'ristercratic friends. Don't fergit that"
For answer, Miss Rachel shut the door in his
face. This was certainly not agreeable, and, what added
to the gentleman's discomfort, Maum Chloe (having got Audrey out of the way) now appeared at the lower end of the hall, and stared at him as she would have stared at some unknown, prowling intruder. The position was not tenable; he could only retreat, and with a mattered oath he took himself off.
Having come into existence after the war, the little town of Wiregrass Ridge, county seat of Malvern, was

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more new than picturesque, though not entirely with out charm. The business quarter was a street about three squares in length, lined with long, low, unat tractive brick stores ; the wooden dwelling-houses, which covered a far greater area, were- more pleasing in appearance, standing far apart, in most cases among shade trees, and separated from the street by more or less ample flower-gardens. The town was full of China trees, large and small, which scented the air very agreeably during the flowering season. There were one or two hotels of the ordinary type, which were locally renowned as excellent, and another whose reputation was not so good, in consequence of the fact that it had its bar, like the old-fashioned inn and the city hotel. As the meals and rooms were charged for separately at this place, the enterprising landlord, Jacob Cohen, by name, painted on his sign-board-- " Grand European Hotel."
At this place Jasper Redding had taken up his quarters, and here he returned after his visit to the Hall farm. I am informed that at about nine o'clock on the evening of the same day he entered the bar room with a noticeably unsteady gait, and, calling for a drink, took it off as a bumper with perfect ease; then, with his elbow carelessly reclining in the water he had spilled on the'bar, he turned and surveyed the apart ment. At the farther end there were two billiardtables and several men playing, the rattling balls keep ing up a steady accompaniment to the clinking of drinking-glasses. Along the wall opposite the bar small tables with four chairs each were ranged for the accommodation of small parties who might wish to take their liquor at leisure, and chat meanwhile. Two

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men had just seated themselves at one of these, and, having interviewed them, a short, stout, square-faced German lad now rushed to the bar, shouting:
" Zwei bier! " Duly supplied with the beer, he rushed back, and then looked about him, ready to take another order. Our acquaintance, leaning on the bar, had just settled his wandering eyes on the table occupied by the two men, when one of them called out: "Hello! Redding, come and join us." Muttering, u Weeks, ole boy, don't care *f I do," Mr. Redding slouched forward, drew out a chair with unnecessary noise, and sat down. "Mr. Redding," said Mr. Weeks, with dignity, " make you acquainted with Mr. Dobson. Mr. Dobson, my friend, Mr. Redding, from the West." Having thus neatly accomplished the introduction, Mr. Weeks, a thin, yellow, ugly little man, smiled with satisfaction, and asked what the gentlemen would have -- the beer having already disappeared. Mr. Dobson suggested rum, whereupon his friend called out: ** Three rums h-yer! " and the watchful German lad again bolted across the floor. After their glasses had been filled and emptied several times more, Mr. Redding, who was none too sober to begin with, began to develop symptoms of drowsy light - headedness. Rousing from ecstatic lethargy, he would eye the other two worthies in turn with a sagacious expression of countenance which was at once comical and significative, then his glance would suddenly dissolve into watery abstraction, and bis bead drop forward. - "Zhentiemen," he began suddenly, when there was

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a pause in the chat of the other two, bringing down his fist with a thump--" zhentlemen, hit is -rious."
As he did not go on to explain what it was that was curious, but fell into a meditative inspection of his glass, finally rubbing his damp nose around its rim, as if to test its quality by means of smelling, Mr. Dobson suggested that he might refer to the curious manner in which the liquor had so quickly gone to his head. But Mr. Weeks said no, something was on his mind.
'* Zhentlemen, hit is cv-ri0us ! " declared Mr. Red ding again, going through the above-described process with his glass a second time.
" That is a fact, my friend," leisurely observed Mr. Weeks, " which we was made aware of by your previ ous remark. Make no repetitions--none is needed. To be shore it is curious--whatever it mer be. Every thing is curious, / tell yer. The vicissitudes of life now--don't they fluctuate and flicker, and come unbe known so quick and so curious we dunner whicherway to turn to dodge 'em ? They air ez uncertain ez--well, I mer say, ez uncertain ez futures in cotton, which is mighty well known is--" Mr. Weeks was just drunk enough to imagine that he was a mighty orator; but his fine flow of words was here irreverently cut short by an interruption from Redding :
"Zhentlemen, hit is curious--curious--how--'ristercratic s'ciety '11-- '11--stan' it! "
" Stand what ? " asked the other two in a breath. But Mr. Redding was slow of reply. He rolled his watery orbs toward the ceiling in idiotic vacancy for some moments, and, even after transferring his unsteady gaze to objects nearer at hand, he must yet
9

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knock over his glass several times and make sundry ineffectual attempts to stand it on the smallest possi ble arc of.its rim before he finally responded :
" Convicts!" "What! them convicts out to Martin's?" cried Dobson, forgetful of the reference to " 'ristercratic " society. " You don't mean to say none 'o that chaingang's got loose ?" M. Redding's sole reply was a solemn wink.
** Where 'bouts is they ? You seen 'em ?" But Mr. Redding's watery orbs were engaged with the ceiling again, and his tongue was mute. " I bet they're hidin* out in them woods some'ers," said Dobson. " People better look out. I allays said they orter had a bigger g-yard for them convicts on that plantation." At this moment Mr. Redding's wandering eyes came home again, and his halting tongue was loosed. In the stream of words which followed, everything was by no means to the point; but the whole was sufficiently intelligible and significant to hold the at tention of the two listeners and give agreeable spice to subsequent gossiping conversations in which they were the leaders.

XII.
TELLS OP A CURIOUS WRESTLING-BOUT AND THE EPISTOLARY BOMB-SHELL WHICH FOLLOWED IT.
JASPER REDDING was nearer right than we might suppose when he declared that Miss Rachel did not

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look a day older. She certainly looked young for her age. Seven years of tranquillity had left her in some what better health ; she was, however, still the same nervous woman, with the tendency toward physical prostration after mental excitement which we remem ber. The excitement occasioned by Redding's return and threatening attitude, coupled with her unexplained anxiety in connection with 'Audrey's lover, was now too much for her strength, and soon sent her to bed, where she remained two days. And so, when Audrey went to her with anxious questions, soon after Redding's departure, she only sighed and turned her face to the wall.
" I can't talk to you now ; I am all unnerved," she said.
In the afternoon Arthur came to bring some trifle which Audrey had left at Melville ; he thought she might need it before the morrow. This was his excuse for a visit of two hours. The next afternoon he came again and stayed until nearly sundown; the engagement for " to-morrow " was not, of course, to be canceled because of that mere little accidental visit of the pre vious afternoon ! Nor was this enough; he begged that he might come yet again and ride with her on the morning of the third day. After listening to a certain amount of eloquent persuasion she consented to this arrangement, although she made up her mind that henceforth her lover's visits should be restricted to three a week at the most. Anything more would be scandalous, she told herself; at the same time she was well pleased, I think, that Arthur should so persist.
Maum Chloe thought it scandalous, too, and after she had watched them ride away, and had gone to her
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mistress's bedside, she craftily brought up the subject. The old mammy was deeply troubled, not knowing what were the young man's rights, and her mind was eased of a heavy load when she understood his rela tionship to Audrey, and learned, moreover, that he was one with the youth who had visited the farm so often seven years ago. Miss Rachel knew that they were to ride that morning, but was ignorant that the visits had been so frequent When told, she looked frightened
and said she must get up. She did get up, and when the young people re
turned toward eleven o'clock, they found her in the midst of an exciting interview with her persistent ad mirer, Mr. Redding, who, as it soon developed, was " tight,"--to employ the colloquial equivalent for one third drunk. The lovers had dismounted, walked in, and were standing on the piazza,, when a loud, coarse voice came to them from the parlor. Audrey looked into her companion's face in mute alarm.
" Why, who can that be!" she half whispered, amazedly, then ran forward into the hall and looked through the parlor door. She stood there half a min ute, almost in a panic of astonishment and alarm. Watching her steadily, Arthur saw that she grew paler every moment, and wished to go to her, but waited to
be bidden. The voice grew louder, and Audrey, with a little
cry, came running to her lover, putting out her hand and touching his arm, as she looked back fearfully
toward the parlor door. u I don't know what it can mean, but that man--I
never saw him before--he is insulting Aunt Rachel!" Arthur caught his breath and his face paled a little.

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"I'll order him out of the house," he said, clutching his riding-whip. He ran toward the parlor door, fol lowed by the excited girl.
Miss Rachel, who sat helpless in a chair, started up as they entered, looking almost as if she would like to sink out of sight through the floor. Redding stood in the middle of the room, hat in hand, talking in a loud, insolent way ; he swallowed his speech as he saw them, and stared in angry surprise. Arthur paused but a moment at the door, then walked over and stood near Miss Rachel, Audrey following. Then he spoke to Redding in a determined voice, unconsciously pointing his whip toward the door :
" Leave this house! " Jasper Redding was completely astounded, and for a moment only stared. Then he slowly stepped back, and carried his hand with elaborate flourish to his hip pocket. Either it was a mere feint, or he had forgot ten and left his pistol behind; at any rate he failed to draw a weapon, and after a moment attempted to belie his intention by hitching up his trousers. " Leave this house ! " Arthur repeated. " I won't do it tell I git ready ! "--with insolent assurance. " Who is you, I like to know, to come ord'in* me out er this h-yer house ? I got jes' ez much right h-yer ez you, an' I'm a-gwine to stay--yer h-yeh me!"
Arthur turned to Audrey and her distracted aunt: " I'll ask you ladies to leave the room. I see I'll have to force him," he said.
" Oh, no, no," murmured Miss Rachel, torn with conflicting feelings; she dreaded to have the man ex asperated. But Audrey pulled her along, and they

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slowly passed out of the room. Their anxiety would not permit them to go as far as Arthur had wished, however. Audrey hurriedly led the way, and they went and took their stand on the piazza, near one of the parlor windows, where they could both see and hear.
" Now, sir, if you don't leave here I'll horsewhip .you ! " they heard Arthur say, as they drew near.
" Oh, you will, will yer ?" cried Redding, in loud, ironical mirth. " Humph ! I say it! I jes' want to see yer try it Hit'11 take more'n a smart young Ellick like you to do that, / kin tell yer. I'll everlas'nly break your neck ef you fool with me." It was the braggadocio of his swash-buckler breed.
" Will you go ? "
"No, I'll be dog'ef I do."
There was one moment of intense stillness, and then Arthur suddenly raised his whip, and struck the man a stinging blow across the face. Jasper Redding bellowed an oath, and his face turned black with pain and fury; he lowered his head like a bull, threw his body forward, and they grappled.
For many moments it was a doubtful struggle, and the two ladies, as they looked on, almost held their breath in terror. Redding, though short, was thick set and powerful, while Arthur, if taller, was a much slighter man. His frame was wiry, however, and Redding knew he had found his match. The athletic training the young man had got at college now stood him in good stead. He sparred much better than he wrestled, however, and, could he have once got clear of his antagonist, the struggle might have been short ened ; he felt confident that Redding would go down

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before a couple of craftily aimed blows which he well knew how to deal But it was too late for other than a contest at close quarters.
Round and round the room they struggled, in forced disregard of the furniture--the terrified ladies in fear lest it should never end. They clung to each other and almost sobbed for joy when at last there was the sound of a heavy fall and they saw Arthur with his knees upon the breast of the panting, redfaced bully.
"I could pound you to pieces," they heard the young man say, with passion. " You deserve the worst sort of a beating, but I want you to begone from here, and I'm going to let you up."
Still he held the man down a little longer, while they glared at each other. "If you are not out of this house and gone in two minutes," he said, let ting go and rising at last, " it will be the worse for you."
Redding gathered himself up slowly and wearily. "I'll git even with you, young feller," he said, dog gedly, turning toward the door. " I'm drunk ; that's what's the matter with me. Ef I was sober, you couldn't tech me. Jes' wait! "
" You are not too drunk to insult a lady, it seems," said Arthur, picking up his whip and following the man to the front piazza.
"'A lady,'" Redding repeated--"yes, she is a lady; I don't dispute it. I reckon there's a black sheep in ever' flock." He was furiously angry with Audrey for bringing this young man to Miss Rachel's defense, and he would now be glad to do her harm ; his promise not to tell tales was forgotten. " She's a
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lady, an* so's the young un--an' mighty putty too, she is. I reckon you er co'tin* of her. Well, ef you don't care nothin' for fam'ly pride an' all that, hit's all right. But from yer looks, young feller, I calkilate you think a heap er yer fam'ly, an' I kin jes' tell you yer better look out, Yer better nose aroun' for fam'ly skeletons a little while you got the chance."
Arthur stepped quickly up to the man and raised his whip: " Shut up that! or I'll knock you down. ... I wouldn't believe a word from you on your oath."
"All right; make yer own bed. You dunner what / know."
** I know that you are a rascally sneak, and if you don't leave here this minute, I'll wear this whip out on you!"
Redding had during his last speech edged slowly away, Arthur following with upraised whip; and now, seeing there was nothing else for him to do, he turned his back and took himself off.
In thrilling silence Miss Rachel and Audrey had stood where they could hear every word. Adjusting his mangled cuffs, Arthur turned to look for them, and Audrey ran forward, put her arms round his neck and kissed him. And Miss Rachel--even the austere maiden, Miss Rachel--saw it and did not dis approve. She could almost have done it herself.
" What if he does belong to that family ?" was her thought, as she watched them. " He shall have her. I don't blame Audrey; I believe I'm in love with him myself."
In the lane not far from Miss Rachel's gate, Jas per Redding met a negro boy and questioned him:

A WRESTLING-BOUT AND WHAT FOLLOWS.
" Sonny, who is that young feller stan'in' yonder on the pi-yaza ? You know 'im ? "
" Yas-suh ; dass a genTmon stayin' deh ter Mel ville. I yeh um say 'e a fren er Cap'n Brooke's come fum Sawannah. I dunno 'e name."
On entering Wiregrass Ridge, Redding at once turned his steps in the direction of the " Grand Euro pean Hotel," in the bar-room of which he sat down and soothed his wounded pride with several favorite drinks. In a very short time, under this treatment, he felt better, and, after an interchange of a few cheerful remarks with the bar-keeper, he made inquiry of that individual:
" Scruggs, ole boy, who's that dandy young feller visitin* Cap'n Brooke out thar to Melville ?"
" Oh, that's Arthur Markham, a young lawyer. He's a son o* that big Savannah lawyer, Linton J. Markham."
Jasper Redding slowly rose out of his seat. " Oh, look h-yer, Scruggs, is that so, sho'-nuf ? " he asked, earnestly.
" Certainly, hit is. You reckon I'd lie about it ? " Redding gave vent to a long, solemn whistle. " What's got inter you ? " demanded Scruggs, with a disgusted look. "Oh, nothin'," said Redding, turning away. He climbed up to his room, chuckling as he went Once the^door was closed behind him, he sat down and laughed till his body shook.
" Yow!" he yelled, slapping his leg with great force. " Oh, won't I stir 'em up! I'll write to Miss Rachel"
He yelled and slapped himself again, and then

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gradually his laughter died away. " Anh-hanh !" * he ejaculated presently, "so he's Linton Markham's son, eh ? Sarves him right. . . . But Aud'ey--po' little gal! Rayly, hit's too bad. I wish it wa'n't so."
He now rose and staggered across the room to the bed, whereon he carelessly flung himself ; and when a chambermaid came to call him at sundown, he was still snoring.
As soon as Arthur had gone, Audrey went to her aunt and asked anxiously about Jasper Redding ; who was he, whence came he, etc.
"He was your grandfather's overseer at Beverley," said Miss Rachel, and changed the subject. "What did Mr. Markham say--anything ? " she asked.
" He only said: ' That man seems to know some thing to the discredit of some one of your relations. If you know what it is, you need not tell me. I have no wish to know.'"
" Oh, how noble in him ! " cried Miss Rachel, with tears in her eyes, and then she and Audrey felt moved to kiss each other. " I haven't a word more to say, child," she continued. " I give my full consent For years I have almost hated the name Markham--some time I'll tell you why--but now, since he is what he is, all I can say is, take him and be glad you have found such a good, brave young man."
So, it was only a small thing after all, and now the matter was settled. Audrey sighed with relief and kissed her aunt thankfully. She had been sadly troubled ; but now her heart was satisfied, if not her curiosity, and there was peace. Even for Miss Rachel there was peace.
* Corruption of aha.

A WRESTLING-BOUT AND WHAT FOLLOWS. 139
But with her--poor woman--the peace was far from abiding ; for on the following afternoon a negro boy from Wiregrass Ridge brought her a note, the contents of which seemed to explode with an infernal glare in horrible, sickening din before her eyes.
This is the text of it :
" WIREGRASS RIDGE, Nov. 29, 188-.
" Miss RACHEL : " I RECKON you think I cut a sorry figer yisterday
& I dont dispute it. That smart young Ellick is a heap better man than he looks to be but all the same dont you forgit it Ide a busted him highern a kite Ide a broke ever bone in his boddy if I haden been sick, but I aim to git even with him yet dont you fret. I was plum out and out sick yisterday you can ask Tommy Scruggs if I wasent. I told him when I started off I coulden skacely walk. I write these few lines to let you know sumpthen you orter know right off. I reckon Ordy aims to marry that smart young Ellick from the way things look, well now I tell you it wont do not by a long shot, for they tell me he is the son of lawyer Linton Markham of Savannah & you know who he is dont you It jess serves that smart young chap right but Ime tumble sorry for Ordy yes I am. She had no busness to fotch him in there that away when I was talkin to you yisterday, but Ime sorry for her all the same. Ime about decided to go on a trip to South Florida with a freind of mine & mayby I wont see you again for two or three months.
" Yours in Friendships bonds
" J. REDDING."

140

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

Miss Rachel was alone in her chamber when the house-girl brought her this letter. She read no further than the words which had been underscored; the let ter then dropped from her hands and she fell help less upon her bed. She lay there for an hour, part of the time motionless and silent, and again moving her head from side to side with soft low moans.
It grew late; the sun was almost down. She struggled to get up, remembering that young Markham was expected that evening. She could not afford to lie there and weep ; she must up and face her diffi cult duty. Audrey must be sent out of the way; then she would see and talk with the young man alone.
Mrs. Mathis was in the yard at the time. She had come announcing that she expected to " bile soap " on the morrow, and solicited the loan of a little " soapgrease," her own supply of that article (or rather, those ingredients--bits of bacon-rind; beef-tallow, old bones, et e&ttra) having proved to be scanty. Audrey had referred her to Maum Chloe, and the two women were just returning from the smoke-house when Miss Rachel suddenly appeared on the piazza and spoke to her niece in a strange, hurried voice :
"Audrey, go in the house; I'll be there in a mo ment I want to talfc with you." She went down the steps and walked to meet the good-natured Mrs. Mathis, who was much pleased to see her, asking cordially how she "came on."
" I ain't seen yer in mose a coon's age," the cracker woman declared. " I tole Zachariah t'other night, s'l, * I'm plum' 'shamed er merself,' s'l. ' None er we-all ain't so much ez stopped by Miss Rachel's ter ax " How's all ? " in gwine on a month,' s'l. I'm right glad

A WRESTLING-BOUT AND WHAT FOLLOWS. 141
ter know none er you-all ain't been sick," she added ; then spoke of the " soap-grease " somewhat at length.
"You needn't wait," interjected Miss Rachel, speaking to Maum Chloe, who was lingering. The old mammy turned at once toward the house, but she moved slowly, and before she was out of ear-shot she heard Miss Rachel say, hurriedly:
" I wanted to ask you, Mrs. Mathis, if you couldn't take Audrey home with you for the night ? "
Maum Chloe stopped short in her walk, then moved on with unusual speed. ** Shoo ! " she ejacu lated, on entering the kitchen, " Doomsday mus' be comin--yer yeh me ! Wut yer reck'n ?" she de manded of Uncle Tony, who sat in a corner--" Miss Rachel fix'n ter sen' dah chile ter stay all night wid dem Mathises! "
"Oh, g'way fum yuh, Chloe--yer jokin'," said Uncle Tony, solemnly. "Wut she gwine do dat fer? Shoo! Miss Rachel mus' sholy be losin' her senses."
Maum Chloe may or may not have had her sus picions ; at any rate she declined to express herself further. But for twenty-four hours she acted like one grievously insulted.
" Why, Miss Rachel, honey," declared Mrs. Mathis, astonished and delighted, " I'd jes' love ter have 'er come stay all night. Sally Ann'11 mose tek a duck fit."
Miss Rachel did not stop to multiply words. In viting Mrs. Mathis to take a seat on the piazza, she hurried within to call her niece.
" What is it, Aunt Rachel ? " Audrey spoke quietly --without alarm. Her state of peaceful content had not yet been disturbed.

142

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

* We are in trouble, child. There is no way out of it this time."
" What can you mean ? I thought it was--was settled "
" Nothing was settled until I knew, . . . But I can't talk to you fully until to-morrow. I want you to go and spend the night with Mrs. Mathis."
"Why--Aunt Rachel! I've never been there in my life, and--and Arthur is coming to-night."
"That is precisely why you must go. I'll make your excuses ; I must see and speak with him."
"And why can't I be here ? " Miss Rachel dropped into a chair like a piece of lead, "Audrey," she declared, in a weak, solemn voice, " if you oppose me, you'll kill me. I--I have heard dreadful news, and I must see Arthur, and make sure of--of--something. You must not see him till we know. The marriage may be impossible." Audrey fell on her knees at her aunt's side. "Oh, Aunt Rachel, what is it !--what is it ! " There was no answer. "Aunt Rachel, you are feverish. It won't do for me to leave you. You will be sick." " I will be dead, if you don't go." "Oh, you are so cruel," sobbed the girl. "Won't you explain ? " " I will to-morrow. . . . Mrs. Mathis is waiting for you out there." Audrey rose. " Tell Arthur I am very sorry," she said, plaintively, at the door, and then went out.

NIGHT TALK AT THE MATHIS FIRESIDE. 143
XIII.
NIGHT TALK AT THE MATHIS FIRESIDE.
Two hours later Arthur arrived, and was ushered into the presence of Miss Rachel in the sitting-room. This was a pleasanter place than the stiff little parlor, though there was not the same attempt at ornament and showy furniture; Miss Rachel, however, regretted the necessity of receiving him there. Her cheeks were flushed with fever and excitement, and Arthur thought she looked very handsome in the red light of the shaded lamp. Had he looked more narrowly, he would have seen a look of intense suffering in her large eyes. She half reclined on a lounge, and did not change her position as he entered.
"Please, excuse me," she said, when they had ex changed salutations. " I am very weak to-night."
Arthur expressed regret. " And Audrey ? " he in quired after a moment.
"She--she is not well, either," faltered Miss Ra chel. " She can't see you to-night. She told me to say she was very sorry."
" She seemed to be in excellent health yesterday," said the astonished young man. " I hope it is not serious."
" Oh, only temporary." She spoke of trifles; asked about the family at Melville; referred to "The House of the Seven Ga bles," which she had lately read--all in a feverish, eager way, wishing to temporize. She dreaded to put her question, fearing to lose her last, faint hope.

J44

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

At the expiration of an hour Arthur made a move ment to rise. " We are going fox-hunting at half-past four in the morning," he said, "and I think I'll say good-night"
"Well, I -- I wanted.to ask you--" spoke Miss Rachel, hastily--"something about your family. I think I've heard of some of them. Isn't there a Linton Markham, a lawyer ? "
" Yes, madam ; that's father." Even the feverish blood now fled from the woman's face; her head fell back against the arm of the lounge, and rested there some moments, while she uttered not a sound. Her voice was forced and hard, when at length she made slow remark : " The reason I wanted to see you, Mr. Markham, was to tell you that a marriage between you and Audrey is impossible. The idea must be given up." " Good heavens ! . . . I--I thought you had given your consent. What can you mean?" In his excite ment the young man rose to his feet. Miss Rachel, too, sat upright for the first time. " Please explain yourself," he begged, vehemently, as she hesitated. " I--I can't to-night. Come to-mor--" the words died away. Her fingers groped strangely; her body swayed. " To-morrow," she whispered, and fell over on the lounge. Arthur caught up the lamp and looked at her, then ran to the door and called; she had fainted, apparent ly. By the time Manm Chloe appeared, however, she was reviving. " Take me to my room," she whispered, after a few moments, and they lifted her to her feet She walked slowly, leaning on the old mammy.

NIGHT TALK AT THE MATHIS FIRESIDE. 145
" To-morrow," said Arthur. " To-morrow," echoed Miss Rachel, with a moan, and passed on out of the room. Audrey had put on her hat and joined Mrs. Mathis at once, and together they left the house. It was now nearly dark, and very late for a walk of a mile and a half; Miss Rachel had not thought of that, nor did Audrey think of it now. Only Maum Chloe thought of it as a scandalous thing; it grieved her to the heart that the girl must go off on such a tramp at such an hour (or at any hour) with that cracker woman, and presently she came to know of her mistress if Josh should not hitch up and bring the baggy round for them. But they were already gone. When they had crossed the public road at the foot of the lane, and taken the dull, pine-straw-carpeted roadway which led to the Mathis farm, night soon felL It was the hour of all hours the most charming in that pine and wire-grass country. Far away along the pub lic road the mellow voices of home-returning negroes resounded in their weird, strangely musical " hollows," while closer by the faint, confused murmur of insect and bird notes, startlingly accented by the cicada's thrilling voice, beat drowsily upon the ear. The breeze blew fitfully, in sudden, soft gusts, and the trembling trees seemed to drink long draughts with faint, ecstatic sighs. One at such times, as it were, feels the vast, darkling woodlands breathing gently with Nature's respiration, and settling on her bosom for an eternal rest. Though by nature capable, Audrey was now too deeply disturbed to feel all this, and, as she followed her guide in silence, her mind was prey to painful ap-
id

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
prehensions, which repeated and multiplied themselves remorselessly. That dreadful thing which weighed upon her aunt, which so nearly concerned herself and Arthur, which threatened to raise cruel, monstrous barriers between them--what was it ?--oh, what was it!
Mrs. Mathis chatted cheerfully all the way, but the girl answered only now and then at random, hearing nothing but her own thoughts--her own thoughts and certain woodland sounds which took color from them. The cry of the whip-poor-will, though faintly melan choly in its suggestion, was never saddening to her ear; but, as she heard it to night, it seemed to voice, in sobbing repetition, all the misery of the world. It was the same when they passed a place where the woods were on fire : the odor of burning wire-grass and pine-needles, ordinarily wont to give her pleasure, was now a source of stifling, sickening oppression, carrying her mind back over vast vistas of days to the joys of childhood, only to return it in a breath doubly freighted with pain.
Nevertheless, she felt that the cool, calm touch of night was soothing, and when they reached the Mathis farm she would gladly not have gone within the house.
They came upon the place abruptly out of the woods. It was the ordinary " double-pen " log house, with its attachment of a couple of " shed-rooms " at the back. The pines came almost up to the rail fence which inclosed the yard. A side gate led through a lane to the " lot," but the yard was entered only by means of a rude, low stile. Beyond the house a culti vated field stretched away in the distance, widening as it went, and embracing some eighty acres.
There was a man cutting wood in the yard, and

NIGHT TALK AT THE MATHIS FIRESIDE. 147
Mrs. Mathis spoke to him as they crossed the stile: " Zachariah, h-yer's Aud'ey come to stay all night with us."
" Who ? "--slowly straightening his bended body. Mrs. Mathis repeated her announcement, and her husband stepped forward awkwardly and gave the young girl a cordial, if homely, welcome. The visitor was then conducted into one of the front rooms of the house, which was lighted by a glowing pine-knot fire in a large chimney-place. The fire was a cheerful thing to look at, but one could not sit very near it in November. Audrey placed her chair well out of range. " Sally Ann !" called Mrs. Mathis, going to the door. " Yes'm [ "--from the room across the entry. " When'd yer git back from town ? " " Jes' a while ago." "Well, come in h-yer. H-yer's Aud'ey come to stay all night." She spoke proudly. Since the day of their exciting fishing expedition when they were children, Audrey had exchanged scarcely a dozen words with Sally Ann Mathis; but they had passed each other occasionally on the road (always acknowledging their acquaintance with the local salutation, " Howdy "), and she had not failed to note that the young cracker girl was growing up to be unusually pretty. Audrey had observed, too, that she paid much attention to her dress, and was not without taste. She wore to-night (having just returned from a visit to town) a much-starched frock of Dolly Varden calico, with becoming ribbons, and would have been really pretty, Audrey thought, but for that vanity of

148

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

vanities, the "bloom of youth," which was literally plastered on her face, and almost seemed to crack when she smiled. It is a sad thing, but the long-con demned rouge-pot stubbornly holds its own even among the children of nature in our backwoods.
As Sally Ann came in smiling and seated herself near, Audrey noted this first of all with extreme dis relish, wondering if the girl could possibly be made to see how unutterably vulgar it was. She reflected, how ever, that Sally Ann's beaux probably esteemed what was only of a piece with the highly-scented hair-oil which men of their class made use of in alarming quantities,
u Nowv you stay in h-yer," said Mrs. Mathis to her daughter, fondly; "I'll go git supper. I don't like ter see *er spilin* 'er hands cookin'," she added, smilingly addressing Audrey.
When her mother had gone, Sally Ann went into
the details of her visit at Wiregrass Ridge. "Thass a mighty fine-lookin' young feller stayin'
out ter Cap'n Brooke's, ain't he ?" she remarked in the course of her chat " I seen him in town to-day.'*
"I've never noticed his looks, particularly," re joined Audrey, with chilling indifference, transferring her glance to the fire.
After this the conversation dragged, and the wellmeaning Sally Ann was glad when they were called to supper. As Mrs. Mathis had hurriedly killed and fried a chicken, there was something more, than the regula tion bacon and hominy to tempt the appetite, but, much to the sorrow of her hostess, Audrey was unable to eat more than a few mouthfuls. After supper they returned to the same fire-lighted room, where they were joined

NIGHT TALK AT THE MATHIS FIRESIDE. 149
by Mathis ptre, who was blissfully unconscious of the propriety of wearing a coat in the presence of the young lady visitor, and was serenely content in a blue cotton shirt and a pair of baggy jean trousers. The latter were held up by a knitted cloth strap running over one shoulder, which article is called a " gallows," a pair being " gallowses." Unless the etymologist can trace this word back as a corruption of the old English "galligaskins"--which is, perhaps, extremely doubtful --it remains an astonishing specimen of the odd freaks possible in the colloquial aftergrowth of our language.
Mr. Mathis mdde a few remarks about the state of his farm, palpably intended for Audrey's edification, though he looked at his wife while speaking; then Mrs. Mathis and her daughter took up the conversa tion and discussed people of the neighborhood.
"Ole Leggett Adams is been a-buyin' up mo* land," said the former, speaking of a miserly planter. " Thass the way he does--jes' keeps investm* ever cent an* don't give his wife an' fam'ly nuth'n. That po* wife er his'n does her own cookin' half the time, an' them childern don't have a thing. Hit's a sin an' a shame. Cap'n Brooke ain't that-a way, I tell yer. Thar's a gentle man, ef ther' ever was one."
" I seen his wife ridin' in her kerridge in town this evenin'," remarked Sally Ann.
" What a pity you had'n'er been a little older, so he cud 'a married you stidder that Yankee lady," said Mrs. Mathis, looking at her smiling guest with great affection. " Well," she continued, philosophically, " they tell me she's a mighty nice 'oman, an* ef that's so, we ain't got no call ter complain."
And so on.
1'iJfr^Vr " J '~i"T tLlji'. k_l-3_-i^, ^ .ri.?: _ .i 1.

150

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

Finally, they began to talk of the dreadful story of a marriage forbidden of all law which had been con summated in ignorance of the relationship of those concerned. A man and wife had separated, dividing their children between them; one had gone one way, the other another; years afterward two of these chil dren thus separated in infancy, had met each other as perfect strangers, the acquaintance soon resulting in marriage. Their relationship had been at length dis covered, not by themselves, but by others who thought it the better part to say nothing and leave them in peace. The Mathis family had heard the story from some man who had known the persons concerned in Texas.
" I would'n 'a done like them people done," said Mrs. Mathis, solemnly. ** I'd a tole urn ; I'd 'a put a stop ter sich a marriage ez that mighty quick. The Bible says hit's a sin, an' ever body knows it."
" Yere ; that's so," remarked Mr. Mathis, with con viction, " But they must 'a done it in ole times. I was a-readin' t'other night whar hit said Abraham's wife Sarah was his half-sister."
*
"They say such marriages were very common in ancient Egypt," said Audrey, conscious of the necessity of making some remark. She also thought of the story of the Greek god and goddess, Zeus and Here, and of that strange pair, Siegmund and Seiglinda, whose weird lives are pictured in the Scandinavian sagas and the Ntbclnngen Lied.
They continued to discuss the dreadful story until tne girl sickened. Unable to endure it longer, she finally complained of being unwell, and expressed a wish to retire. Mrs. Mathis then conducted her to

NIGHT TALK AT THE MATHIS FIRESIDE. 151
one of the "shed-rooms," where she endeavored to prevail on her to take at least a tablespoonful of a certain " tonic " of home manufacture. The mixture was largely whisky, she unhesitatingly confessed, and she was sure it would do the girl " oodles er good " ; but Audrey begged off, and was finally left to herself. This and fresh air were the conditions she most needed for the present, and when her kind-hearted hostess had reluctantly retired, she leaned far out of the window and remained so for an hour.
The calm, dusky night, the black, murmuring pines and the hope-giving, star - sprinkled sky, the noise less breeze which streamed by like a gentle river, softly laving her face--all these were pregnant with healing balm for the time. But when she sought her couch, this borrowed peace soon fled before the concourse of anxious fears and fancies, which took possession of her unwilling mind. When she did sleep at last, it was only feverish half-slumber, rife with wretched, meaningless dreams. Among the many things which persistently occupied her thoughts was the painful story heard at the fireside in the early evening, and this pursued her even in dreams ; it colored everything, transforming even Arthur. For once, as she saw him coming toward her, he seemed suddenly to become the unhappy Texan whose wife was also his sister, and she ran away from him in desperate fright.
Rousing herself from these phantasies at last, she rose and leaned out of the window again, hoping to find relief under the influence of the fresh morning air; for she knew by certain soft, recurring sounds-- bird notes and the like--that the dawn was near. And so, leaning there on the window-sill, she watched that

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
sk>w, wondrous transformation--the breaking of the day.
When it was almost complete--when the sky had begun to take on faint touches of color, and birds were rustling among the leaves of the trees--her ear suddenly caught the sound of baying hounds. The sound rapidly grew louder and more tumultuous, until, as it were with a sudden swift rush, the very house seemed surrounded by howling dogs and plunging horses. The air was full of the shouting voices of men. In astonishment and fright, Audrey opened her door and ran down the entry to the steps ere she realized that it was only a passing fox-hunt.
XIV.
THE POX HUNT AND "MISS SUSANA JINKINS."
WHEN Mrs. Walter Brooke first came to live with her husband in Southern Georgia, and heard mention of fox hunting as not an uncommon thing in the Melvflle neighborhood, agreeable expectations were awakened in her mind. She had never been fox hunting, and wanted to go. It was something she had read much of in English novels, but had heard of only at fare intervals in the North, it being a sport never thought of there, so far as she knew, except, perhaps, among some of the country people and those very f&hkraable beings who were more than slightly tinct ured with Anglomania. She knew of a party of ladies and gentlemen from Philadelphia who had once gone

FOX HUNT AND "MISS SUSANA JINKINS." 153

fox hunting in Chester County near by, and she had

heard of the same thing I having been done in the

State of New York; but! her experience went no

further.

1

Mrs. Brooke was certainly not inclined toward

Anglomania; nevertheless, tHis very English and fash

ionable sport possessed a great fascination for her, and

she thought it would be a ver^ pleasant thing to be able

to speak of the fox hunting 'on her husband's estate

in Georgia when she visited her friends in the North.

It was, therefore, quite a pathetic little disappoint

ment for her when she learned that ladies did not go

fox hunting in Southern Georgia. To start out after

dark, or get up before day in the morning, and ride at

a breakneck speed through the swamp and brake and

brush and briar of the wild pine woods, was sport

quite too rough for them, and Mrs, Brooke, after hear

ing a hunt described, felt with a sigh that it was quite

too rough for her also. Riding to hounds in such

fashion was enough to frighten a man, indeed, unless

he were an uncommonly good horseman.

She quickly recovered from her disappointment,

reflecting that the hunting was there (which was the

main thing), and might be spoken of, whether she en

joyed it personally or not; and she was quite prepared

to be intensely amused when, several years later, she

read Henry James's " Lady Barberina," with its de

licious little satire on American "hunting" of the

English sort. I refer to that episode where the pining

young English wife demands to know of her American

husband if no hunting could be had in this desolate

country, whereupon that untitled gentleman--who is,

however, the " heir of all the ages "--quietly suggests

154

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

that she possibly might find " a few old cows down in

Connecticut" in lieu of the aristocratic fox.

I preface this chapter with these three paragraphs

in order to forestall any conclusion on the part of the

reader that I am about to transfer to Southern soil an

English fox hunt, with the stereotyped accident, love-

making, et cattra> with which the jaded, long-suffering

novel reader was long ago sufficiently familiar.

In Southern Georgia the fox is of a gray color, and

therefore a different species from the ordinary red

American fox. The animal feeds at night, and is

usually hunted during the hours preceding midnight;

I

it, however, may be " jumped " before dawn and chased

through the early morning hours This was the plan

in the present instance. Half-past four had been pro

posed as the proper time, but the start was made an

hour or more earlier, owing to sleeplessness on the part

of Arthur.

" I heard you moving about, and thought I might

as well get up," Captain Brooke whispered, at his guest's

door.

"I haven't been to bed all night," was the rejoin

der. ''You'd be shocked if I told you how many

cigars I've smoked sitting here."

" What was the matter ? "

* I am very much puzzled and troubled, and sleep

was out of the question, I want to talk to you about

it when we get back."

They then stole quietly out of the house, and in

the stable-yard found two negroes awaiting them with

about a dozen dogs and four horses ; for the negroes

--right-hand men on the plantation, Jerry and July by

name--were to go on the hunt. As they rode out

FOX HUNT AND "MISS SUSAN A JINKINS." 155
from Melville, they were joined by Bob Sanders, a young farmer of the neighborhood, who added two hounds to the pack, swelling the number to some four teen or fifteen.
" Rom and Bonus are old-fashioned in their ways, I reckon/1 remarked Sanders, as they rode along, " but they are always reliable."
" I believe I have more confidence in Castor and Pollux, my two new Maryland hounds, than in any of the rest of our pack," said Captain Brooke. " They are perfect little beauties--wonderfully intelligent and as fleet as lightning."
At this there was a murmur from Jerry who rode with his comrade behind the three white men : " Look yuh, boss, yer better not put too much 'pen'unce on dem new-fangle puppies. Dey canh hole a canT-light ter ole Guv'ner an* ole Dash. I done had my eye on um de las' hunt."
" Dash sholy leads de gang," declared July, with conviction.
" You see we all have our favorites," said Captain Brooke to Arthur, with a smile.
In the deep, dark pine woods along the river two miles away the hounds, till now held in check, were set on with encouraging cries.
" Sick 'im, Guv'ner ! Sick 'im, Dash! " cried Jerry and July in chorus.
" Go it, Rom, old boy ! " cried Sanders. " I bet on Guv'ner! " cried Jerry. " I bet on Dash! " echoed July. " And I pin my faith to my Maryland beauties, not withstanding," was Captain Brooke's confident re joinder.

156

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

Arthur did not know the dogs, and was not eager to bet Nor did he know the woods, and, doubtful what might be in store for him, he was not altogether comfortable. The full moon rode low in the southern sky, but the pale light which filtered through the spreading tops of the towering pines was an uncertain guide for the horseman at a canter who must dodge scrub oaks and black-jack thickets at every turn, and take the chances with gopher-holes, sinks, hurricaneroots and what not Though he was a good horseman and felt sure of his seat, Arthur admitted to himself that he dreaded the moment when the dogs would make a "jump/'
"Boss, I tell yer wut, we gwineter hab fun ternight," declared Jerry, a few moments later. " Dah rain dis mawnin'--I mean ter say yistiddy mawnin'-- 11 fotch dem foxes out ter feed thicker'n rabbits een a g-yarden."
A half-mile farther on a smothered, uncertain yelp in the woods to the right brought the party to a halt
" Dass Guv'nert" declared Jerry. " After a rabbit," suggested Captain Brooke.
" Or a 'possum "--from Bob Sanders.
" No-suh-ree! " objected Jerry, indignantly. " Guv'ner donh stop ter fool wid rabbits an' 'possums, ner Dash nair one. Dass a fox, I tell yer, gentermens. I knows mighty well wut sorter meat een de woods wen one dem dogs put dey nose ter de grass an' open de music, Yes-suh-- " He was interrupted by another long-drawn, howling bark from the same quarter.
"That's Rom, boys," said Bob Sanders. "Must be a fox, after alL"
The next moment, in sudden startling outburst, the

FOX HUNT AND "MISS SUSANA JINKINS." 157
howling voices of some half-dozen hounds awoke the echoes from a more distant point, and, amid enthu siastic uproar, the horsemen dashed away through the dark, shadowy woods in the direction of the sounds. A skurrying, helter-skelter ride of some ten minutes, and the excitement was over. The dogs drove the hard-pressed game into a stunted tree, where the iden tity of the opossum was soon made manifest. Amid animated discussion and laughter, the negroes then secured the game, than which they prized none higher. Nobody would admit that the favorites had been at fault, and the blame was laid at the door of some of the younger and more insignificant dogs in the pack.
Captain Brooke had no need to multiply words in exculpation of his favorites, however, for it was now discovered that the Maryland pups and two or three other dogs were absent from the pack. The presump tion was that they had nosed out a trail of their own at the start--possibly that of a fox--and refused to abandon it, cold though it might be, for the cheap ex citement of a chase after an opossum ; and three quar ters of an hour later this was seen to be the state of the case. For, as the party rode forward, watching for developments from the main pack which had re mained scattered in the immediate neighborhood, a few short excited yelps some five hundred yards away at once proclaimed the whereabout of the absent dogs, and announced the existence of a trail.
"That's Reynard," said Captain Brooke, confi dently, " and my Marylanders know it."
The main pack now broke away and soon joined the chase, adding their voices to the tumultuous chorus which rang through the woods in a royal uproar, em-

158

IN THE WIRE-GRASS,

bracing every conceivable pitch, from the low, deepthroated baying of the older dogs to the shrill, piping treble of the younglings. " What music doth a pack of dogs then make to any man whose heart and ears are so happy as to be set to the tune of such instru ments !" That light-hearted old sportsman of the seventeenth century who wrote " A Complete Angler," and from whom I quote, could well understand the thrill which stirs the hunter's soul to hear a pack of hounds at full cry in our pine lands at night. Every moment the excitement grew; horses and men alike enthusiastic, the hunt dashed madly after the dogs, re gardless of gopher-holes and all unseen snares. Helter skelter, this way, that way, dodging dead timber tops and hurricane roots, avoiding clumps of palmettoes and black-jack thickets, and on, ever on, beneath those endless myriads of ghostly, towering pines.
Nevertheless, fleet-footed Reynard and the pack at his Heels began to leave the horsemen behind. The party had followed nearly two miles almost in a straight line, expecting every minute that the fox would "make a tack," when all at once the fore legs of Arthur's horse went down a gopher-hole, and, taken unawares, the young man was sent flying over the animal's head into the palmetto bush ere he realized what had happened. Captain Brooke called a halt in some concern, but the palmettoes had broken his fall, and Arthur quickly pulled himself out of the jungle, laughing at the ludi crous mishap the loudest of all Nor was the horse injured, and he at once remounted.
In the lull it was now seen that the hounds were so far away as to be scarcely heard, and the question was raised as to the advisability of going on. Bob Sand-

FOX HUNT AND "MISS SUSANA JINKINS." 159
ers thought they ought to stop and build a fire; the fox would surely come back. "We might as well wait," he said. " He'll make a tack before he gets to the Ashton place, and come right back here.*'
The dogs were now wholly out of hearing, and the halt was decided on. The interval of rest was em ployed chiefly in discussing the merits x>f the dogs. Captain Brooke spoke fondly of Castor and Pollux, while Sanders was not slow to praise the qualities of his two hounds, and Jerry declared that he would not give " ole Guv'ner" for a hundred, and July urged that "ole Dash " was "no slouch 'ese'f."
"You right, July," assented Jerry. "Dem two dogs is a whole team een dis worl'! "
The fire blazed up, and was fed a second time. In about an hour, during a lull in the talk, the faint dis tant baying of the hounds fell upon their ears.
" There they come! " Very faint at first--almost imperceptible--was the sound ; but presently louder, and still louder, rising and swelling in volume till the woods rang again.
"Keep quiet, boys," cautioned Captain Brooke. u He's coming right to us."
Jerry, who had dismounted to collect fire-wood, still stood over the flames, his horse being held by July. Absorbed in the approach of the hounds, he seemed to forget that it might be well to remount, and stood with mouth agape, all eyes and ears. On came the pack, nearer and nearer, till all at once--rip-riprip-rip-rip !--shot the fox through the wire-grass thirty yards to the right of the fire, with the maddened hounds close at his heels, and old Governor in the lead by two fall lengths.

i6o

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

At this sight Jerry was so overcome with joy that he flung himself down on the ground laughing and shouting and kicking up his heels, regardless of all consequences. He soon cut short this exhibition of ecstasy, however, for when the dogs passed a yell went up from the party which shook the clouds, and already the horses were dashing away in mad pursuit.
" Didn' I tell yer ole Guv'ner was de man !" he shouted, as soon as he had caught up and could make himself heard.
The fox described almost a circle in the course of a mile, dodging this way and that to confuse the dogs, and sometimes passing within a short distance of some one of the party. " He can't run much longer, boys," cried Sanders. " We'll hear him squall before long."
The prediction was soon verified. All at once there appeared to be some confusion among the dogs, and then in a moment they settled down to deep-mouthed, continuous baying--the fox was treed. Arriving on the scene, the party found the hounds crowded in a circle around a dead pine stump some twenty feet high, on the top of which the fox was plainly seen. Resting on their haunches, and with noses pointed skyward, the doys bayed with loud and fierce persistence, while the trembling fox glared at them fixedly, his terrified eyes glistening in the light of the moon.
" Now, boys, who's going to climb that stump ?" asked Captain Brooke.
"Me, boss," cheerfully volunteered Jerry. "I'm de man ter climb fer de 'possum eve'y time. 1*11 hab dat fox down fum deh een two shakes uv a sheep's taiL"
Leaving his horse in charge of July, he--as he ex-

FOX HUNT AND "MISS SUSANA JINKINS." r6l
pressed it--" shucked " his coat and shoes in a trice, and ran to the stump. " Better look out, Brer Fox-- I'm a-comin'!" he shouted, and, springing from the ground, he rapidly made his way up. When about half-way, he stopped, and began to shake the stump.
" Look out, genTmen I " he cried, making a force ful effort to bring down the game.
But the fox was sure-footed, and defied all effort. The stump was old and rotten, however, and presently a huge piece was dislodged from the top, and, together with the fox, came tumbling down upon the unfortu nate Jerry; and the next moment fox, rotten wood, man, and all fell in a,' confused heap to the ground, and were madly pounced upon by the savage, roaring pack!
For a moment nobody could tell whether the hounds were afoul of fox or man; but a shrill wail soon proclaimed that Reynard's day was done, and presently Jerry slowly materialized from the midst of the howl ing, triumphant dogs. The whites of his eyes glared reproachfully, as he held his head and demanded, in solemn indignation:
l< Look yuh, people, who dat hit me !" There was a roar of laughter, and then efforts were made to explain to him; but Jerry was not to be convinced. " Num-mine, July!" he cried. " I'll git even wid you." "Wuh you talkin' bout, nigger? " demanded July, in derision. *' Boss," cried Jerry to Captain Brooke, who had spoken in defense of the innocent July, " I wish yer'd 'a kep* yer eye on dat nigger--you'd 'a seen 'im. You'd
ii

162

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

'a seen *im w'en 'e flung dat light'ud knot an' clipt me side de head while you-all wuz'n lookin'. Yer canh tell me ; I done know dah nigger uv ole. 'E got a grudge aginse me, yer see'im so."
"Oh, go 'way, nigger; yer talkin' foolish," retorted the laughing July, who was too much amused to be angry.
The white men rode on, leaving the two negroes to follow and settle their dispute as they saw fit. A quarter of an hour later, as they were riding slowly in the direction of Melville plantation and watch ing the approach of daylight, the dogs suddenly "jumped"another fox not three hundred yards in advance* and the horses sprang forward without wait ing for the spur. It was a great surprise to all, two foxes in-one hunt being rare good luck, indeed.
"Come ahead, boys ! " shouted Sanders. " Less keep up. We're right on him, and it '11 be a sight chase as soon as-daylight comes."
And away they flew in the wildest enthusiasm. A sight chase was rare sport and not to be missed. The dogs were pressing the fox very hard, and he soon be gan to fag. After a few desperate " tacks," by which he gained nothing, for the hounds were too close at his heels, he "struck a bee-line for old man Mathis's " (as Sanders put it), presently dashing into the yard and under the house, where he squatted to catch his breath.
When the hunters burst out of the woods at a furious gallop, great uproar and confusion prevailed in the Mathis yard. A big yellow cur-dog belonging to the premises was stubbornly disputing the passage of the stile with the hounds, and Zachariah Mathis,

FOX HUNT AND "MISS SUSANA JINKINS."
axe in hand, stood shouting impotently at the howling pack, startled almost out of his wits, and uncertain what it all might mean (the fox having passed him unobserved) ; while Mrs. Mathis, near the steps of the house, her toilet only half completed, her uncombed, long gray hair streaming forth in the morning breeze, gesticulated and called vainly to her husband in the din. It developed after a moment or two that she had seen the fox run under the house, and the formidable yellow cur was then called off, whereupon the pack flew over the stile, across the yard, and under the house ; and out came Reynard, taking to the woods again. With a rousing yell, the horsemen dashed away in enthusiastic pursuit.
All but Arthur, who had been a fcttle behind and came up to the fence just in time to see a young girl run down the steps of the house and stand by Mrs. Mathis in the yard. As soon as his eye fell upon her, a look of half-recognition showed upon his face, and it was immediately evident that for him further interest in the hunt was lost. Every moment the light grew stronger; could it be ?--yes -- it must be she ! He threw himself from the saddle and sprang over the stile.
Then Audrey saw him. For a moment she stood helpless, bewildered: there he came, half-smiling, eager--just as she had seen him in her dream. The horror of that dream and the recollection of Miss Rachel's words flowed through her consciousness like a black, suffocating wave ; she half-closed her eyes, like one who reels from sickness, and, turning, ran into the house.
" I beg your pardon," cried Arthur to the astonished

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
Mrs. Mathis, " but--but--I thought I knew that young lady. Wasn't that Miss Audrey Hall ? "
Mrs. Mathis had a quick-witted and sagacious old head on her shoulders. She knew that Miss Rachel and her niece were in trouble ; knew that the latter had not been sent to spend the night at her house without some extraordinary motive ; and when she saw Audrey turn and run, she unerringly jumped at the conclusion that this young man was somehow concerned. His appear ance pleased her very much ; but she must be loyal to Miss Rachel.
"No, sir," she answered, readily ; "thass Miss Susana Jinkins, a friend er my daughter's, fum up in the forks er the river."
" Why--wh)% what made her run, then ? " " Oh, she was jes' scared er them dogs. I don't blieve she seen you. We was all uv us putty nigh scared ter death by them outdacious dogs." Arthur turned away, bewildered. How could he have mistaken a cracker girl from " up in the forks er the river " for Audrey ! Remounting his horse, he re joined the hunting party in time to see Bob Sanders throw himself out of the saddle, dash in among the hounds, and a moment later wave that coveted trophy --the fox's tail--high over their heads ; but he could no longer enter into the enthusiasm, and, as they rode homeward in the cool, bracing air of the first daylight hour, he scarcely heard a word of the animated chat going on about him, and could think of nothing but the mysterious behavior of " Miss Susana Jinkins."

BURSTS THE BLACK, FELL CLOUD. 165
XV.
BURSTS THE BLACK, FELL CLOUD.
WHEN Mrs. Mathis re-entered the house, she found that Audrey had returned to her room and shut herself in. An hour later she sent Sally Ann to call her to breakfast, and not until then was the door opened. While they were at breakfast a negro boy arrived from the Hall farm with a large basket of vegetables as a present to Mrs. Mathis, and a note from Miss Rachel directing Audrey not to come home till the afternoon, when she would be sent for.
The girl endeavored to appear pleased at the thought of remaining, but Mrs. Mathis saw that she was really dismayed, and immediately began to plan means of diversion, hoping to shorten the day for her.
" How'd you like ter go wi* Sally Ann an' see 'em cut down the bee-tree ?" she asked soon after break fast. " They aim ter cut it down an* gether the honey this mornin'--Zachariah an* Rafe Powers. Zachariah foun' it, but hit was on Rafe Powers's lan', so they went in cahoots, yer know."
Audrey had at first rebelled in thought. She was being kept in the dark--treated like a child--when she had the right to know; she would not stay longer. But the recollection of Miss Rachel's urgent, agonized manner made her hesitate, and when Mrs. Mathis pro posed this diversion she decided to stay.
"Zachariah's done gone," her hostess continued, " but you an* Sally Ann kin fine it. You jes* got ter tek that path long side er that fence tell yer git past

166

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

that little swamp, an* then cross over ter the fur side er the burn down thar. You '11 hear 'em cuttin' over in the woods soon's ever yer git half-way 'cross the burn."
Sally Ann had now washed herself free of the wretched " bloom of youth," and was a more agreeable companion--to the eye at least. Moreover, with a tact beyond her station, she carefully avoided all refer ence to the curious episode of the early morning, and Audrey showed her gratitude by entering with interest into the conversation, the safe and inexhaustible sub ject of dress having been chosen.
Before they had quite crossed the " burn "--a wide stretch of woods wherein the wire-grass had lately been burned off that the cattle might have the benefit of the tender new growth--they heard the stroke of the axe not far away, as Mrs. Mathis had promised, and reached the neighborhood in time to see the bee-tree totter and faU with a terrific crash. It was one of the largest pines, and the earth trembled beneath their feet as it fell. This forest giant had developed a hollow within him, and there the wild bees had stored their winter food. Audrey stood at a safe distance with Sally Ann, and watched the two men as they cut into the Jree and took $ut the honey, meanwhile protecting them selves from the enraged bees by the deft employment of the smoke of burning rags. Mr. Mathis presently brought them a long, beautiful piece of the honey-comb,' every cell of which was freighted with the luscious liquid, and even Audrey tasted it with relish.
A few minutes later, her curiosity overcoming her prudence, Sally Ann ran forward, caught up a handful' of burning rags, and stood where she could see the

BURSTS THE BLACK, FELL CLOUD. 167
process of " robbing " a bee-tree in all its particulars. Left to herself, Audrey still looked on, but wandered back in thought to the wild hubbub of the' morning-- to Arthur and her dream--to Miss Rachel aad that mysterious, overhanging calamity--to her grandfather, his swamp-lair, the shadow of his crime--to her beau tiful, unhappy mother, whose story she had been but partly told. What a family of sorrow it was! She was thinking that she inherited this sorrow, and need not hope to escape; her time would come. She be lieved it was come already ; but a little longer and she would understand, would become older and wiser, and --far more unhappy.
All the afternoon Audrey waited for the buggy to come for her, and then, at half-past five o'clock, disap pointed and full of anxiety, she started out to walk home. But at the stile she stopped, seeing Miss Rachel coming through the woods, all alone and walk ing! The girl was greatly astonished, .but when, with slow, weary steps, her aunt came up to the stile, she did not ask what this meant; she said, first of all, in a quick, anxious way:
" Did you see him last night ? " " Yes, and--and--" " And--"
'* And I found out what I expected. It can't be," Audrey turned pale and leaned heavily on the fence. " And did you explain to him ? Does he un derstand and--agree ? " she almost demanded. " No--no--I couldn't. I--I fainted, and he had to leave me. I told him to come again this morning. That is why I sent you word not to come home.' " And he--he--'

168

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

"He came, but I couldn't see him. I was too ill."
" Then he doesn't understand yet," she spoke, in some relief.
Mrs. Mathis now approached and invited Miss Rachel to come into the house, but that lady hastily declined. Audrey now saw that her aunt looked very weary, and insisted on her coming in. " You'll break down,** she declared. " What made you walk ? "
As Mrs. Mathis led the way to the house Miss Rachel explained, in an undertone, that she had only intended to walk a little way and meet the returning buggy, and not meeting it she had walked on and on until, when more than half-way, it suddenly dawned on her that, in her preoccupation and distress, she had forgotten to give the order for sending the buggy. Mrs. Mathis placed chairs for them in the wide entry, then brought two watermeloDs, and, having drawn the knife through both, she offered Miss Rachel and Audrey each a half. They dipped out a few mouthfuls and endeavored to eat, while their hostess sat near enjoying the other melon and exerting herself to entertain them. She offered to call her husband up from the field and send him for the buggy, but Miss Rachel would not suffer it, and after a twenty minutes* rest insisted on starting homeward. As soon as they had crossed the stile and taken the path through the woods, she caught the arm of her niece and held fast to it
"Audrey," she began, almost with a sob, " a mar riage with him is absolutely impossible. But I can't tell you why. In mercy to you, I must not"
Audrey stopped short and looked at her aunt.

BURSTS THE BLACK, FELL CLOUD. 169
" What do you mean, Aunt Rachel ? You must tell me."
" No--no--" stubbornly. " What do you think I am made of ? You treat me like a child." The girl spoke sternly. "Already you have made me suffer more--" *' Well, well--oh, I see I must! . . . Remember you force me, poor child." *' Let "me take the blame, then--I force you." " Well, then--his father--your father--his--" " Did they kill each other ! " " Oh, no, no--a thousand times worse than that. Oh, how can I tell her! " Miss Rachel cast her eyes upward, as if for help. They were in a lonely place ; no one could see. Suddenly she fell on her knees, dragging Audrey down with her. " Child--child--we must pray," she sobbed--" we must pray." Audrey put her arms round her aunt's neck, and said nothing. " O Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on us in our terrible trial," prayed Miss Rachel. " Sup port this poor child ; give her strength to endure this --this--" She broke down, sobbing. " I can't pray," she moaned ; " I can't pray." She became hysterical, and her body was shaken with spasmodic sobs and fits of tear-drowned laughter ; she uttered irrational ejacula tions. A suspicion awoke to life and grew in Audrey's mind : her aunt must be losing her reason. The thought filled her with horror, yet gave her a certain relief; it was an explanation. She rose abruptly to her feet, lifting Miss Rachel. " We must go home,"

iiSiLS^i:,: .Vi-:

I/O

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

she*said, in a calm, firm voice. " It won't do to give way like this, Aunt Rachel You needn't tell me to night--if it excites you so."
They walked on, supporting each other, the elder woman gradually growing calmer. They were only half-way through the woods, and it was growing dark. A river of air was pouring softly through the pines over their heads : to Audrey's ear it was not a river of air, but of surging fears, perplexities, gnawing anxieties; to Miss Rachel's it was a river, nay, one heaving sea, of misery, black as night. To the less imaginative ear of the woman who had followed, watching them anx iously all the way from the Mathis farm, it was merely a lonesome, dreary sound, suggesting the doleful side of life.
As they passed out of the woods at last and took the lane at the Hall farm, the woman who had followed close behind stood still in the road. She saw that they seemed hardly able to walk, but they were near their own gate now and out of harm's way. " I wish ter the Lord I knowd what ailed them two po' women," she said, aloud, as she turned to retrace her steps through the dark woods.
"I have it all written out," said Miss Rachel, as they entered the gate. " I'll get it, and then you can read it" :
" I couldn't read aline of it to-night," said Audrey, faintly, weakening as her aunt strengthened. "You must tell me, Aunt Rachel"
"111 tell you, then."
They crept into the sitting-room and sat down there close together on a small sofa, all in the dark; and presently Miss Rachel began her story. A few

BURSTS THE BLACK, FELL CLOUD.
minutes later Maum Chloe, who had heard them enter, appeared at the door: the supper was waiting, would they not come out and eat ? No ; they wanted nothing; she could put everything away and retire for the night. Maura Chloe went away mumbling and shaking her head. Alas! these were troublous times. She did not go far. On the back piazza steps she sat down and waited, listening for sounds from the sitting-room. For a long time she stayed there, the murmur of Miss Rachel's voice falling faintly upon her ear. Occa sionally she would start to her feet at the sound of desolate sobs, exclaiming, softly: " Oh, laws-a-mussy! dem po* chillun. I wish ole mawster 'uz yuh ternight."
At last, when all seemed quiet, she presented her self at. the sitting-room door again; the supper was still there, would they not come ? ' She was sure they m\ist be " horngry " by this time. No ; they wanted nothing to eat--but she might bring them a light.
When the lamp had been brought, and the anxious old mammy had reluctantly departed, Audrey rose and seated herself at the table. She was not ghastly; in the light of the lamp her face seemed a pale, dead blue. Her eyes were feverish and dry, and she spoke with the calmness of one whose nerves are strained, but not shattered:
" Yes, I'll write and make him think I never loved him. That will be kinder than to tell him."
" The simplest way to settle it would be to explain to him, dear," spoke Miss Rachel from the sofa. " He might as well know, now that you do."
" No; I am determined to spare him." Her bright, feverish eyes wandered about reflective!?, and then she

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

added : " He'll get over it sooner if he thinks I jilted

him."

"Very well, then. . . . You had better date the

letter" three days ahead. It will take that long to reach

Washington."

Then the girl began to write, bringing all her forces

to the accomplishment of her bitter task. She had

1

steeled herself--had determined to be strong; but she

was not strong enough for this. In a few moments she

broke down; the pen dropped from her hand, and her

head drooped forward on the table. Miss Rachel rose

and bent lovingly over her.

"I'm afraid I can't," she whispered, frightened.

" Let me explain to him for you."

" No--no." She took up the pen again. " I'll try

to imagine that it is not myself, and that I am only

copying something out of a book," she proposed,

eagerly. And so she began to write again with fever

ish haste. But the task was no easier, and anon a

spasm of tearless sobs seized on and shook her rudely.

She struggled hard for composure, and, after a few

moments, seized the pen and went bravely on till it

was done. Then she left the table, and lay back on

the sofa with closed eyes.

"Now, 111 write to Ad'line," said Miss Rachel,

taking her place at the table. This is what she wrote :

* DEAR ADALINE :--I write to ask you to do me the favor of posting the inclosed letter in Washington as soon as this reaches you. This request will seem strange, and I ought to explain, but I can not now. I know yon will believe me when I assure you that it is nothing dishonorable. The end justifies the means.

BURSTS THE BLACK, FELL CLOUD. 173

Do this for me, and accept the thanks of your old

friend

RACHEL."

On the lookout early next morning, Maum Chloe saw Audrey come out of her room and leave the house. The girl wore a loose morning-gown, and her long brown hair fell in billowy masses over her shoulders. There was blood in her cheek, and her step was firm; at a distance she certainly did not look ill. But what frightened the observant old mammy was the feverish glare in her eyes. No one had slept in the house that night.
At the front gate Audrey paused, and looked about her aimlessly for a time; then let herself out and walked slowly down the lane. Having watched her anxiously until she disappeared in the pine woods, Maum Chloe left her household duties to care for themand followed down the lane in uneasy haste.
" Wut de matter, honey ? " The girl lay face down in the wire-grass under the pines, and every now and then a soft gust of wind came skipping through the woods and playfully tossed her flowing hair. The utter abandon in her attitude was suggestive of death itself, and Maum Chloe's heart leaped fearfully when she stumbled, breathless, upon the place. There was no answer to her question, and she fell, frightened, on her knees beside the girl, touch ing her gently. " Wut you doin' out yuh, honey ? You scared me. Wut de matter?" "Nothing." " Come git yer breakfusV " I can't eat"

* ^--*--

174

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

" Oh, yes, yer kin ; eat sup'n, chile, an' den you k'n go ter sleep."
"Ill never sleep again." " Oh, laws-a-mussy ! I know wut de matter, honey " --bursting into tears. " Miss Rachel des a while ago tole me. " There was no rejoinder. The girl had not changed her position. \ " Oh, honey, do donh lay deh dat-a way ! " u Maum Chloe, I can't bear it. I think I'm going to die."
'* Oh, no, chile--oh, no ; mus'n' be stud'in' 'bout sich ez dat Dat wonh do." The old mammy had stopped crying ; there was no time for crying. " Yuh, honey--put yer head een my lap an* try ter g ter sleep " --lifting the unresisting girl. " Dass it ! Now less mek out lak you a lil baby gal, an' I de nuss gwine rock yer ter sleep. Yuh we go ! Donh stop ter study 'bout trouble no mo'--fergit all about trouble, an* mek out lak de ole times is come back wen you 'uz a lil baby

Slowly swaying her body back and forth, she sung in a soft low voice an old-time lullaby freighted with tender child-recollections for the unhappy girl :
" Bye-o, baby--go to sleep-y, Bye-o, baby--go to sleep."
She sung it again and again, earnestly, tenderly; and when, at last, the girl burst into tears and sobbed on her knee, she sung it more earnestly still, but less sadly--and kept on and on, till she was weary and could sing no more. The girl's sobs had ceased then also, and she lay very still The old mammy shivered

PERPLEXITIES.

^5

as she listened to the dreary sighing of the wind in the pines.
"Less git up fum yuh, honey," she said suddenly. " A snake '11 come long yuh an' bite us turreckly."
But there was no answer; the girl was asleep.

XVI.
PERPLEXITIES.
AT an early hour that day Arthur came again, as was expected. Miss Rachel felt that one thing more was needful before her duty was done ; she must see him, and contrive to send him away. The interview, resolutely prolonged by Arthur, was as unsatisfactory as it was painful. Miss Rachel had promised Audrey, and kept her word, though the young man entreated, even demanded, an explanation.
" I have sent her to Washington for her health," she told him, and as she spoke her manner suggested a person who shudders at the thought of swallowing a bitter dose.
" Washington / . . . You can't mean what you say ! When did she go ? "
"Last night," faltered Miss Rachel. It was ter rible to tell a lie, even for a good end. "She will write to you from there. All further intercourse be tween you was impossible, and it was the best way."
"What am I to think of her?" demanded the young man, amazed, grieved, and angry beyond ex pression.

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
" Think what you like. She insists that you must not be told ; otherwise, I could satisfy you that she is right in half a dozen words. We only do you a kind ness in not telling you."
Arthur retorted bitterly; then, when more calm, he said: "Miss Hall, you think, because I left here as a mere boy and forgot her, I am inconstant. You take her away from me because you distrust me. You give me no chance to--to--"
" I don't distrust you," protested Miss Rachel, in tears, " I believe in you ; I--I love you, poor boy." She touched his hand affectionately. " If--if the cir cumstances were not as they are, nothing could please me better than to see you marry her. But it is impos sible--impossible.''
She was silent a moment--then : " Now, go, Arthur --please go. And don't come back. Go and find some other girl, who I hope will make you happy."
"She is crazy," was the young man's thought, as he rose abruptly and bade her good-day.
He went back to Melville and wrote a letter to Audrey, inclosing it to Miss Rachel, and asking her to forward it He implored the girl to explain. Her action was so strange, so unaccountable, that he could hardly believe himself awake ; what could she mean ? He protested his love for her ; he had faith in her in spite of what she had done ; he could not believe she had played him false--not yet. But if she refused to explain, he would soon be forced to that belief. What else could he think ? At present he thought her action might be due to a sudden and rash resolve taken when she heard (perhaps for the first time) the ugly stories which had been circulated by that man Redding, be-

PERPLEXITIES.

177

lieving a barrier had been raised between them there by. If this were so, he begged her to accept his assur ance that nothing of the sort could ever stand between them. He would noj. deny that the stories had dis turbed him. They had caused him much anxiety for several days; nevertheless, he had made up his mind that, true or not true, they should not shake his deter mination to marry the only woman he could ever love.
The ugly stories had, indeed, troubled him. Con vict was a dreadful word in his vocabulary, and, al though in his m.ost anxious moments Audrey herself had remained unchanged, had stood out before his vision pure, white and beautiful, with deep-grounded regret and repugnance he felt that that black, hideous thing in her background (if these tales were true) would always be there to glare at and mock him. However, his mind was fully made up, and, when he had written and dispatched the manly letter outlined above, he derived a certain satisfaction from his action.
Immediately afterward he sought an interview with Captain Brooke, anxious to discuss the painful situa tion with him. The young man had once been advised by a bachelor friend to beware of imparting a secret to a married man. "He will be sure to tell bis wife," this philosoper declared; " his wife will be sure to tell her bosom friend, and her bosom friend will be sure to tell the whole town! " But Arthur did not hesitate. Let the whole town know if need be ; a miserable lover must unburden his mind.
" Arthur, I'd wait here till she writes," was Captain Brooke's advice. " It will do no good to--to run after her."
"Isha'n'tdothat."
12

ITS

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

" After all, she may write satisfactorily. That aunt of hers is a very peculiar woman, and may have led her into some--foolishness."
For five long days the young man waited at Mel ville--shooting many partridges and smoking many cigars, trying to possess himself with patience. But when the letter arrived, unmistakably stamped with the Washington postmark, it only increased their aston ishment and perplexity.
" It is simply maddening," said Arthur, wildly, hav ing called Captain Brooke into his room and given him the letter to read.
This is what Audrey had written :

" MY DEAR FRIEND :--When you receive this, you

will, I know, be terribly shocked to think that I went

away without a word to you ; but it was all I could do.

I could not bear the thought of remaining to try to

explain to you--anything was better than that I write

now only to say that everything is over between us--

everything! Such love as ours could not have been

real--oh, how could it!--and you will soon forget me.

Try to forget me and become interested in some other

girl. That will be the best way. Good-bye, Arthur!

You will not believe it now, but I would do anything

to save you from suffering, and that is why I write this

unsatisfactory letter, which will seem heartless and

cruel, rather than explain, which would be still more

cruel

AUDREY."

" Well, Arthur, old fellow, I hardly know what to say." Captain Brooke sat down on the bed (he ac knowledged to a fondness for sitting on the edge of a

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bed), putting his elbows down on his knees and glanc ing doubtfully toward the younger man, who was nerv ously lighting a cigar at the window. " It is terribly puzzling," he added, mournfully. "I would never have believed that a quiet, earnest girl like Audrey could have been led into such--mystery."
" Do you think she has jilted me for another man ?" --with fierce eagerness.
Captain Brooke avoided looking over toward the window. " I don't like to condemn her," he said, slow ly--" such a genuine, womanly girl as she has always seemed to me ; but it is hard to think of any other explanation. If she has done that--and I hope not-- if she is capable of that, she is not the girl you wanted, and you'll get over it soon. That's one comfort. You are certainly better off without her in that case." He was silent a moment, then added : " Father used to say that everything was in some way for the best, and it's true. I think there is Providence in everything --the very smallest things--and I am sure that this thing will turn out best for you in some way. I'd try to think of it in that way, Arthur."
Mrs. Brooke, who knew the letter had arrived, listened anxiously and impatiently for the returning step of her husband. When at last she heard it, she rose and met him eagerly at the door, putting her hands on him and studying his face.
" Oh, what does she write ! " "Here's the letter. He asked me to show it to you. I think he wants your sympathy, poor fellow." She took the letter eagerly and read it through in great haste; then went through it again more slowly, afterward crumpling it absently in her hand, as she

i8o

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

looked at her husband. "Poor Arthur," she mur mured at last. Then : " Oh, Walter, what do you think of it ?"
"I hardly know what to think," Captain Brooke answered in a non-committal tone, not lifting his glance from the landscape visible through the window.
Then after a heavy, doubtful silence, the young wife rose, and, kneeling on a hassock beside her hus band's chair, leaned over against him with a sigh. It was in their private sitting-room.
" Walter, I have a suspicion," she began presently, in an uneasy way. u It may be wrong in me, but--but I can't help it. ... But if that's the explanation," she broke off suddenly, M why should she have run away > She--she could have broken with him without all that"
" What are you talking about, Gertrude ? " "Oh--I don't know --nothing!" She blushed Kghtly and seemed abjectly self-reproachful--leaning against him in unhappy indecision, perhaps almost wishing she had said nothing. But a moment later she bent round to look into his race ; suddenly, with a playful movement, she removed his glasses, the better to get the expression of his eyes. Then her uncertain ty vanished in a half-smile of relief. * Oh, you know what it is " she said. " You are thinking just what I am thinking."
" Yes, I know what it is," he answered, kissing her. "What else can all this mystery mean ? She is a girl $f too urach good sense to have run away merely on acccrant of those stories. . . . Still, it is hard to doubt a girt like Audrey."
** Wfco could it have l>een ?"

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IgI

" Nobody from this neighborhood. It must have been some one she met in Washington."
" Oh, Walter, we are wrong--we must be wrong. Audrey couldn't have done it. There was never any one but Arthur, I am sure."
" Well, if she doesn't explain, nobody can blame him if he thinks so."
" What did he say ? " " Very little ; he seemed stunned. . . . His love for that girl has made a serious man of him." Late that afternoon, as old Uncle Tony was haul ing a load of " pine straw "--the brown, fallen pineneedles, which thickly carpeted all the woods--he en countered on the road an old friend, whom he recog nized with unfeigned pleasure, though he marked with concern that the young man looked haggard and un happy. Arthur had a request to make, and stopped to speak with the old man. " You donh never come deh ter my house no mo* lak you useter do 'way yander dat time wen Miss Aud'ey 'uz a right young gal," said Uncle Tony, re proachfully.
Arthur smiled, and asked the old man what had become of his daughter Silvey; she did not seem to be about the Hall farm n'ow.
"Who, Silvey?" Uncle Tony looked annoyed. " She 'way down een Flur'dy now. She done ma'ied an' gone away long ago. She been ma'ied six er seben times ; she call it marryin'. She ma'ied Caesar Brown fust, but she wanh deh een dat town tree munse fo1 she got tired uv 'im an' quit 'im. Dat de way wid nig gers," continued the old man, bitterly. "Yer canh lam urn nut'n. Many's de day I beat dat gal tell she

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couldn' see straight, an* yit she went right long 'an done dat-a way."
It was not an agreeable subject. Arthur spoke of something else, afterward coming to his request :
" Uncle Tony, I am going away, perhaps to be gone a long time. If anything should happen to--to Miss Audrey--anything you may think I ought to hear about--could you manage to let me know ?"
Uncle Tony readily promised, laughingly confess ing that he could not write himself; he had a nephew who could, however, which was just as good. And then, at the sight of a five-dollar bill, the old man was so overcome that he forgot his post-bellum principles and his impatience with Maum Cbloe for clinging to the old-time expressions, and earnestly bade the " young mawster " go on his way rejoicing.
Three days after Arthur's departure Capt. Brooke received a letter from him which thickened the cloud of perplexity yet more. The following paragraph is quoted from it:
" I have given her up. The whole thing was a lie --a scheme to get me out of the way. She has not been to Washington at all, or, if she has, she certainly took a returning train within a few hours. The day that I left Melville I rode past the Hall farm and saw her. As I went by I thought I saw some one like her in the yard, and so I rode up to the very gate and' looked with all my eyes. It was she beyond any doubt I was not over fifty yards from her, and sat there on my horse fully two minutes watching her. After a while she saw me, and then she turned first red and then white, and ran into the house^ . . . What I can not explain is the fact that she looked so ill ...

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I am done with her for good--or perhaps I ought to say she is done with me. I shall certainly take her advice and try to forget her as soon as possible."
The news that Audrey was within five miles of them was received with the utmost astonishment by her friends at Melville--astonishment which deepened into amazement as day succeeded day and she made no sign. At the end of two weeks Mrs. Brooke pro posed writing a note and inviting her to visit them, but her husband objected. Until she voluntarily notified them of her presence in the neighborhood, he thought they hardly had the right to approach her in any way. Another fortnight passed, and then one day a black messenger came with a note from Miss Rachel, urgent ly requesting the captain and his wife to call on her without delay. This, as Mrs. Brooke declared, "al most took their breath away"; but within two hours of the summons they were on their way to the Hall farm.
Miss Rachel received them in the sitting-room, where she lay wrapped up on a lounge. It was evident that her hold on life was gradually weakening; her white face had a peculiar, sunken appearance, and her eyes seemed abnormally large and bright
"I sent for you on account of Audrey," she said to them, without preliminary. " She is simply wasting away, and something must be done. I appeal to you as her friends. Take her away from here and try to divert her mind."
" When did she return from Washington ? " vent ured Mrs. Brooke.
" She didn't go there. I had to tell that poor young man that in order to get him away." She paused a

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moment and sighed wearily. " Before we talk any more, I wish you would read this statement I wrote out for Audrey two years ago. It will explain the whole thing, and correct some false impressions about my father which that man Jasper Redding circulated."
Captain Brooke took the MS. reluctantly, as if contemplating a protest; but Miss Rachel interrupted him:
" It will be best for Audrey if you know everything about it You can then be perfectly free to make up your minds whether you will shun her or still be her friends. I wish you both to know it all," she added, imperatively.
Maum Chloe was then called, and showed the visitors into the parlor; and this is the story Captain Brooke there read aloud to his wife :

XYIL
MISS RACHEL'S STORY.
u MY DEAR CHILD :--Since you have been with the Harveys in Washington, it has occurred to me that I had better write out a brief history of certain things which you ought to know at some time in your life, if not now. This is necessary, because my health is precarious, and, should anything happen to me before your return, you might go through life ignorant that yon have a father who is yet living and whose name is not Hall. That I could not wish, although I have purposely kept you in ignorance until now. When

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185

you understand everything, you will see that there were many reasons why I did not want you to know this as^a ctyild. One reason was, that I had made up my mind 'not to let you bear your father's name, for fear he would come and claim you. Under ordinary circumstances I should have had no right to do this, but as it was I felt fully justified in my course.
" Your father had shown himself to be a man so weak and so cruel that I feared to trust you with him. Besides, I was sure he did not want you, and I needed you a thousand times more than he did. But I have not the strength to give more than a general outline in this statement; what I may leave out I can tell you afterward.
"I will begin by telling you that your mother's family is of both English and French descent. It was all English on father's side, but mother came of a good South Carolina family of French descent. I mention this, not as a boast, but that you may know that your mother's family has not come down from what I have heard called the " sweepings of Europe." As to your father's family, I have never been particularly informed about their pedigree, but they are very great people, I have no doubt--in their own estimation, at least.
" Our mother died when Sister Hilda (your mother) and I were very small, and soon after brother Maurice, the only boy in the family, followed her. We were then living near Beverley, of which you have heard me speak. We lived a mile out of town on a farm which father owned, but worked mostly with negroes hired from their masters. He owned only five negroes then --two girls about the house, a plow-boy, our dear old Maum Chloe, and Uncle Peter, her first husband, who

186

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died before we left Beverley. But the farm was not all that claimed father's attention. He was a great student, and had for years a professorship in the female college at Beverley, where Sister Hilda and I were educated. Though I was two years older, as little girls, your mother and I were always near the same size, and afterward were always in the same classes in college. But we were not much alike, she being natu rally brighter and more charming in every way. At nineteen she was a real beauty, and I doubt if there was in Beverley or all the county a young lady really more lovely and refined--and there were some very charming ones there. I might tell you a thou sand things about your mother in her girlhood which would interest you, but I must go on to what is more important
" Soon after we had finished our course in the col lege-- when Sister Hilda was just nineteen -- father went on a trip to California during his summer vaca tion. He left Jasper Redding, a young farmer, as overseer on our place, and for a while everything went well enough. This Jasper Redding was a shrewd fellow, but he was uneducated and very coarse and common, and, worse than all the rest, had the audacity to fall in love with inc. I don't know how I ever could have allowed him to go so far, but he proposed to me finally, and then I sent him off the place, and Uncle Peter and Maum Chloe and I managed the farm by ourselves. Jasper Redding's name may not be new to you. He was here several weeks when you were about en years old, and threatened to expose your grand father's hiding-place to the sheriff; and then suddenly disappeared, and I have never heard of him since.

MISS RACHEL'S STORY.
" When father had been gone a month, he wrote us that in San Francisco he had met an old school-boy friend who had become a millionaire in some business connected with the gold mines. This man had built a great steam yacht, in which fee intended to go all over the world, and had invited father to go with him. The long-desired opportunity to visit foreign lands had come, father wrote, but hi must not think of it; it would not do for him to be ajway from home so long. We all went wild over the idek, for his sake, and did everything to persuade him to ^go--even Maum Chloe sending her message to the master that she would take good care of the " young mistresses " while he was away. And so, finally, father made up his mind to go on one or two voyages at any rate, and sent in his resignation to the directors of the college--a step he had been considering some time on account of ill health.
" Before I go on, let me saiy that we heard from father quite regularly, but only two or three of my letters reached him during the/ fifteen months that he was away. Four months had /hardly passed after he left us, when one day Sister' Hilda walked into the house with a young Adonis by her side, and from that day on he was virtually the master of us all. It was impossible to object to him; if one attempted, one ended in becoming his champion. I don't think there was ever a man so faultlessly pleasing. Sister Hilda had met him twice in Beverley, I believe--this Linton Markham--and one day (I don't remember how it came about) he walked home with her and walked *"*, as I said. This was the beginning, and long before the end he had walked into all our hearts and into poor Sister Hilda's soul.

I

188

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

"Howl loved to watch them together! He was but twenty-six and she not yet twenty, and both were so beautiful and so much in love! Maum Chloe was conquered as well as I, and was eager to see the match. I must confess, I liked the idea, too; hardly two months had passed before they were talking about getting married. Of course your father had not been with us all that time; he had been coming and going between Beverley and Savannah, where he was not regularly in business as yet, I believe. I refused to see them married until father should come home and give his consent, and then the struggle began. Poor sister! In this new love and life which absorbed her, she could not see her duty to our dear father--nor could I, as I ought It was easy enough to declare my de termination, but it was not so easy to hold out against two such charming, persuasive people as they were. I refused again and again, and wrote to father; and still they persisted, and father said nothing in his letters, knowing nothing. So the time came when I could hold out no longer.
" Then this Linton Markham, who had taken our hearts by storm, shocked us both by asking that the marriage be kept a secret He was the only heir of his rich aunt, Mrs. Agatha Trench, he told us, who was as devout a Catholic as she was capricious and exacting. She had already chosen him a wife, and it would not do for her to know at once that he had married Sister Hilda; he must have his own time to tell her. At this poor sister burst into tears, and I grew angry; we had a great quarrel among us--though, perhaps, I did most of the quarreling. I forbade him to speak to us again of his aunt I said as to whether

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189

he told her or not, that was no concern of ours ; he was a man and knew his own affairs, and Sister Hilda was not marrying him to please Mrs. Trench or for the sake of her money. But all our friends should know; he might make up his mind to that--or else pick up his traveling-bag and go ! I even went fur ther and resumed my opposition to a marriage at all until father should return. But he would neither give her up nor wait; so one everting they were married in the presence of all our friends. And poor father, ignorant of everything, was on the other side of the world.
" There was no notice of the marriage in the Beverley paper, but I don't think they would have accepted a bribe even if it had been offered. They forgot such things occasionally until the news was too stale to go in, I have been told. I regretted it as soon as it was over, and was so worried I grew sick; but it almost made me cry to see how happy your mother was.
" What happened after they left me and went to Savannah I learned through Sister Hilda's letters and by other means. As your father did not want his wife to go into a boarding-house, they secured servants and took a nice, furnished house in a quiet street; and at first Sister Hilda was very_ happy and contented with everything. Your father took her out quite often, usually driving, but he did not present her to any of his friends, and nobody called on her. Naturally she became very unhappy before long. One day she overheard her own servants discussing her position-- talking about your father's reported engagement to Miss Wheatly, the young lady of his aunt's choosing. He was actually engaged td her, it appeared, and it

190

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was expected that they would be married in the fall. And what then was to become of * poor Miss Hilda ' ? You may imagine your mother's feelings. When the poor child sternly, if tearfully, reproached her husband, he confessed that he had not yet been able to tell his aunt of their marriage, and until then it was not an easy matter to break off his engagement with Miss Wheatly which had been m existence before he met your mother. This was nothing but a confession of contemptible cowardice, and worse; but this much can be said for Linton Markham--although so weak and worldly, he really loved his wife. He was deeply moyed by her tears, and promised to tell his aunt at once ; but he kept putting it off, and every day Sister Hilda's misery increased.
** They had been married about four months when your mother's supreme trial came in the shape of a visit from Mrs. Agatha Trench. She was sitting with her husband one evening just before tea, when the door-bell rang, and in a minute an old lady dressed in black walked in upon them. ' Aunt Agatha !' cried Linton, starting up. Then he~looked from his aunt to Sister Hilda, and back again, as if he felt that the time for confession had come. But the stern old lady did not wait for him to speak. ' And so this is the place,' she said, angrily, 'and this is the--' but she would not look at Sister Hilda again, and nervously fingered a brown rosary which she carried, and moved her lips rapidly for several seconds. ' I will not apolo gize for my intrusion,' she then said to your father. *I was justified in coming. I wanted to be convinced. One of your hirelings has betrayed you, young man. Oh, Linton, Linton,' she said, pleadingly, 'is it pos-

MISS RACHEL'S STORY.-
sible that you can be so wicked ? This, then, is the place where you spend your time; this is the reason why the marriage is so distasteful to you, and why you want to put it off--put ife-off!'
" Then my poor sister who had listened horrified, dumb, stood up and tried to spea for herself, but was interrupted before she could open her mouth. * If you have a spark of respect for my gray hair,' cried Mrs. Trench, in a rage, ' you will forbid her to speak to me, sir !' She then walked to the door and turned to speak again: ' Linton, come away from this place --come with me! This house shall be watched, and if you come here again, I'll have nothing more to'do with you.' Outside the door she looked back, entreatingly: ' Oh, Linton, there is repentance. I will pray God and beseech our Lady for you. Come with me !'
" Telling Sister Hilda that his aunt woufll have to be humored, your father followed her out of the house. The servanf-girl, who had let Mrs. Trench in, and who had most Irkely been listening to all this, followed them some distance, spying, and afterward reported in Sis ter Hilda's hearing that the old lady had made Linton go in with her when they came to the cathedral, and dragged him up the aisle and made him kneel with her before the altar.
" My blood boils when I think of the shameful posi tion that man allowed his wife to occupy in the eyes of his aunt and his servants--all for money ! Poor Sister Hilda was so prostrated that she kept her bed for three days, and during all that time her husband did not come near the house, for fear of his aunt's spies, I suppose. As soon as your mother grew better she had her trunks packed, and got ready to come home,

192

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only waiting to see her husband once more. At the end of a week he came at night, explaining that he had been obliged to go out of the city with his aunt for a few days ; and when Sister Hilda told him she was go ing home, he begged her not to leave him, promising to confess to his aunt at once. * When you have done that, write to me,' your mother said, and left him. It was then June. A letter from father arrived about the same time, from which it was clear that he as yet knew nothing of the marriage. I now wrote again, and it was this letter, months in reaching him, which brought him home in great haste in the fall.
"As soon as Sister Hilda reached home she began to receive the most loving letters from her husband ; but she soon put a stop to this. She wrote him but once, telling him his letters were mere mockery as long as he left her' in her cruel position, and he must cease them. 'It breaks my heart to think of it,' the poor child wrote to him, ' but if you love your aunt's money and favor more than my dignity and happiness, every thing must be at an end between us.' She could be very firm for the right, in spite of her great love for him and her affectionate, yielding nature. It made me cry to see her write with so much spirit when I knew she was dying for her husband. And that poor, weak man, a slave to his avarice and worldly ambi tion, obeyed her and wrote no more, promising him self, no doubt, that the favorable moment for confes sion would soon come, when he would make ample atonement. The summer went ~by and the fall came, aad Sister Hilda waited for him in vain. If he had come she would have lived, for she had no disease ; she only starved for him. She never spoke an unkind

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193

word of him, and would not let me abuse him. I grew impatient with her sometimes, thinking she ought to hate him as I did. But she loved him to the last, and was always looking forward to his coming.
" She drooped more swiftly when the summer was gone. I tried to divert her and make her eat and ex ercise more, and begged her not to give up and die. She smiled her faint, white smile, and said she would not die ; if she did not have your father, she would have you. But the day after you came into the world she quitted it. I immediately telegraphed to your father just the words 'Your wife is dead'; and then I felt that our intercourse with him was ended. He made no reply, but some time after his aunt, Mrs. Trench, wrote me a letter full of remorse for the part she had played in poor Sister Hilda's tragedy. ' How could I know ?' she wrote, * He never told me, and I did not dream that she was his wife. Your sister has been terribly wronged/ And she promised me I don't know how many prayers to ' God and our Lady' for the repose of my poor sister's soul. Ah me! Sister Hilda did not need her prayers, and what good were all the ave Marias and paler nosters in the world to poor stricken father and me ? Mrs. Trench said that, if her nephew had only told her at first, she would have forgiven him in time, and they all might have been happy together. ' Alas ! alas !' she wrote, be wailing his procrastination. It appeared, also, from this letter, that your father had not confessed until two or three days before the time set for that impos sible marriage with Miss Wheatly, when he fell sick and begged his aunt to make explanation to the de ceived young lady. Before anything was done, how-
13

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.
ever, my telegram arrived, and the wrathful old lady was not long in deciding that the marriage preparations should go on. She wrote that your father gave a pass ive consent for the sake of peace ; and that farce of a marriage was actually consummated at the appointed time.
" I have told you that your grandfather came home in great haste in the .fall. It was just at sister's death. She died at five o'clock in the evening, and he arrived next morning. I can not dwell upon that day--that week -- that month; the recollection is too painful. Father's feelings you must imagine. Sister Hilda was his favorite child, and it almost killed him. I was afraid he would go crazy--striding about in that way and looking so fierce and grief-stricken. The night after the funeral he'came to me and said he would take the Savannah train two hours later. He did not mention your father's name, but I felt afraid, and begged him not to* go; and he silenced me with one look and went.
"You have doubtless already guessed the terrible event of the next day. I have called it * accident' sometimes, and said father was not to blame (I shall always believe he was not in his right mind), but I won't attempt to build up excuses for him now. He killed a man, and, of all things most awful, killed the wrong man. It was another Linton Markham, first cousin to your father. I heard the story at the trial. It was on the day of your father's marriage to Miss Wheatly, and the other Linton Markham had come to the city with ,, his wife to be present at the ceremony. Father had never seen Sister Hilda's husband, and did not know there was another man of the same name. He met

MISS RACHEL'S STORY.
the other Markham and denounced him as the 'mur derer of his daughter'--that is what the witness said in court. The gentleman was of course thunderstruck, and, thinking he had to deal with a madman/called for the police. Then father sprang upon him, threw him down, and clutched his throat, and before help came the man was dead. Oh, it was too horrible! The murdered man, I heard, had a young and lovely wife, and was a gentleman of high character and standing.
" But I must hurry on to the end and try to shut my mind to these horrors. I left you in Maum Chloe's care, and went up to the city to see father and attend the trial. It was not a trial which many people, even in Savannah, will remember now, perhaps ; it did not excite the attention it would have otherwise, because the war was just breaking out and absorbed the interest of every one. Our friends did all they could for us, but father was condemned and sentenced to the peni tentiary for life. I saw him, as I thought, for the last time, and then went home broken-hearted to Maum Chloe, only to be tormented by Jasper Redding. In my disgrace, he thought I should be glad enough to turn to him. I convinced him at last that I would never turn to him in the way he wished, even at the risk of my life and everything I prized--so he with drew from the field and went to Texas. Shortly after ward I sold our farm near Beverley, and came to Malvern County with you and Maum Chloe.
" My dear child, you know the rest--you have only to recall your childhood. The story of your grand father's escape, his life in the swamp, and his death when you were thirteen years old, would not be new

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to you. As to your father, I will only add that I do not think that he ever knew of your existence. I have seen his name every now and then in the Savannah papers, and, from all that I have gathered, I think he must be a very wealthy man. But to think of him as wealthy recalls Mrs. Trench and her horrible money, and that in turn brings up your mother's dying smile, so I do my best not to think of him at all
" I might add a great deal here which you would like to know, but I am worn out and weary of the pen (have been trying hard to finish the task to-day),-and I think, for the present anyhow, I'll let it stand as it is. Good-bye."

So ended Miss Rachel's story. On a page (origi nally left blank) at the end of the manuscript the fol lowing was written in pencil:
"I add this for the benefit of Captain and Mrs. Brooke, to whom--as Audrey's best friends--I have made up my mind to show this statement. They probably have known all along that young Mr. Markham was the son of Linton Markham of Savannah, but I did not know it at first, though the mere mention of his name startled me. I knew the family was large, and hoped he might be no more than Audrey's distant relative. I was encouraged to allow myself this hope by the fact that Arthur does not resemble his father. Linton Markham was fair and had blue eyes, while Arthur's eyes are brown and his complexion corre sponds. The father had also rather a weak chin, but his son has a strong, square jaw. But, even if I^had known at the beginning, I could not have prevented their unfortunate love for each other, because it all

A PHYSICIAN AND AN AVENGING ANGEL.
happened before I saw Arthur or heard his name. Jasper Redding first warned me, and I afterward asked Arthur himself to make sure. Now you understand why I separated them so suddenly. The young man is poor Audrey's half-brother."
XVIII.
MRS. BROOKE AS A PHYSICIAN, AND MAUM CHLOE AS AN AVENGING ANGEL.
IT was a memorable hour. Mrs. Brooke had be gun to wipe away unruly tears and softly exclaim that it was the most pitiful story she had ever heard of, even before the captain had finished reading the manuscript, and when he came to the last word she waited only to say, " Oh, Walter, how dreadful! " then hurried in to Miss Rachel and assured her of their deep sympathy and unchanged friendship. And when Audrey, pale and frail--the merest shadow of her for mer self--came at her aunt's bidding, the impulsive Northern woman took her in her arms and wept over her softly.
They took Audrey back to Melville with them. The arrangement was that she should live there for several weeks, driving over to the farm once every day to see her aunt, accompanied always by either Captain Brooke, his mother, or his wife. In this way they hoped to divert her mind, and check that rapid waste of life which had already gone too far. The girl made some effort to alter the arrangement, telling them it

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IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

was wrong for her to be away so much in the present condition of her aunt's health, but submitted finally-- even submitted to being occasionally cheated out of the daily visit to her aunt. They accomplished this by persuading her that it was not good for Miss Rachel to see her white face too often. So Audrey and the old madame were not infrequently delegated to look after the children, while Mrs. Brooke and the captain made the daily visit to the Hall farm.
Mme. Brooke bewailed the fact that Amelie was not there to fill the house with light and laughter, and exerted herself to supply the deficiency in a measure. Her tender heart bubbled over with sympathy for the unhappy young girl, and she set herself to help her by amusing her. It was evident that Audrey made a painful effort not to appear dejected ; it was also evi dent that her interest in everything had become torpid. Mme. Brooke therefore read to her, took her walking, enticed her into games at cards and croquet, and played for her; for, although at her age the old lady did not play as her daughter-in-law did, her piano re citals were, nevertheless, of a very interesting charac*$r. She never, even by a hint, referred to the girl's troubles. Her manner was always smiling, lightly humorous; she appeared to think playful badflfefge was better medicine than serious condolence,, and she probably detested the people who put on a long face to express sympathy. In this she was wiser than her daughter-in-law, who, in her earnest desire to speak helpful words, sometimes brought up the unhappy robject when otherwise it might have been forgotten, or oely remotely remembered.
Under such treatment 'Audrey showed some im-

A PHYSICIAN AND AN AVENGING ANGEL. 199
provement after three or four weeks, and before the end of the winter it was seen that her downward tend ency was at least checked. Captain Brooke had very soon approached her, through his wife, on the subject of communicating with her father. He thought it natural and proper that her father should be informed of her existence, as well that the way might be opened for him to make atonement for his past behavior as because of the question of inheritance. But the girl at once showed herself to be strongly averse to the idea, and further discussion of the subject was post poned indefinitely. Her chief objection appeared to be on Arthur's account; communication with her father would inevitably lead to his learning of their unhappy relationship, and this she had determined to avoid in the very first hour of her own discovery of the truth. Besides, she did not think she could ever make up her mind (this she confided to Mrs. Brooke) to seek out a father whose life, as she knew it, had only been such as to rouse in her feelings akin to anger and contempt rather than to filial affection and respect As to the question of property, that did not trouble her; Arthur would inherit her father's estate, and she was most willing.
If Audrey's downward tendency had been checked, Miss Rachel's had not It became more and more evident that the invalid lady would not live much longer. A significant symptom in her case was that she stubbornly objected to having medical attention, refusing to believe in her own danger. On account of this unfortunate state of things, it gradually came about that Mrs. Brooke, who believed religiously in homo3opathy, constituted herself the domestic physi-

,^~-

200

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

cian of the apathetic sufferer, who smilingly acqui esced, as if in some harmless comedy proposed for her amusement.
Born in a homoeopathic atmosphere, and having always felt an interest in the ailments of others, it had naturally fallen to the lot of Miss Gertrude Miller, in her home in the North, to consult the homoeopathic domestic book and prescribe when the physician was out of reach, or when the malady was more or less trifling. She was therefore not ill-fitted for the task she had undertaken, and, had the present case been of a similar character, she might with reason have ex pected to see her efforts crowned with success. But the malady was extremely complicated, as well as serious, and the patient a most bewildering one.
However, under the treatment Miss Rachel did seem to improve greatly during short intervals, and if the subsequent relapse left her as profoundly ill as ever, the fact remained that she had enjoyed a brief respite. But whether these brief periods of comparative good health resulted from the action of Mrs. Brooke's remedies or were produced in vir tue of nature's own decree, I shall not attempt to say.
It was during one of these periods that Mrs. Mathis, that persistent, well-meaning person who had also a stock of remedies which she delighted to apply, and who had well-nigh become Miss Rachel's b&te noire for that reason, put in an appearance at the Hall farm. She came to offer her services, and was surprised and somewhat disconcerted to find Mrs. Brooke in the sick room. Homoeopathy was a word which had never knocked for entrance at her ear, but she well knew

'..4

A PHYSICIAN AND AN AVENGING ANGEL. 2OI
that the "Yankee lady" was said to hold peculiar views where medicine was concerned, and she feared that the always stubborn and unbelieving Miss Rachel, under such influence, would now more than ever be disposed to skepticism. However, her faith in her own remedies remained unshaken, and she had no in tention of backing down.
" Good evenin', Mis' Brooke. Powerful glad ter see you, ma'am," she said, politely. " How's all home ? "
The lady addressed having given satisfaction on this point and expressed her acknowledgements, Mrs. Mathis turned to Miss Rachel. j- "I was powerful sorry to larn you'd been tuck wuss," she said, feelingly, "an* I put in ter drap roun* soon's ever I hearn it. ' Zachariah,' s'l, ' I'm a-gwine over thar an' see ef I kin do any blessed thing ter holp that po' creeter' thoo,' s'l; * fur I know in reason she's a-needin' help from whatsumever quarter come, livin' thar that-a way wi' jes' Aud'ey (an* she so po'ly, too), an' them ongrarteful, triflin' niggers', s'l. So I gethered up an* come over, an' ef I kin holp yer the leas' bit, I'fl be proud ter do it."
Miss Rachel murmured thanks, looking apprehen sively toward a large bottle which her visitor calmly procjueexi from a pocket in the side of her frock.
/ " I thought I mout do worse'n ter bring this along," she explained, seating herself at the head of the bed. "Mebby you've hearn tell er this tonic ermine--hit's a mixtry I been a-fixin* up now gwinei-on twenty year. Hit's made out'n the water from biled hops an' poke root, an' 's sweetened wi' 'lasses and spiked wi' good strong whisky. Oh, I tell yer, thur ain't nothin' like it fur buildin' up a weakly 'oman. Hit's everlas'nly been
. * '..'-:.';-

2O2

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

the makin' er Soph/ Carter, an' you mer know with all them leven childun she's had ups and downs a plenty. . . . An* ef you'd like a little tase er sage tea, now, jes* to holp yer feelins," continued Mrs. Mathis, pro lific of suggestion.
She made another dive into her great pocket, but Miss Rachel declined the tea with hasty politeness. The " tonic," however, might be left, and if she felt the need of it, she would try it But she was in no need of medicine, having improved greatly since the previ ous day.
" Powerful glad ter hear it, ma'am," said Mrs. Ma this, heartily. " They tole me you was bad off. What 'd you tek ter holp you thoo so quick ? "
"What was it?" asked Miss Rachel, a just per ceptible twinkle in her eye, as she looked toward Mrs. Brooke.
"Arsenicum last," was the serious answer, "and it was that which helped you to rebound so quickly."
" What you say hit was ? " questioned the herbdoctress, curiously.
Mrs. Brooke repeated the name ofj the medicine, and pointed to what appeared to be half a tumbler of water on the table, the tumbler being covered with a piece of card-board which was surmounted by a silver tea-spoon.
" Kin I look at it ? " asked Mrs. Mathis, as she got up eagerly and walked to the table. " I allers sets in ter lam sump'n 'bout everthing they gits up fur dosin* sick folks, yon know."
She took up the tumbler, uncovered it, and, after a moment of hesitation, lifted it to her nose. Then, sur prised at the lack of odor, and determined on a further

A PHYSICIAN AND AN AVENGING ANGEL. 205
investigation, she put the glass to her lips and cau tiously tasted the contents.
" Do fer goodness* sake ! yer don't call that medi cine ?" She looked in amazed appeal from Mrs, Brooke to Miss Rachel " Why, that ain't nothin' 't all in the worl' but water ! "
Her aggrieved expression of countenance was too intensely comic to be looked upon calmly ; Miss Ra chel's lips twitched dangerously, and Mrs. Brooke was unable to restrain a light laugh. The latter attempted to explain; but no explanations of the peculiarities of the homoeopathic remedies on her part, or polite con cessions from Miss Rachel as to the efficacy of sage tea and herbs in general could comfort Mrs. Mathis after that She looked dazed, and soon took her departure.
**Highferlut'n,"-.she whispered, going out. "Ah Lord--too highferlut'n fur me." She walked down the lane shaking her head.
They had all been hoping that with the coming of spring Miss Rachel would begin to permanently im prove, but before the winter was gone it was seen that she would rebound no more. They persuaded her at last to call a physician, but his presence was of no avail. Audrey quitted Melville and spent all her days and nights at home, and then at the end of a fortnight her aunt died.
Her death occurred in the morning, and when Maum Chloe stood at the front gate at five o'clock in the afternoon, all the last offices had been performed, and her body lay in the parlor ready for the burial on the morrow. Maum Chloe did not weep; she looked mournfully down the lane and soliloquized, as was her habit.

204

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

" Laws-a-mussy I de trouble een our fam'ly I Dee

ainh no en' ter it Fust Miss Hilda broke 'er heart

fer dat ongrateful man, an* died; den ole mawster got

center dat awful trouble an' got sont 'way yawnder,

an' den broke out an' come yuh an' tuck de fever down

deh een de swamp ; den soon's ever dah po' chile

growd up, yuh come dis awful, awful trouble an* plum

wo* Miss Rachel out tell she had ter gie up an' die;

an* now dah po' chile--she des ez wite ez a ghose--

she gwineter foller right long behin' 'er. Dass de way

hit been een our fam'ly fum de ve'y start--trouble 'pon

top er trouble--trouble 'pon top--"

She stopped. A man was coming up the lane

whom she thought she recognized. His gait seemed

uncertain, and, when a little nearer, she saw that he

reeled from intoxication. A moment later she recog

nized Jasper Redding, and, with an exclamation of

mingled astonishment and disgust, she hurriedly passed

through the gate, and walked to meet him.



" Hello, An' Chloe!" cried the man, as he stag

gered up within a yard or two. " Wheh's Mith

Raishull? Go tell 'er I w-want to see 'er. Jes* g-g-got

h-yer from South Fluridy, an* I w-w-want to see 'er--

bjr gum!"

He reeled past her toward the gate.

"Don't yer go een dat house!" shrieked Maum

Chloe, her eyes flashing fire. " Don't yer go een dat

homer-yer yeh me 1"

* Whuh, h-lookerh-yer, ole 'oman, who you speakin'

to,s-s-say?"

* "You canh see 'er--no-suh-ree!" -she retorted,

angrily. "She done out eryo' reach now, Mr. Red-

din*; she's dade."

A PHYSICIAN AND AN AVENGING ANGEL, 205
" Wh-wh-what ? "
" Yasser, she's dade, an* you holp ter kill *er--you same buckra man."
He understood her, and instantly became partially sober, asking when the death had occurred. She told him, adding: " An' I tink de bes' ting you k'n do is ter go 'long off fum yuh an* lef we-all lone."
" Well, I reckon I will," he said, slowly, and, turn ing, did his bravest to walk down the lane without staggering.
As Maum Chloe watched his retreating form, her eyes blazed. She remembered all the suffering he had brought on her dead mistress, and she could almost have cursed him. Thoroughly possessed by rage, all at once she turned and rfcn toward Uncle Tony's cabin, where some half-dozen! negroes were gathered, and were talking about Miss Rachel, Jinny, the housegirl, being in tears. When sh^ had arrived within fifty feet of the house, Maum Cttloe beckoned to three young negro men seated on the door-step.
" Josh !" she called, softly, not wishing to attract the attention of the other people in the cabin. " Come yuh--all you boys."
They got up and went to her, and she hurriedly began to speak to them in a low voice. Her manner was most urgent, but they shook their heads, doubt fully, until she put her hand in her pocket and they heard the chinck of silver. " I'll ge yer a half a dollar apiece," she promised, and, after a little more urging, they agreed to follow her.
Half an hour later it had grown quite dark, and as Jasper Redding slowly followed his road through the heavy woods bordering a small stream a mile

206

IN THB* WIRE-GRAS^/

from the farm, three dark forms suddenly materialized from the bosh, sprang upon him, bore him down, and dragged him into the woods. It was too dark to dis tinguish the color of their faces,*but he knew by the effluvia from their sweating bodies that his assailants were negroes, and he fought like a madman, drunk as he was. Bat his struggles could avail little against three strong men, and they soon bent him--face down --over a pine log, and held him there while a fourth figure, evidently that of a woman, whipped him un mercifully with a large hickory switch. He disdained to cry out, and lay there hardly uttering a sound, though writhing with pain, until the woman had tired herself out
"Datll do," she whispered at last "Now fling 'im een de branch." -
When this had been done, they waited only to see that he did not drown, then frantically took to their heels. So possessed were they with fright that they did not stop to take breath until they were in the midst of a field of broomsedge more than a quarter of a mile away. There Mainn Chloe fell to a seat in the tall sedge, and rocked her body back and forth in an ecstasy of laughter.
* Anh-hanh! " she shrieked, triumphantly. " Oh, yes, Mr; Reddin', see wut yer got now! Dat wut yer git fer beia' sich a mean, sneakin,' low-down buckra man. Hah-hah-hah ! " she laughed, " I done paid yer op--done paid yer up."
But presently she remembered Miss Rachel, and sobered*
* Now, look yuh, yon boys," she said, rising, " you keep yer moot' shet txrat ail dis yah, ef you know wut

THE RETURNING WANDERER.

207

good fer you. Dat man de meanes' man ever made-- 'e nut'n but a piece er low-down wite trash wut orter be shot--but ricolleck 'e a wiU man an* we's niggers / Plenty wite mens yuh een dis county ready ter cotch us an' hang us ef dey uz ter git win* uv it Der ainh nobody ter tell but you boys, an' you know better. Mr. Reddin' ainh gine tell; 'e be too shame. . . . Yuh now, tek de money."
She was right. The miserable man who, an hour later, slunk through by-ways of Wiregrass Ridge to ward the back door of the " Grand European Hotel," though he suspected who had struck him this most cruel and telling of all blows, felt himself powerless, and was possessed by the one desire to leave on the earliest train the accursed region where he had suffered a disgrace, the recollection of which would fill him with burning shame and rage as long as he should live.

XIX.
THE RETURNING WANDERER CREATES A SENSATION.
AUDREY had come out into the grounds to be alone --having pleaded a headache and retired when cards were proposed for her amusement after dinner. Her friends, the old madame and Amelie, were delightfully cheering and entertaining, she thought; nevertheless, one might grow tired of them for the time. One might even grow tired of Mrs, Brooke, whose conversation was always interesting; for, when one is not quite well, conversation may be real labor, and it was necessary

208

THE WIRE-GRASS.

to converse when in the company of Mrs. Brooke. The captain's company was the most restful, Audrey thought; she never tired of him. She loved them all, but this genial gentleman farmer, who had been enough her friend to suggest what a father might have been, was her favorite.
For Audrey was not well. Her trip to the North, in company with the Brookes, during the summer, had improved her health but little, and, although it was not likely that she would die, as they had at first feared, it was certain that she would remain pale and frail for a long time to come. As she now seated herself in a garden-chair near the summer-house, her eye traveling over the landscape bathed in the warm autumn sun shine, it occurred to her that just one year had passed since that memorable morning after the party, when Arthur rode home with her from Melville, and it was ^perhaps fortunate that the retrospective thought thus induced was presently interrupted by the woman com ing across the grass from the direction of the carriagegate.
It was Mrs. Mathis, who had come to see Captain Brooke on business. She smiled at Audrey with all the cheeriness of former times, as she seated herself, wearily, on foe bench facing the girl, but her homely, weather-beaten face seemed more deeply furrowed than ever before, and was now drawn with care and grief. Her husband was ill, and her daughter had been buried only a month ago. Audrey had heard Sally Ann's un happy story. Early in the past winter she had run away from her home to marry a wandering young peddler, whose specialty was lightning-rods, and who had a neat mustache and a persuasive tongue, but

THE RETURNING WANDERER.

209

whose suit was resolutely discountenanced by her father and mother, they having set their hearts on a sturdy young farmer of the neighborhood, whose hon esty and good intentions could not be questioned. So Sally Ann had taken her fate into her own hands and
run away with her charmer, who deserted her within six months. Some two months later she appeared at her father's door, telling a tale of ill-treatment which made her parents furious. The poor girl was ill when she came, and a few weeks later she died.
" I wish I had a hold o* him," Mrs. Mathis was heard to say of her rascally son-in-law. " Pd show 'im--I'd do 'im worse'n ef one his own lightnin'-rods was jammed down his th'oat--so I would ! "
Even before she knew the worst she had felt deeply disgraced. That her daughter should stoop to run off with a lightning-rod man, a stranger whose character nobody knew! It was hard.
" An' atter we done all we could ter raise up our childun right, too," she would say. " * Zachariah,' s'l, when we moved down h-yer from Coffee County, ' Zachariah, we ain't 'ristercrats,' s'l, ' but we come o' good hones' people, an* we aim,' s'l, ' we aim ter raise up our childun ter be honer'ble an* hones' an' ter think sump*n er theyself/ s'l. An* now jes' look a' that gal er mine ! She skacely waited ter git grown good 'fore h-yer, she runs off wi' that outdacious rascal of a lightnin'-rod man, an' sets everybody ter talkin' 'bout us an' the niggers ter laughin' an' mekin' out like she wa'n't married, an' I dunner what all. I tell ye, hit's hard."
But to-day Mrs. Mathis only spoke of the burial, and the state of things since then at her home.
14

2IO

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

"Ther* wa'n't so many at the fun'al," she told Audrey, " but a lot er women folks is been thar sense. They come in droves from 'crost the river whar Zachariah's kinfolks lives. I never seen the like. They low they come ter gie us comfort, but I ain't seen the * comfort* yit. 'Bout all they do is ter set round the yard in my chairs an' rub snuff an' chaw cane--speshly that gang from 'crost the river--an* don't hardly say nothin' ter nobody. I up 'n tole Zachariah week afore las' I reckon 'fore we quit we'd hatter rip open the seed-cane bank ter gie 'em saderfaction."
** I putty nigh had ter run everthing from the start," she said, in speaking of the funeral. " Zachariah hardly done a thing, 'cep'n ter make the coffin. The ole man's been mightily broke down ever sence Sally Ann fust run off, an' sence she died he ain't skacely been able ter git about Mighty few come," she added. " Cap'n Brooke wer the only big rich man in the county what come. Yes, he come. He come an' holped 'em tote the coffin out an' put hit in the wagin, an' then he tuck me in his buggy ter the grave yard ; an' he holped 'em let the coffin down in the grave, an' then he tuck his turn flingin' in dirt wi' the spade. Yes; he done it--an', Aud'ey, I'd wuck my fingers ter the bone fer that man, yer h-yeh me! " she declared, passionately. There were tears in both her own and Audrey's eyes.
" ' Zachariah', s'l that night, ' he's the best man that walks on the top side er the yeth, an' I jes* dare any body ter tell me they kin pint at a better.' He's been good an' neighborly from the start--and that ain't all. I reckon you must 'a knowd, child, we-all ain't been doin* so well fur two year gone an* better. Zachariah

THE RETURNING WANDERER.
ain't the man he used ter be, an' wi' nobody ter holp 'im but me, the crap failed two years hand gwine, an* that sot us back mightily. Ef we put in five acres er corn an* ten in cotton atter this an* ten* ter it, we'll be lucky. We-all's had ter rake an* scrape ter keep sump'n ter eat in the pot this year gone, I tell ye. Well, Cap'n Brooke knowd we wa'n't bankin' money, I reckon, an* he come over thar las' week ter holp us out. He wa'n't the man ter hurt us by offerin' us money, 'caze he knowd we was proud same ez other folks an' didn* want ter be beholden ter nobody; an' what yer reckon he done ? "
" What ? " asked Audrey, greatly interested. " He up'n 'lowed he wanted ter buy that piece er land er ourn nex' ter the swamp--an* he got six thou sand acres! I knowd Zachariah'd never be able ter ten* that piece er groun' agin, an* we was mighty glad er the chance ter sell it ; but I knowd Cap'n Brooke didn* rayly want it, an' when he_up'n offered twict ez much ez hit was wuff, hit sorter went hard wi' me, an' I up'n tole 'im, s'l: < That piece er lan* ain't wuth that; hit's plum' wo' out,' s'l. S"e : ' Oh, yes, hit's a good piece er lan'. I like the look of hit', s'e. ' I reckon I'll leave it fallow fur a while and then mergnore it well, an' then hit's bound ter make a big crap,' s'e. Well, sir, atter that, I jes' plum' broke down an* couldn* say no more. An' then he told us ter think hit over, an* got up an' left. " Me an* Zachariah's been a-talkin' Txrnt it all the week," Mrs. Mathis continued, " an' we aim ter sell ' Zachariah, we'll be beholden,' si, ' but hit won't be ter a mean man what'll be everlas'nly throwin* it up ter us--he'll do by us more ez ef he was beholden ter

212

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

us stidder we-all ter him/ s'l. * Hit's double the wtith uv it,' s'l, ' an* we shorely will be beholden ; but hit's bein' beholden ter the best man ever made, an' ef you ain't, I ain't too proud ter stan* that,' s'l. So thass the way we worked hit out 'twixt us, an' I come over ter-day ter say we'd sell."
Mrs. Mathis rose. "You look mighty porely, chOd. You takin' any medicine now ?" she asked.
" I took some of Gertrude's the other day." " Oh, Aud'ey! hit was a sin an' a shame ter dose Miss Rachel wi' nothin' but water all las' winter that-a way.'7
"It must be more than water," said Audrey, smil ing. ' Gertrude believes in it firmly."
" Co'se she does, but my gracious! she ought ter lam better. Goodness knows I says nothin' 'ginse her intentions--not me! I know mighty well ther' ain't nothin' wrong about her, or she never would 'a got the man she did. . . . You look bad yit, child. You bet ter let me send you a bottle er my tonic."
This suggestion evidently failed to kindle Audrey's enthusiasm, and Mrs. Mathis did not insist. Her spirit was broken in these sad days, and she offered her remedies with less determination. She bade Au drey good-by, and went on to the house to inquire for and consult with her hero.
Having sent her granddaughter to the piano to practice an hour, and consumed that much of her own time in the serious diversion afforded by Taine's " Hktoire de la Littdrature Anglaise," Mme. Brooke called Amelie, and followed Audrey into the grounds. And later, as the sun went down, they were playing croquet there. The old madame was laughingly

THE RETURNING WANDERER.

213

accusing her granddaughter of a wicked penchant for cheating and cheerily calling upon the white-faced, hollow-eyed girl sitting by on the bench to keep her eye on the conscienceless little sinner, when suddenly they Were all aware that there was a horseman at the gate.
It was a young man whose face was so sallow and thin that his square jaw-bone seemed prominent even at that distance. Mme. Brooke was at first in doubt, but Audrey knew him at a glance, and, rising abruptly, she started toward the house almost at a run.
Captain Brooke had been riding over the planta tion all day, and had just come in tired out and amply appreciative of the comforts the house afforded. He was looking through the last number of "The Nation," and his wife was just preparing to take some light needle-work and seat herself at his side before the small wood fire in their charming sitting-room, when Audrey appeared in the doorway with a round pink spot on each cheek and her eyes alight with strange excitement. The eyes of the two women met, and then they seemed to glide toward each other. Audrey whispered a word or two in her friend's ear, and hurriedly left the room.
" Oh, Walter! " (Mrs. Brooke was pale with alarm.) " Walter, he has come--Arthur." She ran to the win dow and looked out. - '* There they come now! They are coming to the house.'*
Captain Brooke had joined her at the window* and now saw his mother slowly approaching in company with Ame"lie and the young man. They were giving Audrey time to disappear.

214

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

" Walter^you must send him away. She can't stand it; it will kill her."
" Go tell her I'll get him off early in the morning. . , . I'll go and bring him in here."
iBut Mrs. Brooke lingered. The sun was now quite down and the dusk gathering; she drew the curtains, and the room was lighted only by the firelight from the open chimney-place.
"You are not looking well," she said, anxiously, when tne captain had brought Arthur in and she had greeted him. And, indeed, he looked even more hag gard in the firelight than he had without; he seemed nervous and restless. " Have you been ill ?" she asked.
" I had the fever in Cuba--was in bed with it twenty days, and then had to start for home before my strength returned ; so there's not much left of me, as you see." He smiled a smile of sad merriment, and took the chair which Captain Brooke offered.
" That was a terrible journey in your condition." Mrs. Brooke only seated herself on the edge of her chair--she was going to Audrey presently.
" They sent a dispatch to me that father was dan gerously ill and said < Come/ " explained Arthur, " and I got out of bed and started the next day. But I might as well hare taken my time and saved my strength," he added, sighing. " They buried him two days before our ship reached Savannah--on Tuesday of last week."
" Yes ; we read about it in the * News.' " After a few words more Mrs. Brooke rose, and, ex changing one grave look with her husband, left the room. The subject was now inevitable; Arthur be gan to speak at once. ** Captain Brooke, I came down here to--to ask

THE RETURNING WANDERER.

215

you about Miss Audrey Hall." The captain looked uneasy, but said nothing, and the young man con tinued, hurriedly: " I heard the other day that she was still unmarried, and that she was at your house a great deal--that she traveled with you and your wife last summer. Until I heard that, I thought you knew no more than I did about her reasons for--for treating me in that way, as you said nothing at all about her in either of your letters. But when I heard that, it seemed to me that you must certainly understand the whole thing and consider her justified in what she did." An expectant pause--then, "/should like to have an explanation,"
"Are you still in love with her?" asked Captain Brooke, after a moment or two of painful silence.
" I am sorry to have to say that I am. I did my best to stop thinking about her, but it couldn't be done. I haven't been fit for a thing during the past ten months but to travel around and try to kill time.*'
" I am sorry to hear that." Arthur stared. " She really loves some one else, then ? " he asked, a little huskily. " No."
" Then what made her--" " She did what she thought was the kindest thing to you, Arthur. She is wholly innocent of anything wrong, but she can't see you again." " Why, what on earth can you mean ! " " Arthur, she is here, and--" " Here !--to-night ?" He was almost on his feet, but Captain Brooke put out his hand to stop him. " Sit down, Arthur. She is here, but you can't see her. She is in a dangerously

2l6

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

delicate state of health, and the sight of you might cost her her life. ... If she were not here, we should be glad to have you stay ; you know that. But it will be better for you both if you go away early in the morning. It is disagreeable to have to say this, but she is here under my care, and I must consider her welfare."
For a moment or two Markham seemed stupefied. " Look here, Captain Brooke," he spoke, with a touch of brusquerie, " do you really mean to -say that I have become such a frightful bugbear in the eyes of this girl who once professed to love me, that the mere sight of me will--will endanger her life ?. . . I ask you to tell me, sir--what is this mystery ! "
Captain Brooke rested his head upon his hands a moment before he. spoke. " She would not tell you, Arthur, because she thought it kinder not to, and she still insists that you must not be told. I agree with her that you are better off left in the dark, and I would not advise you to force an explanation. I would rather advise you to go away, unsatisfied as you are, and fall in love with another woman as soon as possible."
"And my answer is, that you are dealing with a man, not a child. I will be satisfied with nothing less than all there is to tell"
The supper-bell rang. Captain Brooke rose with out a reply, and invited Arthur out to the dining-room. They found the old madame and Ame*lie at the table; Mrs. Brooke came in a few moments later. Audrey, of course, did not appear. The meal was a sad fail ure--very little was eaten, and the conversation was almost a hopeless drag. Mrs. Brooke was afraid to speak, lest the tears in her voice should add to their

THE RETURNING WANDERER.

217

unhappiness; the captain also was almost wholly si lent Not so his mother. She well knew that the situ-' ation was most miserable, and she was very unhappy, but--que voulez veust Must they therefore eat their meal like savages, and neglect to entertain their guest ? She smiled and talked with heroic resolution, Ame*lie emulating her. They asked Arthur about his travels, and the sorely perplexed young man was obliged to respond.
After the dreary meal was over, Captain Brooke took Arthur back to the sitting-room, but in a very short time he came out again and called his wife.
" Go and tell Audrey it is utterly useless to try to keep it from him," he said to her. " He simply won't be put off. Tell her it is the only way to settle the matter, and ask her to give you her aunt's letter for him to read."
Mrs. Brooke went as directed, and after some little delay returned with Miss Rachel's statement. The captain saw that she was in tears, and stopped to kiss her sorrowful face before he took the manuscript in to Arthur. He came out again almost immediately,closing the door behind him, and then he put his arm round his wife, and they went out and slowly promenaded the piazza. The old madame and Amelie, with light wraps over their heads and shoulders, were similarly engaged on the white walks leading through the grounds. The night was glorious with moonlight and stars, and the mellowlight fell in sparkling showers on the white statues of the grounds in startling contrast with the dense shade under the great oaks. There was not even a whisper in the tall tree-tops ; the night seemed strangely still, the pervading hush being only

218

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

deepened by the occasional dismal hoot of an owl

away down in the woods about the lake below the

house.

The presence of such profound peace only seemed

to mock those who waited anxiously. What was to be

done ? what was to be done! Ame'lie and her grand

mother paced back and forth in utter silence, even

their light hearts overshadowed by the hopeless cloud,

" Oh, Walter, what can we do for them ? "

Captain Brooke made no reply to his wife's sob

bing question, and they moved on in silence. But a

few minutes later he spoke, with some anxiety : u It is

strange he doesn't call me; he must have read it

through by this time." Only fifteen or twenty minutes

had passed; they thought it must have been an

hour.

.



Mme. Brooke had decided to come in, and was

mounting the piazza steps with her granddaughter

just as they all heard a sound from the sitting-room,

and strained their ears to listen. A quick step crossed

the room, a hand grasped the knob, and the door

opened; then a voice an excited, eager voice called

out:

" Captain Brooke, where are you ?"

They all moved forward as in a w,ave, filling the

wide hall doorway which opened on the piazza, and

Arthur ran to them there.

"It is all a hideous mistake," he said ; "I am the

son of the Linton Markham who was killed, and we

are only distant cousins ! "

"But Miss Rachel said you told her " The

hands of the two men had met.

"Yes yes, but I attached no importance to her

"BRING IN ANOTHER WOMAN.'

219

question, and didn't take the trouble to explain that J was only an adopted son of--of Audrey's father."
What a change seemed to have come over the world! That all-pervading deathly stillness of the night which had hung over them like a black, fell cloud--where was it now? The air was astir and shook the trees cheerily; a mocking-bird was awake on the house-top, and showered the night with its echoing notes ; and from the far-away negro habita tions of Melville came the faint sound of cheerful laughter and singing.
More questions were asked and answers given, and then Mrs. Brooke, with her gentle eyes half-drowned in a mist of joyful tears, ran wildly away to find Au drey, leaving the captain to walk and smoke with Arthur in the grounds, and the laughing old madame to run to the piano, begin a Chopin waltz, and com mand Amelie to dance!

XX.
. '""BRING IN ANOTHER WOMAN."
?Mks., BROOKE reported that Audrey's action was not what might have been expected. At first she had seemed overjoyed, even as they all were, but presently she had almost seemed to doubt what was told her, inquiring eagerly for more particulars; then she had suddenly pleade'd to be left alone. As she related all this to the attentive, but skeptical captain that night, Mrs. Brooke declared that the girl's expression of face

22O

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

had been a strange one, and she was sure that it meant something alarming. In the morning, however, her apprehensions assumed vaguer outlines and became more remote, her husband's confidence restoring her own; and she planned joyfully to leave Arthur in the parlor after breakfast and send Audrey to him there for their first meeting.
Captain Brooke would have been glad to remain and see them happy together, but business connected with the shipment and sale of the yield of his cotton fields called him early to Wiregrass Ridge. It was as late as half-past ten before Audrey appeared, and Arthur had been waiting in the parlor nearly two hours. Mrs. Brooke met her in the hall when she at last came out of her room, and they kissed each other without a smile--well knowing, both of them, that it was not a time for smiles. The girl looked like one who had not slept for days ; the flesh was dark beneath her eyes, and she was paler than ever, though the small spot of color still showed on either cheek.
''Where is he -- my cousin Arthur?" she asked, with effort, rather than eagerness. " Is he waiting to ' see me ? "
" Yes--he is in the parlor." Passing across the hall half an hour later, Brooke heard a sound which startled her. The parlor door stood open ; she went forward softly and looked in. Audrey was not there, and Arthur sat with his head bowed on the table between his arms. " Are you ill ?" she asked, gently. The expression of his face, as he sat erect and looked up at her, proclaimed that her fears had been ' more than realized. He looked stupefied, as from a

"BRING IN ANOTHER WOMAN."

221

sudden, undreamed of calamity; he did not tell her

what had happened in detail, but she saw it all: Au

drey had come to him shy and shrinking, afraid- that

he would touch her; he had sprung up to meet her

with open arms, and had been chilled to the heart by

her coldness. Far from returning his caresses, she

had cut them short, drawing away and looking as if

they sickened her ; and when he spoke of their love,

their future marriage, she seemed intolerably pained,

and quickly spoke of something else, calling him

" cousin," and asking him to tell her about her father,

who had been a parent to him if not to her. And ere

long she had seemed to grow faint, and, hastily excus

ing herself, had almost fled from before his astonished

eyes.

-c

" I can't understand it--unless her mind is af

fected," said the young man, hopelessly.

" Don't be discouraged. She may get over it; she

will. Think of what she has suffered; and she is ill,

you know. ... I will go to her now."

Audrey was not in her room, and Mrs. Brooke

sought her in the grounds. But the summer-house

was empty, and she was nowhere in sight; she must

have gone all the way down to the lake. Opening a

a gate, Mrs. Brooke walked through an orchard of

several acres, where were orange trees laden with

ripening fruit, then entered a stretch of woodland

which, though hemmed in by broad, cultivated fields,

had never been touched. Under the taD pines here

the upturned hurricane-roots and white old logs which

had fallen before the storms of far-gone years were,

therefore, plentiful enough, and the billowy masses of

the hardy wire-grass looked old and hoary, as if no

222

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

sweeping woodland fire had ever scorched them to the earth and forced them to renew their youth. The wood led down to a dark, still lake, whose shores were grown up thickly with towering live-oaks and magno lias, the former for the most part gtay with the mourn ful Spanish moss, suggesting Bonaventure, at Savannah.
Here on a bench at the boat-landing Mrs. Brooke found Audrey, and an hour later they returned to the house together.
" She says the marriage can't be thought of, and we must send him away," Captain Brooke1 was informed by his wife when he returned home. 4< She says she has felt that way toward him for so long that she can't change now--as if he were her brother, you know. She told me she couldn't describe the feeling, but she used the expression 'loathing tenderness* once to give me an idea of it. It is only too real with her, Walter, and she is in terrible distress."
Later Captain Brooke had a long talk with Arthur. The matter was extremely perplexing to the one and tragically painful to the other, but they became more cheerful as they discussed it, finally adopting the view that after all it was not so surprising. Audrey had given her first and full affection to the man of her heart, and then for ten months had >^en compelled to look upon her love as unnatural and unholy, and fight it off as she would an ugly, pursuing nightmare. The result was broken health and strength and the utter absence of a hope. She could not now at once bridge over that long dread night of time and go back to her earlier self. Her torpid feelings held her mute; she listened to the tale of her deliverance with incredulous ears. Her mind was not ** affected " in the

"BRING IN ANOTHER WOMAN."

223

sense that word is ordinarily used to imply; but her

whole being was under a cloud. The black, fell cloud

which had enveloped her ten months ago was indeed

lifted, but the unhealthy mold which had sprung to

life in its deadly hade was still there and would defy

even the sun for a time. The mixed, unhappy feeling

which her love had become had so mined itself into<* all her being that only a return to health and old-

time thoughts and emotions could be hoped to set

her free.

"Give her time, Arthur," was Captain Brooke's

counsel. " Leave her to herself for two or three

weeks."

*

So the unhappy lover went away. He looked hag

gard and miserable as he took leave of them, and they

were afraid that he would be ill. But when he came

back at the end of a fortnight he was looking better--

having now given himself up to rest for the first time

since his hurried return from Cuba. It wrung their

hearts to listen to his eager inquiries about Audrey,

for they could give him little comfort. There was no

visible change in her beyond the fact that she seemed

a good deal stronger.

Arthur went back to Savannah again the next day,

proposing to make them another visit two weeks later.

In the mean time he ventured to write to Audrey, and

received from her a very discouraging answer. She

bade him relinquish the hope of a marriage between

them once for all. He then consulted a physician

about her case, and when they again saw him at Mel

ville a few days later he brought with him a prescrip

tion of a most unconventional kind.

'! Medicine will do her no good,*' the doctor had

224

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

said. " However, I'll prescribe." And he thereupon wrote a single line upon a slip of paper, inclosing it in a small envelope which he gave to Arthur. This brief inscription, which Arthur asked Captain Brooke to show to his wife, proved to be the following :
lifiring in another woman." " I thought of that at first," cried Mrs. Brooke, with a light blush and a smile, " but I couldn't--I didn't see how we could manage it, and--and I was afraid Audrey would see through it." " You thought of that ? " Captain Brooke was as tonished. " Arthur didn't know what the man meant at first, and it was the same way with me." " Oh, Walter, how obtuse ! " She forgot that she had blushed in laughing at him. " Arthur said when he did understand it, he felt like going back and knocking the man down." When she had had her laugh, Mrs. Brooke said se riously that she thought the doctor's advice very, very wise, "It is certainly worth trying," she declared. " She may begin to wake up very decidedly when she finds she is about to lose him." "Well, you ought to know." *If it could all be done here--right before her eyes," she continued, thoughtfully--" if we could have, say, Milly Walton, come out here for a week or two and let Arthur pretend to fall desperately in love with her, that would--that might--" " But we should have no right to use her in any such way."
"Oh, she would have to be let into the plot, of course."
Going to the window a few minutes later, Mrs.

"BRING IN ANOTHER WOMAN."

225

Brooke's eyes became riveted on a tableau vivant in the grounds. Ame'lie was looking up smiling at Ar thur, who leaned on the back of her seat and, at that distance, appeared to be bending over her in quite a lover-like way
" Walter, come here--quick ! " " What is it ?" " Look there !--just what we were talking about! Don't you see ?" "Pshaw ! she is a perfect child.'* " She's old enough to be interested in that young man in New Orleans." " I rather think that is all mother's imagination." " If we could be sure it wouldn't harm her, it would be just the thing, Walter." After some further discussion and a subsequent conference with Arthur, it was decided that the exper iment might be tried. Mrs. Brooke thought Ame'lie ought to be let into the plot, but the captain objected. She was a mere child, and it would only be putting ideas into her head beyond her years ; while if noth ing were said to her, and if Arthur were careful, she could serve the purpose innocently and harmlessly. Arthur must be very careful (Mrs. Brooke shook her finger at him warningly) ; it must only be a. pretense of devotion to Ame'lie, and that only when Audrey was there to see it. They were afraid to tell the old madame, and the interesting experiment was begun without her knowledge. The intriguers held daily conferences, whereat much was said in the way of sug gestion and warning by Mrs. Brooke, the prime mover in the little conspiracy. Eager for the result, Arthur perhaps played his part with more energy than pru-
15

226

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

dence. The observant captain was not without mis

givings, but he looked on passively; in a thing of this

kind, Gertrude ought to know.

All this went on quietly for three weeks with no

encouraging result further than rapidly improving

health on Audrey's part The color was coming back

to her cheek and the light to her eye; she would soon

be as handsome as ever. She had not failed to ob

serve Arthur's attentiveness to Am^lie and increasing

neglect of herself, for one day she said to Mrs. Brooke,

with a significant smile, " Nothing could please me

better"--which reduced the conspirators almost to

despair.

V^;

To try Audrey, a few days later Mrs. Brooke pro

posed a walk down to the lake, where Arthur had pre

viously gone with Amelie for a boat-ride. Seated on

a bench near the landing, where the lake was in full

view, they saw Arthur paddle the bateau up to a wild

tangled growth of vines overhanging the water and,

having secured a tempting white flower, fasten it in

Amelie's hair with his own hands. At a distance the

pantomime looked more lover-like than it really was,

thanks to Arthur's ingenious action, and the two women

on the bench were equally intent on it, each in her

own way.

" I actually believe those young people have fallen

in love with each other," said Mrs. Brooke, solemnly.

"It does look so," was Audrey's calm rejoinder.

" It may be- the best thing for Arthur--poor fellow."

Then, after a few moments : " Do you think Amelie

is as pretty as she used to be ? I don't. Her features

are very irregular."

After this, Mrs. Brooke declared that she felt en-

"BRING IN ANOTHER WOMAN."

2 2/

couraged, but failed to make it quite clear to her hus band what were her grounds for taking hope.
It was on the following day that Audrey went out alone for a walk, and, seeing Arthur on a bench near the summer-house, went to him there. "Are you waiting for Ame*lie ? " she asked, seating herself by his side.
" No, not particularly ; but I suppose she'll be out

directly."

" You are taking my advice, I see. I am very glad.

She is a nice girl."

" Yes, she is ; she's charming."

t

Audrey looked at him narrowly, and it seemed to

him that there was a new expression in her eye--one

he had not seen there since long ago. He gazed at,

the delicate pink glow on her cheek, rejoicing that her

health would return if not her love for him. -At,this

moment Amelie appeared at a distance.

"Yonder she is, now/' said Audrey, quickly. " Go

to her."

, ""*'

"I will," cried Arthur, with a gay laugh, and the joy in his face seemed wholly real. He rose at pnce % and started off, whereupon something resembling an angry flush overspread .the deserted young lady's face.,
The conspiracy bubble floated serenely on in the apparently calm, but really dangerous waters in which it had elected to live, and then suddenly collapsed against an unexpected reef--the old madame. On fc returning to the house at noon one day, Captain . Brooke was astonished to learn that neither his mother nor his niece had appeared that morning, and'that the former had given orders that their meals should be served to them in their apartments. On going to in-

228

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

quire if they were unwell, his wife had found herself face to face with closed doors, and had been informed by the old madame from within that the said doors should remain closed as long as " that young man" was in the house.
u They have found out what we have been doing, and are angry--if it is ho worse," said the chief con spirator, almost in tears.
Captain Brooke looked very grave. "How will they stand it, Walter--shut up there all day ?" " Oh, I reckon they*!! amuse themselves winning each other's pin-money at e'carte'." A servant appeared at the door and announced that Mme. Brooke desired to speak with her son with out delay. A prey to uncomfortable apprehensions, Captain Brooke rose and obeyed the summons, finding his mother in her sitting-room. The handsome carpet here exhibited a pretty design in pink and white, and there was also pink stuff behind the lace curtains of the three long windows, which filled the room with a rosy subdued light The old madame was in her morning-gown, not as yet having " dressed " for the day, and sat behind her card-table, nervously fingering a pack of cards as she talked with her son. She greeted him with a smile, but Captain Brooke saw smoldering anger in her eyes. He saw it also in the absence of the familiar tutoiement from her speech ; in her very first sentence she employed the cold and formal " vvus" with the accompanying plural verb. She had sent for him to talk about that young M. Markham--madame began. His marked and growing attentions to Ame*lie, how were they to be construed ?

"BRING IN ANOTHER WOMAN."

229

For what did he devote himself wholly to her, neg lecting his fiancee ? Qu' est-ce gue tout cela veut dire ? Had he already given up all hope of marrying Audrey ?
He had not, Captain Brooke replied, and the old madame's eyes flashed angrily.
Then he was a wicked trifler ! He had deliberately flirted with Amdlie and tried to win her heart for the sake of mere amusement.
"Arthur Markham is a gentleman, mother, and --"
" J'en ai doute ! Oui--j'ai peur qu'il s'en faille de beaucoup," she angrily interrupted. It was true; he had done all she claimed. And the poor child had been impressed ; only that morning she had confessed that--that--she liked him, and that she didn't think she cared so much about Charles Auvray after all.
Captain Brooke said this was most unfortunate, and he was deeply grieved, but Arthur was not to blame.
Not to blame! What could this man mean ? Was Ame*lie the culprit, forsooth ? Did he look upon it as a small thing that her granddaughter's heart should be played upon and then tossed aside like a trifle ? What would he say next ?
" Mother, do try to be calm. Let us talk the mat ter over quietly. You know what Audrey has been through with, and the state of her mind toward Arthur since she learned he was not her half-brother--"
" Oui, oui; c'est assez malheureux, certes. C'est effroyable, mais--"
" But what has all that to do with this matter ? I am going to tell you." And, beginning with the doc tor's prescription, he rapidly told her the whole story.

230

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

Mme, Brooke straightened her pack of cards, and wildly scattered them over the table again several times during his speech, which she interrupted here and there with frantic interjections.
" Grand Dieu ! qu' avez-vous fait ?" she cried at last To do a kindness to a stranger, had he ruthlessly sacrificed the happiness of her granddaughter I In heaven's name, what sort of a man was he ? Alas! what had they come to ? Oh, that his father were yet alive ! He would know how to rebuke this unfeeling man. Growing quieter, she said that Audrey's story was nost sad, and no one pitied the girl more than she; but Audrey was not her granddaughter, the joy of her heart and the light of her eye. Could this un natural son of hers expect her to sacrifice Ame'lie for Audrey ?
"I admit that it was a sad blunder," said Captain Brooke, gloomily. " We went into it without sufficient reflection. . . . But it seemed to me that Ame'lie was such a child--"
** Vous te^un sot! " cried Mme. Brooke, enraged. " Elle a dix-huit ans, comme vous le savez." A child, indeed! " Moi, je n'avais seulement que dix-huit ans et demi quand j'e'pousai votre pere."
"Yes, mother," rejoined Captain Brooke, resolutely clinging to the English--he could speak to better ad vantage in English--"yes, she is eighteen years old, and you were not much older when you married my father. But still she seemed a mere child to me, and then Gertrude said she was interested in Charles Aurray--M
Gertrude! She was concerned in this outrageous plot, of course. That was like her and her kind.

"BRING IN ANOTHER WOMAN."

231

Those Yankee women must always be planning something; they were fidgety and over-energetic--they had no idea of repose. They were all mind and no heart --she detested them!
" You are not describing Gertrude, mother." At this Mme. Brooke only shrugged disdainfully, and after a moment signified that the interview should come to an end. " Laissez-moi, monsieur, je vous prie," said she, freezingly, and, turning sadly away, Captain Brooke slowly walked out of the room. " I am to blame for it all, Walter," declared his wife, in tearful self-reproach, when he had gone to her and told her. " No, you are not. If any one is to blame, it's that trifling Savannah doctor." Audrey had remained in her room that morning also, pleading indisposition, and Arthur was greatly puzzled at the non-appearance of the two young la dies. Mrs. Brooke, too, was constrained in her man ner, he marked. The young man did not suspect what the trouble was, but he felt that something must be wrong, and, upon reflection, decided that he had better go away again and await further developments. Immediately after dinner he bade them good-bye, agreeing to return soon, and drove to town. Their plan had suffered a disastrous collapse, but in their very despair Mrs. Brooke determined to make one last decisive effort to discover if the costly experi ment had done Audrey any good. As soon as the girl came out of her room, therefore, she spoke to her. This was not until the twilight hour that evening, when Audrey joined her friends in the parlor.

232

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

" Have you heard the news about Arthur and Ame*-

lie ?" asked Mrs. Brooke, suddenly, with a bold cun

ning which astonished her husband.

In the dusk of the room they could not see the

expression of Audrey's face ; it seemed a long, time

before she answered : " No, but I've been expecting

it I am very glad."

" Yes, we are, too; we like him so much. We are

glad you don't object,"

"/object? I am delighted." Her laugh seemed

a little nervous. " I am glad it is so satisfactory all -

round."

.;,"V

A servant now came in with a lamp, and, while it

was' being lighted, Audrey stole quietly out of the

room.

XXI.
THE DOCTOR'S REMEDY ACTS.
IT was in Uncle Tony's cabin, about nine o'clock the next morning, that Maum Chloe first told the story. The old man had been " laid up" .with the rheumatism for a week or more, and until now had had nothing to complain of in the attentions of his faithful o|d wife; but this morning she had neglected, nay deserted him. Since daybreak she had not been seen in the cabin, and now it was nine o'clock.
'* Wehyou been gone fum yuh so soon dis mawnin* ?" asked, the sick old man, testily, when she at last ap peared- " Better had 'a stay all day w'ile you 'uz at it," he added, sarcastically;*

THE DOCTOR'S REMEDY ACTS.

233

" I 'ur called, Tony," was Maum Chloe's gentle re sponse. " De ole mawster's spent sho'ly must 'a stood by dah bed las' night,'* she continued, in a solemn voice, and, as Uncle Tony listened wonderingly, she told the story.
" My gracious! " exclaimed Maum Chloe, " I ainh nebber see de lak er de dreams I had las' night. I dream *bout de ole mist'iss an' 'bout Miss Hilda an' %out Miss Rachel an' 'bout dah baby yawnder ter Mel ville, an* den I dream 'bout Maws' Fred. Seem lak ter me Maws' Fred 'uz stan'in' right 'side er de bed a-lookin' right straight at me, an' I tink ter merse'f 'e come ter call me go ten' ter dem chillun lak 'e useter come knock on de do' 'way back yawnder wen dey useter git sick een de night, an' I say, t Wut de matter, mawster ? Is dem chillun sick ?' An' den, lo an' behole, hit come back to my 'memb'ance dat bofe dem chillun done growd up, an' one um ma'ied an' bofe uv um dead, ah' den I say, * Oh, Maws' Fred, I did clean fergit how de time been gwine by'--an' den I ax 'im agin wul 'e wanh wid me.
"An' den 'e say, * Chloe, Chloe, Chloe'--an* hit soun' lak somebody 'way off yawnder yer canh yeh good --'e say, * Chloe, git up fum deh. Dah baby need you. Dah baby yawnder ter Melville een trouble an* need you. Dah baby een trouble an' want 'er mammy. Git up fum deh, an* go ter 'er.' An' den I say, 'Yes, mawster, I'm a-gwine right now.'"
" An' wut 'e say den ? " asked Uncle Tony. " 'E ainh say nut'n mo', an' de nex' ting I know I uz gettin* up out de bed, an' wen I look roun1 fer im, lo an' behole, 'e done gone. An* den I says ter mer se'f, ' Laws-a-mussy ! wuz I sleep, sho-nuf ?' I cud

234

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

hardly blieve it, yer see me so. Mebby I wuz sleep an* dreamin' all dat time," continued Maum Chloe, with a curious, doubtful smile, u but de Lord knows I dunner wen I woke up. . . . Well, suh, I got up out dah bed an* went ter de do* an' seen day 'uz des cracked, an' den I come back an' put on some clothes an' went out an' started right off. Would yer b'lieve it ? I walked right straight out de gate an* went down de road an' never stop ter study 'bout no hawse 'n buggy ner nut'nu Maws' Fred done gimme 'e warnin', an* I ainh had time ter study 'bout hawse an' buggy. I knowd sup'n ail dah chile, an' I uz a-gwine ter 'er, yer see me so; an' I reck'n I'd 'a been gwine at* 'er des dat-a way ef she been clean 'crost de Flur'dy line.
" Well, suh, I walk on, walk on, tell bimeby de sun riz, an' den dreckly I come ter de two-mile branch twix yuh an' Melville, an* den I ainh gone but a lil piece er de 'way on t'other side er dah water, wen 'way yawnder I seen 'er comin'! Yawnder she come, walkin' 'long slow lak she cud skacely drag one foot 'hind t'other. An' den I run an* mek 'ase an' got deh by 'er, an' wen she seen me she holler out an' call my name, an' call it, an' call it, an' wen I got right spang up ter 'er she donh say nut 'n but des fall right 'ginse me lak she 'uz drapt dead. An' den I grabbed 'er an hilt 'er an' bust out cryin', an' I says, ' Oh, do, fer pity sake! honey, you ainh dead, is yer ?' An' I sot down wid 'er deh by de road an' tuck 'er een mer lap, an* stuck 'er an' try ter mek 'er open 'er eye an' cried an' criei an' all dat time she des lay deh white an' still dat-a'way, an', suh, she look so pine-blank, lak Miss Hilda done fo* she die, she scared me. I call 'er an* call 'er, but she done fainted dead away, and she donh

THE DOCTOR'S REMEDY ACTS.

235

answer. An* I des sot deh wid 'er an' rocked 'er lak a baby I dunner how long, tell bimeby yuh come a. young nigger een a wagin fum 'way up een de river-fork deestrick, an* I hailed 'im 'an made 'im stop an* git down an' holp me U 'er, an' den we put 'er een de wagin on top er twc.pr tree sack er corn 'uz een deh. An* den I got een an* tuck 'er een mer lap, an' tole dah river-fork nigger ef 'e donh hurry up dem hawses 'e better!
" An, suh, hit wanh no time hardly fo' we got yuh ter de gate, an' Jinny she seen us an* run out an1 helped me tote 'er een. An' den we put 'er on de bed een Miss Rachel' room, an' Jinny she run fotch a bottle er hot water ter put ter 'er feet, fur dey 'uz gnigh 'bout cole ez ice, I tell yer! An' I wrapped 'er up warm, an' put a leel, des a leel teenmechy tase er whisky een 'er mouf, an' dreckly she bergin ter come too. Den I sont Jinny out--tole 'er ter go een de g-yarden an' git a couple er nice kushaws an' gie um ter dah river-fork nigger, fer I des know 'e mouf water wen 'e look over dat g-yarden fence.
"An' Jinny ainh mo'n gone out de do* fo' de chile open 'er eyes an* look all roun' lak she scared, an* den she seen me &n* she ax me, mose whisperin', ef dat 'uz me, an* I say, * Yes, honey, hit's me,' an' den she ax me agin ef hit 'uz me, sho-nuf, an' I tole 'er hit sutenly wanh nobody but me, an' den she ax me weh'bouts is she, an' I tole 'er she 'uz home--dass we're--right deh home een Miss Rachel' bed. An' den fer a lil while she donh say nut'n, but bimeby she sorter raise up on 'er arm an' look roun' de room lak she wanter see wid 'er own eyes weh she 'uz at, an' den she fall back an* grab de pifler an* hide 'er face und' it an* des cry an'

.236

IN THE WIRE-GRASS,

cry. An'den I say, 'Wut ail you, honey? Laws-amussy, chile, donh cry so.'
" An' den she say, ' Oh, Maum Chloe, I ain't got nobody but you, now. You de onlyes' fren I got ief.'
"An* den I say, 'Look yuh, honey, wut dis yuh : you tellin' me ? Wut gone wid all dem frens over deh
ter Melville wut all time mek lak dey tink so much er you?'
"But she wonh answer, an* des cry an' cry, an' bimeby she tell me agin I de onlyes' fren she got now. Den I say, ' Look yuh, honey, wut dey done ter you over deh ter Melville ? Who been boddin' you ?'
" But she wonh say nut'n, an' des kep' a-cryin" an' cryin', an' den I up 'n ax 'ei,' Miss Aud'ey, honey, wuss de matter twix' you an' Maws' Awthur ?' an* den bimeby she say she ainh got no mo' ter do wid 'im ; she say 'e gwineter ma'y Miss 'Meely--dey all want 'im ter ma'y Miss *Meely an* *e aim ter do it. An* den she say he kin ma'y Miss *Meely ef 'e want ter--she donh care; dat ainh wut she cryin' 'bout. She donh care *bout nut'n now no mo'. She say she want ter die--dass wut she want ter do, an' she gwineter do it right straight; she done live too long a' ready, she say.
" Den I tole 'er, ' Donh cry, honey. Ef 'e ainh got no better sense 'n ter love dah lil triflin* Miss Meely mo'n you, 'e ainh wuff cryin' 'bout -- shoo! 'e ainh wuff shucks.'
" An* den she up *n tole me ter hush dat. She say Maws' Awthur wanh ter blame; she say dey all fbol'd 'im center hit over deh ter Melville, an' she 'uz de ring leader 'mongst 'em. She say she tole um fum de start she 'uz wfllin', an* she done mo'n any de res* ter mek

THE DOCTOR'S REMEDY ACTS.

237

*im tek up wid Miss 'Meely. Dass des Jwut she say,

ai}' den I ax 'er :

/

" * Well, den, wuf yer cryin' fer, honey ? * An', suh,

she slap* de pille* down over 'er face mo' closer, an' cry

wuss an' wuss--des cry wuss an' wuss. An* den, Tony,

I knowd mighty well she did care, an' I knowd dey> ainh

been treat 'er right over deh ter Melville. I knowd

right den wut dey been up ter over deh; dey been

want ter tek Maws' Awthur 'way fum 'er an* gie 'im ter

Miss 'Meely, an* now dey done done it, w'ile she look

on anr mek lak she donh care. Dat wut dey been

keepin* de po' chile over deh so long fer--'caze dey

knowd mighty well ef she 'uz ter come home, 'e'd up'n

foller 'er right straight over yuh. Yes-suh-ree ! " con

cluded Maum Chloe, with angry emphasis, " dass des

zackly wut dey been up ter, an' dass all I wanter know

Tjout dem people. Hit's de meanes* trick I ever hearn

tell on een all my bawn days."

Uncle Tony was deeply interested and concerned,

but it was now late in the morning, and he had had no

breakfast; he broke in upon his wife's angry flow of

words, and asked for something to eat. But Maum

Chloe did not waste much time on her "old man"

that morning. Hastily supplying his wants, she left

him and returned to the bedside of her young mis

tress. She felt that she now stood alone in the place

of "Maws' Fred an' Miss Hilda an' Miss Rachel"--

their responsibility was hers; she must act. " AinJi

none er de fam'ly lef ter stan' up fer 'er but me,8 an' I

got ter do it," she said to herself aloud--as was her

wont--again and again.

Having seen that her " baby " was comfortable, she

ordered the horse put to the buggy, and drove in great

238

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

haste to Melville, bent on learning all she could about

the infamous proceeding which had gone on there. In

the cook's house she was*told that "Mr. Awthur" had

"~i

J*.

'

gone away, and that " old miss " and '* Miss 'Meely "

were "mad 'bout sup'n," having kept themselves shut

up in their rooms throughout the previous day. What

all this might mean, Aunt Dicey, the cook, could not

say, and as she had little to tell further which was at

all to the point, Maum Chloe was forced to come away

disappointed.

The indignant old mammy did nor depart by the

back way through which she had come, but made bold

to approach the "big house!' and cross the grounds

on her way to let herself out at the carriage-gate. No

one was in sight, "and she lingered a little while in the

grounds, staring at the big quiet house defiantly, as if

she were almost inclined to beard the lion in his den,

Something prompted her to go and peep into the sum*^
mer-house, and there she discovered the one person

she now wished most to see--Ame"Iie. tr The young girl was becomingly dressed, and looked

very pretty, although her eyes showed slight traces of

tears. It was not Maum Chloe's intention to upbraid

her exactly ; perhaps, it was rather to point out to her

with all gentleness that she had committed a theft, and

urge her to repentance as well as to a speedy restora

tion of the stolen goods.

- " Good mornin', Miss 'Meely," she said, politely,

showing herself in the doojsway, and courtesying.

" Oh, is that you, Maum Chloe ? How are you ?"

The old mammy then advanced a few steps, and

stood looking at the girl, critically. " Yes, you is

putty,*' she remarked after some moments, as if here-

THE POCTQR'S REMEDY ACTS.

239

'

tofore she had doubted it, and only now had changed

her mind. '" Yes, you's putty, but you ainh putty ez .

dah chile yawnder home, an' hit's a mistry ter me wut

kin mek 'im love you de bes'."

.. " Why, what are ybu talking about ? " asked Ame'-

lie, sharply.

..

" 'Bout Maws' Awthur, honey. Wut mek you tek

'im 'way fum 'er? She had 'im fuss." The old woman

..spoke pleadingly.

"/take him from her! You must be crazy."

Amelie had risen in great anger. She looked su

premely disdainful, and uttered some rapid reflections

in French which made Maum Chloe feel very uncom

fortable. .

" W'y, ain't yer gine ma'y 'im, honey ? " she stam

mered. " Donh you love 'im ? "

" I hate him! " was the girl's passionate retort, as

she turned her back on the astonished old negress,

and walked out of the summer-house.

Maum Chloe had gone a mile on her road before

she arrived at the conclusion expressed in the words

which she uttered aloud, " She des talk dat-a way caze

she 'uz mad."

A short while after the little episode of the summer-

house, Captain Brooke came in from the plantation, and

was met by his wife as soon as he mounted the piazza

steps.

" What's the matter ?" he asked, puzzled by the

expression of her face.

" Audrey went home this morning before anybody

got up. Just think of it--walked five miles! ... I

found this in her room."

He took the note and read:

240

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

GERTRUDE.--I have suddenly made

my mind that I must go home and see about cer

tain things there before Christmas, and, as there are

only three more days, I think I had better go at once.

Don't be alarmed when you find me gone. I shall see

you all again soon.

AUDREY."

" Just think of that now--when she had been ex pected^ spen^ Christmas with us all the time!" Mrs. Brooke stared a her husband solemnly. u That note doesn't deceive me, Walter. She is either offended with us, or--or it may mean that our experiment has hadHhe desired effect."
"Well, I hope it has,*' said the captain, thoughty--adding, with some concern: "But she wasn't .*r rag enough for such a walk. I'm afraid it made her sick." "Yes; I wish we knew." Captain Brooke then said he expected to drive to town that afternoon; his wife might go with him, -and they could stop at the Hall farm to make inquiries. "What did she say ?" asked Mrs. Brooke, anxious ly, as they took their seats in the buggy some two hours later. ** Is she still so. very angry ? " She spoke of the old madame, whose second interview with her son had just come to an end. "I had quite a talk with her," the captain answered "Oh, no; she's not half as angry as she was yester day. She has cooled down ; and it really seems,now that it was very little more than a tempest in a teapot after aH." " Ob, what a relief !" M Am&ie was flattered by the thought that Arthur

THE DOCTOR'S REMEDY ACTS.

241

was in lave with her, and when she found out he

was only playing she got very angry. - That's about

the long and the short of it. An*d mother got very

angry, too, at our * presumption '--as she called it--,

and everything was magnified in her mind on that

account. . . . They are going to New Orleans next

week."

" And she'll meet Charles Auvray again--and--

and-- Oh, Walter, if only Audrey now--if she has

recovered--we--I--I need not feel so wicked after

all!"

Captain Brooke did not say anything, but the smil

ing side-glance he gave his wife seemed eloquently to

refute all possible imputations of past or future " wick

edness " on her part.

They were met on the piazza at the Hall farm

house by Jinny, the negro house-maid. Mrs. Brooke

inquired eagerly for Audrey; they had feared she might

be ill, and had stopped to ascertain, she explained.

" Yes'm ; she mighty sick. She *uz mose dead wen

she git yuh dis mawnin," the girl informed them.

"Oh, I hope it's not serious," exclaimed Mrs.

Brooke. " Where is she ? Let me-- You don't mean

I can't see her ?" Jinny was shaking her head.

u An* Chloe wohh 'low it," she declared, showing

them into the parlor. " She say Miss Aud'ey say she

donh want nobody but her een dah room." And after

this speech Jinny retired to call her superior in office.

But Manto Chloe refused to go in and speak to the

f

*T

visitors. Deeply insulted and angry in behalf of her

young mistress, she would?have beeri^glad to go in and

denounce them to their faces, but, lacking so much

assurance, she contented herself with speaking her

* 16

242

IN THE WIRE-GRASS.

mind in the hall, where she could be overheard, hav

ing first taken the precaution of sending Jinny out of

the house.

" Wut dat you say dey want ? " she craftily began

in a loud whisper, as if she had just encountered the

girL " Dey wanh ter see 'er, eh ? Well, go een deh

an* tell um dey canh do it. Tell um she sick an' een

trouble, an' canh 'see nobody. Tell um I donh see

how dey kin hab de heart ter come yuh atter wut dey

gone an' done--atter dey gone an* tuck Maws' Awthur

'way fum 'er an* gie 'im ter Miss 'Meely an' mose kill

'er. Hit putty gnigh kilt 'er, yer see 'er So. She wonh

own ter it; she wonh own ter nut'n ; she des say she

sick an* gwine ter die, but I got eyes, ah* I kin see. I

know wut been gwine on over yawnder ter Melville.

Miss Aud'ey wonk say a word; she wonh 'cuse dem

people, but I know mighty well she donh truss'um.

She ajnh sesso, but I bet yer, she done wid dem people

fer good. An' you k'n des tell um so, Joo. Tell um

we. canh stan' eve'yting. Tell uin der's plenty uv us

yuh ter ouss *er,an' we donh as* dey he'p. Tell um ef

she die, sho-nuf, lak she say, she is, we kin git Mis^

Sanders an* Mis' Adams ter come yuh an' holp lay 'er

otit; we wonh bodder drin 'bout it. , , . But run long

een deh, Jinny, chile, an' wait on um ef dey want any-

ting. Tell urn de whole house is dey*n ef dey want it,

, but dey shanh bodder dah po' chile dey been tromplin*

oh dis-a way." .

.

*

It required a great deal of courage, but Maum

Chloe resolutely held hex ground until she had said all

she thought .the extremity of the situation demanded;

then, astonished and frightened at her own temerity,

she made a precipitate retreat from the hall-way.

THE DOCTOR'S REMEDY ACTS.

243

Ill write to Arthur as soon as we get to town," said Captain Brooke, as they walked quietly out df'the house, laughing softly.
Malvern County wore a gay face at Christmas. It was the only public and universally observed holiday of the year in that region, and every effort was made to have it as merry as possible. There was no churchgoing only feasting and merry-making, and some of it of rather a boisterous kind. It was the custom with the young bloods of Wiregrass Ridge to fill the air with the uproar of fire-works and exploding anvils all through the night before the great holiday. Sound and uninterrupted repose in the near vicinity was of course out of the question; but nobody objected to the exploding anvils. It would have been a tame, unreal Christmas, indeed, without its burnt powder and its uproar. Among the negroes, those who were too pious to stand about the bonfires all night sought emotional excitement in their churches, where they sung and shouted with great fervor until daylight sur prised them. And here and there an old black pa triarch who loved to spin yarns would relate how old Uncle Pompey or old Uncle Cato remembered to have heard old Uncle Sombody-else tell how, away back yonder in the early part of the century, his father or his brother or his friend had seen "de cows an* de ca'ves " on their knees in prayer at twelve o'clock on the night before Christmas.
Very soon after breakfast on the morning of the great day, a young man rode up to the gate at the Hall farm, and, having dismounted and tied his horse, walked in, and was met by Jinny on the piazza.
" Where is Miss Audrey? " he asked.

244

IN THE WIREM2RASS.

" She ainh een de house, suh ; I des been look," re plied the girl. " She mus' be gone out some'rs."
" Go find out where she is--quick ! and come and tell me." He gave her a piece of silver, and the girl started off almost at a run.
From the piazza the young man could see Uncle Tony and a negro boy seated on a bench near the well in the back yard, and, after waiting impatiently for some time, he went down the steps and walked toward them. Uncle Tony and the boy were both in tent on a task they"had set themselves to perform, the former dictating and the latter writing on a slate, and were unaware that Arthur approached them from be hind and stood near them, smiling, as they went on with their work.
" Tell 'im," Uncle Tony was saying, with an assump tion of great dignity--" tell 'im 'e ax me ter write 'im a letter dat time, an* now I aim ter do it. Tell 'im we's all putty well, cep'n hit's me an' Miss Aud'ey, an* we in hopes *e ainh no wuss off. Tell 'im Miss Aud'ey been home tree days, an* she been sick. Tell 'im I dunner wut ter mek er all dis yuh dey tell me *bout him gwine ter ma'y dah young Miss 'Meely over deh ter Melville, speshly when yuh Miss Aud'ey been mose cryin1 'er eyes out, an' nobody kin tell wut fer 'les'n hit Tx>ut him. But tell 'im Chloe say she donh cry now lak she done wen she fuss come home--she done quit it; an' Chloe say she mighty quick!! git over it, an* den all de young mens een de county 11 be runnin' yuh een droves, des soon's ever dey fine out she done busted up wid him. Chloe say der's T>out fawty uv um mose dyin' fer her now. Me, I ainh seen um all, but Chloe she sesso, an' dah 'oman gin'ally know wut

THE DOCTOR'S REMEDY ACTS.

24$

she talkin' *bout. She say de man wut'll love dah HI Miss 'Meely better'n Miss Aud'ey sutenly canh hab de sense *e 'uz borned wid, an Miss Aud'ey ainh gwine study long 'bout no" sich a man. Tell 'im dass de way wid Chloe, an' 'e mus'n' mine 'er; she boun' ter talk sharp wen she git mad. Tell 'im hit seem ter me lak I orter write an' tell 'im 'bout all dis yuh talk an' gwine on, an' see wut 'e aim ter do 'bout it. An' den I reck'n dat '11 do, Tasso," the old man concluded, after a pause, adding : " An' look yuh, boy, ef you tell anybody wut I put een dat letter, I'll git a holt er you an' everlas'nly wear you out--yer yeh me ! "
At this juncture Jinny came flying across the yard, and breathlessly announced:
" She gone ter walk down ter de pon'." Uncle Tony looked round, uttered an astonished ejaculation, and rose stiffly. But Arthur was already gone.

She was seated on an old white log, gazing va cantly at the water, when the solind of his hurrying feet claimed her ear; and, as her eyes fell swiftly upon him, she started up in fear, and her face became almost as white as the crane which flew up at his approach. But her color had come back, and she was smiling when at last they came up together from the pond.

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TW One of fcis rtory is just before and daring the rebellion, bat the reader ft carried back to ome cmiooa episodes ID the earl; history of Maine, the tradi tion* of which soppij part of the material tor the plot.
"Out of the common ran of fiction."--Boston Ifczeon. H Aa atmosphere of quaint baxaor pervades the book."-- Chrittion Inquirer.

22. ABIUS THE LIBYAN: A Romance of the PrimiUTe Charch. A new cheap edition. (Also in doth. .Price, $1.25.)
"Poitmya the life and character of the primitive Christian* with great force aad YfridneM of imagination.''--SJirper'* Magoxine.
"Betide tiiia work most of the ao-caBed reugiooB novels &de into inriguifl.-

23. CONSTANCE, AND CALBOTS RIVAL. . By JiftiAH
reader wiD find a fasdnatiDe interest in these strange and cleverly told atoriec whkh are as mee&kxu in conception aa they are brilliant hi derelbp-

24. WE TWO. By EOTA LTALL, author of "Donovan." New cheap edition. (Also in doth. Price, 1 1.50.)
M We recommend all novel readers to treat this novel with the care which a a' tiDBg, aeommon, aad thoughtful book demands and deserves.'';--London

25, A DREAMER OF DREAMS. A Modem Romance. By the author

ofThoth." -

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M Of an original and artistic type . . . near to being a tremendous feat of

m DCjhT^* 9t_*TM_'^^HApS8^CA^JM CSBWPAsM'PBwB

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u Resembles ita predecessor ( M Thoth rt ) in the weirdnecs of'the plot and the

26. THE LADIES' GALLERY. %A Novel By Jrsrnr McCASffir and ,,

Mrs, CAVPBELL-P&IXD.

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1

**R ia interesting aad raey, and abounds in clever sketches of character and in good sisaatSoM. Both authors are, so to speak; on their native heath. ... Altogether, the hook abovnds to amseement."--Lo*do* Qvar&a*.

27. THE REPROACH OF ANNESLEY. By MAZWXLL Garr, author

of "The fflenee of Dean MaiUani"

, _/

Beptoach of Aimesley n wffl be welcomed by every P*53er of "The Dean MaWand." a novel that has been pronounced by both English
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THE DARK HOUSE. A Novel By GIOBQI MANTILL* FENH.

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, .... , .

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BABYLON. A Novel. By GRANT ALLEN. 16mo. Paper, 50 cents.
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ARIUS THE LTBYAW: AN IDYL OF THE PRIMITIVE CHURCH. A romance of the latter part of the third and beginning of the fourth century. 12mo. Cloth, $1.50.
14 Portraying the Hfe and character of the primitive Christians with great force and vividness of imagination,"--Harper'9 Magazine.
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THE VIRGINIA COMEDIANS; or, Old Days in the Old Dominion. By JOHN ESTEN COOKE. Two vols. in one. 16mo. Cloth, $1.25.
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STRUCK DOWN. A Novel. By HAWLEY SMABT, author of ut A

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ROSLTPPS FORTUNE. A Novel. By CHRISTIAN RSID, author of 44 Heart of Steel," etc, 12mo. Cloth, $1.25.
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ALLAN DARE AND ROBERT LE DIABLE. A Romance. By Admiral DAVID D. PORTER, U. S. Navy. Complete in two large octavo volumea, Illustrated. Paper, $2.00.

"Admiral Porter is the latest distinguished accession to the list of authors. He produces not a work on navigation but--a novel. Men of all professions are trying their hands at romancing nowadays. Admiral Porter need not be afraid of comparing Ms work with that of some professional novelist. The admiral excite* the cariosity of the reader with a great deal of artfulness. The story has a mystery to which the author is leading up with much skill; he displays humor, touches of pathos, aud a knack of sketching characters. 1 '--New York Journal cf

"AM the well-known qualities of the successful rmrance are present in this ene. and contribute to make it the great and most popular work of fiction of the year."--Bctton Swxtoy Globe.

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w< Harry Marline 1 is written in the racy manner that outrht to characterize every account of doings at sea. In reading it one is brought face to face with the tern and humorous reality of a midshipman's life. The (Ascriptions are most exhaustive; the hamor of the driest; the cock-and-bull stories--'yarns' we betteve they be called ahoardsbip--the cockiest-aod-bulliest afloat; the satires mpon tn* green 8ecretaHe* of the N*w (of those old days) the keenest and most tttactorj. There is hardly a page that does not excite the risibilities tnvolUBtarflY, and after one closes the volume delightful memories remain. The advital eaervea the title of * our later Cooper,' or perhaps, by reason of his dep trattun of humor; that of the Marryat of America. There are several illustra tions, well designed and executed."-fl<ir0br(* Evening Pott.

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