The Colonel's Dream Part 33

So far he had been beaten, except in the matter of the cotton mill, which was yet unfinished. His efforts in Bud Johnson's behalf--the only thing he had undertaken to please the woman he loved, had proved abortive. His promise to the teacher--well, he had done his part, but to no avail. He would be ashamed to meet Taylor face to face. With what conscience could a white man in Clarendon ever again ask a Negro to disclose the name or hiding place of a coloured criminal? In the effort to punish the lynchers he stood, to all intents and purposes, single-handed and alone; and without the support of public opinion he could do nothing.

The colonel was beaten, but not dismayed. Perhaps G.o.d in his wisdom had taken Phil away, that his father might give himself more completely and single-mindedly to the battle before him. Had Phil lived, a father might have hesitated to expose a child's young and impressionable mind to the things which these volcanic outbursts of pa.s.sion between mismated races might cause at any unforeseen moment.

Now that the way was clear, he could go forward, hand in hand with the good woman who had promised to wed him, in the work he had laid out.

He would enlist good people to demand better laws, under which Fetters and his kind would find it harder to prey upon the weak.

Diligently he would work to lay wide and deep the foundations of prosperity, education and enlightenment, upon which should rest justice, humanity and civic righteousness. In this he would find a worthy career. Patiently would he await the results of his labours, and if they came not in great measure in his own lifetime, he would be content to know that after years would see their full fruition.

So that night he sat down and wrote a long answer to Kirby's letter, in which he told him of Phil's death and burial, and his own grief.

Something there was, too, of his plans for the future, including his marriage to a good woman who would help him in them. Kirby, he said, had offered him a golden opportunity for which he thanked him heartily. The scheme was good enough for any one to venture upon. But to carry out his own plans, would require that he invest his money in the State of his residence, where there were many openings for capital that could afford to wait upon development for large returns. He sent his best regards to Mrs. Jerviss, and his a.s.surance that Kirby's plan was a good one. Perhaps Kirby and she alone could handle it; if not, there must be plenty of money elsewhere for so good a thing.

He sealed the letter, and laid it aside to be mailed in the morning.

To his mind it had all the force of a final renunciation, a severance of the last link that bound him to his old life.

Long the colonel lay thinking, after he retired to rest, and the m.u.f.fled striking of the clock downstairs had marked the hour of midnight ere he fell asleep. And he had scarcely dozed away, when he was awakened by a sc.r.a.ping noise, as though somewhere in the house a heavy object was being drawn across the floor. The sound was not repeated, however, and thinking it some trick of the imagination, he soon slept again.

As the colonel slept this second time, he dreamed of a regenerated South, filled with thriving industries, and thronged with a prosperous and happy people, where every man, having enough for his needs, was willing that every other man should have the same; where law and order should prevail unquestioned, and where every man could enter, through the golden gate of hope, the field of opportunity, where lay the prizes of life, which all might have an equal chance to win or lose.

For even in his dreams the colonel's sober mind did not stray beyond the bounds of reason and experience. That all men would ever be equal he did not even dream; there would always be the strong and the weak, the wise and the foolish. But that each man, in his little life in this our little world might be able to make the most of himself, was an ideal which even the colonel's waking hours would not have repudiated.

Following this pleasing thread with the unconscious rapidity of dreams, the colonel pa.s.sed, in a few brief minutes, through a long and useful life to a happy end, when he too rested with his fathers, by the side of his son, and on his tomb was graven what was said of Ben Adhem: "Here lies one who loved his fellow men," and the further words, "and tried to make them happy."

Shortly after dawn there was a loud rapping at the colonel's door:

"Come downstairs and look on de piazza, Colonel," said the agitated voice of the servant who had knocked. "Come quick, suh."

There was a vague terror in the man's voice that stirred the colonel strangely. He threw on a dressing gown and hastened downstairs, and to the front door of the hall, which stood open. A handsome mahogany burial casket, stained with earth and disfigured by rough handling, rested upon the floor of the piazza, where it had been deposited during the night. Conspicuously nailed to the coffin lid was a sheet of white paper, upon which were some lines rudely scrawled in a handwriting that matched the spelling:

_Kurnell French_:

_Take notis. Berry yore ole n.i.g.g.e.r somewhar else. He can't stay in Oak Semitury. The majority of the white people of this town, who dident tend yore n.i.g.g.e.r funarl, woant have him there.

n.i.g.g.e.rs by there selves, white peepul by there selves, and them that lives in our town must bide by our rules._

_By order of_ c.u.mITTY.

The colonel left the coffin standing on the porch, where it remained all day, an object of curious interest to the scores and hundreds who walked by to look at it, for the news spread quickly through the town.

No one, however, came in. If there were those who reprobated the action they were silent. The mob spirit, which had broken out in the lynching of Johnson, still dominated the town, and no one dared to speak against it.

As soon as Colonel French had dressed and breakfasted, he drove over to the cemetery. Those who had exhumed old Peter's remains had not been unduly careful. The carelessly excavated earth had been scattered here and there over the lot. The flowers on old Peter's grave and that of little Phil had been trampled under foot--whether wantonly or not, inevitably, in the execution of the ghoulish task.

The colonel's heart hardened as he stood by his son's grave. Then he took a long lingering look at the tombs of his ancestors and turned away with an air of finality.

From the cemetery he went to the undertaker's, and left an order; thence to the telegraph office, from which he sent a message to his former partner in New York; and thence to the Treadwells'.

_Thirty-seven_

Miss Laura came forward with outstretched hands and tear-stained eyes to greet him.

"Henry," she exclaimed, "I am shocked and sorry, I cannot tell you how much! Nor do I know what else to say, except that the best people do not--cannot--could not--approve of it!"

"The best people, Laura," he said with a weary smile, "are an abstraction. When any deviltry is on foot they are never there to prevent it--they vanish into thin air at its approach. When it is done, they excuse it; and they make no effort to punish it. So it is not too much to say that what they permit they justify, and they cannot shirk the responsibility. To mar the living--it is the history of life--but to make war upon the dead!--I am going away, Laura, never to return. My dream of usefulness is over. To-night I take away my dead and shake the dust of Clarendon from my feet forever. Will you come with me?"

"Henry," she said, and each word tore her heart, "I have been expecting this--since I heard. But I cannot go; my duty calls me here.

My mother could not be happy anywhere else, nor would I fit into any other life. And here, too, I am useful--and may still be useful--and should be missed. I know your feelings, and would not try to keep you.

But, oh, Henry, if all of those who love justice and practise humanity should go away, what would become of us?"

"I leave to-night," he returned, "and it is your right to go with me, or to come to me."

"No, Henry, nor am I sure that you would wish me to. It was for the old town's sake that you loved me. I was a part of your dream--a part of the old and happy past, upon which you hoped to build, as upon the foundations of the old mill, a broader and a fairer structure. Do you remember what you told me, that night--that happy night--that you loved me because in me you found the embodiment of an ideal? Well, Henry, that is why I did not wish to make our engagement known, for I knew, I felt, the difficulty of your task, and I foresaw that you might be disappointed, and I feared that if your ideal should be wrecked, you might find me a burden. I loved you, Henry--I seem to have always loved you, but I would not burden you."

"No, no, Laura--not so! not so!"

"And you wanted me for Phil's sake, whom we both loved; and now that your dream is over, and Phil is gone, I should only remind you of where you lost him, and of your disappointment, and of--this other thing, and I could not be sure that you loved me or wanted me."

"Surely you cannot doubt it, Laura?" His voice was firm, but to her sensitive spirit it did not carry conviction.

"You remembered me from my youth," she continued tremulously but bravely, "and it was the image in your memory that you loved. And now, when you go away, the old town will shrink and fade from your memory and your heart and you will have none but harsh thoughts of it; nor can I blame you greatly, for you have grown far away from us, and we shall need many years to overtake you. Nor do you need me, Henry--I am too old to learn new ways, and elsewhere than here I should be a hindrance to you rather than a help. But in the larger life to which you go, think of me now and then as one who loves you still, and who will try, in her poor way, with such patience as she has, to carry on the work which you have begun, and which you--Oh, Henry!"

He divined her thought, though her tear-filled eyes spoke sorrow rather than reproach.

"Yes," he said sadly, "which I have abandoned. Yes, Laura, abandoned, fully and forever."

The colonel was greatly moved, but his resolution remained unshaken.

"Laura," he said, taking both her hands in his, "I swear that I should be glad to have you with me. Come away! The place is not fit for you to live in!"

"No, Henry! it cannot be! I could not go! My duty holds me here! G.o.d would not forgive me if I abandoned it. Go your way; live your life.

Marry some other woman, if you must, who will make you happy. But I shall keep, Henry--nothing can ever take away from me--the memory of one happy summer."

"No, no, Laura, it need not be so! I shall write you. You'll think better of it. But I go to-night--not one hour longer than I must, will I remain in this town. I must bid your mother and Graciella good-bye."

He went into the house. Mrs. Treadwell was excited and sorry, and would have spoken at length, but the colonel's farewells were brief.

"I cannot stop to say more than good-bye, dear Mrs. Treadwell. I have spent a few happy months in my old home, and now I am going away.

Laura will tell you the rest."

Graciella was tearfully indignant.

"It was a shame!" she declared. "Peter was a good old n.i.g.g.e.r, and it wouldn't have done anybody any harm to leave him there. I'd rather be buried beside old Peter than near any of the poor white trash that dug him up--so there! I'm so sorry you're going away; but I hope, sometime," she added stoutly, "to see you in New York! Don't forget!"

"I'll send you my address," said the colonel.