JOHN GRAHAM fought his way home heedless of the storm’s blinding fury.
The hurricane without was but a zephyr to the one which raged within
his own soul. Again and again he asked himself the question why Stella
should have demanded of him such a confession.
He had instantly resented it. Perhaps he had scented danger. And yet it
was preposterous to think the girl he worshipped could have desired this
dangerous knowledge to be used against him.
Ackerman in discussing his mill projects in the office during the
afternoon had asked him a number of irritating questions about the Klan
which he had skilfully parried. His mind was over-sensitive and sore
perhaps from this annoyance. Ackerman could have nothing to do with
Stella--they were not even passing acquaintances.
From every point of view he tested the problem of her possible design
to use this knowledge and found it preposterous. There was but one
reasonable explanation. She had found with her keen woman’s intuition
the one weak spot in his mental attitude toward her. Yes, it was true.
He loved her with passionate devotion, but he had not fully trusted her.
She had discovered it. Had she not thus revealed the true state of her
own heart? She must love him. Otherwise this keen sensitiveness to his
moods would not be possible. The thought was sweet in spite of his agony
over their break. After all she was right, proud little queen of his
heart, to demand his loyal faith! Should he yield to her this perilous
secret of his own life? Would he thus endanger those with whom he had
been associated in the daring task of saving the civilisation of the
South in the blackest hour of her history?
While the battle thus raged in his soul he reached his room, removed
his drenched clothing and replaced them with dry ones. He walked to
his window and looked out on the spluttering street lamp across the way
struggling to hold its tiny flame against the storm and wondered why
he had dressed again. He should have gone to bed. And then the dawning
sense of loss and misery crushed him. He sank into a chair and watched
the rain dash against the glass and stream down the sides of the window,
his heart aching in dumb agony.
“My God!” he cried at last, “I can’t live without her! She loves me, and
I must win her!”
The memory of her cold words as she ordered him from the house came
crashing back into his heart with sinister echoes. Never had he seen a
human being so transformed by anger--eyes that a moment before had held
him enraptured with their tender light had flashed cold points of steel.
Hands, soft and warm and full of velvet feeling, had closed in rage as
the claws of a tigress!
Suppose she refused to see him again? It was unthinkable. He seemed to
have lived a century within the weeks since she had called him to her
side. The life which had gone before grew dim. Four years of war and two
years of daring secret revolution as a leader of the Invisible Empire
faded from his consciousness. Only a great love remained, and those days
by her side seemed to hold the full measure of his life.
He undressed and went to bed, only to roll and toss hour after hour
without sleep.
He saw the first gray light of dawn with a sense of utter desolation.
The rain had ceased an hour before. Swift flying clouds and swaying
tree-tops heralded the coming of a clear, beautiful day. He determined
to write at once and beg to see her. In a moment his mind was on fire
with his passionate plea. As the sun rose, reflecting through scurrying
clouds its scarlet and purple glory, he hastily dressed, sat down at
his table and poured out his anguish in burning words of tenderness and
love. He read it over with renewed hope. Never had he expressed himself
so well. The letter was a living thing. No woman’s hand could touch it
without feeling its vital power. An immortal soul beat within it.
He had added the last line of a postscript begging her to name an early
hour at which he might call, and sat in dull moody reverie unconscious
of the flight of time.
A gentle knock on his door roused him. He opened it and stared blankly
at Susie’s gentle face.
“I trust you’re not sick, Mr. John,” she said. “Everybody is through
breakfast. I’ve kept yours warm.”
“Thank you, Miss Susie. I’ve only a little headache. I won’t eat any
breakfast. I’ve important work at the office. I’m going down at once.”
As he passed her at the head of the stairs she said with a wistful look:
“Mama says she heard you stirring all night. If I can help you, won’t
you let me?”
“Yes, little comrade, I will. I’ll let you know,” he answered, swinging
quickly down the stairs and out the front door.
He found a boy on the street and sent him to Stella with his letter. He
stood at his office door and watched him until out of sight and counted
the minutes until he reappeared. He had paid him a dime on dispatching
the letter and promised to double it if he came back in a hurry. Fifteen
minutes later he smiled as he saw the boy coming in a run, his swift
bare feet making the dirt fly in the middle of the street.
“I knew it! Of course, she will see me!” he exclaimed as he bounded up
his stairs two rounds at a jump. He gave the astonished boy a quarter
instead of another dime, hurried into his office, and slammed the door.
He felt the weight of the letter with faint misgivings. It was large
to have been written so quickly. Yet it was addressed with her own dear
hand. He tore it open, and from his trembling fingers dropped his own
letter with the seal unbroken. Not a line from her. Her meaning could
not be misunderstood. She could have offered him no deeper insult. He
sank to his seat with a groan and sat for an hour in a stupor of wounded
pride. “I won’t accept such an answer from her!” he cried bitterly. “And
I won’t stand on ceremony.”
He walked down the street to the gate of the driveway of the Graham
house, hoping he might find Aunt Julie Ann at her cottage. The door was
closed and he could get no response to his knock. He looked longingly at
the old house shining with its snow white doors and windows against the
dark fresh green of the rain-soaked trees, and thought with a pang of
his quarrel over its possession. What did houses matter if the heart was
sick unto death! The humblest Negro cabin would be a palace if only her
face would shine from the doorway!
He felt himself drawn toward her with resistless force and before he
realised what he was doing his hand was on the brass knocker and its
echoes were ringing through the hall.
Aunt Julie Ann shook her head as she ushered him in.
“I wish ye hadn’t come, marse John,” she said sorrowfully.
“Why not?”
“She shut hersef up in de room an’ won’t let nobody come in. I creep
up to de door, and hear her cryin’ sof’ an’ low. I knock an’ she didn’
answer. I knock again an’ calls her sweet names an’ ax her please lemme
do sumfin for her. She jump up an’ stamp her foot an’ say she kill me
ef I doan’ leave her ’lone. I’se skeered of her, honey, she ain’t lak our
folks. When de old Boy’s in her lak it is ter day she talks jes lak de
Judge. When she laughs an’ plays an’ looks purty as an angel her voice
jest like her Ma’s, low an’ sweet.”
“Tell her I’m here and wish to see her”--John interrupted with
impatience.
Aunt Julie Ann shook her head again:
“You better not honey!”
“I must see her. Try!”
John stood at the foot of the stairs nervously fumbling his hat while
Aunt Julie Ann climbed to the floor and knocked on her door.
He listened breathlessly for her answer. The key clicked in the lock and
Stella opened it wide enough to be distinctly heard. Her voice rang cold
and clear:
“Tell Mr. Graham to leave this house instantly and never enter it
again!”
The door closed and the bolt flashed into its place again.
John’s face flushed red, the colour slowly fading as his strong jaws
snapped with new determination.
“In spite of the devil, I’ll win her yet!”