Roads last week, dear,” he began, cheerfully, “and I thought of you, and reckoned it was about time that my Pussy got one of her letters from her rich Californian friend—and sure enough there was one. I clean forgot to give it to you then, and only remembered it passing there to-day. I didn’t get to see if there was any gold-dust in it,” he continued, with great archness, and a fatherly pinch of her cheek; “though I suspect that isn’t the kind of currency he sends to you.”
“It IS from Mr. Corbin,” said Miss Sally, taking it with a languid kind of doubt; “and only now, paw, I was just thinking that I’d sort of drop writing any more; it makes a good deal of buzzing amongst the neighbors, and I don’t see much honey nor comb in it.”
“Eh,” said the Captain, apparently more astonished than delighted at his daughter’s prudence. “Well, child, suit yourself! It’s mighty mean, though, for I was just thinking of telling you that Judge Read is an old friend of this Colonel Starbottle, who is your friend’s friend and lawyer, and he says that Colonel Starbottle is WITH US, and working for the cause out there, and has got a list of all the So’thern men in California that are sound and solid for the South. Read says he shouldn’t wonder if he’d make California wheel into line too.”
“I don’t see what that’s got to do with Mr. Corbin,” said the young girl, impatiently, flicking the still unopened letter against the packet in her hand.
“Well,” said the Captain, with cheerful vagueness, “I thought it might interest you,—that’s all,” and lounged judicially away.
“Paw thinks,” said Miss Sally, still standing in the doorway, ostentatiously addressing her pet goshawk, but with one eye following her retreating parent, “Paw thinks that everybody is as keen bent on politics as he is. There’s where paw slips up, Jim.”
Re-entering the room, scratching her little nose thoughtfully with the edge of Mr. Corbin’s letter, she went to the mantelpiece and picked up a small ivory-handled dagger, the gift of Joyce Masterton, aged eighteen, presented with certain verses addressed to a “Daughter of the South,” and cut open the envelope. The first glance was at her own name, and then at the signature. There was no change in the formality; it was “Dear Miss Sarah,” and “Yours respectfully, Jo Corbin,” as usual. She was still secure. But her pretty brows contracted slightly as she read as follows:—
“I’ve always allowed I should feel easier in my mind if I could ever get to see Mrs. Jeffcourt, and that may be she might feel easier in hers if I stood before her, face to face. Even if she didn’t forgive me at once, it might do her good to get off what she had on her mind against me. But as there wasn’t any chance of her coming to me, and it was out of the question my coming to her and still keeping up enough work in the mines to send her the regular money, it couldn’t be done. But at last I’ve got a partner to run the machine when I’m away. I shall be at Shelbyville by the time this reaches you, where I shall stay a day or two to give you time to break the news to Mrs. Jeffcourt, and then come on. You will do this for me in your Christian kindness, Miss Dows—won’t you? and if you could soften her mind so as to make it less hard for me I shall be grateful.
“P. S.—I forgot to say I have had HIM exhumed—you know who I mean—and am bringing him with me in a patent metallic burial casket,—the best that could be got in ‘Frisco, and will see that he is properly buried in your own graveyard. It seemed to me that it would be the best thing I could do, and might work upon her feelings—as it has on mine. Don’t you?
“J. C.”
Miss Sally felt the tendrils of her fair hair stir with consternation. The letter had arrived a week ago; perhaps he was in Pineville at that very moment! She must go at once to the Jeffcourts,—it was only a mile distant. Perhaps she might be still in time; but even then it was a terribly short notice for such a meeting. Yet she stopped to select her newest hat from the closet, and to tie it with the largest of bows under her pretty chin; and then skipped from the veranda into a green lane that ran beside the garden boundary. There, hidden by a hedge, she dropped into a long, swinging trot, that even in her haste still kept the languid deliberation characteristic of her people, until she had reached the road. Two or three hounds in the garden started joyously to follow her, but she drove them back with a portentous frown, and an ill-aimed stone, and a suppressed voice. Yet in that backward glance she could see that her little Eumenides—Mammy Judy’s children—were peering at her from below the wooden floor of the portico, which they were grasping with outstretched arms and bowed shoulders, as if they were black caryatides supporting—as indeed their race had done for many a year—the pre-doomed and decaying mansion of their master.
CHAPTER III
Happily Miss Sally thought more of her present mission than of the past errors of her people. The faster she walked the more vividly she pictured the possible complications of this meeting. She knew the dull, mean nature of her aunt, and the utter hopelessness of all appeal to anything but her selfish cupidity, and saw in this fatuous essay of Corbin only an aggravation of her worst instincts. Even the dead body of her son would not only whet her appetite for pecuniary vengeance, but give it plausibility in the eyes of their emotional but ignorant neighbors. She had still less to hope from Julia Jeffcourt’s more honest and human indignation but equally bigoted and prejudiced intelligence. It is true they were only women, and she ought to have no fear of that physical revenge which Julia had spoken of, but she reflected that Miss Jeffcourt’s unmistakable beauty, and what was believed to be a “truly Southern spirit,” had gained her many admirers who might easily take her wrongs upon their shoulders. If her father had only given her that letter before, she might have stopped Corbin’s coming at all; she might even have met him in time to hurry him and her cousin’s provocative remains out of the country. In the midst of these reflections she had to pass the little hillside cemetery. It was a spot of great natural beauty, cypress-shadowed and luxuriant. It was justly celebrated in Pineville, and, but for its pretentious tombstones, might have been peaceful and suggestive. Here she recognized a figure just turning from its gate. It was Julia Jeffcourt.
Her first instinct—that she was too late and that her cousin had come to the cemetery to make some arrangements for the impending burial—was, however, quickly dissipated by the young girl’s manner.
“Well, Sally Dows, YOU here! who’d have thought of seeing you to-day? Why, Chet Brooks allowed that you danced every set last night and didn’t get home till daylight. And you—you that are going to show up at another party to-night too! Well, I reckon I haven’t got that much ambition these times. And out with your new bonnet too.”
There was a slight curl of her handsome lip as she looked at her cousin. She was certainly a more beautiful girl than Miss Sally; very tall, dark and luminous of eye, with a brunette pallor of complexion, suggesting, it was said, that remote mixture of blood which was one of the unproven counts of Miss Miranda’s indictment against her family. Miss Sally smiled sweetly behind her big bow. “If you reckon to tie to everything that Chet Brooks says, you’ll want lots of string, and you won’t be safe then. You ought to have heard him run on about this one, and that one, and that other one, not an hour ago in our parlor. I had to pack him off, saying he was even making Judy’s niggers tired.” She stopped and added with polite languor, “I suppose there’s no news up at yo’ house either? Everything’s going on as usual—and—you get yo’ California draft regularly?”
A good deal of the white of Julia’s beautiful eyes showed as she turned indignantly on the speaker. “I wish, cousin Sally, you’d just let up talking to me about that money. You know as well as I do that I allowed to maw I wouldn’t take a cent of it from the first! I might have had all the gowns and bonnets”—with a look at Miss Sally’s bows—“I wanted from her; she even offered to take me to St. Louis for a rig-out—if I’d been willing to take blood money. But I’d rather stick to this old sleazy mou’nin’ for Tom”—she gave a dramatic pluck at her faded black skirt—“than
