*      *      *      *      *"—And your America, Miss Phillips, is assuredly the natural home of Romance. Here every man is a peer in posse, and every woman a princess incognita—and possibility keeps pace with imagination. In England a footman is a footman to the end of his life. Here the footman of yesterday is the President's son-in-law to-day, and may himself be the ruler of his people to-morrow! Can life hold more for a man? The right to aspire and the luck to win!—and to win not only the recognition which his personal merits deserve, but that supreme gift which no man could deserve: your beautiful sister's love! It is almost unthinkable to an outsider like me, but it is glorious! Yes, your America is the Land of Romance!"This all sounded very well, but Elise's nerves were on the ragged edge. She knew if she spoke it would be to cry out: "Yes, a rank outsider! Oh, why can't you drop that subject before I scream!"But Captain Howard had only finished the preliminaries. He continued:"And in this land, Miss Phillips, where a man may hope for anything, I, too, have taken courage to aspire to the highest, and—""A note for you, Miss Elise; the messenger is waiting," a servant said.Excusing herself to Howard, Elise read."MY DEAR MISS PHILLIPS:—If I may not see you to-night, may I not see you to-morrow afternoon—or evening? Or day after to-morrow? When?"Sincerely yours,"EVANS RUTLEDGE."Elise read this over several times, and gazed idly at the paper for some time longer. She quite forgot the waiting messenger and Captain Howard. At last she thought, "On his own head be the result!" and sat down at a daintily carved desk to write."MY DEAR MR. RUTLEDGE:—The disturbance of my programme for the evening seems to have been largely imaginary. I will be very glad to see you at Mrs. Hazard's as at first agreed."Sincerely,"ELISE PHILLIPS."When she had given her answer to the servant Elise came back to Captain Howard with a commonplace question which made for naught all his words up to that point. He realized he must make a new beginning if he would tell her what he wished. Her face and mood had changed and he saw that her thoughts were elsewhere. After several attempts to pull the conversation back into the old channel he gave it up and retired, mentally cursing his luck and hoping for a more auspicious occasion.*      *      *      *      *Elise awaited Rutledge's coming at Lola Hazard's with some trepidation. She was uncertain of herself. She did not know what she would do. Being assured of what Rutledge would say to her, under ordinary conditions she would have been elusive for a season, and finally have surrendered when overtaken. But with outside circumstance warring against her love, she felt wildly impelled to let herself go, to fling restraint to the winds and give her heart's impulse free rein. Delicious were the tremors of anticipation with which she waited to hear again words of tenderness from him. Overflowing was her heart with tender response. His insistence on the meeting when she had given him an opportunity to avoid it, proved his faith was fast. He had met the supreme test for a Southern white man: he loved her more than his caste. In her own spirit she knew the agony of his trial. How sweet to surrender to such a love! How tenderly she could reward it! She longed to meet it with a frank and blissful confession. So, she was in some trepidation: she was afraid she might not be properly reserved.Lola Hazard came into the sitting-room and found Elise sitting before the open grate."Honey," she said, slipping an arm about the girl's waist, "you look positively glorious to-night. I never saw you half so pretty. What have you done to yourself? Your eyes are brilliants, and your colour is—delicious!""I have been looking at the fire," said Elise in explanation."The pictures you saw must be very pleasing," Lola answered. "I hope they'll all come true. But before we begin to discuss that, let me tell you that Mr. Rutledge asked to call this evening, and he may be here any moment.""Yes," said Elise, "I know. He told me last night.""Oh, he did, did he? Well, I promised him if he came early he might have ten minutes for his very own to talk to you to-night. I hope you—""He may have ten minutes—and as many—more—as—he—wants," said Elise brazenly."Oh, you darling!" Lola gave her a squeeze. "No wonder you are beautiful. It will make any woman heavenly, and you aresuch a helpto it!""What isit?" asked Elise."Love," replied Mrs. Hazard.CHAPTER XXXIV"Come along back to my own little parlour, Mr. Rutledge. Elise has been singing for me, and we'll not let her stop for awhile yet."Elise was not expecting Rutledge to be brought in there, and was still sitting at the piano idly weaving the chords into soft and improvised harmonies when he spoke. She slipped from the stool quickly, shook hands with him in an embarrassed way, and crossed the room to sit down."Oh, no, please do not leave the piano," Rutledge pleaded, "now that I have just discovered you are a musician.""I am not a musician, Mr. Rutledge; certainly not for the public."Rutledge drew himself up as if offended."I have been called names variously in my time, Miss Phillips, but never till this moment 'the public.' I resent it as an aspersion—I am not 'the public'—and demand an abject apology. Think of all the horrible things 'the public' is—and are!""And you a politician!" exclaimed Elise. "You would be lost for ever if those words were quoted against you. Senator Killam would give a thousand dollars for them. See—I hold your fate in my hands—"Rutledge's eyes leaped to hers with a quick look that confused her, and she hurried to cut off his words."—But—oh, mercy, I'm—I'm sorry, and I retract if it was really as bad as that. The public is really awful, I suppose. I humbly apologize for the aspersion.""Then bring forth fruits meet for repentance by returning at once to that piano stool.""But I'm such a very amateurish singer, Mr. Rutledge. I fear you will—""And I am an amateur listener, the most humbly appreciative, uncritical soul on earth. Please sing. Mrs. Hazard, if you have any influence with this administration will you not use it here?""Authority is better than influence," said Lola. "Elise, march to that piano."Elise complied with an exaggerated air of obedience."Since I am singing under orders, I will sing only according to orders. What shall it be?""SingMy Rosary," said Lola. "That's an old one—and the dearest.""I commend to you Mrs. Hazard for sentiment, Mr. Rutledge. Her honeymoon is not yet on the wane." Having thus made Lola responsible for the song, Elise sang it without further delay or hesitation.When she had well begun to sing Rutledge recalled having heard that song a long time before. It had not impressed him.Elise sang simply. The fullness of her low voice and the clearness of her words, together with the unaffected "heart" in her singing, left her nothing to be desired as a singer of ballads. As Evans listened to the song of sentiment of Mrs. Hazard's choosing he reformed his opinion of it. Always hitherto he had deemed sentiment an effervescence—refreshing at times as apollinaris, but none the less an effervescence—and the words ofMy Rosarya fair type of it:"The hours I spent with thee, dear Heart,Are as a string of pearls to me.I count them over, every one apart,My rosary, my rosary."Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayerTo still a heart in absence wrung—I tell each bead unto the endAnd there a cross is hung."Oh memories that bless and burn,Oh barren gain, and bitter loss.I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learnTo kiss the cross, Sweetheart,To kiss the cross."But with Elise sitting there before him, a vision of loveliness and grace entirely, appealingly feminine, "the lady" all gone, and the girl—the woman—unaffected, natural, singing of love with such an air of truth and faith: sentiment became a very real thing to Rutledge.... When she finished he was silent. To comment would have been to comment on Elise, and for her every drop of his blood was singing, "I love you, I love you." He felt that if he spoke to her he must crush her in his arms and tell her so."That is a song according to my notion," said Lola. "Nomésallianceof sentiment and melody there, such as you often see. The words and the music made a love-match—they were born for each other. Who wrote it, Elise?""I forget—if I ever knew," said Elise."Woman, of course," Lola continued; and Rutledge interpolated "Why?""Because a woman always mixes her religion with her love—if she has any religion. A man may have one or the other, or both, but he never confuses them.""Pardon me for taking issue with you, Mrs. Hazard; but with many a man his love for a woman is his only religion.""Which means, Mr. Rutledge, that he has love—not religion."As Rutledge turned to Mrs. Hazard Elise had the first opportunity to look at him unobserved. She saw that his face had less colour than usual, that his manner seemed to lack its accustomed spontaneity, that there was a tired look about his eyes—which provoked in her heart a fleeting maternal impulse to lay her hand upon them. She watched him furtively and became convinced that he was in some measure distressed. At first it rather amused her and flattered her vanity to think that he was approaching her with a becoming self-distrust. As she studied him longer, however, she began to doubt the reason for his constraint.Lola Hazard turned from her discussion with Rutledge to give Elise another song, and the young woman at the piano sang three or four while Rutledge listened in appreciative silence. Before the last was finished Mrs. Hazard was gone to receive other guests."Now will you not sing one of your own choosing?" asked Rutledge."I have no choice;" said Elise, "but this occurs to me." She sang him Tosti'sGood-bye.If she put more of the spirit in that song than into the others it was not because she felt its pertinence to the present status of her love. But through the wakeful night, and all the day long till Rutledge's note had come, the words of thatGood-byehad come and gone through her brain with passionate realism:"Falling leaf and fading tree,Lines of white on a sullen sea,Shadows rising on you and me—"her heart had sung its "good-bye for ever" with all the smothered passion of renunciation. So, in the very moment of blissful waiting for the telling of his love, she could sing to Rutledge with all the wildness of farewell which so short a time since had wrung her spirit.She struck the last chord softly, and, after holding down the keys till the strings were dumb, dropped her hands in her lap. She did not look up, but she knew that Rutledge's gaze was upon her. She waited for a space unspeaking, without lifting her eyes—and realized that she had waited too long.... The silence was eloquent; and with every moment became more significant. She tried to look up, but could not. She knew that the situation had gotten beyond her in that careless ten seconds, and that if she looked up now she was lost.... She sat as if under a spell—and waited for Rutledge to move or to speak.... After an age he was coming toward her.... And he was so very slow in coming. Her heart was thumping suffocatingly, her breathing in suspense.... He did not speak as he came to her.... She felt he was very near.... Still unspeaking—was he going to take her in his arms? ... Her head drooped lower over the keyboard....Oh, why did he not take her in his arms."Elise, I love you. I've always loved you."Elise's eyes were upon the idle hands in her lap; and her heart had stopped to listen. Rutledge's sentences were broken and jerky. She had never heard him speak in that fashion."I've loved you always, Elise, and once I was rash enough to think—you loved me. My presumption was fitly punished.... Now I have only—hope. In the last few months you—have been so—gracious that—I have been led to think you—wait, wait till I have done—so gracious that I have been led to think—not that you love me, but at least that I—do not excite your antipathy—as for a long time it seemed.... So now I have only hope—but such a hope, Elise—a hope that is—beyond words, for my love is such. My love is—I love you, Elise—I love you as—as my father loved my mother."Elise slowly raised her eyes to his. There was no smile upon her face, but as she turned it to him it was ineffably sweet, and a smile was in her heart. But she was startled by his look. His was not the face of a lover, whether triumphant, despondent, hopeful or militant. She did not know that he had not been able to banish his mother from his thought for a waking moment since he parted with her at her mother's bed-side the night before."Will you—be my wife, Elise?"Never before in all the world was that question asked in such a voice. Its tone like a dagger of ice touched the girl's heart with a deadly chill. She looked steadily and long into his eyes. At last with a little shiver she murmured inaudibly "noblesse oblige"—and answered his question:"No, Mr. Rutledge, I will not be your wife."Her words were as cold as her heart, and her self-possession as cold as either. She was surprised that her answer did not bring the faintest shadow of relief to Rutledge's drawn face—rather a greater distress. A tingle of fire shot through her bosom. (It was not too late—oh why did he not take her in his arms.)"No, I will not be your wife," she repeated slowly. (It was not yet too late—oh why—) "I am deeply sensible of the honour you—""Stop! Don't say that! In God's name don't say that! Don't add mockery to—""Mr. Rutledge!"For the moment Rutledge forgot that there was any person in the world other than Elise and himself."Youhavemocked me—you haveplayedwith me! And—""Will you please go, Mr. Rutledge!""Played with me—yes—as if I were the simplest—oh well, I have been—and you—you have been—you are—an artist. Tell me that you do not love me, that you have only laughed at me. Tell me!" he sneered."Go, I say! Oh,can'tyougo!""Yes, I'll go—when you say it. Tell me! Do you love me—have you ever loved me?—the veriest little bit?""Never. Not the veriest little bit," she said, looking straight at him."That's it!—the truth at last—spoken like a m—like a lady!"—he bowed mockingly at her—"and it proves you are false—false, do you understand?—unspeakably false! And I have loved you like m—but very well, it's better so—perhaps."He turned to go; but turned quickly about."I'll kiss you once if I swing for it!—for what I thought you were"—and, for a moment robbed by anger of his sense of proprieties, with unpardonable roughness he crushed and kissed her, flung her violently from him, and went, without looking back at her.*      *      *      *      *Mrs. Hazard, looking across the shoulders of a knot of her guests, caught a glimpse of Rutledge as he passed down the hall toward the outer door. She waited a minute or more for him to reappear, and when he had not done so she lost interest in the people and things about her. At the first possible moment she sought Elise, and found her again sitting before the grate. Lola came into the room so quickly and quietly that Elise had not time to dissemble, if she had wished to do so. Her head was thrown back against the chair and both hands covered her face. Lola took her wrists and against some little resistance pulled her hands away."Elise?" she said."He does not love me," Elise replied, defensively, without opening her eyes."Didn't he tell you?""Oh, yes," the answer came wearily; "he told me; but he told me because he thought he had given me to expect it. It wasnoblesse oblige—not love.""Noblesse fiddlesticks! I don't believe a word of it.""Oh well," said Elise, looking up, "he said it was just as well that I refused him, there's no mistaking that.""Oh, certainly,afteryou refused him. What did you expect?""I expected him to—no, I didn't. I didn't expect anything. Southern men are so—" Elise stopped. She was about to be unjust to Rutledge."But come, let's go," she said, rising from her chair. "Are all the people here?""All except Senator Richland, and he never failsme," Lola answered."I don't want to see that man to-night," said Elise; and yet she joined the other guests appearing nothing other than her usual self save for the added brightness of her eyes, and when Senator Richland managed finally to isolate her she gave him quite the most interesting twenty minutes of his life.When the company was broken up, Elise, who was stopping over night with Lola, avoided the customary heart to heart talk by asking for a pen and paper with which to write a letter. Mrs. Hazard was consumed with desire to hear all about it, but she deferred her inquiries with good grace as she argued that a note written by Elise at such an unearthly hour could be only to Rutledge, and must, therefore, be important.Elise shut herself in her room and, pitching the paper on the dressing-table, sat down to think. For nearly an hour she sat without turning a hand to undress, trying to unravel the tangled skein of her heart's affairs and see a way out; but she could not get her thoughts to the main issue. Like a fiery barrier to her thinking was the man's burning denunciation: "You are false—unspeakably false!" It had rung in her ears all the evening, and however she tried she could not get away from it. At last she began hurriedly to undress, but before that process was half finished she brushed the toilet articles from a corner of the dressing-table, drew up a chair, and began to write."Unspeakably false? No, no, Evans, I am not false. I have not been false: for I love you. Such a long time I have loved you. Sometimes I have believed you loved me, and sometimes I have doubted; but I do not doubt since you told me to-night I was unspeakably false. Shame on you to swear at your sweetheart so!—and bless you for saying it, for now I know. O why did you not say it earlier so that I might not have misread you? I thought you felt yourself committed, and must go on: that your love was dead, but honour held you. You looked so distressed, dear heart, that I was misled. Forgive me. And do not think I do not know your distress. I, too—but no, I must not. I love you, I cannot do more. In your rage were you conscious that your kiss fell uponmy lips, dearest? Blind you were when you said I was unspeakably false.—"She had written rapidly and almost breathlessly while the impulse was warm within her heart. She paused for a moment—held the pen poised as if uncertain what to say next—hesitated as to how to say it—next, as to whether to say it—laid the pen down and picked up the sheet to read what she had written. A blush came to her cheeks as she read, and at the end she dropped her face upon her arm on the table and suffered a revulsion of shame for her unmaidenliness. She tried hard to justify her writing and had all but succeeded when Rutledge's words, "It is better so," put all her love's excuses to final rout. She took the written sheet and went across to drop it on the smoldering fire. But her resolution failed her: she felt that it would be to burn her very heartbeats if she gave these words to the flames.Going again to the dressing-table she laid the letter upon the scattered sheets of paper to await a more mature decision, and, hurriedly disrobing, went to bed.She found it very hard to go to sleep. Even in the dark she could feel the continuing blushes in her cheeks as she thought of what she had written. Finally in desperation she tumbled up and in the dim glow of the coals in the grate crossed the room to the dressing-table, snatched up and crumpled in her hand the disturbing letter, hurriedly gathered up the remaining sheets of paper and chucked them in the table drawer, walked quickly over and dropped the offending tender missive upon the coals and went to bed again in the light of its destruction. A very long time after its last gleam was dark and dead she found the sleep she sought.CHAPTER XXXVIt is not within the province of this chronicle to recall the sensational excitement that swept the nation in those days further than as it affected the persons mentioned in this narrative. The details of that sensation, the screams, the howls, the jeers, the predictions, the warnings, the laments, the philosophizings, a newspaper-reading people but too well remember. They have no proper place of rehearsal in this history; and if they had, a comprehensive statement which would present the matter fairly to those who come after would be too voluminous for the plan upon which this book is projected.In that time of tumult and of trial Mr. Phillips stood indeed alone. If he had braced himself firmly in his determination to save Helen's happiness at all cost, it was well: for his trial was to the uttermost. Although it would have crushed any other than his adamantine will, the storm-beaten father withstood, as one accustomed to do battle, the pressure from without: but the rebellion of his own soul was an unrelieved tragedy that shook him day and night with its terror. If his love for Helen had not approached the infinite, surely in the shrieking revulsion of his spirit he would have cast her off. There was a demand from loud-mouthed people the nation over that he should disown her and drive her into the outer darkness. Some relief there was in that demand, for it only stirred the combative in his nature. The yells and hoots aroused his fighting blood. But the silence, the unspeaking horror—as if in the presence of death—in which sober-minded friend and foe stood aghast and looked upon Helen's plight, made his courage faint and tremulous. It was so awfully akin to the sickening horror and silence in his own heart.He was indeed alone; and in that loneliness it was given to him to teach to himself the far bounds of a father's love. If he only could have fought something!—or somebody! If he only openly could have snapped his fingers in the face of public opinion, in the teeth of his own mutinous soul—openly—and told them he cared more for Helen's untroubled laugh than for them all, and be damned to 'em! If he only could have died! But no: he must stand and be still to the most thankless task that ever called for a hidden loyalty. Helen must not know of the travail of his love, lest that defeat love's purpose. It was too late, too late, for knowledge to do other than tear her heart-strings out, blight her young soul, and writeRemorseeternally upon her life. She mustneverknow how much he loved her!There was no lack of personal—and professing—-friends to stand more or less loyally beside the father in that time, but their support was wormwood to him. From the very few who were altogether sincere he turned in aversion even as he suffered their commendations, while for the insincere and sycophantic he had a doubly unspeakable contempt; and that disgust and scorn was agony, for that he must swallow it and belie his own spirit as he listened to these friends.His private correspondence furnished him as little comfort. Some persons there were—and a few of these men and women of repute—who wrote to him letters that should have been consoling, for they agreed very heartily with his view, or what they thought was his view, and commended him without stint for his attitude: but never an one spoke of the sacrificial love of a father for his daughter—justice to the negrowas their theme. Upon such letters from men—it would have surprised the writers much to hear it—he uttered maledictions profane; while, for the one woman who thus approved him, he forebore profanity, but relieved his wrath with a volcanic "Freak!"From the time the announcement burst upon the public the President was overwhelmed with a flood of newspaper comment, most of it harsh, the best of it deprecatingly sympathetic, none, except that from negro papers, uncritical. Very shortly the clippings bureau which served him was ordered to discontinue everything referring to Mrs. Hayward Graham's marriage.Mr. Phillips did not give that order because he was too weak to stand criticism. Far from it. He was schooled to conflict, and knew the rules. He had never asked concession from an opponent in all his life of struggle, and he would have scorned to ask it then, even with the uncounted odds against him. His critics might have shrieked till the crack o' doom and he would have listened without a quiver of his resolution.But the impartial bureau had sent, among an avalanche of criticism, an appreciation in the form of the following editorial clipped from the columns ofThe Star of Zion:"The dramatic culmination of the beautiful romance in which Miss Helen Phillips, daughter of the President of the United States, proudly proclaims herself the wife of Mr. John Hayward Graham, and the graceful acquiescence of the bride's distinguished father in his beautiful daughter's love-match, is but another proof of the rapid coming of the negro race into its own as the recognized equal of any race of men on earth. Mr. Graham's career is an inspiration to his people, for it teaches the rising generation of negro boys and girls that they need no longer live Within the Veil, that in the most enlightened minds there is no longer a silly prejudice against colour, but that if the young negro will only make the most of himself and his opportunities he will be graciously received as an equal, as a member, in the proudest families in this mighty nation.—"President Phillips read just that much of that editorial. Then went the order to shut off the press clippings.It required all the father's self-control to dissemble in Helen's presence and he feared that he would be unable to keep the truth from her. It was fortunate for the girl that her condition demanded seclusion and that her removal from Washington took her away from the danger of enlightenment. At her father's instance preparations were hurried with all speed, and she and her husband went to Hill-Top for their belated honeymoon and a stay indefinite....Hayward Graham would have been a paragon if he had conducted himself with entire discretion when the limelight first was turned upon him. The colour of his skin was not responsible for his foolish mistakes in those first days. Any footman so suddenly elevated to that pinnacle likely would have made them. One of his errors of judgment was serious. That was his continued offence against the dignity of Henry Porter. The withering letter he had written in answer to the old man's apology was of itself enough to call up the devil in old Henry's heart; but that doubtless would have been forgotten had Hayward remained in obscurity.To dispute with the President the title to a son-in-law, however, was a distinction too fascinating to the negro magnate. He had already been to Bob Shaw's office for a tentative discussion of the law in his case and was just coming away when he ran plump into Hayward on the sidewalk. A judicious condescension on the young man's part even then might have placated him, but instead an evil spirit called to Hayward's memory his first meeting with Porter, the insufferable affront, and his own oath to even the score. Too strong in Hayward's heart was the temptation to "take it out of him for keeps" then and there. At the worst, though, he hardly did more than any gentleman would do upon meeting another who had driven him from his house."Mr. Hay— Mr. Graham!" said Porter, hardly knowing himself whether he intended to be polite or other, but having a general purpose to fetch the young fellow up roundly for that letter."I believe I don't know you," said Hayward, stopping and observing him coolly for two seconds, and turning away to continue his journey up the street.Now, to those of his race, Henry Porter was a "figure" on the streets of Washington, and Graham was by that time almost as well known as the President himself. There were but four people who could have witnessed the meeting of these celebrities. These were three negroes of low degree loafing along the sidewalk and a dago pushing a cart just outside the curb.At his rebuff Henry Porter gave a gasp, swallowed it, and looked around to see who had seen him. The "common niggers" at his elbow snickered, and as they passed on burst out into loud guffaws."Um-huh! Tried to butt into the White House, butMisterGrahamhedon't know him! Can't interdoose 'im!Tooblack! Law-dee, didn't he th'ow 'im down!"Henry Porter heard enough of this. He rapidly retraced his steps to Shaw's office."Here, Mr. Shaw, you can jist git them papers out this evenin'. There's no use waitin'.""All right, Mr. Porter," said Shaw, who didn't favour the idea but was too much afraid of his client to refuse. "But wouldn't to-morrow do as well? We could think it over a little further.""No, suh, Mr. Shaw. We don't wait till no to-morrer. We don't think about that damn young nigger no mo' till we take him with the papers and let him think about hisself awhile. Can't you git 'em served on him this evenin'?""If he's to be found in the city," said Shaw."Oh, he's to be found all right. I saw him goin' up the street jist awhile ago. You jist git them papers out and have 'em served on him this evenin' and no mistake about it.""All right, if you say so," Shaw consented."Well, I say so—and I can pay the damage," said the irate client with emphasis, and stalked out of the office, only to stick his head back into the door with the last injunction:"This evenin' now, and no mistake about it!"*      *      *      *      *As chance ordained, Henry Porter did not go amiss in his haste to have the summons served on Graham. It was late in the afternoon and less than four hours before the former footman and his wife were scheduled to leave the city for Stag Inlet that the officer served the paper.A bomb exploding under Hayward's feet could not have been so unexpected by him. As the officer read the summons and its import broke upon his mind he felt, for the first time in his life, physical weakness in the presence of danger. It staggered him to think of possible results. He had no feeling of guilt: but an awful fear.President Phillips had passed out of the White House for his regular constitutional while the process was being served, and recognized the officer by his badge and Graham's excitement by the look on his face, but had not stopped to inquire what the trouble was,—for which Graham was profoundly thankful, as it gave him time to catch his breath.Think as he would, no way of escape could Graham conceive. Being virtually without money, he could not hope in four hours to bring Henry Porter to terms and avoid a publication of the scandal. Exactly what the old man had in mind, anyway, was uncertain, excruciatingly uncertain. The precise nature of the complaint did not appear from the summons. As the suit was based on a lie, it well might be any sort of a lie. But surely, surely, he thought, no woman wouldfalselyspeak disgrace to herself. He had had a genuine respect for Lily Porter's character. She had been the best of them all, with the highest ideas and the highest ideals. He would have sworn that she could not have lent herself to a thing of this sort. But since she had been willing to do so at all, to what lengths might she not go? What was the limit they had set? To what public disgrace were they trying to bring him? To what awful lie must he make answer?As he thought of it the keen sense of his peril, the disgrace, the loss of his commission, and his helplessness, became well-nigh unbearable. If Henry Porter could only have known the extremity of torture he had inflicted in thus making the young fellow "think about hisself awhile," his wrath might have been appeased.Hayward trembled to think of the moment when the public should know of this suit, but he quaked in absolute terror as he thought of Mr. Phillips' hearing it. And Helen!—what must he do to save her from this shame?—he gladly at the moment could have strangled Old Henry.... But heroics would do no good. He was helpless, bound hand and foot. If he could be saved, if Helen was to be saved, there was but one arm that had the power: her father's. Perhaps,perhaps, with all his attributes of strength and force, he might be able to bring the vengeful negro capitalist to terms. Whatever his terror of Mr. Phillips, he must tell him.... And what were done must be done quickly.*      *      *      *      *"I would like to speak with you a moment, sir, about a—a matter," said Hayward to the President as soon as he returned from his walk.Mr. Phillips could tell with half an eye that it was a matter of some moment. He led the way to his private office."Well, what is it, Hayward? You look excited."Mr. Phillips spoke very kindly, for he did so with studied purpose. It was necessary that he keep that purpose continually and consciously before him. For Hayward the footman he had had quite a high regard: as he had for any man or thing that was efficient. For the negro as his son-in-law, he could not bring himself to consider him with any toleration, nor did he lie to his soul by telling it he wished to. For the negro as a mate for Helen, every rebellious, tortured nerve and fibre of the man was an eternal, agonized protest. It was indeed very necessary that he keep his kindly purpose always consciously before him."What is it?" he asked again."I had a paper—a summons, I believe they call it—served on me this afternoon," Hayward stumbled along to say; and then stopped, uncertain how to go at it."Well. And what's the trouble?""I don't know, sir, exactly what's the trouble; or, rather, I would say I didn't know there was any trouble.""Then what's it about? Who is it that's suing you? What does the summons say?""The summons doesn't say what the trouble is about." Graham was dodging in spite of himself."But who is the person that is suing you?" Mr. Phillips questioned again testily."The summons says 'Lily Porter, by her father and next friend, Henry S. Porter, against John Hayw—""Sayswhat? A WOMAN?"President Phillips jumped to his feet and went pale as ashes. Graham, dry-lipped, could only nod his head weakly in affirmation. For five seconds Mr. Phillips was speechless. Then words came back, along with a rush of blood to his face that looked to burst it. So terrible was his wrath, the killing look in his eyes, that Graham instinctively squared away to defend himself from bodily injury. Such a torrent, such a blast, of withering, blistering profanity, wild, incoherent, unutterable, he never had listened to in all his life. Try as he would to interpose a word, an explanation, a defence, his efforts only drove the father to more abandoned fury. After a dozen fruitless attempts he realized there was nothing to do but wait for the furor to burn itself out. To the young man, conscious of the passing of precious time, it seemed that his anger would never cool. When the President showed the first signs of exhaustion he took courage to speak again."I swear to you, sir, the young woman has no cause to complain of me. I have done her no—""Oh of course not, of course not," said Mr. Phillips in the most bitingly sarcastic tone. "Of course not, of course not! But who the devil is she?""Miss Lily Porter, daughter of Henry S. Porter—Black Henrythe newspapers sometimes call him. Perhaps you have heard—""What! That nigger? Not aniggerwoman! But of cour—oh my God, Helen, how can I pr—" but he choked for a moment in livid anger before he writhed into another frenzy, that was as volcanic, as horrible, and as pitiable as it is unprintable. He cursed, he raved, he choked, he tore wildly at his collar for breath.It was frightful to look upon, and if Graham had feared for his own safety in the first outburst, he feared for Mr. Phillips' life in the last. It looked as if in the violence of his wrath he would burst a blood-vessel. Graham was in mortal fear that he would die in his tracks, and tried desperately to reinforce his denial of guilt as the only possible relief for his father-in-law's dementia, but all his attempts only inflamed Mr. Phillips the more. The negro seemed not to know that it was not a question of his guilt or innocence that was tearing the father's vitals and threatening his reason, but shame—insufferable shame!After an age, it seemed to Graham, Mr. Phillips became calmer. His son-in-law, wholly at a loss what to say or do, started out of the door in search of a clearer atmosphere and a chance to regain his scattered faculties. The President looked around and saw him beating a retreat."Come back here!" he ordered sharply. "We can't leave this thing like this! Something must be done with it at once, or the scandal will be all over the—" He trembled with the passion of another outburst, but controlled himself by a mighty effort."I swear to you no scandal may rightly be laid at my door," said Graham with some dignity. The outrageous injustice of the thing gave him a little of the dignity of righteousness."Scandal doesn't depend on truth or falsehood, so we needn't discuss that now." Mr. Phillips cut him off short. "What we must do is to stop this scandal, for scandal it will be if it gets to the public. Where does this—this Porter live? How far from here?""About fifteen minutes drive, sir.""Well—er—send Mr. O'Neill here—in a hurry."Graham, glad to get action on himself, was out of the room and back with the secret service man in less than a minute. In that short space the President had taken a grip on his self-control."Here, O'Neill, take Hayward with you to show you the house, and go fetch Henry Porter up here to see me. He's not to be arrested, mind you, but is to come to see me at my requestat once, and nobody is to know. And he is not to speak to anybody or see anybody, not even Hayward here, before you bring him to me. So get along and get him here as soon as you can. No force, remember; but he is to come along, at my request." ...O'Neill and Hayward hurried out, and, finding a street cab, lost no time in getting to Henry Porter's house. On the way Hayward gave the officer some idea of the man he was to deal with and, bringing him to the door, left him to his own devices and himself took a car back home. When Old Henry came to the door O'Neill told him half a dozen lies in half as many minutes, and at the end of the time he had the worthy coloured gentleman safely in the cab and on the way to the White House.The President was waiting for him, and when the two fathers were alone together he went at him with a directness calculated to take the negro's breath. Black Henry was much awed, in fact well-nigh overcome by the situation, and he was hardly in condition to make the most of his opportunities; but his native shrewdness did not entirely forsake him. In the drive to the White House he had had time to think it over, and he had concluded that the President wanted to see him very much or he would not have sent for him. He tried to keep that in mind all the time the negotiations were pending. It helped in some degree to steady his shaking confidence in himself."You are Henry S. Porter, I believe?" There was an accusing quality in the voice."Yes, suh.""The father of Lily Porter who has instituted a suit against my—against Hayward Graham?" The tone was more accusing."Yes, suh." Black Henry wished the suit hadn't been instituted. But he remembered again he had been sent for and he braced up a little."Now what is the nature of that suit?" The President was somewhat in fear of his own question, for all his bravado of manner."Breach o' promise," Henry answered shortly."Anything else?""Nothin' but breach o' promise to my daughter Lily. He was engaged to her and married your daughter, or was already married to her, I don' know which."For five seconds a murderous passion all but got control of Mr. Phillips' will. He turned away and closed his eyes tight till he had subdued it."What evidence have you that he was engaged to your daughter?"Henry Porter knew he was a fool to give away his case to the opposition, but the President's eyes and manner were too compelling for him."My daughter says so and—and I've seen enough myself, and besides that he has written letters to her. I reckon we've got evidence enough all right.""Well, I have evidence that there is not a word of it true, and I sent for you to tell you you'd better drop it. You'll find it a profitless—more than that—avery expensiveundertaking."The last statement was unfortunate. It struck fire in Old Henry's pet vanity."Oh, I guess I can stan' the expense all right," he rejoined with the oddest possible mixture of deference and defiance."You can, can you!" said Mr. Phillips sharply, his anger beginning to redden. "But I tell you again you can't get a verdict from the courts—no, sir, not for a cent—so what's the use?""I don't need the money." ... Clearly Mr. Phillips had given the purse-proud old darkey the wrong cue."Then what the devil are you after?""That young nig—young man is mos' too sassy. He's got to know his place.""His place!" Mr. Phillips' face was again twisted in wrath. But wrath could not serve Helen's cause. He stifled it."Yes; he mus'n' come flyin' roun' my daughter for fun, and then go off when he fin's somebody mo' to his notion, and th'ow his impidence in my face."Through all his blinding anger Mr. Phillips could see clearly enough to realize that it was indeed not a matter of money, but of insult. He was more and more inclined to believe Hayward's statement that there was little or no basis for the suit. But that didn't help matters in the least."Now look here, Porter," he said in his most vigorous and decided manner, "I am convinced your claim has no real basis in fact, but is the outcome of pique pure and simple. Nevertheless, it must be settled here, to-night; and I'm willing to see that you don't lose any money in the way of expenses and lawyer's fees for the procedure so far. To that end I will have Hayward pay you a thousand dollars if you will withdraw the suit to-night. What do you say?""I don' need the money," said Porter in maddening reiteration. "Besides that I don' know what my lawyer will charge." At the mention of money, however, the sharp-dealing old negro felt a little more at ease and interested in the discussion."Who is your lawyer?""Mistuh Shaw—Mistuh Robert Shaw.""Robert Shaw. Is he the Shaw that wants that special solicitorship in the treasury department? A negro?""Yes, suh, a negro; but I don' know about the treasury department.""Well, he's the man, I have no doubt—Robert Shaw, a negro lawyer. Now let me tell you. I had had some idea of giving him the place he asks for, but I say right now if he's inclined to be a fool in a matter of this sort he's not the man the government wants. If he gets his fee he will be well enough satisfied, won't he? He's not the fool kind that wants to advertise himself in a sensational suit, is he?""No, suh, no,suh! Mistuh Shaw is a ve'y nice young man, suh. He ain't no fool, suh.""Well, he would be if he disobeyed your wishes and mine in this matter. I think I can speak forhimmyself. Now what doyousay? A thousand dollars?"Involving Shaw in the affair was most fortunate for Mr. Phillips. With Hayward out of the running, Henry Porter now looked with much assurance upon Shaw as a son-in-law. That financial-political combination between himself and Shaw was again his pet dream as before Hayward's interference. With Black Henry the controversy was really settled and he was ready to compromise. The smaller purpose was lost in the presence of the master passion. But his personal pride and cupidity were aroused. If his hoped-for son-in-law Shaw was going to get both honour and revenue out of this thing, he himself ought not to fall too far behind.... And again he remembered that he had been sent for."Of cou'se I don' need the money," he said once more, "but if money is to settle it I think five thousan' 'd be little enough. We was suin' for twenty-five.""Five thousand the devil! I'll not pay it. It's outrageous!""Well, suh, I don't need the m—""Ah, shut that up, for heaven's sake! What's the best you'll do? Speak out now in a hurry.""Well, suh, five thousan' is mighty little considerin' the standin' of the pahties. As my lawyer, Mistuh Shaw, said, the standin' of the pahties calls for big damages. My daughter and your son-in-law are up in the pic—""Hold on!" said Mr. Phillips. "You can stop that argument right there. Will you take five thousand and shut the thing up?""Well, suh, as I said, I don' need—""Will you take the five thousand?" The President's eyes had a dangerous blaze in them."Yes, suh.""That settles it. Now get right out after that lawyer of yours at once, to-night, and have him withdraw those papers and destroy them—or no, better than that, you bring them here to me to-morrow—no, bring themto-night—I'll wait for you. And hurry, will you please, for I'm quite busy and must be rid of this as quickly as possible. I'll look for you within an hour."
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"—And your America, Miss Phillips, is assuredly the natural home of Romance. Here every man is a peer in posse, and every woman a princess incognita—and possibility keeps pace with imagination. In England a footman is a footman to the end of his life. Here the footman of yesterday is the President's son-in-law to-day, and may himself be the ruler of his people to-morrow! Can life hold more for a man? The right to aspire and the luck to win!—and to win not only the recognition which his personal merits deserve, but that supreme gift which no man could deserve: your beautiful sister's love! It is almost unthinkable to an outsider like me, but it is glorious! Yes, your America is the Land of Romance!"
This all sounded very well, but Elise's nerves were on the ragged edge. She knew if she spoke it would be to cry out: "Yes, a rank outsider! Oh, why can't you drop that subject before I scream!"
But Captain Howard had only finished the preliminaries. He continued:
"And in this land, Miss Phillips, where a man may hope for anything, I, too, have taken courage to aspire to the highest, and—"
"A note for you, Miss Elise; the messenger is waiting," a servant said.
Excusing herself to Howard, Elise read.
"MY DEAR MISS PHILLIPS:—If I may not see you to-night, may I not see you to-morrow afternoon—or evening? Or day after to-morrow? When?
"EVANS RUTLEDGE."
Elise read this over several times, and gazed idly at the paper for some time longer. She quite forgot the waiting messenger and Captain Howard. At last she thought, "On his own head be the result!" and sat down at a daintily carved desk to write.
"MY DEAR MR. RUTLEDGE:—The disturbance of my programme for the evening seems to have been largely imaginary. I will be very glad to see you at Mrs. Hazard's as at first agreed.
"ELISE PHILLIPS."
When she had given her answer to the servant Elise came back to Captain Howard with a commonplace question which made for naught all his words up to that point. He realized he must make a new beginning if he would tell her what he wished. Her face and mood had changed and he saw that her thoughts were elsewhere. After several attempts to pull the conversation back into the old channel he gave it up and retired, mentally cursing his luck and hoping for a more auspicious occasion.
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Elise awaited Rutledge's coming at Lola Hazard's with some trepidation. She was uncertain of herself. She did not know what she would do. Being assured of what Rutledge would say to her, under ordinary conditions she would have been elusive for a season, and finally have surrendered when overtaken. But with outside circumstance warring against her love, she felt wildly impelled to let herself go, to fling restraint to the winds and give her heart's impulse free rein. Delicious were the tremors of anticipation with which she waited to hear again words of tenderness from him. Overflowing was her heart with tender response. His insistence on the meeting when she had given him an opportunity to avoid it, proved his faith was fast. He had met the supreme test for a Southern white man: he loved her more than his caste. In her own spirit she knew the agony of his trial. How sweet to surrender to such a love! How tenderly she could reward it! She longed to meet it with a frank and blissful confession. So, she was in some trepidation: she was afraid she might not be properly reserved.
Lola Hazard came into the sitting-room and found Elise sitting before the open grate.
"Honey," she said, slipping an arm about the girl's waist, "you look positively glorious to-night. I never saw you half so pretty. What have you done to yourself? Your eyes are brilliants, and your colour is—delicious!"
"I have been looking at the fire," said Elise in explanation.
"The pictures you saw must be very pleasing," Lola answered. "I hope they'll all come true. But before we begin to discuss that, let me tell you that Mr. Rutledge asked to call this evening, and he may be here any moment."
"Yes," said Elise, "I know. He told me last night."
"Oh, he did, did he? Well, I promised him if he came early he might have ten minutes for his very own to talk to you to-night. I hope you—"
"He may have ten minutes—and as many—more—as—he—wants," said Elise brazenly.
"Oh, you darling!" Lola gave her a squeeze. "No wonder you are beautiful. It will make any woman heavenly, and you aresuch a helpto it!"
"What isit?" asked Elise.
"Love," replied Mrs. Hazard.
CHAPTER XXXIV
"Come along back to my own little parlour, Mr. Rutledge. Elise has been singing for me, and we'll not let her stop for awhile yet."
Elise was not expecting Rutledge to be brought in there, and was still sitting at the piano idly weaving the chords into soft and improvised harmonies when he spoke. She slipped from the stool quickly, shook hands with him in an embarrassed way, and crossed the room to sit down.
"Oh, no, please do not leave the piano," Rutledge pleaded, "now that I have just discovered you are a musician."
"I am not a musician, Mr. Rutledge; certainly not for the public."
Rutledge drew himself up as if offended.
"I have been called names variously in my time, Miss Phillips, but never till this moment 'the public.' I resent it as an aspersion—I am not 'the public'—and demand an abject apology. Think of all the horrible things 'the public' is—and are!"
"And you a politician!" exclaimed Elise. "You would be lost for ever if those words were quoted against you. Senator Killam would give a thousand dollars for them. See—I hold your fate in my hands—"
Rutledge's eyes leaped to hers with a quick look that confused her, and she hurried to cut off his words.
"—But—oh, mercy, I'm—I'm sorry, and I retract if it was really as bad as that. The public is really awful, I suppose. I humbly apologize for the aspersion."
"Then bring forth fruits meet for repentance by returning at once to that piano stool."
"But I'm such a very amateurish singer, Mr. Rutledge. I fear you will—"
"And I am an amateur listener, the most humbly appreciative, uncritical soul on earth. Please sing. Mrs. Hazard, if you have any influence with this administration will you not use it here?"
"Authority is better than influence," said Lola. "Elise, march to that piano."
Elise complied with an exaggerated air of obedience.
"Since I am singing under orders, I will sing only according to orders. What shall it be?"
"SingMy Rosary," said Lola. "That's an old one—and the dearest."
"I commend to you Mrs. Hazard for sentiment, Mr. Rutledge. Her honeymoon is not yet on the wane." Having thus made Lola responsible for the song, Elise sang it without further delay or hesitation.
When she had well begun to sing Rutledge recalled having heard that song a long time before. It had not impressed him.
Elise sang simply. The fullness of her low voice and the clearness of her words, together with the unaffected "heart" in her singing, left her nothing to be desired as a singer of ballads. As Evans listened to the song of sentiment of Mrs. Hazard's choosing he reformed his opinion of it. Always hitherto he had deemed sentiment an effervescence—refreshing at times as apollinaris, but none the less an effervescence—and the words ofMy Rosarya fair type of it:
"The hours I spent with thee, dear Heart,Are as a string of pearls to me.I count them over, every one apart,My rosary, my rosary."Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayerTo still a heart in absence wrung—I tell each bead unto the endAnd there a cross is hung."Oh memories that bless and burn,Oh barren gain, and bitter loss.I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learnTo kiss the cross, Sweetheart,To kiss the cross."
"The hours I spent with thee, dear Heart,Are as a string of pearls to me.I count them over, every one apart,My rosary, my rosary.
"The hours I spent with thee, dear Heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me.
I count them over, every one apart,
My rosary, my rosary.
"Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayerTo still a heart in absence wrung—I tell each bead unto the endAnd there a cross is hung.
"Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer
To still a heart in absence wrung—
I tell each bead unto the end
And there a cross is hung.
"Oh memories that bless and burn,Oh barren gain, and bitter loss.I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learnTo kiss the cross, Sweetheart,To kiss the cross."
"Oh memories that bless and burn,
Oh barren gain, and bitter loss.
I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learn
To kiss the cross, Sweetheart,
To kiss the cross."
But with Elise sitting there before him, a vision of loveliness and grace entirely, appealingly feminine, "the lady" all gone, and the girl—the woman—unaffected, natural, singing of love with such an air of truth and faith: sentiment became a very real thing to Rutledge.... When she finished he was silent. To comment would have been to comment on Elise, and for her every drop of his blood was singing, "I love you, I love you." He felt that if he spoke to her he must crush her in his arms and tell her so.
"That is a song according to my notion," said Lola. "Nomésallianceof sentiment and melody there, such as you often see. The words and the music made a love-match—they were born for each other. Who wrote it, Elise?"
"I forget—if I ever knew," said Elise.
"Woman, of course," Lola continued; and Rutledge interpolated "Why?"
"Because a woman always mixes her religion with her love—if she has any religion. A man may have one or the other, or both, but he never confuses them."
"Pardon me for taking issue with you, Mrs. Hazard; but with many a man his love for a woman is his only religion."
"Which means, Mr. Rutledge, that he has love—not religion."
As Rutledge turned to Mrs. Hazard Elise had the first opportunity to look at him unobserved. She saw that his face had less colour than usual, that his manner seemed to lack its accustomed spontaneity, that there was a tired look about his eyes—which provoked in her heart a fleeting maternal impulse to lay her hand upon them. She watched him furtively and became convinced that he was in some measure distressed. At first it rather amused her and flattered her vanity to think that he was approaching her with a becoming self-distrust. As she studied him longer, however, she began to doubt the reason for his constraint.
Lola Hazard turned from her discussion with Rutledge to give Elise another song, and the young woman at the piano sang three or four while Rutledge listened in appreciative silence. Before the last was finished Mrs. Hazard was gone to receive other guests.
"Now will you not sing one of your own choosing?" asked Rutledge.
"I have no choice;" said Elise, "but this occurs to me." She sang him Tosti'sGood-bye.
If she put more of the spirit in that song than into the others it was not because she felt its pertinence to the present status of her love. But through the wakeful night, and all the day long till Rutledge's note had come, the words of thatGood-byehad come and gone through her brain with passionate realism:
"Falling leaf and fading tree,Lines of white on a sullen sea,Shadows rising on you and me—"
"Falling leaf and fading tree,Lines of white on a sullen sea,Shadows rising on you and me—"
"Falling leaf and fading tree,
Lines of white on a sullen sea,
Shadows rising on you and me—"
her heart had sung its "good-bye for ever" with all the smothered passion of renunciation. So, in the very moment of blissful waiting for the telling of his love, she could sing to Rutledge with all the wildness of farewell which so short a time since had wrung her spirit.
She struck the last chord softly, and, after holding down the keys till the strings were dumb, dropped her hands in her lap. She did not look up, but she knew that Rutledge's gaze was upon her. She waited for a space unspeaking, without lifting her eyes—and realized that she had waited too long.... The silence was eloquent; and with every moment became more significant. She tried to look up, but could not. She knew that the situation had gotten beyond her in that careless ten seconds, and that if she looked up now she was lost.... She sat as if under a spell—and waited for Rutledge to move or to speak.... After an age he was coming toward her.... And he was so very slow in coming. Her heart was thumping suffocatingly, her breathing in suspense.... He did not speak as he came to her.... She felt he was very near.... Still unspeaking—was he going to take her in his arms? ... Her head drooped lower over the keyboard....
Oh, why did he not take her in his arms.
"Elise, I love you. I've always loved you."
Elise's eyes were upon the idle hands in her lap; and her heart had stopped to listen. Rutledge's sentences were broken and jerky. She had never heard him speak in that fashion.
"I've loved you always, Elise, and once I was rash enough to think—you loved me. My presumption was fitly punished.... Now I have only—hope. In the last few months you—have been so—gracious that—I have been led to think you—wait, wait till I have done—so gracious that I have been led to think—not that you love me, but at least that I—do not excite your antipathy—as for a long time it seemed.... So now I have only hope—but such a hope, Elise—a hope that is—beyond words, for my love is such. My love is—I love you, Elise—I love you as—as my father loved my mother."
Elise slowly raised her eyes to his. There was no smile upon her face, but as she turned it to him it was ineffably sweet, and a smile was in her heart. But she was startled by his look. His was not the face of a lover, whether triumphant, despondent, hopeful or militant. She did not know that he had not been able to banish his mother from his thought for a waking moment since he parted with her at her mother's bed-side the night before.
"Will you—be my wife, Elise?"
Never before in all the world was that question asked in such a voice. Its tone like a dagger of ice touched the girl's heart with a deadly chill. She looked steadily and long into his eyes. At last with a little shiver she murmured inaudibly "noblesse oblige"—and answered his question:
"No, Mr. Rutledge, I will not be your wife."
Her words were as cold as her heart, and her self-possession as cold as either. She was surprised that her answer did not bring the faintest shadow of relief to Rutledge's drawn face—rather a greater distress. A tingle of fire shot through her bosom. (It was not too late—oh why did he not take her in his arms.)
"No, I will not be your wife," she repeated slowly. (It was not yet too late—oh why—) "I am deeply sensible of the honour you—"
"Stop! Don't say that! In God's name don't say that! Don't add mockery to—"
"Mr. Rutledge!"
For the moment Rutledge forgot that there was any person in the world other than Elise and himself.
"Youhavemocked me—you haveplayedwith me! And—"
"Will you please go, Mr. Rutledge!"
"Played with me—yes—as if I were the simplest—oh well, I have been—and you—you have been—you are—an artist. Tell me that you do not love me, that you have only laughed at me. Tell me!" he sneered.
"Go, I say! Oh,can'tyougo!"
"Yes, I'll go—when you say it. Tell me! Do you love me—have you ever loved me?—the veriest little bit?"
"Never. Not the veriest little bit," she said, looking straight at him.
"That's it!—the truth at last—spoken like a m—like a lady!"—he bowed mockingly at her—"and it proves you are false—false, do you understand?—unspeakably false! And I have loved you like m—but very well, it's better so—perhaps."
He turned to go; but turned quickly about.
"I'll kiss you once if I swing for it!—for what I thought you were"—and, for a moment robbed by anger of his sense of proprieties, with unpardonable roughness he crushed and kissed her, flung her violently from him, and went, without looking back at her.
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Mrs. Hazard, looking across the shoulders of a knot of her guests, caught a glimpse of Rutledge as he passed down the hall toward the outer door. She waited a minute or more for him to reappear, and when he had not done so she lost interest in the people and things about her. At the first possible moment she sought Elise, and found her again sitting before the grate. Lola came into the room so quickly and quietly that Elise had not time to dissemble, if she had wished to do so. Her head was thrown back against the chair and both hands covered her face. Lola took her wrists and against some little resistance pulled her hands away.
"Elise?" she said.
"He does not love me," Elise replied, defensively, without opening her eyes.
"Didn't he tell you?"
"Oh, yes," the answer came wearily; "he told me; but he told me because he thought he had given me to expect it. It wasnoblesse oblige—not love."
"Noblesse fiddlesticks! I don't believe a word of it."
"Oh well," said Elise, looking up, "he said it was just as well that I refused him, there's no mistaking that."
"Oh, certainly,afteryou refused him. What did you expect?"
"I expected him to—no, I didn't. I didn't expect anything. Southern men are so—" Elise stopped. She was about to be unjust to Rutledge.
"But come, let's go," she said, rising from her chair. "Are all the people here?"
"All except Senator Richland, and he never failsme," Lola answered.
"I don't want to see that man to-night," said Elise; and yet she joined the other guests appearing nothing other than her usual self save for the added brightness of her eyes, and when Senator Richland managed finally to isolate her she gave him quite the most interesting twenty minutes of his life.
When the company was broken up, Elise, who was stopping over night with Lola, avoided the customary heart to heart talk by asking for a pen and paper with which to write a letter. Mrs. Hazard was consumed with desire to hear all about it, but she deferred her inquiries with good grace as she argued that a note written by Elise at such an unearthly hour could be only to Rutledge, and must, therefore, be important.
Elise shut herself in her room and, pitching the paper on the dressing-table, sat down to think. For nearly an hour she sat without turning a hand to undress, trying to unravel the tangled skein of her heart's affairs and see a way out; but she could not get her thoughts to the main issue. Like a fiery barrier to her thinking was the man's burning denunciation: "You are false—unspeakably false!" It had rung in her ears all the evening, and however she tried she could not get away from it. At last she began hurriedly to undress, but before that process was half finished she brushed the toilet articles from a corner of the dressing-table, drew up a chair, and began to write.
"Unspeakably false? No, no, Evans, I am not false. I have not been false: for I love you. Such a long time I have loved you. Sometimes I have believed you loved me, and sometimes I have doubted; but I do not doubt since you told me to-night I was unspeakably false. Shame on you to swear at your sweetheart so!—and bless you for saying it, for now I know. O why did you not say it earlier so that I might not have misread you? I thought you felt yourself committed, and must go on: that your love was dead, but honour held you. You looked so distressed, dear heart, that I was misled. Forgive me. And do not think I do not know your distress. I, too—but no, I must not. I love you, I cannot do more. In your rage were you conscious that your kiss fell uponmy lips, dearest? Blind you were when you said I was unspeakably false.—"
She had written rapidly and almost breathlessly while the impulse was warm within her heart. She paused for a moment—held the pen poised as if uncertain what to say next—hesitated as to how to say it—next, as to whether to say it—laid the pen down and picked up the sheet to read what she had written. A blush came to her cheeks as she read, and at the end she dropped her face upon her arm on the table and suffered a revulsion of shame for her unmaidenliness. She tried hard to justify her writing and had all but succeeded when Rutledge's words, "It is better so," put all her love's excuses to final rout. She took the written sheet and went across to drop it on the smoldering fire. But her resolution failed her: she felt that it would be to burn her very heartbeats if she gave these words to the flames.
Going again to the dressing-table she laid the letter upon the scattered sheets of paper to await a more mature decision, and, hurriedly disrobing, went to bed.
She found it very hard to go to sleep. Even in the dark she could feel the continuing blushes in her cheeks as she thought of what she had written. Finally in desperation she tumbled up and in the dim glow of the coals in the grate crossed the room to the dressing-table, snatched up and crumpled in her hand the disturbing letter, hurriedly gathered up the remaining sheets of paper and chucked them in the table drawer, walked quickly over and dropped the offending tender missive upon the coals and went to bed again in the light of its destruction. A very long time after its last gleam was dark and dead she found the sleep she sought.
CHAPTER XXXV
It is not within the province of this chronicle to recall the sensational excitement that swept the nation in those days further than as it affected the persons mentioned in this narrative. The details of that sensation, the screams, the howls, the jeers, the predictions, the warnings, the laments, the philosophizings, a newspaper-reading people but too well remember. They have no proper place of rehearsal in this history; and if they had, a comprehensive statement which would present the matter fairly to those who come after would be too voluminous for the plan upon which this book is projected.
In that time of tumult and of trial Mr. Phillips stood indeed alone. If he had braced himself firmly in his determination to save Helen's happiness at all cost, it was well: for his trial was to the uttermost. Although it would have crushed any other than his adamantine will, the storm-beaten father withstood, as one accustomed to do battle, the pressure from without: but the rebellion of his own soul was an unrelieved tragedy that shook him day and night with its terror. If his love for Helen had not approached the infinite, surely in the shrieking revulsion of his spirit he would have cast her off. There was a demand from loud-mouthed people the nation over that he should disown her and drive her into the outer darkness. Some relief there was in that demand, for it only stirred the combative in his nature. The yells and hoots aroused his fighting blood. But the silence, the unspeaking horror—as if in the presence of death—in which sober-minded friend and foe stood aghast and looked upon Helen's plight, made his courage faint and tremulous. It was so awfully akin to the sickening horror and silence in his own heart.
He was indeed alone; and in that loneliness it was given to him to teach to himself the far bounds of a father's love. If he only could have fought something!—or somebody! If he only openly could have snapped his fingers in the face of public opinion, in the teeth of his own mutinous soul—openly—and told them he cared more for Helen's untroubled laugh than for them all, and be damned to 'em! If he only could have died! But no: he must stand and be still to the most thankless task that ever called for a hidden loyalty. Helen must not know of the travail of his love, lest that defeat love's purpose. It was too late, too late, for knowledge to do other than tear her heart-strings out, blight her young soul, and writeRemorseeternally upon her life. She mustneverknow how much he loved her!
There was no lack of personal—and professing—-friends to stand more or less loyally beside the father in that time, but their support was wormwood to him. From the very few who were altogether sincere he turned in aversion even as he suffered their commendations, while for the insincere and sycophantic he had a doubly unspeakable contempt; and that disgust and scorn was agony, for that he must swallow it and belie his own spirit as he listened to these friends.
His private correspondence furnished him as little comfort. Some persons there were—and a few of these men and women of repute—who wrote to him letters that should have been consoling, for they agreed very heartily with his view, or what they thought was his view, and commended him without stint for his attitude: but never an one spoke of the sacrificial love of a father for his daughter—justice to the negrowas their theme. Upon such letters from men—it would have surprised the writers much to hear it—he uttered maledictions profane; while, for the one woman who thus approved him, he forebore profanity, but relieved his wrath with a volcanic "Freak!"
From the time the announcement burst upon the public the President was overwhelmed with a flood of newspaper comment, most of it harsh, the best of it deprecatingly sympathetic, none, except that from negro papers, uncritical. Very shortly the clippings bureau which served him was ordered to discontinue everything referring to Mrs. Hayward Graham's marriage.
Mr. Phillips did not give that order because he was too weak to stand criticism. Far from it. He was schooled to conflict, and knew the rules. He had never asked concession from an opponent in all his life of struggle, and he would have scorned to ask it then, even with the uncounted odds against him. His critics might have shrieked till the crack o' doom and he would have listened without a quiver of his resolution.
But the impartial bureau had sent, among an avalanche of criticism, an appreciation in the form of the following editorial clipped from the columns ofThe Star of Zion:
"The dramatic culmination of the beautiful romance in which Miss Helen Phillips, daughter of the President of the United States, proudly proclaims herself the wife of Mr. John Hayward Graham, and the graceful acquiescence of the bride's distinguished father in his beautiful daughter's love-match, is but another proof of the rapid coming of the negro race into its own as the recognized equal of any race of men on earth. Mr. Graham's career is an inspiration to his people, for it teaches the rising generation of negro boys and girls that they need no longer live Within the Veil, that in the most enlightened minds there is no longer a silly prejudice against colour, but that if the young negro will only make the most of himself and his opportunities he will be graciously received as an equal, as a member, in the proudest families in this mighty nation.—"
President Phillips read just that much of that editorial. Then went the order to shut off the press clippings.
It required all the father's self-control to dissemble in Helen's presence and he feared that he would be unable to keep the truth from her. It was fortunate for the girl that her condition demanded seclusion and that her removal from Washington took her away from the danger of enlightenment. At her father's instance preparations were hurried with all speed, and she and her husband went to Hill-Top for their belated honeymoon and a stay indefinite....
Hayward Graham would have been a paragon if he had conducted himself with entire discretion when the limelight first was turned upon him. The colour of his skin was not responsible for his foolish mistakes in those first days. Any footman so suddenly elevated to that pinnacle likely would have made them. One of his errors of judgment was serious. That was his continued offence against the dignity of Henry Porter. The withering letter he had written in answer to the old man's apology was of itself enough to call up the devil in old Henry's heart; but that doubtless would have been forgotten had Hayward remained in obscurity.
To dispute with the President the title to a son-in-law, however, was a distinction too fascinating to the negro magnate. He had already been to Bob Shaw's office for a tentative discussion of the law in his case and was just coming away when he ran plump into Hayward on the sidewalk. A judicious condescension on the young man's part even then might have placated him, but instead an evil spirit called to Hayward's memory his first meeting with Porter, the insufferable affront, and his own oath to even the score. Too strong in Hayward's heart was the temptation to "take it out of him for keeps" then and there. At the worst, though, he hardly did more than any gentleman would do upon meeting another who had driven him from his house.
"Mr. Hay— Mr. Graham!" said Porter, hardly knowing himself whether he intended to be polite or other, but having a general purpose to fetch the young fellow up roundly for that letter.
"I believe I don't know you," said Hayward, stopping and observing him coolly for two seconds, and turning away to continue his journey up the street.
Now, to those of his race, Henry Porter was a "figure" on the streets of Washington, and Graham was by that time almost as well known as the President himself. There were but four people who could have witnessed the meeting of these celebrities. These were three negroes of low degree loafing along the sidewalk and a dago pushing a cart just outside the curb.
At his rebuff Henry Porter gave a gasp, swallowed it, and looked around to see who had seen him. The "common niggers" at his elbow snickered, and as they passed on burst out into loud guffaws.
"Um-huh! Tried to butt into the White House, butMisterGrahamhedon't know him! Can't interdoose 'im!Tooblack! Law-dee, didn't he th'ow 'im down!"
Henry Porter heard enough of this. He rapidly retraced his steps to Shaw's office.
"Here, Mr. Shaw, you can jist git them papers out this evenin'. There's no use waitin'."
"All right, Mr. Porter," said Shaw, who didn't favour the idea but was too much afraid of his client to refuse. "But wouldn't to-morrow do as well? We could think it over a little further."
"No, suh, Mr. Shaw. We don't wait till no to-morrer. We don't think about that damn young nigger no mo' till we take him with the papers and let him think about hisself awhile. Can't you git 'em served on him this evenin'?"
"If he's to be found in the city," said Shaw.
"Oh, he's to be found all right. I saw him goin' up the street jist awhile ago. You jist git them papers out and have 'em served on him this evenin' and no mistake about it."
"All right, if you say so," Shaw consented.
"Well, I say so—and I can pay the damage," said the irate client with emphasis, and stalked out of the office, only to stick his head back into the door with the last injunction:
"This evenin' now, and no mistake about it!"
*Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *
As chance ordained, Henry Porter did not go amiss in his haste to have the summons served on Graham. It was late in the afternoon and less than four hours before the former footman and his wife were scheduled to leave the city for Stag Inlet that the officer served the paper.
A bomb exploding under Hayward's feet could not have been so unexpected by him. As the officer read the summons and its import broke upon his mind he felt, for the first time in his life, physical weakness in the presence of danger. It staggered him to think of possible results. He had no feeling of guilt: but an awful fear.
President Phillips had passed out of the White House for his regular constitutional while the process was being served, and recognized the officer by his badge and Graham's excitement by the look on his face, but had not stopped to inquire what the trouble was,—for which Graham was profoundly thankful, as it gave him time to catch his breath.
Think as he would, no way of escape could Graham conceive. Being virtually without money, he could not hope in four hours to bring Henry Porter to terms and avoid a publication of the scandal. Exactly what the old man had in mind, anyway, was uncertain, excruciatingly uncertain. The precise nature of the complaint did not appear from the summons. As the suit was based on a lie, it well might be any sort of a lie. But surely, surely, he thought, no woman wouldfalselyspeak disgrace to herself. He had had a genuine respect for Lily Porter's character. She had been the best of them all, with the highest ideas and the highest ideals. He would have sworn that she could not have lent herself to a thing of this sort. But since she had been willing to do so at all, to what lengths might she not go? What was the limit they had set? To what public disgrace were they trying to bring him? To what awful lie must he make answer?
As he thought of it the keen sense of his peril, the disgrace, the loss of his commission, and his helplessness, became well-nigh unbearable. If Henry Porter could only have known the extremity of torture he had inflicted in thus making the young fellow "think about hisself awhile," his wrath might have been appeased.
Hayward trembled to think of the moment when the public should know of this suit, but he quaked in absolute terror as he thought of Mr. Phillips' hearing it. And Helen!—what must he do to save her from this shame?—he gladly at the moment could have strangled Old Henry.... But heroics would do no good. He was helpless, bound hand and foot. If he could be saved, if Helen was to be saved, there was but one arm that had the power: her father's. Perhaps,perhaps, with all his attributes of strength and force, he might be able to bring the vengeful negro capitalist to terms. Whatever his terror of Mr. Phillips, he must tell him.... And what were done must be done quickly.
*Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *Â Â Â Â Â Â *
"I would like to speak with you a moment, sir, about a—a matter," said Hayward to the President as soon as he returned from his walk.
Mr. Phillips could tell with half an eye that it was a matter of some moment. He led the way to his private office.
"Well, what is it, Hayward? You look excited."
Mr. Phillips spoke very kindly, for he did so with studied purpose. It was necessary that he keep that purpose continually and consciously before him. For Hayward the footman he had had quite a high regard: as he had for any man or thing that was efficient. For the negro as his son-in-law, he could not bring himself to consider him with any toleration, nor did he lie to his soul by telling it he wished to. For the negro as a mate for Helen, every rebellious, tortured nerve and fibre of the man was an eternal, agonized protest. It was indeed very necessary that he keep his kindly purpose always consciously before him.
"What is it?" he asked again.
"I had a paper—a summons, I believe they call it—served on me this afternoon," Hayward stumbled along to say; and then stopped, uncertain how to go at it.
"Well. And what's the trouble?"
"I don't know, sir, exactly what's the trouble; or, rather, I would say I didn't know there was any trouble."
"Then what's it about? Who is it that's suing you? What does the summons say?"
"The summons doesn't say what the trouble is about." Graham was dodging in spite of himself.
"But who is the person that is suing you?" Mr. Phillips questioned again testily.
"The summons says 'Lily Porter, by her father and next friend, Henry S. Porter, against John Hayw—"
"Sayswhat? A WOMAN?"
President Phillips jumped to his feet and went pale as ashes. Graham, dry-lipped, could only nod his head weakly in affirmation. For five seconds Mr. Phillips was speechless. Then words came back, along with a rush of blood to his face that looked to burst it. So terrible was his wrath, the killing look in his eyes, that Graham instinctively squared away to defend himself from bodily injury. Such a torrent, such a blast, of withering, blistering profanity, wild, incoherent, unutterable, he never had listened to in all his life. Try as he would to interpose a word, an explanation, a defence, his efforts only drove the father to more abandoned fury. After a dozen fruitless attempts he realized there was nothing to do but wait for the furor to burn itself out. To the young man, conscious of the passing of precious time, it seemed that his anger would never cool. When the President showed the first signs of exhaustion he took courage to speak again.
"I swear to you, sir, the young woman has no cause to complain of me. I have done her no—"
"Oh of course not, of course not," said Mr. Phillips in the most bitingly sarcastic tone. "Of course not, of course not! But who the devil is she?"
"Miss Lily Porter, daughter of Henry S. Porter—Black Henrythe newspapers sometimes call him. Perhaps you have heard—"
"What! That nigger? Not aniggerwoman! But of cour—oh my God, Helen, how can I pr—" but he choked for a moment in livid anger before he writhed into another frenzy, that was as volcanic, as horrible, and as pitiable as it is unprintable. He cursed, he raved, he choked, he tore wildly at his collar for breath.
It was frightful to look upon, and if Graham had feared for his own safety in the first outburst, he feared for Mr. Phillips' life in the last. It looked as if in the violence of his wrath he would burst a blood-vessel. Graham was in mortal fear that he would die in his tracks, and tried desperately to reinforce his denial of guilt as the only possible relief for his father-in-law's dementia, but all his attempts only inflamed Mr. Phillips the more. The negro seemed not to know that it was not a question of his guilt or innocence that was tearing the father's vitals and threatening his reason, but shame—insufferable shame!
After an age, it seemed to Graham, Mr. Phillips became calmer. His son-in-law, wholly at a loss what to say or do, started out of the door in search of a clearer atmosphere and a chance to regain his scattered faculties. The President looked around and saw him beating a retreat.
"Come back here!" he ordered sharply. "We can't leave this thing like this! Something must be done with it at once, or the scandal will be all over the—" He trembled with the passion of another outburst, but controlled himself by a mighty effort.
"I swear to you no scandal may rightly be laid at my door," said Graham with some dignity. The outrageous injustice of the thing gave him a little of the dignity of righteousness.
"Scandal doesn't depend on truth or falsehood, so we needn't discuss that now." Mr. Phillips cut him off short. "What we must do is to stop this scandal, for scandal it will be if it gets to the public. Where does this—this Porter live? How far from here?"
"About fifteen minutes drive, sir."
"Well—er—send Mr. O'Neill here—in a hurry."
Graham, glad to get action on himself, was out of the room and back with the secret service man in less than a minute. In that short space the President had taken a grip on his self-control.
"Here, O'Neill, take Hayward with you to show you the house, and go fetch Henry Porter up here to see me. He's not to be arrested, mind you, but is to come to see me at my requestat once, and nobody is to know. And he is not to speak to anybody or see anybody, not even Hayward here, before you bring him to me. So get along and get him here as soon as you can. No force, remember; but he is to come along, at my request." ...
O'Neill and Hayward hurried out, and, finding a street cab, lost no time in getting to Henry Porter's house. On the way Hayward gave the officer some idea of the man he was to deal with and, bringing him to the door, left him to his own devices and himself took a car back home. When Old Henry came to the door O'Neill told him half a dozen lies in half as many minutes, and at the end of the time he had the worthy coloured gentleman safely in the cab and on the way to the White House.
The President was waiting for him, and when the two fathers were alone together he went at him with a directness calculated to take the negro's breath. Black Henry was much awed, in fact well-nigh overcome by the situation, and he was hardly in condition to make the most of his opportunities; but his native shrewdness did not entirely forsake him. In the drive to the White House he had had time to think it over, and he had concluded that the President wanted to see him very much or he would not have sent for him. He tried to keep that in mind all the time the negotiations were pending. It helped in some degree to steady his shaking confidence in himself.
"You are Henry S. Porter, I believe?" There was an accusing quality in the voice.
"Yes, suh."
"The father of Lily Porter who has instituted a suit against my—against Hayward Graham?" The tone was more accusing.
"Yes, suh." Black Henry wished the suit hadn't been instituted. But he remembered again he had been sent for and he braced up a little.
"Now what is the nature of that suit?" The President was somewhat in fear of his own question, for all his bravado of manner.
"Breach o' promise," Henry answered shortly.
"Anything else?"
"Nothin' but breach o' promise to my daughter Lily. He was engaged to her and married your daughter, or was already married to her, I don' know which."
For five seconds a murderous passion all but got control of Mr. Phillips' will. He turned away and closed his eyes tight till he had subdued it.
"What evidence have you that he was engaged to your daughter?"
Henry Porter knew he was a fool to give away his case to the opposition, but the President's eyes and manner were too compelling for him.
"My daughter says so and—and I've seen enough myself, and besides that he has written letters to her. I reckon we've got evidence enough all right."
"Well, I have evidence that there is not a word of it true, and I sent for you to tell you you'd better drop it. You'll find it a profitless—more than that—avery expensiveundertaking."
The last statement was unfortunate. It struck fire in Old Henry's pet vanity.
"Oh, I guess I can stan' the expense all right," he rejoined with the oddest possible mixture of deference and defiance.
"You can, can you!" said Mr. Phillips sharply, his anger beginning to redden. "But I tell you again you can't get a verdict from the courts—no, sir, not for a cent—so what's the use?"
"I don't need the money." ... Clearly Mr. Phillips had given the purse-proud old darkey the wrong cue.
"Then what the devil are you after?"
"That young nig—young man is mos' too sassy. He's got to know his place."
"His place!" Mr. Phillips' face was again twisted in wrath. But wrath could not serve Helen's cause. He stifled it.
"Yes; he mus'n' come flyin' roun' my daughter for fun, and then go off when he fin's somebody mo' to his notion, and th'ow his impidence in my face."
Through all his blinding anger Mr. Phillips could see clearly enough to realize that it was indeed not a matter of money, but of insult. He was more and more inclined to believe Hayward's statement that there was little or no basis for the suit. But that didn't help matters in the least.
"Now look here, Porter," he said in his most vigorous and decided manner, "I am convinced your claim has no real basis in fact, but is the outcome of pique pure and simple. Nevertheless, it must be settled here, to-night; and I'm willing to see that you don't lose any money in the way of expenses and lawyer's fees for the procedure so far. To that end I will have Hayward pay you a thousand dollars if you will withdraw the suit to-night. What do you say?"
"I don' need the money," said Porter in maddening reiteration. "Besides that I don' know what my lawyer will charge." At the mention of money, however, the sharp-dealing old negro felt a little more at ease and interested in the discussion.
"Who is your lawyer?"
"Mistuh Shaw—Mistuh Robert Shaw."
"Robert Shaw. Is he the Shaw that wants that special solicitorship in the treasury department? A negro?"
"Yes, suh, a negro; but I don' know about the treasury department."
"Well, he's the man, I have no doubt—Robert Shaw, a negro lawyer. Now let me tell you. I had had some idea of giving him the place he asks for, but I say right now if he's inclined to be a fool in a matter of this sort he's not the man the government wants. If he gets his fee he will be well enough satisfied, won't he? He's not the fool kind that wants to advertise himself in a sensational suit, is he?"
"No, suh, no,suh! Mistuh Shaw is a ve'y nice young man, suh. He ain't no fool, suh."
"Well, he would be if he disobeyed your wishes and mine in this matter. I think I can speak forhimmyself. Now what doyousay? A thousand dollars?"
Involving Shaw in the affair was most fortunate for Mr. Phillips. With Hayward out of the running, Henry Porter now looked with much assurance upon Shaw as a son-in-law. That financial-political combination between himself and Shaw was again his pet dream as before Hayward's interference. With Black Henry the controversy was really settled and he was ready to compromise. The smaller purpose was lost in the presence of the master passion. But his personal pride and cupidity were aroused. If his hoped-for son-in-law Shaw was going to get both honour and revenue out of this thing, he himself ought not to fall too far behind.... And again he remembered that he had been sent for.
"Of cou'se I don' need the money," he said once more, "but if money is to settle it I think five thousan' 'd be little enough. We was suin' for twenty-five."
"Five thousand the devil! I'll not pay it. It's outrageous!"
"Well, suh, I don't need the m—"
"Ah, shut that up, for heaven's sake! What's the best you'll do? Speak out now in a hurry."
"Well, suh, five thousan' is mighty little considerin' the standin' of the pahties. As my lawyer, Mistuh Shaw, said, the standin' of the pahties calls for big damages. My daughter and your son-in-law are up in the pic—"
"Hold on!" said Mr. Phillips. "You can stop that argument right there. Will you take five thousand and shut the thing up?"
"Well, suh, as I said, I don' need—"
"Will you take the five thousand?" The President's eyes had a dangerous blaze in them.
"Yes, suh."
"That settles it. Now get right out after that lawyer of yours at once, to-night, and have him withdraw those papers and destroy them—or no, better than that, you bring them here to me to-morrow—no, bring themto-night—I'll wait for you. And hurry, will you please, for I'm quite busy and must be rid of this as quickly as possible. I'll look for you within an hour."