"Oh, you darling!" Lola gave her a squeeze. "No wonder you are

beautiful. It will make any woman heavenly, and you are _such a help_

to it!"

"What is _it_?" asked Elise.

"Love," replied Mrs. Hazard.

*CHAPTER XXXIV*

"Come along back to my own little parlour, Mr. Rutledge. Elise has been

singing for me, and we'll not let her stop for awhile yet."

Elise was not expecting Rutledge to be brought in there, and was still

sitting at the piano idly weaving the chords into soft and improvised

harmonies when he spoke. She slipped from the stool quickly, shook

hands with him in an embarrassed way, and crossed the room to sit down.

"Oh, no, please do not leave the piano," Rutledge pleaded, "now that I

have just discovered you are a musician."

"I am not a musician, Mr. Rutledge; certainly not for the public."

Rutledge drew himself up as if offended.

"I have been called names variously in my time, Miss Phillips, but never

till this moment 'the public.' I resent it as an aspersion--I am not

'the public'--and demand an abject apology. Think of all the horrible

things 'the public' is--and are!"

"And you a politician!" exclaimed Elise. "You would be lost for ever if

those words were quoted against you. Senator Killam would give a

thousand dollars for them. See--I hold your fate in my hands--"

Rutledge's eyes leaped to hers with a quick look that confused her, and

she hurried to cut off his words.

"--But--oh, mercy, I'm--I'm sorry, and I retract if it was really as bad

as that. The public is really awful, I suppose. I humbly apologize for

the aspersion."

"Then bring forth fruits meet for repentance by returning at once to

that piano stool."

"But I'm such a very amateurish singer, Mr. Rutledge. I fear you will--"

"And I am an amateur listener, the most humbly appreciative, uncritical

soul on earth. Please sing. Mrs. Hazard, if you have any influence with

this administration will you not use it here?"

"Authority is better than influence," said Lola. "Elise, march to that

piano."

Elise complied with an exaggerated air of obedience.

"Since I am singing under orders, I will sing only according to orders.

What shall it be?"

"Sing _My Rosary_," said Lola. "That's an old one--and the dearest."

"I commend to you Mrs. Hazard for sentiment, Mr. Rutledge. Her

honeymoon is not yet on the wane." Having thus made Lola responsible

for the song, Elise sang it without further delay or hesitation.

When she had well begun to sing Rutledge recalled having heard that song

a long time before. It had not impressed him.

Elise sang simply. The fullness of her low voice and the clearness of

her words, together with the unaffected "heart" in her singing, left her

nothing to be desired as a singer of ballads. As Evans listened to the

song of sentiment of Mrs. Hazard's choosing he reformed his opinion of

it. Always hitherto he had deemed sentiment an

effervescence--refreshing at times as apollinaris, but none the less an

effervescence--and the words of _My Rosary_ a fair type of it:

"The hours I spent with thee, dear Heart,

Are as a string of pearls to me.

I count them over, every one apart,

My rosary, my rosary.

"Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer

To still a heart in absence wrung--

I tell each bead unto the end

And there a cross is hung.

"Oh memories that bless and burn,

Oh barren gain, and bitter loss.

I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn

To kiss the cross, Sweetheart,

To kiss the cross."

But with Elise sitting there before him, a vision of loveliness and

grace entirely, appealingly feminine, "the lady" all gone, and the

girl--the woman--unaffected, natural, singing of love with such an air

of truth and faith: sentiment became a very real thing to Rutledge....

When she finished he was silent. To comment would have been to comment

on Elise, and for her every drop of his blood was singing, "I love you,

I love you." He felt that if he spoke to her he must crush her in his

arms and tell her so.

"That is a song according to my notion," said Lola. "No _mesalliance_ of

sentiment and melody there, such as you often see. The words and the

music made a love-match--they were born for each other. Who wrote it,

Elise?"

"I forget--if I ever knew," said Elise.

"Woman, of course," Lola continued; and Rutledge interpolated "Why?"

"Because a woman always mixes her religion with her love--if she has any

religion. A man may have one or the other, or both, but he never

confuses them."

"Pardon me for taking issue with you, Mrs. Hazard; but with many a man

his love for a woman is his only religion."

"Which means, Mr. Rutledge, that he has love--not religion."

As Rutledge turned to Mrs. Hazard Elise had the first opportunity to

look at him unobserved. She saw that his face had less colour than

usual, that his manner seemed to lack its accustomed spontaneity, that

there was a tired look about his eyes--which provoked in her heart a

fleeting maternal impulse to lay her hand upon them. She watched him

furtively and became convinced that he was in some measure distressed.

At first it rather amused her and flattered her vanity to think that he

was approaching her with a becoming self-distrust. As she studied him

longer, however, she began to doubt the reason for his constraint.

Lola Hazard turned from her discussion with Rutledge to give Elise

another song, and the young woman at the piano sang three or four while

Rutledge listened in appreciative silence. Before the last was finished

Mrs. Hazard was gone to receive other guests.

"Now will you not sing one of your own choosing?" asked Rutledge.

"I have no choice;" said Elise, "but this occurs to me." She sang him

Tosti's _Good-bye_.

If she put more of the spirit in that song than into the others it was

not because she felt its pertinence to the present status of her love.

But through the wakeful night, and all the day long till Rutledge's note

had come, the words of that _Good-bye_ had come and gone through her

brain with passionate realism:

"Falling leaf and fading tree,

Lines of white on a sullen sea,

Shadows rising on you and me--"

her heart had sung its "good-bye for ever" with all the smothered

passion of renunciation. So, in the very moment of blissful waiting for

the telling of his love, she could sing to Rutledge with all the

wildness of farewell which so short a time since had wrung her spirit.

She struck the last chord softly, and, after holding down the keys till

the strings were dumb, dropped her hands in her lap. She did not look

up, but she knew that Rutledge's gaze was upon her. She waited for a

space unspeaking, without lifting her eyes--and realized that she had

waited too long.... The silence was eloquent; and with every moment

became more significant. She tried to look up, but could not. She knew

that the situation had gotten beyond her in that careless ten seconds,

and that if she looked up now she was lost.... She sat as if under a

spell--and waited for Rutledge to move or to speak.... After an age he

was coming toward her.... And he was so very slow in coming. Her heart

was thumping suffocatingly, her breathing in suspense.... He did not

speak as he came to her.... She felt he was very near.... Still

unspeaking--was he going to take her in his arms? ... Her head drooped

lower over the keyboard....

Oh, why did he not take her in his arms.

"Elise, I love you. I've always loved you."

Elise's eyes were upon the idle hands in her lap; and her heart had

stopped to listen. Rutledge's sentences were broken and jerky. She had

never heard him speak in that fashion.

"I've loved you always, Elise, and once I was rash enough to think--you

loved me. My presumption was fitly punished.... Now I have only--hope.

In the last few months you--have been so--gracious that--I have been led

to think you--wait, wait till I have done--so gracious that I have been

led to think--not that you love me, but at least that I--do not excite

your antipathy--as for a long time it seemed.... So now I have only

hope--but such a hope, Elise--a hope that is--beyond words, for my love

is such. My love is--I love you, Elise--I love you as--as my father

loved my mother."

Elise slowly raised her eyes to his. There was no smile upon her face,

but as she turned it to him it was ineffably sweet, and a smile was in

her heart. But she was startled by his look. His was not the face of a

lover, whether triumphant, despondent, hopeful or militant. She did not

know that he had not been able to banish his mother from his thought for

a waking moment since he parted with her at her mother's bed-side the

night before.

"Will you--be my wife, Elise?"

Never before in all the world was that question asked in such a voice.

Its tone like a dagger of ice touched the girl's heart with a deadly

chill. She looked steadily and long into his eyes. At last with a

little shiver she murmured inaudibly "_noblesse oblige_"--and answered

his question:

"No, Mr. Rutledge, I will not be your wife."

Her words were as cold as her heart, and her self-possession as cold as

either. She was surprised that her answer did not bring the faintest

shadow of relief to Rutledge's drawn face--rather a greater distress. A

tingle of fire shot through her bosom. (It was not too late--oh why did

he not take her in his arms.)

"No, I will not be your wife," she repeated slowly. (It was not yet too

late--oh why--) "I am deeply sensible of the honour you--"

"Stop! Don't say that! In God's name don't say that! Don't add

mockery to--"

"Mr. Rutledge!"

For the moment Rutledge forgot that there was any person in the world

other than Elise and himself.

"You _have_ mocked me--you have _played_ with me! And--"

"Will you please go, Mr. Rutledge!"

"Played with me--yes--as if I were the simplest--oh well, I have

been--and you--you have been--you are--an artist. Tell me that you do

not love me, that you have only laughed at me. Tell me!" he sneered.

"Go, I say! Oh, _can't_ you _go_!"

"Yes, I'll go--when you say it. Tell me! Do you love me--have you ever

loved me?--the veriest little bit?"

"Never. Not the veriest little bit," she said, looking straight at him.

"That's it!--the truth at last--spoken like a m--like a lady!"--he bowed

mockingly at her--"and it proves you are false--false, do you

understand?--unspeakably false! And I have loved you like m--but very

well, it's better so--perhaps."

He turned to go; but turned quickly about.

"I'll kiss you once if I swing for it!--for what I thought you

were"--and, for a moment robbed by anger of his sense of proprieties,

with unpardonable roughness he crushed and kissed her, flung her

violently from him, and went, without looking back at her.

* * * * *

Mrs. Hazard, looking across the shoulders of a knot of her guests,

caught a glimpse of Rutledge as he passed down the hall toward the outer

door. She waited a minute or more for him to reappear, and when he had

not done so she lost interest in the people and things about her. At

the first possible moment she sought Elise, and found her again sitting

before the grate. Lola came into the room so quickly and quietly that

Elise had not time to dissemble, if she had wished to do so. Her head

was thrown back against the chair and both hands covered her face. Lola

took her wrists and against some little resistance pulled her hands

away.

"Elise?" she said.

"He does not love me," Elise replied, defensively, without opening her

eyes.

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Oh, yes," the answer came wearily; "he told me; but he told me because

he thought he had given me to expect it. It was _noblesse oblige_--not

love."

"Noblesse fiddlesticks! I don't believe a word of it."

"Oh well," said Elise, looking up, "he said it was just as well that I

refused him, there's no mistaking that."

"Oh, certainly, _after_ you refused him. What did you expect?"

"I expected him to--no, I didn't. I didn't expect anything. Southern

men are so--" Elise stopped. She was about to be unjust to Rutledge.

"But come, let's go," she said, rising from her chair. "Are all the

people here?"

"All except Senator Richland, and he never fails _me_," Lola answered.

"I don't want to see that man to-night," said Elise; and yet she joined

the other guests appearing nothing other than her usual self save for

the added brightness of her eyes, and when Senator Richland managed

finally to isolate her she gave him quite the most interesting twenty

minutes of his life.

When the company was broken up, Elise, who was stopping over night with

Lola, avoided the customary heart to heart talk by asking for a pen and

paper with which to write a letter. Mrs. Hazard was consumed with

desire to hear all about it, but she deferred her inquiries with good

grace as she argued that a note written by Elise at such an unearthly

hour could be only to Rutledge, and must, therefore, be important.

Elise shut herself in her room and, pitching the paper on the

dressing-table, sat down to think. For nearly an hour she sat without

turning a hand to undress, trying to unravel the tangled skein of her

heart's affairs and see a way out; but she could not get her thoughts to

the main issue. Like a fiery barrier to her thinking was the man's

burning denunciation: "You are false--unspeakably false!" It had rung

in her ears all the evening, and however she tried she could not get

away from it. At last she began hurriedly to undress, but before that

process was half finished she brushed the toilet articles from a corner

of the dressing-table, drew up a chair, and began to write.

"Unspeakably false? No, no, Evans, I am not false. I have not been

false: for I love you. Such a long time I have loved you. Sometimes I

have believed you loved me, and sometimes I have doubted; but I do not

doubt since you told me to-night I was unspeakably false. Shame on you

to swear at your sweetheart so!--and bless you for saying it, for now I

know. O why did you not say it earlier so that I might not have misread

you? I thought you felt yourself committed, and must go on: that your

love was dead, but honour held you. You looked so distressed, dear

heart, that I was misled. Forgive me. And do not think I do not know

your distress. I, too--but no, I must not. I love you, I cannot do

more. In your rage were you conscious that your kiss fell upon _my

lips_, dearest? Blind you were when you said I was unspeakably

false.--"

She had written rapidly and almost breathlessly while the impulse was

warm within her heart. She paused for a moment--held the pen poised as

if uncertain what to say next--hesitated as to how to say it--next, as

to whether to say it--laid the pen down and picked up the sheet to read

what she had written. A blush came to her cheeks as she read, and at

the end she dropped her face upon her arm on the table and suffered a

revulsion of shame for her unmaidenliness. She tried hard to justify

her writing and had all but succeeded when Rutledge's words, "It is

better so," put all her love's excuses to final rout. She took the

written sheet and went across to drop it on the smoldering fire. But

her resolution failed her: she felt that it would be to burn her very

heartbeats if she gave these words to the flames.

Going again to the dressing-table she laid the letter upon the scattered

sheets of paper to await a more mature decision, and, hurriedly

disrobing, went to bed.

She found it very hard to go to sleep. Even in the dark she could feel

the continuing blushes in her cheeks as she thought of what she had

written. Finally in desperation she tumbled up and in the dim glow of

the coals in the grate crossed the room to the dressing-table, snatched

up and crumpled in her hand the disturbing letter, hurriedly gathered up

the remaining sheets of paper and chucked them in the table drawer,

walked quickly over and dropped the offending tender missive upon the

coals and went to bed again in the light of its destruction. A very

long time after its last gleam was dark and dead she found the sleep she

sought.

*CHAPTER XXXV*

It is not within the province of this chronicle to recall the

sensational excitement that swept the nation in those days further than

as it affected the persons mentioned in this narrative. The details of

that sensation, the screams, the howls, the jeers, the predictions, the

warnings, the laments, the philosophizings, a newspaper-reading people

but too well remember. They have no proper place of rehearsal in this

history; and if they had, a comprehensive statement which would present

the matter fairly to those who come after would be too voluminous for

the plan upon which this book is projected.

In that time of tumult and of trial Mr. Phillips stood indeed alone. If

he had braced himself firmly in his determination to save Helen's

happiness at all cost, it was well: for his trial was to the uttermost.

Although it would have crushed any other than his adamantine will, the

storm-beaten father withstood, as one accustomed to do battle, the

pressure from without: but the rebellion of his own soul was an

unrelieved tragedy that shook him day and night with its terror. If his

love for Helen had not approached the infinite, surely in the shrieking

revulsion of his spirit he would have cast her off. There was a demand

from loud-mouthed people the nation over that he should disown her and

drive her into the outer darkness. Some relief there was in that

demand, for it only stirred the combative in his nature. The yells and

hoots aroused his fighting blood. But the silence, the unspeaking

horror--as if in the presence of death--in which sober-minded friend and

foe stood aghast and looked upon Helen's plight, made his courage faint

and tremulous. It was so awfully akin to the sickening horror and

silence in his own heart.

He was indeed alone; and in that loneliness it was given to him to teach

to himself the far bounds of a father's love. If he only could have

fought something!--or somebody! If he only openly could have snapped

his fingers in the face of public opinion, in the teeth of his own

mutinous soul--openly--and told them he cared more for Helen's

untroubled laugh than for them all, and be damned to 'em! If he only

could have died! But no: he must stand and be still to the most

thankless task that ever called for a hidden loyalty. Helen must not

know of the travail of his love, lest that defeat love's purpose. It

was too late, too late, for knowledge to do other than tear her

heart-strings out, blight her young soul, and write _Remorse_ eternally

upon her life. She must _never_ know how much he loved her!

There was no lack of personal--and professing---friends to stand more or

less loyally beside the father in that time, but their support was

wormwood to him. From the very few who were altogether sincere he turned

in aversion even as he suffered their commendations, while for the

insincere and sycophantic he had a doubly unspeakable contempt; and that

disgust and scorn was agony, for that he must swallow it and belie his

own spirit as he listened to these friends.

His private correspondence furnished him as little comfort. Some

persons there were--and a few of these men and women of repute--who

wrote to him letters that should have been consoling, for they agreed

very heartily with his view, or what they thought was his view, and

commended him without stint for his attitude: but never an one spoke of

the sacrificial love of a father for his daughter--_justice to the

negro_ was their theme. Upon such letters from men--it would have

surprised the writers much to hear it--he uttered maledictions profane;

while, for the one woman who thus approved him, he forebore profanity,

but relieved his wrath with a volcanic "Freak!"

From the time the announcement burst upon the public the President was

overwhelmed with a flood of newspaper comment, most of it harsh, the

best of it deprecatingly sympathetic, none, except that from negro

papers, uncritical. Very shortly the clippings bureau which served him

was ordered to discontinue everything referring to Mrs. Hayward Graham's

marriage.

Mr. Phillips did not give that order because he was too weak to stand

criticism. Far from it. He was schooled to conflict, and knew the

rules. He had never asked concession from an opponent in all his life

of struggle, and he would have scorned to ask it then, even with the

uncounted odds against him. His critics might have shrieked till the

crack o' doom and he would have listened without a quiver of his

resolution.

But the impartial bureau had sent, among an avalanche of criticism, an

appreciation in the form of the following editorial clipped from the

columns of _The Star of Zion_:

"The dramatic culmination of the beautiful romance in which Miss Helen

Phillips, daughter of the President of the United States, proudly

proclaims herself the wife of Mr. John Hayward Graham, and the graceful

acquiescence of the bride's distinguished father in his beautiful

daughter's love-match, is but another proof of the rapid coming of the

negro race into its own as the recognized equal of any race of men on

earth. Mr. Graham's career is an inspiration to his people, for it

teaches the rising generation of negro boys and girls that they need no

longer live Within the Veil, that in the most enlightened minds there is

no longer a silly prejudice against colour, but that if the young negro

will only make the most of himself and his opportunities he will be

graciously received as an equal, as a member, in the proudest families

in this mighty nation.--"

President Phillips read just that much of that editorial. Then went the

order to shut off the press clippings.

It required all the father's self-control to dissemble in Helen's

presence and he feared that he would be unable to keep the truth from

her. It was fortunate for the girl that her condition demanded

seclusion and that her removal from Washington took her away from the

danger of enlightenment. At her father's instance preparations were

hurried with all speed, and she and her husband went to Hill-Top for

their belated honeymoon and a stay indefinite....

Hayward Graham would have been a paragon if he had conducted himself

with entire discretion when the limelight first was turned upon him.

The colour of his skin was not responsible for his foolish mistakes in

those first days. Any footman so suddenly elevated to that pinnacle

likely would have made them. One of his errors of judgment was serious.

That was his continued offence against the dignity of Henry Porter. The

withering letter he had written in answer to the old man's apology was

of itself enough to call up the devil in old Henry's heart; but that

doubtless would have been forgotten had Hayward remained in obscurity.

To dispute with the President the title to a son-in-law, however, was a

distinction too fascinating to the negro magnate. He had already been

to Bob Shaw's office for a tentative discussion of the law in his case

and was just coming away when he ran plump into Hayward on the sidewalk.

A judicious condescension on the young man's part even then might have

placated him, but instead an evil spirit called to Hayward's memory his

first meeting with Porter, the insufferable affront, and his own oath to

even the score. Too strong in Hayward's heart was the temptation to

"take it out of him for keeps" then and there. At the worst, though, he

hardly did more than any gentleman would do upon meeting another who had

driven him from his house.

"Mr. Hay-- Mr. Graham!" said Porter, hardly knowing himself whether he

intended to be polite or other, but having a general purpose to fetch

the young fellow up roundly for that letter.

"I believe I don't know you," said Hayward, stopping and observing him

coolly for two seconds, and turning away to continue his journey up the

street.

Now, to those of his race, Henry Porter was a "figure" on the streets of

Washington, and Graham was by that time almost as well known as the

President himself. There were but four people who could have witnessed

the meeting of these celebrities. These were three negroes of low

degree loafing along the sidewalk and a dago pushing a cart just outside

the curb.

At his rebuff Henry Porter gave a gasp, swallowed it, and looked around

to see who had seen him. The "common niggers" at his elbow snickered,

and as they passed on burst out into loud guffaws.

"Um-huh! Tried to butt into the White House, but _Mister_ Graham _he_

don't know him! Can't interdoose 'im! _Too_ black! Law-dee, didn't he

th'ow 'im down!"

Henry Porter heard enough of this. He rapidly retraced his steps to

Shaw's office.

"Here, Mr. Shaw, you can jist git them papers out this evenin'. There's

no use waitin'."

"All right, Mr. Porter," said Shaw, who didn't favour the idea but was

too much afraid of his client to refuse. "But wouldn't to-morrow do as

well? We could think it over a little further."

"No, suh, Mr. Shaw. We don't wait till no to-morrer. We don't think

about that damn young nigger no mo' till we take him with the papers and

let him think about hisself awhile. Can't you git 'em served on him

this evenin'?"

"If he's to be found in the city," said Shaw.

"Oh, he's to be found all right. I saw him goin' up the street jist

awhile ago. You jist git them papers out and have 'em served on him

this evenin' and no mistake about it."

"All right, if you say so," Shaw consented.

"Well, I say so--and I can pay the damage," said the irate client with

emphasis, and stalked out of the office, only to stick his head back

into the door with the last injunction:

"This evenin' now, and no mistake about it!"

* * * * *

As chance ordained, Henry Porter did not go amiss in his haste to have

the summons served on Graham. It was late in the afternoon and less than

four hours before the former footman and his wife were scheduled to

leave the city for Stag Inlet that the officer served the paper.

A bomb exploding under Hayward's feet could not have been so unexpected

by him. As the officer read the summons and its import broke upon his

mind he felt, for the first time in his life, physical weakness in the

presence of danger. It staggered him to think of possible results. He

had no feeling of guilt: but an awful fear.

President Phillips had passed out of the White House for his regular

constitutional while the process was being served, and recognized the

officer by his badge and Graham's excitement by the look on his face,

but had not stopped to inquire what the trouble was,--for which Graham

was profoundly thankful, as it gave him time to catch his breath.

Think as he would, no way of escape could Graham conceive. Being

virtually without money, he could not hope in four hours to bring Henry

Porter to terms and avoid a publication of the scandal. Exactly what

the old man had in mind, anyway, was uncertain, excruciatingly

uncertain. The precise nature of the complaint did not appear from the

summons. As the suit was based on a lie, it well might be any sort of a

lie. But surely, surely, he thought, no woman would _falsely_ speak

disgrace to herself. He had had a genuine respect for Lily Porter's

character. She had been the best of them all, with the highest ideas

and the highest ideals. He would have sworn that she could not have

lent herself to a thing of this sort. But since she had been willing to

do so at all, to what lengths might she not go? What was the limit they

had set? To what public disgrace were they trying to bring him? To

what awful lie must he make answer?

As he thought of it the keen sense of his peril, the disgrace, the loss

of his commission, and his helplessness, became well-nigh unbearable.

If Henry Porter could only have known the extremity of torture he had

inflicted in thus making the young fellow "think about hisself awhile,"

his wrath might have been appeased.

Hayward trembled to think of the moment when the public should know of

this suit, but he quaked in absolute terror as he thought of Mr.

Phillips' hearing it. And Helen!--what must he do to save her from this

shame?--he gladly at the moment could have strangled Old Henry.... But

heroics would do no good. He was helpless, bound hand and foot. If he

could be saved, if Helen was to be saved, there was but one arm that had

the power: her father's. Perhaps, _perhaps_, with all his attributes of

strength and force, he might be able to bring the vengeful negro

capitalist to terms. Whatever his terror of Mr. Phillips, he must tell

him.... And what were done must be done quickly.

* * * * *

"I would like to speak with you a moment, sir, about a--a matter," said

Hayward to the President as soon as he returned from his walk.

Mr. Phillips could tell with half an eye that it was a matter of some

moment. He led the way to his private office.

"Well, what is it, Hayward? You look excited."

Mr. Phillips spoke very kindly, for he did so with studied purpose. It

was necessary that he keep that purpose continually and consciously

before him. For Hayward the footman he had had quite a high regard: as

he had for any man or thing that was efficient. For the negro as his

son-in-law, he could not bring himself to consider him with any

toleration, nor did he lie to his soul by telling it he wished to. For

the negro as a mate for Helen, every rebellious, tortured nerve and

fibre of the man was an eternal, agonized protest. It was indeed very

necessary that he keep his kindly purpose always consciously before him.

"What is it?" he asked again.

"I had a paper--a summons, I believe they call it--served on me this

afternoon," Hayward stumbled along to say; and then stopped, uncertain

how to go at it.

"Well. And what's the trouble?"

"I don't know, sir, exactly what's the trouble; or, rather, I would say

I didn't know there was any trouble."

"Then what's it about? Who is it that's suing you? What does the

summons say?"

"The summons doesn't say what the trouble is about." Graham was dodging

in spite of himself.

"But who is the person that is suing you?" Mr. Phillips questioned again

testily.

"The summons says '_Lily Porter, by her father and next friend, Henry S.

Porter, against John Hayw--_"

"Says _what_? A WOMAN?"

President Phillips jumped to his feet and went pale as ashes. Graham,

dry-lipped, could only nod his head weakly in affirmation. For five

seconds Mr. Phillips was speechless. Then words came back, along with a

rush of blood to his face that looked to burst it. So terrible was his

wrath, the killing look in his eyes, that Graham instinctively squared

away to defend himself from bodily injury. Such a torrent, such a

blast, of withering, blistering profanity, wild, incoherent,

unutterable, he never had listened to in all his life. Try as he would

to interpose a word, an explanation, a defence, his efforts only drove

the father to more abandoned fury. After a dozen fruitless attempts he

realized there was nothing to do but wait for the furor to burn itself

out. To the young man, conscious of the passing of precious time, it

seemed that his anger would never cool. When the President showed the

first signs of exhaustion he took courage to speak again.

"I swear to you, sir, the young woman has no cause to complain of me. I

have done her no--"

"Oh of course not, of course not," said Mr. Phillips in the most

bitingly sarcastic tone. "Of course not, of course not! But who the

devil is she?"

"Miss Lily Porter, daughter of Henry S. Porter--_Black Henry_ the

newspapers sometimes call him. Perhaps you have heard--"

"What! That nigger? Not a _nigger_ woman! But of cour--oh my God,

Helen, how can I pr--" but he choked for a moment in livid anger before

he writhed into another frenzy, that was as volcanic, as horrible, and

as pitiable as it is unprintable. He cursed, he raved, he choked, he

tore wildly at his collar for breath.

It was frightful to look upon, and if Graham had feared for his own

safety in the first outburst, he feared for Mr. Phillips' life in the

last. It looked as if in the violence of his wrath he would burst a

blood-vessel. Graham was in mortal fear that he would die in his

tracks, and tried desperately to reinforce his denial of guilt as the

only possible relief for his father-in-law's dementia, but all his

attempts only inflamed Mr. Phillips the more. The negro seemed not to

know that it was not a question of his guilt or innocence that was

tearing the father's vitals and threatening his reason, but

shame--insufferable shame!

After an age, it seemed to Graham, Mr. Phillips became calmer. His

son-in-law, wholly at a loss what to say or do, started out of the door

in search of a clearer atmosphere and a chance to regain his scattered

faculties. The President looked around and saw him beating a retreat.

"Come back here!" he ordered sharply. "We can't leave this thing like

this! Something must be done with it at once, or the scandal will be

all over the--" He trembled with the passion of another outburst, but

controlled himself by a mighty effort.

"I swear to you no scandal may rightly be laid at my door," said Graham

with some dignity. The outrageous injustice of the thing gave him a

little of the dignity of righteousness.

"Scandal doesn't depend on truth or falsehood, so we needn't discuss

that now." Mr. Phillips cut him off short. "What we must do is to stop

this scandal, for scandal it will be if it gets to the public. Where

does this--this Porter live? How far from here?"

"About fifteen minutes drive, sir."

"Well--er--send Mr. O'Neill here--in a hurry."

Graham, glad to get action on himself, was out of the room and back with

the secret service man in less than a minute. In that short space the

President had taken a grip on his self-control.

"Here, O'Neill, take Hayward with you to show you the house, and go

fetch Henry Porter up here to see me. He's not to be arrested, mind

you, but is to come to see me at my request _at once_, and nobody is to

know. And he is not to speak to anybody or see anybody, not even

Hayward here, before you bring him to me. So get along and get him here

as soon as you can. No force, remember; but he is to come along, at my

request." ...

O'Neill and Hayward hurried out, and, finding a street cab, lost no time

in getting to Henry Porter's house. On the way Hayward gave the officer

some idea of the man he was to deal with and, bringing him to the door,

left him to his own devices and himself took a car back home. When Old

Henry came to the door O'Neill told him half a dozen lies in half as

many minutes, and at the end of the time he had the worthy coloured

gentleman safely in the cab and on the way to the White House.

The President was waiting for him, and when the two fathers were alone

together he went at him with a directness calculated to take the negro's

breath. Black Henry was much awed, in fact well-nigh overcome by the

situation, and he was hardly in condition to make the most of his

opportunities; but his native shrewdness did not entirely forsake him.

In the drive to the White House he had had time to think it over, and he

had concluded that the President wanted to see him very much or he would

not have sent for him. He tried to keep that in mind all the time the

negotiations were pending. It helped in some degree to steady his

shaking confidence in himself.

"You are Henry S. Porter, I believe?" There was an accusing quality in

the voice.

"Yes, suh."

"The father of Lily Porter who has instituted a suit against my--against

Hayward Graham?" The tone was more accusing.

"Yes, suh." Black Henry wished the suit hadn't been instituted. But he

remembered again he had been sent for and he braced up a little.

"Now what is the nature of that suit?" The President was somewhat in

fear of his own question, for all his bravado of manner.

"Breach o' promise," Henry answered shortly.

"Anything else?"

"Nothin' but breach o' promise to my daughter Lily. He was engaged to

her and married your daughter, or was already married to her, I don'

know which."

For five seconds a murderous passion all but got control of Mr.

Phillips' will. He turned away and closed his eyes tight till he had

subdued it.

"What evidence have you that he was engaged to your daughter?"

Henry Porter knew he was a fool to give away his case to the opposition,

but the President's eyes and manner were too compelling for him.

"My daughter says so and--and I've seen enough myself, and besides that

he has written letters to her. I reckon we've got evidence enough all

right."

"Well, I have evidence that there is not a word of it true, and I sent

for you to tell you you'd better drop it. You'll find it a

profitless--more than that--a _very expensive_ undertaking."

The last statement was unfortunate. It struck fire in Old Henry's pet

vanity.

"Oh, I guess I can stan' the expense all right," he rejoined with the

oddest possible mixture of deference and defiance.

"You can, can you!" said Mr. Phillips sharply, his anger beginning to

redden. "But I tell you again you can't get a verdict from the

courts--no, sir, not for a cent--so what's the use?"

"I don't need the money." ... Clearly Mr. Phillips had given the

purse-proud old darkey the wrong cue.

"Then what the devil are you after?"

"That young nig--young man is mos' too sassy. He's got to know his

place."

"His place!" Mr. Phillips' face was again twisted in wrath. But wrath

could not serve Helen's cause. He stifled it.

"Yes; he mus'n' come flyin' roun' my daughter for fun, and then go off

when he fin's somebody mo' to his notion, and th'ow his impidence in my

face."

Through all his blinding anger Mr. Phillips could see clearly enough to

realize that it was indeed not a matter of money, but of insult. He was

more and more inclined to believe Hayward's statement that there was

little or no basis for the suit. But that didn't help matters in the

least.

"Now look here, Porter," he said in his most vigorous and decided

manner, "I am convinced your claim has no real basis in fact, but is the

outcome of pique pure and simple. Nevertheless, it must be settled

here, to-night; and I'm willing to see that you don't lose any money in

the way of expenses and lawyer's fees for the procedure so far. To that

end I will have Hayward pay you a thousand dollars if you will withdraw

the suit to-night. What do you say?"

"I don' need the money," said Porter in maddening reiteration. "Besides

that I don' know what my lawyer will charge." At the mention of money,

however, the sharp-dealing old negro felt a little more at ease and

interested in the discussion.

"Who is your lawyer?"

"Mistuh Shaw--Mistuh Robert Shaw."

"Robert Shaw. Is he the Shaw that wants that special solicitorship in

the treasury department? A negro?"

"Yes, suh, a negro; but I don' know about the treasury department."

"Well, he's the man, I have no doubt--Robert Shaw, a negro lawyer. Now

let me tell you. I had had some idea of giving him the place he asks

for, but I say right now if he's inclined to be a fool in a matter of

this sort he's not the man the government wants. If he gets his fee he

will be well enough satisfied, won't he? He's not the fool kind that

wants to advertise himself in a sensational suit, is he?"

"No, suh, no, _suh_! Mistuh Shaw is a ve'y nice young man, suh. He

ain't no fool, suh."

"Well, he would be if he disobeyed your wishes and mine in this matter.

I think I can speak for _him_ myself. Now what do _you_ say? A

thousand dollars?"

Involving Shaw in the affair was most fortunate for Mr. Phillips. With

Hayward out of the running, Henry Porter now looked with much assurance

upon Shaw as a son-in-law. That financial-political combination between

himself and Shaw was again his pet dream as before Hayward's

interference. With Black Henry the controversy was really settled and

he was ready to compromise. The smaller purpose was lost in the

presence of the master passion. But his personal pride and cupidity

were aroused. If his hoped-for son-in-law Shaw was going to get both

honour and revenue out of this thing, he himself ought not to fall too

far behind.... And again he remembered that he had been sent for.

"Of cou'se I don' need the money," he said once more, "but if money is

to settle it I think five thousan' 'd be little enough. We was suin'

for twenty-five."

"Five thousand the devil! I'll not pay it. It's outrageous!"

"Well, suh, I don't need the m--"

"Ah, shut that up, for heaven's sake! What's the best you'll do? Speak

out now in a hurry."

"Well, suh, five thousan' is mighty little considerin' the standin' of

the pahties. As my lawyer, Mistuh Shaw, said, the standin' of the

pahties calls for big damages. My daughter and your son-in-law are up

in the pic--"

"Hold on!" said Mr. Phillips. "You can stop that argument right there.

Will you take five thousand and shut the thing up?"

"Well, suh, as I said, I don' need--"

"Will you take the five thousand?" The President's eyes had a dangerous

blaze in them.

"Yes, suh."

"That settles it. Now get right out after that lawyer of yours at once,

to-night, and have him withdraw those papers and destroy them--or no,

better than that, you bring them here to me to-morrow--no, bring them

_to-night_--I'll wait for you. And hurry, will you please, for I'm

quite busy and must be rid of this as quickly as possible. I'll look

for you within an hour."

* * * * *

Mr. Phillips could not have been very busy, for he did nothing but walk

the room till Porter returned. And two hours had passed before that

time.

"I'm sorry to keep you waitin' so long, suh," the negro apologized; "but

me and Mistuh Shaw had to hunt up the officer to git the papers. It was

so late when he served 'em he couldn' retu'n 'em to court to-night, and

he was holdin' 'em over in his pocket till mornin'."

"Thank Heaven for that. Did you tell him to keep his mouth shut?"

"Yes, suh."

"And will he do it?"

"I think he will, suh. Mistuh Shaw fixed him. He's a frien' of Mistuh

Shaw."

"Well, he'd better. I'll hold Shaw responsible for him. Let me see the

papers.... Yes, this is all right.... Now here's ten dollars and a

receipt for that much in full of all claims for breach of promise and so

forth you and your daughter have against Hayward Graham. You just sign

the receipt, and I'll pay you the balance of the five thousand

to-morrow--there's not a tenth of that sum in the house to-night. You'll

take my promise for the balance, won't you?"

"Yes, suh--oh yes, suh," said Mr. Porter, his manner showing his full

appreciation of the fact that between gentlemen of standing the ordinary

strict rules of business could be waived with perfect safety. With all

his discernment, however, he saw nothing more in this proceeding than

his trusting Mr. Phillips for $4,990 till the morning.

* * * * *

When he was ushered into the President's office the next morning Henry

Porter received from Mr. Phillips' own hands the $4,990 in currency of

the highest denominations fresh from the treasury. He verified the

correctness of the amount almost at a glance.

"I'll give you a receipt, suh," he said.

"Oh, no, don't trouble; the receipt for ten dollars in Hayward Graham's

name in settlement of the claim for breach of promise answers every

purpose legally."

As he spoke the President smiled in a satisfied way, and it occurred to

Black Henry that a ten dollar breach of promise suit would be quite a

contemptible and ridiculous affair if it got to the newspapers.

"And now, Mr. Porter," said Mr. Phillips, anxious as ever to make every

bid for silence, "you can see that, adding force to your contract, every

consideration of decency and self-respect demands that not the slightest

whisper of this matter shall reach the public. The highest consideration

I have not hitherto referred to. That is your daughter's good name. It

could only do injury to her reputation--injury, and nothing but injury.

I am indeed surprised that she was so unwise, that she had the

disposition to bring this suit and bring herself into what would have

been such unfavourable public notice."

"Well, suh, _Mistuh Shaw_ said she wouldn't like it, and I had a hard

time makin' him bring the suit. He said she wou--"

"Didn't she instigate it?" asked Mr. Phillips.

"No, _suh_--that she didn'. Fact is I've been fraid to tell her about

it--fraid she'd make me stop it, she thinks such a heap of Mistuh

Hayward.... But we've got it all settled satisfact'ry now and there

ain't no reason why she sh'd ever know it happened, suh. Good mornin',

Mistuh President."

"You old scoundrel!"--when Mr. Porter had closed the door behind him.

*CHAPTER XXXVI*

In trying to be philosophical Rutledge took what comfort he could from

Elise's "no" in the fact that he would be less distracted from the work

of his campaign against Senator Killam. He gave all his energies to

that task, which promised to tax his resources to the utmost if he would

hope to win. The owners of _The Mail_ were more than willing that he

should make the attempt. His temporary stay in the Senate had given the

paper a very considerable shove toward the front rank in prominence and

authority in affairs political, and there was nothing to be lost by a

tilt with that most picturesque figure in national politics, Senator

Killam.

Let it be understood, however, that Rutledge did not run simply to

advertise himself or his paper. His unfailing friend Robertson wrote to

him: "There is a very real opposition to Senator Killam growing up in

the State, although at this time its force and numbers are very

difficult to compute with accuracy. Your admirable conduct of yourself

in your short trying-out has commended you to those who are looking for

a leader of conceded ability yet not identified with any of the petty

factions in State politics nor with any of the local issues upon which

the party is divided and dissentient. Your friends think you fill all

the requirements in the broader sense and, besides, that you are the

antipode of all things peculiarly, personally and offensively Killamic."

Although they were of the same broad political creed, the stage of

antagonism to which he and Senator Killam had come during the younger

man's short term in the Senate bordered on the acute. It had reached

the point where they were studiously polite to each other. Senator

Killam did not usually trouble himself to be civil to any person who

aroused his antipathy, but he had the idea that it would be conceding

too much to young Rutledge's importance to show any personal

unfriendliness to him. Nevertheless, with all their outward show of

friendliness, they were both out for blood: Rutledge, because of the

many of the older man's taunts and sarcasms which still rankled in his

memory; and Senator Killam, because, whatever the time and whoever his

opponent, he always gave a correct imitation of being out for the blood

of any man that opposed him.

Rutledge had already begun to be very busy with his campaign before his

decisive conversation with Elise. When, some ten days later, he

received a letter from his mother in which she set out to discuss his

admiration for Elise in light of Helen's marriage, he found himself

entirely too pressed for time to do more than read the opening

sentences, and lay it reverently away.

He tried to forget Elise,--as many another lover has done before him,

and with about the usual lack of success. For the remainder of the

Washington season he cut all his social engagements that were not

positively compelling and fortunately did not chance to see her again

but twice before he went South to take an active hand in the primary

campaign.

On those two occasions she exhibited the perfection of impersonal

interest, but Rutledge, remorseful for his indefensible behaviour toward

her at Mrs. Hazard's, was conscious that, curiously enough to him, her

gentle dignity had not the faintest trace of offence. It seemed rather

to hold an elusive though palpable element of friendliness. This was

puzzling, but he did not attempt to explain it to himself. He had

suffered enough from the riddle of her moods, and he was afraid to try

to explain it. He was convinced that she was not for him--had she not

told him so?--and that, having lost her, it was imperative that he think

no more about her lest he lose everything else he had set to strive for.

So he strove only to lose the disquieting thought of her out of his

work.

President Phillips, also, in those days was attempting to flee his

thoughts in a wilderness of work. Unlike Rutledge, with him there was a

tax upon heart as well as brain in the political task before him.

Rutledge could not feel aggrieved if the people of his State declined to

send him to the Senate, for by no merit or custom had he a pre-eminent

claim upon them. Defeat, however disappointing, could bring him no

heart-burning.

Mr. Phillips, however, was asking no more than was his due: renomination

at the hands of his party. By every consideration both of merit and

custom it was his due. His official record was _efficiency, faithful

execution, striking ability and uncompromising honesty_. But by very

virtue of his honesty and ability he had gone up against the two powers

in this country that go furthest to make or unmake Presidents:

law-breaking corporations and machine politicians. The Greed and The

Graft could never be at ease while a Fearless Honesty abode in the White

House. They long had planned to displace Mr. Phillips.

The fight was not an open one, with each army aligned under its own

banners. It was a night attack where the clash and the struggle could

be heard and felt but the assailants could not be distinguished and

called by name. Mr. Phillips could well imagine who were the leaders of

his enemies, but they were too shrewd as yet to openly declare their

opposition.

The consummate skill with which the campaign was conducted made it

appear that there was a growing manifestation of the people's

disapproval. The boomlets of a dozen or more favourite sons were

assiduously cultivated each in its limited field--but all by the master

hand. The favourite sons as a rule deprecated the mention of their

names and waived it aside as unworthy of serious thought; but it takes a

very great or a very small man to recognize his own unfitness for the

presidency of the nation,--and modesty would permit no favourite son to

say he was too big for the office.

Mr. Phillips was not of the holy sort that is above using some of the

traditional methods of the politician. With good conscience he could

drive men to righteousness when necessity demanded it: and believing

that his own re-election would be for the country's weal he would not

have hesitated perhaps to turn the power of the administration to that

purpose if he had not been measurably handicapped.

He was an honest man--as his predecessors in office had been. He

desired--as they had desired before him--to give the country a clean and

honest lot of officials to administer its interests. But, unlike some

of the Presidents gone before, he had made extraordinary personal

efforts to see and know for himself that the men of the government corps

were of honest purposes at heart and honest practices in office.

Result: many and many a cog-wheel, great and small, in the machine had

been broken and thrown into the scrap pile.

Therefore the machine silently prayed for deliverance from this Militant

Honesty in the executive office, and, with its praying, believed--first

article in the creed of Graft: Heaven helps those who help

themselves--to deliverance as well as to the public money. So, there

was no pernicious activity in Mr. Phillips' behalf among the

office-holding class. The defection from his support was impalpable but

none the less assured. He could not put his finger upon the men and say

"Here are the deserters," for they had not as yet, at four months before

the convention, declared against him. But they were not throwing up

their hats for him. It was apathy that presaged disaster.

And Greed had so quietly and effectively extended its propaganda that

"vested" interests began to think they "viewed with alarm" Mr. Phillips'

activities. They were persuaded that he had already gone to the limit in

bringing to book the methods of Capital and of Business, and were asked

to note that not even yet was there the faintest hint of a promise that

he would not run amuck amongst them. They preferred to defeat him in

the convention. If not, they would defeat him at the polls. With them

there was no sentiment about it. They simply wanted no more of him.

They desired a "safe" man.... Few times in the political history of

this nation has Money failed to get what it really truly wanted.

Finished politician that he was, Mr. Phillips could read the signs

clear. He knew that his political death was being plotted, had been

plotted for months. In the consciousness of his official rectitude and

efficiency, and with confidence in the discernment and appreciation of

his countrymen, for a long time he had thought contemptuously of the

plotters. At length, however, his trained eye had caught the flash of

real danger: and his heart was oppressed. Not that overweening ambition

made him crave continuance in his exalted office and sicken at the

thought of denial. It was not that: not the loss of a double meed of

honour in a second term. No; it was the threatened loss of his first

term, of the four years already gone, with their unstinted expenditure

of energy and honest purpose, brain-fag and strain of heart. To be

disapproved, discredited, by the people for whom he had given the very

essence of his life! Keener than the sting of ingratitude, even, was

the sense of possible loss. _Four years_ for naught! four years _for

naught_!--if the people should repudiate him. He trembled to think it

was possible for him to fail of renomination. He was fighting for his

life: for the life he had already given to his country in that four

years.

As the weeks and months wore on toward summer he felt that he was losing

strength with every sunset. The Southern delegations, makers of so many

second terms, were being sent to the national convention uninstructed.

That was not conclusive; but it was ominous, for any administration

having Mr. Phillips' political faith that cannot hold the delegations

from that section is politically in a bad way.

Plausible explanations were offered, assuredly: "Southern delegates have

so regularly worn the administration label that they have lost influence

and self-respect"--"This time it is unnecessary. There is only one real

candidate and they must all vote for him"--"It is better not to appear

to endorse the negro luncheon too vigorously, for the negro in the South

does not count any more and some of the tenderfoot white recruits might

desert." The explanations did appear to explain it; but Mr. Phillips

knew that Money and the Machine were taking his Southern delegates from

him.

And the Southern delegates were not the only ones that were going wrong.

The Trusts and the Grafters were throwing Northern and Western

delegations into confusion. Beyond that, the Southern country was

somewhat surprised to hear that a negro son-in-law to the Presidency was

a little too strong even for Northern stomachs, and that some Northern

white folks were making bold to say so.

Hayward Graham's commission? The opposition in the Senate did not have

the slightest difficulty in holding it up. Mr. Phillips with

unflinching courage unhesitatingly used every whit of his power and

influence to have that commission confirmed. He had nominated Hayward

because he believed him worthy; and he said to the Senators with a touch

of humour, but with much emphasis nevertheless, that being his

son-in-law ought not to be held to the negro's discredit. He said many

other things, for he was really very much in earnest: but the Senate was

non-committal. It postponed consideration of Mr. Hayward Graham for

days, and weeks, and finally adjourned without a vote upon him. That

ended it.... With a show of grim determination the President stated

that he would send the nomination to the next session, but he knew when

he said it that Helen's husband would never be a lieutenant of cavalry

in the United States Army.

Let it not be inferred that, as the matter is thus dismissed briefly

here, there was little or no discussion of it. This entire volume would

not compass a tenth of what was said about it, and the reader who cares

for details must seek the files of the newspapers of the period. There

is not space here even for a digest of all that talk.

* * * * *

Mr. Phillips could ill brook defeat. In his thinking there were few

things worse than failure. So it was that, while in the desperate fight

he was making he did nothing unconscionable, he did stand for some

things nauseating to him.

It was necessary that in the North he hold the full negro vote, which

was the balance of power in several States. It certainly looked an easy

thing to do. And it was easy--to everybody concerned except Mr.

Phillips. The negro race rallied to him with an enthusiasm that was

surpassing even for those emotional folk. The overflowing, smothering

approbation which they heaped upon him was loud-mouthed, unceasing,

extravagant. Yet it took all his self-control to receive it with any

show of satisfaction. In fact on several occasions he was almost goaded

to break with his negro allies for good and all. In some of those

moments he easily could have done so--as far as personal reasons held

him. The personal pride in being decorated with a second term was not

always a match or antidote for his personal humiliation and suffering

under the mouthings and love-makings of the admiring black men. But a

rupture, and a declaration of his real sentiments, meant not alone his

defeat: it meant the success of the enemies of honest government: it

meant that, his tongue once unloosed, Helen must know--and her heart

would break. So he held his peace, and let the negroes say on with

their fulsome friendlinesses.

And what he bore as he kept the faith! It tore his nerves to tatters.

One incident as an example:

He was invited to address a convention of the Afro-American Association,

which was holding its biennial meeting in Washington in May. He

accepted the invitation with very great pleasure. It gave him the

opportunity he desired. The negroes had been talking to him or at him

for months: and he had somewhat to say to them. He welcomed the chance

to say it. He was full of his speech, and was intending to be very

emphatic. It was _his_ day to talk.

But the distinguished chairman of the convention who introduced him

thought that it was _his_ day to talk. He presented Mr. Phillips in

fifteen minutes of perfervid oratory, sonorous, unctuous, and filled

with African imagery. He recited a brief history of the President's

life, lauded him as Civilian, Soldier, and Chief Executive, credited to

him about every good thing that had come to the human race since he was

inducted into office, and crowned him as the negro's Friend, Champion

and Hope. He detailed the evidence of Mr. Phillips' love for the negro

race, and hailed him as the true and great Exemplar of the Genuine

Brotherhood of Man.

"Yes, my Brothers," the orator-chairman swept volubly to his conclusion,

"this great man who holds the Stars of Our Flag in his right hand and in

his left hand the Golden Sceptre of Supreme Authority and Power in this

Peerless Nation has proved himself beyond any Question or Peradventure

the very Apostle and Archetype of Equality and Fraternity in this land

of theoretical Freedom and Equal Rights. In each of the three great

departments of our life he has practised that Equality and Fraternity.

In the civil administration of this Great Government he has called to

his assistance black men of Mighty Brain-Power to advise with him about

his policies of Statecraft and they have spoken Words of Wisdom to him.

In the military department he has appointed to an officer's commission

under the Stars and Stripes a brave young negro, a Gentleman, a Scholar,

a Soldier, who will reflect Honour upon the Star-Spangled Banner and

show the world that the Negro is a Patriot and a Fighter. And more than

that, my Brothers! As the crowning act of his Fearless Career the

Honourable and Honoured Gentleman who will address you has openly

recognized the negro's rightful place in the Homes of this Country, for

he has admitted the race as an Equal into the Holy of Holies of his own

domestic life, and furnished supreme and convincing proof of his love

for black men by freely giving his tender and gentle daughter, the

Fairest among Ten Thousand and the One Altogether Lovely, over into the

arms and affections of that same young Negro Soldier! Connubial Bliss

knows no Colour Line, my Brothers! May the union be blessed with--"

But fifteen hundred lusty black throats, not able longer to choke down

their cheers, were wildly, exultingly screaming "Phillips! Phillips!!

Phillips!!!" The chairman said a few more words in pantomime and gave

Mr. Phillips the right to speak.

Mr. Phillips was very slow in coming to his feet. The speech that he had

purposed to make was gone--all gone. The chairman's last words like a

chemical reagent, had turned his every though to vitriol, and he was all

afire with the impulse to pour it burning and blistering down their open

throats.

He stood impassive with tight-shut lips while they cheered and cheered

and cheered. In the fires that scorched his spirit, personal and

political ambition shrivelled into a cinder and was entirely consumed. A

second term--the honour, the approval, the country's weal--might sink

into the Pit rather than that he would blacken his soul even by tacit

assent to such a monstrous, awful lie! Given Helen freely to a negro's

arms!--he would blast that lie with--

But Helen! in the tumult he thought of _her_. And the tenderness of his

love for her made him to tremble. In a moment a war was on within him,

and the struggle between his pride and his love shook him as with an

ague.

But he knew the end from the beginning. As the cheering died away Helen

dominated his thoughts as she dominated his heart,--and he did make a

speech to the convention. It was not a forcible speech nor a very long

speech, for a man cannot think about one thing and discourse very

effectively about another. It was on the order of a prayer-meeting talk,

consisting mainly of platitudes and good advice. When it was finished

he went directly home and lay down on a couch to rest, for he was tired,

mortally tired.

From that day forth Mr. Phillips was in terror of his negro allies. He

made no other addresses to them. But he could not escape them. The

negro papers called on the race to rally to the Phillips standard. This

the joyful blacks construed to mean that they must form themselves in

squads and go over to Washington and tell Mr. Phillips about it

personally. Many were the delegations from political clubs and orders

and associations of all black sorts that called to pay their respects

and assure the President of their loyal support and good wishes; and

despite all his forehandedness and precautions it was a very dull day

when he was not openly hailed as a brother to the race by virtue of the

affinity in Helen's choice of a mate. He was not permitted to forget

Helen's plight for an hour,--if he had chosen to forget.

Indeed, however, he had lost the zest of thinking about anything else.

True, he fought his political battle with energy to the finish, and gave

it the best thought his brain could furnish--but that was because he was

a born fighter and knew not how to be a laggard: the burden of his

voluntary, uncompelled thinking was of Helen, and it grew larger and

larger upon his mind. And the more he thought of her, the more he would

think of her: and the tragedy of her mating loomed more darkly hopeless

and appalling before his face, until his days became one long prayer for

a miracle of deliverance.

In his meditations he suffered the tortures of a lost soul. He was too

brave a man to shirk his accountability for Helen's undoing. In moments

of solitude when he was most racked with remorse and wildly despairing

he would cry out against the fatal interpretation she had put upon his

words and his deeds--"I did not _mean_ that, I did not mean _that_, oh

my daughter, my little girl, my little girl!"--but these moments of

self-excusing were only the wild cries of unbearable agony. In composed

self-confession he accused himself--with a bitterness that had in it the

bitterness of death--and in the genuineness of his penitence he might

have proclaimed his error and put his countrymen on guard: if only

_Helen must not know_!

* * * * *

Summer was come and the convention was less than two weeks away when Mr.

Phillips' first political lieutenant came back from a trip to New York

with the very definite news for his chief that even if at that late day

he would promise to be more considerate of the business interests of the

country the nomination might yet be his. Mr. Phillips promptly sent his

answer to the railroad president who had presumed to speak for Business

that he "would see the _business interests_ damned before he would make

any such promise." ...

Three days before the convention met, Mr. Phillips received a letter

written in pencil in a weak and uncertain handwriting.

"We have named the boy Hayne Phillips. When are you coming to see us?

Daddy dear, it tires me so to write. I love you. HELEN."

*CHAPTER XXXVII*

The Mr. Phillips who on July the 3d, 191-, alighted from the car at the

little station that served the Stag Inlet folks was a very different

figure of a man from the vigorous person who on a day in the preceding

October had taken the train there to go back to his work in Washington.

There was now no spring in his step, no quickness in his movement. He

was plainly fatigued and preoccupied, and he was alone. There was no

member of his family with him, nor any of them, except Hayward, to meet

him at the station. A single secretary followed him at some little

distance as he walked down the platform mechanically raising his hat and

smiling at the half score of persons who had stopped to see him take his

carriage. He climbed up beside Hayward into the single-seated affair

the negro was driving, nodded to the secretary to follow him in the

formal and stately victoria that was waiting, and with a parting lift of

his hat left the small crowd staring at him as he drove away.

The onlookers commented, as onlookers will, upon everything that struck

their eyes in the simple proceeding. They wondered why he appeared so

listless and careworn. They wondered why he crowded into the narrow

buggy instead of taking the roomy carriage. They wondered why none of

his daughters nor his wife accompanied him--why he looked just a little

bit carelessly dressed--and what had become of his swinging, buoyant

stride--and whether he was altogether in good health and--well, they

left no question unasked, no surmise unturned.

Mr. Phillips had very little to say to Hayward during the drive to

Hill-Top. He really desired to say nothing, but it was impossible to

ignore all the demands of gentlemanly politeness and interest in his

son-in-law's family.

"How is Helen?" he asked after a long while.

"Not so very well yet, sir," answered Hayward. "She doesn't seem to

regain her strength very rapidly."

A very much longer silence.

"And the baby?"

"The finest boy in the world, sir--you ought to see him--strong and

healthy, with lungs like a steam piano."

Mr. Phillips made no comment. Hayward looked round at him.

"He's not very pretty, sir--no really young baby is, I'm told--but the

nurse says it's unusual the way he notices things already. I know all

new fathers are said to talk like that about the first baby, but really

I think he must be an exception, sir. I think he'll be a credit to his

name--which is the most I could say for him."

Mr. Phillips acknowledged the compliment by nothing further than a

lifting of his chin---which Hayward had no means of interpreting.

Having exhausted the subject and not being encouraged to proceed, the

young father became silent--and Mr. Phillips was glad. He had not

chosen to ride with Hayward for the pleasure of his conversation, but

for the benefit of the onlookers at the railway station; and, having

asked the questions absolutely demanded by the occasion, he did no more.

* * * * *

Mr. Phillips waited in the library till he should be told that his

daughter and grandson were ready to receive him. Not in the lull before

the battle of Valencia did he so prepare himself for a trial of his

nerves and his courage. His courage was of the same old sort, but his

nerves were sadly shaken by the cumulative happenings of the last half

year; and with Helen's happiness as the ruling purpose of his life he

felt almost afraid to trust himself before her eyes in the ordeal

through which he must pass. Perhaps she might still be unable to read

his dissembling. God save them both if she should read him truly.

The nurse came in to tell him that Mrs. Graham was waiting to see him.

Hayward had intended to witness that meeting, but there was something in

the father's manner as he passed him in the hall which caused him to

forego his purpose. Mr. Phillips followed the nurse into the darkened

room. Helen half rose to a sitting posture and clasped her white arms

about his neck and sobbed in nervous joy.

"Oh, daddy, you have come!" she said brokenly--and for a long time

neither spoke.... "I thought you would never come! I have wanted to

see you so. I've been so lonely, daddy. Where are mamma and Elise that

they have deserted me?"

Mr. Phillips as he bent down over her almost lifted her out of bed in

the force and tenderness of his embrace. The pitiful little cry of

loneliness almost tore his heart-strings out of him.

"Your mother has not been strong enough to come, precious heart, and

Elise has to stay at her side to care for her. When Dr. Hamilton

prescribed Virginia Springs for her in April he thought that two months

of rest would restore her to strength. Last winter was a very trying

season, and your mother was more broken than usual by its burdens. The

doctor tells me that she is recuperating very slowly, almost too slowly,

but that rest and absolute quiet and freedom from excitement is the only

thing that will cure her. I saw them a week ago to-day--I wrote you--and

they sent their love to you. They hope to see you before very long."

"Elise might have come, papa. She has written to me quite

regularly--but she might have come if only for two or three days--so

that I could see some of you"--and her mouth quivered into another

muffled sob.

"No, no, child, she could not leave her mother--you cannot imagine how

near your mother has been to collapse--they would not write you for fear

that you would worry too much about it--and she is still very

weak--nothing seems to benefit her much--the doctor can hardly find the

cause of her continued weakness--and perfect rest is the only thing that

can help her back to health. So Elise must be there to relieve her from

every exertion and effort and be a companion to her, for my visits are

necessarily brief. They love you, little girl, as always--though they

haven't been permitted to be with you. Katherine is too young to have

come, of course, and she would have been more of a care than a comfort,

anyway."

"Oh, yes, she's young, but she would have been _somebody_. The last

month has been the _longest_ month, daddy, that I ever lived in all my

life--"

"Well, well, little girl," the father said soothingly as he smoothed the

hair on her temple, "don't cry any more. The waiting is over now and we

won't be away from you so long again. I could not get away from

Washington a day earlier. I have been very busy, you know--doubly busy

with the official work and the political campaign too."

"Oh, yes, daddy, I want to ask you. Are you going to get the

renomination?" There was an excitement in Helen's question that her

father saw was unusual for her, with all her characteristic interest in

his political fortunes.

"Why child, I--I think so. We'll know certainly in a very short time

now. The convention is in session and they will have the first ballot

to-morrow, I think."

"But do you really think you will win, daddy? Is there no danger of

losing?"

"I really think I'll win, little woman; but you know politics is a most

uncertain thing."

"Then you do think there is some danger! Oh, daddy, is what I've done

going to hurt you?" There was distress in her accents.

"What _you've_ done?"

"Yes, daddy. It never occurred to me till yesterday. I've seen very

little of the papers since we've been up here, but none of them had ever

mentioned such a thing--until last night in the very first one the nurse

would let me look at even for a minute it said that 'just how many or

just how few votes the President will lose in the convention because of

his daughter's having married a negro it is impossible at this time to

forecast. Southern delegations this year are unusually uncertain

quantities.' It said just that, daddy--and oh, I'm so sorry if--"

"Oh, no--no--child. You haven't hurt me, my chance of renomination, in

the least. The idea is ridiculous. Haven't you learned by this time

that the papers will say anything? They must say something, you know;

and when they haven't anything sensible to say they are compelled to say

things that are absurd. Suppose the Southern delegates are uncertain.

They always have been, except when the machine had them tied hard and

fast. Don't distress your heart about political rumours, little girl.

I'll win all right. I've never failed in my life."

"Oh, I'm so glad if it is false, daddy. It would break my heart if I

thought I had done anything to defeat you. I wish there were no

Southern delegates--and no Southern people, with their bigoted notions!"

"You are forgetting, little woman, that your grandmother was a South

Carolinian--and the dearest, gentlest soul! If she could have lived to

know you she would have loved you more than any other girl in all the

world, I think. And you would have loved her, Helen.... Don't quarrel

with the Southern people. Their ideas about the--about the negro are in

the blood, and cannot be eradicated in two or three generations."

Helen began to speak and turned her face casually toward the baby lying

tucked in on the far side of the bed--when her father snatched the

conversation suddenly from her and, taking it thoroughly in hand, gave

her little time except to listen.

The blow had fallen! And with all his preparation he was unprepared!

Helen was confused and bewildered by the incoherency of his talk, by his

hurried, disjointed speeches, by his half-made questions. He was making

a blind effort to put off and push back the inevitable. His eyes had

grown accustomed to the subdued light of the room and as his vision

became clear his heart almost ceased to beat. The baby! In that half

light was revealed the darkness of the little fellow's face!--many, many

shades darker than the face of Hayward Graham: and the spectral fear

that had been with Mr. Phillips at noonday, at morning, at evening, at

all the midnights through the last months, was now a real, weakening,

flesh-and-blood terror.

With a hope that was faltering indeed had he prayed for the miracle that

might deliver Helen entirely from the consequences of her thoughtless

folly, but with all his faith had he besought a merciful Heaven that the

child which would come to her should not fall below a fair average of

its parental graces. Even that were a torture, that were horrible

enough: that Helen's gentle blood should be _evenly_ mixed and tainted

with a baser sort. But this recession below the father's type!--this

resurgence of the negro blood, with its "vile unknown ancestral

impulses!"--there came to him an almost overpowering desire, such as had

come of late with increasing frequency but never with such physical

weakness as now: the desire to lie down at full length and to rest.

As he talked volubly and scatteringly to Helen, his shaking soul cried

against fate. Why should Nature have chosen his Helen, the very flower

of his heart, as a subject upon which to demonstrate her eccentric laws!

Why, oh--but he must keep his tongue going to distract Helen from his

distress--why, oh, why should atavism have thought to play its tricks

and assert its prerogative here! Were there not enough other mongrel

children in all the earth through whom heredity could establish her

heartless caprices without the sacrifice of Helen and of Helen's baby!

Oh, the sarcasm of pitiless Chance, that the most dear, the _very_

highest, should be sacrificed to establish the law of the Persistence of

the Lowest in the blood of men! Surely, in _this_ lesson, that law had

been taught at an awful cost: and, as if to show that it had been taught

beyond cavil, there was poked out from under the white coverlet a

tight-shut baby fist that was almost black.

* * * * *

All things human must have an end,--and Mr. Phillips' subterfuge was

very human. His expedients finally failed, he had not a word more to

say: and yet he was no nearer being prepared for the inevitable than

before. The supreme test was come, and his spirit cowered before it.

For the first time in his life he greeted flight as a deliverer, and

decided to run away from danger.

"Well, little woman, I must go and rid myself of the dust of travel;"

and he was half way to the door when Helen's weak voice arrested him.

"Are you not going to notice the baby, daddy?"

The pathos in that trembling question would have called him to go

against all the Furies. Turning, he hesitated an instant, of which the

double would have been fatal: but he saved the moment from disaster.

"Dear me, I was about forgetting the youngster."

He walked quickly around the bed and sat down beside the boy. Pulling

the covering a little away, he took the tiny hand in his, and

grandfather and grandson looked for the first time each into the face of

the other.

It was a negro baby: the colour that was of Ethiopia, the unmistakable

nose, the hair that curled so tightly, the lips that were African, the

large whites of the eyes. Verily a negro baby: and yet in an

indefinable way a likeness to Helen, a caricature of Helen, a horrible

travesty of Helen's features in combination with--with whose? Not

Hayward Graham's. But whose, then? Helen's and whose? ... Mr. Phillips

could not answer his own question--he had never seen Guinea Gumbo.

In a moment the smaller hand closed over the man's finger as if in

approval; but the man straightened up as if to get a freer breath, and

glanced involuntarily at the pale mother. Her eyes were painfully

intent upon him. Driving himself, he turned. Murmuring a nursery

commonplace, he leaned over and kissed the little darkey as tenderly as

he might.

There was no escape from Helen's eyes. He prayed that she had not seen

that his were shut when he kissed her son--it was his only concession to

himself.

With another pat or two of the small fist he stood up by the bedside,

bracing his knees against the rail that he might stand steadily. The

fever was not yet gone from Helen's eyes. She had smiled when he

caressed the boy, but she was yet expectant. On her father's verdict

hung all her hopes, and his face for once in her life she was unable to

read. She was vaguely uneasy. His manner was inscrutable, and she had

never seen him look just like that. Their eyes met, and the unconscious

pleading in hers would have wrung any verdict from him.

"He's a fine boy, isn't he, little woman? ... So strong and healthy

looking.... Shakes hands as if he meant it.... And he looks somewhat

like you, missy. That will be the making of him.... But I must go

now,"--and he went rather precipitately.

"And will you hurry back to us, daddy?" Helen called to him.

"Yes, child; I'll hurry back," he answered,--as he hurried away.

His secretary handed him a telegram. He took the yellow envelope and,

without so much as glancing at it, went into the library and shut the

door.

* * * * *

Very late in the afternoon the library door was opened, without

invitation from within. Mr. Phillips was sitting in a chair with his

arms upon his desk and his face upon his arm--dead.

[Illustration: "HIS ARMS UPON HIS DESK AND HIS FACE UPON HIS

ARM--DEAD."]

*CHAPTER XXXVIII*

Again, and of necessity, is the reader cited to the newspapers of the

time.

It is not meet that the passing of a chief magistrate of this nation

should be passed over quickly or lightly in any history. The people

stopped to mourn, to cast up his life in total, and pay respect to its

multiplied excellences, to study his virtues as if in hope to

reincarnate them, and to glory in his life as a common possession of his

country. And yet this narrative may not pause to pay befitting tribute

to him, nor to detail the tides of grief that swept the hearts of his

countrymen with his outgoing, or the stateliness and grandeur of the

ceremonies with which they committed his body to the ground. We may not

here give the comprehensive view, for our canvas is not broad enough.

Let it be said only that he died as he had lived: a gentleman brave and

tender,--honest to his undoing, but dead without having known

defeat,--faithful to his love for Helen even to the death, yet making no

plaint against love.

The physicians ascribed the President's death to heart failure,--which

meant little more than that he was dead. They ventured to say that the

heart failure had been superinduced by overwork. This verdict doubtless

would have stood if a newspaper man the first at Hill-Top had not

chanced to hear of a telegram.

The telegram could not be found although the secretary searched

diligently for it. The energetic reporter conceived that that statement

was a subterfuge which in some way betokened a lack of confidence in his

discretion, and, besides, it smacked of mystery for a telegram to

evaporate into thin air in a dead man's hand. Put on his mettle thus,

he made it his business to know what was in that telegram. Being an old

telegraph man himself, he hied him down to the station and made himself

pleasant and useful to the youngish man in charge.

President Phillips had intended to await the decision of the convention

in Washington, and all telegraphic arrangements for convention bulletins

had been made accordingly. At the last moment Helen's trembling little

letter had changed his purpose, and he had slipped quietly off to

Hill-Top, notifying only Mr. Mackenzie how to communicate with him

directly.

The moment the President's death had flashed upon the wires, the

capacity of the little Stag Inlet office became sadly overtaxed. The

perspiring and flustered operator was very grateful for the assistance

of the kindly newspaper man who modestly proffered his help in getting

the deluge of messages speedily copied, enveloped, addressed and

dispatched. Once having his hand on the copy-file it was an easy thing

for the good Samaritan to get the full text of the last message that had

gone to Hill-Top.

He could not decide whether it was so very valuable now that Mr.

Phillips was dead; but he sent it to his paper along with his other

stuff, riding a dozen miles in a midnight search for an open telegraph

key. Much pride he had in his achievement when he added to his news

report a statement to his managing editor that the text of the telegram

was a "beat" for his paper and might be displayed as "exclusive." But

his feelings were very much hurt next day that they should have

published his find under a Chicago dateline and robbed him of his glory.