Under the man-fig

Contents

Protoaurt: THE Town AND THE RIVER THE Court IN SESSION

. YounGc VAN

. STORMED AT BY SHOT AND SHELL . A CONFESSION . ' t

Prologue

THE TOWN AND THE RIVER.

THE name of the River is Los Brazos de Dios, which is to say, The Arms of God.

The bed of it is very deep; and the color of the water—when it creeps sluggishly along between its banks, so shallow in places that the blue heron may wade it without wetting his knees — is the color of tarnished brass. But when it comes roaring down from the far-away Redlands, a solid foam-crested wall, leaping upward a foot a minute, and spreading death and destruction into the outlying lowlands, then it is as red as spilled blood.

On its banks, more than a century and a half ago, a handful of barefoot Franciscan friars, who had prayed and fought their way across the country from Mexico, founded the Presidio of St. Jago, and corralled within yy UNDER THE MAN-FIG.

the boundary walls a flock of Yndios reducidos.

There were the stately church, cloistered and towered and rose-windowed, — a curious flower of architecture abloom in the savage wilderness, —and the block-house with its narrow loopholes, and the hut into which the Indian women were thrust at night under lock and key.

The mighty forest and open prairies around teemed with Yndios bravos, who hated the burly, cassocked, fighting monks, and their own Christianized tribesmen.

These came, in number like the leaves of the live-oak, to hurl themselves against the Presidio. And, after many days of hard fighting, the single friar who remained alive turned his eyes away from the demolished church, and, under cover of smoke from the burning block-house, led the remnant of Yndios reducidos (who because they had learned to pray had not forgotten how to fight) out of the inclosure by a little postern-gate, and down the steep bank to the yellow thread of the River below.

Midway of the stream —thridding the ankle-deep water — they were, before the red devils above discovered their flight. The

THE TOWN AND THE RIVER. 3 demoniac yell from a thousand throats pushed them like a battering-ram up the opposite bank, whence, looking back, they saw the bed of the River Tockonhono swarming with their foes. Then the Yndios reducidos opened their lips and began to chant the death-song of the Nainis; and the friar, lifting his hand, commended their souls and his own to the God who gives and who takes away.

But, lo, a miracle.

Even as the waves of the Red Sea— opened by the rod of Moses for the passage of his people — closed upon Pharaoh and his host, so, with the hoarse roar of a wild beast springing upon his prey, the foam-crested wall of water fell upon the Yndios bravos, and not a warrior of them all came forth from the river-bed but as a bruised and beaten corpse.

So the friar, falling on his knees, gave thanks. And the River, which was the Tockonhono, became from that day Los Brazos de Dios, which is to say, The Arms of God.

Such is the legend-of the River.

The town is on the River. It was built there nearly a hundred years after the forgotten Presidio of St. Jago.

It was reckoned once a centre of luxury and refinement. But that was during the epoch of the short-lived republic, and before the time of June Badgett.

It has changed but little, however, since the days when June and his cronies foregathered, gossiping, under the Man-Fig.

The gray weather-beaten old stores fronting the River drowse in the mellow sunshine like contented old folks who could, if they would, wake up and babble of past glories with the best.

The shadows of the great live-oaks lie athwart the by-streets, and above them rise the roofs of the same many-galleried aristocratic old mansions that shelter later generations of the same aristocratic old families.

The ferryman — it is always a Hopson, the office is hereditary — still shuffles down. the bank after he has been called a dozen or so times, and pulls the shackly ferry-boat across the river. You can hear the pulley creaking its way along the rope half-way to the railroad station, which is at the edge of a cotton-patch on the other side of the river. The train, as in the year of our Lord eigh-

THE TOWN AND THE RIVER. 5 teen hundred and fifty-seven (when the story begins), lumbers in and out at uncertain hours. If you are intending to leave, and should be delayed, it will wait for you a reasonable length of time, — say three quarters of an hour; though, unless you are acquainted with its vagaries, you may be startled into undue haste by the wild shrieks with which the locomotive beguiles its tarrying.

~The warehouse has not sloughed a shingle from its roof in all these years, nor lost a brick of its sturdy old walls.

The boats sailing the River — which goes Gulf-ward, now hesitating and reluctant, now thundering down in headlong haste, whipping its red waves into spume — may be new, but they look, with their black hulls and patched sails, like the boats which sailed the River forty years ago.

The townsmen still sit about under the store-sheds, — standing up, hat in hand, every mother’s son of ’em, when a woman, young or old, homely or beautiful, chances to pass, —comfortably minding each other’s business, and free, neighbor to neighbor, of pocket as of tongue.

Girls, slim and supple in their white gowns, flit of summer afternoons through the purpling shadows; and the sound of their voices is like the cooing of young pigeons.

In short, the old town —the lovablest, old-timiest, easy-goingest old town that ever was —sits there by the River, hugging its traditions, and hoarding its stories, of which it has enough to make a new Thousand and One Nights. he

Under the Man-fig is one of these.

L THE COURT IN SESSION.

“Van Herrin’! Well, I reckon! I’d know his hide ef I saw it in a tan-yard! ”

The speaker — a short thick-set man, with a broad face, red bristly beard and small twinkling eyes—slapped his hand against his thigh, and looked somewhat defiantly around upon his auditors.

“Oh, I did n’t mean to doubt ye, June,” said one of these in an aggressively skeptical tone, “ but ef it was night-time ” —

“It was betwix’ nine an’ ten o'clock at night,’ interrupted the first speaker, with emphasis. “I’d been down to Sam Billups’s after a load o’ watermelons, an’ I was a-drivin’ kinder slow (my team bein’ blowed), an’ jis’ as I got to the turn o’ the road beyan Roseneath, I saw a man step out on the side-gall’ry, through one of them long winders. He stood a minit ag’ins’ the light ’’—

“You could n’t o’ reco’nized nobody’s face on Miss Thornham’s side-gall’ry fum that turn o’ the road, June Badgett,” put in his opponent doggedly.

“‘ Hold your jaw, Rufe Drennon,” replied the man Badgett. “Gentlemen,” he continued, turning his back on the doubter and addressing the others, “I saw a man come out’n one of them long winders an’ stan’ a minit on the side-gall’ry. Then he jumped down an’ come acrost Miss Elinor’s rose-garden; an’ as I drove past, he opened the gate an’ come out. ‘The moon was as bright as day. I don’t b’lieve he saw me at all. He was lookin’ straight ahead of him, an’ his eyes bugged out like a fire-beetle’s. But I saw him plain enough. He went down the road todes his own house. An’ I wish my Maker may strike me stone dead ef that man wa’n’t Van Herrin’! ”

“You ’ve been a-tellin’ o’ that tale studdy fer the las’ three weeks,” said Drennon, after a short pause, during which they all ruminated silently on the threadbare but still exciting story. ‘’N ef you ’re so dead shore that Van Heerin’ took ’em, why ’nt you” —

“‘T ain’t shore,” interrupted Badgett again, thrusting his hands into his pockets and settling back against the fence. “ All I know is, I saw Van Herrin’ with my own eyes, come out’n Miss Thornham’s side-gate three weeks ago to-night.”

The men who composed the small group were lounging in the shade of an enormous fig-tree, whose gnarled and knobby branches ~ overhung one corner of an abandoned dooryard. This landmark— older, some said, than the town of Thornham itself — was known as the Man-Fig. It had long ceased to bear the luscious fruit which the oldest inhabitant — June Badgett’s father — remembered to have gathered, surreptitiously, when a boy. But it continued to thrive in a scragey sort of way, leaning over the fence, —which served at once as a hitching-place for horses and a support for the backs of the village idlers, —and sending its sprawly roots out in every direction. The origin of its name was unknown. A dim legend survived of the murdered Spaniard whose blood had watered its infant roots, and passed into its great reddish-purple fruit. But this half-forgotten story was only recalled by the inquiry of some curious stranger, the familiar appellation making no impression upon accustomed ears. During the short winter, which brought a bleak look to the spot, nipping the banana leaves and scorching the canne that grew in uncultivated profusion about the deserted house in the inclosure, the open space beneath the Man-Fig was left to stray cows, or to the colts whose whinnying dams were tethered to the rotting fence. But all through the semi-tropical spring and the long hot summer, its scant shade sheltered the male contingent of the Thornham gossips. They stood about, leaning against the fence, or squatted on the ground, gravely discussing all manner of questions —from the President’s last message to the ear-marks of their own hogs. More than one political campaign had been planned under the Man-Fig; and, truth to tell, more than one reputation laid on the rack.

The stillness which succeeded June Badgett’s last remark was broken by the shrill whistle of a locomotive. There was a perfunctory movement under the Man-Fig. Dud Welsh stood up and looked across the river at the crowd running toward the little station, and at the ferryman descending, on the hither side, the deep cut in the bank, to where the ferry-boat was fastened.

““T might sell some o’ them watermelons

Taas over at the dee-po’,” remarked Badgett ten-

THE COURT IN SESSION. Tt tatively, lifting a lazy elbow toward his wagon, which stood a few yards away, its deep bed loaded with green, glistening, roundbellied melons, ‘ but it’s too durned hot. I ain’t goin’ acrost.”

A sigh of relief passed through the squad. The wide street which ran along the river-bank lay hot and dusty in the quivering noontide heat. The stores and offices facing it were apparently deserted; though from time to time, when a plantation team crawled in and stopped, a shirt-sleeved clerk came languidly out to take an order; or a booted and spurred horseman, jingling up, passed the time of day with the invisible proprietor dozing on his chair within. At Addington’s warehouse, hunched against the bluff above the ferry, there were signs of life. A heavy bolt fell with a clang, the wooden doors swung open, a man appeared on the threshold, gesticulating, and shouting orders into space, and a dozen stalwart half-naked negroes swarmed suddenly down the bank and leaped upon the ferry-boat as it drew away from the shore.

“T reckon Jack Addington ’s lookin’ fer some freight,” said Tuke Chancellor, gazing after them. ‘“ Well, boys, it’s too late to git over now. Anyhow, ’t ain’t wuth the trouble. She’s gittin’ plum rickety.”

The houses composing the town of Thornham — buried in vines and shrubbery, and shaded by mighty and magnificent live-oaks — followed in single file the curves of the river, — now low and sullen-looking between its high banks. The town in general had an old and worn-out look, though not a halfcentury had gone by since the underbrush was cleared from its site, and barely a quarter since Steven Thornham built the first brick house —a stately mansion a stone’sthrow or so from the Man-Fig —and turned his attention to ousting Mexican authority from the vast region of country then beginning to be known as Texas. But it had had its day in the mean time, the placid little town! LEpauleted officers had lounged along its muddy sidewalks; couriers had galloped in and out with sealed dispatches ; Santa Anna, a prisoner of war, had strutted its single street. There, the first constitutional government had been inaugurated ; and the president of the young republic had there taken his oath of office. The after-glow of that gay and courtly time still lingered about the aristocratic town houses and the luxurious plantation homes that lined the downward-sweeping river on either side to within sound of the beating Gulfsurge. Later stories there were, too, of silent craft that had crept stealthily up the stream to discharge human freight, akin in color to the midnight shadows that hung about the stoop-shouldered warehouse, and slipped as stealthily back into the Gulf and thence toward the coast of - Guinea.

Then came the puff of the first locomotive-engine. The wonder of this had not yet died away. ‘“ She” was due once a day, and — sometimes several moments earlier, oftener an hour or more later, than the schedule time — the train came snorting noisily in, jolting and jostling the infrequent passengers. The station, separated from Thornham proper by the river, presented at such times a busy and animated appearance. Rarely indeed did man or boy, — though the spectacle entailed a hurried rush to the ferry and a run up the steep bank on the opposite side,—rarely did a Thornhamer miss the sight of the incoming or outgoing of the lumbering engine, and its single dingy comfortless coach.

“TY wonder ef she’s fetched any passengers,” said Jimmy Hopson, the youngest of the Man-Fig conclave, secretly longing, yet ashamed to bolt away at the last moment to see “her” uncoupled and side-tracked for the night.

“ Who is that with Pete Newall?” demanded Badgett abruptly, peering out from under the brim of his straw hat.

A light buggy drawn by a gaunt gray horse came up the river-bank from the ferry and glanced by, throwing the dust in their faces as it passed. It was driven by a large clean-shaven man with keen gray eyes and a kindly mouth; his somewhat careless dress was in accord with the unkempt look of the vehicle and harness, and the rough coat of the raw-boned but swift horse. His companion—a man near his own age, thirty-five. years or thereabout — offered a striking contrast in manner and appearance. His dark neat traveling-suit was faultless in cut and fit. He sat erect, with his gloved hands resting upon his knees. Everything about his slender and elegant person bespoke a high-bred and somewhat haughty repose. His blue eyes were hard and cold; a drooping mustache concealed his mouth; but not the firm, somewhat projecting chin. He seemed to ignore the presence of his escort, and he looked neither to right nor left as they whirled along the dusty highway.

*‘] b’lieve in my soul it’s Johnny Thornham !”’ exclaimed Badgett, jumping to his feet and staring after the buggy. “I ain’t seen him sence he left here nigh twenty years ago. But he’s got the same biggaty _ look he was born with; and — yes! they ’ve turned into Miss Elinor’s big gate.”

“ Will you come first to my office? or shall I drive you to the hotel, Jo— Mr. Thornham ?”’ Newall asked with his foot on the step of the buggy. He had to repeat his question as he seated himself beside the newcomer and picked up the reins; for the engine was shrieking and backing amid the delighted clamor of the crowd about the platform.

“Neither, thank you, Mr. Newall,” replied his guest courteously; “I will go at once to Roseneath, if you please.”

Hardly a word further was exchanged between the two men until they turned in at the large iron gate at Roseneath and drove slowly around the circular oak-shaded carriage-way to the house.

“The grounds seem much smaller than I remember them,” Thornham said, turning upon the broad gallery and looking about him with something like a contemptuous sneer.

“Tt is a fine old place,” retorted his com-

panion a little hotly; then, as if ashamed of his haste, he added quietly, ‘‘ Miss Thornham was very fond of it.” _ “So was my mother.” The stranger said this almost under his breath, following the lawyer down the wide hall and into the large old-fashioned parlor.

Here Newall seated himself by an open window, turning his head with innate delicacy while Thornham walked about the wellremembered room, pausing now and then to touch, with a restless finger, a yellowed book, or a dust-covered ornament. The sunlight streaming in through the windows fell full upon the two portraits over the mantel. He glanced for a second at the stern pictured face of his father; his own face hardened into a likeness of it, and a bitter smile curved bis thin lips. But his eyes softened as he turned to the other por-

THE COURT IN SESSION. ly trait. He rested his arm on the mantel and gazed long and musingly upon it.

It seemed but yesterday! The cold, selfish, rich, prosperous man of the world felt himself trembling once more under the harsh 'denunciatory sentence of that Steven Thornham, of whom it was said that he broke, or bent, everything that came to his hand; he felt again, warm upon his forehead, his mother’s tears.

“Let us come to business, Mr. Newall,” he said brusquely, straightening himself and passing his gloved hand across his eyes.

He led the way himself, and as if instinctively, into a small room which opened upon a side- gallery. It overlooked the rose-garden, and had been his mother’s morning -room. It was absolutely unchanged in all these years! There was the low chintz-covered lounge with its highpiled pillows; the claw-footed table; the spider-legged secretary ; the brass-bound work-stand with the silver sewing - bird perched upon its edge, — even the familiar little dog-eared Thomas-a-Kempis, open and face downward on the-embroidered hassock!

A large Newfoundland dog lying on a rug alongside the couch looked up with a questioning growl as they entered, then arose and walked over to where Thornham stood, and laid a shaggy head against his knee. He shrugged his shoulders as if shaking off an importunate sentiment, and seated himself, motioning the lawyer to a chair.

“You will tell me the particulars of my sister’s death,” he began, giving an impatient push to the dog, which nevertheless continued to nestle affectionately against him. ‘‘ You will remember, as I have already written you, that I have heard next to nothing of her since my mother died, ten years ago. In fact,” he added, “I can searcely realize her at all. She was, you know, some years younger than [; and I was, myself, little more than a boy when I went away.”

“Yes,” assented the lawyer, “I know. Well, after your father’s death, your mother ” —

“Tt is not necessary to speak of my mother,” interrupted Thornham coldly. “Confine yourself, if you please, to my sister Elinor and her affairs.”

“ Just after your — her— mother died,” continued Newall, stammering a little, but recovering himself, ‘“ Miss Elinor fell into delicate health.”

‘“‘ There had been some sort of love-affair, had there not?” asked his listener, apparently without much interest, for his eyes were wandering abstractedly about his mother’s sitting-room.

“ Yes,’ —the lawyer flushed a little, — “there had been a love-affair. Miss Elinor — that is — Miss Thornham — was engaged for a couple of years to her second cousin, ' Vanborough Herring. Do you remember him ?”

** No,” returned Thornham listlessly. “I never saw him. He came to Thornham after I left. So he was the man. What became of him?”

“The engagement was broken off —no one ever knew why — just after your —after Mrs. Thornham died. Herring went away —to Kentucky, I think ; and a year later he came back, bringing a wife with him.”

Thornham looked up as if suddenly aroused. A dark red spot showed for a second on either cheek, and his eyes flashed. But he did not speak.

‘“‘ Hfe has continued to live here in Thornham. He belongs to the poorer branch of the Vanborough-Thornhams. He has a large family. He is a lawyer; hardworking enough, but he has never seemed to make any headway. She—she was very fond of him.”

Newall uttered these sentences in a jerky sort of way, singularly different from the professional tone he had hitherto used.

Thornham looked at him a moment in silence ; then, as if dismissing Vanborough Herring from the conversation, he inquired: ‘“ Was my sister’s illness a long One (aee

‘Yes, and no,” Newall returned. ‘ During the ten years that she lived here alone after your — for ten years she was subject, at intervals, to sudden and painful attacks, — some trouble with the heart, I believe; and in one of these paroxysms she finally died. But much of the time she was well ; and though leading a quiet and almost secluded life, she took a vivid interest in everything that went on here in Thornham, as well as in the outside world. Hers was a most lovely character. She was very beautiful. And so young to die! She was barely thirty, you know.”

There was a tremor in his voice which did

THE COURT IN SESSION. o1 not escape his hearer, and his own tone was less hard when he spoke, after a short pause : —

“She must have been very like my mother! Who was with her when she died ?”’

“No one. She died, in this room, on yonder couch, three weeks ago to-night, — alone. Not neglected, oh, no!” — seeing the wrathful frown on the, face before him, — “not uncared for! She had been slightly ailing for some days, and unable to take her accustomed drive. She seemed depressed, too, and unusually restless. She came to this room — she was, in fact, carried, in the arms of one of her servants, as I understand — late that afternoon; and here Doctor Alsbury saw her soon after nightfall. She was weak and nervous, but quite free of pain. Mrs. Hopson — you remember Aunt Patty Hopson? She was your mo— Mrs. Thornham’s housekeeper before you were born.” ‘Thornham nodded. *« Aunt Patty and her maid were with her. But when the doctor had taken his leave, she sent themboth-away, desiring, as she often did, to be alone. She was lying upon the lounge, with the small table beside her, the bell within reach of her hand. Mrs. Hopson went into the dining-room, with the maid, and remained there, superintending some household matters. Nearly two hours passed. The night was warm and still, the house very quiet. Aunt Patty had just observed to the maid that Miss Elinor had probably dropped asleep, when Magnus, the old Newfoundland there, who was lying at her feet, got up, as if suddenly aroused, and came down the hall in this direction. The girl called to him softly, fearful lest he should disturb her mistress, but he passed on, and a moment later they were startled by a piteous howl which rang through the silent house. They ran, frightened, into the room. The dog was leaping distractedly against the couch, where his mistress was lying, white and motionless, apparently in a heavy swoon. The doctor, hastily summoned, found life extinct. Death had come to her — painlessly, he said —in one of those spasms of the heart to which she was subject. She had been dead perhaps half an hour.”

The speaker’s voice died away in something like a smothered sob. The dog, at mention of his name, had lifted his great

THE COURT IN SESSION. 2a head and fixed his intelligent eyes upon Thornham’s face. He now walked over to the couch and stood there whining softly. There was a moment of pained silence.

Thornham half arose, but reseated himself, arrested by a fleeting expression which crossed his companion’s face.

“There is something more,” he said quietly ; “go on.”

Newall looked up surprised ; he flushed a little and moved uneasily in his chair. ~ “Yes,” he admitted, dropping his eyes, “there is something I ought to tell you, but ” —

“ Well?” demanded Thornham, as _ he hesitated.

The lawyer cleared his throat and _ proceeded. “About the time the lamps were brought in that night, she asked Aunt Patty to bring her a box from her jewel-case. It contained, I am told, a diamond necklet of great beauty and value ” —

“] have never heard of it,’? Thornham said, answering a look in the speaker’s eyes; “but, then, I know nothing whatever of my sister’s life, or her possessions.”’.

“She held the box in her hand during the doctor’s visit. No one is known to have entered the room afterward; but when the alarm and excitement over her sudden death had somewhat subsided, Mrs. Hopson remembered the box and desired to return it to the casket. It had disappeared. It was then noticed that one of the windows — the one next you there — opening upon the sidegallery, which was closed when Aunt Patty and the maid left the room — was standing open. There were heavy footprints in the rose-bed beneath the gallery, and leading off into the rose-garden, showing that some one had jumped down and passed across to the gate.”

‘* Who is suspected ?”” demanded Thornham, with keen interest.

The lawyer’s voice dropped to a shamed whisper. ‘Noone is known to have entered the house, but Herring was seen coming out of this window about three quarters of an hour after Mrs. Hopson quitted the room.”

“A Vanborough! Impossible!” cried Thornham angrily.

A look of relief came into Newall’s eyes.

“T felt bound to mention this cireumstance,” he said, “ but I myself believe Vanborough Herring incapable of ” —

Thornham was not listening. He got up and made two or three turns about the small room, the dog following at his heels.

“ Investigate it,” he said sharply at length, pausing before his companion. ‘“ Investigate it,’ he repeated, interrupting a hurried protest. “Ifa Vanborough can rob a dead woman, by God! and a woman he has jilted, he ought to suffer for it! Look into it at once and prosecute if necessary ; spare no expense.” He brought his fist down on the small table as he spoke. The tray of glasses there quivered, filling the room with their crystalline tinkle.

“‘ Very well, sir,” said Newall briefly.

They passed into the hall. ‘ That rattletrap of a train leaves, I believe, at ten o'clock to-morrow morning?” ‘Thornham asked.

“You surely do not think of returning so soon,” said the lawyer astonished. “I thought ” —

“JT have important business elsewhere,” interrupted Thornham again. “Or, rather,”’ he continued, with a short unmusical laugh, — ‘in God’s name, what have I to do with . the town of Thornham or its people! I wish my mother’s portrait forwarded as soon as possible to my address in New Orleans.

And my sister’s,” he added as an afterthought. “I will advise you as to what disposition to make of the family belongings and my sister’s private property. As to the house and grounds, sell at once. I have no sentiment about the place. I sometimes wish I had kept Fair View, the plantation down the river, where my mother used to go with me during my vacation days. But I sold that when it came into my possession after my father’s death. Yes, sell Roseneath — at once, if possible.”

‘“‘ And the negroes — the house-servants ? There area good many of them. Elinor” —

“Sell them! At once! I have no use for such property. Sell it all; horses —I suppose my sister kept horses ?”

“As fine a pair as ever trotted in harness,” replied Newall, visibly nettled.

“Very well. Sell them all. Sell everything.” He tossed a defiant glance at his father’s portrait, for they were standing again in the parlor. ‘I leave the whole business in your hands. You will communicate at need with my lawyers in New Orleans. And now, have the goodness to drive me to a hotel. I am a little tired after my long journey.”

The Newfoundland shambled down the steps behind him; and, after he was seated in the buggy, reared up to place a huge paw upon his knee.

They talked — spasmodically — of indifferent subjects as they drove back through the town, Newall secretly wondering at his companion’s utter want of curiosity or interest concerning his birthplace and the people among whom his boyhood had passed.

““T suppose you are married, Mr. Newall?” The question sounded perfunctory.

*“ No, I’m not married,” returned Newall eurtly, as the buggy stopped before The President’s Rest tavern,— so called because Sam Houston had slept there the night preceding his inauguration.

The afternoon shadows had lengthened, and a breeze blew up salt from the Gulf. The town was slowly awaking from its prolonged nap. Old Mr. Lusk, standing in his store door, was holding an animated conversation with Uncle Billy Duncan, in his spider-wheeled gig. Ned Cushington had come out of the ‘“ Gazette” office with a paper — moist and smelling of printers’ ink —in his hand, and was reading a bit of late news to some men on a corner; his fine dark eyes were flashing with excitement. Women and girls, in groups of twos and threes, in light summer gowns, flitted about the grassy by-ways. A stentorian chorus arose from Addington’s warehouse, where the negroes were piling freight.