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The Gilded Age, Complete
By
Mark Twain and Charles Dudley Warner
This book was not written for private
circulation among friends; it was
not written to cheer and instruct a diseas=
ed
relative of the author's;
it was not thrown off during intervals of
wearing labor to amuse an idle
hour.&nbs=
p;
It was not written for any of these reasons, and therefore it is
submitted without the usual apologies.
It will be seen that it deals with an enti=
rely
ideal state of society;
and the chief embarrassment of the writers=
in
this realm of the
imagination has been the want of illustrat=
ive
examples. In a State where
there is no fever of speculation, no infla=
med
desire for sudden wealth,
where the poor are all simple-minded and
contented, and the rich are all
honest and generous, where society is in a
condition of primitive purity
and politics is the occupation of only the
capable and the patriotic,
there are necessarily no materials for suc=
h a
history as we have
constructed out of an ideal commonwealth.<= o:p>
No apology is needed for following the lea=
rned
custom of placing
attractive scraps of literature at the hea=
ds
of our chapters. It has
been truly observed by Wagner that such
headings, with their vague
suggestions of the matter which is to foll=
ow
them, pleasantly inflame the
reader's interest without wholly satisfying
his curiosity, and we will
hope that it may be found to be so in the
present case.
Our quotations are set in a vast number of
tongues; this is done for the
reason that very few foreign nations among
whom the book will circulate
can read in any language but their own;
whereas we do not write for a
particular class or sect or nation, but to
take in the whole world.
We do not object to criticism; and we do n=
ot
expect that the critic will
read the book before writing a notice of i=
t:
We do not even expect the
reviewer of the book will say that he has =
not
read it. No, we have no
anticipations of anything unusual in this =
age
of criticism. But if the
Jupiter, Who passes his opinion on the nov=
el,
ever happens to peruse it
in some weary moment of his subsequent lif=
e,
we hope that he will not be
the victim of a remorse bitter but too lat=
e.
One word more. This is--what it pretends to be a =
joint
production, in
the conception of the story, the expositio=
n of
the characters, and in its
literal composition. There is scarcely a chapter that d=
oes
not bear the
marks of the two writers of the book. S. L. C.
=
&nb=
sp; =
C. D. W.
June 18--. Squire Hawkins sat upon the pyrami=
d of
large blocks, called
the "stile," in front of his hou=
se,
contemplating the morning.
The locality was Obedstown,
Obedstown stood on the top of a mountain, =
for
there was nothing about the
landscape to indicate it--but it did: a
mountain that stretched abroad
over whole counties, and rose very
gradually. The district was c=
alled
the "Knobs of East Tennessee," a=
nd
had a reputation like
as turning out any good thing was concerne=
d.
The Squire's house was a double log cabin,=
in
a state of decay; two or
three gaunt hounds lay asleep about the
threshold, and lifted their heads
sadly whenever Mrs. Hawkins or the children
stepped in and out over their
bodies.&n=
bsp;
Rubbish was scattered about the grassless yard; a bench stood
near the door with a tin wash basin on it =
and
a pail of water and a
gourd; a cat had begun to drink from the p=
ail,
but the exertion was
overtaxing her energies, and she had stopp=
ed
to rest. There was an
ash-hopper by the fence, and an iron pot, =
for
soft-soap-boiling, near it.
This dwelling constituted one-fifteenth of
Obedstown; the other fourteen
houses were scattered about among the tall
pine trees and among the
corn-fields in such a way that a man might
stand in the midst of the city
and not know but that he was in the countr=
y if
he only depended on his
eyes for information.
"Squire" Hawkins got his title f=
rom
being postmaster of Obedstown--not
that the title properly belonged to the
office, but because in those
regions the chief citizens always must have
titles of some sort, and so
the usual courtesy had been extended to
Hawkins. The mail was monthly=
,
and sometimes amounted to as much as three=
or
four letters at a single
delivery.=
Even a rush like this did not fill up the postmaster's whole
month, though, and therefore he "kept
store" in the intervals.
The Squire was contemplating the morning.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was balmy and tranquil,
the vagrant breezes were laden with the od=
or
of flowers, the murmur of
bees was in the air, there was everywhere =
that
suggestion of repose that
summer woodlands bring to the senses, and =
the
vague, pleasurable
melancholy that such a time and such
surroundings inspire.
Presently the
one letter, and it was for the
postmaster. The long-legged y=
outh
who
carried the mail tarried an hour to talk, =
for
there was no hurry; and in
a little while the male population of the
village had assembled to help.
As a general thing, they were dressed in
homespun "jeans," blue or
yellow--here were no other varieties of it;
all wore one suspender and
sometimes two--yarn ones knitted at
home,--some wore vests, but few wore
coats.&nb=
sp;
Such coats and vests as did appear, however, were rather
picturesque than otherwise, for they were =
made
of tolerably fanciful
patterns of calico--a fashion which prevai=
ls
thereto this day among those
of the community who have tastes above the
common level and are able to
afford style. Every individual arrived with his =
hands
in his pockets;
a hand came out occasionally for a purpose,
but it always went back again
after service; and if it was the head that=
was
served, just the cant that
the dilapidated straw hat got by being
uplifted and rooted under, was
retained until the next call altered the
inclination; many' hats were
present, but none were erect and no two we=
re
canted just alike. We are
speaking impartially of men, youths and
boys. And we are also speakin=
g
of these three estates when we say that ev=
ery
individual was either
chewing natural leaf tobacco prepared on h=
is
own premises, or smoking the
same in a corn-cob pipe. Few of the men wore whiskers; none=
wore
moustaches; some had a thick jungle of hair
under the chin and hiding the
throat--the only pattern recognized there =
as
being the correct thing in
whiskers; but no part of any individual's =
face
had seen a razor for a
week.
These neighbors stood a few moments lookin=
g at
the mail carrier
reflectively while he talked; but fatigue =
soon
began to show itself,
and one after another they climbed up and
occupied the top rail of the
fence, hump-shouldered and grave, like a
company of buzzards assembled
for supper and listening for the
death-rattle. Old Damrell sai=
d:
"Tha hain't no news 'bout the jedge, =
hit
ain't likely?"
"Cain't tell for sartin; some thinks =
he's
gwyne to be 'long toreckly,
and some thinks 'e hain't. Russ Mosely he tote ole Hanks he m=
ought
git
to Obeds tomorrer or nex' day he
reckoned."
"Well, I wisht I knowed. I got a 'prime sow and pigs in the
cote-house,
and I hain't got no place for to put 'em.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> If the jedge is a gwyne to
hold cote, I got to roust 'em out, I
reckon. But tomorrer'll do, I=
'spect."
The speaker bunched his thick lips together
like the stem-end of a tomato
and shot a bumble-bee dead that had lit on=
a
weed seven feet away.
One after another the several chewers
expressed a charge of tobacco juice
and delivered it at the deceased with stea=
dy,
aim and faultless accuracy.
"What's a stirrin', down 'bout the
Forks?" continued Old Damrell.
"Well, I dunno, skasely. Ole, Drake Higgins he's ben down t=
o
week.&nbs=
p;
Tuck his crap down; couldn't git shet o' the most uv it; hit
wasn't no time for to sell, he say, so he
'fotch it back agin, 'lowin' to
wait tell fall. Talks 'bout goin' to Mozouri--lots =
uv
'ems talkin'
that-away down thar, Ole Higgins say. Cain't make a livin' here no mo',<= o:p>
sich times as these. Si Higgins he's ben over to Kaintu=
ck n'
married a
high-toned gal thar, outen the fust famili=
es,
an' he's come back to the
Forks with jist a hell's-mint o'
whoop-jamboree notions, folks says.
He's tuck an' fixed up the ole house like =
they
does in Kaintuck, he say,
an' tha's ben folks come cler from Turpent=
ine
for to see it. He's tuck
an gawmed it all over on the inside with
plarsterin'."
"What's plasterin'?"
"I dono. Hit's what he calls it. 'Ole Mam Higgins, she tole me.
She say she wasn't gwyne to hang out in no
sich a dern hole like a hog.
Says it's mud, or some sich kind o' nastin=
ess
that sticks on n' covers up
everything. Plarsterin', Si calls it."
This marvel was discussed at considerable
length; and almost with
animation. But presently there was a dog-figh=
t over
in the neighborhood
of the blacksmith shop, and the visitors s=
lid
off their perch like so
many turtles and strode to the battle-field
with an interest bordering on
eagerness. The Squire remained, and read his
letter. Then he sighed,
and sat long in meditation. At intervals he said:
"
At last he said:
"I believe I'll do it.--A man will ju= st rot, here. My house my yard,<= o:p>
everything around me, in fact, shows' that=
I
am becoming one of these
cattle--and I used to be thrifty in other
times."
He was not more than thirty-five, but he h=
ad a
worn look that made him
seem older. He left the stile, entered that pa=
rt of
his house which was
the store, traded a quart of thick molasses
for a coonskin and a cake of
beeswax, to an old dame in linsey-woolsey,=
put
his letter away, an went
into the kitchen. His wife was there, constructing s=
ome
dried apple
pies; a slovenly urchin of ten was dreaming
over a rude weather-vane of
his own contriving; his small sister, close
upon four years of age, was
sopping corn-bread in some gravy left in t=
he bottom
of a frying-pan and
trying hard not to sop over a finger-mark =
that
divided the pan through
the middle--for the other side belonged to=
the
brother, whose musings
made him forget his stomach for the moment=
; a
negro woman was busy
cooking, at a vast fire-place. Shiftlessness and poverty reigned =
in the
place.
"
ought to be done with it. But no matter--I can wait. I am going to
it on my mind sometime. I'm going to sell out here for wha=
tever
I can
get, and buy a wagon and team and put you =
and
the children in it and
start."
"Anywhere that suits you, suits me,
Si. And the children can't be=
any
worse off in
Motioning his wife to a private conference=
in
their own room, Hawkins
said: "No, they'll be better off. I've looked out for them, Nancy,&q=
uot;
and
his face lighted. "Do you see these papers? Well, they are evidence
that I have taken up Seventy-five Thousand
Acres of Land in this county
--think what an enormous fortune it will be
some day! Why,
don't express it--the word's too tame! I tell your
"For goodness sake, Si----"
"Wait,
with this grand inspiration for weeks, and=
I
must talk or I'll burst!
I haven't whispered to a soul--not a
word--have had my countenance under
lock and key, for fear it might drop somet=
hing
that would tell even these
animals here how to discern the gold mine
that's glaring under their
noses.&nb=
sp;
Now all that is necessary to hold this land and keep it in the
family is to pay the trifling taxes on it
yearly--five or ten dollars
--the whole tract would not sell for over a
third of a cent an acre now,
but some day people wild be glad to get it=
for
twenty dollars, fifty
dollars, a hundred dollars an acre! What should you say to" [here=
he
dropped his voice to a whisper and looked
anxiously around to see that
there were no eavesdroppers,] "a thou=
sand
dollars an acre!
"Well you may open your eyes and
stare! But it's so. You and I may not
see the day, but they'll see it. Mind I tell you; they'll see it.
course you did. You've heard these cattle here sco=
ff at
them and call
them lies and humbugs,--but they're not li=
es
and humbugs, they're a
reality and they're going to be a more
wonderful thing some day than they
are now.&=
nbsp;
They're going to make a revolution in this world's affairs that
will make men dizzy to contemplate. I've been watching--I've been
watching while some people slept, and I kn=
ow
what's coming.
"Even you and I will see the day that
steamboats will come up that little
water they'll come right to it! And this is not all, Nancy--it isn=
't
even half! There's a bigger wonder--the
railroad! These worms here ha=
ve
never even heard of it--and when they do
they'll not believe in it.
But it's another fact. Coaches that fly over the ground t=
wenty
miles an
hour--heavens and earth, think of that,
It makes a main's brain whirl. Some day, when you and I are in ou=
r
graves, there'll be a railroad stretching
hundreds of miles--all the way
down from the cities of the Northern State=
s to
to run within thirty miles of this land--m=
ay
be even touch a corner of
it.
Well; do you know, they've quit burning wood in some places in the
Eastern States? And what do you suppose they burn?=
Coal!" [He bent over
and whispered again:] "There's
world--worlds of it on this land!
You
know that black stuff that crops out of the
bank of the branch?--well,
that's it. You've taken it for rocks; so has =
every
body here; and
they've built little dams and such things =
with
it. One man was going to
build a chimney out of it.
Why, it might have caught fire and told
everything. I showed him it w=
as
too crumbly. Then he was going to build it of co=
pper
ore--splendid
yellow forty-per-cent. ore! There's fortunes upon fortunes of =
copper
ore
on our land! It scared me to death, the idea of=
this
fool starting a
smelting furnace in his house without know=
ing
it, and getting his dull
eyes opened. And then he was going to build it =
of
iron ore! There's
mountains of iron ore here,
take any chances. I just stuck by him--I haunted him=
--I
never let him
alone till he built it of mud and sticks l=
ike
all the rest of the
chimneys in this dismal country. Pine forests, wheat land, corn lan=
d,
iron, copper, coal-wait till the railroads
come, and the steamboats!
We'll never see the day,
child. We've got to drag along, drag along=
, and
eat crusts in toil and
poverty, all hopeless and forlorn--but the=
y'll
ride in coaches, Nancy!
They'll live like the princes of the earth;
they'll be courted and
worshiped; their names will be known from
ocean to ocean! Ah,
well-a-day! Will they ever come back here, on =
the
railroad and the
steamboat, and say, 'This one little spot
shall not be touched--this
hovel shall be sacred--for here our father=
and
our mother suffered for
us, thought for us, laid the foundations of
our future as solid as the
hills!'"
"You are a great, good, noble soul, Si
Hawkins, and I am an honored woman
to be the wife of such a man"--and the
tears stood in her eyes when she
said it.&=
nbsp;
"We will go to
among these groping dumb creatures. We will find a higher place, where=
you can walk with your own kind, and be
understood when you speak--not
stared at as if you were talking some fore=
ign
tongue. I would go
anywhere, anywhere in the wide world with =
you
I would rather my body
would starve and die than your mind should
hunger and wither away in this
lonely land."
"Spoken like yourself, my child! But we'll not starve,
it.
I have a letter from Beriah Sellers--just came this day. A letter
that--I'll read you a line from it!"<= o:p>
He flew out of the room. A shadow blurred the sunlight in <=
st1:City
w:st=3D"on">
--there was uneasiness in it, and
disappointment. A procession =
of
disturbing thoughts began to troop through=
her
mind. Saying nothing
aloud, she sat with her hands in her lap; =
now
and then she clasped them,
then unclasped them, then tapped the ends =
of
the fingers together;
sighed, nodded, smiled--occasionally pause=
d,
shook her head. This
pantomime was the elocutionary expression =
of
an unspoken soliloquy which
had something of this shape:
"I was afraid of it--was afraid of
it. Trying to make our fortun=
e in
crippled us again and we had to move
here. Trying to make our fort=
une here, he brought us clear down to the grou=
nd,
nearly. He's an honest soul, and means the very best in the world,
but I'm afraid, I'm afraid he's too flighty. He has splendid ideas, and he'll d=
ivide
his chances with his friends with a free hand, the good
generous soul, but something does seem to always interfere and spoil
everything. I never did think=
he was right well balanced. But I don't blame my husband, for =
I do
think that when that man gets his head full of a=
new
notion, he can out-talk a machine.&=
nbsp;
He'll make anybody believe in that notion that'll listen to him ten minutes--why I do believe he would mak=
e a
deaf and dumb man believe in it and get beside himself, if you only =
set
him where he could see his eyes tally and watch his hands explain. got up that idea there in have them delivered at a place in
away yonder at a certain time, and then in=
the
meantime get a law made
stopping everybody from selling negroes to=
the
south after a certain day
--it was somehow that way--mercy how the m=
an
would have made money!
Negroes would have gone up to four
prices. But after he'd spent =
money
and worked hard, and traveled hard, and had
heaps of negroes all
contracted for, and everything going along
just right, he couldn't get
the laws passed and down the whole thing
tumbled. And there in
when he raked up that old numskull that had
been inventing away at a
perpetual motion machine for twenty-two ye=
ars,
and Beriah Sellers saw at
a glance where just one more little cog-wh=
eel
would settle the business,
why I could see it as plain as day when he
came in wild at midnight and
hammered us out of bed and told the whole
thing in a whisper with the
doors bolted and the candle in an empty
barrel. Oceans of money in it=
--anybody could see that. But it did cost a deal to buy the =
old
numskull
out--and then when they put the new cog wheel in they'd
overlooked
something somewhere and it wasn't any use--the trouble=
some
thing wouldn't go. That notio=
n he
got up here did look as handy as anything in theworld; and how him and Si d=
id
sit up nights working at it with the
curtains down and me watching to see if any neighbors =
were
about. The
man did honestly believe there was a fortu=
ne
in that black gummy oil that
stews out of the bank Si says is coal; and=
he
refined it himself till it
was like water, nearly, and it did burn,
there's no two ways about that;
and I reckon he'd have been all right in <=
st1:City
w:st=3D"on">
got made, that time he got a house full of
rich speculators to see him
exhibit only in the middle of his speech it
let go and almost blew the
heads off the whole crowd. I haven't got over grieving for the
money
that cost yet. I am sorry enough Beriah Sellers i=
s in
I was glad when he went. I wonder what his letter says. But of course
it's cheerful; he's never down-hearted--ne=
ver
had any trouble in his
life--didn't know it if he had. It's always sunrise with that man,=
and
fine and blazing, at that--never gets noon;
though--leaves off and rises
again.&nb=
sp;
Nobody can help liking the creature, he means so well--but I do
dread to come across him again; he's bound=
to
set us all crazy, of
coarse.&n=
bsp;
Well, there goes old widow Hopkins--it always takes her a week
to buy a spool of thread and trade a hank =
of
yarn. Maybe Si can come
with the letter, now."
And he did:
"Widow Hopkins kept me--I haven't any
patience with such tedious people.
Now listen,
"'Come right
along to
price but sell o=
ut for
whatever you can get, and come along, or you
might be too
late. Throw away your traps, =
if
necessary, and come
empty-handed.
--the loveliest
land--the purest atmosphere--I can't describe it; no
pen can do it
justice. And it's filling up,=
every
day--people
coming from
everywhere. I've got the bigg=
est
scheme on earth--and
I'll take you in=
; I'll
take in every friend I've got that's ever
stood by me, for
there's enough for all, and to spare.
Mum's the
word--don't
whisper--keep yourself to yourself.
You'll see! Come!
--rush!--hurry!-=
-don't
wait for anything!'
"It's the same old boy, Nancy, jest t=
he
same old boy--ain't he?"
"Yes, I think there's a little of the=
old
sound about his voice yet.
I suppose you--you'll still go, Si?"<= o:p>
"Go!=
Well, I should think so, Nancy.&nbs=
p;
It's all a chance, of course, and,
chances haven't been kind to us, I'll
admit--but whatever comes, old
wife, they're provided for. Thank God for that!"
"Amen," came low and earnestly.<= o:p>
And with an activity and a suddenness that
bewildered Obedstown and
almost took its breath away, the Hawkinses
hurried through with their
arrangements in four short months and flit=
ted
out into the great
mysterious blank that lay beyond the Knobs=
of
Tennessee.
Toward the close of the third day's journey
the wayfarers were just
beginning to think of camping, when they c=
ame
upon a log cabin in the
woods.&nb=
sp;
Hawkins drew rein and entered the yard. A boy about ten years
old was sitting in the cabin door with his
face bowed in his hands.
Hawkins approached, expecting his footfall=
to
attract attention, but it
did not.&=
nbsp;
He halted a moment, and then said:
"Come, come, little chap, you mustn't=
be
going to sleep before sundown"
With a tired expression the small face cam=
e up
out of the hands,--a face
down which tears were flowing.
"Ah, I'm sorry I spoke so, my boy.
The boy signified with a scarcely percepti=
ble
gesture that the trouble
was in the house, and made room for Hawkin=
s to
pass. Then he put his
face in his hands again and rocked himself
about as one suffering a grief
that is too deep to find help in moan or g=
roan
or outcry. Hawkins
stepped within. It was a poverty stricken place. Six or eight
middle-aged country people of both sexes w=
ere
grouped about an object in
the middle of the room; they were noiseles=
sly
busy and they talked in
whispers when they spoke. Hawkins uncovered and approached.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> A coffin
stood upon two backless chairs. These neighbors had just finished<= o:p>
disposing the body of a woman in it--a wom=
an
with a careworn, gentle face
that had more the look of sleep about it t=
han
of death. An old lady
motioned, toward the door and said to Hawk=
ins
in a whisper:
"His mother, po' thing. Died of the fever, last night. Tha warn't no
sich thing as saving of her. But it's better for her--better fo=
r her.
Husband and the other two children died in=
the
spring, and she hain't
ever hilt up her head sence. She jest went around broken-hearted
like,
and never took no intrust in anything but
Clay--that's the boy thar.
She jest worshiped Clay--and Clay he worsh=
iped
her. They didn't 'pear to
live at all, only when they was together,
looking at each other, loving
one another. She's ben sick three weeks; and if=
you
believe me that
child has worked, and kep' the run of the
med'cin, and the times of
giving it, and sot up nights and nussed he=
r,
and tried to keep up her
sperits, the same as a grown-up person. And last night when she kep' a
sinking and sinking, and turned away her head and didn=
't
know him no mo', it was fitten to make a body's heart break to see him climb
onto the bed
and lay his cheek agin hern and call her so pitiful and
she not answer.
But bymeby she roused up, like, and looked
around wild, and then she see
him, and she made a great cry and snatched=
him
to her breast and hilt him
close and kissed him over and over agin; b=
ut
it took the last po'
strength she had, and so her eyelids begin=
to
close down, and her arms
sort o' drooped away and then we see she w=
as
gone, po' creetur. And
Clay, he--Oh, the po' motherless thing--I
cain't talk abort it--I cain't
bear to talk about it."
Clay had disappeared from the door; but he
came in, now, and the
neighbors reverently fell apart and made w=
ay
for him. He leaned upon the
open coffin and let his tears course
silently. Then he put out his=
small
hand and smoothed the hair and stroked the
dead face lovingly. After a
bit he brought his other hand up from behi=
nd
him and laid three or four
fresh wild flowers upon the breast, bent o=
ver
and kissed the unresponsive
lips time and time again, and then turned =
away
and went out of the house
without looking at any of the company. The old lady said to Hawkins:
"She always loved that kind o' flower=
s. He fetched 'em for her every
morning, and she always kissed him. They was from away north somers--s=
he
kep' school when she fust come. Goodness knows what's to become o'=
that
po' boy.&=
nbsp;
No father, no mother, no kin folks of no kind. Nobody to go
to, nobody that k'yers for him--and all of=
us
is so put to it for to get
along and families so large."
Hawkins understood. All, eyes were turned inquiringly =
upon
him. He
said:
"Friends, I am not very well provided
for, myself, but still I would not
turn my back on a homeless orphan. If he will go with me I will give =
him
a home, and loving regard--I will do for h=
im
as I would have another do
for a child of my own in misfortune."=
One after another the people stepped forwa=
rd
and wrung the stranger's
hand with cordial good will, and their eyes
looked all that their hands
could not express or their lips speak.
"Said like a true man," said one=
.
"You was a stranger to me a minute ag=
o,
but you ain't now," said another.
"It's bread cast upon the waters--it'=
ll
return after many days," said the
old lady whom we have heard speak before.<= o:p>
"You got to camp in my house as long =
as
you hang out here," said one.
"If tha hain't room for you and yourn=
my
tribe'll turn out and camp in
the hay loft."
A few minutes afterward, while the
preparations for the funeral were
being concluded, Mr. Hawkins arrived at his
wagon leading his little waif
by the hand, and told his wife all that had
happened, and asked her if he
had done right in giving to her and to him=
self
this new care? She said:
"If you've done wrong, Si Hawkins, it=
's a
wrong that will shine brighter
at the judgment day than the rights that m=
any'
a man has done before you.
And there isn't any compliment you can pay=
me
equal to doing a thing like
this and finishing it up, just taking it f=
or
granted that I'll be willing
to it.&nb=
sp;
Willing? Come to me; y=
ou
poor motherless boy, and let me take
your grief and help you carry it."
When the child awoke in the morning, it wa=
s as
if from a troubled dream.
But slowly the confusion in his mind took
form, and he remembered his
great loss; the beloved form in the coffin;
his talk with a generous
stranger who offered him a home; the funer=
al,
where the stranger's wife
held him by the hand at the grave, and cri=
ed
with him and comforted him;
and he remembered how this, new mother tuc=
ked
him in his bed in the
neighboring farm house, and coaxed him to =
talk
about his troubles, and
then heard him say his prayers and kissed =
him
good night, and left him
with the soreness in his heart almost heal=
ed
and his bruised spirit at
rest.
And now the new mother came again, and hel=
ped
him to dress, and combed
his hair, and drew his mind away by degrees
from the dismal yesterday,
by telling him about the wonderful journey=
he
was going to take and the
strange things he was going to see. And after breakfast they two went<= o:p>
alone to the grave, and his heart went out=
to
his new friend and his
untaught eloquence poured the praises of h=
is
buried idol into her ears
without let or hindrance. Together they planted roses by the
headboard
and strewed wild flowers upon the grave; a=
nd
then together they went
away, hand in hand, and left the dead to t=
he
long sleep that heals all
heart-aches and ends all sorrows.
Whatever the lagging dragging journey may =
have
been to the rest of the
emigrants, it was a wonder and delight to =
the
children, a world of
enchantment; and they believed it to be
peopled with the mysterious
dwarfs and giants and goblins that figured=
in
the tales the negro slaves
were in the habit of telling them nightly =
by
the shuddering light of the
kitchen fire.
At the end of nearly a week of travel, the
party went into camp near a
shabby village which was caving, house by
house, into the hungry
mile-breadth of water seemed an ocean to t=
hem,
in the shadowy twilight,
and the vague riband of trees on the furth=
er
shore, the verge of a
continent which surely none but they had e=
ver
seen before.
"Uncle Dan'l" (colored,) aged 40;
his wife, "aunt Jinny," aged 30, "Young
Miss" Emily Hawkins, "Young
Mars"
Clay, the new member of the family, ranged
themselves on a log, after
supper, and contemplated the marvelous riv=
er
and discussed it. The moon
rose and sailed aloft through a maze of
shredded cloud-wreaths; the
sombre river just perceptibly brightened u=
nder
the veiled light; a deep
silence pervaded the air and was emphasize=
d,
at intervals, rather than
broken, by the hooting of an owl, the bayi=
ng
of a dog, or the muffled
crash of a raving bank in the distance.
The little company assembled on the log we=
re
all children (at least in
simplicity and broad and comprehensive
ignorance,) and the remarks they
made about the river were in keeping with =
the
character; and so awed were
they by the grandeur and the solemnity of =
the
scene before then, and by
their belief that the air was filled with
invisible spirits and that the
faint zephyrs were caused by their passing
wings, that all their talk
took to itself a tinge of the supernatural,
and their voices were subdued
to a low and reverent tone. Suddenly Uncle Dan'l exclaimed:
"Chil'en, dah's sum fin a comin!"=
;
All crowded close together and every heart
beat faster.
Uncle Dan'l pointed down the river with his
bony finger.
A deep coughing sound troubled the stillne=
ss,
way toward a wooded cape
that jetted into the stream a mile
distant. All in an instant a =
fierce
eye of fire shot out froth behind the cape=
and
sent a long brilliant
pathway quivering athwart the dusky
water. The coughing grew loud=
er and
louder, the glaring eye grew larger and st=
ill
larger, glared wilder and
still wilder. A huge shape developed itself out =
of the
gloom, and from
its tall duplicate horns dense volumes of
smoke, starred and spangled
with sparks, poured out and went tumbling =
away
into the farther darkness.
Nearer and nearer the thing came, till its
long sides began to glow with
spots of light which mirrored themselves in
the river and attended the
monster like a torchlight procession.
"What is it! Oh, what is it, Uncle Dan'l!"=
With deep solemnity the answer came:
"It's de Almighty! Git down on yo' knees!"
It was not necessary to say it twice. They were all kneeling, in a
moment.&n=
bsp;
And then while the mysterious coughing rose stronger and
stronger and the threatening glare reached
farther and wider, the negro's
voice lifted up its supplications:
"O Lord', we's ben mighty wicked, an'=
we
knows dat we 'zerve to go to de
bad place, but good Lord, deah Lord, we ai=
n't
ready yit, we ain't ready
--let dese po' chilen hab one mo' chance, =
jes'
one mo' chance. Take de ole
niggah if you's, got to hab somebody.--Good
Lord, good deah Lord, we
don't know whah you's a gwyne to, we don't
know who you's got yo' eye on,
but we knows by de way you's a comin', we =
knows
by de way you's a tiltin'
along in yo' charyot o' fiah dat some po'
sinner's a gwyne to ketch it.
But good Lord, dose chilen don't b'long he=
ah,
dey's f'm Obedstown whah
dey don't know nuffin, an' you knows, yo' =
own
sef, dat dey ain't
'sponsible. An' deah Lord, good Lord, it ain't=
like
yo' mercy, it ain't
like yo' pity, it ain't like yo'
long-sufferin' lovin' kindness for to
take dis kind o' 'vantage o' sick little
chil'en as dose is when dey's so
many ornery grown folks chuck full o'
cussedness dat wants roastin' down
dah.
Oh, Lord, spah de little chil'en, don't tar de little chil'en away
f'm dey frens, jes' let 'em off jes' dis o=
nce,
and take it out'n de ole
niggah.&n=
bsp;
HEAH I IS, LORD, HEAH I IS!
De ole niggah's ready, Lord,
de ole----"
The flaming and churning steamer was right
abreast the party, and not
twenty steps away. The awful thunder of a mud-valve
suddenly burst
forth, drowning the prayer, and as suddenly
Uncle Dan'l snatched a child
under each arm and scoured into the woods =
with
the rest of the pack at
his heels. And then, ashamed of himself, he h=
alted
in the deep darkness
and shouted, (but rather feebly:)
"Heah I is, Lord, heah I is!"
There was a moment of throbbing suspense, =
and
then, to the surprise and
the comfort of the party, it was plain that
the august presence had gone
by, for its dreadful noises were
receding. Uncle Dan'l headed a
cautious
reconnaissance in the direction of the
log. Sure enough "the
Lord" was
just turning a point a short distance up t=
he
river, and while they looked
the lights winked out and the coughing
diminished by degrees and
presently ceased altogether.
"H'wsh! Well now dey's some folks says dey=
ain't
no 'ficiency in prah.
Dis
prah?&nbs=
p;
Dat's it. Dat's it!&qu=
ot;
"Uncle Dan'l, do you reckon it was the
prayer that saved us?" said Clay.
"Does I reckon? Don't I know it! Whah was yo' eyes? Warn't de Lord
jes' a cumin' chow! chow! CHOW! an' a goin' on turrible--an' do de=
Lord carry on dat way 'dout dey's sumfin d=
on't
suit him? An' warn't he a
lookin' right at dis gang heah, an' warn't=
he
jes' a reachin' for 'em?
An' d'you spec' he gwyne to let 'em off 'd=
out
somebody ast him to do it?
No indeedy!"
"Do you reckon he saw, us, Uncle Dan'=
l?
"De law sakes,
"Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l?&qu=
ot;
"No sah! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he a=
in't
fraid o' nuffin--dey
can't nuffin tetch him."
"Well what did you run for?"
"Well, I--I--mars Clay, when a man is
under de influence ob de sperit,
he do-no, what he's 'bout--no sah; dat man
do-no what he's 'bout. You
mout take an' tah de head off'n dat man an=
' he
wouldn't scasely fine it
out.
Date's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah; dey was burnt
considable--ob coase dey was; but dey didn=
't
know nuffin 'bout it--heal
right up agin; if dey'd ben gals dey'd mis=
sed
dey long haah, (hair,)
maybe, but dey wouldn't felt de burn."=
;
"I don't know but what they were
girls. I think they were.&quo=
t;
"Now mars Clay, you knows bettern
dat. Sometimes a body can't t=
ell
whedder you's a sayin' what you means or
whedder you's a sayin' what you
don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same
way."
"But how should I know whether they w=
ere
boys or girls?"
"Goodness sakes, mars Clay, don't de =
Good
Book say? 'Sides, don't it
call 'em de HE-brew chil'en? If dey was gals wouldn't dey be de
SHE-brew
chil'en?&=
nbsp;
Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take no notice when dey
do read."
"Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think
that-----My! here comes anoth=
er one
up the
river!&nb=
sp;
There can't be two!"
"We gone dis time--we done gone dis t=
ime,
sho'! Dey ain't two, mars
Clay--days de same one. De Lord kin 'pear eberywhah in a s=
econd.
Goodness, how do fiah and de smoke do belch
up! Dat mean business,
honey.&nb=
sp;
He comin' now like he fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en, time
you's gwyne to roos'. Go 'long wid you--ole Uncle Daniel=
gwyne
out in de
woods to rastle in prah--de ole nigger gwy=
ne
to do what he kin to sabe
you agin."
He did go to the woods and pray; but he we=
nt
so far that he doubted,
himself, if the Lord heard him when He went
by.
--Seventhly, Before his Voyage, He should =
make
his peace with God,
satisfie his Creditors if he be in debt; P=
ray
earnestly to God to prosper
him in his Voyage, and to keep him from
danger, and, if he be 'sui juris'
he should make his last will, and wisely o=
rder
all his affairs, since
many that go far abroad, return not home.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> (This good and Christian
Counsel is given by Martinus Zeilerus in h=
is
Apodemical Canons before his
Itinerary of
Early in the morning Squire Hawkins took
passage in a small steamboat,
with his family and his two slaves, and
presently the bell rang, the
stage-plank; was hauled in, and the vessel
proceeded up the river.
The children and the slaves were not much =
more
at ease after finding out
that this monster was a creature of human
contrivance than they were the
night before when they thought it the Lord=
of
heaven and earth. They
started, in fright, every time the gauge-c=
ocks
sent out an angry hiss,
and they quaked from head to foot when the
mud-valves thundered. The
shivering of the boat under the beating of=
the
wheels was sheer misery to
them.
But of course familiarity with these things
soon took away their terrors,
and then the voyage at once became a glori=
ous
adventure, a royal progress
through the very heart and home of romance=
, a
realization of their
rosiest wonder-dreams. They sat by the hour in the shade =
of the
pilot
house on the hurricane deck and looked out
over the curving expanses of
the river sparkling in the sunlight. Sometimes the boat fought the
mid-stream current, with a verdant world on
either hand, and remote from
both; sometimes she closed in under a poin=
t,
where the dead water and the
helping eddies were, and shaved the bank so
closely that the decks were
swept by the jungle of over-hanging willows
and littered with a spoil of
leaves; departing from these
"points" she regularly crossed the river
every five miles, avoiding the
"bight" of the great binds and thus
escaping the strong current; sometimes she
went out and skirted a high
"bluff" sand-bar in the middle of
the stream, and occasionally followed
it up a little too far and touched upon the
shoal water at its head--and
then the intelligent craft refused to run
herself aground, but "smelt"
the bar, and straightway the foamy streak =
that
streamed away from her
bows vanished, a great foamless wave rolled
forward and passed her under
way, and in this instant she leaned far ov=
er
on her side, shied from the
bar and fled square away from the danger l=
ike
a frightened thing--and the
pilot was lucky if he managed to
"straighten her up" before she drove her
nose into the opposite bank; sometimes she
approached a solid wall of
tall trees as if she meant to break through
it, but all of a sudden a
little crack would open just enough to adm=
it
her, and away she would go
plowing through the "chute" with
just barely room enough between the
island on one side and the main land on the
other; in this sluggish water
she seemed to go like a racehorse; now and
then small log cabins appeared
in little clearings, with the never-failing
frowsy women and girls in
soiled and faded linsey-woolsey leaning in=
the
doors or against woodpiles
and rail fences, gazing sleepily at the pa=
ssing
show; sometimes she found
shoal water, going out at the head of those
"chutes" or crossing the
river, and then a deck-hand stood on the b=
ow
and hove the lead, while the
boat slowed down and moved cautiously;
sometimes she stopped a moment at
a landing and took on some freight or a
passenger while a crowd of
slouchy white men and negroes stood on the
bank and looked sleepily on
with their hands in their pantaloons
pockets,--of course--for they never
took them out except to stretch, and when =
they
did this they squirmed
about and reached their fists up into the =
air
and lifted themselves on
tip-toe in an ecstasy of enjoyment.
When the sun went down it turned all the b=
road
river to a national banner
laid in gleaming bars of gold and purple a=
nd
crimson; and in time these
glories faded out in the twilight and left=
the
fairy archipelagoes
reflecting their fringing foliage in the
steely mirror of the stream.
At night the boat forged on through the de=
ep
solitudes of the river,
hardly ever discovering a light to testify=
to
a human presence--mile
after mile and league after league the vast
bends were guarded by
unbroken walls of forest that had never be=
en
disturbed by the voice or
the foot-fall of man or felt the edge of h=
is
sacrilegious axe.
An hour after supper the moon came up, and
Clay and Washington ascended
to the hurricane deck to revel again in th=
eir
new realm of enchantment.
They ran races up and down the deck; climb=
ed
about the bell; made friends
with the passenger-dogs chained under the
lifeboat; tried to make friends
with a passenger-bear fastened to the
verge-staff but were not
encouraged; "skinned the cat" on=
the
hog-chains; in a word, exhausted the
amusement-possibilities of the deck. Then they looked wistfully up at
the pilot house, and finally, little by
little, Clay ventured up there,
followed diffidently by
his stern-marks," saw the lads and
invited them in. Now their
happiness
was complete. This cosy little house, built enti=
rely
of glass and
commanding a marvelous prospect in every
direction was a magician's
throne to them and their enjoyment of the
place was simply boundless.
They sat them down on a high bench and loo=
ked
miles ahead and saw the
wooded capes fold back and reveal the bends
beyond; and they looked miles
to the rear and saw the silvery highway
diminish its breadth by degrees
and close itself together in the
distance. Presently the pilot=
said:
"By George, yonder comes the
Amaranth!"
A spark appeared, close to the water, seve=
ral
miles down the river. The
pilot took his glass and looked at it stea=
dily
for a moment, and said,
chiefly to himself:
"It can't be the Blue Wing. She couldn't pick us up this way.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It's the
Amaranth, sure!"
He bent over a speaking tube and said:
"Who's on watch down there?"
A hollow, unhuman voice rumbled up through=
the
tube in answer:
"I am. Second engineer."
"Good! You want to stir your stumps, now,
Harry--the Amaranth's just
turned the point--and she's just a--humping
herself, too!"
The pilot took hold of a rope that stretch=
ed
out forward, jerked it
twice, and two mellow strokes of the big b=
ell
responded. A voice out on
the deck shouted:
"Stand by, down there, with that labb=
oard
lead!"
"No, I don't want the lead," said
the pilot, "I want you. =
Roust
out the
old man--tell him the Amaranth's coming. And go and call Jim--tell him.&quo=
t;
"Aye-aye, sir!"
The "old man" was the captain--h=
e is
always called so, on steamboats and
ships; "Jim" was the other
pilot. Within two minutes bot=
h of
these men
were flying up the pilothouse stairway, th=
ree
steps at a jump. Jim was
in his shirt sleeves,--with his coat and v=
est
on his arm. He said:
"I was just turning in. Where's the glass"
He took it and looked:
"Don't appear to be any night-hawk on=
the
jack-staff--it's the Amaranth,
dead sure!"
The captain took a good long look, and only
said:
"Damnation!"
George Davis, the pilot on watch, shouted =
to
the night-watchman on deck:
"How's she loaded?"
"Two inches by the head, sir."
"'T ain't enough!"
The captain shouted, now:
"Call the mate. Tell him to call all hands and get=
a lot
of that sugar
forrard--put her ten inches by the head. Lively, now!"
"Aye-aye, sir."
A riot of shouting and trampling floated up
from below, presently, and
the uneasy steering of the boat soon showed
that she was getting "down by
the head."
The three men in the pilot house began to =
talk
in short, sharp sentences,
low and earnestly. As their excitement rose, their vo=
ices
went down.
As fast as one of them put down the spy-gl=
ass
another took it up--but
always with a studied air of calmness. Each time the verdict was:
"She's a gaining!"
The captain spoke through the tube:
"What steam are You carrying?"
"A hundred and forty-two, sir! But she's getting hotter and hotte=
r all
the time."
The boat was straining and groaning and
quivering like a monster in pain.
Both pilots were at work now, one on each =
side
of the wheel, with their
coats and vests off, their bosoms and coll=
ars
wide open and the
perspiration flowing down heir faces. They were holding the boat so
close to the shore that the willows swept =
the
guards almost from stem to
stern.
"Stand by!" whispered George.
"All ready!" said Jim, under his
breath.
"Let her come!"
The boat sprang away, from the bank like a
deer, and darted in a long
diagonal toward the other shore. She closed in again and thrashed h=
er
fierce way along the willows as before.
"Lord how she walks up on us! I do hate to be beat!"
"Jim," said George, looking stra=
ight
ahead, watching the slightest yawing
of the boat and promptly meeting it with t=
he
wheel, "how'll it do to try
Murderer's Chute?"
"Well, it's--it's taking chances. How was the cottonwood stump on th=
e
false point below Boardman's
"Water just touching the roots."=
"Well it's pretty close work. That gives six feet scant in the h=
ead of
Murderer's Chute. We can just barely rub through if =
we hit
it exactly
right.&nb=
sp;
But it's worth trying. She
don't dare tackle it!"--meaning the
Amaranth.
In another instant the Boreas plunged into
what seemed a crooked creek,
and the Amaranth's approaching lights were
shut out in a moment. Not a
whisper was uttered, now, but the three men
stared ahead into the shadows
and two of them spun the wheel back and fo=
rth
with anxious watchfulness
while the steamer tore along. The chute seemed to come to an end=
every
fifty yards, but always opened out in
time. Now the head of it was =
at
hand.&nbs=
p;
George tapped the big bell three times, two leadsmen sprang to
their posts, and in a moment their weird c=
ries
rose on the night air and
were caught up and repeated by two men on =
the
upper deck:
"No-o bottom!"
"De-e-p four!"
"Half three!"
"Quarter three!"
"Mark under wa-a-ter
"Half twain!"
"Quarter twain!-----"
below, the boat's speed slackened, and the
pent steam began to whistle
and the gauge-cocks to scream:
"By the mark twain!"
"Quar--ter--her--er--less twain!"=
;
"Eight and a half!"
"Eight feet!"
"Seven-ana-half!"
Another jingling of little bells and the
wheels ceased turning
altogether. The whistling of the steam was som=
ething
frightful now--it
almost drowned all other noises.
"Stand by to meet her!"
George had the wheel hard down and was
standing on a spoke.
"All ready!"
The boat hesitated seemed to hold her brea=
th,
as did the captain and
pilots--and then she began to fall away to
starboard and every eye
lighted:
"Now then!--meet her! meet her! Snatch her!"
The wheel flew to port so fast that the sp=
okes
blended into a spider-web
--the swing of the boat subsided--she stea=
died
herself----
"Seven feet!"
"Sev--six and a half!"
"Six feet! Six f----"
Bang!&nbs=
p;
She hit the bottom! Ge=
orge
shouted through the tube:
"Spread her wide open! Whale it at her!"
Pow-wow-chow! The escape-pipes belched snowy pil=
lars
of steam aloft, the
boat ground and surged and trembled--and s=
lid
over into----
"M-a-r-k twain!"
"Quarter-her----"
"Tap! tap! tap!" (to signify "Lay i=
n the
leads")
And away she went, flying up the willow sh=
ore,
with the whole silver sea
of the
No Amaranth in sight!
"Ha-ha, boys, we took a couple of tri=
cks
that time!" said the captain.
And just at that moment a red glare appear=
ed
in the head of the chute and
the Amaranth came springing after them!
"Well, I swear!"
"Jim, what is the meaning of that?&qu=
ot;
"I'll tell you what's the meaning of
it. That hail we had at Napol=
eon
was Wash Hastings, wanting to come to
that pilot house, now, showing those mud
turtles how to hunt for easy
water."
"That's it! I thought it wasn't any slouch tha=
t was
running that middle
bar in Hog-eye
about the river ain't worth knowing--a reg=
ular
gold-leaf, kid-glove,
diamond breastpin pilot Wash Hastings is.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> We won't take any tricks off
of him, old man!"
"I wish I'd a stopped for him, that's
all."
The Amaranth was within three hundred yard=
s of
the Boreas, and still
gaining.&=
nbsp;
The "old man" spoke through the tube:
"What is she-carrying now?"
"A hundred and sixty-five, sir!"=
"How's your wood?"
"Pine all out-cypress half gone-eatin=
g up
cotton-wood like pie!"
"Break into that rosin on the main
deck-pile it in, the boat can pay for
it!"
Soon the boat was plunging and quivering a=
nd
screaming more madly than
ever.&nbs=
p;
But the Amaranth's head was almost abreast the Boreas's stern:
"How's your steam, now, Harry?"<= o:p>
"Hundred and eighty-two, sir!"
"Break up the casks of bacon in the
forrard hold! Pile it in! Levy on
that turpentine in the fantail-drench every
stick of wood with it!"
The boat was a moving earthquake by this t=
ime:
"How is she now?"
"A hundred and ninety-six and still
a-swelling!--water, below the middle
gauge-cocks!--carrying every pound she can
stand!--nigger roosting on the
safety-valve!"
"Good! How's your draft?"
"Bully! Every time a nigger heaves a stick=
of
wood into the furnace he
goes out the chimney, with it!"
The Amaranth drew steadily up till her jac=
k-staff
breasted the Boreas's
wheel-house--climbed along inch by inch ti=
ll
her chimneys breasted it
--crept along, further and further, till t=
he
boats were wheel to wheel
--and then they, closed up with a heavy jo=
lt
and locked together tight
and fast in the middle of the big river un=
der
the flooding moonlight! A
roar and a hurrah went up from the crowded
decks of both steamers--all
hands rushed to the guards to look and sho=
ut
and gesticulate--the weight
careened the vessels over toward each
other--officers flew hither and
thither cursing and storming, trying to dr=
ive
the people amidships--both
captains were leaning over their railings
shaking their fists, swearing
and threatening--black volumes of smoke ro=
lled
up and canopied the
scene,--delivering a rain of sparks upon t=
he
vessels--two pistol shots
rang out, and both captains dodged unhurt =
and
the packed masses of
passengers surged back and fell apart while
the shrieks of women and
children soared above the intolerable din-=
---
And then there was a booming roar, a
thundering crash, and the riddled
Amaranth dropped loose from her hold and
drifted helplessly away!
Instantly the fire-doors of the Boreas were
thrown open and the men began
dashing buckets of water into the
furnaces--for it would have been death
and destruction to stop the engines with s=
uch
a head of steam on.
As soon as possible the Boreas dropped dow=
n to
the floating wreck and
took off the dead, the wounded and the
unhurt--at least all that could be
got at, for the whole forward half of the =
boat
was a shapeless ruin, with
the great chimneys lying crossed on top of=
it,
and underneath were a
dozen victims imprisoned alive and wailing=
for
help. While men with axes
worked with might and main to free these p=
oor
fellows, the Boreas's boats
went about, picking up stragglers from the
river.
And now a new horror presented itself. The wreck took fire from the
dismantled furnaces! Never did men work with a heartier=
will
than did
those stalwart braves with the axes. But it was of no use. The fire ate
its way steadily, despising the bucket bri=
gade
that fought it. It
scorched the clothes, it singed the hair of
the axemen--it drove them
back, foot by foot-inch by inch--they wave=
red,
struck a final blow in the
teeth of the enemy, and surrendered. And as they fell back they heard
prisoned voices saying:
"Don't leave us! Don't desert us! Don't, don't do it!"
And one poor fellow said:
"I am Henry Worley, striker of the
Amaranth! My mother lives in =
St.
Louis.&nb=
sp;
Tell her a lie for a poor devil's sake, please. Say I was killed
in an instant and never knew what hurt
me--though God knows I've neither
scratch nor bruise this moment! It's hard to burn up in a coop lik=
e this
with the whole wide world so near. Good-bye boys--we've all got to co=
me
to it at last, anyway!"
The Boreas stood away out of danger, and t=
he
ruined steamer went drifting
down the stream an island of wreathing and
climbing flame that vomited
clouds of smoke from time to time, and gla=
red
more fiercely and sent its
luminous tongues higher and higher after e=
ach
emission. A shriek at
intervals told of a captive that had met h=
is
doom. The wreck lodged upon
a sandbar, and when the Boreas turned the =
next
point on her upward
journey it was still burning with scarcely
abated fury.
When the boys came down into the main salo=
on
of the Boreas, they saw a
pitiful sight and heard a world of pitiful
sounds. Eleven poor creatures=
lay dead and forty more lay moaning, or
pleading or screaming, while a
score of Good Samaritans moved among them
doing what they could to
relieve their sufferings; bathing their
chinless faces and bodies with
linseed oil and lime water and covering the
places with bulging masses of
raw cotton that gave to every face and for=
m a
dreadful and unhuman
aspect.
A little wee French midshipman of fourteen=
lay
fearfully injured, but
never uttered a sound till a physician of =
hurts.&nb=
sp;
Then he said:
"Can I get well? You need not be afraid to tell me.=
"
"No--I--I am afraid you can not."=
;
"Then do not waste your time with
me--help those that can get well."
"But----"
"Help those that can get well! It is, not for me to be a girl.
the blood of eleven generations of soldier=
s in
my veins!"
The physician--himself a man who had seen
service in the navy in his
time--touched his hat to this little hero,=
and
passed on.
The head engineer of the Amaranth, a grand
specimen of physical manhood,
struggled to his feet a ghastly spectacle =
and
strode toward his brother,
the second engineer, who was unhurt. He said:
"You were on watch. You were boss. You would not listen to me when I<= o:p>
begged you to reduce your steam. Take that!--take it to my wife and=
tell
her it comes from me by the hand of my
murderer! Take it--and take m=
y
curse with it to blister your heart a hund=
red
years--and may you live so
long!"
And he tore a ring from his finger, stripp=
ing
flesh and skin with it,
threw it down and fell dead!
But these things must not be dwelt upon. The Boreas landed her dreadful
cargo at the next large town and delivered=
it
over to a multitude of
eager hands and warm southern hearts--a ca=
rgo
amounting by this time to
39 wounded persons and 22 dead bodies. And with these she delivered a
list of 96 missing persons that had drowne=
d or
otherwise perished at the
scene of the disaster.
A jury of inquest was impaneled, and after=
due
deliberation and inquiry
they returned the inevitable American verd=
ict
which has been so familiar
to our ears all the days of our
lives--"NOBODY TO BLAME."
**[The incidents of the explosion are not invented. They happened just<= o:p>
as they are told.--The Authors.]
Il veut faire secher de la neige au four e=
t la
vendre pour du sel blanc.
When the Boreas backed away from the land =
to
continue her voyage up the
river, the Hawkinses were richer by
twenty-four hours of experience in
the contemplation of human suffering and in
learning through honest hard
work how to relieve it. And they were richer in another way
also.
In the early turmoil an hour after the
explosion, a little black-eyed
girl of five years, frightened and crying
bitterly, was struggling
through the throng in the Boreas' saloon
calling her mother and father,
but no one answered. Something in the face of Mr. Hawki=
ns
attracted her
and she came and looked up at him; was sat=
isfied,
and took refuge with
him. He petted her, listened to her troubles, and said he would find her<= o:p>
friends for her. Then he put her in a state-room wi=
th his
children and
told them to be kind to her (the adults of=
his
party were all busy with
the wounded) and straightway began his sea=
rch.
It was fruitless. But all day he and his wife made
inquiries, and hoped
against hope. All that they could learn was that=
the
child and her
parents came on board at
vessel from
that the family name was Van Brunt and the child's name Laura. This was<= o:p>
all.
The parents had not been seen since the explosion. The child's
manners were those of a little lady, and h=
er
clothes were daintier and
finer than any Mrs. Hawkins had ever seen
before.
As the hours dragged on the child lost hea=
rt,
and cried so piteously for
her mother that it seemed to the Hawkinses
that the moanings and the
wailings of the mutilated men and women in=
the
saloon did not so strain
at their heart-strings as the sufferings of
this little desolate
creature.=
They tried hard to comfort her; and in trying, learned to love
her; they could not help it, seeing how she
clung, to them and put her
arms about their necks and found-no solace=
but
in their kind eyes and
comforting words: There was a question in =
both
their hearts--a question
that rose up and asserted itself with more=
and
more pertinacity as the
hours wore on--but both hesitated to give =
it
voice--both kept silence
--and--waited. But a time came at last when the m=
atter
would bear delay
no longer. The boat had landed, and the dead =
and
the wounded were being
conveyed to the shore. The tired child was asleep in the =
arms
of Mrs.
Hawkins.&=
nbsp;
Mr. Hawkins came into their presence and stood without
speaking.=
His eyes met his wife's; then both looked at the child--and as
they looked it stirred in its sleep and
nestled closer; an expression of
contentment and peace settled upon its face
that touched the
mother-heart; and when the eyes of husband=
and
wife met again, the
question was asked and answered.
When the Boreas had journeyed some four
hundred miles from the time the
Hawkinses joined her, a long rank of
steamboats was sighted, packed side
by side at a wharf like sardines, in a box,
and above and beyond them
rose the domes and steeples and general
architectural confusion of a
city--a city with an imposing umbrella of
black smoke spread over it.
This was
about the hurricane deck, and the father a=
nd
mother were sitting in the
lee of the pilot house essaying to keep or=
der
and not greatly grieved
that they were not succeeding.
"They're worth all the trouble they a=
re,
"Yes, and more, Si."
"I believe you! You wouldn't sell one of them at a=
good
round figure?"
"Not for all the money in the bank,
Si."
"My own sentiments every time. It is true we are not rich--but st=
ill
you
are not sorry---you haven't any misgivings
about the additions?"
"No.=
God will provide"
"Amen. And so you wouldn't even part with=
Clay?
Or Laura!"
"Not for anything in the world. I love them just the same as I lov=
e my
own: They pet me and spoil me even more th=
an
the others do, I think.
I reckon we'll get along, Si."
"Oh yes, it will all come out right, =
old
mother. I wouldn't be afraid =
to
adopt a thousand children if I wanted to, =
for
there's that
Land, you know--enough to make an army of =
them
rich. A whole army,
Indeed they will. One of these days it will be the r=
ich
Miss Emily
Hawkins--and the wealthy Miss Laura Van Br=
unt
Hawkins--and the Hon.
George Washington Hawkins, millionaire--and
Gov. Henry Clay Hawkins,
millionaire! That is the way the world will word
it! Don't let's ever
fret about the children,
The children had stopped playing, for the
moment, and drawn near to
listen.&n=
bsp;
Hawkins said:
"Washington, my boy, what will you do
when you get to be one of the
richest men in the world?"
"I don't know, father. Sometimes I think I'll have a ball=
oon
and go up
in the air; and sometimes I think I'll have
ever so many books; and
sometimes I think I'll have ever so many
weathercocks and water-wheels;
or have a machine like that one you and
Colonel Sellers bought; and
sometimes I think I'll have--well, somehow=
I
don't know--somehow I ain't
certain; maybe I'll get a steamboat first.=
"
"The same old chap!--always just a li=
ttle
bit divided about things.--And
what will you do when you get to be one of=
the
richest men in the world,
Clay?"
"I don't know, sir. My mother--my other mother that's =
gone
away--she
always told me to work along and not be mu=
ch
expecting to get rich, and
then I wouldn't be disappointed if I didn't
get rich. And so I reckon
it's better for me to wait till I get rich,
and then by that time maybe
I'll know what I'll want--but I don't now,
sir."
"Careful old head!--Governor Henry Cl=
ay
Hawkins!--that's what you'll be,
Clay, one of these days. Wise old head! weighty old head! Go on, now,
and play--all of you. It's a prime lot, Nancy; as the
Obedstown folk say
about their hogs."
A smaller steamboat received the Hawkinses=
and
their fortunes, and bore
them a hundred and thirty miles still high=
er
up the
landed them at a little tumble-down villag=
e on
the
twilight of a mellow October day.
The next morning they harnessed up their t=
eam
and for two days they
wended slowly into the interior through al=
most
roadless and uninhabited
forest solitudes. And when for the last time they pi=
tched
their tents,
metaphorically speaking, it was at the goa=
l of
their hopes, their new
home.
By the muddy roadside stood a new log cabi=
n,
one story high--the store;
clustered in the neighborhood were ten or
twelve more cabins, some new,
some old.
In the sad light of the departing day the
place looked homeless enough.
Two or three coatless young men sat in fro=
nt
of the store on a dry-goods
box, and whittled it with their knives, ki=
cked
it with their vast boots,
and shot tobacco-juice at various marks. Several ragged negroes leaned
comfortably against the posts of the awning
and contemplated the arrival
of the wayfarers with lazy curiosity. All these people presently managed=
to drag themselves to the vicinity of the
Hawkins' wagon, and there they
took up permanent positions, hands in pock=
ets
and resting on one leg; and
thus anchored they proceeded to look and
enjoy. Vagrant dogs came
wagging around and making inquiries of
Hawkins's dog, which were not
satisfactory and they made war on him in
concert. This would have
interested the citizens but it was too man=
y on
one to amount to anything
as a fight, and so they commanded the peace
and the foreign dog coiled
his tail and took sanctuary under the
wagon. Slatternly negro girls=
and
women slouched along with pails deftly
balanced on their heads, and
joined the group and stared. Little half dressed white boys, and
little
negro boys with nothing whatever on but
tow-linen shirts with a fine
southern exposure, came from various
directions and stood with their
hands locked together behind them and aide=
d in
the inspection. The rest
of the population were laying down their employments a=
nd
getting ready to
come, when a man burst through the assemblage and seiz=
ed
the new-comers by the hands in a frenzy of welcome, and exclaimed--indeed
almost
shouted:
"Well who could have believed it! Now is it you sure enough--turn
around! hold up your heads! I want to look=
at
you good! Well, well,
well, it does seem most too good to be tru=
e, I
declare! Lord, I'm so
glad to see you! Does a body's whole soul good to l=
ook at
you! Shake
hands again! Keep on shaking hands! Goodness gracious alive. What will
my wife say?--Oh yes indeed, it's so!--mar=
ried
only last week--lovely,
perfectly lovely creature, the noblest wom=
an
that ever--you'll like her,
--you'll be twins! Well, well, well, let me look at y=
ou
again! Same old
--why bless my life it was only jest this =
very
morning that my wife says,
'Colonel'--she will call me Colonel spite =
of
everything I can do--she
says 'Colonel, something tells me somebody=
's
coming!' and sure enough
here you are, the last people on earth a b=
ody
could have expected.
Why she'll think she's a prophetess--and
hanged if I don't think so too
--and you know there ain't any, country but
what a prophet's an honor to,
as the proverb says. Lord bless me and here's the child=
ren,
too!
Washington, Emily, don't you know me? Come, give us a kiss. Won't I fix
you, though!--ponies, cows, dogs, everythi=
ng
you can think of that'll
delight a child's heart-and--Why how's
this? Little strangers? Well
you won't be any strangers here, I can tell
you. Bless your souls we'll
make you think you never was at home
before--'deed and 'deed we will,
I can tell you! Come, now, bundle right along with
me. You can't
glorify any hearth stone but mine in this
camp, you know--can't eat
anybody's bread but mine--can't do anything
but just make yourselves
perfectly at home and comfortable, and spr=
ead
yourselves out and rest!
You hear me! Here--Jim, Tom, Pete, Jake, fly
around! Take that team to
my place--put the wagon in my lot--put the
horses under the shed, and get
out hay and oats and fill them up! Ain't any hay and oats? Well get
some--have it charged to me--come, spin
around, now! Now, Hawkins, th=
e
procession's ready; mark time, by the left
flank, forward-march!"
And the Colonel took the lead, with Laura
astride his neck, and the
newly-inspired and very grateful immigrants
picked up their tired limbs
with quite a spring in them and dropped in=
to
his wake.
Presently they were ranged about an old-ti=
me
fire-place whose blazing
logs sent out rather an unnecessary amount=
of
heat, but that was no
matter-supper was needed, and to have it, =
it
had to be cooked. This
apartment was the family bedroom, parlor,
library and kitchen, all in
one.
The matronly little wife of the Colonel moved hither and thither
and in and out with her pots and pans in h=
er
hands', happiness in her
heart and a world of admiration of her hus=
band
in her eyes. And when at
last she had spread the cloth and loaded it
with hot corn bread, fried
chickens, bacon, buttermilk, coffee, and a=
ll
manner of country luxuries,
Col. Sellers modified his harangue and for=
a
moment throttled it down to
the orthodox pitch for a blessing, and then
instantly burst forth again
as from a parenthesis and clattered on wit=
h might
and main till every
stomach in the party was laden with all it
could carry. And when the
new-comers ascended the ladder to their
comfortable feather beds on the
second floor--to wit the garret--Mrs. Hawk=
ins
was obliged to say:
"Hang the fellow, I do believe he has
gone wilder than ever, but still a
body can't help liking him if they would--=
and
what is more, they don't
ever want to try when they see his eyes and
hear him talk."
Within a week or two the Hawkinses were
comfortably domiciled in a new
log house, and were beginning to feel at
home. The children were put t=
o
school; at least it was what passed for a
school in those days: a place
where tender young humanity devoted itself=
for
eight or ten hours a day
to learning incomprehensible rubbish by he=
art
out of books and reciting
it by rote, like parrots; so that a finish=
ed
education consisted simply
of a permanent headache and the ability to
read without stopping to spell
the words or take breath. Hawkins bought out the village sto=
re for
a
song and proceeded to reap the profits, wh=
ich
amounted to but little more
than another song.
The wonderful speculation hinted at by Col.
Sellers in his letter turned
out to be the raising of mules for the
Southern market; and really it
promised very well. The young stock cost but a trifle,=
the
rearing but
another trifle, and so Hawkins was easily
persuaded to embark his slender
means in the enterprise and turn over the =
keep
and care of the animals to
Sellers and Uncle Dan'l.
All went well: Business prospered little by little. Hawkins even built a<= o:p>
new house, made it two full stories high a=
nd
put a lightning rod on it.
People came two or three miles to look at
it. But they knew that the ro=
d
attracted the lightning, and so they gave =
the
place a wide berth in a
storm, for they were familiar with
marksmanship and doubted if the
lightning could hit that small stick at a
distance of a mile and a half
oftener than once in a hundred and fifty
times. Hawkins fitted out his=
house with "store" furniture fro=
m
magnificence went abroad in the land. Even the parlor carpet was from
the country. Hawkins put up the first
"paling" fence that had ever
adorned the village; and he did not stop
there, but whitewashed it.
His oil-cloth window-curtains had noble
pictures on them of castles such
as had never been seen anywhere in the wor=
ld
but on window-curtains.
Hawkins enjoyed the admiration these prodi=
gies
compelled, but he always
smiled to think how poor and, cheap they w=
ere,
compared to what the
Hawkins mansion would display in a future =
day
after the
should have borne its minted fruit. Even
when the
and Clay's room like the one in the
parlor. This pleased Hawkins,=
but
it
troubled his wife. It did not seem wise, to her, to p=
ut
one's entire
earthly trust in the
Hawkins took a weekly
journal--almost the only papers that came =
to
the village, though Godey's
Lady's Book found a good market there and =
was
regarded as the perfection
of polite literature by some of the ablest
critics in the place. Perhaps=
it is only fair to explain that we are wri=
ting
of a by gone age--some
twenty or thirty years ago. In the two newspapers referred to =
lay
the
secret of Hawkins's growing prosperity.
condition of the crops south and east, and
thus he knew which articles
were likely to be in demand and which arti=
cles
were likely to be
unsalable, weeks and even months in advanc=
e of
the simple folk about him.
As the months went by he came to be regard=
ed
as a wonderfully lucky man.
It did not occur to the citizens that brai=
ns
were at the bottom of his
luck.
His title of "Squire" came into
vogue again, but only for a season; for,
as his wealth and popularity augmented, th=
at
title, by imperceptible
stages, grew up into "Judge;" in=
deed'
it bade fair to swell into
"General" bye and bye. All strangers of consequence who v=
isited
the
village gravitated to the
"Judge."
Hawkins had learned to like the people of =
his
section very much. They
were uncouth and not cultivated, and not
particularly industrious; but
they were honest and straightforward, and
their virtuous ways commanded
respect.&=
nbsp;
Their patriotism was strong, their pride in the flag was of the
old fashioned pattern, their love of count=
ry
amounted to idolatry.
Whoever dragged the national honor in the =
dirt
won their deathless
hatred.&n=
bsp;
They still cursed Benedict Arnold as if he were a personal
friend who had broken faith--but a week go=
ne
by.
We skip ten years and this history finds
certain changes to record.
Judge Hawkins and Col. Sellers have made a=
nd
lost two or three moderate
fortunes in the meantime and are now pinch=
ed
by poverty. Sellers has two
pairs of twins and four extras. In Hawkins's family are six childr=
en of
his own and two adopted ones. From time to time, as fortune smil=
ed,
the
elder children got the benefit of it, spen=
ding
the lucky seasons at
excellent schools in
chafing discomfort of straightened
circumstances.
Neither the Hawkins children nor the world
that knew them ever supposed
that one of the girls was of alien blood a=
nd
parentage: Such difference
as existed between Laura and Emily is not
uncommon in a family. The
girls had grown up as sisters, and they we=
re
both too young at the time
of the fearful accident on the
had thrown their lives together.
And yet any one who had known the secret of
Laura's birth and had seen
her during these passing years, say at the=
happy
age of twelve or
thirteen, would have fancied that he knew =
the
reason why she was more
winsome than her school companion.
Philosophers dispute whether it is the pro=
mise
of what she will be in
the careless school-girl, that makes her
attractive, the undeveloped
maidenhood, or the mere natural, careless
sweetness of childhood.
If Laura at twelve was beginning to be a
beauty, the thought of it had
never entered her head. No, indeed. Her mind wad filled with more
important thoughts. To her simple school-girl dress sh=
e was
beginning to
add those mysterious little adornments of
ribbon-knots and ear-rings,
which were the subject of earnest
consultations with her grown friends.
When she tripped down the street on a summ=
er's
day with her dainty hands
propped into the ribbon-broidered pockets =
of
her apron, and elbows
consequently more or less akimbo with her =
wide
and hiding her face one moment and blowing
straight up against her fore
head the next and making its revealment of
fresh young beauty; with all
her pretty girlish airs and graces in full
play, and that sweet ignorance
of care and that atmosphere of innocence a=
nd
purity all about her that
belong to her gracious time of life, indeed
she was a vision to warm the
coldest heart and bless and cheer the sadd=
est.
Willful, generous, forgiving, imperious,
affectionate, improvident,
bewitching, in short--was Laura at this
period. Could she have remain=
ed
there, this history would not need to be
written. But Laura had grown =
to
be almost a woman in these few years, to t=
he
end of which we have now
come--years which had seen Judge Hawkins p=
ass
through so many trials.
When the judge's first bankruptcy came upon
him, a homely human angel
intruded upon him with an offer of $1,500 =
for
the
Hawkins said take it. It was a grievous temptation, but =
the
judge
withstood it. He said the land was for the
children--he could not rob
them of their future millions for so paltr=
y a
sum. When the second
blight fell upon him, another angel appear=
ed
and offered $3,000 for the
land.&nbs=
p;
He was in such deep distress that he allowed his wife to persuade
him to let the papers be drawn; but when h=
is
children came into his
presence in their poor apparel, he felt li=
ke a
traitor and refused to
sign.
But now he was down again, and deeper in t=
he
mire than ever. He paced
the floor all day, he scarcely slept at
night. He blushed even to
acknowledge it to himself, but treason was=
in
his mind--he was
meditating, at last, the sale of the
land. Mrs. Hawkins stepped in=
to the
room.&nbs=
p;
He had not spoken a word, but he felt as guilty as if she had
caught him in some shameful act. She said:
"Si, I do not know what we are going =
to
do. The children are not fit =
to
be seen, their clothes are in such a
state. But there's something =
more
serious still.--There is scarcely a bite in
the house to eat."
"Why,
"Johnson indeed! You took that man's part when he h=
adn't
a friend in the
world, and you built him up and made him
rich. And here's the result o=
f
it: He lives in our fine house, and we liv=
e in
his miserable log cabin.
He has hinted to our children that he would
rather they wouldn't come
about his yard to play with his
children,--which I can bear, and bear
easy enough, for they're not a sort we wan=
t to
associate with much--but
what I can't bear with any quietness at al=
l,
is his telling Franky our
bill was running pretty high this morning =
when
I sent him for some meal
--and that was all he said, too--didn't gi=
ve
him the meal--turned off and
went to talking with the Hargrave girls ab=
out
some stuff they wanted to
cheapen."
"
"And so it is, I warrant you. I've kept still, Si, as long as ev=
er I
could.&nb=
sp;
Things have been getting worse and worse, and worse and worse,
every single day; I don't go out of the ho=
use,
I feel so down; but you
had trouble enough, and I wouldn't say a
word--and I wouldn't say a word
now, only things have got so bad that I do=
n't
know what to do, nor where
to turn." And she gave way and put her face =
in her
hands and cried.
"Poor child, don't grieve so. I never thought that of Johnson. I am
clear at my wit's end. I don't know what in the world to
do. Now if
somebody would come along and offer
$3,000--Uh, if somebody only would
come along and offer $3,000 for that
"You'd sell it, S!" said Mrs.
Hawkins excitedly.
"Try me!"
Mrs. Hawkins was out of the room in a
moment. Within a minute she w=
as
back again with a business-looking strange=
r,
whom she seated, and then
she took her leave again. Hawkins said to himself, "How=
can a
man ever
lose faith? When the blackest hour comes,
it--ah, this is the very timeliest help th=
at
ever poor harried devil had;
if this blessed man offers but a thousand =
I'll
embrace him like a
brother!"
The stranger said:
"I am aware that you own 75,000 acres=
, of
land in
without sacrificing your time, I will come=
to
the point at once. I am
agent of an iron manufacturing company, and
they empower me to offer you
ten thousand dollars for that land."<= o:p>
Hawkins's heart bounded within him. His whole frame was racked and
wrenched with fettered hurrahs. His first impulse was to shout
"Done!
and God bless the iron company, too!"=
But a something flitted through his mind, =
and
his opened lips uttered
nothing.&=
nbsp;
The enthusiasm faded away from his eyes, and the look of a man
who is thinking took its place. Presently, in a hesitating, undeci=
ded
way, he said:
"Well, I--it don't seem quite
enough. That--that is a very =
valuable
property--very valuable. It's brim full of iron-ore, sir--b=
rim
full of
it!
And copper, coal,--everything--everything you can think of! Now,
I'll tell you what I'll do. I'll reserve everything except the=
iron,
and I'll sell them the iron property for
$15,000 cash, I to go in with
them and own an undivided interest of one-=
half
the concern--or the stock,
as you may say. I'm out of business, and I'd just =
as
soon help run the
thing as not. Now how does that strike you?"=
;
"Well, I am only an agent of these
people, who are friends of mine, and
I am not even paid for my services. To tell you the truth, I have trie=
d
to persuade them not to go into the thing;=
and
I have come square out
with their offer, without throwing out any
feelers--and I did it in the
hope that you would refuse. A man pretty much always refuses a=
nother
man's first offer, no matter what it is. But I have performed my duty,
and will take pleasure in telling them what
you say."
He was about to rise. Hawkins said,
"Wait a bit."
Hawkins thought again. And the substance of his thought w=
as:
"This
is a deep man; this is a very deep man; I
don't like his candor; your
ostentatiously candid business man's a deep
fox--always a deep fox;
this man's that iron company himself--that=
's
what he is; he wants that
property, too; I am not so blind but I can=
see
that; he don't want the
company to go into this thing--O, that's v=
ery
good; yes, that's very
good indeed--stuff! he'll be back here
tomorrow, sure, and take my offer;
take it?&=
nbsp;
I'll risk anything he is suffering to take it now; here--I must
mind what I'm about. What has started this sudden excit=
ement
about iron?
I wonder what is in the wind? just as sure=
as
I'm alive this moment,
there's something tremendous stirring in i=
ron
speculation" [here Hawkins
got up and began to pace the floor with
excited eyes and with gesturing
hands]--"something enormous going on =
in
iron, without the shadow of a
doubt, and here I sit mousing in the dark =
and
never knowing anything
about it; great heaven, what an escape I've
made! this underhanded
mercenary creature might have taken me up-=
-and
ruined me! but I have
escaped, and I warrant me I'll not put my =
foot
into--"
He stopped and turned toward the stranger;
saying:
"I have made you a proposition, you h=
ave
not accepted it, and I desire
that you will consider that I have made
none. At the same time my
conscience will not allow me to--. Please alter the figures I named t=
o
thirty thousand dollars, if you will, and =
let
the proposition go to the
company--I will stick to it if it breaks my
heart!" The stranger loo=
ked
amused, and there was a pretty well defined
touch of surprise in his
expression, too, but Hawkins never noticed
it. Indeed he scarcely
noticed anything or knew what he was
about. The man left; Hawkins =
flung
himself into a chair; thought a few moment=
s,
then glanced around, looked
frightened, sprang to the door----
"Too late--too late! He's gone! Fool that I am! always a fool! Thirty
thousand--ass that I am! Oh, why didn't I say fifty
thousand!"
He plunged his hands into his hair and lea=
ned
his elbows on his knees,
and fell to rocking himself back and forth=
in
anguish. Mrs. Hawkins
sprang in, beaming:
"Well, Si?"
"Oh, con-found the con-founded--con-f=
ound
it,
it, now!"
"Done what Si for mercy's sake!"=
"Done everything! Ruined everything!"
"Tell me, tell me, tell me! Don't keep a body in such suspense=
. Didn't
he buy, after all? Didn't he make an offer?"
"Offer? He offered $10,000 for our land,
and----"
"Thank the good providence from the v=
ery
bottom of my heart of hearts!
What sort of ruin do you call that, Si!&qu=
ot;
"
No!
Thank fortune I'm not a simpleton!&=
nbsp;
I saw through the pretty scheme
in a second. It's a vast iron speculation!--mil=
lions
upon millions in
it!
But fool as I am I told him he could have half the iron property for=
thirty thousand--and if I only had him back
here he couldn't touch it for
a cent less than a quarter of a million!&q=
uot;
Mrs. Hawkins looked up white and despairin=
g:
"You threw away this chance, you let =
this
man go, and we in this awful
trouble?&=
nbsp;
You don't mean it, you can't mean it!"
"Throw it away? Catch me at it! Why woman, do you suppose that man=
don't know what he is about? Bless you, he'll be back fast enou=
gh
to-morrow."
"Never, never, never. He never will comeback. I don't know what is to
become of us. I don't know what in the world is =
to
become of us."
A shade of uneasiness came into Hawkins's
face. He said:
"Why, Nancy, you--you can't believe w=
hat
you are saying."
"Believe it, indeed? I know it, Si. And I know that we haven't a cent<= o:p>
in the world, and we've sent ten thousand
dollars a-begging."
"
--hanged if I don't believe I have missed a
chance! Don't grieve,
don't grieve. I'll go right after him. I'll take--I'll take--what a
fool I am!--I'll take anything he'll
give!"
The next instant he left the house on a
run. But the man was no longe=
r
in the town. Nobody knew where he belonged or w=
hither
he had gone.
Hawkins came slowly back, watching wistful=
ly
but hopelessly for the
stranger, and lowering his price steadily =
with
his sinking heart. And
when his foot finally pressed his own thre=
shold,
the value he held the
entire
and the rest in three equal annual payment=
s,
without interest.
There was a sad gathering at the Hawkins fireside the next night. All<= o:p>
the children were present but Clay. Mr. Hawkins said:
"
ready to give up. I do not know where to turn--I nev=
er
have been down so
low before, I never have seen things so
dismal. There are many mouths=
to
feed; Clay is at work; we must lose you, a=
lso,
for a little while, my
boy.
But it will not be long--the
He stopped, and was conscious of a blush.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was silence for a
moment, and then Washington--now a lank,
dreamy-eyed stripling between
twenty-two and twenty-three years of
age--said:
"If Col. Sellers would come for me, I
would go and stay with him a while,
till the
since he moved to Hawkeye."
"I'm afraid he can't well come for yo=
u,
Washington. From what I can
hear--not from him of course, but from
others--he is not far from as bad
off as we are--and his family is as large, too. He might find something<= o:p>
for you to do, maybe, but you'd better try=
to
get to him yourself,
"But how can I, father? There's no stage or anything."=
;
"And if there were, stages require
money. A stage goes from
five miles from here. But it would be cheaper to walk.&q=
uot;
"Father, they must know you there, an=
d no
doubt they would credit you in
a moment, for a little stage ride like
that. Couldn't you write and =
ask
them?"
"Couldn't you, Washington--seeing it's
you that wants the ride? And =
what
do you think you'll do, Finish your
invention for making window-glass
opaque?"
"No, sir, I have given that up. I almost knew I could do it, but i=
t was
so tedious and troublesome I quit it."=
;
"I was afraid of it, my boy. Then I suppose you'll finish your =
plan
of
coloring hen's eggs by feeding a peculiar =
diet
to the hen?"
"No, sir. I believe I have found out the stu=
ff
that will do it, but it
kills the hen; so I have dropped that for =
the
present, though I can take
it up again some day when I learn how to
manage the mixture better."
"Well, what have you got on
hand--anything?"
"Yes, sir, three or four things. I think they are all good and can =
all
be done, but they are tiresome, and besides
they require money. But as
soon as the land is sold----"
"Emily, were you about to say
something?" said Hawkins.
"Yes, sir. If you are willing, I will go to <=
st1:City
w:st=3D"on">
another mouth less to feed. Mrs. Buckner has always wanted me =
to
come."
"But the money, child?"
"Why I think she would send it, if you
would write her--and I know she
would wait for her pay till----"
"Come, Laura, let's hear from you, my
girl."
Emily and Laura were about the same
age--between seventeen and eighteen.
Emily was fair and pretty, girlish and
diffident--blue eyes and light
hair.&nbs=
p;
Laura had a proud bearing, and a somewhat mature look; she had
fine, clean-cut features, her complexion w=
as
pure white and contrasted
vividly with her black hair and eyes; she =
was
not what one calls pretty
--she was beautiful. She said:
"I will go to
I will make a way. And I will find a way to help myse=
lf
along, and do
what I can to help the rest, too."
She spoke it like a princess. Mrs. Hawkins smiled proudly and ki=
ssed
her, saying in a tone of fond reproof:
"So one of my girls is going to turn =
out
and work for her living! It's=
like your pluck and spirit, child, but we =
will
hope that we haven't got
quite down to that, yet."
The girl's eyes beamed affection under her
mother's caress. Then she
straightened up, folded her white hands in=
her
lap and became a splendid
ice-berg.=
Clay's dog put up his brown nose for a little attention, and
got it.&n=
bsp;
He retired under the table with an apologetic yelp, which did
not affect the iceberg.
Judge Hawkins had written and asked Clay to
return home and consult with
him upon family affairs. He arrived the evening after this
conversation,
and the whole household gave him a rapturo=
us
welcome. He brought sadly
needed help with him, consisting of the
savings of a year and a half of
work--nearly two hundred dollars in money.=
It was a ray of sunshine which (to this ea=
sy
household) was the earnest
of a clearing sky.
Bright and early in the morning the family
were astir, and all were busy
preparing
himself, who sat apart, steeped in a
reverie. When the time for hi=
s
departure came, it was easy to see how fon=
dly
all loved him and how hard
it was to let him go, notwithstanding they=
had
often seen him go before,
in his
had borne the burden of getting him ready =
for
his trip, never seeming to
think of his helping in the matter; in the
same matter-of-course way Clay
had hired a horse and cart; and now that t=
he
good-byes were ended he
bundled
At Swansea Clay paid his stage fare, stowed
him away in the vehicle, and
saw him off. Then he returned home and reported
progress, like a
committee of the whole.
Clay remained at home several days. He held many consultations with hi=
s
mother upon the financial condition of the
family, and talked once with
his father upon the same subject, but only
once. He found a change in
that quarter which was distressing; years =
of
fluctuating fortune had done
their work; each reverse had weakened the
father's spirit and impaired
his energies; his last misfortune seemed to
have left hope and ambition
dead within him; he had no projects, forme=
d no
plans--evidently he was a
vanquished man. He looked worn and tired. He inquired into Clay's
affairs and prospects, and when he found t=
hat
Clay was doing pretty well
and was likely to do still better, it was
plain that he resigned himself
with easy facility to look to the son for a
support; and he said, "Keep
yourself informed of poor
him along all you can, Clay."
The younger children, also, seemed relieve=
d of
all fears and distresses,
and very ready and willing to look to Clay=
for
a livelihood. Within
three days a general tranquility and
satisfaction reigned in the
household. Clay's hundred and eighty or ninet=
y,
dollars had worked a
wonder.&n=
bsp;
The family were as contented, now, and as free from care as they
could have been with a fortune. It was well that Mrs. Hawkins held=
the
purse otherwise the treasure would have la=
sted
but a very little while.
It took but a trifle to pay Hawkins's
outstanding obligations, for he had
always had a horror of debt.
When Clay bade his home good-bye and set o=
ut
to return to the field of
his labors, he was conscious that hencefor=
th
he was to have his father's
family on his hands as pensioners; but he =
did
not allow himself to chafe
at the thought, for he reasoned that his
father had dealt by him with a
free hand and a loving one all his life, a=
nd
now that hard fortune had
broken his spirit it ought to be a pleasur=
e,
not a pain, to work for him.
The younger children were born and educated
dependents. They had never
been taught to do anything for themselves,=
and
it did not seem to occur
to them to make an attempt now.
The girls would not have been permitted to
work for a living under any
circumstances whatever. It was a southern family, and of g=
ood
blood;
and for any person except Laura, either wi=
thin
or without the household
to have suggested such an idea would have
brought upon the suggester the
suspicion of being a lunatic.
=
Via, Pecunia! when she's run and gone
=
And fled, and dead, then will I fetch her again
=
With aqua vita, out of an old hogshead!
=
While there are lees of wine, or dregs of beer,
=
I'll never want her! C=
oin
her out of cobwebs,
=
Dust, but I'll have her! raise wool upon egg-shells,
=
Sir, and make grass grow out of marrow-bones,
=
To make her come!
=
&nb=
sp; =
B. Jonson.
Bearing Washington Hawkins and his fortune=
s,
the stage-coach tore out of
admiring from doors and windows. But it did not tear any more after=
it
got to the outskirts; it dragged along
stupidly enough, then--till it
came in sight of the next hamlet; and then=
the
bugle tooted gaily again
and again the vehicle went tearing by the horses. This sort of conduct<= o:p>
marked every entry to a station and every =
exit
from it; and so in those
days children grew up with the idea that
stage-coaches always tore and
always tooted; but they also grew up with =
the
idea that pirates went into
action in their Sunday clothes, carrying t=
he
black flag in one hand and
pistolling people with the other, merely
because they were so represented
in the pictures--but these illusions vanis=
hed
when later years brought
their disenchanting wisdom. They learned then that the stageco=
ach is
but
a poor, plodding, vulgar thing in the
solitudes of the highway; and that
the pirate is only a seedy, unfantastic
"rough," when he is out of the
pictures.
Toward evening, the stage-coach came
thundering into Hawkeye with a
perfectly triumphant ostentation--which was
natural and proper, for
Hawkey a was a pretty large town for inter=
ior
very stiff and tired and hungry, climbed o=
ut,
and wondered how he was to
proceed now. But his difficulty was quickly
solved. Col. Sellers came
down the street on a run and arrived panti=
ng
for breath. He said:
"Lord bless you--I'm glad to see you,
Washington--perfectly delighted to
see you, my boy! I got your message. Been on the look-out for you.
Heard the stage horn, but had a party I
couldn't shake off--man that's
got an enormous thing on hand--wants me to=
put
some capital into it--and
I tell you, my boy, I could do worse, I co=
uld
do a deal worse. No, now,
let that luggage alone; I'll fix that. Here, Jerry, got anything to do?
All right-shoulder this plunder and follow
me. Come along,
Lord I'm glad to see you! Wife and the children are just per=
ishing
to
look at you. Bless you, they won't know you, yo=
u've
grown so. Folks all
well, I suppose? That's good--glad to hear that.
run down and see them, but I'm into so many
operations, and they're not
things a man feels like trusting to other
people, and so somehow we keep
putting it off. Fortunes in them! Good gracious, it's the country to=
pile up wealth in! Here we are--here's where the Sell=
ers
dynasty hangs
out.
Hump it on the door-step, Jerry--the blackest niggro in the State,
suppose you've got to have ten cents,
Jerry. That's all right--when=
a
man works for me--when a man--in the other
pocket, I reckon--when a man
--why, where the mischief as that
portmonnaie!--when a--well now that's
odd--Oh, now I remember, must have left it=
at
the bank; and b'George I've
left my check-book, too--Polly says I ough=
t to
have a nurse--well, no
matter.&n=
bsp;
Let me have a dime, Washington, if you've got--ah, thanks. Now
clear out, Jerry, your complexion has brou=
ght
on the twilight half an
hour ahead of time. Pretty fair joke--pretty fair. Here he is, Polly!
Washington's come, children! come now, don=
't
eat him up--finish him in
the house. Welcome, my boy, to a mansion that=
is
proud to shelter the
son of the best man that walks on the
ground. Si Hawkins has been a=
good
friend to me, and I believe I can say that=
whenever
I've had a chance to
put him into a good thing I've done it, and
done it pretty cheerfully,
too. I put him into that sugar speculation--what a grand thing that was,<= o:p>
if we hadn't held on too long!"
True enough; but holding on too long had
utterly ruined both of them;
and the saddest part of it was, that they
never had had so much money to
lose before, for Sellers's sale of their m=
ule
crop that year in New
Orleans had been a great financial
success. If he had kept out of
sugar
and gone back home content to stick to mul=
es
it would have been a happy
wisdom.&n=
bsp;
As it was, he managed to kill two birds with one stone--that is
to say, he killed the sugar speculation by
holding for high rates till he
had to sell at the bottom figure, and that
calamity killed the mule that
laid the golden egg--which is but a figura=
tive
expression and will be so
understood. Sellers had returned home cheerful=
but
empty-handed, and the
mule business lapsed into other hands. The sale of the Hawkins property
by the Sheriff had followed, and the Hawki=
ns
hearts been torn to see
Uncle Dan'l and his wife pass from the
auction-block into the hands of a
negro trader and depart for the remote Sou=
th
to be seen no more by the
family.&n=
bsp;
It had seemed like seeing their own flesh and blood sold into
banishment.
Washington was greatly pleased with the
Sellers mansion. It was a
two-story-and-a-half brick, and much more
stylish than any of its
neighbors. He was borne to the family sitt=
ing
room in triumph by the
swarm of little Sellerses, the parents
following with their arms about
each other's waists.
The whole family were poorly and cheaply
dressed; and the clothing,
although neat and clean, showed many evide=
nces
of having seen long
service.&=
nbsp;
The Colonel's "stovepipe" hat was napless and shiny with m=
uch
polishing, but nevertheless it had an almo=
st
convincing expression about
it of having been just purchased new. The rest of his clothing was
napless and shiny, too, but it had the air=
of
being entirely satisfied
with itself and blandly sorry for other
people's clothes. It was grow=
ing
rather dark in the house, and the evening =
air
was chilly, too. Sellers
said:
"Lay off your overcoat, Washington, a=
nd
draw up to the stove and make
yourself at home--just consider yourself u=
nder
your own shingles my boy
--I'll have a fire going, in a jiffy. Light the lamp, Polly, dear, and
let's have things cheerful just as glad to=
see
you, Washington, as if
you'd been lost a century and we'd found y=
ou
again!"
By this time the Colonel was conveying a
lighted match into a poor little
stove.&nb=
sp;
Then he propped the stove door to its place by leaning the poker
against it, for the hinges had retired from
business. This door framed
a small square of isinglass, which now war=
med
up with a faint glow.
Mrs. Sellers lit a cheap, showy lamp, which
dissipated a good deal of the
gloom, and then everybody gathered into the
light and took the stove into
close companionship.
The children climbed all over Sellers, fon=
dled
him, petted him, and were
lavishly petted in return. Out from this tugging, laughing,
chattering
disguise of legs and arms and little faces,
the Colonel's voice worked
its way and his tireless tongue ran blithe=
ly
on without interruption;
and the purring little wife, diligent with=
her
knitting, sat near at hand
and looked happy and proud and grateful; a=
nd
she listened as one who
listens to oracles and, gospels and whose
grateful soul is being
refreshed with the bread of life. Bye and bye the children quieted d=
own
to listen; clustered about their father, a=
nd
resting their elbows on his
legs, they hung upon his words as if he we=
re
uttering the music of the
spheres.
A dreary old hair-cloth sofa against the w=
all;
a few damaged chairs; the
small table the lamp stood on; the crippled
stove--these things
constituted the furniture of the room. There was no carpet on the floor;<= o:p>
on the wall were occasional square-shaped
interruptions of the general
tint of the plaster which betrayed that th=
ere
used to be pictures in the
house--but there were none now. There were no mantel ornaments, un=
less
one might bring himself to regard as an
ornament a clock which never came
within fifteen strokes of striking the rig=
ht
time, and whose hands always
hitched together at twenty-two minutes past
anything and traveled in
company the rest of the way home.
"Remarkable clock!" said Sellers,
and got up and wound it. &quo=
t;I've
been
offered--well, I wouldn't expect you to
believe what I've been offered
for that clock. Old Gov. Hager never sees me but he
says, 'Come, now,
Colonel, name your price--I must have that
clock!' But my goodness I'd
as soon think of selling my wife. As I was saying to--silence in the=
court--now, she's begun to strike! You can't talk against her--you ha=
ve
to just be patient and hold up till she's =
said
her say. Ah well, as I
was saying, when--she's beginning again! Nineteen, twenty, twenty-one,
twenty-two, twen----ah, that's all.--Yes, =
as I
was saying to old Judge
----go it, old girl, don't mind me.--Now h=
ow
is that?----isn't that a
good, spirited tone? She can wake the dead! Sleep? Why you might as
well try to sleep in a thunder-factory.
strike a hundred and fifty, now, without stopping,--you'll see. There<= o:p>
ain't another clock like that in
Christendom."
Washington hoped that this might be true, =
for
the din was distracting
--though the family, one and all, seemed
filled with joy; and the more the
clock "buckled down to her work"=
as
the Colonel expressed it, and the
more insupportable the clatter became, the
more enchanted they all
appeared to be. When there was silence, Mrs Sellers
lifted upon
Washington a face that beamed with a child=
like
pride, and said:
"It belonged to his grandmother."=
;
The look and the tone were a plain call for
admiring surprise, and
therefore Washington said (it was the only
thing that offered itself at
the moment:)
"Indeed!"
"Yes, it did, didn't it father!"
exclaimed one of the twins.
"She was my
great-grandmother--and George's too; wasn't
she, father! You never saw
her, but Sis has seen her, when Sis was a
baby-didn't you, Sis! Sis has=
seen her most a hundred times. She was awful deef--she's dead, no=
w.
Aint she, father!"
All the children chimed in, now, with one
general Babel of information
about deceased--nobody offering to read the
riot act or seeming to
discountenance the insurrection or disappr=
ove
of it in any way--but the
head twin drowned all the turmoil and held=
his
own against the field:
"It's our clock, now--and it's got wh=
eels
inside of it, and a thing that
flutters every time she strikes--don't it,=
father! Great-grandmother
died before hardly any of us was born--she=
was
an Old-School Baptist and
had warts all over her--you ask father if =
she
didn't. She had an uncle
once that was bald-headed and used to have
fits; he wasn't our uncle,
I don't know what he was to us--some kin or
another I reckon--father's
seen him a thousand times--hain't you,
father! We used to have a cal=
f
that et apples and just chawed up dishrags
like nothing, and if you stay
here you'll see lots of funerals--won't he,
Sis! Did you ever see a
house afire? I have! Once me and Jim Terry----"
But Sellers began to speak now, and the st=
orm
ceased. He began to tell
about an enormous speculation he was think=
ing
of embarking some capital
in--a speculation which some London bankers
had been over to consult with
him about--and soon he was building glitte=
ring
pyramids of coin, and
Washington was presently growing opulent u=
nder
the magic of his
eloquence. But at the same time Washington wa=
s not
able to ignore the
cold entirely. He was nearly as close to the stov=
e as
he could get,
and yet he could not persuade himself, tha=
t he
felt the slightest heat,
notwithstanding the isinglass' door was st=
ill
gently and serenely
glowing.&=
nbsp;
He tried to get a trifle closer to the stove, and the
consequence was, he tripped the supporting
poker and the stove-door
tumbled to the floor. And then there was a revelation--t=
here
was nothing
in the stove but a lighted tallow-candle!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The poor youth blushed and
felt as if he must die with shame. But the Colonel was only
disconcerted for a moment--he straightway
found his voice again:
"A little idea of my own, Washington-=
-one
of the greatest things in the
world!&nb=
sp;
You must write and tell your father about it--don't forget that,
now.
I have been reading up some European Scientific reports--friend of
mine, Count Fugier, sent them to me--sends=
me
all sorts of things from
Paris--he thinks the world of me, Fugier
does. Well, I saw that the
Academy of France had been testing the
properties of heat, and they came
to the conclusion that it was a nonconduct=
or
or something like that,
and of course its influence must necessari=
ly
be deadly in nervous
organizations with excitable temperaments,
especially where there is any
tendency toward rheumatic affections. Bless you I saw in a moment what
was the matter with us, and says I, out go=
es
your fires!--no more slow
torture and certain death for me, sir. What you want is the appearance
of heat, not the heat itself--that's the
idea. Well how to do it was t=
he
next thing. I just put my head, to work, pegged
away, a couple of days,
and here you are! Rheumatism? Why a man can't any more start a c=
ase of
rheumatism in this house than he can shake=
an
opinion out of a mummy!
Stove with a candle in it and a transparent
door--that's it--it has been
the salvation of this family. Don't you fail to write your father
about
it, Washington. And tell him the idea is mine--I'm=
no
more conceited
than most people, I reckon, but you know i=
t is
human nature for a man to
want credit for a thing like that."
Washington said with his blue lips that he
would, but he said in his
secret heart that he would promote no such
iniquity. He tried to believe=
in the healthfulness of the invention, and
succeeded tolerably well;
but after all he could not feel that good
health in a frozen, body was
any real improvement on the rheumatism.
--Whan pe horde is thynne, as of seruyse,
=
Nought replenesshed with grete diuersite
=
Of mete & drinke, good chere may then suffise
=
With honest talkyng----
=
&nb=
sp;
The Book of Curtesye.
=
MAMMON. Come on, sir.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Now, you set your foot on shore
=
In Novo Orbe; here's the rich Peru:
=
And there within, sir, are the golden mines,
=
Great Solomon's Ophir!----
=
&nb=
sp; =
B. Jonson
The supper at Col. Sellers's was not
sumptuous, in the beginning, but it
improved on acquaintance. That is to say, that what Washingt=
on
regarded
at first sight as mere lowly potatoes, pre=
sently
became awe-inspiring
agricultural productions that had been rea=
red
in some ducal garden beyond
the sea, under the sacred eye of the duke
himself, who had sent them to
Sellers; the bread was from corn which cou=
ld
be grown in only one favored
locality in the earth and only a favored f=
ew
could get it; the Rio
coffee, which at first seemed execrable to=
the
taste, took to itself an
improved flavor when Washington was told to
drink it slowly and not hurry
what should be a lingering luxury in order=
to
be fully appreciated--it
was from the private stores of a Brazilian
nobleman with an
unrememberable name. The Colonel's tongue was a magicia=
n's
wand that
turned dried apples into figs and water in=
to
wine as easily as it could
change a hovel into a palace and present
poverty into imminent future
riches.
Washington slept in a cold bed in a carpet=
less
room and woke up in a
palace in the morning; at least the palace
lingered during the moment
that he was rubbing his eyes and getting h=
is
bearings--and then it
disappeared and he recognized that the
Colonel's inspiring talk had been
influencing his dreams. Fatigue had made him sleep late; w=
hen he
entered
the sitting room he noticed that the old
hair-cloth sofa was absent; when
he sat down to breakfast the Colonel tossed
six or seven dollars in bills
on the table, counted them over, said he w=
as a
little short and must call
upon his banker; then returned the bills to
his wallet with the
indifferent air of a man who is used to
money. The breakfast was not =
an
improvement upon the supper, but the Colon=
el
talked it up and transformed
it into an oriental feast. Bye and bye, he said:
"I intend to look out for you,
Washington, my boy. I hunted =
up a
place
for you yesterday, but I am not referring =
to
that,--now--that is a mere
livelihood--mere bread and butter; but whe=
n I
say I mean to look out for
you I mean something very different. I mean to put things in your way
than will make a mere livelihood a trifling thing. I'll put you in a way<= o:p>
to make more money than you'll ever know w=
hat
to do with. You'll be
right here where I can put my hand on you =
when
anything turns up. I've
got some prodigious operations on foot; but
I'm keeping quiet; mum's the
word; your old hand don't go around pow-wo=
wing
and letting everybody see
his k'yards and find out his little game.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> But all in good time,
Washington, all in good time. You'll see. Now there's an operation in
corn that looks well. Some New York men are trying to ge=
t me
to go into
it--buy up all the growing crops and just =
boss
the market when they
mature--ah I tell you it's a great thing.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And it only costs a trifle;
two millions or two and a half will do
it. I haven't exactly promise=
d
yet--there's no hurry--the more indifferen=
t I
seem, you know, the more
anxious those fellows will get. And then there is the hog speculat=
ion
--that's bigger still. We've got quiet men at work,"=
[he
was very
impressive here,] "mousing around, to=
get
propositions out of all the
farmers in the whole west and northwest for
the hog crop, and other
agents quietly getting propositions and te=
rms
out of all the
manufactories--and don't you see, if we can
get all the hogs and all the
slaughter horses into our hands on the dead
quiet--whew! it would take
three ships to carry the money.--I've look=
ed
into the thing--calculated
all the chances for and all the chances
against, and though I shake my
head and hesitate and keep on thinking,
apparently, I've got my mind made
up that if the thing can be done on a capi=
tal
of six millions, that's the
horse to put up money on! Why Washington--but what's the use=
of
talking
about it--any man can see that there's who=
le
Atlantic oceans of cash in
it, gulfs and bays thrown in. But there's a bigger thing than th=
at,
yes
bigger----"
"Why Colonel, you can't want anything
bigger!" said Washington, his eyes
blazing.&=
nbsp;
"Oh, I wish I could go into either of those speculations--I
only wish I had money--I wish I wasn't cra=
mped
and kept down and fettered
with poverty, and such prodigious chances
lying right here in sight!
Oh, it is a fearful thing to be poor. But don't throw away those things<= o:p>
--they are so splendid and I can see how s=
ure
they are. Don't throw them
away for something still better and maybe =
fail
in it! I wouldn't,
Colonel.&=
nbsp;
I would stick to these. I
wish father were here and were his
old self again--Oh, he never in his life h=
ad
such chances as these are.
Colonel; you can't improve on these--no man
can improve on them!"
A sweet, compassionate smile played about =
the
Colonel's features, and he
leaned over the table with the air of a man
who is "going to show you"
and do it without the least trouble:
"Why Washington, my boy, these things=
are
nothing. They look large of
course--they look large to a novice, but t=
o a
man who has been all his
life accustomed to large operations--shaw!=
They're well enough to while
away an idle hour with, or furnish a bit of
employment that will give a
trifle of idle capital a chance to earn its
bread while it is waiting for
something to do, but--now just listen a
moment--just let me give you an
idea of what we old veterans of commerce c=
all
'business.' Here's the
Rothschild's proposition--this is between =
you
and me, you understand----"
Washington nodded three or four times
impatiently, and his glowing eyes
said, "Yes, yes--hurry--I understand-=
---"
----"for I wouldn't have it get out f=
or a
fortune. They want me to go i=
n
with them on the sly--agent was here two w=
eeks
ago about it--go in on the
sly" [voice down to an impressive
whisper, now,] "and buy up a hundred
and thirteen wild cat banks in Ohio, India=
na,
Kentucky, Illinois and
Missouri--notes of these banks are at all
sorts of discount now--average
discount of the hundred and thirteen is
forty-four per cent--buy them all
up, you see, and then all of a sudden let =
the
cat out of the bag! Whiz!
the stock of every one of those wildcats w=
ould
spin up to a tremendous
premium before you could turn a
handspring--profit on the speculation not
a dollar less than forty millions!" [=
An
eloquent pause, while the
marvelous vision settled into W.'s
focus.] "Where's your ho=
gs
now?
Why my dear innocent boy, we would just sit
down on the front door-steps
and peddle banks like lucifer matches!&quo=
t;
Washington finally got his breath and said=
:
"Oh, it is perfectly wonderful! Why couldn't these things have hap=
pened
in father's day? And I--it's of no use--they simply=
lie
before my face
and mock me. There is nothing for me but to sta=
nd
helpless and see other
people reap the astonishing harvest."=
"Never mind, Washington, don't you
worry. I'll fix you. There's plenty
of chances. How much money have you got?"=
In the presence of so many millions,
Washington could not keep from
blushing when he had to confess that he had
but eighteen dollars in the
world.
"Well, all right--don't despair. Other people have been obliged to =
begin
with less. I have a small idea that may devel=
op
into something for us
both, all in good time. Keep your money close and add to
it. I'll make
it breed.=
I've been experimenting (to pass away the time), on a little
preparation for curing sore eyes--a kind of
decoction nine-tenths water
and the other tenth drugs that don't cost =
more
than a dollar a barrel;
I'm still experimenting; there's one
ingredient wanted yet to perfect the
thing, and somehow I can't just manage to =
hit
upon the thing that's
necessary, and I don't dare talk with a
chemist, of course. But I'm
progressing, and before many weeks I wager=
the
country will ring with the
fame of Beriah Sellers' Infallible Imperial
Oriental Optic Liniment and
Salvation for Sore Eyes--the Medical Wonde=
r of
the Age! Small bottles
fifty cents, large ones a dollar. Average cost, five and seven cents=
for
the two sizes.
"The first year sell, say, ten thousa=
nd
bottles in Missouri, seven
thousand in Iowa, three thousand in Arkans=
as,
four thousand in Kentucky,
six thousand in Illinois, and say twenty-f=
ive
thousand in the rest of the
country.&=
nbsp;
Total, fifty five thousand bottles; profit clear of all
expenses, twenty thousand dollars at the v=
ery
lowest calculation. All
the capital needed is to manufacture the f=
irst
two thousand bottles
--say a hundred and fifty dollars--then the
money would begin to flow in.
The second year, sales would reach 200,000
bottles--clear profit, say,
$75,000--and in the meantime the great fac=
tory
would be building in St.
Louis, to cost, say, $100,000. The third year we could, easily se=
ll
1,000,000 bottles in the United States
and----"
"O, splendid!" said Washington.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "Let's commence right
away--let's----"
"----1,000,000 bottles in the United
States--profit at least $350,000
--and then it would begin to be time to tu=
rn
our attention toward the real
idea of the business."
"The real idea of it! Ain't $350,000 a year a pretty
real----"
"Stuff! Why what an infant you are,
Washington--what a guileless,
short-sighted, easily-contented innocent y=
ou,
are, my poor little
country-bred know-nothing! Would I go to all that trouble and
bother for
the poor crumbs a body might pick up in th=
is
country? Now do I look like
a man who----does my history suggest that =
I am
a man who deals in
trifles, contents himself with the narrow
horizon that hems in the common
herd, sees no further than the end of his nose? Now you know that that<= o:p>
is not me--couldn't be me. You ought to know that if I throw =
my
time and
abilities into a patent medicine, it's a p=
atent
medicine whose field of
operations is the solid earth! its clients=
the
swarming nations that
inhabit it! Why what is the republic of Americ=
a for
an eye-water
country?&=
nbsp;
Lord bless you, it is nothing but a barren highway that you've
got to cross to get to the true eye-water
market! Why, Washington, in
the Oriental countries people swarm like t=
he
sands of the desert; every
square mile of ground upholds its thousands
upon thousands of struggling
human creatures--and every separate and
individual devil of them's got
the ophthalmia! It's as natural to them as noses
are--and sin. It's
born with them, it stays with them, it's a=
ll
that some of them have left
when they die. Three years of introductory trade =
in the
orient and what
will be the result? Why, our headquarters would be in
Constantinople and
our hindquarters in Further India! Factories and warehouses in Cairo,=
Ispahan, Bagdad, Damascus, Jerusalem, Yedo,
Peking, Bangkok, Delhi,
Bombay--and Calcutta! Annual income--well, God only know=
s how
many
millions and millions apiece!"
Washington was so dazed, so bewildered--his
heart and his eyes had
wandered so far away among the strange lan=
ds
beyond the seas, and such
avalanches of coin and currency had flutte=
red
and jingled confusedly down
before him, that he was now as one who has
been whirling round and round
for a time, and, stopping all at once, fin=
ds
his surroundings still
whirling and all objects a dancing chaos.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> However, little by little the
Sellers family cooled down and crystalized
into shape, and the poor room
lost its glitter and resumed its poverty.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Then the youth found his voice
and begged Sellers to drop everything and
hurry up the eye-water; and he
got his eighteen dollars and tried to forc=
e it
upon the Colonel--pleaded
with him to take it--implored him to do
it. But the Colonel would not=
;
said he would not need the capital (in his
native magnificent way he
called that eighteen dollars Capital) till=
the
eye-water was an
accomplished fact. He made Washington easy in his min=
d,
though, by
promising that he would call for it just as
soon as the invention was
finished, and he added the glad tidings th=
at
nobody but just they two
should be admitted to a share in the
speculation.
When Washington left the breakfast table he
could have worshiped that
man.
Washington was one of that kind of people whose hopes are in the
very, clouds one day and in the gutter the next. He walked on air, now.<= o:p>
The Colonel was ready to take him around a=
nd
introduce him to the
employment he had found for him, but Washi=
ngton
begged for a few moments
in which to write home; with his kind of
people, to ride to-day's new
interest to death and put off yesterday's =
till
another time, is nature
itself.&n=
bsp;
He ran up stairs and wrote glowingly, enthusiastically, to his
mother about the hogs and the corn, the ba=
nks
and the eye-water--and
added a few inconsequential millions to ea=
ch
project. And he said that
people little dreamed what a man Col. Sell=
ers
was, and that the world
would open its eyes when it found out. And he closed his letter thus:
"So make yourself perfectly easy,
mother-in a little while you shall have
everything you want, and more. I am not likely to stint you in
anything,
I fancy.&=
nbsp;
This money will not be for me, alone, but for all of us.
I want all to share alike; and there is go=
ing
to be far more for each
than one person can spend. Break it to father cautiously--you
understand
the need of that--break it to him cautious=
ly,
for he has had such cruel
hard fortune, and is so stricken by it that
great good news might
prostrate him more surely than even bad, f=
or
he is used to the bad but
is grown sadly unaccustomed to the other.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Tell Laura--tell all the
children.=
And write to Clay about it if he is not with you yet. You may
tell Clay that whatever I get he can freel=
y share
in-freely. He knows
that that is true--there will be no need t=
hat
I should swear to that to
make him believe it. Good-bye--and mind what I say: Rest
perfectly easy,
one and all of you, for our troubles are
nearly at an end."
Poor lad, he could not know that his mother
would cry some loving,
compassionate tears over his letter and put
off the family with a
synopsis of its contents which conveyed a =
deal
of love to then but not
much idea of his prospects or projects.
joyful letter could sadden her and fill her
night with sighs, and
troubled thoughts, and bodings of the futu=
re,
instead of filling it with
peace and blessing it with restful sleep.<= o:p>
When the letter was done, Washington and t=
he
Colonel sallied forth, and
as they walked along Washington learned wh=
at
he was to be. He was to be
a clerk in a real estate office. Instantly the fickle youth's dream=
s
forsook the magic eye-water and flew back =
to
the Tennessee Land. And the
gorgeous possibilities of that great domain
straightway began to occupy
his imagination to such a degree that he c=
ould
scarcely manage to keep
even enough of his attention upon the
Colonel's talk to retain the
general run of what he was saying. He was glad it was a real estate
office--he was a made man now, sure.
The Colonel said that General Boswell was a
rich man and had a good and
growing business; and that Washington's wo=
rk
world be light and he would
get forty dollars a month and be boarded a=
nd
lodged in the General's
family--which was as good as ten dollars m=
ore;
and even better, for he
could not live as well even at the "C=
ity
Hotel" as he would there, and
yet the hotel charged fifteen dollars a mo=
nth
where a man had a good
room.
General Boswell was in his office; a
comfortable looking place, with
plenty of outline maps hanging about the w=
alls
and in the windows, and
a spectacled man was marking out another o=
ne
on a long table. The office
was in the principal street. The General received Washington wi=
th a
kindly but reserved politeness. Washington rather liked his looks.=
He was about fifty years old, dignified, w=
ell
preserved and well dressed.
After the Colonel took his leave, the Gene=
ral
talked a while with
Washington--his talk consisting chiefly of
instructions about the
clerical duties of the place. He seemed satisfied as to Washingt=
on's
ability to take care of the books, he was
evidently a pretty fair
theoretical bookkeeper, and experience wou=
ld
soon harden theory into
practice.=
By and by dinner-time came, and the two walked to the
General's house; and now Washington notice=
d an
instinct in himself that
moved him to keep not in the General's rea=
r,
exactly, but yet not at his
side--somehow the old gentleman's dignity =
and
reserve did not inspire
familiarity.
grain to hogs, from hogs to banks, from ba=
nks
to eyewater, from eye-water
to
fascinations. He was conscious of but one outwar=
d thing,
to wit, the
General, and he was really not vividly
conscious of him.
Arrived at the finest dwelling in the town,
they entered it and were at
home.&nbs=
p;
Washington was introduced to Mrs. Boswell, and his imagination was
on the point of flitting into the vapory
realms of speculation again,
when a lovely girl of sixteen or seventeen
came in. This vision swept
Washington's mind clear of its chaos of
glittering rubbish in an instant.
Beauty had fascinated him before; many tim=
es
he had been in love even for
weeks at a time with the same object but h=
is
heart had never suffered so
sudden and so fierce an assault as this,
within his recollection.
Louise Boswell occupied his mind and drift=
ed
among his multiplication
tables all the afternoon. He was constantly catching himself=
in a
reverie--reveries made up of recalling how=
she
looked when she first
burst upon him; how her voice thrilled him
when she first spoke; how
charmed the very air seemed by her
presence. Blissful as the aft=
ernoon
was, delivered up to such a revel as this,=
it
seemed an eternity, so
impatient was he to see the girl again.
followed.=
Washington plunged into this love affair as he plunged into
everything else--upon impulse and without reflection. As the days went<= o:p>
by it seemed plain that he was growing in
favor with Louise,--not
sweepingly so, but yet perceptibly, he
fancied. His attentions to he=
r
troubled her father and mother a little, a=
nd
they warned Louise, without
stating particulars or making allusions to=
any
special person, that a
girl was sure to make a mistake who allowed
herself to marry anybody but
a man who could support her well.
Some instinct taught Washington that his
present lack of money would be
an obstruction, though possibly not a bar,=
to
his hopes, and straightway
his poverty became a torture to him which =
cast
all his former sufferings
under that held into the shade. He longed for riches now as he had=
ever
longed for them before.
He had been once or twice to dine with Col.
Sellers, and had been
discouraged to note that the Colonel's bil=
l of
fare was falling off both
in quantity and quality--a sign, he feared,
that the lacking ingredient
in the eye-water still remained
undiscovered--though Sellers always
explained that these changes in the family
diet had been ordered by the
doctor, or suggested by some new scientific
work the Colonel had stumbled
upon.&nbs=
p;
But it always turned out that the lacking ingredient was still
lacking--though it always appeared, at the
same time, that the Colonel
was right on its heels.
Every time the Colonel came into the real
estate office Washington's
heart bounded and his eyes lighted with ho=
pe,
but it always turned out
that the Colonel was merely on the scent of
some vast, undefined landed
speculation--although he was customarily a=
ble
to say that he was nearer
to the all-necessary ingredient than ever,=
and
could almost name the hour
when success would dawn. And then Washington's heart world =
sink
again
and a sigh would tell when it touched bott=
om.
About this time a letter came, saying that
Judge Hawkins had been ailing
for a fortnight, and was now considered to=
be
seriously ill. It was
thought best that Washington should come
home. The news filled him wit=
h
grief, for he loved and honored his father;
the Boswells were touched by
the youth's sorrow, and even the General
unbent and said encouraging
things to him.--There was balm in this; but
when Louise bade him
good-bye, and shook his hand and said,
"Don't be cast down--it will all
come out right--I know it will all come ou=
t right,"
it seemed a blessed
thing to be in misfortune, and the tears t=
hat
welled up to his eyes were
the messengers of an adoring and a grateful
heart; and when the girl saw
them and answering tears came into her own
eyes, Washington could hardly
contain the excess of happiness that poured
into the cavities of his
breast that were so lately stored to the r=
oof
with grief.
All the way home he nursed his woe and exa=
lted
it. He pictured himself
as she must be picturing him: a noble,
struggling young spirit persecuted
by misfortune, but bravely and patiently
waiting in the shadow of a dread
calamity and preparing to meet the blow as
became one who was all too
used to hard fortune and the pitiless
buffetings of fate. These tho=
ughts
made him weep, and weep more broken-hearte=
dly
than ever; and he wished
that she could see his sufferings now.
There was nothing significant in the fact =
that
Louise, dreamy and
distraught, stood at her bedroom bureau th=
at
night, scribbling
"Washington" here and there over=
a
sheet of paper. But there was=
something significant in the fact that she
scratched the word out every
time she wrote it; examined the erasure
critically to see if anybody
could guess at what the word had been; then
buried it under a maze of
obliterating lines; and finally, as if sti=
ll
unsatisfied, burned the
paper.
When Washington reached home, he recognize=
d at
once how serious his
father's case was. The darkened room, the labored bre=
athing
and
occasional moanings of the patient, the tip-toeing of =
the
attendants and
their whispered consultations, were full of sad
meaning. For three or
four nights Mrs. Hawkins and Laura had been watching by
the bedside; Clay had arrived, preceding Washington by one day, and he was =
now
added to the corps of watchers. Mr.
Hawkins would have none but these three, though neighborly assistance was
offered by old friends. From =
this
time forth three-hour watches were instituted, and day and night the watche=
rs
kept their vigils. By degrees=
Laura
and her mother began to show wear, but
neither of them would yield a minute of their tasks to
Clay. He ventured
once to let the midnight hour pass without
calling Laura, but he ventured
no more; there was that about her rebuke w=
hen
he tried to explain, that
taught him that to let her sleep when she
might be ministering to her
father's needs, was to rob her of moments =
that
were priceless in her
eyes; he perceived that she regarded it as=
a
privilege to watch, not a
burden.&n=
bsp;
And, he had noticed, also, that when midnight struck, the
patient turned his eyes toward the door, w=
ith
an expectancy in them which
presently grew into a longing but brighten=
ed
into contentment as soon
as the door opened and Laura appeared. And he did not need Laura's
rebuke when he heard his father say:
"Clay is good, and you are tired, poor
child; but I wanted you so."
"Clay is not good, father--he did not
call me. I would not have tre=
ated
him so.&n=
bsp;
How could you do it, Clay?"
Clay begged forgiveness and promised not to
break faith again; and as he
betook him to his bed, he said to
himself: "It's a steadfa=
st
little
soul; whoever thinks he is doing the Duche=
ss a
kindness by intimating
that she is not sufficient for any underta=
king
she puts her hand to,
makes a mistake; and if I did not know it
before, I know now that there
are surer ways of pleasing her than by try=
ing
to lighten her labor when
that labor consists in wearing herself out=
for
the sake of a person she
loves."
A week drifted by, and all the while the
patient sank lower and lower.
The night drew on that was to end all
suspense. It was a wintry one=
.
The darkness gathered, the snow was fallin=
g,
the wind wailed plaintively
about the house or shook it with fitful
gusts. The doctor had paid hi=
s
last visit and gone away with that dismal
remark to the nearest friend of
the family that he "believed there was
nothing more that he could do"
--a remark which is always overheard by so=
me
one it is not meant for and
strikes a lingering half-conscious hope de=
ad
with a withering shock;
the medicine phials had been removed from =
the
bedside and put out of
sight, and all things made orderly and meet
for the solemn event that was
impending; the patient, with closed eyes, =
lay
scarcely breathing; the
watchers sat by and wiped the gathering da=
mps
from his forehead while the
silent tears flowed down their faces; the =
deep
hush was only interrupted
by sobs from the children, grouped about t=
he
bed.
After a time--it was toward midnight now--=
Mr.
Hawkins roused out of a
doze, looked about him and was evidently
trying to speak. Instantly
Laura lifted his head and in a failing voi=
ce
he said, while something of
the old light shone in his eyes:
"Wife--children--come
nearer--nearer. The darkness
grows. Let me see
you all, once more."
The group closed together at the bedside, =
and
their tears and sobs came
now without restraint.
"I am leaving you in cruel poverty. I have been--so foolish--so
short-sighted. But courage! A better day is--is coming. Never lose
sight of the Tennessee Land! Be wary. There is wealth stored up for you<= o:p>
there--wealth that is boundless! The children shall hold up their h=
eads
with the best in the land, yet. Where are the papers?--Have you go=
t the
papers safe? Show them--show them to me!"<= o:p>
Under his strong excitement his voice had
gathered power and his last
sentences were spoken with scarcely a
perceptible halt or hindrance.
With an effort he had raised himself almost
without assistance to a
sitting posture. But now the fire faded out of his =
eyes
and he fell back
exhausted. The papers were brought and held b=
efore
him, and the
answering smile that flitted across his fa=
ce
showed that he was
satisfied. He closed his eyes, and the signs =
of
approaching dissolution
multiplied rapidly. He lay almost motionless for a lit=
tle
while, then
suddenly partly raised his head and looked
about him as one who peers
into a dim uncertain light. He muttered:
"Gone? No--I see you--still. It is--it is-over. But you are--safe.
Safe.&nbs=
p;
The Ten-----"
The voice died out in a whisper; the sente=
nce
was never finished. The
emaciated fingers began to pick at the
coverlet, a fatal sign. After=
a
time there were no sounds but the cries of=
the
mourners within and the
gusty turmoil of the wind without. Laura had bent down and kissed her=
father's lips as the spirit left the body;=
but
she did not sob, or utter
any ejaculation; her tears flowed
silently. Then she closed the=
dead
eyes, and crossed the hands upon the breas=
t;
after a season, she kissed
the forehead reverently, drew the sheet up
over the face, and then walked
apart and sat down with the look of one wh=
o is
done with life and has no
further interest in its joys and sorrows, =
its
hopes or its ambitions.
Clay buried his face in the coverlet of the
bed; when the other children
and the mother realized that death was ind=
eed
come at last, they threw
themselves into each others' arms and gave=
way
to a frenzy of grief.
Only two or three days had elapsed since t=
he
funeral, when something
happened which was to change the drift of
Laura's life somewhat, and
influence in a greater or lesser degree the
formation of her character.
Major Lackland had once been a man of note=
in
the State--a man of
extraordinary natural ability and as
extraordinary learning. He ha=
d been
universally trusted and honored in his day,
but had finally, fallen into
misfortune; while serving his third term in
Congress, and while upon the
point of being elevated to the Senate--whi=
ch
was considered the summit of
earthly aggrandizement in those days--he h=
ad
yielded to temptation, when
in distress for money wherewith to save his
estate; and sold his vote.
His crime was discovered, and his fall
followed instantly. Nothing c=
ould
reinstate him in the confidence of the peo=
ple,
his ruin was
irretrievable--his disgrace complete. All doors were closed against him,=
all men avoided him. After years of skulking retirement=
and
dissipation,
death had relieved him of his troubles at
last, and his funeral followed
close upon that of Mr. Hawkins. He died as he had latterly lived--=
wholly
alone and friendless. He had no relatives--or if he had =
they
did not
acknowledge him. The coroner's jury found certain
memoranda upon his
body and about the premises which revealed=
a
fact not suspected by the
villagers before-viz., that Laura was not =
the
child of Mr. and Mrs.
Hawkins.
The gossips were soon at work. They were but little hampered by t=
he
fact
that the memoranda referred to betrayed
nothing but the bare circumstance
that Laura's real parents were unknown, and
stopped there. So far from
being hampered by this, the gossips seemed=
to
gain all the more freedom
from it.&=
nbsp;
They supplied all the missing information themselves, they
filled up all the blanks. The town soon teemed with historie=
s of
Laura's
origin and secret history, no two versions
precisely alike, but all
elaborate, exhaustive, mysterious and
interesting, and all agreeing in
one vital particular-to-wit, that there wa=
s a
suspicious cloud about her
birth, not to say a disreputable one.
Laura began to encounter cold looks, avert=
ed
eyes and peculiar nods and
gestures which perplexed her beyond measur=
e;
but presently the pervading
gossip found its way to her, and she
understood them--then. Her pr=
ide
was stung. She was astonished, and at first
incredulous. She was about
to ask her mother if there was any truth in
these reports, but upon
second thought held her peace. She soon gathered that Major Lackl=
and's
memoranda seemed to refer to letters which=
had
passed between himself and
Judge Hawkins. She shaped her course without diff=
iculty
the day that
that hint reached her.
That night she sat in her room till all was
still, and then she stole
into the garret and began a search. She rummaged long among boxes of
musty papers relating to business matters =
of
no, interest to her, but at
last she found several bundles of
letters. One bundle was marke=
d
"private," and in that she found
what she wanted. She selected=
six
or
eight letters from the package and began to
devour their contents,
heedless of the cold.
By the dates, these letters were from five=
to
seven years old. They were
all from Major Lackland to Mr. Hawkins.
some one in the east had been inquiring of
Major Lackland about a lost
child and its parents, and that it was
conjectured that the child might
be Laura.
Evidently some of the letters were missing,
for the name of the
inquirer was not mentioned; there was a ca=
sual
reference to "this
handsome-featured aristocratic
gentleman," as if the reader and the
writer were accustomed to speak of him and
knew who was meant.
In one letter the Major said he agreed with
Mr. Hawkins that the inquirer
seemed not altogether on the wrong track; =
but
he also agreed that it
would be best to keep quiet until more
convincing developments were
forthcoming.
Another letter said that "the poor so=
ul
broke completely down when he saw
Laura's picture, and declared it must be
she."
Still another said:
"He seems
entirely alone in the world, and his heart is so wrapped
up in this thing=
that
I believe that if it proved a false hope, it
would kill him; =
I have
persuaded him to wait a little while and go
west when I go.&=
quot;
Another letter had this paragraph in it:
"He is bett=
er one
day and worse the next, and is out of his mind a
good deal of the
time. Lately his case has dev=
eloped
a something
which is a wonde=
r to
the hired nurses, but which will not be much of
a marvel to you =
if you
have read medical philosophy much.
It is
this: his lost m=
emory
returns to him when he is delirious, and goes
away again when =
he is
himself-just as old Canada Joe used to talk
the French patoi=
s of
his boyhood in the delirium of typhus fever,
though he could =
not do
it when his mind was clear. N=
ow
this poor
gentleman's memo=
ry has
always broken down before he reached the
explosion of the=
steamer;
he could only remember starting up the
river with his w=
ife
and child, and he had an idea that there was a
race, but he was=
not
certain; he could not name the boat he was on;
there was a dead=
blank
of a month or more that supplied not an item
to his
recollection. It was not for =
me to
assist him, of course.
But now in his
delirium it all comes out: the names of the boats,
every incident o=
f the
explosion, and likewise the details of his
astonishing
escape--that is, up to where, just as a yawl-boat was
approaching him =
(he
was clinging to the starboard wheel of the
burning wreck at=
the
time), a falling timber struck him on the head.
But I will write=
out
his wonderful escape in full to-morrow or next
day. Of course the physicians will not =
let me
tell him now that our
Laura is indeed =
his
child--that must come later, when his health is
thoroughly
restored. His case is not
considered dangerous at all;
he will recover
presently, the doctors say. B=
ut
they insist that he
must travel a li=
ttle
when he gets well--they recommend a short sea
voyage, and they=
say
he can be persuaded to try it if we continue to
keep him in igno=
rance
and promise to let him see L. as soon as he
returns."
The letter that bore the latest date of al=
l,
contained this clause:
"It is the =
most
unaccountable thing in the world; the mystery
remains as
impenetrable as ever; I have hunted high and low for him,
and inquired of
everybody, but in vain; all trace of him ends at
that hotel in
up to this day; =
he
could hardly have sailed, for his name does not
appear upon the =
books
of any shipping office in
or
to ourselves; La=
ura
still has a father in you, and it is better for
her that we drop=
this
subject here forever."
That was all. Random remarks here and there, bei=
ng
pieced together gave
Laura a vague impression of a man of fine
presence, abort forty-three or
forty-five years of age, with dark hair and
eyes, and a slight limp in
his walk--it was not stated which leg was
defective. And this indistinc=
t
shadow represented her father. She made an exhaustive search for =
the
missing letters, but found none. They had probably been burned; and=
she
doubted not that the ones she had ferreted=
out
would have shared the same
fate if Mr. Hawkins had not been a dreamer,
void of method, whose mind
was perhaps in a state of conflagration ov=
er
some bright new speculation
when he received them.
She sat long, with the letters in her lap,
thinking--and unconsciously
freezing.=
She felt like a lost person who has traveled down a long lane
in good hope of escape, and, just as the n=
ight
descends finds his
progress barred by a bridge-less river who=
se
further shore, if it has
one, is lost in the darkness. If she could only have found these
letters
a month sooner! That was her thought. But now the dead had carried
their secrets with them. A dreary, melancholy settled down =
upon
her.
An undefined sense of injury crept into her
heart. She grew very
miserable.
She had just reached the romantic age--the=
age
when there is a sad
sweetness, a dismal comfort to a girl to f=
ind
out that there is a mystery
connected with her birth, which no other p=
iece
of good luck can afford.
She had more than her rightful share of
practical good sense, but still
she was human; and to be human is to have
one's little modicum of romance
secreted away in one's composition. One never ceases to make a hero of=
one's self, (in private,) during life, but
only alters the style of his
heroism from time to time as the drifting
years belittle certain gods of
his admiration and raise up others in their
stead that seem greater.
The recent wearing days and nights of
watching, and the wasting grief
that had possessed her, combined with the
profound depression that
naturally came with the reaction of idlene=
ss,
made Laura peculiarly
susceptible at this time to romantic
impressions. She was a heroin=
e,
now, with a mysterious father somewhere. She could not really tell
whether she wanted to find him and spoil it
all or not; but still all the
traditions of romance pointed to the making
the attempt as the usual and
necessary, course to follow; therefore she
would some day begin the
search when opportunity should offer.
Now a former thought struck her--she would
speak to Mrs. Hawkins.
And naturally enough Mrs. Hawkins appeared=
on
the stage at that moment.
She said she knew all--she knew that Laura=
had
discovered the secret that
Mr. Hawkins, the elder children, Col. Sell=
ers
and herself had kept so
long and so faithfully; and she cried and =
said
that now that troubles had
begun they would never end; her daughter's
love would wean itself away
from her and her heart would break. Her grief so wrought upon Laura th=
at
the girl almost forgot her own troubles for
the moment in her compassion
for her mother's distress. Finally Mrs. Hawkins said:
"Speak to me, child--do not forsake
me. Forget all this miserable=
talk.
Say I am your mother!--I have loved you so
long, and there is no other.
I am your mother, in the sight of God, and
nothing shall ever take you
from me!"
All barriers fell, before this appeal. Laura put her arms about her
mother's neck and said:
"You are my mother, and always shall
be. We will be as we have alw=
ays
been; and neither this foolish talk nor any
other thing shall part us or
make us less to each other than we are this
hour."
There was no longer any sense of separatio=
n or
estrangement between them.
Indeed their love seemed more perfect now =
than
it had ever been before.
By and by they went down stairs and sat by=
the
fire and talked long and
earnestly about Laura's history and the
letters. But it transpired th=
at
Mrs. Hawkins had never known of this
correspondence between her husband
and Major Lackland. With his usual consideration for h=
is
wife, Mr.
Hawkins had shielded her from the worry the
matter would have caused her.
Laura went to bed at last with a mind that=
had
gained largely in
tranquility and had lost correspondingly in
morbid romantic exaltation.
She was pensive, the next day, and subdued;
but that was not matter for
remark, for she did not differ from the
mournful friends about her in
that respect. Clay and Washington were the same =
loving
and admiring
brothers now that they had always been.
of the younger children, but their love
suffered no change under the
wonderful revelation.
It is barely possible that things might ha=
ve
presently settled down into
their old rut and the mystery have lost the
bulk of its romantic
sublimity in Laura's eyes, if the village
gossips could have quieted
down.&nbs=
p;
But they could not quiet down and they did not. Day after day
they called at the house, ostensibly upon
visits of condolence, and they
pumped away at the mother and the children
without seeming to know that
their questionings were in bad taste. They meant no harm they only
wanted to know. Villagers always want to know.
The family fought shy of the questionings,=
and
of course that was high
testimony "if the Duchess was respect=
ably
born, why didn't they come out
and prove it?--why did they, stick to that
poor thin story about picking
her up out of a steamboat explosion?"=
Under this ceaseless persecution, Laura's
morbid self-communing was
renewed.&=
nbsp;
At night the day's contribution of detraction, innuendo and
malicious conjecture would be canvassed in=
her
mind, and then she would
drift into a course of thinking. As her thoughts ran on, the indign=
ant
tears would spring to her eyes, and she wo=
uld
spit out fierce little
ejaculations at intervals. But finally she would grow calmer =
and
say
some comforting disdainful thing--something
like this:
"But who are they?--Animals! What are their opinions to me? Let them
talk--I will not stoop to be affected by
it. I could hate----.
Nonsense--nobody I care for or in any way
respect is changed toward me,
I fancy."
She may have supposed she was thinking of =
many
individuals, but it was
not so--she was thinking of only one. And her heart warmed somewhat,
too, the while. One day a friend overheard a
conversation like this:
--and naturally came and told her all about
it:
"Ned, they say you don't go there any
more. How is that?"
"Well, I don't; but I tell you it's n=
ot
because I don't want to and it's
not because I think it is any matter who h=
er
father was or who he wasn't,
either; it's only on account of this talk, talk, talk. I think she is a<= o:p>
fine girl every way, and so would you if y=
ou
knew her as well as I do;
but you know how it is when a girl once ge=
ts
talked about--it's all up
with her--the world won't ever let her alo=
ne,
after that."
The only comment Laura made upon this
revelation, was:
"Then it appears that if this trouble=
had
not occurred I could have had
the happiness of Mr. Ned Thurston's serious
attentions. He is well
favored in person, and well liked, too, I
believe, and comes of one of
the first families of the village. He is prosperous, too, I hear; has=
been a doctor a year, now, and has had two
patients--no, three, I think;
yes, it was three. I attended their funerals. Well, other people have
hoped and been disappointed; I am not alon=
e in
that. I wish you could
stay to dinner, Maria--we are going to have
sausages; and besides,
I wanted to talk to you about Hawkeye and =
make
you promise to come and
see us when we are settled there."
But Maria could not stay. She had come to mingle romantic te=
ars
with
Laura's over the lover's defection and had
found herself dealing with a
heart that could not rise to an appreciati=
on
of affliction because its
interest was all centred in sausages.
But as soon as Maria was gone, Laura stamp=
ed
her expressive foot and
said:
"The coward! Are all books lies? I thought he would fly to the fron=
t,
and be brave and noble, and stand up for me
against all the world, and
defy my enemies, and wither these gossips =
with
his scorn! Poor crawling
thing, let him go. I do begin to despise thin world!&=
quot;
She lapsed into thought. Presently she said:
"If the time ever comes, and I get a
chance, Oh, I'll----"
She could not find a word that was strong
enough, perhaps. By and by sh=
e
said:
"Well, I am glad of it--I'm glad of
it. I never cared anything fo=
r him
anyway!"
And then, with small consistency, she crie=
d a
little, and patted her foot
more indignantly than ever.
Two months had gone by and the Hawkins family were
domiciled in Hawkeye.
alternately in paradise or the other place
just as it happened that
Louise was gracious to him or seemingly
indifferent--because indifference
or preoccupation could mean nothing else t=
han
that she was thinking of
some other young person. Col. Sellers had asked him several
times, to
dine with him, when he first returned to
Hawkeye, but Washington, for no
particular reason, had not accepted. No particular reason except one
which he preferred to keep to himself--viz.
that he could not bear to be
away from Louise. It occurred to him, now, that the
Colonel had not
invited him lately--could he be offended?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He resolved to go that very
day, and give the Colonel a pleasant
surprise. It was a good idea;=
especially as Louise had absented herself =
from
breakfast that morning,
and torn his heart; he would tear hers, no=
w,
and let her see how it felt.
The Sellers family were just starting to
dinner when
upon them with his surprise. For an instant the Colonel looked<= o:p>
nonplussed, and just a bit uncomfortable; =
and
Mrs. Sellers looked
actually distressed; but the next moment t=
he
head of the house was
himself again, and exclaimed:
"All right, my boy, all right--always
glad to see you--always glad to
hear your voice and take you by the hand.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Don't wait for special
invitations--that's all nonsense among
friends. Just come whenever y=
ou
can, and come as often as you can--the oft=
ener
the better. You can't
please us any better than that,
you so herself. We don't pretend to style. Plain folks, you know--plain
folks.&nb=
sp;
Just a plain family dinner, but such as it is, our friends are
always welcome, I reckon you know that
yourself, Washington. Run alo=
ng,
children, run along; Lafayette,--[**In tho=
se
old days the average man
called his children after his most revered
literary and historical idols;
consequently there was hardly a family, at
least in the West, but had a
Washington in it--and also a Lafayette, a
Franklin, and six or eight
sounding names from Byron, Scott, and the
Bible, if the offspring held
out. To visit such a family, was to find=
one's
self confronted by a
congress made up of representatives of the
imperial myths and the
majestic dead of all the ages. There was something thrilling abou=
t it,
to a stranger, not to say awe
inspiring.]--stand off the cat's tail,
child, can't you see what you're doing?--C=
ome,
come, come, Roderick Dhu,
it isn't nice for little boys to hang onto
young gentlemen's coat tails
--but never mind him, Washington, he's ful=
l of
spirits and don't mean any
harm.&nbs=
p;
Children will be children, you know. Take the chair next to Mrs.
Sellers, Washington--tut, tut, Marie
Antoinette, let your brother have
the fork if he wants it, you are bigger th=
an
he is."
mind. Was this the plain family dinner? And was it all present? It was
soon apparent that this was indeed the din=
ner:
it was all on the table:
it consisted of abundance of clear, fresh
water, and a basin of raw
turnips--nothing more.
the world, the next moment, if he could ha=
ve
spared her that. The poor
woman's face was crimson, and the tears st=
ood
in her eyes.
did not know what to do. He wished he had never come there =
and spied
out
this cruel poverty and brought pain to that
poor little lady's heart and
shame to her cheek; but he was there, and
there was no escape.
Sellers hitched back his coat sleeves airi=
ly
from his wrists as who
should say "Now for solid
enjoyment!" seized a fork, flourished it and
began to harpoon turnips and deposit them =
in
the plates before him "Let
me help you, Washington--
well, my boy, things are looking pretty
bright, now, I tell you.
Speculation--my! the whole atmosphere's fu=
ll
of money. I would'nt take
three fortunes for one little operation I'=
ve
got on hand now--have
anything from the casters? No?
Well, you're right, you're right.&n=
bsp;
Some
people like mustard with turnips, but--now
there was Baron Poniatowski
--Lord, but that man did know how to
live!--true Russian you know, Russian
to the back bone; I say to my wife, give m=
e a
Russian every time, for a
table comrade. The Baron used to say, 'Take musta=
rd,
Sellers, try the
mustard,--a man can't know what turnips ar=
e in
perfection without,
mustard,' but I always said, 'No, Baron, I=
'm a
plain man and I want my
food plain--none of your embellishments for
Beriah Sellers--no made
dishes for me! And it's the best way--high living=
kills
more than it
cures in this world, you can rest assured =
of
that.--Yes indeed,
water--help yourself, won't you?--help
yourself, there's plenty of it.
--You'll find it pretty good, I guess. How does that fruit strike you?&qu=
ot;
not add that he detested turnips even when
they were cooked loathed them
in their natural state. No, he kept this to himself, and p=
raised
the
turnips to the peril of his soul.
"I thought you'd like them. Examine them--examine them--they'l=
l bear
it.
See how perfectly firm and juicy they
are--they can't start any like them
in this part of the country, I can tell
you. These are from
--I imported them myself. They cost like sin, too; but lord =
bless
me,
I go in for having the best of a thing, ev=
en
if it does cost a little
more--it's the best economy, in the long
run. These are the Early
Malcolm--it's a turnip that can't be produ=
ced
except in just one orchard,
and the supply never is up to the demand.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Take some more water,
say that.=
The plague can't come where this article is, my boy!"
"Plague? What plague?"
"What plague, indeed? Why the Asiatic plague that nearly
depopulated
"But how does that concern us? There is no plague here, I reckon.=
"
"Sh! I've let it out! Well, never mind--just keep it to
yourself.
Perhaps I oughtn't said anything, but its
bound to come out sooner or
later, so what is the odds? Old McDowells wouldn't like me to-=
-to
--bother it all, I'll jest tell the whole
thing and let it go. You see,=
I've been down to St. Louis
McDowells--thinks the world of me, does the
doctor. He's a man that
keeps himself to himself, and well he may,=
for
he knows that he's got a
reputation that covers the whole earth--he
won't condescend to open
himself out to many people, but lord bless
you, he and I are just like
brothers; he won't let me go to a hotel wh=
en
I'm in the city--says I'm
the only man that's company to him, and I
don't know but there's some
truth in it, too, because although I never
like to glorify myself and
make a great to-do over what I am or what I
can do or what I know,
I don't mind saying here among friends tha=
t I
am better read up in most
sciences, maybe, than the general run of
professional men in these days.
Well, the other day he let me into a little
secret, strictly on the
quiet, about this matter of the plague.
"You see it's booming right along in =
our
direction--follows the Gulf
Stream, you know, just as all those epidem=
ics
do, and within three months
it will be just waltzing through this land
like a whirlwind! And whoever=
it touches can make his will and contract =
for
the funeral. Well you
can't cure it, you know, but you can preve=
nt
it. How? Turnips! that's
it!
Turnips and water! Not=
hing
like it in the world, old McDowells
says, just fill yourself up two or three t=
imes
a day, and you can snap
your fingers at the plague. Sh!--keep mum, but just you confine
yourself
to that diet and you're all right. I wouldn't have old McDowells know=
that I told about it for anything--he never
would speak to me again.
Take some more water, Washington--the more
water you drink, the better.
Here, let me give you some more of the
turnips. No, no, no, now, I
insist.&n=
bsp;
There, now. Absorb
those. They're, mighty
sustaining--brim
full of nutriment--all the medical books s=
ay
so. Just eat from four to
seven good-sized turnips at a meal, and dr=
ink
from a pint and a half to a
quart of water, and then just sit around a
couple of hours and let them
ferment.&=
nbsp;
You'll feel like a fighting cock next day."
Fifteen or twenty minutes later the Colone=
l's
tongue was still chattering
away--he had piled up several future fortu=
nes
out of several incipient
"operations" which he had blunde=
red
into within the past week, and was
now soaring along through some brilliant
expectations born of late
promising experiments upon the lacking
ingredient of the eye-water.
And at such a time
listener, but he was not, for two matters
disturbed his mind and
distracted his attention. One was, that he discovered, to his
confusion
and shame, that in allowing himself to be
helped a second time to the
turnips, he had robbed those hungry
children. He had not needed t=
he
dreadful "fruit," and had not wa=
nted
it; and when he saw the pathetic
sorrow in their faces when they asked for =
more
and there was no more to
give them, he hated himself for his stupid=
ity
and pitied the famishing
young things with all his heart. The other matter that disturbed hi=
m was
the dire inflation that had begun in his
stomach. It grew and grew, it=
became more and more insupportable. Evidently the turnips were
"fermenting." He forced himself to sit still as =
long
as he could, but
his anguish conquered him at last.
He rose in the midst of the Colonel's talk=
and
excused himself on the
plea of a previous engagement. The Colonel followed him to the do=
or,
promising over and over again that he would
use his influence to get some
of the Early Malcolms for him, and insisti=
ng
that he should not be such a
stranger but come and take pot-luck with h=
im
every chance he got.
immediately bent his steps toward home.
In bed he passed an hour that threatened to
turn his hair gray, and then
a blessed calm settled down upon him that
filled his heart with
gratitude. Weak and languid, he made shift to=
turn
himself about and
seek rest and sleep; and as his soul hover=
ed
upon the brink of
unconciousness, he heaved a long, deep sig=
h,
and said to himself that in
his heart he had cursed the Colonel's
preventive of rheumatism, before,
and now let the plague come if it must--he=
was
done with preventives;
if ever any man beguiled him with turnips =
and
water again, let him die
the death.
If he dreamed at all that night, no gossip=
ing
spirit disturbed his
visions to whisper in his ear of certain
matters just then in bud in the
East, more than a thousand miles away that
after the lapse of a few years
would develop influences which would
profoundly affect the fate and
fortunes of the Hawkins family.
"Oh, it's easy enough to make a
fortune," Henry said.
"It seems to be easier than it is, I
begin to think," replied Philip.
"Well, why don't you go into
something? You'll never dig i=
t out
of the
Astor Library."
If there be any place and time in the world
where and when it seems easy
to "go into something" it is in
Broadway on a spring morning, when one is
walking city-ward, and has before him the =
long
lines of palace-shops with
an occasional spire seen through the soft =
haze
that lies over the lower
town, and hears the roar and hum of its
multitudinous traffic.
To the young American, here or elsewhere, =
the
paths to fortune are
innumerable and all open; there is invitat=
ion
in the air and success in
all his wide horizon. He is embarrassed which to choose,=
and
is not
unlikely to waste years in dallying with h=
is
chances, before giving
himself to the serious tug and strain of a
single object. He has no
traditions to bind him or guide him, and h=
is
impulse is to break away
from the occupation his father has followe=
d,
and make a new way for
himself.
Philip Sterling used to say that if he sho=
uld
seriously set himself for
ten years to any one of the dozen projects
that were in his brain, he
felt that he could be a rich man. He wanted to be rich, he had a sin=
cere
desire for a fortune, but for some
unaccountable reason he hesitated
about addressing himself to the narrow wor=
k of
getting it. He never
walked Broadway, a part of its tide of
abundant shifting life, without
feeling something of the flush of wealth, =
and
unconsciously taking the
elastic step of one well-to-do in this
prosperous world.
Especially at night in the crowded
theatre--Philip was too young to
remember the old Chambers' Street box, whe=
re
the serious Burton led his
hilarious and pagan crew--in the intervals=
of
the screaming comedy, when
the orchestra scraped and grunted and toot=
ed
its dissolute tunes, the
world seemed full of opportunities to Phil=
ip,
and his heart exulted with
a conscious ability to take any of its pri=
zes
he chose to pluck.
Perhaps it was the swimming ease of the
acting, on the stage, where
virtue had its reward in three easy acts,
perhaps it was the excessive
light of the house, or the music, or the b=
uzz
of the excited talk between
acts, perhaps it was youth which believed
everything, but for some reason
while Philip was at the theatre he had the
utmost confidence in life and
his ready victory in it.
Delightful illusion of paint and tinsel and
silk attire, of cheap
sentiment and high and mighty dialogue!
enough for the squeaking fiddle-bow?
Do we not all like the maudlin hero, who is
sneaking round the right
entrance, in wait to steal the pretty wife=
of
his rich and tyrannical
neighbor from the paste-board cottage at t=
he
left entrance? and when he
advances down to the foot-lights and defia=
ntly
informs the audience that,
"he who lays his hand on a woman exce=
pt
in the way of kindness," do we
not all applaud so as to drown the rest of=
the
sentence?
Philip never was fortunate enough to hear =
what
would become of a man who
should lay his hand on a woman with the
exception named; but he learned
afterwards that the woman who lays her han=
d on
a man, without any
exception whatsoever, is always acquitted =
by
the jury.
The fact was, though Philip Sterling did n=
ot
know it, that he wanted
several other things quite as much as he
wanted wealth. The modest
fellow would have liked fame thrust upon h=
im
for some worthy achievement;
it might be for a book, or for the skillful
management of some great
newspaper, or for some daring expedition l=
ike
that of Lt. Strain or Dr.
Kane.&nbs=
p;
He was unable to decide exactly what it should be. Sometimes he
thought he would like to stand in a
conspicuous pulpit and humbly preach
the gospel of repentance; and it even cros=
sed
his mind that it would be
noble to give himself to a missionary life=
to
some benighted region,
where the date-palm grows, and the
nightingale's voice is in tune, and
the bul-bul sings on the off nights. If he were good enough he would
attach himself to that company of young me=
n in
the Theological Seminary,
who were seeing
Philip was a
carried off with him all the learning of t=
hat
venerable institution, but
he knew some things that were not in the r=
egular
course of study. A very
good use of the English language and
considerable knowledge of its
literature was one of them; he could sing a
song very well, not in time
to be sure, but with enthusiasm; he could =
make
a magnetic speech at a
moment's notice in the class room, the
debating society, or upon any
fence or dry-goods box that was convenient=
; he
could lift himself by one
arm, and do the giant swing in the gymnasi=
um;
he could strike out from
his left shoulder; he could handle an oar =
like
a professional and pull
stroke in a winning race. Philip had a good appetite, a sunny
temper,
and a clear hearty laugh. He had brown hair, hazel eyes set =
wide
apart,
a broad but not high forehead, and a fresh
winning face. He was six feet=
high, with broad shoulders, long legs and a
swinging gait; one of those
loose-jointed, capable fellows, who saunter
into the world with a free
air and usually make a stir in whatever
company they enter.
After he left college Philip took the advi=
ce
of friends and read law.
Law seemed to him well enough as a science,
but he never could discover a
practical case where it appeared to him wo=
rth
while to go to law, and all
the clients who stopped with this new cler=
k in
the ante-room of the law
office where he was writing, Philip invari=
ably
advised to settle--no
matter how, but settle--greatly to the dis=
gust
of his employer, who knew
that justice between man and man could onl=
y be
attained by the recognized
processes, with the attendant fees. Besides Philip hated the copying o=
f
pleadings, and he was certain that a life =
of
"whereases" and "aforesaids"
and whipping the devil round the stump, wo=
uld
be intolerable.
[Note: these few paragraphs are nearly an
autobiography of the life of
Charles Dudley Warner whose contributions =
to
the story start here with
Chapter XII. D.W.]
His pen therefore, and whereas, and not as
aforesaid, strayed off into
other scribbling. In an unfortunate hour, he had two=
or
three papers
accepted by first-class magazines, at three
dollars the printed page,
and, behold, his vocation was open to
him. He would make his mark i=
n
literature.
Life has no moment so sweet as that in whi=
ch a
young man believes himself
called into the immortal ranks of the mast=
ers
of literature. It is such
a noble ambition, that it is a pity it has
usually such a shallow
foundation.
At the time of this history, Philip had go=
ne
to
With his talent he thought he should have
little difficulty in getting an
editorial position upon a metropolitan
newspaper; not that he knew
anything about news paper work, or had the
least idea of journalism; he
knew he was not fitted for the technicalit=
ies
of the subordinate
departments, but he could write leaders wi=
th
perfect ease, he was sure.
The drudgery of the newspaper office was t=
oo
distaste ful, and besides it
would be beneath the dignity of a graduate=
and
a successful magazine
writer.&n=
bsp;
He wanted to begin at the top of the ladder.
To his surprise he found that every situat=
ion
in the editorial department
of the journals was full, always had been
full, was always likely to be
full.&nbs=
p;
It seemed to him that the newspaper managers didn't want genius,
but mere plodding and grubbing. Philip therefore read diligently i=
n the
Astor library, planned literary works that
should compel attention, and
nursed his genius. He had no friend wise enough to te=
ll him
to step into
the Dorking Convention, then in session, m=
ake
a sketch of the men and
women on the platform, and take it to the
editor of the Daily Grapevine,
and see what he could get a line for it.
One day he had an offer from some country
friends, who believed in him,
to take charge of a provincial daily
newspaper, and he went to consult
Mr. Gringo--Gringo who years ago managed t=
he
Atlas--about taking the
situation.
"Take it of course," says Gringo,
"take anything that offers, why not?"
"But they want me to make it an
opposition paper."
"Well, make it that. That party is going to succeed, it=
's
going to elect
the next president."
"I don't believe it," said Phili=
p,
stoutly, "its wrong in principle, and
it ought not to succeed, but I don't see h=
ow I
can go for a thing I don't
believe in."
"O, very well," said Gringo, tur=
ning
away with a shade of contempt,
"you'll find if you are going into
literature and newspaper work that you
can't afford a conscience like that."=
But Philip did afford it, and he wrote,
thanking his friends, and
declining because he said the political sc=
heme
would fail, and ought to
fail.&nbs=
p;
And he went back to his books and to his waiting for an opening
large enough for his dignified entrance in=
to
the literary world.
It was in this time of rather impatient
waiting that Philip was one
morning walking down Broadway with Henry
Brierly. He frequently
accompanied Henry part way down town to wh=
at
the latter called his office
in
every day. It was evident to the most casual
acquaintance that he was a
man of affairs, and that his time was
engrossed in the largest sort of
operations, about which there was a mysterious air.
suddenly summoned to
The two were intimate at that time,--they =
had
been class, mates--and saw
a great deal of each other. Indeed, they lived together in
in a boarding-house, there, which had the =
honor
of lodging and partially
feeding several other young fellows of like
kidney, who have since gone
their several ways into fame or into
obscurity.
It was during the morning walk to which
reference has been made that
Henry Brierly suddenly said, "Philip,=
how
would you like to go to
St. Jo?"
"I think I should like it of all
things," replied Philip, with some
hesitation, "but what for."
"Oh, it's a big operation. We are going, a lot of us, railroa=
d men,
engineers, contractors. You know my uncle is a great railr=
oad
man. I've
no doubt I can get you a chance to go if
you'll go."
"But in what capacity would I go?&quo=
t;
"Well, I'm going as an engineer. You can go as one."
"I don't know an engine from a coal
cart."
"Field engineer, civil engineer. You can begin by carrying a rod, a=
nd
putting down the figures. It's easy enough. I'll show you about that.
We'll get Trautwine and some of those
books."
"Yes, but what is it for, what is it =
all
about?"
"Why don't you see? We lay out a line, spot the good l=
and, enter
it up,
know where the stations are to be, spot th=
em,
buy lots; there's heaps of
money in it. We wouldn't engineer long."
"When do you go?" was Philip's n=
ext
question, after some moments of
silence.
"To-morrow. Is that too soon?"
"No, its not too soon. I've been ready to go anywhere for=
six
months.
The fact is, Henry, that I'm about tired of
trying to force myself into
things, and am quite willing to try floati=
ng
with the stream for a while,
and see where I will land. This seems like a providential cal=
l;
it's
sudden enough."
The two young men who were by this time fu=
ll
of the adventure, went down
to the Wall street office of Henry's uncle=
and
had a talk with that wily
operator.=
The uncle knew Philip very well, and was pleased with his
frank enthusiasm, and willing enough to gi=
ve
him a trial in the western
venture.&=
nbsp;
It was settled therefore, in the prompt way in which things are
settled in
next morning for the west.
On the way up town these adventurers bought
books on engineering, and
suits of India-rubber, which they supposed
they would need in a new and
probably damp country, and many other thin=
gs
which nobody ever needed
anywhere.
The night was spent in packing up and writ=
ing
letters, for Philip would
not take such an important step without
informing his friends. If the=
y
disapprove, thought he, I've done my duty =
by
letting them know. Happy
youth, that is ready to pack its valise, a=
nd
start for
hour's notice.
"By the way," calls out Philip f=
rom
his bed-room, to Henry, "where is
St. Jo.?"
"Why, it's in
map."
"Never mind the map. We will find the place itself. I was afraid it was
nearer home."
Philip wrote a long letter, first of all, =
to
his mother, full of love and
glowing anticipations of his new opening.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He wouldn't bother her with
business details, but he hoped that the day
was not far off when she
would see him return, with a moderate fort=
une,
and something to add to
the comfort of her advancing years.
To his uncle he said that he had made an
arrangement with some
capitalists to go to
would at least give him a knowledge of the
world and not unlikely offer
him a business opening. He knew his uncle would be glad to=
hear
that he
had at last turned his thoughts to a pract=
ical
matter.
It was to Ruth Bolton that Philip wrote last. He might never see her<= o:p>
again; he went to seek his fortune. He well knew the perils of the
frontier, the savage state of society, the
lurking Indians and the
dangers of fever. But there was no real danger to a =
person
who took care
of himself. Might he write to her often and, t=
ell
her of his life.
If he returned with a fortune, perhaps and
perhaps. If he was
unsuccessful, or if he never returned--per=
haps
it would be as well.
No time or distance, however, would ever
lessen his interest in her. H=
e
would say good-night, but not good-bye.
In the soft beginning of a Spring morning,
long before
breakfasted, while yet the air of expectat=
ion
hung about the wharves of
the metropolis, our young adventurers made
their way to the
railway station of the
journey, over what a writer of a former day
called a causeway of cracked
rails and cows, to the West.
=
What ever to say be toke in his entente,
=
his langage was so fayer & pertynante,
=
yt semeth unto manys herying not only the worde,
=
but veryly the thyng.
=
&nb=
sp;
Caxton's Book of Curtesye.
In the party of which our travelers found
themselves members, was Duff
Brown, the great railroad contractor, and
subsequently a well-known
member of Congress; a bluff, jovial Bost'n
man, thick-set, close shaven,
with a heavy jaw and a low forehead--a very
pleasant man if you were not
in his way. He had government contracts also, =
custom
houses and dry
docks, from Portland to New Orleans, and
managed to get out of congress,
in appropriations, about weight for weight=
of
gold for the stone
furnished.
Associated with him, and also of this part=
y,
was Rodney Schaick, a sleek
New York broker, a man as prominent in the
church as in the stock
exchange, dainty in his dress, smooth of
speech, the necessary complement
of Duff Brown in any enterprise that needed
assurance and adroitness.
It would be difficult to find a pleasanter
traveling party one that shook
off more readily the artificial restraints=
of
Puritanic strictness, and
took the world with good-natured
allowance. Money was plenty f=
or
every
attainable luxury, and there seemed to be =
no
doubt that its supply would
continue, and that fortunes were about to =
be
made without a great deal of
toil.&nbs=
p;
Even Philip soon caught the prevailing spirit; Barry did not need
any inoculation, he always talked in six
figures. It was as natural fo=
r
the dear boy to be rich as it is for most
people to be poor.
The elders of the party were not long in
discovering the fact, which
almost all travelers to the west soon find
out; that the water was poor.
It must have been by a lucky premonition of
this that they all had brandy
flasks with which to qualify the water of =
the
country; and it was no
doubt from an uneasy feeling of the danger=
of
being poisoned that they
kept experimenting, mixing a little of the
dangerous and changing fluid,
as they passed along, with the contents of=
the
flasks, thus saving their
lives hour by hour. Philip learned afterwards that
temperance and the
strict observance of Sunday and a certain
gravity of deportment are
geographical habits, which people do not
usually carry with them away
from home.
Our travelers stopped in Chicago long enou=
gh
to see that they could make
their fortunes there in two week's tine, b=
ut it
did not seem worth while;
the west was more attractive; the further =
one
went the wider the
opportunities opened.
They took railroad to Alton and the steamb=
oat
from there to St. Louis,
for the change and to have a glimpse of the
river.
"Isn't this jolly?" cried Henry,
dancing out of the barber's room, and
coming down the deck with a one, two, three
step, shaven, curled and
perfumed after his usual exquisite fashion=
.
"What's jolly?" asked Philip,
looking out upon the dreary and monotonous
waste through which the shaking steamboat =
was
coughing its way.
"Why, the whole thing; it's immense I=
can
tell you. I wouldn't give tha=
t
to be guaranteed a hundred thousand cold c=
ash
in a year's time."
"Where's Mr. Brown?"
"He is in the saloon, playing poker w=
ith
Schaick and that long haired
party with the striped trousers, who scram=
bled
aboard when the stage
plank was half hauled in, and the big Dele=
gate
to Congress from out
west."
"That's a fine looking fellow, that
delegate, with his glossy, black
whiskers; looks like a Washington man; I
shouldn't think he'd be at
poker."
"Oh, its only five cent ante, just to
make it interesting, the Delegate
said."
"But I shouldn't think a representati=
ve
in Congress would play poker any
way in a public steamboat."
"Nonsense, you've got to pass the
time. I tried a hand myself, =
but
those
old fellows are too many for me. The Delegate knows all the points.=
I'd bet a hundred dollars he will ante his=
way
right into the United
States Senate when his territory comes
in. He's got the cheek for
it."
"He has the grave and thoughtful mann=
er
of expectoration of a public man,
for one thing," added Philip.
"Harry," said Philip, after a pa=
use,
"what have you got on those big
boots for; do you expect to wade ashore?&q=
uot;
"I'm breaking 'em in."
The fact was Harry had got himself up in w=
hat
he thought a proper costume
for a new country, and was in appearance a
sort of compromise between a
dandy of Broadway and a backwoodsman. Harry, with blue eyes, fresh
complexion, silken whiskers and curly ches=
tnut
hair, was as handsome as
a fashion plate. He wore this morning a soft hat, a=
short
cutaway coat,
an open vest displaying immaculate linen, a
leathern belt round his
waist, and top-boots of soft leather, well
polished, that came above his
knees and required a string attached to his
belt to keep them up. The
light hearted fellow gloried in these shin=
ing
encasements of his well
shaped legs, and told Philip that they wer=
e a
perfect protection against
prairie rattle-snakes, which never strike
above the knee.
The landscape still wore an almost wintry
appearance when our travelers
left Chicago. It was a genial spring day when th=
ey
landed at St. Louis;
the birds were singing, the blossoms of pe=
ach
trees in city garden plots,
made the air sweet, and in the roar and tu=
mult
on the long river levee
they found an excitement that accorded with
their own hopeful
anticipations.
The party went to the Southern Hotel, where
the great Duff Brown was very
well known, and indeed was a man of so much
importance that even the
office clerk was respectful to him. He might have respected in him als=
o
a certain vulgar swagger and insolence of
money, which the clerk greatly
admired.
The young fellows liked the house and liked
the city; it seemed to them a
mighty free and hospitable town. Coming from the East they were str=
uck
with many peculiarities. Everybody smoked in the streets, f=
or one
thing,
they noticed; everybody "took a
drink" in an open manner whenever he
wished to do so or was asked, as if the ha=
bit
needed no concealment or
apology.&=
nbsp;
In the evening when they walked about they found people sitting
on the door-steps of their dwellings, in a
manner not usual in a northern
city; in front of some of the hotels and
saloons the side walks were
filled with chairs and benches--Paris fash=
ion,
said Harry--upon which
people lounged in these warm spring evenin=
gs,
smoking, always smoking;
and the clink of glasses and of billiard b=
alls
was in the air. It was
delightful.
Harry at once found on landing that his
back-woods custom would not be
needed in St. Louis, and that, in fact, he=
had
need of all the resources
of his wardrobe to keep even with the young swells of the town. But this<= o:p>
did not much matter, for Harry was always
superior to his clothes.
As they were likely to be detained some ti=
me
in the city, Harry told
Philip that he was going to improve his
time. And he did. It was an
encouragement to any industrious man to see
this young fellow rise,
carefully dress himself, eat his breakfast
deliberately, smoke his cigar
tranquilly, and then repair to his room, to
what he called his work, with
a grave and occupied manner, but with perf=
ect
cheerfulness.
Harry would take off his coat, remove his
cravat, roll up his
shirt-sleeves, give his curly hair the rig=
ht
touch before the glass, get
out his book on engineering, his boxes of
instruments, his drawing paper,
his profile paper, open the book of
logarithms, mix his India ink,
sharpen his pencils, light a cigar, and sit
down at the table to "lay out
a line," with the most grave notion t=
hat
he was mastering the details of
engineering. He would spend half a day in these
preparations without
ever working out a problem or having the
faintest conception of the use
of lines or logarithms. And when he had finished, he had t=
he
most
cheerful confidence that he had done a good
day's work.
It made no difference, however, whether Ha=
rry
was in his room in a hotel
or in a tent, Philip soon found, he was ju=
st
the same. In camp he would
get himself, up in the most elaborate toil=
et
at his command, polish his
long boots to the top, lay out his work be=
fore
him, and spend an hour or
longer, if anybody was looking at him, hum=
ming
airs, knitting his brows,
and "working" at engineering; an=
d if
a crowd of gaping rustics were
looking on all the while it was perfectly
satisfactory to him.
"You see," he says to Philip one
morning at the hotel when he was thus
engaged, "I want to get the theory of
this thing, so that I can have a
check on the engineers."
"I thought you were going to be an
engineer yourself," quer=
ied
Philip.
"Not many times, if the court knows
herself. There's better game.=
Brown
and Schaick have, or will have, the control
for the whole line of the
Salt Lick Pacific Extension, forty thousand
dollars a mile over the
prairie, with extra for hard-pan--and it'l=
l be
pretty much all hardpan
I can tell you; besides every alternate
section of land on this line.
There's millions in the job. I'm to have the sub-contract for t=
he
first
fifty miles, and you can bet it's a soft
thing."
"I'll tell you what you do, Philip,&q=
uot;
continued Larry, in a burst of
generosity, "if I don't get you into =
my
contract, you'll be with the
engineers, and you jest stick a stake at t=
he
first ground marked for a
depot, buy the land of the farmer before he
knows where the depot will
be, and we'll turn a hundred or so on
that. I'll advance the money =
for
the payments, and you can sell the lots. Schaick is going to let me have
ten thousand just for a flyer in such
operations."
"But that's a good deal of money.&quo=
t;
"Wait till you are used to handling
money. I didn't come out here=
for a
bagatelle. My uncle wanted me to stay East an=
d go
in on the Mobile
custom house, work up the Washington end of
it; he said there was a
fortune in it for a smart young fellow, bu=
t I
preferred to take the
chances out here. Did I tell you I had an offer from
Bobbett and Fanshaw
to go into their office as confidential cl=
erk
on a salary of ten
thousand?"
"Why didn't you take it?" asked
Philip, to whom a salary of two thousand
would have seemed wealth, before he starte=
d on
this journey.
"Take it? I'd rather operate on my own hook;=
"
said Harry, in his most
airy manner.
A few evenings after their arrival at the
Southern, Philip and Harry made
the acquaintance of a very agreeable
gentleman, whom they had frequently
seen before about the hotel corridors, and
passed a casual word with. He=
had the air of a man of business, and was
evidently a person of
importance.
The precipitating of this casual intercour=
se
into the more substantial
form of an acquaintanceship was the work of
the gentleman himself, and
occurred in this wise. Meeting the two friends in the lob=
by one
evening,
he asked them to give him the time, and ad=
ded:
"Excuse me, gentlemen--strangers in S=
t.
Louis? Ah, yes-yes. From the
East, perhaps? Ah; just so, just so. Eastern born myself--Virginia.
Sellers is my name--Beriah Sellers.
"Ah! by the way--New York, did you
say? That reminds me; just me=
t some
gentlemen from your State, a week or two
ago--very prominent gentlemen
--in public life they are; you must know t=
hem,
without doubt. Let me see
--let me see. Curious those names have escaped
me. I know they were from
your State, because I remember afterward my
old friend Governor Shackleby
said to me--fine man, is the Governor--one=
of
the finest men our country
has produced--said he, 'Colonel, how did y=
ou
like those New York
gentlemen?--not many such men in the
world,--Colonel Sellers,' said the
Governor--yes, it was New York he said--I
remember it distinctly.
I can't recall those names, somehow. But no matter. Stopping here,
gentlemen--stopping at the Southern?"=
In shaping their reply in their minds, the
title "Mr." had a place in it;
but when their turn had arrived to speak, =
the
title "Colonel" came from
their lips instead.
They said yes, they were abiding at the
Southern, and thought it a very
good house.
"Yes, yes, the Southern is fair. I myself go to the Planter's, old,=
aristocratic house. We Southern gentlemen don't change=
our
ways, you
know.&nbs=
p;
I always make it my home there when I run down from Hawkeye--my
plantation is in Hawkeye, a little up in t=
he
country. You should know
the Planter's."
Philip and Harry both said they should lik=
e to
see a hotel that had been
so famous in its day--a cheerful hostelrie,
Philip said it must have been
where duels were fought there across the
dining-room table.
"You may believe it, sir, an uncommon=
ly
pleasant lodging. Shall we
walk?"
And the three strolled along the streets, =
the
Colonel talking all
the way in the most liberal and friendly
manner, and with a frank
open-heartedness that inspired confidence.=
"Yes, born East myself, raised all al=
ong,
know the West--a great country,
gentlemen. The place for a young fellow of sp=
irit
to pick up a fortune,
simply pick it up, it's lying round loose here. Not a day that I don't<= o:p>
put aside an opportunity; too busy to look
into it. Management of my own=
property takes my time. First visit? Looking for an opening?"
"Yes, looking around," replied
Harry.
"Ah, here we are. You'd rather sit here in front tha=
n go
to my
apartments? So had I. An opening eh?"
The Colonel's eyes twinkled. "Ah, just so. The country is opening up,
all we want is capital to develop it. Slap down the rails and bring the<= o:p>
land into market. The richest land on God Almighty's
footstool is lying
right out there. If I had my capital free I could p=
lant
it for
millions."
"I suppose your capital is largely in
your plantation?" asked Philip.
"Well, partly, sir, partly. I'm down here now with reference t=
o a
little
operation--a little side thing merely. By the way gentlemen, excuse the
liberty, but it's about my usual time"=
;--
The Colonel paused, but as no movement of =
his
acquaintances followed this
plain remark, he added, in an explanatory
manner,
"I'm rather particular about the exact
time--have to be in this climate."
Even this open declaration of his hospitab=
le
intention not being
understood the Colonel politely said,
"Gentlemen, will you take
something?"
Col. Sellers led the way to a saloon on Fo=
urth
street under the hotel,
and the young gentlemen fell into the cust=
om
of the country.
"Not that," said the Colonel to =
the
bar-keeper, who shoved along the
counter a bottle of apparently corn-whiske=
y,
as if he had done it before
on the same order; "not that," w=
ith
a wave of the hand. "That
Otard if
you please. Yes. Never take an inferior liquor,
gentlemen, not in the
evening, in this climate. There. That's the stuff. My respects!"
The hospitable gentleman, having disposed =
of
his liquor, remarking that
it was not quite the thing--"when a m=
an
has his own cellar to go to, he
is apt to get a little fastidious about his
liquors"--called for cigars.
But the brand offered did not suit him; he
motioned the box away, and
asked for some particular Havana's, those =
in
separate wrappers.
"I always smoke this sort, gentlemen;
they are a little more expensive,
but you'll learn, in this climate, that yo=
u'd
better not economize on
poor cigars."
Having imparted this valuable piece of
information, the Colonel lighted
the fragrant cigar with satisfaction, and =
then
carelessly put his fingers
into his right vest pocket. That movement being without result=
, with
a
shade of disappointment on his face, he fe=
lt
in his left vest pocket.
Not finding anything there, he looked up w=
ith
a serious and annoyed air,
anxiously slapped his right pantaloon's
pocket, and then his left, and
exclaimed,
"By George, that's annoying. By George, that's mortifying. Never had
anything of that kind happen to me
before. I've left my pocket-b=
ook.
Hold!&nbs=
p;
Here's a bill, after all. No,
thunder, it's a receipt."
"Allow me," said Philip, seeing =
how
seriously the Colonel was annoyed,
and taking out his purse.
The Colonel protested he couldn't think of=
it,
and muttered something to
the barkeeper about "hanging it up,&q=
uot;
but the vender of exhilaration made
no sign, and Philip had the privilege of
paying the costly shot; Col.
Sellers profusely apologizing and claiming=
the
right "next time, next
time."
As soon as Beriah Sellers had bade his fri=
ends
good night and seen them
depart, he did not retire apartments in the
Planter's, but took his way
to his lodgings with a friend in a distant
part of the city.
The letter that Philip Sterling wrote to R=
uth
Bolton, on the evening of
setting out to seek his fortune in the wes=
t,
found that young lady in her
own father's house in
many charming suburban houses in that
hospitable city, which is
territorially one of the largest cities in=
the
world, and only prevented
from becoming the convenient metropolis of=
the
country by the intrusive
strip of
ocean.&nb=
sp;
It is a city of steady thrift, the arms of which might well be
the deliberate but delicious terrapin that
imparts such a royal flavor to
its feasts.
It was a spring morning, and perhaps it was
the influence of it that made
Ruth a little restless, satisfied neither =
with
the out-doors nor the
in-doors.=
Her sisters had gone to the city to show some country visitors
Independence Hall, Girard College and
Fairmount Water Works and Park,
four objects which Americans cannot die
peacefully, even in Naples,
without having seen. But Ruth confessed that she was ti=
red of
them, and
also of the Mint. She was tired of other things. She tried this morning
an air or two upon the piano, sang a simple
song in a sweet but slightly
metallic voice, and then seating herself by
the open window, read
Philip's letter. Was she thinking about Philip, as =
she
gazed across the
fresh lawn over the tree tops to the Chelt=
on
Hills, or of that world
which his entrance, into her tradition-bou=
nd
life had been one of the
means of opening to her? Whatever she thought, she was not =
idly
musing,
as one might see by the expression of her
face. After a time she took
up a book; it was a medical work, and to a=
ll
appearance about as
interesting to a girl of eighteen as the
statutes at large; but her face
was soon aglow over its pages, and she was=
so
absorbed in it that she did
not notice the entrance of her mother at t=
he
open door.
"Ruth?"
"Well, mother," said the young
student, looking up, with a shade of
impatience.
"I wanted to talk with thee a little
about thy plans."
"Mother; thee knows I couldn't stand =
it
at Westfield; the school stifled
me, it's a place to turn young people into
dried fruit."
"I know," said Margaret Bolton, =
with
a half anxious smile, "thee chafes
against all the ways of Friends, but what =
will
thee do? Why is thee so
discontented?"
"If I must say it, mother, I want to =
go
away, and get out of this dead
level."
With a look half of pain and half of pity,=
her
mother answered, "I am
sure thee is little interfered with; thee
dresses as thee will, and goes
where thee pleases, to any church thee lik=
es,
and thee has music. I had
a visit yesterday from the society's commi=
ttee
by way of discipline,
because we have a piano in the house, whic=
h is
against the rules."
"I hope thee told the elders that fat=
her
and I are responsible for the
piano, and that, much as thee loves music,
thee is never in the room when
it is played. Fortunately father is already out =
of
meeting, so they
can't discipline him. I heard father tell cousin Abner t=
hat he
was
whipped so often for whistling when he was=
a
boy that he was determined
to have what compensation he could get
now."
"Thy ways greatly try me, Ruth, and a=
ll
thy relations. I desire thy
happiness first of all, but thee is starti=
ng
out on a dangerous path.
Is thy father willing thee should go away =
to a
school of the world's
people?"
"I have not asked him," Ruth rep=
lied
with a look that might imply that
she was one of those determined little bod=
ies
who first made up her own
mind and then compelled others to make up
theirs in accordance with hers.
"And when thee has got the education =
thee
wants, and lost all relish for
the society of thy friends and the ways of=
thy
ancestors, what then?"
Ruth turned square round to her mother, and
with an impassive face and
not the slightest change of tone, said,
"Mother, I'm going to study
medicine?"
Margaret Bolton almost lost for a moment h=
er
habitual placidity.
"Thee, study medicine! A slight frail girl like thee, stu=
dy
medicine!
Does thee think thee could stand it six
months? And the lectures,
and the dissecting rooms, has thee thought=
of
the dissecting rooms?"
"Mother," said Ruth calmly, &quo=
t;I
have thought it all over. I k=
now I
can go
through the whole, clinics, dissecting room
and all. Does thee think I
lack nerve? What is there to fear in a person =
dead
more than in a person
living?"
"But thy health and strength, child; =
thee
can never stand the severe
application. And, besides, suppose thee does le=
arn
medicine?"
"I will practice it."
"Here?"
"Here."
"Where thee and thy family are
known?"
"If I can get patients."
"I hope at least, Ruth, thee will let=
us
know when thee opens an office,"
said her mother, with an approach to sarca=
sm
that she rarely indulged in,
as she rose and left the room.
Ruth sat quite still for a tine, with face
intent and flushed. It was
out now.&=
nbsp;
She had begun her open battle.
The sight-seers returned in high spirits f=
rom
the city. Was there any
building in Greece to compare with Girard
College, was there ever such a
magnificent pile of stone devised for the
shelter of poor orphans? Thin=
k
of the stone shingles of the roof eight in=
ches
thick! Ruth asked the
enthusiasts if they would like to live in =
such
a sounding mausoleum, with
its great halls and echoing rooms, and no
comfortable place in it for the
accommodation of any body? If they were orphans, would they l=
ike to
be
brought up in a Grecian temple?
And then there was Broad street! Wasn't it the broadest and the lon=
gest
street in the world? There certainly was no end to it, =
and
even Ruth was
Philadelphian enough to believe that a str=
eet
ought not to have any end,
or architectural point upon which the weary
eye could rest.
But neither St. Girard, nor Broad street,
neither wonders of the Mint nor
the glories of the Hall where the ghosts of
our fathers sit always
signing the Declaration; impressed the
visitors so much as the splendors
of the Chestnut street windows, and the
bargains on Eighth street.
The truth is that the country cousins had =
come
to town to attend the
Yearly Meeting, and the amount of shopping
that preceded that religious
event was scarcely exceeded by the
preparations for the opera in more
worldly circles.
"Is thee going to the Yearly Meeting,
Ruth?" asked one of the girls.
"I have nothing to wear," replied
that demure person. "If =
thee
wants to
see new bonnets, orthodox to a shade and
conformed to the letter of the
true form, thee must go to the Arch Street
Meeting. Any departure from
either color or shape would be instantly t=
aken
note of. It has occupied
mother a long time, to find at the shops t=
he
exact shade for her new
bonnet.&n=
bsp;
Oh, thee must go by all means.
But thee won't see there a
sweeter woman than mother."
"And thee won't go?"
"Why should I? I've been again and again. If I go to Meeting at all I
like best to sit in the quiet old house in
Germantown, where the windows
are all open and I can see the trees, and =
hear
the stir of the leaves.
It's such a crush at the Yearly Meeting at
Arch Street, and then there's
the row of sleek-looking young men who line
the curbstone and stare at us
as we come out. No, I don't feel at home there.&qu=
ot;
That evening Ruth and her father sat late =
by
the drawing-room fire, as
they were quite apt to do at night. It was always a time of confidence=
s.
"Thee has another letter from young
Sterling," said Eli Bolton.
"Yes. Philip has gone to the far west.&q=
uot;
"How far?"
"He doesn't say, but it's on the
frontier, and on the map everything
beyond it is marked 'Indians' and 'desert,'
and looks as desolate as a
Wednesday Meeting."
"Humph. It was time for him to do
something. Is he going to sta=
rt a
daily newspaper among the Kick-a-poos?&quo=
t;
"Father, thee's unjust to Philip. He's going into business."
"What sort of business can a young ma=
n go
into without capital?"
"He doesn't say exactly what it is,&q=
uot;
said Ruth a little dubiously, "but
it's something about land and railroads, a=
nd
thee knows, father, that
fortunes are made nobody knows exactly how=
, in
a new country."
"I should think so, you innocent puss,
and in an old one too. But Ph=
ilip
is honest, and he has talent enough, if he
will stop scribbling, to make
his way.&=
nbsp;
But thee may as well take care of theeself, Ruth, and not go
dawdling along with a young man in his
adventures, until thy own mind is
a little more settled what thee wants.&quo=
t;
This excellent advice did not seem to impr=
ess
Ruth greatly, for she was
looking away with that abstraction of visi=
on
which often came into her
grey eyes, and at length she exclaimed, wi=
th a
sort of impatience,
"I wish I could go west, or south, or
somewhere. What a box women a=
re
put into, measured for it, and put in youn=
g;
if we go anywhere it's in a
box, veiled and pinioned and shut in by
disabilities. Father, I shoul=
d
like to break things and get loose!"<= o:p>
What a sweet-voiced little innocent, it wa=
s to
be sure.
"Thee will no doubt break things enou=
gh
when thy time comes, child; women
always have; but what does thee want now t=
hat
thee hasn't?"
"I want to be something, to make myse=
lf
something, to do something. W=
hy
should I rust, and be stupid, and sit in
inaction because I am a girl?
What would happen to me if thee should lose
thy property and die? What
one useful thing could I do for a living, =
for
the support of mother and
the children? And if I had a fortune, would thee=
want
me to lead a
useless life?"
"Has thy mother led a useless life?&q=
uot;
"Somewhat that depends upon whether h=
er
children amount to anything,"
retorted the sharp little disputant. "What's the good, father, of =
a
series of human beings who don't advance
any?"
Friend Eli, who had long ago laid aside the
Quaker dress, and was out of
Meeting, and who in fact after a youth of
doubt could not yet define his
belief, nevertheless looked with some wond=
er
at this fierce young eagle
of his, hatched in a Friend's dove-cote. But he only said,
"Has thee consulted thy mother about a
career, I suppose it is a career
thee wants?"
Ruth did not reply directly; she complained
that her mother didn't
understand her. But that wise and placid woman
understood the sweet
rebel a great deal better than Ruth unders=
tood
herself. She also had a
history, possibly, and had sometime beaten=
her
young wings against the
cage of custom, and indulged in dreams of a
new social order, and had
passed through that fiery period when it s=
eems
possible for one mind,
which has not yet tried its limits, to bre=
ak
up and re-arrange the world.
Ruth replied to Philip's letter in due tim=
e and
in the most cordial and
unsentimental manner. Philip liked the letter, as he did
everything she
did; but he had a dim notion that there was
more about herself in the
letter than about him. He took it with him from the South=
ern
Hotel, when
he went to walk, and read it over and agai=
n in
an unfrequented street as
he stumbled along. The rather common-place=
and
unformed hand-writing
seemed to him peculiar and characteristic,
different from that of any
other woman.
Ruth was glad to hear that Philip had made=
a
push into the world, and she
was sure that his talent and courage would
make a way for him. She
should pray for his success at any rate, a=
nd
especially that the Indians,
in St. Louis, would not take his scalp.
Philip looked rather dubious at this sente=
nce,
and wished that he had
written nothing about Indians.
Eli Bolton and his wife talked over Ruth's
case, as they had often done
before, with no little anxiety. Alone of all their children she wa=
s
impatient of the restraints and monotony of
the Friends' Society, and
wholly indisposed to accept the "inner
light" as a guide into a life of
acceptance and inaction. When Margaret told her husband of =
Ruth's
newest
project, he did not exhibit so much surpri=
se
as she hoped for. In fact
he said that he did not see why a woman sh=
ould
not enter the medical
profession if she felt a call to it.
"But," said Margaret, "cons=
ider
her total inexperience of the world, and
her frail health. Can such a slight little body endu=
re the
ordeal of the
preparation for, or the strain of, the
practice of the profession?"
"Did thee ever think, Margaret, wheth=
er,
she can endure being thwarted in
an object on which she has so set her hear=
t,
as she has on this? Thee
has trained her thyself at home, in her
enfeebled childhood, and thee
knows how strong her will is, and what she=
has
been able to accomplish in
self-culture by the simple force of her
determination. She never will=
be
satisfied until she has tried her own
strength."
"I wish," said Margaret, with an
inconsequence that is not exclusively
feminine, "that she were in the way to
fall in love and marry by and by.
I think that would cure her of some of her
notions. I am not sure but if=
she went away, to some distant school, int=
o an
entirely new life, her
thoughts would be diverted."
Eli Bolton almost laughed as he regarded h=
is
wife, with eyes that never
looked at her except fondly, and replied,<= o:p>
"Perhaps thee remembers that thee had
notions also, before we were
married, and before thee became a member of
Meeting. I think Ruth comes
honestly by certain tendencies which thee =
has
hidden under the Friend's
dress."
Margaret could not say no to this, and whi=
le
she paused, it was evident
that memory was busy with suggestions to s=
hake
her present opinions.
"Why not let Ruth try the study for a
time," suggested Eli; "there is a
fair beginning of a Woman's Medical Colleg=
e in
the city. Quite likely
she will soon find that she needs first a =
more
general culture, and fall,
in with thy wish that she should see more =
of
the world at some large
school."
There really seemed to be nothing else to =
be
done, and Margaret consented
at length without approving. And it was agreed that Ruth, in or=
der to
spare her fatigue, should take lodgings wi=
th
friends near the college and
make a trial in the pursuit of that scienc=
e to
which we all owe our
lives, and sometimes as by a miracle of
escape.
That day Mr. Bolton brought home a strange=
r to
dinner, Mr. Bigler of the
great firm of Pennybacker, Bigler & Sm= all, railroad contractors. He was<= o:p>
always bringing home somebody, who had a
scheme; to build a road, or open
a mine, or plant a swamp with cane to grow
paper-stock, or found a
hospital, or invest in a patent shad-bone
separator, or start a college
somewhere on the frontier, contiguous to a=
land
speculation.
The Bolton house was a sort of hotel for t=
his
kind of people. They were
always coming. Ruth had known them from childhood=
, and
she used to say
that her father attracted them as naturall=
y as
a sugar hogshead does
flies.&nb=
sp;
Ruth had an idea that a large portion of the world lived by
getting the rest of the world into
schemes. Mr. Bolton never cou=
ld say
"no" to any of them, not even, s=
aid
Ruth again, to the society for
stamping oyster shells with scripture texts
before they were sold at
retail.
Mr. Bigler's plan this time, about which he
talked loudly, with his mouth
full, all dinner time, was the building of=
the
Tunkhannock, Rattlesnake
and Young-womans-town railroad, which would
not only be a great highway to
the west, but would open to market
inexhaustible coal-fields and untold
millions of lumber. The plan of operations was very si=
mple.
"We'll buy the lands," explained=
he,
"on long time, backed by the notes
of good men; and then mortgage them for mo=
ney
enough to get the road well
on.
Then get the towns on the line to issue their bonds for stock, and
sell their bonds for enough to complete the
road, and partly stock it,
especially if we mortgage each section as =
we
complete it. We can then
sell the rest of the stock on the prospect=
of
the business of the road
through an improved country, and also sell=
the
lands at a big advance,
on the strength of the road. All we want," continued Mr. B=
igler
in his
frank manner, "is a few thousand doll=
ars
to start the surveys, and
arrange things in the legislature. There is some parties will have to=
be
seen, who might make us trouble."
"It will take a good deal of money to
start the enterprise," remarked Mr.
Bolton, who knew very well what
"seeing" a Pennsylvania Legislature
meant, but was too polite to tell Mr. Bigl=
er
what he thought of him,
while he was his guest; "what security
would one have for it?"
Mr. Bigler smiled a hard kind of smile, and
said, "You'd be inside, Mr.
Bolton, and you'd have the first chance in=
the
deal."
This was rather unintelligible to Ruth, who
was nevertheless somewhat
amused by the study of a type of character=
she
had seen before.
At length she interrupted the conversation=
by
asking,
"You'd sell the stock, I suppose, Mr.
Bigler, to anybody who was
attracted by the prospectus?"
"O, certainly, serve all alike,"
said Mr. Bigler, now noticing Ruth for
the first time, and a little puzzled by the
serene, intelligent face that
was turned towards him.
"Well, what would become of the poor
people who had been led to put their
little money into the speculation, when you
got out of it and left it
half way?"
It would be no more true to say of Mr. Big=
ler
that he was or could be
embarrassed, than to say that a brass
counterfeit dollar-piece would
change color when refused; the question an=
noyed
him a little, in Mr.
Bolton's presence.
"Why, yes, Miss, of course, in a great
enterprise for the benefit of the
community there will little things occur,
which, which--and, of course,
the poor ought to be looked to; I tell my
wife, that the poor must be
looked to; if you can tell who are
poor--there's so many impostors.
And
then, there's so many poor in the legislat=
ure
to be looked after," said
the contractor with a sort of a chuckle,
"isn't that so, Mr. Bolton?"
Eli Bolton replied that he never had much =
to
do with the legislature.
"Yes," continued this public
benefactor, "an uncommon poor lot this year,
uncommon.=
Consequently an expensive lot.
The fact is, Mr. Bolton, that
the price is raised so high on United Stat=
es
Senator now, that it affects
the whole market; you can't get any public
improvement through on
reasonable terms. Simony is what I call it, Simony,&=
quot;
repeated Mr.
Bigler, as if he had said a good thing.
Mr. Bigler went on and gave some very
interesting details of the intimate
connection between railroads and politics,=
and
thoroughly entertained
himself all dinner time, and as much disgu=
sted
Ruth, who asked no more
questions, and her father who replied in
monosyllables:
"I wish," said Ruth to her fathe=
r,
after the guest had gone, "that you
wouldn't bring home any more such horrid men. Do all men who wear big<= o:p>
diamond breast-pins, flourish their knives=
at
table, and use bad grammar,
and cheat?"
"O, child, thee mustn't be too
observing. Mr. Bigler is one =
of the
most
important men in the state; nobody has more
influence at Harrisburg.
I don't like him any more than thee does, =
but
I'd better lend him a
little money than to have his ill will.&qu=
ot;
"Father, I think thee'd better have h=
is
ill-will than his company. Is=
it
true that he gave money to help build the
pretty little church of
St. James the Less, and that he is, one of=
the
vestrymen?"
"Yes. He is not such a bad fellow. One of the men in Third street ask=
ed
him the other day, whether his was a high
church or a low church? Bigle=
r
said he didn't know; he'd been in it once,=
and
he could touch the ceiling
in the side aisle with his hand."
"I think he's just horrid," was
Ruth's final summary of him, after the
manner of the swift judgment of women, wit=
h no
consideration of the
extenuating circumstances. Mr. Bigler had no idea that he had=
not
made a
good impression on the whole family; he
certainly intended to be
agreeable. Margaret agreed with her daughter,=
and
though she never said
anything to such people, she was grateful =
to
Ruth for sticking at least
one pin into him.
Such was the serenity of the Bolton househ=
old
that a stranger in it would
never have suspected there was any opposit=
ion
to Ruth's going to the
Medical School. And she went quietly to take her
residence in town, and
began her attendance of the lectures, as i=
f it
were the most natural
thing in the world. She did not heed, if she heard, th=
e busy
and
wondering gossip of relations and
acquaintances, gossip that has no less
currency among the Friends than elsewhere
because it is whispered slyly
and creeps about in an undertone.
Ruth was absorbed, and for the first time =
in
her life thoroughly happy;
happy in the freedom of her life, and in t=
he
keen enjoyment of the
investigation that broadened its field day=
by
day. She was in high
spirits when she came home to spend First
Days; the house was full of her
gaiety and her merry laugh, and the childr=
en
wished that Ruth would never
go away again. But her mother noticed, with a lit=
tle
anxiety, the
sometimes flushed face, and the sign of an
eager spirit in the kindling
eyes, and, as well, the serious air of
determination and endurance in her
face at unguarded moments.
The college was a small one and it sustain=
ed
itself not without
difficulty in this city, which is so
conservative, and is yet the origin
of so many radical movements. There were not more than a dozen
attendants on the lectures all together, so
that the enterprise had the
air of an experiment, and the fascination =
of
pioneering for those engaged
in it.&nb=
sp;
There was one woman physician driving about town in her carriage,
attacking the most violent diseases in all
quarters with persistent
courage, like a modern Bellona in her war
chariot, who was popularly
supposed to gather in fees to the amount t=
en
to twenty thousand dollars a
year.&nbs=
p;
Perhaps some of these students looked forward to the near day when
they would support such a practice and a
husband besides, but it is
unknown that any of them ever went further
than practice in hospitals and
in their own nurseries, and it is feared t=
hat
some of them were quite as
ready as their sisters, in emergencies, to
"call a man."
If Ruth had any exaggerated expectations o=
f a
professional life, she kept
them to herself, and was known to her fell=
ows
of the class simply as a
cheerful, sincere student, eager in her
investigations, and never
impatient at anything, except an insinuati=
on
that women had not as much
mental capacity for science as men.
"They really say," said one young
Quaker sprig to another youth of his
age, "that Ruth Bolton is really goin=
g to
be a saw-bones, attends
lectures, cuts up bodies, and all that.
anyway." He spoke feelingly, for he had very
likely been weighed in
Ruth's calm eyes sometime, and thoroughly
scared by the little laugh that
accompanied a puzzling reply to one of his
conversational nothings. Such=
young gentlemen, at this time, did not come
very distinctly into Ruth's
horizon, except as amusing circumstances.<= o:p>
About the details of her student life, Ruth
said very little to her
friends, but they had reason to know,
afterwards, that it required all
her nerve and the almost complete exhausti=
on
of her physical strength,
to carry her through. She began her anatomical practice =
upon
detached
portions of the human frame, which were br=
ought
into the demonstrating
room--dissecting the eye, the ear, and a s=
mall
tangle of muscles and
nerves--an occupation which had not much m=
ore
savor of death in it than
the analysis of a portion of a plant out of
which the life went when it
was plucked up by the roots. Custom inures the most sensitive p=
ersons
to
that which is at first most repellant; and=
in
the late war we saw the
most delicate women, who could not at home
endure the sight of blood,
become so used to scenes of carnage, that =
they
walked the hospitals and
the margins of battle-fields, amid the poor
remnants of torn humanity,
with as perfect self-possession as if they
were strolling in a flower
garden.
It happened that Ruth was one evening deep=
in
a line of investigation
which she could not finish or understand
without demonstration, and so
eager was she in it, that it seemed as if =
she
could not wait till the
next day.=
She, therefore, persuaded a fellow student, who was reading
that evening with her, to go down to the
dissecting room of the college,
and ascertain what they wanted to know by =
an
hour's work there. Perhaps,
also, Ruth wanted to test her own nerve, a=
nd
to see whether the power of
association was stronger in her mind than =
her
own will.
The janitor of the shabby and comfortless =
old
building admitted the
girls, not without suspicion, and gave them
lighted candles, which they
would need, without other remark than
"there's a new one, Miss," as the
girls went up the broad stairs.
They climbed to the third story, and paused
before a door, which they
unlocked, and which admitted them into a l=
ong
apartment, with a row of
windows on one side and one at the end.
from the stars and the candles the girls
carried, which revealed to them
dimly two long and several small tables, a=
few
benches and chairs, a
couple of skeletons hanging on the wall, a
sink, and cloth-covered heaps
of something upon the tables here and ther=
e.
The windows were open, and the cool night =
wind
came in strong enough to
flutter a white covering now and then, and=
to
shake the loose casements.
But all the sweet odors of the night could=
not
take from the room a faint
suggestion of mortality.
The young ladies paused a moment. The room itself was familiar enoug=
h,
but night makes almost any chamber eerie, =
and
especially such a room of
detention as this where the mortal parts of
the unburied might--almost be
supposed to be, visited, on the sighing ni=
ght
winds, by the wandering
spirits of their late tenants.
Opposite and at some distance across the r=
oofs
of lower buildings, the
girls saw a tall edifice, the long upper s=
tory
of which seemed to be a
dancing hall. The windows of that were also open=
, and
through them they
heard the scream of the jiggered and tortu=
red
violin, and the pump, pump
of the oboe, and saw the moving shapes of =
men
and women in quick
transition, and heard the prompter's drawl=
.
"I wonder," said Ruth, "what
the girls dancing there would think if they
saw us, or knew that there was such a room=
as
this so near them."
She did not speak very loud, and, perhaps
unconsciously, the girls drew
near to each other as they approached the =
long
table in the centre of the
room.&nbs=
p;
A straight object lay upon it, covered with a sheet. This was
doubtless "the new one" of which=
the
janitor spoke. Ruth advanced,=
and
with a not very steady hand lifted the whi=
te
covering from the upper part
of the figure and turned it down. Both the girls started. It was a
negro.&nb=
sp;
The black face seemed to defy the pallor of death, and asserted
an ugly life-likeness that was frightful.<= o:p>
Ruth was as pale as the white sheet, and h=
er
comrade whispered, "Come
away, Ruth, it is awful."
Perhaps it was the wavering light of the
candles, perhaps it was only the
agony from a death of pain, but the repuls=
ive
black face seemed to wear a
scowl that said, "Haven't you yet done
with the outcast, persecuted black
man, but you must now haul him from his grave, and send
even your women to dismember his body?"
Who is this dead man, one of thousands who
died yesterday, and will be
dust anon, to protest that science shall n=
ot
turn his worthless carcass
to some account?
Ruth could have had no such thought, for w=
ith
a pity in her sweet face,
that for the moment overcame fear and disg=
ust,
she reverently replaced
the covering, and went away to her own tab=
le,
as her companion did to
hers.&nbs=
p;
And there for an hour they worked at their several problems,
without speaking, but not without an awe of
the presence there, "the new
one," and not without an awful sense =
of
life itself, as they heard the
pulsations of the music and the light laug=
hter
from the dancing-hall.
When, at length, they went away, and locked
the dreadful room behind
them, and came out into the street, where
people were passing, they, for
the first time, realized, in the relief th=
ey
felt, what a nervous strain
they had been under.
While Ruth was thus absorbed in her new
occupation, and the spring was
wearing away, Philip and his friends were
still detained at the Southern
Hotel.&nb=
sp;
The great contractors had concluded their business with the state
and railroad officials and with the lesser
contractors, and departed for
the East.=
But the serious illness of one of the engineers kept Philip
and Henry in the city and occupied in
alternate watchings.
Philip wrote to Ruth of the new acquaintan=
ce
they had made, Col. Sellers,
an enthusiastic and hospitable gentleman, =
very
much interested in the
development of the country, and in their success. They had not had an<= o:p>
opportunity to visit at his place "up=
in
the country" yet, but the
Colonel often dined with them, and in
confidence, confided to them his
projects, and seemed to take a great likin=
g to
them, especially to his
friend Harry. It was true that he never seemed t=
o have
ready money,
but he was engaged in very large operation=
s.
The correspondence was not very brisk betw=
een
these two young persons,
so differently occupied; for though Philip
wrote long letters, he got
brief ones in reply, full of sharp little
observations however, such as
one concerning Col. Sellers, namely, that =
such
men dined at their house
every week.
Ruth's proposed occupation astonished Phil=
ip
immensely, but while he
argued it and discussed it, he did not dare
hint to her his fear that it
would interfere with his most cherished plans. He too sincerely
respected Ruth's judgment to make any protest, however,
and he would have defended her course against the world.
This enforced waiting at St. Louis was very irksome to Philip. His money<= o:p>
was running away, for one thing, and he lo=
nged
to get into the field,
and see for himself what chance there was =
for
a fortune or even an
occupation. The contractors had given the youn=
g men
leave to join the
engineer corps as soon as they could, but
otherwise had made no provision
for them, and in fact had left them with o=
nly
the most indefinite
expectations of something large in the fut=
ure.
Harry was entirely happy; in his
circumstances. He very soon k=
new
everybody, from the governor of the state =
down
to the waiters at the
hotel.&nb=
sp;
He had the Wall street slang at his tongue's end; he always
talked like a capitalist, and entered with
enthusiasm into all the land
and railway schemes with which the air was
thick.
Col. Sellers and Harry talked together by =
the
hour and by the day. Harry
informed his new friend that he was going =
out
with the engineer corps of
the Salt Lick Pacific Extension, but that
wasn't his real business.
"I'm to have, with another party,&quo=
t;
said Harry, "a big contract in the
road, as soon as it is let; and, meantime,=
I'm
with the engineers to spy
out the best land and the depot sites.&quo=
t;
"It's everything," suggested' the
Colonel, "in knowing where to invest.
I've known people throwaway their money
because they were too
consequential to take Sellers' advice. Others, again, have made their
pile on taking it. I've looked over the ground; I've =
been
studying it
for twenty years. You can't put your finger on a spo=
t in
the map of
Missouri that I don't know as if I'd made
it. When you want to place
anything," continued the Colonel,
confidently, "just let Beriah Sellers
know.&nbs=
p;
That's all."
"Oh, I haven't got much in ready mone=
y I
can lay my hands on now, but if
a fellow could do anything with fifteen or
twenty thousand dollars,
as a beginning, I shall draw for that when=
I
see the right opening."
"Well, that's something, that's
something, fifteen or twenty thousand
dollars, say twenty--as an advance," =
said
the Colonel reflectively, as if
turning over his mind for a project that c=
ould
be entered on with such a
trifling sum.
"I'll tell you what it is--but only t=
o you
Mr. Brierly, only to you,
mind; I've got a little project that I've =
been
keeping. It looks small,
looks small on paper, but it's got a big future. What should you say,<= o:p>
sir, to a city, built up like the rod of
Aladdin had touched it, built up
in two years, where now you wouldn't expec=
t it
any more than you'd expect
a light-house on the top of Pilot Knob? and
you could own the land! It
can be done, sir. It can be done!"
The Colonel hitched up his chair close to
Harry, laid his hand on his
knee, and, first looking about him, said i=
n a
low voice, "The Salt Lick
Pacific Extension is going to run through
Stone's Landing! The Almighty=
never laid out a cleaner piece of level
prairie for a city; and it's the
natural center of all that region of hemp =
and
tobacco."
"What makes you think the road will go
there? It's twenty miles, on =
the
map, off the straight line of the road?&qu=
ot;
"You can't tell what is the straight =
line
till the engineers have been
over it.&=
nbsp;
Between us, I have talked with Jeff Thompson, the division
engineer.=
He understands the wants of Stone's Landing, and the claims of
the inhabitants--who are to be there. Jeff says that a railroad is for
--the accommodation of the people and not =
for
the benefit of gophers; and
if, he don't run this to Stone's Landing h=
e'll
be damned! You ought to
know Jeff; he's one of the most enthusiast=
ic
engineers in this western
country, and one of the best fellows that =
ever
looked through the bottom
of a glass."
The recommendation was not undeserved. There was nothing that Jeff
wouldn't do, to accommodate a friend, from
sharing his last dollar with
him, to winging him in a duel. When he understood from Col. Selle=
rs.
how the land lay at Stone's Landing, he
cordially shook hands with that
gentleman, asked him to drink, and fairly
roared out, "Why, God bless my
soul, Colonel, a word from one Virginia
gentleman to another is 'nuff
ced.'&nbs=
p;
There's Stone's Landing been waiting for a railroad more than four
thousand years, and damme if she shan't ha=
ve
it."
Philip had not so much faith as Harry in
Stone's Landing, when the latter
opened the project to him, but Harry talked
about it as if he already
owned that incipient city.
Harry thoroughly believed in all his proje=
cts
and inventions, and lived
day by day in their golden atmosphere. Everybody liked the young fellow,<= o:p>
for how could they help liking one of such
engaging manners and large
fortune?&=
nbsp;
The waiters at the hotel would do more for him than for any
other guest, and he made a great many
acquaintances among the people of
St. Louis, who liked his sensible and libe=
ral
views about the development
of the western country, and about St.
Louis. He said it ought to be=
the
national capital. Harry made partial arrangements wi=
th
several of the
merchants for furnishing supplies for his
contract on the Salt Lick
Pacific Extension; consulted the maps with=
the
engineers, and went over
the profiles with the contractors, figuring
out estimates for bids.
He was exceedingly busy with those things =
when
he was not at the bedside
of his sick acquaintance, or arranging the
details of his speculation
with Col. Sellers.
Meantime the days went along and the weeks,
and the money in Harry's
pocket got lower and lower. He was just as liberal with what h=
e had
as
before, indeed it was his nature to be free
with his money or with that
of others, and he could lend or spend a do=
llar
with an air that made it
seem like ten. At length, at the end of one week,=
when
his hotel bill
was presented, Harry found not a cent in h=
is
pocket to meet it. He
carelessly remarked to the landlord that he
was not that day in funds,
but he would draw on New York, and he sat =
down
and wrote to the
contractors in that city a glowing letter
about the prospects of the
road, and asked them to advance a hundred =
or
two, until he got at work.
No reply came. He wrote again, in an unoffended
business like tone,
suggesting that he had better draw at three days. A short answer came to<= o:p>
this, simply saying that money was very ti=
ght
in Wall street just then,
and that he had better join the engineer c=
orps
as soon as he could.
But the bill had to be paid, and Harry too=
k it
to Philip, and asked him
if he thought he hadn't better draw on his
uncle. Philip had not much
faith in Harry's power of "drawing,&q=
uot;
and told him that he would pay the
bill himself. Whereupon Harry dismissed the matt=
er
then and thereafter
from his thoughts, and, like a light-heart=
ed
good fellow as he was, gave
himself no more trouble about his
board-bills. Philip paid them,
swollen
as they were with a monstrous list of extr=
as;
but he seriously counted
the diminishing bulk of his own hoard, whi=
ch
was all the money he had in
the world. Had he not tacitly agreed to share=
with
Harry to the last in
this adventure, and would not the generous
fellow divide; with him if he,
Philip, were in want and Harry had anythin=
g?
The fever at length got tired of tormenting
the stout young engineer, who
lay sick at the hotel, and left him, very
thin, a little sallow but an
"acclimated" man. Everybody said he was
"acclimated" now, and said it
cheerfully. What it is to be acclimated to wes=
tern
fevers no two persons
exactly agree.
Some say it is a sort of vaccination that
renders death by some malignant
type of fever less probable. Some regard it as a sort of initia=
tion,
like that into the Odd Fellows, which rend=
ers
one liable to his regular
dues thereafter. Others consider it merely the
acquisition of a habit of
taking every morning before breakfast a do=
se
of bitters, composed of
whiskey and assafoetida, out of the
acclimation jug.
Jeff Thompson afterwards told Philip that =
he
once asked Senator Atchison,
then acting Vice-President: of the United
States, about the possibility
of acclimation; he thought the opinion of =
the
second officer of our great
government would be, valuable on this poin=
t. They were sitting together
on a bench before a country tavern, in the
free converse permitted by our
democratic habits.
"I suppose, Senator, that you have be=
come
acclimated to this country?"
"Well," said the Vice-President,
crossing his legs, pulling his
wide-awake down over his forehead, causing=
a
passing chicken to hop
quickly one side by the accuracy of his ai=
m,
and speaking with senatorial
deliberation, "I think I have. I've been here twenty-five years, =
and
dash, dash my dash to dash, if I haven't e=
ntertained
twenty-five separate
and distinct earthquakes, one a year. The niggro is the only person who<= o:p>
can stand the fever and ague of this
region."
The convalescence of the engineer was the
signal for breaking up quarters
at St. Louis, and the young fortune-hunters
started up the river in good
spirits.&=
nbsp;
It was only the second time either of them had been upon a
Mississippi steamboat, and nearly everythi=
ng
they saw had the charm of
novelty.&=
nbsp;
Col. Sellers was at the landing to bid thorn good-bye.
"I shall send you up that basket of
champagne by the next boat; no, no;
no thanks; you'll find it not bad in
camp," he cried out as the plank was
hauled in. "My respects to Thompson. Tell him to sight for Stone's.
Let me know, Mr. Brierly, when you are rea=
dy
to locate; I'll come over
from Hawkeye. Goodbye."
And the last the young fellows saw of the
Colonel, he was waving his hat,
and beaming prosperity and good luck.
The voyage was delightful, and was not long
enough to become monotonous.
The travelers scarcely had time indeed to =
get
accustomed to the splendors
of the great saloon where the tables were
spread for meals, a marvel of
paint and gilding, its ceiling hung with
fancifully cut tissue-paper of
many colors, festooned and arranged in end=
less
patterns. The whole was
more beautiful than a barber's shop. The printed bill of fare at dinner=
was longer and more varied, the proprietors
justly boasted, than that of
any hotel in New York. It must have been the work of an a=
uthor
of talent
and imagination, and it surely was not his
fault if the dinner itself was
to a certain extent a delusion, and if the
guests got something that
tasted pretty much the same whatever dish =
they
ordered; nor was it his
fault if a general flavor of rose in all t=
he
dessert dishes suggested
that they hid passed through the barber's
saloon on their way from the
kitchen.
The travelers landed at a little settlemen=
t on
the left bank, and at once
took horses for the camp in the interior,
carrying their clothes and
blankets strapped behind the saddles. Harry was dressed as we have seen<= o:p>
him once before, and his long and shining
boots attracted not a little
the attention of the few persons they met =
on
the road, and especially of
the bright faced wenches who lightly stepp=
ed
along the highway,
picturesque in their colored kerchiefs,
carrying light baskets, or riding
upon mules and balancing before them a hea=
vier
load.
Harry sang fragments of operas and talked
abort their fortune. Philip
even was excited by the sense of freedom a=
nd
adventure, and the beauty of
the landscape. The prairie, with its new grass and
unending acres of
brilliant flowers--chiefly the innumerable
varieties of phlox-bore the
look of years of cultivation, and the
occasional open groves of white
oaks gave it a park-like appearance. It was hardly unreasonable to
expect to see at any moment, the gables and
square windows of an
Elizabethan mansion in one of the well kept
groves.
Towards sunset of the third day, when the
young gentlemen thought they
ought to be near the town of Magnolia, near
which they had been directed
to find the engineers' camp, they descried=
a
log house and drew up before
it to enquire the way. Half the building was store, and h=
alf
was
dwelling house. At the door of the latter stood a
regress with a bright
turban on her head, to whom Philip called,=
"Can you tell me, auntie, how far it =
is
to the town of Magnolia?"
"Why, bress you chile," laughed =
the
woman, "you's dere now."
It was true. This log horse was the compactly b=
uilt
town, and all
creation was its suburbs. The engineers' camp was only two or
three
miles distant.
"You's boun' to find it," direct=
ed
auntie, "if you don't keah nuffin
'bout de road, and go fo' de sun-down.&quo=
t;
A brisk gallop brought the riders in sight=
of
the twinkling light of the
camp, just as the stars came out. It lay in a little hollow, where a=
small stream ran through a sparse grove of
young white oaks. A half
dozen tents were pitched under the trees,
horses and oxen were corraled
at a little distance, and a group of men s=
at
on camp stools or lay on
blankets about a bright fire. The twang of a banjo became audibl=
e as
they drew nearer, and they saw a couple of
negroes, from some neighboring
plantation, "breaking down" a ju=
ba
in approved style, amid the "hi, hi's"
of the spectators.
Mr. Jeff Thompson, for it was the camp of =
this
redoubtable engineer, gave
the travelers a hearty welcome, offered th=
em
ground room in his own tent,
ordered supper, and set out a small jug, a
drop from which he declared
necessary on account of the chill of the
evening.
"I never saw an Eastern man," sa=
id
Jeff, "who knew how to drink from a
jug with one hand. It's as easy as lying. So." He grasped the handle
with the right hand, threw the jug back up=
on
his arm, and applied his
lips to the nozzle. It was an act as graceful as it was
simple.
"Besides," said Mr. Thompson,
setting it down, "it puts every man on his
honor as to quantity."
Early to turn in was the rule of the camp,=
and
by nine o'clock everybody
was under his blanket, except Jeff himself=
, who
worked awhile at his
table over his field-book, and then arose,
stepped outside the tent door
and sang, in a strong and not unmelodious
tenor, the Star Spangled Banner
from beginning to end. It proved to be his nightly practi=
ce to
let off
the unexpended seam of his conversational
powers, in the words of this
stirring song.
It was a long time before Philip got to
sleep. He saw the fire light,=
he saw the clear stars through the tree-to=
ps,
he heard the gurgle of the
stream, the stamp of the horses, the occas=
ional
barking of the dog which
followed the cook's wagon, the hooting of =
an
owl; and when these failed
he saw Jeff, standing on a battlement, mid=
the
rocket's red glare, and
heard him sing, "Oh, say, can you
see?", It was the first time he had
ever slept on the ground.
----"We have view'd it,
=
And measur'd it within all, by the scale
=
The richest tract of land, love, in the kingdom!
=
There will be made seventeen or eighteeen millions,
=
Or more, as't may be handled!"
=
&nb=
sp;
The Devil is an Ass.
Nobody dressed more like an engineer than =
Mr.
Henry Brierly. The
completeness of his appointments was the e=
nvy
of the corps, and the gay
fellow himself was the admiration of the c=
amp
servants, axemen, teamsters
and cooks.
"I reckon you didn't git them boots no
wher's this side o' Sent Louis?"
queried the tall Missouri youth who acted =
as
commissariy's assistant.
"No, New York."
"Yas, I've heern o' New York,"
continued the butternut lad, attentively
studying each item of Harry's dress, and
endeavoring to cover his design
with interesting conversation. "'N there's Massachusetts.&qu=
ot;,
"It's not far off."
"I've heern Massachusetts was a-----o=
f a
place. Les, see, what state's=
Massachusetts in?"
"Massachusetts," kindly replied
Harry, "is in the state of Boston."
"Abolish'n wan't it? They must a cost right smart,"
referring to the
boots.
Harry shouldered his rod and went to the
field, tramped over the prairie
by day, and figured up results at night, w=
ith
the utmost cheerfulness and
industry, and plotted the line on the prof=
ile
paper, without, however,
the least idea of engineering practical or
theoretical. Perhaps there
was not a great deal of scientific knowled=
ge
in the entire corps, nor was
very much needed. They were making, what is called a
preliminary survey,
and the chief object of a preliminary surv=
ey
was to get up an excitement
about the road, to interest every town in =
that
part of the state in it,
under the belief that the road would run
through it, and to get the aid
of every planter upon the prospect that a
station would be on his land.
Mr. Jeff Thompson was the most popular
engineer who could be found for
this work. He did not bother himself much abo=
ut
details or
practicabilities of location, but ran merr=
ily
along, sighting from the
top of one divide to the top of another, a=
nd
striking "plumb" every town
site and big plantation within twenty or
thirty miles of his route. In=
his own language he "just went
booming."
This course gave Harry an opportunity, as =
he
said, to learn the practical
details of engineering, and it gave Philip=
a
chance to see the country,
and to judge for himself what prospect of a
fortune it offered. Both he
and Harry got the "refusal" of m=
ore
than one plantation as they went
along, and wrote urgent letters to their
eastern correspondents, upon the
beauty of the land and the certainty that =
it
would quadruple in value as
soon as the road was finally located. It seemed strange to them that
capitalists did not flock out there and se=
cure
this land.
They had not been in the field over two we=
eks
when Harry wrote to his
friend Col. Sellers that he'd better be on=
the
move, for the line was
certain to go to Stone's Landing. Any one who looked at the line on =
the
map, as it was laid down from day to day,
would have been uncertain which
way it was going; but Jeff had declared th=
at
in his judgment the only
practicable route from the point they then
stood on was to follow the
divide to Stone's Landing, and it was gene=
rally
understood that that town
would be the next one hit.
"We'll make it, boys," said the
chief, "if we have to go in a balloon."
And make it they did In less than a week, =
this
indomitable engineer had
carried his moving caravan over slues and
branches, across bottoms and
along divides, and pitched his tents in the
very heart of the city of
Stone's Landing.
"Well, I'll be dashed," was heard
the cheery voice of Mr. Thompson, as he
stepped outside the tent door at sunrise n= ext morning. "If this don't<= o:p>
get me.&n=
bsp;
I say yon Grayson, get out your sighting iron and see if you
can find old Sellers' town. Blame me if we wouldn't have run p=
lumb
by it
if twilight had held on a little longer. Oh!
Sterling, Brierly, get up
and see the city. There's a steamboat just coming ro=
und
the bend." And
Jeff roared with laughter. "The mayor'll be round here to
breakfast."
The fellows turned out of the tents, rubbi=
ng
their eyes, and stared about
them.&nbs=
p;
They were camped on the second bench of the narrow bottom of a
crooked, sluggish stream, that was some fi=
ve
rods wide in the present
good stage of water. Before them were a dozen log cabin=
s,
with stick and
mud chimneys, irregularly disposed on eith=
er
side of a not very well
defined road, which did not seem to know i=
ts
own mind exactly, and, after
straggling through the town, wandered off =
over
the rolling prairie in an
uncertain way, as if it had started for
nowhere and was quite likely to
reach its destination. Just as it left the town, however,=
it
was cheered
and assisted by a guide-board, upon which =
was
the legend "10 Mils to
Hawkeye."
The road had never been made except by the
travel over it, and at this
season--the rainy June--it was a way of ru=
ts
cut in the black soil, and
of fathomless mud-holes. In the principal street of the cit=
y, it
had
received more attention; for hogs; great a=
nd
small, rooted about in it
and wallowed in it, turning the street int=
o a
liquid quagmire which could
only be crossed on pieces of plank thrown =
here
and there.
About the chief cabin, which was the store=
and
grocery of this mart of
trade, the mud was more liquid than elsewh=
ere,
and the rude platform in
front of it and the dry-goods boxes mounted
thereon were places of refuge
for all the loafers of the place. Down by the stream was a dilapidat=
ed
building which served for a hemp warehouse,
and a shaky wharf extended
out from it, into the water. In fact a flat-boat was there moor=
ed by
it,
it's setting poles lying across the
gunwales. Above the town the =
stream
was crossed by a crazy wooden bridge, the
supports of which leaned all
ways in the soggy soil; the absence of a p=
lank
here and there in the
flooring made the crossing of the bridge
faster than a walk an offense
not necessary to be prohibited by law.
"This, gentlemen," said Jeff,
"is Columbus River, alias Goose Run.&=
nbsp;
If it
was widened, and deepened, and straightene=
d,
and made, long enough, it
would be one of the finest rivers in the
western country."
As the sun rose and sent his level beams a=
long
the stream, the thin
stratum of mist, or malaria, rose also and
dispersed, but the light was
not able to enliven the dull water nor give
any hint of its apparently
fathomless depth. Venerable mud-turtles crawled up a=
nd
roosted upon the
old logs in the stream, their backs gliste=
ning
in the sun, the first
inhabitants of the metropolis to begin the
active business of the day.
It was not long, however, before smoke beg=
an
to issue from the city
chimneys; and before the engineers, had
finished their breakfast they
were the object of the curious inspection =
of
six or eight boys and men,
who lounged into the camp and gazed about =
them
with languid interest,
their hands in their pockets every one.
"Good morning; gentlemen," called
out the chief engineer, from the table.
"Good mawning," drawled out the =
spokesman
of the party. "I allow
thish-yers the railroad, I heern it was
a-comin'."
"Yes, this is the railroad; all but t=
he
rails and the ironhorse."
"I reckon you kin git all the rails y=
ou
want oaten my white oak timber
over, thar," replied the first speake=
r,
who appeared to be a man of
property and willing to strike up a trade.=
"You'll have to negotiate with the
contractors about the rails, sir,"
said Jeff; "here's Mr. Brierly, I've =
no
doubt would like to buy your
rails when the time comes."
"O," said the man, "I thoug=
ht
maybe you'd fetch the whole bilin along
with you.=
But if you want rails, I've got em, haint I Eph."
"Heaps," said Eph, without taking
his eyes off the group at the table.
"Well," said Mr. Thompson, rising
from his seat and moving towards his
tent, "the railroad has come to Stone=
's
Landing, sure; I move we take a
drink on it all round."
The proposal met with universal favor. Jeff gave prosperity to Stone's
Landing and navigation to Goose Run, and t=
he
toast was washed down with
gusto, in the simple fluid of corn; and wi=
th
the return compliment that a
rail road was a good thing, and that Jeff
Thompson was no slouch.
About ten o'clock a horse and wagon was
descried making a slow approach
to the camp over the prairie. As it drew near, the wagon was see=
n to
contain a portly gentleman, who hitched
impatiently forward on his seat,
shook the reins and gently touched up his
horse, in the vain attempt to
communicate his own energy to that dull be=
ast,
and looked eagerly at the
tents.&nb=
sp;
When the conveyance at length drew up to Mr. Thompson's door,
the gentleman descended with great
deliberation, straightened himself up,
rubbed his hands, and beaming satisfaction
from every part of his radiant
frame, advanced to the group that was gath=
ered
to welcome him, and which
had saluted him by name as soon as he came
within hearing.
"Welcome to Napoleon, gentlemen,
welcome. I am proud to see yo=
u here
Mr. Thompson. You are, looking well Mr. Sterling=
. This is the country,
sir.
Right glad to see you Mr. Brierly.&=
nbsp;
You got that basket of
champagne? No?
Those blasted river thieves!
I'll never send anything
more by 'em. The best brand, Roederer. The last I had in my cellar,
from a lot sent me by Sir George Gore--took
him out on a buffalo hunt,
when he visited our country. Is always sending me some trifle.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You
haven't looked about any yet, gentlemen? It's in the rough yet, in the
rough.&nb=
sp;
Those buildings will all have to come down. That's the place for
the public square, Court House, hotels,
churches, jail--all that sort of
thing. A=
bout
where we stand, the deepo. Ho=
w does
that strike your
engineering eye, Mr. Thompson? Down yonder the business streets,
running to the wharves. The
University up there, on rising ground, sightly
place, see the river for miles. That's Columbus river, only forty-=
nine
miles to the Missouri. You see what it is, placid, steady=
, no
current to
interfere with navigation, wants widening =
in
places and dredging, dredge
out the harbor and raise a levee in front =
of
the town; made by nature on
purpose for a mart. Look at all this country, not anot=
her
building
within ten miles, no other navigable strea=
m,
lay of the land points right
here; hemp, tobacco, corn, must come
here. The railroad will do it=
,
Napoleon won't know itself in a year."=
;
"Don't now evidently," said Phil=
ip
aside to Harry. "Have you
breakfasted
Colonel?"
"Hastily. Cup of coffee. Can't trust any coffee I don't imp=
ort
myself.
But I put up a basket of provisions,--wife
would put in a few delicacies,
women always will, and a half dozen of that
Burgundy, I was telling you
of Mr. Briefly. By the way, you never got to dine =
with
me." And the
Colonel strode away to the wagon and looked
under the seat for the
basket.
Apparently it was not there. For the Colonel raised up the flap,
looked
in front and behind, and then exclaimed,
"Confound it. That comes of not doing a thing
yourself. I trusted to
the women folks to set that basket in the
wagon, and it ain't there."
The camp cook speedily prepared a savory
breakfast for the Colonel,
broiled chicken, eggs, corn-bread, and cof=
fee,
to which he did ample
justice, and topped off with a drop of Old Bourbon, fr=
om Mr.
Thompson's
private store, a brand which he said he kn=
ew
well, he should think it
came from his own sideboard.
While the engineer corps went to the field=
, to
run back a couple of miles
and ascertain, approximately, if a road co=
uld
ever get down to the
Landing, and to sight ahead across the Run,
and see if it could ever get
out again, Col. Sellers and Harry sat down=
and
began to roughly map out
the city of Napoleon on a large piece of
drawing paper.
"I've got the refusal of a mile square
here," said the Colonel, "in our
names, for a year, with a quarter interest
reserved for the four owners."
They laid out the town liberally, not lack=
ing
room, leaving space for the
railroad to come in, and for the river as =
it
was to be when improved.
The engineers reported that the railroad c=
ould
come in, by taking a
little sweep and crossing the stream on a =
high
bridge, but the grades
would be steep. Col. Sellers said he didn't care s=
o much
about the
grades, if the road could only be made to
reach the elevators on the
river.&nb=
sp;
The next day Mr. Thompson made a hasty survey of the stream for a
mile or two, so that the Colonel and Harry
were enabled to show on their
map how nobly that would accommodate the
city. Jeff took a little
writing from the Colonel and Harry for a
prospective share but Philip
declined to join in, saying that he had no
money, and didn't want to make
engagements he couldn't fulfill.
The next morning the camp moved on, follow=
ed
till it was out of sight by
the listless eyes of the group in front of=
the
store, one of whom
remarked that, "he'd be doggoned if he
ever expected to see that railroad
any mo'."
Harry went with the Colonel to Hawkeye to
complete their arrangements, a
part of which was the preparation of a
petition to congress for the
improvement of the navigation of Columbus
River.
Eight years have passed since the death of=
Mr.
Hawkins. Eight years are
not many in the life of a nation or the
history of a state, but they
maybe years of destiny that shall fix the
current of the century
following. Such years were those that followe=
d the
little scrimmage on
demand for the surrender of
inquiring of these years, and summoning
witnesses about them, and trying
to understand their significance.
The eight years in America from 1860 to 18=
68
uprooted institutions that
were centuries old, changed the politics o=
f a
people, transformed the
social life of half the country, and wroug=
ht
so profoundly upon the
entire national character that the influen=
ce
cannot be measured short of
two or three generations.
As we are accustomed to interpret the econ=
omy
of providence, the life of
the individual is as nothing to that of the
nation or the race; but who
can say, in the broader view and the more
intelligent weight of values,
that the life of one man is not more than =
that
of a nationality, and that
there is not a tribunal where the tragedy =
of
one human soul shall not
seem more significant than the overturning=
of
any human institution
whatever?
When one thinks of the tremendous forces of
the upper and the nether
world which play for the mastery of the so=
ul
of a woman during the few
years in which she passes from plastic
girlhood to the ripe maturity of
womanhood, he may well stand in awe before=
the
momentous drama.
What capacities she has of purity, tendern=
ess,
goodness; what capacities
of vileness, bitterness and evil. Nature must needs be lavish with t=
he
mother and creator of men, and centre in h=
er
all the possibilities of
life.&nbs=
p;
And a few critical years can decide whether her life is to be full
of sweetness and light, whether she is to =
be
the vestal of a holy temple,
or whether she will be the fallen priestes=
s of
a desecrated shrine.
There are women, it is true, who seem to be
capable neither of rising
much nor of falling much, and whom a
conventional life saves from any
special development of character.
But Laura was not one of them. She had the fatal gift of beauty, =
and
that more fatal gift which does not always
accompany mere beauty, the
power of fascination, a power that may,
indeed, exist without beauty.
She had will, and pride and courage and
ambition, and she was left to be
very much her own guide at the age when
romance comes to the aid of
passion, and when the awakening powers of =
her
vigorous mind had little
object on which to discipline themselves.<= o:p>
The tremendous conflict that was fought in
this girl's soul none of those
about her knew, and very few knew that her
life had in it anything
unusual or romantic or strange.
Those were troublous days in Hawkeye as we=
ll
as in most other Missouri
towns, days of confusion, when between Unionist and
Confederate
occupations, sudden maraudings and bush-whackings and
raids, individuals escaped observation or comment in actions that would have
filled the town with scandal in quiet times.
Fortunately we only need to deal with Laur=
a's
life at this period
historically, and look back upon such port=
ions
of it as will serve to
reveal the woman as she was at the time of=
the
arrival of Mr. Harry
Brierly in Hawkeye.
The Hawkins family were settled there, and=
had
a hard enough struggle
with poverty and the necessity of keeping =
up
appearances in accord with
their own family pride and the large
expectations they secretly cherished
of a fortune in the Knobs of East
Tennessee. How pinched they w=
ere
perhaps no one knew but Clay, to whom they
looked for almost their whole
support.&=
nbsp;
Washington had been in Hawkeye off and on, attracted away
occasionally by some tremendous speculatio=
n,
from which he invariably
returned to Gen. Boswell's office as poor =
as
he went. He was the
inventor of no one knew how many useless
contrivances, which were not
worth patenting, and his years had been pa=
ssed
in dreaming and planning
to no purpose; until he was now a man of a=
bout
thirty, without a
profession or a permanent occupation, a ta=
ll, brown-haired,
dreamy person
of the best intentions and the frailest
resolution. Probably however,=
the eight years had been happier to him th=
an
to any others in his
circle, for the time had been mostly spent=
in
a blissful dream of the
coming of enormous wealth.
He went out with a company from Hawkeye to=
the
war, and was not wanting
in courage, but he would have been a better
soldier if he had been less
engaged in contrivances for circumventing =
the
enemy by strategy unknown
to the books.
It happened to him to be captured in one of
his self-appointed
expeditions, but the federal colonel relea=
sed
him, after a short
examination, satisfied that he could most
injure the confederate forces
opposed to the Unionists by returning him =
to
his regiment. Col. Sellers
was of course a prominent man during the
war. He was captain of the ho=
me
guards in Hawkeye, and he never left home
except upon one occasion, when
on the strength of a rumor, he executed a
flank movement and fortified
Stone's Landing, a place which no one unac=
quainted
with the country would
be likely to find.
"Gad," said the Colonel afterwar=
ds,
"the Landing is the key to upper
Missouri, and it is the only place the ene=
my
never captured. If other
places had been defended as well as that w=
as,
the result would have been
different, sir."
The Colonel had his own theories about war=
as
he had in other things.
If everybody had stayed at home as he did,=
he
said, the South never would
have been conquered. For what would there have been to
conquer? Mr.
Jeff Davis was constantly writing him to t=
ake
command of a corps in the
confederate army, but Col. Sellers said, n=
o,
his duty was at home. And
he was by no means idle. He was the inventor of the famous =
air
torpedo,
which came very near destroying the Union
armies in Missouri, and the
city of St. Louis itself.
His plan was to fill a torpedo with Greek =
fire
and poisonous and deadly
missiles, attach it to a balloon, and then=
let
it sail away over the
hostile camp and explode at the right mome=
nt,
when the time-fuse burned
out.
He intended to use this invention in the capture of St. Louis,
exploding his torpedoes over the city, and
raining destruction upon it
until the army of occupation would gladly capitulate. He was unable to<= o:p>
procure the Greek fire, but he constructed=
a
vicious torpedo which would
have answered the purpose, but the first o=
ne
prematurely exploded in his
wood-house, blowing it clean away, and set=
ting
fire to his house. The
neighbors helped him put out the
conflagration, but they discouraged any
more experiments of that sort.
The patriotic old gentleman, however, plan=
ted
so much powder and so many
explosive contrivances in the roads leading
into Hawkeye, and then forgot
the exact spots of danger, that people were
afraid to travel the
highways, and used to come to town across =
the
fields, The Colonel's motto
was, "Millions for defence but not one
cent for tribute."
When Laura came to Hawkeye she might have forgotten the
annoyances of the gossips of Murpheysburg and have out lived the bitterness
that was
growing in her heart, if she had been thrown less upon
herself, or if the
surroundings of her life had been more
congenial and helpful. But sh=
e
had little society, less and less as she g=
rew
older that was congenial to
her, and her mind preyed upon itself; and =
the
mystery of her birth at
once chagrined her and raised in her the m=
ost
extravagant expectations.
She was proud and she felt the sting of
poverty. She could not but be=
conscious of her beauty also, and she was =
vain
of that, and came to take
a sort of delight in the exercise of her
fascinations upon the rather
loutish young men who came in her way and =
whom
she despised.
There was another world opened to her--a w=
orld
of books. But it was not
the best world of that sort, for the small
libraries she had access to in
Hawkeye were decidedly miscellaneous, and largely made=
up
of romances and fictions which fed her imagination with the most exaggerated
notions of
life, and showed her men and women in a ve=
ry
false sort of heroism. From
these stories she learned what a woman of =
keen
intellect and some culture
joined to beauty and fascination of manner,
might expect to accomplish in
society as she read of it; and along with
these ideas she imbibed other
very crude ones in regard to the emancipat=
ion
of woman.
There were also other books-histories,
biographies of distinguished
people, travels in far lands, poems,
especially those of Byron, Scott and
Shelley and Moore, which she eagerly absor=
bed,
and appropriated therefrom
what was to her liking. Nobody in Hawkeye had read so much=
or,
after a
fashion, studied so diligently as Laura. She passed for an accomplished
girl, and no doubt thought herself one, as=
she
was, judged by any
standard near her.
During the war there came to Hawkeye a
confederate officer, Col. Selby,
who was stationed there for a time, in com=
mand
of that district. He was
a handsome, soldierly man of thirty years,=
a
graduate of the University
of Virginia, and of distinguished family, =
if
his story might be believed,
and, it was evident, a man of the world an=
d of
extensive travel and
adventure.
To find in such an out of the way country
place a woman like Laura was a
piece of good luck upon which Col. Selby
congratulated himself. He was=
studiously polite to her and treated her w=
ith
a consideration to which
she was unaccustomed. She had read of such men, but she =
had
never seen
one before, one so high-bred, so noble in
sentiment, so entertaining in
conversation, so engaging in manner.
It is a long story; unfortunately it is an old story, =
and
it need not be
dwelt on.
Laura loved him, and believed that his love for her was as
pure and deep as her own. She worshipped him and would have
counted her life a little thing to give him, if he would only love her and =
let
her
feed the hunger of her heart upon him.
The passion possessed her whole being, and
lifted her up, till she seemed
to walk on air. It was all true, then, the romance=
s she
had read, the
bliss of love she had dreamed of. Why had she never noticed before h=
ow
blithesome the world was, how jocund with
love; the birds sang it, the
trees whispered it to her as she passed, t=
he
very flowers beneath her
feet strewed the way as for a bridal march=
.
When the Colonel went away they were engaged to be
married, as soon as he
could make certain arrangements which he represented t=
o be
necessary, and quit the army. He
wrote to her from Harding, a small town in the
southwest corner of the state, saying that=
he
should be held in the
service longer than he had expected, but t=
hat
it would not be more than a
few months, then he should be at liberty to
take her to Chicago where he
had property, and should have business, ei=
ther
now or as soon as the war
was over, which he thought could not last
long. Meantime why should the=
y
be separated? He was established in comfortable
quarters, and if she
could find company and join him, they woul=
d be
married, and gain so many
more months of happiness.
Was woman ever prudent when she loved? Laura went to Harding, the
neighbors supposed to nurse Washington who had fallen =
ill
there.
Her engagement was, of course, known in Hawkeye, and w=
as
indeed a matter of pride to her family.&nb=
sp;
Mrs. Hawkins would have told the first inquirer that. Laura had gone to be married; but =
Laura
had cautioned her; she did not want to be thought of, she said, as going in
search of a husband; let the news come back after she was married.
So she traveled to Harding on the pretence=
we
have mentioned, and was
married.&=
nbsp;
She was married, but something must have happened on that very
day or the next that alarmed her. Washington did not know then or af=
ter
what it was, but Laura bound him not to se=
nd
news of her marriage to
Hawkeye yet, and to enjoin her mother not =
to
speak of it. Whatever cruel
suspicion or nameless dread this was, Laura
tried bravely to put it away,
and not let it cloud her happiness.
Communication that summer, as may be imagined, was nei=
ther
regular nor
frequent between the remote confederate camp at Harding
and Hawkeye, and Laura was in a measure lost sight of--indeed, everyone had
troubles
enough of his own without borrowing from his neighbors=
.
Laura had given herself utterly to her
husband, and if he had faults, if
he was selfish, if he was sometimes coarse=
, if
he was dissipated, she did
not or would not see it. It was the passion of her life, th=
e time
when
her whole nature went to flood tide and sw=
ept
away all barriers. Was her
husband ever cold or indifferent? She shut her eyes to everything bu=
t
her sense of possession of her idol.
Three months passed. One morning her husband informed h=
er
that he had
been ordered South, and must go within two
hours.
"I can be ready," said Laura,
cheerfully.
"But I can't take you. You must go back to Hawkeye."=
"Can't-take-me?" Laura asked, wi=
th
wonder in her eyes. "I c=
an't
live
without you. You said-----"
"O bother what I said,"--and the
Colonel took up his sword to buckle it
on, and then continued coolly, "the f=
act
is Laura, our romance is played
out."
Laura heard, but she did not comprehend. She caught his arm and cried,
"George, how can you joke so
cruelly? I will go any where =
with
you.
I will wait any where. I can't go back to Hawkeye."<= o:p>
"Well, go where you like. Perhaps," continued he with a
sneer, "you
would do as well to wait here, for another
colonel."
Laura's brain whirled. She did not yet comprehend. "What does this
mean?&nbs=
p;
Where are you going?"
"It means," said the officer, in
measured words, "that you haven't
anything to show for a legal marriage, and
that I am going to New
Orleans."
"It's a lie, George, it's a lie. I am your wife. I shall go. I shall
follow you to New Orleans."
"Perhaps my wife might not like it!&q=
uot;
Laura raised her head, her eyes flamed with
fire, she tried to utter a
cry, and fell senseless on the floor.
When she came to herself the Colonel was
gone. Washington Hawkins stoo=
d
at her bedside. Did she come to herself? Was there anything left in her
heart but hate and bitterness, a sense of =
an
infamous wrong at the hands
of the only man she had ever loved?
She returned to Hawkeye. With the exception of Washington a=
nd his
mother, no one knew what had happened. The neighbors supposed that the
engagement with Col. Selby had fallen
through. Laura was ill for a =
long
time, but she recovered; she had that
resolution in her that could
conquer death almost. And with her health came back her
beauty, and an
added fascination, a something that might =
be
mistaken for sadness. Is
there a beauty in the knowledge of evil, a
beauty that shines out in the
face of a person whose inward life is
transformed by some terrible
experience? Is the pathos in the eyes of the
Beatrice Cenci from her
guilt or her innocence?
Laura was not much changed. The lovely woman had a devil in her
heart.
That was all.
Mr. Harry Brierly drew his pay as an engin=
eer
while he was living at the
City Hotel in Hawkeye. Mr. Thompson had been kind enough =
to say
that it
didn't make any difference whether he was =
with
the corps or not; and
although Harry protested to the Colonel da=
ily
and to Washington Hawkins
that he must go back at once to the line a=
nd
superintend the lay-out with
reference to his contract, yet he did not =
go,
but wrote instead long
letters to Philip, instructing him to keep=
his
eye out, and to let him
know when any difficulty occurred that
required his presence.
Meantime Harry blossomed out in the societ=
y of
Hawkeye, as he did in any
society where fortune cast him and he had =
the
slightest opportunity to
expand.&n=
bsp;
Indeed the talents of a rich and accomplished young fellow like
Harry were not likely to go unappreciated =
in
such a place. A land
operator, engaged in vast speculations, a
favorite in the select circles
of New York, in correspondence with brokers
and bankers, intimate with
public men at Washington, one who could pl=
ay
the guitar and touch the
banjo lightly, and who had an eye for a pr=
etty
girl, and knew the
language of flattery, was welcome everywhe=
re
in Hawkeye. Even Miss Laura
Hawkins thought it worth while to use her
fascinations upon him, and to
endeavor to entangle the volatile fellow in
the meshes of her
attractions.
"Gad," says Harry to the Colonel,
"she's a superb creature, she'd make a
stir in New York, money or no money. There are men I know would give he=
r
a railroad or an opera house, or whatever =
she
wanted--at least they'd
promise."
Harry had a way of looking at women as he
looked at anything else in the
world he wanted, and he half resolved to
appropriate Miss Laura, during
his stay in Hawkeye. Perhaps the Colonel divined his
thoughts, or was
offended at Harry's talk, for he replied,<= o:p>
"No nonsense, Mr. Brierly. Nonsense won't do in Hawkeye, not =
with
my
friends.&=
nbsp;
The Hawkins' blood is good blood, all the way from Tennessee.
The Hawkinses are under the weather now, b=
ut
their Tennessee property is
millions when it comes into market."<= o:p>
"Of course, Colonel. Not the least offense intended.
she is a fascinating woman. I was only thinking, as to this
appropriation, now, what such a woman coul=
d do
in Washington. All
correct, too, all correct. Common thing, I assure you in
Washington; the
wives of senators, representatives, cabinet
officers, all sorts of wives,
and some who are not wives, use their
influence. You want an
appointment? Do you go to Senator X? Not much. You get on the right
side of his wife. Is it an appropriation? You'd go 'straight to the
Committee, or to the Interior office, I
suppose? You'd learn better t=
han
that.&nbs=
p;
It takes a woman to get any thing through the Land Office: I tell
you, Miss Laura would fascinate an
appropriation right through the Senate
and the House of Representatives in one
session, if she was in
Washington, as your friend, Colonel, of co=
urse
as your friend."
"Would you have her sign our
petition?" asked the Colonel, innocently.
Harry laughed. "Women don't get anything by
petitioning Congress; nobody
does, that's for form. Petitions are referred somewhere, =
and
that's the
last of them; you can't refer a handsome w=
oman
so easily, when she is
present.&=
nbsp;
They prefer 'em mostly."
The petition however was elaborately drawn=
up,
with a glowing description
of Napoleon and the adjacent country, and a
statement of the absolute
necessity to the prosperity of that region=
and
of one of the stations on
the great through route to the Pacific, of=
the
immediate improvement of
Columbus River; to this was appended a map=
of
the city and a survey of
the river. It was signed by all the people at
Stone's Landing who could
write their names, by Col. Beriah Sellers,=
and
the Colonel agreed to have
the names headed by all the senators and
representatives from the state
and by a sprinkling of ex-governors and ex-members of congress. When<= o:p>
completed it was a formidable document.
minute plots of the new city consumed the
valuable time of Sellers and
Harry for many weeks, and served to keep t=
hem
both in the highest
spirits.
In the eyes of Washington Hawkins, Harry w=
as a
superior being, a man who
was able to bring things to pass in a way =
that
excited his enthusiasm.
He never tired of listening to his stories=
of
what he had done and of
what he was going to do. As for Washington, Harry thought h=
e was
a man
of ability and comprehension, but "too
visionary," he told the Colonel.
The Colonel said he might be right, but he=
had
never noticed anything
visionary about him.
"He's got his plans, sir. God bless my soul, at his age, I w=
as
full of
plans.&nb=
sp;
But experience sobers a man, I never touch any thing now that
hasn't been weighed in my judgment; and wh=
en
Beriah Sellers puts his
judgment on a thing, there it is."
Whatever might have been Harry's intentions
with regard to Laura, he saw
more and more of her every day, until he g=
ot
to be restless and nervous
when he was not with her.
That consummate artist in passion allowed =
him
to believe that the
fascination was mainly on his side, and so
worked upon his vanity, while
inflaming his ardor, that he scarcely knew
what he was about. Her
coolness and coyness were even made to app=
ear
the simple precautions of a
modest timidity, and attracted him even mo=
re
than the little tendernesses
into which she was occasionally
surprised. He could never be =
away
from
her long, day or evening; and in a short t=
ime
their intimacy was the town
talk.&nbs=
p;
She played with him so adroitly that Harry thought she was
absorbed in love for him, and yet he was
amazed that he did not get on
faster in his conquest.
And when he thought of it, he was piqued as
well. A country girl, poor
enough, that was evident; living with her
family in a cheap and most
unattractive frame house, such as carpente=
rs
build in America, scantily
furnished and unadorned; without the
adventitious aids of dress or jewels
or the fine manners of society--Harry coul=
dn't
understand it. But she
fascinated him, and held him just beyond t=
he
line of absolute familiarity
at the same time. While he was with her she made him
forget that the
Hawkins' house was nothing but a wooden
tenement, with four small square
rooms on the ground floor and a half story=
; it
might have been a palace
for aught he knew.
Perhaps Laura was older than Harry. She was, at any rate, at that ripe=
age when beauty in woman seems more solid =
than
in the budding period of
girlhood, and she had come to understand h=
er
powers perfectly, and to
know exactly how much of the susceptibility
and archness of the girl it
was profitable to retain. She saw that many women, with the =
best
intentions, make a mistake of carrying too much
girlishness into
womanhood.
Such a woman would have attracted Harry at any time, but only a woman
with a cool brain and exquisite art could have made him lose his head in th=
is
way; for Harry thought himself a man of the world. The
young fellow never dreamed that he was merely being
experimented on; he
was to her a man of another society and another cultur=
e,
different from
that she had any knowledge of except in bo=
oks,
and she was not unwilling
to try on him the fascinations of her mind=
and
person.
For Laura had her dreams. She detested the narrow limits in =
which
her
lot was cast, she hated poverty. Much of her reading had been of mo=
dern
works of fiction, written by her own sex,
which had revealed to her
something of her own powers and given her
indeed, an exaggerated notion
of the influence, the wealth, the position=
a
woman may attain who has
beauty and talent and ambition and a little
culture, and is not too
scrupulous in the use of them. She wanted to be rich, she wanted
luxury,
she wanted men at her feet, her slaves, and
she had not--thanks to some
of the novels she had read--the nicest
discrimination between notoriety
and reputation; perhaps she did not know h=
ow
fatal notoriety usually is
to the bloom of womanhood.
With the other Hawkins children Laura had =
been
brought up in the belief
that they had inherited a fortune in the
Tennessee Lands. She did not =
by
any means share all the delusion of the
family; but her brain was not
seldom busy with schemes about it. Washington seemed to her only to
dream of it and to be willing to wait for =
its
riches to fall upon him in
a golden shower; but she was impatient, and
wished she were a man to take
hold of the business.
"You men must enjoy your schemes and =
your
activity and liberty to go
about the world," she said to Harry o=
ne
day, when he had been talking of
New York and Washington and his incessant
engagements.
"Oh, yes," replied that martyr to
business, "it's all well enough, if you
don't have too much of it, but it only has=
one
object."
"What is that?"
"If a woman doesn't know, it's useles=
s to
tell her. What do you suppose=
I am staying in Hawkeye for, week after we=
ek,
when I ought to be with my
corps?"
"I suppose it's your business with Co=
l.
Sellers about Napoleon, you've
always told me so," answered Laura, w=
ith
a look intended to contradict
her words.
"And now I tell you that is all arran=
ged,
I suppose you'll tell me I
ought to go?"
"Harry!" exclaimed Laura, touchi=
ng
his arm and letting her pretty hand
rest there a moment. "Why should I want you to go
away? The only person
in Hawkeye who understands me."
"But you refuse to understand me,&quo=
t;
replied Harry, flattered but still
petulant.=
"You are like an iceberg, when we are alone."
Laura looked up with wonder in her great e=
yes,
and something like a blush
suffusing her face, followed by a look of
langour that penetrated Harry's
heart as if it had been longing.
"Did I ever show any want of confiden=
ce
in you, Harry?" And she =
gave
him
her hand, which Harry pressed with
effusion--something in her manner told
him that he must be content with that favo=
r.
It was always so. She excited his hopes and denied h=
im,
inflamed his
passion and restrained it, and wound him in
her toils day by day. To
what purpose? It was keen delight to Laura to pr=
ove
that she had power
over men.
Laura liked to hear about life at the east,
and especially about the
luxurious society in which Mr. Brierly mov=
ed
when he was at home. It
pleased her imagination to fancy herself a
queen in it.
"You should be a winter in
Washington," Harry said.
"But I have no acquaintances there.&q=
uot;
"Don't know any of the families of the
congressmen? They like to hav=
e a
pretty woman staying with them."
"Not one."
"Suppose Col. Sellers should, have
business there; say, about this
Columbus River appropriation?"
"Sellers!" and Laura laughed.
"You needn't laugh. Queerer things have happened. Sellers knows
everybody from Missouri, and from the West,
too, for that matter. He'd
introduce you to Washington life quick
enough. It doesn't need a cro=
wbar
to break your way into society there as it
does in Philadelphia. It's
democratic, Washington is. Money or beauty will open any door=
. If I
were a handsome woman, I shouldn't want any
better place than the capital
to pick up a prince or a fortune."
"Thank you," replied Laura. "But I prefer the quiet of ho=
me,
and the
love of those I know;" and her face w=
ore
a look of sweet contentment and
unworldliness that finished Mr. Harry Brie=
rly
for the day.
Nevertheless, the hint that Harry had drop=
ped
fell upon good ground, and
bore fruit an hundred fold; it worked in h=
er
mind until she had built up
a plan on it, and almost a career for
herself. Why not, she said, w=
hy
shouldn't I do as other women have done? She took the first opportunity
to see Col. Sellers, and to sound him about
the Washington visit. How
was he getting on with his navigation sche=
me,
would it be likely to take
him from home to Jefferson City; or to
Washington, perhaps?
"Well, maybe. If the people of Napoleon want me =
to go
to Washington, and
look after that matter, I might tear myself
from my home. It's been
suggested to me, but--not a word of it to =
Mrs.
Sellers and the children.
Maybe they wouldn't like to think of their
father in Washington. But
Dilworthy, Senator Dilworthy, says to me,
'Colonel, you are the man, you
could influence more votes than any one el=
se
on such a measure, an old
settler, a man of the people, you know the
wants of Missouri; you've a
respect for religion too, says he, and know
how the cause of the gospel
goes with improvements: Which is true enou=
gh,
Miss Laura, and hasn't been
enough thought of in connection with
Napoleon. He's an able man,
Dilworthy, and a good man. A man has got to be good to succee=
d as
he
has.
He's only been in Congress a few years, and he must be worth a
million.&=
nbsp;
First thing in the morning when he stayed with me he asked
about family prayers, whether we had 'em
before or after breakfast.
I hated to disappoint the Senator, but I h=
ad
to out with it, tell him we
didn't have 'em, not steady. He said he understood, business
interruptions and all that, some men were =
well
enough without, but as for
him he never neglected the ordinances of
religion. He doubted if the
Columbus River appropriation would succeed=
if
we did not invoke the
Divine Blessing on it."
Perhaps it is unnecessary to say to the re=
ader
that Senator Dilworthy had
not stayed with Col. Sellers while he was =
in
Hawkeye; this visit to his
house being only one of the Colonel's
hallucinations--one of those
instant creations of his fertile fancy, wh=
ich
were always flashing into
his brain and out of his mouth in the cour=
se
of any conversation and
without interrupting the flow of it.
During the summer Philip rode across the c=
ountry
and made a short visit
in Hawkeye, giving Harry an opportunity to
show him the progress that he
and the Colonel had made in their operatio=
n at
Stone's Landing, to
introduce him also to Laura, and to borrow=
a
little money when he
departed.=
Harry bragged about his conquest, as was his habit, and took
Philip round to see his western prize.
Laura received Mr. Philip with a courtesy =
and
a slight hauteur that
rather surprised and not a little interest=
ed
him. He saw at once that
she was older than Harry, and soon made up=
his
mind that she was leading
his friend a country dance to which he was
unaccustomed. At least he
thought he saw that, and half hinted as mu=
ch
to Harry, who flared up at
once; but on a second visit Philip was not=
so
sure, the young lady was
certainly kind and friendly and almost
confiding with Harry, and treated
Philip with the greatest consideration.
and listened attentively when he talked, a=
nd
in time met his frank manner
with an equal frankness, so that he was qu=
ite
convinced that whatever she
might feel towards Harry, she was sincere =
with
him. Perhaps his manly
way did win her liking. Perhaps in her mind, she compared =
him
with
Harry, and recognized in him a man to whom=
a
woman might give her whole
soul, recklessly and with little care if s=
he
lost it. Philip was not
invincible to her beauty nor to the
intellectual charm of her presence.
The week seemed very short that he passed =
in
Hawkeye, and when he bade
Laura good by, he seemed to have known her=
a
year.
"We shall see you again, Mr.
Sterling," she said as she gave him her
hand, with just a shade of sadness in her
handsome eyes.
And when he turned away she followed him w=
ith
a look that might have
disturbed his serenity, if he had not at t=
he
moment had a little square
letter in his breast pocket, dated at
Philadelphia, and signed "Ruth."
The visit of Senator Abner Dilworthy was an
event in Hawkeye. When a
Senator, whose place is in
the destinies of the nation, condescends to
mingle among the people and
accept the hospitalities of such a place as
Hawkeye, the honor is not
considered a light one. All, parties are flattered by it a=
nd
politics
are forgotten in the presence of one so
distinguished among his fellows.
Senator Dilworthy, who was from a neighbor=
ing
state, had been a Unionist
in the darkest days of his country, and had
thriven by it, but was that
any reason why Col. Sellers, who had been a
confederate and had not
thriven by it, should give him the cold
shoulder?
The Senator was the guest of his old friend
Gen. Boswell, but it almost
appeared that he was indebted to Col. Sell=
ers
for the unreserved
hospitalities of the town. It was the large hearted Colonel w=
ho, in
a
manner, gave him the freedom of the city.<= o:p>
"You are known here, sir," said =
the
Colonel, "and Hawkeye is proud of
you.
You will find every door open, and a welcome at every hearthstone.
I should insist upon your going to my hous=
e,
if you were not claimed by
your older friend Gen. Boswell. But you will mingle with our peopl=
e, and
you will see here developments that will
surprise you."
The Colonel was so profuse in his hospital=
ity
that he must have made the
impression upon himself that he had
entertained the Senator at his own
mansion during his stay; at any rate, he
afterwards always spoke of him
as his guest, and not seldom referred to t=
he
Senator's relish of certain
viands on his table. He did, in fact, press him to dine=
upon
the morning
of the day the Senator was going away.
Senator Dilworthy was large and portly, th=
ough
not tall--a pleasant
spoken man, a popular man with the people.=
He took a lively interest in the town and =
all
the surrounding country,
and made many inquiries as to the progress=
of
agriculture, of education,
and of religion, and especially as to the
condition of the emancipated
race.
"Providence," he said, "has
placed them in our hands, and although you
and I, General, might have chosen a differ=
ent
destiny for them, under the
Constitution, yet Providence knows best.&q=
uot;
"You can't do much with 'em,"
interrupted Col. Sellers.
"They are a
speculating race, sir, disinclined to work=
for
white folks without
security, planning how to live by only wor=
king
for themselves. Idle,
sir, there's my garden just a ruin of weed=
s. Nothing practical in 'em."
"There is some truth in your observat=
ion,
Colonel, but you must educate
them."
"You educate the niggro and you make =
him
more speculating than he was
before.&n=
bsp;
If he won't stick to any industry except for himself now, what
will he do then?"
"But, Colonel, the negro when educated
will be more able to make his
speculations fruitful."
"Never, sir, never. He would only have a wider scope to
injure himself.
A niggro has no grasp, sir. Now, a white man can conceive grea=
t
operations, and carry them out; a niggro
can't."
"Still," replied the Senator,
"granting that he might injure himself in a
worldly point of view, his elevation throu=
gh
education would multiply his
chances for the hereafter--which is the
important thing after all,
Colonel.&=
nbsp;
And no matter what the result is, we must fulfill our duty by
this being."
"I'd elevate his soul," promptly
responded the Colonel; "that's just it;
you can't make his soul too immortal, but I
wouldn't touch him, himself.
Yes, sir!=
make his soul immortal, but don't disturb the niggro as he
is."
Of course one of the entertainments offered
the Senator was a public
reception, held in the court house, at whi=
ch
he made a speech to his
fellow citizens. Col. Sellers was master of
ceremonies. He escorted the
band from the city hotel to Gen. Boswell's=
; he
marshalled the procession
of Masons, of Odd Fellows, and of Firemen,=
the
Good Templars, the Sons of
Temperance, the Cadets of Temperance, the
Daughters of Rebecca, the
Sunday School children, and citizens
generally, which followed the
Senator to the court house; he bustled abo=
ut
the room long after every
one else was seated, and loudly cried
"Order!" in the dead silence which
preceded the introduction of the Senator by
Gen. Boswell. The occasion
was one to call out his finest powers of
personal appearance, and one he
long dwelt on with pleasure.
This not being an edition of the Congressi=
onal
Globe it is impossible to
give Senator Dilworthy's speech in full. He began somewhat as follows:
"Fellow citizens: It gives me great
pleasure to thus meet and mingle with
you, to lay aside for a moment the heavy
duties of an official and
burdensome station, and confer in familiar
converse with my friends in
your great state. The good opinion of my fellow citi=
zens
of all sections
is the sweetest solace in all my
anxieties. I look forward with
longing
to the time when I can lay aside the cares=
of
office--" ["dam sight,"
shouted a tipsy fellow near the door. Cries of "put him out."]=
"My friends, do not remove him. Let the misguided man stay. I see that
he is a victim of that evil which is
swallowing up public virtue and
sapping the foundation of society. As I was saying, when I can lay do=
wn
the cares of office and retire to the swee=
ts
of private life in some such
sweet, peaceful, intelligent, wide-awake a=
nd
patriotic place as Hawkeye
(applause). I have traveled much, I have seen =
all
parts of our glorious
union, but I have never seen a lovelier
village than yours, or one that
has more signs of commercial and industrial
and religious prosperity
--(more applause)."
The Senator then launched into a sketch of=
our
great country, and dwelt
for an hour or more upon its prosperity and
the dangers which threatened
it.
He then touched reverently upon the
institutions of religion, and upon
the necessity of private purity, if we wer=
e to
have any public morality.
"I trust," he said, "that t=
here
are children within the sound of my
voice," and after some remarks to the=
m,
the Senator closed with an
apostrophe to "the genius of American
Liberty, walking with the Sunday
School in one hand and Temperance in the o=
ther
up the glorified steps of
the National Capitol."
Col. Sellers did not of course lose the
opportunity to impress upon so
influential a person as the Senator the de=
sirability
of improving the
navigation of Columbus river. He and Mr. Brierly took the Senato=
r over
to Napoleon and opened to him their plan.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was a plan that the Senator
could understand without a great deal of
explanation, for he seemed to be
familiar with the like improvements
elsewhere. When, however, the=
y
reached Stone's Landing the Senator looked
about him and inquired,
"Is this Napoleon?"
"This is the nucleus, the nucleus,&qu=
ot;
said the Colonel, unrolling his map.
"Here is the deepo, the church, the C=
ity
Hall and so on."
"Ah, I see. How far from here is Columbus
River? Does that stream
empty----"
"That, why, that's Goose Run. Thar ain't no Columbus, thout'n it=
's
over
to Hawkeye," interrupted one of the
citizens, who had come out to stare
at the strangers. "A railroad come here last su=
mmer,
but it haint been
here no mo'."
"Yes, sir," the Colonel hastened=
to
explain, "in the old records
Columbus River is called Goose Run. You see how it sweeps round the
town--forty-nine miles to the Missouri; sl=
oop
navigation all the way
pretty much, drains this whole country; wh=
en
it's improved steamboats
will run right up here. It's got to be enlarged, deepened.=
You see by
the map. Columbus River. This country must have water
communication!"
"You'll want a considerable
appropriation, Col. Sellers.
"I should say a million; is that your
figure Mr. Brierly."
"According to our surveys," said
Harry, "a million would do it; a million
spent on the river would make Napoleon wor=
th
two millions at least."
"I see," nodded the Senator. "But you'd better begin by as=
king
only for
two or three hundred thousand, the usual
way. You can begin to sell to=
wn
lots on that appropriation you know."=
The Senator, himself, to do him justice, w=
as
not very much interested in
the country or the stream, but he favored =
the
appropriation, and he gave
the Colonel and Mr. Brierly to and underst=
and
that he would endeavor to
get it through. Harry, who thought he was shrewd a=
nd
understood
Washington, suggested an interest.
But he saw that the Senator was wounded by=
the
suggestion.
"You will offend me by repeating such=
an
observation," he said.
"Whatever I do will be for the public
interest. It will require a
portion of the appropriation for necessary
expenses, and I am sorry to
say that there are members who will have t=
o be
seen. But you can reckon
upon my humble services."
This aspect of the subject was not again
alluded to. The Senator
possessed himself of the facts, not from h=
is
observation of the ground,
but from the lips of Col. Sellers, and laid
the appropriation scheme away
among his other plans for benefiting the
public.
It was on this visit also that the Senator
made the acquaintance of Mr.
Washington Hawkins, and was greatly taken =
with
his innocence, his
guileless manner and perhaps with his ready
adaptability to enter upon
any plan proposed.
Col. Sellers was pleased to see this inter=
est
that Washington had
awakened, especially since it was likely to
further his expectations with
regard to the Tennessee lands; the Senator=
having
remarked to the
Colonel, that he delighted to help any
deserving young man, when the
promotion of a private advantage could at =
the
same time be made to
contribute to the general good. And he did not doubt that this was=
an
opportunity of that kind.
The result of several conferences with
Washington was that the Senator
proposed that he should go to Washington w=
ith
him and become his private
secretary and the secretary of his committ=
ee;
a proposal which was
eagerly accepted.
The Senator spent Sunday in Hawkeye and attended
church. He cheered the heart =
of the
worthy and zealous minister by an expression of his sympathy in his labors,=
and
by many inquiries in regard to the religious state of the region. It was not a very promising state,=
and
the good man felt how much lighter his task would be, if he had the aid of =
such
a man as
Senator Dilworthy.
"I am glad to see, my dear sir,"
said the Senator, "that you give them
the doctrines. It is owing to a neglect of the
doctrines, that there is
such a fearful falling away in the
country. I wish that we might=
have
you in Washington--as chaplain, now, in the
senate."
The good man could not but be a little
flattered, and if sometimes,
thereafter, in his discouraging work, he
allowed the thought that he
might perhaps be called to Washington as
chaplain of the Senate, to cheer
him, who can wonder. The Senator's commendation at leas=
t did
one service
for him, it elevated him in the opinion of
Hawkeye.
Laura was at church alone that day, and Mr.
Brierly walked home with her.
A part of their way lay with that of Gener=
al
Boswell and Senator
Dilworthy, and introductions were made.
wishing to know the Senator, and the Senat=
or
was not a man who could be
called indifferent to charms such as hers.=
That meek young lady so
commended herself to him in the short walk,
that he announced his
intentions of paying his respects to her t=
he
next day, an intention which
Harry received glumly; and when the Senator
was out of hearing he called
him "an old fool."
"Fie," said Laura, "I do
believe you are jealous, Harry. He
is a very
pleasant man. He said you were a young man of gr=
eat
promise."
The Senator did call next day, and the res=
ult
of his visit was that he
was confirmed in his impression that there=
was
something about him very
attractive to ladies. He saw Laura again and again darin=
g his
stay, and
felt more and more the subtle influence of=
her
feminine beauty, which
every man felt who came near her.
Harry was beside himself with rage while the Senator
remained in town;
he declared that women were always ready to drop any m=
an
for higher game; and he attributed his own ill-luck to the Senator's
appearance. The
fellow was in fact crazy about her beauty and ready to
beat his brains
out in chagrin.
Perhaps Laura enjoyed his torment, but she soothed him
with blandishments that increased his ardo=
r,
and she smiled to herself to
think that he had, with all his protestati=
ons
of love, never spoken of
marriage.=
Probably the vivacious fellow never had thought of it. At any
rate when he at length went away from Hawk=
eye
he was no nearer it. But
there was no telling to what desperate len=
gths
his passion might not
carry him.
Laura bade him good bye with tender regret,
which, however, did not
disturb her peace or interfere with her
plans. The visit of Senator
Dilworthy had become of more importance to
her, and it by and by bore the
fruit she longed for, in an invitation to
visit his family in the
National Capital during the winter session=
of
Congress.
=
&nb=
sp;
O lift your natures up:
=
Embrace our aims: work out your freedom. Girls,
=
Knowledge is now no more a fountain sealed;
=
Drink deep until the habits of the slave,
=
The sins of empt=
iness,
gossip and spite
=
And slander, die.
=
&nb=
sp; =
The Princess.
Whether medicine is a science, or only an
empirical method of getting a
living out of the ignorance of the human r=
ace,
Ruth found before her
first term was over at the medical school =
that
there were other things
she needed to know quite as much as that w=
hich
is taught in medical
books, and that she could never satisfy her
aspirations without more
general culture.
"Does your doctor know any thing--I d=
on't
mean about medicine, but about
things in general, is he a man of informat=
ion
and good sense?" once asked
an old practitioner. "If he doesn't know any thing=
but
medicine the
chance is he doesn't know that:"
The close application to her special study=
was
beginning to tell upon
Ruth's delicate health also, and the summer
brought with it only
weariness and indisposition for any mental
effort.
In this condition of mind and body the qui=
et
of her home and the
unexciting companionship of those about her
were more than ever tiresome.
She followed with more interest Philip's
sparkling account of his life
in the west, and longed for his experience=
s,
and to know some of those
people of a world so different from here, =
who
alternately amused and
displeased him. He at least was learning the world=
, the
good and the bad
of it, as must happen to every one who
accomplishes anything in it.
But what, Ruth wrote, could a woman do, ti=
ed
up by custom, and cast into
particular circumstances out of which it w=
as
almost impossible to
extricate herself? Philip thought that he would go so=
me day
and
extricate Ruth, but he did not write that,=
for
he had the instinct to
know that this was not the extrication she
dreamed of, and that she must
find out by her own experience what her he=
art
really wanted.
Philip was not a philosopher, to be sure, =
but
he had the old fashioned
notion, that whatever a woman's theories of
life might be, she would come
round to matrimony, only give her time.
one woman--and he never knew a nobler--who=
se
whole soul was devoted and
who believed that her life was consecrated=
to
a certain benevolent
project in singleness of life, who yielded=
to
the touch of matrimony, as
an icicle yields to a sunbeam.
Neither at home nor elsewhere did Ruth utt=
er
any complaint, or admit any
weariness or doubt of her ability to pursue
the path she had marked out
for herself. But her mother saw clearly enough =
her
struggle with
infirmity, and was not deceived by either =
her
gaiety or by the cheerful
composure which she carried into all the
ordinary duties that fell to
her.
She saw plainly enough that Ruth needed an entire change of scene
and of occupation, and perhaps she believed
that such a change, with the
knowledge of the world it would bring, wou=
ld
divert Ruth from a course
for which she felt she was physically enti=
rely
unfitted.
It therefore suited the wishes of all
concerned, when autumn came, that
Ruth should go away to school. She selected a large New England
Seminary, of which she had often heard Phi=
lip
speak, which was attended
by both sexes and offered almost collegiate
advantages of education.
Thither she went in September, and began f=
or
the second time in the year
a life new to her.
The Seminary was the chief feature of
Fallkill, a village of two to three
thousand inhabitants. It was a prosperous school, with t=
hree
hundred
students, a large corps of teachers, men a=
nd
women, and with a venerable
rusty row of academic buildings on the sha=
ded
square of the town. The
students lodged and boarded in private
families in the place, and so it
came about that while the school did a gre=
at
deal to support the town,
the town gave the students society and the
sweet influences of home life.
It is at least respectful to say that the =
influences
of home life are
sweet.
Ruth's home, by the intervention of Philip,
was in a family--one of the
rare exceptions in life or in fiction--that
had never known better days.
The Montagues, it is perhaps well to say, =
had
intended to come over in
the Mayflower, but were detained at Delft
Haven by the illness of a
child.&nb=
sp;
They came over to Massachusetts Bay in another vessel, and thus
escaped the onus of that brevet nobility u=
nder
which the successors of
the Mayflower Pilgrims have descended. Having no factitious weight of
dignity to carry, the Montagues steadily
improved their condition from
the day they landed, and they were never m=
ore
vigorous or prosperous than
at the date of this narrative. With character compacted by the ri=
gid
Puritan discipline of more than two centur=
ies,
they had retained its
strength and purity and thrown off its
narrowness, and were now
blossoming under the generous modern
influences. Squire Oliver Mon=
tague,
a lawyer who had retired from the practice=
of
his profession except in
rare cases, dwelt in a square old fashioned
New England mansion a quarter
of a mile away from the green. It was called a mansion because it=
stood
alone with ample fields about it, and had =
an
avenue of trees leading to
it from the road, and on the west commande=
d a
view of a pretty little
lake with gentle slopes and nodding were n=
ow
blossoming under the
generous modern influences. Squire Oliver Montague, a lawyer w=
ho
had retired from the practice of his
profession except in rare cases,
dwelt in a square old fashioned New England
groves. But it was just
a plain, roomy house, capable of extending=
to
many guests an
unpretending hospitality.
The family consisted of the Squire and his
wife, a son and a daughter
married and not at home, a son in college =
at
Cambridge, another son at
the Seminary, and a daughter Alice, who wa=
s a
year or more older than
Ruth.&nbs=
p;
Having only riches enough to be able to gratify reasonable
desires, and yet make their gratifications
always a novelty and a
pleasure, the family occupied that just me=
an
in life which is so rarely
attained, and still more rarely enjoyed
without discontent.
If Ruth did not find so much luxury in the
house as in her own home,
there were evidences of culture, of
intellectual activity and of a zest
in the affairs of all the world, which gre=
atly
impressed her. Every room
had its book-cases or book-shelves, and was
more or less a library; upon
every table was liable to be a litter of n=
ew
books, fresh periodicals and
daily newspapers. There were plants in the sunny win=
dows
and some choice
engravings on the walls, with bits of colo=
r in
oil or water-colors;
the piano was sure to be open and strewn w=
ith
music; and there were
photographs and little souvenirs here and
there of foreign travel.
An absence of any "what-pots" in=
the
corners with rows of cheerful
shells, and Hindoo gods, and Chinese idols,
and nests of use less boxes
of lacquered wood, might be taken as denot=
ing
a languidness in the family
concerning foreign missions, but perhaps
unjustly.
At any rate the life of the world flowed
freely into this hospitable
house, and there was always so much talk t=
here
of the news of the day,
of the new books and of authors, of Boston
radicalism and New York
civilization, and the virtue of Congress, =
that
small gossip stood a very
poor chance.
All this was in many ways so new to Ruth t=
hat
she seemed to have passed
into another world, in which she experienc=
ed a
freedom and a mental
exhilaration unknown to her before. Under this influence she entered
upon her studies with keen enjoyment, find=
ing
for a time all the
relaxation she needed, in the charming soc=
ial
life at the Montague house.
It is strange, she wrote to Philip, in one=
of
her occasional letters,
that you never told me more about this
delightful family, and scarcely
mentioned Alice who is the life of it, just
the noblest girl, unselfish,
knows how to do so many things, with lots =
of
talent, with a dry humor,
and an odd way of looking at things, and y=
et
quiet and even serious
often--one of your "capable" New
England girls. We shall be gr=
eat
friends.&=
nbsp;
It had never occurred to Philip that there was any thing
extraordinary about the family that needed
mention. He knew dozens of
girls like Alice, he thought to himself, b=
ut
only one like Ruth.
Good friends the two girls were from the
beginning. Ruth was a study t=
o
Alice; the product of a culture entirely
foreign to her experience, so
much a child in some things, so much a wom=
an
in others; and Ruth in turn,
it must be confessed, probing Alice someti=
mes
with her serious grey eyes,
wondered what her object in life was, and
whether she had any purpose
beyond living as she now saw her. For she could scarcely conceive of=
a
life that should not be devoted to the
accomplishment of some definite
work, and she had-no doubt that in her own
case everything else would
yield to the professional career she had
marked out.
"So you know Philip Sterling," s=
aid
Ruth one day as the girls sat at
their sewing. Ruth never embroidered, and never =
sewed
when she could
avoid it.=
Bless her.
"Oh yes, we are old friends. Philip used to come to Fallkill of=
ten
while
he was in college. He was once rusticated here for a
term."
"Rusticated?"
"Suspended for some College scrape. He was a great favorite here.
Father and he were famous friends. Father said that Philip had no end=
of
nonsense in him and was always blundering =
into
something, but he was a
royal good fellow and would come out all
right."
"Did you think he was fickle?"
"Why, I never thought whether he was =
or
not," replied Alice looking up.
"I suppose he was always in love with
some girl or another, as college
boys are.=
He used to make me his confidant now and then, and be terribly
in the dumps."
"Why did he come to you?" pursued
Ruth, "you were younger than he."
"I'm sure I don't know. He was at our house a good deal. Once at a
picnic by the lake, at the risk of his own
life, he saved sister Millie
from drowning, and we all liked to have him
here. Perhaps he thought as
he had saved one sister, the other ought to
help him when he was in
trouble.&=
nbsp;
I don't know."
The fact was that Alice was a person who
invited confidences, because she
never betrayed them, and gave abundant
sympathy in return. There are=
persons, whom we all know, to whom human
confidences, troubles and
heart-aches flow as naturally its streams =
to a
placid lake.
This is not a history of Fallkill, nor of =
the
Montague family, worthy as
both are of that honor, and this narrative
cannot be diverted into long
loitering with them. If the reader visits the village t=
o-day,
he will
doubtless be pointed out the Montague
dwelling, where Ruth lived, the
cross-lots path she traversed to the Semin=
ary,
and the venerable chapel
with its cracked bell.
In the little society of the place, the Qu=
aker
girl was a favorite, and
no considerable social gathering or pleasu=
re
party was thought complete
without her. There was something in this seemin=
gly
transparent and yet
deep character, in her childlike gaiety and
enjoyment of the society
about her, and in her not seldom absorptio=
n in
herself, that would have
made her long remembered there if no events
had subsequently occurred to
recall her to mind.
To the surprise of Alice, Ruth took to the
small gaieties of the village
with a zest of enjoyment that seemed forei=
gn
to one who had devoted her
life to a serious profession from the high=
est
motives. Alice liked
society well enough, she thought, but there
was nothing exciting in that
of Fallkill, nor anything novel in the
attentions of the well-bred young
gentlemen one met in it. It must have worn a different aspe=
ct to
Ruth,
for she entered into its pleasures at first
with curiosity, and then with
interest and finally with a kind of staid
abandon that no one would have
deemed possible for her. Parties, picnics, rowing-matches,
moonlight
strolls, nutting expeditions in the October
woods,--Alice declared that
it was a whirl of dissipation. The fondness of Ruth, which was sc=
arcely
disguised, for the company of agreeable yo=
ung
fellows, who talked
nothings, gave Alice opportunity for no en=
d of
banter.
"Do you look upon them as I subjects,
dear?" she would ask.
And Ruth laughed her merriest laugh, and t=
hen
looked sober again.
Perhaps she was thinking, after all, wheth=
er
she knew herself.
If you should rear a duck in the heart of =
the
Sahara, no doubt it would
swim if you brought it to the Nile.
Surely no one would have predicted when Ru=
th
left Philadelphia that she
would become absorbed to this extent, and =
so
happy, in a life so unlike
that she thought she desired. But no one can tell how a woman wi=
ll act
under any circumstances. The reason novelists nearly always=
fail
in
depicting women when they make them act, is
that they let them do what
they have observed some woman has done at sometime or
another. And that is where th=
ey
make a mistake; for a woman will never do again what has been done before.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It is this uncertainty that causes
women, considered
as materials for fiction, to be so interesting to
themselves and to
others.
As the fall went on and the winter, Ruth d=
id
not distinguish herself
greatly at the Fallkill Seminary as a stud=
ent,
a fact that apparently
gave her no anxiety, and did not diminish =
her
enjoyment of a new sort of
power which had awakened within her.
In mid-winter, an event occurred of unusual
interest to the inhabitants
of the Montague house, and to the friends =
of
the young ladies who sought
their society.
This was the arrival at the Sassacua Hotel=
of
two young gentlemen from
the west.
It is the fashion in
houses, not that the late lamented savage =
knew
how to keep a hotel, but
that his warlike name may impress the trav=
eler
who humbly craves shelter
there, and make him grateful to the noble =
and
gentlemanly clerk if he is
allowed to depart with his scalp safe.
The two young gentlemen were neither stude=
nts
for the Fallkill Seminary,
nor lecturers on physiology, nor yet life
assurance solicitors, three
suppositions that almost exhausted the
guessing power of the people at
the hotel in respect to the names of
"Philip Sterling and Henry Brierly,
Missouri," on the register. They were handsome enough fellows,=
that
was
evident, browned by out-door exposure, and
with a free and lordly way
about them that almost awed the hotel clerk
himself. Indeed, he very
soon set down Mr. Brierly as a gentleman of
large fortune, with enormous
interests on his shoulders. Harry had a way of casually mentio=
ning
western investments, through lines, the
freighting business, and the
route through the Indian territory to Lower
California, which was
calculated to give an importance to his
lightest word.
"You've a pleasant town here, sir, and
the most comfortable looking hotel
I've seen out of New York," said Harr=
y to
the clerk; "we shall stay here
a few days if you can give us a roomy suit=
e of
apartments."
Harry usually had the best of everything,
wherever he went, as such
fellows always do have in this accommodati=
ng
world. Philip would have
been quite content with less expensive
quarters, but there was no
resisting Harry's generosity in such matte=
rs.
Railroad surveying and real-estate operati=
ons
were at a standstill during
the winter in Missouri, and the young men =
had
taken advantage of the lull
to come east, Philip to see if there was a=
ny
disposition in his friends,
the railway contractors, to give him a sha=
re
in the Salt Lick Union
Pacific Extension, and Harry to open out to
his uncle the prospects of
the new city at Stone's Landing, and to
procure congressional
appropriations for the harbor and for maki=
ng
Goose Run navigable. Harry
had with him a map of that noble stream an=
d of
the harbor, with a perfect
net-work of railroads centering in it,
pictures of wharves, crowded with
steamboats, and of huge grain-elevators on=
the
bank, all of which grew
out of the combined imaginations of Col. Sellers and M=
r.
Brierly. The
Colonel had entire confidence in Harry's influence with
Wall street, and
with congressmen, to bring about the consummation of t=
heir
scheme, and he waited his return in the empty house at Hawkeye, feeding his
pinched
family upon the most gorgeous expectations
with a reckless prodigality.
"Don't let 'em into the thing more th=
an
is necessary," says the Colonel
to Harry; "give 'em a small interest;=
a
lot apiece in the suburbs of the
Landing ought to do a congressman, but I
reckon you'll have to mortgage a
part of the city itself to the brokers.&qu=
ot;
Harry did not find that eagerness to lend
money on Stone's Landing in
Wall street which Col. Sellers had expecte=
d,
(it had seen too many such
maps as he exhibited), although his uncle =
and
some of the brokers looked
with more favor on the appropriation for
improving the navigation of
Columbus River, and were not disinclined to
form a company for that
purpose.&=
nbsp;
An appropriation was a tangible thing, if you could get hold of
it, and it made little difference what it =
was
appropriated for, so long
as you got hold of it.
Pending these weighty negotiations, Philip=
has
persuaded Harry to take a
little run up to Fallkill, a not difficult
task, for that young man would
at any time have turned his back upon all =
the
land in the West at sight
of a new and pretty face, and he had, it m=
ust
be confessed, a facility in
love making which made it not at all an
interference with the more
serious business of life. He could not, to be sure, conceive=
how
Philip
could be interested in a young lady who was
studying medicine, but he had
no objection to going, for he did not doubt
that there were other girls
in Fallkill who were worth a week's attent=
ion.
The young men were received at the house of
the Montagues with the
hospitality which never failed there.
"We are glad to see you again,"
exclaimed the Squire heartily, "you are
welcome Mr. Brierly, any friend of Phil's =
is
welcome at our house."
"It's more like home to me, than any
place except my own home," cried
Philip, as he looked about the cheerful ho=
use
and went through a general
hand-shaking.
"It's a long time, though, since you =
have
been here to say so," Alice
said, with her father's frankness of manne=
r;
"and I suspect we owe the
visit now to your sudden interest in the F=
allkill
Seminary."
Philip's color came, as it had an awkward =
way
of doing in his tell-tale
face, but before he could stammer a reply,
Harry came in with,
"That accounts for Phil's wish to bui=
ld a
Seminary at Stone's Landing,
our place in Missouri, when Col. Sellers
insisted it should be a
University. Phil appears to have a weakness for
Seminaries."
"It would have been better for your
friend Sellers," retorted Philip,
"if he had had a weakness for district
schools. Col. Sellers, Miss
Alice, is a great friend of Harry's, who is
always trying to build a
house by beginning at the top."
"I suppose it's as easy to build a
University on paper as a Seminary, and
it looks better," was Harry's reflect=
ion;
at which the Squire laughed,
and said he quite agreed with him. The old gentleman understood Stone=
's
Landing a good deal better than he would h=
ave
done after an hour's talk
with either of it's expectant proprietors.=
At this moment, and while Philip was tryin=
g to
frame a question that he
found it exceedingly difficult to put into
words, the door opened
quietly, and Ruth entered. Taking in the group with a quick g=
lance,
her
eye lighted up, and with a merry smile she
advanced and shook hands with
Philip.&n=
bsp;
She was so unconstrained and sincerely cordial, that it made
that hero of the west feel somehow young, =
and
very ill at ease.
For months and months he had thought of th=
is
meeting and pictured it to
himself a hundred times, but he had never
imagined it would be like this.
He should meet Ruth unexpectedly, as she w=
as
walking alone from the
school, perhaps, or entering the room wher=
e he
was waiting for her, and
she would cry "Oh! Phil," and then check herself=
, and
perhaps blush, and
Philip calm but eager and enthusiastic, wo=
uld
reassure her by his warm
manner, and he would take her hand
impressively, and she would look up
timidly, and, after his' long absence, per=
haps
he would be permitted to
Good heavens, how many times he had come to
this point, and wondered if
it could happen so. Well, well; he had never supposed =
that
he should be
the one embarrassed, and above all by a
sincere and cordial welcome.
"We heard you were at the Sassacus
House," were Ruth's first words; "and
this I suppose is your friend?"
"I beg your pardon," Philip at
length blundered out, "this is Mr. Brierly
of whom I have written you."
And Ruth welcomed Harry with a friendliness
that Philip thought was due
to his friend, to be sure, but which seeme=
d to
him too level with her
reception of himself, but which Harry rece=
ived
as his due from the other
sex.
Questions were asked about the journey and
about the West, and the
conversation became a general one, until
Philip at length found himself
talking with the Squire in relation to land
and railroads and things he
couldn't keep his mind on especially as he
heard Ruth and Harry in an
animated discourse, and caught the words
"New York," and "opera," and
"reception," and knew that Harry=
was
giving his imagination full range in
the world of fashion.
Harry knew all about the opera, green room=
and
all (at least he said so)
and knew a good many of the operas and cou=
ld
make very entertaining
stories of their plots, telling how the
soprano came in here, and the
basso here, humming the beginning of their
airs--tum-ti-tum-ti-ti
--suggesting the profound dissatisfaction =
of
the basso recitative--down
--among--the--dead--men--and touching off =
the
whole with an airy grace
quite captivating; though he couldn't have
sung a single air through to
save himself, and he hadn't an ear to know
whether it was sung correctly.
All the same he doted on the opera, and ke=
pt a
box there, into which he
lounged occasionally to hear a favorite sc=
ene
and meet his society
friends.
If Ruth was ever in the city he should be
happy to place his box at the
disposal of Ruth and her friends. Needless to say that she was delig=
hted
with the offer.
When she told Philip of it, that discreet
young fellow only smiled, and
said that he hoped she would be fortunate
enough to be in New York some
evening when Harry had not already given t=
he
use of his private box to
some other friend.
The Squire pressed the visitors to let him
send for their trunks and
urged them to stay at his house, and Alice
joined in the invitation, but
Philip had reasons for declining. They staid to supper, however, and=
in;
the evening Philip had a long talk apart w=
ith
Ruth, a delightful hour to
him, in which she spoke freely of herself =
as
of old, of her studies at
Philadelphia and of her plans, and she ent=
ered
into his adventures and
prospects in the West with a genuine and
almost sisterly interest; an
interest, however, which did not exactly
satisfy Philip--it was too
general and not personal enough to suit
him. And with all her freedom=
in
speaking of her own hopes, Philip could no=
t,
detect any reference to
himself in them; whereas he never undertook
anything that he did not
think of Ruth in connection with it, he ne=
ver
made a plan that had not
reference to her, and he never thought of
anything as complete if she
could not share it. Fortune, reputation these had no v=
alue
to him except
in Ruth's eyes, and there were times when =
it
seemed to him that if Ruth
was not on this earth, he should plunge off
into some remote wilderness
and live in a purposeless seclusion.
"I hoped," said Philip; "to=
get
a little start in connection with this
new railroad, and make a little money, so =
that
I could came east and
engage in something more suited to my
tastes. I shouldn't like to l=
ive
in the West. Would you?
"It never occurred to me whether I wo=
uld
or not," was the unembarrassed
reply.&nb= sp; "One of our graduates went to Chicago, and has a nice practice<= o:p>
there.&nb=
sp;
I don't know where I shall go.
It would mortify mother
dreadfully to have me driving about
Philadelphia in a doctor's gig."
Philip laughed at the idea of it. "And does it seem as necessar=
y to
you
to do it as it did before you came to
Fallkill?"
It was a home question, and went deeper th=
an
Philip knew, for Ruth at
once thought of practicing her profession
among the young gentlemen and
ladies of her acquaintance in the village;=
but
she was reluctant to admit
to herself that her notions of a career had
undergone any change.
"Oh, I don't think I should come to
Fallkill to practice, but I must do
something when I am through school; and why
not medicine?"
Philip would like to have explained why no=
t,
but the explanation would be
of no use if it were not already obvious to
Ruth.
Harry was equally in his element whether
instructing Squire Montague
about the investment of capital in Missour=
i,
the improvement of Columbus
River, the project he and some gentlemen in
New York had for making a
shorter Pacific connection with the
Mississippi than the present one; or
diverting Mrs. Montague with his experienc=
e in
cooking in camp; or
drawing for Miss Alice an amusing picture =
of
the social contrasts of New
England and the border where he had been.
Harry was a very entertaining
fellow, having his imagination to help his
memory, and telling his
stories as if he believed them--as perhaps=
he
did. Alice was greatly
amused with Harry and listened so seriousl=
y to
his romancing that he
exceeded his usual limits. Chance allusions to his bachelor
establishment in town and the place of his
family on the Hudson, could
not have been made by a millionaire, more
naturally.
"I should think," queried Alice,
"you would rather stay in New York than
to try the rough life at the West you have
been speaking of."
"Oh, adventure," says Harry, &qu=
ot;I
get tired of New York. And be=
sides
I
got involved in some operations that I had=
to
see through. Parties in
New York only last week wanted me to go do=
wn
into Arizona in a big
diamond interest. I told them, no, no speculation for
me. I've got my
interests in Missouri; and I wouldn't leave
Philip, as long as he stays
there."
When the young gentlemen were on their way
back to the hotel, Mr. Philip,
who was not in very good humor, broke out,=
"What the deuce, Harry, did you go on=
in
that style to the Montagues
for?"
"Go on?" cried Harry. "Why shouldn't I try to make a
pleasant evening?
And besides, ain't I going to do those
things? What difference does =
it
make about the mood and tense of a mere
verb? Didn't uncle tell me on=
ly
last Saturday, that I might as well go dow=
n to
Arizona and hunt for
diamonds?=
A fellow might as well make a good impression as a poor one."
"Nonsense. You'll get to believing your own
romancing by and by."
"Well, you'll see. When Sellers and I get that
appropriation, I'll show
you an establishment in town and another on
the Hudson and a box at the
opera."
"Yes, it will be like Col. Sellers'
plantation at Hawkeye. Did yo=
u ever
see that?"
"Now, don't be cross, Phil. She's just superb, that little
woman. You
never told me."
"Who's just superb?" growled Phi=
lip,
fancying this turn of the
conversation less than the other.
"Well, Mrs. Montague, if you must
know." And Harry stopped=
to
light a
cigar, and then puffed on in silence. The little quarrel didn't last
over night, for Harry never appeared to
cherish any ill-will half a
second, and Philip was too sensible to
continue a row about nothing; and
he had invited Harry to come with him.
The young gentlemen stayed in Fallkill a w=
eek,
and were every day at the
Montagues, and took part in the winter
gaieties of the village. Ther=
e
were parties here and there to which the
friends of Ruth and the
Montagues were of course invited, and Harr=
y in
the generosity of his
nature, gave in return a little supper at =
the
hotel, very simple indeed,
with dancing in the hall, and some
refreshments passed round. And
Philip
found the whole thing in the bill when he =
came
to pay it.
Before the week was over Philip thought he=
had
a new light on the
character of Ruth. Her absorption in the small gaieti=
es of
the society
there surprised him. He had few opportunities for serio=
us
conversation
with her.=
There was always some butterfly or another flitting about,
and when Philip showed by his manner that =
he
was not pleased, Ruth
laughed merrily enough and rallied him on =
his
soberness--she declared he
was getting to be grim and unsocial. He talked indeed more with Alice
than with Ruth, and scarcely concealed from
her the trouble that was in
his mind.=
It needed, in fact, no word from him, for she saw clearly
enough what was going forward, and knew her
sex well enough to know there
was no remedy for it but time.
"Ruth is a dear girl, Philip, and has=
as
much firmness of purpose as
ever, but don't you see she has just
discovered that she is fond of
society?&= nbsp; Don't you let her see you are selfish about it, is my advice."<= o:p>
The last evening they were to spend in
Fallkill, they were at the
Montagues, and Philip hoped that he would =
find
Ruth in a different mood.
But she was never more gay, and there was a
spice of mischief in her eye
and in her laugh. "Confound it," said Phil=
ip to
himself, "she's in a
perfect twitter."
He would have liked to quarrel with her, a=
nd
fling himself out of the
house in tragedy style, going perhaps so f=
ar
as to blindly wander off
miles into the country and bathe his throb=
bing
brow in the chilling rain
of the stars, as people do in novels; but =
he
had no opportunity. For
Ruth was as serenely unconscious of mischi=
ef
as women can be at times,
and fascinated him more than ever with her
little demurenesses and
half-confidences. She even said "Thee" to =
him
once in reproach for a
cutting speech he began. And the sweet little word made his=
heart
beat
like a trip-hammer, for never in all her l=
ife
had she said "thee" to him
before.
Was she fascinated with Harry's careless '=
bon
homie' and gay assurance?
Both chatted away in high spirits, and made
the evening whirl along in
the most mirthful manner. Ruth sang for Harry, and that young
gentleman
turned the leaves for her at the piano, and
put in a bass note now and
then where he thought it would tell.
Yes, it was a merry evening, and Philip was
heartily glad when it was
over, and the long leave-taking with the
family was through with.
"Farewell Philip. Good night Mr. Brierly," Ruth=
's
clear voice sounded
after them as they went down the walk.
And she spoke Harry's name last, thought
Philip.
=
"O see ye not yon narrow road
=
So thick beset wi' thorns and briers?
=
That is the Path of Righteousness,
=
Though after it but few inquires.
=
"And see ye not yon braid, braid road,
=
That lies across the lily leven?
=
That is the Path of Wickedness,
=
Though some call it the road to Heaven."
=
&nb=
sp; =
Thomas the Rhymer.
Phillip and Harry reached New York in very
different states of mind.
Harry was buoyant. He found a letter from Col. Sellers
urging him to go
to Washington and confer with Senator
Dilworthy. The petition was i=
n his
hands.
It had been signed by everybody of any
importance in Missouri, and would
be presented immediately.
"I should go on myself," wrote t=
he
Colonel, "but I am engaged in the
invention of a process for lighting such a
city as St. Louis by means of
water; just attach my machine to the
water-pipes anywhere and the
decomposition of the fluid begins, and you
will have floods of light for
the mere cost of the machine. I've nearly got the lighting part,=
but I
want to attach to it a heating, cooking,
washing and ironing apparatus.
It's going to be the great thing, but we'd
better keep this appropriation
going while I am perfecting it."
Harry took letters to several congressmen =
from
his uncle and from Mr.
Duff Brown, each of whom had an extensive
acquaintance in both houses
where they were well known as men engaged =
in
large private operations for
the public good and men, besides, who, in =
the
slang of the day,
understood the virtues of "addition,
division and silence."
Senator Dilworthy introduced the petition =
into
the Senate with the remark
that he knew, personally, the signers of i=
t,
that they were men
interested; it was true, in the improvemen=
t of
the country, but he
believed without any selfish motive, and t=
hat
so far as he knew the
signers were loyal. It pleased him to see upon the rol=
l the
names of
many colored citizens, and it must rejoice
every friend of humanity to
know that this lately emancipated race were
intelligently taking part in
the development of the resources of their
native land. He moved the
reference of the petition to the proper
committee.
Senator Dilworthy introduced his young fri=
end
to influential members,
as a person who was very well informed abo=
ut
the Salt Lick Extension of
the Pacific, and was one of the Engineers =
who
had made a careful survey
of Columbus River; and left him to exhibit=
his
maps and plans and to show
the connection between the public treasury,
the city of Napoleon and
legislation for the benefit off the whole
country.
Harry was the guest of Senator Dilworthy.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was scarcely any good
movement in which the Senator was not
interested. His house was ope=
n to
all the laborers in the field of total
abstinence, and much of his time
was taken up in attending the meetings of =
this
cause. He had a Bible
class in the Sunday school of the church w=
hich
he attended, and he
suggested to Harry that he might take a cl=
ass
during the time he remained
in Washington, Mr. Washington Hawkins had a
class. Harry asked the
Senator if there was a class of young ladi=
es
for him to teach, and after
that the Senator did not press the subject=
.
Philip, if the truth must be told, was not
well satisfied with his
western prospects, nor altogether with the
people he had fallen in with.
The railroad contractors held out large but
rather indefinite promises.
Opportunities for a fortune he did not dou=
bt
existed in Missouri, but for
himself he saw no better means for livelih=
ood
than the mastery of the
profession he had rather thoughtlessly ent=
ered
upon. During the summer
he had made considerable practical advance=
in
the science of engineering;
he had been diligent, and made himself to a
certain extent necessary to
the work he was engaged on. The contractors called him into th=
eir
consultations frequently, as to the charac=
ter
of the country he had been
over, and the cost of constructing the roa=
d,
the nature of the work, etc.
Still Philip felt that if he was going to =
make
either reputation or money
as an engineer, he had a great deal of hard
study before him, and it is
to his credit that he did not shrink from
it. While Harry was in
Washington dancing attendance upon the
national legislature and making
the acquaintance of the vast lobby that
encircled it, Philip devoted
himself day and night, with an energy and a
concentration he was capable
of, to the learning and theory of his
profession, and to the science of
railroad building. He wrote some papers at this time =
for
the "Plow, the
Loom and the Anvil," upon the strengt=
h of
materials, and especially upon
bridge-building, which attracted considera=
ble
attention, and were copied
into the English "Practical
Magazine." They served a=
t any
rate to raise
Philip in the opinion of his friends the
contractors, for practical men
have a certain superstitious estimation of
ability with the pen, and
though they may a little despise the talen=
t,
they are quite ready to make
use of it.
Philip sent copies of his performances to
Ruth's father and to other
gentlemen whose good opinion he coveted, b=
ut
he did not rest upon his
laurels.&=
nbsp;
Indeed, so diligently had he applied himself, that when it came
time for him to return to the West, he felt
himself, at least in theory,
competent to take charge of a division in =
the
field.
The capital of the
population did not hail from great distanc=
es,
and so it had the general
family aspect of the permanent population;=
but
people from the four winds of heaven, and =
so
the manners, the faces and
the fashions there, presented a variety th=
at
was infinite.
had never been in "society" in <=
st1:City
w:st=3D"on">
of its wealthier citizens and had never
inspected one of their dwellings.
Consequently, everything in the nature of
modern fashion and grandeur was
a new and wonderful revelation to him.
Washington is an interesting city to any of
us. It seems to become more
and more interesting the oftener we visit
it. Perhaps the reader has
never been there? Very well. You arrive either at night, rather=
too
late to do anything or see anything until
morning, or you arrive so early
in the morning that you consider it best t=
o go
to your hotel and sleep an
hour or two while the sun bothers along ov=
er
the Atlantic. You cannot
well arrive at a pleasant intermediate hou=
r,
because the railway
corporation that keeps the keys of the onl=
y door
that leads into the town
or out of it take care of that. You arrive in tolerably good spiri=
ts,
because it is only thirty-eight miles from
Baltimore to the capital, and
so you have only been insulted three times
(provided you are not in a
sleeping car--the average is higher there):
once when you renewed your
ticket after stopping over in Baltimore, o=
nce
when you were about to
enter the "ladies' car" without
knowing it was a lady's car, and once
When you asked the conductor at what hour =
you
would reach Washington.
You are assailed by a long rank of hackmen=
who
shake their whips in your
face as you step out upon the sidewalk; you
enter what they regard as a
"carriage," in the capital, and =
you
wonder why they do not take it out of
service and put it in the museum: we have =
few
enough antiquities, and
it is little to our credit that we make
scarcely any effort to preserve
the few we have. You reach your hotel, presently--a=
nd
here let us draw
the curtain of charity--because of course =
you
have gone to the wrong one.
You being a stranger, how could you do
otherwise? There are a hundre=
d
and eighteen bad hotels, and only one good
one. The most renowned and
popular hotel of them all is perhaps the w=
orst
one known to history.
It is winter, and night. When you arrived, it was snowing.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> When you
reached the hotel, it was sleeting. When you went to bed, it was
raining.&=
nbsp;
During the night it froze hard, and the wind blew some chimneys
down.&nbs=
p;
When you got up in the morning, it was foggy. When you finished
your breakfast at ten o'clock and went out,
the sunshine was brilliant,
the weather balmy and delicious, and the m=
ud
and slush deep and
all-pervading. You will like the climate when you=
get
used to it.
You naturally wish to view the city; so you
take an umbrella, an
overcoat, and a fan, and go forth. The prominent features you soon
locate and get familiar with; first you
glimpse the ornamental upper
works of a long, snowy palace projecting a=
bove
a grove of trees, and a
tall, graceful white dome with a statue on=
it
surmounting the palace and
pleasantly contrasting with the background=
of
blue sky. That building is
the capitol; gossips will tell you that by=
the
original estimates it was
to cost $12,000,000, and that the governme=
nt
did come within $21,200,000
of building it for that sum.
You stand at the back of the capitol to tr=
eat
yourself to a view, and it
is a very noble one. You understand, the capitol stands=
upon
the verge
of a high piece of table land, a fine
commanding position, and its front
looks out over this noble situation for a
city--but it don't see it, for
the reason that when the capitol extension=
was
decided upon, the property
owners at once advanced their prices to su=
ch
inhuman figures that the
people went down and built the city in the
muddy low marsh behind the
temple of liberty; so now the lordly front=
of
the building, with, its
imposing colonades, its projecting graceful
wings, its picturesque
groups of statuary, and its long terraced
ranges of steps, flowing down
in white marble waves to the ground, merely
looks out upon a sorrowful
little desert of cheap boarding houses.
So you observe, that you take your view fr=
om
the back of the capitol.
And yet not from the airy outlooks of the
dome, by the way, because to
get there you must pass through the great
rotunda: and to do that, you
would have to see the marvelous Historical
Paintings that hang there,
and the bas-reliefs--and what have you done
that you should suffer thus?
And besides, you might have to pass through
the old part of the building,
and you could not help seeing Mr. Lincoln,=
as
petrified by a young lady
artist for $10,000--and you might take his
marble emancipation
proclamation, which he holds out in his ha=
nd
and contemplates, for a
folded napkin; and you might conceive from=
his
expression and his
attitude, that he is finding fault with the
washing. Which is not the
case.&nbs=
p;
Nobody knows what is the matter with him; but everybody feels for
him. Well, you ought not to go into the dome anyhow, because it would be<= o:p>
utterly impossible to go up there without
seeing the frescoes in it--and
why should you be interested in the deliri=
um
tremens of art?
The capitol is a very noble and a very
beautiful building, both within
and without, but you need not examine it
now. Still, if you greatly
prefer going into the dome, go. Now your general glance gives you<= o:p>
picturesque stretches of gleaming water, on
your left, with a sail here
and there and a lunatic asylum on shore; o=
ver
beyond the water, on a
distant elevation, you see a squat yellow
temple which your eye dwells
upon lovingly through a blur of unmanly
moisture, for it recalls your
lost boyhood and the Parthenons done in
molasses candy which made it
blest and beautiful. Still in the distance, but on this=
side
of the
water and close to its edge, the Monument =
to
the Father of his Country
towers out of the mud--sacred soil is the
customary term. It has the
aspect of a factory chimney with the top
broken off. The skeleton of a=
decaying scaffolding lingers about its sum=
mit,
and tradition says that
the spirit of Washington often comes down =
and
sits on those rafters to
enjoy this tribute of respect which the na=
tion
has reared as the symbol
of its unappeasable gratitude. The Monument is to be finished, so=
me
day,
and at that time our Washington will have =
risen
still higher in the
nation's veneration, and will be known as =
the
Great-Great-Grandfather of
his Country. The memorial Chimney stands in a q=
uiet
pastoral locality
that is full of reposeful expression. With a glass you can see the
cow-sheds about its base, and the contented
sheep nimbling pebbles in the
desert solitudes that surround it, and the
tired pigs dozing in the holy
calm of its protecting shadow.
Now you wrench your gaze loose, and you lo=
ok
down in front of you and see
the broad Pennsylvania Avenue stretching
straight ahead for a mile or
more till it brings up against the iron fe=
nce
in front of a pillared
granite pile, the Treasury building-an edi=
fice
that would command respect
in any capital. The stores and hotels that wall in=
this
broad avenue are
mean, and cheap, and dingy, and are better left without comment. Beyond<= o:p>
the Treasury is a fine large white barn, w=
ith
wide unhandsome grounds
about it.=
The President lives there.
It is ugly enough outside, but
that is nothing to what it is inside. Dreariness, flimsiness, bad taste<= o:p>
reduced to mathematical completeness is wh=
at
the inside offers to the
eye, if it remains yet what it always has
been.
The front and right hand views give you the
city at large. It is a wide
stretch of cheap little brick houses, with
here and there a noble
architectural pile lifting itself out of t=
he
midst-government buildings,
these.&nb=
sp;
If the thaw is still going on when you come down and go about
town, you will wonder at the short-sighted=
ness
of the city fathers, when
you come to inspect the streets, in that t=
hey
do not dilute the mud a
little more and use them for canals.
If you inquire around a little, you will f=
ind
that there are more
boardinghouses to the square acre in
Washington than there are in any
other city in the land, perhaps. If you apply for a home in one of =
them,
it will seem odd to you to have the landla=
dy
inspect you with a severe
eye and then ask you if you are a member of Congress. Perhaps, just as a<= o:p>
pleasantry, you will say yes. And then she will tell you that sh=
e is
"full." Then you show her her advertisemen=
t in
the morning paper, and
there she stands, convicted and ashamed. She will try to blush, and it
will be only polite in you to take the eff=
ort
for the deed. She shows
you her rooms, now, and lets you take one-=
-but
she makes you pay in
advance for it. That is what you will get for pret=
ending
to be a member
of Congress. If you had been content to be mere=
ly a
private citizen,
your trunk would have been sufficient secu=
rity
for your board. If you
are curious and inquire into this thing, t=
he
chances are that your
landlady will be ill-natured enough to say
that the person and property
of a Congressman are exempt from arrest or
detention, and that with the
tears in her eyes she has seen several of =
the
people's representatives
walk off to their several States and
Territories carrying her unreceipted
board bills in their pockets for
keepsakes. And before you hav=
e been
in
Washington many weeks you will be mean eno=
ugh
to believe her, too.
Of course you contrive to see everything a=
nd
find out everything. And
one of the first and most startling things=
you
find out is, that every
individual you encounter in the City of
Washington almost--and certainly
every separate and distinct individual in =
the
public employment, from the
highest bureau chief, clear down to the ma=
id
who scrubs Department halls,
the night watchmen of the public buildings=
and
the darkey boy who
purifies the Department spittoons--represe=
nts
Political Influence.
Unless you can get the ear of a Senator, o=
r a
Congressman, or a Chief of
a Bureau or Department, and persuade him to
use his "influence" in your
behalf, you cannot get an employment of the
most trivial nature in
Washington. Mere merit, fitness and capability=
, are
useless baggage to
you without "influence." The population of Washington consi=
sts
pretty
much entirely of government employee and t=
he
people who board them.
There are thousands of these employees, and
they have gathered there from
every corner of the Union and got their be=
rths
through the intercession
(command is nearer the word) of the Senato=
rs
and Representatives of their
respective States. It would be an odd circumstance to=
see a
girl get
employment at three or four dollars a week=
in
one of the great public
cribs without any political grandee to back
her, but merely because she
was worthy, and competent, and a good citi=
zen
of a free country that
"treats all persons alike." Washington would be mildly thunder=
struck
at
such a thing as that. If you are a member of Congress, (=
no
offence,) and
one of your constituents who doesn't know
anything, and does not want to
go into the bother of learning something, =
and
has no money, and no
employment, and can't earn a living, comes
besieging you for help, do you
say, "Come, my friend, if your servic=
es
were valuable you could get
employment elsewhere--don't want you
here?" Oh, no: You take =
him to
a
Department and say, "Here, give this
person something to pass away the
time at--and a salary"--and the thing=
is
done. You throw him on his
country.&=
nbsp;
He is his country's child, let his country support him. There
is something good and motherly about Washington, the g=
rand
old benevolent National Asylum for the Helpless.
The wages received by this great hive of
employees are placed at the
liberal figure meet and just for skilled a=
nd
competent labor. Such of
them as are immediately employed about the=
two
Houses of Congress, are
not only liberally paid also, but are
remembered in the customary Extra
Compensation bill which slides neatly thro=
ugh,
annually, with the general
grab that signalizes the last night of a
session, and thus twenty per
cent. is added to their wages, for--for fu=
n,
no doubt.
Washington Hawkins' new life was an unceas=
ing
delight to him. Senator
Dilworthy lived sumptuously, and Washingto=
n's
quarters were charming
--gas; running water, hot and cold; bath-r=
oom,
coal-fires, rich carpets,
beautiful pictures on the walls; books on
religion, temperance, public
charities and financial schemes; trim colo=
red
servants, dainty food
--everything a body could wish for. And as for stationery, there was n=
o
end to it; the government furnished it;
postage stamps were not needed
--the Senator's frank could convey a horse
through the mails, if necessary.
And then he saw such dazzling company. Renowned generals and admirals
who had seemed but colossal myths when he =
was
in the far west, went in
and out before him or sat at the Senator's
table, solidified into
palpable flesh and blood; famous statesmen
crossed his path daily; that
once rare and awe-inspiring being, a
Congressman, was become a common
spectacle--a spectacle so common, indeed, =
that
he could contemplate it
without excitement, even without
embarrassment; foreign ministers were
visible to the naked eye at happy interval=
s;
he had looked upon the
President himself, and lived. And more; this world of enchantment
teemed
with speculation--the whole atmosphere was
thick with hand that indeed
was Washington Hawkins' native air; none o=
ther
refreshed his lungs so
gratefully. He had found paradise at last.
The more he saw of his chief the Senator, =
the
more he honored him, and
the more conspicuously the moral grandeur =
of
his character appeared to
stand out. To possess the friendship and the =
kindly
interest of such a
man, Washington said in a letter to Louise,
was a happy fortune for a
young man whose career had been so impeded=
and
so clouded as his.
The weeks drifted by;--Harry Brierly flirt=
ed,
danced, added lustre
to the brilliant Senatorial receptions, and
diligently "buzzed" and
"button-holed" Congressmen in the
interest of the Columbus River scheme;
meantime Senator Dilworthy labored hard in=
the
same interest--and in
others of equal national importance. Harry wrote frequently to Sellers,=
and always encouragingly; and from these
letters it was easy to see that
Harry was a pet with all Washington, and w=
as
likely to carry the thing
through; that the assistance rendered him =
by
"old Dilworthy" was pretty
fair--pretty fair; "and every little
helps, you know," said Harry.
Washington wrote Sellers officially, now a=
nd
then. In one of his letters
it appeared that whereas no member of the
House committee favored the
scheme at first, there was now needed but =
one
more vote to compass a
majority report. Closing sentence:
"Providence=
seems
to further our efforts."
=
(Signed,) "ABNER DILWORTHY, U. S. S.,
=
&nb=
sp;
per WASHINGTON HAWKINS, P. S."
At the end of a week, Washington was able =
to
send the happy news,
officially, as usual,--that the needed vote
had been added and the bill
favorably reported from the Committee. Other letters recorded its perils<= o:p>
in Committee of the whole, and by and by i=
ts
victory, by just the skin of
its teeth, on third reading and final
passage. Then came letters te=
lling
of Mr. Dilworthy's struggles with a stubbo=
rn
majority in his own
Committee in the Senate; of how these
gentlemen succumbed, one by one,
till a majority was secured.
Then there was a hiatus. Washington watched every move on t=
he
board, and
he was in a good position to do this, for =
he
was clerk of this committee,
and also one other. He received no salary as private
secretary, but
these two clerkships, procured by his
benefactor, paid him an aggregate
of twelve dollars a day, without counting =
the
twenty percent extra
compensation which would of course be vote=
d to
him on the last night of
the session.
He saw the bill go into Committee of the w=
hole
and struggle for its life
again, and finally worry through. In the fullness of time he noted i=
ts
second reading, and by and by the day arri=
ved
when the grand ordeal came,
and it was put upon its final passage. Washington listened with bated
breath to the "Aye!" "No!&q=
uot;
"No!" "Aye!" of the voters, for a few dread
minutes, and then could bear the suspense =
no
longer. He ran down from
the gallery and hurried home to wait.
At the end of two or three hours the Senat=
or
arrived in the bosom of his
family, and dinner was waiting. Washington sprang forward, with th=
e
eager question on his lips, and the Senator
said:
"We may rejoice freely, now, my
son--Providence has crowned our efforts
with success."
wrote:
"It is beautiful to hear him talk when
his heart is full of thankfulness
for some manifestation of the Divine favor=
. You shall know him, some day
my Louise, and knowing him you will honor =
him,
as I do."
Harry wrote:
"I pulled it through, Colonel, but it=
was
a tough job, there is no
question about that. There was not a friend to the meas=
ure in
the House
committee when I began, and not a friend in
the Senate committee except
old Dil himself, but they were all fixed f=
or a
majority report when I
hauled off my forces. Everybody here says you can't get a
thing like
this through Congress without buying
committees for straight-out cash on
delivery, but I think I've taught them a t=
hing
or two--if I could only
make them believe it. When I tell the old residenters th=
at
this thing
went through without buying a vote or maki=
ng a
promise, they say, 'That's
rather too thin.' And when I say thin or not thin it'=
s a
fact, anyway,
they say, 'Come, now, but do you really
believe that?' and when I say I
don't believe anything about it, I know it,
they smile and say, 'Well,
you are pretty innocent, or pretty blind, =
one
or the other--there's no
getting around that.' Why they really do believe that vo=
tes
have been
bought--they do indeed. But let them keep on thinking so.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I have found
out that if a man knows how to talk to wom=
en,
and has a little gift in
the way of argument with men, he can affor=
d to
play for an appropriation
against a money bag and give the money bag
odds in the game. We've raked=
in $200,000 of Uncle Sam's money, say what
they will--and there is more
where this came from, when we want it, and=
I
rather fancy I am the person
that can go in and occupy it, too, if I do=
say
it myself, that shouldn't,
perhaps.&=
nbsp;
I'll be with you within a week.&nbs=
p;
Scare up all the men you can,
and put them to work at once. When I get there I propose to make
things
hum." The great news lifted Sellers into=
the
clouds. He went to work on
the instant. He flew hither and thither making
contracts, engaging men,
and steeping his soul in the ecstasies of
business. He was the happiest=
man in Missouri. And Louise was the happiest woman;=
for
presently came a
letter from Washington which said:
"Rejoice with me, for the long agony =
is
over! We have waited patientl=
y
and faithfully, all these years, and now at
last the reward is at hand.
A man is to pay our family $40,000 for the
Tennessee Land! It is but a
little sum compared to what we could get by
waiting, but I do so long to
see the day when I can call you my own, th=
at I
have said to myself,
better take this and enjoy life in a humble
way than wear out our best
days in this miserable separation. Besides, I can put this money into=
operations here that will increase it a
hundred fold, yes, a thousand
fold, in a few months. The air is full of such chances, a=
nd I
know our
family would consent in a moment that I sh=
ould
put in their shares with
mine.&nbs=
p;
Without a doubt we shall be worth half a million dollars in a year
from this time--I put it at the very lowest
figure, because it is always
best to be on the safe side--half a millio=
n at
the very lowest
calculation, and then your father will give
his consent and we can marry
at last.&=
nbsp;
Oh, that will be a glorious day.&nb=
sp;
Tell our friends the good
news--I want all to share it."
And she did tell her father and mother, but
they said, let it be kept
still for the present. The careful father also told her to
write
Washington and warn him not to speculate w=
ith
the money, but to wait a
little and advise with one or two wise old
heads. She did this. And she
managed to keep the good news to herself,
though it would seem that the
most careless observer might have seen by =
her
springing step and her
radiant countenance that some fine piece of
good fortune had descended
upon her.
Harry joined the Colonel at Stone's Landin=
g,
and that dead place sprang
into sudden life. A swarm of men were hard at work, =
and
the dull air was
filled with the cheery music of labor. Harry had been constituted
engineer-in-general, and he threw the full
strength of his powers into
his work.=
He moved among his hirelings like a king. Authority seemed to
invest him with a new splendor. Col. Sellers, as general superinte=
ndent
of a great public enterprise, was all that=
a
mere human being could be
--and more. These two grandees went at their
imposing "improvement" with
the air of men who had been charged with t=
he
work of altering the
foundations of the globe.
They turned their first attention to
straightening the river just above
the Landing, where it made a deep bend, and
where the maps and plans
showed that the process of straightening w=
ould
not only shorten distance
but increase the "fall." They started a cut-off canal acros=
s the
peninsula formed by the bend, and such ano=
ther
tearing up of the earth
and slopping around in the mud as followed=
the
order to the men, had
never been seen in that region before. There was such a panic among the
turtles that at the end of six hours there=
was
not one to be found within
three miles of Stone's Landing. They took the young and the aged, =
the
decrepit and the sick upon their backs and
left for tide-water in
disorderly procession, the tadpoles follow=
ing
and the bull-frogs bringing
up the rear.
Saturday night came, but the men were obli=
ged
to wait, because the
appropriation had not come. Harry said he had written to hurry=
up
the
money and it would be along presently. So the work continued, on Monday.<= o:p>
Stone's Landing was making quite a stir in=
the
vicinity, by this time.
Sellers threw a lot or two on the market,
"as a feeler," and they sold
well.&nbs=
p;
He re-clothed his family, laid in a good stock of provisions, and
still had money left. He started a bank account, in a sm=
all
way--and
mentioned the deposit casually to friends;=
and
to strangers, too; to
everybody, in fact; but not as a new thing=
--on
the contrary, as a matter
of life-long standing. He could not keep from buying trif=
les
every day
that were not wholly necessary, it was suc=
h a
gaudy thing to get out his
bank-book and draw a check, instead of usi=
ng
his old customary formula,
"Charge it" Harry sold a lot or =
two,
also--and had a dinner party or two
at Hawkeye and a general good time with the
money. Both men held on
pretty strenuously for the coming big pric=
es,
however.
At the end of a month things were looking
bad. Harry had besieged the
New York headquarters of the Columbus River
Slack-water Navigation
Company with demands, then commands, and
finally appeals, but to no
purpose; the appropriation did not come; t=
he
letters were not even
answered.=
The workmen were clamorous, now.&nb=
sp;
The Colonel and Harry
retired to consult.
"What's to be done?" said the
Colonel.
"Hang'd if I know."
"Company say anything?"
"Not a word."
"You telegraphed yesterday?"
"Yes, and the day before, too."<= o:p>
"No answer?"
"None-confound them!"
Then there was a long pause. Finally both spoke at once:
"I've got it!"
"I've got it!"
"What's yours?" said Harry.
"Give the boys thirty-day orders on t=
he
Company for the back pay."
"That's it-that's my own idea to a
dot. But then--but then----&q=
uot;
"Yes, I know," said the Colonel;
"I know they can't wait for the orders
to go to New York and be cashed, but what's
the reason they can't get
them discounted in Hawkeye?"
"Of course they can. That solves the difficulty. Everybody knows the
appropriation's been made and the Company's
perfectly good."
So the orders were given and the men appea=
sed,
though they grumbled a
little at first. The orders went well enough for
groceries and such
things at a fair discount, and the work da=
nced
along gaily for a time.
Two or three purchasers put up frame house=
s at
the Landing and moved in,
and of course a far-sighted but easy-going
journeyman printer wandered
along and started the "Napoleon Weekly
Telegraph and Literary
Repository"--a paper with a Latin mot=
to
from the Unabridged dictionary,
and plenty of "fat" conversation=
al
tales and double-leaded poetry--all
for two dollars a year, strictly in advanc=
e. Of course the merchants
forwarded the orders at once to New York--=
and
never heard of them again.
At the end of some weeks Harry's orders we=
re a
drug in the market--nobody
would take them at any discount whatever.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The second month closed with a
riot.--Sellers was absent at the time, and
Harry began an active absence
himself with the mob at his heels. But being on horseback, he had the=
advantage. He did not tarry in Hawkeye, but w=
ent
on, thus missing
several appointments with creditors. He was far on his flight eastward,=
and well out of danger when the next morni=
ng
dawned. He telegraphed the
Colonel to go down and quiet the laborers-=
-he
was bound east for money
--everything would be right in a week--tell
the men so--tell them to rely
on him and not be afraid.
Sellers found the mob quiet enough when he
reached the Landing.
They had gutted the Navigation office, then
piled the beautiful engraved
stock-books and things in the middle of the
floor and enjoyed the bonfire
while it lasted. They had a liking for the Colonel,=
but
still they had
some idea of hanging him, as a sort of
make-shift that might answer,
after a fashion, in place of more satisfac=
tory
game.
But they made the mistake of waiting to he=
ar
what he had to say first.
Within fifteen minutes his tongue had done=
its
work and they were all
rich men.--He gave every one of them a lot=
in
the suburbs of the city of
Stone's Landing, within a mile and a half =
of
the future post office and
railway station, and they promised to resu=
me
work as soon as Harry got
east and started the money along. Now things were blooming and pleas=
ant
again, but the men had no money, and nothi=
ng
to live on. The Colonel
divided with them the money he still had in
bank--an act which had
nothing surprising about it because he was=
generally
ready to divide
whatever he had with anybody that wanted i=
t,
and it was owing to this
very trait that his family spent their day=
s in
poverty and at times were
pinched with famine.
When the men's minds had cooled and Sellers
was gone, they hated
themselves for letting him beguile them wi=
th
fine speeches, but it was
too late, now--they agreed to hang him ano=
ther
time--such time as
Providence should appoint.
Rumors of Ruth's frivolity and worldliness=
at
Fallkill traveled to
Hannah Shoecraft told another, cousin that,
for her part, she never
believed that Ruth had so much more
"mind" than other people; and Cousin
Hulda added that she always thought Ruth w=
as
fond of admiration, and that
was the reason she was unwilling to wear p=
lain
clothes and attend
Meeting.&= nbsp; The story that Ruth was "engaged" to a young gentleman of<= o:p>
fortune in Fallkill came with the other ne=
ws,
and helped to give point to
the little satirical remarks that went rou=
nd
about Ruth's desire to be a
doctor!
Margaret Bolton was too wise to be either
surprised or alarmed by these
rumors.&n=
bsp;
They might be true; she knew a woman's nature too well to think
them improbable, but she also knew how
steadfast Ruth was in her
purposes, and that, as a brook breaks into
ripples and eddies and dances
and sports by the way, and yet keeps on to=
the
sea, it was in Ruth's
nature to give back cheerful answer to the
solicitations of friendliness
and pleasure, to appear idly delaying even,
and sporting in the sunshine,
while the current of her resolution flowed
steadily on.
That Ruth had this delight in the mere sur=
face
play of life that she
could, for instance, be interested in that
somewhat serious by-play
called "flirtation," or take any
delight in the exercise of those little
arts of pleasing and winning which are none
the less genuine and charming
because they are not intellectual, Ruth,
herself, had never suspected
until she went to Fallkill. She had believed it her duty to su=
bdue
her
gaiety of temperament, and let nothing div=
ert
her from what are called
serious pursuits: In her limited experience
she brought everything to the
judgment of her own conscience, and settled
the affairs of all the world
in her own serene judgment hall. Perhaps her mother saw this, and s=
aw
also that there was nothing in the Friends'
society to prevent her from
growing more and more opinionated.
When Ruth returned to Philadelphia, it mus=
t be
confessed--though it would
not have been by her--that a medical career
did seem a little less
necessary for her than formerly; and coming
back in a glow of triumph, as
it were, and in the consciousness of the
freedom and life in a lively
society and in new and sympathetic friends=
hip,
she anticipated pleasure
in an attempt to break up the stiffness and
levelness of the society at
home, and infusing into it something of the
motion and sparkle which were
so agreeable at Fallkill. She expected visits from her new
friends, she
would have company, the new books and the
periodicals about which all the
world was talking, and, in short, she would
have life.
For a little while she lived in this
atmosphere which she had brought
with her.=
Her mother was delighted with this change in her, with the
improvement in her health and the interest=
she
exhibited in home affairs.
Her father enjoyed the society of his favo=
rite
daughter as he did few
things besides; he liked her mirthful and
teasing ways, and not less a
keen battle over something she had read. He had been a great reader all
his life, and a remarkable memory had stor=
ed
his mind with encyclopaedic
information. It was one of Ruth's delights to c=
ram
herself with some out
of the way subject and endeavor to catch h=
er
father; but she almost
always failed. Mr. Bolton liked company, a house =
full
of it, and the
mirth of young people, and he would have
willingly entered into any
revolutionary plans Ruth might have sugges=
ted
in relation to Friends'
society.
But custom and the fixed order are stronger
than the most enthusiastic
and rebellious young lady, as Ruth very so=
on
found. In spite of all her
brave efforts, her frequent correspondence,
and her determined animation,
her books and her music, she found herself
settling into the clutches of
the old monotony, and as she realized the
hopelessness of her endeavors,
the medical scheme took new hold of her, a=
nd
seemed to her the only
method of escape.
"Mother, thee does not know how diffe=
rent
it is in Fallkill, how much
more interesting the people are one meets,=
how
much more life there is."
"But thee will find the world, child,
pretty much all the same, when thee
knows it better. I thought once as thee does now, a=
nd had
as little
thought of being a Friend as thee has. Perhaps when thee has seen more,
thee will better appreciate a quiet
life."
"Thee married young. I shall not marry young, and perha=
ps not
at all,"
said Ruth, with a look of vast experience.=
"Perhaps thee doesn't know thee own m=
ind;
I have known persons of thy
age who did not. Did thee see anybody whom thee wou=
ld
like to live with
always in Fallkill?"
"Not always," replied Ruth with a
little laugh. "Mother, I=
think
I
wouldn't say 'always' to any one until I h=
ave
a profession and am as
independent as he is. Then my love would be a free act, =
and
not in any
way a necessity."
Margaret Bolton smiled at this new-fangled
philosophy. "Thee will f=
ind
that love, Ruth, is a thing thee won't rea=
son
about, when it comes, nor
make any bargains about. Thee wrote that Philip Sterling wa=
s at
Fallkill."
"Yes, and Henry Brierly, a friend of =
his;
a very amusing young fellow and
not so serious-minded as Philip, but a bit=
of
a fop maybe."
"And thee preferred the fop to the
serious-minded?"
"I didn't prefer anybody; but Henry
Brierly was good company, which
Philip wasn't always."
"Did thee know thee father had been in
correspondence with Philip?"
Ruth looked up surprised and with a plain
question in her eyes.
"Oh, it's not about thee."
"What then?" and if there was any
shade of disappointment in her tone,
probably Ruth herself did not know it.
"It's about some land up in the
country. That man Bigler has =
got
father
into another speculation."
"That odious man! Why will father have anything to d=
o with
him? Is it
that railroad?"
"Yes. Father advanced money and took lan=
d as
security, and whatever has
gone with the money and the bonds, he has =
on
his hands a large tract of
wild land."
"And what has Philip to do with
that?"
"It has good timber, if it could ever=
be
got out, and father says that
there must be coal in it; it's in a coal
region. He wants Philip to
survey it, and examine it for indications =
of
coal."
"It's another of father's fortunes, I
suppose," said Ruth. &qu=
ot;He
has put
away so many fortunes for us that I'm afra=
id
we never shall find them."
Ruth was interested in it nevertheless, and
perhaps mainly because Philip
was to be connected with the enterprise. Mr. Bigler came to dinner with
her father next day, and talked a great de=
al
about Mr. Bolton's
magnificent tract of land, extolled the sa=
gacity
that led him to secure
such a property, and led the talk along to
another railroad which would
open a northern communication to this very
land.
"Pennybacker says it's full of coal, =
he's
no doubt of it, and a railroad
to strike the Erie would make it a
fortune."
"Suppose you take the land and work t=
he
thing up, Mr. Bigler; you may
have the tract for three dollars an
acre."
"You'd throw it away, then," rep=
lied
Mr. Bigler, "and I'm not the man to
take advantage of a friend. But if you'll put a mortgage on it=
for
the
northern road, I wouldn't mind taking an
interest, if Pennybacker is
willing; but Pennybacker, you know, don't =
go
much on land, he sticks to
the legislature." And Mr. Bigler laughed.
When Mr. Bigler had gone, Ruth asked her
father about Philip's connection
with the land scheme.
"There's nothing definite," said=
Mr.
Bolton. "Philip is showi=
ng
aptitude
for his profession. I hear the best reports of him in =
New
York, though
those sharpers don't 'intend to do anything
but use him. I've written
and offered him employment in surveying and
examining the land. We want
to know what it is. And if there is anything in it tha=
t his
enterprise
can dig out, he shall have an interest.
young fellow a lift."
All his life Eli Bolton had been giving yo=
ung
fellows a lift, and
shouldering the loses when things turned o=
ut
unfortunately. His ledger,
take-it-altogether, would not show a balan=
ce
on the right side; but
perhaps the losses on his books will turn =
out
to be credits in a world
where accounts are kept on a different
basis. The left hand of the
ledger will appear the right, looked at fr=
om
the other side.
Philip, wrote to Ruth rather a comical acc=
ount
of the bursting up of the
city of Napoleon and the navigation
improvement scheme, of Harry's flight
and the Colonel's discomfiture. Harry left in such a hurry that he=
hadn't even time to bid Miss Laura Hawkins
good-bye, but he had no doubt
that Harry would console himself with the =
next
pretty face he saw
--a remark which was thrown in for Ruth's
benefit. Col. Sellers had in =
all
probability, by this time, some other equa=
lly
brilliant speculation in
his brain.
As to the railroad, Philip had made up his
mind that it was merely kept
on foot for speculative purposes in Wall
street, and he was about to quit
it.
Would Ruth be glad to hear, he wondered, that he was coming East?
For he was coming, in spite of a letter fr=
om
Harry in New York, advising
him to hold on until he had made some
arrangements in regard to
contracts, he to be a little careful about
Sellers, who was somewhat
visionary, Harry said.
The summer went on without much excitement=
for
Ruth. She kept up a
correspondence with Alice, who promised a
visit in the fall, she read,
she earnestly tried to interest herself in=
home
affairs and such people
as came to the house; but she found herself
falling more and more into
reveries, and growing weary of things as t=
hey
were. She felt that
everybody might become in time like two
relatives from a Shaker
establishment in Ohio, who visited the Bol=
tons
about this time, a father
and son, clad exactly alike, and alike in
manners. The son; however,
who was not of age, was more unworldly and
sanctimonious than his father;
he always addressed his parent as
"Brother Plum," and bore himself,
altogether in such a superior manner that =
Ruth
longed to put bent pins in
his chair. Both father and son wore the long,
single breasted collarless
coats of their society, without buttons,
before or behind, but with a row
of hooks and eyes on either side in
front. It was Ruth's suggesti=
on
that
the coats would be improved by a single ho=
ok
and eye sewed on in the
small of the back where the buttons usually
are.
Amusing as this Shaker caricature of the
Friends was, it oppressed Ruth
beyond measure; and increased her feeling =
of
being stifled.
It was a most unreasonable feeling. No home could be pleasanter than
Ruth's.&n=
bsp;
The house, a little out of the city; was one of those elegant
country residences which so much charm
visitors to the suburbs of
Philadelphia. A modern dwelling and luxurious in
everything that wealth
could suggest for comfort, it stood in the
midst of exquisitely kept
lawns, with groups of trees, parterres of
flowers massed in colors, with
greenhouse, grapery and garden; and on one
side, the garden sloped away
in undulations to a shallow brook that ran
over a pebbly bottom and sang
under forest trees. The country about teas the perfect=
ion of
cultivated
landscape, dotted with cottages, and state=
ly
mansions of Revolutionary
date, and sweet as an English country-side,
whether seen in the soft
bloom of May or in the mellow ripeness of =
late
October.
It needed only the peace of the mind within, to make i=
t a
paradise.
One riding by on the Old Germantown road, and seeing a
young girl
swinging in the hammock on the piazza and, intent upon
some volume of old poetry or the latest novel, would no doubt have envied a
life so idyllic.
He could not have imagined that the young girl was rea=
ding
a volume of
reports of clinics and longing to be elsewhere.
Ruth could not have been more discontented=
if
all the wealth about her
had been as unsubstantial as a dream. Perhaps she so thought it.
"I feel," she once said to her
father, "as if I were living in a house of
cards."
"And thee would like to turn it into a
hospital?"
"No.=
But tell me father," continued Ruth, not to be put off, "is
thee
still going on with that Bigler and those
other men who come here and
entice thee?"
Mr. Bolton smiled, as men do when they talk
with women about "business"
"Such men have their uses, Ruth. They keep the world active, and I =
owe a
great many of my best operations to such
men. Who knows, Ruth, but thi=
s
new land purchase, which I confess I yield=
ed a
little too much to Bigler
in, may not turn out a fortune for thee and
the rest of the children?"
"Ah, father, thee sees every thing in=
a
rose-colored light. I do beli=
eve
thee wouldn't have so readily allowed me to
begin the study of medicine,
if it hadn't had the novelty of an experim=
ent
to thee."
"And is thee satisfied with it?"=
"If thee means, if I have had enough =
of
it, no. I just begin to see w=
hat
I can do in it, and what a noble professio=
n it
is for a woman. Would
thee have me sit here like a bird on a bou=
gh
and wait for somebody to
come and put me in a cage?"
Mr. Bolton was not sorry to divert the talk
from his own affairs, and he
did not think it worth while to tell his
family of a performance that
very day which was entirely characteristic=
of
him.
Ruth might well say that she felt as if she
were living in a house of
cards, although the Bolton household had no
idea of the number of perils
that hovered over them, any more than
thousands of families in America
have of the business risks and contingences
upon which their prosperity
and luxury hang.
A sudden call upon Mr. Bolton for a large =
sum
of money, which must be
forthcoming at once, had found him in the
midst of a dozen ventures, from
no one of which a dollar could be
realized. It was in vain that=
he
applied to his business acquaintances and
friends; it was a period of
sudden panic and no money. "A hundred thousand! Mr. Bolton," said
Plumly.&n=
bsp;
"Good God, if you should ask me for ten, I shouldn't know where=
to get it."
And yet that day Mr. Small (Pennybacker,
Bigler and Small) came to Mr.
Bolton with a piteous story of ruin in a c=
oal
operation, if he could not
raise ten thousand dollars. Only ten, and he was sure of a for=
tune.
Without it he was a beggar. Mr. Bolton had already Small's not=
es for
a
large amount in his safe, labeled
"doubtful;" he had helped him again and
again, and always with the same result.
faltering voice of his family, his daughte=
r in
school, his wife ignorant
of his calamity, and drew such a picture of
their agony, that Mr. Bolton
put by his own more pressing necessity, and
devoted the day to scraping
together, here and there, ten thousand dol=
lars
for this brazen beggar,
who had never kept a promise to him nor pa=
id a
debt.
Beautiful credit! The foundation of modern society.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Who shall say that
this is not the golden age of mutual trust=
, of
unlimited reliance upon
human promises? That is a peculiar condition of so=
ciety
which enables a
whole nation to instantly recognize point =
and
meaning in the familiar
newspaper anecdote, which puts into the mo=
uth
of a distinguished
speculator in lands and mines this
remark:--"I wasn't worth a cent two
years ago, and now I owe two millions of
dollars."
It was a hard blow to poor Sellers to see =
the
work on his darling
enterprise stop, and the noise and bustle =
and
confusion that had been
such refreshment to his soul, sicken and d=
ie
out. It was hard to come
down to humdrum ordinary life again after
being a General Superintendent
and the most conspicuous man in the
community. It was sad to see =
his
name disappear from the newspapers; sadder
still to see it resurrected at
intervals, shorn of its aforetime gaudy ge=
ar
of compliments and clothed
on with rhetorical tar and feathers.
But his friends suffered more on his accou=
nt
than he did. He was a cork
that could not be kept under the water many
moments at a time.
He had to bolster up his wife's spirits ev=
ery
now and then. On one of
these occasions he said:
"It's all right, my dear, all right; =
it
will all come right in a little
while.&nb=
sp;
There's $200,000 coming, and that will set things booming again:
Harry seems to be having some difficulty, =
but
that's to be expected--you
can't move these big operations to the tun=
e of
Fisher's Hornpipe, you
know.&nbs=
p;
But Harry will get it started along presently, and then you'll
see!
I expect the news every day now."
"But Beriah, you've been expecting it
every day, all along, haven't you?"
"Well, yes; yes--I don't know but I
have. But anyway, the longer =
it's
delayed, the nearer it grows to the time w=
hen
it will start--same as
every day you live brings you nearer
to--nearer--"
"The grave?"
"Well, no--not that exactly; but you
can't understand these things, Polly
dear--women haven't much head for business,
you know. You make yourself
perfectly comfortable, old lady, and you'll
see how we'll trot this right
along.&nb=
sp;
Why bless you, let the appropriation lag, if it wants to--that's
no great matter--there's a bigger thing th=
an
that."
"Bigger than $200,000, Beriah?"<= o:p>
"Bigger, child?--why, what's
$200,000? Pocket money! Mere pocket money!
Look at the railroad! Did you forget the railroad? It ain't many months
till spring; it will be coming right along,
and the railroad swimming
right along behind it. Where'll it be by the middle of
summer? Just
stop and fancy a moment--just think a litt=
le--don't
anything suggest
itself?&n=
bsp;
Bless your heart, you dear women live right in the present all
the time--but a man, why a man lives----
"In the future, Beriah? But don't we live in the future mo=
st too
much,
Beriah?&n=
bsp;
We do somehow seem to manage to live on next year's crop of corn
and potatoes as a general thing while this
year is still dragging along,
but sometimes it's not a robust
diet,--Beriah. But don't look=
that
way,
dear--don't mind what I say. I don't mean to fret, I don't mean=
to
worry; and I don't, once a month, do I,
dear? But when I get a little=
low and feel bad, I get a bit troubled and
worrisome, but it don't mean
anything in the world. It passes right away. I know you're doing all
you can, and I don't want to seem repining=
and
ungrateful--for I'm not,
Beriah--you know I'm not, don't you?"=
"Lord bless you, child, I know you are
the very best little woman that
ever lived--that ever lived on the whole f=
ace
of the Earth! And I know
that I would be a dog not to work for you =
and
think for you and scheme
for you with all my might. And I'll bring things all right ye=
t,
honey
--cheer up and don't you fear. The railroad----"
"Oh, I had forgotten the railroad, de=
ar,
but when a body gets blue, a
body forgets everything. Yes, the railroad--tell me about t=
he
railroad."
"Aha, my girl, don't you see? Things ain't so dark, are they?
didn't forget the railroad. Now just think for a moment--just =
figure
up
a little on the future dead moral
certainties. For instance, ca=
ll
this
waiter St. Louis.
"And we'll lay this fork (representing
the railroad) from St. Louis to
this potato, which is Slouchburg:
"Then with this carving knife we'll
continue the railroad from Slouchburg
to Doodleville, shown by the black pepper:=
"Then we run along the--yes--the comb=
--to
the tumbler that's Brimstone:
"Thence by the pipe to Belshazzar, wh=
ich
is the salt-cellar:
"Thence to, to--that quill--Catfish--=
hand
me the pincushion, Marie
Antoinette:
"Thence right along these shears to t=
his
horse, Babylon:
"Then by the spoon to Bloody Run--tha=
nk
you, the ink:
"Thence to Hail Columbia--snuffers,
Polly, please move that cup and
saucer close up, that's Hail Columbia:
"Then--let me open my knife--to
Hark-from-the-Tomb, where we'll put
the candle-stick--only a little distance f=
rom
Hail Columbia to
Hark-from-the-Tomb--down-grade all the way=
.
"And there we strike Columbus River--=
pass
me two or throe skeins of
thread to stand for the river; the sugar b=
owl
will do for Hawkeye, and
the rat trap for Stone's Landing-Napoleon,=
I
mean--and you can see how
much better Napoleon is located than
Hawkeye. Now here you are wit=
h your
railroad complete, and showing its
continuation to Hallelujah and thence
to Corruptionville.
"Now then-them you are! It's a beautiful road, beautiful.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Jeff Thompson
can out-engineer any civil engineer that e=
ver
sighted through an aneroid,
or a theodolite, or whatever they call it-=
-he
calls it sometimes one and
sometimes the other just whichever levels =
off
his sentence neatest, I
reckon.&n=
bsp;
But ain't it a ripping toad, though? I tell you, it'll make a
stir when it gets along. Just see what a country it goes th=
rough.
There's your onions at Slouchburg--noblest
onion country that graces
God's footstool; and there's your turnip
country all around Doodleville
--bless my life, what fortunes are going t=
o be
made there when they get
that contrivance perfected for extracting
olive oil out of turnips--if
there's any in them; and I reckon there is,
because Congress has made an
appropriation of money to test the thing, =
and they
wouldn't have done
that just on conjecture, of course. And now we come to the Brimstone
region--cattle raised there till you can't
rest--and corn, and all that
sort of thing. Then you've got a little stretch a=
long
through Belshazzar
that don't produce anything now--at least
nothing but rocks--but
irrigation will fetch it. Then from Catfish to Babylon it's a
little
swampy, but there's dead loads of peat down
under there somewhere. Next
is the Bloody Run and Hail Columbia
country--tobacco enough can be raised
there to support two such railroads. Next is the sassparilla region.
I reckon there's enough of that truck alon=
g in
there on the line of the
pocket-knife, from Hail Columbia to
Hark-from-the Tomb to fat up all the
consumptives in all the hospitals from Hal=
ifax
to the Holy Land. It just
grows like weeds! I've got a little belt of sasspari=
lla
land in there
just tucked away unobstrusively waiting fo=
r my
little Universal
Expectorant to get into shape in my head.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And I'll fix that, you know.
One of these days I'll have all the nation=
s of
the earth expecto--"
"But Beriah, dear--"
"Don't interrupt me; Polly--I don't w=
ant
you to lose the run of the map
--well, take your toy-horse, James Fitz-Ja=
mes,
if you must have it--and run
along with you. Here, now--the soap will do for
Babylon. Let me see
--where was I? Oh yes--now we run down to Stone's
Lan--Napoleon--now we
run down to Napoleon. Beautiful road. Look at that, now. Perfectly
straight line-straight as the way to the
grave. And see where it leave=
s
Hawkeye-clear out in the cold, my dear, cl=
ear
out in the cold. That
town's as bound to die as--well if I owned=
it
I'd get its obituary ready,
now, and notify the mourners. Polly, mark my words--in three yea=
rs
from
this, Hawkeye'll be a howling wilderness.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You'll see. And just look at
that river--noblest stream that meanders o=
ver
the thirsty earth!
--calmest, gentlest artery that refreshes =
her
weary bosom! Railroad
goes all over it and all through it--wades
right along on stilts.
Seventeen bridges in three miles and a
half--forty-nine bridges from
Hark-from-the-Tomb to Stone's Landing
altogether--forty nine bridges, and
culverts enough to culvert creation
itself! Hadn't skeins of thre=
ad
enough to represent them all--but you get =
an
idea--perfect trestle-work
of bridges for seventy two miles: Jeff
Thompson and I fixed all that, you
know; he's to get the contracts and I'm to=
put
them through on the
divide.&n=
bsp;
Just oceans of money in those bridges. It's the only part of
the railroad I'm interested in,--down along
the line--and it's all I
want, too. It's enough, I should judge. Now h=
ere we
are at Napoleon.
Good enough country plenty good enough--al=
l it
wants is population.
That's all right--that will come. And it's no bad country now for
calmness and solitude, I can tell you--tho=
ugh
there's no money in that,
of course. No money, but a man wants rest, a =
man
wants peace--a man
don't want to rip and tear around all the
time. And here we go, now,
just as straight as a string for
Hallelujah--it's a beautiful angle
--handsome up grade all the way--and then =
away
you go to Corruptionville,
the gaudiest country for early carrots and
cauliflowers that ever--good
missionary field, too. There ain't such another missionary
field outside
the jungles of Central Africa. And patriotic?--why they named it =
after
Congress itself. Oh, I warn you, my dear, there's a=
good
time coming,
and it'll be right along before you know w=
hat
you're about, too. That
railroad's fetching it. You see what it is=
as
far as I've got, and if I
had enough bottles and soap and boot-jacks=
and
such things to carry it
along to where it joins onto the Union
Pacific, fourteen hundred miles
from here, I should exhibit to you in that
little internal improvement a
spectacle of inconceivable sublimity. So, don't you see? We've got the
rail road to fall back on; and in the
meantime, what are we worrying
about that $200,000 appropriation for? That's all right. I'd be willing
to bet anything that the very next letter =
that
comes from Harry will--"
The eldest boy entered just in the nick of
time and brought a letter,
warm from the post-office.
"Things do look bright, after all,
Beriah. I'm sorry I was blue,=
but
it
did seem as if everything had been going
against us for whole ages. Op=
en
the letter--open it quick, and let's know =
all
about it before we stir out
of our places. I am all in a fidget to know what =
it
says."
The letter was opened, without any unneces=
sary
delay.
Whatever may have been the language of Har=
ry's
letter to the Colonel,
the information it conveyed was condensed =
or
expanded, one or the other,
from the following episode of his visit to=
He called, with official importance in his
mien, at
where a great gilt sign betokened the pres=
ence
of the head-quarters of
the "Columbus River Slack-Water
Navigation Company." He
entered and
gave a dressy porter his card, and was
requested to wait a moment in a
sort of ante-room. The porter returned in a minute; a=
nd
asked whom he
would like to see?
"The president of the company, of
course."
"He is busy with some gentlemen, sir;
says he will be done with them
directly."
That a copper-plate card with
"Engineer-in-Chief" on it should be
received with such tranquility as this,
annoyed Mr. Brierly not a little.
But he had to submit. Indeed his annoyance had time to a=
ugment
a good
deal; for he was allowed to cool his heels=
a
frill half hour in the
ante-room before those gentlemen emerged a=
nd
he was ushered into the
presence. He found a stately dignitary occ=
upying
a very official chair
behind a long green morocco-covered table,=
in
a room with sumptuously
carpeted and furnished, and well garnished
with pictures.
"Good morning, sir; take a seat--take=
a
seat."
"Thank you sir," said Harry,
throwing as much chill into his manner as
his ruffled dignity prompted.
"We perceive by your reports and the
reports of the Chief Superintendent,
that you have been making gratifying progr=
ess
with the work.--We are all
very much pleased."
"Indeed? We did not discover it from your
letters--which we have not
received; nor by the treatment our drafts =
have
met with--which were not
honored; nor by the reception of any part =
of
the appropriation, no part
of it having come to hand."
"Why, my dear Mr. Brierly, there must=
be
some mistake, I am sure we wrote
you and also Mr. Sellers, recently--when my
clerk comes he will show
copies--letters informing you of the ten p=
er
cent. assessment."
"Oh, certainly, we got those
letters. But what we wanted w=
as
money to
carry on the work--money to pay the men.&q=
uot;
"Certainly, certainly--true enough--b=
ut
we credited you both for a large
part of your assessments--I am sure that w=
as
in our letters."
"Of course that was in--I remember
that."
"Ah, very well then. Now we begin to understand each ot=
her."
"Well, I don't see that we do. There's two months' wages due the =
men,
and----"
"How? Haven't you paid the men?"
"Paid them! How are we going to pay them when =
you
don't honor our
drafts?"
"Why, my dear sir, I cannot see how y=
ou
can find any fault with us. I=
am
sure we have acted in a perfectly straight
forward business way.--Now let
us look at the thing a moment. You subscribed for 100 shares of t=
he
capital stock, at $1,000 a share, I
believe?"
"Yes, sir, I did."
"And Mr. Sellers took a like amount?&=
quot;
"Yes, sir."
"Very well. No concern can get along without
money. We levied a ten per
cent. assessment. It was the original understanding =
that
you and Mr.
Sellers were to have the positions you now
hold, with salaries of $600 a
month each, while in active service. You were duly elected to these
places, and you accepted them. Am I right?"
"Certainly."
"Very well. You were given your instructions a=
nd put
to work. By your
reports it appears that you have expended =
the
sum of $9,610 upon the said
work.&nbs=
p;
Two months salary to you two officers amounts altogether to
$2,400--about one-eighth of your ten per c=
ent.
assessment, you see; which
leaves you in debt to the company for the
other seven-eighths of the
assessment--viz, something over $8,000 api=
ece. Now instead of requiring
you to forward this aggregate of $16,000 or
$17,000 to New York, the
company voted unanimously to let you pay it
over to the contractors,
laborers from time to time, and give you
credit on the books for it.
And they did it without a murmur, too, for
they were pleased with the
progress you had made, and were glad to pay
you that little compliment
--and a very neat one it was, too, I am
sure. The work you did fell s=
hort
of $10,000, a trifle. Let me see--$9,640 from $20,000 sa=
lary $2;400
added--ah yes, the balance due the company
from yourself and Mr. Sellers
is $7,960, which I will take the
responsibility of allowing to stand for
the present, unless you prefer to draw a c=
heck
now, and thus----"
"Confound it, do you mean to say that
instead of the company owing us
$2,400, we owe the company $7,960?"
"Well, yes."
"And that we owe the men and the
contractors nearly ten thousand dollars
besides?"
"Owe them! Oh bless my soul, you can't mean t=
hat
you have not paid these
people?"
"But I do mean it!"
The president rose and walked the floor li=
ke a
man in bodily pain. His
brows contracted, he put his hand up and
clasped his forehead, and kept
saying, "Oh, it is, too bad, too bad,=
too
bad! Oh, it is bound to be
found out--nothing can prevent
it--nothing!"
Then he threw himself into his chair and s=
aid:
"My dear Mr. Brierson, this is
dreadful--perfectly dreadful. It
will be
found out. It is bound to tarnish the good na=
me of
the company; our
credit will be seriously, most seriously i=
mpaired. How could you be so
thoughtless--the men ought to have been pa=
id
though it beggared us all!"
"They ought, ought they? Then why the devil--my name is not
Bryerson, by
the way--why the mischief didn't the
compa--why what in the nation ever
became of the appropriation? Where is that appropriation?--if a=
stockholder may make so bold as to ask.&qu=
ot;
"The appropriation?--that paltry
$200,000, do you mean?"
"Of course--but I didn't know that
$200,000 was so very paltry. =
Though
I
grant, of course, that it is not a large s=
um,
strictly speaking. But
where is it?"
"My dear sir, you surprise me. You surely cannot have had a large=
acquaintance with this sort of thing. Otherwise you would not have
expected much of a result from a mere INIT=
IAL
appropriation like that.
It was never intended for anything but a m=
ere
nest egg for the future and
real appropriations to cluster around.&quo=
t;
"Indeed? Well, was it a myth, or was it a
reality? Whatever become of
it?"
"Why the--matter is simple enough.
money.&nb=
sp;
Just reflect, for instance--a majority of the House Committee,
say $10,000 apiece--$40,000; a majority of=
the
Senate Committee, the same
each--say $40,000; a little extra to one or
two chairman of one or two
such committees, say $10,000 each--$20,000;
and there's $100,000 of the
money gone, to begin with. Then, seven male lobbyists, at $3,=
000
each
--$21,000; one female lobbyist, $10,000; a
high moral Congressman or
Senator here and there--the high moral ones
cost more, because they.
give tone to a measure--say ten of these at
$3,000 each, is $30,000; then
a lot of small-fry country members who won=
't
vote for anything whatever
without pay--say twenty at $500 apiece, is
$10,000; a lot of dinners to
members--say $10,000 altogether; lot of
jimcracks for Congressmen's wives
and children--those go a long way--you can=
't
sped too much money in that
=
line--well,
those things cost in a lump, say $10,000--along there
=
somewhere;
and then comes your printed documents--your maps, your tinted engravings, y=
our
pamphlets, your illuminated show cards, your
=
advertisements
in a hundred and fifty papers at ever so much a line
--because you've got to keep the papers all
light or you are gone up, you
know.&nbs=
p;
Oh, my dear sir, printing bills are destruction itself. Ours so
far amount to--let me see--10; 52; 22;
13;--and then there's 11; 14; 33
--well, never mind the details, the total =
in
clean numbers foots up
$118,254.42 thus far!"
"What!"
"Oh, yes indeed. Printing's no bagatelle, I can tell
you. And then
there's your contributions, as a company, =
to
Chicago fires and Boston
fires, and orphan asylums and all that sor=
t of
thing--head the list, you
see, with the company's full name and a
thousand dollars set opposite
--great card, sir--one of the finest adver=
tisements
in the world--the
preachers mention it in the pulpit when it=
's a
religious charity--one of
the happiest advertisements in the world is
your benevolent donation.
Ours have amounted to sixteen thousand dol=
lars
and some cents up to this
time."
"Good heavens!"
"Oh, yes. Perhaps the biggest thing we've do=
ne in
the advertising line
was to get an officer of the U. S. governm=
ent,
of perfectly Himmalayan
official altitude, to write up our little
internal improvement for a
religious paper of enormous circulation--I
tell you that makes our bonds
go handsomely among the pious poor. Your religious paper is by far the=
best vehicle for a thing of this kind, bec=
ause
they'll 'lead' your
article and put it right in the midst of t=
he
reading matter; and if it's
got a few Scripture quotations in it, and =
some
temperance platitudes and
a bit of gush here and there about Sunday
Schools, and a sentimental
snuffle now and then about 'God's precious
ones, the honest hard-handed
poor,' it works the nation like a charm, my
dear sir, and never a man
suspects that it is an advertisement; but =
your
secular paper sticks you
right into the advertising columns and of
course you don't take a trick.
Give me a religious paper to advertise in,
every time; and if you'll just
look at their advertising pages, you'll
observe that other people think a
good deal as I do--especially people who h=
ave
got little financial
schemes to make everybody rich with. Of course I mean your great big
metropolitan religious papers that know ho=
w to
serve God and make money
at the same time--that's your sort, sir,
that's your sort--a religious
paper that isn't run to make money is no u=
se
to us, sir, as an
advertising medium--no use to anybody--in =
our
line of business. I guess
our next best dodge was sending a pleasure
trip of newspaper reporters
out to Napoleon. Never paid them a cent; just fille=
d them
up with
champagne and the fat of the land, put pen,
ink and paper before them
while they were red-hot, and bless your so=
ul
when you come to read their
letters you'd have supposed they'd been to heaven. And if a sentimental<= o:p>
squeamishness held one or two of them back
from taking a less rosy view
of Napoleon, our hospitalities tied his
tongue, at least, and he said
nothing at all and so did us no harm. Let me see--have I stated all the<= o:p>
expenses I've been at? No, I was near forgetting one or t=
wo
items.
There's your official salaries--you can't =
get
good men for nothing.
Salaries cost pretty lively. And then there's your big high-sou=
nding
millionaire names stuck into your
advertisements as stockholders--another
card, that--and they are stockholders, too,
but you have to give them the
stock and non-assessable at that--so they'=
re
an expensive lot. Very,
very expensive thing, take it all around, =
is a
big internal improvement
concern--but you see that yourself, Mr.
Bryerman--you see that, yourself,
sir."
"But look here. I think you are a little mistaken =
about
it's ever having
cost anything for Congressional votes. I happen to know something about
that.&nbs=
p;
I've let you say your say--now let me say mine. I don't wish to
seem to throw any suspicion on anybody's
statements, because we are all
liable to be mistaken. But how would it strike you if I w=
ere to
say that
I was in Washington all the time this bill=
was
pending? and what if I
added that I put the measure through
myself? Yes, sir, I did that =
little
thing.&nb=
sp;
And moreover, I never paid a dollar for any man's vote and never
promised one. There are some ways of doing a thi=
ng
that are as good as
others which other people don't happen to
think about, or don't have the
knack of succeeding in, if they do happen =
to
think of them. My dear sir,
I am obliged to knock some of your expense=
s in
the head--for never a cent
was paid a Congressman or Senator on the part of this
Navigation Company."
The president smiled blandly, even sweetly,
all through this harangue,
and then said:
"Is that so?"
"Every word of it."
"Well it does seem to alter the
complexion of things a little. You
are
acquainted with the members down there, of=
course,
else you could not
have worked to such advantage?"
"I know them all, sir. I know their wives, their children,
their babies
--I even made it a point to be on good ter=
ms
with their lackeys. I know
every Congressman well--even familiarly.&q=
uot;
"Very good. Do you know any of their
signatures? Do you know their=
handwriting?"
"Why I know their handwriting as well=
as
I know my own--have had
correspondence enough with them, I should
think. And their signatures
--why I can tell their initials, even.&quo=
t;
The president went to a private safe, unlo=
cked
it and got out some
letters and certain slips of paper. Then he said:
"Now here, for instance; do you belie=
ve
that that is a genuine letter?
Do you know this signature here?--and this
one? Do you know who those
initials represent--and are they
forgeries?"
Harry was stupefied. There were things there that made =
his
brain swim.
Presently, at the bottom of one of the let=
ters
he saw a signature that
restored his equilibrium; it even brought =
the
sunshine of a smile to his
face.
The president said:
"That one amuses you. You never suspected him?"
"Of course I ought to have suspected =
him,
but I don't believe it ever
really occurred to me. Well, well, well--how did you ever=
have
the nerve
to approach him, of all others?"
"Why my friend, we never think of
accomplishing anything without his
help.&nbs=
p;
He is our mainstay. Bu=
t how
do those letters strike you?"
"They strike me dumb! What a stone-blind idiot I have
been!"
"Well, take it all around, I suppose =
you
had a pleasant time in
Washington," said the president,
gathering up the letters; "of course you
must have had. Very few men could go there and ge=
t a
money bill through
without buying a single--"
"Come, now, Mr. President, that's ple=
nty
of that! I take back everythi=
ng
I said on that head. I'm a wiser man to-day than I was
yesterday, I can
tell you."
"I think you are. In fact I am satisfied you are.
these things in confidence, you
understand. Mention facts as =
much
as you
want to, but don't mention names to
anybody. I can depend on you =
for
that, can't I?"
"Oh, of course. I understand the necessity of that=
. I will not betray
the names. But to go back a bit, it begins to=
look
as if you never saw
any of that appropriation at all?"
"We saw nearly ten thousand dollars of
it--and that was all. Several=
of
us took turns at log-rolling in Washington,
and if we had charged
anything for that service, none of that
$10,000 would ever have reached
New York."
"If you hadn't levied the assessment =
you
would have been in a close place
I judge?"
"Close? Have you figured up the total of t=
he
disbursements I told you
of?"
"No, I didn't think of that."
"Well, lets see:
Spent in Washington, say, ........... $191=
,000
Printing, advertising, etc., say .... $118=
,000
Charity, say, ....................... $16,000
=
Total, ............... $325,000
The money to do that with, comes from
--Appropriation, ......................
$200,000
Ten per cent. assessment on capital of
$1,000,000 .....=
................
$100,000
=
Total, ............... $300,000
"Which leaves us in debt some $25,000=
at
this moment. Salaries of home=
officers are still going on; also printing=
and
advertising. Next month
will show a state of things!"
"And then--burst up, I suppose?"=
"By no means. Levy another assessment"
"Oh, I see. That's dismal."
"By no means."
"Why isn't it? What's the road out?"
"Another appropriation, don't you
see?"
"Bother the appropriations. They cost more than they come to.&=
quot;
"Not the next one. We'll call for half a million--get=
it
and go for a
million the very next month."
"Yes, but the cost of it!"
The president smiled, and patted his secret
letters affectionately. He
said:
"All these people are in the next
Congress. We shan't have to p=
ay
them a
cent.&nbs=
p;
And what is more, they will work like beavers for us--perhaps it
might be to their advantage."
Harry reflected profoundly a while. Then he said:
"We send many missionaries to lift up=
the
benighted races of other lands.
How much cheaper and better it would be if
those people could only come
here and drink of our civilization at its
fountain head."
"I perfectly agree with you, Mr.
Beverly. Must you go? Well, good
morning.&=
nbsp;
Look in, when you are passing; and whenever I can give you any
information about our affairs and pro'spec=
ts,
I shall be glad to do it."
Harry's letter was not a long one, but it
contained at least the
calamitous figures that came out in the ab=
ove
conversation. The Colonel
found himself in a rather uncomfortable
place--no $1,200 salary
forthcoming; and himself held responsible =
for
half of the $9,640 due the
workmen, to say nothing of being in debt to
the company to the extent of
nearly $4,000. Polly's heart was nearly broken; t=
he
"blues" returned in
fearful force, and she had to go out of the
room to hide the tears that
nothing could keep back now.
There was mourning in another quarter, too,
for Louise had a letter.
Washington had refused, at the last moment=
, to
take $40,000 for the
Tennessee Land, and had demanded
$150,000! So the trade fell
through,
and now Washington was wailing because he =
had
been so foolish. But he
wrote that his man might probably return to
the city soon, and then he
meant to sell to him, sure, even if he had=
to
take $10,000. Louise had a
good cry-several of them, indeed--and the
family charitably forebore to
make any comments that would increase her
grief.
Spring blossomed, summer came, dragged its=
hot
weeks by, and the
Colonel's spirits rose, day by day, for the
railroad was making good
progress.=
But by and by something happened.&n=
bsp;
Hawkeye had always declined
to subscribe anything toward the railway,
imagining that her large
business would be a sufficient compulsory
influence; but now Hawkeye was
frightened; and before Col. Sellers knew w=
hat
he was about, Hawkeye, in a
panic, had rushed to the front and subscri=
bed
such a sum that Napoleon's
attractions suddenly sank into insignifica=
nce
and the railroad concluded
to follow a comparatively straight coarse
instead of going miles out of
its way to build up a metropolis in the mu=
ddy
desert of Stone's Landing.
The thunderbolt fell. After all the Colonel's deep plann=
ing;
after all
his brain work and tongue work in drawing
public attention to his pet
project and enlisting interest in it; after
all his faithful hard toil
with his hands, and running hither and thi=
ther
on his busy feet; after
all his high hopes and splendid prophecies,
the fates had turned their
backs on him at last, and all in a moment =
his
air-castles crumbled to
ruins abort him. Hawkeye rose from her fright trium=
phant
and rejoicing,
and down went Stone's Landing! One by one its meagre parcel of
inhabitants packed up and moved away, as t=
he
summer waned and fall
approached. Town lots were no longer salable,
traffic ceased, a deadly
lethargy fell upon the place once more, the
"Weekly Telegraph" faded into
an early grave, the wary tadpole returned =
from
exile, the bullfrog
resumed his ancient song, the tranquil tur=
tle
sunned his back upon bank
and log and drowsed his grateful life away=
as
in the old sweet days of
yore.
Philip Sterling was on his way to Ilium, in
the state of
Mr. Bolton had commissioned him to examine=
.
On the last day of the journey as the rail=
way
train Philip was on was
leaving a large city, a lady timidly enter=
ed
the drawing-room car, and
hesitatingly took a chair that was at the
moment unoccupied. Philip saw=
from the window that a gentleman had put h=
er
upon the car just as it was
starting.=
In a few moments the conductor entered, and without waiting an
explanation, said roughly to the lady,
"Now you can't sit there. That seat's taken. Go into the other car."
"I did not intend to take the seat,&q=
uot;
said the lady rising, "I only sat
down a moment till the conductor should co=
me
and give me a seat."
"There aint any. Car's full. You'll have to leave."
"But, sir," said the lady,
appealingly, "I thought--"
"Can't help what you thought--you mus=
t go
into the other car."
"The train is going very fast, let me
stand here till we stop."
"The lady can have my seat," cri=
ed
Philip, springing up.
The conductor turned towards Philip, and
coolly and deliberately surveyed
him from head to foot, with contempt in ev=
ery
line of his face, turned
his back upon him without a word, and said=
to
the lady,
"Come, I've got no time to talk. You must go now."
The lady, entirely disconcerted by such
rudeness, and frightened, moved
towards the door, opened it and stepped
out. The train was swinging
along at a rapid rate, jarring from side to
side; the step was a long one
between the cars and there was no protecti=
ng
grating. The lady attempted
it, but lost her balance, in the wind and =
the
motion of the car, and
fell!&nbs=
p;
She would inevitably have gone down under the wheels, if Philip,
who had swiftly followed her, had not caug=
ht
her arm and drawn her up.
He then assisted her across, found her a s=
eat,
received her bewildered
thanks, and returned to his car.
The conductor was still there, taking his
tickets, and growling something
about imposition. Philip marched up to him, and burs=
t out
with,
"You are a brute, an infernal brute, =
to
treat a woman that way."
"Perhaps you'd like to make a fuss ab=
out
it," sneered the conductor.
Philip's reply was a blow, given so sudden=
ly
and planted so squarely in
the conductor's face, that it sent him ree=
ling
over a fat passenger, who
was looking up in mild wonder that any one
should dare to dispute with a
conductor, and against the side of the car=
.
He recovered himself, reached the bell rop=
e,
"Damn you, I'll learn you,"
stepped to the door and called a couple of
brakemen, and then, as the
speed slackened; roared out,
"Get off this train."
"I shall not get off. I have as much right here as you.&=
quot;
"We'll see," said the conductor,
advancing with the brakemen. =
The
passengers protested, and some of them sai=
d to
each other, "That's too
bad," as they always do in such cases,
but none of them offered to take a
hand with Philip. The men seized him, wrenched him f=
rom
his seat,
dragged him along the aisle, tearing his
clothes, thrust him from the
car, and, then flung his carpet-bag, overc=
oat
and umbrella after him.
And the train went on.
The conductor, red in the face and puffing
from his exertion, swaggered
through the car, muttering "Puppy, I'=
ll
learn him." The passenge=
rs,
when
he had gone, were loud in their indignatio=
n,
and talked about signing a
protest, but they did nothing more than ta=
lk.
The next morning the Hooverville Patriot a=
nd
Clarion had this "item":--
=
&nb=
sp;
SLIGHTUALLY OVERBOARD.
"We learn t=
hat as
the down noon express was leaving H---- yesterday
a lady! (God sav=
e the
mark) attempted to force herself into the
already full pal=
atial
car. Conductor Slum, who is t=
oo old
a bird to
be caught with c=
haff,
courteously informed her that the car was
full, and when s=
he
insisted on remaining, he persuaded her to go
into the car whe=
re she
belonged. Thereupon a young s=
prig,
from the
East, blustered =
like a
Shanghai rooster, and began to sass the
conductor with h=
is
chin music. That gentleman
delivered the young
aspirant for a m=
uss
one of his elegant little left-handers, which so
astonished him t=
hat he
began to feel for his shooter. Whereupon
Mr.
Slum gently rais=
ed the
youth, carried him forth, and set him down
just outside the=
car
to cool off. Whether the young
blood has yet
made his way out=
of
Bascom's swamp, we have not learned.
Conductor
Slum is one of t=
he
most gentlemanly and efficient officers on the
road; but he ain=
't
trifled with, not much. We le=
arn
that the
company have put=
a new
engine on the seven o'clock train, and newly
upholstered the
drawing-room car throughout. =
It
spares no effort
=
span> for the comfort of the
traveling public."
Philip never had been before in Bascom's
swamp, and there was nothing
inviting in it to detain him. After the train got out of the way=
he
crawled out of the briars and the mud, and=
got
upon the track. He was
somewhat bruised, but he was too angry to =
mind
that. He plodded along
over the ties in a very hot condition of m=
ind
and body. In the scuffle,
his railway check had disappeared, and he
grimly wondered, as he noticed
the loss, if the company would permit him =
to
walk over their track if
they should know he hadn't a ticket.
Philip had to walk some five miles before =
he
reached a little station,
where he could wait for a train, and he had
ample time for reflection.
At first he was full of vengeance on the c=
ompany. He would sue it. He
would make it pay roundly. But then it occurred to him that h=
e did
not
know the name of a witness he could summon,
and that a personal fight
against a railway corporation was about the
most hopeless in the world.
He then thought he would seek out that
conductor, lie in wait for him at
some station, and thrash him, or get thras=
hed
himself.
But as he got cooler, that did not seem to=
him
a project worthy of a
gentleman exactly. Was it possible for a gentleman to=
get
even with such
a fellow as that conductor on the letter's=
own
plane? And when he came
to this point, he began to ask himself, if=
he
had not acted very much
like a fool. He didn't regret striking the fell=
ow--he
hoped he had left
a mark on him. But, after all, was that the best
way? Here was he,
Philip Sterling, calling himself a gentlem=
an,
in a brawl with a vulgar
conductor, about a woman he had never seen
before. Why should he have
put himself in such a ridiculous
position? Wasn't it enough to=
have
offered the lady his seat, to have rescued=
her
from an accident, perhaps
from death? Suppose he had simply said to the
conductor, "Sir, your
conduct is brutal, I shall report
you." The passengers, wh=
o saw
the
affair, might have joined in a report agai=
nst
the conductor, and he might
really have accomplished something. And, now! Philip looked at leis
torn clothes, and thought with disgust of =
his
haste in getting into a
fight with such an autocrat.
At the little station where Philip waited =
for
the next train, he met a
man--who turned out to be a justice of the
peace in that neighborhood,
and told him his adventure. He was a kindly sort of man, and s=
eemed
very
much interested.
"Dum 'em," said he, when he had
heard the story.
"Do you think any thing can be done,
sir?"
"Wal, I guess tain't no use. I hain't a mite of doubt of every =
word
you
say.
But suin's no use. The
railroad company owns all these people
along here, and the judges on the bench
too. Spiled your clothes! Wal,
'least said's soonest mended.' You haint no chance with the
company."
When next morning, he read the humorous
account in the Patriot and
Clarion, he saw still more clearly what ch=
ance
he would have had before
the public in a fight with the railroad
company.
Still Philip's conscience told him that it=
was
his plain duty to carry
the matter into the courts, even with the
certainty of defeat.
He confessed that neither he nor any citiz=
en
had a right to consult his
own feelings or conscience in a case where=
a
law of the land had been
violated before his own eyes. He confessed that every citizen's =
first
duty in such case is to put aside his own
business and devote his time
and his best efforts to seeing that the
infraction is promptly punished;
and he knew that no country can be well
governed unless its citizens as
a body keep religiously before their minds
that they are the guardians
of the law, and that the law officers are =
only
the machinery for its
execution, nothing more. As a finality he was obliged to co=
nfess
that he
was a bad citizen, and also that the gener=
al
laxity of the time, and the
absence of a sense of duty toward any part=
of
the community but the
individual himself were ingrained in him, =
am
he was no better than the
rest of the people.
The result of this little adventure was th=
at
Philip did not reach Ilium
till daylight the next morning, when he
descended sleepy and sore, from a
way train, and looked about him. Ilium was in a narrow mountain gor=
ge,
through which a rapid stream ran. It consisted of the plank platform=
on
which he stood, a wooden house, half paint=
ed,
with a dirty piazza
(unroofed) in front, and a sign board hung=
on
a slanting pole--bearing
the legend, "Hotel. P. Dusenheimer,&q=
uot;
a sawmill further down the stream,
a blacksmith-shop, and a store, and three =
or
four unpainted dwellings of
the slab variety.
As Philip approached the hotel he saw what
appeared to be a wild beast
crouching on the piazza. It did not stir, however, and he s=
oon
found
that it was only a stuffed skin. This cheerful invitation to the ta=
vern
was the remains of a huge panther which had
been killed in the region a
few weeks before. Philip examined his ugly visage and
strong crooked
fore-arm, as he was waiting admittance, ha=
ving
pounded upon the door.
"Yait a bit. I'll shoost--put on my trowsers,&q=
uot;
shouted a voice from the
window, and the door was soon opened by the
yawning landlord.
"Morgen! Didn't hear d' drain oncet. Dem boys geeps me up zo spate.
Gom right in."
Philip was shown into a dirty bar-room.
stove in the middle, set in a long shallow=
box
of sand, for the benefit
of the "spitters," a bar across =
one
end--a mere counter with a sliding
glass-case behind it containing a few bott=
les
having ambitious labels,
and a wash-sink in one corner. On the walls were the bright yello=
w and
black handbills of a traveling circus, with
pictures of acrobats in human
pyramids, horses flying in long leaps thro=
ugh
the air, and sylph-like
women in a paradisaic costume, balancing
themselves upon the tips of
their toes on the bare backs of frantic and
plunging steeds, and kissing
their hands to the spectators meanwhile.
As Philip did not desire a room at that ho=
ur,
he was invited to wash
himself at the nasty sink, a feat somewhat
easier than drying his face,
for the towel that hung in a roller over t=
he
sink was evidently as much a
fixture as the sink itself, and belonged, =
like
the suspended brush and
comb, to the traveling public. Philip managed to complete his toi=
let by
the use of his pocket-handkerchief, and
declining the hospitality of the
landlord, implied in the remark, "You
won'd dake notin'?" he went into
the open air to wait for breakfast.
The country he saw was wild but not
picturesque. The mountain bef=
ore
him
might be eight hundred feet high, and was =
only
a portion of a long
unbroken range, savagely wooded, which
followed the stream. Behind t=
he
hotel, and across the brawling brook, was
another level-topped, wooded
range exactly like it. Ilium itself, seen at a glance, wa=
s old
enough to
be dilapidated, and if it had gained anyth=
ing
by being made a wood and
water station of the new railroad, it was =
only
a new sort of grime and
rawness.&=
nbsp;
P. Dusenheimer, standing in the door of his uninviting
groggery, when the trains stopped for wate=
r;
never received from the
traveling public any patronage except
facetious remarks upon his personal
appearance. Perhaps a thousand times he had he=
ard
the remark, "Ilium
fuit," followed in most instances by a
hail to himself as "AEneas," with
the inquiry "Where is old
Anchises?" At first he h=
ad
replied, "Dere
ain't no such man;" but irritated by =
its
senseless repetition, he had
latterly dropped into the formula of,
"You be dam."
Philip was recalled from the contemplation=
of
Ilium by the rolling and
growling of the gong within the hotel, the=
din
and clamor increasing till
the house was apparently unable to contain=
it;
when it burst out of the
front door and informed the world that
breakfast was on the table.
The dining room was long, low and narrow, =
and
a narrow table extended its
whole length. Upon this was spread a cloth which=
from
appearance might
have been as long in use as the towel in t=
he
barroom. Upon the table was
the usual service, the heavy, much nicked
stone ware, the row of plated
and rusty castors, the sugar bowls with the
zinc tea-spoons sticking up
in them, the piles of yellow biscuits, the
discouraged-looking plates of
butter.&n=
bsp;
The landlord waited, and Philip was pleased to observe the
change in his manner. In the barroom he was the concilia=
tory
landlord.
Standing behind his guests at table, he ha=
d an
air of peremptory
patronage, and the voice in which he shot =
out
the inquiry, as he seized
Philip's plate, "Beefsteak or
liver?" quite took away Philip's power of
choice.&n=
bsp;
He begged for a glass of milk, after trying that green hued
compound called coffee, and made his break=
fast
out of that and some hard
crackers which seemed to have been imported
into Ilium before the
introduction of the iron horse, and to have
withstood a ten years siege
of regular boarders, Greeks and others.
The land that Philip had come to look at w=
as
at least five miles distant
from Ilium station. A corner of it touched the railroa=
d, but
the rest
was pretty much an unbroken wilderness, ei=
ght
or ten thousand acres of
rough country, most of it such a mountain
range as he saw at Ilium.
His first step was to hire three woodsmen =
to
accompany him. By their
help he built a log hut, and established a
camp on the land, and then
began his explorations, mapping down his
survey as he went along, noting
the timber, and the lay of the land, and
making superficial observations
as to the prospect of coal.
The landlord at Ilium endeavored to persua=
de
Philip to hire the services
of a witch-hazel professor of that region,=
who
could walk over the land
with his wand and tell him infallibly whet=
her
it contained coal, and
exactly where the strata ran. But Philip preferred to trust to h=
is own
study of the country, and his knowledge of=
the
geological formation.
He spent a month in traveling over the land
and making calculations;
and made up his mind that a fine vein of c=
oal
ran through the mountain
about a mile from the railroad, and that t=
he
place to run in a tunnel was
half way towards its summit.
Acting with his usual promptness, Philip, =
with
the consent of Mr. Bolton,
broke ground there at once, and, before sn=
ow
came, had some rude
buildings up, and was ready for active
operations in the spring. It =
was
true that there were no outcroppings of co=
al
at the place, and the people
at Ilium said he "mought as well dig =
for
plug terbaccer there;" but
Philip had great faith in the uniformity of
nature's operations in ages
past, and he had no doubt that he should
strike at this spot the rich
vein that had made the fortune of the Gold=
en
Briar Company.
Once more Louise had good news from her
friends; but all of these people had simply looked sad
when they heard
the news, except Laura. Laura's face suddenly brightened u=
nder
it--only
for an instant, it is true, but poor Louise was gratef=
ul
for even that
fleeting ray of encouragement. When next Laura was alone, she fel=
l into
a train of thought something like this:
"If the Senator has really taken hold=
of
this matter, I may look for that
invitation to his house at, any moment.
to know whether I am only simply a large-s=
ized
pigmy among these pigmies
here, who tumble over so easily when one s=
trikes
them, or whether I am
really--." Her thoughts drifted into other
channels, for a season.
Then she continued:--"He said I could=
be
useful in the great cause of
philanthropy, and help in the blessed work=
of
uplifting the poor and the
ignorant, if he found it feasible to take =
hold
of our Land. Well, that
is neither here nor there; what I want, is=
to
go to Washington and find
out what I am. I want money, too; and if one may =
judge
by what she
hears, there are chances there for
a--." For a fascinating =
woman,
she
was going to say, perhaps, but she did not=
.
Along in the fall the invitation came, sure
enough. It came officially
through brother Washington, the private
Secretary, who appended a
postscript that was brimming with delight =
over
the prospect of seeing the
Duchess again. He said it would be happiness enou=
gh to
look upon her
face once more--it would be almost too much
happiness when to it was
added the fact that she would bring messag=
es
with her that were fresh
from Louise's lips.
In Washington's letter were several import=
ant
enclosures. For instance,
there was the Senator's check for
$2,000--"to buy suitable clothing in
New York with!" It was a loan to be refunded when =
the
Land was sold.
Two thousand--this was fine indeed. Louise's father was called rich, b=
ut
Laura doubted if Louise had ever had $400
worth of new clothing at one
time in her life. With the check came two through
tickets--good on the
railroad from Hawkeye to Washington via New
York--and they were
"dead-head" tickets, too, which =
had
been given to Senator Dilworthy by
the railway companies. Senators and representatives were =
paid
thousands
of dollars by the government for traveling
expenses, but they always
traveled "deadhead" both ways, a=
nd
then did as any honorable, high-minded
men would naturally do--declined to receive
the mileage tendered them by
the government. The Senator had plenty of railway
passes, and could.
easily spare two to Laura--one for herself=
and
one for a male escort.
Washington suggested that she get some old
friend of the family to come
with her, and said the Senator would
"deadhead" him home again as soon as
he had grown tired, of the sights of the
capital. Laura thought the
thing over. At first she was pleased with the =
idea,
but presently she
began to feel differently about it. Finally she said, "No, our st=
aid,
steady-going Hawkeye friends' notions and =
mine
differ about some things
--they respect me, now, and I respect
them--better leave it so--I will go
alone; I am not afraid to travel by
myself." And so communin=
g with
herself, she left the house for an afterno=
on
walk.
Almost at the door she met Col. Sellers. She told him about her
invitation to Washington.
"Bless me!" said the Colonel.
myself.&n=
bsp;
You see we've got to get another appropriation through, and the
Company want me to come east and put it
through Congress. Harry's the=
re,
and he'll do what he can, of course; and
Harry's a good fellow and always
does the very best he knows how, but then =
he's
young--rather young for
some parts of such work, you know--and bes=
ides
he talks too much, talks a
good deal too much; and sometimes he appea=
rs
to be a little bit
visionary, too, I think the worst thing in=
the
world for a business man.
A man like that always exposes his cards,
sooner or later. This sort of=
thing wants an old, quiet, steady hand--wa=
nts
an old cool head, you know,
that knows men, through and through, and is
used to large operations.
I'm expecting my salary, and also some
dividends from the company, and if
they get along in time, I'll go along with=
you
Laura--take you under my
wing--you mustn't travel alone. Lord I wish I had the money right =
now.
--But there'll be plenty soon--plenty.&quo=
t;
Laura reasoned with herself that if the
kindly, simple-hearted Colonel
was going anyhow, what could she gain by
traveling alone and throwing
away his company? So she told him she accepted his o=
ffer
gladly,
gratefully. She said it would be the greatest =
of
favors if he would go
with her and protect her--not at his own e=
xpense
as far as railway fares
were concerned, of course; she could not
expect him to put himself to so
much trouble for her and pay his fare
besides. But he wouldn't hear=
of
her paying his fare--it would be only a
pleasure to him to serve her.
Laura insisted on furnishing the tickets; =
and
finally, when argument
failed, she said the tickets cost neither =
her
nor any one else a cent
--she had two of them--she needed but one-=
-and
if he would not take the
other she would not go with him. That settled the matter. He took the
ticket.&n=
bsp;
Laura was glad that she had the check for new clothing, for she
felt very certain of being able to get the
Colonel to borrow a little of
the money to pay hotel bills with, here and
there.
She wrote Washington to look for her and C=
ol.
Sellers toward the end of
November; and at about the time set the two
travelers arrived safe in the
capital of the nation, sure enough.
=
She, the gracious lady, yet no paines did spare
=
To doe him ease, or doe him remedy:
=
Many restoratives of vertues rare
=
And costly cordialles she did apply,
=
To mitigate his stubborne malady.
=
&nb=
sp; =
Spenser's Faerie
Mr. Henry Brierly was exceedingly busy in =
New
York, so he wrote Col.
Sellers, but he would drop everything and =
go
to Washington.
The Colonel believed that Harry was the pr=
ince
of lobbyists, a little too
sanguine, may be, and given to speculation,
but, then, he knew everybody;
the Columbus River navigation scheme was, =
got
through almost entirely by
his aid.&=
nbsp;
He was needed now to help through another scheme, a benevolent
scheme in which Col. Sellers, through the
Hawkinses, had a deep interest.
"I don't care, you know," he wro=
te to
Harry, "so much about the niggroes.
But if the government will buy this land, =
it
will set up the Hawkins
family--make Laura an heiress--and I shoul=
dn't
wonder if Beriah Sellers
would set up his carriage again. Dilworthy looks at it different,
of course. He's all for philanthropy, for
benefiting the colored race.
There's old Balsam, was in the Interior--u=
sed
to be the Rev. Orson Balsam
of Iowa--he's made the riffle on the Injun;
great Injun pacificator and
land dealer. Balaam'a got the Injun to himself,=
and I
suppose that
Senator Dilworthy feels that there is noth=
ing
left him but the colored
man.
I do reckon he is the best friend the colored man has got in
Washington."
Though Harry was in a hurry to reach
Washington, he stopped in
Philadelphia; and prolonged his visit day
after day, greatly to the
detriment of his business both in New York=
and
Washington. The society
at the Bolton's might have been a valid ex=
cuse
for neglecting business
much more important than his. Philip was there; he was a partner=
with
Mr. Bolton now in the new coal venture,
concerning which there was much
to be arranged in preparation for the Spri=
ng
work, and Philip lingered
week after week in the hospitable house. Alice was making a winter
visit.&nb=
sp;
Ruth only went to town twice a week to attend lectures, and the
household was quite to Mr. Bolton's taste,=
for
he liked the cheer of
company and something going on evenings. Harry was cordially asked to
bring his traveling-bag there, and he did =
not
need urging to do so.
Not even the thought of seeing Laura at the
capital made him restless in
the society of the two young ladies; two b=
irds
in hand are worth one in
the bush certainly.
Philip was at home--he sometimes wished he were not so much so. He felt<= o:p>
that too much or not enough was taken for
granted. Ruth had met him,
when he first came, with a cordial frankne=
ss,
and her manner continued
entirely unrestrained. She neither sought his company nor
avoided it,
and this perfectly level treatment irritat=
ed
him more than any other
could have done.
It was impossible to advance much in love-making with
one who offered no obstacles, had no concealments and =
no
embarrassments, and whom any approach to sentimentality would be quite like=
ly
to set into a fit of laughter.
"Why, Phil," she would say,
"what puts you in the dumps to day?&n=
bsp;
You are
as solemn as the upper bench in Meeting. I shall have to call Alice to
raise your spirits; my presence seems to
depress you."
"It's not your presence, but your abs=
ence
when you are present," began
Philip, dolefully, with the idea that he w=
as
saying a rather deep thing.
"But you won't understand me."
"No, I confess I cannot. If you really are so low, as to th=
ink I
am
absent when I am present, it's a frightful
case of aberration; I shall
ask father to bring out Dr. Jackson. Does Alice appear to be present
when she is absent?"
"Alice has some human feeling,
anyway. She cares for somethi=
ng
besides
musty books and dry bones. I think, Ruth, when I die," s=
aid
Philip,
intending to be very grim and sarcastic,
"I'll leave you my skeleton.
You might like that."
"It might be more cheerful than you a=
re
at times," Ruth replied with a
laugh.&nb=
sp;
"But you mustn't do it without consulting Alice. She might not.
like it."
"I don't know why you should bring Al= ice up on every occasion. Do you<= o:p>
think I am in love with her?"
"Bless you, no. It never entered my head. Are you? The thought of
Philip Sterling in love is too comical.
with the Ilium coal mine, which you and fa=
ther
talk about half the time."
This is a specimen of Philip's wooing. Confound the girl, he would say
to himself, why does she never tease Harry=
and
that young Shepley who
comes here?
How differently Alice treated him. She at least never mocked him, and=
it
was a relief to talk with one who had some
sympathy with him. And he did=
talk to her, by the hour, about Ruth. The blundering fellow poured all
his doubts and anxieties into her ear, as =
if
she had been the impassive
occupant of one of those little wooden
confessionals in the Cathedral on
Logan Square. Has, a confessor, if she is young =
and
pretty, any feeling?
Does it mend the matter by calling her your
sister?
Philip called Alice his good sister, and
talked to her about love and
marriage, meaning Ruth, as if sisters coul=
d by
no possibility have any
personal concern in such things. Did Ruth ever speak of him? Did she
think Ruth cared for him? Did Ruth care for anybody at
Fallkill? Did
she care for anything except her
profession? And so on.
Alice was loyal to Ruth, and if she knew
anything she did not betray her
friend.&n=
bsp;
She did not, at any rate, give Philip too much encouragement.
What woman, under the circumstances, would=
?
"I can tell you one thing, Philip,&qu=
ot;
she said, "if ever Ruth Bolton loves,
it will be with her whole soul, in a depth=
of
passion that will sweep
everything before it and surprise even
herself."
A remark that did not much console Philip,=
who
imagined that only some
grand heroism could unlock the sweetness of
such a heart; and Philip
feared that he wasn't a hero. He did not know out of what materi=
als a
woman can construct a hero, when she is in=
the
creative mood.
Harry skipped into this society with his u=
sual
lightness and gaiety.
His good nature was inexhaustible, and tho=
ugh
he liked to relate his own
exploits, he had a little tact in adapting
himself to the tastes of his
hearers.&=
nbsp;
He was not long in finding out that Alice liked to hear about
Philip, and Harry launched out into the ca=
reer
of his friend in the West,
with a prodigality of invention that would
have astonished the chief
actor.&nb=
sp;
He was the most generous fellow in the world, and picturesque
conversation was the one thing in which he never was bankrupt. With Mr.<= o:p>
Bolton he was the serious man of business,
enjoying the confidence of
many of the monied men in New York, whom M=
r.
Bolton knew, and engaged
with them in railway schemes and government
contracts. Philip, who had
so long known Harry, never could make up h=
is
mind that Harry did not
himself believe that he was a chief actor =
in
all these large operations
of which he talked so much.
Harry did not neglect to endeavor to make
himself agreeable to Mrs.
Bolton, by paying great attention to the
children, and by professing the
warmest interest in the Friends' faith.
peaceful religion; he thought it must be m=
uch
easier to live by an
internal light than by a lot of outward ru=
les;
he had a dear Quaker aunt
in Providence of whom Mrs. Bolton constant=
ly
reminded him. He insisted
upon going with Mrs. Bolton and the childr=
en
to the Friends Meeting on
First Day, when Ruth and Alice and Philip,
"world's people," went to a
church in town, and he sat through the hou=
r of
silence with his hat on,
in most exemplary patience. In short, this amazing actor succe=
eded
so
well with Mrs. Bolton, that she said to Ph=
ilip
one day,
"Thy friend, Henry Brierly, appears t=
o be
a very worldly minded young
man.
Does he believe in anything?"
"Oh, yes," said Philip laughing,
"he believes in more things than any
other person I ever saw."
To Ruth, Harry seemed to be very
congenial. He was never moody=
for
one
thing, but lent himself with alacrity to
whatever her fancy was. He wa=
s
gay or grave as the need might be. No one apparently could enter more=
fully into her plans for an independent ca=
reer.
"My father," said Harry, "w=
as
bred a physician, and practiced a little
before he went into Wall street. I always had a leaning to the stud=
y.
There was a skeleton hanging in the closet=
of
my father's study when I
was a boy, that I used to dress up in old
clothes. Oh, I got quite
familiar with the human frame."
"You must have," said Philip.
bones?&nb=
sp;
He is a master of those musical instruments, Ruth; he plays well
enough to go on the stage."
"Philip hates science of any kind, and
steady application," retorted
Harry.&nb=
sp;
He didn't fancy Philip's banter, and when the latter had gone
out, and Ruth asked,
"Why don't you take up medicine, Mr.
Brierly?"
Harry said, "I have it in mind. I believe I would begin attending<= o:p>
lectures this winter if it weren't for bei=
ng
wanted in Washington. But
medicine is particularly women's
province."
"Why so?" asked Ruth, rather amu=
sed.
"Well, the treatment of disease is a =
good
deal a matter of sympathy.
A woman's intuition is better than a
man's. Nobody knows anything,=
really, you know, and a woman can guess a =
good
deal nearer than a man."
"You are very complimentary to my
sex."
"But," said Harry frankly; "=
;I
should want to choose my doctor; an ugly
woman would ruin me, the disease would be =
sure
to strike in and kill me
at sight of her. I think a pretty physician, with
engaging manners,
would coax a fellow to live through almost
anything."
"I am afraid you are a scoffer, Mr.
Brierly."
"On the contrary, I am quite
sincere. Wasn't it old what's=
his
name?
that said only the beautiful is useful?&qu=
ot;
Whether Ruth was anything more than diverted with Harr=
y's
company; Philip could not determine.
He scorned at any rate to advance his own interest by any disparaging
communications about Harry, both because he could not help liking the fellow
himself, and because he may have known that he could not more surely create=
a
sympathy for him in Ruth's mind.
That Ruth was in no danger of any serious impression he felt pretty
sure,
felt certain of it when he reflected upon her severe
occupation with her
profession. Hang it, he would say to himself, =
she is
nothing but pure
intellect anyway. And he only felt uncertain of it w=
hen
she was in one
of her moods of raillery, with mocking
mischief in her eyes. At such=
times she seemed to prefer Harry's society=
to
his. When Philip was
miserable about this, he always took refuge
with Alice, who was never
moody, and who generally laughed him out of
his sentimental nonsense.
He felt at his ease with Alice, and was ne=
ver
in want of something to
talk about; and he could not account for t=
he
fact that he was so often
dull with Ruth, with whom, of all persons =
in
the world, he wanted to
appear at his best.
Harry was entirely satisfied with his own situation. A bird of passage<= o:p>
is always at its ease, having no house to
build, and no responsibility.
He talked freely with Philip about Ruth, an
almighty fine girl, he said,
but what the deuce she wanted to study
medicine for, he couldn't see.
There was a concert one night at the Music=
al
Fund Hall and the four had
arranged to go in and return by the German=
town
cars. It was Philip's
plan, who had engaged the seats, and promi=
sed
himself an evening with
Ruth, walking with her, sitting by her in =
the
hall, and enjoying the
feeling of protecting that a man always ha=
s of
a woman in a public place.
He was fond of music, too, in a sympathetic
way; at least, he knew that
Ruth's delight in it would be enough for h=
im.
Perhaps he meant to take advantage of the
occasion to say some very
serious things. His love for Ruth was no secret to=
Mrs.
Bolton, and he
felt almost sure that he should have no
opposition in the family. Mrs=
.
Bolton had been cautious in what she said,=
but
Philip inferred everything
from her reply to his own questions, one d=
ay,
"Has thee ever spoken thy
mind to Ruth?"
Why shouldn't he speak his mind, and end h=
is
doubts? Ruth had been more
tricksy than usual that day, and in a flow=
of
spirits quite inconsistent,
it would seem, in a young lady devoted to
grave studies.
Had Ruth a premonition of Philip's intenti=
on,
in his manner? It may be,
for when the girls came down stairs, ready=
to
walk to the cars; and met
Philip and Harry in the hall, Ruth said,
laughing,
"The two tallest must walk together" and bef=
ore
Philip knew how it
happened Ruth had taken Harry's arm, and his evening w=
as
spoiled. He had too much poli=
teness
and good sense and kindness to show in his manner that he was hit. So he said to Harry,
"That's your disadvantage in being
short." And he gave Alic=
e no
reason
to feel during the evening that she would =
not
have been his first choice
for the excursion. But he was none the less chagrined=
, and
not a little
angry at the turn the affair took.
The Hall was crowded with the fashion of t=
he
town. The concert was one
of those fragmentary drearinesses that peo=
ple
endure because they are
fashionable; tours de force on the piano, =
and
fragments from operas,
which have no meaning without the setting,
with weary pauses of waiting
between; there is the comic basso who is so
amusing and on such familiar
terms with the audience, and always sings =
the
Barber; the attitudinizing
tenor, with his languishing "Oh, Summ=
er
Night;" the soprano with her
"Batti Batti," who warbles and
trills and runs and fetches her breath,
and ends with a noble scream that brings d=
own
a tempest of applause in
the midst of which she backs off the stage
smiling and bowing. It was
this sort of concert, and Philip was think=
ing
that it was the most stupid
one he ever sat through, when just as the =
soprano
was in the midst of
that touching ballad, "Comin' thro' t=
he
Rye" (the soprano always sings
"Comin' thro' the Rye" on an
encore)--the Black Swan used to make it
irresistible, Philip remembered, with her
arch, "If a body kiss a body"
there was a cry of "Fire!"
The hall is long and narrow, and there is =
only
one place of egress.
Instantly the audience was on its feet, an=
d a
rush began for the door.
Men shouted, women screamed, and panic sei=
zed
the swaying mass.
A second's thought would have convinced ev=
ery
one that getting out was
impossible, and that the only effect of a =
rush
would be to crash people
to death.=
But a second's thought was not given. A few cried:
"Sit down, sit down," but the ma=
ss
was turned towards the door. =
Women
were down and trampled on in the aisles, a=
nd
stout men, utterly lost to
self-control, were mounting the benches, a=
s if
to run a race over the
mass to the entrance.
Philip who had forced the girls to keep th=
eir
seats saw, in a flash, the
new danger, and sprang to avert it. In a second more those infuriated<= o:p>
men would be over the benches and crushing
Ruth and Alice under their
boots.&nb=
sp;
He leaped upon the bench in front of them and struck out before
him with all his might, felling one man who
was rushing on him, and
checking for an instant the movement, or
rather parting it, and causing
it to flow on either side of him. But it was only for an instant; th=
e
pressure behind was too great, and, the ne=
xt
Philip was dashed backwards
over the seat.
And yet that instant of arrest had probably
saved the girls, for as
Philip fell, the orchestra struck up
"Yankee Doodle" in the liveliest
manner.&n=
bsp;
The familiar tune caught the ear of the mass, which paused in
wonder, and gave the conductor's voice a
chance to be heard--"It's a
false alarm!"
The tumult was over in a minute, and the n=
ext,
laughter was heard, and
not a few said, "I knew it wasn't
anything." "What fo=
ols
people are at
such a time."
The concert was over, however. A good many people were hurt, some=
of
them seriously, and among them Philip Ster=
ling
was found bent across the
seat, insensible, with his left arm hanging
limp and a bleeding wound on
his head.
When he was carried into the air he revive=
d,
and said it was nothing.
A surgeon was called, and it was thought b=
est
to drive at once to the
Bolton's, the surgeon supporting Philip, w=
ho
did not speak the whole way.
His arm was set and his head dressed, and =
the
surgeon said he would come
round all right in his mind by morning; he=
was
very weak. Alice who was
not much frightened while the panic lasted=
in
the hall, was very much
unnerved by seeing Philip so pale and
bloody. Ruth assisted the sur=
geon
with the utmost coolness and with skillful
hands helped to dress Philip's
wounds.&n=
bsp;
And there was a certain intentness and fierce energy in what she
did that might have revealed something to
Philip if he had been in his
senses.
But he was not, or he would not have murmu=
red
"Let Alice do it, she is
not too tall."
It was Ruth's first case.
that she had always been the queenliest
creature in the land, but that
she was only commonplace before, compared =
to
what she was now, so
extraordinary was the improvement wrought =
by
rich fashionable attire.
"But your criticisms are too full of
brotherly partiality to be depended
on,
"Indeed they won't. You'll see. There will never be a woman in
Washington that can compare with you. You'll be famous within a
fortnight, Laura. Everybody will want to know you. You wait--you'll
see."
Laura wished in her heart that the prophecy
might come true; and
privately she even believed it might--for =
she
had brought all the women
whom she had seen since she left home under
sharp inspection, and the
result had not been unsatisfactory to her.=
During a week or two Washington drove about
the city every day with her
and familiarized her with all of its salie=
nt
features. She was beginning
to feel very much at home with the town it=
self,
and she was also fast
acquiring ease with the distinguished peop=
le
she met at the Dilworthy
table, and losing what little of country
timidity she had brought with
her from Hawkeye. She noticed with secret pleasure t=
he
little start of
admiration that always manifested itself in
the faces of the guests when
she entered the drawing-room arrayed in
evening costume: she took
comforting note of the fact that these gue=
sts
directed a very liberal
share of their conversation toward her; she
observed with surprise, that
famous statesmen and soldiers did not talk
like gods, as a general thing,
but said rather commonplace things for the
most part; and she was filled
with gratification to discover that she, on
the contrary, was making a
good many shrewd speeches and now and then=
a
really brilliant one, and
furthermore, that they were beginning to be
repeated in social circles
about the town.
Congress began its sittings, and every day=
or
two Washington escorted her
to the galleries set apart for lady member=
s of
the households of Senators
and Representatives. Here was a larger field and a wider
competition,
but still she saw that many eyes were upli=
fted
toward her face, and that
first one person and then another called a
neighbor's attention to her;
she was not too dull to perceive that the
speeches of some of the younger
statesmen were delivered about as much and
perhaps more at her than to
the presiding officer; and she was not sor=
ry
to see that the dapper young
Senator from Iowa came at once and stood in
the open space before the
president's desk to exhibit his feet as so=
on
as she entered the gallery,
whereas she had early learned from common
report that his usual custom
was to prop them on his desk and enjoy them
himself with a selfish
disregard of other people's longings.
Invitations began to flow in upon her and =
soon
she was fairly "in
society." "The season" was now in =
full
bloom, and the first select
reception was at hand that is to say, a
reception confined to invited
guests.&n=
bsp;
Senator Dilworthy had become well convinced; by this time, that
his judgment of the country-bred Missouri =
girl
had not deceived him--it
was plain that she was going to be a peerl=
ess
missionary in the field of
labor he designed her for, and therefore it
would be perfectly safe and
likewise judicious to send her forth well
panoplied for her work.--So he
had added new and still richer costumes to=
her
wardrobe, and assisted
their attractions with costly jewelry-loan=
s on
the future land sale.
This first select reception took place at a
cabinet minister's--or rather
a cabinet secretary's mansion. When Laura and the Senator arrived,
about
half past nine or ten in the evening, the
place was already pretty well
crowded, and the white-gloved negro servan=
t at
the door was still
receiving streams of guests.--The
drawing-rooms were brilliant with
gaslight, and as hot as ovens. The host and hostess stood just wi=
thin
the door of entrance; Laura was presented,=
and
then she passed on into
the maelstrom of be-jeweled and richly att=
ired
low-necked ladies and
white-kid-gloved and steel pen-coated
gentlemen and wherever she moved
she was followed by a buzz of admiration t=
hat
was grateful to all her
senses--so grateful, indeed, that her white
face was tinged and its
beauty heightened by a perceptible suffusi=
on of
color. She caught such
remarks as, "Who is she?" "Superb woman!" "That is the new beauty from<= o:p>
the west," etc., etc.
Whenever she halted, she was presently
surrounded by Ministers, Generals,
Congressmen, and all manner of aristocrati=
c,
people. Introductions
followed, and then the usual original
question, "How do you like
Washington, Miss Hawkins?" supplement=
ed
by that other usual original
question, "Is this your first
visit?"
These two exciting topics being exhausted,
conversation generally drifted
into calmer channels, only to be interrupt=
ed
at frequent intervals by new
introductions and new inquiries as to how
Laura liked the capital and
whether it was her first visit or not. And thus for an hour or more the
Duchess moved through the crush in a raptu=
re
of happiness, for her doubts
were dead and gone, now she knew she could
conquer here. A familiar face=
appeared in the midst of the multitude and
Harry Brierly fought his
difficult way to her side, his eyes shouti=
ng
their gratification, so to
speak:
"Oh, this is a happiness! Tell me, my dear Miss Hawkins--&qu=
ot;
"Sh!=
I know what you are going to ask.&n=
bsp;
I do like Washington--I like it
ever so much!"
"No, but I was going to ask--"
"Yes, I am coming to it, coming to it=
as
fast as I can. It is my first=
visit.&nb=
sp;
I think you should know that yourself."
And straightway a wave of the crowd swept =
her
beyond his reach.
"Now what can the girl mean? Of course she likes Washington--I'=
m not
such a dummy as to have to ask her that. And as to its being her first
visit, why bang it, she knows that I knew =
it
was. Does she think I have
turned idiot? Curious girl, anyway. But how they do swarm about her!
She is the reigning belle of Washington af=
ter
this night. She'll know
five hundred of the heaviest guns in the t=
own
before this night's
nonsense is over. And this isn't even the beginning.=
Just as I used to
say--she'll be a card in the matter of--yes
sir! She shall turn the
men's heads and I'll turn the women's! What a team that will be in
politics here. I wouldn't take a quarter of a mil=
lion
for what I can do
in this present session--no indeed I wouldn't. Now, here--I don't<= o:p>
altogether like this. That insignificant secretary of le=
gation
is--why,
she's smiling on him as if he--and now on =
the
Admiral! Now she's
illuminating that, stuffy Congressman from
Massachusetts--vulgar
ungrammatcal shovel-maker--greasy knave of
spades. I don't like this
sort of thing. She doesn't appear to be much dist=
ressed
about me--she
hasn't looked this way once. All right, my bird of Paradise, if=
it
suits
you, go on. But I think I know your sex. I'll go to smiling around a
little, too, and see what effect that will
have on you."
And he did "smile around a little,&qu=
ot;
and got as near to her as he could to
watch the effect, but the scheme was a
failure--he could not get her
attention. She seemed wholly unconscious of h=
im,
and so he could not
flirt with any spirit; he could only talk
disjointedly; he could not keep
his eyes on the charmers he talked to; he =
grew
irritable, jealous, and
very, unhappy. He gave up his enterprise, leaned =
his
shoulder against a
fluted pilaster and pouted while he kept w=
atch
upon Laura's every
movement.=
His other shoulder stole the bloom from many a lovely cheek
that brushed him in the surging crush, but=
he noted
it not. He was too
busy cursing himself inwardly for being an
egotistical imbecile. An hour=
ago he had thought to take this country la=
ss
under his protection and
show her "life" and enjoy her wo=
nder
and delight--and here she was,
immersed in the marvel up to her eyes, and
just a trifle more at home in
it than he was himself. And now his angry comments ran on =
again:
"Now she's sweetening old Brother Bal=
aam;
and he--well he is inviting her
to the Congressional prayer-meeting, no
doubt--better let old Dilworthy
alone to see that she doesn't overlook
that. And now its Splurge, of=
New
York; and now its Batters of New
Hampshire--and now the Vice President!
Well I may as well adjourn. I've got enough."
But he hadn't. He got as far as the door--and then
struggled back to
take one more look, hating himself all the
while for his weakness.
Toward midnight, when supper was announced,
the crowd thronged to the
supper room where a long table was decked =
out
with what seemed a rare
repast, but which consisted of things bett=
er
calculated to feast the eye
than the appetite. The ladies were soon seated in fil=
es
along the wall,
and in groups here and there, and the colo=
red
waiters filled the plates
and glasses and the male guests moved hith=
er
and thither conveying them
to the privileged sex.
Harry took an ice and stood up by the table
with other gentlemen, and
listened to the buzz of conversation while=
he
ate.
From these remarks he learned a good deal
about Laura that was news to
him.
For instance, that she was of a distinguished western family; that
she was highly educated; that she was very
rich and a great landed
heiress; that she was not a professor of
religion, and yet was a
Christian in the truest and best sense of =
the
word, for her whole heart
was devoted to the accomplishment of a gre=
at
and noble enterprise--none
other than the sacrificing of her landed
estates to the uplifting of the
down-trodden negro and the turning of his
erring feet into the way of
light and righteousness. Harry observed that as soon as one
listener had
absorbed the story, he turned about and
delivered it to his next neighbor
and the latter individual straightway pass=
ed
it on. And thus he saw it
travel the round of the gentlemen and over=
flow
rearward among the ladies.
He could not trace it backward to its foun=
tain
head, and so he could not
tell who it was that started it.
One thing annoyed Harry a great deal; and =
that
was the reflection that he
might have been in Washington days and days
ago and thrown his
fascinations about Laura with permanent ef=
fect
while she was new and
strange to the capital, instead of dawdlin=
g in
Philadelphia to no
purpose.&=
nbsp;
He feared he had "missed a trick," as he expressed it.
He only found one little opportunity of
speaking again with Laura before
the evening's festivities ended, and then,=
for
the first time in years,
his airy self-complacency failed him, his
tongue's easy confidence
forsook it in a great measure, and he was
conscious of an unheroic
timidity.=
He was glad to get away and find a place where he could
despise himself in private and try to grow=
his
clipped plumes again.
When Laura reached home she was tired but
exultant, and Senator Dilworthy
was pleased and satisfied. He called Laura "my daughter,=
"
next morning,
and gave her some "pin money," a=
s he
termed it, and she sent a hundred
and fifty dollars of it to her mother and
loaned a trifle to Col.
Sellers.&=
nbsp;
Then the Senator had a long private conference with Laura, and
unfolded certain plans of his for the good=
of
the country, and religion,
and the poor, and temperance, and showed h=
er
how she could assist him in
developing these worthy and noble enterpri=
ses.
Laura soon discovered that there were three
distinct aristocracies in
cultivated, high-bred old families who loo=
ked
back with pride upon an
ancestry that had been always great in the
nation's councils and its wars
from the birth of the republic downward. Into this select circle it was
difficult to gain admission. No. 2 was the aristocracy of the m=
iddle
ground--of which, more anon. No. 3 lay beyond; of it we will sa=
y a
word
here.&nbs=
p;
We will call it the Aristocracy of the Parvenus--as, indeed, the
general public did. Official position, no matter how o=
btained,
entitled
a man to a place in it, and carried his fa=
mily
with him, no matter whence
they sprang. Great wealth gave a man a still hi=
gher
and nobler place in
it than did official position. If this wealth had been acquired b=
y
conspicuous ingenuity, with just a pleasant
little spice of illegality
about it, all the better. This aristocracy was "fast,&q=
uot;
and not averse to
ostentation.
The aristocracy of the Antiques ignored the
aristocracy of the Parvenus;
the Parvenus laughed at the Antiques, (and
secretly envied them.)
There were certain important
"society" customs which one in Laura's
position needed to understand. For instance, when a lady of any
prominence comes to one of our cities and
takes up her residence, all the
ladies of her grade favor her in turn with=
an
initial call, giving their
cards to the servant at the door by way of
introduction. They come
singly, sometimes; sometimes in couples; a=
nd
always in elaborate full
dress.&nb=
sp;
They talk two minutes and a quarter and then go. If the lady
receiving the call desires a further
acquaintance, she must return the
visit within two weeks; to neglect it beyo=
nd
that time means "let the
matter drop." But if she does return the visit w=
ithin
two weeks, it then
becomes the other party's privilege to
continue the acquaintance or drop
it.
She signifies her willingness to continue it by calling again any
time within twelve-months; after that, if =
the
parties go on calling upon
each other once a year, in our large citie=
s,
that is sufficient, and the
acquaintanceship holds good. The thing goes along smoothly, now=
.
The annual visits are made and returned wi=
th
peaceful regularity and
bland satisfaction, although it is not
necessary that the two ladies
shall actually see each other oftener than
once every few years. Their
cards preserve the intimacy and keep the
acquaintanceship intact.
For instance, Mrs. A. pays her annual visit, sits in her
carriage and
sends in her card with the lower right hand
corner turned down, which
signifies that she has "called in
person;" Mrs. B: sends down word that
she is "engaged" or "wishes=
to
be excused"--or if she is a Parvenu and
low-bred, she perhaps sends word that she =
is
"not at home." Very=
good;
Mrs. A.&n=
bsp;
drives, on happy and content.
If Mrs. A.'s daughter marries,
or a child is born to the family, Mrs. B.
calls, sends in her card with
the upper left hand corner turned down, and
then goes along about her
affairs--for that inverted corner means
"Congratulations." =
If
Mrs. B.'s
husband falls downstairs and breaks his ne=
ck,
Mrs. A. calls, leaves her
card with the upper right hand corner turn=
ed
down, and then takes her
departure; this corner means
"Condolence." It is=
very
necessary to get
the corners right, else one may
unintentionally condole with a friend on
a wedding or congratulate her upon a
funeral. If either lady is ab=
out to
leave the city, she goes to the other's ho=
use
and leaves her card with
"P. P. C." engraved under the
name--which signifies, "Pay Parting Call."
But enough of etiquette. Laura was early instructed in the =
mysteries
of
society life by a competent mentor, and th=
us
was preserved from
troublesome mistakes.
The first fashionable call she received fr=
om a
member of the ancient
nobility, otherwise the Antiques, was of a
pattern with all she received
from that limb of the aristocracy
afterward. This call was paid=
by
Mrs.
Major-General Fulke-Fulkerson and
daughter. They drove up at on=
e in
the
afternoon in a rather antiquated vehicle w=
ith
a faded coat of arms on the
panels, an aged white-wooled negro coachma=
n on
the box and a younger
darkey beside him--the footman. Both of these servants were dresse=
d in
dull brown livery that had seen considerab=
le
service.
The ladies entered the drawing-room in full
character; that is to say,
with Elizabethan stateliness on the part of
the dowager, and an easy
grace and dignity on the part of the young
lady that had a nameless
something about it that suggested conscious
superiority. The dresses of
both ladies were exceedingly rich, as to
material, but as notably modest
as to color and ornament. All parties having seated themselv=
es,
the
dowager delivered herself of a remark that=
was
not unusual in its form,
and yet it came from her lips with the
impressiveness of Scripture:
"The weather has been unpropitious of
late, Miss Hawkins."
"It has indeed," said Laura. "The climate seems to be
variable."
"It is its nature of old, here,"
said the daughter--stating it apparently
as a fact, only, and by her manner waving
aside all personal
responsibility on account of it. "Is it not so, mamma?"
"Quite so, my child. Do you like winter, Miss
Hawkins?" She said
"like"
as if she had, an idea that its dictionary
meaning was "approve of."
"Not as well as summer--though I think
all seasons have their charms."
"It is a very just remark. The general held similar views.
considered snow in winter proper; sultrine=
ss
in summer legitimate; frosts
in the autumn the same, and rains in spring
not objectionable. He was
not an exacting man. And I call to mind now that he alw=
ays
admired
thunder.&=
nbsp;
You remember, child, your father always admired thunder?"
"He adored it."
"No doubt it reminded him of
battle," said Laura.
"Yes, I think perhaps it did. He had a great respect for Nature.=
He often said there was something striking
about the ocean. You remember=
his saying that, daughter?"
"Yes, often, Mother. I remember it very well."
"And hurricanes... He took a great interest in
hurricanes. And animals.
Dogs, especially--hunting dogs. Also comets. I think we all have our
predilections. I think it is this that gives vari=
ety to
our tastes."
Laura coincided with this view.
"Do you find it hard and lonely to be=
so
far from your home and friends,
Miss Hawkins?"
"I do find it depressing sometimes, b=
ut
then there is so much about me
here that is novel and interesting that my
days are made up more of
sunshine than shadow."
"Washington is not a dull city in the
season," said the young lady.
"We have some very good society indee=
d,
and one need not be at a loss for
means to pass the time pleasantly. Are you fond of watering-places, M=
iss
Hawkins?"
"I have really had no experience of t=
hem,
but I have always felt a strong
desire to see something of fashionable
watering-place life."
"We of Washington are unfortunately
situated in that respect," said the
dowager.&=
nbsp;
"It is a tedious distance to Newport. But there is no help for
it."
Laura said to herself, "Long Branch a=
nd
Cape May are nearer than Newport;
doubtless these places are low; I'll feel =
my
way a little and see." T=
hen
she said aloud:
"Why I thought that Long Branch--&quo=
t;
There was no need to "feel" any
further--there was that in both faces
before her which made that truth
apparent. The dowager said:
"Nobody goes there, Miss Hawkins--at
least only persons of no position in
society.&=
nbsp;
And the President." She
added that with tranquility.
"Newport is damp, and cold, and windy=
and
excessively disagreeable," said
the daughter, "but it is very
select. One cannot be fastidi=
ous
about
minor matters when one has no choice."=
;
The visit had spun out nearly three minute=
s,
now. Both ladies rose with
grave dignity, conferred upon Laura a form=
al
invitation to call, aid then
retired from the conference. Laura remained in the drawing-room=
and
left
them to pilot themselves out of the house-=
-an
inhospitable thing,
it seemed to her, but then she was followi=
ng
her instructions. She
stood, steeped in reverie, a while, and th=
en
she said:
"I think I could always enjoy
icebergs--as scenery but not as company."
Still, she knew these two people by
reputation, and was aware that they
were not ice-bergs when they were in their=
own
waters and amid their
legitimate surroundings, but on the contra=
ry
were people to be respected
for their stainless characters and esteemed
for their social virtues and
their benevolent impulses. She thought it a pity that they ha=
d to
be
such changed and dreary creatures on occas=
ions
of state.
The first call Laura received from the oth=
er
extremity of the Washington
aristocracy followed close upon the heels =
of
the one we have just been
describing. The callers this time were the Hon=
. Mrs.
Oliver Higgins,
the Hon. Mrs. Patrique Oreille (pronounced
O-relay,) Miss Bridget
(pronounced Breezhay) Oreille, Mrs. Peter
Gashly, Miss Gashly, and Miss
Emmeline Gashly.
The three carriages arrived at the same mo=
ment
from different directions.
They were new and wonderfully shiny, and t=
he
brasses on the harness were
highly polished and bore complicated
monograms. There were showy c=
oats
of arms, too, with Latin mottoes. The coachmen and footmen were clad=
in
bright new livery, of striking colors, and
they had black rosettes with
shaving-brushes projecting above them, on =
the
sides of their stove-pipe
hats.
When the visitors swept into the drawing-r=
oom
they filled the place with
a suffocating sweetness procured at the pe=
rfumer's. Their costumes,
as to architecture, were the latest fashion
intensified; they were
rainbow-hued; they were hung with
jewels--chiefly diamonds. It =
would
have been plain to any eye that it had cost
something to upholster these
women.
The Hon. Mrs. Oliver Higgins was the wife =
of a
delegate from a distant
territory--a gentleman who had kept the
principal "saloon," and sold the
best whiskey in the principal village in h=
is
wilderness, and so, of
course, was recognized as the first man of=
his
commonwealth and its
fittest representative.
He was a man of paramount influence at hom=
e,
for he was public spirited,
he was chief of the fire department, he ha=
d an
admirable command of
profane language, and had killed several
"parties." His shirt
fronts
were always immaculate; his boots daintily
polished, and no man could
lift a foot and fire a dead shot at a stray
speck of dirt on it with a
white handkerchief with a finer grace than=
he;
his watch chain weighed a
pound; the gold in his finger ring was wor=
th
forty five dollars; he wore
a diamond cluster-pin and he parted his ha=
ir
behind. He had always been,
regarded as the most elegant gentleman in =
his
territory, and it was
conceded by all that no man thereabouts was
anywhere near his equal in
the telling of an obscene story except the
venerable white-haired
governor himself. The Hon. Higgins had not come to s=
erve
his country in
Washington for nothing. The appropriation which he had
engineered
through Congress for the maintenance, of t=
he
Indians in his Territory
would have made all those savages rich if =
it
had ever got to them.
The Hon. Mrs. Higgins was a picturesque wo=
man,
and a fluent talker, and
she held a tolerably high station among the
Parvenus. Her English was
fair enough, as a general thing--though, b=
eing
of New York origin, she
had the fashion peculiar to many natives of
that city of pronouncing saw
and law as if they were spelt sawr and law=
r.
Petroleum was the agent that had suddenly
transformed the Gashlys from
modest hard-working country village folk i=
nto
"loud" aristocrats and
ornaments of the city.
The Hon. Patrique Oreille was a wealthy
Frenchman from Cork. Not that=
he
was wealthy when he first came from Cork, =
but
just the reverse. When he
first landed in New York with his wife, he=
had
only halted at Castle
Garden for a few minutes to receive and
exhibit papers showing that he
had resided in this country two years--and
then he voted the democratic
ticket and went up town to hunt a house. He found one and then went to
work as assistant to an architect and buil=
der,
carrying a hod all day and
studying politics evenings. Industry and economy soon enabled =
him to
start a low rum shop in a foul locality, a=
nd
this gave him political
influence. In our country it is always our fi=
rst
care to see that our
people have the opportunity of voting for
their choice of men to
represent and govern them--we do not permit
our great officials to
appoint the little officials. We prefer to have so tremendous a =
power
as
that in our own hands. We hold it safest to elect our jud=
ges
and
everybody else. In our cities, the ward meetings e=
lect
delegates to the
nominating conventions and instruct them whom to
nominate. The publicans and t=
heir
retainers rule the ward meetings (for every body else hates the worry of
politics and stays at home); the delegates from the ward
meetings organize as a nominating conventi=
on
and make up a list of
candidates--one convention offering a
democratic and another a republican
list of incorruptibles; and then the great
meek public come forward at
the proper time and make unhampered choice=
and
bless Heaven that they
live in a free land where no form of despo=
tism
can ever intrude.
Patrick O'Riley (as his name then stood)
created friends and influence
very, fast, for he was always on hand at t=
he police
courts to give straw
bail for his customers or establish an ali=
bi
for them in case they had
been beating anybody to death on his
premises. Consequently he pre=
sently
became a political leader, and was elected=
to
a petty office under the
city government. Out of a meager salary he soon sav=
ed
money enough to
open quite a stylish liquor saloon higher =
up
town, with a faro bank
attached and plenty of capital to conduct =
it
with. This gave him fame
and great respectability. The position of alderman was force=
d upon
him,
and it was just the same as presenting him=
a
gold mine. He had fine
horses and carriages, now, and closed up h=
is
whiskey mill.
By and by he became a large contractor for
city work, and was a bosom
friend of the great and good Wm. M. Weed h=
imself,
who had stolen
$20,600,000 from the city and was a man so
envied, so honored,--so
adored, indeed, that when the sheriff went=
to
his office to arrest him as
a felon, that sheriff blushed and apologiz=
ed,
and one of the illustrated
papers made a picture of the scene and spo=
ke
of the matter in such a way
as to show that the editor regretted that =
the
offense of an arrest had
been offered to so exalted a personage as =
Mr.
Weed.
Mr. O'Riley furnished shingle nails to, the
new Court House at three
thousand dollars a keg, and eighteen gross=
of
60-cent thermometers at
fifteen hundred dollars a dozen; the
controller and the board of audit
passed the bills, and a mayor, who was sim=
ply
ignorant but not criminal,
signed them. When they were paid, Mr. O'Riley's=
admirers
gave him a
solitaire diamond pin of the size of a
filbert, in imitation of the
liberality of Mr. Weed's friends, and then=
Mr.
O'Riley retired from
active service and amused himself with buy=
ing
real estate at enormous
figures and holding it in other people's
names. By and by the newspape=
rs
came out with exposures and called Weed and
O'Riley "thieves,"--whereupon
the people rose as one man (voting repeate=
dly)
and elected the two
gentlemen to their proper theatre of actio=
n,
the New York legislature.
The newspapers clamored, and the courts
proceeded to try the new
legislators for their small
irregularities. Our admirable=
jury
system
enabled the persecuted ex-officials to sec=
ure
a jury of nine gentlemen
from a neighboring asylum and three gradua=
tes
from Sing-Sing, and
presently they walked forth with characters
vindicated. The legislature
was called upon to spew them forth--a thing
which the legislature
declined to do. It was like asking children to rep=
udiate
their own
father.&n=
bsp;
It was a legislature of the modern pattern.
Being now wealthy and distinguished, Mr.
O'Riley, still bearing the
legislative "Hon." attached to h=
is
name (for titles never die in America,
although we do take a republican pride in
poking fun at such trifles),
sailed for Europe with his family. They traveled all about, turning
their noses up at every thing, and not fin=
ding
it a difficult thing to
do, either, because nature had originally
given those features a cast in
that direction; and finally they establish=
ed
themselves in Paris, that
Paradise of Americans of their sort.--They
staid there two years and
learned to speak English with a foreign
accent--not that it hadn't always
had a foreign accent (which was indeed the
case) but now the nature of it
was changed. Finally they returned home and bec=
ame
ultra fashionables.
They landed here as the Hon. Patrique Oreille and family, and s=
o are
known unto this day.
Laura provided seats for her visitors and =
they
immediately launched forth
into a breezy, sparkling conversation with
that easy confidence which is
to be found only among persons accustomed =
to
high life.
"I've been intending to call sooner, =
Miss
Hawkins," said the Hon. Mrs.
Oreille, "but the weather's been so
horrid. How do you like
Washington?"
Laura liked it very well indeed.
Mrs. Gashly--"Is it your first
visit?"
Yea, it was her first.
All--"Indeed?"
Mrs. Oreille--"I'm afraid you'll desp=
ise
the weather, Miss Hawkins.
It's perfectly awful. It always is. I tell Mr. Oreille I can't and
I won't put up with any such a climate.
I wouldn't mind it; but we are not obliged=
to,
and so I don't see the use
of it.&nb=
sp;
Sometimes its real pitiful the way the childern pine for Parry
--don't look so sad, Bridget, 'ma chere'--=
poor
child, she can't hear Parry
mentioned without getting the blues."=
Mrs. Gashly--"Well I should think so,
Mrs. Oreille. A body lives in=
Paris, but a body, only stays here. I dote on Paris; I'd druther scrim=
p
along on ten thousand dollars a year there,
than suffer and worry here on
a real decent income."
Miss Gashly--"Well then, I wish you'd
take us back, mother; I'm sure I
hate this stoopid country enough, even if =
it
is our dear native land."
Miss Emmeline Gashly--"What and leave
poor Johnny Peterson behind?" [An
airy genial laugh applauded this sally].
Miss Gashly--"Sister, I should think
you'd be ashamed of yourself!"
Miss Emmeline--"Oh, you needn't ruffle
your feathers so: I was only
joking.&n=
bsp;
He don't mean anything by coming to, the house every evening
--only comes to see mother. Of course that's all!" [Gener=
al
laughter].
Miss G. prettily confused--"Emmeline,=
how
can you!"
Mrs. G.--"Let your sister alone,
Emmeline. I never saw such a
tease!"
Mrs. Oreille--"What lovely corals you
have, Miss Hawkins! Just look=
at
them, Bridget, dear. I've a great passion for corals--i=
t's a
pity
they're getting a little common. I have some elegant ones--not as
elegant as yours, though--but of course I
don't wear them now."
Laura--"I suppose they are rather com=
mon,
but still I have a great
affection for these, because they were giv=
en
to me by a dear old friend
of our family named Murphy. He was a very charming man, but ve=
ry
eccentric. We always supposed he was an Irish=
man,
but after he got rich
he went abroad for a year or two, and when=
he
came back you would have
been amused to see how interested he was i=
n a
potato. He asked what it
was! Now you know that when Providence shapes a mouth especially for the<= o:p>
accommodation of a potato you can detect t=
hat
fact at a glance when that
mouth is in repose--foreign travel can nev=
er
remove that sign. But he
was a very delightful gentleman, and his
little foible did not hurt him
at all.&n=
bsp;
We all have our shams--I suppose there is a sham somewhere about
every individual, if we could manage to fe=
rret
it out. I would so like
to go to France. I suppose our society here compare=
s very
favorably with
French society does it not, Mrs.
Oreille?"
Mrs. O.--"Not by any means, Miss
Hawkins! French society is mu=
ch
more
elegant--much more so."
Laura--"I am sorry to hear that. I suppose ours has deteriorated of=
late."
Mrs. O.--"Very much indeed. There are people in society here t=
hat
have
really no more money to live on than what =
some
of us pay for servant
hire.&nbs=
p;
Still I won't say but what some of them are very good people--and
respectable, too."
Laura--"The old families seem to be
holding themselves aloof, from what I
hear.&nbs=
p;
I suppose you seldom meet in society now, the people you used to
be familiar with twelve or fifteen years
ago?"
Mrs. O.--"Oh, no-hardly ever."
Mr. O'Riley kept his first rum-mill and
protected his customers from the
law in those days, and this turn of the
conversation was rather
uncomfortable to madame than otherwise.
Hon. Mrs. Higgins--"Is Francois' heal=
th
good now, Mrs. Oreille?"
Mrs. O.--(Thankful for the
intervention)--"Not very. A
body couldn't
expect it. He was always delicate--especially=
his
lungs--and this odious
climate tells on him strong, now, after Pa=
rry,
which is so mild."
Mrs. H:--"I should think so. Husband says Percy'll die if he do=
n't
have
a change; and so I'm going to swap round a
little and see what can be
done.&nbs=
p;
I saw a lady from Florida last week, and she recommended Key West.
I told her Percy couldn't abide winds, as =
he
was threatened with a
pulmonary affection, and then she said try=
St.
Augustine. It's an awful
distance--ten or twelve hundred mile, they=
say
but then in a case of this
kind--a body can't stand back for trouble,=
you
know."
Mrs. O.--"No, of course that's off. If Francois don't get better soon<=
o:p>
we've got to look out for some other place=
, or
else Europe. We've
thought some of the Hot Springs, but I don=
't
know. It's a great
responsibility and a body wants to go
cautious. Is Hildebrand about=
again, Mrs. Gashly?"
Mrs. G.--"Yes, but that's about all.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It was indigestion, you know, and<= o:p>
it looks as if it was chronic. And you know I do dread dyspepsia.=
We've
all been worried a good deal about him.
apple and spoiled meat, and I think it done
him good. It's about the
only thing that will stay on his stomach
now-a-days. We have Dr. Shove=
l
now.
Who's your doctor, Mrs. Higgins?"
Mrs. H.--"Well, we had Dr. Spooner a =
good
while, but he runs so much to
emetics, which I think are weakening, that=
we
changed off and took Dr.
Leathers.=
We like him very much. He
has a fine European reputation,
too. The first thing he suggested for Percy was to have him taken out in<= o:p>
the back yard for an airing, every afterno=
on,
with nothing at all on."
Mrs. O. and Mrs. G.--"What!"
Mrs. H.--"As true as I'm sitting
here. And it actually helped =
him
for
two or three days; it did indeed. But after that the doctor said it<= o:p>
seemed to be too severe and so he has fell
back on hot foot-baths at
night and cold showers in the morning. But I don't think there, can be
any good sound help for him in such a clim=
ate
as this. I believe we are
going to lose him if we don't make a
change."
Mrs. O.&n=
bsp;
"I suppose you heard of the fright we had two weeks ago last
Saturday?=
No? Why that is strang=
e--but
come to remember, you've all
been away to Richmond. Francois tumbled from the sky ligh=
t--in
the
second-story hall clean down to the first
floor--"
Everybody--"Mercy!"
Mrs.
O.--"Yes indeed--and broke two of his ribs--"
Everybody--"What!"
Mrs. O.&n=
bsp;
"Just as true as you live.&nbs=
p;
First we thought he must be injured
internally. It was fifteen minutes past 8 in t=
he
evening. Of course we
were all distracted in a moment--everybody=
was
flying everywhere, and
nobody doing anything worth anything. By and by I flung out next door
and dragged in Dr. Sprague; President of t=
he
Medical University no time
to go for our own doctor of course--and the
minute he saw Francois he
said, 'Send for your own physician, madam;'
said it as cross as a bear,
too, and turned right on his heel, and cle=
ared
out without doing a
thing!"
Everybody--"The mean, contemptible
brute!"
Mrs. O--"Well you may say it. I was nearly out of my wits by this
time.
But we hurried off the servants after our =
own
doctor and telegraphed
mother--she was in New York and rushed dow=
n on
the first train; and when
the doctor got there, lo and behold you he
found Francois had broke one
of his legs, too!"
Everybody--"Goodness!"
Mrs. O.--"Yes. So he set his leg and bandaged it =
up,
and fixed his ribs
and gave him a dose of something to quiet =
down
his excitement and put him
to sleep--poor thing he was trembling and
frightened to death and it was
pitiful to see him. We had him in my bed--Mr. Oreille =
slept
in the guest
room and I laid down beside Francois--but =
not
to sleep bless you no.
Bridget and I set up all night, and the do=
ctor
staid till two in the
morning, bless his old heart.--When mother=
got
there she was so used up
with anxiety, that she had to go to bed and
have the doctor; but when she
found that Francois was not in immediate d=
anger
she rallied, and by night
she was able to take a watch herself. Well for three days and nights we<= o:p>
three never left that bedside only to take=
an
hour's nap at a time.
And then the doctor said Francois was out =
of
danger and if ever there was
a thankful set, in this world, it was
us."
Laura's respect for these, women had augme=
nted
during this conversation,
naturally enough; affection and devotion a=
re
qualities that are able to
adorn and render beautiful a character tha=
t is
otherwise unattractive,
and even repulsive.
Mrs. Gashly--"I do believe I would a died if I had
been in your place,
Mrs. Oreille.
The time Hildebrand was so low with the pneumonia Emmeline and me we=
re
all, alone with him most of the time and we never took a minute's sleep for=
as
much as two days, and nights. It
was at Newport and we wouldn't trust hired nurses. One afternoon he had a fit, and ju=
mped
up and run out on the portico of the hotel with nothing in the
world on and the wind a blowing liken ice =
and
we after him scared to
death; and when the ladies and gentlemen s=
aw
that he had a fit, every
lady scattered for her room and not a
gentleman lifted his hand to help,
the wretches! Well after that his life hung by a
thread for as much as
ten days, and the minute he was out of dan=
ger
Emmeline and me just went
to bed sick and worn out. I never want to pass through such =
a time
again.&nb=
sp;
Poor dear Francois--which leg did he break, Mrs. Oreille!"
Mrs. O.--"It was his right hand hind
leg. Jump down, Francois dear=
, and
show the ladies what a cruel limp you've g=
ot
yet."
Francois demurred, but being coaxed and
delivered gently upon the floor,
he performed very satisfactorily, with his
"right hand hind leg" in the
air.
All were affected--even Laura--but hers was an affection of the
stomach. The country-bred girl had not suspe=
cted
that the little whining
ten-ounce black and tan reptile, clad in a=
red
embroidered pigmy blanket
and reposing in Mrs. Oreille's lap all thr=
ough
the visit was the
individual whose sufferings had been stirr=
ing
the dormant generosities of
her nature. She said:
"Poor little creature! You might have lost him!"
Mrs. O.--"O pray don't mention it, Mi=
ss
Hawkins--it gives me such a
turn!"
Laura--"And Hildebrand and Percy--are
they-are they like this one?"
Mrs. G.--"No, Hilly has considerable =
Skye
blood in him, I believe."
Mrs. H.--"Percy's the same, only he is
two months and ten days older and
has his ears cropped. His father, Martin Farquhar Tupper=
, was
sickly,
and died young, but he was the sweetest
disposition.--His mother had
heart disease but was very gentle and
resigned, and a wonderful ratter."
--[** As impossible and exasperating as th=
is
conversation may sound to a
person who is not an idiot, it is scarcely=
in
any respect an exaggeration
of one which one of us actually listened t=
o in
an American drawing room
--otherwise we could not venture to put su=
ch a
chapter into a book which,
professes to deal with social
possibilities.--THE AUTHORS.]
So carried away had the visitors become by
their interest attaching to
this discussion of family matters, that th=
eir
stay had been prolonged to
a very improper and unfashionable length; =
but
they suddenly recollected
themselves now and took their departure.
Laura's scorn was boundless. The more she thought of these peop=
le and
their extraordinary talk, the more offensi=
ve
they seemed to her; and yet
she confessed that if one must choose betw=
een
the two extreme
aristocracies it might be best, on the who=
le,
looking at things from a
strictly business point of view, to herd w=
ith
the Parvenus; she was in
Washington solely to compass a certain mat=
ter
and to do it at any cost,
and these people might be useful to her, w=
hile
it was plain that her
purposes and her schemes for pushing them
would not find favor in the
eyes of the Antiques. If it came to choice--and it might=
come
to that,
sooner or later--she believed she could co=
me
to a decision without much
difficulty or many pangs.
But the best aristocracy of the three
Washington castes, and really the
most powerful, by far, was that of the Mid=
dle
Ground: It was made up of
the families of public men from nearly eve=
ry
state in the Union--men who
held positions in both the executive and
legislative branches of the
government, and whose characters had been =
for
years blemishless, both at
home and at the capital. These gentlemen and their househol=
ds
were
unostentatious people; they were educated =
and
refined; they troubled
themselves but little about the two other
orders of nobility, but moved
serenely in their wide orbit, confident in
their own strength and well
aware of the potency of their influence. They had no troublesome
appearances to keep up, no rivalries which
they cared to distress
themselves about, no jealousies to fret
over. They could afford to mi=
nd
their own affairs and leave other combinat=
ions
to do the same or do
otherwise, just as they chose. They were people who were beyond
reproach, and that was sufficient.
Senator Dilworthy never came into collision
with any of these factions.
He labored for them all and with them
all. He said that all men wer=
e
brethren and all were entitled to the hone=
st
unselfish help and
countenance of a Christian laborer in the
public vineyard.
Laura concluded, after reflection, to let
circumstances determine the
course it might be best for her to pursue =
as
regarded the several
aristocracies.
Now it might occur to the reader that perh=
aps
Laura had been somewhat
rudely suggestive in her remarks to Mrs.
Oreille when the subject of
corals was under discussion, but it did not
occur to Laura herself.
She was not a person of exaggerated
refinement; indeed, the society and
the influences that had formed her charact=
er
had not been of a nature
calculated to make her so; she thought that
"give and take was fair
play," and that to parry an offensive
thrust with a sarcasm was a neat
and legitimate thing to do. She some times talked to people in=
a way
which some ladies would consider, actually
shocking; but Laura rather
prided herself upon some of her exploits of that character. We are sorry<= o:p>
we cannot make her a faultless heroine; bu=
t we
cannot, for the reason
that she was human.
She considered herself a superior
conversationist. Long ago, wh=
en the
possibility had first been brought before =
her
mind that some day she
might move in Washington society, she had
recognized the fact that
practiced conversational powers would be a
necessary weapon in that
field; she had also recognized the fact th=
at
since her dealings there
must be mainly with men, and men whom she
supposed to be exceptionally
cultivated and able, she would need heavier
shot in her magazine than
mere brilliant "society" nothing=
s;
whereupon she had at once entered upon
a tireless and elaborate course of reading,
and had never since ceased to
devote every unoccupied moment to this sor=
t of
preparation. Having now
acquired a happy smattering of various
information, she used it with good
effect--she passed for a singularly well
informed woman in Washington.
The quality of her literary tastes had
necessarily undergone constant
improvement under this regimen, and as
necessarily, also; the duality of
her language had improved, though it canno=
t be
denied that now and then
her former condition of life betrayed itse=
lf
in just perceptible
inelegancies of expression and lapses of
grammar.
When Laura had been in
person, in one respect, that she was when =
she
first arrived there--that
is to say, she still bore the name of Laura
Hawkins. Otherwise she was
perceptibly changed.--
She had arrived in a state of grievous
uncertainty as to what manner of
woman she was, physically and intellectual=
ly,
as compared with eastern
women; she was well satisfied, now, that h=
er
beauty was confessed, her
mind a grade above the average, and her po=
wers
of fascination rather
extraordinary. So she, was at ease upon those
points. When she arrived,
she was possessed of habits of economy and=
not
possessed of money; now
she dressed elaborately, gave but little
thought to the cost of things,
and was very well fortified financially. She kept her mother and
--who always insisted upon giving his note=
for
loans--with interest; he was
rigid upon that; she must take interest; a=
nd
one of the Colonel's
greatest satisfactions was to go over his
accounts and note what a
handsome sum this accruing interest amount=
ed
to, and what a comfortable
though modest support it would yield Laura=
in
case reverses should
overtake her.
In truth he could not help feeling that he=
was
an efficient shield for
her against poverty; and so, if her expens=
ive
ways ever troubled him for
a brief moment, he presently dismissed the
thought and said to himself,
"Let her go on--even if she loses
everything she is still safe--this
interest will always afford her a good easy
income."
Laura was on excellent terms with a great =
many
members of Congress, and
there was an undercurrent of suspicion in =
some
quarters that she was one
of that detested class known as
"lobbyists;" but what belle could escape
slander in such a city? Fairminded people declined to cond=
emn
her on
mere suspicion, and so the injurious talk =
made
no very damaging headway.
She was very gay, now, and very celebrated,
and she might well expect to
be assailed by many kinds of gossip. She was growing used to celebrity,=
and could already sit calm and seemingly
unconscious, under the fire of
fifty lorgnettes in a theatre, or even
overhear the low voice "That's
she!" as she passed along the street
without betraying annoyance.
The whole air was full of a vague vast sch=
eme
which was to eventuate in
filling Laura's pockets with millions of
money; some had one idea of the
scheme, and some another, but nobody had a=
ny
exact knowledge upon the
subject.&=
nbsp;
All that any one felt sure about, was that Laura's landed
estates were princely in value and extent,=
and
that the government was
anxious to get hold of them for public
purposes, and that Laura was
willing to make the sale but not at all
anxious about the matter and not
at all in a hurry. It was whispered that Senator Dilw=
orthy
was a
stumbling block in the way of an immediate
sale, because he was resolved
that the government should not have the la=
nds
except with the
understanding that they should be devoted =
to
the uplifting of the negro
race; Laura did not care what they were
devoted to, it was said, (a world
of very different gossip to the contrary
notwithstanding,) but there were
several other heirs and they would be guid=
ed
entirely by the Senator's
wishes; and finally, many people averred t=
hat
while it would be easy to
sell the lands to the government for the
benefit of the negro, by
resorting to the usual methods of influenc=
ing
votes, Senator Dilworthy
was unwilling to have so noble a charity
sullied by any taint of
corruption--he was resolved that not a vote
should be bought. Nobody
could get anything definite from Laura abo=
ut
these matters, and so gossip
had to feed itself chiefly upon guesses. But the effect of it all was,
that Laura was considered to be very wealt=
hy
and likely to be vastly more
so in a little while. Consequently she was much courted =
and as
much
envied: Her wealth attracted many
suitors. Perhaps they came to
worship
her riches, but they remained to worship
her. Some of the noblest men =
of
the time succumbed to her fascinations.
he made his first advances, but by and by =
when
she was hopelessly
enthralled, he learned from her own lips t=
hat
she had formed a resolution
never to marry. Then he would go away hating and c=
ursing
the whole sex,
and she would calmly add his scalp to her
string, while she mused upon
the bitter day that Col. Selby trampled her
love and her pride in the
dust.&nbs=
p;
In time it came to be said that her way was paved with broken
hearts.
Poor Washington gradually woke up to the f=
act
that he too was an
intellectual marvel as well as his gifted
sister. He could not conceive=
how it had come about (it did not occur to=
him
that the gossip about his
family's great wealth had any thing to do =
with
it). He could not account
for it by any process of reasoning, and was
simply obliged to accept the
fact and give up trying to solve the
riddle. He found himself drag=
ged
into society and courted, wondered at and
envied very much as if he were
one of those foreign barbers who flit over
here now and then with a
self-conferred title of nobility and marry
some rich fool's absurd
daughter. Sometimes at a dinner party or a
reception he would find
himself the centre of interest, and feel
unutterably uncomfortable in the
discovery. Being obliged to say something,=
he
would mine his brain and
put in a blast and when the smoke and flyi=
ng
debris had cleared away the
result would be what seemed to him but a p=
oor
little intellectual clod of
dirt or two, and then he would be astonish=
ed
to see everybody as lost in
admiration as if he had brought up a ton or
two of virgin gold. Every
remark he made delighted his hearers and
compelled their applause; he
overheard people say he was exceedingly
bright--they were chiefly mammas
and marriageable young ladies. He found that some of his good thi=
ngs
were being repeated about the town. Whenever he heard of an instance o=
f
this kind, he would keep that particular
remark in mind and analyze it at
home in private. At first he could not see that the
remark was anything
better than a parrot might originate; but =
by
and by he began to feel that
perhaps he underrated his powers; and after
that he used to analyze his
good things with a deal of comfort, and fi=
nd
in them a brilliancy which
would have been unapparent to him in earli=
er
days--and then he would make
a note, of that good thing and say it again
the first time he found
himself in a new company. Presently he had saved up quite a
repertoire
of brilliancies; and after that he confined
himself to repeating these
and ceased to originate any more, lest he
might injure his reputation by
an unlucky effort.
He was constantly having young ladies thru=
st
upon his notice at
receptions, or left upon his hands at part=
ies,
and in time he began to
feel that he was being deliberately persec=
uted
in this way; and after
that he could not enjoy society because of=
his
constant dread of these
female ambushes and surprises. He was distressed to find that nea=
rly
every time he showed a young lady a polite
attention he was straightway
reported to be engaged to her; and as some=
of
these reports got into the
newspapers occasionally, he had to keep
writing to Louise that they were
lies and she must believe in him and not m=
ind
them or allow them to
grieve her.
Washington was as much in the dark as anyb=
ody
with regard to the great
wealth that was hovering in the air and
seemingly on the point of
tumbling into the family pocket. Laura would give him no satisfacti=
on.
All she would say, was:
"Wait. Be patient. You will see."
"But will it be soon, Laura?"
"It will not be very long, I think.&q=
uot;
"But what makes you think so?"
"I have reasons--and good ones. Just wait, and be patient."
"But is it going to be as much as peo=
ple
say it is?"
"What do they say it is?"
"Oh, ever so much. Millions!"
"Yes, it will be a great sum."
"But how great, Laura? Will it be millions?"
"Yes, you may call it that. Yes, it will be millions. There, now--does
that satisfy you?"
"Splendid! I can wait. I can wait patiently--ever so
patiently. Once I
was near selling the land for twenty thous=
and
dollars; once for thirty
thousand dollars; once after that for seven
thousand dollars; and once
for forty thousand dollars--but something
always told me not to do it.
What a fool I would have been to sell it f=
or
such a beggarly trifle! It
is the land that's to bring the money, isn=
't
it Laura? You can tell me
that much, can't you?"
"Yes, I don't mind saying that much.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It is the land.
"But mind--don't ever hint that you g=
ot
it from me. Don't mention me =
in
the matter at all, Washington."
"All right--I won't. Millions! Isn't it splendid! I mean to look
around for a building lot; a lot with fine
ornamental shrubbery and all
that sort of thing. I will do it to-day. And I might as well see an
architect, too, and get him to go to work =
at a
plan for a house. I don't
intend to spare and expense; I mean to have
the noblest house that money
can build." Then after a pause--he did not not=
ice
Laura's smiles "Laura,
would you lay the main hall in encaustic
tiles, or just in fancy patterns
of hard wood?"
Laura laughed a good old-fashioned laugh t=
hat
had more of her former
natural self about it than any sound that =
had
issued from her mouth in
many weeks. She said:
"You don't change, Washington. You still begin to squander a fort=
une
right and left the instant you hear of it =
in
the distance; you never wait
till the foremost dollar of it arrives wit=
hin
a hundred miles of you,"
--and she kissed her brother good bye and =
left
him weltering in his dreams,
so to speak.
He got up and walked the floor feverishly
during two hours; and when he
sat down he had married Louise, built a ho=
use,
reared a family, married
them off, spent upwards of eight hundred
thousand dollars on mere
luxuries, and died worth twelve millions.<= o:p>
Laura went down stairs, knocked at/the stu=
dy
door, and entered, scarcely
waiting for the response. Senator Dilworthy was alone--with =
an
open
Bible in his hand, upside down. Laura smiled, and said, forgetting=
her
acquired correctness of speech,
"It is only me."
"Ah, come in, sit down," and the
Senator closed the book and laid it
down.&nbs=
p;
"I wanted to see you.
Time to report progress from the committee
of the whole," and the Senator beamed
with his own congressional wit.
"In the committee of the whole things=
are
working very well. We have
made ever so much progress in a week. I believe that you and I together<= o:p>
could run this government beautifully,
uncle."
The Senator beamed again. He liked to be called "uncle&=
quot;
by this
beautiful woman.
"Did you see Hopperson last night aft=
er the
congressional prayer
meeting?"
"Yes. He came. He's a kind of--"
"Eh? he is one of my friends, Laura.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He's a fine man, a very fine man.<= o:p>
I don't know any man in congress I'd soone=
r go
to for help in any
Christian work. What did he say?"
"Oh, he beat around a little. He said he should like to help the
negro,
his heart went out to the negro, and all
that--plenty of them say that
but he was a little afraid of the Tennessee
Land bill; if Senator
Dilworthy wasn't in it, he should suspect
there was a fraud on the
government."
"He said that, did he?"
"Yes. And he said he felt he couldn't vo=
te for
it. He was shy."
"Not shy, child, cautious. He's a very cautious man. I have been with
him a great deal on conference
committees. He wants reasons,=
good
ones.
Didn't you show him he was in error about =
the
bill?"
"I did. I went over the whole thing. I had to tell him some of the side=
arrangements, some of the--"
"You didn't mention me?"
"Oh, no. I told him you were daft about the=
negro
and the philanthropy
part of it, as you are."
"Daft is a little strong, Laura. But you know that I wouldn't touch=
this
bill if it were not for the public good, a=
nd
for the good of the colored
race; much as I am interested in the heirs=
of
this property, and would
like to have them succeed."
Laura looked a little incredulous, and the
Senator proceeded.
"Don't misunderstand me, I don't deny
that it is for the interest of all
of us that this bill should go through, an=
d it
will. I have no
concealments from you. But I have one principle in my pub=
lic
life, which
I should like you to keep in mind; it has
always been my guide. I never=
push a private interest if it is not Justi=
fied
and ennobled by some
larger public good. I doubt Christian would be justifi=
ed in
working for
his own salvation if it was not to aid in =
the
salvation of his fellow
men."
The Senator spoke with feeling, and then
added,
"I hope you showed Hopperson that our
motives were pure?"
"Yes, and he seemed to have a new lig=
ht
on the measure: I think will vote
for it."
"I hope so; his name will give tone a=
nd
strength to it. I knew you wo=
uld
only have to show him that it was just and
pure, in order to secure his
cordial support."
"I think I convinced him. Yes, I am perfectly sure he will v=
ote
right
now."
"That's good, that's good," said=
the
Senator; smiling, and rubbing his
hands.&nb=
sp;
"Is there anything more?"
"You'll find some changes in that I
guess," handing the Senator a printed
list of names. "Those checked off are all
right."
"Ah--'m--'m," running his eye do=
wn
the list. "That's
encouraging. What
is the 'C' before some of the names, and t=
he
'B. B.'?"
"Those are my private marks. That 'C' stands for 'convinced,' w=
ith
argument.=
The 'B. B.' is a general sign for a relative. You see it
stands before three of the Hon.
Committee. I expect to see the
chairman
of the committee to-day, Mr. Buckstone.&qu=
ot;
"So, you must, he ought to be seen
without any delay. Buckstone =
is a
worldly sort of a fellow, but he has
charitable impulses. If we se=
cure
him we shall have a favorable report by the
committee, and it will be a
great thing to be able to state that fact
quietly where it will do good."
"Oh, I saw Senator Balloon"
"He will help us, I suppose? Balloon is a whole-hearted fellow.=
I can't
help loving that man, for all his drollery=
and
waggishness. He puts on
an air of levity sometimes, but there aint=
a
man in the senate knows the
scriptures as he does. He did not make any objections?&qu=
ot;
"Not exactly, he said--shall I tell y=
ou
what he said?" asked Laura
glancing furtively at him.
"Certainly."
"He said he had no doubt it was a good
thing; if Senator Dilworthy was in
it, it would pay to look into it."
The Senator laughed, but rather feebly, and
said, "Balloon is always full
of his jokes."
"I explained it to him. He said it was all right, he only =
wanted
a word
with you,", continued Laura. "He is a handsome old gentlem=
an,
and he is
gallant for an old man."
"My daughter," said the Senator,
with a grave look, "I trust there was
nothing free in his manner?"
"Free?" repeated Laura, with
indignation in her face. &quo=
t;With
me!"
"There, there, child. I meant nothing, Balloon talks a l=
ittle
freely
sometimes, with men. But he is right at heart. His term expires next
year and I fear we shall lose him."
"He seemed to be packing the day I was
there. His rooms were full of=
dry
goods boxes, into which his servant was
crowding all manner of old
clothes and stuff: I suppose he will paint
'Pub. Docs' on them and frank
them home. That's good economy, isn't it?&quo=
t;
"Yes, yes, but child, all Congressmen= do that. It may not be strictly<= o:p>
honest, indeed it is not unless he had some
public documents mixed in
with the clothes."
"It's a funny world. Good-bye, uncle. I'm going to see that chairman.&qu=
ot;
And humming a cheery opera air, she depart=
ed
to her room to dress for
going out. Before she did that, however, she =
took
out her note book and
was soon deep in its contents; marking,
dashing, erasing, figuring, and
talking to herself.
"Free! I wonder what Dilworthy does think=
of me
anyway? One . .=
.
two .&nbs=
p;
. . eight . .=
. seventeen . .=
. twenty-one . . .=
'm'm
it takes a heap for a majority. Wouldn't Dilworthy open his eyes i=
f he
. . . knew some of the things Balloon did =
say
to me. There . .=
.
Hopperson's influence ought to count twenty
. . .=
the sanctimonious
old curmudgeon. Son-in-law . .=
. sinecure in the negro institution.
.
. . That about gauges =
him
. . . The three committeemen . .=
.
sons-in-law. Nothing like a son-in-law here in
Washington or a brother-
in-law .&=
nbsp;
. . And everybody has =
'em
. . .=
Let's see: . . .=
sixty-
one .&nbs=
p;
. . with places . .=
. twenty-five . .=
. persuaded--it is
getting on; . .=
. we'll have two-thirds of Congress in time . .=
.
Dilworthy must surely know I understand hi=
m. Uncle Dilworthy . .=
.
Uncle Balloon!--Tells very amusing stories
. . .=
when ladies are not
present .=
. . I should think so =
. .=
. 'm . . . 'm. Eighty-five.
There.&nb=
sp;
I must find that chairman.
Queer. . .=
. Buckstone
acts .&nb= sp; . . . Seemed to be in love . .= . . I was sure of it.<= o:p>
He promised to come here . .=
. and he hasn't . .
strange .=
. . . I must chance to meet him
to-day."
Laura dressed and went out, thinking she w=
as
perhaps too early for Mr.
Buckstone to come from the house, but as he
lodged near the bookstore she
would drop in there and keep a look out for
him.
While Laura is on her errand to find Mr.
Buckstone, it may not be out of
the way to remark that she knew quite as m=
uch
of Washington life as
Senator Dilworthy gave her credit for, and
more than she thought proper
to tell him. She was acquainted by this time wi=
th a
good many of the
young fellows of Newspaper Row; and exchan=
ged
gossip with them to their
mutual advantage.
They were always talking in the Row,
everlastingly gossiping, bantering
and sarcastically praising things, and goi=
ng
on in a style which was a
curious commingling of earnest and
persiflage. Col. Sellers like=
d this
talk amazingly, though he was sometimes a
little at sea in it--and
perhaps that didn't lessen the relish of t=
he
conversation to the
correspondents.
It seems that they had got hold of the
dry-goods box packing story about
Balloon, one day, and were talking it over
when the Colonel came in.
The Colonel wanted to know all about it, a=
nd
Hicks told him. And then
Hicks went on, with a serious air,
"Colonel, if you register a letter, it
means that it is of value, doesn't
it?
And if you pay fifteen cents for registering it, the government will=
have to take extra care of it and even pay=
you
back its full value if it
is lost.&=
nbsp;
Isn't that so?"
"Yes. I suppose it's so.".
"Well Senator Balloon put fifteen cen=
ts
worth of stamps on each of those
seven huge boxes of old clothes, and shipp=
ed
that ton of second-hand
rubbish, old boots and pantaloons and what=
not
through the mails as
registered matter! It was an ingenious thing and it h=
ad a
genuine touch
of humor about it, too. I think there is more real: talent=
among
our
public men of to-day than there was among
those of old times--a far more
fertile fancy, a much happier ingenuity. Now, Colonel, can you picture
Jefferson, or Washington or John Adams
franking their wardrobes through
the mails and adding the facetious idea of
making the government
responsible for the cargo for the sum of o=
ne
dollar and five cents?
Statesmen were dull creatures in those
days. I have a much greater
admiration for Senator Balloon."
"Yes, Balloon is a man of parts, ther=
e is
no denying it"
"I think so. He is spoken of for the post of Mi=
nister
to China, or
Austria, and I hope will be appointed. What we want abroad is good
examples of the national character.
"John Jay and Benjamin Franklin were =
well
enough in their day, but the
nation has made progress since then. Balloon is a man we know and can
depend on to be true to himself."
"Yes, and Balloon has had a good deal=
of
public experience. He is an o=
ld
friend of mine. He was governor of one of the
territories a while, and
was very satisfactory."
"Indeed he was. He was ex-officio Indian agent,
too. Many a man would
have taken the Indian appropriation and
devoted the money to feeding and
clothing the helpless savages, whose land =
had
been taken from them by the
white man in the interests of civilization;
but Balloon knew their needs
better.&n=
bsp;
He built a government saw-mill on the reservation with the
money, and the lumber sold for enormous
prices--a relative of his did all
the work free of charge--that is to say he
charged nothing more than the
lumber world bring." "But the poor Injuns--not tha=
t I
care much for
Injuns--what did he do for them?"
"Gave them the outside slabs to fence=
in
the reservation with. Governo=
r
Balloon was nothing less than a father to =
the
poor Indians. But Balloon
is not alone, we have many truly noble
statesmen in our country's service
like Balloon. The Senate is full of them. Don't you think so Colonel?"<= o:p>
"Well, I dunno. I honor my country's public servan=
ts as
much as any one
can.
I meet them, Sir, every day, and the more I see of them the more I
esteem them and the more grateful I am that
our institutions give us the
opportunity of securing their services.
"That is true, Colonel. To be sure you can buy now and the=
n a
Senator or
a Representative but they do not know it is
wrong, and so they are not
ashamed of it. They are gentle, and confiding and
childlike, and in my
opinion these are qualities that ennoble t=
hem
far more than any amount of
sinful sagacity could. I quite agree with you, Col.
Sellers."
"Well"--hesitated the
Colonel--"I am afraid some of them do buy their
seats--yes, I am afraid they do--but as
Senator Dilworthy himself said to
me, it is sinful,--it is very wrong--it is
shameful; Heaven protect me
from such a charge. That is what Dilworthy said. And yet when you come
to look at it you cannot deny that we would
have to go without the
services of some of our ablest men, sir, if
the country were opposed to
--to--bribery. It is a harsh term. I do not like to use it."
The Colonel interrupted himself at this po=
int
to meet an engagement with
the Austrian minister, and took his leave =
with
his usual courtly bow.
In due time Laura alighted at the book sto=
re,
and began to look at the
titles of the handsome array of books on t=
he
counter. A dapper clerk of
perhaps nineteen or twenty years, with hair
accurately parted and
surprisingly slick, came bustling up and
leaned over with a pretty smile
and an affable--
"Can I--was there any particular book=
you
wished to see?"
"Have you Taine's
"Beg pardon?"
"Taine's Notes on
The young gentleman scratched the side of =
his
nose with a cedar pencil
which he took down from its bracket on the
side of his head, and
reflected a moment:
"Ah--I see," [with a bright
smile]--"Train, you mean--not Taine.&=
nbsp;
George
Francis Train. No, ma'm we--"
"I mean Taine--if I may take the
liberty."
The clerk reflected again--then:
"Taine . .=
. . Taine . .=
. . Is it hymns?"=
"No, it isn't hymns. It is a volume that is making a de=
al of
talk just
now, and is very widely known--except among
parties who sell it."
The clerk glanced at her face to see if a
sarcasm might not lurk
somewhere in that obscure speech, but the
gentle simplicity of the
beautiful eyes that met his, banished that
suspicion. He went away and
conferred with the proprietor. Both appeared to be non-plussed. They
thought and talked, and talked and thought=
by
turns. Then both came
forward and the proprietor said:
"Is it an American book, ma'm?"<= o:p>
"No, it is an American reprint of an
English translation."
"Oh!=
Yes--yes--I remember, now.
We are expecting it every day.
It
isn't out yet."
"I think you must be mistaken, because
you advertised it a week ago."
"Why no--can that be so?"
"Yes, I am sure of it. And besides, here is the book itse=
lf, on
the
counter."
She bought it and the proprietor retired f=
rom
the field. Then she asked
the clerk for the Autocrat of the Breakfast
Table--and was pained to see
the admiration her beauty had inspired in =
him
fade out of his face.
He said with cold dignity, that cook books=
were
somewhat out of their
line, but he would order it if she desired
it. She said, no, never mind.=
Then she fell to conning the titles again,
finding a delight in the
inspection of the Hawthornes, the Longfell=
ows,
the Tennysons, and other
favorites of her idle hours. Meantime the clerk's eyes were bus=
y, and
no
doubt his admiration was returning again--=
or
may be he was only gauging
her probable literary tastes by some sagac=
ious
system of admeasurement
only known to his guild. Now he began to "assist"=
her in
making a
selection; but his efforts met with no
success--indeed they only annoyed
her and unpleasantly interrupted her
meditations. Presently, while=
she
was holding a copy of "Venetian
Life" in her hand and running over a
familiar passage here and there, the clerk
said, briskly, snatching up a
paper-covered volume and striking the coun=
ter
a smart blow with it to
dislodge the dust:
"Now here is a work that we've sold a= lot of. Everybody that's read it<= o:p>
likes it"--and he intruded it under h=
er
nose; "it's a book that I can
recommend--'The Pirate's Doom, or the Last=
of
the Buccaneers.' I think
it's one of the best things that's come out
this season."
Laura pushed it gently aside her hand and =
went
on and went on filching
from "Venetian Life."
"I believe I do not want it," she
said.
The clerk hunted around awhile, glancing at
one title and then another,
but apparently not finding what he wanted.=
However, he succeeded at last. Said he:
"Have you ever read this, ma'm? I am sure you'll like it. It's by the
author of 'The Hooligans of Hackensack.' I=
t is
full of love troubles and
mysteries and all sorts of such things.
mother.&n=
bsp;
Just glance at the title please,--'Gonderil the Vampire, or The
Dance of Death.' And here is 'The Jokist's Own Trea=
sury,
or, The Phunny
Phellow's Bosom Phriend.' The funniest thing!--I've read it =
four
times,
ma'm, and I can laugh at the very sight of=
it
yet. And 'Gonderil,'
--I assure you it is the most splendid boo=
k I
ever read. I know you will
like these books, ma'm, because I've read =
them
myself and I know what
they are."
"Oh, I was perplexed--but I see how it
is, now. You must have though=
t
I asked you to tell me what sort of books I
wanted--for I am apt to say
things which I don't really mean, when I am
absent minded. I suppose I
did ask you, didn't I?"
"No ma'm,--but I--"
"Yes, I must have done it, else you w=
ould
not have offered your services,
for fear it might be rude. But don't be troubled--it was all =
my
fault.
I ought not to have been so heedless--I ou=
ght
not to have asked you."
"But you didn't ask me, ma'm. We always help customers all we ca=
n.
You see our experience--living right among
books all the time--that sort
of thing makes us able to help a customer =
make
a selection, you know."
"Now does it, indeed? It is part of your business, then?=
"
"Yes'm, we always help."
"How good it is of you. Some people would think it rather
obtrusive,
perhaps, but I don't--I think it is real kindness--even charity. Some<= o:p>
people jump to conclusions without any
thought--you have noticed that?"
"O yes," said the clerk, a little
perplexed as to whether to feel
comfortable or the reverse; "Oh yes,
indeed, I've often noticed that,
ma'm."
"Yes, they jump to conclusions with an
absurd heedlessness. Now some=
people would think it odd that because you,
with the budding tastes and
the innocent enthusiasms natural to your t=
ime
of life, enjoyed the
Vampires and the volume of nursery jokes, =
you
should imagine that an
older person would delight in them too--bu=
t I do
not think it odd at all.
I think it natural--perfectly natural in
you. And kind, too. You look
like a person who not only finds a deep
pleasure in any little thing in
the way of literature that strikes you
forcibly, but is willing and glad
to share that pleasure with others--and th=
at,
I think, is noble and
admirable--very noble and admirable. I think we ought all--to share our=
pleasures with others, and do what we can =
to
make each other happy, do
not you?"
"Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed. Yes, you are quite right, ma'm.&qu=
ot;
But he was getting unmistakably uncomforta=
ble,
now, notwithstanding
Laura's confiding sociability and almost
affectionate tone.
"Yes, indeed. Many people would think that what a
bookseller--or perhaps
his clerk--knows about literature as
literature, in contradistinction to
its character as merchandise, would hardly=
, be
of much assistance to a
person--that is, to an adult, of course--in
the selection of food for the
mind--except of course wrapping paper, or
twine, or wafers, or something
like that--but I never feel that way. I feel that whatever service you
offer me, you offer with a good heart, and=
I
am as grateful for it as if
it were the greatest boon to me. And it is useful to me--it is boun=
d to
be so.&nb=
sp;
It cannot be otherwise. If you
show me a book which you have
read--not skimmed over or merely glanced a=
t,
but read--and you tell me
that you enjoyed it and that you could rea=
d it
three or four times, then
I know what book I want--"
"Thank you!--th--"
--"to avoid. Yes indeed. I think that no information ever c=
omes
amiss
in this world. Once or twice I have traveled in t=
he
cars--and there you
know, the peanut boy always measures you w=
ith
his eye, and hands you out
a book of murders if you are fond of theol=
ogy;
or Tupper or a dictionary
or T. S. Arthur if you are fond of poetry;=
or
he hands you a volume of
distressing jokes or a copy of the American
Miscellany if you
particularly dislike that sort of literary
fatty degeneration of the
heart--just for the world like a pleasant
spoken well-meaning gentleman
in any, bookstore. But here I am running on as if bus=
iness
men had
nothing to do but listen to women talk.
not thinking.--And you must let me thank y=
ou
again for helping me.
I read a good deal, and shall be in nearly
every day and I would be sorry
to have you think me a customer who talks =
too
much and buys too little.
Might I ask you to give me the time? Ah-two-twenty-two. Thank you
very much. I will set mine while I have the
opportunity."
But she could not get her watch open,
apparently. She tried, and tr=
ied
again.&nb=
sp;
Then the clerk, trembling at his own audacity, begged to be
allowed to assist. She allowed him. He succeeded, and was radiant unde=
r
the sweet influences of her pleased face a=
nd
her seductively worded
acknowledgements with gratification. Then he gave her the exact time
again, and anxiously watched her turn the
hands slowly till they reached
the precise spot without accident or loss =
of
life, and then he looked as
happy as a man who had helped a fellow bei=
ng
through a momentous
undertaking, and was grateful to know that=
he
had not lived in vain.
Laura thanked him once more. The words were music to his ear; b=
ut
what
were they compared to the ravishing smile =
with
which she flooded his
whole system? When she bowed her adieu and turned
away, he was no longer
suffering torture in the pillory where she=
had
had him trussed up during
so many distressing moments, but he belong=
ed
to the list of her conquests
and was a flattered and happy thrall, with=
the
dawn-light of love
breaking over the eastern elevations of his
heart.
It was about the hour, now, for the chairm=
an
of the House Committee on
Benevolent Appropriations to make his
appearance, and Laura stepped to
the door to reconnoiter. She glanced up the street, and sure
enough--
That Chairman was nowhere in sight. Such disappointments seldom occur =
in
novels, but are always happening in real l=
ife.
She was obliged to make a new plan. She sent him a note, and asked him=
to call in the evening--which he did.
She received the Hon. Mr. Buckstone with a
sunny smile, and said:
"I don't know how I ever dared to send
you a note, Mr. Buckstone, for you
have the reputation of not being very part=
ial
to our sex."
"Why I am sure my reputation does me
wrong, then, Miss Hawkins. I =
have
been married once--is that nothing in my
favor?"
"Oh, yes--that is, it may be and it m=
ay
not be. If you have known wha=
t
perfection is in woman, it is fair to argue
that inferiority cannot
interest you now."
"Even if that were the case it could =
not
affect you, Miss Hawkins," said
the chairman gallantly. "Fame does not place you in t=
he
list of ladies
who rank below perfection." This happy speech delighted Mr.
Buckstone as
much as it seemed to delight Laura. But it did not confuse him as much=
as it apparently did her.
"I wish in all sincerity that I could=
be
worthy of such a felicitous
compliment as that. But I am a woman, and so I am grat=
ified
for it just
as it is, and would not have it altered.&q=
uot;
"But it is not merely a compliment--t=
hat
is, an empty complement--it is
the truth. All men will endorse that."
Laura looked pleased, and said:
"It is very kind of you to say it.
country-bred girl like me to be so spoken =
of
by people of brains and
culture.&=
nbsp;
You are so kind that I know you will pardon my putting you to
the trouble to come this evening."
"Indeed it was no trouble. It was a pleasure. I am alone in the world
since I lost my wife, and I often long for=
the
society of your sex, Miss
Hawkins, notwithstanding what people may s=
ay
to the contrary."
"It is pleasant to hear you say
that. I am sure it must be so=
. If I
feel lonely at times, because of my exile =
from
old friends, although
surrounded by new ones who are already very
dear to me, how much more
lonely must you feel, bereft as you are, a=
nd
with no wholesome relief
from the cares of state that weigh you
down. For your own sake, as w=
ell
as for the sake of others, you ought to go
into society oftener.
I seldom see you at a reception, and when =
I do
you do not usually give me
very, much of your attention."
"I never imagined that you wished it =
or I
would have been very glad to
make myself happy in that way.--But one se=
ldom
gets an opportunity to say
more than a sentence to you in a place like
that. You are always the
centre of a group--a fact which you may ha=
ve
noticed yourself. But if
one might come here--"
"Indeed you would always find a hearty
welcome, Mr. Buckstone. I hav=
e
often wished you would come and tell me mo=
re
about Cairo and the
Pyramids, as you once promised me you
would."
"Why, do you remember that yet, Miss
Hawkins? I thought ladies' me=
mories
were more fickle than that."
"Oh, they are not so fickle as
gentlemen's promises. And bes=
ides,
if I
had been inclined to forget, I--did you not
give me something by way of a
remembrancer?"
"Did I?"
"Think."
"It does seem to me that I did; but I
have forgotten what it was now."
"Never, never call a lady's memory fi=
ckle
again! Do you recognize this?=
"
"A little spray of box! I am beaten--I surrender. But have you kept
that all this time?"
Laura's confusion was very, pretty. She tried to hide it, but the more=
she tried the more manifest it became and
withal the more captivating to
look upon. Presently she threw the spray of b=
ox
from her with an annoyed
air, and said:
"I forgot myself. I have been very foolish. I beg that you will forget
this absurd thing."
Mr. Buckstone picked up the spray, and sit=
ting
down by Laura's side on
the sofa, said:
"Please let me keep it, Miss
Hawkins. I set a very high va=
lue
upon it
now."
"Give it to me, Mr. Buckstone, and do=
not
speak so. I have been
sufficiently punished for my
thoughtlessness. You cannot t=
ake
pleasure
in adding to my distress. Please give it to me."
"Indeed I do not wish to distress
you. But do not consider the =
matter
so
gravely; you have done yourself no wrong.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> You probably forgot that you
had it; but if you had given it to me I wo=
uld
have kept it--and not
forgotten it."
"Do not talk so, Mr. Buckstone. Give it to me, please, and forget =
the
matter."
"It would not be kind to refuse, sinc=
e it
troubles you so, and so I
restore it. But if you would give me part of i=
t and
keep the rest--"
"So that you might have something to
remind you of me when you wished to
laugh at my foolishness?"
"Oh, by no means, no! Simply that I might remember that =
I had
once
assisted to discomfort you, and be reminde=
d to
do so no more."
Laura looked up, and scanned his face a
moment. She was about to brea=
k
the twig, but she hesitated and said:
"If I were sure that you--" She threw the spray away, and cont=
inued:
"This is silly! We will change the subject. No, do not insist--I must
have my way in this."
Then Mr. Buckstone drew off his forces and
proceeded to make a wily
advance upon the fortress under cover of
carefully--contrived artifices
and stratagems of war. But he contended with an alert and
suspicious
enemy; and so at the end of two hours it w=
as
manifest to him that he had
made but little progress. Still, he had made some; he was su=
re of
that.
Laura sat alone and communed with herself;=
"He is fairly hooked, poor thing. I can play him at my leisure and l=
and
him when I choose. He was all ready to be caught, day=
s and
days ago
--I saw that, very well. He will vote for our bill--no fear=
about
that;
and moreover he will work for it, too, bef=
ore
I am done with him. If he
had a woman's eyes he would have noticed t=
hat
the spray of box had grown
three inches since he first gave it to me,=
but
a man never sees anything
and never suspects. If I had shown him a whole bush he=
would
have
thought it was the same. Well, it is a good night's work: t=
he
committee
is safe.&=
nbsp;
But this is a desperate game I am playing in these days
--a wearing, sordid, heartless game. If I lose, I lose everything--even=
myself.&n=
bsp;
And if I win the game, will it be worth its cost after all?
I do not know. Sometimes I doubt. Sometimes I half wish I had not
begun.&nb=
sp;
But no matter; I have begun, and I will never turn back; never
while I live."
Mr. Buckstone indulged in a reverie as he
walked homeward:
"She is shrewd and deep, and plays her
cards with considerable
discretion--but she will lose, for all
that. There is no hurry; I sh=
all
come out winner, all in good time. She is the most beautiful woman in=
the world; and she surpassed herself
to-night. I suppose I must vo=
te for
that bill, in the end maybe; but that is n=
ot a
matter of much consequence
the government can stand it. She is bent on capturing me, that =
is
plain;
but she will find by and by that what she =
took
for a sleeping garrison
was an ambuscade."
=
Now this surprising news caus'd her fall in 'a trance,
=
Life as she were dead, no limbs she could advance,
=
Then her dear brother came, her from the ground he took
=
And she spake up and said, O my poor heart is broke.
=
&nb=
sp;
The Barnardcastle Tragedy.
"Don't you think he is distinguished
looking?"
"What! That gawky looking person, with
Miss Hawkins?"
"There. He's just speaking to Mrs.
Schoonmaker. Such high-bred
negligence and unconsciousness. Nothing studied. See his fine eyes."
"Very. They are moving this way now. Maybe he is coming here. But he
looks as helpless as a rag baby. Who is he, Blanche?"
"Who is he? And you've been here a week, Grace=
, and
don't know? He's
the catch of the season. That's Washington Hawkins--her
brother."
"No, is it?"
"Very old family, old Kentucky family=
I
believe. He's got enormous
landed property in Tennessee, I think. The family lost everything,
slaves and that sort of thing, you know, in
the war. But they have a
great deal of land, minerals, mines and all
that. Mr. Hawkins and his
sister too are very much interested in the
amelioration of the condition
of the colored race; they have some plan, =
with
Senator Dilworthy, to
convert a large part of their property to
something another for the
freedmen."
"You don't say so? I thought he was some guy from
Pennsylvania. But he
is different from others. Probably he has lived all his life=
on
his
plantation."
It was a day reception of Mrs. Representat=
ive
Schoonmaker, a sweet woman,
of simple and sincere manners. Her house was one of the most popu=
lar in
Washington. There was less ostentation there t=
han in
some others, and
people liked to go where the atmosphere
reminded them of the peace and
purity of home. Mrs. Schoonmaker was as natural and
unaffected in
Washington society as she was in her own N=
ew
York house, and kept up the
spirit of home-life there, with her husband
and children. And that was
the reason, probably, why people of refine=
ment
liked to go there.
Washington is a microcosm, and one can suit
himself with any sort of
society within a radius of a mile. To a large portion of the people w=
ho
frequent Washington or dwell where, the ul=
tra
fashion, the shoddy, the
jobbery are as utterly distasteful as they
would be in a refined New
England City. Schoonmaker was not exactly a lead=
er in
the House, but he
was greatly respected for his fine talents=
and
his honesty. No one would
have thought of offering to carry National
Improvement Directors Relief
stock for him.
These day receptions were attended by more
women than men, and those
interested in the problem might have studi=
ed
the costumes of the ladies
present, in view of this fact, to discover
whether women dress more for
the eyes of women or for effect upon men.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It is a very important
problem, and has been a good deal discusse=
d,
and its solution would form
one fixed, philosophical basis, upon which=
to
estimate woman's character.
We are inclined to take a medium ground, a=
nd
aver that woman dresses to
please herself, and in obedience to a law =
of
her own nature.
"They are coming this way," said
Blanche. People who made way =
for
them
to pass, turned to look at them. Washington began to feel that the e=
yes
of the public were on him also, and his ey=
es
rolled about, now towards
the ceiling, now towards the floor, in an
effort to look unconscious.
"Good morning, Miss Hawkins. Delighted. Mr. Hawkins. My friend, Miss
Medlar."
Mr. Hawkins, who was endeavoring to square
himself for a bow, put his
foot through the train of Mrs. Senator Pop=
lin,
who looked round with a
scowl, which turned into a smile as she saw
who it was. In extricating
himself, Mr. Hawkins, who had the care of =
his
hat as well as the
introduction on his mind, shambled against
Miss Blanche, who said pardon,
with the prettiest accent, as if the
awkwardness were her own. And=
Mr.
Hawkins righted himself.
"Don't you find it very warm to-day, =
Mr.
Hawkins?" said Blanche, by way
of a remark.
"It's awful hot," said Washingto=
n.
"It's warm for the season,"
continued Blanche pleasantly.
"But I suppose
you are accustomed to it," she added,
with a general idea that the
thermometer always stands at 90 deg. in all
parts of the late slave
states.&n=
bsp;
"Washington weather generally cannot be very congenial to
you?"
"It's congenial," said Washington
brightening up, "when it's not
congealed."
"That's very good. Did you hear, Grace, Mr. Hawkins s=
ays
it's congenial
when it's not congealed."
"What is, dear?" said Grace, who=
was
talking with Laura.
The conversation was now finely under
way. Washington launched out =
an
observation of his own.
"Did you see those Japs, Miss
Leavitt?"
"Oh, yes, aren't they queer. But so high-bred, so picturesque.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Do you
think that color makes any difference, Mr.
Hawkins? I used to be so
prejudiced against color."
"Did you? I never was. I used to think my old mammy was
handsome."
"How interesting your life must have
been! I should like to hear a=
bout
it."
Washington was about settling himself into=
his
narrative style,
when Mrs. Gen. McFingal caught his eye.
"Have you been at the Capitol to-day,=
Mr.
Hawkins?"
Washington had not. "Is anything uncommon going
on?"
"They say it was very exciting. The Alabama business you know.
Gen.
Sutler, of Massachusetts, defied England, and they say he wants
war."
"He wants to make himself conspicuous
more like," said Laura.
"He always, you have noticed, talks w=
ith
one eye on the gallery, while
the other is on the speaker."
"Well, my husband says, its nonsense =
to
talk of war, and wicked.
He knows what war is. If we do have war, I hope it will =
be for
the
patriots of Cuba. Don't you think we want Cuba, Mr.
Hawkins?"
"I think we want it bad," said W=
ashington. "And Santo Domingo. Senator
Dilworthy says, we are bound to extend our
religion over the isles of the
sea.
We've got to round out our territory, and--"
Washington's further observations were bro=
ken
off by Laura, who whisked
him off to another part of the room, and
reminded him that they must make
their adieux.
"How stupid and tiresome these people
are," she said. "Le=
t's
go."
They were turning to say good-by to the
hostess, when Laura's attention
was arrested by the sight of a gentleman who was just speaking to Mrs.
Schoonmaker.
For a second her heart stopped beating. He was a handsome man of forty and
perhaps more, with grayish hair and whiskers, and he walked with a cane, as=
if
he were slightly lame. He mig=
ht be
less than forty, for his face was worn into hard lines, and he was pale.
No.
It could not be, she said to herself. It is only a resemblance.
But as the gentleman turned and she saw his
full face, Laura put out her
hand and clutched Washington's arm to prev=
ent
herself from falling.
Washington, who was not minding anything, =
as
usual, looked 'round in
wonder.&n=
bsp;
Laura's eyes were blazing fire and hatred; he had never seen her
look so before; and her face, was livid.
"Why, what is it, sis? Your face is as white as paper.&qu=
ot;
"It's he, it's he. Come, come," and she dragged =
him
away.
"It's who?" asked Washington, wh=
en
they had gained the carriage.
"It's nobody, it's nothing. Did I say he? I was faint with the heat.
Don't mention it. Don't you speak of it," she a=
dded
earnestly, grasping
his arm.
When she had gained her room she went to t=
he
glass and saw a pallid and
haggard face.
"My God," she cried, "this =
will
never do. I should have kille=
d him,
if I
could.&nb=
sp;
The scoundrel still lives, and dares to come here. I ought to
kill him. He has no right to live. How I hate him. And yet I loved
him.
Oh heavens, how I did love that man. And why didn't he kill me?
He might better. He did kill all that was good in
me. Oh, but he shall
not escape. He shall not escape this time. He may have forgotten. He
will find that a woman's hate doesn't
forget. The law? What would the
law do but protect him and make me an
outcast? How all Washington w=
ould
gather up its virtuous skirts and avoid me=
, if
it knew. I wonder if he
hates me as I do him?"
So Laura raved, in tears and in rage by tu=
rns,
tossed in a tumult of
passion, which she gave way to with little
effort to control.
A servant came to summon her to dinner.
came for the President's reception. She had a raving headache, and the=
Senator must go without her.
That night of agony was like another night=
she
recalled. How vividly it
all came back to her. And at that time she remembered she
thought she
might be mistaken. He might come back to her. Perhaps he loved her,
a little, after all. Now, she knew he did not. Now, she knew he was a
cold-blooded scoundrel, without pity. Never a word in all these years.
She had hoped he was dead. Did his wife live, she wondered. She caught
at that--and it gave a new current to her thoughts. Perhaps, after all<= o:p>
--she must see him. She could not live without seeing
him. Would he smile
as in the old days when she loved him so; =
or
would he sneer as when she
last saw him? If he looked so, she hated him.
"Laura, darling," and look SO! She must find him. She must end her
doubts.
Laura kept her room for two days, on one
excuse and another--a nervous
headache, a cold--to the great anxiety of =
the
Senator's household.
Callers, who went away, said she had been =
too
gay--they did not say
"fast," though some of them may =
have
thought it. One so conspicuou=
s and
successful in society as Laura could not be
out of the way two days,
without remarks being made, and not all of
them complimentary.
When she came down she appeared as usual, a
little pale may be, but
unchanged in manner. If there were any deepened lines a=
bout
the eyes
they had been concealed. Her course of action was quite
determined.
At breakfast she asked if any one had heard
any unusual noise during the
night?&nb=
sp;
Nobody had. Washington=
never
heard any noise of any kind after
his eyes were shut. Some people thought he never did w=
hen
they were open
either.
Senator Dilworthy said he had come in
late. He was detained in a li=
ttle
consultation after the Congressional prayer
meeting. Perhaps it was his
entrance.
No, Laura said. She heard that. It was later. She might have been
nervous, but she fancied somebody was tryi=
ng
to get into the house.
Mr. Brierly humorously suggested that it m=
ight
be, as none of the members
were occupied in night session.
The Senator frowned, and said he did not l=
ike
to hear that kind of
newspaper slang. There might be burglars about.
Laura said that very likely it was only her nervousness. But she thought<= o:p>
she world feel safer if Washington would l=
et
her take one of his pistols.
Washington brought her one of his revolver=
s,
and instructed her in the
art of loading and firing it.
During the morning Laura drove down to Mrs.
Schoonmaker's to pay a
friendly call.
"Your receptions are always
delightful," she said to that lady, "the
pleasant people all seem to come here.&quo=
t;
"It's pleasant to hear you say so, Mi=
ss
Hawkins. I believe my friends=
like to come here. Though society in Washington is mi=
xed;
we have a
little of everything."
"I suppose, though, you don't see muc=
h of
the old rebel element?" said
Laura with a smile.
If this seemed to Mrs. Schoonmaker a singu=
lar
remark for a lady to make,
who was meeting "rebels" in soci=
ety
every day, she did not express it in
any way, but only said,
"You know we don't say 'rebel'
anymore. Before we came to
Washington I
thought rebels would look unlike other
people. I find we are very mu=
ch
alike, and that kindness and good nature w=
ear
away prejudice. And then
you know there are all sorts of common
interests. My husband sometim=
es
says that he doesn't see but confederates =
are
just as eager to get at the
treasury as Unionists. You know that Mr. Schoonmaker is o=
n the
appropriations."
"Does he know many Southerners?"=
"Oh, yes. There were several at my reception=
the
other day. Among
others a confederate Colonel--a
stranger--handsome man with gray hair,
probably you didn't notice him, uses a can=
e in
walking. A very agreeable
man.
I wondered why he called.
When my husband came home and looked
over the cards, he said he had a cotton
claim. A real southerner.
Perhaps you might know him if I could thin=
k of
his name. Yes, here's his
card--Louisiana."
Laura took the card, looked at it intently
till she was sure of the
address, and then laid it down, with,
"No, he is no friend of ours."
That afternoon, Laura wrote and dispatched=
the
following note. It was in
a round hand, unlike her flowing style, an=
d it
was directed to a number
and street in Georgetown:--
"A Lady at
Senator Dilworthy's would like to see Col. George Selby,
on business conn=
ected
with the Cotton Claims. Can h=
e call
Wednesday
at three o'clock=
P.
M.?"
On Wednesday at 3 P. M, no one of the fami=
ly
was likely to be in the
house except Laura.
Col. Selby had just come to
His business was to get pay for some cotton
that was destroyed during the
war.
There were many others in
them with claims as difficult to establish=
as
his. A concert of action
was necessary, and he was not, therefore, =
at
all surprised to receive the
note from a lady asking him to call at Sen=
ator
Dilworthy's.
At a little after three on Wednesday he ra=
ng
the bell of the Senator's
residence. It was a handsome mansion on the S=
quare
opposite the
President's house. The owner must be a man of great w=
ealth,
the Colonel
thought; perhaps, who knows, said he with a
smile, he may have got some
of my cotton in exchange for salt and quin=
ine
after the capture of New
Orleans.&=
nbsp;
As this thought passed through his mind he was looking at the
remarkable figure of the Hero of New Orlea=
ns,
holding itself by main
strength from sliding off the back of the
rearing bronze horse, and
lifting its hat in the manner of one who
acknowledges the playing of that
martial air: "See, the Conquering Hero
Comes!" "Gad,"=
said
the Colonel
to himself, "Old Hickory ought to get
down and give his seat to Gen.
Sutler--but they'd have to tie him on.&quo=
t;
Laura was in the drawing room. She heard the bell, she heard the =
steps
in the hall, and the emphatic thud of the
supporting cane. She had rise=
n
from her chair and was leaning against the
piano, pressing her left hand
against the violent beating of her heart.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The door opened and the
Colonel entered, standing in the full ligh=
t of
the opposite window.
Laura was more in the shadow and stood for=
an
instant, long enough for
the Colonel to make the inward observation
that she was a magnificent
Woman.&nb=
sp;
She then advanced a step.
"Col. Selby, is it not?"
The Colonel staggered back, caught himself=
by
a chair, and turned towards
her a look of terror.
"Laura? My God!"
"Yes, your wife!"
"Oh, no, it can't be. How came you here? I thought you were--"
"You thought I was dead? You thought you were rid of me?
you live, Col. Selby, not so long as you
live;" Laura in her passion was
hurried on to say.
No man had ever accused Col. Selby of
cowardice. But he was a cowar=
d
before this woman. May be he was not the man he once
was. Where was his
coolness?=
Where was his sneering, imperturbable manner, with which he
could have met, and would have met, any wo=
man
he had wronged, if he had
only been forewarned. He felt now that he must temporize=
, that
he must
gain time. There was danger in Laura's tone.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was something
frightful in her calmness. Her steady eyes seemed to devour h=
im.
"You have ruined my life," she s=
aid;
"and I was so young, so ignorant,
and loved you so. You betrayed me, and left me mocki=
ng me
and trampling
me into the dust, a soiled cast-off. You might better have killed me
then.&nbs=
p;
Then I should not have hated you."
"Laura," said the Colonel, nervi=
ng
himself, but still pale, and speaking
appealingly, "don't say that. Reproach me. I deserve it. I was a
scoundrel. I was everything monstrous. But your beauty made me crazy.
You are right. I was a brute in leaving you as I
did. But what could I
do?
I was married, and--"
"And your wife still lives?" ask=
ed
Laura, bending a little forward in her
eagerness.
The Colonel noticed the action, and he alm=
ost
said "no," but he thought
of the folly of attempting concealment.
"Yes. She is here."
What little color had wandered back into
Laura's face forsook it again.
Her heart stood still, her strength seemed
going from her limbs. Her
last hope was gone. The room swam before her for a mom=
ent,
and the
Colonel stepped towards her, but she waved=
him
back, as hot anger again
coursed through her veins, and said,
"And you dare come with her, here, and
tell me of it, here and mock me
with it!&=
nbsp;
And you think I will have it; George? You think I will let you
live with that woman? You think I am as powerless as tha=
t day
I fell
dead at your feet?"
She raged now. She was in a tempest of excitement=
. And she advanced
towards him with a threatening mien. She would kill me if she could,
thought the Colonel; but he thought at the
same moment, how beautiful she
is.
He had recovered his head now.
She was lovely when he knew her,
then a simple country girl, Now she was
dazzling, in the fullness of ripe
womanhood, a superb creature, with all the
fascination that a woman of
the world has for such a man as Col.
Selby. Nothing of this was lo=
st on
him. He stepped quickly to her, grasped both her hands in his, and said,<= o:p>
"Laura, stop! think! Suppose I loved you yet! Suppose I hated my fate!
What can I do? I am broken by the war. I have lost everything almost.
I had as lief be dead and done with it.&qu=
ot;
The Colonel spoke with a low remembered vo=
ice
that thrilled through
Laura.&nb=
sp;
He was looking into her eyes as he had looked in those old days,
when no birds of all those that sang in the
groves where they walked sang
a note of warning. He was wounded. He had been punished. Her strength
forsook her with her rage, and she sank up=
on a
chair, sobbing,
"Oh!=
my God, I thought I hated him!"
The Colonel knelt beside her. He took her hand and she let him k=
eep
it.
She, looked down into his face, with a
pitiable tenderness, and said in a
weak voice.
"And you do love me a little?"
The Colonel vowed and protested. He kissed her hand and her lips. He
swore his false soul into perdition.
She wanted love, this woman. Was not her love for George Selby =
deeper
than any other woman's could be? Had she not a right to him? Did he
not belong to her by virtue of her
overmastering passion? His
wife--she
was not his wife, except by the law. She could not be. Even with the
law she could have no right to stand betwe=
en
two souls that were one.
It was an infamous condition in society th=
at
George should be tied to
her.
Laura thought this, believed it; because s=
he
desired to believe it. She
came to it as an original propositions fou=
nded
an the requirements of her
own nature. She may have heard, doubtless she =
had,
similar theories that
were prevalent at that day, theories of the
tyranny of marriage and of
the freedom of marriage. She had even heard women lecturers=
say,
that
marriage should only continue so long as it
pleased either party to it
--for a year, or a month, or a day. She had not given much heed to thi=
s,
but she saw its justice now in a dash of revealing desire. It must be<= o:p>
right.&nb=
sp;
God would not have permitted her to love George Selby as she did,
and him to love her, if it was right for
society to raise up a barrier
between them. He belonged to her. Had he not confessed it himself?
Not even the religious atmosphere of Senat=
or
Dilworthy's house had been
sufficient to instill into Laura that deep
Christian principle which had
been somehow omitted in her training. Indeed in that very house had she<= o:p>
not heard women, prominent before the coun=
try
and besieging Congress,
utter sentiments that fully justified the
course she was marking out for
herself.
They were seated now, side by side, talking
with more calmness. Laura
was happy, or thought she was. But it was that feverish sort of
happiness which is snatched out of the bla=
ck
shadow of falsehood, and is
at the moment recognized as fleeting and
perilous, and indulged
tremblingly. She loved. She was loved. That is happiness certainly.
And the black past and the troubled present
and the uncertain future
could not snatch that from her.
What did they say as they sat there? What nothings do people usually sa=
y
in such circumstances, even if they are
three-score and ten? It was
enough for Laura to hear his voice and be =
near
him. It was enough for
him to be near her, and avoid committing
himself as much as he could.
Enough for him was the present also. Had there not always been some way=
out of such scrapes?
And yet Laura could not be quite content
without prying into tomorrow.
How could the Colonel manage to free himse=
lf
from his wife? Would it be
long?&nbs=
p;
Could he not go into some State where it would not take much time?
He could not say exactly. That they must think of. That they must talk
over.&nbs=
p;
And so on. Did this se=
em
like a damnable plot to Laura against
the life, maybe, of a sister, a woman like
herself? Probably not.
It was right that this man should be hers,=
and
there were some obstacles
in the way. That was all. There are as good reasons for bad
actions as
for good ones,--to those who commit them.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> When one has broken the tenth
commandment, the others are not of much
account.
Was it unnatural, therefore, that when Geo=
rge
Selby departed, Laura
should watch him from the window, with an
almost joyful heart as he went
down the sunny square? "I shall see him to-morrow,&q=
uot;
she said, "and the
next day, and the next. He is mine now."
"Damn the woman," said the Colon=
el
as he picked his way down the steps.
"Or," he added, as his thoughts =
took
a new turn, "I wish my wife was in
=
Open your ears; for which of you will stop,
=
The vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks?
=
I, from the orient to the drooping west,
=
Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold
=
The acts commenced on this ball of earth:
=
Upon my tongues continual slanders ride;
=
The which in every language I pronounce,
=
Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.
=
&nb=
sp;
=
King
Henry IV.
As may be readily believed, Col. Beriah
Sellers was by this time one of
the best known men in Washington. For the first time in his life his=
talents had a fair field.
He was now at the centre of the manufactur=
e of
gigantic schemes,
of speculations of all sorts, of political=
and
social gossip.
The atmosphere was full of little and big
rumors and of vast, undefined
expectations. Everybody was in haste, too, to pu=
sh on
his private plan,
and feverish in his haste, as if in consta=
nt
apprehension that tomorrow
would be Judgment Day. Work while Congress is in session,=
said
the
uneasy spirit, for in the recess there is =
no
work and no device.
The Colonel enjoyed this bustle and confus=
ion
amazingly; he thrived in
the air of-indefinite expectation. All his own schemes took larger sh=
ape
and more misty and majestic proportions; a=
nd
in this congenial air, the
Colonel seemed even to himself to expand i=
nto
something large and
mysterious. If he respected himself before, he
almost worshipped Beriah
Sellers now, as a superior being. If he could have chosen an officia=
l
position out of the highest, he would have
been embarrassed in the
selection. The presidency of the republic see=
med
too limited and cramped
in the constitutional restrictions. If he could have been Grand Llama =
of
the United States, that might have come the
nearest to his idea of a
position.=
And next to that he would have luxuriated in the irresponsible
omniscience of the Special Correspondent.<= o:p>
Col. Sellers knew the President very well,=
and
had access to his presence
when officials were kept cooling their hee=
ls
in the Waiting-room. The
President liked to hear the Colonel talk, =
his
voluble ease was a
refreshment after the decorous dullness of=
men
who only talked business
and government, and everlastingly expounded
their notions of justice and
the distribution of patronage. The Colonel was as much a lover of=
farming and of horses as Thomas Jefferson
was. He talked to the
President by the hour about his magnificent
stud, and his plantation at
Hawkeye, a kind of principality--he represented it. He urged the<= o:p>
President to pay him a visit during the
recess, and see his stock farm.
"The President's table is well
enough," he used to say, to the loafers
who gathered about him at Willard's,
"well enough for a man on a salary,
but God bless my soul, I should like him to
see a little old-fashioned
hospitality--open house, you know. A person seeing me at home might
think I paid no attention to what was in t=
he
house, just let things flow
in and out. He'd be mistaken. What I look to is quality, sir.
President has variety enough, but the
quality! Vegetables of course=
you
can't expect here. I'm very particular about mine.
--there's only one spot in this country wh=
ere
celery will grow. But I an
surprised about the wines. I should think they were manufactu=
red in
the
New York Custom House. I must send the President some fro=
m my
cellar.
I was really mortified the other day at di=
nner
to see Blacque Bey leave
his standing in the glasses."
When the Colonel first came to Washington =
he
had thoughts of taking the
mission to Constantinople, in order to be =
on
the spot to look after the
dissemination, of his Eye Water, but as th=
at
invention; was not yet quite
ready, the project shrank a little in the
presence of vaster schemes.
Besides he felt that he could do the count=
ry
more good by remaining at
home.&nbs=
p;
He was one of the Southerners who were constantly quoted as
heartily "accepting the situation.&qu=
ot;
"I'm whipped," he used to say wi=
th a
jolly laugh, "the government was too
many for me; I'm cleaned out, done for, ex=
cept
my plantation and private
mansion.&=
nbsp;
We played for a big thing, and lost it, and I don't whine, for
one.
I go for putting the old flag on all the vacant lots. I said to
the President, says I, 'Grant, why don't y=
ou
take Santo Domingo, annex
the whole thing, and settle the bill
afterwards. That's my way.
take the job to manage Congress. The South would come into it. You've
got to conciliate the South, consolidate t=
he
two debts, pay 'em off in
greenbacks, and go ahead. That's my notion. Boutwell's got the right
notion about the value of paper, but he la=
cks
courage. I should like to
run the treasury department about six
months. I'd make things plent=
y,
and business look up.'"
The Colonel had access to the
departments. He knew all the
senators and
representatives, and especially, the
lobby. He was consequently a =
great
favorite in Newspaper Row, and was often
lounging in the offices there,
dropping bits of private, official
information, which were immediately,
caught up and telegraphed all over the
country. But it need to surpr=
ise
even the Colonel when he read it, it was
embellished to that degree that
he hardly recognized it, and the hint was =
not
lost on him. He began to
exaggerate his heretofore simple conversat=
ion
to suit the newspaper
demand.
People used to wonder in the winters of 18=
7-
and 187-, where the
"Specials" got that remarkable
information with which they every morning
surprised the country, revealing the most
secret intentions of the
President and his cabinet, the private
thoughts of political leaders,
the hidden meaning of every movement. This information was furnished by<= o:p>
Col. Sellers.
When he was asked, afterwards, about the
stolen copy of the Alabama
Treaty which got into the "New York
Tribune," he only looked mysterious,
and said that neither he nor Senator Dilwo=
rthy
knew anything about it.
But those whom he was in the habit of meet=
ing
occasionally felt almost
certain that he did know.
It must not be supposed that the Colonel in
his general patriotic labors
neglected his own affairs. The Columbus River Navigation Sche=
me
absorbed
only a part of his time, so he was enabled=
to
throw quite a strong
reserve force of energy into the Tennessee
Land plan, a vast enterprise
commensurate with his abilities, and in the
prosecution of which he was
greatly aided by Mr. Henry Brierly, who was
buzzing about the capitol and
the hotels day and night, and making capit=
al
for it in some mysterious
way.
"We must create, a public opinion,&qu=
ot;
said Senator Dilworthy. "=
;My
only
interest in it is a public one, and if the
country wants the institution,
Congress will have to yield."
It may have been after a conversation betw=
een
the Colonel and Senator
Dilworthy that the following special despa=
tch
was sent to a New York
newspaper:
"We underst=
and
that a philanthropic plan is on foot in relation to
the colored race=
that
will, if successful, revolutionize the whole
character of sou=
thern
industry. An experimental
institution is in
contemplation in
Tennessee which will do for that state what the
Industrial Schoo=
l at
Zurich did for Switzerland. We
learn that
approaches have =
been
made to the heirs of the late Hon. Silas
Hawkins of Misso=
uri,
in reference to a lease of a portion of their
valuable propert=
y in
East Tennessee. Senator Dilwo=
rthy,
it is
understood, is
inflexibly opposed to any arrangement that will not
give the governm=
ent
absolute control. Private int=
erests
must give
way to the public good=
. It is to be hoped that Col. Seller=
s, who
represents the h=
eirs,
will be led to see the matter in this light."
When Washington Hawkins read this despatch=
, he
went to the Colonel in
some anxiety. He was for a lease, he didn't want=
to
surrender anything.
What did he think the government would
offer? Two millions?
"May be three, may be four," said
the Colonel, "it's worth more than the
bank of England."
"If they will not lease," said
Washington, "let 'em make it two millions
for an undivided half. I'm not going to throw it away, no=
t the
whole of
it."
Harry told the Colonel that they must drive
the thing through, he
couldn't be dallying round Washington when
Spring opened. Phil wanted
him, Phil had a great thing on hand up in
Pennsylvania.
"What is that?" inquired the
Colonel, always ready to interest himself in
anything large.
"A mountain of coal; that's all. He's going to run a tunnel into it=
in
the Spring."
"Does he want any capital?", ask=
ed
the Colonel, in the tone of a man who
is given to calculating carefully before he
makes an investment.
"No.=
Old man Bolton's behind him.
He has capital, but I judged that he
wanted my experience in starting."
"If he wants me, tell him I'll come,
after Congress adjourns. I sh=
ould
like to give him a little lift. He lacks enterprise--now, about th=
at
Columbus River. He doesn't see his chances. But he's a good fellow, and
you can tell him that Sellers won't go bac=
k on
him."
"By the way," asked Harry, "=
;who
is that rather handsome party that's
hanging 'round Laura? I see him with her everywhere, at =
the
Capitol, in
the horse cars, and he comes to
Dilworthy's. If he weren't la=
me, I
should think he was going to run off with
her."
"Oh, that's nothing. Laura knows her business. He has a cotton claim.
Used to be at Hawkeye during the war.
"Selby's his name, was a Colonel. Got a wife and family.
Very respectable people, the Selby's."=
;
"Well, that's all right," said
Harry, "if it's business. But
if a woman
looked at me as I've seen her at Selby, I
should understand it. And it'=
s
talked about, I can tell you."
Jealousy had no doubt sharpened this young
gentleman's observation.
Laura could not have treated him with more
lofty condescension if she had
been the Queen of Sheba, on a royal visit =
to
the great republic. And he
resented it, and was "huffy" whe=
n he
was with her, and ran her errands,
and brought her gossip, and bragged of his
intimacy with the lovely
creature among the fellows at Newspaper Ro=
w.
Laura's life was rushing on now in the full
stream of intrigue and
fashionable dissipation. She was conspicuous at the balls o=
f the
fastest
set, and was suspected of being present at
those doubtful suppers that
began late and ended early. If Senator Dilworthy remonstrated =
about
appearances, she had a way of silencing
him. Perhaps she had some hol=
d
on him, perhaps she was necessary to his p=
lan
for ameliorating the
condition the tube colored race.
She saw Col. Selby, when the public knew a=
nd
when it did not know.
She would see him, whatever excuses he mad=
e,
and however he avoided her.
She was urged on by a fever of love and ha=
tred
and jealousy, which
alternately possessed her. Sometimes she petted him, and coax=
ed him
and
tried all her fascinations. And again she threatened him and r=
eproached
him.
What was he doing? Why=
had
he taken no steps to free himself?
Why didn't he send his wife home? She should have money soon.
They could go to Europe--anywhere. What did she care for talk?
And he promised, and lied, and invented fr=
esh
excuses for delay, like a
cowardly gambler and roue as he was, feari=
ng
to break with her, and half
the time unwilling to give her up.
"That woman doesn't know what fear
is," he said to himself, "and she
watches me like a hawk."
He told his wife that this woman was a
lobbyist, whom he had to tolerate
and use in getting through his claims, and
that he should pay her and
have done with her, when he succeeded.
Henry Brierly was at the Dilworthy's
constantly and on such terms of
intimacy that he came and went without
question. The Senator was not=
an
inhospitable man, he liked to have guests =
in
his house, and Harry's gay
humor and rattling way entertained him; for
even the most devout men and
busy statesmen must have hours of relaxati=
on.
Harry himself believed that he was of great
service in the University
business, and that the success of the sche=
me
depended upon him to a great
degree.&n=
bsp;
He spent many hours in talking it over with the Senator after
dinner.&n=
bsp;
He went so far as to consider whether it would be worth his
while to take the professorship of civil
engineering in the new
institution.
But it was not the Senator's society nor h=
is
dinners--at which this
scapegrace remarked that there was too much
grace and too little wine
--which attracted him to the horse. The fact was the poor fellow hung<= o:p>
around there day after day for the chance =
of
seeing Laura for five
minutes at a time. For her presence at dinner he would
endure the long
bore of the Senator's talk afterwards, whi=
le
Laura was off at some
assembly, or excused herself on the plea of
fatigue. Now and then he
accompanied her to some reception, and rar=
ely,
on off nights, he was
blessed with her company in the parlor, wh=
en
he sang, and was chatty and
vivacious and performed a hundred little t=
ricks
of imitation and
ventriloquism, and made himself as
entertaining as a man could be.
It puzzled him not a little that all his
fascinations seemed to go for so
little with Laura; it was beyond his
experience with women. Someti=
mes
Laura was exceedingly kind and petted him a
little, and took the trouble
to exert her powers of pleasing, and to
entangle him deeper and deeper.
But this, it angered him afterwards to thi=
nk,
was in private; in public
she was beyond his reach, and never gave
occasion to the suspicion that
she had any affair with him. He was never permitted to achieve =
the
dignity of a serious flirtation with her in
public.
"Why do you treat me so?" he once
said, reproachfully.
"Treat you how?" asked Laura in a
sweet voice, lifting her eyebrows.
"You know well enough. You let other fellows monopolize y=
ou in
society,
and you are as indifferent to me as if we =
were
strangers."
"Can I help it if they are attentive,=
can
I be rude? But we are such ol=
d
friends, Mr. Brierly, that I didn't suppos=
e you
would be jealous."
"I think I must be a very old friend,
then, by your conduct towards me.
By the same rule I should judge that Col.
Selby must be very new."
Laura looked up quickly, as if about to re=
turn
an indignant answer to
such impertinence, but she only said,
"Well, what of Col. Selby,
sauce-box?"
"Nothing, probably, you'll care for.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Your being with him so much is the=
town talk, that's all?"
"What do people say?" asked Laura
calmly.
"Oh, they say a good many things. You are offended, though, to have =
me
speak of it?"
"Not in the least. You are my true friend. I feel that I can trust you.
You wouldn't deceive me, Harry?" throwing into her eyes a look of t=
rust
and tenderness that melted away all his
petulance and distrust. "=
;What
do
they say?"
"Some say that you've lost your head
about him; others that you don't
care any more for him than you do for a do=
zen
others, but that he is
completely fascinated with you and about to
desert his wife; and others
say it is nonsense to suppose you would en=
tangle
yourself with a married
man, and that your intimacy only arises fr=
om
the matter of the cotton,
claims, for which he wants your influence =
with
Dilworthy. But you know
everybody is talked about more or less in
Washington. I shouldn't care;=
but I wish you wouldn't have so much to do
with Selby, Laura," continued
Harry, fancying that he was now upon such
terms that his, advice, would
be heeded.
"And you believed these slanders?&quo=
t;
"I don't believe anything against you,
Laura, but Col. Selby does not
mean you any good. I know you wouldn't be seen with h=
im if
you knew his
reputation."
"Do you know him?" Laura asked, as indifferently as s=
he
could.
"Only a little. I was at his lodgings' in Georgeto=
wn a
day or two ago,
with Col. Sellers. Sellers wanted to talk with him ab=
out
some patent
remedy he has, Eye Water, or something of =
that
sort, which he wants to
introduce into Europe. Selby is going abroad very soon.&q=
uot;
Laura started; in spite of her self-contro=
l.
"And his wife!--Does he take his
family? Did you see his wife?=
"
"Yes. A dark little woman, rather worn--=
must
have been pretty once
though.&n=
bsp;
Has three or four children, one of them a baby. They'll all
go of course. She said she should be glad enough=
to
get away from
Washington. You know Selby has got his claim
allowed, and they say he
has had a run, of luck lately at
Morrissey's."
Laura heard all this in a kind of stupor,
looking straight at Harry,
without seeing him. Is it possible, she was thinking, =
that
this base
wretch, after, all his promises, will take=
his
wife and children and
leave me?=
Is it possible the town is saying all these things about me?
And a look of bitterness coming into her
face--does the fool think he can
escape so?
"You are angry with me, Laura," =
said
Harry, not comprehending in the
least what was going on in her mind.
"Angry?" she said, forcing herse=
lf
to come back to his presence.
"With you? Oh no. I'm angry with the cruel world, wh=
ich,
pursues an
independent woman as it never does a man.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I'm grateful to you Harry;
I'm grateful to you for telling me of that
odious man."
And she rose from her chair and gave him h=
er
pretty hand, which the silly
fellow took, and kissed and clung to. And he said many silly things,
before she disengaged herself gently, and =
left
him, saying it was time to
dress, for dinner.
And Harry went away, excited, and a little
hopeful, but only a little.
The happiness was only a gleam, which depa=
rted
and left him thoroughly,
miserable. She never would love him, and she =
was
going to the devil,
besides.&=
nbsp;
He couldn't shut his eyes to what he saw, nor his ears to what
he heard of her.
What had come over this thrilling young
lady-killer? It was a pity to=
see
such a gay butterfly broken on a wheel.
after all, that had been touched? He was in fact madly in love with =
this
woman.
It is not for us to analyze the passion and
say whether it was a worthy
one.
It absorbed his whole nature and made him wretched enough. If he
deserved punishment, what more would you
have? Perhaps this love was
kindling a new heroism in him.
He saw the road on which Laura was going
clearly enough, though he did
not believe the worst he heard of her. He
loved her too passionately to
credit that for a moment. And it seemed to him that if he co=
uld
compel
her to recognize her position, and his own
devotion, she might love him,
and
that he could save her. His
love was so far ennobled, and become a
very different thing from its beginning in
Hawkeye. Whether he ever
thought that if he could save her from rui=
n,
he could give her up
himself, is doubtful. Such a pitch of virtue does not oc=
cur
often in
real life, especially in such natures as
Harry's, whose generosity and
unselfishness were matters of temperament
rather than habits or
principles.
He wrote a long letter to Laura, an
incoherent, passionate letter,
pouring out his love as he could not do in=
her
presence, and warning her
as plainly as he dared of the dangers that
surrounded her, and the risks
she ran of compromising herself in many wa=
ys.
Laura read the letter, with a little sigh =
may
be, as she thought of other
days, but with contempt also, and she put =
it
into the fire with the
thought, "They are all alike."
Harry was in the habit of writing to Philip
freely, and boasting also
about his doings, as he could not help doi=
ng
and remain himself.
Mixed up with his own exploits, and his da=
ily
triumphs as a lobbyist,
especially in the matter of the new
University, in which Harry was to
have something handsome, were amusing sket=
ches
of Washington society,
hints about Dilworthy, stories about Col.
Sellers, who had become a
well-known character, and wise remarks upon
the machinery of private
legislation for the public-good, which gre=
atly
entertained Philip in his
convalescence.
Laura's name occurred very often in these
letters, at first in casual
mention as the belle of the season, carryi=
ng
everything before her with
her wit and beauty, and then more seriousl=
y,
as if Harry did not exactly
like so much general admiration of her, and
was a little nettled by her
treatment of him.
This was so different from Harry's usual t=
one
about women, that Philip
wondered a good deal over it. Could it be possible that he was
seriously
affected?=
Then came stories about Laura, town talk, gossip which Harry
denied the truth of indignantly; but he was
evidently uneasy, and at
length wrote in such miserable spirits that
Philip asked him squarely
what the trouble was; was he in love?
Upon this, Harry made a clean breast of it,
and told Philip all he knew
about the Selby affair, and Laura's treatm=
ent
of him, sometimes
encouraging him--and then throwing him off,
and finally his belief that
she would go, to the bad if something was =
not
done to arouse her from her
infatuation. He wished Philip was in Washington=
. He knew Laura, and she
had a great respect for his character, his
opinions, his judgment.
Perhaps he, as an uninterested person whom=
she
would have some
confidence, and as one of the public, could
say some thing to her that
would show her where she stood.
Philip saw the situation clearly enough. Of Laura he knew not much,
except that she was a woman of uncommon fascination, a=
nd
he thought from what he had seen of her in Hawkeye, her conduct towards him=
and
towards Harry, of not too much principle.&=
nbsp;
Of course he knew nothing of her
history; he knew nothing seriously against
her, and if Harry was
desperately enamored of her, why should he=
not
win her if he could.
If, however, she had already become what H=
arry
uneasily felt she might
become, was it not his duty to go to the
rescue of his friend and try to
save him from any rash act on account of a
woman that might prove to be
entirely unworthy of him; for trifler and
visionary as he was, Harry
deserved a better fate than this.
Philip determined to go to Washington and =
see
for himself. He had other
reasons also. He began to know enough of Mr. Bol=
ton's
affairs to be
uneasy.&n=
bsp;
Pennybacker had been there several times during the winter, and
he suspected that he was involving Mr. Bol=
ton
in some doubtful scheme.
Pennybacker was in Washington, and Philip
thought he might perhaps find
out something about him, and his plans, th=
at
would be of service to Mr.
Bolton.
Philip had enjoyed his winter very well, f=
or a
man with his arm broken
and his head smashed. With two such nurses as Ruth and A=
lice,
illness
seemed to him rather a nice holiday, and e=
very
moment of his
convalescence had been precious and all too
fleeting. With a young
fellow of the habits of Philip, such injur=
ies
cannot be counted on to
tarry long, even for the purpose of
love-making, and Philip found himself
getting strong with even disagreeable
rapidity.
During his first weeks of pain and weaknes=
s,
Ruth was unceasing in her
ministrations; she quietly took charge of =
him,
and with a gentle firmness
resisted all attempts of Alice or any one =
else
to share to any great
extent the burden with her. She was clear, decisive and peremp=
tory
in
whatever she did; but often when Philip,
opened his eyes in those first
days of suffering and found her standing by
his bedside, he saw a look of
tenderness in her anxious face that quicke=
ned
his already feverish pulse,
a look that, remained in his heart long af=
ter
he closed his eyes.
Sometimes he felt her hand on his forehead,
and did not open his eyes for
fear she world take it away. He watched for her coming to his
chamber;
he could distinguish her light footstep fr=
om
all others. If this is what
is meant by women practicing medicine, tho=
ught
Philip to himself, I like
it.
"Ruth," said he one day when he =
was
getting to be quite himself,
"I believe in it?"
"Believe in what?"
"Why, in women physicians."
"Then, I'd better call in Mrs. Dr.
Longstreet."
"Oh, no. One will do, one at a time. I think I should be well tomorrow,=
if I thought I should never have any
other."
"Thy physician thinks thee mustn't ta=
lk,
Philip," said Ruth putting her
finger on his lips.
"But, Ruth, I want to tell you that I
should wish I never had got well
if--"
"There, there, thee must not talk.
closed his lips, with a smile on her own t=
hat
broadened into a merry
laugh as she ran away.
Philip was not weary, however, of making t=
hese
attempts, he rather
enjoyed it. But whenever he inclined to be
sentimental, Ruth would cut
him off, with some such gravely conceived
speech as, "Does thee think
that thy physician will take advantage of =
the
condition of a man who is
as weak as thee is? I will call Alice, if thee has any=
dying
confessions
to make."
As Philip convalesced, Alice more and more
took Ruth's place as his
entertainer, and read to him by the hour, =
when
he did not want to talk
--to talk about Ruth, as he did a good dea=
l of
the time. Nor was this
altogether unsatisfactory to Philip. He was always happy and contented<= o:p>
with Alice. She was the most restful person he=
knew.
Better informed
than Ruth and with a much more varied cult=
ure,
and bright and
sympathetic, he was never weary of her
company, if he was not greatly
excited by it. She had upon his mind that peaceful
influence that Mrs.
Bolton had when, occasionally, she sat by =
his
bedside with her work.
Some people have this influence, which is =
like
an emanation. They bring
peace to a house, they diffuse serene cont=
ent
in a room full of mixed
company, though they may say very little, =
and
are apparently, unconscious
of their own power.
Not that Philip did not long for Ruth's
presence all the same. Since =
he
was well enough to be about the house, she=
was
busy again with her
studies.&=
nbsp;
Now and then her teasing humor came again. She always had a
playful shield against his sentiment. Philip used sometimes to declare
that she had no sentiment; and then he dou=
bted
if he should be pleased
with her after all if she were at all
sentimental; and he rejoiced that
she had, in such matters what he called the
airy grace of sanity. She
was the most gay serious person he ever sa=
w.
Perhaps he waw not so much at rest or so
contented with her as with
Alice.&nb=
sp;
But then he loved her. And
what have rest and contentment to do
with love?
Mr. Buckstone's campaign was brief--much
briefer than he supposed it
would be.=
He began it purposing to win Laura without being won himself;
but his experience was that of all who had
fought on that field before
him; he diligently continued his effort to=
win
her, but he presently
found that while as yet he could not feel
entirely certain of having won
her, it was very manifest that she had won
him. He had made an able
fight, brief as it was, and that at least =
was
to his credit. He was in
good company, now; he walked in a leash of
conspicuous captives. These
unfortunates followed Laura helplessly, for
whenever she took a prisoner
he remained her slave henceforth. Sometimes they chafed in their
bondage; sometimes they tore themselves fr=
ee
and said their serfdom was
ended; but sooner or later they always came
back penitent and worshiping.
Laura pursued her usual course: she encour=
aged
Mr. Buckstone by turns,
and by turns she harassed him; she exalted=
him
to the clouds at one time,
and at another she dragged him down
again. She constituted him ch=
ief
champion of the Knobs University bill, and=
he
accepted the position, at
first reluctantly, but later as a valued m=
eans
of serving her--he even
came to look upon it as a piece of great g=
ood
fortune, since it brought
him into such frequent contact with her.
Through him she learned that the Hon. Mr.
Trollop was a bitter enemy of
her bill.=
He urged her not to attempt to influence Mr. Trollop in any
way, and explained that whatever she might
attempt in that direction
would surely be used against her and with
damaging effect.
She at first said she knew Mr. Trollop,
"and was aware that he had a
Blank-Blank;"--[**Her private figure =
of
speech for Brother--or
Son-in-law]--but Mr. Buckstone said that he
was not able to conceive what
so curious a phrase as Blank-Blank might m=
ean,
and had no wish to pry
into the matter, since it was probably
private, he "would nevertheless
venture the blind assertion that nothing w=
ould
answer in this particular
case and during this particular session bu=
t to
be exceedingly wary and
keep clear away from Mr. Trollop; any other
course would be fatal."
It seemed that nothing could be done. Laura was seriously troubled.
Everything was looking well, and yet it was
plain that one vigorous and
determined enemy might eventually succeed =
in
overthrowing all her plans.
A suggestion came into her mind presently =
and
she said:
"Can't you fight against his great
Pension bill and, bring him to terms?"
"Oh, never; he and I are sworn brothe=
rs
on that measure; we work in
harness and are very loving--I do everythi=
ng I
possibly can for him
there.&nb=
sp;
But I work with might and main against his Immigration bill,
--as pertinaciously and as vindictively,
indeed, as he works against our
University. We hate each other through half a
conversation and are all
affection through the other half. We understand each other. He is an
admirable worker outside the capitol; he w=
ill
do more for the Pension
bill than any other man could do; I wish he
would make the great speech
on it which he wants to make--and then I would make
another and we would be safe."
"Well if he wants to make a great spe=
ech
why doesn't he do it?"
Visitors interrupted the conversation and =
Mr.
Buckstone took his leave.
It was not of the least moment to Laura th=
at
her question had not been
answered, inasmuch as it concerned a thing
which did not interest her;
and yet, human being like, she thought she
would have liked to know.
An opportunity occurring presently, she put
the same question to another
person and got an answer that satisfied
her. She pondered a good whil=
e
that night, after she had gone to bed, and
when she finally turned over,
to, go to sleep, she had thought out a new
scheme. The next evening at
Mrs. Gloverson's party, she said to Mr.
Buckstone:
"I want Mr. Trollop to make his great=
speech
on the Pension bill."
"Do you? But you remember I was interrupted=
, and
did not explain
to you--"
"Never mind, I know. You must' make him make that
speech. I very
particularly desire, it."
"Oh, it is easy, to say make him do i=
t,
but how am I to make him!"
"It is perfectly easy; I have thought=
it
all out."
She then went into the details. At length Mr. Buckstone said:
"I see now. I can manage it, I am sure. Indeed I wonder he never
thought of it himself--there are no end of
precedents. But how is this
going to benefit you, after I have managed
it? There is where the
mystery lies."
"But I will take care of that. It will benefit me a great deal.&q=
uot;
"I only wish I could see how; it is t=
he
oddest freak. You seem to go =
the
furthest around to get at a thing--but you=
are
in earnest, aren't you?"
"Yes I am, indeed."
"Very well, I will do it--but why not
tell me how you imagine it is going
to help you?"
"I will, by and by.--Now there is nob=
ody
talking to him. Go straight a=
nd
do it, there's a good fellow."
A moment or two later the two sworn friend=
s of
the Pension bill were
talking together, earnestly, and seemingly unconscious=
of
the moving
throng about them.&nb=
sp;
They talked an hour, and then Mr. Buckstone came back and said:
"He hardly fancied it at first, but he
fell in love with it after a bit.
And we have made a compact, too. I am to keep his secret and he is =
to
spare me, in future, when he gets ready to
denounce the supporters of the
University bill--and I can easily believe =
he
will keep his word on this
occasion."
A fortnight elapsed, and the University bi=
ll
had gathered to itself many
friends, meantime. Senator Dilworthy began to think t=
he
harvest was
ripe.&nbs=
p;
He conferred with Laura privately.&=
nbsp;
She was able to tell him
exactly how the House would vote. There was a majority--the bill wou=
ld
pass, unless weak members got frightened at
the last, and deserted--a
thing pretty likely to occur. The Senator said:
"I wish we had one more good strong
man. Now Trollop ought to be =
on our
side, for he is a friend of the negro. But he is against us, and is our
bitterest opponent. If he would simply vote No, but ke=
ep
quiet and not
molest us, I would feel perfectly cheerful=
and
content. But perhaps
there is no use in thinking of that."=
"Why I laid a little plan for his ben=
efit
two weeks ago. I think he wil=
l
be tractable, maybe. He is to come here tonight."<= o:p>
"Look out for him, my child! He means mischief, sure. It is said that
he claims to know of improper practices ha=
ving
been used in the interest
of this bill, and he thinks he sees a chan=
ce
to make a great sensation
when the bill comes up. Be wary. Be very, very careful, my dear.
Do your very-ablest talking, now. You can convince a man of anything=
,
when you try. You must convince him that if anyt=
hing
improper has been
done, you at least are ignorant of it and
sorry for it. And if you coul=
d
only persuade him out of his hostility to =
the
bill, too--but don't overdo
the thing; don't seem too anxious, dear.&q=
uot;
"I won't; I'll be ever so careful.
were my own child! You may trust me--indeed you may.&=
quot;
The door-bell rang.
"That is the gentleman now," said
Laura. Senator Dilworthy reti=
red to
his study.
Laura welcomed Mr. Trollop, a grave, caref=
ully
dressed and very
respectable looking man, with a bald head,
standing collar and old
fashioned watch seals.
"Promptness is a virtue, Mr. Trollop,=
and
I perceive that you have it.
You are always prompt with me."
"I always meet my engagements, of eve=
ry
kind, Miss Hawkins."
"It is a quality which is rarer in the
world than it has been, I believe.
I wished to see you on business, Mr.
Trollop."
"I judged so. What can I do for you?"
"You know my bill--the Knobs Universi=
ty
bill?"
"Ah, I believe it is your bill. I had forgotten. Yes, I know the bill."
"Well, would you mind telling me your
opinion of it?"
"Indeed, since you seem to ask it wit=
hout
reserve, I am obliged to say
that I do not regard it favorably. I have not seen the bill itself, b=
ut
from what I can hear, it--it--well, it has=
a
bad look about it. It--"=
"Speak it out--never fear."
"Well, it--they say it contemplates a
fraud upon the government."
"Well?" said Laura tranquilly.
"Well! I say 'Well?' too."
"Well, suppose it were a fraud--which=
I
feel able to deny--would it be
the first one?"
"You take a body's breath away! Would you--did you wish me to vote=
for
it?
Was that what you wanted to see me about?"
"Your instinct is correct. I did want you--I do want you to v=
ote
for
it."
"Vote for a fr--for a measure which is
generally believed to be at least
questionable? I am afraid we cannot come to an
understanding, Miss
Hawkins."
"No, I am afraid not--if you have res=
umed
your principles, Mr. Trollop."
"Did you send for we merely to insult
me? It is time for me to take=
my
leave, Miss Hawkins."
"No-wait a moment. Don't be offended at a trifle. Do not be offish and
unsociable. The Steamship Subsidy bill was a f=
raud
on the government.
You voted for it, Mr. Trollop, though you
always opposed the measure
until after you had an interview one eveni=
ng
with a certain Mrs. McCarter
at her house. She was my agent. She was acting for me. Ah, that is
right--sit down again. You can be sociable, easily enough=
if
you have a
mind to.&=
nbsp;
Well? I am waiting.
"Miss Hawkins, I voted for that bill
because when I came to examine into
it--"
"Ah yes. When you came to examine into it.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Well, I only want you to
examine into my bill. Mr. Trollop, you would not sell yo=
ur
vote on that
subsidy bill--which was perfectly right--b=
ut
you accepted of some
of the stock, with the understanding that =
it
was to stand in your
brother-in-law's name."
"There is no pr--I mean, this is, utt=
erly
groundless, Miss Hawkins." But
the gentleman seemed somewhat uneasy, neve=
rtheless.
"Well, not entirely so, perhaps. I and a person whom we will call M=
iss
Blank (never mind the real name,) were in a
closet at your elbow all the
while."
Mr. Trollop winced--then he said with dign=
ity:
"Miss Hawkins is it possible that you=
were
capable of such a thing as
that?"
"It was bad; I confess that. It was bad. Almost as bad as selling one's
vote for--but I forget; you did not sell y=
our
vote--you only accepted a
little trifle, a small token of esteem, for your brother-in-law. Oh, let<= o:p>
us come out and be frank with each other: I
know you, Mr. Trollop.
I have met you on business three or four
times; true, I never offered to
corrupt your principles--never hinted such=
a
thing; but always when I had
finished sounding you, I manipulated you
through an agent. Let us be
frank.&nb=
sp;
Wear this comely disguise of virtue before the public--it will
count there; but here it is out of place.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> My dear sir, by and by there
is going to be an investigation into that
National Internal Improvement
Directors' Relief Measure of a few years a=
go,
and you know very well that
you will be a crippled man, as likely as n=
ot,
when it is completed."
"It cannot be shown that a man is a k=
nave
merely for owning that stock.
I am not distressed about the National
Improvement Relief Measure."
"Oh indeed I am not trying to distress
you. I only wished, to make g=
ood
my assertion that I knew you. Several of you gentlemen bought of=
that
stack (without paying a penny down) receiv=
ed
dividends from it, (think of
the happy idea of receiving dividends, and
very large ones, too, from
stock one hasn't paid for!) and all the wh=
ile
your names never appeared
in the transaction; if ever you took the s=
tock
at all, you took it in
other people's names. Now you see, you had to know one o=
f two
things;
namely, you either knew that the idea of a=
ll
this preposterous generosity
was to bribe you into future legislative
friendship, or you didn't know
it.
That is to say, you had to be either a knave or a--well, a fool
--there was no middle ground. You are not a fool, Mr. Trollop.&q=
uot;
"Miss Hawking you flatter me. But seriously, you do not forget t=
hat
some
of the best and purest men in Congress took
that stock in that way?"
"Did Senator Bland?"
"Well, no--I believe not."
"Of course you believe not. Do you suppose he was ever approac=
hed,
on
the subject?"
"Perhaps not."
"If you had approached him, for insta=
nce,
fortified with the fact that
some of the best men in Congress, and the
purest, etc., etc.; what would
have been the result?"
"Well, what WOULD have been the
result?"
"He would have shown you the door!
a fool.&n=
bsp;
There are other men in the Senate and the House whom no one
would have been hardy enough to approach w=
ith
that Relief Stock in that
peculiarly generous way, but they are not =
of
the class that you regard as
the best and purest. No, I say I know you Mr. Trollop.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> That is to say,
one may suggest a thing to Mr. Trollop whi=
ch
it would not do to suggest
to Mr. Blank. Mr. Trollop, you are pledged to su=
pport
the Indigent
Congressmen's Retroactive Appropriation wh=
ich
is to come up, either in
this or the next session. You do not deny that, even in
public. The man
that will vote for that bill will break the
eighth commandment in any
other way, sir!"
"But he will not vote for your corrupt
measure, nevertheless, madam!"
exclaimed Mr. Trollop, rising from his sea=
t in
a passion.
"Ah, but he will. Sit down again, and let me explain
why. Oh, come,
don't behave so. It is very unpleasant. Now be good, and you shall
have, the missing page of your great
speech. Here it is!"--an=
d she
displayed a sheet of manuscript.
Mr. Trollop turned immediately back from t=
he
threshold. It might have
been gladness that flashed into his face; =
it
might have been something
else; but at any rate there was much
astonishment mixed with it.
"Good! Where did you get it? Give it me!"
"Now there is no hurry. Sit down; sit down and let us talk=
and
be
friendly."
The gentleman wavered. Then he said:
"No, this is only a subterfuge. I will go. It is not the missing page."<= o:p>
Laura tore off a couple of lines from the
bottom of the sheet.
"Now," she said, "you will =
know
whether this is the handwriting or not.
You know it is the handwriting. Now if you will listen, you will k=
now
that this must be the list of statistics w=
hich
was to be the 'nub' of
your great effort, and the accompanying bl=
ast
the beginning of the burst
of eloquence which was continued on the ne=
xt
page--and you will recognize
that there was where you broke down."=
She read the page. Mr. Trollop said:
"This is perfectly astounding. Still, what is all this to me? It is
nothing.&=
nbsp;
It does not concern me. The
speech is made, and there an end.
I did break down for a moment, and in a ra=
ther
uncomfortable place, since
I had led up to those statistics with some
grandeur; the hiatus was
pleasanter to the House and the galleries =
than
it was to me. But it is
no matter now. A week has passed; the jests about=
it
ceased three or
four days ago. The whole thing is a matter of ind=
ifference
to me, Miss
Hawkins."
"But you apologized; and promised the statistics for next day. Why<= o:p>
didn't you keep your promise."
"The matter was not of sufficient
consequence. The time was gon=
e by
to
produce an effect with them."
"But I hear that other friends of the
Soldiers' Pension Bill desire them
very much. I think you ought to let them have
them."
"Miss Hawkins, this silly blunder of =
my
copyist evidently has more
interest for you than it has for me. I will send my private secretary t=
o
you and let him discuss the subject with y=
ou
at length."
"Did he copy your speech for you?&quo=
t;
"Of course he did. Why all these questions? Tell me--how did you get
hold of that page of manuscript? That is the only thing that stirs =
a
passing interest in my mind."
"I'm coming to that." Then she said, much as if she were
talking to
herself: "It does seem like taking a =
deal
of unnecessary pains, for a
body to hire another body to construct a g=
reat
speech for him and then go
and get still another body to copy it befo=
re it
can be read in the
House."
"Miss Hawkins, what do yo mean by such
talk as that?"
"Why I am sure I mean no harm--no har=
m to
anybody in the world. I am
certain that I overheard the Hon. Mr.
Buckstone either promise to write
your great speech for you or else get some
other competent person to do
it."
"This is perfectly absurd, madam,
perfectly absurd!" and Mr. Trollop
affected a laugh of derision.
"Why, the thing has occurred before
now. I mean that I have heard=
that
Congressmen have sometimes hired literary
grubs to build speeches for
them.--Now didn't I overhear a conversation
like that I spoke of?"
"Pshaw! Why of course you may have overhea=
rd
some such jesting nonsense.
But would one be in earnest about so farci=
cal
a thing?"
"Well if it was only a joke, why did =
you
make a serious matter of it?
Why did you get the speech written for you,
and then read it in the House
without ever having it copied?"
Mr. Trollop did not laugh this time; he se=
emed
seriously perplexed. He
said:
"Come, play out your jest, Miss
Hawkins. I can't understand w=
hat
you are
contriving--but it seems to entertain you-=
-so
please, go on."
"I will, I assure you; but I hope to =
make
the matter entertaining to you,
too.
Your private secretary never copied your speech."
"Indeed? Really you seem to know my affairs
better than I do myself."
"I believe I do. You can't name your own amanuensis=
, Mr.
Trollop."
"That is sad, indeed. Perhaps Miss Hawkins can?"
"Yes, I can. I wrote your speech myself, and yo=
u read
it from my
manuscript. There, now!"
Mr. Trollop did not spring to his feet and
smite his brow with his hand
while a cold sweat broke out all over him =
and
the color forsook his face
--no, he only said, "Good God!" =
and
looked greatly astonished.
Laura handed him her commonplace-book and
called his attention to the
fact that the handwriting there and the
handwriting of this speech were
the same.=
He was shortly convinced. He
laid the book aside and said,
composedly:
"Well, the wonderful tragedy is done,=
and
it transpires that I am
indebted to you for my late eloquence. What of it? What was all this
for and what does it amount to after all?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> What do you propose to do
about it?"
"Oh nothing. It is only a bit of pleasantry.
conversation I took an early opportunity to
ask Mr. Buckstone if he knew
of anybody who might want a speech written=
--I
had a friend, and so forth
and so on. I was the friend, myself; I though=
t I
might do you a good
turn then and depend on you to do me one by
and by. I never let Mr.
Buckstone have the speech till the last
moment, and when you hurried off
to the House with it, you did not know the=
re
was a missing page, of
course, but I did.
"And now perhaps you think that if I
refuse to support your bill, you
will make a grand exposure?"
"Well I had not thought of that. I only kept back the page for the =
mere
fun of the thing; but since you mention it=
, I
don't know but I might do
something if I were angry."
"My dear Miss Hawkins, if you were to
give out that you composed my
speech, you know very well that people wou=
ld
say it was only your
raillery, your fondness for putting a vict=
im
in the pillory and amusing
the public at his expense. It is too flimsy, Miss Hawkins, fo=
r a
person
of your fine inventive talent--contrive an
abler device than that.
Come!"
"It is easily done, Mr. Trollop. I will hire a man, and pin this pa=
ge on
his breast, and label it, 'The Missing Fragment of the
Hon. Mr. Trollop's
Great Speech--which speech was written and composed by
Miss Laura Hawkins under a secret understanding for one hundred dollars--and
the money has not been paid.' And I
will pin round about it notes in my handwriting, which I will procure from
prominent friends of mine for the occasion; also your printed speech in the
Globe, showing the connection between its bracketed hiatus and my Fragment;=
and
I give you my word of honor that I will stand that human bulletin board in =
the
rotunda of the capitol and make him stay there a week! You see you are premature, Mr. Tro=
llop,
the wonderful tragedy is not done yet, by any means. Come, now, doesn't it improve?&quo=
t;
Mr Trollop opened his eyes rather widely at
this novel aspect of the
case.&nbs=
p;
He got up and walked the floor and gave himself a moment for
reflection. Then he stopped and studied Laura'=
s face
a while, and ended
by saying:
"Well, I am obliged to believe you wo=
uld
be reckless enough to do that."
"Then don't put me to the test, Mr.
Trollop. But let's drop the m=
atter.
I have had my joke and you've borne the
infliction becomingly enough.
It spoils a jest to harp on it after one h=
as
had one's laugh. I would
much rather talk about my bill."
"So would I, now, my clandestine
amanuensis. Compared with some
other
subjects, even your bill is a pleasant top=
ic
to discuss."
"Very good indeed! I thought. I could persuade you. Now I am sure you
will be generous to the poor negro and vote
for that bill."
"Yes, I feel more tenderly toward the
oppressed colored man than I did.
Shall we bury the hatchet and be good frie=
nds
and respect each other's
little secrets, on condition that I vote A=
ye
on the measure?"
"With all my heart, Mr. Trollop. I give you my word of that."<= o:p>
"It is a bargain. But isn't there something else you=
could
give me,
too?"
Laura looked at him inquiringly a moment, =
and
then she comprehended.
"Oh, yes! You may have it now. I haven't any, more use for
it." She
picked up the page of manuscript, but she
reconsidered her intention of
handing it to him, and said, "But nev=
er
mind; I will keep it close; no
one shall see it; you shall have it as soo=
n as
your vote is recorded."
Mr. Trollop looked disappointed. But presently made his adieux, and=
had
got as far as the hall, when something
occurred to Laura. She said t=
o
herself, "I don't simply want his vote
under compulsion--he might vote
aye, but work against the bill in secret, =
for
revenge; that man is
unscrupulous enough to do anything. I must have his hearty co-operatio=
n
as well as his vote. There is only one way to get that.=
"
She called him back, and said:
"I value your vote, Mr. Trollop, but I
value your influence more. Yo=
u
are able to help a measure along in many w=
ays,
if you choose. I want to
ask you to work for the bill as well as vo=
te
for it."
"It takes so much of one's time, Miss
Hawkins--and time is money, you
know."
"Yes, I know it is--especially in
Congress. Now there is no use=
in
you
and I dealing in pretenses and going at
matters in round-about ways.
We know each other--disguises are
nonsense. Let us be plain.
make it an object to you to work for the
bill."
"Don't make it unnecessarily plain,
please. There are little
proprieties
that are best preserved. What do you propose?"
"Well, this." She mentioned the names of several
prominent Congressmen.
"Now," said she, "these
gentlemen are to vote and work for the bill,
simply out of love for the negro--and out =
of
pure generosity I have put
in a relative of each as a member of the
University incorporation. The=
y
will handle a million or so of money,
officially, but will receive no
salaries.=
A larger number of statesmen are to, vote and work for the
bill--also out of love for the
negro--gentlemen of but moderate
influence, these--and out of pure generosi=
ty I
am to see that relatives
of theirs have positions in the University,
with salaries, and good ones,
too.
You will vote and work for the bill, from mere affection for the
negro, and I desire to testify my gratitude
becomingly. Make free
choice.&n=
bsp;
Have you any friend whom you would like to present with a
salaried or unsalaried position in our
institution?"
"Well, I have a brother-in-law--"=
;
"That same old brother-in-law, you go=
od
unselfish provider! I have he=
ard
of him often, through my agents. How regularly he does 'turn up,' t=
o be
sure.&nbs=
p;
He could deal with those millions virtuously, and withal with
ability, too--but of course you would rath=
er
he had a salaried position?"
"Oh, no," said the gentleman,
facetiously, "we are very humble, very
humble in our desires; we want no money; we
labor solely, for our country
and require no reward but the luxury of an
applauding conscience. Make
him one of those poor hard working unsalar=
ied
corporators and let him do
every body good with those millions--and go
hungry himself! I will try
to exert a little influence in favor of the
bill."
Arrived at home, Mr. Trollop sat down and
thought it all over--something
after this fashion: it is about the shape =
it
might have taken if he had
spoken it aloud.
"My reputation is getting a little
damaged, and I meant to clear it up
brilliantly with an exposure of this bill =
at
the supreme moment, and ride
back into Congress on the eclat of it; and=
if
I had that bit of
manuscript, I would do it yet. It would be more money in my pocke=
t in
the end, than my brother-in-law will get o=
ut
of that incorporatorship,
fat as it is. But that sheet of paper is out of =
my
reach--she will never
let that get out of her hands. And what a mountain it is! It blocks up
my road, completely. She was going to hand it to me,
once. Why didn't
she!
Must be a deep woman. =
Deep
devil! That is what she is;
a beautiful devil--and perfectly fearless, too. The idea of her pinning<= o:p>
that paper on a man and standing him up in=
the
rotunda looks absurd at a
first glance. But she would do it! She is capable of doing anything.<= o:p>
I went there hoping she would try to bribe=
me--good
solid capital that
would be in the exposure. Well, my prayer was answered; she =
did
try to
bribe me; and I made the best of a bad bar=
gain
and let her. I am
check-mated. I must contrive something fresh to=
get
back to Congress on.
Very well; a bird in the hand is worth two=
in
the bush; I will work for
the bill--the incorporatorship will be a v=
ery
good thing."
As soon as Mr. Trollop had taken his leave,
Laura ran to Senator
Dilworthy and began to speak, but he
interrupted her and said
distressfully, without even turning from h=
is
writing to look at her:
"Only half an hour! You gave it up early, child. However, it was best,
it was best--I'm sure it was best--and
safest."
"Give it up! I!"
The Senator sprang up, all aglow:
"My child, you can't mean that
you--"
"I've made him promise on honor to th=
ink
about a compromise tonight and
come and tell me his decision in the
morning."
"Good! There's hope yet that--"
"Nonsense, uncle. I've made him engage to let the
Tennessee Land bill
utterly alone!"
"Impossible! You--"
"I've made him promise to vote with
us!"
"INCREDIBLE! Abso--"
"I've made him swear that he'll work =
for
us!"
"PRE - - - POSTEROUS!--Utterly pre--b=
reak
a window, child, before I
suffocate!"
"No matter, it's true anyway. Now we can march into Congress with
drums
beating and colors flying!"
"Well--well--well. I'm sadly bewildered, sadly
bewildered. I can't
understand it at all--the most extraordina=
ry
woman that ever--it's a
great day, it's a great day. There--there--let me put my hand i=
n
benediction on this precious head. Ah, my child, the poor negro will<= o:p>
bless--"
"Oh bother the poor negro, uncle! Put it in your speech. Good-night,
good-bye--we'll marshal our forces and mar=
ch
with the dawn!"
Laura reflected a while, when she was alon=
e,
and then fell to laughing,
peacefully.
"Everybody works for me,"--so ran
her thought. "It was a g=
ood
idea to
make Buckstone lead Mr. Trollop on to get a
great speech written for him;
and it was a happy part of the same idea f=
or
me to copy the speech after
Mr. Buckstone had written it, and then keep
back a page. Mr. B. was
very complimentary to me when Trollop's
break-down in the House showed
him the object of my mysterious scheme; I
think he will say, still finer
things when I tell him the triumph the seq=
uel
to it has gained for us.
"But what a coward the man was, to
believe I would have exposed that page
in the rotunda, and so exposed myself. However, I don't know--I don't
know.&nbs=
p;
I will think a moment.
Suppose he voted no; suppose the bill
failed; that is to suppose this stupendous
game lost forever, that I have
played so desperately for; suppose people =
came
around pitying me--odious!
And he could have saved me by his single
voice. Yes, I would have
exposed him! What would I care for the talk tha=
t that
would have made
about me when I was gone to Europe with Se=
lby
and all the world was busy
with my history and my dishonor? It would be almost happiness to sp=
ite
somebody at such a time."
The very next day, sure enough, the campai=
gn
opened. In due course, the
Speaker of the House reached that Order of
Business which is termed
"Notices of Bills," and then the
Hon. Mr. Buckstone rose in his place and
gave notice of a bill "To Found and
Incorporate the Knobs Industrial
University," and then sat down without
saying anything further. The =
busy
gentlemen in the reporters' gallery jotted=
a
line in their note-books,
ran to the telegraphic desk in a room which
communicated with their own
writing-parlor, and then hurried back to t=
heir
places in the gallery; and
by the time they had resumed their seats, =
the
line which they had
delivered to the operator had been read in
telegraphic offices in towns
and cities hundreds of miles away. It was distinguished by frankness =
of
language as well as by brevity:
"The child is born. Buckstone gives notice of the thie=
ving
Knobs
University job. It is said the noses have been cou=
nted
and enough votes
have been bought to pass it."
For some time the correspondents had been
posting their several journals
upon the alleged disreputable nature of the
bill, and furnishing daily
reports of the Washington gossip concerning
it. So the next morning,
nearly every newspaper of character in the
land assailed the measure and
hurled broadsides of invective at Mr. Buck=
stone. The Washington papers
were more respectful, as usual--and
conciliatory, also, as usual. They
generally supported measures, when it was
possible; but when they could
not they "deprecated" violent
expressions of opinion in other
journalistic quarters.
They always deprecated, when there was tro=
uble
ahead. However, 'The
Washington Daily Love-Feast' hailed the bi=
ll
with warm approbation. This
was Senator Balaam's paper--or rather,
"Brother" Balaam, as he was
popularly called, for he had been a clergy=
man,
in his day; and he himself
and all that he did still emitted an odor =
of
sanctity now that he had
diverged into journalism and politics. He was a power in the
Congressional prayer meeting, and in all
movements that looked to the
spread of religion and temperance.
His paper supported the new bill with gush=
ing
affection; it was a noble
measure; it was a just measure; it was a
generous measure; it was a pure
measure, and that surely should recommend =
it
in these corrupt times; and
finally, if the nature of the bill were not
known at all, the 'Love
Feast' would support it anyway, and
unhesitatingly, for the fact that
Senator Dilworthy was the originator of the
measure was a guaranty that
it contemplated a worthy and righteous wor=
k.
Senator Dilworthy was so anxious to know w=
hat
the New York papers would
say about the bill; that he had arranged to
have synopses of their
editorials telegraphed to him; he could not
wait for the papers
themselves to crawl along down to Washingt=
on
by a mail train which has
never run over a cow since the road was bu=
ilt;
for the reason that it has
never been able to overtake one. It carries the usual
"cow-catcher" in
front of the locomotive, but this is mere
ostentation. It ought to be
attached to the rear car, where it could do
some good; but instead, no
provision is made there for the protection=
of
the traveling public, and
hence it is not a matter of surprise that =
cows
so frequently climb aboard
that train and among the passengers.
The Senator read his dispatches aloud at t=
he
breakfast table. Laura was
troubled beyond measure at their tone, and
said that that sort of comment
would defeat the bill; but the Senator sai=
d:
"Oh, not at all, not at all, my
child. It is just what we wan=
t.
Persecution is the one thing needful, now-=
-all
the other forces are
secured.&=
nbsp;
Give us newspaper persecution enough, and we are safe.
Vigorous persecution will alone carry a bi=
ll
sometimes, dear; and when
you start with a strong vote in the first
place, persecution comes in
with double effect. It scares off some of the weak
supporters, true,
but it soon turns strong ones into stubborn
ones. And then, presently,
it changes the tide of public opinion. The great public is weak-minded;
the great public is sentimental; the great
public always turns around and
weeps for an odious murderer, and prays
for-him, and carries flowers to
his prison and besieges the governor with
appeals to his clemency, as
soon as the papers begin to howl for that
man's blood.--In a word, the
great putty-hearted public loves to 'gush,'
and there is no such darling
opportunity to gush as a case of persecuti=
on
affords."
"Well, uncle, dear; if your theory is
right, let us go into raptures,
for nobody can ask a heartier persecution =
than
these editorials are
furnishing."
"I am not so sure of that, my
daughter. I don't entirely li=
ke the
tone
of some of these remarks. They lack vim, they lack venom.
calls it a 'questionable measure.' Bah, there is no strength in that.=
This one is better; it calls it 'highway
robbery.' That sounds somethi=
ng
like.&nbs=
p;
But now this one seems satisfied to call it an 'iniquitous
scheme'.&=
nbsp;
'Iniquitous' does not exasperate anybody; it is weak--puerile.
The ignorant will imagine it to be intended
for a compliment. But this
other one--the one I read last--has the tr=
ue
ring: 'This vile, dirty
effort to rob the public treasury, by the
kites and vultures that now
infest the filthy den called Congress'--th=
at
is admirable, admirable!
We must have more of that sort. But it will come--no fear of that;=
they're not warmed up, yet. A week from now you'll see."<= o:p>
"Uncle, you and Brother Balaam are bo=
som
friends--why don't you get his
paper to persecute us, too?"
"It isn't worth while, my daughter. His support doesn't hurt a bill.
Nobody reads his editorials but himself. But I wish the New York papers
would talk a little plainer. It is annoying to have to wait a w=
eek
for
them to warm up. I expected better things at their
hands--and time is
precious, now."
At the proper hour, according to his previ=
ous
notice, Mr. Buckstone duly
introduced his bill entitled "An Act =
to
Found and Incorporate the Knobs
Industrial University," moved its pro=
per
reference, and sat down.
The Speaker of the House rattled off this
observation:
"'Fnobjectionbilltakuzhlcoixrssorefer=
red!'"
Habitues of the House comprehended that th=
is
long, lightning-heeled word
signified that if there was no objection, =
the
bill would take the
customary course of a measure of its natur=
e,
and be referred to the
Committee on Benevolent Appropriations, and
that it was accordingly so
referred.=
Strangers merely supposed that the Speaker was taking a gargle
for some affection of the throat.
The reporters immediately telegraphed the
introduction of the bill.--And
they added:
"The assert=
ion
that the bill will pass was premature.&nbs=
p;
It is said
that many favore=
rs of
it will desert when the storm breaks upon them
from the public
press."
The storm came, and during ten days it wax=
ed
more and more violent day by
day.
The great "Negro University Swindle" became the one absorb=
ing
topic
of conversation throughout the Union. Individuals denounced it, journals=
denounced it, public meetings denounced it,
the pictorial papers
caricatured its friends, the whole nation
seemed to be growing frantic
over it.&=
nbsp;
Meantime the Washington correspondents were sending such
telegrams as these abroad in the land; Und=
er
date of--
SATURDAY.=
"Congressmen Jex and Fluke are wavering; it is believed they
will desert the execrable bill."
MONDAY.&n=
bsp;
"Jex and Fluke have deserted!"
THURSDAY.=
"Tubbs and Huffy left the sinking ship last night"
Later on:
"Three desertions. The University thieves are getting
scared, though
they will not own it."
Later:
"The leaders are growing stubborn--th=
ey
swear they can carry it, but it
is now almost certain that they no longer =
have
a majority!"
After a day or two of reluctant and ambigu=
ous
telegrams:
"Public sentiment seems changing, a
trifle in favor of the bill
--but only a trifle."
And still later:
"It is whispered that the Hon. Mr.
Trollop has gone over to the pirates.
It is probably a canard. Mr. Trollop has all along been the
bravest and
most efficient champion of virtue and the
people against the bill, and
the report is without doubt a shameless
invention."
Next day:
"With characteristic treachery, the
truckling and pusillanimous reptile,
Crippled-Speech Trollop, has gone over to =
the
enemy. It is contended,
now, that he has been a friend to the bill=
, in
secret, since the day it
was introduced, and has had bankable reaso=
ns
for being so; but he himself
declares that he has gone over because the
malignant persecution of the
bill by the newspapers caused him to study=
its
provisions with more care
than he had previously done, and this close
examination revealed the fact
that the measure is one in every way worth=
y of
support. (Pretty thin!)
It cannot be denied that this desertion has
had a damaging effect. Jex
and Fluke have returned to their iniquitous
allegiance, with six or eight
others of lesser calibre, and it is report=
ed
and believed that Tubbs and
Huffy are ready to go back. It is feared that the University s=
windle
is
stronger to-day than it has ever been
before."
Later-midnight:
"It is said that the committee will
report the bill back to-morrow.
Both
sides are marshaling their forces, and the
fight on this bill is
evidently going to be the hottest of the
session.--All Washington is
boiling."
"It's easy enough for another fellow =
to
talk," said Harry, despondingly,
after he had put Philip in possession of h= is view of the case. "It's<= o:p>
easy enough to say 'give her up,' if you d=
on't
care for her. What am I
going to do to give her up?"
It seemed to Harry that it was a situation
requiring some active
measures.=
He couldn't realize that he had fallen hopelessly in love
without some rights accruing to him for the
possession of the object of
his passion. Quiet resignation under relinquish=
ment
of any thing he
wanted was not in his line. And when it appeared to him that h=
is
surrender of Laura would be the withdrawal=
of
the one barrier that kept
her from ruin, it was unreasonable to expe=
ct
that he could see how to
give her up.
Harry had the most buoyant confidence in h=
is
own projects always; he saw
everything connected with himself in a lar=
ge
way and in rosy lines. This
predominance of the imagination over the judgment gave
that appearance of
exaggeration to his conversation and to his communicat=
ions
with regard to
himself, which sometimes conveyed the impression that =
he
was not speaking the truth. H=
is
acquaintances had been known to say that they invariably allowed a half for
shrinkage in his statements, and held the other half under advisement for
confirmation.
Philip in this case could not tell from Harry's story
exactly how much
encouragement Laura had given him, nor what hopes he m=
ight
justly have of winning her. H=
e had
never seen him desponding before.
The "brag"
appeared to be all taken out of him, and his airy mann=
er
only asserted
itself now and then in a comical imitation of its old
self.
Philip wanted time to look about him before he decided
what to do.
He was not familiar with Washington, and it
was difficult to adjust his
feelings and perceptions to its
peculiarities. Coming out of =
the
sweet
sanity of the Bolton household, this was by
contrast the maddest Vanity
Fair one could conceive. It seemed to him a feverish, unhea=
lthy
atmosphere in which lunacy would be easily
developed. He fancied that
everybody attached to himself an exaggerat=
ed
importance, from the fact of
being at the national capital, the center =
of
political influence, the
fountain of patronage, preferment, jobs and
opportunities.
People were introduced to each other as fr=
om
this or that state, not from
cities or towns, and this gave a largeness=
to
their representative
feeling.&=
nbsp;
All the women talked politics as naturally and glibly as they
talk fashion or literature elsewhere. There was always some exciting
topic at the Capitol, or some huge slander=
was
rising up like a miasmatic
exhalation from the Potomac, threatening to
settle no one knew exactly
where.&nb=
sp;
Every other person was an aspirant for a place, or, if he had
one, for a better place, or more pay; almo=
st
every other one had some
claim or interest or remedy to urge; even =
the
women were all advocates
for the advancement of some person, and th=
ey
violently espoused or
denounced this or that measure as it would
affect some relative,
acquaintance or friend.
Love, travel, even death itself, waited on=
the
chances of the dies daily
thrown in the two Houses, and the committee
rooms there. If the measure
went through, love could afford to ripen i=
nto
marriage, and longing for
foreign travel would have fruition; and it
must have been only eternal
hope springing in the breast that kept ali=
ve
numerous old claimants who
for years and years had besieged the doors=
of
Congress, and who looked as
if they needed not so much an appropriatio=
n of
money as six feet of
ground.&n=
bsp;
And those who stood so long waiting for success to bring them
death were usually those who had a just cl=
aim.
Representing states and talking of national
and even international
affairs, as familiarly as neighbors at home
talk of poor crops and the
extravagance of their ministers, was likel=
y at
first to impose upon
Philip as to the importance of the people
gathered here.
There was a little newspaper editor from
Phil's native town, the
assistant on a Peddletonian weekly, who ma=
de
his little annual joke about
the "first egg laid on our table,&quo=
t;
and who was the menial of every
tradesman in the village and under bonds to
him for frequent "puffs,"
except the undertaker, about whose employm=
ent
he was recklessly
facetious. In Washington he was an important =
man,
correspondent, and
clerk of two house committees, a
"worker" in politics, and a confident
critic of every woman and every man in Was=
hington. He would be a consul
no doubt by and by, at some foreign port, =
of
the language of which he was
ignorant--though if ignorance of language =
were
a qualification he might
have been a consul at home. His easy familiarity with great me=
n was
beautiful to see, and when Philip learned =
what
a tremendous underground
influence this little ignoramus had, he no
longer wondered at the queer
appointments and the queerer legislation.<= o:p>
Philip was not long in discovering that pe=
ople
in Washington did not
differ much from other people; they had the
same meannesses,
generosities, and tastes: A Washington
boarding house had the odor of a
boarding house the world over.
Col. Sellers was as unchanged as any one
Philip saw whom he had known
elsewhere. Washington appeared to be the nati=
ve
element of this man.
His pretentions were equal to any he
encountered there. He saw not=
hing
in its society that equalled that of Hawke=
ye,
he sat down to no table
that could not be unfavorably contrasted w=
ith
his own at home; the most
airy scheme inflated in the hot air of the
capital only reached in
magnitude some of his lesser fancies, the
by-play of his constructive
imagination.
"The country is getting along very
well," he said to Philip, "but our
public men are too timid. What we want is more money. I've told
Boutwell so. Talk about basing the currency on =
gold;
you might as well
base it on pork. Gold is only one product. Base it on everything!
You've got to do something for the West. How am I to move my crops?
We must have improvements. Grant's got the idea. We want a canal from
the James River to the Mississippi. Government ought to build it."=
;
It was difficult to get the Colonel off fr=
om
these large themes when he
was once started, but Philip brought the
conversation round to Laura and
her reputation in the City.
"No," he said, "I haven't
noticed much. We've been so b=
usy
about this
University. It will make Laura rich with the r=
est of
us, and she has
done nearly as much as if she were a man.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She has great talent, and will
make a big match. I see the foreign ministers and th=
at
sort after her.
Yes, there is talk, always will be about a
pretty woman so much in public
as she is. Tough stories come to me, but I pu=
t'em
away. 'Taint likely
one of Si Hawkins's children would do that=
--for
she is the same as a
child of his. I told her, though, to go slow,&qu=
ot;
added the Colonel, as if
that mysterious admonition from him would =
set
everything right.
"Do you know anything about a Col.
Selby?"
"Know all about him. Fine fellow. But he's got a wife; and I told hi=
m,
as a friend, he'd better sheer off from
Laura. I reckon he thought
better of it and did."
But Philip was not long in learning the
truth. Courted as Laura was b=
y a
certain class and still admitted into soci=
ety,
that, nevertheless, buzzed
with disreputable stories about her, she h=
ad
lost character with the best
people.&n=
bsp;
Her intimacy with Selby was open gossip, and there were winks
and thrustings of the tongue in any group =
of
men when she passed by.
It was clear enough that Harry's delusion =
must
be broken up, and that no
such feeble obstacle as his passion could
interpose would turn Laura from
her fate.=
Philip determined to see her, and put himself in possession of
the truth, as he suspected it, in order to
show Harry his folly.
Laura, after her last conversation with Ha=
rry,
had a new sense of her
position.=
She had noticed before the signs of a change in manner towards
her, a little less respect perhaps from me=
n,
and an avoidance by women.
She had attributed this latter partly to
jealousy of her, for no one is
willing to acknowledge a fault in himself =
when
a more agreeable motive
can be found for the estrangement of his
acquaintances. But now, if
society had turned on her, she would defy it. It was not in her nature<= o:p>
to shrink. She knew she had been wronged, and =
she
knew that she had no
remedy.
What she heard of Col. Selby's proposed
departure alarmed her more than
anything else, and she calmly determined t=
hat
if he was deceiving her the
second time it should be the last. Let society finish the tragedy if =
it
liked; she was indifferent what came
after. At the first opportuni=
ty,
she charged Selby with his intention to abandon her. He unblushingly<= o:p>
denied it.
He had not thought of going to Europe. He had only been amusing himself
with Sellers' schemes. He swore that as soon as she succe=
eded
with her
bill, he would fly with her to any part of=
the
world.
She did not quite believe him, for she saw
that he feared her, and she
began to suspect that his were the
protestations of a coward to gain
time.&nbs=
p;
But she showed him no doubts.
She only watched his movements day by day,=
and
always held herself ready
to act promptly.
When Philip came into the presence of this
attractive woman, he could not
realize that she was the subject of all the
scandal he had heard. She
received him with quite the old Hawkeye
openness and cordiality, and fell
to talking at once of their little
acquaintance there; and it seemed
impossible that he could ever say to her w=
hat
he had come determined to
say. Such a man as Philip has only one standard by which to judge women.<= o:p>
Laura recognized that fact no doubt. The better part of her woman's
nature saw it. Such a man might, years ago, not n=
ow,
have changed her
nature, and made the issue of her life so
different, even after her cruel
abandonment. She had a dim feeling of this, and=
she
would like now to
stand well with him. The spark of truth and honor that =
was
left in her
was elicited by his presence. It was this influence that governe=
d her
conduct in this interview.
"I have come," said Philip in his
direct manner, "from my friend
Mr. Brierly. You are not ignorant of his feeling
towards you?"
"Perhaps not."
"But perhaps you do not know, you who
have so much admiration, how
sincere and overmastering his love is for
you?" Philip would not h=
ave
spoken so plainly, if he had in mind anyth=
ing
except to draw from Laura
something that would end Harry's passion.<= o:p>
"And is sincere love so rare, Mr.
Sterling?" asked Laura, moving her foot
a little, and speaking with a shade of
sarcasm.
"Perhaps not in Washington," rep=
lied
Philip,--tempted into a similar
tone.&nbs=
p;
"Excuse my bluntness," he continued, "but would the
knowledge of
his love; would his devotion, make any
difference to you in your
Washington life?"
"In respect to what?" asked Laura
quickly.
"Well, to others. I won't equivocate--to Col. Selby?=
"
Laura's face flushed with anger, or shame;=
she
looked steadily at Philip
and began,
"By what right, sir,--"
"By the right of friendship,"
interrupted Philip stoutly.
"It may matter
little to you. It is everything to him. He has a Quixotic notion that
you would turn back from what is before you
for his sake. You cannot be
ignorant of what all the city is talking
of." Philip said this
determinedly and with some bitterness.
It was a full minute before Laura spoke. Both had risen, Philip as if to
go, and Laura in suppressed excitement.
very unsteady, and she looked down.
"Yes, I know. I perfectly understand what you
mean. Mr. Brierly is
nothing--simply nothing. He is a moth singed, that is all--=
the
trifler
with women thought he was a wasp. I have no pity for him, not the le=
ast.
You may tell him not to make a fool of
himself, and to keep away. I =
say
this on your account, not his. You are not like him. It is enough for
me that you want it so. Mr. Sterling," she continued,
looking up; and
there were tears in her eyes that contradi=
cted
the hardness of her
language, "you might not pity him if =
you
knew my history; perhaps you
would not wonder at some things you hear.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> No; it is useless to ask me
why it must be so. You can't make a life over--society
wouldn't let you
if you would--and mine must be lived as it
is. There, sir, I'm not
offended; but it is useless for you to say
anything more."
Philip went away with his heart lightened
about Harry, but profoundly
saddened by the glimpse of what this woman
might have been. He told
Harry all that was necessary of the
conversation--she was bent on going
her own way, he had not the ghost of a
chance--he was a fool, she had
said, for thinking he had.
And Harry accepted it meekly, and made up =
his
own mind that Philip didn't
know much about women.
The galleries of the House were packed, on=
the
momentous day, not because
the reporting of an important bill back by=
a
committee was a thing to be
excited about, if the bill were going to t=
ake
the ordinary course
afterward; it would be like getting excited
over the empaneling of a
coroner's jury in a murder case, instead of
saving up one's emotions for
the grander occasion of the hanging of the
accused, two years later,
after all the tedious forms of law had been
gone through with.
But suppose you understand that this coron=
er's
jury is going to turn out
to be a vigilance committee in disguise, w=
ho
will hear testimony for an
hour and then hang the murderer on the
spot? That puts a different
aspect upon the matter. Now it was whispered that the legi=
timate
forms
of procedure usual in the House, and which
keep a bill hanging along for
days and even weeks, before it is finally
passed upon, were going to be
overruled, in this case, and short work ma=
de
of the measure; and so,
what was beginning as a mere inquest might,
torn out to be something very
different.
In the course of the day's business the Or=
der
of "Reports of Committees"
was finally reached and when the weary cro=
wds
heard that glad
announcement issue from the Speaker's lips
they ceased to fret at the
dragging delay, and plucked up spirit. The Chairman of the Committee on
Benevolent Appropriations rose and made his
report, and just then a
blue-uniformed brass-mounted little page p=
ut a
note into his hand.
It was from Senator Dilworthy, who had
appeared upon the floor of the
House for a moment and flitted away again:=
"Everybody =
expects
a grand assault in force; no doubt you believe,
as I certainly d=
o,
that it is the thing to do; we are strong, and
everything is ho=
t for
the contest. Trollop's espous=
al of
our cause
has immensely he=
lped
us and we grow in power constantly.
Ten of the
opposition were =
called
away from town about noon,(but--so it is
said--only for o=
ne
day). Six others are sick, but
expect to be
about again tomo=
rrow
or next day, a friend tells me. A
bold
onslaught is wor=
th
trying. Go for a suspension o=
f the
rules! You
will find we can=
swing
a two-thirds vote--I am perfectly satisfied
of it. The Lord's truth will prevail.
=
&nb=
sp; =
&nb=
sp;
"DILWORTHY."
Mr. Buckstone had reported the bills from =
his
committee, one by one,
leaving the bill to the last. When the House had voted upon the<= o:p>
acceptance or rejection of the report upon=
all
but it, and the question
now being upon its disposal--Mr. Buckstone
begged that the House would
give its attention to a few remarks which =
he
desired to make. His
committee had instructed him to report the
bill favorably; he wished to
explain the nature of the measure, and thus
justify the committee's
action; the hostility roused by the press
would then disappear, and the
bill would shine forth in its true and nob=
le
character. He said that its
provisions were simple. It incorporated the Knobs Industri=
al
University,
locating it in East Tennessee, declaring it
open to all persons without
distinction of sex, color or religion, and
committing its management to a
board of perpetual trustees, with power to
fill vacancies in their own
number.&n=
bsp;
It provided for the erection of certain buildings for the
University, dormitories, lecture-halls,
museums, libraries, laboratories,
work-shops, furnaces, and mills. It provided also for the purchase =
of
sixty-five thousand acres of land, (fully
described) for the purposes of
the University, in the Knobs of East
Tennessee. And it appropriate=
d
[blank] dollars for the purchase of the La=
nd,
which should be the
property of the national trustees in trust=
for
the uses named.
Every effort had been made to secure the
refusal of the whole amount of
the property of the Hawkins heirs in the
Knobs, some seventy-five
thousand acres Mr. Buckstone said. But Mr. Washington Hawkins (one of=
the heirs) objected. He was, indeed, very reluctant to =
sell
any part of
the land at any price; and indeed--this
reluctance was justifiable when
one considers how constantly and how great=
ly
the property is rising in
value.
What the South needed, continued Mr.
Buckstone, was skilled labor.
Without that it would be unable to develop=
its
mines, build its roads,
work to advantage and without great waste =
its
fruitful land, establish
manufactures or enter upon a prosperous in=
dustrial
career. Its laborers
were almost altogether unskilled. Change them into intelligent, trai=
ned
workmen, and you increased at once the
capital, the resources of the
entire south, which would enter upon a
prosperity hitherto unknown.
In five years the increase in local wealth
would not only reimburse the
government for the outlay in this
appropriation, but pour untold wealth
into the treasury.
This was the material view, and the least
important in the honorable
gentleman's opinion. [Here he referred to some notes
furnished him by
Senator Dilworthy, and then continued.] God
had given us the care of
these colored millions. What account should we render to H=
im of
our
stewardship? We had made them free. Should we leave them ignorant?
We had cast them upon their own
resources. Should we leave th=
em
without
tools?&nb=
sp;
We could not tell what the intentions of Providence are in regard
to these peculiar people, but our duty was
plain. The Knobs Industrial
University would be a vast school of modern
science and practice, worthy
of a great nation. It would combine the advantages of
Zurich, Freiburg,
Creuzot and the Sheffield Scientific. Providence had apparently reserved=
and set apart the Knobs of East Tennessee =
for
this purpose. What else
were they for? Was it not wonderful that for more=
than
thirty years,
over a generation, the choicest portion of
them had remained in one
family, untouched, as if, separated for so=
me
great use!
It might be asked why the government should
buy this land, when it had
millions of yes, more than the railroad
companies desired, which, it
might devote to this purpose? He answered, that the government h=
ad no
such tract of land as this. It had nothing comparable to it fo=
r the
purposes of the University: This was to be=
a
school of mining, of
engineering, of the working of metals, of
chemistry, zoology, botany,
manufactures, agriculture, in short of all=
the
complicated industries
that make a state great. There was no place for the locatio=
n of
such a
school like the Knobs of East Tennessee. The hills abounded in metals of
all sorts, iron in all its combinations,
copper, bismuth, gold and silver
in small quantities, platinum he--believed,
tin, aluminium; it was
covered with forests and strange plants; in the woods =
were
found the
coon, the opossum, the fox, the deer and many other
animals who roamed in the domain of natural history; coal existed in enormo=
us
quantity and no
doubt oil; it was such a place for the practice of
agricultural
experiments that any student who had been successful t=
here
would have an
easy task in any other portion of the coun=
try.
No place offered equal facilities for
experiments in mining, metallurgy,
engineering. He expected to live to see the day=
, when
the youth of the
south would resort to its mines, its works=
hops,
its laboratories, its
furnaces and factories for practical
instruction in all the great
industrial pursuits.
A noisy and rather ill-natured debate
followed, now, and lasted hour
after hour. The friends of the bill were instr=
ucted
by the leaders to
make no effort to check it; it was deemed
better strategy to tire out the
opposition; it was decided to vote down ev=
ery
proposition to adjourn, and
so continue the sitting into the night;
opponents might desert, then, one
by one and weaken their party, for they ha=
d no
personal stake in the
bill.
Sunset came, and still the fight went on; =
the
gas was lit, the crowd in
the galleries began to thin, but the conte=
st
continued; the crowd
returned, by and by, with hunger and thirst
appeased, and aggravated the
hungry and thirsty House by looking conten=
ted
and comfortable; but still
the wrangle lost nothing of its
bitterness. Recesses were mov=
ed
plaintively by the opposition, and invaria=
bly
voted down by the
University army.
At midnight the House presented a spectacle
calculated to interest a
stranger.=
The great galleries were still thronged--though only with men,
now; the bright colors that had made them =
look
like hanging gardens were
gone, with the ladies. The reporters' gallery, was merely
occupied by
one or two watchful sentinels of the
quill-driving guild; the main body
cared nothing for a debate that had dwindl=
ed
to a mere vaporing of dull
speakers and now and then a brief quarrel =
over
a point of order; but
there was an unusually large attendance of
journalists in the reporters'
waiting-room, chatting, smoking, and keepi=
ng
on the 'qui vive' for the
general irruption of the Congressional vol=
cano
that must come when the
time was ripe for it. Senator Dilworthy and Philip were =
in the
Diplomatic Gallery; Washington sat in the
public gallery, and Col.
Sellers was, not far away. The Colonel had been flying about =
the
corridors and button-holing Congressmen all
the evening, and believed
that he had accomplished a world of valuab=
le
service; but fatigue was
telling upon him, now, and he was quiet and speechless--for once. Below,<= o:p>
a few Senators lounged upon the sofas set
apart for visitors, and talked
with idle Congressmen. A dreary member was speaking; the
presiding
officer was nodding; here and there little
knots of members stood in the
aisles, whispering together; all about the
House others sat in all the
various attitudes that express weariness;
some, tilted back, had one or
more legs disposed upon their desks; some
sharpened pencils indolently;
some scribbled aimlessly; some yawned and
stretched; a great many lay
upon their breasts upon the desks, sound
asleep and gently snoring.
The flooding gaslight from the fancifully
wrought roof poured down upon
the tranquil scene. Hardly a sound disturbed the still=
ness,
save the
monotonous eloquence of the gentleman who
occupied the floor. Now and
then a warrior of the opposition broke down
under the pressure, gave it
up, and went home.
Mr. Buckstone began to think it might be s=
afe,
now, to "proceed to
business." He consulted with Trollop and one =
or two
others. Senator
Dilworthy descended to the floor of the Ho=
use
and they went to meet him.
After a brief comparison of notes, the
Congressmen sought their seats and
sent pages about the House with messages to
friends. These latter
instantly roused up, yawned, and began to =
look
alert. The moment the
floor was unoccupied, Mr. Buckstone rose, =
with
an injured look, and said
it was evident that the opponents of the b=
ill
were merely talking against
time, hoping in this unbecoming way to tire
out the friends of the
measure and so defeat it. Such conduct might be respectable =
enough
in a
village debating society, but it was trivi=
al
among statesmen, it was out
of place in so august an assemblage as the
House of Representatives of
the United States. The friends of the bill had been n=
ot
only willing
that its opponents should express their
opinions, but had strongly
desired it. They courted the fullest and freest
discussion; but it
seemed to him that this fairness was but i=
lly
appreciated, since
gentlemen were capable of taking advantage=
of
it for selfish and unworthy
ends.&nbs=
p;
This trifling had gone far enough.&=
nbsp;
He called for the question.
The instant Mr. Buckstone sat down, the st=
orm
burst forth. A dozen
gentlemen sprang to their feet.
"Mr. Speaker!"
"Mr. Speaker!"
"Mr. Speaker!"
"Order! Order! Order! Question! Question!"
The sharp blows of the Speaker's gavel rose
above the din.
The "previous question," that ha=
ted
gag, was moved and carried. A=
ll
debate came to a sudden end, of course.
Then the vote was taken on the adoption of=
the
report and it carried by a
surprising majority.
Mr. Buckstone got the floor again and moved
that the rules be suspended
and the bill read a first time.
Mr. Trollop--"Second the motion!"=
;
The Speaker--"It is moved and--"=
Clamor of Voices. "Move we adjourn! Second the motion! Adjourn!
Adjourn!&=
nbsp;
Order! Order!"
The Speaker, (after using his gavel
vigorously)--"It is moved and
seconded that the House do now adjourn.
Voices--"Division! Division! Ayes and nays! Ayes and nays!"
It was decided to vote upon the adjournmen=
t by
ayes and nays. This was
in earnest. The excitement was furious. The galleries were in commotion
in an instant, the reporters swarmed to th=
eir
places. Idling members of
the House flocked to their seats, nervous
gentlemen sprang to their feet,
pages flew hither and thither, life and
animation were visible
everywhere, all the long ranks of faces in=
the
building were kindled.
"This thing decides it!" thought=
Mr.
Buckstone; "but let the fight
proceed."
The voting began, and every sound ceased b=
ut
the calling if the names
and the "Aye!" "No!" "No!" "Aye!" of the responses.=
There was not a
movement in the House; the people seemed to
hold their breath.
The voting ceased, and then there was an
interval of dead silence while
the clerk made up his count. There was a two-thirds vote on the=
University side--and two over.
The Speaker--"The rules are suspended,
the motion is carried--first
reading of the bill!"
By one impulse the galleries broke forth i=
nto
stormy applause, and even
some of the members of the House were not
wholly able to restrain their
feelings.=
The Speaker's gavel came to the rescue and his clear voice
followed:
"Order, gentlemen--! The House will come to order! If spectators offend
again, the Sergeant-at-arms will clear the
galleries!"
Then he cast his eyes aloft and gazed at s=
ome
object attentively for a
moment.&n=
bsp;
All eyes followed the direction of the Speaker's, and then there
was a general titter. The Speaker said:
"Let the Sergeant-at Arms inform the
gentleman that his conduct is an
infringement of the dignity of the House--=
and
one which is not warranted
by the state of the weather." Poor Sellers was the culprit. He sat in
the front seat of the gallery, with his ar=
ms
and his tired body
overflowing the balustrade--sound asleep, =
dead
to all excitements, all
disturbances. The fluctuations of the Washington
weather had influenced
his dreams, perhaps, for during the recent
tempest of applause he had
hoisted his gingham umbrella, and calmly g=
one
on with his slumbers.
Washington Hawkins had seen the act, but w=
as
not near enough at hand to
save his friend, and no one who was near
enough desired to spoil the
effect.&n=
bsp;
But a neighbor stirred up the Colonel, now that the House had
its eye upon him, and the great speculator
furled his tent like the Arab.
He said:
"Bless my soul, I'm so absent-minded =
when
I, get to thinking! I never
wear an umbrella in the house--did anybody 'notice
it'? What-asleep?
Indeed? =
And
did you wake me sir? Thank
you--thank you very much indeed. It might have fallen out of my hands and b=
een
injured. Admirable
article, sir--present from a friend in Hong
Kong; one doesn't come across
silk like that in this country--it's the
real--Young Hyson, I'm told."
By this time the incident was forgotten, f=
or
the House was at war again.
Victory was almost in sight, now, and the
friends of the bill threw
themselves into their work with
enthusiasm. They soon moved a=
nd
carried
its second reading, and after a strong, sh=
arp
fight, carried a motion to
go into Committee of the whole. The Speaker left his place, of cou=
rse,
and a chairman was appointed.
Now the contest raged hotter than ever--for
the authority that compels
order when the House sits as a House, is
greatly diminished when it sits
as Committee. The main fight came upon the filli=
ng of
the blanks with
the sum to be appropriated for the purchas=
e of
the land, of course.
Buckstone--"Mr. Chairman, I move you,=
sir,
that the words 'three millions
of' be inserted."
Mr. Hadley--"Mr. Chairman, I move that
the words two and a half dollars
be inserted."
Mr. Clawson--"Mr. Chairman, I move the
insertion of the words five and
twenty cents, as representing the true val=
ue
of this barren and isolated
tract of desolation."
The question, according to rule, was taken
upon the smallest sum first.
It was lost.
Then upon the nest smallest sum. Lost, also.
And then upon the three millions. After a vigorous battle that laste=
d a
considerable time, this motion was carried=
.
Then, clause by clause the bill was read,
discussed, and amended in
trifling particulars, and now the Committee
rose and reported.
The moment the House had resumed its funct=
ions
and received the report,
Mr. Buckstone moved and carried the third
reading of the bill.
The same bitter war over the sum to be paid
was fought over again, and
now that the ayes and nays could be called=
and
placed on record, every
man was compelled to vote by name on the t=
hree
millions, and indeed on
every paragraph of the bill from the enact=
ing
clause straight through.
But as before, the friends of the measure
stood firm and voted in a solid
body every time, and so did its enemies.
The supreme moment was come, now, but so s=
ure
was the result that not
even a voice was raised to interpose an
adjournment. The enemy were
totally demoralized. The bill was put upon its final pa=
ssage
almost
without dissent, and the calling of the ay=
es
and nays began. When it was
ended the triumph was complete--the two-th=
irds
vote held good, and a veto
was impossible, as far as the House was
concerned!
Mr. Buckstone resolved that now that the n=
ail
was driven home, he would
clinch it on the other side and make it st=
ay
forever. He moved a
reconsideration of the vote by which the b=
ill
had passed. The motion was
lost, of course, and the great Industrial
University act was an
accomplished fact as far as it was in the
power of the House of
Representatives to make it so.
There was no need to move an adjournment.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The instant the last motion
was decided, the enemies of the University
rose and flocked out of the
Hall, talking angrily, and its friends flo=
cked
after them jubilant and
congratulatory. The galleries disgorged their burd=
en,
and presently the
house was silent and deserted.
When Col. Sellers and Washington stepped o=
ut
of the building they were
surprised to find that the daylight was old
and the sun well up. Said
the Colonel:
"Give me your hand, my boy! You're all right at last! You're a
millionaire! At least you're going to be. The thing is dead sure.
Don't you bother about the Senate. Leave me and Dilworthy to take car=
e
of that.&=
nbsp;
Run along home, now, and tell Laura. Lord, it's magnificent
news--perfectly magnificent! Run, now. I'll telegraph my wife. She
must come here and help me build a house.<= span style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Everything's all right now!"<= o:p>
Washington was so dazed by his good fortune
and so bewildered by the
gaudy pageant of dreams that was already
trailing its long ranks through
his brain, that he wandered he knew not wh=
ere,
and so loitered by the way
that when at last he reached home he woke =
to a
sudden annoyance in the
fact that his news must be old to Laura, n=
ow,
for of course Senator
Dilworthy must have already been home and =
told
her an hour before. He
knocked at her door, but there was no answ=
er.
"That is like the Duchess," said
he. "Always cool; a body=
can't
excite
her-can't keep her excited, anyway. Now she has gone off to sleep agai=
n,
as comfortably as if she were used to pick=
ing
up a million dollars every
day or two."
Then he vent to bed. But he could not sleep; so he got =
up and
wrote a
long, rapturous letter to Louise, and anot=
her
to his mother. And he
closed both to much the same effect:
"Laura will=
be
queen of America, now, and she will be applauded, and
honored and pett=
ed by
the whole nation. Her name wi=
ll be
in every
one's mouth more=
than
ever, and how they will court her and quote
her bright
speeches. And mine, too, I su=
ppose;
though they do that
more already, th=
an
they really seem to deserve. =
Oh,
the world is so
bright, now, and=
so
cheery; the clouds are all gone, our long
struggle is ende=
d, our
troubles are all over. Nothin=
g can
ever
make us unhappy =
any
more. You dear faithful ones =
will
have the
reward of your p=
atient
waiting now. How father's Wis=
dom is
proven
at last! And how I repent me, that there ha=
ve
been times when I
lost faith and s=
aid,
the blessing he stored up for us a tedious
generation ago w=
as but
a long-drawn curse, a blight upon us all.
But everything is
well, now--we are done with poverty, sad toil,
weariness and
heart-break; all the world is filled with sunshine."
Philip left the capitol and walked up
Senator Dilworthy. It was a bright spring morning, th=
e air
was soft and
inspiring; in the deepening wayside green,=
the
pink flush of the
blossoming peach trees, the soft suffusion=
on
the heights of
and the breath of the warm south wind was
apparent, the annual miracle of
the resurrection of the earth.
The Senator took off his hat and seemed to
open his soul to the sweet
influences of the morning. After the heat and noise of the ch=
amber,
under its dull gas-illuminated glass canop=
y,
and the all night struggle
of passion and feverish excitement there, =
the
open, tranquil world seemed
like Heaven. The Senator was not in an exultant=
mood,
but rather in a
condition of holy joy, befitting a Christi=
an
statesman whose benevolent
plans Providence has made its own and stam=
ped
with approval. The great
battle had been fought, but the measure had
still to encounter the
scrutiny of the Senate, and Providence
sometimes acts differently in the
two Houses. Still the Senator was tranquil, fo=
r he
knew that there is an
esprit de corps in the Senate which does n=
ot
exist in the House, the
effect of which is to make the members
complaisant towards the projects
of each other, and to extend a mutual aid
which in a more vulgar body
would be called "log-rolling."
"It is, under Providence, a good nigh=
t's
work, Mr. Sterling. The
government has founded an institution which
will remove half the
difficulty from the southern problem. And it is a good thing for the
Hawkins heirs, a very good thing. Laura will be almost a
millionaire."
"Do you think, Mr. Dilworthy, that the
Hawkinses will get much of the
money?" asked Philip innocently,
remembering the fate of the Columbus
River appropriation.
The Senator looked at his companion
scrutinizingly for a moment to see if
he meant anything personal, and then repli=
ed,
"Undoubtedly, undoubtedly. I have had their interests greatly=
at
heart.
There will of course be a few expenses, but
the widow and orphans will
realize all that Mr. Hawkins, dreamed of f=
or
them."
The birds were singing as they crossed the
Presidential Square, now
bright with its green turf and tender
foliage. After the two had ga=
ined
the steps of the Senator's house they stoo=
d a
moment, looking upon the
lovely prospect:
"It is like the peace of God," s=
aid
the Senator devoutly.
Entering the house, the Senator called a
servant and said, "Tell Miss
Laura that we are waiting to see her. I ought to have sent a messenger
on horseback half an hour ago," he ad=
ded
to Philip, "she will be
transported with our victory. You must stop to breakfast, and se=
e the
excitement." The servant soon came back, with a
wondering look and
reported,
"Miss Laura ain't dah, sah. I reckon she hain't been dah all
night!"
The Senator and Philip both started up.
marks of a confused and hasty departure,
drawers half open, little
articles strewn on the floor. The bed had not been disturbed.
inquiry it appeared that Laura had not bee=
n at
dinner, excusing herself
to Mrs. Dilworthy on the plea of a violent
headache; that she made a
request to the servants that she might not=
be
disturbed.
The Senator was astounded. Philip thought at once of Col.
Selby. Could
Laura have run away with him? The Senator thought not. In fact it could
not be.&n=
bsp;
Gen. Leffenwell, the member from New Orleans, had casually told
him at the house last night that Selby and=
his
family went to New York
yesterday morning and were to sail for Eur=
ope
to-day.
Philip had another idea which, he did not
mention. He seized his hat,
and saying that he would go and see what he
could learn, ran to the
lodgings of Harry; whom he had not seen si=
nce
yesterday afternoon, when
he left him to go to the House.
Harry was not in. He had gone out with a hand-bag be=
fore
six o'clock
yesterday, saying that he had to go to New
York, but should return next
day.
In Harry's-room on the table Philip found this note:
=
"Dear Mr. Brierly:--Can you meet me at the six o'clock train,
=
and be my escort to New York?
I have to go about this
=
University bill, the vote of an absent member we must have
=
here, Senator Dilworthy cannot go.
=
&nb=
sp; =
Yours, L. H."
"Confound it," said Phillip,
"the noodle has fallen into her trap.=
And
she promised she would let him alone."=
;
He only stopped to send a note to Senator
Dilworthy, telling him what he
had found, and that he should go at once to
New York, and then hastened
to the railway station. He had to wait an hour for a train=
, and
when it
did start it seemed to go at a snail's pac=
e.
Philip was devoured with anxiety. Where could they, have gone? What was
Laura's object in taking Harry? Had the flight anything to do with=
Selby?&nb=
sp;
Would Harry be such a fool as to be dragged into some public
scandal?
It seemed as if the train would never reach
Baltimore. Then there was a
long delay at Havre de Grace. A hot box had to be cooled at
Wilmington.
Would it never get on? Only in passing around the city of
Philadelphia
did the train not seem to go slow. Philip stood upon the platform and=
watched for the Boltons' house, fancied he
could distinguish its roof
among the trees, and wondered how Ruth wou=
ld
feel if she knew he was so
near her.
Then came Jersey, everlasting Jersey, stup=
id
irritating Jersey, where the
passengers are always asking which line th=
ey
are on, and where they are
to come out, and whether they have yet rea=
ched
Elizabeth. Launched into
Jersey, one has a vague notion that he is =
on
many lines and no one in
particular, and that he is liable at any m=
oment
to come to Elizabeth.
He has no notion what Elizabeth is, and al=
ways
resolves that the next
time he goes that way, he will look out of=
the
window and see what it is
like; but he never does. Or if he does, he probably finds t=
hat it
is
Princeton or something of that sort. He gets annoyed, and never can see=
the use of having different names for stat=
ions
in Jersey. By and by.
there is Newark, three or four Newarks
apparently; then marshes; then
long rock cuttings devoted to the
advertisements of 'patent medicines and
ready-made, clothing, and New York tonics =
for
Jersey agues, and Jersey
City is reached.
On the ferry-boat Philip bought an evening
paper from a boy crying
"'Ere's the Evening Gram, all about t=
he
murder," and with breathless
haste--ran his eyes over the following:
=
&nb=
sp;
SHOCKING MURDER!!!
TRAGEDY IN HIGH
LIFE!! A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN SHOO=
TS A
DISTINGUISHED
CONFEDERATE SOLD=
IER AT
THE SOUTHERN HOTEL!!! JEALOUS=
Y THE
CAUSE!!!
This morning occ=
urred
another of those shocking murders which have
become the almost
daily food of the newspapers, the direct result of
the socialistic
doctrines and woman's rights agitations, which have
made every woman=
the
avenger of her own wrongs, and all society the
=
span> hunting ground for her
victims.
About nine o'clo=
ck a
lady deliberately shot a man dead in the public
parlor of the So=
uthern
Hotel, coolly remarking, as she threw down
her revolver and
permitted herself to be taken into custody, "He
brought it on
himself." Our reporters =
were
immediately dispatched
to the scene of =
the
tragedy, and gathered the following particulars.
Yesterday aftern=
oon
arrived at the hotel from Washington, Col.
George Selby and
family, who had taken passage and were to sail at
noon to-day in t=
he
steamer Scotia for England. T=
he
Colonel was a
handsome man abo=
ut
forty, a gentleman Of wealth and high social
position, a resi=
dent
of New Orleans. He served with
distinction in
the confederate =
army,
and received a wound in the leg from which he
has never entire=
ly
recovered, being obliged to use a cane in
locomotion.
This morning at =
about
nine o'clock, a lady, accompanied by a
gentleman, calle=
d at
the office Of the hotel and asked for Col.
Selby. The Colonel was at breakfast. Would the clerk tell him that
a lady and gentl=
eman
wished to see him for a moment in the parlor?
The clerk says t=
hat
the gentleman asked her, "What do you want to
see him for?&quo=
t; and
that she replied, "He is going to Europe, and I
ought to just sa=
y good
by."
Col. Selby was
informed; and the lady and gentleman were shown to
the parlor, in w=
hich
were at the time three or four other persons.
Five minutes aft=
er two
shots were fired in quick succession, and
there was a rush=
to
the parlor from which the reports came.
Col. Selby was f=
ound
lying on the floor, bleeding, but not dead.
Two gentlemen, w=
ho had
just come in, had seized the lady, who made
no resistance, a=
nd she
was at once given in charge of a police
officer who
arrived. The persons who were=
in
the parlor agree
substantially as=
to
what occurred. They had happe=
ned to
be looking
towards the door=
when
the man--Col. Selby--entered with his cane,
and they looked =
at
him, because he stopped as if surprised and
frightened, and =
made a
backward movement. At the same moment the
lady in the bonn=
et
advanced towards him and said something like,
"George, wi=
ll you
go with me?" He replied,
throwing up his hand and
retreating, &quo=
t;My
God I can't, don't fire," and the next instants two
shots were heard=
and
he fell. The lady appeared to=
be
beside
herself with rag=
e or
excitement, and trembled very much when the
=
span> gentlemen took hold of =
her;
it was to them she said, "He brought it
on himself."=
;
Col. Selby was c=
arried
at once to his room and Dr. Puffer, the
eminent surgeon =
was
sent for. It was found that h=
e was
shot through
the breast and t=
hrough
the abdomen. Other aid was
summoned, but the
wounds were mort=
al,
and Col Selby expired in an hour, in pain, but
his mind was cle=
ar to
the last and he made a full deposition.&nb=
sp;
The
substance of it =
was
that his murderess is a Miss Laura Hawkins, whom
he had known at
Washington as a lobbyist and had some business with
her. She had followed him with her atte=
ntions
and solicitations,
and had endeavor=
ed to
make him desert his wife and go to Europe with
her. When he resisted and avoided her s=
he had
threatened him. Only
the day before h=
e left
Washington she had declared that he should
never go out of =
the
city alive without her.
It seems to have=
been
a deliberate and premeditated murder, the
woman following =
him to
Washington on purpose to commit it.
We learn that the
murderess, who is a woman of dazzling and
transcendent bea=
uty
and about twenty six or seven, is a niece of
Senator Dilworth=
y at
whose house she has been spending the winter.
=
span> She belongs to a high
Southern family, and has the reputation of
being an heiress=
. Like
some other great beauties and belles in
Washington howev=
er
there have been whispers that she had something
to do with the
lobby. If we mistake not we h=
ave
heard her name
mentioned in
connection with the sale of the Tennessee Lands to the
Knobs University=
, the
bill for which passed the House last night.
Her companion is=
Mr.
Harry Brierly, a New York dandy, who has been
in Washington. H=
is
connection with her and with this tragedy is not
known, but he wa=
s also
taken into custody, and will be detained at
least as a witne=
ss.
P. S. One of the persons present in the =
parlor
says that after
Laura Hawkins had
fired twice, she turned the pistol towards
herself, but that
Brierly sprung and caught it from her hand, and
that it was he w=
ho
threw it on the floor.
Further particul=
ars
with full biographies of all the parties in our
next edition.
Philip hastened at once to the Southern Ho=
tel,
where he found still a
great state of excitement, and a thousand
different and exaggerated
stories passing from mouth to mouth. The witnesses of the event had tol=
d
it over so many time that they had worked =
it
up into a most dramatic
scene, and embellished it with whatever co=
uld
heighten its awfulness.
Outsiders had taken up invention also. The Colonel's wife had gone
insane, they said. The children had rushed into the p=
arlor
and rolled
themselves in their father's blood. The hotel clerk said that he notic=
ed
there was murder in the woman's eye when he
saw her. A person who had
met the woman on the stairs felt a creeping
sensation. Some thought
Brierly was an accomplice, and that he had=
set
the woman on to kill his
rival.&nb=
sp;
Some said the woman showed the calmness and indifference of
insanity.
Philip learned that Harry and Laura had bo=
th
been taken to the city
prison, and he went there; but he was not
admitted. Not being a
newspaper reporter, he could not see eithe=
r of
them that night; but the
officer questioned him suspiciously and as=
ked
him who he was. He might
perhaps see Brierly in the morning.
The latest editions of the evening papers =
had
the result of the inquest.
It was a plain enough case for the jury, b=
ut
they sat over it a long
time, listening to the wrangling of the
physicians. Dr. Puffer insist=
ed
that the man died from the effects of the wound in the chest. Dr. Dobb<= o:p>
as strongly insisted that the wound in the
abdomen caused death. Dr.
Golightly suggested that in his opinion de=
ath
ensued from a complication
of the two wounds and perhaps other
causes. He examined the table=
waiter, as to whether Col. Selby ate any
breakfast, and what he ate, and
if he had any appetite.
The jury finally threw themselves back upon
the indisputable fact that
Selby was dead, that either wound would ha=
ve
killed him (admitted by the
doctors), and rendered a verdict that he d=
ied
from pistol-shot wounds
inflicted by a pistol in the hands of Laura
Hawkins.
The morning papers blazed with big type, a=
nd
overflowed with details of
the murder. The accounts in the evening papers=
were
only the premonitory
drops to this mighty shower. The scene was dramatically worked =
up in
column after column. There were sketches, biographical =
and
historical.
There were long "specials" from
Washington, giving a full history of
Laura's career there, with the names of men
with whom she was said to be
intimate, a description of Senator Dilwort=
hy's
residence and of his
family, and of Laura's room in his house, =
and
a sketch of the Senator's
appearance and what he said. There was a great deal about her b=
eauty,
her accomplishments and her brilliant posi=
tion
in society, and her
doubtful position in society. There was also an interview with C=
ol.
Sellers and another with Washington Hawkin=
s,
the brother of the
murderess. One journal had a long dispatch fr=
om
Hawkeye, reporting the
excitement in that quiet village and the
reception of the awful
intelligence.
All the parties had been
"interviewed." Ther=
e were
reports of
conversations with the clerk at the hotel;
with the call-boy; with the
waiter at table with all the witnesses, wi=
th
the policeman, with the
landlord (who wanted it understood that
nothing of that sort had ever
happened in his house before, although it =
had
always been frequented by
the best Southern society,) and with Mrs. =
Col.
Selby. There were
diagrams illustrating the scene of the
shooting, and views of the hotel
and street, and portraits of the parties.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There were three minute and
different statements from the doctors about
the wounds, so technically
worded that nobody could understand them.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Harry and Laura had also been
"interviewed" and there was a
statement from Philip himself, which a
reporter had knocked him up out of bed at
midnight to give, though how he
found him, Philip never could conjecture.<= o:p>
What some of the journals lacked in suitab=
le
length for the occasion,
they made up in encyclopaedic information
about other similar murders and
shootings.
The statement from Laura was not full, in =
fact
it was fragmentary, and
consisted of nine parts of, the reporter's
valuable observations to one
of Laura's, and it was, as the reporter
significantly remarked,
"incoherent", but it appeared th=
at
Laura claimed to be Selby's wife,
or to have been his wife, that he had dese=
rted
her and betrayed her, and
that she was going to follow him to
Europe. When the reporter ask=
ed:
"What made you shoot him Miss.
Hawkins?"
Laura's only reply was, very simply,
"Did I shoot him? Do they say I shot him?". And she would say no more.
The news of the murder was made the excite=
ment
of the day. Talk of it
filled the town. The facts reported were scrutinize=
d, the
standing of
the parties was discussed, the dozen diffe=
rent
theories of the motive,
broached in the newspapers, were disputed
over.
During the night subtle electricity had
carried the tale over all the
wires of the continent and under the sea; =
and
in all villages and towns
of the Union, from the Atlantic to the
territories, and away up and
down the Pacific slope, and as far as Lond=
on
and Paris and Berlin, that
morning the name of Laura Hawkins was spok=
en
by millions and millions of
people, while the owner of it--the sweet c=
hild
of years ago, the
beautiful queen of Washington drawing
rooms--sat shivering on her cot-bed
in the darkness of a damp cell in the Tomb=
s.
Philip's first effort was to get Harry out=
of
the Tombs. He gained
permission to see him, in the presence of =
an
officer, during the day,
and he found that hero very much cast down=
.
"I never intended to come to such a p=
lace
as this, old fellow," he said
to Philip; "it's no place for a
gentleman, they've no idea how to treat a
gentleman. Look at that provender," poin=
ting
to his uneaten prison
ration.&n=
bsp;
"They tell me I am detained as a witness, and I passed the nigh=
t
among a lot of cut-throats and dirty
rascals--a pretty witness I'd be in
a month spent in such company."
"But what under heavens," asked
Philip, "induced you to come to New York
with Laura! What was it for?"
"What for? Why, she wanted me to come. I didn't know anything about
that cursed Selby. She said it was lobby business for=
the
University.
I'd no idea what she was dragging me into =
that
confounded hotel for.
I suppose she knew that the Southerners al=
l go
there, and thought she'd
find her man. Oh!
Lord, I wish I'd taken your advice.=
You might as
well murder somebody and have the credit of
it, as get into the
newspapers the way I have. She's pure devil, that girl. You ought to
have seen how sweet she was on me; what an=
ass
I am."
"Well, I'm not going to dispute a poo=
r,
prisoner. But the first thing=
is
to get you out of this. I've brought the note Laura wrote =
you,
for one
thing, and I've seen your uncle, and expla=
ined
the truth of the case to
him.
He will be here soon."
Harry's uncle came, with; other friends, a=
nd
in the course of the day
made such a showing to the authorities that
Harry was released, on giving
bonds to appear as a witness when wanted.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> His spirits rose with their
usual elasticity as soon as he was out of
Centre Street, and he insisted
on giving Philip and his friends a royal
supper at Delmonico's, an excess
which was perhaps excusable in the rebound=
of
his feelings, and which was
committed with his usual reckless
generosity. Harry ordered, th=
e supper,
and it is perhaps needless to say, that Ph=
ilip
paid the bill.
Neither of the young men felt like attempt=
ing
to see Laura that day,
and she saw no company except the newspaper
reporters, until the arrival
of
Col. Sellers and Washington Hawkins, who had hastened to New York
with all speed.
They found Laura in a cell in the upper ti=
er
of the women's department.
The cell was somewhat larger than those in=
the
men's department, and
might be eight feet by ten square, perhaps=
a
little longer. It was of
stone, floor and all, and tile roof was ov=
en
shaped. A narrow slit in
the roof admitted sufficient light, and was
the only means of
ventilation; when the window was opened th=
ere
was nothing to prevent the
rain coming in. The only means of heating being fr=
om the
corridor, when
the door was ajar, the cell was chilly and=
at
this time damp. It was
whitewashed and clean, but it had a slight
jail odor; its only furniture
was a narrow iron bedstead, with a tick of
straw and some blankets, not
too clean.
When Col. Sellers was conducted to this ce=
ll
by the matron and looked
in, his emotions quite overcame him, the t=
ears
rolled down his cheeks and
his voice trembled so that he could hardly speak. Washington was unable<= o:p>
to say anything; he looked from Laura to t=
he
miserable creatures who were
walking in the corridor with unutterable
disgust. Laura was alone calm=
and self-contained, though she was not unm=
oved
by the sight of the grief
of her friends.
"Are you comfortable, Laura?" was
the first word the Colonel could get
out.
"You see," she replied. "I can't say it's exactly
comfortable."
"Are you cold?"
"It is pretty chilly. The stone floor is like ice. It chills me through
to step on it. I have to sit on the bed."
"Poor thing, poor thing. And can you eat any thing?"
"No, I am not hungry. I don't know that I could eat any =
thing,
I can't
eat that."
"Oh dear," continued the Colonel,
"it's dreadful. But chee=
r up,
dear,
cheer up;" and the Colonel broke down
entirely.
"But," he went on, "we'll s=
tand
by you. We'll do everything f=
or
you.
I know you couldn't have meant to do it, it
must have been insanity, you
know, or something of that sort. You never did anything of the sort=
before."
Laura smiled very faintly and said,
"Yes, it was something of that sort.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It's all a whirl. He was a
villain; you don't know."
"I'd rather have killed him myself, i=
n a
duel you know, all fair. I wi=
sh
I had.&nb=
sp;
But don't you be down. We'll
get you the best counsel, the
lawyers in New York can do anything; I've =
read
of cases. But you must be
comfortable now. We've brought some of your clothes=
, at
the hotel. What
else, can we get for you?"
Laura suggested that she would like some
sheets for her bed, a piece of
carpet to step on, and her meals sent in; =
and
some books and writing
materials if it was allowed. The Colonel and Washington promise=
d to
procure all these things, and then took th=
eir
sorrowful leave, a great
deal more affected than the criminal was,
apparently, by her situation.
The colonel told the matron as he went away
that if she would look to
Laura's comfort a little it shouldn't be t=
he
worse for her; and to the
turnkey who let them out he patronizingly
said,
"You've got a big establishment here,=
a
credit to the city. I've got =
a
friend in there--I shall see you again,
sir."
By the next day something more of Laura's =
own
story began to appear in
the newspapers, colored and heightened by reporters' rhetoric. Some of<= o:p>
them cast a lurid light upon the Colonel's
career, and represented his
victim as a beautiful avenger of her murde=
red
innocence; and others
pictured her as his willing paramour and
pitiless slayer. Her
communications to the reporters were stopp=
ed
by her lawyers as soon as
they were retained and visited her, but th=
is
fact did not prevent--it may
have facilitated--the appearance of casual
paragraphs here and there
which were likely to beget popular sympathy
for the poor girl.
The occasion did not pass without "improvement&qu=
ot;
by the leading journals;
and Philip preserved the editorial comments of three or
four of them
which pleased him most. These he used to read aloud to his
friends
afterwards and ask them to guess from which journal ea=
ch
of them had been cut. One beg=
an in
this simple manner:--
History never re=
peats
itself, but the Kaleidoscopic combinations of
the pictured pre=
sent
often seem to be constructed out of the broken
fragments of ant=
ique
legends. Washington is not Co=
rinth,
and Lais,
the beautiful da=
ughter
of Timandra, might not have been the
prototype of the
ravishing Laura, daughter of the plebeian house of
Hawkins; but the
orators add statesmen who were the purchasers of
the favors of th=
e one,
may have been as incorruptible as the
Republican state=
smen
who learned how to love and how to vote from
the sweet lips o=
f the
Washington lobbyist; and perhaps the modern
Lais would never=
have
departed from the national Capital if there
had been there e=
ven
one republican Xenocrates who resisted her
blandishments. But here the parallel: fails. Lais, wandering away
with the youth
Rippostratus, is slain by the women who are jealous
of her charms. L=
aura,
straying into her Thessaly with the youth
Brierly, slays h=
er
other lover and becomes the champion of the
wrongs of her se=
x.
Another journal began its editorial with l=
ess
lyrical beauty, but with
equal force. It closed as follows:--
With Laura Hawki=
ns,
fair, fascinating and fatal, and with the
dissolute Colone=
l of a
lost cause, who has reaped the harvest he
sowed, we have n=
othing
to do. But as the curtain ris=
es on
this
awful tragedy, we
catch a glimpse of the society at the capital
under this
Administration, which we cannot contemplate without alarm
for the fate of =
the
Republic.
A third newspaper took up the subject in a
different tone. It said:--
Our repeated
predictions are verified. The
pernicious doctrines
which we have
announced as prevailing in American society have been
again
illustrated. The name of the =
city
is becoming a reproach.
We may have done
something in averting its ruin in our resolute
exposure of the =
Great
Frauds; we shall not be deterred from
insisting that t=
he
outraged laws for the protection of human life
shall be vindica=
ted
now, so that a person can walk the streets or
enter the public
houses, at least in the day-time, without the risk
of a bullet thro=
ugh
his brain.
A fourth journal began its remarks as
follows:--
The fullness with
which we present our readers this morning the
=
span> details of the Selby-Ha=
wkins
homicide is a miracle of modern
journalism. Subsequent investigation can do li=
ttle
to fill out the
picture. It is the old story. A beautiful woman shoots her
absconding lover=
in
cold-blood; and we shall doubtless learn in due
time that if she=
was
not as mad as a hare in this month of March,
she was at least
laboring under what is termed "momentary insanity."
It would not be too much to say that upon =
the
first publication of the
facts of the tragedy, there was an almost
universal feeling of rage
against the murderess in the Tombs, and th=
at
reports of her beauty only
heightened the indignation. It was as if she presumed upon tha=
t and
upon
her sex, to defy the law; and there was a
fervent, hope that the law
would take its plain course.
Yet Laura was not without friends, and som=
e of
them very influential too.
She had in keeping a great many secrets an=
d a
great many reputations,
perhaps.&=
nbsp;
Who shall set himself up to judge human motives. Why, indeed,
might we not feel pity for a woman whose
brilliant career had been so
suddenly extinguished in misfortune and
crime? Those who had known he=
r
so well in Washington might find it imposs=
ible
to believe that the
fascinating woman could have had murder in=
her
heart, and would readily
give ear to the current sentimentality abo=
ut
the temporary aberration of
mind under the stress of personal calamity=
.
Senator Dilworthy, was greatly shocked, of
course, but he was full of
charity for the erring.
"We shall all need mercy," he
said. "Laura as an inmat=
e of
my family was
a most exemplary female, amiable, affectio=
nate
and truthful, perhaps too
fond of gaiety, and neglectful of the
externals of religion, but a woman
of principle. She may have had experiences of wh=
ich I am
ignorant, but
she could not have gone to this extremity =
if
she had been in her own
right mind."
To the Senator's credit be it said, he was
willing to help Laura and her
family in this dreadful trial. She, herself, was not without mone=
y, for
the Washington lobbyist is not seldom more
fortunate than the Washington
claimant, and she was able to procure a go=
od
many luxuries to mitigate
the severity of her prison life. It enabled her also to have her ow=
n
family near her, and to see some of them
daily. The tender solicitude =
of
her mother, her childlike grief, and her f=
irm
belief in the real
guiltlessness of her daughter, touched even
the custodians of the Tombs
who are enured to scenes of pathos.
Mrs. Hawkins had hastened to her daughter =
as
soon as she received money
for the journey. She had no reproaches, she had only
tenderness and
pity.&nbs=
p;
She could not shut out the dreadful facts of the case, but it had
been enough for her that Laura had said, in
their first interview,
"mother, I did not know what I was do=
ing." She obtained lodgings near,
the prison and devoted her life to her
daughter, as if she had been
really her own child. She would have remained in the pri=
son
day and
night if it had been permitted. She was aged and feeble, but this =
great
necessity seemed to give her new life.
The pathetic story of the old lady's
ministrations, and her simplicity
and faith, also got into the newspapers in
time, and probably added to
the pathos of this wrecked woman's fate, w=
hich
was beginning to be felt
by the public. It was certain that she had champi=
ons
who thought that
her wrongs ought to be placed against her
crime, and expressions of this
feeling came to her in various ways. Visitors came to see her, and gift=
s
of fruit and flowers were sent, which brou=
ght
some cheer into her hard
and gloomy cell.
Laura had declined to see either Philip or
Harry, somewhat to the
former's relief, who had a notion that she
would necessarily feel
humiliated by seeing him after breaking fa=
ith
with him, but to the
discomfiture of Harry, who still felt her
fascination, and thought her
refusal heartless. He told Philip that of course he h=
ad got
through with
such a woman, but he wanted to see her.
Philip, to keep him from some new foolishn=
ess,
persuaded him to go with
him to Philadelphia; and, give his valuable
services in the mining
operations at Ilium.
The law took its course with Laura. She was indicted for murder in the=
first degree and held for trial at the sum=
mer
term. The two most
distinguished criminal lawyers in the city=
had
been retained for her
defence, and to that the resolute woman
devoted her days with a courage
that rose as she consulted with her counsel
and understood the methods of
criminal procedure in New York.
She was greatly depressed, however, by the
news from Washington.
Congress adjourned and her bill had failed=
to
pass the Senate. It must
wait for the next session.
It had been a bad winter, somehow, for the
firm of Pennybacker, Bigler
and Small. These celebrated contractors usual=
ly
made more money during
the session of the legislature at
work, and this winter had been
unfruitful. It was unaccounta=
ble to
Bigler.
"You see, Mr. Bolton," he said, =
and
Philip was present at the
conversation, "it puts us all out.
out.
We'd counted on the year of Simon's re-election. And, now, he's
reelected, and I've yet to see the first m=
an
who's the better for it."
"You don't mean to say," asked
Philip, "that he went in without paying
anything?"
"Not a cent, not a dash cent, as I can
hear," repeated Mr. Bigler,
indignantly. "I call it a swindle on the
state. How it was done gets
me.
I never saw such a tight time for money in Harrisburg."
"Were there no combinations, no railr=
oad
jobs, no mining schemes put
through in connection with the election?
"Not that I knew," said Bigler,
shaking his head in disgust.
"In fact it
was openly said, that there was no money in the election. It's perfectly<= o:p>
unheard of."
"Perhaps," suggested Philip,
"it was effected on what the insurance
companies call the 'endowment,' or the 'pa=
id
up' plan, by which a policy
is secured after a certain time without
further payment."
"You think then," said Mr. Bolton
smiling, "that a liberal and sagacious
politician might own a legislature after a
time, and not be bothered with
keeping up his payments?"
"Whatever it is," interrupted Mr.
Bigler, "it's devilish ingenious and
goes ahead of my calculations; it's cleane=
d me
out, when I thought we had
a dead sure thing. I tell you what it is, gentlemen, I=
shall
go in for
reform.&n=
bsp;
Things have got pretty mixed when a legislature will give away a
United States senatorship."
It was melancholy, but Mr. Bigler was not a
man to be crushed by one
misfortune, or to lose his confidence in h=
uman
nature, on one exhibition
of apparent honesty. He was already on his feet again, =
or
would be if
Mr. Bolton could tide him over shoal water=
for
ninety days.
"We've got something with money in
it," he explained to Mr. Bolton,
"got hold of it by good luck. We've got the entire contract for
Dobson's
Patent Pavement for the city of Mobile.
Mr. Bigler made some figures; contract so;
much, cost of work and
materials so much, profits so much. At the end of three months the cit=
y
would owe the company three hundred and seventy-five
thousand dollars-two hundred thousand of that would be profits. The whole job was worth at
least a million to the company--it might be more. There could be no
mistake in these figures; here was the con=
tract,
Mr. Bolton knew what
materials were worth and what the labor wo=
uld
cost.
Mr. Bolton knew perfectly well from sore
experience that there was always
a mistake in figures when Bigler or Small =
made
them, and he knew that he
ought to send the fellow about his
business. Instead of that, he=
let
him
talk.
They only wanted to raise fifty thousand
dollars to carry on the
contract--that expended they would have ci=
ty
bonds. Mr. Bolton said he
hadn't the money. But Bigler could raise it on his
name. Mr. Bolton
said he had no right to put his family to =
that
risk. But the entire
contract could be assigned to him--the
security was ample--it was a
fortune to him if it was forfeited. Besides Mr. Bigler had been
unfortunate, he didn't know where to look =
for
the necessaries of life for
his family. If he could only have one more cha=
nce,
he was sure he could
right himself. He begged for it.
And Mr. Bolton yielded. He could never refuse such appeals=
. If he had
befriended a man once and been cheated by =
him,
that man appeared to have
a claim upon him forever. He shrank, however, from telling h=
is
wife what
he had done on this occasion, for he knew =
that
if any person was more
odious than Small to his family it was Big=
ler.
"Philip tells me," Mrs. Bolton s=
aid
that evening, "that the man Bigler
has been with thee again to-day. I hope thee will have nothing more=
to
do with him."
"He has been very unfortunate,"
replied Mr. Bolton, uneasily.
"He is always unfortunate, and he is
always getting thee into trouble.
But thee didn't listen to him again?"=
"Well, mother, his family is in want,=
and
I lent him my name--but I took
ample security. The worst that can happen will be a
little
inconvenience."
Mrs. Bolton looked grave and anxious, but =
she
did not complain or
remonstrate; she knew what a "little
inconvenience" meant, but she knew
there was no help for it. If Mr. Bolton had been on his way =
to
market to
buy a dinner for his family with the only
dollar he had in the world in
his pocket, he would have given it to a ch=
ance
beggar who asked him for
it.
Mrs. Bolton only asked (and the question showed that she was no mere=
provident than her husband where her heart=
was
interested),
"But has thee provided money for Phil=
ip
to use in opening the coal mine?"
"Yes, I have set apart as much as it
ought to cost to open the mine,
as much as we can afford to lose if no coa=
l is
found. Philip has the
control of it, as equal partner in the
venture, deducting the capital
invested.=
He has great confidence in his success, and I hope for his
sake he won't be disappointed."
Philip could not but feel that he was trea=
ted
very much like one of the
Bolton-family--by all except Ruth. His mother, when he went home afte=
r
his recovery from his accident, had affect=
ed
to be very jealous of Mrs.
Bolton, about whom and Ruth she asked a
thousand questions
--an affectation of jealousy which no doubt
concealed a real heartache,
which comes to every mother when her son g=
oes
out into the world and
forms new ties. And to Mrs. Sterling; a widow, liv=
ing on
a small income
in a remote Massachusetts village,
Philadelphia was a city of many
splendors. All its inhabitants seemed highly
favored, dwelling in ease
and surrounded by superior advantages. Some of her neighbors had
relations living in Philadelphia, and it s=
eemed
to them somehow a
guarantee of respectability to have relati=
ons
in Philadelphia.
Mrs. Sterling was not sorry to have Philip
make his way among such
well-to-do people, and she was sure that no
good fortune could be too
good for his deserts.
"So, sir," said Ruth, when Philip
came from New York, "you have been
assisting in a pretty tragedy. I saw your name in the papers. Is this
woman a specimen of your western
friends?"
"My only assistance," replied
Philip, a little annoyed, "was in trying to
keep Harry out of a bad scrape, and I fail=
ed
after all. He walked into
her trap, and he has been punished for
it. I'm going to take him up =
to
Ilium to see if he won't work steadily at =
one
thing, and quit his
nonsense."
"Is she as beautiful as the newspaper=
s say
she is?"
"I don't know, she has a kind of
beauty--she is not like--'
"Not like Alice?"
"Well, she is brilliant; she was call=
ed
the handsomest woman in
Washington--dashing, you know, and sarcast=
ic
and witty. Ruth, do you
believe a woman ever becomes a devil?"=
;
"Men do, and I don't know why women
shouldn't. But I never saw
one."
"Well, Laura Hawkins comes very near
it. But it is dreadful to thi=
nk of
her fate."
"Why, do you suppose they will hang a
woman? Do you suppose they wi=
ll be
so barbarous as that?"
"I wasn't thinking of that--it's doub=
tful
if a New York jury would find a
woman guilty of any such crime. But to think of her life if she is=
acquitted."
"It is dreadful," said Ruth,
thoughtfully, "but the worst of it is that
you men do not want women educated to do
anything, to be able to earn an
honest living by their own exertions. They are educated as if they were<= o:p>
always to be petted and supported, and the=
re
was never to be any such
thing as misfortune. I suppose, now, that you would all=
choose
to have
me stay idly at home, and give up my
profession."
"Oh, no," said Philip, earnestly,
"I respect your
resolution. But,
Ruth, do you think you would be happier or=
do
more good in following your
profession than in having a home of your
own?"
"What is to hinder having a home of my
own?"
"Nothing, perhaps, only you never wou=
ld
be in it--you would be away day
and night, if you had any practice; and wh=
at
sort of a home would that
make for your husband?"
"What sort of a home is it for the wi=
fe
whose husband is always away
riding about in his doctor's gig?"
"Ah, you know that is not fair. The woman makes the home."
Philip and Ruth often had this sort of
discussion, to which Philip was
always trying to give a personal turn. He was now about to go to Ilium
for the season, and he did not like to go
without some assurance from
Ruth that she might perhaps love him some =
day;
when he was worthy of it,
and when he could offer her something bett=
er
than a partnership in his
poverty.
"I should work with a great deal bett=
er
heart, Ruth," he said the morning
he was taking leave, "if I knew you c=
ared
for me a little."
Ruth was looking down; the color came fain=
tly
to her cheeks, and she
hesitated. She needn't be looking down, he th=
ought,
for she was ever so
much shorter than tall Philip.
"It's not much of a place, Ilium,&quo=
t;
Philip went on, as if a little
geographical remark would fit in here as w=
ell
as anything else, "and I
shall have plenty of time to think over the
responsibility I have taken,
and--" his observation did not seem t=
o be
coming out any where.
But Ruth looked up, and there was a light =
in
her eyes that quickened
Phil's pulse. She took his hand, and said with s=
erious
sweetness:
"Thee mustn't lose heart,
Philip." And then she ad=
ded,
in another mood,
"Thee knows I graduate in the summer =
and
shall have my diploma. And if=
any thing happens--mines explode
sometimes--thee can send for me.
Farewell."
The opening of the Ilium coal mine was beg=
un
with energy, but without
many omens of success. Philip was running a tunnel into t=
he
breast of
the mountain, in faith that the coal strat=
um
ran there as it ought to.
How far he must go in he believed he knew,=
but
no one could tell exactly.
Some of the miners said that they should
probably go through the
mountain, and that the hole could be used =
for
a railway tunnel. The
mining camp was a busy place at any rate.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Quite a settlement of board
and log shanties had gone up, with a
blacksmith shop, a small machine
shop, and a temporary store for supplying =
the
wants of the workmen.
Philip and Harry pitched a commodious tent,
and lived in the full
enjoyment of the free life.
There is no difficulty in digging a bole in
the ground, if you have money
enough to pay for the digging, but those w=
ho
try this sort of work are
always surprised at the large amount of mo=
ney
necessary to make a small
hole.&nbs=
p;
The earth is never willing to yield one product, hidden in her
bosom, without an equivalent for it. And when a person asks of her coal=
,
she is quite apt to require gold in exchan=
ge.
It was exciting work for all concerned in
it. As the tunnel advanced
into the rock every day promised to be the
golden day. This very blast
might disclose the treasure.
The work went on week after week, and at
length during the night as well
as the daytime. Gangs relieved each other, and the
tunnel was every
hour, inch by inch and foot by foot, crawl=
ing
into the mountain. Philip
was on the stretch of hope and
excitement. Every pay day he =
saw
his
funds melting away, and still there was on=
ly
the faintest show of what
the miners call "signs."
The life suited Harry, whose buoyant
hopefulness was never disturbed.
He made endless calculations, which nobody
could understand, of the
probable position of the vein. He stood about among the workmen w=
ith the
busiest air. When he was down at Ilium he called
himself the engineer of
the works, and he used to spend hours smok=
ing
his pipe with the Dutch
landlord on the hotel porch, and astonishi=
ng
the idlers there with the
stories of his railroad operations in Miss=
ouri. He talked with the
landlord, too, about enlarging his hotel, =
and
about buying some village
lots, in the prospect of a rise, when the mine was
opened. He taught the
Dutchman how to mix a great many cooling drinks for the
summer time, and had a bill at the hotel, the growing length of which Mr.
Dusenheimer
contemplated with pleasant anticipations. Mr. Brierly was a very useful
and cheering person wherever he went.
Midsummer arrived: Philip could report to =
Mr.
Bolton only progress, and
this was not a cheerful message for him to
send to Philadelphia in reply
to inquiries that he thought became more a=
nd
more anxious. Philip
himself was a prey to the constant fear th=
at
the money would give out
before the coal was struck.
At this time Harry was summoned to New Yor=
k,
to attend the trial of Laura
Hawkins.&=
nbsp;
It was possible that Philip would have to go also, her lawyer
wrote, but they hoped for a postponement.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> There was important evidence
that they could not yet obtain, and he hop=
ed
the judge would not force
them to a trial unprepared. There were many reasons for a dela=
y,
reasons
which of course are never mentioned, but which it would
seem that a New
York judge sometimes must understand, when he grants a postponement upon a motion that seems to the public altogether inadequate.<= o:p>
Harry went, but he soon came back. The trial was put off. Every week we
can gain, said the learned counsel, Braham,
improves our chances. The
popular rage never lasts long.
"We've struck it!"
This was the announcement at the tent door
that woke Philip out of a
sound sleep at dead of night, and shook all
the sleepiness out of him in
a trice.
"What! Where is it? When? Coal? Let me see it. What quality is it?"
were some of the rapid questions that Phil=
ip poured
out as he hurriedly
dressed.&=
nbsp;
"Harry, wake up, my boy, the coal train is coming. Struck it,
eh?
Let's see?"
The foreman put down his lantern, and hand=
ed
Philip a black lump. There
was no mistake about it, it was the hard,
shining anthracite, and its
freshly fractured surface, glistened in the
light like polished steel.
Diamond never shone with such lustre in the
eyes of Philip.
Harry was exuberant, but Philip's natural
caution found expression in his
next remark.
"Now, Roberts, you are sure about
this?"
"What--sure that it's coal?"
"O, no, sure that it's the main
vein."
"Well, yes. We took it to be that"
"Did you from the first?"
"I can't say we did at first. No, we didn't. Most of the indications
were there, but not all of them, not all of
them. So we thought we'd
prospect a bit."
"Well?"
"It was tolerable thick, and looked a=
s if
it might be the vein--looked as
if it ought to be the vein. Then we went down on it a little.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Looked
better all the time."
"When did you strike it?"
"About ten o'clock."
"Then you've been prospecting about f=
our
hours."
"Yes, been sinking on it something ov=
er
four hours."
"I'm afraid you couldn't go down very=
far
in four hours--could you?"
"O yes--it's a good deal broke up,
nothing but picking and gadding
stuff."
"Well, it does look encouraging, sure
enough--but then the lacking
indications--"
"I'd rather we had them, Mr. Sterling,
but I've seen more than one good
permanent mine struck without 'em in my
time."
"Well, that is encouraging too."=
"Yes, there was the Union, the Alabama
and the Black Mohawk--all good,
sound mines, you know--all just exactly li=
ke
this one when we first
struck them."
"Well, I begin to feel a good deal mo=
re
easy. I guess we've really go=
t
it.
I remember hearing them tell about the Black Mohawk."
"I'm free to say that I believe it, a=
nd
the men all think so too. The=
y
are all old hands at this business."<= o:p>
"Come Harry, let's go up and look at =
it,
just for the comfort of it,"
said Philip. They came back in the course of an=
hour,
satisfied and
happy.
There was no more sleep for them that
night. They lit their pipes, =
put a
specimen of the coal on the table, and mad=
e it
a kind of loadstone of
thought and conversation.
"Of course," said Harry, "t=
here
will have to be a branch track built, and
a 'switch-back' up the hill."
"Yes, there will be no trouble about
getting the money for that now. We
could sell-out tomorrow for a handsome
sum. That sort of coal doesn'=
t go
begging within a mile of a rail-road. I wonder if Mr. Bolton' would
rather sell out or work it?"
"Oh, work it," says Harry,
"probably the whole mountain is coal now
you've got to it."
"Possibly it might not be much of a v=
ein
after all," suggested Philip.
"Possibly it is; I'll bet it's forty =
feet
thick. I told you. I knew the
sort of thing as soon as I put my eyes on
it."
Philip's next thought was to write to his
friends and announce their good
fortune.&=
nbsp;
To Mr. Bolton he wrote a short, business letter, as calm as he
could make it. They had found coal of excellent q=
uality,
but they could
not yet tell with absolute certainty what =
the
vein was. The prospecting
was still going on. Philip also wrote to Ruth; but tho=
ugh
this letter
may have glowed, it was not with the heat =
of
burning anthracite. He
needed no artificial heat to warm his pen =
and
kindle his ardor when he
sat down to write to Ruth. But it must be confessed that the =
words
never
flowed so easily before, and he ran on for=
an
hour disporting in all the
extravagance of his imagination. When Ruth read it, she doubted if =
the
fellow had not gone out of his senses. And it was not until she reached
the postscript that she discovered the cau=
se
of the exhilaration.
"P. S.--We have found coal."
The news couldn't have come to Mr. Bolton =
in
better time. He had never
been so sorely pressed. A dozen schemes which he had in ha=
nd,
any one
of which might turn up a fortune, all
languished, and each needed just
a little more, money to save that which had
been invested. He hadn't
a piece of real estate that was not covere=
d with
mortgages, even to the
wild tract which Philip was experimenting =
on,
and which had, no
marketable value above the incumbrance on =
it.
He had come home that day early, unusually
dejected.
"I am afraid," he said to his wi=
fe,
"that we shall have to give up our
house.&nb=
sp;
I don't care for myself, but for thee and the children."
"That will be the least of
misfortunes," said Mrs. Bolton, cheerfully,
"if thee can clear thyself from debt =
and
anxiety, which is wearing thee
out, we can live any where. Thee knows we were never happier t=
han
when
we were in a much humbler home."
"The truth is, Margaret, that affair =
of
Bigler and Small's has come on me
just when I couldn't stand another ounce.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> They have made another failure
of it.&nb=
sp;
I might have known they would; and the sharpers, or fools, I
don't know which, have contrived to involv=
e me
for three times as much as
the first obligation. The security is in my hands, but i=
t is
good for
nothing to me. I have not the money to do anythin=
g with
the contract."
Ruth heard this dismal news without great
surprise. She had long felt
that they were living on a volcano, that m=
ight
go in to active operation
at any hour. Inheriting from her father an acti=
ve
brain and the courage
to undertake new things, she had little of=
his
sanguine temperament which
blinds one to difficulties and possible
failures. She had little
confidence in the many schemes which had b=
een
about to lift her father
out of all his embarrassments and into gre=
at
wealth, ever since she was
a child; as she grew older, she rather
wondered that they were as
prosperous as they seemed to be, and that =
they
did not all go to smash
amid so many brilliant projects. She was nothing but a woman, and d=
id
not know how much of the business prosperi=
ty
of the world is only a
bubble of credit and speculation, one sche=
me
helping to float another
which is no better than it, and the whole
liable to come to naught and
confusion as soon as the busy brain that
conceived them ceases its power
to devise, or when some accident produces =
a sudden
panic.
"Perhaps, I shall be the stay of the
family, yet," said Ruth, with an
approach to gaiety; "When we move int=
o a
little house in town, will thee
let me put a little sign on the door: DR. =
RUTH
BOLTON?"
"Mrs. Dr. Longstreet, thee knows, has=
a great
income."
"Who will pay for the sign, Ruth?&quo=
t;
asked Mr. Bolton.
A servant entered with the afternoon mail =
from
the office. Mr. Bolton
took his letters listlessly, dreading to o=
pen
them. He knew well what
they contained, new difficulties, more urg=
ent
demands fox money.
"Oh, here is one from Philip. Poor fellow. I shall feel his
disappointment as much as my own bad
luck. It is hard to bear when=
one
is young."
He opened the letter and read. As he read his face lightened, and=
he
fetched such a sigh of relief, that Mrs.
Bolton and Ruth both exclaimed.
"Read that," he cried, "Phi=
lip
has found coal!"
The world was changed in a moment. One little sentence had done it.
There was no more trouble. Philip had found coal. That meant relief.
That meant fortune. A great weight was taken off, and =
the
spirits of the
whole household rose magically. Good Money! beautiful demon of Mon=
ey,
what an enchanter thou art! Ruth felt that she was of less
consequence
in the household, now that Philip had found
Coal, and perhaps she was not
sorry to feel so.
Mr. Bolton was ten years younger the next
morning. He went into the
city, and showed his letter on change. It was the sort of news his
friends were quite willing to listen to. They took a new interest in
him.
If it was confirmed, Bolton would come right up again. There would
be no difficulty about his getting all the
money he wanted. The money
market did not seem to be half so tight as=
it
was the day before.
Mr. Bolton spent a very pleasant day in his
office, and went home
revolving some new plans, and the executio=
n of
some projects he had long
been prevented from entering upon by the l=
ack
of money.
The day had been spent by Philip in no less
excitement. By daylight,
with Philip's letters to the mail, word had
gone down to Ilium that coal
had been found, and very early a crowd of
eager spectators had come up to
see for themselves.
The "prospecting" continued day =
and
night for upwards of a week, and
during the first four or five days the
indications grew more and more
promising, and the telegrams and letters k=
ept
Mr. Bolton duly posted.
But at last a change came, and the promises
began to fail with alarming
rapidity.=
In the end it was demonstrated without the possibility of a
doubt that the great "find" was =
nothing
but a worthless seam.
Philip was cast down, all the more so beca=
use
he had been so foolish as
to send the news to Philadelphia before he
knew what he was writing
about.&nb=
sp;
And now he must contradict it.
"It turns out to be only a mere
seam," he wrote, "but we look up=
on
it as an indication of better further
in."
Alas!&nbs=
p;
Mr. Bolton's affairs could not wait for "indications." The future
might have a great deal in store, but the
present was black and hopeless.
It was doubtful if any sacrifice could sav=
e him
from ruin. Yet sacrifice
he must make, and that instantly, in the h=
ope
of saving something from
the wreck of his fortune.
His lovely country home must go. That would bring the most ready mo=
ney.
The house that he had built with loving
thought for each one of his
family, as he planned its luxurious apartm=
ents
and adorned it; the
grounds that he had laid out, with so much
delight in following the
tastes of his wife, with whom the country,=
the
cultivation of rare trees
and flowers, the care of garden and lawn a=
nd
conservatories were a
passion almost; this home, which he had ho=
ped
his children would enjoy
long after he had done with it, must go.
The family bore the sacrifice better than =
he
did. They declared in fact
--women are such hypocrites--that they qui=
te
enjoyed the city (it was in
August) after living so long in the countr=
y,
that it was a thousand tunes
more convenient in every respect; Mrs. Bol=
ton
said it was a relief from
the worry of a large establishment, and Ru=
th
reminded her father that she
should have had to come to town anyway bef=
ore
long.
Mr. Bolton was relieved, exactly as a
water-logged ship is lightened by
throwing overboard the most valuable porti=
on
of the cargo--but the leak
was not stopped. Indeed his credit was injured inst=
ead of
helped by the
prudent step he had taken. It was regarded as a sure evidence=
of
his
embarrassment, and it was much more diffic=
ult
for him to obtain help than
if he had, instead of retrenching, launched
into some new speculation.
Philip was greatly troubled, and exaggerat=
ed
his own share in the
bringing about of the calamity.
"You must not look at it so!" Mr.
Bolton wrote him. "You h=
ave
neither
helped nor hindered--but you know you may =
help
by and by. It would have
all happened just so, if we had never begu=
n to
dig that hole. That is
only a drop. Work away. I still have hope that something w=
ill
occur to
relieve me. At any rate we must not give up the
mine, so long as we have
any show."
Alas!&nbs=
p;
the relief did not come. New
misfortunes came instead. Whe=
n the
extent of the Bigler swindle was disclosed
there was no more hope that
Mr. Bolton could extricate himself, and he
had, as an honest man, no
resource except to surrender all his prope=
rty
for the benefit of his
creditors.
The Autumn came and found Philip working w=
ith
diminished force but still
with hope. He had again and again been encour=
aged
by good "indications,"
but he had again and again been
disappointed. He could not go=
on
much
longer, and almost everybody except himself
had thought it was useless to
go on as long as he had been doing.
When the news came of Mr. Bolton's failure=
, of
course the work stopped.
The men were discharged, the tools were
housed, the hopeful noise of
pickman and driver ceased, and the mining =
camp
had that desolate and
mournful aspect which always hovers over a
frustrated enterprise.
Philip sat down amid the ruins, and almost
wished he were buried in them.
How distant Ruth was now from him, now, wh=
en
she might need him most.
How changed was all the Philadelphia world=
, which
had hitherto stood for
the exemplification of happiness and
prosperity.
He still had faith that there was coal in =
that
mountain. He made
a picture of himself living there a hermit=
in
a shanty by the tunnel,
digging away with solitary pick and wheelb=
arrow,
day after day and year
after year, until he grew gray and aged, a=
nd
was known in all that region
as the old man of the mountain. Perhaps some day--he felt it must =
be so
some day--he should strike coal. But what if he did? Who would be alive
to care for it then? What would he care for it then?
riches in his youth, when the world is fre=
sh
to him. He wondered why
Providence could not have reversed the usu=
al
process, and let the
majority of men begin with wealth and
gradually spend it, and die poor
when they no longer needed it.
Harry went back to the city. It was evident that his services w=
ere no
longer needed. Indeed, he had letters from his un=
cle,
which he did not
read to Philip, desiring him to go to San
Francisco to look after some
government contracts in the harbor there.<= o:p>
Philip had to look about him for something=
to
do; he was like Adam;
the world was all before him whereto
choose. He made, before he we=
nt
elsewhere, a somewhat painful visit to
Philadelphia, painful but yet not
without its sweetnesses. The family had never shown him so =
much
affection before; they all seemed to think=
his
disappointment of more
importance than their own misfortune. And there was that in Ruth's
manner--in what she gave him and what she withheld--th=
at
would have made a hero of a very much less promising character than Philip
Sterling.
Among the assets of the Bolton property, t=
he
Ilium tract was sold, and
Philip bought it in at the vendue, for a s=
ong,
for no one cared to even
undertake the mortgage on it except
himself. He went away the own=
er of
it, and had ample time before he reached h=
ome
in November, to calculate
how much poorer he was by possessing it.
It is impossible for the historian, with e=
ven
the best intentions,
to control events or compel the persons of=
his
narrative to act wisely
or to be successful. It is easy to see how things might=
have
been better
managed; a very little change here and the=
re
would have made a very,
different history of this one now in hand.=
If Philip had adopted some regular profess=
ion,
even some trade, he might
now be a prosperous editor or a conscienti=
ous
plumber, or an honest
lawyer, and have borrowed money at the
saving's bank and built a cottage,
and be now furnishing it for the occupancy=
of
Ruth and himself. Instead
of this, with only a smattering of civil
engineering, he is at his
mother's house, fretting and fuming over h=
is
ill-luck, and the hardness
and, dishonesty of men, and thinking of
nothing but how to get the coal
out of the Ilium hills.
If Senator Dilworthy had not made that vis=
it
to Hawkeye, the Hawkins
family and Col. Sellers would not now be
dancing attendance upon
Congress, and endeavoring to tempt that
immaculate body into one of those
appropriations, for the benefit of its mem=
bers,
which the members find it
so difficult to explain to their constitue=
nts;
and Laura would not be
lying in the Tombs, awaiting her trial for
murder, and doing her best,
by the help of able counsel, to corrupt the
pure fountain of criminal
procedure in New York.
If Henry Brierly had been blown up on the
first Mississippi steamboat he
set foot on, as the chances were that he w=
ould
be, he and Col. Sellers
never would have gone into the Columbus
Navigation scheme, and probably
never into the East Tennessee Land scheme,=
and
he would not now be
detained in New York from very important
business operations on the
Pacific coast, for the sole purpose of giv=
ing
evidence to convict of
murder the only woman he ever loved half as
much as he loves himself.
If Mr. Bolton had said the little word
"no" to Mr. Bigler, Alice Montague
might now be spending the winter in
Philadelphia, and Philip also
(waiting to resume his mining operations in
the spring); and Ruth would
not be an assistant in a Philadelphia
hospital, taxing her strength with
arduous routine duties, day by day, in ord=
er
to lighten a little the
burdens that weigh upon her unfortunate
family.
It is altogether a bad business. An honest historian, who had progr=
essed
thus far, and traced everything to such a =
condition
of disaster and
suspension, might well be justified in end=
ing
his narrative and writing
--"after this the deluge." His only consolation would be in t=
he
reflection
that he was not responsible for either
characters or events.
And the most annoying thought is that a li=
ttle
money, judiciously
applied, would relieve the burdens and
anxieties of most of these people;
but affairs seem to be so arranged that mo=
ney
is most difficult to get
when people need it most.
A little of what Mr. Bolton has weakly giv=
en
to unworthy people would now
establish his family in a sort of comfort,=
and
relieve Ruth of the
excessive toil for which she inherited no
adequate physical vigor.
A little money would make a prince of Col. Sellers; an=
d a
little more
would calm the anxiety of Washington Hawkins about Lau=
ra,
for however the trial ended, he could feel sure of extricating her in the
end. And if
Philip had a little money he could unlock =
the
stone door in the mountain
whence would issue a stream of shining
riches. It needs a golden wan=
d to
strike that rock. If the Knobs University bill could=
only
go through,
what a change would be wrought in the
condition of most of the persons in
this history. Even Philip himself would feel the=
good
effects of it;
for Harry would have something and Col.
Sellers would have something;
and have not both these cautious people
expressed a determination to take
an interest in the Ilium mine when they ca=
tch
their larks?
Philip could not resist the inclination to=
pay
a visit to Fallkill. He
had not been at the Montague's since the t=
ime
he saw Ruth there, and he
wanted to consult the Squire about an
occupation. He was determined=
now
to waste no more time in waiting on
Providence, but to go to work at
something, if it were nothing better, than
teaching in the Fallkill
Seminary, or digging clams on Hingham
beach. Perhaps he could read =
law
in Squire Montague's office while earning =
his
bread as a teacher in the
Seminary.
It was not altogether Philip's fault, let =
us
own, that he was in this
position. There are many young men like him in
American society, of his
age, opportunities, education and abilitie=
s,
who have really been
educated for nothing and have let themselv=
es
drift, in the hope that they
will find somehow, and by some sudden turn=
of
good luck, the golden road
to fortune. He was not idle or lazy, he had en=
ergy
and a disposition to
carve his own way. But he was born into a time when a=
ll
young men of his
age caught the fever of speculation, and
expected to get on in the world
by the omission of some of the regular
processes which have been
appointed from of old. And examples were not wanting to
encourage him.
He saw people, all around him, poor yester=
day,
rich to-day, who had come
into sudden opulence by some means which t=
hey
could not have classified
among any of the regular occupations of
life. A war would give such a=
fellow a career and very likely fame. He might have been a "railroa=
d
man," or a politician, or a land
speculator, or one of those mysterious
people who travel free on all rail-roads a=
nd
steamboats, and are
continually crossing and recrossing the
Atlantic, driven day and night
about nobody knows what, and make a great =
deal
of money by so doing.
Probably, at last, he sometimes thought wi=
th a
whimsical smile, he should
end by being an insurance agent, and asking
people to insure their lives
for his benefit.
Possibly Philip did not think how much the
attractions of Fallkill were
increased by the presence of Alice there.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He had known her so long, she
had somehow grown into his life by habit, =
that
he would expect the
pleasure of her society without thinking m=
ach
about it. Latterly he
never thought of her without thinking of R=
uth,
and if he gave the subject
any attention, it was probably in an undef=
ined
consciousness that, he had
her sympathy in his love, and that she was
always willing to hear him
talk about it. If he ever wondered that Alice her=
self
was not in love
and never spoke of the possibility of her =
own
marriage, it was a
transient thought for love did not seem
necessary, exactly, to one so
calm and evenly balanced and with so many
resources in her herself.
Whatever her thoughts may have been they w=
ere
unknown to Philip, as they
are to these historians; if she was seemin=
g to
be what she was not, and
carrying a burden heavier than any one else
carried, because she had to
bear it alone, she was only doing what
thousands of women do, with a
self-renunciation and heroism, of which me=
n,
impatient and complaining,
have no conception. Have not these big babies with bea=
rds
filled all
literature with their outcries, their grie=
fs
and their lamentations? It
is always the gentle sex which is hard and
cruel and fickle and
implacable.
"Do you think you would be contented =
to
live in Fallkill, and attend the
county Court?" asked Alice, when Phil=
ip
had opened the budget of his new
programme.
"Perhaps not always," said Phili=
p,
"I might go and practice in Boston
maybe, or go to Chicago."
"Or you might get elected to
Congress."
Philip looked at Alice to see if she was in
earnest and not chaffing him.
Her face was quite sober. Alice was one of those patriotic w=
omen
in the
rural districts, who think men are still
selected for Congress on account
of qualifications for the office.
"No," said Philip, "the cha=
nces
are that a man cannot get into congress
now without resorting to arts and means th=
at
should render hint unfit to
go there; of course there are exceptions; =
but
do you know that I could
not go into politics if I were a lawyer,
without losing standing somewhat
in my profession, and without raising at l=
east
a suspicion of my
intentions and unselfishness? Why, it is telegraphed all over th=
e
country and commented on as something
wonderful if a congressman votes
honestly and unselfishly and refuses to ta=
ke
advantage of his position to
steal from the government."
"But," insisted Alice, "I
should think it a noble ambition to go to
congress, if it is so bad, and help reform it. I don't believe it is as<= o:p>
corrupt as the English parliament used to =
be,
if there is any truth in
the novels, and I suppose that is
reformed."
"I'm sure I don't know where the refo=
rm
is to begin. I've seen a
perfectly capable, honest man, time and ag=
ain,
run against an illiterate
trickster, and get beaten. I suppose if the people wanted dec=
ent
members
of congress they would elect them. Perhaps," continued Philip wi=
th a
smile, "the women will have to
vote."
"Well, I should be willing to, if it =
were
a necessity, just as I would go
to war and do what I could, if the country
couldn't be saved otherwise,"
said Alice, with a spirit that surprised
Philip, well as he thought he
knew her.=
"If I were a young gentleman in these times--"
Philip laughed outright. "It's just what Ruth used to =
say,
'if she were
a man.' I wonder if all the young ladies a=
re
contemplating a change of
sex."
"No, only a changed sex," retort=
ed
Alice; "we contemplate for the most
part young men who don't care for anything
they ought to care for."
"Well," said Philip, looking hum=
ble,
"I care for some things, you and
Ruth for instance; perhaps I ought not to.=
Perhaps I ought to care for
Congress and that sort of thing."
"Don't be a goose, Philip. I heard from Ruth yesterday."=
"Can I see her letter?"
"No, indeed. But I am afraid her hard work is t=
elling
on her, together
with her anxiety about her father."
"Do you think, Alice," asked Phi=
lip
with one of those selfish thoughts
that are not seldom mixed with real love,
"that Ruth prefers her
profession to--to marriage?"
"Philip," exclaimed Alice, risin=
g to
quit the room, and speaking
hurriedly as if the words were forced from
her, "you are as blind as a
bat; Ruth would cut off her right hand for=
you
this minute."
Philip never noticed that Alice's face was
flushed and that her voice was
unsteady; he only thought of the delicious
words he had heard. And the
poor girl, loyal to Ruth, loyal to Philip,
went straight to her room,
locked the door, threw herself on the bed =
and
sobbed as if her heart
world break. And then she prayed that her Fathe=
r in
Heaven would give
her strength. And after a time she was calm agai=
n, and
went to her
bureau drawer and took from a hiding place=
a
little piece of paper,
yellow with age. Upon it was pinned a four-leaved c=
lover,
dry and yellow
also.&nbs=
p;
She looked long at this foolish memento. Under the clover leaf
was written in a school-girl's
hand--"Philip, June, 186-."
Squire Montague thought very well of Phili=
p's
proposal. It would have
been better if he had begun the study of t=
he
law as soon as he left
college, but it was not too late now, and
besides he had gathered some
knowledge of the world.
"But," asked the Squire, "do
you mean to abandon your land in
Pennsylvania?" This track of land seemed an immen=
se
possible fortune to
this New England lawyer-farmer. "Hasn't it good timber, and d=
oesn't
the
railroad almost touch it?"
"I can't do anything with it now. Perhaps I can sometime."
"What is your reason for supposing th=
at
there is coal there?"
"The opinion of the best geologist I
could consult, my own observation
of the country, and the little veins of it=
we
found. I feel certain it
is there.=
I shall find it some day. I
know it. If I can only keep t=
he
land till I make money enough to try
again."
Philip took from his pocket a map of the
anthracite coal region, and
pointed out the position of the Ilium moun=
tain
which he had begun to
tunnel.
"Doesn't it look like it?"
"It certainly does," said the
Squire, very much interested. It is
not
unusual for a quiet country gentleman to be
more taken with such a
venture than a speculator who, has had more
experience in its
uncertainty. It was astonishing how many New En=
gland
clergymen, in the
time of the petroleum excitement, took cha=
nces
in oil. The Wall street
brokers are said to do a good deal of small
business for country
clergymen, who are moved no doubt with the
laudable desire of purifying
the New York stock board.
"I don't see that there is much
risk," said the Squire, at length.
"The timber is worth more than the
mortgage; and if that coal seam does
run there, it's a magnificent fortune. Would you like to try it again in<= o:p>
the spring, Phil?"
Like to try it! If he could have a little help, he=
would
work himself,
with pick and barrow, and live on a
crust. Only give him one more=
chance.
And this is how it came about that the
cautious old Squire Montague was
drawn into this young fellow's speculation,
and began to have his serene
old age disturbed by anxieties and by the =
hope
of a great stroke of luck.
"To be sure, I only care about it for=
the
boy," he said. The Squir=
e was
like everybody else; sooner or later he mu=
st
"take a chance."
It is probably on account of the lack of
enterprise in women that they
are not so fond of stock speculations and =
mine
ventures as men. It is
only when woman becomes demoralized that s=
he
takes to any sort of
gambling.=
Neither Alice nor Ruth were much elated with the prospect of
Philip's renewal of his mining enterprise.=
But Philip was exultant. He wrote to Ruth as if his fortune=
were
already
made, and as if the clouds that lowered ov=
er
the house of Bolton were
already in the deep bosom of a coal mine
buried. Towards spring he wen=
t
to Philadelphia with his plans all matured=
for
a new campaign. His
enthusiasm was irresistible.
"Philip has come, Philip has come,&qu=
ot;
cried the children, as if some great
good had again come into the household; and
the refrain even sang itself
over in Ruth's heart as she went the weary
hospital rounds. Mr. Bolton
felt more courage than he had had in month=
s,
at the sight of his manly
face and the sound of his cheery voice.
Ruth's course was vindicated now, and it c=
ertainly
did not become Philip,
who had nothing to offer but a future chan=
ce
against the visible result
of her determination and industry, to open=
an
argument with her. Ruth
was never more certain that she was right =
and
that she was sufficient
unto herself. She, may be, did not much heed the=
still
small voice that
sang in her maiden heart as she went about=
her
work, and which lightened
it and made it easy, "Philip has
come."
"I am glad for father's sake," s=
he
said to Philip, that thee has come.
"I can see that he depends greatly up=
on
what thee can do. He thinks w=
omen
won't hold out long," added Ruth with=
the
smile that Philip never exactly
understood.
"And aren't you tired sometimes of the
struggle?"
"Tired? Yes, everybody is tired I suppose.=
But it is a glorious
profession. And would you want me to be depend=
ent,
Philip?"
"Well, yes, a little," said Phil=
ip,
feeling his way towards what he
wanted to say.
"On what, for instance, just now?&quo=
t;
asked Ruth, a little maliciously
Philip thought.
"Why, on----" he couldn't quite =
say
it, for it occurred to him that he was
a poor stick for any body to lean on in the
present state of his fortune,
and that the woman before him was at least=
as
independent as he was.
"I don't mean depend," he began
again. "But I love you, =
that's
all. Am
I nothing--to you?" And Philip looked=
a
little defiant, and as if he had
said something that ought to brush away all
the sophistries of obligation
on either side, between man and woman.
Perhaps Ruth saw this. Perhaps she saw that her own theor=
ies of
a
certain equality of power, which ought to
precede a union of two hearts,
might be pushed too far. Perhaps she had felt sometimes her=
own
weakness
and the need after all of so dear a sympat=
hy
and so tender an interest
confessed, as that which Philip could
give. Whatever moved her--the=
riddle is as old as creation--she simply
looked up to Philip and said in
a low voice, "Everything."
And Philip clasping both her hands in his,=
and
looking down into her
eyes, which drank in all his tenderness wi=
th
the thirst of a true woman's
nature--
"Oh! Philip, come out here," sho=
uted
young Eli, throwing the door wide
open.
And Ruth escaped away to her room, her hea=
rt
singing again, and now as if
it would burst for joy, "Philip has
come."
That night Philip received a dispatch from
Harry--"The trial begins
tomorrow."
December 18--, found Washington Hawkins and Col. Selle=
rs
once more at the capitol of the nation, standing guard over the University
bill. The
former gentleman was despondent, the latter hopeful.
distress of mind was chiefly on Laura's account. The court would soon
sit to try her, case, he said, and
consequently a great deal of ready
money would be needed in the engineering of
it. The University bill was
sure to pass this, time, and that would ma=
ke
money plenty, but might not
the help come too late? Congress had only just assembled, =
and
delays
were to be feared.
"Well," said the Colonel, "I
don't know but you are more or less right,
there.&nb=
sp;
Now let's figure up a little on, the preliminaries. I think
Congress always tries to do as near right =
as
it can, according to its
lights.&n=
bsp;
A man can't ask any fairer, than that. The first preliminary it
always starts out on, is, to clean itself,=
so
to speak. It will arraign
two or three dozen of its members, or maybe
four or five dozen, for
taking bribes to vote for this and that and
the other bill last winter."
"It goes up into the dozens, does
it?"
"Well, yes; in a free country likes o=
urs,
where any man can run for
Congress and anybody can vote for him, you
can't expect immortal purity
all the time--it ain't in nature. Sixty or eighty or a hundred and f=
ifty
people are bound to get in who are not ang=
els
in disguise, as young Hicks
the correspondent says; but still it is a =
very
good average; very good
indeed.&n=
bsp;
As long as it averages as well as that, I think we can feel very
well satisfied. Even in these days, when people gr=
owl so
much and the
newspapers are so out of patience, there is
still a very respectable
minority of honest men in Congress."<= o:p>
"Why a respectable minority of honest=
men
can't do any good, Colonel."
"Oh, yes it can, too"
"Why, how?"
"Oh, in many ways, many ways."
"But what are the ways?"
"Well--I don't know--it is a question
that requires time; a body can't
answer every question right off-hand. But it does do good. I am
satisfied of that."
"All right, then; grant that it does
good; go on with the preliminaries."
"That is what I am coming to. First, as I said, they will try a =
lot of
members for taking money for votes. That will take four weeks."
"Yes, that's like last year; and it i=
s a
sheer waste of the time for
which the nation pays those men to work--t=
hat
is what that is. And it
pinches when a body's got a bill
waiting."
"A waste of time, to purify the fount= ain of public law? Well, I never<= o:p>
heard anybody express an idea like that
before. But if it were, it wo=
uld
still be the fault of the minority, for the
majority don't institute
these proceedings. There is where that minority becom=
es an
obstruction
--but still one can't say it is on the wro=
ng
side.--Well, after they have
finished the bribery cases, they will take=
up
cases of members who have
bought their seats with money. That will take another four weeks.=
"
"Very good; go on. You have accounted for two-thirds =
of the
session."
"Next they will try each other for
various smaller irregularities, like
the sale of appointments to West Point
cadetships, and that sort of
thing--mere trifling pocket-money enterpri=
ses
that might better, be
passed over in silence, perhaps, but then =
one
of our Congresses can never
rest easy till it has thoroughly purified
itself of all blemishes--and
that is a thing to be applauded."
"How long does it take to disinfect
itself of these minor impurities?"
"Well, about two weeks, generally.&qu=
ot;
"So Congress always lies helpless in
quarantine ten weeks of a session.
That's encouraging. Colonel, poor Laura will never get=
any
benefit from
our bill.=
Her trial will be over before Congress has half purified
itself.--And doesn't it occur to you that =
by
the time it has expelled all
its impure members there, may not be enough
members left to do business
legally?"
"Why I did not say Congress would exp=
el
anybody."
"Well won't it expel anybody?"
"Not necessarily. Did it last year? It never does. That would not be
regular."
"Then why waste all the session in th=
at
tomfoolery of trying members?"
"It is usual; it is customary; the
country requires it."
"Then the country is a fool, I
think."
"Oh, no. The country thinks somebody is goi=
ng to
be expelled."
"Well, when nobody is expelled, what =
does
the country think then?"
"By that time, the thing has strung o=
ut
so long that the country is sick
and tired of it and glad to have a change =
on
any terms. But all that
inquiry is not lost. It has a good moral effect."<= o:p>
"Who does it have a good moral effect
on?"
"Well--I don't know. On foreign countries, I think. We have always been
under the gaze of foreign countries. There is no country in the world,<= o:p>
sir, that pursues corruption as inveterate=
ly
as we do. There is no
country in the world whose representatives=
try
each other as much as ours
do, or stick to it as long on a stretch. I think there is something
great in being a model for the whole civil=
ized
world, Washington."
"You don't mean a model; you mean an
example."
"Well, it's all the same; it's just t=
he
same thing. It shows that a m=
an
can't be corrupt in this country without
sweating for it, I can tell you
that."
"Hang it, Colonel, you just said we n=
ever
punish anybody for villainous
practices."
"But good God we try them, don't we!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Is it nothing to show a dispositio=
n
to sift things and bring people to a strict
account? I tell you it has
its effect."
"Oh, bother the effect!--What is it t=
hey
do do? How do they proceed?
You know perfectly well--and it is all bos=
h,
too. Come, now, how do they
proceed?"
"Why they proceed right and regular--=
and
it ain't bosh, Washington, it
ain't bosh. They appoint a committee to invest=
igate,
and that committee
hears evidence three weeks, and all the
witnesses on one side swear that
the accused took money or stock or somethi=
ng
for his vote. Then the
accused stands up and testifies that he may
have done it, but he was
receiving and handling a good deal of mone=
y at
the time and he doesn't
remember this particular circumstance--at
least with sufficient
distinctness to enable him to grasp it
tangibly. So of course the th=
ing
is not proven--and that is what they say in
the verdict. They don't
acquit, they don't condemn. They just say, 'Charge not proven.=
' It
leaves the accused is a kind of a shaky
condition before the country,
it purifies Congress, it satisfies everybo=
dy,
and it doesn't seriously
hurt anybody. It has taken a long time to perfec=
t our
system, but it is
the most admirable in the world, now."=
;
"So one of those long stupid
investigations always turns out in that lame
silly way. Yes, you are correct. I thought maybe you viewed the mat=
ter
differently from other people. Do you think a Congress of ours co=
uld
convict the devil of anything if he were a
member?"
"My dear boy, don't let these damaging
delays prejudice you against
Congress.=
Don't use such strong language; you talk like a newspaper.
Congress has inflicted frightful punishmen=
ts
on its members--now you know
that.&nbs=
p;
When they tried Mr. Fairoaks, and a cloud of witnesses proved him
to be--well, you know what they proved him=
to
be--and his own testimony
and his own confessions gave him the same
character, what did Congress do
then?--come!"
"Well, what did Congress do?"
"You know what Congress did,
Washington. Congress intimated
plainly
enough, that they considered him almost a
stain upon their body; and
without waiting ten days, hardly, to think=
the
thing over, the rose up
and hurled at him a resolution declaring t=
hat they
disapproved of his
conduct!&=
nbsp;
Now you know that, Washington."
"It was a terrific thing--there is no denying that. If he had been<= o:p>
proven guilty of theft, arson, licentiousn=
ess,
infanticide, and defiling
graves, I believe they would have suspended
him for two days."
"You can depend on it, Washington.
savage, sir, when it gets waked up once. It will go to any length to
vindicate its honor at such a time."<= o:p>
"Ah well, we have talked the morning
through, just as usual in these
tiresome days of waiting, and we have reac=
hed
the same old result; that
is to say, we are no better off than when =
we
began. The land bill is
just as far away as ever, and the trial is
closer at hand. Let's give up=
everything and die."
"Die and leave the Duchess to fight it
out all alone? Oh, no, that w=
on't
do.
Come, now, don't talk so. It
is all going to come out right. Now
you'll see."
"It never will, Colonel, never in the
world. Something tells me tha=
t.
I get more tired and more despondent every
day. I don't see any hope;
life is only just a trouble. I am so miserable, these days!&quo=
t;
The Colonel made Washington get up and walk
the floor with him, arm in
arm.
The good old speculator wanted to comfort him, but he hardly knew
how to go about it. He made many attempts, but they we=
re
lame; they
lacked spirit; the words were encouraging;=
but
they were only words--he
could not get any heart into them. He could not always warm up, now,<= o:p>
with the old Hawkeye fervor. By and by his lips trembled and his
voice
got unsteady. He said:
"Don't give up the ship, my boy--don'=
t do
it. The wind's bound to fetch=
around and set in our favor. I know it."
And the prospect was so cheerful that he
wept. Then he blew a
trumpet-blast that started the meshes of h=
is
handkerchief, and said in
almost his breezy old-time way:
"Lord bless us, this is all
nonsense! Night doesn't last
always; day has
got to break some time or other. Every silver lining has a cloud be=
hind
it, as the poet says; and that remark has =
always
cheered me; though
--I never could see any meaning to it. Everybody uses it, though, and
everybody gets comfort out of it. I wish they would start something<= o:p>
fresh.&nb=
sp;
Come, now, let's cheer up; there's been as good fish in the sea
as there are now. It shall never be said that Beriah
Sellers
--Come in?"
It was the telegraph boy. The Colonel reached for the messag=
e and
devoured its contents:
"I said it! Never give up the ship! The trial's, postponed till
February, and we'll save the child yet.
they, have in New-York! Give them money to fight with; and=
the
ghost of
an excuse, and they: would manage to postp=
one
anything in this world,
unless it might be the millennium or somet=
hing
like that. Now for work
again my boy. The trial will last to the middle =
of
March, sure; Congress
ends the fourth of March. Within three days of the end of the
session
they will be done putting through the
preliminaries then they will be
ready for national business: Our bill will go through in forty-=
eight
hours, then, and we'll telegraph a million
dollar's to the jury--to the
lawyers, I mean--and the verdict of the ju=
ry
will be 'Accidental murder
resulting from justifiable insanity'--or
something to, that effect,
something to that effect.--Everything is d=
ead
sure, now. Come, what is
the matter? What are you wilting down like tha=
t,
for? You mustn't be a
girl, you know."
"Oh, Colonel, I am become so used to
troubles, so used to failures,
disappointments, hard luck of all kinds, t=
hat
a little good news breaks
me right down. Everything has been so hopeless th=
at now
I can't stand
good news at all. It is too good to be true, anyway.=
Don't you see how
our bad luck has worked on me? My hair is getting gray, and many =
nights
I don't sleep at all. I wish it was all over and we could
rest. I wish
we could lie, down and just forget everyth=
ing,
and let it all be just a
dream that is done and can't come back to trouble us any more. I am so<= o:p>
tired."
"Ah, poor child, don't talk like
that-cheer up--there's daylight ahead.
Don't give, up. You'll have Laura again, and--Loui=
se,
and your mother,
and oceans and oceans of money--and then y=
ou
can go away, ever so far
away somewhere, if you want to, and forget=
all
about this infernal place.
And by George I'll go with you! I'll go with you--now there's my w=
ord on
it.
Cheer up. I'll run out=
and
tell the friends the news."
And he wrung Washington's hand and was abo=
ut
to hurry away when his
companion, in a burst of grateful admirati=
on
said:
"I think you are the best soul and the
noblest I ever knew, Colonel
Sellers! and if the people only knew you a=
s I
do, you would not be
tagging around here a nameless man--you wo=
uld
be in Congress."
The gladness died out of the Colonel's fac=
e,
and he laid his hand upon
Washington's shoulder and said gravely:
"I have always been a friend of your
family, Washington, and I think I
have always tried to do right as between m=
an
and man, according to my
lights.&n=
bsp;
Now I don't think there has ever been anything in my conduct
that should make you feel Justified in say=
ing
a thing like that."
He turned, then, and walked slowly out,
leaving Washington abashed and
somewhat bewildered. When Washington had presently got =
his
thoughts into
line again, he said to himself, "Why,
honestly, I only meant to
compliment him--indeed I would not have hu=
rt
him for the world."
The weeks drifted by monotonously enough,
now. The "preliminaries&=
quot;
continued to drag along in Congress, and l=
ife
was a dull suspense to
Sellers and Washington, a weary waiting wh=
ich
might have broken their
hearts, maybe, but for the relieving change
which they got out of am
occasional visit to
or anywhere else is not an exciting busine=
ss
in time of peace, but
standing guard was all that the two friends
had to do; all that was
needed of them was that they should be on =
hand
and ready for any
emergency that might come up. There was no work to do; that was =
all
finished; this was but the second session =
of
the last winter's Congress,
and its action on the bill could have but =
one
result--its passage. The
house must do its work over again, of cour=
se,
but the same membership was
there to see that it did it.--The Senate w=
as
secure--Senator Dilworthy
was able to put all doubts to rest on that
head. Indeed it was no secret=
in Washington that a two-thirds vote in the
Senate was ready and waiting
to be cast for the University bill as soon=
as
it should come before that
body.
Washington did not take part in the gaieti=
es
of "the season," as he had
done the previous winter. He had lost his interest in such t=
hings;
he
was oppressed with cares, now. Senator Dilworthy said to Washingt=
on
that
an humble deportment, under punishment, was
best, and that there was but
one way in which the troubled heart might =
find
perfect repose and peace.
The suggestion found a response in
Washington's breast, and the Senator
saw the sign of it in his face.
From that moment one could find the youth =
with
the Senator even oftener
than with Col. Sellers. When the statesman presided at gre=
at
temperance
meetings, he placed Washington in the front
rank of impressive
dignitaries that gave tone to the occasion=
and
pomp to the platform.
His bald headed surroundings made the youth
the more conspicuous.
When the statesman made remarks in these
meetings, he not infrequently
alluded with effect to the encouraging
spectacle of one of the wealthiest
and most brilliant young favorites of soci=
ety
forsaking the light
vanities of that butterfly existence to no=
bly
and self-sacrificingly
devote his talents and his riches to the c=
ause
of saving his hapless
fellow creatures from shame and misery here
and eternal regret hereafter.
At the prayer meetings the Senator always
brought Washington up the aisle
on his arm and seated him prominently; in =
his
prayers he referred to him
in the cant terms which the Senator employ=
ed,
perhaps unconsciously, and
mistook, maybe, for religion, and in other
ways brought him into notice.
He had him out at gatherings for the benef=
it
of the negro, gatherings for
the benefit of the Indian, gatherings for =
the
benefit of the heathen in
distant lands. He had him out time and again, bef=
ore
Sunday Schools,
as an example for emulation. Upon all these occasions the Senat=
or
made
casual references to many benevolent
enterprises which his ardent young
friend was planning against the day when t=
he
passage of the University
bill should make his means available for t=
he
amelioration of the
condition of the unfortunate among his fel=
low
men of all nations and all.
climes.&n=
bsp;
Thus as the weeks rolled on Washington grew up, into an imposing
lion once more, but a lion that roamed the
peaceful fields of religion
and temperance, and revisited the glitteri=
ng
domain of fashion no more.
A great moral influence was thus brought, =
to
bear in favor of the bill;
the
weightiest of friends flocked to its standard; its most energetic
enemies said it was useless to fight longe=
r;
they had tacitly surrendered
while as yet the day of battle was not com=
e.
The session was drawing toward its close.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Senator Dilworthy thought he
would run out west and shake hands with his
constituents and let them
look at him. The legislature whose duty it woul=
d be
to re-elect him to
the United States Senate, was already in
session. Mr. Dilworthy
considered his re-election certain, but he=
was
a careful, painstaking
man, and if, by visiting his State he could
find the opportunity to
persuade a few more legislators to vote for
him, he held the journey to
be well worth taking. The University bill was safe, now;=
he
could leave
it without fear; it needed his presence and
his watching no longer.
But there was a person in his State
legislature who did need watching
--a person who, Senator Dilworthy said, wa=
s a
narrow, grumbling,
uncomfortable malcontent--a person who was
stolidly opposed to reform,
and progress and him,--a person who, he
feared, had been bought with
money to combat him, and through him the
commonwealth's welfare and its
politics' purity.
"If this person Noble," said Mr.
Dilworthy, in a little speech at a
dinner party given him by some of his
admirers, "merely desired to
sacrifice
of my dear State's weal, I would be glad a=
nd
grateful to do it; but when
he makes of me but a cloak to hide his dee=
per
designs, when he proposes
to strike through me at the heart of my
beloved State, all the lion in me
is roused--and I say here I stand, solitary
and alone, but unflinching,
unquailing, thrice armed with my sacred tr=
ust;
and whoso passes, to do
evil to this fair domain that looks to me =
for
protection, must do so over
my dead body."
He further said that if this Noble were a =
pure
man, and merely misguided,
he could bear it, but that he should succe=
ed
in his wicked designs
through, a base use of money would leave a
blot upon his State which
would work untold evil to the morals of the
people, and that he would not
suffer; the public morals must not be
contaminated. He would seek t=
his
man Noble; he would argue, he would persua=
de,
he would appeal to his
honor.
When he arrived on the ground he found his
friends unterrified; they were
standing firmly by him and were full of
courage. Noble was working ha=
rd,
too, but matters were against him, he was =
not
making much progress.
Mr. Dilworthy took an early opportunity to
send for Mr. Noble; he had a
midnight interview with him, and urged him=
to
forsake his evil ways; he
begged him to come again and again, which =
he
did. He finally sent the
man away at 3 o'clock one morning; and whe=
n he
was gone, Mr. Dilworthy
said to himself,
"I feel a good deal relieved, now, a
great deal relieved."
The Senator now turned his attention to
matters touching the souls of his
people.&n=
bsp;
He appeared in church; he took a leading part in prayer
meetings; he met and encouraged the temper=
ance
societies; he graced the
sewing circles of the ladies with his
presence, and even took a needle
now and then and made a stitch or two upon=
a
calico shirt for some poor
Bibleless pagan of the South Seas, and this
act enchanted the ladies,
who regarded the garments thus honored as =
in a
manner sanctified.
The Senator wrought in Bible classes, and
nothing could keep him away
from the Sunday Schools--neither sickness =
nor
storms nor weariness.
He even traveled a tedious thirty miles in=
a poor
little rickety
stagecoach to comply with the desire of the
miserable hamlet of
Cattleville that he would let its Sunday
School look upon him.
All the town was assembled at the stage of=
fice
when he arrived,
two bonfires were burning, and a battery o=
f anvils
was popping exultant
broadsides; for a United States Senator wa=
s a
sort of god in the
understanding of these people who never had
seen any creature mightier
than a county judge. To them a United States Senator wa=
s a
vast, vague
colossus, an awe inspiring unreality.
Next day everybody was at the village chur=
ch a
full half hour before time
for Sunday School to open; ranchmen and
farmers had come with their
families from five miles around, all eager=
to
get a glimpse of the great
man--the man who had been to Washington; t=
he
man who had seen the
President of the United States, and had ev=
en
talked with him; the man who
had seen the actual Washington
Monument--perhaps touched it with his
hands.
When the Senator arrived the Church was
crowded, the windows were full,
the aisles were packed, so was the vestibu=
le,
and so indeed was the yard
in front of the building. As he worked his way through to the
pulpit on
the arm of the minister and followed by the
envied officials of the
village, every neck was stretched and, eve=
ry
eye twisted around
intervening obstructions to get a
glimpse. Elderly people direc=
ted
each
other's attention and, said, "There!
that's him, with the grand, noble
forehead!" Boys nudged each other and said,
"Hi, Johnny, here he is,
there, that's him, with the peeled head!&q=
uot;
The Senator took his seat in the pulpit, w=
ith
the minister' on one side
of him and the Superintendent of the Sunday
School on the other.
The town dignitaries sat in an impressive =
row
within the altar railings
below.&nb=
sp;
The Sunday School children occupied ten of the front benches.
dressed in their best and most uncomfortab=
le
clothes, and with hair
combed and faces too clean to feel
natural. So awed were they by=
the
presence of a living United States Senator,
that during three minutes not
a "spit ball" was thrown. After that they began to come to
themselves by
degrees, and presently the spell was wholly
gone and they were reciting
verses and pulling hair.
The usual Sunday School exercises were hur=
ried
through, and then the
minister, got up and bored the house with a
speech built on the customary
Sunday School plan; then the Superintendent
put in his oar; then the town
dignitaries had their say. They all made complimentary refere=
nce to
"their friend the Senator," and =
told
what a great and illustrious man he
was and what he had done for his country a=
nd
for religion and temperance,
and exhorted the little boys to be good and
diligent and try to become
like him some day. The speakers won the deathless hat=
red of
the house by
these delays, but at last there was an end=
and
hope revived; inspiration
was about to find utterance.
Senator Dilworthy rose and beamed upon the
assemblage for a full minute
in silence. Then he smiled with an access of
sweetness upon the children
and began:
"My little friends--for I hope that a=
ll
these bright-faced little people
are my friends and will let me be their
friend--my little friends, I have
traveled much, I have been in many cities =
and
many States, everywhere in
our great and noble country, and by the
blessing of Providence I have
been permitted to see many gatherings like
this--but I am proud, I am
truly proud to say that I never have looked
upon so much intelligence,
so much grace, such sweetness of dispositi=
on
as I see in the charming
young countenances I see before me at this
moment. I have been asking
myself as I sat here, Where am I? Am I in some far-off monarchy, loo=
king
upon little princes and princesses? No.
Am I in some populous centre of
my own country, where the choicest childre=
n of
the land have been
selected and brought together as at a fair=
for
a prize? No. Am I in
some strange foreign clime where the child=
ren
are marvels that we know
not of?&n=
bsp;
No. Then where am I? Yes--where am I? I am in a simple,
remote, unpretending settlement of my own =
dear
State, and these are the
children of the noble and virtuous men who
have made me what I am!
My soul is lost in wonder at the thought!<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And I humbly thank Him to whom
we are but as worms of the dust, that he h=
as
been pleased to call me to
serve such men! Earth has no higher, no grander po=
sition
for me. Let
kings and emperors keep their tinsel crown=
s, I
want them not; my heart is
here!
"Again I thought, Is this a theatre?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> No.
Is it a concert or a gilded
opera?&nb=
sp;
No. Is it some other v=
ain,
brilliant, beautiful temple of
soul-staining amusement and hilarity? No.
Then what is it? What =
did
my consciousness reply? I ask you, my little friends, What=
did
my
consciousness reply? It replied, It is the temple of the
Lord! Ah,
think of that, now. I could hardly keep the tears back=
, I
was so
grateful.=
Oh, how beautiful it is to see these ranks of sunny little
faces assembled here to learn the way of l=
ife;
to learn to be good; to
learn to be useful; to learn to be pious; =
to
learn to be great and
glorious men and women; to learn to be pro=
ps
and pillars of the State and
shining lights in the councils and the
households of the nation; to be
bearers of the banner and soldiers of the
cross in the rude campaigns of
life, and raptured souls in the happy fiel=
ds
of Paradise hereafter.
"Children, honor your parents and be
grateful to them for providing for
you the precious privileges of a Sunday
School.
"Now my dear little friends, sit up
straight and pretty--there, that's
it--and give me your attention and let me =
tell
you about a poor little
Sunday School scholar I once knew.--He liv=
ed
in the far west, and his
parents were poor. They could not give him a costly
education; but they
were good and wise and they sent him to the
Sunday School. He loved the
Sunday School. I hope you love your Sunday School=
--ah,
I see by your
faces that you do! That is right!
"Well, this poor little boy was alway=
s in
his place when the bell rang,
and he always knew his lesson; for his
teachers wanted him to learn and
he loved his teachers dearly. Always love your teachers, my chil=
dren,
for they love you more than you can know,
now. He would not let bad boy=
s
persuade him to go to play on Sunday. There was one little bad boy who
was always trying to persuade him, but he =
never
could.
"So this poor little boy grew up to b=
e a
man, and had to go out in the
world, far from home and friends to earn h=
is
living. Temptations lay all
about him, and sometimes he was about to
yield, but he would think of
some precious lesson he learned in his Sun=
day
School a long time ago, and
that would save him. By and by he was elected to the
legislature--Then
he did everything he could for Sunday
Schools. He got laws passed f=
or
them; he got Sunday Schools established
wherever he could.
"And by and by the people made him
governor--and he said it was all owing
to the Sunday School.
"After a while the people elected him=
a
Representative to the Congress of
the United States, and he grew very
famous.--Now temptations assailed him
on every hand. People tried to get him to drink w=
ine;
to dance, to go to
theatres; they even tried to buy his vote;=
but
no, the memory of his
Sunday School saved him from all harm; he
remembered the fate of the bad
little boy who used to try to get him to play on Sunda=
y,
and who grew up
and became a drunkard and was hanged. He remembered that, and was glad he
never yielded and played on Sunday.
"Well, at last, what do you think
happened? Why the people gave=
him a
towering, illustrious position, a grand,
imposing position. And what d=
o
you think it was? What should you say it was,
children? It was Senator
of the United States! That poor little boy that loved his
Sunday School
became that man. That man stands before you! All that he is, he owes to
the Sunday School.
"My precious children, love your pare=
nts,
love your teachers, love your
Sunday School, be pious, be obedient, be
honest, be diligent, and then
you will succeed in life and be honored of=
all
men. Above all things,
my children, be honest. Above all things be pure-minded as=
the
snow.
Let us join in prayer."
When Senator Dilworthy departed from
Cattleville, he left three dozen
boys behind him arranging a campaign of li=
fe
whose objective point was
the United States Senate.
When he arrived at the State capital at
midnight Mr. Noble came and held
a three-hours' conference with him, and th=
en
as he was about leaving
said:
"I've worked hard, and I've got them =
at
last. Six of them haven't got=
quite back-bone enough to slew around and =
come
right out for you on the
first ballot to-morrow; but they're going =
to
vote against you on the
first for the sake of appearances, and then
come out for you all in a
body on the second--I've fixed all that! By supper time to-morrow you'll
be re-elected. You can go to bed and sleep easy on
that."
After Mr. Noble was gone, the Senator said=
:
"Well, to bring about a complexion of
things like this was worth coming
West for."
The case of the State of
down for trial on the 15th day of February,
less than a year after the
shooting of George Selby.
If the public had almost forgotten the
existence of Laura and her crime,
they were reminded of all the details of t=
he
murder by the newspapers,
which for some days had been announcing the
approaching trial. But they
had not forgotten. The sex, the age, the beauty of the
prisoner; her
high social position in Washington, the
unparalleled calmness with which
the crime was committed had all conspired to fix the e=
vent
in the public
mind, although nearly three hundred and sixty-five subsequent murders had occurred to vary the monotony of metropolitan life.<= o:p>
No, the public read from time to time of t=
he
lovely prisoner, languishing
in the city prison, the tortured victim of=
the
law's delay; and as the
months went by it was natural that the hor=
ror
of her crime should become
a little indistinct in memory, while the
heroine of it should be invested
with a sort of sentimental interest. Perhaps her counsel had calculated=
on this.&=
nbsp;
Perhaps it was by their advice that Laura had interested
herself in the unfortunate criminals who
shared her prison confinement,
and had done not a little to relieve, from=
her
own purse, the necessities
of some of the poor creatures. That she had done this, the public=
read
in the journals of the day, and the simple
announcement cast a softening
light upon her character.
The court room was crowded at an early hou=
r,
before the arrival of
judges, lawyers and prisoner. There is no enjoyment so keen to c=
ertain
minds as that of looking upon the slow tor=
ture
of a human being on trial
for life, except it be an execution; there=
is
no display of human
ingenuity, wit and power so fascinating as
that made by trained lawyers
in the trial of an important case, nowhere
else is exhibited such
subtlety, acumen, address, eloquence.
All the conditions of intense excitement m=
eet
in a murder trial. The
awful issue at stake gives significance to=
the
lightest word or look.
How the quick eyes of the spectators rove =
from
the stolid jury to the
keen lawyers, the impassive judge, the anx=
ious
prisoner. Nothing is
lost of the sharp wrangle of the counsel on
points of law, the measured
decision's of the bench; the duels between=
the
attorneys and the
witnesses. The crowd sways with the rise and =
fall
of the shifting,
testimony, in sympathetic interest, and ha=
ngs
upon the dicta of the
judge in breathless silence. It speedily takes sides for or aga=
inst
the accused, and recognizes as quickly its
favorites among the lawyers.
Nothing delights it more than the sharp re=
tort
of a witness and the
discomfiture of an obnoxious attorney. A joke, even if it be a lame,
one, is no where so keenly relished or qui=
ckly
applauded as in a murder
trial.
Within the bar the young lawyers and the
privileged hangers-on filled all
the chairs except those reserved at the ta=
ble
for those engaged in the
case.&nbs=
p;
Without, the throng occupied all the seats, the window ledges and
the standing room. The atmosphere was already somethi=
ng
horrible.
It was the peculiar odor of a criminal cou=
rt,
as if it were tainted by
the presence, in different persons, of all=
the
crimes that men and women
can commit.
There was a little stir when the Prosecuti=
ng
Attorney, with two
assistants, made his way in, seated himsel=
f at
the table, and spread his
papers before him. There was more stir when the couns=
el of
the defense
appeared.=
They were Mr. Braham, the senior, and Mr. Quiggle and Mr.
O'Keefe, the juniors.
Everybody in the court room knew Mr. Braha=
m,
the great criminal lawyer,
and he was not unaware that he was the obj=
ect
of all eyes as he moved to
his place, bowing to his friends in the
bar. A large but rather spare=
man, with broad shoulders and a massive he=
ad,
covered with chestnut curls
which fell down upon his coat collar and w=
hich
he had a habit of shaking
as a lion is supposed to shake his mane. His face was clean shaven,
and he had a wide mouth and rather small d=
ark
eyes, set quite too near
together: Mr. Braham wore a brown frock co=
at
buttoned across his breast,
with a rose-bud in the upper buttonhole, a=
nd
light pantaloons.
A diamond stud was seen to flash from his
bosom; and as he seated himself
and drew off his gloves a heavy seal ring =
was
displayed upon his white
left hand. Mr. Braham having seated himself,
deliberately surveyed the
entire house, made a remark to one of his
assistants, and then taking an
ivory-handled knife from his pocket began =
to
pare his finger nails,
rocking his chair backwards and forwards
slowly.
A moment later Judge O'Shaunnessy entered =
at
the rear door and took his
seat in one of the chairs behind the bench=
; a
gentleman in black
broadcloth, with sandy hair, inclined to c=
url,
a round; reddish and
rather jovial face, sharp rather than
intellectual, and with a
self-sufficient air. His career had nothing remarkable =
in
it. He was
descended from a long line of Irish Kings,=
and
he was the first one of
them who had ever come into his kingdom--t=
he
kingdom of such being the
city of New York. He had, in fact, descended so far =
and so
low that he
found himself, when a boy, a sort of street
Arab in that city; but he had
ambition and native shrewdness, and he
speedily took to boot-polishing,
and newspaper hawking, became the office a=
nd
errand boy of a law firm,
picked up knowledge enough to get some
employment in police courts, was
admitted to the bar, became a rising young
politician, went to the
legislature, and was finally elected to the
bench which he now honored.
In this democratic country he was obliged =
to
conceal his royalty under
a plebeian aspect. Judge O'Shaunnessy never had a luc=
rative
practice nor
a large salary but he had prudently laid a=
way
money-believing that
a dependant judge can never be impartial--=
and
he had lands and houses
to the value of three or four hundred thou=
sand
dollars. Had he not
helped to build and furnish this very Court
House? Did he not know that
the very "spittoon" which his
judgeship used cost the city the sum of one
thousand dollars?
As soon as the judge was seated, the court=
was
opened with the "oi yis,
oi yis" of the officer in his native
language, the case called, and the
sheriff was directed to bring in the
prisoner. In the midst of a
profound hush Laura entered, leaning on the
arm of the officer, and was
conducted to a seat by her counsel. She was followed by her mother and=
by Washington Hawkins, who were given seats
near her.
Laura was very pale, but this pallor
heightened the lustre of her large
eyes and gave a touching sadness to her
expressive face. She was dres=
sed
in simple black, with exquisite taste, and
without an ornament. The thin=
lace vail which partially covered her face=
did
not so much conceal as
heighten her beauty. She would not have entered a drawi=
ng
room with more
self-poise, nor a church with more haughty
humility. There was in her
manner or face neither shame nor boldness,=
and
when she took her seat in
fall view of half the spectators, her eyes
were downcast. A murmur of
admiration ran through the room. The newspaper reporters made their=
pencils fly. Mr. Braham again swept his eyes ov=
er the
house as if in
approval.=
When Laura at length raised her eyes a little, she saw Philip
and Harry within the bar, but she gave no
token of recognition.
The clerk then read the indictment, which =
was
in the usual form. It
charged Laura Hawkins, in effect, with the
premeditated murder of George
Selby, by shooting him with a pistol, with=
a
revolver, shotgun, rifle,
repeater, breech-loader, cannon, six-shoot=
er,
with a gun, or some other,
weapon; with killing him with a slung-shot=
, a
bludgeon, carving knife,
bowie knife, pen knife, rolling pin, car,
hook, dagger, hair pin, with a
hammer, with a screw-driver; with a nail, =
and
with all other weapons and
utensils whatsoever, at the Southern hotel=
and
in all other hotels and
places wheresoever, on the thirteenth day =
of
March and all other days of
the Christian era wheresoever.
Laura stood while the long indictment was
read; and at the end, in
response to the inquiry, of the judge, she
said in a clear, low voice;
"Not guilty." She sat down and the court proceed=
ed to
impanel a jury.
The first man called was Michael Lanigan,
saloon keeper.
"Have you formed or expressed any opi=
nion
on this case, and do you know
any of the parties?"
"Not any," said Mr. Lanigan.
"Have you any conscientious objection=
s to
capital punishment?"
"No, sir, not to my knowledge."<= o:p>
"Have you read anything about this
case?"
"To be sure, I read the papers, y'r
Honor."
Objected to by Mr. Braham, for cause, and
discharged.
Patrick Coughlin.
"What is your business?"
"Well--I haven't got any particular
business."
"Haven't any particular business,
eh? Well, what's your general=
business?=
What do you do for a living?"
"I own some terriers, sir."
"Own some terriers, eh? Keep a rat pit?"
"Gentlemen comes there to have a litt=
le
sport. I never fit 'em, sir.&=
quot;
"Oh, I see--you are probably the
amusement committee of the city council.
Have you ever heard of this case?"
"Not till this morning, sir."
"Can you read?"
"Not fine print, y'r Honor."
The man was about to be sworn, when Mr. Br=
aham
asked,
"Could your father read?"
"The old gentleman was mighty handy at
that, sir."
Mr. Braham submitted that the man was
disqualified Judge thought not.
Point argued. Challenged peremptorily, and set a=
side.
Ethan Dobb, cart-driver.
"Can you read?"
"Yes, but haven't a habit of it."=
;
"Have you heard of this case?"
"I think so--but it might be
another. I have no opinion ab=
out
it."
Dist. A.&=
nbsp;
"Tha--tha--there! Hold
on a bit? Did anybody tell yo=
u to
say
you had no opinion about it?"
"N--n--o, sir."
"Take care now, take care. Then what suggested it to you to
volunteer
that remark?"
"They've always asked that, when I wa=
s on
juries."
"All right, then. Have you any conscientious scruples
about capital
punishment?"
"Any which?"
"Would you object to finding a person=
guilty--of
murder on evidence?"
"I might, sir, if I thought he wan't
guilty."
The district attorney thought he saw a poi=
nt.
"Would this feeling rather incline you
against a capital conviction?"
The juror said he hadn't any feeling, and
didn't know any of the parties.
Accepted and sworn.
Dennis Lafin, laborer. Have neither formed nor expressed =
an
opinion.
Never had heard of the case. Believed in hangin' for them that
deserved
it.
Could read if it was necessary.
Mr. Braham objected. The man was evidently bloody
minded. Challenged
peremptorily.
Larry O'Toole, contractor. A showily dressed man of the style=
known
as
"vulgar genteel," had a sharp eye
and a ready tongue. Had read =
the
newspaper reports of the case, but they ma=
de
no impression on him.
Should be governed by the evidence. Knew no reason why he could not be=
an impartial juror.
Question by District Attorney.
"How is it that the reports made no
impression on you?"
"Never believe anything I see in the
newspapers."
(Laughter from the crowd, approving smiles
from his Honor and Mr.
Braham.) Juror sworn in. Mr. Braham whispered to O'Keefe,
"that's the
man."
Avery Hicks, pea-nut peddler. Did he ever hear of this case? The man
shook his head.
"Can you read?"
"No." "Any scruples about capital
punishment?"
"No."
He was about to be sworn, when the district
attorney turning to him
carelessly, remarked,
"Understand the nature of an oath?&qu=
ot;
"Outside," said the man, pointin=
g to
the door.
"I say, do you know what an oath
is?"
"Five cents," explained the man.=
"Do you mean to insult me?" roar=
ed
the prosecuting officer. "Are you an
idiot?"
"Fresh baked. I'm deefe. I don't hear a word you say."=
The man was discharged. "He wouldn't have made a bad =
juror,
though,"
whispered Braham. "I saw him looking at the pri=
soner
sympathizingly.
That's a point you want to watch for."=
;
The result of the whole day's work was the
selection of only two jurors.
These however were satisfactory to Mr.
Braham. He had kept off all t=
hose
he did not know. No one knew better than this great
criminal lawyer that
the battle was fought on the selection of =
the
jury. The subsequent
examination of witnesses, the eloquence
expended on the jury are all for
effect outside. At least that is the theory of Mr.
Braham. But human
nature is a queer thing, he admits; someti=
mes
jurors are unaccountably
swayed, be as careful as you can in choosi=
ng
them.
It was four weary days before this jury was
made up, but when it was
finally complete, it did great credit to t=
he
counsel for the defence.
So far as Mr. Braham knew, only two could
read, one of whom was the
foreman, Mr. Braham's friend, the showy
contractor. Low foreheads and=
heavy faces they all had; some had a look =
of
animal cunning, while the
most were only stupid. The entire panel formed that boast=
ed
heritage
commonly described as the "bulwark of=
our
liberties."
The District Attorney, Mr. McFlinn, opened=
the
case for the state. He
spoke with only the slightest accent, one =
that
had been inherited but not
cultivated. He contented himself with a brief
statement of the case.
The state would prove that Laura Hawkins, =
the
prisoner at the bar, a
fiend in the form of a beautiful woman, sh=
ot
dead George Selby, a
Southern gentleman, at the time and place
described. That the murder
was in cold blood, deliberate and without
provocation; that it had been
long premeditated and threatened; that she=
had
followed the deceased from
Washington to commit it. All this would be proved by
unimpeachable
witnesses. The attorney added that the duty o=
f the
jury, however painful
it might be, would be plain and simple.
perhaps fathers. They knew how insecure life had be=
come
in the
metropolis. Tomorrow our own wives might be wi=
dows,
their own children
orphans, like the bereaved family in yonder
hotel, deprived of husband
and father by the jealous hand of some
murderous female. The attorne=
y
sat down, and the clerk called?
"Henry Brierly."
Henry Brierly took the stand. Requested by the District Attorney=
to
tell
the jury all he knew about the killing, he
narrated the circumstances
substantially as the reader already knows
them.
He accompanied Miss Hawkins to
coming in relation to a bill then pending =
in
Congress, to secure the
attendance of absent members. Her note to him was here shown.
appeared to be very much excited at the
Washington station. After she=
had asked the conductor several questions,=
he
heard her say, "He can't
escape." Witness asked her "Who?"=
and
she replied "Nobody." Did
not see
her during the night. They traveled in a sleeping car. In the morning
she appeared not to have slept, said she h=
ad a
headache. In crossing the
ferry she asked him about the shipping in
sight; he pointed out where the
Cunarders lay when in port. They took a cup of coffee that mor=
ning
at a
restaurant. She said she was anxious to reach =
the
Southern Hotel where
Mr. Simons, one of the absent members, was
staying, before he went out.
She was entirely self-possessed, and beyond
unusual excitement did not
act unnaturally. After she had fired twice at Col. =
Selby,
she turned the
pistol towards her own breast, and witness
snatched it from her. She had=
seen a great deal with Selby in Washington,
appeared to be infatuated
with him.
(Cross-examined by Mr. Braham.)
"Mist-er.....er Brierly!" (Mr. Braham had
in perfection this lawyer's trick of annoy=
ing
a witness, by drawling out
the "Mister," as if unable to re=
call
the name, until the witness is
sufficiently aggravated, and then suddenly,
with a rising inflection,
flinging his name at him with startling
unexpectedness.) "Mist-er.....er
Brierly!&=
nbsp;
What is your occupation?"
"Civil Engineer, sir."
"Ah, civil engineer, (with a glance at
the jury). Following that
occupation with Miss Hawkins?" (Smile=
s by
the jury).
"No, sir," said Harry, reddening=
.
"How long have you known the
prisoner?"
"Two years, sir. I made her acquaintance in Hawkeye,
Missouri."
"M.....m...m. Mist-er.....er Brierly! Were you not a lover of Miss
Hawkins?"
Objected to. "I submit, your Honor, that I=
have
the right to establish
the relation of this unwilling witness to =
the
prisoner." Admitted.
"Well, sir," said Harry
hesitatingly, "we were friends."
"You act like a friend!"
(sarcastically.) The jury were beginning to hate
this neatly dressed young sprig. "Mister......er....Brierly! Didn't
Miss Hawkins refuse you?"
Harry blushed and stammered and looked at =
the
judge. "You must answer,=
sir," said His Honor.
"She--she--didn't accept me."
"No.=
I should think not. Br=
ierly
do you dare tell the jury that you had
not an interest in the removal of your riv=
al,
Col. Selby?" roared Mr.
Braham in a voice of thunder.
"Nothing like this, sir, nothing like
this," protested the witness.
"That's all, sir," said Mr. Brah=
am
severely.
"One word," said the District
Attorney. "Had you the l=
east
suspicion of
the prisoner's intention, up to the moment=
of
the shooting?"
"Not the least," answered Harry
earnestly.
"Of course not, of course-not,"
nodded Mr. Braham to the jury.
The prosecution then put upon the stand the
other witnesses of the
shooting at the hotel, and the clerk and t=
he
attending physicians. The
fact of the homicide was clearly
established. Nothing new was
elicited,
except from the clerk, in reply to a quest=
ion
by Mr. Braham, the fact
that when the prisoner enquired for Col. S=
elby
she appeared excited and
there was a wild look in her eyes.
The dying deposition of Col. Selby was then
produced. It set forth
Laura's threats, but there was a significa=
nt
addition to it, which the
newspaper report did not have. It seemed that after the depositio=
n was
taken as reported, the Colonel was told for
the first time by his
physicians that his wounds were mortal.
mental agony and fear; and said he had not
finished his deposition.
He added, with great difficulty and long
pauses these words. "I--=
have
--not--told--all. I must
tell--put--it--down--I--wronged--her.
Years
--ago--I--can't
see--O--God--I--deserved----"
That was all. He faint=
ed
and did not revive again.
The Washington railway conductor testified
that the prisoner had asked
him if a gentleman and his family went out=
on
the evening train,
describing the persons he had since learned
were Col. Selby and family.
Susan Cullum, colored servant at Senator Dilworthy's, was sworn. Knew<= o:p>
Col. Selby. Had seen him come to the house oft=
en,
and be alone in the
parlor with Miss Hawkins. He came the day but one before he =
was
shot.
She let him in. He appeared flustered like. She heard talking in the
parlor, I peared like it was quarrelin'. Was afeared sumfin' was wrong:
Just put her ear to--the--keyhole of the b=
ack
parlor-door. Heard a man's
voice, "I--can't--I can't, Good
God," quite beggin' like.
Heard--young
Miss' voice, "Take your choice, then.= If you 'bandon me, you knows what<= o:p>
to 'spect." Then he rushes outen the house, I =
goes
in--and I says,
"Missis did you ring?" She was a standin' like a tiger, h=
er
eyes
flashin'.=
I come right out.
This was the substance of Susan's testimon=
y,
which was not shaken in the
least by severe cross-examination. In reply to Mr. Braham's question,=
if
the prisoner did not look insane, Susan sa=
id,
"Lord; no, sir, just mad as
a hawnet."
Washington Hawkins was sworn. The pistol, identified by the offi=
cer as
the one used in the homicide, was produced
Washington admitted that it
was his.&=
nbsp;
She had asked him for it one morning, saying she thought she
had heard burglars the night before. Admitted that he never had heard
burglars in the house. Had anything unusual happened just
before that.
Nothing that he remembered. Did he accompany her to a receptio=
n at
Mrs.
Shoonmaker's a day or two before? Yes. What occurred? Little by little
it was dragged out of the witness that Lau=
ra
had behaved strangely there,
appeared to be sick, and he had taken her
home. Upon being pushed he
admitted that she had afterwards confessed
that she saw Selby there.
And Washington volunteered the statement t=
hat
Selby, was a black-hearted
villain.
The District Attorney said, with some anno=
yance;
"There--there! That will
do."
The defence declined to examine Mr. Hawkin=
s at
present. The case for the
prosecution was closed. Of the murder there could not be t=
he
least
doubt, or that the prisoner followed the
deceased to New York with a
murderous intent: On the evidence the jury must conv=
ict,
and might do so
without leaving their seats. This was the condition of the case=
two days after the jury had been
selected. A week had passed s=
ince
the
trial opened; and a Sunday had intervened.=
The public who read the reports of the
evidence saw no chance for the
prisoner's escape. The crowd of spectators who had wa=
tched
the trial
were moved with the most profound sympathy=
for
Laura.
Mr. Braham opened the case for the
defence. His manner was subdu=
ed,
and
he spoke in so low a voice that it was onl=
y by
reason of perfect silence
in the court room that he could be heard.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> He spoke very distinctly,
however, and if his nationality could be
discovered in his speech it was
only in a certain richness and breadth of
tone.
He began by saying that he trembled at the
responsibility he had
undertaken; and he should, altogether desp=
air,
if he did not see before
him a jury of twelve men of rare intellige=
nce,
whose acute minds would
unravel all the sophistries of the prosecu=
tion,
men with a sense, of
honor, which would revolt at the remorsele=
ss
persecution of this hunted
woman by the state, men with hearts to feel
for the wrongs of which she
was the victim. Far be it from him to cast any sus=
picion
upon the
motives of the able, eloquent and ingenious
lawyers of the state; they
act officially; their business is to convict. It is our business,<= o:p>
gentlemen, to see that justice is done.
"It is my duty, gentlemen, to untold =
to
you one of the most affecting
dramas in all, the history of misfortune.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I shall have to show you a
life, the sport of fate and circumstances,
hurried along through shifting
storm and sun, bright with trusting innoce=
nce
and anon black with
heartless villainy, a career which moves o=
n in
love and desertion and
anguish, always hovered over by the dark
spectre of INSANITY--an insanity
hereditary and induced by mental
torture,--until it ends, if end it must
in your verdict, by one of those fearful
accidents, which are inscrutable
to men and of which God alone knows the
secret.
"Gentlemen, I, shall ask you to go wi=
th
me away from this court room and
its minions of the law, away from the scen=
e of
this tragedy, to a
distant, I wish I could say a happier
day. The story I have to tell=
is
of a lovely little girl, with sunny hair a=
nd
laughing eyes, traveling
with her parents, evidently people of weal=
th
and refinement, upon a
Mississippi steamboat. There is an explosion, one of those
terrible
catastrophes which leave the imprint of an
unsettled mind upon the
survivors. Hundreds of mangled remains are se=
nt
into eternity. When the
wreck is cleared away this sweet little gi=
rl
is found among the panic
stricken survivors in the midst of a scene=
of
horror enough to turn the
steadiest brain. Her parents have disappeared. Search even for their
bodies is in vain. The bewildered, stricken child--wh=
o can
say what
changes the fearful event wrought in her
tender brain--clings to the
first person who shows her sympathy. It is Mrs. Hawkins, this good lady=
who is still her loving friend. Laura is adopted into the Hawkins<= o:p>
family.&n=
bsp;
Perhaps she forgets in time that she is not their child. She is
an orphan. No, gentlemen, I will not deceive =
you,
she is not an orphan.
Worse than that. There comes another day of agony.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> She knows that her
father lives. Who is he, where is he? Alas, I cannot tell you. Through
the scenes of this painful history he flits
here and there a lunatic!
If he, seeks his daughter, it is the
purposeless search of a lunatic, as
one who wanders bereft of reason, crying w=
here
is my child? Laura seeks
her father. In vain just as she is about to fi=
nd
him, again and again-he
disappears, he is gone, he vanishes.
"But this is only the prologue to the
tragedy. Bear with me while I=
relate it. (Mr. Braham takes out a handkerchi=
ef,
unfolds it slowly;
crashes it in his nervous hand, and throws=
it
on the table). Laura grew
up in her humble southern home, a beautiful
creature, the joy, of the
house, the pride of the neighborhood, the
loveliest flower in all the
sunny south. She might yet have been happy; she=
was
happy. But the
destroyer came into this paradise. He plucked the sweetest bud that g=
rew
there, and having enjoyed its odor, trampl=
ed
it in the mire beneath his
feet.&nbs=
p;
George Selby, the deceased, a handsome, accomplished Confederate
Colonel, was this human fiend. He deceived her with a mock marria=
ge;
after some months he brutally, abandoned h=
er,
and spurned her as if she
were a contemptible thing; all the time he=
had
a wife in New Orleans.
Laura was crushed. For weeks, as I shall show you by t=
he
testimony of
her adopted mother and brother, she hovered
over death in delirium.
Gentlemen, did she ever emerge from this
delirium? I shall show you th=
at
when she recovered her health, her mind was
changed, she was not what she
had been.=
You can judge yourselves whether the tottering reason ever
recovered its throne.
"Years pass. She is in Washington, apparently t=
he
happy favorite of a
brilliant society. Her family have become enormously =
rich
by one of
those sudden turns, in fortune that the
inhabitants of America are
familiar with--the discovery of immense
mineral wealth in some wild lands
owned by them. She is engaged in a vast philanthr=
opic
scheme for the
benefit of the poor, by, the use of this wealth. But, alas, even here<= o:p>
and now, the same, relentless fate pursued
her. The villain Selby
appears again upon the scene, as if on pur=
pose
to complete the ruin of
her life.=
He appeared to taunt her with her dishonor, he threatened
exposure if she did not become again the
mistress of his passion.
Gentlemen, do you wonder if this woman, th=
us
pursued, lost her reason,
was beside herself with fear, and that her
wrongs preyed upon her mind
until she was no longer responsible for her acts? I turn away my head as<= o:p>
one who would not willingly look even upon=
the
just vengeance of Heaven.
(Mr. Braham paused as if overcome by his
emotions. Mrs. Hawkins and
Washington were in tears, as were many of =
the
spectators also. The jury
looked scared.)
"Gentlemen, in this condition of affa=
irs
it needed but a spark--I do not
say a suggestion, I do not say a hint--from
this butterfly Brierly; this
rejected rival, to cause the explosion.
woman was in her right mind when she fled =
from
Washington and reached
this city in company--with Brierly, then I=
do
not know what insanity is."
When Mr. Braham sat down, he felt that he =
had
the jury with him. A burst
of applause followed, which the officer promptly, suppressed. Laura,<= o:p>
with tears in her eyes, turned a grateful =
look
upon her counsel. All the
women among the spectators saw the tears a=
nd
wept also. They thought as
they also looked at Mr. Braham; how handso=
me
he is!
Mrs. Hawkins took the stand. She was somewhat confused to be the
target
of so many, eyes, but her honest and good =
face
at once told in Laura's
favor.
"Mrs. Hawkins," said Mr. Braham,
"will you' be kind enough to state the
circumstances of your finding Laura?"=
"I object," said Mr. McFlinn; ri=
sing
to his feet. "This has n=
othing
whatever to do with the case, your honor.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> I am surprised at it, even
after the extraordinary speech of my learn=
ed
friend."
"How do you propose to connect it, Mr.
Braham?" asked the judge.
"If it please the court," said M=
r.
Braham, rising impressively, "your
Honor has permitted the prosecution, and I
have submitted without a word;
to go into the most extraordinary testimon=
y to
establish a motive. Are
we to be shut out from showing that the mo=
tive
attributed to us could not
by reason of certain mental conditions
exist? I purpose, may, it ple=
ase
your Honor, to show the cause and the orig=
in
of an aberration of mind,
to follow it up, with other like evidence,
connecting it with the very
moment of the homicide, showing a conditio=
n of
the intellect, of the
prisoner that precludes responsibility.&qu=
ot;
"The State must insist upon its
objections," said the District Attorney.
"The purpose evidently is to open the
door to a mass of irrelevant
testimony, the object of which is to produ=
ce
an effect upon the jury your
Honor well understands."
"Perhaps," suggested the judge,
"the court ought to hear the testimony,
and exclude it afterwards, if it is
irrelevant."
"Will your honor hear argument on
that!"
"Certainly."
And argument his honor did hear, or pretend
to, for two whole days,
from all the counsel in turn, in the cours=
e of
which the lawyers read
contradictory decisions enough to perfectly
establish both sides, from
volume after volume, whole libraries in fa=
ct,
until no mortal man could
say what the rules were. The question of insanity in all its
legal
aspects was of course drawn into the
discussion, and its application
affirmed and denied. The case was felt to turn upon the
admission or
rejection of this evidence. It was a sort of test trial of str=
ength
between the lawyers. At the end the judge decided to ad=
mit
the
testimony, as the judge usually does in su=
ch
cases, after a sufficient
waste of time in what are called arguments=
.
Mrs. Hawkins was allowed to go on.
Mrs. Hawkins slowly and conscientiously, a=
s if
every detail of her family
history was important, told the story of t=
he
steamboat explosion, of the
finding and adoption of Laura. Silas, that its Mr. Hawkins, and s=
he
always loved Laura, as if she had been the=
ir
own, child.
She then narrated the circumstances of Lau=
ra's
supposed marriage, her
abandonment and long illness, in a manner =
that
touched all hearts. Laura
had been a different woman since then.
Cross-examined. At the time of first finding Laura=
on
the steamboat,
did she notice that Laura's mind was at all
deranged? She couldn't say
that she did. After the recovery of Laura from h=
er
long illness, did
Mrs. Hawkins think there, were any signs of
insanity about her? Witness
confessed that she did not think of it the=
n.
Re-Direct examination. "But she was different after
that?"
"O, yes, sir."
Washington Hawkins corroborated his mother=
's
testimony as to Laura's
connection with Col. Selby. He was at Harding during the time =
of her
living there with him. After Col. Selby's desertion she w=
as
almost dead,
never appeared to know anything rightly for
weeks. He added that he
never saw such a scoundrel as Selby. (Checked by District attorney.)
Had he noticed any change in, Laura after =
her
illness? Oh, yes.
Whenever, any allusion was made that might=
recall
Selby to mind, she
looked awful--as if she could kill him.
"You mean," said Mr. Braham,
"that there was an unnatural, insane gleam
in her eyes?"
"Yes, certainly," said Washingto=
n in
confusion.
All this was objected to by the district
attorney, but it was got before
the jury, and Mr. Braham did not care how =
much
it was ruled out after
that.
"Beriah Sellers was the next witness
called. The Colonel made his =
way to
the stand with majestic, yet bland
deliberation. Having taken th=
e oath
and kissed the Bible with a smack intended=
to
show his great respect for
that book, he bowed to his Honor with dign=
ity,
to the jury with
familiarity, and then turned to the lawyers
and stood in an attitude of
superior attention.
"Mr. Sellers, I believe?" began =
Mr.
Braham.
"Beriah Sellers, Missouri," was =
the
courteous acknowledgment that the
lawyer was correct.
"Mr. Sellers; you know the parties he=
re,
you are a friend of the family?"
"Know them all, from infancy, sir.
Hawkins, Judge Hawkins, to come to Missour=
i,
and make his fortune.
It was by my advice and in company with me,
sir, that he went into the
operation of--"
"Yes, yes. Mr. Sellers, did you know a Major
Lackland?"
"Knew him, well, sir, knew him and
honored him, sir. He was one =
of the
most remarkable men of our country, sir. A member of congress. He was
often at my mansion sir, for weeks. He used to say to me, 'Col. Seller=
s,
if you would go into politics, if I had you
for a colleague, we should
show Calhoun and Webster that the brain of=
the
country didn't lie east of
the Alleganies. But I said--"
"Yes, yes. I believe Major Lackland is not li=
ving,
Colonel?"
There was an almost imperceptible sense of
pleasure betrayed in the
Colonel's face at this prompt acknowledgme=
nt of
his title.
"Bless you, no. Died years ago, a miserable death,=
sir,
a ruined man,
a poor sot. He was suspected of selling his vo=
te in
Congress, and
probably he did; the disgrace killed' him,=
he
was an outcast, sir,
loathed by himself and by his constituents=
. And I think; sir"----
The Judge. "You will confine yourself, C=
ol.
Sellers to the questions of
the counsel."
"Of course, your honor. This," continued the Colonel =
in
confidential
explanation, "was twenty years ago. I shouldn't have thought of referr=
ing
to such a trifling circumstance now. If I remember rightly, sir"--=
A bundle of letters was here handed to the
witness.
"Do you recognize, that
hand-writing?"
"As if it was my own, sir. It's Major
Lackland's. I was knowing to these
letters when Judge Hawkins received them.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> [The Colonel's memory was a
little at fault here. Mr. Hawkins had never gone into de=
tail's
with him
on this subject.] He used to show them to me, and sa=
y,
'Col, Sellers
you've a mind to untangle this sort of thing.' Lord, how everything<= o:p>
comes back to me. Laura was a little thing then. 'The
Judge and I were
just laying our plans to buy the Pilot Kno=
b,
and--"
"Colonel, one moment. Your Honor, we put these letters in
evidence."
The letters were a portion of the correspo=
ndence
of Major Lackland with
Silas Hawkins; parts of them were missing =
and
important letters were
referred to that were not here. They related, as the reader knows,=
to
Laura's father. Lackland had come upon the track o=
f a
man who was
searching for a lost child in a Mississippi
steamboat explosion years
before.&n=
bsp;
The man was lame in one leg, and appeared to be flitting from
place to place. It seemed that Major Lackland got =
so
close track of him
that he was able to describe his personal
appearance and learn his name.
But the letter containing these particulars
was lost. Once he heard of
him at a hotel in Washington; but the man
departed, leaving an empty
trunk, the day before the major went
there. There was something ve=
ry
mysterious in all his movements.
Col. Sellers, continuing his testimony, sa=
id
that he saw this lost
letter, but could not now recall the
name. Search for the supposed=
father had been continued by Lackland, Haw=
kins
and himself for several
years, but Laura was not informed of it ti=
ll
after the death of Hawkins,
for fear of raising false hopes in her min=
d.
Here the Distract Attorney arose and said,=
"Your Honor, I must positively object=
to
letting the witness wander off
into all these irrelevant details."
Mr. Braham. "I submit your honor, that we
cannot be interrupted in this
manner we have suffered the state to have =
full
swing. Now here is a
witness, who has known the prisoner from
infancy, and is competent to
testify upon the one point vital to her
safety. Evidently he is a
gentleman of character, and his knowledge =
of
the case cannot be shut out
without increasing the aspect of persecuti=
on
which the State's attitude
towards the prisoner already has
assumed."
The wrangle continued, waxing hotter and
hotter. The Colonel seeing th=
e
attention of the counsel and Court entirely
withdrawn from him, thought
he perceived here his opportunity, turning=
and
beaming upon the jury, he
began simply to talk, but as the grandeur =
of
his position grew upon him
--talk broadened unconsciously into an ora=
torical
vein.
"You see how she was situated, gentle=
men;
poor child, it might have
broken her, heart to let her mind get to
running on such a thing as that.
You see, from what we could make out her
father was lame in the left leg
and had a deep scar on his left forehead.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And so ever since the day she
found out she had another father, she never
could, run across a lame
stranger without being taken all over with=
a
shiver, and almost fainting
where she, stood. And the next minute she
would go right after that man.
Once she stumbled on a stranger with a game
leg; and she was the most
grateful thing in this world--but it was t=
he
wrong leg, and it was days
and days before she could leave her bed. O=
nce
she found a man with a scar
on his forehead and she was just going to
throw herself into his arms,`
but he stepped out just then, and there wa=
sn't
anything the matter with
his legs.=
Time and time again, gentlemen of the jury, has this poor
suffering orphan flung herself on her knees
with all her heart's
gratitude in her eyes before some scarred =
and
crippled veteran, but
always, always to be disappointed, always =
to
be plunged into new
despair--if his legs were right his scar w=
as
wrong, if his scar was right
his legs were wrong. Never could find a man that would =
fill
the bill.
Gentlemen of the jury; you have hearts, you
have feelings, you have warm
human sympathies; you can feel for this po=
or
suffering child. Gentlemen
of the jury, if I had time, if I had the
opportunity, if I might be
permitted to go on and tell you the thousa=
nds
and thousands and thousands
of mutilated strangers this poor girl has
started out of cover, and
hunted from city to city, from state to st=
ate,
from continent to
continent, till she has run them down and
found they wan't the ones; I
know your hearts--"
By this time the Colonel had become so war=
med
up, that his voice, had
reached a pitch above that of the contendi=
ng
counsel; the lawyers
suddenly stopped, and they and the Judge
turned towards the Colonel and
remained far several seconds too surprised=
at
this novel exhibition to
speak.&nb=
sp;
In this interval of silence, an appreciation of the situation
gradually stole over the audience, and an
explosion of laughter
followed, in which even the Court and the =
bar
could hardly keep from
joining.
Sheriff.&=
nbsp;
"Order in the Court."
The Judge. "The witness will confine his
remarks to answers to
questions."
The Colonel turned courteously to the Judge
and said,
"Certainly, your Honor--certainly.
forms of procedure in the courts of New Yo=
rk,
but in the West, sir, in
the West--"
The Judge. "There, there, that will do, =
that
will do!"
"You see, your Honor, there were no
questions asked me, and I thought I
would take advantage of the lull in the
proceedings to explain to the
jury a very significant train of--"
The Judge. "That will DO sir! Proceed Mr. Braham."
"Col. Sellers, have you any, reason to
suppose that this man is still
living?"
"Every reason, sir, every reason.
"State why"
"I have never heard of his death, sir. It has never come to my<= o:p>
knowledge. In fact, sir, as I once said to
Governor--"
"Will you state to the jury what has =
been
the effect of the knowledge of
this wandering and evidently unsettled bei=
ng,
supposed to be her father,
upon the mind of Miss Hawkins for so many
years!"
Question objected to. Question ruled out.
Cross-examined. "Major Sellers, what is your
occupation?"
The Colonel looked about him loftily, as if
casting in his mind what
would be the proper occupation of a person=
of
such multifarious interests
and then said with dignity:
"A gentleman, sir. My father used to always say,
sir"--
"Capt. Sellers, did you; ever see this
man, this supposed father?"
"No, Sir. But upon one occasion, old
Senator Thompson said to me, its my
opinion, Colonel Sellers"--
"Did you ever see any body who had se=
en
him?"
"No, sir: It was reported around at o=
ne
time, that"--
"That is all."
The defense then sent a day in the examina=
tion
of medical experts in
insanity who testified, on the evidence he=
ard,
that sufficient causes had
occurred to produce an insane mind in the
prisoner. Numerous cases were=
cited to sustain this opinion. There was such a thing as momentar=
y
insanity, in which the person, otherwise
rational to all appearances,
was for the time actually bereft of reason,
and not responsible for his
acts.&nbs=
p;
The causes of this momentary possession could often be found in
the person's life. [It afterwards came out that the c=
hief
expert for the
defense, was paid a thousand dollars for
looking into the case.]
The prosecution consumed another day in the
examination of experts
refuting the notion of insanity. These cau=
ses
might have produced
insanity, but there was no evidence that t=
hey
have produced it in this
case, or that the prisoner was not at the =
time
of the commission of the
crime in full possession of her ordinary
faculties.
The trial had now lasted two weeks. It
required four days now for the
lawyers to "sum up." These argum=
ents
of the counsel were very important
to their friends, and greatly enhanced the=
ir reputation
at the bar but
they have small interest to us. Mr. Braham in his closing speech
surpassed himself; his effort is still
remembered as the greatest in the
criminal annals of New York.
Mr. Braham re-drew for the jury the pictur=
e,
of Laura's early life; he
dwelt long upon that painful episode of the
pretended marriage and the
desertion. Col. Selby, he said, belonged,
gentlemen; to what is called
the "upper classes:" It is the privilege of the "u=
pper
classes" to prey
upon the sons and daughters of the
people. The Hawkins family, t=
hough
allied to the best blood of the South, wer=
e at
the time in humble
circumstances. He commented upon her parentage. Perhaps her agonized
father, in his intervals of sanity, was st=
ill
searching for his lost
daughter.=
Would he one day hear that she had died a felon's death?
Society had pursued her, fate had pursued =
her,
and in a moment of
delirium she had turned and defied fate and
society. He dwelt upon the
admission of base wrong in Col. Selby's dy=
ing
statement. He drew a
vivid, picture of the villain at last
overtaken by the vengeance of
Heaven.&n=
bsp;
Would the jury say that this retributive justice, inflicted by
an outraged, and deluded woman, rendered
irrational by the most cruel
wrongs, was in the nature of a foul, preme=
ditated
murder? "Gentlemen;
it is enough for me to look upon the life =
of
this most beautiful and
accomplished of her sex, blasted by the
heartless villainy of man,
without seeing, at the-end of it; the horr=
ible
spectacle of a gibbet.
Gentlemen, we are all human, we have all
sinned, we all have need of
mercy.&nb=
sp;
But I do not ask mercy of you who are the guardians of society
and of the poor waifs, its sometimes wrong=
ed
victims; I ask only that
justice which you and I shall need in that
last, dreadful hour, when
death will be robbed of half its terrors i=
f we
can reflect that we have
never wronged a human being. Gentlemen, the life of this lovely=
and
once
happy girl, this now stricken woman, is in
your hands."
The jury were risibly affected. Half the c=
ourt
room was in tears. If a
vote of both spectators and jury could have
been taken then, the verdict
would have been, "let her go, she has
suffered enough."
But the district attorney had the closing argument. Calmly and without<= o:p>
malice or excitement he reviewed the
testimony. As the cold facts =
were
unrolled, fear settled upon the
listeners. There was no escap=
e from
the
murder or its premeditation. Laura's character as a lobbyist in=
Washington which had been made to appear incidentally =
in
the evidence was also against her: the whole body of the testimony of the
defense was
shown to be irrelevant, introduced only to excite
sympathy, and not
giving a color of probability to the absurd suppositio=
n of
insanity.
The attorney then dwelt upon, the insecurity of life in
the city, and the
growing immunity with which women committed murders. Mr. McFlinn made a very able speec=
h;
convincing the reason without touching the feelings.
The Judge in his charge reviewed the testimony with gr=
eat
show of
impartiality.
He ended by saying that the verdict must be acquittal or
murder in the first, degree. If you find that the prisoner comm=
itted
a
homicide, in possession of her reason and with
premeditation, your
verdict will be accordingly. If you find she was not in her rig=
ht
mind,
that she was the victim of insanity, hereditary or
momentary, as it has
been explained, your verdict will take that into accou=
nt.
As the Judge finished his charge, the spectators anxio=
usly
watched the
faces of the jury.&nb=
sp;
It was not a remunerative study.&nb=
sp;
In the court room
the general feeling was in favor of Laura, but whether
this feeling
extended to the jury, their stolid faces did not
reveal. The public
outside hoped for a conviction, as it always does; it
wanted an example;
the newspapers trusted the jury would have the courage=
to
do its duty.
When Laura was convicted, then the public would tern
around and abuse the governor if he did; not pardon her.
The jury went out.&nb=
sp;
Mr. Braham preserved his serene confidence, but
Laura's friends were dispirited. Washington and Col. Sellers had be=
en
obliged to go to Washington, and they had
departed under the unspoken
fear the verdict would be unfavorable, a
disagreement was the best they
could hope for, and money was needed. The necessity of the passage of
the University bill was now imperative.
The Court waited, for, some time, but the =
jury
gave no signs of coming
in.
Mr. Braham said it was extraordinary. The Court then took a recess
for a couple of hours. Upon again coming in, word was bro=
ught
that the
jury had not yet agreed.
But the jury, had a question. The point upon which, they wanted<= o:p>
instruction was this. They wanted to know if Col. Seller=
s was
related to
the Hawkins family. The court then adjourned till morn=
ing.
Mr. Braham, who was in something of a pet,
remarked to Mr. O'Toole that
they must have been deceived, that juryman
with the broken nose could
read!
The momentous day was at hand--a day that
promised to make or mar the
fortunes of Hawkins family for all time.
Sellers were both up early, for neither of
them could sleep. Congress
was expiring, and was passing bill after b=
ill
as if they were gasps and
each likely to be its last. The University was on file for its=
third
reading this day, and to-morrow
Sellers no longer, impecunious but this da=
y,
also, or at farthest the
next, the jury in Laura's Case would come to a de=
cision
of some kind or
other--they would find her guilty, Washing=
ton
secretly feared, and then
the care and the trouble would all come ba=
ck
again, and these would be
wearing months of besieging judges for new
trials; on this day, also, the
re-election of Mr. Dilworthy to the Senate
would take place. So
Washington's mind was in a state of turmoi=
l;
there were more interests at
stake than it could handle with serenity. =
He
exulted when he thought of
his millions; he was filled with dread whe=
n he
thought of Laura. But
Sellers was excited and happy. He said:
"Everything is going right, everythin=
g's
going perfectly right. Pretty=
soon the telegrams will begin to rattle in,
and then you'll see, my boy.
Let the jury do what they please; what
difference is it going to make?
To-morrow we can send a million to New York
and set the lawyers at work
on the judges; bless your heart they will =
go
before judge after judge and
exhort and beseech and pray and shed
tears. They always do; and th=
ey
always win, too. And they will win this time. They will get a writ of
habeas corpus, and a stay of proceedings, =
and
a supersedeas, and a new
trial and a nolle prosequi, and there you are! That's the routine, and<= o:p>
it's no trick at all to a New York
lawyer. That's the regular ro=
utine
--everything's red tape and routine in the
law, you see; it's all Greek
to you, of course, but to a man who is
acquainted with those things it's
mere--I'll explain it to you sometime. Everything's going to glide right<= o:p>
along easy and comfortable now. You'll see, Washington, you'll see=
how
it will be. And then, let me think ..... Dilwo=
rtby
will be elected
to-day, and by day, after to-morrow night =
he
will be in New York ready to
put in his shovel--and you haven't lived in
Washington all this time not
to know that the people who walk right by a
Senator whose term is up
without hardly seeing him will be down at =
the
deepo to say 'Welcome back
and God bless you; Senator, I'm glad to see
you, sir!' when he comes
along back re-elected, you know. Well, you see, his influence was
naturally running low when he left here, b=
ut
now he has got a new
six-years' start, and his suggestions will
simply just weigh a couple of
tons a-piece day after tomorrow. Lord bless you he could rattle thr=
ough
that habeas corpus and supersedeas and all
those things for Laura all by
himself if he wanted to, when he gets back=
."
"I hadn't thought of that," said
Washington, brightening, "but it is so.
A newly-elected Senator is a power, I know
that."
"Yes indeed he is.--Why it, is just h=
uman
nature. Look at me. When we
first came here, I was Mr. Sellers, and Ma=
jor
Sellers, Captain Sellers,
but nobody could ever get it right, someho=
w;
but the minute our bill
went, through the House, I was Col. Sellers every time. And nobody could<= o:p>
do enough for me, and whatever I said was
wonderful, Sir, it was always
wonderful; I never seemed to say any flat
things at all. It was Colonel,
won't you come and dine with us; and Colon=
el
why don't we ever see you at
our house; and the Colonel says this; and the Colonel =
says
that; and we
know such-and-such is so-and-so because my husband hea=
rd
Col. Sellers say so. Don't you see?
Well, the Senate adjourned and left our bill high,
and dry, and I'll be hanged if I warn't Old Sellers fr=
om
that day, till
our bill passed the House again last week. Now I'm the Colonel again;
and if I were to eat all the dinners I am invited to, I
reckon I'd wear
my teeth down level with my gums in a coup=
le
of weeks."
"Well I do wonder what you will be
to-morrow; Colonel, after the
President signs the bill!"
"General, sir?--General, without a do=
ubt.
Yes, sir, tomorrow it will be
General, let me congratulate you, sir;
General, you've done a great work,
sir;--you've done a great work for the nig=
gro;
Gentlemen allow me the
honor to introduce my friend General Selle=
rs,
the humane friend of the
niggro.&n=
bsp;
Lord bless me; you'll' see the newspapers say, General Sellers
and servants arrived in the city last night
and is stopping at the Fifth
Avenue; and General Sellers has accepted a
reception and banquet by the
Cosmopolitan Club; you'll see the General's
opinions quoted, too
--and what the General has to say about the
propriety of a new trial and
a habeas corpus for the unfortunate Miss
Hawkins will not be without
weight in influential quarters, I can tell
you."
"And I want to be the first to shake =
your
faithful old hand and salute
you with your new honors, and I want to do=
it
now--General!" said
Washington, suiting the action to the word,
and accompanying it with all
the meaning that a cordial grasp and eloqu=
ent
eyes could give it.
The Colonel was touched; he was pleased and
proud, too; his face answered
for that.
Not very long after breakfast the telegrams
began to arrive. The first
was from Braham, and ran thus:
"We feel ce=
rtain
that the verdict will be rendered to-day.&=
nbsp;
Be it
good or bad, let=
it
find us ready to make the next move instantly,
whatever it may
be:"
"That's the right talk," said
Sellers. "That Graham's a
wonderful man.
He was the only man there that really
understood me; he told me so
himself, afterwards."
The next telegram was from Mr. Dilworthy:<= o:p>
"I have not=
only
brought over the Great Invincible, but through him
a dozen more of =
the
opposition. Shall be re-elect=
ed
to-day by an
overwhelming
majority."
"Good again!" said the Colonel.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> "That man's talent for organi=
zation
is
something marvelous. He wanted me to go out
there and engineer that
thing, but I said, No, Dilworthy, I must b=
e on
hand here,--both on
Laura's account and the bill's--but you've=
no
trifling genius for
organization yourself, said I--and I was
right. You go ahead, said I
--you can fix it--and so he has. But I claim no credit for that--if=
I
stiffened up his back-bone a little, I sim=
ply
put him in the way to make
his fight--didn't undertake it myself. He has captured Noble--.
I consider that a splendid piece of diplom=
acy--Splendid,
Sir!"
By and by came another dispatch from New Y=
ork:
"Jury still out. Laura calm and firm =
as a
statue. The report that the
jury have brought her in guilty is false a=
nd
premature."
"Premature!" gasped Washington,
turning white. "Then the=
y all
expect
that sort of a verdict, when it comes
in."
And so did he; but he had not had courage
enough to put it into words.
He had been preparing himself for the wors=
t,
but after all his
preparation the bare suggestion of the
possibility of such a verdict
struck him cold as death.
The friends grew impatient, now; the teleg=
rams
did not come fast enough:
even the lightning could not keep up with their anxieties. They walked<= o:p>
the floor talking disjointedly and listeni=
ng
for the door-bell. Telegram
after telegram came. Still no result. By and by there was one which
contained a single line:
"Court now coming in after brief rece=
ss
to hear verdict. Jury ready."
"Oh, I wish they would finish!" =
said
Washington. "This suspense is
killing me by inches!"
Then came another telegram:
"Another hitch somewhere. Jury want a
little more time and further
instructions."
"Well, well, well, this is trying,&qu=
ot;
said the Colonel. And after a
pause,
"No dispatch from Dilworthy for two
hours, now. Even a dispatch f=
rom him
would be better than nothing, just to vary
this thing."
They waited twenty minutes. It seemed twen=
ty
hours.
"Come!" said Washington. "I
can't wait for the telegraph boy to come all
the way up here. Let's go down to Newspaper
Row--meet him on the way."
While they were passing along the Avenue, =
they
saw someone putting up a
great display-sheet on the bulletin board =
of a
newspaper office, and an
eager crowd of men was collecting abort the
place. Washington and the
Colonel ran to the spot and read this:
"Tremendous Sensation! Startling news
from Saint's Rest! On first b=
allot
for U. S. Senator, when voting was about to
begin, Mr. Noble rose in his
place and drew forth a package, walked for=
ward
and laid it on the
Speaker's desk, saying, 'This contains $7,=
000
in bank bills and was given
me by Senator Dilworthy in his bed-chamber=
at
midnight last night to buy
--my vote for him--I wish the Speaker to c=
ount
the money and retain it to
pay the expense of prosecuting this infamo=
us
traitor for bribery. The
whole legislature was stricken speechless =
with
dismay and astonishment.
Noble further said that there were fifty
members present with money in
their pockets, placed there by Dilworthy to
buy their votes. Amidst
unparalleled excitement the ballot was now
taken, and J. W. Smith elected
U. S. Senator; Dilworthy receiving not one
vote! Noble promises damaging=
exposures concerning Dilworthy and certain
measures of his now pending in
Congress.
"Good heavens and earth!" exclai=
med
the Colonel.
"To the Capitol!" said Washingto=
n.
"Fly!"
And they did fly. Long before they got there the new=
sboys
were running
ahead of them with Extras, hot from the pr=
ess,
announcing the astounding
news.
Arrived in the gallery of the Senate, the
friends saw a curious
spectacle--every Senator held an Extra in =
his
hand and looked as
interested as if it contained news of the
destruction of the earth.
Not a single member was paying the least
attention to the business
of the hour.
The Secretary, in a loud voice, was just
beginning to read the title of a
bill:
"House-Bill--No.
4,231,--An-Act-to-Found-and-Incorporate-the Knobs-
Industrial-University!--Read-first-and-sec=
ond-time-considered-in-
committee-of-the-whole-ordered-engrossed
and-passed-to-third-reading-and-
final passage!"
The President--"Third reading of the
bill!"
The two friends shook in their shoes. Senators threw down their extras
and snatched a word or two with each other=
in
whispers. Then the gavel
rapped to command silence while the names =
were
called on the ayes and
nays.&nbs=
p;
Washington grew paler and paler, weaker and weaker while the
lagging list progressed; and when it was
finished, his head fell
helplessly forward on his arms. The fight was fought, the long str=
uggle
was over, and he was a pauper. Not a man had voted for the bill!<= o:p>
Col. Sellers was bewildered and well nigh
paralyzed, himself. But no man
could long consider his own troubles in the
presence of such suffering as
Washington's. He got him up and supported him--a=
lmost
carried him
indeed--out of the building and into a
carriage. All the way home
Washington lay with his face against the
Colonel's shoulder and merely
groaned and wept. The Colonel tried as well as he co=
uld
under the dreary
circumstances to hearten him a little, but=
it
was of no use. Washington
was past all hope of cheer, now. He only said:
"Oh, it is all over--it is all over f=
or
good, Colonel. We must beg our
bread, now. We never can get up again. It was our last chance, and it
is gone.&=
nbsp;
They will hang Laura! =
My God
they will hang her! Nothing c=
an
save the poor girl now. Oh, I wish with all my soul they w=
ould
hang me
instead!"
Arrived at home, Washington fell into a ch=
air
and buried his face in his
hands and gave full way to his misery. The Colonel did not know where to<= o:p>
turn nor what to do. The servant maid knocked at the do=
or and
passed in
a telegram, saying it had come while they =
were
gone.
The Colonel tore it open and read with the
voice of a man-of-war's
broadside:
"VERDICT OF JURY, NOT GUILTY AND LAUR=
A IS
FREE!"
The court room was packed on the morning on
which the verdict of the jury
was expected, as it had been every day of =
the
trial, and by the same
spectators, who had followed its progress =
with
such intense interest.
There is a delicious moment of excitement
which the frequenter of trials
well knows, and which he would not miss for
the world. It is that
instant when the foreman of the jury stand=
s up
to give the verdict,
and before he has opened his fateful lips.=
The court assembled and waited. It was an obstinate jury.
It even had another question--this intelli=
gent
jury--to ask the judge
this morning.
The question was this: "Were the doct=
ors
clear that the deceased had no
disease which might soon have carried him =
off,
if he had not been shot?"
There was evidently one jury man who didn't
want to waste life, and was
willing to stake a general average, as the
jury always does in a civil
case, deciding not according to the eviden=
ce
but reaching the verdict by
some occult mental process.
During the delay the spectators exhibited
unexampled patience, finding
amusement and relief in the slightest
movements of the court, the
prisoner and the lawyers. Mr. Braham divided with Laura the
attention
of the house. Bets were made by the Sheriff's de=
puties
on the verdict,
with large odds in favor of a disagreement=
.
It was afternoon when it was announced that
the jury was coming in.
The reporters took their places and were a=
ll
attention; the judge and
lawyers were in their seats; the crowd swa=
yed
and pushed in eager
expectancy, as the jury walked in and stoo=
d up
in silence.
Judge.&nb=
sp;
"Gentlemen, have you agreed upon your verdict?"
Foreman.&=
nbsp;
"We have."
Judge.&nb=
sp;
"What is it?"
Foreman.&=
nbsp;
"NOT GUILTY."
A shout went up from the entire room and a
tumult of cheering which the
court in vain attempted to quell. For a few moments all order was lo=
st.
The spectators crowded within the bar and
surrounded Laura who, calmer
than anyone else, was supporting her aged
mother, who had almost fainted
from excess of joy.
And now occurred one of those beautiful
incidents which no fiction-writer
would dare to imagine, a scene of touching
pathos, creditable to our
fallen humanity. In the eyes of the women of the au=
dience
Mr. Braham was
the hero of the occasion; he had saved the
life of the prisoner; and
besides he was such a handsome man. The women could not restrain their=
long pent-up emotions. They threw themselves upon Mr. Bra=
ham in
a
transport of gratitude; they kissed him ag=
ain
and again, the young as
well as the advanced in years, the married=
as well
as the ardent single
women; they improved the opportunity with a
touching self-sacrifice; in
the words of a newspaper of the day they
"lavished him with kisses."
It was something sweet to do; and it would=
be
sweet for a woman to
remember in after years, that she had kiss=
ed
Braham! Mr. Braham himself
received these fond assaults with the
gallantry of his nation, enduring
the ugly, and heartily paying back beauty =
in
its own coin.
This beautiful scene is still known in New
York as "the kissing of
Braham."
When the tumult of congratulation had a li=
ttle
spent itself, and order
was restored, Judge O'Shaunnessy said that=
it
now became his duty to
provide for the proper custody and treatme=
nt
of the acquitted. The
verdict of the jury having left no doubt t=
hat
the woman was of an unsound
mind, with a kind of insanity dangerous to=
the
safety of the community,
she could not be permitted to go at
large. "In accordance wi=
th the
directions of the law in such cases,"
said the Judge, "and in obedience
to the dictates of a wise humanity, I here=
by
commit Laura Hawkins to the
care of the Superintendent of the State
Hospital for Insane Criminals, to
be held in confinement until the State
Commissioners on Insanity shall
order her discharge. Mr. Sheriff, you will attend at on=
ce to
the
execution of this decree."
Laura was overwhelmed and
terror-stricken. She had expe=
cted
to walk
forth in freedom in a few moments. The revulsion was terrible. Her
mother appeared like one shaken with an ag=
ue
fit. Laura insane! And
about to be locked up with madmen! She had never contemplated this.
Mr. Graham said he should move at once for=
a
writ of 'habeas corpus'.
But the judge could not do less than his d=
uty,
the law must have its way.
As in the stupor of a sudden calamity, and=
not
fully comprehending it,
Mrs. Hawkins saw Laura led away by the
officer.
With little space for thought she was, rap=
idly
driven to the railway
station, and conveyed to the Hospital for
Lunatic Criminals. It was onl=
y
when she was within this vast and grim abo=
de
of madness that she realized
the horror of her situation. It was only when she was received =
by the
kind physician and read pity in his eyes, =
and
saw his look of hopeless
incredulity when she attempted to tell him
that she was not insane; it
was only when she passed through the ward =
to
which she was consigned and
saw the horrible creatures, the victims of=
a
double calamity, whose
dreadful faces she was hereafter to see da=
ily,
and was locked into the
small, bare room that was to be her home, =
that
all her fortitude forsook
her.
She sank upon the bed, as soon as she was left alone--she had been
searched by the matron--and tried to
think. But her brain was in a=
whirl.&nb=
sp;
She recalled Braham's speech, she recalled the testimony
regarding her lunacy. She wondered if she were not mad; =
she
felt that
she soon should be among these loathsome
creatures. Better almost to
have died, than to slowly go mad in this
confinement.
--We beg the reader's pardon. This is not history, which has jus=
t been
written.&=
nbsp;
It is really what would have occurred if this were a novel.
If this were a work of fiction, we should =
not
dare to dispose of Laura
otherwise. True art and any attention to dram=
atic
proprieties required
it.
The novelist who would turn loose upon society an insane murderess
could not escape condemnation. Besides, the safety of society, th=
e
decencies of criminal procedure, what we c=
all
our modern civilization,
all would demand that Laura should be disp=
osed
of in the manner we have
described. Foreigners, who read this sad stor=
y,
will be unable to
understand any other termination of it.
But this is history and not fiction. There is no such law or custom as<= o:p>
that to which his Honor is supposed to have
referred; Judge O'Shaunnessy
would not probably pay any attention to it=
if
there were. There is no
Hospital for Insane Criminals; there is no
State commission of lunacy.
What actually occurred when the tumult in =
the
court room had subsided the
sagacious reader will now learn.
Laura left the court room, accompanied by =
her
mother and other friends,
amid the congratulations of those assemble=
d,
and was cheered as she
entered a carriage, and drove away. How sweet was the sunlight, how
exhilarating the sense of freedom! Were not these following cheers th=
e
expression of popular approval and
affection? Was she not the he=
roine
of
the hour?
It was with a feeling of triumph that Laura
reached her hotel, a scornful
feeling of victory over society with its o=
wn
weapons.
Mrs. Hawkins shared not at all in this
feeling; she was broken with the
disgrace and the long anxiety.
"Thank God, Laura," she said,
"it is over. Now we will=
go
away from this
hateful city. Let us go home at once."
"Mother," replied Laura, speaking
with some tenderness, "I cannot go with
you.
There, don't cry, I cannot go back to that life."
Mrs. Hawkins was sobbing. This was more cruel than anything =
else,
for
she had a dim notion of what it would be to
leave Laura to herself.
"No, mother, you have been everything=
to
me. You know how dearly I lov=
e
you.
But I cannot go back."
A boy brought in a telegraphic despatch. Laura took it and read:
"The bill is lost. Dilworthy ruined. (Signed) WASHINGTON."
For a moment the words swam before her
eyes. The next her eyes flash=
ed
fire as she handed the dispatch to her m o=
ther
and bitterly said,
"The world is against me. Well, let it be, let it. I am against it."
"This is a cruel disappointment,"
said Mrs. Hawkins, to whom one grief
more or less did not much matter now, &quo=
t;to
you and, Washington; but we
must humbly bear it."
"Bear it;" replied Laura scornfully, "I'=
ve all
my life borne it, and fate
has thwarted me at every step."
A servant came to the door to say that the=
re
was a gentleman below who
wished to speak with Miss Hawkins. "J. Adolphe Griller" was=
the
name
Laura read on the card. "I do not know such a person.=
He probably comes
from Washington. Send him up."
Mr. Griller entered. He was a small man, slovenly in dr=
ess,
his tone
confidential, his manner wholly void of
animation, all his features below
the forehead protruding--particularly the
apple of his throat--hair
without a kink in it, a hand with no grip,=
a
meek, hang-dog countenance.
a falsehood done in flesh and blood; for w=
hile
every visible sign about
him proclaimed him a poor, witless, useless
weakling, the truth was that
he had the brains to plan great enterprises
and the pluck to carry them
through.&=
nbsp;
That was his reputation, and it was a deserved one. He softly
said:
"I called to see you on business, Miss
Hawkins. You have my card?&qu=
ot;
Laura bowed.
Mr. Griller continued to purr, as softly as
before.
"I will proceed to business. I am a business man. I am a lecture-agent,
Miss Hawkins, and as soon as I saw that you
were acquitted, it occurred
to me that an early interview would be
mutually beneficial."
"I don't understand you, sir," s=
aid
Laura coldly.
"No?=
You see, Miss Hawkins, this is your opportunity. If you will enter
the lecture field under good auspices, you
will carry everything before
you."
"But, sir, I never lectured, I haven't
any lecture, I don't know anything
about it."
"Ah, madam, that makes no difference-=
-no
real difference. It is not
necessary to be able to lecture in order t=
o go
into the lecture tour.
If ones name is celebrated all over the la=
nd,
especially, and, if she is
also beautiful, she is certain to draw lar=
ge
audiences."
"But what should I lecture about?&quo=
t;
asked Laura, beginning in spite of
herself to be a little interested as well =
as
amused.
"Oh, why; woman--something about woma=
n, I
should say; the marriage
relation, woman's fate, anything of that
sort. Call it The Revelations=
of a Woman's Life; now, there's a good
title. I wouldn't want any be=
tter
title than that. I'm prepared to make you an offer,=
Miss
Hawkins,
a liberal offer,--twelve thousand dollars =
for
thirty nights."
Laura thought. She hesitated. Why not? It would give her employment,
money.&nb=
sp;
She must do something.
"I will think of it, and let you know
soon. But still, there is ver=
y
little likelihood that I--however, we will=
not
discuss it further now."
"Remember, that the sooner we get to =
work
the better, Miss Hawkins,
public curiosity is so fickle. Good day, madam."
The close of the trial released Mr. Harry
Brierly and left him free to
depart upon his long talked of Pacific-coa=
st
mission. He was very
mysterious about it, even to Philip.
"It's confidential, old boy," he
said, "a little scheme we have hatched
up.
I don't mind telling you that it's a good deal bigger thing than
that in Missouri, and a sure thing. I wouldn't take a half a million
just for my share. And it will open something for you,
Phil. You will
hear from me."
Philip did hear, from Harry a few months
afterward. Everything promise=
d
splendidly, but there was a little delay.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> Could Phil let him have a
hundred, say, for ninety days?
Philip himself hastened to Philadelphia, a=
nd,
as soon as the spring
opened, to the mine at Ilium, and began
transforming the loan he had
received from Squire Montague into laborer=
s'
wages. He was haunted with
many anxieties; in the first place, Ruth w=
as
overtaxing her strength in
her hospital labors, and Philip felt as if=
he
must move heaven and earth
to save her from such toil and suffering.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> His increased pecuniary
obligation oppressed him. It seemed to him also that he had =
been
one
cause of the misfortune to the Bolton fami=
ly,
and that he was dragging
into loss and ruin everybody who associated
with him. He worked on day
after day and week after week, with a feve=
rish
anxiety.
It would be wicked, thought Philip, and
impious, to pray for luck; he
felt that perhaps he ought not to ask a
blessing upon the sort of labor
that was only a venture; but yet in that d=
aily
petition, which this very
faulty and not very consistent young Chris=
tian
gentleman put up, he
prayed earnestly enough for Ruth and for t=
he
Boltons and for those whom
he loved and who trusted in him, and that =
his
life might not be a
misfortune to them and a failure to himsel=
f.
Since this young fellow went out into the
world from his New England
home, he had done some things that he would
rather his mother should not
know, things maybe that he would shrink fr=
om
telling Ruth. At a certain
green age young gentlemen are sometimes af=
raid
of being called milksops,
and Philip's associates had not always been
the most select, such as
these historians would have chosen for him=
, or
whom at a later, period he
would have chosen for himself. It seemed inexplicable, for instan=
ce,
that his life should have been thrown so m=
uch
with his college
acquaintance, Henry Brierly.
Yet, this was true of Philip, that in what=
ever
company he had been he had
never been ashamed to stand up for the
principles he learned from his
mother, and neither raillery nor looks of
wonder turned him from that
daily habit had learned at his mother's
knees.--Even flippant Harry
respected this, and perhaps it was one of =
the
reasons why Harry and all
who knew Philip trusted him implicitly.
that Philip did not convey the impression =
to
the world of a very serious
young man, or of a man who might not rathe=
r easily
fall into temptation.
One looking for a real hero would have to =
go
elsewhere.
The parting between Laura and her mother w=
as
exceedingly painful to both.
It was as if two friends parted on a wide
plain, the one to journey
towards the setting and the other towards =
the
rising sun, each
comprehending that every step henceforth m=
ust
separate their lives,
wider and wider.
When Mr. Noble's bombshell fell, in Senator
Dilworthy's camp, the
statesman was disconcerted for a moment. F=
or a
moment; that was all.
The next moment he was calmly up and
doing. From the centre of our=
country to its circumference, nothing was
talked of but Mr. Noble's
terrible revelation, and the people were furious. Mind, they were not<= o:p>
furious because bribery was uncommon in our
public life, but merely
because here was another case. Perhaps it did not occur to the na=
tion
of
good and worthy people that while they
continued to sit comfortably at
home and leave the true source of our
political power (the "primaries,")
in the hands of saloon-keepers, dog-fancie=
rs
and hod-carriers, they could
go on expecting "another" case of
this kind, and even dozens and hundreds
of them, and never be disappointed. However, they may have thought tha=
t
to sit at home and grumble would some day
right the evil.
Yes, the nation was excited, but Senator
Dilworthy was calm--what was
left of him after the explosion of the
shell. Calm, and up and doing=
.
What did he do first? What would you do first, after you=
had
tomahawked
your mother at the breakfast table for put=
ting
too much sugar in your
coffee?&n=
bsp;
You would "ask for a suspension of public opinion." That is
what Senator Dilworthy did. It is the custom. He got the usual amount
of suspension. Far and wide he was called a thief=
, a
briber, a promoter
of steamship subsidies, railway swindles,
robberies of the government in
all possible forms and fashions. Newspapers and everybody else call=
ed
him a pious hypocrite, a sleek, oily fraud=
, a
reptile who manipulated
temperance movements, prayer meetings, Sun=
day
schools, public charities,
missionary enterprises, all for his private
benefit. And as these
charges were backed up by what seemed to be
good and sufficient,
evidence, they were believed with national
unanimity.
Then Mr. Dilworthy made another move. He moved instantly to Washington
and "demanded an
investigation." Even this
could not pass without,
comment.&=
nbsp;
Many papers used language to this effect:
"Senator
Dilworthy's remains have demanded an investigation. This
sounds fine and =
bold
and innocent; but when we reflect that they
demand it at the=
hands
of the Senate of the United States, it simply
becomes matter f=
or
derision. One might as well s=
et the
gentlemen
detained in the =
public
prisons to trying each other. This
investigation is
likely to be like all other Senatorial
investigations--amusing but not useful. Query. Why does the Senate
still stick to t=
his
pompous word, 'Investigation?' One
does not
blindfold one's =
self
in order to investigate an object."
Mr. Dilworthy appeared in his place in the
Senate and offered a
resolution appointing a committee to
investigate his case. It carr=
ied,
of course, and the committee was
appointed. Straightway the
newspapers
said:
"Under the =
guise
of appointing a committee to investigate the late
Mr. Dilworthy, t=
he
Senate yesterday appointed a committee to
investigate his
accuser, Mr. Noble. This is t=
he
exact spirit and
meaning of the
resolution, and the committee cannot try anybody but
Mr. Noble without
overstepping its authority. T=
hat
Dilworthy had
the effrontery to
offer such a resolution will surprise no one, and
that the Senate =
could
entertain it without blushing and pass it
without shame wi=
ll
surprise no one. We are now
reminded of a note
which we have re=
ceived
from the notorious burglar Murphy, in which
he finds fault w=
ith a
statement of ours to the effect that he had
served one term =
in the
penitentiary and also one in the U. S.
Senate. He says, 'The latter statement is =
untrue
and does me great
injustice.' After an unconscious sarcasm like =
that,
further comment
is unnecessary.&=
quot;
And yet the Senate was roused by the Dilwo=
rthy
trouble. Many speeches
were made. One Senator (who was accused in the
public prints of selling
his chances of re-election to his opponent=
for
$50,000 and had not yet
denied the charge) said that, "the
presence in the Capital of such a
creature as this man Noble, to testify aga=
inst
a brother member of their
body, was an insult to the Senate."
Another Senator said, "Let the
investigation go on and let it make an
example of this man Noble; let it teach him
and men like him that they
could not attack the reputation of a United
States-Senator with
impunity."
Another said he was glad the investigation=
was
to be had, for it was high
time that the Senate should crush some cur
like this man Noble, and thus
show his kind that it was able and resolve=
d to
uphold its ancient
dignity.
A by-stander laughed, at this finely deliv=
ered
peroration; and said:
"Why, this is the Senator who franked
his, baggage home through the mails
last week-registered, at that. However, perhaps he was merely eng=
aged
in
'upholding the ancient dignity of the
Senate,'--then."
"No, the modern dignity of it," =
said
another by-stander. "It =
don't
resemble its ancient dignity but it fits i=
ts
modern style like a glove."
There being no law against making offensive
remarks about U. S.
Senators, this conversation, and others li=
ke
it, continued without let or
hindrance. But our business is with the
investigating committee.
Mr. Noble appeared before the Committee of=
the
Senate; and testified to
the following effect:
He said that he was a member of the State
legislature of the
Happy-Land-of-Canaan; that on the --- day =
of
------ he assembled himself
together at the city of Saint's Rest, the
capital of the State, along
with his brother legislators; that he was
known to be a political enemy
of Mr. Dilworthy and bitterly opposed to h=
is
re-election; that Mr.
Dilworthy came to Saint's Rest and reporte=
d to
be buying pledges of votes
with money; that the said Dilworthy sent f=
or
him to come to his room in
the hotel at night, and he went; was
introduced to Mr. Dilworthy; called
two or three times afterward at Dilworthy's
request--usually after
midnight; Mr. Dilworthy urged him to vote =
for
him Noble declined;
Dilworthy argued; said he was bound to be
elected, and could then ruin
him (Noble) if he voted no; said he had ev=
ery
railway and every public
office and stronghold of political power in
the State under his thumb,
and could set up or pull down any man he
chose; gave instances showing
where and how he had used this power; if N=
oble
would vote for him he
would make him a Representative in Congres=
s;
Noble still declined to
vote, and said he did not believe Dilworthy
was going to be elected;
Dilworthy showed a list of men who would v=
ote
for him--a majority of the
legislature; gave further proofs of his po=
wer
by telling Noble everything
the opposing party had done or said in sec=
ret
caucus; claimed that his
spies reported everything to him, and that=
--
Here a member of the Committee objected th=
at
this evidence was irrelevant
and also in opposition to the spirit of the
Committee's instructions,
because if these things reflected upon any=
one
it was upon Mr. Dilworthy.
The chairman said, let the person proceed =
with
his statement--the
Committee could exclude evidence that did =
not
bear upon the case.
Mr. Noble continued. He said that his party would cast =
him
out if he
voted for Mr. Dilworthy; Dilworthy said th=
at
that would inure to his
benefit because he would then be a recogni=
zed
friend of his (Dilworthy's)
and he could consistently exalt him
politically and make his fortune;
Noble said he was poor, and it was hard to
tempt him so; Dilworthy said
he would fix that; he said, "Tell, me
what you want, and say you will vote
for me;" Noble could not say; Dilwort=
hy
said "I will give you $5,000."
A Committee man said, impatiently, that th=
is
stuff was all outside the
case, and valuable time was being wasted; =
this
was all, a plain
reflection upon a brother Senator. The Chairman said it was the quick=
est
way to proceed, and the evidence need have=
no
weight.
Mr. Noble continued. He said he told Dilworthy that $5,=
000
was not much
to pay for a man's honor, character and
everything that was worth having;
Dilworthy said he was surprised; he consid=
ered
$5,000 a fortune--for some
men; asked what Noble's figure was; Noble =
said
he could not think $10,000
too little; Dilworthy said it was a great =
deal
too much; he would not do
it for any other man, but he had conceived=
a
liking for Noble, and where
he liked a man his heart yearned to help h=
im;
he was aware that Noble was
poor, and had a family to support, and tha=
t he
bore an unblemished
reputation at home; for such a man and suc=
h a
man's influence he could do
much, and feel that to help such a man wou=
ld
be an act that would have
its reward; the struggles of the poor alwa=
ys
touched him; he believed
that Noble would make a good use of this m=
oney
and that it would cheer
many a sad heart and needy home; he would =
give
the $10,000; all he
desired in return was that when the ballot=
ing
began, Noble should cast
his vote for him and should explain to the
legislature that upon looking
into the charges against Mr. Dilworthy of
bribery, corruption, and
forwarding stealing measures in Congress he
had found them to be base
calumnies upon a man whose motives were pu=
re
and whose character was
stainless; he then took from his pocket $2=
,000
in bank bills and handed
them to Noble, and got another package
containing $5,000 out of his trunk
and gave to him also. He----
A Committee man jumped up, and said:
"At last, Mr. Chairman, this shameless
person has arrived at the point.
This is sufficient and conclusive. By his own confession he has recei=
ved
a bribe, and did it deliberately.
"This is a grave offense, and cannot =
be
passed over in silence, sir. =
By
the terms of our instructions we can now
proceed to mete out to him such
punishment as is meet for one who has
maliciously brought disrespect upon
a Senator of the United States. We have no need to hear the rest o=
f his
evidence."
The Chairman said it would be better and m=
ore
regular to proceed with the
investigation according to the usual
forms. A note would be made o=
f
Mr. Noble's admission.
Mr. Noble continued. He said that it was now far past
midnight; that he
took his leave and went straight to certain
legislators, told them
everything, made them count the money, and
also told them of the exposure
he would make in joint convention; he made
that exposure, as all the
world knew. The rest of the $10,000 was to be =
paid
the day after
Dilworthy was elected.
Senator Dilworthy was now asked to take the
stand and tell what he knew
about the man Noble. The Senator wiped his mouth with h=
is
handkerchief,
adjusted his white cravat, and said that b=
ut
for the fact that public
morality required an example, for the warn=
ing
of future Nobles, he would
beg that in Christian charity this poor
misguided creature might be
forgiven and set free. He said that it was but too eviden=
t that
this
person had approached him in the hope of
obtaining a bribe; he had
intruded himself time and again, and always
with moving stories of his
poverty.&=
nbsp;
Mr. Dilworthy said that his heart had bled for him--insomuch
that he had several times been on the poin=
t of
trying to get some one to
do something for him. Some instinct had told him from the
beginning that
this was a bad man, an evil-minded man, but
his inexperience of such had
blinded him to his real motives, and hence=
he
had never dreamed that his
object was to undermine the purity of a Un=
ited
States Senator.
He regretted that it was plain, now, that =
such
was the man's object and
that punishment could not with safety to t=
he
Senate's honor be withheld.
He grieved to say that one of those myster=
ious
dispensations of an
inscrutable Providence which are decreed f=
rom
time to time by His wisdom
and for His righteous, purposes, had given
this conspirator's tale a
color of plausibility,--but this would soon
disappear under the clear
light of truth which would now be thrown u=
pon
the case.
It so happened, (said the Senator,) that a=
bout
the time in question, a
poor young friend of mine, living in a dis=
tant
town of my State, wished
to establish a bank; he asked me to lend h=
im
the necessary money; I said
I had no, money just then, but world try to
borrow it. The day before
the election a friend said to me that my
election expenses must be very
large specially my hotel bills, and offere=
d to
lend me some money.
Remembering my young, friend, I said I wou=
ld
like a few thousands now,
and a few more by and by; whereupon he gav=
e me
two packages of bills said
to contain $2,000 and $5,000 respectively;=
I
did not open the packages or
count the money; I did not give any note or
receipt for the same; I made
no memorandum of the transaction, and neit=
her
did my friend. That night
this evil man Noble came troubling me agai=
n: I
could not rid myself of
him, though my time was very precious. He mentioned my young friend and
said he was very anxious to have the $7000=
now
to begin his banking
operations with, and could wait a while for
the rest. Noble wished to
get the money and take it to him. I finally
gave him the two packages of
bills; I took no note or receipt from him,=
and
made no memorandum of the
matter.&n=
bsp;
I no more look for duplicity and deception in another man than I
would look for it in myself. I never thought of this man again =
until
I
was overwhelmed the next day by learning w=
hat
a shameful use he had made
of the confidence I had reposed in him and=
the
money I had entrusted to
his care. This is all, gentlemen. To the absolute truth of every det=
ail
of my statement I solemnly swear, and I ca=
ll
Him to witness who is the
Truth and the loving Father of all whose l=
ips
abhor false speaking; I
pledge my honor as a Senator, that I have
spoken but the truth. May God=
forgive this wicked man as I do.
Mr. Noble--"Senator Dilworthy, your b=
ank
account shows that up to that
day, and even on that very day, you conduc=
ted
all your financial business
through the medium of checks instead of bi=
lls,
and so kept careful record
of every moneyed transaction. Why did you deal in bank bills on =
this
particular occasion?"
The Chairman--"The gentleman will ple=
ase
to remember that the Committee
is conducting this investigation."
Mr. Noble--"Then will the Committee a=
sk
the question?"
The Chairman--"The Committee will--wh=
en
it desires to know."
Mr. Noble--"Which will not be daring =
this
century perhaps."
The Chairman--"Another remark like th=
at,
sir, will procure you the
attentions of the Sergeant-at-arms."<= o:p>
Mr. Noble--"D--n the Sergeant-at-arms,
and the Committee too!"
Several Committeemen--"Mr. Chairman, =
this
is Contempt!"
Mr. Noble--"Contempt of whom?"
"Of the Committee! Of the Senate of the United States=
!"
Mr. Noble--"Then I am become the
acknowledged representative of a nation.
You know as well as I do that the whole na=
tion
hold as much as
three-fifths of the United States Senate in
entire contempt.--Three-fifths
of you are Dilworthys."
The Sergeant-at-arms very soon put a quiet=
us
upon the observations of the
representative of the nation, and convinced
him that he was not, in the
over-free atmosphere of his
Happy-Land-of-Canaan:
The statement of Senator Dilworthy natural=
ly
carried conviction to the
minds of the committee.--It was close,
logical, unanswerable; it bore
many internal evidences of its truth. For instance, it is customary in
all countries for business men to loan lar=
ge
sums of money in bank bills
instead of checks. It is customary for the lender to =
make
no memorandum
of the transaction. It is customary, for the borrower =
to
receive the
money without making a memorandum of it, or
giving a note or a receipt
for it's use--the borrower is not likely to
die or forget about it.
It is customary to lend nearly anybody mon=
ey
to start a bank with
especially if you have not the money to le=
nd
him and have to borrow it
for the purpose. It is customary to carry large sum=
s of
money in bank
bills about your person or in your trunk.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> It is customary to hand a
large sure in bank bills to a man you have
just been introduced to (if he
asks you to do it,) to be conveyed to a
distant town and delivered to
another party. It is not customary to make a memo=
randum
of this
transaction; it is not customary for the c=
onveyor
to give a note or a
receipt for the money; it is not customary=
to
require that he shall get a
note or a receipt from the man he is to co=
nvey
it to in the distant town.
It would be at least singular in you to sa=
y to
the proposed conveyor,
"You might be robbed; I will deposit =
the
money in a bank and send a check
for it to my friend through the mail."=
;
Very well. It being plain that Senator Dilwor=
thy's
statement was rigidly
true, and this fact being strengthened by =
his
adding to it the support of
"his honor as a Senator," the
Committee rendered a verdict of "Not proven
that a bribe had been offered and
accepted." This in a man=
ner
exonerated
Noble and let him escape.
The Committee made its report to the Senat=
e,
and that body proceeded to
consider its acceptance. One Senator indeed, several
Senators--objected
that the Committee had failed of its duty;
they had proved this man Noble
guilty of nothing, they had meted out no
punishment to him; if the report
were accepted, he would go forth free and
scathless, glorying in his
crime, and it would be a tacit admission t=
hat
any blackguard could insult
the Senate of the United States and conspi=
re
against the sacred
reputation of its members with impunity; t=
he
Senate owed it to the
upholding of its ancient dignity to make an
example of this man Noble
--he should be crushed.
An elderly Senator got up and took another view of the case. This was a<= o:p>
Senator of the worn-out and obsolete patte=
rn;
a man still lingering among
the cobwebs of the past, and behind the sp=
irit
of the age. He said that
there seemed to be a curious misunderstand=
ing
of the case. Gentlemen
seemed exceedingly anxious to preserve and
maintain the honor and dignity
of the Senate.
Was this to be done by trying an obscure
adventurer for attempting to
trap a Senator into bribing him? Or would not the truer way be to f=
ind
out whether the Senator was capable of bei=
ng
entrapped into so shameless
an act, and then try him? Why, of course. Now the whole idea of the
Senate seemed to be to shield the Senator =
and
turn inquiry away from him.
The true way to uphold the honor of the Se=
nate
was to have none but
honorable men in its body. If this Senator had yielded to
temptation and
had offered a bribe, he was a soiled man a=
nd
ought to be instantly
expelled; therefore he wanted the Senator
tried, and not in the usual
namby-pamby way, but in good earnest. He wanted to know the truth of
this matter. For himself, he believed that the =
guilt
of Senator
Dilworthy was established beyond the shado=
w of
a doubt; and he considered
that in trifling with his case and shirkin=
g it
the Senate was doing a
shameful and cowardly thing--a thing which
suggested that in its
willingness to sit longer in the company of
such a man, it was
acknowledging that it was itself of a kind=
with
him and was therefore not
dishonored by his presence. He desired that a rigid examinatio=
n be
made
into Senator Dilworthy's case, and that it=
be
continued clear into the
approaching extra session if need be. There was no dodging this thing
with the lame excuse of want of time.
In reply, an honorable Senator said that he
thought it would be as well
to drop the matter and accept the Committe=
e's
report. He said with some
jocularity that the more one agitated this
thing, the worse it was for
the agitator. He was not able to deny that he be=
lieved
Senator Dilworthy
to be guilty--but what then? Was it such an extraordinary case?=
For his
part, even allowing the Senator to be guil=
ty,
he did not think his
continued presence during the few remaining
days of the Session would
contaminate the Senate to a dreadful
degree. [This humorous sally =
was
received with smiling
admiration--notwithstanding it was not wholly new,
having originated with the Massachusetts
General in the House a day or
two before, upon the occasion of the propo=
sed
expulsion of a member for
selling his vote for money.]
The Senate recognized the fact that it cou=
ld
not be contaminated by
sitting a few days longer with Senator
Dilworthy, and so it accepted the
committee's report and dropped the unimpor=
tant
matter.
Mr. Dilworthy occupied his seat to the last hour of the session. He said<= o:p>
that his people had reposed a trust in him,
and it was not for him to
desert them. He would remain at his post till he
perished, if need be.
His voice was lifted up and his vote cast =
for
the last time, in support
of an ingenious measure contrived by the
General from Massachusetts
whereby the President's salary was propose=
d to
be doubled and every
Congressman paid several thousand dollars
extra for work previously done,
under an accepted contract, and already pa=
id
for once and receipted for.
Senator Dilworthy was offered a grand ovat=
ion
by his friends at home, who
said that their affection for him and their
confidence in him were in no
wise impaired by the persecutions that had
pursued him, and that he was
still good enough for them.
--[The $7,000 left by Mr. Noble with his s=
tate
legislature was placed in
safe keeping to await the claim of the
legitimate owner. Senator
Dilworthy made one little effort through h=
is protege
the embryo banker
to recover it, but there being no notes of
hand or, other memoranda to
support the claim, it failed. The moral of which is, that when o=
ne
loans
money to start a bank with, one ought to t=
ake
the party's written
acknowledgment of the fact.]
For some days Laura had been a free woman =
once
more. During this time,
she had experienced--first, two or three d=
ays
of triumph, excitement,
congratulations, a sort of sunburst of
gladness, after a long night of
gloom and anxiety; then two or three days =
of
calming down, by degrees
--a receding of tides, a quieting of the
storm-wash to a murmurous
surf-beat, a diminishing of devastating wi=
nds
to a refrain that bore the
spirit of a truce-days given to solitude,
rest, self-communion, and the
reasoning of herself into a realization of=
the
fact that she was actually
done with bolts and bars, prison, horrors =
and
impending, death; then came
a day whose hours filed slowly by her, each
laden with some remnant,
some remaining fragment of the dreadful ti=
me
so lately ended--a day
which, closing at last, left the past a fa=
ding
shore behind her and
turned her eyes toward the broad sea of the
future. So speedily do we
put the dead away and come back to our pla=
ce
in the ranks to march in the
pilgrimage of life again.
And now the sun rose once more and ushered=
in
the first day of what Laura
comprehended and accepted as a new life.
The past had sunk below the horizon, and
existed no more for her;
she was done with it for all time. She was gazing out over the trackl=
ess
expanses of the future, now, with troubled
eyes. Life must be begun
again--at eight and twenty years of age. And where to begin? The page
was blank, and waiting for its first recor=
d;
so this was indeed a
momentous day.
Her thoughts drifted back, stage by stage,
over her career. As far as
the long highway receded over the plain of=
her
life, it was lined with
the gilded and pillared splendors of her
ambition all crumbled to ruin
and ivy-grown; every milestone marked a
disaster; there was no green spot
remaining anywhere in memory of a hope that
had found its fruition; the
unresponsive earth had uttered no voice of
flowers in testimony that one
who was blest had gone that road.
Her life had been a failure. That was plain, she said. No more of that.
She would now look the future in the face;=
she
would mark her course upon
the chart of life, and follow it; follow it
without swerving, through
rocks and shoals, through storm and calm, =
to a
haven of rest and peace or
shipwreck. Let the end be what it might, she =
would
mark her course now
--to-day--and follow it.
On her table lay six or seven notes. They were from lovers; from some o=
f
the prominent names in the land; men whose
devotion had survived even the
grisly revealments of her character which =
the
courts had uncurtained;
men who knew her now, just as she was, and=
yet
pleaded as for their lives
for the dear privilege of calling the
murderess wife.
As she read these passionate, these
worshiping, these supplicating
missives, the woman in her nature confessed
itself; a strong yearning
came upon her to lay her head upon a loyal
breast and find rest from the
conflict of life, solace for her griefs, t=
he
healing of love for her
bruised heart.
With her forehead resting upon her hand, s=
he
sat thinking, thinking,
while the unheeded moments winged their
flight. It was one of those
mornings in early spring when nature seems
just stirring to a half
consciousness out of a long, exhausting
lethargy; when the first faint
balmy airs go wandering about, whispering =
the
secret of the coming
change; when the abused brown grass, newly
relieved of snow, seems
considering whether it can be worth the
trouble and worry of contriving
its green raiment again only to fight the
inevitable fight with the
implacable winter and be vanquished and bu=
ried
once more; when the sun
shines out and a few birds venture forth a=
nd
lift up a forgotten song;
when a strange stillness and suspense perv=
ades
the waiting air. It is a
time when one's spirit is subdued and sad,=
one
knows not why; when the
past seems a storm-swept desolation, life a
vanity and a burden, and the
future but a way to death. It is a time when one is filled wi=
th
vague
longings; when one dreams of flight to
peaceful islands in the remote
solitudes of the sea, or folds his hands a=
nd
says, What is the use of
struggling, and toiling and worrying any m=
ore?
let us give it all up.
It was into such a mood as this that Laura=
had
drifted from the musings
which the letters of her lovers had called
up. Now she lifted her head
and noted with surprise how the day had
wasted. She thrust the letter=
s
aside, rose up and went and stood at the
window. But she was soon
thinking again, and was only gazing into
vacancy.
By and by she turned; her countenance had
cleared; the dreamy look was
gone out of her face, all indecision had
vanished; the poise of her head
and the firm set of her lips told that her
resolution was formed.
She moved toward the table with all the old
dignity in her carriage,
and all the old pride in her mien. She took up each letter in its turn=
,
touched a match to it and watched it slowly
consume to ashes. Then she
said:
"I have landed upon a foreign shore, =
and
burned my ships behind me.
These letters were the last thing that hel=
d me
in sympathy with any
remnant or belonging of the old life. Henceforth that life and all that<= o:p>
appertains to it are as dead to me and as =
far
removed from me as if I
were become a denizen of another world.&qu=
ot;
She said that love was not for her--the ti=
me
that it could have satisfied
her heart was gone by and could not return;
the opportunity was lost,
nothing could restore it. She said there could be no love wi=
thout
respect, and she would only despise a man =
who
could content himself with
a thing like her. Love, she said, was a woman's first
necessity: love
being forfeited; there was but one thing l=
eft
that could give a passing
zest to a wasted life, and that was fame,
admiration, the applause of the
multitude.
And so her resolution was taken. She would turn to that final resor=
t of
the disappointed of her sex, the lecture
platform. She would array
herself in fine attire, she would adorn
herself with jewels, and stand in
her isolated magnificence before massed,
audiences and enchant them with
her eloquence and amaze them with her unap=
proachable
beauty. She would
move from city to city like a queen of
romance, leaving marveling
multitudes behind her and impatient multit=
udes
awaiting her coming.
Her life, during one hour of each day, upon
the platform, would be a
rapturous intoxication--and when the curta=
in
fell; and the lights were
out, and the people gone, to nestle in the=
ir
homes and forget her, she
would find in sleep oblivion of her
homelessness, if she could, if not
she would brave out the night in solitude =
and
wait for the next day's
hour of ecstasy.
So, to take up life and begin again was no great evil. She saw her way.<= o:p>
She would be brave and strong; she would m=
ake
the best of, what was left
for her among the possibilities.
She sent for the lecture agent, and matters
were soon arranged.
Straightway, all the papers were filled wi=
th
her name, and all the dead
walls flamed with it. The papers called down imprecation=
s upon
her head;
they reviled her without stint; they wonde=
red
if all sense of decency was
dead in this shameless murderess, this bra=
zen
lobbyist, this heartless
seducer of the affections of weak and
misguided men; they implored the
people, for the sake of their pure wives,
their sinless daughters, for
the sake of decency, for the sake of public
morals, to give this wretched
creature such a rebuke as should be an
all-sufficient evidence to her and
to such as her, that there was a limit whe=
re
the flaunting of their foul
acts and opinions before the world must st=
op;
certain of them, with a
higher art, and to her a finer cruelty, a
sharper torture, uttered no
abuse, but always spoke of her in terms of
mocking eulogy and ironical
admiration. Everybody talked about the new won=
der,
canvassed the theme
of her proposed discourse, and marveled how
she would handle it.
Laura's few friends wrote to her or came a=
nd
talked with her, and pleaded
with her to retire while it was yet time, =
and
not attempt to face the
gathering storm. But it was fruitless. She was stung to the quick by
the comments of the newspapers; her spirit=
was
roused, her ambition was
towering, now. She was more determined than ever.=
She would show these
people what a hunted and persecuted woman
could do.
The eventful night came. Laura arrived before the great lec=
ture
hall in
a close carriage within five minutes of the
time set for the lecture to
begin.&nb=
sp;
When she stepped out of the vehicle her heart beat fast and her
eyes flashed with exultation: the whole st=
reet
was packed with people,
and she could hardly force her way to the
hall! She reached the
ante-room, threw off her wraps and placed
herself before the
dressing-glass. She turned herself this way and
that--everything was
satisfactory, her attire was perfect. She smoothed her hair, rearranged<= o:p>
a jewel here and there, and all the while =
her
heart sang within her, and
her face was radiant. She had not been so happy for ages=
and
ages, it
seemed to her. Oh, no, she had never been =
so
overwhelmingly grateful and
happy in her whole life before. The lecture agent appeared at the =
door.
She waved him away and said:
"Do not disturb me. I want no introduction. And do not fear for me; the
moment the hands point to eight I will step
upon the platform."
He disappeared. She held her watch before her. She was so impatient
that the second-hand seemed whole tedious =
minutes
dragging its way around
the circle. At last the supreme moment came, a=
nd
with head erect and the
bearing of an empress she swept through the
door and stood upon the
stage.&nb=
sp;
Her eyes fell upon only a vast, brilliant emptiness--there were
not forty people in the house! There were only a handful of coars=
e men
and ten or twelve still coarser women, lol=
ling
upon the benches and
scattered about singly and in couples.
Her pulses stood still, her limbs quaked, =
the
gladness went out of her
face.&nbs=
p;
There was a moment of silence, and then a brutal laugh and an
explosion of cat-calls and hisses saluted =
her
from the audience. The
clamor grew stronger and louder, and insul=
ting
speeches were shouted at
her.
A half-intoxicated man rose up and threw something, which missed
her but bespattered a chair at her side, a=
nd
this evoked an outburst of
laughter and boisterous admiration. She was bewildered, her strength w=
as
forsaking her. She reeled away from the platform,
reached the ante-room,
and dropped helpless upon a sofa. The lecture agent ran in, with a
hurried question upon his lips; but she put
forth her hands, and with the
tears raining from her eyes, said:
"Oh, do not speak! Take me away-please take me away, =
out of
this.
dreadful place! Oh, this is like all my life--fail=
ure,
disappointment,
misery--always misery, always failure. What have I done, to be so
pursued!&=
nbsp;
Take me away, I beg of you, I implore you!"
Upon the pavement she was hustled by the m=
ob,
the surging masses roared
her name and accompanied it with every spe=
cies
of insulting epithet;
they thronged after the carriage, hooting,
jeering, cursing, and even
assailing the vehicle with missiles. A stone crushed through a blind,
wounding Laura's forehead, and so stunning=
her
that she hardly knew what
further transpired during her flight.
It was long before her faculties were whol=
ly
restored, and then she found
herself lying on the floor by a sofa in her
own sitting-room, and alone.
So she supposed she must have sat down upon
the sofa and afterward
fallen.&n=
bsp;
She raised herself up, with difficulty, for the air was chilly
and her limbs were stiff. She turned up the gas and sought t=
he
glass.
She hardly knew herself, so worn and old s=
he
looked, and so marred with
blood were her features. The night was far spent, and a dead
stillness
reigned.&=
nbsp;
She sat down by her table, leaned her elbows upon it and put
her face in her hands.
Her thoughts wandered back over her old li=
fe
again and her tears flowed
unrestrained. Her pride was humbled, her spirit =
was
broken. Her memory
found but one resting place; it lingered a=
bout
her young girlhood with a
caressing regret; it dwelt upon it as the =
one
brief interval of her life
that bore no curse. She saw herself again in the buddi=
ng
grace of her
twelve years, decked in her dainty pride of
ribbons, consorting with the
bees and the butterflies, believing in
fairies, holding confidential
converse with the flowers, busying herself=
all
day long with airy trifles
that were as weighty to her as the affairs
that tax the brains of
diplomats and emperors. She was without sin, then, and
unacquainted with grief; the world was full of sunshine and her heart was f=
ull
of music.
From that--to this!
"If I could only die!" she
said. "If I could only go
back, and be as I
was then, for one hour--and hold my father=
's
hand in mine again, and see
all the household about me, as in that old
innocent time--and then die!
My God, I am humbled, my pride is all gone=
, my
stubborn heart repents
--have pity!"
When the spring morning dawned, the form s=
till
sat there, the elbows
resting upon the table and the face upon t=
he
hands. All day long the
figure sat there, the sunshine enriching i=
ts
costly raiment and flashing
from its jewels; twilight came, and presen=
tly
the stars, but still the
figure remained; the moon found it there
still, and framed the picture
with the shadow of the window sash, and
flooded, it with mellow light; by
and by the darkness swallowed it up, and l=
ater
the gray dawn revealed it
again; the new day grew toward its prime, =
and
still the forlorn presence
was undisturbed.
But now the keepers of the house had become
uneasy; their periodical
knockings still finding no response, they
burst open the door.
The jury of inquest found that death had
resulted from heart disease, and
was instant and painless. That was all. Merely heart disease.
Clay Hawkins, years gone by, had yielded,
after many a struggle, to the
migratory and speculative instinct of our =
age
and our people, and had
wandered further and further westward upon
trading ventures. Settling
finally in
substantial merchant, and prospered
greatly. His life lay beyond =
the
theatre of this tale.
His remittances had supported the Hawkins
family, entirely, from the time
of his father's death until latterly when
Laura by her efforts in
Washington had been able to assist in this
work. Clay was away on a long=
absence in some of the eastward islands wh=
en
Laura's troubles began,
trying (and almost in vain,) to arrange
certain interests which had
become disordered through a dishonest agen=
t,
and consequently he knew
nothing of the murder till he returned and
read his letters and papers.
His natural impulse was to hurry to the St=
ates
and save his sister if
possible, for he loved her with a deep and
abiding affection. His
business was so crippled now, and so deran=
ged,
that to leave it would be
ruin; therefore he sold out at a sacrifice
that left him considerably
reduced in worldly possessions, and began =
his
voyage to San Francisco.
Arrived there, he perceived by the newspap=
ers
that the trial was near its
close.&nb=
sp;
At Salt Lake later telegrams told him of the acquittal, and his
gratitude was boundless--so boundless, ind=
eed,
that sleep was driven from
his eyes by the pleasurable excitement alm=
ost
as effectually as preceding
weeks of anxiety had done it. He shaped his course straight for
Hawkeye,
now, and his meeting with his mother and t=
he
rest of the household was
joyful--albeit he had been away so long th=
at
he seemed almost a stranger
in his own home.
But the greetings and congratulations were
hardly finished when all the
journals in the land clamored the news of
Laura's miserable death.
Mrs. Hawkins was prostrated by this last b=
low,
and it was well that Clay
was at her side to stay her with comforting
words and take upon himself
the ordering of the household with its bur=
den
of labors and cares.
Washington Hawkins had scarcely more than entered upon
that decade which carries one to the full blossom of manhood which we term =
the
beginning: of middle age, and yet a brief sojourn at the capital of the nat=
ion
had made him old. His hair was
already turning gray when the late session of Congress began its sittings; =
it
grew grayer still, and rapidly, after the
memorable day that saw Laura proclaimed a
murderess; it waxed grayer and
still grayer during the lagging suspense t=
hat
succeeded it and after the
crash which ruined his last hope--the failure of his =
bill
in the Senate
and the destruction of its champion,
Dilworthy. A few days later, =
when
he stood uncovered while the last prayer w=
as
pronounced over Laura's
grave, his hair was whiter and his face ha=
rdly
less old than the
venerable minister's whose words were soun=
ding
in his ears.
A week after this, he was sitting in a
double-bedded room in a cheap
boarding house in Washington, with Col.
Sellers. The two had been liv=
ing
together lately, and this mutual cavern of
theirs the Colonel sometimes
referred to as their "premises" =
and
sometimes as their "apartments"--more
particularly when conversing with persons
outside. A canvas-covered
modern trunk, marked "G. W. H."<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> stood on end by the door, strapped=
and
ready for a journey; on it lay a small mor=
occo
satchel, also marked "G.
W. H." There was another trunk close by--a
worn, and scarred, and
ancient hair relic, with "B.
S." wrought in brass nai=
ls on
its top;
on it lay a pair of saddle-bags that proba=
bly
knew more about the last
century than they could tell. Washington got up and walked the f=
loor a
while in a restless sort of way, and final=
ly
was about to sit down on the
hair trunk.
"Stop, don't sit down on that!"
exclaimed the Colonel: "There, now that's
all right--the chair's better. I couldn't get another trunk like =
that
--not another like it in America, I
reckon."
"I am afraid not," said Washingt=
on,
with a faint attempt at a smile.
"No indeed; the man is dead that made
that trunk and that saddle-bags."
"Are his great-grand-children still
living?" said Washington, with levity
only in the words, not in the tone.
"Well, I don't know--I hadn't thought=
of
that--but anyway they can't make
trunks and saddle-bags like that, if they
are--no man can," said the
Colonel with honest simplicity. "Wife didn't like to see me g=
oing
off
with that trunk--she said it was nearly
certain to be stolen."
"Why?"
"Why? Why, aren't trunks always being
stolen?"
"Well, yes--some kinds of trunks
are."
"Very well, then; this is some kind o=
f a
trunk--and an almighty rare
kind, too."
"Yes, I believe it is."
"Well, then, why shouldn't a man want=
to
steal it if he got a chance?"
"Indeed I don't know.--Why should
he?"
"Washington, I never heard anybody ta= lk like you. Suppose you were a<= o:p>
thief, and that trunk was lying around and
nobody watching--wouldn't you
steal it?=
Come, now, answer fair--wouldn't you steal it?
"Well, now, since you corner me, I wo=
uld
take it,--but I wouldn't
consider it stealing.
"You wouldn't! Well, that beats me. Now what would you call stealing?&=
quot;
"Why, taking property is stealing.&qu=
ot;
"Property! Now what a way to talk that is: Wh=
at do
you suppose that
trunk is worth?"
"Is it in good repair?"
"Perfect. Hair rubbed off a little, but the =
main
structure is perfectly
sound."
"Does it leak anywhere?"
"Leak? Do you want to carry water in it?<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> What do you mean by does it
leak?"
"Why--a--do the clothes fall out of it
when it is--when it is
stationary?"
"Confound it, Washington, you are try=
ing
to make fun of me. I don't kn=
ow
what has got into you to-day; you act migh=
ty
curious. What is the matter
with you?"
"Well, I'll tell you, old friend. I am almost happy. I am, indeed.
It wasn't Clay's telegram that hurried me =
up
so and got me ready to start
with you.=
It was a letter from Louise."
"Good! What is it? What does she say?"
"She says come home--her father has
consented, at last."
"My boy, I want to congratulate you; I
want to shake you by the hand!
It's a long turn that has no lane at the e=
nd
of it, as the proverb says,
or somehow that way. You'll be happy yet, and Beriah Se=
llers
will be
there to see, thank God!"
"I believe it. General Boswell is pretty nearly a=
poor
man, now. The
railroad that was going to build up Hawkeye
made short work of him, along
with the rest. He isn't so opposed to a son-in-law
without a fortune,
now."
"Without a fortune, indeed! Why that Tennessee Land--"
"Never mind the Tennessee Land,
Colonel. I am done with that,
forever
and forever--"
"Why no! You can't mean to say--"
"My father, away back yonder, years a=
go,
bought it for a blessing for his
children, and--"
"Indeed he did! Si Hawkins said to me--"
"It proved a curse to him as long as =
he
lived, and never a curse like it
was inflicted upon any man's heirs--"=
"I'm bound to say there's more or less
truth--"
"It began to curse me when I was a ba=
by,
and it has cursed every hour of
my life to this day--"
"Lord, lord, but it's so! Time and again my wife--"
"I depended on it all through my boyh=
ood
and never tried to do an honest
stroke of work for my living--"
"Right again--but then you--"
"I have chased it years and years as
children chase butterflies. W=
e
might all have been prosperous, now; we mi=
ght
all have been happy, all
these heart-breaking years, if we had acce=
pted
our poverty at first and
gone contentedly to work and built up our =
own
wealth by our own toil and
sweat--"
"It's so, it's so; bless my soul, how
often I've told Si Hawkins--"
"Instead of that, we have suffered mo=
re
than the damned themselves
suffer!&n=
bsp;
I loved my father, and I honor his memory and recognize his good
intentions; but I grieve for his mistaken
ideas of conferring happiness
upon his children. I am going to begin my life over a=
gain,
and begin it
and end it with good solid work! I'll leave my children no Tennesse=
e
Land!"
"Spoken like a man, sir, spoken like a
man! Your hand, again my boy!=
And always remember that when a word of ad=
vice
from Beriah Sellers can
help, it is at your service. I'm going to begin again, too!&quo=
t;
"Indeed!"
"Yes, sir. I've seen enough to show me where =
my
mistake was. The law is
what I was born for. I shall begin the study of the law=
. Heavens and
earth, but that Brabant's a wonderful man-=
-a
wonderful man sir! Such a
head!&nbs=
p;
And such a way with him! But
I could see that he was jealous of
me.
The little licks I got in in the course of my argument before the
jury--"
"Your argument! Why, you were a witness."
"Oh, yes, to the popular eye, to the
popular eye--but I knew when I was
dropping information and when I was letting
drive at the court with an
insidious argument. But the court knew it, bless you, =
and
weakened every
time!&nbs=
p;
And Brabant knew it. I=
just
reminded him of it in a quiet way,
and its final result, and he said in a
whisper, 'You did it, Colonel, you
did it, sir--but keep it mum for my sake; =
and
I'll tell you what you do,'
says he, 'you go into the law, Col. Seller=
s--go
into the law, sir; that's
your native element!' And into the law the subscriber is
going. There's
worlds of money in it!--whole worlds of
money! Practice first in
Hawkeye, then in Jefferson, then in St. Lo=
uis,
then in New York! In the
metropolis of the western world! Climb, and climb, and climb--and w=
ind
up on the Supreme bench. Beriah Sellers, Chief Justice of t=
he
Supreme
Court of the United States, sir! A made man for all time and eterni=
ty!
That's the way I block it out, sir--and it=
's
as clear as day--clear as
the rosy-morn!"
Washington had heard little of this. The first reference to Laura's
trial had brought the old dejection to his
face again, and he stood
gazing out of the window at nothing, lost =
in
reverie.
There was a knock-the postman handed in a
letter. It was from Obedstown=
.
East Tennessee, and was for Washington.
saying that enclosed he would please find a
bill for the current year's
taxes on the 75,000 acres of Tennessee Land
belonging to the estate of
Silas Hawkins, deceased, and added that the
money must be paid within
sixty days or the land would be sold at pu=
blic
auction for the taxes, as
provided by law. The bill was for $180--something m=
ore
than twice the
market value of the land, perhaps.
Washington hesitated. Doubts flitted through his mind. The old instinct
came upon him to cling to the land just a
little longer and give it one
more chance. He walked the floor feverishly, hi=
s mind
tortured by
indecision. Presently he stopped, took out his
pocket book and counted
his money. Two hundred and thirty dollars--it=
was
all he had in the
world.
"One hundred and eighty . .=
. . .=
. . from two hundred and
thirty," he said to himself. "Fifty left . .=
. . .=
. It is enough
to get me home . .=
. . .=
. . Shall I do it, or shall I not?
.
. . .=
. . .=
I wish I had somebody to decide for me."
The pocket book lay open in his hand, with
Louise's small letter in view.
His eye fell upon that, and it decided him=
.
"It shall go for taxes," he said,
"and never tempt me or mine any more!"
He opened the window and stood there teari=
ng
the tax bill to bits and
watching the breeze waft them away, till a=
ll
were gone.
"The spell is broken, the life-long c=
urse
is ended!" he said. &quo=
t;Let
us
go."
The baggage wagon had arrived; five minutes
later the two friends were
mounted upon their luggage in it, and ratt=
ling
off toward the station,
the Colonel endeavoring to sing "Home=
ward
Bound," a song whose words he
knew, but whose tune, as he rendered it, w=
as a
trial to auditors.
Philip Sterling's circumstances were becom=
ing
straightened. The prospect
was gloomy. His long siege of unproductive lab=
or was
beginning to tell
upon his spirits; but what told still more
upon them was the undeniable
fact that the promise of ultimate success
diminished every day, now.
That is to say, the tunnel had reached a p=
oint
in the hill which was
considerably beyond where the coal vein sh=
ould
pass (according to all his
calculations) if there were a coal vein th=
ere;
and so, every foot that
the tunnel now progressed seemed to carry =
it
further away from the object
of the search.
Sometimes he ventured to hope that he had =
made
a mistake in estimating
the direction which the vein should natura=
lly
take after crossing the
valley and entering the hill. Upon such occasions he would go in=
to the
nearest mine on the vein he was hunting fo=
r,
and once more get the
bearings of the deposit and mark out its
probable course; but the result
was the same every time; his tunnel had
manifestly pierced beyond the
natural point of junction; and then his,
spirits fell a little lower.
His men had already lost faith, and he oft=
en
overheard them saying it was
perfectly plain that there was no coal in =
the
hill.
Foremen and laborers from neighboring mine=
s,
and no end of experienced
loafers from the village, visited the tunn=
el
from time to time, and their
verdicts were always the same and always
disheartening--"No coal in that
hill." Now and then Philip would sit down=
and
think it all over and
wonder what the mystery meant; then he wou=
ld
go into the tunnel and ask
the men if there were no signs yet? None--always "none."
He would bring out a piece of rock and exa=
mine
it, and say to himself,
"It is limestone--it has crinoids and
corals in it--the rock is right"
Then he would throw it down with a sigh, a=
nd
say, "But that is nothing;
where coal is, limestone with these fossil=
s in
it is pretty certain to
lie against its foot casing; but it does n=
ot
necessarily follow that
where this peculiar rock is coal must lie
above it or beyond it; this
sign is not sufficient."
The thought usually followed:--"There=
is
one infallible sign--if I could
only strike that!"
Three or four tines in as many weeks he sa=
id
to himself, "Am I a
visionary? I must be a visionary; everybod=
y is
in these days; everybody
chases butterflies: everybody seeks sudden
fortune and will not lay one
up by slow toil. This is not right, I will discharg=
e the
men and go at
some honest work. There is no coal here. What a fool I have been; I
will give it up."
But he never could do it. A half hour of profound thinking a=
lways
followed; and at the end of it he was sure=
to
get up and straighten
himself and say: "There is coal there=
; I
will not give it up; and coal
or no coal I will drive the tunnel clear
through the hill; I will not
surrender while I am alive."
He never thought of asking Mr. Montague for
more money. He said there
was now but one chance of finding coal aga=
inst
nine hundred and ninety
nine that he would not find it, and so it
would be wrong in him to make
the request and foolish in Mr. Montague to
grant it.
He had been working three shifts of men. Finally, the settling of a
weekly account exhausted his means. He could not afford to run in debt=
,
and therefore he gave the men their
discharge. They came into his=
cabin
presently, where he sat with his elbows on=
his
knees and his chin in his
hands--the picture of discouragement and t=
heir
spokesman said:
"Mr. Sterling, when Tim was down a we=
ek
with his fall you kept him on
half-wages and it was a mighty help to his
family; whenever any of us was
in trouble you've done what you could to h=
elp
us out; you've acted fair
and square with us every time, and I recko=
n we
are men and know a man
when we see him. We haven't got any faith in that h=
ill,
but we have a
respect for a man that's got the pluck that
you've showed; you've fought
a good fight, with everybody agin you and =
if
we had grub to go on, I'm
d---d if we wouldn't stand by you till the cows come home! That is what<= o:p>
the boys say. Now we want to put in one parting =
blast
for luck. We want
to work three days more; if we don't find
anything, we won't bring in no
bill against you. That is what we've come to say.&qu=
ot;
Philip was touched. If he had had money enough to buy =
three
days' "grub"
he would have accepted the generous offer,=
but
as it was, he could not
consent to be less magnanimous than the me=
n,
and so he declined in a
manly speech; shook hands all around and
resumed his solitary communings.
The men went back to the tunnel and "=
put
in a parting blast for luck"
anyhow.&n=
bsp;
They did a full day's work and then took their leave. They
called at his cabin and gave him good-bye,=
but
were not able to tell him
their day's effort had given things a mere
promising look.
The next day Philip sold all the tools but=
two
or three sets; he also
sold one of the now deserted cabins as old,
lumber, together with its
domestic wares; and made up his mind that =
he
would buy, provisions with
the trifle of money thus gained and contin=
ue
his work alone. About the
middle of the after noon he put on his
roughest clothes and went to the
tunnel. He lit a candle and groped his way
in. Presently he heard the
sound of a pick or a drill, and wondered, =
what
it meant. A spark of light
now appeared in the far end of the tunnel,=
and
when he arrived there he
found the man Tim at work. Tim said:
"I'm to have a job in the Golden Brier
mine by and by--in a week or ten
days--and I'm going to work here till
then. A man might as well be =
at
some thing, and besides I consider that I =
owe
you what you paid me when I
was laid up."
Philip said, Oh, no, he didn't owe anything; bu=
t Tim
persisted, and then
Philip said he had a little provision now,=
and
would share. So for
several days Philip held the drill and Tim=
did
the striking. At first
Philip was impatient to see the result of
every blast, and was always
back and peering among the smoke the moment
after the explosion. But
there was never any encouraging result; and
therefore he finally lost
almost all interest, and hardly troubled
himself to inspect results at
all.
He simply labored on, stubbornly and with little hope.
Tim staid with him till the last moment, a=
nd
then took up his job at the
Golden Brier, apparently as depressed by t=
he
continued barrenness of
their mutual labors as Philip was
himself. After that, Philip f=
ought
his
battle alone, day after day, and slow work=
it
was; he could scarcely see
that he made any progress.
Late one afternoon he finished drilling a =
hole
which he had been at work
at for more than two hours; he swabbed it =
out,
and poured in the powder
and inserted the fuse; then filled up the =
rest
of the hole with dirt and
small fragments of stone; tamped it down
firmly, touched his candle to
the fuse, and ran. By and by the I dull report came, =
and he
was about to
walk back mechanically and see what was
accomplished; but he halted;
presently turned on his heel and thought,
rather than said:
"No, this is useless, this is
absurd. If I found anything it
would only
be one of those little aggravating seams of
coal which doesn't mean
anything, and--"
By this time he was walking out of the
tunnel. His thought ran on:
"I am conquered . .=
. . .=
. I am out of provisio=
ns,
out of money.
.
. . .=
. I have got to give i=
t up
. . .=
. . .=
All this hard work
lost!&nbs=
p;
But I am not conquered! I
will go and work for money, and come
back and have another fight with fate. Ah me, it may be years, it may,
be years."
Arrived at the mouth of the tunnel, he thr=
ew
his coat upon the ground,
sat down on, a stone, and his eye sought t=
he
westering sun and dwelt upon
the charming landscape which stretched its
woody ridges, wave upon wave,
to the golden horizon.
Something was taking place at his feet whi=
ch
did not attract his
attention.
His reverie continued, and its burden grew
more and more gloomy.
Presently he rose up and, cast a look far =
away
toward the valley, and his
thoughts took a new direction:
"There it is! How good it looks! But down there =
is not
up here. Well,
I will go home and pack up--there is nothi=
ng
else to do."
He moved off moodily toward his cabin. He had gone some distance before
he thought of his coat; then he was about =
to
turn back, but he smiled at
the thought, and continued his journey--su=
ch a
coat as that could be of
little use in a civilized land; a little
further on, he remembered that
there were some papers of value in one of =
the
pockets of the relic, and
then with a penitent ejaculation he turned
back picked up the coat and
put it on.
He made a dozen steps, and then stopped ve=
ry
suddenly. He stood still a
moment, as one who is trying to believe
something and cannot. He put =
a
hand up over his shoulder and felt his bac=
k,
and a great thrill shot
through him. He grasped the skirt of the coat
impulsively and another
thrill followed. He snatched the coat from his back,
glanced at it,
threw it from him and flew back to the
tunnel. He sought the spot wh=
ere
the coat had lain--he had to look close, f=
or
the light was waning--then
to make sure, he put his hand to the ground
and a little stream of water
swept against his fingers:
"Thank God, I've struck it at last!&q=
uot;
He lit a candle and ran into the tunnel; he
picked up a piece of rubbish
cast out by the last blast, and said:
"This clayey stuff is what I've longed
for--I know what is behind it."
He swung his pick with hearty good will ti=
ll
long after the darkness had
gathered upon the earth, and when he trudg=
ed
home at length he knew he
had a coal vein and that it was seven feet
thick from wall to wall.
He found a yellow envelope lying on his
rickety table, and recognized
that it was of a family sacred to the
transmission of telegrams.
He opened it, read it, crushed it in his h=
and
and threw it down. It
simply said:
"Ruth is very ill."
It was evening when Philip took the cars at
the
of, his success had preceded him, and whil=
e he
waited for the train, he
was the center of a group of eager
questioners, who asked him a hundred
things about the mine, and magnified his g=
ood
fortune. There was no
mistake this time.
Philip, in luck, had become suddenly a per=
son
of consideration, whose
speech was freighted with meaning, whose l=
ooks
were all significant.
The words of the proprietor of a rich coal
mine have a golden sound,
and his common sayings are repeated as if =
they
were solid wisdom.
Philip wished to be alone; his good fortun=
e at
this moment seemed an
empty mockery, one of those sarcasms of fa=
te,
such as that which spreads
a dainty banquet for the man who has no
appetite. He had longed for
success principally for Ruth's sake; and
perhaps now, at this very moment
of his triumph, she was dying.
"Shust what I said, Mister
Sederling," the landlord of the Ilium hotel
kept repeating. "I dold Jake Schmidt he find =
him
dere shust so sure as
noting."
"You ought to have taken a share,
Mr. Dusenheimer," said P=
hilip.
"Yaas, I know. But d'old woman, she say 'You stic=
ks to
your pisiness.
So I sticks to 'em. Und I makes noting. Dat Mister Prierly, he don't
never come back here no more, ain't it?&qu=
ot;
"Why?" asked Philip.
"Vell, dere is so many peers, and so =
many
oder dhrinks, I got 'em all set
down, ven he coomes back."
It was a long night for Philip, and a rest=
less
one. At any other time
the swing of the cars would have lulled hi=
m to
sleep, and the rattle and
clank of wheels and rails, the roar of the
whirling iron would have only
been cheerful reminders of swift and safe travel. Now they were voices<= o:p>
of warning and taunting; and instead of go=
ing
rapidly the train seemed to
crawl at a snail's pace. And it not only crawled, but it
frequently
stopped; and when it stopped it stood dead
still and there was an ominous
silence.&=
nbsp;
Was anything the matter, he wondered. Only a station probably.
Perhaps, he thought, a telegraphic
station. And then he listened=
eagerly.&=
nbsp;
Would the conductor open the door and ask for Philip Sterling,
and hand him a fatal dispatch?
How long they seemed to wait. And then slowly beginning to move,=
they
were off again, shaking, pounding, screami=
ng
through the night. He drew
his curtain from time to time and looked out. There was the lurid sky<= o:p>
line of the wooded range along the base of
which they were crawling.
There was the Susquehannah, gleaming in the
moon-light. There was a
stretch of level valley with silent farm
houses, the occupants all at
rest, without trouble, without anxiety.
a mill, a village; and now, without pause =
or
fear, the train had mounted
a trestle-work high in air and was creeping
along the top of it while a
swift torrent foamed a hundred feet below.=
What would the morning bring? Even while he
was flying to her, her gentle
spirit might have gone on another flight,
whither he could not follow
her.
He was full of foreboding.
He fell at length into a restless doze.
There was a noise in his ears as of a rush=
ing
torrent when a stream is
swollen by a freshet in the spring. It was like the breaking up of lif=
e;
he was struggling in the consciousness of
coming death: when Ruth stood
by his side, clothed in white, with a face
like that of an angel,
radiant, smiling, pointing to the sky, and
saying, "Come." He =
awoke
with
a cry--the train was roaring through a bri=
dge,
and it shot out into
daylight.
When morning came the train was industriou=
sly
toiling along through the
fat lands of Lancaster, with its broad far=
ms
of corn and wheat, its mean
houses of stone, its vast barns and granar=
ies,
built as if, for storing
the riches of Heliogabalus. Then came the smiling fields of Ch=
ester,
with their English green, and soon the cou=
nty
of Philadelphia itself, and
the increasing signs of the approach to a
great city. Long trains of
coal cars, laden and unladen, stood upon
sidings; the tracks of other
roads were crossed; the smoke of other
locomotives was seen on parallel
lines; factories multiplied; streets appea=
red;
the noise of a busy city
began to fill the air;--and with a slower =
and
slower clank on the
connecting rails and interlacing switches =
the
train rolled into the
station and stood still.
It was a hot August morning. The broad streets glowed in the su=
n, and
the white-shuttered houses stared at the h=
ot
thoroughfares like closed
bakers' ovens set along the highway. Philip was oppressed with the heav=
y
air; the sweltering city lay as in a
swoon. Taking a street car, h=
e rode
away to the northern part of the city, the
newer portion, formerly the
district of Spring Garden, for in this the
Boltons now lived, in a small
brick house, befitting their altered fortu=
nes.
He could scarcely restrain his impatience =
when
he came in sight of the
house.&nb=
sp;
The window shutters were not "bowed"; thank God, for
that. Ruth
was still living, then. He ran up the steps and rang. Mrs. Bolton met
him at the door.
"Thee is very welcome, Philip."<= o:p>
"And Ruth?"
"She is very ill, but quieter than, s=
he
has been, and the fever is a
little abating. The most dangerous time will be wh=
en the
fever leaves
her.
The doctor fears she will not have strength enough to rally from
it.
Yes, thee can see her."
Mrs.
Bolton led the way to the little chamber where Ruth lay. "Oh,"
said her mother, "if she were only in=
her
cool and spacious room in our
old home.=
She says that seems like heaven."
Mr. Bolton sat by Ruth's bedside, and he r=
ose
and silently pressed
Philip's hand. The room had but one window; that =
was
wide open to admit
the air, but the air that came in was hot =
and
lifeless. Upon the table
stood a vase of flowers. Ruth's eyes were closed; her cheek=
s were
flushed with fever, and she moved her head
restlessly as if in pain.
"Ruth," said her mother, bending
over her, "Philip is here."
Ruth's eyes unclosed, there was a gleam of
recognition in them, there was
an attempt at a smile upon her face, and s=
he
tried to raise her thin
hand, as Philip touched her forehead with =
his
lips; and he heard her
murmur,
"Dear Phil."
There was nothing to be done but to watch =
and
wait for the cruel fever to
burn itself out. Dr. Longstreet told Philip that the
fever had
undoubtedly been contracted in the hospita=
l,
but it was not malignant,
and would be little dangerous if Ruth were=
not
so worn down with work,
or if she had a less delicate constitution=
.
"It is only her indomitable will that=
has
kept her up for weeks. And if=
that should leave her now, there will be no
hope. You can do more for
her now, sir, than I can?"
"How?" asked Philip eagerly.
"Your presence, more than anything el=
se,
will inspire her with the desire
to live."
When the fever turned, Ruth was in a very
critical condition. For two
days her life was like the fluttering of a
lighted candle in the wind.
Philip was constantly by her side, and she
seemed to be conscious of his
presence, and to cling to him, as one borne
away by a swift stream clings
to a stretched-out hand from the shore.
restless eyes sought something they were
disappointed not to find.
Philip so yearned to bring her back to lif=
e,
he willed it so strongly and
passionately, that his will appeared to af=
fect
hers and she seemed slowly
to draw life from his.
After two days of this struggle with the
grasping enemy, it was evident
to Dr. Longstreet that Ruth's will was
beginning to issue its orders to
her body with some force, and that strength
was slowly coming back.
In another day there was a decided
improvement. As Philip sat ho=
lding
her weak hand and watching the least sign =
of
resolution in her face, Ruth
was able to whisper,
"I so want to live, for you, Phil!&qu=
ot;
"You will; darling, you must," s=
aid
Philip in a tone of faith and courage
that carried a thrill of determination--of
command--along all her nerves.
Slowly Philip drew her back to life. Slowly she came back, as one
willing but well nigh helpless. It was new for Ruth to feel this
dependence on another's nature, to conscio=
usly
draw strength of will from
the will of another. It was a new but a dear joy, to be
lifted up and
carried back into the happy world, which w=
as
now all aglow with the light
of love; to be lifted and carried by the o=
ne
she loved more than her own
life.
"Sweetheart," she said to Philip,
"I would not have cared to come back
but for thy love."
"Not for thy profession?"
"Oh, thee may be glad enough of that =
some
day, when thy coal bed is dug
out and thee and father are in the air
again."
When Ruth was able to ride she was taken i=
nto
the country, for the pure
air was necessary to her speedy recovery.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> The family went with her.
Philip could not be spared from her side, =
and
Mr. Bolton had gone up to
Ilium to look into that wonderful coal mine
and to make arrangements for
developing it, and bringing its wealth to
market. Philip had insisted o=
n
re-conveying the Ilium property to Mr. Bol=
ton,
retaining only the share
originally contemplated for himself, and
Mr. Bolton, therefore, once
more found himself engaged in business and=
a
person of some consequence
in Third street. The mine turned out even better th=
an was
at first
hoped, and would, if judiciously managed, =
be a
fortune to them all.
This also seemed to be the opinion of Mr.
Bigler, who heard of it as soon
as anybody, and, with the impudence of his
class called upon Mr. Bolton
for a little aid in a patent car-wheel he =
had
bought an interest in.
That rascal, Small, he said, had swindled =
him
out of all he had.
Mr. Bolton told him he was very sorry, and
recommended him to sue Small.
Mr. Small also came with a similar story a=
bout
Mr. Bigler; and Mr.
Bolton had the grace to give him like
advice. And he added, "I=
f you
and
Bigler will procure the indictment of each
other, you may have the
satisfaction of putting each other in the
penitentiary for the forgery of
my acceptances."
Bigler and Small did not quarrel however.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> They both attacked Mr. Bolton
behind his back as a swindler, and circula=
ted
the story that he had made
a fortune by failing.
In the pure air of the highlands, amid the
golden glories of ripening
September, Ruth rapidly came back to
health. How beautiful the wor=
ld is
to an invalid, whose senses are all clarif=
ied,
who has been so near the
world of spirits that she is sensitive to =
the
finest influences, and
whose frame responds with a thrill to the
subtlest ministrations of
soothing nature. Mere life is a luxury, and the col=
or of
the grass, of
the flowers, of the sky, the wind in the
trees, the outlines of the
horizon, the forms of clouds, all give a
pleasure as exquisite as the
sweetest music to the ear famishing for
it. The world was all new and=
fresh to Ruth, as if it had just been crea=
ted
for her, and love filled
it, till her heart was overflowing with
happiness.
It was golden September also at Fallkill.<=
span
style=3D'mso-spacerun:yes'> And Alice sat by the open
window in her room at home, looking out up=
on
the meadows where the
laborers were cutting the second crop of
clover. The fragrance of it
floated to her nostrils. Perhaps she did not mind it. She was thinking.
She had just been writing to Ruth, and on =
the
table before her was a
yellow piece of paper with a faded four-le=
aved
clover pinned on it--only
a memory now. In her letter to Ruth she had pour=
ed out
her heartiest
blessings upon them both, with her dear lo=
ve
forever and forever.
"Thank God," she said, "they will never
know"
They never would know. And the world never knows how many=
women
there are like Alice, whose sweet but lonely lives of self-sacrifice, gentl=
e,
faithful, loving souls, bless it continually.
"She is a dear girl," said Philip, when Ruth
showed him the letter.
"Yes, Phil, and we can spare a great =
deal
of love for her, our own lives
are so full."
APPENDIX.
Perhaps some apology to the reader is
necessary in view of our failure to
find Laura's father. We supposed, from the ease with wh=
ich
lost persons
are found in novels, that it would not be
difficult. But it was; indeed=
,
it was impossible; and therefore the porti=
ons
of the narrative containing
the record of the search have been stricken
out. Not because they were
not interesting--for they were; but inasmu=
ch
as the man was not found,
after all, it did not seem wise to harass =
and
excite the reader to no
purpose.
THE AUTHORS