He responded pleasantly--for he had become familiar with such moods--that he had found a new romance which he would read. It was not a long story, but a thrilling one, and based upon the simple narrative of Joseph in bondage. The outline was true, the details were fabulous, and the old lady marvelled that a theme so trite could be so well embellished. He read far into the night, and she bade him leave the book upon her table, that she might peruse it again.

"It is ma.n.u.script," he said, "and this is the only copy."

"Why, Paul," she said, "how came you by it?"

"I wrote it myself."

Paul was indeed the author, having filled in the sorrows of his hero from his own experiences. Mrs. Everett was loud in its praises; she was sure that it indicated genius, and she lay awake that night meditating an act of charity and of justice. She would make a free man of Paul, and he should find in far lands that equality which he could not obtain in his own. They would journey together. He should have means and advantages, and become her protege and heir. But the strong self-love defeated this resolve. If Paul were not bound to her by law, he might forsake her, and she could not bear to lose him, for he had become a part of her heart; but when she broached the matter, Paul gave his parole never to leave her without consent.

He was still a slave, with the taint of a trampled race in his blood, and he said nothing to Mrs. Everett of his origin. They crossed the seas; they dwelt in pleasant places, beneath soft skies; and Paul grew in knowledge. But his patron was still hara.s.sed by some deep remorse.

She hurried him from city to city like the fabled apostate, and at length fell sick in London, on the eve of their return to America.

Paul gleaned from her ravings in delirium the cause of her unrest.

Wait had made known to her on the night of his decease the secret of the young man's origin, and had conjured her to do justice to the lad.

Her self-love had deterred her in consummating this duty, and conscience had therefore tortured her. She was enabled to reach New York, where she left the preacher's son the bulk of her property, and received his grat.i.tude and forgiveness before she died.

Paul was free--haunted no longer by premonitions of future suffering; and his first impulse was to return to the Eastern sh.o.r.e and discover his desolate parents. His recollections of them were imperfect. He preserved many trifling circ.u.mstances, though more important events were forgotten; but as he made his way to the old village his heart beat high. There were the negro quarters, the cornfields, the twisting fences, and, at last, the shady stone parsonage--recollections they seemed of objects beheld in a foggy dream. They directed him to the Methodist Church--a prim, square structure in the centre of the village--a tavern on one side, a court-house and market on the other; and when the s.e.xton threw open a window, the bleared light fell upon a marble slab set in the wall:

"Near this spot lie the remains of REV. t.i.tUS BATES, for two years Pastor of this Congregation, and of PEGGY, his Wife.

'They have ceased from their labors, and their works do follow them.'"

Paul's hopes fell. He walked through the village friendless, and, impelled by his swift-coming fancies, strolled far into the suburbs.

A crowd was collected round a squalid negro cabin, and, less by interest than by instinct, he bent his steps toward it.

"What is the matter, friend?" he asked of a bystander.

"The boys hez scented kidnappers to this shanty," answered the man; "and by doggy! they going to trap 'em!"

The mob seemed to be fearfully incensed as Paul pushed close to the scene. There were said to be two of the man-stealers, both of whom had been very daring and successful. He heard their names called as Peter Gettis and Dave Goule, and the opinion was expressed that the first-named would not yield without a desperate struggle. The mob was hot and clamorous, and while a selected committee entered the den to search it, the rest brandished clubs and knives, and yelled for justice and blood. Word came at length that the kidnappers were concealed beneath the floor of the cabin; and at the hint, a score of stalwart fellows began to pull up the planks, while their a.s.sociates formed a wide circle around, prepared to prevent escape.

Finally, the cry arose: "Here they air! This is them! Drag 'em out!

Whoo-oop!"

The men within the cabin rushed through the doors and windows as if pursued, and a stalwart negro, with bloodshot eyes, almost naked, and flourishing a huge knife, staggered to the threshold, and glared fiercely round him.

The circle stood firm; some were clubbing their cudgels, others lifting their blades, and here and there along the line rang out the click of a pistol.

"Come, Pete," cried one of the ringleaders; "you're treed, Pete! Don't be a fool, but give yourself in."

The negro gnashed his teeth, and his wild eyes glared like coals of fire.

"Do you give me faih-play?" he bellowed, extending the knife.

"Yes, Pete, yes," answered the mult.i.tude.

"Then look heah," answered the wretch, drawing his knife across his throat. He staggered into the air like an ox, cursing as he came. They parted to avoid him, and as he reached a fence, a few rods from the cabin, he leaned upon it, and swaying to and fro, raised his horrible eyes to the sky.

Paul recognized his ancient captor with a thrill and a silent prayer.

Vengeance had come in His own good time, and Paul felt no bitterness toward the poor fellow, but prayed forgiveness for his slipping soul.

The second offender burrowed so remotely that the mob could not drag him from his covert. They struck at him with knives, and hired dogs to creep beneath the logs and rend him, but in vain. At length one of the ringleaders obtained a torch, and the cabin was fired in several places. The flames spouted into the night, bursting from the small windows, and the roof fell in with a crash, scattering ashes and red-hot coals. They could hear the shriek of the victim now, and he was seen dancing among the fire-brands, for the blaze encircled him like an impa.s.sable wall. He made a desperate rush at length to overleap the fire, and his figure, magnified by the red light, looked gigantic as he sprang high in the air. A dozen pistols clattered together--the man fell heavily forward, tossing up his scorched hands, and the frizzing, cracking timbers closed darkly above him to the thunder of his executioners' huzzas.

Paul did not reveal himself. He left the village stealthily, and journeyed northward. Years afterwards a name was added to the tablet in the old church:

"Here lie also the Remains of the REV. PAUL BATES.

'He went about doing good.'"

THE JUDGE'S LAST TUNE.

The Judge took down his fiddle, And put his feet on the stove, And heaved a sigh from his middle That might have been fat, or love; He leaned his head on the mantel, And bent his ear to the strings, And the tender chords awakened The echoes of many things.

The Bar had enjoyed the measure, The Bench and Senate had been Amused at the simple pleasure He drew from his violin; But weary of power and duty, He had laid them down with a sigh, Exhausted of life the beauty, And he fiddled he knew not why.

In the days when pa.s.sion budded, And she in the churchyard lain Came over his books as he studied With an exquisite pang of pain, He played to his sons their mother's Old favorites ere she wed; Those tunes, like hundreds of others, Were requiems of the dead.

They lay in the kirk's inclosure: All three, in the shadows dim, In a cenotaph's cynosure That waited for only him, Who sat with his fiddle tuning On the spot where his fame was won, On the empty world communing, Without a wife or a son.

And he drew his bow so plaintive And loud, like a human cry, That the light of the shutter darkened From somebody pa.s.sing by.

A young man peeped at the pensive Great man, so familiar known; His features, if inoffensive, Were like to the judge's own.

"Come in," cried the politician-- "Come not," his soul would have said-- "Thou bringest to me a vision Of a sin ere thy mother wed, When I, wild boy from college, Her humble desert o'ercame, And we hid the guilty knowledge Beneath thy father's name."

The youth delayed no longer, His sense of music strong, Nor knew of his mother's wronger, Nor that she had known a wrong; Deep in the grave the secret Her husband might never guess.

He stood before his father With a loyal gentleness.

"What tune, fair boy, desirest My old friend's worthy son?-- Say but what thou requirest, And for father's sake 'tis done."

"Oh! Judge, our State's defender, Whose life has all been power, Play me the tune most tender, When thou felt thy greatest hour!"

The old man thought a minute, Irresolutely stirred, As if his fiddle's humor Changed like a mocking-bird; Then, as his tears came raining Upon the plaintive chords, He played the invitation To the sinner, of his Lord's.

"Come, poor and needy sinners, And weak and sick, and sore, The patient Jesus lingers To draw you through the door."

It was a tune remembered From old revival nights, In crowded country churches, Where dimly blew the lights.

And boys grew superst.i.tious To hear the mourners wail.

The great man, self-degraded, So sighed his contrite tale In notes that failed for sobbing, To feel Heaven's sentence well, That took away his Isaac And blessed the Ishmael.

Low in the tomb of glory The old man's ashes lie-- Unuttered this my story, Unwritten to human eye; And the young man, blessed and blessing, Walks over the shady town, The evil pa.s.sions repressing, And his head bent humbly down.

Perhaps he marvels why treasure Of the judge to his credit is set, And an old revival measure Should have been the statesman's pet.

But he hears the invitation, And sees the streaming eyes Of the old man lost to the nation, And forgiven beyond the skies.