Part 32 (1/2)
That black worthy put the juleps quickly down and exploded with uncontrollable laughter. Such a suggestion, he thought, was about the most irresistible bit of humor the Colonel had ever achieved; and now, holding his sides, between guffaws he gasped:
”Ma.r.s.e John, you'se gittin' funnier an' funnier eve'y day you lives!”
But at this moment his eyes wandered to the Colonel's face. The laughter stopped with a dry croak. He saw that his old master and friend was serious, and reaching for one of the goblets he anxiously exclaimed:
”Great day in de mawnin', Ma.r.s.e John! You suttenly don' mean dat! Drink dis heah, quick! Ridin' in de sun's done tetched yoh haid!”
”Touched the devil,” the old gentleman thundered. ”Take it back this instant and ask Miss Liz if she thinks it's pretty enough to serve!”
Uncle Zack was indeed troubled. His hand shook with more than its usual wont, as he looked down at the offending beverage and then pleadingly up.
”She done tol' me twict dis week dat I'se gwine buhn in h.e.l.l for dis heah julep makin'. De fu'st thing you-alls'll know ole Zack'll bust out in flames--an' _den_ whar'll you git yoh comfo't from?”
But the Colonel's glowering brows said very distinctly that the alternative was an immediate little h.e.l.l right there beneath the trees and, choosing the more remote, Zack turned slowly to the house. The old gentleman's eyes followed him, and now he turned irritably to Brent:
”I will not drink my juleps in gulps behind trees and shrubs, sir! I like to have them sit before me, and contemplate their merits. I like to Fletcherize them with my mind, and with those senses which my mind can set astir. And so with my cigars, and with my food! Why, sir, much of the pleasure of drinking and smoking and eating--as a gentleman understands these pleasures--is in their peaceful contemplation before the act! Otherwise, we are swine, and degrade our nutriment by coa.r.s.e handling! What respect can we have for self, sir, if we choke and gurgle, and contemptuously treat those things we put into our bodies! I shall have no more of it, sir!”
Brent waited until this wave of impatience had spent itself upon the chairs, the gra.s.s, and everything within reach of the Colonel's wrathful eye; then asked:
”What did you do with him?”
”Potter?” he nervously answered. ”Wasn't there. Blood on the ground, but he'd gone. Either wasn't killed, or someone found him. I don't know which, of course, but probably the latter.”
”What shall you do?”
”I don't know; I don't know. Telephone to Jess, doubtless.”
For a moment they sat looking soberly into each other's faces.
”May I suggest,” Brent said, ”that you abandon the idea of telephoning the sheriff? Jess isn't wanted quite yet awhile. If Potter is only wounded--maybe just scratched--he's all right. If someone found his body, there are others besides Dale who might have killed him.”
”But, sir,” sputtered the Colonel, ”I can't harbor a murderer!”
”There's a difference between a murderer and one who righteously avenges a wrong. That's worth considering. Besides, it's a serious matter for a gentleman to give over his guest.”
This, he knew, was a powerful argument and, feeling content to let it plead its own cause, quietly added: ”We don't want to see him go to jail--”
”He wouldn't go to jail, sir,” the Colonel quickly interrupted. ”I would ask Jess to leave him here until Court convenes. He would be glad to do that for me.”
”I know he would,” Brent replied with all sincerity. ”But we don't need a sheriff yet. Let's wait, and see what turns up!”
An expression of infinite relief came into the old gentleman's face, but his conscience was still aroused and emphatically he declared: ”I'll deliver him to the law, sir, the very minute I know to a certainty that Potter is dead!” Then his eyes turned toward the house, from where by this time he thought his julep should be emerging.
That faithful inst.i.tution, Uncle Zack, had come perilously near fulfilling his mission. He had walked bravely through the rooms, goblet in hand, at each turn earnestly and fervently praying to his G.o.ds that Miss Liz might not be found. Coming into the front hall, and pa.s.sing ”de long room”--that long room which used to ring with the merry laughs of dancers, but was now guarded as a sort of chapel for shrouded portraits--he saw its forbidding doors slightly ajar, and peered in.
Uncle Zack always avoided this room. Its subdued light; its oppressive atmosphere, invariably suggesting the image of ”Ole Miss” lying there amidst banks of flowers which matched in purity her calm face; the uniform arrangement of high-backed chairs, suggesting in their white coverings a line of tombstones; the two ma.s.sive crystal chandeliers, hanging like weights of an old clock which would never again be wound;--were all too much for Zack's heart and imagination. Yet the door was open, and he peered in.
His fading eyes followed the line of chairs, upon one of which stood Miss Liz. She had drawn the musty covering from an overhanging portrait--her dead sister--and to this she was murmuring. Her black silk dress and lace kerchief seemed to make her a part of the gallery; and her thin hand resting on the frame, with its forefinger unconsciously pointing upward, was as frail and wax-like as that other hand into which the old negro had, one twilit evening, long ago, laid a rose--when, un.o.bserved and shaken by convulsive sobs, he tiptoed in to pray at the side of ”Ole Miss'” bier.
Carefully now he stepped back, drawing the door softly to, and leaving the room to its undisturbed communion of whispering spirits.