[Illustration: 9413]
IX weeks later the election came off.
It was no “walk-over” for Carson. Wiggin seemed only more desperately
spurred on by every exposition of his underhand chicanery. He died
hard. He fought with his nose in the mire, but, throwing honor to
the winds, he fought. Carson Dwight's stand on the negro question was
Wiggin's strongest weapon. It was a torch with which the candidate could
inflame the breasts of a certain class of men at a moment's notice.
He was a crude but powerful speaker, and wherever he went he left
smouldering or raging fires. Pledged to him were the lowest order of
men, and they fought for him and worked for him like bandits in the
dark. Over these men he wielded a sword of fear. Carson Dwight's
intention in getting to the legislature was to make laws against
lynching, and every man who had ever protected his home and fireside by
summary justice to the black brutes would be ferreted out and imprisoned
for life. But Dwight's more gentle and saner reasoning, backed by his
heroic conduct of the past, held sway. He was elected. He was not only
elected, but, as the exponent of a new issue, the news of his election
was telegraphed all over the South. He had written some articles for
Wade Tingle's paper which had been widely copied and commented on, and
his political course was watched by many conservative thinkers, who
prophesied a remarkable career for him. He was a fearless man, with
a new voice, who had taken a radical stand based on humanitarian and
Christian principles. Family history was simply repeating itself. His
ancestors had stood for the humane treatment of the slaves thrust
upon them by circumstances, and he, in the same hereditary spirit,
was standing for kind, just treatment of those ex-slaves and their
descendants. No man who knew him would have accused him of believing in
the social equality of the races any more than they would earlier have
brought the same charge against his ancestors.
On the night the returns were brought in and it was known that he had
triumphed, “the gang” had arranged a big pine torch-light procession,
and it passed with its blaze and din through every street of the town.
Carson was at home when they lined themselves, in all their tooting of
horns, beating of drums, and general clatter, along the front fence. The
town brass-band did its best, and every sort of transparency that the
inventive mind of Wade Tingle could devise was borne, as if by the smoke
and heat of the torches themselves, above the long procession.
Garner separated himself from the throng, and, clad in a new and costly
suit of clothes, a tribute to his engagement to Miss Tarpley--a fine
black frock-coat, broadcloth trousers, and a silk hat--he made his way
into the house and up the stairs to the veranda above, where Carson and
his mother and father were standing.
“The boys want a speech,” he said to Carson, “and you've got to give
them the best in your shop. By George, they deserve it.” Carson was
demurring, but his mother pressed him to comply, and Garner, with his
stateliest strut, his coat buttoned so tightly at the waist that, the
tails spread out as if inviting him to sit down, and his hat held on
a level with his left shoulder, advanced to the balustrade, and in
his happiest mood introduced the man who, he declared, was the
broadest-minded, the most conscientious and fearless candidate that
ever trod the boards of a political platform. They were to receive the
expression of gratitude and appreciation of a man whose name was written
upon every heart present. Garner had the distinguished honor and pride
to introduce his law partner and close friend, the Hon. Carson Dwight.
Carson never spoke better in his life. What he said was from a boyish
heart overflowing with content and good-will. When he had finished Mrs.
Dwight rose from her chair and proudly stood by his side. The cheers at
her appearance rent the air. Then Garner pushed old Dwight forward from
the shadow of a column where he was standing, and as the old gentleman
awkwardly bowed his greeting, the cheers broke out afresh. Bob Smith,
who was a sort of drum-major, with a ribbon-wound walking-cane for a
baton, struck up, “For he's a jolly good fellow,” and as the crowd
sang it to the spluttering and jangling accompaniment of the band the
procession moved down the street.
At this juncture Major Warren came up to offer his congratulations.
Carson was standing a few minutes later talking to Garner. He was trying
to hear what his partner was saying in his bubbling and enthusiastic
way about his engagement to Miss Tarpley, but he found it difficult to
listen, for the conversation between his mother and Major Warren had
fixed his attention.
“I tried to get her to come over to hear the speech, but she wouldn't,”
the Major was saying. “I can't make her out here lately, Mrs. Dwight.
She used to be so different in anything concerning Carson. She is now
actually hiding behind the vines on the veranda.”
“Perhaps she is so much in love with Mr. Sanders that she--”
“That's the very point,” the Major broke in. “She won't talk about
Sanders, and she--well, really, I think the two have quit writing to
each other.”
“Perhaps she--oh, do you think, Major, that--” Carson heard no more; his
father had come forward and was talking to Garner.
Carson slipped away. He glided down the stairs and out at the door on
the side next to Warren's and rapidly strode across the grass. Passing
through the little gateway, he reached the veranda and the vines
concealing the spot where the hammock was hanging. He saw no one at
first and heard no sound. Then he called out: “Helen!”
“What is it?” a timid, even startled voice from the vines answered, and
Helen looked out.
“Why didn't you come over with your father?” Carson asked. “He said he
wanted you to, but you preferred to stay here.”
“I _did_ want to congratulate you,” Helen, said, as he came up the steps
and they stood face to face. “I'm so happy over it, Carson, that really
I was afraid I'd show it too much.”
“I'm glad you feel that way,” he said, awkwardly. “It was a hard fight,
and I thought several times I was beaten.”
“What did you ever touch that wasn't hard?” she said, with a sweet,
reminiscent laugh.
They were silent for a moment and then he said: “I'm not quite satisfied
with your reason for not coming over with your father just now--really,
you see, it is in a line with your actions for the last six weeks.
Helen, you actually have avoided me.”
“On the contrary,” she said, “you have made it a point to stay away from
me.”
“Well,” he sighed, “considering, you know, Sanders and his claims, I
really thought I'd better keep my place.”
“Oh!” Helen exclaimed, and then she sank deeper into the vines.
For one instant he stood trembling before her, and then he asked,
boldly: “Helen, tell me, are you engaged to him?”
She made no answer for a moment, and then in the moonlight he saw her
flushed face against the vines and caught an almost startled glance from
her wonderful eyes. She looked straight at him.
“No, I'm not, and I never have been,” she said.
“You never have been?” he repeated. “Oh, Helen--” But he went no
further. For a moment he hung fire, then he said: “Don't you care for
him, Helen? Are you and I good enough friends for me to dare to ask
that?”
“I thought once that I might love him, in time” she faltered; “but when
I came home and found--and found how deeply I had misunderstood and
wronged you, I--I--” She broke off, her face buried in the leaves of the
vines.
“Oh, Helen!” he cried; “do you realize what you are saying to me? You
know my whole life is wrapped up in you. Don't raise my hopes to-night
unless there is at least some chance of my winning. If there is one
little chance, I'll struggle for it all the rest of my life.”
“Do you remember,” she asked, looking at him, one side of her flushed
face pressed against the vines--“do you remember the night you told me
in the garden about that awful trouble of yours, and I promised to bear
it with you?”
“Yes,” he said, wonderingly.
“Well,” she went on, “I went straight to my room after I left you and
wrote to Mr. Sanders. I told him exactly how I felt. I simply couldn't
keep up a correspondence with him after--Carson, I knew that night when
I left you there in your gloom and sorrow that I loved you with all
my soul and body. Oh, Carson, when I heard your voice in your glorious
speech just now, and knew that you have loved me all this time, I was so
glad that I cried. I'm the happiest, proudest girl on earth.”
And as they stood hand in hand, too joyful for utterance, the glow of
his triumph lit the sky and the din and clatter, the song and shouts of
those who loved him were borne to him on the breeze.
THE END