The red dawn of the twentieth century was stealing over the frost-white
fields, and in the alien house of his fathers John Burnham was watching
it through his bedroom window. There had been little sleep for him that
New Year's night, and even now, when he went back to bed, sleep would
not come.
The first contest in the life of the State was going on at the little
capital. That capital was now an armed camp. The law-makers there
themselves were armed, divided, and men of each party were marked by
men of the other for the first shot when the crisis should come. There
was a Democratic conspiracy to defraud--a Republican conspiracy to
resist by force to the death. Even in the placing of the ballots in the
box for the drawing of the contest board, fraud was openly charged, and
even then pistols almost leaped from their holsters. Republicans whose
seats were contested would be unseated and the autocrat's triumph would
thus be sure--that was the plan wrought out by his inflexible will and
iron hand. The governor from the Pennyroyal swore he would leave his
post only on a stretcher. Disfranchisement was on the very eve of
taking place, liberty was at stake, and Kentuckians unless aroused to
action would be a free people no longer. The Republican cry was that
the autocrat had created his election triumvirate, had stolen his
nomination, tried to steal his election, and was now trying to steal
the governorship. There was even a meeting in the big town of the State
to determine openly whether there should be resistance to him by force.
Two men from the mountains had met in the lobby of the Capitol Hotel
and a few moments later, under the drifting powder smoke, two men lay
wounded and three lay dead. The quarrel was personal, it was said, but
the dial-hand of the times was left pointing with sinister prophecy at
tragedy yet to come. And in the dark of the first moon of that century
the shadowy hillsmen were getting ready to swoop down. And it was the
dawn of the twentieth century of the Christian era that Burnham
watched, the dawn of the one hundred and twenty-fifth year of the
nation's life--of the one hundred and seventh year of statehood for
Kentucky. And thinking of the onward sweep of the world, of the nation,
North, East, West, and South, the backward staggering of his own loved
State tugged sorely at his heart.
In chapel next morning John Burnham made another little talk--chiefly
to the young men of the Blue-grass among whom this tragedy was taking
place. No inheritance in American life was better than theirs, he told
them--no better ideals in the relations of family, State, and nation.
But the State was sick now with many ills and it was coming to trial
now before the judgment of the watching world. If it stood the crucial
fire, it would be the part of all the youth before him to maintain and
even better the manhood that should come through unscathed. And if it
failed, God forbid, it would be for them to heal, to mend, to upbuild,
and, undaunted, push on and upward again. And as at the opening of the
session he saw again, lifted to him with peculiar intenseness, the
faces of Marjorie and Gray Pendleton, and of Mavis and Jason Hawn--only
now Gray looked deeply serious and Jason sullen and defiant. And at
Mavis, Marjorie did not turn this time to smile. Nor was there any
furtive look from any one of the four to any other, when the students
rose, though each pair of cousins drifted together on the way out, and
in pairs went on their separate ways.
The truth was that Marjorie and Gray were none too happy over the
recent turn of affairs. Both were too fine, too generous, to hurt the
feelings of others except with pain to themselves. They knew Mavis and
Jason were hurt but, hardly realizing that between the four the frank
democracy of childhood was gone, they hardly knew how and how deeply.
Both were mystified, greatly disturbed, drawn more than ever by the
proud withdrawal of the mountain boy and girl, and both were anxious to
make amends. More than once Gray came near riding over to Steve Hawn's
and trying once more to understand and if possible to explain and
restore good feeling, but the memory of his rebuff from Mavis and the
unapproachable quality in Jason made him hesitate. Naturally with
Marjorie this state of mind was worse, because of the brink of Jason's
confession for which she knew she was much to blame, and because of the
closer past between them. Once only she saw him striding the fields,
and though she pulled in her horse to watch him, Jason did not know;
and once he came to her when he did not know that she knew. It was the
night before the mid-year examinations and Marjorie, in spite of that
fact, had gone to a dance and, because of it, was spending the night in
town with a friend. The two girls had got home a little before three in
the morning, and Marjorie had put out her light and gone to bed but,
being sleepless, had risen and sat dreaming before the fire. The
extraordinary whiteness of the moonlight had drawn her to the window
when she rose again, and she stood there like a tall lily, looking
silent sympathy to the sufferers in the bitter cold outside. She put
one bare arm on the sill of the closed window and looked down at the
snow-crystals hardly less brilliant under the moon than they would be
under the first sun-rays next morning, looked through the snow-laden
branches of the trees, over the white house-tops, and out to the still
white fields--the white world within her answering the white world
without as in a dream. She was thinking of Jason, as she had been
thinking for days, for she could not get the boy out of her mind. All
night at the dance she had been thinking of him, and when between the
stone pillars of the gateway a figure appeared without overcoat, hands
in pockets and a bundle of something under one arm, the hand on the
window-sill dropped till it clutched her heart at the strangeness of
it, for her watching eyes saw plain in the moonlight the drawn white
face of Jason Hawn. He tossed something on the porch and her tears came
when she realized what it meant. Then he drew a letter out of his
pocket, hesitated, turned, turned again, tossed it too upon the porch,
and wearily crunched out through the gate. The girl whirled for her
dressing-gown and slippers, and slipped downstairs to the door, for her
instinct told her the letter was for her, and a few minutes later she
was reading it by the light of the fire.
"I know where you are," the boy had written. "Don't worry, but I want
to tell you that I take back that promise I made in the road that day."
John Burnham's examination was first for Jason that morning, and when
the boy came into the recitation-room the school-master was shocked by
the tumult in his face. He saw the lad bend listlessly over his papers
and look helplessly up and around--worn, brain-fagged, and half
wild--saw him rise suddenly and hurriedly, and nodded him an excuse
before he could ask for it, thinking the boy had suddenly gone ill.
When he did not come back Burnham got uneasy, and after an hour he
called another member of the faculty to take his place and hurried out.
As he went down the corridor a figure detached itself from a group of
girls and flew after him. He felt his arm caught tightly and he turned
to find Marjorie, white, with trembling lips, but struggling to be calm:
"Where is Jason?" Burnham recovered quickly.
"Why, I don't believe he is very well," he said with gentle
carelessness. "I'm going over now to see him. I'll be back in a
minute." Wondering and more than ever uneasy, Burnham went on, while
the girl unconsciously followed him to the door, looking after him and
almost on the point of wringing her hands. In the boy's room Burnham
found an old dress-suit case packed and placed on the study table. On
it was a pencil-scribbled note to one of his room-mates:
"I'll send for this later," it read, and that was all.
Jason was gone.