The Harvest of the Wind

CHAPTER I.
     "As a city broken down and without walls, so is he that hath no
     rule over his own spirit."

    "My soul! Master Jesus, my soul!
      My soul!
    Dar's a little thing lays in my heart,
    An' de more I dig him de better he spring:
      My soul!
    Dar's a little thing lays in my heart
    An' he sets my soul on fire:
      My soul!
    Master Jesus, my soul! my soul!"
The singer was a negro man, with a very, black but very kindly face; and
he was hoeing corn in the rich bottom lands of the San Gabriel river as
he chanted his joyful little melody. It was early in the morning, yet he
rested on his hoe and looked anxiously toward the cypress swamp on his
left hand.
"I'se mighty weary 'bout Massa Davie; he'll get himself into trouble ef
he stay dar much longer. Ole massa might be 'long most any time now." He
communed with himself in this strain for about five minutes, and then
threw his hoe across his shoulder, and picked a road among the hills of
growing corn until he passed out of the white dazzling light of the
field into the grey-green shadows of the swamp. Threading his way among
the still black bayous, he soon came to a little clearing in the
cypress.
Here a young man was standing in an attitude of expectancy--a very
handsome man clothed in the picturesque costume of a ranchero. He leaned
upon his rifle, but betrayed both anger and impatience in the rapid
switching to and fro of his riding-whip. "Plato, she has not come!" He
said it reproachfully, as if the negro was to blame.
"I done tole you, Massa Davie, dat Miss Lulu neber do noffing ob dat
kind; ole massa 'ticlarly objects to Miss Lulu seeing you at de present
time."
"My father objects to every one I like."
"Ef Massa Davie jist 'lieve it, ole massa want ebery thing for his
good."
"You oversize that statement considerably, Plato. Tell my father, if he
asks you, that I am going with Jim Whaley, and give Miss Lulu this
letter."
"I done promise ole massa neber to gib Miss Lulu any letter or message
from you, Massa Davie."
In a moment the youth's handsome face was flaming with ungovernable
passion, and he lifted his riding-whip to strike.
"For de Lord Jesus' sake don't strike, Massa Davie! Dese arms done
carry you when you was de littlest little chile. Don't strike me!"
"I should be a brute if I did, Plato;" but the blow descended upon the
trunk of the tree against which he had been leaning with terrible force.
Then David Lorimer went striding through the swamp, his great bell spurs
chiming to his uneven, crashing tread.
Plato looked sorrowfully after him. "Poor Massa Davie! He's got de
drefful temper; got it each side ob de house--father and mother, bofe. I
hope de good Massa above will make 'lowances for de young man--got it
bofe ways, he did." And he went thoughtfully back to his work, murmuring
hopes and apologies for the man he loved, with all the forgiving
unselfishness of a prayer in them.
In some respects Plato was right. David Lorimer had inherited, both from
father and mother, an unruly temper. His father was a Scot, dour and
self-willed; his mother had been a Spanish woman, of San Antonio--a
daughter of the grandee family of Yturris. Their marriage had not been a
happy one, and the fiery emotional Southern woman had fretted her life
away against the rugged strength of the will which opposed hers. David
remembered his mother well, and idolized her memory; right or wrong, he
had always espoused her quarrel, and when she died she left, between
father and son, a great gulf.
He had been hard to manage then, but at twenty-two he was beyond all
control, excepting such as his cousin, Lulu Yturri, exercised over him.
But this love, the most pure and powerful influence he acknowledged, had
been positively forbidden. The elder Lorimer declared that there had
been too much Spanish blood in the family; and it is likely his motives
commended themselves to his own conscience. It was certain that the mere
exertion of his will in the matter gave him a pleasure he would not
forego. Yet he was theoretically a religious man, devoted to the special
creed he approved, and rigidly observing such forms of worship as made
any part of it. But the law of love had never yet been revealed to him;
he had feared and trembled at the fiery Mount of Sinai, but he had not
yet drawn near to the tenderer influences of Calvary.
He was a rich man also. Broad acres waved with his corn and cotton, and
he counted his cattle on the prairies by tens of thousands; but nothing
in his mode of life indicated wealth. The log-house, stretching itself
out under gigantic trees, was of the usual style of Texan
architecture--broad passages between every room, sweeping from front to
rear; and low piazzas, festooned with flowery vines, shading it on every
side. All around it, under the live oaks, were scattered the negro
cabins, their staring whitewash looking picturesque enough under the
hanging moss and dark green foliage. But, simple as the house was, it
was approached by lordly avenues, shaded with black-jack and sweet gum
and chincapin, interwoven with superb magnolias and gorgeous tulip
trees.
The Scot in a foreign country, too, often steadily cultivates his
national peculiarities. James Lorimer was a Scot of this type. As far as
it was possible to do so in that sunshiny climate, he introduced the
grey, sombre influence of the land of mists and east winds. His
household was ruled with stern gravity; his ranch was a model of good
management; and though few affected his society, he was generally relied
upon and esteemed; for, though opinionated, egotistical, and austere,
there was about him a grand honesty and a sense of strength that would
rise to every occasion.
And so great is the influence of any genuine nature, that David loved
his father in a certain fashion. The creed he held was a hard one; but
when he called his family and servants together, and unflinchingly
taught it, David, even in his worst moods, was impressed with his
sincerity and solemnity. There was between them plenty of ground on
which they could have stood hand in hand, and learned to love one
another; but a passionate authority on the one hand, and a passionate
independence on the other, kept them far apart.
Shortly before my story opens there had been a more stubborn quarrel
than usual, and James Lorimer had forbidden his son to enter his house
until he chose to humble himself to his father's authority. Then David
joined Jim Whaley, a great cattle drover, and in a week they were on the
road to New Mexico with a herd of eight thousand.
This news greatly distressed James Lorimer. He loved his son better than
he was aware of. There was a thousand deaths upon such a road; there was
a moral danger in the companionship attending such a business, which he
regarded with positive horror. The drove had left two days when he heard
of its departure; but such droves travel slowly, and he could overtake
it if he wished to do so. As he sat in the moonlight that night,
smoking, he thought the thing over until he convinced himself that he
ought to overtake it. Even if Davie would not return with him, he could
tell him of his danger, and urge him to his duty and thus, at any rate,
relieve his own conscience of a burden.
Arriving at this conclusion, he looked up and saw his niece Lulu
leaning against one of the white pilasters supporting the piazza. He
regarded her a moment curiously, as one may look at a lovely picture.
The pale, sensitive face, the swaying, graceful figure, the flowing
white robe, the roses at her girdle, were all sharply revealed by the
bright moonlight, and nothing beautiful in them escaped his notice. He
was just enough to admit that the temptation to love so fair a woman
must have been a great one to David. He had himself fallen into just
such a bewitching snare, and he believed it to be his duty to prevent a
recurrence of his own married life at any sacrifice.
"Lulu!"
"Yes, uncle."
"Have you spoken with or written to Davie lately?"
"Not since you forbid me."
He said no more. He began wondering if, after all, the girl would not
have been better than Jim Whaley. In a dim way it struck him that people
for ever interfering with destiny do not always succeed in their
intentions. It was an unusual and unpractical vein of thought for James
Lorimer, and he put it uneasily away. Still over and over came back the
question, "What if Lulu's influence would have been sufficient to have
kept David from the wild reckless men with whom he was now consorting?"
For the first time in his life he consciously admitted to himself that
he might have made a mistake.
The next morning he was early in the saddle. The sky was blue and clear,
the air full of the fresh odor of earth and clover and wild flowers. The
swallows were making a jubilant twitter, the larks singing on the edge
of the prairie--the glorious prairie, which the giants of the unflooded
world had cleared off and leveled for the dwelling-place of Liberty. In
his own way he enjoyed the scene; but he could not, as he usually did,
let the peace of it sink into his heart. He had suddenly become aware
that he had an unpleasant duty to perform, and to shirk a duty was a
thing impossible to him. Until he had obeyed the voice of Conscience,
all other voices would fail to arrest his interest or attention.
He rode on at a steady pace, keeping the track very easily, and thinking
of Lulu in a persistent way that was annoying to him. Hitherto he had
given her very little thought. Half reluctantly he had taken her into
his household when she was four years of age, and she had grown up there
with almost as little care as the vines which year by year clambered
higher over the piazzas. As for her beauty he had thought no more of it
than he did of the beauty of the magnolias which sheltered his doorstep.
Mrs. Lorimer had loved her niece, and he had not interfered with the
affection. They were both Yturris; it was natural that they should
understand one another.
But his son was of a different race, and the inheritor of his own
traditions and prejudices. A Scot from his own countryside had recently
settled in the neighborhood, and at the Sabbath gathering he had seen
and approved his daughter. To marry his son David to Jessie Kennedy
appeared to him a most desirable thing, and he had considered its
advantages until he could not bear to relinquish the idea. But when both
fathers had settled the matter, David had met the question squarely, and
declared he would marry no woman but his cousin Lulu. It was on this
subject father and son had quarrelled and parted; but for all that,
James Lorimer could not see his only son taking a high road to ruin, and
not make an effort to save him.
At sundown he rested a little, but the trail was so fresh he determined
to ride on. He might reach David while they were camping, and then he
could talk matters over with more ease and freedom. Near midnight the
great white Texas moon flooded everything with a light wondrously soft,
but clear as day, and he easily found Whaley's camp--a ten-acre patch of
grass on the summit of some low hills.
The cattle had all settled for the night, and the "watch" of eight men
were slowly riding in a circle around them. Lorimer was immediately
challenged; and he gave his name and asked to see the captain. Whaley
rose at once, and confronted him with a cool, civil movement of his hand
to his hat. Then Lorimer observed the man as he had never done before.
He was evidently not a person to be trifled with. There was a fixed look
about him, and a deliberate coolness, sufficiently indicating a
determined character; and a belt around his waist supported a
six-shooter and revealed the glittering hilt of a bowie knife.
"Captain, good night. I wish to speak with my son, David Lorimer."
"Wall, sir, you can't do it, not by no manner of means, just yet. David
Lorimer is on watch till midnight."
He was perfectly civil, but there was something particularly irritating
in the way Whaley named David Lorimer. So the two men sat almost silent
before the camp fire until midnight. Then Whaley said, "Mr. Lorimer,
your son is at liberty now. You'll excuse me saying that the shorter you
make your palaver the better it will suit me."
Lorimer turned angrily, but Whaley was walking carelessly away; and the
retort that rose to his lips was not one to be shouted after a man of
Whaley's desperate character with safety. As his son approached him he
was conscious of a thrill of pleasure in the young man's appearance.
Physically, he was all he could desire. No Lorimer that ever galloped
through Eskdale had the national peculiarities more distinctively. He
was the tall, fair Scot, and his father complacently compared his yellow
hair and blue eyes with the "dark, deil-like beauty" of Whaley.
"Davie," and he held out his hand frankly, "I hae come to tak ye back to
your ain hame. Let byganes be byganes, and we'll start a new chapter o'
life, my lad. Ye'll try to be a gude son, and I'll aye be a gude father
to ye."
It was a great deal for James Lorimer to say; and David quite
appreciated the concession, but he answered--
"Lulu, father? I cannot give her up."
"Weel, weel, if ye are daft to marry a strange woman, ye must e'en do
sae. It is an auld sin, and there have aye been daughters o' Heth to
plague honest houses wi'. But sit down, my lad; I came to talk wi' ye
anent some decenter way of life than this."
The talk was not altogether a pleasant one; but both yielded something,
and it was finally agreed that as soon as Whaley could pick up a man to
fill Davie's place Davie should return home. Lorimer did not linger
after this decision. Whaley's behavior had offended him and without the
ceremony of a "good-bye," he turned his horse's head eastward again.
Picking up a man was not easy; they certainly had several offers from
emigrants going west, and from Mexicans on the route, but Whaley seemed
determined not to be pleased. He disliked Lorimer and was deeply
offended at him interfering with his arrangements. Every day that he
kept David was a kind of triumph to him. "He might as well have asked me
how I'd like my drivers decoyed away. I like a man to be on the square,"
he grumbled. And he said these and similar things so often, that David
began to feel it impossible to restrain his temper.
Anger, fed constantly by spiteful remarks and small injustices, grows
rapidly; and as they approached the Apache mountains, the men began to
notice a fixed tightening of the lips, and a stern blaze in the young
Scot's eyes, which Whaley appeared to delight in intensifying.
"Thar'll be mischief atween them two afore long," remarked an old
drover; "Lorimer is gittin' to hate the captain with such a vim that
he's no appetite for his food left."
"It'll be a fair fight, and one or both'll get upped; that's about it."
At length they met a party of returning drovers, and half a dozen men
among them were willing to take David's place. Whaley had no longer any
pretence for detaining him. They were at the time between two long, low
spurs of hills, enclosing a rich narrow valley, deep with ripened grass,
gilded into flickering gold by the sun and the dewless summer days. All
the lower ridges were savagely bald and hot--a glen, paved with gold and
walled with iron. Oh, how the sun did beat and shiver, and shake down
into the breathless valley!
The cattle were restless, and the men had had a hard day. David was
weary; his heart was not in the work; he was glad it was his last watch.
It began at ten o'clock, and would end at midnight. The weather was
gloomy, and the few stars which shone between the rifts of driving
clouds just served to outline the mass of sleeping cattle.
The air also was surcharged with electricity, though there had been no
lightning.
"I wouldn't wonder ef we have a 'run' to-night," said one of the men.
"I've seen a good many stampedes, and they allays happens on such nights
as this one."
"Nonsense!" replied David. "If a cayote frightens one in a drove the
panic Spreads to all. Any night would do for a 'run.'"
"'Taint so, Lorimer. Ef you've a drove of one thousand or of ten
thousand it's all the same; the panic strikes every beast at the same
moment. It's somethin' in the air; 'taint my business to know what. But
you look like a 'run' yourself, restless and hot, and as ef somethin'
was gitting 'the mad' up in you. I noticed Whaley is 'bout the same. I'd
keep clear of him, ef I was you."
"No, I won't. He owes me money, and I'll make him pay me!"
"Don't! Thar, I've warned you, David Lorimer, and that let's me out.
Take your own way now."
For half an hour David pondered this caution, and something in his own
heart seconded it. But when the trial of his temper came he turned a
deaf ear to every monition. Whaley went swaggering by him, and as he
passed issued an unnecessary order in a very insolent manner. David
asked pointedly, "Were you speaking to me, Captain?"
"I was."
"Then don't you dare to do it again, sir; never, as long as you live!"
Before the words were out of his mouth, every one of the drove of eight
thousand were on their feet like a flash of lightning; every one of
them exactly at the same instant. With a rush like a whirlwind leveling
a forest, they were off in the darkness.
The wild clatter, the crackling of a river of horns, and the thundering
of hoofs, was deafening. Whaley, seeing eighty thousand dollars' worth
of cattle running away from him, turned with a fierce imprecation, and
gave David a passionate order "to ride up to the leaders," and then he
sprang for his own mule.
David's time was now fully out, and he drew his horse's rein tight and
stood still.
"Coward!" screamed Whaley; "try and forget for an hour that you have
Spanish blood in you."
A pistol shot answered the taunt. Whaley staggered a second, then fell
without a word. The whole scene had not occupied a minute; but it was a
minute that branded itself on the soul of David Lorimer. He gazed one
instant on the upturned face of his slain enemy, and then gave himself
up to the wild passion of the pursuit.
By the spectral starlight he could see the cattle outlined as a black,
clattering, thundering stream, rushing wildly on, and every instant
becoming wilder. But David's horse had been trained in the business; he
knew what the matter was, and scarce needed any guiding. Dashing along
by the side of the stampede, they soon overtook the leaders and joined
the men, who were gradually pushing against the foremost cattle on the
left so as to turn them to the right. When once the leaders were turned
the rest blindly followed and thus, by constantly turning them to the
right, the leaders were finally swung clear around, and overtook the fag
end of the line.
Then they rushed around in a circle, the centre of which soon closed up,
and they were "milling;" that is, they had formed a solid wheel, and
were going round and round themselves in the same space of ground. Men
who had noticed how very little David's heart had been in his work were
amazed to see the reckless courage he displayed. Round and round the
mill he flew, keeping the outside stock from flying off at a tangent,
and soothing and quieting the beasts nearest to him with his voice. The
"run" was over as suddenly as it commenced, and the men, breathless and
exhausted, stood around the circle of panting cattle.
"Whar's the Captain?" said one; "he gin'rally soop'rintends a job like
this himself."
"And likes to do it. Who's seen the Captain? Hev you, Lorimer?"
"He was in camp when I started. My time was up just as the 'run'
commenced."
No more was said; indeed, there was little opportunity for
conversation. The cattle were to watch; it was still dark; the men were
weary with the hard riding and the unnatural pitch to which their voices
had been raised. David felt that he must get away at once; any moment a
messenger from the camp might bring the news of Whaley's murder; and he
knew well that suspicion would at once rest upon him.
He offered to return to camp and report "all right," and the offer was
accepted; but, at the first turn, he rode away into the darkness of a
belt of timber. The cayotes howled in the distance; there was a rush of
unclean night birds above him, and the growling of panther cats in the
underwood. But in his soul there was a terror and a darkness that made
all natural terrors of small account. His own hands were hateful to him.
He moaned out loudly like a man in an agony. He measured in every
moments' space the height from which he had fallen; the blessings from
which he must be an outcast, if by any means he might escape the
shameful punishment of his deed. He remembered at that hour his father's
love, the love that had so finely asserted itself when the occasion for
it came. Lulu's tenderness and beauty, the hope of home and children,
the respect of his fellow-men, all sacrificed for a moment's passionate
revenge. He stood face to face with himself, and, dropping the reins,
cowered down full of terror and grief at the future which he had evoked.
Within hopeless sight of Hope and Love and Home, he was silent for hours
gazing despairingly after the life which had sailed by him, and not
daring--
    "--to search through what sad maze,
    Thenceforth his incommunicable ways
    Follow the feet of death."

CHAPTER II.
     "--and sin, when it is finished, bringeth forth death." James i.
     15.
Blessed are they who have seen Nature in those rare, ineffable moments
when she appears to be asleep--when the stars, large and white, bend
stilly over the dreaming earth, and not a breath of wind stirs leaf or
flower. On such a night James Lorimer sat upon his south verandah
smoking; and his niece Lulu, white and motionless as the magnolia
flowers above her, mused the hour away beside him. There were little
ebony squads of negroes huddled together around the doors of their
quarters, but they also were singularly quiet. An angel of silence had
passed by no one was inclined to disturb the tranquil calm of the
dreaming earth.
There is nothing good in this life which Time does not improve. In ten
days the better feelings which had led James Lorimer to seek his son in
the path of moral and physical danger had grown as Divine seed does
grow. This very night, in the scented breathless quiet, he was longing
for David's return, and forming plans through which the future might
atone for the past. Gradually the weary negroes went into the cabins,
rolled themselves in their blankets and fell into that sound, dreamless
sleep which is the compensation of hard labor. Only Lulu watched and
thought with him.
Suddenly she stood up and listened. There was a footstep in the avenue,
and she knew it. But why did it linger, and what dreary echo of sorrow
was there in it?
"That is David's step, uncle; but what is the matter? Is he sick?"
Then they both saw the young man coming slowly through the gloom, and
the shadow of some calamity came steadily on before him. Lulu went to
the top of the long flight of white steps, and put out her hands to
greet him. He motioned her away with a woeful and positive gesture, and
stood with hopeless yet half defiant attitude before his father.
In a moment all the new tenderness was gone.
In a voice stern and scornful he asked, "Well, sir, what is the matter?
What hae ye been doing now?"
"I have shot Whaley!"
The words were rather breathed than spoken, but they were distinctly
audible. The father rose and faced his wretched son.
Lulu drew close to him, and asked, in a shocked whisper, "Dead?"
"Dead!"
"But you had a good reason, David; I know you had. He would have shot
you?--it was in self-defence?--it was an accident? Speak, dear!"
"He called me a coward, and--"
"You shot him! Then you are a coward, sir!" said Lorimer, sternly; "and
having made yourself fit for the gallows, you are a double coward to
come here and force upon me the duty of arresting you. Put down your
rifle, sir!"
Lulu uttered a long low wail. "Oh, David, my love! why did you come
here? Did you hope for pity or help in his heart? And what can I do
Davie, but suffer with you?" But she drew his face down and kissed it
with a solemn tenderness that taught the wretched man, in one moment,
all the blessedness of a woman's devotion, and all the misery that the
indulgence of his ungovernable temper had caused him.
"We will hae no more heroics, Lulu. As a magistrate and a citizen it is
my duty to arrest a murderer on his ain confession."
"Your duty!" she answered, in a passion of scorn. "Had you done your
duty to David in the past years, this duty would not have been to do.
Your duty or anything belonging to yourself, has always been your sole
care. Wrong Davie, wrong me, slay love outright, but do your duty, and
stand well with the world and yourself! Uncle, you are a dreadful
Christian!"
"How dare you judge me, Lulu? Go to your own room at once!"
"David, dearest, farewell! Fly!--you will get no pity here. Fly!"
"Sit down, sir, and do not attempt to move!"
"I am hungry, thirsty, weary and wretched, and at your mercy, father. Do
as you will with me." And he laid his rifle upon the table.
Lorimer looked at the hopeless figure that almost fell into the chair
beside him, and his first feeling was one of mingled scorn and pity.
"How did it happen? Tell me the truth. I want neither excuses nor
deceptions."
"I have no desire to make them. There was a 'run,' just as my time was
out. Whaley, in an insolent manner, ordered me to help turn the
leaders. I did not move. He called me a coward, and taunted me with my
Spanish blood--it was my dear mother's."
"That is it," answered Lorimer, with an anger all the more terrible for
its restraint; "it is the Spanish blood wi' its gasconade and foolish
pride."
"Father! You have a right to give me up to the hangman; but you have no
right to insult me."
The next moment he fell senseless at his father's feet. It was the
collapse of consciousness under excessive physical exhaustion and mental
anguish; but Lorimer, who had never seen a man in such extremity,
believed it to be death. A tumult of emotions rushed over him, but
assistance was evidently the first duty, and he hastened for it. First
he sent the housekeeper Cassie to her young master, then he went to the
quarters to arouse Plato.
When he returned, Lulu and Cassie were kneeling beside the unconscious
youth. "You have murdered him!" said Lulu, bitterly; and for a moment he
felt something of the remorseful agony which had driven the criminal at
his feet into a short oblivion. But very soon there was a slight
reaction, and the father was the first to see it. "He has only fainted;
bring some wine here!" Then he remembered the weakness of the voice
which had said, "I am hungry, and thirsty, and weary and wretched."
When David opened his eyes again his first glance was at his father.
There was something in that look that smote the angry man to his heart
of hearts. He turned away, motioning Plato to follow him. But even when
he had reached his own room and shut his door, he could not free himself
from the influence evoked by that look of sorrowful reproach.
Plato stood just within the door, nervously dangling his straw hat. He
was evidently balancing some question in his own mind, and the
uncertainty gave a queer restlessness to every part of his body.
"Plato, you are to watch the young man down-stairs; he is not to be
allowed to leave the house."
"Yes, sar."
"He has committed a great crime, and he must abide the consequences."
No answer.
"You understand that, Plato?"
"Dunno, sar. I mighty sinful ole man myself. Dunno bout de
consequences."
"Go, and do as I bid you!"
When he was alone he rose slowly and locked his door. He wanted to do
right, but he was like a man in the fury and darkness of a great
tempest: he could not see any road at all. There was a Bible on his
dressing-table, and he opened it; but the verses mingled together, and
the sense of everything seemed to escape him. The hand of the Great
Father was stretched out to him in the dark, but he could not find it.
He knew that at the bottom of his heart lay a wish that David would
escape from justice. He knew that a selfish shame about his own fair
character mingled with his father's love; his motives and feelings were
so mixed that he did not dare to bring them, in their pure truthfulness,
to the feet of God; for as yet he did not understand that "like as a
father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him;" he
thought of the Divine Being as one so jealous for His own rights and
honor that He would have the human heart a void, so that he might reign
there supremely. So all that terrible night he stood smitten and
astonished on a threshold he could not pass.
In another room the question was being in a measure solved for him.
Cassie brought in meat and bread and wine, and David ate, and felt
refreshed. Then the love of life returned, and the terror of a shameful
death; and he laid his hand upon his rifle and looked round to see what
chance of escape his father had left him. Plato stood at the door, Lulu
sat by his side, holding his hand. On her face there was an expression
of suffering, at once defiant and despairing--a barren suffering,
without hope. They had come to that turn on their unhappy road when they
had to bid each other "Farewell!" It was done very sadly, and with few
words.
"You must go now, beloved."
He held her close to his heart and kissed her solemnly and silently. The
next moment she turned on him from the open door a white, anguished
face. Then he was alone with Plato.
"Plato, I must go now. Will you saddle the brown mare for me?"
"She am waiting, Massa David. I tole Cassie to get her ready, and some
bread and meat, and _dis_, Massa Davie, if you'll 'blige ole Plato."
Then he laid down a rude bag of buckskin, holding the savings of his
lifetime.
"How much is there, Plato?"
"Four hundred dollars, sar. Sorry it am so little."
"It was for your freedom, Plato."
"I done gib dat up, Massa Davie. I'se too ole now to git de rest. Ef you
git free, dat is all I want."
They went quietly out together. It was not long after midnight. The
brown mare stood ready saddled in the shadow, and Cassie stood beside
her with a small bag, holding a change of linen and some cooked food.
The young man mounted quickly, grasped the kind hands held out to him,
and then rode away into the darkness. He went softly at first, but when
he reached the end of the avenue at a speed which indicated his terror
and his mental suffering.
Cassie and Plato watched him until he became an indistinguishable black
spot upon the prairie; then they turned wearily towards the cabins. They
had seen and shared the long sorrow and discontent of the household;
they hardly expected anything but trouble in some form or other. Both
were also thinking of the punishment they were likely to receive; for
James Lorimer never failed to make an example of evil-doers; he would
hardly be disposed to pass over their disobedience.
Early in the morning Plato was called by his master. There was little
trace of the night of mental agony the latter had passed. He was one of
those complete characters who join to perfect physical health a mind
whose fibres do not easily show the severest strain.
"Tell Master David to come here."
"Massa David, sar! Massa David done gone sar!" The old man's lips were
trembling, but otherwise his nervous restlessness was over. He looked
his master calmly in the face.
"Did I not tell you to stop him?"
"Ef de Lord in heaven want him stopped, Massa James, He'll send the
messenger--Plato could not do it!"
"How did he go?"
"On de little brown mare--his own horse done broke all up."
"How much money did you give him?"
"Money, sar?"
"How much? Tell the truth."
"Four hundred dollars."
"That will do. Tell Cassie I want my breakfast."
At breakfast he glanced at Lulu's empty chair, but said nothing. In the
house all was as if no great sin and sorrow had darkened its threshold
and left a stain upon its hearthstone. The churning and cleaning was
going on as usual. Only Cassie was quieter, and Lulu lay, white and
motionless, in the little vine-shaded room that looked too cool and
pretty for grief to enter. The unhappy father sat still all day,
pondering many things that he had not before thought of. Every footfall
made his heart turn sick, but the night came, and there was no further
bad news.
On the second day he went into Lulu's room, hoping to say a word of
comfort to her. She listened apathetically, and turned her face to the
wall with a great sob. He began to feel some irritation in the
atmosphere of misery which surrounded him. It was very hard to be made
so wretched for another's sin. The thought in an instant became a
reproach. Was he altogether innocent? The second and third days passed;
he began to be sure then that David must have reached a point beyond the
probability of pursuit.
On the fourth day he went to the cotton field. He visited the overseer's
house, he spent the day in going over accounts and making estimates. He
tried to forget that _something_ had happened which made life appear a
different thing. In the grey, chill, misty evening he returned home. The
negroes were filing down the long lane before him, each bearing their
last basket of cotton--all of them silent, depressed with their
weariness, and intensely sensitive to the melancholy influence of the
autumn twilight.
Lorimer did not care to pass them. He saw them, one by one, leave their
cotton at the ginhouse, and trail despondingly off to their cabins. Then
he rode slowly up to his own door. A man sat on the verandah smoking. At
the sight of him his heart fell fathoms deep.
"Good evening." He tried to give his voice a cheerful welcoming sound,
but he could not do it; and the visitor's attitude was not encouraging.
"Good evening, Lorimer. I'm right sorry to tell you that you will be
wanted on some unpleasant business very early to-morrow morning."
He tried to answer, but utterly failed; his tongue was as dumb as his
soul was heavy. He only drew a chair forward and sat down.
"Fact is your son is in a tighter place than any man would care for. I
brought him up to Sheriff Gillelands' this afternoon. Perhaps he can
make it out a case of 'justifiable homicide'--hope he can. He's about as
likely a young man as I ever saw."
Still no answer.
"Well, Lorimer, I think you're right. Talking won't help things, and may
make them a sight worse. You'll be over to Judge Lepperts' in the
morning?--say about ten o'clock."
"Yes. Will you have some supper?"
"No; this is not hungry work. My pipe is more satisfactory under the
circumstances. I'll have to saddle up, too. There's others to see yet.
Is there any one particular you'd like on the jury?"
"No. You must do your duty, Sheriff."
He heard him gallop away, and stood still, clasping and unclasping his
hands in a maze of anguish. David at Sheriff Gillelands'! David to be
tried for murder in the morning! What could he do? If David had not
confessed to the shooting of Whaley, would he be compelled to give his
evidence? Surely, conscience would not require so hard a duty of him.
At length he determined to go and see David before he decided upon the
course he ought to take. The sheriff's was only about three miles
distant. He rode over there at once. His son, with travel-stained
clothes and blood-shot hopeless eyes, looked up to see him enter. His
heart was full of a great love, but it was wronged, even at that hour,
by an irritation that would first and foremost assert itself. Instead of
saying, "My dear, dear lad!" the lament which was in his heart, he said,
"So this is the end of it, David?"
"Yes. It is the end."
"You ought not to have run away."
"No. I ought to have let you surrender me to justice; that would have
put you all right."
"I wasna thinking o' that. A man flying from justice is condemned by the
act."
"It would have made no matter. There is only one verdict and one end
possible."
"Have you then confessed the murder?"
He awaited the answer in an agony. It came with a terrible distinctness.
"Whaley lived thirty hours. He told. His brother-in-law has gone on with
the cattle. Four of the drivers are come back as witnesses. They are in
the house."
"But you have not yourself confessed?"
"Yes. I told Sheriff Gillelands I shot the man. If I had not done so you
would; I knew that. I have at least spared you the pain and shame of
denouncing your own son!"
"Oh, David, David! I would not. My dear lad, I would not! I would hae
gane to the end o' the world first. Why didna you trust me?"
"How could I, father?"
He let the words drop wearily, and covered his face with his hands.
After a pause, he said, "Poor Lulu! Don't tell her if you can help it,
until--all is over. How glad I am this day that my mother is dead!"
The wretched father could endure the scene no longer. He went into the
outer room to find out what hope of escape remained for his son. The
sheriff was full of pity, and entered readily into a discussion of
David's chances. But he was obliged to point out that they were
extremely small. The jury and the judge were all alike cattle men; their
sympathies were positively against everything likely to weaken the
discipline necessary in carrying large herds of cattle safely across the
continent. In the moment of extremest danger, David had not only
refused assistance, but had shot his employer.
"He called him a coward, and you'll admit that's a vera aggravating
name."
The sheriff readily admitted that under any ordinary circumstances in
Texas that epithet would justify a murder; "but," he added, "most any
Texan would say he was a coward to stand still and see eight thousand
head of cattle on the stampede. You'll excuse me, Lorimer, I'd say so
myself."
He went home again and shut himself in his room to think. But after many
hours, he was just as far as ever from any coherent decision. Justice!
Justice! Justice! The whole current of his spiritual and mental
constitution ran that road. Blood for blood; a life for a life; it was
meet and right, and he acknowledged it with bleeding heart and streaming
eyes. But, clear and distinct above the tumult of this current, he heard
something which made him cry out with an equally unhappy father of old,
"Oh, Absalom! My son, my son Absalom!"
Then came the accuser and boldly told him that he had neglected his
duty, and driven his son into the way of sin and death; and that the
seeds sown in domestic bickering and unkindness had only brought forth
their natural fruit. The scales fell from his eyes; all the past became
clear to him. His own righteousness was dreadful in his sight. He cried
out with his whole soul, "God be merciful! God be merciful!"
The darkest despairs are the most silent. All the night long he was only
able to utter that one heartbroken cry for pity and help. At the
earliest daylight he was with his son. He was amazed to find him calm,
almost cheerful. "The worst is over father," he said. "I have done a
great wrong; I acknowledge the justice of the punishment, and am willing
to suffer it."
"But after death! Oh, David, David--afterward!"
"I shall dare to hope--for Christ also has died, the just for the
unjust."
Then the father, with a solemn earnestness, spoke to his son of that
eternity whose shores his feet were touching. At this hour he would
shirk no truth; he would encourage no false hope. And David listened;
for this side of his father's character he had always had great respect,
and in those first hours of remorse following the murder, not the least
part of his suffering had been the fearful looking forward to the Divine
vengeance which he could never fly from. But there had been _One_ with
him that night, _One_ who is not very far from us at any time; and
though David had but tremblingly understood His voice, and almost feared
to accept its comfort, he was in those desperate circumstances when men
cannot reason and philosophize, when nothing remains for them but to
believe.
"Dinna get by the truth, my dear lad; you hae committed a great sin,
there is nae doubt o' that."
"But God's mercy, I trust, is greater."
"And you hae nothing to bring him from a' the years o' your life! Oh,
David, David!"
"I know," he answered sadly. "But neither had the dying thief. He only
believed. Father, this is the sole hope and comfort left me now. Don't
take it from me."
Lorimer turned away weeping; yes, and praying, too, as men must pray
when they stand powerless in the stress of terrible sorrows. At noon the
twelve men summoned dropped in one by one, and the informal court was
opened. David Lorimer admitted the murder, and explained the long
irritation and the final taunt which had produced it. The testimony of
the returned drovers supplemented the tragedy. If there was any excuse
to be made, it lay in the disgraceful epithet applied to David and the
scornful mention of his mother's race.
There was, however, an unfavorable feeling from the first. The elder
Lorimer, with his stern principles and severe manners, was not a popular
man. David's proud, passionate temper had made him some active enemies;
and there was not a man on the jury who did not feel as the sheriff had
honestly expressed himself regarding David's conduct at the moment of
the stampede. It touched all their prejudices and their interests very
nearly; not one of them was inclined to blame Whaley for calling a man a
coward who would not answer the demand for help at such an imperative
moment.
As to the Spanish element, it had always been an offence to Texans.
There were men on the jury whose fathers had died fighting it; beside,
there was that unacknowledged but positive contempt which ever attaches
itself to a race that has been subjugated. Long before the form of a
trial was over, David had felt the hopelessness of hope, and had
accepted his fate. Not so his father. He pleaded with all his soul for
his son's life. But he touched no heart there. The jury had decided on
the death-sentence before they left their seats.
And in that locality, and at that time, there was no delay in carrying
it out. It would be inconvenient to bring together again a sufficient
number of witnesses, and equally inconvenient to guard a prisoner for
any length of time. David was to die at sunset.
Three hours yet remained to the miserable father. He threw aside all
pride and all restraint. Remorse and tenderness wrung his heart. But
these last hours had a comfort no others in their life ever had. What
confessions of mutual faults were made! What kisses and forgivenesses
were exchanged! At last the two poor souls who had dwelt in the chill of
mistakes and ignorance knew that they loved each other. Sometimes the
Lord grants such sudden unfoldings to souls long closed. They are of
those royal compassions which astonish even the angels.
When his time was nearly over, David pushed a piece of paper toward his
father. "It is my last request," he said, looking into his face with
eyes whose entreaty was pathetic. "You must grant it, father, hard as it
is."
Lorimer's hand trembled as he took the paper, but his face turned pale
as ashes when he read the contents.
"I canna, I canna do it," he whispered.
"Yes, you will, father. It is the last favor I shall ask of you."
The request was indeed a bitter one; so bitter that David had not dared
to voice it. It was this--
"Father, be my executioner. Do not let me be hung. The rope is all I
dread in death; ere it touch me, let your rifle end my life."
For a few moments Lorimer sat like a man turned to stone. Then he rose
and went to the jury. They were sitting together under some mulberry
trees, smoking. Naturally silent, they had scarcely spoken since their
verdict. Grave, fierce men, they were far from being cruel; they had no
pleasure in the act which they believed to be their duty.
Lorimer went from one to the other and made known his son's request. He
pleaded, "That as David had shot Whaley, justice would be fully
satisfied in meting out the same death to the murderer as the victim."
But one man, a ranchero of great influence and wealth, answered that he
must oppose such a request. It was the rope, he thought, made the
punishment. He hoped no Texan feared a bullet. A clean, honorable death
like that was for a man who had never wronged his manhood. Every
rascally horse thief or Mexican assassin would demand a shot if they
were given a precedent. And arguments that would have been essentially
false in some localities had a compelling weight in that one. The men
gravely nodded their heads in assent, and Lorimer knew that any further
pleading was in vain. Yet when he returned to his son, he clasped his
hand and looked into his eyes, and David understood that his request
would be granted.
Just as the sun dropped the sheriff entered the room. He took the
prisoner's arm and walked quietly out with him. There was a coil of rope
on his other arm, and David cast his eyes on it with horror and
abhorrence, and then looked at his father; and the look was returned
with one of singular steadiness. When they reached the little grove of
mulberries, the men, one by one, laid down their pipes and slowly rose.
There was a large live oak at the end of the enclosure, and to it the
party walked.
Here David was asked "if he was guilty?" and he acknowledged the sin:
and when further asked "if he thought he had been fairly dealt with, and
deserved death?" he answered, "that he was quite satisfied, and was
willing to pay the penalty of his crime."
Oh, how handsome he looked at this moment to his heart-broken father!
His bare head was just touched by the rays of the setting sun behind
him; his fine face, calm and composed, wore even a faint air of
exultation. At this hour the travel-stained garments clothed him with a
touching and not ignoble pathos. Involuntarily they told of the weary
days and nights of despairing flight, which after all had been useless.
Lorimer asked if he might pray, and there was a simultaneous though
silent motion of assent. Every man bared his head, while the wretched
father repeated the few verses of entreaty and hope which at that awful
hour were his own strength and comfort. This service occupied but a few
minutes; just as it ended out of the dead stillness rose suddenly a
clear, joyful thrilling burst of song from a mocking bird in the
branches above. David looked up with a wonderful light on his face;
perhaps it meant more to him than anyone else understood.
The next moment the sheriff was turning back the flannel collar which
covered the strong, pillar-like throat. In that moment David sought his
father's eyes once more, smiled faintly, and called "Father! _Now_!" As
the words reached the father's ears, the bullet reached the son's heart.
He fell without a moan ere the rope had touched him. It was the father's
groan which struck every heart like a blow; and there was a grandeur of
suffering about him which no one thought of resisting.
He walked to his child's side, and kneeling down closed the eyes, and
wept and prayed over him as a mother over her first-born. They were all
fathers around him; not one of them but suffered with him. Silently they
untied their horses and rode away; no one had the heart to say a word of
dissent. If they had, Lorimer had reached a point far beyond care of
man's approval or disapproval in the matter; for a great sorrow is
indifferent to all outside itself.
When he lifted his head he was alone. The sheriff was waiting at the
house door, Plato stood at a little distance, weeping. He motioned to
him to approach, and in a few words understood that he had with him a
companion and a rude bier. They laid the body upon it, and the sheriff
having satisfied himself that the last penalty had been fully paid,
Lorimer was permitted to claim his dead. He took him up to his own room
and laid him on his own bed, and passed the night by his side. The dead
opened the eyes of the living, and in that solemn companionship he saw
all that he had been blind to for so many years. Then he understood what
it must be to sit in the silent halls of eternal despair, and count over
and over the wasted blessings of love and endure the agony of unavailing
repentance.
In the morning he knew he must tell Lulu all; and this duty he dreaded.
But in some way the girl already knew the full misery of the tragedy.
Part she had divined, and part she had gathered from the servants' faces
and words. She was quite aware _what_ was in her uncle's lonely room.
Just as he was thinking of the hard necessity of going to her, she came
to the door. For the first time in his life he called her "My daughter,"
and stooped and kissed her. He had a letter for her--David's dying
message of love. He put it in her hand, and left her alone with the
dead.
At sunrise a funeral took place. In that climate the necessity was an
urgent one. Plato had dug the grave under a tree in the little clearing
in the cypress swamp. It had been a favorite place of resort; there Lulu
had often brought her work or book, and passed long happy hours with the
slain youth. She followed his corpse to the grave in a tearless apathy,
more pitiful than the most frantic grief. Lorimer took her on his arm,
the servants in long single file, silent and terrified, walked behind
them. The sun was shining, but the chilly wind blew the withered leaves
across the still prostrate figure, as it lay upon the ground, where last
it had stood in all the beauty and unreasoning passion of youth.
When the last rites were over the servants went wailing home again,
their doleful, monotonous chant seeming to fill the whole spaces of air
with lamentation. But neither Lorimer nor Lulu spoke a word. The girl
was white and cold as marble, and absolutely irresponsive to her uncle's
unusual tenderness. Evidently she had not forgiven him. And as the
winter went wearily on she gradually drew more and more within her own
consciousness. Lorimer seldom saw her. She was soon very ill, and kept
her room entirely. He sent for eminent physicians, he surrounded her
with marks of thoughtful love and care; but quietly, as a flower fades,
she died.
One night she sent for him. "Uncle," she said, "I am going away very
soon, now. If I have been hard and unjust to you, forgive me. And I want
your promise about my sister's children; will you give me it?"
He winced visibly, and remained silent.
"There are six boys and two girls--they are poor, ignorant and unhappy.
They are under very bad influences. For David's sake and my sake you
must see that they are brought up right. There need be no mistakes this
time; for two wrecked lives you may save eight. You will do it, uncle?"
"I will do my best, dear."
"I know you will. Send Plato to San Antonio for them at once. You will
need company soon."
"Do you think you are dying, dear?"
"I know I am dying."
"And how is a' wi' you anent what is beyond death?"
She pointed with a bright smile to the New Testament by her side, and
then closed her eyes wearily. She appeared so exhausted that he could
press the question no further. And the next morning she had "gone
away"--gone so silently and peacefully that Aunt Cassie, who was sitting
by her side, knew not when she departed. He went and looked at her. The
fair young face had a look austere and sorrowful, as if life had been
too sore a burden for her. His anguish was great, but it was God's
doing. What was there for him to say?
The charge that she had left him he faithfully kept--not very cheerfully
at first, perhaps, and often feeling it to be a very heavy care; but he
persevered, and the reward came. The children grew and prospered; they
loved him, and he learned to love them, so much, finally, that he gave
them his own name, and suffered them to call him father.
As the country settled, and little towns grew up around him, the tragedy
of his earlier life was forgotten by the world, but it was ever present
to his own heart; for though love and sorrow mellowed and chastened the
stern creed in which he believed with all his soul, he had many an hour
of spiritual agony concerning the beloved ones who had died and made no
sign. Not till he got almost within the heavenly horizon did he
understand that the Divine love and mercy is without limitations; and
that He who could say, "Let there be light," could also say, "Thy sins
be forgiven thee;" and the pardoned child, or ever he was aware, be come
to the holy land: for--
    "Down in the valley of death
      A cross is standing plain;
    Where strange and awful the shadows sleep,
      And the ground has a deep red stain.
    This cross uplifted there
      Forbids, with voice Divine,
    Our anguished hearts to break for the dead
      Who have died and made no sign.
    As they turned at length from us,
      Dear eyes that were heavy and dim,
    May have met his look, who was lifted there,
      May be sleeping safe in Him."