CHAPTER XXV

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Joe led Slema away, and, springing from the block, I pressed through the crowd to where Larkin was standing.

'Larkin,' I said, placing my hand on his arm, 'come with me.'

'Who in h---- ar ye?' he asked, turning on me rather roughly.

'My name is Kirke. You ought to know me.'

'Kirke! Why ye ar! I'm right down glad ter see ye, Mr. Kirke,' he exclaimed, seizing me warmly by the hand.

'Come with me; I want to talk with you.'

He sprang from the bench, and followed me into the mansion.

Entering the library, I locked the door. When he was seated, I said:

'Now, Larkin, who do you want this girl for?'

'Wall, I swar! Mr. Kirke, ye fire right at th' bull's eye!' Then, hesitating a moment, he added:

'Fur myself.'

'No, you don't; you know that isn't true.'

'Ha!--ha! This ar th' second time ye've told me I lied. Nary other man ever done it twice, Mr. Kirke; but I karn't take no 'fence with ye, nohow--ha! ha!'

'Come, Larkin, don't waste time. Tell me squarely--_who_ do you want this girl for?'

'Wall, Mr. Kirke, I can't answer thet--not in honor.'

'Shall _I_ tell _you_?'

'Yas, ef ye kin!'

'John Hallet.'

'Wall, I'm d----d ef ye doan't take th' papers. Who in creashun told ye thet?'

'No one; I _know_ it, Hallet's only son is engaged to this girl. He wants her, to balk him.'

'Ye're wrong thar. He wants har fur _himself_.'

'For himself!'

'Yas; he's got a couple now. He's a sly old fox; but he's one on 'em.'

'Is he willing to pay eighty-two hundred dollars for a mistress?'

'Wall, Preston owes him a debt, an' he reckons 'tain't wuth a hill o' beans. Thet's th' amount uv it.'

Thus the wrong of the father was to be atoned for by the dishonor of the child! Preston was right: the curse which followed his sin had fallen on all he loved--on his wife, his mistress, the octoroon girl, his manly, noble son; and now, the cloud which held the thunderbolt was hovering over the head of his best-loved child! And so He visiteth 'the sins of the fathers upon the children!'

'But he is wrong! Preston's estate will pay its debts. If it does not, Joe will make good the deficiency, I will guarantee Hallet's claim. See him, and tell him so.'

'He hain't yere, an' woan't be yere. He allers fights shy. An' 'twouldn't be uv no use. He's made up his mind to hev th' gal, an' hev har he will. He's come all th' way from Orleans ter make sure uv it.'

'But, Larkin, you've a heart under your waistcoat; _you_ won't lend yourself to the designs of such a consummate scoundrel as Hallet!'

'Scoundrel's a hard word, Mr. Kirke. 'Tain't used much round yere; when it ar, it draws blood like a lancet.'

'I mean no offence to you, Larkin; but it's true--I will prove it;' and I went on to detail my early acquaintance with Hallet; his vast profession and small performance of piety; his betrayal of Frank's mother; his treatment of his son, and all the damning record I have spread before the reader.

As I talked, Larkin rose, and walked the room, evidently affected; but, when I concluded, he said:

''Tain't no use, Mr. Kirke; I'd ruther ye wouldn't say no more. It makes me feel like the cholera. An' 'tain't no use! I've _got_ ter buy th' gal.'

'You have _not_ got to buy her! You need only go away. I will give you a thousand dollars, if you will go at once.'

'No, no, Mr. Kirke; I karn't do it. I'd like ter 'blige ye, and I need money like th' devil; but I karn't leave Hallet in th' lurch. 'Twouldn't be far dealin' 'tween man an' man. He trusts me ter do it, an' I'm in with him. I _must_ act honest.'

'How _in_ with him?'

'Why, he an' ole Roye ar tergether. The' find th' money fur my bis'ness--done it fur fifteen yar. The' git th' biggest sheer, but I karn't help myself, I went inter cotton, like a d--d fool, 'bout a yar ago, an' lost all I hed--every red cent; an' now I shud be on my beam ends ef it warn't fur them.'

'Then Hallet has made his money dealing in negroes!'

'Yas, a right smart pile, in thet, an' cotton. He got me inter th' d--d staple. I hed nigh on ter sixty thousan' then--hard rocks; but I lost it all--every dollar--at one slap; though I reckon _he_ managed, somehow, ter get out.'

'Yes, of course, _he_ got out, and saddled the loss upon you. Were you such a fool as not to see that?'

'P'raps he did; but he covered his trail. He's smart; ye karn't track _him_. But it makes no odds; I _hev_ ter keep in with him. I couldn't do a thing, ef I didn't.'

'Yes, you could. Come North. I'll give you honest work to do.'

'You're a gentleman, Mr. Kirke, an' I'm 'bliged ter ye; but I karn't leave yere. I've got a wife an' chil'ren, an' the' wouldn't live 'mong ye abolitionists, nohow.'

'You have a wife and children?'

'Yas'; a wife, an' two as likely young 'uns as ye ever seed--boy 'bout seven, an' gal 'bout twelve.'

'Well, Larkin, suppose _your_ little girl was upon that auction block; suppose some villain had hired _me_ to aid in debauching her; suppose you, her father, should come to me and plead with me not to do it; suppose I should tell you what you have told me, and then--should go out and buy _your_ child; what would you do? Would you not curse me with your very last breath?'

He seated himself, and hung down his head, but made no reply.

'Answer me, like the honest man you are.'

'Wall, I reckon I shud.'

'Selma is to marry my adopted son. She is as dear to me as your child is to you. Can you do to her, what you would curse me for doing to _your_ child? Look me in the face. Don't flinch--answer me!'

I rose, and stood before him. In a few moments he also rose, and, looking me squarely in the eye--there was a tear in his--he brought his hand down upon mine with a concussion that might have been heard a mile off, and said:

'No, I'm d--d ter h--ef I kin.'

'You are a splendid, noble fellow, Larkin.'

'Ye're 'bout th' fust man thet ever said so, Mr. Kirke. Ye told me suthin' like thet nigh on ter twelve yar ago. I hain't forgot it yit, an' I never shill.'

'You're rough on the outside, Larkin, but sound at the core--sound as a nut. I wish the world had more like you. Leave this wretched work!'

'I'd like ter, but I karn't. What kin a feller do, with neither money nor friends?'

'Get into some honest business. I know you can. I'll help you--Joe will help you. We'll talk things over to-night, and I know Joe will rig out something for you.'

He remained seated for a while, saying nothing; then he rose, and, the moisture dimming his eyes, said:

'I reckon ye're not over pious, Mr. Kirke, an' I _know_ ye'd stand a hand at a rough an' tumble; but d--d ef thet ain't th' sort o' religion I like. Come, sir; ef I stay yere, ye'll make a 'ooman on me.'

As we passed into the parlor, I said to Joe, who was seated there with Selma:

'Give Larkin your hand, Joe; he's a glorious fellow.'

'My _heart_ is in it, Larkin,' said the young man, very cordially. 'It would have come hard to draw a bead on _you_.'

'I knows it would, Joe, an' I wus ter blame; but I never could stand a bluff.'

We passed out together to the auction stand. Selma and her brother ascended the block, while Larkin and I mingled with the buyers, who had collected in even larger numbers than before. The auctioneer brought down his hammer:

'Attention, gentlemen! The sale has begun. I offer you again the girl, Lucy Selma. You've h'ard the description, and (glancing at Joe, and smiling) you know the _conditions_ of the sale. A thousand dollars is bid for the girl, Lucy Selma; do I hear any more? Talk quick, gentlemen; I shan't dwell on this lot; so speak up, if you've anything to say. One thousand once--one thousand twice--one thousand third and last call. Do I hear any more?' A pause of a moment. 'Last call, gentlemen. Going--g-o-i-n-g--go--'

The word was unfinished; the hammer was descending, when a voice called out:

'Two thousand!'

'Whose bid is that?' cried Joe, striding across the bench, the glare of a hyena in his eyes.

'Mine, sir!' said the man, with a look of sudden surprise. His face was shaded by a broad-brimmed Panama hat, and his hair and whiskers were dyed, but there was no mistaking his large, eagle nose, his sharp, pointed chin, and his rat-trap of a mouth. It was Hallet! Springing upon a bench near by, I cried out:

'John Hallet, withdraw that bid, or your time has come! I warn you. You cannot leave this place alive!'

He gave me a quick, startled look--the look of a thief caught in the act--but said nothing.

'Who is he?' cried a dozen voices.

'A Yankee nigger-trader! A man that seduced and murdered the woman who should have been his wife; that cast out and starved his own child, and now would debauch this poor girl, who is to marry his only son!'

'Wall, he _ar_ a han'some critter.' ''Bout like th' Yankees gin'rally.' 'Clar him out!' cried several voices.

'If you allow him to bid here, you are as bad as he,' I continued, unintentionally fanning the growing excitement.

'Wall, we woan't.' 'Pitch inter him!' 'Douse him in th' pond!' 'Ride him on a rail!' 'Give him a coat uv tar!' and a hundred similar exclamations rose from the crowd, which swayed toward the obnoxious man with a quick, tumultuous motion.

'He'm in de darky trade; leff de darkies handle him!' cried Ally, seizing Hallet by the collar, and dragging him toward the pond.

The face of the great merchant turned ghastly pale. Paralyzed with fear, he made no resistance.

Pressing rapidly through the crowd, and tossing Ally aside as if he had been a bundle of feathers, Larkin was at Hallet's side in an instant. Planting himself before him, and drawing his revolver, he cried out:

'Far play, gentlemen, far play. He's a cowardly scoundrel, but he shill hev far play, or my name ain't Jake Larkin!'

Instinctively the crowd fell back a few paces, and Larkin, with more coolness, continued:

'Th' only man yere thet's got anything ter say in this bis'ness ar Joe Preston; an' _he'll_ guv even a Yankee far play. Woan't ye, Joe?' he cried. Then, turning quickly to his partner, he added: 'Ye didn't know th' kunditions, Mr. Hallet, did ye? Speak quick.'

'No--I--didn't know I was--giving offence,' stammered Hallet, looking in the direction in which Larkin's eyes were turned.

Selma had taken the auctioneer's chair, and Joe stood, with folded arms, glaring on Hallet.

'Come, Joe,' continued Larkin, 'I've done ye a good turn ter-day. Let him off, an' put it ter my 'count.'

'As you say, Larkin; but he must withdraw his bid, and leave the ground at once.'

'I withdraw it, sir,' said Hallet, in a cringing tone, clinging fast to the negro trader.

'Doan't hold on so tight, Mr. Hallet. Lord bless ye! nary one yere'll hurt ye; they'm gentler'n lambs--ha! ha! But when ye want anuther gal, doan't ye come _yere_ fur yer darter-in-law--ha! ha!'

Putting his arm within Hallet's, he then attempted to press through the crowd; but the blood of the chivalry had risen, and, spite of Joe's remarks, they showed no inclination to let the Yankee off so cheaply. Forming a solid wall around him, they blocked Larkin's way at every turn, and cries of 'Let him alone, Larkin!' 'Cool him off, boys!' 'Doan't ye spile th' fun, Larkin!' 'Guv th' feller a little hosspitality!' echoed from all directions.

Putting up his revolver, Larkin turned to them, and said, in the mildest and blandest tone conceivable:

'Thet's right, boys--ye _orter_ hev some fun; but this gintleman's sick. Doan't ye see how pale he ar? He couldn't stand it, nohow. But thar's a feller thet kin,' pointing to Mulock, who stood looking on, at the outer edge of the crowd. 'Ef ye're spilin' fur sport, ye moight try yer hand on him!'

'Yas, he'm de man!' cried Ally. 'He holped whip de young missus. He telled on har fur twenty dollar. He'm de man!'

Mulock did not seem to realize, at once, that he was the subject of these remarks. The moment he did, he sprang out of the crowd, and darted off for the woods at the top of his speed. A hundred men followed him, with cries of 'Mount, head him off!' 'Five dollars ter th' man thet kotches him!' 'Take him, dead or alive!'

Amid the universal excitement and confusion that followed, Larkin walked rapidly away with Hallet.

'You can heat the kettle, boys; Mulock can't run,' cried Joe, from the platform. 'But you must give him a fair trial.

'We'll do thet, never ye fear!' echoed a dozen voices.

'I nominate his friend, Mr. Gaston, for judge,' said Joe.

'Gaston it is!' Gaston it is!' 'Mount the bench, Mr. Gaston!' shouted a hundred 'natives.'

Gaston got upon the auction stand, and said:

'I'll serve, gentlemen; but, before we select jurors, the sale must go on. Miss Preston is not sold yet.'

'All right! all right! Hurry up, Mr. Hammerman!' shouted the crowd.

The auctioneer took his place:

'A thousand dollars is bid for this young lady. Going--gone--_gone_, to Mr. Joseph Preston.'

Selma put her arms about Joe's neck, and, in broken tones, said: 'My brother! my dear brother!' Then she laid her head on his shoulder, and wept--wept unrestrainedly.

Who can fathom the untold misery she had endured within those two hours?

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