Should I lapse into the easy-flowing style of the chroniclers of the period of which I write—(and how often has the scribe wished he could)—this chapter would open with the announcement that on this particularly bleak, wintry afternoon a gentleman in the equestrian costume of the day, and mounted upon a well-groomed, high-spirited white horse, might have been seen galloping rapidly up a country lane leading to an old-fashioned manor house.

Such, however, would not cover the facts. While the afternoon was certainly wintry, and while the rider was unquestionably a gentleman, he was by no manner of means attired in velveteen coat and russet-leather boots with silver spurs, his saddle-bags strapped on behind, but in a rough and badly worn sailor's suit, his free hand grasping a bundle carried loose on his pommel. As to the horse neither the immortal James or any of his school could truthfully picture this animal as either white or high-spirited. He might, it is true, have been born white and would in all probability have stayed white but for the many omissions and commissions of his earlier livery stable training—traces of which could still be found in his scraped sides and gnawed mane and tail; he might also have once had a certain commendable spirit had not the ups and downs of road life—and they were pretty steep outside Kennedy Square—taken it out of him.

It is, however, when I come to the combination of horse and rider that I can with entire safety lapse into the flow of the old chroniclers. For whatever Harry had forgotten in his many experiences since he last threw his leg over Spitfire, horsemanship was not one of them. He still rode like a Cherokee and still sat his mount like a prince.

He had had an anxious and busy morning. With the first streak of dawn he had written a long letter to his Uncle George, in which he told him of his arrival; of his heart-felt sorrow at what Pawson had imparted and of his leaving immediately, first for Wesley and then Craddock, as soon as he found out how the land lay at Moorlands. This epistle he was careful to enclose in another envelope, which he directed to Justice Coston, with instructions to forward it with “the least possible delay” to Mr. Temple, who was doubtless at Craddock, “and who was imperatively needed at home in connection with some matters which required his immediate personal attention,” and which enclosure, it is just as well to state, the honorable justice placed inside the mantel clock, that being the safest place for such precious missives, at least until the right owner should appear.

This duly mailed, he had returned to the Sailors' House, knocked at the door of the upstairs room in which, through his generosity, the street vendor lay sleeping, and after waking him up and becoming assured that the man was in real distress, had bought at twice their value the China silks which had caused the disheartened pedler so many weary hours of tramping. These he had tucked under his arm and carried away.

The act was not alone due to his charitable instincts. A much more selfish motive influenced him. Indeed the thought came to him in a way that had determined him to attend to his mail at early dawn and return at sunrise lest the owner should disappear and take the bundle with him. The silks were the very things he needed to help him solve one of his greatest difficulties. He would try, as the sailor-pedler had done, to sell them in the neighborhood of Moorlands—(a common practice in those days)—and in this way might gather up the information of which he was in search. Pawson had not known him—perhaps the others would not: he might even offer the silks to his father without being detected.

With this plan clearly defined in his mind, he had walked into a livery stable near the market, but a short distance from his lodgings, with the silks in a bundle and after looking the stock over had picked out this unprepossessing beast as best able to take him to Moorlands and back between sunrise and dark.

As he rode on, leaving the scattered buildings of the town far behind, mounting the hills and then striking the turnpike—every rod of which he could have found in the dark—his thoughts, like road-swallows, skimmed each mile he covered. Here was where he had stopped with Kate when her stirrup broke; near the branches of that oak close to the ditch marking the triangle of cross-roads he had saved his own and Spitfire's neck by a clear jump that had been the talk of the neighborhood for days. On the crest of this hill—the one he was then ascending—his father always tightened up the brakes on his four-in-hand, and on the slope beyond invariably braced himself in his seat, swung his whip, and the flattened team swept on and down, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake that blurred the road for minutes thereafter.

When noon came he dismounted at a farmer's out-building beside the road—he would not trust the public-houses—fed and watered his horse, rubbed him down himself, and after an hour's rest pushed on toward the fork in the road to Moorlands. Beyond this was a cross-path that led to the outbarns and farm stables—a path bordered by thick bushes and which skirted a fence in the rear of the manor house itself. Here he intended to tie his steed and there he would mount him again should his mission fail.

The dull winter sky had already heralded the dusk—it was near four o'clock in the afternoon—when he passed some hayricks where a group of negroes were at work. One or two raised their heads and then, as if reassured, resumed their tasks. This encouraged him to push on the nearer—he had evidently been mistaken for one of the many tradespeople seeking his father's overseer, either to sell tools or buy produce.

Tying the horse close to the fence—so close that it could not be seen from the house—he threw the bundle of silks over his shoulder and struck out for the small office in the rear. Here the business of the estate was transacted, and here were almost always to be found either the overseer or one of his assistants—both of them white. These men were often changed, and his chance, therefore, of meeting a stranger was all the more likely.

As he approached the low sill of the door which was level with the ground, and which now stood wide open, he caught the glow of a fire and could make out the figure of a man seated at a desk bending over a mass of papers. The man pushed back a green shade which had protected his eyes from the glare of a lamp and peered out at him.

It was his father!

The discovery was so unexpected and had come with such suddenness—it was rarely in these later days that the colonel was to be found here in the afternoon: he was either riding or receiving visitors—that Harry's first thought was to shrink back out of sight, or, if discovered, to make some excuse for his intrusion and retire. Then his mind changed and he stepped boldly in. This was what he had come for and this was what he would face.

“I have some China silks to sell,” he said in his natural tone of voice, turning his head so that while his goods were in sight his face would be in shadow.

“Silks! I don't want any silks! Who allowed you to pass in here? Alec!” He pushed back his chair and moved to the door. “Alec! Where the devil is Alec! He's always where I don't want him!”

“I saw no one to ask, sir,” Harry replied mechanically. His father's appearance had sent a chill through him; he would hardly have known him had he met him on the street. Not only did he look ten years older, but the injury to his sight caused him to glance sideways at any one he addressed, completely destroying the old fearless look in his eyes.

“You never waited to ask! You walk into my private office unannounced and—” here he turned the lamp to see the better. “You're a sailor, aren't you?” he added fiercely—a closer view of the intruder only heightening his wrath.

“Yes, sir—I'm a sailor,” replied Harry simply, his voice dying in his throat as he summed up the changes that the years had wrought in the colonel's once handsome, determined face—thinner, more shrunken, his mustache and the short temple-whiskers almost white.

For an instant his father crumpled a wisp of paper he was holding between his fingers and thumb; and then demanded sharply, but with a tone of curiosity, as if willing the intruder should tarry a moment while he gathered the information:

“How long have you been a sailor?”

“I am just in from my last voyage.” He still kept in the shadow although he saw his father had so far failed to recognize him. The silks had been laid on a chair beside him.

“That's not what I asked you. How long have you been a sailor?” He was scanning his face now as best he could, shifting the green shade that he might see the better.

“I went to sea three years ago.”

“Three years, eh? Where did you go?”

The tone of curiosity had increased. Perhaps the next question would lead up to some basis on which he could either declare himself or lay the foundation of a declaration to be made the next day—after he had seen his mother and Alec.

“To South America. Para was my first port,” he answered simply, wondering why he wanted to know.

“That's not far from Rio?” He was still looking sideways at him, but there was no wavering in his gaze.

“No, not far—Rio was our next stopping place. We had a hard voyage and put in to—”

“Do you know a young man by the name of Rutter—slim man with dark hair and eyes?” interrupted his father in an angry tone.

Harry started forward, his heart in his mouth, his hands upraised, his fingers opening. It was all he could do to restrain himself. “Don't you know me, father?” was trembling on his lips. Then something in the sound of the colonel's voice choked his utterance. Not now, he thought, mastering his emotion—a moment more and he would tell him.

“I have heard of him, sir,” he answered when he recovered his speech, straining his ears to catch the next word.

“Heard of him, have you? So has everybody else heard of him—a worthless scoundrel who broke his mother's heart; a man who disgraced his family—a gentleman turned brigand—a renegade who has gone back on his blood! Tell him so if you see him! Tell him I said so; I'm his father, and know! No—I don't want your silks—don't want anything that has to do with sailormen. I am busy—please go away. Don't stop to bundle them up—do that outside,” and he turned his back and readjusted the shade over his eyes.

Harry's heart sank, and a cold faintness stole through his frame. He was not angry nor indignant. He was stunned.

Without a word in reply he gathered up the silks from the chair, tucked them under his arm, and replacing his cap stepped outside into the fast approaching twilight. Whatever the morrow might bring forth, nothing more could be done to-day. To have thrown himself at his father's feet would only have resulted in his being driven from the grounds by the overseer, with the servants looking on—a humiliation he could not stand.

As he stood rolling the fabrics into a smaller compass, a gray-haired negro in the livery of a house servant passed hurriedly and entered the door of the office. Instantly his father's voice rang out:

“Where the devil have you been, Alec? How many times must I tell you to look after me oftener. Don't you know I'm half blind and—No—I don't want any more wood—I want these vagabonds kept off my grounds. Send Mr. Grant to me at once, and don't you lose sight of that man until you have seen him to the main road. He says he is a sailor—and I've had enough of sailors, and so has everybody else about here.”

The negro bowed and backed out of the room. No answer of any kind was best when the colonel was in one of his “tantrums.”

“I reckon I hab to ask ye, sah, to quit de place—de colonel don't 'low nobody to—” he said politely.

Harry turned his face aside and started for the fence. His first thought was to drop his bundle and throw his arms around Alec's neck; then he realized that this would be worse than his declaring himself to his father—he could then be accused of attempting deception by the trick of a disguise. So he hurried on to where his horse was tied—his back to Alec, the bundle shifted to his left shoulder that he might hide his face the better until he was out of sight of the office, the old man stumbling on, calling after him:

“No, dat ain't de way. Yer gotter go down de main road; here, man—don't I tell yer dat ain't de way.”

Harry had now gained the fence and had already begun to loosen the reins when Alec, out of breath and highly indignant over the refusal to carry out his warning, reached his side.

“You better come right back f'om whar ye started,” the old negro puffed; “ye can't go dat way or dey'll set de dogs on ye.” Here his eyes rested on the reins and forelock. “What! you got a horse an' you—”

Harry turned and laid his hand on the old servant's shoulder. He could hardly control his voice:

“Don't you know me, Alec? I'm Harry!”

The old man bent down, peered into Harry's eyes, and with a quick spring forward grabbed him by both shoulders.

“You my Marse Harry!—you!” His breath was gone now, his whole body in a tremble, his eyes bulging from his head.

“Yes, Alec, Harry! It's only the beard. Look at me! I didn't want my father to see us—that's why I kept on.”

The old servant threw up his hands and caught his young master around the neck. For some seconds he could not speak.

“And de colonel druv ye out!” he gasped. “Oh, my Gawd! my Gawd! And ye ain't daid, and ye come back home ag'in.” He was sobbing now, his head on the exile's shoulder, Harry's arms about him—patting his bent back. “But yer gotter go back, Marse Harry,” he moaned. “He ain't 'sponsible these days. He didn't know ye! Come 'long, son; come back wid ol' Alec; please come, Marse Harry. Oh, Gawd! ye GOTTER come!”

“No, I'll go home to-night—another day I'll—”

“Ye ain't got no home but dis, I tell ye! Go tell him who ye is—lemme run tell him. I won't be a minute. Oh! Marse Harry, I can't let ye go! I been dat mizzable widout ye. I ain't neber got over lovin' ye!”

Here a voice from near the office broke out. In the dusk the two could just make out the form of the colonel, who was evidently calling to some of his people. He was bareheaded and without his shade.

“I've sent Alec to see him safe off the grounds. You go yourself, Mr. Grant, and follow him into the highroad; remember that after this I hold you responsible for these prowlers.”

The two had paused while the colonel was speaking, Harry, gathering the reins in his hand, ready to vault into the saddle, and Alec, holding on to his coat-sleeves hoping still to detain him.

“I haven't a minute more—quick, Alec, tell me how my mother is.”

“She's middlin' po'ly, same's ever; got great rings under her eyes and her heart's dat heaby makes abody cry ter look at 'er. But she ain't sick, jes' griebin' herse'f to death. Ain't yer gwineter stop and see 'er? May be I kin git ye in de back way.”

“Not now—not here. Bring her to Uncle George's house to-morrow about noon, and I will be there. Tell her how I look, but don't tell her what my father has done. And now tell me about Miss Kate—how long since you saw her? Is she married?”

Again the colonel's voice was heard; this time much nearer—within hailing distance. He and the overseer were evidently approaching the fence; some of the negroes had doubtless apprised them of the course of Harry's exit.

Alec turned quickly to face his master, and Harry, realizing that his last moment had come, swung himself into the saddle. If Alec made any reply to his question it was lost in the clatter of hoofs as both horse and man swept down the by-path. In another moment they had gained the main road, the rider never breaking rein until he had reached the farm-house where he had fed and watered his horse some hours before.

Thirty-odd miles out and back was not a long ride for a hired horse in these days over a good turnpike with plenty of time for resting—and he had as many breathing spells as gallops, for Harry's moods really directed his gait. Once in a while he would give him his head, the reins lying loose, the horse picking his way in a walk. Then the bitterness of his father's words and how undeserved they were, and how the house of cards his hopes had built up had come tumbling down about his ears at the first point of contact would rush over him, and he would dig his heels into the horse's flanks and send him at full gallop through the night along the pale ribbon of a road barely discernible in the ghostly dark. When, however, Alec's sobs smote his ear, or the white face of his mother confronted him, the animal would gradually slacken his pace and drop into a walk.

Dominated by these emotions certain fixed resolutions at last took possession of him: He would see his mother at once, no matter at what cost—even if he defied his father—and then he would find his uncle. Whether he would board the next vessel heaving port and return to his work in the mountains, or whether he would bring his uncle back from Craddock and the two, with his own vigorous youth and new experience of the world, fight it out together as they had once done before, depended on what St. George advised. Now that Kate's marriage was practically decided upon, one sorrow—and his greatest—was settled forever. Any others that were in store for him he would meet as they came.

With his mind still intent on these plans he rode at last into the open door of the small courtyard of the livery stable and drew rein under a swinging lantern. It was past ten at night, and the place was deserted, except by a young negro who advanced to take his horse. Tossing the bridle aside he slipped to the ground.

“He's wet,” Harry said, “but he's all right. Let him cool off gradually, and don't give him any water until he gets dry. I'll come in to-morrow and pay your people what I owe them.”

The negro curry-combed his fingers down the horse's flanks as if to assure himself of his condition, and in the movement brought his face under the glare of the overhead light.

Harry grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him round.

“Todd—you rascal! What are you doing here? Why are you not down on the Eastern Shore?” His astonishment was so intense that for an instant he could not realize he had the right man.

The negro drew back. He was no runaway slave, and he didn't intend to be taken for one—certainly not by a man as rough and suspicious looking as the one before him.

“How you know my name, man?” He was nervous and scared half out of his wits. More than one negro had been shanghaied in that way and smuggled off to sea.

“Know you! I'd know you among a thousand. Have you, too, deserted your master?” He still held him firmly by the collar of his coat, his voice rising with his wrath. “Why have you left him? Answer me.”

For an instant the negro hesitated, leaned forward, and then with a burst of joy end out:

“You ain't!—Fo' Gawd it is! Dat beard on ye, Marse Harry, done fool me—but you is him fo' sho. Gor-a-mighty! ain't I glad ye ain't daid. Marse George say on'y yisterday you was either daid or sick dat ye didn't write an'—”

“Said yesterday! Why, is he at home?”

“HOME! Lemme throw a blanket over dis hoss and tie him tell we come back. Oh, we had a heap o' mis'ry since ye went away—a heap o' trouble. Nothin' but trouble! You come 'long wid me—'tain't far; des around de corner. I'll show ye sompin' make ye creep all over. An' it ain't gettin' no better—gettin' wuss. Dis way, Manse Harry. You been 'cross de big water, ain't ye? Dat's what I heared. Aunt Jemima been mighty good, but we can't go on dis way much longer.”

Still talking, forging ahead in the darkness through the narrow street choked with horseless drays, Todd swung into a dingy yard, mounted a flight of rickety wooden steps, and halted at an unpainted door. Turning the knob softly he beckoned silently to Harry, and the two stepped into a small room lighted by a low lamp placed on the hearth, its rays falling on a cot bed and a few chairs. Beside a cheap pine table sat Aunt Jemima, rocking noiselessly. The old woman raised her hand in warning and put her fingers to her lips.

On the bed, with the coverlet drawn close under his chin, lay his Uncle George!