LOVE AND PRIDE
Betty Winter had found her fierce resolution to blot John Vaughan from
her life a difficult one to keep. The first two weeks were not so hard.
Every instinct of her pure young girlhood had cried out against the
conceit which had imagined her conquest so easy. The memory of his arms
about her crushing with cruel force, his hot lips on hers in mad,
unasked kisses brought the angry blood mounting to her cheeks. She
walked the floor in rage and dropped at last exhausted:
"I could kill him!"
The memory which stung deepest was the terror she had felt in his
arms--the sudden fear of the brute quivering in tense muscles and
throbbing in passionate kisses. She had thought this man a gentleman. In
that flash of self-revealing he was simply a beast. It had unsettled her
whole attitude toward life. For the first time she began to suspect the
darker side of passion. If this were love, she would have none of it.
Again she resolved for the hundredth time, to banish the last thought of
him. If there were no cleaner, more chivalrous men in the world she
could live without them. But there were men with holier ideals. Ned
Vaughan was one. She drew from the drawer the only letter she had
received from him and the last she would probably get in many a day, as
he had crossed the dead line of war and was now somewhere in the great
silent South. She read it over and over with tender smiles:
"DEAR MISS BETTY;
"I can't disappear behind the battle lines without a last word to
you. I just want to tell you that every hour, waking or dreaming,
the memory of you is my inspiration. The hardest task is easy
because my heart is beating with your name with every stroke. For
me the drums throb it, the bugle calls it. I hear it in the tramp
of soldiers, the rumble of gun, the beat of horses' hoofs and the
rattle of sabre,--for I am fighting my way back, inch by inch, hour
by hour, to you, my love!
"You cannot answer this. There will be no more mails from the
South--no more mails from the North until I see you again on the
Capitol Hill in Washington. There has never been a doubt in my
heart that the South shall win--that I shall win. And when I stand
before you then it will not be as conqueror, though victorious. I
shall bow at your feet your willing slave. And I shall kiss my
chains because your dear hands made them. I can expect no answer to
this. I ask none. I need none. My love is enough. It's so big and
wonderful it makes the world glorious.
"NED."
How sharp and bitter the contrast between the soul of this chivalrous
boy and his vain conceited brother! She loathed herself for her blind
stupidity. Why had she preferred him? Why--why--why! The very question
cut her. It was not because John Vaughan had chosen to cast his lot with
her people of the North. Rubbish! She had a sneaking admiration for Ned
because he had dared her displeasure in making his choice. There must be
something perverse in her somewhere. She could see it now. It must be so
or the evil in John Vaughan's character would not have drawn her as a
magnet from the first. She hadn't a doubt now that all the stories about
his fast life and his contempt for women were true and much more than
gossip had dreamed.
He would write a letter of apology, of course, in due season. He was too
shrewd a man of the world, too skillful an interpreter of the whims of
women to write at once. He was waiting for her to cool--waiting until
she should begin to be anxious. It was too transparent. She would give
him a surprise when his letter came. The shock would take a little of
the conceit out of him. She would return his letter unopened by the next
mail.
When four weeks passed without a word the first skirmish between love
and pride began. Perhaps she had been unreasonable after all. Was it
right to blame a man too harshly for being mad about the woman he loved?
In her heart of hearts did she desire any other sort of lover? Tears of
vexation came in spite of every effort to maintain her high position.
She had to face the plain truth. She didn't desire a cold lover. She
wished him to be strong, manly, masterful--yes, masterful, that was
it--yet infinitely tender. This man was simply a brute. And yet the
memory of his mad embrace and the blind violence of his kisses had
become each day more vivid and terrible--terrible because of their
fascination. She accepted the fact at last in a burst of bitter tears.
And then came the announcement in the _Daily Republican_ of his return
to the city and his attachment to the company of cavalry at McClellan's
headquarters. The thought of his presence sent the blood surging in
scarlet waves to her face. There was no longer any question in her mind
that she had wounded him too deeply for forgiveness. Her dismissal had
been so cold, so curt, it had been an accusation of dishonor. She could
see it clearly now. He had poured out his confession of utter love in a
torrent of mad words and clasped her in his arms without thought or
calculation, an act of instinctive resistless impulse. He had justly
resented the manner in which she had repulsed him. Yet she had simply
followed the impulse of her girlish heart, and she would die sooner than
apologize.
She accepted the situation at last with a dull sense of pain and
despair, and tried to find consolation in devotion to work in the
hospitals which had begun to grow around the army of drilling
volunteers.
Events were moving now with swift march, and her championship of the
President gave her days of excitement which brought unexpected relief
from her gloomy thoughts. She was witnessing the first movements of the
National drama from the inside and its passion had stirred her
imagination. Her father's growing hatred of Abraham Lincoln left her in
no doubt as to whose master hand had guided the assaults on the rear of
his distracted administration.
The fall of Cameron, the Secretary of War, had been the work of her
father, with scarcely a suggestion from without. The Abolitionist had
determined to force Lincoln to free the slaves at once or destroy him
and his administration. They also were whispering the name of their
chosen dictator who would assume the reins of power on his downfall.
The President was equally clear in his determination not to allow his
hand to be forced and lose control of the Border Slave States, whose
influence and power were becoming each day more and more essential to
the preservation of the Union. He had succeeded in separating the
counties of Western Virginia and had created a new State out of them.
His policy of conciliation and forbearance was slowly, but surely,
welding Kentucky, Missouri and Maryland to the Nation.
Any tinkering at this moment with the question of Slavery would imperil
the loyalty of these four States. He held them now and he refused to
listen to any man or faction who asked him to loosen that grip.
The true policy of the Radicals, Senator Winter realized, was to fire
into the President's back through his generals in the field in an
emancipation crusade which would work the North into a frenzy of
passion. He had shrewdly calculated the chances, and he did not believe
that Lincoln would dare risk his career on a direct order revoking such
a proclamation.
General Hunger was the first to accept the mutinous scheme. He issued a
proclamation declaring all slaves within the lines of the Union army
forever free, and a wave of passionate excitement swept the North. The
quiet self-contained man in the White House did not wait to calculate
the force of this storm. He revoked Hunter's order before the ink was
dry on it.
Again Senator Winter invaded the Executive office:
"You dare, sir," he thundered, "to thus spit in the face of the
millions of the loyal North who are pouring their blood and treasure
into this war?"
"I do," was the even answer. "I am the President of the United States
and as Commander-in-Chief of its Army and Navy I will not be disobeyed
by my subordinates on an issue I deem vital to the Nation's existence.
If in the fulness of God's time an emancipation proclamation must be
issued in order to save the Union, I know my duty and I'll do it without
the interference of any of my generals in the field----"
He paused and glanced over the rims of his spectacles with a sudden
flash from his deep set eyes:
"Do I make myself clear?"
Winter's face went white with anger as he slowly answered:
"Perfectly. It seems you have learned nothing from the wrath with which
your sacrifice of John C. Fremont to appease the slave power was
received?"
"So it seems," was the laconic response. "Fremont issued, without
consulting me, his famous proclamation last August. I saw your hand,
Senator, in that clause 'freeing' the slaves in the State of Missouri."
"And I warn you now," the Senator growled, "that the storm of
indignation which met that act was nothing to one that will break about
your head to-morrow! The curses of Fremont's soldiers still ring in your
ears. The press, the pulpit, the platform and both Houses of Congress
gave you a taste of their scorn you will not soon forget. Thousands of
sober citizens who had given you their support, whose votes put you in
this office, tore your picture down from their walls and trampled it
under their feet. For the first time in the history of the Republic the
effigy of a living President was burned publicly in the streets of an
American city amid the jeers and curses of the men who elected him. Your
sacrifice of Fremont has made him the idol of the West. He is to them
to-day what Napoleon in exile was to France. This is a Government of the
people. Even a President may go too far in daring to override public
opinion!"
The giant figure slowly rose and faced his opponent, erect, controlled,
dignified:
"But the question is, Senator, who is a better judge of true public
opinion, you or I? It remains to be seen. In the meantime I must tell
you once more that I am not the representative of a clique, or faction.
I am the Chief Magistrate of all the people--I am going to save this
Union for them and their children. I hope to live to see the death of
Slavery. That is in God's hands. My duty to-day is as clear as the
noonday sun. I can't lose the Border Slave States at this stage of the
game and save the Union--therefore I must hold them at all hazards. Let
the heathen rage and the people imagine vain things if they will----"
"Then it's a waste of breath to talk!" the Senator suddenly shouted.
The rugged head bowed gracefully:
"I thought so from the first--but I've tried to be polite----"
"Good day, sir!"
"Good day, Senator," the President laughed, "come in any time you want
to let off steam. It'll make you feel easier and it won't hurt me."
Abraham Lincoln knew the real cause of public irritation and loss of
confidence. The outburst of wrath over Fremont was but a symptom. The
disease lay deeper. The people had lost confidence in his War Department
through the failure of his first Secretary and the inactivity of the
army under McClellan. He had applied the remedy to the first cause in
the dismissal of Cameron and the appointment of Stanton. It remained to
be seen whether he could control his Commanding General, or whether
McClellan would control the Government.
The situation was an intolerable one--not only to the people who were
sacrificing their blood and money, but to his own inherent sense of
honor and justice. He had no right to organize and drill a mighty army
to go into winter quarters, drink and play cards, and dance while a
victorious foe flaunted their flag within sight of the Capitol.
Besides, the Western division under two obscure Generals, Grant and
Sherman, had moved in force in mid-winter and with a mere handful of men
compared to the hosts encamped in Washington had captured Fort Henry and
Fort Donelson and taken fourteen thousand prisoners. The navy had
brilliantly coöperated on the river, and this fact only made more
painful the disgrace of the Confederate blockade of the Capital by its
half dozen batteries on the banks of the Potomac.
The President was compelled to test the ugly question of the extent and
power of General McClellan's personal support.
He returned from a tour of inspection and stood on the hilltop
overlooking McClellan's miles of tents and curling camp fires. He turned
to Mrs. Lincoln, who had accompanied him:
"You know what that is?"
"The Army of the Potomac, of course, Father."
"No!" he replied bitterly, "that's only McClellan's body guard--a
hundred and eighty thousand."
The General had persistently refused to take any suggestion from his
superior as to the movement of his army. Would Lincoln dare to force the
issue between them and risk the mutiny of this Grand Army undoubtedly
devoted to their brilliant young leader? There were many who believed
that if he dared, the result would be a _coup d'état_ which would place
the man on horseback in supreme power.
The moment the President reached the point where he saw that further
delay would mean grave peril to the Nation, he acted with a promptness
which stunned the glittering military court over which the young
Napoleon presided. From the White House, as Commander-in-Chief of the
Army and Navy, he issued a military order for the advance of McClellan's
forces on Richmond!
The idea of such an order coming from a backwoods lawyer without
military training was preposterous. Its audacity for a moment stunned
the Commander of all the divisions of the army, but when the excitement
had subsided on the day it was done, General McClellan, for the first
time, squarely faced the fact that there was a real man in the White
House.
The issue was a square one. He must obey that order or march on the
Capital with his army, depose the President, and declare a dictatorship.
He decided to move on Richmond. He wrangled over the route he would
take, but he moved, when once in motion, with remarkable swiftness.
Within two weeks a magnificent army of one hundred and twenty thousand
men, fourteen thousand horses, forty-four batteries with endless trains
of wagons, supplies, and pontoon bridges were transported by water two
hundred miles to the Virginia Peninsula without the loss of a life.
The day was a glorious one toward the end of March, when Betty stood on
the hill above Alexandria and watched, with heavy heart, the magnificent
pageant of the embarking army. The spring was unusually early. The grass
was already a rich green carpet in the shaded lanes. Jonquils were
flaming from every walkway, the violets beginning to lift their blue
heads from their dark green leaves and the trees overhead were hanging
with tassels behind which showed the clusters of fresh buds bursting
into leaf.
The armed host covered hill and plain and stretched out in every
direction as far as the eye could reach. Four hundred ships had moved up
the river to receive them. Companies and regiments of magnificently
equipped soldiers were marching to the throb of drum and the scream of
fife. Thousands of cavalrymen, in gay uniforms, their golden yellow
shining in the sun, were dashing across a meadow at the foot of the
hill. The long lines of infantry stretched from the hills through the
streets of Alexandria down to the water's edge. Everywhere the
regimental bands were playing martial music.
Somewhere among those marching, cheering, laughing, shouting thousands
was the man she loved, leaving without a word.
An awkward private soldier passed with his arm around his sweetheart.
Her eyes were red and she leaned close. They were not talking any more.
But a few minutes were left and he must go--perhaps to die. Words had
ceased to mean anything.
Her heart rose in fierce rebellion against the wall of silence her pride
had reared. A group of magnificently equipped young officers passed on
horseback. Perhaps of General McClellan's staff! She looked in vain
among them for his familiar face. If he passed she would disgrace
herself--she felt it with increasing certainty. Why had she come here,
anyway? As well tell the truth--in the vague hope of a meeting.
The quick beat of a horse's hoof echoed along the road. She looked and
recognized John Vaughan! He was coming straight toward her.
Instinctively and resistlessly she moved to meet him.
She waved her hand in an awkward little gesture as if she had tried to
stop after beginning the movement. His eye had been quick to see and
with a graceful pull on his horse's bridle he had touched the pommel of
the saddle, leaped to his feet, cap in hand, and stood trembling before
her.
"It's too good to be true!" he exclaimed breathlessly.
She extended her bare hand and he held it without protest. It was
trembling violently.
"You were going to leave without an effort to see me?" she asked in low
tones.
"I was just debating that problem when I saw you standing by the road,"
he answered soberly. "I don't think I could have done it. It's several
hours before we embark. I was just figuring on how I could reach you in
time."
"Really?" she murmured.
"Honestly."
"Well, if you had gone without a word, I couldn't have blamed you"--she
paused and bit her lips--"I was very foolish that day."
"It was my fault," he broke in, "all my fault. I was a brute. I realized
it too late. I'd have eaten my pride and gone back to see you the day I
reached Washington if I had thought it any use. I have never seen such a
look in the eyes of a woman as you gave me that day, Miss Betty. If
there had been any love in your heart I knew that I had killed it----"
She looked into his eyes with a tender smile:
"I thought you had----"
He pressed her hand tenderly.
"But now?"
"I know that love can't be killed by a kiss."
She stopped suddenly, threw her arms around his neck, and kissed him. He
held her close for a moment, murmuring:
"My sweetheart--my darling!"
Through four swift beautiful hours they sat on a log, held each other's
hands, and told over and over the old sweet story. Another long, tender
embrace and he was gone. She stood on the little wharf, among hundreds
of weeping sisters and mothers and sweethearts, and watched his boat
drift down the river. He waved his handkerchief to her until the big
unfinished dome of the Capitol began to fade on the distant horizon.