XXVI
THE DISCOMFORT OF ELLIS
Mr. Ellis was vaguely uncomfortable. In the first excitement following
the discovery of the crime, he had given his bit of evidence, and had
shared the universal indignation against the murderer. When public
feeling took definite shape in the intention to lynch the prisoner, Ellis felt a sudden sense of responsibility growing upon himself. When he learned, an hour later, that it was proposed to burn the negro, his part in the affair assumed a still graver aspect; for his had been the final word to fix the prisoner's guilt.
Ellis did not believe in lynch law. He had argued against it, more than
once, in private conversation, and had written several editorials
against the practice, while in charge of the Morning Chronicle during
Major Carteret's absence. A young man, however, and merely representing
another, he had not set up as a reformer, taking rather the view that
this summary method of punishing crime, with all its possibilities of
error, to say nothing of the resulting disrespect of the law and
contempt for the time-honored methods of establishing guilt, was a mere
temporary symptom of the unrest caused by the unsettled relations of the
two races at the South. There had never before been any special need for
any vigorous opposition to lynch law, so far as the community was
concerned, for there had not been a lynching in Wellington since Ellis
had come there, eight years before, from a smaller town, to seek a place
for himself in the world of action. Twenty years before, indeed, there
had been wild doings, during the brief Ku-Klux outbreak, but that was
before Ellis's time,--or at least when he was but a child. He had come
of a Quaker family,--the modified Quakers of the South,--and while
sharing in a general way the Southern prejudice against the negro, his
prejudices had been tempered by the peaceful tenets of his father's
sect. His father had been a Whig, and a non-slaveholder; and while he
had gone with the South in the civil war so far as a man of peace could
go, he had not done so for love of slavery.
As the day wore on, Ellis's personal responsibility for the intended
_auto-da-fé_ bore more heavily upon him. Suppose he had been wrong? He
had seen the accused negro; he had recognized him by his clothes, his
whiskers, his spectacles, and his walk; but he had also seen another
man, who resembled Sandy so closely that but for the difference in their
clothes, he was forced to acknowledge, he could not have told them
apart. Had he not seen the first man, he would have sworn with even
greater confidence that the second was Sandy. There had been, he
recalled, about one of the men--he had not been then nor was he now able
to tell which--something vaguely familiar, and yet seemingly discordant
to whichever of the two it was, or, as it seemed to him now, to any man
of that race. His mind reverted to the place where he had last seen
Sandy, and then a sudden wave of illumination swept over him, and filled
him with a thrill of horror. The cakewalk,--the dancing,--the
speech,--they were not Sandy's at all, nor any negro's! It was a white
man who had stood in the light of the street lamp, so that the casual
passer-by might see and recognize in him old Mr. Delamere's servant. The
scheme was a dastardly one, and worthy of a heart that was something
worse than weak and vicious.