* * * * *Your woman of the world is marvelous in her self-possession. In a moment of complete abandon to thoughts of her love and her lover, Elise looked about and saw the man coming to her. With her mind so intent upon him that she wavered for a moment in doubt lest his appearing was an hallucination, her manner of greeting him was the perfection of indifferent politeness—neither warm nor frosty."Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge. What wind blows you across the world to-day?"—she seemed to know that he was just passing across the hill.With her heart-revealing letter in his pocket—nay more, committed every word to memory in his heart—Rutledge was taken aback by the casual way in which she spoke to him. He knew, of course, that she had not mailed him the letter and was not aware that he had it; yet on the basis of the letter he had conceived words he would say to her and she to him: but not a word he had prepared was possible at the moment."I am—I came—I have an appointment with Mr. Sanders, the owner ofThe Mail—at the hotel—at half past eight." The appointment had been made ten minutes ago. It was the only wind he could think of that was blowing him across the world.The man's confusion and seriousness and conscientious statement of detail ordinarily would have amused Elise; but she had not for months been in a mood to be amused.A moment later Rutledge was laughing inwardly at himself, his confusion gone, his self-possession perfect. His prosaic accounting for his presence smothered the tiny romantic flame that had kindled in Elise's bosom, and she in turn was taken aback: and the man saw, and knew, and laughed unholily. Not even the most observing eye, fairly limited, would have detected the effect upon her; but he had an unfair advantage—for had he not her letter at that moment snuggled up close to his heart?His laugh was not out-breaking, but the girl saw embarrassment drop as a cloak from his manner, and a flicker of amusement in his eyes; and the quickness of the change was a bit bewildering to her. The word upon her lips was stayed as she looked steadily at him as if for an explanation.Rutledge spoke first,—but he did not presume upon his unfair advantage. All the tenderness of his soul was bowing before the clear-eyed young woman as she stood there so adorable, swinging her black hat in her hand, the light hill-breeze stirring the loose strands of sunlit hair about her temples and the folds of her simple summery mourning dress. If he had obeyed the impulse he would have knelt to kiss the hem of that dress. Emboldened by the words of her letter, he could not even then with unseemly assurance come to her heart to possess it. Confidently as he came to claim it, he drew near to her love as one whose steps approach a shrine."It is a very pleasant surprise to find you up here," he said. "And this view is a surprise also—a revelation. They did not tell me at the hotel that such an one was to be had from this hill."Elise was deceived by his words, and convinced that the merest chance had appointed this meeting: and yet she could not dismiss from her mind the question, "Why did he walk so straight at me as he came up the hill?" His words, however, put the situation on an impersonal basis and her reply in kind established the conventional status.They talked of indifferent things, and she was speaking of the splendour that was flaming in the west when the man's impatience broke the bands he had put upon it."Elise, I love you, and I want you to be my wife." It was abrupt but it was in tones of humble entreaty.Taken completely unawares, Elise turned quickly about from the sunset to look at him. Her gray eyes weighed his truth in the balance for five seconds. His manner was softened and natural, his face and attitude spoke love in every line. Her eyes dropped before his, and a rich colour came to her throat, cheek and temple as she turned again to the golden west.Rutledge made a step toward her as if to take her. Her hand went up to stay him, though the lovelight was on her face."Don't," she said gently. She was disposed to play with her happiness, to hold him at arm's length. "Why do you come to me again, Mr. Rutledge? You have had my answer once, and it must have convinced you." Her words and her manner were contradictory, and Rutledge was confused. "You plead without hope. You told the people yesterday that you had not even the hope to be engaged to me. Why pursue a hopeless—no, no, don't!" she again commanded as, ignoring her words, he moved to answer her smile."And it's better so, Mr. Rutledge. You yourself have said it; and you can hardly expect me to gainsay it."Despite the smile on her face this was a shot that went home, and it put Rutledge on the defensive."You could hardly expect me to say less, Elise, after your denial of your love for me.""My love for you? Of all the presumption!"Elise caught her breath at this rejoinder, but it only gave zest to the game and she tilted her chin mockingly at him.Rutledge, with some deliberation, took from an inside coat pocket a letter, and handed it to her. She glanced at it in astonished surprise, and her face went hard."Where did you get this?" she cried."In the mail, yesterday afternoon. Elise, I didn't delay a moment in coming to you. It came—""So this is what brought you!""Yes. I—""And you thought I sent it?"—her voice was as hard as her eyes were cold."No. But you wrote it, and—""Did I?""Didn't you?""What a question!—and you came because you thought a lady called. Certainly you did! You Southerners are so abominably gallant.... You have acquitted yourself very handsomely, Mr. Rutledge. I congratulate you. You have thoroughly vindicated your claim to the name of 'gentleman'—'Southern gentleman,' if the term is of more excellence. Assuredly nothing further is required of you. I ex—""Elise, you wrote that letter.""No.""Elise!""Stop. Don't touch me!"—but his left arm went determinedly about her, and only with both hands could she hold his right hand away."You wrote that letter, Elise; and you love me.""No—never—no!" ... Her physical resistance seemed a match for his strength."It is useless, Elise," he said to her as with tense muscles he strove to subdue her will and her wilful pride. "I have always loved you, and now that I know you love me nothing shall divide us. Why should you hold out against love?"But Elise's resistance was fixed and set. Rutledge pleaded and begged and made love to her with all the tenderness of his heart and the energy of his passion for her, and exerted his physical strength to break down her defence."Tell me that you wrote it, sweetheart," he implored and besought her again and again: but she only shook her head in dissent. He exhausted every prayer and plea without avail.Desperately resolved to win at any cost, he could only hold her fast and swear in his heart she should not escape him. Finally he called upon all his muscular power to crush her into surrender, and mercilessly bore in upon her.Elise bore out against him with all her strength. Her face became first crimson and then pale with the effort. Her teeth bit into her lips. Her breathing became fast and faster. But her will would not bend. The man's brute force was almost vicious in its unrestraint. A tear was forced through her tight-shut lashes, but her chin was still uplifted in defiance when—"You hurt me, Evans," she said, as her resistance collapsed and her face fell hidden against his breast."And you wrote the letter, Elise?" he contended, broken-hearted that he had hurt her, but holding her fiercely yet."Yes, dear;"—and he is holding her so tenderly now.* * * * *Weakly she stood, held close within his arms, until her exhaustion passed, while he murmured to her the gentle nothings which have been messengers of love in all ages. Very gently then she freed herself from his embrace, permitting him still to hold her fingers."Let your own lips tell me you love me, Elise."She looked up at him from under drooping lashes. Her mental decision came before her actual complaisance. She revelled for a time in the ecstasy of her mental abandon to love, and trembled in the very joy of it."Yes, yes, I love you,"—and with closing eyes she lifted her face in surrender. A long, long caress intoxicates them, and then, as if in expiation for the blessed delirium of it—"But not while Helen—not until Helen—oh, it is too horrible to wait for your own sister to die!"—and she is crying her heart out against his shoulder.Rutledge waited till her tears were spent, and then tenderly he protested."But Elise, you will not make any such decree as that. There's no need that we should wait on Helen's account.""Not while she lives, not while she lives," Elise repeated, looking into his eyes. "I cannot permit your love to bring you to—""My love is all-sufficient, Elise; and all else is nothing since you love me. Do not let your pride defeat us of our happiness, sweetheart. Already it—""Pride? I have no pride any more for you, my dear. I do not conceal my heart's love nor its woes from you. I believe that love alone, notnoblesse, brings you to me now. I love you, yes, I love you, but my love forbids that I should marry you and destroy your career and your mother's happiness.""My mother! What do you know of that?""It is so, then! I knew it, Evans;—prescience, I suppose. I am a granddaughter of South Carolina, you know. I know in my own heart what her sorrow would be.""No, no, Elise, you misjudge my mother. She would love you as she loves me.""Love me, yes—as well as even now I love—your mother. I believe it and am glad, Evans. But, with all her loving, she could not put away shame and grief. I know, dear, I know. She would love me and—curse me.""No, no, you do not know. I am willing to speak for my mother. She will—""But who can speak for the voters in the coming election? No, Evans, I must not! It would defeat you. Your sacrifice would be too great!""There would be no sacrifice. You are worth it all to me, dearest heart—and more. And beside, I do not think the voters of my State would—""Wait," said Elise. "Answer me—and answer me truly, for remember my pride is gone and only love is in my heart. Will you win the Senatorship?""The prospect is quite alluring," the man replied. "The betting is 2 to 1 that the first primary will not elect, and 9 to 10 that I will defeat Mr. Killam in the second. Robertson really seems to be convinced that I am to succeed.""Oh, how good that is! I pray for you—but would it not cost you votes, maybe the election, to marry me?—to be engaged to me, even? Do not deceive me. Have you not thought of the hurt it would do your chance of success? Truth and honour, now,—as I love you."In the face of that sacred obligation Rutledge hesitated an instant."Thoughtof it, yes," he said at last, "but—""Then the danger is something considerable. I knew it. My letter's coming was untimely, thanks to the unknown person who mailed it to you. No, my dear, I will not marry you. I will not engage myself to you. I will not defeat you."Rutledge gathered her to himself again, confident to crush her opposition by brute mastery as before. But there was no physical opposition to be mastered now."It is useless," she said wearily. "I love you too much to marry you now, Evans.""Now?" repeated Rutledge. "If not now, when?""Or to engage myself to you."Her impassive manner was tantalizingly irritating to him as he laid under tribute every resource of his mind and heart to overturn her decision. Her non-resisting resistance was proof against attack. It was like fighting a fog. Seemingly it offered no opposition, and yet when he had exhausted himself in attempts to brush it aside, it was there, filling all space."No, no!" she cried out at last, thoroughly aroused by his passionate plea for their happiness; "go! it is sinful even to dream of being happy while one's sister is so wretched—and I will not have your blood upon my hands—nor your mother's curse upon me!"Rutledge gazed steadily at her a few moments,—and for an answer drew out his watch to see what the hour was."Kiss me good-bye," she said, holding her lips up. to him simply as a child.Taking her hands and drawing them to his heart he bent his head down to hers as reverently as if that gentle, lingering kiss were a sacrament. Turning away, he went swiftly down the path he had come.Elise sat down upon the boulder from which she had risen at his coming. With her arms clasping her knees, her head was bowed above them, and her shoulders drooped in abject hopelessness.Looking up at the sound of his steps returning, she half turns to motion him away."No, no. It means only that I no longer dissemble before you. Go. There is no hope." And as he obeys she settles back motionless again into that living statue of Despair.* * * * *When Mrs. Hazard read in that Sunday's paper an account of the Spartanburg meeting she was dismayed. She had been on thequi vivefor nearly a week, though not looking to the newspapers for information. Rutledge's repudiation of Elise angered her.Monday's papers, however, brought her better temper. She laughed softly as she read among the Virginia Springs items that Mr. Rutledge had arrived there on Sunday afternoon. She was somewhat mystified, though, by the fact that Mr. Rutledge had been so hopeless on Saturday afternoon,—and she was struck with consternation when at last she happened upon a local item which said Mr. Rutledge had passed through the city Sunday night on his return to South Carolina."I think she might have written me!" she said when Monday's noon mail brought no letter from her friend."I'm going to run over to see Elise this afternoon, if I can catch the train," she told her husband at luncheon; and at 3:18 she was on the way. A wreck ahead of them put her at the Virginia Springs hotel about bed-time.* * * * *"How did you get here? I'm so glad to see you!" Elise exclaimed when Lola appeared at the cottage next morning."Came last night," Lola said, giving her a hug, "but a miserable wreck held us up till long after dark. I would have come directly here even then, but I did not know how your mother was.""She is much better," Elise said. "Come right in to see her."Lola loved Mrs. Phillips very heartily, but she felt that Elise was precipitate in taking her immediately to her mother's room. She went along, of course, and sat down and talked to the two of them for an hour or more. There seemed to be no end to the things they discussed,—the more interminable they were because of the fact that Mrs. Hazard had not made her journey for the pleasure of a general conversation.She could not understand why Elise did this thing. She tried to read the young lady's reason in her face, but that told nothing. It had not the elation that bespoke a heart joyous in its love. Neither, in the conventional gayety of the three-cornered conversation, did it betray a heart that was desolate. The only thing certain was Elise's evident avoidance of atête-à-têtewith her best friend.It came to pass Mrs. Phillips had to dismiss them on the plea of exhaustion. Lola apologized profusely. Elise felt guilty, but she asked for no pardon.The young women went out on the broad veranda. Elise offered Lola the hammock; but Mrs. Hazard was unconsciously too intent upon a present purpose to assume such a purposeless attitude. She took a rocking-chair, but she did not rock. As Elise arranged herself in the hammock, her friend bethought herself as to how she should begin her inquiries. She thought best not to display too minute an acquaintance with the situation.Elise had indeed some curiosity to know how Rutledge had come into possession of the letter, and believed that Lola could throw light on that matter. But to ask about it was too much like opening the grave of love: and she recoiled. Looking at her face in repose, Lola was convinced that things had gone wrong. This made her take the more thought for an opening.In the hush before the talk would begin, the boy brought the morning's paper. Lola, seated nearest the steps, took it from his hand. She did not have to unfold it to read what was of supreme interest. As she read, her eyes danced. Half finished, she glanced from the paper to Elise, whose face was apathy clothed in flesh. Lola sought the paper again, feeling that the spooks were playing a trick upon her. It was very plain reading, however. She crushed the paper in her lap, and studied the profile of the girl in the hammock."Elise!" she called, still feeling that the spooks had her.Elise slowly turned toward her a listless face,—which, indeed, took on some life at sight of Mrs. Hazard's excitement."What is it?" she asked."Oh, full of all guile and subtlety!" Lola exclaimed with a gasp. "Well, I have never!"Elise looked at her inquiringly."Listen, miss; while I read you the news."Lola picked up the paper and took time to smooth out its wrinkles."Don't be impatient, my lady.... Now. Here is the paragraph. It is part of a special despatch from Greenville, South Carolina. You have no idea where that is, of course; but listen:"Ex-Senator Rutledge spoke last. He had just arrived from Washington, unexpectedly, on a delayed train, and had not had time to brush the coal-dust from his clothes. He made the usual forcible speech with which he has dignified the campaign. At the end of it he said: 'My fellow countrymen, I must be honest and candid with you. At the Spartanburg meeting day before yesterday, in answer to the question of a disreputable dog, I said that I had neither the honour nor the hope to be engaged to the eldest daughter of the late President Phillips. That was the exact truth, my countrymen. To-day I tell you that I do have the happiness to be engaged to Miss Elise Phillips and that we will be married on the last Thursday in next March.'"There was no apathy in Elise's profile when Lola looked up from her reading. The girl had covered her face with her hands, and flood upon flood of colour was racing over it."Is that 'the exact truth, my countrymen?'" Lola demanded, standing over the hammock."Yes," Elise said, "why not?"—and Lola grabbed her with a joyful shout."Don't make such a fuss," Elise sputtered from out the smother of Mrs. Hazard's kisses, "for I haven't told mamma yet."* * * * *"—And look here," a radiant Elise demanded when the two of them had become somewhat composed, "I want to know how it came about that a letter I wroteand burnedshould have—""Stop, stop, honey; I will not answer.... But Idothink it is a very bad Samaritan who will not help Dan Cupid when he's in trouble."CHAPTER XLIThe communications between Hayward Graham and the physician in charge of the private hospital in which Helen was detained had become caustic. So much so, that the great specialist had asked Graham to remove her from his care. This Hayward was unable to do. Mrs. Phillips was paying the hospital fees and expenses, and Hayward felt that he could not keep his wife in proper and befitting manner even if she were altogether sane and sound in health. He had no means with which properly to provide for her if she was really in such a condition as the physician declared.Not being willing or able to assume responsibility for her removal, he was all the more angered at what he believed to be the eminent alienist's positive misrepresentation of the gravity of Helen's ailment and his unwarranted and cavalier treatment of him, her husband. Provoked beyond endurance he went at last to the hospital."Mr. Hayward Graham? Yes. Well, come right into my office. Now, what may I do for you?""Your last letter about my wife, doctor, was very unsatisfactory," said Hayward, "and I came to see about it. Surely she cannot be so ill as you report. When you admitted her you said she would recover her health in a very short time.""Excuse me, Mr. Graham; but if you wish to take issue with me as to your wife's condition, I will have to insist on the request in my letter of yesterday—that you remove her at once," the physician said with decision."I do not desire to do that," Graham replied; "but I cannot understand what has happened here to change her prospects of recovery, of which you were so confident when you admitted her. Besides that I do not see why you forbid me to communicate with her. She is certa—""Wait a moment, Mr. Graham. You must understand that in our prejudgment of these cases we do not arrogate to ourselves infallibility; but that in our treatment of them we do demand for ourselves absolute authority to say what shall and what shall not be done, and the very strictest obedience to that. This is a very peculiar case. It has one element that is altogether unique. Never before have I met it in my practice or seen it in the books. I am doing the best I can with it, and if you do not de—""That is not it, doctor. I have no suggestions to make to you as to the proper treatment, nor any objection, indeed, to complying with any reasonable restriction; but when you say that I shall not see or communicate with my wife at any time, it seems unreasonable. Does she have no lucid intervals in which I might see her? Does she never think or speak of me—never write to me?""Yes, Mr. Graham, she has lucid intervals. She speaks of you at times, oftentimes. And she writes to you occasionally, but I have decided that it would not—""Has written to me? And you have not sent me the letters? Surely, surely, doctor, I am not crazy, that you should withhold letters from me! Have you the letters? Has she written often?""She has written often; but only on two occasions was there anything except disjointed sentences. She—""And when was that? And where are the letters?""I have them," replied the doctor, "but I do not think that—""I demand to see them, sir! I'm not in your hospital for treatment!""Very well," said the doctor, "I'll get them for you."He went to a filing cabinet and took out a package of papers and came back across the room with two sheets of paper which he handed to Hayward, and watched him as he read them.The first was as sweet and gentle and loving a letter as the heart of man could desire. Some of the references in it were a little bit obscure and inaccurate, but Hayward was too much elated with the tender, petting things it said to notice trifles so inconsequential. He revelled in it like a hungry man at a feast. He gulped down its sweetness ravenously: and took the second. What! The first sentence was the jab of a misshapen barb—and every following sentence a twisting of that barb in the flesh."My God, this is awful!" he groaned. "I am sorry you gave it to me. Have you no other like the first?""No," said the doctor. "All her other writings have been mere scraps or incoherent mixtures of such things as are in the first letter you have there with such as are in the one you have just read. These are the only ones in each of which her mood was fixed and distinct."Hayward took the first letter and read it over again as hungrily as at first."In which mood does she seem most to be?" he asked."In the mood to write that first letter, fortunately; but the case is peculiar in that very fact. I have studied it with—""Let me see her," Hayward broke in. "May I see her? I must see her!""I would advise against it," the doctor said, in a tone and manner that was intended to be a polite refusal of permission."But Imustsee her, I tell you. I demand to see her! I am her husband, and if she is quiet to-day I demand to see and speak to her.""Mr. Graham, this case is unique, as I have told you before; and even if she is quiet I think it best not to—""Now, doctor, stop right there a moment. She is my wife, and I will not be bound by any orders her mother may have given you! I am going to see her this once. I assume all responsibility, sir!"The physician looked at him with a sneer of contempt on his face."Very well, Mr. Graham," he said finally. "You shall see her. But permit me to say that Mrs. Phillips has had the good sense and the good taste to make no suggestions to me as to how I shall manage this case.... Come right along down to the ward, sir."He led the way down a long hall and, tapping upon a door, was admitted into a transverse corridor by an attendant."How is Mrs. Graham?" he asked in an undertone."Quiet at the moment, sir."Hayward heard Helen's voice and started forward eagerly. The physician caught him by the arm and restrained him."Wait," he whispered. "Let's listen a minute."It was hard for Hayward to wait. He could hear Helen's words coming from the second door down the corridor, and only the doctor's hand stayed him from rushing into her presence. They moved quietly nearer to the door and stood still to hear what she was saying. As they listened tides of joy rolled in upon Hayward's heart....Helen was humming a song that her husband had heard of old. Her voice, though somewhat weak, had its old joyous ring. Hayward could easily imagine she was coming tripping down to the stable for her horse to take a morning canter. When she finished the song and was silent, he noted for the first time that the grated door to her cell was locked and its rungs and pickets were heavily padded. He resented that, and turned upon the physician to protest, but was held by the doctor's signal for silence. He obeyed, but his resentment grew as Helen's words came again in gentle accents to them.She was moving slowly about, and was evidently arranging some flowers—to judge by the things she was saying to them. It was very kind of the doctor, her husband thought, to let her have her flowers—she was always so fond of them.... In half a minute she was singing a lullaby that she had sung to their baby. Hayward could hardly contain himself. And when he heard her walk across the room,—to a window, it seemed,—and say, in a tone so expressive of longing: "If Hayward would only come and take me out to-day! It is such a beautiful day outside," he snatched his arm free of the doctor's hand and called to her as he sprang in front of the door.Helen turned at his call, and looked at him for a space with dilated eyes. In that space Hayward saw that her cell was padded throughout, floor and walls, and that there was not a flower or a flower-pot in the room, that her clothing was torn, her hair streaming and dishevelled. Before he had time to make any inferences from these facts, Helen, still gazing at him with that peculiar stare, started across the room to him, saying gladly, "Oh, you have come to take me out driving!"Nearly to the door she stopped. Slowly her face changed its whole expression. The wide-eyed stare gave way, and the old Helen looked at him a moment from her eyes. In another moment her face was convulsed in a spasm of aversion."Go away! Go away!" she cried out wildly as she turned from him. Retreating into a far corner of her cell, she called to the attendant, "Oh, save me!—take him away!—keep him away!""Why, Helen, don't you know me?" Hayward called to her."Yes, yes, I know you, but in God's name leave me! Don't let him in! Don't let him in!" she pleaded with the physician, who also had come to the door."I'll not hurt you, Helen. You know I'll not hurt you. Don't run from me. You know I'll not hurt you."Hayward motioned to the physician to unlock the door. Whereupon Helen uttered a blood-curdling scream as she cowered back into her corner."Don't! Don't!! He has already hurt me, doctor! Go away! Goaway! The poison of your blood is in my veins and will not come out! It is polluted, forever polluted! A knife—a knife! Give me a knife, doctor, that I may let it out. Please give me a knife. I have prayed you daily for one and you won't give it to me. Kill me—save me! My blood isunclean, and he did it! My baby was black,black!—and its negro blood is in my veins! A knife, doctor! A knife!! Oo-o-a-ugh!! I'll tear it out, then!"—and she clawed and tore and bit at her wrists in an agony of endeavour to purge her veins of the tainted fluid which had brought to life that fright, her baby.Hayward stood helpless and terror-stricken before the door, and his staying only drove Helen into more horrible paroxysms."Come away, man, come away," the doctor commanded; and he obeyed weakly."Great God," he said when he was back in the physician's office, "that is awful, awful! How can she live, doctor, if she is shaken and torn by such dementia as that?""I cannot say whether she will live, Mr. Graham," the doctor replied; "but her periods of dementia give her the only relief that she enjoys. As a remedy for exhaustion they are our only hope for her life so far appearing.""I don't understand," said Graham, "how such suffering as that can be a relief from exhaustion.""I did not say that," said the doctor. "I said herperiods of dementiagive her relief from exhaustion. As I said before, Mr. Graham, this is an absolutely unique case. It is—""Unique in what?" asked Graham."It is unique in this," said the physician: "It is in her sane moments—in her lucid intervals, when she is fully conscious of her condition and situation—that she raves and tears herself and cries out against the devils that are torturing her. It is in such moments that her eyes have the light of reason in them. On the other hand, it is when she isinsane, demented—when her mind is unhinged and wandering—that she is quiet and peaceful and happy. The letter you enjoyed was written when she was crazy. The one that tortured you was written when she was clothed and in her right mind.""My God, doctor, that cannot be! Do not tell me that!" cried Hayward, shaken like a reed. "Tell me whether there is hope for her?""As I said, Mr. Graham, the case is unique and therefore any opinion is nothing more than a bare opinion, but to me her case is hopeless for the reason that her violences are based not upon hallucinations—which might pass—but uponfactswhich no sane mind can deny. At present the only hope for her life is that her periods of dementia, with their peace and quiet, will increase: and that her sane moments, in which she suffers the tortures of the damned, will become briefer and fewer. Only that will save her from death from exhaustion.""No, no, doctor! Can't you—"* * * * *A soldier in uniform stepped into the recruiting office, saluted, handed the officer his papers, and stood atattention, saying simply, "I desire to re-enlist."The officer unfolded the "honourable discharge" and read aloud, "Sergeant John Hayward Graham." Looking the paper over, he turned to Graham."Yes, this is all right—if you are physically fit; but you have waited so long you have lost your rank and will have to begin at the very bottom again.""Yes, sir. I understand, sir.""Very well, the clerk can make out the new papers from these while the surgeon looks you over. Where do you wish to serve—in the United States or the Philippines?""Anywhere my country needs a man, sir."THE END.* * * * * * * *FromL. C. Page & Company'sAnnouncement Listof New FictionThe Call of the SouthBY ROBERT LEE DURHAM. Cloth decorative, with 6 illustrations by Henry Roth . . . $1.50A very strong novel dealing with the race problem in this country. The principal theme is thedangerto society from the increasing miscegenation of the black and white races, and the encouragement it receives in the social amenities extended to negroes of distinction by persons prominent in politics, philanthropy and educational endeavor; and the author, a Southern lawyer, hopes to call the attention of the whole country to the need of earnest work toward its discouragement. He has written an absorbing drama of life which appeals with apparent logic and of which the inevitable denouement comes as a final and convincing climax.The author may be criticized by those who prefer not to face the hour "When Your Fear Cometh As Desolation And Your Destruction Cometh As A Whirlwind;" but his honesty of purpose in the frank expression of a danger so well understood in the South, which, however, many in the North refuse to recognize, while others have overlooked it, will be upheld by the sober second thought of the majority of his readers.* * * * *The House in the WaterBY CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, author of "The Haunters of the Silences," "Red Fox," "The Heart of the Ancient Wood," etc. With cover design, sixteen full-page drawings, and many minor decorations by Charles Livingston Bull. Cloth decorative, with decorated wrapper . . . $1.50Professor Roberts's new book of nature and animal life is one long story in which he tells of the life of that wonderfully acute and tireless little worker, the beaver. "The Boy" and Jabe the Woodsman again appear, figuring in the story even more than they did in "Red Fox;" and the adventures of the boy and the beaver make most absorbing reading for young and old.The following chapter headings for "The House in the Water" will give an idea of the fascinating reading to come:THE SOUND IN THE NIGHT (Beavers at Work).THE BATTLE IN THE POND (Otter and Beaver).IN THE UNDER-WATER WORLD (Home Life of the Beaver).NIGHT WATCHERS ("The Boy" and Jabe and a Lynx See the Beavers at Work).DAM REPAIRING AND DAM BUILDING (A "House-raising" Bee).THE PERIL OF THE TRAPS (Jabe Shows "The Boy").WINTER UNDER WATER (Safe from All but Man).THE SAVING OF BOY'S POND ("The Boy" Captures Two Outlaws)."As a writer about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable place. He is the most literary, as well as the most imaginative and vivid of all the nature writers."—Brooklyn Eagle."His animal stories are marvels of sympathetic science and literary exactness."—New York World."Poet Laureate of the Animal World, Professor Roberts displays the keenest powers of observation closely interwoven with a fine imaginative discretion."—Boston Transcript.
* * * * *
Your woman of the world is marvelous in her self-possession. In a moment of complete abandon to thoughts of her love and her lover, Elise looked about and saw the man coming to her. With her mind so intent upon him that she wavered for a moment in doubt lest his appearing was an hallucination, her manner of greeting him was the perfection of indifferent politeness—neither warm nor frosty.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Rutledge. What wind blows you across the world to-day?"—she seemed to know that he was just passing across the hill.
With her heart-revealing letter in his pocket—nay more, committed every word to memory in his heart—Rutledge was taken aback by the casual way in which she spoke to him. He knew, of course, that she had not mailed him the letter and was not aware that he had it; yet on the basis of the letter he had conceived words he would say to her and she to him: but not a word he had prepared was possible at the moment.
"I am—I came—I have an appointment with Mr. Sanders, the owner ofThe Mail—at the hotel—at half past eight." The appointment had been made ten minutes ago. It was the only wind he could think of that was blowing him across the world.
The man's confusion and seriousness and conscientious statement of detail ordinarily would have amused Elise; but she had not for months been in a mood to be amused.
A moment later Rutledge was laughing inwardly at himself, his confusion gone, his self-possession perfect. His prosaic accounting for his presence smothered the tiny romantic flame that had kindled in Elise's bosom, and she in turn was taken aback: and the man saw, and knew, and laughed unholily. Not even the most observing eye, fairly limited, would have detected the effect upon her; but he had an unfair advantage—for had he not her letter at that moment snuggled up close to his heart?
His laugh was not out-breaking, but the girl saw embarrassment drop as a cloak from his manner, and a flicker of amusement in his eyes; and the quickness of the change was a bit bewildering to her. The word upon her lips was stayed as she looked steadily at him as if for an explanation.
Rutledge spoke first,—but he did not presume upon his unfair advantage. All the tenderness of his soul was bowing before the clear-eyed young woman as she stood there so adorable, swinging her black hat in her hand, the light hill-breeze stirring the loose strands of sunlit hair about her temples and the folds of her simple summery mourning dress. If he had obeyed the impulse he would have knelt to kiss the hem of that dress. Emboldened by the words of her letter, he could not even then with unseemly assurance come to her heart to possess it. Confidently as he came to claim it, he drew near to her love as one whose steps approach a shrine.
"It is a very pleasant surprise to find you up here," he said. "And this view is a surprise also—a revelation. They did not tell me at the hotel that such an one was to be had from this hill."
Elise was deceived by his words, and convinced that the merest chance had appointed this meeting: and yet she could not dismiss from her mind the question, "Why did he walk so straight at me as he came up the hill?" His words, however, put the situation on an impersonal basis and her reply in kind established the conventional status.
They talked of indifferent things, and she was speaking of the splendour that was flaming in the west when the man's impatience broke the bands he had put upon it.
"Elise, I love you, and I want you to be my wife." It was abrupt but it was in tones of humble entreaty.
Taken completely unawares, Elise turned quickly about from the sunset to look at him. Her gray eyes weighed his truth in the balance for five seconds. His manner was softened and natural, his face and attitude spoke love in every line. Her eyes dropped before his, and a rich colour came to her throat, cheek and temple as she turned again to the golden west.
Rutledge made a step toward her as if to take her. Her hand went up to stay him, though the lovelight was on her face.
"Don't," she said gently. She was disposed to play with her happiness, to hold him at arm's length. "Why do you come to me again, Mr. Rutledge? You have had my answer once, and it must have convinced you." Her words and her manner were contradictory, and Rutledge was confused. "You plead without hope. You told the people yesterday that you had not even the hope to be engaged to me. Why pursue a hopeless—no, no, don't!" she again commanded as, ignoring her words, he moved to answer her smile.
"And it's better so, Mr. Rutledge. You yourself have said it; and you can hardly expect me to gainsay it."
Despite the smile on her face this was a shot that went home, and it put Rutledge on the defensive.
"You could hardly expect me to say less, Elise, after your denial of your love for me."
"My love for you? Of all the presumption!"
Elise caught her breath at this rejoinder, but it only gave zest to the game and she tilted her chin mockingly at him.
Rutledge, with some deliberation, took from an inside coat pocket a letter, and handed it to her. She glanced at it in astonished surprise, and her face went hard.
"Where did you get this?" she cried.
"In the mail, yesterday afternoon. Elise, I didn't delay a moment in coming to you. It came—"
"So this is what brought you!"
"Yes. I—"
"And you thought I sent it?"—her voice was as hard as her eyes were cold.
"No. But you wrote it, and—"
"Did I?"
"Didn't you?"
"What a question!—and you came because you thought a lady called. Certainly you did! You Southerners are so abominably gallant.... You have acquitted yourself very handsomely, Mr. Rutledge. I congratulate you. You have thoroughly vindicated your claim to the name of 'gentleman'—'Southern gentleman,' if the term is of more excellence. Assuredly nothing further is required of you. I ex—"
"Elise, you wrote that letter."
"No."
"Elise!"
"Stop. Don't touch me!"—but his left arm went determinedly about her, and only with both hands could she hold his right hand away.
"You wrote that letter, Elise; and you love me."
"No—never—no!" ... Her physical resistance seemed a match for his strength.
"It is useless, Elise," he said to her as with tense muscles he strove to subdue her will and her wilful pride. "I have always loved you, and now that I know you love me nothing shall divide us. Why should you hold out against love?"
But Elise's resistance was fixed and set. Rutledge pleaded and begged and made love to her with all the tenderness of his heart and the energy of his passion for her, and exerted his physical strength to break down her defence.
"Tell me that you wrote it, sweetheart," he implored and besought her again and again: but she only shook her head in dissent. He exhausted every prayer and plea without avail.
Desperately resolved to win at any cost, he could only hold her fast and swear in his heart she should not escape him. Finally he called upon all his muscular power to crush her into surrender, and mercilessly bore in upon her.
Elise bore out against him with all her strength. Her face became first crimson and then pale with the effort. Her teeth bit into her lips. Her breathing became fast and faster. But her will would not bend. The man's brute force was almost vicious in its unrestraint. A tear was forced through her tight-shut lashes, but her chin was still uplifted in defiance when—
"You hurt me, Evans," she said, as her resistance collapsed and her face fell hidden against his breast.
"And you wrote the letter, Elise?" he contended, broken-hearted that he had hurt her, but holding her fiercely yet.
"Yes, dear;"—and he is holding her so tenderly now.
* * * * *
Weakly she stood, held close within his arms, until her exhaustion passed, while he murmured to her the gentle nothings which have been messengers of love in all ages. Very gently then she freed herself from his embrace, permitting him still to hold her fingers.
"Let your own lips tell me you love me, Elise."
She looked up at him from under drooping lashes. Her mental decision came before her actual complaisance. She revelled for a time in the ecstasy of her mental abandon to love, and trembled in the very joy of it.
"Yes, yes, I love you,"—and with closing eyes she lifted her face in surrender. A long, long caress intoxicates them, and then, as if in expiation for the blessed delirium of it—
"But not while Helen—not until Helen—oh, it is too horrible to wait for your own sister to die!"—and she is crying her heart out against his shoulder.
Rutledge waited till her tears were spent, and then tenderly he protested.
"But Elise, you will not make any such decree as that. There's no need that we should wait on Helen's account."
"Not while she lives, not while she lives," Elise repeated, looking into his eyes. "I cannot permit your love to bring you to—"
"My love is all-sufficient, Elise; and all else is nothing since you love me. Do not let your pride defeat us of our happiness, sweetheart. Already it—"
"Pride? I have no pride any more for you, my dear. I do not conceal my heart's love nor its woes from you. I believe that love alone, notnoblesse, brings you to me now. I love you, yes, I love you, but my love forbids that I should marry you and destroy your career and your mother's happiness."
"My mother! What do you know of that?"
"It is so, then! I knew it, Evans;—prescience, I suppose. I am a granddaughter of South Carolina, you know. I know in my own heart what her sorrow would be."
"No, no, Elise, you misjudge my mother. She would love you as she loves me."
"Love me, yes—as well as even now I love—your mother. I believe it and am glad, Evans. But, with all her loving, she could not put away shame and grief. I know, dear, I know. She would love me and—curse me."
"No, no, you do not know. I am willing to speak for my mother. She will—"
"But who can speak for the voters in the coming election? No, Evans, I must not! It would defeat you. Your sacrifice would be too great!"
"There would be no sacrifice. You are worth it all to me, dearest heart—and more. And beside, I do not think the voters of my State would—"
"Wait," said Elise. "Answer me—and answer me truly, for remember my pride is gone and only love is in my heart. Will you win the Senatorship?"
"The prospect is quite alluring," the man replied. "The betting is 2 to 1 that the first primary will not elect, and 9 to 10 that I will defeat Mr. Killam in the second. Robertson really seems to be convinced that I am to succeed."
"Oh, how good that is! I pray for you—but would it not cost you votes, maybe the election, to marry me?—to be engaged to me, even? Do not deceive me. Have you not thought of the hurt it would do your chance of success? Truth and honour, now,—as I love you."
In the face of that sacred obligation Rutledge hesitated an instant.
"Thoughtof it, yes," he said at last, "but—"
"Then the danger is something considerable. I knew it. My letter's coming was untimely, thanks to the unknown person who mailed it to you. No, my dear, I will not marry you. I will not engage myself to you. I will not defeat you."
Rutledge gathered her to himself again, confident to crush her opposition by brute mastery as before. But there was no physical opposition to be mastered now.
"It is useless," she said wearily. "I love you too much to marry you now, Evans."
"Now?" repeated Rutledge. "If not now, when?"
"Or to engage myself to you."
Her impassive manner was tantalizingly irritating to him as he laid under tribute every resource of his mind and heart to overturn her decision. Her non-resisting resistance was proof against attack. It was like fighting a fog. Seemingly it offered no opposition, and yet when he had exhausted himself in attempts to brush it aside, it was there, filling all space.
"No, no!" she cried out at last, thoroughly aroused by his passionate plea for their happiness; "go! it is sinful even to dream of being happy while one's sister is so wretched—and I will not have your blood upon my hands—nor your mother's curse upon me!"
Rutledge gazed steadily at her a few moments,—and for an answer drew out his watch to see what the hour was.
"Kiss me good-bye," she said, holding her lips up. to him simply as a child.
Taking her hands and drawing them to his heart he bent his head down to hers as reverently as if that gentle, lingering kiss were a sacrament. Turning away, he went swiftly down the path he had come.
Elise sat down upon the boulder from which she had risen at his coming. With her arms clasping her knees, her head was bowed above them, and her shoulders drooped in abject hopelessness.
Looking up at the sound of his steps returning, she half turns to motion him away.
"No, no. It means only that I no longer dissemble before you. Go. There is no hope." And as he obeys she settles back motionless again into that living statue of Despair.
* * * * *
When Mrs. Hazard read in that Sunday's paper an account of the Spartanburg meeting she was dismayed. She had been on thequi vivefor nearly a week, though not looking to the newspapers for information. Rutledge's repudiation of Elise angered her.
Monday's papers, however, brought her better temper. She laughed softly as she read among the Virginia Springs items that Mr. Rutledge had arrived there on Sunday afternoon. She was somewhat mystified, though, by the fact that Mr. Rutledge had been so hopeless on Saturday afternoon,—and she was struck with consternation when at last she happened upon a local item which said Mr. Rutledge had passed through the city Sunday night on his return to South Carolina.
"I think she might have written me!" she said when Monday's noon mail brought no letter from her friend.
"I'm going to run over to see Elise this afternoon, if I can catch the train," she told her husband at luncheon; and at 3:18 she was on the way. A wreck ahead of them put her at the Virginia Springs hotel about bed-time.
* * * * *
"How did you get here? I'm so glad to see you!" Elise exclaimed when Lola appeared at the cottage next morning.
"Came last night," Lola said, giving her a hug, "but a miserable wreck held us up till long after dark. I would have come directly here even then, but I did not know how your mother was."
"She is much better," Elise said. "Come right in to see her."
Lola loved Mrs. Phillips very heartily, but she felt that Elise was precipitate in taking her immediately to her mother's room. She went along, of course, and sat down and talked to the two of them for an hour or more. There seemed to be no end to the things they discussed,—the more interminable they were because of the fact that Mrs. Hazard had not made her journey for the pleasure of a general conversation.
She could not understand why Elise did this thing. She tried to read the young lady's reason in her face, but that told nothing. It had not the elation that bespoke a heart joyous in its love. Neither, in the conventional gayety of the three-cornered conversation, did it betray a heart that was desolate. The only thing certain was Elise's evident avoidance of atête-à-têtewith her best friend.
It came to pass Mrs. Phillips had to dismiss them on the plea of exhaustion. Lola apologized profusely. Elise felt guilty, but she asked for no pardon.
The young women went out on the broad veranda. Elise offered Lola the hammock; but Mrs. Hazard was unconsciously too intent upon a present purpose to assume such a purposeless attitude. She took a rocking-chair, but she did not rock. As Elise arranged herself in the hammock, her friend bethought herself as to how she should begin her inquiries. She thought best not to display too minute an acquaintance with the situation.
Elise had indeed some curiosity to know how Rutledge had come into possession of the letter, and believed that Lola could throw light on that matter. But to ask about it was too much like opening the grave of love: and she recoiled. Looking at her face in repose, Lola was convinced that things had gone wrong. This made her take the more thought for an opening.
In the hush before the talk would begin, the boy brought the morning's paper. Lola, seated nearest the steps, took it from his hand. She did not have to unfold it to read what was of supreme interest. As she read, her eyes danced. Half finished, she glanced from the paper to Elise, whose face was apathy clothed in flesh. Lola sought the paper again, feeling that the spooks were playing a trick upon her. It was very plain reading, however. She crushed the paper in her lap, and studied the profile of the girl in the hammock.
"Elise!" she called, still feeling that the spooks had her.
Elise slowly turned toward her a listless face,—which, indeed, took on some life at sight of Mrs. Hazard's excitement.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Oh, full of all guile and subtlety!" Lola exclaimed with a gasp. "Well, I have never!"
Elise looked at her inquiringly.
"Listen, miss; while I read you the news."
Lola picked up the paper and took time to smooth out its wrinkles.
"Don't be impatient, my lady.... Now. Here is the paragraph. It is part of a special despatch from Greenville, South Carolina. You have no idea where that is, of course; but listen:
"Ex-Senator Rutledge spoke last. He had just arrived from Washington, unexpectedly, on a delayed train, and had not had time to brush the coal-dust from his clothes. He made the usual forcible speech with which he has dignified the campaign. At the end of it he said: 'My fellow countrymen, I must be honest and candid with you. At the Spartanburg meeting day before yesterday, in answer to the question of a disreputable dog, I said that I had neither the honour nor the hope to be engaged to the eldest daughter of the late President Phillips. That was the exact truth, my countrymen. To-day I tell you that I do have the happiness to be engaged to Miss Elise Phillips and that we will be married on the last Thursday in next March.'"
There was no apathy in Elise's profile when Lola looked up from her reading. The girl had covered her face with her hands, and flood upon flood of colour was racing over it.
"Is that 'the exact truth, my countrymen?'" Lola demanded, standing over the hammock.
"Yes," Elise said, "why not?"—and Lola grabbed her with a joyful shout.
"Don't make such a fuss," Elise sputtered from out the smother of Mrs. Hazard's kisses, "for I haven't told mamma yet."
* * * * *
"—And look here," a radiant Elise demanded when the two of them had become somewhat composed, "I want to know how it came about that a letter I wroteand burnedshould have—"
"Stop, stop, honey; I will not answer.... But Idothink it is a very bad Samaritan who will not help Dan Cupid when he's in trouble."
CHAPTER XLI
The communications between Hayward Graham and the physician in charge of the private hospital in which Helen was detained had become caustic. So much so, that the great specialist had asked Graham to remove her from his care. This Hayward was unable to do. Mrs. Phillips was paying the hospital fees and expenses, and Hayward felt that he could not keep his wife in proper and befitting manner even if she were altogether sane and sound in health. He had no means with which properly to provide for her if she was really in such a condition as the physician declared.
Not being willing or able to assume responsibility for her removal, he was all the more angered at what he believed to be the eminent alienist's positive misrepresentation of the gravity of Helen's ailment and his unwarranted and cavalier treatment of him, her husband. Provoked beyond endurance he went at last to the hospital.
"Mr. Hayward Graham? Yes. Well, come right into my office. Now, what may I do for you?"
"Your last letter about my wife, doctor, was very unsatisfactory," said Hayward, "and I came to see about it. Surely she cannot be so ill as you report. When you admitted her you said she would recover her health in a very short time."
"Excuse me, Mr. Graham; but if you wish to take issue with me as to your wife's condition, I will have to insist on the request in my letter of yesterday—that you remove her at once," the physician said with decision.
"I do not desire to do that," Graham replied; "but I cannot understand what has happened here to change her prospects of recovery, of which you were so confident when you admitted her. Besides that I do not see why you forbid me to communicate with her. She is certa—"
"Wait a moment, Mr. Graham. You must understand that in our prejudgment of these cases we do not arrogate to ourselves infallibility; but that in our treatment of them we do demand for ourselves absolute authority to say what shall and what shall not be done, and the very strictest obedience to that. This is a very peculiar case. It has one element that is altogether unique. Never before have I met it in my practice or seen it in the books. I am doing the best I can with it, and if you do not de—"
"That is not it, doctor. I have no suggestions to make to you as to the proper treatment, nor any objection, indeed, to complying with any reasonable restriction; but when you say that I shall not see or communicate with my wife at any time, it seems unreasonable. Does she have no lucid intervals in which I might see her? Does she never think or speak of me—never write to me?"
"Yes, Mr. Graham, she has lucid intervals. She speaks of you at times, oftentimes. And she writes to you occasionally, but I have decided that it would not—"
"Has written to me? And you have not sent me the letters? Surely, surely, doctor, I am not crazy, that you should withhold letters from me! Have you the letters? Has she written often?"
"She has written often; but only on two occasions was there anything except disjointed sentences. She—"
"And when was that? And where are the letters?"
"I have them," replied the doctor, "but I do not think that—"
"I demand to see them, sir! I'm not in your hospital for treatment!"
"Very well," said the doctor, "I'll get them for you."
He went to a filing cabinet and took out a package of papers and came back across the room with two sheets of paper which he handed to Hayward, and watched him as he read them.
The first was as sweet and gentle and loving a letter as the heart of man could desire. Some of the references in it were a little bit obscure and inaccurate, but Hayward was too much elated with the tender, petting things it said to notice trifles so inconsequential. He revelled in it like a hungry man at a feast. He gulped down its sweetness ravenously: and took the second. What! The first sentence was the jab of a misshapen barb—and every following sentence a twisting of that barb in the flesh.
"My God, this is awful!" he groaned. "I am sorry you gave it to me. Have you no other like the first?"
"No," said the doctor. "All her other writings have been mere scraps or incoherent mixtures of such things as are in the first letter you have there with such as are in the one you have just read. These are the only ones in each of which her mood was fixed and distinct."
Hayward took the first letter and read it over again as hungrily as at first.
"In which mood does she seem most to be?" he asked.
"In the mood to write that first letter, fortunately; but the case is peculiar in that very fact. I have studied it with—"
"Let me see her," Hayward broke in. "May I see her? I must see her!"
"I would advise against it," the doctor said, in a tone and manner that was intended to be a polite refusal of permission.
"But Imustsee her, I tell you. I demand to see her! I am her husband, and if she is quiet to-day I demand to see and speak to her."
"Mr. Graham, this case is unique, as I have told you before; and even if she is quiet I think it best not to—"
"Now, doctor, stop right there a moment. She is my wife, and I will not be bound by any orders her mother may have given you! I am going to see her this once. I assume all responsibility, sir!"
The physician looked at him with a sneer of contempt on his face.
"Very well, Mr. Graham," he said finally. "You shall see her. But permit me to say that Mrs. Phillips has had the good sense and the good taste to make no suggestions to me as to how I shall manage this case.... Come right along down to the ward, sir."
He led the way down a long hall and, tapping upon a door, was admitted into a transverse corridor by an attendant.
"How is Mrs. Graham?" he asked in an undertone.
"Quiet at the moment, sir."
Hayward heard Helen's voice and started forward eagerly. The physician caught him by the arm and restrained him.
"Wait," he whispered. "Let's listen a minute."
It was hard for Hayward to wait. He could hear Helen's words coming from the second door down the corridor, and only the doctor's hand stayed him from rushing into her presence. They moved quietly nearer to the door and stood still to hear what she was saying. As they listened tides of joy rolled in upon Hayward's heart....
Helen was humming a song that her husband had heard of old. Her voice, though somewhat weak, had its old joyous ring. Hayward could easily imagine she was coming tripping down to the stable for her horse to take a morning canter. When she finished the song and was silent, he noted for the first time that the grated door to her cell was locked and its rungs and pickets were heavily padded. He resented that, and turned upon the physician to protest, but was held by the doctor's signal for silence. He obeyed, but his resentment grew as Helen's words came again in gentle accents to them.
She was moving slowly about, and was evidently arranging some flowers—to judge by the things she was saying to them. It was very kind of the doctor, her husband thought, to let her have her flowers—she was always so fond of them.... In half a minute she was singing a lullaby that she had sung to their baby. Hayward could hardly contain himself. And when he heard her walk across the room,—to a window, it seemed,—and say, in a tone so expressive of longing: "If Hayward would only come and take me out to-day! It is such a beautiful day outside," he snatched his arm free of the doctor's hand and called to her as he sprang in front of the door.
Helen turned at his call, and looked at him for a space with dilated eyes. In that space Hayward saw that her cell was padded throughout, floor and walls, and that there was not a flower or a flower-pot in the room, that her clothing was torn, her hair streaming and dishevelled. Before he had time to make any inferences from these facts, Helen, still gazing at him with that peculiar stare, started across the room to him, saying gladly, "Oh, you have come to take me out driving!"
Nearly to the door she stopped. Slowly her face changed its whole expression. The wide-eyed stare gave way, and the old Helen looked at him a moment from her eyes. In another moment her face was convulsed in a spasm of aversion.
"Go away! Go away!" she cried out wildly as she turned from him. Retreating into a far corner of her cell, she called to the attendant, "Oh, save me!—take him away!—keep him away!"
"Why, Helen, don't you know me?" Hayward called to her.
"Yes, yes, I know you, but in God's name leave me! Don't let him in! Don't let him in!" she pleaded with the physician, who also had come to the door.
"I'll not hurt you, Helen. You know I'll not hurt you. Don't run from me. You know I'll not hurt you."
Hayward motioned to the physician to unlock the door. Whereupon Helen uttered a blood-curdling scream as she cowered back into her corner.
"Don't! Don't!! He has already hurt me, doctor! Go away! Goaway! The poison of your blood is in my veins and will not come out! It is polluted, forever polluted! A knife—a knife! Give me a knife, doctor, that I may let it out. Please give me a knife. I have prayed you daily for one and you won't give it to me. Kill me—save me! My blood isunclean, and he did it! My baby was black,black!—and its negro blood is in my veins! A knife, doctor! A knife!! Oo-o-a-ugh!! I'll tear it out, then!"—and she clawed and tore and bit at her wrists in an agony of endeavour to purge her veins of the tainted fluid which had brought to life that fright, her baby.
Hayward stood helpless and terror-stricken before the door, and his staying only drove Helen into more horrible paroxysms.
"Come away, man, come away," the doctor commanded; and he obeyed weakly.
"Great God," he said when he was back in the physician's office, "that is awful, awful! How can she live, doctor, if she is shaken and torn by such dementia as that?"
"I cannot say whether she will live, Mr. Graham," the doctor replied; "but her periods of dementia give her the only relief that she enjoys. As a remedy for exhaustion they are our only hope for her life so far appearing."
"I don't understand," said Graham, "how such suffering as that can be a relief from exhaustion."
"I did not say that," said the doctor. "I said herperiods of dementiagive her relief from exhaustion. As I said before, Mr. Graham, this is an absolutely unique case. It is—"
"Unique in what?" asked Graham.
"It is unique in this," said the physician: "It is in her sane moments—in her lucid intervals, when she is fully conscious of her condition and situation—that she raves and tears herself and cries out against the devils that are torturing her. It is in such moments that her eyes have the light of reason in them. On the other hand, it is when she isinsane, demented—when her mind is unhinged and wandering—that she is quiet and peaceful and happy. The letter you enjoyed was written when she was crazy. The one that tortured you was written when she was clothed and in her right mind."
"My God, doctor, that cannot be! Do not tell me that!" cried Hayward, shaken like a reed. "Tell me whether there is hope for her?"
"As I said, Mr. Graham, the case is unique and therefore any opinion is nothing more than a bare opinion, but to me her case is hopeless for the reason that her violences are based not upon hallucinations—which might pass—but uponfactswhich no sane mind can deny. At present the only hope for her life is that her periods of dementia, with their peace and quiet, will increase: and that her sane moments, in which she suffers the tortures of the damned, will become briefer and fewer. Only that will save her from death from exhaustion."
"No, no, doctor! Can't you—"
* * * * *
A soldier in uniform stepped into the recruiting office, saluted, handed the officer his papers, and stood atattention, saying simply, "I desire to re-enlist."
The officer unfolded the "honourable discharge" and read aloud, "Sergeant John Hayward Graham." Looking the paper over, he turned to Graham.
"Yes, this is all right—if you are physically fit; but you have waited so long you have lost your rank and will have to begin at the very bottom again."
"Yes, sir. I understand, sir."
"Very well, the clerk can make out the new papers from these while the surgeon looks you over. Where do you wish to serve—in the United States or the Philippines?"
"Anywhere my country needs a man, sir."
THE END.
* * * * * * * *
From
L. C. Page & Company'sAnnouncement Listof New Fiction
The Call of the South
BY ROBERT LEE DURHAM. Cloth decorative, with 6 illustrations by Henry Roth . . . $1.50
A very strong novel dealing with the race problem in this country. The principal theme is thedangerto society from the increasing miscegenation of the black and white races, and the encouragement it receives in the social amenities extended to negroes of distinction by persons prominent in politics, philanthropy and educational endeavor; and the author, a Southern lawyer, hopes to call the attention of the whole country to the need of earnest work toward its discouragement. He has written an absorbing drama of life which appeals with apparent logic and of which the inevitable denouement comes as a final and convincing climax.
The author may be criticized by those who prefer not to face the hour "When Your Fear Cometh As Desolation And Your Destruction Cometh As A Whirlwind;" but his honesty of purpose in the frank expression of a danger so well understood in the South, which, however, many in the North refuse to recognize, while others have overlooked it, will be upheld by the sober second thought of the majority of his readers.
* * * * *
The House in the Water
BY CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS, author of "The Haunters of the Silences," "Red Fox," "The Heart of the Ancient Wood," etc. With cover design, sixteen full-page drawings, and many minor decorations by Charles Livingston Bull. Cloth decorative, with decorated wrapper . . . $1.50
Professor Roberts's new book of nature and animal life is one long story in which he tells of the life of that wonderfully acute and tireless little worker, the beaver. "The Boy" and Jabe the Woodsman again appear, figuring in the story even more than they did in "Red Fox;" and the adventures of the boy and the beaver make most absorbing reading for young and old.
The following chapter headings for "The House in the Water" will give an idea of the fascinating reading to come:
THE SOUND IN THE NIGHT (Beavers at Work).
THE BATTLE IN THE POND (Otter and Beaver).
IN THE UNDER-WATER WORLD (Home Life of the Beaver).
NIGHT WATCHERS ("The Boy" and Jabe and a Lynx See the Beavers at Work).
DAM REPAIRING AND DAM BUILDING (A "House-raising" Bee).
THE PERIL OF THE TRAPS (Jabe Shows "The Boy").
WINTER UNDER WATER (Safe from All but Man).
THE SAVING OF BOY'S POND ("The Boy" Captures Two Outlaws).
"As a writer about animals, Mr. Roberts occupies an enviable place. He is the most literary, as well as the most imaginative and vivid of all the nature writers."—Brooklyn Eagle.
"His animal stories are marvels of sympathetic science and literary exactness."—New York World.
"Poet Laureate of the Animal World, Professor Roberts displays the keenest powers of observation closely interwoven with a fine imaginative discretion."—Boston Transcript.