Oldfield: A Kentucky Tale of the Last Century

by Nancy Huston Banks

And when this was written he was not satisfied. He sat hesitating for a moment, listening absently to the ringing of the court-house bell. Then, again taking up his pen, he went on to beg her not to give another troubled thought to the note or to the suit. He wrote that possibly the case might come for trial on that very day,—writing this as lovingly, as tenderly, as he could have written to his mother whom he had never known,—and going on to tell her that he wished her to know, only for her own peace of mind, that the payment of the note, both principal and interest, had already been arranged for, and would be made, if possible, before the opening of court. This was, so he wrote, to be quite regardless of the decision in the case, and solely to set her mind wholly at rest. After writing thus far he still sat thinking, feeling as if he had not yet said just what he meant to say, as if he had not been quite tender enough of the little lady's tender sensibilities. With his pen poised he looked out at the passing wagons and at the crowd gathering around the court-house, taking no heed of anything save the anxiety in his mind. At last a sudden, gentle smile illuminated his grave, pale face, as he added another paragraph:—

"Of course you understand, my dear little friend, that this money is advanced as a loan which you may repay at your convenience. You will also understand, I am sure, that I should not have taken the liberty of thus settling your private business without your consent, had I not heard of your illness and feared that you were not able to attend to it yourself. As soon as you are well enough you may scold me as much as you like for my presumption. It is, however, to be between ourselves; no one else must know."

He gave the letter to a negro boy and watched him fly like an arrow through the clouds of dust which were hanging heavy over the big road. He saw the child's hazardous dash between the great wagons, close to the high, grating wheels, under the huge, clanking trace-chains, almost under the beating iron hoofs. For this quiet morning of late summer chanced to be the one out of the whole year when the grass-grown solitude of Oldfield's single street became a thronged, clamorous, confused thoroughfare.

But the judge cared nothing for all this unwonted turmoil, beyond the safe, swift passage of the messenger bearing his letter. He did not know that Miss Judy was too ill to read it, and he was longing to have it reach her before she could hear any troubling news through the possible coming up of the case. Turning slowly toward the court-house, he was thinking solely of her, and the thought of her illness deepened the sorrow for the pain of the world which always lay heavy on his sad heart. As he thought of this gentle soul, whose whole life had been loving sacrifice for others, and whose very life might now be demanded for the wrong-doing of others, the sorrowful mystery of living perplexed him more sorely than ever. As he thought of this other innocent woman suffering, it might be even unto death, through a madman's causeless hatred of himself—even his great faith, measured by his judicial mind, seemed for the moment to shrink.

Feeling his danger, he tried to wrench his thoughts away and to turn them from this morbid brooding. He strove so strenuously that he presently was able to fix his attention on the matters of merely human law and justice which began to come before him, as soon as he had taken his place upon the bench. Thorough training and long practice helped him so that he was gradually able to bring his eminently legal mind to bear upon the wearying routine of the docket with the unerring precision of some marvellous machine.

His fine face was still pale, but there was nothing unusual in its paleness, and it now grew calm and collected under the very intensity of his spirit's stress. For the farthest spiritual extremity lies cold and still beyond all human passion, as the supreme summit of perpetual ice rises cold and still above all human life. There was, therefore, no change in his attitude of mind or body when he suddenly saw the dark, threatening visage and the wild, bloodshot eyes of the Spaniard confronting him through the crowded gloom of the heated court-room. He was accustomed to the sight; it had faced him at every term of his court. There was consequently no disturbance, not the slightest uneasiness in the abrupt turning away of his eyes. His sole feeling was one of unutterable weariness of the struggle of living, of utter sickness of mind and heart and soul. He was so weary that he did not even fear himself, so utterly weary that he was—for the moment—no longer afraid even of the unexpected escape of his own fierce temper, always so hardly held in leash. He no longer dreaded the sudden breaking of the steel bars of his own stern self-control, the greatest danger that he had ever found to fear.

When the case against the estate of Major John Bramwell came to trial in its due turn, during the dragging hours of the long, hot afternoon, the judge weighed that also, as he had weighed all which had come before, and as he intended weighing all which were to come after—coolly, calmly, scrupulously—according to the letter of the law. Having so weighed it, and found it wanting, he dismissed the complaint on account of time limitation, and assigned the costs to the plaintiff, as he would have done in any similar case under like circumstances. Then he passed composedly to the deliberate consideration of further business, and the hot, heavy hours droned on.

Through it all he had scarcely glanced at Alvarado; in truth he had scarcely thought of him save as a party to one of the many suits before the court. He had had no opportunity to learn that the Spaniard had refused to accept the money, offered early in the day, in payment of the note. He did not observe Alvarado's leaving the court-room after the decision. He did not know that the man was waiting on the steps when he himself hastened out after the adjournment of court.

Thus it was that the long-coming crisis found him at last wholly unprepared. Thus it was that the blow from the heavy handle of the Spaniard's riding-whip struck him without warning. It sent him, stunned and reeling, down the steps. His hand went out, through blind instinct, and caught one of the portico pillars, so that he did not fall quite to the earth; and he was on his feet instantly, springing to his great height, to his tremendous power—towering above the surrounding crowd. As he arose, he made one furious leap, like the magnificent bound of a wounded lion, straight at the Spaniard, who stood—still as a statue—braced for the encounter.

A cry of terror had gone up from the crowd when the blow had been struck. Many restraining arms were now raised, as the white fury flashed over the judge's pale face, as rare and deadly lightning glares from the paleness of a winter sky. And then this appalling danger-signal faded even as it flashed forth. The cry of the crowd was suddenly hushed, its swaying was suddenly stilled. There now followed a strange pause of strained waiting!