DR. CARY WRITES A LETTER TO AN OLD FRIEND
The vows of a considerable part of the human race are said to be writ
in water, but it is by no means only that sex to whom the poet has
attributed this quality, which possesses it. Quite another part of the
race is liable to forget vows made under conditions that have changed.
And Major Leech was of this number. He no sooner found himself free
and guarded by a power strong enough to protect him than he forgot the
oaths he had sworn so volubly to Andy Stamper that night when he stood
in the darkness of the deserted plantation; and he applied himself
with all his energy to repair his fortunes and revenge himself. His
enemies were in his power. With them free he might have to undergo
trial himself; with them under indictment for offences against the
Government, even if they were not convicted, he was free to push
forward his plans. It was too great a temptation for him to resist,
too good an opportunity for him to pass by; and perhaps even Andy
Stamper did not blame him, or even expect him to forego it.
The story the returned captive told of his wrongs was one strange
enough to move hearts even less inclined to espouse his cause than
those of the authorities into whose ears he poured it, and almost
immediately after his arrival the machinery of the law was set in
motion. His grudge against Captain Thurston was as great as that
against the residents of the County—indeed greater; for he professed
some gratitude for Jacquelin Gray and Stamper, and even had an offer
made them of a sort of pardon, conditional on their making a full
confession of their crimes. But investigation showed him that for the
present he would weaken himself by attempting to attack Thurston.
Thurston had secured his release. So for the time being he was
content to leave the Captain alone, and apply all his energies to the
prosecution of the enemies against whom he was assured of success.
In a little while he had his grand jury assembled, and the prisoners
were all indicted. An early time was set for their trial. Dr. Cary was
among those indicted.
In this state of the case, it appeared to the Doctor that the time
had come when he could no longer with propriety refrain from applying
for help to his old friend, Senator Rockfield, who had asked him to
call on him. It was no longer a private matter, but a public one. It
was not himself alone that was concerned, but his nearest friends and
neighbors; and in such a case he could no longer stand on his pride.
Already the prison was in view; and the path seemed very straight, and
the way of escape seemed blocked on every side. Step by step they had
been dragged along; every avenue shut off; all the old rights refused;
and it looked as if they were doomed.
So Dr. Cary sat down in prison and wrote a letter to his old
college-mate, setting forth the situation in which he found himself
and his friends, giving him a complete statement of the case and of
all the circumstances relating to it, and asked that, if in his power,
the Senator would help him.
He told him that unless some action were taken promptly he saw no
escape, and that he seemed doomed to a felon’s cell. The Doctor told
his friend that, while he had been present for a little while with the
masked mob that broke into the jail, he had been so for the purpose of
trying to dissuade them from any act of lawlessness; and the part he
had taken could be proved by a hundred witnesses. But all those who
had been arrested were indicted with him, which would prevent their
testifying for him; and if any others were to come forward to testify,
they would simply subject themselves to immediate arrest.
“I can give you no idea,” he wrote, “of the condition of affairs here,
and shall offer no proof except my word. Unless you and I have changed
since we knew each other man to man in that old time long ago, no
other proof will be necessary; yet if I should attempt to give you a
true picture, I should strain your credulity.
“I think I can say, with Cicero, it is not my crimes, but my virtues
that have destroyed me.
“But if you wish to know the whole state of the case, I would ask
you to come down and see for yourself. Unfortunately I shall not be
able personally to extend to you the hospitality of my home; but if
you will go to my house, my wife and daughter will show you every
attention, and do everything in their power to promote your comfort.
“Lying in jail as I am, under indictment for a scandalous crime, with
the penitentiary staring me in the face, I perhaps should not sign
myself as I do; yet when I call to mind the long and distinguished
line of men of virtue who have suffered the same fate, and reflect on
my own consciousness of integrity, I believe you would not have me
subscribe myself otherwise than as,
“Your old friend, JOHN CARY.”
This letter reached Senator Rockfield at an auspicious time, one
evening after dinner, when he was resting quietly at home, enjoying a
good cigar, and when his heart was mellow. It happened that certain
measures were pending just then, to secure which the Senator’s
influence was greatly desired. It also happened that a number of other
measures of a very radical character had lately been proposed; and the
Senator had gone somewhat deeply into the subject, with the result of
unearthing an appalling state of affairs in the whole section from
which this letter came. Moreover, Captain Middleton happened to be at
the Senator’s house at that very time, and added certain details to
those the Senator had learned, which stirred the Senator deeply.
The Senator’s part in the release of the prisoners that shortly
followed Dr. Cary’s letter was not known even to Dr. Cary for some
time, and was never known generally.
Senator Rockfield read Dr. Cary’s letter all through twice, and then
leaned back in his big chair and thought profoundly. The letter dropped
from his hand to the floor, and his cigar went out. His wife, seeing
that something was moving him deeply, watched him anxiously, and at
length asked: “What is it?” For answer, the Senator merely picked up
the letter, handed it to her across the table, and again sat back
in deep thought. She read it, and looked at him more anxiously than
before, her face paling somewhat. His face, which before had been
soft with reminiscence, had grown stern. He was conscious that she
was looking at him, and conscious of her thoughts as she was of his.
Suddenly he rose to his feet.
“Where are you going?” she asked, though in reality she knew.
“To send a telegram.”
“I will call John.”
“No, I am going to see Secretary ——.”
He folded the letter and put it into his pocket. At the mention of the
name, the light sprang into her eyes—the light of contest. She knew
that it would be a crucial interview, and that her husband’s future
would depend on it.
“Shall I ring for the carriage?”
“No, I will walk. I want to cool myself off a little.” He stopped as he
reached the door. “He was the first gentleman of our class,” he said.
He went out.
A half-hour later, Senator Rockfield was admitted to the study or
private office of the Secretary who had the direction of matters
affecting the South and who controlled everything which related to it.
He was a man of iron constitution, a tremendous worker, and his study
at his home was only a private apartment of his office in the great
Government building in which he presided. His ambition was to preside
in a greater building, over the whole Government. He gave his life to
it. Every other consideration was subordinated. It was a proof of the
Senator’s influence that he was admitted to see him at that hour. And
at the instant he appeared the Secretary was busy writing a momentous
document. As the Senator entered, however, he shot a swift, keen glance
at him, and his face lit up. He took his appearance at that hour as a
proof that he had yielded, or, at least, was yielding.
“Ah! Senator. Glad to see you,” he said, with a smile which he could
make gracious. “I was just thinking of you. I hope I may consider your
visit a token of peace; that you recognize the wisdom of our position.”
He was speaking lightly, but the Senator did not respond in the same
vein. His face did not relax.
“No, far from it,” he said. Without noticing the chair to which the
Secretary waved him, he took Dr. Cary’s letter from his pocket and laid
it on the table under the Secretary’s nose. “Read that.”
The Secretary’s face clouded. He took up the letter and glanced at it;
then began to read it cursorily. As he did so his face assumed another
expression.
“Well, what of this?” he asked, coldly. He looked at the Senator
superciliously. His manner and the sneer on his face were like a blow.
The Senator’s face flushed.
“Just this. That I say this thing has got to stop, by G—d!” He towered
above the Secretary and looked him full in the eyes. He did not often
show feeling. When he did he was impressive. A change passed over the
other’s face.
“And if it don’t?”
“I shall rise in my seat to-morrow morning and denounce the whole
administration. I shall turn the whole influence of my paper against
you, and shall fight you to the end.”
“Oh! you won’t be so foolish!” sneered the Secretary.
“I will not! Wait and see!” He leant over and took up the paper. “I bid
you good-evening.” He put on his hat and turned to the door. Before he
reached it, however, the other had reflected.
“Wait. Don’t be so hasty.”
The Senator paused. The Secretary had risen and was following him.
“My dear Senator, let me reason with you. I think if you give me ten
minutes, I can show you the folly——”
Senator Rockfield stiffened. “Good-evening, Mr. Secretary.” He turned
back to the door.
“Hold on, Senator, I beg you,” said the Secretary. The Senator turned,
this time impatiently. “What guarantee have I that this letter is
true?” asked the other, temporizing.
“My word. I was at college with the writer of that letter. He was my
dearest friend.”
“Oh! of course, if you know yourself that those facts are correct! Why
did you not say so before? Take a seat while I read the paper over
again.”
The Senator seated himself without a word, while the Secretary read
the letter a second time. Presently Senator Rockfield leant over and
lit again the cigar he had let go out an hour before, and which he had
carried all this time without being aware of it. He knew he had won his
game.
When the Secretary was through, he laid the letter down and, drawing a
sheet of paper toward him, began to write.
“When do you want the order issued?” he asked, presently.
“Immediately. I am going South to-night.”
“It will not be necessary. I will issue an order at once that the
prisoners be admitted to bail. In fact, I had intended to do so in a
few days, anyhow.”
The Senator looked politely acquiescent.
“But I am very glad to do it at once, at your request. You see, we are
obliged to rely on the reports of our agents down there; and they
report things to be in a very bad way.”
The Senator looked grimly amused.
“No doubt they are.”
“I will send you a copy of the order to-morrow. I hope you will take it
as a proof that we really are not quite as bad as you appear to think
us.” He began to write again.
The two men parted ceremoniously, and the Senator, after sending a
telegram South, returned to his home.
As he entered, he found his wife anxiously awaiting him.
“I won,” he said, and she threw herself into his arms.
The effect of this interview was immediately felt in the old County,
and after a short time Dr. Cary and the other prisoners confined
with him were admitted to bail, and eventually the prosecutions were
dismissed. But this was not until after the event about to be recorded.