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CHAPTER X.
Belle Plain.
“Now, Tom,” said Betty, with a lit
tle air of excitement as she rose from
the breakfast table that first morn
ing at Belle Plain, "I want you to
show me everything!”
I reckon you’ll notice some
changes,” remarked Tom.
He went from the room and down
the hall a step or two in advance of
her. On the wide porch Betty paused,
breathing deep. The house stood on
an eminence; directly before it at the
bottom of the slight descent was a
small bayou, beyond this the forest
stretched away in one unbroken mass
to the Mississippi.
“What is it you want to see, any
how, Betty?” Tom demanded.
“Everything—the place, Tom—Belle
Plain! Oh, isn’t it beautiful! 1 had
no idea how lovely it was!” cried
Betty, as with her eyes still fixed on
the distant panorama of wood and
water she went down the steps, him
at her heels—he bet she’d get sick of
it all soon enough, that was one com
fort!
“Why, Tom! Why does the lawn
look like this?”
“Like what?” inquired Tom.
“Why, this —all weeds and briers,
and the paths overgrown?”
Mr. Ware rubbed his chin reflective
ly with the back of his hand.
“That sort of thing looked all right,
Bet,” he said, “but it kept five or six
of the best hands out of the fields
right at the busiest time of the year."
“Haven’t I slaves enough?” she
asked.
The dull color crept into Ware’s
cheeks. He hated her for that “1!"
So she was going to come that on
him, was she?
“Don’t you want to see the crops,
Bet?"
The girl shook her head and moved
swiftly down the path that led from
terrace to terrace to the margin of
the bayou. At the first terrace she
paused.
“It’s positively squalid!” cried Bet
ty, with a little stamp of her foot
Ware glanced about with dull eyes.
‘Til tell you, Betty, I’m busy this
morning; you poke about and see
what you want done and we’ll do it,”
he said, and made a hasty retreat to
his office.
Betty returned to the porch and
seating herself on the top step, with
her elbows on her knees and her chin
sunk in the palms of her hands, gazed
about her miserably enough. She was
still there when half an hour later
Charley Norton galloped up the drive
from the highroad. Catching sight of
her on the porch, he sprang from the
saddle, and, throwing his reins to a
black boy, hurried to her side.
“Inspecting your domain, Betty?”
he asked, as he took his place near
her on the step.
“Why didn’t you tell me, Charley—
or at least prepare me for this?” she
asked, almost tearfully.
“How was I to know, Betty? I
haven’t been here since you went
away, dear —what was there to bring
me? Old Tom would make a cow
pasture out of the Garden of Eden,
wouldn’t he —a beautiful, practical,
sordid soul he is!”
Norton spent the day at Belle Plain;
and though he was there on his good
behavior as the result of an agree
ment they had reached on board The
Naiad, he proposed twice.
Tom was mistaken in his supposi
tion that Betty would soon tire of
Belle Plain. She demanded men, and
teams, and began on the lawns. This
interested and fascinated her. She
was out at sun-up to direct her labor- j
ers. She had the advantage of Charley
Norton’s presence and advice for the
greater part of each day in the week,
and Sundays he came to look over
what had been accomplished, and, as
Tom firmly believed, to put that little
fool up to fresh nonsense. He could
have booted him!
As the grounds took shape before
her delighted eyes, Betty found leis
ure to institute a thorough reforma
tion indoors. A number of house serv
ants were rescued from the quarters
and she began to instruct them in
their new duties.
Betty’s sphere of influence extend
ed itself: She soon began to have
her doubts concerning the treatment
accorded the slaves, and was not long
in discovering. that, the over
seer, ran tanrgs with a neavy nana.
Matters reached a crisis one day
when, happening to ride through the
quarters, she found him disciplining
a refractory black. She turned sick
at the sight. Here was a slave actual
ly being whipped by another slave
while Hicks stood looking on with his
hands in his pockets, and with a
brutal, satisfied air.
“Stop!” commanded Betty, her eyes
blazing. She strove to keep her voice
steady. “You shall not remain at
Belle Plain another hour.”
Hicks said nothing. He knew it
would take more than her saying so
to get him off the place. Betty turned
her horse and galloped back to the
house She felt that she was in no
condition to see Tom just at that mo
ment, and dismounting at the door,
ran upstairs to her room.
Meantime the overseer sought out
Ware in his office. His manner of
stating his grievance was singular.
He began by swearing at his employ
er. He had been insulted before all
the quarter—his rage fairly choked
him; he could not speak.
Tom seized the opportunity to
swear back.
“Sent you off the place, did she;
well, you’ll have to eat crow. I’ll do
all I can. I don’t know what girls
were ever made for anyhow, damned
if I do!” he added.
Hicks consented to eat crow only
after Mr. Ware had cursed and ca
joled him into a better and more for
giving frame of mind.
Later, after Hicks had made his
apology, the two men smoked a
friendly pipe and discussed the situa
tion. Tom pointed out that opposi
tion was useless, a losing game; you
the Instantly Recognized the Broad
Shoulders.
could get your way by less direct
means. She wouldn’t stay long at
Belle Plain, but while she did remain
they must avoid any more crises of
the sort through which they had Just
passed, and presently she’d be sick or
the place.
In the midst of her activities Betty
occasionally found time to think of
Bruce Carrington. She was sure she
did not wißh to see him again! But
when three weeks had passed she be
gan to feel incensed that he had not
appeared. She thought of him with
hot cheeks and a quickening of the
heart. It was anger.
Then one day when she had decid
ed forever to banish all memory of
him from her mind, he presented him
self at Belle Plain.
She was in her room just putting
the finishing touches to an especially
satisfying toilet when her maid tapped
on the door and told her there w r as a
gentleman in the parlor who wished
to see her.
“Is it Mr. Norton?” asked Betty.
“No, Miss —he didn’t give no name,
Miss.”
When Betty entered the parlor a
moment later she saw her caller
standing with his back turned toward
her as he gazed from one of the win
dow's, but she instantly recognized
those broad shoulders, and the tine
poise of the shapely head that sur
mounted them.
“Oh, Mr. Carrington—” and Betty
stopped short, while her face grew
rather pale and then crimsoned.
Then she advanced boldly and held
out a fHr-i'l hand. "V rilia.lt know —
so you are alive —you uisappeared so
suddenly that night—”
“Yes, I’m alive,” he said, and then
with a smile, “but I fear before you
get through with me we’ll both wish
I were not, Betty.
“Do you still hate me, Betty—Miss
Malrov —is there anything 1 can say
or do that will make you forgive me?”
He looked at her penitently.
But Betty hardened her heart
against him and prepared to keep
him in place.
“Will you sit down?” she indicated
a chair. He seated himself and Betty
put a safe distance between them.
“Are you staying in the neighborhood,
Mr. Carrington?” she asked, rather
unkindly,
“No, I’m not staying in the neigh
borhood. When I left you, I made up
my mind I’d wait at New Madrid un
til I could come on down here and
oay I was sorry.”
“And it’s taken you all this time?”
Carrington regarded her seriously.
“I reckon I must have come for
more time, Betty—Miss Malroy.” In
spite of herself, Betty glowed under
the caressing humor of his tone.
“Really—you must have chosen
poorly then when you selected New
Madrid. It couldn’t have been a good
place for your purpose.”
“I think if I could have made up
my mind to stay there long enough,
it would have answered,” said Car
rington. “But when a down-river boat
tied up there yesterday it was more
than I could stand. You see there’s
danger in a town like New Madrid of
getting too sorry. I thought we’d bet
ter discuss this point—”
“Mayn't I show you Belle Plain?"
asked Betty quicklj.
But Carrington shook his head.
“I don’t care anything about that,”
he said. “I didn’t come here to see
Belle Plain.”
“Then you expect to remain in the
neighborhood?”
“I've given up the river, and I’m
going to get hold of some land.”
“Land?” said Betty, with a rising
inflection.
“Yes, land.”
“I thought you were a river-man?"
“I’m a river-man no longer. 1 am
going to be a planter now. But I’ll
tell you why, and all about It some
other day.” Then he held out his
hand. “Good-by,” he added.
“Are you going? —good-by, Mr. Car
rington,” and Betty’s fingers tingled
with his masterful clasp long after he
had gone.
CHAPTER XI.
The Bhooting-Match at Boggs’.
The Judge’s faith in the reasonable
ness of mankind having received a
staggering blow, there began a some
what furtive existence for himself,
for Solomon Mahaffy, and for the boy.
They kept to little frequented byways,
and usually it was the early hours of
the morning, or the cool of late after
noons, when they took the road.
A certain hot afternoon brought
them into the shaded main street of
a straggling village. Near the door of
the principal building, a frame tavern,
a man was seated, w’ith his feet on
the horse-rack. There was no other
sign of human occupancy.
“How do you do, sir?” said the
judge, halting before this solitary in
dividual whom he conjectured to be
the landlord. “What’s the name of
this bustling metropolis?” continued
the judge, cocking hig head on one
side.
As he spoke, Bruce Carrington ap-'
peared in the tavern door; paucing
there, he glanced curiously at the
shabby wayfarers.
“This is Raleigh, in Shelby county,
Tennessee,” said the landlord.
“Are you the voice from the tomb?”
inquired the judge, in a tone of play
ful sarcasm.
Carrington, amused, sauntered to
ward him.
‘That’s one for you, Mr. Pegloe!”
he said.
“I am charmed to meet a gentleman
whose spirit of appreciation shows
his familiarity with a literary allu
sion,” said the judge, bowing.
“We ain’t so dead as we look,” said
Pegloe/- “Just you keep on to Boggs'
race-track, straight down the road,
and you’ll find that out—everybody’s
there to the hoss-racing and shooting
match. I reckon you’ve missed the
hoss-racing, but you’ll be in time for
the shooting. Why ain’t you there,
Mr. Carrington?"
“I’m going now, Mr. Pegloe,” an
swered Carrington, as he followed the
judge, who, with Mahaffy and the boy,
had moved off.
“Better stop at Boggs’!” Pegloe
called after them.
But the judge had already formed
his decision. Horse-racing and shoot
ing-matches were suggestive of that
progressive spirit, the absence of
which he had so much lamented at
the jail raising at Pleasantvllle. Mem
phis was their objective point, but
Boggs’ became a side issue of im
portance. They had gained the edge
of the village when Carrington over
took them. He stepped to Hannibal's
side.
“Here, let me carry that long rifle,
son!” he said. Hannibal looked up
into his face, and yielded the piece
without a word. Carrington balanced
shoot —these old guns are hard to
beat!” he observed.
“She’s the closest shooting rifle 1
ever sighted,” said Hannibal prompt
ly.
Carrington laughed.
There was a rusty name-plate on
the stock of the old sporting rifle;
this caught Carrington’s eye.
“What’s the name here? Oh, Tur
berville.”
The judge, a step or two in ad
vance, wheeled in his tracks w’ith a
startling’ suddenness.
‘What?’’ he faltered, and his face
w-as ashen.
“Nothing, I w-as reading the name
here; it is yours, sir, } suppose?” said
Carrington.
“No, sir—no; my name is Price —
Slocum Price! Turberville —Turber-
Hannibal Gave Him a Frightened
Glance and Edged Toward Mr. Ma
haffy’s Side.
ville —” he muttered thickly, staring
stupidiy at Carrington.
“It’s not a common name; you seem
to have heard it before?” said the lat
ter.
A spasm of pain passed over the
judge’s face.
“I —I’ve heard it. The name 1b on
the rifle, you say?”
. “Here on the stock, yes.”
The judge took the gun and exam
ined it in silence.
“Where did you get this rifle, Han
nibal?” he at length asked brokenly.
“I fetched it away from the Barony,
sir; Mr. Crenshaw said I might have
it.”
The judge gave a great start, and a
hoarse, Inarticulate murmur stole
from between his twitching Ups.
“What do you know of the Barony,
Hannibal?”
“I lived at the Barony once, until
Uncle Bob took me to Scratch Hill
to be with him,” said Hannibal.
“You—you lived at the Barony?”
repeated the judge, and a dull wonder
struck through his tone. “How long
ago—when?” he continued.
“I don’t know how long It were,
but until Uncle Bob carried me away
after the old general died.”
The judge slipped a hand under the
child’s chin and tilted his face back
so that he might look Into it. For a
long moment he studied closely those
small features, then with a shake of
the head he handed the rifle to Car
rington, and without a word strode
forward. Carrington had been regard
ing Hannibal with a quickened inter
est.”
“Hello!” he said, as the judge moved
off. “You’re the boy I saw at Scratch
Hill!”
Hannibal gave him a frightened
glance, and edged to Mr. Mahaffy’g
side, but did not answer.
The Judge plodded forward, his
shoulders drooped, and his head
bowed. For once silence had fixed
its seal upon his lips, no inspiring
speech fell from them. He had been
suddenly swept back into a past he
had striven these twenty years and
more to forget, and his memories
shaped themselves fantastically. Sure
ly if ever a man had quitted the world
that knew him, he was that man! He
had died and yet he lived —lived hor
ribly, without soul or heart, the empty
shell of a man.
A turn In the road brought them
within sight of Boggs’ race-track, a
wide, level meadow. The judge
paused irresolutely, and turned his
bleared face on his friend.
“We’ll stop here, Solomon,” he said
rather wearily, for the spirit of boast
ar.d jest was quite gone out of him.
He glanced toward Carrington. “Are
you a resident of these parts, sir?” he
asked.
“I’ve been in Raleigh three days al
together,” answered Carrington, and
they continued on across the meadow
in silence.
Here were men from the small
clearings in homespun and butternut
or fringed hunting-shirts, with their
women folk trailing after them. Here,
too, in lesser numbers, were the lord 3
of the soil, the men who counted their
acres by the thousand and their
• slaves by the score. There was the
flutter of skirts among the moving
groups, the nodding of gay parasols
that shaded fresh young faces, while
occasionally a comfortable family car
vr: ......
daughter rolled silently over the turf.
The judge’s dull eye kindled, the
haggard lines that streaked his face
erased themselves. This was life, opu
lent and full. These swift-rolling car
riages with their handsome women,
these well-dressed men on foot, and
splendidiy mounted, all did their part
tow-ard lifting him out of his gloom.
A cry from Hannibal drew his at
tention. Turning, he was in time to
see the boy bound away. An instant
later, to his astonishment, he saw a
young girl who was seated with two
men in an open carriage, spring to the
ground, and dropping to her knee*
put her arms about the tattered little*
figure.
“Why, Hannibal!” cried Betty Mai
roy.
“Miss Betty! Miss Betty!” and
Hannibal buried his head on her
shoulder.
“What is it, Hannibal; what is it
dear?”
“Nothing, only I’m so glad to fln«
you!”
“I am glad to see you, too!” saitt
Betty, as she wiped his tears away
“When did you get here, dear?”
“We got here just today, Miss Bet
ty,” said Hannibal.
Mr. Ware, careless as to dress*
scowled down on the child. He haet
favored Boggs’ with his presence, not
because he felt Wie least interest fa*
horse-racing, but because he had n*'
faith in girls, and especially had be*
profound mistrust of Betty. She wai
so much easily portable wealth, a
pink-faced chit ready to fall into Un
arms of the first man who proposed
to her. But Charley Norton had not
seemed disturbed by the planter’*
forbidding air.
“What ragamuffin’s this, Betty?’
growded Ware disgustedly.
But Betty did not seem to hear.
"Did you come alone, Hannibal T“
she asked.
“No, ma’am; the judge and Mr. Mat
haffy, they fetched me.”
The judge had drawn nearer a*
Betty and Hannibal spoke together,
but Mahaffy hung back. There were
gulfs not to be crossed by him. It
was different with the judge; the
native magnificence of his mind fitted
him for any occasion.
"Allow me the honor to present my
self, ma’am—Price is my name—
Judge Slocum Price. May I be per
mitted to assume that this is the Mlw
Betty of whom my young protege s*
often speaks?”
Tom Ware gave him a glance of
undisguised astonishment, while Net
ton regarded hiiq with an expression
of stunned and resolute gravity.
Betty looked at the Judge rather fa*
quiringly.
“I am glad he has found friends,”
she said slowly. She wanted to be
lieve that Judge Slocum Price
somehow better than he looked, which
should have been easy, since it war
incredible that he could have bee*
worse.
“He has indeed found friends,” saM
the judge with mellow unction, an*
swelling' visibly.
Now Betty caught sight of Carrin»
ton and bowed. Occupied with Han
nibal and the judge, she had been u*
aware of his presence. Carrington
stepped forward.
“Have you met Mr. Norton, and mg*
brother, Mr. Carrington?” she asket
The two young men shook hand*,
and Ware improved the opportunity
to inspect the new-comer. But mu
his glance wandered over him, it too*
in more than Carrington, for it t»-
cluded the fine figure and swarthy
face of Captain Murrell, who, wttt
his eyes fixed on Betty, was thrusti®*,
his eager way through the crowd.
Murrell had presented himself M.
Belle Plain the day before. For bjk
ward of a year, Ware had enjoye*
great peace of mind as a direct re
sult of his absence from west Ten
nessee,’ and when he thought of hiss
at all he had invariably put a per um
to his meditations with, “I hope t»
hell he catches it wherever he is!”
More than this, Betty had spoka*
of the captain in no uncertain to*eu
He was not to repeat that visit.
Aa Murrell approached, the hot «*•
or surged Into Betty’s face. As tor
Hannibal, he had gone white to ttes
Ups, and his small hand clutched ben*
desperately.
Murrell, with all his hardihood
realized that a too great confldetaa*
had placed him in an awkward por
tion, for Betty turned her back «m
him and began an animated conver
sation with Carrington and Chart*?
Norton.
Hicks, the Belle Plain oversees,
pushed his way to Murrell’s side.
“Here, John Murrell, ain’t you gt*
Ing to show us a trick or two?” km
inquired.
Murrell turned quickly with a sena*
of relief.
“If you can spare me your rifle,” he
said, but his face wore a bleak look.
“Don’t you think you’ve seen abosß
enough, Bet?” demanded Tom. “Yoe
don’t care for the shooting, do you?”
“That’s the very thing I do cars*
for; I think I’d rather see that that
the horse-racing,” said Betty perverss
ly.
( ohe Continued
