CHAPTER VII—THE REIGN OF FOLLY
WITHIN two weeks Steve Hoyle’s new Klan was organised and in absolute control of the Piedmont Congressional District.
John Graham saw that his defeat was a certainty and gave up the political fight in disgust. But he determined to prevent at all hazards the degradation of the Klan into an engine of personal vengeance and criminal folly. There was but one way to do it. He dreaded the undertaking, yet there was no help for it. He must again fight the devil with fire. The reign of terror inaugurated by the Black Union League had made necessary the Ku Klux Klan. There must be a power to hold in check Steve’s irresponsible gang.
He immediately organised in each county a vigilance committee composed of the bravest and most reliable members of the old Klan who had refused to follow Steve. Over these men he sought to exercise only a moral influence as their former Commander-in-chief, save in his own county where his word was accepted as law by the surviving veterans of the regiment he had commanded in the Civil War.
These men he instructed to watch the movements of Steve’s followers, learn in advance of their intended raids, break them up by moral suasion if possible; by force as a last resort.
He had found the task a tremendous one. For the first time he realised the terrible meaning of the lawless power of the Klan. The secrecy of their movements under his own leadership had been perfect. Yet with his knowledge of their methods he had believed it would be comparatively. easy to defeat their plans. He found it next to impossible. In spite of the utmost vigilance on the part of his committees, the new Klan had inaugurated a reign of folly and terror unprecedented in the history of the whole Reconstruction saturnalia.
They whipped scalawag politicians night after night and drove them from the county. They called on carpetbagger postmasters who immediately left for parts unknown. They whipped Negroes, young and old, for all sorts of wrongdoing, real or fancied, and finally began to regulate the general morals of the community. They whipped a rowdy for abusing his wife and on the same night tarred and feathered a white girl of low origin who lived in the outskirts of town and ran her from the county.
The morning after this outrage occurred, John Graham walked into Steve’s law office, brushed by his clerks and boldly entered the inner room where his enemy was at work.
Steve sprang to his feet and his hand instinctively sought the revolver in his hip pocket.
“You needn’t be alarmed; I’m not ready for you yet,” said John, his eyes holding Steve’s with their steady light.
“Well, I’m ready for you,” was the quick retort. “What do you want?”
“Merely to give you a little advice this morning.”
“When I need your advice, I’ll let you know.”
John closed the door.
“Your men are covering the name of the Ku Klux Klan with infamy,” John went on evenly. “If you have even the rudiments of common sense you must know that within a few weeks these fools will be beyond your control.”
“I haven’t felt the need of your help as yet,” interrupted Steve.
“No, but I’m generous. I volunteer to anticipate the needs of your weak intelligence.”
“John Graham,” Steve broke in angrily, “if you have anything to say to me, say it, and get out of this room!”
“I will say it, my boy, and—don’t—you—forget it!” John answered with quiet emphasis, taking a step closer to his rival. “I’m close on the track of the men who are at present terrorising this county. I’ll come up with them some night and there’ll be business for the coroner next day. Dare to permit another outrage of a personal character in this county and I’ll find your men if I drag the bottom of hell for them, and when I do, I’ll hang them to a tree in front of your door. And—mark you—if I fail to find them I’ll—hold—you—personally—responsible!”
Before Steve could reply he turned on his heel, slammed the door and left.
CHAPTER VIII—THE MASQUERADERS
IMMEDIATELY following the interview with Steve the character of the raids of the new Klan changed to harmless pranks and practical jokes on impudent Negroes, scalawags and carpetbaggers, and John Graham observed it with a sigh of relief. Some of these escapades he could have enjoyed himself—particularly a call they made on the Apostle of Sanctification.
Uncle Isaac had greatly increased his prestige and following since the sensational speech he made in the County Convention and his public association with Larkin.
Following up his victory over the seven devils in Aunt Julie Ann, he had begun a series of revival meetings in the Northern Methodist church, calling its members to come up still higher. With each night his fervour and eloquence had increased. On this particular evening he attained unheard-of heights of inspiration, and announced not only his sinless perfection and his apostolic call, but the more startling fact that he was in daily personal communication with Jehovah himself. Amid a chorus of “Amens” and “Glory hallelujahs” from the sisters he boldly declared:
“Hear de Lawd’s messenger! I come straight from him. De Lawd come every day ter my house. I sees him wid my own eyes. De debbil he doan pester me no mo. I’se de Lawd’s sanctified one. I done wipe my weepin’ eyes an’ gone up on high. Will ye come wid me breddren an’ sisters! I walk in de cool er de mawnin an’ de shank er de even’ wid de Lawd and de Lawd walks wid me. An’ I ain’t er skeered er nuttin in heaben above er hell below.”
He had scarcely uttered the words when a white-robed ghost, fully ten feet high, walked solemnly down the aisle. There was a moment of awful silence. Isaac’s jaw dropped in speechless terror. A sister in the amen corner screamed, and the Apostle sprang through the window behind the pulpit without a word, carrying the sash with him. In a minute the church was empty and the revival of Sanctification came to an untimely end.
It soon became the fashion for these merry masqueraders to call in groups on the pretty girls in town with the offer of their knightly protection. Frequently they spent the evening dancing and making merry, always in full disguise, guarding with the utmost care their identity. The mystery attending such visits, their secret signs and passwords, and the thrilling call of their whistles gave to these performances a peculiar atmosphere of romance and daring, and their visits came to be prized by the fair ones as tributes to their beauty and popularity.
A sign of invitation was devised by order of the leader of the raiders and posted one night on the bulletin board of the post office. The girl who wished the honour of such a call had only to express it by walking through the main street to the post office with a scarlet bow of ribbon tied on her left arm, and on the night following, promptly at ten o’clock, the knights on their white-robed horses would call.
Stella Butler had immediately become the most popular girl in Independence in spite of her father’s politics. Her beauty was resistless. Every boy on whom she chose to smile was at once her friend and champion. The old Graham house became the most popular meeting place of the youth and beauty of the town, and the only men not welcome there were its real owner and his pugnacious younger brother.
Stella was fairly intoxicated with her social victory. Steve led in the devoted circle of her admirers, each day pressing his suit with humble and dogged persistence. She smiled in triumph at his abject surrender but continued to keep him at arm’s length, showering her favours on all who were worth while.
She determined to crown her social leadership with a unique fancy dress ball by inviting the Klan masqueraders to dance with a select group of her girl friends at her home. The Klan itself was too deep a mystery for her to note the difference in the character of the raids since the night its gallant horsemen had cheered at her father’s gate. She only knew in a general way that the Klan was born in the unconquered and unconquerable spirit of the old Bourbon South, the South of her mother, the only South worth cultivating socially.
So when the Judge’s beautiful daughter, radiant and smiling, walked down the main street of Independence with the scarlet sign of the Klan on her left arm, she paralysed the business of the town. Every clerk stopped work and took his stand at the door or window until she was out of sight.
Her name was on every lip. If the raiders should accept her invitation, and appear at the old Graham mansion the evening following, the Judge would be in the anomalous position of a host who seeks the life of his guests. For the destruction of the Klan by exile, imprisonment and death had become the main plank in his political platform under Larkin’s guidance.
Before Stella reached home the town was in a ferment of excitement to know whether the Judge had given his consent to this daring act. The older heads were sure that it was a child’s thoughtless whim and that Butler would promptly and vigorously repudiate it.
John stood in the shadow by the window of his office and watched her pass in anguish. He saw in this invitation the complete triumph of the man he was coming to hate with deeper loathing than he had ever felt for her father. He was sure it was an inspiration of Steve Hoyle.
He observed old Larkin talking earnestly to Isaac on the other side of the street, and began to regret that the regiment of United States troops had been removed on the Carpetbagger’s advice.
Were they here, he would suggest to the Judge that they be stationed about his home to-morrow night and those masked fools be kept out. He resented such a masquerade, not only because it was a travesty of the tragic drama in which he had played a part, but because he felt a deep sense of foreboding over the possible outcome of the affair. However harmless the intentions of the leaders of such a prank, there was always the chance of a drunken fool among them.
“My God,” he exclaimed with a shiver of dread, “what will happen if the Judge in an ugly stupid temper encounters one of those masked fools maddened by drink!”
He sat down and hastily wrote a note of warning to Butler without a signature, tore it up in anger and threw it in his waste basket.
“Bah! it’s nonsense!” he muttered in rage. “Her father is in no danger. The trouble is with me—I’m jealous, jealous, jealous! of the men who can see her. I want to dance with her myself. I’m mad with a passion I dare not breathe aloud.”
Yet the longer he brooded over the thing, the keener became his sense of its dangers and the more oppressive the fear that it would result in a tragedy.
He sat down and rewrote his warning to the Judge, crossed the street and dropped the letter in the post office.
CHAPTER IX—A COUNTER STROKE
WHEN John returned to’ his desk he found Dan Wiley standing in the middle of the room pulling his long black moustache with unusual energy.
The young lawyer seated himself and motioned the mountaineer to a chair.
“No time ter fool.”
“Steve’s gang from up in the hills in my township is on the way ter Independence. They’re goin’ ter raid old Sam Nickaroshinski, the Jew storekeeper, and rob ’im ter-night.”
“Nonsense, Dan, they haven’t got that low.”
“Hit’s jest like I tell ye. They’re a gang of flightin’ drunken devils. They’ll do anything. I got a man to join ’em, an’ he gimme the whole plot. Steve Hoyle don’t know nothin’ about it no more than their township leader does.”
“Did you bring your men?” John asked. “Yes, a half dozen. They ain’t but six er.”
“What’s up?”
“Hell’s afloat and the river’s a risin!”
“Well?”
“Them skunks comin’. Our fellers are lyin’ out in the woods at the spring where we met you the last time.”
John leaped to his feet with a sudden resolution.
“I’ll join you at eight o’clock to-night and we’ll give the gentlemen from the hills an unexpected reception.” He seized his hat and closed his office. As Dan turned to go he gave the low quick order:
“Gags and ropes for six. Lay low and don’t let anybody know you’re in town.”
“I understand,” said the mountaineer, with a grin.
“John hurried home, and found to his annoyance that Mrs. Wilson had gone buggy riding with Billy and left the entire work of the house to Susie.
“I hate to put more responsibility on your beautiful young shoulders, Miss Susie,” John said hurriedly, “but I must beg you to stop your work and make me a regalia for a little parade to-night—you understand—will you do it?”
“With pleasure,” was the smiling answer. “I’ll forgive Mama her idiotic trip with Billy for this chance to serve you.” She looked tenderly into John’s eyes.
Before sundown the costume was finished and fitted to the tall figure by Susie’s swift and gentle hands and the last scrap of the cloth gathered up and piled in her work-basket before the first boarder arrived. Supper was an hour late, but Susie was singing at her work when Mrs. Wilson and Billy returned after dark.
Nickaroshinski’s cottage was situated on the edge of a deep forest two miles out of town. It was a well-known fact that the old Jew walked to and from his store every morning and evening alone. And it was popularly believed that he hoarded his money under the floor of his bedroom.
Had any other man than Dan Wiley reported to John Graham such a projected raid, it would have been beyond his belief. The old Jew was on good terms with everybody. A refugee from Poland, his instinctive sympathies had always been with the oppressed people of the South, and to their cause he had faithfully given what influence he possessed.
The idea of such an atrocity by men wearing the uniform of his Klan roused John to the highest pitch of indignation. He was determined to make an example of these scoundrels that would not be forgotten.
The stars were shining brightly when he started with his men to the old Jew’s place.
It was with a queer consciousness of the irony of fate that he galloped through the shadows to strike horsemen who were wearing the uniform of the mysterious order he had helped to create. The wind freshened and grew chill, heavy clouds obscuring the sky. The darkness became intense.
He carefully placed his men in positions to guard every approach to the house, and walked to the door to warn the Jew of his danger and arrange for the capture of the raiders.
A sudden crash and groan within told him only too plainly that the scoundrels were already inside.
Gathering his men John closed in on the house. As he expected they had put out no pickets, never dreaming that they would be molested. They had bound Nickaroshinski, beaten him unmercifully and tortured him until they had secured his money and, not satisfied, had begun to smash things to pieces.
Looking through the window John saw that their costumes were exactly like his own and that the six men had scattered through the house bent on plundering every nook and corner. Knowing that it would be impossible for them to distinguish their own men from his, he made at once his plan to capture the crowd without a struggle. Stationing his own six men at the front door, he took Dan Wiley and boldly entered the room where the leader stood covering the Jew with his revolver.
Without a word they walked toward him in the dim light.
Merely glancing at them the leader growled: “Finish up and let’s get away from here!”
“All right,” John answered coming closer, “I’m getting in a hurry myself.”
Before he knew what they meant, Dan pounced on him and pinioned his arms while John quickly covered his mouth and fixed the gag.
It was but the work of a moment to tie the wretch and pass him out the door to the grim figures waiting. They repeated this performance in each room until all but two had been taken. These two were together. John suddenly blew his whistle giving the Klan signal “Follow me.” When they entered the room two revolvers were suddenly thrust under their noses. They surrendered without a struggle.
John quickly released the old man, bound his wounds, restored his money and left with his prisoners.
Each of them were given forty lashes and the next morning when Steve Hoyle woke he found six stripe-marked half-naked men gagged and bleeding dangling by their arms from the limbs of the trees on his lawn. Around the neck of each hung a placard: “A warning to the scoundrels who are disgracing the uniform of the Ku Klux Klan in this county.”
CHAPTER X—THE STRENGTH OF THE WEAK
STEVE HOYLE had cut down his men and hustled them out of town before eight o’clock, but the news rapidly spread and had thrown the people into a tremor of wonder as to the meaning of the events of the night. Evidently there had been a clash of forces within the ranks of the Invisible Empire. What did it mean?
Steve had lost no time in explaining to the desperadoes from the hills what they wished to know, and they had left with deep muttered curses against their former Commander-in-chief.
The outrage on Nickaroshinski had aroused the fiercest passions between the friends of John Graham and Steve Hoyle. Excited groups stood on every corner and it was with the utmost difficulty that John succeeded finally in dispersing them without a clash.
At one o’clock Larkin called at the old Graham mansion and announced to Aunt Julie Ann his desire to see the Judge.
“Ye can’t see ’im,” was her contemptuous answer.
Larkin had captured Isaac, but his influence had not reached his wife. For any white man who stayed at a Negro’s house her contempt was beyond words. That the house happened to be her husband’s only aggravated the offence.
“I must see him,” urged Larkin.
“He’s in bed sick, I tell ye!”
“But you had’nt told me,” protested the Carpetbagger.
“Well I tells ye now. De Judge ain’t lif’ his head offen de piller ter day. De ghosts wuz here agin las’ night—an’ you’d better be a movin ‘fore Miss Stella find you here. She sick de dog on you.” Larkin took a threatening step toward her and said in low tones:
“Shut your mouth, and tell the Judge I’m here to see him on important business. I’m not going out of this house until I do see him. Tell him so.”
Aunt Julie Ann turned muttering and slowly climbed the stairs to Butler’s room.
In a moment the Judge came down, hastily dressed in a faded slouchy dressing-gown and a pair of bedroom slippers.
“Is it possible,” exclaimed Larkin, “that you know nothing of what’s happened here within the past twenty-four hours?”
“I’ve been sick in bed. Haven’t left the house,” was the nervous reply.
“Well, it’s time you knew at least what is going on in the house.”
The Judge shivered and glanced up into the galleries.
“What do you mean?” he feebly asked.
Larkin rapidly sketched to him the events which had thrown the town into a ferment.
“But what I called for,” observed the Carpetbagger, “was to enquire, as your political adviser, whether you really intend to permit your daughter to receive here to-night this gang of masked cutthroats as your guests?”
The Judge rose trembling.
“My daughter receive the Ku Klux Klan here to-night?” he gasped.
“She has invited them, and in spite of the excitement it is rumoured that they will promptly appear in full costume at ten o’clock.”
“Impossible, Larkin, impossible! They won’t dare such a thing. Besides, of course, my daughter will stop it.”
“How can she stop it? Her invitation was by their sign of the scarlet bow. They have devised no signal to stop such a festival.”
“She must find a way at once,” cried the Judge excitedly, “otherwise we must wire for troops.”
“It’s too late.”
“We’ll order a special if necessary. I’ll call my daughter at once.”
Larkin rose as if to go.
“Wait,” continued the Judge, “I wish you to be present.”
He summoned Maggie, sent for Stella, and picked up his mail lying on the centre table, and opened it with fumbling nervous fingers while awaiting his daughter’s appearance.
The Carpetbagger smiled contemptuously at his lack of good breeding, and studied the room while the Judge read his letters.
“I see here some friend has written me a warning against the dangers of such a meeting,” cried Butler, his beady eyes dancing with excitement. “We must stop it, Larkin, we must stop it!”
Maggie slowly descended the stairs.
“Well, well, where’s your mistress?” spluttered the Judge.
“Miss Stella say she busy tryin’ on a dress an’ she can’t come now.”
Butler turned on Maggie with sudden fury.
“Go back, you little black imp of the devil, and tell her to come down immediately! Immediately, I say!”
“Yassah! Yassah!” Maggie panted. She turned back up the stairs jumping three steps at a time, and fell sprawling across the top landing. She reached Stella’s room gasping for breath.
Stella turned leisurely from her mirror.
“What on earth’s the matter, Maggie?”
“De Jedge say ef you doan come dar dis minute he gwine ter come up here and slap yo head off!”
“As bad as that, Maggie?”
“Yassam. He flung a big book at me an’ hit me right in the head jes case I tell ’im what you say. Didn’t ye hear it?”
Stella continued deliberately curling the ringlets about the edges of her raven hair.
“Go back and tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”
“Yassum. I spec he kill me dis time.”
Stella finished her hair, sat down by the window and read a novel for ten minutes and then slowly descended the stairs.
The Judge sat slouching low in his chair, and Larkin rose with the instinctive impulse of a gentleman on Stella’s appearance.
The girl stared coldly at her father, noted his dressing-gown, turned hastily toward the stairs and began to ascend.
“Excuse me,” she said to him with pointed insolence, “I thought you were waiting to receive me.”
“Look here, my child, I’ve no time for silly nonsense!” the Judge exclaimed, adjusting the folds of his slouchy robe.
“When you have completed your toilet,” she said with a sneering little smile, “I’ll come at once. Please let me know.”
“Stella!” sternly called her father.
The girl continued without turning her head and disappeared on the floor above.
“A stickler for social forms, Larkin,” said the Judge petulantly, rising.
“I see,” said the Carpetbagger with amusement. “I’ll have to humour her. Wait for me. We must stop it.”
When at length the Judge returned and confronted Stella he was unnerved, while she stood staring at him with a hard glitter in her great brown eyes, complete mistress of every faculty she possessed.
“My child,” began Butler, “Larkin tells me that you have invited the Ku Klux raiders to dance here to-night.”
“I have,” was the cool answer.
“But my dear, you should have consulted me.”
“You made me the mistress of this house; why should I consult you about a harmless social gathering of my friends?”
“The Klan is a secret order of assassins and desperadoes.”
“Please father, don’t!” she interrupted. “Your politics disgust me. These boys are of the best families in town.”
“How can you know this?” pleaded the Judge. “They come disguised. Not one of them has ever made himself known.”
“Which makes the romance of such a visit all the deeper.”
“And its dangers all the greater, my child. Mr. Larkin has come to warn me.”
“I agree with your father, Miss Stella,” said Larkin with a grave bow.
The girl tossed her head with contempt.
“And I have in my hand a letter of warning from an unknown friend,” continued Butler.
“But you are not really afraid?” cried the girl with scorn. “I refuse to believe my own father the contemptible coward your enemies have called you.”
“Have you heard of the criminal outrages committed last night by those masked raiders?”
“They do not interest me.”
“You must remember, my dear, that I have sworn to send these men to the gallows.”
“I can’t help your political bluster. I refuse to sacrifice my social career and insult my friends for your dirty politics.”
“And you can not see that the presence of these masked men in this house would be a mortal insult to me?”
“Certainly not. A crowd of gay masqueraders who come to do me honour.”
“You must stop it, my child.”
“It is impossible now. My friends are getting ready. I’ve hired a band.”
“You refuse to respect my wishes?”
“I refuse to make a fool of myself!”
“Come, my dear, you must be reasonable. I know I’ve spoiled you. I’ve loved you too well. I’ve indulged every whim of your heart and allowed you to rule me, but you can’t do this absurd and dangerous thing. You forget that you are not only making a fool of me but that you are putting my life in jeopardy.”
“I’ll assume the responsibility!” she broke in, drawing herself up with pride. “If you receive the slightest insult or a hair of your head is harmed I’ll give my life to avenge it.”
“You persist?” asked her father with a scowl. “I do,” flashed the answer.
The Judge rose, hesitated a moment and then said with stern determination:
“Then for the first time in my life, I forbid you a thing on which you have set your heart. These masked men shall not enter my house!”
Stella’s eyes flashed fire.
“They shall come!” she cried.
“Larkin,” said the Judge, turning to the Carpetbagger, “I shall have to ask you to go to the telegraph office and order the troops here on a special. Ask them to protect me to-night from these assassins.”
Stella’s figure suddenly stiffened with incontrollable rage. She clenched her fists and sprang in front of her father screaming.
“Don’t you dare insult me by applying such epithets to my friends! If you are my father, you are a poltroon and a coward!”
“Stella, my darling!” gasped the Judge.
“Don’t you call me darling! Don’t you dare to speak to me again! I’ll leave this house and blot your very name from my memory!”
Butler staggered back in dumb amazement and Larkin watched with a curious smile playing about the corners of his piercing eyes.
Stella stamped her foot, turned, and bounded up the stairs and into her room, slammed the door and began to scream.
The Judge stood for a moment in speechless horror. He had never crossed her imperious will before and he was utterly unprepared for her mad outburst. He loved her with all the tenderness of which his low nature was capable, and had never seen a woman in hysterics. He had therefore no standard by which to measure how much of pure devil and how much of real suffering were mingled in her cries. Each piercing scream tore his heart. He turned helplessly to Larkin and asked: “What shall I do?”
“Excuse me Judge, I can’t advise you in such a matter,” the Carpetbagger replied. “But I think you’ll have to summon a doctor.”
“My God, is she in danger?” he asked, in a stupor of pain. “I’ll go up and see.”
He shuffled up the stairs as quickly as possible, and hurried into her room without knocking.
Stella sprang from the bed where she lay moaning, laughing and crying, and flew at him, stamping and screaming:
“Don’t you come near me. Don’t you touch me! Don’t you speak to me! Get out of this room!”
“But my dear,” stammered the Judge.
“Get out of this room—get out of this room! or I’ll jump out of that window and kill myself!” She seized him by the arm, hustled and pushed him out of the door, slammed and locked it. Again she threw herself on the bed and burst into strangling groans.
The Judge retreated to the hall below, his eyes filled with tears, his heart sick with terror. He dropped into a seat, covered his face with his hands and sat for a moment in stupid pain.
Maggie suddenly plunged down the stairs yelling:
“Goddermighty, ye better run fur de doctor quick—Miss Stella dying! She done choke ter death!”
“I’ll bring the doctor,” said Larkin, rising quickly.
“Run and bring Aunt Julie Ann!” whispered the Judge to Maggie.
The maid met Aunt Julie Ann who had heard the commotion and the two hurried back to Stella’s room.
When the doctor came she refused to see him, and he left in a rage. The Judge begged Larkin to stay until he could see his daughter.
An hour later, propped up in bed with Maggie rubbing one hand and Aunt Julie Ann the other, she permitted her father to enter and receive her pardon. The Judge knelt by the bedside, kissed her hand and wet it with tears. His surrender was abject. He sent Larkin away and promised to be present at the ball and treat the whole thing as a schoolboys’ frolic.
And then she smiled and kissed him.
“If I’m only strong enough to dress by ten o’clock!” she cried, laughing.
“Try to eat something, dear,” urged her father.
She promised and asked Aunt Julie Ann to send her a little soup. She got the soup and with it a substantial meal.
Still and catlike, Maggie watched her eat it down to the last crumb with quiet enjoyment. When the black maid picked up the tray she walled her eyes first at the empty dishes and then at her wonderful little mistress and softly giggled.
CHAPTER XI—THROUGH THE SECRET PANEL
AS THE hour approached for the masqueraders to appear at the Judge’s John Graham was drawn to the spot by an irresistible impulse. He stood in the shadows of the trees on the sidewalk and watched the little squadron of white and scarlet horsemen wheel into the gate past Isaac’s cottage, and gallop swiftly up to the front door of the old mansion.
They had scarcely passed when Isaac suddenly stepped from the shrubbery through the open gateway and ran into him.
The Apostle gasped in terror:
“De Lawd, marse John, I thought you wuz one er dem ghostes—‘scuse me, sah, I’se er gettin’ away from here!”
John made no reply, merely watching him until he disappeared.
Again he turned toward the house. Every window was gleaming with light. The subdued strains of a string band came stealing through the trailing roses on the porch, and he fancied he could catch the odour of the flowers in their sweet notes. Scarcely knowing what he did, he strolled into the lawn and sank on a rustic bench with a groan. He could hear the gay banter of the masqueraders and the peals of girlish laughter with which their tomfoolery was being received.
A mocking bird began singing in the tree above him, roused by the music of the band. Far off in the corner of the lawn in the clump of holly and cedars at the entrance of the vault a whippoorwill was making the ravine ring with the weird notes of his ghost-like call. The moon flooded the scene with silvery splendour. Crushed with a sense of loneliness and failure, he felt to-night that he would give all the wealth and honours of the earth for one touch of the hand of the girl whose laughter lingered and echoed in his heart. And again the feeling of impending disaster overwhelmed him.
“Of course it’s nonsense!” he kept repeating to himself. “The disaster is within. I’m merely a wounded animal caught in a trap, bleeding and dying of thirst, and no one knows or cares, and I can’t cry for help.”
He tried to rise and go. But something held him in a silent spell to the spot. He sat dreaming out each movement of the gay drama in progress within.
Stella had welcomed her white-robed guests without the aid of a servant. No Negro could be hired for love or money to approach one of these ghostly figures. Maggie had hidden in the closet in her mistress’ room and Aunt Julie Ann had barred herself inside the kitchen and refused to answer a call.
In spite of these little annoyances the beautiful young mistress of the Graham house, resplendent in her ball dress costume, was in her gayest mood.
When the shrill whistles rang their summons at the door, she hastened to greet her mysterious guests.
“And your name, Sir Knight?” she asked the leader with bantering laughter.
“We are Ghouls! And come from beyond the river Styx, my lady!” solemnly answered the tall white figure.
“Welcome shades of Darkness, welcome back to the world of joy and light, song and dance, life and love!” Stella cried, extending her hand.
When they had tied their horses to the posts beside the wide driveway they slowly entered single file into the great hall. Stella, assisted by Susie Wilson, who had become her fast friend, greeted each of them with words of gay welcome.
They were dressed in the regulation raider’s costume of the Klan. The white flowing ulsterlike robe came within three inches of the floor. A scarlet belt circled the waist, from either side of which hung heavy revolvers in leather holsters. A dagger was attached to the centre of the belt, and the scarlet-lined white cape thrown back on the shoulders revealed their militant trappings with startling distinctness. On each breast was wrought the emblem of the Invisible Empire, the scarlet circle, and in its centre a white cross. Spiked helmets of white cloth with flowing masks reached to the cape on each shoulder, completely covering the head and face. With red gauntlets to complete their costume, the disguise was absolute. The only visible part of the body was the eye, gleaming with a strange steady supernatural brilliance through the holes cut in the mask. It was a curious fact that all eyes looked alike in the shadows of these trappings at night. They were simply flashing points of living light with all traces of colour lost in the shadows.
In spite of the fact that the girls felt they had nothing to fear from the white figures, it was with a tremor of excitement they each greeted the mysterious partners of their dance.
Stella left them talking romantic nonsense of knights and tournaments, ghouls and ghosts in the hall and ran up to her father’s room.
“Oh! Papa,” she cried with childish glee. “It’s such fun! They’re all here. You will come down and join the party as you promised?”
“Yes, yes, dear, I’ll come, presently,” said the Judge with evident dread.
Stella slipped her beautiful bare arm around his neck and her cheek rested against his, while the soft little fingers found his hand.
“I’m awfully sorry I was so ugly to-day,” she said gently. “But I couldn’t help it. I didn’t know I had such a temper. I must have gotten it from you Dad.”
“It’s all right, my darling, if you’ll never say such bitter things to me again—will you?” he asked tenderly, tears filling his eyes.
“No, I’ll be good now, if you’ll forgive me?”
Her father answered with a kiss. “You see, you’re all I have in the world, my little girlie. I’m not as strong as I used to be. I don’t think I’m going to live long.”
“Rubbish! you’ve just got the blues. Shake them off and be young again to-night. Imagine you are a boy here with mother the sweetheart you’re trying to steal from the proud rich people who hate you—come, come!”
The Judge smiled in spite of himself. Her mood was contagious. He stroked her hand gently.
“I’ll be down right away. Run on and have a good time.”
“All right, I’ll start the first dance and you’ll be there by the time it’s over and shake hands with your enemies. It will be so jolly!”
Throwing him a kiss she returned to the hall below and led her guests into the big double parlours which had been fitted up for dancing. The French windows, opening as doors on the porches, were raised, and the band stationed outside near one of them.
When the dance had begun the Judge, dressed in his usual broadcloth frock coat which hung in slouching lines from his drooping shoulders, slowly descended the stairs and stood embarrassed and hesitating in the hall a moment, and sat down by the centre table.
A masquerader came in from the ball room for the fan his partner had left, and so soft was his footfall the Judge did not hear or see him until the tall white figure suddenly loomed above him to pick up the fan.
The apparition was so startling the Judge’s nerves collapsed. He leaped to his feet with an inarticulate cry of terror, overturning his chair and started to bolt for the door.
The masquerader smothered a laugh and said:
“I beg your pardon, I only wanted the fan.” Butler stammered:
“Ah—I—must have been dreaming—you—startled me!”
He watched the white figure disappear, mopped the perspiration from his brow, called Aunt Julie Ann and ordered her to bring him a drink of whiskey. She refused to stir at first, but he threatened to discharge her, and she obeyed.
When the Judge raised the glass to his lips his hand trembled so violently that he spilled some of the liquor on his clothes. He gulped it down and glanced nervously about the hall.
He placed the glass back on the tray and Aunt Julie Ann, watching the parlour-door like a hawk, started back to the kitchen on a run.
“Wait a moment,” cried the Judge, shuffling to his feet.
“I ain’t gwine stay in here wid dem things in de house,” she answered, halting timidly in the shadows of the door leading into the dining-room.
Butler walked to her side and said:
“Tell Miss Stella I’m not feeling well—I’m going to bed.”
He hesitated a moment. “You’ve said nothing to any one about this ghost business?”
“Hush, man, hush! Don’t talk about dat now!” she whispered. “I tole dat ole whiteheaded Larkin—dat’s all.”
“Well, I want to warn you, don’t mention it to another living soul. I’m beginning to suspect that we’ve been seeing old Major Graham himself!”
“De Lawd er mussy, man, how he bin gittin’ in de house wid all de doors and windows locked an’ bolted?”
“That’s a mystery I can’t fathom.”
“No, ner nobody else. Hit’s his sperit I tells ye.”
While they were talking thus in the alcove the oak panel under the stairs was softly opened and closed; old Major Graham, dressed with scrupulous care, thin and pale as a corpse, yet erect and dignified, walked slowly across the hall to the foot of the stairs. His lips were muttering inarticulate sounds and his wide staring eyes had the far-off look of the dreamer who lives, breathes and moves, yet sees nothing.
Butler’s back was to the Major, and Aunt Julie Ann, hearing the footsteps, was first to see him. She staggered against the wall and gasped:
“God, save us, dar he is now!”
Butler glanced over his shoulder and backed against the huge figure of the cook, trembling.
“Look—look!” he whispered. “It is old Graham. Watch his thin bony fingers grip the rail as he climbs the steps!”
“Hit’s his livin’ ghost I tell ye!” persisted Aunt Julie Ann. “He’ll walk right out on de roof an’ step off’n de house des like he does every night—you won’t see’ ’im again.”
“Get some more whiskey!” said the Judge. “I’ll go with you”—he added, following her into the dining room, mopping the perspiration from his brow.
“I’ll go up there in a minute and find out the truth!”
“Better keep outen dat attic I tells ye. Dey say dat de ghosts er de livin’ is wuss dan de dead.” They had scarcely passed from the hall when the oak panel again opened and a white masked figure peered through, and quickly entered.
The dress was an exact duplicate of the masqueraders down to its minutest details, and only the closest observer would have noted the awkward way in which the figure moved as though not in the habit of walking in his disguise.
He quickly glanced about the hall, listened a moment to the sounds of revelry in the ballroom, closed the door of the small hall leading into it, reopened the panel and signalled.
In rapid succession eight more silent figures filed through the panel door. The leader whispered to his followers:
“He’s in the dining room. Guard every entrance now but that.”
In a moment a masked man stood guard at each door and the leader lowered the lamp on the table until only the dim outlines of the forms could be seen, and stepped back himself into the shadows of the alcove by the dining room door.
Aunt Julie Ann returned to the kitchen, and the Judge, afraid to go upstairs, came back into the hall to enter the ballroom as he promised Stella.. As he passed through the door of the dining room the shrouded figure standing in the alcove quickly followed, cutting off this retreat.
The Judge stopped, blinked his eyes around the dim hall and muttered:
“Why, why, the lamp’s gone out!” He quickly crossed the space to the table and extended his hand to turn up the lamp.
The figure behind him seized his arm and a guttural voice spoke through the mask:
“There’s light enough for our work, Judge.”
Butler staggered back in terror and glanced about him at the dim spectres closing around the table. With an effort he pulled himself together and stammered:
“Why, of course, boys. I see! I see! You’re going to initiate me! give me the third degree first—I see—a good joke!”
“You’ll find it a serious joke before you’re through,” replied the leader, gripping his dagger.
The Judge could see the movement of his hand as he slowly drew the knife from its sheath, the blade glistening for an instant in the dim lamplight, but he still thought the boys were playing a prank on him.
“Well, gentlemen, have your fun!” he cried with forced gaiety, “Have your way, I’m at your service. What is the penalty I must pay to-night for my many sins against the Klan?”
“The penalty is your life,” said the mask with sullen menace in his tones, stepping closer, “unless you agree to leave this state to-morrow and never enter it again—will you go?”
“So bad as that?” The Judge forced a laugh. “What else?”
“You are not fooling with boys now!” sullenly said the towering white form. “Give me your answer, you d———d old sneaking coward! Will you go or do you prefer to die?”
Butler, trembling now with mingled terror and rage, cried angrily:
“Gentlemen, your joke is going too far!”
“It’ll go farther,” was the quick reply, as the white figures closed in threateningly and the foremost man moved as if to raise his hand.
“Enough of this! Get out of my house!” Butler suddenly shouted, snatching the mask from the leader’s head by a quick unexpected display of courage. A cry of horror and surprise leaped from his lips. The knife flashed, and was buried in his heart. He reeled, staggered, clutched a chair and sank with a groan to a sitting posture. His long awkward arms drooped and his head sank slowly on his breast.
The leader, who had quickly replaced his helmet, bent over him a moment, sheathed his knife and said:
“A good stroke—all right—quick now—open the doors and follow me.”
The guard at the door leading into the ballroom opened it gently and the sweet strains of the music rang through the hall with startling distinctness, as the white-masked figures slowly disappeared through the panel under the stairs.
Aunt Julie Ann who had heard the Judge’s cry and the sudden noise entered trembling.
“Name er God what’s dis!” she cried. “De light gone out! De ghost done dat!”
She turned up the lamp and saw the Judge sitting dead in the chair, the scarlet stain on his clean ruffled shirt holding her for a moment in speechless horror.
Screaming at last, she rushed to the ballroom door and shouted:
“De Lawd hab mussy! De ghost done kill de Judge—Stab ’im fro de heart!”
The music stopped with a crash and the crowd rushed into the hall.