Chapter I

_I Find Some New Relations_

The letter which lay before me had been written in old-fashioned

longhand on the business stationery of the law firm of Eldon & Crawford,

their given address being Calverton, Maryland. For the third time I read

over the missive, although certainly it was short and to the point, its

meaning unmistakable. But judge for yourself.

CALVERTON, MARYLAND,

_June 22, 1919._

MY DEAR SIR,--The funeral services for the late Francis Hildebrand

Graeme Esqre., of "Hildebrand Hundred," King William County,

Maryland, will be held at S. Saviour's Church, Guildford Corners,

Maryland, on Thursday, June 24, 1919, at three o'clock post

meridian.

In view of the fact that you are a beneficiary under Mr. Graeme's

will I am forwarding this communication by special delivery, in

the hope that you may be able to attend the services and be present

at the reading of the testament.

I am enclosing a time schedule of the Cape Charles route, and would

suggest that you take the morning express from Baltimore. By giving

notice to the conductor the train will be stopped at Crown Ferry,

the nearest railway point to "Hildebrand Hundred." If you will

advise me by telegraph of your coming I will see that a conveyance

is in waiting. Trusting that you may find it possible to make the

journey, and taking the liberty of placing our legal services at

your disposal,

I remain, my dear sir,

Your obedient servant,

JOHN ELDON.

HUGH HILDEBRAND, ESQRE.

Yes, this was all perfectly plain and understandable. Francis Graeme,

the distant cousin whom I had seen just once in my life, had died

suddenly at his Maryland home; as a member of the family and a

presumptive legatee it was my duty to offer the last respects in person.

Yet there had been something more or less odd about the whole business.

It had been the Civil War which had made a lasting breach between the

Northern and Southern branches of the Hildebrand family; for more than a

generation there had been no social intercourse whatever. Moreover,

during that period, the name had shown a tendency to disappear for good

and all, the usual fate of old families who live too close to the

ancestral soil and dislike the noisy wheels of the world's progress. The

late owner of the "Hundred" did not even bear the family patronymic, his

Hildebrand descent being on the distaff side. I, in turn, am an orphan,

without brothers or sisters; more than that I have no near relatives in

the paternal connection; indeed I had never heard of any immediate

bearers of my name until one day, some three months ago, when Francis

Graeme called at my Philadelphia office, introduced himself, claimed me

as kin, and carried me off to a luncheon which extended itself into

dinner and then lasted to a midnight supper. It had been a case of

liking at first sight, although Graeme was a man of forty-five or so,

while I lacked three years of thirty. However, years--mere years--don't

signify if people really "belong," and Graeme and I had lost no time in

laying the foundations of a friendship that promised a more than

ordinary degree of permanence. It had been arranged that I should come

down to "Hildebrand Hundred" for a long visit, but one thing after

another had happened to prevent; I had been presented with an actual law

case, Graeme was called West for a month, one of my college class

reunions had been scheduled for the first part of June; so it went. And

now poor Graeme was dead and nothing could be as we had planned it

during that long afternoon and night at the old University Club on

Walnut Street. Strange, I had not heard that he was ill, but our

correspondence had been most irregular, and most likely the attack had

been a sudden one--heart disease or perhaps a stroke. Of course I must

go down to Maryland, albeit the journey would be a depressing one; I

might even find it a little awkward to appear at the house in the

character of a new-found relative. I ought to explain that the family at

the "Hundred" now consisted of Miss Lysbeth Graeme and her cousin, Miss

Eunice Trevor. Of course I had never met either of them, but Graeme had

spoken of both girls at our first and only meeting; he seemed especially

fond of Lysbeth, or Betty, as he called her. Betty Graeme--rather an

attractive name I think--was some half dozen years my junior, and any

normal-minded young man would find the acquisition of a brand-new

feminine cousin an interesting possibility. But that was before this

distressing business of Francis Graeme's death, and I should feel more

or less the intruder. It was evident, however, that Mr. Eldon's letter

must have been sanctioned by Miss Graeme, and, I dare say, Graeme had

spoken to his daughter of having made my acquaintance, and warmly, too;

consequently, I should have to go and be decent, stay over night if that

were unavoidable, and then slip away Friday morning with my

legacy--perhaps a hundred dollars with which to procure the

mourning-ring so dear to the hearts of mid-Victorian novelists.

In spite of the special delivery stamp the letter had been delayed

somewhere, and it was not handed over to me until early Thursday

morning, the messenger awaking me out of an unusually sound sleep by the

simple expedient of keeping his finger pressed firmly upon the electric

push button of my tiny room-and-bath lodgings in the "Clarendon." When I

had rubbed the Sandman's dust out of my eyes, and had taken in the

general purport of the epistle, I glanced at the clock and saw that I

had less than an hour in which to make my toilet, settle my business

affairs and catch the train. Yet I made it easily enough, for, outside

of bath and breakfast, I had only to telephone the friend with whom I

shared a diminutive law office that I should not be back until Friday,

and that our progressive match at golf would have to be postponed to

that date. Happily or unhappily, as you choose to look at it, there were

no clients to put off and no real business exigencies to consider. Come

to think of it, I am not so sure that I was ever intended for the bench

and bar, and certainly the world has not gone out of its way to avail

itself of my store of legal knowledge. Mine was just the usual case of a

young man reading law because, on leaving the university, nothing more

tangible had presented itself. Moreover, the quarterly paid income from

my mother's estate is sufficient for my modest needs and perhaps

deprives me of any real incentive for hard work. Now the successful man

is usually self-made, meaning that he has been forced to play the role

of a creator and make something out of nothing. It makes me blush

sometimes when I reflect what would happen if that quarterly cheque ever

failed to turn up in the mail; had I anything of real value to offer the

world in exchange for shelter, raiment, and what my newsboy calls three

"squares" a day? Not that I am altogether a cumberer of the ground (as a

golfer I have been well-trained and always take care to replace my

divots), but there is no particular reason for my existence on this

planet, and there are not many people who would either know or care that

I was no longer of their number. Cynical? not at all; at least I had

not intended to give that impression. But my two years' war service

destroyed some illusion, even though I hadn't the luck to get across the

water.

Finally, I may call myself a decent enough chap when compared to the

ordinary run of men, and while I don't pretend to philanthropic

activities I can say quite honestly that there is no man, or woman

either, who may truthfully affirm being the worse off for having enjoyed

the distinction of my personal acquaintance. At best, this is only a

negative virtue, and there are times when I feel keenly that I ought to

be adding something definite to the world's stock of material good or

ethical treasure. I can't flatter myself that I possess anything more

than the one talent, and my quarterly dividend makes a convenient napkin

in which to enwrap it; the old allegory seems to fit my case precisely.

I dare say that life for me has been a trifle too pleasant and

well-ordered; people who live on Easy Street become more and more

attached to their _otium-cum-dig_; I have visions of myself less than a

score of years away: portly, tonsured, inclined to resent the existence

of boys and dogs, fussily addicted to carrying about to dinner parties

my own particular brand of pepper in a little, flat, silver box.

Perhaps if I should fall in love, but pooh! I have been invoking that

contingency so long and so unavailingly that it has lost a large portion

of its pristine appeal. No, I can't see that there is anything better

for me to do than to go on drawing my income, sitting religiously for at

least six hours a day in my office, sticking at golf until I finally get

the best of that hideous tendency to hook, and dining as usual on

Mondays with the Mercers _en famille_; in short, whittling my individual

peg to fit my allotted hole. I do think, however, that I'll tell Bob

Mercer he can count upon me for one evening a week at his Julian Street

settlement. Bob is the right sort of a cleric, and I know that he talks

by the card when he insists that giving and getting are really

interchangeable terms. But one always hates to make the effort and so

prove the truth of the assertion; it is infinitely less trouble to let

some other fellow get the true meaning and joy out of life while you

content yourself with the corner seat at the club fireside and the

comfortable certainty that the chef understands to a dot how you like

your cutlets and asparagus tips. Just the same I will speak to Bob--and

meanwhile I have awakened to the realization that it is ten minutes to

nine and that only a taxi-driver with no reverence for the speed laws

can deliver me at the Pennsylvania station in time for the southbound

train. I do make it, with a quarter of a minute to spare, and now I

remember that I have forgotten to send a wire to Mr. Eldon. I can

telegraph him at Wilmington, but there is small chance of its being

delivered in time; probably I shall have to rustle my own means of

conveyance to "Hildebrand Hundred." I shall have full two hours between

the arrival of my train at Crown Ferry and the time appointed for the

funeral. That ought to be sufficient even if I have to walk.

The ride over the Cape Charles route is not particularly interesting;

moreover, it was infernally dusty, and the food provided by the buffet

on the Pullman seemed extraordinarily unappetizing. Where on earth does

the company procure such tasteless provender? Everything tastes so

desiccated and deodorized, the mere shadow of really substantial viands,

a veritable feast of Barmecide. There was the usual delay owing to a

freight wreck, and my two hours of leeway had shrunken to a scant sixty

minutes by the time I had alighted at the little flag station of Crown

Ferry.

Not a very inviting place, this shabby way station set in a wilderness

of jack-pine and hackberry trees. There was not a soul in sight, outside

of the depressed looking individual who served as general utility man

and who apparently resented the intrusion of a stranger upon his lonely

domain. To my inquiry concerning the possibility of obtaining some sort

of conveyance, he returned a monosyllabic "Nope," and he showed not the

smallest inclination to give me any real assistance in finding my way to

"Hildebrand Hundred"; he pointed out the general direction, with a lean,

tobacco-stained finger, and let it go at that.

There was no house in sight, nothing but the two rutted tracks of a

sandy country road leading off toward the west and bifurcating itself a

couple of hundred yards away from the station--"deepo" in the

vernacular. I understood, from the scant information vouchsafed me, that

I was to take the left-hand fork, and after prevailing upon the agent,

in consideration of two of my choice cigars, to take temporary charge of

my kit-bag, I started off on my three-mile tramp.

Once through the belt of scrubby woodland, the appearance of the country

began to change for the better, and the further I traveled from the

coast line the more rolling and diversified it became. The sand gave

place to loam, an improvement in which the highway shared, the fields

were neatly fenced, and, with the added attractions of oak and hickory

groves, the landscape began to appeal; this was good farming land and a

pleasant place of rural residence.

I passed several farm houses, but since the day was unusually cool for

the month of June and as I rather enjoyed the exercise of walking, I

concluded not to bother about hiring a trap. A farmer whom I

encountered, at a cross-roads where there was a little cluster of half a

dozen houses, informed me that S. Saviour's Church was distant about a

mile; but already it was half after two o'clock and I realized that I

should not have time to present myself at the house before the funeral

cortege started. The obvious procedure was for me to wait at the church

until the party from "Hildebrand Hundred" had arrived; I could then

introduce myself to Mr. Eldon and be assigned to my proper position

among the mourners.

"Or if you like," continued my new acquaintance, "you can save more'n

half way to the church by cuttin' across the Thaneford property. You go

in by that stile yander," and he pointed a hundred yards down the road.

I felt a trifle doubtful about the propriety of taking a short cut

across private grounds, and said as much. "You are quite sure that Mr.

Thaneford doesn't object?" I asked.

"Of co'se he objects," declared my rural friend, who now informed me

that his name was Greenough and that he was the newly elected sheriff of

the county. "He objects powerful. But the Co'te has decided that it's a

public right-of-way. And when the law gives a man his rights he's bound

to maintain them."

"Why the right-of-way?" I asked.

"The Thaneford property was a royal grant," explained Sheriff Greenough,

"but S. Saviour's had been built before that, and the folks here in

Guildford Corners retained right of access to their parish church. By

the road it's full a mile."

"A relic of the established church of colonial days," I remarked.

"Nowadays no one is obliged to attend S. Saviour's."

"No," admitted the Sheriff, "and I'm a Baptis' myself. But we keep our

rights, for nobody knows when we may want to use 'em."

Since Mr. Thaneford was apparently unreconciled to the exercise of

ancient ecclesiastical privilege, I was about to say that I, as a

stranger, did not propose to become a party to the controversy; but a

glance at my watch showed me that I would have to take the short cut if

I hoped to reach the church by three o'clock.

"Mr. Graeme's funeral?" inquired Greenough. "Well, he was a good man and

a good neighbor. I'd be there myself if I hadn't business at the

Co'te-house to look after. Yes, sir, straight ahead and you can't miss

the path. Glad to have obliged you, sir; good evening."

Beyond the stile the path ran across a piece of meadow land; thence

through a hardwood grove, rising gently to a little plateau upon which

the mansion was situated. The house was of the Georgian period with the

usual pretentious portico; it seemed badly out of repair and was

surrounded by unkempt lawns, paddocks, and gardens. I saw that the path

would lead me within a comparatively short distance of the house, and I

rather sympathized with the owner's resentment at the invasion of his

privacy under cover of law. Yet I must go on, and I quickened my pace so

as to get out of sight of the house as quickly as possible.

A powerfully built young man came around the corner of what, in its day,

must have been a very considerable glass-house, and confronted me. Not a

pleasant face, with its prominent cheekbones and black V of eyebrows

furrowing the low, heavy forehead. "What are you doing on this

property?" he demanded with a truculency that made me dislike him

instantly and completely.

"It's a public right-of-way," I retorted.

"We don't admit that," he said hotly. "The case has been appealed; if

necessary, we'll carry it to Washington."

Well what was I to do? I had no desire to get into a dispute with this

rustic boor, and yet it was imperative for me to go on if I were to

reach the church in time for the service. Much as I disliked the man I

must put myself in the position of asking a favor from him.

"I presume that I am addressing Mr. Thaneford?" I began inquiringly.

"I'm John Thaneford--what then?"

"As you see, I am a stranger here. At the Corners I was told that I

could take this short cut and so save time and distance in reaching the

church."

"Oh, S. Saviour's!"

"Yes. I am a relative of the late Mr. Francis Graeme and came this

morning from Philadelphia to attend the funeral."

John Thaneford looked up sharply, the V of eyebrows narrowing. "I didn't

know Graeme had any kin in Philadelphia," he said suspiciously. "Or, for

that matter, anywhere."

"That may be true so far as the Graeme side of the family is concerned,"

I rejoined. "My name is Hildebrand."

"Hildebrand!" He stared at me even more intently than before, and I

fancied that there was a subtle note of dismay in the ejaculation. I

determined to follow up the advantage, if advantage it was.

"Hugh Hildebrand, to be precise," I continued, eyeing him steadily. "We

are of the Northern branch, and since the Civil War there has been

little or no intercourse with the family of the 'Hundred.'"

"Yet you come to Francis Graeme's funeral. Why?"

My temper flashed up. "And what damned business is that of yours, Mr.

John Thaneford!" I snapped out. "Am I to pass or not?"

For an instant he glowered, and I saw the pupils of his coal-black eyes

contract to a pin point. Then he took an evident pull upon himself; he

spoke with a marked change of demeanor, almost courteously.

"I'm afraid I've been acting rather rudely," he said, and stepped aside

out of the path. "But these country bullies have been most annoying of

late, insisting upon their so-called rights out of mere, petty spite.

It's part of their creed, you know, to hate a gentleman." I nodded. I

could see now that John Thaneford was by no means the rustic lout of my

first impressions. Not that I liked him any the better, but at least we

spoke the same language.

"It's a silly fiction," he went on, "this alleged necessity of access to

the parish church. Nowadays, everybody at the Corners goes to the

Baptist or Methodist meeting-house, and S. Saviour's congregation is

gathered chiefly in the churchyard. Outside the Graeme and Thaneford

families there ar'n't more than a dozen regular parishioners, and the

church is only opened for service once a month."

By this time we were walking side by side in the direction of the house.

For some inscrutable reason Mr. John Thaneford had made up his mind to

be decently polite; indeed the effort was plainly apparent.

Consequently, I could do no less than fall in with his new mood.

"I suppose S. Saviour's is a colonial foundation," I remarked.

"Yes, even to the inevitable Queen Anne Communion plate. But the

countryside has changed and the bigger estates have been cut up into

small holdings. That always brings in a different set of people. And the

old and the new don't mix well."

"Precisely. And so there are empty pews at S. Saviour's."

"More of them every year. A young chap comes over from Lynn the first

Sunday in the month and holds service; so I'm told, at least. Otherwise,

the church is only opened for weddings, christenings, and funerals; and

the latter outnumber both the former. What's the answer?" He laughed

cynically.

"It's a pity," I said regretfully. "I always hate to see the old order

displaced. But surely if someone took the lead--well, why not

yourself?"

"I haven't been inside the building since I used to get whaled for not

knowing my catechism. And I've small use for parsons," he continued,

dourly.

We walked on in silence, that hostile silence which sooner or later is

sure to declare itself between two natures essentially antagonistic.

Since John Thaneford and I could not be friends, nor even remain

indifferent, we should never have met at all. But the fact had been

accomplished and we should have to put up with it; I fell to wondering

if he, too, sensed the vague presentiment of future clash and struggle;

in the meantime I was uncomfortable; I wanted to get away.

"The original right-of-way turns here," said Thaneford suddenly, "but I

can take you across the lawn, and thence it is only a step, through a

fir plantation, to the churchyard. Besides, I want you to meet my

father; he will be interested in knowing you since the Hildebrands and

the Thanefords have been neighbors for seven generations; yes and kin,

too, as we reckon such things down here. My mother was a sister of old

Richard Hildebrand, and that makes me a second or third cousin of this

Francis Graeme, who inherited the family property, although he did not

bear the family name. If it were a question of direct descent either you

or I might have put in a better claim to the 'Hundred.'" He looked at me

slantingly as though to assure himself that the idea had not already

presented itself to my mind. I murmured an unintelligible assent; what

was coming now?

"And it follows logically that we two are kin. How does that strike

you, Cousin Hugh Hildebrand," he added coolly.

"Better than being thrown out as a trespasser," I answered with the most

convincing imitation of a smile that I could conjure up. "But I think I

ought to be getting along; it's ten minutes to three."

"Remember that you are now south of Mason and Dixon's line," he

rejoined, "and time is made only for slaves. But come along," and he led

me, inwardly protesting, across the weedy expanse of what had once been

a handsome piece of ornamental grass to where an old man sat in a big

arm-chair under the shade of the most beautiful white oak that I had

ever beheld in my life, an almost perfectly symmetrical ball of limbs

and foliage. Then I looked at Fielding Thaneford and straightway forgot

about the wonders of inanimate nature.

Certainly a very old man, and yet his skin was of a remarkable texture

and quality, apparently as fine and softly pink as that of a baby. The

resemblance to an infant was intensified by one distinguishing

characteristic of the massive head and features--the total absence of

any hirsute adornment; there was not a vestige of hair, beard,

eyelashes, or eyebrows, and the effect was singularly repulsive. Yet he

did not seem to be afflicted with the ordinary infirmities of senility,

for he turned at the slight noise of our approaching footsteps and the

eye that scanned me was of a cold, bright blue, indicative of a keen and

finely coordinated intelligence.

"Father," said John Thaneford in his hatefully false voice of assumed

cordiality, "this is our cousin, Hugh Hildebrand, of Philadelphia."

I fancied that the placid figure in the great chair stiffened slightly

at the sound of my name. But otherwise he made no movement or sign,

continuing to gaze upon me with those unflinching eyes, as horrible in

their total lack of lashes as the optics of a vulture.

"He is here to be present at the funeral of Cousin Francis Graeme."

Again that coldly devouring gaze passed over me; involuntarily I

shivered and stepped back. What was the impression that was being made

upon me? Not of malignancy certainly, nor even of ordinary

cold-bloodedness; there was something too detached about this singular

personality to suggest any kind of commonplace, healthy passion; if the

crater had ever existed it had long since cooled to slag and ashes.

There was but one fitting adjective--inhuman. Whatever spirit it was

that still held its abode behind that fresh, childlike masque it

endured altogether of its own volition and outside the sphere of those

blessed, understandable things of our common life. In the world but not

of it, if one may use that divine metaphor in its inverted sense. The

babe possesses innocence in that it has never come into contact with sin

and death, and a man may finally withdraw himself from the defilements

of this naughty world and become again as a little child. Yet without

repentance and so without grace. Lucifer himself could never assume the

role of penitent, but he may easily take front rank as an ethical

philosopher. And so Fielding Thaneford and I looked upon one another.

Either might have put out a touching hand, and yet a thousand leagues

could not have spanned the abyss that separated us. And in that selfsame

moment the bell of S. Saviour's began to toll for the passing of him who

had been master of "Hildebrand Hundred," and kin, through the blood tie,

to one and all of us who waited and listened.

Fielding Thaneford had turned his eyes away, and they were fixed on the

road winding far below the plateau on which stood "Thane Court"; in the

distance appeared a stately moving cortege, the hearses and the

carriages containing the mourners; there was a flutter of sable

draperies and of funeral plumes; the old man looked, but remained

immobile and impassive. With a nod of acknowledgment and farewell to

John Thaneford I made my own way down the slope and into the shadow of

the plantation of firs. There still remained the faint traces of a path,

and presently it led me to the brick wall surrounding the churchyard, a

wall built after the curious serpentine pattern generally ascribed to

the inventive genius of Thomas Jefferson, and still to be seen at the

University of Virginia. A door, painted a dull, faded green, had

evidently been the private approach of the Thaneford family in days gone

by, but now it was secured by a huge, rusty padlock, and I was obliged

to skirt the wall and so reach the open lawn upon which the church

faced.