University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.

Vernon retired early to his couch, which stood,
with that of Horsey, in an adjoining shed-room.
He was pleased to find clean white homespun
sheets allotted him; and looking around the apartment,
involuntarily congratulated himself that so
tidy a damsel as Mary Stinson made up the beds
and aired the chambers. Clear water in a clean
white goblet stood on a chair—for there was no
other washstand—on the back of which hung a
couple of towels of coarse homespun, bleached by
long use and good washing to a whiteness like
that of the sheets. These little matters attested
some larger degree of civilization than the externals
of the mansion had prepared him to expect;
and were the fruits, most probably, of better days
and associations, which Mrs. Yarbers had brought
with her from the lower country. Certainly they
were only becoming features in one who had traded
so long in cakes and beer to the common satisfaction.
Yarbers himself appeared to be a slovenly, coarse
creature, to whom the neatness of a household was
not likely to be an early subject of consideration.
It was fully an hour after Vernon had retired before

Horsey followed his example. He sat up talking
with the hostess, to whom his sudden re-appearance
after so long an interval had brought back as many
associations as her ancient features had awakened
in him; and the ball of conversation, so busied were
they mutually in asking and answering questions,
was seldom suffered to fall for more than a single
moment in all that space of time. It would be difficult
to say whether the old lady took any special
pleasure in the chat of the individual in question. It
is more than probable she would have found the
same in that of any other young person who had
presented himself at the close of day, and begged a
shelter for the night. Age likes to enliven itself with
the fires of youth, as the venerable monarch of
Israel became conscious of a living warmth from
the embraces of the young maidens who were
placed beside him for that purpose. It seems like
the pouring of new mountain-streams into exhausted
channels, and impelling into consciousness and motion
the choked and stagnant fountains of life. The
heart grows young in the contemplation of youth,
and a momentary forgetfulness of its own decay is
the consequence of that revivification of memory
which confounds the past with the present; or
rather, sends the mind back from the bleak eminence
of age which it has reached, and where it stands
stiff and frozen, to the green and flowery valleys
below, from which it has risen at first, but to which,
save by the aid of memory, it can never, never
more return. There may have been, indeed, some
little occult policy in the gracious demeanour of
Mrs. Yarbers to the dashing and good-natured
actor. She was not without that social instinct
which is called cunning, and did not fail to recollect
that Tom Horsey's father was one of the staunchest
proprietors in all Hindes county. It had not escaped
her eye that her old customer for cakes and
beer was really very much taken with the appearance
of her lovely daughter, and here, to use the
phrase of the sea-logician was a “concatenation
accordingly.” Perhaps, were it our cue to prosecute
this inquiry still farther at this moment, it were
not difficult to find strong sanction for the suspicion
which is here presented to the mind of the reader;
but this might be anticipating other passages.
Enough to say, that Mrs. Yarbers was not pleased
with her husband, with his relations, and her own
position; and, as a mother, regarded the existing
influences of the latter as highly detrimental to the
fortunes of a child whom she loved, naturally and
necessarily, as a mother should; but to whom she
gave additional regard, as, contemplating her
through the medium of her pride, she saw in her
beauty a possession which lifted her heart, and
warmed her vanity, and made it a sorrow in her
mind when she reflected that such charms were
destined to ripen in the shade, and, like the fruits
of the untrodden forest, to ripen unprofitably without
eye to admire or lip to taste. This was a
subject upon which her mind was apt to brood,
and it need not occasion wonder to be told that the
instincts of one brooding thus, would not be unlikely
to result in practices not very dissimilar to
those of the professedly managing mother in communities
of more artifice and fashion. From the
first moment when Horsey declared himself and
renewed his old acquaintance with her, the fancy
had floated in her mind that his coming was a
special providence; and this fancy, fixed firmly at
last, she resolved to lend all her powers to the
consummation of the thing she wished. With this
resolution, Mary was suffered to sit up long beyond
the usual hour, listening to a conversation
which, enlivened by playful remarks and pleasant
anecdotes on the part of the actor, was very
agreeable to a young creature who had as yet
seen nothing of the world; and the mother even
assumed the performance of many of those tasks
which in ordinary periods were commonly allotted
to her daughter, that there might be no obstacle
offered to the formation of an intimacy between
the two which promised to realize her desires, and
which, so far, had advanced with tolerable rapidity.
The absence of her husband was favourable to her
plans; and, it may be, that some impulse was derived
for their provocation, from the fact that they
were calculated to interfere with his. He, too, had
purposes in view for the damsel—though not his
daughter—which were something less than agreeable
to the mother; and the open avowal of his
preference in behalf of young Mabry had been
the signal for her declared hostility to his pretension.
Thus matters stood at the period of which
we write.

When Horsey retired from the hall, which he had
not thought to do until Mary disappeared, and
certain admonitory yawns from the mother denoted
that condition of declining consciousness which
could not long do full justice to his good stories and
choice quotations, Yarbers had not returned. But
Horsey had been but few minutes in his chamber before
the outer door of the dwelling was heard to unclose
and his heavy tread sounded along the floor. He
had challenged his companion's attention the moment
he entered the room, but the latter had discouraged
him, by declaring a very carnal desire
for sleep—an excuse which, at that moment, the
buoyant actor was unwilling to regard as worthy
a single consideration; and he rattled on without
intermission for awhile, until, undressed and buried

in the sheets, the animal obtained the ascendency,
and his tongue, taking advantage of the circumstance,
assigned the task of declaring his whereabouts
to that distinguished member his nose, the
extraordinary industry and capacity of which was
soon a matter of general notoriety. To this moment
Vernon had not closed his eyes. His mind
was just in that condition of quickening cogitation
when, yet unpossessed of its definite purpose, it
compares plans, analyzes its resources and dependencies,
and from pregnant and critical doubts conceives
and gathers hopes and resolutions. There
was much in the position of Vernon to keep him
watchful, and the smallest unusual event was calculated
to make his blood bound, and his fancy spring
into activity. Thus, after Yarbers' return to the
cottage, and while he meditated a thousand different
courses of conduct for the better prosecution of his
leading object, his ear, quickened by thought, under
the influence of an imagination warmed and
strengthened by the drowsy midnight horn that
sounded throughout the world of silence, caught
the sudden baying of a beagle, and a crowd of
suspicious fancies thronged upon him. Once, twice,
thrice, the loud, deep, prolonged note sounded faintly
through the apartment, and then the footstep of Yarbers
was again heard, slowly crossing the floor
from the rear to the entrance of the house. The
lifting of the latch followed, the door was opened,
and again closed. Silence succeeded for a moment;
then arose a stunning bay from the hound, almost at
the threshhold of the dwelling, a prolonged note
like that which had awakened the attention of Vernon
a few moments before. This was singular
enough. There were evidently no dogs of any kind
about the premises at the first coming of the travellers,
and though they might afterwards have come
home with the master of the house, yet it was highly
improbable that such had been the case, else wherefore
had they seen nothing of them when they sallied
forth to the meeting already described of Horsey
with Mabry? Besides, it was scarcely possible
that a farmer on the outskirts of the then Mississippi
border, should so carefully exclude his dogs from
the same apartment with himself. Vernon was in
the mood to conjecture a thousand strange matters,
and to convert into causes of suspicion many things
that might be innocent enough. To one in his situation,
and with his objects, this was sufficiently proper;
and the occasion for his excitation in the present instance
was well founded. The beagles that were in
the wood then, run not on four legs; and the last sound
that reached his ears, issuing from the lungs of Yarbers,
was an annunciation to a companion that the
coast was clear. Under the shade of a spreading
oak, a hundred yards from his dwelling, he was
joined by no less a person than our old acquaintance,
Saxon.

“You have lodgers, Jack?” demanded the outlaw
in the first moment of their meeting.

“Two chaps from below—one a quiet, sober,
silent sort of person, the other a fellow all tongue.
His name's Horsey,—he's—”

“No matter. I know them both. As for Horsey,
it's a misfortune he's along. He may be in the way.
Hawkins put some nonsense in that fellow's head,
and I fear has only thrust him in our path. The
other must be seen to.”

“Ha! What is he?”

“A spy, I reckon. Such is our suspicion. He's
in with the governor, and they have had some talk
about an ugly business which concerns us. The
only good feature in the thing is, that they do not
know exactly which way to turn themselves, or who

to trust. What they know leads them to apprehend
a great deal of which they know nothing, and much
more than is the truth. What this youth knows is
our question. We must touch his wallet. You must
manage that to-night.”

“Has he money, think you?”

“Nay, that is no object now; besides, I doubt he
has little. He is a poor young lawyer that the
governor has tempted with promises of a great reward
for every beagle that he can collar. Our object
is to get hold of his papers, and see what names
he has down. We know that certain papers of Mat
Webber fell into their hands at that ugly business on
the Black Warrior; and the confessions of that
traitor, Eberly, if he made any, might give them
clues enough to our most secret operations. That
this fellow, Vernon, is employed by the state, I
have no sort of doubt,—but there's no telling to
what extent—what are the powers given him, or
what is the object he aims at. These we must
learn. His papers we must handle, and you must
contrive it if you can to-night, or the work will be
more troublesome to-morrow. Have you found out
what course he takes?”

“To Beatie's Bluff, if he himself is to be believed;
but the other lark told Betsy a different story, and
said that they were both for the lower ford, on the
route to Benton.”

“And how's Bess now—has she got over her
humours? Does she still continue to suspect you?”

“Worse than ever; and Mabry is also very
troublesome.”

“But have you not given him your daughter—
will not that stop his mouth?”

“It would, I make no doubt, could my giving be
his having. But the old woman's stubborn as a
mule, the girl herself dislikes him, and this evening

there was a strange blow out, that has made the
chap furious as a wild beast—all tongue and wrath,
and no reason.”

“Ha! what was the matter?”

“Well, you see, it so happened, that the old woman
know'd this young man, Horsey, when he was
only a little bit of a boy, some where down on Pearl
River. Well, when they struck up the acquaintance
between 'em, what should the fellow do, but, to make
it fast, he ups and goes for kissing Mary, and for
any thing I know, the old woman too. Just at the
time when he was about it, and pushing Mary, who
was frightened enough, I warrant, all round the
room, we came in, Mabry and myself; and before
we could put in or say a word, Mabry jumps
forward, and clips the stranger side of his head and
tumbles him over like a log. There was a great
to-do after that. The old woman set all the water
in the house a-boiling, and it got quite too hot for
Ned. He started off and I followed him, and while
we were talking together under the trees, who
should come up but these two fellows. Horsey
followed to get satisfaction for the blow, which,
it was surprising to me, he took so lightly at first.
He thought better of it afterwards, however, and
did better, for, I tell you, he handled poor Ned in
two minutes in a way that's a caution. He
downed him, a fair stupid down—Ned rolled about
like a drunken bullock, and got mighty sick with
both eyes shut up, and a great retching at his stomach.
I had tight work to keep him steady on his
nag and get him safely home. Since then, when he
recovered, he's been in a mighty crooked humour.
He swears that I don't want he should have the
girl—that I'm only playing 'possum, and half believes
that I set this fellow, Horsey, on to beat him,

though nobody could have been more willing for
the fight at first than Mabry himself.”

“Does he threaten?”

“A little squinting that way, though he don't
speak out plainly. But he'd threaten and tell too, if
so be he thought I was only shamming in the business
with Mary.”

“You must run it through then, as fast as possible.
He will scarcely speak any thing to your
discredit, if he was once married to your daughter.”

“No! But that's the worry. The old woman's
hot ag'in him. She thinks Mary meat for his
master; and I do really believe she fancies to
marry her to a colonel or some great lawyer, or
maybe to a member of Congress. She always
rides a high horse when she talks about Mary.”

“But the girl herself?”

“Likes him no better than Bess. He stands but
little chance with either of them.”

“But if Bess approved, would not that help his
chance with Mary?”

“Why, yes; but that's the swamp—worse than
the Big Black—which I can't manage to cross no
how.”

“Why not make Mabry a colonel? The thing
might very easily be done. You can beat up and
bring in stray votes enough to turn the election, if
the fellow could do any thing for himself. We
must manage this matter hereafter. For this other
fellow, now—”

“Vernon?”

“Yes,—of course you know which bed he sleeps
in. Did you give an eye to his portmanteau?”

“It's in the room with him—I put it myself by the
chimney. You don't mean to—”

Yarbers paused, and looked vacantly in the

other's face leaving the sentence unfinished. Saxon
smiled after a moment's hesitation, and replied—

“You are afraid to have more work on your
hands than was stipulated for. Be under no concern.
We shall avoid blood-spilling and violence,
as a general good policy, which is the more important
to observe now when we are under partial
suspicion already. All that we ask of you is to find
out what he carries. You must get his papers; and
this you can do, I trust, without difficulty. You
have the old trap in the floor by which to enter, and
this key will open any portmanteau-lock that was
ever sold in Mississippi. As for his life, that is the
least consideration so long as we know his game.
There is more chance of Mabry growing troublesome
than him, and you may yet find it necessary
to work with cold steel upon him. Make him a
colonel, and if that doesn't bring Brown Bess to
favour him, we must bribe him to good breeding in
another way.”

“It'll be hard work. I never seed a fellow that set
such store on a gal in all my life. He can't bear to
see another man look upon her, and he talks of nothing
else.”

“Unless it be of you; but his case needs no immediate
attention. This of Vernon does. Did you
note whether his saddle had pockets?”

“It has. I searched them already, but found nothing
worth telling of. There was a newspaper, and
some old accounts, I take it—they looked like bills
and calculations.”

“You cared not what they looked like, Yarbers,
when you found that they did not look like money.
But I must see those papers. Where is the saddle?”

“In the stable. Shall I lead your horse round
the old field? They may hear his footsteps if we
take the path.”

“Right—do so. I'll await you at the stall.”

Yarbers had put a tolerably fair estimate upon
the papers found in the saddle-pouches. An examination
of them by torchlight resulted in no discovery
such as Saxon sought for, and the attempt to arrive
at farther knowledge was devolved for the present
upon the adroit and prying industry of Yarbers.