Paul Laurence Dunbar - The Sport of the Gods
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Paul Laurence Dunbar >> The Sport of the Gods
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9 THE SPORT OF THE GODS
by
PAUL LAURENCE DUNBAR
Author of "Lyrics of Lowly Life," "Poems of Cabin and
Field," "Candle-Lightin' Time," "The Fanatics," etc.
Originally published in 1902
Contents
I. The Hamiltons
II. A Farewell Dinner
III. The Theft
IV. From a Clear Sky
V. The Justice of Men
VI. Outcasts
VII. In New York
VIII. An Evening Out
IX. His Heart's Desire
X. A Visitor from Home
XI. Broken Hopes
XII. "All the World's a Stage"
XIII. The Oakleys
XIV. Frankenstein
XV. "Dear, Damned, Delightful Town"
XVI. Skaggs's Theory
XVII. A Yellow Journal
XVIII. What Berry Found
I
THE HAMILTONS
Fiction has said so much in regret of the old days when there were
plantations and overseers and masters and slaves, that it was good to
come upon such a household as Berry Hamilton's, if for no other reason
than that it afforded a relief from the monotony of tiresome iteration.
The little cottage in which he lived with his wife, Fannie, who was
housekeeper to the Oakleys, and his son and daughter, Joe and Kit, sat
back in the yard some hundred paces from the mansion of his employer. It
was somewhat in the manner of the old cabin in the quarters, with which
usage as well as tradition had made both master and servant familiar.
But, unlike the cabin of the elder day, it was a neatly furnished,
modern house, the home of a typical, good-living negro. For twenty years
Berry Hamilton had been butler for Maurice Oakley. He was one of the
many slaves who upon their accession to freedom had not left the South,
but had wandered from place to place in their own beloved section,
waiting, working, and struggling to rise with its rehabilitated
fortunes.
The first faint signs of recovery were being seen when he came to
Maurice Oakley as a servant. Through thick and thin he remained with
him, and when the final upward tendency of his employer began his
fortunes had increased in like manner. When, having married, Oakley
bought the great house in which he now lived, he left the little
servant's cottage in the yard, for, as he said laughingly, "There is no
telling when Berry will be following my example and be taking a wife
unto himself."
His joking prophecy came true very soon. Berry had long had a tenderness
for Fannie, the housekeeper. As she retained her post under the new Mrs.
Oakley, and as there was a cottage ready to his hand, it promised to be
cheaper and more convenient all around to get married. Fannie was
willing, and so the matter was settled.
Fannie had never regretted her choice, nor had Berry ever had cause to
curse his utilitarian ideas. The stream of years had flowed pleasantly
and peacefully with them. Their little sorrows had come, but their joys
had been many.
As time went on, the little cottage grew in comfort. It was replenished
with things handed down from "the house" from time to time and with
others bought from the pair's earnings.
Berry had time for his lodge, and Fannie time to spare for her own house
and garden. Flowers bloomed in the little plot in front and behind it;
vegetables and greens testified to the housewife's industry.
Over the door of the little house a fine Virginia creeper bent and fell
in graceful curves, and a cluster of insistent morning-glories clung in
summer about its stalwart stock.
It was into this bower of peace and comfort that Joe and Kitty were
born. They brought a new sunlight into the house and a new joy to the
father's and mother's hearts. Their early lives were pleasant and
carefully guarded. They got what schooling the town afforded, but both
went to work early, Kitty helping her mother and Joe learning the trade
of barber.
Kit was the delight of her mother's life. She was a pretty, cheery
little thing, and could sing like a lark. Joe too was of a cheerful
disposition, but from scraping the chins of aristocrats came to imbibe
some of their ideas, and rather too early in life bid fair to be a
dandy. But his father encouraged him, for, said he, "It 's de p'opah
thing fu' a man what waits on quality to have quality mannahs an' to
waih quality clothes."
"'T ain't no use to be a-humo'in' dat boy too much, Be'y," Fannie had
replied, although she did fully as much "humo'in'" as her husband; "hit
sho' do mek' him biggety, an' a biggety po' niggah is a 'bomination
befo' de face of de Lawd; but I know 't ain't no use a-talkin' to you,
fu' you plum boun' up in dat Joe."
Her own eyes would follow the boy lovingly and proudly even as she
chided. She could not say very much, either, for Berry always had the
reply that she was spoiling Kit out of all reason. The girl did have the
prettiest clothes of any of her race in the town, and when she was to
sing for the benefit of the A. M. E. church or for the benefit of her
father's society, the Tribe of Benjamin, there was nothing too good for
her to wear. In this too they were aided and abetted by Mrs. Oakley, who
also took a lively interest in the girl.
So the two doting parents had their chats and their jokes at each
other's expense and went bravely on, doing their duties and spoiling
their children much as white fathers and mothers are wont to do.
What the less fortunate negroes of the community said of them and their
offspring is really not worth while. Envy has a sharp tongue, and when
has not the aristocrat been the target for the plebeian's sneers?
Joe and Kit were respectively eighteen and sixteen at the time when the
preparations for Maurice Oakley's farewell dinner to his brother Francis
were agitating the whole Hamilton household. All of them had a hand in
the work: Joe had shaved the two men; Kit had helped Mrs. Oakley's maid;
the mother had fretted herself weak over the shortcomings of a cook that
had been in the family nearly as long as herself, while Berry was stern
and dignified in anticipation of the glorious figure he was to make in
serving.
When all was ready, peace again settled upon the Hamiltons. Mrs.
Hamilton, in the whitest of white aprons, prepared to be on hand to
annoy the cook still more; Kit was ready to station herself where she
could view the finery; Joe had condescended to promise to be home in
time to eat some of the good things, and Berry--Berry was gorgeous in
his evening suit with the white waistcoat, as he directed the nimble
waiters hither and thither.
II
A FAREWELL DINNER
Maurice Oakley was not a man of sudden or violent enthusiasms.
Conservatism was the quality that had been the foundation of his
fortunes at a time when the disruption of the country had involved most
of the men of his region in ruin.
Without giving any one ground to charge him with being lukewarm or
renegade to his cause, he had yet so adroitly managed his affairs that
when peace came he was able quickly to recover much of the ground lost
during the war. With a rare genius for adapting himself to new
conditions, he accepted the changed order of things with a passive
resignation, but with a stern determination to make the most out of any
good that might be in it.
It was a favourite remark of his that there must be some good in every
system, and it was the duty of the citizen to find out that good and
make it pay. He had done this. His house, his reputation, his
satisfaction, were all evidences that he had succeeded.
A childless man, he bestowed upon his younger brother, Francis, the
enthusiasm he would have given to a son. His wife shared with her
husband this feeling for her brother-in-law, and with him played the
role of parent, which had otherwise been denied her.
It was true that Francis Oakley was only a half-brother to Maurice, the
son of a second and not too fortunate marriage, but there was no halving
of the love which the elder man had given to him from childhood up.
At the first intimation that Francis had artistic ability, his brother
had placed him under the best masters in America, and later, when the
promise of his youth had begun to blossom, he sent him to Paris,
although the expenditure just at that time demanded a sacrifice which
might have been the ruin of Maurice's own career. Francis's promise had
never come to entire fulfilment. He was always trembling on the verge of
a great success without quite plunging into it. Despite the joy which
his presence gave his brother and sister-in-law, most of his time was
spent abroad, where he could find just the atmosphere that suited his
delicate, artistic nature. After a visit of two months he was about
returning to Paris for a stay of five years. At last he was going to
apply himself steadily and try to be less the dilettante.
The company which Maurice Oakley brought together to say good-bye to his
brother on this occasion was drawn from the best that this fine old
Southern town afforded. There were colonels there at whose titles and
the owners' rights to them no one could laugh; there were brilliant
women there who had queened it in Richmond, Baltimore, Louisville, and
New Orleans, and every Southern capital under the old regime, and there
were younger ones there of wit and beauty who were just beginning to
hold their court. For Francis was a great favourite both with men and
women. He was a handsome man, tall, slender, and graceful. He had the
face and brow of a poet, a pallid face framed in a mass of dark hair.
There was a touch of weakness in his mouth, but this was shaded and half
hidden by a full mustache that made much forgivable to beauty-loving
eyes.
It was generally conceded that Mrs. Oakley was a hostess whose guests
had no awkward half-hour before dinner. No praise could be higher than
this, and to-night she had no need to exert herself to maintain this
reputation. Her brother-in-law was the life of the assembly; he had wit
and daring, and about him there was just that hint of charming danger
that made him irresistible to women. The guests heard the dinner
announced with surprise,--an unusual thing, except in this house.
Both Maurice Oakley and his wife looked fondly at the artist as he went
in with Claire Lessing. He was talking animatedly to the girl, having
changed the general trend of the conversation to a manner and tone
directed more particularly to her. While she listened to him, her face
glowed and her eyes shone with a light that every man could not bring
into them.
As Maurice and his wife followed him with their gaze, the same thought
was in their minds, and it had not just come to them, Why could not
Francis marry Claire Lessing and settle in America, instead of going
back ever and again to that life in the Latin Quarter? They did not
believe that it was a bad life or a dissipated one, but from the little
that they had seen of it when they were in Paris, it was at least a bit
too free and unconventional for their traditions. There were, too,
temptations which must assail any man of Francis's looks and talents.
They had perfect faith in the strength of his manhood, of course; but
could they have had their way, it would have been their will to hedge
him about so that no breath of evil invitation could have come nigh to
him.
But this younger brother, this half ward of theirs, was an unruly
member. He talked and laughed, rode and walked, with Claire Lessing with
the same free abandon, the same show of uninterested good comradeship,
that he had used towards her when they were boy and girl together. There
was not a shade more of warmth or self-consciousness in his manner
towards her than there had been fifteen years before. In fact, there was
less, for there had been a time, when he was six and Claire three, that
Francis, with a boldness that the lover of maturer years tries vainly to
attain, had announced to Claire that he was going to marry her. But he
had never renewed this declaration when it came time that it would carry
weight with it.
They made a fine picture as they sat together to-night. One seeing them
could hardly help thinking on the instant that they were made for each
other. Something in the woman's face, in her expression perhaps,
supplied a palpable lack in the man. The strength of her mouth and chin
helped the weakness of his. She was the sort of woman who, if ever he
came to a great moral crisis in his life, would be able to save him if
she were near. And yet he was going away from her, giving up the pearl
that he had only to put out his hand to take.
Some of these thoughts were in the minds of the brother and sister now.
"Five years does seem a long while," Francis was saying, "but if a man
accomplishes anything, after all, it seems only a short time to look
back upon."
"All time is short to look back upon. It is the looking forward to it
that counts. It does n't, though, with a man, I suppose. He's doing
something all the while."
"Yes, a man is always doing something, even if only waiting; but
waiting is such unheroic business."
"That is the part that usually falls to a woman's lot. I have no doubt
that some dark-eyed mademoiselle is waiting for you now."
Francis laughed and flushed hotly. Claire noted the flush and wondered
at it. Had she indeed hit upon the real point? Was that the reason that
he was so anxious to get back to Paris? The thought struck a chill
through her gaiety. She did not want to be suspicious, but what was the
cause of that tell-tale flush? He was not a man easily disconcerted;
then why so to-night? But her companion talked on with such innocent
composure that she believed herself mistaken as to the reason for his
momentary confusion.
Someone cried gayly across the table to her: "Oh, Miss Claire, you will
not dare to talk with such little awe to our friend when he comes back
with his ribbons and his medals. Why, we shall all have to bow to you,
Frank!"
"You 're wronging me, Esterton," said Francis. "No foreign decoration
could ever be to me as much as the flower of approval from the fair
women of my own State."
"Hear!" cried the ladies.
"Trust artists and poets to pay pretty compliments, and this wily friend
of mine pays his at my expense."
"A good bit of generalship, that, Frank," an old military man broke in.
"Esterton opened the breach and you at once galloped in. That 's the
highest art of war."
Claire was looking at her companion. Had he meant the approval of the
women, or was it one woman that he cared for? Had the speech had a
hidden meaning for her? She could never tell. She could not understand
this man who had been so much to her for so long, and yet did not seem
to know it; who was full of romance and fire and passion, and yet looked
at her beauty with the eyes of a mere comrade. She sighed as she rose
with the rest of the women to leave the table.
The men lingered over their cigars. The wine was old and the stories
new. What more could they ask? There was a strong glow in Francis
Oakley's face, and his laugh was frequent and ringing. Some discussion
came up which sent him running up to his room for a bit of evidence.
When he came down it was not to come directly to the dining-room. He
paused in the hall and despatched a servant to bring his brother to him.
Maurice found him standing weakly against the railing of the stairs.
Something in his air impressed his brother strangely.
"What is it, Francis?" he questioned, hurrying to him.
"I have just discovered a considerable loss," was the reply in a grieved
voice.
"If it is no worse than loss, I am glad; but what is it?"
"Every cent of money that I had to secure my letter of credit is gone
from my bureau."
"What? When did it disappear?"
"I went to my bureau to-night for something and found the money gone;
then I remembered that when I opened it two days ago I must have left
the key in the lock, as I found it to-night."
"It 's a bad business, but don't let 's talk of it now. Come, let 's go
back to our guests. Don't look so cut up about it, Frank, old man. It is
n't as bad as it might be, and you must n't show a gloomy face
to-night."
The younger man pulled himself together, and re-entered the room with
his brother. In a few minutes his gaiety had apparently returned.
When they rejoined the ladies, even their quick eyes could detect in his
demeanour no trace of the annoying thing that had occurred. His face did
not change until, with a wealth of fervent congratulations, he had bade
the last guest good-bye.
Then he turned to his brother. "When Leslie is in bed, come into the
library. I will wait for you there," he said, and walked sadly away.
"Poor, foolish Frank," mused his brother, "as if the loss could matter
to him."
III
THE THEFT
Frank was very pale when his brother finally came to him at the
appointed place. He sat limply in his chair, his eyes fixed upon the
floor.
"Come, brace up now, Frank, and tell me about it."
At the sound of his brother's voice he started and looked up as though
he had been dreaming.
"I don't know what you 'll think of me, Maurice," he said; "I have never
before been guilty of such criminal carelessness."
"Don't stop to accuse yourself. Our only hope in this matter lies in
prompt action. Where was the money?"
"In the oak cabinet and lying in the bureau drawer. Such a thing as a
theft seemed so foreign to this place that I was never very particular
about the box. But I did not know until I went to it to-night that the
last time I had opened it I had forgotten to take the key out. It all
flashed over me in a second when I saw it shining there. Even then I did
n't suspect anything. You don't know how I felt to open that cabinet and
find all my money gone. It 's awful."
"Don't worry. How much was there in all?"
"Nine hundred and eighty-six dollars, most of which, I am ashamed to
say, I had accepted from you."
"You have no right to talk that way, Frank; you know I do not begrudge a
cent you want. I have never felt that my father did quite right in
leaving me the bulk of the fortune; but we won't discuss that now. What
I want you to understand, though, is that the money is yours as well as
mine, and you are always welcome to it."
The artist shook his head. "No, Maurice," he said, "I can accept no
more from you. I have already used up all my own money and too much of
yours in this hopeless fight. I don't suppose I was ever cut out for an
artist, or I 'd have done something really notable in this time, and
would not be a burden upon those who care for me. No, I 'll give up
going to Paris and find some work to do."
"Frank, Frank, be silent. This is nonsense, Give up your art? You shall
not do it. You shall go to Paris as usual. Leslie and I have perfect
faith in you. You shall not give up on account of this misfortune. What
are the few paltry dollars to me or to you?"
"Nothing, nothing, I know. It is n't the money, it 's the principle of
the thing."
"Principle be hanged! You go back to Paris to-morrow, just as you had
planned. I do not ask it, I command it."
The younger man looked up quickly.
"Pardon me, Frank, for using those words and at such a time. You know
how near my heart your success lies, and to hear you talk of giving it
all up makes me forget myself. Forgive me, but you 'll go back, won't
you?"
"You are too good, Maurice," said Frank impulsively, "and I will go
back, and I 'll try to redeem myself."
"There is no redeeming of yourself to do, my dear boy; all you have to
do is to mature yourself. We 'll have a detective down and see what we
can do in this matter."
Frank gave a scarcely perceptible start. "I do so hate such things," he
said; "and, anyway, what 's the use? They 'll never find out where the
stuff went to."
"Oh, you need not be troubled in this matter. I know that such things
must jar on your delicate nature. But I am a plain hard-headed business
man, and I can attend to it without distaste."
"But I hate to shove everything unpleasant off on you, It 's what I 've
been doing all my life."
"Never mind that. Now tell me, who was the last person you remember in
your room?"
"Oh, Esterton was up there awhile before dinner. But he was not alone
two minutes."
"Why, he would be out of the question anyway. Who else?"
"Hamilton was up yesterday."
"Alone?"
"Yes, for a while. His boy, Joe, shaved me, and Jack was up for a while
brushing my clothes."
"Then it lies between Jack and Joe?"
Frank hesitated.
"Neither one was left alone, though."
"Then only Hamilton and Esterton have been alone for any time in your
room since you left the key in your cabinet?"
"Those are the only ones of whom I know anything. What others went in
during the day, of course, I know nothing about. It could n't have been
either Esterton or Hamilton."
"Not Esterton, no."
"And Hamilton is beyond suspicion."
"No servant is beyond suspicion."
"I would trust Hamilton anywhere," said Frank stoutly, "and with
anything."
"That 's noble of you, Frank, and I would have done the same, but we
must remember that we are not in the old days now. The negroes are
becoming less faithful and less contented, and more 's the pity, and a
deal more ambitious, although I have never had any unfaithfulness on the
part of Hamilton to complain of before."
"Then do not condemn him now."
"I shall not condemn any one until I have proof positive of his guilt or
such clear circumstantial evidence that my reason is satisfied."
"I do not believe that you will ever have that against old Hamilton."
"This spirit of trust does you credit, Frank, and I very much hope that
you may be right. But as soon as a negro like Hamilton learns the value
of money and begins to earn it, at the same time he begins to covet some
easy and rapid way of securing it. The old negro knew nothing of the
value of money. When he stole, he stole hams and bacon and chickens.
These were his immediate necessities and the things he valued. The
present laughs at this tendency without knowing the cause. The present
negro resents the laugh, and he has learned to value other things than
those which satisfy his belly."
Frank looked bored.
"But pardon me for boring you. I know you want to go to bed. Go and
leave everything to me."
The young man reluctantly withdrew, and Maurice went to the telephone
and rung up the police station.
As Maurice had said, he was a plain, hard-headed business man, and it
took very few words for him to put the Chief of Police in possession of
the principal facts of the case. A detective was detailed to take
charge of the case, and was started immediately, so that he might be
upon the ground as soon after the commission of the crime as possible.
When he came he insisted that if he was to do anything he must question
the robbed man and search his room at once. Oakley protested, but the
detective was adamant. Even now the presence in the room of a man
uninitiated into the mysteries of criminal methods might be destroying
the last vestige of a really important clue. The master of the house had
no alternative save to yield. Together they went to the artist's room. A
light shone out through the crack under the door.
"I am sorry to disturb you again, Frank, but may we come in?"
"Who is with you?"
"The detective."
"I did not know he was to come to-night."
"The chief thought it better."
"All right in a moment."
There was a sound of moving around, and in a short time the young
fellow, partly undressed, opened the door.
To the detective's questions he answered in substance what he had told
before. He also brought out the cabinet. It was a strong oak box,
uncarven, but bound at the edges with brass. The key was still in the
lock, where Frank had left it on discovering his loss. They raised the
lid. The cabinet contained two compartments, one for letters and a
smaller one for jewels and trinkets.
"When you opened this cabinet, your money was gone?"
"Yes."
"Were any of your papers touched?"
"No."
"How about your jewels?"
"I have but few and they were elsewhere."
The detective examined the room carefully, its approaches, and the
hall-ways without. He paused knowingly at a window that overlooked the
flat top of a porch.
"Do you ever leave this window open?"
"It is almost always so."
"Is this porch on the front of the house?"
"No, on the side."
"What else is out that way?"
Frank and Maurice looked at each other. The younger man hesitated and
put his hand to his head. Maurice answered grimly, "My butler's cottage
is on that side and a little way back."
"Uh huh! and your butler is, I believe, the Hamilton whom the young
gentleman mentioned some time ago."
"Yes."
Frank's face was really very white now. The detective nodded again.
"I think I have a clue," he said simply. "I will be here again to-morrow
morning."
"But I shall be gone," said Frank.
"You will hardly be needed, anyway."
The artist gave a sigh of relief. He hated to be involved in unpleasant
things. He went as far as the outer door with his brother and the
detective. As he bade the officer good-night and hurried up the hall,
Frank put his hand to his head again with a convulsive gesture, as if
struck by a sudden pain.
"Come, come, Frank, you must take a drink now and go to bed," said
Oakley.
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