The Prodigal Judge
CHAPTER XIV
BELLE PLAIN
"Now, Tom," said Betty, with a bustling little air of excitement as she rose
from the breakfast table that first morning at Belle Plain, "I am ready if you
are. I want you to show me everything!"
"I reckon you'll notice some changes," remarked Tom.
He went from the room and down the hall a step or two in advance of her. On
the wide porch Betty paused, breathing deep. The house stood on an eminence;
directly before it at the bottom of the slight descent was a small bayou, beyond
this the forest stretched away in one unbroken mass to the Mississippi. Here and
there, gleaming in the brilliant morning light, some great bend of the river was
visible through the trees, while the Arkansas coast, blue and distant, piled up
against the far horizon.
"What is it you want to see, anyhow, Betty?" Tom demanded, turning on her.
"Everything—the place, Tom—Belle Plain! Oh, isn't it beautiful! I had no idea
how lovely it was!" cried Betty, as with her eyes still fixed on the distant
panorama of woods and water she went down the steps, Tom at her heels—he bet
she'd get sick of it all soon enough, that was one comfort!
"Why, Tom! Why does the lawn look like this?"
"Like what?" inquired Tom.
"Why, this—all weeds and briers, and the paths overgrown?" and as Betty
surveyed the unkempt waste that had once been a lawn, a little frown fixed
itself on her smooth brow.
Mr. Ware rubbed his chin reflectively with the back of his hand.
"That sort of thing looked all right, Bet," he said, "but it kept five or six
of the best hands out of the fields right at the busiest time of the year."
"Haven't I slaves enough?" she asked.
The dull color crept into Ware's cheeks. He hated her for that "I!" So she
was going to come that on him, was she? And he'd worked himself like a horse to
bring in more land. Why, he'd doubled the acreage in cotton and corn in the last
four years! He smothered his sense of hurt and indignation.
"Don't you want to see the crops, Bet? Let me order a team and show you
about, you couldn't walk over the place in a week!" he urged.
The girl shook her head and moved swiftly down the path that led from terrace
to terrace to the margin of the bayou. At the first terrace she paused. All
below was a wilderness of tangled vines and brush. She faced Tom rather
piteously. What had been lost was more than he could possibly understand. Her
father had planned these grounds which he was allowing a riotous second growth
to swallow up.
"It's positively squalid!" cried Betty, with a little stamp of her foot.
Ware glanced about with dull eyes. The air of neglect and decay which was
everywhere visible, and which was such a shock to Betty, had not been reached in
a season, he was really convinced that the place looked pretty much as it had
always looked.
"I'll tell you, Betty, I'm busy this morning; you poke about and see what you
want done and we'll do it," he said, and made a hasty retreat to his office, a
little brick building at the other side of the house.
Betty returned to the porch and seating herself on the top step with her
elbows on her knees and her chin sunk in the palms of her hands, gazed about her
miserably enough. She was still seated there when half an hour later Charley
Norton galloped up the drive from the highroad. Catching sight of her on the
porch he sprang from the saddle, and, throwing his reins to a black boy, hurried
to her side.
"Inspecting your domain, Betty?" he asked, as he took his place near her on
the step.
"Why didn't you tell me, Charley—or at least prepare me for this?" she asked,
almost tearfully.
"How was I to know, Betty? I haven't been here since you went away, dear—what
was there to bring me? Old Tom would make a cow pasture out of the Garden of
Eden, wouldn't he—a beautiful, practical, sordid soul he is!"
"What am I going to do, Charley?"
"Keep after him until you get what you want, it's the only way to manage Tom
that I know of."
"It's horrid to have to assert one's self!"
"You'll have to with Tom—you must, Betty—he won't understand anything else."
Then he added: "Let's look around and see what's needed, a season or two of care
will remedy the most of this neglect. Just make Tom put a lot of hands in here
with brush-hooks and axes and soon you'll not know the place!"
Norton spent the day at Belle Plain; and though he was there on his good
behavior as the result of an agreement they had reached on board The Naiad, he
proposed twice.
"My intentions are all right, Betty," he assured her in extenuation. "But
I've the worst memory imaginable. Oh, yes, the lower terrace is badly gullied,
but it's no great matter, it can be fixed with a little work."
It was soon plain to Betty that Tom's ideals, if he possessed any, had not
led him in the direction of what he termed display. His social impulse had
suffered atrophy. The house was utterly disorganized; there was a dearth of
suitable servants. Those she had known were gone—sold, she learned. Tom
explained that there had been no need for them since he had lived pretty much in
his office, what had been the use in keeping darkies standing about doing
nothing? He had got rid of those show niggers and put their price in husky field
hands, who could be made to do a day's work and not feel they were abused.
But Tom was mistaken in his supposition that Betty would soon tire of Belle
Plain. She demanded men, and teams, and began on the lawns. This interested and
fascinated her. She was out at sun-up to direct her laborers. She had the
advantage of Charley Norton's presence and advice for the greater part of each
day in the week, and Sundays he came to look over what had been accomplished,
and, as Tom firmly believed, to put that little fool up to fresh nonsense. He
could have booted him!
As the grounds took shape before her delighted eyes, Betty found leisure to
institute a thorough reformation indoors. A number of house servants were
rescued from the quarters and she began to instruct them in their new duties.
Tom was sick at heart. The little fool would cripple the place. It gave him
acute nausea to see the gangs at work about the lawns; it made him sicker to
pass through the house. There were five or six women in the kitchen now—he was
damned if he could see what they found to do—there was a butler and a page.
Betty had levied on the stables for one of the best teams to draw the family
carriage, which had not been in use since her mother's death; there was a
coachman for that, and another little monkey to ride on the rumble and hop down
and open gates. This came of sending girls away to school—they only learned
foolishness.
And those niggers about the house had to be dressed for their new work; the
butler, a cracking plow-hand he was, wore better clothes than he—Tom—did. No
wonder he was sick;—and waste! Tom knew all about that when the bills began to
come in from Memphis. Why, that pink-faced chit, he always referred to her in
his own mind now as a pink-faced chit, was evolving a scheme of life that would
cost eight or ten thousand dollars a year to maintain, and she was talking of
decorators for the house, either from New Orleans or Philadelphia, and new
furniture from top to bottom.
Tom felt that he was being robbed. Then he realized with a sense of shock
that here was a fortune of over half a million in lands and slaves which he had
managed and manipulated all these years, but which was not his. It was true that
under the terms of his stepmother's will he would inherit it in the event of
Betty's death—well, she looked like dying, a whole lot—she was as strong as a
mule, those soft rounded curves covered plenty of vigorous muscle; Tom hated the
very sight of her. A pink-faced chit bubbling over with life and useless energy,
a perfect curse she was, with all sorts of extravagant tastes and he was
powerless to check her, for, although he was still her guardian, there were
certain provisions of the will—he consulted the copy he kept locked up in his
desk in the office—that permitted her to do pretty much as she pleased with her
income. It was a hell of a will! She could spend fifteen or twenty thousand
dollars a year if she wanted to and he couldn't prevent it. It was an iniquitous
document!
Well, the place could go straight off to the devil, he wouldn't wear out his
life economizing for her to waste—he didn't get a thank-you—and he knew that
nobody took off the land bigger crops than he did, while bale for bale his
cotton outsold all other cotton raised in the county—that was the kind of a
manager he was. He wagged his head in self-approval. And what did he get out of
it? A lump sum each year with a further lump sum of twenty thousand dollars when
she came of age—soon now—or married. Tom's eyes bulged from their sockets—she'd
be doing that next, to spite him!
Betty's sphere of influence rapidly extended itself. She soon began to have
her doubts concerning the treatment accorded the slaves, and was not long in
discovering that Hicks, the overseer, ran things with a heavy hand. Matters
reached a crisis one day when, happening to ride through the quarters, she found
him disciplining a refractory black. She turned sick at the sight. Here was a
slave actually being whipped by another slave while Hicks stood looking on with
his hands in his pockets, and with a brutal satisfied air. When he caught sight
of the girl, he sang out,
"That'll do; he's had enough, I reckon, to learn him!" He added sullenly to
Betty, "Sorry you seen this, Miss!"
"How dare you order such a punishment without authority!" cried Betty
furiously.
Hicks gave her a black scowl.
"I don't need no authority to whip a shirker," he said insolently, as he
turned away.
"Stop!" commanded Betty, her eyes blazing. She strove to keep her voice
steady. "You shall not remain at Belle Plain another hour."
Hicks said nothing. He knew it would take more than her saying so to get him
off the place. Betty turned her horse and galloped back to the house. She felt
that she was in no condition to see Tom just at that moment, and dismounting at
the door ran up-stairs to her room.
Meantime the overseer sought out Ware in his office. His manner of stating
his grievance was singular. He began by swearing at his employer. He had been
insulted before all the quarter—his rage fairly choked him, he could not speak.
Tom seized the opportunity to swear back. He wanted to know if he hadn't
troubles enough without the overseer's help? If he'd got himself insulted it was
his own affair and he could lump it, generally speaking, and get out of that
office! But Tom's fury quickly spent itself. He wanted to know what the matter
was.
"Sent you off the place, did she; well, you'll have to eat crow. I'll do all
I can. I don't know what girls were ever made for anyhow, damned if I do!" he
added plaintively, as a realization of a stupendous mistake on the part of
nature overwhelmed him.
Hicks consented to eat crow only after Mr. Ware had cursed and cajoled him
into a better and more forgiving frame of mind. Then Tom hurried off to find
Betty and put matters right; a more difficult task than he had reckoned on, for
Betty was obdurate and her indignation flared up at mention of the incident; all
his powers of argument and persuasion were called into requisition before she
would consent to Hicks remaining, and then only on that most uncertain tenure,
his good behavior.
"Now you come up to the house," said Tom, when he had won his point and gone
back to Hicks, "and get done with it. I reckon you talked when you should have
kept your blame familiar mouth shut! Come on, and get it over with, and say
you're sorry."
Later, after Hicks had made his apology, the two men smoked a friendly pipe
and discussed the situation. Tom pointed out that opposition was useless, a
losing game, you could get your way by less direct means. She wouldn't stay long
at Belle Plain, but while she did remain they must avoid any more crises of the
sort through which they had just passed, and presently; she'd be sick of the
place. Tom wagged his head. She was sick of it already only she hadn't the sense
to know it. It wasn't good enough. Nothing suited-the house—the grounds—nothing!
In the midst of her activities Betty occasionally found time to think of
Bruce Carrington. She was sure she did not wish to see him again! But when three
weeks had passed she began to feel incensed that he had not appeared. She
thought of him with hot cheeks and a quickening beat of the heart. It was anger.
Naturally she was very indignant, as she had every right to be! He was the first
man who had dared—!
Then one day when she had decided for ever to banish all memory of him from
her mind, and never, under any circumstances, to think of him again, he
presented himself at Belle Plain.
She was in her room just putting the finishing touches to an especially
satisfying toilet when her maid tapped on the door and told her there was a
gentleman in the parlor who wished to see her.
"Is it Mr. Norton?" asked Betty.
"No, Miss—he didn't give no name, Miss."
When Betty entered the parlor a moment later she saw her caller standing with
his back turned toward her as he gazed from one of the windows, but she
instantly recognized those broad shoulders, and the fine poise of the shapely
head that surmounted them.
"Oh, Mr. Carrington—" and Betty stopped short, while her face grew rather
pale and then crimsoned. Then she advanced quite boldly and held out a frigid
hand, which he took carefully. "I didn't know—so you are alive—you disappeared
so suddenly that night—"
"Yes, I'm alive," he said, and then with a smile. "But I fear before you get
through with me we'll both wish I were not, Betty."
"Don't call me Betty."
"Who was that man who met you at New Madrid? He can't have you, whoever he
is!" His eyes dwelt on her tenderly, and the remembered spell of her fresh
youthful beauty deepened itself for him.
"Perhaps he doesn't want me—"
"Yes, he does. That was plain as day."
Betty surveyed him from under her lashes. What could she do with this man?
Nothing affected him. He seemed to have crossed some intangible barrier and to
stand closer to her than any other man had ever stood.
"Do you still hate me, Betty—Miss Malroy—is there anything I can say or do
that will make you forgive me?" He looked at her penitently.
But Betty hardened her heart against him and prepared to keep him in place.
Remembering that he was still holding her hand, she recovered it.
"Will you sit down?" she indicated a chair. He seated himself and Betty put a
safe distance between them. "Are you staying in the neighborhood, Mr.
Carrington?" she asked, rather unkindly. How did he dare come here when she had
forgotten him and her annoyance? And now the sight of him brought back memories
of that disagreeable night on that horrid boat—he had deceived her about that
boat, too—she would never forgive him for that—she had trusted him and he had
clearly shown that he was not to be trusted; and Betty closed her pretty mouth
until it was a thin red line and looked away that she might not see his hateful
face.
"No, I'm not staying in the neighborhood. When I left you, I made up my mind
I'd wait at New Madrid until I could come on down here and say I was sorry."
"And it's taken you all this time?"
Carrington regarded her seriously.
"I reckon I must have come for more time, Betty—Miss Malroy." In spite of
herself, Betty glowed under the caressing humor of his tone.
"Really—you must have chosen poorly then when you selected New Madrid. It
couldn't have been a good place for your purpose."
"I think if I could have made up my mind to stay there long enough, it would
have answered," said Carrington. "But when a down-river boat tied up 'there
yesterday it was more than I could stand. You 'see there's danger in a town like
New Madrid of getting too sorry. I thought we'd better discuss this point—"
"Mayn't I show you Belle Plain?" asked Betty quickly.
But Carrington shook his head.
"I don't care anything about that," he said. "I didn't come here to see Belle
Plain."
"You certainly are candid," said Betty.
"I intend to be honest with you always."
"Dear me—but I don't know that I shall particularly like it. Do you think it
was quite fair to select the boat you did, or was your resolution to be always
honest formed later?" demanded Betty severely.
He looked at her with great sweetness of expression.
"I didn't advise that boat for speed, only for safety. Betty, doesn't it mean
anything to you that I love you? I admit that I wish it had been twice as slow!"
he added reflectively, as an afterthought. He looked at her steadily, and
Betty's dark lashes drooped as the color mounted to her face.
"I don't," she said quickly. She rose from her chair, and Carrington followed
her example with a lithe movement that bespoke muscles in good training. She led
the way through the wide hall and out to the porch.
"Now I am going to show you all over the place," she announced resolutely.
She stood on the top step, looking off into the flaming west where the sun rode
low in the heavens. "Isn't it lovely, Mr. Carrington, isn't it beautiful?"
"Very beautiful!" Carrington's glance was fixed on her face.
"If you don't care to see Belle Plain," began Betty, rather indignantly. "No,
I don't, Betty. This is enough for me. I'll come for that some other time if
you'll be good enough to let me?"
"Then you expect to remain in the neighborhood?"
"I've given up the river, and I'm going to get hold of some land—"
"Land?" said Betty, with a rising inflection.
"Yes, land."
"I thought you were a river-man?"
"I'm a river-man no longer. I am going to be a planter now. But I'll tell you
why, and all about it some other day." Then he held out his hand. "Goodby," he
added.
"Are you going—good-by, Mr. Carrington," and Betty's fingers tingled with his
masterful clasp long after he had gone.
Carrington sauntered slowly down the path to the highroad.
"She didn't ask me to come back—an oversight," he told himself cheerfully.
Just beyond the gates he met that same young fellow he had seen at New
Madrid. Norton nodded good-naturedly as he passed, and Carrington, glancing
back, saw that he turned in at Belle Plain. He shrugged his shoulders, and went
on his way not rejoicing.