Read Ebook: In Jeopardy by Sutphen Van Tassel

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Ebook has 1172 lines and 61050 words, and 24 pages

sixty minutes by the time I had alighted at the little flag station of Crown Ferry.

Not a very inviting place, this shabby way station set in a wilderness of jack-pine and hackberry trees. There was not a soul in sight, outside of the depressed looking individual who served as general utility man and who apparently resented the intrusion of a stranger upon his lonely domain. To my inquiry concerning the possibility of obtaining some sort of conveyance, he returned a monosyllabic "Nope," and he showed not the smallest inclination to give me any real assistance in finding my way to "Hildebrand Hundred"; he pointed out the general direction, with a lean, tobacco-stained finger, and let it go at that.

There was no house in sight, nothing but the two rutted tracks of a sandy country road leading off toward the west and bifurcating itself a couple of hundred yards away from the station--"deepo" in the vernacular. I understood, from the scant information vouchsafed me, that I was to take the left-hand fork, and after prevailing upon the agent, in consideration of two of my choice cigars, to take temporary charge of my kit-bag, I started off on my three-mile tramp.

Once through the belt of scrubby woodland, the appearance of the country began to change for the better, and the further I traveled from the coast line the more rolling and diversified it became. The sand gave place to loam, an improvement in which the highway shared, the fields were neatly fenced, and, with the added attractions of oak and hickory groves, the landscape began to appeal; this was good farming land and a pleasant place of rural residence.

I passed several farm houses, but since the day was unusually cool for the month of June and as I rather enjoyed the exercise of walking, I concluded not to bother about hiring a trap. A farmer whom I encountered, at a cross-roads where there was a little cluster of half a dozen houses, informed me that S. Saviour's Church was distant about a mile; but already it was half after two o'clock and I realized that I should not have time to present myself at the house before the funeral cort?ge started. The obvious procedure was for me to wait at the church until the party from "Hildebrand Hundred" had arrived; I could then introduce myself to Mr. Eldon and be assigned to my proper position among the mourners.

"Or if you like," continued my new acquaintance, "you can save more'n half way to the church by cuttin' across the Thaneford property. You go in by that stile yander," and he pointed a hundred yards down the road.

I felt a trifle doubtful about the propriety of taking a short cut across private grounds, and said as much. "You are quite sure that Mr. Thaneford doesn't object?" I asked.

"Of co'se he objects," declared my rural friend, who now informed me that his name was Greenough and that he was the newly elected sheriff of the county. "He objects powerful. But the Co'te has decided that it's a public right-of-way. And when the law gives a man his rights he's bound to maintain them."

"Why the right-of-way?" I asked.

"A relic of the established church of colonial days," I remarked. "Nowadays no one is obliged to attend S. Saviour's."

"No," admitted the Sheriff, "and I'm a Baptis' myself. But we keep our rights, for nobody knows when we may want to use 'em."

Since Mr. Thaneford was apparently unreconciled to the exercise of ancient ecclesiastical privilege, I was about to say that I, as a stranger, did not propose to become a party to the controversy; but a glance at my watch showed me that I would have to take the short cut if I hoped to reach the church by three o'clock.

"Mr. Graeme's funeral?" inquired Greenough. "Well, he was a good man and a good neighbor. I'd be there myself if I hadn't business at the Co'te-house to look after. Yes, sir, straight ahead and you can't miss the path. Glad to have obliged you, sir; good evening."

Beyond the stile the path ran across a piece of meadow land; thence through a hardwood grove, rising gently to a little plateau upon which the mansion was situated. The house was of the Georgian period with the usual pretentious portico; it seemed badly out of repair and was surrounded by unkempt lawns, paddocks, and gardens. I saw that the path would lead me within a comparatively short distance of the house, and I rather sympathized with the owner's resentment at the invasion of his privacy under cover of law. Yet I must go on, and I quickened my pace so as to get out of sight of the house as quickly as possible.

A powerfully built young man came around the corner of what, in its day, must have been a very considerable glass-house, and confronted me. Not a pleasant face, with its prominent cheekbones and black V of eyebrows furrowing the low, heavy forehead. "What are you doing on this property?" he demanded with a truculency that made me dislike him instantly and completely.

"It's a public right-of-way," I retorted.

"We don't admit that," he said hotly. "The case has been appealed; if necessary, we'll carry it to Washington."

Well what was I to do? I had no desire to get into a dispute with this rustic boor, and yet it was imperative for me to go on if I were to reach the church in time for the service. Much as I disliked the man I must put myself in the position of asking a favor from him.

"I presume that I am addressing Mr. Thaneford?" I began inquiringly.

"I'm John Thaneford--what then?"

"As you see, I am a stranger here. At the Corners I was told that I could take this short cut and so save time and distance in reaching the church."

"Oh, S. Saviour's!"

"Yes. I am a relative of the late Mr. Francis Graeme and came this morning from Philadelphia to attend the funeral."

John Thaneford looked up sharply, the V of eyebrows narrowing. "I didn't know Graeme had any kin in Philadelphia," he said suspiciously. "Or, for that matter, anywhere."

"That may be true so far as the Graeme side of the family is concerned," I rejoined. "My name is Hildebrand."

"Hildebrand!" He stared at me even more intently than before, and I fancied that there was a subtle note of dismay in the ejaculation. I determined to follow up the advantage, if advantage it was.

"Hugh Hildebrand, to be precise," I continued, eyeing him steadily. "We are of the Northern branch, and since the Civil War there has been little or no intercourse with the family of the 'Hundred.'"

"Yet you come to Francis Graeme's funeral. Why?"

My temper flashed up. "And what damned business is that of yours, Mr. John Thaneford!" I snapped out. "Am I to pass or not?"

For an instant he glowered, and I saw the pupils of his coal-black eyes contract to a pin point. Then he took an evident pull upon himself; he spoke with a marked change of demeanor, almost courteously.

"I'm afraid I've been acting rather rudely," he said, and stepped aside out of the path. "But these country bullies have been most annoying of late, insisting upon their so-called rights out of mere, petty spite. It's part of their creed, you know, to hate a gentleman." I nodded. I could see now that John Thaneford was by no means the rustic lout of my first impressions. Not that I liked him any the better, but at least we spoke the same language.

"It's a silly fiction," he went on, "this alleged necessity of access to the parish church. Nowadays, everybody at the Corners goes to the Baptist or Methodist meeting-house, and S. Saviour's congregation is gathered chiefly in the churchyard. Outside the Graeme and Thaneford families there ar'n't more than a dozen regular parishioners, and the church is only opened for service once a month."

"I suppose S. Saviour's is a colonial foundation," I remarked.

"Yes, even to the inevitable Queen Anne Communion plate. But the countryside has changed and the bigger estates have been cut up into small holdings. That always brings in a different set of people. And the old and the new don't mix well."

"Precisely. And so there are empty pews at S. Saviour's."

"More of them every year. A young chap comes over from Lynn the first Sunday in the month and holds service; so I'm told, at least. Otherwise, the church is only opened for weddings, christenings, and funerals; and the latter outnumber both the former. What's the answer?" He laughed cynically.

"It's a pity," I said regretfully. "I always hate to see the old order displaced. But surely if someone took the lead--well, why not yourself?"

"I haven't been inside the building since I used to get whaled for not knowing my catechism. And I've small use for parsons," he continued, dourly.

We walked on in silence, that hostile silence which sooner or later is sure to declare itself between two natures essentially antagonistic. Since John Thaneford and I could not be friends, nor even remain indifferent, we should never have met at all. But the fact had been accomplished and we should have to put up with it; I fell to wondering if he, too, sensed the vague presentiment of future clash and struggle; in the meantime I was uncomfortable; I wanted to get away.

"The original right-of-way turns here," said Thaneford suddenly, "but I can take you across the lawn, and thence it is only a step, through a fir plantation, to the churchyard. Besides, I want you to meet my father; he will be interested in knowing you since the Hildebrands and the Thanefords have been neighbors for seven generations; yes and kin, too, as we reckon such things down here. My mother was a sister of old Richard Hildebrand, and that makes me a second or third cousin of this Francis Graeme, who inherited the family property, although he did not bear the family name. If it were a question of direct descent either you or I might have put in a better claim to the 'Hundred.'" He looked at me slantingly as though to assure himself that the idea had not already presented itself to my mind. I murmured an unintelligible assent; what was coming now?

"And it follows logically that we two are kin. How does that strike you, Cousin Hugh Hildebrand," he added coolly.

"Better than being thrown out as a trespasser," I answered with the most convincing imitation of a smile that I could conjure up. "But I think I ought to be getting along; it's ten minutes to three."

"Remember that you are now south of Mason and Dixon's line," he rejoined, "and time is made only for slaves. But come along," and he led me, inwardly protesting, across the weedy expanse of what had once been a handsome piece of ornamental grass to where an old man sat in a big arm-chair under the shade of the most beautiful white oak that I had ever beheld in my life, an almost perfectly symmetrical ball of limbs and foliage. Then I looked at Fielding Thaneford and straightway forgot about the wonders of inanimate nature.

Certainly a very old man, and yet his skin was of a remarkable texture and quality, apparently as fine and softly pink as that of a baby. The resemblance to an infant was intensified by one distinguishing characteristic of the massive head and features--the total absence of any hirsute adornment; there was not a vestige of hair, beard, eyelashes, or eyebrows, and the effect was singularly repulsive. Yet he did not seem to be afflicted with the ordinary infirmities of senility, for he turned at the slight noise of our approaching footsteps and the eye that scanned me was of a cold, bright blue, indicative of a keen and finely coordinated intelligence.

"Father," said John Thaneford in his hatefully false voice of assumed cordiality, "this is our cousin, Hugh Hildebrand, of Philadelphia."

I fancied that the placid figure in the great chair stiffened slightly at the sound of my name. But otherwise he made no movement or sign, continuing to gaze upon me with those unflinching eyes, as horrible in their total lack of lashes as the optics of a vulture.

"He is here to be present at the funeral of Cousin Francis Graeme." Again that coldly devouring gaze passed over me; involuntarily I shivered and stepped back. What was the impression that was being made upon me? Not of malignancy certainly, nor even of ordinary cold-bloodedness; there was something too detached about this singular personality to suggest any kind of commonplace, healthy passion; if the crater had ever existed it had long since cooled to slag and ashes. There was but one fitting adjective--inhuman. Whatever spirit it was that still held its abode behind that fresh, childlike masque it endured altogether of its own volition and outside the sphere of those blessed, understandable things of our common life. In the world but not of it, if one may use that divine metaphor in its inverted sense. The babe possesses innocence in that it has never come into contact with sin and death, and a man may finally withdraw himself from the defilements of this naughty world and become again as a little child. Yet without repentance and so without grace. Lucifer himself could never assume the role of penitent, but he may easily take front rank as an ethical philosopher. And so Fielding Thaneford and I looked upon one another. Either might have put out a touching hand, and yet a thousand leagues could not have spanned the abyss that separated us. And in that selfsame moment the bell of S. Saviour's began to toll for the passing of him who had been master of "Hildebrand Hundred," and kin, through the blood tie, to one and all of us who waited and listened.

Fielding Thaneford had turned his eyes away, and they were fixed on the road winding far below the plateau on which stood "Thane Court"; in the distance appeared a stately moving cort?ge, the hearses and the carriages containing the mourners; there was a flutter of sable draperies and of funeral plumes; the old man looked, but remained immobile and impassive. With a nod of acknowledgment and farewell to John Thaneford I made my own way down the slope and into the shadow of the plantation of firs. There still remained the faint traces of a path, and presently it led me to the brick wall surrounding the churchyard, a wall built after the curious serpentine pattern generally ascribed to the inventive genius of Thomas Jefferson, and still to be seen at the University of Virginia. A door, painted a dull, faded green, had evidently been the private approach of the Thaneford family in days gone by, but now it was secured by a huge, rusty padlock, and I was obliged to skirt the wall and so reach the open lawn upon which the church faced.

S. Saviour's, with its tiny portico and steeple of distinctly Christopher Wren design, presented an interesting study in colonial architecture. It was built of brick, with solid, white wooden shutters, and the side walls were mantled by a wonderful growth of true English ivy. There was no central entrance, access to the interior being afforded by two side doors at the extreme ends of the portico. The reason for this unusual arrangement became apparent upon entering the church, the shallow chancel, together with the pulpit and lectern, being situated at the front end of the edifice, with the pews facing toward the entrance doors. This made it rather awkward for the late comers, as the laggards were obliged to meet the united gaze of the congregation already seated; also the ladies of S. Saviour's enjoyed exceptional opportunities for appraising the interesting features of their neighbors' costumes. Doubtless this singular reversal of the ordinary ecclesiastical plan had been adopted purposely, so as to carry out the principle of orientation. The church happened to face directly east, and consequently the chancel and sanctuary had to be placed opposite their usual positions, a curious survival of mediaevalism.

Under the trees two or three ancient surreys had been parked, and a glance through the side windows disclosed an audience of perhaps a dozen persons, small farmers of the neighborhood and their wives, people to whom a public function of any nature offered acceptable diversion from the routine of daily life. Of the old-time gentry of the countryside there was not a single representative present; then I literally lost my breath in amazement as John Thaneford brushed past me without a word, strode into the church, and seated himself in a large, square pew, furnished, after the manorial fashion, with carpet, table and chairs; evidently the ecclesiastical freehold of the Thaneford family. Yet why should I feel any particular degree of surprise? The Graemes and the Thanefords were "kin," and it was simple decency that John Thaneford should show his cousin the last tribute of respect; his presence was perfectly natural and proper, and assuredly it was none of my business to either question or resent it. At this moment I became aware that the funeral procession had arrived at the gate, and I took up a convenient position for presenting myself to the attention of Mr. Eldon; I fancied that it would not be a difficult task to identify him.

There were but three coaches in the queue, the first containing the undertaker and his assistants, the second conveying two heavily veiled ladies, presumably the daughter and niece of Francis Graeme; and the third occupied by an elderly couple who could be none other than Mr. and Mrs. Eldon. I stepped forward as the latter party alighted.

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