By and by he became a large contractor for city work, and was a bosom

friend of the great and good Wm. M. Weed himself, who had stolen

$20,600,000 from the city and was a man so envied, so honored,--so

adored, indeed, that when the sheriff went to his office to arrest

him as a felon, that sheriff blushed and apologized, and one of the

illustrated papers made a picture of the scene and spoke of the matter

in such a way as to show that the editor regretted that the offense of

an arrest had been offered to so exalted a personage as Mr. Weed.

Mr. O'Riley furnished shingle nails to the new Court House at three

thousand dollars a keg, and eighteen gross of 60-cent thermometers at

fifteen hundred dollars a dozen; the controller and the board of audit

passed the bills, and a mayor, who was simply ignorant but not criminal,

signed them. When they were paid, Mr. O'Riley's admirers gave him a

solitaire diamond pin of the size of a filbert, in imitation of the

liberality of Mr. Weed's friends, and then Mr. O'Riley retired from

active service and amused himself with buying real estate at enormous

figures and holding it in other people's names. By and by the

newspapers came out with exposures and called Weed and O'Riley

“thieves,”--whereupon the people rose as one man (voting repeatedly)

and elected the two gentlemen to their proper theatre of action, the New

York legislature. The newspapers clamored, and the courts proceeded to

try the new legislators for their small irregularities. Our admirable

jury system enabled the persecuted ex-officials to secure a jury of nine

gentlemen from a neighboring asylum and three graduates from Sing-Sing,

and presently they walked forth with characters vindicated. The

legislature was called upon to spew them forth--a thing which the

legislature declined to do. It was like asking children to repudiate

their own father. It was a legislature of the modern pattern.

Being now wealthy and distinguished, Mr. O'Riley, still bearing the

legislative “Hon.” attached to his name (for titles never die in

America, although we do take a republican pride in poking fun at such

trifles), sailed for Europe with his family. They traveled all about,

turning their noses up at every thing, and not finding it a difficult

thing to do, either, because nature had originally given those features

a cast in that direction; and finally they established themselves in

Paris, that Paradise of Americans of their sort.--They staid there two

years and learned to speak English with a foreign accent--not that it

hadn't always had a foreign accent (which was indeed the case) but now

the nature of it was changed. Finally they returned home and became

ultra fashionables. They landed here as the Hon. Patrique Oreille and

family, and so are known unto this day.

Laura provided seats for her visitors and they immediately launched

forth into a breezy, sparkling conversation with that easy confidence

which is to be found only among persons accustomed to high life.

“I've been intending to call sooner, Miss Hawkins,” said the Hon. Mrs.

Oreille, “but the weather's been so horrid. How do you like Washington?”

Laura liked it very well indeed.

Mrs. Gashly--“Is it your first visit?”

Yes, it was her first.

All--“Indeed?”

Mrs. Oreille--“I'm afraid you'll despise the weather, Miss Hawkins. It's

perfectly awful. It always is. I tell Mr. Oreille I can't and I won't

put up with any such a climate. If we were obliged to do it, I wouldn't

mind it; but we are not obliged to, and so I don't see the use of it.

Sometimes its real pitiful the way the childern pine for Parry--don't

look so sad, Bridget, 'ma chere'--poor child, she can't hear Parry

mentioned without getting the blues.”

Mrs. Gashly--“Well I should think so, Mrs. Oreille. A body lives in

Paris, but a body, only stays here. I dote on Paris; I'd druther scrimp

along on ten thousand dollars a year there, than suffer and worry here

on a real decent income.”

Miss Gashly--“Well then, I wish you'd take us back, mother; I'm sure I

hate this stoopid country enough, even if it is our dear native land.”

Miss Emmeline Gashly--“What and leave poor Johnny Peterson behind?” [An

airy genial laugh applauded this sally].

Miss Gashly--“Sister, I should think you'd be ashamed of yourself!”

Miss Emmeline--“Oh, you needn't ruffle your feathers so: I was

only joking. He don't mean anything by coming to the house every

evening--only comes to see mother. Of course that's all!” [General

laughter].

Miss G. prettily confused--“Emmeline, how can you!”

Mrs. G.--“Let your sister alone, Emmeline. I never saw such a tease!”

Mrs. Oreille--“What lovely corals you have, Miss Hawkins! Just look

at them, Bridget, dear. I've a great passion for corals--it's a pity

they're getting a little common. I have some elegant ones--not as

elegant as yours, though--but of course I don't wear them now.”

Laura--“I suppose they are rather common, but still I have a great

affection for these, because they were given to me by a dear old

friend of our family named Murphy. He was a very charming man, but very

eccentric. We always supposed he was an Irishman, but after he got rich

he went abroad for a year or two, and when he came back you would have

been amused to see how interested he was in a potato.

He asked what it was! Now you know that when Providence shapes a mouth

especially for the accommodation of a potato you can detect that fact at

a glance when that mouth is in repose--foreign travel can never remove

that sign. But he was a very delightful gentleman, and his little foible

did not hurt him at all. We all have our shams--I suppose there is a

sham somewhere about every individual, if we could manage to ferret

it out. I would so like to go to France. I suppose our society here

compares very favorably with French society does it not, Mrs. Oreille?”

Mrs. O.--“Not by any means, Miss Hawkins! French society is much more

elegant--much more so.”

Laura--“I am sorry to hear that. I suppose ours has deteriorated of

late.”

Mrs. O.--“Very much indeed. There are people in society here that have

really no more money to live on than what some of us pay for servant

hire. Still I won't say but what some of them are very good people--and

respectable, too.”

Laura--“The old families seem to be holding themselves aloof, from what

I hear. I suppose you seldom meet in society now, the people you used to

be familiar with twelve or fifteen years ago?”

Mrs. O.--“Oh, no-hardly ever.”

Mr. O'Riley kept his first rum-mill and protected his customers from

the law in those days, and this turn of the conversation was rather

uncomfortable to madame than otherwise.

Hon. Mrs. Higgins--“Is Francois' health good now, Mrs. Oreille?”

Mrs. O.--(Thankful for the intervention)--“Not very. A body couldn't

expect it. He was always delicate--especially his lungs--and this odious

climate tells on him strong, now, after Parry, which is so mild.”

Mrs. H:--“I should think so. Husband says Percy'll die if he don't have

a change; and so I'm going to swap round a little and see what can be

done. I saw a lady from Florida last week, and she recommended Key

West. I told her Percy couldn't abide winds, as he was threatened with a

pulmonary affection, and then she said try St. Augustine. It's an awful

distance--ten or twelve hundred mile, they say but then in a case of

this kind--a body can't stand back for trouble, you know.”

Mrs. O.--“No, of course that's off. If Francois don't get better soon

we've got to look out for some other place, or else Europe. We've

thought some of the Hot Springs, but I don't know. It's a great

responsibility and a body wants to go cautious. Is Hildebrand about

again, Mrs. Gashly?”

Mrs. G.--“Yes, but that's about all. It was indigestion, you know, and

it looks as if it was chronic. And you know I do dread dyspepsia. We've

all been worried a good deal about him. The doctor recommended baked

apple and spoiled meat, and I think it done him good. It's about the

only thing that will stay on his stomach now-a-days. We have Dr. Shovel

now. Who's your doctor, Mrs. Higgins?”

Mrs. H.--“Well, we had Dr. Spooner a good while, but he runs so much to

emetics, which I think are weakening, that we changed off and took Dr.

Leathers. We like him very much. He has a fine European reputation, too.

The first thing he suggested for Percy was to have him taken out in the

back yard for an airing, every afternoon, with nothing at all on.”

Mrs. O. and Mrs. G.--“What!”

Mrs. H.--“As true as I'm sitting here. And it actually helped him for

two or three days; it did indeed. But after that the doctor said it

seemed to be too severe and so he has fell back on hot foot-baths at

night and cold showers in the morning. But I don't think there can be

any good sound help for him in such a climate as this. I believe we are

going to lose him if we don't make a change.”

Mrs. O. “I suppose you heard of the fright we had two weeks ago last

Saturday? No? Why that is strange--but come to remember, you've all

been away to Richmond. Francois tumbled from the sky light--in the

second-story hall clean down to the first floor--”

Everybody--“Mercy!”

Mrs. O.--“Yes indeed--and broke two of his ribs--”

Everybody--“What!”

Mrs. O. “Just as true as you live. First we thought he must be injured

internally. It was fifteen minutes past 8 in the evening. Of course we

were all distracted in a moment--everybody was flying everywhere, and

nobody doing anything worth anything. By and by I flung out next door

and dragged in Dr. Sprague; President of the Medical University no time

to go for our own doctor of course--and the minute he saw Francois he

said, 'Send for your own physician, madam;' said it as cross as a bear,

too, and turned right on his heel, and cleared out without doing a

thing!”

Everybody--“The mean, contemptible brute!”

Mrs. O--“Well you may say it. I was nearly out of my wits by this time.

But we hurried off the servants after our own doctor and telegraphed

mother--she was in New York and rushed down on the first train; and when

the doctor got there, lo and behold you he found Francois had broke one

of his legs, too!”

Everybody--“Goodness!”

Mrs. O.--“Yes. So he set his leg and bandaged it up, and fixed his ribs

and gave him a dose of something to quiet down his excitement and put

him to sleep--poor thing he was trembling and frightened to death and it

was pitiful to see him. We had him in my bed--Mr. Oreille slept in the

guest room and I laid down beside Francois--but not to sleep bless you

no. Bridget and I set up all night, and the doctor staid till two in the

morning, bless his old heart.--When mother got there she was so used up

with anxiety, that she had to go to bed and have the doctor; but when

she found that Francois was not in immediate danger she rallied, and

by night she was able to take a watch herself. Well for three days and

nights we three never left that bedside only to take an hour's nap at

a time. And then the doctor said Francois was out of danger and if ever

there was a thankful set, in this world, it was us.”

Laura's respect for these women had augmented during this conversation,

naturally enough; affection and devotion are qualities that are able to

adorn and render beautiful a character that is otherwise unattractive,

and even repulsive.

Mrs. Gashly--“I do believe I should a died if I had been in your place,

Mrs. Oreille. The time Hildebrand was so low with the pneumonia Emmeline

and me were all alone with him most of the time and we never took a

minute's sleep for as much as two days and nights. It was at Newport and

we wouldn't trust hired nurses. One afternoon he had a fit, and jumped

up and run out on the portico of the hotel with nothing in the world on

and the wind a blowing like ice and we after him scared to death;

and when the ladies and gentlemen saw that he had a fit, every lady

scattered for her room and not a gentleman lifted his hand to help, the

wretches! Well after that his life hung by a thread for as much as ten

days, and the minute he was out of danger Emmeline and me just went to

bed sick and worn out. I never want to pass through such a time again.

Poor dear Francois--which leg did he break, Mrs. Oreille!”

Mrs. O.--“It was his right hand hind leg. Jump down, Francois dear, and

show the ladies what a cruel limp you've got yet.”

Francois demurred, but being coaxed and delivered gently upon the floor,

he performed very satisfactorily, with his “right hand hind leg” in the

air. All were affected--even Laura--but hers was an affection of the

stomach. The country-bred girl had not suspected that the little whining

ten-ounce black and tan reptile, clad in a red embroidered pigmy

blanket and reposing in Mrs. Oreille's lap all through the visit was the

individual whose sufferings had been stirring the dormant generosities

of her nature. She said:

“Poor little creature! You might have lost him!”

Mrs. O.--“O pray don't mention it, Miss Hawkins--it gives me such a

turn!”

Laura--“And Hildebrand and Percy--are they--are they like this one?”

Mrs. G.--“No, Hilly has considerable Skye blood in him, I believe.”

Mrs. H.--“Percy's the same, only he is two months and ten days older and

has his ears cropped. His father, Martin Farquhar Tupper, was sickly,

and died young, but he was the sweetest disposition.--His mother had

heart disease but was very gentle and resigned, and a wonderful ratter.” As impossible and exasperating as this conversation may sound to a person who is not an idiot, it is scarcely in any respect an exaggeration of one which one of us actually listened to in an American drawing room--otherwise we could not venture to put such a chapter into a book which, professes to deal with social possibilities.--THE AUTHORS.]

So carried away had the visitors become by their interest attaching to

this discussion of family matters, that their stay had been prolonged to

a very improper and unfashionable length; but they suddenly recollected

themselves now and took their departure.

Laura's scorn was boundless. The more she thought of these people and

their extraordinary talk, the more offensive they seemed to her; and

yet she confessed that if one must choose between the two extreme

aristocracies it might be best, on the whole, looking at things from a

strictly business point of view, to herd with the Parvenus; she was in

Washington solely to compass a certain matter and to do it at any cost,

and these people might be useful to her, while it was plain that her

purposes and her schemes for pushing them would not find favor in the

eyes of the Antiques. If it came to choice--and it might come to that,

sooner or later--she believed she could come to a decision without much

difficulty or many pangs.

But the best aristocracy of the three Washington castes, and really the

most powerful, by far, was that of the Middle Ground: It was made up of

the families of public men from nearly every state in the Union--men

who held positions in both the executive and legislative branches of the

government, and whose characters had been for years blemishless, both

at home and at the capital. These gentlemen and their households were

unostentatious people; they were educated and refined; they troubled

themselves but little about the two other orders of nobility, but moved

serenely in their wide orbit, confident in their own strength and

well aware of the potency of their influence. They had no troublesome

appearances to keep up, no rivalries which they cared to distress

themselves about, no jealousies to fret over. They could afford to mind

their own affairs and leave other combinations to do the same or

do otherwise, just as they chose. They were people who were beyond

reproach, and that was sufficient.

Senator Dilworthy never came into collision with any of these factions.

He labored for them all and with them all. He said that all men

were brethren and all were entitled to the honest unselfish help and

countenance of a Christian laborer in the public vineyard.

Laura concluded, after reflection, to let circumstances determine

the course it might be best for her to pursue as regarded the several

aristocracies.

Now it might occur to the reader that perhaps Laura had been somewhat

rudely suggestive in her remarks to Mrs. Oreille when the subject of

corals was under discussion, but it did not occur to Laura herself. She

was not a person of exaggerated refinement; indeed, the society and

the influences that had formed her character had not been of a nature

calculated to make her so; she thought that “give and take was fair

play,” and that to parry an offensive thrust with a sarcasm was a neat

and legitimate thing to do. She sometimes talked to people in a way

which some ladies would consider, actually shocking; but Laura rather

prided herself upon some of her exploits of that character. We are sorry

we cannot make her a faultless heroine; but we cannot, for the reason

that she was human.

She considered herself a superior conversationist. Long ago, when the

possibility had first been brought before her mind that some day she

might move in Washington society, she had recognized the fact that

practiced conversational powers would be a necessary weapon in that

field; she had also recognized the fact that since her dealings there

must be mainly with men, and men whom she supposed to be exceptionally

cultivated and able, she would need heavier shot in her magazine than

mere brilliant “society” nothings; whereupon she had at once entered

upon a tireless and elaborate course of reading, and had never since

ceased to devote every unoccupied moment to this sort of preparation.

Having now acquired a happy smattering of various information, she used

it with good effect--she passed for a singularly well informed woman in

Washington. The quality of her literary tastes had necessarily undergone

constant improvement under this regimen, and as necessarily, also the

duality of her language had improved, though it cannot be denied that

now and then her former condition of life betrayed itself in just

perceptible inelegancies of expression and lapses of grammar.

CHAPTER XXXIV.

When Laura had been in Washington three months, she was still the same

person, in one respect, that she was when she first arrived there--that

is to say, she still bore the name of Laura Hawkins. Otherwise she was

perceptibly changed.--

She had arrived in a state of grievous uncertainty as to what manner of

woman she was, physically and intellectually, as compared with eastern

women; she was well satisfied, now, that her beauty was confessed, her

mind a grade above the average, and her powers of fascination rather

extraordinary. So she was at ease upon those points. When she arrived,

she was possessed of habits of economy and not possessed of money; now

she dressed elaborately, gave but little thought to the cost of things,

and was very well fortified financially. She kept her mother and

Washington freely supplied with money, and did the same by Col.

Sellers--who always insisted upon giving his note for loans--with

interest; he was rigid upon that; she must take interest; and one of the

Colonel's greatest satisfactions was to go over his accounts and note

what a handsome sum this accruing interest amounted to, and what a

comfortable though modest support it would yield Laura in case reverses

should overtake her.

In truth he could not help feeling that he was an efficient shield for

her against poverty; and so, if her expensive ways ever troubled him for

a brief moment, he presently dismissed the thought and said to himself,

“Let her go on--even if she loses everything she is still safe--this

interest will always afford her a good easy income.”

Laura was on excellent terms with a great many members of Congress, and

there was an undercurrent of suspicion in some quarters that she was one

of that detested class known as “lobbyists;” but what belle could escape

slander in such a city? Fairminded people declined to condemn her on

mere suspicion, and so the injurious talk made no very damaging headway.

She was very gay, now, and very celebrated, and she might well expect to

be assailed by many kinds of gossip. She was growing used to celebrity,

and could already sit calm and seemingly unconscious, under the fire of

fifty lorgnettes in a theatre, or even overhear the low voice “That's

she!” as she passed along the street without betraying annoyance.

The whole air was full of a vague vast scheme which was to eventuate in

filling Laura's pockets with millions of money; some had one idea of the

scheme, and some another, but nobody had any exact knowledge upon the

subject. All that any one felt sure about, was that Laura's landed

estates were princely in value and extent, and that the government was

anxious to get hold of them for public purposes, and that Laura was

willing to make the sale but not at all anxious about the matter and

not at all in a hurry. It was whispered that Senator Dilworthy was a

stumbling block in the way of an immediate sale, because he was

resolved that the government should not have the lands except with the

understanding that they should be devoted to the uplifting of the negro

race; Laura did not care what they were devoted to, it was said, (a

world of very different gossip to the contrary notwithstanding,) but

there were several other heirs and they would be guided entirely by the

Senator's wishes; and finally, many people averred that while it would

be easy to sell the lands to the government for the benefit of the

negro, by resorting to the usual methods of influencing votes, Senator

Dilworthy was unwilling to have so noble a charity sullied by any taint

of corruption--he was resolved that not a vote should be bought. Nobody

could get anything definite from Laura about these matters, and so

gossip had to feed itself chiefly upon guesses. But the effect of it

all was, that Laura was considered to be very wealthy and likely to be

vastly more so in a little while. Consequently she was much courted and

as much envied: Her wealth attracted many suitors. Perhaps they came

to worship her riches, but they remained to worship her. Some of the

noblest men of the time succumbed to her fascinations. She frowned upon

no lover when he made his first advances, but by and by when she was

hopelessly enthralled, he learned from her own lips that she had formed

a resolution never to marry. Then he would go away hating and cursing

the whole sex, and she would calmly add his scalp to her string, while

she mused upon the bitter day that Col. Selby trampled her love and her

pride in the dust. In time it came to be said that her way was paved

with broken hearts.

Poor Washington gradually woke up to the fact that he too was an

intellectual marvel as well as his gifted sister. He could not conceive

how it had come about (it did not occur to him that the gossip about his

family's great wealth had any thing to do with it). He could not account

for it by any process of reasoning, and was simply obliged to accept the

fact and give up trying to solve the riddle. He found himself dragged

into society and courted, wondered at and envied very much as if he

were one of those foreign barbers who flit over here now and then with

a self-conferred title of nobility and marry some rich fool's absurd

daughter. Sometimes at a dinner party or a reception he would find

himself the centre of interest, and feel unutterably uncomfortable in

the discovery. Being obliged to say something, he would mine his brain

and put in a blast and when the smoke and flying debris had cleared away

the result would be what seemed to him but a poor little intellectual

clod of dirt or two, and then he would be astonished to see everybody as

lost in admiration as if he had brought up a ton or two of virgin gold.

Every remark he made delighted his hearers and compelled their applause;

he overheard people say he was exceedingly bright--they were chiefly

mammas and marriageable young ladies. He found that some of his good

things were being repeated about the town. Whenever he heard of an

instance of this kind, he would keep that particular remark in mind and

analyze it at home in private. At first he could not see that the remark

was anything better than a parrot might originate; but by and by he

began to feel that perhaps he underrated his powers; and after that he

used to analyze his good things with a deal of comfort, and find in

them a brilliancy which would have been unapparent to him in earlier

days--and then he would make a note of that good thing and say it again

the first time he found himself in a new company. Presently he had

saved up quite a repertoire of brilliancies; and after that he confined

himself to repeating these and ceased to originate any more, lest he

might injure his reputation by an unlucky effort.

He was constantly having young ladies thrust upon his notice at

receptions, or left upon his hands at parties, and in time he began to

feel that he was being deliberately persecuted in this way; and after

that he could not enjoy society because of his constant dread of these

female ambushes and surprises. He was distressed to find that nearly

every time he showed a young lady a polite attention he was straightway

reported to be engaged to her; and as some of these reports got into the

newspapers occasionally, he had to keep writing to Louise that they

were lies and she must believe in him and not mind them or allow them to

grieve her.

Washington was as much in the dark as anybody with regard to the great

wealth that was hovering in the air and seemingly on the point of

tumbling into the family pocket. Laura would give him no satisfaction.

All she would say, was:

“Wait. Be patient. You will see.”

“But will it be soon, Laura?”

“It will not be very long, I think.”

“But what makes you think so?”

“I have reasons--and good ones. Just wait, and be patient.”

“But is it going to be as much as people say it is?”

“What do they say it is?”

“Oh, ever so much. Millions!”

“Yes, it will be a great sum.”

“But how great, Laura? Will it be millions?”

“Yes, you may call it that. Yes, it will be millions. There, now--does

that satisfy you?”

“Splendid! I can wait. I can wait patiently--ever so patiently. Once I

was near selling the land for twenty thousand dollars; once for thirty

thousand dollars; once after that for seven thousand dollars; and once

for forty thousand dollars--but something always told me not to do it.

What a fool I would have been to sell it for such a beggarly trifle! It

is the land that's to bring the money, isn't it Laura? You can tell me

that much, can't you?”

“Yes, I don't mind saying that much. It is the land.

“But mind--don't ever hint that you got it from me. Don't mention me in

the matter at all, Washington.”

“All right--I won't. Millions! Isn't it splendid! I mean to look around

for a building lot; a lot with fine ornamental shrubbery and all

that sort of thing. I will do it to-day. And I might as well see an

architect, too, and get him to go to work at a plan for a house. I don't

intend to spare any expense; I mean to have the noblest house that money

can build.” Then after a pause--he did not notice Laura's smiles

“Laura, would you lay the main hall in encaustic tiles, or just in fancy

patterns of hard wood?”

Laura laughed a good old-fashioned laugh that had more of her former

natural self about it than any sound that had issued from her mouth in

many weeks. She said:

“You don't change, Washington. You still begin to squander a fortune

right and left the instant you hear of it in the distance; you never

wait till the foremost dollar of it arrives within a hundred miles of

you,” --and she kissed her brother good bye and left him weltering in

his dreams, so to speak.

He got up and walked the floor feverishly during two hours; and when he

sat down he had married Louise, built a house, reared a family, married

them off, spent upwards of eight hundred thousand dollars on mere

luxuries, and died worth twelve millions.

CHAPTER XXXV.

Laura went down stairs, knocked at/the study door, and entered, scarcely

waiting for the response. Senator Dilworthy was alone--with an open

Bible in his hand, upside down. Laura smiled, and said, forgetting her

acquired correctness of speech,

“It is only me.”

“Ah, come in, sit down,” and the Senator closed the book and laid it

down. “I wanted to see you. Time to report progress from the committee

of the whole,” and the Senator beamed with his own congressional wit.

“In the committee of the whole things are working very well. We have

made ever so much progress in a week. I believe that you and I together

could run this government beautifully, uncle.”

The Senator beamed again. He liked to be called “uncle” by this

beautiful woman.

“Did you see Hopperson last night after the congressional prayer

meeting?”

“Yes. He came. He's a kind of--”

“Eh? he is one of my friends, Laura. He's a fine man, a very fine man.

I don't know any man in congress I'd sooner go to for help in any

Christian work. What did he say?”

“Oh, he beat around a little. He said he should like to help the negro,

his heart went out to the negro, and all that--plenty of them say

that but he was a little afraid of the Tennessee Land bill; if Senator

Dilworthy wasn't in it, he should suspect there was a fraud on the

government.”

“He said that, did he?”

“Yes. And he said he felt he couldn't vote for it. He was shy.”

“Not shy, child, cautious. He's a very cautious man. I have been with

him a great deal on conference committees. He wants reasons, good ones.

Didn't you show him he was in error about the bill?”

“I did. I went over the whole thing. I had to tell him some of the side

arrangements, some of the--”

“You didn't mention me?”

“Oh, no. I told him you were daft about the negro and the philanthropy

part of it, as you are.”

“Daft is a little strong, Laura. But you know that I wouldn't touch this

bill if it were not for the public good, and for the good of the colored

race; much as I am interested in the heirs of this property, and would

like to have them succeed.”

Laura looked a little incredulous, and the Senator proceeded.

“Don't misunderstand me, I don't deny that it is for the interest of

all of us that this bill should go through, and it will. I have no

concealments from you. But I have one principle in my public life, which

I should like you to keep in mind; it has always been my guide. I never

push a private interest if it is not Justified and ennobled by some

larger public good. I doubt if a Christian would be justified in working

for his own salvation if it was not to aid in the salvation of his

fellow men.”

The Senator spoke with feeling, and then added,

“I hope you showed Hopperson that our motives were pure?”

“Yes, and he seemed to have a new light on the measure: I think will

vote for it.”

“I hope so; his name will give tone and strength to it. I knew you would

only have to show him that it was just and pure, in order to secure his

cordial support.”

“I think I convinced him. Yes, I am perfectly sure he will vote right

now.”

“That's good, that's good,” said the Senator; smiling, and rubbing his

hands. “Is there anything more?”

“You'll find some changes in that I guess,” handing the Senator a

printed list of names. “Those checked off are all right.”

“Ah--'m--'m,” running his eye down the list. “That's encouraging. What

is the 'C' before some of the names, and the 'B. B.'?”

“Those are my private marks. That 'C' stands for 'convinced,' with

argument. The 'B. B.' is a general sign for a relative. You see it

stands before three of the Hon. Committee. I expect to see the chairman

of the committee to-day, Mr. Buckstone.”

“So, you must, he ought to be seen without any delay. Buckstone is a

worldly sort of a fellow, but he has charitable impulses. If we secure

him we shall have a favorable report by the committee, and it will be

a great thing to be able to state that fact quietly where it will do

good.”

“Oh, I saw Senator Balloon”

“He will help us, I suppose? Balloon is a whole-hearted fellow. I can't

help loving that man, for all his drollery and waggishness. He puts on

an air of levity sometimes, but there aint a man in the senate knows the

scriptures as he does. He did not make any objections?”

“Not exactly, he said--shall I tell you what he said?” asked Laura

glancing furtively at him.

“Certainly.”

“He said he had no doubt it was a good thing; if Senator Dilworthy was

in it, it would pay to look into it.”

The Senator laughed, but rather feebly, and said, “Balloon is always

full of his jokes.”

“I explained it to him. He said it was all right, he only wanted a word

with you,”, continued Laura. “He is a handsome old gentleman, and he is

gallant for an old man.”

“My daughter,” said the Senator, with a grave look, “I trust there was

nothing free in his manner?”

“Free?” repeated Laura, with indignation in her face. “With me!”

“There, there, child. I meant nothing, Balloon talks a little freely

sometimes, with men. But he is right at heart. His term expires next

year and I fear we shall lose him.”

“He seemed to be packing the day I was there. His rooms were full of

dry goods boxes, into which his servant was crowding all manner of old

clothes and stuff: I suppose he will paint 'Pub. Docs' on them and frank

them home. That's good economy, isn't it?”

“Yes, yes, but child, all Congressmen do that. It may not be strictly

honest, indeed it is not unless he had some public documents mixed in

with the clothes.”

“It's a funny world. Good-bye, uncle. I'm going to see that chairman.”

And humming a cheery opera air, she departed to her room to dress for

going out. Before she did that, however, she took out her note book and

was soon deep in its contents; marking, dashing, erasing, figuring, and

talking to herself.

“Free! I wonder what Dilworthy does think of me anyway? One . . . two .

. . eight . . . seventeen . . . twenty-one . . . 'm'm . . . it takes a

heap for a majority. Wouldn't Dilworthy open his eyes if he knew some

of the things Balloon did say to me. There . . . . Hopperson's influence

ought to count twenty . . . the sanctimonious old curmudgeon. Son-in-law

. . . sinecure in the negro institution. . . . That about gauges him. .

. . The three committeemen . . . sons-in-law. Nothing like a son-in-law

here in Washington or a brother-in-law. . . . And everybody has 'em. .

. .Let's see: . . . sixty-one. . . . with places . . . twenty-five . .

. persuaded--it is getting on; . . . . we'll have two-thirds of Congress

in time . . . Dilworthy must surely know I understand him. Uncle

Dilworthy . . . . Uncle Balloon!--Tells very amusing stories . . .

when ladies are not present . . . I should think so . . . .'m . . . 'm.

Eighty-five. There. I must find that chairman. Queer. . . . Buckstone

acts. . . . Seemed to be in love . . . . . I was sure of it. He promised

to come here . . . and he hasn't. . . . Strange. Very strange . . . . I

must chance to meet him to-day.”

Laura dressed and went out, thinking she was perhaps too early for Mr.

Buckstone to come from the house, but as he lodged near the bookstore

she would drop in there and keep a look out for him.

While Laura is on her errand to find Mr. Buckstone, it may not be out

of the way to remark that she knew quite as much of Washington life as

Senator Dilworthy gave her credit for, and more than she thought proper

to tell him. She was acquainted by this time with a good many of the

young fellows of Newspaper Row; and exchanged gossip with them to their

mutual advantage.

They were always talking in the Row, everlastingly gossiping, bantering

and sarcastically praising things, and going on in a style which was a

curious commingling of earnest and persiflage. Col. Sellers liked this

talk amazingly, though he was sometimes a little at sea in it--and

perhaps that didn't lessen the relish of the conversation to the

correspondents.

It seems that they had got hold of the dry-goods box packing story about

Balloon, one day, and were talking it over when the Colonel came in. The

Colonel wanted to know all about it, and Hicks told him. And then Hicks

went on, with a serious air,

“Colonel, if you register a letter, it means that it is of value,

doesn't it? And if you pay fifteen cents for registering it, the

government will have to take extra care of it and even pay you back its

full value if it is lost. Isn't that so?”

“Yes. I suppose it's so.”.

“Well Senator Balloon put fifteen cents worth of stamps on each of those

seven huge boxes of old clothes, and shipped that ton of second-hand

rubbish, old boots and pantaloons and what not through the mails as

registered matter! It was an ingenious thing and it had a genuine touch

of humor about it, too. I think there is more real talent among our

public men of to-day than there was among those of old times--a far more

fertile fancy, a much happier ingenuity. Now, Colonel, can you picture

Jefferson, or Washington or John Adams franking their wardrobes through

the mails and adding the facetious idea of making the government

responsible for the cargo for the sum of one dollar and five cents?

Statesmen were dull creatures in those days. I have a much greater

admiration for Senator Balloon.”

“Yes, Balloon is a man of parts, there is no denying it”

“I think so. He is spoken of for the post of Minister to China, or

Austria, and I hope will be appointed. What we want abroad is good

examples of the national character.

“John Jay and Benjamin Franklin were well enough in their day, but the

nation has made progress since then. Balloon is a man we know and can

depend on to be true to himself.”

“Yes, and Balloon has had a good deal of public experience. He is an old

friend of mine. He was governor of one of the territories a while, and

was very satisfactory.”

“Indeed he was. He was ex-officio Indian agent, too. Many a man would

have taken the Indian appropriation and devoted the money to feeding and

clothing the helpless savages, whose land had been taken from them by

the white man in the interests of civilization; but Balloon knew their

needs better. He built a government saw-mill on the reservation with the

money, and the lumber sold for enormous prices--a relative of his did

all the work free of charge--that is to say he charged nothing more than

the lumber would bring.” “But the poor Injuns--not that I care much for

Injuns--what did he do for them?”

“Gave them the outside slabs to fence in the reservation with. Governor

Balloon was nothing less than a father to the poor Indians. But Balloon

is not alone, we have many truly noble statesmen in our country's

service like Balloon. The Senate is full of them. Don't you think so

Colonel?”

“Well, I dunno. I honor my country's public servants as much as any one

can. I meet them, Sir, every day, and the more I see of them the more I

esteem them and the more grateful I am that our institutions give us the

opportunity of securing their services. Few lands are so blest.”

“That is true, Colonel. To be sure you can buy now and then a Senator or

a Representative but they do not know it is wrong, and so they are not

ashamed of it. They are gentle, and confiding and childlike, and in my

opinion these are qualities that ennoble them far more than any amount

of sinful sagacity could. I quite agree with you, Col. Sellers.”

“Well”--hesitated the Colonel--“I am afraid some of them do buy their

seats--yes, I am afraid they do--but as Senator Dilworthy himself said

to me, it is sinful,--it is very wrong--it is shameful; Heaven protect

me from such a charge. That is what Dilworthy said. And yet when you

come to look at it you cannot deny that we would have to go without the

services of some of our ablest men, sir, if the country were opposed

to--to--bribery. It is a harsh term. I do not like to use it.”

The Colonel interrupted himself at this point to meet an engagement with

the Austrian minister, and took his leave with his usual courtly bow.

CHAPTER XXXVI.

In due time Laura alighted at the book store, and began to look at the

titles of the handsome array of books on the counter. A dapper clerk

of perhaps nineteen or twenty years, with hair accurately parted and

surprisingly slick, came bustling up and leaned over with a pretty smile

and an affable--

“Can I--was there any particular book you wished to see?”

“Have you Taine's England?”

“Beg pardon?”

“Taine's Notes on England.”

The young gentleman scratched the side of his nose with a cedar pencil

which he took down from its bracket on the side of his head, and

reflected a moment:

“Ah--I see,” [with a bright smile]--“Train, you mean--not Taine. George

Francis Train. No, ma'm we--”

“I mean Taine--if I may take the liberty.”

The clerk reflected again--then:

“Taine . . . . Taine . . . . Is it hymns?”

“No, it isn't hymns. It is a volume that is making a deal of talk just

now, and is very widely known--except among parties who sell it.”

The clerk glanced at her face to see if a sarcasm might not lurk

somewhere in that obscure speech, but the gentle simplicity of the

beautiful eyes that met his, banished that suspicion. He went away and

conferred with the proprietor. Both appeared to be non-plussed. They

thought and talked, and talked and thought by turns. Then both came

forward and the proprietor said:

“Is it an American book, ma'm?”

“No, it is an American reprint of an English translation.”

“Oh! Yes--yes--I remember, now. We are expecting it every day. It isn't

out yet.”

“I think you must be mistaken, because you advertised it a week ago.”

“Why no--can that be so?”

“Yes, I am sure of it. And besides, here is the book itself, on the

counter.”

She bought it and the proprietor retired from the field. Then she asked

the clerk for the Autocrat of the Breakfast Table--and was pained to see

the admiration her beauty had inspired in him fade out of his face. He

said with cold dignity, that cook books were somewhat out of their line,

but he would order it if she desired it. She said, no, never mind.

Then she fell to conning the titles again, finding a delight in the

inspection of the Hawthornes, the Longfellows, the Tennysons, and other

favorites of her idle hours. Meantime the clerk's eyes were busy, and no

doubt his admiration was returning again--or may be he was only gauging

her probable literary tastes by some sagacious system of admeasurement

only known to his guild. Now he began to “assist” her in making a

selection; but his efforts met with no success--indeed they only annoyed

her and unpleasantly interrupted her meditations. Presently, while she

was holding a copy of “Venetian Life” in her hand and running over a

familiar passage here and there, the clerk said, briskly, snatching up

a paper-covered volume and striking the counter a smart blow with it to

dislodge the dust:

“Now here is a work that we've sold a lot of. Everybody that's read it

likes it”--and he intruded it under her nose; “it's a book that I can

recommend--'The Pirate's Doom, or the Last of the Buccaneers.' I think

it's one of the best things that's come out this season.”

Laura pushed it gently aside with her hand and went on and went on

filching from “Venetian Life.”

“I believe I do not want it,” she said.

The clerk hunted around awhile, glancing at one title and then another,

but apparently not finding what he wanted.

However, he succeeded at last. Said he:

“Have you ever read this, ma'm? I am sure you'll like it. It's by the

author of 'The Hooligans of Hackensack.' It is full of love troubles and

mysteries and all sorts of such things. The heroine strangles her own

mother. Just glance at the title please,--'Gonderil the Vampire, or The

Dance of Death.' And here is 'The Jokist's Own Treasury, or, The Phunny

Phellow's Bosom Phriend.' The funniest thing!--I've read it four times,

ma'm, and I can laugh at the very sight of it yet. And 'Gonderil,'--I

assure you it is the most splendid book I ever read. I know you will

like these books, ma'm, because I've read them myself and I know what

they are.”

“Oh, I was perplexed--but I see how it is, now. You must have thought

I asked you to tell me what sort of books I wanted--for I am apt to say

things which I don't really mean, when I am absent minded. I suppose I

did ask you, didn't I?”

“No ma'm,--but I--”

“Yes, I must have done it, else you would not have offered your

services, for fear it might be rude. But don't be troubled--it was all

my fault. I ought not to have been so heedless--I ought not to have

asked you.”

“But you didn't ask me, ma'm. We always help customers all we can. You

see our experience--living right among books all the time--that sort of

thing makes us able to help a customer make a selection, you know.”

“Now does it, indeed? It is part of your business, then?”

“Yes'm, we always help.”

“How good it is of you. Some people would think it rather obtrusive,

perhaps, but I don't--I think it is real kindness--even charity. Some

people jump to conclusions without any thought--you have noticed that?”

“O yes,” said the clerk, a little perplexed as to whether to feel

comfortable or the reverse; “Oh yes, indeed, I've often noticed that,

ma'm.”

“Yes, they jump to conclusions with an absurd heedlessness. Now some

people would think it odd that because you, with the budding tastes

and the innocent enthusiasms natural to your time of life, enjoyed the

Vampires and the volume of nursery jokes, you should imagine that an

older person would delight in them too--but I do not think it odd at

all. I think it natural--perfectly natural in you. And kind, too. You

look like a person who not only finds a deep pleasure in any little

thing in the way of literature that strikes you forcibly, but is willing

and glad to share that pleasure with others--and that, I think, is noble

and admirable--very noble and admirable. I think we ought all to share

our pleasures with others, and do what we can to make each other happy,

do not you?”

“Oh, yes. Oh, yes, indeed. Yes, you are quite right, ma'm.”

But he was getting unmistakably uncomfortable, now, notwithstanding

Laura's confiding sociability and almost affectionate tone.

“Yes, indeed. Many people would think that what a bookseller--or perhaps

his clerk--knows about literature as literature, in contradistinction to

its character as merchandise, would hardly, be of much assistance to a

person--that is, to an adult, of course--in the selection of food for

the mind--except of course wrapping paper, or twine, or wafers, or

something like that--but I never feel that way. I feel that whatever

service you offer me, you offer with a good heart, and I am as grateful

for it as if it were the greatest boon to me. And it is useful to me--it

is bound to be so. It cannot be otherwise. If you show me a book which

you have read--not skimmed over or merely glanced at, but read--and you

tell me that you enjoyed it and that you could read it three or four

times, then I know what book I want--”

“Thank you!--th--”

--“to avoid. Yes indeed. I think that no information ever comes amiss

in this world. Once or twice I have traveled in the cars--and there you

know, the peanut boy always measures you with his eye, and hands you out

a book of murders if you are fond of theology; or Tupper or a dictionary

or T. S. Arthur if you are fond of poetry; or he hands you a volume

of distressing jokes or a copy of the American Miscellany if you

particularly dislike that sort of literary fatty degeneration of the

heart--just for the world like a pleasant spoken well-meaning gentleman

in any bookstore. But here I am running on as if business men had

nothing to do but listen to women talk. You must pardon me, for I was

not thinking.--And you must let me thank you again for helping me. I

read a good deal, and shall be in nearly every day and I would be sorry

to have you think me a customer who talks too much and buys too little.

Might I ask you to give me the time? Ah-two-twenty-two. Thank you very

much. I will set mine while I have the opportunity.”

But she could not get her watch open, apparently. She tried, and tried

again. Then the clerk, trembling at his own audacity, begged to be

allowed to assist. She allowed him. He succeeded, and was radiant under

the sweet influences of her pleased face and her seductively worded

acknowledgements with gratification. Then he gave her the exact time

again, and anxiously watched her turn the hands slowly till they reached

the precise spot without accident or loss of life, and then he looked

as happy as a man who had helped a fellow being through a momentous

undertaking, and was grateful to know that he had not lived in vain.

Laura thanked him once more. The words were music to his ear; but what

were they compared to the ravishing smile with which she flooded his

whole system? When she bowed her adieu and turned away, he was no longer

suffering torture in the pillory where she had had him trussed up

during so many distressing moments, but he belonged to the list of her

conquests and was a flattered and happy thrall, with the dawn-light of

love breaking over the eastern elevations of his heart.

It was about the hour, now, for the chairman of the House Committee on

Benevolent Appropriations to make his appearance, and Laura stepped to

the door to reconnoiter. She glanced up the street, and sure enough--

Part 5.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER XXXVII Representative Buckstone and Laura's Strategic Coquetry

CHAPTER XXXVIII Reception Day in Washington--Laura Again Meets Col.

Selby and the Effect Upon Her

CHAPTER XXXIX Col. Selby Visits Laura and Effects a Reconciliation

CHAPTER XL Col. Sellers' Career in Washington--Laura's Intimacy With

Col. Selby is Talked About

CHAPTER XLI Harry Brierly Becomes Entirely Infatuated With

Laura--Declares His Love and Gets Laughed At

CHAPTER XLII How The Hon Mr Trollop Was Induced to Vote For Laura's Bill

CHAPTER XLIII Progress of the Bill in the House

CHAPTER XLIV Philip in Washington--Visits Laura

CHAPTER XLV The Passage of the Bill in the House of Representatives

ILLUSTRATIONS

128.  PLAYING TO WIN 129.  SHE SAID “PARDON” 130.  “IT'S HE! IT'S HE!”

131.  REFLECTION 132.  ONCE MORE FACE TO FACE 133.  COL. SELBY KNEELS

AND KISSES HER HAND 134.  JOLLY GOOD COMPANY 135.  SUPPER OR BREAKFAST?

136.  TAIL PIECE 137.  A LADY-KILLER TAMED 138.  CONSUMING LOVE 139.  A

CONVERT TO WOMEN'S RIGHTS 140.  OPENING NEGOTIATIONS 141.  NOT JUST YET

142.  WELL POSTED 143.  MR. TROLLOP THINKS IT OVER 144.  DILWORTHY

GIVES LAURA HIS BLESSING 145.  UNNECESSARY PRECAUTION 146.  WHERE THE

PROTECTION IS NEEDED 147.  AN OBJECT OF SYMPATHY 148.  CHILDREN OF

HOPE 149.  THE EDITOR 150.  PHILIP LEAVING LAURA 151.  CHAIRMAN OF

THE COMMITTEE 152.  THE HOUSE 153.  COL SELLERS ASLEEP IN HOUSE OF

REPRESENTATIVES 154.  A HEARTY SHAKE

CHAPTER XXXVII.

That Chairman was nowhere in sight. Such disappointments seldom occur in

novels, but are always happening in real life.

She was obliged to make a new plan. She sent him a note, and asked him

to call in the evening--which he did.

She received the Hon. Mr. Buckstone with a sunny smile, and said:

“I don't know how I ever dared to send you a note, Mr. Buckstone, for

you have the reputation of not being very partial to our sex.”

“Why I am sure my reputation does me wrong, then, Miss Hawkins. I have

been married once--is that nothing in my favor?”

“Oh, yes--that is, it may be and it may not be. If you have known what

perfection is in woman, it is fair to argue that inferiority cannot

interest you now.”

“Even if that were the case it could not affect you, Miss Hawkins,” said

the chairman gallantly. “Fame does not place you in the list of ladies

who rank below perfection.” This happy speech delighted Mr. Buckstone as

much as it seemed to delight Laura. But it did not confuse him as much

as it apparently did her.

“I wish in all sincerity that I could be worthy of such a felicitous

compliment as that. But I am a woman, and so I am gratified for it just

as it is, and would not have it altered.”

“But it is not merely a compliment--that is, an empty complement--it is

the truth. All men will endorse that.”

Laura looked pleased, and said:

“It is very kind of you to say it. It is a distinction indeed, for a

country-bred girl like me to be so spoken of by people of brains and

culture. You are so kind that I know you will pardon my putting you to

the trouble to come this evening.”

“Indeed it was no trouble. It was a pleasure. I am alone in the world

since I lost my wife, and I often long for the society of your sex, Miss

Hawkins, notwithstanding what people may say to the contrary.”

“It is pleasant to hear you say that. I am sure it must be so. If I

feel lonely at times, because of my exile from old friends, although

surrounded by new ones who are already very dear to me, how much more

lonely must you feel, bereft as you are, and with no wholesome relief

from the cares of state that weigh you down. For your own sake, as

well as for the sake of others, you ought to go into society oftener. I

seldom see you at a reception, and when I do you do not usually give me

very much of your attention.”

“I never imagined that you wished it or I would have been very glad to

make myself happy in that way.--But one seldom gets an opportunity to

say more than a sentence to you in a place like that. You are always the

centre of a group--a fact which you may have noticed yourself. But if

one might come here--”

“Indeed you would always find a hearty welcome, Mr. Buckstone. I

have often wished you would come and tell me more about Cairo and the

Pyramids, as you once promised me you would.”

“Why, do you remember that yet, Miss Hawkins? I thought ladies' memories

were more fickle than that.”

“Oh, they are not so fickle as gentlemen's promises. And besides, if I

had been inclined to forget, I--did you not give me something by way of

a remembrancer?”

“Did I?”

“Think.”

“It does seem to me that I did; but I have forgotten what it was now.”

“Never, never call a lady's memory fickle again! Do you recognize this?”

“A little spray of box! I am beaten--I surrender. But have you kept that

all this time?”

Laura's confusion was very pretty. She tried to hide it, but the more

she tried the more manifest it became and withal the more captivating to

look upon. Presently she threw the spray of box from her with an annoyed

air, and said:

“I forgot myself. I have been very foolish. I beg that you will forget

this absurd thing.”

Mr. Buckstone picked up the spray, and sitting down by Laura's side on

the sofa, said:

“Please let me keep it, Miss Hawkins. I set a very high value upon it

now.”

“Give it to me, Mr. Buckstone, and do not speak so. I have been

sufficiently punished for my thoughtlessness. You cannot take pleasure

in adding to my distress. Please give it to me.”

“Indeed I do not wish to distress you. But do not consider the matter so

gravely; you have done yourself no wrong. You probably forgot that you

had it; but if you had given it to me I would have kept it--and not

forgotten it.”

“Do not talk so, Mr. Buckstone. Give it to me, please, and forget the

matter.”

“It would not be kind to refuse, since it troubles you so, and so I

restore it. But if you would give me part of it and keep the rest--”

“So that you might have something to remind you of me when you wished to

laugh at my foolishness?”

“Oh, by no means, no! Simply that I might remember that I had once

assisted to discomfort you, and be reminded to do so no more.”

Laura looked up, and scanned his face a moment. She was about to break

the twig, but she hesitated and said:

“If I were sure that you--” She threw the spray away, and continued:

“This is silly! We will change the subject. No, do not insist--I must

have my way in this.”

Then Mr. Buckstone drew off his forces and proceeded to make a wily

advance upon the fortress under cover of carefully-contrived artifices

and stratagems of war. But he contended with an alert and suspicious

enemy; and so at the end of two hours it was manifest to him that he had

made but little progress. Still, he had made some; he was sure of that.

Laura sat alone and communed with herself;

“He is fairly hooked, poor thing. I can play him at my leisure and land

him when I choose. He was all ready to be caught, days and days ago--I

saw that, very well. He will vote for our bill--no fear about that; and

moreover he will work for it, too, before I am done with him. If he had

a woman's eyes he would have noticed that the spray of box had grown

three inches since he first gave it to me, but a man never sees anything

and never suspects. If I had shown him a whole bush he would have

thought it was the same. Well, it is a good night's work: the committee

is safe. But this is a desperate game I am playing in these days--a

wearing, sordid, heartless game. If I lose, I lose everything--even

myself. And if I win the game, will it be worth its cost after all? I do

not know. Sometimes I doubt. Sometimes I half wish I had not begun.

But no matter; I have begun, and I will never turn back; never while I

live.”

Mr. Buckstone indulged in a reverie as he walked homeward:

“She is shrewd and deep, and plays her cards with considerable

discretion--but she will lose, for all that. There is no hurry; I shall

come out winner, all in good time. She is the most beautiful woman in

the world; and she surpassed herself to-night. I suppose I must vote

for that bill, in the end maybe; but that is not a matter of much

consequence the government can stand it. She is bent on capturing me,

that is plain; but she will find by and by that what she took for a

sleeping garrison was an ambuscade.”

CHAPTER XXXVIII.

Now this surprising news caus'd her fall in 'a trance,

Life as she were dead, no limbs she could advance,

Then her dear brother came, her from the ground he took

And she spake up and said, O my poor heart is broke.

The Barnardcastle Tragedy.

“Don't you think he is distinguished looking?”

“What! That gawky looking person, with Miss Hawkins?”

“There. He's just speaking to Mrs. Schoonmaker. Such high-bred

negligence and unconsciousness. Nothing studied. See his fine eyes.”

“Very. They are moving this way now. Maybe he is coming here. But he

looks as helpless as a rag baby. Who is he, Blanche?”

“Who is he? And you've been here a week, Grace, and don't know? He's the

catch of the season. That's Washington Hawkins--her brother.”

“No, is it?”

“Very old family, old Kentucky family I believe. He's got enormous

landed property in Tennessee, I think. The family lost everything,

slaves and that sort of thing, you know, in the war. But they have a

great deal of land, minerals, mines and all that. Mr. Hawkins and his

sister too are very much interested in the amelioration of the condition

of the colored race; they have some plan, with Senator Dilworthy, to

convert a large part of their property to something another for the

freedmen.”

“You don't say so? I thought he was some guy from Pennsylvania. But

he is different from others. Probably he has lived all his life on his

plantation.”

It was a day reception of Mrs. Representative Schoonmaker, a sweet

woman, of simple and sincere manners. Her house was one of the most

popular in Washington. There was less ostentation there than in some

others, and people liked to go where the atmosphere reminded them of the

peace and purity of home. Mrs. Schoonmaker was as natural and unaffected

in Washington society as she was in her own New York house, and kept up

the spirit of home-life there, with her husband and children. And that

was the reason, probably, why people of refinement liked to go there.

Washington is a microcosm, and one can suit himself with any sort of

society within a radius of a mile. To a large portion of the people who

frequent Washington or dwell there, the ultra fashion, the shoddy, the

jobbery are as utterly distasteful as they would be in a refined New

England City. Schoonmaker was not exactly a leader in the House, but he

was greatly respected for his fine talents and his honesty. No one would

have thought of offering to carry National Improvement Directors Relief

stock for him.

These day receptions were attended by more women than men, and those

interested in the problem might have studied the costumes of the ladies

present, in view of this fact, to discover whether women dress more

for the eyes of women or for effect upon men. It is a very important

problem, and has been a good deal discussed, and its solution would

form one fixed, philosophical basis, upon which to estimate woman's

character. We are inclined to take a medium ground, and aver that woman

dresses to please herself, and in obedience to a law of her own nature.

“They are coming this way,” said Blanche. People who made way for them

to pass, turned to look at them. Washington began to feel that the eyes

of the public were on him also, and his eyes rolled about, now towards

the ceiling, now towards the floor, in an effort to look unconscious.

“Good morning, Miss Hawkins. Delighted. Mr. Hawkins. My friend, Miss

Medlar.”

Mr. Hawkins, who was endeavoring to square himself for a bow, put his

foot through the train of Mrs. Senator Poplin, who looked round with a

scowl, which turned into a smile as she saw who it was. In extricating

himself, Mr. Hawkins, who had the care of his hat as well as the

introduction on his mind, shambled against Miss Blanche, who said

pardon, with the prettiest accent, as if the awkwardness were her own.

And Mr. Hawkins righted himself.

“Don't you find it very warm to-day, Mr. Hawkins?” said Blanche, by way

of a remark.

“It's awful hot,” said Washington.

“It's warm for the season,” continued Blanche pleasantly. “But I suppose

you are accustomed to it,” she added, with a general idea that the

thermometer always stands at 90 deg. in all parts of the late slave

states. “Washington weather generally cannot be very congenial to you?”

“It's congenial,” said Washington brightening up, “when it's not

congealed.”

“That's very good. Did you hear, Grace, Mr. Hawkins says it's congenial

when it's not congealed.”

“What is, dear?” said Grace, who was talking with Laura.

The conversation was now finely under way. Washington launched out an

observation of his own.

“Did you see those Japs, Miss Leavitt?”

“Oh, yes, aren't they queer. But so high-bred, so picturesque. Do you

think that color makes any difference, Mr. Hawkins? I used to be so

prejudiced against color.”

“Did you? I never was. I used to think my old mammy was handsome.”

“How interesting your life must have been! I should like to hear about

it.”

Washington was about settling himself into his narrative style, when

Mrs. Gen. McFingal caught his eye.

“Have you been at the Capitol to-day, Mr. Hawkins?”

Washington had not. “Is anything uncommon going on?”

“They say it was very exciting. The Alabama business you know. Gen.

Sutler, of Massachusetts, defied England, and they say he wants war.”

“He wants to make himself conspicuous more like,” said Laura. “He

always, you have noticed, talks with one eye on the gallery, while the

other is on the speaker.”

“Well, my husband says, its nonsense to talk of war, and wicked. He

knows what war is. If we do have war, I hope it will be for the patriots

of Cuba. Don't you think we want Cuba, Mr. Hawkins?”

“I think we want it bad,” said Washington. “And Santo Domingo. Senator

Dilworthy says, we are bound to extend our religion over the isles of

the sea. We've got to round out our territory, and--”

Washington's further observations were broken off by Laura, who whisked

him off to another part of the room, and reminded him that they must

make their adieux.

“How stupid and tiresome these people are,” she said. “Let's go.”

They were turning to say good-by to the hostess, when Laura's attention

was arrested by the sight of a gentleman who was just speaking to Mrs.

Schoonmaker. For a second her heart stopped beating. He was a handsome

man of forty and perhaps more, with grayish hair and whiskers, and he

walked with a cane, as if he were slightly lame. He might be less than

forty, for his face was worn into hard lines, and he was pale.

No. It could not be, she said to herself. It is only a resemblance. But

as the gentleman turned and she saw his full face, Laura put out her

hand and clutched Washington's arm to prevent herself from falling.

Washington, who was not minding anything, as usual, looked 'round in

wonder. Laura's eyes were blazing fire and hatred; he had never seen her

look so before; and her face, was livid.

“Why, what is it, sis? Your face is as white as paper.”

“It's he, it's he. Come, come,” and she dragged him away.

“It's who?” asked Washington, when they had gained the carriage.

“It's nobody, it's nothing. Did I say he? I was faint with the heat.

Don't mention it. Don't you speak of it,” she added earnestly, grasping

his arm.

When she had gained her room she went to the glass and saw a pallid and

haggard face.

“My God,” she cried, “this will never do. I should have killed him, if

I could. The scoundrel still lives, and dares to come here. I ought to

kill him. He has no right to live. How I hate him. And yet I loved him.

Oh heavens, how I did love that man. And why didn't he kill me? He

might better. He did kill all that was good in me. Oh, but he shall not

escape. He shall not escape this time. He may have forgotten. He will

find that a woman's hate doesn't forget. The law? What would the law do

but protect him and make me an outcast? How all Washington would gather

up its virtuous skirts and avoid me, if it knew. I wonder if he hates me

as I do him?”

So Laura raved, in tears and in rage by turns, tossed in a tumult of

passion, which she gave way to with little effort to control.

A servant came to summon her to dinner. She had a headache. The hour

came for the President's reception. She had a raving headache, and the

Senator must go without her.

That night of agony was like another night she recalled. How vividly it

all came back to her. And at that time she remembered she thought she

might be mistaken. He might come back to her. Perhaps he loved her,

a little, after all. Now, she knew he did not. Now, she knew he was a

cold-blooded scoundrel, without pity. Never a word in all these years.

She had hoped he was dead. Did his wife live, she wondered. She caught

at that--and it gave a new current to her thoughts. Perhaps, after

all--she must see him. She could not live without seeing him. Would he

smile as in the old days when she loved him so; or would he sneer as

when she last saw him? If he looked so, she hated him. If he should call

her “Laura, darling,” and look SO! She must find him. She must end her

doubts.

Laura kept her room for two days, on one excuse and another--a nervous

headache, a cold--to the great anxiety of the Senator's household.

Callers, who went away, said she had been too gay--they did not say

“fast,” though some of them may have thought it. One so conspicuous and

successful in society as Laura could not be out of the way two days,

without remarks being made, and not all of them complimentary.

When she came down she appeared as usual, a little pale may be, but

unchanged in manner. If there were any deepened lines about the eyes

they had been concealed. Her course of action was quite determined.

At breakfast she asked if any one had heard any unusual noise during the

night? Nobody had. Washington never heard any noise of any kind after

his eyes were shut. Some people thought he never did when they were open

either.

Senator Dilworthy said he had come in late. He was detained in a little

consultation after the Congressional prayer meeting. Perhaps it was his

entrance.

No, Laura said. She heard that. It was later. She might have been

nervous, but she fancied somebody was trying to get into the house.

Mr. Brierly humorously suggested that it might be, as none of the

members were occupied in night session.

The Senator frowned, and said he did not like to hear that kind of

newspaper slang. There might be burglars about.

Laura said that very likely it was only her nervousness. But she

thought she would feel safer if Washington would let her take one of his

pistols. Washington brought her one of his revolvers, and instructed her

in the art of loading and firing it.

During the morning Laura drove down to Mrs. Schoonmaker's to pay a

friendly call.

“Your receptions are always delightful,” she said to that lady, “the

pleasant people all seem to come here.”

“It's pleasant to hear you say so, Miss Hawkins. I believe my friends

like to come here. Though society in Washington is mixed; we have a

little of everything.”

“I suppose, though, you don't see much of the old rebel element?” said

Laura with a smile.

If this seemed to Mrs. Schoonmaker a singular remark for a lady to make,

who was meeting “rebels” in society every day, she did not express it in

any way, but only said,

“You know we don't say 'rebel' anymore. Before we came to Washington I

thought rebels would look unlike other people. I find we are very much

alike, and that kindness and good nature wear away prejudice. And then

you know there are all sorts of common interests. My husband sometimes

says that he doesn't see but confederates are just as eager to get

at the treasury as Unionists. You know that Mr. Schoonmaker is on the

appropriations.”

“Does he know many Southerners?”

“Oh, yes. There were several at my reception the other day. Among others

a confederate Colonel--a stranger--handsome man with gray hair, probably

you didn't notice him, uses a cane in walking. A very agreeable man. I

wondered why he called. When my husband came home and looked over the

cards, he said he had a cotton claim. A real southerner. Perhaps

you might know him if I could think of his name. Yes, here's his

card--Louisiana.”

Laura took the card, looked at it intently till she was sure of the

address, and then laid it down, with,

“No, he is no friend of ours.”

That afternoon, Laura wrote and dispatched the following note. It was in

a round hand, unlike her flowing style, and it was directed to a number

and street in Georgetown:--

“A Lady at Senator Dilworthy's would like to see Col. George Selby,

on business connected with the Cotton Claims. Can he call Wednesday at

three o'clock P. M.?” On Wednesday at 3 P. M, no one of the family was

likely to be in the house except Laura.

CHAPTER XXXIX.

Col. Selby had just come to Washington, and taken lodgings in

Georgetown. His business was to get pay for some cotton that was

destroyed during the war. There were many others in Washington on the

same errand, some of them with claims as difficult to establish as his.

A concert of action was necessary, and he was not, therefore, at all

surprised to receive the note from a lady asking him to call at Senator

Dilworthy's.

At a little after three on Wednesday he rang the bell of the Senator's

residence. It was a handsome mansion on the Square opposite the

President's house. The owner must be a man of great wealth, the Colonel

thought; perhaps, who knows, said he with a smile, he may have got some

of my cotton in exchange for salt and quinine after the capture of New

Orleans. As this thought passed through his mind he was looking at the

remarkable figure of the Hero of New Orleans, holding itself by main

strength from sliding off the back of the rearing bronze horse, and

lifting its hat in the manner of one who acknowledges the playing of

that martial air: “See, the Conquering Hero Comes!” “Gad,” said the

Colonel to himself, “Old Hickory ought to get down and give his seat to

Gen. Sutler--but they'd have to tie him on.”

Laura was in the drawing room. She heard the bell, she heard the steps

in the hall, and the emphatic thud of the supporting cane. She had risen

from her chair and was leaning against the piano, pressing her left

hand against the violent beating of her heart. The door opened and the

Colonel entered, standing in the full light of the opposite window.

Laura was more in the shadow and stood for an instant, long enough for

the Colonel to make the inward observation that she was a magnificent

Woman. She then advanced a step.

“Col. Selby, is it not?”

The Colonel staggered back, caught himself by a chair, and turned

towards her a look of terror.

“Laura? My God!”

“Yes, your wife!”

“Oh, no, it can't be. How came you here? I thought you were--”

“You thought I was dead? You thought you were rid of me? Not so long as

you live, Col. Selby, not so long as you live,” Laura in her passion was

hurried on to say.

No man had ever accused Col. Selby of cowardice. But he was a coward

before this woman. May be he was not the man he once was. Where was his

coolness? Where was his sneering, imperturbable manner, with which he

could have met, and would have met, any woman he had wronged, if he had

only been forewarned. He felt now that he must temporize, that he

must gain time. There was danger in Laura's tone. There was something

frightful in her calmness. Her steady eyes seemed to devour him.

“You have ruined my life,” she said; “and I was so young, so ignorant,

and loved you so. You betrayed me, and left me, mocking me and trampling

me into the dust, a soiled cast-off. You might better have killed me

then. Then I should not have hated you.”

“Laura,” said the Colonel, nerving himself, but still pale, and speaking

appealingly, “don't say that. Reproach me. I deserve it. I was a

scoundrel. I was everything monstrous. But your beauty made me crazy.

You are right. I was a brute in leaving you as I did. But what could I

do? I was married, and--”

“And your wife still lives?” asked Laura, bending a little forward in

her eagerness.

The Colonel noticed the action, and he almost said “no,” but he thought

of the folly of attempting concealment.

“Yes. She is here.”

What little color had wandered back into Laura's face forsook it again.

Her heart stood still, her strength seemed going from her limbs. Her

last hope was gone. The room swam before her for a moment, and the

Colonel stepped towards her, but she waved him back, as hot anger again

coursed through her veins, and said,

“And you dare come with her, here, and tell me of it, here and mock me

with it! And you think I will have it; George? You think I will let you

live with that woman? You think I am as powerless as that day I fell

dead at your feet?”

She raged now. She was in a tempest of excitement. And she advanced

towards him with a threatening mien. She would kill me if she could,

thought the Colonel; but he thought at the same moment, how beautiful

she is. He had recovered his head now. She was lovely when he knew her,

then a simple country girl. Now she was dazzling, in the fullness of

ripe womanhood, a superb creature, with all the fascination that a woman

of the world has for such a man as Col. Selby. Nothing of this was lost

on him. He stepped quickly to her, grasped both her hands in his, and

said,

“Laura, stop! think! Suppose I loved you yet! Suppose I hated my fate!

What can I do? I am broken by the war. I have lost everything almost. I

had as lief be dead and done with it.”

The Colonel spoke with a low remembered voice that thrilled through

Laura. He was looking into her eyes as he had looked in those old days,

when no birds of all those that sang in the groves where they walked

sang a note of warning. He was wounded. He had been punished. Her

strength forsook her with her rage, and she sank upon a chair, sobbing,

“Oh! my God, I thought I hated him!”

The Colonel knelt beside her. He took her hand and she let him keep it.

She looked down into his face, with a pitiable tenderness, and said in a

weak voice.

“And you do love me a little?”

The Colonel vowed and protested. He kissed her hand and her lips. He

swore his false soul into perdition.

She wanted love, this woman. Was not her love for George Selby deeper

than any other woman's could be? Had she not a right to him? Did he not

belong to her by virtue of her overmastering passion? His wife--she was

not his wife, except by the law. She could not be. Even with the law she

could have no right to stand between two souls that were one. It was an

infamous condition in society that George should be tied to her.

Laura thought this, believed it; because she desired to believe it. She

came to it as an original proposition founded on the requirements of her

own nature. She may have heard, doubtless she had, similar theories that

were prevalent at that day, theories of the tyranny of marriage and of

the freedom of marriage. She had even heard women lecturers say, that

marriage should only continue so long as it pleased either party to

it--for a year, or a month, or a day. She had not given much heed to

this, but she saw its justice now in a dash of revealing desire. It must

be right. God would not have permitted her to love George Selby as she

did, and him to love her, if it was right for society to raise up

a barrier between them. He belonged to her. Had he not confessed it

himself?

Not even the religious atmosphere of Senator Dilworthy's house had been

sufficient to instill into Laura that deep Christian principle which had

been somehow omitted in her training. Indeed in that very house had she

not heard women, prominent before the country and besieging Congress,

utter sentiments that fully justified the course she was marking out for

herself.

They were seated now, side by side, talking with more calmness.

Laura was happy, or thought she was. But it was that feverish sort of

happiness which is snatched out of the black shadow of falsehood, and

is at the moment recognized as fleeting and perilous, and indulged

tremblingly. She loved. She was loved. That is happiness certainly. And

the black past and the troubled present and the uncertain future could

not snatch that from her.

What did they say as they sat there? What nothings do people usually

say in such circumstances, even if they are three-score and ten? It was

enough for Laura to hear his voice and be near him. It was enough for

him to be near her, and avoid committing himself as much as he could.

Enough for him was the present also. Had there not always been some way

out of such scrapes?

And yet Laura could not be quite content without prying into tomorrow.

How could the Colonel manage to free himself from his wife? Would it be

long? Could he not go into some State where it would not take much time?

He could not say exactly. That they must think of. That they must talk

over. And so on. Did this seem like a damnable plot to Laura against

the life, maybe, of a sister, a woman like herself? Probably not. It was

right that this man should be hers, and there were some obstacles in the

way. That was all. There are as good reasons for bad actions as for

good ones,--to those who commit them. When one has broken the tenth

commandment, the others are not of much account.

Was it unnatural, therefore, that when George Selby departed, Laura

should watch him from the window, with an almost joyful heart as he went

down the sunny square? “I shall see him to-morrow,” she said, “and the

next day, and the next. He is mine now.”

“Damn the woman,” said the Colonel as he picked his way down the steps.

“Or,” he added, as his thoughts took a new turn, “I wish my wife was in

New Orleans.”

CHAPTER XL.

Open your ears; for which of you will stop,

The vent of hearing when loud Rumor speaks?

I, from the orient to the drooping west,

Making the wind my post-horse, still unfold

The acts commenced on this ball of earth:

Upon my tongues continual slanders ride;

The which in every language I pronounce,

Stuffing the ears of men with false reports.

King Henry IV.

As may be readily believed, Col. Beriah Sellers was by this time one

of the best known men in Washington. For the first time in his life his

talents had a fair field.

He was now at the centre of the manufacture of gigantic schemes,

of speculations of all sorts, of political and social gossip. The

atmosphere was full of little and big rumors and of vast, undefined

expectations. Everybody was in haste, too, to push on his private plan,

and feverish in his haste, as if in constant apprehension that tomorrow

would be Judgment Day. Work while Congress is in session, said the

uneasy spirit, for in the recess there is no work and no device.

The Colonel enjoyed this bustle and confusion amazingly; he thrived in

the air of indefinite expectation. All his own schemes took larger shape

and more misty and majestic proportions; and in this congenial air,

the Colonel seemed even to himself to expand into something large and

mysterious. If he respected himself before, he almost worshipped Beriah

Sellers now, as a superior being. If he could have chosen an official

position out of the highest, he would have been embarrassed in the

selection. The presidency of the republic seemed too limited and cramped

in the constitutional restrictions. If he could have been Grand Llama

of the United States, that might have come the nearest to his idea of a

position. And next to that he would have luxuriated in the irresponsible

omniscience of the Special Correspondent.

Col. Sellers knew the President very well, and had access to

his presence when officials were kept cooling their heels in the

Waiting-room. The President liked to hear the Colonel talk, his voluble

ease was a refreshment after the decorous dullness of men who only

talked business and government, and everlastingly expounded their

notions of justice and the distribution of patronage. The Colonel was as

much a lover of farming and of horses as Thomas Jefferson was. He

talked to the President by the hour about his magnificent stud, and his

plantation at Hawkeye, a kind of principality--he represented it. He

urged the President to pay him a visit during the recess, and see his

stock farm.

“The President's table is well enough,” he used to say, to the loafers

who gathered about him at Willard's, “well enough for a man on a salary,

but God bless my soul, I should like him to see a little old-fashioned

hospitality--open house, you know. A person seeing me at home might

think I paid no attention to what was in the house, just let things

flow in and out. He'd be mistaken. What I look to is quality, sir. The

President has variety enough, but the quality! Vegetables of course

you can't expect here. I'm very particular about mine. Take celery,

now--there's only one spot in this country where celery will grow. But

I am surprised about the wines. I should think they were manufactured

in the New York Custom House. I must send the President some from my

cellar. I was really mortified the other day at dinner to see Blacque

Bey leave his standing in the glasses.”

When the Colonel first came to Washington he had thoughts of taking the

mission to Constantinople, in order to be on the spot to look after the

dissemination of his Eye Water, but as that invention; was not yet quite

ready, the project shrank a little in the presence of vaster schemes.

Besides he felt that he could do the country more good by remaining

at home. He was one of the Southerners who were constantly quoted as

heartily “accepting the situation.”

“I'm whipped,” he used to say with a jolly laugh, “the government was

too many for me; I'm cleaned out, done for, except my plantation and

private mansion. We played for a big thing, and lost it, and I don't

whine, for one. I go for putting the old flag on all the vacant lots. I

said to the President, says I, 'Grant, why don't you take Santo Domingo,

annex the whole thing, and settle the bill afterwards. That's my way.

I'd take the job to manage Congress. The South would come into it.

You've got to conciliate the South, consolidate the two debts, pay 'em

off in greenbacks, and go ahead. That's my notion. Boutwell's got the

right notion about the value of paper, but he lacks courage. I should

like to run the treasury department about six months. I'd make things

plenty, and business look up.'”

The Colonel had access to the departments. He knew all the senators and

representatives, and especially, the lobby. He was consequently a great

favorite in Newspaper Row, and was often lounging in the offices there,

dropping bits of private, official information, which were immediately,

caught up and telegraphed all over the country. But it used to surprise

even the Colonel when he read it, it was embellished to that degree that

he hardly recognized it, and the hint was not lost on him. He began

to exaggerate his heretofore simple conversation to suit the newspaper

demand.

People used to wonder in the winters of 187- and 187-, where the

“Specials” got that remarkable information with which they every morning

surprised the country, revealing the most secret intentions of the

President and his cabinet, the private thoughts of political leaders,

the hidden meaning of every movement. This information was furnished by

Col. Sellers.

When he was asked, afterwards, about the stolen copy of the Alabama

Treaty which got into the “New York Tribune,” he only looked mysterious,

and said that neither he nor Senator Dilworthy knew anything about it.

But those whom he was in the habit of meeting occasionally felt almost

certain that he did know.

It must not be supposed that the Colonel in his general patriotic labors

neglected his own affairs. The Columbus River Navigation Scheme absorbed

only a part of his time, so he was enabled to throw quite a strong

reserve force of energy into the Tennessee Land plan, a vast enterprise

commensurate with his abilities, and in the prosecution of which he was

greatly aided by Mr. Henry Brierly, who was buzzing about the capitol

and the hotels day and night, and making capital for it in some

mysterious way.

“We must create a public opinion,” said Senator Dilworthy. “My

only interest in it is a public one, and if the country wants the

institution, Congress will have to yield.”

It may have been after a conversation between the Colonel and Senator

Dilworthy that the following special despatch was sent to a New York

newspaper:

“We understand that a philanthropic plan is on foot in relation to the

colored race that will, if successful, revolutionize the whole character

of southern industry. An experimental institution is in contemplation

in Tennessee which will do for that state what the Industrial School at

Zurich did for Switzerland. We learn that approaches have been made to

the heirs of the late Hon. Silas Hawkins of Missouri, in reference to a

lease of a portion of their valuable property in East Tennessee. Senator

Dilworthy, it is understood, is inflexibly opposed to any arrangement

that will not give the government absolute control. Private interests

must give way to the public good. It is to be hoped that Col. Sellers,

who represents the heirs, will be led to see the matter in this light.”

When Washington Hawkins read this despatch, he went to the Colonel in

some anxiety. He was for a lease, he didn't want to surrender anything.

What did he think the government would offer? Two millions?

“May be three, may be four,” said the Colonel, “it's worth more than the

bank of England.”

“If they will not lease,” said Washington, “let 'em make it two millions

for an undivided half. I'm not going to throw it away, not the whole of

it.”

Harry told the Colonel that they must drive the thing through, he

couldn't be dallying round Washington when Spring opened. Phil wanted

him, Phil had a great thing on hand up in Pennsylvania.

“What is that?” inquired the Colonel, always ready to interest himself

in anything large.

“A mountain of coal; that's all. He's going to run a tunnel into it in

the Spring.”

“Does he want any capital?”, asked the Colonel, in the tone of a man who

is given to calculating carefully before he makes an investment.

“No. Old man Bolton's behind him. He has capital, but I judged that he

wanted my experience in starting.”

“If he wants me, tell him I'll come, after Congress adjourns. I should

like to give him a little lift. He lacks enterprise--now, about that

Columbus River. He doesn't see his chances. But he's a good fellow, and

you can tell him that Sellers won't go back on him.”

“By the way,” asked Harry, “who is that rather handsome party that's

hanging 'round Laura? I see him with her everywhere, at the Capitol,

in the horse cars, and he comes to Dilworthy's. If he weren't lame, I

should think he was going to run off with her.”

“Oh, that's nothing. Laura knows her business. He has a cotton claim.

Used to be at Hawkeye during the war.

“Selby's his name, was a Colonel. Got a wife and family. Very

respectable people, the Selby's.”

“Well, that's all right,” said Harry, “if it's business. But if a woman

looked at me as I've seen her at Selby, I should understand it. And it's

talked about, I can tell you.”

Jealousy had no doubt sharpened this young gentleman's observation.

Laura could not have treated him with more lofty condescension if she

had been the Queen of Sheba, on a royal visit to the great republic.

And he resented it, and was “huffy” when he was with her, and ran her

errands, and brought her gossip, and bragged of his intimacy with the

lovely creature among the fellows at Newspaper Row.

Laura's life was rushing on now in the full stream of intrigue and

fashionable dissipation. She was conspicuous at the balls of the fastest

set, and was suspected of being present at those doubtful suppers that

began late and ended early. If Senator Dilworthy remonstrated about

appearances, she had a way of silencing him. Perhaps she had some hold

on him, perhaps she was necessary to his plan for ameliorating the

condition of the colored race.

She saw Col. Selby, when the public knew and when it did not know. She

would see him, whatever excuses he made, and however he avoided her.

She was urged on by a fever of love and hatred and jealousy, which

alternately possessed her. Sometimes she petted him, and coaxed him and

tried all her fascinations. And again she threatened him and reproached

him. What was he doing? Why had he taken no steps to free himself? Why

didn't he send his wife home? She should have money soon. They could go

to Europe--anywhere. What did she care for talk?

And he promised, and lied, and invented fresh excuses for delay, like a

cowardly gambler and roue as he was, fearing to break with her, and half

the time unwilling to give her up.

“That woman doesn't know what fear is,” he said to himself, “and she

watches me like a hawk.”

He told his wife that this woman was a lobbyist, whom he had to tolerate

and use in getting through his claims, and that he should pay her and

have done with her, when he succeeded.

CHAPTER XLI.

Henry Brierly was at the Dilworthy's constantly and on such terms of

intimacy that he came and went without question. The Senator was not an

inhospitable man, he liked to have guests in his house, and Harry's gay

humor and rattling way entertained him; for even the most devout men and

busy statesmen must have hours of relaxation.

Harry himself believed that he was of great service in the University

business, and that the success of the scheme depended upon him to a

great degree. He spent many hours in talking it over with the Senator

after dinner. He went so far as to consider whether it would be worth

his while to take the professorship of civil engineering in the new

institution.

But it was not the Senator's society nor his dinners--at which this

scapegrace remarked that there was too much grace and too little

wine--which attracted him to the house. The fact was the poor fellow

hung around there day after day for the chance of seeing Laura for five

minutes at a time. For her presence at dinner he would endure the long

bore of the Senator's talk afterwards, while Laura was off at some

assembly, or excused herself on the plea of fatigue. Now and then he

accompanied her to some reception, and rarely, on off nights, he was

blessed with her company in the parlor, when he sang, and was chatty

and vivacious and performed a hundred little tricks of imitation and

ventriloquism, and made himself as entertaining as a man could be.

It puzzled him not a little that all his fascinations seemed to go for

so little with Laura; it was beyond his experience with women. Sometimes

Laura was exceedingly kind and petted him a little, and took the trouble

to exert her powers of pleasing, and to entangle him deeper and deeper.

But this, it angered him afterwards to think, was in private; in public

she was beyond his reach, and never gave occasion to the suspicion

that she had any affair with him. He was never permitted to achieve the

dignity of a serious flirtation with her in public.

“Why do you treat me so?” he once said, reproachfully.

“Treat you how?” asked Laura in a sweet voice, lifting her eyebrows.

“You know well enough. You let other fellows monopolize you in society,

and you are as indifferent to me as if we were strangers.”

“Can I help it if they are attentive, can I be rude? But we are such old

friends, Mr. Brierly, that I didn't suppose you would be jealous.”

“I think I must be a very old friend, then, by your conduct towards me.

By the same rule I should judge that Col. Selby must be very new.”

Laura looked up quickly, as if about to return an indignant answer

to such impertinence, but she only said, “Well, what of Col. Selby,

sauce-box?”

“Nothing, probably, you'll care for. Your being with him so much is the

town talk, that's all?”

“What do people say?” asked Laura calmly.

“Oh, they say a good many things. You are offended, though, to have me

speak of it?”

“Not in the least. You are my true friend. I feel that I can trust you.

You wouldn't deceive me, Harry?” throwing into her eyes a look of trust

and tenderness that melted away all his petulance and distrust. “What do

they say?”

“Some say that you've lost your head about him; others that you don't

care any more for him than you do for a dozen others, but that he is

completely fascinated with you and about to desert his wife; and others

say it is nonsense to suppose you would entangle yourself with a married

man, and that your intimacy only arises from the matter of the cotton,

claims, for which he wants your influence with Dilworthy. But you know

everybody is talked about more or less in Washington. I shouldn't care;

but I wish you wouldn't have so much to do with Selby, Laura,” continued

Harry, fancying that he was now upon such terms that his, advice, would

be heeded.

“And you believed these slanders?”

“I don't believe anything against you, Laura, but Col. Selby does not

mean you any good. I know you wouldn't be seen with him if you knew his

reputation.”

“Do you know him?” Laura asked, as indifferently as she could.

“Only a little. I was at his lodgings' in Georgetown a day or two ago,

with Col. Sellers. Sellers wanted to talk with him about some patent

remedy he has, Eye Water, or something of that sort, which he wants to

introduce into Europe. Selby is going abroad very soon.”

Laura started; in spite of her self-control.

“And his wife!--Does he take his family? Did you see his wife?”

“Yes. A dark little woman, rather worn--must have been pretty once

though. Has three or four children, one of them a baby. They'll all

go of course. She said she should be glad enough to get away from

Washington. You know Selby has got his claim allowed, and they say he

has had a run of luck lately at Morrissey's.”

Laura heard all this in a kind of stupor, looking straight at Harry,

without seeing him. Is it possible, she was thinking, that this base

wretch, after all his promises, will take his wife and children and

leave me? Is it possible the town is saying all these things about me?

And a look of bitterness coming into her face--does the fool think he

can escape so?

“You are angry with me, Laura,” said Harry, not comprehending in the

least what was going on in her mind.

“Angry?” she said, forcing herself to come back to his presence.

“With you? Oh no. I'm angry with the cruel world, which, pursues an

independent woman as it never does a man. I'm grateful to you Harry; I'm

grateful to you for telling me of that odious man.”

And she rose from her chair and gave him her pretty hand, which the

silly fellow took, and kissed and clung to. And he said many silly

things, before she disengaged herself gently, and left him, saying it

was time to dress, for dinner.

And Harry went away, excited, and a little hopeful, but only a little.

The happiness was only a gleam, which departed and left him thoroughly

miserable. She never would love him, and she was going to the devil,

besides. He couldn't shut his eyes to what he saw, nor his ears to what

he heard of her.

What had come over this thrilling young lady-killer? It was a pity to

see such a gay butterfly broken on a wheel. Was there something good in

him, after all, that had been touched? He was in fact madly in love with

this woman.

It is not for us to analyze the passion and say whether it was a worthy

one. It absorbed his whole nature and made him wretched enough. If he

deserved punishment, what more would you have? Perhaps this love was

kindling a new heroism in him.

He saw the road on which Laura was going clearly enough, though he did

not believe the worst he heard of her. He loved her too passionately to

credit that for a moment. And it seemed to him that if he could compel

her to recognize her position, and his own devotion, she might love him,

and that he could save her. His love was so far ennobled, and become

a very different thing from its beginning in Hawkeye. Whether he ever

thought that if he could save her from ruin, he could give her up

himself, is doubtful. Such a pitch of virtue does not occur often in

real life, especially in such natures as Harry's, whose generosity

and unselfishness were matters of temperament rather than habits or

principles.

He wrote a long letter to Laura, an incoherent, passionate letter,

pouring out his love as he could not do in her presence, and warning her

as plainly as he dared of the dangers that surrounded her, and the risks

she ran of compromising herself in many ways.

Laura read the letter, with a little sigh may be, as she thought of

other days, but with contempt also, and she put it into the fire with

the thought, “They are all alike.”

Harry was in the habit of writing to Philip freely, and boasting also

about his doings, as he could not help doing and remain himself.

Mixed up with his own exploits, and his daily triumphs as a lobbyist,

especially in the matter of the new University, in which Harry was to

have something handsome, were amusing sketches of Washington society,

hints about Dilworthy, stories about Col. Sellers, who had become a

well-known character, and wise remarks upon the machinery of private

legislation for the public-good, which greatly entertained Philip in his

convalescence.

Laura's name occurred very often in these letters, at first in casual

mention as the belle of the season, carrying everything before her with

her wit and beauty, and then more seriously, as if Harry did not exactly

like so much general admiration of her, and was a little nettled by her

treatment of him.

This was so different from Harry's usual tone about women, that Philip

wondered a good deal over it. Could it be possible that he was seriously

affected? Then came stories about Laura, town talk, gossip which Harry

denied the truth of indignantly; but he was evidently uneasy, and at

length wrote in such miserable spirits that Philip asked him squarely

what the trouble was; was he in love?

Upon this, Harry made a clean breast of it, and told Philip all he

knew about the Selby affair, and Laura's treatment of him, sometimes

encouraging him--and then throwing him off, and finally his belief that

she would go to the bad if something was not done to arouse her from her

infatuation. He wished Philip was in Washington. He knew Laura, and

she had a great respect for his character, his opinions, his judgment.

Perhaps he, as an uninterested person in whom she would have some

confidence, and as one of the public, could say some thing to her that

would show her where she stood.

Philip saw the situation clearly enough. Of Laura he knew not much,

except that she was a woman of uncommon fascination, and he thought from

what he had seen of her in Hawkeye, her conduct towards him and towards

Harry, of not too much principle. Of course he knew nothing of her

history; he knew nothing seriously against her, and if Harry was

desperately enamored of her, why should he not win her if he could.

If, however, she had already become what Harry uneasily felt she might

become, was it not his duty to go to the rescue of his friend and try to

save him from any rash act on account of a woman that might prove to

be entirely unworthy of him; for trifler and visionary as he was, Harry

deserved a better fate than this.

Philip determined to go to Washington and see for himself. He had other

reasons also. He began to know enough of Mr. Bolton's affairs to be

uneasy. Pennybacker had been there several times during the winter, and

he suspected that he was involving Mr. Bolton in some doubtful scheme.

Pennybacker was in Washington, and Philip thought he might perhaps find

out something about him, and his plans, that would be of service to Mr.

Bolton.

Philip had enjoyed his winter very well, for a man with his arm broken

and his head smashed. With two such nurses as Ruth and Alice,

illness seemed to him rather a nice holiday, and every moment of his

convalescence had been precious and all too fleeting. With a young

fellow of the habits of Philip, such injuries cannot be counted on

to tarry long, even for the purpose of love-making, and Philip found

himself getting strong with even disagreeable rapidity.

During his first weeks of pain and weakness, Ruth was unceasing in

her ministrations; she quietly took charge of him, and with a gentle

firmness resisted all attempts of Alice or any one else to share to any

great extent the burden with her. She was clear, decisive and peremptory

in whatever she did; but often when Philip opened his eyes in those

first days of suffering and found her standing by his bedside, he saw

a look of tenderness in her anxious face that quickened his already

feverish pulse, a look that remained in his heart long after he closed

his eyes. Sometimes he felt her hand on his forehead, and did not open

his eyes for fear she would take it away. He watched for her coming to

his chamber; he could distinguish her light footstep from all others.

If this is what is meant by women practicing medicine, thought Philip to

himself, I like it.

“Ruth,” said he one day when he was getting to be quite himself, “I

believe in it?”

“Believe in what?”

“Why, in women physicians.”

“Then, I'd better call in Mrs. Dr. Longstreet.”

“Oh, no. One will do, one at a time. I think I should be well tomorrow,

if I thought I should never have any other.”

“Thy physician thinks thee mustn't talk, Philip,” said Ruth putting her

finger on his lips.

“But, Ruth, I want to tell you that I should wish I never had got well

if--”