The young editor walked carelessly to the window and watched her. She simply couldn't get into an ungraceful attitude. Every movement was instinct with vitality. She was alive to her finger tips. Her body swayed in perfect rhythmic unison with her round, bare arms as she turned the old-fashioned rope windlass, drew the bucket to the top and dropped it easily on the wet wooden lids that flapped back in place.
She was singing now a crooning, half-savage melody her mother had taught her. The low vibrant notes of her voice, deep and tender and quivering with a strange intensity, floated across the street through the gathering shadows. The voice had none of the light girlish quality of her age of eighteen, but rather the full passionate power of a woman of twenty-five. The distance, the deepening shadows and the quiet of the town's lazy life, added to the dreamy effectiveness of the song.
"Beautiful!" the man exclaimed. "The negro race will give the world a great singer some day——"
And then for the first time in his life the paradox of his personal attitude toward this girl and his attitude in politics toward the black race struck him as curious. He had just finished an editorial in which he had met the aggressions of the negro and his allies with the fury, the scorn, the defiance, the unyielding ferocity with which the Anglo-Saxon conqueror has always treated his inferiors. And yet he was listening to the soft tones of this girl's voice with a smile as he watched with good-natured indulgence the light gleam mischievously from her impudent big eyes while she moved about his room.
Yet this was not to be wondered at. The history of the South and the history of slavery made such a paradox inevitable. The long association with the individual negro in the intimacy of home life had broken down the barriers of personal race repugnance. He had grown up with negro boys and girls as playmates. He had romped and wrestled with them. Every servant in every home he had ever known had been a negro. The first human face he remembered bending over his cradle was a negro woman's. He had fallen asleep in her arms times without number. He had found refuge there against his mother's stern commands and sobbed out on her breast the story of his fancied wrongs and always found consolation. "Mammy's darlin'" was always right—the world cruel and wrong! He had loved this old nurse since he could remember. She was now nursing his own and he would defend her with his life without a moment's hesitation.
And so it came about inevitably that while he hadswung his white and scarlet legions of disguised Clansmen in solid line against the Governor and smashed his negro army without the loss of a single life, he was at the same moment proving himself defenseless against the silent and deadly purpose that had already shaped itself in the soul of this sleek, sensuous young animal. He was actually smiling with admiration at the beautiful picture he saw as she lifted the white pitcher, placed it on the crown of red hair, and crossed the street.
She was still softly singing as she entered the room and arranged the flowers in pretty confusion.
Norton had lighted his lamp and seated himself at his desk again. She came close and looked over his shoulder at the piles of papers.
"How on earth can you work in such a mess?" she asked with a laugh.
"Used to it," he answered without looking up from the final reading of his editorial.
"What's that you've written?"
The impudent greenish gray eyes bent closer.
"Oh, a little talk to the Governor——"
"I bet it's a hot one. Peeler says you don't like the Governor—read it to me!"
The editor looked up at the mischievous young face and laughed aloud:
"I'm afraid you wouldn't understand it."
The girl joined in the laugh and the dimples in the reddish brown cheeks looked prettier than ever.
"Maybe I wouldn't," she agreed.
He resumed his reading and she leaned over his chair until he felt the soft touch of her shoulder against his. She was staring at his paste-pot, extended her tapering, creamy finger and touched the paste.
"What in the world's that?" she cried, giggling again.
"Paste."
Another peal of silly laughter echoed through the room.
"Lord, I thought it was mush and milk—I thought it was your supper!—don't you eat no supper?"
"Sometimes."
The editor looked up with a slight frown and said:
"Run along now, child, I've got to work. And tell your mother I'm obliged for the flowers."
"I'm not going back home——"
"Why not?"
"I'm scared out there. I've come in town to live with my aunt."
"Well, tell her when you see her."
"Please let me clean this place up for you?" she pleaded.
"Not to-night."
"To-morrow morning, then? I'll come early and every morning—please—let me—it's all I can do to thank you. I'll do it a month just to show you how pretty I can keep it and then you can pay me if you want me. It's a bargain, isn't it?"
The editor smiled, hesitated, and said:
"All right—every morning at seven."
"Thank you, major—good night!"
She paused at the door and her white teeth gleamed in the shadows. She turned and tripped down the stairs, humming again the strangely appealing song she had sung at the well.
Within a week Norton bitterly regretted the arrangement he had made with Cleo. Not because she had failed to do her work properly, but precisely because she was doing it so well. She had apparently made it the sole object of her daily thought and the only task to which she devoted her time.
He couldn't accustom his mind to the extraordinary neatness with which she kept the office. The clean floor, the careful arrangement of the chairs, the neat piles of exchanges laid on a table she had placed beside his desk, and the vase of fresh flowers he found each morning, were constant reminders of her personality which piqued his curiosity and disturbed his poise.
He had told her to come at seven every morning. It was his habit to reach the office and begin reading the exchanges by eight-thirty and he had not expected to encounter her there. She had always managed, however, to linger over her morning tasks until his arrival, and never failed to greet him pleasantly and ask if there were anything else she could do. She also insisted on coming at noon to fill his pitcher and again just before supper to change the water in the vase of flowers.
At this last call she always tried to engage him in a few words of small talk. At first this program made no impression on his busy brain except that she wastrying to prove her value as a servant. Gradually, however, he began to notice that her dresses were cut with remarkable neatness for a girl of her position and that she showed a rare talent in selecting materials becoming to her creamy yellow skin and curling red hair.
He observed, too, that she had acquired the habit of hanging about his desk when finishing her tasks and had a queer way of looking at him and laughing.
She began to make him decidedly uncomfortable and he treated her with indifference. No matter how sullen the scowl with which he greeted her, she was always smiling and humming snatches of strange songs. He sought for an excuse to discharge her and could find none. She had the instincts of a perfect servant—intelligent, careful and loyal. She never blundered over the papers on his desk. She seemed to know instinctively what was worthless and what was valuable, and never made a mistake in rearranging the chaotic piles of stuff he left in his wake.
He thought once for just a moment of the possibility of her loyalty to the negro race. She might in that case prove a valuable spy to the Governor and his allies. He dismissed the idea as preposterous. She never associated with negroes if she could help it and apparently was as innocent as a babe of the nature of the terrific struggle in which he was engaged with the negroid government of the state.
And yet she disturbed him deeply and continuously, as deeply sometimes when absent as when present.
Why?
He asked himself the question again and again. Why should he dislike her? She did her work promptly andefficiently, and for the first time within his memory the building was really fit for human habitation.
At last he guessed the truth and it precipitated the first battle of his life with the beast that slumbered within. Feeling her physical nearness more acutely than usual at dusk and noting that she had paused in her task near his desk, he slowly lifted his eyes from the paper he was reading and, before she realized it, caught the look on her face when off guard. The girl was in love with him. It was as clear as day now that he had the key to her actions the past week. For this reason she had come and for this reason she was working with such patience and skill.
His first impulse was one of rage. He had little of the vanity of the male animal that struts before the female. His pet aversion was the man of his class who lowered himself to vulgar association with such girls. The fact that, at this time in the history of the South, such intrigues were common made his determination all the more bitter as a leader of his race to stand for its purity.
He suddenly swung in his chair, determined to dismiss her at once with as few words as possible.
She leaped gracefully back with a girlish laugh, so soft, low and full of innocent surprise, the harsh words died on his lips.
"Lordy, major," she cried, "how you scared me! I thought you had a fit. Did a pin stick you—or maybe a flea bit you?"
She leaned against the mantel laughing, her white teeth gleaming.
He hesitated a moment, his eyes lingered on the graceful pose of her young figure, his ear caught the softnote of friendly tenderness in her voice and he was silent.
"What's the matter?" she asked, stepping closer.
"Nothing."
"Well, you made an awful fuss about it!"
"Just thought of something—suddenly——"
"I thought you were going to bite my head off and then that something bit you!"
Again she laughed and walked slowly to the door, her greenish eyes watching him with studied carelessness, as a cat a mouse. Every movement of her figure was music, her smile contagious, and, by a subtle mental telepathy, she knew that the man before her felt it, and her heart was singing a savage song of triumph. She could wait. She had everything to gain and nothing to lose. She belonged to the pariah world of the Negro. Her love was patient, joyous, insistent, unconquerable.
It was unusually joyous to-night because she felt without words that the mad desires that burned a living fire in every nerve of her young body had scorched the man she had marked her own from the moment she had first laid eyes on his serious, aristocratic face—for back of every hysterical cry that came from her lips that night in the shadows beside old Peeler's house lay the sinister purpose of a mad love that had leaped full grown from the deeps of her powerful animal nature.
She paused in the doorway and softly said:
"Good night."
The tone of her voice was a caress and the bold eyes laughed a daring challenge straight into his.
He stared at her a moment, flushed, turned pale and answered in a strained voice:
"Good night, Cleo."
But it was not a good night for him. It was a night never to be forgotten. Until after twelve he walked beneath the stars and fought the Beast—the Beast with a thousand heads and a thousand legs; the Beast that had been bred in the bone and sinew of generations of ancestors, wilful, cruel, courageous conquerors of the world. Before its ravenous demands the words of mother, teacher, priest and lawgiver were as chaff before the whirlwind—the Beast demanded his own! Peace came at last with the vision of a baby's laughing face peeping at him from the arms of a frail little mother.
He made up his mind and hurried home. He would get rid of this girl to-morrow and never again permit her shadow to cross his pathway. With other men of more sluggish temperament, position, dignity, the responsibility of leadership, the restraints of home and religion might be the guarantee of safety under such temptations. He didn't propose to risk it. He understood now why he was so nervous and distracted in her presence. The mere physical proximity to such a creature, vital, magnetic, unmoral, beautiful and daring, could only mean one thing to a man of his age and inheritance—a temptation so fierce that yielding could only be a question of time and opportunity.
And when he told her the next morning that she must not come again she was not surprised, but accepted his dismissal without a word of protest.
With a look of tenderness she merely said:
"I'm sorry."
"Yes," he went on curtly, "you annoy me; I can't write while you are puttering around, and I'm always afraid you'll disturb some of my papers."
She laughed in his face, a joyous, impudent, good-natured,ridiculous laugh, that said more eloquently than words:
"I understand your silly excuse. You're afraid of me. You're a big coward. Don't worry, I can wait. You'll come to me. And if not, I'll find you—for I shall be near—and now that you know and fear, I shall be very near!"
She moved shyly to the door and stood framed in its white woodwork, an appealing picture of dumb regret.
She had anticipated this from the first. And from the moment she threw the challenge into his eyes the night before, saw him flush and pale beneath it, she knew it must come at once, and was prepared. There was no use to plead and beg or argue. It would be a waste of breath with him in this mood.
Besides, she had already found a better plan.
So when he began to try to soften his harsh decision with kindly words she only smiled in the friendliest possible way, stepped back to his desk, extended her hand, and said:
"Please let me know if you need me. I'll do anything on earth for you, major. Good-by."
It was impossible to refuse the gracefully outstretched hand. The Southern man had been bred from the cradle to the most intimate and friendly personal relations with the black folks who were servants in the house. Yet the moment he touched her hand, felt its soft warm pressure and looked into the depths of her shining eyes he wished that he had sent her away with downright rudeness.
But it was impossible to be rude with this beautiful young animal that purred at his side. He started to say something harsh, she laughed and he laughed.
She held his hand clasped in hers for a moment and slowly said:
"I haven't done anything wrong, have I, major?"
"No."
"You are not mad at me for anything?"
"No, certainly not."
"I wonder why you won't let me work here?"
She looked about the room and back at him, speaking slowly, musingly, with an impudence that left little doubt in his mind that she suspected the real reason and was deliberately trying to tease him.
He flushed, hurriedly withdrew his hand and replied carelessly:
"You bother me—can't work when you're fooling around."
"All right, good-bye."
He turned to his work and she was gone. He was glad she was out of his sight and out of his life forever. He had been a fool to allow her in the building at all.
He could concentrate his mind now on his fight with the Governor.
The time had come in Norton's fight when he was about to be put to a supreme test.
The Governor was preparing the most daring and sensational movement of his never-to-be-forgotten administration. The audacity and thoroughness with which the Klan had disarmed and made ridiculous his army of fifty thousand negroes was at first a stunning blow. In vain Schlitz stormed and pleaded for National aid.
"You must ask for Federal troops without a moment's delay," he urged desperately.
The Scalawag shook his head with quiet determination.
"Congress, under the iron rule of Stevens, will send them, I grant you——"
"Then why hesitate?"
"Because their coming would mean that I have been defeated on my own soil, that my administration of the state is a failure."
"Well, isn't it?"
"No; I'll make good my promises to the men in Washington who have backed me. They are preparing to impeach the President, remove him from office and appoint a dictator in his stead. I'll show them that I can play my part in the big drama, too. I am going to deliver this state bound hand and foot into theirhands, with a triumphant negro electorate in the saddle, or I'll go down in ignominious defeat."
"You'll go down, all right—without those troops—mark my word," cried the Carpetbagger.
"All right, I'll go down flying my own flag."
"You're a fool!" Schlitz roared. "Union troops are our only hope!"
His Excellency kept his temper. The little ferret eyes beneath their bushy brows were drawn to narrow lines as he slowly said:
"On the other hand, my dear Schlitz, I don't think I could depend on Federal troops if they were here."
"No?" was the indignant sneer.
"Frankly I do not," was the even answer. "Federal officers have not shown themselves very keen about executing the orders of Reconstruction Governors. They have often pretended to execute them and in reality treated us with contempt. They hold, in brief, that they fought to preserve the Union, not to make negroes rule over white men! The task before us is not to their liking. I don't trust them for a moment. I have a better plan——"
"What?"
"I propose to raise immediately an army of fifty thousand loyal white men, arm and drill them without delay——"
"Where'll you get them?" Schlitz cried incredulously.
"I'll find them if I have to drag the gutters for every poor white scamp in the state. They'll be a tough lot, maybe, but they'll make good soldiers. A soldier is a man who obeys orders, draws his pay, and asks no questions——"
"And then what?"
"And then, sir!—--"
The Governor's leathery little face flushed as he sprang to his feet and paced the floor of his office in intense excitement.
"I'll tell you what then!" Schlitz cried with scorn.
The pacing figure paused and eyed his tormentor, lifting his shaggy brows:
"Yes?"
"And then," the Carpetbagger answered, "the Ku Klux Klan will rise in a night, jump on your mob of ragamuffins, take their guns and kick them back into the gutter."
"Perhaps," the Governor said, musingly, "if I give them a chance! But I won't!"
"You won't? How can you prevent it?"
"Very simply. I'll issue a proclamation suspending thewritofhabeas corpus——"
"But you have no right," Schlitz gasped. The ex-scullion had been studying law the past two years and aspired to the Supreme Court bench.
"My right is doubtful, but it will go in times of revolution. I'll suspend thewrit, arrest the leaders of the Klan without warrant, put them in jail and hold them there without trial until the day after the election."
Schlitz's eyes danced as he sprang forward and extended his fat hand to the Scalawag:
"Governor, you're a great man! Only a great mind would dare such a plan. But do you think your life will be safe?"
The little figure was drawn erect and the ferret eyes flashed:
"The Governor of a mighty commonwealth—they wouldn't dare lift their little finger against me."
Schlitz shook his head dubiously.
"A pretty big job in times of peace—to suspend the civil law, order wholesale arrests without warrants by a ragged militia and hold your men without trial——"
"I like the job!" was the quick answer. "I'm going to show the smart young man who edits the paper in this town that he isn't running the universe."
Again the adventurer seized the hand of his chief:
"Governor, you're a great man! I take my hat off to you, sir."
His Excellency smiled, lifted his sloping shoulders, moistened his thin lips and whispered:
"Not a word now to a living soul until I strike——"
"I understand, sir, not a word," the Carpetbagger replied in low tones as he nervously fumbled his hat and edged his way out of the room.
The editor received the Governor's first move in the game with contempt. It was exactly what he had expected—this organization of white renegades, thieves, loafers, cut-throats, and deserters. It was the last resort of desperation. Every day, while these dirty ignorant recruits were being organized and drilled, he taunted the Governor over the personnel of his "Loyal" army. He began the publication of the history of its officers and men. These biographical stories were written with a droll humor that kept the whole state in a good-humored ripple of laughter and inspired the convention that nominated a complete white man's ticket to renewed enthusiasm.
And then the bolt from the blue—the Governor's act of supreme madness!
As the editor sat at his desk writing an editorial congratulating the state on the brilliant ticket that thewhite race had nominated and predicting its triumphant election, in spite of negroes, thieves, cut-throats, Scalawags and Carpetbaggers, a sudden commotion on the sidewalk in front of his office stopped his pencil in the midst of an unfinished word.
He walked to the window and looked out. By the flickering light of the street lamp he saw an excited crowd gathering in the street.
A company of the Governor's new guard had halted in front. An officer ripped off the palings from the picket fence beside the building and sent a squad of his men to the rear.
The tramp of heavy feet on the stairs was heard and the dirty troopers crowded into the editor's room, muskets in hand, cocked, and their fingers on the triggers.
Norton quietly drew the pencil from his ear, smiled at the mottled group of excited men, and spoke in his slow drawl:
"And why this excitement, gentlemen?"
The captain stepped forward:
"Are you Major Daniel Norton?"
"I am, sir."
"You're my prisoner."
"Show your warrant!" was the quick challenge.
"I don't need one, sir."
"Indeed! And since when is this state under martial law?"
"Will you go peaceable?" the captain asked roughly.
"When I know by whose authority you make this arrest."
The editor walked close to the officer, drew himself erect, his hands clenched behind his back and held the man's eye for a moment with a cold stare.
The captain hesitated and drew a document from his pocket.
The editor scanned it hastily and suddenly turned pale:
"A proclamation suspending thewritofhabeas corpus—impossible!"
The captain lifted his dirty palms:
"I reckon you can read!"
"Oh, yes, I can read it, captain—still it's impossible. You can't suspend the law of gravitation by saying so on a scrap of paper——"
"You are ready to go?"
The editor laughed:
"Certainly, certainly—with pleasure, I assure you."
The captain lifted his hand and his men lowered their guns. The editor seized a number of blank writing pads, a box of pencils, put on his hat and called to his assistants:
"I'm moving my office temporarily to the county jail, boys. It's quieter over there. I can do better work. Send word to my home that I'm all right and tell my wife not to worry for a minute. Every man to his post now and the liveliest paper ever issued! And on time to the minute."
The printers had crowded into the room and a ringing cheer suddenly startled the troopers.
The foreman held an ugly piece of steel in his hand and every man seemed to have hold of something.
"Give the word, chief!" the foreman cried.
The editor smiled:
"Thanks, boys, I understand. Go back to your work. You can help best that way."
The men dropped their weapons and crowded to thedoor, jeering and howling in derision at the awkward squad as they stumbled down the stairs after their commander, who left the building holding tightly to the editor's arm, as if at any moment he expected an escape or a rescue.
The procession wended its way to the jail behind the Court House through a crowd of silent men who merely looked at the prisoner, smiled and nodded to him over the heads of his guard.
An ominous quiet followed the day's work. The Governor was amazed at the way his sensational coup was received. He had arrested and thrown into jail without warrant the leaders of the white party in every county in the state. He was absolutely sure that these men were the leaders of the Ku Klux Klan, the one invisible but terrible foe he really feared.
He had expected bluster, protests, mass meetings and fiery resolutions. Instead his act was received with a silence that was uncanny. In vain his Carpetbagger lieutenant congratulated him on the success of his Napoleonic move.
His little ferret eyes snapped with suppressed excitement.
"But what the devil is the meaning of this silence, Schlitz?" he asked with a tremor.
"They're stunned, I tell you. It was a master stroke. They're a lot of cowards and sneaks, these night raiders, anyhow. It only took a bold act of authority to throw them into a panic."
The Scalawag shook his head thoughtfully:
"Doesn't look like a panic to me—I'm uneasy——"
"The only possible mistake you've made was the arrest of Norton."
"Yes, I know public sentiment in the North don't like an attempt to suppress free speech, but I simply had to do it. Damn him, I've stood his abuse as long as I'm going to. Besides his dirty sheet is at the bottom of all our trouble."
When the Governor scanned his copy of the next morning'sEagle and Phoenixhis feeling of uneasiness increased.
Instead of the personal abuse he had expected from the young firebrand, he read a long, carefully written editorial reviewing the history of the greatwritofhabeas corpusin the evolution of human freedom. The essay closed with the significant statement that no Governor in the records of the state or the colony had ever dared to repeal or suspend this guarantee of Anglo-Saxon liberty—not even for a moment during the chaos of the Civil War.
But the most disquieting feature of this editorial was the suggestive fact that it was set between heavy mourning lines and at the bottom of it stood a brief paragraph enclosed in even heavier black bands:
"We regret to announce that the state is at present without a chief executive. Our late unlamented Governor passed away in a fit of insanity at three o'clock yesterday."
"We regret to announce that the state is at present without a chief executive. Our late unlamented Governor passed away in a fit of insanity at three o'clock yesterday."
When the little Scalawag read the sarcastic obituary he paled for a moment and the hand which held the paper trembled so violently he was compelled to lay it on the table to prevent his secretary from noting his excitement.
For the first time in the history of the state an armed guard was stationed at the door of the Governor's mansion that night.
The strange calm continued. No move was made by the negroid government to bring the imprisoned men to trial and apparently no effort was being made by the men inside the jails to regain their liberty.
Save that his editorials were dated from the county jail, no change had occurred in the daily routine of the editor's life. He continued his series of articles on the history of the state each day, setting them in heavy black mourning lines. Each of these editorials ended with an appeal to the patriotism of the reader. And the way in which he told the simple story of each step achieved in the blood-marked struggle for liberty had a punch in it that boded ill for the little man who had set himself the task of dictatorship for a free people.
No reference was made in theEagle and Phoenixto the Governor. He was dead. The paper ignored his existence. Each day of this ominous peace among his enemies increased the terror which had gripped the little Scalawag from the morning he had read his first obituary. The big black rules down the sides of those editorials seemed a foot wide now when he read them.
Twice he seated himself at his desk to order the editor's release and each time cringed and paused at the thought of the sneers with which his act would be greeted. He was now between the devil and the deep sea. He was afraid to retreat and dared not take the next step forward. If he could hold his ground for two weeks longer, and carry the election by the overwhelming majority he had planned, all would be well. Such a victory, placing him in power for four years and giving him an obedient negro Legislature once more todo his bidding, would strike terror to his foes and silence their assaults. The negro voters far outnumbered the whites, and victory was a certainty. And so he held his ground—until something happened!
It began in a semi-tropical rain storm that swept the state. All day it poured in blinding torrents, the wind steadily rising in velocity until at noon it was scarcely possible to walk the streets.
At eight o'clock the rain ceased to fall and by nine glimpses of the moon could be seen as the fast flying clouds parted for a moment. But for these occasional flashes of moonlight the night was pitch dark. The Governor's company of nondescript soldiers in camp at the Capitol, drenched with rain, had abandoned their water-soaked tents for the more congenial atmosphere of the low dives and saloons of the negro quarters.
The minute the rain ceased to fall, Norton's wife sent his supper—but to-night by a new messenger. Cleo smiled at him across the little table as she skillfully laid the cloth, placed the dishes and set a tiny vase of roses in the center.
"You see," she began, smiling, "your wife needed me and I'm working at your house now, major."
"Indeed!"
"Yes. Mammy isn't well and I help with the baby. He's a darling. He loved me the minute I took him in my arms and hugged him."
"No doubt."
"His little mother likes me, too. I can pick her up in my arms and carry her across the room. You wouldn't think I'm so strong, would you?"
"Yes—I would," he answered slowly, studying her with a look of increasing wonder at her audacity.
"You're not mad at me for being there, are you? You can't be—mammy wants me so"—she paused—"Lordy, I forgot the letter!"
She drew from her bosom a note from his wife. He looked curiously at a smudge where it was sealed and, glancing at the girl who was busy with the tray, opened and read:
"I have just received a message from MacArthur's daughter that your life is to be imperilled to-night by a dangerous raid. Remember your helpless wife and baby. Surely there are trusted men who can do such work. You have often told me that no wise general ever risks his precious life on the firing line. You are a soldier, and know this. Please, dearest, do not go. Baby and little mother both beg of you!"
"I have just received a message from MacArthur's daughter that your life is to be imperilled to-night by a dangerous raid. Remember your helpless wife and baby. Surely there are trusted men who can do such work. You have often told me that no wise general ever risks his precious life on the firing line. You are a soldier, and know this. Please, dearest, do not go. Baby and little mother both beg of you!"
Norton looked at Cleo again curiously. He was sure that the seal of this note had been broken and its message read by her.
"Do you know what's in this note, Cleo?" he asked sharply.
"No, sir!" was the quick answer.
He studied her again closely. She was on guard now. Every nerve alert, every faculty under perfect control. He was morally sure she was lying and yet it could only be idle curiosity or jealous interest in his affairs that prompted the act. That she should be an emissary of the Governor was absurd.
"It's not bad news, I hope?" she asked with an eagerness that was just a little too eager. The man caught the false note and frowned.
"No," he answered carelessly. "It's of no importance." He picked up a pad and wrote a hurried answer:
"Don't worry a moment, dear. I am not in the slightest danger. I know a soldier's duty and I'll not forget it. Sleep soundly, little mother and baby mine!"
"Don't worry a moment, dear. I am not in the slightest danger. I know a soldier's duty and I'll not forget it. Sleep soundly, little mother and baby mine!"
He folded the sheet of paper and handed it to her without sealing it. She was watching him keenly. His deep, serious eyes no longer saw her. His body was there, but the soul was gone. The girl had never seen him in this mood. She was frightened. His lifewasin danger. She knew it now by an unerring instinct. She would watch the jail and see what happened. She might do something to win his friendship, and then—the rest would be easy. Her hand trembled as she took the note.
"Give this to Mrs. Norton at once," he said, "and tell her you found me well and happy in my work."
"Yes, sir," the soft voice answered mechanically as she picked up the tray and left the room watching him furtively.
Cleo hurried to the house, delivered the message, rocked the baby to sleep and quietly slipped through the lawn into the street and back to the jail.
A single guard kept watch at the door. She saw him by a flash of moonlight and then passed so close she could have touched the long old-fashioned musket he carried loosely across his shoulder.
The cat-like tread left no echo and she took her stand in the underbrush that had pushed its way closer and closer until its branches touched the rear walls of the jail. For two hours she stood amid the shadows, her keen young ears listening and her piercing eyes watching. Again and again she counted the steps the sentinel made as he walked back and forth in front of the entrance to the jail.
She knew from the sound that he passed the corner of the building for three steps in full view from her position, could she but see him through the darkness. Twice she had caught a glimpse of his stupid face as the moon flashed a moment of light through a rift of clouds.
"The Lord help that idiot," she muttered, "if the major's men want to pass him to-night!"
She turned with a sharp start. The bushes softly parted behind her and a stealthy step drew near. Herheart stood still. She was afraid to breathe. They wouldn't hurt her if they only knew she was the major's friend. But if they found and recognized her as old Peeler's half-breed daughter, they might kill her on the spot as a spy.
She hadn't thought of this terrible possibility before. It was too late now to think. To run meant almost certain death. She flattened her figure against the wall of the jail and drew the underbrush close completely covering her form.
She stood motionless and as near breathless as possible until the two men who were approaching a step at a time had passed. At the corner of the jail they stopped within three feet of her. She could hear every word of their conference.
"Now, Mac, do as I tell you," a voice whispered. "Jump on him from behind as he passes the corner and get him in the gills."
"I understand."
"Choke him stiff until I get something in his mouth."
"Ah, it's too easy. I'd like a little excitement."
"We'll get it before morning——"
"Sh! what's that?"
"I didn't hear anything!"
"Something moved."
A bush had slipped from Cleo's hand. She gripped the others with desperation. Ten minutes passed amid a death-like silence. A hundred times she imagined the hand of one of these men feeling for her throat. At last she drew a deep breath.
The men began to move step by step toward the doomed sentinel. They were standing beside the front corner of the jail now waiting panther-like for theirprey. They allowed him to pass twice. He stopped at the end of his beat, blew his nose and spoke to himself:
"God, what a lonely night!"
The girl heard him turn, his feet measure three steps on his return and stop with a dull thud. She couldn't see, but she could feel through the darkness the grip of those terrible fingers on his throat. The only sound made was the dull thud of his body on the wet ground.
In two minutes they had carried him into the shadows of a big china tree in the rear and tied him to the trunk. She could hear their sharp order:
"Break those cords now or dare to open your mouth and, no matter what happens, we'll kill you first—just for luck."
In ten minutes they had reported the success of their work to their comrades who were waiting and the men who had been picked for their dangerous task surrounded the jail and slowly took up their appointed places in the shadows.
The attacking group stopped for their final instructions not five feet from the girl's position. A flash of moonlight and she saw them—six grim white and scarlet figures wearing spiked helmets from which fell a cloth mask to their shoulders. Their big revolvers were buckled on the outside of their disguises and each man's hand rested on the handle.
One of them quietly slipped his robe from his shoulders, removed his helmet, put on the sentinel's coat and cap, seized his musket and walked to the door of the jail.
She heard him drop the butt of the gun on the flagstone at the steps and call:
"Hello, jailer!"
Some one stirred inside. It was not yet one o'clock and the jailer who had been to a drinking bout with the soldiers had not gone to bed. In his shirt sleeves he thrust his head out the door:
"Who is it?"
"The guard, sir."
"Well, what the devil do you want?"
"Can't ye gimme a drink of somethin'? I'm soaked through and I've caught cold——"
"All right, in a minute," was the gruff reply.
The girl could hear the soft tread of the shrouded figures closing in on the front door. A moment more and it opened. The voice inside said:
"Here you are!"
The words had scarcely passed his lips, and there was another dull crash. A dozen masked Clansmen hurled themselves into the doorway and rushed over the prostrate form of the half-drunken jailer. He was too frightened to call for help. He lay with his face downward, begging for his life.
It was the work of a minute to take the keys from his trembling fingers, bind and gag him, and release Norton. The whole thing had been done so quietly not even a dog had barked at the disturbance.
Again they stopped within a few feet of the trembling figure against the wall. The editor had now put on his disguise and stood in the centre of the group giving his orders as quietly as though he were talking to his printers about the form of his paper.
"Quick now, Mac," she heard him say, "we've not a moment to lose. I want two pieces of scantling strong enough for a hangman's beam. Push one of them out of the center window of the north end of the Capitolbuilding, the other from the south end. We'll hang the little Scalawag on the south side and the Carpetbagger on the north. We'll give them this grim touch of poetry at the end. Your ropes have ready swinging from these beams. Keep your men on guard there until I come."
"All right, sir!" came the quick response.
"My hundred picked men are waiting?"
"On the turnpike at the first branch——"
"Good! The Governor is spending the night at Schlitz's place, three miles out. He has been afraid to sleep at home of late, I hear. We'll give the little man and his pal a royal escort for once as they approach the Capitol—expect us within an hour."
A moment and they were gone. The girl staggered from her cramped position and flew to the house. She couldn't understand it all, but she realized that if the Governor were killed it meant possible ruin for the man she had marked her own.
A light was still burning in the mother's room. She had been nervous and restless and couldn't sleep. She heard the girl's swift, excited step on the stairway and rushed to the door:
"What is it? What has happened?"
Cleo paused for breath and gasped:
"They've broken the jail open and he's gone with the Ku Klux to kill the Governor!"
"To kill the Governor?"
"Yessum. He's got a hundred men waiting out on the turnpike and they're going to hang the Governor from one of the Capitol windows!"
The wife caught the girl by the shoulders and cried:
"Who told you this?"
"Nobody. I saw them. I was passing the jail, heard a noise and went close in the dark. I heard the major give the orders to the men."
"Oh, my God!" the little mother groaned. "And they are going straight to the Governor's mansion?"
"No—no—he said the Governor's out at Schlitz's place, spending the night. They're going to kill him, too——"
"Then there's time to stop them—quick—can you hitch a horse?"
"Yessum!"
"Run to the stable, hitch my horse to the buggy and take a note I'll write to my grandfather, old Governor Carteret—you know where his place is—the big red brick house at the edge of town?"
"Yessum——"
"His street leads into the turnpike—quick now—the horse and buggy!"
The strong young body sprang down the steps three and four rounds at a leap and in five minutes the crunch of swift wheels on the gravel walk was heard.
She sprang up the stairs, took the note from the frail, trembling little hand and bounded out of the house again.
The clouds had passed and the moon was shining now in silent splendor on the sparkling refreshed trees and shrubbery. The girl was an expert in handling a horse. Old Peeler had at least taught her that. In five more minutes from the time she had left the house she was knocking furiously at the old Governor's door. He was eighty-four, but a man of extraordinary vigor for his age.
He came to the door alone in his night-dress, candlein hand, scowling at the unseemly interruption of his rest.
"What is it?" he cried with impatience.
"A note from Mrs. Norton."
At the mention of her name the fine old face softened and then his eyes flashed:
"She is ill?"
"No, sir—but she wants you to help her."
He took the note, placed the candle on the old-fashioned mahogany table in his hall, returned to his room for his glasses, adjusted them with deliberation and read its startling message.
He spoke without looking up:
"You know the road to Schlitz's house?"
"Yes, sir, every foot of it."
"I'll be ready in ten minutes."
"We've no time to lose—you'd better hurry," the girl said nervously.
The old man lifted his eyebrows:
"I will. But an ex-Governor of the state can't rush to meet the present Governor in his shirt-tail—now, can he?"
Cleo laughed:
"No, sir."
The thin, sprightly figure moved quickly in spite of the eighty-four years and in less than ten minutes he was seated beside the girl and they were flying over the turnpike toward the Schlitz place.
"How long since those men left the jail?" the old Governor asked roughly.
"About a half-hour, sir."
"Give your horse the rein—we'll be too late, I'm afraid."
The lines slacked over the spirited animal's back and he sprang forward as though lashed by the insult to his high breeding.
The sky was studded now with stars sparkling in the air cleared by the rain, and the moon flooded the white roadway with light. The buggy flew over the beaten track for a mile, and as they suddenly plunged down a hill the old man seized both sides of the canopy top to steady his body as the light rig swayed first one way and then the other.
"You're going pretty fast," he grumbled.
"Yes, you said to give him the reins."
"But I didn't say to throw them on the horse's head, did I?"
"No, sir," the girl giggled.
"Pull him in!" he ordered sharply.
The strong young arms drew the horse suddenly down on his haunches and the old man lurched forward.
"I didn't say pull him into the buggy," he growled.
The girl suppressed another laugh. He was certainly a funny old man for all his eighty odd winters. She thought that he must have been a young devil at eighteen.
"Stop a minute!" he cried sharply. "What's that roaring?"
Cleo listened:
"The wind in the trees, I think."
"Nothing of the sort—isn't this Buffalo creek?"
"Yes, sir."
"That's water we hear. The creek's out of banks. The storm has made the ford impassable. They haven't crossed this place yet. We're in time."
The horse lifted his head and neighed. Anotheranswered from the woods and in a moment a white-masked figure galloped up to the buggy and spoke sharply:
"You can't cross this ford—turn back."
"Are you one of Norton's men?" the old man asked angrily.
"None of your damned business!" was the quick answer.
"I think it is, sir! I'm Governor Carteret. My age and services to this state entitle me to a hearing to-night. Tell Major Norton I must speak to him immediately—immediately, sir!" His voice rose to a high note of imperious command.
The horseman hesitated and galloped into the shadows. A moment later a tall shrouded figure on horseback slowly approached.
"Cut your wheel," the old Governor said to the girl. He stepped from the buggy without assistance. "Now turn round and wait for me." Cleo obeyed, and the venerable statesman with head erect, his white hair and beard shining in the moonlight calmly awaited the approach of the younger man.
Norton dismounted and led his horse, the rein hanging loosely over his arm.
"Well, Governor Carteret"—the drawling voice was low and quietly determined.
The white-haired figure suddenly stiffened:
"Don't insult me, sir, by talking through a mask—take that thing off your head."
The major bowed and removed his mask.
When the old man spoke again, his voice trembled with emotion, he stepped close and seized Norton's arm:
"My boy, have you gone mad?"
"I think not," was the even answer. The deep brown eyes were holding the older man's gaze with a cold, deadly look. "Were you ever arrested, Governor, by the henchmen of a peanut politician and thrown into a filthy jail without warrant and held without trial at the pleasure of a master?"
"No—by the living God!"
"And if you had been, sir?"
"I'd have killed him as I would a dog—I'd have shot him on sight—but you—you can't do this now, my boy—you carry the life of the people in your hands to-night! You are their chosen leader. The peace and dignity of a great commonwealth are in your care——"
"I am asserting its outraged dignity against a wretch who has basely betrayed it."
"Even so, this is not the way. Think of the consequences to-morrow morning. The President will be forced against his wishes to declare the state in insurrection. The army will be marched back into our borders and martial law proclaimed."
"The state is under martial law—thewrithas been suspended."
"But not legally, my boy. I know your provocation has been great—yes, greater than I could have borne in my day. I'll be honest with you, but you've had better discipline, my son. I belong to the old régime and an iron will has been my only law. You must live in the new age under new conditions. You must adjust yourself to these conditions."
"The man who calls himself Governor has betrayed his high trust," Norton broke in with solemn emphasis. "He has forfeited his life. The people whom he has basely sold into bondage will applaud his execution.The Klan to-night is the high court of a sovereign state and his death has been ordered."
"I insist there's a better way. Your Klan is a resistless weapon if properly used. You are a maniac to-night. You are pulling your own house down over your head. The election is but a few weeks off. Use your men as an army to force this election. The ballot is force—physical force. Apply that force. Your men can master that rabble of negroes on election day. Drive them from the polls. They'll run like frightened sheep. Their enfranchisement is a crime against civilization. Every sane man in the North knows this. No matter how violent your methods, an election that returns the intelligent and decent manhood of a state to power against a corrupt, ignorant and vicious mob will be backed at last by the moral sentiment of the world. There's a fiercer vengeance to be meted out to your Scalawag Governor——"
"What do you mean?" the younger man asked.
"Swing the power of your Klan in solid line against the ballot-box at this election, carry the state, elect your Legislature, impeach the Governor, remove him from office, deprive him of citizenship and send him to the grave with the brand of shame on his forehead!"
The leader lifted his somber face, and the older man saw that he was hesitating:
"That's possible—yes——"
The white head moved closer:
"The only rational thing to do, my boy—come, I love you and I love my granddaughter. You've a great career before you. Don't throw your life away to-night in a single act of madness. Listen to an old man whosesands are nearly run"—a trembling arm slipped around his waist.
"I appreciate your coming here to-night, Governor, of course."
"But if I came in vain, why at all?" there were tears in his voice now. "You must do as I say, my son—send those men home! I'll see the Governor to-morrow morning and I pledge you my word of honor that I'll make him revoke that proclamation within an hour and restore the civil rights of the people. None of those arrests are legal and every man must be released."
"He won't do it."
"When he learns from my lips that I saved his dog's life to-night, he'll do it and lick my feet in gratitude. Won't you trust me, boy?"
The pressure of the old man's arm tightened and his keen eyes searched Norton's face. The strong features were convulsed with passion, he turned away and the firm mouth closed with decision:
"All right. I'll take your advice."
The old Governor was very still for a moment and his voice quivered with tenderness as he touched Norton's arm affectionately:
"You're a good boy, Dan! I knew you'd hear me. God! how I envy you the youth and strength that's yours to fight this battle!"
The leader blew a whistle and his orderly galloped up:
"Tell my men to go home and meet me to-morrow at one o'clock in the Court House Square, in their everyday clothes, armed and ready for orders. I'll dismiss the guard I left at the Capitol."
The white horseman wheeled and galloped away.Norton quietly removed his disguise, folded it neatly, took off his saddle, placed the robe between the folds of the blanket and mounted his horse.
The old Governor waved to him:
"My love to the little mother and that boy, Tom, that you've named for me!"
"Yes, Governor—good night."
The tall figure on horseback melted into the shadows and in a moment the buggy was spinning over the glistening, moonlit track of the turnpike.
When they reached the first street lamps on the edge of town, the old man peered curiously at the girl by his side.
"You drive well, young woman," he said slowly. "Who taught you?"
"Old Peeler."
"You lived on his place?" he asked quickly.
"Yes, sir."
"What's your mother's name?"
"Lucy."
"Hm! I thought so."
"Why, sir?"
"Oh, nothing," was the gruff answer.
"Did you—did you know any of my people, sir?" she asked.
He looked her squarely in the face, smiled and pursed his withered lips:
"Yes. I happen to be personally acquainted with your grandfather and he was something of a man in his day."