Part 6 (2/2)

Scatters had not yet played his trump card. He saw that the time was ripe. Straightening his form and raising his great voice, he cried: ”Gentlemen, I am guilty according to the letter of the law, but from that I appeal to the men who make and have made the law. From the hard detail of this new day, I appeal to the chivalry of the old South which has been told in story and sung in song. From men of vindictiveness I appeal to men of mercy. From plebeians to aristocrats. By the memory of the sacred names of the Richardsons”--the Major sat bolt upright and dropped his snuffbox--”the Durbins”--the ex-judge couldn't for his life get his pince-nez on--”the Howards”--the captain openly rubbed his hands--”to the memory that those names call up I appeal, and to the living and honourable bearers of them present. And to you, gentlemen of the jury, the lives of whose fathers went to purchase this dark and b.l.o.o.d.y ground, I appeal from the accusation of these men, who are not my victims, not my dupes, but their own.”

There was a hush when he was done. The judge read the charge to the jury, and it was favourable--very. And--well, Scatters had taught the darkies a lesson; he had spoken of their families and their traditions, he knew their names, and--oh, well, he was a good fellow after all--what was the use?

The jury did not leave their seats, and the verdict was acquittal.

Scatters thanked the Court and started away; but he met three ominous-looking pairs of eyes, and a crowd composed of angry Negroes was flocking toward the edge of the green.

He came back.

”I think I had better wait until the excitement subsides,” he said to Major Richardson.

”No need of that, suh, no need of that. Here, Jim,” he called to his coachman, ”take Mr. Scatters wherever he wants to go, and remember, I shall hold you responsible for his safety.”

”Yes, suh,” said Jim.

”A thousand thanks, Major,” said the man with the mission.

”Not at all, suh. By the way, that was a very fine effort of yours this afternoon. I was greatly moved by it. If you'll give me your address I'll send you a history of our family, suh, from the time they left Vuhginia and before.”

Mr. Scatters gave him the address, and smiled at the three enemies, who still waited on the edge of the green.

”To the station,” he said to the driver.

_Four_

A MATTER OF DOCTRINE

There was great excitement in Miltonville over the advent of a most eloquent and convincing minister from the North. The beauty about the Rev. Thaddeus Warwick was that he was purely and simply a man of the doctrine. He had no emotions, his sermons were never matters of feeling; but he insisted so strongly upon the constant presentation of the tenets of his creed that his presence in a town was always marked by the enthusiasm and joy of religious disputation.

The Rev. Jasper Hayward, coloured, was a man quite of another stripe.

With him it was not so much what a man held as what he felt. The difference in their characteristics, however, did not prevent him from attending Dr. Warwick's series of sermons, where, from the vantage point of the gallery, he drank in, without a.s.similating, that divine's words of wisdom.

Especially was he edified on the night that his white brother held forth upon the doctrine of predestination. It was not that he understood it at all, but that it sounded well and the words had a rich ring as he champed over them again and again.

Mr. Hayward was a man for the time and knew that his congregation desired something new, and if he could supply it he was willing to take lessons even from a white co-worker who had neither ”de spi'it ner de fiah.” Because, as he was p.r.o.ne to admit to himself, ”dey was sump'in'

in de unnerstannin'.”

He had no idea what plagiarism is, and without a single thought of wrong, he intended to reproduce for his people the religious wisdom which he acquired at the white church. He was an innocent beggar going to the doors of the well-provided for cold spiritual victuals to warm over for his own family. And it would not be plagiarism either, for this very warming-over process would save it from that and make his own whatever he brought. He would season with the pepper of his homely wit, sprinkle it with the salt of his home-made philosophy, then, hot with the fire of his crude eloquence, serve to his people a dish his very own. But to the true purveyor of original dishes it is never pleasant to know that someone else holds the secret of the groundwork of his invention.

It was then something of a shock to the Reverend Mr. Hayward to be accosted by Isaac Middleton, one of his members, just as he was leaving the gallery on the night of this most edifying of sermons.

Isaac laid a hand upon his shoulder and smiled at him benevolently.

”How do, Brothah Hayward,” he said, ”you been sittin' unner de drippin's of de gospel, too?”

”Yes, I has been listenin' to de wo'ds of my fellow-laborah in de vineya'd of de Lawd,” replied the preacher with some dignity, for he saw vanis.h.i.+ng the vision of his own glory in a revivified sermon on predestination.

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