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ESTHER TERRALL’S EXPERIMENT
OOD ebenin’, Marse David,” said Un
cle Ezra, with a bow. “I hope I finds
yuh well, suh.”
“Thank you; yes,” Mr. Grantland re
plied. “How’ are the family at Ferrall
Hall?”
“Aint none o’ my white folks at
home, Marse David,” Ezra explained, a
note of deprecation in his voice, “ ’cept
G
Miss Octavie, more’s the pity ,suh.”
Mr. Grantland became instantly attentive.
“Where is Lane and that charming young sister
of his, Ezra?”
“Marse Lane’s down in the Alabam, suh, and
Miss Ess is gawn to er house party in Ferginny.”
Uncle Ezra put his stove pipe hat solemnly down
on the polished floor.
“I has the honor, suh,” he resumed, with a dig
nified bow, “to represent to you my mistis’ most
valable papers.”
Mr. Grantland rose to his feet, outwardly calm,
as he took the extended package, but his dark
blue eyes were scintillating, like clashing points of
steel. He slipped the white envelope, which gleam
ed conspicuously, from under the string, and hastily
opened the note, and read:
“David Grantland, Esq., Beryl Terraces.
“My Dear Friend: For reasons unnec
essary to enumerate, I send you my most
important papers, with the request that
you keep them in your possession for a few
days. Thanking you in advance for your
kindness, I remain,
“Sincerely.
“OCTAVIA H. FERRALL.”
“Where is Mrs. Ferrall; and what does this
mean, Ezra?” Mr. Grantland asked in a tone of
command.
“Marse David, it air a long story, suh,” Ezra
said, in a tone of relief, as Mr. Grantland laid
the priceless papers on his mahogany desk.
“Tell it as briefly as you can, Ezra,” Mr. Grant
land replied, as he began to walk the floor, in long
nervous strides.
“Some of dem good fur nuffin niggers, on the
lower plantation, been givin’ Miss Octavie trouble,
Marse David. Dey sho is. Dey frettin to burn
up Ferrall Hall; blow’ up de iron safe, and kill
Miss Octavie, de berry bes friend dey got on de
yearth. We alls, on de upper plantation, don’ tek
no stock in sich foolishness, case we got sense ernuff
ter know de side de butter is on de bread.”
Ezra’s old eyes gleamed with satisfaction over
his own humor, and, then he continued, with one
black hand raised solemnly:
“Miss Octavie, she heerd of it, sur, and she order
my grandson, Pete, ter get on er horse, an summon
all dem hands, seventy-five or a hundred, suh, to
pear at Ferrall Hall, at two o’clock ter day.”
Ezra waited a dramatic moment, and then pro
ceeded, with a thrill of emotion in his voice.
“Marse David, it was er sight to see all dem
men gaddered like a black cloud roun dat porch.
Miss Octa vie, she jes walked out, ca’m as a queen,
an she stood there, suh, wid de sunlight on her
face an her black dress, a minit or two, suh, fore
she open her mouf.
“Den she precede to talk sence, sur, inter dat
crowd, in a voice clar as er bell, an soft as der sous
wind. She axed all of em, Marse David, whose
bank notes she had endorsed to hold up der hands,
and, I splains to you, suh, I counted thirty-five.
“An den she axed em if any of em had eber
been turned away from Ferrall Hall without help,
in times of sickness and trouble; es de mistis had
eber failed em, to let it be known. Not a libin
soul, Marse David, dar open his mouf. Dey wus
dumb before de facts. But, Lawd! Marse David,
she hit de nail on de head, when she say, ‘I know
what de best of yer sometimes think and de wust be
lieve, dat yer has er hard time, an de mistis of
PIES. ODESSA S. PA YNE: Author of" Psyche, ” "The Sacrifice,” "Hole East End Was Redeemed. ”
The Golden Age for March 6, 1908.
Ferrall Hall, an easy one. How you lak to be spon
sible fer fourteen families, sides yer own? Fer
food, fer shelter, and fer does? How es de burden
of dese two big plantations wus on yer heart
and brain, stead of mine? Could yer do eny bet
ter? Could yer be eny kinder? Could yer be more
just?’
“An ole Morse Bowen, he shook he gray head.
‘Laws er massy, Miss Ferrall, one shore is ernuff
fer me.’ And den de niggers see de pint. Ha!
hi! he! dey laugh, and dey laugh. Sponsibility is er
mighty big word, Marse David, an dere’s mighty
few folks fit ter carry it, mighty few. Miss Octa
vie’s one ob dem. She air good as gold, an fine
gold, at that, suh.
‘ 1 She wa ’n’t erfraid, suh, but she looked thought
ful lak, when it was all ober, and she say to me:
‘Ezra, you take dese papers ober to my fren, Mr.
Grantland, in case ob a accident.’ ”
“How did the men take Mrs. Ferrall’s talk,
Ezra?” Mr. Grantland was standing at the window,
perfectly composed, now that the recital was nearly
over.
“Fine, suh, fine. She mak em feel she does de
bes she kin under de sarcumstances, and day all
shook hands wid me, in token of good fellowship, at
de big gate, ’cept about six hans from dat low’er
plantation.”
“Well!” David Grantland’s drawl was soft as a
woman’s, as he resumed his chair before his hand
some desk.
“I’ll telephone to the chief of the county police,
and have Ferrall Hall patrolled until Lane re
turns. We must not take any chances about a
life as valuable to this community as that of Mrs.
Ferrall. About eight tonight I will spin over in
my motor car, to see if everything is all right.”
“Thank you kindly, Marse David,” Uncle Ezra
said, with a smile of satisfaction, “but don’ yuh
let Miss Octavie know that I’se been tellin’ fambly
secrets. ’ ’
Mr. Grantland’s eyes gleamed.
“I’ll take care of you, Ezra, never fear.”
At eight o’clock the big red motor car was
at the back steps of Beryl Terraces, and David
Grantland came out with his overcoat on, and climb
ed in, thoughtfully. A brace of ivory handled
pistols gleamed conspicuously on the seat beside
him; and a brown bird dog crouched at his feet.
The moon was shining bright as day, but there was
a chill in the September air, as the car moved
swiftly down the hill.
After he reached the main road, Mr. Grantland
slowed up, and lit his cigar, leisurely. Evidently,
he was going to think and enjoy his ride. He
smoked his cigar, threw the stump away, and then
let out the motor for the last miles.
When he arrived in sight of the open gates of
Ferrall Hail he slowed down, and ran cautiously up
the circular sweep of the granite walk. He
stopped some rods away from the steps, and the
vision which the words of Uncle Ezra had made
upon his brain, reasserted itself.
“She looked like a queen,” he mused, “with the
sunshine on her hair, while she stood and talked
sense into that crowd, in a voice clear as a bell,
and as soft as the sigh of the south wind. Hem! ’ ’
Mr. Grantland removed his felt hat reverently.
“I would have given years of my life, or, at least
I think I would, to have seen her at the crucial mo
ment. Octavia Ferrall isn’t naturally any braver
than the majority of her sex —but she would walk
into the cannon’s mouth at the call of duty. Talk
about administering the affairs of a kingdom,; she
has displayed more genius and courage, in the man
agement of her estate for the benefit of her children
and tenants, than it takes to run a small mon
archy. For since Lane Ferrall joined the silent
majority, she has played a superb solitaire game,
that would have taxed the energies of the strong
est man.”
After which soliloquy, Mr. Grantland got out
of his motor car and rang the bell. The servant
ushered him into the family sitting room. He saw,
in one sweeping glance, the roses in a vase under
Lane Ferrall’s portrait; the ferns in the window;
and the Oxford Bible lying half open on the polish
ed mahogany center table, as he went forward to
shake hands with Miss Cora Clarke, a deaf spinster,
who sat before the open fire.
She was crocheting a shawl of crimson wool, and,
as Mr. Grantland knew that she could not hear a
word of what he said, he contented himself with
smiling benignantly.
Mrs. Ferrall came in a few moments later. She
was gowned with simple elegance, in a dark blue
voile, with a touch of lace at the throat • and on
the bands that finished off the elbow sleeves. There
was a hint of silver in the brown fluff of her pom
padour, and while she was strikingly pale, the
brown eyes shone with an inner radiance, as she
gave her hand into his, for a moment.
“Confess! Ezra has betrayed me,” Mrs. Fer
rall said with a smile, as she motioned him to a
deep leather chair, near the hearth, and took one
opposite him, just where she could look into the sea
bine eyes.
“Why should you think so, madam?” he an
swered, in his rich masculine voice: “I have cer
tainly had the pleasure of calling at Ferrall Hall be
fore, without becoming an object of suspicion.”
“Then my note and the papers,” she returned, a
touch of color on her cheeks, “are responsible for
the pleasure of this visit?”
“Both, perhaps,” he answered blandly. “But
why fence over the matter, Mrs. Ferrall? I know
the facts.”
Her face grew instantly grave.
“I am glad that you do,” she said in a voice
that was sweeter, he thought, than any south wind
that ever blew. “But I tried my best to write so
as not to make you anxious.”
“You might have succeeded,” said Mr. Grant
land, with a kindling light in his eyes, “but the pa
pers themselves were a big evidence against you.
And then, you know, the slightest thing which con
cerns you, is of vital interest to me.”
“Don’t!” Mrs. Ferrall threw out one hand in
protest.
“I know the subject is tabooed,” he returned,
calmly, “and has been for years; and yet you could
scarcely expect me to think with calmness of the
extreme peril you have been in, feeling as I do to
ward you.”
Mrs. Ferrall dropped her white eyelids
over the shining splendor of her brown eyes, quick
ly. Amid the hard realities of her lot, the thought
of how this man, a king among his peers, regarded
her, had held her in the darkest hours of her life
from off the precipices of despair.
“Uncle Ezra exaggerated,” she said, as soon as
she could control her voice; “I was not the least
frightened, until after my cabinet meeting was over.
Then I cried like a woman; wrote you a long let
ter, and made up that package of papers, and
sent you.”
“I did not receive anything but a brief busi
nesslike note,” he said, in an aggrieved tone.
“No; I thought better of it,” she said with a soft
laugh, “and as a consequence burned the letter.”
“Why?” He touched the hand that lay on the
arm of the leather chair with a light caress.
“Because, I concluded that farewell letters were
unnecessary, in these degenerate days. Everything
is so chaotic; we pass like ships in the night, any
way. Why should what I thought about things, my
point of view just before my translation, matter?”
Because I value your friendship, ’ ’ he answered
unhesitatingly, “more than anything else in the
world. But I wish that you would come to Beryl
Terraces,” he continued, a note of appeal in the
rich vibrant voice, “and let me protect you. I have
seen you a thousand times in my great library, with
the light of happiness in your brown eyes, the bat
tles and burdens, things of the past. I have the
power to make your life a dream, Octavia, let me
try.”
(Continued on Page 7.)