As Elliott drove briskly home that evening, hope pointed
enthusiastically forward. The two ambitions he was about to realize
had long been interwoven with the whole tenor of his existence. The
possibility of making a fitting memorial to his father’s name had been
unexpectedly brought about, and following close upon this good luck
came the gratifying news that the book he had been so long at work upon
had been favorably received by the publishers, who were assured not
only of its literary merit, but of its commercial value as well, since
it dealt with the popular side of the lynching evil, as viewed by the
outer world. His subject was at the time attracting so much attention
and causing so many heated discussions, that he had hardly dared to
hope that his first attempt in serious literature would meet with the
success of acceptance.
When he got home he found his uncle looking over the manuscript which
had been returned to him for final review and quietly took a seat
beside him to listen to his comments while awaiting the supper hour.
Mr. Field laid the papers on his knee.
“This is very good, as a story. I can truthfully say that I am more
than pleased with it from a literary standpoint. But that alone is no
reason for publishing. This haste to rush into print is one of the bad
signs of the times. Your views as herein expressed are more pardonable
than reasonable, for they are your inheritance rather than your fault.”
“I have been conscientious, am I to blame for that?”
“Who is to blame?” asked his uncle. “First, your mother had something
to do with the forming of your opinions. She had the training of your
mind at that critical age when the bend of the twig forms the shape of
the tree, and no doubt the society in which you have been thrown has
helped to make you an agitator.”
“Society must then take the consequences of its own handiwork. As for
my mother, I will say in her defense, that if her teachings were not
always the best, she aimed toward what she considered a high ideal.”
Mr. Field knew there was a deep sincerity, an almost fanatical
earnestness in his nephew, and he respected him none the less for it.
He was at that critical season of life in which the mind of man is made
up in nearly equal proportions of depth and simplicity.
“I see your convictions are real, yet I strongly advise you to give
more time to the matter and make further investigation before you give
your views to the world.”
“The more I search, the more I find that condemns lynching.” Elliott
spoke in a deferential tone, for despite his own strong convictions,
the soundness of his uncle’s views on other matters made him respect
his opinion of this.
“I wish you would give over reading those unprincipled authors, my boy,
whose aim is to excite the evil passions of the multitude; and shut
your ears to the extravagant statements of people who make tools of
enthusiastic and imaginative minds to further their own selfish ends.
An intelligent conservatism is one of the needs of the day.”
“I am profoundly sorry that my work is so objectionable to you. My
publishers tell me it is worth printing, and as evidence of their
assurance, they offer me a good round sum, besides a royalty.”
“I grant the probabilities of the book being a pecuniary success,
but there are other considerations. You must recollect that all your
prospects are centered in the South, and now the affections of your
heart bind you here; therefore you should give up all this bitter
feeling against us. As you know more of this race, you will find that
it is by no means as ill used as you are taught to believe. I advise
you most earnestly, as you value your future here, to suppress this
book, which would do the South a great injury and yourself little
credit.”
Mr. Field leaned wearily back on the high armchair. He had swayed
Elliott in some things, but it was clear that in one direction one
would always be opposed to that which the other advocated. They could
never agree, nor even affect a compromise. The nephew was grieved,
yet his purpose was fixed, and he fed on the hope of one day winning
reconciliation through fame if not conviction, and in reuniting the
sister and brother in the mutual pride of his success.
With half a sigh Elliott began rearranging the pages, when a finely
written line in an obscure corner of one page caught his eye. Holding
it toward the light he read:
“Are you my country’s foe, and therefore mine?”
At her urgent request, he had allowed Dorothy to read the manuscript,
and had been happy in the thought that she had returned it into his own
hands without a word of criticism. As he read this question, he felt
and appreciated both her love for him and her loyalty to her people.
And, while she had not openly condemned his work, he knew he had not
her approval of its sentiment. He felt a growing knowledge that any
success, no matter its magnitude, would be hollow unless she shared his
rejoicings.
As soon as the quiet meal was done, he set out for the Carr’s. Twilight
was well advanced. A white frost was on the stubble fields and the
stacked corn and the crimson and russet foliage of the woodside had the
moist look of colors on a painter’s palette.
At the window, Dorothy stood and watched her sweetheart come. The same
constancy shone in her gentle face for him as ever and her greeting was
as warm as his fondest anticipations could have pictured.
“Have I displeased you? You do not share a pride in my work, Dorothy?”
“Since you guess it,” she answered, “I may be spared the pain of
confessing.”
Elliott was silent for a time, but his expression showed the deep
disappointment he felt.
At length in an undertone, he said:
“Don’t reproach me. Of course you have not felt this as I feel it,
being so differently situated and looking at it from another point of
view.”
Seeing that he paused for her answer, Dorothy replied: “I have
considered all this. But do you not see what a reflection your clever
plot is upon us, or what a gross injustice it will do the South?”
“Cold facts may sound harsh, but you will be all the better for your
chastening. The South will advance under it.”
“I wish I could believe it; the chances are all against us. Why did you
ever want to take such a risk?” and the air of the little, slender,
determined maiden marked the uncompromising rebel.
Elliott deliberately arose. His face was earnest and full of a strange
power.
“It hurts me to displease you, Dorothy, but I must direct my own will
and conscience. To hold your respect and my own, I must be a man,--not
a compromise.”
There was such lofty sentiment in that calm utterance from his heart
that Dorothy, acknowledging the strength of it, could not resist the
impulse of admiring compassion and stifling any lingering feeling of
resentment, she quietly laid her hand on his and looked into his face
with eyes that Fate must have purposed to be wells of comfort to a
grieving mind. At her touch Elliott started, looked down and met her
soothing gaze.
“If it were not for our mistakes, failures and disappointments, the
love we bear our treasures would soon perish for lack of sustenance.
It is the failures in life that make one gentle and forgiving with the
weak and I almost believe it is the failures of others that mostly
endear them to us. Do what you may, let it bring what it will, all my
love and sanction goes with it,” she said softly.