"Ja wohl," answered Korner, puffing heavily. The slit in his nose was

plain even in the moonlight. "To keep our hands in, as you would say. You

Americans are a brave people--without the Schlager. But we fought that we

might not become effete."

It was then that Stephen ventured to ask a question that, had been long

burning within him.

"See here, Mr. Korner," said he, "how did Richter come by that scar? He

always gets red when I mention it. He will never tell me."

"Ah, I can well believe that," answered Korner. "I will recount that

matter,--if you do not tell Carl, lieber Freund. He would not forgive me.

I was there in Berlin at the time. It was a famous time. Tiefel will bear

me out."

"Ja, ja!" said Tiefel, eagerly.

"Mr. Brice," Herr Korner continued, "has never heard of the Count von

Kalbach. No, of course. We at Jena had, and all Germany. Many of us of

the Burschenschaft will bear to the grave the marks of his Schlager. Von

Kalbach went to Bonn, that university of the aristocrats, where he was

worshipped. When he came to Berlin with his sister, crowds would gather

to look at them. They were like Wodan and Freya. 'Donner'!" exclaimed

Herr Korner, "there is something in blood, when all is said. He was as

straight and strong as an oak of the Black Forest, and she as fair as a

poplar. It is so with the Pomeranians.

"It was in the year '47, when Carl Richter was gone home to Berlin before

his last semester, to see his father: One fine morning von Kalbach rode

in at the Brandenburg gate on a great black stallion. He boasted openly

that day that none of the despised 'Burschenschaft' dare stand before

him. And Carl Richter took up the challenge. Before night all Berlin had

heard of the temerity of the young Liberal of the Jena 'Burschenschaft'.

To our shame be it said, we who knew and loved Carl likewise feared for

him.

"Carl chose for his second Ebhardt, a man of our own Germanian Club at

Jena, since killed in the Breite Strasse. And if you will believe me, my

friend. I tell you that Richter came to the glade at daybreak smoking his

pipe. The place was filled, the nobles on one side and the Burschenschaft

on the other, and the sun coming up over the trees. Richter would not

listen to any of us, not even the surgeon. He would not have the silk

wound on his arm, nor the padded breeches, nor the neck covering

--Nothing! So Ebhardt put on his gauntlets and peaked cap, and his apron

with the device of the Germanians.

"There stood the Count in his white shirt in the pose of a statue. And

when it was seen that Richter likewise had no protection, but was calmly

smoking the little short pipe, with a charred bowl, a hush fell upon all.

At the sight of the pipe von Kalbach ground his heel in the turf, and

when the word was given he rushed at Richter like a wild beast. You, my

friend, who have never heard the whistle of sharp Schlager cannot know

the song which a skilled arm draws from the blade. It was music that

morning: You should have seen the noble's mighty strokes--'Prim und

Second und Terz und Quart'. You would have marked how Richter met him at

every blow. Von Kalbach never once took his eyes from the blue smoke from

the bowl. He was terrible in his fury, and I shiver now to think how we

of the Burschenschaft trembled when we saw that our champion was driven

back a step, and then another. You must know that it is a lasting

disgrace to be forced over one's own line. It seemed as if we could not

bear the agony. And then, while we counted out the last seconds of the

half, came a snap like that of a whip's lash, and the bowl of Richter's

pipe lay smouldering on the grass. The noble had cut the stem as clean as

it were sapling twig, and there stood Richter with the piece still

clenched in his teeth, his eyes ablaze, and his cheek running blood. He

pushed the surgeon away when he came forward with his needles. The Count

was smiling as he put up his sword, his friends crowding around him, when

Ebhardt cried out that his man could fight the second mensur,--though the

wound was three needles long. Then Kalbach cried aloud that he would kill

him. But he had not seen Carl's eyes. Something was in them that made us

think as we washed the cut. But when we spoke to him he said nothing. Nor

could we force the pipe stems from his teeth.

"Donner Schock!" exclaimed Herr Korner, but reverently, "if I live to a

hundred I never hope to see such a sight as that 'Mensur'. The word was

given. The Schlager flew so fast that we only saw the light and heard the

ring alone. Before we of the Burschenschaft knew what had happened the

Count von Kalbach was over his line and had flung his Schlager into a

great tree, and was striding from the place with his head hung and the

tears streamin down his face."

Amid a silence, Herr Korner lifted his great mug and emptied it slowly. A

wind was rising, bearing with it song and laughter from distant groups,

--Teutonic song and, laughter. The moonlight trembled through the shifting

leaves. And Stephen was filled with a sense of the marvelous. It was as

if this fierce duel, so full of national significance to a German, had

been fought in another existence, It was incredible to him that the

unassuming lawyer he knew, so wholly Americanized, had been the hero of

it. Strange, indeed, that the striving life of these leaders of European

Revolution had been suddenly cut off in its vigor. There came to Stephen

a flash of that world-comprehension which marks great statesmen. Was it

not with a divine purpose that this measureless force of patriotism and

high ideal had been given to this youngest of the nations, that its high

mission might be fulfilled?

Miss Russell heard of Stephen's speeches. She and her brothers and Jack

Brinsmade used to banter him when he came a-visiting in Bellefontaine

Road. The time was not yet come when neighbor stared coldly upon

neighbor, when friends of long standing passed each other with averted

looks. It was not even a wild dream that white-trash Lincoln would be

elected. And so Mr. Jack, who made speeches for Breckenridge in the face

of Mr. Brinsmade's Union leanings, laughed at Stephen when he came to

spend the night. He joined forces with Puss in making clever fun of the

booby Dutch, which Stephen was wise enough to take good-naturedly. But

once or twice when he met Clarence Colfax at these houses he was aware of

a decided change in the attitude of that young gentleman. This troubled

him more than he cared to admit. For he liked Clarence, who reminded him

of Virginia--at once a pleasure and a pain.

It is no harm to admit (for the benefit of the Society for Psychical

Research) that Stephen still dreamed of her. He would go about his work

absently all the morning with the dream still in his head, and the girl

so vividly near him that he could not believe her to be travelling in

England, as Miss Russell said. Puss and Anne were careful to keep him

informed as to her whereabouts. Stephen set this down as a most natural

supposition on their part that all young men must have an interest in

Virginia Carvel.

How needless to add that Virginia in her correspondence never mentioned

Stephen, although Puss in her letters took pains to record the fact every

time that he addressed a Black Republican meeting: Miss Carvel paid no

attention to this part of the communications. Her concern for Judge

Whipple Virginia did not hide. Anne wrote of him. How he stood the rigors

of that campaign were a mystery to friend and foe alike.

CHAPTER XI

HOW A PRINCE CAME

Who has not heard of the St. Louis Agricultural Fair. And what memories

of its October days the mere mention of at brings back to us who knew

that hallowed place as children. There was the vast wooden amphitheatre

where mad trotting races were run; where stolid cattle walked past the

Chinese pagoda in the middle circle, and shook the blue ribbons on their

horns. But it was underneath the tiers of seats (the whole way around the

ring) that the chief attractions lay hid. These were the church booths,

where fried oysters and sandwiches and cake and whit candy and ice-cream

were sold by your mothers and sister for charity. These ladies wore white

aprons as they waited on the burly farmers. And toward the close of the

day for which they had volunteered they became distracted. Christ Church

had a booth, and St. George's; and Dr. Thayer's, Unitarian, where Mrs.

Brice might be found and Mr. Davitt's, conducted by Mr. Eliphalet Hopper

on strictly business principles, and the Roman Catholic Cathedral, where

Miss Renault and other young ladies of French descent presided: and Dr.

Posthelwaite's, Presbyterian, which we shall come to presently. And

others, the whole way around the ring.

There is one Fair which old St. Louisans still delight to recall,--that

of the autumn of 1860--Think for a minute. You will remember that

Virginia Carvel came back from Europe; and made quite a stir in a town

where all who were worth knowing were intimates. Stephen caught a glimpse

of her an the street, received a distant bow, and dreamed of her that

night. Mr. Eliphalet Hopper, in his Sunday suit, was at the ferry to pay

his respects to the Colonel, to offer his services, and to tell him how

the business fared. His was the first St. Louis face that Virginia saw

(Captain Lige being in New Orleans), and if she conversed with Eliphalet

on the ferry with more warmth than ever before, there is nothing strange

in that. Mr. Hopper rode home with them in the carriage, and walked to

Miss Crane's with his heart thumping against his breast, and wild

thoughts whirling in his head.

The next morning, in Virginia's sunny front room tears and laughter

mingled. There was a present for Eugenie and Anne and Emily and Puss and

Maude, and a hear kiss from the Colonel for each. And more tears and

laughter and sighs as Mammy Easter and Rosetta unpacked the English

trunks, and with trembling hands and rolling eyes laid each Parisian gown

upon the bed.

But the Fair, the Fair!

At the thought of that glorious year my pen fails me. Why mention the

dread possibility of the negro-worshiper Lincoln being elected the very

next month? Why listen, to the rumblings in the South? Pompeii had

chariot-races to the mutterings of Vesuvius. St. Louis was in gala garb

to greet a Prince.

That was the year that Miss Virginia Carvel was given charge of the booth

in Dr. Posthelwaite's church,--the booth next one of the great arches

through which prancing horses and lowing cattle came.

Now who do you think stopped at the booth for a chat with Miss Jinny? Who

made her blush as pink as her Paris gown? Who slipped into her hand the

contribution for the church, and refused to take the cream candy she

laughingly offered him as an equivalent?

None other than Albert Edward, Prince of Wales, Duke of Saxony, Duke of

Cornwall and Rothesay, Earl of Chester and Carrick, Baron Renfrew, and

Lord of the Isles. Out of compliment to the Republic which he visited, he

bore the simple title of Lord Renfrew.

Bitter tears of envy, so it was said, were shed in the other booths.

Belle Cluyme made a remark which is best suppressed. Eliphalet Hopper, in

Mr. Davitt's booths, stared until his eyes watered. A great throng peered

into the covered way, kept clear for his Royal Highness and suite, and

for the prominent gentlemen who accompanied them. And when the Prince was

seen to turn to His Grace, the Duke of Newcastle, and the subscription

was forthcoming, a great cheer shook the building, while Virginia and the

young ladies with her bowed and blushed and smiled. Colonel Carvel, who

was a Director, laid his hand paternally on the blue coat of the young

Prince. Reversing all precedent, he presented his Royal Highness to his

daughter and to the other young ladies. It was done with the easy grace

of a Southern gentleman. Whereupon Lord Renfrew bowed and smiled too, and

stroked his mustache, which was a habit he had, and so fell naturally

into the ways of Democracy.

Miss Puss Russell, who has another name, and whose hair is now white,

will tell you how Virginia carried off the occasion with credit to her

country.

It is safe to say that the Prince forgot "Silver Heels" and "Royal Oak,"

although they had been trotted past the Pagoda only that morning for his

delectation. He had forgotten his Honor the Mayor, who had held fast to

the young man's arm as the four coal-black horses had pranced through the

crowds all the way from Barnum's Hotel to the Fair Grounds. His Royal

Highness forgot himself still further, and had at length withdrawn his

hands from the pockets of his ample pantaloons and thrust his thumbs into

his yellow waistcoat. And who shall blame him if Miss Virginia's replies

to his sallies enchained him?

Not the least impressive of those who stood by, smiling, was the figure

of the tall Colonel, his hat off for once, and pride written on his face.

Oh, that his dear wife might have lived to see this!

What was said in that historic interview with a future Sovereign of

England, far from his royal palaces, on Democratic sawdust, with an

American Beauty across a board counter, was immediately recorded by the

Colonel, together with an exact description of his Royal Highness's blue

coat, and light, flowing pantaloons, and yellow waist-coat, and colored

kids; even the Prince's habit of stroking his mustache did not escape the

watchful eye. It is said that his Grace of Newcastle smiled twice at Miss

Virginia's retorts, and Lord Lyons, the British Minister, has more than

two to his credit. But suddenly a strange thing happened. Miss Virginia

in the very midst of a sentence paused, and then stopped. Her eyes had

strayed from the Royal Countenance, and were fixed upon a point in the

row of heads outside the promenade. Her sentence was completed--with

some confusion. Perhaps it is no wonder that my Lord Renfrew, whose

intuitions are quick, remarked that he had already remained too long,

thus depriving the booth of the custom it otherwise should have had. This

was a graceful speech, and a kingly. Followed by his retinue and the

prominent citizens, he moved on. And it was remarked by keen observers

that his Honor the Mayor had taken hold once more of the Prince's elbow,

who divided his talk with Colonel Carver.

Dear Colonel Carvel! What a true American of the old type you were. You,

nor the Mayor, nor the rest of the grave and elderly gentlemen were not

blinded by the light of a royal Presence. You saw in him only an amiable

and lovable young man, who was to succeed the most virtuous and lovable

of sovereigns, Victoria. You, Colonel Carvel, were not one to cringe to

royalty. Out of respect for the just and lenient Sovereign, his mother,

you did honor to the Prince. But you did not remind him, as you might

have, that your ancestors fought for the King at Marston Moor, and that

your grandfather was once an intimate of Charles James Fox. But what

shall we say of Mr. Cluyme, and of a few others whose wealth alone

enabled them to be Directors of the Fair? Miss Isabel Cluyme was duly

presented, in proper form, to his Royal Highness. Her father owned a

"peerage," and had been abroad likewise. He made no such bull as the

Colonel. And while the celebrated conversation of which we have spoken

was in progress, Mr. Cluyme stood back and blushed for his countryman,

and smiled apologetically at the few gentlemen of the royal suite who

glanced his way.

His Royal Highness then proceeded to luncheon, which is described by a

most amiable Canadian correspondent who sent to his newspaper an account

of it that I cannot forbear to copy. You may believe what he says, or

not, just as you choose: "So interested was his Royal Highness in the

proceedings that he stayed in the ring three and a half hours witnessing

these trotting matches. He was invited to take lunch in a little wooden

shanty prepared for the Directors, to which he accordingly repaired, but

whether he got anything to eat or not, I cannot tell. After much trouble

he forced his way to the table, which he found surrounded by a lot of

ravenous animals. And upon some half dozen huge dishes were piled slices

of beef, mutton, and buffalo tongue; beside them were great jugs of lager

beer, rolls of bread, and plates of a sort of cabbage cut into thin

shreds, raw, and mixed with vinegar. There were neither salt spoons nor

mustard spoons, the knives the gentlemen were eating with serving in

their stead; and, by the aid of nature's forks, the slices of beef and

mutton were transferred to the plates of those who desired to eat. While

your correspondent stood looking at the spectacle, the Duke of Newcastle

came in, and he sat looking too. He was evidently trying to look

democratic, but could not manage it. By his side stood a man urging him

to try the lager beer, and cabbage also, I suppose. Henceforth, let the

New York Aldermen who gave to the Turkish Ambassador ham sandwiches and

bad sherry rest in peace."

Even that great man whose memory we love and revere, Charles Dickens, was

not overkind to us, and saw our faults rather than our virtues. We were a

nation of grasshoppers, and spat tobacco from early morning until late at

night. This some of us undoubtedly did, to our shame be it said. And when

Mr. Dickens went down the Ohio, early in the '40's, he complained of the

men and women he met; who, bent with care, bolted through silent meals,

and retired within their cabins. Mr. Dickens saw our ancestors bowed in a

task that had been too great for other blood,--the task of bringing into

civilization in the compass of a century a wilderness three thousand

miles it breadth. And when his Royal Highness came to St. Louis and

beheld one hundred thousand people at the Fair, we are sure that he knew

how recently the ground he stood upon had been conquered from the forest.

A strange thing had happened, indeed. For, while the Prince lingered in

front of the booth of Dr. Posthelwaite's church and chatted with

Virginia, a crowd had gathered without. They stood peering over the

barricade into the covered way, proud of the self-possession of their

young countrywoman. And here, by a twist of fate, Mr. Stephen Brice found

himself perched on a barrel beside his friend Richter. It was Richter who

discovered her first.

"Himmel! It is Miss Carvel herself, Stephen," he cried, impatient at the

impassive face of his companion. "Look, Stephen, look there."

"Yes," said Stephen, "I see."

"Ach!" exclaimed the disgusted German, "will nothing move you? I have

seen German princesses that are peasant women beside her. How she carries

it off! See, the Prince is laughing!"

Stephen saw, and horror held him in a tremor. His one thought was of

escape. What if she should raise her eyes, and amid those vulgar stares

discern his own? And yet that was within him which told him that she

would look up. It was only a question of moments, and then,--and then she

would in truth despise him! Wedged tightly between the people, to move

was to be betrayed. He groaned.

Suddenly he rallied, ashamed of his own false shame. This was because of

one whom he had known for the short, space of a day--whom he was to

remember for a lifetime. The man he worshipped, and she detested. Abraham

Lincoln would not have blushed between honest clerks and farmers Why

should Stephen Brice? And what, after all, was this girl to him? He could

not tell. Almost the first day he had come to St. Louis the wires of

their lives had crossed, and since then had crossed many times again,

always with a spark. By the might of generations she was one thing, and

he another. They were separated by a vast and ever-widening breach only

to be closed by the blood and bodies of a million of their countrymen.

And yet he dreamed of her.

Gradually, charmed like the simple people about him, Stephen became lost

in the fascination of the scene. Suddenly confronted at a booth in a

public fair with the heir to the English throne, who but one of her own

kind might have carried it off so well, have been so complete a mistress

of herself? Since, save for a heightened color, Virginia gave no sign of

excitement. Undismayed, forgetful of the admiring crowd, unconscious of

their stares until--until the very strength of his gaze had compelled her

own. Such had been the prophecy within him. Nor did he wonder because, in

that multitude of faces, her eyes had flown so straightly homeward to

his.

With a rough effort that made an angry stir, Stephen flung the people

aside and escaped, the astonished Richter following in his wake. Nor

could the honest German dissuade him from going back to the office for

the rest of the day, or discover what had happened.

But all through the afternoon that scene was painted on the pages of

Stephen's books. The crude booth in the darkened way. The free pose of

the girl standing in front of her companions, a blue wisp of autumn

sunlight falling at her feet. The young Prince laughing at her sallies,

and the elderly gentleman smiling with benevolence upon the pair.

CHAPTER XII

INTO WHICH A POTENTATE COMES

Virginia danced with the Prince, "by Special Appointment," at the ball

that evening. So did her aunt, Mrs. Addison Colfax. So likewise was Miss

Belle Cluyme among those honored and approved. But Virginia wore the most

beautiful of her Paris gowns, and seemed a princess to one watching from

the gallery. Stephen was sure that his Royal Highness made that

particular dance longer than the others. It was decidedly longer than the

one he had with Miss Cluyme, although that young lady had declared she

was in heaven.

Alas, that princes cannot abide with us forever! His Royal Highness bade

farewell to St. Louis, and presently that same 'City of Alton' which bore

him northward came back again in like royal state, and this time it was

in honor of a Democrat potentate. He is an old friend now, Senator and

Judge and Presidential Candidate,--Stephen Arnold Douglas,--father of the

doctrine of Local Sovereignty, which he has come to preach. So goes the

world. We are no sooner rid of one hero than we are ready for another.

Blow, you bandsmen on the hurricane deck, let the shores echo with your

national airs! Let the gay bunting wave in the river breeze! Uniforms

flash upon the guards, for no campaign is complete without the military.

Here are brave companies of the Douglas Guards, the Hickory Sprouts, and

the Little Giants to do honor to the person of their hero. Cannon are

booming as he steps into his open carriage that evening on the levee,

where the piles of river freight are covered with people. Transparencies

are dodging in the darkness. A fresh band strikes up "Hail Columbia," and

the four horses prance away, followed closely by the "Independent Broom

Rangers." "The shouts for Douglas," remarked a keen observer who was

present, "must have penetrated Abraham's bosom at Springfield."

Mr. Jacob Cluyme, who had been a Bell and Everett man until that day, was

not the only person of prominence converted. After the speech he assured

the Judge that he was now undergoing the greatest pleasure of his life in

meeting the popular orator, the true representative man of the Great

West, the matured statesman, and the able advocate of national

principles. And although Mr. Douglas looked as if he had heard something

of the kind before, he pressed Mr. Cluyme's hand warmly.

So was the author of Popular Sovereignty, "the great Bulwark of American

Independence," escorted to the Court House steps, past houses of his

stanch supporters; which were illuminated in his honor. Stephen, wedged.

among the people, remarked that the Judge had lost none of his

self-confidence since that day at Freeport. Who, seeing the Democratic

candidate smiling and bowing to the audience that blocked the wide

square, would guess that the Question troubled him at all, or that he

missed the votes of the solid South? How gravely the Judge listened to

the eulogy of the prominent citizen, who reminded him that his work was

not yet finished, and that he still was harnessed to the cause of the

people! And how happy was the choice of that word harnessed!

The Judge had heard (so he said) with deep emotion the remarks of the

chairman. Then followed one of those masterful speeches which wove a

spell about those who listened,--which, like the most popular of novels,

moved to laughter and to tears, to anger and to pity. Mr. Brice and Mr

Richter were not the only Black Republicans who were depressed that

night. And they trudged homeward with the wild enthusiasm still ringing

in their ears, heavy with the thought that the long, hot campaign of

their own Wide-Awakes might be in vain.

They had a grim reproof from Judge Whipple in the morning.

"So you too, gentlemen, took opium last night," was all he said.

The dreaded possibility of Mr. Lincoln's election did not interfere with

the gayeties. The week after the Fair Mr. Clarence Colfax gave a great

dance at Bellegarde, in honor of his cousin, Virginia, to which Mr.

Stephen Brice was not invited. A majority of Company A was there.

Virginia would have liked to have had them in uniform.

It was at this time that Anne Brinsmade took the notion of having a ball

in costume. Virginia, on hearing the news, rode over from Bellegarde, and

flinging her reins to Nicodemus ran up to Anne's little dressing-room.

"Whom have you invited, Anne?" she demanded.

Anne ran over the long list of their acquaintance, but there was one name

she omitted.

"Are you sure that that is all?" asked Virginia, searchingly, when she

had finished.

Anne looked mystified.

"I have invited Stephen Brice, Jinny," she said. But!--"

"But!" cried Virginia. "I knew it. Am I to be confronted with that Yankee

everywhere I go? It is always 'Stephen Brice', and he is ushered in with

a but."

Anne was quite overcome by this outburst. She had dignity, however, and

plenty of it. And she was a loyal friend.

"You have no right to criticise my guests, Virginia."

Virginia, seated on the arm of a chair, tapped her foot on the floor.

"Why couldn't things remain as they were?" she said. "We were so happy

before these Yankees came. And they are not content in trying to deprive

us of our rights. They must spoil our pleasure, too."

"Stephen Brice is a gentleman," answered Anne. "He spoils no one's

pleasure, and goes no place that he is not asked."

"He has not behaved according to my idea of a gentleman, the few times

that I have been unfortunate enough to encounter him," Virginia retorted.

"You are the only one who says so, then." Here the feminine got the

better of Anne's prudence, and she added. "I saw you waltz with him once,

Jinny Carvel, and I am sure you never enjoyed a dance as much in your

life."

Virginia blushed purple.

"Anne Brinsmade!" she cried. "You may have your ball, and your Yankees,

all of them you want. But I shan't come. How I wish I had never seen that

horrid Stephen Brice! Then you would never have insulted me."

Virginia rose and snatched her riding-whip. This was too much for Anne.

She threw her arms around her friend without more ado.

"Don't quarrel with me, Jinny," she said tearfully. "I couldn't bear it.

He--Mr. Brice is not coming, I am sure."

Virginia disengaged herself.

"He is not coming?"

"No," said Anne. "You asked me if he was invited. And I was going on to

tell you that he could not come."

She stopped, and stared at Virginia in bewilderment. That young lady,

instead of beaming, had turned her back. She stood flicking her whip at

the window, gazing out over the trees, down the slope to the river. Miss

Russell might have interpreted these things. Simple Anne!

"Why isn't he coming?" said Virginia, at last.

"Because he is to be one of the speakers at a big meeting that night.

Have you seen him since you got home, Jinny? He is thinner than he was.

We are much worried about him, because he has worked so hard this

summer."

"A Black Republican meeting!" exclaimed Virginia, scornfully ignoring the

rest of what was said. "Then I'll come, Anne dear," she cried, tripping

the length of the room. "I'll come as Titania. Who will you be?"

She cantered off down the drive and out of the gate, leaving a very

puzzled young woman watching her from the window. But when Virginia

reached the forest at the bend of the road, she pulled her horse down to

a walk.

She bethought herself of the gown which her Uncle Daniel had sent her

from Calvert House, and of the pearls. And she determined to go as her

great-grandmother, Dorothy Carvel.

Shades of romance! How many readers will smile before the rest of this

true incident is told?

What had happened was this. Miss Anne Brinsmade had driven to town in her

mother's Jenny Lind a day or two before, and had stopped (as she often

did) to pay a call on Mrs. Brice. This lady, as may be guessed, was not

given to discussion of her husband's ancestors, nor of her own. But on

the walls of the little dining-room hung a Copley and two Stuarts. One of

the Stuarts was a full length of an officer in the buff and blue of the

Continental Army. And it was this picture which caught Anne's eye that

day.

"How like Stephen!" she exclaimed. And added. "Only the face is much

older. Who is it, Mrs. Brice?"

"Colonel Wilton Brice, Stephen's grandfather. There is a marked look

about all the Brices. He was only twenty years of age when the Revolution

began. That picture was painted much later in life, after Stuart came

back to America, when the Colonel was nearly forty. He had kept his

uniform, and his wife persuaded him to be painted in it."

"If Stephen would only come as Colonel Wilton Brice!" she cried. "Do you

think he would, Mrs. Brice?"

Mrs. Brice laughed, and shook her head.

"I am afraid not, Anne," she said. "I have a part of the uniform

upstairs, but I could never induce him even to try it on."

As she drove from shop to shop that day, Anne reflected that it certainly

would not be like Stephen to wear his grandfather's uniform to a ball.

But she meant to ask him, at any rate. And she had driven home

immediately to write her invitations. It was with keen disappointment

that she read his note of regret.

However, on the very day of the ball, Anne chanced to be in town again,

and caught sight of Stephen pushing his way among the people on Fourth

Street. She waved her hand to him, and called to Nicodemus to pull up at

the sidewalk.

"We are all so sorry that you are not coming," said she, impulsively. And

there she stopped short. For Anne was a sincere person, and remembered

Virginia. "That is, I am so sorry," she added, a little hastily.

"Stephen, I saw the portrait of your grandfather, and I wanted you to

come in his costume."

Stephen, smiling down on her, said nothing. And poor Anne, in her fear

that he had perceived the shade in her meaning, made another unfortunate

remark.

"If you were not a--a Republican--" she said.

"A Black Republican," he answered, and laughed at her discomfiture. "What

then?"

Anne was very red.

"I only meant that if you were not a Republican, there would be no

meeting to address that night."

"It does not make any difference to you what my politics are, does it?"

he asked, a little earnestly.

"Oh, Stephen!" she exclaimed, in gentle reproof.

"Some people have discarded me," he said, striving to smile.

She wondered whether he meant Virginia, and whether he cared. Still

further embarrassed, she said something which she regretted immediately.

"Couldn't you contrive to come?"

He considered.

"I will come, after the meeting, if it is not too late," he said at

length. "But you must not tell any one."

He lifted his hat, and hurried on, leaving Anne in a quandary. She wanted

him. But what was she to say to Virginia? Virginia was coming on the

condition that he was not to be there. And Anne was scrupulous.

Stephen, too, was almost instantly sorry that he had promised. The little

costumer's shop (the only one in the city at that time) had been

ransacked for the occasion, and nothing was left to fit him. But when he

reached home there was a strong smell of camphor in his mother's room.

Colonel Brice's cocked hat and sword and spurs lay on the bed, and

presently Hester brought in the blue coat and buff waistcoat from the

kitchen, where she had been pressing them. Stephen must needs yield to

his mother's persuasions and try them on--they were more than a passable

fit. But there were the breeches and cavalry boots to be thought of, and

the ruffled shirt and the powdered wig. So before tea he hurried down to

the costumer's again, not quite sure that he was not making a fool of

himself, and yet at last sufficiently entered into the spirit of the

thing. The coat was mended and freshened. And when after tea he dressed

in the character, his appearance was so striking that his mother could

not refrain from some little admiration. As for Hester, she was in

transports. Stephen was human, and young. But still the frivolity of it

all troubled him. He had inherited from Colonel Wilton Brice, the

Puritan, other things beside clothes. And he felt in his heart as he

walked soberly to the hall that this was no time for fancy dress balls.

All intention of going was banished by the time his turn had come to

speak.

But mark how certain matters are beyond us. Not caring to sit out the

meeting on the platform, he made his way down the side of the crowded

hall, and ran into (of all people) big Tom Catherwood. As the Southern

Rights politics of the Catherwood family were a matter of note in the

city, Stephen did not attempt to conceal his astonishment. Tom himself

was visibly embarrassed. He congratulated Stephen on his speech, and

volunteered the news that he had come in a spirit of fairness to hear

what the intelligent leaders of the Republican party, such as Judge

Whipple, had to say. After that he fidgeted. But the sight of him started

in Stephen a train of thought that closed his ears for once to the

Judge's words. He had had before a huge liking for Tom. Now he admired

him, for it was no light courage that took one of his position there. And

Stephen remembered that Tom was not risking merely the displeasure of his

family and his friends, but likewise something of greater value than,

either. From childhood Tom had been the devoted slave of Virginia Carvel,

with as little chance of marrying her as a man ever had. And now he was

endangering even that little alliance.

And so Stephen began to think of Virginia, and to wonder what she would

wear at Anne's party; and to speculate how she would have treated him if

had gone. To speak truth, this last matter had no little weight in his

decision to stay away. But we had best leave motives to those whose

business and equipment it is to weigh to a grain. Since that agonizing

moment when her eyes had met his own among the curiously vulgar at the

Fair, Stephen's fear of meeting Virginia had grown to the proportions of

a terror. And yet there she was in his mind, to take possession of it on

the slightest occasion.

When Judge Whipple had finished, Tom rose. He awoke Mr. Brice from a

trance.

"Stephen," said he, "of course you're going to the Brinsmade's."

Stephen shook his head.

"Why not?" said Tom, in surprise. "Haven't you a costume?"

"Yes," he answered dubiously.

"Why, then, you've got to come with me," says Tom, heartily. "It isn't

too late, and they'll want you. I've a buggy, and I'm going to the

Russells' to change my clothes. Came along"

Steven went.

CHAPTER XIII

AT MR. BRINSMADE'S GATE

The eastern side of the Brinsmade house is almost wholly taken up by the

big drawing-room where Anne gave her fancy-dress ball. From the windows

might be seen, through the trees in the grounds, the Father of Waters

below. But the room is gloomy now, that once was gay, and a heavy coat of

soot is spread on the porch at the back, where the apple blossoms still

fall thinly in the spring. The huge black town has coiled about the place

the garden still struggles on, but the giants of the forest are dying and

dead. Bellefontaine Road itself, once the drive of fashion, is no more.

Trucks and cars crowd the streets which follow its once rural windings,

and gone forever are those comely wooded hills and green pastures,--save

in the memory of those who have been spared to dream.

Still the old house stands, begrimed but stately, rebuking the sordid

life around it. Still come into it the Brinsmades to marriage and to

death. Five and sixty years are gone since Mr. Calvin Brinsmade took his

bride there. They sat on the porch in the morning light, harking to the

whistle of the quail in the corn, and watching the frightened deer

scamper across the open. Do you see the bride in her high-waisted gown,

and Mr. Calvin in his stock and his blue tail-coat and brass buttons?

Old people will tell you of the royal hospitality then, of the famous men

and women who promenaded under those chandeliers, and sat down to the

game-laden table. In 1835 General Atkinson and his officers thought

nothing of the twenty miles from Jefferson Barracks below, nor of dancing

all night with the Louisville belles, who were Mrs. Brinsmade's guests.

Thither came Miss Todd of Kentucky, long before she thought of taking for

a husband that rude man of the people, Abraham Lincoln. Foreigners of

distinction fell in love with the place, with its open-hearted master and

mistress, and wrote of it in their journals. Would that many of our

countrymen, who think of the West as rough, might have known the quality

of the Brinsmades and their neighbors!

An era of charity, of golden simplicity, was passing on that October

night of Anne Brinsmade's ball. Those who made merry there were soon to

be driven and scattered before the winds of war; to die at Wilson's

Creek, or Shiloh, or to be spared for heroes of the Wilderness. Some were

to eke out a life of widowhood in poverty. All were to live soberly,

chastened by what they had seen. A fear knocked at Colonel Carvel's heart

as he stood watching the bright figures.

"Brinsmade," he said, "do you remember this room in May, '46?"

Mr. Brinsmade, startled, turned upon him quickly.

"Why, Colonel, you have read my very thoughts," he said. "Some of those

who were here then are--are still in Mexico."

"And some who came home, Brinsmade, blamed God because they had not

fallen," said the Colonel.

"Hush, Comyn, His will be done," he answered; "He has left a daughter to

comfort you."

Unconsciously their eyes sought Virginia. In her gown of faded primrose

and blue with its quaint stays and short sleeves, she seemed to have

caught the very air of the decorous century to which it belonged. She was

standing against one of the pilasters at the side of the room, laughing

demurely at the antics of Becky Sharp and Sir John Falstaff,--Miss Puss

Russell and Mr. Jack Brinsmade, respectively.

Mr. Tennyson's "Idylls" having appeared but the year before, Anne was

dressed as Elaine, a part which suited her very well. It was strange

indeed to see her waltzing with Daniel Boone (Mr. Clarence Colfax) in his

Indian buckskins. Eugenie went as Marie Antoinette. Tall Maude Catherwood

was most imposing as Rebecca; and her brother George made a towering

Friar Tuck, Even little fifteen-year-old Spencer Catherwood, the

contradiction of the family, was there. He went as the lieutenant

Napoleon, walking about with his hands behind his back and his brows

thoughtfully contracted.

The Indian summer night was mild. It was at tine very height of the

festivities that Dorothy Carvel and Mr. Daniel Boone were making their

way together to the porch when the giant gate-keeper of Kenilworth Castle

came stalking up the steps out of the darkness, brandishing his club in

their faces. Dorothy screamed, and even the doughty Daniel gave back a

step.

"Tom Catherwood! How dare you? You frightened me nearly to death."

"I'm sorry, Jinny, indeed I am," said the giant, repentant, and holding

her hand in his.

"Where have you been?" demanded Virginia, a little mollified. "What makes

you so late?"

"I've been to a Lincoln meeting," said honest Tom; "where I heard a very

fine speech from a friend of yours."

Virginia tossed her head.

"You might have been better employed," said she, and added, with dignity,

"I have no friends who speak at Black Republican meetings."

"How about Judge Whipple?" said Tom.

She stopped. "Did you mean the Judge?" she asked, over her shoulder.

"No," said Tom, "I meant--"

He got no further. Virginia slipped her arm through Clarence's, and they

went off together to the end of the veranda. Poor Tom! He passed on into

the gay drawing-room, but the zest had been taken out of his antics for

that night.

"Whom did he mean, Jinny?" said Clarence, when they were on the seat

under the vines.

"He meant that Yankee, Stephen Brice," answered Virginia, languidly. "I

am so tired of hearing about him."

"So am I," said Clarence, with a fervor by no means false. "By George, I

think he will make a Black Republican out of Tom, if he keeps on. Puss

and Jack have been talking about him all summer, until I am out of

patience. I reckon he has brains. But suppose he has addressed fifty

Lincoln meetings, as they say, is that any reason for making much of him?

I should not have him at Bellegarde. I am surprised that Mr. Russell

allows him in his house. I can see why Anne likes him."

"Why?"

"He is on the Brinsmade charity list."

"He is not on their charity list, nor on any other," said Virginia,

quickly. "Stephen Brice is the last person who would submit to charity."

"And you are the last person who I supposed would stand up for him,"

cried her cousin, surprised and nettled.

There was an instant's silence.

"I want to be fair, Max," she said quietly. "Pa offered them our Glencoe

House last summer at a low price, and they insisted on paying what Mr.

Edwards gave five years ago,--or nothing. You know that I detest a Yankee

as much as you do," she continued, indignation growing in her voice. "I

did not come out here with you to be insulted."

With her hand on the rail, she made as if to rise. Clarence was perforce

mollified.

"Don't go, Jinny," he said beseechingly. "I didn't mean to make you

angry--"

"I can't see why you should always be dragging in this Mr. Brice," she

said, almost tearfully. (It will not do to pause now and inquire into

Virginia's logic.) "I came out to hear what you had to tell me."

"Jinny, I have been made second lieutenant of Company A."

"Oh, Max, I am so glad! I am so proud of you!"

"I suppose that you have heard the result of the October elections,

Jinny."

"Pa said something about them to-night," she answered; why?"

"It looks now as if there were a chance of the Republicans winning," he

answered. But it was elation that caught his voice, not gloom.

"You mean that this white trash Lincoln may be President?" she exclaimed,

seizing his arm.

"Never!" he cried. "The South will not submit to that until every man who

can bear arms is shot down." He paused. The strains of a waltz mingled

with talk and laughter floated out of the open window. His voice dropped

to a low intensity. "We are getting ready in Company A," he said; "the

traitors will be dropped. We are getting ready to fight for Missouri and

for the South."

The girl felt his excitement, his exaltation.

"And if you were not, Max, I should disown you," she whispered.

He leaned forward until his face was close to hers.

"And now?" he said.

"I am ready to work, to starve, to go to prison, to help--"

He sank back heavily into the corner.

"Is that all, Jinny?"

"All?" she repeated. "Oh, if a woman could only do more!"

"And is there nothing--for me?"

Virginia straightened.

"Are you doing this for a reward?" she demanded.

"No," he answered passionately. "You know that I am not. Do you remember

when you told me that I was good for nothing, that I lacked purpose?"

"Yes, Max."

"I have thought it over since," he went on rapidly; "you were right. I

cannot work--it is not in me. But I have always felt that I could make a

name for myself--for you--in the army. I am sure that I could command a

regiment. And now the time is coming."

She did not answer him, but absently twisted the fringe of his buckskins

in her fingers.

"Ever since I have known what love is I have loved you, Jinny. It was so

when we climbed the cherry trees at Bellegarde. And you loved me then--I

know you did. You loved me when I went East to school at the Military

Institute. But it has not been the same of late," he faltered. "Something

has happened. I felt it first on that day you rode out to Bellegarde when

you said that my life was of no use. Jinny, I don't ask much. I am

content to prove myself. War is coming, and we shall have to free

ourselves from Yankee insolence. It is what we have both wished for. When

I am a general, will you marry me?"

For a wavering instant she might have thrown herself into his

outstretched arms. Why not, and have done with sickening doubts? Perhaps

her hesitation hung on the very boyishness of his proposal. Perhaps the

revelation that she did not then fathom was that he had not developed

since those childish days. But even while she held back, came the beat of

hoofs on the gravel below them, and one of the Bellegarde servants rode

into the light pouring through the open door. He called for his master.

Clarence muttered his dismay as he followed his cousin to the steps.

"What is it?" asked Virginia, alarmed.

"Nothing; I forgot to sign the deed to the Elleardsville property, and

Worington wants it to-night." Cutting short Sambo's explanations,

Clarence vaulted on the horse. Virginia was at his stirrup. Leaning over

in the saddle, he whispered: "I'll be back in a quarter of an hour Will

you wait?"

"Yes," she said, so that he barely heard.

"Here?"

She nodded.

He was away at a gallop, leaving Virginia standing bareheaded to the

night, alone. A spring of pity, of affection for Clarence suddenly welled

up within her. There came again something of her old admiration for a

boy, impetuous and lovable, who had tormented and defended her with the

same hand.

Patriotism, stronger in Virginia than many of us now can conceive, was on

Clarence's side. Ambition was strong in her likewise. Now was she all

afire with the thought that she, a woman, might by a single word give the

South a leader. That word would steady him, for there was no question of

her influence. She trembled at the reckless lengths he might go in his

dejection, and a memory returned to her of a day at Glencoe, before he

had gone off to school, when she had refused to drive with him. Colonel

Carvel had been away from home. She had pretended not to care. In spite

of Ned's beseechings Clarence had ridden off on a wild thoroughbred colt

and had left her to an afternoon of agony. Vividly she recalled his

home-coming in the twilight, his coat torn and muddy, a bleeding cut on

his forehead, and the colt quivering tame.

In those days she had thought of herself unreservedly as meant for him.

Dash and courage and generosity had been the beacon lights on her

horizon. But now? Were there not other qualities? Yes, and Clarence

should have these, too. She would put them into him. She also had been at

fault, and perhaps it was because of her wavering loyalty to him that he

had not gained them.

Her name spoken within the hall startled Virginia from her reverie, and

she began to walk rapidly down the winding drive. A fragment of the air

to which they were dancing brought her to a stop. It was the Jenny Lind

waltz. And with it came clear and persistent the image she had sought to

shut out and failed. As if to escape it now, she fairly ran all the way

to the light at the entrance and hid in the magnolias clustered beside

the gateway. It was her cousin's name she whispered over and over to

herself as she waited, vibrant with a strange excitement. It was as

though the very elements might thwart her wail. Clarence would be

delayed, or they would miss her at the house, and search. It seemed an

eternity before she heard the muffled thud of a horse cantering in the

clay road.

Virginia stood out in the light fairly between the gate posts. Too late

she saw the horse rear as the rider flew back in his seat, for she had

seized the bridle. The beams from the lamp fell upon a Revolutionary

horseman, with cooked hat and sword and high riding-boots. For her his

profile was in silhouette, and the bold nose and chin belonged to but one

man she knew. He was Stephen Brice. She gave a cry of astonishment and

dropped the rein in dismay. Hot shame was surging in her face. Her

impulse was to fly, nor could she tell what force that stayed her feet.

As for Stephen, he stood high in his stirrups and stared down at the

girl. She was standing full in the light,--her lashes fallen, her face

crimson. But no sound of surprise escaped him because it was she, nor did

he wonder at her gown of a gone-by century. Her words came first, and

they were low. She did not address him by name.

"I--I thought that you were my cousin," she said. "What must you think of

me!"

Stephen was calm.

"I expected it," he answered.

She gave a step backward, and raised her frightened eyes to his.

"You expected it?" she faltered.

"I can't say why," he said quickly, "but it seems to me as if this had

happened before. I know that I am talking nonsense--"

Virginia was trembling now. And her answer was not of her own choosing.

"It has happened before," she cried. "But where? And when?"

"It may have been in a dream," he answered her, "that I saw you as you

stand there by my bridle. I even know the gown you wear."

She put her hand to her forehead. Had it been a dream? And what mystery

was it that sent him here this night of all nights? She could not even

have said that it was her own voice making reply.

"And I--I have seen you, with the sword, and the powdered hair, and the

blue coat and the buff waistcoat. It is a buff waistcoat like that my

great-grandfather wears in his pictures."

"It is a buff waistcoat," he said, all sense of strangeness gone.

The roses she held dropped on the gravel, and she put out her hand

against his horse's flank. In an instant he had leaped from his saddle,

and his arm was holding her. She did not resist, marvelling rather at his

own steadiness, nor did she then resent a tenderness in his voice.

"I hope you will forgive me--Virginia," he said. "I should not have

mentioned this. And yet I could not help it."

She looked up at him rather wildly.

"It was I who stopped you," she said; "I was waiting for--"

"For whom?"

The interruption brought remembrance.

"For my cousin, Mr. Colfax," she answered, in another tone. And as she

spoke she drew away from him, up the driveway. But she had scarcely taken

five steps whey she turned again, her face burning defiance. "They told

me you were not coming," she said almost fiercely. "Why did you come?"

It was a mad joy that Stephen felt.

"You did not wish me to come?" he demanded.

"Oh, why do you ask that?" she cried. "You know I would not have been

here had I thought you were coming. Anne promised me that you would not

come."

What would she not have given for those words back again

Stephen took astride toward her, and to the girl that stride betokened a

thousand things that went to the man's character. Within its compass the

comparison in her mind was all complete. He was master of himself when he

spoke.

"You dislike me, Miss Carvel," he said steadily. "I do not blame you. Nor

do I flatter myself that it is only because you believe one thing, and I

another. But I assure you that it is my misfortune rather than my fault

that I have not pleased you,--that I have met you only to anger you."

He paused, for she did not seem to hear him. She was gazing at the

distant lights moving on the river. Had he come one step farther?--but he

did not. Presently she knew that he was speaking again, in the same

measured tone.

"Had Miss Brinsmade told me that my presence here would cause you

annoyance, I should have stayed away. I hope that you will think nothing

of the--the mistake at the gate. You may be sure that I shall not mention

it. Good night, Miss Carvel."

He lifted his hat, mounted his horse, and was gone. She had not even

known that he could ride--that was strangely the first thought. The

second discovered herself intent upon the rhythm of his canter as it died

southward upon the road. There was shame in this, mingled with a

thankfulness that he would not meet Clarence. She hurried a few steps

toward the house, and stopped again. What should she say to Clarence now?

What could she say to him?

But Clarence was not in her head. Ringing there was her talk with Stephen

Brice, as though it were still rapidly going on. His questions and her

replies--over and over again. Each trivial incident of an encounter real

and yet unreal! His transformation in the uniform, which had seemed so

natural. Though she strove to make it so, nothing of all this was

unbearable now, nor the remembrance of the firm torch of his arm about

her nor yet again his calling her by her name.

Absently she took her way again up the drive, now pausing, now going on,

forgetful. First it was alarm she felt when her cousin leaped down at her

side,--then dread.

"I thought I should never get back," he cried breathlessly, as he threw

his reins to Sambo. "I ought not to have asked you to wait outside. Did

it seem long, Jinny?"

She answered something, There was a seat near by under the trees. To lead

her to it he seized her hand, but it was limp and cold, and a sudden fear

came into his voice.

"Jinny!"

"Yes."

She resisted, and he dropped her fingers. She remembered long how he

stood in the scattered light from the bright windows, a tall, black

figure of dismay. She felt the yearning in his eyes. But her own

response, warm half an hour since, was lifeless.

"Jinny," he said, "what is the matter?"

"Nothing, Max. Only I was very foolish to say I would wait for you."

"Then--then you won't marry me?"

"Oh, Max," she cried, "it is no time to talk of that now. I feel to-night

as if something dreadful were to happen."

"Do you mean war?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "Yes."

"But war is what we want," he cried, "what we have prayed for, what we

have both been longing for to-night, Jinny. War alone will give us our

rights--"

He stopped short. Virginia had bowed her head an her hands, and he saw

her shoulders shaken by a sob. Clarence bent over her in bewilderment and

anxiety.

"You are not well, Jinny," he said.

"I am not well," she answered. "Take me into the house."

But when they went in at the door, he saw that her eyes were dry.

Those were the days when a dozen young ladies were in the habit of

staying all night after a dance in the country; of long whispered talks

(nay, not always whispered) until early morning. And of late breakfasts.

Miss Russell had not been the only one who remarked Virginia's long

absence with her cousin; but Puss found her friend in one of those moods

which even she dared not disturb. Accordingly Miss Russell stayed all

night with Anne.

And the two spent most of the dark hours remaining in unprofitable

discussion as to whether Virginia were at last engaged to her cousin, and

in vain queried over another unsolved mystery. This mystery was taken up

at the breakfast table the next morning, when Miss Carvel surprised Mrs.

Brinsmade and the male household by appearing at half-past seven.

"Why, Jinny," cried Mr. Brinsmade, "what does this mean? I always thought

that young ladies did not get up after a ball until noon."

Virginia smiled a little nervously.

"I am going to ask you to take me to town when you go, Mr. Brinsmade."

"Why, certainly, my dear," he said. "But I under stood that your aunt was

to send for you this afternoon from Bellegarde."

Virginia shook her head. There is something I wis to do in town."

"I'll drive her in, Pa," said Jack. "You're too old. Will you go with me,

Jinny?"

"Of course, Jack."

"But you must eat some breakfast, Jinny," said Mrs Brinsmade, glancing

anxiously at the girl.

Mr. Brinsmade put down his newspaper.

"Where was Stephen Brice last night, Jack?" he asked. "I understood Anne

to say that he had spoke; of coming late."

"Why, sir," said Jack, "that's what we can't make out. Tom Catherwood,

who is always doing queer things, you know, went to a Black Republican

meeting last night, and met Stephen there. They came out in Tom's buggy

to the Russells', and Tom got into his clothes first and rode over.

Stephen was to have followed on Puss Russell's horse. But he never got

here. At least I can find no one who saw him. Did you, Jinny?"

But Virginia did not raise her eyes from her plate. A miraculous

intervention came through Mrs. Brinsmade.

"There might have been an accident, Jack," said that lady, with concern.

"Send Nicodemus over to Mrs. Russell's at once to inquire. You know that

Mr. Brice is a Northerner, and may not be able to ride."

Jack laughed.

"He rides like a dragoon, mother," said he. "I don't know where he picked

it up."

"The reason I mentioned him," said Mr. Brinsmade, lifting the blanket

sheet and adjusting his spectacles, "was because his name caught my eye

in this paper. His speech last night at the Library Hall is one of the

few sensible Republican speeches I have read. I think it very remarkable

for a man as young as he." Mr. Brinsmade began to read: "'While waiting

for the speaker of the evening, who was half an hour late, Mr. Tiefel

rose in the audience and called loudly for Mr. Brice. Many citizens in

the hall were astonished at the cheering which followed the mention of

this name. Mr. Brice is a young lawyer with a quiet manner and a

determined face, who has sacrificed much to the Party's cause this

summer. He was introduced by Judge Whipple, in whose office he is. He had

hardly begun to speak before he had the ear of everyone in the house. Mr.

Brice's personality is prepossessing, his words are spoken sharply, and

he has a singular emphasis at times which seems to drive his arguments

into the minds of his hearers. We venture to say that if party orators

here and elsewhere were as logical and temperate as Mr. Brice; if, like

him, they appealed to reason rather than to passion, those bitter and

lamentable differences which threaten our country's peace might be

amicably adjusted.' Let me read what he said."

But he was interrupted by the rising of Virginia. A high color was on the

girl's face as she said:

"Please excuse me, Mrs. Brinsmade, I must go and get ready."

"But you've eaten nothing, my dear."

Virginia did not reply. She was already on the stairs.

"You ought not have read that, Pa," Mr. Jack remonstrated; "you know that

she detests Yankees"

CHAPTER XIV

THE BREACH BECOMES TOO WIDE

ABRAHAM LINCOLN!

At the foot of Breed's Hill in Charlestown an American had been born into

the world, by the might of whose genius that fateful name was sped to the

uttermost parts of the nation. Abraham Lincoln was elected President of

the United States. And the moan of the storm gathering in the South grew

suddenly loud and louder.

Stephen Brice read the news in the black headlines and laid down the

newspaper, a sense of the miraculous upon him. There again was the

angled, low-celled room of the country tavern, reeking with food and

lamps and perspiration; for a central figure the man of surpassing

homeliness,--coatless, tieless, and vestless,--telling a story in the

vernacular. He reflected that it might well seem strange yea, and

intolerable--to many that this comedian of the country store, this crude

lawyer and politician, should inherit the seat dignified by Washington

and the Adamses.

And yet Stephen believed. For to him had been vouchsafed the glimpse

beyond.

That was a dark winter that followed, the darkest in our history. Gloom

and despondency came fast upon the heels of Republican exultation. Men

rose early for tidings from Charleston, the storm centre. The Union was

cracking here and there. Would it crumble in pieces before Abraham

Lincoln got to Washington?

One smoky morning early in December Stephen arrived late at the office to

find Richter sitting idle on his stool, concern graven on his face.

"The Judge has had no breakfast, Stephen," he whispered. "Listen!

Shadrach tells me he has been doing that since six this morning, when he

got his newspaper."

Stephen listened, and he heard the Judge pacing and pacing in his room.

Presently the door was flung open, And they saw Mr. Whipple standing in

the threshold, stern and dishevelled. Astonishment did not pause here. He

came out and sat down in Stephen's chair, striking the newspaper in his

hand, and they feared at first that his Mind had wandered.

"Propitiate!" he cried, "propitiate, propitiate, and again propitiate.

How long, O Lord?" Suddenly he turned upon Stephen, who was frightened.

But now his voice was natural, and he thrust the paper into the young

man's lap. "Have you read the President's message to Congress, sir? God

help me that I am spared to call that wobbling Buchanan President. Read

it. Read it, sir. You have a legal brain. Perhaps you can tell me why, if

a man admits that it is wrong for a state to abandon this Union, he

cannot call upon Congress for men and money to bring her back. No, this

weakling lets Floyd stock the Southern arsenals. He pays tribute to

Barbary. He is for bribing them not to be angry. Take Cuba from Spain,

says he, and steal the rest of Mexico that the maw of slavery may be

filled, and the demon propitiated."

They dared not answer him. And so he went back into his room, shutting

the door. That day no clients saw him, even those poor ones dependent on

his charity whom had never before denied. Richter and Stephen took

counsel together, and sent Shadrach out for his dinner.

Three weeks passed. There arrived a sparkling Sunday, brought down the

valley of the Missouri from the frozen northwest. The Saturday had been

soggy and warm.

Thursday had seen South Carolina leave that Union into which she was

born, amid prayers and the ringing of bells. Tuesday was to be Christmas

day. A young lady, who had listened to a solemn sermon of Dr.

Posthelwaite's, slipped out of Church before the prayers were ended, and

hurried into that deserted portion of the town about the Court House

where on week days business held its sway.

She stopped once at the bottom of the grimy flight of steps leading to

Judge Whipple's office. At the top she paused again, and for a short

space stood alert, her glance resting on the little table in the corner,

on top of which a few thumbed law books lay neatly piled. Once she made a

hesitating step in this direction. Then, as if by a resolution quickly

taken, she turned her back and softly opened the door of the Judge's

room. He was sitting upright in his chair. A book was open in his lap,

but it did not seem to Virginia that he was reading it.

"Uncle Silas," she said, "aren't you coming to dinner any more?"

He looked up swiftly from under his shaggy brows. The book fell to the

floor.

"Uncle Silas," said Virginia, bravely, "I came to get you to-day."

Never before had she known him to turn away from man or woman, but now

Judge Whipple drew his handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose

violently. A woman's intuition told her that locked tight in his heart

was what he longed to say, and could not. The shiny black overcoat he

wore was on the bed. Virginia picked it up and held it out to him, an

appeal in her eyes.

He got into it. Then she handed him his hat. Many people walking home

from church that morning marvelled as they saw these two on Locust Street

together, the young girl supporting the elderly man over the slippery

places at the crossings. For neighbor had begun to look coldly upon

neighbor.

Colonel Carvel beheld them from his armchair by the sitting-room window,

and leaned forward with a start. His lips moved as he closed his Bible

reverently and marked his place. At the foot of the stairs he surprised

Jackson by waving him aside, for the Colonel himself flung open the door

and held out his hand to his friend. The Judge released Virginia's arm,

and his own trembled as he gave it.

"Silas," said the Colonel, "Silas, we've missed you."

Virginia stood by, smiling, but her breath came deeply. Had she done

right? Could any good come of it all? Judge Whipple did not go in at the

door--He stood uncompromisingly planted on the threshold, his head flung

back, and actual fierceness in his stare.

"Do you guess we can keep off the subject, Comyn?" he demanded.

Even Mr. Carvel, so used to the Judge's ways, was a bit taken aback by

this question. It set him tugging at his goatee, and his voice was not

quite steady as he answered:

"God knows, Silas. We are human, and we can only try."

Then Mr. Whipple marched in. It lacked a quarter of an hour of dinner,

--a crucial period to tax the resources of any woman. Virginia led the

talk, but oh, the pathetic lameness of it. Her own mind was wandering

when it should not, and recollections she had tried to strangle had

sprung up once more. Only that morning in church she had lived over again

the scene by Mr. Brinsmade's gate, and it was then that a wayward but

resistless impulse to go to the Judge's office had seized her. The

thought of the old man lonely and bitter in his room decided her. On her

knees she prayed that she might save the bond between him and her father.

For the Colonel had been morose on Sundays, and had taken to reading the

Bible, a custom he had not had since she was a child.

In the dining-room Jackson, bowing and smiling, pulled out the Judge's

chair, and got his customary curt nod as a reward. Virginia carved.

"Oh, Uncle Silas," she cried, "I am so glad that we have a wild turkey.

And you shall have your side-bone." The girl carved deftly, feverishly,

talking the while, aided by that most kind and accomplished of hosts, her

father. In the corner the dreaded skeleton of the subject grinned

sardonically. Were they going to be able to keep it off? There was to be

no help from Judge Whipple, who sat in grim silence. A man who feels his

soul burning is not given to small talk. Virginia alone had ever

possessed the power to make him forget.

"Uncle Silas, I am sure there are some things about our trip that we

never told you. How we saw Napoleon and his beautiful Empress driving in

the Bois, and how Eugenie smiled and bowed at the people. I never saw

such enthusiasm in my life. And oh, I learned such a lot of French

history. All about Francis the First, and Pa took me to see his chateaus

along the Loire. Very few tourists go there. You really ought to have

gone with us."

Take care, Virginia!

"I had other work to do, Jinny," said the Judge.

Virginia rattled an.

"I told you that we stayed with a real lord in England, didn't I?" said

she. "He wasn't half as nice as the Prince. But he had a beautiful house

in Surrey, all windows, which was built in Elizabeth's time. They called

the architecture Tudor, didn't they, Pa?"

"Yes, dear," said the Colonel, smiling.

"The Countess was nice to me," continued the girl, "and took me to garden

parties. But Lord Jermyn was always talking politics."

The Colonel was stroking his goatee.

"Tell Silas about the house, Jinny--Jackson, help the Judge again."

"No," said Virginia, drawing a breath. "I'm going to tell him about that

queer club where my great-grand-father used to bet with Charles Fox. We

saw a great many places where Richard Carvel had been in England. That

was before the Revolution. Uncle Daniel read me some of his memoirs when

we were at Calvert House. I know that you would be interested in them,

Uncle Silas. He sailed under Paul Jones."

"And fought for his country and for his flag, Virginia," said the Judge,

who had scarcely spoken until then. "No, I could not bear to read them

now, when those who should love that country are leaving it in passion."

There was a heavy silence. Virginia did not dare to look at her father.

But the Colonel said, gently:

"Not in passion, Silas, but in sorrow."

The Judge tightened his lips. But the effort was beyond him, and the

flood within him broke loose.

"Colonel Carvel," he cried, "South Carolina is mad--She is departing in

sin, in order that a fiendish practice may be perpetuated. If her people

stopped to think they would know that slavery cannot exist except by

means of this Union. But let this milksop of a President do his worst. We

have chosen a man who has the strength to say, 'You shall not go!'"

It was an awful moment. The saving grace of it was that respect and love

for her father filled Virginia's heart. In his just anger Colonel Carvel

remembered that he was the host, and strove to think only of his

affection for his old friend.

"To invade a sovereign state, sir, is a crime against the sacred spirit

of this government," he said.

"There is no such thing as a sovereign state, sir," exclaimed the Judge,

hotly. I am an American, and not a Missourian."

"When the time comes, sir," said the Colonel, with dignity, "Missouri

will join with her sister sovereign states against oppression."

"Missouri will not secede, sir."

"Why not, sir!" demanded the Colonel.

Because, sir, when the worst comes, the Soothing Syrup men will rally for

the Union. And there are enough loyal people here to keep her straight."

"Dutchmen, sir! Hessians? Foreign Republican hirelings, sir," exclaimed

the Colonel, standing up. "We shall drive them like sheep if they oppose

us. You are drilling them now that they may murder your own blood when

you think the time is ripe."

The Colonel did not hear Virginia leave the room, so softly had she gone,

He made a grand figure of a man as he stood up, straight and tall, those

gray eyes a-kindle at last. But the fire died as quickly as it had

flared. Pity had come and quenched it,--pity that an unselfish life of

suffering and loneliness should be crowned with these. The Colonel longed

then to clasp his friend in his arms. Quarrels they had had by the

hundred, never yet a misunderstanding. God had given to Silas Whipple a

nature stern and harsh that repelled all save the charitable few whose

gift it was to see below the surface, and Colonel Carvel had been the

chief of them. But now the Judge's vision was clouded.

Steadying himself by his chair, he had risen glaring, the loose skin

twitching on his sallow face. He began firmly but his voice shook ere he

had finished.

"Colonel Carvel," said he, "I expect that the day has come when you go

your way and I go mine. It will be better if--we do not meet again, sir."

And so he turned from the man whose friendship had stayed him for the

score of years he had battled with his enemies, from that house which had

been for so long his only home. For the last time Jackson came forward to

help him with his coat. The Judge did not see him, nor did he see the

tearful face of a young girl leaning over the banisters above. Ice was on

the stones. And Mr. Whipple, blinded by a moisture strange to his eyes,

clung to the iron railing as he felt his way down the steps. Before he

reached the bottom a stronger arm had seize his own, and was helping him.

The Judge brushed his eyes with his sleeve, and turned a defiant face

upon Captain Elijah Brent--then his voice broke. His anger was suddenly

gone, and his thought had flown back to the Colonel's thousand charities.

"Lige," he said, "Lige, it has come."

In answer the Captain pressed the Judge's hand, nodding vigorously to

hide his rising emotion. There was a pause.

"And you, Lige?" said Mr. Whipple, presently.

"My God!" cried the Captain, "I wish I knew."

"Lige," said the Judge, gravely, "you're too good a man to be for

Soothing Syrup."

The Captain choked.

"You're too smart to be fooled, Lige," he said, with a note near to

pleading. "The time has come when you Bell people and the Douglas people

have got to decide. Never in my life did I know it to do good to dodge a

question. We've got to be white or black, Lige. Nobody's got much use for

the grays. And don't let yourself be fooled with Constitutional Union

Meetings, and compromises. The time is almost here, Lige, when it will

take a rascal to steer a middle course."

Captain Lige listened, and he shifted from one foot to the other, and

rubbed his hands, which were red. Some odd trick of the mind had put into

his head two people--Eliphalet Hopper and Jacob Cluyme. Was he like them?

"Lige, you've got to decide. Do you love your country, sir? Can you look

on while our own states defy us, and not lift a hand? Can you sit still

while the Governor and all the secessionists in this state are plotting

to take Missouri, too, out of the Union? The militia is riddled with

rebels, and the rest are forming companies of minute men."

"And you Black Republicans," the Captain cried "have organized your Dutch

Wideawakes, and are arming them to resist Americans born."

"They are Americans by our Constitution, sir, which the South pretends to

revere," cried the Judge. "And they are showing themselves better

Americans than many who have been on the soil for generations."

"My sympathies are with the South," said the Captain, doggedly, "and my

love is for the South."

"And your conscience?" said the Judge.

There was no answer. Both men raised their eyes to the house of him whose

loving hospitality had been a light in the lives of both. When at last

the Captain spoke, his voice was rent with feeling.

"Judge," he began, "when I was a poor young man on the old 'Vicksburg',

second officer under old Stetson, Colonel Carvel used to take me up to

his house on Fourth Street to dinner. And he gave me the clothes on my

back, so that I might not be ashamed before the fashion which came there.

He treated me like a son, sir. One day the sheriff sold the Vicksburg.

You remember it. That left me high and dry in the mud. Who bought her,

sir? Colonel Carvel. And he says to me, 'Lige, you're captain now, the

youngest captain on the river. And she's your boat. You can pay me

principal and interest when you get ready.'

"Judge Whipple, I never had any other home than right in, this house. I

never had any other pleasure than bringing Jinny presents, and tryin' to

show 'em gratitude. He took me into his house and cared for me at a time

when I wanted to go to the devil along with the stevedores when I was a

wanderer he kept me out of the streets, and out of temptation. Judge, I'd

a heap rather go down and jump off the stern of my boat than step in here

and tell him I'd fight for the North."

The Judge steadied himself on his hickory stick and walked off without a

word. For a while Captain Lige stood staring after him. Then he slowly

climbed the steps and disappeared.

CHAPTER, XV

MUTTERINGS

Early in the next year, 1861,--that red year in the Calendar of our

history,--several gentlemen met secretly in the dingy counting-room of a

prominent citizen to consider how the state of Missouri might be saved to

the Union. One of these gentlemen was Judge Whipple, another, Mr.

Brinsmade; and another a masterly and fearless lawyer who afterward

became a general, and who shall be mentioned in these pages as the

Leader. By his dash and boldness and statesmanlike grasp of a black

situation St. Louis was snatched from the very bosom of secession.

Alas, that chronicles may not stretch so as to embrace all great men of a

time. There is Captain Nathaniel Lyon,--name with the fateful ring.

Nathaniel Lyon, with the wild red hair and blue eye, born and bred a

soldier, ordered to St. Louis, and become subordinate to a wavering

officer of ordnance. Lyon was one who brooked no trifling. He had the

face of a man who knows his mind and intention; the quick speech and

action which go with this. Red tape made by the reel to bind him, he

broke. Courts-martial had no terrors for him. He proved the ablest of

lieutenants to the strong civilian who was the Leader. Both were the men

of the occasion. If God had willed that the South should win, there would

have been no occasion.

Even as Judge Whipple had said, the time was come for all men to decide.

Out of the way, all hopes of compromises that benumbed Washington. No

Constitutional Unionists, no Douglas Democrats, no Republicans now.

All must work to save the ship. The speech-making was not done with yet.

Partisanship must be overcome, and patriotism instilled in its place. One

day Stephen Brice saw the Leader go into Judge Whipple's room, and

presently he was sent for. After that he was heard of in various

out-of-the-way neighborhoods, exhorting all men to forget their quarrels

and uphold the flag.

The Leader himself knew not night from day in his toil,--in organizing,

conciliating, compelling when necessary. Letters passed between him and

Springfield. And, after that solemn inauguration, between him and

Washington. It was an open secret that the Governor of Missouri held out

his arms to Jefferson Davis, just elected President of the new Southern

Confederacy. It soon became plain to the feeblest brain what the Leader

and his friends had perceived long before, that the Governor intended to

use the militia (purged of Yankee sympathizers) to save the state for the

South.

The Government Arsenal, with its stores of arms and ammunition, was the

prize. This building and its grounds lay to the south of the City,

overlooking the river. It was in command of a doubting major of ordnance;

the corps of officers of Jefferson Barracks hard by was mottled with

secession. Trade was still. The Mississippi below was practically closed.

In all the South, Pickens and Sumter alone stood stanch to the flag. A

general, wearing the uniform of the army of the United States,

surrendered the whole state of Texas.

The St. Louis Arsenal was next in succession, and the little band of

regulars at the Barracks was powerless to save it. What could the Leader

and Captain Lyon do without troops? That was the question that rang in

Stephen's head, and in the heads of many others. For, if President

Lincoln sent troops to St. Louis, that would precipitate the trouble. And

the President had other uses for the handful in the army.

There came a rain-sodden night when a mysterious message arrived at the

little house in Olive Street. Both anxiety and pride were in Mrs. Brice's

eyes as they followed her son out of the door. At Twelfth Street two men

were lounging on the corners, each of whom glanced at him listessly as he

passed. He went up a dark and narrow stair into a lighted hall with

shrouded windows. Men with sober faces were forming line on the sawdust

of the floors. The Leader was there giving military orders in a low

voice. That marked the beginning of the aggressive Union movement.

Stephen, standing apart at the entrance, remarked that many of the men

were Germans. Indeed, he spied his friend Tiefel there, and presently

Richter came from the ranks to greet him.

"My friend," he said, "you are made second lieutenant of our company, the

Black Jaegers."

"But I have never drilled in my life," said Stephen.

"Never mind. Come and see the Leader."

The Leader, smiling a little, put a vigorous stop to his protestations,

and told him to buy a tactics. The next man Stephen saw was big Tom

Catherwood, who blushed to the line of his hair as he returned Stephen's

grip.

"Tom, what does this mean?" He asked.

"Well," said Tom, embarrassed, "a fellow has got to do what he think's

right."

"And your family?" asked Stephen.

A spasm crossed Tom's face.

"I reckon they'll disown me, Stephen, when they find it out."

Richter walked home as far as Stephen's house. He was to take the Fifth

Street car for South St. Louis. And they talked of Tom's courage, and of

the broad and secret military organization the Leader had planned that

night. But Stephen did not sleep till the dawn. Was he doing right? Could

he afford to risk his life in the war that was coming, and leave his

mother dependent upon charity?

It was shortly after this that Stephen paid his last visit for many a

long day upon Miss Puss Russell. It was a Sunday afternoon, and Puss was

entertaining, as usual, a whole parlor-full of young men, whose leanings

and sympathies Stephen divined while taking off his coat in the hall.

Then he heard Miss Russell cry:

"I believe that they are drilling those nasty Dutch hirelings in secret."

"I am sure they are," said George Catherwood. "One of the halls is on

Twelfth Street, and they have sentries posted out so that you can't get

near them. Pa has an idea that Tom goes there. And he told him that if he

ever got evidence of it, he'd show him the door."

"Do you really think that Tom is with the Yankees?" asked Jack Brinsmade.

"Tom's a fool," said George, with emphasis, "but he isn't a coward. He'd

just as soon tell Pa to-morrow that he was drilling if the Yankee leaders

wished it known."

"Virginia will never speak to him again," said Eugenie, in an awed voice.

"Pooh!" said Puss, "Tom never had a chance with Jinny. Did he, George?

Clarence is in high favor now. Did you ever know any one to change so,

since this military business has begun? He acts like a colonel. I hear

that they are thinking of making him captain of a company of dragoons."

"They are," George answered. "And that is the company I intend to join."

"Well," began Puss, with her usual recklessness, "it's a good thing for

Clarence that all this is happening. I know somebody else--"

Poor Stephen in the hall knew not whether to stay or fly. An accident

decided the question. Emily Russell came down the stairs at that instant

and spoke to him. As the two entered the parlor, there was a hush

pregnant with many things unsaid. Puss's face was scarlet, but her hand

was cold as she held it out to him. For the first time in that house he

felt like an intruder. Jack Brinsmade bowed with great ceremony, and took

his departure. There was scarcely a distant cordiality in the greeting of

the other young men. And Puss, whose tongue was loosed again, talked

rapidly of entertainments to which Stephen either had not been invited,

or from which he had stayed away. The rest of the company were almost

moodily silent.

Profoundly depressed, Stephen sat straight in the velvet chair, awaiting

a seasonable time to bring his visit to a close.

This was to be the last, then, of his intercourse with a warmhearted and

lovable people. This was to be the end of his friendship with this

impetuous and generous girl who had done so much to brighten his life

since he had come to St: Louis. Henceforth this house would be shut to

him, and all others save Mr. Brinsmade's.

Presently, in one of the intervals of Miss Russell's feverish talk, he

rose to go. Dusk was gathering, and a deep and ominous silence penetrated

like the shadows into the tall room. No words came to him. Impulsively,

almost tearfully, Puss put her hand in his. Then she pressed it

unexpectedly, so that he had to gulp down a lump that was in his throat.

Just then a loud cry was heard from without, the men jumped from their

chairs, and something heavy dropped on the carpet.

Some ran to the window, others to the door. Directly across the street

was the house of Mr. Harmsworth, a noted Union man. One of the third

story windows was open, and out of it was pouring a mass of gray wood

smoke. George Catherwood was the first to speak.

"I hope it will burn down," he cried.

Stephen picked up the object on the floor, which had dropped from his

pocket, and handed it to him.

It was a revolver.

THE CRISIS

By Winston Churchill

Volume 5.

CHAPTER XVI

THE GUNS OF SUMTER

Winter had vanished. Spring was come with a hush. Toward a little island

set in the blue waters of Charleston harbor anxious eyes were strained.

Was the flag still there?

God alone may count the wives and mothers who listened in the still hours

of the night for the guns of Sumter. One sultry night in April Stephen's

mother awoke with fear in her heart, for she had heard them. Hark! that

is the roar now, faint but sullen. That is the red flash far across the

black Southern sky. For in our beds are the terrors and cruelties of life

revealed to us. There is a demon to be faced, and nought alone.

Mrs. Brice was a brave woman. She walked that night with God.

Stephen, too, awoke. The lightning revealed her as she bent over him. On

the wings of memory be flew back to his childhood in the great Boston

house with the rounded front, and he saw the nursery with its high

windows looking out across the Common. Often in the dark had she come to

him thus, her gentle hand passing over aim to feel if he were covered.

"What is it, mother?" he said.

She said: "Stephen, I am afraid that the war has come."

He sat up, blindly. Even he did not guess the agony in her heart.

"You will have to go, Stephen."

It was long before his answer came.

"You know that I cannot, mother. We have nothing left but the little I

earn. And if I were--" He did not finish the sentence, for he felt her

trembling. But she said again, with that courage which seems woman's

alone:

"Remember Wilton Brice. Stephen--I can get along. I can sew."

It was the hour he had dreaded, stolen suddenly upon him out of the

night. How many times had he rehearsed this scene to himself! He, Stephen

Brice, who had preached and slaved and drilled for the Union, a renegade

to be shunned by friend and foe alike! He had talked for his country, but

he would not risk his life for it. He heard them repeating the charge. He

saw them passing him silently on the street. Shamefully he remembered the

time, five months agone, when he had worn the very uniform of his

Revolutionary ancestor. And high above the tier of his accusers he saw

one face, and the look of it stung to the very quick of his soul.

Before the storm he had fallen asleep in sheer weariness of the struggle,

that face shining through the black veil of the darkness. If he were to

march away in the blue of his country (alas, not of hers!) she would

respect him for risking life for conviction. If he stayed at home, she

would not understand. It was his plain duty to his mother. And yet he

knew that Virginia Carvel and the women like her were ready to follow

with bare feet the march of the soldiers of the South.

The rain was come now, in a flood. Stephen's mother could not see in the

blackness the bitterness on his face. Above the roar of the waters she

listened for his voice.

"I will not go, mother," he said. "If at length every man is needed, that

will be different."

"It is for you to decide, my son," she answered. "There are many ways in

which you can serve your country here. But remember that you may have to

face hard things."

"I have had to do that before, mother," he replied calmly. "I cannot

leave you dependent upon charity."

She went back into her room to pray, for she knew that he had laid his

ambition at her feet.

It was not until a week later that the dreaded news came. All through the

Friday shells had rained on the little fort while Charleston looked on.

No surrender yet. Through a wide land was that numbness which precedes

action. Force of habit sent men to their places of business, to sit idle.

A prayerful Sunday intervened. Sumter had fallen. South Carolina had shot

to bits the flag she had once revered.

On the Monday came the call of President Lincoln for volunteers. Missouri

was asked for her quota. The outraged reply of her governor went back,

--never would she furnish troops to invade her sister states. Little did

Governor Jackson foresee that Missouri was to stand fifth of all the

Union in the number of men she was to give. To her was credited in the

end even more men than stanch Massachusetts.

The noise of preparation was in the city--in the land. On the Monday

morning, when Stephen went wearily to the office, he was met by Richter

at the top of the stairs, who seized his shoulders and looked into his

face. The light of the zealot was on Richter's own.

"We shall drill every night now, my friend, until further orders. It is

the Leader's word. Until we go to the front, Stephen, to put down

rebellion." Stephen sank into a chair, and bowed his head. What would he

think,--this man who had fought and suffered and renounced his native

land for his convictions? Who in this nobler allegiance was ready to die

for them? How was he to confess to Richter, of all men?

"Carl," he said at length, "I--I cannot go."

"You--you cannot go? You who have done so much already! And why?"

Stephen did not answer. But Richter, suddenly divining, laid his hands

impulsively on Stephen's shoulders.

"Ach, I see," he said. "Stephen, I have saved some money. It shall be for

your mother while you are away."

At first Stephen was too surprised for speech. Then, in spite of his

feelings, he stared at the German with a new appreciation of his

character. Then he could merely shake his head.

"Is it not for the Union?" implored Richter, "I would give a fortune, if

I had it. Ah, my friend, that would please me so. And I do not need the

money now. I 'have--nobody."

Spring was in the air; the first faint smell of verdure wafted across the

river on the wind. Stephen turned to the open window, tears of intense

agony in his eyes. In that instant he saw the regiment marching, and the

flag flying at its head.

"It is my duty to stay here, Carl," he said brokenly.

Richter took an appealing step toward him and stopped. He realized that

with this young New Englander a decision once made was unalterable. In

all his knowledge of Stephen he never remembered him to change. With the

demonstrative sympathy of his race, he yearned to comfort him, and knew

not how. Two hundred years of Puritanism had reared barriers not to be

broken down.

At the end of the office the stern figure of the Judge appeared.

"Mr. Brice!" he said sharply.

Stephen followed him into the littered room behind the ground glass door,

scarce knowing what to expect,--and scarce caring, as on that first day

he had gone in there. Mr. Whipple himself closed the door, and then the

transom. Stephen felt those keen eyes searching him from their

hiding-place.

"Mr. Brice," he said at last, "the President has called for seventy-five

thousand volunteers to crush this rebellion. They will go, and be

swallowed up, and more will go to fill their places. Mr. Brice, people

will tell you that the war will be over in ninety days. But I tell you,

sir, that it will not be over in seven times ninety days." He brought

down his fist heavily upon the table. "This, sir, will be a war to the

death. One side or the other will fight until their blood is all let, and

until their homes are all ruins." He darted at Stephen one look from

under those fierce eyebrows. "Do you intend to go sir?"

Stephen met the look squarely. "No, sir," he answered, steadily, "not

now."

"Humph," said the Judge. Then he began what seemed a never-ending search

among the papers on his desk. At length he drew out a letter, put on his

spectacles and read it, and finally put it down again.

"Stephen," said Mr. Whipple, "you are doing a courageous thing. But if we

elect to follow our conscience in this world, we must not expect to

escape persecution, sir. Two weeks ago," he continued slowly, "two weeks

ago I had a letter from Mr. Lincoln about matters here. He mentions you."

"He remembers me!" cried Stephen

The Judge smiled a little. "Mr. Lincoln never forgets any one," said he.

"He wishes me to extend to you his thanks for your services to the

Republican party, and sends you his kindest regards."

This was the first and only time that Mr. Whipple spoke to him of his

labors. Stephen has often laughed at this since, and said that he would

not have heard of them at all had not the Judge's sense of duty compelled

him to convey the message. And it was with a lighter heart than he had

felt for many a day that he went out of the door.

Some weeks later, five regiments were mustered into the service of the

United States. The Leader was in command of one. And in response to his

appeals, despite the presence of officers of higher rank, the President

had given Captain Nathaniel Lyon supreme command in Missouri.

Stephen stood among the angry, jeering crowd that lined the streets as

the regiments marched past. Here were the 'Black Jaegers.' No wonder the

crowd laughed. Their step was not as steady, nor their files as straight

as Company A. There was Richter, his head high, his blue eyes defiant.

And there was little Tiefel marching in that place of second lieutenant

that Stephen himself should have filled. Here was another company, and at

the end of the first four, big Tom Catherwood. His father had disowned

him the day before, His two brothers, George and little Spencer, were in

a house not far away--a house from which a strange flag drooped.

Clouds were lowering over the city, and big drops falling, as Stephen

threaded his way homeward, the damp anal gloom of the weather in his very

soul. He went past the house where the strange flag hung against its

staff In that big city it flaunted all unchallenged. The house was thrown

wide open that day, and in its window lounged young men of honored

families. And while they joked of German boorishness and Yankee cowardice

they held rifles across their knees to avenge any insult to the strange

banner that they had set up. In the hall, through the open doorway, the

mouth of a shotted field gun could be seen. The guardians were the Minute

Men, organized to maintain the honor and dignity of the state of

Missouri.

Across the street from the house was gathered a knot of curious people,

and among these Stephen paused. Two young men were standing on the steps,

and one was Clarence Colfax. His hands were in his pockets, and a

careless, scornful smile was on his face when he glanced down into the

street. Stephen caught that smile. Anger swept over him in a hot flame,

as at the slave auction years agone. That was the unquenchable fire of

the war. The blood throbbed in his temples as his feet obeyed,--and yet

he stopped.

What right had he to pull down that flag, to die on the pavement before

that house?

CHAPTER XVII

CAMP JACKSON

What enthusiasm on that gusty Monday morning, the Sixth of May, 1861!

Twelfth Street to the north of the Market House is full three hundred

feet across, and the militia of the Sovereign State of Missouri is

gathering there. Thence by order of her Governor they are to march to

Camp Jackson for a week of drill and instruction.

Half a mile nearer the river, on the house of the Minute Men, the strange

flag leaps wildly in the wind this day.

On Twelfth Street the sun is shining, drums are beating, and bands are

playing, and bright aides dashing hither and thither on spirited

chargers. One by one the companies are marching up, and taking place in

line; the city companies in natty gray fatigue, the country companies

often in their Sunday clothes. But they walk with heads erect and chests

out, and the ladies wave their gay parasols and cheer them. Here are the

aristocratic St. Louis Grays, Company A; there come the Washington Guards

and Washington Blues, and Laclede Guards and Missouri Guards and Davis

Guards. Yes, this is Secession Day, this Monday. And the colors are the

Stars and Stripes and the Arms of Missouri crossed.

What are they waiting for? Why don't they move? Hark! A clatter and a

cloud of dust by the market place, an ecstasy of cheers running in waves

the length of the crowd. Make way for the dragoons! Here they come at

last, four and four, the horses prancing and dancing and pointing

quivering ears at the tossing sea of hats and parasols and ribbons. Maude

Catherwood squeezes Virginia's arm. There, riding in front, erect and

firm in the saddle, is Captain Clarence Colfax. Virginia is red and

white, and red again,--true colors of the Confederacy. How proud she was

of him now! How ashamed that she even doubted him! Oh, that was his true

calling, a soldier's life. In that moment she saw him at the head of

armies, from the South, driving the Yankee hordes northward and still

northward until the roar of the lakes warns them of annihilation. She saw

his chivalry sparing them. Yes, this is Secession Monday.

Down to a trot they slow, Clarence's black thorough-bred arching his long

neck, proud as his master of the squadron which follows, four and four.

The square young man of bone and sinew in the first four, whose horse is

built like a Crusader's, is George Catherwood. And Eugenie gives a cry

and points to the rear where Maurice is riding.

Whose will be the Arsenal now? Can the Yankee regiments with their

slouchy Dutchmen hope to capture it! If there are any Yankees in Twelfth

Street that day, they are silent. Yes, there are some. And there are

some, even in the ranks of this Militia--who will fight for the Union.

These are sad indeed.

There is another wait, the companies standing at ease. Some of the

dragoons dismount, but not the handsome young captain, who rides straight

to the bright group which has caught his eye, Colonel Carvel wrings his

gauntleted hand.

"Clarence, we are proud of you, sir," he says.

And Virginia, repeats his words, her eyes sparkling, her fingers

caressing the silken curve of Jefferson's neck.

"Clarence, you will drive Captain Lyon and his Hessians into the river."

"Hush, Jinny," he answered, "we are merely going into camp to learn to

drill, that we may be ready to defend the state when the time comes."

Virginia laughed. "I had forgotten," she said.

"You will have your cousin court-martialed, my dear," said the Colonel.

Just then the call is sounded. But he must needs press Virginia's hand

first, and allow admiring Maude and Eugenie to press his. Then he goes

off at a slow canter to join his dragoons, waving his glove at them, and

turning to give the sharp order, "Attention"! to his squadron.

Virginia is deliriously happy. Once more she has swept from her heart

every vestige of doubt. Now is Clarence the man she can admire. Chosen

unanimously captain of the Squadron but a few days since, Clarence had

taken command like a veteran. George Catherwood and Maurice had told the

story.

And now at last the city is to shake off the dust of the North. "On to

Camp Jackson!" was the cry. The bands are started, the general and staff

begin to move, and the column swings into the Olive Street road, followed

by a concourse of citizens awheel and afoot, the horse cars crowded.

Virginia and Maude and the Colonel in the Carvel carriage, and behind

Ned, on the box, is their luncheon in a hamper Standing up, the girls can

just see the nodding plumes of the dragoons far to the front.

Olive Street, now paved with hot granite and disfigured by trolley wires,

was a country road then. Green trees took the place of crowded rows of

houses and stores, and little "bob-tail" yellow cars were drawn by

plodding mules to an inclosure in a timbered valley, surrounded by a

board fence, known as Lindell Grove. It was then a resort, a picnic

ground, what is now covered by close residences which have long shown the

wear of time.

Into Lindell Grove flocked the crowd, the rich and the poor, the

proprietor and the salesmen, to watch the soldiers pitch their tents

under the spreading trees. The gallant dragoons were off to the west,

across a little stream which trickled through the grounds. By the side of

it Virginia and Maude, enchanted, beheld Captain Colfax shouting his

orders while his troopers dragged the canvas from the wagons, and

staggered under it to the line. Alas! that the girls were there! The

Captain lost his temper, his troopers, perspiring over Gordian knots in

the ropes, uttered strange soldier oaths, while the mad wind which blew

that day played a hundred pranks.

To the discomfiture of the young ladies, Colonel Carvel pulled his goatee

and guffawed. Virginia was for moving away.

"How mean, Pa," she said indignantly. "How car, you expect them to do it

right the first day, and in this wind?"

"Oh! Jinny, look at Maurice!" exclaimed Maude, giggling. "He is pulled

over on his head."

The Colonel roared. And the gentlemen and ladies who were standing by

laughed, too. Virginia did not laugh. It was all too serious for her.

"You will see that they can fight," she said. "They can beat the Yankees

and Dutch."

This speech made the Colonel glance around him: Then he smiled,--in

response to other smiles.

"My dear," he said, "you must remember that this is a peaceable camp of

instruction of the state militia. There fly the Stars and Stripes from

the general's tent. Do you see that they are above the state flag? Jinny;

you forget yourself."

Jinny stamped her foot

"Oh, I hate dissimulation," she cried, "Why can't we, say outright that

we are going to run that detestable Captain Lyon and his Yankees and

Hessians out of the Arsenal."

"Why not, Colonel Carvel?" cried Maude. She had forgotten that one of her

brothers was with the Yankees and Hessians.

"Why aren't women made generals and governors?" said the Colonel.

"If we were," answered Virginia, "something might be accomplished."

"Isn't Clarence enough of a fire-eater to suit you?" asked her father.

But the tents were pitched, and at that moment the young Captain was seen

to hand over his horse to an orderly, and to come toward them. He was

followed by George Catherwood.

"Come, Jinny," cried her cousin, "let us go over to the main camp."

"And walk on Davis Avenue," said Virginia, flushing with pride. "Isn't

there a Davis Avenue?"

"Yes, and a Lee Avenue, and a Beauregard Avenue," said George, taking his

sister's arm.

"We shall walk in them all," said Virginia.

What a scene of animation it was. The rustling trees and the young grass

of early May, and the two hundred and forty tents in lines of military

precision. Up and down the grassy streets flowed the promenade, proud

fathers and mothers, and sweethearts and sisters and wives in gala dress.

Wear your bright gowns now, you devoted women. The day is coming when you

will make them over and over again, or tear them to lint, to stanch the

blood of these young men who wear their new gray so well.

Every afternoon Virginia drove with her father and her aunt to Camp

Jackson. All the fashion and beauty of the city were there. The bands

played, the black coachmen flecked the backs of their shining horses, and

walking in the avenues or seated under the trees were natty young

gentlemen in white trousers and brass-buttoned jackets. All was not

soldier fare at the regimental messes. Cakes and jellies and even ices

and more substantial dainties were laid beneath those tents. Dress parade

was one long sigh of delight: Better not to have been born than to have

been a young man in St. Louis, early in Camp Jackson week, and not be a

militiaman.

One young man whom we know, however, had little of pomp and vanity about

him,--none other than the young manager (some whispered "silent partner")

of Carvel & Company. If Mr. Eliphalet had had political ambition, or

political leanings, during the half-year which had just passed, he had

not shown them. Mr. Cluyme (no mean business man himself) had pronounced

Eliphalet a conservative young gentleman who attended to his own affairs

and let the mad country take care of itself. This is precisely the wise

course Mr. Hopper chose. Seeing a regiment of Missouri Volunteers

slouching down Fifth street in citizens' clothes he had been remarked to

smile cynically. But he kept his opinions so close that he was supposed

not to have any.

On Thursday of Camp Jackson week, an event occurred in Mr. Carvel's store

which excited a buzz of comment. Mr. Hopper announced to Mr. Barbo, the

book-keeper, that he should not be there after four o'clock. To be sure,

times were more than dull. The Colonel that morning had read over some

two dozen letters from Texas and the Southwest, telling of the

impossibility of meeting certain obligations in the present state of the

country. The Colonel had gone home to dinner with his brow furrowed. On

the other hand, Mr. Hopper's equanimity was spoken of at the widow's

table.

At four o'clock, Mr. Hopper took an Olive Street car, tucking himself

into the far corner where he would not be disturbed by any ladies who

might enter. In the course of an hour or so, he alighted at the western

gate of the camp on the Olive Street road. Refreshing himself with a

little tobacco, he let himself be carried leisurely by the crowd between

the rows of tents. A philosophy of his own (which many men before and

since have adopted) permitted him to stare with a superior good nature at

the open love-making around him. He imagined his own figure,--which was

already growing a little stout,--in a light gray jacket and duck

trousers, and laughed. Eliphalet was not burdened with illusions of that

kind. These heroes might have their hero-worship. Life held something

dearer for him.

As he was sauntering toward a deserted seat at the foot of a tree, it so

chanced that he was overtaken by Mr. Cluyme and his daughter Belle. Only

that morning, this gentleman, in glancing through the real estate column

of his newspaper, had fallen upon a deed of sale which made him wink. He

reminded his wife that Mr. Hopper had not been to supper of late. So now

Mr. Cluyme held out his hand with more than common cordiality. When Mr.

Hopper took it, the fingers did not close any too tightly over his own.

But it may be well to remark that Mr. Hopper himself did not do any

squeezing. He took off his hat grudgingly to Miss Belle. He had never

liked the custom.

"I hope you will take pot luck with us soon again, Mr. Hopper," said the

elder gentleman. "We only have plain and simple things, but they are

wholesome, sir. Dainties are poor things to work on. I told that to his

Royal Highness when he was here last fall. He was speaking to me on the

merits of roast beef--"

"It's a fine day," said Mr. Hopper.

"So it is," Mr. Cluyme assented. Letting his gaze wander over the camp,

he added casually, "I see that they have got a few mortars and howitzers

since yesterday. I suppose that is the stuff we heard so much about,

which came on the 'Swon' marked 'marble.' They say Jeff Davis sent the

stuff to 'em from the Government arsenal the Secesh captured at Baton

Rouge. They're pretty near ready to move on our arsenal now."

Mr. Hopper listened with composure. He was not greatly interested in this

matter which had stirred the city to the quick. Neither had Mr. Cluyme

spoken as one who was deeply moved. Just then, as if to spare the pains

of a reply, a "Jenny Lind" passed them. Miss Belle recognized the

carriage immediately as belonging to an elderly lady who was well known

in St. Louis. Every day she drove out, dressed in black bombazine, and

heavily veiled. But she was blind. As the mother-in-law of the stalwart

Union leader of the city, Miss Belle's comment about her appearance in

Camp Jackson was not out of place.

"Well!" she exclaimed, "I'd like to know what she's doing here!"

Mr. Hopper's answer revealed a keenness which, in the course of a few

days, engendered in Mr. Cluyme as lusty a respect as he was capable of.

"I don't know," said Eliphalet; "but I cal'late she's got stouter."

"What do you mean by that?" Miss Belle demanded.

"That Union principles must be healthy," said he, and laughed.

Miss Cluyme was prevented from following up this enigma. The appearance

of two people on Davis Avenue drove the veiled lady from her mind.

Eliphalet, too, had seen them. One was the tall young Captain of

Dragoons, in cavalry boots, and the other a young lady with dark brown

hair, in a lawn dress.

"Just look at them!" cried Miss Belle. "They think they are alone in the

garden of Eden. Virginia didn't use to care for him. But since he's a

captain, and has got a uniform, she's come round pretty quick. I'm

thankful I never had any silly notions about uniforms."

She glanced at Eliphalet, to find that his eyes were fixed on the

approaching couple.

"Clarence is handsome, but worthless," she continued in her sprightly

way. "I believe Jinny will be fool enough to marry him. Do you think

she's so very pretty, Mr. Hopper?"

Mr. Hopper lied.

"Neither do I," Miss Belle assented. And upon that, greatly to the

astonishment of Eliphalet, she left him and ran towards them. "Virginia!"

she cried; "Jinny, I have something so interesting to tell you!"

Virginia turned impatiently. The look she bestowed upon Miss Cluyme was

not one of welcome, but Belle was not sensitive. Putting her arm through

Virginia's, she sauntered off with the pair toward the parade grounds,

Clarence maintaining now a distance of three feet, and not caring to hide

his annoyance.

Eliphalet's eyes smouldered, following the three until they were lost in

the crowd. That expression of Virginia's had reminded him of a time,

years gone, when she had come into the store on her return from Kentucky,

and had ordered him to tell her father of her arrival. He had smarted

then. And Eliphalet was not the sort to get over smarts.

"A beautiful young lady," remarked Mr. Cluyme. "And a deserving one, Mr.

Hopper. Now, she is my notion of quality. She has wealth, and manners,

and looks. And her father is a good man. Too bad he holds such views on

secession. I have always thought, sir, that you were singularly fortunate

in your connection with him."

There was a point of light now in each of Mr. Hopper's green eyes. But

Mr. Cluyme continued:

"What a pity, I say, that he should run the risk of crippling himself by

his opinions. Times are getting hard."

"Yes," said Mr. Hopper.

"And southwestern notes are not worth the paper they are written on--"

But Mr. Cluyme has misjudged his man. If he had come to Eliphalet for

information of Colonel Carvel's affairs, or of any one else's affairs, he

was not likely to get it. It is not meet to repeat here the long business

conversation which followed. Suffice it to say that Mr. Cluyme, who was

in dry goods himself, was as ignorant when he left Eliphalet as when he

met him. But he had a greater respect than ever for the shrewdness of the

business manager of Carvel & Company.

.........................

That same Thursday, when the first families of the city were whispering

jubilantly in each other's ears of the safe arrival of the artillery and

stands of arms at Camp Jackson, something of significance was happening

within the green inclosure of the walls of the United States arsenal, far

to the southward.

The days had become alike in sadness to Stephen. Richter gone, and the

Judge often away in mysterious conference, he was left for hours at a

spell the sole tenant of the office. Fortunately there was work of

Richter's and of Mr. Whipple's left undone that kept him busy. This

Thursday morning, however, he found the Judge getting into that best

black coat which he wore on occasions. His manner had recently lost much

of its gruffness.

"Stephen," said he, "they are serving out cartridges and uniforms to the

regiments at the arsenal. Would you like to go down with me?"

"Does that mean Camp Jackson?" asked Stephen, when they had reached the

street.

"Captain Lyon is not the man to sit still and let the Governor take the

first trick, sir," said the Judge.

As they got on the Fifth Street car, Stephen's attention was at once

attracted to a gentleman who sat in a corner, with his children about

him. He was lean, and he had a face of great keenness and animation. He

had no sooner spied Judge Whipple than he beckoned to him with a kind of

military abruptness.

"That is Major William T. Sherman," said the Judge to Stephen. "He used

to be in the army, and fought in the Mexican War. He came here two months

ago to be the President of this Fifth Street car line."

They crossed over to him, the Judge introducing Stephen to Major Sherman,

who looked at him very hard, and then decided to bestow on him a vigorous

nod.

"Well, Whipple," he said, "this nation is going to the devil; eh?"

Stephen could not resist a smile. For it was a bold man who expressed

radical opinions (provided they were not Southern opinions) in a St.

Louis street car early in '61.

The Judge shook his head. "We may pull out," he said.

"Pull out!" exclaimed Mr. Sherman. "Who's man enough in Washington to

shake his fist in a rebel's face? Our leniency--our timidity--has

paralyzed us, sir."

By this time those in the car began to manifest considerable interest in

the conversation. Major Sherman paid them no attention, and the Judge,

once launched in an argument, forgot his surroundings.

"I have faith in Mr. Lincoln. He is calling out volunteers."

"Seventy-five thousand for three months!" said the Major, vehemently, "a

bucketful on a conflagration I tell you, Whipple, we'll need all the

water we've got in the North."

The Judge expressed his belief in this, and also that Mr. Lincoln would

draw all the water before he got through.

"Upon my soul," said Mr. Sherman, "I'm disgusted. Now's the time to stop

'em. The longer we let 'em rear and kick, the harder to break 'em. You

don't catch me going back to the army for three months. If they want me,

they've got to guarantee me three years. That's more like it." Turning to

Stephen, he added: "Don't you sign any three months' contract, young

man."

Stephen grew red. By this time the car was full, and silent. No one had

offered to quarrel with the Major. Nor did it seem likely that any one

would.

"I'm afraid I can't go, sir."

"Why not?" demanded Mr. Sherman.

"Because, sir," said the Judge, bluntly, "his mother's a widow, and they

have no money. He was a lieutenant in one of Blair's companies before the

call came."

The Major looked at Stephen, and his expression changed.

"Find it pretty hard?" he asked.

Stephen's expression must have satisfied him, but he nodded again, more

vigorously than before.

"Just you WAIT, Mr. Brice," he said. "It won't hurt you any."

Stephen was grateful. But he hoped to fall out of the talk. Much to his

discomfiture, the Major gave him another of those queer looks. His whole

manner, and even his appearance, reminded Stephen strangely of Captain

Elijah Brent.

"Aren't you the young man who made the Union speech in Mercantile Library

Hall?"

"Yes, sir," said the Judge. "He is."

At that the Major put out his hand impulsively, and gripped Stephen's.

"Well, sir," he said, "I have yet to read a more sensible speech, except

some of Abraham Lincoln's. Brinsmade gave it to me to read. Whipple, that

speech reminded me of Lincoln. It was his style. Where did you get it,

Mr. Brice?" he demanded.

"I heard Mr. Lincoln's debate with Judge Douglas at 'Freeport," said

Stephen; beginning to be amused.

The Major laughed.

"I admire your frankness, sir," he said. "I meant to say that its logic

rather than its substance reminded one of Lincoln."

"I tried to learn what I could from him, Major Sherman."

At length the car stopped, and they passed into the Arsenal grounds.

Drawn up in lines on the green grass were four regiments, all at last in

the blue of their country's service. Old soldiers with baskets of

cartridges were stepping from file to file, giving handfuls to the

recruits. Many of these thrust them in their pockets, for there were not

enough belts to go around. The men were standing at ease, and as Stephen

saw them laughing and joking lightheartedly his depression returned. It

was driven away again by Major Sherman's vivacious comments. For suddenly

Captain Lyon, the man of the hour, came into view.

"Look at him!" cried the Major, "he's a man after my own heart. Just look

at him running about with his hair flying in the wind, and the papers

bulging from his pockets. Not dignified, eh, Whipple? But this isn't the

time to be dignified. If there were some like Lyon in Washington, our

troops would be halfway to New Orleans by this time. Don't talk to me of

Washington! Just look at him!"

The gallant Captain was a sight, indeed, and vividly described by Major

Sherman's picturesque words as he raced from regiment to regiment, and

from company to company, with his sandy hair awry, pointing,

gesticulating, commanding. In him Stephen recognized the force that had

swept aside stubborn army veterans of wavering faith, that snapped the

tape with which they had tied him.

Would he be duped by the Governor's ruse of establishing a State Camp at

this time? Stephen, as he gazed at him, was sure that he would not. This

man could see to the bottom, through every specious argument. Little

matters of law and precedence did not trouble him. Nor did he believe

elderly men in authority when they told gravely that the state troops

were there for peace.

After the ranks were broken, Major Sherman and the Judge went to talk to

Captain Lyon and the Union Leader, who was now a Colonel of one of the

Volunteer regiments. Stephen sought Richter, who told him that the

regiments were to assemble the morning of the morrow, prepared to march.

"To Camp Jackson?" asked Stephen.

Richter shrugged his shoulders.

"We are not consulted, my friend," he said. "Will you come into my

quarters and have a bottle of beer with Tiefel?"

Stephen went. It was not their fault that his sense at their comradeship

was gone. To him it was as if the ties that had bound him to them were

asunder, and he was become an outcast.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE STONE THAT IS REJECTED

That Friday morning Stephen awoke betimes with a sense that something was

to happen. For a few moments he lay still in the half comprehension which

comes after sleep when suddenly he remembered yesterday's incidents at

the Arsenal, and leaped out of bed.

"I think that Lyon is going to attack Camp Jackson to-day," he said to

his mother after breakfast, when Hester had left the room.

Mrs. Brice dropped her knitting in her lap.

"Why, Stephen?"

"I went down to the Arsenal with the Judge yesterday and saw them

finishing the equipment of the new regiments. Something was in the wind.

Any one could see that from the way Lyon was flying about. I think he

must have proof that the Camp Jackson people have received supplies from

the South."

Mrs. Brice looked fixedly at her son, and then smiled in spite of the

apprehension she felt.