In Jeopardy
content yourself with the corner seat at the club fireside and the
comfortable certainty that the chef understands to a dot how you like
your cutlets and asparagus tips. Just the same I will speak to Bob--and
meanwhile I have awakened to the realization that it is ten minutes to
nine and that only a taxi-driver with no reverence for the speed laws
can deliver me at the Pennsylvania station in time for the southbound
train. I do make it, with a quarter of a minute to spare, and now I
remember that I have forgotten to send a wire to Mr. Eldon. I can
telegraph him at Wilmington, but there is small chance of its being
delivered in time; probably I shall have to rustle my own means of
conveyance to "Hildebrand Hundred." I shall have full two hours between
the arrival of my train at Crown Ferry and the time appointed for the
funeral. That ought to be sufficient even if I have to walk.
The ride over the Cape Charles route is not particularly interesting;
moreover, it was infernally dusty, and the food provided by the buffet
on the Pullman seemed extraordinarily unappetizing. Where on earth does
the company procure such tasteless provender? Everything tastes so
desiccated and deodorized, the mere shadow of really substantial viands,
a veritable feast of Barmecide. There was the usual delay owing to a
freight wreck, and my two hours of leeway had shrunken to a scant sixty
minutes by the time I had alighted at the little flag station of Crown
Ferry.
Not a very inviting place, this shabby way station set in a wilderness
of jack-pine and hackberry trees. There was not a soul in sight, outside
of the depressed looking individual who served as general utility man
and who apparently resented the intrusion of a stranger upon his lonely
domain. To my inquiry concerning the possibility of obtaining some sort
of conveyance, he returned a monosyllabic "Nope," and he showed not the
smallest inclination to give me any real assistance in finding my way to
"Hildebrand Hundred"; he pointed out the general direction, with a lean,
tobacco-stained finger, and let it go at that.
There was no house in sight, nothing but the two rutted tracks of a
sandy country road leading off toward the west and bifurcating itself a
couple of hundred yards away from the station--"deepo" in the
vernacular. I understood, from the scant information vouchsafed me, that
I was to take the left-hand fork, and after prevailing upon the agent,
in consideration of two of my choice cigars, to take temporary charge of
my kit-bag, I started off on my three-mile tramp.
Once through the belt of scrubby woodland, the appearance of the country
began to change for the better, and the further I traveled from the
coast line the more rolling and diversified it became. The sand gave
place to loam, an improvement in which the highway shared, the fields
were neatly fenced, and, with the added attractions of oak and hickory
groves, the landscape began to appeal; this was good farming land and a
pleasant place of rural residence.
I passed several farm houses, but since the day was unusually cool for
the month of June and as I rather enjoyed the exercise of walking, I
concluded not to bother about hiring a trap. A farmer whom I
encountered, at a cross-roads where there was a little cluster of half a
dozen houses, informed me that S. Saviour's Church was distant about a
mile; but already it was half after two o'clock and I realized that I
should not have time to present myself at the house before the funeral
cortege started. The obvious procedure was for me to wait at the church
until the party from "Hildebrand Hundred" had arrived; I could then
introduce myself to Mr. Eldon and be assigned to my proper position
among the mourners.
"Or if you like," continued my new acquaintance, "you can save more'n
half way to the church by cuttin' across the Thaneford property. You go
in by that stile yander," and he pointed a hundred yards down the road.
I felt a trifle doubtful about the propriety of taking a short cut
across private grounds, and said as much. "You are quite sure that Mr.
Thaneford doesn't object?" I asked.
"Of co'se he objects," declared my rural friend, who now informed me
that his name was Greenough and that he was the newly elected sheriff of
the county. "He objects powerful. But the Co'te has decided that it's a
public right-of-way. And when the law gives a man his rights he's bound
to maintain them."
"Why the right-of-way?" I asked.
"The Thaneford property was a royal grant," explained Sheriff Greenough,
"but S. Saviour's had been built before that, and the folks here in
Guildford Corners retained right of access to their parish church. By
the road it's full a mile."
"A relic of the established church of colonial days," I remarked.
"Nowadays no one is obliged to attend S. Saviour's."
"No," admitted the Sheriff, "and I'm a Baptis' myself. But we keep our
rights, for nobody knows when we may want to use 'em."
Since Mr. Thaneford was apparently unreconciled to the exercise of
ancient ecclesiastical privilege, I was about to say that I, as a
stranger, did not propose to become a party to the controversy; but a
glance at my watch showed me that I would have to take the short cut if
I hoped to reach the church by three o'clock.
"Mr. Graeme's funeral?" inquired Greenough. "Well, he was a good man and
a good neighbor. I'd be there myself if I hadn't business at the
Co'te-house to look after. Yes, sir, straight ahead and you can't miss
the path. Glad to have obliged you, sir; good evening."
Beyond the stile the path ran across a piece of meadow land; thence
through a hardwood grove, rising gently to a little plateau upon which
the mansion was situated. The house was of the Georgian period with the
usual pretentious portico; it seemed badly out of repair and was
surrounded by unkempt lawns, paddocks, and gardens. I saw that the path
would lead me within a comparatively short distance of the house, and I
rather sympathized with the owner's resentment at the invasion of his
privacy under cover of law. Yet I must go on, and I quickened my pace so
as to get out of sight of the house as quickly as possible.
A powerfully built young man came around the corner of what, in its day,
must have been a very considerable glass-house, and confronted me. Not a
pleasant face, with its prominent cheekbones and black V of eyebrows
furrowing the low, heavy forehead. "What are you doing on this
property?" he demanded with a truculency that made me dislike him
instantly and completely.
"It's a public right-of-way," I retorted.
"We don't admit that," he said hotly. "The case has been appealed; if
necessary, we'll carry it to Washington."
Well what was I to do? I had no desire to get into a dispute with this
rustic boor, and yet it was imperative for me to go on if I were to
reach the church in time for the service. Much as I disliked the man I
must put myself in the position of asking a favor from him.
"I presume that I am addressing Mr. Thaneford?" I began inquiringly.
"I'm John Thaneford--what then?"
"As you see, I am a stranger here. At the Corners I was told that I
could take this short cut and so save time and distance in reaching the
church."
"Oh, S. Saviour's!"
"Yes. I am a relative of the late Mr. Francis Graeme and came this
morning from Philadelphia to attend the funeral."
John Thaneford looked up sharply, the V of eyebrows narrowing. "I didn't
know Graeme had any kin in Philadelphia," he said suspiciously. "Or, for
that matter, anywhere."
"That may be true so far as the Graeme side of the family is concerned,"
I rejoined. "My name is Hildebrand."
"Hildebrand!" He stared at me even more intently than before, and I
fancied that there was a subtle note of dismay in the ejaculation. I
determined to follow up the advantage, if advantage it was.
"Hugh Hildebrand, to be precise," I continued, eyeing him steadily. "We
are of the Northern branch, and since the Civil War there has been
little or no intercourse with the family of the 'Hundred.'"
"Yet you come to Francis Graeme's funeral. Why?"
My temper flashed up. "And what damned business is that of yours, Mr.
John Thaneford!" I snapped out. "Am I to pass or not?"
For an instant he glowered, and I saw the pupils of his coal-black eyes
contract to a pin point. Then he took an evident pull upon himself; he
spoke with a marked change of demeanor, almost courteously.
"I'm afraid I've been acting rather rudely," he said, and stepped aside
out of the path. "But these country bullies have been most annoying of
late, insisting upon their so-called rights out of mere, petty spite.
It's part of their creed, you know, to hate a gentleman." I nodded. I
could see now that John Thaneford was by no means the rustic lout of my
first impressions. Not that I liked him any the better, but at least we
spoke the same language.
"It's a silly fiction," he went on, "this alleged necessity of access to
the parish church. Nowadays, everybody at the Corners goes to the
Baptist or Methodist meeting-house, and S. Saviour's congregation is
gathered chiefly in the churchyard. Outside the Graeme and Thaneford
families there ar'n't more than a dozen regular parishioners, and the
church is only opened for service once a month."
By this time we were walking side by side in the direction of the house.
For some inscrutable reason Mr. John Thaneford had made up his mind to
be decently polite; indeed the effort was plainly apparent.
Consequently, I could do no less than fall in with his new mood.
"I suppose S. Saviour's is a colonial foundation," I remarked.
"Yes, even to the inevitable Queen Anne Communion plate. But the
countryside has changed and the bigger estates have been cut up into
small holdings. That always brings in a different set of people. And the
old and the new don't mix well."
"Precisely. And so there are empty pews at S. Saviour's."
"More of them every year. A young chap comes over from Lynn the first
Sunday in the month and holds service; so I'm told, at least. Otherwise,
the church is only opened for weddings, christenings, and funerals; and
the latter outnumber both the former. What's the answer?" He laughed
cynically.
"It's a pity," I said regretfully. "I always hate to see the old order
displaced. But surely if someone took the lead--well, why not
yourself?"
"I haven't been inside the building since I used to get whaled for not
knowing my catechism. And I've small use for parsons," he continued,
dourly.
We walked on in silence, that hostile silence which sooner or later is
sure to declare itself between two natures essentially antagonistic.
Since John Thaneford and I could not be friends, nor even remain
indifferent, we should never have met at all. But the fact had been
accomplished and we should have to put up with it; I fell to wondering
if he, too, sensed the vague presentiment of future clash and struggle;
in the meantime I was uncomfortable; I wanted to get away.
"The original right-of-way turns here," said Thaneford suddenly, "but I
can take you across the lawn, and thence it is only a step, through a
fir plantation, to the churchyard. Besides, I want you to meet my
father; he will be interested in knowing you since the Hildebrands and
the Thanefords have been neighbors for seven generations; yes and kin,
too, as we reckon such things down here. My mother was a sister of old
Richard Hildebrand, and that makes me a second or third cousin of this
Francis Graeme, who inherited the family property, although he did not
bear the family name. If it were a question of direct descent either you
or I might have put in a better claim to the 'Hundred.'" He looked at me
slantingly as though to assure himself that the idea had not already