Openings in the Old Trail. Bret Harte
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hastening home to answer it.
But herein they were wrong. The note was in a female hand, and simply requested the Colonel to accord an interview with the writer at the Colonel’s office as soon as he left the court. But it was an engagement that the Colonel—as devoted to the fair sex as he was to the “code”—was no less prompt in accepting. He flicked away the dust from his spotless white trousers and varnished boots with his handkerchief, and settled his black cravat under his Byron collar as he neared his office. He was surprised, however, on opening the door of his private office, to find his visitor already there; he was still more startled to find her somewhat past middle age and plainly attired. But the Colonel was brought up in a school of Southern politeness, already antique in the republic, and his bow of courtesy belonged to the epoch of his shirt frill and strapped trousers. No one could have detected his disappointment in his manner, albeit his sentences were short and incomplete. But the Colonel’s colloquial speech was apt to be fragmentary incoherencies of his larger oratorical utterances.
“A thousand pardons—for—er—having kept a lady waiting—er! But—er—congratulations of friends—and—er—courtesy due to them—er—interfered with—though perhaps only heightened—by procrastination—the pleasure of—ha!” And the Colonel completed his sentence with a gallant wave of his fat but white and well-kept hand.
“Yes! I came to see you along o’ that speech of yours. I was in court. When I heard you gettin’ it off on that jury, I says to myself, ‘That’s the kind o’ lawyer I want. A man that’s flowery and convincin’! Just the man to take up our case.”
“Ah! It’s a matter of business, I see,” said the Colonel, inwardly relieved, but externally careless. “And—er—may I ask the nature of the case?”
“Well! it’s a breach-o’-promise suit,” said the visitor calmly.
If the Colonel had been surprised before, he was now really startled, and with an added horror that required all his politeness to conceal. Breach-of-promise cases were his peculiar aversion. He had always held them to be a kind of litigation which could have been obviated by the prompt killing of the masculine offender—in which case he would have gladly defended the killer. But a suit for damages,—DAMAGES!—with the reading of love-letters before a hilarious jury and court, was against all his instincts. His chivalry was outraged; his sense of humor was small, and in the course of his career he had lost one or two important cases through an unexpected development of this quality in a jury.
The woman had evidently noticed his hesitation, but mistook its cause. “It ain’t me—but my darter.”
The Colonel recovered his politeness. “Ah! I am relieved, my dear madam! I could hardly conceive a man ignorant enough to—er—er—throw away such evident good fortune—or base enough to deceive the trustfulness of womanhood—matured and experienced only in the chivalry of our sex, ha!”
The woman smiled grimly. “Yes!—it’s my darter, Zaidee Hooker—so ye might spare some of them pretty speeches for HER—before the jury.”
The Colonel winced slightly before this doubtful prospect, but smiled. “Ha! Yes!—certainly—the jury. But—er—my dear lady, need we go as far as that? Can not this affair be settled—er—out of court? Could not this—er—individual—be admonished—told that he must give satisfaction—personal satisfaction—for his dastardly conduct—to—er—near relative—or even valued personal friend? The—er—arrangements necessary for that purpose I myself would undertake.”
He was quite sincere; indeed, his small black eyes shone with that fire which a pretty woman or an “affair of honor” could alone kindle. The visitor stared vacantly at him, and said slowly, “And what good is that goin’ to do US?”
“Compel him to—er—perform his promise,” said the Colonel, leaning back in his chair.
“Ketch him doin’ it!” she exclaimed scornfully. “No—that ain’t wot we’re after. We must make him PAY! Damages—and nothin’ short o’ THAT.”
The Colonel bit his lip. “I suppose,” he said gloomily, “you have documentary evidence—written promises and protestations—er—er love-letters, in fact?”
“No—nary a letter! Ye see, that’s jest it—and that’s where YOU come in. You’ve got to convince that jury yourself. You’ve got to show what it is—tell the whole story your own way. Lord! to a man like you that’s nothin’.”
Startling as this admission might have been to any other lawyer, Starbottle was absolutely relieved by it. The absence of any mirth-provoking correspondence, and the appeal solely to his own powers of persuasion, actually struck his fancy. He lightly put aside the compliment with a wave of his white hand.
“Of course,” he said confidently, “there is strongly presumptive and corroborative evidence? Perhaps you can give me—er—a brief outline of the affair?”
“Zaidee kin do that straight enough, I reckon,” said the woman; “what I want to know first is, kin you take the case?”
The Colonel did not hesitate; his curiosity was piqued. “I certainly can. I have no doubt your daughter will put me in possession of sufficient facts and details—to constitute what we call—er—a brief.”
“She kin be brief enough—or long enough—for the matter of that,” said the woman, rising. The Colonel accepted this implied witticism with a smile.
“And when may I have the pleasure of seeing her?” he asked politely.
“Well, I reckon as soon as I can trot out and call her. She’s just outside, meanderin’ in the road—kinder shy, ye know, at first.”
She walked to the door. The astounded Colonel nevertheless gallantly accompanied her as she stepped out into the street and called shrilly, “You Zaidee!”
A young girl here apparently detached herself from a tree and the ostentatious perusal of an old election poster, and sauntered down towards the office door. Like her mother, she was plainly dressed; unlike her, she had a pale, rather refined face, with a demure mouth and downcast eyes. This was all the Colonel saw as he bowed profoundly and led the way into his office, for she accepted his salutations without lifting her head. He helped her gallantly to a chair, on which she seated herself sideways, somewhat ceremoniously, with her eyes following the point of her parasol as she traced a pattern on the carpet. A second chair offered to the mother that lady, however, declined. “I reckon to leave you and Zaidee together to talk it out,” she said; turning to her daughter, she added, “Jest you tell him all, Zaidee,” and before the Colonel could rise again, disappeared from the room. In spite of his professional experience, Starbottle was for a moment embarrassed. The young girl, however, broke the silence without looking up.
“Adoniram K. Hotchkiss,” she began, in a monotonous voice, as if it were a recitation addressed to the public, “first began to take notice of me a year ago. Arter that—off and on”—
“One moment,” interrupted the astounded Colonel; “do you mean Hotchkiss the President of the Ditch Company?” He had recognized the name of a prominent citizen—a rigid, ascetic, taciturn, middle-aged man—a deacon—and more than that, the head of the company he had just defended. It seemed inconceivable.
“That’s him,” she continued, with eyes still fixed on the parasol and without changing her monotonous tone—“off and on ever since. Most of the time at the Free-Will Baptist Church—at morning service, prayer-meetings, and such. And at home—outside—er—in the road.”
“Is it this gentleman—Mr. Adoniram K. Hotchkiss—who—er—promised marriage?” stammered the Colonel.
“Yes.”
The Colonel shifted uneasily in his chair. “Most extraordinary! for—you see—my dear young lady—this becomes—a—er—most delicate affair.”
“That’s what maw said,” returned the young woman simply, yet with the faintest smile playing around her demure lips and downcast cheek.
“I mean,” said