The Bishop of Cottontown: A Story of the Southern Cotton Mills
his hand--"my God, but that blow has spiled God's noblest gentleman."
Then there rushed over him a wave of self-reproach as he raised his
head heavenward and said:
"_Almighty Father, forgive me! Only this morning I doubted You; and
now, now, You have sent me po' Cap'n Tom!_"
"You'll go home with me, Cap'n Tom!" he added cheerily.
The man smiled and nodded.
"A-l-i-c-e," again he repeated.
There was the sound of some one riding, and as the Bishop turned Ben
Butler around Alice Westmore rode up, sitting her saddle mare with
that natural grace which comes only when the horse and rider have
been friends long enough to become as one. Richard Travis rode with
her.
The Bishop paled again: "My God," he muttered--"but she mustn't know
this is Cap'n Tom! I'd ruther she'd think he's dead--to remember him
only as she knowed him last."
The man's eyes were riveted on her--they seemed to devour her as she
rode up, a picture of grace and beauty, sitting her cantering mare
with the ease of long years of riding. She smiled and nodded brightly
at the Bishop, as she cantered past, but scarcely glanced at the man
beside him.
Travis followed at a brisk gait:
"Hello, Bishop," he said banteringly--"got a new boarder to-day?"
He glanced at the man as he spoke, and then galloped on without
turning his head.
"Alice!--Alice!"--whispered the man, holding out his hands
pleadingly, in the way he had held them when he first saw the Bishop.
"Alice!"--but she disappeared behind a turn in the road. She had not
noticed him.
The Bishop was relieved.
"We'll go home, Cap'n Tom--you'll want for nothin' whilst I live. An'
who knows--ay, Cap'n Tom, who knows but maybe God has sent you here
to-day to begin the unraveling of the only injustice I've ever knowed
Him to let go so long. It 'ud be so easy for Him--He's done bigger
things than jes' to straighten out little tangles like that. Cap'n
Tom! Cap'n Tom!" he said excitedly--"God'll do it--God'll do it--for
He is just!"
As he turned to go a negro came up hurriedly: "I was fetchin' him to
you, Marse Hillard--been lookin' for yo' home all day. I had gone to
the spring for water an' 'lowed I'd be back in a minute."
"Why, it's Eph," said the Bishop. "Come on to my home, Eph, we'll
take keer of Cap'n Tom."
It was Sunday night. They had eaten their supper, and the old man was
taking his smoke before going to bed. Shiloh, as usual, had climbed
up into his lap and lay looking at the distant line of trees that
girdled the mountain side. There was a flush on her cheeks and a
brightness in her eyes which the old man had noticed for several
weeks.
Shiloh was his pet--his baby. All the affection of his strong nature
found its outlet in this little soul--this motherless little waif,
who likewise found in the old man that rare comradeship of
extremes--the inexplicable law of the physical world which brings the
snow-flower in winter. The one real serious quarrel the old man had
had with his stubborn and ignorant old wife had been when Shiloh was
sent to the factory. But it was always starvation times with them;
and when aroused, the temper and tongue of Mrs. Watts was more than
the peaceful old man could stand up against. And as there were a
dozen other tots of her age in the factory, he had been forced to
acquiesce.
Long after all others had retired--long after the evening star had
arisen, and now, high overhead, looked down through the chinks in the
roof of the cabin on the mountain side, saying it was midnight and
past, the patient old man sat with Shiloh on his lap, watching her
quick, restless breathing, and fearing to put her to bed, lest he
might awaken her.
He put her in bed at last and then slipped into Captain Tom's cabin
before he himself lay down.
To his surprise he was up and reading an old dictionary--studying and
puzzling over the words. It was the only book except the Bible the
Bishop had in his cabin, and this book proved to be Captain Tom's
solace.
After that, day after day, he would sit out under the oak tree by his
cabin intently reading the dictionary.
Eph, his body servant, slept on the floor by his side, and Jack
Bracken sat near him like a sturdy mastiff guarding a child.
Sympathy, pity--were written in the outlaw's face, as he looked at
the once splendid manhood shorn of its strength, and from that day
Jack Bracken showered on Captain Tom all the affection of his
generous soul--all that would have gone to little Jack.
"For he's but a child--the same as little Jack was," he would say.
"Put up yo' novel, Cap'n Tom," said the old man cheerily, when he
went in, "an' let's have prayers."
The sound of the old man's voice was soothing to Captain Tom.
Quickly the book was closed and down on their knees went the three
men.
It was a queer trio--the three kneeling in prayer.
"Almighty God," prayed the old man--"me an' Cap'n Tom an' Jack
Bracken here, we thank You for bein' so much kinder to us than we
deserves. One of us, lost to his friends, is brought back home; one
of us, lost in wickedness but yestiddy, is redeemed to-day; an' me
that doubted You only yestiddy, to me You have fotcht Cap'n Tom back,
a reproach for my doubts an' my disbelief, lame in his head, it is
true, but You've fotcht him back where I can keer for him an' nuss
him. An' I hope You'll see fit, Almighty God, You who made the worl'
an' holds it in the hollow of Yo' han', You, who raised up the dead
Christ, to give po' Cap'n Tom back his reason, that he may fulfill
the things in life ordained by You that he should fulfill since the
beginning of things.
"An' hold Jack Bracken to the mark, Almighty God,--let him toe the
line an' shoot, hereafter, only for good. An' guide me, for I need
it--me that in spite of all You've done for me, doubted You but
yestiddy. Amen."
It was a simple, homely prayer, but it comforted even Captain Tom,
and when Jack Bracken put him to bed that night, even the outlaw felt
that the morning of a new era would awaken them.
CHAPTER X
THE SWAN-SONG OF THE CREPE-MYRTLE
It was twilight when Mrs. Westmore heard the clatter of horses' hoofs
up the gravelled roadway, and two riders cantered up.
Richard Travis sat his saddle horse in the slightly stooping way of
the old fox-hunter--not the most graceful seat, but the most natural
and comfortable for hard riding. Alice galloped ahead--her fine
square shoulders and delicate but graceful bust silhouetted against
the western sky in the fading light.
Mrs. Westmore sat on the veranda and watched them canter up. She
thought how handsome they were, and how well they would look always
together.
Alice sprang lightly from her mare at the front steps.
"Did you think we were never coming back? Richard's new mare rides so
delightfully that we rode farther than we intended. Oh, but she
canters beautifully!"
She sat on the arm of her mother's chair, and bent over and kissed
her cheek. The mother looked up to see her finely turned profile
outlined in a pale pink flush of western sky which glowed behind her.
Her cheeks were of the same tinge as the sky. They glowed with the
flush of the gallop, and her eyes were bright with the happiness of
it. She sat telling of the new mare's wonderfully correct saddle
gaits, flipping her ungloved hand with the gauntlet she had just
pulled off.
Travis turned the horses over to Jim and came up.
"Glad to see you, Cousin Alethea," he said, as she arose and advanced
gracefully to meet him--"no, no--don't rise," he added in his half
jolly, half commanding way. "You've met me before and I'm not such a
big man as I seem." He laughed: "Do you remember Giant Jim, the big
negro Grandfather used to have to oversee his hands on the lower
place? Jim, you know, in consideration of his elevation, was granted
several privileges not allowed the others. Among them was the
privilege of getting drunk every Saturday night. Then it was he would
stalk and brag among those he ruled while they looked at him in awe
and reverence. But he had the touch of the philosopher in him and
would finally say: 'Come, touch me, boys; come, look at me; come,
feel me--I'm nothin' but a common man, although I appear so big.'"
Mrs. Westmore laughed in her mechanical way, but all the while she
was looking at Alice, who was watching the mare as she was led off.
Travis caught her eye and winked mischievously as he added: "Now,
Cousin Alethea, you must promise me to make Alice ride her whenever
she needs a tonic--every day, if necessary. I have bought her for
Alice, and she must get the benefit of her before it grows too cold."
He turned to Alice Westmore: "You have only to tell me which days--if
I am too busy to go with you--Jim will bring her over."
She smiled: "You are too kind, Richard, always thinking of my
pleasure. A ride like this once a week is tonic enough."
She went into the house to change her habit. Her brother Clay, who
had been sitting on the far end of the porch unobserved, arose and,
without noticing Travis as he passed, walked into the house.
"I cannot imagine," said Mrs. Westmore apologetically, "what is the
matter with Clay to-day."
"Why?" asked Travis indifferently enough.
"He has neglected his geological specimens all day, nor has he ever
been near his laboratory--he has one room he calls his laboratory,
you know. To-night he is moody and troubled."
Travis said nothing. At tea Clay was not there.
When Travis left it was still early and Alice walked with him to the
big gate. The moon shone dimly and the cool, pure light lay over
everything like the first mist of frost in November. Beyond, in the
field, where it struck into the open cotton bolls, it turned them
into December snow-banks.
Travis led his saddle horse, and as they walked to the gate, the
sweet and scarcely perceptible odor of the crepe-myrtle floated out
on the open air.
The crepe-myrtle has a way of surprising us now and then, and often
after a wet fall, it gives us the swan-song of a bloom, ere its
delicate blossoms, touched to death by frost, close forever their
scalloped pink eyes, on the rare summer of a life as spiritual as the
sweet soft gulf winds which brought it to life.
Was it symbolic to-night,--the swan-song of the romance of Alice
Westmore's life, begun under those very trees so many summers ago?
They stopped at the gate. Richard Travis lit a cigar before mounting
his horse. He seemed at times to-night restless, yet always
determined.
She had never seen him so nearly preoccupied as he had been once or
twice to-night.
"Do you not think?" he asked, after a while as they stood by the
gate, "that I should have a sweet answer soon?"
Her eyes fell. The death song of the crepe-myrtle, aroused by a south
wind suddenly awakened, smote her painfully.
"You know--you know how it is, Richard"--
"How it was--Alice. But think--life is a practical--a serious thing.
We all have had our romances. They are the heritage of dreaming
youth. We outlive them--it is best that we should. Our spiritual life
follows the law of all other life, and spiritually we are not the
same this year that we were last. Nor will we be the next. It is
always change--change--even as the body changes. Environment has
more to do with what we are, what we think and feel--than anything
else. If you will marry me you will soon love me--it is the law of
love to beget love. You will forget all the lesser loves in the great
love of your life. Do you not know it, feel it, Sweet?"
She looked at him surprised. Never before had he used any term of
endearment to her. There was a hard, still and subtle yet determined
light in his eyes.
"Richard--Richard--you--I"--
"See," he said, taking from his vest pocket a magnificent ring set in