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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 45206
   :PG.Title: The Call of the South
   :PG.Released: 2014-03-24
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Robert Lee Durham
   :MARCREL.ill: Henry Roth
   :DC.Title: The Call of the South
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1908
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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THE CALL OF THE SOUTH
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      Cover art

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   .. _`"HAYWARD ... SENT PRINCE WILLIAM AFTER THE MARE UNDER PRESSURE OF THE SPUR"`:

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      :alt: "HAYWARD ... SENT PRINCE WILLIAM AFTER THE MARE UNDER PRESSURE OF THE SPUR."  (See page 114)

      "HAYWARD ... SENT PRINCE WILLIAM AFTER THE MARE UNDER PRESSURE OF THE SPUR."  (See page `114`_)

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      The Call of the
      South

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      By

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      Robert Lee Durham

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      Illustrated by
      Henry Roth

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      "*When your Fear Cometh as Desolation and
      Your Destruction Cometh as a Whirlwind*"

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      Boston
      L. C. Page & Company
      MDCCCCVIII

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      Copyright, 1908
      BY L. C. PAGE & COMPANY
      (INCORPORATED)

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      Entered at Stationers' Hall, London

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      All rights reserved

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      First Impression, March, 1908
      Second Impression, April, 1908

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      COLONIAL PRESS
      Electrotyped and Printed by C. H. Simonds & Co.
      Boston, U.S.A.

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      TO THE
      LION OF HIS TRIBE
      Stonewall Jackson Durham

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   List of Illustrations

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`"HAYWARD ... SENT PRINCE WILLIAM AFTER THE
MARE UNDER PRESSURE OF THE SPUR"`_ (See page 114) . . . *Frontispiece*

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`"CARRIED HIM FOR FORTY YARDS OR MORE THROUGH
THE HURRICANE OF LEAD"`_

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`"HIS WHIP WAS DESCENDING AGAIN WHEN JOHN'S PISTOL FLASHED"`_

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`"ELISE ... STOPPED SHORT IN THE DOORWAY—AND
TURNED QUICKLY BACK"`_

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`"'I AM HIS WIFE,' SHE SAID"`_

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`"HIS ARMS UPON HIS DESK AND HIS FACE UPON HIS ARM—DEAD"`_





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.. _`CHAPTER I`:

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   The Call of the South

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   CHAPTER I

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The President had called upon the Governors for
troops; and the brilliantly lighted armory was
crowded with the citizen-soldiers who followed the
standards of the 71st Ohio, waiting for the bugle to
call them to order for the simple and formal ceremony
of declaring their desire to answer the President's call.

A formal and useless ceremony surely: for it was
a foregone conclusion that this gallant old regiment,
with its heroic record in two wars, would volunteer
to a man.  It was no less certain that, presenting
unbroken ranks of willing soldiers, it would be the
first selected by the Governor to assist Uncle Sam's
regulars in impressing upon the Kaiser the length
and breadth and thickness of the Monroe Doctrine.

For many bothersome years the claimant nations
had abided by the Hague Tribunal's award, though
with evidently decreasing patience because of
Venezuela's lame compliance with it.  Three changes of
government and dwindling revenues had made the
collection of the indebtedness by the agent of the
claimants more and more difficult.  Finally on the
6th of January, 191-, Señor Emilio Mañana
executed his coup d'état, overthrew the existing
government, declared himself Protector of Venezuela, and
"for the people of Venezuela repudiated every act
and agreement of the spurious governments of the last
decade," seized the customs, and gave the agent of the
creditor allies his passports in a manner more effective
than ceremonious: all of this with his weather eye
upon the Monroe Doctrine and a Washington
administration in some need of a rallying cry and a
diverting issue.

The Kaiser's patience was exhausted, and his army
and navy were in the pink of condition.  On the 10th
of January his ministers informed the allies that their
most august sovereign would deal henceforth with
Venezuela as might seem to him best to protect
Germany's interests and salve the Empire's honour.

In less than a week the President sent to Congress
a crisp message, saying that the Kaiser and the great
doctrine were in collision.  The Senate resolution
declaring war was adopted after being held up long
enough to permit fifty-one Senators to embalm their
patriotism in the *Congressional Record*, and, being
sent to the House, was concurred in in ten minutes
after the clerk began to read the preamble.

The country was a-tremble with the thrill and
excitement of a man who is preparing to go against an
antagonist worthy of his mettle, and in the 71st's
armory a crowd of people jammed the balconies to
the last inch.  The richly varicoloured apparel of
the women, in vivid contrast to the sombre walls of
the armory, the kaleidoscopic jumble and whirl of
soldiers in dress uniforms on the floor, the frequent
outbursts of hand-clapping and applause as favourite
officers of the regiment were recognized by the
galleries, the surging and unceasing din and hubbub of
the shouting and gesticulating mass of people on floor
and balcony, gave the scene a holiday air which really
belied the feelings of the greater number both of
soldiers and onlookers.  There was a serious thought
in almost every mind: but serious thoughts are not
welcome at such times to a man who has already
decided to tender his life to his country, nor to the
woman who knows that she must say good-bye to him
on the morrow.  So they both try to overwhelm
unwelcome reflections by excited chatter and patriotic
enthusiasm.  They will think of to-morrow when it
comes: let the clamour go on.

On the very front seat and leaning over the balcony
rail are seated three women who receive more than
the ordinary number of salutes and greetings from the
officers and men on the floor.  Two young women
and their mother they are, and any one of the three
is worthy of a second glance by right of her looks.
The mother, who, were it not for the becoming
fulness of her matronly figure, might be mistaken for
an elder sister of the older daughter, has a face in
which strength and dignity and gentleness and
kindliness and a certain air of distinction proclaim her a
gentlewoman of that fineness which is Nature's
patent of nobility.  The older daughter is a young
woman of eighteen years perhaps, inheriting her
mother's distinction of manner and dignity of
carriage, and showing a trace of hauteur, attributable
to her youth, which is continually striving with a
spirit of mischief for possession of her gray eyes and
her now solemn, now laughing mouth.  The younger
daughter, hardly more than a child, has an undeveloped
but fast ripening beauty which her sister cannot
be said to possess.  They have gray eyes and erect
figures in common; but there the likeness ceases.
The younger girl's mass of hair, impatient of its
braids, looks black in the artificial light; but three
hours ago, with the setting sun upon it, a stranger
had thought it was red.  Her skin indeed, where it is
not tinted with rose, is of that rare whiteness which
sometimes goes with red hair, but never unaccompanied
by perfect health.  She has been straining her
eyes in search of some one since the moment she
entered the gallery, and finally asks impatiently,
"Why doesn't papa come out where we can see him?
The people would shout for him, I know."

"Don't be a fidget," answers her sister in a low
voice, "he will come presently;" and continues, "I
declare, mamma, I believe Helen thinks all these
soldiers are just for papa's glorification, and that if
papa failed to volunteer the country would be lost."

"Well, there isn't any one to take his place in the
regiment, for I heard Captain Elkhard say so."

"Captain Elkhard would except himself, I suppose,
even though he thought like you that papa is
perfection."

"Yes, and I suppose that you would except
Mr. Second Lieutenant Morgan, wouldn't you?  Humph! he
is too young sort, too much like a lady-killer to
be a soldier.  I don't care if I do think papa is
perfection.  He is most—isn't he, mamma?"

A roar of applause drowns the mother's amused
assent; and they look up to see this father, the colonel
of the 71st, uncover for a moment to the noisy
greeting whose vigour seems to stamp with approval his
younger daughter's good opinion of him.  In a
moment a trumpet-call breaks through and strikes down
and overwhelms all this clamour of applause, and
there is no sound save the hurrying into ranks of the
men on the floor.  Then comes the confused shouting
of a dozen roll-calls at once, the cracking of the
rifle-butts on the floor, the boisterous counting of
fours, a succession of sharp commands and
trumpet-calls,—and the noise and confusion grow rapidly less
until only is heard the voice of the adjutant as he
salutes and presents the regiment in line of masses to
the colonel, saying, "Sir, the regiment is formed."

A short command brings the rifles to the floor, and
there is absolute quiet as every one waits to catch
each word that its commander will say in asking the
regiment to volunteer.  But Colonel Phillips knows
the value of the psychological moment and the part
that emotion plays in patriotism, and he does not
intend to lose a feather-weight of force in his appeal to
the loyal spirits of his men.  So he brings the guns
again quickly to salute as the colour-guard emerge
from an office door behind him, bearing "Old Glory"
and the 71st's regimental colours; and, turning, he
presents his sword as the field music sounds *To the
Colour* and the bullet-torn standards sweep proud
and stately to their posts in the centre battalion.
This sudden and unexpected adaptation of the
ceremony for *The Escort of the Colour*, which for lack
of space is never attempted in the armory, is not
without effect.  The men in the ranks, being
restrained, are bursting to yell.  The onlookers, free
to cheer, cannot express by cheap hand-clapping what
wells up in them at sight of the flags, and they, too,
are silent.  When the rifle-butts again rest on the
floor the Colonel begins his soldierly brief address:

"The President has asked the Governor for six
regiments.  While under the terms of their enlistment
he could name any he might choose, he prefers volunteer
soldiers as far as may be.  So you are here this
evening to indicate the extent of your willingness and
wishfulness to answer the President's call.  I need
make no appeal to you.  The 71st is a representative
regiment in its personnel.  Its men are of all sections
and classes and parties.  My mother was a South
Carolinian, my father from Massachusetts.  Your
colour-sergeant is a Texan, and your regimental colours are
borne by a native of Ohio, grandson of him who placed
those colours on the Confederate earthworks at
Petersburg.  You in the aggregate most fitly represent the
sentiment of the whole people of this union of states.
This sentiment is a loyalty that has never to this
moment failed to answer a call to arms.  It is not to be
supposed that the present generation is degenerate
either in courage or patriotism.  When the trumpet
sounds *forward* the ranks will stand fast, and such as
for any reason may not volunteer will fall out to the
rear and retire."

At the lilting call there was silence for ten seconds,
in which not a breath was taken by man or woman in
the house: then the galleries broke out to cheer.  Not
a man had moved; though not a few felt as did
Corporal Billie Catling, who remarked to his chum when
the ranks were dismissed, "It's going to be devilish
hard for my folks to get along without my salary;
but to fall out to the rear when that bugle said
'forward'—damned if I could do it."

One of the most deeply interested spectators of the
scene in the armory had stood back against the wall
in the gallery during the whole time, and had apparently
not wished to be brought into notice of the crowd,
mostly women, packed in the limited gallery space.
His goodly length enabled him to see over the heads
of the other spectators everything of interest
happening on the floor.  A long overcoat could not conceal
his perfectly developed outlines; and many heads were
turned to look a second time at him, attracted both
by his appearance and by the fact that he seemed to
be an utter stranger to every one around him, not
having changed his position nor spoken to a soul since
coming up into the gallery.  He was broad of
shoulder, full-chested, straight-backed, with a head
magnificently set on; and had closely cropped black hair
showing a decided tendency to curl, dark eyes, evenly
set teeth as white as a fox-hound's, a clean-shaved
face neither full nor lean, and pleasing to look upon,
a complexion of noticeable darkness, yet all but white
and without a trace of colour.  While nine-tenths of
the people who saw him that evening had no impression
at all as to his race or nationality, an observant
eye would have noted that he was unobtrusively but
unmistakably a negro.

He had been quite unconscious of anything around
him in his absorbed interest in the ceremony below
him.  This manifest interest was evidenced by his
nervous hands which he clinched and opened and shut
as varying expressions of enthusiasm, resentment and
disappointment, humiliation, disdain and
determination came and went over his face.  He, Hayward
Graham, had applied to enlist in this regiment a month
before, and had been refused admission because of the
small portion of negro blood in his veins,—and that
in a manner, too, that added unnecessary painfulness
to the refusal.  He rather despised himself for coming
to witness the regiment's response to the call for
troops, but his patriotic interest and his love for his
friend Hal Lodge, who had loyally assisted his effort
to enlist in the 71st, overcame his pride, and he had
come to see the decision of Hal's enthusiastic wager
that nine-tenths of the regiment would volunteer.

The first trumpet-call had stirred his enthusiasm,
only to have it turned to chagrin and resentfulness
when the roll-calls brought to him the realization that
his name was not among the elect, and the black
humiliation of the thought that he might not even offer
to die for his country in this select company because
he was part—so small a part—negro; and he
gnawed his lips in irritation.  But when the flags had
come in so suddenly—he involuntarily straightened
up and took in his breath quickly to relieve the
smothering sensation in his throat, and forgot his wrongs in
an exaltation of patriotic fervour.

He stood abstracted for some time after the
outflow from the galleries began, and came down just
behind the three women of the Colonel's family.  At
the foot of the stairs Lieutenant Morgan met the
party and said, "Mrs. Phillips, the Colonel told me to
bring you ladies over to his office."

"So that's the Colonel's wife and daughters,"
thought Graham, as he passed out into the street.
"Where have I seen that little one?"





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.. _`CHAPTER II`:

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   CHAPTER II

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After lingering at the entrance of the armory for
a few minutes to see Hal Lodge, and failing to find
him, Graham, still gloomily and resentfully meditating
upon his rejection by the regiment, started briskly
toward the temporary lodgings of his mother and
himself as if he had some purpose in mind.  Arrived
there, he began catechizing her even while removing
his overcoat.

"Look here, mother, put down that work for
awhile, and tell me all about my people."

"What is it, Hayward?  What do you want to
know?" his mother asked.

"I want you to tell me all about my father and
grandfathers and grandmothers, everything you know—who
they were, and what they were, and what they
did, and where they lived—the whole thing."

"And what is the matter that you want to know
all that at once?  Are you still worrying about not
getting into that regiment?"

"Yes; I want to know why I am not good enough
to go to war along with respectable people—if there
is any reason."

"Honey, you are just as good as any of them, and
better than most.  I wouldn't think about it any more
if I were you."

"Well, I'm not going to think about it any
more—after to-night; but I want to know all about it
right now.  Where was father from?  You have
never told me that."

"Well, honey, I don't know myself; for he never
told me nor any one else that.  All I know is that
something—he never would say what—made him
leave his father and mother when he was not twenty
years old and he never saw them afterwards,—didn't
let them know where he was or even that he
was alive.  Your pa was mighty high-spirited, and
he never seemed to forget whatever it was that came
between him and his father; though he would talk
about him some too, and appeared to worship his
mother's memory.  They must have been very prominent
people from what he said of them.  His mother
died very soon after he left home, he told me; and
your grandfather was killed not long after that in a
battle right at the beginning of the war, I've heard
him say; but he didn't seem to like to talk of them."

"Didn't father say which side my grandfather was on?"

"On our side—the Union side."

"And father was in the war?"

"Yes, but I forget what he did.  He had some sort
of a badge or medal tied up with a red, white and
blue ribbon that I found in his trunk after he died;
but I gave it to you to play with when you were little
and you lost it.  That had something to do with the
war, but I didn't understand exactly what.  He didn't
like to talk about the war.  When we were first
married he used to say that the war was the first battle
and the easiest, and that he was enlisted for the
second and intended to see it through.  But before he
died I often heard him say that the war was only
clearing away the brush, and what the crop would be
depended on what was planted and how it was tended,
and that his great-grandchildren might see the harvest."

"Where did you first meet him?"

"Down in Alabama.  He went down there soon
after the war to teach school, just as I did.  I had
been to college and got my diploma and I wanted to
teach; but it seemed I could not get a position in the
whole State of New Hampshire.  So when some of
the people offered to send me down to Alabama to
teach the negroes, I went.  Your father had a school
for negroes not very far from mine, and he had had
a hard time from the very first.  None of the
respectable white people would have anything to do with
him, and he could not get board from any one but
negroes.  But the worse the people treated him the
harder he worked, and his school grew.  Finally it
became so large that he could not do the work alone.
He tried every way to get another teacher, but could
not.  As a last resort he asked me to combine my
school with his and see if we could not manage in
that way to teach all the children who came.  I never
saw anybody with a heart so set as his was on giving
every little negro a chance to learn.

"So we combined the schools and were getting
along very well when one day as your father was
coming out of the post-office in the little town near
which we taught, a young man named Bush stepped
up in front of him and cursed him and said something
about me that your father never would tell me.  Your
father knocked him down and he was nearly killed
by striking his head against a hitching-post as he fell.
The next morning a committee of some of the citizens
came to the schoolhouse, and Colonel Allen, who was
one of them, told your father that the community
was greatly aroused by the condition of affairs, and
that the injury done to young Bush, while they didn't
approve of Bush's conduct, had brought the trouble
to a head.  He said that sober-minded citizens didn't
want any outbreak, but that the peculiar relation
existing between your father and me outraged the
sentiments of every respectable man and woman in the
county."

"Did father hit him?"

"No, honey; but he rose right up without waiting
to hear any more and told Colonel Allen that as for
the injury to young Bush he had done nothing more
than defend the good name of a woman and had no
apologies or explanations to offer.  He talked quite
a long time to them, and I could see that they didn't
like some of the things he said.  As he finished he
told them that he could see that our condition, cut off
as we were from association with respectable people
by prejudice and from the lower classes because of
their dense ignorance, and thrown into intimacy by
our work, was somewhat unusual, but that was
because of conditions we could not control and be true
to our work.  He would try to arrange, he told them,
if they would give him a week, so that there would
be no grounds for these criticisms.  They asked him
what he proposed to do, but he said he couldn't
answer them then.

"They gave him the week he asked for, and left
us.  He dismissed the school when the committee was
gone, and when all the children had scampered out of
the schoolhouse he told me that while we could not
be blamed for the way things had come about, it was
true that our being so much together and cut off from
everybody else gave our critics a chance to talk, and
his solution of the difficulty was for us to be married—at
once.  He went on to say a whole lot of things,
honey, that I never imagined he thought of, and
wound up by declaring that I owed it to the work
we had begun to make any sacrifices to carry it on.
Now, honey, there was never a better, braver man
than your father, nor a better looking one, I think,
and there was no reason why I should not love him.
I was younger then than I am now and I was not a
bad-looking girl myself, and I did not think till long
afterwards that when he spoke of my sacrifices he
was thinking of his own.

"Well, he made what arrangements were necessary
that evening, and we were married by a Bureau
officer of some kind or other next morning before time
for school.  When school assembled he sent a note
by one of the boys to Colonel Allen, saying that we
had arranged the matter so that there could be no
further objection to our running the school in
together, and informed him that we were married."

"And what reply did Colonel Allen send to that
note?" Hayward asked his mother with great interest.

"He didn't send any," she replied; "but came
along with some others of the committee in about
half an hour to bring his answer himself."

"What did he say?"

"Well, he started off by saying to your father that
there could be no doubt that what we had done would
make the people forget their former objections, but
he thought it would be because the former offence
against their notions of propriety would be lost sight
of in their unspeakable indignation at this method
we had adopted, which, he said, struck at the very
foundation of their civilization.  He talked very high
and mighty, I thought, and though he pretended to
try to hold himself down and not get mad, he ripped
and charged a long time right there before the whole
school, and finally told us he would do all he could
to keep the people from doing us harm, but he
advised us to leave the community just as soon as we
could, as he wouldn't be responsible for the result of
our act."

"What did father say to that?" Hayward asked
eagerly.

"Well, he waited until Colonel Allen got through
and then said very quietly that he had done what he
had because he had appreciated the force of the
objections that had been raised to our intimate
association and was always willing to be governed by the
proprieties, but that he did not agree with Colonel
Allen about uprooting any principle of civilization,
that times and conditions had changed, and, while he
knew the sentiment of the people would be against
our marriage, he thought that sentiment was wrong
and would have to give way before the pressure of
the new order of things, that the law had married us
and we would look to the law to protect us.  He said
that the work we were doing was worthy of any
man's effort, that he had consecrated himself to it and
was not going to be driven from it by any predictions
of danger, that I was his wife and he would protect me."

"What did the honourable committee think of that?"

"I don't know.  Colonel Allen and the other men
just turned around without saying another word and
left the schoolhouse."

"Did you run the school on after that?"

"Yes, honey, but not for long.  One night when
those awful people came to destroy things at the
schoolhouse as they had done several times before,
your father was there to meet them and identify them.
Instead of running away as he thought they would,
they crowded around him, and after a struggle in
the dark they left him lying just outside the door with
a broken arm, a pistol-ball through his side, and
unconscious from a lick on the head.  Some of the
coloured people who lived near there heard the row,
and after it was all over and all those folks were gone,
they slipped up there and found your father and
brought him home.

"It was hard for us to get a doctor at first.  A
young one who lived nearest to us wouldn't come,
though we sent for him, and we were all frightened
nearly to death.  We could hear those awful people
yell every once and awhile away off on all sides of
the house, then they would fire off guns and
pistols—it was an awful night, Hayward.  At last old
Doctor Wright came about three o'clock in the
morning.  He lived ten miles or more from us, and we
thought that your father, who was raving and moaning,
would surely die before he got there.  But the
old doctor told us as soon as he examined him that
he would pull through all right.  He said that he had
been a surgeon in Stonewall Jackson's corps and that
he had seen men forty times worse hurt back in the
army in two months.  That made us feel a great deal
better, I tell you.  Your father came to his senses
before the old man quit working with him, and when
he heard that the young doctor had refused to come
to see him (because he was scared, the negro who
went for him said), and that the old man had ridden
so far through a very cold and wet night to help him,
I never heard any one say more to express his thanks
than your father did.  The old doctor listened to it
all without making any answer except an occasional
grunt.  When he got ready to go home I asked him
if he would not prefer to wait till daylight, for fear
those awful men would hurt him."

"And did he wait?" interrupted Graham.

"No.  He stiffened up as straight as his rheumatism
would let him and stumped indignantly out of
the house with his pill-bags in one hand and in the
other an old pair of home-knit woollen gloves he
wouldn't stop to put on—I can see him now."

"Did he ever come back?" asked Graham.

"Oh, yes.  The sight of him on his tall pacing bay
mare made us glad every two or three days till your
father got well."

"The old doctor evidently didn't agree with his
neighbours about you and father, then."

"I don't know about that.  He never would
discuss our troubles or speak any words of sympathy;
and on the last day he came, when your father was
thanking him as he had done so often for his kindness
to him, the old man asked him in his rather curt
manner, 'Don't they need school-teachers up north?'"

"Did you and father leave that place as soon as
he got well?"

"No.  Your father said that we would stick to it
to the end; and as soon as he was able to teach we
opened the school again, but in less than a week the
schoolhouse was burned down.  We rented another
after some trouble, but that was burned promptly
also.  Then it became impossible to get one.

"We decided it would be best for us to go away
to some place where the people were not prejudiced
against us.  We moved more than a dozen times, but
were never able to stay longer than a few months at
most, and often had to pack up almost before we
finished unpacking.  Finally we lost all hope of being
able to teach the negroes in the South, and decided
to go home.  Your father did go so far as to suggest
that if I would go back North and leave him down
there alone the people might not molest him.  He
certainly did have his heart in the work.  As I did
not like the idea, however, he dropped it."

"And that's when father got the professorship at
Oberlin?"

"Yes; and kept it till his death."

"I can hardly recollect father at all," said the son,
"though it seems sometimes I remember how he
looked.  I wish I could have been older before he died."

"Well, you were not two years old at your father's
death, Hayward, and really saw very little of
him.  He never seemed to care for children.  Your
two sisters that died before you were born—it
seemed that sometimes a week would pass without
his being conscious that they were in the house.  He
was so absorbed in his work that he didn't have time
for anything else.  His hard work and disappointment
over the failure that he had made down South
was what killed him, I have always thought.  Though
he lingered for many years, he was so broken-spirited
after we went to Ohio that his health gave way, and
he was not more than a shadow when he died.  I
am not sorry that you do not remember how he looked
at the last.

"But, honey," the mother continued after some
moments of silence, "you ought to be proud of your
father.  I wish you could have heard the funeral
sermon Doctor Johnson preached.  He did not say
anything about your father's being in the war of the
rebellion, but he told about his trials and struggles
to teach the negroes in the South, and said that in
that work John Graham was as much a soldier and
was as brave and faithful as any man who ever fought
for the flag.  If these folks here could have heard
that sermon they never would have voted to keep you
from joining the regiment."

"Oh, it's not because of what my father did or did
not do," said Graham impatiently; "nor is it because
of what I've done or left undone, nor of what they
think I would do or would not do if they kindly
permitted me to enlist.  No, no.  It's because I'm part
negro—though I'm quite as white as a number I saw
there to-night.  Now, mother, exactly how much negro
am I?  You've told me your father was a white man;
but who was your mother, and what do you know
about her?"

"Yes, my father was a white man.  He was a
German just come over to this country.  He had a
beer saloon in a New Hampshire town—at least he
bought it afterwards.  He worked in the saloon when
my mother, who had run away from Kentucky, was
hired to work in his employer's house.  He boarded
there and she was treated something like a member
of the family, although she was a servant, and they
were married after awhile.  Some few of the people
didn't like it, I've heard mammy say, but they got
along without any trouble; and when my father
saved up some money he bought the little saloon from
his employer and made some little money before he
died.  We had a hard enough time getting it, though,
goodness knows.  I moved back to New Hampshire
from Ohio after your father's death in order to push
the case through the—"

"Yes, yes, I've heard that before," said Hayward;
"but tell me about your mother's running away from
her master.  You have never told me anything about
her, except that her name was Cindy or Lucinda, and
that she belonged to General Young."

"Well, honey, she was just a slave girl that
belonged to General Young over in Kentucky.  She
ran away and got across the river without being
caught, and some of the white people helped her to
get on as far as New Hampshire and got her that
place to work where my father boarded.  She and
my father were—"

"Yes, yes, I know," the son interrupted again,
"but what made her run away and leave her father
and mother—did she know her father and mother?"

"I don't know that I remember it all," said the
mother evasively, "and it doesn't make any difference
anyway."

"Oh, well, go on and tell what you know or have
heard.  Let's get at the bottom of it.  I declare I
believe you don't like my being a negro any better than
those dudes in the 71st."

The mother laughed at his statement; and seemed
pleased at the interruption, for she made no move to
proceed with the narrative.  Graham looked at her
quietly a few moments, and, ascribing her reticence to
unwillingness to descant upon the negro element in her
ancestry, which was indeed a part but a very small part
of her motive, repeated his demand for information
sharply.

"Oh, honey," cried his mother, "don't ask me any
more about it.  I just made mammy tell me all about
her father and mother and her running away from
Kentucky, and I wish to the Lord I never had!  It
was just awful."

"So!  Well, now I must know.  Go on and tell it.
The quicker you do the sooner it will be over.  Go
on, I say.  What was your mother's father named?"

"Gumbo—Guinea Gumbo."

"Poetic name that!  And her mother's name, what
was it?"

"Big Lize."

"Not so poetic, though it sounds like some poetry
I've read, too.  And now what did this pair do or suffer
that was so terrible?  It's no use dodging any longer."

"Well, child, if I must, I suppose I must.  My
mother's mother didn't do anything that was awful;
but Guinea Gumbo—I wish I knew I was no kin to
him.  Mammy said he was brought right from Africa
and was as wild as a wolf.  Nobody could understand
much that he said, and General Young had a time
keeping him from tearing things up.  He used to run
away and stay in the swamp for weeks at a time.  The
children on the place, black and white, were as scared
of him as death, and none of the slave women would
ever go about him if they could help it.  Not long
after General Young bought him, Gumbo and his first
wife, who was brought over from Africa with him,
had the plans all fixed to steal one of the General's
little boys, five or six years old, and carry him off to
the river-swamp and have a regular cannibal feast of
him.  General Young found it out in time; and
mammy said the old negroes on the plantation said
that was what killed the woman, the whipping she and
Gumbo got for it.  It laid Gumbo up for a long time,
but he got over it.  It seemed that nothing but
shooting could kill him."

"Did they shoot him to kill him?  What was that
for?" asked Graham.

"Honey, that is the awful part of it.  Mammy said
that one day her young mistis, the General's oldest
daughter, didn't come home from a ride she had taken,
and the whole plantation was turned out to find her.
But some one came along and told the General that she
had eloped across the river with a young man he had
forbidden to come on the place, and all the people on
the plantation went back to their quarters.  As the
young man could not be found, everybody thought that
he and Miss Lily had run away and married and were
too much afraid of her father to come back home.
The next day, however, the young man turned up, and
swore he had not seen Miss Lily in a week.  Then the
plantation was in terror.—Honey, I can't tell you
the rest.—They found her.—When they were
calling out all the people from the quarters, the
General learned that Gumbo had not been seen since Miss
Lily was lost.  He had run away so often that no
attention was paid to it, for he always came back after
a time.—They got the bloodhounds, mammy said,
and went to the swamp.  After a long time the dogs
struck Gumbo's trail, and—yes, they found her,—tied
hands and feet and her clothing torn to strings,
in a kind of hut made of bark and brush way back in
the swamp.  She was dead, but she had not been dead
an hour, from a gash in her head made by an axe.
The dogs followed a hot scent from the hut for
another hour, and led the men to where they had run
Gumbo down.  That was where they shot him—and
left him.  He still had the axe, and had killed one of
the dogs, and nobody could get to him.  They didn't
want to, I suppose."

Graham had listened to his mother's last words
without breathing, and when she stopped he dropped
his face in his hands with a groan....  She began
again in a few moments:

"Mammy said that when they brought her young
mistis back home the General went off in a fit, and
raved and cursed till the doctors and the rest of 'em
had to hold him to keep him from killing somebody.
Mammy was one of her old mistis's house-girls, and
she heard all the General's ravings and screams that
he would kill every nigger on the place; and he kept
it up so long and kept breaking out again so after
they thought they had him pacified that mammy said
she was scared so bad she just couldn't stay there
any longer: and that's what made her run away the
very next night.  She had a hard time getting across
the river, but after she got over safe she didn't have
much trouble, for some of the white people took
charge of her and helped her to get further on north.
Pappy always said—"

"Oh, Lord, that's enough!" the son broke in,
raising his head out of his hands, and interrupting his
mother's flow of words, of which he had noted little
since hearing the tragic story of his savage
great-grandfather.  He rose from his chair impatiently.

"So I am Hayward Graham, son of Patricia
Schmidt, daughter of Cindy—nothing, daughter of
Gumbo—nothing."

"Guinea Gumbo," corrected his mother.

"Oh, I beg my distinguished ancestor's pardon for
presuming to credit him with only one name.  A
gentleman with his record ought to have as many as
Kaiser Bill," drawled Graham sarcastically.  Then
with better humour he said to his mother, "And will
you please to inform me from which of your ancestors
you inherited that name of Patricia?"

"Mammy named me that for her old mistis."

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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Graham stood for awhile looking at the blank wall.
Then he spoke as if he had settled his problem.

"Yes I'm a negro—no doubt about that; and a
negro I'll be from to-morrow morning."

"Why, honey, you are not going to lower yourself to—"

"No, no.  I'm not going to lower myself to
anything; but I'm going to go with my own crowd,
where I'll not be insulted by people who are no better
than I am.  I got along very well at college, but these
people here are different.  I'll show 'em.  I'll go to
the war, and I'll get as much glory out of it as any
of 'em.  My father was a soldier, and his father died
in battle: I rather guess I can't stay out of it.  Good
night, mummer."

And he took himself off to bed.





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.. _`CHAPTER III`:

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   CHAPTER III

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Hayward Graham was twenty-three years old.
He had half finished his senior year at Harvard—with
credit, it must be said—when the imminence
of war drove all desire for study from his mind.  He
wrote to Harry Lodge a former college chum who
had graduated in the class ahead of him and gone to
Ohio to make a name for himself—fortune he had
already—and asked that his name be proposed for
membership in Lodge's company of the 71st, as a
regiment most likely to get in the scrimmage when
it came.  Lodge had done this and had written to
Graham that doubtless he would be received on the
next meeting night as war was at that time a
certainty.  Whereupon Graham had bundled up his
traps and come without delay.

Graham's mother also had travelled to Ohio, for
the double purpose of telling her soldier good-bye
and making a passing, and what promised to be a
last visit to some, of her old Oberlin friends, drawing
for expenses upon limited funds she had religiously
hoarded and applied to her son's tuition.

Her husband had always impressed upon her, and
in his last moment enjoined, that the boy should be
educated; and she had obeyed his wishes to the limit
of her power and as a command from heaven.  She
had husbanded her small patrimony, recovered after
a costly suit at law, slow-dragging through the New
Hampshire courts, and had allowed it to accumulate
while her son was in the graded schools against the
time when it would be needed to send him to college.
When that time had come it required no little faith
to see how the small bank account would be sufficient
to meet the expenses of four years at Harvard.  She
would better have sent the boy to a less expensive
school, but no: John Graham had gone to Harvard,
and nothing less than Harvard for his son would
satisfy her idea of loyalty to his father's memory and
admonitions.  So to Harvard she sent him, while she
planned and worked to stretch and patch out the
limited purse; and—miracle of financiering—she had
fetched him to the half of his last year, and could have
carried him to his graduation and still had enough
dollars left to attend that momentous ceremony in a
new frock.

Hayward Graham had repaid his mother's sacrifices
by diligence in his studies.  He had been a close
second to the leader of his class at the graded school, an
exemplary and hard-working pupil in the grammar
school, and at college his literary labours were
diminished only by his efforts in athletics, which, indeed,
did his work as a student little serious damage.  He
was quick to learn everything that his college career
offered, not only the lore of books, but good-fellowship,
easy manners and how to get on.  His naturally
friendly disposition did him little service at first
in finding or making friends at Harvard, where there
seemed to him to be so many desirable circles that
he would be glad to enter, and he had thought for
awhile his colour would bar him from any close
friendships there.  However, near the end of his
freshman year he had occasion by personal combat to
demonstrate his willingness to fight for the honour of
his class and to show that his pugilistic powers were
of no mean calibre, by thoroughly dressing down a
couple of sophomores who had held him up to tell
him what they thought of the whole tribe of
freshmen, and who, upon his being so bold as to take issue
with them, had attempted to "regulate" him.
Kind-hearted Harry Lodge, himself a sophomore, had
witnessed the trial of Graham's courage, class loyalty
and fistic abilities, and being struck with admiration
had shaken hands with him and congratulated him
on his prowess.  From that moment Graham was by
every token a member of the small coterie known as
"Lodge's Gang," to whom Lodge had introduced
him as "the only freshman I know that's worth a damn."

From the time of his admission into this set of
good fellows Graham's social side was provided with
all it desired.  Lodge and his friends seemed to think
nothing at all of Graham's colour; or, if they did,
made the more of him in their enthusiastic support
of the idea that "a man's a man for a' that."  They
had enough rollicking fun to keep their spare hours
filled to the brim and sought the society of women
very seldom; but when they did go to pay their vows
at the shrine of the feminine, Graham was as often
of the party as any other of "the gang."

The young women they visited seemed to find no
fault with his coming; for he could do his share of
stunts, had a good voice and a musical ear, and was
never at a loss for something to say, while his colour
meant no more to them than that of a Chinaman or
a Jap.  He was promptly and effectually smitten with
each new pretty face that he saw on these occasional
forays, just as were Hal and Jim Aldrich; but his
ever-changing devotions showed plainly that it was
as yet to no one woman, but to women, that his soul
paid homage.  As for the young women, any of them
as soon would have thought of marrying one of the
Chinese students in the University as him.  In fact
they did not associate him with the matrimonial idea,
but were interested in him as in an unusual species
of that ever-interesting genus, man.  They made
quite a lion of him for a time after his performance
in the Harvard-Yale football game of 19—; so much
so that he had become just a mite vain, which
condition of mind precluded his falling in love with
anybody for several weeks.

It was right at the height of his popularity that he
had left Harvard to join the ranks of the 71st.  But
Corporal Lodge had written with too much assurance.
Lieutenant Morgan of Lodge's company caught the
sound of that name, Hayward Graham, and remarked
casually, "He has the same name as that Harvard
nigger who was smashed up in the Yale game."

Some of the men thought the lieutenant said the
applicant was a negro, and began to question Lodge.
When that gentleman stood up to speak for his friend
he quite captured them with his description of
Graham's courage and other excellences, but when he
answered "yes" to a direct question whether his
candidate was a negro, the enthusiasm and Graham's
chance of enlistment in the 71st died together, and
suddenly.  Lieutenant Morgan, who was presiding
at the company meeting, sneered, "This is not a
negro regiment," and the ballot was overwhelmingly
adverse.

Lodge was offended deeply at Graham's rejection,
and said hotly that if the regiment was too good for
Graham it was too good for him, and he would apply
for his discharge at once.  Lieutenant Morgan replied
drily that "one pretext is as good as another if a man
really doesn't want to get into the fighting."  This
angered Harry to the point of profanity, but he
thought no more of a discharge.

This blackballing of his name was Graham's first
rebuff, and it bore hard upon his spirits.  He had
never had an occasion to take an inventory of the
elements in his blood, and this sudden jolt to his pride
and eager patriotic impulses made him first angry,
then heart-sick, then cynically scornful.

The morning after his mother had gone into the history
of his ancestry, as far as she knew it, he sought
an army recruiting station without delay.  The
gray-headed captain in charge did not betray the surprise
he felt when Graham told him he desired to enlist,—his
recruits, especially negroes, did not often come
from the class to which Graham evidently belonged.

"May I join any branch of the service I prefer?"
Hayward asked.

"Yes," said the officer; and added, as a fleeting
suspicion entered his mind that this negro might intend
passing himself off for a white man if possible, "that
is, of course, infantry or cavalry.  There are no
negroes in the artillery."

Graham winced in spite of himself at this blunt
reminder of his compromising blood, and mentally
resented the statement as an unnecessary taunt.  But he
had determined to fight for the flag if he had to
swallow his pride, and he was quickly put through all the
necessary formalities of enlistment.  His physical
qualifications aroused the unbounded admiration of
the examining surgeon, who called the old captain
back into the room where Graham stood stripped for
the examination, to look upon his perfect physique.

"I don't know about that broken leg, though," the
surgeon said.  "How long has it been well?"

"I've had the full use of it for more than a month
now," Graham answered.  "It's as good as the other,
I think.  It wasn't such a bad break anyway."

"How did you break it?"

"In the Yale game at Cambridge last November."

"Say," the surgeon broke out, "were you the
Harvard man that was laid out in that last rush?"

"Yes."

"Well, I saw that game," the surgeon went on;
"and I say, Captain, be sure to assign this young
fellow to a regiment that will get into the scrimmage.
Nothing but the firing-line will suit his style."

"Which do you prefer, infantry or cavalry?" questioned
the Captain briefly.

"As I've walked all my life, I think that I'll ride
now that I have the chance," Graham answered.

"Very well.  You are over regulation weight and
length for a trooper, but special orders will let you in
for the war only."

"The fighting is all I want," said Graham

"All right," replied the officer.  "I'll send you to
the 10th.  They have always gotten into it so far, and
likely nobody will miss seeing service in this affair."

Graham was given a suit of uniform and ordered
to report morning and afternoon each day till his
squad would be sent to join the regiment.  He
carried the uniform to a tailor to have it fitted to his
figure, in which he took some little pride; and lost
no time in getting into it when the tailor had finished
with it, and hurrying to parade himself before his
mother's admiring eyes.  That worthy woman was as
proud of him as only a combination of mother love,
womanly admiration for a soldier, and a negro's
surpassing delight in brass buttons, could make her.

Graham busied himself with the study of a book
on cavalry tactics borrowed from the old sergeant at
the recruiting station, and with that experienced
soldier's help he picked up in the ten days that elapsed
before he was sent away no little knowledge of the
business before him.  He was an enthusiastic student,
took great pains to perfect himself in the ceremonious
side of soldiering, and delighted in the punctilios
which the regulations prescribed.  He went at every
opportunity to witness the drills of the national guard
troops who were preparing to leave for the front;
and began to acquire the feeling of superiority which
the regular has for the volunteer, and to sniff at the
little laxities of the guardsmen, and with the air of
a veteran comment sarcastically upon them to the
old sergeant: till he finally persuaded himself that his
good angel had saved him from these amateurs to
make a real soldier of him.

Two days before Graham was sent away the 71st
gave its farewell parade.  Graham was there, of
course.  It was near sunset.  The wide street was
lined with spectators.  The ranks were standing at
rest, and the soldiers and their friends were saying
all manner of good-byes.  The band was blowing itself
breathless in patriotic selections, and as it crashed
into one after another soldiers and people cheered
and shouted with gathering enthusiasm.  Colonel
Phillips, sitting on his horse by his wife's carriage,
said, "Orderly, tell Brandt to play 'Dixie,'" and,
addressing the crowd of friends about him, "My
mother was a South Carolinian," he added jocularly.
When the band burst in on that unaccountably inspiring
air the assemblage stood on its toes to yell and
scream, and the tall Texas colour-sergeant came near
letting "Old Glory" fall in the dust in his
conscientious effort to split his lungs.

Graham stood quite near the Colonel and his party,
and was much interested in watching both this man
of whom he had heard Harry Lodge speak so
enthusiastically, and his daughters, Miss Elise and Miss
Helen, who were abundantly attractive on their own
account without the added distinction of being children
of their father.  It was interesting to him to note
the differing expressions of patriotic enthusiasm as
it forced itself through the well-bred restraint of the
elder sister or bubbled up unrestrainedly in the
unaffected girlish spirits of Helen.  Her spontaneous
outbursts were irresistibly fascinating to him, and he
could hardly avoid staring at her.

When the parade was formed, however, he was true
to his new learning; and after the bugle had sounded
*retreat*, and while the band was swinging slow and
stately through that grandest and most uplifting of
military airs, "The Star-Spangled Banner," he for
the first time had uncovered and stood at *attention*,
erect and steady as a young ash, his heart thumping
like that of a young devotee at his first orison.

As he looked up when the band had ceased, he met
the full gaze of Helen Phillips.  She was looking
straight at him, with a rapt smile upon her fresh young
face.  Then he remembered where he had seen that
face before.

It was at that Yale game at Cambridge.  Harvard
was due to win; but Yale had scored once in the first
half, and all but scored again before the Harvard men
pulled themselves together.  During the intermission
Captain "Monk" Eliot had corralled his crimson
warriors in the dressing-room and addressed to them a
few disjointed remarks that made history.

He began moderately; but as he talked his choler
rose, and he took off the limit: "You lobsters are the
blankety-blankedest crowd of wooden Indians that
ever advertised a dope-house.  You seem to think
you are out here for your health.  What in the blank
is the matter with you?  Do you think Soldiers Field
is a Chinese opium joint where you can go to sleep
and forget your troubles?  Maybe you don't want
to get your clothes dirty, or you are afraid some big,
bad, blue Yale man will eat you up without salt.  Now
look here!  I want you to understand that we've got
to win this game if it breaks every damn one of our
infernal necks, and if any of you overgrown babies
doesn't like what I say or hasn't the nerve to go into
the second half on that basis, just say so right now,
damn you, and I'll give you the job of holding some
*man's* sweater for the rest of this game—and we'll
settle it when it's over."

It was a desperate crowd of men in crimson who
went into that second half; and their collision with
the Yale line was terrific.  But Eli didn't seem to
change his mind about winning the game—for he
hadn't heard the crimson captain's crimson speech.

For twenty minutes the giants reeled and staggered
in an equal struggle.  Yale then saw that she must
win by holding the score as it was, and began all
manner of dilatory tactics.  This drove Captain Eliot
frantic.  He must score in five minutes—or lose.
Fifty-five yards in five minutes against that wall of
blue fiends!—nothing but desperation could accomplish
it.  He glanced at his squad of reserves on the
side-lines; and with spendthrift recklessness that
counted not the cost he began to burn men up.  He
sent his best and strongest in merciless repetition
against the weakest—no, not that—against the least
strong man in the Yale line.

Harvard began to creep forward slowly, so slowly;
and the five minutes were no longer five, but
four—three—two and a half—hurry!  Still forward the
crimson surged with every hammering shock.  But
flesh and blood could not stand it!  Out went Field,
the pick of the Harvard flock, carried off mumbling
like a crazy man, with a bleeding cut across his
forehead.  Next went Lee, then Carmichael, then Eliot
himself, after a desperately reckless dash, with a
turned ankle.

Can Harvard score?  Perhaps,—if the time and
the men last long enough....  Graham was a
substitute.  Eliot, supported between two of his men and
breathing threatenings and slaughter against those
who would carry him off, called Graham's name; and
with a nervous shiver the negro was out of his sweater
in a jiffy.  Eliot whispered to the crimson quarter,
"Graham's fresh; send him against that tackle till he
faints."

*Bang—Smash*.  *Bang—Smash*.  Yes, he's making
it every time, but hurry! *hurry*!

"Kill that nigger," growls Chreitsberg, the Kentucky
Captain of the Blue, between his set teeth: and
now "that nigger" comes up with his nose dripping
blood, next with his ear ground half off.  But he will
score this time!  No, the Yale eleven are on him like
a herd of buffaloes.  He stands up and draws his sleeve
across his nose with a determined swipe.  Eliot
screams from the side-lines, "You *must* make it this
trip—time's up,"—but he can't hear his own voice
in the pandemonium.

A last crunching, grinding crash,—and the twenty-two
maniacs heave, and reel, and topple, and stagger,
and slowly wring and twist themselves into a writhing
mass of bone and muscle which becomes motionless
and quiet at the bottom while still struggling and
tearing without let-up on the outside.  They refuse to
desist even when the referee's whistle sounds the end
of the game, for no man knows just where under that
mass of players which is lying above the goal-line
is the man with the ball.  The referee and the umpire
begin to pull them off one by one in the midst of an
indescribable tumult: and at the bottom, with a
broken leg, but with the ball hugged tight against his
breast and a saving foot and a half beyond the line,
they find Graham.

He is picked up by the roughly tender hands of his
steaming, breathless fellows, who are ready to cry
with exultation, and hurried to a carriage.  It was
while they were carrying him off the field he had
redeemed that he first saw Helen Phillips.  She was
standing on the rear seat of a big red touring-car,
waving a crimson pennant and excited beyond
measure.  As she looked down on him as they carried him
past, there came into her face a look of childish
admiration and pity commingled; and she hesitated a
moment, then impulsively pitched out the pennant she
held, and it fell across his chest like a decoration and
was carried with him thus to his room across the
Charles.

When he had surprised her gaze at him as he turned
from the parade of the 71st, and saw her smile upon
him, he thought she had recognized him as the
line-smashing half-back,—and he very properly drew in
his middle and shoved out his chest another notch.
But not so!  She did not recognize him nor remember
him.  In her overflowing patriotism she saw only a
soldier of the Republic; and her smiling face had but
unconsciously paid tribute to an ideal.





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.. _`CHAPTER IV`:

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   CHAPTER IV

.. vspace:: 2

On the first day of April, 191-, Hayward
Graham, wearing the single-barred yellow chevrons of a
lance-corporal in Troop M of the 10th Cavalry, was
sitting flat on the ground, perspiring and inwardly
grumbling as he rubbed away at his sawed-off rifle,
and mentally moralizing on his inglorious condition.
There was he, almost a graduate of Harvard, a
gentleman, accustomed to a bath-tub and a toothbrush,
bound up hard and fast for three years' association
with a crowd of illiterate, roistering, unwashed, and
in the present situation unwashable, negroes of every
shade from pale yellow to ebony.  Why, thought he,
should negroes always be dumped all into one heap
as if they were all of one grade?  Didn't the
government know there were negroes and negroes?
Whimsically he wondered why the officers didn't sort them
out among the troops like they did the horses, according
to colour,—blacks, browns, yellows, ash-coloured,
snuff-coloured.  Then what possibilities in
matching or contrasting the shades of the troopers
with those of their mounts: black horse, yellow
rider,—bay horse, black rider,—sorrel horse, gingersnap
rider—no, that wouldn't do, inartistic combination!
And what colour of steed would tastily trim off that
freckled abomination of a sergeant yonder?  Can't
be done,—scheme's a failure!—damn that sergeant
anyhow, he had confiscated Graham's only toothbrush
to clean his gun with.  Graham again records
his oath to thrash him when his three years is up.

But three years is an age.  It will never roll round.
Only two months has he been a soldier, and yet
everything that happened before that is becoming
vague—even the smile on Helen Phillips' face.  He cannot
close his eyes and conjure up the picture as he did at
first.

Graham was out of temper.  Cavalry wasn't what
it is cracked up to be, and a horse was of more trouble
than convenience anyway, he was convinced.  In the
battle-drills the men had been put through so
repeatedly day after day the horse played no part, and what
riding Graham had done so far had served only to
make him so sore and stiff that he could neither ride
nor walk in comfort.  He heartily repented his choice
and wished he had taken the infantry, where a man
has to look out only for himself and his gun.  Oh, the
troubles, the numberless troubles, of a green soldier!

All of Corporal Graham's military notions were
affronted, and his right-dress, upstanding ideas of
soldiering were shattered.  The reality is a matter
of pushing a curry-comb, getting your nose and mouth
and eyes filled with horse-hairs, which get down your
neck and up your sleeves, and stick in the sweat and
won't come off and there's no water to wash them
off.  Then the drills—save the mark!—not as much
precision in them as in a football manoeuvre,—just
a spreading out into a thin line and running forward
for five seconds perhaps, falling on your belly and
pretending to fire three rounds at an imaginary foe, then
jumping up and doing it all over again till you feel
faint and foolish,—every man for himself, no order,
no alignment, one man crouching behind a shrub,
another falling prone on the ground, another hiding
behind a tree,—surely no pomp or circumstance or
glory in that business.  Graham's study of punctilios
did him no service there.  Not a parade had the
regiment had.  Mobilized at a Southern port only three
days before the sailing of the transport, it had taken
every hour of the time to load the horses and
equipment and supplies.  Graham had found that fighting
is a very small part of soldiering, which is mostly
drudgery, and he had revised his idea of war several
times since his enlistment.

He thought as he sat cleaning his rifle that surely
the preliminaries were about over, and, if camp
rumour counted for anything, that the day of battle
could not be more than one or two suns away.  He
would have his gun in fine working order, for good
luck might bring some shooting on the morrow.  At
any rate his carbine must glisten when he becomes
part of to-morrow's guard, and he hoped that he
would be put right on the point of the advance picket.
He hadn't had a shave in three weeks, and his
uniform was sweat-stained and dusty, and he could not
hope to look spick and span; but his gun could be
shiny, and he knew Lieutenant Wagner well enough
by that time to have learned that a clean gun counted
for more with him than a clean shirt.  So he hoped
and prayed that he would be selected for some duty
that was worth while.

The brigades under General Bell, which had been
landed at Alta Gracia with difficulty, were pressing
forward with all haste to cut off a garrison of
Germans that had been thrown into Puerto Cabello from
the German cruisers, and to prevent the arrival of
reinforcements which were being rushed to their aid
from Caracas.  Reports from native scouts and
communications from General Mañana himself placed the
number of these reinforcements at from five to seven
thousand.  General Bell doubted that this force was
so large, but was anxious to meet it, whatever its
size.

Despite the vigilance of the all too meagre patrol
of warships for Venezuelan waters which the United
States had been able to spare from the necessary
guard for her Atlantic and Gulf ports, the forehanded
and ever-ready Kaiser had landed seven or eight
thousand troops from a fleet of transports at Cumana, and
with characteristic German promptness had occupied
Caracas and Barcelona before Uncle Sam had been
able to put any troops on Venezuelan soil.  It seemed
nonsense for either Germany or the United States to
care to fight any battles down in that little out-of-the-way
place.  They could find other more accessible and
far more important battle-grounds: but no, as the
Monroe Doctrine forbade Germany to make a foothold
in Venezuela and her doing so was the casus
belli, the ethics of the affair demanded that there
should be a bona fide forcible ejectment of the Kaiser's
troops from Venezuelan territory by the United
States.  The battles there might be only a side issue,
and the real test of strength might come at any or
all of a dozen places on land and sea, but there must
be some fighting done in Venezuela just to prove that
the cause of war was not fanciful.

General Bell's brigades were one under General
Earnhardt, consisting of the 5th, 7th, 10th and 15th
Cavalry, and a second, including the 4th and 11th
regular infantry, the 71st Ohio, and the 1st X——,
under General Cowles, with a battalion of engineers
and four batteries of field artillery.  General
Earnhardt's cavalry brigade was striving to reach the
Valencia road, the only passable route from Caracas to
Puerto Cabello, before the German force should pass.
General Mañana had sent a courier to say that he
would hold the Germans in check till Earnhardt's
arrival.

On the morning of April 2d Graham was among
the advance pickets and almost forgot his saddle pains
and creaking joints in the excitement of expected
battle.  For half a day Earnhardt pushed forward as
fast as the trail would permit.  He had halted his
troops for five minutes' rest about noon, when a native
on a wiry pony, riding like one possessed, dashed into
the picket and came near getting his head punched
off before he could make Graham understand that he
was a friend with a message for the *Americano
capitan*.  Graham carried him before General Earnhardt,
who at the head of his column was reclining on a
bank beside the trail, perspiring and dusty and brushing
viciously at the flies and mosquitoes that swarmed
around him.  The general did not change his position
when the native, who was clad in a nondescript but
much-beribboned uniform, slid from his horse and
with a ceremonious bow and salute informed him that
he was Captain Miguel of General Mañana's staff,
and had the honour to report that he was despatched
by General Mañana to say that, despite that gentleman's
earnest and desperate resistance, a large and
outnumbering force of German cavalry had forced
a passage of the road to Puerto Cabello about eleven
o'clock that morning.  While Captain Miguel was
delivering his elaborate message to the disgusted
cavalryman, the picket passed in an old soldier of the
10th who had been detailed as a scout at the
beginning of the campaign; and this scout rode up to
report just as the native captain finished speaking.
Earnhardt turned impatiently from Mañana's aide
to his own trusted man and said:

"Well, Morris, what is it?"

"Small force of German cavalry, sir, had a
scrimmage with General Mañana's troops this morning on
the Valencia road, and rode on in the direction of
Puerto Cabello."

"How many Germans got through?" asked the general.

"All of them, sir; about two troops, as near as I
could count."

"And how many men did Mañana have?" the
question came sharply.

"Something like fifteen hundred I should judge,
sir, from the sound of the firing and what I could
see," answered the scout.

General Earnhardt, without rising, turned with
unconcealed contempt to Captain Miguel and said:

"My compliments to General Mañana, and he's a
—— old fraud and I don't want to have anything
more to do with him;" and while the red-splashed
aide was trying to solve the curt message which he
but half understood, the trumpeter at a word from
the angry cavalryman sounded *mount* and *forward*
and the brigade was again off at top speed, hoping
still to cut off the main relief force sent out from
Caracas.  General Earnhardt considered himself a
lucky soldier to find that this force had not passed
when at last he reached the road (which was hardly
worthy of the name highway, though one of the
thoroughfares of Venezuela); and he hastily
disposed his forces to meet the German advance.

It was not long in coming.  The crack of a rifle
was the first notice Corporal Graham had that he was
about to be under fire.  He felt a cold breeze blow
upon his back for a moment, and then as the popping
began to approach a rattle the joy of contest entered
his soul and sent his blood bounding.

But the joy was short-lived.  When the Germans
came near enough to see that they were opposed by
men in Uncle Sam's uniform, and not by the nagging
natives who had been popping harmlessly away at
them from the roadside, they decided it was best not
to be too precipitate.  They stopped and began to
feel for the American line.  After some desultory
sharpshooting they finally located it, and quieted
down to wait till the German commander could get
his little army up and into line of battle.

Then Hayward Graham had to sit still and hold
his gun while the exhilaration and enthusiasm died
down in him like the fiz in a glass of soda-water.  He
had worked his nerves up to such a tension that the
reaction was nothing less than painful, and he was
full of impatience and profanity.  He could hardly
wait for to-morrow, when Germany and Uncle Sam
would get up after a good night's rest and lay on like
men.

Again what was his unspeakable disgust and almost
unbearable disappointment when the next morning
came and he was detailed as stable guard, and given
charge of the 10th's corral, quite a distance in rear
of the line of battle and absolutely out of all danger.
Profanity was a lame and feeble remedy for that
situation.  He sat down and growled.

"Oh, for an assorted supply of languages in which
to separately and collectively and properly consign
this whole bloody system of details to the cellar of
Hades!"

A veteran sergeant of Graham's troop, who on
occasions wore a medal of honour on his blouse, and at
all times bore an unsightly scar on his cheek as a
souvenir of Wounded Knee, sought to soothe the
young man's feelings.

"It all comes along in the run of the business,
corporal," he said.  "Soldiering is not all fighting.
A man earns his money by doing whatever duty is
assigned to him."

Graham answered with heat: "I didn't come into
this nasty, sweaty, horse-smelly business for any such
consideration as fifteen dollars a month and feed, and
if I am to miss the scrapping and the glory I prefer
to cut the whole affair."

His temper improved, however, as the day began
to drag itself away with no sound of conflict from the
battle-line save the occasional pop of a pot-shot by
the pickets, and as the rumour began to leak back to
the corral that both sides must be waiting for their
guns to come up.  This was doubtless true: for the
four batteries of American artillery arrived late in
the afternoon, and the infantry brigade was all up
by nightfall.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER V`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V

.. vspace:: 2

The two small armies were separated by the valley
of a small stream which ran in a broad circle around
the low wooded hills or range of hills upon which the
Germans were entrenched.  This valley was from a
mile to a mile and a half wide, and the water-course
was much nearer the outer or American side.  The
bed of this stream would furnish an excellent breastwork
or entrenchment for the American troops if they
should see fit to use it, but it was not tenable by the
Germans because it was at most all points subject to
an enfilading fire from the American position.  The
surface of the valley was slightly broken and
undulating on the German side, but clear of timber and
covered only with grass, while on the American side
the rise was more precipitous and covered with a
scattering growth of trees and bush.

On arriving and looking over the ground General
Bell ordered that during the night his artillery should
be placed and concealed on the commanding heights
which his position afforded; and that his fighting-line,
composed of the 5th and 15th Cavalry as his left wing,
the 1st X—— as his centre, and the 4th and 11th
Infantry as his right wing, be moved forward down
the slope and into the bed of the stream, leaving as
a reserve the 71st Ohio and the 10th Cavalry located
approximately in rear of the centre of his line of
battle.  The 7th Cavalry he had sent out toward
Puerto Cabello to hold in check any possible German
troops that might appear from that quarter.

Corporal Hayward Graham, back at the 10th's corral,
had recovered his spirits as the day dragged along
without any sound of battle, and he began to
congratulate himself that he would finish up in good time
all details that would keep him out of the fighting.
When he walked over to the line late in the afternoon,
however, and learned that the whole regiment was
to be held out of the fight as a reserve, he immediately
surmised that the 10th was kept out of it because they
were negroes, and that the others from the general
down wanted to scoop all the glory for the white
soldiery,—and again he sat down and cursed the negro
blood in his veins.  The only salve to his outraged
spirit was the information that those high and mighty
prigs of the 71st were also to miss the glory.  He
even chuckled when he thought of the chagrin of
Lieutenant Morgan and pictured to himself the scene
of the lieutenant's meeting with Miss Elise Phillips
if he should have to go back and explain to her how
he came not to be under fire.  Then he remembered
Helen Phillips and the crimson pennant locked up in
his trunk, and he felt that the whole war would count
for naught if he had no chance to do something
worthy of that pennant and of her.  He wandered
listlessly along the lines and tried to forget his
troubles in listening to the talk of the fortunates who
were going in.

He came to where a crowd of 1st X—— men were
chaffing a squad of the 71st for "taking a gallery-seat
at the show."  Corporal Billie Catling of the 71st
replied that they took the "gallery-seat" under
orders and were put behind the 1st X—— to see that
they didn't dodge a fight again like they did in Cuba.

"That's a damn lie!" came the 1st X——'s rejoinder
in chorus; to which one of them added, "The
1st X—— never ran out of any fight in Cuba, and
you gallery-gods can go to sleep or go to the devil,
for we'll stay here till hell freezes over so thick you
can skate on the ice."

"Well, you may not have run *out* of any fight in
Cuba, but it's blamed certain you didn't *run in*\to one,"
retorted the 71st's spokesman.

"Now, sonny," yelled the X—— man, "don't get
sassy because you're not permitted to sit down along
with your betters.  Run along and wait for the
second table with the niggers!"

The 71st's contingent could not find a suitable
retort to this sally, and, as fighting was out of the
question, they walked away muttering imprecations amid
the jeers of the men from X——.

Graham enjoyed the discomfiture of the 71st; but
he was more than ever convinced that the colour of
the 10th accounted for its being robbed of a chance
for fame in this campaign: and he went back to his
duty in a mutinous mood.  He could not know that
General Bell had held this veteran negro regiment in
reserve because of its proved steadiness and valour;
nor that he had placed the untried 1st X—— in his
centre because it would thus be in the easiest supporting
distance of his reserves.

The battle opened on April 3d the moment it
became light enough for the gunners to locate the
half-hidden German lines and artillery.  For awhile the
cannoneers had it all between themselves; and in this
duel the advantage was with the Americans, for their
position gave them better protection—the fighting-line
being sheltered by the stream-bed and the guns
and reserves by the hill.  The Germans were
entrenched on a hill as high as the Americans, but it
was much flatter and afforded less natural cover.

After two or three hours of pounding the Germans
with his artillery, which was evidently inflicting great
damage, General Bell ordered his line forward to
carry the German position by assault.  Then the battle
began in earnest.  The German machine-guns opened
on the American line as it rose out of the stream-bed
and began its slow and terrible journey across the
open valley by short rushes.  The first breath of lead
and iron that dashed in the faces of the American
troops as they stood up began the work of death; and
it came so promptly and so viciously that it
overwhelmed the raw discipline and untempered metal of
the 1st X——; for before advancing thirty paces the
line wavered and broke and retreated ignobly to the
sheltering bank of the stream.  Not all the regiment
broke at once; but the break and stampede of one
company quickly spread along the entire regimental
front, and back into the ditch they dived.  Some of
the officers cursed and commanded and entreated;
but to no purpose.  The wings of the American line
were advancing steadily but slowly, standing up for
a few moments to dash forward a dozen yards, and
then lying as close to the ground as possible while
returning the terrible fire from the hills in front of
them.

General Bell from his position of vantage saw the
failure of the 1st X—— to advance, and waited a
few moments in hope that a half-dozen officers who
were recklessly exposing themselves in their attempts
to urge the men forward might succeed in their
efforts.  As it became evident that the regiment would
not face the deadly fire of the Germans, however, and
as the wings of the battle-line were diverging as they
advanced because of the formation of the ground in
their front, General Bell waited no longer, but ordered
forward both the 10th Cavalry and the 71st Ohio.
These came over the hill on the run and dropped down
the slope into the water-course, where the heroic
handful of officers were still making frantic efforts to have
the 1st X—— go forward.  A captain was violently
berating his men for their cowardice and imploring
them to advance, while his first lieutenant squeezed
down behind the bank was yelling at them not to
move.  A major of one battalion was standing up
straight and fully exposed, waving his sword and
appealing to his men by every token of courage, while
another major was lying as close to the bottom of
the ditch as a spreading-adder.  At places the men
seemed to want to move, while the officers crouched
in fear; while at others officers by no amount of
commands or entreaties could get a man out of the ditch.
A panic of terror seemed to be upon the regiment
which the few untouched spirits were not able to
overcome by any power of sharp commands, or
violent pleading, or reckless examples of courage.

The boys of the 71st and the negro troopers of the
10th did not treat the X—— men tenderly as they
passed over them.  They jumped down upon them
as they lay in the ditch and tramped upon them or
kicked them out of the way contemptuously, while the
fear-smitten creatures were as unresentful as hounds.
Corporal Graham, near the left flank of the 10th,
heard an officer of the 71st yell as they passed over
the ditch, "Why don't you go forward?  What the
devil are you waiting for?" to which Billie Catling,
as he knocked a cowering X—— man from his path,
cried out in answer, "It's too hot for 'em, captain.
They are going to stay here till this hell freezes
over!"

As many perhaps as a fourth of the 1st X——,
officers and men, fell in with the 71st and the 10th
and bravely charged with them up the long slope.
The remainder waited till the battle was so far ahead
of them that their belated advance could not wipe out
the black shame of cowardice.

In the hurry of their rush into the breach the
adjoining flanks of the 10th and the 71st overlapped
and were confused; but it was well that the two
regiments were sent to replace the one, for the loss was
appalling as they surged forward toward the German
lines, and they were not long in being thinned out
to an uncrowded basis.

The first sight of a man struck and falling to the
ground shook Corporal Graham's nerves, and he had
to pull himself together sharply to save himself from
the weakening horror death always had for him.  He
turned his eyes resolutely away from the first
half-dozen, that were knocked down, and applied himself
religiously and consciously to the prescribed method
of advancing by rushes; but all his faculties were
alert to the dangers of the situation, and he could not
shake off his keen sense of peril and of the tragedies
around him.  Not for long did he suffer thus,
however, for as he rose up from the grass for one rush
forward a bullet grazed his shin—and changed his
whole nature in a twinkling.  It did him no real
damage and little blood came from the wound, but the
pain was intense.  He dropped on the earth and
grabbed his leg to see what the harm was, and was
surprised to find himself uninjured save for the
burning, stinging sensation.  Then he forgot everything
but his pain, and became as pettishly angry in a
moment as if he had collided with a rocking-chair in the
dark.  In that moment he conceived a personal enmity
and grudge against the whole German army, and
proceeded to avenge his injury on a personal basis.  He
became as cool and collected as if he were playing a
game of checkers, and went in a business-like way
about reducing the distance between himself and the
gentlemen who had hurt his shin.  His anger had
dissolved his confusion and neutralized the horrors that
were at first upon him.  He was more than ever
conscious of the falling men about him; but he had his
debt to pay,—let them look after their own scores.
He saw Lieutenant Wagner stagger and fall and raise
up and drag himself into a protecting depression in
the ground; he saw the colonel of the 1st X——,
fighting with a carbine in his hand right alongside the
black troopers of the 10th, drop in a heap and lie so
still he knew he was dead; he saw Corporal Billie
Catling straighten up and pitch his gun from him as
a bullet hit him in the face and carried away the whole
back of his head;—yet Graham stopped not to help
or to think.  He had only one purpose—to reach the
man who hit his shin.  He saw man after man, many
of his own troop, drop in death or blood or agony—and
his purpose did not change.  Then, a little
distance to his left and somewhat to his rear, he saw
Colonel Phillips of the 71st go down in the grass;
he saw him try to gain his feet, and fail; and then
try to drag himself from his very exposed position,
and fail.  Then Corporal Graham forgot his personal
grievance, and thought of the girl and the pennant.
He ran across to Colonel Phillips and, finding him
shot through both legs, picked him up and carried
him for forty yards or more through the hurricane
of lead to where the Valencia road made a cut in the
long slope; and in this cut, down behind a sheltering
curve, he placed him.  Not a moment too promptly
had the trooper acted, for of all the unfortunates who
had fallen anywhere near Colonel Phillips not one but
was found riddled with the bullets of the machine-guns
when the battle was ended.  Graham's own hat
was shot away from his head and the officer in his
arms received another wound as he bore him out of
harm's way....  At the Colonel's request the negro
tried to remove the boot from the bleeding right leg,
which was broken below the knee.  As this was so
painful Colonel Phillips handed him a pearl-handled
pocket-knife and asked him to cut the boot-top away.
Graham did so, and bound a handkerchief around the
leg to stop the flow of blood.  Having made every
other disposition for the officer's comfort which his
situation permitted, he looked out in the direction of
the battle so wistfully that the Colonel told him he
might return to the fight.  He did so with a rush,
absent-mindedly pocketing the pearl-handled knife as
he ran.

.. _`"CARRIED HIM FOR FORTY YARDS OR MORE THROUGH THE HURRICANE OF LEAD"`:

.. figure:: images/img-052.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "CARRIED HIM FOR FORTY YARDS OR MORE THROUGH THE HURRICANE OF LEAD."

   "CARRIED HIM FOR FORTY YARDS OR MORE THROUGH THE HURRICANE OF LEAD."

The firing-line had advanced quite a distance while
Graham was rescuing Colonel Phillips and ministering
to him; and in his overweening desire to be right
at the front of the battle he ran forward without the
customary stops for lying down and firing.  That they
should carry him safe through that driving rain of
bullets, despite his indifference to the ordinary rules
of the desperate game, was more than reasonably
could have been expected of the Fates which had
protected him up to that moment from serious harm;
and—down he crashed in the grass and lay still without
design, while the battle passed farther and farther
up the long slope, away from him.  In dim
half-consciousness he realized what had befallen him; and the
only two ideas which found place in his mind were
the uncomfortable thought that he would be buried
without a bath, and a feeling of satisfaction that the
god of battle at least had dignified him with a more
respectable wound than a bruised shin-bone.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER VI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI

.. vspace:: 2

When two strong, alert men, disputing, come to
the final appeal to battle, the decision is usually made
quickly.  It is only the weak or the unprepared who
prolong a fight.

So was it that late summer in 191- saw an end
of war between Germany and the United States—thanks
partially to the intervention of the Powers.
And with what result?  The result does appear so
inadequate!  The Monroe Doctrine was still unshaken—and
that was worth much perhaps; but ten thousand
sailors and the flower of two navies were under
the tide, and half as many soldiers dead of fever or
fighting in Venezuela; small armies of newly made
orphans and widows in Germany and America;
mourning and despair in the houses of the desolate,—some
hope in the heart of the pension attorney; a
new set of heroes on land and sea,—at the top.  Long,
who at the battle of the Bermudas, finding his own
small craft and a wounded German cruiser left afloat
of twenty-odd vessels that had begun the fight, in
answer to her demand for his surrender, had
torpedoed and sunk the German promptly, and to his own
everlasting astonishment had managed to save his
neck and prevent the battle's becoming a Kilkenny
affair by beaching his riddled boat and keeping her
flag above water: from Long an endless list of real
and fictitious heroes, dwindling by nice gradations in
importance as they increased in numbers, till they
touched bottom in the raw volunteer infantryman
whose wildest tale of adventure was of his exemplary
courage in a great storm that swept the God-forsaken
sand-bar on which his company had been stationed,—to
prevent the German navy's purloining the new-laid
foundations of a fort to guard Catfish River.

In the long list of heroes Colonel Hayne Phillips
was not without prominence.  The sailormen were
first for their deeds were more numerous and
spectacular; but among the soldiers who were in the
popular eye he was easily the most lauded.  He was a
volunteer; and that was everything in his favour, for
it put him on a par with members of the regular
establishment of ten times his merit.  He was
nothing more than a brave and patriotic man with a taste
for the military and with but little of a professional
soldier's knowledge or training; and yet his
demonstrated possession of those two qualities alone,
patriotism and personal courage (which most men indeed
possess, and which are so inseparably associated with
one's thought of a regular army officer as to add
nothing to his fame or popularity),—the possession of
these two simple American virtues had brought to
Colonel Phillips the enthusiastic admiration of a
hero-loving people, and—what was of more personal
advantage to him—the consequent consideration and
favour of party-managers in need of a popular idol.

These political prestidigitators, mindful of the
political successes of the soldiers, Taylor, Grant and
Roosevelt, took him and his war record in hand and
proceeded to work a few easy miracles.  The love
and plaudits of a great State and a great nation for
a favourite regiment coming home with honour and
with the glory of hard-won battle upon its standards
were skilfully turned to account for partisan political
uses.  The deeds and virtues of a thousand men were
deftly placed to the credit of one, and before the very
eyes of the people was the legerdemain wrought by
which one political party and one Colonel Phillips
drew all the dividends from the investment of treasure
and of blood and of patriotic energy and devotion
which that thousand men had made without a thought
of politics or pay.

The partisan press, as always advertent to the
peculiar penchant hero-worship has for ignoring patent
absurdities, overdrew the picture—but no harm was
done: for while truth of fact was disregarded and
abused, essential truth suffered no hurt.  Although
enterprising newspapers did furnish for the political
campaign one photogravure of Colonel Phillips
leading the 71st regiment over the German earthworks at
the battle of Valencia, and another of him in the act
of receiving the German commander's sword on that
occasion—these things did the gallant Colonel no
injustice.  He gladly would have attended to those
little matters of the surrender in place of the veteran
officer of regulars who officiated.  It was through no
fault of the 71st's commander that shortness of breath
made it impossible for him to keep pace with his men
up that long slope; nor in the least to his discredit that
he was shot down in the rear of the regiment and his
life saved through the bravery of a negro trooper.

The Colonel's courage was indeed of the genuine
metal and he willingly would have met all the dangers
and performed all the mighty deeds accredited to him
if opportunity had come to him.  Being conscious of
this willingness in his own soul, he took no measures
to correct impressions of his prowess made upon the
minds of misinformed thousands of voters.  The error
was not in a mistaken public opinion as to his valour,
for that was all that was claimed for it, but in the
people's belief in certain spectacular exhibitions of
that valour which were really totally imaginary.  He
knew that he was as brave a man as the people
thought: why then quibble over facts that were
entirely incidental?  The hero-idolaters swallowed in
faith and ecstasy all the details which an inventive and
energetic press bureau could turn out, and cried for
more: and the nomination for the presidency
practically had been tendered to him by acclamation
almost a year before the convention assembled which
officially commissioned him its standard-bearer.

Colonel Phillips' campaign was attended by one
wild hurrah from start to finish.  It was pyrotechnic.
Other candidates for this office of all dignity have
awaited calmly at home the authoritative call of the
people; but the materia medica of politics teaches that
to quicken a sluggish pulse in the electorate a hero
must be administered directly and vigorously into the
system.  So the Colonel was sent upon his mighty
"swing around the circle."

In that sweeping vote-drive many weapons were
displayed, but only one saw any real service.  That
was the Colonel's gray and battered campaign hat.
He wore it for the sake of comfort, to be sure; but,
like the log cabin and grandfather's hat of the
Harrisons, the rails of Lincoln, and the Rough Riders
uniform of Roosevelt, it was the tumult-raising and final
answer to every argument and appeal of the opposition.
It uprooted party loyalties, silenced partisan
prejudices, overrode eloquence and oratory, beat back
and battered down the shrewd attacks and defences
of political manipulation, and contemptuously kicked
aside anything savouring of serious political
reasoning.  The convention which nominated him had
indeed formulated and declared an admirable platform
upon which he should go before the people, and he
placed himself squarely on that platform; but the
gaze of the people never got far enough below that
campaign hat to notice what its wearer was standing on.

Colonel Phillips was a sincere, honest, candid,
plain-spoken politician—for politician he was if he was
anything, while yet so fearless of party whips and
mandates that his name was synonymous with honesty
and lofty civic purpose.  So, feeling his own purposes
ringing true to the declarations of his party's
platform he did not deem it necessary to direct the
distracted attention of the people to these prosy matters
of statecraft when they were taking such a friendly
interest in his headgear.  If they were willing to
blindly follow the hat, he knew in his honest heart
that the man under it would carry that hat along
paths of political righteousness.

He was indeed playing upon every chord of popular
feeling and seeking the favour of every man with
a ballot.  He had always fought to win in every
contest he had entered, from single-stick to war, and he
made no exception of this race for the chieftaincy of
the Republic.  It was to be expected, therefore, that
the large negro vote in pivotal States, as well as his
natural love of justice and his admiration for a brave
soldiery, would lead him to pay enthusiastic and
deserved tribute to the negro troops who had served
in the Venezuelan campaign.  He paid these tributes
religiously and brilliantly in every speech he made,
but always in general and impersonal terms and
without a hint of his own debt to a corporal of the 10th
Cavalry.  There was no need for such minutiæ of
course, for that was a purely personal affair between
him and an unknown negro who might be dead and
buried for all he knew; while, besides, a recital of
these unimportant details would necessitate a fruitless
revision of other incidental ideas now pleasantly fixed
in the public mind.  He sometimes entertained his
wife and daughters with the story of how a trooper
of the 10th had saved his life, but never did he sound
the personal note in public.

Colonel Phillips made votes with every speech and
it looked as if he would win.  He deserved to win,
for he was honest, capable, clean.  As election day
drew near the opposing candidate received a
confidential letter from his campaign manager in which
that veteran politician said:

"I have lost and won many hats in my political
career, but this is the first time I have ever been called
upon to fight a hat—just a hat—to settle a
Presidency.  This is a hat campaign; and you have
evidently made the mistake of going bareheaded all your
life.  You seem, too, to have limited yourself to a
home-grown ancestry.  The Colonel is simply wearing
a hat and claiming kin with everything from a
Plymouth Rock rooster to a palmetto-tree.  The newspapers
are getting on my nerves with their unending
references to that campaign-hat and Phillips' ding-dong
about the unity and virility of American blood and
his mother's being a South Carolinian."

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"The cards are running against us."





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.. _`CHAPTER VII`:

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   CHAPTER VII

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Colonel Phillips' daughters were enjoying life
to the full in their long summer outing on the
St. Lawrence.  The older, Elise, had just finished with
the schools and was free from many of the restraints
which the strict and old-fashioned ideas of her mother
had put upon her during her girlhood, and was filled
with a lively enjoyment of her first untrammelled
association with the males of her kind.  Helen was
still a girl, and her mother yet threw about her all the
guards and fences that properly hedge about the days
of maidenhood.  But this did not in the slightest check
the flow of Helen's joy in life, for the matter of sex
in her associates was not an element in her happiness.
Boy or girl, it mattered not to her, if her fellow in
the hour's sport was quick-witted, quick-moving and
mischief-loving.  The extent of her thoughts of love
was that it and its victims were most excellent objects
of banter and ridicule; and she found the incipient
affair between Elise and Evans Rutledge a source of
much fun.

"Are you a hero?" she once asked Mr. Rutledge
solemnly.

"Not to my own knowledge," Rutledge answered.  "Why?"

"Because if you are you may be my brother sometime.
Elise likes you a little, I think, and she thinks
your hair would curl beautifully if you didn't crop it
so close—but you will have to be a hero.  You
needn't fear Mr. Morgan.  He failed to be a hero
when he had the chance, and now his chance is gone.
Nobody but a hero can interest Elise for keeps."

"When did Morgan have his chance?" asked Rutledge,
amused at the mischief-maker's plain speaking.

"He went to Venezuela in papa's regiment, but
never had a shot fired at him the whole time he was
gone.  That's what he did.  Elise cannot love a man
like that."

"Perhaps it was not his fault.  He may have been
detailed to such duties as kept him away from the
shots."

"Yes, I think he says he was; but what of that?
He wasn't in the fighting, and that's what it takes to
make a hero.  Oh, I wish I were a man.  I would
ride a horse and hunt lions and tigers, and I would
have gone to the war in Venezuela and nobody's
orders would have kept me from the firing-line—I
believe that's what papa calls it—the place where all
the fun and danger is.  When papa talks about it I
can hear my heart beat.  Elise says she wouldn't be
a man for anything; but I've heard her say that she
could love a man if he was a *man*—brave and
strong—you know—a man who did things.  I would
prefer to do the things myself.  I wouldn't love any man
I ever saw—unless he was just like papa.  What
regiment were you in, Mr. Rutledge?"

"I wasn't in any regiment," said Rutledge meekly.

"What!  Didn't you volunteer?" asked Helen in
surprise.

"I did not volunteer"—a trifle defiantly.

"Why?" Helen demanded scornfully.  "If I had
a brother and he had failed to volunteer I would never
have spoken to him again!  I thought all South
Carolinians were fighters."

"I had other things to attend to," said Rutledge
shortly.  "Where is Miss Phillips this afternoon?"

"She's out on the river with Mr. Morgan.  They
will not be back till dinner, so you would just as well
sit down here and talk to me....  But I'm sorry you
didn't volunteer—you will never be my brother now....
And I was beginning to like you so much."

"I thank you, little girl, for your attempt to think
well of me.  I see that I have sinned past your
forgiveness in not being a hero.  Remember that it is
only because ninety and nine men are commonplace
that the hundredth may be a hero.  I am one of the
ninety and nine that make the hero possible—a modest
king-maker, in a way.  A hero must have some
one else to fight for, or die for, or live for.  He
cannot do these things for himself, for that would make
him anything but a hero.  So you see that the second
person is as necessary to the process of hero-making
as the hero himself.  It's all in the process and not
in the product, anyway.  It's the hero in act and not
in fact, in the making and not in the taking, that
enjoys his own heroism and is worth our interest.
While he is making himself he thrills with the effort
and with the uncertainty as to whether he will get a
commission, a lathe-and-plaster arch, or a court of
inquiry; and we the ninety and nine, we thrill with
the gambling fever and make wagers that his trolley
will get off the wire.  But when he gets himself
done—clean done, so to speak, wrapped in tinfoil and
ready for use—then there is nothing left for the hero
to do but to pose and await our applause—which is
most unheroic; and we, after one whoop, forget him
in the excitement of watching the next candidate risk
his neck.  Besides, the hero's work in hero-making
is temporary and limited, for he stops with making
one; but we, when we have finished with one, turn to
the making of another, and our work is never done.
While I am not even one hero, I have helped to make
a hundred.  Come now—you are generous and
unselfish—which would you most admire, one finished
hero listening for applause, or a hero-maker, who,
without reward or the hope of reward, modestly and
continuously assists in thus bringing glory to an
endless procession of his fellows?"

"You think you are brilliant, Mr. Rutledge,"
answered Helen with an impatient toss of her head, "but
you can't confuse me by any such talk as that.  You
needn't think you will be able to persuade Elise by
any long jumble of words that you are greater than
a hero.  A king-maker!"  She laughed mockingly at him.

"Don't fear that I will use any sophistry or
doubtful method to become your brother," Rutledge
rejoined amusedly.  "I have only one thing to tell
Miss Phillips."

"And what is that?" asked Helen with interest.

"I am inexpressibly pained to refuse your lightest
wish," said Rutledge grandiloquently, "but to grant
your request would be—telling; and I may—not
tell,—perhaps,—even Miss Phillips."

"Do not suffer so," said Helen with an assumption
of great indifference.  "I don't care to hear it."

"Yes, I predict that you will be delighted to listen
to it when it is told to you," said Rutledge confidently.
"And it will be beyond doubt.  But you are too young
to hear such things yet.  Be patient.  You'll get older
if you live long enough."

It fretted Helen to be told that she was young, as
she was told a dozen times a day—not that she
disliked her youth, but because of the suggestion that
she was not free to do as she pleased; and her eyes
began to flash at Rutledge's taunt and her mind to
form a suitable expression of resentment—when that
gentleman walked away from her smiling at her
petulant anger.

Evans Rutledge had more interest in Helen's words
about her sister than he showed in his manner or
conversation.  He had not told Elise what his heart had
told him for many days past, though she did not need
spoken words to know.  He, manlike, thought that
he was keeping this knowledge of his supreme affection
for her a secret in his own soul, to be delivered
as a startling and effective surprise when an impressive
and strategic opportunity should come to tell her
of it.  She, womanlike, read him as easily as a college
professor is supposed to read Greek, and concerned
herself chiefly with feigning ignorance of his interest
in her.

Elise's true attitude toward Rutledge was a sort
of neutrality.  She was neither for him nor against
him.  She was attracted by everything she saw or
knew of him, and looked upon him with that more
than passing interest which every woman has for a
man who has asked or will ask her to be his wife.

On the other hand she was decided she could not
accept Rutledge.  She had but crossed the threshold
of her unfettered young womanhood, and her natural
and healthy zest in its pleasures overcame any natural
impulse to choose a mate.  Added to this were the
possibilities held out in her romantic imagination as
the increasing newspaper prophecies concerning her
father induced day-dreams of court-like scenes and
princely suitors when she should be the young lady
of the White House, the most exalted maiden in great
America, with the prerogative of a crown princess.
A temporary prerogative surely, but well-nigh
irresistible when combined with the compelling charm of
American womanhood, that by right of genius
assumes the high positions for which nature has
endowed the gentlewomen of this republic, and by right
of fine adaptability and inborn queenliness establishes
and fortifies them, as if born to the purple, in the
social high places of older civilizations.

Elise Phillips, with all her democratic training, with
her admirable good common sense, with her adorable
kindliness of heart and friendliness of spirit for every
man and woman of high or low degree, with her
sincere admiration for true manliness and pure womanliness
unadorned by any tinsel of arbitrary rank, with
all her contempt for the shams and pretences of
decayed nobilities parading dishonoured titles, was yet
too much a woman and too full of the romantic
optimism of life's spring-time not to dream of princely
youths wearing the white flower of blameless lives
who would come in long procession to attend her
temporary court.

And in that procession as it even now passed
before her imagination, she kept watch for *him*,—the
ideal of her maiden soul, the master of her virgin
heart;—*him*, with the blue eyes and flaxen hair and
the commanding figure that looked down upon all
other men;—*him*, with the look and gesture of power
that men obeyed and women adored, and that became
tender and adoring only for her;—*him*, with a rank
that made him to stand before kings with confidence,
and a clean life that might stand before her white soul
and feel no shame;—*him*, with a strength and courage
that failed not nor faltered along the rocky paths
by which the laurel and Victoria Crosses grow, and
that yet would falter and tremble with love in her
presence.  Oh, the wonderful dreams of Youth!
How real they are, and how powerful in changing the
issues of life and of death.

Had Rutledge taken counsel of his mother or
heeded her disapprobation of Miss Elise Phillips, he
would have saved himself at least from the pain of
a flouted love; and if he could have made his heart
obey his mother's wish he would have avoided the
stress of many heartaches and jealousies, and of
slow-dying hope.

Mrs. Rutledge had her young womanhood in the
heart-burning days of the Great War, and the
partisan impress then seared into her young soul was
ineradicable.  She had a youth that knew fully the
passions and the sorrows of that awful four years of
blood and strife: for every man of her house, father
and five brothers, had she seen dead and cold in their
uniforms of gray; and her antipathy for "those
people" who had sent anguish and never-ending
desolation into her life might lie dormant if memory was
unprovoked, but it could never change nor lose its
sharp vehemence.

She had objected to Elise from the moment her
son showed a fancy for her, and began quietly to sow
in his mind the seeds she hoped would grow into
dislike and aversion.  She told him that "those
people," as she invariably called persons who came from
that indefinite stretch of country which her mind
comprehended in the term "the North," were "not of
our sort,"—that they were intelligent and interesting
in a way;—that Elise Phillips was unquestionably
fascinating to a young man, that her money had given
her a polish of mind and manner that was admittedly
attractive; but that she was not fitted to be the life
companion of a man whose culture and gentlemanliness
was not a product of schools and of dollars but
a heritage from long generations of gentle ancestors
who had bequeathed to him converging legacies of
fine and gentle breeding.

Evans Rutledge, however, was of a new day; and
his mother's theory that good blood was a Southern
and sectional product found no place in his thought.
He was tender, however, and considerate of his
mother's prejudices, and was never so rude as to brush
them aside contemptuously.  He always treated them
with deference and tried always to meet them with
some show of reason.  In the case of Elise Phillips
he sought to placate his mother's whim and capture
her prejudice by tacitly agreeing to the general
proposition while excepting Elise from it by the use of
Colonel Phillips' well-worn statement that his mother
was a South Carolinian.

"That makes Miss Phillips a granddaughter of
South Carolina," said Rutledge to his mother; "and
surely there cannot be much degeneracy in two
generations,—especially when the Southern blood was
of the finest strain."

Mrs. Rutledge admitted that the argument was not
without force, but solemnly warned her son there was
no telling when the common strain might crop out.

"What's bred in the bone will come out in the
blood," she said, "and bad blood is more assertive
than good."

Evans loved his mother better than any other soul
except Elise, and he would go far and deny himself
much to obey even her most unreasonable whim, but
his love for Elise was too fervid a passion to be
stifled for the sake of a war-born prejudice.  He
would win her; yes, he must win her; and he waited
only the winning moment to plead openly for his happiness.





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.. _`CHAPTER VIII`:

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   CHAPTER VIII

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It was a morning in late September that Elise and
Rutledge went for their last canoe ride on the mighty
river.  Mrs. Phillips and her daughters were to leave
for home on an early afternoon train, and Mrs. Rutledge
and Evans for Montreal an hour later.

It was a day to live.  By an occasional splash of
yellow or red among the green that lined the riverside
and clothed the diminutive island in the stream,
Summer gave notice that in thirty days Nature must
find another tenant; and a taste of chill in the air was
Winter's advance agent looking over the premises and
arranging to decorate them in the soberer grays and
browns for the coming of his serious and mighty
master.

The lassitude of the hot days was gone, and life
and impulse were in the autumn breeze.  There was
not a suggestion of melancholy or decay or death in
earth, air or sky.  It was more as if a strong man was
risen from drowsy sleep and stretching his muscles
and breathing a fresh air into his lungs for a day of
vigorous doing.  Not exhaustion but strength, not
languor but briskness, not the end but the beginning,
was indicated in every breath and aspect of Nature.

It was a morning not to doubt but to believe: and
Rutledge felt the tightening spring in mind and body
and heart, and the bracing influence made his love
and his hopes to vibrate and thrill.  As with easy
strokes he sent the canoe through the water he drank
in the fresh beauty of Elise as an invigorating
draught.  She was so *en rapport* with the morning
and the sunlight and the life as she sat facing and
smiling upon him, her cheeks aglow with health and
her face alight with the exquisite keenness of joy in
living, that she seemed to him the incarnate spirit of
the day.

The crisp tingle in the air was not without its spell
upon Elise.  No blood could respond more quickly
than hers to Nature's quickening heart-beats, and it
sang in her pulses with unaccustomed sensations that
morning.  She looked upon Rutledge as he smartly
swung the paddle, and was struck with the strength
he seemed to possess without the coarse obtrusion of
muscle.  She accredited the easiness of his movements
to the smooth water, in which he had kept the canoe
because of his desire to be as little distracted as
possible from contemplation of Elise's charms and graces.
The swing of his body and arms was as graceful as
if he had learned it from a dancing-master, and there
was a touch of daintiness about it which was his only
personal trait that Elise had positively designated in
her mind as not belonging to her ideal man.  She did
not object to it on its own account, but surmised it
might have its origin in some vague unmanly
weakness—and weakness in a man she despised.

She had talked to him of a score of things since
they had embarked, passing rapidly from one to
another in order to keep him away from the one
subject he seemed attracted to from any point of the
conversational compass.  At the moment she had been
so clearly impressed with his almost feminine
gracefulness the conversation was taking a dangerous
swerve, she thought; and for a minute she was at a
loss how to divert the course of language from the
matter nearest his heart.  In a blind effort to do so
she unthinkingly challenged him to prove his sterner
strength which she had never seen put to the test.

"It's easy going here, isn't it?" she said.  "What
a pity we couldn't have one visit to the island before
we go away."

"Do you wish to go there?" asked Rutledge.

"I would like to," she replied, "but of course we
cannot attempt it without an experienced canoe-man.
It is about time for us to return; don't you think so?"

"That depends on whether you really want to go
to the island," returned Rutledge, who was quick to
see and resent the intimation that he was not equal
to the business of putting her across the racing water
between them and the small cluster of trees and shrubs
growing among a misshapen pile of rocks nearly
across the river.

"I am told no one but these half-breed guides have
ever tried the passage," he continued.  "Not because
it is so very dangerous, I suppose, but because it is
too small to attract visitors to try the rough water."

"They can get to it easily from the other side,
can't they?  It seems so near to that," said Elise.

"No.  Jacques tells me that the narrow water on
the other side runs like a race-horse, and has many
rocks to smash the canoe.  Even going from this
side I would prefer to leave you here, Miss Phillips,
and of course that would make the visit without
inducement to me."

"You allow your carefulness of me and your politeness
to me to reason you out of the danger," said
Elise, without any sinister purpose; but Rutledge
recalled Helen Phillips' words about Elise and heroes,
and became uncomfortable.

"I used them to reason you out of the danger,"
he replied.  "If the argument does not appeal to you
I am ready for your orders."

"Then let's go over," said Elise, prompted half by
the challenge in his eyes and half by her subconscious
desire to see him vindicate his feminine grace.

"I admit I am a coward," Rutledge remarked as
he turned the canoe toward the island.

"Oh, if you confess to being afraid!" said Elise
in mingled surprise and pity.  "I certainly cannot
insist.  Let's return to the hotel."

"You mistake me," Rutledge replied as he sent the
light craft on toward the rapids.  "My cowardice is
in permitting you to bully me into carrying you into
some danger.  I should have the courage to refuse."

"You would have me believe in your courage, then,
whether you choose danger or avoid it.  That is
artful," Elise rejoined.

The word "artful" nettled Rutledge, and he put
his resentment into the strokes which sent the canoe
forward.  If Elise Phillips could believe of him that
he would attempt to establish a reputation for courage
by a trick of words, words would be inadequate, of
course, to defend him from the imputation.  There
was no chance now to convince her, he thought, save
to try the passage.  So, despising the weakness which
would not let him point the canoe homeward, he set
his strength against the increasing current, and soon
lost thought of the argument in the zest of sparring
with the river.

Elise became absorbedly interested in the contest
and in his handling of the boat.  The interest of both
became more and more intense as the water began to
slap the canoe viciously and toss them with careless
strength.  A wave rolling over a sunken rock rushed
upon them with a gurgle and swash and passed under
the canoe with a heave and splash that tilted them
uncomfortably and threw a hatful of water over the
side.  Another came with a more impatient toss, and
Elise crouched upon the seat to preserve her
equilibrium.  Rutledge looked round at her face, which was
unsmiling but without fear, and asked:

"Shall we go back?"

"No," the girl answered.

They soon found that the water was swifter than
they had judged it from the shore, and that they had
not put across far enough up-stream to make the
island easily.  They were nearing it, but the current
was becoming boisterous and they were drifting faster
and faster down-stream.  Swifter water and rougher
met the canoe at every paddle-stroke.  Rutledge with
his back to Elise dropped on one knee in the water
in the canoe bottom and gave every energy to his
work.  If Elise had not been with him he would have
liked nothing better.

As for the girl, she would not insist on this wild
ride again, but, being in, she was having many thrills
of pleasure.  Rutledge's manner gave her confidence
that they would reach the island, but with how much
discomfiture she was as yet uncertain.  She was
drenched with water from the slapping waves and the
swiftly flying paddle, which was Rutledge's only
weapon against the wrath of the river.  She saw in
his resolute efforts that their situation was at least
serious if not dangerous, and she hardly took her eyes
from him; but with her closest scrutiny she did not
detect the slightest indecision or apprehension.

Only once did fear come to her, and that but for
a moment.  The struggle was now quick and furious.
They were in the mad whirl of crushing water that
tore alongside the island and was ripped and ground
among the bullying rocks.  She heard Rutledge stifle
a cry as he sent the canoe out with a back-stroke that
almost threw her overboard, and the rioting current
slammed them past a jagged vicious-looking rock just
under the river's surface which would have smashed
their cockle-shell to splinters.  When she looked down
upon it as they were shot past she thought for an
instant of death and dead men's bones.  Then—

"Out!  Quick—now!" yelled Rutledge, as with a
strength that seemed as much of will as of muscle,
he shoved the canoe's nose up against the island and
held it for a moment against the fury of the water.

Elise rose at his sharp command and leaped lightly
out upon a bare rock, giving the canoe a back kick
which sent it swinging around broad across the
current.  As it swung off Rutledge, seeing no favourable
place below him to make another landing, quickly gave
his end of the boat a cant toward the island, dropped
the paddle in the canoe, grabbed the mooring chain
and jumped for the land.  He jumped and alighted
unsteadily but without further mishap than so far
capsizing the canoe that it shipped enough water to
more than half submerge it and threaten to sink it.
With his effort to draw it up on the rock and save it
from sinking entirely, the water in the canoe rushed
to the outer end, sending that completely under and
floating the paddle out and away.  He yanked the
canoe up on the island and, turning, looked straight
into Elise's eyes for ten seconds without speaking.

"Why don't you say it?" the young woman asked
with amused defiance.

"Say what?" inquired Rutledge.

"What you are dying to tell me."

"I love you," answered Rutledge simply.

"Oh!  You—you—impudent—you horrible!"
cried Elise with a gasp.  "To presume I would invite
you to tell me—that!  How dare you!"

"I dare anything for you," said Rutledge.  "I
love you and—"

"Stop!  Not another word on that subject—lest
your presumption become unbearable!  You know
very well, Mr. Stupidity, that I expected you to say
'I told you so.'"

"I have told you—so—your—exp—"

"Stop, I say!  I will not listen to another word.
Your persistence is almost—insulting!"

"Insulting!" said Rutledge in amazement.  "Then
pardon me and I'll not offend again;" and he turned
to take a look at the fast-riding paddle as it turned
and flashed far down the river.

Elise was glad of the chance to gather her wits
together and prepare a defence against this abrupt
method of wooing.  Indeed she was on the defensive
against her own heart.  One fact alone, however,
would justify her deliberation: that she was not
certain of her own mind.  Friendship may halt and
consider, admiration may sit in judgment; but love that
questions, or is of two minds, or hesitates, is not love.

She turned away from him and the river to give
attention to this new problem which was of more
immediate interest to her than the question of how they
were to get away from the island.  Rutledge came
to her after awhile.

"Miss Phillips," he said, "I have the honour to
report that, while we are prisoners on this island now,
our imprisonment will not be lengthy.  Fortunately
I saw Jacques on the other side of the river and made
him understand, I think, that we have lost our paddle.
At any rate he put off toward the hotel at great speed,
and will be down with another canoe I hope before
you become tired of your island."  And he added, as
if to relieve the tense situation: "While we wait I
shall be glad to show you over the premises and to
talk about anything that you may prefer to discuss."

Elise could not tell from the formal manner of
Rutledge's words whether he was really offended or
humourously stilted in his speech.  She could be as
coldly polite as any occasion demanded; but, believing
that she had effectually put an end to his love-making
for the day, she met his formality of manner
in her naturally charming and friendly spirit.

"Sit down here then, and tell me where you
learned to handle a canoe.  I did not know canoeing
was a Southern sport."

"It is not," Rutledge said, taking the place she
gave him at her feet.  "I was never in a canoe till
I came here this summer."

"Now, Mr. Rutledge, don't ask too much of
credulity.  One surely cannot become skilful without
practice."

"I did not mean that I have never been on the
water before," said Rutledge; "but in my country
we do not have these curved and graceful canoes.
We navigate our rivers with the primitive dugout or
pirogue.  I have used one of those on my father's
Pacolet plantation since I was a boy.  The dugout is
made by hollowing out a section of a tree.  That
makes the strongest and best boat, for it never leaks
or gets smashed up.  It is very narrow and shallow,
however, and it takes some skill to handle it in a
flood."

"Were you ever in a flood?—a worse flood than
this?" asked Elise.

"Yes.  When our little rivers get up they are as
bad as this or worse.  I have seen them worse.
During the great flood on the Pacolet some years ago,
when railroad bridges, mill dams, saw-mills, cotton
mills, houses, barns, cotton bales, lumber, cattle, men,
women and children were all engulfed in one watery
burial, the little river was for six hours a
monster—a demon."

"Tell me about that," Elise said; and to entertain
her Rutledge told her at length the story of that
cataclysm of piedmont South Carolina.  He went into the
details without which such description is only awful,
not interesting.  Many were the incidents of heroism
and hairbreadth escapes and unspeakable calamity
which he related; and he told the stories with such
vividness of portraiture, dramatic fire and touches of
pathos that, with the roar of many waters actually
pounding upon her ear-drums, Elise could close her
eyes and see the scenes he depicted.

In looking upon the pictures he drew with such
living interest she found herself straining her
tight-shut eyes in search of his figure among the throng
that lined the river-bank or fought the awful flood.
Time after time as he described an act of heroic
courage in words that burned and glowed and crackled
with the fire that could stir only an eye-witness or
an actor in the unstudied drama he was reproducing,
she would clothe the hero with Rutledge's form,
identify his distinctive gestures and movement and catch
even the tones of his voice as it shouted against the
booming of the waters: but with studied regularity
and distinctness Rutledge at some point in every story,
incidentally and apparently unconsciously, would make
it plain that the hero of that incident was a person
other than himself.

He might have told her, indeed, many things to
his own credit: especially of a desperate ride and
struggle in one of those dugouts which he had
volunteered to make in order to prevent an old negro
man adrift on a cabin-top from going over Pacolet
Dam Number 3, where so many unfortunates went
down and came not up again; but at no time could
Elise infer from his speech that he was the hero of
his own story.  Her word "artful" still rankled in
his memory, and he swore to his own soul that she
should never, never hear him utter a word that might
show he possessed or claimed to possess courage.

The only method by which Elise could deduce from
his words the conclusion that Rutledge was of
courageous heart was that courage seemed such a
commonplace virtue among the people of his section that
he probably possessed his share of it.  Her curiosity
was finally aroused to know whether by any artifice
she might induce him to tell of his own exploits, which
his very reticence persuaded her must be many and
interesting, and she brought all her powers into play
to draw him out: but to no purpose.  She refrained
from any direct appeal to him in fear that a personal
touch might turn the conversation along dangerous
lines; and Rutledge, having been properly rebuked,
waited for some intimation of permission before
presuming to discuss other than impersonal themes.

While indeed it only confirmed her woman's intuition,
Elise was unconsciously happier because of Rutledge's
blunt statement of his love, for it made certain
a fact that was not displeasing to her.  Yet she would
hold him at arm's length, for she could with sincerity
bid him neither hope nor despair.  The glamour of
her day-dreams made the reading of her heart's
message uncertain.  Rutledge had not the glittering
accessories that attended the wooer of her visions; and yet
as he talked to her she was mentally placing him in
every picture her mind drew of the future, and was
impressed that whether in the soft scenes where
knightly gallantry and grace wait upon fair women,
or in the stern dramas where bitter strength of mind
and heart and body is poured out in libation to the
god of grinding conflict, he, in every scene, looked all
that became a man.

Rutledge's flow of narrative and Elise's absent-minded
reverie were broken in upon by the hail of
Jacques, who was approaching them from almost
directly up-stream.  His canoe was doing a grapevine
dance as he pushed it yet farther across the river
and dropped rapidly down to a landing on the far
side of the island.

"Sacre!  Wrong side!" he exclaimed when he
came across and saw where Rutledge had pulled his
canoe out of the water.  "Here I lose two canoe
sometime.  How you mek him land?"

Rutledge did not answer the question but set about
getting his canoe across the island to the point
designated by Jacques as the place for leaving it.  He had
no desire to stay longer since all hope of further
*tête-à-tête* with Elise was gone; and in a few minutes
they were ready to embark.

"No hard pull, but kvick paddle lak feesh-tail,"
said Jacques in explaining the course by which they
were to return, the which was plainly beset with
numberless rocks and shoals.

"Sweem out seex times befor I lairn road," he
added as a comforting proof of the thoroughness of
his knowledge.  The return was a simple matter of
dropping off from the far side of the island, floating
down a few rods, and then picking along through the
rocks across the river as the canoe gathered speed
down-stream.

"Miss Phillips," Rutledge said when they were
ready, "perhaps you had better take ship with
Jacques.  He knows the road."

Their rescuer looked pleased at the honour, and
turned to pull his canoe within easier reach.

"No, thank you," she said to Rutledge.  "I prefer
to go with you."

Rutledge caught his breath at the loyalty and the
caress in her voice, and ungratefully wished Jacques
at the bottom of the river.  He handed her into his
canoe with a tenderness that was eloquent; and
Jacques, seeing through the game which robbed him
of the graceful young woman for a passenger, put off
just ahead of them, saying:

"I go fairst.  Follow me shairp."

It was no easy task to follow that canoe; and
Elise, as she watched the precision with which
Rutledge used the "kvick paddle lak feesh-tail," was
convinced that such skill had not gone to waste at the
Pacolet flood.  As she looked at him when the rough
water was past and he was sending the canoe up the
river with even swing again, graceful as before, her
eyes had a light in them that would have gladdened
his heart to see.

They landed near the hotel and hurried straight to
it upon Elise's plea that she was late and must hurry
to dress for her train.  Rutledge walked beside her
down the long hall of the hotel, and at the foot of the
stairway, feeling that opportunity was slipping past
him, he stopped her short with—

"Your answer, Elise!  In heaven's name, your answer!"

Elise was again startled by his abruptness, and her
unrestrained heart's impulse sent a look of tenderness
to her eyes that would have crowned Rutledge's life
with all happiness, had not that glamour of her
daydreams, fateful, insistent, overclouded and banished it
in a moment.  She looked at him confusedly a moment
more, then took a quick step away from him,
hesitated, and, turning quickly, said:

"There is no answer,"—and fled up the stairs.

Rutledge turned away dazed by the reply to his
heart's question.  "There is no answer!"—as if he
were a "Buttons" who had carried to her ladyship an
inconsequential message which deserved no reply.
He could not get his mind to comprehend the import
of it; and he was walking back down the hallway
with a vexed frown upon his face trying to untangle
his thoughts, when Helen Phillips passed him and,
seeing him in such a mood after his parting ride with
Elise, prodded him with—

"None but heroes need apply, Mr. Rutledge.  I
warned you."

Rutledge passed on with an irritated shrug of the
shoulders; and Helen, laughing, ran to tease Elise
for a history of the morning's ride and the reason
"why Mr. Rutledge is so grumpy."  Little satisfaction
did she get from Elise, however, for that young
woman evinced as much of reticence as Rutledge had
shown of irritation.

"I told him none but heroes need apply," laughed
Helen.

"What do you know of heroes?" asked Elise with
a snap.





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.. _`CHAPTER IX`:

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   CHAPTER IX

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Within a week after Evans Rutledge and Elise
Phillips parted at the St. Lawrence resort, the
newspapers told the people that at a Saratoga restaurant
Colonel Phillips and his wife and daughter, and
Doctor Martin, a negro of national reputation, had sat
down to dine together.  It was soon after this that
one evening, at his home in Cleveland, Ohio, Colonel
Phillips happened upon a mixed quartette (all
negroes) who had been brought over from New York
to sing at a sacred concert in one of the fashionable
churches, but who could not obtain what they considered
a respectable lodging-place.  With characteristic
impulsiveness the Colonel, who heard of it, invited the
two men and two women up to his house and
entertained them overnight.

On those occasions Mrs. Phillips had shown unmistakable
opposition to the acts of her liege lord.  Elise
had more than seconded her mother in haughty
indignation; though with her superb training in
obedience she could not be openly rebellious.  When he
had brought the quartette into his home Mr. Phillips
could not fail to see the pain in his wife's eyes as she
asked:

"Was that necessary?"

"Why, can you not see," he replied with some hot
feeling in his tones, "that it was the only thing to be
done?  They are very respectable people, all of them.
They are intelligent and well-bred, as you can see.
Why should the simple matter of colour alone keep
me from doing what I just as quickly might have done
for a white man?"

The unconscious humour of this way of putting it
did not reach Mrs. Phillips, and the Colonel's tone and
manner, not his words, kept her silent when he had
finished.  She could not quarrel with him; and he
thought he had answered her reason, though he
admitted inwardly that her prejudices were unconverted.
Nevertheless he did not open the discussion again.

Helen, however, naturally siding with her father,
did not hesitate to bring it up repeatedly, and
youthfully to descant at length and with some elaboration
of ideas on the propriety and admirableness of her
father's act.  Mrs. Phillips, with the sole purpose
of preserving parental discipline and not wishing even
slightly to encourage insubordination, had very little
to say to Helen about it; while Elise answered all
the younger girl's effusions with sniffs of disdain.

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These incidents and Elise's womanly perversity and
curiosity really gave Evans Rutledge a great
opportunity if he only could have read the portents of
circumstance and calculated to a nicety the eccentricity
of a woman's heart.  The entertainment of negro
guests at the mansion of an aspirant for the presidency
was given wide publicity by the press and was the
subject of universal though temporary notice by
newspapers and editorial writers of every class.  Rutledge,
in his capacity as Washington representative of a
half-dozen newspapers over the country, contributed his
share to the general chorus of comment.

When Elise read in a Cleveland paper a clipping
accredited to "Evans Rutledge in Chicago American,"
she suddenly became desirous of seeing that young
man again.  The sentiments, stripped of the tartness
in their expression and a seeming lack of appreciation
of her distinguished father's dignity, were so in
accord with hers that she was startled at the exact
coincidence of thought—while still resentful of the free
and fierce criticism.

Resentment and thoughts of coincidences were
pushed out of her mind, however, by the question,
"Would he tell me again he loves me?"  This was
both a personal and a sentimental question and was
therefore of chief interest to her woman's mind.  Not
that she had a whit more of love for him than upon
that last day upon the St. Lawrence—oh, no; but his
love for her? his willingness to avow it? was it still
hers? was it ever hers really?—for not a word or
a line had he addressed to her since the day they
fought the river.  She would confess to a slight
curiosity and desire to meet him when she should go to
Washington on that promised visit to Lola DeVale.

Rutledge assuredly had escaped none of the
untoward influences which the Phillips-negro incidents
might have had upon his love for Elise.  His good
mother religiously attended to the duty of impressing
upon him the disgraceful horrors of those affairs.
She found no words forceful enough properly to
characterize them, though she applied herself with each
new day to the task.  What might have been the result
if her son's heart had been inclined to fight for the
love of Elise of course cannot be known.  His
mother's philippics effected nothing, for the good reason
that he had lost hope of winning Elise before the
negro incidents occurred, and the personal turn his
mother gave them was only tiresome to him.  Elise's
last words to him, "There is no answer," had put
their affair beyond the effect of anything of that sort.
She had not only refused him, but had flouted him,
treated him with contempt: yes, had said to him in
effect that his proffer of love was not worth even a
negative answer.  He had gone over every incident
of their association, and, with a lover's carefulness
of detail, had considered and weighed her every word
and look and gesture; and, with a lover's proverbial
blundering, had found as a fact the only thing that
was not true.

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When Elise came to Washington on her visit
Rutledge knew of course that she was in town, and he
kept his eyes open for her.  His pride would not let
him call upon her, for he had meditated upon her
treatment of him till his grievance had been
magnified many fold and his view had become so distorted
that in all her acts he saw only a purpose to play with
his heart.  Yet, he wished to see her, wished very
much to see her—doubtless for the same reason that
a bankrupt will look in upon "the pit" that has
gulfed his fortune.

They met unexpectedly at Senator Ruffin's, where
only time was given them to shake hands in a
non-committal manner before Mrs. Ruffin sent them in to
dinner together.  If each had spoken the thoughts in
the heart a perfect understanding would have brought
peace and friendship at least, but no words were
spoken from the heart.  All of their conversational
sparring was of the brain purely.  They fenced with
commonplaces for some little time, each on guard.
Rutledge, without a thought of Doctor Martin or the
negro quartette, formed all of his speeches for the
ear of a woman who had mocked his love; while
Elise talked only for the man who had written the
article in the *Chicago American*.  She saw the change
in his manner, in his polite aloofness, his insincere,
careless pleasantries.

"It is delightfully kind of you, Miss Phillips, to
come over and give Washington some of those thrills
with which you have favoured Cleveland."

"What is the answer?" asked Elise blankly.

"My meaning is no riddle surely," said Rutledge.
"The Cleveland newspaper reporters have taught us
to believe that you are the centre of interest in that
city and that, as one signing himself 'Q' wrote in
yesterday's *Journal*,—something to the effect that
you radiate a sort of three-syllable waves which make
the younger men to thrill and the old beaux to take
a new lease on life.  When I read that, I could see a
lot of small boys crowding around an electric
machine, all wanting to get a touch of the current but
fearful of being knocked endways."

"Now diagnose the form of your dementia," said
the girl.  "You not only read but you *believe* the
statements of the penny-a-liners.  Your case is
hopeless."

"I must read somewhat of such things—to know
my craft.  I must believe somewhat of them—to
respect my craft."

"Is either knowledge or respect necessary,
Mr. Rutledge?  The craft is admitted; but I had thought
the purpose of all this craft was the penny-a-line,—not
knowledge or truth—which are not only incidental
but often unwelcome.  Why read or believe the
line after the cent has been paid?"

"You are unmerciful to us, Miss Phillips.  It is
true every news item of interest has its money value
for a newspaper man, but you must understand that
we try to use them honestly and say no more than
we feel—often far less than we feel."

Rutledge's manner was serious when he had finished;
and Elise, feeling sure that the same incident
was in his mind as in hers, had it on her tongue's end
to reply with spirit and point, when he continued
lightly:

"But that is shop.  It is good of you to come over
now and gradually accustom us to those Q-waves
instead of giving us the sudden full current when
Colonel Phillips rents the White House.  You will not
care if some few become immune before that time,
for there will be no end of rash youths to get tangled
up with the wires."

Elise had not been a woman if Rutledge's
impersonal "we" and "us" and suggestion of persons
immune to her charms had not piqued her.  He need
not put his change of heart so bluntly, she thought.
Yet what incensed her was not the loss of his love,
but that that love had been so poor and frail a thing.

"I am glad you guarantee a full supply of the raw
material, Mr. Rutledge.  It is a very interesting study,
I think, to watch the effect of the—current—on
youths of different temperaments: on the black-haired,
black-eyed one who raves and swears his love—to
two women in the same month; or the light-haired,
blue-eyed one who laughs both while the current is on
and when it is off; or the red-headed lover who will
not take 'no' for an answer; or the gray-eyed,
brown-haired man who would appear indifferent while his
heart is consuming with a passion that changes not
even when hope is gone.  I will depend on you to see
that they all come along, Mr. Rutledge—even to that
young Congressman over there who is so devoted to
Lola," she added in an undertone, "if he can be
persuaded to change his court."

"Oh, he will come.  His present devotion does not
signify.  There is nothing true but Heaven,"
Rutledge replied, not to be outdone in cynicism by this
young woman who had quite taken his breath away
with her impromptu classification of lovers.  His own
hair was black and his eyes, like hers, were gray; and
he saw she was making sport of him under both categories
and yet betraying not her real thought in the
slightest degree.

"Beware, Mr. Rutledge.  Only woman may change
her mind.  Men must not usurp our prerogative."

"True," said Rutledge; "but a man does not
know his mind or his heart either till he's forty.  He
is not responsible for the guesses he makes before
that time.  After that, he knows only what he does
*not* want which is much; and, if undisturbed, can
enjoy a negative consistency and content."

"I may not defend the sex against such an able
and typical representative," said Elise as the diners
arose.

Neither of these wholesome-minded young people
had any taste for such a fictitious basis of conversation;
but each was on the defensive against the supposed
attitude of the other, and the moment their
thoughts went outside conventional platitudes they
were given an unnatural and cynical twist.  Both felt
a sense of relief when the evening was past.  But
despite this condition, which prevailed during Elise's
visit, Rutledge could not put away the desire to see
as much of her as an assumption of indifference would
permit, if only with the unformulated hope that he
might catch unawares if but for a moment the
unstudied good camaraderie and congenial spirit which
had won his heart on the St. Lawrence.  But the
sensitive consciousness of one or the other ever had
been present to exorcise the natural spirit from their
conversations.

Rutledge lived bravely up to his ideas of what a
proper pride demanded of him, but his assumption
of indifference was sorely tried from their first
meeting at Senator Ruffin's.  The mischief began with
Elise's offhand little discourse on the colour of eyes
and hair as indicia of the traits and fates of
lovers—particularly with her statement that a red-headed
man will not take a woman's "no" for an answer.
The point in that which irritated the cuticle of
Mr. Rutledge's indifference was that Mr. Second
Lieutenant Morgan had a head of flame.

Now man—natural man—usually has the intelligence
to know when a thing is beyond his reach,
and the philosophy to content himself without it.  He
rejoices also in his neighbour's successes.  But natural
man, with all his intelligence and all his philosophy
and all his brotherly love, cannot look with patience
or self-deceit upon another's success or probable
success where he himself, striving, has failed.  In the
whole realm of human experience there are
exceptions to this rule perhaps; but in the tropical
province of Love there is none.  There a man may
conclude that the woman he wants would not be good
for him, even perforce may decide he loves her not:
but the merest suggestion of another man as a
probable winner will surely bring his decision up for
review—and always to overrule it.  So with Rutledge:
from the moment of Elise's unstudied remark he
conceded to his own heart that his indifference was the
veriest sham and pretence—while still a pretence
necessary to his self-respect.





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.. _`CHAPTER X`:

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   CHAPTER X

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Hayward Graham, with an honourable discharge
from the service of the United States buttoned up in
his blouse, was taking a look at Washington before
going back to re-enlist.  He liked the army life, with
all its restrictions; and having by his intelligence and
aptitude attained the highest non-commissioned rank,
he was optimistic enough to believe he could win a
commission before another term of enlistment
expired.  In this hope he was not without a fair idea
of the obstacle which his colour placed in the path
of his ambition; but in weighing his chances he
counted much on the friendliness of the newly
inaugurated executive for the negro race generally, and
most of all on the President's according his deserts
to a man who had saved his life.  He would keep his
identity in that respect a secret till the time was ripe,
so that the President's sense of obligation, if it
existed, might not be dulled by the granting of any
premature favours—and then he would see whether
gratitude would make a man do justice.

He had more than a month yet in which to re-enlist
without loss of rank or pay, and his visit to Washington
was intended to be short, as he had several other
little picnics planned with which to fill out his
vacation.  He had been there ten days or more and he
had walked and looked and lounged till he was
thoroughly tired of the city and was decided to leave on
the morrow.

But that last afternoon he saw Helen Phillips.
Her carriage was driven slowly across the sidewalk
in front of him to enter the White House grounds.
The sudden quickening of his pulses at sight of her
was unaccountable to him.  His gaze followed her
as she went away from him, and for the first time in
months he remembered in dumb pain he was a negro.
He tried to separate the thought of his blood from
his thought of the young woman, and to put the first
and its unpleasantness out of his mind while he
enjoyed the latter and its association with his college
victory and his patriotic enthusiasms: but he could
not think of her without that indefinable and
subconscious heartache.

When he came to his lodgings and opened up the
afternoon paper, the only item among all the notes
of interest that had the power to catch or hold his
thought for a moment was a brief statement to the
effect that the veteran White House coachman was
dead.  Hayward sat and turned this over in his mind
a few minutes and then asked himself "Why not?"

Next morning he applied for the vacant position
of coachman to the President.  With the purpose to
conceal his identity during his little adventure, as he
thought of it, he gave only his Christian names:
John Hayward.  With similar purpose he had dressed
himself in civilian clothes; but these could not
conceal his magnificent lines, and, though another
employee had been given the dead coachman's place,
Hayward's fine appearance was so much in his favour
that he was engaged as footman on trial.  This was
really better suited to his wishes than the other.  He
had not foregone his army ambition in a night, but
neither had he been able to resist the temptation to
spend a short time—the remainder of his furlough
at least—where he could see something of the young
woman who was so closely associated in his mind
with the events in his life that were worth while.

Hayward was not in love with Helen Phillips in
any sense—at least not in the ordinary sense; for
that undefined pain, a dumb monitor of the impossible,
kept him hedged away from that.  On the other
hand, to his mite of natural feeling of inferiority
was added the respect for rank and dignity which his
army life had hammered into him; and his attitude
toward her was the devotion which a loyalist peasant
soldier might have for the daughter of his king.  He
wished to be near her, to serve her; and he counted
himself fortunate that this opportunity had come to him.

—And a superb footman he made, having every
aptitude and manner both of mind and body for form
and show; and being relieved of any humiliation of
spirit by his secret feeling that he had set himself to
guard and serve a crown princess.

A superb footman he made—and a new-rich Pittsburger
offered him double wages to enter his service.
The sneer with which Hayward told him that he was
not working for money ever will be a riddle to that
Pittsburg brain.

A superb footman he made; and with the added
distinction of the President's livery he always drew
attention and comment.  The veteran Senator Ruffin
was entertaining a few friends with reminiscences
once when Hayward passed.  One of the party said:
"Look at that footman.  Phillips has a fine eye for
form, hasn't he?"

"Yes," Senator Ruffin answered, "if he saw him
before he employed him, which he very likely did not.

"But do you know," he went on, "I never see that
nigger but I think of John Hayward of whose last
speech in Congress I was telling some of you yesterday.
The nigger has his figure and carriage, even the
set and toss of his head, about everything save his
colour.  The first time I saw him get down from the
Phillips' carriage I thought of John Hayward, who
is dead these fifty years.

"There was a man for you, gentlemen.  No more
knightly spirit was ever carried in a kinglier figure of
a man.  He was just out of college when I was a
boy, but I can remember that even then John
Hayward was a toast and a young man of mark down in
Carolina.  Our fathers' plantations adjoined, and he
was the first man that ever stirred in my boyish heart
the sentiment of hero-worship.  The Haywards were
men of note in my State in that day as in this, and
young John Hayward's future was as brilliant and
well-assured as wealth, fine family, abounding talent,
high purpose and personal force of character could
make it."

—"But we lost him.  A former half-Spanish, half-devil
overseer on his father's plantation, who had been
discharged because of his cruelty and general wickedness,
had bought a small farm near the elder Hayward's
place, and was trying to establish himself as a
land and slave holder.  This overseer came back from
one of his periodical trips bringing with him one of
the likeliest mulatto girls, as I remember it now, that
I ever saw.  All the neighbours knew he could have
no good purpose in buying her, for he needed no
house-girl to keep dressed up in calico as he began
to keep her.  It was but a few days before reports
of his terrible cruelty to her began to be circulated
by both negroes and white people, who heard her
screams as he whipped her day and night.

"Late one afternoon, a week perhaps after he had
brought her home, John Hayward and Dick Whitaker
were riding through the overseer's farm and heard
the girl scream.  John, who was acquainted with the
situation, said, 'Come on, Dick, let's go up and stop
that;' and put his horse at the little gate and was
pounding on the overseer's door before Dick could
reply.

"The sound of blows ceased and the overseer came
and opened the door, revealing the girl crouched down
on the floor moaning and sobbing.  When the
slave-driver saw it was John his eyes snapped in wrath.

"'What do you want?' he demanded.

"'I want you to quit whipping that nigger,' said John.

"'You go to hell,' retorted the overseer.  'I'll
whip my slaves whenever they won't work like I—'

"'Oh, master, I work, I work,' protested the girl
to John.

"'Shut up! you—' began the overseer.

"'Yes, I know you work,' said John to the girl;
and he turned to the man, 'and I know—everybody
knows—what your purpose is, you fiend!  My God,
it is crime enough for such as you to own the bodies
of women without your tearing their souls!'

"'Get off my land, damn you!' ordered the
overseer; and then, as if to show his contempt for
Hayward and Whitaker, he turned again to begin
flogging the cowering girl, saying: 'She's my property,
and the law gives me the right to make her obey!'

"'Stop!' thundered John, laying his hand on his
pistol as the slave-driver raised his arm to strike.
'You son of hell!  The man who puts the weight of
his hand on a woman, even his wife, to make her obey
his passions, deserves to die!'

"Whitaker said it was all over before he could
slide from his horse.  The overseer struck the girl a
vicious cut as John was speaking, and his whip was
descending again when John's pistol flashed and the
brute dropped to the floor with a ball through his
brain...."

.. _`"HIS WHIP WAS DESCENDING AGAIN WHEN JOHN'S PISTOL FLASHED"`:

.. figure:: images/img-098.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "HIS WHIP WAS DESCENDING AGAIN WHEN JOHN'S PISTOL FLASHED."

   "HIS WHIP WAS DESCENDING AGAIN WHEN JOHN'S PISTOL FLASHED."

"That was why my State lost John Hayward," the
Senator continued after a pause.  "It was seen at
once that he must not come to trial.  While the plea
of self-defence can always be set up, the fact that
John had killed the overseer in his own house and
after being ordered out, would have made the law
quite too risky.  But beyond that it would have been
necessary, in order that the jury's sympathy might
override the law, to make such a presentation of the
proper limitations, and the abuses and horrors, of
slave management as would be clearly inimical, if not
actually dangerous, to public order and safety.

"So the State lost John Hayward," the Senator
rambled on.  "He exiled himself less for his own
safety than for the sake of a system for which he had
no sympathy, but in which seemed to be bound up
the peace and happiness, the very existence, of his
people....  He went away, but the shadow of the
Black Peril was upon his life to the end....  He
went to Massachusetts, located in Boston, and began
to practise law.  He was successful from the
beginning, though he always spent everything he made.
He married a most lovable and beautiful woman of
the finest family, and life again promised all he had
once seemingly lost....  He had been in Congress
two terms when I was first elected to the House.
Mrs. Hayward was the most gracious lady I ever
knew, and they made my first years here at Washington
altogether enjoyable, for they knew everybody
that was worth knowing and were great entertainers.
I remember that as a young bachelor Congressman
I used to think that if I only had John Hayward's
constituency and a wife the equal of his in beauty,
intelligence and diplomacy, I could be President
without trouble....  We served together in Congress till
the beginning of the Great War.  It was just before
the outbreak that that fateful shadow fell again upon
him.  His son—named for him: John Graham
Hayward—a boy that I had watched grow up from a
lad and loved as my own, was a student at Harvard
and had acquired many ideas of which his father had
no knowledge, and which would have startled him—with
all his well-known anti-slavery sentiments.  The
boy's mother looked on the negro race purely from a
missionary standpoint, and had never given a serious
thought, I am sure, to the negro's social status.

"You perhaps may imagine the shock that came to
John Hayward on going home late one afternoon to
dinner to find already seated at his table his wife, his
son, and a young negro about his son's age whom the
boy had brought in to dine with him....  John told
me about it a few months afterward, and even then,
with all his heart-break, his eyes would blaze with an
insane anger as he thought of that nigger at his table....
He looked at the three for a moment; and then
he said things that blasted his home.  He kicked the
nigger incontinently out of his house, and was beside
himself in the furious wrath he hurled upon his wife
and son.  The boy resented his outburst, especially
because of its cruel effect upon the mother.  The
father in uncontrollable anger at his son's resentful
opposition ordered him to leave his roof, and told
him that he was unworthy of the name of Hayward
and had disgraced it beyond repair.  The boy replied
with spirit that he would not carry the name of
Hayward away from the house, but would renounce both
the house and it then, there and for ever, and walked
out of the door....  On his knees did John implore
his wife's forgiveness, and receive it; but neither
father nor mother ever saw the boy again....  John
tried, I think, to learn his whereabouts, and was
driven to desperation as he met failure at every point.
The moment the call came for troops, he resigned his
seat in Congress, volunteered in a Massachusetts
regiment and was killed at Bull Run....

"As he was lost to his native State, so he was lost
to the nation—because the baleful shadow of the
Black Peril seemed to be upon his life....  Heaven
save my people—nine-tenths of whom, like him,
would deal with the negro in justice and righteousness
and helpfulness—from the stress and the blood
of an open conflict against social equality with the
negro race, and from the further unspeakable,
unthinkable horror of defeat in such a conflict if it shall
come upon them."





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.. _`CHAPTER XI`:

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   CHAPTER XI

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There can be no doubt Hayward found scant
recompense for his first month's service as part of the
White House *ménage*.  The money consideration of
that service, as he told the gentleman from Pittsburg,
he valued as nothing; and yet it was the money that
held him over beyond the time limit he had set for
his little adventure and his return to the army.  He
put his eyes on Helen but twice during the month,
and that only for a moment, and he had taken his
leave of Washington in less than a fortnight if his
training in the service had not accustomed him to
bear monotony with patience.

Before his time was up, however, a letter from his
mother told him that she was hardly able longer to
bear the burden of her own support or even to
supplement his contributions by any appreciable efforts of
her own.  Too long and too closely indeed had she
striven in his behalf, and the overwork was
demanding its pound of flesh in severe and relentless
compensation.  Hayward thought he saw the hand of a
kindly Providence in having already provided him
with a wage sufficient to keep both his mother and
himself from want—which his soldier's pay would
not have accomplished; and he postponed his
military ambition and brought her to Washington, where
he might look after her comfort more carefully and
less expensively.  Very grateful was he for an
opportunity to care and provide for her whose devotion
he had always known, but the heroism and stress of
whose struggles and the wonders of whose money-working
he was beginning to appreciate only since
leaving the all-providing care with which she and the
quartermaster had hedged him about from the
morning of his birth till ninety days ago.

While his intelligence, his spirit, his cultivated
ideals would not let him rest in entire content as a
menial—a footman to however high a personage—Hayward
yet found his first real basis of self-respect
in the consciousness of his responsibility for his
mother's support and happiness, and in the feeling that he
was equal to the duty so plainly laid upon him.
However he had no thought but that his present work was
temporary; and, to satisfy his taste for mental
recreation and improvement as well as to have a definite
purpose in his mental pursuits, he began in his spare
hours to study the books that pertained to his
proposed life-work as an officer of the army.

His first summer in Washington added no little
to his stock of that knowledge which men acquire not
out of books but at first hand.  He had seen as an
onlooker something of life on both sides of the earth,
and had acquired more of the spirit of a cosmopolite
than nine-tenths of the statesmen who foregathered
in the nation's capital to formulate world-policies:
and yet of the actual conditions of life, of living,
which affected him as a bread-winner, as a social unit,
as one having a part in the Kingdom of the Spirit, he
was at the very beginning of knowledge when he
donned the White House livery.  His effervescence
of interest in Helen Phillips in great measure
subsided, naturally, among the many new problems that
came to meet him, and with his frequent commonplace
beholding of her.

He soon was brought to realize that rigid limitations
were upon him not only by the colour-line which
was drawn straight as a knife's edge from top to
bottom of Washington, but by fences and barriers inside
the confines of his own race against which he
stumbled repeatedly and blindly before he dreamed they
existed.  On several occasions he had met with slight
rebuffs in his friendly advances to persons of his own
colour, and ascribed them to ill-temper or uncouth
manners; but he finally received a jolt which waked
him up—in this fashion:

He dropped in at the most imposing negro church
in the city one Sunday evening, and heard a young
woman of comely face and person, dressed in perfect
taste, sing a solo which, in the sentiment and the
purity and pathos of the singer's voice, met his idea
of all that is exquisite in song.  When the service
was finished he spoke to a well-groomed man past
middle age who had sat beside him.

"The young lady who sang did it with marvellous
taste and beauty.  She knows both how to sing and
what to sing; and since I'm at it I may as well say
that she's no-end good-looking."

The older man could not conceal his satisfaction
and interest, for he had expended many dollars on
the singer.

"I'm delighted you think so," he returned.  "My
daughter has had great advantages and she ought to
sing well."

"Your daughter?" said Hayward.  "You should
be very proud of her.  Will you not introduce me to
her?  I'd like to thank her for my share.  I am John
Hayward"—and feeling some identification was
necessary—"footman at the White House."

"Excuse me, suh," said the other, with but a very
slightly overdone manner; "we don't introduce
strangers to our families—specially footmen."

The father's manner was not intended to be
offensive, but his answer verily exploded in Hayward's
face.  Thanks to the younger man's training he did
not wince or change countenance, but he was so
bursting full of wrath that he never knew whether any
further word was spoken between them.  He moved
with the throng toward the door, but stepped into a
vacant pew for fear he would run over some one in
furious impatience.  True it was that in his attempt
to volunteer three years before, he had been roughly
impressed with the idea that there was some
recognized difference between a white man and a negro,
and in his association with the rough troopers of the
10th Cavalry he had become in a measure converted
to the correctness of the proposition generally: "but,"
he thought in infuriated scorn, "I'm as good as any
*nigger* that ever drew breath!  A footman, am I?"—and
he threw back his head with pride as he
recalled his answer to the man from Pittsburg—but
dropped it again with some humility at the thought
that he was now a footman for the money it brought.
At the door he spoke to an usher.

"Who was the young woman who sang?"

"Miss Porter—old Henry Porter's daughter."

"So the old scoundrel is Washington's richest
negro," he thought.  "Well, his manners and his
money are not well matched.  I'll even the score with
him yet."

After the first heat of his resentment was off he
admitted that his request to be presented to the negro
magnate's daughter was abrupt, informal and unwarranted,
perhaps, but he argued and insisted that old
Porter ought to have seen that his unconventional
request was an impulsive outcome of his admiration
for the girl's singing, and at least have been a little
more gracious in his refusal.  No, he would not
forgive the manner of it; and when he remembered the
song and its delight to his senses he found it about
as hard to forgive the refusal itself.

Not in three years, except for an occasional
moment of patriotic uplift, had his soul had a taste of
something to drink—till he heard that song.  His
spiritual sense had virtually lain dormant those three
years in the monotonous round of his world-circling
outpost duty.  In successive enlistments he
might indeed altogether have stifled it, while
perfecting his intelligence, courage, strength and skill
as a soldier: for the only possibility—and there is
only possibility, no certainty or even probability—of
spiritual uplift incident to the profession of arms,
is that of developing a surpassing, unselfish love of
the flag.  This sentiment in its pure fulness of bloom
is of the spirit, and is an exalted virtue; but not all
even of the heroes whose ashes the nations keep have
appropriated to their souls, untainted with selfish or
fleshly impulse, this the very flowering recompense
of their travail and heroism.

Hayward had enlisted at the bidding of the most
admirable impulses and had made an excellent
soldier; but the monotonous round of garrison duty
after the brief war was ended had benumbed his
purely patriotic motive, and left only a great desire
for personal advancement.  In the dull grind his very
highest nature had become stagnated; and it was with
the joy of one first awakened to unforeseen possibilities
that he felt reawakened within him by that one
song desires not of the flesh but of the spirit so long
stupefied and unfed.

As he became acutely conscious of his need in this
behalf, he was more seriously regretful than before
that an acquaintance with the singer who had revivified
his finer sensibilities might not be had to satisfy
in a measure the need which her singing had
recreated.  Under the impulse of such desires he set
about seeking associates, friendships, wherefrom he
might appropriate to himself his God-given share in
the kingdom of the Mind.  In his quiet and
unobtrusive search for friends among his race who would
be congenial and satisfy the craving of his higher
nature for companionship, success came with starving
sloth.  Most of the negroes with whom he came at
first in contact were of an order of intelligence so
far below his own that they met not in any degree
the demand from within him, and the few that
possessed the intelligence were so unbearable in manner
that he found little pleasure in them.

He had held aloof from the troopers of the 10th
with the certain feeling that they were below his type
and below the type of the best negroes he knew must
exist somewhere: but he came to doubt the correctness
of his own estimate in his search for congenial
spirits in Washington.  Educated negroes?  Yes,
there were many that had seen as much of the schools
as he, and more.  Men of money?  Yes, scores of
negroes who could buy him ten times over with a
month's income.  And yet it seemed that he could
not happen upon any in his limited and slowly
growing acquaintance who did not in some way offend
his tastes.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII

.. vspace:: 2

When the heat of summer came down upon Washington,
President Phillips' wife and daughters fled to
the shades of the family summer home, "Hill-Top,"
at Stag Inlet on Lake Ontario.  There, in a roomy,
rambling old house set back on the low wooded bluffs
which enclose in more than half-circle the peaceful
little bay, he and his wife and daughters, with a few
congenial but not too closely situated neighbours,
passed the hot days of summer, and stayed on usually
into the red-splashed autumn, when the little cove
put on its most inviting dress and brewed its most
exhilarating air.

It was Hayward's fortune to be carried to the Inlet
with the family carriage and horses for the summer
outing.  He was happy enough to be quit of brick
walls and asphalt pavements for a time, and to get
into God's out-of-doors, for whose open air he had
become so hungry in a few short months.  His duties
were not very onerous, and he had much time to
employ himself with his own pleasures.  One form which
this took was in learning to handle the various kinds
of diminutive water-craft with which his master's
family and their neighbours helped to while away
their summer vacations.  Before the summer was
over he was a fairly good fisherman, a safe skipper
on any small sail-craft used in the inlet, and a devoted
and skilful driver of the gasoline, naphtha and electric
launches of which the cottagers had quite a number.
He was quick and adept at any and everything that
came to his hand, and so careful and entertaining of
the children of the near-by families whom he met and
amused when they came down to play by the water's
edge, that he came to be quite in demand as one
servant who "knew how" and could be depended upon
in any circumstances.

Helen Phillips was still a girl, natural, ingenuous,
untouched by pride or affectation.  She looked
forward with some zest of anticipation to the time of
her début two winters to come; but was well content
to have that time approach without haste.  She
evinced much interest in the plans that her mother
and Elise made and re-made, discarded and revised
for the social campaign of the next winter, and many
lively and original suggestions did she make offhand
and unasked.  But as for her own personal plans she
gave them no thought a day's time ahead.  She was
quite willing to receive her pleasures in the order
chance ordained.

"I am so glad to get away from Washington and
back to Hill-Top," she wrote to her Cleveland chum.
"It was awful dull down there.  Five whole days in
the week I had to spend trying to catch the style
dispensed at a Finishing School for Young Ladies there,
where it is possible to take lady-like sips and nibbles
at literature and music and art and things like that,
but where the real purpose seems to be to teach young
women to descend from a carriage gracefully.  Just
think!  Another whole year of finishing touches will
have to be applied to me before Miss Eugenia can
in good conscience certify that I may be depended
upon properly to arrange myself upon a chair in case
it ever becomes necessary for me to sit down."

Helen's tastes were along lines widely different
from the Finishing School's curriculum.  She preferred
above all things else a talk or a walk, a ride
or a romp with her father.  She had no brother to
share her pranks and enthusiasms, her little sister
Katherine was much too young to be companionable,
and her father was her necessary and natural ally.
Him did she not only love, but him did she glorify.
Tall and straight, seemingly lacking in flesh but tough
as whip-cord, with a patrician face, prematurely gray
hair and moustache, Helen thought he was the model
of all manly beauty.  None in life or in fiction was
to her thinking so brave or strong or good as he.
Being in her esteem strong in body, unerring in
wisdom, pure in purpose, fearless in spirit, he touched
the periphery of her ideal of manhood at every point.
Her mother and Elise often were amused at her
headlong championship of him upon the slightest
intimation of criticism, and rightfully were astonished at
her information upon public questions as they affected
or were connected with his political fortunes or good
name.  Helen devoured the newspapers (a limited
number it is true) with no other purpose, seemingly,
than to know what people said of him.  Of those
that favoured him and his policies she thought well,
and mentally commended their good taste and excellent
sense: but those that criticized!  Woe to them
had she had power to utter condemnation!

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One morning in midsummer Hayward brought the
saddle-horses to the door for the father and daughter
to take a canter and prove Helen's new mount before
the mother and Elise were up.  They were about
ready to be off when a telegram was brought out to
Mr. Phillips by the operator who had an office in the
house.

"I was ordered not to wake you, sir, but to give
it to you at once when you were up."

Mr. Phillips read it over slowly.  Then he turned
to Helen.

"Well, little girl, you must miss your ride again.
I'm sorry, but it can't be helped."

"Oh, no, papa!  Let the country go play till we
come back.  You promised me this ride sure when
we missed the last one."

"Can't do it, little woman.  Take the horses back,
Hayward," he said, and turned to follow the
telegraph man.  But seeing the great disappointment in
Helen's face, he called to the man.

"Here, Hayward.  Get into a proper coat and on
my horse and see that Miss Helen has her gallop
round the Inlet and back without damage.  Can you ride?"

"Yes, sir," answered Hayward.

"I thought so.  You seem to be able to do everything
else.  Now you are fixed up, old girl," he said
as he chucked Helen under the chin.  "Don't let the
mare all the way out.  You don't know her yet,"—and
he was gone.

Most of Helen's pleasure in the ride was lost with
her father's absence, and yet there was much enjoyment
in it for her.  She felt the liberty to choose her
own road, and decided to do a little exploring.  She
set out at a good canter, with Hayward swinging
along a protective distance in the rear; and with the
exercise her spirits rose and she gave herself up to
the full joy of it.  She forgot her father's injunction
and sent the mare along several stretches of road
with little restraint.

Hayward, on Mr. Phillips' favourite saddler, was
having the time of his life, and for himself wished
nothing better than that his young mistress would
keep up the pace; though he did not altogether
approve of her speeding down-hill.  He did not like
the way the mare managed her feet on the down
grades.  When Helen pulled up to ask him where
a certain road led, he spoke, unconsciously with
decision, out of his experience, but with all deference,
and said:

"Pardon me, Miss Helen, but it is a little
dangerous the speed with which you ride down-hill.  I'm
afraid your mount is not so sure-footed as she might
be....  This road you speak of leads out by
Mr. Radwine's cottage into the Lake Drive.  It is worse
riding than those you have tried."

Helen thought Hayward's apprehensions were creatures
of his discomfort in keeping pace with her, and
she was nothing more than amused at his attempts
to limit the speed to his abilities under pretence of
care for her safety.  She thought she would give him
one more shaking-up to tell her father about—and
plunged off down the Radwine road, leaving him to
follow as best he might.

Hayward had passed over that cross-road but a
few days earlier and he knew its present condition.
Helen heard him call to her, but her spirit of mischief
was fully aroused at the thought of his bumping along
after her, and she gave the mare free rein.

.. _`114`:

They were going down a longer and steeper hill
than any they had passed, near the foot of which the
summer rains had washed out the roadway.  Hayward,
knowing of this dangerous place ahead, and
seeing that it was impossible to stop the young woman
in his front before she reached it, sent Prince William
after the mare under pressure of the spur and with
the hope to come up with her in time.  He arrived
on the very moment of fate.  The thundering horse
tore alongside the flying mare just as she reached the
washed-out road.  Either through feminine excitability
at being overtaken or because of the defective
foot action Hayward had noted, the mare, when she
struck the rough road, stumbled and went down.  In
that instant the open-eyed Prince William cleared the
washout with a magnificent stride, and the ex-cavalryman
swept his right arm about Helen and lifted
her out of the saddle.

Slowly reining in his horse, Hayward brought him
to a standstill and gently lowered his astonished
young mistress to the ground.  She was almost too
overcome to stand, and walked unsteadily a few steps
before she recovered herself.  Hayward had thrown
himself off Prince William and was leading him back
down the road to where the mare had fallen.  She
had already picked herself up, minus a saddle and
plus a few bruises, and was standing in the road
comparatively unhurt but shaking as with an ague.

Hayward approached her quietly and she came
eagerly up to him as if to escape from her fears.  He
looked her over carefully, and finding no serious
damage done, set himself about brushing the dust from
her with wisps of weeds and grass.  Helen came down
while he worked with the mare, and watched him
some minutes without speaking.  She hardly could
think of anything civil to say.  She knew that she
had disobeyed orders and that he had warned her—and
that made her angry.  The very silence of the
man became irritating to her.

When he had done all he could to put the mare
in order he picked up Helen's saddle and started to
put it on, but stopped to ask whether he should
exchange mounts with her.

"No," his young mistress replied.  "I've ridden
her here and I will ride her home."

The negro put her saddle on the mare while the girl
looked on.  When he came to buckle the girth he
found that the leather tongue was torn off.  He
lengthened the girth on the other side and proceeded
to bore with his pocket-knife a new hole in the short
broken tab.  Helen's eyes fell at length on the knife.
She looked at it uncertainly a few moments, and then
lost interest in everything else.  Finally she could
keep quiet no longer.

"Where did you get that knife, Hayward?" she
asked with something like accusation in her voice.

"Miss Helen, I got this knife in—that is, this
knife belongs to—"

"Wait a moment," interrupted Helen.  "Let me
see it....  Yes, it's the same.  I gave my father this
knife on his birthday four years ago.  I had the
carving done at Vantine's.  How long have you had it?"

"Miss Helen, I have had it long before I entered
your father's service.  I—"

"Yes, I know; but just how long have you had
it, Hayward?"

"Well, Miss Helen, to be accurate, I've had it three
years and—four months."

"Hayward, were you ever in the army—the
cavalry—the 10th Cavalry?"

"Yes, Miss Helen."

"You were in the battle of Valencia?"

"Yes, Miss Helen."

"You took this knife from an officer whose life
you had saved, didn't you?"

"Yes, Miss Helen."

"Papa says the negro trooper saved his life and
stole his knife."

"But I did not steal the knife, Miss Helen—I did
not know I had it till two months after the battle,
when they gave me back my clothes in the hospital.
There was—"

"That stealing part is one of papa's jokes,
Hayward.  But you didn't know it was papa, did you?"

"Yes, Miss Helen.  I knew him when I saw him fall."

"What?  And you've never let him know?  Why
have you kept it secret?"

Hayward did not answer.  She continued.

"He would be very grateful.  He does not know
who it was, for I've heard him say so.  All that he
knows is that it was a trooper of the 10th."

She stopped and waited for an answer, but he stood
in silent indecision as to what he should say to her.
If he should now disclose himself the President would
doubtless weaken the force of his obligation by giving
him in token of his gratitude some appointment which
not only would fall far short of the lieutenant's
commission to which he aspired, but also would remove
him from the young woman who in the last minute
had become so simply and earnestly sympathetic in
her manner.  He weighed the pros and cons quickly.

"Why haven't you told him?" persisted Helen.

"I have preferred not, Miss Helen.  In fact there
are reasons why I cannot—must not—now."

"What reasons?" demanded Helen.

"Please, Miss Helen, I cannot tell you—nor him."

"You are not ashamed of it, surely?"

"No, Miss Helen.  I would do it again this
morning—willingly—at any cost to myself.  But do not
ask me to tell of it."

Helen regarded him narrowly for a minute in silence.

"And you kept me from—death—also.  Am I
not to tell him of that either?"

"Please no, Miss Helen.  If I have done you a
service and you think it worth reward, I ask that you
repay me by telling no one that I am either your
father's rescuer or your own."

Mystery always annoyed Helen unbearably, and she
looked at Hayward as if uncertain whether to
peremptorily demand his secret or to inform him she
herself would acquaint her father with the facts he
sought to conceal.  Hayward saw something of her
purpose in her eyes, and pleaded with her.

"Miss Helen, I beg you.  My reasons are
imperative—and honourable.  When the time comes that
I may I will gladly tell your father, but if now you
would do me the greatest favour you will say nothing
of it."

While Hayward was speaking it occurred to Helen
that she willingly would have her father remain in
ignorance of her disobedience and reckless riding and
its consequent narrowly averted disaster.  This
consideration, together with Hayward's earnestness in
his mystifying request, finally prevailed upon her.

"Very well, Hayward, if you insist.  You only
will be the loser.  It is puzzling to me....  But tell
me about your rescue of papa."

Hayward, glad to buy her silence, gave her a modest
account of his very creditable bit of heroism, and
in response to Helen's interested questioning he was
still recounting incidents of the battle and his hospital
experiences when they reached the Lake Drive and
quickened their pace into a fast canter for home.
They arrived and alighted and Hayward got the
horses away to the stable without any one's seeing
the dust-splashed mare.

Helen could hardly contain herself with her
knowledge, but she was as scrupulously honest as she was
impulsive, and stood by her promise not to divulge
the footman's secret.  She vainly tried to imagine
some satisfactory explanation of his strange request,
but could conceive none that seemed plausible.  She
finally came to believe that he was a heroic soul whom
some implacable misfortune had denied the right to
the fruits of his heroism, and in her heart she pitied
him.

Hayward was not certain just how far his young
mistress credited him with good and honest reasons
for wishing his identity to remain undisclosed to her
father.  He feared that she must think any reason
inadequate.  He was very much afraid that in all her
interested inquiries she would discover that he was
not using his real name.  If she became possessed of
that knowledge she doubtless would think the circumstance
sufficiently suspicious to warrant her laying
all the facts before her father.  This matter of his
name perplexed him no little.  He gladly would have
Helen acquainted with the facts relating to the
crimson pennant, and yet he must guard against it.  That
would reveal his masquerade, as she certainly would
remember the name of the Harvard man who had
saved his college from defeat.  He heartily regretted
the excess of caution which had made him place
himself in this dilemma.

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In the long and lazy summer days that came after
that morning's ride Helen was given without seeking
it some little opportunity to question the footman
about the ever interesting matter of her father's
rescue and allied incidents of battle and campaign.  Her
father insisted, on a few occasions when he could
not accompany her, on her riding alone, with Hayward
as a guard.  In her sailing parties, also, in which
Hayward was usually skipper of sailboat or launch,
she was thrown occasionally with him alone before
she had picked up, or after she had dropped off, her
guests at the several landings around the Inlet.

She had a child's interest in listening to the
ex-trooper's reminiscences of the battle of Valencia, the
Venezuelan campaign, and of his world's-end following
of the flag.  The footman, never for a moment
lacking in deference or presuming upon the liberty of
speech allowed him, was an entertaining talker.  He
had used his eyes and his ears in his journeyings
through the earth, and the lively imagination
characteristic of his race and his negro knack of
mimicry, together with his intelligence and his ability to
use the English language with precision and skill,
made him a raconteur of fascinating charm.  Helen
quite often wished to acquaint her father and mother
and Elise with some of the things he recounted to
her, but the tales were always so mixed in with his
experiences as a soldier that she could not re-relate
them without breaking her promise to respect his
secret....

And thus the summer days dragged slowly to an
end, with Helen and her footman becoming at odd
times better acquainted with the thoughts and
personal views each of the other on a wider and ever
wider range of subjects.  Helen was too unsophisticated
in her thought to notice anything unusual in a
lackey's being possessed of Hayward's intelligence
and ease of manner.  The ever present mystery of
his refusal to exploit his heroic deeds dwarfed or
overshadowed all other questions that might have
arisen in her mind as to anything out of the ordinary
in him.  She did believe that he was suffering some
sort of martyrdom in silence, and her womanly
sympathy grew stronger as she knew more of him.  Not
for a moment was the relation of mistress and man
lost sight of by either; but the revelation of the real
woman and man, each to other, went steadily on.





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.. _`CHAPTER XIII`:

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   CHAPTER XIII

.. vspace:: 2

The era of good feeling seemed to have been ushered
in along with Mr. Phillips' inauguration.  The
country was prosperous to a degree.  Labour was
receiving steady employment and a fair wage and
uttered no complaint.  Capital was adding surplus to
per cent., and was content.  The Cuban skirmish with
Spain and the trial-by-battle with Germany had
cemented again in blood the sections divided by the
Great War—so closely indeed that nobody, not even
Presidents on hand-shaking junkets, thought to
mention it.  Any sporadic "waver of the bloody shirt"
was considered an anachronism and laughed at as a
harmless idiot.  It was true that the negro question,
being present in the flesh and incapable of banishment,
was yet a momentous problem: but it was considered
in cooler temper as being either a national or a local
question—not sectional in any sense.

President Phillips in his first message to Congress,
as in his inaugural address, felicitated his countrymen
upon the unity of the American people and the American
spirit, and on both occasions gave a new rhetorical
turn and oratorical flourish to the statement that
his father was from Massachusetts and his mother
a South Carolinian.  In sections of the South where
his party was admittedly effete or undoubtedly
odorous he hesitated not to appoint to office men of
political faith radically differing from his own—and all
good citizens applauded.  Partisanry was settling
itself down for a good long sleep, and strife had ceased.
The lion and the lamb were lain down together, and
there was none that made afraid in all the holy
mountain of American good-will and fair prospect.

Into this sectionally serene and peaceful situation,
which Mr. Phillips deemed largely the result of his
personal effort as a non-sectional American executive,
he deliberately or impulsively pitched an issue
which set one-third of his admiring countrymen by
the ears.

The good commonwealth of Mississippi was in a
state of upheaval.  A peaceable revolution was being
attempted there which would have changed the
essential nature and purpose of the State government.
Incited by the wordy eloquence of a provincial governor,
with a few scraps of statistics gone mad, good men,
honest men, men of intelligence were seriously
considering the proposition to so amend the State
constitution as to put upon the negro in his ignorance
and poverty the whole burden of his own education—by
a division of the school fund between the races
in proportion to the taxes each paid to the State.

This reactionary and truly astonishing proposition
of Governor Wordyfellow was commonly known as
the Wordyfellow Idea.  It was giving great concern
to the sober statesmanship of the entire nation, North
and South—indeed greater concern to the thoughtful
men of the South who realized its momentous
import, its far-reaching effect upon Southern white
people, than to the thoughtful outsiders who viewed
it philosophically as having a speculative interest but
no actual part in its settlement or effects.

The proposition to so divide the school funds
indeed found its most violent and active opposition,
as it found its strongest advocates, not only among
the men of the South but even in the very State of
Mississippi itself.  The fact soon developed that this
was to be the greatest political battle that was to be
fought concerning the negro.  All prior conflicts had
been white man against negro.  This was white man
against white man, with the negro as an interested
onlooker.

The lines were drawn roughly with the church, the
schools and the independent press allied against the
politicians, the political press and the less intelligent
citizenship.  Notable individual exceptions there were
to this alignment—which all men remember—but
the line of cleavage, taking it by and large, was as
stated.  Though the matter of an actual constitutional
revision was presented as yet only to the people of
Mississippi, the battle was being waged in serious
purpose to a no less actual finish in every State from
the Potomac to the Rio Grande.

It was into this situation, fraught with dire
possibilities of course, but full of promise to the negro's
friends, that the new President projected his
impulsive and forceful personality.  Anxious as always to
be in the fight and leader in the fight, he set about to
devise some plan for helping along the black man's
cause.  That he might do this more intelligently he
conferred often with his most trusted advisers.

It was on the occasion of the memorable
Home-Coming Week at Cleveland in 191- that he held the
famous conference which gave that great civic
celebration a fixed place in history.  He stood loyally by
his home city in its effort to enjoy and advertise
itself, for he betook himself and family and several
friends, including two members of his cabinet, away
from busiest Washington for two days, and opened
up his Cleveland home at great expense for that brief
stay.

Doctor Woods, a negro of national reputation, also
claimed Cleveland as his birthplace, and he had
journeyed thither from afar to swell the throng of loyal
sons of the city, and had brought with him Doctor
Martin, now a bishop of the A.M.E. Zion Church,
to add dignity and strength to the negro end of the
programme.  Meeting officially with these two
dignitaries of colour suggested to Mr. Phillips a
discussion of the Wordyfellow disturbance, and he called
an impromptu consultation.

In between the review of a morning parade and
luncheon, therefore, on the second day of his stay,
he sandwiched this hurried conference.  At it, beside
Martin and Woods, were Secretary of the Navy
Mackenzie, whose wisdom seemed to cover all politics and
statecraft, and the Secretary of Agriculture,
Baxter—himself a Mississippian, but thoroughly opposed
to the Mississippi governor's policy.

The conference, which was held at Mr. Phillips'
home, rejoiced his heart.  He was pleased at the
favourable reports which Bishop Martin and Doctor
Woods gave of the situation in the several Southern
States.  He accepted with approval the suggestions
of the sapient Mackenzie; and when he saw with
what earnestness and vigour and assured personal
knowledge of the situation Baxter was putting his
energies into the fight and predicting victory even in
Mississippi, his enthusiasm knew no bounds.  The
conference was of such interest that luncheon was
announced before a definite plan of action was
threshed out.

"By George, I'm hungry as a wolf!" exclaimed
Mr. Phillips.  "Come along to the dining-room,
gentlemen, and we'll wind this thing up while we
replenish our stores."

While this invitation was quite unexpected by the
bishop and Doctor Woods, it completely confounded
Secretary Baxter who was right in the middle of a
little speech when the interruption and invitation
came.  He looked confused for a moment, and began
mumbling some excuse as Mr. Phillips held open the
door and his other guests passed out into the hall.

"Oh, you don't have to go," said Mr. Phillips.
"Come on and finish up your idea.  I know you have
no other engagement, for you were to lunch with
me to-day to discuss that Williams matter."

The Secretary of Agriculture saw he was caught,
and his manner changed in a moment as he decided
to meet the issue squarely.

"You will please excuse me, Mr. President," he
said formally and finally.

"Why, Baxter, surely I do not have to explain to
you that—"

"You certainly do not, Mr. President," interrupted
the Secretary.  "Good morning, gentlemen,"—and
he bowed himself out.

President Phillips turned in ill-restrained anger and
followed his guests to the dining-room.  They found
Mrs. Phillips and Helen awaiting them.  With these
Mr. Mackenzie shook hands, and to them the
President introduced Doctor Woods.  The bishop was
already acquainted, and spoke of the dinner at the
Saratoga restaurant.

Mrs. Phillips had long been accustomed to the
surprises her husband made for her, and had too good
control of her faculties to show any annoyance on
beholding her unexpected and unwelcome guests.

Any possible shade of restraint in her manner
would not have been noticed, however, in the general
feeling of constraint which Mr. Baxter's abrupt
departure had left on Mr. Phillips and his other guests.
The host set himself to the task of throwing off this
feeling by plunging volubly into a résumé of the
discussion they had been having.  His vigour and
enthusiasm were such that by their very physical force he
was bringing a wholesome situation to pass, when
Elise came humming down the hall with Lola DeVale,
stopped short in the doorway—and turned quickly back.

.. _`"ELISE ... STOPPED SHORT IN THE DOORWAY—AND TURNED QUICKLY BACK"`:

.. figure:: images/img-126.jpg
   :align: center
   :alt: "ELISE ... STOPPED SHORT IN THE DOORWAY—AND TURNED QUICKLY BACK."

   "ELISE ... STOPPED SHORT IN THE DOORWAY—AND TURNED QUICKLY BACK."

While there was nothing unusual or pointed in
Elise's manoeuvre her father felt and resented her
protest.  He talked away for a few minutes in
nervous hope that his supposition was wrong and that she
would come and bring Lola in to lunch.  When she
did not his choler rose at this open mutiny in his own
household, and he awkwardly tossed the ball of
conversation to Mackenzie and busied himself keeping
his indignation within bounds.

From this point the meal progressed uncertainly.
In the midst of the embarrassment of it all there was
brought to the President a note, upon opening which
he read:

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"SIR:—I have the honour to present my resignation
as Secretary of Agriculture, to take effect at
the earliest moment you may be able to relieve me of
the duties of the office.

"With assurances of my highest consideration and
sincerest good wishes for yourself and the success
of your administration, I am

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.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

"Your obedient servant,
   "W. E. BAXTER."

.. vspace:: 2

At the bottom of the page there was added:

.. vspace:: 2

"P.S.—I am willing to assign any plausible reason
for this resignation that you may desire, or that
may suggest itself to you as likely to relieve you of
any embarrassment as a result of it.  W.E.B."

.. vspace:: 2

Mr. Phillips punctuated his first hasty perusal of
the note with a snort of contempt, and checked an
outburst of sarcastic, wrathful comment to read it
over a second time.  Fortunately at this moment
Bishop Martin and Doctor Woods rose and apologized
for having to withdraw in order to catch a
train.

Their host was loth to have them go, and expressed
regret that they had not been able to arrive
at some definite plan of campaign.  He asked that
they inform him if they should come to Washington,
so that he might discuss the subject further with
them.  Expressing their great pleasure that the chief
executive took such a lively and intelligent interest in
the weal and progress of their race, the two negro
worthies withdrew, Mrs. Phillips dismissing them
with a formal bow and smile and Helen, following
her father, giving them a cordial hand-shake as they
retired.

When they had gone Mr. Phillips thrust the letter
of resignation at Mackenzie, and exploded:

"Mac, just read that!  The provincial, patronizing,
postscript-writing popinjay!  Could you have
imagined the impudence of it!  Does not wish me to
be embarrassed as a result of his quitting us—the
conceited ass!  I wonder if he thinks I care a rap, or
that the people care, for his cheap little melodramatics.
I might have known that it was too much to have
expected a sensible secretary from that cursed
negro-phobia State!  But he was so strongly pressed for a
cabinet appointment, and really did appear to be such
a strong fellow.  I might have guessed his apparent
excellences were too good to be true!  Oh, but the
patronizing insolence of his offer to hush it up for us!
I swear it's unbearable.  Damn the superior high-and-mighty
airs these Southerners assume!  My mother
was a South Carolinian, but I can't feel a
sympathetic tremor in my blood for any such damnable
bigotry.  I'll give Mr. Baxter and all his hide-bound,
moss-backed, supercilious gang to know that this is
one administration that proposes to make a
democratic government a reality in this democratic
country.  A man shall be measured by the essential
qualities of manhood he possesses, and dealt with
accordingly, whatever his position, pull, size, sentiments,
claims or colour!  What do you think of that infernal note?"

"He does show great consideration for us—distinguished
consideration, I may say.  He will not
tell it on us," sarcastically commented Mackenzie.

"The devil take his distinguished consideration!"
snapped Mr. Phillips.  "I'll accept his little
resignation before he can wink, and give the papers a full
statement of the circumstances just as they occurred.
I'll show the upstart what a small potato he
is—damn his impudence!  And then just to think, Mac,
of the inexpressible insult in refusing to lunch with
persons that I deem worthy to dine with my wife and
daughters!  It really makes it almost too damnably
personal to be overlooked.  He must understand that
respectability, presentability, acceptability, in my
home is a matter that is as sacred to me as such
things are to him with all his Bourbon notions!—but
thank God he may understand also that such
acceptability is based on true merit, and that a man's
colour has absolutely nothing to do with it....
Come along with me to the library and we will accept
this little resignation before it gets cold, and have it
at his hotel before he gets cold!"





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.. _`CHAPTER XIV`:

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   CHAPTER XIV

.. vspace:: 2

Mrs. Phillips, ill at ease during the luncheon,
had taken the opportunity to retire offered by the
departure of the negro guests, and had taken Helen
with her; but that young lady, feeling the electric
condition of the atmosphere and full of lively
curiosity, had returned to hover around the dining-room
door and learn what all the row was about.  She
heard her father's outburst with great interest—being
no little shocked at his sulphurous words, but no
less deeply concerned at the suggestion of embarrassment
to him politically, and forcibly and enthusiastically
impressed with his fine scorn of subterfuge and
manly decision to fight out his battles in the open.

When President Phillips came in to dinner and
asked for his daughters, their mother told him Helen
was in her room and Elise had gone driving with Lola.
"I did not like Elise's conduct at lunch.  It was
too pointed, entirely too pointed.  I shall talk to the
young lady very plainly."

"Now, Hayne, don't worry the child with this
affair.  It is bad enough as it is.  I hope—"

"Bad enough as it is!  Why, one would think you
wished to resign also.  Were you insulted, too?"

"Not insulted, Hayne; but ever since you sent
me to the pinelands of North Carolina that winter for
Elise's throat I have not been able to think of a negro
as I did before—and Elise feels the same way, I
know.  It is so plain down there: the negroes are
so many and so—different.  I can't receive them
with any sort of pleasure.  Just think of what the
Southern papers will have to say.  The awful things
they said about your negro quartette were almost
unbearable, and I know that was mild to what this will
be.  I do wish you had not brought them in to lunch,
Hayne."

"Why, May, you are surely not going over against
me with those supercilious Southern fanatics?"

"Hayne!  That is almost insulting.  You know that
I am for you against the world, whatever comes.  No
one, not even Elise or Helen, has ever heard me offer
the least criticism of anything you have done—and
no one ever will, my dearest"—she spoke simply and
earnestly as she held her hands up toward him in a
gesture eloquent of abiding love—"but I cannot
have pleasure in receiving negroes.  I have seen the
negro as he really is, and I cannot feel that some
soap and water and a silk hat make a—"

"Stop, May, right there"—Mr. Phillips' arms
went about his wife in tenderness as he placed a hand
upon her lips.  "Listen to me.  You dear women
are creatures of impulse and sentiment—and thank
Heaven for that, too: for when the time ever comes
that you shall judge men from your heads instead of
your hearts, woe to us!"—and he kissed her hair
in reverent gentleness—-"but—"

"Well, this is an idyllic scene!" exclaimed Elise,
coming into the room with Helen.  "It is better than
a play.  Daddy dear, you do it beautifully.  You
should have gone on the stage."

Mr. Phillips' state of mind, his bottled-up
vexation because of Elise's behaviour at luncheon, his
impatience at the interruption of his conversation
with his wife at the point where she seemed to have
made out her case against him and before he had
opportunity to demolish her sentiment with masculine
logic, added to Elise's lightness of manner and speech,
which nettled him in his serious concern over Baxter's
resignation, were, all together, too much for
moderation.

"Now look here, young lady," he growled out
ungraciously, "you have presumed entirely too much
upon your privileges to-day.  When did you become
too good to dine with people your mother and sister
were entertaining?"

"Why, papa!" the girl exclaimed in amazement at
the roughness of his manner;—but the sternness of
his face did not relax, and she stumbled along seeking
some excuse.  "Lola and I did not want any lunch,
and all those men—"

"Stop!  Don't be a dodger!  You know very well,
miss, that you declined to lunch because Bishop
Martin and Doctor Woods were there.  Now you must
understand that I am as regardful of your honour
as you are, that my life is at your service to protect
it against the slightest affront, but that I will not be
sponsor for any silliness, and will certainly not
overlook or permit any high-flown impertinence that
affronts me in the presence of guests of my choosing.
What do you suppose Mr. Mackenzie thinks of your
high-and-mighty rebuke to him for sitting at my table
in that company?  He must feel very properly
subdued, I suppose you think.  And the bishop and
Doctor Woods—they are doubtless overcome with
humiliation because of your refusal to meet them."

He dropped his overbearing manner as Elise's face
turned from crimson to white and her lips began to
tremble—for he was a tender-hearted and gallant
gentleman.

"Now let me say once for all, my daughter, that
I must be the judge of who is a proper person to be
entertained in this household, and I want no more
such exhibitions of filial disrespect as you made
to-day.  I think no explanation is due: but I will tell
you that one of the gentlemen who lunched with us
to-day is a bishop in his church and a leader of ten
million citizens of this country, while Doctor Woods
is a graduate of Harvard and Heidelberg, a man
whose learning is surpassed by that of very few men
in America, and is the very best type of his own race
and a creditable product of any race.  Both these
gentlemen are entirely worthy of your highest respect."

"But, papa, they are negroes!" said Elise, emboldened
to attempt a defence when her father dropped
his browbeating tone and assumed to address her reason.

"Negroes?—and what of that?  It is not the first
time a negro has lunched with a President of the
United States.  Calm your misgivings by remembering
that it is assuredly safe, either socially or
politically, to follow any precedent set by Mr. Roosevelt.
But further, my daughter, what does the term
'negro' impute to these men more than a colour of skin?
Nothing.  My child, 'the man's the thing,'—his
colour is absolutely nothing.  A negro must be judged
individually, by his own character and ability—you
judge white men so.  He is not responsible for the
whole race, but for himself, and must stand or fall
upon his individual merit and not upon his colour
or caste.  It is the glory of our America that it has
but one order of nobility—a man; and when that
order is abolished or others established our democratic
institutions will be a hollow pretence and our
decadence have set in.  Heaven defend a daughter of mine
should be either dazzled by a tinselled rank or class
pretension, or fail to appreciate simple, genuine,
personal excellence."

Elise was glad enough her father had calmed down
and branched off into generalities.  She was
discreetly, not impudently, silent, and took the first
opportunity to retire.

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On that afternoon Elise had met Evans Rutledge
and had really found pleasure in his friendliness.
She speculated whether his manner would have been
quite so cordial if he had known of the luncheon
then but two hours past.  She had seen no little of
him in a casual way since living in Washington, for
he was an acceptable visitor at most of the desirable
places.  With repeated meetings they had come to
an unspoken truce, Elise being impelled to friendly
simplicity by her very nature, and Rutledge by the
love which would not permit him to deny himself any
opportunity to be near her despite some rebellious
notions of self-respect.

Rutledge's vacillation of mind concerning Elise
was evidenced by his presence in Cleveland.  It
comported very well with his former status as a
freelance correspondent that in search of "copy" he
should have followed the President out to Ohio, but
he confessed to himself that it was somewhat below
the dignity of his present position and standing as an
editorial writer that he should have asked for the
assignment as news representative allotted to his
paper on the Presidential special.  He called himself a
fool, and—thought of many situations that might
happen to evolve themselves on the train....  They
didn't evolve.

Only one paltry three minutes' talk with Elise did
he win for all his journeying.  He had stood by her
carriage that afternoon as she waited for Lola
DeVale in front of Vantine's, and they had talked in the
unaffected manner of the first days of their acquaintance
until Lola came out and invited him to join them
on an evening at the end of the week at an informal
gathering of young people at her home in Washington.
He had accepted with what he afterward
thought was childish and compromising eagerness.

"I like that Mr. Rutledge so much.  I invited him
for you, Elise," Lola said as they drove homeward.

"Why for me?" asked Elise.

"Perhaps I should say because of you.  Can't you
see the reason in his eyes every time he looks at you?
I can."

"You are mistaken there, my dear.  I happen to
know that Mr. Rutledge loves, or once loved, a young
woman who has greatly disappointed him."

"How?"

"He has learned that her family—and perhaps
she—is impossible."

"How did you know of his love for the girl?"

"He told me himself," Elise answered with a
nonchalant air that proved her an actress of the finest
art.

"He did!  You were playing with fire, Elise.  The
sympathetic 'other girl' is always in a dangerous
role.  Did he tell you of his disappointment also?"

"Oh, no.  But that was—and is—evident."

"But the girl?  Was she really—nice—better
than her people?"

"Yes.  No—yes—that is, nice.  Of course you
know Mr. Rutledge would not love a woman who was
not—nice."

"Oh, certainly; but if he was really disappointed
in her, all the more reason he might find a solace in
your smiles."

"It was her family rather than herself, I think.
He is uncertain about her—is afraid to love her."

"He does seem to have an uncertain look at times
that has puzzled me.  I think you are responsible for
some of his uncertainty, however; or perhaps the
other girl makes him uncertain about you.  If it were
not for her you would have to look to your defences....
He must have loved her very much or he could
not stand the temptation you are to him....  I'm
glad you've solved the riddle, but very sorry you told
me.  I have liked Mr. Rutledge; but I despise any
man who would not brush aside all obstacles to marry
the woman he loves and who loves him.  Don't you?"

"Oh," said Elise uncertainly, "but, really, it
was—it may have been—because she did not love him.
I do not think he lacks courage—exactly.  He
simply would not—pursue—the young woman because
her father's—because the—the obstacle
was—seemed—insurmountable,—but really I must not
be violating confidences.  There is no reason why
you should not at least respect him, Lola.  His course
is not without some justification, for the objection,
from his point of view, is—vital."

"But what if the girl loves him?  Does she love him?"

"Really, Lola, he—he did not inform me—whether
she does or not.  He has not made the slightest
reference to the subject, nor spoken the smallest
of confidences to me since that summer on the
St. Lawrence....  I think he regrets ever having told
me anything about his—heart's affairs.  I suppose
I should not repeat them—they were spoken under
peculiar circumstances."

"There is nothing peculiar, my dear.  It is easy
to see why a man who is not free to make love to
you will choose the next best thing and talk of love
with you....  You would better be careful of
Mr. Rutledge, however, for I fear his loyalty to that first
love totters on its throne every time he looks into your
gray eyes.  You must not shatter his faith in his own
faithfulness."





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.. _`CHAPTER XV`:

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   CHAPTER XV

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The second morning's papers were aflame with the
news of it!  President Phillips, true to his outspoken
character, himself had called in the Associated Press
representative immediately on his return to Washington
and dictated a concise statement of all the
circumstances leading to Mr. Baxter's resignation.  The
Secretary's house was besieged by reporters, but all
were referred to the White House for information.
The daily newspapers featured the item in every
conceivable style of display head-lines, and the affair was
a nine-day sensation in Washington and a reverberating
tempest throughout the South.

Evans Rutledge by the force of his genius, his wide
knowledge of men and affairs and the accuracy of
his political information had gone rapidly toward the
front rank in his profession.  He was now the leading
editorial writer on the *Washington Mail*, an
anti-administration organ.

Of that paper Elise sought the first issue with
surreptitious eagerness.  She picked it up fully
expecting to read quite the most scathing philippic she had
ever seen in print.  She was surprised to find that the
former correspondent had put off his extravagances
for a more judicial editorial manner.  She recognized
his work by several phrases that had been in the
*Chicago American* article.

The editorial was severe, but dignified and fairly
respectful.  Rutledge commended Secretary Baxter
for his prompt and emphatic refusal to lunch with
a negro even though at the table of a President of
the United States and at the President's personal
invitation or "command."  He said the fact that
Mr. Phillips had intended no insult made the insult no less
real; and that Baxter had done the only possible
thing—the duel being no longer in vogue—declined and
resigned.

He went on to say that there was an irreconcilable
difference between the Northern and the Southern
ideas of the social equality of the races; that the
Southern man's idea was bred in the bone, and no
amount of argument or abuse or lofty advice from
the Northern press, or boyish impulsiveness in the
President's chair, could change that idea one iota;
that while their fears sometimes might be lulled to
sleep, might be forgotten like other ills in the interest
or excitement of other concerns, the black peril was
their great Terror in both their waking and sleeping
hours, and even when asleep they slept upon their arms.

Elise read that in face of this Terror all other
questions were insignificant, and all arguments,
prejudices, passions, *loves and hates* (she put her
fingertip on the words) among Southern gentlemen melted
away or were fused into a mighty and unalterable
sentiment to go down to death rather than to permit
social intermingling with the negro race.

The editorial concluded that the Southern feeling on
this subject was ineradicable, and was so deep-seated
and universal that it became a great Fact which any
man of fair discretion and sensible purpose would have
recognized and reckoned with; that no President with
an abiding sense of the proprieties would have
proposed the luncheon to Baxter, and no gentleman of
the South would have hesitated for a moment in
declining the insulting invitation.  The subject was
dismissed with the prediction that the cause of the negro
immediate and remote would be damaged immeasurably
by this act of the impulsive gentleman in the
White House who would take the Southern situation
by the seat of the trousers as though it were a
self-willed small boy pouting in a cellar and yank it
incontinently up the Phillips stairs of progress.

There was no other subject discussed in hotel
lobbies, committee-rooms or wherever else two or more
men were gathered together on the day after the
facts were known.  In the afternoon in one of the
committee-rooms of the Senate, Senators Ruffin and
Killam, Representatives Smith and Calhoun of
Killam's State, and Representative Hazard of a New
York City district, were ventilating their views on the
matter when Rutledge joined them, on the hunt for
Calhoun.

The comments on the President's negro luncheon
were all adverse, though expressed in terms of
varying elegance and force from the keen and polished
irony of Mr. Ruffin to Mr. Killam's brutal outbursts
and picturesque profanity.  Mr. Hazard, not having
the same sectional view-point as the others, though of
the same political creed, was an interested listener.
Senator Ruffin referred to the editorial in *The Mail*
and drew Evans into the discussion.

The young man, glad to be untrammelled by editorial
discretion, gave free rein to his indignation, but
in deference to Mr. Hazard's presence was careful to
make some allowance and excuses for the opinion of
Northern people on the matter of social amenities to
negroes.  However, to compensate for this concession
and leave no doubt of his opinion, he was even more
picturesque than Mr. Killam, if not so profane—and
consequently more forcible, Hazard thought—in
paying his respects to Mr. Phillips' negro policy.

But Senator Killam resented even the suggestion of
excuse for Northern opinion, and opened up an even
more choice and outrageous assortment of profanity
and invective.  Rutledge, Calhoun and Senator
Ruffin were ashamed at his disregard of ordinary
decencies, while Hazard assumed a look of polite
amusement.  Mr. Killam's satellite, Smith, however, was
vastly tickled at his master's performance, and took
pains to show his surpassing admiration.  Smith was
a raw-boned, half-washed giant with long hair that
never knew a shampoo, who owed his election to
Congress to a gift of stump-speaking and a consistent
devotion to Senator Killam's political fortunes.  He
usually kept quiet when his chief was there to speak.
He did so on that afternoon till, carried away by
Mr. Killam's extravagances about niggers in white
dining-rooms, he blurted out:

"Yes; I suppose now Miss Elise Phillips will be
getting sweet on Doctor Woods.  The nig—"

Smash!

Rutledge struck him on the point of the jaw and
he fell in an awkward heap between a chair and the
wall.  He was up in a moment growling like a
mastiff, but was restrained by Calhoun and Hazard.
Rutledge was standing perfectly still, his thumbs in his
trousers pockets, showing no excitement save in the
glint of his eye.  Smith was muttering his desire to
fight it out.  He could not talk plainly, for the blow
had unhinged his loosely clacking jaw.  Hazard,
Killam and Calhoun held him by force till he was quiet.
It would have been impossible to prevent his forcing
a further clash perhaps if Senator Ruffin had not
insisted on ending the matter just there.

"Gentlemen!" he said, "this must stop right here.
None of us can afford to pursue the miserable affair
further.  We should all be ashamed that a young
lady's name has been used in this discussion at all,
and especially in such a manner was it unpardonable!
Mr. Smith certainly forgot himself; and while
Mr. Rutledge acted from a chivalrous impulse he will learn
when he is older that a blow usually advertises rather
than suppresses an insult to a woman."

It began to dawn upon Mr. Smith by this time that
he had committed a woeful breach of good manners,
and with a parvenu's awe of "propriety" he was
more than anxious to have the affair hushed up.
None the less did he wish to keep secret his
knockdown.  He got out as quietly as possible in search
of a surgeon.  Rutledge retired with Calhoun, who
slapped him on the back as they went down the
corridor and whispered, "Good old boy!  Served him
right, the damn dog."

Senator Ruffin sent for the attendant who had left
the committee-room as soon as quiet was restored,
and bought his silence with a five-dollar bill.  This
honest man was true to his promise to keep his mouth
shut, but he overlooked informing the Senator that
he had already given the first of his co-labourers he
met in the hall a fragmentary account of the mix-up.
He had given the names only of Senators Ruffin and
Killam, as he did not know the others, all of whom
he thought were members of the Lower House.

The reporters were on the trail in an hour.  They
interviewed the Senators, but these were dumb.  They
found that the Senate attendant who had his information
second-hand was the only source of news supply.
What this fellow lacked in knowledge, however, he
supplied out of his imagination; and the details grew
and multiplied as different reporters interviewed him.
At best there was much to be supplied by the young
gentlemen of the press, and the result was as many
different stories as there were men on the job.  The
nearest any of them got to the truth was to say that
two Congressmen had been discussing the negro
question and had come to blows because some woman's
name had been dragged in, and that one had broken
the other's jaw.  This much in the evening papers.

By the next morning the newspaper ferrets had
located all the actors and eye-witnesses and gave their
names to the public.  Fortunately the attendant had
not caught Smith's remark but only his rebuke by
Senator Ruffin.  So that the public knew only that
Evans Rutledge had unset or broken the jaw of
Congressman Smith because of some improper use of a
young lady's name.  Whose, none of the gentlemen
would say.

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Evans Rutledge was in a fever of anxiety lest that
name should get to the public.  He was sure that he
could not face Elise again if it did.  Senator Ruffin's
rebuke had sunk deep into his heart and he felt more
guilty than Smith.  He looked over the morning and
evening papers very carefully to see whether they had
discovered the young woman, before he finally
decided to go to Senator DeVale's as he had promised
Lola.  When he arrived he found, beside Elise, only
Alice Mackenzie, Hazard and young MacLane, an
under-secretary of the British embassy.  Others who
were to come failed to appear.

Elise was not pleased with the situation.  She was
quite willing to be ordinarily civil to Mr. Rutledge,
but she knew that nothing could separate MacLane
and Alice Mackenzie, and that Hazard had known
Lola so long and had proposed to her so regularly
and insistently that he was for her or for nobody.
It looked a little too much, therefore, as if she had
chosen Evans for her very own for the evening.  She
did not want him to think such a thing possible.  She
remembered his point-blank editorial utterance that
those small sentiments—loves and hates—melted
away before exhibitions of social equality with
negroes—so at least she construed it—and she could
not but resent it, though she would not admit she
troubled herself to do that.

"Now, young people," said Lola, "as the
programme has been spoiled we will make this an
evening of do-as-you-please."

"Good, very good," commented Hazard.  "In that
case you will please to come over here and take this
chair and let's finish that conversation we were
having last night when the unpronounceable Russian took
you away from me."

"I am afraid that conversation is a serial story,"
she laughed, taking the chair he placed for her.

MacLane asked Alice Mackenzie some vague question
about a song, which only she could interpret,
and they by common impulse went through the wide
door to the piano in the back parlour, where after
she had hummed a short love ballad for him to piano
accompaniment they dropped into a pianissimo duet
of love without accompaniment.

Elise, feeling that she was being thus thrown at
Mr. Rutledge's head, came to the mark with spirit and
kept him guessing for an hour.  She resented his
possible inference that she had chosen him for an
evening's *tête-à-tête*, and set about to show him that such
was not the fact by a display of perversity and
brilliance which dazzled while it irritated him.  She
would assume for a moment an intimately friendly,
even confiding, manner that like the breath of the
honeysuckle at his Pacolet plantation home would
set his senses a-swim,—and in the next moment chill
his glowing heart with the iciest of conventional
reserve or answer his sincerest speeches with the light
disdain and indifference of a mocking spirit.  At one
time she would kindle his admiration for her
quickness of thought and keenness of repartee; and again
appear so dull and careless that he must needs
explain his own essays at wit.

Her caprices, so plainly intentional yet inexplicable,
exasperated him almost to the point of open rebellion,
and the more evident his perturbation became, the
more spirit she put into the game.  She won him back
from a half-dozen fits of resentful impatience to the
very edge of intoxication,—only to bait him again
more outrageously.

Lola DeVale, perfectly familiar with the theme of
Oliver Hazard's serial, found time even while
admiring Hazard's ability to decorate his story in
ever-changing and ever pleasing colours, to note that Elise
was giving Rutledge a tempestuous hour.

"It's a shame for her to treat him so," she said to
Hazard, interpreting her meaning by a nod toward
Elise and Evans.

"I hadn't noticed.  What's she doing to him?"

"I believe he loves her, and she has been treating
him shamefully all evening."

"So that was it," murmured Hazard.  "She
certainly ought to be good to him."

"Beg pardon, I didn't understand you," said Lola.

"I said she ought to be good to him."

"I heard that.  But the other remark you made?"

Hazard caught himself, and looked at Lola steadily.
"I was so bold as to express an opinion—which had
not been requested—and to aver that—she—er—ought
to be good to him," he repeated with an over-done
blankness of countenance.

"You come on," said Lola as she rose.  "We are
going to scare up something for you people to eat,"
she remarked to the others.

"Now, sir," she said when she had gotten him into
the dining-room, "I'll see what sort of a reporter I
could be.  Stand right there, and look at me.
Now.—why did Mr. Rutledge knock Congressman Smith
down?  No, no, stand perfectly still—and no evasion."

"What are you talking about?" asked Hazard.

"Don't be silly," the girl said impatiently.  "I
read something more than the society and fashion
columns in the newspapers.  Tell me.  Why did he
break Mr. Smith's jaw?—who was the young lady?—and
what did Mr. Smith say of her?  I know it
was Elise; but tell me about it—and hurry, for those
people are getting hungry."

"I must not tell that, Lola," Hazard answered her
seriously.

"A man should have no secrets from his—proposed—wife."

"Make it *promised* wife and I'll agree," Hazard
replied eagerly, taking her hand.

"No; we'll leave it *proposed* awhile longer," she
answered him archly.  "I've become so accustomed
to it that way that I'd hate to change it."  The smile
she gave him as she slowly drew away her hand would
have bribed any man to treason.

"But we will compromise it," Lola continued.  "I
will be real careful of your honour.  I'll ask you a
question, and if the answer is *yes* you needn't answer
it.  Now—was it not an insult to Elise that
Mr. Rutledge resented?"

"Lola, when you said that word *wife* a moment
since you were—heavenly."

"Hush your nonsense, Ollie....  I knew it was
Elise when you said that thing in the parlour....
Did Mr. Rutledge really break his jaw?"

"Oh, it was beautiful, beautiful," said Hazard with
enthusiasm.  "Such a clean left-hander!  Dropped
him like a beef—he's big as two of Rutledge—in
a wink—before he could finish his sentence,—the
low-bred dog!  Yes, beautifully done, beaut—"

"Here they come," said Lola.  She was busily
breaking out the stores from the sideboard when Elise
and Rutledge appeared.

"Here, Mr. Hazard, take this dish in to that
mooning young couple in the back parlour.  And you,
Mr. Rutledge, just force them to eat enough of these
pickles to keep their tempers in equilibrium."

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"Oh, my dear," she exclaimed when the two men
were gone, "I've discovered the name of the young
woman Mr. Rutledge fought for.  Ollie let it get
away from him—not the name, but I figured it out.
And for whom do you suppose it was?"

"I haven't the slightest idea," answered Elise in all
truthfulness.

"Of all women you should.  I told you I could
see it in his eyes,"' laughed Lola.

"Not for me?" Elise cried in genuine surprise.

"For you."

"What did the man say?" she asked quickly.

"Some caddish thing, of course.  Men are so nasty.
I didn't have time to get the particulars before you
and Mr. Rutledge followed us in here.  But Ollie
says it was just b-e-a-u-t-iful the way Mr. Rutledge
dropped him—and he's three times as big as
Mr. Rutledge, too—"

"We've tried moral suasion, strategy, force, every
expedient," interrupted Hazard as he and Rutledge
came back into the dining-room, "but the Scotch lass
and her laddie positively decline to be fed by us.
They are fully supplied by their own ravings—ho! don't
throw that salad at me!"

"Here, take a dose of celery quick—a biblical
pun like that is a too serious tax upon the simple
Congressional brain," said Lola.

Hazard looked foolish, and he felt like a fool; but
what real manly lover outside the story-books was
ever else than foolish when love's fit was upon him?

None of the quartette in the dining-room was the
least bit hungry, and it was but a very few moments
till the young hostess led the way back to the parlour,
Elise and Rutledge following slowly.  When they
reached the stairway Elise seated herself on the third
step and by the gesture with which she arranged her
skirts invited Evans to a seat below her.

"Look at that," said Lola to Hazard, glancing
over her shoulder as they passed into the parlour.
"Now she's going to be good to him."

"In the name of heavens, woman, you didn't tell her!"

"Why not?  She's the very one that ought to
know.  She will not inform the reporters."

"But what will she think of me?" asked Hazard
in some concern.

"You?  Why, you don't count!  You are only a
pawn in their game."  As his eyes flashed she added,
with a bewildering tilt of her chin: "I promise to
make good all your losses."

"May my losses prosper!" prayed Hazard audibly.

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Elise used a makeshift conversation with Rutledge
till she heard the humming accents of the others well
going, and then—

"Mr. Rutledge," she said.  "I wish to speak to
you of your defence of my name when that Mr. Smith—"

The suddenness of it routed all Rutledge's cool
senses.

"Oh, Miss Phillips," he broke in, "I am so sorry
that I should have done anything to accentuate that
abominable fellow's remark.  I am so heartily
ashamed of my unpardonable boyish thoughtlessness
and lack of consideration that I cannot find words
to express my contempt for myself," etc., to the same
effect, without giving Elise a chance to speak, till she
was surprised in turn, then amused, then annoyed.
Finally, in order to bring him to a reasonable
coherency, she interrupted his self-denunciations.

"What did Mr. Smith say of me, Mr. Rutledge?"

"I can't repeat that to you, Miss Phillips."

"You must if the words are decent.  Tell me at
once.  I must know."

"He simply coupled your name with that of—Doctor
Woods—the negro who—lunched at your
home in Cleveland."

Evans forced out the last half-dozen words with a
visible effort—which the girl may have misinterpreted.

"Oh!"  She dropped her face in her hands.  She
had not dreamed of that explanation.  But she
gathered herself in a moment.  Every pennyweight of her
admirable pride came to her support.  At the mention
of "negro luncheon" she was on guard against
Rutledge, her kindly purpose forgotten.  She sat straight
up and with a perfect dignity said:

"I thank you, Mr. Rutledge, for your well-meant
efforts in my behalf, but my father is abundantly able
both to choose the guests who shall dine at his table,
and to protect my name, whenever indeed it shall need
a champion."  She closed the discussion by rising.

Evans did not tarry long.  He was too badly scattered.
The other guests soon followed, except Elise,
who remained overnight at Lola's insistence.

"Come right up to my room and tell me all about
it....  What *did* you do to that miserable man?
You ought to be spanked, Elise."

"I did nothing to him."

"And why didn't you?  I said to Ollie when you
sat down on the stairs, 'Now she's going to be good
to him.'  Did you tell him you knew?"

"Yes."

"What did he say?"

"He—apologized," said Elise with a nervous laugh.

"*Apologized*!  For mercy's sake!—and what else?"

"I accepted his apology—on condition he would
not do it again;" and she broke out into real mirth
at sight of Lola's scandalized face.





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.. _`CHAPTER XVI`:

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   CHAPTER XVI

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If *The Mail's* editorial was conservative, other
papers were not so respectful.  It was worse even
than Mrs. Phillips had predicted.  All over the South
the papers ran the whole gamut of indignation and
abuse from lofty scorn all the way down to plain
editorial fits.  The entire Southern press, Democratic,
Republican, and Independent, except a few sheets
edited by negroes, were of one mind on the subject of
negroes dining with white men.  Papers that had
supported Mr. Phillips heartily were all severe, some of
them bitter, in their denunciations.

The Wordyfellow element in the school-fund fight
welcomed the President's act as a boon from heaven.
They raised a howl that was heard in every nook and
corner of the Southland, and that by the very
thundering shock of its roar broke through and drove back
the forces of the negro's friends.  The weak-willed
were borne down and the timid and the doubting were
carried away by the purely physical force of noise or
by having lashed to fury their sometimes latent but
ever-present terror of the Black Peril.  And not only
the weak, indeed, and the timid and the doubting went
in crowds to the Wordyfellow camp, but strong men,
fearless men, men of the most philanthropic impulses
toward the negro race, men who had fought openly
and ably the Wordyfellow propaganda, became silent
and began to waver, or deserted the negro's cause
and unhesitatingly espoused the other side.

In vain did the negro's staunchest friends proclaim
their indignation at the President's lunching with
Bishop Martin and Doctor Woods, and try to convince
their people that the South should be true to
its own interests and do simple justice to the negro
despite any act of his fool friends.  It was useless.
The Southern people—the floating vote, the balance
of power—were in no mood to draw fine distinctions,
nor to listen to theories in face of facts.  A
careless hand had struck the wavering balance, and
the beam went steadily down.

Reports of defections began to come rapidly to
Mr. Phillips.  Those from the negroes in the South told
of the losses faithfully, but gave any other than the
true reason for the change of sentiment; while letters
from his white advisers told him more or less plainly
that his negro luncheon had done the damage and
that the cause was as good as lost.

These reports roused the President's fighting blood.
He sent for Mackenzie.

"Read that stack of letters, Mac, and you will see
that the negroes in the South are in a fair way to be
trampled to death.  Now I must head this thing off,
and I want your help.  I am determined to defeat that
Wordyfellow movement if there is power in the
Federal government.  I'll not be content to have the laws
annulled by the Federal Supreme Court after they
are passed, even if that can be done.  We must find
some way to win this fight *in the elections* and thus
give the lie to these prophecies that that luncheon has
lost the battle."

So he and the astute Mackenzie rubbed their heads
together for a week: and finally came to a remedy
so simple that they were ashamed not to have thought
of it at once.  Simple indeed—if they could apply it.
In less than another week, Mr. Hare, the
recognized administration mouthpiece in the House,
introduced a bill appropriating moneys from the national
treasury to the States in proportion to population for
purposes of public education.  The milk in this
legislative cocoanut was a provision that the money
apportioned to each State should be so distributed among
the individual public schools of the State that, when
taken together with the State's own appropriation, all
the schools in the State should be open for terms of
equal length.

From statistics carefully compiled in the office of
the Commissioner of Education Mr. Phillips and
Mr. Mackenzie had calculated the amount of the
appropriation so that if the Southern States adopted the
Wordyfellow plan the negro race would get virtually
the whole of the appropriation from the national
government.

Elise Phillips, persuading herself that she was on
the lookout for reasons to despise Mr. Rutledge,
regularly read the editorial column of *The Mail*.

There one morning she learned that "the immediate
effect of the introduction of the Hare Bill in the
House has been to transfer the fight from the South
to Washington.  True, the Wordyfellow speakers and
press have raised a more ear-splitting howl, and
opened up with every gun of argument, appeal, abuse,
expletive and rant; but they see clearly that this bill
if passed will bring all their schemes to naught, and
that the issue has been taken out of their hands.  It
is tantalizingly uncertain to them whether the bill will
become a law; for there are many incidental
questions and considerations which complicate the issue
here at Washington.  But all men know that when
Mr. Phillips sets his head for anything he will move
heaven and earth to attain it.  Few doubt his power
to whip many Representatives and Senators into line
or his readiness to wield the whip if the fate of any
pet measure demands it.  There is much of the Jesuit
in Mr. Phillips' philosophy of life and action.  When
he believes a thing is right he believes that no
squeamish notion should prevent his bringing it to pass.
Keep your eyes on him!  It is always interesting to
see how he does it."

"Pity he is not a Senator!" Elise commented with
scornful impatience as she threw the paper down,
"that papa might whip him into becoming modesty!"

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At the moment Elise was so delivering her mind,
a telegraph boy was handing Rutledge a message.
He tore it open and read:

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"COLUMBIA, S.C, Jan. 9th, 191-.

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"EVANS RUTLEDGE,
   "Washington, D.C.

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"Exactly how old are you and where do you vote?

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"W. D. ROBERTSON."

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Evans looked around behind the telegraph-sheet as
if seeking an explanation.  He gazed quizzically at
the messenger-boy, but that young gentleman only
grinned and then looked solemn.

"Well," Evans muttered, "what the devil's up
Robbie's back now?"

He sat down and thought the thing over awhile.
Then he constructed a reply.

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"WASHINGTON, Jan. 9th, 191-.

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"W. D. ROBERTSON, Atty.-General,
   "Columbia, S.C.

.. vspace:: 1

"Your telegram received.  If it is official I decline
to answer.  *Entre nous* I will be thirty-one on the
29th of February at something like twenty minutes
past three in the morning—they didn't have a
stopwatch in the house.  I vote in Cherokee County,
Pacolet precinct, generally of late in a cigar-box in the
shed-room of Jake Sims's store where Gus Herndon
used to run a barber-shop when you and I were
young, Maggie.  Why?  EVANS RUTLEDGE."

.. vspace:: 2

"Send that *collect*, youngster.  We'll make old
Robbie pay for his impertinence."

"Look here, sonny," he called to the boy who had
gotten out the door, "bring any answer to that down
to the Capitol.  I am going to have a look at the
Senate."

He was sitting beside Lola DeVale in the members'
gallery when the answer came.

.. vspace:: 2

"COLUMBIA, S.C, Jan. 9th, 191-.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent-white-space-pre-line

HON. EVANS RUTLEDGE,
   "Washington, D.C.

"Nothing much.  The governor of South Carolina
simply did not feel like giving a United States
Senatorship either to a boy or to a man from another
State.  He is just mailing your commission as Jones's
successor.  Don't decline it before you hear the whole
story.  Congratulations to you.

.. vspace:: 1

"W. D. ROBERTSON."

.. vspace:: 2

"This has 'an ancient and fish-like smell.'  Read
it," Rutledge said to Lola when he had recovered
from his astonishment sufficiently to speak.

She took the telegram and while she was trying
to interpret its import Senator Killam came hurriedly
into the gallery and seized upon Rutledge.

"I got a telegram from the governor half an hour
ago and have been trying to find you ever since," he
exclaimed.  "He has appointed you—oh, you have
heard, I see.  Well, come right down with me.  I
want to present you to your colleagues."

Evans could doubt no longer, and Lola DeVale had
grasped the meaning of it.

"I am so glad to be the first to congratulate you,"
she said, and he felt the sincerity of her good wishes
in her warm hand-grasp.  Then Senator Killam
carried him off.

.. vspace:: 1

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



"I know it came 'like a bolt from the blue' to
you," Robertson wrote to him; "but the whys and
wherefores need not mystify you.  There cannot be
the slightest doubt of your ability to fill the office—full
to the brim; and the rest is easy.  You know the
old man fully intended all along to contest for the
place with Jones, whose term would have expired
with the old man's term as governor.  Jones's demise,
however, presented a problem to him that has driven
him to the verge of lunacy for a week.  He couldn't
give himself the commission, of course.  He couldn't
resign and get it, for the lieutenant-governor has been
the avowed supporter of LaRoque for the Senatorship.
He couldn't give it to LaRoque or Pressley,
for the three of them are too evenly matched....
When he finally came to the idea of appointing some
one to fill the vacancy who was clearly not in the
running so that the primaries might settle it among
the three of them, I suggested you.  He jumped at
the idea....  The old man has every reason to feel
kindly toward you both for your father's sake and for
your own excellent work's sake, and he does not doubt
your friendliness to himself....  You will have less
than six months in which to make a name for
yourself, but—perhaps—who can tell? ... I wish I
had such an opportunity.  I am heartily glad you
have it."

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



Senator Rutledge was pitched right into the middle
of the fight on the Hare Bill—and fight it was for
him.  Senator Killam essayed to take the young man
under his wing and chaperone his conduct according
to his ideas of the political proprieties, but he found
that the junior Senator had a mind of his own, and
could not be managed, overawed or bullied.  This
roused Mr. Killam's ire at once.  He wasn't
accustomed to it.  The dead Senator Jones had never had
the effrontery to think for himself; and for this
youngster to presume to walk alone was more than
Mr. Killam could forgive.

Solely because of Mr. Killam's personal attitude
and treatment of him, Rutledge wished it were over
and done with long before the finish; but he never
lost his nerve.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



It seemed that the suspense would be ended quickly
when the House under pressure of the rules passed
the Hare Bill almost without debate: but when it
came before the Senate it was evident at once that
those dignitaries would take abundance of time to
consider it,—if for no other reason than to prove
to themselves they were the greatest deliberative body
on earth.

However, with all the Senate's deliberation the very
frenzy of the Wordyfellow crowd's screams evidenced
their realization that their game was balked—and
that, too, in a manner that was maddening: for it
left them not the frenzied pleasure of fighting their
precious battle against the negro out to the end and
going down to harmless defeat in pyrotechnic glory.
No; it placed them in a dilemma where they must
humiliate themselves by a surrender before the battle,
or fight it to a barren victory at the polls, which would
not only bring actual benefit to the negro in the South
but also give to the Northern States the lion's share
of a large appropriation.

Facing this dilemma, they lost heart if they lost
nothing of noise.  In all of the interested States
except Mississippi serious discussion of the question
grew less and less rapidly, and was postponed until
after the Senate should vote.  In Mississippi,
however, the tension was increased by the Senate's
deliberation because the date set for the election on the
proposed Wordyfellow amendment to the State
constitution was some time before the Senate would be
forced to vote.  The Mississippians could not decide
for their lives whether they preferred to vote on their
amendment first or have the Senate vote first on the
bill.  With a faint hope that the bill might not pass,
they were in obvious difficulties in either case.

Southern Senators were overwhelmed with all
manner of conflicting and confusing petitions, and as a
result about one half of them favoured the bill for
one reason or another, while the other half more or
less bitterly opposed it.  The discussion, when the bill
finally came out of committee, took the widest
range,—from the constitutional objections raised by the
Texas Senator (whose State, having a large school-fund
income, did not need the appropriation) and the
savage attacks upon the negro race generally by
Senator Killam, to the purely pro-educational reasoning
of most of the supporting Senators from the
South—among whom was Senator Ruffin—and the
pro-negro speech of the young Senator Rutledge.

The adjective *pro-negro* may give an erroneous
impression of Senator Rutledge's ideas.  The term is
the Senator's own.  From his speech in full in the
*Congressional Record* the reader may determine for
himself whether the term is apt.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XVII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVII

.. vspace:: 2

Senator Rutledge gave notice that on February
23d he would address the Senate on the Hare Bill.
On that day the galleries were crowded to hear him,
his State's delegation in the House was present in a
body, accompanied by many other representatives from
North and South.  No one knew how he would vote,
for he had listened much and talked little.  He said:

"Mr. President: There have been many terms
used on this floor and in the public prints since this
bill was introduced, by which to distinguish and
define and lay open to public view the motives which are
supposed to lie behind the votes that will be cast for
and against it.

"We have heard 'unconstitutional,' 'anti-negro,'
'pro-educational,' 'watch-dog of the treasury,' and
others equally descriptive if less parliamentary.  I
have not heard 'pro-negro.'

"So, to save my friends—and enemies, if I have
any—the trouble of search and imaginings, I adopt
that term, '*pro-negro*,' as descriptive of my attitude
toward the matters affected by this bill.

"It is an open secret, Mr. President, that this
measure, which bears the non-committal title of 'an act
to promote education' is a White House production
designed and introduced for the single purpose of
defeating what is known as the Wordyfellow
school-fund movement in the South generally, more
specifically now in the State of Mississippi.  Because I
think it will accomplish that purpose, both general
and special,—because I am 'for the negro,'—for
him on his own account,—for his elevation as a race
to the highest level which his essential nature in the
purposes of God will permit him to attain,—because
I believe the success of the Wordyfellow movement
would mean his degradation, his hopeless continuance
in his present low estate,—because, in a word,
I am *pro-negro*; I shall vote for this bill.

"I should despise myself, sir, if I had within me
other sentiments toward any man or race of men,
and I feel, therefore, that it is not unbecoming in me
to arrogate to myself the pure unselfishness of this
motive.  And yet, sir, if the love of one's race may
be called a selfish passion, I must confess that right
alongside of this unselfish desire for the negro's
welfare, there lies in my heart a selfish passion for the
progress, the multiplying prosperity and more
abounding happiness of my own people, the white men and
women of the South, which desire also with no less
power but indeed with compelling forcefulness bids
me to oppose the Wordyfellow idea with every faculty
and expedient, and therefore to vote for this measure.

"I wish to make it clear at the outset that, while
I shall heartily support this White House bill, I give
not the slightest credit to the President for having
prepared it and sent it here.  He deserves none.  The
bill is a necessity, and as such I vote for it: but the
President is the one man who has made it a necessity.

"If he had not injected into the situation his negro
luncheon (and to that I will pay my respects before
I have finished), my people would have defeated the
Wordyfellow movement; for the battle was going
our way.  It is as little as President Phillips can do
now to suggest this method, expensive though it is,
to repair the damage he has done the negro's cause
in the South.  He comes praying us to pay the negro
out of the difficulty in which he has involved him,
and *as friends of the negro* there is nothing for us to
do but furnish the money, however much we may
deplore the Executive folly that makes the outlay
imperative.

"Now, Mr. President, let us inquire directly into
the merits of the Wordyfellow plan.  The proposed
amendment to the constitution of Mississippi provides
that the school fund shall be divided between the white
and negro schools in proportion to the taxes paid to
the State by each of the two races for school purposes.
As there are six negroes to four whites in the
State, and as the negroes pay less than ten per cent
of the school taxes, such a division of the school fund
will give the white children thirteen days' schooling
to the negro's one.

"Such a proposition is illogical, pernicious, insane.

"Look at the logic of it.  Governor Wordyfellow
defends the general proposition by some scattering
statistics which prove to his mind that education
generally is not good for the negro; but he justifies the
division of the school fund on the basis of contribution
upon the supposed principle that the negro will
get back all that he pays in and therefore cannot
rightly demand more.

"That so-called principle will not hold water a
moment.  I would say to the gentlemen from the
South, Mr. President,—to those who are supporting
the Wordyfellow propaganda—that if they proceed
on that theory they must give to *every* man what he
pays into the treasury: which means that the State
must expend more for the tuition of the sons of the
rich than the sons of the poor.  If every man has a
right to demand for his own children the taxes he
pays for school purposes, then the State has no right
to tax one man to educate another's child—and the
promoters of this idea have pulled down the whole
public school system about their ears.

"If such a division is proposed on the ground that
no sort of education is good for the negro, and we
believe that, then let us take away from the negro
by constitutional amendment *all* the money collected
from him by the State for school purposes and give
it to the white children.  That would be logical, that
would be sensible, that would be Scriptural.  Let us
be logical and sensible and fearless about this matter.

"But I cannot think these leaders of the Wordyfellow
forces believe that, Mr. President, though I
fear that they have persuaded thousands of their less
intelligent following to believe it thoroughly.  No, you
do not believe it; but you do believe that some
particular kinds of education—literary education, for
example—is positively harmful to the negro, while
some other particular sort—industrial education,
perhaps—is beneficial and would uplift the negro race.

"If you admit that,—and it has been conceded
on this floor by some of the leaders of the Wordyfellow
movement that industrial education is good for
the negro and will make a better man and a better
citizen of him; then in face of the appalling menace
of his ignorance and depravity which have been
painted in such lurid colours here, *let us by
constitutional amendment give him more than his per capita
share of the school tax*.  Yes, let us give to him
proportionately in keeping with our keenest fears, our
wildest terror, of the Black Peril—all if need be—to
educate him *in that particular line that will uplift
him* and make a safe citizen of him, in order that we
may save ourselves alive and escape the woes of that
peril.  All education administered by the State is
given in the exercise of a sort of quasi police power—to
protect itself from the violence of ignorance:
and we would be well within an ancient principle if
we should lay out extraordinary funds to police the
black cesspools that threaten our civic life.

"It is clearly demonstrable, therefore, that upon
any theory of the negro's inability or limited ability
to be benefited by education, or upon the assumption
of its positive hurtfulness to him, the Wordyfellow
amendment is absolutely illogical.  The whole
Wordyfellow proposition is based upon a false assumption
in the first place, and the Wordyfellow remedy does
not have the merit of being true even to the fictitious
Wordyfellow premises.  For all this agitation against
the education of the negro race proceeds upon the
theory that the negro is not altogether a man, that
he is without the one aptitude common to all other
peoples, white, yellow or red—the disposition to be
uplifted in civilization by the spread of a higher
intelligence among his race.

"That theory, Mr. President, is false!  And while
I believe the great majority of my people reject it
despite the insistence with which it has been in small
measure openly, in large measure indirectly, presented
to them for acceptance, I have thought it worth while
to inquire closely and specifically into the effect of the
*higher literary* education upon the black men and
women who have been so fortunate as to acquire it.
I give to the Senators not only as the result of my
investigation but as the result of my personal
observation as a man brought up in the South, my sincere
opinion that education of the negro in the usual
literary studies from the kindergarten to the college,
as well as along industrial lines, is as a rule beneficial
and uplifting to him.

"It is true that a smattering of education in some
instances gives a negro the idea that he is to get a
living without work, and that such notions would not
be wholesome if prevailing among a population which
must do manual labour.  This need not alarm us,
however; for it is not an unusual thing for a college
education to give a white boy the same notion.  We
do not limit his education on that account.  In the
post-graduate school of Hard Knocks he always finds
out—and no less surely will the negro boy of
similar delusion learn—especially as education becomes
more and more a possession of the masses and not
a privilege of the few—that the great majority of
men, whether black or white, lettered or unlettered,
must work, and work with their hands.

"Let me add, lest I be misunderstood, that while
I believe the negro race as a race will be hewers of
wood and drawers of water for generations to come,
and that education will be beneficial to them as a
toiling class, I am not of those who believe that when
by education you spoil a negro field-hand you have
committed a crime.  I have no sympathy with a
sentiment that would confine any man to a limited though
respectable and honourable work when he has within
him the aspiration and the ability to serve his race
and his time in broader fields.

"Those, in a nutshell, Mr. President, are the
primary reasons why I am opposed to the Wordyfellow
movement, and shall vote for this bill.  The secondary
reasons are hardly less forceful.

"I want this bill passed and passed quickly in order
to avoid the pernicious incidental effects of the
agitation of this question among my people.  It has bred
and is breeding antagonisms between the white and
black races in the South such as did not result from
the horrors of reconstruction or the excitement of
negro disfranchisement.  In those issues the negro
truthfully was told and well may have believed that
the white man was driven to protect himself against
the ignorance and depravity of the black.  In this case,
however, the negro feels, and rightly, that the white
man would condemn him perpetually to that ignorance
and depravity.  From the negro's view-point the white
man's motive is now what it never was before: base,
worse than selfish, wantonly, vindictively cruel.

"Again the propagation of the Wordyfellow idea
teaches incidentally that in this democratic country,
where by the very nature of our institutions the
welfare of each is the welfare of all, where forsooth a
Christian civilization has reached its highest
development, even here, the strong may desert the weak and
leave them to their own pitiful devices and defences.

"It teaches also the doctrine—more potent for
evil—that the government may take note of racial
classes for the purpose of dealing out its favours and
benefits with uneven hands, preferring one to the
other.  If it may do this when the class differences
are racial, it is but half a step to the proposition that
it may do so when the differences exist whether they
be racial or other.  It takes no seer to see that after
that proposition—no, *with* that proposition—comes
the deluge.

"Such, Mr. President, are some, not all, of the
incidental effects of the propagation of the
Wordyfellow idea which clearly and with vast conservatism
may be called pernicious.  But there is yet another
effect which will be inevitable upon the adoption of
the Wordyfellow plan, and which has been in large
measure produced already by the discussion of it, in
the light of which deliberate advocacy of the
Wordyfellow idea fairly may be called insane; and that is
the severing of all bonds of sympathy and good-will
between the races when the negro is told by white
men, 'Here, take the pitiful portion that is yours, and
go work out your own bitter, black salvation, alone—if
you can.'

"All this agitation, all our concern, is predicated
upon the deadly menace which this people, numbering
one-third of the population of the South and gathered
in many sections in overwhelming majorities, is to
our civic and industrial happiness and progress: and
it does seem the sheerest insanity to sever the bonds
of sympathy and helpfulness which now bind the races
together, surrender all our interest and right to
control in the method of the negro's uplifting, and leave
him to develop along any haphazard or dangerous
lines without sympathy, respect, or regard for us, our
ideas, or our ideals.

"The negro has been enough of a problem and a
terror to my people with all our ability to control him
through his ignorance, his fears, his affection and his
respect for us.  We have been careless at times
perhaps as to how we made use of these instruments for
his management.  The more fools we if we now throw
away his affection and his respect, cut loose from him
entirely, and leave him to develop under teachers of
his own race who with distorted vision or prejudiced
heart will replace his ignorance with a knowledge at
least of his brute strength, and cancel his fears with
hate.

"My people give freely hundreds of thousands of
dollars yearly to the degraded of other lands in whom
they have only the interest which Christians have in
universal humanity, and they place in the calendar of
the saints the names of the godly men and women
who go to work personally to uplift the heathen.  I
do not think that in their cool senses their Christian
impulses, to which is added the motive of self-interest,
will permit them to cut off their contributions to and
support of any instrumentality which will elevate the
degraded in their own land whose depravity is so
pregnant with dire possibilities to them.  I pray the
day to come when, among my people, it shall be
thought just as praiseworthy, as noble, as saintly for
a Southern white man to give his life and energies
to the personal instruction, uplifting and redemption
of the negroes in America as of the negroes in
Africa or the heathen in any land.

"That prayer, Mr. President, which is sincerely
from my heart, brings me to the discussion of President
Phillips' negro policy.  I shall not expect to see
the prayer answered so long as the Chief Executive
of this nation shows a disposition to deal so
carelessly, so arbitrarily, with such cock-sure flippancy,
with the convictions, prejudices if you will, of the
brave and generous people who are face to face in
their race problem not with a far-away academic
question about which they may safely speculate and
theorize, but face to face with a present, tangible,
appalling issue in whose solution is life or death to them.

"To my people the consequences are so vital that
they sometimes are led perhaps beyond what is really
necessary in the way of defence,—for any sane man
prefers to be doubly guarded against death.  So it
has been that while they are not favourable to the
Wordyfellow plan they have been stampeded to it
by the Phillips negro luncheon.

"Let me explain that when I speak of the President's
negro policy I do not mean to include his
appointments of negroes to office.  I think we of the
South have in these matters to some extent confused
the issues, and proportionately weakened our position
before the outside public.  Not that I approve of
appointing negroes to office in the South, for I do not.
I think the weight of all considerations is against it.
But the considerations either for or against it are
considerations of expediency.  They are not vital.  If the
President wishes to vindicate his negro appointments
on the ground that his appointees are of his party,
the best men of his party, and fairly efficient,—let
him.  Such reasons have been given for political
appointments time out of mind, although they are not
conclusive in any case and especially not in the matter
of negro office-holding in the South.  *But let him not*
go into cheap heroics such as were indulged in by a
recent negro appointee, who tragically exclaimed that
if his appointment was not confirmed his race would
be set back thirty years!

"Such rant is only ridiculous.  Office-holding is
not a recognized or an actual instrumentality for
uplifting or civilizing a people; and it is not a theory
of this or any other form of government that its
mission or method is to uplift its citizenship, white or
black, by making place-holders of them.  It is not
closing any legitimate door of hope to negro or white
man to refuse him a Presidential appointment.  The
'door of hope,' whatever else it may be to white or
black, is not the door to a government office.

"The real basis of the race issue, Mr. President,
has nothing to do with politics or political appointments,
with office-getting or office-holding.  If by
some trick of chance a negro—some prodigy lofty
in character and in the science and wisdom of
statecraft—were President of this nation to-day, and
were by unanimous consent a model Executive, the
real race problem would not be affected a feather's
weight.  The world must understand that the Southern
white people in the measures they have taken and
will take to protect themselves against the negro are
impelled by weightier considerations than the
pre-emption of the dignities or emoluments of politics.
It is true that they have taken the governments of the
Southern States into their own hands, away from
negro majorities in many sections.  It may be true
that in order to do this they have nullified provisions
of the Federal constitution.  But they have done so
from no such small motive as a desire to hold public
office.

"My people have all respect for the wisdom of the
makers of the constitution, who framed an instrument
perfectly suited to the conditions as they existed at
the time and continued to exist for eighty years,
prescribing the method of majority rule for a people who
were of an approximately equal civic intelligence and
virtue.  But when the conditions were changed and
a vast horde of illiterate and—in the hands of
unscrupulous leaders—vicious voters were added to the
electorate, stern necessity forbade them longer to give
a sentimental support to so-called fundamental
principles in the constitution and permit ignorance to rule
intelligence and vice to rule virtue.

"The 'fundamental principles' in that constitution,
Mr. President, are nothing more or less than
wisely conceived *policies* which were tried, proved,
and found good under the conditions for which they
were devised.  The 'fundamental principle' upon
which the race problem of the South may be solved
will have been discovered with certainty only *after*
a solution has been accomplished by the conscientious
effort and best thought of Southern white men.

"And they will solve this problem.  It can never
be settled, of course, till Southern white men acquiesce
in its settlement.  They will settle it in righteousness
and will accept with gratefulness any suggestion
which their fellow countrymen have to offer in a spirit
of sympathy and helpfulness.  But it may as well be
understood that any such exhibition as the President's
negro luncheon, which affronts the universal sentiment
of the final arbiters of this question, must
necessarily put further away the day of settlement.  The
negro problem cannot be worked out by any simple
little rule o' thumb, and the negro will always be the
loser by any such melodramatic display of
super-assertive backbone and misinformed conscience.

"The President would settle this matter upon a
purely theoretical academic basis, this matter that in
its practical effects will not touch him nor his family
nor his section, but will affect vitally the happiness,
the lives, the destiny of a chivalrous people whose
ideas, traditions, sentiments and convictions he
carelessly ignores or impetuously insults.  Such
exhibitions do not become a brave man.  They betoken,
rather, a headstrong man, an inconsiderate man, a
thoughtless man, a fanatical man.  It does seem that
President Phillips would have learned wisdom from
the experience of his illustrious predecessor, President
Roosevelt, who did somewhat less of this sort of
thing once—and only once.

"Mr. President, it has been repeatedly said that
the hostility of the white people of the South to social
intermingling with the negro race is an instinct—a
race instinct.  I do not so consider it,—and for two
reasons: first, because many men of Anglo-Saxon
blood—and of these President Phillips is the most
conspicuous example—do not have such an instinct;
second, because instinct is not the result of reason,
while the Southern white man's opposition to social
recognition of the negro is defensible by the purest,
most dispassionate reason.  These convictions are so
well fixed in the Southern mind that they may appear
to be instinctive and measurably serve the purpose of
instinct; but the vital objections of my people to
intermingling socially with the negro are not founded
in any race antipathy, whim, pretence, or prejudice.
They are grounded in the clearest common sense, and
as such only do I care to present or defend them.

"In face of the disaster to be averted, I could wish
that it were an instinct; for instinct does not fail in
a crisis.  But men are more than beasts: the power
to rise is given to them conditioned upon the chance
to fall.  So in this race matter: instinct does not
forbid a white man to marry a black woman;
instinct—more's the horror!—does not forbid a white
woman to wed a negro man.  For this reason it is—for
the very lack of a race instinct is it—that
the social intermingling of the white and black races,
as advocated and practised by President Phillips,
would inevitably bring to pass an amalgamation of
the races with all its foul brood of evils.

"President Phillips, living in a section of the
country where negroes are few—especially such as are
of sufficient intelligence to be interesting to a man of
his attainments—does not dream of amalgamation.
I would not insult him by assuming such a thing.
And yet upon a superficial estimate of conditions in
the South he gives us this impulsive exhibition of
what in one of his high official position is criminal
carelessness.

"The positive element of crime in it is not in the
affront which a Presidential negro luncheon puts upon
Southern sentiment, but in the suggestion to Southern
and Northern people alike that a social intermingling
of the races—which means amalgamation, however
blind he may be to the fact—is the solution of the
race problem.  The crime would be complete in all
its horror if the South, if the nation, should follow
his lead and achieve the logical result of his teaching.

"From long and intimate acquaintance with the
negro's character, my people know that the Phillips
negro luncheon stimulates not the negro's ambition
and endeavour to improve himself as it tickles and
arouses his vanity.  When the ordinary darkey hears
of it he thinks it not a recognition of the superior
abilities of Bishop Martin and Doctor Woods, but a
social recognition of the negro race; and forthwith
deems himself the equal of the white man and desires
unutterable things.  And not without reason.

"The black people appreciate what the President's
act means for them.  They do not misinterpret its
tendency.  A prominent negro said in a recent mass
meeting in Richmond: 'No two peoples having the
same religion and speaking the same tongue, living
together, have ever been kept apart.  This is well
known and is one of the reasons why the dominant
race is crushing out the strength of the negro in the
South.  I am afraid we are anarchistic and I give
warning that if this oppression in the South continues
the negro must resort to the torch and the sword, and
that the Southland will become a land of blood and
desolation.'

"This inflammatory utterance indicates the
interpretation put by negroes upon President Phillips'
open-dining-room-door policy, and the nature of the
hopes and aspirations it arouses in the black man's
heart.  And the serious thing is the element of truth
in the negro's erroneous statement.  It is true as
gospel that no two races of people, living together,
have ever *intermingled socially* without amalgamating.
It is hardly necessary to cite evidence of that
fact or to give the reasons underlying it.  It might
be taken as axiomatic that social intermingling means
amalgamation.

"If men and women were attracted to each other
and loved and mated because of equal endowments
of virtue, or intelligence, or beauty, or upon any basis
of similar accomplishments, tastes, or mental, moral
or physical excellences, then a gulf-stream of
Anglo-Saxon blood might flow unmixed and pure through a
sea of social contact with the negro race; but until
love and marriage are placed among the exact
sciences, social intermingling of races will ever result
as it ever has resulted: in the general admixture of
racial bloods.

"When racial barriers are broken down and it is
proper for negroes and whites to associate freely and
intimately, when you—white men—receive negroes
on a plane of social equality, your women will marry
them, your sons will take them to wife.  Shall you
say to your daughter of the negro whom you receive
in your home: 'He is an excellent man but—do
not marry him'?  Shall you say to your son
enamoured of a quadroon: 'She is a very worthy young
woman and an ornament to our circle of friends,
but—I have chosen another wife for you'?  When did
such considerations ever guide or curb the fancy of
the youthful heart or diminish the travel to Gretna
Green?  No, the line never has been drawn between
free social intercourse and intermarriage; and while
the Southern people believe they could draw that line
if any people could, they do not propose to make any
reckless experiments where all is to be lost and
nothing gained.

"A president of one of our great universities is
quoted as saying: 'The Southern white sees a race
danger in eating at the same table with a negro; he
sees in being the host or the guest of a negro an act
of race infidelity.  The Northern white sees nothing
of the kind.  The race danger does not enter into his
thoughts at all.  To be the host or the guest of a
negro, a Mexican or a Japanese would be for him
simply a matter of present pleasure, convenience or
courtesy.  It would never occur to him that such an
act could possibly harm his own race.  His pride of
race does not permit him to entertain such an idea.
This is a significant difference between Northern
white and Southern white.'

"In noting significant differences between
Northern white and Southern white this authority must
have been advertent to the fact that the pride of race
of his 'Northern white' does not prevent them from
furnishing the overwhelming majority of interracial
marriages with negroes, as well as with Chinese,
Japanese and every other alien race—this, too, with a
very small negro population.  If the negroes were
proportionately as numerous in the North as in the
South and such sentiments prevailed, how long, with
interracial marriages increased in numbers in
proportion to opportunity, would there be an Anglo-Saxon
'Northern white' to have a pride of race?  If with
these facts before his eyes the distinguished educator
sees no race danger in the social mingling of white
and black people, it easily may be inferred that he
sees no objection to amalgamation.

"The Southern white man does see a race danger
in these social amenities, Mr. President; for he
cannot view amalgamation or the faintest prospect of
it with any sentiment save horror: and he fortifies
himself against that danger not only with the peculiar
pride of race—of which he has a comfortable
supply—but with every expedient suggested by his common
sense, his experience, and by the horrible example
which that distinguished educator's 'Northern white'
has furnished him.

"In providing against this danger my people are
moved from without by the sight of no occasional
negro such as at odd times crosses this New
Englander's vision, nor from within by any unreasonable
or jealous hatred of the negro such as has characterized
certain 'Northern whites' from the time they
burned negro orphan asylums in resentment at being
drafted to fight their country's battles down to this
good day when they mob a negro for trying to do an
honest day's work.  No! the Southern white man is
driven to his defences by a sentiment void of offence
toward the negro, and by the daily impending
spectacle of black, half-barbarous hosts who menace the
Anglo-Saxon civilization of the South and of the
nation.

"President Phillips has modestly borrowed from
one of his predecessors words with which to defend
his social amenities to negroes.  He quotes and says
he would 'bow his head in shame' were he 'by word
or deed to add anything to the misery of the awful
isolation of the negroes who have risen above their
race.'  Two things may be said of that, Mr. President:
first, isolation has been the price of leadership
in all ages, and the negroes who are the pioneers of
their race in their long and painful journey upward
may not hope to escape it: second, the President's
borrowed sentimental reason cuts the ground from
under his feet, for that forcible Rooseveltian phrase,
'the misery of the awful isolation of black men who
have risen above their race,' concedes the premises on
which the South's contention is based, since it admits
there is such a great gulf between the negro *race* and
the *risen* negro that his isolation fitly may be described
in the words 'misery,' 'awful.'  It is a peculiar order
of Executive intellect and sensibility that can have
such a keen sense of the misery which association
with the lowly of his own race brings to an educated
negro—who cannot in the very nature of things have
put off all his hereditary deficiencies and tastes in a
generation; and that yet seems not to be touched with
any sense of the unspeakable misery such association
and its inevitable consequences would have for my
people—his Anglo-Saxon brethren—who, if there
be any virtue in the refining processes of civilization,
any redemptive power in the Christian religion, any
progression in the purposes of God in the earth, are
a thousand years ahead of the negro—any negro—in
every racial excellence.

"Oh, but, you say, President Phillips means for
us to associate only with those who are worthy, those
who have 'risen.'  Even that would be fatal,
Mr. President.  Beyond the truth already stated that
considerations of merit will be forgotten and brushed
aside if the social racial barrier is broken down at any
point, and that social intermingling inevitably leads
to intermarriage, there is a greater fact, a deeper
truth, underlying this question.  That fact, that truth,
is that in estimating the result of mixing racial bloods
not the man only and his personal accomplishments
or individual culture must be considered, but his
heredity, his race peculiarities and proclivities, every
element that has gone into his blood.

"An occasional isolated negro may have broken
the shackles of ignorance, measurably and admirably
brought under control the half-savage passions of his
nature, acquired palpable elegances of person and
manner, and taken on largely the indefinable graces
of culture: yet beneath all this creditable but thin
veneer of civilization there slumber in his blood the
primitive passions and propensities of his immediate
ancestors, which are transmitted through him as latent
forces of evil to burst out in his children and
grandchildren in answer to the call of the wild.  A man is
not made in one generation or two.  Every man gets
the few ruling passions of his life from the
numberless endowments of a hundred progenitors, and these
few show out, while scores of others run so deep in
his blood that they never crop out in his deeds but
pass quietly on as static forces of good or evil to his
children and their children before rising to the surface
as dynamics in life and character.

"A Northern gentlewoman in a recent magazine
article, defending her willingness to offer social
courtesies to a prominent negro, speaks of him as one 'of
whom an exquisite woman once said he has the soul
of a Christian, the heart of a gentleman, and the eyes
of the jungle.'  That illustrates the idea perfectly,
Mr. President,—*the eyes of the jungle*.  Despite the
fact that it is easier to breed up physical than
temperamental qualities in man or beast, easier to breed
out physical than mental or moral or spiritual
blood-traits, this negro, with all his culture, with a large
mixture of white blood in his veins, has yet in his
very face that sinister mark—the eyes of the jungle:
and in his blood who shall say what jungle passions,
predilections and impulses, nobly and hardly held in
check, that hark back to the African wilds from which
they are so lately transplanted.

"A negro—any primitive being—may be developed
mentally in one or two generations to the point
where a certain polish has been put upon his mind
and upon his manners; his purposes may be gathered
and set toward the goal of final good; the whole
trend of his life may be set upward: but there is yet
between his new purposes and the savagery of the
primitive man in him a far thinner bulwark of heredity
than protects a white man from the elemental brute
and animal forces of his nature.  A number of
educated negroes in this country to-day are superior in
culture of mind and in personal morals to many white
men, but even these individual shining lights of the
negro race do not possess the power to endow their
offspring so favourably as white men of less polish
but longer seasoned hereditary strength of mental and
moral fibre.

"It always offends a proper sense of decency to
hear the suggestion that the negro may be bred up
by crossing his blood with that of white men,—for
the obvious reason that with our ideas of morals the
most common principles of the breeder's art cannot
be applied to the problem: but one single fact which
eliminates such cold-blooded animal methods from
our consideration is that when animals are cross-bred
it is in the hope and for the purpose of combining
mutually supplementary elements of strength and of
eliminating supplementary weaknesses; while in this
race matter the Anglo-Saxon is the superior of the
negro in every racial characteristic—in physical
strength and grace, in mental gifts and forces, and
in spiritual excellence.  Even if amalgamation did the
very best that could be expected of it, it offers to the
world nothing and to the white man less than
nothing: for it would be a compromise, a striking of an
average, by which naught is added to the total: it
would pull down the strong to upraise the weak,
degrade the superior to uplift the inferior: it would be
a levelling process, not a method of progress.  *And
yet amalgamation does not even that much*, for it
does not make an average-thick, even-thick retaining
wall of culture between the hybrid product and the
weaknesses of his mottled ancestry.  There are
always blow-holes in this mongrel culture, for heredity
does not work by averages.  It is an elusive combination
of forces whose eccentricities and resultants cannot
be formulated, calculated, or fore-determined.  It
is certain only that by no mere manipulation of it
can the slightest *addition* be made to the stock of
ancestral virtues.  Only slow processes working in each
individual through generation after generation can
add increments of strength to racial fibre.

"Therefore, if the negro will insist upon some *race
manipulation* in order to raise the average of intelligence,
thrift and morality in our national citizenship,
the only safe and sane method is to take measures to
restrict the increase of the negro race and let it die
out like the Indian.  But, you scream, that would be
to suggest the annihilation of a race God has put here
for some wise purpose!  Even so: but amalgamation
would no less surely annihilate *the race*—two
races—and fly in the face of a Providence that has
segregated all races with no less distinctness of purpose,
and so far has visited with disaster all attempts to
violate that segregation.

"Now, Mr. President, what is the immediate past
history, status and condition in Africa and America
of this race with which Southern white men are asked
to mingle socially?  What are the racial endowments
of these *risen* negroes whom we are urged by lofty
example to invite into our drawing-rooms upon terms
of broadest equality—for upon other terms would
be a mockery—as eligible associates, companions,
suitors, husbands for our sisters and daughters?—for
a sensible father or brother does not admit white
men to his home on any other basis.  Of what essential
racial elements and sources is the negro, risen and
unrisen alike?

"Let answer the scientists and explorers, missionaries
and travellers,—a long list of them, English,
French, German, stretching all the way back a
hundred years before there was a negro problem in the
South.  I quote verbatim, as nearly as the form will
permit, their very words and phrases.  Listen.

"The negro in Africa was, and is yet, in largest
measure 'Without law except in its very crudest
form'—'no law at all as we conceive it'—'in
densest savage ignorance'—'no writing, no literature,
no arts, no sciences'—'some development of
perceptive and imitative faculties and of memory, but
little of the higher faculties of abstract reasoning'—'in
temperament intensely emotional, fitful, passionate,
cruel'—'without self-control in emotional crises,
callously indifferent to suffering in others, easily
aroused to ferocity by sight of blood or under great
fear'—'particularly deficient in strength of will,
stability of purpose and staying power'—'dominated
by impulse, void of foresight, unable to realize the
future or restrain present desire'—'indolent, lazy,
improvident, neglectful, happy-go-lucky, innately
averse to labour or to care'—'given to uncleanness'—'an
eater of snakes and snails, cannibal, eating his
own dead'—'vilely superstitious, a maker of human
sacrifices, charm-wearing, fetich-worshipping'—'of
a religion grossly anthropomorphic, explaining all
natural phenomena by a reference to evil spirits'—'his
religion has no connection with morality, nothing
to do with man's relation to man'—'thieving his
beloved pastime, deception more common than
theft'—'national character strongly marked by
duplicity'—'lying habitually and thinking lying an enviable
accomplishment'—'a more thorough and unhesitating
liar than one of these negroes is not to be found
anywhere'—'cruelly obliges his women to work'—'sensual,
polygamous, unchaste'—'buying and
selling his women'—'valuing his daughter's virginity
solely as a marketable commodity'—'accounting
adultery simply as a trespass upon a husband's
property rights, and seduction and rape as a violence only
to parent's property in daughters as destroying their
marketable value'—'wifehood is but an enslavement
to the husband's will'—'no conception of chastity
as a virtue'—'of strong sexual passions'—'a
devoted worshipper at the shrine of his phallic
gods'—'sexual instincts dominate even the most public
festivals, and public dances exhibit all degrees of sex
suggestion.'

"Those in short, Mr. President, are some of the
horrible details of the bestial degradation of the
west-coast Africans, from whom our slave-marts were
recruited almost to the time of the Civil War, and who,
says Keane, are 'the very worst sweepings of the
Sudanese plateau,' and, Ellis says, are 'the dregs and
offscourings of Africa.'

"Such was the negro in Africa.  What he is in
America, only my people know.  He has been the
gainer at all points, the loser at none, because of his
enforced residence here and his bondage to Southern
white men: and yet that awful picture of the negro
in Africa is so startlingly familiar to one who has
spent his life in the South that he examines it closely
with something of fear.

"He finds the colouring too vividly heavy and some
details untrue for a picture of the negro in America
to-day: but the negro as the Southern white man
knows him is too alarmingly alike, too closely akin to,
that African progenitor.  He has advanced—yes! but
just how much, and *just how little*, from out the
shadow of that awful category of horrors, my people
know.

"They know that he has but just emerged from
those depths that those bestial racial traits held in
check by the man's law have only well begun
to be refined by a change of environment and the slow
processes of heredity: and yet we, white men of the
South, are in a way advised to treat as our social
equals certain immediate heirs to such a blood
inheritance because, forsooth, they have *risen*.

"We resent bitterly the insulting suggestion,
however high or respectable or official its source: and we
call upon you, white men of the North, to warn you
against appeals for social recognition as a balm for
'the misery of the awful isolation of black men who
have risen above their race.'  When the blood of your
daughter or your son is mixed with that of one of this
race, however *risen*, redolent of newly applied polish
or bewrapped with a fresh culture, how shall sickly
sentimentalities solace your shame if in the blood of
your mulatto grandchild the vigorous red jungle
corpuscles of some savage ancestor shall overmatch your
more gentle endowment, and under your name and
in a face and form perhaps where a world may see
your very image in darker hue there shall be disported
primitive appetites, propensities, passions fit only to
endow an Ashanti warrior or grace the orgies of an
African bacchanalia?  In Heaven's name think to the
bottom of this question!—and think *now*!  Await
not the day '*when your fear cometh* as desolation,
*and your destruction cometh as a whirlwind; when
distress and anguish cometh upon you*.'  Do not be
distracted by considerations that are superficial and
incidental—such for example as the negro's record
for criminal assaults upon women.  The crime of rape
will be abated by some means, but long after that must
the negro develop before he loses his primal jungle
habit of regarding woman as a personal possession.  It
is a matter of attitude and not of assault: and as in
his fundamental attitude toward women, so in every
racial characteristic the superiority of the white man
is blood deep, generations old, ingrained, inherent,
essential.

"Knowing this, my people despise President
Phillips' social amenities to negroes of high degree.
They do not fear the issue; but what insults and
outrages them is that a personage in the highest official
position, by an act in itself impulsive, empty, and
futile, should put desires and hopes of miscegenation
into the minds and hearts of the inflammable,
muttering, passionate black masses of the South.  Standing
themselves ever in the shadow of dire calamity which
they are facing and must face for long years to come
as they painfully work out a righteous and practical
solution of their problem, my people cry out to you,
oh, white men of the North, of the insidious danger in
these sentimental social practices of an exuberant
Executive; and we tell you that, however well or ill you
may guard the purity and integrity of your race, we
will stand fast.  Whatever else may or may not be
true, we will never acknowledge any equality on the
negro's side that does not *overtake* the white race in
its advancing civilization, and we will certainly not
submit to an equality produced by degrading the white
race to or toward the negro's level.  We will not make
with the negro a common treasure of our Anglo-Saxon
blood by putting it in hotch-pot with his in a
mongrel breed.

"The Anglo-Saxon has blazed the way of civilization
for a world to follow in: but if he, the torch-bearer,
the pioneer, goes back to join hands with the
tribes who are following afar his torch and trail, then
the progression of civilization and of character must
not only stop but must actually recede for him to effect
a juncture with the black and backward race in the
blood of a hybrid progeny.  There the fine edge
would be taken off every laudable characteristic of the
white man.  There the splendid Anglo-Saxon spirit of
leadership and initiative would be neutralized by the
sluggish blood of the Ethiop race.  There the
Anglo-Saxon's fine energies and clear sensibilities would be
deadened and muddled by the infusion of this soporific
into his veins.  There vile, unknown, ancestral
impulses, the untamed passions of a barbarous blood,
would be planted in the Anglo-Saxon's very heart.

"You may believe that in the dim beginning God
by imperial decree set the dividing line between these
races; or, less orthodox and more coldly scientific,
you may know that Nature, impartial mother of men,
giving her white and black sons equal endowment and
an even start in body, mind and spirit, since has stood,
in unerring wisdom still impartial, to watch the white
bound away from the black in his rush toward that
perfection of mind, of heart, of character, which she
has set as goal for the striving of her children.  From
whichever view-point you look upon the age-long
history of men and the age-long lead of white men
over their black brothers,—whether evolutionist or
traditionist, scientist or mystic, you offer violence to
your own particular deity, be it God or Nature, when
in their present measureless inequality of development
you by amalgamation would beat back the white into
the lagging footsteps and gross animalism of the black.

"Menacing thus the effectiveness and integrity of a
race which is the pathfinder for the progress of a
world of men, the danger is not only a race danger,
but a danger to universal civilization; and the
preventative is a social separation of the white and black
races in America *from the lowest to the highest*,—at
least, yes in all reason, at the dictate of the plainest
common sense, *at least*, if so be, till the black becomes
approximately equal to the white in racial excellence.
After which let the ethnologists take the question and
give us the answer of science as to the advisability of
mixing racial bloods.

"Naturally you ask me when the time of equality
in racial excellence will come.  I answer that I
commit myself unreservedly to the support of every
means used for the negro's uplifting; I admit—nay
more, I contend—that we white men cannot
be dogs in the manger with civilization; we cannot
as a Christian people even hope that the negro
race may not come *up* to our level, nor can there
be any reason why we should refuse to acknowledge
that race as our equal if it shall indeed become our
equal.  And yet, while I would not in puny wisdom
presume to foretell the purposes of God in the earth,
nor to set bounds to the efficacy of his unspeakable
redemption, nor to appoint the places of white, black,
yellow, red or brown men in the pageantry of
'that far-off divine event toward which the whole
creation moves'—yet, I say, with carefully
acquired information of the negro's history and habits
in Africa, and with an intimate knowledge of his
present status and rate of progress toward civilization
in America, I tell you frankly that the day of his
approximate equality in racial excellence with the white
man is beyond the furthest reach of my vision into the
future."





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.. _`CHAPTER XVIII`:

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   CHAPTER XVIII

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Senator Killam was against the bill tooth and
nail,—and he was against Rutledge.  He obtained
the floor and began to speak in a desultory but
picturesque fashion in ridicule of some of the junior
Senator's new-fangled heresies almost before
Rutledge had caught his breath, and his vitriolic opening
stayed the steps of many who in courtesy would have
gone over to Rutledge's seat to felicitate him upon
his maiden effort.  Mr. Killam presented his felicitations
openly and with such a mixture of sarcasm, irony
and some seeming admiration that his colleague was
puzzled.  When Mr. Killam talked his dearest enemy
would stop to listen.  Rutledge, tired and blown,
leaned back in his chair to hear him thunder.

As he sank back into a comfortable pose he caught
sight for the first time of Lola DeVale and Elise
Phillips in the gallery.  They had heard his speech
from start to finish,—and were differently affected
by it.  Lola was more impressed with the Senator's
manner than by his words.

"Senator Rutledge verily believes all that he says
against the negroes," she had commented; "but surely
they are not so black as he paints them.  Papa says
that it is impossible for a Southern man to judge the
negro fairly."

Elise did not reply.  She was filled with revulsion
amounting almost to nausea, and her temper was on
edge.  As her father's daughter, the personal element
was unbearably irritating to her.  She resented the
entire situation and discussion.  She had not known
what was under consideration, nor who was to
speak, and she would have left the gallery if she had
not felt that it would be beating a retreat.  She also
had a desire to see whether Evans had the impudence
to say what he thought right in her face.

In her stay in the South she had seen a very
disreputable class of negroes, and under the spell of
Rutledge's words her antipathies were over-excited to
such a degree that she was faint with disgust.  On the
other hand she was full of barely suppressed anger.
Rutledge smiled a salutation to the young women;
and though Elise was looking straight at him she did
not join Lola in her gracious acknowledgment.

"Don't you see Mr. Rutledge, Elise?  He waits
for your smile like a dog for a bone."

"I wish that man were dead," Elise declared.

Lola raised her eyebrows and scanned the profile
of her friend for some moments, and there came into
her mind an idea that appeared to be worth some
thinking over....

If Senator Rutledge was distasteful to her, Elise
had little cause to complain of him: for seldom had
any of the scores of young fellows who followed in
her train the good fortune of a minute's talk with her
alone; and Rutledge, oppressed by the result of their
last meeting at Senator DeVale's, unsatisfied with the
empty nothings which passed for conversation in the
brief glimpses he had of her at formal gatherings, and
chilled by the coldness of her manner which had been
oh, so different in that halcyon summer when he had
lost his heart to her, was well content to stand further
and further away from her in the crowd that was
always about her, and to worship in spirit the real
Elise Phillips unfettered by convention and unaffected
by untoward incident.  He took what comfort he
could from the fact that as yet no favoured one
appeared among Elise's admirers, and that among the
sons of fortune, army officers, attachés, and all that
sort who aspired to make life interesting for the
President's eldest daughter it seemed none could flatter
himself he was preferred above another.

As for those who exhibited the liveliest interest in
Elise, gossip gave that distinction to two.  One
evening at a reception at Secretary Mackenzie's
Senator Rutledge was talking to Lola DeVale when Elise
passed, accompanied by a stalwart young fellow whom
Rutledge had never seen.

"Who is Sir Monocle?" he asked.

"Where?" asked Lola.

"Miss Phillips' escort."

"Oh.  He has no monocle."

"I know.  But he should have.  He looks it.  Who
is he?"

"Captain George St. Lawrence Howard, second
son of the Earl of Duddeston.  He was taking a look
at America, but an introduction to Elise seems to have
persuaded him to limit his observations to Washington
City."

"Sensible fellow," commented Rutledge.

"Yes," said Lola, "and a very likable fellow.
He won his captaincy with Younghusband in the
Thibetan campaign before he was twenty; and the
fact that an invalid brother is all that stands between
him and the earldom doesn't make him any the less
interesting."

"Titles are talismanic—whether military or other.
With two, he ought to be fairly irresistible."

"Yes, and besides that he has plenty of money and
leisure to make love with a thorough care for detail."

"With all those and a manifest supremely good
taste," said Rutledge, "I would back him for a winner."

"You are forgetting Senatorial courtesy!"

"How now?"

"Senator Richland."

"What of him?"

"He also is in the running."

"Richland?  I hadn't heard."

"Yes; and remember that his fortune is ten times
that of the Earl of Duddeston, and his brains are of
the same grade as his bank account."

Rutledge was interested.  He had a thorough respect
for Richland's ability.

"He is nearly twice Elise's age," Lola continued,
"and Senatorial dignity will not permit a display of
violent enthusiasm.  But Senator Richland has
acquired the habit of winning, and he is young enough
and abundantly able to make the game interesting
both for Elise and for any rivals.  He is young indeed
for his honours, has the ear of the people, and is a
politician of rare acumen.  His followers predict for
him nothing less than the Presidency itself when his
time is ripe.  What more could a girl wish?  Don't
lay all your salary on the Englishman—you might lose."

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Lola DeVale had not misread Senator Richland's
purposes.  He was seriously in the running.  Elise
was the first woman he had ever thought of marrying.
She seemed to him to fit perfectly into all the plans
which his ambition had made for the future.  He had
met her at Mr. Phillips' inauguration, and after
thinking over her charms during the summer vacation had
come back to Washington in December fully determined
to wage a vigorous campaign for her hand.

Of the other men who were rash enough to dream
of Elise it is needless and would be tiresome to go into
detail.  They were more or less interested, enamoured
or devoted: but the Senator and Captain Howard
were too fast company for them, and they are of
interest only as a numerous field which made the
running more or less difficult for the leaders.

Evans Rutledge willingly would have entered the
lists against Richland or the Englishman—against
anybody—if Elise had been ordinarily civil to
him; but he had been in such evident disfavour since
the Smith knock-down that he deemed himself
one of "the gallery" at this game of hearts.  Elise
when indeed she had time to think of it, felt that she
had dealt with him ungenerously if not unjustly, but
that only made his presence less grateful to her.

The unreasonableness of Elise's attitude toward
Rutledge and Rutledge's behaviour whenever she saw
him near Elise, mildly stirred the womanly curiosity
of Lola DeVale to the point of investigation.  She
found Elise averse to the slightest discussion of
Senator Rutledge or of anything connected with him.
Baffled there, she turned with more determination and
softer skill to the man.  He will never know how he
came upon terms of such friendliness and sympathy
with Miss DeVale.  Soon doubtless he would have
confided the story of his love to her.  But events came
about differently.

A score of young people were at Senator DeVale's
country-place one evening in May.  Elise had met
Evans with something of her old-time friendliness and
he was in an uncertain state of happiness.

"Now don't make an ass of yourself because the
Lady Beautiful is in a mood to be gracious," he
solemnly admonished his heart.  "Sir Monocle may just
have proposed and been accepted."

The thought was as bracing as a cold shower and
gave him a vigorous grip on his rebellious affections.
Then he danced with her—on the wide, dimly
lighted veranda—a slow, lotus-land waltz, just
coming back in vogue after more than a decade of
galloping two-steps.

He took another grip on himself.  He must not
think of the woman in his arms.  Luckily the
old-fashioned dance was diverting: while the movement
was intoxicating it was reminiscent.  He remembered
his first waltz—the Carolina hill-town—the moonlight,
the smell of the roses—the plump little girl in
the white dress, with the red, red sash, and the cheeks
as red, with the black eyes and the blacker hair, with
the indefinable sensuous physical perfume of Woman,
and the very Spirit of the Dance,—she who—yes,
she who married the station-agent and was now such
a motherly person.  He began a speech that would
have been cynical.  Elise stopped him.

"Don't talk," she said.  "Let's dream."

Tumult!  Riot!  What's the use to hold one's pulses
steady when the Lady Beautiful herself incites revolt!

"Let's dream."  His heart-strings were set
a-tremble by the vibrant richness of her voice, which
seemed to have caught the dreaminess and rhythm
and resonance of the violins that drew them on.
And—

"Don't talk."  No: he would not profane the
enchantment of that waltz with words; and yet surely
My Lady Beautiful were heartless indeed not to catch
the messages of love which, pure of the alloy of breath
and speech, his every pulse-beat sent unfettered to her
heart.

He held her for a moment after the violins had
ceased, and the spell of the slow-swinging waltz was
still upon them both—when a quick jerk of the
fiddles in the ever rollicking two-step brought Sir
Monocle to Elise's side.  Evans resigned her with a
bow and, without so much as a "thank you," went out
on the lawn to commune with his heart.

How long that two-step continued, he, seated in a
retired nook, did not know.  Sometime after it was
finished he saw Elise and the Englishman walk down
the winding path that led from the front door to the
roadside.  They stood talking together a minute
perhaps till Captain Howard boarded a passing car
city-bound.  Rutledge noted with a twinge of jealousy the
cordial good-bye the girl gave the man, but even at
that distance and through the uncertain light he
thought he saw—and, queer to say, resented—a
certain formality in Captain Howard's adieus to the
woman.

He watched her through the trees as she came
slowly back up the hill following the turns of the
smooth hard walk as it wound through darkness
and half lights from the broad gateway to the house.
She moved along, a white shadow, slowly at first,
and Evans imagined that she was in some such
mood as possessed him.  Then she started
suddenly and ran at a stone stairway which mounted a
terrace.  She tripped, stumbled and fell against the
granite steps.

Rutledge was flying to her before she was fairly
prone.  He spoke to her and tried to help her up.
She made no answer, and her hand and arm were limp.

"Elise!" he said, with fear in his voice.  Still no
answer.

He took her in his arms and made directly up
the hill for the front door.

"Elise," he whispered fearfully again.  "Oh, my
heart, speak to me!"

Her cheek was against his shoulder.  He buried
his face in her hair, as he prayerfully kissed the
snow-white part visible even in that darkness.  Her head
dropped limply back, and a sigh came from her lips
so close to his.  Still she answered not his call.  He
loved her very much and—he kissed her again, softly,
where the long lashes lay upon her cheek, and—"Elise!"
he murmured appealingly.  She turned her
face feebly away from him, like a child restless in
sleep.

He had not delayed his climb to the house.

"Here!" he cried.  "Get Dr. Sheldon quick!  Miss
Phillips is dangerously hurt!"

There were excited screams among the women and
a stir among the men as he carried his burden across
the piazza and into the wide hall.  There in the full
light he saw—Miss Elise Phillips talking quietly to
Donald MacLane.  He almost let fall the woman in
his arms.  He looked again at her face.  She was
Lola DeVale.

Dr. Sheldon and Lola's mother fortunately were
at hand.  At their direction Rutledge carried the
young woman up the stairs and laid her on a couch in
her sitting-room.  She opened her eyes and smiled
languidly at him as he put her down.

Elise and all the other young people knew of Rutledge's
mistake as to Lola's identity, but Elise could
not understand why he blushed so furiously as he gave
her an account of the mishap.

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At her next *tête-à-tête* with Rutledge Lola gave him
her very sincerest thanks and—laughed at him till he
was uncomfortable.  Finally she said: "You are a
very gallant but a very mercenary knight,
Mr. Rutledge."  Rutledge was hopelessly confused.

Lola continued, mischief in her eyes: "Alas! the
spirit of commercialism has pervaded even Southern
Chivalry, and forlorn maidens must pay as they
go."  Rutledge was plainly resentful.

"Now I am very unselfish, Mr. Rutledge, and—I
wish it *had* been Elise."  Her mischief dissolved in a
confiding smile, full of sympathy,—and Rutledge
was very humble.

Lola DeVale's sympathy was warm and irresistible,
and before he was aware he was telling her of his love
for Elise in a way to set her interest a-tingle.

"Why don't you tell her of it?" asked Lola.  "Tell
her that it just overwhelms all earlier loves."

"Earlier loves?  I never loved any other woman,"
Rutledge answered.

"Oh, of course not."  Lola could scarcely repress a
smile at the thought that a man always swears only
his last passion is genuine.

"But tell her—tell her!" she repeated.

"I have told her."

"When?"

"Three years ago."

"Plainly? or with artistic indirectness?"

"Plainly."

Lola looked at him incredulously, but saw that he
was telling the truth.

"The sly thing!" she exclaimed under her breath.
"But tell her *again*!  I declare if I were a man and
loved Elise—and I would love none else—I'd tell
her so every time I saw her."

"Oh I'll not love another—no fear of that,"
Evans replied half lightly; "but as for telling her
again, self-respect will not—"

"Self-respect—fudge!  If I loved a girl I'd tell
her so a hundred times—and marry her too—in
spite of everything."

"Perhaps so," Evans commented skeptically.

Lola was shooting in the dark, but her warm heart
would not let her leave the matter at rest.  Both
because of her desire, being happily in love herself, to
see the love affairs of her friends go smoothly, and
because of the riddle it presented to her, she
approached Elise again in order to straighten out the
tangled skein for everybody's satisfaction.  She
thought to match her wits against Elise's and
proceeded with more caution.

"By the way, Elise," she said, apropos of nothing
at all, "I think you were right about Senator
Rutledge's being very much in love with that young
woman you told me about."

Elise exhibited a perfect indifference and said nothing.

"I asked him about her, after becoming duly confidential
and sympathetic, of course, and he confirmed
your statement.  He still loves the girl—oh, you
ought to hear him tell of it.  'He will never love
another till he's dead, dead, dead,'—or words to that
effect: but he will not tell her—"

Elise was listening with a polite but languid
interest.

"—again.  He thinks his self-respect forbids; but
*I* think—"

"Did he say that?  To you?" Elise demanded.

"Yes; when I asked h—"

"Well now, once and for all, Lola, I tell you I
despise that man, and never must you mention his
name to me again!"

"But Elise, I think he—"

"Stop, Lola!  I'll not hear another word!"

"But let me tell you, Elise.  He—"

"No!  Stop *now*!  Not another word if you care for
my friendship.  I'll never speak to you again if you
speak of him to me!"

Elise's anger was at white heat, and she looked and
spoke like her father.  Lola was frightened at her
manner, but made another brave attempt to set
matters straight, which was met by such a blaze of
personal resentment in Elise's eyes that she gave up in
abject defeat—though she did pluck up courage to
fire a parting shot.

"Very well, my dear," she said, as if dismissing the
subject....  "I have something of yours I must
give you before I go.  There—take it," and she
kissed the expectant Elise warmly on the lips as she
added: "Senator Rutledge gave it to me by mistake
as he carried me up the hill the other night."





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.. _`CHAPTER XIX`:

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   CHAPTER XIX

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Lily Porter finally became conscious that she was
the special attraction for a stranger who regularly
every other Sunday evening sat in a forward pew and
listened to her singing with attentive interest, but who
showed little or no care for any of the service beside.
Several months had gone by before she noticed him
and his faithful attention to herself.  When she did
realize his presence she was conscious that he had
been paying her this tribute for a long time.  She
observed him quietly and satisfied herself that he came
only to see or to hear her.  He did not force himself
upon her vision, but none the less did she understand
that she was the chief object of his respectful
consideration.

The preacher's manner and style of thought did not
appeal to Hayward, while Lily Porter's face and voice
did.  He always sat where he could look at her in the
choir-loft, for he argued that as he went only to see
her he would see as much of her as possible.  His face
was mobile and easily read, and as he was good to
look upon and so evidently appreciative of her efforts
the girl came ere long to sing with an eye to his
approval and admiration—to sing for him and to him.
This interested her for a time, but she was piqued at
length for that he seemed content to admire at a
distance and made no effort to come nearer to her.

One evening, unexpectedly to them both, a negro
prominent among his race because of his position as
Registrar for the District, John K. Brown, with whom
Hayward had picked up a mutually agreeable though
casual acquaintance, introduced him to the singer in
the aisle of the church.

"Miss Lily, I want to introduce my friend Mr. John
Hayward, who goes into extravagances about
your singing—as he very properly should."

Hayward was overjoyed at his good fortune.  To
be presented as John Brown's friend was a passport
to the best negro society in Washington.  He was as
much pleased to know that Brown regarded him so
favourably as he was delighted to meet the young
woman.  As he walked with her to the door she
presented him to her mother, a bright mulatto woman
about fifty or more, who did the grand dame to the
best of her ability: which was indeed perfect as to
manner but was betrayed the moment she tried to do
too many things with the English language.

When he had opportunity Hayward was profuse
in his thanks to Brown, and told him volubly of his
love for music.  Finding a sympathetic listener, he
was led on to an impulsive story of the social longings
and lackings in his life.  Brown, more than ever
impressed with the young fellow's intelligence and
worthiness, was at some pains thereafter to look after
him and set him going in a congenial social current.

With Brown's approval and his own gifts and
graces it was not remarkable that Hayward won his
way to social popularity as fast as his confining duties
would permit.  He began to see much of Lily Porter
and was consistent in his devotion to her despite the
fact that the habit of his college days of being
attracted by each new and pretty face still measurably
clung to him.  His information and accomplishments
were of a sort superior to that of any of the young
women he met, and none made a serious impression on
his heart.  Lily Porter was more nearly his equal in
education and general cultivation of mind and manner,
and was really the most attractive to him; but his
harmless vanity could not forego the admiration of
the others, and he gave some little time to small
conquests.  He did homage to Lily by his evident
admiration of her talents and comeliness and by his
unconcealed pleasure in her friendship.  At the same
time he met her petty tyrannies and autocratic
demands with an unmoved indifference.

He had become very well acquainted with Lily and
had called on her several times before Henry Porter
knew that his daughter was receiving the footman
whom he had snubbed some months before.

"Lily, who was that young man that called on you
last night?"

"Mr. Hayward."

"Umhuh, I thought he was the same fellow.
You'll have to drop him.  I don't want you to be
receivin' no footman in this house.  We must draw
the line somewhere."

"He's no footman, papa.  He's one of Mr. Brown's
friends.  Mr. Brown introduced him to me himself.
I think he is connected with Mr. Brown's office."

"No such thing.  Hayward's footman at the White
House—told me so hisself 'bout a year ago, and I
saw him on the President's carriage no longer'n
yesterday.  Nice lie he's told you 'bout bein' in Brown's
office."

"Oh, he didn't say so, papa.  I supposed so because
Mr. Brown said he was his friend and has introduced
him to all the nice people.  Surely you can't object to
one of Mr. Brown's friends.  Everybody likes
Mr. Hayward and he is received everywhere."

"Everybody likes him, do they?  Well you see to
it you don't like him any too much.  I can't kick him
out if Brown stands for him, but you make it your
business to let him down easy.  Have you seen Bob
Shaw lately?"

"He was here last night when Mr. Hayward
came," answered Lily; and she seemed to be amused
at something.

"Well, what's funny 'bout that?"

Lily knew that she must not tell her father what
she was laughing at.  She created a diversion.

"Mr. Shaw is so backward, and so—dark."

"Dark!  He's jus' a good hones' black,—so'm I—all
African and proud of it.  Mebbe I'm too dark
to suit yuh.  Bob Shaw is not backward, miss.  He's
got the bes' law practice of all the niggers in the
Distric', and he'll be leader of the whole crowd in a few
years.  He's the bes' one in the bunch of these fellers
who tag after you and you better take him.  My
money and his brains and pull with the party 'd make
a great combernation."

Lily did not commit herself.  She was accustomed
to her father's blunt method of indicating his wishes.
She liked Shaw well enough, but old Henry's awkward
interference and zeal did the lawyer's cause no
good.  Shaw was below the ordinary in the matter of
good looks, and in his love for Lily was too submissive
to her whims.  He had not Hayward's easy manner,
nor his assurance—for the footman was not at all
abashed by Henry Porter's money nor his daughter's
gentle arrogance.  It is needless to say the girl
preferred the serving-man to the lawyer.

After the first flush of interest in Lily and her songs
had subsided Hayward made love to the pampered
belle warmly or indifferently as the mood was upon
him.  He noted that, taking her charms in detail, they
were alluring without exception; and such moments
of reflective analysis were always followed by a more
determined pursuit of her.  Yet the careless moods
came.  However, he always delighted in and could
be extravagant in praising her singing, even when the
personal attraction was the weakest, and the general
effect on the woman was a continuous tattoo of
love-taps at the door of her heart.

The negro magnate's favourite, Shaw, clearly was
being outdistanced, and the outraged father stamped
and threatened and commanded: but to no purpose.
When Hayward discovered the bitterness of the old
man's opposition he chuckled.

"Here's where I get even," he said; and became
more assiduous in his attentions to Lily and more
aggressive in his methods.

"Your father does not appear to hold much love
for me," he told Lily one evening after she had sung
him into an affectionate frame of mind and the
conversation had drifted along to the confidential and
personal stage.

"Did I ever tell you what he did with my first
request for an introduction to you?"

"No.  What?"

"He stamped the feathers off of it," said Hayward,
and laughingly told her the details.

"Papa thinks—everybody—should be a lawyer,
or a politician with a pull," Lily commented
complainingly.

The temptation to vindicate his dignity was too
much for Hayward.

"I was not always a footman and do not intend
always to be a footman; and yet, footman as I am,
if your father values a pull with the President,
perhaps, if he knew—oh, well, he might think better
of me."

"Oh, you have a pull?  How interesting.  Do tell
me about it.  I have read so much about pulls that I
am dying to know what one is like.  How do you
work it?  I believe you work a pull, don't you?  Or
do you pull the—"

"I haven't pulled mine yet.  I'm waiting," said
Hayward.  "But it will work when the time comes."

"And when will the time come?  Tell me.  I'm so
anxious to see the wheels go round in a genuine
political machine.  How many Southern delegates can you
influence in the next national convention?  That's the
mainspring, isn't it?"

"I'm no politician or vote vender.  I've never had
the pleasure of influencing my own vote yet, and won't
as long as I live in the District."

"What!  Without politics or votes, and yet you
have a pull?"

"It is a personal matter entirely," Hayward
answered carelessly, as if personal friendships with
Presidents were very ordinary affairs for him.  Lily
Porter was a mite skeptical, but she hoped he spoke
the truth, for it would more than confirm her estimate
of him and would be such an effective counter to her
father's nagging opposition.

"Oh, isn't that interesting!  Tell me all about it!"

"Really I cannot.  I have never told that, even to
my mother.  There is only one other person who
knows of it.  It is my one secret, and my life—that
is, my future—depends largely upon it.  There's too
much at stake."

"Would you fear to trust your life—your future—in
my hands?" asked the woman softly.  "I could
be a very good and a very faithful friend."

The lure in her voice was irresistible.

"I would trust my soul with you," he answered,
and with the spoken faith the trust was perfected in
his heart.  "Listen."

He told her all about himself, of his name and his
history, of his life and his hopes.  He was modest in
his recital of the creditable things he had done; but
when he had told her of his claim upon the President's
gratitude and the purpose toward which he would use
it, and began to talk of his ambition and his dreams,
his heart was fired by its own fervour, and before the
very warmth of his own eloquence all obstacles and
difficulties faded as mists before the sun, and he felt
that he needed only to put forth his hands to grasp his
heart's desires.

The girl was touched with his fire.  She listened
with ready sympathy to the beginning of his story,
heard with quickening pulses of his rescue of Colonel
Phillips, and in the telling of his hopes was caught in
the current of his transporting fervency and carried
along with him to realize the vision of his martial
career.

"And that is the picture of your life!  It is—it
will be—glorious!"  She rose in her enthusiasm.
"Oh, that a woman might—"

"Glorious—yes," the man said; "and till to-night
it had seemed perfect to me.  But I have been blind to
its greatest lack.  You have made me conscious of
it."  Hayward stood up and moved toward the girl, who
wavered uncertainly between reserve and complaisance.

"I would paint another figure into that picture,
Lily—the figure of a woman."  He put his hands
out toward her, and her coldness was melting
when—"Lily," said her father from the hall, "what did
you do with the evenin' paper?  I want to read
Mr. Shaw's speech before the convention this mornin'.
Mr. Brown told me that it is the greates' speech that's
been made yet."

Henry Porter came into the parlour in time to catch
a glimpse of confusion and unusual attitude in his
daughter and Hayward.  He thought best to mount
guard, and decided to talk Hayward into flight.  He
began with a panegyric on Shaw.  Hayward caught
the hint and took his leave, pulling Lily to the front
door by a chain of conversation.

"Now remember," he murmured tenderly, "you
hold my secret; and must keep it sacredly."

"Have no fear of me.  Watch your other
confidante," Lily whispered, her manner full as his of
tenderness.

"Oh, she is—"

"Shaw told 'em," began the persistent and suspicious
parent, coming out of the parlour;—but the
footman was gone down the steps.

Hayward's mood changed in a twinkling and with
a jolt.  He walked a hundred paces thinking confusedly.

The question slowly framed itself in his mind....
"Do I love Lily?"

But he did not answer it.





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.. _`CHAPTER XX`:

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   CHAPTER XX

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The oncoming summer promised to be long and
uneventful for Helen Phillips.  Late in May her
mother took her and her two little sisters to Stag
Inlet, leaving a perspiring father to await the
perverse pleasure of a stubborn Congress before beginning
his vacation, and Elise to set out upon a round of
visiting that would permit her to see very little of
home during the hot months.  To Mrs. Phillips the
restfulness of "Hill-Top" was gratefully refreshing
after her trying first winter in Washington.  She gave
herself over fully to its soothing quiet and arranged
her daily programmes on the simplest lines.

Hayward, because of his versatile abilities an
indispensable part of the simple Hill-Top outfit, did not
have an opportunity before leaving for Stag Inlet to
see Lily Porter again.  Nor indeed was he regretful on
that account.  He was in a state of indecision and
wanted time to think.  He heartily wished that he had
not been so free with his confidences: yet could not
justify this feeling when he sought a reason for it.

After awhile he wrote Lily a letter which was a
model of diplomacy—which said much and said
nothing.  It did not disappoint or displease her.  She
read between the lines an admirable modesty and
restraint, complimentary to herself and true to the
artistic instinct which, she had read somewhere, always
saves a full confession for a personal interview.  She
took her own good time to answer it.  She felt sure of
the man's devotion, despite the fact that his other and
unknown confidante was a woman other than his
mother.  The tenor of her reply was reserved, though
not discouraging.  Hayward's impatience was not
excited by the delay, nor his interest quickened by the
coy missive.

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The first morning Helen was on the lake after
coming to the Inlet her launch passed a small catboat
commanded by Jimmie Radwine and flying a Yale
pennant from her diminutive masthead.  The crew,
consisting of Captain Jimmie and another youngster,
both younger than Helen, were yelling themselves
dizzy.

"What's Jimmie Radwine saying, Helen?" asked
Nell Stewart.

Jimmie had no intention of leaving them uninformed.
He had put his boat about, and come up alongside.

"Hello, Helen!" he shouted, "Harvard can't play
ball!  Quincy can't pitch!  Tom got a home run and
two two-baggers off him in four times up!  Rah! rah! rah!
YALE!"

Helen was a famous Harvard partisan, and many a
verbal tilt had she had with Jimmie, whose brother
Tom was Yale's right-fielder, as to the comparative
merits of the blue and the crimson in all things from
scholarship to shot-putting.

"What was the score, Jimmie?" she asked him.

"Wasn't any score—for Harvard: all for Yale.
Wow!  Yale—Yale—Yale!" he yelled.

Helen looked a dignified reproof of his unmannerly
enthusiasm, but Jimmie's youth was proof against any
such mild rebuke, and her irritation only kindled his
joy.  She nodded to Hayward for more speed, but as
Jimmie was favoured by a stiff breeze they could not
shake him off.  He followed them for two miles or
more up the lake, volunteering much information
sandwiched between cheers for Eli, which, when he
had delivered it fully and in detail, he began to repeat
in order to impress it upon them.  Hayward cheerfully
would have bumped him with the launch.

Having so thoroughly enjoyed the morning's sport,
Captain Jimmie regularly afterward flew the blue
pennant from his mast, and was ever on the alert to greet
Helen with the Yale yell and further particulars.

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Less than a month later the Harvard crew rowed
rings around the Yale men at New London.  Helen's
cup was full.  The next day she and Nell Stewart and
Nancy Chester were sitting out on the lawn reading
an account of the race when they saw Jimmie's
catboat beating about the lake.

"Come, girls," exclaimed Helen, "we must carry
the news to Jimmie!"

"Hayward, come here," she called to the footman,
who was tinkering at a gasoline runabout a hundred
yards from them.  "Get the launch ready," she added
when he came nearer, "we want to overtake Mr. Radwine's
boat out there."

"I guess Jimmie will haul down that blue flag
now," said one of the girls when they had come to the
boat-house.

"Hayward," said Helen, "run up to the house and
tell mamma to give you the Harvard pennant that is
in my room—and hurry!"

Hayward needed no urging.  Out of the chatter he
had caught the news of Harvard's victory at the oars,
and he was as full of excited pleasure as Helen herself.
He hurried up the hill and, not finding Mrs. Phillips,
rushed to his own quarters and turned out from his
trunk the crimson pennant.

Helen was too intent on the chase of Jimmie Radwine
to notice that the short staff of the flag Hayward
brought her, and the faded and wrinkled folds of the
cloth, did not belong to the crimson emblem which
was part of the decoration of her dressing-table.
Jimmie, already informed of Yale's bitter defeat,
surmised the purpose of the Phillips launch's coming, and
tried to sail away and away: but he was relentlessly
pursued and overtaken, and mercilessly repaid for all
of his taunts of the last fortnight.  As they came up
with him Helen cried out to her friends:

"Now, everybody give the Harvard yell!"

The feminine chorus was shrill, but lacked volume.

"Again! and louder!" she commanded.  "You
too, Hayward!"

That was the most grateful order Hayward had
received since the 10th was sent into the charge at
Valencia.  He stood up to drive the deep-mouthed,
long-drawn rah-rah-rah's from his lungs, and added a
few kinks and wrinkles at the end in orthodox phrasing
and intonation by way of trimming off the severely
plain Harvard slogan.  Helen looked at him in some
surprise, and saw that he was oblivious to his situation
and seemed bent on "rattling" the hostile blue
skipper.  He came to himself at last, and pulled
himself together in some confusion to give attention solely
to his duties in running the launch.  Helen thought
his behaviour unusual, and watched him covertly while
the badgering of Jimmie Radwine was in progress.

Jimmie was far from an easy mark, however, for
by his unblushing impudence and boyish pretension to
vast knowledge of facts and figures he time and again
crowded Helen to her defences.  Hayward could
hardly keep his tongue when Jimmie presumed too
much on the ignorance of the young women as to the
athletic history of the blue and the crimson, and Helen
could see that the negro was keeping quiet with
difficulty.  At one of Jimmie's most reckless statements,
which overwhelmed Helen, Hayward, bending over
the launch's little engine, shook his head in violent
dissent.

"What is it, Hayward?" his mistress called to him.

"Beg pardon, Miss Helen, but he's—he's—misstating
it!" Hayward answered with vigour.

"Then tell him of it!" Helen exclaimed impulsively.

"Pardon me, but you are altogether mistaken about
that, Mr. Radwine," the negro sang out to Jimmie,
shoving the launch up a little nearer the boat's
windward quarter.

"What do you know about it?" Jimmie demanded
scornfully.

"I know all about it," retorted Hayward with
rising spirit; and he went into details in a way to take
Jimmie's breath.  Warming up, he did not desist on
finishing the matter in dispute, but challenged others
of Jimmie's audacious inaccuracies and proceeded to
straighten them out.  Jimmie demurred and replied
more recklessly, and was soon in a rough and tumble
discussion covering the whole field of college
excellences.  He found he was no match for Hayward
either in information and enthusiasm or in assurance.
Before the argument was half finished the footman
was talking to him in a patronizing and fatherly way
that pricked him like needles.  He did not relish the
idea of a controversy with, much less being routed by,
this serving-man, especially in the presence of the
young women.  He wished the girls anywhere else
so that he might smother the lackey with a sulphurous
blast.  But he had to stand to the losing game
while Helen and her friends laughed at his defeat or
waved the crimson flag and cheered the Harvard hits
in a shrill treble.  Helen indeed felt some
compunctions for having brought about the situation
but was enjoying Jimmie's discomfiture too much to
end it.

Hayward had forgotten he was a lackey, had forgotten
he was a negro, had forgotten he was anything
save a Harvard man proud of his college, proclaiming
her fair record with love and joy, confident in himself
as one of her sons....  "As a man thinketh.
so is he." ... The occasion was trivial, but the
transforming power of thought, its triumph over
circumstance, was strikingly evidenced in the footman's
face.  Helen noted that his bearing had lost every
trace of conventional or conscious servility, that he
looked easily and confidently *a man*, calling no man
master.

After harrying Captain Jimmie enough to pay off
all old scores they gave him good-bye with a final yell
for the crimson, and turned the launch for home.  In
the run back Helen had her first opportunity to notice
the pennant.  It was not hers.

"Hayward, whose flag is this?"

"Mine, Miss Helen.  I could not find your mother
quickly, and I brought that to save time."

She looked from the flag to the negro.  A nebulous
idea floated through her mind, and she tried to fix
it, but it was too elusive.  She put Nell and Nancy off
at their landings, and tried to grasp the intangible
explanation that was hovering about her brain.  It was
characteristic of her to prefer working out her own
answers to looking at them in the back of the book.
Finally, however, she decided she did not have a full
statement of the problem.

"When did you go to Harvard, Hayward?" she ventured.

"Class of 191-, Miss Helen."

"191-.  Then you did not finish.  The battle of
Valencia was—"

"No, Miss Helen, I did not finish: but I understand
two others of my class who volunteered were
passed on the spring term's work and graduated by a
special resolution of the Overseers.  I think I will
apply for my diploma sometime—if I need it."

Hayward spoke lightly, but his last words brought
to Helen the same question which had occurred to her
so often in the last year since she had discovered in
him her father's rescuer.  They only made the
question more insistent.

He was a Harvard man,—to Helen's mind a title
of all excellence and dignity.  That explained much.
His intelligence, even his physical grace and soldierly
courage, seemed to fit naturally into that character.
But why a flunkey?—shirking higher duties and the
honours that pertained to his degree, careless of the
evidence of his scholarly merit, putting aside the
rewards of his soldierly heroism.

"Do you care nothing for everything, Hayward?—except
this flag?  You seem to have valued it."

"It is the one possession dearest to my heart," he
answered in simple truth, and then showed the first
faint trace of embarrassment she had ever seen him
exhibit.

"Yes, you have loved the Harvard pennant but
concealed your Harvard lineage.  You champion
Harvard's name enthusiastically against Jimmie Radwine's
gibes, but you affect to be careless of Harvard's
diploma.  You carry the Harvard culture, and
yet—you choose to be a footman."

Hayward winced.  Helen tempered the thrust by
adding:

"You do a soldier's work, but decline a soldier's
honours.  You are *too* modest.  You overdo the part."

"I hope yet to do something worthy of Harvard,
Miss Helen.  I am not without ambition, however
much you may think it.  Indeed I fear I have too
much ambition."

A Harvard man need set no limit to his ambition.
Helen spoke with the wisdom and confidence
of youth and loyalty.

The launch was at the landing.  The girl climbed
out and up the steep stairs.  At the top she bethought
herself and turned about.

"Oh, here's your 'heart's dearest possession,'" she
said with a laugh, and she pitched the little crimson
flag down upon Hayward, who was making the boat
fast.

The man looked up to catch the flag as it fell, and
memory in that instant worked the magic which
brought the scene on Soldiers Field clearly before
Helen's mind.  She knew him in that moment.  She
gazed at him without speaking.  She looked at the
flag and then at him—once, and again.  All the
incidents of the driving finish of that ever memorable
football game came back to her, bringing to her pulses
an echoing tremor of its tense excitement and wild
enthusiasm and her unstinted girlish admiration for the
player who had saved his college, her Harvard, from
black defeat.

At last she remembered his words about the
pennant which she had quoted to him a moment since.
Her cheek flushed and she was in two minds whether
to be offended or amused.  Graham saw her look of
surprised recognition, her glances at the pennant, and
read the significance of her rising colour.  He felt the
presumption of his very presence, and, conscious and
guilty, he looked abjectly out across the lake.

The man's humility went far to mollify Helen's
anger or levity; but she could not spare him entirely.

"So you prefer another name to your own," she
said.  "Why is that?"

"Oh, no, Miss Helen.  I am not ashamed of my
name.  There's no reason why I should be.  I—"

"Then why use another?"

"My name is John Hayward Graham.  I am using
my own, but not all of my own."

"But why the masquerade?  It doesn't look well.
What have you done to be afraid of your full name?"

"Nothing, Miss Helen, I declare upon honour.  I'll
tell you the whole story.  You have been kind to
respect my wishes not to make known my services to
your father, and I'll gladly tell you all about it.  But
I must go now, if you will excuse me?  Mrs. Phillips
ordered the carriage for five o'clock and it's nearly
that time now."

"I'll excuse you, Hayward," Helen answered, intending
a dismissal of the subject as well as of the
servant.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXI

.. vspace:: 2

For a year now Helen had had an unconsciously
growing regard for her footman's mental abilities and
for his gift of entertaining her with his tales of battle
and camp and other incidental themes of conversation
which at odd times had beguiled the moments of the
past summer after his identity had been revealed to
her as "the trooper of the 10th" of her father's most
thrilling battle story.  It was but natural that
conversation with a man of his cultivation of mind and wide
information should dull the sense of caste and
superiority and enhance a feeling of genuine respect.  It
was only occasionally now that she assumed an air of
command:—at best it is a difficult thing to patronize
intellect.

Helen did not have an opportunity to hear Hayward's
proffered explanation for quite a long time,
and she cared little to know anything further of it;
but her attitude of mind toward him had changed.
Formerly she sometimes had wondered that a footman
should be so intelligent.  Finding that he was a
Harvard man, however, had reversed the problem.  It
raised him to a level of respectability above his calling,
and left the fact that he was a serving-man to be
accounted for as anomalous.  That he was a negro
counted with her, of course, for naught one way or
the other.  He was nothing less than a footman.

However, with all her democratic ideas, she was a
President's daughter; and that he was a footman,
until it was explained, and even after it was
explained,—as long, in fact, as he remained a
footman,—would cause that vacillation between anger and
amusement which came to her yet with the remembrance of
his embarrassed declaration that her pennant was his
heart's dearest possession....  She was somewhat
annoyed by her own mild self-consciousness—an
unusual mental state for her; more so than by any
forwardness on the man's part in speaking the
speech,—for there had been nothing of that....  She
would not think of it....  Why should she think of
it?  The idea was ridiculous.  She would laugh it
away....  Of course the pennant was a dear possession:
the man prized it as a memento of his college
life and his daringly won victory....  Certainly, it
was a very dear possession: she had similar
school-day souvenirs which were precious to her heart
though recalling moments of less energy of loyalty
and wild delirium of joy....  Besides he may have
meant, he could have meant, nothing personal to
herself,—for he could not have known her—she was
nothing more than a child seeing her first great
football match—and he had caught but a glimpse of her
in all that yelling throng—if he had seen her at all....
It would be a miracle if he remembered her...
And yet he seemed to remember....  Though why
should she think so?  He had *said* nothing to indicate
it....  But he knew—she was sure that he knew....
And what if he did know, and did value the pennant
on that account?  The personal consideration
was not imperative.  Was she not the President's
daughter, and would not any man deem it an honour
to be decorated by her hand or high privilege to carry
her flag?  The lowest menial might properly take
pride in her approbation and set great store by a token
of her approval....  But—this man is neither low
nor menial, for all his servile livery.  He is a
gentleman by every token: educated, brave, strong, modest,
self-sacrificing, chivalrous.  It is hard to consider him
as an underling—a footman....  And why is he a
footman? ... She does not care why he is a footman ... or
that he is a footman....  He must keep his place.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXII`:

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   CHAPTER XXII

.. vspace:: 2

Helen was taking her early morning ride.  She
pulled her horse up sharply and waited for her groom
to overtake her.

"Why are you a footman, Hayward?"

Hayward was startled.  The girl had been uncertain
in her treatment of him for a month, and he was
expecting anything that might happen, from a plain
discharge to arrest as a suspicious character.  He was
confused by the suddenness of the question, and by
the peculiar mingling of sympathy and impatience in
Helen's voice.

"Who are you, and what are you trying to do?"

"I am John Hayward Graham, Miss Helen, as I
told you before.  I am a footman now because it seems
to be necessary.  I did not intend to be a footman so
long as this when I obtained the position."  Helen
thought she detected a shade of embarrassment again.
"But after I was employed at the White House my
mother's health gave way suddenly and she could no
longer support herself and I was compelled to keep the
place."

The man saw that he was making an awkward mess
of it, and the quick intelligence of Helen's eyes showed
him her inferences were all adverse.

"Oh, well," he said, "I'll begin again.  It took all
the money my mother had, Miss Helen, to pay for my
education—all, and more.  That she ever met the
expense of my tuition has been a miracle to me.  But
she did it—insisted upon doing it.  My father was a
Harvard man.  He died when I was two years old,
leaving as his only admonition the injunction that I
be thoroughly educated.  My mother was faithful to
that exhortation.  She spent her meagre fortune and
the abundant strength of her life to the last cent and
almost to the last heart-beat in a religious obedience
to it."

"Your mother is still living?"

"Yes; and please do not think I was so ungrateful
and so unfilial as purposely to wait till she was helpless
before lifting the burden of breadwinning from her
shoulders.  I was in five months of graduation when
the call came for volunteers in the spring of 191-;
yet I could not resist that call, nor would my mother
have me resist it."

"A Spartan mother," commented Helen.

"My grandfather died in the front of battle, Miss
Helen,—to make men free.  My father was a soldier.
The first bauble that I can remember playing with as
a child was a medal of honour with its red, white and
blue ribbon which was given to him for some daring
service to the flag, I know not what.  That medal and
his good name was all that he left to me.  I lost the
medal before I knew what it stood for, and I have
temporarily laid aside the name of Graham; but none
the less is the memory of that bronze eagle-and-star
an inspiration to me to a life work creditable to the
name.

"When I enlisted I was really taking a large
financial burden from my mother, and if, after my first
term of enlistment was up, I was unthinking of her,
it was because out of the blood of my fathers and my
army experience had been born a life ambition which
filled all my thoughts: the ambition to be a soldier.  I
was off my guard, for I had never thought of my
mother as having a human frailty.  When she came to
place herself in my care I noticed, as I had not a month
before, how far spent was her strength, and I was
alarmed at the sudden change in her appearance.  This
change had come to her as it comes to many—with
the moment of her surrender to the inevitable.  Men
and women may stand with determined and unshaken
front against the assaults of weakness until it wins into
the very citadel of their strength and possesses
everything save the flag which flies at the tower-top.  So
with my mother: she had stood to her duty till there
remained of her wonderful energies only her unshaken
resolution, and when that flag was hauled down there
was nothing left to surrender."

Everything in the man's tribute to his mother—sentiment
and metaphor—appealed to Helen, and the
tears came to her lashes.

"But she still has the strength to be vastly
ambitious for her son, Miss Helen.  Death itself will
hardly weaken that.  She talks to me of little beside
the day when I shall be an officer in the army."

"You aspire to a commission, then?"

"Yes; and it is for that reason that I desire the
President shall not know now that I am the man who
carried him out of danger at Valencia.  I know that
naturally he will be grateful, and I wish to make no
draft upon his gratitude till I ask for that commission.
I expect much difficulty, and I wish to marshal at one
moment every circumstance in my favour."

"As papa says, 'attack with horse, foot and
guns,'" said Helen.

"Yes, that's the idea.  I had hoped that by the end
of a second term of enlistment my preparedness
together with your father's friendliness and a growing
liberality in public sentiment toward men of my race
would win for me my heart's desire—a lieutenancy
of cavalry."

"Your race will not count against you, Hayward,"
said Helen.  "Papa has no such provincial notions as
that.  And I am sure he will not be ungrateful."

"I thank you for the assurance, Miss Helen.  Your
father is my ideal of a fearless and just man.  I count
more upon his fearlessness and fairness than upon his
gratitude.  But my heart is too keenly set on realizing
this ambition for me to omit to enlist any favourable
influence."

"But why are you a footman?" Helen repeated
the question with which she had first addressed him.

"I was on my furlough, Miss Helen, when I took
this place temporarily, fully intending to re-enlist
when my time was up; but my mother's break-down
just before that time compelled me to forego re-enlistment
and to hold this position which pays a wage
sufficient to support the two of us.  A soldier's pay
would not accomplish it, and my mother's condition
would not permit me to leave her.  However, I have
not thought of foregoing my career as a soldier.  I
am studying every day to prepare myself for the duties
of an officer.  My Harvard training fortunately
supplies me with all but the purely technical knowledge
required, and makes it possible for me to acquire that
without assistance.  I will win yet, Miss Helen."

"A Harvard man *must* win."  Helen spoke with
dogmatic faith.

"And *I* must win,—not only a commission, but
the 'well-done' which is a soldier's real recompense
for a life-time's service.  Not only my 'Harvard
lineage,' as you once called it, but my grandfather's
death, my father's life, my mother's toil and sacrifice,
lay the compulsion of endeavour and success upon me.
My mother is a hopeless invalid, but I pray she may
live to read my lieutenant's commission.  I have
concealed from her the juggling with my name.  I—"

"And why did you juggle with it?"

"Some pride in my patronymic and in that very
Harvard lineage would not permit me to degrade
either by becoming a footman as John Graham."

"And again, then: why are you a footman?  You
have not answered that question yet.  Your purposes
in life are admirable, your motives are—beautiful,
your success will be brilliant I earnestly hope,—even
more, I dare to prophesy; and I shall be proud to
know when your name is famous, that I gave you your
first flag;"—She laughed—"but why did you
become a *footman*, Hayward?"

She pulled her horse up to wait for his answer.
Hayward looked steadily in her eyes, which were
regarding him with frank enquiry, until a quickness
came to his pulses and a rashness into his heart, and
by his gaze her eyes were beaten down and the colour
brought to her cheek.

"Why?"  Her voice had as much of appeal as of demand.

Hayward caught his breath quickly.

"You have read Ruy Blas, Miss Helen?"

"No," Helen answered.  "What has that to do
with it?"

Hayward had the same sensation as when in the
Venezuelan campaign he had first keyed his nerves for
battle at sound of the picket's shots only to have the
danger pass.  Then the releasing tension had been
painful.  Here it was grateful.  He drew a breath of
relief.  He was very glad the girl had not read of *Ruy
Blas*,—of the lackey who loved a queen.

"The place of footman was the only position open
to me.  I applied for another but failed to get it."  He
ignored the question and through this lie outright,
told in words of perfect truth, he made a precipitate
retreat.  "The service was to be short, and it gave
me an opportunity to see at close range something of
the man upon whom my hopes so much depend," he
added as an afterthought.

"And a closer view has not dampened your hope?"
asked Helen.

"No, Miss Helen.  Increased it, rather.  Your
father puts heart into a man.  His broad sympathies
and firm principles of justice inspire one to the highest
and best that is in him.  The lofty example of his
courage and purity and effectiveness, personal and
civic, is a living inspiration to the nation."

"For which the nation is indebted to your heroism,"
added Helen.  "For myself and all the people
I thank you."

If Hayward had been white he would have blushed.
The personal turn Helen gave the matter left him
with nothing to say.  He sat his horse abashed.

A stray thought of her dignity flitted across Helen's
mind.  She drew herself up, touched her horse with
the crop, and rode on.  Hayward, at the command of
her manner, stiffened into *attention* as she drew away,
and followed—at the proper distance.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CHAPTER XXIII`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIII

.. vspace:: 2

Helen inherited Bobby Scott when the real men
came around.

Elise had brought Lola DeVale, Dorothy Scott and
Caroline Whitney with her for a two-weeks stay at
Hill-Top and they had planned for a breathing-spell
in which they hoped to be rid of men and have a
restful girlish good time.  Bobby Scott, Dorothy's
brother, had been asked to come because he was
present when the thing was first proposed, and had
accepted—much to Caroline's disappointment.  But
really he did not disturb their plans very much.
Bobby was somewhat young, and entirely manageable:
and, as said before, Helen inherited him when
the real men came along.

And they came: Hazard, the moment Congress
adjourned; Tom Radwine, every minute he was not
asleep after he knew Caroline Whitney was there;
Captain Howard, after three days' wait at Newport;
and, for a day and a half, no less a personage than
Senator Richland.  The Senator had a heart to heart
talk with President Phillips about a certain matter of
politics, but he deceived no one, not even himself.

Bobby Scott felt his importance, for the reason that
he and the Senator were entertained at Hill-Top.  He
felt that he was in a position of vantage and really
ought to profit by it.  But the ease and sang-froid with
which Tom Radwine always relieved him of Caroline
was not only exasperating but rather confusing to
him.  Why couldn't Tom look out for Dorothy?  She
was not his sister; and, beside, she was no end better
looking than Caroline.  Here came Tom now, straight
past the other young women, to disturb his *tête-à-tête*
with Caroline.

"Come on, Mr. Scott," called Helen, "we'll go and
have a ride."

Bobby pretended not to hear.  Helen's assumption
that he must vacate when Radwine appeared nettled
him.  He liked Helen in everything save that she
would not take him seriously.  He sat still, determined
to hold his position against all comers.

"I've won in a walk," said Radwine to the young
woman.  "It's ten minutes yet to five o'clock—good
afternoon, Mr. Scott—oh, I am all sorts of a winner."

Caroline's answer to Radwine was just as meaningless
to Bobby, and in half a minute without the slightest
discourtesy on the part of the others, he felt that
he was a rank outsider.

"Are you coming, Mr. Scott?" Helen called to
him again—and Bobby went.

"If you will excuse me?"—he asked Caroline's
permission.

"Certainly, if you must go.  Take good care of
Helen.  She is so young and venturesome."

This last speech in a measure placated Bobby's
offended notions of dignity, and he and Helen went
off toward the stables, where Hayward brought the
horses out and put the saddles on while Bobby looked
them over.

"That is a very handsome mount," he said to Helen,
indicating Prince William.  "He's a dead match for
the horse of Lieutenant Lavine, of the Squadron."

"Beg pardon, sir," Hayward interrupted to ask,
"what squadron?"

"Squadron A, New York," Bobby replied, and began
to relate to Helen some incident of his experience
as a trooper in that organization, and afterward to
dispense general information as to horses and
horsemanship.  He would not have been so garrulous about
these things perhaps but for the fact that his
membership in Squadron A was a new toy from which the
gilt had not been worn off.  Hayward listened to him,
first with interest and then with wonder.  He did
not know the young gentleman was a very new and
very raw recruit in the Squadron's forces, and he
came near dropping a saddle at some of Bobby's
ebullitions of ignorance.

"This knee," said Bobby with a look of concern as
he ran his hand down Prince William's fore-leg,
"seems to be slightly swollen.  You should be careful
to guard against spavin.  It is a serious—"

The negro laughed in his face before he could check
himself.

"Well, what is it?" demanded Bobby.

"Beg pardon, sir,"—Hayward pulled his face into
respectful shape—"spavin is a disease of the hock,
not of the knee.  The Prince struck that knee against
a hub on the carriage this morning.  No damage done,
I think, sir....  They are ready, ma'am."

As Mr. Scott prepared to mount he noticed that
Prince William's bridle had only one rein.

"Where is the snaffle-rein?" he asked Hayward.

"The curb rein was broken this morning, sir, and I
haven't another yet.  I changed that rein from the
snaffle-rings to the curb."

"Change it back," Mr. Scott directed.  "He will
not trot with the curb."

"True, sir, he'll not; but the Prince has not been
ridden in several days, and he'll be hard to hold.  I
think you'd better use the curb, sir."

No use to advise Mr. Scott.  He had heard that
your true cavalryman delights in a trot.

"Just change it, will you," he commanded.

The footman glanced at Helen before complying.

"Certainly," she said; "put the rein on the
snaffle-rings, Hayward."

Hayward obeyed and they were off.  He watched
them out of sight, and remarked as he turned into the
stable:

"What he doesn't know is something considerable."

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

.. vspace:: 1



"If all the flunkeys were as modest and respectful
as they are timorous," Bobby said to Helen as they
rode off, "the service would be greatly improved the
world over.  And if they were as full of courage as
they are of conceit, bravery would be a drug on the
market.  I believe you said Hayward is your footman?"

"Yes," Helen answered.

"That explains it.  These coachmen and footmen
become so accustomed to carriage cushions that the
saddle is an uncertain and rather fearsome seat for
them.  Their personal fears would not be out of the
way if they would not impute them to men who can ride."

The sparkle of interest in Helen's eyes encouraged
Mr. Scott to proceed.

"My observation has been that the under-classes
do not ride well—or cannot ride at all.  I think that
riding is naturally and really the diversion of
gentlemen, the *hoi polloi* do not take to it."

It occurred to Helen that the *hoi polloi* of Bobby's
town of New York had not the money with which to
"take to" saddle-horses, but she did not raise the
point.  Bobby continued to talk.

"I would not consider my education complete if I
were not accustomed to the saddle.  I think that many
of our young fellows are not only careless of a most
healthful and gentlemanly sport, but are recreant to
duty as citizens, in not perfecting themselves in feats
of arms and horsemanship.  What is it that Kipling
says in lamenting the degeneracy in sterner virtues of
the gentry of Britain?  Something like

   |  "'And ye vaunted your fathomless power, and ye flaunted your
   |        iron pride
   |  Ere—ye fawned on the Younger Nations for the men who could
   |        shoot and ride.'"
   |

"Good for you, Mr. Scott.  I did not imagine you
were so seriously interested in Kipling as to memorize
his lines.  He is fine, though, isn't he?"

"Yes, that couplet impressed itself upon me without
effort on my part.  It appeals to me.  I think it is
a disgrace for a young man not to know how to shoot
and ride.  Alas, there are so many who do not.  Little
wonder that I am asked to put myself within the
precautionary limitations of a timid flunkey."

Helen said nothing.  She saw Mr. Scott was deeply
offended because he had known so little about spavin.
His dissertation on horsemanship caused her to note
with some interest his manner of doing the thing.  As
they rode along, her mare in a slow canter and Prince
William in a trot, the young man was giving a
faithful exhibition of the method taught by "Old
Stirrups," the Squadron's riding-master; but Helen could
see that he was keenly conscious of every detail of the
process, from the tilt of his toes to the crook of his
left elbow.

Yet Mr. Scott was enjoying the ride—no doubt of
that.  Never had he had such an opportunity to parade
his pet ideas and conceits, and never had he had such
a respectful hearing.  At last the younger Miss
Phillips was taking him seriously.  He plumed himself,
and essayed a more elaborate panegyric on manly
preparedness.  Helen permitted him to do all the talking.

He was at some pains to instruct her in the art of
riding.  He advised her how to hold the reins, how
to make her horse change from a canter to a trot then
to a gallop, how to change the step-off in the gallop,
and, all together, passed on to her about all he could
remember of the information acquired from "Old
Stirrups."  It was imparted, however, after the
manner of first hand knowledge born of large experience.
He felt that he was living up to Caroline's admonition
to look well after Helen, and was gratified that the
young lady received his coaching with such beautiful
humility and seriousness.

"This the best part of the Lake Drive," Helen
suggested finally, "the mile from here to 'The
Leap.'  May we not let the horses go a little?"

"Why, certainly, if you wish," Mr. Scott consented.
"Don't be nervous.  Just keep the rein tight enough
to feel her mouth firmly so she won't stumble, and let
her go 'long."

Helen clucked to her mare and swung into a moderately
fast gallop....  The exhilaration of it occupied
her for a time, and then she noticed Mr. Scott
was not altogether comfortable.  The Prince was
pulling against the bit in a stiff trot that was making a
monkey of the young man's memorized method.
Helen thought that the riding would be easier for him
if Prince William would break into a gallop, and she
pushed her mount to a faster pace in order to make
the horse break over.  Feeling perfectly at ease in her
saddle, she unwittingly urged the mare faster and
faster in kindly meant effort, till finally the increasing
speed became so furious that she was a bit alarmed,
and pulled in on her bridle-rein.  Horror! the mare
was beyond control!

The horses were about neck and neck, with Prince
William a nose in the lead and going hard against the
snaffle in a trot of such driving speed as the young
Mr. Scott had never been taught to negotiate.  He
was pulling his arms stiff against the smooth bit, but
that only steadied the Prince to his work.  Helen
gave a despairing pull with all her strength, but it did
not affect the mare's seeming determination to
overcome the Prince's lead.  She called to her escort.

"Stop her!  I can't hold her, Mr. Scott!"

Mr. Scott tried to reply, but his effort at speech
resulted in a stutter which that merciless trot jolted from
between his teeth....  He could not help her....
His own emergency was more than he could meet.  His
right foot had been shaken from its stirrup, and could
not regain it.  With his right hand he held in grim
determination and desperation the cantle of the
combative saddle which was treating him so roughly.  No,
no help from him.

Helen, riding in perfect comfort, though at a
frightful pace, looked toward Mr. Scott to see why he gave
no aid.  She saw his predicament was worse than hers.
He had no hand to offer her.  He needed both of his,
and more....  She remembered her footman and
his lifting her from her falling horse,—and wished
heartily for him in this crisis.  She realized that she
must save herself, and with that to reinforce and stiffen
her resolution she again pitted her strength and will
against those of the headstrong mare.  Her heart sank
when she thought how near they were coming to
"The Leap," and she threw every ounce of will and
muscle against the bit, and held it there.

At last, as if with a knowledge of the danger just
ahead, the mare slowed down.  But the madcap Prince
William took a longer chance.

On a little promontory jutting out into the lake the
roadway makes a sharp turn at a point some seven
or eight feet above the water and almost overhanging
it.  Helen and her father had facetiously named it
"Lover's Leap."  Prince William knew as much
about that turn as Helen's mare, but he disdained
caution.  He was a bold and close calculator,—for
he made the turn by a hair's-breadth, at top speed.

Not so Mr. Scott.  As the horse swung mightily to
the left the rider's momentum pried him away from
the saddle, and he took the water clear of all obstacles....
Helen, close behind him, but already relieved of
fear for herself, felt her heart stop beating when the
man went off his horse, for he missed a tree by a
dangerously narrow margin.  But he picked himself
up unhurt out of two feet of water, and clambered
up to the driveway, covered with humiliation and the
friendly lake mud.

Helen had been too thoroughly frightened to laugh
then, but she preserved in memory the picture of
"Bobby's stunt," and many a time afterward laughed
at it till the tears came.  For many moons she could
not think of Kipling or "flaunting an iron pride"
without an insane impulse to giggle.

Prince William, having caused all the distress,
afterward acted very nicely about it.  He permitted himself
to be caught, and carried Mr. Scott back to Hill-Top
in the most manageable and equable of tempers.  Mr. Scott
himself, however, was in a temper entirely other.
Inwardly he was choking with stifled oaths, for in
Helen's presence he must needs be decent in speech.
He began at once to berate Hayward, but realized
before he had finished a sentence that he could not
make out a case against him, and he saw disapproval
in Helen's face.  He gave it over as a situation to
which no words were adequate, and the ride home was
a strenuous essay at lofty silence.

Helen, despite her rising mirth and her contempt
for Bobby's puerile desire to shift the blame for his
mishap, had enough pity for him in his miserable
plight to suggest that they make a detour and
approach home from the rear side and avoid the eyes of
the people assembled there.  Bobby was grateful for
the suggestion.  It promised success.  That Hayward
should see him, he of course expected, and he rode up
to the stable-door, dismounted and handed his bridle
to the footman with an air of unconcern and assurance
befitting a man at ease with himself and in good
humour with the world.  Hayward regarded him
calmly from head to heel, but did not betray his
flunkey's role by so much as the tremble of an eyelash.
This made Mr. Scott angry.  He had expected something
different, and had prepared a very dignified
reproof.

"Damn that insufferable negro.  Why didn't he
laugh outright?" he growled as he walked around the
house.  Helen had run away as soon as she had
dismounted in order to save her fast toppling dignity.
Mr. Scott's flanking movement was successful and he
was almost safe when—he ran plump into Caroline
and Tom Radwine on the side porch.  Caroline's
outburst brought the others to see what the fun was.

"Mis-ter Scott!" she exclaimed.  "What kind of
a stunt have you been doing?  You look comical to
kill.  Oo—ooh!"

Bobby took on a sickly grin when Caroline's gaze
first fell upon him; but when she called him comical
it was a serious affair at once, and his face showed it.
Dorothy rushed up at that moment.

"Oh, Robert, Robert!" she cried, putting her hand
upon his shoulder, "what have you done?  Tell me.
Are you hurt?  Have you been pulling Helen out of
the lake?"  A glance at Helen answered that
question.  "Well what, then, you precious boy?"

This was the first time that his older sister had ever
complied with Bobby's insistent request that she call
him Robert, and he somehow wished she hadn't.

"Oh, Dorothy, have some sense—let me go—I
must have on some dry clothes.  I took a tumble into
the lake—yes—that's all."

"Next time you decide to do that, Mr. Scott, I'll
be glad to loan you a bathing-suit."  This from Tom
Radwine made Bobby mad as a hornet.

"Took a tumble into the lake, you say, Mr. Scott?"
asked President Phillips, pushing through the crowd.
"How did that happen?"

"I was riding your horse, Prince William, sir, and
he was on edge.  He spilled me off the drive into the
water at that sharp turn a couple of miles up.  I had
only a snaffle-rein and could not hold him."

"Only a snaffle-rein!  Why I would never think of
riding that rascal myself without a curb.  Hayward,"
he called to the footman, who was passing, "what
kind of carelessness is this?—your sending the Prince
to Mr. Scott with only a snaffle-rein?  You know very
well that brute cannot be controlled without a curb.
I'm surprised at you.  Such a lack of sense as that is
almost criminal.  You ought to be ashamed of yourself.
Don't repeat that performance—see to it you don't!"

As Helen was standing in a yard of her father,
Hayward heard this stinging rebuke in unalloyed
surprise, but as she made no demur, he saluted when the
President was done, and said only:

"Yes, sir; it shall not occur again, sir."

When her father had spoken so sharply to the
footman Helen had turned to Mr. Scott, expecting him to
exonerate Hayward; but Caroline Whitney's look of
genuine sympathy when Mr. Phillips spoke of that
brute's being uncontrollable without the curb bribed
the bedraggled young man to silence.  Helen saw
Caroline's glance, and caught the reason for Bobby's
lack of candour, but she was disgusted with him.

She was uncomfortable because of the injustice her
silence had done, for she was of an eminently fair
mind: and she told her father the whole truth of the
affair at the first opportunity....

She could not see how Hayward bore himself so
composedly under the undeserved rebuke.  If he
would abase himself thus, would barter his self-respect,
would lick the hand that smote him, in order
that he might obtain his commission—if he would
sell his manhood for it—for anything—he would
be contemptible in her sight....  Again the question
came: Why was he a footman?  She could not
remember that he had ever answered it.  Oh, yes,—the
idea had but just recurred to her—she would
read *Ruy Blas*.

So, on a long summer's afternoon she read *Ruy
Blas*—read the tale of the love of a flunkey for
his Queen: and while, when the idea finally dawned
upon her, and she first clearly understood the
significance of it all, she was—  But let us not detail
that.

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Helen and Hayward Graham were married on a
day in late October.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXIV`:

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   CHAPTER XXIV

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The chronicler of these events is aware that to the
readers of this history the bare statement of the fact
that Helen and her footman were wed comes as a
shock.  Nevertheless, it was a plain and straightforward
path by which a careless and pitiless Fate had
blindly brought Helen to her husband.  A girl,
treading by chance such a way as has been followed since
the world was young by the feet of maidens of high
degree who have loved below their station,—among
the accidents and incidents of her romance she had
come, unwitting, to an open door, an ill-placed door
not designed for her passage, a "door of hope for the
negro race" which her idolized father had thought
to fashion and set wide: and she had passed it
through—in reverse.

A secret marriage was not characteristic of Helen's
ideas.  She was betrayed into that by her warm
impulsiveness.  She had had a beautiful programme
arranged for the fates to follow in.  With a heart full
of love and of dreams, and with faith in a future
that would order itself at her bidding, she had planned
the whole course of events that should lead up to a
resplendent army wedding after Hayward had won
his commission.  She never doubted for a moment
that all her roseate imaginings would come to pass,
and railed upon him that he had not her faith: for
Hayward was a doubter.  The sheer altitude of his
good fortune made him fearful and distrustful.

For the twentieth time she told off to him on her
finger-tips the order in which his fortune should
ascend.

—"And then, when you are an officer—and
famous—you will marry—me."

"But that may never be," the man had answered.
"Suppose the Senate should refuse to confirm my
nomination?  By your condition I should lose the
commission and—infinitely more—you.  If your
love and faith are supreme you will marry me whether
I win or lose."

"You shall not doubt my love or faith," Helen
exclaimed impetuously.  "I will marry you now, and
as the President's son-in-law you can the more surely
succeed.  The Senators would not offer a personal
affront to—"

"But I must bring this honour to you, not you to
me," Hayward interrupted; "and, besides that, while
I willingly, gladly, here and now, surrender all hope
of this commission for ever and for ever if only you
will marry me now, it is only fair to you for me to
remind you that your father would never appoint his
own son-in-law to a lieutenancy in the army."

"Oh, bother!" Helen protested.  "I have my heart
set on being a soldier's wife.  Of course Papa couldn't
give a commission to one of his family—what was I
thinking about....  Well, there's nothing to do but
wait, I suppose."

"And it may be an endless wait if the commission
is to come first," Hayward reiterated.  "It was an
awful temptation to silence a moment ago when you
said you'd marry me now, but I could not trick you
into it, knowing how much you desire that commission."

Helen's mind worked rapidly for half a minute.

"But I *will* marry you—and *now*!" she cried.
The girl's romantic spirit was aroused and her
spontaneous, unsophisticated feminine ideal of love was in
the ascendant.  "I will *prove* my love and faith.  I
will marry you now, and you may claim me when you
have won your laurels.  Let the Senate refuse you a
commission if they dare!"

"And would you be willing to trust me to keep that
secret?" Hayward asked.  "I almost would be afraid
to trust myself—I would want to yell it from the
housetops!  Married to you and not tell it!  Why,
it would just tell itself to any open-eyed man who
looked at me."

"No, no," Helen answered.  "I'm willing to trust
you.  It's a hardship that cannot be avoided, and we
must make the best of it."

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"And now," Helen had given her husband a last
laughing admonition, "since we must be clandestine
against our wills, let's be romantic to the last
most fiercely orthodox degree.  No love-lit glances
or conscious looks.  You be a perfect footman with
that indifferent and superior and high-and-mighty
air while you can, for when your bondage actually
begins you will never swagger again; and I will
be so haughty as almost to spurn your very
presence.  We must make no foolish attempts at
conversation, and when we write must deliver our
letters personally into the hand, not trusting even
the mails with our secret.  And then, when you
become an officer we will give the dear people the
surprise of their lives.  My! won't it be fun to see
them!  And it may be that when the time comes we
will not tell them that we are already married, but
will have another ceremony, a brilliant army affair
such as I have set my heart on.  Wouldn't that be
gorgeous!"

"I hardly would have acquaintances enough among
the officers to provide my share of the attendants,"
Hayward answered.

"Oh, yes, you would.  You would make then fast
enough," the girl replied.  "An American army
officer has the entrée everywhere—I've heard papa
say so a score of times—and, besides, Mr. Humility,
I suppose that my friends among the officers would
be numerous enough to fill all vacancies."

Hayward saw clearly wherein his wife's forecasts
were faulty; but it profited nothing to take issue with
her enthusiasms and he gladly joined in them.  She
was his wife—that could not be changed; and he
felt that with that a fact accomplished he reasonably
might work for, and hope for, and expect, anything.
He returned to his work in the city, therefore,
overflowing with happiness and pride.  It was not
surprising that as a White House footman he was more than
ever the subject of notice and comment, for never one
carried a perfect physique with such an air.  If his
confident swing and tread had been the expression of
personal vanity, it had been insufferable; but love is
not insolent nor its struttings offensive.

Hayward was on good terms with the world.  For
the first time he accepted the overbearing manner of
superiority of white men with complacency and even
with amusement.  His time was coming—he could
wait.  He went so far as almost to invite affronts
from several negroes of more or less prominence, who
had aforetime rebuffed his advances, in order, as it
were, to keep their offences in pickle so that their
chagrin might be more keen when the day of his
elevation should come.  He was at particular pains to
keep Henry Porter's opposition going, and smiled
when he thought how thoroughly he would pay him
off in his own coin.

For a few weeks he put himself with buoyant determination
to the regular study of his text-books, which
he had theretofore read with more or less intermittent
interest, and began to lay out plans for the political
campaign which would be necessary to bring about the
issuing and confirmation of his commission.  He
arranged with a personal friend, a lawyer in New
Hampshire, for the transmission of all correspondence
and papers relating to the matter in the name of John
H. Graham through this lawyer's hands,—thus to
conceal from the President even after the request for
the appointment had been made the fact that his
footman was the applicant.

The thinking out and arranging of these details and
the first rush of his attack upon his military studies
engrossed him for a month or more in every moment
he was off duty.  So closely did he hold himself that
Lily Porter reproved him gently for his remissness
several times before he made his first call upon her.
He was really working very hard—in his leisure
hours.  He had completely reversed the order of work
and diversion.  To the one-time monotony of his daily
tasks he was now held by the fascination of chance
moments of speech—most often conventional,
occasionally personal, always delightful—with the
radiant young woman his wife, upon whom even to look
in silence was enough to send his blood a-leap.  Every
day from the very first he took time from his work
of preparation to write to her....  The habit grew.
At first briefly, though always with fervent protestations,
and, as the days and weeks ran on, more and
more at length and with livening heat did he put his
heart-beats in his letters....  The habit grew too
fast.  By the time that Congress met and the currents
of the great capital were in full swing, the forces of
Hayward's love had eaten into his ambition's
boundaries and the time that he gave to thoughts of Helen,
and in seeking variant and worthy phrases in which to
indite his passion, more than equalled that in which
he worked to earn those things which by her decree
should precede possession of her....  It was hard
not to stop and think of her.  He wrote:

"You disturb me in my work.  You ride ruthlessly
through the plans of battle and campaign my textbooks
show, and make sixes and sevens of them.  At
sight of you the heaviest lines of battle dissolve into
thin air and into mist the fastest fortress falls.  At
the coming thought of you brigades and armies melt
away, and your face stands out a radiant evangel of
peace, the very thought even of wars and turbulences
dispelling....  What am I to do?  I cannot chain
myself to study the science of strife when this
heavenly vision is calling me—and it is ever
calling—to love and love only....  I am fully persuaded
there is only one thing worth thinking on in all the
earth—and that is you."

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His wife's letters were all that mortal man could
desire, but only the more distracting for all that.
They were always short, but grew in warmth as the
sense of freedom grew upon the writer.  Hayward
devoured them with increasing hunger, and with the
ever-recurring, never varying signature, "Your wife,"
spark upon spark of impatience was enkindled with
his love.  Finally he must of very necessity have some
vent for his restlessness.  He sought diversion in the
society of Lily Porter.  In fact he could with difficulty
avoid her: she too had set her heart on an army
wedding.

Hayward had only the very kindliest of purposes
toward Lily.  He had continued his correspondence
with her during the summer.  For the sake of his
plans unfolded to her in their last meeting before his
going away he could not break abruptly away from
her—though the task of remaining on friendly terms
and yet not proceeding with the suit so nearly openly
avowed was a serious tax upon his resources and
ingenuity.  In his apprehension "the fury of a woman
scorned" loomed fearful and threatening.  The object
of his apprehensions, on the other hand, while she felt
rather than saw the subtle change in him, was yet
flattered by his unaccustomed submissiveness to her
caprices and experienced delightful thrills of
expectancy as she waited for a trembling confession to
crown his new-found humility.

"Lily," her father had said to her on a morning
after one of Hayward's scattered visits, "I tol' you
once to drop that feller and I hoped you'd done it.
Understan' I don' want any footman comin' here.
We ain't in that class.  You ought to have mo' respec'
for yourse'f.  What you want with a servant hangin'
roun' you when you can take your pick of the
professional men in town, I can't see."

"Don't worry about me, papa," the girl sang as
she danced over to the piano, "I'll wed a military-tary
man."

"Well, thank Heaven you ain't got no idee of
marryin' that Hayward.  I'll make it wuth while for you
to marry a professional or a military man either one,
but none of my money for a footman, I tell you now."

"No footman for me either, papa.  I'll not marry a
footman, I promise you.  I tell you I'm thinking of
a military man."

"Not that Ohio major who was here with the
troops at the inauguration?  I'd forgot all about
him," her father questioned.

"He's not the only soldier in sight, but don't you
think he would do in a pinch?"  Lily had forgotten
about him too, till her father mentioned him.

"I'd better look into that and see what sort of a
feller he is," said the father jokingly, greatly relieved
in mind.

"Maybe you had," the daughter replied insinuatingly.

Lily had as many aristocratic notions as her father.
More, in fact.  Her promise was sincerely given.  It
was only when Hayward had told her of his purpose
and prospect of becoming an officer that he had broken
through her reserve.  While she had always liked him
she had never had any idea of marrying a footman.
But an officer in the army!—she would have capitulated
on that evening she heard his story but for her
father's timely appearance.  The idea had grown upon
her since, and she loved to reflect upon it and plan for
the outcome; though she had had time to collect her
thoughts and decide not to precipitate or render a
final decision till the commission was in the footman's
name.  She really had to hold herself firmly in hand
to manage it so, for she loved the young fellow with
a whole-hearted fervour, and of his love for her she
was blissfully assured.

The girl was developing quite an interest in military
matters.  In one of their not unusual discussions of
Hayward's career it was arranged that at his first
convenient opportunity he should accompany her out to
Fort Myer to see a parade.  Hayward went for her
on his first half holiday—rather, he went with her,
for she drove him out in her own stanhope.  As they
were turning a corner they were halted for a moment
in a knot of vehicles.  Lily was driving and Hayward
was talking to her with so much interest in her and
in what he was saying to her that he was oblivious to
the things about them....  He was accustomed to
sit quiet and indifferent while another driver solved
the problems of the streets....  The first thing that
diverted his attention from the girl beside him was
the small red-white-and-blue White House cockades
on the headstalls of a pair of horses just drawing
ahead of Lily's cob.  He glanced quickly across to the
carriage—and met the full gaze of his wife's eyes.
She was sitting on the front seat of the landau facing
to the rear, and her eyes were upon him for a half
minute at very close range.  Helen looked away
several times in her effort to be unconscious of his
presence.  But she could not be perfectly oblivious or
withhold her glances altogether.  She had heard the very
speech—the very gallant speech—Hayward was
making.

Lily looked about to find the cause of collapse in her
escort's talk, and saw the man's peculiar look at
Helen, whom she knew by sight.  She accounted for
his confusion at once, but the blush that came to the
young Miss Phillips' cheek and her evident
self-consciousness were so unaccountable as to be puzzling.
She searched Hayward's face keenly for an explanation
of his young mistress's behaviour—and he did
not bear the scrutiny with entire nonchalance.  Lily
felt insulted in a way.

"I hope she will know us next time she sees us,"
she said snappishly.

No answer from Hayward; though he felt like a
traitor for letting the implied criticism go unchallenged.

"You must hurry and get your commission.  It
seems to disturb the fine lady to see her footman
enjoy the privileges of a gentleman.  No doubt she
thinks it impertinent for a servant to deal in gallant
speeches at all, especially such a beautiful sentiment
as she must have heard you speaking."

Lily had hit the mark in the centre—but of course
she did not know it.  That finely turned sentiment
which he had thrown out with such impromptu grace
and rhetorical finish was taken word for word from
his last letter to his wife, and he had puzzled his brain
for an hour in the choosing and setting of the dozen
words in which it sparkled.  There was nothing
particularly personal in that dozen words, but how was
Helen to know but that they had been strung upon the
same thread in the man's conversation with his
unknown companion as they were in the letter lying at
that moment upon her own bosom.

Hayward did not enjoy the afternoon with Lily.
He had hoped Helen had not heard what he was saying,
but Lily's statement of opinion that she had heard
seemed to put the matter beyond doubt.  He came
home quite disturbed in mind.  He debated to himself
whether to write to Helen or wait for her answer
to his last letter.  He decided not to plead till he was
accused.

With the next morning came—no letter.  Night—no
letter.  Another morning—no letter.  He wrote:

"Why do you not write to me—and why is your
face so cold?"

The answer came: "Who is that woman?  She is
not your sister—for your sister would not look at
you like that—no, nor would you look at your sister
like that—nor would you say such a speech to your
sister.  Who is she?  And what right has such a
woman, what right has any woman to hear what your
letters have said to me?  That sentiment is mine—you
gave it to me.  It is mine, *mine*—do you
understand?—and you take it and fritter it away on
that—who is she?  Keep away from her."

"The woman is a very good friend of mine," Hayward
wrote in reply, "*and nothing more*.  The words
you overheard were spoken to her, I swear to you,
in no such connection as they were written in my letter
to you.  If I had thought that you would so value
them and consider them your very own I never would
have 'frittered them away' on any person, believe me.
Do be forgiving and remember that men are not so
finely wrought as women.  Only a woman—only
you, the most finely wrought of women—ever would
have conceived such a nicety of conduct for a lover.
There are good reasons why I cannot keep away from
the young lady as you request.  I wish I could, since
you desire it.  She is Miss Lily Porter, and a most
estimable young woman.  I am indebted to her for
very much that goes to make life bearable.  She is a
great musician and has filled with pleasure for me
many an hour that otherwise would have been
monotonous and dead.  Please do not decree that I shall
not hear her sing.  To listen to her is such a cooling,
refreshing oasis in the dry-hot barrenness of a workaday
life; and I declare to you my love for you grows
warmer if possible in hearing the ballads that she
sings, and to the lullabies she hums so beautifully I
dream alone of you.  Believe me when I swear that
nothing can affect the perfect singleness of my
devotion,—and let your face shine upon me.  It was so
cold yesterday that a most horrible dream came to me
last night: they were hunting us with bloodhounds
to take you away from me!  Just think, I have not so
much as touched your hand since the preacher so
hurriedly made us one—only your eyes have been mine,
and now you withdraw them from me!  Oh my queen,
smile upon me!"





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   CHAPTER XXV

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Helen's reply to Hayward's pleading letter was
for the most part reassuring and he felt that the
incident of the drive with Lily Porter was closed: but
the pains of love were only beginning to be upon him.

Helen's letters grew briefer and briefer.  There
was no lack of affection shown in them, but the
expression was not so elaborate as at first.  She was in
the rush of preparation for her début, and less and less
was she free to write.  Occasionally, as if in specific
answer to his prayer and to atone for her shortcomings,
she smiled upon him with such warmth that his
heart-hunger was appeased.  Only for a space,
however, did that satisfy.  The desire came back with
redoubled fury the instant the intoxication was off.

Like any other sufferer from intoxicants he had
his periods of depression.  In such moments he felt
that his marriage was a mockery, that Helen was not
his, would never be his, could never be his.  Long
odds were against his getting his commission—even
if the President signed it the Senate would never
confirm it.  The fight would be too long, and the issue
hopeless—he could not win—his colour was too
great a handicap—curse it!  A negro,—yes, a
negro—and white men so insufferably unjust to a
negro—curse them all!—curse the whole white-faced
race!—save only her—she was his—yes, she *was*
his—his by love and law—they could not take her from
him, and he would have her yet despite the whine of
all the purblind, race-proud Senators who might
oppose his confirmation—curse them all! curse them all!!

Such moods were happily intermittent.  Again he
was himself—a man among men—already a
winner—the crowned king of Helen's heart—the
President's son-in-law.  Away with doubt!  To whom so
much had come with ease everything would come with
effort.  Confidence uplifted him.

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Helen's début was an event of note.  No need for
her to be the President's daughter to make it so.  Her
sensational beauty needed not the stamp of official
rank to give it currency, nor the sparkle of her
manner and speech any studied purpose to give them
vogue.  Dominion came to her by divine right of
beauty and wit and ingenuous girlish honesty.

In the stately East Room, dressed but not
over-dressed for that occasion in palms and ferns and
flowers, beside her mother for two hours she stood,
the fairest, loveliest flower that ever graced that
historic hall, and received the new world which came to
take her to itself.  Gowned in simplicity and maiden
white—with the flush of unaffected joy in her cheeks
and the sparkle of genuine youth in her gray eyes—with
the splash of October sunsets in her dark hair—with
a skin white and clear as purity, but shot through
with the evanescent glows and tints of health—with
neck, shoulders and arms rising from her gown like
a half-opened lily from its calyx—lissome and
graceful indeed as a lily-stem—virginal freshness in mind,
manner and person: she was a May-day morning.

"My dear," said Senator Ruffin as he bowed low
over her hand, "may an old man who admired your
grandmother in her youth presume to express the
extravagant wish that you may be as happy as you
are beautiful!"

"And may a young man," said Senator Rutledge,
close following Mr. Ruffin, "who has the orthodox
faith that *perfect* happiness is found only in heaven,
express the hope that the full consummation of
Senator Ruffin's wishes for you may be long delayed?"

"And may you both live to repent of trying to
turn a young girl's head," Helen replied, making them
a curtsey.

"Once on a time I warned you against the day
when such speeches would be made to you," said
Rutledge, "and you have grown even more astonishingly
into the danger than the eye of prophecy could
perceive.  I warn you again.  Senator Ruffin spoke only
the words of soberness, as befits his age and station,
but wait you till ardent youth tells you what it
thinks—and you will have to hold your head on straight
with your hands: and—which dances may I have?"

"You unblushing bribe-giver!" said Helen.  "But
you are just in time.  I've only one left if I've counted
them right,—the very last.  Why did you come so
late?  The very last man.  Listen, the clocks are
striking eleven."

"Just couldn't get here sooner.  But I'll wait for
that last dance if it's a month."

The receiving-party was broken up and proceeded
to the refreshment room, afterward to go to the
ballroom, where were gathered those younger people who
were bidden to both reception and dance.

"Remember," said Evans to Helen as they left the
East Room, "I shall worry along with existence till
the last number on the card.  See if you can't run in
an extra for my long-suffering benefit.  By the way,
where is your sister?"

"In bed and cried herself to sleep two hours ago.
Poor thing, she wanted to come in and see me shine,
but mamma said 'no,' and packed her off to bed on
schedule time."

"Now look here," said Evans, "little Miss Katherine
is a young lady of vast consequence—and it's
a shame she should be treated so: but I think you
knew very well I was inquiring for your older sister."

"Oh, Elise?" she laughed.  "She had gone across
the hall with Captain Howard just before you came in."

Rutledge did not thank her for the information,
and Helen regarded him narrowly with amusement.

"Victoria Crosses are not to be resisted, Mr. Rutledge.
Heroes always have right of way."

"Do you speak from theory or experience?" asked
Rutledge.

"Both," said Helen, as for the first time that night
she thought of her husband.

She thought of him quite a number of times before
the evening was over.  In her thinking there was no
disloyalty to her love nor to her vows: but with all
the glowing prospects for a round of gayety which the
brilliance of this evening of her début promised for
her first season, she felt a vague regret that she was
not approaching the pleasures of it in the fullest
freedom.  Some quite well-defined notions of what was
due her estate as a wife threatened to put certain
limitations and restraints upon her.  She half wished
that that ceremony had been deferred—only deferred—till
the time when she would be ready to enter
upon the duties of her wedded life, assume its
responsibilities and be obedient to the restrictions which very
properly pertain to it.

Her husband, also, was giving some thought to the
questions which the situation presented, with the
difference that he had not thought of anything else
since the evening began.  With nothing to do since
eight o'clock, and free to go home, he had stopped to
see Helen in her coming-out glory.

His livery was a passport; and he divided the time
of the reception—rather unequally, to be sure—between
scraps of conversation with coming and going
coachmen he knew and long periods of gazing upon
Helen's loveliness through a broad low window of the
East Room.  He had never seen her in the role or in
the conventional evening dress of womanhood, and
the vision enchanted him.  Crowning the piquancy of
youth and freshness and *élan* in the girl, was the
unstudied dignity and stateliness and graciousness of the
woman; and the metamorphosis held him entranced.

He looked and looked and looked at her while every
variant tremor of love and pride and impatience swept
over his heart-strings.  He saw the most notable men
in America, men whose business was world-politics,
bow in evident admiration before her beauty, and
linger to barter persiflage for her smiles and airy
speeches: and she was *his* wife.

He saw her receive the magnificent Chief of Staff of
the Army, resplendent in the uniform of his exalted
rank: her, the wife of Sergeant Graham of "the
10th."  And that towering figure with the stamp of
"Briton" in every massive line?  Yes, Hayward
recognized him: the English member of the Canadian
Fisheries Commission—a lawyer of international
repute, a belted earl—bending a grand head low in
obeisance to a footman's wife—to *his* wife.  The
insolence of pride filled his heart for a minute.  Then
a twinge of doubt went through him: she would not
be a *footman's* wife: she had decreed *her* husband
must be an officer—oh, the bother and the worry
of it—and the uncertainty!  But she was his beyond
escape, and if the worst came to—no, that would be
disloyalty....  Look, who is that shaking hands
with her now?  Hal Lodge, by all that's Boston!
Where did he come from, and what's he doing here?
No matter, he's here.  Look out, Hal, old boy, don't
hold my wife's hand so long—nor gaze into her eyes
so meaningly—I know your failing!  My what a
joke it would be if you fell in love with her!—it
would be too funny.  I owe it to old friendship to
warn you, but I mustn't."

For the greater part of two hours Hayward
watched the reception.  He saw the last man presented.

"Yes, I know you, too," he thought.  "You made
that infernal speech in the Senate last year—said
some good things for us, too, but on the whole it was
damnable....  I'll excuse you from talking to my
wife, you race-proud bigot!  You needn't try any of
your 'ardent Southerner' on her....  Keep off the
grass.  She belongs to me.  She is mine—mine,
curse you! and all your raving speeches can't take
her away from me! ... Oh, well, talk on—yes,
talk on to her.  I wish to heaven *you would* fall in
love with her!  That would be quite the most delicious
dispensation of fate that could ever come to me—it
would be too good, too good to hope for—to have
you hopelessly in love with *my wife*! ... Oh, you
beauty, how can any man resist you!"

On the other side of the house Rutledge afterward
swung past the footman's window in several dances
with Elise.

"Oh," growled Hayward at last, "it's my brother-in-law
you aspire to be!  Well, I don't approve of that
either.  I'm surprised that your High-Mightiness
condescends to my humble father-in-law's family
anyway—and how they can suffer you to set foot in the
house after your deliverances I can't see—I'd jump
at the chance to pitch you out."

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An idea akin to the footman's had come that night
to Elise.  For other reasons she, too, wondered why
she permitted Evans Rutledge to continue his friendly
attentions to herself.  She had half made several
resolves to put an end to them.  But—it is a fact
noted by close observers that even the most womanly
woman has some curiosity—that she is mildly
attracted by a riddle—that she detests—that is, she
thinks about—what she can't understand.  In the
case in point Miss Elise Phillips was the woman and
Mr. Evans Rutledge was the riddle.

From the moment that Lola DeVale had told her
that Rutledge had kissed *her* believing her to be Elise
the eldest Miss Phillips had had a growing desire to
know why he should have done it.  She was properly
resentful that he had taken the liberty with her even
by proxy—oh yes, she felt sometimes she could box
his ears for his impudence....  But aside from all
that, why had he kissed her?  Lola had told her
plainly long time ago that Mr. Rutledge had told her
no less plainly that his self-respect would not permit
him to confess his love again.  Why then should he
kiss her? ... Oh, of course, men kissed women, she
knew, or at least had been led to believe, just for the
downright fun of the thing: but Mr. Rutledge surely
was not so common—and would not deal with *her*
on *that* basis.  No, she would not believe it of him....
If she had only been there, she thought, and
had seen the way the thing was done, the answer
doubtless would appear.  The answer to the why was
evidently locked up in the *how*.  Only Lola knew the
details of *how*.  Elise had finally decided that she
might as well know them also.

Lola was no match for her friend in subtlety.  On
her own initiative, as she supposed and at the peril
of severing their friendship, she gave Elise the whole
story.  When she saw that the listening Elise was
only mildly offended at the disclosure, she again
rehearsed the episode for the purpose of colouring it
with the eloquence in Mr. Rutledge's tendernesses.

"It's a pity I was just enough stunned to be unable
to stop him.  I heard every wasted word he spoke and
was conscious of all his misplaced kisses."

"Oh, there was no harm done," Elise replied with
a contemptuous sniff.  "I guess you are not the first
young woman upon whom he was thrown away kisses.
The modern young man never neglects any opportunity."

"Hear experience speak!" said Lola.

"My experience is not so far advanced as yours,
apparently," rejoined Elise; "but I'm not so uninviting
that no young man has ever shown a willingness
to kiss me.  With all my inexperience I know what
they would do if I chose to bump my head against
the terrace steps."

"Don't be envious and scratchy, dear.  Remember
I gave you your property as soon as—" but she
desisted as Elise angrily tossed up her head and drew
her fingers across her lips in belated protest against
the transplanted caress.

Elise was verily displeased with Mr. Rutledge,
whom she saw at irregular intervals, neither too long
nor too short—for the times and seasons of his
meetings with her were entirely insignificant.  She even
went to the trouble of making a special resolve that
she would not think of him; but it died and went to
the place where all good resolutions go.  Now,
Captain Howard was her devoted attendant, as far as she
would permit him to monopolize her time.  Outsiders
conceded him first place and probable success in his
wooing, and Elise herself had come to feel a sort of
possessory interest in him.  He was at her beck and
call, quietly but evidently elated when at her side, and
unmistakably bored when passing time with some
other young woman and awaiting Elise's summons.
But Rutledge: he was not less elated than Howard
when it was his fortune to have Elise's whole attention,
and made no effort to conceal his love for her;—and
yet he did not attempt by word or look or
gesture to add a jot of confirmation to his one declaration
of it, or even to remind Elise that he had made
it.  A score of times she had seen his love in his
eyes—plainly, so plainly, when he talked to her: but he
talked always about impersonal matters—in an
abominably interesting way—and when she
dismissed him seemed to become oblivious to her
existence and very careless as to what time should elapse
before he came to her again.  Indeed he showed no
apparent purpose to come—or to *stay away*, which
was worse.  If it would not give the lie to her
indifference she would send him about his business for
good and all.

Did he love her?  Yes, she was convinced of it—without
Lola's assurances.  Then, why had he kissed
her?  Would he kiss a woman for the love of her
and yet be unwilling to tell that love to her?  Would
his self-respect permit him to kiss her whom his
self-respect would not permit him to marry because her
father received negroes at his table?  "Self-respect"
would be making some peculiar distinctions in that
case,—even if everything be conceded to a Southerner's
ideas of "social equality."  A girl to be
kissed, but not to be courted!—Elise's face burned
at the thought.  No, she would not insult herself
by believing Mr. Rutledge's love had lost its chivalry—that
he could deal with her on any such Tim-and-Bridget
basis—there must be some other explanation....
Sometimes she desired the explanation
very heartily.

In their last waltz on the evening of Helen's début,
both these wrong-headed young folks had been alive
to the sensations bordering on the delicious with
which her heavenly mood, his unspoken love and the
sensuous music had quickened their pulses.  There
was something, however, in the suddenness, in the
completeness, with which he turned away from her
which Elise resented, and which made her want
to know who it was that must have been in his
thoughts even while he was making that last gallant
speech to her.  As she turned to see, he was being
welcomed by little Miss Margaret Preston, a
one-year's blossom, with such a tell-tale flutter of shy
admiration, that Elise chose to look that way again
after a few moments.  Then he was bent down above
the little lady in that manner full of all gentleness
and deference Elise knew so well, and was saying
something to her,—as if nothing else in all the
world was worth while,—which sent a rich, red blush
to over-colour the blossom's white and pink.

"So you keep in practice of your arts at all hazards,"
thought Miss Phillips, "even at the expense of
young things like that! ... I hope that some *woman*
will teach you your lesson yet!"—and she turned to
Captain Howard with a bewildering smile, and did
not look at Mr. Rutledge again that evening.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXVI`:

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   CHAPTER XXVI

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All this time the footman-husband was doing sentry.
With the passing of the receiving party into the
supper-room he had changed position and mounted
guard where he could look in on the dancing.  A
White House policeman who had had an eye on him
all evening thought his conduct unusual and walked
close by to give him a searching inspection.
Afterward a secret-service man thought best to look him
over carefully.  None of these things moved him from
his purpose, however; nor did the cold wind nor a
thirty minutes' flurry of sleet unset his resolution.
He watched his wife's every glide and turn in the
dance till the violins sleepily sang of *Home, Sweet
Home*.

The effect of his vigil on the dancing side was
disturbing to Hayward.  As Helen passed from the
arms of one man to another he began to grow nervous.
His positive resentment was aroused when she
was whirled past the window in the embrace of a
sprig of nobility attached to the Italian embassy.  Her
shivering husband's blood jumped.  He had heard
things about that chap!—oh, the profanation of his
even touching the hand of Helen—thank Heaven the
muse has stopped to catch its breath!  Next it was
Rutledge treading a measure with the débutante, and
his anger burned again,—flaming no doubt it would
have been had he known that the number was an extra
devised by his wife in Rutledge's special favour.
Anything was better than the Italian though!—some
comfort in that....  And now comes Hal Lodge
piloting her through the swirl.  Careful, old man,
don't hold her so close.  She is quite able to carry a
part of her own weight!

There can be no doubt it takes some culture—of
a sort—for a man to be able to look with entire
complacency upon his wife in another's arms, however
fine a fellow or fast a friend that other is.  There be
those who have attained unto such culture: but
Hayward had had few opportunities in that school—he
was happily—in this case unhappily—ignorant of
its refinements of learning.  He knew, of course, as a
matter of pure mentality, that it was a perfectly
harmless pastime, but his heart would not subscribe to the
knowledge.  No, he thought, it was no use to try to
deceive himself: he didn't like it and he didn't care to
try to like it.  She was his wife, and to have other
men putting their arms about her even in the dance,
when he himself did not have the privilege and would
not have it until—oh, damn that commission!

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The weeks following Helen's coming-out gave
nothing to allay the tumult rising in her husband's
heart.  The duties of his service compelled him to
look on many scenes from which he gladly would
have turned his jealous eyes.

By the grim humour of fate was it, too, that his
friend Hal Lodge should cause him the keenest
heart-burnings.  Hayward wrote to Helen all about their
friendship and intimate association at Harvard, and
in letter after letter purposely related many incidents
of Hal's college loves and flirtations so that Helen
might know him as he knew him.  He was loyal to
his friendship however, and gave also a faithful
account of Hal's excellences.  There was no stint in his
praise, nor any attempt to belittle Lodge in his wife's
esteem.  In such glowing terms did he sing of his
friend's many virtues that he did not have the
courage to unsay a word of it when friendship was turned
to gall.

Thanks to Hayward's three years in the army he
held it not a violation of their friendship that Hal
had never given him the slightest word or nod of
recognition, though the footman knew his livery had
not concealed his identity.  However, they met one
evening when Hayward was off duty and in citizen's
dress.  They were on the street, unattended, with no
other person in a block of them.

"Hello, Hal!" Hayward cried with the old-time
ring in his voice, meeting Lodge squarely in front and
holding out his hand.

Lodge stopped and looked at him.

"It's Graham.  Cut the stare, old chap.  I'd have
sworn you knew me all these weeks, but now I see
you didn't.  Have I changed so much?"

"Oh, I knew you," said Lodge impassively—and
turned and left him.

Hayward stared after him in speechless amazement
that fast passed into speechless wrath.  A hot wave of
blood dashed a tingle of fire against every inch of his
cuticle....  In such moments men have done murder....
He stood perfectly still till the February breeze
had cooled him off....  He was again at his normal
temperature, but the brief conflagration had brought
calamity—tragedy: it had burned out a part of his
life.  In the inventory of loss were comradeship and
loyalty and faith and affection and friendliness and
inspirations and memories—burned to ashes, or
charred and blackened and wrecked.  Tragedy?  The
elemental tragedy of all the eternities is in the death
of a friendship....  Despite the praises he had sung,
Hayward might have told Helen about it—if the
iron had not gone so deep into his soul.  Men will
parade their lighter hurts and gabble of them for
pastime or to entertain their neighbours, but
death-wounds bring the silence with them.

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Helen's letters babbled on with occasional
references to Mr. Lodge, in whom from time to time she
saw exemplified one and another of the graces which
Hayward had described and which she in turn
recounted to him, as she thought, for his delectation.
After some months of this it is not to be doubted or
wondered at that Hayward took time to despise Lodge
very thoroughly and sincerely.

From the moment of his rebuff the footman felt
that he was not in a position to show his resentment.
He wrote to Helen that his friend did not know him
and asked her to make no mention of him to Lodge
even in the most casual, inferential or roundabout
fashion.  No need to warn Helen: she had been
frightened out of her wits by an incident occurring
early after their coming from Hill-Top, and the
footman's name was never on her tongue save in
connection with his duties as a servant.

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As the winter wore on and melted into spring, less
and less indeed was the thought of her husband upon
Helen's mind.  Not, let it be understood, that she
loved him less than upon the day of their marriage;
but the rush of events gave her little time to think of
him.  Her letters proved that she thought of him
regularly and affectionately, but proved no less that
she thought of him briefly—and yet more briefly as
time passed.

To Hayward, by nothing diverted from his hungry
thoughts of her, his wife's slow but palpable
withdrawing from him and from his life was an increasing
torment; and the daily sight of her, to which his
duties held him, as she attracted and received and
appropriated and enjoyed the homage and admiration
of the men who crowded about her, among whom
in high favour was Lodge, was little less than a
maddening torture.  She seemed to be escaping him, and
his heart was wrung—with love—fear—jealousy—hate.
In a nervous hurry of desperation he sent
to his lawyer-politician friend in New Hampshire all
the information and recommendations he had in hand
that were to accompany his application for appointment
to a lieutenancy, and wrote to him: "Stir around
and get whatever else is necessary and fire them at
Washington.  Make all haste, as you value human
life, for there is almost that dependent on this
appointment.  It is no little matter of military rank or
of dollars and cents, but of life and—love."





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   CHAPTER XXVII

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In the months leading up to another summer
Hayward was more and more racked with impatience and
with a reckless vacillation between hope and pessimism.
The one thing that made Helen's gayeties in Washington
at all bearable to him was the promise of the
coming summer days at Hill-Top when he would get
at least an occasional chance of speaking to her and
would be rid of the sight of the army of young fellows
who were besieging her.  There were heartsease and
undisturbed love in the Hill-Top prospect, and his
anticipations grew apace as the time for the migration
came near....  The day was set, and arrived.  The
ex-trooper's kit was packed.  He was ready, expectant.

He got Helen's letter about an hour before their
train was to start.  It told him good-bye.  He looked
at the word with dismay.  After a time he read on.
It had been decided she was not to go to Hill-Top
with her mother and the little girls that morning—she
did not know just when she would come—she
was going to New York for a short visit to Alice
Rhinelander, then she was going to Newport, after
that to Bar Harbor—she had promised Daisy Sherrol
a visit in the Catskills, and Madge Parker to join
her house-party at Lake Placid, time not yet fixed—Alice
was insisting that she come back to her for the
Cup Races in September—besides these there were a
number of other things under consideration—and
taking it all together it was quite uncertain whether
she would get home at all—she was so sorry that
she wouldn't, but he must not begrudge her the
pleasures of that season—when another came she would
probably be an old married woman, steady and settled
down—he would please look carefully after mamma
and Katherine and May—and with her love she told
him again good-bye.

Hayward went to Hill-Top and performed his service
admirably as usual: but all the spring and snap
were taken out of him.  The days were monotonous
in their lack of diverting occupation and he had much
time to sit still and hold his hands—and think of his
wife.  But that would not do at all.  He tried not to
do so much of it.  He wrote to his New Hampshire
lawyer and had forwarded to him at Hill-Top all the
papers relating to his commission, and filled out his
spare time for several days in reviewing these
momentous documents.

There was indeed a large and various collection of
them.  He and his friend had pulled many
wires—political, personal, military and other.  Beginning
with a New Hampshire Senator and local politicians,
up through army officers and men personally notable
to the President of Harvard, from one or another he
had drawn largely or moderately of the ammunition
with which to wage his battle.  Half of these did not
know the use he intended to make of their commendations,
but they were all sincerely given.

And he had made out a strong case.  Such a forcible
one in truth that, barring the handicap of his
colour, he would win hands down.  A man of his
intelligence could not but know that it was a strong
case, stronger indeed than he had dared to hope for.
In the contemplation of it he was elated.  The
colouring of his outlook was roseate with promise.  In
that outlook he saw Helen *coming toward him*, not
going away as she had been all these months.  With
his commission was she coming, and his commission
was coming so fast, so fast.

He felt that his appeal was irresistible, and his
spirit was on a high wave of assurance.  So high,
indeed, that he decided to omit the personal claim upon
the President's gratitude.  He had felt for some time
that perhaps that would not be altogether fair....
He bundled up the papers along with his final
suggestions and sent them back to his lawyer with orders
to lick them into shape and forward them to the
President without another minute's delay.

He wrote to Helen of the imminence of the crisis
in their affairs, but of doubt or apprehension he did
not speak.  He told her of his decision not to appeal
to her father's sense of personal obligation.  He
exulted in his approaching triumph as if he had
already apprehended and went into rhapsodies about the
double prize it would bring to him: the shoulder-straps
and her: a gentleman's work in serving the
flag, and a gentleman's supremest guerdon—her love
openly confessed and without reserve.

Helen's answer was brief but warmly sympathetic.
She applauded his purpose to win on merit alone.
His decision only confirmed her estimate of him.
Her faith in his winning was fixed.  A tender line
closed the missive, and a laughing postscript besought
him not to believe the half he saw in the papers about
her.

Ah, the postscript!  It suggested a thing which
Hayward had not thought of before.  He began to
read the society notes in the metropolitan dailies, with
special reference to Newport and Bar Harbor gossip,
and with more especial reference to Miss Helen
Phillips' doings thereat.  He bought one or another of
the papers at the village every day, and studied them
religiously.  In the very first was the interesting item
that Mr. Harry Lodge was spending a time at
Newport.  So was Helen, as Hayward knew, though that
paper did not say so.  But the next day's issue did:
and he began to exercise his brain with a continuous
problem of its own devising.  The problem was to
figure out in his imagination the details of Helen's
daily life.

Some days the papers said nothing of her, and then
there would be so much that her husband resented
the intrusion upon the right of privacy which the
correspondents so ruthlessly invaded,—but he
welcomed the news of her.  The President's daughter
was a public personage, and the great newspapers did
not hesitate to treat her as such.  Her comings and
goings, her graces and beauty, her dresses and dances,
her thoughts and her tastes, her wit and her charm
were never-ending sources of supply for the bright
young men who were paid by the column for their
"stuff."  Hayward read every word of it—though
a Harvard man ought to have had more sense: and
Mr. Lodge began to figure more and more largely in
"the conditions of the problem."

Hayward made no allowance for reportorial zeal
or mendacity, the first always much, and the last,
while unusual, always possible.  The young
gentlemen furnished him enough to think about, and his
imagination began to add enough, and more than
enough, to worry about.  When imagination sets out
to go wrong it invariably goes badly wrong, for the
reason that it plays a game without a limit.

However, the footman's imaginings were not
entirely without provocation.  As the days passed,
Helen's letters became mere scraps, generally tender,
sometimes quite tender, but hurried, snatchy, with
long silences between.  To supply the lack of authentic
information of her, her husband studied more assiduously
the newspaper columns: and the poisoned tooth
of jealousy struck deeper into his heart.  At last,
between Helen's indifference and the nagging
news-notes, he could not endure it longer.  He wrote her a
protest hot with the fever of heart-burning and of
outraged love.  He re-read that letter a dozen times in
indecision—and trembled as he dropped it in the
box....  Nervously he waited for an answer,—and
yet he waited....  The silence grew ominous....
His fears grew also.  But why, thought he, should
he fear?  She was his wife, and he had the right to
protest....  His anger rose at her contemptuous
disregard of him: his anger—and his fear.  He
knew she was bound to him past undoing.  Nevertheless,
his fears did abide and thicken, while the summer
and the silence drew along slowly hand in hand.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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September had come, bringing yet no letter from
his wife to fetch the confusion of Hayward's fear,
his resentment, his love and his jealousy to something
of peaceful order.  His spirit was already beset with
wild imaginings and desire, when one day he opened
a *Journal* to read:

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   ROMANCE IN HIGH PLACES

.. class:: center white-space-pre-line

   *The President's Daughter, Besought
   By Eligibles of Many Lands, Will
   Wed An American Citizen
   Superb American Beauty Follows Her Heart
   Engagement of Miss Helen Phillips and Mr. Harry
   Lodge*

.. vspace:: 2

Hayward sat down on the first thing that offered
itself.  He felt just a little uncertain about standing
up.  He read the staring headlines over again, and,
hot and cold by turns, plunged into the details of this
High Romance.

Unbelievable?  Beyond doubt.  Unthinkable even—to
him who knew.  But the fabrication artist hammered
his brain and heart with such a mass of detail,
with such a crushing tone of assuredness and
authority, that the footman's thoughts and beliefs were
pounded into stupefaction and he knew neither what
to think nor what to believe.  His brain jumped to
recall the details of their marriage, in fearful search
of a possible defect or omission which might vitiate
it.  It had been very hurriedly done, all superfluities
were omitted, but the officer had assured him that they
were hard and fast man and wife.

Had Helen discovered a flaw in the contract?  And
would she evade it thus? ... When that last
question struck his brain, a dozen passions swarmed to
fight within his heart: love, jealousy, fear, defiance.
Shaking with the tumult of them all, he wrote to
Helen again.

"It has been six long weeks since you received my
last letter.  Not a word has come to me in answer till
this, to-day:

(Here he pasted in the headlines clipped from the
*Journal*.)

"Is this your reply?  If it is, I swear to you it shall
not be.  That insufferable cad cannot live upon the
earth to take you from me.  I will snuff his contemptible
life out rather.  You know that you are mine—wife—by
every vow and promise which the law
prescribes.  It is incredible that you should ignore
your troth plighted to me.  It is impossible for you
to break it in this fashion.  I would not have believed
you could be a fickle and unfaithful Helen.  I do not
believe it.  It is a lie.  Write and tell me it is a lie.
Write quickly for the love of God.  No, no, you need
not write.  It is false.  I know it is false—for you
cannot be false.

"But oh my Helen, why did you not listen to me?
Why did you, a wedded wife, persist in receiving
attentions from men, from this one man in particular,
the most contemptibly caddish creature among all your
admirers?  I have deplored your unrestraint but I
resent it that *Lodge* should have found such special
favour at your hands as to give currency to this
report.  He is unutterably unworthy.  I beseech you by
the love I shall dare to believe is mine until you tell
me I have lost it to conduct yourself so that such
lies as this shall not be printed.  Think what will be
said of your gayeties when it is announced that you
have been married a year.  I love you, wildly, madly,
as this incoherent letter shows.  You have told me
that your love is mine and I believe it.  Forgive me
and write to me, queen of my heart.  I am starving
for lack of the love which is already my own."

Helen's reply to that letter came quickly enough.

"I refer you to yesterday's papers," it said icily,
"for my answer to your ravings about that absurd
newspaper story.  Your jealousy is insulting, and
your aspersions of Mr. Lodge are inexplicable.  He
is everything that is honourable, and it is only your
frenzied attack upon him that is 'unutterably
unworthy.'  I sincerely regret that I was so foolish as
to marry you when I did.  You are unreasonably
exacting and I will not be bound by it.  You have no
right to make demands of me."

Hayward had the sensation of being struck in the
face.  If he had been disturbed with vague doubts
theretofore, he was now harassed by very certain and
lively fear.  The "yesterday's papers" to which
Helen referred him had had a very explicit denial of
the engagement, and Helen's sharp reply admitted her
marriage to him; but the last declarations of her
letter were ambiguous and defiant, and his heart sank
when he remembered that marriages were often
annulled, and that, even though the courts might not
give freedom, there was no way to compel a wife to
live with her husband.

Every manner of possibility and expedient whirled
round and round in his brain until his thoughts were
an almost insane jumble of fear, indecision and wrath.
Finally out of the travail of his hopelessness and
confusion of ideas there rose his fighting spirit and was
born the mighty oath he swore, that she was his, he
must have her, and in spite of the world, flesh and
the devil, by God, he would have her!

One never-to-be-forgotten night was the first he
spent after receiving Helen's letter: a nightmare from
his lying down until the dawn.  A tumult of shifting
phantasms, disordered, chaotic, terrible, assailed him
with incessant horrors the night long, while through
it all there ran as a continuing and connecting tragedy
his struggle to possess himself of Helen.  In his wild
dreams she was sometimes his and again escaping
him; but always when he held her it was by right of
might.  A time he was clasping her close and warm
in his arms, but fainting and unconscious, as he ran
with her down Pennsylvania Avenue, Lodge, Rutledge,
Phillips and an angry horde in hot pursuit.  Again,
he was dragging her through a never-ending swamp,
limp and lifeless, one side of her face a-drip with
blood.  With a blood-stained axe he was fighting a
furious, breath-spent way through vines and tangled
undergrowth, the while there sounded in his ears the
lone-drawn baying of hounds upon his track.

From that bed of horrors he sprang with relief before
the first light in the east.  He was glad just to be
awake and he felt as if he wished never to close his
eyes again.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXVIII`:

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   CHAPTER XXVIII

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"You will have Shortman and the landau at the
door at ten o'clock," said Mrs. Phillips to Hayward
when he appeared for duty that morning.  Shortman
was the coachman.

When the servants appeared at ten for orders they
were told that they should proceed to Cahudaga and
bring back with them in the afternoon Miss Helen
and two friends....  Shortman, stolid and indifferent
as he usually was, was yet interested to note that
he could not understand some of the things the
footman said and did on that ride to Cahudaga.

Alice Rhinelander's sudden indisposition forbade
her to attempt the long drive to Hill-Top, and Lucile
Hammersley, of course, could not leave her guest.
As Helen was to have but one day at home, however,
she decided to go alone, and leave the two others to
follow her on the morrow.  As it was, she deferred
starting till the latest possible moment.  A threatening
sky, splashed with sunshine but brushed with the
fleeting clouds and winds of the close-coming equinox,
was Mr. Hammersley's pretext for insisting that she
also remain over night; but a childish desire to go
home now that she was near it impelled her to tear
herself away at the last minute for the solitary drive.

She spoke pleasantly to Shortman and Hayward
when she came out to get in the carriage, and
Hayward thought that her perfect composure in what
seemed to him a tense situation was marvellous to
behold.  At the first sight of her glorious beauty he had
an impulse to prostrate himself in adoration, but that
something of the grand lady which she had unconsciously
taken on held him stiffly to his character, if
nothing else had done so.  He held open the door for
her, pushed her skirt clear—his pulses gone wild at
the touch of it—shut her in securely, climbed to his
seat beside Shortman and faced steadily to the front.
He was afraid to seek a personal look from Helen's
eyes.  She, looking upon his broad back, erect and flat,
strong in every line, did not guess the storm that was
shaking him within.  She was no little surprised at
the grip he had on himself, and really indulged in
some admiration of his indifferent air in what had
been to her notion, also, a rather tense situation—for
him.  Her father's daughter, she had never met or
imagined the situation to which she would not be
equal...

While Hayward's spirit was being storm-swept, a
literal tempest was driving down upon them.  They
were less than half-way home and on a lonely and
unpeopled part of their road when the storm fell.  The
men and Helen, too, had ascribed the increasing
darkness to the fast-coming nightfall, for the air about
them was still and warm, and the sun had gone some
time before behind a bank of low-lying clouds.  A
lightning-flash was the first herald of danger; and
drive then as Shortman might, it was a losing race.

The storm seemed disposed to play cat-and-mouse
with them.  Hurrying over them in scurrying clouds
darker and blacker growing, it only watched the
hard-driven horses, nor so much as blew a breath upon
them....  Mocking them now, it blew a puff, puff—and
again was silence.  As if to incite them to
more amusing endeavours, along with another puff it
threw at them a capful of giant rain-drops: and again
drew off from the game to watch them run with fright....
Next came a brilliant sheet of lightning,
revealing the cavernous furrows and writhing convulsions
on the storm-god's front—but not the *sound* of
thunder nor the jarring shock of the riving bolt—that
would be carrying the joke with these scared and
fleeing pigmies too far....  Another awful, mocking
grimace of the storm, and then another.  After
each, the darkness coming like a down-flung blanket
closer and closer to envelop the earth.  And through
it all, that awful silent stillness, broken so far only
by the clatter of those sportive raindrops and the
rustle of the contemptuous puffs....  But the giant
hadn't time to play with children: Crash, ROAR—the
hurricane struck the hapless carriage!

Shortman was driving wildly to reach a little
farmhouse two miles yet ahead, the first hope of shelter.
In the sheets of light his eyes swept the ill-kept road
to fix his course, and in the inky blackness following
he held to it in desperate and unslacking haste till
another flash revealed it further to him.

The thundering wind mauled and pummelled them.
It shook and tore them.  It shook and tore the very
earth as they plunged fearfully forward through the
terrible light and the awful darkness.  In the deafening,
blinding roar and rush, sight and hearing were
pounded almost into insensibility and Helen tried to
cry out to the swaying figures on the driver's
seat—but screamed instead in terror as calamity caught
them.  Crack!  *Crash*!  CRUSH!—and woman, men,
horses and carriage were buried under a down-coming
treetop.

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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Helen felt she had not lost consciousness, but
she did not know.  Hayward was struggling to release
her from the wrecked landau.  He was calling to her,
screaming rather,—for the shrieking wind was raging
as if with the taste of blood.  She could see him
plainly as he fought through the threshing branches
of the giant oak that had smashed them.  The light
which revealed him to her was continuous, but
flashing and dancing.  She looked to see whence it came,
and her blood froze as she saw the sputtering end of
an electric transmission cable which the falling forest
monarch had broken and carried down.  At the foot
of Niagara were mighty turbines a-whirl which sent
the deadly current to threaten and to slay.  Men had
intended it for works of peace and industry in lake
villages, but Nature had stepped in to reclaim it as
one of her own cataclysmic forces, and Niagara's
rioting waters, unwitting and uncaring, sent it just as
merrily and as mightily to works of death.

Hayward well knew that death was in the touch of
that whipping wire, tangled in boughs beaten and
lashed by the demoniac winds: but Helen was in
danger, and he hesitated not to come to her.  After
a struggle that tested muscle as well as courage, he
dragged her free and started to carry her up the
roadside bank to a small hut or shack which the light
revealed.  Helen shook herself from his arms.

"Where is Shortman?" she cried against the tempest.

Hayward pointed to the wrecked carriage.  As she
looked, one of the horses, uttering a cry and trying
to rise, was flicked on the head by the end of the
hissing wire, and, in a flash of greenish-blue flame,
sank down and was still.

"Help Shortman!" Helen cried again.

At her command Hayward plunged into the tree-top
and after a longer struggle than had been necessary
in rescuing Helen, he pulled the coachman out
and laid him limp at his wife's feet.  He understood
rather than heard the question she asked.  He nodded
his head in affirmative answer, and said, as if talking
to himself:

"Dead, Miss Helen."

It had not been more than two minutes since the
fury of the storm broke upon them.  The rain-drops,
which had been desultory, now came down in torrents.
Hayward turned toward his wife.  She was sinking
trembling to the road.  He caught her up and hurried
her to the hut.

Their refuge was quite small, but afforded shelter
from the downpour of water.  It was a little patched-up
affair that had been used by the labourers who
constructed the electric transmission line, and was without
opening except the door, there being no shutter to
that.  A rude table of rough planks built against the
wall was its only furnishing.  What had been a small
bench was broken up and useless.

Hayward held Helen in his arms while he inventoried
the contents in the uncertain light, but at her
first movement to free herself from his embrace he
gently seated her on the little table and stood beside
her at the end of it.  She was faint with horror and
fright and, closing her eyes, sank back against the wall
for support: while the wind-driven torrent howled
and surged past the door and the fierce but unspeaking
lightning lit up the awful night....  Helen was
getting some sort of grip on her nerves again when,
turning toward the door, in the pallid light she had a
vision of the ghastly face lying in the road below them.
She shuddered—the faintness was overmastering—and
toppled unconscious against her husband's arm.
He caught her tenderly, not knowing she had lost
consciousness, and, putting his arm around her, drew
her softly and closely to himself.

For a long time he stood thus in silence, fearing
that speech might break the spell.  At last he spoke
to her, but she did not answer.  He ascribed her
silence to fright, and with gentle and reassuring words
essayed to compose her fears.  He took note of her
failure to speak to him: but she was submissive to
his caresses, and he was well content with that.  At
her non-resistance he became more affectionate in his
tendernesses, and was lost in the ecstasy of holding
her to his heart.

Gone—far removed—from him was the thought
of the storm-riven night.  An end, he exulted, to
nightmares in which she was fleeing from him.  His
wife was in his arms at last!  The silent modesty with
which she had committed herself to him was eloquent
of her heart's love and faithfulness:—and his pulses
sang with joy despite the tragedy that had befallen.

The wind and rain were slackening, but the
lightning played on.  With a sigh and shiver Helen
stirred, and pushed feebly away.

"Where am I?  Where are we?" she asked confusedly.

"About two miles and a half from the Lake
Drive," Hayward answered, "about four miles from
home."

"But what are we doing here?  How did we get here?"

Hayward started.  In heaven's name, her mind was
not unsettled!

"The wreck—I carried you in here out of the storm."

"Oh—yes,—now I remember," Helen said, leaning
back against the wall and putting her hands before
her eyes as if to shut out memory.

In a flash Hayward was in the clutch of the old
terror.

"She did not know, then," he thought.  "She was
unconscious, and did not give herself to me."  Again
he was on the rack, all his doubts and fears and
jealousies a-surge, but maddened and fired by the
memory, the lingering perfume, of her smooth cheek and
warm lips.

"How long must we stay here?" Helen asked,
starting up.

"Until the storm is over, at the least.  They may
send after us when we do not arrive on time.  I
cannot leave you here, or I would go after help now."

"No! you must not leave me here!  We will wait
till help comes or until—I can go with you.  Do you
think it will be long?"

Hayward went to the little door and surveyed the
heavens.

"Another storm seems to be headed this way," he
said.  "If that strikes us there's no telling when we
will get away.  We are perfectly safe here, however.
This cabin is built back against the hill and there are
no trees near enough to fall on us."

"Were you hurt?" asked Helen abruptly, for the
first time thinking of the dangers they had gone
through as dangers.

"Nothing worth reporting," said Hayward in order
to allay her fears.  It was a lie well told, for he had
a decidedly caved-in feeling about his ribs.

"You saved my life again—this time at risk of
your own.  When the carriage was crushed I thought
that I—oh, it is too horrible!"  She trembled
violently.

Hayward saw that he must divert her thoughts
from this direful night.  He was much desirous of
discussing other matters anyway.  After a silent
minute he began.

"Your return was quite unexpected to—us," he said.

"Yes, and a very short visit I'm to make as it is.
I leave again day after to-morrow morning."

She stopped and apparently did not care to say more
of herself—or of her plans....  Hayward was of
a different mind.

"You didn't say anything of this visit in your last
letter," he ventured.

"No, I had not decided on it then." ... Silence
again.

"Helen, why did you write me that letter?"  Hayward
squared himself for battle and fired the first shot.

"I only answered yours—your two letters, rather.
You insisted on making your—demands, and I simply
told you what I thought.  You also attacked one
of my friends, and I defended him."

Helen was not versed in the art of indirection or
evasion.  Hayward was very thankful for that.  It
made the issue clear, and made it quickly.

"As for your friend," said Hayward, "your defence
of him is without knowledge—"

"As your attack upon him was without justice,"
Helen interrupted.

"I said he was a contemptible cad, and I stand
ready to prove it.  You may be the judge of it.  He
was my friend at college, and our relations were of
such intimacy as I have told you about, and yet,
knowing me full well, he refused to know me in Washington,
or to shake hands with me, or to speak to me, even."

"Perhaps he did not remember you.  Remember it
has been five or six—"

"I'm telling you he did know me.  He admitted it—in
order that his affront might be unequivocal.  I
tell you he's a cad, a damnable cad, and I want you
to cut him off your list.  Promise me that you will
have nothing more to do with him."

The man in his half-demand, half-plea, put out his
arm toward her to reinforce his appeal with a caress,
but his wife drew away from him and warded off his
hand as she spoke to him.

"No," she cried, "I cannot believe it.  There must
be some explanation—I cannot do it—I'm to be one
of his automobile party next Thursday....  Don't—don't!"

"What!  May I not kiss you?"

"No, no.  Not—not now."

"But you are my wife—I have the right to kiss you."

"You have no right," said Helen.

Hayward grew suddenly cold with passion.

"I have every right—more right than that
contemptible Lodge has to put his arm around you in
the dance!"

"He at least has my permission," Helen replied
spiritedly.  But she would not have provoked him
perhaps if she had known of the fever rising in his
blood for all these months.

"Your permission, has he!  And I am to beg for
rights that are mine—and be refused!"  His voice
rose in anger with the roar and rush of the
new-coming storm.

"You are mine!" he screamed.  "I forbid you to
meet him again!  No man shall take you from me!
I love you—I love you—-and I will kill any man
who tries to rob me of you!  Helen, Helen, tell me
you are mine—mine now!  Not that you will be
mine when I win my commission, but that you are
already mine—*mine now*!"

Helen turned away from him, terrified by his
violence of speech.  The man's every passion went wild
as he read refusal in her movement.  Only for a
moment does she look away, however.  In that
instant she sees again the dead coachman, prone and
ghastly as before, but with the end of that blazing
wire lying against the back of his head, from which
rises the vapour of burning flesh.  Sickened with
horror she turns to Hayward and reaches out her hand
for his support.  He clutches her passionately.  His
blood rushes to his heart in a flood—and then stands
still.

"This is surrender," he thinks,—and his veins
are aflame.

Helen is quiescent in his arms for a short space
and suffers his caresses.  Suddenly startled, she looks
at his face.  In a flash of light she sees it—distorted!
With a shriek of terror she wildly tries to push him
from her: but the demon of the blood of Guinea
Gumbo is pitiless, and against the fury of it, as of the
storm, she fights and cries—in vain.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXIX`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXIX

.. vspace:: 2

With his editorial duties and with the plans of his
campaign for Mr. Killam's seat in the Senate, Evans
Rutledge was as busy a man as Washington knew.
However, he dropped his work long enough to attend
upon Lola DeVale's marriage.  He was no little
surprised when Oliver Hazard asked him to stand by at
his wedding.  He was on friendly terms with the bride—and
with Hazard, too, for that matter; but he did
not know the strength and sincerity of Lola DeVale's
friendship for him.

"We must have Mr. Rutledge," she had said to
Hazard when they were choosing their attendants;
"and he shall be paired with Elise.  I have set my
heart on that match, for if it fails I have been kissed
for nothing."

"Certainly we'll have him if you wish.  He's a
great fellow, I think, and he'll be a winner all right,
don't worry yourself.  He'll win out on naked luck,
for any man who can just stumble along and kiss you
by mistake is evidently a special protégé of the
gods." ...

The score or more of young people in the bridal
party met at Grace Church on the afternoon before
the event to get the details of their marching and
countermarching in order.  Lola was there to overlook
putting them through their paces, but she left the
details of straightening out the chattering, rollicking
bridesmaids and groomsmen to Elise and Hazard.
Rutledge soon learned his role and stood to it like a
schoolboy when he was ordered, but he spent most of
the time in sympathetic talk with the bride-to-be.

That night when the other girls who filled the house
were scattered to their rooms and Elise and Lola were
snuggled up in bed, Lola put her arm around her
friend and began to say what was on her mind.

"I think it's very rude to refuse to answer a civil
question, don't you, Elise?"

Elise was thinking of something else, but she heard
enough of what Lola said to answer "yes" in an
absent-minded way.

"That would be so with any question.  But if it
was about a matter of importance the refusal to
answer would be more than rude, it would
be—exasperating, don't you think?"

"What are you talking about?" Elise asked.

"And if it were a matter of the very greatest
importance," Lola continued, "and by every right and
custom an answer of some sort was due, and one was
flatly told there was *no answer*, then such unpardonable
rudeness should be resented, and self-respect
would *demand* that the question be not repeated."

"Lola DeVale," said Elise, turning to face her,
"in the name of sense, have you gone daffy?"

"I agree with Mr. Rutledge," said Lola in the same
monotone, as she in turn faced away from Elise,
"self-respect forbids."

"Here," exclaimed Elise, "turn back over here
and say all that again."

"Haven't time," said Lola with a yawn.  "I must
be getting my beauty-sleep.  Good night."

Elise was quiet half a minute.

"Of all the silly people!"—she stirred Lola up
with a poke in the ribs—"when did he tell you that?"

"I'm not divulging any confidences," said Lola.

"And what, pray, are you divulging?" asked Elise.

"My opinion that a civil question demands an
answer of some sort—a good round 'no,' if nothing
else—not the dismissal one gives a telegraph
messenger."

"There you go again—-and I don't understand;
but you said something of 'self-respect'?"

"I'm glad he has it.  A man's not made for a
woman to wipe her feet on, even if he does love her."

"For goodness sake, Lola, quit making riddles.
Just what do you think you are talking about?"

"Do you mean to tell me," demanded Lola, turning
toward her, "that Mr. Rutledge did not ask you
to marry him and that you didn't tell him there was
*no answer*,—that you didn't treat him with contempt,
with indifference, with just about as much consideration
as you would a clerk who gave you a hand-bill of
a cut-price sale?  There now!"

"So that's the cause of all this—this *self-respect*,
the reason for all this religious silence of his
lips—while his eyes work overtime?  I thought it was
becau—that it—that there was really something;
and is *that* all!"  Elise laughed merrily.

"I think it's shameful, myself!" said Lola severely.
"I glory in his resentment."

"I have never noticed any resentment, and—*I did
not treat him so*," replied the quick-witted Elise
combatively.  Quietly her heart laughed on.

"You deny it?" asked Lola.

"Yes, I deny it.  He did not ask me to marry him.
He simply told me—quite abruptly—that he loved
me, and, after some time, asked me for my answer.
What was I to answer?  When there is no question
there can be no answer.  So I told him there was *no
answer*.  If a man will insist upon an answer he must
not be so stupid as to forget to put a question."

Elise chuckled inwardly as she constructed this
specious defence.  She was in very good humour with
herself,—and with Lola.

"But promise me," she hurried on to say, "that
you will not intimate to Mr. Rutledge that it is his
stupidity that has swelled his bump of self-respect for
these last four years."

Lola demurred to this form of statement: bless her,
she was a loyal friend.  But Elise insisted.

"Not a word to Mr. Rutledge!  Let him discover
his mistakes unaided.  Promise me.  *Promise*," she
demanded.

Lola promised.

"Cross your heart and hope you may die," Elise
added.

Lola laughingly went through these binding formalities.

"Now the goblins will get you if you ever tell him
and besides that I would know it at once.  If you do
I'll send him packing for good and all."

Lola protested that she would leave Mr. Rutledge
entirely to his own devices,—and she kept her
promise.

Lola had insisted on retiring early for a good
night's rest, but it was long after midnight before she
and her school-day chum grew sleepy over their
confidences.  Along at the last Elise pressed her face
down in the pillow beside Lola's cheek and whispered:

"Honey, if it wasn't very dark and our last night
together I couldn't tell you; but do you know if
Mr. Rutledge were to ask me to marry him to-morrow I
would have to tell him there was no answer."

Lola lay still till she caught the meaning of this
confession.  Then she softly kissed Elise good-night.

"Let your heart decide, dearest," she said.

At the wedding breakfast next morning, and at the
church at noon, Rutledge was bewildered by the
softness, the gentleness of Elise's manner toward him.
There was nothing of the cold brilliance, nor of the
warm combativeness, nor of the lukewarm indifference
of her moods for such a long time past.  Like the
breath of long forgotten summers, of one particular
halcyon summer, was her simple-hearted friendliness
on that day.  He harked back by a conscious effort to
keep in touch with his grievance, but it seemed to be
eluding his grasp.

For a great part of five hours on the train returning
to Washington he sat beside her and steadily forgot
everything that had come to pass since the days
when he first knew and loved this adorable girl.  His
resentment and his resolutions were toppling and falling,
despite his efforts at reserve in his few scattering
lucid intervals of "self-respect."

Elise, outrageously well-informed of the reasons
and resources and weaknesses of his resistance, almost
laughed outright at the ease with which she scattered
his forces and at his spasmodic attempts to regather
them.  She recalled the rigour of her treatment of
him, the contempt she had had for the quality of his
love, the apparent heartless lack of appreciation of his
championship of her name in the Smith affair: and
she was of a mind to make amends.  In making
amends she tore Rutledge's resentment and "self-respect"
to tatters, and set his love a-fire.  She really
did not intend to overdo it.  She sincerely wished only
to make amends.

At last he turned to her with a look which scared
her.  She saw that the last shred of his "self-respect"
was gone, and that only the crowded car prevented a
precipitate, outspoken surrender.  She felt very
generous toward that "self-respect" now that it was
defeated.  She did not care to humiliate it.  She was
also in a temper to be mischievous and a mite reckless.
And, further, she was not ready to have Rutledge
putting any questions.  As the train was rolling under
the shed at Washington she said to him in the very
friendliest and most serious way:

"Mr. Rutledge, it seems that you are under the
delusion that once upon a time you asked me a
question which has never been answered.  In order that I
may not appear rude or unappreciative I will say that
my answer to that question would have been 'no.'"

And she left him to think over that.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXX`:

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   CHAPTER XXX

.. vspace:: 2

On the day that Congress convened after the
Christmas holidays President Phillips sent to the
Senate, among other nominations, that of John
H. Graham to be a second lieutenant of cavalry.

Hayward had been for a long time unhappy,
depressed, apprehensive of failure.  That his name had
not been among those submitted at the beginning of
the session in December had almost assured his defeat.

All his attempts at communication with Helen since
the night of the storm had been met with an accusing
silence.  Her pale face, which had not regained its
colour for weeks, was always averted, and by no trick
or chance, by no wild torrent of self-denunciation,
nor heart-moving prayer for pardon, nor protestations
of love, nor dumb humility of sorrow in his eyes or
attitude, could she be brought to look upon him.
Neither had she written a line in answer to all his
letters of pleading and repentance.  True, he had his
fiery moments of self-assertion and desperate resolves,
and they had fought self-revilings for possession of
his soul in many an hour since that wild night, but he
crushed them under heel within his heart, and ever
wrote contritely to his wife.

For several days after his nomination went to the
Senate he waited in hope to receive Helen's congratulations.
It had meant so much to them.  With a last
remnant of hope he wrote to her of it.  If that would
not break the silence he was undone.  At the end of
the letter he added in most abject contrition:

"I would joyfully die to atone.  My life awaits
your command."

The silence was not broken.

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Miss Lily Porter's eyes had not fallen on Hayward
since his return from Hill-Top.  When she saw in the
papers that his nomination was before the Senate she
hesitated not to write to him to come to see her.  On
his first night off, Hayward went.

If ever a man was pursued by a woman the White
House footman was that man.  He saw the game
ahead of him before he had been five minutes within
the door.  A proposal was expected of him.  Clearly,
it was expected that evening.  Hayward was in a
frame of mind to welcome the diversion.  He had no
idea of making the proposal, of course, but he was
careless enough of what should happen to him to be
quite willing to give Miss Porter the worth of her
trouble in the way of mild excitement.

Lily opened up the subject with her congratulations:
and the game was on.  Up and down, back and
forth, round and round the field of conversation she
chased the quick-tongued, nimble-witted young fellow
in her effort to coax, persuade, lead, drive, push him
into the net.  The young man was entertaining, but
elusive.  He was gallant, admiring, soft-spoken,
confiding—but there was no way of bringing him to
book.  The girl took another tack.  She went to the
piano and sang for him.  She sang for him at first,
many of the ballads and one thing and another that
he formerly had delighted in.  Then she sang to him.
Hayward leaned against the piano and listened with a
very lively appreciation.  Music had a power for him
where many other things would fail, and the music
in Lily Porter's throat was enough to enthrall even
though he were deaf to the song in her heart.

Henry Porter was caught by the real note in his
daughter's voice as he passed the door, and, stopping
where he could see as well as hear, he was enlightened
by the tale her face was telling.  He was mad all over
in a minute, and he made short work of it.

"Git out of my house," he blurted out at Hayward
as he stalked angrily into the midst of Lily's melodious
love-making.  "I tol' you once I didn' want any
footman callin' on my daughter!"

"Oh, papa!  What do you mean?" Lily cried,
springing up from the piano.

"I mean git out when I say git out!"

"Wait a moment, Mr. Hayward," Lily called to
the footman, who, chin in air, was leaving the room,
truth to tell, no little relieved at this complete solution
of what was fast becoming an embarrassing situation
for him.

"No use to wait.  Move on!" the father growled,
placing himself across the door to prevent Lily's
following her caller.  Upon her attempt to push by him
he caught her and shoved her into a chair.  As the
outer door closed with a very modest and well-mannered
snap, he released his hold upon her arm.  He
was yet in a fury.

"So you've lied to me!  Thought you could fool
your ol' daddy!  But I guess not!"

"I haven't lied to you."

"You have!  You tol' me you were goin' to marry
a military man, and here you are, dead gone on this
footman—and no use to deny out of it!"

Lily didn't attempt to deny it.

"Umhuh, I knew it!  Already promised him, ain't
yuh?"

No denial of that either, to her father's consternation.

"What!  And you a-tellin' me all the time you
were goin' to marry a military man!  You lyin'
huzzy!"

"But he's a military man—he's the John
H. Graham whose commission is before the
Senate—now I hope you are satisfied!"

Henry Porter stopped his stamping about and
looked at his daughter several seconds in silence.

"He's—he's who?" he asked in astonishment.

"He's the same John H. Graham you were reading
about in the *Post* this morning—the man the
President has appointed a lieutenant in the cavalry."

"But his name's not Graham."

"His name *is* Graham—John Hayward Graham—Lieutenant
John Hayward Graham when the Senate confirms it."

Old Henry looked a little bit nonplussed.  His
daughter took courage.  She jumped up and grabbed him.

"Come on right now and write him an apology,
and send it so that it will get to his rooms by the time
he does!"

Old Henry demurred.  His dignity was a very real
thing—as hard and substantial as his dollars.

"Oh, no, no.  Wait awhile.  Le's think about it.
No use to be in a hurry.  He'll come back agin.  What
did he go sneakin' roun' here without his name for
if he wanted people to treat him right?  A man's got
no business monkeyin' with his name."

"But you *must* write him an apology, papa.  You
just must!"

"Oh, well, mebbe I will.  But I'll wait till to-morrer.
Better wait till the Senate confirms him though,
and be certain about it."

"Oh, no!  That would *never* do.  It would be too
plain,"—and Lily went into a long disquisition to
fetch her hard-headed old daddy to her way of
thinking.  He showed some signs of relenting but could
not be persuaded that night.  When the morning came
it took all her powers to push him to the point of
sending a suitable note to Hayward: but she
accomplished it.  Hayward's stinging, sarcastic, withering
reply was not written till late in the afternoon, and
in the footman's agitation over other concerns was not
mailed till his mother found it in his room on the day
after that.  By the time Mr. Henry Porter received
it, other events had come to pass that gave it some
emphasis....

When Hayward Graham returned to his room after
his dismissal from Porter's house he found a letter
addressed to him in his wife's writing.  He tore it
open hungrily.

.. vspace:: 2

"You say you would joyfully die to atone.  That
would be the very best thing you could do—the only
fitting thing you could do.—H."

.. vspace:: 2

A grim smile lighted the man's face.  At the
moment the blood of some long-dead cavalier ancestor
splashed through his heart, and he wrote the brief
reply.

.. vspace:: 2

"Your wish is law, and shall be obeyed.  Grant
me one day to put my house in order."

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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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Her maid handed the message to Helen before she
was out of bed the next morning.  The girl read it,
caught its meaning, and shook with an ague of fear.
Her love for her husband, outraged and stricken, may
not have been dead—for who shall speak the last
word for a woman's heart?—and her tender soul
recoiled at the murder so calmly forespoken: and
yet neither of these impulses was elemental in her
agony of terror.  Her impetuous letter of the day
before, breaking a silence she had sworn to keep,
was not intended as a reply to anything that Hayward
had written.  It was but a wild protest against
the new-born realization that her situation was
tragic, and could not be ignored nor long
concealed.  She had not meant to suggest or to counsel
death, but to rail against life.  The possibility of
his taking-off had not occurred to her.  His letter
terrified her!  Death!—her husband's death?  It
was the one thing that must *not* be!  When she had
read his words, her blood was ice.  "No!  No!" her
teeth chattered as she dressed, "he must not, he must
not!"  In the nervousness, the weakness, the faintness,
the sickness into which fevered meditations upon the
day-old revelation had shaken her, she did not think
to question the sincerity of Hayward's purpose at
self-destruction.  The calamity was imminent—and
trebly calamitous.  The chill of more than death was
upon her.  When she had dressed she dashed off a
hurried scrawl.

.. vspace:: 2

"No, no, no.  I did not mean that.  It is not my
wish that you destroy yourself.  You must not.  *You
must not*!  I need you—above everything I *need
you*.  If you die I am undone!  Where is our marriage
certificate?  Or was there one?  And who was that
witness?  Do not die, do not die.  As you love me
*do not die*!"

.. vspace:: 2

She carefully arranged every detail of her toilet,
pinched her pale cheeks into something of pink, put on
her morning smile, and, with a very conscious effort
at lightness of manner, tripped out into the hall and
down the stairs.  She knew the very spot on which
she would see her husband standing.  With a
round-about journey she approached it.  He was not there.
She laughed nervously, and with an aimless air, but
a faster thumping heart, sought him at another haunt.
Failure.  And failure again.  She went to breakfast,
and displayed a lack of appetite and a tendency to
hysterics.  After breakfast she lingered down-stairs
on every conceivable pretext, and journeyed from one
end of the house to the other many times and again.
At last when her nerves could not stand the strain a
second longer she asked the coachman, who had driven
the carriage to the door, where Hayward was.  She
felt that there was a full confession in the tones of
her voice.

"Hayward asked for a day off this mornin', mum.
He didn't come.  Just telephoned."

Helen felt the tension of her nerves snap.  She
hurried to her room, suppressing fairly by force an
impulse to scream, and locking the door, threw herself
across the bed.  There for three hours, pleading a
headache and denying admittance to all who knocked,
she cowered before the thoughts of her seething
brain—and suffered torment.

Along about two o'clock she sprang up suddenly and
turned out of her trunk all of her husband's letters and
began feverishly to search for one she remembered
written long ago which by chance contained the street
number of his lodgings.  She was nearly an hour
finding it.

Again she went through the womanly process of
making herself presentable, and sauntered freshly
forth in quest of the post office and a special delivery
stamp.  With an added prayer that he relieve her
suspense quickly, she dropped her agonized note into the
box under the hurry postage.  Having thus done all
that was possible to save her husband's life—and her
own—she went back to her bed in collapse, and
waited for the night-fall as one, hoping for a reprieve,
who must die at sunset.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXXI`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XXXI

.. vspace:: 2

Helen waited in vain for a word from her
husband.  Her letter did not come to his hand.  She
tossed in agonized suspense through the long
hours—through the snail-paced minutes—through the
dragging, tortured moments.

Elise came in to see her.  Helen gave the first
explanation of her indisposition that came to mind, and
declined all ministrations.  Her mother came, and she
would have dismissed her as briefly had not
Mrs. Phillips asserted authority and ordered her into bed
and suggested calling the family physician.  At this
intimation Helen demurred.  She felt that she would
suffocate if she were to be tucked up and made to lie
quiet, with the doctor fingering her pulse and talking
of sleeping potions while her soul was throbbing in
such a frenzy of horror.

To escape from them and from herself, she suddenly
sat up and announced her intention of attending
the dancing party which Elise was giving for the
evening.  There was a vigorous opposition to this
procedure by both her mother and Elise, and by her
father also, who had come in to have a look at her:
but she outwilled them all.

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Elise's dancing party was an affair to be
remembered—an affair that is remembered.  It deserved
to be an unusual occasion, for in arranging it Elise
was conscious of being in an unusual frame of mind.
She was in some way disposed to be so perfectly
even-handed in her dispensations.  She directed the three
invitations to Mr. Evans Rutledge, Captain George
St. Lawrence Howard and Senator Joseph Richland
with her own hand and with almost one continuous
stroke of the pen.  She took this batch of three
invitations as a separate handful and placed them
together in the basket for the mail.  She assigned to
each of these gentlemen one dance with herself, and
one only, in the programme of the formal first half of
the evening.  She appointed as attendants for the
eleven o'clock collation Mr. Rutledge to Mrs. Hazard,
Captain Howard to Helen, and Senator Richland to
Alice Mackenzie—the fiancée of Donald MacLane.
In everything she was judicially impartial.  She
played no favourites.

Her plans carried through charmingly, and after
dancing through the card a delighted lot of guests sat
down to the light luncheon, though three men in the
party, despite all their gallant attentions to the women
beside them, were using half of their brains at least in
planning for the catch-as-catch-can hour and a half
that was to follow.  Elise had smiled upon them
equally and tormentingly, and not a man of them but
felt that the briefest little five minutes *tête-à-tête* might
do magical things.

"Well," said Lola, after she and Rutledge had
effervesced in a few minutes of commonplaces and
conventionalities, "is your money still on the
Englishman?"

"No," said Rutledge, "I've quit gambling."

"Lost your sporting nerve?"

"No, not that; but a man who bets against himself
deserves to lose, and I can't afford to lose."

"But your self-respect?" laughed Lola.

"Now Miss—ah—Mrs. Hazard, don't jump on
a fellow when he's down.  Self-respect is nothing less
than an abomination when it comes between a man
and a girl like—that,—and besides, she didn't mean
it that way."

"Oh, didn't she?"

"No, she didn't, and she's just the finest, dearest
woman in the whole wide—unmarried state!"

"Thank you," said Lola, "but you needn't have
minded.  And so I'm to congratulate you?  I've been
so anxious to hear, but our mail has never caught up
with us since the day we left New York."

"Oh, bless your heart, there are no congratulations—only
good wishes, I hope.  Take note of the exact
mathematical equality in the distances by which
Richland and Sir Monocle and I are removed from the
chair of the Lady Beautiful.  Could anything be more
beautifully impartial?"

"And who is the ancient gentleman with Elise?"
Lola asked.

"Some old party from York State.  Bachelor uncle
or cousin or some such chap—quite a character too,
it seems—danced with Dolly Madison or Martha
Washington or the Queen of Sheba or somebody like
that in his youth.  Miss Phillips was telling me of
him awhile ago."

"That was a very safe subject of discussion," said
Lola.

"Yes," Rutledge replied grimly, "and do you know
I tried my very hardest to lose him out of the
conversation and he just wouldn't drop.  Miss Phillips
must be greatly interested in him."

"Anything will do in a pinch, Mr. Rutledge.  What
were you trying to talk about?"

"Oh, that's it, you think?  Well I wish I had ten
good minutes with her.  I'd make the talk—for half
the time—or know the reason why."

"I think I remember that Elise told me once that
you could be very abrupt."

"Yes, and I'm going to do a few stunts in abruptness
that will surprise her the next time I have a
chance.  I've tried the easy and graceful approach for
the last six weeks, and it's getting on my nerves."

"I tell you what, Mr. Rutledge," Lola laughed,
"Elise is to be with me to-morrow evening.  You
come around after dinner, and I promise you shall
have a square deal and ten minutes at least for your
very own.  Come early and avoid the rush."

"Good.  I'll do it.  You are a trump!"

"And you may run along now if you wish," she
said as they came out of the dining-room, "and take
her away from the old party before the others get a
chance at her."

"You'll go to heaven when you die," Rutledge
whispered as he left her....

Evans met some difficulty in cutting Elise out of the
herd.  It took time and determination and some
strategy to carry the smiling young hostess off down
the hall alone; but he brought it to pass, and drew a
breath of exultation when he had shaken himself free.
However, turn where he would, every nook and corner
seemed to be occupied.  He was not openly on the
hunt for a retired spot, but he was wishing for one
with a prayerful heart and wide-open eyes.

Now a man can make love to a girl right out in the
open—in full view of the multitude—in fact there is
a sort of fascination in it—in telling her what a dear
she is with the careless air and gesture which, to the
onlookers, suggests a remark anent the blizzard in the
west or the hot times in South Carolina; but when
it comes to putting the cap-sheaf on the courting and
running the game to earth, in pushing the inquiry to
ultimate conclusions and demanding the supreme reply,—a
man who dares to hope to win and whose blood
has not been thinned by promiscuous flirtations ever
wants the girl to be in a situation grab-able.

When Evans became convinced that the fates were
against him on that evening, he set definite plans in
order for the next.

"Mrs. Hazard tells me that you are to be with her
to-morrow evening," he said to Elise, with something
of that abruptness.  "May I not call upon you there?
There is something I wish very much to tell you, and
the crowd here is always too great."

Elise looked up at him quickly.  The something he
wished to tell her was to be read in his face, but she
could not presume to assume it had been said.  The
man waited quietly for his answer.

"Why, certainly, yes, I will be very glad to see
you," she said in a tone of conventional politeness;
but assuredly, Rutledge thought, the light in her gray
eyes was not discouraging.

"But I must be going now, if you will take me
back," she said; and they turned to go up the hall.  A
lumbering crash and a stifled little cry changed their
purpose.

Three minutes before, they had seen Helen and
Harry Lodge turn a corner in the hall and pass round
behind some of the overflowing greenery which almost
shut off a side entrance.  Lodge was as intent upon
the pursuit of Helen as Rutledge of Elise, and was
making more of his opportunities.  Helen was
welcoming any excitement that carried her out of herself.
With Lodge's pushfulness and her indifference to
consequences, it did not take long to bring the issue
to a point.  From her manner Harry did not gather
the faintest idea of losing.  She listened to his speeches
with a smile which was not in the least false but none
the less deceiving.  She did not offer the slightest
objection to his wooing nor put the smallest obstruction
in the way of it.  In his enthusiasm he developed an
eloquence, and, taking her unresisting hand, he rushed
along to the climax of a rapturous declaration.

"—And will you be my wife?" he asked, with his
arm already half about her.

"No," Helen answered dispassionately, drawing
herself back from him as if his meaning were but just
now made clear to her: but that "no" came too late.

A pair of eyes in which the lightnings had gathered
and gone wild had looked upon the whole of this
tender scene except the last moments of it.  Hayward
Graham felt the devils in the blood of all his
ancestors white and black cry to be uncaged as he looked
upon Lodge in his ecstasy of love-making, and when
Lodge took Helen's hand and it was not withdrawn,
the devils broke the bars.

"So," cried Hayward in his soul, "it's for you—to
resign her to your arms—that I am asked to die!
No!  If I may not possess her, not you, you hound!"

A door was wrenched open and Lodge had only
time to straighten himself before he was knocked
senseless by the infuriated husband.

Hayward drew himself up, terrible, before his wife,
and Helen in the moment of recognition threw herself
into his arms with a glad cry.

"Oh, you have come at last!" she moaned.  "You
got my letter at last and have come to me!"

"No.  What letter?" asked Hayward—but as he
asked it Helen was pushing herself from him as
savagely as she freely had thrown herself to him.  Her
ear had caught the sound of people approaching.
Hayward was too confused to notice that.  He was
in consternation at the lightning change from love to
aversion, and clung to her desperately.

A second later he was lying prone upon the floor
with Evans Rutledge standing above him, murder in
his eyes.  He made a wild attempt to rise, when
another terrific blow from Rutledge's arm sent him
again to the floor.  The hall was in an uproar, and
a couple of palms were knocked aside as President
Phillips burst into the midst of the mêlée in time to
restrain another smash from Rutledge's clenched fist.

"In the name of God, what's the row?" he asked.

"This nigger has assaulted Miss Helen," said
Rutledge, gasping and choking with fury.

Mr. Phillips trembled with a fearful passion, but,
seeing Helen apparently unhurt, pulled himself down
to a terrible quiet.

"Get up," he growled to Hayward.  "Now"—when
the footman was on his feet—"what have you
to say for yourself?"

Hayward looked for the hundredth part of a
second in Helen's eyes.

"I have no excuse," he answered simply.

Only silence could greet such an admission.  For
five seconds the silence and the stillness were
torturing.

As Mr. Phillips moved to speak, Helen took two
quick steps to the negro's side.  His renunciation, his
silent, unhesitating committal of the issue—of his
life—to her decision, had touched her heart.

"I am his wife," she said, as she took his hand
and turned to face the circle of her friends.

.. _`"'I AM HIS WIFE,' SHE SAID"`:

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   "'I AM HIS WIFE,' SHE SAID."





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.. _`CHAPTER XXXII`:

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   CHAPTER XXXII

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Helen's announcement was made quietly, without
any melodramatic display.

In the circle immediately surrounding her and her
husband were her father and mother, Elise and Evans
Rutledge, and Hal Lodge but just now coming to his
senses and his feet.  Behind these were Mrs. Hazard,
Captain Howard, Senator Richland, and a gathering
of other excited guests.  For a space after Helen's
speech the scene was steady and fixed as for a
flashlight picture, and was photographed on Elise's brain:
the incredulity on her father's face—the horror on
that of Evans Rutledge—the perfectly restrained
features of Howard—the quickly suppressed smile
of Richland as he glanced at Evans in lightning
comprehension of all the situation meant—the ghastly
pallor of Mrs. Phillips as she sank voiceless in a dead
faint—

"No—o!"

The harshly aspirated protest of Mr. Phillips was
propelled from his lungs with a burst of indignant
anger, but drawn out at the end into a pathetic
quaver—and the scene dissolved.

Rutledge caught and lifted Mrs. Phillips whose
collapse was unnoticed by her husband in his transfixed
stare at Helen, and pushing back through the crowd
was about to place her upon a settle in the hall; but
at Elise's bidding he carried her up the broad stairs
and left her in the care of her daughter and Lola
Hazard.  There could be no good-bye said—no time
for it; but at the glance of dismissal Elise gave him
from her mother's bedside—at the look of suffering
in her eyes—his heart was like to burst.

Down-stairs the confusion was painful.  The guests
were hesitating between being accounted so ill-bred as
to stare at a family scene, and running away from it
as from a scourge.

To her father's unsteady denial Helen repeated her
simple statement: "I am his wife."

"Since when?" Mr. Phillips demanded.

"A year ago last October."

The father looked about him as for help.

"Come along with me," he said.  "Both of you.
Good night, ladies and gentlemen," he added to the
hesitating guests—and there was a breath of relief
and a scattering for home.

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With his hand upon Helen's arm, and Hayward following,
President Phillips led the way to his offices.

"I am not to be disturbed," he told a servant after
he had stopped at the door and waved Helen and
Hayward into the room.  "Ask Mrs. Phillips if she
will please come here."

Entering, he motioned Hayward to a chair, and,
taking Helen with him, went into the inner office and
closed the door behind him.

"Now, my child," he said, with a break in his voice
despite every effort to keep it steady, "tell me all about
this, and we—we'll find a way out."

He patted her hand reassuringly.

"There's no way out, papa.  I loved Hayward, and
I married him."

"No, no, child, not love.  You were infatuated—he
was a footman and you are—"

"He was a gentleman," interrupted Helen.

"In a way, perhaps, but uncultured and common—how
could—"

"He is a Harvard man," Helen cut in again, "a
man of intelligence and education.  He is—"

"But a weakling—no genuine Harvard man could
be a menial—a flunkey—"

"He's not a weakling, papa.  He stooped to the
service for love of me.  He loved me long before we
came here—when he was a student at Harvard.  It
was so romantic, papa—he saw me first at a football
game and he has loved me from that day.  He was the
hero of the game and he has yet the Harvard pennant
I gave him—and, oh, he's a greater hero than that,
papa—he was a soldier and he was the trooper
that—wait a moment."  Helen ran to the door.

"Here, Hayward, give me the knife," she called;
and she came running back, holding it out to her
father.

"The knife that the trooper stole!" she said, with
a pitiful little attempt at gayety in her voice and face.

"What's that?" her father asked harshly.

"Why, papa, you surely don't forget the knife I
gave you on your birthday?  The one that was taken
by the trooper who rescued you at Valencia?"

The light of understanding came to her father's eyes.

"Well, Hayward was the man, papa!  He it was
who saved your life to us—oh, how I have loved him
for that!  Just think, daddy dear, how often you have
told me what a heroic thing it was—and for such a
long time I have known it was Hayward and wanted
so to tell you, but I couldn't."

"Why couldn't you?" demanded her father.

"Well, I found it out by accident when he caught
me off my falling horse—there it is again, papa—he
saved my life as well as yours—it was just the
grandest thing the way he did it!—no wonder I have
loved and married him—he's the sort that can take
care of a woman—enough different from Bobby
Scott, who couldn't stay in his own saddle!"

"But Mr. Scott is of an excellent family—distinguished
for generations—while Hayward is a
nobody—a—a nothing—no family and no recognized
personal distinction or merit of his own—the
commonest circus clown can ride a horse, my child."

"But he is personally distinguished, papa; and you
have approved his merit by making him a lieutenant
of cavalry."

"When?  How?" the father asked.

"He is John H. Graham, papa—John Hayward
Graham; and there can be no denying his fitness or
ability, for you have certified to both."

Mr. Phillips saw he was estopped on that line;
but it only made him angry and stirred his fighting
blood.

"That's the reason," Helen continued, "that
Hayward wouldn't let me tell you who he was or
thing about his service to you.  He wanted to obtain
his commission absolutely on his merit and without
appealing to your gratitude—wasn't it noble of him?"

A grunt was all the answer Helen got to her question.

"But his people, who are they?  What sort of a
family have you married into?  Do you know?" Mr. Phillips
demanded sharply.

"He lives with his mother—his father is dead—oh,
I wish you could hear him tell about his father
and mother, and his grandfather—it's just beautiful.
I don't know whether he has any other relatives,—but
that doesn't make any difference.  I am not
married to them, papa, and he's not responsible for his
people but must be judged by his own personal
character and excellence!"

In this last speech of Helen, Mr. Phillips thought
he caught an echo of something he had heard himself
say, and he winced a little: but it only added a spark
more to his anger.

"But he's so far below you socially, Helen.  You
cannot be happy with him!  You must remember that
you are the President's daughter and—"

"And my husband," interrupted Helen, "is of the
one order of American nobility—*a man*!  I've
thought about all that—the man's the thing, you said,
papa—and besides, an army officer has no social
superiors."

There was no mere echo in Helen's defence now.
It was plain fighting her father with his own words:
and it irritated him beyond endurance.  His wrath
burst through and threw off the shell of theories and
sentiment which he had built up around himself and
the man's real self spoke.

"But he's a negro, Helen!  *A negro*!  How could you!"

"A *negro*, papa?" Helen questioned in unmixed
surprise.  "What has that to do with it?  He's the
finest looking man in Washington if he is—and
didn't you tell Elise that that was nothing more than
a colour of skin?—that the man was the thing?—that
a—that a—negro must stand or fall upon his
own merit and not upon his colour or caste?—and
did you not say to Mr. Mackenzie that colour has
nothing to do with a man's acceptability in your
house?—and that—"

"Oh, my God! yes, my child, but I did not mea—you
are too young, too young to be married, my child,—too
young and too—yes, too young, and we must
annul this marriage—yes, we must annul it, we must
annul it—we can annul it without trouble, don't
worry about it, child, don't worry—we can annul it,
and—for you are too young, my little girl, my little
girl, my little girl!"

At sight of her father's tears, and the trembling
that shook him as he sank down in a chair, Helen's
combative attitude began to melt and her eyes to fill.

"Yes, little girl, don't worry," he said, drawing her
tenderly down within his arms, "don't worry, and we
will have it annulled in short order."

"It's too late, papa," she spoke against his shoulder.

"No, no, precious heart, it's not too late—we can
have it annulled—don't cry, and don't worry, we can
have it annulled."

"But, papa," she said again as she pushed herself
back so that he looked her full in the face, "it's too
late, I tell you!  It's—too—late!"—and with
outburst of weeping she curled herself up against him.

With a dry sob of comprehension her father gathered
her close to his heart.

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For a long time after he heard the voices cease
Hayward Graham waited in Mr. Phillips' outer office to
learn his fate.  He had caught some of the excited
discussion—enough to be convinced of his father-in-law's
opposition; but he could not be sure of the
details.  A servant had come in to say that Mrs. Phillips
could not come to the office, and had knocked
softly on the inner door several times while the
discussion was at its warmest.  Failing to get an answer,
he had left his message with Hayward and retired.
When the voices were quiet and the inner room
became silent Hayward was on the *qui vive* for
developments; and stood facing the door in a fever of
expectation....  His fever, however, had time to burn
itself out....  In that long silence President Phillips
fought his greatest battle....  The issue was
predestined, of course.  In his heart there was no passion
at all comparable to his love for Helen, and that love
won over all obstacles....  He saw clearly in what
measure he was responsible for her undoing; and he
came squarely to the mark with a courage that would
face *all* odds for his little girl—that would face a
frowning world, a laughing, a mocking world—that
would face his own soul even to the death—that her
gentle heart might not be troubled....  He held her
while her sobs shook themselves out, and then on and
on he held her, close and warm, as if he would never
again let her out of his sheltering arms,—while he
gazed over her bowed head into the dying fire, and
fixed and fortified his resolution.

At last Graham summoned courage to knock upon
the door.  President Phillips started as from a reverie.

"Come in," he said, rising unsteadily and placing
Helen gently on her feet, his arm still about her.

"Why, certainly, Hayward, come in,"—and then
he added after a short pause: "Helen has told me all
about it, and, while I can't approve of the clandestine
marriage, I shall do what I can to make my little girl
happy—yes, I'll do what I can to make her happy....
And since this has been such an—unusual—evening
I'll ask you to go now and come back to-morrow morning."

Hayward delivered the belated message from Mrs. Phillips,
stood for a moment uncertain whether Helen
would speak to him, and then turned to go.

"And do not wear your livery in the morning,
Hayward," said Mr. Phillips.

"Very well, sir," said Hayward, as he withdrew.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXXIII`:

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   CHAPTER XXXIII

.. vspace:: 2

When President Phillips came out of his office
after dismissing Hayward, he found a score of
reporters and newspaper correspondents fighting for
places at the great front door.  They were awaiting
with what patience they could Mr. Phillips' pleasure
in giving to the public an authoritative statement of
his daughter's marriage.

The President, after he had obtained from Helen
the details of time and place, and other items of
interest, gave the press men the story.  He customarily
had his secretary to make statements to the newspaper
people, but he chose to do this for himself: in
his infinite loyalty to his little girl he was taking the
situation by the horns.  There was no elation in his
manner, but there certainly was nothing to indicate
his slightest objection to Helen's marriage, nor to
Hayward Graham as his son-in-law.  He gave a short
sketch of that young man's life and excellences.  He
stated that he had not known Graham was either his
footman or his daughter's husband when he had
nominated him for a lieutenancy in the cavalry.  He did
not state that Graham had carried him off the
battlefield at Valencia.

When he had finished with the men of the pencil
Mr. Phillips went back to his office for Helen, and
they sought the mother's room together.  With
another flood of tears Helen dropped on her knees by her
mother's bed.

This scene was hardly less a trial for the father than
had been the travail of his own soul.  Here also must
he win if he would save his child's happiness: and
so, amid the tears and the sobs of the mother and
daughters, and with misgivings and dread in his
own heart, at first unflinchingly, then more zealously,
and at last of necessity reserving nothing, he excused,
and upheld, and vindicated, Helen.

Mrs. Phillips was too heart-broken to utter a word
in opposition or condemnation, and Elise did not open
her lips to speak.  It was against accusing silence,
therefore, and upbraiding tears, that the father made
his desperate defence....  Such a debate can never
be brought to any real finish; and it was at last only
in exhaustion, Helen of nerves, her father of words,
and Elise and her mother of lamentation, that the
distressed family found peace—enough at least to
permit of dispersal to their rooms for the night.

Elise was bowed down in grief for Helen, and for
Helen she wept upon her pillow till the fountain of
tears was dry: but even then there was no sleep for
her.  Her mind was painfully alive to her own
personal problems, and her brain was awake the night
long although weariness held her scalded eyelids
down.  The incident of the evening, like an electric
storm, had clarified the haze of uncertainty for her
heart—but only to plunge it into a more intense
perplexity.

No longer unchoosing, her heart had spoken its
choice.  It were better had it never spoken at all; but
there could be no mistaking its decree—she loved
Evans Rutledge.  As she had looked upon the three
men who loved her in that brief time when Helen
proclaimed her husband, *she had known*: and she had
known that not for her was the man who in the
fleetest moment could smile while her heart was breaking;
nor for her that other, who, with his alien point of
view, was untouched with her distress, and who with
his perfect breeding—she resented it—could be so
contained, so unmoved, in a situation which brought
anguish to her.  In the throes of that anguish her soul
had turned, unerring, to its affinity in suffering, to *the
heart that understood* and wept, not in a ready
sympathy for her pain, but in the pains of a common
grief.

In such manner Elise accounted for the reading of
her heart's message.  She believed that it had been
undecipherable, confused, until that evening.  Yet in
all her distress then, and in the heartaches afterward
resulting from its choosing, she was strangely happy
because her heart had been true to the fancy of its
earlier years, had been faithful to its first girlish
inclination to love, had not misled her, had not been
fickle in any degree, or false.  She told herself with
a tremor of rapturous, prideful humility that one man
had been the master of her love from the beginning.

Thinking on it as she lay unsleeping through the
night, she more than once forgot her tears and was
lost in the transport of loving.  She petted and
caressed her heart for its constancy.  She made excuses
for its indecision in that long time when the man's
love had seemed unworthy.  She murmured tender
things to it because it had prevailed, even though with
a hesitating loyalty, against her head's capricious
disapproval.

In her wanderings back and forth through the
desert of her miseries on that night, she straggled back
many times to this oasis of her love and stopped to
soothe her troubled heart with its upspringing
freshnesses....  And yet a wildness of perplexity was set
about her, and she could not find a way out.  She
knew that Rutledge loved her—had loved her from
the time he declared it on the flood-beaten rock in the
St. Lawrence till the moment of his tender unspoken
good-night three hours ago.  That his love could not
be shaken by any act not her own, she verily believed.
But would he have loved her?—would he have dared
to love her?—could he, with his blood-deep,
immutable ideas, *could* he have loved her?—if he had
known that his love would bring him to this unspeakable
extremity, to this heart-breaking dilemma, where
he must be traitor to himself and to her—or become
brother-in-law to a negro?

Yes, he would have *loved* her—her of all women—despite
the slings and arrows of the most outrageous
fortune, her heart told her: but, with prescience
of such calamity, would he have *spoken* his
love?—would he have asked for that interview for
to-morrow evening that he might tell it to her again?
Was he not even now regretting that appointment?
Was he not even now *pitying* his love for her?  She
must know.  But how could she know?  By what
means could she learn *the truth*? ... Way there was
none: and yet she *must know*.  Doubt, uncertainty,
here would be unendurable—and implacable for she
could no longer find peace in indifference.  She loved
Evans Rutledge, and her love would fight, was
fighting, desperately for its own....  But again, her own
must be worthy, without compulsion, or she would
repudiate it.  Her heart's tenderness, virgin, single,
measureless, she held too precious to barter for a love,
withal sincere and beautiful, which were weighted
with a minim of regret or limitation.  Rather would
she crush back its fragrance eternally in her own
bosom, than dishonour it by exchange for less than
the highest....  Yes, she must know....  And she
could *not* know....  And the morning came,
bringing no relief for heart or brain....

Mr. Phillips was at some pains to intimate to his
wife and Elise what he thought a proper pride
demanded in the way of the "front" they should show
to the public.  Queer that he should have thought it
necessary: but, unhappy man, he spoke out of his
fears for his own steadiness.  Elise, at least, had no
need for his admonitions.  Her pride was the pride of
youth: the pride which finds all sufficiency in itself,
and needs not the prop of outward circumstance which
age requires to hold its chin in air.

It was this pride which gave Elise some hesitation
in deciding what she should do with her promise to
see Rutledge that evening.  Pride said: "Meet him
as if nothing has happened to disturb the serenity of
your life.  Do not show—to him, of all men—chagrin
at this episode *en famille*."  But pride said:
"No!  Recall that engagement.  Do not appear to
hold him by so much as a hair.  His love must be
undistrained!"

She wavered between these conflicting demands of
a consistent self-respect until the middle afternoon.
Then the pride of her love overmastered the pride in
her pride: and she wrote Rutledge a short note.

.. vspace:: 2

"MY DEAR MR. RUTLEDGE:—I find it necessary to
change my plans for this evening.  This will prevent
my seeing you at Mrs. Hazard's as I promised.  I
am very sorry.

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   "Sincerely,
      "ELISE PHILLIPS."

.. vspace:: 2

This was her afternoon at home; and after having
dispatched the message to Rutledge Elise gave her
mind over as far as might be to receiving her callers.
They were more numerous than usual, despite many
notable absences, and before they fairly well had
begun to crowd in she realized that she was on parade.
Oh, the duplicity of women!  How they chirruped
and chattered about every imaginable thing under
heaven, while they listened and looked for only one
thing: to find out what Helen's family really thought
of her marriage.

This was not Mrs. Phillips' afternoon, nor Helen's
and they did not appear—to have done so would
have been to overdo composure: and so it was that
Elise alone fenced with the dear, dear procession of
sensation hunters who passed in and out of her doors.
The women came in such flocks that she really did not
have time to be embarrassed, for the sympathetic
creatures who showed a disposition to sidle up close
to her and begin with low-voiced confidences covert
attacks upon her reserve were quite regularly bowled
over by their oncoming followers before they could
get their sly little schemes of investigation well going.
It became fascinating to her to watch them defeat
each other's plans, and she was somewhat regretful
when they stopped coming.  They stopped quite
suddenly, for the reason that, in eagerness to see for
herself, every daughter of Eve among them had made
the White House the first stopping-place in her round
of visits for the afternoon.

When the women were all come and gone, save two
who evidently were trying to sit each other out,
Captain Howard was announced.  Elise was unfeignedly
glad to see him and in a few minutes the two contesting
ladies departed and left the Englishman and the
girl together.

Captain Howard's coming was very refreshing, and
Elise was grateful.  He was the only person she had
seen that day who did not seem to be conscious of the
electric condition of the atmosphere, and she sat down
to talk to him with a feeling of genuine relief and
pleasure.  His conversation began easily and
unconstrainedly and ran along the usual lines with all
freedom.  As chance demanded he spoke of Helen
several times in connection with one small matter, and
another, and his manner of doing it was positively
restful.

Elise felt so comfortable sitting there talking to
him that for the first time she was impressed to think
that it might be a nice thing to have him always to
come and sit beside her and make her forget that
things went wrong.  The unfluttered ease and
peacefulness of his manner and his words appealed very
strongly to her distressed heart, and it warmed toward
him in simple gratefulness.

Captain Howard was not without knowledge of
the tense situation created by the announcement of
Helen Phillips' marriage.  He read the newspapers
and could not but know that a tremendous sensation
was a-blow.  He was himself excited by the affair—in
a steady-going fashion.  It was as if a princess of
the blood had eloped and married a—say a
tradesman—or, maybe, a gentleman—of course it was
sensational.

In his amorous state of mind, however, the captain
thought kindly of the wealth of love which had
inspired the young woman with such a sublime
contempt for rank—for that very real and very puissant
divinity, Rank.  He also had shaken himself sufficiently
free from the shackles of provincialism to be
able to recognize the effect of democratic ideas in
making possible and permissible such an event.
Affairs of this sort could not be entirely unlooked for in
a genuinely democratic society; and, since the
President acquiesced in his daughter's choice and had no
regrets, there was no more to be said.  Altogether
Captain Howard viewed the matter very calmly and
philosophically.

Having this attitude, he had no hesitation after a
time in speaking directly of Helen's marriage and its
dramatic announcement.  He was a gentleman in
every instinct, was Captain Howard; and there could
not be the slightest offence taken by Elise at his
natural and sympathetic interest in what he considered a
most romantic episode.  But while one may not be
offended or resentful, one may become nauseated.
Captain Howard did not know of the chill of disgust
and horror that was creeping over the girl's heart,
nor notice the silence to which she was come.  Her
friendliness had been so graciously simple and so
promising that his purpose had been formed and he
was moving straight toward it, not noticing her
silence further than to be glad she was saying nothing
to create a diversion....  Elise felt that if she spoke
she would be very, very rude.

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"—And your America, Miss Phillips, is assuredly
the natural home of Romance.  Here every man is a
peer in posse, and every woman a princess incognita—and
possibility keeps pace with imagination.  In
England a footman is a footman to the end of his
life.  Here the footman of yesterday is the President's
son-in-law to-day, and may himself be the ruler of his
people to-morrow!  Can life hold more for a man?
The right to aspire and the luck to win!—and to win
not only the recognition which his personal merits
deserve, but that supreme gift which no man could
deserve: your beautiful sister's love!  It is almost
unthinkable to an outsider like me, but it is glorious!
Yes, your America is the Land of Romance!"

This all sounded very well, but Elise's nerves were
on the ragged edge.  She knew if she spoke it would
be to cry out: "Yes, a rank outsider!  Oh, why can't
you drop that subject before I scream!"

But Captain Howard had only finished the
preliminaries.  He continued:

"And in this land, Miss Phillips, where a man may
hope for anything, I, too, have taken courage to
aspire to the highest, and—"

"A note for you, Miss Elise; the messenger is
waiting," a servant said.

Excusing herself to Howard, Elise read.

.. vspace:: 2

"MY DEAR MISS PHILLIPS:—If I may not see you
to-night, may I not see you to-morrow afternoon—or
evening?  Or day after to-morrow?  When?

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Sincerely yours,
      "EVANS RUTLEDGE."

.. vspace:: 2

Elise read this over several times, and gazed idly
at the paper for some time longer.  She quite forgot
the waiting messenger and Captain Howard.  At last
she thought, "On his own head be the result!" and
sat down at a daintily carved desk to write.

.. vspace:: 2

"MY DEAR MR. RUTLEDGE:—The disturbance of
my programme for the evening seems to have been
largely imaginary.  I will be very glad to see you at
Mrs. Hazard's as at first agreed.

.. vspace:: 1

.. class:: noindent white-space-pre-line

   "Sincerely,
      "ELISE PHILLIPS."

.. vspace:: 2

When she had given her answer to the servant Elise
came back to Captain Howard with a commonplace
question which made for naught all his words up to
that point.  He realized he must make a new
beginning if he would tell her what he wished.  Her face
and mood had changed and he saw that her thoughts
were elsewhere.  After several attempts to pull the
conversation back into the old channel he gave it up
and retired, mentally cursing his luck and hoping for
a more auspicious occasion.

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.. vspace:: 1



Elise awaited Rutledge's coming at Lola Hazard's
with some trepidation.  She was uncertain of herself.
She did not know what she would do.  Being assured
of what Rutledge would say to her, under ordinary
conditions she would have been elusive for a season,
and finally have surrendered when overtaken.  But
with outside circumstance warring against her love,
she felt wildly impelled to let herself go, to fling
restraint to the winds and give her heart's impulse free
rein.  Delicious were the tremors of anticipation with
which she waited to hear again words of tenderness
from him.  Overflowing was her heart with tender
response.  His insistence on the meeting when she
had given him an opportunity to avoid it, proved his
faith was fast.  He had met the supreme test for a
Southern white man: he loved her more than his
caste.  In her own spirit she knew the agony of his
trial.  How sweet to surrender to such a love!  How
tenderly she could reward it!  She longed to meet it
with a frank and blissful confession.  So, she was in
some trepidation: she was afraid she might not be
properly reserved.

Lola Hazard came into the sitting-room and found
Elise sitting before the open grate.

"Honey," she said, slipping an arm about the girl's
waist, "you look positively glorious to-night.  I never
saw you half so pretty.  What have you done to yourself?
Your eyes are brilliants, and your colour is—delicious!"

"I have been looking at the fire," said Elise in
explanation.

"The pictures you saw must be very pleasing,"
Lola answered.  "I hope they'll all come true.  But
before we begin to discuss that, let me tell you that
Mr. Rutledge asked to call this evening, and he may
be here any moment."

"Yes," said Elise, "I know.  He told me last night."

"Oh, he did, did he?  Well, I promised him if he
came early he might have ten minutes for his very
own to talk to you to-night.  I hope you—"

"He may have ten minutes—and as
many—more—as—he—wants," said Elise brazenly.

"Oh, you darling!" Lola gave her a squeeze.
"No wonder you are beautiful.  It will make any
woman heavenly, and you are *such a help* to it!"

"What is *it*?" asked Elise.

"Love," replied Mrs. Hazard.





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   CHAPTER XXXIV

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"Come along back to my own little parlour,
Mr. Rutledge.  Elise has been singing for me, and we'll
not let her stop for awhile yet."

Elise was not expecting Rutledge to be brought in
there, and was still sitting at the piano idly weaving
the chords into soft and improvised harmonies when
he spoke.  She slipped from the stool quickly, shook
hands with him in an embarrassed way, and crossed
the room to sit down.

"Oh, no, please do not leave the piano," Rutledge
pleaded, "now that I have just discovered you are
a musician."

"I am not a musician, Mr. Rutledge; certainly not
for the public."

Rutledge drew himself up as if offended.

"I have been called names variously in my time,
Miss Phillips, but never till this moment 'the public.'  I
resent it as an aspersion—I am not 'the public'—and
demand an abject apology.  Think of all the
horrible things 'the public' is—and are!"

"And you a politician!" exclaimed Elise.  "You
would be lost for ever if those words were quoted
against you.  Senator Killam would give a thousand
dollars for them.  See—I hold your fate in my
hands—"

Rutledge's eyes leaped to hers with a quick look
that confused her, and she hurried to cut off his words.

"—But—oh, mercy, I'm—I'm sorry, and I retract
if it was really as bad as that.  The public is
really awful, I suppose.  I humbly apologize for the
aspersion."

"Then bring forth fruits meet for repentance by
returning at once to that piano stool."

"But I'm such a very amateurish singer, Mr. Rutledge.
I fear you will—"

"And I am an amateur listener, the most humbly
appreciative, uncritical soul on earth.  Please sing.
Mrs. Hazard, if you have any influence with this
administration will you not use it here?"

"Authority is better than influence," said Lola.
"Elise, march to that piano."

Elise complied with an exaggerated air of
obedience.

"Since I am singing under orders, I will sing only
according to orders.  What shall it be?"

"Sing *My Rosary*," said Lola.  "That's an old
one—and the dearest."

"I commend to you Mrs. Hazard for sentiment,
Mr. Rutledge.  Her honeymoon is not yet on the
wane."  Having thus made Lola responsible for the
song, Elise sang it without further delay or hesitation.

When she had well begun to sing Rutledge recalled
having heard that song a long time before.  It had
not impressed him.

Elise sang simply.  The fullness of her low voice
and the clearness of her words, together with the
unaffected "heart" in her singing, left her nothing to
be desired as a singer of ballads.  As Evans
listened to the song of sentiment of Mrs. Hazard's
choosing he reformed his opinion of it.  Always
hitherto he had deemed sentiment an effervescence—refreshing
at times as apollinaris, but none the less
an effervescence—and the words of *My Rosary* a
fair type of it:

   |  "The hours I spent with thee, dear Heart,
   |  Are as a string of pearls to me.
   |  I count them over, every one apart,
   |  My rosary, my rosary.

   |  "Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer
   |  To still a heart in absence wrung—
   |  I tell each bead unto the end
   |  And there a cross is hung.

   |  "Oh memories that bless and burn,
   |  Oh barren gain, and bitter loss.
   |  I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn
   |  To kiss the cross, Sweetheart,
   |  To kiss the cross."
   |

But with Elise sitting there before him, a vision of
loveliness and grace entirely, appealingly feminine,
"the lady" all gone, and the girl—the woman—unaffected,
natural, singing of love with such an air
of truth and faith: sentiment became a very real thing
to Rutledge....  When she finished he was silent.
To comment would have been to comment on Elise,
and for her every drop of his blood was singing, "I
love you, I love you."  He felt that if he spoke to her
he must crush her in his arms and tell her so.

"That is a song according to my notion," said Lola.
"No *mésalliance* of sentiment and melody there, such
as you often see.  The words and the music made a
love-match—they were born for each other.  Who
wrote it, Elise?"

"I forget—if I ever knew," said Elise.

"Woman, of course," Lola continued; and Rutledge
interpolated "Why?"

"Because a woman always mixes her religion with
her love—if she has any religion.  A man may have
one or the other, or both, but he never confuses them."

"Pardon me for taking issue with you, Mrs. Hazard;
but with many a man his love for a woman is his
only religion."

"Which means, Mr. Rutledge, that he has love—not
religion."

As Rutledge turned to Mrs. Hazard Elise had the
first opportunity to look at him unobserved.  She saw
that his face had less colour than usual, that his
manner seemed to lack its accustomed spontaneity, that
there was a tired look about his eyes—which
provoked in her heart a fleeting maternal impulse to lay
her hand upon them.  She watched him furtively and
became convinced that he was in some measure
distressed.  At first it rather amused her and flattered
her vanity to think that he was approaching her with
a becoming self-distrust.  As she studied him longer,
however, she began to doubt the reason for his
constraint.

Lola Hazard turned from her discussion with
Rutledge to give Elise another song, and the young
woman at the piano sang three or four while Rutledge
listened in appreciative silence.  Before the last was
finished Mrs. Hazard was gone to receive other guests.

"Now will you not sing one of your own choosing?"
asked Rutledge.

"I have no choice;" said Elise, "but this occurs to
me."  She sang him Tosti's *Good-bye*.

If she put more of the spirit in that song than into
the others it was not because she felt its pertinence
to the present status of her love.  But through the
wakeful night, and all the day long till Rutledge's note
had come, the words of that *Good-bye* had come and
gone through her brain with passionate realism:

   |  "Falling leaf and fading tree,
   |  Lines of white on a sullen sea,
   |  Shadows rising on you and me—"

her heart had sung its "good-bye for ever" with all
the smothered passion of renunciation.  So, in the
very moment of blissful waiting for the telling of his
love, she could sing to Rutledge with all the wildness
of farewell which so short a time since had wrung her
spirit.

She struck the last chord softly, and, after holding
down the keys till the strings were dumb, dropped her
hands in her lap.  She did not look up, but she knew
that Rutledge's gaze was upon her.  She waited for
a space unspeaking, without lifting her eyes—and
realized that she had waited too long....  The
silence was eloquent; and with every moment became
more significant.  She tried to look up, but could not.
She knew that the situation had gotten beyond her in
that careless ten seconds, and that if she looked up now
she was lost....  She sat as if under a spell—and
waited for Rutledge to move or to speak....  After
an age he was coming toward her....  And he was
so very slow in coming.  Her heart was thumping
suffocatingly, her breathing in suspense....  He did
not speak as he came to her....  She felt he was
very near....  Still unspeaking—was he going to
take her in his arms? ... Her head drooped lower
over the keyboard....

Oh, why did he not take her in his arms.

"Elise, I love you.  I've always loved you."

Elise's eyes were upon the idle hands in her lap;
and her heart had stopped to listen.  Rutledge's
sentences were broken and jerky.  She had never heard
him speak in that fashion.

"I've loved you always, Elise, and once I was rash
enough to think—you loved me.  My presumption
was fitly punished....  Now I have only—hope.
In the last few months you—have been so—gracious
that—I have been led to think you—wait,
wait till I have done—so gracious that I have been
led to think—not that you love me, but at least that
I—do not excite your antipathy—as for a long time
it seemed....  So now I have only hope—but such
a hope, Elise—a hope that is—beyond words, for
my love is such.  My love is—I love you, Elise—I
love you as—as my father loved my mother."

Elise slowly raised her eyes to his.  There was no
smile upon her face, but as she turned it to him it
was ineffably sweet, and a smile was in her heart.
But she was startled by his look.  His was not the
face of a lover, whether triumphant, despondent,
hopeful or militant.  She did not know that he had
not been able to banish his mother from his thought
for a waking moment since he parted with her at her
mother's bed-side the night before.

"Will you—be my wife, Elise?"

Never before in all the world was that question
asked in such a voice.  Its tone like a dagger of ice
touched the girl's heart with a deadly chill.  She
looked steadily and long into his eyes.  At last with
a little shiver she murmured inaudibly "*noblesse
oblige*"—and answered his question:

"No, Mr. Rutledge, I will not be your wife."

Her words were as cold as her heart, and her
self-possession as cold as either.  She was surprised that
her answer did not bring the faintest shadow of relief
to Rutledge's drawn face—rather a greater distress.
A tingle of fire shot through her bosom.  (It was not
too late—oh why did he not take her in his arms.)

"No, I will not be your wife," she repeated slowly.
(It was not yet too late—oh why—) "I am deeply
sensible of the honour you—"

"Stop!  Don't say that!  In God's name don't say
that!  Don't add mockery to—"

"Mr. Rutledge!"

For the moment Rutledge forgot that there was
any person in the world other than Elise and himself.

"You *have* mocked me—you have *played* with
me!  And—"

"Will you please go, Mr. Rutledge!"

"Played with me—yes—as if I were the
simplest—oh well, I have been—and you—you have
been—you are—an artist.  Tell me that you do not
love me, that you have only laughed at me.  Tell
me!" he sneered.

"Go, I say!  Oh, *can't* you *go*!"

"Yes, I'll go—when you say it.  Tell me!  Do
you love me—have you ever loved me?—the veriest
little bit?"

"Never.  Not the veriest little bit," she said, looking
straight at him.

"That's it!—the truth at last—spoken like a
m—like a lady!"—he bowed mockingly at her—"and
it proves you are false—false, do you
understand?—unspeakably false!  And I have loved you like
m—but very well, it's better so—perhaps."

He turned to go; but turned quickly about.

"I'll kiss you once if I swing for it!—for what I
thought you were"—and, for a moment robbed by
anger of his sense of proprieties, with unpardonable
roughness he crushed and kissed her, flung her
violently from him, and went, without looking back at
her.

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Mrs. Hazard, looking across the shoulders of a
knot of her guests, caught a glimpse of Rutledge as he
passed down the hall toward the outer door.  She
waited a minute or more for him to reappear, and
when he had not done so she lost interest in the people
and things about her.  At the first possible moment
she sought Elise, and found her again sitting before
the grate.  Lola came into the room so quickly and
quietly that Elise had not time to dissemble, if she had
wished to do so.  Her head was thrown back against
the chair and both hands covered her face.  Lola took
her wrists and against some little resistance pulled her
hands away.

"Elise?" she said.

"He does not love me," Elise replied, defensively,
without opening her eyes.

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Oh, yes," the answer came wearily; "he told me;
but he told me because he thought he had given me
to expect it.  It was *noblesse oblige*—not love."

"Noblesse fiddlesticks!  I don't believe a word of it."

"Oh well," said Elise, looking up, "he said it was
just as well that I refused him, there's no mistaking
that."

"Oh, certainly, *after* you refused him.  What did
you expect?"

"I expected him to—no, I didn't.  I didn't expect
anything.  Southern men are so—"  Elise stopped.
She was about to be unjust to Rutledge.

"But come, let's go," she said, rising from her
chair.  "Are all the people here?"

"All except Senator Richland, and he never fails
*me*," Lola answered.

"I don't want to see that man to-night," said Elise;
and yet she joined the other guests appearing nothing
other than her usual self save for the added brightness
of her eyes, and when Senator Richland managed
finally to isolate her she gave him quite the most
interesting twenty minutes of his life.

When the company was broken up, Elise, who was
stopping over night with Lola, avoided the customary
heart to heart talk by asking for a pen and paper with
which to write a letter.  Mrs. Hazard was consumed
with desire to hear all about it, but she deferred her
inquiries with good grace as she argued that a note
written by Elise at such an unearthly hour could be
only to Rutledge, and must, therefore, be important.

Elise shut herself in her room and, pitching the
paper on the dressing-table, sat down to think.  For
nearly an hour she sat without turning a hand to
undress, trying to unravel the tangled skein of her
heart's affairs and see a way out; but she could not
get her thoughts to the main issue.  Like a fiery
barrier to her thinking was the man's burning
denunciation: "You are false—unspeakably false!"  It had
rung in her ears all the evening, and however she tried
she could not get away from it.  At last she began
hurriedly to undress, but before that process was half
finished she brushed the toilet articles from a corner
of the dressing-table, drew up a chair, and began to
write.

"Unspeakably false?  No, no, Evans, I am not
false.  I have not been false: for I love you.  Such a
long time I have loved you.  Sometimes I have
believed you loved me, and sometimes I have doubted;
but I do not doubt since you told me to-night I was
unspeakably false.  Shame on you to swear at your
sweetheart so!—and bless you for saying it, for now
I know.  O why did you not say it earlier so that I
might not have misread you?  I thought you felt
yourself committed, and must go on: that your love
was dead, but honour held you.  You looked so
distressed, dear heart, that I was misled.  Forgive me.
And do not think I do not know your distress.  I,
too—but no, I must not.  I love you, I cannot do
more.  In your rage were you conscious that your
kiss fell upon *my lips*, dearest?  Blind you were when
you said I was unspeakably false.—"

She had written rapidly and almost breathlessly
while the impulse was warm within her heart.  She
paused for a moment—held the pen poised as if
uncertain what to say next—hesitated as to how to
say it—next, as to whether to say it—laid the pen
down and picked up the sheet to read what she had
written.  A blush came to her cheeks as she read, and
at the end she dropped her face upon her arm on the
table and suffered a revulsion of shame for her
unmaidenliness.  She tried hard to justify her writing
and had all but succeeded when Rutledge's words, "It
is better so," put all her love's excuses to final rout.
She took the written sheet and went across to drop
it on the smoldering fire.  But her resolution failed
her: she felt that it would be to burn her very
heartbeats if she gave these words to the flames.

Going again to the dressing-table she laid the letter
upon the scattered sheets of paper to await a more
mature decision, and, hurriedly disrobing, went to bed.

She found it very hard to go to sleep.  Even in the
dark she could feel the continuing blushes in her
cheeks as she thought of what she had written.
Finally in desperation she tumbled up and in the dim
glow of the coals in the grate crossed the room to
the dressing-table, snatched up and crumpled in her
hand the disturbing letter, hurriedly gathered up the
remaining sheets of paper and chucked them in the
table drawer, walked quickly over and dropped the
offending tender missive upon the coals and went to
bed again in the light of its destruction.  A very long
time after its last gleam was dark and dead she found
the sleep she sought.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXXV`:

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   CHAPTER XXXV

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It is not within the province of this chronicle to
recall the sensational excitement that swept the nation
in those days further than as it affected the persons
mentioned in this narrative.  The details of that
sensation, the screams, the howls, the jeers, the
predictions, the warnings, the laments, the philosophizings,
a newspaper-reading people but too well remember.
They have no proper place of rehearsal in this
history; and if they had, a comprehensive statement
which would present the matter fairly to those who
come after would be too voluminous for the plan upon
which this book is projected.

In that time of tumult and of trial Mr. Phillips
stood indeed alone.  If he had braced himself firmly
in his determination to save Helen's happiness at all
cost, it was well: for his trial was to the uttermost.
Although it would have crushed any other than his
adamantine will, the storm-beaten father withstood,
as one accustomed to do battle, the pressure from
without: but the rebellion of his own soul was an
unrelieved tragedy that shook him day and night with
its terror.  If his love for Helen had not approached
the infinite, surely in the shrieking revulsion of his
spirit he would have cast her off.  There was a demand
from loud-mouthed people the nation over that he
should disown her and drive her into the outer
darkness.  Some relief there was in that demand, for it
only stirred the combative in his nature.  The yells
and hoots aroused his fighting blood.  But the silence,
the unspeaking horror—as if in the presence of death—in
which sober-minded friend and foe stood aghast
and looked upon Helen's plight, made his courage
faint and tremulous.  It was so awfully akin to the
sickening horror and silence in his own heart.

He was indeed alone; and in that loneliness it was
given to him to teach to himself the far bounds of a
father's love.  If he only could have fought
something!—or somebody!  If he only openly could have
snapped his fingers in the face of public opinion, in the
teeth of his own mutinous soul—openly—and told
them he cared more for Helen's untroubled laugh than
for them all, and be damned to 'em!  If he only could
have died!  But no: he must stand and be still to the
most thankless task that ever called for a hidden
loyalty.  Helen must not know of the travail of his
love, lest that defeat love's purpose.  It was too late,
too late, for knowledge to do other than tear her
heart-strings out, blight her young soul, and write
*Remorse* eternally upon her life.  She must *never*
know how much he loved her!

There was no lack of personal—and professing—-friends
to stand more or less loyally beside the father
in that time, but their support was wormwood to him.
From the very few who were altogether sincere he
turned in aversion even as he suffered their commendations,
while for the insincere and sycophantic he had
a doubly unspeakable contempt; and that disgust and
scorn was agony, for that he must swallow it and belie
his own spirit as he listened to these friends.

His private correspondence furnished him as little
comfort.  Some persons there were—and a few of
these men and women of repute—who wrote to him
letters that should have been consoling, for they
agreed very heartily with his view, or what they
thought was his view, and commended him without
stint for his attitude: but never an one spoke of the
sacrificial love of a father for his daughter—*justice
to the negro* was their theme.  Upon such letters from
men—it would have surprised the writers much to
hear it—he uttered maledictions profane; while, for
the one woman who thus approved him, he forebore
profanity, but relieved his wrath with a volcanic
"Freak!"

From the time the announcement burst upon the
public the President was overwhelmed with a flood of
newspaper comment, most of it harsh, the best of it
deprecatingly sympathetic, none, except that from
negro papers, uncritical.  Very shortly the clippings
bureau which served him was ordered to discontinue
everything referring to Mrs. Hayward Graham's marriage.

Mr. Phillips did not give that order because he was
too weak to stand criticism.  Far from it.  He was
schooled to conflict, and knew the rules.  He had
never asked concession from an opponent in all his life
of struggle, and he would have scorned to ask it then,
even with the uncounted odds against him.  His critics
might have shrieked till the crack o' doom and he
would have listened without a quiver of his resolution.

But the impartial bureau had sent, among an avalanche
of criticism, an appreciation in the form of the
following editorial clipped from the columns of *The
Star of Zion*:

"The dramatic culmination of the beautiful romance
in which Miss Helen Phillips, daughter of the
President of the United States, proudly proclaims
herself the wife of Mr. John Hayward Graham, and the
graceful acquiescence of the bride's distinguished
father in his beautiful daughter's love-match, is but
another proof of the rapid coming of the negro race
into its own as the recognized equal of any race of
men on earth.  Mr. Graham's career is an inspiration
to his people, for it teaches the rising generation of
negro boys and girls that they need no longer live
Within the Veil, that in the most enlightened minds
there is no longer a silly prejudice against colour, but
that if the young negro will only make the most of
himself and his opportunities he will be graciously
received as an equal, as a member, in the proudest
families in this mighty nation.—"

President Phillips read just that much of that
editorial.  Then went the order to shut off the press
clippings.

It required all the father's self-control to dissemble
in Helen's presence and he feared that he would be
unable to keep the truth from her.  It was fortunate
for the girl that her condition demanded seclusion and
that her removal from Washington took her away
from the danger of enlightenment.  At her father's
instance preparations were hurried with all speed, and
she and her husband went to Hill-Top for their
belated honeymoon and a stay indefinite....

Hayward Graham would have been a paragon if he
had conducted himself with entire discretion when
the limelight first was turned upon him.  The colour
of his skin was not responsible for his foolish
mistakes in those first days.  Any footman so suddenly
elevated to that pinnacle likely would have made them.
One of his errors of judgment was serious.  That was
his continued offence against the dignity of Henry
Porter.  The withering letter he had written in
answer to the old man's apology was of itself enough to
call up the devil in old Henry's heart; but that
doubtless would have been forgotten had Hayward
remained in obscurity.

To dispute with the President the title to a son-in-law,
however, was a distinction too fascinating to the
negro magnate.  He had already been to Bob Shaw's
office for a tentative discussion of the law in his case
and was just coming away when he ran plump into
Hayward on the sidewalk.  A judicious condescension
on the young man's part even then might have
placated him, but instead an evil spirit called to
Hayward's memory his first meeting with Porter, the
insufferable affront, and his own oath to even the score.
Too strong in Hayward's heart was the temptation to
"take it out of him for keeps" then and there.  At
the worst, though, he hardly did more than any
gentleman would do upon meeting another who had
driven him from his house.

"Mr. Hay— Mr. Graham!" said Porter, hardly
knowing himself whether he intended to be polite or
other, but having a general purpose to fetch the young
fellow up roundly for that letter.

"I believe I don't know you," said Hayward, stopping
and observing him coolly for two seconds, and
turning away to continue his journey up the street.

Now, to those of his race, Henry Porter was a
"figure" on the streets of Washington, and Graham
was by that time almost as well known as the President
himself.  There were but four people who could
have witnessed the meeting of these celebrities.  These
were three negroes of low degree loafing along the
sidewalk and a dago pushing a cart just outside the
curb.

At his rebuff Henry Porter gave a gasp, swallowed
it, and looked around to see who had seen him.  The
"common niggers" at his elbow snickered, and as
they passed on burst out into loud guffaws.

"Um-huh!  Tried to butt into the White House,
but *Mister* Graham *he* don't know him!  Can't interdoose
'im!  *Too* black!  Law-dee, didn't he th'ow 'im down!"

Henry Porter heard enough of this.  He rapidly
retraced his steps to Shaw's office.

"Here, Mr. Shaw, you can jist git them papers out
this evenin'.  There's no use waitin'."

"All right, Mr. Porter," said Shaw, who didn't
favour the idea but was too much afraid of his client
to refuse.  "But wouldn't to-morrow do as well?
We could think it over a little further."

"No, suh, Mr. Shaw.  We don't wait till no
to-morrer.  We don't think about that damn young
nigger no mo' till we take him with the papers and let
him think about hisself awhile.  Can't you git 'em
served on him this evenin'?"

"If he's to be found in the city," said Shaw.

"Oh, he's to be found all right.  I saw him goin'
up the street jist awhile ago.  You jist git them
papers out and have 'em served on him this evenin'
and no mistake about it."

"All right, if you say so," Shaw consented.

"Well, I say so—and I can pay the damage," said
the irate client with emphasis, and stalked out of the
office, only to stick his head back into the door with
the last injunction:

"This evenin' now, and no mistake about it!"

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As chance ordained, Henry Porter did not go amiss
in his haste to have the summons served on Graham.
It was late in the afternoon and less than four hours
before the former footman and his wife were scheduled
to leave the city for Stag Inlet that the officer
served the paper.

A bomb exploding under Hayward's feet could not
have been so unexpected by him.  As the officer read
the summons and its import broke upon his mind he
felt, for the first time in his life, physical weakness in
the presence of danger.  It staggered him to think of
possible results.  He had no feeling of guilt: but an
awful fear.

President Phillips had passed out of the White
House for his regular constitutional while the process
was being served, and recognized the officer by his
badge and Graham's excitement by the look on his
face, but had not stopped to inquire what the trouble
was,—for which Graham was profoundly thankful,
as it gave him time to catch his breath.

Think as he would, no way of escape could Graham
conceive.  Being virtually without money, he could
not hope in four hours to bring Henry Porter to terms
and avoid a publication of the scandal.  Exactly what
the old man had in mind, anyway, was uncertain,
excruciatingly uncertain.  The precise nature of the
complaint did not appear from the summons.  As the suit
was based on a lie, it well might be any sort of a lie.
But surely, surely, he thought, no woman would
*falsely* speak disgrace to herself.  He had had a
genuine respect for Lily Porter's character.  She had
been the best of them all, with the highest ideas and
the highest ideals.  He would have sworn that she
could not have lent herself to a thing of this sort.
But since she had been willing to do so at all, to what
lengths might she not go?  What was the limit they
had set?  To what public disgrace were they trying
to bring him?  To what awful lie must he make answer?

As he thought of it the keen sense of his peril, the
disgrace, the loss of his commission, and his
helplessness, became well-nigh unbearable.  If Henry Porter
could only have known the extremity of torture he
had inflicted in thus making the young fellow "think
about hisself awhile," his wrath might have been appeased.

Hayward trembled to think of the moment when
the public should know of this suit, but he quaked in
absolute terror as he thought of Mr. Phillips' hearing
it.  And Helen!—what must he do to save her from
this shame?—he gladly at the moment could have
strangled Old Henry....  But heroics would do no
good.  He was helpless, bound hand and foot.  If he
could be saved, if Helen was to be saved, there was
but one arm that had the power: her father's.
Perhaps, *perhaps*, with all his attributes of strength and
force, he might be able to bring the vengeful negro
capitalist to terms.  Whatever his terror of Mr. Phillips,
he must tell him....  And what were done
must be done quickly.

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"I would like to speak with you a moment, sir,
about a—a matter," said Hayward to the President
as soon as he returned from his walk.

Mr. Phillips could tell with half an eye that it was
a matter of some moment.  He led the way to his
private office.

"Well, what is it, Hayward?  You look excited."

Mr. Phillips spoke very kindly, for he did so with
studied purpose.  It was necessary that he keep that
purpose continually and consciously before him.  For
Hayward the footman he had had quite a high
regard: as he had for any man or thing that was
efficient.  For the negro as his son-in-law, he could not
bring himself to consider him with any toleration, nor
did he lie to his soul by telling it he wished to.  For
the negro as a mate for Helen, every rebellious,
tortured nerve and fibre of the man was an eternal,
agonized protest.  It was indeed very necessary that
he keep his kindly purpose always consciously before him.

"What is it?" he asked again.

"I had a paper—a summons, I believe they call
it—served on me this afternoon," Hayward stumbled
along to say; and then stopped, uncertain how to go
at it.

"Well.  And what's the trouble?"

"I don't know, sir, exactly what's the trouble; or,
rather, I would say I didn't know there was any
trouble."

"Then what's it about?  Who is it that's suing
you?  What does the summons say?"

"The summons doesn't say what the trouble is
about."  Graham was dodging in spite of himself.

"But who is the person that is suing you?" Mr. Phillips
questioned again testily.

"The summons says '*Lily Porter, by her father
and next friend, Henry S. Porter, against John
Hayw—*"

"Says *what*?  A WOMAN?"

President Phillips jumped to his feet and went pale
as ashes.  Graham, dry-lipped, could only nod his
head weakly in affirmation.  For five seconds
Mr. Phillips was speechless.  Then words came back,
along with a rush of blood to his face that looked to
burst it.  So terrible was his wrath, the killing look
in his eyes, that Graham instinctively squared away to
defend himself from bodily injury.  Such a torrent,
such a blast, of withering, blistering profanity, wild,
incoherent, unutterable, he never had listened to in all
his life.  Try as he would to interpose a word, an
explanation, a defence, his efforts only drove the
father to more abandoned fury.  After a dozen
fruitless attempts he realized there was nothing to do but
wait for the furor to burn itself out.  To the young
man, conscious of the passing of precious time, it
seemed that his anger would never cool.  When the
President showed the first signs of exhaustion he took
courage to speak again.

"I swear to you, sir, the young woman has no
cause to complain of me.  I have done her no—"

"Oh of course not, of course not," said Mr. Phillips
in the most bitingly sarcastic tone.  "Of course
not, of course not!  But who the devil is she?"

"Miss Lily Porter, daughter of Henry S. Porter—*Black
Henry* the newspapers sometimes call him.
Perhaps you have heard—"

"What!  That nigger?  Not a *nigger* woman!
But of cour—oh my God, Helen, how can I pr—"
but he choked for a moment in livid anger before he
writhed into another frenzy, that was as volcanic, as
horrible, and as pitiable as it is unprintable.  He
cursed, he raved, he choked, he tore wildly at his
collar for breath.

It was frightful to look upon, and if Graham had
feared for his own safety in the first outburst, he
feared for Mr. Phillips' life in the last.  It looked as
if in the violence of his wrath he would burst a
blood-vessel.  Graham was in mortal fear that he would die
in his tracks, and tried desperately to reinforce his
denial of guilt as the only possible relief for his
father-in-law's dementia, but all his attempts only inflamed
Mr. Phillips the more.  The negro seemed not to
know that it was not a question of his guilt or
innocence that was tearing the father's vitals and
threatening his reason, but shame—insufferable shame!

After an age, it seemed to Graham, Mr. Phillips
became calmer.  His son-in-law, wholly at a loss what
to say or do, started out of the door in search of a
clearer atmosphere and a chance to regain his
scattered faculties.  The President looked around and saw
him beating a retreat.

"Come back here!" he ordered sharply.  "We
can't leave this thing like this!  Something must be
done with it at once, or the scandal will be all over
the—"  He trembled with the passion of another
outburst, but controlled himself by a mighty effort.

"I swear to you no scandal may rightly be laid at
my door," said Graham with some dignity.  The outrageous
injustice of the thing gave him a little of the
dignity of righteousness.

"Scandal doesn't depend on truth or falsehood, so
we needn't discuss that now."  Mr. Phillips cut him
off short.  "What we must do is to stop this scandal,
for scandal it will be if it gets to the public.  Where
does this—this Porter live?  How far from here?"

"About fifteen minutes drive, sir."

"Well—er—send Mr. O'Neill here—in a hurry."

Graham, glad to get action on himself, was out of
the room and back with the secret service man in less
than a minute.  In that short space the President had
taken a grip on his self-control.

"Here, O'Neill, take Hayward with you to show
you the house, and go fetch Henry Porter up here to
see me.  He's not to be arrested, mind you, but is to
come to see me at my request *at once*, and nobody is
to know.  And he is not to speak to anybody or see
anybody, not even Hayward here, before you bring
him to me.  So get along and get him here as soon
as you can.  No force, remember; but he is to come
along, at my request." ...

O'Neill and Hayward hurried out, and, finding a
street cab, lost no time in getting to Henry Porter's
house.  On the way Hayward gave the officer some
idea of the man he was to deal with and, bringing him
to the door, left him to his own devices and himself
took a car back home.  When Old Henry came to the
door O'Neill told him half a dozen lies in half as many
minutes, and at the end of the time he had the worthy
coloured gentleman safely in the cab and on the way
to the White House.

The President was waiting for him, and when the
two fathers were alone together he went at him with
a directness calculated to take the negro's breath.
Black Henry was much awed, in fact well-nigh
overcome by the situation, and he was hardly in condition
to make the most of his opportunities; but his native
shrewdness did not entirely forsake him.  In the
drive to the White House he had had time to think
it over, and he had concluded that the President
wanted to see him very much or he would not have
sent for him.  He tried to keep that in mind all the
time the negotiations were pending.  It helped in some
degree to steady his shaking confidence in himself.

"You are Henry S. Porter, I believe?"  There
was an accusing quality in the voice.

"Yes, suh."

"The father of Lily Porter who has instituted a
suit against my—against Hayward Graham?"  The
tone was more accusing.

"Yes, suh."  Black Henry wished the suit hadn't
been instituted.  But he remembered again he had
been sent for and he braced up a little.

"Now what is the nature of that suit?"  The
President was somewhat in fear of his own question,
for all his bravado of manner.

"Breach o' promise," Henry answered shortly.

"Anything else?"

"Nothin' but breach o' promise to my daughter
Lily.  He was engaged to her and married your
daughter, or was already married to her, I don' know
which."

For five seconds a murderous passion all but got
control of Mr. Phillips' will.  He turned away and
closed his eyes tight till he had subdued it.

"What evidence have you that he was engaged to
your daughter?"

Henry Porter knew he was a fool to give away his
case to the opposition, but the President's eyes and
manner were too compelling for him.

"My daughter says so and—and I've seen enough
myself, and besides that he has written letters to her.
I reckon we've got evidence enough all right."

"Well, I have evidence that there is not a word of
it true, and I sent for you to tell you you'd better drop
it.  You'll find it a profitless—more than that—a
*very expensive* undertaking."

The last statement was unfortunate.  It struck fire
in Old Henry's pet vanity.

"Oh, I guess I can stan' the expense all right," he
rejoined with the oddest possible mixture of deference
and defiance.

"You can, can you!" said Mr. Phillips sharply, his
anger beginning to redden.  "But I tell you again
you can't get a verdict from the courts—no, sir, not
for a cent—so what's the use?"

"I don't need the money." ... Clearly Mr. Phillips
had given the purse-proud old darkey the wrong cue.

"Then what the devil are you after?"

"That young nig—young man is mos' too sassy.
He's got to know his place."

"His place!"  Mr. Phillips' face was again twisted
in wrath.  But wrath could not serve Helen's cause.
He stifled it.

"Yes; he mus'n' come flyin' roun' my daughter for
fun, and then go off when he fin's somebody mo' to
his notion, and th'ow his impidence in my face."

Through all his blinding anger Mr. Phillips could
see clearly enough to realize that it was indeed not a
matter of money, but of insult.  He was more and
more inclined to believe Hayward's statement that
there was little or no basis for the suit.  But that didn't
help matters in the least.

"Now look here, Porter," he said in his most
vigorous and decided manner, "I am convinced your
claim has no real basis in fact, but is the outcome of
pique pure and simple.  Nevertheless, it must be
settled here, to-night; and I'm willing to see that you
don't lose any money in the way of expenses and
lawyer's fees for the procedure so far.  To that end
I will have Hayward pay you a thousand dollars if
you will withdraw the suit to-night.  What do you say?"

"I don' need the money," said Porter in maddening
reiteration.  "Besides that I don' know what my
lawyer will charge."  At the mention of money,
however, the sharp-dealing old negro felt a little more at
ease and interested in the discussion.

"Who is your lawyer?"

"Mistuh Shaw—Mistuh Robert Shaw."

"Robert Shaw.  Is he the Shaw that wants that
special solicitorship in the treasury department?  A
negro?"

"Yes, suh, a negro; but I don' know about the
treasury department."

"Well, he's the man, I have no doubt—Robert
Shaw, a negro lawyer.  Now let me tell you.  I had
had some idea of giving him the place he asks for,
but I say right now if he's inclined to be a fool in a
matter of this sort he's not the man the government
wants.  If he gets his fee he will be well enough
satisfied, won't he?  He's not the fool kind that wants to
advertise himself in a sensational suit, is he?"

"No, suh, no, *suh*!  Mistuh Shaw is a ve'y nice
young man, suh.  He ain't no fool, suh."

"Well, he would be if he disobeyed your wishes and
mine in this matter.  I think I can speak for *him*
myself.  Now what do *you* say?  A thousand dollars?"

Involving Shaw in the affair was most fortunate
for Mr. Phillips.  With Hayward out of the running,
Henry Porter now looked with much assurance upon
Shaw as a son-in-law.  That financial-political
combination between himself and Shaw was again his
pet dream as before Hayward's interference.  With
Black Henry the controversy was really settled and
he was ready to compromise.  The smaller purpose
was lost in the presence of the master passion.  But
his personal pride and cupidity were aroused.  If his
hoped-for son-in-law Shaw was going to get both
honour and revenue out of this thing, he himself
ought not to fall too far behind....  And again he
remembered that he had been sent for.

"Of cou'se I don' need the money," he said once
more, "but if money is to settle it I think five
thousan' 'd be little enough.  We was suin' for
twenty-five."

"Five thousand the devil!  I'll not pay it.  It's
outrageous!"

"Well, suh, I don't need the m—"

"Ah, shut that up, for heaven's sake!  What's the
best you'll do?  Speak out now in a hurry."

"Well, suh, five thousan' is mighty little considerin'
the standin' of the pahties.  As my lawyer, Mistuh
Shaw, said, the standin' of the pahties calls for big
damages.  My daughter and your son-in-law are up
in the pic—"

"Hold on!" said Mr. Phillips.  "You can stop
that argument right there.  Will you take five
thousand and shut the thing up?"

"Well, suh, as I said, I don' need—"

"Will you take the five thousand?"  The
President's eyes had a dangerous blaze in them.

"Yes, suh."

"That settles it.  Now get right out after that
lawyer of yours at once, to-night, and have him withdraw
those papers and destroy them—or no, better than
that, you bring them here to me to-morrow—no,
bring them *to-night*—I'll wait for you.  And hurry,
will you please, for I'm quite busy and must be rid of
this as quickly as possible.  I'll look for you within an
hour."

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Mr. Phillips could not have been very busy, for he
did nothing but walk the room till Porter returned.
And two hours had passed before that time.

"I'm sorry to keep you waitin' so long, suh," the
negro apologized; "but me and Mistuh Shaw had to
hunt up the officer to git the papers.  It was so late
when he served 'em he couldn' retu'n 'em to court
to-night, and he was holdin' 'em over in his pocket till
mornin'."

"Thank Heaven for that.  Did you tell him to keep
his mouth shut?"

"Yes, suh."

"And will he do it?"

"I think he will, suh.  Mistuh Shaw fixed him.
He's a frien' of Mistuh Shaw."

"Well, he'd better.  I'll hold Shaw responsible for
him.  Let me see the papers....  Yes, this is all
right....  Now here's ten dollars and a receipt for
that much in full of all claims for breach of promise
and so forth you and your daughter have against
Hayward Graham.  You just sign the receipt, and I'll
pay you the balance of the five thousand to-morrow—there's
not a tenth of that sum in the house to-night.
You'll take my promise for the balance, won't you?"

"Yes, suh—oh yes, suh," said Mr. Porter, his
manner showing his full appreciation of the fact that
between gentlemen of standing the ordinary strict
rules of business could be waived with perfect safety.
With all his discernment, however, he saw nothing
more in this proceeding than his trusting Mr. Phillips
for $4,990 till the morning.

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When he was ushered into the President's office
the next morning Henry Porter received from Mr. Phillips'
own hands the $4,990 in currency of the highest
denominations fresh from the treasury.  He verified
the correctness of the amount almost at a glance.

"I'll give you a receipt, suh," he said.

"Oh, no, don't trouble; the receipt for ten dollars
in Hayward Graham's name in settlement of the claim
for breach of promise answers every purpose legally."

As he spoke the President smiled in a satisfied way,
and it occurred to Black Henry that a ten dollar
breach of promise suit would be quite a contemptible
and ridiculous affair if it got to the newspapers.

"And now, Mr. Porter," said Mr. Phillips, anxious
as ever to make every bid for silence, "you can see
that, adding force to your contract, every consideration
of decency and self-respect demands that not the
slightest whisper of this matter shall reach the public.
The highest consideration I have not hitherto referred
to.  That is your daughter's good name.  It could
only do injury to her reputation—injury, and
nothing but injury.  I am indeed surprised that she was
so unwise, that she had the disposition to bring this
suit and bring herself into what would have been such
unfavourable public notice."

"Well, suh, *Mistuh Shaw* said she wouldn't like it,
and I had a hard time makin' him bring the suit.  He
said she wou—"

"Didn't she instigate it?" asked Mr. Phillips.

"No, *suh*—that she didn'.  Fact is I've been
fraid to tell her about it—fraid she'd make me stop
it, she thinks such a heap of Mistuh Hayward....
But we've got it all settled satisfact'ry now and there
ain't no reason why she sh'd ever know it happened,
suh.  Good mornin', Mistuh President."

"You old scoundrel!"—when Mr. Porter had
closed the door behind him.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXXVI`:

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   CHAPTER XXXVI

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In trying to be philosophical Rutledge took what
comfort he could from Elise's "no" in the fact that
he would be less distracted from the work of his
campaign against Senator Killam.  He gave all his
energies to that task, which promised to tax his resources
to the utmost if he would hope to win.  The owners
of *The Mail* were more than willing that he should
make the attempt.  His temporary stay in the Senate
had given the paper a very considerable shove toward
the front rank in prominence and authority in affairs
political, and there was nothing to be lost by a tilt
with that most picturesque figure in national politics,
Senator Killam.

Let it be understood, however, that Rutledge did
not run simply to advertise himself or his paper.  His
unfailing friend Robertson wrote to him: "There is
a very real opposition to Senator Killam growing up
in the State, although at this time its force and
numbers are very difficult to compute with accuracy.
Your admirable conduct of yourself in your short
trying-out has commended you to those who are looking
for a leader of conceded ability yet not identified with
any of the petty factions in State politics nor with any
of the local issues upon which the party is divided
and dissentient.  Your friends think you fill all the
requirements in the broader sense and, besides, that
you are the antipode of all things peculiarly,
personally and offensively Killamic."

Although they were of the same broad political
creed, the stage of antagonism to which he and
Senator Killam had come during the younger man's short
term in the Senate bordered on the acute.  It had
reached the point where they were studiously polite
to each other.  Senator Killam did not usually trouble
himself to be civil to any person who aroused his
antipathy, but he had the idea that it would be
conceding too much to young Rutledge's importance to
show any personal unfriendliness to him.  Nevertheless,
with all their outward show of friendliness, they
were both out for blood: Rutledge, because of the
many of the older man's taunts and sarcasms which
still rankled in his memory; and Senator Killam,
because, whatever the time and whoever his opponent,
he always gave a correct imitation of being out for
the blood of any man that opposed him.

Rutledge had already begun to be very busy with
his campaign before his decisive conversation with
Elise.  When, some ten days later, he received a letter
from his mother in which she set out to discuss his
admiration for Elise in light of Helen's marriage, he
found himself entirely too pressed for time to do more
than read the opening sentences, and lay it reverently
away.

He tried to forget Elise,—as many another lover
has done before him, and with about the usual lack of
success.  For the remainder of the Washington
season he cut all his social engagements that were not
positively compelling and fortunately did not chance
to see her again but twice before he went South to
take an active hand in the primary campaign.

On those two occasions she exhibited the perfection
of impersonal interest, but Rutledge, remorseful for
his indefensible behaviour toward her at Mrs. Hazard's,
was conscious that, curiously enough to him,
her gentle dignity had not the faintest trace of offence.
It seemed rather to hold an elusive though palpable
element of friendliness.  This was puzzling, but he
did not attempt to explain it to himself.  He had
suffered enough from the riddle of her moods, and he
was afraid to try to explain it.  He was convinced
that she was not for him—had she not told him so?—and
that, having lost her, it was imperative that
he think no more about her lest he lose everything else
he had set to strive for.  So he strove only to lose the
disquieting thought of her out of his work.

President Phillips, also, in those days was attempting
to flee his thoughts in a wilderness of work.  Unlike
Rutledge, with him there was a tax upon heart
as well as brain in the political task before him.
Rutledge could not feel aggrieved if the people of his
State declined to send him to the Senate, for by no
merit or custom had he a pre-eminent claim upon
them.  Defeat, however disappointing, could bring
him no heart-burning.

Mr. Phillips, however, was asking no more than
was his due: renomination at the hands of his party.
By every consideration both of merit and custom it
was his due.  His official record was *efficiency,
faithful execution, striking ability and uncompromising
honesty*.  But by very virtue of his honesty and ability
he had gone up against the two powers in this country
that go furthest to make or unmake Presidents:
law-breaking corporations and machine politicians.  The
Greed and The Graft could never be at ease while a
Fearless Honesty abode in the White House.  They
long had planned to displace Mr. Phillips.

The fight was not an open one, with each army
aligned under its own banners.  It was a night attack
where the clash and the struggle could be heard and
felt but the assailants could not be distinguished and
called by name.  Mr. Phillips could well imagine who
were the leaders of his enemies, but they were too
shrewd as yet to openly declare their opposition.

The consummate skill with which the campaign was
conducted made it appear that there was a growing
manifestation of the people's disapproval.  The
boomlets of a dozen or more favourite sons were assiduously
cultivated each in its limited field—but all by
the master hand.  The favourite sons as a rule
deprecated the mention of their names and waived it aside
as unworthy of serious thought; but it takes a very
great or a very small man to recognize his own
unfitness for the presidency of the nation,—and modesty
would permit no favourite son to say he was too big
for the office.

Mr. Phillips was not of the holy sort that is above
using some of the traditional methods of the
politician.  With good conscience he could drive men to
righteousness when necessity demanded it: and
believing that his own re-election would be for the
country's weal he would not have hesitated perhaps to turn
the power of the administration to that purpose if he
had not been measurably handicapped.

He was an honest man—as his predecessors in
office had been.  He desired—as they had desired
before him—to give the country a clean and honest
lot of officials to administer its interests.  But, unlike
some of the Presidents gone before, he had made
extraordinary personal efforts to see and know for
himself that the men of the government corps were of
honest purposes at heart and honest practices in
office.  Result: many and many a cog-wheel, great
and small, in the machine had been broken and thrown
into the scrap pile.

Therefore the machine silently prayed for deliverance
from this Militant Honesty in the executive
office, and, with its praying, believed—first article
in the creed of Graft: Heaven helps those who help
themselves—to deliverance as well as to the public
money.  So, there was no pernicious activity in
Mr. Phillips' behalf among the office-holding class.  The
defection from his support was impalpable but none
the less assured.  He could not put his finger upon the
men and say "Here are the deserters," for they had
not as yet, at four months before the convention,
declared against him.  But they were not throwing up
their hats for him.  It was apathy that presaged disaster.

And Greed had so quietly and effectively extended
its propaganda that "vested" interests began to think
they "viewed with alarm" Mr. Phillips' activities.
They were persuaded that he had already gone to the
limit in bringing to book the methods of Capital and
of Business, and were asked to note that not even yet
was there the faintest hint of a promise that he would
not run amuck amongst them.  They preferred to
defeat him in the convention.  If not, they would
defeat him at the polls.  With them there was no
sentiment about it.  They simply wanted no more of him.
They desired a "safe" man....  Few times in the
political history of this nation has Money failed to get
what it really truly wanted.

Finished politician that he was, Mr. Phillips could
read the signs clear.  He knew that his political death
was being plotted, had been plotted for months.  In
the consciousness of his official rectitude and efficiency,
and with confidence in the discernment and appreciation
of his countrymen, for a long time he had thought
contemptuously of the plotters.  At length, however,
his trained eye had caught the flash of real danger:
and his heart was oppressed.  Not that overweening
ambition made him crave continuance in his exalted
office and sicken at the thought of denial.  It was not
that: not the loss of a double meed of honour in a
second term.  No; it was the threatened loss of his
first term, of the four years already gone, with their
unstinted expenditure of energy and honest purpose,
brain-fag and strain of heart.  To be disapproved,
discredited, by the people for whom he had given the
very essence of his life!  Keener than the sting of
ingratitude, even, was the sense of possible loss.  *Four
years* for naught! four years *for naught*!—if the
people should repudiate him.  He trembled to think
it was possible for him to fail of renomination.  He
was fighting for his life: for the life he had already
given to his country in that four years.

As the weeks and months wore on toward summer
he felt that he was losing strength with every
sunset.  The Southern delegations, makers of so many
second terms, were being sent to the national convention
uninstructed.  That was not conclusive; but it
was ominous, for any administration having Mr. Phillips'
political faith that cannot hold the delegations
from that section is politically in a bad way.

Plausible explanations were offered, assuredly:
"Southern delegates have so regularly worn the
administration label that they have lost influence and
self-respect"—"This time it is unnecessary.  There
is only one real candidate and they must all vote for
him"—"It is better not to appear to endorse the
negro luncheon too vigorously, for the negro in the
South does not count any more and some of the tenderfoot
white recruits might desert."  The explanations
did appear to explain it; but Mr. Phillips knew that
Money and the Machine were taking his Southern
delegates from him.

And the Southern delegates were not the only ones
that were going wrong.  The Trusts and the Grafters
were throwing Northern and Western delegations
into confusion.  Beyond that, the Southern country
was somewhat surprised to hear that a negro son-in-law
to the Presidency was a little too strong even for
Northern stomachs, and that some Northern white
folks were making bold to say so.

Hayward Graham's commission?  The opposition
in the Senate did not have the slightest difficulty in
holding it up.  Mr. Phillips with unflinching courage
unhesitatingly used every whit of his power and
influence to have that commission confirmed.  He had
nominated Hayward because he believed him worthy;
and he said to the Senators with a touch of humour,
but with much emphasis nevertheless, that being his
son-in-law ought not to be held to the negro's
discredit.  He said many other things, for he was really
very much in earnest: but the Senate was non-committal.
It postponed consideration of Mr. Hayward
Graham for days, and weeks, and finally adjourned
without a vote upon him.  That ended it....  With
a show of grim determination the President stated
that he would send the nomination to the next session,
but he knew when he said it that Helen's husband
would never be a lieutenant of cavalry in the United
States Army.

Let it not be inferred that, as the matter is thus
dismissed briefly here, there was little or no discussion
of it.  This entire volume would not compass a tenth
of what was said about it, and the reader who cares
for details must seek the files of the newspapers of
the period.  There is not space here even for a digest
of all that talk.

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Mr. Phillips could ill brook defeat.  In his thinking
there were few things worse than failure.  So it was
that, while in the desperate fight he was making he
did nothing unconscionable, he did stand for some
things nauseating to him.

It was necessary that in the North he hold the full
negro vote, which was the balance of power in several
States.  It certainly looked an easy thing to do.  And
it was easy—to everybody concerned except
Mr. Phillips.  The negro race rallied to him with an
enthusiasm that was surpassing even for those emotional
folk.  The overflowing, smothering approbation which
they heaped upon him was loud-mouthed, unceasing,
extravagant.  Yet it took all his self-control to receive
it with any show of satisfaction.  In fact on several
occasions he was almost goaded to break with his
negro allies for good and all.  In some of those
moments he easily could have done so—as far as
personal reasons held him.  The personal pride in being
decorated with a second term was not always a match
or antidote for his personal humiliation and suffering
under the mouthings and love-makings of the admiring
black men.  But a rupture, and a declaration of his
real sentiments, meant not alone his defeat: it meant
the success of the enemies of honest government: it
meant that, his tongue once unloosed, Helen must
know—and her heart would break.  So he held his
peace, and let the negroes say on with their fulsome
friendlinesses.

And what he bore as he kept the faith!  It tore his
nerves to tatters.  One incident as an example:

He was invited to address a convention of the
Afro-American Association, which was holding its biennial
meeting in Washington in May.  He accepted the
invitation with very great pleasure.  It gave him the
opportunity he desired.  The negroes had been talking
to him or at him for months: and he had somewhat
to say to them.  He welcomed the chance to say it.
He was full of his speech, and was intending to be
very emphatic.  It was *his* day to talk.

But the distinguished chairman of the convention
who introduced him thought that it was *his* day to
talk.  He presented Mr. Phillips in fifteen minutes of
perfervid oratory, sonorous, unctuous, and filled with
African imagery.  He recited a brief history of the
President's life, lauded him as Civilian, Soldier, and
Chief Executive, credited to him about every good
thing that had come to the human race since he was
inducted into office, and crowned him as the negro's
Friend, Champion and Hope.  He detailed the
evidence of Mr. Phillips' love for the negro race, and
hailed him as the true and great Exemplar of the
Genuine Brotherhood of Man.

"Yes, my Brothers," the orator-chairman swept
volubly to his conclusion, "this great man who holds
the Stars of Our Flag in his right hand and in his
left hand the Golden Sceptre of Supreme Authority
and Power in this Peerless Nation has proved
himself beyond any Question or Peradventure the very
Apostle and Archetype of Equality and Fraternity in
this land of theoretical Freedom and Equal Rights.
In each of the three great departments of our life he
has practised that Equality and Fraternity.  In the
civil administration of this Great Government he has
called to his assistance black men of Mighty
Brain-Power to advise with him about his policies of
Statecraft and they have spoken Words of Wisdom to him.
In the military department he has appointed to an
officer's commission under the Stars and Stripes a
brave young negro, a Gentleman, a Scholar, a Soldier,
who will reflect Honour upon the Star-Spangled
Banner and show the world that the Negro is a Patriot
and a Fighter.  And more than that, my Brothers!
As the crowning act of his Fearless Career the
Honourable and Honoured Gentleman who will address
you has openly recognized the negro's rightful place
in the Homes of this Country, for he has admitted the
race as an Equal into the Holy of Holies of his own
domestic life, and furnished supreme and convincing
proof of his love for black men by freely giving his
tender and gentle daughter, the Fairest among Ten
Thousand and the One Altogether Lovely, over into
the arms and affections of that same young Negro
Soldier!  Connubial Bliss knows no Colour Line, my
Brothers!  May the union be blessed with—"

But fifteen hundred lusty black throats, not able
longer to choke down their cheers, were wildly,
exultingly screaming "Phillips!  Phillips!!
Phillips!!!"  The chairman said a few more words in pantomime
and gave Mr. Phillips the right to speak.

Mr. Phillips was very slow in coming to his feet.
The speech that he had purposed to make was gone—all
gone.  The chairman's last words like a chemical
reagent, had turned his every though to vitriol, and
he was all afire with the impulse to pour it burning
and blistering down their open throats.

He stood impassive with tight-shut lips while they
cheered and cheered and cheered.  In the fires that
scorched his spirit, personal and political ambition
shrivelled into a cinder and was entirely consumed.
A second term—the honour, the approval, the
country's weal—might sink into the Pit rather than that
he would blacken his soul even by tacit assent to such
a monstrous, awful lie!  Given Helen freely to a
negro's arms!—he would blast that lie with—

But Helen! in the tumult he thought of *her*.  And
the tenderness of his love for her made him to tremble.
In a moment a war was on within him, and the struggle
between his pride and his love shook him as with
an ague.

But he knew the end from the beginning.  As the
cheering died away Helen dominated his thoughts as
she dominated his heart,—and he did make a speech
to the convention.  It was not a forcible speech nor
a very long speech, for a man cannot think about one
thing and discourse very effectively about another.
It was on the order of a prayer-meeting talk,
consisting mainly of platitudes and good advice.  When it
was finished he went directly home and lay down on
a couch to rest, for he was tired, mortally tired.

From that day forth Mr. Phillips was in terror of
his negro allies.  He made no other addresses to them.
But he could not escape them.  The negro papers
called on the race to rally to the Phillips standard.
This the joyful blacks construed to mean that they
must form themselves in squads and go over to Washington
and tell Mr. Phillips about it personally.  Many
were the delegations from political clubs and orders
and associations of all black sorts that called to pay
their respects and assure the President of their loyal
support and good wishes; and despite all his
forehandedness and precautions it was a very dull day
when he was not openly hailed as a brother to the
race by virtue of the affinity in Helen's choice of a
mate.  He was not permitted to forget Helen's plight
for an hour,—if he had chosen to forget.

Indeed, however, he had lost the zest of thinking
about anything else.  True, he fought his political
battle with energy to the finish, and gave it the best
thought his brain could furnish—but that was
because he was a born fighter and knew not how to be a
laggard: the burden of his voluntary, uncompelled
thinking was of Helen, and it grew larger and larger
upon his mind.  And the more he thought of her, the
more he would think of her: and the tragedy of her
mating loomed more darkly hopeless and appalling
before his face, until his days became one long prayer
for a miracle of deliverance.

In his meditations he suffered the tortures of a lost
soul.  He was too brave a man to shirk his accountability
for Helen's undoing.  In moments of solitude
when he was most racked with remorse and wildly
despairing he would cry out against the fatal
interpretation she had put upon his words and his
deeds—"I did not *mean* that, I did not mean *that*, oh my
daughter, my little girl, my little girl!"—but these
moments of self-excusing were only the wild cries of
unbearable agony.  In composed self-confession he
accused himself—with a bitterness that had in it the
bitterness of death—and in the genuineness of his
penitence he might have proclaimed his error and put
his countrymen on guard: if only *Helen must not know*!

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Summer was come and the convention was less than
two weeks away when Mr. Phillips' first political
lieutenant came back from a trip to New York with
the very definite news for his chief that even if at
that late day he would promise to be more considerate
of the business interests of the country the nomination
might yet be his.  Mr. Phillips promptly sent his
answer to the railroad president who had presumed
to speak for Business that he "would see the *business
interests* damned before he would make any such
promise." ...

Three days before the convention met, Mr. Phillips
received a letter written in pencil in a weak and
uncertain handwriting.

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"We have named the boy Hayne Phillips.  When
are you coming to see us?  Daddy dear, it tires me so
to write.  I love you.  HELEN."





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.. _`CHAPTER XXXVII`:

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   CHAPTER XXXVII

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The Mr. Phillips who on July the 3d, 191-,
alighted from the car at the little station that served
the Stag Inlet folks was a very different figure of a
man from the vigorous person who on a day in the
preceding October had taken the train there to go back
to his work in Washington.

There was now no spring in his step, no quickness
in his movement.  He was plainly fatigued and
preoccupied, and he was alone.  There was no member of
his family with him, nor any of them, except Hayward,
to meet him at the station.  A single secretary followed
him at some little distance as he walked down the
platform mechanically raising his hat and smiling at
the half score of persons who had stopped to see him
take his carriage.  He climbed up beside Hayward
into the single-seated affair the negro was driving,
nodded to the secretary to follow him in the formal
and stately victoria that was waiting, and with a
parting lift of his hat left the small crowd staring at him
as he drove away.

The onlookers commented, as onlookers will, upon
everything that struck their eyes in the simple
proceeding.  They wondered why he appeared so listless
and careworn.  They wondered why he crowded into
the narrow buggy instead of taking the roomy
carriage.  They wondered why none of his daughters
nor his wife accompanied him—why he looked just
a little bit carelessly dressed—and what had become
of his swinging, buoyant stride—and whether he was
altogether in good health and—well, they left no
question unasked, no surmise unturned.

Mr. Phillips had very little to say to Hayward
during the drive to Hill-Top.  He really desired to say
nothing, but it was impossible to ignore all the
demands of gentlemanly politeness and interest in his
son-in-law's family.

"How is Helen?" he asked after a long while.

"Not so very well yet, sir," answered Hayward.
"She doesn't seem to regain her strength very
rapidly."

A very much longer silence.

"And the baby?"

"The finest boy in the world, sir—you ought to
see him—strong and healthy, with lungs like a steam
piano."

Mr. Phillips made no comment.  Hayward looked
round at him.

"He's not very pretty, sir—no really young baby
is, I'm told—but the nurse says it's unusual the way
he notices things already.  I know all new fathers are
said to talk like that about the first baby, but really I
think he must be an exception, sir.  I think he'll be a
credit to his name—which is the most I could say
for him."

Mr. Phillips acknowledged the compliment by
nothing further than a lifting of his chin—-which
Hayward had no means of interpreting.  Having
exhausted the subject and not being encouraged to
proceed, the young father became silent—and Mr. Phillips
was glad.  He had not chosen to ride with Hayward
for the pleasure of his conversation, but for the
benefit of the onlookers at the railway station; and,
having asked the questions absolutely demanded by the
occasion, he did no more.

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Mr. Phillips waited in the library till he should be
told that his daughter and grandson were ready to
receive him.  Not in the lull before the battle of
Valencia did he so prepare himself for a trial of his
nerves and his courage.  His courage was of the same
old sort, but his nerves were sadly shaken by the
cumulative happenings of the last half year; and with
Helen's happiness as the ruling purpose of his life he
felt almost afraid to trust himself before her eyes in
the ordeal through which he must pass.  Perhaps she
might still be unable to read his dissembling.  God
save them both if she should read him truly.

The nurse came in to tell him that Mrs. Graham
was waiting to see him.  Hayward had intended to
witness that meeting, but there was something in the
father's manner as he passed him in the hall which
caused him to forego his purpose.  Mr. Phillips
followed the nurse into the darkened room.  Helen half
rose to a sitting posture and clasped her white arms
about his neck and sobbed in nervous joy.

"Oh, daddy, you have come!" she said brokenly—and
for a long time neither spoke....  "I
thought you would never come!  I have wanted to see
you so.  I've been so lonely, daddy.  Where are
mamma and Elise that they have deserted me?"

Mr. Phillips as he bent down over her almost lifted
her out of bed in the force and tenderness of his
embrace.  The pitiful little cry of loneliness almost
tore his heart-strings out of him.

"Your mother has not been strong enough to come,
precious heart, and Elise has to stay at her side to care
for her.  When Dr. Hamilton prescribed Virginia
Springs for her in April he thought that two months of
rest would restore her to strength.  Last winter was
a very trying season, and your mother was more
broken than usual by its burdens.  The doctor tells me
that she is recuperating very slowly, almost too
slowly, but that rest and absolute quiet and freedom
from excitement is the only thing that will cure her.
I saw them a week ago to-day—I wrote you—and
they sent their love to you.  They hope to see you
before very long."

"Elise might have come, papa.  She has written to
me quite regularly—but she might have come if only
for two or three days—so that I could see some of
you"—and her mouth quivered into another muffled sob.

"No, no, child, she could not leave her mother—you
cannot imagine how near your mother has been
to collapse—they would not write you for fear that
you would worry too much about it—and she is still
very weak—nothing seems to benefit her much—the
doctor can hardly find the cause of her continued
weakness—and perfect rest is the only thing that can
help her back to health.  So Elise must be there to
relieve her from every exertion and effort and be a
companion to her, for my visits are necessarily brief.
They love you, little girl, as always—though they
haven't been permitted to be with you.  Katherine is
too young to have come, of course, and she would have
been more of a care than a comfort, anyway."

"Oh, yes, she's young, but she would have been
*somebody*.  The last month has been the *longest*
month, daddy, that I ever lived in all my life—"

"Well, well, little girl," the father said soothingly
as he smoothed the hair on her temple, "don't cry any
more.  The waiting is over now and we won't be away
from you so long again.  I could not get away from
Washington a day earlier.  I have been very busy,
you know—doubly busy with the official work and
the political campaign too."

"Oh, yes, daddy, I want to ask you.  Are you
going to get the renomination?"  There was an excitement
in Helen's question that her father saw was unusual
for her, with all her characteristic interest in his
political fortunes.

"Why child, I—I think so.  We'll know certainly
in a very short time now.  The convention is in session
and they will have the first ballot to-morrow, I
think."

"But do you really think you will win, daddy?  Is
there no danger of losing?"

"I really think I'll win, little woman; but you
know politics is a most uncertain thing."

"Then you do think there is some danger!  Oh,
daddy, is what I've done going to hurt you?"  There
was distress in her accents.

"What *you've* done?"

"Yes, daddy.  It never occurred to me till yesterday.
I've seen very little of the papers since we've
been up here, but none of them had ever mentioned
such a thing—until last night in the very first one
the nurse would let me look at even for a minute it
said that 'just how many or just how few votes the
President will lose in the convention because of his
daughter's having married a negro it is impossible at
this time to forecast.  Southern delegations this year
are unusually uncertain quantities.'  It said just that,
daddy—and oh, I'm so sorry if—"

"Oh, no—no—child.  You haven't hurt me, my
chance of renomination, in the least.  The idea is
ridiculous.  Haven't you learned by this time that
the papers will say anything?  They must say
something, you know; and when they haven't anything
sensible to say they are compelled to say things that
are absurd.  Suppose the Southern delegates are
uncertain.  They always have been, except when the
machine had them tied hard and fast.  Don't distress
your heart about political rumours, little girl.  I'll win
all right.  I've never failed in my life."

"Oh, I'm so glad if it is false, daddy.  It would
break my heart if I thought I had done anything to
defeat you.  I wish there were no Southern delegates—and
no Southern people, with their bigoted notions!"

"You are forgetting, little woman, that your
grandmother was a South Carolinian—and the dearest,
gentlest soul!  If she could have lived to know you
she would have loved you more than any other girl
in all the world, I think.  And you would have loved
her, Helen....  Don't quarrel with the Southern
people.  Their ideas about the—about the negro are
in the blood, and cannot be eradicated in two or three
generations."

Helen began to speak and turned her face casually
toward the baby lying tucked in on the far side of the
bed—when her father snatched the conversation
suddenly from her and, taking it thoroughly in hand,
gave her little time except to listen.

The blow had fallen!  And with all his preparation
he was unprepared!  Helen was confused and
bewildered by the incoherency of his talk, by his
hurried, disjointed speeches, by his half-made questions.
He was making a blind effort to put off and push back
the inevitable.  His eyes had grown accustomed to the
subdued light of the room and as his vision became
clear his heart almost ceased to beat.  The baby!  In
that half light was revealed the darkness of the little
fellow's face!—many, many shades darker than the
face of Hayward Graham: and the spectral fear that
had been with Mr. Phillips at noonday, at morning,
at evening, at all the midnights through the last
months, was now a real, weakening, flesh-and-blood
terror.

With a hope that was faltering indeed had he
prayed for the miracle that might deliver Helen
entirely from the consequences of her thoughtless folly,
but with all his faith had he besought a merciful
Heaven that the child which would come to her should
not fall below a fair average of its parental graces.
Even that were a torture, that were horrible enough:
that Helen's gentle blood should be *evenly* mixed and
tainted with a baser sort.  But this recession below the
father's type!—this resurgence of the negro blood,
with its "vile unknown ancestral impulses!"—there
came to him an almost overpowering desire, such as
had come of late with increasing frequency but never
with such physical weakness as now: the desire to lie
down at full length and to rest.

As he talked volubly and scatteringly to Helen,
his shaking soul cried against fate.  Why should
Nature have chosen his Helen, the very flower of his
heart, as a subject upon which to demonstrate her
eccentric laws!  Why, oh—but he must keep his
tongue going to distract Helen from his distress—why,
oh, why should atavism have thought to play its
tricks and assert its prerogative here!  Were there not
enough other mongrel children in all the earth through
whom heredity could establish her heartless caprices
without the sacrifice of Helen and of Helen's baby!
Oh, the sarcasm of pitiless Chance, that the most dear,
the *very* highest, should be sacrificed to establish the
law of the Persistence of the Lowest in the blood of
men!  Surely, in *this* lesson, that law had been taught
at an awful cost: and, as if to show that it had been
taught beyond cavil, there was poked out from under
the white coverlet a tight-shut baby fist that was
almost black.

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All things human must have an end,—and Mr. Phillips'
subterfuge was very human.  His expedients
finally failed, he had not a word more to say: and yet
he was no nearer being prepared for the inevitable
than before.  The supreme test was come, and his
spirit cowered before it.  For the first time in his life
he greeted flight as a deliverer, and decided to run
away from danger.

"Well, little woman, I must go and rid myself of
the dust of travel;" and he was half way to the door
when Helen's weak voice arrested him.

"Are you not going to notice the baby, daddy?"

The pathos in that trembling question would have
called him to go against all the Furies.  Turning, he
hesitated an instant, of which the double would have
been fatal: but he saved the moment from disaster.

"Dear me, I was about forgetting the youngster."

He walked quickly around the bed and sat down
beside the boy.  Pulling the covering a little away, he
took the tiny hand in his, and grandfather and grandson
looked for the first time each into the face of the
other.

It was a negro baby: the colour that was of
Ethiopia, the unmistakable nose, the hair that curled
so tightly, the lips that were African, the large whites
of the eyes.  Verily a negro baby: and yet in an
indefinable way a likeness to Helen, a caricature of
Helen, a horrible travesty of Helen's features in
combination with—with whose?  Not Hayward Graham's.
But whose, then?  Helen's and whose? ... Mr. Phillips
could not answer his own question—he
had never seen Guinea Gumbo.

In a moment the smaller hand closed over the man's
finger as if in approval; but the man straightened up
as if to get a freer breath, and glanced involuntarily
at the pale mother.  Her eyes were painfully intent
upon him.  Driving himself, he turned.  Murmuring
a nursery commonplace, he leaned over and kissed the
little darkey as tenderly as he might.

There was no escape from Helen's eyes.  He prayed
that she had not seen that his were shut when he
kissed her son—it was his only concession to himself.

With another pat or two of the small fist he stood
up by the bedside, bracing his knees against the rail
that he might stand steadily.  The fever was not yet
gone from Helen's eyes.  She had smiled when he
caressed the boy, but she was yet expectant.  On her
father's verdict hung all her hopes, and his face for
once in her life she was unable to read.  She was
vaguely uneasy.  His manner was inscrutable, and
she had never seen him look just like that.  Their
eyes met, and the unconscious pleading in hers would
have wrung any verdict from him.

"He's a fine boy, isn't he, little woman? ... So
strong and healthy looking....  Shakes hands as if
he meant it....  And he looks somewhat like you,
missy.  That will be the making of him....  But I
must go now,"—and he went rather precipitately.

"And will you hurry back to us, daddy?" Helen
called to him.

"Yes, child; I'll hurry back," he answered,—as
he hurried away.

His secretary handed him a telegram.  He took the
yellow envelope and, without so much as glancing at
it, went into the library and shut the door.

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Very late in the afternoon the library door was
opened, without invitation from within.  Mr. Phillips
was sitting in a chair with his arms upon his desk and
his face upon his arm—dead.

.. _`"HIS ARMS UPON HIS DESK AND HIS FACE UPON HIS ARM—DEAD"`:

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   :alt: "HIS ARMS UPON HIS DESK AND HIS FACE UPON HIS ARM—DEAD."

   "HIS ARMS UPON HIS DESK AND HIS FACE UPON HIS ARM—DEAD."





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.. _`CHAPTER XXXVIII`:

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   CHAPTER XXXVIII

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Again, and of necessity, is the reader cited to the
newspapers of the time.

It is not meet that the passing of a chief magistrate
of this nation should be passed over quickly or lightly
in any history.  The people stopped to mourn, to cast
up his life in total, and pay respect to its multiplied
excellences, to study his virtues as if in hope to
reincarnate them, and to glory in his life as a common
possession of his country.  And yet this narrative may
not pause to pay befitting tribute to him, nor to detail
the tides of grief that swept the hearts of his
countrymen with his outgoing, or the stateliness and grandeur
of the ceremonies with which they committed his body
to the ground.  We may not here give the comprehensive
view, for our canvas is not broad enough.
Let it be said only that he died as he had lived: a
gentleman brave and tender,—honest to his undoing,
but dead without having known defeat,—faithful to
his love for Helen even to the death, yet making no
plaint against love.

The physicians ascribed the President's death to
heart failure,—which meant little more than that he
was dead.  They ventured to say that the heart failure
had been superinduced by overwork.  This verdict
doubtless would have stood if a newspaper man the
first at Hill-Top had not chanced to hear of a telegram.

The telegram could not be found although the
secretary searched diligently for it.  The energetic
reporter conceived that that statement was a subterfuge
which in some way betokened a lack of confidence in
his discretion, and, besides, it smacked of mystery for
a telegram to evaporate into thin air in a dead man's
hand.  Put on his mettle thus, he made it his business
to know what was in that telegram.  Being an old
telegraph man himself, he hied him down to the
station and made himself pleasant and useful to the
youngish man in charge.

President Phillips had intended to await the
decision of the convention in Washington, and all
telegraphic arrangements for convention bulletins had
been made accordingly.  At the last moment Helen's
trembling little letter had changed his purpose, and he
had slipped quietly off to Hill-Top, notifying only
Mr. Mackenzie how to communicate with him directly.

The moment the President's death had flashed upon
the wires, the capacity of the little Stag Inlet office
became sadly overtaxed.  The perspiring and flustered
operator was very grateful for the assistance of the
kindly newspaper man who modestly proffered his
help in getting the deluge of messages speedily copied,
enveloped, addressed and dispatched.  Once having
his hand on the copy-file it was an easy thing for the
good Samaritan to get the full text of the last message
that had gone to Hill-Top.

He could not decide whether it was so very valuable
now that Mr. Phillips was dead; but he sent it to his
paper along with his other stuff, riding a dozen miles
in a midnight search for an open telegraph key.
Much pride he had in his achievement when he added
to his news report a statement to his managing editor
that the text of the telegram was a "beat" for his
paper and might be displayed as "exclusive."  But
his feelings were very much hurt next day that they
should have published his find under a Chicago
dateline and robbed him of his glory.

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   THE PRESIDENT DIES OF A BROKEN HEART

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   He Takes the Telegram which Tells of
   Defeat and Is Seen No More Alive

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Chicago, July 3d—After a conference of the
leaders of the Phillips cohorts this afternoon the
following telegram was sent to the President at Stag
Inlet: "We are moving heaven and earth; but the
forces of evil are too many for us.  First ballot
to-morrow."

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The news column was after that fashion.  The
leading editorial was a scream under the caption, "The
Trusts Have Murdered Him!"

Mr. Mackenzie, who had sent the telegram, was
mortally angry that the odium of actual defeat from
which death had relieved his friend should have been
fixed thus upon his memory.  He was offended almost
beyond endurance with his confidential clerk despite
that young man's violent disclaimer of responsibility
for the leak; but he was most enraged at the diabolical
discretion of the managing editor of *The Yellow*
in omitting the name of the sender of the telegram:
which would necessitate that he admit having sent it
before he could demand to know whence the paper
had knowledge of it.

The convention took a recess for ten days, and,
upon reassembling after Mr. Phillips' burial, passed
by a unanimous vote a set of resolutions that lifted
him to the stars and gave him place among the gods.
Then it set out upon a long round of balloting; and
without being altogether conscious of the reasons and
causes impelling, it finally nominated a "safe" man
for President.

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Helen could not attend her father's funeral.
Pitifully weakened by the awful shock of his sudden
passing, she cried out with all her remaining strength to
be carried in to look upon his face in death.  Her
physician's consent after long refusal was due to his
kindliness of heart, and the result vindicated his
professional judgment, in that it came frightfully near to
taking her life.

In utter desolation of spirit was she left when they
had taken the great man out of the house upon his
stately procession to Washington and the grave.  Her
husband was unfailing in devoted and anxious attendance,
but she was listless to his tenderest efforts to
console her.  Elise's letters, coming now every day
from the bedside of the prostrated mother, Helen read
faithfully to the last word, and really tried to take
comfort and courage from them, but they could not
get down, it seemed, to touch and dissolve the cold
mists of desolation in the deeps of her heart.  Her
father, the stay and fixative of her life, was gone:
and there was nothing now to give her footing upon
the earth.  No one to interpret life, to give meaning
to life, to give purpose to life, to give value to life.
The days might as well move backward as forward.
They appeared not to be moving at all.  There was
no one to give them direction.  He toward whom or
from whom or about whom the days had always
turned as a sort of first cause or incarnation of the
reason and sense of things, was gone: and she was
in chaos.

With her weakness of body, her mental processes
were weak, and her mind did not take vigorous hold
of things: but, confidently as it had followed her
father's sentimental speeches about the negro race
and loyally as she would defend and abide his words
and the consequences of them, she could not control
her thinking, even in its weakness, and put down the
thoughts which her every look upon her baby brought
to disturb her.  Very slowly the natural spring and
rebound of youth brought her out of her physical
relapse, and yet more slowly out of her mental
depression.  But, even as strength of body and mind
returned, there came more insistently the questioning
that could not be answered.

In her heart she had always glorified mother-love.
In the days and weeks before the baby's coming she
had revelled in the dreams of motherhood, and her
heart had been overcharged with love and visions of it.

But this little fellow was not the baby of her
dreams.  Never in all the hundred varied pictures her
heart had painted had there been a child like him.
He was not of her mind, surely; and vaguely uneasy
and distressed was she that he was not of her kind.
Nervously she swung between the moments when
pent-up mother-love swept away all questions and
poured itself out upon her little son in fullness of
tenderness, and the other moments of revulsion when
she could not coerce her rebellious spirit.

Feverishly in the doubting moments would she
repeat over and over her father's brief words of
assurance.  Hungrily had she awaited them before he had
come to look upon the boy, greedily had she seized
upon them when he had pronounced a favourable
judgment, and longingly she wished now that he
could come back to reinforce them and reassure her
faint confidence that all was well.  Not finding a
sufficient volume of testimony in the few words he
had spoken in that last interview, she supplemented
them with all she could recall of everything she had
ever heard him say about the excellence of the negro
race, and added to that all the nurse had to say of the
proverbial uncomeliness and possibilities of phenomenal
"come out" in very young babies: and for days
her pitiful daily mental task was to lie with closed eyes
and interminably to construct and reconstruct of these
things an argument to prop up her ever-wavering
faith.

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Hayward Graham was a man of too much intelligence
not to see the uncertainty of his wife's attitude
toward the boy.  He was of too much white blood in
his own veins not to have suffered measurably the
same torments because of the baby's recession in type.
What Mr. Phillips had said of it, he did not know,
and dared not ask Helen.  In all kindliness of purpose
he encouraged her to believe *The Yellow's* theory that
her father's heart had broken under defeat.  He did
not know that she was agonizingly fearful of having
contributed to that defeat.

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Helen was rummaging through her father's desk
in the library.  With the first escape from the
prison-house of her bedroom, her feet had turned
instinctively toward the workshop which had been the scene
of Mr. Phillips' labours at Hill-Top, and the scene
also of much that had been joyous in her association
with him.  But even as she idly tumbled the odds and
ends of papers about—in solemn and fascinated
inspection, for that they seemed in a way to breathe his
spirit and to invoke his presence—the undercurrent
of her mind was busy as ever with its never-ending
task.

She turned up a small package of notes marked
"Cincinnati speech," and examined them absent-mindedly;
but found nothing that caught her interest.
Tossing them back in the desk, she picked up a letter
addressed to her father in her own hand.  She
recognized a rambling and rollicking message she had sent
to him more than a year before.  From the
appearance of the envelope she judged that he must have
carried it in his pocket awhile.  She had a little cry
when she came to the characteristic closing sentence:
"Daddy, I want to see you so bad."  That had been
a simple message of love.  Now it was the cry of her
heart's loneliness and need.

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Dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief, she
pulled out from the bottom of the drawer an unbound
section of the *Congressional Record*, from which
protruded a slip of paper.  Opening it at this marker, she
saw a blue pencil-mark which indicated the beginning
of a speech before the Senate by Mr. Rutledge.
Half-way down the second column her father had made the
marginal comment "good."  Further along was a
blue cross without explanatory note.  Still further,
"very good."  With such commendations in her
father's own words she began to read what Mr. Rutledge
had to say....  For a short space she noticed
her father's occasional marginal notes, favourable or
critical, and the more frequent non-committal blue
cross.  It appeared that he had contemplated preparing
an answer of some sort.  Very soon Helen became
so interested that she saw only the text.

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With faster beating heart and breath that came
more irregularly she was drawn irresistibly along.
It was an answer to her soul's cry for a word; and
whether true or false, welcome or unwelcome, she
could not but listen to that answer with quickening
pulse as it ran hurriedly under her eyes.  Long before
she reached the end her anger was ablaze and her fears
a-tremble, but she could not throw the speech from her
unfinished.  Almost in a frenzy of excitement and
resentment she rushed along to the very last word:
and with a gasping cry of horror and wrath grabbed
at the desk-drawer with the intention to hurl the
pamphlet viciously back into it.  She caught the slide
instead, and pulled that out with a jerk.  Lying on
the slide was a telegraph envelope which her violence
threw on the floor.  With another impatient trial she
slammed the pamphlet into the drawer, and mechanically
picked up the telegram.

It was addressed to "The President, Hill-Top."  Turning
it over to take out the message, she found it
sealed.  Instinctively she hesitated a moment, long
enough for the question to come, "Why is it
unopened?"  Then she tore the end off the envelope.

The message read, "We are moving heaven and
earth but the forces of evil are too many for us.  First
ballot to-morrow," and was signed by Mr. Mackenzie.

She read it over and over, stupidly at first, for her
mind was excited by other things.  Then the meaning
of it began to be appreciated, and her heart sank.
Confirmation of the newspaper story!  The telegram
*had* been sent!  And her father *had* been defeated,
and death alone had saved him from the damning
ballot!  Defeated, yes, really defeated!—and she had
contributed, if only a mite, to that defeat which broke
his heart!  Guilty—*guilty*!  She bowed her head in
grief and agonized self-condemnation....

But no:—she started up—the telegram!  He had
not read it!  Had he read it?—she caught up the
envelope and examined it feverishly....  It could
not have been opened—it had not been opened!  He
had not read it—he did not know!  He had not
known of his defeat—he had not died of his defeat—and
she had not helped to send him to his death!
Oh the joy of this acquittal!—and she held the
envelope as one under sentence might clasp a reprieve,
and almost caressed it as she made sure of its
testimony in her behalf.

When she had assured herself that the envelope had
not been opened, the burden upon her heart would
have been lifted entirely if the telegram had not
confirmed the fact of his defeat.  He had not died because
of defeat, and she was acquitted therefore of his death,
yet she was acutely sensible of the fact that he had
gone to his grave in the shadow of defeat, and that
death alone had saved him from the shameful actuality.

This was gall and wormwood to her, for his name
could never be flung free of that shadow.  The very
time and manner of his going-out had fixed failure
eternally upon him.  Oh why, her heart cried, could
he not have died before or lived beyond it?  Why had
he died *then*?  Mr. Mackenzie might have been
mistaken, or the sentiment might have changed with the
balloting, victory have come out of defeat and his
fame have been without a cloud upon it.  Oh, why
had he not lived?—lived to outlive that one
reverse—lived to overwhelm his enemies in another trial,
lived to put those hateful Southern delegates again
under heel?  Why had he died so inopportunely? ... Why
had he died at all? ... *Why had he died*? ... How
could death have taken him so quickly and
so unawares?  He had gone briskly out of her room
with the promise on his lips to hurry back.  He had
kissed the baby and said it looked like her....  Yes,
said it looked like her—the baby—

Hurriedly she snatched the *Congressional Record*
out of the drawer into which she had angrily flung
it!  Breathlessly she turned the pages to see what
comment he had made upon that last part of
Rutledge's speech.

Mr. Phillips had put but one marginal note against
all that fearful presentation.  Opposite the words,
"when the blood of your daughter ... is mixed with
that of one of this race, however 'risen,' redolent of
newly applied polish," etc., Helen saw the single
written word, "unthinkable."

Unthinkable!  Quickly she searched again that
portion of the speech that had given supreme
offence—and found nothing.  Nothing beside the word
"unthinkable."  No denial had her father entered that
"vile unknown ancestral impulses, the untamed
passions of a barbarous blood would be planted in the
Anglo-Saxon's very heart" by such unions as hers.
No hint of his thought as to a "mongrel progeny."  No
answer to the question, "How shall sickly
sentimentalities solace your shame if in the blood of your
mulatto grandchild the vigorous red jungle corpuscles
of some savage ancestor shall overmatch your more
gentle endowment...?"  A free expression,
critical or approving, of the first half of the speech; but
silence, an awful silence, when it comes to this part
so pertinent to her situation.  Silence!—*for the
reason* that her situation is UNTHINKABLE!

In an illuminating flash she sees the Truth—sees
all the minute incidents of the past months, the looks,
the gestures, the things unsaid, which, unnoted by her
at the time, were yet registered in her subconsciousness,
and which make so plain, now that she reads
them aright, all her father's thoughts and sufferings
and sacrifice from the moment when he had cried,
"But a *negro*, Helen!  How could you!" until the
time he had rushed away after kissing her negro
baby—rushed away to die! .... She knew! ... *Despoiled
herself!—polluted her blood beyond cleansing!—brought
to life a mongrel fright, and brought
to death her father!*—with a scream of horror she
staggered to her feet....  At the door she met the
nurse, who was hurrying to her, still holding in her
arms the baby whom she had not tarried to put down.

"Take it away!  *Take it away*!" shrieked Helen,
pushing it from her so violently as to hurl it from the
nurse's arms, and staggered on through the hall, out
the door, and down the path toward the lake.





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.. _`CHAPTER XXXIX`:

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   CHAPTER XXXIX

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The candidates for the Senate were come to
Spartanburg in their canvass of the State before the
primary election.  The campaign was about half finished
and had already reached the very personal stage of
discussion so dear and so interesting to the South
Carolina heart.  LaRoque, Rutledge, Preston and
Darlington were all out after Mr. Killam's scalp, and
that gentleman was making it sufficiently entertaining
for the four of them and for the crowds who flocked
to hear.

Major Darlington and "Judge" Preston were
running each in the hope that "something might
happen:" Mr. Rutledge and Colonel LaRoque each in an
effort to poll the largest vote next to Mr. Killam and
thus be left to try conclusions alone with the old man
in a second primary—provided the four of them in
an unformulated coalition could keep the old man
from winning out of hand in the first trial.

At the hotels on the Saturday morning of the
Spartanburg meeting, each of the candidates was
surrounded by a coming and going crowd of his admirers
and supporters and persons curious to see what he
looked like.  Senator Killam, as by right, was the
centre of the largest interest.  Nearest about him were
his most trusted lieutenants in the county, who did not
come and go with the changing crowd but stood by
to whisper confidences to the Senator, to receive his
more intimate disclosures, and to present formally
sundry citizens who desired to shake the great man's
hand and be called by name.

A little further removed from the Senator's person
were the inevitable two or three of that super-admiring
yokel type which, too ignorant, unwashed and
boorish to stand in the Very Presence, is yet vastly
joyed to hang about, open-mouthed and open-eared,
in the immediate neighbourhood of greatness, in the
hope to be counted in among its *entourage*.  Still
further out the curious viewed "the old man" from
a respectful distance and commented upon him, freely
and respectfully or otherwise, as freeborn American
citizens are wont to do.  The while the crowd shifted
and eddied, came and went.  As about Senator
Killam, so in less degree moved the tides about the
other aspirants.

"Senator," asked one of the inner circle in a quiet
moment, "what do you think of our chances with the
national ticket?"

"Not so good as they'd have been with Phillips
against us," answered Mr. Killam.

"Oh, of course not," said the questioner, glad to
display his political wisdom, "I've told the boys all
along that we could have beaten Phillips with that
nigger son-in-law of his sure as shootin'."

"That's where you are mistaken," replied the Senator
oracularly.  "We might have beaten Phillips if
we had nominated a dyed-in-the-wool corporation
law-agent like they have now put up against us; but the
nigger son-in-law wouldn't have cut any ice.  I believe
at heart they don't like that any more than we do,
but if the Trusts would have permitted it they would
have put Phillips and his nigger back there just to
show us they could do it....  They've got a lot of
fool notions about 'justice to the nigger' that make
me sick....  Justice to the nigger is to make him
know his place and teach him to be happy in it; but
the Yankees haven't got the sense to see it.  Rutledge,
even, had a lot of that damn nonsense in his speech
on the Hare Bill.  Half of what he said was very
good, if he had only voted accordingly and left out all
that rot about educating the nigger....  How in the
devil he got his ideas I can't see.  He didn't inherit
'em, for his aristocratic old daddy thought it was a
dangerous thing to educate the lower classes of white
folks."

"You are not worrying yourself much about Rutledge
in this race, are you, Senator?"

"No, no, he'll never hear the gun fire.  Why man,
he's neither one thing nor the other.  Some of his
ideas about the nigger will make any *white* man mad,
and yet nobody ever did make a more forcible protest
against Phillips' nigger luncheon, nor paint a more
horrible picture of miscegenation....  Strange thing
about that, too,"—the Senator lowered his voice to
reach only the inmost circle, and the yokels almost
dislocated their necks in attempts to burglarize his
confidence—"do you know it was whispered that
Rutledge was engaged to Phillips' oldest daughter"—the
Senator's voice dropped still lower—"no doubt,
they say, that he is, or was, very much in love with
her."

The smaller circle exchanged glances of interest,
and a smile went round.

"Gosh, isn't that a situation!" said one of them.

"Yes, but don't mention it," Mr. Killam requested.

"Certainly not."

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"What was it he told 'em?" asked one of the
unwashed of his more fortunately placed fellow.

"I didn't ketch it all," replied the other, proud
nevertheless to possess even a fragment of a state
secret.

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The crowd was far too large for the Spartanburg
court-house, so the public discussion was had under the
oaks of Burnett Park.  An improvised platform of
planks laid upon empty boxes lifted the candidates
high into view of the assembled Spartans, who stood
without thought of fatigue for six hours and listened
to the merry war of words, and encouraged,
interrogated, cheered and howled at the speakers in good
old primary campaign fashion.

The primary campaign is inherently prolific of heat
and hate: for the candidates, being agreed on political
principles, are driven perforce to the discussion of
personal records and foibles.  This campaign had
developed the most friction between Mr. LaRoque and
Mr. Killam, these two having been long in public life
and having accumulated the usual assorted odds and
ends of memories they would desire to forget.

In the very beginning of the canvass the Senator
and the Colonel had rushed through Touchstone's
category from the Retort Courteous to the Quip
Modest, the Reply Churlish, the Reproof Valiant, the
Countercheck Quarrelsome, the Lie with Circumstance,
and had pulled up on the very ragged edge of the Lie
Direct.  There they had hung for days, while an
appreciative public feigned to wait in breathless
suspense for the moment when the unequivocal words
"You are a liar" should precipitate a tragedy and the
coroner count one of the gentlemen out of the race.
At many of the meetings, the reports had it, were
the people "standing on the crust of a muttering
volcano," or in tense situations where "a single spark to
the powder" would have—played hell; and
especially at Gaffney on the preceding day, so the
newspapers said, was the feeling so bitter and the words
so caustic that partisans of Killam and LaRoque,
"desperate men who would shoot at the drop of a
hat, had stood with bated breath, hand on pistol,
imminently expectant of the fatal word that should cause
rivers of blood to flow."

Non-residents who occasionally read of the South
Carolina campaigns and have formed the idea that
they are things of blood, battle, murder and sudden
death, may be somewhat relieved and reassured to
learn that in the last thirty years not a single volcano
has erupted, not a powder-mine has exploded, not a
teaspoonful of blood have all the candidates together
shed—notwithstanding the fact that a fiery Lie
Direct has more than once been pitched sputtering hot
into the powder of these debates.  Let timid outsiders
not be too much overwrought, therefore, because of
these bated breaths and hands full of pistols,—it is
just a cute way the good South Carolinians have of
manifesting an interest in the proceedings.

The Spartanburg debate drew itself along after the
usual fashion.  There was plenty of noise, gesticulation
and heat, and the usual allotment of "critical
moments" when "tragedy was miraculously averted"
by the "marvelous self-control and cool head of the
Honourable" Thomas, Richard or Henry.

Senator Killam followed Colonel LaRoque, and
long before he had finished, the crust over the volcano
had been worn thinner than ever, the crowd was in a
tumult, and no man could have made an altogether
coherent speech to it.

The Senator had not referred to Rutledge in his
talk, but at the end of it, as Rutledge was to follow
him, he introduced him to the people as "my young
friend who believes it is possible for a negro to become
the equal of a white man."  It had been Mr. Killam's
studied practice to ignore Rutledge and treat his
candidacy as a harmless youthful caper, and he usually
referred to his former colleague briefly in the very
words in which he then presented him to the
assembled Spartans.

Mr. Killam's shrewd but unfair characterization of
him gave Rutledge a fine opening for a speech, but it
gave him no little trouble also, for the Senator always
appeared to make the statement casually with an air
that said it didn't make the slightest difference
anyway what the young Mr. Rutledge thought; and it
was a difficult thing for Rutledge to straighten the
matter out without magnifying the gravity of the
charge.

Rutledge was quite able to take care of himself in
any controversy where calm and intelligent reason
was the arbiter, but it requires a peculiar order of
ability to be master of such assemblies as was gathered
there.  While far from being a novice or a failure at
stump-speaking, Rutledge was not in Senator Killam's
class at that business.  He had not learned that,
whatever else it may be, and however much it may be such
incidentally, a stump-speech is not primarily an appeal
to reason.  He took too much pains to be perfectly
accurate, consistent and logical in all the details of his
argument.  He dealt too much in argument.  His
reasoning was excellent—as far as he was permitted to
deliver it; but many of his choicest webs of logic were
demolished half-spun by the irrelevant, irreverent,
impertinent questions yelled at him by the crowd.

It takes a shifty man to accept all these challenges
and turn them to his own account.  Rutledge was well
aware of that fact, but it was not for that reason
alone that he ignored them as far as possible.  He had
started out on the campaign with the high purpose
and resolve to pay his countrymen the compliment to
talk to them as to men who think, and he had held as
religiously to that ideal as his countrymen would permit.

Like the other three he was addressing himself
principally to the record and claims of Mr. Killam,
and the Killam partisans, already fomented by
LaRoque's speech, were in a ferment of disorder.  In
a perfect shower of interruptions Rutledge had held
his way unturned and apparently unnoticing when—

"You want to marry ol' Phillips' oldes' daughter,
don't yuh?" split the air like the crack of a bull-whip.

Rutledge, hand uplifted in the middle of a sentence,
stopped so quickly, so astonished, that he forgot to
lower his arm.

"Um-huh!  Thought that'd fetch yuh!  When're
yuh goin' to marry the nigger's sister?"

Before Rutledge could locate the disturber the
crowd was in an uproar.

"Kill him!"  "Kick him out!"  "Hit him in
the head with an axe!"—these were only a few of
the cries that tore themselves through the pandemonium.

Rutledge stood, pale with passion, while the
outburst spent itself.  It seemed a very long time.

"My fellow countrymen," he said, when his voice
could be heard—and at the sound of it the
assemblage became very quiet—"I will answer my
unknown and unseen questioner as though he were a man
and not a dog.  I have not the honour or the hope
to be engaged to Miss Phillips; but, if I had, I would
account myself most fortunate.  So much for the
question....  As for the man who asked it, we
certainly have come upon strange times in South Carolina,
my countrymen, if the names of women are to be
bandied in political debates.  It has not surprised me to
see you rebuke it.  By your quick indignation at such
an outrage you have spontaneously vindicated the
good name of your State.  The dog who made this
attack cannot be of South Carolina.  If born so he is
a degenerate hound.  You have no part with him:
and before you kick him out there is only left for
you to inquire whose collar he wears.  What master
has fed him and trained him and taught him this
trick, and secretly has set him on to make this attack?
That is the only question, my countrymen: *Whose
hound dog is this*?"

"Rutledge!  Rutledge!  Hurrah for Rutledge!"
"Kick him out!"  "Shoot the dog!"  "Tie a can
to his tail!"  "Who's lost a dog?"  "Hurrah for
Rutledge!"  Rutledge's supporters bestirred their
lungs to make the most of the situation.

"You go to hell!  Hurrah for Killam!"—the
defiant voice was the voice of the offender.

Senator Killam sprang to his feet with the bound
of a panther.

"Say, you!"—he leaned far over the edge of the
platform and shook his fist in a towering rage at his
admirer who now stood revealed—"I give you to
understand that I don't want the support of any such
damn scoundrel as you or any of your folks, you
infernal—" but bless you, though the Senator was
screaming his denunciation, the rest of it was lost to
history in the war of applause in which "Killam!"
and "Rutledge!" seemed to bear about equal weight.
The deafening crash of sound seemed to double when
Mr. Killam, ceasing his screaming pantomime, stepped
quickly over to Rutledge and extended his hand,
which Rutledge took and shook with warmth as the
old man spoke something that of course the crowd
could not hear.

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After the speaking was finished, Rutledge went
back to his hotel, and, taking from the clerk a bundle
of mail that had been forwarded to him, climbed up
to his room to look it over.

The third letter he opened was in a plain business
envelope with typewritten address.  He read:

"Unspeakably false?  No, no, Evans, I am not
false.  I have not been false: for I love you.  Such
a long time I have loved you.  Sometimes I have
believed you loved me, and sometimes I have doubted;
but I do not doubt since you told me to-night I was
unspeakably false.  Shame on you to swear at your
sweetheart so!—and bless you for saying it, for now
I know.  O why did you not say it earlier so that I
might not have misread you?  I thought you felt
yourself committed, and must go on: that your love
was dead, but honour held you.  You looked so
distressed, dear heart, that I was misled.  Forgive me.
And do not think I do not know your distress.  I,
too—but no, I must not.  I love you, I cannot do more.
In your rage were you conscious that your kiss fell
upon *my lips*, dearest?  Blind you were when you
said I was unspeakably false—"





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   CHAPTER XL

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Elise Phillips had not stirred from Virginia
Springs since coming there with her mother and two
little sisters early in April.  Her father had visited
them regularly each week-end except when imperative
official duties forbade, and had suggested at his almost
every coming that Elise take some little outing from
her mother's bedside.  Elise would not go.  She was
as constant in ministering to her mother as was the
nurse in charge.

Not even when her father died did she go to look
upon him in farewell, for she was momentarily
fearful lest her mother go away also for ever.  It was a
forced choice between the claims of the living and the
dead.  Her heart was torn with a distressing sense
of her father's loneliness in death—going to his
grave in state, thousands following his catafalque—and
yet not a single member of his family beside him:
her mother and Helen prostrated, Katherine and May
too very young, and she herself drawn on the rack of
a divided duty.

Her daily life had been secluded and monotonous,
except in the moments when her cumulating sorrows
were so poignant that they drove out monotony.  With
religious regularity and with tenderest love—as for
a wayward unfortunate child—she had written to
Helen at Hill-Top, and at the private hospital in which
she was now detained, until the physician in charge
had requested that she discontinue her letters except
at such times as he should advise.

Only in the last fortnight, since her mother was
beginning slowly to recover strength, had Elise given
the slightest heed to her physician's orders that she
herself take some appreciable outdoor exercise and
care of her health.  Few of the summer visitors
stopping at the one hotel of the quiet resort ever had a
glimpse of her, for the reason that the cottage taken
by Mrs. Phillips was quite removed and secluded.
The few friends who did see her remarked upon her
loss of flesh and added beauty.

Elise was never beautiful after an assertive,
flamboyant fashion, but was of that sublimated type of
loveliness that, stealing slowly and softly in upon the
senses, at last holds them rapt before the Rare Vision:
Woman in Excelsis.  Now, however, vigils and griefs
had touched her face and form with a spirituelle
quality not ordinarily possessed by them, and this ethereal
effect caught the eye more quickly, and revealed at
once the fine and exquisite modelling of her beauty.

She had seen and heard very little of Rutledge for
half a year.  During the remainder of the Washington
season after Helen's marriage was announced she
had bravely kept up appearances by missing none of
the functions and gayeties that had claim upon her
time and interest, and on one or two occasions had
been face to face with him and exchanged brief but
formal salutations.  Since she had been at Virginia
Springs an occasional brief press notice of the South
Carolina senatorial campaign was all the word she
had of him except a couple of lines in a letter from
Lola Hazard in May.

On the Sunday morning after the Spartanburg
meeting, at about the usual hour of eleven o'clock,
the boy brought the Washington papers.  As Elise
sat down in the shadow of the porch and unfolded
*The Post* she experienced the most acute sensations
of interest that had stirred her for months.  Over and
again she read that Mr. Rutledge had neither "the
honour nor the hope to be engaged to" her.

After the first surprise, came anger.  The publicity
was very offensive; and, beyond that, the denial itself
was to be resented.  As she understood it, no gentleman
has the right to deny an engagement to any *lady*—that
was the woman's privilege: and for the man's
denial to savour of meeting an accusation—unpardonable!

But he had said "the honour:" oh, yes, of course;
she admitted the word was all right, but at best it was
such a formal word: and it might have been sarcasm—she
could hardly imagine it other—for had he not
told her she was unspeakably false?  If she only could
have heard how he said it! ... "Nor the hope:"
worse still, he was trying to purge himself of the very
slightest mental taint of guilt.  It was an utter
repudiation of her—in the face of the mob, he had not even
*the hope*—very well, let it be so—doubtless his
political career and a South Carolina mob was what he
had in mind when he had said to her, "It is better
so." ... "Would account himself most fortunate:"
oh, certainly, Elise sneered, make a brave show of
gallantry, but be particular to have the mob
understand that you have *not even the hope* (by which it
will understand *desire*)—it will be better so, for the
politician....  Resentment possessed Elise.

This state of mind did abide with her—on through
luncheon, and after.  She thought of little else.

As evening approached she took Katherine and
May for a stroll.  Following the roadway some little
distance toward the hotel, the three turned into a
well-defined path leading up the hill that robbed the
cottagers of their sunsets.

With an open prospect toward the east, the Virginia
Springs folk might have all the glories of the
morning as the free gift of God; but to possess the
sunsets they must pay tribute of breath and strength
in a climb of what the low-country visitors called "the
mountain."  The long ridge was really not of montane
height, but was sufficiently uplifted to stay the
feet of all except such as "in the love of Nature hold
communion with her visible forms."

Once on top, however,—with its broad, open,
wind-swept reaches rolling down to the wide river
valley on the west and southwest, with a sweep of
vision over the lower hills and lowlands to the north,
east and south, and in the west across the river to the
far-lying mountains showing under the afternoon
sunlight only their smoky heads indistinct above the white
haze that veiled the foothills: one had measurably the
sensation of standing on top of the world....  The
climb was a favourite diversion of Elise, and the
red-splashed and golden sunsets and the sense of physical
and spiritual uplift, a passion with her.

Before they reached the summit on this summer
afternoon, the little May was sufficiently exercised,
and wished to return.  Permitting her and Katherine
to go back alone, Elise climbed on to the top of the hill.
and sitting down in her favourite seat, looked steadily
into the west—into the future—into her heart....
Pride is inherently not a bad thing.  Nor are its
works always evil.  Elise's pride in her love finally
rebelled against her evil thinking of her lover.  It
preferred to think good of him, and it began to construct
a defence of him....  First it set up that she had
refused him pointblank, had denied her own love, and
that after such a dismissal she certainly could demand
from him nothing in the way of loyalty.  Further,
before dismissing him she had led him on to hope, no
doubt about that; and in the light of her conduct his
denunciation was just: she had mocked him—he
was justified in thinking she was unspeakably false.
What right, then, had she now to demand of his love
that it should be loyal, that it should sacrifice his
political future, that it should confess to a hope,—or
even to a desire, if he had so meant it?  Her heart
admitted she was estopped....  Yet it could not be
content and dismiss the matter from her thinking....
Had he meant to deny desire in denying hope?
She asked herself the question....  Could one
negative hope without admitting desire? ... Is there not
desire in the dead as in the living hope?  Do not hope
and hopeless premise desire? ... Elise's mind was
wandering in the maze of the psychology of hope,
when she looked about to see coming up toward her
*the man*.

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Rutledge caught a train Washington bound in
thirty minutes after reading Elise's fragment of a
letter.  He sent a telegram to his campaign manager,
Robertson: "I am called north on business.  Will
miss Greenville meeting.  Represent me there.  It is
probable I can make Laurens meeting Tuesday."

The hurry of his departure over, he sat in the
Pullman and persuaded himself that he was undecided as
to what he should do and was giving a judicial
consideration to the advisability of marrying a woman
sister-in-law to a negro: but the while he thought he
was debating the matter Kale Lineberger was
whisking the New York and New Orleans Limited along
the curves of the Big Thicketty and across the bridges
of the Broad and the Catawba—speeding him on
toward the girl—as fast as an expert handling of
throttle, lever and "air" could turn the
driving-wheels of the mammoth "1231" and keep her feet
on the rails....

As Rutledge in the cool of Sunday morning stepped
from the rear sleeper, Jim McQueen climbed down
from the engine, oil-can in hand.

"Well," said Jim, taking a look at his watch,
"here's one Southern train under a Washington shed
on time,—if I do say it, as shouldn't." ... Rutledge
had not lost ten seconds in his coming to Elise.

Buying a copy of *The Mail* from a boy, he took a
cab to his lodgings.  From habit he looked first at the
editorials.  Turning then to the first page he saw
under a modest headline an accurate account of the
yesterday's episode at Spartanburg, and his statement
that he was not engaged to Miss Phillips.  He read
it over a second time.  Then, as if by the recurrence
of a lapsed instinct, unthinkingly he turned the leaves
and was reading an item on the "society page."

"Virginia Springs, Va.—Her physician states that
Mrs. Hayne Phillips is recovering very slowly from
the effects of the terrible shock caused by Mr. Phillips'
death, and will hardly be strong enough to be removed
to her home in Cleveland before the first of October."

Rutledge had been buried in South Carolina politics
for ten weeks and in that time had not seen the
Virginia Springs date-line sometime so familiar to him.
Of course, he thought, Elise is with her mother!  and
from the dating-stamp on that letter he had carelessly
assumed she was in Washington.  He turned back a
page and glanced hurriedly at a railroad time-card,
then at his watch.

"Here," he called sharply to the cabby, who jerked
up his horse, "you've but three minutes to get me
back to the station—get a move on!" ... Out of
the cab through the waiting-room and at the gate he
rushed.  The placid keeper barred the way.

"C. & O. west!" snapped Rutledge.

"Gone."  The gateman seemed to be thinking of
something else.

"How long since?"

"Half minute.  Lynchburg, yes, madam—third track."

"When's the next?" Rutledge demanded impatiently.

"Three-eighteen.  Don't block the way."

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Desiring to avoid interviews and interviewers,
Rutledge drove to his sleeping quarters and shut himself
in for the seven or eight hours wait.  His fever of
impatience had time to rise and fall many times
before the hour and minute of 3:18 came slowly and
grudgingly to pass.  He had so desired to tell Elise
that he had come without delay.

It was very late in the afternoon when he reached
the Virginia Springs hotel.  He was somewhat
undecided how to proceed: whether to ask Elise's
permission to call or to present himself unannounced,
whether to inquire of the clerk in the crowded lobby
the way to the Phillips' cottage or to acquire the
information more quietly.  He noted that not less than
half a dozen men within ear-shot of the clerk's desk
were at the moment reading various papers that had
Elise's name and his own in display type on their
front pages.

As he came down from his room after hurriedly
making himself presentable he met at the foot of the
stairs Mr. Sanders, the managing owner of *The Mail*.
He was surprised, but annoyed more than surprised—for
he must be deferential to his chief,—and
another precious half-hour was consumed in the effort
to pull himself away without giving offence.  His only
compensation for the delay was in learning casually
from Mr. Sanders where to seek the Phillips cottage.

Finally shaking himself loose, he set out with more
impatience than haste to find Elise.  When he had
gotten beyond the eyes of the people in the hotel he
put some little speed into his steps.  He was striding
along rapidly when just in front of him Katherine
and May Phillips came down out of the hill path into
the road.

"Isn't this Katherine Phillips?" he asked, overtaking them.

"Yes," said Katherine, looking doubtfully at him.

"Well," said Rutledge, hesitating a moment, "you
permitted me to shake hands with you once.  I'm
Mr. Rutledge.  Do you remember?"

"Yes," said Katherine, though with a shade of
uncertainty in her tone.

"That's good.  And who is this?"

"May," said Katherine.

"Why, certainly.  I might have guessed."  Rutledge
extended his hand and the little girl took it in
simple confidence.  "And where are you two little
ladies going, if I may ask?"

"Elise sent us home," said May, permitting him
still to hold her fingers.

"And where is she?"  Involuntarily Rutledge
almost came to a halt as he asked the question.

"Way up on the mountain."  May waved her small
arm indefinitely back the way they had come....
Rutledge's steps became slower and slower.

"Well, young ladies, I'm glad to have met you.  I
must be getting back.  I suppose you can get home
safe."

"Oh, yes," said Katherine.  "It's not far."

"So?  Well, good-bye."

"Good-bye," said the little girls.

Rutledge's steps quickened as he came to the path
and turned hurriedly up the hill.

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Your woman of the world is marvelous in her
self-possession.  In a moment of complete abandon to
thoughts of her love and her lover, Elise looked about
and saw the man coming to her.  With her mind so
intent upon him that she wavered for a moment in
doubt lest his appearing was an hallucination, her
manner of greeting him was the perfection of
indifferent politeness—neither warm nor frosty.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge.  What wind blows
you across the world to-day?"—she seemed to know
that he was just passing across the hill.

With her heart-revealing letter in his pocket—nay
more, committed every word to memory in his
heart—Rutledge was taken aback by the casual way in
which she spoke to him.  He knew, of course, that
she had not mailed him the letter and was not aware
that he had it; yet on the basis of the letter he had
conceived words he would say to her and she to him:
but not a word he had prepared was possible at the
moment.

"I am—I came—I have an appointment with
Mr. Sanders, the owner of *The Mail*—at the hotel—at
half past eight."  The appointment had been made
ten minutes ago.  It was the only wind he could think
of that was blowing him across the world.

The man's confusion and seriousness and conscientious
statement of detail ordinarily would have amused
Elise; but she had not for months been in a mood to
be amused.

A moment later Rutledge was laughing inwardly at
himself, his confusion gone, his self-possession
perfect.  His prosaic accounting for his presence
smothered the tiny romantic flame that had kindled in Elise's
bosom, and she in turn was taken aback: and the man
saw, and knew, and laughed unholily.  Not even the
most observing eye, fairly limited, would have
detected the effect upon her; but he had an unfair
advantage—for had he not her letter at that moment
snuggled up close to his heart?

His laugh was not out-breaking, but the girl saw
embarrassment drop as a cloak from his manner, and
a flicker of amusement in his eyes; and the quickness
of the change was a bit bewildering to her.  The
word upon her lips was stayed as she looked steadily
at him as if for an explanation.

Rutledge spoke first,—but he did not presume
upon his unfair advantage.  All the tenderness of his
soul was bowing before the clear-eyed young woman
as she stood there so adorable, swinging her black hat
in her hand, the light hill-breeze stirring the loose
strands of sunlit hair about her temples and the folds
of her simple summery mourning dress.  If he had
obeyed the impulse he would have knelt to kiss the
hem of that dress.  Emboldened by the words of her
letter, he could not even then with unseemly assurance
come to her heart to possess it.  Confidently as he
came to claim it, he drew near to her love as one
whose steps approach a shrine.

"It is a very pleasant surprise to find you up here,"
he said.  "And this view is a surprise also—a
revelation.  They did not tell me at the hotel that such an
one was to be had from this hill."

Elise was deceived by his words, and convinced
that the merest chance had appointed this meeting:
and yet she could not dismiss from her mind the
question, "Why did he walk so straight at me as he came
up the hill?"  His words, however, put the situation
on an impersonal basis and her reply in kind
established the conventional status.

They talked of indifferent things, and she was
speaking of the splendour that was flaming in the
west when the man's impatience broke the bands he
had put upon it.

"Elise, I love you, and I want you to be my wife."  It
was abrupt but it was in tones of humble entreaty.

Taken completely unawares, Elise turned quickly
about from the sunset to look at him.  Her gray eyes
weighed his truth in the balance for five seconds.  His
manner was softened and natural, his face and
attitude spoke love in every line.  Her eyes dropped
before his, and a rich colour came to her throat, cheek
and temple as she turned again to the golden west.

Rutledge made a step toward her as if to take her.
Her hand went up to stay him, though the lovelight
was on her face.

"Don't," she said gently.  She was disposed to
play with her happiness, to hold him at arm's length.
"Why do you come to me again, Mr. Rutledge?
You have had my answer once, and it must have
convinced you."  Her words and her manner were
contradictory, and Rutledge was confused.  "You plead
without hope.  You told the people yesterday that you
had not even the hope to be engaged to me.  Why
pursue a hopeless—no, no, don't!" she again
commanded as, ignoring her words, he moved to answer
her smile.

"And it's better so, Mr. Rutledge.  You yourself
have said it; and you can hardly expect me to gainsay it."

Despite the smile on her face this was a shot that
went home, and it put Rutledge on the defensive.

"You could hardly expect me to say less, Elise,
after your denial of your love for me."

"My love for you?  Of all the presumption!"

Elise caught her breath at this rejoinder, but it only
gave zest to the game and she tilted her chin
mockingly at him.

Rutledge, with some deliberation, took from an
inside coat pocket a letter, and handed it to her.  She
glanced at it in astonished surprise, and her face went
hard.

"Where did you get this?" she cried.

"In the mail, yesterday afternoon.  Elise, I didn't
delay a moment in coming to you.  It came—"

"So this is what brought you!"

"Yes.  I—"

"And you thought I sent it?"—her voice was as
hard as her eyes were cold.

"No.  But you wrote it, and—"

"Did I?"

"Didn't you?"

"What a question!—and you came because you
thought a lady called.  Certainly you did!  You
Southerners are so abominably gallant....  You
have acquitted yourself very handsomely, Mr. Rutledge.
I congratulate you.  You have thoroughly
vindicated your claim to the name of
'gentleman'—'Southern gentleman,' if the term is of more
excellence.  Assuredly nothing further is required of you.
I ex—"

"Elise, you wrote that letter."

"No."

"Elise!"

"Stop.  Don't touch me!"—but his left arm went
determinedly about her, and only with both hands
could she hold his right hand away.

"You wrote that letter, Elise; and you love me."

"No—never—no!" ... Her physical resistance
seemed a match for his strength.

"It is useless, Elise," he said to her as with tense
muscles he strove to subdue her will and her wilful
pride.  "I have always loved you, and now that I
know you love me nothing shall divide us.  Why
should you hold out against love?"

But Elise's resistance was fixed and set.  Rutledge
pleaded and begged and made love to her with all
the tenderness of his heart and the energy of his
passion for her, and exerted his physical strength to
break down her defence.

"Tell me that you wrote it, sweetheart," he
implored and besought her again and again: but she
only shook her head in dissent.  He exhausted every
prayer and plea without avail.

Desperately resolved to win at any cost, he could
only hold her fast and swear in his heart she should
not escape him.  Finally he called upon all his
muscular power to crush her into surrender, and
mercilessly bore in upon her.

Elise bore out against him with all her strength.
Her face became first crimson and then pale with the
effort.  Her teeth bit into her lips.  Her breathing
became fast and faster.  But her will would not bend.
The man's brute force was almost vicious in its
unrestraint.  A tear was forced through her tight-shut
lashes, but her chin was still uplifted in defiance
when—

"You hurt me, Evans," she said, as her resistance
collapsed and her face fell hidden against his
breast.

"And you wrote the letter, Elise?" he contended,
broken-hearted that he had hurt her, but holding her
fiercely yet.

"Yes, dear;"—and he is holding her so tenderly now.

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Weakly she stood, held close within his arms, until
her exhaustion passed, while he murmured to her the
gentle nothings which have been messengers of love
in all ages.  Very gently then she freed herself from
his embrace, permitting him still to hold her fingers.

"Let your own lips tell me you love me, Elise."

She looked up at him from under drooping lashes.
Her mental decision came before her actual
complaisance.  She revelled for a time in the ecstasy of
her mental abandon to love, and trembled in the very
joy of it.

"Yes, yes, I love you,"—and with closing eyes
she lifted her face in surrender.  A long, long caress
intoxicates them, and then, as if in expiation for the
blessed delirium of it—

"But not while Helen—not until Helen—oh, it
is too horrible to wait for your own sister to die!"—and
she is crying her heart out against his shoulder.

Rutledge waited till her tears were spent, and then
tenderly he protested.

"But Elise, you will not make any such decree as
that.  There's no need that we should wait on Helen's
account."

"Not while she lives, not while she lives," Elise
repeated, looking into his eyes.  "I cannot permit
your love to bring you to—"

"My love is all-sufficient, Elise; and all else is
nothing since you love me.  Do not let your pride
defeat us of our happiness, sweetheart.  Already it—"

"Pride?  I have no pride any more for you, my
dear.  I do not conceal my heart's love nor its woes
from you.  I believe that love alone, not *noblesse*,
brings you to me now.  I love you, yes, I love you,
but my love forbids that I should marry you and
destroy your career and your mother's happiness."

"My mother!  What do you know of that?"

"It is so, then!  I knew it, Evans;—prescience,
I suppose.  I am a granddaughter of South Carolina,
you know.  I know in my own heart what her sorrow
would be."

"No, no, Elise, you misjudge my mother.  She
would love you as she loves me."

"Love me, yes—as well as even now I love—your
mother.  I believe it and am glad, Evans.  But,
with all her loving, she could not put away shame and
grief.  I know, dear, I know.  She would love me
and—curse me."

"No, no, you do not know.  I am willing to speak
for my mother.  She will—"

"But who can speak for the voters in the coming
election?  No, Evans, I must not!  It would defeat
you.  Your sacrifice would be too great!"

"There would be no sacrifice.  You are worth it
all to me, dearest heart—and more.  And beside,
I do not think the voters of my State would—"

"Wait," said Elise.  "Answer me—and answer
me truly, for remember my pride is gone and only
love is in my heart.  Will you win the Senatorship?"

"The prospect is quite alluring," the man replied.
"The betting is 2 to 1 that the first primary will not
elect, and 9 to 10 that I will defeat Mr. Killam in the
second.  Robertson really seems to be convinced that
I am to succeed."

"Oh, how good that is!  I pray for you—but
would it not cost you votes, maybe the election, to
marry me?—to be engaged to me, even?  Do not
deceive me.  Have you not thought of the hurt it
would do your chance of success?  Truth and honour,
now,—as I love you."

In the face of that sacred obligation Rutledge
hesitated an instant.

"*Thought* of it, yes," he said at last, "but—"

"Then the danger is something considerable.  I
knew it.  My letter's coming was untimely, thanks to
the unknown person who mailed it to you.  No, my
dear, I will not marry you.  I will not engage myself
to you.  I will not defeat you."

Rutledge gathered her to himself again, confident
to crush her opposition by brute mastery as before.
But there was no physical opposition to be mastered
now.

"It is useless," she said wearily.  "I love you too
much to marry you now, Evans."

"Now?" repeated Rutledge.  "If not now, when?"

"Or to engage myself to you."

Her impassive manner was tantalizingly irritating to
him as he laid under tribute every resource of his
mind and heart to overturn her decision.  Her
non-resisting resistance was proof against attack.  It was
like fighting a fog.  Seemingly it offered no
opposition, and yet when he had exhausted himself in
attempts to brush it aside, it was there, filling all space.

"No, no!" she cried out at last, thoroughly
aroused by his passionate plea for their happiness;
"go! it is sinful even to dream of being happy while
one's sister is so wretched—and I will not have your
blood upon my hands—nor your mother's curse upon me!"

Rutledge gazed steadily at her a few moments,—and
for an answer drew out his watch to see what the
hour was.

"Kiss me good-bye," she said, holding her lips up.
to him simply as a child.

Taking her hands and drawing them to his heart he
bent his head down to hers as reverently as if that
gentle, lingering kiss were a sacrament.  Turning
away, he went swiftly down the path he had come.

Elise sat down upon the boulder from which she
had risen at his coming.  With her arms clasping her
knees, her head was bowed above them, and her
shoulders drooped in abject hopelessness.

Looking up at the sound of his steps returning, she
half turns to motion him away.

"No, no.  It means only that I no longer dissemble
before you.  Go.  There is no hope."  And as he
obeys she settles back motionless again into that living
statue of Despair.

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When Mrs. Hazard read in that Sunday's paper
an account of the Spartanburg meeting she was
dismayed.  She had been on the *qui vive* for nearly a
week, though not looking to the newspapers for
information.  Rutledge's repudiation of Elise angered
her.

Monday's papers, however, brought her better
temper.  She laughed softly as she read among the
Virginia Springs items that Mr. Rutledge had arrived
there on Sunday afternoon.  She was somewhat
mystified, though, by the fact that Mr. Rutledge had been
so hopeless on Saturday afternoon,—and she was
struck with consternation when at last she happened
upon a local item which said Mr. Rutledge had passed
through the city Sunday night on his return to South
Carolina.

"I think she might have written me!" she said
when Monday's noon mail brought no letter from her
friend.

"I'm going to run over to see Elise this afternoon,
if I can catch the train," she told her husband at
luncheon; and at 3:18 she was on the way.  A wreck
ahead of them put her at the Virginia Springs hotel
about bed-time.

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"How did you get here?  I'm so glad to see you!"
Elise exclaimed when Lola appeared at the cottage
next morning.

"Came last night," Lola said, giving her a hug,
"but a miserable wreck held us up till long after dark.
I would have come directly here even then, but I did
not know how your mother was."

"She is much better," Elise said.  "Come right in
to see her."

Lola loved Mrs. Phillips very heartily, but she felt
that Elise was precipitate in taking her immediately
to her mother's room.  She went along, of course, and
sat down and talked to the two of them for an hour
or more.  There seemed to be no end to the things
they discussed,—the more interminable they were
because of the fact that Mrs. Hazard had not made
her journey for the pleasure of a general conversation.

She could not understand why Elise did this thing.
She tried to read the young lady's reason in her face,
but that told nothing.  It had not the elation that
bespoke a heart joyous in its love.  Neither, in the
conventional gayety of the three-cornered conversation,
did it betray a heart that was desolate.  The only
thing certain was Elise's evident avoidance of a
*tête-à-tête* with her best friend.

It came to pass Mrs. Phillips had to dismiss them
on the plea of exhaustion.  Lola apologized profusely.
Elise felt guilty, but she asked for no pardon.

The young women went out on the broad veranda.
Elise offered Lola the hammock; but Mrs. Hazard
was unconsciously too intent upon a present purpose
to assume such a purposeless attitude.  She took a
rocking-chair, but she did not rock.  As Elise
arranged herself in the hammock, her friend bethought
herself as to how she should begin her inquiries.  She
thought best not to display too minute an acquaintance
with the situation.

Elise had indeed some curiosity to know how
Rutledge had come into possession of the letter, and
believed that Lola could throw light on that matter.
But to ask about it was too much like opening the
grave of love: and she recoiled.  Looking at her face
in repose, Lola was convinced that things had gone
wrong.  This made her take the more thought for an
opening.

In the hush before the talk would begin, the boy
brought the morning's paper.  Lola, seated nearest
the steps, took it from his hand.  She did not have to
unfold it to read what was of supreme interest.  As
she read, her eyes danced.  Half finished, she glanced
from the paper to Elise, whose face was apathy
clothed in flesh.  Lola sought the paper again, feeling
that the spooks were playing a trick upon her.  It was
very plain reading, however.  She crushed the paper
in her lap, and studied the profile of the girl in the
hammock.

"Elise!" she called, still feeling that the spooks
had her.

Elise slowly turned toward her a listless face,—which,
indeed, took on some life at sight of Mrs. Hazard's
excitement.

"What is it?" she asked.

"Oh, full of all guile and subtlety!" Lola
exclaimed with a gasp.  "Well, I have never!"

Elise looked at her inquiringly.

"Listen, miss; while I read you the news."

Lola picked up the paper and took time to smooth
out its wrinkles.

"Don't be impatient, my lady....  Now.  Here
is the paragraph.  It is part of a special despatch from
Greenville, South Carolina.  You have no idea where
that is, of course; but listen:

"Ex-Senator Rutledge spoke last.  He had just
arrived from Washington, unexpectedly, on a delayed
train, and had not had time to brush the coal-dust
from his clothes.  He made the usual forcible speech
with which he has dignified the campaign.  At the
end of it he said: 'My fellow countrymen, I must be
honest and candid with you.  At the Spartanburg
meeting day before yesterday, in answer to the
question of a disreputable dog, I said that I had neither
the honour nor the hope to be engaged to the eldest
daughter of the late President Phillips.  That was the
exact truth, my countrymen.  To-day I tell you that
I do have the happiness to be engaged to Miss Elise
Phillips and that we will be married on the last
Thursday in next March.'"

There was no apathy in Elise's profile when Lola
looked up from her reading.  The girl had covered her
face with her hands, and flood upon flood of colour
was racing over it.

"Is that 'the exact truth, my countrymen?'" Lola
demanded, standing over the hammock.

"Yes," Elise said, "why not?"—and Lola
grabbed her with a joyful shout.

"Don't make such a fuss," Elise sputtered from
out the smother of Mrs. Hazard's kisses, "for I
haven't told mamma yet."

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"—And look here," a radiant Elise demanded
when the two of them had become somewhat
composed, "I want to know how it came about that a
letter I wrote *and burned* should have—"

"Stop, stop, honey; I will not answer....  But
I *do* think it is a very bad Samaritan who will not help
Dan Cupid when he's in trouble."





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.. _`CHAPTER XLI`:

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   CHAPTER XLI

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The communications between Hayward Graham
and the physician in charge of the private hospital in
which Helen was detained had become caustic.  So
much so, that the great specialist had asked Graham
to remove her from his care.  This Hayward was
unable to do.  Mrs. Phillips was paying the hospital
fees and expenses, and Hayward felt that he could not
keep his wife in proper and befitting manner even if
she were altogether sane and sound in health.  He
had no means with which properly to provide for her
if she was really in such a condition as the physician
declared.

Not being willing or able to assume responsibility
for her removal, he was all the more angered at what
he believed to be the eminent alienist's positive
misrepresentation of the gravity of Helen's ailment and
his unwarranted and cavalier treatment of him, her
husband.  Provoked beyond endurance he went at
last to the hospital.

"Mr. Hayward Graham?  Yes.  Well, come right
into my office.  Now, what may I do for you?"

"Your last letter about my wife, doctor, was very
unsatisfactory," said Hayward, "and I came to see
about it.  Surely she cannot be so ill as you report.
When you admitted her you said she would recover
her health in a very short time."

"Excuse me, Mr. Graham; but if you wish to take
issue with me as to your wife's condition, I will have
to insist on the request in my letter of yesterday—that
you remove her at once," the physician said with
decision.

"I do not desire to do that," Graham replied; "but
I cannot understand what has happened here to change
her prospects of recovery, of which you were so
confident when you admitted her.  Besides that I do not
see why you forbid me to communicate with her.  She
is certa—"

"Wait a moment, Mr. Graham.  You must understand
that in our prejudgment of these cases we do
not arrogate to ourselves infallibility; but that in our
treatment of them we do demand for ourselves absolute
authority to say what shall and what shall not be
done, and the very strictest obedience to that.  This
is a very peculiar case.  It has one element that is
altogether unique.  Never before have I met it in my
practice or seen it in the books.  I am doing the best
I can with it, and if you do not de—"

"That is not it, doctor.  I have no suggestions to
make to you as to the proper treatment, nor any
objection, indeed, to complying with any reasonable
restriction; but when you say that I shall not see or
communicate with my wife at any time, it seems
unreasonable.  Does she have no lucid intervals in which
I might see her?  Does she never think or speak of
me—never write to me?"

"Yes, Mr. Graham, she has lucid intervals.  She
speaks of you at times, oftentimes.  And she writes
to you occasionally, but I have decided that it would
not—"

"Has written to me?  And you have not sent me
the letters?  Surely, surely, doctor, I am not crazy,
that you should withhold letters from me!  Have you
the letters?  Has she written often?"

"She has written often; but only on two occasions
was there anything except disjointed sentences.
She—"

"And when was that?  And where are the letters?"

"I have them," replied the doctor, "but I do not
think that—"

"I demand to see them, sir!  I'm not in your
hospital for treatment!"

"Very well," said the doctor, "I'll get them for you."

He went to a filing cabinet and took out a package
of papers and came back across the room with two
sheets of paper which he handed to Hayward, and
watched him as he read them.

The first was as sweet and gentle and loving a
letter as the heart of man could desire.  Some of
the references in it were a little bit obscure and
inaccurate, but Hayward was too much elated with the
tender, petting things it said to notice trifles so
inconsequential.  He revelled in it like a hungry man
at a feast.  He gulped down its sweetness ravenously:
and took the second.  What!  The first sentence was
the jab of a misshapen barb—and every following
sentence a twisting of that barb in the flesh.

"My God, this is awful!" he groaned.  "I am
sorry you gave it to me.  Have you no other like the
first?"

"No," said the doctor.  "All her other writings
have been mere scraps or incoherent mixtures of such
things as are in the first letter you have there with
such as are in the one you have just read.  These are
the only ones in each of which her mood was fixed
and distinct."

Hayward took the first letter and read it over again
as hungrily as at first.

"In which mood does she seem most to be?" he asked.

"In the mood to write that first letter, fortunately;
but the case is peculiar in that very fact.  I have
studied it with—"

"Let me see her," Hayward broke in.  "May I
see her?  I must see her!"

"I would advise against it," the doctor said, in a
tone and manner that was intended to be a polite
refusal of permission.

"But I *must* see her, I tell you.  I demand to see
her!  I am her husband, and if she is quiet to-day I
demand to see and speak to her."

"Mr. Graham, this case is unique, as I have told
you before; and even if she is quiet I think it best
not to—"

"Now, doctor, stop right there a moment.  She is
my wife, and I will not be bound by any orders her
mother may have given you!  I am going to see her
this once.  I assume all responsibility, sir!"

The physician looked at him with a sneer of
contempt on his face.

"Very well, Mr. Graham," he said finally.  "You
shall see her.  But permit me to say that Mrs. Phillips
has had the good sense and the good taste to make
no suggestions to me as to how I shall manage this
case....  Come right along down to the ward, sir."

He led the way down a long hall and, tapping upon
a door, was admitted into a transverse corridor by an
attendant.

"How is Mrs. Graham?" he asked in an undertone.

"Quiet at the moment, sir."

Hayward heard Helen's voice and started forward
eagerly.  The physician caught him by the arm and
restrained him.

"Wait," he whispered.  "Let's listen a minute."

It was hard for Hayward to wait.  He could hear
Helen's words coming from the second door down the
corridor, and only the doctor's hand stayed him from
rushing into her presence.  They moved quietly nearer
to the door and stood still to hear what she was
saying.  As they listened tides of joy rolled in upon
Hayward's heart....

Helen was humming a song that her husband had
heard of old.  Her voice, though somewhat weak,
had its old joyous ring.  Hayward could easily
imagine she was coming tripping down to the stable for
her horse to take a morning canter.  When she
finished the song and was silent, he noted for the first
time that the grated door to her cell was locked and
its rungs and pickets were heavily padded.  He
resented that, and turned upon the physician to protest,
but was held by the doctor's signal for silence.  He
obeyed, but his resentment grew as Helen's words
came again in gentle accents to them.

She was moving slowly about, and was evidently
arranging some flowers—to judge by the things she
was saying to them.  It was very kind of the doctor,
her husband thought, to let her have her flowers—she
was always so fond of them....  In half a
minute she was singing a lullaby that she had sung to
their baby.  Hayward could hardly contain himself.
And when he heard her walk across the room,—to
a window, it seemed,—and say, in a tone so
expressive of longing: "If Hayward would only come and
take me out to-day!  It is such a beautiful day
outside," he snatched his arm free of the doctor's hand
and called to her as he sprang in front of the door.

Helen turned at his call, and looked at him for a
space with dilated eyes.  In that space Hayward saw
that her cell was padded throughout, floor and walls,
and that there was not a flower or a flower-pot in the
room, that her clothing was torn, her hair streaming
and dishevelled.  Before he had time to make any
inferences from these facts, Helen, still gazing at him
with that peculiar stare, started across the room to
him, saying gladly, "Oh, you have come to take me
out driving!"

Nearly to the door she stopped.  Slowly her face
changed its whole expression.  The wide-eyed stare
gave way, and the old Helen looked at him a moment
from her eyes.  In another moment her face was
convulsed in a spasm of aversion.

"Go away!  Go away!" she cried out wildly as she
turned from him.  Retreating into a far corner of her
cell, she called to the attendant, "Oh, save me!—take
him away!—keep him away!"

"Why, Helen, don't you know me?" Hayward
called to her.

"Yes, yes, I know you, but in God's name leave
me!  Don't let him in!  Don't let him in!" she
pleaded with the physician, who also had come to the
door.

"I'll not hurt you, Helen.  You know I'll not hurt
you.  Don't run from me.  You know I'll not hurt you."

Hayward motioned to the physician to unlock the
door.  Whereupon Helen uttered a blood-curdling
scream as she cowered back into her corner.

"Don't!  Don't!!  He has already hurt me, doctor!
Go away!  Go *away*!  The poison of your blood
is in my veins and will not come out!  It is polluted,
forever polluted!  A knife—*a knife*!  Give me a
knife, doctor, that I may let it out.  Please give me
a knife.  I have prayed you daily for one and you won't
give it to me.  Kill me—*save me*!  My blood is
*unclean*, and he did it!  My baby was black, *black*!—and
its negro blood is in my veins!  A knife, doctor!
A knife!!  Oo-o-a-ugh!!  I'll tear it out, then!"—and
she clawed and tore and bit at her wrists in an
agony of endeavour to purge her veins of the tainted
fluid which had brought to life that fright, her baby.

Hayward stood helpless and terror-stricken before
the door, and his staying only drove Helen into more
horrible paroxysms.

"Come away, man, come away," the doctor
commanded; and he obeyed weakly.

"Great God," he said when he was back in the
physician's office, "that is awful, awful!  How can
she live, doctor, if she is shaken and torn by such
dementia as that?"

"I cannot say whether she will live, Mr. Graham,"
the doctor replied; "but her periods of dementia give
her the only relief that she enjoys.  As a remedy for
exhaustion they are our only hope for her life so far
appearing."

"I don't understand," said Graham, "how such
suffering as that can be a relief from exhaustion."

"I did not say that," said the doctor.  "I said her
*periods of dementia* give her relief from exhaustion.
As I said before, Mr. Graham, this is an absolutely
unique case.  It is—"

"Unique in what?" asked Graham.

"It is unique in this," said the physician: "It is
in her sane moments—in her lucid intervals, when
she is fully conscious of her condition and situation—that
she raves and tears herself and cries out against
the devils that are torturing her.  It is in such
moments that her eyes have the light of reason in them.
On the other hand, it is when she is *insane*,
demented—when her mind is unhinged and wandering—that
she is quiet and peaceful and happy.  The letter you
enjoyed was written when she was crazy.  The one
that tortured you was written when she was clothed
and in her right mind."

"My God, doctor, that cannot be!  Do not tell me
that!" cried Hayward, shaken like a reed.  "Tell
me whether there is hope for her?"

"As I said, Mr. Graham, the case is unique and
therefore any opinion is nothing more than a bare
opinion, but to me her case is hopeless for the reason
that her violences are based not upon hallucinations—which
might pass—but upon *facts* which no sane
mind can deny.  At present the only hope for her life
is that her periods of dementia, with their peace and
quiet, will increase: and that her sane moments, in
which she suffers the tortures of the damned, will
become briefer and fewer.  Only that will save her from
death from exhaustion."

"No, no, doctor!  Can't you—"

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A soldier in uniform stepped into the recruiting
office, saluted, handed the officer his papers, and stood
at *attention*, saying simply, "I desire to re-enlist."

The officer unfolded the "honourable discharge"
and read aloud, "Sergeant John Hayward Graham."  Looking
the paper over, he turned to Graham.

"Yes, this is all right—if you are physically fit;
but you have waited so long you have lost your rank
and will have to begin at the very bottom again."

"Yes, sir.  I understand, sir."

"Very well, the clerk can make out the new papers
from these while the surgeon looks you over.  Where
do you wish to serve—in the United States or the
Philippines?"

"Anywhere my country needs a man, sir."

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   THE END.

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   From

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   L. C. Page & Company's
   Announcement List
   of New Fiction

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   The Call of the South

BY ROBERT LEE DURHAM.  Cloth decorative, with 6
illustrations by Henry Roth . . . $1.50

A very strong novel dealing with the race problem in this
country.  The principal theme is the *danger* to society from the
increasing miscegenation of the black and white races, and the
encouragement it receives in the social amenities extended to
negroes of distinction by persons prominent in politics,
philanthropy and educational endeavor; and the author, a Southern
lawyer, hopes to call the attention of the whole country to the
need of earnest work toward its discouragement.  He has
written an absorbing drama of life which appeals with apparent
logic and of which the inevitable denouement comes as a final
and convincing climax.

The author may be criticized by those who prefer not to face
the hour "When Your Fear Cometh As Desolation And Your
Destruction Cometh As A Whirlwind;" but his honesty of
purpose in the frank expression of a danger so well understood
in the South, which, however, many in the North refuse to
recognize, while others have overlooked it, will be upheld by
the sober second thought of the majority of his readers.

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.. class:: noindent bold

   The House in the Water

BY CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, author of "The Haunters of
the Silences," "Red Fox," "The Heart of the Ancient
Wood," etc.  With cover design, sixteen full-page drawings,
and many minor decorations by Charles Livingston Bull.
Cloth decorative, with decorated wrapper . . . $1.50

Professor Roberts's new book of nature and animal life is one
long story in which he tells of the life of that wonderfully acute
and tireless little worker, the beaver.  "The Boy" and Jabe
the Woodsman again appear, figuring in the story even more
than they did in "Red Fox;" and the adventures of the boy
and the beaver make most absorbing reading for young and
old.

The following chapter headings for "The House in the
Water" will give an idea of the fascinating reading to come:

THE SOUND IN THE NIGHT (Beavers at Work).

THE BATTLE IN THE POND (Otter and Beaver).

IN THE UNDER-WATER WORLD (Home Life of the Beaver).

NIGHT WATCHERS ("The Boy" and Jabe and a Lynx See
the Beavers at Work).

DAM REPAIRING AND DAM BUILDING (A "House-raising" Bee).

THE PERIL OF THE TRAPS (Jabe Shows "The Boy").

WINTER UNDER WATER (Safe from All but Man).

THE SAVING OF BOY'S POND ("The Boy" Captures Two Outlaws).


"As a writer about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable
place.  He is the most literary, as well as the most imaginative
and vivid of all the nature writers."—*Brooklyn Eagle*.

"His animal stories are marvels of sympathetic science and
literary exactness."—*New York World*.

"Poet Laureate of the Animal World, Professor Roberts
displays the keenest powers of observation closely interwoven
with a fine imaginative discretion."—*Boston Transcript*.


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   Captain Love

THE HISTORY OF A MOST ROMANTIC EVENT IN THE LIFE OF
AN ENGLISH GENTLEMAN DURING THE REIGN OF HIS MAJESTY
GEORGE THE FIRST.  CONTAINING INCIDENTS OF COURTSHIP
AND DANGER AS RELATED IN THE CHRONICLES OF THE PERIOD
AND NOW SET DOWN IN PRINT

BY THEODORE ROBERTS, author of "The Red Feathers,"
"Brothers of Peril," etc.  Cloth decorative, illustrated by
Frank T. Merrill . . . $1.50

A stirring romance with its scene laid in the troublous times
in England when so many broken gentlemen foregathered with
the "Knights of the Road;" when a man might lose part of
his purse to his opponent at "White's" over the dice, and the
next day be relieved of the rest of his money on some lonely
heath at the point of a pistol in the hand of the self-same gambler.

But, if the setting be similar to other novels of the period, the
story is not.  Mr. Roberts's work is always original, his style is
always graceful, his imagination fine, his situations refreshingly
novel.  In his new book he has excelled himself.  It is
undoubtedly the best thing he has done.


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.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent bold

   Bahama Bill

BY T. JENKINS HAINS, author of "The Black Barque,"
"The Voyage of the Arrow," etc.  Cloth decorative, with
frontispiece in colors by H. R. Reuterdahl . . . $1.50

The scene of Captain Hains's new sea story is laid in the
region of the Florida Keys.  His hero, the giant mate of the
wrecking sloop, *Sea-Horse*, while not one to stir the emotions
of gentle feminine readers, will arouse interest and admiration
in men who appreciate bravery and daring.

His adventures while plying his desperate trade are full of
the danger that holds one at a sharp tension, and the reader
forgets to be on the side of law and order in his eagerness to see
the "wrecker" safely through his exciting escapades.

Captain Hains's descriptions of life at sea are vivid, absorbingly
frank and remarkably true.  "Bahama Bill" ranks high as
a stirring, realistic, unsoftened and undiluted tale of the sea,
chock full of engrossing interest.

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.. vspace:: 2

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   Matthew Porter

BY GAMALIEL BRADFORD, JR., author of "The Private Tutor,"
etc.  With a frontispiece in colors by Griswold Tyng . . . $1.50

When a young man has birth and character and strong ambition
it is safe to predict for him a brilliant career; and, when
The Girl comes into his life, a romance out of the ordinary.
Such a man is Matthew Porter, and the author has drawn him
with fine power.

Mr. Bradford has given us a charming romance with an
unusual motive.  Effective glimpses of the social life of Boston
form a contrast to the more serious purpose of the story; but,
in "Matthew Porter," it is the conflict of personalities, the
development of character, the human element which grips the
attention and compels admiration.


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.. vspace:: 2

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   Anne of Green Gables

BY L. M. MONTGOMERY.  Cloth decorative, illustrated . . . $1.50

Every one, young or old, who reads the story of "Anne of
Green Gables," will fall in love with her, and tell their friends
of her irresistible charm.  In her creation of the young heroine
of this delightful tale Miss Montgomery will receive praise for
her fine sympathy with and delicate appreciation of sensitive
and imaginative girlhood.

The story would take rank for the character of Anne alone;
but in the delineation of the characters of the old farmer, and
his crabbed, dried-up spinster sister who adopt her, the author
has shown an insight and descriptive power which add much to
the fascination of the book.


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.. class:: noindent bold

   Spinster Farm

BY HELEN M. WINSLOW, author of "Literary Boston."  Illustrated
from original photographs . . . $1.50

Whatever Miss Winslow writes is good, for she is in accord
with the life worth living.  The Spinster, her niece "Peggy,"
the Professor, and young Robert Graves,—not forgetting
Hiram, the hired man,—are the characters to whom we are
introduced on "Spinster Farm."  Most of the incidents and
all of the characters are real, as well as the farm and farmhouse,
unchanged since Colonial days.

Light-hearted character sketches, and equally refreshing and
unexpected happenings are woven together with a thread of
happy romance of which Peggy of course is the vivacious heroine.
Alluring descriptions of nature and country life are given with
fascinating bits of biography of the farm animals and household
pets.


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   Selections from
   L. C. Page and Company's
   List of Fiction

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: center medium bold

   WORKS OF
   ROBERT NEILSON STEPHENS

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   *Each one vol., library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50*

.. vspace:: 2

.. class:: noindent bold

   The Flight of Georgiana

A ROMANCE OF THE DAYS OF THE YOUNG PRETENDER.  Illustrated
by H. C. Edwards.

"A love-story in the highest degree, a dashing story, and a
remarkably well finished piece of work."—*Chicago Record-Herald*.

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.. class:: noindent bold

   The Bright Face of Danger

Being an account of some adventures of Henri de Launay, son of
the Sieur de la Tournoire.  Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.

"Mr. Stephens has fairly outdone himself.  We thank him
heartily.  The story is nothing if not spirited and entertaining,
rational and convincing."—*Boston Transcript*.

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.. class:: noindent bold

   The Mystery of Murray Davenport

(40th thousand.)

"This is easily the best thing that Mr. Stephens has yet done.
Those familiar with his other novels can best judge the measure of
this praise, which is generous."—Buffalo News.

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.. class:: noindent bold

   Captain Ravenshaw

OR, THE MAID OF CHEAPSIDE.  (52d thousand.)  A romance
of Elizabethan London.  Illustrations by Howard Pyle and other
artists.

Not since the absorbing adventures of D'Artagnan have we had
anything so good in the blended vein of romance and comedy.

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   The Continental Dragoon

A ROMANCE OF PHILIPSE MANOR HOUSE IN 1778.  (53d
thousand.) Illustrated by H. C. Edwards.

A stirring romance of the Revolution, with its scene laid on
neutral territory.

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   Philip Winwood

(70th thousand.) A Sketch of the Domestic History of an
American Captain in the War of Independence, embracing events
that occurred between and during the years 1763 and 1785 in
New York and London.  Illustrated by E. W. D. Hamilton.

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   An Enemy to the King

(70th thousand.) From the "Recently Discovered Memoirs of
the Sieur de la Tournoire."  Illustrated by H. De M. Young.

An historical romance of the sixteenth century, describing the
adventures of a young French nobleman at the court of Henry III.,
and on the field with Henry IV.

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   The Road to Paris

A STORY OF ADVENTURE.  (35th thousand.) Illustrated by
H. C. Edwards.

An historical romance of the eighteenth century, being an account
of the life of an American gentleman adventurer of Jacobite
ancestry.

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   A Gentleman Player

HIS ADVENTURES ON A SECRET MISSION FOR QUEEN ELIZABETH.
(48th thousand.) Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.

The story of a young gentleman who joins Shakespeare's
company of players, and becomes a friend and protégé of the
great poet.

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   Clementina's Highwayman

Cloth decorative, illustrated . . . $1.50

Mr. Stephens has put into his new book, "Clementina's Highway
man," the finest qualities of plot, construction, and literary finish.

The story is laid in the mid-Georgian period.  It is a dashing,
sparkling, vivacious comedy, with a heroine as lovely and changeable
as an April day, and a hero all ardor and daring.

The exquisite quality of Mr. Stephens's literary style clothes the
story in a rich but delicate word-fabric; and never before have his
setting and atmosphere been so perfect.


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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   WORKS OF
   CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS

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   Haunters of the Silences

Cloth, one volume, with many drawings by Charles Livingston
Bull, four of which are in full color . . . $2.00

The stories in Mr. Roberts's new collection are the strongest and
best he has ever written.

He has largely taken for his subjects those animals rarely met
with in books, whose lives are spent "In the Silences," where they
are the supreme rulers.  Mr. Roberts has written of them
sympathetically, as always, but with fine regard for the
scientific truth.

"As a writer about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable
place.  He is the most literary, as well as the most imaginative
and vivid of all the nature writers."—*Brooklyn Eagle*.

"His animal stories are marvels of sympathetic science and
literary exactness."—*New York World*.



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   Red Fox

THE STORY OF HIS ADVENTUROUS CAREER IN THE RINGWAAK
WILDS, AND OF HIS FINAL TRIUMPH OVER THE ENEMIES OF
HIS KIND.  With fifty illustrations, including frontispiece in
color and cover design by Charles Livingston Bull.

Square quarto, cloth decorative . . . $2.00

"Infinitely more wholesome reading than the average tale of
sport, since it gives a glimpse of the hunt from the point of view of
the hunted."—*Boston Transcript*.

"True in substance but fascinating as fiction.  It will interest
old and young, city-bound and free-footed, those who know animals
and those who do not."—*Chicago Record-Herald*.

"A brilliant chapter in natural history."—*Philadelphia North
American*.



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   The Kindred of the Wild

A BOOK OF ANIMAL LIFE.  With fifty-one full-page plates and
many decorations from drawings by Charles Livingston Bull.
Square quarto, decorative cover . . . $2.00

"Is in many ways the most brilliant collection of animal stories
that has appeared; well named and well done."—John Burroughs.



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   The Watchers of the Trails

A companion volume to "The Kindred of the Wild."  With
forty-eight full-page plates and many decorations from drawings
by Charles Livingston Bull.

Square quarto, decorative cover . . . $2.00

"These stories are exquisite in their refinement, and yet robust
in their appreciation of some of the rougher phases of woodcraft.
Among the many writers about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an
enviable place.—*The Outlook*.

"This is a book full of delight.  An additional charm lies in
Mr. Bull's faithful and graphic illustrations, which in fashion all their
own tell the story of the wild life, illuminating and supplementing
the pen pictures of the author."—*Literary Digest*.



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   The Heart That Knows

Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"A novel of singularly effective strength, luminous in literary
color, rich in its passionate, yet tender drama."—*New York Globe*.



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   Earth's Enigmas

A new edition of Mr. Roberts's first volume of fiction, published
1892, and out of print for several years, with the addition of
three new stories, and ten illustrations by Charles Livingston
Bull.

Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"It will rank high among collections of short stories.  In
'Earth's Enigmas' is a wider range of subject than in the 'Kindred
of the Wild.'"—*Review from advance sheets of the illustrated
edition by Tiffany Blake in the Chicago Evening Post*.



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   Barbara Ladd

With four illustrations by Frank Verbeck.

Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"From the opening chapter to the final page Mr. Roberts lures
us on by his rapt devotion to the changing aspects of Nature and
by his keen and sympathetic analysis of human character."—*Boston
Transcript*.



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   Cameron of Lochiel

Translated from the French of Philippe Aubert de Gaspé, with
frontispiece in color by H. C. Edwards.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

"Professor Roberts deserves the thanks of his reader for giving
a wider audience an opportunity to enjoy this striking bit of French
Canadian literature."—*Brooklyn Eagle*.

"It is not often in these days of sensational and philosophical
novels that one picks up a book that so touches the
heart."—*Boston Transcript*.



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   The Prisoner of Mademoiselle

With frontispiece by Frank T. Merrill.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, gilt top . . . $1.50

A tale of Acadia,—a land which is the author's heart's delight,—of
a valiant young lieutenant and a winsome maiden, who first
captures and then captivates.

"This is the kind of a story that makes one grow younger, more
innocent, more light-hearted.  Its literary quality is impeccable.
It is not every day that such a heroine blossoms into even
temporary existence, and the very name of the story bears a breath of
charm."—*Chicago Record-Herald*.



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   The Heart of the Ancient Wood

With six illustrations by James L. Weston.

Library 12mo, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"One of the most fascinating novels of recent days."—*Boston
Journal*.

"A classic twentieth-century romance."—*New York Commercial
Advertiser*.



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   The Forge in the Forest

Being the Narrative of the Acadian Ranger, Jean de Mer,
Seigneur de Briart, and how he crossed the Black Abbé, and of
his adventures in a strange fellowship.  Illustrated by Henry
Sandham, R.C.A.

Library 12mo, cloth, gilt top . . . $1.50

A story of pure love and heroic adventure.



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   By the Marshes of Minas

Library 12mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.50

Most of these romances are in the author's lighter and more
playful vein; each is a unit of absorbing interest and exquisite
workmanship.



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   A Sister to Evangeline

Being the Story of Yvonne de Lamourie, and how she went into
exile with the villagers of Grand Pré.

Library 12mo, cloth, gilt top, illustrated . . . $1.50

Swift action, fresh atmosphere, wholesome purity, deep passion,
and searching analysis characterize this strong novel.



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   WORKS OF
   LILIAN BELL


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   Carolina Lee

With a frontispiece in color from an oil painting by Dora Wheeler
Keith.  Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"A Christian Science novel, full of action, alive with incident and
brisk with pithy dialogue and humor."—*Boston Transcript*.

"A charming portrayal of the attractive life of the South,
refreshing as a breeze that blows through a pine forest."—*Albany
Times-Union*.



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   Hope Loring

Illustrated by Frank T. Merrill.

Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"Tall, slender, and athletic, fragile-looking, yet with nerves and
sinews of steel under the velvet flesh, frank as a boy and tender and
beautiful as a woman, free and independent, yet not bold—such is
'Hope Loring,' by long odds the subtlest study that has yet been
made of the American girl."—*Dorothy Dix, in the New York
American*.



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   Abroad with the Jimmies

With a portrait, in duogravure, of the author.

Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"Full of ozone, of snap, of ginger, of swing and
momentum."—*Chicago Evening Post*.



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   At Home with the Jardines

A companion volume to "Abroad with the Jimmies"

Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"Bits of gay humor, sunny, whimsical philosophy and keen
indubitable insight into the less evident aspects and workings of pure
human nature, with a slender thread of a cleverly extraneous love
story, keep the interest of the reader fresh."—*Chicago
Record-Herald*.



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   The Interference of Patricia

With a frontispiece from drawing by Frank T. Merrill.

Small 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"There is life and action and brilliancy and dash and cleverness
and a keen appreciation of business ways in this story."—*Grand
Rapids Herald*.

"A story full of keen and flashing satire."—*Chicago
Record-Herald*.



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   A Book of Girls

With a frontispiece.

Small 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.25

"The stories are all eventful and have effective humor."—*New
York Sun*.

"Lilian Bell surely understands girls, for she depicts all the
variations of girl nature so charmingly."—*Chicago Journal*.

*The above two volumes boxed in special holiday dress, per set, $2.50*



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   WORKS OF
   NATHAN GALLIZIER

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   The Sorceress of Rome

With four drawings in color by "The Kinneys."

Cloth decorative, illustrated . . . $1.50

The love-story of Otto III., the boy emperor, and Stephania, wife
of the Senator Crescentius of Rome, has already been made the
basis of various German poems and plays.

Mr. Gallizier has used it for the main theme of "The Sorceress
of Rome," the second book of his trilogy of romances on the mediaeval
life of Italy.  In detail and finish the book is a brilliant piece
of work, describing clearly an exciting and strenuous period.



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   Castel del Monte

With six illustrations by H. C. Edwards.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

A powerful romance of the fall of the Hohenstaufen dynasty in
Italy and the overthrow of Manfred by Charles of Anjou, the
champion of Pope Clement IV.

"There is color; there is sumptuous word painting in these pages;
the action is terrific at times; vividness and life are in every part; and
brilliant descriptions entertain the reader and give a singular
fascination to the tale."—*Chicago Record-Herald*.



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   WORKS OF
   MORLEY ROBERTS


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   Rachel Marr

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

"A novel of tremendous force, with a style that is sure, luxuriant,
compelling, full of color and vital force."—*Elia W. Peattie in
Chicago Tribune*.

"In atmosphere, if nothing else, the story is absolutely
perfect."—*Boston Transcript*.



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   Lady Penelope

With nine illustrations by Arthur W. Brown.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

"A fresh and original bit of comedy as amusing as it is
audacious."—*Boston Transcript*.



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   The Idlers

With frontispiece in color by John C. Frohn.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

"It is absorbing as the devil.  Mr. Roberts gives us the antithesis
of 'Rachel Marr' in an equally masterful and convincing
work."—*The New York Sun*.

"It is a work of great ethical force."—*Professor Charles
G. D. Roberts*.



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   The Promotion of the Admiral

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated . . . $1.50

"If any one writes better sea stories than Mr. Roberts, we don't
know who it is; and if there is a better sea story of its kind than
this it would be a joy to have the pleasure of reading it."—*New
York Sun*.

"There is a hearty laugh in every one of these stories."—*The
Reader*.



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   The Flying Cloud

Cloth decorative, with a colored frontispiece . . . $1.50



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   WORKS OF
   ALICE MacGOWAN AND GRACE MacGOWAN COOKE


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   Return

A STORY OF THE SEA ISLANDS IN 1739.  With six illustrations
by C. D. Williams.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

"So rich in color is this story, so crowded with figures, it seems
like a bit of old Italian wall painting, a piece of modern tapestry,
rather than a modern fabric woven deftly from the threads of fact
and fancy gathered up in this new and essentially practical country,
and therein lies its distinctive value and excellence."—*N. Y. Sun*.



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   The Grapple

With frontispiece in color by Arthur W. Brown.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

"The movement of the tale is swift and dramatic.  The story is
so original, so strong, and so finely told that it deserves a large and
thoughtful public.  It is a book to read with both enjoyment and
enlightenment."—*N. Y. Times Saturday Review of Books*.



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   The Last Word

Illustrated with seven portraits of the heroine.

Library 12mo, cloth, decorative cover . . . $1.50

"When one receives full measure to overflowing of delight in a
tender, charming, and wholly fascinating new piece of fiction, the
enthusiasm is apt to come uppermost."—*Louisville Post*.



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   Huldah

With illustrations by Fanny Y. Cory.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

Here we have the great-hearted, capable woman of the Texas
plains dispensing food and genial philosophy to rough-and-ready
cowboys.  Her sympathy takes the form of happy laughter, and
her delightfully funny phrases amuse the fancy and stick in one's
memory.


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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   Richard Elliott, Financier

By GEORGE CARLING.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, illustrated . . . $1.50

"Clever in plot and effective in style.  The author has seized on
some of the most sensational features of modern finance and uses
them pretty much as Alexandre Dumas did."—*N. Y. Post*.



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   WORKS OF
   G. SIDNEY PATERNOSTER


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   The Motor Pirate

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, with frontispiece . . . $1.50

"Its originality, exciting adventures, into which is woven a
charming love theme, and its undercurrent of fun furnish a dashing
detective story which a motor-mad world will thoroughly enjoy
reading."—*Boston Herald*.



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   The Cruise of the Motor-Boat Conqueror

Being the Further Adventures of the Motor Pirate.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, with a frontispiece by Frank
T. Merrill . . . $1.50

"As a land pirate Mannering was a marvel of resource, but as a
sea-going buccaneer he is almost a miracle of devilish ingenuity.
His exploits are wonderful and plausible, for he avails himself of
every modern device and applies recent inventions to the
accomplishment of all his pet schemes."—*Chicago Evening Post*.



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   The Lady of the Blue Motor

Cloth decorative, with a colored frontispiece by John C. Frohn . . . $1.50

The Lady of the Blue Motor is an audacious heroine who drove
her mysterious car at breakneck speed.  Her plea for assistance in
an adventure promising more than a spice of danger could not of
course be disregarded by any gallant fellow motorist.  Across France
they tore and across the English Channel.  There, the escapade past,
he lost her.  Mr. Paternoster, however, allows the reader to follow
their separate adventures until the Lady of the Blue Motor is found
again and properly vindicated of all save womanly courage and
affection.  A unique romance, one continuous exciting series of
adventure.



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.. vspace:: 2





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   The Treasure Trail.  By FRANK L. POLLOCK.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, with a frontispiece by Louis
D. Cowing . . . $1.25

A clever story, which describes a series of highly exciting
adventures of a bold lot of rascals."—*Boston Transcript*.



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   WORKS OF
   T. JENKINS HAINS


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   The Black Barque

With five illustrations by W. Herbert Dunton.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

According to a high naval authority, whose name must be withheld,
this is one of the best sea stories ever offered to the public.
"The Black Barque" is a story of slavery and piracy upon the high
seas about 1815, and is written with a thorough knowledge of
deep-water sailing.



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   The Windjammers

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

"A collection of short sea stories unmatched for interest."—*New
York Sun*.



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   The Voyage of the Arrow

With six illustrations by H. C. Edwards.

Library 12mo, cloth . . . $1.50

"A capital story, full of sensation and excitement, and a rollicking
sea story of the good old-fashioned sort.  The reader who begins
this exciting voyage will sail on at the rate of twelve knots an hour
until it is finished."—*Boston Transcript*.



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   WORKS OF
   REGINALD WRIGHT KAUFFMAN


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   Miss Frances Baird, Detective

A PASSAGE FROM HER MEMOIRS.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, with a frontispiece by
W. F. Kirkpatrick . . . $1.25

"Miss Baird ravels and unravels circumstantial evidence in her
search for the murderer in a most bewildering and thoroughly
feminine fashion....  The story is brimful of excitement, and no little
ingenuity is displayed in its construction."—*Boston Herald*.



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   Jarvis of Harvard

Illustrated by Robert Edwards.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

A strong and well written novel, dealing with the life of a young
man in a modern college.  Studies, athletics, social life, and the
outside influences surrounding the youth of a college town are clearly
depicted.

"Mr. Kauffman's treatment of his subject is dignified, restrained,
sincere, and in admirable good taste throughout."—*New York Mail
and Express*.



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   WORKS OF
   ARTHUR MORRISON


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   The Green Diamond

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, with six illustrations . . . $1.50

"A detective story of unusual ingenuity and
intrigue."—*Brooklyn Eagle*.



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   The Red Triangle

Being some further chronicles of Martin Hewitt, investigator.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

"Better than Sherlock Holmes."—*New York Tribune*.

"The reader who has a grain of fancy or imagination may be defied
to lay this book down, once he has begun it, until the last word
has been reached."—*Philadelphia North American*.



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   The Chronicles of Martin Hewitt

Library 12mo, cloth decorative, with six illustrations by
W. Kirkpatrick  . . . $1.50

"Will appeal strongly to every lover of the best detective
fiction."—*N. Y. Sun*.



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   \*      \*      \*      \*      \*

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   WORKS OF
   STEPHEN CONRAD


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   The Second Mrs. Jim

With a frontispiece by Ernest Fosbery.

Large l6mo, cloth decorative  . . . $1.00

"Here is a character as original and witty as 'Mr. Dooley' or
'the self-made merchant.'  The realm of humorous fiction is now
invaded by the stepmother.  It is an exceptionally clever piece of
work."—*Boston Transcript*.



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   Mrs. Jim and Mrs. Jimmie

With a frontispiece in colors by Arthur W. Brown.

Library 12mo, cloth decorative . . . $1.50

This book is in a sense a sequel to "The Second Mrs. Jim," since
it gives further glimpses of that delightful stepmother and her
philosophy.

"Plenty of fun and humor in this book.  Plenty of simple pathos
and quietly keen depiction of human nature afford contrast, and
every chapter is worth reading."—*Chicago Record-Herald*.

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