"So sweetly she bade me adieu,I thought that she bade me return."
For three days we had been floating down the Great River, and for three days I had kept my word. Mademoiselle had not been annoyed by me; she had hardly seen me. Much to my captain's vexation, I had refused to take my meals with him and mademoiselle, though our cozy table of three had been one of the brightest parts of my dream when I was planning this trip.
It was nearing the supper-hour on the evening of this third day. The men were making ready to tie up for the night (for navigation on the river at night was a dangerous matter), and for the hundredth time I was wishing with all my heart that I had not been so rash as to make that promise to keep out of mademoiselle's way. The vision of a hot supper comfortably served in her warm and cozy cabin was of itself sufficiently enticing, as all my meals since coming aboard had been brought to me in any out-of-the-way corner of the deck, and I had found them but cold comfort. Not that my resolution was weakening,though my captain let no meal-hour pass without doing his best to weaken it, and more than once had brought me a message from mademoiselle herself begging me to join them at table. No; I was as fixed as ever, and, in a way, enjoying my own discomfort, since to pose as a martyr ever brings with it a certain satisfaction which is its own reward.
The weather had been clear and mild up to this time; but this evening an icy sleet was beginning to fall, and I glanced at mademoiselle's cabin window, brightly lighted and eloquent of warmth and dryness, and fetched a great sigh as I looked. A voice at my elbow said:
"Monsieur is sad?—or lonely, perhaps?"
I started, for I had supposed myself entirely alone on that end of the boat—the men all busy with their tying-up preparations forward, and mademoiselle and the captain in the cabin. I lifted my hat and bowed ceremoniously.
"Neither, Mademoiselle."
Mademoiselle hesitated. I saw she felt repulsed, and I secretly gloried in her embarrassment. Neither would I help her out by adding another word; I waited for what she might say further.
"Monsieur," she said presently, "you have shown me much kindness in the past, and done me great service. I would like to have you know that I am not ungrateful."
"I do not desire your gratitude, Mademoiselle," I said coldly (though it hurt me to speak so when she was so evidently trying to be friendly with me)."No gentleman could have done less, even if he were not a French gentleman."
The light from her cabin window fell full upon her. I could see that she colored quickly at my retort, and half started to go away, but turned back again.
"Monsieur," she said earnestly, "I have a very humble apology to make to you. I hope you will forgive me for my rude and wicked speech. I was beside myself with sorrow at the thought of being so suddenly torn from my friends, and for the time nothing else weighed with me, not even that you had just saved my life at the peril of your own. Ah, how could I have been so base! I wonder not that you will not even look at so mean a creature, and you do well to shun her as if she were vile."
No man could have resisted her sweet humility. For a moment all my anger melted.
"Mademoiselle, do not apologize to me!" I cried. "If there are any apologies to be made, it is I who should make them for not knowing how to understand and appreciate what you felt."
A quick radiance sprang into her eyes, and with a childlike abandon she extended both her hands to me.
"Then you forgive me?" she cried.
I took one hand and held it in both mine, and as I bent my knee I lifted it to my lips.
"If I am forgiven, my Queen," I answered softly.
Her dark eyes, tender and glorious, looked down into mine. For a moment I forgot she was a great lady in France; to me she was only the most bewitching and adorable maiden in the wide world. She was wearinga heavy capote to shield her from the weather, but the hood had fallen slightly back, and the falling sleet had spangled the little fringe of curls about her face with diamonds that sparkled in the candle-shine, but were not half so bright as her starry eyes. I could have knelt forever on the icy deck if I might have gazed forever into their heavenly depths. But in a minute she let the white lids fall over them.
"Rise, Monsieur," she said gently. "You are forgiven, but on one condition."
"Name it, my Queen!" And I rose to my feet, but still held her hand. "No condition can be too hard."
"That you come to supper with us to-night, and to every meal while I am on your boat."
The condition fetched me back to earth with a shock. I remembered all the cause, and I answered moodily:
"My word has been given, Mademoiselle; I cannot go back on my word."
"Your word was given to me, and I absolve you from it," she said.
"But in the presence of others," I objected. "I am bound by it, unless I be shamed before them."
"Only your captain is here," she said, still gently; "and he, too, urges it."
But still I was obdurate. Then at last she drew away her hand and lifted her head proudly.
"Your Queen commands you!" she said haughtily, and turned and walked away. Yet she walked but slowly. Perhaps she thought I would overtake her, or call her back and tell her I had yielded. But Iwas still fighting with my stubborn pride, and let her go. I watched her close her cabin door, then for five minutes I strode rapidly up and down, the slippery deck.
"Your Queen commands you!" I thrilled at her words. My Queen! Yes, but only if I were her king. Now that I was away from her, and her glowing eyes were not melting my heart to softest wax, I was resolved never again to submit to her tyranny and caprice. I would go to supper, because she commanded it; but I would never for a moment forget that she was a great lady of France, and I a proud citizen of America—too proud to woo where I could only meet with scorn.
So I went to my cabin and made a careful toilet, and when Yorke came to call me to supper, I presented myself in mademoiselle's cabin. I had not been in it since she had come aboard, and, though I had carefully planned and arranged every detail of it for her comfort, I would not have known it for the same place. What she had done to it I know not; a touch here, a touch there, such as women's fingers know how to give, and the bare and rough boat's cabin had become a dainty little boudoir. The round table, draped in snowy linen, with places set for three; the silver and glass shining in the rays from two tall candles; Yorke and mademoiselle's maid Clotilde bringing in each a smoking dish to set upon it; and mademoiselle standing beside it like the glowing heart of a ruby, her dark beauty well set off by a gown of crimson paduasoy, with rich lace through which the gracefulneck and rounded arms gleamed white and soft: it all looked to me like a picture from one of Master Titian's canvases, and I could hardly believe that if I should look through the closely drawn curtains I would see the rough and dirty decks of our barge, and, beyond, the dark forest of the Illinois shore, where even now hostile savages might be lurking, ready to spring upon us with blood-curdling yells.
The captain was already there, chatting gaily with mademoiselle as I came in, and he had the delicacy to make his greeting of me as natural and unsurprised as if I had never been absent from the little board, while mademoiselle added a touch of gracious cordiality to hers.
I was on my mettle. Determined that never again, even to herself, should she call me a boy, I summoned to my aid all thesavoir-faireI could command. I was (at least, in my own estimation, and I hoped also in hers) the elegant man of the world, discoursing at ease on every fashionable topic, and, to my own amazement, parrying every thrust of her keen repartee, and sometimes sending her as keen in return. I think the situation had gone to my head. Certainly I had never before thought myself a brilliant fellow, but when I rose to make my bow to mademoiselle (and it was indeed a very grand one), I hoped that even in her mind I would not suffer by comparison with any French gentleman, no, though it were the chevalier himself.
I did not see mademoiselle again until the midday meal next day; for all the morning I was busy withthe men, making the difficult and dangerous turn from the Great River into the Ohio, past Fort Massac. Once in the Ohio, there was no surcease from hard work—poling, paddling, or cordelling, sometimes all three together, to climb the rushing stream.
Punctually at the noon-hour I presented myself at table, and again at supper, and my good star did not desert me. Quip and repartee and merry tale and polished phrase were all at my tongue's end, and no one could have been more amazed than I at my own brilliancy.
But I lingered not a moment after the meal was over, and I never saw mademoiselle between times. If she came out to take the air on deck, I was hard at work with the men, sometimes taking my turn at paddling, sometimes, though not often, at poling; but our crew of French Canadians were better at that than I. Indeed, there are no such fellows in the world for navigating these dangerous Western waters.
The weather had grown mild, and often in the evening I envied Yorke (who had straightway, of course, made desperate love to Clotilde, who was old enough to be his mother), sitting in the bow of the boat and thrumming his banjo lightly as he sang her some creole love-song he had picked up in St. Louis.
Our trip was fast drawing to a close. The last evening on the river had arrived. We would tie up one more night; all hands at the cordelle and the poles, we would reach Mrs. O'Fallon's by noon, in time for dinner. I had determined not to linger there at all. I should go on, the same afternoon, to my uncle'splantation, not many miles away, and the next day start for the East. I had told mademoiselle I would say good-by to her forever when we reached Mrs. O'Fallon's, but in my own mind I was saying good-by to her now. It had been for several days that I had felt the weight of this approaching hour, and my brilliance had gradually departed. I had grown duller and quieter at each succeeding meal, and mademoiselle, too, had grown quieter (she could never be dull). Sometimes I fancied she looked sad, and once I was sure I recognized the trace of tears in her beautiful eyes. There was nothing strange in that; it would have been strange indeed if she could have left home and friends, and started on a long and dangerous journey (with no companion but the faithful negro woman who had been nurse and lady's-maid and trusted friend for ten long years, but who was still but servant and slave), and had not often been overcome with sadness. Indeed, there were times, when she was merriest at the table, when I had mentally accused her of heartlessness as I thought of the two fond old people mourning for her in Émigré's Retreat. So, though I would have liked to attribute some of mademoiselle's sadness to an approaching separation, I had no grounds for so doing, and I scoffed at myself for the attempt.
That last night at supper I made a desperate effort to be my gayest, but it was uphill work, and the more so because neither the captain nor mademoiselle seconded my efforts with any heartiness; so when supper was ended, feeling that the hour had at last come, Istood as mademoiselle rose from her seat, and instead of excusing myself at once, as had been my custom, I lingered.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "we have had our last meal aboard together (God prospering our voyage), and I desire to thank you for your courtesy, and to say to you that whatever there may have been in our intercourse during our brief acquaintance not pleasant to either of us to hold in remembrance, I hope you will banish it from your memory, as I shall from mine. I shall think of these weeks always as among the brightest of my life, and perhaps, had I been a chevalier of France instead of an American boy, I should not so easily have said good-by to the Rose of St. Louis; it would have been au revoir instead!"
I was standing as I said it all formally, with the air of one making pretty compliments: for I did not wish mademoiselle to know how every word was from the depths of my heart; nor would I have lightly betrayed myself before my captain, who was not apparently listening, but had turned to give some instructions to Yorke.
Mademoiselle's color came and went as I spoke. She did not answer me for a moment, and when she did it was in a low tone, and she seemed to speak with effort:
"Monsieur, you are ungenerous! You will never forgive my unhappy speech. Permit me to say you have taught me that a chevalier of France may be outshone by an American gentleman in bravery, manliness, truth, and honor—in every virtue except thedoubtful one of knowing how to utter pleasant insincerities to us maidens. And I will not say good-by. Am I not to see you again?"
"I will certainly see you in the morning, Mademoiselle, but there may be no time for more than a word, and so I take this opportunity to say good-by."
"I will not say good-by, Monsieur"—with the old wilful toss of the head. "I will tell your captain he is not to let you go back to Philadelphia so soon. But no matter where you go, I will never say good-by; it shall always be au revoir."
She smiled up at me with such bewitching grace that perforce I smiled back at her, and if she had but asked me this evening, as she had on many others, to linger in her cozy cabin for a game of piquet, I would not have had the courage to say no. But she did not ask me, and, much as I longed to stay, there was nothing for me to do but to pick up my hat and say, with the best grace I could:
"I thank you with all my heart, Mademoiselle, and, for to-night at least, au revoir!"
An hour later my captain and I were leaning on the rail in the stern of the boat, looking up at the tree-crowned bluffs standing dark against the moonlight and listening to the soft lapping of the water against the boat's sides. We did not realize that we were hidden by a great pile of peltries, as high as our heads, which Captain Clarke was taking back to Kentucky with him to sell on commission for Pierre Chouteau, until we heard voices. Mademoiselle and Clotilde had evidently found a seat on the other side of the pile ofpelts, and mademoiselle was speaking in plaintive tone:
"And they would not let me bring Leon with me! He at least would have loved me and been a companion and protector when all the world forsake me."
Then Clotilde's rich negro voice:
"Mademoiselle, I find out why they not let you bring Leon. Mr. Yorke tell me last night. Leon shot, the night before we come away."
There was a heartrending cry, and then a torrent of swift French:
"Leon shot! My Leon! Why have they not told me? Oh, the villains! Who shot him, Clotilde? My poor angel! My Leon! No one left to love your poor mistress!" And much more that I cannot recall, I was so excited and angry that that rascal Yorke should have caused her such needless pain. But every word of Clotilde's next speech was graven on my heart as with a knife of fire.
"Mr. Yorke say they all hear the shot, and they all run out to see what the matter, and there stood the lieutenant with pistol in his hand, and Yorke say he don'thinkhe shoot him, but—"
Clotilde had no chance to say another word.
"Shoot my Leon! He! Ah, I could not have believed such baseness! He never forgave him for throwing him down-stairs! His last act before leaving Émigré's Retreat! Oh, mon Dieu, what perfidy! What a monster!"
And every word was so interrupted with sighs and moans and sobs as would have melted a heart of stone.
As for me, I was nearly turned to stone, such horror did I feel that she should think me guilty of so base a deed. I had no thought of acting in my self-defense, but my captain started up at once with a quick exclamation, and, seizing my arm, dragged me around the pile of pelts. There was mademoiselle, seated on a low bundle of them, weeping as if her heart would break, and Clotilde trying in vain to stay the torrent she had set loose.
"Mademoiselle," said the captain, quickly, "there has been some terrible mistake. It was the chevalier who shot Leon; it was this lad" (laying his arm affectionately across my shoulders) "who saved his life."
Now half the joy of this speech to me was taken out of it by the captain's way of treating me as a boy—I think the captain never thought of me in any other light; and I made up my mind on the instant that I should seize the very first opportunity to beg him, at least in mademoiselle's presence, to treat me as a man.
But mademoiselle was so concerned with the matter of the captain's speech, she paid no heed to its manner; and it chagrined me not a little that her first thought was for Leon, and not that I was innocent.
"Saved his life!" she cried. "Is my Leon alive?"
"He is, Mademoiselle," I said coldly, "and I have every reason to believe he is doing well. My 'last act' before leaving Émigré's Retreat was to visit him in Narcisse's cabin. I renewed his dressing, and left minute instructions as to his care. We had thought to spare you this anxiety, Mademoiselle, but two blundering servants have undone our plans."
"Ah, Monsieur," cried mademoiselle, impetuously, springing to her feet and extending both her hands to me in her pretty French fashion, "how unjust I have been to you! How can I ever thank you enough for your care of my poor Leon? Your last act in the cold and dark of the early morning, and the hurry of departure, to see that my Leon was taken care of, and I have accused you of making it one of base revenge! Ah, Monsieur, can you ever forgive me?" half whispering.
I had taken her hands and was holding them as I looked down into her radiant eyes. I bent low and kissed them both, first one and then the other, as I said (very low, so that the captain and Clotilde should not hear):
"Mademoiselle, I can forgive you everything."
But I needed not to speak so low, for when I lifted my head the captain and Clotilde had both disappeared. And whither they had gone, or why, I neither knew nor cared. For now a mad intoxication seized me. This was the last evening I should ever spend with mademoiselle in this world; why should I not enjoy it to the full? For the hundredth time we had had our misunderstanding and it had cleared away; now there should be no more misunderstandings, no more coldness, nothing but joy in the warm sunshine of her smiles.
So I begged her once more to be seated and to atone for all that was unkind in the past by letting me talk to her. There could have been no better place, outside of her cozy cabin, for this long-dreamed-of tête-à-tête,which now at last was to have a realization, than this she had herself chosen. The pile of pelts at her back kept off the east wind, the young moon in the west shone full upon her face, so that I could feast my eyes upon its glorious beauty (for the last time, I said to myself) and interpret every changing expression.
And yet, just at first, I was afraid I was going to be disappointed, after all. Mademoiselle was embarrassed and constrained, and it was I—I, the gauche and unsophisticated "boy"—who had to gently disarm her fears and lead her back to her bright and natural way. And this is how I did it. Mademoiselle had seated herself at my request, almost awkwardly, if awkwardness were possible to her, so much afraid was she she was not doing quite the proper thing.
"I cannot imagine what has become of Clotilde," she said nervously. "I did not send her away."
"I think she has gone to find Yorke and set him right about Leon," I answered, smiling.
She smiled slightly in return, but still with some embarrassment.
"Mademoiselle," I said, "have you observed that Yorke has been making himself very agreeable to Clotilde?"
"What folly!" she exclaimed. "Clotilde is an old woman. I spoke to her about it quite seriously to-day."
"And what did she say, Mademoiselle?"
"She said that she found Yorke most entertaining. 'One must be amused,' were her words, and she made me feel very young with her worldly wisdom. 'Wedo not contemplate matrimony, Mam'selle, but Mr. Yorke and I both think there may be an affinity of spirit, regardless of difference in age'! I was amazed at her philosophical attitude."
"How did you reply to her, Mademoiselle?"
"She quite took my breath away, but I only said, 'Clotilde, you will oblige me by seeing as little as possible of Yorke on the remainder of the trip.' I had fully intended to keep her with me this evening, and now she has slipped away. I think I ought to go and find her," half rising as she spoke.
"By no means," I answered quickly. "Indeed, I am quite on Clotilde's side."
"On Clotilde's side! Impossible, Monsieur! Such arrant nonsense!"
All this time I had been standing, for from a maidenly shyness (rather new in her, and which I liked) she would not ask me to sit beside her, and there was no other seat. Now I said:
"Mademoiselle, if you will permit me to share your bundle of pelts, I believe I can prove to you that it is not such arrant nonsense, after all."
"Certainly, Monsieur," a little stiffly; "I am sorry to have kept you standing so long."
She drew her skirts a little aside, and I sat down, quite at the other end of the bundle of pelts, but nearer to her than I had been in many long days. Then, in a purposely didactic and argumentative way, I cited to her all the instances in history I could think of, winding up with Cleopatra and Ninon de l'Enclos, until by entering into the argument she had entirelyforgotten herself and her embarrassment. Then suddenly into a little break in our conversation there came the clear whinny of Fatima. She was on the other boat, tied close to ours, and as we were in the stern and she in the bow, she had no doubt heard her master's voice and was calling him. I was greatly tempted to call her by the whistle she knew, but I did not quite dare. She would have broken all possible bounds to come to me in answer to that whistle, and I would not have been surprised to see her clear the space between the two boats.
"That was Fatima," mademoiselle said, and sighed a little.
"Yes," I said, "and I think I could tell what your sigh meant."
"Did I sigh?"
"Yes, and it meant, 'I wish it were Leon.'"
"Yes," she said; "I was thinking how much Fatima loves you, and Leon, too, as soon as he was able to forgive your disgracing him so. I think all dogs and horses love you, Monsieur."
"That is because I love them, Mademoiselle."
"Does love always beget love?"
"Not always, Mademoiselle; sometimes it begets scorn."
"Then I suppose the love dies?"
"No, Mademoiselle; unhappily, it but grows the stronger."
"That is folly, is it not?"
"Mademoiselle, if you will allow me to be a philosopher like Clotilde—love has no regard for sense or wisdom,else would Yorke love one of his own age, and I would love one of my own country and my own rank."
She said not a word for a long time, but sat with downcast eyes. Suddenly she lifted them, and they shone with a softer radiance than I had ever seen in them before.
"Of what were you thinking, Mademoiselle?" I said gently.
She hesitated a moment, and then like the soft sigh of a zephyr came her words:
"I was wishing you were a chevalier of France."
"And I, Mademoiselle, was wishing you were a maiden of St. Louis, as I supposed you were when I first saw you."
"I would not have been of your country, even then," she said, with delicious shyness, half looking at me, half looking away in pretty confusion.
"Not now, but you soon would be. St. Louis will belong to us some day."
"Never!" She spoke in hot haste, all the patriot firing within her, and looking full at me with flashing eyes. "St. Louis will be French some day, as it used to be, I believe with all my heart; but American,never!"
"Mademoiselle, we had a wager once. Shall we have one more?"
"Is it that St. Louis will one day be American?"
"Yes."
"I am very willing to wager on that, for it is a certainty for me. What shall be the stakes?"
"Mademoiselle, they would be very high."
"I am not afraid."
I thought for a moment, and then I shook my head.
"Mademoiselle, I dare not. I am sure St. Louis will one day be ours, but the time may be long, and by that day the worst may have happened. You may have found your chevalier of France."
She looked up at me in a quick, startled way, which changed gradually to her old proud look.
"Monsieur, I know not what stakes you had in mind, but this I know: if 'twere a lady's hand it were unworthy you and her. A lady's hand is for the winning by deeds of prowess or by proof of worth, not by betting for it as though 'twere a horse or a pile of louis d'or."
"Mademoiselle," I cried in an agony of shame, "forgive me, I beg. Forgive a poor wretch who saw no chance of winning by prowess or worth, and who was so desperate that he would clutch at any straw to help him win his heart's desire."
Her look softened at once, and when she spoke again 'twas in her gentlest tones.
"Monsieur," she said, "to-morrow we part, and it would seem there is but little chance that we shall see each other again in this world. Fate has placed our lots on different continents, with wide seas between. But for to-night let us forget that. Let us think we are to meet every day, as we have met in these weeks, and let us have a happy memory of this last evening to cherish always."
I could not speak for a moment. Her voice, its sweet tones breaking a little at the last, unmanned me.I turned away my head, for I would not let her see the workings of my face, nor my wet eyes, lest she think me boyish again. It was the sealing of my doom, but I had known it always. And there was a drop of sweet amid the bitter that I had never dared hope for. She, too, was sad—then she must care a little. In a minute I was able to turn toward her again and speak in a firm, low voice.
"You are right, Mademoiselle; we will be happy to-night. Come," I said, rising and extending my hand to her, "let us go watch the revelers on the other boat; they, at least, are troubled by no useless regrets."
She put her hand in mine, and we went back by the stern rail and stood watching the scene below us.
A plank had been thrown from one boat to the other to make easy communication, and the crew of our boat, with the exception of the two left always on guard, had crossed over. They had cleared a space for dancing, and lighted it by great pine-knots cut from the forest close by. Yorke, set high on a pile of forage with his beloved banjo, was playing such music as put springs into their heels. Canadians and negroes were all dancing together—the Frenchmen with graceful agility, the negroes more clumsily, even grotesquely, but with a rhythm that proved their musical ear. Clotilde and a negress cook were the only women, and greatly in demand by both Frenchmen and negroes. Clotilde rather scorned partners of her own color, and was choosing only the best-looking and the best dancers of the white men, with a caprice worthy of her mistress, I thought, and probably in imitationof her. Yorke did not seem to mind, but with the gayest good humor called out the figures as he played. Suddenly, as he wound up the last figure with a grand flourish, he beckoned to a little Canadian who had been specially agile in the dance, and they held a whispered consultation. Then Yorke resigned his banjo to him, and, leaping down into the middle of the floor, seized Clotilde about the waist without so much as saying "By your leave," and shouted:
"Choose partners for a waltz!"
Consternation followed, for not more than half a dozen had ever seen the new French dance. But when the little Canadian started up with his witchingtrois-temps, Yorke and Clotilde glided off rhythmically to its strains, the half-dozen followed, more or less skilfully, and the rest stood round gazing in respectful admiration.
Now I had learned the waltz at home in Philadelphia, but it had never been danced at the St. Louis parties, and I knew not whether mademoiselle knew the step or not. Yet was I seized with a great desire to follow Yorke's example.
"Mademoiselle," I said timidly, "why cannot we have a dance here? See, there is a clear space on the deck, and the music is good."
"I waltz but poorly, Monsieur," she answered, looking up at me with a bright blush. "Madame Saugrain taught me the step, but I have practised it but little."
"Then we will be the better matched," I answered gaily. But when I had put my arm around her waist,and one of her beautiful hands rested on my shoulder, and I held the other in my firm clasp, I was seized with such trembling at my boldness in daring to hold her so near that almost my feet refused to move. Yet as soon as we were both gliding to the Canadian's music there was no longer any fear in my heart, only a great longing that the music might never cease and that we could go on forever circling to its strains. Wild thoughts whirled in my brain. Why need mademoiselle go back to Paris? I believed, as I bent my head and looked into her dark eyes uplifted to mine, that only a little persuasion would be needed to make her give it all up. And I said to myself, "I will try."
But the music stopped. Mademoiselle gently withdrew herself from my encircling arm, and suddenly cold reason returned. How could I dream of betraying Dr. Saugrain's trust! How could I think of persuading her to relinquish the glories awaiting her for me! And, most of all, how could I dare to think she could be persuaded!
Mademoiselle had thrown off her capote before beginning to dance; I picked it up and put it around her, and led her back to her seat on the pelts. But she would not sit down.
"No, Monsieur," she said; "our evening is over. I am going to my cabin. Will you send for Clotilde and tell her that I want her?"
"Mademoiselle! Mademoiselle!" I cried, my heart in my mouth to beg her not to leave me without one word of hope. But then I stopped. It was all over; the world had come to an end.
"It is good-by, then, Mademoiselle?" I said steadily, and holding out my hand to her.
"No, Monsieur," she said, with that voice that from the first time I heard it had ever seemed to me the sweetest in the world. "'Tisau revoir—toujours, toujours au revoir!"
I watched her close her cabin door and turned back to my place by the rail, black despair in my heart, but just one little ray of hope brightening it—her courageousau revoir. Over the plank came Yorke and Clotilde, and strolled slowly up the deck together, Yorke thrumming his banjo and singing a creole love-song he had learned in St. Louis:
"Tous les printempsTan' de nouvelles,Tous les amantsChangent de maîtresses.Qu'ils changent qui voudront,Pour moi, je garde la mienne."
"Tous les printempsTan' de nouvelles,Tous les amantsChangent de maîtresses.Qu'ils changent qui voudront,Pour moi, je garde la mienne."
Insensibly my heart lightened. "Pour moi, je garde la mienne," I said aloud, and added in a whisper:
"Yes—though I must first win her, and win I will!"
"While memory watches o'er the sad reviewOf joys that faded like the morning dew."
It was a busy morning that followed—no time for idle thoughts or vain regrets. If we were to dine with Mrs. O'Fallon at Mulberry Hill, all hands must work hard.
A line of ten men with the cordelle was attached to each boat to pull it up the stream, and at the same time ten more on each boat planted the great pole at the bow, and then, pushing on it, walked back to the stern, lifted it out of the soft mud, carried it forward to the bow, planted it again in the mud, and, pushing mightily, again walked back to the stern. In this way we made great progress. We moved as fast as the ten men on shore carrying the cordelle could walk, and the men at the pole lightened their load so greatly, they were able to walk at a good round pace.
So it was not yet quite noon when the white walls of Mulberry House came in view, the blue smoke curling from its chimneys giving promise of good cheer awaiting us. The men at the cordelle walked faster, the men at the pole pushed harder, and, there being herea chance to use them, two great sweep-oars were fastened in the rowlocks, and, four men at each oar, we went forward at such a gait that the water curled back from our prow in two foaming streams, and before many minutes we were running our nose into the bank at the foot of Mulberry Hill.
Down the bank came a long line of men and boys, chiefly negroes, shouting in every key, and running to catch the ropes our crew were throwing them, and tying us fast to big stumps left standing on the bank for that purpose.
Foremost to step foot on board was young John O'Fallon, running first to greet his uncle William, whom next to his uncle General Clarke he thought the greatest man on earth, and then coming to greet me, whom he called "cousin" in his kindly Southern fashion, for I could not claim to be kin. He was a bright, engaging lad of twelve or thirteen, "with the manners of a chevalier of France," I said laughingly to mademoiselle, when my captain was bringing him up to present to her. She was greatly taken with him at once, and as for him, 'twas a case of love at first sight, and he took full possession of her, giving me small chance to help her off the boat or up the hill.
At the top of the hill, Aunt Fanny, as his mother always insisted I should call her, was waiting for us. She kissed me on each cheek and called me "my boy" in a manner that made me feel very young indeed. Much as I loved her, I could have wished that in mademoiselle's presence she had treated me as one too old for such gracious liberties. But mademoiselle seemednot to notice her greeting to me; she had eyes only for the beautiful and charming woman and her manly little son. Indeed, I felt so much left out in the cold (for, after the manner of women, the two instantly made violent love to each other) that I was not sorry to find letters awaiting me from my uncle, inclosing letters from home that required my instant attention. When I had read them I knew not whether to be sorry or glad. I had fully intended to make no stay at all at Mulberry Hill, but go on at once to my uncle's; but now that there was no chance left me,—that marching orders I dared not disobey ordered me East at once,—I realized that lurking in the depths of my heart had been a secret hope that something would happen to delay me longer in mademoiselle's society.
I was at once busy with preparations for a more hasty departure than I had expected, so that I saw neither Mrs. O'Fallon nor mademoiselle again until we were seated at the long table in the great dining-room overlooking the river, which here makes a wide and graceful sweep to the south. The warm winter sun was flooding the room through its many windows, lighting up the table with its brave show of silver and glass and snowy linen, and by its cheery glow warming all hearts and setting all tongues free, so that there was a pleasant confusion of talk, such as a hostess dearly loves. It was a bright and happy scene, and every face was smiling and every heart was gay save one; for I could not hope that mademoiselle's bright smile and beaming glance disguised another aching heart.
I was seated at Mrs. O'Fallon's left hand; a Mr. Thruston, whom I had never met, but who was evidently paying earnest court to the charming widow, was on her right; and mademoiselle was almost at the other end of the long table, between Captain Clarke and young John—about as far from me as possible, which, since it was to be our last meal together, I felt to be a distinct grievance. But as no one was to blame but Aunt Fanny, and she had set me beside her to do me honor, I could not well find fault.
It was in response to her asking me to show some little courtesy to Mr. Thruston after dinner (I do not now recall what) that I told her I must set out on my journey as soon after dinner as I could start. Her short, sharp exclamation of surprise and displeasure caught the attention of all the table.
"Brother William, do you hear that?" she called to my captain. "Our kinsman leaves us immediately."
Aunt Fanny spoke with her knife poised in air. A noble great bird, a wild turkey, was on the platter before her, oozing a rich brown gravy from every pore. With a deftness I have never seen equaled, she had been separating joints and carving great slices of the rich dark meat, sending savory odors steaming up into my nostrils. Now, as she paused in her work to make her announcement, there arose instantly a chorus of remonstrances, loudest from young John and his younger brother Ben. I answered them modestly, I hoped, looking at everybody except mademoiselle, who yet, I saw distinctly, turned very pale, then red, then pale again.
I addressed myself directly to Captain Clarke:
"My uncle has forwarded me letters from home, requiring my presence there as shortly as possible. The letters do not enlighten me as to the reasons for haste, and I am naturally beset with some misgivings, but I hope all is well with my family."
My captain smiled inscrutably.
"Set your anxieties at rest, my lad. I also found a letter awaiting me from your father. It explains the reasons for haste, but wishes them kept from you for the present; but they are of the most agreeable nature, and all is well at home."
I was greatly relieved, and so expressed myself.
"But why start immediately?" my captain continued. "You will have to wait for a boat, and the waiting had best be done here."
"I have found one, sir," I answered. "It is expected up the river this afternoon, and goes as far as Clarksville. My instructions are to go by way of Washington, and call on Mr. Jefferson, so nothing could suit me better, for I find the road from Clarksville to Washington is comparatively short, and the boat is a small keel-boat and likely to make good time."
"Well, well!" said my captain, pleasantly, "you must have been hard at work to find out all this between landing and dinner; but I know the reasons for haste are imperative, and you are quite right to set off at once."
Then suddenly mademoiselle spoke up:
"Mon Capitaine, if monsieur is going just where I must go, why do not I and Clotilde go with him?"
There was a moment's embarrassing silence, andthen I, feeling the silence unbearable and a great discourtesy to mademoiselle, answered her.
"Mademoiselle, nothing could give me greater pleasure if my captain and Aunt Fanny think it could be arranged. But I fear the route would be a hard one for a lady's traveling, since the boat goes only to Clarksville, and from there to Washington there is but a bridle-path, and a very rough one."
Then everybody broke forth at once, volubly:
"Oh, no, no, no! We cannot think of letting you go!"
"Indeed, miss," said Aunt Fanny, in her pretty imperious way, "you may think yourself fortunate if you get away from here any time in the next two months. We do not get hold of a lovely young lady visitor very often, and when we do we mean to keep her as long as we can. And here is my son John over head and ears in love." (Young John blushed like a peony.) "Would you break his heart, madam? And Ben is no better" (for Ben had been slyly laughing at his brother's discomfiture, but now looked very silly indeed as he took his share of his mother's tongue-lash). "You will be having my family at loggerheads if you stay, no doubt, but stay you must, for now that we have once seen you, there is no living without you."
Mademoiselle took the speech adorably (as I knew she would, though I doubt whether she understood half of it), smiling and blushing, and saying in her pretty baby-English that they were very good to her, and she would not break "Meester Jean's" heart, no,nor "Meester Ben's"; she would stay with "dear madame."
If I did not thereupon fetch a long and deep sigh from the very bottom of my boots, it was not because it was not there to fetch, as I thought of all I was missing in not spending a happy two months with mademoiselle under Aunt Fanny's delightful roof.
But I had short time to indulge vain regrets. We were in the midst of dessert, a huge bowl of steaming punch brewed by Aunt Fanny before our eyes, and a great Christmas cake, which she said she had saved for our home-coming, when a small negro burst open the door in great excitement.
"Hi, Miss Fanny, she's comin'!"
"Who's coming, Scipio? And where are your manners? Go tell your mother if she doesn't teach you how to come into a room properly, I will have to take you in hand."
It was a terrible threat, and had been many times employed—always successfully, for "Miss Fanny" never did "take in hand" the small darkies, and so, having no notion of what taking in hand might mean, all the terrors of mystery were added to their fears. Young Scipio was greatly abashed, and pulled his forelock respectfully as he answered Mrs. O'Fallon's question.
"It's de boat, missus; she's comin' roun' de ben'."
In a moment all was confusion. There was no time to be lost. Yorke was despatched to get together my belongings, see that they were carried to the landing,and himself lead Fatima down the bank and on to the boat; for to no other would I trust my beauty. The boat by this time had nearly reached the landing, and there was a hurry of good-bys, Aunt Fanny shedding tears of vexation that my visit should be so short, and calling me her "dear boy," and kissing me and scolding me in one breath.
She and mademoiselle walked as far as the top of the bluff with me (I would not let them come farther, for the bank was steep and muddy), and then I said my good-by to mademoiselle. I raised her hand to my lips as I said it, and she looked straight into my eyes with eyes that shone with something brighter than smiles as she answered:
"Au revoir, monsieur!"
The captain of the keel-boat was shouting to us to make haste, and there was no time for another word; and I was glad to have it so, for another word might have made me indeed the boy Aunt Fanny was always calling me.
The two boys, Mr. Thruston, and my captain went down to the boat with me (which proved to be a more comfortable one than I had dared to hope for), and Fatima having been coaxed aboard and quarters found for her in a warm shed, and my captain pressing my hand with an affectionate "Good-by, dear lad," that was once more near to my undoing, we were untied, and the men at the poles pushed hard and walked rapidly back to the stern, and the men at the cordelle pulled all together, with a long-drawn "Heave, ho, heave!" and we were off.
I stood in the stern watching the two figures on the bluff until one of them went away and there was only one, slender and of but little stature, with soft dark curls, and eyes whose tender glow I could feel long after the figure was but one indistinct blur, with a white hand waving farewell.
Then came another bend in the river and shut her from my sight. And there was naught left to me of Mademoiselle Pelagie but a memory of tears and smiles; of hard words and gentle ones; of cold looks and kind ones; of alternate hopes and fears on my side; of scorning and—yes, I believed it with all my heart—of scorning and loving on hers.
"Statesman, yet friend to truth! of soul sincere,In action faithful, and in honour clear."
"What, Fatima! You refuse?"
I dismounted and led her carefully down the steep bank and on to the ferry-boat. She followed me very willingly, but I stood with my arm over her glossy neck, for I saw she eyed the water distrustfully, and while I had no fear of her being disobedient to my word of command, I knew it would comfort her to feel my arm about her neck. She neighed her appreciation, and gently rubbed her nostrils against my side, ever a token of affection with her. When the boat began to move, the two stalwart negroes pulling at their great oars and chanting dismally in time to their pulling, Fatima again showed signs of excitement, but I easily quieted her, and then I had leisure to use my eyes.
This crossing the Potomac to Washington reminded me vividly of crossing the Mississippi to St. Louis more than three months before. Nor did the capital look more impressive at this distance than the village of St. Louis. Both were embowered in trees, and, but for the two imposing white buildings,—the President'sPalace and the Capitol,—Washington was much the less prepossessing village of the two, and I thought how much more worthy was our own city of Philadelphia to be the capital of the nation.
Indeed, when I had led Fatima off the ferry, she sank over her fetlocks in mud, and I had to lead her some distance before I found ground firm enough to warrant my mounting her, lest my weight should make the poor creature flounder hopelessly in the mire.
I bore in my pocket a letter from Captain Clarke introducing me to Mr. Meriwether Lewis, which he had written at Mulberry Hill, after the boat that was to bear me away was in sight, and also an address he had given me of a respectable innkeeper where I might find lodging. The inn was my first quest, and that once found and a suitable toilet made, I was eager to present my letter of introduction, and, if chance favored me, meet the President also.
It was still early, and the road I found myself upon (for it could not be called a street, since there were no pavements and only at long intervals a house) was filled with a well-dressed throng all wending their way in one direction. It seemed to me too early an hour for gentlemen to be seeking a place of amusement, and too late and the throng too generally well dressed to be on their way to business. Some were in coaches, with coachmen in livery on the box and footmen standing up behind, and some were on horseback and some on foot, but all, or nearly all, were wearing silk stockings and fine ruffled shirts and carefully powdered queues and shining shoe-buckles.
A little stretch of brick sidewalk gave an air of distinction to a solidly built two-story house with sloping roof and dormer-windows, and in front of the house, on a stool planted on the curb, sat an old negro, bandy-legged, with snowy wool, industriously polishing a row of shoes neatly arranged in front of him, and crooning happily a plantation melody as he worked. I drew Fatima to the curb.
"Good morning, uncle," I said as the negro slowly lifted his head, bowed over his brush. "Can you tell me who all these people are and where they are going?"
"Mohnen, marsa," the negro returned politely, and then looked at me with round-eyed astonishment. "Yo' dunno whar they's gwine? Why, sah, dey's de Senatahs and Represenatahs, sah, and dey gwine to de Cap'tul, sah."
Of course! It was very stupid of me not to have thought of it. The negro evidently thought so, too, but a sudden excuse suggested itself to him.
"Mought yo' be a stranger in Washington, sah?" with a glance of such undisguised pity for any barbarian who did not know the capital that I felt myself coloring, and to recover my self-respect assured him that I had set foot in this "domtiferous" mud-hole for the first time just fifteen minutes before.
He was greatly impressed with my emphatic word, and addressed me with much-increased respect.
"Den, sah, if I might be so libertious, p'r'aps yo' like me to p'int out de 'stinguished gen'lemen."
Nothing could have pleased me better, and I drewFatima still closer to the curb while Bandy Jim—for that, he said, was his name—proceeded to point out the celebrities.
There was passing at that moment a very elegant coach, with mounted postilions in pink plush and gold lace, and an exceedingly handsome man with an aristocratic face leaning back among the cushions, his eyes half closed, as if mentally conning a speech for delivery in Congress. Bandy Jim did not wait for the eager question on the tip of my tongue.
"Dat, sah, is de welfiest and most 'stocratic gen'leman in Washington. Dat am Mistah Gubernoor Morris of de gre't city of New York. I 'low he studying dis minnit on a speech 'bout de Mississippi Riber and dem Spanish men."
I looked at him again, more eagerly than before. I knew Gouverneur Morris well by reputation, though I had never seen him, as one of the most polished and scholarly men of the country, and the devoted friend of Hamilton, whom I idolized as all that was brilliant, great, and noble. But my eagerness was largely due to Bandy Jim's suggestion that they were discussing the Mississippi question in Congress, and as I looked more keenly I hoped he was on the right side, for I thought that broad white brow could think great thoughts and those clear-cut lips could utter them with force.
"Why do you think it will be on the Mississippi this morning, uncle?" I inquired, amused that the old darky should seem to know the doings in Congress. "Do you go up to the Capitol to listen to the debates?"
"Sometimes, sah, but mos'ly I reads dem in de 'Post,' sah!" And the proud air with which he let me know of his unusual accomplishment beggars description.
"And so you can read, Uncle? And who taught you?"
"Ole Miss, sah. I's a free nigger, sah. Ole Miss gib me my papers so I mought stay wid my fambly when she follow de gin'ral and his father to Mulberry Hill in Kaintuck'."
I confess Bandy Jim seemed like an old friend at once when I found he had belonged to the Clarkes, and in my delight at seeing "one of the family" in a strange land, I slipped from Fatima's back and grasped him by the hand.
When he found I was just from Kentucky and Mulberry Hill, he was more excited than I, and especially was he eager for news of "Marse William."
"He mah baby, sah!" he repeated over and over, his old eyes shining with visions of other days.
"An' Yorke, sah,—you know Yorke?—he mah son!" with great dignity and much evident pride in a son of such distinction.
I had many things to tell him of Yorke's prowess and address that pleased the old fellow greatly. I might also have recounted the many times when I had had all the will in the world to horsewhip the rascal, but I did not distress his old father with any of his shortcomings.
The morning was fast slipping away when I bethought me it was time to be looking up my lodgingand making myself ready for my call at the President's Palace. I flung Bandy Jim a piece of gold and told him I would see him again. And then as I was in the act of mounting Fatima it occurred to me he could no doubt direct me.
"Can you tell me how to find the Mansion House, Uncle?"
"Right here, sah," grinning with delight; and sure enough, what had seemed to me the home of some respectable citizen proved to be mine inn. And a very good one indeed; for when Bandy Jim had called a boy to lead Fatima around the house to the stables in the rear, and another to take me in to the landlord, I found myself in as clean and comfortable a hostelry as one could hope to find. My chamber was a large square one, on the second landing, and from its windows I could catch glimpses through the bare trees of the white building on the hill that I knew was the Capitol.
And when a boy had brought my saddle-bags, Bandy Jim himself hobbled in to help me dress. He had been body-servant to both General Clarke and his father, and, old as he was, bent nearly double and dim of sight, his fingers were skilled for lacers and laces, for buckles and ribbons.
I thought I looked quite as a gentleman should for a morning call at the "White House," for that, I understand, is what Mr. Jefferson prefers to have the President's Palace called. Indeed, I have heard he very vehemently objects to having it called a palace at all. I was wearing a plain cloth habit of dark greenwith no lace at wrist or knee and only a small lace tie at the neck. My shoe-buckles were of the plainest silver, but Bandy Jim had polished them till they shone like new. I had some thoughts of deferring my visit until later in the day, when I might with a good grace have worn satin and velvet and fine lace ruffles, for I am afraid I was something of a beau in those days in my liking for dress. But bethinking me that the plainness of my costume would only be an additional recommendation in the eyes of the President, should I have the good fortune to meet him, I set off on Fatima's back, following the straight road, as Bandy Jim had directed.
A more forlorn village it has rarely been my lot to see: stretches of mud road with neither houses nor fields to outline it, and then for a block or more bare and ugly houses, hideous in their newness, not having even the grace of age to soften their ill proportions. I was glad mademoiselle was not there to gaze upon the capital of America with eyes that knew so well how to be scornful, and that would so soon find her own gay French capital so beautiful.
I was in the very act of saying to myself for the twentieth time, "Idiots and dolts, not to have selected beautiful Philadelphia for a nation's capital!" when there rode up beside me a farmer in plain, almost rough, clothes, but riding a magnificent horse. He was about to pass me (for I was riding slowly, out of respect to the mud, which might easily have bespattered me so that I would be in no condition for a call), but I hailed him:
"Are you going my way, my friend?"
"If you are going mine."
"I am going straight ahead to the President's Palace."
"And I to the White House, sir."
"Then our ways lie together. Are you acquainted in Washington?"
"Somewhat, sir."
I began to think this rather a surly farmer, he was so chary of words, so I looked at him more narrowly. But I saw nothing surly in his face. Indeed, at a second glance, I decided it was as fine a face, its features as clearly chiseled, as one often sees, and the eyes, beneath the broad white brow, were full, open, and benignant.
"He is no ordinary farmer," I said to myself, "but most like a wealthy Virginia planter of education and social standing, but careless in matters of dress." Therefore I addressed him with a shade more of respect than I had hitherto used:
"I am a stranger in Washington, sir," I said, "and if you are better acquainted here, I thought perhaps you would be so good as to tell me something of the city."
He unbent immediately, and not only pointed out every object of interest on the road, but in a very delicate and gentlemanly manner proceeded also to pump me as to my name and errand in Washington. I was not more amused at his curiosity than at the skilful method he employed in trying to satisfy it, but, as I flattered myself, I gave him but little satisfaction.
In reply to some question of mine about the debate in Congress on the Mississippi question, he gave me such a masterly exposition of the whole subject, so clearly and concisely put into a nutshell, I began to think my eccentric planter was a political genius, possibly a member of Congress, though if so I thought his horse was headed the wrong way.
But evidently I had lighted unwittingly upon a rich mine of information. It was never my way to neglect my opportunities, and I began at once to ply him with questions about men and things in Washington. Last of all, I asked him about Mr. Jefferson.
Now my family was not of Mr. Jefferson's party: we were ardent admirers and strong partizans of Mr. Hamilton. Not that we had any fault to find with Mr. Jefferson, except for his quarrel with Hamilton. But bethinking me that it was quite possible my planter might be a "Democrat," as Mr. Jefferson calls his party, I spoke guardedly, I thought.
"Can you tell me something of the President, sir? Do you admire him? And is it true he is such a sloven in dress as they say he is?"
I could not tell from his face whether he were Democrat or Whig, for it changed not a whit. He answered readily:
"I know Mr. Jefferson quite well. I can hardly say whether I admire him or not, but I like him. In fact, he is quite a friend of mine. As to his being a sloven in dress, is that what they say about him? He dresses as well as I do: would you call that being a sloven?"
"Not at all, sir, not at all!" I answered quickly;but to myself I said, "If he dresses no better, God help us!" I added aloud:
"I hope, sir, what I have said about the President has not offended you, since he is a friend of yours. I have never seen him, and was only repeating the general report."
The stream of people that had been setting eastward earlier in the morning had ceased entirely. We had ridden on some distance without meeting any one, but at this moment we met two gentlemen on horseback, and both took off their hats and kept them off until we had passed. I thought it probable that from my fine clothes (which, though plain, were of undeniable elegance) they took me for a stranger of distinction, and I bowed most graciously in return. My farmer friend but touched his hat with his riding-whip, and then pointed off through the woods to where we could see the chimneys of a large house, on the banks of the river.
"That," he said, "is Mr. Law's mansion. You may have heard of him?"
"Oh, yes," I answered; "he married Miss Custis, and I used to know her quite well, when we were both children."
We mounted a little elevation in the road, not enough to be called a hill, but enough to give a more extended view over the wide acres of brick-kilns and huts of laborers and dismal waste land unfenced and uncultivated. To the east, in the direction of the Capitol, he pointed out the towers of Doddington Manor, the house of Daniel Carroll. We had passed so manyhouses that seemed to me but little more than hovels or barracks that it was a relief to me to see from Mr. Law's and Mr. Carroll's places that there were some gentlemen's residences in the capital. When I said something of the kind to my guide, he replied, with some asperity, that there were many gentlemen's residences at Alexandria and Arlington and Georgetown, only a short gallop away, and that it would not be many years until Washington itself could claim as many as New York or Philadelphia.
I saw he was one of those violent partizans of the "ten-mile square" (probably because his farm lay somewhere near), so discreetly turned the discourse, since I did not want to bring up the vexed question of the superior merits of New York, Philadelphia, and the ten-mile square as a seat for the capital.
By this time the President's Palace was in full view, and a beautiful building it was, looking very large and very white, and, it must be confessed, very bare, since there were no gardens surrounding it, nothing but mud in front and marsh behind, between it and the Potomac.
Fatima picked her way daintily through the mud, often half stopping for better footing (as if she knew she must not bespatter me when I was going to call at the President's house), and by that means the farmer's powerful horse (who seemed not to mind the mud, knowing there was no finery to be hurt by it) got well ahead. I was myself so much engaged with the badness of the road that I did not, for a few minutes, look up. When I did, I observed that two orderlieswere holding the farmer's horse, from which he had just dismounted, while the farmer himself stood on the steps awaiting my approach. One orderly led his horse away as I rode up, but the exclamation of disgust for the mud that rose to my lips never passed them. As I glanced up at this "farmer" in corduroy small-clothes, red plush waistcoat, rough riding-boots splashed with mud, he had suddenly grown tall and majestic.
"Orderly, take this gentleman's horse to the stable!" he said, with an air of command, and then turned to me with stately dignity.
"Welcome to the White House, my young Philadelphia friend," he said, and smiled.
For my confusion knew no bounds. I was never quick where a puzzle or trick was concerned, but now it slowly dawned upon me that my farmer friend was the President of the United States! and I had been criticizing him to his face, and talking flippantly to him, and even superciliously. My consternation grew; I knew not what was the proper thing to do, but I stammered out the most abject apology I could think of.
Mr. Jefferson only laughed at my confusion.
"Come, come, sir," he said genially, "there is no great harm done. Don't you suppose I know what people say of me? You were only repeating the 'general report,' you know." And then he added seriously, as he saw my confusion was but increased by his raillery:
"Where no offense is intended, sir, none is taken.I beg you will enter the White House, and I will send my secretary to you, Mr. Meriwether Lewis."
As he spoke he led the way into the house and into a very large and beautiful room, with a full-length portrait of General Washington on the walls.
"I shall hope to see you later," he said pleasantly as he left me; "if I mistake not, I have some communications of interest for you." Then he turned and went up the grand staircase and left me alone to my miserable pastime of recalling every word and every incident of that wretched ride to the White House, and from not one of them could I extract an atom of comfort to soothe my wounded self-esteem.