Andy had been waiting patiently for Cleo to leave Helen's door. He had tried in vain during the entire morning to get an opportunity to see her alone, but since Helen's appearance at breakfast she had scarcely left the girl's side for five minutes.
He had slipped to the head of the back stairs, lifted the long flaps of the tail of his new coat and carefully seated himself on the last step to wait her appearance. He smiled with assurance. She couldn't get down without a word at least.
"I'm gwine ter bring things to er head dis day, sho's yer born!" he muttered, wagging his head.
He had been to Norfolk the week before on an excursion to attend the annual convention of his African mutual insurance society, "The Children of the King." While there he had met the old woman who had given him a startling piece of information about Cleo which had set his brain in a whirl. He had long been desperately in love with her, but she had treated him with such scorn he had never summoned the courage to declare his affection.
The advent of Helen at first had made no impression on his slowly working mind, but when he returned from Norfolk with the new clew to Cleo's life he watched thegirl with increasing suspicion. And when he saw the collapse of Norton over the announcement of her presence he leaped to an important conclusion. No matter whether his guess was correct or not, he knew enough to give him a power over the proud housekeeper he proposed to exercise without a moment's delay.
"We see now whether she turns up her nose at me ergin," he chuckled, as he heard the door open.
He rose with a broad grin as he saw that at last she was alone. He adjusted his suit with a touch of pride and pulled down his vest with a little jerk he had seen his master use in dressing. He had found the heavy, black, double-breasted vest in the cedar box, but thought it rather sombre when contrasted with a red English hunting jacket the major had affected once in a fashionable fox hunt before the war. The rich scarlet took his fancy and he selected that one instead. He carried his ancient silk hat jauntily balanced in one hand, in the other hand a magnolia in full bloom. The petals of the flower were at least a half-foot long and the leaves longer.
He bowed with an attempt at the easy manners of a gentleman in a gallant effort to attract her attention. She was about to pass him on the stairs without noticing his existence when Andy cleared his throat:
"Ahem!"
Cleo paused with a frown:
"What's the matter? Have you caught cold!"
Andy generously ignored her tone, bowed and handed her the magnolia:
"Would you embellish yousef wid dis little posie, m'am?"
The woman turned on him, drew her figure to its full height, her eyes blazing with wrath, snatched the flower from his hand and threw it in his face.
Andy dodged in time to save his nose and his offering went tumbling down the stairs. He shook his head threateningly when he caught his breath:
"Look a here, m'am, is dat de way yer gwine spessify my welcome?"
"Why, no, I was only thanking you for the compliment!" she answered with a sneer. "How dare you insult me?"
"Insult you, is I?" Andy chuckled. "Huh, if dat's de way ye talk I'm gwine ter say sumfin quick——"
"You can't be too quick!"
Andy held her eye a moment and pointed his index finger in her face:
"Yassam! As de ole sayin' is—I'm gwine take my tex' from dat potion er de Scripter whar de 'Postle Paul pint his 'pistle at de Fenians!—I'se er comin' straight ter de pint."
"Well, come to it, you flat-nosed baboon!" she cried in rage. "What makes your nose so flat, anyhow?"
Andy grinned at her tantalizingly, and spoke with a note of deliberate insult:
"I don't know, m'am, but I spec hit wuz made dat way ter keep hit outen odder folks' business!"
"You impudent scoundrel, how dare you speak to me like this?" Cleo hissed.
A triumphant chuckle was his answer. He flicked a piece of imaginary dust from the rim of his hat, his eyes rolled to the ceiling and he slowly said with a smile:
"Well, yer see, m'am, circumstances alters cases an'dat always makes de altercations! I git holt er a little secret o' yourn dat gimme courage——"
"A secret of mine?" Cleo interrupted with the first flash of surprise.
"Yassam!" was the unctuous answer, as Andy looked over his shoulder and bent to survey the hall below for any one who might possibly be passing.
"Yassam," he went on smoothly, "down ter Norfork las' week, m'am——"
"Wait a minute!" Cleo interrupted. "Some one might be below. Come to my room."
"Yassam, ob course, I wuz gwine ter say dat in de fust place, but ye didn't gimme time"—he bowed—"cose, m'am, de pleasure's all mine, as de sayin' is."
He placed his silk hat jauntily on his head as they reached the door, and gallantly took hold of Cleo's arm to assist her down the steps.
She stopped abruptly:
"Wait here, I'll go ahead and you can come in a few minutes."
"Sholy, sholy, m'am, I understan' dat er lady allus likes ter make er little preparations ter meet er gemman. I understands. I des stroll out on de lawn er minute."
"The backyard's better," she replied, quietly throwing him a look of scorn.
"Yassam, all right. I des take a little cursory view er de chickens."
"As soon as I'm out of sight, you can come right up."
Andy nodded and Cleo quickly crossed the fifty yards that separated the house from the neat square brick building that was still used as the servants' quarters.
In a few minutes, with his silk hat set on the side of his head, Andy tipped up the stairs and knocked on her door.
He entered with a grandiloquent bow and surveyed the place curiously. Her room was a sacred spot he had never been allowed to enter before.
"Have a seat," Cleo said, placing a chair.
Andy bowed, placed his hat pompously on the table, pulled down his red vest with a jerk and seated himself deliberately.
Cleo glanced at him:
"You were about to tell me something that you heard in Norfolk?"
Andy looked at the door as an extra precaution and smiled blandly:
"Yassam, I happen ter hear down dar dat a long time ergo, mo'rn twenty years, afore I cum ter live here—dat is when I wuz er politicioner—dey wuz rumors 'bout you an' de major when you wuz Mister Tom's putty young nurse."
"Well?"
"De major's wife fin' it out an' die. De major wuz heart-broke, drap everything an' go Norf, an' while he wuz up dar, you claims ter be de mudder of a putty little gal. Now min' ye, I ain't nebber seed her, but dat's what I hears you claims——"
Andy paused impressively and Cleo held his eye in a steady, searching stare. She was trying to guess how much he really knew. She began to suspect that his story was more than half a bluff and made up her mind to fight.
"Claim? No, you fool!" she said with indifferent contempt, "I didn't claim it—I proved it. I provedit to his satisfaction. You may worry some one else with your secret. It doesn't interest me. But I'd advise you to have your life insured before you mention it to the major"—she paused, broke into a light laugh and added: "So that's your wonderful discovery?"
Andy looked at her with a puzzled expression and scratched his head:
"Yassam."
"Then I'll excuse you from wasting any more of your valuable time," Cleo said, rising.
Andy rose and smiled:
"Yassam, but dat ain't all, m'am!"
"No?"
"Nobum. I ain't 'sputin dat de little gal wuz born des lak you say, or des lak, mebbe, de major believes ter dis day"—he paused and leaned over until he could whisper in her ear—"but sposen she die?"
The woman never moved a muscle for an instant. She spoke at last in a half-laughing, incredulous way:
"Suppose she died? Why, what do you mean?"
"Now, mind ye," Andy said, lifting his hands in a persuasive gesture, "I ain't sayin' dat she raly did die—I des say—sposen she die——"
Cleo lost her temper and turned on her tormentor in sudden fury:
"But she didn't! Who dares to tell such a lie? She's living to-day a beautiful, accomplished girl."
Andy solemnly raised his hand again:
"Mind ye, I don't say dat she ain't, I des say sposen—sposen she die, an' you git a little orphan baby ter put in her place, twenty years ergo, jis' ter keep yer grip on de major——"
Cleo peered steadily into his face:
"'Yassam, but dat ain't all, m'am.'""'Yassam, but dat ain't all, m'am.'"
"Did you guess that lie?"
He cocked his head to one side and grinned:
"I don't say dat I did, an' I don't say dat I didn't. I des say dat I mought, an' den ergin I moughn't!"
"Well, it's a lie!" she cried fiercely—"I tell you it's an infamous lie!"
"Yassam, dat may be so, but hit's a putty dangous lie fer you, m'am, ef——"
He looked around the room in a friendly, cautious way and continued in a whisper:
"Especially ef de major wuz ter ever git pizened wid it!"
Cleo's voice dropped suddenly to pleading tones:
"You're not going to suggest such an idea to him?"
Andy looked away coyly and glanced back at her with a smile:
"Not ef yer ax me——"
"Well, I do ask you," she said in tender tones. "A more infamous lie couldn't be told. But if such a suspicion were once roused it would be hard to protect myself against it."
"Oh, I des wants ter help ye, m'am," Andy protested earnestly.
"Then I'm sure you'll never suggest such a thing to the major?—I'm sorry I've treated you so rudely, and spoke to you as I did just now."
Andy waved the apology aside with a generous gesture and spoke with large good nature:
"Oh, dat's all right, m'am! Dat's all right! I'm gwine ter show you now dat I'se yer best friend——"
"I may need one soon," she answered slowly. "Things can't go on in this house much longer as they are."
"Yassam!" Andy said reassuringly as he laid hishand on Cleo's arm and bent low. "You kin 'pend on me. I'se always called Hones' Andy."
She shuddered unconsciously at his touch, looked suddenly toward the house and said:
"Go—quick! Mr. Tom has come. I don't want him to see us together."
Andy bowed grandly, took up his hat and tipped down the stairs chuckling over his conquest, and Cleo watched him cross the yard to the kitchen.
"I'll manage him!" she murmured with a smile of contempt.
Norton sat in the library for more than an hour trying to nerve himself for the interview while waiting for Helen. He had lighted and smoked two cigars in rapid succession and grown restless at her delay. He rose, strolled through the house and seeing nothing of either Tom or Helen, returned to the library and began pacing the floor with measured tread.
He had made up his mind to do a cruel thing and told himself over and over again that cruel things are often best. The cruelty of surgery is the highest form of pity, pity expressed in terms of the highest intelligence.
He was sure the boy had not made love to the girl. Helen was no doubt equally innocent in her attitude toward him.
It would only be necessary to tell her a part of the bitter truth and her desire to leave would be a resistless one.
And yet, the longer he delayed and the longer he faced such an act, the more pitiless it seemed and the harder its execution became. At heart a deep tenderness was the big trait of his character.
Above all, he dreaded the first interview with Helen. The idea of the responsibility of fatherhood had always been a solemn one. His love for Tom was of the verybeat of his heart. The day he first looked into his face was the most wonderful in all the calendar of life.
He had simply refused to let this girl come into his heart. He had closed the door with a firm will. He had only seen her once when a little tot of two and he was laboring under such deep excitement and such abject fear lest a suspicion of the truth, or any part of the truth, reach the sisters to whom he was intrusting the child, that her personality had made no impression on him.
He vaguely hoped that she might not be attractive. The idea of a girl of his own had always appealed to him with peculiar tenderness, and, unlike most fathers, he had desired that his first-born should be a girl. If Helen were commonplace and unattractive his task would be comparatively easy. It was a mental impossibility for him as yet to accept the fact that she was his—he had seen so little of her, her birth was so unwelcome, her coming into his life fraught with such tragic consequences.
The vague hope that she might prove weak and uninteresting had not been strengthened by the momentary sight of her face. The flash of joy that lighted her sensitive features, though it came across the lawn, had reached him with a very distinct impression of charm. He dreaded the effect at close range.
However, there was no other way. He had to see her and he had to make her stay impossible. It would be a staggering blow for a girl to be told in the dawn of young womanhood that her birth was shadowed by disgrace. It would be a doubly cruel one to tell her that her blood was mixed with a race of black slaves.
And yet a life built on a lie was set on shifting sand. It would not endure. It was best to build it squarely on the truth, and the sooner the true foundation was laid the better. There could be no place in our civilization for a woman of culture and refinement with negro blood in her veins. More and more the life of such people must become impossible. That she should remain in the South was unthinkable. That the conditions in the North were at bottom no better he knew from the experience of his stay in New York.
He would tell her the simple, hideous truth, depend on her terror to keep the secret, and send her abroad. It was the only thing to do.
He rose with a start at the sound of Tom's voice calling her from the stairway.
The answer came in low tones so charged with the quality of emotion that belongs to a sincere nature that his heart sank at the thought of his task.
She had only said the most commonplace thing—"All right, I'll be down in a moment." Yet the tones of her voice were so vibrant with feeling that its force reached him instantly, and he knew that his interview was going to be one of the most painful hours of his life.
And still he was not prepared for the shock her appearance in the shadows of the tall doorway gave. He had formed no conception of the gracious and appealing personality. In spite of the anguish her presence had brought, in spite of preconceived ideas of the inheritance of the vicious nature of her mother, in spite of his ingrained repugnance to the negroid type, in spite of his horror of the ghost of his young manhood suddenly risen from the dead to call him to judgment,in spite of his determination to be cruel as the surgeon to the last—in spite of all, his heart suddenly went out to her in a wave of sympathy and tenderness!
She was evidently so pitifully embarrassed and the suffering in her large, expressive eyes so keen and genuine, his first impulse was to rush to her side with words of comfort and assurance.
The simple white dress, with tiny pink ribbons drawn through its edges, which she wore accentuated the impression of timidity and suffering.
He was surprised to find not the slightest trace of negroid blood apparent, though he knew that a mixture of the sixteenth degree often left no trace until its sudden reversion to a black child.
Her hair was the deep brown of his own in young manhood, the eyes large and tender in their rich blue depths—the eyes of innocence, intelligence, sincerity. The lips were full and fluted, and the chin marked with an exquisite dimple that gave a childlike wistfulness to a face that without it might have suggested too much strength.
Her neck was slightly curved and set on full, strong shoulders with an unconscious grace. The bust was slight and girlish, the arms and figure rounded and beautiful in their graceful fullness.
Her walk, when she took the first few steps into the room and paused, he saw was the incarnation of rhythmic strength and perfect health.
But her voice was the climax of her appeal—low, vibrant, quivering with feeling and full of a subtle quality that convinced the hearer from the first moment of the truth and purity of its owner.
She smiled with evident embarrassment at his silence.He was stunned for the moment and simply couldn't speak.
"So, I see you at last, Major Norton!" she said as the color slowly stole over her face.
He recovered himself, walked quickly to meet her and extended his hand:
"I must apologize for not seeing you earlier this morning," he said gravely. "I was up all night travelling through the country and slept very late."
As her hand rested in his the girl forgot her restraint and wounded pride at the cold and doubtful reception he had given earlier. Her heart suddenly beat with a desire to win this grave, strong man's love and respect.
With a look of girlish tenderness she hastened to say:
"I want to thank you with the deepest gratitude, major, for your kindness in inviting me here this summer——"
"Don't mention it, child," he interrupted frowning.
"Oh, if you only knew," she went on hurriedly, "how I love the South, how my soul glows under its skies, how I love its people, their old-fashioned ways, their kindness, their hospitality, their high ideals——"
He lifted his hand and the gesture stopped her in the midst of a sentence. He was evidently struggling with an embarrassment that was painful and had determined to end it.
"The time has come, Helen," he began firmly—"you're of age—that I should tell you the important facts about your birth."
"Yes—yes——" the girl answered in an excitedwhisper as she sank into a chair and gazed at him fascinated with the terror of his possible revelation.
"I wish I could tell you all," he said, pausing painfully.
"You know—all?"
"Yes, I know."
"My father—my mother—they are living?"
In spite of his effort at self-control Norton was pale and his voice strained. His answers to her pointed questions were given with his face turned from her searching gaze.
"Your mother is living," was the slow reply.
"And my father?"
His eyes were set in a fixed stare waiting for this question, as a prisoner in the dock for the sentence of a judge. His lips gave no answer for the moment and the girl went on eagerly:
"Through all the years that I've been alone, the one desperate yearning of my heart has been to know my father"—the lines of the full lips quivered—"I've always felt somehow that a mother who could give up her babe was hardly worth knowing. And so I've brooded over the idea of a father. I've hoped and dreamed and prayed that he might be living—that I might see and know him, win his love, and in its warmth and joy, its shelter and strength—never be lonely or afraid again——"
Her voice sank to a sob, and Norton, struggling to master his feelings, said:
"You have been lonely and afraid?"
"Utterly lonely! When other girls at school shouted for joy at the approach of vacation, the thought of home and loved ones, it brought to me only tearsand heartache. Many a night I've laid awake for hours and sobbed because a girl had asked me about my father and mother. Lonely!—oh, dear Lord! And always I've dried my eyes with the thought that some day I might know my father and sob out on his breast all I've felt and suffered"—she paused, and looked at Norton through a mist of tears—"my father is not dead?"
The stillness was painful. The man could hear the tick of the little French clock on the mantel. How tired his soul was of lies! He couldn't lie to her in answer to this question. And so without lifting his head he said very softly:
"He is also alive."
"Thank God!" the girl breathed reverently. "Oh, if I could only touch his hand and look into his face! I don't care who he is, how poor and humble his home, if it's a log cabin on a mountain side, or a poor white man's hovel in town, I'll love him and cling to him and make him love me!"
The man winced. There was one depth her mind had not fathomed!
How could he push this timid, lonely, haunted creature over such a precipice! He glanced at her furtively and saw that she was dreaming as in a trance.
"But suppose," he said quietly, "you should hate this man when you had met?"
"It's unthinkable," was the quick response. "My father is my father. I'd love him if he were a murderer!"
Again her mind had failed to sound the black depths into which he was about to hurl her. She might love a murderer, but there was one thing beyond all question, this beautiful, sensitive, cultured girl could notlove the man who had thrust her into the hell of a negroid life in America! She might conceive of the love of a father who could take human life, but her mind could not conceive the possibility of facing the truth with which he must now crush the soul out of her body. Why had he lied and deceived her at all? The instinctive desire to shield his own blood from a life of ignominy—yes. But was it worth the risk? No—he knew it when it was too late. The steel jaws with their cold teeth were tearing the flesh now at every turn and there was no way of escape.
When he failed to respond, she rose, pressed close and pleaded eagerly:
"Tell me his name! Oh, it's wonderful that you have seen him, heard his voice and held his hand! He may not be far away—tell me——"
Norton shook his head:
"The one thing, child, I can never do."
"You are a father—a father who loves his own—I've seen and know that. A nameless waif starving for a word of love begs it—just one word of deep, real love—think of it! My heart has never known it in all the years I've lived!"
Norton lifted his hand brusquely:
"You ask the impossible. The conditions under which I am acting as your guardian seal my lips."
The girl looked at him steadily:
"Then, you are my real guardian?"
"Yes."
"And why have you not told me before?"
The question was asked with a firm emphasis that startled him into a sense of renewed danger.
"Why?" she repeated.
"To avoid questions I couldn't answer."
"You will answer them now?"
"With reservations."
The girl drew herself up with a movement of quiet determination and spoke in even tones:
"My parents are Southern?"
"Yes——"
"My father and mother were—were"—her voice failed, her head dropped and in an effort at self-control she walked to the table, took a book in her hand and tried to turn its leaves. The hideous question over which she had long brooded was too horrible to put into words. The answer he might give was too big with tragic possibilities. She tried to speak again and couldn't. He looked at her with a great pity in his heart and when at last she spoke her voice was scarcely a whisper:
"My father and mother were married?"
He knew it was coming and that he must answer, and yet hesitated. His reply was low, but it rang through her soul like the stroke of a great bell tolling for the dead:
"No!"
The book she held slipped from the trembling fingers and fell to the floor. Norton walked to the window that he might not see the agony in her sensitive face.
She stood very still and the tears began slowly to steal down her cheeks.
"God pity me!" she sobbed, lifting her face and looking pathetically at Norton. "Why did you let them send me to school? Why teach me to think and feel and know this?"
The low, sweet tones of her wonderful voice found the inmost heart of the man. The misery and loneliness of the orphan years of which she had spoken were nothing to the anguish with which her being now shook.
He crossed the room quickly and extended his hand in a movement of instinctive sympathy and tenderness:
"Come, come, child—you're young and life is all before you."
"Yes, a life of shame and humiliation!"
"The world is wide to-day! A hundred careers are open to you. Marriage is impossible—yes——"
"And if I only wish for marriage?" the girl cried with passionate intensity. "If my ideal is simple and old-fashioned—if all I ask of God is the love of one man—a home—a baby——"
A shadow of pain clouded Norton's face and he lifted a hand in tender warning:
"Put marriage out of your mind once and for all time! It can only bring to you and your loved ones hopeless misery."
Helen turned with a start:
"Even if the man I love should know all?"
"Yes," was the firm answer.
She gazed steadily into his eyes and asked with sharp rising emphasis:
"Why?"
The question brought him squarely to the last blow he must give if he accomplish the thing he had begun. He must tell her that her mother is a negress. He looked at the quivering figure, the white, sensitive, young face with the deep, serious eyes, and his lips refusedto move. He tried to speak and his throat was dry. It was too cruel. There must be an easier way. He couldn't strike the sweet uplifted head.
He hesitated, stammered and said:
"I—I'm sorry—I can't answer that question fully and frankly. It may be best, but——"
"Yes, yes—it's best!" she urged.
"It may be best," he repeated, "but I simply can't do it"—he paused, turned away and suddenly wheeled confronting her:
"I'll tell you all that you need to know to-day—you were born under the shadow of a hopeless disgrace——"
The girl lifted her hand as if to ward a blow while she slowly repeated:
"A hopeless—disgrace——"
"Beneath a shadow so deep, no lover's vow can ever lift it from your life. I should have told you this before, perhaps—well, somehow I couldn't"—he paused and his voice trembled—"I wanted you to grow in strength and character first——"
The girl clenched her hands and sprang in front of him:
"That my agony might be beyond endurance? Now youmusttell me the whole truth!"
Again the appealing uplifted face had invited the blow, and again his heart failed. It was impossible to crush her. It was too horrible. He spoke with firm decision:
"Not another word!"
He turned and walked rapidly to the door. The girl clung desperately to his arm:
"I beg of you! I implore you!"
He paused in the doorway, and gently took her hands:
"Forgive me, child, if I seem cruel. In reality I am merciful. I must leave it just there!"
He passed quickly out.
The girl caught the heavy curtains for support, turned with an effort, staggered back into the room, fell prostrate on the lounge with a cry of despair, and burst into uncontrollable sobs.
Tom had grown restless waiting for Helen to emerge from the interminable interview with his father. A half dozen times he had walked past the library door only to hear the low hum of their voices still talking.
"What on earth is it all about, I wonder?" he muttered. "Must be telling her the story of his whole life!"
He had asked her to meet him in the old rose garden when she came out. For the dozenth time he strolled in and sat down on their favorite rustic. He could neither sit still nor content himself with wandering.
"What the devil's the matter with me anyhow?" he said aloud. "The next thing I'll be thinking I'm in love—good joke—bah!"
Helen was not the ideal he had dreamed. She had simply brought a sweet companionship into his life—that was all. She was a good fellow. She could walk, ride, run and hold her own at any game he liked to play. He had walked with her over miles of hills and valleys stretching in every direction about town. He had never grown tired of these walks. He didn't have to entertain her. They were silent often for a long time. They sat down beside the roadway, laughed and talkedlike chums with never a thought of entertaining each other.
In the long rides they had taken in the afternoons and sometimes late in the starlight or moonlight, she had never grown silly, sentimental or tiresome. A restful and home-like feeling always filled him when she was by his side. He hadn't thought her very beautiful at first, but the longer he knew her the more charming and irresistible her companionship became.
"Her figure's a little too full for the finest type of beauty!" he was saying to himself now. "Her arms are splendid, but the least bit too big, and her face sometimes looks too strong for a girl's! It's a pity. Still, by geeminy, when she smiles she is beautiful! Her face seems to fairly blossom with funny little dimples—and that one on the chin is awfully pretty! She just misses by a hair being a stunningly beautiful girl!"
He flicked a fly from his boot with a switch he was carrying and glanced anxiously toward the house. "And I must say," he acknowledged judicially, "that she has a bright mind, her tastes are fine, her ideals high. She isn't all the time worrying over balls and dresses and beaux like a lot of silly girls I know. She's got too much sense for that. The fact is, she has a brilliant mind."
Now that he came to think of it, she had a mind of rare brilliance. Everything she said seemed to sparkle. He didn't stop to ask the reason why, he simply knew that it was so. If she spoke about the weather, her words never seemed trivial.
He rose scowling and walked back to the house.
"What on earth can they be talking about all thistime?" he cried angrily. Just then his father's tall figure stepped out on the porch, walked its length and entered the sitting-room by one of the French windows.
He sprang up the steps, thrust his head into the hall, and softly whistled. He waited a moment, there was no response, and he repeated the call. Still receiving no answer, he entered cautiously:
"Miss Helen!"
He tipped to the library door and called again:
"Miss Helen!"
Surprised that she could have gone so quickly he rushed into the room, glanced hastily around, crossed to the window, looked out on the porch, heard the rustle of a skirt and turned in time to see her flying to escape.
With a quick dash he headed her off.
Hiding her face she turned and ran the other way for the door through which he had entered.
With a laugh and a swift leap Tom caught her arms.
"Lord, you're a sprinter!" he cried breathlessly. "But I've got you now!" he laughed, holding her pinioned arms tightly.
Helen lifted her tear-stained face:
"Please——"
Tom drew her gently around and looked into her eyes:
"Why—what on earth—you're crying!"
She tried to draw away but he held her hand firmly:
"What is it? What's happened? What's the matter?"
His questions were fired at her with lightning rapidity.
The girl dropped forlornly on the lounge and turned her face away:
"Please go!"
"I won't go—I won't!" he answered firmly as he bent closer.
"Please—please!"
"Tell me what it is?"
Helen held her face resolutely from him.
"Tell me," he urged tenderly.
"I can't!"
She threw herself prostrate and broke into sobs.
The boy wrung his hands helplessly, started to put his arm around her, caught himself in time and drew back with a start. At last he burst out passionately:
"Don't—don't! For heaven's sake don't! It hurts me more than it does you—I don't know what it is but it hurts—it hurts inside and it hurts deep—please!"
Without lifting her head Helen cried:
"I don't want to live any more!"
"Oh, is that all?" Tom laughed. "I see, you've stubbed your toe and don't want to live any more!"
"I mean it!" she broke in desperately.
"Good joke!" he cried again, laughing. "You don't want to live any more! Twenty years old and every line of your graceful, young form quivering with the joy of life—you—you don't want to live! That's great!"
The girl lifted her dimmed eyes, looked at him a moment, and spoke the thought that had poisoned her soul—spoke it in hard, bitter accents with a touch of self-loathing:
"I've just learned that my birth is shadowed by disgrace!"
"Well, what have you to do with that?" he asked quickly. "Your whole being shines with truth and purity. What's an accident of birth? You couldn't choose your parents, could you? You're a nameless orphan and my father is the attorney of an old fool guardian who lives somewhere in Europe. All right! The worst thing your worst enemy could say is that you're a child of love—a great love that leaped all bounds and defied the law—a love that was madness and staked all life on the issue! That means you're a child of the gods. Some of the greatest men and women of the world were born like that. Your own eyes are clear. There's no cloud on your beautiful soul——"
Tom paused and Helen lifted her face in rapt attention. The boy suddenly leaped to his feet, turned away and spoke in ecstatic whispers:
"Good Lord—listen at me—why—I'm making love—great Scott—I'm in love! The big thing has happened—to me—to me! I feel the thrill of it—the thing that transforms the world—why—it's like getting religion!"
He strode back and forth in a frenzy of absurd happiness.
Helen, smiling through her tears, asked:
"What are you saying? What are you talking about?"
With a cry of joy he was at her side, her hand tight gripped in his:
"Why, that I'm in love, my own—that I love you, my glorious little girl! I didn't realize it until I saw just now the tears in your eyes and felt the pain of it. Every day these past weeks you've been stealing into my heart until now you're my very life! What hurtsyou hurts me—your joys are mine—your sorrows are mine!"
Laughing in spite of herself, Helen cried:
"You—don't realize what you're saying!"
"No—but I'm beginning to!" he answered with a boyish smile. "And it goes to my head like wine—I'm mad with its joy! I tell you I love you—I love you! and you love me—you do love me?"
The girl struggled, set her lips grimly and said fiercely:
"No—and I never shall!"
"You don't mean it?"
"I do!"
"You—you—don't love another?"
"No—no!"
"Then youdolove me!" he cried triumphantly. "You've justgotto love me! I won't take any other answer! Look into my eyes!"
She turned resolutely away and he took both hands drawing her back until their eyes met.
"Your lips say no," he went on, "but your tears, your voice, the tremor of your hand and the tenderness of your eyes say yes!"
Helen shook her head:
"No—no—no!"
But the last "no" grew feebler than the first and he pressed her hand with cruel pleading:
"Yes—yes—yes—say it, dear—please—just once."
Helen looked at him and then with a cry of joy that was resistless said:
"God forgive me! I can't help it—yes, yes, yes, I love you—I love you!"
Tom snatched her to his heart and held her in perfectsurrender. She suddenly drew her arms from his neck, crying in dismay:
"No—no—I don't love you!"
The boy looked at her with a start and she went on quickly:
"I didn't mean to say it—I meant to say—I hate you!"
With a cry of pain she threw herself into his arms, clasping his neck and held him close.
His hand gently stroked the brown hair while he laughed:
"Well, if that's the way you hate—keep it up!"
With an effort she drew back:
"But I mustn't——"
"There!" he said, tenderly drawing her close again. "It's all right. It's no use to struggle. You're mine—mine, I tell you!"
With a determined effort she freed herself:
"It's no use, dear, our love is impossible."
"Nonsense!"
"But you don't realize that my birth is shadowed by disgrace!"
"I don't believe it—I wouldn't believe it if an angel said it. Who dares to say such a thing?"
"Your father!"
"My father?" he repeated in a whisper.
"He has always known the truth and now that I am of age he has told me——"
"Told you what?"
"Just what I said, and warned me that marriage could only bring pain and sorrow to those I love."
"He gave you no facts—only these vague warnings?"
"Yes, more—he told me——"
She paused and moved behind the table:
"That my father and mother were never married."
"Nothing more?" the boy asked eagerly.
"That's enough."
"Not for me!"
"Suppose my father were a criminal?"
"No matter—your soul's as white as snow"
"Suppose my mother——"
"I don't care who she was—you're an angel!"
Helen faced him with strained eagerness:
"You swear that no stain on my father or mother can ever make the least difference between us?"
"I swear it!" he cried grasping her hand. "Come, you're mine!"
Helen drew back:
"Oh, if I could only believe it——"
"You do believe it—come!"
He opened his arms and she smiled.
"What shall I do!"
"Come!"
Slowly at first, and then with quick, passionate tenderness she threw herself into his arms:
"I can't help it, dearest. It's too sweet and wonderful—God help me if I'm doing wrong!"
"Wrong!" he exclaimed indignantly. "How can it be wrong, this solemn pledge of life and love, of body and soul?"
She lifted her face to his in wonder:
"And you will dare to tell your father?"
"In good time, yes. But it's our secret now. Keep it until I say the time has come for him to know. I'll manage him—promise!"
"Yes! How sweet it is to hear you tell me what to do! I shall never be lonely or afraid again."
The father's footstep on the porch warned of his approach.
"Go quickly!" the boy whispered. "I don't want him to see us together yet—it means too much now—it means life itself!"
Helen moved toward the door, looked back, laughed, flew again into his arms and quickly ran into the hall as Norton entered from the porch.
The boy caught the look of surprise on his father's face, realized that he must have heard the rustle of Helen's dress, and decided instantly to accept the fact.
He boldly walked to the door and gazed after her retreating figure, his back squarely on his father.
Norton paused and looked sharply at Tom:
"Was—that—Helen?"
The boy turned, smiling, and nodded with slight embarrassment in spite of his determined effort at self-control:
"Yes."
The father's keen eyes pierced the boy's:
"Why should she run?"
Tom's face sobered:
"I don't think she wished to see you just now, sir."
"Evidently!"
"She had been crying."
"And told you why?"
"Yes."
The father frowned:
"She has been in the habit of making you her confidant?"
"No. But I found her in tears and asked her the reason for them."
Norton was watching closely:
"She told you what I had just said to her?"
"Vaguely," Tom answered, and turning squarely on his father asked: "Would you mind telling me the whole truth about it?"
"Why do you ask?"
The question came from the father's lips with a sudden snap, so suddenly, so sharply the boy lost his composure, hung his head, and stammered with an attempt at a smile:
"Oh—naturally curious—I suppose it's a secret?"
"Yes—I wish I could tell you, but I can't"—he paused and spoke with sudden decision:
"Ask Cleo to come here."
Norton was morally certain now that the boy was interested in Helen. How far this interest had gone he could only guess.
What stunned him was that Tom had already taken sides with the girl. He had not said so in words. But his embarrassment and uneasiness could mean but one thing. He must move with caution, yet he must act at once and end the dangerous situation. A clandestine love affair was a hideous possibility. Up to a moment ago he had held such a thing out of the question with the boy's high-strung sense of honor and his lack of experience with girls.
He was afraid now of both the boy and girl. She had convinced him of her purity when the first words had fallen from her lips. Yet wiser men had been deceived before. The thought of her sleek, tawny mother came with a shudder. No daughter could escape such an inheritance.
There was but one thing to do and it must be done quickly. He would send Helen abroad and if necessary tell her the whole hideous truth.
He lifted his head at the sound of Cleo's footsteps, rose and confronted her. As his deep-set eyes surveyed her he realized that the hour had come for a fight to the finish.
She gazed at him steadily with a look of undisguised hate:
"What is it?"
He took a step closer, planted his long legs apart and met her greenish eyes with an answering flash of rage:
"When I think of your damned impudence, using my typewriter and letterheads to send an invitation to that girl to spend the summer here with Tom at home, and signing my name——"
"I have the right to use your name with her," she broke in with a sneer.
"It will be the last time I'll give you the chance."
"We'll see," was the cool reply.
Norton slowly drew a chair to the table, seated himself and said:
"I want the truth from you now."
"You'll get it. I've never had to lie to you, at least——"
"I've no time to bandy words—will you tell me exactly what's been going on between Tom and Helen during my absence in this campaign?"
"I haven't seen anything!" was the light answer.
His lips moved to say that she lied, but he smiled instead. What was the use? He dropped his voice to a careless, friendly tone:
"They have seen each other every day?"
"Certainly."
"How many hours have they usually spent together?"
"I didn't count them."
Norton bit his lips to keep back an oath:
"How often have they been riding?"
"Perhaps a dozen times."
"They returned late occasionally?"
"Twice."
"How late?"
"It was quite dark——"
"What time?—eight, nine, ten or eleven o'clock?"
"As late as nine one night, half-past nine another—the moon was shining." She said it with a taunting smile.
"Were they alone?"
"Yes."
"You took pains to leave them alone, I suppose?"
"Sometimes"—she paused and looked at him with a smile that was a sneer. "What are you afraid of?"
He returned her gaze steadily:
"Anything is possible of your daughter—the thought of it strangles me!"
Cleo laughed lightly:
"Then all you've got to do is to speak—tell Tom the truth."
"I'll die first!" he fiercely replied. "At least I've taught him racial purity. I've been true to my promise to the dead in this. He shall never know the depths to which I once fell! You have robbed me of everything else in life, this boy's love and respect is all that you've left me"—he stopped, his breast heaving with suppressed passion. "Why—why did you bring that girl into this house?"
"I wished to see her—that's enough. For twenty years, I've lived here as a slave, always waiting and hoping for a sign from you that you were human——"
"For a sign that I'd sink again to your level! Well, I found out twenty years ago that beneath the skin of every man sleeps an ape and a tiger—I fought that battle and won——"
"And I have lost?"
"Yes."
"Perhaps I haven't begun to fight yet."
"I shouldn't advise you to try it. I know now that I made a tragic blunder when I brought you back into this house. I've cursed myself a thousand times that I didn't put the ocean between us. If my boy hadn't loved you, if he hadn't slipped his little arms around your neck and clung to you sobbing out the loneliness of his hungry heart—if I hadn't seen the tears in your own eyes and known that you had saved his life once—I wouldn't have made the mistake that I did. But I gave you my word, and I've lived up to it. I've reared and educated your child and given you the protection of my home——"
"Yes," she broke in, "that you might watch and guard me and know that your secret was safely kept while you've grown to hate me each day with deeper and fiercer hatred—God!—I've wondered sometimes that you haven't killed me!"
Norton's voice sank to a whisper:
"I've wondered sometimes, too"—a look of anguish swept his face—"but I gave you my word, and I've kept it."
"Because you had to keep it!"
He sprang to his feet:
"Had to keep it—you say that to me?"
"I do."
"This house is still mine——"
"But your past is mine!" she cried with a look of triumph.
"Indeed! We'll see. Helen leaves this house immediately."
"She shall not!"
"You refuse to obey my orders?"
"And what's more," she cried with angry menace, "I refuse to allow you to put her out!"
"Toallow?"
"I said it!"
"So I am your servant? I must ask your permission?—God!—--" he sprang angrily toward the bell and Cleo stepped defiantly before him:
"Don't you touch that bell——"
Norton thrust her aside:
"Get out of my way!"
"Ring that bell if you dare!" she hissed.
"Dare?"
The woman drew her form erect:
"If you dare! And in five minutes I'll be in that newspaper office across the way from yours! The editor doesn't love you. To-morrow morning the story of your life and mine will blaze on that first page!"
Norton caught a chair for support, his face paled and he sank slowly to a seat.
Cleo leaned toward him, trembling with passion:
"I'll give you fair warning. There are plenty of negroes to-day your equal in wealth and culture. Do you think they have been listening to their great leader's call to battle for nothing—building fine houses, buying land, piling up money, sending their sons and daughters to college, to come at your beck and call? You're a fool if you do. They are only waiting their chanceto demand social equality and get it. Wealth and culture will give it in the end, ballot or no ballot. Once rich, white men and women will come at their command. I've got my chance now to demand my rights of you and do a turn for the negro race. You've got to recognize Helen before your son. I've brought her here for that purpose. With her by my side, I'll be the mistress of this house. Now resign your leadership and get out of this campaign!"
With a stamp of her foot she ended her mad speech in sharp, high tones, turned quickly and started to the door.
Between set teeth Norton growled:
"And you think that I'll submit?"
The woman wheeled suddenly and rushed back to his side, her eyes flaming:
"You've got to submit—you've got to submit—or begin with me a fight that can only end in your ruin! I've nothing to lose, and I tell you now that I'll fight to win, I'll fight to kill! I'll ask no quarter of you and I'll give none. I'll fight with every ounce of strength I've got, body and soul—and if I lose I'll still have strength enough left to pull you into hell with me!"
Her voice broke in a sob, she pulled herself together, straightened her figure and cried:
"Now what are you going to do? What are you going to do? Accept my terms or fight?"
Norton's face was livid, his whole being convulsed as he leaped to his feet and confronted her:
"I'll fight!"
"All right! All right!" she said with hysterical passion, backing toward the door. "I've warned you now—I didn't want to fight—but I'll show you—I'll show you!"
Norton's fighting blood was up, but he was too good a soldier and too good a commander to rush into battle without preparation. Cleo's mask was off at last, and he knew her too well to doubt that she would try to make good her threat. The fire of hate that had flamed in her greenish eyes was not a sudden burst of anger, it had been smoldering there for years, eating its way into the fiber of her being.
There were three courses open.
He could accept her demand, acknowledge Helen to his son, establish her in his home, throw his self-respect to the winds and sink to the woman's level. It was unthinkable! Besides, the girl would never recover from the shock. She would disappear or take her own life. He felt it with instinctive certainty. But the thing which made such a course impossible was the fact that it meant his daily degradation before the boy. He would face death without a tremor sooner than this.
He could defy Cleo and pack Helen off to Europe on the next steamer, and risk a scandal that would shake the state, overwhelm the party he was leading, disgrace him not only before his son but before the world, and set back the cause he had at heart for a generation.
It was true she might weaken when confronted with the crisis that would mean the death of her own hopes. Yet the risk was too great to act on such a possibility. Her defiance had in it all the elements of finality, and he had accepted it as final.
The simpler alternative was a temporary solution which would give him time to think and get his bearings. He could return to the campaign immediately, take Tom with him, keep him in the field every day until the election, ask Helen to stay until his return, and after his victory had been achieved settle with the woman.
It was the wisest course for many reasons, and among them not the least that it would completely puzzle Cleo as to his ultimate decision.
He rang for Andy:
"Ask Mr. Tom to come here."
Andy bowed and Norton resumed his seat.
When Tom entered, the father spoke with quick decision:
"The situation in this campaign, my boy, is tense and dangerous. I want you to go with me to-morrow and stay to the finish."
Tom flushed and there was a moment's pause:
"Certainly, Dad, if you wish it."
"We'll start at eight o'clock in the morning and drive through the country to the next appointment. Fix your business at the office this afternoon, place your men in charge and be ready to leave promptly at eight. I've some important writing to do. I'm going to lock myself in my room until it's done. See that I'm not disturbed except to send Andy up with my supper. I'll not finish before midnight."
"I'll see to it, sir," Tom replied, turned and was gone.
The father had watched the boy with keen scrutiny every moment and failed to catch the slightest trace of resentment or of hesitation. The pause he had made on receiving the request was only an instant of natural surprise.
Before leaving next morning he sent for Helen who had not appeared at breakfast.
She hastened to answer his summons and he found no trace of anger, resentment or rebellion in her gentle face. Every vestige of the shadow he had thrown over her life seem to have lifted. A tender smile played about her lips as she entered the room.
"You sent for me, major?" she asked with the slightest tremor of timidity in her voice.
"Yes," he answered gravely. "I wish you to remain here until Tom and I return. We'll have a conference then about your future."
"Thank you," she responded simply.
"I trust you will not find yourself unhappy or embarrassed in remaining here alone until we return?"
"Certainly not, major, if it is your wish," was the prompt response.
He bowed and murmured:
"I'll see you soon."
Tom waved his hand from the buggy when his father's back was turned and threw her an audacious kiss over his head as the tall figure bent to climb into the seat. The girl answered with another from her finger tips which he caught with a smile.
Norton's fears of Tom were soon at rest at the sight of his overflowing boyish spirits. He had entered intothe adventure of the campaign from the moment he found himself alone with his father, and apparently without reservation.
Through every one of his exciting speeches, when surrounded by hostile crowds, the father had watched Tom's face with a subconscious smile. At the slightest noise, the shuffle of a foot, the mutter of a drunken word, or the movement of a careless listener, the keen eyes of the boy had flashed and his right arm instinctively moved toward his hip pocket.
When the bitter struggle had ended, father and son had drawn closer than ever before in life. They had become chums and comrades.
Norton had planned his tour to keep him out of town until after the polls closed on the day of election. They had spent several nights within fifteen or twenty miles of the Capital, but had avoided home.
He had planned to arrive at the speaker's stand in the Capitol Square in time to get the first returns of the election.
Five thousand people were packed around the bulletin board when they arrived on a delayed train.
The first returns indicated that the leader's daring platform had swept the state by a large majority. The negro race had been disfranchised and the ballot restored to its original dignity. And much more had been done. The act was purely political, but its effects on the relations, mental and moral and physical, of the two races, so evenly divided in the South, would be tremendous.
The crowds of cheering men and women felt this instinctively, though it had not as yet found expression in words.
A half-dozen stalwart men with a rush and a shout seized Norton and lifted him, blushing and protesting, carried him on their shoulders through the yelling crowd and placed him on the platform.
He had scarcely begun his speech when Tom, watching his chance, slipped hurriedly through the throng and flew to the girl who was waiting with beating heart for the sound of his footstep.