University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE SALE.

Col. Tiffton could not pay the $10,000 note which he
had foolishly endorsed, and as Harney knew no mercy
where his interest was concerned. Mosside must be sold,
and the day of the sale had come. There was a crowd
of people out and they waited anxiously for the shrill
voice and hammer of the auctioneer, a portly little man,
who felt more for the family than his appearance would
indicate.

There had been a long talk that morning between himself
and a young lady, whose beauty had thrilled his heart,
just as it did every heart beating beneath a male's attire.
The lady had seemed a little nervous, as she talked, casting
anxious glances up the Lexington turnpike, and asking
several times when the Lexington cars were due.

“It shan't make no difference. I'll take your word,” the
auctioneer had said in reply to some doubts expressed by
her. “I'd trust your face for a million,” and with a profound
bow by way of emphasising his compliment, the well
meaning Skinner went out to the group assembled in the
yard, while the lady returned to the upper chamber where
Mrs. Tiffton and Ellen were weeping bitterly and refusing
to be comforted.

From Ellen's chamber a small glass door opened out
upon an open balcony, where the Colonel sat leaning on
his cane, and watching the movements in the yard below.
To this balcony, and the glass door communicating with
it, many eyes were directed, for it was known the family
were in that vicinity, and it was also whispered that Miss
Johnson, the beautiful young lady from Spring Bank was
there, and great was the anxiety of some for a sight of
her. But neither Ellen nor Alice were visible for the first
hour, and only the white-haired colonel kept watch while
one after another of his household goods were sold.

The crowd grew weary at last — they must have brisker
sport, if they would keep warm in that chilly November
wind, and cries for the “horses” were heard.

“Your crack ones, too. I'm tired of this,” growled
Harney, and Ellen's riding pony was led out, the one she
loved and petted almost as much as Hugh had petted
Rocket. The Colonel saw the playful animal, and with
a moan tottered to Ellen's chamber, saying,

“They are going to sell Beauty, Nell. Poor Nellie,
don't cry,” and the old man laid his hand on his weeping
daughter's head.

“Colonel Tiffton, this way please,” and Alice spoke in
a whisper. “I want Beauty, and I expected — I thought
—” here she glanced again up the turnpike, but seeing
no one continued, “Couldn't you bid for me, bid all you
would be willing to give if you were bidding for Ellen?”

The colonel looked at her in a kind of dazed, bewil

dered way, as if not fully comprehending her, till she repeated
her request; then mechanically he went back to
his post on the balcony, and just as Harney's last bed was
about to receive the final gone, he raised it twenty dollars
and ere Harney had time to recover his astonishment,
Beauty was disposed of, and the Colonel's servant Ham
led her in triumph back to the stable.

With a fierce scowl of defiance Harney called for Rocket.
He had not forgotten that knock-down months before,
when Hugh resented the insult offered to Adah Hastings.
He had hated him ever since — had sworn to have revenge,
and as one mode of taking it, he would secure Rocket at
all hazards. Even that morning as he rode past Spring
Bank, he had thought with a fiendish exultation, how he
would seek the opportunity to provoke to restlessness and
then cowhide Rocket in Hugh's presence as a means of
repaying the knock-down! And this was the savage,
who, with eager, expectant look upon his visage, stood
waiting for Rocket.

Suspecting something wrong the animal refused to come
out, and planting his fore feet firmly upon the floor of his
stable, kept them all at bay. With a fierce oath, the brutal
Harney gave him a stinging blow, which made the tender
flesh quiver with pain, but the fiery gleam in the animal's
eye warned him not to repeat it. Suddenly among
the excited group of dusky faces he spied that of Claib,
and bade him lead out the horse.

“I can't. Oh, mars'r, for the dear —” Claib began,
but Harney's riding whip silenced him and he went submissively
in to Rocket, who became as gentle beneath his
touch as a lamb.

Loud were the cries of admiration which hailed his appearance;
and Alice would have known that something
important was pending without the colonel's groan,

“Oh, Rocket! Poor Hugh! It hurts me for the boy
more than anything else!”

With one last despairing glance up the still lonely 'pike
Alice hurried to the door, and looked out upon the eager
throng. Gathered in a knot around Rocket were all the
noted horse-dealers of the country, and conspicuous among
them was Harney, his face wearing a most disagreeable
expression, as in reply to some remark of one of his companions
he said, by way of depreciating Rocket, and thus
preventing bids,

“Yes, quite a fancy piece, but ain't worth a row of pins.
Been fed with sugar plums too much. Why, it will take
all the gads in Kentucky to break him in.”

The bids were very rapid, for Rocket was popular, but
Harney bided his time, standing silently by, with a look
on his face of cool contempt for those who presumed to
think they could be the fortunate ones. He was prepared
to give more than any one else. Nobody would go above
his figure, he had set it so high — higher even than Rocket
was really worth. Five hundred and fifty, if necessary.
No one would rise above that, Harney was sure, and
he quietly waited until the bids were far between, and the
auctioneer still dwelling upon the last, seemed waiting expectantly
for something.

“I believe my soul the fellow knows I mean to have
that horse,” thought Harney, and with an air which said,
that settles it,” he called out in loud, clear tones, “Four
Hundred,” thus adding fifty at one bid.

There was a slight movement then in the upper balcony,
an opening of the glass door, and a suppressed whisper
ran through the crowd, as Alice came out and stood
by the colonel's side.

The bidding went on briskly now, each bidder raising
a few dollars, till $450 were reached, and then there
came a pause, broken at last by a silvery half-tremulous
voice, which passed like an electric shock through the
eager crowd, and roused Harney to a perfect fury.

“Five Hundred.”

There was no mistaking the words, and with a muttered
curse Harney yelled out his price, all he had meant
to give. Again that girlish voice was heard, this time
clear and decisive as it added ten to Harney's five hundred
and fifty. Harney knew now who it was that bid against
him, for, following the eyes of those around him, he saw
her where she stood, her long curls blowing about her
fair, flushed face, one little hand resting on the colonel's
shoulder, the other holding together Ellen Tiffton's crimson
scarf, which she had thrown over her black dress to
shield her from the cold. There was nothing immodest
or unmaidenly in her position, and no one felt that there
was. Profound respect and admiration were the only
feelings she elicited from the spectators, unless we except
the villain Harney, and even he stood gazing at her for a
moment, struck with her marvellous beauty, and the look
of quiet resolution upon her childish face. Had Alice
been told six months before that she would one day
mingle conspicuously in a Kentucky horse-sale as the
competitor of such a man as Harney, she would have
scoffed at the idea, and even now she had no distinct
consciousness of what she was doing.

Up to the latest possible moment she had watched the
distant highway, and when there was no longer hope,
had stolen to the colonel's side, and whispered in his ear
what he must say.

“It will not do for me,” he replied. “Say it yourself.
There's no impropriety,” and, almost ere she was aware
of it, Alice's voice joined itself with the din which ceased
as her distinct “Five Hundred” came ringing through
the air.

Harney was mad with rage, for he knew well for whom
that fair Northern girl was interested. He had heard
that she was rich — how rich he did not know —
but fancied she might possibly be worth a few paltry
thousands, and so, of course she was not prepared to

compete with him, who counted his gold by hundreds of
thousands. Five hundred was all she would give for
Rocket. How, then, was he surprised and chagrined
when, with a coolness equal to his own, she kept steadily
on, scarcely allowing the auctioneer to repeat his bid before
she increased it and once, womanlike, raising on her
own.

“Fie, Harney! Shame to go against a girl! Better
give it up, for don't you see she's resolved to have him?
She's worth half Massachusetts, too, they say.”

These and like expressions met Harney on every side
until at last, as he paused to answer some of them, growing
heated in the altercation, and for the instant forgetting
Rocket, the auctioneer brought the hammer down
with a click which made Harney leap from the ground,
for by that sound he knew that Rocket was sold to Alice
Johnson for six hundred dollars! There was a horrid oath
a fierce scowl at Alice passing from his view, and then,
with the muttered sneer, “I wonder if she intends to buy
the farm and niggers?” Harney tried to hide his discomfiture
by saying, “he was glad on the whole, for he did
not really want the horse, and had only bidden from
spite!”

Meantime Alice had sought the friendly shelter of Ellen's
room, where the tension of nerve endured so long
gave way, and sinking upon the sofa she fainted just as
down the Lexington turnpike came the man looked for so
long in the earlier part of the day. Alice had written to
Mr. Liston a few weeks previous to the sale, and indulgent
almost to a fault to his beautiful ward, he had replied
that he would surely be at Mosside in time.

He had kept his word, and it was his familiar voice
which brought Alice back to consciousness; and pressing
his hand, she told him what she had done, and asked if it
were unmaidenly. She could not err, in Mr. Liston's estimation,
and with his assurance that all was right, Alice

grew calm, and in a hurried consultation explained to him
more definitely than her letter had done, what her wishes
were — Colonel Tiffton must not be homeless in his old
age. There were 10,000 dollars lying in the — Bank in
Massachusetts, and she would have Mosside purchased in
her name for Colonel Tiffton, not as a gift, for he would
not accept it, but as a loan, to be paid at his convenience.
This was Alice's plan, and Mr. Liston acted upon it at
once. Taking his place in the motley assemblage, he bid
quietly, steadily, until the whisper ran round, “Who is
that man in that butternut-colored coat?”

None knew who he was though all came to the conclusion
that Harney's hope of securing Mosside was as futile
as had been his hope of getting Rocket. There were
others disappointed, too — the fair matrons who coveted
Mrs. Tiffton's carpets, mirrors, and cut-glass, all of which
passed to the stranger. When it came to the negroes he
winced a little, wondering what his abolition friends would
say to see him bidding off his own flesh and blood, but
the end answered the means, he thought, and so he kept
on until at last Mosside, with its appurtenances, belonged
ostensibly to him, and the half glad, half disappointed
people wondered greatly who Mr. Jacob Liston could be,
or from what quarter of the globe he had suddenly dropped
into their midst.

Col. Tiffton knew that nearly every thing had been purchased
by him, and felt glad that a stranger rather than
a neighbor was to occupy what had been so dear to him,
and that his servants would not be separated. With Ellen
it was different. A neighbor might allow them to remain
there a time, she said, while a stranger would not,
and she was weeping bitterly, when, as the sound of
voices and the tread of feet gradually died away from the
yard below, Alice came to her side, and bending over her
said softly, “Could you bear some good news now; —
bear to know who is to inhabit Mosside?”

“Good news?” and Ellen looked up wonderingly.

“Yes, good news, I think you will call it,” and then as
delicately as possible Alice told what had been done, and
that the colonel was still to occupy his old home. “As
my tenant, if you like,” she said to him, when he began
to demur. “You will not find me a hard landlady,” and
with playful raillery she succeeded in bringing a smile to
his face, where tears also were visible.

When at last it was clear to the old man, he laid his
hand upon the head of the young girl and whispered
huskily, “I cannot thank you as I would, or tell you
what's in my heart. God bless you, Alice Johnson. I
wish I too, had found him early as you have, for I know
it's He that put this into your mind. God bless you, God
bless my child.”