The Adopted Daughter

by Melville Davisson Post

　　"ISN'T SHE a beauty-eh, Randolph?"

　　Vespatian Flornoy had a tumbler of French brandy. He sucked in amouthful. Then he put it on the table.

　　The house was the strangest in Virginia. It was of some foreign model.The whole second floor on the side lying toward the east was in twospacious chambers lighted with great casement windows to the ceiling.Outside, on this brilliant morning, the world was yellow and dried-up,sere and baked. But the sun was thin and the autumn air hard and vital.

　　My uncle, Squire Randolph, the old country doctor, Storm, and the host,Vespatian Flornoy, were in one of these enormous rooms. They sat about atable, a long mahogany piece made in England and brought over in asailing ship. There were a squat bottle of French brandy and sometumblers. Flornoy drank and recovered his spirit of abandon.

　　Now he leered at Randolph, and at the girl that he had just called in.

　　He was a man one would have traveled far to see-yesterday or the dayahead of that. He had a figure out of Athens, a face cast in someforgotten foundry by the Arno, thick-curled mahogany-colored hair, andeyes like the velvet hull of an Italian chestnut. These excellencies theheavenly workman had turned out, and now by some sorcery of the pit theywere changed into abominations.

　　Hell-charms, one thought of, when one looked the creature in the face.Drops of some potent liquor, and devil-words had done it, on yesterdayor the day ahead of yesterday. Surely not the things that really haddone it-time and the iniquities of Gomorrah. His stock and his fineruffled shirt were soiled. His satin waistcoat was stained with liquor.

　　"A daughter of a French marquis, eh!" he went on. "Sold into slavery by ajest of the gods-stolen out of the garden of a convent! It's the fabledhistory of every octoroon in New Orleans!"

　　Fabled or not, the girl might have been the thing he said. The contourof the face came to a point at the chin, and the skin was a softOriental olive. She was the perfect expression of a type. One nevercould wish to change a line of her figure or a feature of her face. Shestood now in the room before the door in the morning sun, in the quaint,alluring costume of a young girl of the time-a young girl of degree,stolen out of the garden of a convent! She had entered at Flornoy'sdrunken call, and there was the aspect of terror on her.

　　The man went on in his thick, abominable voice:

　　"My brother Sheppard, coming north to an inspection of our joint estate,presents her as his adopted daughter. But when he dropped dead in thisroom last night and I went about the preparation of his body for yourinquisition-eh, what, my gentlemen! I find a bill of sale running backten years, for the dainty baggage!

　　"French, and noble, stolen from the garden of a convent, perhaps!Perhaps! but not by my brother Sheppard. His adopted daughter--sentimentally, perhaps! Perhaps! But legally a piece of property,I think, descending to his heirs. Eh, Randolph!"

　　And he thrust a folded yellow paper across the table. The Justice putdown his glass with the almost untasted liquor in it, and examined thebill of sale.

　　"It is in form!" he said. "And you interpret it correctly, Flornoy, bythe law's letter. But you will not wish to enforce it, I imagine!"

　　"And why not, Randolph?" cried the man. The Justice looked him firmly inthe face. "You take enough by chance, sir. You and your brother Sheppardheld the estate jointly at your father's death, and now at yourbrother's death you hold it as sole heir. You will not wish, also, tohold his adopted daughter."

　　Then he added: "This bill of sale would hold in the courts against anyunindentured purpose, not accompanied by an intention expressed in someovert act. It would also fix the status of the girl against anypretended or legendary exemption of birth. The judges might believe thatyour brother Sheppard was convinced of this pretension when he rescuedthe child by purchase, and made his informal adoption at a tender age.But they would hold the paper, like a deed, irrevocable, and not to bedisturbed by this conjecture."

　　"It will hold," cried the man, "and I will hold! You make an easydisclaimer of the rights of other men." Then his face took on the aspectof a satyr's. "Give her up, eh! to be a lady! Why Randolph, I would havegiven Sheppard five hundred golden eagles for this little beauty-fivehundred golden eagles in his hand! Look at her, Randolph. You are nottoo old to forget the points-the trim ankle, the slender body, the snapof a thoroughbred. There's the blood of the French marquis, on my honor!A drop of black won't curdle it."

　　And he laughed, snapping his fingers at his wit. "It only makes thenoble lady merchandise! And perhaps, as you say, perhaps it isn't there,in fact. Egad! old man, I would have bid a thousand eagles if Sheppardhad put her up. A thousand eagles! and I get her for nothing! He fallsdead in my house, and I take her by inheritance."

　　It was the living truth. The two men, Vespatian Flornoy and his brotherSheppard, took their father's estate jointly at his death. They wereunmarried, and now at the death of Sheppard, the surviving brotherVespatian was sole heir, under the law, to the dead man's properties:houses and lands and slaves. The bill of sale put the girl an item inthe inventory of the dead man's estate, to descend with the manor-houseand lands.

　　The thing had happened, as fortune is predisposed to change, in amoment, as by the turning of dice.

　　At daybreak on this morning Vespatian Flornoy had sent a Negro at agallop, to summon the old country doctor, Storm, Squire Randolph and myUncle Abner. At midnight, in this chamber where they now sat, Sheppardas he got on his feet, with his candle, fell and died, Vespatian said,before he could reach his body. He lay now shaven and clothed for burialin the great chamber that adjoined.

　　Old Storm had stripped the body and found no mark. The man was dead withno scratch or bruise.

　　He could not say what vital organ had suddenly played out-perhaps astring of the heart had snapped. At any rate, the dead man had not goneout by any sort of violence, nor by any poison. Every drug or herb thatkilled left its stamp and superscription, old Storm said, and one couldsee it, if one had the eye, as one could see the slash of a knife or thebruise of an assassin's fingers.

　　It was plain death "by the Providence of God," was Randolph's verdict.So the Justice and old Storm summed up the thing and they representedthe inquiry and the requirements of the law.

　　My uncle Abner made no comment on this conclusion. He came and lookedand was silent. He demurred to the "Providence of God" in Randolph'sverdict, with a great gesture of rejection. He disliked this term in anyhuman horror. "By the abandonment of God," he said, these verdicts oughtrather to be written. But he gave no sign that his objection was of anyspecial tenor. He seemed profoundly puzzled.

　　When the girl came in, at Vespatian's command, to this appraisal, hecontinued silent. At the man's speech, and evident intent, his featuresand his great jaw hardened, as though under the sunburned skin the bonystructure of the face were metal.

　　He sat in his chair, a little way out beyond the table, as he sat on aSunday before the pulpit, on a bench, motionless, in some deep concern.

　　Randolph and Vespatian Flornoy were in this dialogue. Old Storm sat withhis arms folded across his chest, his head down. His interest in thematter had departed with his inspection of the dead man, or remained inthe adjoining chamber where the body lay, the eyelids closed forever onthe land of living men, shut up tight like the shutters of a window in ahouse. He only glanced at the girl with no interest, as at a bauble.

　　And now while the dialogue went on and Storm looked down his nose, thegirl, silent and in terror, appealed to my uncle in a furtive glance,swift, charged with horror, and like a flash of shadow. The great tablehad a broad board connecting the carved legs beneath, a sort of shelfraised a little from the floor. In her glance, swift and fearful, shedirected my uncle's attention to this board.

　　It was a long piece of veneered mahogany, making a shelf down the wholelength of the table. On it my uncle saw a big folded cloth of squareswhite and black, and a set of huge ivory chessmen. The cloth was made tospread across the top of the table, and the chessmen were of unusualsize in proportion to the squares; the round knobs on the heads of thepawns' were as big as marbles. Beside these things was a rosewood boxfor dueling-pistols, after the fashion of the time.

　　My uncle stooped over, took up these articles and set them on the table.

　　"And so, Flornoy," he said, "you played at chess with your brotherSheppard."

　　The man turned swiftly; then he paused and drank his glass of liquor.

　　"I entertained my brother," he said, "as I could; there is nocoffee-house to enter, nor any dancing women to please the eye, in themountains of Virginia."

　　"For what stake?" said my uncle.

　　"I have forgotten, Abner," replied the man, "-some trifle."

　　"And who won?" said my uncle.

　　"I won," replied the man. He spoke promptly.

　　"You won," said my uncle, "and you remember that; but what you won, youhave forgotten! Reflect a little on it, Flornoy."

　　The man cursed, his face in anger.

　　"Does it matter, Abner, a thing great or small? It is all mine today!"

　　"But it was not all yours last night," said my uncle.

　　"What I won was mine," replied the man.

　　"Now, there," replied my uncle, "lies a point that I would amplify. Onemight win, but might not receive the thing one played for. One mightclaim it for one's own, and the loser might deny it. If the stake weregreat, the loser might undertake to repudiate the bargain. And how wouldone enforce it?"

　　The man put down his glass, leaned over and looked steadily at my uncle.

　　Abner slipped the silver hooks on the rosewood box, slowly, with histhumb and finger.

　　"I think," he said, "that if the gentleman you have in mind won, andwere met with a refusal, he would undertake to enforce his claim, not inthe courts or by any legal writ, but by the methods which gentlemen suchas you have in mind are accustomed to invoke."

　　He opened the box and took out two pistols of the time. Then his faceclouded with perplexity. Both weapons were clean and loaded.

　　The man, propping his wonderful face in the hollow of his hand, laughed.He had the face and the laughter of the angels cast out with Satan, whenin a moment of some gain over the hosts of Michael they forgot the pit.

　　"Abner," he cried, "you are hag-ridden by a habit, and it leads you intothe wildest fancies!"

　　His laughter chuckled and gurgled in his throat.

　　"Let me put your theory together. It is a very pretty theory, lacking insome trifles, but spirited and packed with dramatic tension. Let mesketch it out as it stands before your eye...Have no fear, I shall notmar it by any delicate concern for the cunning villain, or anysuppression of his evil nature. I shall uncover the base creature amidhis deeds of darkness!"

　　He paused, and mocked the tragedy of actors.

　　"It is the hour of yawning graveyards-midnight in this house. VespatianFlornoy sits at this table with his good brother Sheppard. He has thecovetousness of David the son of Jesse, in his evil heart. He wouldpossess the noble daughter of the Latin marquis, by a sardonic fate soldat childhood into slavery, but by the ever watchful Providence of God,for such cases made and provided, purchased by the good brother Sheppardand adopted for his daughter!

　　"Mark, Abner, how beautifully it falls into the formula of the tragicpoets!

　　"The wicked Vespatian Flornoy, foiled in every scheme of purchase, movedby the instigation of the Devil, and with no fear of God before hiseyes, plays at chess with his good brother Sheppard, wins his interestin the manor-house and lands, and his last gold-piece-taunts and seduceshim into a final game with everything staked against this Iphigenia. Theevil one rises invisible but sulphurous to Vespatian's aid. He wins. Interror, appalled, aghast at the realization of his folly, the goodbrother Sheppard repudiates the bargain. They duel across the table, andVespatian, being the better shot, kills his good brother Sheppard!

　　"Why, Abner, it is the plan of the 'Poetics.' It lacks no element ofcompleteness. It is joined and fitted for the diction of Euripides!"

　　The man declaimed, his wonderful fouled face, his Adonis head with itsthick curled hair, virile and spirited with the liquor and the momentumof his words. Old Storm gave no attention. Randolph listened as to theperiods of an oration. And my uncle sat, puzzled, before the articles onthe table. The girl now and then, when the speaker's eyes were on myuncle, by slight indicatory signs affirmed the speech, and continuedstrongly to indicate the chessmen.

　　My uncle began to turn the pieces over under the protection of his hand,idly, like one who fingers about a table in abstraction. Presently hestopped and covered one of the pieces with his hand. It was a pawn,large, like the other chessmen, but the round ivory knob at the top ofit was gone. It had been sawed off!

　　The man Flornoy, consumed with his idea, failed to mark the incident,and moved by the tenor of his speech, went on:

　　"This is the Greek plan for a tragedy. It is the plan of Athens in thefifth century. It is the plan of Sophocles and Aeschylus. Mark how itturns upon the Hellenic idea of a dominating Fate: a Fate in controlover the affairs of men, pagan and not good. The innocent and virtuoushave no gain above the shrewd and wicked. The good Sheppard dies, andthe evil Vespatian takes his daughter, his goods and lands to enjoy in agilded life, long and happy!"

　　He thought the deep reflection in my uncle's face was confusion at hiswit.

　　"That ending would not please you, Abner. Luther and Calvin and JohnWesley have lived after Aristotle assembled this formula in his'Poetics.' And they will have the evil punished-a dagger in the wickedVespatian's heart, and the virgin slave, by the interposition of thewill of Heaven, preserved in her virginity. And so you come, like theProvidence of God, to set the thing in order!"

　　My uncle looked up at the man, his hand covering the mutilated pawn, hisface calm in its profound reflection.

　　"You quote the tragic poets, with much pedantry," he said. "Well, I willquote them too: 'Ofttimes, to win us to our harm, the instruments ofdarkness tell us truth!' How much truth, in all this discourse, have youtold us?"

　　"Now, Abner," cried the man, "if it is truth you seek, and not theimaginations of a theory, how much could there be in it? If it were notfor the granite ledges of reality, one might blow iris-colored bubblesof the fancy and watch them, in their beauty, journey to the stars! Butalas, they collide with the hard edges of a fact and puff out.

　　"To begin with, the pistols have not been fired!"

　　"One could reload a pistol," replied my uncle.

　　"But one could not shoot a man, Abner, and leave no mark of the bulleton his body!"

　　He paused and addressed the old doctor.

　　"I sent for Storm, when I sent for Randolph, to rid me of every innuendoof a gossip. Ask him if there is a mark of violence on my brother'sbody."

　　The old man lifted his lined, withered face.

　　"There is no mark on him!" he said.

　　Vespatian Flornoy leaned across the table.

　　"Are you sure?" he said. "Perhaps you might be mistaken."

　　The words were in the taunting note of Elijah to the priests of Baal.

　　The old man made a decisive gesture. "Voila!" he said, "I have handled athousand dead men! I am not mistaken!"

　　Vespatian Flornoy put up his hands as in a great, hopeless gesture.

　　"Alas, Abner," he said, "we must give up this pretty theory. It doeshonor to your creative instinct, and save for this trifle, we mightcommend it to all men. But you see, Abner, Storm and the world willunreasonably insist that a bullet leaves a mark. I do not think we canpersuade them against their experience in that belief. I am sorry foryou, Abner. You have a reputation in Virginia to keep up. Let us think;perhaps there is a way around this disconcerting fact."

　　And he put his extended palm across his forehead, in mock reflection.

　　It was at this moment, when for an instant the man's face was covered,that the girl standing before the door made a strange indicatory signalto my Uncle Abner.

　　Vespatian Flornoy, removing his hand, caught a glimpse of the girl'safter-expression. And he burst out in a great laugh, striking the tablewith his clenched hand.

　　"Egad!" he cried. "By the soul of Satan! the coy little baggage iswinking at Abner!"

　　He saw only the final composition of the girl's face. He did not see thestress and vigor of the indicatory sign. He roared in a pretension ofjealous anger.

　　"I will not have my property ogle another in my house. You shall answerfor this, Abner, on the field of honor. And I warn you, sir: I have thesurest eye and the steadiest hand in the mountains of Virginia."

　　It was the truth. The man was the wonder of the countryside. He couldcut a string with a pistol at ten paces; he could drive in a carpet-tackwith his bullet, across the room. With the weapon of the time, thecreature was sure, accurate to a hair, and deadly.

　　"No man," he cried, "shall carry off this dainty baggage. Select yourweapon, Abner; let us duel over this seduction!"

　　He spoke in the flippancies of jest. But my uncle's face was now alightwith some great comprehensive purpose. It was like the face of one whobegins to see the bulk and outlines of a thing that before this hour, inspite of every scrutiny, was formless.

　　And to Flornoy's surprise and wonder, my uncle put out his hand, took upone of the pistols and suddenly fired it into the wood of themantelpiece beyond the table. He got up and looked at the mark. Thebullet was hardly bedded in the veneer.

　　"You use a light charge of powder, Flornoy," said my uncle.

　　The man was puzzled at this act, but he answered at once.

　　"Abner," he said, "that is a secret I have learned. A pistol pivots onthe grip. In firing, there are two things to avoid: a jerk on thetrigger, and the tendency of the muzzle to jump up, caused by the recoilof the charge. No man can control his weapon with a heavy charge ofpowder behind the bullet. If one would shoot true to a hair, one mustload light."

　　It seemed a considerable explanation. And not one of the men who heardit ever knew whether it was, in fact, the controlling cause, or whetheranother and more subtle thing inspired it.

　　"But, Flornoy," said my uncle, "if to kill were the object of a duelist,such a charge of powder might defeat the purpose."

　　"You are mistaken, Abner," he said. "The body of a man is soft. If oneavoids the bony structure, a trifling charge of powder will carry one'sbullet into a vital organ. There is no gain in shooting through a man asthough one were going to string him on a thread. Powder enough to lodgethe bullet in the vital organ is sufficient."

　　"There might be a point in not shooting through him," said Abner.

　　The man looked calmly at my uncle; then he made an irrelevant gesture.

　　"No object, Abner, but no use. The whole point is to shoot to a hair, tolodge the bullet precisely in the point selected. Look how a lightcharge of powder does it."

　　And taking up the other pistol, he steadied it a moment in his hand, andfired at Abner's bullet-hole. No mark appeared on the mantel board. Onewould have believed that the bullet, if the barrel held one, had whollyvanished. But when they looked closely, it was seen that my uncle'sbullet, struck precisely, was driven a little deeper into the wood. Itwas amazing accuracy. No wonder the man's skill was a byword in theland.

　　My uncle made a single comment.

　　"You shoot like the slingers of Benjamin!" he said.

　　Then he came back to the table and stood looking down at the man. Heheld the mutilated ivory pawn in his closed left band. The girl, like anappraised article, was in the doorway;

　　Storm and Randolph looked on, like men before the blind moving ofevents.

　　"Flornoy," said Abner, "you have told us more truth than you intended usto believe. How did your brother Sheppard die?"

　　The man's face changed. His fingers tightened on the pistol. His eyesbecame determined and alert.

　　"Damme, man," he cried, "do you return to that! Sheppard fell and died,where you stand, beside the table in this room. I am no surgeon to saywhat disorder killed him. I sent for Storm to determine that."

　　My uncle turned to the old eccentric doctor.

　　"Storm," he said, "how did Sheppard Flornoy die?"

　　The old man shrugged his shoulders and put out his nervous hands.

　　"I do not know," he said, "the heart, maybe. There is no mark on him."

　　And here Randolph interrupted.

　　"Abner," he said, "you put a question that no man can answer: somethingsnaps within the body, and we die. We have no hint at the cause ofSheppard's death."

　　"Why yes," replied my uncle, "I think we have."

　　"What hint?" said Randolph.

　　"The hint," said Abner, "that the eloquent Vespatian gave us just now inhis discourse. I think he set out the cause in his apt recollection fromthe Book of Samuel."

　　He paused and looked down at the man.

　　Vespatian Flornoy got on his feet. His face and manner changed. Therewas now decision and menace in his voice.

　　"Abner," he said, "there shall be an end to this. I have turned yourugly hint with pleasantry, and met it squarely with indisputable facts.I shall not go any further on this way. I shall clear myself now, afterthe manner of a gentleman."

　　My uncle looked steadily at the man.

　　"Flornoy," he said, "if you would test your innocence by a device of theMiddle Ages, I would suggest a simpler and swifter method of that time.Wager of battle is outlawed in Virginia. It is prohibited by statute,and we cannot use it. But the test I offer in its place is equallymedieval. It is based on the same belief, old and persistent, that theProvidence of God will indicate the guilty. And it is not against thelaw."

　　He paused.

　　"The same generation of men who believed in Wager of Battle, in theMorsel of Execration, in the red-hot plowshares, as a test of the guiltof murder, also believed that if the assassin touched his victim, thebody of the murdered man would bleed!

　　"Flornoy," he said, "if you would have recourse to one of those medievaldevices, let it be the last....Go in with me and touch the body ofyour brother Sheppard, and I give you my word of honor that I willaccept the decision of the test."

　　It was impossible to believe that my Uncle Abner trifled, and yet thething was beyond the soundings of all sense.

　　Storm and Randolph, and even the girl standing in the door, regarded himin wonder.

　　Vespatian Flornoy was amazed.

　　"Damme, man!" he cried, "superstitions have unhinged your mind. Wouldyou believe in a thing like that?"

　　"I would rather believe it," replied my uncle, "than to believe that ina duel God would direct the assassin's bullet."

　　Then he added, with weight and decision in his voice:

　　"If you would be clear of my suspicion, if you would be free to take andenjoy the lands and properties that you inherit, go in before thesewitnesses and touch the dead body of your brother Sheppard. There is nomark appearing on him. Storm has found no wound to bleed. You areinnocent of any measure in his death, you tell us. There's no peril toyou, and I shall ride away to assure every man that Sheppard Flornoydied, as Randolph has written, by the 'Providence of God.'"

　　He extended his arm toward the adjacent chamber, and across the table helooked Flornoy in the face.

　　"Go in before us and touch the dead man."

　　"By the soul of Satan!" cried the man, "if you hang on such a piece offoolery, you shall have it. The curse of superstition sticks in yourfleece, Abner, like a burr."

　　He turned and flung open the door behind him and went in. The othersfollowed-Storm and Randolph behind the man, the girl, shaken andfearful, and my Uncle Abner.

　　Sheppard Flornoy lay prepared for burial in the center of the room. Themorning sun entering through the long windows flooded him with light;his features were sharply outlined in the mask of death, his eyelidsclosed.

　　They stood about the dead man, at peace in this glorious shroud of sun,and the living brother was about to touch him when my uncle put out hishand.

　　"Flornoy," he said, "the dead man ought to see who comes to touch him. Iwill open his eyes."

　　And at the words, for no cause or reason conceivable to the two menlooking on, Vespatian Flornoy shouted with an oath, and ran in on myuncle.

　　He was big and mad with terror. But even in his youth and fury he wasnot a match for my Uncle Abner. Liquor and excess failed before wind andsun and the clean life of the hills. The man went down under my uncle'sclenched hand, like an ox polled with a hammer.

　　It was Randolph who cried out, while the others crowded around the deadman and his brother unconscious on the floor.

　　"Abner, Abner," he said, "what is the answer to this ghastly riddle?"

　　For reply my uncle drew back the eyelids of the dead man. And stoopingover, Randolph and old Storm saw that Sheppard Flornoy had been shotthrough the eye, and that the head of the ivory pawn had been forcedinto the bullet-hole to round out the damaged eyeball under the closedlid.

　　The girl sobbed, clinging to my uncle's arm. Randolph tore the bill ofsale into indistinguishable bits. And the old doctor Storm made a greatgesture with his hands extended and crooked.

　　"Mon Dieu!" he cried, in a consuming revulsion of disgust. "My fatherwas surgeon in the field for Napoleon, I was raised with dead men, and adrunken assassin fools me in the mountains of Virginia!"