Chapter 1

_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.