CHAPTER XXIFor a year now Helen had had an unconsciously growing regard for her footman's mental abilities and for his gift of entertaining her with his tales of battle and camp and other incidental themes of conversation which at odd times had beguiled the moments of the past summer after his identity had been revealed to her as "the trooper of the 10th" of her father's most thrilling battle story. It was but natural that conversation with a man of his cultivation of mind and wide information should dull the sense of caste and superiority and enhance a feeling of genuine respect. It was only occasionally now that she assumed an air of command:—at best it is a difficult thing to patronize intellect.Helen did not have an opportunity to hear Hayward's proffered explanation for quite a long time, and she cared little to know anything further of it; but her attitude of mind toward him had changed. Formerly she sometimes had wondered that a footman should be so intelligent. Finding that he was a Harvard man, however, had reversed the problem. It raised him to a level of respectability above his calling, and left the fact that he was a serving-man to be accounted for as anomalous. That he was a negro counted with her, of course, for naught one way or the other. He was nothing less than a footman.However, with all her democratic ideas, she was a President's daughter; and that he was a footman, until it was explained, and even after it was explained,—as long, in fact, as he remained a footman,—would cause that vacillation between anger and amusement which came to her yet with the remembrance of his embarrassed declaration that her pennant was his heart's dearest possession.... She was somewhat annoyed by her own mild self-consciousness—an unusual mental state for her; more so than by any forwardness on the man's part in speaking the speech,—for there had been nothing of that.... She would not think of it.... Why should she think of it? The idea was ridiculous. She would laugh it away.... Of course the pennant was a dear possession: the man prized it as a memento of his college life and his daringly won victory.... Certainly, it was a very dear possession: she had similar school-day souvenirs which were precious to her heart though recalling moments of less energy of loyalty and wild delirium of joy.... Besides he may have meant, he could have meant, nothing personal to herself,—for he could not have known her—she was nothing more than a child seeing her first great football match—and he had caught but a glimpse of her in all that yelling throng—if he had seen her at all.... It would be a miracle if he remembered her... And yet he seemed to remember.... Though why should she think so? He hadsaidnothing to indicate it.... But he knew—she was sure that he knew.... And what if he did know, and did value the pennant on that account? The personal consideration was not imperative. Was she not the President's daughter, and would not any man deem it an honour to be decorated by her hand or high privilege to carry her flag? The lowest menial might properly take pride in her approbation and set great store by a token of her approval.... But—this man is neither low nor menial, for all his servile livery. He is a gentleman by every token: educated, brave, strong, modest, self-sacrificing, chivalrous. It is hard to consider him as an underling—a footman.... And why is he a footman? ... She does not care why he is a footman ... or that he is a footman.... He must keep his place.CHAPTER XXIIHelen was taking her early morning ride. She pulled her horse up sharply and waited for her groom to overtake her."Why are you a footman, Hayward?"Hayward was startled. The girl had been uncertain in her treatment of him for a month, and he was expecting anything that might happen, from a plain discharge to arrest as a suspicious character. He was confused by the suddenness of the question, and by the peculiar mingling of sympathy and impatience in Helen's voice."Who are you, and what are you trying to do?""I am John Hayward Graham, Miss Helen, as I told you before. I am a footman now because it seems to be necessary. I did not intend to be a footman so long as this when I obtained the position." Helen thought she detected a shade of embarrassment again. "But after I was employed at the White House my mother's health gave way suddenly and she could no longer support herself and I was compelled to keep the place."The man saw that he was making an awkward mess of it, and the quick intelligence of Helen's eyes showed him her inferences were all adverse."Oh, well," he said, "I'll begin again. It took all the money my mother had, Miss Helen, to pay for my education—all, and more. That she ever met the expense of my tuition has been a miracle to me. But she did it—insisted upon doing it. My father was a Harvard man. He died when I was two years old, leaving as his only admonition the injunction that I be thoroughly educated. My mother was faithful to that exhortation. She spent her meagre fortune and the abundant strength of her life to the last cent and almost to the last heart-beat in a religious obedience to it.""Your mother is still living?""Yes; and please do not think I was so ungrateful and so unfilial as purposely to wait till she was helpless before lifting the burden of breadwinning from her shoulders. I was in five months of graduation when the call came for volunteers in the spring of 191-; yet I could not resist that call, nor would my mother have me resist it.""A Spartan mother," commented Helen."My grandfather died in the front of battle, Miss Helen,—to make men free. My father was a soldier. The first bauble that I can remember playing with as a child was a medal of honour with its red, white and blue ribbon which was given to him for some daring service to the flag, I know not what. That medal and his good name was all that he left to me. I lost the medal before I knew what it stood for, and I have temporarily laid aside the name of Graham; but none the less is the memory of that bronze eagle-and-star an inspiration to me to a life work creditable to the name."When I enlisted I was really taking a large financial burden from my mother, and if, after my first term of enlistment was up, I was unthinking of her, it was because out of the blood of my fathers and my army experience had been born a life ambition which filled all my thoughts: the ambition to be a soldier. I was off my guard, for I had never thought of my mother as having a human frailty. When she came to place herself in my care I noticed, as I had not a month before, how far spent was her strength, and I was alarmed at the sudden change in her appearance. This change had come to her as it comes to many—with the moment of her surrender to the inevitable. Men and women may stand with determined and unshaken front against the assaults of weakness until it wins into the very citadel of their strength and possesses everything save the flag which flies at the tower-top. So with my mother: she had stood to her duty till there remained of her wonderful energies only her unshaken resolution, and when that flag was hauled down there was nothing left to surrender."Everything in the man's tribute to his mother—sentiment and metaphor—appealed to Helen, and the tears came to her lashes."But she still has the strength to be vastly ambitious for her son, Miss Helen. Death itself will hardly weaken that. She talks to me of little beside the day when I shall be an officer in the army.""You aspire to a commission, then?""Yes; and it is for that reason that I desire the President shall not know now that I am the man who carried him out of danger at Valencia. I know that naturally he will be grateful, and I wish to make no draft upon his gratitude till I ask for that commission. I expect much difficulty, and I wish to marshal at one moment every circumstance in my favour.""As papa says, 'attack with horse, foot and guns,'" said Helen."Yes, that's the idea. I had hoped that by the end of a second term of enlistment my preparedness together with your father's friendliness and a growing liberality in public sentiment toward men of my race would win for me my heart's desire—a lieutenancy of cavalry.""Your race will not count against you, Hayward," said Helen. "Papa has no such provincial notions as that. And I am sure he will not be ungrateful.""I thank you for the assurance, Miss Helen. Your father is my ideal of a fearless and just man. I count more upon his fearlessness and fairness than upon his gratitude. But my heart is too keenly set on realizing this ambition for me to omit to enlist any favourable influence.""But why are you a footman?" Helen repeated the question with which she had first addressed him."I was on my furlough, Miss Helen, when I took this place temporarily, fully intending to re-enlist when my time was up; but my mother's break-down just before that time compelled me to forego re-enlistment and to hold this position which pays a wage sufficient to support the two of us. A soldier's pay would not accomplish it, and my mother's condition would not permit me to leave her. However, I have not thought of foregoing my career as a soldier. I am studying every day to prepare myself for the duties of an officer. My Harvard training fortunately supplies me with all but the purely technical knowledge required, and makes it possible for me to acquire that without assistance. I will win yet, Miss Helen.""A Harvard manmustwin." Helen spoke with dogmatic faith."AndImust win,—not only a commission, but the 'well-done' which is a soldier's real recompense for a life-time's service. Not only my 'Harvard lineage,' as you once called it, but my grandfather's death, my father's life, my mother's toil and sacrifice, lay the compulsion of endeavour and success upon me. My mother is a hopeless invalid, but I pray she may live to read my lieutenant's commission. I have concealed from her the juggling with my name. I—""And why did you juggle with it?""Some pride in my patronymic and in that very Harvard lineage would not permit me to degrade either by becoming a footman as John Graham.""And again, then: why are you a footman? You have not answered that question yet. Your purposes in life are admirable, your motives are—beautiful, your success will be brilliant I earnestly hope,—even more, I dare to prophesy; and I shall be proud to know when your name is famous, that I gave you your first flag;"—She laughed—"but why did you become afootman, Hayward?"She pulled her horse up to wait for his answer. Hayward looked steadily in her eyes, which were regarding him with frank enquiry, until a quickness came to his pulses and a rashness into his heart, and by his gaze her eyes were beaten down and the colour brought to her cheek."Why?" Her voice had as much of appeal as of demand.Hayward caught his breath quickly."You have read Ruy Blas, Miss Helen?""No," Helen answered. "What has that to do with it?"Hayward had the same sensation as when in the Venezuelan campaign he had first keyed his nerves for battle at sound of the picket's shots only to have the danger pass. Then the releasing tension had been painful. Here it was grateful. He drew a breath of relief. He was very glad the girl had not read ofRuy Blas,—of the lackey who loved a queen."The place of footman was the only position open to me. I applied for another but failed to get it." He ignored the question and through this lie outright, told in words of perfect truth, he made a precipitate retreat. "The service was to be short, and it gave me an opportunity to see at close range something of the man upon whom my hopes so much depend," he added as an afterthought."And a closer view has not dampened your hope?" asked Helen."No, Miss Helen. Increased it, rather. Your father puts heart into a man. His broad sympathies and firm principles of justice inspire one to the highest and best that is in him. The lofty example of his courage and purity and effectiveness, personal and civic, is a living inspiration to the nation.""For which the nation is indebted to your heroism," added Helen. "For myself and all the people I thank you."If Hayward had been white he would have blushed. The personal turn Helen gave the matter left him with nothing to say. He sat his horse abashed.A stray thought of her dignity flitted across Helen's mind. She drew herself up, touched her horse with the crop, and rode on. Hayward, at the command of her manner, stiffened intoattentionas she drew away, and followed—at the proper distance.CHAPTER XXIIIHelen inherited Bobby Scott when the real men came around.Elise had brought Lola DeVale, Dorothy Scott and Caroline Whitney with her for a two-weeks stay at Hill-Top and they had planned for a breathing-spell in which they hoped to be rid of men and have a restful girlish good time. Bobby Scott, Dorothy's brother, had been asked to come because he was present when the thing was first proposed, and had accepted—much to Caroline's disappointment. But really he did not disturb their plans very much. Bobby was somewhat young, and entirely manageable: and, as said before, Helen inherited him when the real men came along.And they came: Hazard, the moment Congress adjourned; Tom Radwine, every minute he was not asleep after he knew Caroline Whitney was there; Captain Howard, after three days' wait at Newport; and, for a day and a half, no less a personage than Senator Richland. The Senator had a heart to heart talk with President Phillips about a certain matter of politics, but he deceived no one, not even himself.Bobby Scott felt his importance, for the reason that he and the Senator were entertained at Hill-Top. He felt that he was in a position of vantage and really ought to profit by it. But the ease and sang-froid with which Tom Radwine always relieved him of Caroline was not only exasperating but rather confusing to him. Why couldn't Tom look out for Dorothy? She was not his sister; and, beside, she was no end better looking than Caroline. Here came Tom now, straight past the other young women, to disturb histête-à-têtewith Caroline."Come on, Mr. Scott," called Helen, "we'll go and have a ride."Bobby pretended not to hear. Helen's assumption that he must vacate when Radwine appeared nettled him. He liked Helen in everything save that she would not take him seriously. He sat still, determined to hold his position against all comers."I've won in a walk," said Radwine to the young woman. "It's ten minutes yet to five o'clock—good afternoon, Mr. Scott—oh, I am all sorts of a winner."Caroline's answer to Radwine was just as meaningless to Bobby, and in half a minute without the slightest discourtesy on the part of the others, he felt that he was a rank outsider."Are you coming, Mr. Scott?" Helen called to him again—and Bobby went."If you will excuse me?"—he asked Caroline's permission."Certainly, if you must go. Take good care of Helen. She is so young and venturesome."This last speech in a measure placated Bobby's offended notions of dignity, and he and Helen went off toward the stables, where Hayward brought the horses out and put the saddles on while Bobby looked them over."That is a very handsome mount," he said to Helen, indicating Prince William. "He's a dead match for the horse of Lieutenant Lavine, of the Squadron.""Beg pardon, sir," Hayward interrupted to ask, "what squadron?""Squadron A, New York," Bobby replied, and began to relate to Helen some incident of his experience as a trooper in that organization, and afterward to dispense general information as to horses and horsemanship. He would not have been so garrulous about these things perhaps but for the fact that his membership in Squadron A was a new toy from which the gilt had not been worn off. Hayward listened to him, first with interest and then with wonder. He did not know the young gentleman was a very new and very raw recruit in the Squadron's forces, and he came near dropping a saddle at some of Bobby's ebullitions of ignorance."This knee," said Bobby with a look of concern as he ran his hand down Prince William's fore-leg, "seems to be slightly swollen. You should be careful to guard against spavin. It is a serious—"The negro laughed in his face before he could check himself."Well, what is it?" demanded Bobby."Beg pardon, sir,"—Hayward pulled his face into respectful shape—"spavin is a disease of the hock, not of the knee. The Prince struck that knee against a hub on the carriage this morning. No damage done, I think, sir.... They are ready, ma'am."As Mr. Scott prepared to mount he noticed that Prince William's bridle had only one rein."Where is the snaffle-rein?" he asked Hayward."The curb rein was broken this morning, sir, and I haven't another yet. I changed that rein from the snaffle-rings to the curb.""Change it back," Mr. Scott directed. "He will not trot with the curb.""True, sir, he'll not; but the Prince has not been ridden in several days, and he'll be hard to hold. I think you'd better use the curb, sir."No use to advise Mr. Scott. He had heard that your true cavalryman delights in a trot."Just change it, will you," he commanded.The footman glanced at Helen before complying."Certainly," she said; "put the rein on the snaffle-rings, Hayward."Hayward obeyed and they were off. He watched them out of sight, and remarked as he turned into the stable:"What he doesn't know is something considerable."* * * * *"If all the flunkeys were as modest and respectful as they are timorous," Bobby said to Helen as they rode off, "the service would be greatly improved the world over. And if they were as full of courage as they are of conceit, bravery would be a drug on the market. I believe you said Hayward is your footman?""Yes," Helen answered."That explains it. These coachmen and footmen become so accustomed to carriage cushions that the saddle is an uncertain and rather fearsome seat for them. Their personal fears would not be out of the way if they would not impute them to men who can ride."The sparkle of interest in Helen's eyes encouraged Mr. Scott to proceed."My observation has been that the under-classes do not ride well—or cannot ride at all. I think that riding is naturally and really the diversion of gentlemen, thehoi polloido not take to it."It occurred to Helen that thehoi polloiof Bobby's town of New York had not the money with which to "take to" saddle-horses, but she did not raise the point. Bobby continued to talk."I would not consider my education complete if I were not accustomed to the saddle. I think that many of our young fellows are not only careless of a most healthful and gentlemanly sport, but are recreant to duty as citizens, in not perfecting themselves in feats of arms and horsemanship. What is it that Kipling says in lamenting the degeneracy in sterner virtues of the gentry of Britain? Something like"'And ye vaunted your fathomless power, and ye flaunted youriron prideEre—ye fawned on the Younger Nations for the men who couldshoot and ride.'""Good for you, Mr. Scott. I did not imagine you were so seriously interested in Kipling as to memorize his lines. He is fine, though, isn't he?""Yes, that couplet impressed itself upon me without effort on my part. It appeals to me. I think it is a disgrace for a young man not to know how to shoot and ride. Alas, there are so many who do not. Little wonder that I am asked to put myself within the precautionary limitations of a timid flunkey."Helen said nothing. She saw Mr. Scott was deeply offended because he had known so little about spavin. His dissertation on horsemanship caused her to note with some interest his manner of doing the thing. As they rode along, her mare in a slow canter and Prince William in a trot, the young man was giving a faithful exhibition of the method taught by "Old Stirrups," the Squadron's riding-master; but Helen could see that he was keenly conscious of every detail of the process, from the tilt of his toes to the crook of his left elbow.Yet Mr. Scott was enjoying the ride—no doubt of that. Never had he had such an opportunity to parade his pet ideas and conceits, and never had he had such a respectful hearing. At last the younger Miss Phillips was taking him seriously. He plumed himself, and essayed a more elaborate panegyric on manly preparedness. Helen permitted him to do all the talking.He was at some pains to instruct her in the art of riding. He advised her how to hold the reins, how to make her horse change from a canter to a trot then to a gallop, how to change the step-off in the gallop, and, all together, passed on to her about all he could remember of the information acquired from "Old Stirrups." It was imparted, however, after the manner of first hand knowledge born of large experience. He felt that he was living up to Caroline's admonition to look well after Helen, and was gratified that the young lady received his coaching with such beautiful humility and seriousness."This the best part of the Lake Drive," Helen suggested finally, "the mile from here to 'The Leap.' May we not let the horses go a little?""Why, certainly, if you wish," Mr. Scott consented. "Don't be nervous. Just keep the rein tight enough to feel her mouth firmly so she won't stumble, and let her go 'long."Helen clucked to her mare and swung into a moderately fast gallop.... The exhilaration of it occupied her for a time, and then she noticed Mr. Scott was not altogether comfortable. The Prince was pulling against the bit in a stiff trot that was making a monkey of the young man's memorized method. Helen thought that the riding would be easier for him if Prince William would break into a gallop, and she pushed her mount to a faster pace in order to make the horse break over. Feeling perfectly at ease in her saddle, she unwittingly urged the mare faster and faster in kindly meant effort, till finally the increasing speed became so furious that she was a bit alarmed, and pulled in on her bridle-rein. Horror! the mare was beyond control!The horses were about neck and neck, with Prince William a nose in the lead and going hard against the snaffle in a trot of such driving speed as the young Mr. Scott had never been taught to negotiate. He was pulling his arms stiff against the smooth bit, but that only steadied the Prince to his work. Helen gave a despairing pull with all her strength, but it did not affect the mare's seeming determination to overcome the Prince's lead. She called to her escort."Stop her! I can't hold her, Mr. Scott!"Mr. Scott tried to reply, but his effort at speech resulted in a stutter which that merciless trot jolted from between his teeth.... He could not help her.... His own emergency was more than he could meet. His right foot had been shaken from its stirrup, and could not regain it. With his right hand he held in grim determination and desperation the cantle of the combative saddle which was treating him so roughly. No, no help from him.Helen, riding in perfect comfort, though at a frightful pace, looked toward Mr. Scott to see why he gave no aid. She saw his predicament was worse than hers. He had no hand to offer her. He needed both of his, and more.... She remembered her footman and his lifting her from her falling horse,—and wished heartily for him in this crisis. She realized that she must save herself, and with that to reinforce and stiffen her resolution she again pitted her strength and will against those of the headstrong mare. Her heart sank when she thought how near they were coming to "The Leap," and she threw every ounce of will and muscle against the bit, and held it there.At last, as if with a knowledge of the danger just ahead, the mare slowed down. But the madcap Prince William took a longer chance.On a little promontory jutting out into the lake the roadway makes a sharp turn at a point some seven or eight feet above the water and almost overhanging it. Helen and her father had facetiously named it "Lover's Leap." Prince William knew as much about that turn as Helen's mare, but he disdained caution. He was a bold and close calculator,—for he made the turn by a hair's-breadth, at top speed.Not so Mr. Scott. As the horse swung mightily to the left the rider's momentum pried him away from the saddle, and he took the water clear of all obstacles.... Helen, close behind him, but already relieved of fear for herself, felt her heart stop beating when the man went off his horse, for he missed a tree by a dangerously narrow margin. But he picked himself up unhurt out of two feet of water, and clambered up to the driveway, covered with humiliation and the friendly lake mud.Helen had been too thoroughly frightened to laugh then, but she preserved in memory the picture of "Bobby's stunt," and many a time afterward laughed at it till the tears came. For many moons she could not think of Kipling or "flaunting an iron pride" without an insane impulse to giggle.Prince William, having caused all the distress, afterward acted very nicely about it. He permitted himself to be caught, and carried Mr. Scott back to Hill-Top in the most manageable and equable of tempers. Mr. Scott himself, however, was in a temper entirely other. Inwardly he was choking with stifled oaths, for in Helen's presence he must needs be decent in speech. He began at once to berate Hayward, but realized before he had finished a sentence that he could not make out a case against him, and he saw disapproval in Helen's face. He gave it over as a situation to which no words were adequate, and the ride home was a strenuous essay at lofty silence.Helen, despite her rising mirth and her contempt for Bobby's puerile desire to shift the blame for his mishap, had enough pity for him in his miserable plight to suggest that they make a detour and approach home from the rear side and avoid the eyes of the people assembled there. Bobby was grateful for the suggestion. It promised success. That Hayward should see him, he of course expected, and he rode up to the stable-door, dismounted and handed his bridle to the footman with an air of unconcern and assurance befitting a man at ease with himself and in good humour with the world. Hayward regarded him calmly from head to heel, but did not betray his flunkey's role by so much as the tremble of an eyelash. This made Mr. Scott angry. He had expected something different, and had prepared a very dignified reproof."Damn that insufferable negro. Why didn't he laugh outright?" he growled as he walked around the house. Helen had run away as soon as she had dismounted in order to save her fast toppling dignity. Mr. Scott's flanking movement was successful and he was almost safe when—he ran plump into Caroline and Tom Radwine on the side porch. Caroline's outburst brought the others to see what the fun was."Mis-ter Scott!" she exclaimed. "What kind of a stunt have you been doing? You look comical to kill. Oo—ooh!"Bobby took on a sickly grin when Caroline's gaze first fell upon him; but when she called him comical it was a serious affair at once, and his face showed it. Dorothy rushed up at that moment."Oh, Robert, Robert!" she cried, putting her hand upon his shoulder, "what have you done? Tell me. Are you hurt? Have you been pulling Helen out of the lake?" A glance at Helen answered that question. "Well what, then, you precious boy?"This was the first time that his older sister had ever complied with Bobby's insistent request that she call him Robert, and he somehow wished she hadn't."Oh, Dorothy, have some sense—let me go—I must have on some dry clothes. I took a tumble into the lake—yes—that's all.""Next time you decide to do that, Mr. Scott, I'll be glad to loan you a bathing-suit." This from Tom Radwine made Bobby mad as a hornet."Took a tumble into the lake, you say, Mr. Scott?" asked President Phillips, pushing through the crowd. "How did that happen?""I was riding your horse, Prince William, sir, and he was on edge. He spilled me off the drive into the water at that sharp turn a couple of miles up. I had only a snaffle-rein and could not hold him.""Only a snaffle-rein! Why I would never think of riding that rascal myself without a curb. Hayward," he called to the footman, who was passing, "what kind of carelessness is this?—your sending the Prince to Mr. Scott with only a snaffle-rein? You know very well that brute cannot be controlled without a curb. I'm surprised at you. Such a lack of sense as that is almost criminal. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Don't repeat that performance—see to it you don't!"As Helen was standing in a yard of her father, Hayward heard this stinging rebuke in unalloyed surprise, but as she made no demur, he saluted when the President was done, and said only:"Yes, sir; it shall not occur again, sir."When her father had spoken so sharply to the footman Helen had turned to Mr. Scott, expecting him to exonerate Hayward; but Caroline Whitney's look of genuine sympathy when Mr. Phillips spoke of that brute's being uncontrollable without the curb bribed the bedraggled young man to silence. Helen saw Caroline's glance, and caught the reason for Bobby's lack of candour, but she was disgusted with him.She was uncomfortable because of the injustice her silence had done, for she was of an eminently fair mind: and she told her father the whole truth of the affair at the first opportunity....She could not see how Hayward bore himself so composedly under the undeserved rebuke. If he would abase himself thus, would barter his self-respect, would lick the hand that smote him, in order that he might obtain his commission—if he would sell his manhood for it—for anything—he would be contemptible in her sight.... Again the question came: Why was he a footman? She could not remember that he had ever answered it. Oh, yes,—the idea had but just recurred to her—she would readRuy Blas.So, on a long summer's afternoon she readRuy Blas—read the tale of the love of a flunkey for his Queen: and while, when the idea finally dawned upon her, and she first clearly understood the significance of it all, she was— But let us not detail that.* * * * *Helen and Hayward Graham were married on a day in late October.CHAPTER XXIVThe chronicler of these events is aware that to the readers of this history the bare statement of the fact that Helen and her footman were wed comes as a shock. Nevertheless, it was a plain and straightforward path by which a careless and pitiless Fate had blindly brought Helen to her husband. A girl, treading by chance such a way as has been followed since the world was young by the feet of maidens of high degree who have loved below their station,—among the accidents and incidents of her romance she had come, unwitting, to an open door, an ill-placed door not designed for her passage, a "door of hope for the negro race" which her idolized father had thought to fashion and set wide: and she had passed it through—in reverse.A secret marriage was not characteristic of Helen's ideas. She was betrayed into that by her warm impulsiveness. She had had a beautiful programme arranged for the fates to follow in. With a heart full of love and of dreams, and with faith in a future that would order itself at her bidding, she had planned the whole course of events that should lead up to a resplendent army wedding after Hayward had won his commission. She never doubted for a moment that all her roseate imaginings would come to pass, and railed upon him that he had not her faith: for Hayward was a doubter. The sheer altitude of his good fortune made him fearful and distrustful.For the twentieth time she told off to him on her finger-tips the order in which his fortune should ascend.—"And then, when you are an officer—and famous—you will marry—me.""But that may never be," the man had answered. "Suppose the Senate should refuse to confirm my nomination? By your condition I should lose the commission and—infinitely more—you. If your love and faith are supreme you will marry me whether I win or lose.""You shall not doubt my love or faith," Helen exclaimed impetuously. "I will marry you now, and as the President's son-in-law you can the more surely succeed. The Senators would not offer a personal affront to—""But I must bring this honour to you, not you to me," Hayward interrupted; "and, besides that, while I willingly, gladly, here and now, surrender all hope of this commission for ever and for ever if only you will marry me now, it is only fair to you for me to remind you that your father would never appoint his own son-in-law to a lieutenancy in the army.""Oh, bother!" Helen protested. "I have my heart set on being a soldier's wife. Of course Papa couldn't give a commission to one of his family—what was I thinking about.... Well, there's nothing to do but wait, I suppose.""And it may be an endless wait if the commission is to come first," Hayward reiterated. "It was an awful temptation to silence a moment ago when you said you'd marry me now, but I could not trick you into it, knowing how much you desire that commission."Helen's mind worked rapidly for half a minute."But Iwillmarry you—andnow!" she cried. The girl's romantic spirit was aroused and her spontaneous, unsophisticated feminine ideal of love was in the ascendant. "I willprovemy love and faith. I will marry you now, and you may claim me when you have won your laurels. Let the Senate refuse you a commission if they dare!""And would you be willing to trust me to keep that secret?" Hayward asked. "I almost would be afraid to trust myself—I would want to yell it from the housetops! Married to you and not tell it! Why, it would just tell itself to any open-eyed man who looked at me.""No, no," Helen answered. "I'm willing to trust you. It's a hardship that cannot be avoided, and we must make the best of it."* * * * *"And now," Helen had given her husband a last laughing admonition, "since we must be clandestine against our wills, let's be romantic to the last most fiercely orthodox degree. No love-lit glances or conscious looks. You be a perfect footman with that indifferent and superior and high-and-mighty air while you can, for when your bondage actually begins you will never swagger again; and I will be so haughty as almost to spurn your very presence. We must make no foolish attempts at conversation, and when we write must deliver our letters personally into the hand, not trusting even the mails with our secret. And then, when you become an officer we will give the dear people the surprise of their lives. My! won't it be fun to see them! And it may be that when the time comes we will not tell them that we are already married, but will have another ceremony, a brilliant army affair such as I have set my heart on. Wouldn't that be gorgeous!""I hardly would have acquaintances enough among the officers to provide my share of the attendants," Hayward answered."Oh, yes, you would. You would make then fast enough," the girl replied. "An American army officer has the entrée everywhere—I've heard papa say so a score of times—and, besides, Mr. Humility, I suppose that my friends among the officers would be numerous enough to fill all vacancies."Hayward saw clearly wherein his wife's forecasts were faulty; but it profited nothing to take issue with her enthusiasms and he gladly joined in them. She was his wife—that could not be changed; and he felt that with that a fact accomplished he reasonably might work for, and hope for, and expect, anything. He returned to his work in the city, therefore, overflowing with happiness and pride. It was not surprising that as a White House footman he was more than ever the subject of notice and comment, for never one carried a perfect physique with such an air. If his confident swing and tread had been the expression of personal vanity, it had been insufferable; but love is not insolent nor its struttings offensive.Hayward was on good terms with the world. For the first time he accepted the overbearing manner of superiority of white men with complacency and even with amusement. His time was coming—he could wait. He went so far as almost to invite affronts from several negroes of more or less prominence, who had aforetime rebuffed his advances, in order, as it were, to keep their offences in pickle so that their chagrin might be more keen when the day of his elevation should come. He was at particular pains to keep Henry Porter's opposition going, and smiled when he thought how thoroughly he would pay him off in his own coin.For a few weeks he put himself with buoyant determination to the regular study of his text-books, which he had theretofore read with more or less intermittent interest, and began to lay out plans for the political campaign which would be necessary to bring about the issuing and confirmation of his commission. He arranged with a personal friend, a lawyer in New Hampshire, for the transmission of all correspondence and papers relating to the matter in the name of John H. Graham through this lawyer's hands,—thus to conceal from the President even after the request for the appointment had been made the fact that his footman was the applicant.The thinking out and arranging of these details and the first rush of his attack upon his military studies engrossed him for a month or more in every moment he was off duty. So closely did he hold himself that Lily Porter reproved him gently for his remissness several times before he made his first call upon her. He was really working very hard—in his leisure hours. He had completely reversed the order of work and diversion. To the one-time monotony of his daily tasks he was now held by the fascination of chance moments of speech—most often conventional, occasionally personal, always delightful—with the radiant young woman his wife, upon whom even to look in silence was enough to send his blood a-leap. Every day from the very first he took time from his work of preparation to write to her.... The habit grew. At first briefly, though always with fervent protestations, and, as the days and weeks ran on, more and more at length and with livening heat did he put his heart-beats in his letters.... The habit grew too fast. By the time that Congress met and the currents of the great capital were in full swing, the forces of Hayward's love had eaten into his ambition's boundaries and the time that he gave to thoughts of Helen, and in seeking variant and worthy phrases in which to indite his passion, more than equalled that in which he worked to earn those things which by her decree should precede possession of her.... It was hard not to stop and think of her. He wrote:"You disturb me in my work. You ride ruthlessly through the plans of battle and campaign my textbooks show, and make sixes and sevens of them. At sight of you the heaviest lines of battle dissolve into thin air and into mist the fastest fortress falls. At the coming thought of you brigades and armies melt away, and your face stands out a radiant evangel of peace, the very thought even of wars and turbulences dispelling.... What am I to do? I cannot chain myself to study the science of strife when this heavenly vision is calling me—and it is ever calling—to love and love only.... I am fully persuaded there is only one thing worth thinking on in all the earth—and that is you."
CHAPTER XXI
For a year now Helen had had an unconsciously growing regard for her footman's mental abilities and for his gift of entertaining her with his tales of battle and camp and other incidental themes of conversation which at odd times had beguiled the moments of the past summer after his identity had been revealed to her as "the trooper of the 10th" of her father's most thrilling battle story. It was but natural that conversation with a man of his cultivation of mind and wide information should dull the sense of caste and superiority and enhance a feeling of genuine respect. It was only occasionally now that she assumed an air of command:—at best it is a difficult thing to patronize intellect.
Helen did not have an opportunity to hear Hayward's proffered explanation for quite a long time, and she cared little to know anything further of it; but her attitude of mind toward him had changed. Formerly she sometimes had wondered that a footman should be so intelligent. Finding that he was a Harvard man, however, had reversed the problem. It raised him to a level of respectability above his calling, and left the fact that he was a serving-man to be accounted for as anomalous. That he was a negro counted with her, of course, for naught one way or the other. He was nothing less than a footman.
However, with all her democratic ideas, she was a President's daughter; and that he was a footman, until it was explained, and even after it was explained,—as long, in fact, as he remained a footman,—would cause that vacillation between anger and amusement which came to her yet with the remembrance of his embarrassed declaration that her pennant was his heart's dearest possession.... She was somewhat annoyed by her own mild self-consciousness—an unusual mental state for her; more so than by any forwardness on the man's part in speaking the speech,—for there had been nothing of that.... She would not think of it.... Why should she think of it? The idea was ridiculous. She would laugh it away.... Of course the pennant was a dear possession: the man prized it as a memento of his college life and his daringly won victory.... Certainly, it was a very dear possession: she had similar school-day souvenirs which were precious to her heart though recalling moments of less energy of loyalty and wild delirium of joy.... Besides he may have meant, he could have meant, nothing personal to herself,—for he could not have known her—she was nothing more than a child seeing her first great football match—and he had caught but a glimpse of her in all that yelling throng—if he had seen her at all.... It would be a miracle if he remembered her... And yet he seemed to remember.... Though why should she think so? He hadsaidnothing to indicate it.... But he knew—she was sure that he knew.... And what if he did know, and did value the pennant on that account? The personal consideration was not imperative. Was she not the President's daughter, and would not any man deem it an honour to be decorated by her hand or high privilege to carry her flag? The lowest menial might properly take pride in her approbation and set great store by a token of her approval.... But—this man is neither low nor menial, for all his servile livery. He is a gentleman by every token: educated, brave, strong, modest, self-sacrificing, chivalrous. It is hard to consider him as an underling—a footman.... And why is he a footman? ... She does not care why he is a footman ... or that he is a footman.... He must keep his place.
CHAPTER XXII
Helen was taking her early morning ride. She pulled her horse up sharply and waited for her groom to overtake her.
"Why are you a footman, Hayward?"
Hayward was startled. The girl had been uncertain in her treatment of him for a month, and he was expecting anything that might happen, from a plain discharge to arrest as a suspicious character. He was confused by the suddenness of the question, and by the peculiar mingling of sympathy and impatience in Helen's voice.
"Who are you, and what are you trying to do?"
"I am John Hayward Graham, Miss Helen, as I told you before. I am a footman now because it seems to be necessary. I did not intend to be a footman so long as this when I obtained the position." Helen thought she detected a shade of embarrassment again. "But after I was employed at the White House my mother's health gave way suddenly and she could no longer support herself and I was compelled to keep the place."
The man saw that he was making an awkward mess of it, and the quick intelligence of Helen's eyes showed him her inferences were all adverse.
"Oh, well," he said, "I'll begin again. It took all the money my mother had, Miss Helen, to pay for my education—all, and more. That she ever met the expense of my tuition has been a miracle to me. But she did it—insisted upon doing it. My father was a Harvard man. He died when I was two years old, leaving as his only admonition the injunction that I be thoroughly educated. My mother was faithful to that exhortation. She spent her meagre fortune and the abundant strength of her life to the last cent and almost to the last heart-beat in a religious obedience to it."
"Your mother is still living?"
"Yes; and please do not think I was so ungrateful and so unfilial as purposely to wait till she was helpless before lifting the burden of breadwinning from her shoulders. I was in five months of graduation when the call came for volunteers in the spring of 191-; yet I could not resist that call, nor would my mother have me resist it."
"A Spartan mother," commented Helen.
"My grandfather died in the front of battle, Miss Helen,—to make men free. My father was a soldier. The first bauble that I can remember playing with as a child was a medal of honour with its red, white and blue ribbon which was given to him for some daring service to the flag, I know not what. That medal and his good name was all that he left to me. I lost the medal before I knew what it stood for, and I have temporarily laid aside the name of Graham; but none the less is the memory of that bronze eagle-and-star an inspiration to me to a life work creditable to the name.
"When I enlisted I was really taking a large financial burden from my mother, and if, after my first term of enlistment was up, I was unthinking of her, it was because out of the blood of my fathers and my army experience had been born a life ambition which filled all my thoughts: the ambition to be a soldier. I was off my guard, for I had never thought of my mother as having a human frailty. When she came to place herself in my care I noticed, as I had not a month before, how far spent was her strength, and I was alarmed at the sudden change in her appearance. This change had come to her as it comes to many—with the moment of her surrender to the inevitable. Men and women may stand with determined and unshaken front against the assaults of weakness until it wins into the very citadel of their strength and possesses everything save the flag which flies at the tower-top. So with my mother: she had stood to her duty till there remained of her wonderful energies only her unshaken resolution, and when that flag was hauled down there was nothing left to surrender."
Everything in the man's tribute to his mother—sentiment and metaphor—appealed to Helen, and the tears came to her lashes.
"But she still has the strength to be vastly ambitious for her son, Miss Helen. Death itself will hardly weaken that. She talks to me of little beside the day when I shall be an officer in the army."
"You aspire to a commission, then?"
"Yes; and it is for that reason that I desire the President shall not know now that I am the man who carried him out of danger at Valencia. I know that naturally he will be grateful, and I wish to make no draft upon his gratitude till I ask for that commission. I expect much difficulty, and I wish to marshal at one moment every circumstance in my favour."
"As papa says, 'attack with horse, foot and guns,'" said Helen.
"Yes, that's the idea. I had hoped that by the end of a second term of enlistment my preparedness together with your father's friendliness and a growing liberality in public sentiment toward men of my race would win for me my heart's desire—a lieutenancy of cavalry."
"Your race will not count against you, Hayward," said Helen. "Papa has no such provincial notions as that. And I am sure he will not be ungrateful."
"I thank you for the assurance, Miss Helen. Your father is my ideal of a fearless and just man. I count more upon his fearlessness and fairness than upon his gratitude. But my heart is too keenly set on realizing this ambition for me to omit to enlist any favourable influence."
"But why are you a footman?" Helen repeated the question with which she had first addressed him.
"I was on my furlough, Miss Helen, when I took this place temporarily, fully intending to re-enlist when my time was up; but my mother's break-down just before that time compelled me to forego re-enlistment and to hold this position which pays a wage sufficient to support the two of us. A soldier's pay would not accomplish it, and my mother's condition would not permit me to leave her. However, I have not thought of foregoing my career as a soldier. I am studying every day to prepare myself for the duties of an officer. My Harvard training fortunately supplies me with all but the purely technical knowledge required, and makes it possible for me to acquire that without assistance. I will win yet, Miss Helen."
"A Harvard manmustwin." Helen spoke with dogmatic faith.
"AndImust win,—not only a commission, but the 'well-done' which is a soldier's real recompense for a life-time's service. Not only my 'Harvard lineage,' as you once called it, but my grandfather's death, my father's life, my mother's toil and sacrifice, lay the compulsion of endeavour and success upon me. My mother is a hopeless invalid, but I pray she may live to read my lieutenant's commission. I have concealed from her the juggling with my name. I—"
"And why did you juggle with it?"
"Some pride in my patronymic and in that very Harvard lineage would not permit me to degrade either by becoming a footman as John Graham."
"And again, then: why are you a footman? You have not answered that question yet. Your purposes in life are admirable, your motives are—beautiful, your success will be brilliant I earnestly hope,—even more, I dare to prophesy; and I shall be proud to know when your name is famous, that I gave you your first flag;"—She laughed—"but why did you become afootman, Hayward?"
She pulled her horse up to wait for his answer. Hayward looked steadily in her eyes, which were regarding him with frank enquiry, until a quickness came to his pulses and a rashness into his heart, and by his gaze her eyes were beaten down and the colour brought to her cheek.
"Why?" Her voice had as much of appeal as of demand.
Hayward caught his breath quickly.
"You have read Ruy Blas, Miss Helen?"
"No," Helen answered. "What has that to do with it?"
Hayward had the same sensation as when in the Venezuelan campaign he had first keyed his nerves for battle at sound of the picket's shots only to have the danger pass. Then the releasing tension had been painful. Here it was grateful. He drew a breath of relief. He was very glad the girl had not read ofRuy Blas,—of the lackey who loved a queen.
"The place of footman was the only position open to me. I applied for another but failed to get it." He ignored the question and through this lie outright, told in words of perfect truth, he made a precipitate retreat. "The service was to be short, and it gave me an opportunity to see at close range something of the man upon whom my hopes so much depend," he added as an afterthought.
"And a closer view has not dampened your hope?" asked Helen.
"No, Miss Helen. Increased it, rather. Your father puts heart into a man. His broad sympathies and firm principles of justice inspire one to the highest and best that is in him. The lofty example of his courage and purity and effectiveness, personal and civic, is a living inspiration to the nation."
"For which the nation is indebted to your heroism," added Helen. "For myself and all the people I thank you."
If Hayward had been white he would have blushed. The personal turn Helen gave the matter left him with nothing to say. He sat his horse abashed.
A stray thought of her dignity flitted across Helen's mind. She drew herself up, touched her horse with the crop, and rode on. Hayward, at the command of her manner, stiffened intoattentionas she drew away, and followed—at the proper distance.
CHAPTER XXIII
Helen inherited Bobby Scott when the real men came around.
Elise had brought Lola DeVale, Dorothy Scott and Caroline Whitney with her for a two-weeks stay at Hill-Top and they had planned for a breathing-spell in which they hoped to be rid of men and have a restful girlish good time. Bobby Scott, Dorothy's brother, had been asked to come because he was present when the thing was first proposed, and had accepted—much to Caroline's disappointment. But really he did not disturb their plans very much. Bobby was somewhat young, and entirely manageable: and, as said before, Helen inherited him when the real men came along.
And they came: Hazard, the moment Congress adjourned; Tom Radwine, every minute he was not asleep after he knew Caroline Whitney was there; Captain Howard, after three days' wait at Newport; and, for a day and a half, no less a personage than Senator Richland. The Senator had a heart to heart talk with President Phillips about a certain matter of politics, but he deceived no one, not even himself.
Bobby Scott felt his importance, for the reason that he and the Senator were entertained at Hill-Top. He felt that he was in a position of vantage and really ought to profit by it. But the ease and sang-froid with which Tom Radwine always relieved him of Caroline was not only exasperating but rather confusing to him. Why couldn't Tom look out for Dorothy? She was not his sister; and, beside, she was no end better looking than Caroline. Here came Tom now, straight past the other young women, to disturb histête-à-têtewith Caroline.
"Come on, Mr. Scott," called Helen, "we'll go and have a ride."
Bobby pretended not to hear. Helen's assumption that he must vacate when Radwine appeared nettled him. He liked Helen in everything save that she would not take him seriously. He sat still, determined to hold his position against all comers.
"I've won in a walk," said Radwine to the young woman. "It's ten minutes yet to five o'clock—good afternoon, Mr. Scott—oh, I am all sorts of a winner."
Caroline's answer to Radwine was just as meaningless to Bobby, and in half a minute without the slightest discourtesy on the part of the others, he felt that he was a rank outsider.
"Are you coming, Mr. Scott?" Helen called to him again—and Bobby went.
"If you will excuse me?"—he asked Caroline's permission.
"Certainly, if you must go. Take good care of Helen. She is so young and venturesome."
This last speech in a measure placated Bobby's offended notions of dignity, and he and Helen went off toward the stables, where Hayward brought the horses out and put the saddles on while Bobby looked them over.
"That is a very handsome mount," he said to Helen, indicating Prince William. "He's a dead match for the horse of Lieutenant Lavine, of the Squadron."
"Beg pardon, sir," Hayward interrupted to ask, "what squadron?"
"Squadron A, New York," Bobby replied, and began to relate to Helen some incident of his experience as a trooper in that organization, and afterward to dispense general information as to horses and horsemanship. He would not have been so garrulous about these things perhaps but for the fact that his membership in Squadron A was a new toy from which the gilt had not been worn off. Hayward listened to him, first with interest and then with wonder. He did not know the young gentleman was a very new and very raw recruit in the Squadron's forces, and he came near dropping a saddle at some of Bobby's ebullitions of ignorance.
"This knee," said Bobby with a look of concern as he ran his hand down Prince William's fore-leg, "seems to be slightly swollen. You should be careful to guard against spavin. It is a serious—"
The negro laughed in his face before he could check himself.
"Well, what is it?" demanded Bobby.
"Beg pardon, sir,"—Hayward pulled his face into respectful shape—"spavin is a disease of the hock, not of the knee. The Prince struck that knee against a hub on the carriage this morning. No damage done, I think, sir.... They are ready, ma'am."
As Mr. Scott prepared to mount he noticed that Prince William's bridle had only one rein.
"Where is the snaffle-rein?" he asked Hayward.
"The curb rein was broken this morning, sir, and I haven't another yet. I changed that rein from the snaffle-rings to the curb."
"Change it back," Mr. Scott directed. "He will not trot with the curb."
"True, sir, he'll not; but the Prince has not been ridden in several days, and he'll be hard to hold. I think you'd better use the curb, sir."
No use to advise Mr. Scott. He had heard that your true cavalryman delights in a trot.
"Just change it, will you," he commanded.
The footman glanced at Helen before complying.
"Certainly," she said; "put the rein on the snaffle-rings, Hayward."
Hayward obeyed and they were off. He watched them out of sight, and remarked as he turned into the stable:
"What he doesn't know is something considerable."
* * * * *
"If all the flunkeys were as modest and respectful as they are timorous," Bobby said to Helen as they rode off, "the service would be greatly improved the world over. And if they were as full of courage as they are of conceit, bravery would be a drug on the market. I believe you said Hayward is your footman?"
"Yes," Helen answered.
"That explains it. These coachmen and footmen become so accustomed to carriage cushions that the saddle is an uncertain and rather fearsome seat for them. Their personal fears would not be out of the way if they would not impute them to men who can ride."
The sparkle of interest in Helen's eyes encouraged Mr. Scott to proceed.
"My observation has been that the under-classes do not ride well—or cannot ride at all. I think that riding is naturally and really the diversion of gentlemen, thehoi polloido not take to it."
It occurred to Helen that thehoi polloiof Bobby's town of New York had not the money with which to "take to" saddle-horses, but she did not raise the point. Bobby continued to talk.
"I would not consider my education complete if I were not accustomed to the saddle. I think that many of our young fellows are not only careless of a most healthful and gentlemanly sport, but are recreant to duty as citizens, in not perfecting themselves in feats of arms and horsemanship. What is it that Kipling says in lamenting the degeneracy in sterner virtues of the gentry of Britain? Something like
"'And ye vaunted your fathomless power, and ye flaunted youriron prideEre—ye fawned on the Younger Nations for the men who couldshoot and ride.'"
"'And ye vaunted your fathomless power, and ye flaunted youriron prideEre—ye fawned on the Younger Nations for the men who couldshoot and ride.'"
"'And ye vaunted your fathomless power, and ye flaunted your
iron pride
iron pride
Ere—ye fawned on the Younger Nations for the men who could
shoot and ride.'"
shoot and ride.'"
"Good for you, Mr. Scott. I did not imagine you were so seriously interested in Kipling as to memorize his lines. He is fine, though, isn't he?"
"Yes, that couplet impressed itself upon me without effort on my part. It appeals to me. I think it is a disgrace for a young man not to know how to shoot and ride. Alas, there are so many who do not. Little wonder that I am asked to put myself within the precautionary limitations of a timid flunkey."
Helen said nothing. She saw Mr. Scott was deeply offended because he had known so little about spavin. His dissertation on horsemanship caused her to note with some interest his manner of doing the thing. As they rode along, her mare in a slow canter and Prince William in a trot, the young man was giving a faithful exhibition of the method taught by "Old Stirrups," the Squadron's riding-master; but Helen could see that he was keenly conscious of every detail of the process, from the tilt of his toes to the crook of his left elbow.
Yet Mr. Scott was enjoying the ride—no doubt of that. Never had he had such an opportunity to parade his pet ideas and conceits, and never had he had such a respectful hearing. At last the younger Miss Phillips was taking him seriously. He plumed himself, and essayed a more elaborate panegyric on manly preparedness. Helen permitted him to do all the talking.
He was at some pains to instruct her in the art of riding. He advised her how to hold the reins, how to make her horse change from a canter to a trot then to a gallop, how to change the step-off in the gallop, and, all together, passed on to her about all he could remember of the information acquired from "Old Stirrups." It was imparted, however, after the manner of first hand knowledge born of large experience. He felt that he was living up to Caroline's admonition to look well after Helen, and was gratified that the young lady received his coaching with such beautiful humility and seriousness.
"This the best part of the Lake Drive," Helen suggested finally, "the mile from here to 'The Leap.' May we not let the horses go a little?"
"Why, certainly, if you wish," Mr. Scott consented. "Don't be nervous. Just keep the rein tight enough to feel her mouth firmly so she won't stumble, and let her go 'long."
Helen clucked to her mare and swung into a moderately fast gallop.... The exhilaration of it occupied her for a time, and then she noticed Mr. Scott was not altogether comfortable. The Prince was pulling against the bit in a stiff trot that was making a monkey of the young man's memorized method. Helen thought that the riding would be easier for him if Prince William would break into a gallop, and she pushed her mount to a faster pace in order to make the horse break over. Feeling perfectly at ease in her saddle, she unwittingly urged the mare faster and faster in kindly meant effort, till finally the increasing speed became so furious that she was a bit alarmed, and pulled in on her bridle-rein. Horror! the mare was beyond control!
The horses were about neck and neck, with Prince William a nose in the lead and going hard against the snaffle in a trot of such driving speed as the young Mr. Scott had never been taught to negotiate. He was pulling his arms stiff against the smooth bit, but that only steadied the Prince to his work. Helen gave a despairing pull with all her strength, but it did not affect the mare's seeming determination to overcome the Prince's lead. She called to her escort.
"Stop her! I can't hold her, Mr. Scott!"
Mr. Scott tried to reply, but his effort at speech resulted in a stutter which that merciless trot jolted from between his teeth.... He could not help her.... His own emergency was more than he could meet. His right foot had been shaken from its stirrup, and could not regain it. With his right hand he held in grim determination and desperation the cantle of the combative saddle which was treating him so roughly. No, no help from him.
Helen, riding in perfect comfort, though at a frightful pace, looked toward Mr. Scott to see why he gave no aid. She saw his predicament was worse than hers. He had no hand to offer her. He needed both of his, and more.... She remembered her footman and his lifting her from her falling horse,—and wished heartily for him in this crisis. She realized that she must save herself, and with that to reinforce and stiffen her resolution she again pitted her strength and will against those of the headstrong mare. Her heart sank when she thought how near they were coming to "The Leap," and she threw every ounce of will and muscle against the bit, and held it there.
At last, as if with a knowledge of the danger just ahead, the mare slowed down. But the madcap Prince William took a longer chance.
On a little promontory jutting out into the lake the roadway makes a sharp turn at a point some seven or eight feet above the water and almost overhanging it. Helen and her father had facetiously named it "Lover's Leap." Prince William knew as much about that turn as Helen's mare, but he disdained caution. He was a bold and close calculator,—for he made the turn by a hair's-breadth, at top speed.
Not so Mr. Scott. As the horse swung mightily to the left the rider's momentum pried him away from the saddle, and he took the water clear of all obstacles.... Helen, close behind him, but already relieved of fear for herself, felt her heart stop beating when the man went off his horse, for he missed a tree by a dangerously narrow margin. But he picked himself up unhurt out of two feet of water, and clambered up to the driveway, covered with humiliation and the friendly lake mud.
Helen had been too thoroughly frightened to laugh then, but she preserved in memory the picture of "Bobby's stunt," and many a time afterward laughed at it till the tears came. For many moons she could not think of Kipling or "flaunting an iron pride" without an insane impulse to giggle.
Prince William, having caused all the distress, afterward acted very nicely about it. He permitted himself to be caught, and carried Mr. Scott back to Hill-Top in the most manageable and equable of tempers. Mr. Scott himself, however, was in a temper entirely other. Inwardly he was choking with stifled oaths, for in Helen's presence he must needs be decent in speech. He began at once to berate Hayward, but realized before he had finished a sentence that he could not make out a case against him, and he saw disapproval in Helen's face. He gave it over as a situation to which no words were adequate, and the ride home was a strenuous essay at lofty silence.
Helen, despite her rising mirth and her contempt for Bobby's puerile desire to shift the blame for his mishap, had enough pity for him in his miserable plight to suggest that they make a detour and approach home from the rear side and avoid the eyes of the people assembled there. Bobby was grateful for the suggestion. It promised success. That Hayward should see him, he of course expected, and he rode up to the stable-door, dismounted and handed his bridle to the footman with an air of unconcern and assurance befitting a man at ease with himself and in good humour with the world. Hayward regarded him calmly from head to heel, but did not betray his flunkey's role by so much as the tremble of an eyelash. This made Mr. Scott angry. He had expected something different, and had prepared a very dignified reproof.
"Damn that insufferable negro. Why didn't he laugh outright?" he growled as he walked around the house. Helen had run away as soon as she had dismounted in order to save her fast toppling dignity. Mr. Scott's flanking movement was successful and he was almost safe when—he ran plump into Caroline and Tom Radwine on the side porch. Caroline's outburst brought the others to see what the fun was.
"Mis-ter Scott!" she exclaimed. "What kind of a stunt have you been doing? You look comical to kill. Oo—ooh!"
Bobby took on a sickly grin when Caroline's gaze first fell upon him; but when she called him comical it was a serious affair at once, and his face showed it. Dorothy rushed up at that moment.
"Oh, Robert, Robert!" she cried, putting her hand upon his shoulder, "what have you done? Tell me. Are you hurt? Have you been pulling Helen out of the lake?" A glance at Helen answered that question. "Well what, then, you precious boy?"
This was the first time that his older sister had ever complied with Bobby's insistent request that she call him Robert, and he somehow wished she hadn't.
"Oh, Dorothy, have some sense—let me go—I must have on some dry clothes. I took a tumble into the lake—yes—that's all."
"Next time you decide to do that, Mr. Scott, I'll be glad to loan you a bathing-suit." This from Tom Radwine made Bobby mad as a hornet.
"Took a tumble into the lake, you say, Mr. Scott?" asked President Phillips, pushing through the crowd. "How did that happen?"
"I was riding your horse, Prince William, sir, and he was on edge. He spilled me off the drive into the water at that sharp turn a couple of miles up. I had only a snaffle-rein and could not hold him."
"Only a snaffle-rein! Why I would never think of riding that rascal myself without a curb. Hayward," he called to the footman, who was passing, "what kind of carelessness is this?—your sending the Prince to Mr. Scott with only a snaffle-rein? You know very well that brute cannot be controlled without a curb. I'm surprised at you. Such a lack of sense as that is almost criminal. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Don't repeat that performance—see to it you don't!"
As Helen was standing in a yard of her father, Hayward heard this stinging rebuke in unalloyed surprise, but as she made no demur, he saluted when the President was done, and said only:
"Yes, sir; it shall not occur again, sir."
When her father had spoken so sharply to the footman Helen had turned to Mr. Scott, expecting him to exonerate Hayward; but Caroline Whitney's look of genuine sympathy when Mr. Phillips spoke of that brute's being uncontrollable without the curb bribed the bedraggled young man to silence. Helen saw Caroline's glance, and caught the reason for Bobby's lack of candour, but she was disgusted with him.
She was uncomfortable because of the injustice her silence had done, for she was of an eminently fair mind: and she told her father the whole truth of the affair at the first opportunity....
She could not see how Hayward bore himself so composedly under the undeserved rebuke. If he would abase himself thus, would barter his self-respect, would lick the hand that smote him, in order that he might obtain his commission—if he would sell his manhood for it—for anything—he would be contemptible in her sight.... Again the question came: Why was he a footman? She could not remember that he had ever answered it. Oh, yes,—the idea had but just recurred to her—she would readRuy Blas.
So, on a long summer's afternoon she readRuy Blas—read the tale of the love of a flunkey for his Queen: and while, when the idea finally dawned upon her, and she first clearly understood the significance of it all, she was— But let us not detail that.
* * * * *
Helen and Hayward Graham were married on a day in late October.
CHAPTER XXIV
The chronicler of these events is aware that to the readers of this history the bare statement of the fact that Helen and her footman were wed comes as a shock. Nevertheless, it was a plain and straightforward path by which a careless and pitiless Fate had blindly brought Helen to her husband. A girl, treading by chance such a way as has been followed since the world was young by the feet of maidens of high degree who have loved below their station,—among the accidents and incidents of her romance she had come, unwitting, to an open door, an ill-placed door not designed for her passage, a "door of hope for the negro race" which her idolized father had thought to fashion and set wide: and she had passed it through—in reverse.
A secret marriage was not characteristic of Helen's ideas. She was betrayed into that by her warm impulsiveness. She had had a beautiful programme arranged for the fates to follow in. With a heart full of love and of dreams, and with faith in a future that would order itself at her bidding, she had planned the whole course of events that should lead up to a resplendent army wedding after Hayward had won his commission. She never doubted for a moment that all her roseate imaginings would come to pass, and railed upon him that he had not her faith: for Hayward was a doubter. The sheer altitude of his good fortune made him fearful and distrustful.
For the twentieth time she told off to him on her finger-tips the order in which his fortune should ascend.
—"And then, when you are an officer—and famous—you will marry—me."
"But that may never be," the man had answered. "Suppose the Senate should refuse to confirm my nomination? By your condition I should lose the commission and—infinitely more—you. If your love and faith are supreme you will marry me whether I win or lose."
"You shall not doubt my love or faith," Helen exclaimed impetuously. "I will marry you now, and as the President's son-in-law you can the more surely succeed. The Senators would not offer a personal affront to—"
"But I must bring this honour to you, not you to me," Hayward interrupted; "and, besides that, while I willingly, gladly, here and now, surrender all hope of this commission for ever and for ever if only you will marry me now, it is only fair to you for me to remind you that your father would never appoint his own son-in-law to a lieutenancy in the army."
"Oh, bother!" Helen protested. "I have my heart set on being a soldier's wife. Of course Papa couldn't give a commission to one of his family—what was I thinking about.... Well, there's nothing to do but wait, I suppose."
"And it may be an endless wait if the commission is to come first," Hayward reiterated. "It was an awful temptation to silence a moment ago when you said you'd marry me now, but I could not trick you into it, knowing how much you desire that commission."
Helen's mind worked rapidly for half a minute.
"But Iwillmarry you—andnow!" she cried. The girl's romantic spirit was aroused and her spontaneous, unsophisticated feminine ideal of love was in the ascendant. "I willprovemy love and faith. I will marry you now, and you may claim me when you have won your laurels. Let the Senate refuse you a commission if they dare!"
"And would you be willing to trust me to keep that secret?" Hayward asked. "I almost would be afraid to trust myself—I would want to yell it from the housetops! Married to you and not tell it! Why, it would just tell itself to any open-eyed man who looked at me."
"No, no," Helen answered. "I'm willing to trust you. It's a hardship that cannot be avoided, and we must make the best of it."
* * * * *
"And now," Helen had given her husband a last laughing admonition, "since we must be clandestine against our wills, let's be romantic to the last most fiercely orthodox degree. No love-lit glances or conscious looks. You be a perfect footman with that indifferent and superior and high-and-mighty air while you can, for when your bondage actually begins you will never swagger again; and I will be so haughty as almost to spurn your very presence. We must make no foolish attempts at conversation, and when we write must deliver our letters personally into the hand, not trusting even the mails with our secret. And then, when you become an officer we will give the dear people the surprise of their lives. My! won't it be fun to see them! And it may be that when the time comes we will not tell them that we are already married, but will have another ceremony, a brilliant army affair such as I have set my heart on. Wouldn't that be gorgeous!"
"I hardly would have acquaintances enough among the officers to provide my share of the attendants," Hayward answered.
"Oh, yes, you would. You would make then fast enough," the girl replied. "An American army officer has the entrée everywhere—I've heard papa say so a score of times—and, besides, Mr. Humility, I suppose that my friends among the officers would be numerous enough to fill all vacancies."
Hayward saw clearly wherein his wife's forecasts were faulty; but it profited nothing to take issue with her enthusiasms and he gladly joined in them. She was his wife—that could not be changed; and he felt that with that a fact accomplished he reasonably might work for, and hope for, and expect, anything. He returned to his work in the city, therefore, overflowing with happiness and pride. It was not surprising that as a White House footman he was more than ever the subject of notice and comment, for never one carried a perfect physique with such an air. If his confident swing and tread had been the expression of personal vanity, it had been insufferable; but love is not insolent nor its struttings offensive.
Hayward was on good terms with the world. For the first time he accepted the overbearing manner of superiority of white men with complacency and even with amusement. His time was coming—he could wait. He went so far as almost to invite affronts from several negroes of more or less prominence, who had aforetime rebuffed his advances, in order, as it were, to keep their offences in pickle so that their chagrin might be more keen when the day of his elevation should come. He was at particular pains to keep Henry Porter's opposition going, and smiled when he thought how thoroughly he would pay him off in his own coin.
For a few weeks he put himself with buoyant determination to the regular study of his text-books, which he had theretofore read with more or less intermittent interest, and began to lay out plans for the political campaign which would be necessary to bring about the issuing and confirmation of his commission. He arranged with a personal friend, a lawyer in New Hampshire, for the transmission of all correspondence and papers relating to the matter in the name of John H. Graham through this lawyer's hands,—thus to conceal from the President even after the request for the appointment had been made the fact that his footman was the applicant.
The thinking out and arranging of these details and the first rush of his attack upon his military studies engrossed him for a month or more in every moment he was off duty. So closely did he hold himself that Lily Porter reproved him gently for his remissness several times before he made his first call upon her. He was really working very hard—in his leisure hours. He had completely reversed the order of work and diversion. To the one-time monotony of his daily tasks he was now held by the fascination of chance moments of speech—most often conventional, occasionally personal, always delightful—with the radiant young woman his wife, upon whom even to look in silence was enough to send his blood a-leap. Every day from the very first he took time from his work of preparation to write to her.... The habit grew. At first briefly, though always with fervent protestations, and, as the days and weeks ran on, more and more at length and with livening heat did he put his heart-beats in his letters.... The habit grew too fast. By the time that Congress met and the currents of the great capital were in full swing, the forces of Hayward's love had eaten into his ambition's boundaries and the time that he gave to thoughts of Helen, and in seeking variant and worthy phrases in which to indite his passion, more than equalled that in which he worked to earn those things which by her decree should precede possession of her.... It was hard not to stop and think of her. He wrote:
"You disturb me in my work. You ride ruthlessly through the plans of battle and campaign my textbooks show, and make sixes and sevens of them. At sight of you the heaviest lines of battle dissolve into thin air and into mist the fastest fortress falls. At the coming thought of you brigades and armies melt away, and your face stands out a radiant evangel of peace, the very thought even of wars and turbulences dispelling.... What am I to do? I cannot chain myself to study the science of strife when this heavenly vision is calling me—and it is ever calling—to love and love only.... I am fully persuaded there is only one thing worth thinking on in all the earth—and that is you."