One Saturday afternoon in the spring of
1876, as Farmer Joe-Bob Grissom was on
his way to Hillsborough for the purpose of
hearing the news and having an evening’s
chat with his town acquaintances,—as was
his invariable custom at the close of the
week,—he saw, as he passed the old Bascom
Place, an old gentleman and a young
lady walking slowly along the road. The
old gentleman was tall and thin, and had silvery
white hair. He wore a high-crowned,
wide-brimmed felt hat, and his clothes,
though neat, were too glossy to be new.
The young lady was just developing into
womanhood. She had a striking face and
figure. Her eyes were large and brilliantly
black; her hair, escaping from under her
straw hat with its scarlet ribbons, fell in
dusky masses to her waist.
The two walked slowly, and occasionally
they paused while the old gentleman pointed
in various directions with his cane, as though
impressing on the mind of his companion
the whereabouts of certain interesting landmarks.
They were followed at a little distance
by a negro, who carried across his arm
a light wrap which seemed to be a part of
the outfit of the young lady.
As Farmer Joe-Bob Grissom passed the
two, he bowed and tipped his hat by way of
salutation. The old gentleman raised his
hat and bowed with great courtliness, and
the young lady nodded her head and smiled
pleasantly at him. Farmer Joe-Bob was old
enough to be grizzly, but the smile stirred
him. It seemed to be a direct challenge to
his memory. Where had he seen the young
lady before? Where had he met the old
gentleman? He was puzzled to such an extent
that he paid no attention to the negro
man, who touched his hat and bowed politely
as the farmer passed—a fact that
made the negro wonder a little; for day in
and out he had known Mr. Joe-Bob Grissom
nearly forty years, and never before had that
worthy citizen failed to respond with a cordial
“Howdy” when the negro took off his
hat.
Farmer Joe-Bob Grissom walked on towards
town, which was not far, and the old
gentleman and the young lady walked slowly
along the hedge of Cherokee roses that ran
around the old Bascom Place, while the negro
followed at a respectful distance. Once
they paused, and the old gentleman rubbed
his eyes with a hand that trembled a little.
“Why, darling!” he exclaimed in a tone
of mingled grief and astonishment, “they
have cut it down.”
“Cut what down, father?”
“Why, the weeping-willow. Don’t you
remember it, daughter? It stood in the
middle of the field yonder. It was a noble
tree. Well, well, well! What next, I wonder?”
“I do not remember it, father; I have so
much to”—
“Yes, yes,” the old gentleman interrupted.
“Of course you couldn’t remember. The
place has been so changed that I seem to
have forgotten it myself. It has been turned
topsy-turvy; it has been ruined—ruined!”
He leaned on his cane, and with quivering
lips and moist eyes looked through the green
perspective of the park, and over the fertile
fields and meadows.
“Ruined!” exclaimed the young lady.
“How can you say so, father? I never saw
a more beautiful place. It would make a
lovely picture.”
“And they have ruined the house, too.
The whole roof has been changed.” The
old man pulled his hat down over his eyes,
his hand trembling more than ever. “Let
us turn back, Mildred,” he said after a while.
“The sight of all this frets and worries me
more than I thought it would.”
“They say,” said the daughter, “that the
gentleman who owns the place has made a
good deal of money.”
“Yes,” replied the father, “I suppose so—I
suppose so. Yes, so I have heard. A
great many people are making money now
who never made it before—a great many.”
“I wish they would tell us the secret,”
said the young lady, laughing a little.
“There is no secret about it,” said the
old gentleman; “none whatever. To make
money you must be mean and niggardly
yourself, and then employ others to be mean
and niggardly for you.”
“Oh, it is not always so, father,” the
young girl exclaimed.
“It was not always so, my daughter.
There was a time when one could make
money and remain a gentleman; but that
was many years ago.”
The young lady was apparently not anxious
to continue the argument, for she lightly
turned the conversation into a more agreeable
channel; and so the two, still followed
by the negro, made their way through the
shaded streets of the town.
That evening, when Mr. Joe-Bob Grissom,
after making some little purchases
about town, went to the hotel, which he
persisted in calling a tavern, he found Major
Jimmy Bass engaged in a hot political
discussion with a crowd which included a
number of the townspeople, as well as a
sprinkling of commercial travelers. Major
Jimmy was one of the ancient and venerable
landmarks of that region. He had once
been an active politician, and had been engaged
in political discussion for forty years
or more. Old and fat as he was, he knew
how to talk, and nothing pleased him more
than to get hold of a stranger when a crowd
of sympathetic fellow-citizens, young and old,
was present to applaud the points he made.
Whenever Mr. Joe-Bob Grissom appeared
in the veranda of the hotel he made
it a point to shake hands with every person
present, friend and stranger alike. His politeness
was a trifle elaborate, but it was
genuine.
“Why, howdy, Joe-Bob, howdy!” exclaimed
Major Bass with effusion. “You
seem to turn up at the right time, like the
spangled man in the circus. I’m glad
you’ve come, an’ ef I’d ’a’ had my way
you’d ’a’ come sooner, bekaze you’re jest a
little too late fer to see me slap the argyments
onto some of these here travelin’
drummers. They are gone now,” the major
continued, with a sweeping gesture of
his right arm. “They are gone, but I
wisht mightily you’d ’a’ been here. New
things is mortal nice, I know; but when
these new-issue chaps set up to out-talk men
that’s old enough to be their grand-daddy, it
does me a sight of good fer to see ’em took
down a peg er two.”
As soon as he could get in a word edgewise,
farmer Joe-Bob Grissom attempted to
turn the conversation in a direction calculated
to satisfy his curiosity.
“Major,” he said in his deliberate way,
“what’s this I see out yonder at the old
Bascom Place?”
“The Lord only knows, Joe-Bob. What
might be the complexion, er yet the character,
of it?”
“Well,” said Mr. Grissom, “as I was
makin’ to’rds town a little while ago, I seen
some folks that don’t look like they b’long
’roun’ here. One of ’em was a old man, an’
t’ other one was a young gal, an’ a nigger
man was a-follerin’ of ’em up—an’, ef I
make no mistakes, the nigger man was your
old Jess. I didn’t look close at the nigger,
but arter I’d passed him it come to me that
it wa’n’t nobody on the topside of the roun’
worl’ but Jess.”
“Why, bless your life an’ soul!” exclaimed
Major Bass, giving farmer Joe-Bob
a neighborly nudge, “don’t you know who
them folks was? Well, well! Where’s
your mind? Why, that was old Briscoe
Bascom an’ his daughter.”
“I say it!” exclaimed farmer Joe-Bob,
hitching his chair closer to the major.
“Yes, sir,” said the major, “that’s who
it was. Why, where on earth have you
been? The old Judge drapped in on the
town some weeks ago, an’ he’s been here
ever sence. He’s been here long enough
for the gal to make up a school. Lord,
Lord! What a big swing the world’s in!
High on one side, high on t’ other, an’ the
old cat a-dyin, in the middle! Why, bless
your heart, Joe-Bob! I’ve seed the time
when ef old Judge Briscoe Bascom jest so
much as bowed to me I’d feel proud fer a
week. An’ now look at ’im! Ef I knowed
I’d be took off wi’ the dropsy the nex’ minute,
I wouldn’t swap places wi’ the poor
old creetur.”
“But what is old Jess a-doin’ doggin’ ’long
arter ’em that a-way?” inquired Mr. Grissom,
knitting his shaggy eyebrows.
“That’s what pesters me,” exclaimed the
major. “Ef niggers was ree-sponsible fer
what they done, it would be wuss than what
it is. Now you take Jesse: you needn’t
tell me that nigger ain’t got sense; yit what
does he do? You seen ’im wi’ your own
eyes. Why, sir,” continued the major,
growing more emphatic, “I bought that
nigger from Judge Bascom’s cousin when he
wa’n’t nothin’ but a youngster, an’ I took
him home an’ raised him up right in the
house,—yes, sir, right in the house,—an’
he’s been a-hangin’ ’roun’ me off an’ on,
gittin’ his vittles, his clozes, an’ his lodgin’.
Yit, look at him now! I wisht I may die
dead ef that nigger didn’t hitch onto old
Judge Bascom the minute he landed in
town. Yes, sir! I’m a-tellin’ you no lie.
It’s a clean, naked fact. That nigger quit
me an’ went an’ took up wi’ the old judge.”
“Well,” said Mr. Grissom, stroking his
unshorn face, “you know what the sayin’ is:
Niggers ’ll be niggers even ef you whitewash
’em twice a week.”
“Yes,” remarked the major thoughtfully;
“I hope to goodness they’ve got souls, but
I misdoubt it. Lord, yes, I misdoubt it
mightily.”
As Major Jimmy Bass used to say, the
years cut many queer capers as they go by.
The major in his own proper person had not
only witnessed, but had been the victim, of
these queer capers. Hillsborough was a
very small place indeed, and, for that very
reason perhaps, it was more sensitive to
changes in the way of progress and decay
than many larger and more ambitious towns.
However this may have been, it is certain
that the town, assisted by the major, had
noted the queer capers the years had cut in
the neighborhood of the old Bascom Place.
This attitude on the part of Hillsborough—including,
of course, Major Jimmy Bass—may
be accounted for partly by the fact
that the old place had once been the pride
and delight of the town, and partly by the
fact that the provincial eye and mind are
nervously alert to whatever happens within
range of their observation.
Before and during the war the Bascom
Place was part and parcel of a magnificent
estate. The domain was so extensive and
so well managed that it was noted far and
wide. Its boundary lines inclosed more
than four thousand acres of forests and cultivated
fields. This immense body of land
was known as the old Bascom Place.
Bolling Bascom, its first owner, went to
Georgia not long after the close of the Revolution,
with a large number of Virginians
who proposed to establish a colony in what
was then the far South. The colony settled
in Wilkes County; but Bolling Bascom,
more adventurous than the rest, pushed on
into middle Georgia, crossed the Oconee,
and built him a home, and such was his
taste, his energy, and his thrift, that the results
thereof may be seen and admired in
Hillsborough to this day.
But the man, like so many of his fellow-citizens
then and thereafter, was land-hungry.
He bought and bought until he had
acquired the immense domain, which, by
some special interposition of fate or circumstance,
is still intact. Meantime he had
built him a house which was in keeping
with the extent and richness of his landed
possessions. It was planned in the old colonial
style, but its massive proportions
were relieved by the tall red chimneys and
the long and gracefully fashioned colonnade
that gave both strength and beauty to the
spacious piazza which ran, and still runs, the
whole length of the house.
When Bolling Bascom died, in 1830,
aged seventy years, as the faded inscription
on the storm-beaten tablet in the churchyard
shows, he left his son, Briscoe Bascom,
to own and manage the vast estate. This
son was thirty years old, and it was said of
him that he inherited the gentle qualities of
his mother rather than the fiery energy and
ambition of his father.
Bolling Bascom was neither vicious nor
reckless, but he was a thorough man of the
world. He was, in short, a typical Virginian
gentleman, who for his own purposes
had settled in Georgia.
Whatever the cause of his emigration, it
is certain that Georgia gained a good citizen.
It was said of him that he was a little too
fond of a fiddle, but with all his faults—with
all his love for horse-racing and fox-hunting—he
found time to be kind to his
neighbors, generous to his friends, and the
active leader of every movement calculated
to benefit the State or the people; and it
may be remarked in passing, that he also
found time to look after his own affairs.
Naturally, he was prominent in politics.
He represented his county in the legislature,
was at one time a candidate for governor,
and was altogether a man who had the
love and the confidence of his neighbors.
He gave his son the benefit of the best education
the country afforded, and made the
tour of Europe with him, going over the
ground that he himself had gone over in his
young days.
But his European trip, undertaken when
he was an old man, was too much for him.
He was seized with an illness on his return
voyage, and, although he lived long enough
to reach home, he never recovered. In a
few years his wife died; and his son, with
little or no experience in such matters,—since
his time had been taken up by the
schools and colleges,—was left to manage
the estate as best he could.
It was the desire of Bolling Bascom that
his son should study law and make that profession
a stepping-stone to a political career.
He had been ambitious himself, and he
hoped his son would also be ambitious. Besides,
was not politics the most respectable
of all the professions? This was certainly
the view in Bolling Bascom’s day and time,
and much might be said to support it. Of
all the professions, politics opened up the
one career best calculated to tickle the fancy
of the rich young men.
To govern, to control, to make laws, to
look after the welfare of the people, to make
great speeches, to become statesmen—these
were the ideas that filled the minds of ambitious
men in Bolling Bascom’s time, and
for years thereafter. And why not? There
were the examples of Jefferson, Madison,
Monroe, Randolph, Hamilton, Webster, Calhoun,
and the Adamses of Massachusetts.
What better could a young man do than to
follow in the footsteps of these illustrious
citizens?
It may be supposed, therefore, that Bolling
Bascom had mapped out a tremendous
career for his son and heir. No doubt, as
he sat dozing on his piazza in the long summer
afternoons near the close of his life, he
fancied he could hear the voice of his boy
in the halls of legislation, or hear the wild
shouts of the multitudes that greeted his efforts
on the stump in the heat and fury of
a campaign. But it was not to be. The
stormy politics of that period had no charms
for Briscoe Bascom. He was a student, and
he preferred his book to the companionship
of the crowd.
He possessed both courage and sociability
in the highest degree, but he was naturally
indolent, and he was proud—too indolent
to find pleasure in the whirling confusion of
active politics, and too proud to go about his
county or his State in the attitude of soliciting
the suffrages of his fellow-citizens. That
he would have made his mark in politics is
certain, for he made it at the bar, where
success is much more dearly bought. He
finally became judge of the superior court,
at a time when the judges of the circuit
courts met annually and formed a court of
appeals. His decisions in this appellate
court attracted attention all over the country,
and are still referred to in the legal literature
of to-day as models of their kind.
And yet all that Briscoe Bascom accomplished
at the bar and on the bench was the
result of intuition rather than of industry.
Indolence sat enthroned in his nature, patient
but vigilant. When he retired from
the bench, he gave up the law altogether.
He might have reclaimed his large practice,
but he preferred the ease and quiet of his
home.
He was an old man before he married—old
enough, that is to say, to marry a woman
many years his junior. His wife had been
reared in an atmosphere of extravagance;
and although she was a young woman of
gentle breeding and of the best intentions, it
is certain that she did not go to the Bascom
Place as its mistress for the purpose of stinting
or economizing. She simply gave no
thought to the future. But she was so
bright and beautiful, so gentle and unaffected
in speech and manner, so gracious
and so winsome in all directions, that it
seemed nothing more than natural and right
that her every whim and wish should be
gratified.
Judge Bascom was indulgent and more
than indulgent. He applauded his wife’s
extravagance and followed her example.
Before many years he began to reap some of
the fruits thereof, and they were exceeding
bitter to the taste. The longest purse that
ever was made has a bottom to it, unless, indeed,
it be lined with Franklin’s maxims.
The Judge was forty-eight years old when
he married, and even before the beginning
of the war he found his financial affairs in
an uncomfortable condition. The Bascom
Place was intact, but the pocket-book of its
master was in a state bordering on collapse.
The slow but sure approach to the inevitable
need not be described here. It is familiar
to all people in all lands and times.
In the case of Judge Bascom, however, the
war was in the nature of a breathing-spell.
It brought with it an era of extravagance
that overshadowed everything that had been
dreamed of theretofore. During the first
two years there was money enough for everybody
and to spare. It was manufactured in
Richmond in great stacks. General Robert
Toombs, who was an interested observer, has
aptly described the facility with which the
Confederacy supplied itself with money.
“A dozen negroes,” said he, “printed
money on the hand-presses all day to supply
the government, and then they worked until
nine o’clock at night printing money enough
to pay themselves off.”
Under these circumstances, Judge Bascom
and his charming wife could be as extravagant
or as economical as they pleased without
attracting the attention of their neighbors
or their creditors. Nobody had time
to think or care about such small matters.
The war-fever was at its height, and nothing
else occupied the attention of the people.
The situation was so favorable, indeed, that
Judge Bascom began to redeem his fortune—in
Confederate money. He had land
enough and negroes a plenty, and so he
saved his money by storing it away; and he
was so successful in this business that it is
said that when the war closed he had a
wagon-load of Confederate notes and shin-plaster
packed in trunks and chests.
The crash came when General Sherman
went marching through Hillsborough. The
Bascom Place, being the largest and the
richest plantation in that neighborhood, suffered
the worst. Every horse, every mule,
every living thing with hide and hoof, was
driven off by the Federals; and a majority
of the negroes went along with the army.
It was often said of Judge Bascom that “he
had so many negroes he didn’t know them
when he met them in the big road;” and
this was probably true. His negroes knew
him, and knew that he was a kind master in
many respects, but they had no personal
affection for him. They were such strangers
to the Judge that they never felt justified in
complaining to him even when the overseers
ill-treated them. Consequently, when Sherman
went marching along, the great majority
of them bundled up their little effects
and followed after the army. They had
nothing to bind them to the old place. The
house-servants, and a few negroes in whom
the Judge took a personal interest, remained,
but all the rest went away.
Then, in a few months, came the news of
the surrender, bringing with it a species of
paralysis or stupefaction from which the
people were long in recovering—so long,
indeed, that some of them died in despair,
while others lingered on the stage, watching,
with dim eyes and trembling limbs, half-hopefully
and half-fretfully, the representatives
of a new generation trying to build up
the waste places. There was nothing left
for Judge Bascom to do but to take his
place among the spectators. He would have
returned to his law-practice, but the people
had well-nigh forgotten that he had ever
been a lawyer; moreover, the sheriffs were
busier in those days than the lawyers. He
had the incentive,—for the poverty of
those days was pinching,—but he lacked the
energy and the strength necessary to begin
life anew. He and hundreds like him were
practically helpless. Ordinarily experience
is easily learned when necessity is the
teacher, but it was too late for necessity to
teach Judge Bascom anything. During all
his life he had never known what want was.
He had never had occasion to acquire tact,
business judgment, or economy. Inheriting
a vast estate, he had no need to practice
thrift or become familiar with the shifty
methods whereby business men fight their
way through the world. Of all such matters
he was entirely ignorant.
To add to his anxiety, a girl had been
born to him late in life, his first and only
child. In his confusion and perplexity he
was prepared to regard the little stranger as
merely a new and dreadful responsibility,
but it was not long before his daughter was
a source of great comfort to him. Yet, as
the negroes said, she was not a “luck-child;”
and bad as the Judge’s financial
condition was, it grew steadily worse.
Briefly, the world had drifted past him and
his contemporaries and left them stranded.
Under the circumstances, what was he to
do? It is true he had a magnificent plantation,
but this merely added to his poverty.
Negro labor was demoralized, and the overseer
class had practically disappeared. He
would have sold a part of his landed estate;
indeed, so pressing were his needs that he
would have sold everything except the house
which his father had built, and where he
himself was born,—that he would not have
parted with for all the riches in the world,—but
there was nobody to buy. The
Judge’s neighbors and his friends, with the
exception of those who had accustomed
themselves to seizing all contingencies by
the throat and wresting tribute from them,
were in as severe a strait as he was; and to
make matters worse, the political affairs of
the State were in the most appalling condition.
It was the period of reconstruction—a
scheme that paralyzed all whom it failed
to corrupt.
Finally the Judge’s wife took matters into
her own hand. She had relatives in Atlanta,
and she prevailed on him to go to
that lively and picturesque town. He closed
his house, being unable to rent it, and became
a citizen of the thrifty city. He found
himself in a new atmosphere. The north
Georgia crackers, the east Tennesseeans,—having
dropped their “you-uns” and “we-uns,”—and
the Yankees had joined hands
in building up and pushing Atlanta forward.
Business was more important than politics;
and the rush and whirl of men and things
were enough to make a mere spectator dizzy.
Judge Bascom found himself more helpless
than ever; but through the influence of his
wife’s brother he was appointed to a small
clerkship in one of the State departments,
and—“Humiliation of humiliations!” his
friends exclaimed—he promptly accepted
it, and became a part of what was known as
the “carpet-bag” government. The appointment
was in the nature of a godsend,
but the Judge found himself ostracized.
His friends and acquaintances refused to return
his salutation as he met them on the
street. To a proud and sensitive man this
was the bitterness of death, but Judge Bascom
stuck to his desk and made no complaint.
By some means or other, no doubt through
the influence of Mrs. Bascom, the Judge’s
brother-in-law, a thrifty and not over-scrupulous
man, obtained a power of attorney, and
sold the Bascom Place, house and all, to a
gentleman from western New York who was
anxious to settle in middle Georgia. Just
how much of the purchase-money went into
the Judge’s hands it is impossible to say,
but it is known that he fell into a terrible
rage when he was told that the house had
been sold along with the place. He denounced
the sale as a swindle, and declared
that as he had been born in the house he
would die there, and not all the powers of
earth could prevent him.
But the money that he received was a
substantial thing as far as it went. Gradually
he found himself surrounded by various
comforts that he had sadly missed, and in
time he became somewhat reconciled to the
sale, though he never gave up the idea that
he would buy the old place back and live
there again. The idea haunted him day
and night.
After the downfall of the carpet-bag
administration a better feeling took possession
of the people and politicians, and it was not
long before Judge Bascom found congenial
work in codifying the laws of the State,
which had been in a somewhat confused and
tangled condition since the war. Meanwhile
his daughter Mildred was growing up,
developing remarkable beauty as well as
strength of mind. At a very early age she
began to “take the responsibility,” as the
Judge put it, of managing the household
affairs, and she continued to manage them
even while going to school. At school she
won the hearts of teachers and pupils, not
less by her aptitude in her books than by
her beauty and engaging manners.
But in spite of the young girl’s management—in
spite of the example she set by
her economy—the Judge and his wife continued
to grow poorer and poorer. Neither
of them knew the value of a dollar, and
the money that had been received from the
sale of the Bascom Place was finally exhausted.
About this time Mrs. Bascom
died, and the Judge was so prostrated by
his bereavement that it was months before
he recovered. When he did recover he had
lost all interest in his work of codification,
but it was so nearly completed and was so
admirably done that the legislature voted
him extra pay. This modest sum the
daughter took charge of, and when her
father was well enough she proposed that
they return to Hillsborough, where they
could take a small house, and where she
could give music lessons and teach a primary
school. It need not be said that the Judge
gave an eager assent to the proposition.
As Mr. Joe-Bob Grissom passed the Bascom
Place on his way home, after gathering
from Major Jimmy Bass all the news and
gossip of the town, he heard Mr. Francis
Underwood, the owner of the Place, walking
up and down the piazza, singing. Mr. Underwood
appeared to be in a cheerful mood,
and he had a right to be. He was young,—not
more than thirty,—full of life, and
the world was going on very well with him.
Mr. Grissom paused a moment and listened;
then he made up his mind to go in and have
a chat with the young man. He opened
the gate and went up the avenue under the
cedars and Lombardy poplars. A little
distance from the house he was stopped by
a large mastiff. The great dog made no attempt
to attack him, but majestically barred
the way.
“Squire,” yelled Joe-Bob, “ef you’ll call
off your dog, I’ll turn right ’roun’ an’ go
home an’ never bother you no more.”
“Is that you, Joe-Bob?” exclaimed Mr.
Underwood. “Well, come right on. The
dog won’t trouble you.”
The dog thereupon turned around and
went up the avenue to the house and into
the porch, where he stretched himself out at
full length, Joe-Bob following along at a
discreet distance.
“Come in,” said Underwood heartily;
“I’m glad to see you. Take this large
rocking-chair; you will find it more comfortable
than the smaller one.”
Mr. Grissom sat down and looked cautiously
around to see where the dog was.
“I did come, Squire,” he said, “to see
you on some kinder business, but that dratted
dog has done skeered it clean out ’n me.”
“Prince is a faithful watcher,” said Underwood,
“but he never troubles any one
who is coming straight to the house. Do
you, old fellow?” The dog rapped an answer
on the floor with his tail.
“Well,” said Joe-Bob, “I’d as lief be
tore up into giblets, mighty nigh, as to have
my sev’m senses skeered out’n me. What
I’m afeared of now,” he went on, “is that
that dog will jump over the fence some day
an’ ketch old Judge Bascome whilst he’s
a-pirootin’ ’roun’ here a-lookin’ at the old
Place. An’ ef he don’t ketch the Judge,
it’s more’n likely he’ll ketch the Judge’s
gal. I seen both of ’em this very evenin’
whilst I was a-goin’ down town.”
“Was that the Judge?” exclaimed
young Mr. Underwood, with some show of
interest; “and was the lady his daughter?
I heard they had returned.”
“That was jest percisely who it was,”
said Joe-Bob with emphasis. “It wa’n’t nobody
else under the shinin’ sun.”
“Well,” said Mr. Underwood, “I have
seen them walking by several times. It is
natural they should be interested in the
Place. The old gentleman was born here?”
“Yes,” said Joe-Bob, “an’ the gal too.
They tell me,” he went on, “that the old
Judge an’ his gal have seed a many ups an’
downs. I reckon they er boun’ fer to feel
lonesome when they come by an’ look at the
prop’ty that use’ to be theirn. I hear tell
that the old Judge is gwine to try an’ see ef
he can’t git it back.”
Francis Underwood said nothing, but sat
gazing out into the moonlight as if in deep
thought.
“I thinks, says I,” continued Joe-Bob,
“that the old Judge’ll have to be lots
pearter ’n he looks to be ef he gits ahead of
Squire Underwood.”
The “Squire” continued to gaze reflectively
down the dim perspective of cedars
and Lombardy poplars. Finally he said:—
“Have a cigar, old man. These are
good ones.”
Joe-Bob took the cigar and lighted it,
handling it very gingerly.
“I ain’t a denyin’ but what they are good,
Squire, but somehow er nuther me an’ these
here fine seegyars don’t gee,” said Joe-Bob,
as he puffed away. “They’re purty toler’ble
nice, but jest about the time I git in the
notion of smokin’ they’re done burnted up,
an’ then ef you ain’t got sev’m or eight
more, it makes you feel mighty lonesome.
Now I’ll smoke this’n’, an’ it’ll sorter put
my teeth on edge fer my pipe, an’ when I
git home I’ll set up an’ have a right nice
time.”
“And so you think,” said Underwood,
speaking as if he had not heard Joe-Bob’s remarks
about the cigar—“and so you think
Judge Bascom has come to buy the old
Place.”
“No, no!” said Joe-Bob, with a quick
deprecatory gesture. “Oh, no, Squire! not
by no means! No, no! I never said them
words. What I did say was that it’s been
talked up an’ down that the old Judge is
a-gwine to try to git his prop’ty back. That’s
what old Major Jimmy Bass said he heard,
an’ I thinks, says I, he’ll have to be monst’us
peart ef he gits ahead of Squire Underwood.
That’s what I said to myself, an’
then I ast old Major Jimmy, says I, what
the Judge would do wi’ the prop’ty arter he
got it, an’ Major Jimmy, he ups an’ says,
says he, that the old Judge would sell it
back to Frank Underwood, says he.”
The young man threw back his head and
laughed heartily, not less at the comical
earnestness of Joe-Bob Grissom than at the
gossip of Major Jimmy Bass.
“It seems, then, that we are going to
have lively times around here,” said Underwood,
by way of comment.
“Yes, siree,” exclaimed Joe-Bob; “that’s
what Major Jimmy Bass allowed. Do you
reckon, Squire,” he continued, lowering his
voice as though the matter was one to be
approached cautiously, “do you reckon,
Squire, they could slip in on you an’ trip
you up wi’ one of ’em writs of arousement
or one of ’em bills of injectment?”
“Not unless they catch me asleep,” replied
Underwood, still laughing. “We get
up very early in the morning on this Place.”
“Well,” said Joe-Bob Grissom, “I ain’t
much of a lawyer myself, an’ so I thought
I’d jest drap in an’ tell you the kind of
talk what they’ve been a-rumorin’ ’roun’.
But I’ll tell you what you kin do, Squire.
Ef the wust comes to the wust, you kin make
the old Judge an’ the gal take you along
wi’ the Place. Now them would be my politics.”
With that Joe-Bob gave young Underwood
a nudge in the short ribs, and chuckled
to such an extent that he nearly strangled
himself with cigar smoke.
“I think I would have the best of the
bargain,” said the young man.
“Now you would! you reely would!” exclaimed
Joe-Bob in all seriousness. “I
can’t tell you the time when I ever seed a
likelier gal than that one wi’ the Judge this
evenin’. As we say down here in Georgia,
she’s the top of the pot an’ the pot a-b’ilin’.
I tell you that right pine-blank.”
After a little, Mr. Grissom rose to go.
When Mr. Underwood urged him to sit
longer, he pointed to the sword and belt of
Orion hanging low in the southwest.
“The ell an’ yard are a-makin’ the’r disappearance,”
he said; “an’ ef I stay out
much longer, my old ’oman’ll think I’ve
been a-settin’ up by a jug somewheres. Now
ef you’ll jest hold your dog, Squire, I’ll go
out as peaceful as a lamb.”
“Why, I was just going to propose to
send him down to the big gate with you,”
said young Underwood. “He’ll see you
safely out.”
“No, no, Squire!” exclaimed Joe-Bob,
holding up both hands. “Now don’t do
the like of that. I don’t like too much perliteness
in folks, an’ I know right well I
couldn’t abide it in a dog. No, Squire;
jest hold on to the creetur’ wi’ both hands,
an’ I’ll find my way out. Jest ketch him
by the forefoot. I’ve heard tell before now
that ef you’ll hold a dog by his forefoot he
can’t git loose, an’ nuther kin he bite you.”
Long after Mr. Joe-Bob Grissom had
gone home young Francis Underwood sat
in his piazza smoking and thinking. He
had a good deal to think about, too, for he
was perhaps the busiest and the thriftiest
person that Hillsborough had ever seen.
He had a dairy farm stocked with the
choicest strains of Jersey cattle, and he
shipped hundreds of pounds of golden butter
all over the country every week in the
year; he bred Percheron horses for farm-work
and trotting-horses for the road; he
had a flourishing farm on which he raised,
in addition to his own supplies, a hundred
or more bales of cotton every year; he had
a steam saw-mill and cotton-gin; he was a
contractor and builder; and he was also an
active partner in the largest store in Hillsborough.
Moreover he took a lively interest
in the affairs of the town. His energy and
his progressive ideas seemed to be contagious,
for in a few years the sleepy old town
had made tremendous strides, and everything
appeared to move forward with an
air of business—such is the force of a genial
and robust example.
There is no doubt that young Underwood
was somewhat coolly received when he first
made his appearance in Hillsborough. He
was a New Yorker and therefore a Yankee;
and some of the older people, who were still
grieving over the dire results of the war, as
old people have a right to do, made no concealment
of their prejudices. Their grief
was too bitter to be lightly disposed of.
Perhaps the young man appreciated this
fact, for his sympathies were wonderfully
quick and true. At any rate, he carried
himself as buoyantly and as genially in the
face of prejudice as he did afterwards in the
face of friendship.
The truth is, prejudice could not stand
before him. He had that magnetic personality
which is a more precious possession
than fame or fortune. There was something
attractive even in his restless energy;
he had that heartiness of manner and graciousness
of disposition that are so rare
among men; and, withal, a spirit of independence
that charmed the sturdy-minded
people with whom he cast his lot. It was
not long before the younger generation began
to seek Mr. Underwood out, and after this
the social ice, so to speak, thawed quickly.
In short, young Underwood, by reason of
a strong and an attractive individuality, became
a very prominent citizen of Hillsborough.
He found time, in the midst of his
own business enterprises, to look after the
interests of the town and the county. One
of his first movements was to organize an
agricultural society which held its meeting
four times a year in different parts of the
county. It was purely a local and native
suggestion, however, that made it incumbent
on the people of the neighborhood where the
Society met to grace the occasion with a feast
in the shape of a barbecue. The first result
of the agricultural society—which still exists,
and which has had a wonderful influence
on the farmers of middle Georgia—was
a county fair, of which Mr. Underwood
was the leading spirit. It may be said, indeed,
that his energy and his money made
the fair possible. And it was a success.
Young Underwood had not only canvassed
the county, but he had “worked it up in
the newspapers,” as the phrase goes, and
it tickled the older citizens immensely to
see the dailies in the big cities of Atlanta,
Macon, and Savannah going into rhetorical
raptures over their fair.
As a matter of fact, Francis Underwood,
charged with the fiery energy of a modern
American, found it a much easier matter to
establish himself in the good graces of the
people of Hillsborough and the surrounding
country than did Judge Bascom when he returned
to his old home with his lovely daughter.
Politically speaking, he had committed
the unpardonable sin when he accepted office
under what was known as the carpet-bag
government. It was an easy matter—thus
the argument ran—to forgive and respect
an enemy, but it was hardly possible
to forgive a man who had proved false to
his people and all their traditions—who
had, in fact, “sold his birthright for a mess
of pottage,” to quote the luminous language
employed by Colonel Bolivar Blasingame in
discussing the return of Judge Bascom. It
is due to Colonel Blasingame to say that he
did not allude to the sale of the Bascom
Place, but to the fact that Judge Bascom
had drawn a salary from the State treasury
while the Republicans were in power in
Georgia.
This was pretty much the temper of the
older people of Hillsborough even in 1876.
They had no bitter prejudices against the
old Judge; they were even tolerant and
kindly; but they made it plain to him that
he was regarded in a new light, and from a
new standpoint. He was made to feel that
his old place among them must remain vacant;
that the old intimacies were not to
be renewed. But this was the price that
Judge Bascom was willing to pay for the
privilege of spending his last days within
sight of the old homestead. He made no
complaints, nor did he signify by word or
sign, even to his daughter, that everything
was not as it used to be.
As for the daughter, she was in blissful
ignorance of the situation. She was a
stranger among strangers, and so was not
affected by the lack of sociability on the part
of the townspeople—if, indeed, there was
any lack so far as she was concerned. The
privations she endured in common with her
father were not only sufficient to correct all
notions of vanity or self-conceit, but they
had given her a large experience of life;
they had broadened her views and enlarged
her sympathies, so that with no sacrifice of
the qualities of womanly modesty and gentleness
she had grown to be self-reliant.
She attracted all who came within range of
her sweet influence, and it was not long before
she had broken down all the barriers
that prejudice against her father might have
placed in her way. She established a primary
school, and what with her duties there
and with her music-class she soon had as
much as she could do, and her income from
these sources was sufficient to support herself
and her father in a modest way; but it
was not sufficient to carry out her father’s
plans, and this fact distressed her no little.
Sometimes Judge Bascom, sitting in the
narrow veranda of the little house they occupied,
would suddenly arouse himself, as if
from a doze, and exclaim:—
“We must save money, daughter; we
must save money and buy the old Place
back. It is ours. We must have it; we
must save money.” And sometimes, in the
middle of the night, he would go to his
daughter’s bedside, stroke her hair, and say
in a whisper:—
“We are not saving enough money, daughter;
we must save more. We must buy
the old Place back. We must save it from
ruin.”
There was one individual in Hillsborough
who did not give the cold shoulder to
Judge Bascom on his return, and that was
the negro Jesse, who had been bought by
Major Jimmy Bass some years before the
war from Merriwether Bascom, a cousin of
the Judge. Jesse made no outward demonstration
of welcome; he was more practical
than that. He merely went to his old master
with whom he had been living since he
became free, and told him that he was going
to find employment elsewhere.
“Why, what in the nation!” exclaimed
Major Bass. “Why, what’s the matter,
Jess?”
The very idea was preposterous. In the
Bass household the negro was almost indispensable.
He was in the nature of a piece
of furniture that holds its own against all
fashions and fills a place that nothing else
can fill.
“Dey ain’t nothin’ ’t all de matter, Marse
Maje. I des took it in my min’, like, dat I’d
go off some’r’s roun’ town en set up fer myse’f,”
said Jesse, scratching his head in a
dubious way. He felt very uncomfortable.
“Has anybody hurt your feelin’s, Jess?”
“No, suh! Lord, no, suh, dat dey ain’t!”
exclaimed Jesse, with the emphasis of astonishment.
“Nobody ain’t pester me.”
“Ain’t your Miss Sarah been rushin’ you
roun’ too lively fer to suit your notions?”
“No, suh.”
“Ain’t she been a-quarrelin’ after you
about your work?”
“No, Marse Maje; she ain’t say a word.”
“Well, then, Jess, what in the name of
common sense are you gwine off fer?” The
major wanted to argue the matter.
“I got it in my min’, Marse Maje, but I
dunno ez I kin git it out straight.” Jesse
leaned his cane against the house, and
placed his hat on the steps, as if preparing
for a lengthy and elaborate explanation.
“Now den, hit look dis way ter me, des like
I’m gwine ter tell you. I ain’t nothin’ but
a nigger, I know dat mighty well, en nobody
don’t hafter tell me. I’m a nigger, en you
a white man. You’re a-settin’ up dar in de
peazzer, en I’m a-stan’in’ down yer on de
groun’. I been wid you a long time; you
treat me well, you gimme plenty vittles, en
you pay me up when you got de money, en I
hustle roun’ en do de bes’ I kin in de house
en in de gyarden. Dat de way it been
gwine on; bofe un us feel like it all sati’factual.
Bimeby it come over me dat maybe I
kin do mo’ work dan what I been a-doin’ en
git mo’ money. Hit work roun’ in my min’
dat I better be layin’ up somepin’ n’er fer
de ole ’oman en de chillun.”
“Well!” exclaimed Major Bass with a
snort. It was all he could say.
“En den ag’in,” Jesse went on, “one er
de ole fambly done come back ’long wid his
daughter. Marse Briscoe Bascom en Miss
Mildred dey done come back, en dey ain’t
got nobody fer ter he’p um out no way; en
my ole ’oman she say dat ef I got any fambly
feelin’ I better go dar whar Marse Briscoe
is.”
For some time Major Jimmy Bass sat
silent. He was shocked and stunned. Finally
Jesse picked up his hat and cane and
started to go. As he brushed his hat with
his coat-sleeve his old master saw that he
was rigged out in his Sunday clothes. As
he moved away the major called him:—
“Oh, Jess!”
“Suh?”
“I allers knowed you was a durned fool,
Jess, but I never did know before that you
was the durndest fool in the universal
world.”
Jesse made no reply, and the major went
into the house. When he told his wife
about Jesse’s departure, that active-minded
and sharp-tongued lady was very angry.
“Indeed, and I’m glad of it,” she exclaimed
as she poured out the major’s coffee;
“I’m truly glad of it. For twenty-five
years that nigger has been laying around
here doing nothing, and we a-paying him.
But for pity’s sake I’d ’a’ drove him off the
lot long ago. You mayn’t believe it, but
that nigger is ready and willing to eat his
own weight in vittles every week the Lord
sends. I ain’t sorry he’s gone, but I’m
sorry I didn’t have a chance to give him a
piece of my mind. Now, don’t you go to
blabbing it around, like you do everything
else, that Jesse has gone and left us to go
with old Briscoe Bascom.”
Major Bass said he wouldn’t, and he
didn’t, and that is the reason he expressed
surprise when Joe-Bob Grissom informed
him that Jesse was waiting on the old Judge
and his daughter. Major Jimmy was talkative
and fond of gossip, but he had too
much respect for his wife’s judgment and
discretion to refuse to toe the mark, even
when it was an imaginary one.
The Bascom family had no claim whatever
on Jesse, but he had often heard his
mother and other negroes boasting over that
they had once belonged to the Bascoms, and
fondness for the family was the result of
both tradition and instinct. He had that undefined
and undefinable respect for people of
quality that is one of the virtues, or possibly
one of the failings, of human nature. The
nearest approach to people of quality, so far
as his experience went, was to be found in
the Bascom family, and he had never forgotten
that he had belonged to an important
branch of it. He held it as a sort of distinction.
Feeling thus, it is no wonder that
he was ready to leave a comfortable home
at Major Jimmy Bass’s for the privilege of
attaching himself and his fortunes to those
of the Judge and his daughter. Jesse made
up his mind to take this step as soon as the
Bascoms returned to Hillsborough, and he
made no delay in carrying out his intentions.
Early one morning, not long after Judge
Bascom and his daughter had settled themselves
in the modest little house which they
had selected because the rent was low, Mildred
heard some one cutting wood in the
yard. Opening her window blinds a little,
she saw that the axe was wielded by a stalwart
negro a little past middle age. Her
father was walking up and down the sidewalk
on the outside with his hands behind
him, and seemed to be talking to himself.
A little while afterwards Mildred went
into the kitchen. She found a fire burning
in the stove, and everything in noticeably
good order, but the girl she had employed
to help her about the house was nowhere to
be seen. Whereupon the young lady called
her—
“Elvira!”
At this the negro dropped his axe and
went into the kitchen.
“Howdy, Mistiss?”
“Have you seen Elvira?” Mildred asked.
“Yes’m, she wuz hangin’ roun’ yer when
I come roun’ dis mornin’. I went in dar,
ma’m, en I see how de kitchen wuz all
messed up, en den I sont her off. She de
mos’ no ’countest nigger gal what I ever
laid my two eyes on. I’m name’ Jesse,
ma’m, en I use’ ter b’long ter de Bascom
fambly when I wuz a boy. Is you ready
fer breakfus, Mistiss?”
“Has my father—has Judge Bascom
employed you?” Mildred asked. Jesse
laughed as though enjoying a good joke.
“No ’m, dat he ain’t! I des come my
own se’f, kaze I know’d in reason you wuz
gwine ter be in needance er somebody.
Lord, no ’m, none er de Bascoms don’t
hafter hire me, ma’m.”
“And who told you to send Elvira
away?” Mildred inquired, half vexed and
half amused.
“Nobody ain’t tell me, ma’m,” Jesse replied.
“When I come she wuz des settin’
in dar by de stove noddin’, en de whole
kitchen look like it been tored up by a harrycane.
I des shuck her up, I did, en tell
her dat if dat de way she gwine do, she
better go ’long back en stay wid her mammy.”
“Well, you are very meddlesome,” said
Mildred. “I don’t understand you at all.
Who is going to cook breakfast?”
“Mistiss, I done tell you dat breakfus is
all ready en a-waitin’,” exclaimed Jesse in
an injured tone. “I made dat gal set de
table, en dey ain’t nothin’ ter do but put de
vittles on it.”
It turned out to be a very good breakfast,
too, such as it was. Jesse thought while he
was preparing it that it was a very small
allowance for two hearty persons. But the
secret of its scantiness cropped out while the
Judge and his daughter were eating.
“These biscuits are very well cooked.
But there are too many of them. My
daughter, we must pinch and save; it will
only be for a little while. We must have the
old Place back; we must rake and scrape,
and save money and buy it back. And this
coffee is very good, too,” he went on; “it
has quite the old flavor. I thought the girl
was too young, but she’s a good cook—a
very good cook indeed.”
Jesse, who had taken his stand behind
the Judge’s chair, arrayed in a snow-white
apron, moved his body uneasily from one
foot to the other. Mildred, glad to change
the conversation, told her father about
Jesse.
“Ah, yes,” said Judge Bascom, in his
kindly, patronizing way; “I saw him in the
yard. And he used to belong to the Bascoms?
Well, well, it must have been a
long time ago. This is Jesse behind me?
Stand out there, Jesse, and let me look at
you. Ah, yes, a likely negro; a very likely
negro indeed. And what Bascom did
you belong to, Jesse? Merriwether Bascom!
Why, to be sure; why, certainly!”
the Judge continued with as much animation
as his feebleness would admit of.
“Why, of course, Merriwether Bascom.
Well, well, I remember him distinctly.
A rough-and-tumble sort of man he was,
fighting, gambling, horse-racing, always on
the wing. A good man at bottom, but wild.
And so you belonged to Merriwether Bascom?
Well, boy, once a Bascom always a
Bascom. We’ll have the old Place back,
Jesse, we’ll have it back: but we must
pinch ourselves; we must save.”
Thus the old Judge rambled on in his
talk. But no matter what the subject, no
matter how far his memory and his experiences
carried him away from the present, he
was sure to return to the old Place at last.
He must have it back. Every thought,
every idea, was subordinate to this. He
brooded over it and talked of it waking, and
he dreamed of it sleeping. It was the one
thought that dominated every other. Money
must be saved, the old Place must be
bought, and to that end everything must
tend. The more his daughter economized
the more he urged her to economize. His
earnestness and enthusiasm impressed and
influenced the young girl in a larger measure
than she would have been willing to acknowledge,
and unconsciously she found
herself looking forward to the day when her
father and herself would be able to call the
Bascom Place their own. In the Judge the
thought was the delusion of old age, in the
maiden it was the dream of youth; and
pardonable, perhaps, in both.
Their hopes and desires running thus in
one channel, they loved to wander of an evening
in the neighborhood of the old Place—it
was just in the outskirts of the town—and
long for the time when they should take
possession of their home. On these occasions
Mildred, by way of interesting her
father, would suggest changes to be made.
“The barn is painted red,” she would
say. “I think olive green would be prettier.”
“No,” the Judge would reply; “we will
have the barn removed. It was not there in
my time. It is an innovation. We will have
it removed a mile away from the house. We
will make many changes. There are hundreds
of acres in the meadow yonder that
ought to be in cotton. In my time we tried
to kill grass, but this man is doing his best
to propagate it. Look at that field of Bermuda
there. Two years of hard work will
be required to get the grass out.”
Once while the Judge and his daughter
were passing by the old Place they met
Prince, the mastiff, in the road. The great
dog looked at the young lady with kindly
eyes, and expressed his approval by wagging
his tail. Then he approached and allowed
her to fondle his lionlike head, and walked
by her side, responding to her talk in a
dumb but eloquent way. Prince evidently
thought that the young lady and her father
were going in the avenue gate and to the
house, for when they got nearly opposite,
the dog trotted on ahead, looking back occasionally,
as if by that means to extend them
an invitation and to assure them that they
were welcome. At the gate he stopped and
turned around, and seeing that the fair lady
and the old gentleman were going by, he
dropped his bulky body on the ground in a
disconsolate way and watched them as they
passed down the street.
The next afternoon Prince made it a point
to watch for the young lady; and when she
and her father appeared in sight he ran to
meet them and cut up such unusual capers,
barking and running around, that his master
went down the avenue to see what the
trouble was. Mr. Underwood took off his
hat as Judge Bascom and his daughter drew
near.
“This is Judge Bascom, I presume,” he
said. “My name is Underwood. I am
glad to meet you.”
“This is my daughter, Mr. Underwood,”
said the Judge, bowing with great dignity.
“My dog has paid you a great compliment,
Miss Bascom,” said Francis Underwood.
“He makes few friends, and I have never
before seen him sacrifice his dignity to his
enthusiasm.”
“I feel highly flattered by his attentions,”
said Mildred, laughing. “I have read somewhere,
or heard it said, that the instincts of
a little child and a dog are unerring.”
“I imagine,” said the Judge, in his dignified
way, “that instinct has little to do with
the matter. I prefer to believe”—He
paused a moment, looked at Underwood, and
laid his hand on the young man’s stalwart
shoulder. “Did you know, sir,” he went
on, “that this place, all these lands, once
belonged to me?” His dignity had vanished,
his whole attitude changed. The
pathos in his voice, which was suggested
rather than expressed, swept away whatever
astonishment Francis Underwood might have
felt. The young man looked at the Judge’s
daughter and their eyes met. In that one
glance, transitory though it was, he found
his cue; in her lustrous eyes, proud yet appealing,
he read a history of trouble and
sacrifice.
“Yes,” Underwood replied, in a matter-of-fact
way. “I knew the place once belonged
to you, and I have been somewhat
proud of the fact. We still call it the Bascom
Place, you know.”
“I should think so!” exclaimed the
Judge, bridling up a little; “I should think
so! Pray what else could it be called?”
“Well, it might have been called Grasslands,
you know, or The Poplars, but somehow
the old name seemed to suit it best. I
like to think of it as the Bascom Place.”
“You are right, sir,” said the Judge with
emphasis; “you are right, sir. It is the
Bascom Place. All the powers of earth
cannot strip us of our name.”
Again Underwood looked at the young
girl, and again he read in her shining but
apprehensive eyes the answer he should
make.
“I have been compelled to add some conveniences—I
will not call them improvements—and
I have made some repairs, but
I have tried to preserve the main and familiar
features of the Place.”
“But the barn there; that is not where
it should be. It should be a mile away—on
the creek.”
“That would improve appearances, no
doubt; but if you were to get out at four or
five o’clock in the morning and see to the
milking of twelve or fifteen cows, I dare say
you would wish the barn even nearer than
it is.”
“Yes, yes, I suppose so,” responded the
Judge; “yes, no doubt. But it was not
there in my time—not in my time.”
“I have some very fine cows,” Underwood
went on. “Won’t you go in and look at
them? I think they would interest Miss
Bascom, and my sister would be glad to meet
her. Won’t you go in, sir, and look at the
old house?”
The Judge turned his pale and wrinkled
face towards his old home.
“No,” he said, “not now. I thank you
very much. I—somehow—no, sir, I cannot
go now.”
His hand shook as he raised it to his face,
and his lips trembled as he spoke.
“Let us go home, daughter,” he said after
a while. “We have walked far enough.”
He bowed to young Underwood, and Mildred
bade him good-bye with a troubled smile.
Prince went with them a little way down
the street. He walked by the side of the
lady, and her pretty hand rested lightly on
the dog’s massive head. It was a beautiful
picture, Underwood thought, as he stood
watching them pass out of sight.
“You are a lucky dog,” he said to Prince
when the latter came back, “but you don’t
appreciate your privileges. If you did you
would have gone home with that lovely
woman.” Prince wagged his tail, but it is
doubtful if he fully understood the remark.
One Sunday morning, as Major Jimmy
Bass was shaving himself, he heard a knock
at the back door. The major had his coat
and waistcoat off and his suspenders were
hanging around his hips. He was applying
the lather for the last time, and the knocking
was so sudden and unexpected that he
rubbed the shaving-brush in one of his eyes.
He began to make some remarks which, however
appropriate they may have been to the
occasion, could not be reported here with
propriety. But in the midst of his indignant
monologue he remembered that the
knocking might have proceeded from some
of Mrs. Bass’s lady friends, who frequently
made a descent on the premises in that direction
for the purpose of borrowing a cupful
of sugar or coffee in a social way. These
considerations acted as powerful brakes on
the conversation that Major Bass was carrying
on with some imaginary foe. Holding
a towel to his smarting eye, he peeped from
his room door and looked down the hall.
The back door was open, but he could see
no one.
“Who was that knocking?” he cried.
“I’ll go one eye on you anyways.”
“’T ain’t nobody but me, Marse Maje,”
came the response from the door.
“Is that you, Jess?” exclaimed the major.
“Well, pleg-take your hide to the pleg-taked
nation! A little more an’ you’d ’a’ made
me cut my th’oat from year to year; an’ as
it is, I’ve jest about got enough soap in my
eye fer to do a day’s washin’.”
“Is you shavin’ yourse’f, Marse Maje?”
asked Jesse, diplomatically.
“That I am,” replied the major with emphasis.
“I allers was independent of white
folks, an’ sence you pulled up your stakes
an’ took up wi’ the quality I’m about independent
of the niggers. An’ it’s mighty
quare to me,” the major went on, “that
you’d leave your high an’ mighty people
long enough fer to come a-bangin’ an’ makin’
me put out my eyes. Why, ef I’d ’a’ had
my razor out, I’ll be boun’ you’d made me
cut my th’oat, an’ much good may it ’a’ done
you.”
“Name er goodness, Marse Maje,” protested
Jesse, “what make you go on dat
a-way? Ef I’d ’a’ knowed you wuz busy
in dar I’d ’a’ set out in de sun en waited
twel you got thoo.”
“Yes,” said the major in a sarcastic but
somewhat mollified tone, “you’d ’a’ sot out
there an’ got to noddin’, an’ then bimeby
your Miss Sarah would ’a’ come along an’
ketched you there, an’ I’ll be boun’ she’d
’a’ lammed you wi’ a chunk of wood; bekaze
she don’t ’low no loafin’ in the back yard
sence you been gone. I don’t know what
you come fer,” the major continued, still
wiping the lather out of his eye, “an’ nuther
do I keer; but sence you are here you kin
come in an’ finish shavin’ me, fer to pay fer
the damage you’ve done.”
Jesse was apparently overjoyed to find
that he could be of some service. He bustled
around in the liveliest manner, and was
soon mowing the major’s fat face with the
light but firm touch for which he was noted.
As he shaved he talked.
“Marse Maje,” he said, “does you know
what I come fer dis mornin’?”
“I’ve been tryin’ to think,” replied the
major; “but I couldn’t tell you ef I was
a-gwine to be hung fer it. You are up to
some devilment, I know mighty well, but I
wish’t I may die ef I’ve got any idee what
it is.”
“Now, Marse Maje, what make you talk
dat’a’way?”
“Oh, I know you, Jess, an’ I’ve been
a-knowin’ you a mighty long time. Your
Miss Sarah mayn’t know you, Jess, but I
know you from the groun’ all the way up.”
Jesse laughed. He was well aware that
the major’s wife was the knowing one of
that family. He had waited until that excellent
lady had issued from the house on
her way to church, and it was not until she
was out of sight that he thought it safe to
call on the major. Even now, after he had
found the major alone, the negro was somewhat
doubtful as to the propriety of explaining
the nature of his business; but the old
man was inquisitive.
“Oh, yes, Jess!” the major went on, after
pausing long enough to have the corner of
his mouth shaved—“oh, yes! I know you,
an’ I know you’ve got somethin’ on your
min’ right now. Spit it out.”
“Well, I’ll tell you de trufe, Marse
Maje,” said Jesse, after hesitating for some
time; “I tell you de Lord’s trufe, I come
yer atter somepin’ ter eat.”
Major Bass caught the negro by the arm,
pushed the razor carefully out of the way,
and sat bolt upright in the chair.
“Do you mean to stan’ up there, you triflin’
rascal,” the major exclaimed, “an’ tell
me, right before my face an’ eyes, that
you’ve come a-sneaking back here atter vittles?
Whyn’t you stay where the vittles
was?” Major Bass was really indignant.
“Wait, Marse Maje; des gimme time,”
said Jesse, nervously strapping the razor on
the palm of his hand. “Des gimme time,
Marse Maje. You fly up so, suh, dat you
git me all mixed up wid myse’f. I come
atter vittles, dat’s de Lord’s trufe; but I
ain’t come atter ’em fer myse’f. Nigger
like me don’t stay hongry long roun’ whar
folks know um like dey does me.”
“Well, who in the name of reason sent
you, then?” asked the major.
“Nobody ain’t sont me, suh,” said Jesse.
“Well, who do you want em’ fer?” insisted
the major.
“Marse Judge Bascom en Miss Mildred,”
replied Jesse solemnly.
Major Jimmy Bass fell back in his chair
in a state of collapse, overcome by his astonishment.
“Well!” he exclaimed, as soon as he
could catch his breath. “Ef this don’t beat
the Jews an’ the Gentiles, the Scribes an’
the Pharisees, then I ain’t a-settin’ here.
Did they tell you to come to this house fer
vittles?”
“No, suh; dat dey ain’t—dat dey ain’t!
Ef Miss Mildred wuz ter know I went anywhar
on dis kin’ er errun’ she’d mighty
nigh have a fit.”
“Well, well, WELL!” snorted the major.
“I des come my own se’f,” Jesse went
on. He would have begun shaving again,
but the major waved him away. “Look
like I ’bleege’ ter come. You’d ’a’ come
yo’se’f, Marse Maje, druther dan see dem
folks pe’sh deyse’f ter deff. Dey got money,
but Marse Judge Bascom got de idee dat
dey hafter save it all fer ter buy back de
ole Place. Dey pinch deyse’f day in en day
out, en yistiddy when Miss Mildred say she
gwine buy somepin’ fer Sunday, Marse
Judge Bascom he say no; he ’low dat dey
mus’ save en pinch en buy back de ole
home. I done year him say dat twel it
make me plum sick. An’ dar dey is naturally
starvin’ deyse’f.
“Miss Mildred,” continued Jesse, “got
idee dat her pa know what he talkin’ ’bout;
but twix’ you en me, Marse Maje, dat ole
man done about lose his min’. He ain’t so
mighty much older dan what you is, but he
mighty feeble in his limbs, en he mighty
flighty in his head. He talk funny, now,
en he don’t talk ’bout nothin’ skacely but
buyin’ back the ole Place.”
“Jess,” said Major Bass in the smooth,
insinuating tone that the negro knew so well,
and that he had learned to fear, “ain’t I
allers treated you right? Ain’t I allers
done the clean thing by you?”
“Yes, Marse Maje, you is,” said the negro
with emphasis.
“Well, then, Jess, what in the name of
Moses do you want to come roun’ me wi’
such a tale as this? Don’t you know I
know you clean through? Whyn’t you
come right out an’ say you want the vittles
fer yourself? What is the use whippin’ the
devil ’roun’ the stump?”
“Marse Maje,” said Jesse, solemnly,
“I’m a-tellin’ you de Lord’s trufe.” By
this time he had begun to shave the major
again.
“Well,” said Major Bass, after a pause,
during which he seemed to be thinking,
“suppos’n’ I was to let myself be took in by
your tale, an’ suppos’n’ I was to give you
some vittles, what have you got to put ’em
in?”
“I got a basket out dar, Marse Maje,”
said Jesse, cheerfully. “I brung it a purpose.”
“Why, tooby shore, tooby shore!” exclaimed
the major, sarcastically. “Ef you
was as forehanded as you is fore-thoughted
you wouldn’t be a-runnin’ roun’ beggin’ vittles
from han’ to mouth. But sence you are
here you’d better make haste; bekaze ef your
Miss Sarah comes back from church and
ketches you here, she’ll kick up a purty
rippit.”
The major was correct. As he and Jesse
went into the pantry Mrs. Bass entered the
front door. Flinging her bonnet and mantilla
on a bed, she went to the back porch
for a drink of water. The major heard her
coming through the hallway, and, by a swift
gesture of his hand, cautioned Jesse to be
quiet.
“I’ll vow if the place ain’t left to take
care of itself,” Mrs. Bass was saying.
“Doors all open, chickens in the dining-room,
cat licking the churn-dasher, and I’ll
bet my existence that not a drop of fresh
water has been put in the house-bucket
since I left this morning. Everything gone
to rack and ruin. I can’t say my prayers
in peace at home, and if I go to church one
Sunday in a month there ain’t no satisfaction
in the sermon, because I know everything’s
at loose ends on this whole blessed
place. And if you’d go up the street right
now, you’d find Mr. Bass a-setting up there
at the tavern with the other loafers, a-giggling
and a-snickering and a-dribbling at
the mouth like one possessed.”
The major, in the pantry, winced visibly
at this picture drawn true to life, and as he
attempted to change his position he knocked
a tin vessel from one of the shelves. He
caught at it, and it fell to the floor with a
loud crash.
“The Lord have mercy!” exclaimed
Mrs. Bass. “Is Satan and all his imps in
the pantry, a-tearing down and a-smashing
up things?” Not being a timid woman,
she hastened to investigate. The sight she
saw in the pantry struck her speechless. In
one corner stood the major, holding up one
foot, as if he was afraid of breaking something,
and vainly trying to smile. In
another corner stood Jesse, so badly frightened
that very little could be seen of his
face except the whites of his eyes. The
tableau was a comical one. Mrs. Bass did
not long remain speechless.
“Mr. Bass!” she exclaimed, “what under
the shining sun are you doing colloguing
with niggers in my pantry? If you
want to collogue with niggers, why, in the
name of common sense, don’t you take ’em
out to the barn? What are you doing in
there, anyhow? For mercy’s sake! have
you gone stark-natural crazy? And if you
ain’t, what brand-new caper are you trying
to cut up?”
“Don’t talk so loud, Sarah,” said the major,
wiping the cold perspiration from his
face. “All the neighbors’ll hear you.”
“And why shouldn’t they hear me?” exclaimed
Mrs. Bass. “What could be worse
than for me to come home from church in
broad daylight and find you penned up in
my pantry, arm-in-arm with a nigger?
What business have you got with niggers
that you have to take ’em into my pantry to
collogue with ’em? I’d a heap rather
you’d ’a’ taken ’em in the parlor—a heap
rather.”
Then Mrs. Bass’s eyes fell on the basket
Jesse had in his hand, and this added to her
indignation.
“I believe in my soul,” she went on,
“that you are stealing the meat and bread
out of your own mouth to feed that nigger.
If you ain’t, what is the basket for?”
“Tut, tut, Sarah, don’t you go on so;
you’ll make yourself the laughin’-stock of
the town,” said the major in a conciliatory
tone.
“And what’ll you be?” continued Mrs.
Bass, relentlessly; “what’ll you be—a
honeyin’ up with buck niggers in my pantry
in the broad open daytime? Maybe you’ll
have the manners to introduce me to your
pardner. Who is he, anyhow?” Then
Mrs. Bass turned her attention to the negro.
“Come out of my pantry, you nasty, trifling
rascal! Who are you?”
“’T ain’t nobody but me, Miss Sa’ah,”
said Jesse as he issued forth.
“You!” she exclaimed. “You are the
nigger that was too biggity to stay with ’em
that raised you up and took care of you, and
now you come back and try to steal their
bread and meat! Well! I know the end of
the world ain’t so mighty far off.”
Mrs. Bass sank into a chair, exhausted by
her indignation. Then the major took the
floor, so to say, and showed that if he could
be frightened by his wife, he could also, at the
proper time, show that he had a will of his
own. He explained the situation at some
length, and with an emphasis that carried
conviction with it. He made no mention of
Jesse in his highly colored narrative, but
left his wife to infer that while she was at
church praying for peace of mind and not
having her prayers answered to any great
extent, he was at home engaged in works of
practical charity. Nothing could have been
finer than the major’s air of injured innocence,
unless it was Jesse’s attitude of helpless
and abandoned humiliation. The result
of it was that Mrs. Bass filled the basket
with the best she had in the house, and
Jesse went home happy.
As for the Bascoms, they seemed to be
getting along comfortably in spite of the
harrowing story that Jesse had told to Major
Jimmy Bass and to others. As a matter
of fact, the shrewd negro had purposely
exaggerated the condition of affairs in the
Bascom household. He had an idea that
the fare they lived on was too common and
cheap for the representatives of such a
grand family, forgetting, or not knowing,
the privations they had passed through.
The Judge insisted on the most rigid economy,
and Mildred was at one with him in
this. She was familiar with the necessity
for it, but she could see that her father was
anxious to push it to unmeasurable lengths.
It never occurred to her, however, that her
father’s morbid anxiety to repossess the
Bascom Place was rapidly taking the shape
of mania. This desire on the part of Judge
Bascom was a part of his daughter’s life.
She had heard it expressed in various ways
ever since she could remember, and it was a
part, not merely of her experience, but of
her growth and development. She had
heard the matter discussed so many times
that it seemed to her nothing but natural
that her father should one day realize the
dream of his later years and reoccupy the
old Place as proprietor.
Judge Bascom had no other thought than
this. As he grew older and feebler, the desire
became more ardent and overpowering.
While his daughter was teaching her school,
with which she had made quite a success,
the Judge would be planning improvements
to be added to his old home when he should
own it again. Not a day passed—unless,
indeed, the weather was stormy—that he
did not walk in the neighborhood of the old
Place. Sometimes he would go with his
daughter, sometimes he would go alone, but
it was observed by those who came to be interested
in his comings and goings that he
invariably refused to accept the invitation
of Mr. Underwood to enter the house or to
inspect the improvements that had been
made. He persisted in remaining on the
outside of the domain, content to wait for
the day when he could enter as proprietor.
He was willing to accept the position of
spectator, but he was not willing to be a
guest.
The culmination came one fine day in the
fall, and it was so sudden and so peculiar
that it took Hillsborough completely by
surprise, and gave the people food for gossip
for a long time afterwards. The season
was hesitating as to whether summer should
return or winter should be introduced.
There was a hint of winter in the crisp
morning breezes, but the world seemed to
float summerwards in the glimmering haze
that wrapped the hills in the afternoons.
On one of these fine mornings Judge Bascom
rose and dressed himself. His daughter
heard him humming a tune as he walked
about the room, and she observed also, with
inward satisfaction, that his movements were
brisker than usual. Listening a little attentively,
she heard him talking to himself, and
presently she heard him laugh. This was
such an unusual occurrence that she was
moved to knock at his door. He responded
with a cheery “Come in!” Mildred found
him shaved and dressed, and she saw that
there was a great change in his appearance.
His cheeks, usually so wan and white, were
flushed a little and his eyes were bright.
He smiled as Mildred entered, and exclaimed
in a tone that she had not heard for
years:—
“Good-morning, my daughter! And how
do you find yourself this morning?”
It was the old manner she used to admire
so when she was a slip of a girl—a manner
that was a charming combination of dignity
and affection.
“Why, father!” she exclaimed, “you
must be feeling better. You have positively
grown younger in a night.”
The Judge laughed until his eyes sparkled.
“Yes, my dear, I am feeling very well
indeed. I never felt better. I am happy,
quite happy. Everything has been made
clear to me. I am going to-day to transact
some business that has been troubling me
a long time. I shall arrange it all to-day—yes,
to-day.”
The change that had come over her father
was such a relief to Mildred that she asked
him no questions. Now, as always, she
trusted to his judgment and his experience.
Jesse, however, was more critical. He
watched the Judge furtively and shook his
head.
“Mistiss,” he said to Mildred when he
found an opportunity, “did you shave master?”
“Why, what a ridiculous question!” she
exclaimed. “How could I shave him? It
makes me shiver merely to touch the razors.”
“Well, Mistiss,” Jesse insisted, “ef I
ain’t shave him, en you ain’t shave him, den
who de name er goodness is done gone en
done it?”
“He shaved himself, of course,” Mildred
said. “He is very much better this morning.
I noticed it the moment I saw him. I
should think you could see it yourself.”
“I seed somepin’ nuther wuz de matter,”
said Jesse. “Somepin’ ’bleege’ ter be de
matter when I put him ter bed las’ night
des like he wuz a baby, ma’m, en now yer he
is gwine roun’ des ez spry ez de nex’ one.
Yessum, somepin’ ’bleege’ ter be de matter.
Yistiddy his han’s wuz shakin’ same like he
got de polzy, ma’m, en now yer he is shavin’
hisse’f; dat what rack my min’.”
“Well, I hope you are glad he is so well,
Jesse,” said Mildred in an injured tone.
“Oh, yessum,” said Jesse, scratching his
head. “Lor’, yessum. Dey ain’t nobody
no gladder dan what I is; but it come on
me so sudden, ma’m, dat it sorter skeer me.”
“Well, it doesn’t frighten me,” said Mildred.
“It makes me very happy.”
“Yessum,” replied Jesse deferentially.
He made no further comment; but after
Mildred had gone to attend to her school
duties he made it his business to keep an
eye on the Judge, and the closer the negro
watched, the more forcibly was he struck
by the great change that a night had made
in the old man.
“I hear talk ’bout folks bein’ conjured
inter sickness,” Jesse said to himself, “but
I ain’t never hear talk ’bout dey bein’ conjured
so dey git well.”
Certainly a great change had come over
Judge Bascom. He stood firmly on his feet
once more. He held his head erect, as in
the old days, and when he talked to Jesse
his tone was patronizing and commanding,
instead of querulous and complaining. He
seemed to be very fastidious about his appearance.
After Mildred had gone to her
school, Jesse was called in to brush the
Judge’s hat and coat and to polish his shoes.
The Judge watched this process with great
interest, and talked to the negro in his
blandest manner. This was not so surprising
to Jesse as the fact that the Judge persisted
in calling him Wesley; Wesley was
the Judge’s old body-servant who had been
dead for twenty years. It was Wesley this
and Wesley that so long as Jesse was in
the room, and once the Judge asked how
long before the carriage would be ready.
The negro parried this question, but he remembered
it. He was sorely puzzled an
hour afterwards, however, when Judge Bascom
called him and said:—
“Wesley, tell Jordan he need not bring
the carriage around for me. I will walk.
Jordan can bring your mistress when she is
ready.”
“Well,” exclaimed Jesse, when the Judge
disappeared in the house, “dis bangs me!
What de name er goodness put de ole man
Jerd’n in his min’, which he died endurance
er de war? It’s all away beyant me. Miss
Mildred oughter be yer wid her pa right
now, yit, ef I go atter her, dey ain’t no
tellin’ what he gwine do.”
Jess cut an armful of wood, and then
made a pretense of washing dishes, going
from the kitchen to the dining-room several
times. More than once he stopped to listen,
but he could hear nothing. After a while
he made bold to peep into the sitting-room.
There was nobody there. He went into the
Judge’s bedroom; it was empty. Then he
called—“Marster! oh, Marster!” but there
was no reply. Jess was in a quandary. He
was not alarmed, but he was uneasy.
“Ef I run en tell Miss Mildred dat Marster
done gone som’ers,” he said to himself,
“she’ll des laugh en say I ain’t got no
sense; en I don’t speck I is, but it make my
flesh crawl fer ter hear folks callin’ on dead
niggers ter do dis en do dat.”
Meanwhile the Judge had sallied forth
from the house, and was proceeding in the
direction of the Bascom Place. His step
was firm and elastic, his bearing dignified.
The acquaintances whom he met on his way
stopped and looked after him when they had
returned his Chesterfieldian salutation. He
walked rapidly, and there was an air of decision
in his movements that had long been
lacking. At the great gate opening into the
avenue of the Bascom Place the Judge was
met by Prince the mastiff, who gave him a
hospitable welcome, and gravely preceded
him to the house. Miss Sophie, Mr. Underwood’s
maiden sister, who was sitting in the
piazza, engaged on some kind of feminine
embroidery, saw the Judge coming, too late
to beat a retreat, so she merely whipped behind
one of the large pillars, gave her dress
a little shake at the sides and behind, ran
her hands over her hair, and appeared before
the caller cool, calm, and collected.
“Good-morning, madam,” said the Judge
in his grand way, taking off his hat.
“Good-morning, sir,” said Miss Sophie.
“Have this chair?”
“No, no,” said the Judge, smiling blandly,
and waving his hand. “I prefer my own
chair—the large rocker with the cushion,
you know. It is more comfortable.”
Somewhat puzzled, Miss Sophie fetched a
rocker. It had no cushion, but the Judge
seemed not to miss it.
“Why, where are the servants?” he
asked, his brows contracting a little. “I
could have brought the chair.”
“Mercy!” exclaimed Miss Sophie, “if I
were to sit down and expect the negroes to
wait on me, I’d have a good many disappointments
during the day.”
“Yes,” said the Judge, “that is very
true; very true. Where is Wesley?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” Miss Sophie
replied. “Is he a white man or a negro?”
“Wesley?” exclaimed the Judge. “Why,
he’s a nigger; he’s my body-servant.”
“Isn’t this Judge Bascom?” Miss Sophie
inquired, regarding him curiously.
“Yes, certainly, madam,” responded the
Judge.
“Well, I’ve seen a negro named Jesse
following you and your daughter about,”
said Miss Sophie. “Perhaps you are speaking
of Jesse.”
“No, no,” said the Judge. “I mean
Wesley—or maybe you are only a visitor
here. Your face is familiar, but I have forgotten
your name.”
“I am Francis Underwood’s sister,” said
Miss Sophie, with some degree of pride.
“Ah, yes!” the Judge sighed—“Francis
Underwood. He is the gentleman who
has had charge of the place these several
years. A very clever man, I have no doubt.
He has done very well, very well indeed;
better than most men would have done. Do
you know where he will go next year?”
“Now, I couldn’t tell you, really,” Miss
Sophie replied, looking at the Judge through
her gold-rimmed eye-glasses. “He did intend
to go North this fall, but he’s always
too busy to carry out his intentions.”
“Yes,” said Judge Bascom; “I have no
doubt he is a very busy man. He has managed
everything very cleverly here, and I
wish him well wherever he goes.”
Miss Sophie was very glad when she
heard her brother’s step in the hall; not
that she was nervous or easily frightened,
but there was something in Judge Bascom’s
actions, something in the tone of his voice,
some suggestion in his words, that gave her
uneasiness, and she breathed a sigh of relief
when her stalwart brother made his appearance.
Francis Underwood greeted his guest
cordially—more cordially, Miss Sophie
thought, than circumstances warranted; but
the beautiful face of Mildred Bascom was
not stamped on Miss Sophie’s mind as it was
on her brother’s.
“I am sorry to put you to any inconvenience,”
said the Judge, after they had talked
for some time on commonplace topics—“very
sorry. I have put the matter off
until at last I felt it to be a solemn duty I
owed my family to come here. Believe me,
sir,” he continued, turning to the young man
with some emotion—“believe me, sir, it
grieves me to trouble you in the matter, but
I could no longer postpone coming here. I
think I understand and appreciate your attachment”—
“Why, my dear sir,” cried Francis Underwood
in his heartiest manner, “it is no
trouble at all. No one could be more welcome
here. I have often wondered why you
have never called before. Don’t talk about
trouble and inconvenience.”
“I think I understand and appreciate
your attachment for the Place,” the Judge
went on as though he had not been interrupted,
“and it embarrasses me, I assure
you, to be compelled to trouble you now.”
“Well,” said Francis Underwood, with a
hospitable laugh, “if it is no trouble to you,
it certainly is none to me. As my neighbors
around here say, when I call on them,
‘just make yourself at home.’”
Judge Bascom rose from his chair trembling.
He seemed suddenly to be laboring
under the most intense excitement.
“My home?” he almost shrieked—“make
myself at home! In God’s name,
man, what can you mean? It is my home!
It has always been my home! Everything
here is mine—every foot of land, every
tree, every brick and stone and piece of
timber in this house. It is all mine, and I
will have it! I have come here to assert
my rights!”
He panted with passion and excitement
as he looked from Francis Underwood to
Miss Sophie. He paused, as if daring them
to dispute his claims. Miss Sophie, who
had a temper of her own, would have given
the Judge a piece of her mind, but she saw
her brother regarding the old man with a
puzzled, pitying expression. Then the
truth flashed on her, and for an instant she
felt like crying. Francis Underwood approached
the Judge and led him gently
back to his chair.
“Now that you are at home, Judge Bascom,”
he said, “you need not worry yourself.”
“I tell you it is mine!” the Judge went
on, beating the arm of his chair with his
clenched fist; “it is mine. It has always
been mine, and it will always be mine.”
Francis Underwood stood before the old
man, active, alert, smiling. His sister said
afterwards that she was surprised at the
prompt gentleness with which her brother
disposed of what promised to be a very disagreeable
scene.
“Judge Bascom,” said the young man,
swinging himself around on his boot-heels,
“as your guest here, allow me to suggest
that you ought to show me over the place.
I have been told you have some very fine
cows here.”
Immediately Judge Bascom was himself
again. His old air of dignity returned, and
he became in a moment the affable host.
“As my guests here,” he said, smiling
with pleasure, “you and the lady are very
welcome. We keep open house at the Bascom
Place, and we are glad to have our
friends with us. What we have is yours. I
suppose,” he went on, still smiling, “some
of our neighbors have been joking about our
cows. We have a good many of them, but
they don’t amount to much. They have
been driven to the pasture by this time, and
that is on the creek a mile and a half from
here. I wonder where Wesley is! I think
he is growing more worthless every year.
He ought to be here with my daughter.
The carriage was sent for her some time
ago.”
“I will see if he is in the yard,” said Underwood,
and his sister followed him through
the hall.
“Mercy!” Miss Sophie exclaimed when
they were out of hearing; “does the old
Judge purpose to swarm and settle down on
us?” She had an economical turn of mind.
“What in the world is the matter with
him?”
“I pity him from the bottom of my
heart,” said Francis Underwood, “but I am
sorrier for his daughter. Everything seems
to be blotted out of his mind except the notion
that he is the owner of this Place. We
must humor him, sister, and we must be tender
with the daughter. You know how to
do that much better than I do.”
Miss Sophie frowned a little. The situation
was a new and trying one, but she had
been confronted with emergencies before,
and her experience and her strong common
sense stood her in good stead now. With a
woman’s promptness she decided on a line
of action at once sympathetic and effectual.
The buggy was ordered out and young Underwood
went for a physician.
Then, when he had returned, Miss Sophie
said he must go for the daughter, and she
cautioned him, with some severity of manner,
as to what he should say and how he
should deport himself. But at this Francis
Underwood rebelled. Ordinarily he was a
very agreeable and accommodating young
fellow, but when his sister informed him
that he must fetch Mildred Bascom to her
father, he pulled off his hat and scratched
his blond head in perplexity.
“What could I say, sister?” he protested.
“How could I explain the situation?
No; it is a woman’s work, and you
must go. It would be a pretty come-off for
me to go after this poor girl and in a fit of
awkwardness frighten her to death. It is
bad enough as it is. There is no hurry.
You shall have the carriage. It would
never do for me to go; no one but a woman
knows how to be sympathetic in a matter of
this kind.”
“I never knew before that you were so
bashful,” said Miss Sophie, regarding him
keenly. “It is a recent development.”
“It is not bashfulness, sister,” said Underwood,
coloring a little. “It is consideration.
How could I explain matters to this
poor girl? How could I prevail on her to
come here without giving her an inkling of
the situation, and thus frighten her, perhaps
unnecessarily?”
“Perhaps you are right,” said Miss Sophie,
who, as an experienced spinster, was
not always ready to make concessions of this
kind. “At any rate I’ll go for Miss Bascom,
and I think I can manage it without
alarming her; but the matter troubles me.
I hope the poor old Judge will not be a
dangerous guest.”
“There is not the slightest fear of that,”
said Francis Underwood. “He is too feeble
for that. When I placed my hand on
his shoulder just now he was all of a tremble.
He is no stronger than a little child,
and no more dangerous. Besides, the doctor
is with him.”
“Well,” said Miss Sophie with a sigh,
“I’ll go. Women are compelled to do
most of the odd jobs that men are afraid to
take up; but I shiver to think of it. I
shall surely break down when I see that
poor child.”
“No,” said her brother, “you will not.
I know you too well for that. We must
humor this old man, and that will be for
me to do; his daughter must be left to
you.”
All this was no less the result of Francis
Underwood’s desire than of the doctor’s commands.
The old practitioner was noted for
his skill throughout the region, and after he
had talked with Judge Bascom he gave it as
his opinion that the only physic necessary in
the case was perfect rest and quiet, and that
these could be secured only by allowing the
old man to remain undisturbed in the belief
that he was once more the owner of the Bascom
Place.
“He’ll not trouble you for long,” said
Dr. Bynum, wiping his spectacles, “and
I’ve no doubt that whatever expense may
be incurred will be settled by his old
friends. Oh, Bascom still has friends
here,” exclaimed the doctor, misunderstanding
Underwood’s gesture of protest. “He
went wrong, badly wrong; but he is a
Southerner, sir, to the very core, and in the
South we are in the habit of looking after
our own. We may differ, sir, but when the
pinch comes you’ll find us together.”
The doctor’s lofty air was wholly lost on
his companion.
“My dear sir,” said Underwood, laying
his hand somewhat heavily on the doctor’s
shoulder, “what do you take me for? Do
you suppose that I intend to set up a hospital
here?”
“Oh, by no means, by no means,” said
Dr. Bynum, soothingly. “Not at all; in
fact, quite the contrary. As I say, you
shall be reimbursed for all”—
“Dr. Bynum,” said Underwood, with
some degree of emphasis, “permit me to remind
you that Judge Bascom is my guest.
There is no question of money except so far
as your bill is concerned, and that”—
“Now, now, my dear boy,” exclaimed the
old doctor, holding up both hands in a gesture
of expostulation, “don’t, don’t fly up!
What is the use? I was only explaining
matters; I was only trying to let you know
how we Southerners feel. You must have
noticed that the poor old Judge hasn’t been
treated very well since his return here. His
best friends have avoided him. I was only
trying to tell you that they hold him in high
esteem, and that they are willing to do all
they can for him.”
“As a Southerner?” inquired Underwood,
“or as a man?”
“Tut, tut!” exclaimed Dr. Bynum.
“Don’t come running at me with your head
down and your horns up. We’ve no time
to fall into a dispute. You look after the
Judge as a Northerner, and I’ll look after
him as a Southerner. His daughter must
come here. He is very feeble. He has but
one irrational idea, and that is that he owns
the old Place. In every other particular
his mind is sound, and he will give you no
trouble. His idea must be humored, and
even then the collapse will come too soon
for that poor girl, his daughter—as lovely
a creature, sir, as you ever saw.”
This statement was neither information
nor news so far as Underwood was concerned.
“If I see her,” the old doctor
went on, with a somewhat patronizing air,
“I’ll try to explain matters; but it is a
very delicate undertaking, sir—very delicate.”
“No,” said Underwood; “there will be
no need for explanations. My sister will
go for Miss Bascom, and whatever explanations
may be necessary she will make at the
proper time.”
“An admirable arrangement,” said Dr.
Bynum with a grunt of satisfaction—“an
admirable arrangement indeed. Well, my
boy, you must do the best you can, and I
know that will be all that is necessary. I
am sorry for Bascom, very sorry, and I’m
sorrier for his daughter. I’ll call again tonight.”
As Dr. Bynum drove down the avenue,
Underwood was much gratified to see Jesse
coming through the gate. The negro appeared
to be much perplexed. He took off
his hat as he approached Underwood, and
made a display of politeness somewhat unusual,
although he was always polite.
“Is you seed Marse Judge Bascom?” he
inquired.
“Yes,” said Underwood. “He is in the
house yonder, resting himself. You seem
frightened; what is the trouble?”
“Well, suh, I ain’t had no such worriment
sence de Sherman army come ’long.
I dunner what got inter Marse Judge Bascom.
He been gwine on des like yuther
folks, settin’ ’roun’ en talkin’ ’long wid hisse’f,
en den all of er sudden he break out
en shave en dress hisse’f, en go visitin’ whar
he ain’t never been visitin’ befo’. I done
year ’im say p’intedly dat he ain’t never
gwine come yer les’n de Place b’long ter
’im. Do he look downhearted, suh?”
“No,” said Underwood, “I can’t say that
he does. He seems to be very well satisfied.
He has called several times for Wesley.
I have heard you called Jesse, but
perhaps the Judge knows you as Wesley.
There are several negroes around here who
answer to different names.”
“No, suh,” said Jesse, scratching his
head. “I ain’t never been call Wesley
sence I been bornded inter de worl’. Dey
was er nigger name Wesley what use ter go
’long wid Marse Judge Bascom en wait on
’im when I wuz er little boy, but Wesley
done been dead too long ago ter talk about.
I dunner what make folks’s min’ drop back
dat ’a’way. Look like dey er sorter fumblin’
’roun’ tryin’ fer ter ketch holt er sump’n
ne’r what done been pulled up out’n reach.”
“Well,” said Underwood, “the Judge is
in the house. See if he wants anything;
and if he asks about his daughter, tell him
she will be here directly.”
When Jesse went into the house he found
the Judge lying on a lounge in the hall.
His eyes were closed, and he seemed to be
dozing; but Jesse’s movements aroused
him.
“Ah! is that you, Wesley? Where is
your Miss Mildred?”
“She comin’, suh; she comin’ right now.”
“Very well, very well. You must make
yourself at home here,” he said to Francis
Underwood, who had followed Jesse. “I
am somewhat dilapidated myself, but my
daughter will entertain you. Wesley, I believe
I will go to my room. Lend me your
arm.”
“Allow me to assist you,” said Underwood;
and so between the two the old man
was carried to the room that had been his
own when the house was his. It happened
to be Underwood’s room, but that made no
difference. It belonged once more to the
Judge in his disordered fancy, and thither
he went.
After a while Miss Sophie came, bringing
Mildred. Just how she had explained matters
to the poor girl no one ever knew, but
it must have been in some specially sympathetic
way, for when Francis Underwood
assisted the ladies from the carriage Miss
Bascom appeared to be the less agitated of
the two.
“The Judge is as comfortable as possible,”
Underwood said cheerily. “Jesse is
with him, and I think he is asleep. His
nervousness has passed away.”
“Oh, do you think he is seriously ill?”
exclaimed Mildred, clasping her hands together.
“Certainly not, just now,” said Francis
Underwood. “The doctor has been here,
and he has gone away apparently satisfied.
Sister, do you take charge of Miss Bascom,
and show her how to be at home here.”
And so Judge Bascom and his beautiful
daughter were installed at the old Place.
Mildred, under the circumstances, would
rather have been elsewhere, but she was
practically under orders. It was necessary
to the well-being of her father, so the doctor
said, that he should remain where he
was; it was necessary that he should be humored
in the belief that he was the owner
of the old Place. It is only fair to say that
Miss Sophie Underwood and her brother
were more willing and anxious to enter into
this scheme than Mildred appeared to be.
She failed to comprehend the situation until
after she had talked with her father, and
then she was in despair. Judge Bascom
was the representative of everything substantial
and enduring in his daughter’s experience,
and when she realized that his
mind had been seized by a vagary she received
a tremendous shock. But the rough
edges of the situation, so to speak, were
smoothed and turned by Miss Sophie, who
assumed motherly charge of the young girl.
Miss Sophie’s methods were so sympathetic
and so womanly, and she gave to the situation
such a matter-of-fact interpretation,
that the grief and dismay of the young girl
were not as overwhelming as they otherwise
would have been.
Naturally all the facts that have just been
set down here were soon known to the inhabitants
of Hillsborough. Naturally, too,
something more than the facts was also
known and talked about. There was the
good old doctor ready to shake his head and
look mysterious, and there were the negroes
ready to give out an exaggerated version of
the occurrences that followed Judge Bascom’s
visit to his old home.
“Well,” said Major Jimmy Bass to his
wife, with something like a snort, “ef the
old Judge is gone there an’ took holt of
things, like they say, it’s bekaze he’s out’n
his mind. I wonder what in the round
world could ’a’ possessed him?”
“I ’spec’ he’s done drapt back into his
doltage,” said Farmer Joe-Bob Grissom,
who had gone to the major’s for the purpose
of discussing the matter. “An’ yit,
they do say that he’s got a clean title to
every bit of the prop’ty, ef you take into account
all that talk about his wife’s brother,
an’ sech like.”
“Well,” remarked the major grimly,
“Sarah there ain’t got no brother, an’ I
reckon I’m sorter pretected from them kind
of gwines-on.”
“Why, tooby shore you are,” said his
wife, who was the Sarah referred to; “but
I ain’t so mighty certain that I wouldn’t be
better off if I had a brother to follow you
around where the wimmen folks can’t go.
You’ve flung away many a bright dollar
that he might have picked up.”
“Who, Sarah?” inquired the major,
wincing a little.
“My brother,” returned Mrs. Bass.
“Why, you haven’t got a brother, Sarah,”
said Major Bass.
“More’s the pity,” exclaimed the major’s
wife. “I ought to have had one, a great
big double-j’inted chap. But you needn’t
tell me about the old Judge,” she went on.
“He tried to out-Yankee the Yankees up
yonder in Atlanty, an’ now he’s a-trying to
out-Yankee them down here. Lord! You
needn’t tell me a thing about old Judge
Bascom. Show me a man that’s been
wrapped up with the Radicals, and I’ll
show you a man that ain’t got no better
sense than to try to chousel somebody. I’d
just as lief see Underwood have the Bascom
Place as the old Judge, every bit and
grain.”
“Well, I hadn’t,” said the major emphatically.
“No, ner me nuther,” said Mr. Joe-Bob
Grissom. “Hit may be right, but hit don’t
look right. Pap used to say he’d never be
happy ontel the Bascoms come back inter
the’r prop’ty.”
“Well, he’s dead, ain’t he?” inquired
Mrs. Bass in a tone that showed she had the
best of the argument.
“Yessum,” said Mr. Grissom, shifting
about in his chair and crossing his legs, as
if anxious to dispose of an unpleasant subject,
“yessum, pap’s done dead.” To this
statement, after a somewhat embarrassing
silence, he added: “Pap took an’ died a
long time ago.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bass in a gentler tone,
“and I’ll warrant you that when he died he
wasn’t pestered ’bout whether the Bascoms
owned the Place or not. Did he make any
complaints?”
“No’m,” replied Mr. Grissom in a reminiscent
way, “I can’t say that he did. He
jest didn’t bother about ’em. Hit looked
like they jest natchally slipped outer his
mind.”
“Why, certainly,” said Mrs. Bass, with
a little shake of her head; “they slipped
outer your pa’s mind, and now they say the
old Judge has slipped out of his own
mind.”
“Well, we needn’t boast of it, Sarah,”
remarked the major, with a feeble attempt
at severity. “Nobody knows the day when
some of us may be twisted around. We’ve
no room to brag.”
“No, we ain’t,” said his wife, bridling up.
“I’ve trembled for you a many a day when
you thought I was thinking about something
else,—a many a day.”
“Now you know mighty well, Sarah, that
no good-natured man like me ain’t a-gwine
to up an’ lose their mind, jest dry so,” said
the major earnestly. “They’ve got to have
some mighty big trouble.”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Bass, grimly, “and they
have to have mind too, I reckon. Nobody
that never had a horse ever lost one.”
The major nodded his head at Joe-Bob
Grissom, as much as to say that it was only
a very able man who could afford to have
such a sprightly wife. The mute suggestion,
however, was lost on Grissom, who was
accustomed to taking life seriously.
“I hear a mighty heap of talk,” he said,
“but I ain’t never been so mighty certain
an’ shore that the old Judge is lost his
mind. There’d be lots of fun ef it should
happen to be that he had the papers all
made out in his pocket, an’ I’ve hearn some
hints that-a-way.”
“Well,” said the more practical Mrs.
Bass, “he ain’t got no papers. The minute
I laid eyes on him after he came back here,
I says to Mr. Bass there, ‘Mr. Bass,’ says
I, ‘the old Judge has gone wrong in his upper
story.’ Ah, you can’t fool me. I know
a thing when I see it, more especially if I
look at it close. I’ve seen folks that had to
rub the silver off a thrip to tell whether it
was passable or not. I might be fooled
about the silver in a thrip, but you can’t
fool me about a grown man.”
“Nobody ain’t tryin’ to fool you, Sarah,”
said the major, with some show of spirit.
“Well, I reckon not,” exclaimed Mrs.
Bass, somewhat contemptuously. “I’d like
to see anybody try to fool me right here in
my own house and right before my face.”
“There ain’t no tellin’,” said Mr. Joe-Bob
Grissom, in his matter-of-fact way,
ignoring everything that had been said,—“there
ain’t no tellin’ whether the old
Judge is got the papers or not. ’T would
be hard on Frank Underwood an’ his sister,
an’ they ain’t no better folks than them.
They don’t make no fuss about it, an’ they
don’t hang out no signs, but when you come
to a narrer place in the road where you
can’t go forrerd nor back’ards, an’ nuther
can you turn ’roun’, you may jest count on
them Underwoods. They’ll git you out ef
you can be got out, an’ before you can say
thanky-do, they’ll be away off yonder helpin’
some yuther poor creetur.”
“Well,” said Major Bass, with an air of
independence, “I’m at the fust of it. It
may be jest as you say, Joe-Bob; but ef so,
I’ve never knowed it.”
“Hit’s jest like I tell you,” said Joe-Bob,
emphatically.
“Well, the Lord love us!” exclaimed
Mrs. Bass, “I hope it’s so, I do from the
bottom of my heart. It would be a mighty
queer world if it didn’t have some tender
spots in it, but you needn’t be afraid that
they’ll ever get as thick as the measles. I
reckon you must be renting land on the old
Bascom Place,” she went on, eyeing Mr.
Grissom somewhat sharply.
“Yessum,” said Joe-Bob, moving about
uneasily in his chair. “Yessum, I do.”
Whereupon Mrs. Bass smiled, and her
smile was more significant than anything she
could have said. It was disconcerting indeed,
and it was not long before Mr. Joe-Bob
Grissom made some excuse for depriving
Major Jimmy and Mrs. Sarah Bass of
his company.
As he was passing the Bascom Place on
his way home he saw lights in the house and
heard voices on the piazza.
“Ef it warn’t for that blamed dog,” he
thought, “I’d go up there an’ see what they
er talkin’ about so mighty peart.”
But Mr. Grissom’s curiosity would not
have been satisfied. Judge Bascom was
sitting in a large rocking-chair, enjoying the
pleasant evening air, and the others were
sitting near, talking on the most ordinary
topics. This situation was one of the doctor’s
prescriptions, as Miss Sophie said.
Those around were to wear a cheerful air,
and the Judge was to be humored in the belief
that he was once more the proprietor of
the Bascom Place. He seemed to respond
to this treatment in the most natural way.
The old instinct of hospitality rose in him
and had its way. He grew garrulous indeed,
and sat on the piazza, or walked up
and down and talked by the hour. He was
full of plans and projects, and some of them
were so suggestive that Francis Underwood
made a note of them for further consideration.
The Judge was the genial host, and
while his daughter was full of grief and humiliation
at the position in which she was
placed, he appeared to draw new life and inspiration
from his surroundings. He took
a great fancy to Miss Sophie: her observations,
which were practical in the extreme,
and often unflattering, were highly relished
by him. The Judge himself was a good
talker, and he gave Miss Sophie an opportunity
to vent some of her pet opinions, the
most of which were very pronounced.
As for Mildred, in spite of her grief and
anxiety, she found her surroundings vastly
more pleasant than she had at first imagined
they could be. Some instinct or prepossession
made her feel at home in the old house,
and as she grew more cheerful and more
contented she grew more beautiful and more
engaging. At least, this was the opinion of
Francis Underwood.
“Brother,” said Miss Sophie one day
when they were together, “you are in love.”
“I don’t know whether to say yes or no,”
he replied. “What is it to be in love?”
“How should I know?” exclaimed Miss
Sophie, reddening a little. “I see you
mooning around, and moping. Something
has come over you, and if it isn’t love, what
is it?”
He held up his hands, white and muscular,
and looked at them. Then he took off
his hat and tousled his hair in an effort to
smooth it with his fingers.
“It is something,” he said after a while
“but I don’t know what. Is love such an
everyday affair that it can be called by
name as soon as it arrives?”
“Don’t be absurd, brother,” said Miss
Sophie, with a gesture of protest. “You
talk as if you were trying to take a census
of the affair.”
“No,” said he; “I am trying to get a
special report. I saw Dr. Bynum looking
at you over his spectacles yesterday.”
Miss Sophie tried to show that this suggestion
was an irritating one, but she failed,
and then fell to laughing.
“I never knew I was so full of humor before,”
said Francis Underwood, by way of
comment.
“And I never knew you could be so foolish—to
me,” said Miss Sophie, still laughing.
“What is Dr. Bynum to me?”
“Not having his spectacles to look over,
how do I know?”
“But,” persisted Miss Sophie, “you need
no spectacles to look at Mildred. I have
seen you looking at her through your fingers.”
“And what was she doing?” inquired
Underwood, coloring in the most surprising
way.
“Oh,” said Miss Sophie, “she was pretending
not to notice it; but I can sit with
my back to you both and tell by the tone of
her voice when this and that thing is going
on.”
“This, then, is courtship,” said Underwood.
“Why, brother, how provoking you are!”
exclaimed Miss Sophie. “It is nothing of
the sort. It is child’s play; it is the way
the youngsters do at school. I feel as if I
never knew you before; you are full of surprises.”
“I surprise myself,” he said, with something
like a sigh, “and that is the trouble;
I don’t want to be too surprising.”
“But in war,” said his sister, “the successful
general cannot be too full of surprises.”
“In war!” he cried. “Why, I was in
hopes the war was over.”
“I was thinking about the old saying,”
she explained—“the old saying that all is
fair in love and war.”
“Well,” said Francis Underwood, “it
would be hard to say whether you and Dr.
Bynum are engaged in war or not. You
are both very sly, but I have seen a good
deal of skirmishing going on. Will it end
in a serious engagement, with casualties on
both sides? The doctor is something of a
surgeon, and he can attend to his own wounds,
but who is going to look after yours?”
“How can you go on so!” cried Miss Sophie,
laughing. “Are we to have an epidemic
of delusions?”
“Yes, and illusions too,” said her brother.
“The atmosphere seems to be full of them.
Everything is in a tangle.”
And yet it was not long after this conversation
that Miss Sophie observed her brother
and Mildred Bascom sauntering together
under the great cedars, and she concluded
that he was trying to untangle the tangle.
There were many such walks, and the old
Judge, sitting on the piazza in bright
weather, would watch the handsome pair,
apparently with a contented air. There was
something about this busy and practical
young man that filled Mildred’s imagination.
His individuality was prominent enough to
be tantalizing. It was of the dominant variety.
In him the instinct of control and
command, so pleasing to the feminine
mind, was thoroughly developed, and he disposed
of his affairs with a promptness and
decisiveness that left nothing to be desired.
Everything seemed to be arranged in his
mind beforehand.
Everything, that is to say, except his relations
with Mildred Bascom. There was not
the slightest detail of his various enterprises,
from the simplest to the most complicated,
with which he was not thoroughly familiar,
but this young girl, simple and unaffected as
she was, puzzled him sorely. She presented
to Francis Underwood’s mind the old problem
that is always new, and that has as
many phases as there are stars in the sky.
Here, before his eyes, was a combination for
which there was no warrant in his experience—the
wit and tenderness of Rosalind,
blended with the self-sacrificing devotion of
Cordelia. Here was a combination—a complication—of
a nature to attract the young
man’s attention. Problem, puzzle, what you
will, it was a very attractive one for him,
and he lost no favorable opportunity of
studying it.
So the pleasant days came and went. If
there were any love-passages between the
young people, only the stately cedars or the
restless poplars were in the secret, and these
told it only to the vagrant west winds that
crept over the hills when the silence of night
fell over all things.
Those were pleasant days and nights at
the old Bascom Place, in spite of the malady
with which the Judge was afflicted. They
were particularly pleasant when he seemed
to be brighter and stronger. But one day,
when he seemed to be at his best, the beginning
of the end came. He was sitting on
the piazza, talking with his daughter and
with Francis Underwood. Some reference
was made to the Place, when the old Judge
suddenly rose from his chair, and, shaking
his thin white hand at the young man, cried
out:
“I tell you it is mine! The Place always
has been mine and it always will be mine.”
He tottered forward and would have fallen,
but Underwood caught him and placed
him in his chair. The old man’s nerves had
lost their tension, his eyes their brightness.
He could only murmur indistinctly, “Mine,
mine, mine.” He seemed suddenly to have
shrunk and shriveled away. His head fell to
one side, his face was deadly pale, his lips were
blue, and his thin hands clutched convulsively
at his clothes and at the chair. Mildred
was at his side instantly, but he seemed
to be beyond the reach of her voice and beyond
the limits of her grief, which was distressful
to behold. He tried indeed to
stroke the beautiful hair that fell loosely
over him as his daughter seized him in her
despairing arms, but it was in a vague and
wandering way.
Judge Bascom’s condition was so alarming
that Francis Underwood lifted him in
his arms and placed him on the nearest bed,
where he lay gazing at the ceiling, sometimes
smiling and at other times frowning and
crying, “Mine, mine, mine!”
He sank slowly but surely. At the last
he smiled and whispered “Home,” and so
passed away.
He was indeed at home. He had come to
the end of his long and tiresome journey.
He smiled as he lay sleeping, and his rest
was pleasant; for there was that in his dead
face, white and pinched as it was, that bore
witness to the infinite gentleness and mercy
of Christ, who is the Lord.
It was an event that touched the hearts
of his old neighbors and their children, and
they spoke to one another freely and feelingly
about the virtues of the old Judge, the
beautiful life he had lived, the distinction he
had won, and the mark he had made on his
generation. Some, who were old enough to
remember, told of his charities in the days
when prosperity sat at his board; and in
discussing these things the people gradually
came to realize the fact that Judge Bascom,
in spite of his misfortunes, had shed lustre
on his State and on the village in which he
was born, and that his renown was based on
a character so perfect, and on results so just
and beneficent, that all could share in it.
His old neighbors, watching by him as he
lay smiling in his dreamless sleep, shortened
the long hours of the night with pleasant
reminiscences of the dead. Those who sat
near the door could see, in an adjoining
room, Mildred Bascom sitting at Miss Sophie
Underwood’s feet, her arms around the
older woman’s waist. It was a brief and
fleeting panorama, as indeed life itself is,
but the two, brought together by grief and
sympathy, often sat thus in the years that
followed. For Mildred Bascom became the
mistress of the Bascom Place; and although
she has changed her name, the old name
still clings to Underwood’s domain.
