In Jeopardy
presented itself to my mind. I murmured an unintelligible assent; what
was coming now?
"And it follows logically that we two are kin. How does that strike
you, Cousin Hugh Hildebrand," he added coolly.
"Better than being thrown out as a trespasser," I answered with the most
convincing imitation of a smile that I could conjure up. "But I think I
ought to be getting along; it's ten minutes to three."
"Remember that you are now south of Mason and Dixon's line," he
rejoined, "and time is made only for slaves. But come along," and he led
me, inwardly protesting, across the weedy expanse of what had once been
a handsome piece of ornamental grass to where an old man sat in a big
arm-chair under the shade of the most beautiful white oak that I had
ever beheld in my life, an almost perfectly symmetrical ball of limbs
and foliage. Then I looked at Fielding Thaneford and straightway forgot
about the wonders of inanimate nature.
Certainly a very old man, and yet his skin was of a remarkable texture
and quality, apparently as fine and softly pink as that of a baby. The
resemblance to an infant was intensified by one distinguishing
characteristic of the massive head and features--the total absence of
any hirsute adornment; there was not a vestige of hair, beard,
eyelashes, or eyebrows, and the effect was singularly repulsive. Yet he
did not seem to be afflicted with the ordinary infirmities of senility,
for he turned at the slight noise of our approaching footsteps and the
eye that scanned me was of a cold, bright blue, indicative of a keen and
finely coordinated intelligence.
"Father," said John Thaneford in his hatefully false voice of assumed
cordiality, "this is our cousin, Hugh Hildebrand, of Philadelphia."
I fancied that the placid figure in the great chair stiffened slightly
at the sound of my name. But otherwise he made no movement or sign,
continuing to gaze upon me with those unflinching eyes, as horrible in
their total lack of lashes as the optics of a vulture.
"He is here to be present at the funeral of Cousin Francis Graeme."
Again that coldly devouring gaze passed over me; involuntarily I
shivered and stepped back. What was the impression that was being made
upon me? Not of malignancy certainly, nor even of ordinary
cold-bloodedness; there was something too detached about this singular
personality to suggest any kind of commonplace, healthy passion; if the
crater had ever existed it had long since cooled to slag and ashes.
There was but one fitting adjective--inhuman. Whatever spirit it was
that still held its abode behind that fresh, childlike masque it
endured altogether of its own volition and outside the sphere of those
blessed, understandable things of our common life. In the world but not
of it, if one may use that divine metaphor in its inverted sense. The
babe possesses innocence in that it has never come into contact with sin
and death, and a man may finally withdraw himself from the defilements
of this naughty world and become again as a little child. Yet without
repentance and so without grace. Lucifer himself could never assume the
role of penitent, but he may easily take front rank as an ethical
philosopher. And so Fielding Thaneford and I looked upon one another.
Either might have put out a touching hand, and yet a thousand leagues
could not have spanned the abyss that separated us. And in that selfsame
moment the bell of S. Saviour's began to toll for the passing of him who
had been master of "Hildebrand Hundred," and kin, through the blood tie,
to one and all of us who waited and listened.
Fielding Thaneford had turned his eyes away, and they were fixed on the
road winding far below the plateau on which stood "Thane Court"; in the
distance appeared a stately moving cortege, the hearses and the
carriages containing the mourners; there was a flutter of sable
draperies and of funeral plumes; the old man looked, but remained
immobile and impassive. With a nod of acknowledgment and farewell to
John Thaneford I made my own way down the slope and into the shadow of
the plantation of firs. There still remained the faint traces of a path,
and presently it led me to the brick wall surrounding the churchyard, a
wall built after the curious serpentine pattern generally ascribed to
the inventive genius of Thomas Jefferson, and still to be seen at the
University of Virginia. A door, painted a dull, faded green, had
evidently been the private approach of the Thaneford family in days gone
by, but now it was secured by a huge, rusty padlock, and I was obliged
to skirt the wall and so reach the open lawn upon which the church
faced.
Chapter II
_The Setting of the Stage_
S. Saviour's, with its tiny portico and steeple of distinctly
Christopher Wren design, presented an interesting study in colonial
architecture. It was built of brick, with solid, white wooden shutters,
and the side walls were mantled by a wonderful growth of true English
ivy. There was no central entrance, access to the interior being
afforded by two side doors at the extreme ends of the portico. The
reason for this unusual arrangement became apparent upon entering the
church, the shallow chancel, together with the pulpit and lectern, being
situated at the front end of the edifice, with the pews facing toward
the entrance doors. This made it rather awkward for the late comers, as
the laggards were obliged to meet the united gaze of the congregation
already seated; also the ladies of S. Saviour's enjoyed exceptional
opportunities for appraising the interesting features of their
neighbors' costumes. Doubtless this singular reversal of the ordinary
ecclesiastical plan had been adopted purposely, so as to carry out the
principle of orientation. The church happened to face directly east, and
consequently the chancel and sanctuary had to be placed opposite their
usual positions, a curious survival of mediaevalism.
Under the trees two or three ancient surreys had been parked, and a
glance through the side windows disclosed an audience of perhaps a dozen
persons, small farmers of the neighborhood and their wives, people to
whom a public function of any nature offered acceptable diversion from
the routine of daily life. Of the old-time gentry of the countryside
there was not a single representative present; then I literally lost my
breath in amazement as John Thaneford brushed past me without a word,
strode into the church, and seated himself in a large, square pew,
furnished, after the manorial fashion, with carpet, table and chairs;
evidently the ecclesiastical freehold of the Thaneford family. Yet why
should I feel any particular degree of surprise? The Graemes and the
Thanefords were "kin," and it was simple decency that John Thaneford
should show his cousin the last tribute of respect; his presence was
perfectly natural and proper, and assuredly it was none of my business
to either question or resent it. At this moment I became aware that the
funeral procession had arrived at the gate, and I took up a convenient
position for presenting myself to the attention of Mr. Eldon; I fancied
that it would not be a difficult task to identify him.
There were but three coaches in the queue, the first containing the
undertaker and his assistants, the second conveying two heavily veiled
ladies, presumably the daughter and niece of Francis Graeme; and the
third occupied by an elderly couple who could be none other than Mr. and
Mrs. Eldon. I stepped forward as the latter party alighted.
"Mr. Eldon?" I inquired. "I am Hugh Hildebrand."
Mr. Eldon extended a plump, warm hand. "So glad you were able to get
here," he whispered. "This is Mrs. Eldon. You must sit with Miss Trevor
and Betty; wait, and I'll explain it to them."
The clergyman in his robes was standing at the door, and the service was
about to begin. I took my designated position, walking immediately
behind the two chief mourners; and we followed the great, black
cloth-covered coffin into the stillness of the sacred edifice.
The committal office was said at the graveside in the Hildebrand family
plot, a walled enclosure set off from the general churchyard and
entered through a lych-gate beautifully fashioned from black bog oak
that resembled ebony in color and closeness of grain. Strange, how the
attention strays even upon occasions such as this; for I found myself
contemplating the lych-gate with absorbed interest, trying to think
where I had seen its prototype; doubtless in some English parish
churchyard. Then, as I heard the symbolic clod falling from the hand of
the officiating minister, I recalled myself to reality--earth to earth,
dust to dust. The slender, black-garbed figure on my right shook
slightly and swayed against my shoulder; instantly I put out my hand to
steady her. Up to this moment my participation in the ceremony had been
of a purely formal nature, but now some underlying and compelling force
was drawing me into the circle of sorrow; the dead man was of my blood,
and this was the passing of something in the universe that was akin to
my very self.
John Thaneford had not been present at the interment. After the church
service he had met and engaged Mr. Eldon in earnest conversation for
perhaps half a minute; then he had taken a visibly hurried departure.
The funeral party returned to the church, and the coaches drove up to
the carriage-block. "This is Mr. Hugh Hildebrand," announced Mr. Eldon,
as he presented me to the two ladies. "Miss Graeme and Miss Trevor," he
continued with a touch of old-time courtliness, his top-hat held at a
strictly ceremonious angle, "Mr. Hildebrand."
Miss Trevor merely bowed, but Miss Graeme smiled--such a frank, friendly
smile--and held out her hand. There are people who greet you with a
reserve which at least temporarily chills, and there are others who make
you feel that this particular meeting is the one they have been
pleasurably anticipating from the very beginning of created things. And
so, when I felt the strong, warm pressure of Betty Graeme's palm, how
could I help being flattered, even intrigued. I concluded that my new
cousin must have liked me on sight, and I was quite ready to return the
compliment in kind. Under the heavy, black veil I could discern a
symmetrical oval of countenance, and imagination easily supplied the
customary accessories of vermilion lips, challenging eyes, and perfumed
tresses. In reality, I should never in the world have been able to
recognize Betty Graeme by the sense of sight alone, but I should know
that handclasp anywhere; and that was enough.
"Of course you are coming back to the house," said Miss Graeme. "Will
you ride with us--but I see that Mr. Eldon has arranged to take you with
him. Are you ready, Eunice?"
Sitting opposite Mr. and Mrs. Eldon in the big, lumbering landau of
_ante-bellum_ days I began my explanations and apologies.
"That doesn't matter in the least," interrupted Mr. Eldon. "We'll send
over to Crown Ferry for your bag, and after you get the railroad dust
washed away you can make your peace with Betty. The important thing is
that you are here now."
"I hadn't expected to remain at the 'Hundred' for more than an hour or
two," I continued. "There is an up train through at six o'clock, and I
had arranged to stay over at Baltimore."
"I'm afraid that you'll have to put up with us for this particular
night," rejoined Mr. Eldon. "Perhaps longer," and the shadow of an
enigmatical smile passed over his pleasantly curved lips.
"But at a time like this!" I protested. "Remember that I met Mr. Graeme
only once, and that I am an entire stranger to his niece and daughter.
Even Southern hospitality has its limits, and I don't want to overstep
them."
Mr. Eldon brushed my objections away with a commanding wave of his hand.