Back Home: Being the Narrative of Judge Priest and His People

by Irvin S. Cobb

In the darkness they could not see that the old Judge's plump figure was stiffening.

“Did Mister Dabney Prentiss—did anyone, send you here to see me on this business?” he asked, quickly.

“No, suh, nobody a'tall,” answered the old woman. “We jest came on our own accord—we felt like as if we jest had to come and see you. Court opens in the momin' and Jimmy's case, as you know, comes up the first thing. And oh, Jedge Priest, we air in so much trouble, Emmy and me—and you've got the name of bein' kind hearted to them that's borne down and in distress—and so we come to you.”

He raised his hand, as though to break in on her, but the old woman was not to be stopped. She was pouring out the grievous burden of her lament:

“Jedge Priest, you knowed my husband when he was alive, and you've knowed me these many years. And you know how it was in them old days that's gone that the Flemings was forever and a day fightin' with my people and forcin' trouble on 'em 'till finally they hunted 'em plum' out of the county and out of the State, away from the places where they was born and raised. And you know Jimmy too, and know what a hard time he had growin' up, and how he's always stood by me and helped me out, jest the same as if he was my own son. And I reckin you know about him—and Emmy here.”

She broke off to wipe her eyes. Had it been a man who came on such an errand the Judge would have sent him packing—he would have been at no loss to put his exact meaning into exact language; for the Judge held his place on the bench in a high and scriptural regard. But here, in the presence of these two woeful figures, their faces drenched and steeped with sorrow, he hesitated, trying to choose words that would not bruise their wounds.

“Miss Puss,” he said very softly, almost as though he were speaking to a child, “whatever my private feelin's may be towards you and yours, it is not proper for me as the Judge upon the bench, to express them in advance of the trial. It is my sworn duty to enforce the law, as it is written and laid down in the books. And the law is merciful, and is just to all.”

The old woman's angular, slatty figure straightened. In the falling light her pinched and withered face showed, a white patch with deep grayish creases in it, the color of snow in a quick thaw.

“The law!” she flared out, “the law, you say, Jedge. Well, you kin talk mighty big about the law, but what kind of a law is that that lets a fightin', swearin', drunken bully like Ranee Fleming plague a poor boy and call him out of his name with vile words and shame him before this child here, and yit not do nothin' to him for it? And what kind of a law is it that'll send my boy up yonder to that there penitentiary and wreck his life and Emmy's life and leave me here alone in my old age, ashamed to lift my head amongst my neighbors ever again?”

“Madame,” said the Judge with all kindliness in his tone, “it's not for me to discuss these matters with you, now. It's not even proper that I should let you say these things to me.”