“Count on me; I am yours to command,” declared Randal, lightly. “I am a very lamb, when necessary, and you may lead me through the case with a blue ribbon and a ring in my nose. I’ll eat out of any man’s hand!”
The ponderous senior counsel looked at him soberly. The junior twirled and twirled his fob-chain.
“We wish to conduct this case to the best advantage,” said Mr. Harvey, “and leave no stone unturned that can contribute to success. But we wish to be conservative—we must keep that intention before us, to be conservative, and give Floyd-Rosney no possible opportunity for outbreak at our expense, either in regard to the interests of the case or the personal safety of our clients.”
“I will order my walk and conversation as if on eggs,” declared Randal, with a wary look.
“I do not apprehend any unseemly measures or conduct on the part of the opposing counsel,” continued Mr. Harvey. “They are gentlemen of high standing. But Mr. Floyd-Rosney has a most unruly and unreasoning temper and he has placed himself at a deplorable public disadvantage in this matter, which, be sure, he does not ascribe to himself. We will go slowly and safely—coming necessarily into contention with him. But we shall take Mrs. Floyd-Rosney’s deposition by all means.”
And thus the matter was settled.
On the third day the boat made the Duciehurst landing, and some hours were spent in exploring the ruins of the mansion. Later the party separated, the lawyers repairing to the inland town of Caxton for a conference with the local legal firm who would prosecute the interests of the case in Mississippi, and the two Ducies making a prearranged excursion to a plantation which Randal had leased at some distance higher up the river. As the residence on this plantation was comfortable and in good repair he had quitted his quarters at the hotel in Caxton and had taken up his abode here. It had been a wrench to him to relinquish the operations on the Ducie estate; but he was advised that his claim to rightful possession might be jeopardized by consenting to hold under Floyd-Rosney, which course, indeed, he had never contemplated. As the two, mounted on the staid farm horses, rode through the fields and speculated on their possibilities, Randal would often pause in the turn-rows—the cotton of last year a withered stubble—in systematic lines, with here and there a floculent “dog-tail,” as the latest wisp of the staple is called, flaunting in the chill spring breeze, and would descant on the superior values of the Duciehurst lands compared to these, illustrating sometimes by the fresh furrows near at hand, showing the humus of the soil, for the plows were already running. Now and again he turned his eager, hopeful eyes on his brother as he declared, “This time next year, old man, I shall have the force busy getting ready to bed up land for cotton at Duciehurst.” Or “When the estates of our fathers are restored to us I shall live in formality at our ancestral mansion, and if you dare go back to France I shall revenge myself by marrying somebody.”
“Anybody in view?”
“Apprehensive, again? Well, to set your mind at rest, I was thinking, pictorially merely, how stately Hilda Dean looked walking down the grand staircase with her head up. How beautifully it is poised on her shoulders.”
“She is truly beautiful,” Adrian said heartily, “and during all that trip down the river I was impressed with her lovely character, and her sterling qualities of mind and heart. Her beauty, great as it is, really is belittled by the graces of her nature. Pray Heaven your visions of Hildegarde as your chatelaine at Duciehurst may materialize.”