Part 3

“I don't know as I've prepared any set speech on the subject,” said her husband, testily; “but I walked. I could 'a' gone to a livery an' ordered out a team, but I believe thar's more'n one way o' wearin' sackcloth an' ashes, an' the sooner I begin the better I 'll feel.” Abner Daniel winked; the scriptural allusion appealed to his fancy, and he smiled impulsively.

“That thar is,” he said. “Thar's a whole way an' a half way. Some folks jest wear it next to the skin whar it don't show, with broadcloth ur silk on the outside. They think ef it scratches a little that 'll satisfy the Lord an' hoodwink other folks. But I believe He meant it to be whole hog or none.”

Mrs. Bishop was deaf to this philosophy. “I don't see,” she said, in her own field of reflection--“I don't see, I say, how you got to Atlanta; attended to business; seed Adele; an' got back heer at sunrise. Why, Alfred--”

But Bishop interrupted her. “Have you all had prayers yet?”

“No, you know we hain't,” said his wife, wondering over his strange manner. “I reckon it can pass jest this once, bein' as you are tired an' hain't had nothin' to eat.”

“No, it can't pass, nuther; I don't want to touch a mouthful; tell the rest of 'em to come in, an' you fetch me the Book.”

“Well!” Mrs. Bishop went out and told the negro woman and her daughter to stop washing the dishes and go in to prayer. Then she hurried out to the back porch, where Alan was oiling his gun.

“Something's happened to yore pa,” she said. “He acts queer, an' says sech strange things. He walked all the way from Darley this morning, an' now wants to have prayers 'fore he touches a bite o' breakfast. I reckon we are ruined.”

“I'm afraid that's it,” opined her son, as he put down his gun and followed her into the sitting-room. Here the two negroes stood against the wall. Abner Daniel was smoking and Bishop held the big family Bible on his quivering knees.

“Ef you mean to keep it up,” Abner was saying, argumentatively, “all right an' good; but I don't believe in sudden spurts o' worship. My hosses is hitched up ready to haul a load o' bark to the tannery, an' it may throw me a little late at dinner; but ef you are a-goin' to make a daily business of it I'm with you.”

“I'm a-goin' to be regular from now on,” said Bishop, slowly turning the leaves of the tome. “I forgot whar I read last.”

“You didn't finish about Samson tyin' all them foxes' tails together,” said Abner Daniel, as he knocked the hot ashes from his pipe into the palm of his hand and tossed them into the chimney. “That sorter interested me. I wondered how that was a-goin' to end. I'd hate to have a passle o' foxes with torches to the'r tails turned loose in my wheat jest 'fore cuttin' time. It must 'a' been a sight. I wondered how that was a-goin' to end.”

“You 'll wonder how _yo're_ a-goin' to end if you don't be more respectful,” said his sister.

“Like the foxes, I reckon,” grinned Abner, “with a eternal torch tied to me. Well, ef I am treated that away, I 'll go into the business o' destruction an' set fire to everything I run across.”

“Ain' t you goin' to tell us what you did in Atlanta 'fore you have prayer?” asked Mrs. Bishop, almost resentfully.

“No, I hain't!” Bishop snapped. “I 'll tell you soon enough. I reckon I won't read this mornin'; let's pray.”

They all knelt reverently, and yet with some curiosity, for Bishop often suited his prayers to important occasions, and it struck them that he might now allude to the subject bound up within him.

“Lord, God Almighty,” he began, his lower lip hanging and quivering, as were his hands clasped in the seat of his chair, “Thou knowest the struggle Thy creatures are makin' on the face of Thy green globe to live up to the best of the'r lights an' standards. As I bend before Thee this mornin' I realize how small a bein' I am in Thy sight, an' that I ort to bow in humble submission to Thy will, an' I do. For many yeers this family has enjoyed Thy bounteous blessings. We've had good health, an' the influence of a Bible-readin', God-fearin' community, an' our childern has been educated in a way that raised 'em head an' shoulders above many o' the'r associates an' even blood kin. I don't know exactly whar an' how I've sinned; but I know I have displeased Thee, fer Thy scourge has fallen hard an' heavy on my ambitions. I wanted to see my boy heer, a good, obedient son, an' my daughter thar in Atlanta, able to hold the'r heads up among the folks they mix with, an' so I reached out. Maybe it was forbidden fruit helt out by a snake in the devil's service. I don't know--Thou knowest. Anyways, I steered my course out o' the calm waters o' content an' peace o' soul into the whirlpool rapids o' avarice an' greed. I'lowed I was in a safe haven an' didn't dream o' the storm-clouds hangin' over me till they bust in fury on my head. Now, Lord, my Father, give them hearts of patience an' forgiveness fer the blunders of Thy servant. What I done, I done in the bull-headed way that I've always done things; but I meant good an' not harm. These things we ask in the name o' Jesus Christ, our blessed Lord an' Master. Amen.”

During the latter part of the prayer Mrs. Bishop had been staring at her husband through her parted fingers, her face pale and agitated, and as she rose her eyes were glued to his face.

“Now, Alfred,” she said, “what are you goin' to tell us about the railroad? Is it as bad as brother Ab thought it would be?”

Bishop hesitated. It seemed as if he had even then to tear himself from the clutch of his natural stubbornness. He looked into all the anxious, waiting faces before he spoke, and then he gave in.

“Ab made a good guess. Ef I'd 'a' had his sense, or Alan' s, I'd 'a' made a better trader. It's like Ab said it was, only a sight wuss--a powerful sight wuss!”

“Wuss?” gasped his wife, In fresh alarm. “How could it be wuss? Why, brother Ab said--”

“I never have told you the extent o' my draim's,” went on Bishop in the current of confession. “I never even told Perkins yesterday. Fust an' last I've managed to rake in fully twenty thousand acres o' mountain-land. I was goin' on what I'lowed was a dead-shore thing. I secured all I could lay my hands on, an' I did it in secret. I was afeerd even to tell you about what Perkins said, thinkin' it mought leak out an' sp'ile my chances.”

“But, father,” said Alan, “you didn't have enough money to buy all that land.”

“I got it up”--Bishop's face was doggedly pale, almost defiant of his overwhelming disaster--“I mortgaged this farm to get money to buy Maybry and Morton's four thousand acres.”

“The farm you was going to deed to Alan?” gasped his wife. “You didn't include that?”

“Not in _that_ deal,” groaned Bishop. “I swapped that to Phil Parsons fer his poplar an' cypress belt.” The words seemed to cut raspingly into the silence of the big room. Abner Daniel was the only one who seemed unmoved by the confession. He filled his pipe from the bowl on the mantel-piece and pressed the tobacco down with his forefinger; then he kicked the ashes in the chimney till he uncovered a small five coal. He eyed it for a moment, then dipped it up in the shovel, rolled it into his pipe, and began to smoke.

“So I ain't a-goin' to git no yeerly pass over the new road,” he said, his object being to draw his brother-in-law back to Perkins's action in the matter.

“Perkins was a-lyin' to me,” answered Bishop. “He hain't admitted it yet; but he was a-lyin'. His object was to he'p the Tompkins sell out fer a decent price, but he can' t be handled; he's got me on the hip.”

“No,” said Abner. “I'd ruther keep on swappin' gold dollars fer mountain-land an' lettin' it go fer taxes 'an to try to beat a lawyer at his own game. A court-house is like the devil's abode, easy to git into, no outlet, an' nothin' but scorch while you are thar.”

“Hush, fer the name o' goodness!” cried Mrs. Bishop, looking at her husband. “Don't you see he's dyin' from it? Are you all a-goin' to kill 'im? What does a few acres o' land ur debts amount to beside killin' a man 'at's been tryin' to help us all? Alfred, it ain't so mighty awful. You know it ain't! What did me 'n' you have when we started out but a log-house boarded up on the outside? an' now we've got our childern educated an' all of us in good health. I railly believe it's a sin agin God's mercy fer us to moan an' fret under a thing like this.”

“That's the talk,” exclaimed Abner Daniel, enthusiastically. “Now you are gittin' down to brass tacks. I've always contended--”

“For God's sake, don't talk that way!” said Bishop to his wife. “You don't mean a word of it. You are jest a-sayin' it to try to keep me from seein' what a fool I am.”

“You needn't worry about me, father,” said Alan, firmly. “I am able to look out for myself an' for you and mother. It's done, and the best thing to do is to look at it in a sensible way. Besides, a man with twenty thousand acres of mountain-land paid for is not broken, by a long jump.”

“Yes, I'm gone,” said Bishop, a wavering look of gratitude in his eye as he turned to his son. “I figured on it all last night. I can't pay the heavy interest an' come out. I was playin' for big stakes an' got left. Thar's nothin' to do but give up. Me buyin' so much land has made it rise a little, but when I begin to try to sell I won't be able to give it away.”

“Thar's some'n in that,” opined Abner Daniel, as he turned to leave the room. “I reckon I mought as well go haul that tan-bark. I reckon you won't move out 'fore dinner.”

Alan followed him out to the wagon.

“It's pretty tough, Uncle Ab,” he said. “I hadn't the slightest idea it was so bad.”

“I wasn't so shore,” said Daniel. “But I was jest a-thinkin' in thar. You've got a powerful good friend in Rayburn Miller. He's the sharpest speculator in North Georgia; ef I was you, I'd see him an' lay the whole thing before him. He 'll be able to give you good advice, an' I'd take it. A feller that's made as much money as he has at his age won't give a friend bad advice.”

“I thought of him,” said Alan; “but I am a little afraid he will think we want to borrow money, and he never lets out a cent without the best security.”

“Well, you needn't be afeerd on that score,” laughed the old man, as he reached up on the high wagon-seat for his whip. “I once heerd 'im say that business an' friendship wouldn't mix any better'n oil an' water.”

V

HE following Saturday Alan went to Darley, as he frequently did, to spend Sunday. On such visits he usually stayed at the Johnston House, a great, old-fashioned brick building that had survived the Civil War and remained untouched by the shot and shell that hurtled over it during that dismal period when most of the population had “refugeed farther south.” It had four stories, and was too big for the town, which could boast of only two thousand inhabitants, one-third of whom were black. However, the smallness of the town was in the hotel's favor, for in a place where no one would have patronized a second-class hotel, opposition would have died a natural death. The genial proprietor and his family were of the best blood, and the Johnston House was a sort of social club-house, where the church people held their affairs and the less serious element gave dances. To be admitted to the hotel without having to pay for one's dinner was the hallmark of social approval. It was near the ancient-looking brick car-shed under which the trains of two main lines ran, and a long freight warehouse of the same date and architecture. Around the hotel were clustered the chief financial enterprises of the town--its stores, post-office, banks, and a hall for theatrical purposes. Darley was the seat of its county, and another relic of the days before the war was its court house. The principal sidewalks were paved with brick, which in places were damp and green, and sometimes raised above their common level by the undergrowing roots of the sycamore-trees that edged the streets.

In the office of the hotel, just after registering his name, Alan met his friend Rayburn Miller, for whose business ability, it may be remembered, Abner Daniel had such high regard. He was a fine-looking man of thirty-three, tall and of athletic build; he had dark eyes and hair, and a ruddy, out-door complexion.

“Hello,” he said, cordially. “I thought you might get in to-day, so I came round to see. Sorry you've taken a room. I wanted you to sleep with me to-night. Sister's gone, and no one is there but the cook. Hello, I must be careful. I'm drumming for business right under Sanford's nose.”

“I 'll make you stay with me to make up for it,” said Alan, as the clerk behind the counter laughed good-naturedly over the allusion to himself.

“Blamed if I don't think about it,” said Miller. “Come round to the office. I want to talk to you. I reckon you've got every plough going such weather as this.”

“Took my horse out of the field to drive over,” said Alan, as they went out and turned down to a side street where there was a row of law offices, all two-roomed buildings, single-storied, built of brick, and bearing battered tin signs. One of these buildings was Miller's, which, like all its fellows, had its door wide open, thus inviting all the lawyers in the “row” and all students of law to enter and borrow books or use the ever-open desk.

Rayburn Miller was a man among ten thousand in his class. Just after being graduated at the State University he was admitted to the bar and took up the practice of law. He could undoubtedly have made his way at this alone, had not other and more absorbing talents developed within him. Having had a few thousand dollars left him at his father's death, he began to utilize this capital in “note shaving,” and other methods of turning over money for a handsome profit furnished by the unsettled conditions, the time, and locality. He soon became an adept in many lines of speculation, and as he was remarkably shrewd and cautious, it is not to be wondered at that he soon accumulated quite a fortune.

“Take a seat,” he said to Alan, as they went into the office, and he threw himself into the revolving-chair at his littered desk. “I want to talk to you. I suppose you are in for some fun. The boys are getting up a dance at the hotel and they want your dollar to help pay the band. It's a good one this time. They've ordered it from Chattanooga. It will be down on the seven-thirty-five. Got a match?”

Alan had not, and Miller turned his head to the open door. An old negro happened to be passing, with an axe on his shoulder.

“Heigh, there, Uncle Ned!” Miller called out.

The negro had passed, but he heard his name called and he came back and looked in at the door.

“Want me, Marse Rayburn?”

“Yes, you old scamp; get me a match or I 'll shoot the top of your head off.”

“All right, suh; all right, Marse Rayburn!”

“You ought to know him,” said Miller, with a smile, as the negro hurried into the adjoining office. “His wife cooks for Colonel Barclay; he might tell you if Miss Dolly's going to-night, but I know she is. Frank Hillhouse checked her name off the list, and I heard him say she'd accepted. By-the-way, that fellow will do to watch. I think he and the Colonel are pretty thick.”

“Will you never let up on that?” Alan asked with a flush.

“I don't know that I shall,” laughed Rayburn. “It seems so funny to see you in love, or, rather, to see you think you are.”

“I have never said I was,” said Alan, sharply.

“But you show it so blamed plain,” said Miller.

“Heer 'tis, Marse Rayburn. Marse Trabue said you could have a whole box ef you'd put up wid sulphur ones.”

Miller took the matches from the outstretched hand and tossed a cigar to Alan. “Say, Uncle Ned,” he asked, “do you know that gentleman?” indicating Alan with a nod of his head.

A quizzical look dawned in the old negro's eyes, and then he gave a resounding guffaw and shook all over.

“I reckon I know his hoss, Marse Rayburn,” he tittered.

“That's a good one on you, Alan,” laughed Miller. “He knows your 'hoss.'I 'll have to spring that on you when I see you two together.”

As the negro left the office Mr. Trabue leaned in the doorway, holding his battered silk hat in his hand and mopping his perspiring face.

He nodded to Alan, and said to Miller: “Do you want to write?”

“Not any more for you, thanks,” said Miller. “I have the back-ache now from those depositions I made out for you yesterday.”

“Oh, I don't mean that,” the old lawyer assured him, “but I had to borrow yore ink just now, and seein' you at yore desk I thought you might need it.”

“Oh, if I do,” jested Miller, “I can buy another bottle at the book-store. They pay me a commission on the ink I furnish the row. They let me have it cheap by the case. What stumps me is that you looked in to see if I needed it. You are breaking the rule, Mr. Trabue. They generally make me hunt for my office furniture when I need it. They've borrowed everything I have except my iron safe. Their ignorance of the combination, its weight, and their confirmed laziness is all that saved it.”

When the old lawyer had gone the two friends sat and smoked in silence for several minutes. Alan was studying Miller's face. Something told him that the news of his father's disaster had reached him, and that Miller was going to speak of it. He was not mistaken, for the lawyer soon broached the subject.

“I've been intending to ride out to see you almost every day this week,” he said, “but business has always prevented my leaving town.”

“Then you have heard--”

“Yes, Alan, I'm sorry, but it's all over the country. A man's bad luck spreads as fast as good war news. I heard it the next day after your father returned from Atlanta, and saw the whole thing in a flash. The truth is, Perkins had the cheek to try his scheme on me. I'm the first target of every scoundrel who has something to sell, and I've learned many of their tricks. I didn't listen to all he had to say, but got rid of him as soon as I could. You must not blame the old man. As I see it now, it was a most plausible scheme, and the shame of it is that no one can be handled for it. I don't think the Tompkins heirs knew anything of Perkins's plans at all, except that he was to get a commission, perhaps, if the property was sold. Trabue is innocent, too--a cat's-paw. As for Perkins, he has kept his skirts clear of prosecution. Your father will have to grin and bear it. He really didn't pay a fabulous price for the land, and if he were in a condition to hold on to it for, say, twenty-five years, he might not lose money; but who can do that sort of thing? I have acres and acres of mountain-land offered me at a much lower figure, but what little money I've made has been made by turning my capital rapidly. Have you seen Dolly since it happened?”

“No, not for two weeks,” replied Alan. “I went to church with her Sunday before last, and have not seen her since. I was wondering if she had heard about it.”

“Oh yes; she's heard it from the Colonel. It may surprise you, but the thing has rubbed him the wrong way.”

“Why, I don't understand,” exclaimed Alan. “Has he--”

“The old man has had about two thousand acres of land over near your father's purchases, and it seems that he was closely watching all your father's deals, and, in spite of his judgment to the contrary, Mr. Bishop's confidence in that sort of real-estate has made him put a higher valuation on his holdings over there. So you see, now that your father's mistake is common talk, he is forced to realize a big slump, and he wants to blame some one for it. I don't know but that your father or some one else made him an offer for his land which he refused. So you see it is only natural for him to be disgruntled.”

“I see,” said Alan. “I reckon you heard that from Miss Dolly?”

Miller smoked slowly.

“Yes”--after a pause--“I dropped in there night before last and she told me about it. She's not one of your surface creatures. She talks sensibly on all sorts of subjects. Of course, she's not going to show her heart to me, but she couldn't hide the fact that your trouble was worrying her a good deal. I think she'd like to see you at the ball to-night. Frank Hillhouse will give you a dance or two. He's going to be hard to beat. He's the most attentive fellow I ever run across. He's got a new buggy--a regular hug-me-tight--and a high-stepping Kentucky mare for the summer campaign. He 'll have some money at his father's death, and all the old women say he's the best catch in town because he doesn't drink, has a Sunday-school class, and will have money. We are all going to wear evening-suits to-night. There are some girls from Rome visiting Hattie Alexander, and we don't want them to smell hay in our hair. You know how the boys are; unless all of us wear spike-tails no one will, so we took a vote on it and we 'll be on a big dike. There 'll be a devilish lot of misfits. Those who haven't suits are borrowing in all directions. Frank Buford will rig out in Colonel Day's antebellum toggery. Did you bring yours?”

“It happens to be at Parker's shop, being pressed,” said Alan.

“I've had three in the last six years,” laughed Miller. “You know how much larger Todd Selman is than I am; he bursted one of mine from collar to waist last summer at the Springs, and sweated so much that you could dust salt out of it for a month afterwards. I can't refuse 'em, God bless 'em! Jeff Higgins married in my best Prince Albert last week and spilled boiled custard on it; but he's got a good wife and a fair job on a railroad in Tennessee now. I'd have given him the coat, but he'd never have accepted it, and been mad the rest of his life at my offer. Parker said somebody had tried to scrape the custard off with a sharp knife, and that he had a lot of trouble cleaning it. I wore the coat yesterday and felt like I was going to be married. Todd must have left some of his shivers in it I reckon that's as near as I 'll ever come to the hitching-post.”

Just then a tall, thin man entered. He wore a rather threadbare frock-coat, unevenly bound with braid, and had a sallow, sunken, and rather long face. It was Samuel Craig, one of the two private bankers of the town. He was about sixty years of age and had a pronounced stoop.

“Hello!” he said, pleasantly; “you young bloods are a-goin' to play smash with the gals' hearts to-night, I reckon. I say go it while you are young. Rayburn, I want to get one of them iron-clad mortgage-blanks. I've got a feller that is disposed to wiggle, an' I want to tie 'im up. The inventor of that form is a blessing to mankind.”

“Help yourself,” smiled Miller. “I was just telling Mr. Trabue that I was running a stationery store, and if I was out of anything in the line I'd order it for him.”

The banker laughed good-humoredly as he selected several of the blanks from the drawer Rayburn had opened in the desk.

“I hope you won't complain as much of hard times as Jake Pitner does,” he chuckled. “I passed his store the other day, where he was standin' over some old magazines that he'd marked down.

“'How's trade?' I asked 'im. 'It's gone clean to hell,' he said, and I noticed he'd been drinking. 'I 'll give you a sample of my customers,' he went on. 'A feller from the mountains come in jest now an' asked the price of these magazines. I told him the regular price was twenty-five cents apiece, but I'd marked 'em down to five. He looked at 'em for about half a hour an' then said he wasn't goin' out o' town till sundown an' believed he'd take one if I'd read it to him.'”

Craig laughed heartily as he finished the story, and Alan and Miller joined in.

“I want you to remember that yarn when you get to over-checkin' on me,” said Craig, jestingly. “I was just noticing this morning that you have drawn more than your deposit.”