“We've got something with money in it,” he explained to Mr. Bolton,

“got hold of it by good luck. We've got the entire contract for Dobson's

Patent Pavement for the city of Mobile. See here.”

Mr. Bigler made some figures; contract so much, cost of work and

materials so much, profits so much. At the end of three months the

city would owe the company three hundred and seventy-five thousand

dollars-two hundred thousand of that would be profits. The whole job was

worth at least a million to the company--it might be more. There could

be no mistake in these figures; here was the contract, Mr. Bolton knew

what materials were worth and what the labor would cost.

Mr. Bolton knew perfectly well from sore experience that there was

always a mistake in figures when Bigler or Small made them, and he knew

that he ought to send the fellow about his business. Instead of that, he

let him talk.

They only wanted to raise fifty thousand dollars to carry on the

contract--that expended they would have city bonds. Mr. Bolton said he

hadn't the money. But Bigler could raise it on his name. Mr. Bolton said

he had no right to put his family to that risk. But the entire contract

could be assigned to him--the security was ample--it was a fortune to

him if it was forfeited. Besides Mr. Bigler had been unfortunate, he

didn't know where to look for the necessaries of life for his family. If

he could only have one more chance, he was sure he could right himself.

He begged for it.

And Mr. Bolton yielded. He could never refuse such appeals. If he had

befriended a man once and been cheated by him, that man appeared to have

a claim upon him forever. He shrank, however, from telling his wife what

he had done on this occasion, for he knew that if any person was more

odious than Small to his family it was Bigler.

“Philip tells me,” Mrs. Bolton said that evening, “that the man Bigler

has been with thee again to-day. I hope thee will have nothing more to

do with him.”

“He has been very unfortunate,” replied Mr. Bolton, uneasily.

“He is always unfortunate, and he is always getting thee into trouble.

But thee didn't listen to him again?”

“Well, mother, his family is in want, and I lent him my name--but I

took ample security. The worst that can happen will be a little

inconvenience.”

Mrs. Bolton looked grave and anxious, but she did not complain or

remonstrate; she knew what a “little inconvenience” meant, but she knew

there was no help for it. If Mr. Bolton had been on his way to market to

buy a dinner for his family with the only dollar he had in the world in

his pocket, he would have given it to a chance beggar who asked him for

it. Mrs. Bolton only asked (and the question showed that she was no mere

provident than her husband where her heart was interested),

“But has thee provided money for Philip to use in opening the coal

mine?”

“Yes, I have set apart as much as it ought to cost to open the mine,

as much as we can afford to lose if no coal is found. Philip has the

control of it, as equal partner in the venture, deducting the capital

invested. He has great confidence in his success, and I hope for his

sake he won't be disappointed.”

Philip could not but feel that he was treated very much like one of the

Bolton-family--by all except Ruth. His mother, when he went home after

his recovery from his accident, had affected to be very jealous of

Mrs. Bolton, about whom and Ruth she asked a thousand questions--an

affectation of jealousy which no doubt concealed a real heartache, which

comes to every mother when her son goes out into the world and forms

new ties. And to Mrs. Sterling, a widow, living on a small income in a

remote Massachusetts village, Philadelphia was a city of many splendors.

All its inhabitants seemed highly favored, dwelling in ease and

surrounded by superior advantages. Some of her neighbors had relations

living in Philadelphia, and it seemed to them somehow a guarantee of

respectability to have relations in Philadelphia. Mrs. Sterling was not

sorry to have Philip make his way among such well-to-do people, and she

was sure that no good fortune could be too good for his deserts.

“So, sir,” said Ruth, when Philip came from New York, “you have been

assisting in a pretty tragedy. I saw your name in the papers. Is this

woman a specimen of your western friends?”

“My only assistance,” replied Philip, a little annoyed, “was in trying

to keep Harry out of a bad scrape, and I failed after all. He walked

into her trap, and he has been punished for it. I'm going to take him

up to Ilium to see if he won't work steadily at one thing, and quit his

nonsense.”

“Is she as beautiful as the newspapers say she is?”

“I don't know, she has a kind of beauty--she is not like--'

“Not like Alice?”

“Well, she is brilliant; she was called the handsomest woman in

Washington--dashing, you know, and sarcastic and witty. Ruth, do you

believe a woman ever becomes a devil?”

“Men do, and I don't know why women shouldn't. But I never saw one.”

“Well, Laura Hawkins comes very near it. But it is dreadful to think of

her fate.”

“Why, do you suppose they will hang a woman? Do you suppose they will be

so barbarous as that?”

“I wasn't thinking of that--it's doubtful if a New York jury would find

a woman guilty of any such crime. But to think of her life if she is

acquitted.”

“It is dreadful,” said Ruth, thoughtfully, “but the worst of it is that

you men do not want women educated to do anything, to be able to earn an

honest living by their own exertions. They are educated as if they were

always to be petted and supported, and there was never to be any such

thing as misfortune. I suppose, now, that you would all choose to have

me stay idly at home, and give up my profession.”

“Oh, no,” said Philip, earnestly, “I respect your resolution. But, Ruth,

do you think you would be happier or do more good in following your

profession than in having a home of your own?”

“What is to hinder having a home of my own?”

“Nothing, perhaps, only you never would be in it--you would be away day

and night, if you had any practice; and what sort of a home would that

make for your husband?”

“What sort of a home is it for the wife whose husband is always away

riding about in his doctor's gig?”

“Ah, you know that is not fair. The woman makes the home.”

Philip and Ruth often had this sort of discussion, to which Philip was

always trying to give a personal turn. He was now about to go to Ilium

for the season, and he did not like to go without some assurance from

Ruth that she might perhaps love him some day; when he was worthy of it,

and when he could offer her something better than a partnership in his

poverty.

“I should work with a great deal better heart, Ruth,” he said the

morning he was taking leave, “if I knew you cared for me a little.”

Ruth was looking down; the color came faintly to her cheeks, and she

hesitated. She needn't be looking down, he thought, for she was ever so

much shorter than tall Philip.

“It's not much of a place, Ilium,” Philip went on, as if a little

geographical remark would fit in here as well as anything else, “and I

shall have plenty of time to think over the responsibility I have taken,

and--” his observation did not seem to be coming out any where.

But Ruth looked up, and there was a light in her eyes that quickened

Phil's pulse. She took his hand, and said with serious sweetness:

“Thee mustn't lose heart, Philip.” And then she added, in another mood,

“Thee knows I graduate in the summer and shall have my diploma. And

if any thing happens--mines explode sometimes--thee can send for me.

Farewell.”

The opening of the Ilium coal mine was begun with energy, but without

many omens of success. Philip was running a tunnel into the breast of

the mountain, in faith that the coal stratum ran there as it ought

to. How far he must go in he believed he knew, but no one could tell

exactly. Some of the miners said that they should probably go through

the mountain, and that the hole could be used for a railway tunnel. The

mining camp was a busy place at any rate. Quite a settlement of board

and log shanties had gone up, with a blacksmith shop, a small machine

shop, and a temporary store for supplying the wants of the workmen.

Philip and Harry pitched a commodious tent, and lived in the full

enjoyment of the free life.

There is no difficulty in digging a bole in the ground, if you have

money enough to pay for the digging, but those who try this sort of work

are always surprised at the large amount of money necessary to make a

small hole. The earth is never willing to yield one product, hidden in

her bosom, without an equivalent for it. And when a person asks of her

coal, she is quite apt to require gold in exchange.

It was exciting work for all concerned in it. As the tunnel advanced

into the rock every day promised to be the golden day. This very blast

might disclose the treasure.

The work went on week after week, and at length during the night as

well as the daytime. Gangs relieved each other, and the tunnel was every

hour, inch by inch and foot by foot, crawling into the mountain. Philip

was on the stretch of hope and excitement. Every pay day he saw his

funds melting away, and still there was only the faintest show of what

the miners call “signs.”

The life suited Harry, whose buoyant hopefulness was never disturbed.

He made endless calculations, which nobody could understand, of the

probable position of the vein. He stood about among the workmen with the

busiest air. When he was down at Ilium he called himself the engineer

of the works, and he used to spend hours smoking his pipe with the Dutch

landlord on the hotel porch, and astonishing the idlers there with

the stories of his railroad operations in Missouri. He talked with the

landlord, too, about enlarging his hotel, and about buying some village

lots, in the prospect of a rise, when the mine was opened. He taught the

Dutchman how to mix a great many cooling drinks for the summer time,

and had a bill at the hotel, the growing length of which Mr. Dusenheimer

contemplated with pleasant anticipations. Mr. Brierly was a very useful

and cheering person wherever he went.

Midsummer arrived: Philip could report to Mr. Bolton only progress, and

this was not a cheerful message for him to send to Philadelphia in

reply to inquiries that he thought became more and more anxious. Philip

himself was a prey to the constant fear that the money would give out

before the coal was struck.

At this time Harry was summoned to New York, to attend the trial of

Laura Hawkins. It was possible that Philip would have to go also, her

lawyer wrote, but they hoped for a postponement. There was important

evidence that they could not yet obtain, and he hoped the judge would

not force them to a trial unprepared. There were many reasons for a

delay, reasons which of course are never mentioned, but which it would

seem that a New York judge sometimes must understand, when he grants

a postponement upon a motion that seems to the public altogether

inadequate.

Harry went, but he soon came back. The trial was put off. Every week we

can gain, said the learned counsel, Braham, improves our chances. The

popular rage never lasts long.

CHAPTER XLIX.

“We've struck it!”

This was the announcement at the tent door that woke Philip out of a

sound sleep at dead of night, and shook all the sleepiness out of him in

a trice.

“What! Where is it? When? Coal? Let me see it. What quality is it?”

were some of the rapid questions that Philip poured out as he hurriedly

dressed. “Harry, wake up, my boy, the coal train is coming. Struck it,

eh? Let's see?”

The foreman put down his lantern, and handed Philip a black lump. There

was no mistake about it, it was the hard, shining anthracite, and its

freshly fractured surface, glistened in the light like polished steel.

Diamond never shone with such lustre in the eyes of Philip.

Harry was exuberant, but Philip's natural caution found expression in

his next remark.

“Now, Roberts, you are sure about this?”

“What--sure that it's coal?”

“O, no, sure that it's the main vein.”

“Well, yes. We took it to be that”

“Did you from the first?”

“I can't say we did at first. No, we didn't. Most of the indications

were there, but not all of them, not all of them. So we thought we'd

prospect a bit.”

“Well?”

“It was tolerable thick, and looked as if it might be the vein--looked

as if it ought to be the vein. Then we went down on it a little. Looked

better all the time.”

“When did you strike it?”

“About ten o'clock.”

“Then you've been prospecting about four hours.”

“Yes, been sinking on it something over four hours.”

“I'm afraid you couldn't go down very far in four hours--could you?”

“O yes--it's a good deal broke up, nothing but picking and gadding

stuff.”

“Well, it does look encouraging, sure enough--but then the lacking

indications--”

“I'd rather we had them, Mr. Sterling, but I've seen more than one good

permanent mine struck without 'em in my time.”

“Well, that is encouraging too.”

“Yes, there was the Union, the Alabama and the Black Mohawk--all good,

sound mines, you know--all just exactly like this one when we first

struck them.”

“Well, I begin to feel a good deal more easy. I guess we've really got

it. I remember hearing them tell about the Black Mohawk.”

“I'm free to say that I believe it, and the men all think so too. They

are all old hands at this business.”

“Come Harry, let's go up and look at it, just for the comfort of it,”

said Philip. They came back in the course of an hour, satisfied and

happy.

There was no more sleep for them that night. They lit their pipes, put

a specimen of the coal on the table, and made it a kind of loadstone of

thought and conversation.

“Of course,” said Harry, “there will have to be a branch track built,

and a 'switch-back' up the hill.”

“Yes, there will be no trouble about getting the money for that now. We

could sell-out tomorrow for a handsome sum. That sort of coal doesn't

go begging within a mile of a rail-road. I wonder if Mr. Bolton would

rather sell out or work it?”

“Oh, work it,” says Harry, “probably the whole mountain is coal now

you've got to it.”

“Possibly it might not be much of a vein after all,” suggested Philip.

“Possibly it is; I'll bet it's forty feet thick. I told you. I knew the

sort of thing as soon as I put my eyes on it.”

Philip's next thought was to write to his friends and announce their

good fortune. To Mr. Bolton he wrote a short, business letter, as calm

as he could make it. They had found coal of excellent quality, but

they could not yet tell with absolute certainty what the vein was. The

prospecting was still going on. Philip also wrote to Ruth; but though

this letter may have glowed, it was not with the heat of burning

anthracite. He needed no artificial heat to warm his pen and kindle his

ardor when he sat down to write to Ruth. But it must be confessed that

the words never flowed so easily before, and he ran on for an hour

disporting in all the extravagance of his imagination. When Ruth read

it, she doubted if the fellow had not gone out of his senses. And it was

not until she reached the postscript that she discovered the cause of

the exhilaration. “P. S.--We have found coal.”

The news couldn't have come to Mr. Bolton in better time. He had never

been so sorely pressed. A dozen schemes which he had in hand, any one

of which might turn up a fortune, all languished, and each needed just

a little more money to save that which had been invested. He hadn't a

piece of real estate that was not covered with mortgages, even to

the wild tract which Philip was experimenting on, and which had, no

marketable value above the incumbrance on it.

He had come home that day early, unusually dejected.

“I am afraid,” he said to his wife, “that we shall have to give up our

house. I don't care for myself, but for thee and the children.”

“That will be the least of misfortunes,” said Mrs. Bolton, cheerfully,

“if thee can clear thyself from debt and anxiety, which is wearing thee

out, we can live any where. Thee knows we were never happier than when

we were in a much humbler home.”

“The truth is, Margaret, that affair of Bigler and Small's has come

on me just when I couldn't stand another ounce. They have made another

failure of it. I might have known they would; and the sharpers, or

fools, I don't know which, have contrived to involve me for three times

as much as the first obligation. The security is in my hands, but it

is good for nothing to me. I have not the money to do anything with the

contract.”

Ruth heard this dismal news without great surprise. She had long felt

that they were living on a volcano, that might go in to active operation

at any hour. Inheriting from her father an active brain and the courage

to undertake new things, she had little of his sanguine temperament

which blinds one to difficulties and possible failures. She had little

confidence in the many schemes which had been about to lift her father

out of all his embarrassments and into great wealth, ever since she

was a child; as she grew older, she rather wondered that they were as

prosperous as they seemed to be, and that they did not all go to smash

amid so many brilliant projects. She was nothing but a woman, and did

not know how much of the business prosperity of the world is only a

bubble of credit and speculation, one scheme helping to float another

which is no better than it, and the whole liable to come to naught and

confusion as soon as the busy brain that conceived them ceases its power

to devise, or when some accident produces a sudden panic.

“Perhaps, I shall be the stay of the family, yet,” said Ruth, with an

approach to gaiety; “When we move into a little house in town, will

thee let me put a little sign on the door: DR. RUTH BOLTON? Mrs. Dr.

Longstreet, thee knows, has a great income.”

“Who will pay for the sign, Ruth?” asked Mr. Bolton.

A servant entered with the afternoon mail from the office. Mr. Bolton

took his letters listlessly, dreading to open them. He knew well what

they contained, new difficulties, more urgent demands for money.

“Oh, here is one from Philip. Poor fellow. I shall feel his

disappointment as much as my own bad luck. It is hard to bear when one

is young.”

He opened the letter and read. As he read his face lightened, and he

fetched such a sigh of relief, that Mrs. Bolton and Ruth both exclaimed.

“Read that,” he cried, “Philip has found coal!”

The world was changed in a moment. One little sentence had done it.

There was no more trouble. Philip had found coal. That meant relief.

That meant fortune. A great weight was taken off, and the spirits of the

whole household rose magically. Good Money! beautiful demon of Money,

what an enchanter thou art! Ruth felt that she was of less consequence

in the household, now that Philip had found Coal, and perhaps she was

not sorry to feel so.

Mr. Bolton was ten years younger the next morning. He went into the

city, and showed his letter on change. It was the sort of news his

friends were quite willing to listen to. They took a new interest in

him. If it was confirmed, Bolton would come right up again. There would

be no difficulty about his getting all the money he wanted. The money

market did not seem to be half so tight as it was the day before. Mr.

Bolton spent a very pleasant day in his office, and went home revolving

some new plans, and the execution of some projects he had long been

prevented from entering upon by the lack of money.

The day had been spent by Philip in no less excitement. By daylight,

with Philip's letters to the mail, word had gone down to Ilium that coal

had been found, and very early a crowd of eager spectators had come up

to see for themselves.

The “prospecting” continued day and night for upwards of a week, and

during the first four or five days the indications grew more and more

promising, and the telegrams and letters kept Mr. Bolton duly posted.

But at last a change came, and the promises began to fail with alarming

rapidity. In the end it was demonstrated without the possibility of a

doubt that the great “find” was nothing but a worthless seam.

Philip was cast down, all the more so because he had been so foolish

as to send the news to Philadelphia before he knew what he was writing

about. And now he must contradict it. “It turns out to be only a mere

seam,” he wrote, “but we look upon it as an indication of better further

in.”

Alas! Mr. Bolton's affairs could not wait for “indications.” The

future might have a great deal in store, but the present was black and

hopeless. It was doubtful if any sacrifice could save him from ruin.

Yet sacrifice he must make, and that instantly, in the hope of saving

something from the wreck of his fortune.

His lovely country home must go. That would bring the most ready money.

The house that he had built with loving thought for each one of his

family, as he planned its luxurious apartments and adorned it; the

grounds that he had laid out, with so much delight in following the

tastes of his wife, with whom the country, the cultivation of rare

trees and flowers, the care of garden and lawn and conservatories were

a passion almost; this home, which he had hoped his children would enjoy

long after he had done with it, must go.

The family bore the sacrifice better than he did. They declared in

fact--women are such hypocrites--that they quite enjoyed the city

(it was in August) after living so long in the country, that it was a

thousand times more convenient in every respect; Mrs. Bolton said it was

a relief from the worry of a large establishment, and Ruth reminded her

father that she should have had to come to town anyway before long.

Mr. Bolton was relieved, exactly as a water-logged ship is lightened by

throwing overboard the most valuable portion of the cargo--but the leak

was not stopped. Indeed his credit was injured instead of helped by the

prudent step he had taken. It was regarded as a sure evidence of his

embarrassment, and it was much more difficult for him to obtain

help than if he had, instead of retrenching, launched into some new

speculation.

Philip was greatly troubled, and exaggerated his own share in the

bringing about of the calamity.

“You must not look at it so!” Mr. Bolton wrote him. “You have neither

helped nor hindered--but you know you may help by and by. It would have

all happened just so, if we had never begun to dig that hole. That is

only a drop. Work away. I still have hope that something will occur to

relieve me. At any rate we must not give up the mine, so long as we have

any show.”

Alas! the relief did not come. New misfortunes came instead. When the

extent of the Bigler swindle was disclosed there was no more hope that

Mr. Bolton could extricate himself, and he had, as an honest man, no

resource except to surrender all his property for the benefit of his

creditors.

The Autumn came and found Philip working with diminished force but still

with hope. He had again and again been encouraged by good “indications,”

but he had again and again been disappointed. He could not go on much

longer, and almost everybody except himself had thought it was useless

to go on as long as he had been doing.

When the news came of Mr. Bolton's failure, of course the work stopped.

The men were discharged, the tools were housed, the hopeful noise of

pickman and driver ceased, and the mining camp had that desolate and

mournful aspect which always hovers over a frustrated enterprise.

Philip sat down amid the ruins, and almost wished he were buried in

them. How distant Ruth was now from him, now, when she might need him

most. How changed was all the Philadelphia world, which had hitherto

stood for the exemplification of happiness and prosperity.

He still had faith that there was coal in that mountain. He made a

picture of himself living there a hermit in a shanty by the tunnel,

digging away with solitary pick and wheelbarrow, day after day and

year after year, until he grew gray and aged, and was known in all that

region as the old man of the mountain. Perhaps some day--he felt it must

be so some day--he should strike coal. But what if he did? Who would

be alive to care for it then? What would he care for it then? No, a man

wants riches in his youth, when the world is fresh to him. He wondered

why Providence could not have reversed the usual process, and let the

majority of men begin with wealth and gradually spend it, and die poor

when they no longer needed it.

Harry went back to the city. It was evident that his services were no

longer needed. Indeed, he had letters from his uncle, which he did not

read to Philip, desiring him to go to San Francisco to look after some

government contracts in the harbor there.

Philip had to look about him for something to do; he was like Adam;

the world was all before him whereto choose. He made, before he went

elsewhere, a somewhat painful visit to Philadelphia, painful but yet

not without its sweetnesses. The family had never shown him so much

affection before; they all seemed to think his disappointment of more

importance than their own misfortune. And there was that in Ruth's

manner--in what she gave him and what she withheld--that would have made

a hero of a very much less promising character than Philip Sterling.

Among the assets of the Bolton property, the Ilium tract was sold, and

Philip bought it in at the vendue, for a song, for no one cared to even

undertake the mortgage on it except himself. He went away the owner of

it, and had ample time before he reached home in November, to calculate

how much poorer he was by possessing it.

CHAPTER L.

It is impossible for the historian, with even the best intentions, to

control events or compel the persons of his narrative to act wisely or

to be successful. It is easy to see how things might have been better

managed; a very little change here and there would have made a very

different history of this one now in hand.

If Philip had adopted some regular profession, even some trade, he might

now be a prosperous editor or a conscientious plumber, or an honest

lawyer, and have borrowed money at the saving's bank and built a

cottage, and be now furnishing it for the occupancy of Ruth and himself.

Instead of this, with only a smattering of civil engineering, he is

at his mother's house, fretting and fuming over his ill-luck, and the

hardness and, dishonesty of men, and thinking of nothing but how to get

the coal out of the Ilium hills.

If Senator Dilworthy had not made that visit to Hawkeye, the Hawkins

family and Col. Sellers would not now be dancing attendance upon

Congress, and endeavoring to tempt that immaculate body into one of

those appropriations, for the benefit of its members, which the members

find it so difficult to explain to their constituents; and Laura would

not be lying in the Tombs, awaiting her trial for murder, and doing

her best, by the help of able counsel, to corrupt the pure fountain of

criminal procedure in New York.

If Henry Brierly had been blown up on the first Mississippi steamboat he

set foot on, as the chances were that he would be, he and Col. Sellers

never would have gone into the Columbus Navigation scheme, and probably

never into the East Tennessee Land scheme, and he would not now be

detained in New York from very important business operations on the

Pacific coast, for the sole purpose of giving evidence to convict of

murder the only woman he ever loved half as much as he loves himself. If

Mr. Bolton had said the little word “no” to Mr. Bigler, Alice Montague

might now be spending the winter in Philadelphia, and Philip also

(waiting to resume his mining operations in the spring); and Ruth would

not be an assistant in a Philadelphia hospital, taxing her strength with

arduous routine duties, day by day, in order to lighten a little the

burdens that weigh upon her unfortunate family.

It is altogether a bad business. An honest historian, who had progressed

thus far, and traced everything to such a condition of disaster

and suspension, might well be justified in ending his narrative and

writing--“after this the deluge.” His only consolation would be in the

reflection that he was not responsible for either characters or events.

And the most annoying thought is that a little money, judiciously

applied, would relieve the burdens and anxieties of most of these

people; but affairs seem to be so arranged that money is most difficult

to get when people need it most.

A little of what Mr. Bolton has weakly given to unworthy people would

now establish his family in a sort of comfort, and relieve Ruth of the

excessive toil for which she inherited no adequate physical vigor. A

little money would make a prince of Col. Sellers; and a little more

would calm the anxiety of Washington Hawkins about Laura, for however

the trial ended, he could feel sure of extricating her in the end.

And if Philip had a little money he could unlock the stone door in

the mountain whence would issue a stream of shining riches. It needs a

golden wand to strike that rock. If the Knobs University bill could only

go through, what a change would be wrought in the condition of most of

the persons in this history. Even Philip himself would feel the good

effects of it; for Harry would have something and Col. Sellers would

have something; and have not both these cautious people expressed a

determination to take an interest in the Ilium mine when they catch

their larks?

Philip could not resist the inclination to pay a visit to Fallkill. He

had not been at the Montague's since the time he saw Ruth there, and he

wanted to consult the Squire about an occupation. He was determined now

to waste no more time in waiting on Providence, but to go to work at

something, if it were nothing better, than teaching in the Fallkill

Seminary, or digging clams on Hingham beach. Perhaps he could read law

in Squire Montague's office while earning his bread as a teacher in the

Seminary.

It was not altogether Philip's fault, let us own, that he was in this

position. There are many young men like him in American society, of

his age, opportunities, education and abilities, who have really been

educated for nothing and have let themselves drift, in the hope that

they will find somehow, and by some sudden turn of good luck, the

golden road to fortune. He was not idle or lazy, he had energy and a

disposition to carve his own way. But he was born into a time when all

young men of his age caught the fever of speculation, and expected to

get on in the world by the omission of some of the regular processes

which have been appointed from of old.

And examples were not wanting to encourage him. He saw people, all

around him, poor yesterday, rich to-day, who had come into sudden

opulence by some means which they could not have classified among any of

the regular occupations of life. A war would give such a fellow a

career and very likely fame. He might have been a “railroad man,” or a

politician, or a land speculator, or one of those mysterious people

who travel free on all rail-roads and steamboats, and are continually

crossing and recrossing the Atlantic, driven day and night about nobody

knows what, and make a great deal of money by so doing. Probably, at

last, he sometimes thought with a whimsical smile, he should end by

being an insurance agent, and asking people to insure their lives for

his benefit.

Possibly Philip did not think how much the attractions of Fallkill were

increased by the presence of Alice there. He had known her so long,

she had somehow grown into his life by habit, that he would expect the

pleasure of her society without thinking much about it. Latterly he

never thought of her without thinking of Ruth, and if he gave the

subject any attention, it was probably in an undefined consciousness

that, he had her sympathy in his love, and that she was always willing

to hear him talk about it. If he ever wondered that Alice herself was

not in love and never spoke of the possibility of her own marriage, it

was a transient thought for love did not seem necessary, exactly, to one

so calm and evenly balanced and with so many resources in her herself.

Whatever her thoughts may have been they were unknown to Philip, as they

are to these historians; if she was seeming to be what she was not, and

carrying a burden heavier than any one else carried, because she had

to bear it alone, she was only doing what thousands of women do, with a

self-renunciation and heroism, of which men, impatient and complaining,

have no conception. Have not these big babies with beards filled all

literature with their outcries, their griefs and their lamentations?

It is always the gentle sex which is hard and cruel and fickle and

implacable.

“Do you think you would be contented to live in Fallkill, and attend the

county Court?” asked Alice, when Philip had opened the budget of his new

programme.

“Perhaps not always,” said Philip, “I might go and practice in Boston

maybe, or go to Chicago.”

“Or you might get elected to Congress.”

Philip looked at Alice to see if she was in earnest and not chaffing

him. Her face was quite sober. Alice was one of those patriotic women

in the rural districts, who think men are still selected for Congress on

account of qualifications for the office.

“No,” said Philip, “the chances are that a man cannot get into congress

now without resorting to arts and means that should render him unfit to

go there; of course there are exceptions; but do you know that I

could not go into politics if I were a lawyer, without losing standing

somewhat in my profession, and without raising at least a suspicion of

my intentions and unselfishness? Why, it is telegraphed all over the

country and commented on as something wonderful if a congressman votes

honestly and unselfishly and refuses to take advantage of his position

to steal from the government.”

“But,” insisted Alice, “I should think it a noble ambition to go to

congress, if it is so bad, and help reform it. I don't believe it is as

corrupt as the English parliament used to be, if there is any truth in

the novels, and I suppose that is reformed.”

“I'm sure I don't know where the reform is to begin. I've seen a

perfectly capable, honest man, time and again, run against an illiterate

trickster, and get beaten. I suppose if the people wanted decent members

of congress they would elect them. Perhaps,” continued Philip with a

smile, “the women will have to vote.”

“Well, I should be willing to, if it were a necessity, just as I

would go to war and do what I could, if the country couldn't be saved

otherwise,” said Alice, with a spirit that surprised Philip, well as he

thought he knew her. “If I were a young gentleman in these times--”

Philip laughed outright. “It's just what Ruth used to say, 'if she were

a man.' I wonder if all the young ladies are contemplating a change of

sex.”

“No, only a changed sex,” retorted Alice; “we contemplate for the most

part young men who don't care for anything they ought to care for.”

“Well,” said Philip, looking humble, “I care for some things, you and

Ruth for instance; perhaps I ought not to. Perhaps I ought to care for

Congress and that sort of thing.”

“Don't be a goose, Philip. I heard from Ruth yesterday.”

“Can I see her letter?”

“No, indeed. But I am afraid her hard work is telling on her, together

with her anxiety about her father.”

“Do you think, Alice,” asked Philip with one of those selfish thoughts

that are not seldom mixed with real love, “that Ruth prefers her

profession to--to marriage?”

“Philip,” exclaimed Alice, rising to quit the room, and speaking

hurriedly as if the words were forced from her, “you are as blind as a

bat; Ruth would cut off her right hand for you this minute.”

Philip never noticed that Alice's face was flushed and that her voice

was unsteady; he only thought of the delicious words he had heard. And

the poor girl, loyal to Ruth, loyal to Philip, went straight to her

room, locked the door, threw herself on the bed and sobbed as if her

heart would break. And then she prayed that her Father in Heaven would

give her strength. And after a time she was calm again, and went to

her bureau drawer and took from a hiding place a little piece of paper,

yellow with age. Upon it was pinned a four-leaved clover, dry and yellow

also. She looked long at this foolish memento. Under the clover leaf was

written in a school-girl's hand--“Philip, June, 186-.”

Squire Montague thought very well of Philip's proposal. It would have

been better if he had begun the study of the law as soon as he left

college, but it was not too late now, and besides he had gathered some

knowledge of the world.

“But,” asked the Squire, “do you mean to abandon your land in

Pennsylvania?” This track of land seemed an immense possible fortune to

this New England lawyer-farmer. “Hasn't it good timber, and doesn't the

railroad almost touch it?”

“I can't do anything with it now. Perhaps I can sometime.”

“What is your reason for supposing that there is coal there?”

“The opinion of the best geologist I could consult, my own observation

of the country, and the little veins of it we found. I feel certain it

is there. I shall find it some day. I know it. If I can only keep the

land till I make money enough to try again.”

Philip took from his pocket a map of the anthracite coal region, and

pointed out the position of the Ilium mountain which he had begun to

tunnel.

“Doesn't it look like it?”

“It certainly does,” said the Squire, very much interested. It is not

unusual for a quiet country gentleman to be more taken with such

a venture than a speculator who, has had more experience in its

uncertainty. It was astonishing how many New England clergymen, in the

time of the petroleum excitement, took chances in oil. The Wall street

brokers are said to do a good deal of small business for country

clergymen, who are moved no doubt with the laudable desire of purifying

the New York stock board.

“I don't see that there is much risk,” said the Squire, at length. “The

timber is worth more than the mortgage; and if that coal seam does run

there, it's a magnificent fortune. Would you like to try it again in the

spring, Phil?”

Like to try it! If he could have a little help, he would work himself,

with pick and barrow, and live on a crust. Only give him one more

chance.

And this is how it came about that the cautious old Squire Montague was

drawn into this young fellow's speculation, and began to have his serene

old age disturbed by anxieties and by the hope of a great stroke of

luck.

“To be sure, I only care about it for the boy,” he said. The Squire was

like everybody else; sooner or later he must “take a chance.”

It is probably on account of the lack of enterprise in women that they

are not so fond of stock speculations and mine ventures as men. It

is only when woman becomes demoralized that she takes to any sort of

gambling. Neither Alice nor Ruth were much elated with the prospect of

Philip's renewal of his mining enterprise.

But Philip was exultant. He wrote to Ruth as if his fortune were already

made, and as if the clouds that lowered over the house of Bolton were

already in the deep bosom of a coal mine buried. Towards spring he

went to Philadelphia with his plans all matured for a new campaign. His

enthusiasm was irresistible.

“Philip has come, Philip has come,” cried the children, as if some great

good had again come into the household; and the refrain even sang itself

over in Ruth's heart as she went the weary hospital rounds. Mr. Bolton

felt more courage than he had had in months, at the sight of his manly

face and the sound of his cheery voice.

Ruth's course was vindicated now, and it certainly did not become

Philip, who had nothing to offer but a future chance against the visible

result of her determination and industry, to open an argument with

her. Ruth was never more certain that she was right and that she was

sufficient unto herself. She, may be, did not much heed the still small

voice that sang in her maiden heart as she went about her work, and

which lightened it and made it easy, “Philip has come.”

“I am glad for father's sake,” she said to Philip, “that thee has come.

I can see that he depends greatly upon what thee can do. He thinks

women won't hold out long,” added Ruth with the smile that Philip never

exactly understood.

“And aren't you tired sometimes of the struggle?”

“Tired? Yes, everybody is tired I suppose. But it is a glorious

profession. And would you want me to be dependent, Philip?”

“Well, yes, a little,” said Philip, feeling his way towards what he

wanted to say.

“On what, for instance, just now?” asked Ruth, a little maliciously

Philip thought.

“Why, on--” he couldn't quite say it, for it occurred to him that he

was a poor stick for any body to lean on in the present state of his

fortune, and that the woman before him was at least as independent as he

was.

“I don't mean depend,” he began again. “But I love you, that's all. Am

I nothing--to you?” And Philip looked a little defiant, and as if he

had said something that ought to brush away all the sophistries of

obligation on either side, between man and woman.

Perhaps Ruth saw this. Perhaps she saw that her own theories of a

certain equality of power, which ought to precede a union of two hearts,

might be pushed too far. Perhaps she had felt sometimes her own weakness

and the need after all of so dear a sympathy and so tender an interest

confessed, as that which Philip could give. Whatever moved her--the

riddle is as old as creation--she simply looked up to Philip and said in

a low voice, “Everything.”

And Philip clasping both her hands in his, and looking down into her

eyes, which drank in all his tenderness with the thirst of a true

woman's nature--

“Oh! Philip, come out here,” shouted young Eli, throwing the door wide

open.

And Ruth escaped away to her room, her heart singing again, and now as

if it would burst for joy, “Philip has come.”

That night Philip received a dispatch from Harry--“The trial begins

tomorrow.”

CHAPTER LI.

December 18--, found Washington Hawkins and Col. Sellers once more at

the capitol of the nation, standing guard over the University bill.

The former gentleman was despondent, the latter hopeful. Washington's

distress of mind was chiefly on Laura's account. The court would soon

sit to try her case, he said, and consequently a great deal of ready

money would be needed in the engineering of it. The University bill was

sure to pass this time, and that would make money plenty, but might not

the help come too late? Congress had only just assembled, and delays

were to be feared.

“Well,” said the Colonel, “I don't know but you are more or less right,

there. Now let's figure up a little on, the preliminaries. I think

Congress always tries to do as near right as it can, according to its

lights. A man can't ask any fairer than that. The first preliminary it

always starts out on, is to clean itself, so to speak. It will arraign

two or three dozen of its members, or maybe four or five dozen, for

taking bribes to vote for this and that and the other bill last winter.”

“It goes up into the dozens, does it?”

“Well, yes; in a free country likes ours, where any man can run for

Congress and anybody can vote for him, you can't expect immortal purity

all the time--it ain't in nature. Sixty or eighty or a hundred and fifty

people are bound to get in who are not angels in disguise, as young

Hicks the correspondent says; but still it is a very good average; very

good indeed. As long as it averages as well as that, I think we can feel

very well satisfied. Even in these days, when people growl so much and

the newspapers are so out of patience, there is still a very respectable

minority of honest men in Congress.”

“Why a respectable minority of honest men can't do any good, Colonel.”

“Oh, yes it can, too”

“Why, how?”

“Oh, in many ways, many ways.”

“But what are the ways?”

“Well--I don't know--it is a question that requires time; a body

can't answer every question right off-hand. But it does do good. I am

satisfied of that.”

“All right, then; grant that it does good; go on with the

preliminaries.”

“That is what I am coming to. First, as I said, they will try a lot of

members for taking money for votes. That will take four weeks.”

“Yes, that's like last year; and it is a sheer waste of the time for

which the nation pays those men to work--that is what that is. And it

pinches when a body's got a bill waiting.”

“A waste of time, to purify the fountain of public law? Well, I never

heard anybody express an idea like that before. But if it were, it would

still be the fault of the minority, for the majority don't

institute these proceedings. There is where that minority becomes an

obstruction--but still one can't say it is on the wrong side.--Well,

after they have finished the bribery cases, they will take up cases of

members who have bought their seats with money. That will take another

four weeks.”

“Very good; go on. You have accounted for two-thirds of the session.”

“Next they will try each other for various smaller irregularities, like

the sale of appointments to West Point cadetships, and that sort of

thing--mere trifling pocket-money enterprises that might better be

passed over in silence, perhaps, but then one of our Congresses

can never rest easy till it has thoroughly purified itself of all

blemishes--and that is a thing to be applauded.”

“How long does it take to disinfect itself of these minor impurities?”

“Well, about two weeks, generally.”

“So Congress always lies helpless in quarantine ten weeks of a session.

That's encouraging. Colonel, poor Laura will never get any benefit

from our bill. Her trial will be over before Congress has half purified

itself.--And doesn't it occur to you that by the time it has expelled

all its impure members there may not be enough members left to do

business legally?”

“Why I did not say Congress would expel anybody.”

“Well won't it expel anybody?”

“Not necessarily. Did it last year? It never does. That would not be

regular.”

“Then why waste all the session in that tomfoolery of trying members?”

“It is usual; it is customary; the country requires it.”

“Then the country is a fool, I think.”

“Oh, no. The country thinks somebody is going to be expelled.”

“Well, when nobody is expelled, what does the country think then?”

“By that time, the thing has strung out so long that the country is sick

and tired of it and glad to have a change on any terms. But all that

inquiry is not lost. It has a good moral effect.”

“Who does it have a good moral effect on?”

“Well--I don't know. On foreign countries, I think. We have always been

under the gaze of foreign countries. There is no country in the world,

sir, that pursues corruption as inveterately as we do. There is no

country in the world whose representatives try each other as much as

ours do, or stick to it as long on a stretch. I think there is something

great in being a model for the whole civilized world, Washington.”

“You don't mean a model; you mean an example.”

“Well, it's all the same; it's just the same thing. It shows that a man

can't be corrupt in this country without sweating for it, I can tell you

that.”

“Hang it, Colonel, you just said we never punish anybody for villainous

practices.”

“But good God we try them, don't we! Is it nothing to show a disposition

to sift things and bring people to a strict account? I tell you it has

its effect.”

“Oh, bother the effect!--What is it they do do? How do they proceed?

You know perfectly well--and it is all bosh, too. Come, now, how do they

proceed?”

“Why they proceed right and regular--and it ain't bosh, Washington, it

ain't bosh. They appoint a committee to investigate, and that committee

hears evidence three weeks, and all the witnesses on one side swear

that the accused took money or stock or something for his vote. Then

the accused stands up and testifies that he may have done it, but he was

receiving and handling a good deal of money at the time and he doesn't

remember this particular circumstance--at least with sufficient

distinctness to enable him to grasp it tangibly. So of course the thing

is not proven--and that is what they say in the verdict. They don't

acquit, they don't condemn. They just say, 'Charge not proven.' It

leaves the accused in a kind of a shaky condition before the country, it

purifies Congress, it satisfies everybody, and it doesn't seriously hurt

anybody. It has taken a long time to perfect our system, but it is the

most admirable in the world, now.”

“So one of those long stupid investigations always turns out in that

lame silly way. Yes, you are correct. I thought maybe you viewed the

matter differently from other people. Do you think a Congress of ours

could convict the devil of anything if he were a member?”

“My dear boy, don't let these damaging delays prejudice you against

Congress. Don't use such strong language; you talk like a newspaper.

Congress has inflicted frightful punishments on its members--now you

know that. When they tried Mr. Fairoaks, and a cloud of witnesses

proved him to be--well, you know what they proved him to be--and his own

testimony and his own confessions gave him the same character, what did

Congress do then?--come!”

“Well, what did Congress do?”

“You know what Congress did, Washington. Congress intimated plainly

enough, that they considered him almost a stain upon their body; and

without waiting ten days, hardly, to think the thing over, they rose up

and hurled at him a resolution declaring that they disapproved of his

conduct! Now you know that, Washington.”

“It was a terrific thing--there is no denying that. If he had been

proven guilty of theft, arson, licentiousness, infanticide, and defiling

graves, I believe they would have suspended him for two days.”

“You can depend on it, Washington. Congress is vindictive, Congress is

savage, sir, when it gets waked up once. It will go to any length to

vindicate its honor at such a time.”

“Ah well, we have talked the morning through, just as usual in these

tiresome days of waiting, and we have reached the same old result; that

is to say, we are no better off than when we began. The land bill is

just as far away as ever, and the trial is closer at hand. Let's give up

everything and die.”

“Die and leave the Duchess to fight it out all alone? Oh, no, that won't

do. Come, now, don't talk so. It is all going to come out right. Now

you'll see.”

“It never will, Colonel, never in the world. Something tells me that. I

get more tired and more despondent every day. I don't see any hope; life

is only just a trouble. I am so miserable, these days!”

The Colonel made Washington get up and walk the floor with him, arm in

arm. The good old speculator wanted to comfort him, but he hardly knew

how to go about it. He made many attempts, but they were lame; they

lacked spirit; the words were encouraging; but they were only words--he

could not get any heart into them. He could not always warm up, now,

with the old Hawkeye fervor. By and by his lips trembled and his voice

got unsteady. He said:

“Don't give up the ship, my boy--don't do it. The wind's bound to fetch

around and set in our favor. I know it.”

And the prospect was so cheerful that he wept. Then he blew a

trumpet-blast that started the meshes of his handkerchief, and said in

almost his breezy old-time way:

“Lord bless us, this is all nonsense! Night doesn't last always; day has

got to break some time or other. Every silver lining has a cloud behind

it, as the poet says; and that remark has always cheered me; though--I

never could see any meaning to it. Everybody uses it, though, and

everybody gets comfort out of it. I wish they would start something

fresh. Come, now, let's cheer up; there's been as good fish in the sea

as there are now. It shall never be said that Beriah Sellers-- Come in?”

It was the telegraph boy. The Colonel reached for the message and

devoured its contents:

“I said it! Never give up the ship! The trial's postponed till February,

and we'll save the child yet. Bless my life, what lawyers they have in

New-York! Give them money to fight with and the ghost of an excuse, and

they: would manage to postpone anything in this world, unless it might

be the millennium or something like that. Now for work again my boy. The

trial will last to the middle of March, sure; Congress ends the fourth

of March. Within three days of the end of the session they will be done

putting through the preliminaries then they will be ready for national

business. Our bill will go through in forty-eight hours, then, and we'll

telegraph a million dollars to the jury--to the lawyers, I mean--and

the verdict of the jury will be 'Accidental murder resulting from

justifiable insanity'--or something to, that effect, something to that

effect.--Everything is dead sure, now. Come, what is the matter? What

are you wilting down like that, for? You mustn't be a girl, you know.”

“Oh, Colonel, I am become so used to troubles, so used to failures,

disappointments, hard luck of all kinds, that a little good news breaks

me right down. Everything has been so hopeless that now I can't stand

good news at all. It is too good to be true, anyway. Don't you see how

our bad luck has worked on me? My hair is getting gray, and many nights

I don't sleep at all. I wish it was all over and we could rest. I wish

we could lie down and just forget everything, and let it all be just a

dream that is done and can't come back to trouble us any more. I am so

tired.”

“Ah, poor child, don't talk like that-cheer up--there's daylight ahead.

Don't give up. You'll have Laura again, and--Louise, and your mother,

and oceans and oceans of money--and then you can go away, ever so far

away somewhere, if you want to, and forget all about this infernal

place. And by George I'll go with you! I'll go with you--now there's my

word on it. Cheer up. I'll run out and tell the friends the news.”

And he wrung Washington's hand and was about to hurry away when his

companion, in a burst of grateful admiration said:

“I think you are the best soul and the noblest I ever knew, Colonel

Sellers! and if the people only knew you as I do, you would not be

tagging around here a nameless man--you would be in Congress.”

The gladness died out of the Colonel's face, and he laid his hand upon

Washington's shoulder and said gravely:

“I have always been a friend of your family, Washington, and I think I

have always tried to do right as between man and man, according to my

lights. Now I don't think there has ever been anything in my conduct

that should make you feel justified in saying a thing like that.”

He turned, then, and walked slowly out, leaving Washington abashed and

somewhat bewildered. When Washington had presently got his thoughts

into line again, he said to himself, “Why, honestly, I only meant to

compliment him--indeed I would not have hurt him for the world.”

CHAPTER LII.

The weeks drifted by monotonously enough, now. The “preliminaries”

continued to drag along in Congress, and life was a dull suspense to

Sellers and Washington, a weary waiting which might have broken their

hearts, maybe, but for the relieving change which they got out of an

occasional visit to New York to see Laura. Standing guard in Washington

or anywhere else is not an exciting business in time of peace, but

standing guard was all that the two friends had to do; all that was

needed of them was that they should be on hand and ready for any

emergency that might come up. There was no work to do; that was all

finished; this was but the second session of the last winter's Congress,

and its action on the bill could have but one result--its passage. The

house must do its work over again, of course, but the same membership

was there to see that it did it.--The Senate was secure--Senator

Dilworthy was able to put all doubts to rest on that head. Indeed it was

no secret in Washington that a two-thirds vote in the Senate was ready

and waiting to be cast for the University bill as soon as it should come

before that body.

Washington did not take part in the gaieties of “the season,” as he had

done the previous winter. He had lost his interest in such things; he

was oppressed with cares, now. Senator Dilworthy said to Washington that

an humble deportment, under punishment, was best, and that there was but

one way in which the troubled heart might find perfect repose and peace.

The suggestion found a response in Washington's breast, and the Senator

saw the sign of it in his face.

From that moment one could find the youth with the Senator even oftener

than with Col. Sellers. When the statesman presided at great temperance

meetings, he placed Washington in the front rank of impressive

dignitaries that gave tone to the occasion and pomp to the platform. His

bald headed surroundings made the youth the more conspicuous.

When the statesman made remarks in these meetings, he not infrequently

alluded with effect to the encouraging spectacle of one of the

wealthiest and most brilliant young favorites of society forsaking

the light vanities of that butterfly existence to nobly and

self-sacrificingly devote his talents and his riches to the cause of

saving his hapless fellow creatures from shame and misery here and

eternal regret hereafter.

At the prayer meetings the Senator always brought Washington up the

aisle on his arm and seated him prominently; in his prayers he

referred to him in the cant terms which the Senator employed, perhaps

unconsciously, and mistook, maybe, for religion, and in other ways

brought him into notice. He had him out at gatherings for the benefit of

the negro, gatherings for the benefit of the Indian, gatherings for the

benefit of the heathen in distant lands. He had him out time and again,

before Sunday Schools, as an example for emulation. Upon all these

occasions the Senator made casual references to many benevolent

enterprises which his ardent young friend was planning against the day

when the passage of the University bill should make his means available

for the amelioration of the condition of the unfortunate among his

fellow men of all nations and all climes. Thus as the weeks rolled on

Washington grew up into an imposing lion once more, but a lion that

roamed the peaceful fields of religion and temperance, and revisited the

glittering domain of fashion no more. A great moral influence was thus

brought to bear in favor of the bill; the weightiest of friends flocked

to its standard; its most energetic enemies said it was useless to fight

longer; they had tacitly surrendered while as yet the day of battle was

not come.

CHAPTER LIII.

The session was drawing toward its close. Senator Dilworthy thought he

would run out west and shake hands with his constituents and let them

look at him. The legislature whose duty it would be to re-elect him

to the United States Senate, was already in session. Mr. Dilworthy

considered his re-election certain, but he was a careful, painstaking

man, and if, by visiting his State he could find the opportunity to

persuade a few more legislators to vote for him, he held the journey to

be well worth taking. The University bill was safe, now; he could leave

it without fear; it needed his presence and his watching no longer. But

there was a person in his State legislature who did need watching--a

person who, Senator Dilworthy said, was a narrow, grumbling,

uncomfortable malcontent--a person who was stolidly opposed to reform,

and progress and him,--a person who, he feared, had been bought with

money to combat him, and through him the commonwealth's welfare and its

politics' purity.

“If this person Noble,” said Mr. Dilworthy, in a little speech at a

dinner party given him by some of his admirers, “merely desired to

sacrifice me.--I would willingly offer up my political life on the altar

of my dear State's weal, I would be glad and grateful to do it; but when

he makes of me but a cloak to hide his deeper designs, when he proposes

to strike through me at the heart of my beloved State, all the lion

in me is roused--and I say, Here I stand, solitary and alone, but

unflinching, unquailing, thrice armed with my sacred trust; and whoso

passes, to do evil to this fair domain that looks to me for protection,

must do so over my dead body.”

He further said that if this Noble were a pure man, and merely

misguided, he could bear it, but that he should succeed in his wicked

designs through a base use of money would leave a blot upon his State

which would work untold evil to the morals of the people, and that he

would not suffer; the public morals must not be contaminated. He would

seek this man Noble; he would argue, he would persuade, he would appeal

to his honor.

When he arrived on the ground he found his friends unterrified; they

were standing firmly by him and were full of courage. Noble was

working hard, too, but matters were against him, he was not making much

progress. Mr. Dilworthy took an early opportunity to send for Mr. Noble;

he had a midnight interview with him, and urged him to forsake his evil

ways; he begged him to come again and again, which he did. He finally

sent the man away at 3 o'clock one morning; and when he was gone, Mr.

Dilworthy said to himself,

“I feel a good deal relieved, now, a great deal relieved.”

The Senator now turned his attention to matters touching the souls of

his people. He appeared in church; he took a leading part in prayer

meetings; he met and encouraged the temperance societies; he graced the

sewing circles of the ladies with his presence, and even took a needle

now and then and made a stitch or two upon a calico shirt for some poor

Bibleless pagan of the South Seas, and this act enchanted the ladies,

who regarded the garments thus honored as in a manner sanctified. The

Senator wrought in Bible classes, and nothing could keep him away from

the Sunday Schools--neither sickness nor storms nor weariness. He even

traveled a tedious thirty miles in a poor little rickety stagecoach to

comply with the desire of the miserable hamlet of Cattleville that he

would let its Sunday School look upon him.

All the town was assembled at the stage office when he arrived, two

bonfires were burning, and a battery of anvils was popping exultant

broadsides; for a United States Senator was a sort of god in the

understanding of these people who never had seen any creature mightier

than a county judge. To them a United States Senator was a vast, vague

colossus, an awe inspiring unreality.

Next day everybody was at the village church a full half hour before

time for Sunday School to open; ranchmen and farmers had come with their

families from five miles around, all eager to get a glimpse of the

great man--the man who had been to Washington; the man who had seen the

President of the United States, and had even talked with him; the man

who had seen the actual Washington Monument--perhaps touched it with his

hands.

When the Senator arrived the Church was crowded, the windows were full,

the aisles were packed, so was the vestibule, and so indeed was the yard

in front of the building. As he worked his way through to the pulpit

on the arm of the minister and followed by the envied officials of

the village, every neck was stretched and, every eye twisted around

intervening obstructions to get a glimpse. Elderly people directed each

other's attention and, said, “There! that's him, with the grand, noble

forehead!” Boys nudged each other and said, “Hi, Johnny, here he is,

there, that's him, with the peeled head!”

The Senator took his seat in the pulpit, with the minister on one side

of him and the Superintendent of the Sunday School on the other. The

town dignitaries sat in an impressive row within the altar railings

below. The Sunday School children occupied ten of the front benches

dressed in their best and most uncomfortable clothes, and with hair

combed and faces too clean to feel natural. So awed were they by the

presence of a living United States Senator, that during three minutes

not a “spit ball” was thrown. After that they began to come to

themselves by degrees, and presently the spell was wholly gone and they

were reciting verses and pulling hair.

The usual Sunday School exercises were hurried through, and then

the minister, got up and bored the house with a speech built on the

customary Sunday School plan; then the Superintendent put in his oar;

then the town dignitaries had their say. They all made complimentary

reference to “their friend the Senator,” and told what a great and

illustrious man he was and what he had done for his country and for

religion and temperance, and exhorted the little boys to be good and

diligent and try to become like him some day. The speakers won the

deathless hatred of the house by these delays, but at last there was an

end and hope revived; inspiration was about to find utterance.

Senator Dilworthy rose and beamed upon the assemblage for a full minute

in silence. Then he smiled with an access of sweetness upon the children

and began:

“My little friends--for I hope that all these bright-faced little people

are my friends and will let me be their friend--my little friends,

I have traveled much, I have been in many cities and many States,

everywhere in our great and noble country, and by the blessing of

Providence I have been permitted to see many gatherings like this--but I

am proud, I am truly proud to say that I never have looked upon so much

intelligence, so much grace, such sweetness of disposition as I see in

the charming young countenances I see before me at this moment. I have

been asking myself as I sat here, Where am I? Am I in some far-off

monarchy, looking upon little princes and princesses? No. Am I in some

populous centre of my own country, where the choicest children of the

land have been selected and brought together as at a fair for a prize?

No. Am I in some strange foreign clime where the children are marvels

that we know not of? No. Then where am I? Yes--where am I? I am in a

simple, remote, unpretending settlement of my own dear State, and these

are the children of the noble and virtuous men who have made me what I

am! My soul is lost in wonder at the thought! And I humbly thank Him to

whom we are but as worms of the dust, that he has been pleased to call

me to serve such men! Earth has no higher, no grander position for me.

Let kings and emperors keep their tinsel crowns, I want them not; my

heart is here!

“Again I thought, Is this a theatre? No. Is it a concert or a gilded

opera? No. Is it some other vain, brilliant, beautiful temple of

soul-staining amusement and hilarity? No. Then what is it? What did

my consciousness reply? I ask you, my little friends, What did my

consciousness reply? It replied, It is the temple of the Lord! Ah, think

of that, now. I could hardly keep the tears back, I was so grateful. Oh,

how beautiful it is to see these ranks of sunny little faces assembled

here to learn the way of life; to learn to be good; to learn to be

useful; to learn to be pious; to learn to be great and glorious men and

women; to learn to be props and pillars of the State and shining lights

in the councils and the households of the nation; to be bearers of the

banner and soldiers of the cross in the rude campaigns of life, and

raptured souls in the happy fields of Paradise hereafter.

“Children, honor your parents and be grateful to them for providing for

you the precious privileges of a Sunday School.

“Now my dear little friends, sit up straight and pretty--there, that's

it--and give me your attention and let me tell you about a poor little

Sunday School scholar I once knew.--He lived in the far west, and his

parents were poor. They could not give him a costly education; but they

were good and wise and they sent him to the Sunday School. He loved the

Sunday School. I hope you love your Sunday School--ah, I see by your

faces that you do! That is right!

“Well, this poor little boy was always in his place when the bell rang,

and he always knew his lesson; for his teachers wanted him to learn and

he loved his teachers dearly. Always love your teachers, my children,

for they love you more than you can know, now. He would not let bad boys

persuade him to go to play on Sunday. There was one little bad boy who

was always trying to persuade him, but he never could.

“So this poor little boy grew up to be a man, and had to go out in the

world, far from home and friends to earn his living. Temptations lay all

about him, and sometimes he was about to yield, but he would think of

some precious lesson he learned in his Sunday School a long time

ago, and that would save him. By and by he was elected to the

legislature--Then he did everything he could for Sunday Schools. He

got laws passed for them; he got Sunday Schools established wherever he

could.

“And by and by the people made him governor--and he said it was all

owing to the Sunday School.

“After a while the people elected him a Representative to the Congress

of the United States, and he grew very famous.--Now temptations assailed

him on every hand. People tried to get him to drink wine; to dance, to

go to theatres; they even tried to buy his vote; but no, the memory of

his Sunday School saved him from all harm; he remembered the fate of

the bad little boy who used to try to get him to play on Sunday, and who

grew up and became a drunkard and was hanged. He remembered that, and

was glad he never yielded and played on Sunday.

“Well, at last, what do you think happened? Why the people gave him a

towering, illustrious position, a grand, imposing position. And what do

you think it was? What should you say it was, children? It was Senator

of the United States! That poor little boy that loved his Sunday School

became that man. That man stands before you! All that he is, he owes to

the Sunday School.

“My precious children, love your parents, love your teachers, love your

Sunday School, be pious, be obedient, be honest, be diligent, and then

you will succeed in life and be honored of all men. Above all things, my

children, be honest. Above all things be pure-minded as the snow. Let us

join in prayer.”

When Senator Dilworthy departed from Cattleville, he left three dozen

boys behind him arranging a campaign of life whose objective point was

the United States Senate.

When he arrived at the State capital at midnight Mr. Noble came and held

a three-hours' conference with him, and then as he was about leaving

said:

“I've worked hard, and I've got them at last. Six of them haven't got

quite back-bone enough to slew around and come right out for you on the

first ballot to-morrow; but they're going to vote against you on the

first for the sake of appearances, and then come out for you all in a

body on the second--I've fixed all that! By supper time to-morrow you'll

be re-elected. You can go to bed and sleep easy on that.”

After Mr. Noble was gone, the Senator said:

“Well, to bring about a complexion of things like this was worth coming

West for.”

CHAPTER LIV.

The case of the State of New York against Laura Hawkins was finally set

down for trial on the 15th day of February, less than a year after the

shooting of George Selby.

If the public had almost forgotten the existence of Laura and her crime,

they were reminded of all the details of the murder by the newspapers,

which for some days had been announcing the approaching trial. But they

had not forgotten. The sex, the age, the beauty of the prisoner; her

high social position in Washington, the unparalled calmness with which

the crime was committed had all conspired to fix the event in the public

mind, although nearly three hundred and sixty-five subsequent murders

had occurred to vary the monotony of metropolitan life.

No, the public read from time to time of the lovely prisoner,

languishing in the city prison, the tortured victim of the law's delay;

and as the months went by it was natural that the horror of her crime

should become a little indistinct in memory, while the heroine of it

should be invested with a sort of sentimental interest. Perhaps her

counsel had calculated on this. Perhaps it was by their advice that

Laura had interested herself in the unfortunate criminals who shared her

prison confinement, and had done not a little to relieve, from her own

purse, the necessities of some of the poor creatures. That she had

done this, the public read in the journals of the day, and the simple

announcement cast a softening light upon her character.

The court room was crowded at an early hour, before the arrival of

judges, lawyers and prisoner. There is no enjoyment so keen to certain

minds as that of looking upon the slow torture of a human being on

trial for life, except it be an execution; there is no display of human

ingenuity, wit and power so fascinating as that made by trained lawyers

in the trial of an important case, nowhere else is exhibited such

subtlety, acumen, address, eloquence.

All the conditions of intense excitement meet in a murder trial. The

awful issue at stake gives significance to the lightest word or look.

How the quick eyes of the spectators rove from the stolid jury to the

keen lawyers, the impassive judge, the anxious prisoner. Nothing is

lost of the sharp wrangle of the counsel on points of law, the measured

decision's of the bench; the duels between the attorneys and the

witnesses. The crowd sways with the rise and fall of the shifting

testimony, in sympathetic interest, and hangs upon the dicta of the

judge in breathless silence. It speedily takes sides for or against

the accused, and recognizes as quickly its favorites among the lawyers.

Nothing delights it more than the sharp retort of a witness and the

discomfiture of an obnoxious attorney. A joke, even if it be a lame

one, is no where so keenly relished or quickly applauded as in a murder

trial.

Within the bar the young lawyers and the privileged hangers-on filled

all the chairs except those reserved at the table for those engaged in

the case. Without, the throng occupied all the seats, the window ledges

and the standing room. The atmosphere was already something horrible. It

was the peculiar odor of a criminal court, as if it were tainted by the

presence, in different persons, of all the crimes that men and women can

commit.

There was a little stir when the Prosecuting Attorney, with two

assistants, made his way in, seated himself at the table, and spread his

papers before him. There was more stir when the counsel of the defense

appeared. They were Mr. Braham, the senior, and Mr. Quiggle and Mr.

O'Keefe, the juniors.

Everybody in the court room knew Mr. Braham, the great criminal lawyer,

and he was not unaware that he was the object of all eyes as he moved

to his place, bowing to his friends in the bar. A large but rather spare

man, with broad shoulders and a massive head, covered with chestnut

curls which fell down upon his coat collar and which he had a habit

of shaking as a lion is supposed to shake his mane. His face was clean

shaven, and he had a wide mouth and rather small dark eyes, set quite

too near together. Mr. Braham wore a brown frock coat buttoned

across his breast, with a rose-bud in the upper buttonhole, and light

pantaloons. A diamond stud was seen to flash from his bosom; and as he

seated himself and drew off his gloves a heavy seal ring was displayed

upon his white left hand. Mr. Braham having seated himself, deliberately

surveyed the entire house, made a remark to one of his assistants, and

then taking an ivory-handled knife from his pocket began to pare his

finger nails, rocking his chair backwards and forwards slowly.

A moment later Judge O'Shaunnessy entered at the rear door and took

his seat in one of the chairs behind the bench; a gentleman in black

broadcloth, with sandy hair, inclined to curl, a round, reddish

and rather jovial face, sharp rather than intellectual, and with a

self-sufficient air. His career had nothing remarkable in it. He was

descended from a long line of Irish Kings, and he was the first one of

them who had ever come into his kingdom--the kingdom of such being the

city of New York. He had, in fact, descended so far and so low that he

found himself, when a boy, a sort of street Arab in that city; but

he had ambition and native shrewdness, and he speedily took to

boot-polishing, and newspaper hawking, became the office and errand

boy of a law firm, picked up knowledge enough to get some employment

in police courts, was admitted to the bar, became a rising young

politician, went to the legislature, and was finally elected to the

bench which he now honored. In this democratic country he was obliged

to conceal his royalty under a plebeian aspect. Judge O'Shaunnessy never

had a lucrative practice nor a large salary but he had prudently laid

away money--believing that a dependant judge can never be impartial--and

he had lands and houses to the value of three or four hundred thousand

dollars. Had he not helped to build and furnish this very Court House?

Did he not know that the very “spittoon” which his judgeship used cost

the city the sum of one thousand dollars?

As soon as the judge was seated, the court was opened with the “oi yis,

oi yis” of the officer in his native language, the case called, and

the sheriff was directed to bring in the prisoner. In the midst of a

profound hush Laura entered, leaning on the arm of the officer, and was

conducted to a seat by her counsel. She was followed by her mother and

by Washington Hawkins, who were given seats near her.

Laura was very pale, but this pallor heightened the lustre of her large

eyes and gave a touching sadness to her expressive face. She was dressed

in simple black, with exquisite taste, and without an ornament. The thin

lace vail which partially covered her face did not so much conceal as

heighten her beauty. She would not have entered a drawing room with more

self-poise, nor a church with more haughty humility. There was in her

manner or face neither shame nor boldness, and when she took her seat

in full view of half the spectators, her eyes were downcast. A murmur

of admiration ran through the room. The newspaper reporters made their

pencils fly. Mr. Braham again swept his eyes over the house as if in

approval. When Laura at length raised her eyes a little, she saw Philip

and Harry within the bar, but she gave no token of recognition.

The clerk then read the indictment, which was in the usual form. It

charged Laura Hawkins, in effect, with the premeditated murder of George

Selby, by shooting him with a pistol, with a revolver, shotgun, rifle,

repeater, breech-loader, cannon, six-shooter, with a gun, or some other

weapon; with killing him with a slung-shot, a bludgeon, carving knife,

bowie knife, pen knife, rolling pin, car, hook, dagger, hair pin, with a

hammer, with a screw-driver, with a nail, and with all other weapons and

utensils whatsoever, at the Southern hotel and in all other hotels and

places wheresoever, on the thirteenth day of March and all other days of

the Christian era wheresoever.

Laura stood while the long indictment was read; and at the end, in

response to the inquiry, of the judge, she said in a clear, low voice;

“Not guilty.” She sat down and the court proceeded to impanel a jury.

The first man called was Michael Lanigan, saloon keeper.

“Have you formed or expressed any opinion on this case, and do you know

any of the parties?”

“Not any,” said Mr. Lanigan.

“Have you any conscientious objections to capital punishment?”

“No, sir, not to my knowledge.”

“Have you read anything about this case?”

“To be sure, I read the papers, y'r Honor.”

Objected to by Mr. Braham, for cause, and discharged.

Patrick Coughlin.

“What is your business?”

“Well--I haven't got any particular business.”

“Haven't any particular business, eh? Well, what's your general

business? What do you do for a living?”

“I own some terriers, sir.”

“Own some terriers, eh? Keep a rat pit?”

“Gentlemen comes there to have a little sport. I never fit 'em, sir.”

“Oh, I see--you are probably the amusement committee of the city

council. Have you ever heard of this case?”

“Not till this morning, sir.”

“Can you read?”

“Not fine print, y'r Honor.”

The man was about to be sworn, when Mr. Braham asked,

“Could your father read?”

“The old gentleman was mighty handy at that, sir.”

Mr. Braham submitted that the man was disqualified. Judge thought not.

Point argued. Challenged peremptorily, and set aside.

Ethan Dobb, cart-driver.

“Can you read?”

“Yes, but haven't a habit of it.”

“Have you heard of this case?”

“I think so--but it might be another. I have no opinion about it.”

Dist. A. “Tha--tha--there! Hold on a bit? Did anybody tell you to say

you had no opinion about it?”

“N--n--o, sir.”

“Take care now, take care. Then what suggested it to you to volunteer

that remark?”

“They've always asked that, when I was on juries.”

“All right, then. Have you any conscientious scruples about capital

punishment?”

“Any which?”

“Would you object to finding a person guilty--of murder on evidence?”

“I might, sir, if I thought he wan't guilty.”

The district attorney thought he saw a point.

“Would this feeling rather incline you against a capital conviction?”

The juror said he hadn't any feeling, and didn't know any of the

parties. Accepted and sworn.

Dennis Lafin, laborer. Have neither formed nor expressed an opinion.

Never had heard of the case. Believed in hangin' for them that deserved

it. Could read if it was necessary.

Mr. Braham objected. The man was evidently bloody minded. Challenged

peremptorily.

Larry O'Toole, contractor. A showily dressed man of the style known

as “vulgar genteel,” had a sharp eye and a ready tongue. Had read the

newspaper reports of the case, but they made no impression on him.

Should be governed by the evidence. Knew no reason why he could not be

an impartial juror.

Question by District Attorney.

“How is it that the reports made no impression on you?”

“Never believe anything I see in the newspapers.”

(Laughter from the crowd, approving smiles from his Honor and Mr.

Braham.) Juror sworn in. Mr. Braham whispered to O'Keefe, “that's the

man.”

Avery Hicks, pea-nut peddler. Did he ever hear of this case? The man

shook his head.

“Can you read?”

“No.” “Any scruples about capital punishment?”

“No.”

He was about to be sworn, when the district attorney turning to him

carelessly, remarked,

“Understand the nature of an oath?”

“Outside,” said the man, pointing to the door.

“I say, do you know what an oath is?”

“Five cents,” explained the man.

“Do you mean to insult me?” roared the prosecuting officer. “Are you an

idiot?”

“Fresh baked. I'm deefe. I don't hear a word you say.”

The man was discharged. “He wouldn't have made a bad juror, though,”

whispered Braham. “I saw him looking at the prisoner sympathizingly.

That's a point you want to watch for.”

The result of the whole day's work was the selection of only two jurors.

These however were satisfactory to Mr. Braham. He had kept off all those

he did not know. No one knew better than this great criminal lawyer

that the battle was fought on the selection of the jury. The subsequent

examination of witnesses, the eloquence expended on the jury are all

for effect outside. At least that is the theory of Mr. Braham. But human

nature is a queer thing, he admits; sometimes jurors are unaccountably

swayed, be as careful as you can in choosing them.

It was four weary days before this jury was made up, but when it was

finally complete, it did great credit to the counsel for the defence.

So far as Mr. Braham knew, only two could read, one of whom was the

foreman, Mr. Braham's friend, the showy contractor. Low foreheads and

heavy faces they all had; some had a look of animal cunning, while the

most were only stupid. The entire panel formed that boasted heritage

commonly described as the “bulwark of our liberties.”

The District Attorney, Mr. McFlinn, opened the case for the state. He

spoke with only the slightest accent, one that had been inherited but

not cultivated. He contented himself with a brief statement of the case.

The state would prove that Laura Hawkins, the prisoner at the bar,

a fiend in the form of a beautiful woman, shot dead George Selby, a

Southern gentleman, at the time and place described. That the murder was

in cold blood, deliberate and without provocation; that it had been long

premeditated and threatened; that she had followed the deceased from

Washington to commit it. All this would be proved by unimpeachable

witnesses. The attorney added that the duty of the jury, however painful

it might be, would be plain and simple. They were citizens, husbands,

perhaps fathers. They knew how insecure life had become in the

metropolis. Tomorrow our own wives might be widows, their own children

orphans, like the bereaved family in yonder hotel, deprived of husband

and father by the jealous hand of some murderous female. The attorney

sat down, and the clerk called?

“Henry Brierly.”

Part 7.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER LV The Trial Continued--Evidence of Harry Brierly

CHAPTER LVI The Trial Continued--Col Sellers on the Stand and Takes

Advantage of the Situation

CHAPTER LVII The Momentous Day--Startling News--Dilworthy Denounced as a

Briber and Defeated--The Bill Lost in the Senate

CHAPTER LVIII Verdict, Not Guilty !--Laura Free and Receives

Propositions to Lecture--Philip back at the Mines

CHAPTER LIX The Investigation of the Dilworthy Bribery Case and Its

Results

CHAPTER LX Laura Decides on her Course--Attempts to Lecture and

Fails--Found Dead in her Chair

CHAPTER LXI Col Sellers and Washington Hawkins Review the Situation and

Leave Washington

CHAPTER LXII Philip Discouraged--One More Effort--Finds Coal at Last

CHAPTER LXIII Philip Leaves Ilium to see Ruth--Ruth Convalescent--Alice

APPENDIX

ILLUSTRATIONS

187.  SEARCH FOR A FATHER 158.  TAKING ADVANTAGE OF A LULL 189.  TERM

EXPIRED 190.  RE-ELECTED 191.  THE “FAITHFUL OLD HAND” 192.  A FIRE

BRAND 193.  TAIL PIECE 194.  COL. SELLERS AND WASHINGTON RETURN

HOME AFTER THE VOTE 195.  A COURT-IN SCENE 196.  POPULAR ENDORSEMENT

197.  ONE OF THE INSULTED MEMBERS 195.  TOUCHED BY THE SIRUGGLES OF THE

POOR 199.  MR NOBLE ASKS QUESTIONS 200.  THE WORN OUT STYLE OF SENATOR

201.  THE PAST, PRESENT, AND FUTURE 202.  THE LAST LINK BROKEN 203.  THE

TERRIBLE ORDEAL 204.  RETROSPECTION 205.  GOOD-BYE TO WASHINGTON

206.  TAIL PIECE 207.  THE PARTING BLAST OFFERED 208.  THE LAST BLAST

209.  STRUCK IT AT LAST 210.  THE RICH PROPRIETOR 211.  THE SICK CHAMBER

212.  ALICE

CHAPTER LV.

Henry Brierly took the stand. Requested by the District Attorney to tell

the jury all he knew about the killing, he narrated the circumstances

substantially as the reader already knows them.

He accompanied Miss Hawkins to New York at her request, supposing she

was coming in relation to a bill then pending in Congress, to secure

the attendance of absent members. Her note to him was here shown. She

appeared to be very much excited at the Washington station. After she

had asked the conductor several questions, he heard her say, “He can't

escape.” Witness asked her “Who?” and she replied “Nobody.” Did not see

her during the night. They traveled in a sleeping car. In the morning

she appeared not to have slept, said she had a headache. In crossing the

ferry she asked him about the shipping in sight; he pointed out where

the Cunarders lay when in port. They took a cup of coffee that morning

at a restaurant. She said she was anxious to reach the Southern Hotel

where Mr. Simons, one of the absent members, was staying, before he went

out. She was entirely self-possessed, and beyond unusual excitement did

not act unnaturally. After she had fired twice at Col. Selby, she turned

the pistol towards her own breast, and witness snatched it from her.

She had been a great deal with Selby in Washington, appeared to be

infatuated with him.

(Cross-examined by Mr. Braham.) “Mist-er.....er Brierly!” (Mr. Braham

had in perfection this lawyer's trick of annoying a witness, by drawling

out the “Mister,” as if unable to recall the name, until the witness is

sufficiently aggravated, and then suddenly, with a rising inflection,

flinging his name at him with startling unexpectedness.) “Mist-er.....er

Brierly! What is your occupation?”

“Civil Engineer, sir.”

“Ah, civil engineer, (with a glance at the jury). Following that

occupation with Miss Hawkins?” (Smiles by the jury).

“No, sir,” said Harry, reddening.

“How long have you known the prisoner?”

“Two years, sir. I made her acquaintance in Hawkeye, Missouri.”

“M.....m...m. Mist-er.....er Brierly! Were you not a lover of Miss

Hawkins?”

Objected to. “I submit, your Honor, that I have the right to establish

the relation of this unwilling witness to the prisoner.” Admitted.

“Well, sir,” said Harry hesitatingly, “we were friends.”

“You act like a friend!” (sarcastically.) The jury were beginning to

hate this neatly dressed young sprig. “Mister......er....Brierly! Didn't

Miss Hawkins refuse you?”

Harry blushed and stammered and looked at the judge. “You must answer,

sir,” said His Honor.

“She--she--didn't accept me.”

“No. I should think not. Brierly do you dare tell the jury that you had

not an interest in the removal of your rival, Col. Selby?” roared Mr.

Braham in a voice of thunder.

“Nothing like this, sir, nothing like this,” protested the witness.

“That's all, sir,” said Mr. Braham severely.

“One word,” said the District Attorney. “Had you the least suspicion of

the prisoner's intention, up to the moment of the shooting?”

“Not the least,” answered Harry earnestly.

“Of course not, of course not,” nodded Mr. Braham to the jury.

The prosecution then put upon the stand the other witnesses of the

shooting at the hotel, and the clerk and the attending physicians. The

fact of the homicide was clearly established. Nothing new was elicited,

except from the clerk, in reply to a question by Mr. Braham, the fact

that when the prisoner enquired for Col. Selby she appeared excited and

there was a wild look in her eyes.

The dying deposition of Col. Selby was then produced. It set forth

Laura's threats, but there was a significant addition to it, which the

newspaper report did not have. It seemed that after the deposition

was taken as reported, the Colonel was told for the first time by his

physicians that his wounds were mortal. He appeared to be in great

mental agony and fear; and said he had not finished his deposition.

He added, with great difficulty and long pauses these words.

“I--have--not--told--all. I must tell--put--it--down--I--wronged--her.

Years--ago--I--can't see--O--God--I--deserved----” That was all. He

fainted and did not revive again.

The Washington railway conductor testified that the prisoner had

asked him if a gentleman and his family went out on the evening train,

describing the persons he had since learned were Col. Selby and family.

Susan Cullum, colored servant at Senator Dilworthy's, was sworn. Knew

Col. Selby. Had seen him come to the house often, and be alone in the

parlor with Miss Hawkins. He came the day but one before he was shot.

She let him in. He appeared flustered like. She heard talking in the

parlor, 'peared like it was quarrelin'. Was afeared sumfin' was wrong:

Just put her ear to--the--keyhole of the back parlor-door. Heard a man's

voice, “I--can't--I can't, Good God,” quite beggin' like. Heard--young

Miss' voice, “Take your choice, then. If you 'bandon me, you knows

what to 'spect.” Then he rushes outen the house, I goes in--and I

says, “Missis did you ring?” She was a standin' like a tiger, her eyes

flashin'. I come right out.

This was the substance of Susan's testimony, which was not shaken in the

least by severe cross-examination. In reply to Mr. Braham's question, if

the prisoner did not look insane, Susan said, “Lord; no, sir, just mad

as a hawnet.”

Washington Hawkins was sworn. The pistol, identified by the officer as

the one used in the homicide, was produced Washington admitted that it

was his. She had asked him for it one morning, saying she thought she

had heard burglars the night before. Admitted that he never had heard

burglars in the house. Had anything unusual happened just before that?

Nothing that he remembered. Did he accompany her to a reception at Mrs.

Shoonmaker's a day or two before? Yes. What occurred? Little by little

it was dragged out of the witness that Laura had behaved strangely

there, appeared to be sick, and he had taken her home. Upon being pushed

he admitted that she had afterwards confessed that she saw Selby there.

And Washington volunteered the statement that Selby, was a black-hearted

villain.

The District Attorney said, with some annoyance; “There--there! That

will do.”

The defence declined to examine Mr. Hawkins at present. The case for

the prosecution was closed. Of the murder there could not be the least

doubt, or that the prisoner followed the deceased to New York with a

murderous intent. On the evidence the jury must convict, and might do so

without leaving their seats. This was the condition of the case two

days after the jury had been selected. A week had passed since the trial

opened; and a Sunday had intervened.

The public who read the reports of the evidence saw no chance for the

prisoner's escape. The crowd of spectators who had watched the trial

were moved with the most profound sympathy for Laura.

Mr. Braham opened the case for the defence. His manner was subdued, and

he spoke in so low a voice that it was only by reason of perfect silence

in the court room that he could be heard. He spoke very distinctly,

however, and if his nationality could be discovered in his speech it was

only in a certain richness and breadth of tone.

He began by saying that he trembled at the responsibility he had

undertaken; and he should altogether despair, if he did not see before

him a jury of twelve men of rare intelligence, whose acute minds would

unravel all the sophistries of the prosecution, men with a sense of

honor, which would revolt at the remorseless persecution of this hunted

woman by the state, men with hearts to feel for the wrongs of which

she was the victim. Far be it from him to cast any suspicion upon the

motives of the able, eloquent and ingenious lawyers of the state;

they act officially; their business is to convict. It is our business,

gentlemen, to see that justice is done.

“It is my duty, gentlemen, to unfold to you one of the most affecting

dramas in all the history of misfortune. I shall have to show you

a life, the sport of fate and circumstances, hurried along through

shifting storm and sun, bright with trusting innocence and anon black

with heartless villainy, a career which moves on in love and desertion

and anguish, always hovered over by the dark spectre of INSANITY--an

insanity hereditary and induced by mental torture,--until it ends, if

end it must in your verdict, by one of those fearful accidents, which

are inscrutable to men and of which God alone knows the secret.

“Gentlemen, I shall ask you to go with me away from this court room

and its minions of the law, away from the scene of this tragedy, to a

distant, I wish I could say a happier day. The story I have to tell is

of a lovely little girl, with sunny hair and laughing eyes, traveling

with her parents, evidently people of wealth and refinement, upon a

Mississippi steamboat. There is an explosion, one of those terrible

catastrophes which leave the imprint of an unsettled mind upon the

survivors. Hundreds of mangled remains are sent into eternity. When the

wreck is cleared away this sweet little girl is found among the panic

stricken survivors in the midst of a scene of horror enough to turn the

steadiest brain. Her parents have disappeared. Search even for their

bodies is in vain. The bewildered, stricken child--who can say what

changes the fearful event wrought in her tender brain--clings to the

first person who shows her sympathy. It is Mrs. Hawkins, this good

lady who is still her loving friend. Laura is adopted into the Hawkins

family. Perhaps she forgets in time that she is not their child. She is

an orphan. No, gentlemen, I will not deceive you, she is not an orphan.

Worse than that. There comes another day of agony. She knows that her

father lives. Who is he, where is he? Alas, I cannot tell you. Through

the scenes of this painful history he flits here and there a lunatic! If

he seeks his daughter, it is the purposeless search of a lunatic, as one

who wanders bereft of reason, crying where is my child? Laura seeks her

father. In vain just as she is about to find him, again and again-he

disappears, he is gone, he vanishes.

“But this is only the prologue to the tragedy. Bear with me while I

relate it. (Mr. Braham takes out a handkerchief, unfolds it slowly;

crashes it in his nervous hand, and throws it on the table). Laura grew

up in her humble southern home, a beautiful creature, the joy of the

house, the pride of the neighborhood, the loveliest flower in all the

sunny south. She might yet have been happy; she was happy. But the

destroyer came into this paradise. He plucked the sweetest bud that grew

there, and having enjoyed its odor, trampled it in the mire beneath his

feet. George Selby, the deceased, a handsome, accomplished Confederate

Colonel, was this human fiend. He deceived her with a mock marriage;

after some months he brutally abandoned her, and spurned her as if she

were a contemptible thing; all the time he had a wife in New Orleans.

Laura was crushed. For weeks, as I shall show you by the testimony of

her adopted mother and brother, she hovered over death in delirium.

Gentlemen, did she ever emerge from this delirium? I shall show you that

when she recovered her health, her mind was changed, she was not what

she had been. You can judge yourselves whether the tottering reason ever

recovered its throne.

“Years pass. She is in Washington, apparently the happy favorite of

a brilliant society. Her family have become enormously rich by one

of those sudden turns in fortune that the inhabitants of America are

familiar with--the discovery of immense mineral wealth in some wild

lands owned by them. She is engaged in a vast philanthropic scheme for

the benefit of the poor, by the use of this wealth. But, alas, even here

and now, the same relentless fate pursued her. The villain Selby appears

again upon the scene, as if on purpose to complete the ruin of her life.

He appeared to taunt her with her dishonor, he threatened exposure if

she did not become again the mistress of his passion. Gentlemen, do you

wonder if this woman, thus pursued, lost her reason, was beside herself

with fear, and that her wrongs preyed upon her mind until she was no

longer responsible for her acts? I turn away my head as one who would

not willingly look even upon the just vengeance of Heaven. (Mr. Braham

paused as if overcome by his emotions. Mrs. Hawkins and Washington were

in tears, as were many of the spectators also. The jury looked scared.)

“Gentlemen, in this condition of affairs it needed but a spark--I do not

say a suggestion, I do not say a hint--from this butterfly Brierly; this

rejected rival, to cause the explosion. I make no charges, but if this

woman was in her right mind when she fled from Washington and reached

this city in company--with Brierly, then I do not know what insanity

is.”

When Mr. Braham sat down, he felt that he had the jury with him. A burst

of applause followed, which the officer promptly, suppressed. Laura,

with tears in her eyes, turned a grateful look upon her counsel. All the

women among the spectators saw the tears and wept also. They thought as

they also looked at Mr. Braham, how handsome he is!

Mrs. Hawkins took the stand. She was somewhat confused to be the target

of so many, eyes, but her honest and good face at once told in Laura's

favor.

“Mrs. Hawkins,” said Mr. Braham, “will you' be kind enough to state the

circumstances of your finding Laura?”

“I object,” said Mr. McFlinn; rising to his feet. “This has nothing

whatever to do with the case, your honor. I am surprised at it, even

after the extraordinary speech of my learned friend.”

“How do you propose to connect it, Mr. Braham?” asked the judge.

“If it please the court,” said Mr. Braham, rising impressively, “your

Honor has permitted the prosecution, and I have submitted without a

word, to go into the most extraordinary testimony to establish a motive.

Are we to be shut out from showing that the motive attributed to us

could not by reason of certain mental conditions exist? I purpose, may,

it please your Honor, to show the cause and the origin of an aberration

of mind, to follow it up, with other like evidence, connecting it with

the very moment of the homicide, showing a condition of the intellect,

of the prisoner that precludes responsibility.”

“The State must insist upon its objections,” said the District Attorney.

“The purpose evidently is to open the door to a mass of irrelevant

testimony, the object of which is to produce an effect upon the jury

your Honor well understands.”

“Perhaps,” suggested the judge, “the court ought to hear the testimony,

and exclude it afterwards, if it is irrelevant.”

“Will your honor hear argument on that!”

“Certainly.”

And argument his honor did hear, or pretend to, for two whole days,

from all the counsel in turn, in the course of which the lawyers read

contradictory decisions enough to perfectly establish both sides, from

volume after volume, whole libraries in fact, until no mortal man could

say what the rules were. The question of insanity in all its legal

aspects was of course drawn into the discussion, and its application

affirmed and denied. The case was felt to turn upon the admission or

rejection of this evidence. It was a sort of test trial of strength

between the lawyers. At the end the judge decided to admit the

testimony, as the judge usually does in such cases, after a sufficient

waste of time in what are called arguments.

Mrs. Hawkins was allowed to go on.

CHAPTER LVI.

Mrs. Hawkins slowly and conscientiously, as if every detail of her

family history was important, told the story of the steamboat explosion,

of the finding and adoption of Laura. Silas, that is Mr. Hawkins, and

she always loved Laura, as if she had been their own child.

She then narrated the circumstances of Laura's supposed marriage, her

abandonment and long illness, in a manner that touched all hearts. Laura

had been a different woman since then.

Cross-examined. At the time of first finding Laura on the steamboat, did

she notice that Laura's mind was at all deranged? She couldn't say that

she did. After the recovery of Laura from her long illness, did Mrs.

Hawkins think there were any signs of insanity about her? Witness

confessed that she did not think of it then.

Re-Direct examination. “But she was different after that?”

“O, yes, sir.”

Washington Hawkins corroborated his mother's testimony as to Laura's

connection with Col. Selby. He was at Harding during the time of her

living there with him. After Col. Selby's desertion she was almost dead,

never appeared to know anything rightly for weeks. He added that he

never saw such a scoundrel as Selby. (Checked by District attorney.) Had

he noticed any change in Laura after her illness? Oh, yes. Whenever, any

allusion was made that might recall Selby to mind, she looked awful--as

if she could kill him.

“You mean,” said Mr. Braham, “that there was an unnatural, insane gleam

in her eyes?”

“Yes, certainly,” said Washington in confusion.

All this was objected to by the district attorney, but it was got before

the jury, and Mr. Braham did not care how much it was ruled out after

that.

Beriah Sellers was the next witness called. The Colonel made his way to

the stand with majestic, yet bland deliberation. Having taken the oath

and kissed the Bible with a smack intended to show his great respect

for that book, he bowed to his Honor with dignity, to the jury with

familiarity, and then turned to the lawyers and stood in an attitude of

superior attention.

“Mr. Sellers, I believe?” began Mr. Braham.