Mr. Dalton swayed his big head to and fro, his eyes alight with the fires of reminiscence as the scenes of nearly thirty years earlier were re-enacted in his memory. "And yet from his standpoint he was quite right. They were very strict religionists, those Lloyds—Methodists, or Campbellites, or what not—they thought it a mortal sin to attend even a Shakespearean performance at a theatre. Judge Lloyd did not know one card from another—and was proud of the fact. I remember that once I tried a case in his court that involved a gambling transaction—his cousin Charles Jennico was of the opposing counsel—but that's neither here nor there. Judge Lloyd had other children then—boys and girls—he could not bring them into such association—he could not justify such an example."
"Jennico—isn't that a name down your way, in Louisiana, Mrs. Laniston?" one of the chess players suggested.
"I was just thinking," said Mrs. Laniston, her surprised eyes on the fire, her thin, jewelled fingers still keeping her place in the magazine. "There is an inconsiderable plantation called the Jennico place just beyond the bight of the bayou. The proprietor never lived there. I always understood that the owner was wealthy—but it is much neglected and in need of repair."
"It belongs to this fellow now," said the lawyer comfortably. "What sort of a house is on it, do you know, madam?"
"Not much of a house—a six-room frame, I think—there is not much land, but it is of good quality."
The lawyer, identified with his client's interests, nodded his head, smiling as if in personal gratification.
"I have some curiosity, Mr. Dalton," said one of the chess players, a soul dedicated to problems, "to know how such an unexpected windfall would affect a man. How did the young fellow receive the news of his good fortune?"
"Almost stunned at first—dreadfully taken aback;" the lawyer laughed and then grew grave.
"He had some points besides the money interests to claim his attention, you see. The danseuse and her highly bred and refined husband had very hard luck. Her earnings were poor, and he could not get employment in any appropriate way on account of the impression which his marriage gave to people of position. He was naturally supposed to be such a man who would make such a marriage. He tried all sorts of things, unsuited to his training and traditions. He was a ticket-taker, an advance agent, doorkeeper—had a classical education and wrote theatrical advertisements and puffs for newspapers—had no conception of the dramatic afflatus, wrote a play or two, heavy as lead, warranted to fall flat. He succumbed to ill-health, and then his father, having lost several children—all but this one and the eldest, Robert—and being much softened, offered to take this son back, excluding the wife of course, but paying her a handsome pension; this was refused. Time went on; the situation waxed worse continually; the judge then offered financial assistance unconditionally. But it came too late; the son died—presently his wife died also, and the grandson, then almost grown, doing a 'ground-and-lofty-tumbling turn' in great glory in a circus company went his way, chiefly on his head. He was lost sight of for a time, for Robert Lloyd, an admirable man and considered to have excellent business judgment, having made several most fortunate speculations, went beyond his depth, was caught in the undertow and dragged to ruin, overwhelming with him Judge Lloyd himself—I never could understand the tangle of Robert Lloyd's affairs. In the confusion of the financial wreck no one remembered this boy—the friends of the family thought the outcome well enough. The boy in his risky vocation must soon break his neck; and thus the unlucky episode of the beauty-prize winner in the Lloyd family would be definitely terminated. But, luckily enough it proved, the old gentleman once saw this grandson. Have you met him—this young fellow?" he broke off suddenly, addressing one of the chess players.
"No, I have not," the gentleman responded a trifle stiffly—street fairs were not in his line.